Lineage VI


Chapter 8


Mr. Jinnson's return to the Xolinthi guest quarters was unheralded by any imperious commands or declaration of intolerable boredom on the part of his employer. The royal valet's keen gaze swept expectantly across the opulent sitting room's expanse, but there was no sign of the moody heir to Gala's throne. One of the security guardsmen posted by the far window caught the tall man's inquiring eye and gave a curt nod in the direction of the master bedchamber.

"Your Highness requested my presence," Jinnson murmured, slipping quietly between the two massive panels.

Prince Beju knelt on the carpeted floor in a very believable imitation of Jedi meditation posture, hands resting lightly upon his knees, eyes closed, features relaxed. He started into present awareness upon Jinnson's arrival.

Qui-Gon locked the doors behind him with a wave of one hand, and knelt beside his apprentice. "You are disturbed."

The Prince drew in a deep centering breath. "I have dishonored myself and your teachings," he declared, flatly. "I am truly sorry, master."

The Jedi master's brows rose. "Why don't you let me be the judge of your actions before you plunge headfirst into self-condemnation," he advised. "Tell me what has happened first."

"Yes, master." Obi-Wan dropped his gaze. "Merggum had a man brutally whipped – and I did nothing. I merely watched. I – I didn't know what else to do. And I could not feel the Force's guidance."

The tall man tilted his head thoughtfully. "That is dangerous.. but it does not mean you are a disgrace. It is difficult to keep one's focus in the face of a distraction.. and I take it you were badly distracted."

The Padawan nodded miserably.

"A Jedi draws his strength and clarity of mind from his connection with the Force. One of the perennial dangers of undercover work is the possibility of losing that center in some alias, or even in the circumstances surrounding that alias."

"Yes," the young Jedi replied, subdued. "I failed to act as a Jedi."

"You acted as Beju would have, rather than as a Jedi would," Qui-Gon succinctly concluded. "But that is your duty at the moment."

"He begged me for mercy, master," Obi-Wan protested, stricken. His hands clenched, betraying a measure of inner turmoil not banished by meditation.

"Ah." Qui-Gon exhaled slowly, allowing himself a small bitter-sweet smile. "The moral dilemma inherent in such assignments as this. You feel you have somehow betrayed your inner truth by taking on Beju's identity."

A deep furrow appeared between the Padawan's brows. "Have I not?" he replied, with an undercurrent of revulsion. "A charade is one thing… but this was stark reality. A man suffered and I did nothing."

"Focus determines reality," Qui-Gon reminded him, laying one hand atop his student's until the young man's fingers relaxed beneath the gentle pressure. "Your truth is revealed in this moment of pity; what transpired in Merggum's presence pertains to Beju, not to yourself."

But the answer did not satisfy. "An innocent suffered, master, and I could have stopped it. There were only six guards, and a narrow passageway. I could have –"

The Jedi master held up a restraining hand. "What you could have done was accomplish the complete failure of this mission, and very likely the occasion of your own capture and imprisonment. We are in enemy territory here, do not forget. Such rash and impulsive action would have little beneficial effect in the end. But you already know this, as evidenced by your wise decision to abstain from interference."

His apprentice's mouth twisted. "How can wisdom still lead to suffering?"

The Jedi master did not make immediate reply. "Perhaps," he began – only to be interrupted by a strident pounding upon the double doors.

Both Jedi sprang to their feet.

"Enter."

The Galan protocol droid bumbled in, pushing a hover-trolley laden with a heavy serving tray. "The cook sends her gracious compliments," it droned, "and sincere wishes that his Royal Highness Prince Beju will relish this delicacy prepared at his special request."

Obi-Wan blinked, missing a beat.

"Your favorite dinner, my lord," Jinnson smoothly explained. "I took the liberty of giving special instructions to the kitchen staff."

Beju recovered quickly. "Well, set it down, then. And be gone – your very presence kills my appetite." He dismissed the droid with a languid wave of his hand.

"Really!" the mechanical servant huffed, withdrawing in a cybernetic tiff.

"I am famished," The young Jedi gingerly lifted the largest platter's gleaming lid. His expression underwent a comical transformation. "Master!"

"Jinnson," the tall man coughed. "You did study the biographical materials thoroughly, did you not?"

"I did!" The Prince cast an outraged look at his mentor. "And there was absolutely no mention of Beju's food preferences."

"Very good," the tall man smiled. "I was required to make an educated guess."

Obi-Wan set the cover aside and peered critically at the small dish of chunky green condiment. "You might have asked for spicy djo, or at least something with fewer legs," he griped. "And samji sauce would burn my sinuses out."

"Nonsense," Qui-Gon tranquilly replied, dipping one of the roasted beetles into the shallow bowl and liberally coating its blackened length in green samji. "It would put some hair on your chest. And Force knows you could use some." He popped the insect into his mouth with an appreciative rumble. "Who knows? It might even clear your mind."

