Authors note: to honor the attentive reader who suggests that I limit the use of metaphors and similes to a more Cromwellian austerity, I have undertaken to Purge this chapter of all such distractingly florid and frivolous material. As Master Chakora Seva once said, true power is manifested through its abnegation. You see, like Obi-Wan, I am headstrong and have much to learn of the Living Force…. but I am capable. –rb
Lineage VII
Chapter 8
Personal belongings stowed in lockers, uniformly clad in Collective Taskforce jackets with the New Absolute insignia emblazoned on the sleeve, the workers filed obediently into the docking bay inside Apsolis' massive government complex. The dull tramp of boots resounded off high girders, the polished decks, the hulls of several battered shipping freighters moored at the far extremity of the cavernous hangar.
"This way," their task manager grunted, leading his detachment of laborers toward the last of these inbound spacecraft.
Qui-Gon noted the ship's make and specifications, and also the Telosian planetary seal upon its starboard side.
"Okay," the foreman directed the company. "Unload the cargo in both holds, sort onto palettes by tracking number , then take it to the corresponding warehouse. You'll be given assembly instructions once the unload is finished."
The Telosian freighter's cargo holds were huge, and packed with crates and plastoid containers of every size; the delta class all purpose workers did not care much whether one of their own discreetly disappeared while on the job. The Jedi master slipped adroitly between two towering rows of crates and crept along the line of palettes until he was well-hidden amid the labyrinth of shipping boxes. Their manifests were not informative: tech components could mean anything from illegal weaponry to pedestrian power cells for lamps and battery-drive tools. Casting a swift glance over one shoulder, he gathered the Force and broke the nearest crate seal, prying off the heavy lid with a wave of his hand.
Inside, nestled amid a downy bed of plastiform pre-pack, was a dissembled and inactive hunter-seeker droid, its ovoid carapace bristling with sensors and elongated extremities, a compact blaster cannon set beneath the domed processor and repulsor-generator units. The design was unmistakable Techno-Union, and obviously avante garde.
He had no doubt that he beheld a tool of "Purification," an imported technology designed specifically for targeted killing in uneven terrain. Mouth pressed into a thin line, he resealed the crate and reinserted himself into the line of workers propelling laden hover-palettes down the ramp.
In a matter of moments he was at the interior doors leading to a second hangar bay. Two uniformed security guards stood sentinel to either side.
"Sorry, no admittance – 'freshers are on the west side, behind the magneto-crane," one of them grunted at the tall man as he ambled forward.
Qui-Gon made a small gesture with his hand. "I am not here."
The sentries stared vacantly into the bustling cargo area, idly watching the other workers unload the frieghter's contents. The Jedi master opened the doors with another wave of his hand, and slipped through into the restricted area without further ado.
It did not take long to identify the missing Republic diplomatic shuttle, though it had already been given a new coat of paint and provided with New Apsolon's planetary insignia. He scurried across the echoing deck and took shelter from the roving cam-droid that burbled about overhead, maintaining a standard surveillance pattern. The shuttle's ramp was closed and the alarms set, but a carefully accrued stock of saboteur's lore enabled him to swiftly locate the relevant access panel and sever the appropriate circuits.
After creating a small distraction to occupy the cam droid, Qui-Gon slipped up the boarding ramp and into the empty ship, striding swiftly through the passenger hold and into the cockpit. Only the maintenance computer and the standby systems were online, and he did not dare activate the nav interface or flight log. Tapping fingers on the pilot's seat backrest, he mulled over the problem and then withdrew his comlink and wired it into the comm-sat array. The entire last week's transmission records were almost instantly uploaded to his device, and he pocketed the small object with a tight smile of satisfaction, noting that a simple technological tool could sometimes – occasionally – be nearly as powerful an ally as the Living Force. The Temple's resident communications expert had recently encrypted all Jedi ships and comm devices to be exclusively compatible, thus safeguarding against outside intelligence leaks.
Unless Guerra Derrida applies his anti-register, master, Obi-Wan had cynically pointed out. We would be better off writing messages on flimsi and setting them afloat in bottles if he's in one of his " unstealing" moods.
But the talented and incorrigible Phindian brothers were nowhere near - and so it was doubtful that the Apsolonian government had any access to the data presently stowed on his 'link. Qui-Gon waited for the right moment and then carefully retraced his steps, deftly rejoined the line of delta-class laborers just as the unloading task was finished.
He dearly hoped the information would provide a lead, some clue to their fellow Jedi's whereabouts. Time was running short.
"Enter."
Obi-Wan cautiously stepped forward into the small administrative office marked Remediation Counseling. The room contained a holo-portrait of Eline, the flag of New Apsolon, a pair of shabby chairs, and a portly man lounging at his ease behind a dilapidated desk. Metallic optic implants obscured this individual's eyes, giving him the peculiar expressionless mien of a droid, despite his quivering jowls and full lips.
"Ah… haven't seen you before. Sit down, son."
The young Jedi perched on the edge of a worn chair, wordlessly handing over the datachit given him by the morning's instructor. The Remediation Counselor slotted it into a scanner and regarded the data display built into his flat desktop. "Hm," he murmured, rumbling deep in his throat. "Grossly inaccurate historical knowledge. How did you progress to Level Twelve with such gaping holes in your education?"
"I'm from out of town, sir. This is my first day at the Guild."
The man leaned back, rigid optic plates staring wide-eyed and unblinking at the visitor. His face was marred by the livid rumples of acid burns, one side of his fleshy mouth pulled upward in a permanent leer. "That explains it. Well, seeing as you're a first time offender, I think this should be fairly easy. New Absolutes are committed to equality in education. Our new No Student Left Behind program ensures uniformity in the learning process."