The Padawan backed away from the laden dinner tray and perched sullenly on the edge of Beju's bed. "That would be welcome," he muttered.

"You did meditate."

"Yes, but… is there not some way to exercise here? I usually-"

"Make a nuisance of yourself in the dojo whenever you need to clear your mind. I have received the innumerable complaints," Qui-Gon teased him. He considered his companion's request thoughtfully, contentedly munching another Kersuu beetle. "I suppose the Prince's security detail might oblige you in that regard." He held up a warning finger. "But no exhibition of special talents."

The Prince brightened visibly. "Yes, master."

"However - before you engage in your, ah, moving meditation, I want you to report on your meeting with the Cooperative's Board. Tell me every detail while I finish this delightful meal."


"You!" Prince Beju accosted his ill-fated security detail. "Yes, you – I grow bored. I require you to entertain me."

The men's faces blanched in apprehension.

Beju strolled up to the nearest officer, a hulking fellow easily head and shoulders his superior in stature and nearly twice as broad. "You. What's your name?"

The Galan stood at an uneasy attention. "Magg Zurl, Your Royal Highness."

"Zurl," the Prince ordered. "Hit me."

This command was met with a stunned and immobile silence.

"I said hit me, you churlish oaf!" Beju snarled. "Or I'll have you thrown out of my esteemed service on your insubordinate arse!"

Zurl cast a panicked glance in the general direction of his colleagues, but received little more than a scattering of non-committal grunts and one shrug of indifferent encouragement in reply.

"Now, you witless and recalcitrant nincompoop!" the Prince snapped. "I declare! You are boring me to death! I crave excite-"

Zurl swung first, missing by a hairsbreadth as the Prince ducked beneath the blow with impressive speed and agility. A well-placed kick to the security man's midriff sent him stumbling back a few paces, upsetting a delicate console table.

"Surely you can do better, you slothful herd of trollop-spawned slobs!" Beju taunted his reluctant bodyguards.

The other five hesitantly moved forward, fear and dangerous annoyance warring in their faces.

Mr. Jinnson, watching the proceedings from the shelter of the bedchamber's threshold, shook his head and quietly shut the ponderous doors upon the scene. Though he had half a mind to call his employer off before the inevitable injuries were dealt out, he decided that thrashing the Xolinthi guest suite would resonate nicely with the Prince's reputed penchant for destructive and selfish pleasures. The royal valet settled himself upon the floor instead, and centered his awareness in the Living Force, allowing its ever-moving currents to weave the disparate threads of rumor and implication into a coherent whole, a conspiracy with a life and purpose of its own.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Something hit the closed portals with a thunderous impact; but the sharp and splintering quality of the sound proclaimed the object to be a piece of furniture rather than a body. Jinnson inhaled, sinking deeper into his meditation.

On one hand there was Gala, ruled by an irresponsible and reckless Prince, one not above incurring hefty debts and damaging his world's existing trade alliance, and apparently beset by a belligerent insurgent movement on his home front.

A profane exclamation carried through the locked doors – but the voice was too deep and grating to be Obi-Wan's, so there was no cause for concern or reprimand. Qui-Gon re-centered himself.

On the other hand, there was Hiu Merggum, self- made tyrant in this sector, one who controlled all commerce in the region with an iron fist and punished infractions severely, and who had some indiscernible motive for courting Gala's favor.

A body hit the doors this time, rattling them badly and disturbing the Jedi master's meditation yet again. The first impact was followed by a second, and by a renewed uproar of shouting and cursing. Qui-Gon thought he could make out the distant tinkle of crystal or glass, and decided not to inquire.

And then, beyond these two main personae dramatis, there was something else… elusive. A current running deeper than either, governing both their destinies. It was this hidden story, this buried secret, which interested him most. Qui-Gon sank deeper into the Force, resting in its Living presence while the Prince and his chosen playmates disported themselves merrily in the adjacent rooms.


"Have I failed to teach you restraint?" Qui-Gon pointedly inquired. He bound his Padawans' split knuckles with a soft gauze bandage,

"How was I to know he was wearing concealed body armor?" the young Jedi muttered, wincing a bit as he poked at the bruise spreading along his cheekbone.

The tall man dabbed at the injury with an antiseptic solution. "I should call in a conventional medical droid to tend these abrasions. It would serve you right."

"What? No. I absolutely forbid it!"

"Forbid while you can, my young friend," the Jedi master darkly recommended. "I'm going to unleash BenTo upon you so soon as this mission is over." He glanced over his shoulder at the scene of unparalleled wreckage in the room beyond. "I see that you have spared no expense in the pursuit of clear-mindedness."

"I'm clear on one thing," Obi-Wan informed him. "The Galan security forces are most impressive. Almost special commando level. If they had not been holding back out of fear for their livelihood, I should be a mangled pulp by now."

"I do not find that encouraging," the older man said dryly.

"Well," came the bright response. "I feel rather safe from attempted assassination. That's something, don't you think?"

"Hm." Qui-Gon raised a brow. "A false sense of security has been your downfall before now, I might remind you."

"Ow!" the Prince hissed as his valet's ministrations brought the stinging antiseptic close to his earlobe.

"And I also see that you have managed to fiddle and fidget this piercing into acute inflammation, despite repeated admonitions to keep your hands off."

"It's bothersome," the Prince mumbled, gritting his teeth as Jinnson examined the irritated area.

"I should send you to bed without supper. In fact, I shall."

Beju flopped backward against the mountain of luxurious pillows provided for his comfort, rubbing absently at his sore ribs. "Fine."

Mr Jinnson grimly packed away the med kit and set about straightening the bedchamber, then hanging the Prince's somewhat rumpled attire back in its wardrobe.

"None of the security men were hurt, were they?" Obi-Wan quietly inquired. "I was careful."

The Jedi master indulged in a small smile, unobserved by his apprentice. "No," he assured the boy. "Though you do realize you will have to dismiss or otherwise castigate the one who managed to land that punch to your face."

"But it was a fair fight, and he was only obeying my order," the young man objected. "I provoked them – badly."

Qui-Gon shut the closet doors. "But Prince Beju would not share your perspective. I'm afraid you do not possess the luxury of honor here." He turned and fixed his supine apprentice with a stern eye. "Too great an attachment to noble principles could be dangerous in this context."

"I know." Obi-Wan's head rolled to one side, and he favored the opposite wall with a condemnatory frown. "But I'm growing sick of Beju." The frown deepened to a horrible scowl. "He bores me."

Jinnson merely adjusted the windows' self-tinting feature to full opacity and dimmed the lights. "Do not focus on the negative," he advised. "Your intimate acquaintance with his Royal Highness must be extended a bit longer, I think."

A soft sigh flittered in the darkened chamber, accompanied by a melancholy ripple in the Force.

Yes, master, the dutiful unspoken reply washed across their bond.


In the dead of night, or what amounted to night in the undifferentiated drift of the asteroid field, Prince Beju woke with a strangled shout of revulsion. His lightsaber hilt leapt from its place of concealment into his outstretched hand even as he bolted upright, every nerve strung to battle pitch, pulse roaring with thunderous outrage in his ears.

Five wild heartbeats and one gasping inhalation later, his mind caught up with his senses. The muted contours of furnishings and draperies were limned in faint silver by the gentle luminance of a night-lamp; not a sound nor the faintest motion sullied the perfect nocturnal serenity, except those made by the Prince himself as he tucked the weapon beneath a sumptuous pillow and slid from between the satin sheets with a guttural and heartfelt expression of disgust.

"Sith-spit," His Royal Highness added in an undertone, pattering across the soft carpet to his private bath, where he splashed cold water upon his sweaty face and ran two hands through his luxurious mane of mahogany tresses. An antique looking-glass of some polished metal hung above the basin; out of its depths a stranger stared, one whose lowered brows and piercing blue glare gave even his solitary observer pause. The Prince returned the mirror's fulminating gaze for a full and introspective minute before tugging rebelliously at the enormous jewel in his earlobe and storming back out the door –

-Straight into his valet.

"Easy," the tall man murmured, holding his young charge by both shoulders. "I felt a disturbance."

Obi-Wan dipped his head. "I'm sorry, master. It was nothing. A dream."

"Vision?" Qui-Gon asked, waving the lights to half-power.

His Padawan blinked in the sudden bright influx, looking up at his mentor's face sheepishly. "No… just a nightmare."

A nightmare in which the Tervashsu courtesan of the evening previous had again invaded his privacy – and all the unspoken laws of personal space – in a most aggressive manner, before inexplicably transforming into a tentacled botanical thing, a predatory sarlaac bush possessed of inescapable and indefatigable tendrils, coiling and constricting green bonds that conveyed a sinister determination to effect further unspeakable violations of his person. He shuddered, at even the faint phantasmal recollection.

Qui-Gon chuckled softly. "Terrifying indeed."

The young Jedi felt heat rise in his face, aware that he had unwittingly projected some part of this humiliating and perverse image across their Force bond, and even more painfully aware that Qui-Gon's unerring intuition would have filled in any missing details. "You had to be there," he grumbled sulkily.

"Dreams pass in time," the Jedi master consoled his mortified apprentice. "Why don't you go back to sleep?" he added on his way out, infusing the words with the subtlest but most sincere of Force suggestions.

He shut the doors very gently behind him.