"I see," Obi-Wan responded, though he did not.
The Counselor lackadaisically tapped some information into his computer. "We'll sort you out in no time," he assured the confused youth. "Just step this way."
They passed through an interior door into a cold passage, and then descended far below ground level in a long lift-tube.
"Where are we going?" the Padawan inquired, a faint bad feeling tugging at the margins of awareness.
"Just the Remediation Center Annex. You're just a victim of poor teaching methods – this shouldn't be too intense. Just remember: Eline and the People's Collective have your own best interest at heart. Cooperate, and the remediation process will be short and painless."
The bad feeling blossomed into a distinct sense of apprehension, but Obi-Wan said nothing. As he followed the hefty Counselor into a subterranean tunnel lined in durasteel, he was suddenly aware of a new presence – the chiming echo of another Force-user, near at hand. His heart skipped a beat, his senses reaching, reaching for –
"Here we are." A massive double-reinforced door was flung wide, and they were issued into a blank chamber, its walls lined with a series of upright coffin-shaped capsules, each outfitted with a small viewport at face-level and a blinking control panel on one side.
A utility droid greeted them, accepting the datachit handed to it by the Counselor, who waved the reprobate student forward to the center of the room.
The whole space was awash with echoes, pained remnants of another's brief sojourn here. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, concentrating, seeking to follow the elusive trail to its origin –
"Level A basic conceptual redirectioning is all that is required," the droid intoned. "This way, please." It thrust a hard-edged manipulator in the direction of the nearest capsule, and opened its cover to reveal a recessed and padded interior in the shape of a basic humanoid form. "Step inside please. The process will take ten to thirty minutes, depending on your receptivity to corrective therapy."
Obi-Wan blinked, hesitating fractionally, feeling the invisible plenum tauten with clear warning. But the coffin gaping wide before him exuded a familiar signature… the subtle aroma of mandrangea blossoms drifting in the turgid Force.
Siri.
"Go on, son. We don't got all day."
A single deep centering breath, and he complied, flinching only slightly when the heavy cover was slammed shut scant centimeters from his face, enclosing him in claustrophobic darkness. The soft padding of the capsule's lining seemed to expand, pinning him in place on all sides; immediately afterward, a plethora of blunt rods whirred into position, pressing into him from behind the soft material. He squirmed, then subsided, allowing the Force to flow unimpeded, to wash away instinctual fear. He could still feel Siri's presence, her trace in the Force like a lingering perfume, and he focused on this one fact, determined to glean all that he could from this fleeting, ephemeral evidence.
A recorded voice spoke, perhaps piped in from outside, but clearly specifically programmed for his case. "Revision: Jedi interference during the People's Libertarian Revolution led to a compromised solution which has been detrimental to the vitality and ultimate longevity of our society during the last two decades. Reversal of these negative effects requires a return to pure principles as advocated by the New Absolutes, the voice and power of the Collective People."
Obi-Wan snorted softly to himself. What lamentably predictable obfuscation.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a vitriolic jolt of fire ripped through his limbs, bringing his heart into his throat and wringing a hoarse cry of pain from his throat. Panting, he deliberately unclenched rigid muscles and steadied himself. Think. Think. The rods surrounding him, pressing in on every side, must be electropulsors. His brain wave patterns must have betrayed the basic tenor of his reaction – it certainly hadn't been meek acceptance of the proposed doctrine. This was some kind of conditioning droid….
To the hells with that. He'd had enough of that for a lifeti-
"Aaaagh!"
He stamped down his next flare of indignation, willing himself to relax.
"Revision," the voice repeated. "Jedi interference in during the People's Libertarain Revolution.."
He centered his focus completely upon the lingering traces of Siri Tachi, drowning out the repetitive droning of the voice. She had been here, not too long ago, undergoing the same sort of nonsense to which he was presently being subjected. The Absolutes must be absolutely barmy to think they could bend Siri's will to their own – never had a more stiff necked Padawan graced the halls of the Temple, not within living memory, anyway. One might as well try to change the course of a roaring glacial river in flood than tell Siri Tachi what to think and how to think it –
"Subject non-responsive," the voice observed, dispassionately.
His inattention was punished with another severe dose of electric fire.
"Stars' end!" This was the mild version? Pulse thrilling, pain still ringing in his ears, he gathered his momentarily scattered wits and grounded himself once more.
"Revision," the automaton began once more. "Jedi interference in the People's Libertarian Revolution led to –"
…led to a horde of mynocks invading the capitol building and nesting in the rafters, Obi-Wan improvised, shorting out all the primary power sources and growing to obscene size until the arcades and grand entry salon were knee-deep in odiferous droppings and all legislative activity ceased while the fearless leaders of the People valiantly shoveled bat-chizzsk in the name of the common-
He screamed aloud again, as the resultant dose of high voltage energy coursed through his veins.
Not good. The Absolutes were strict about impertinence, it would seem, far outdoing even Master Qui-Gon's expectations regarding minding one's thoughts. The last traces of Siri dissolved like morning mist under the last assault, leaving him shaking and breathless, and no further toward a solution either to the mystery or his own predicament.
The voice did not give up. "Revision: Jedi interference in the People's Libertarian Revolution led to a compromised solution…"
Focus. Focus. What would Qui-Gon do? Focus determines reality. The droning incantation came to an end, the bubble of expectant silence at its tail end yet unbroken. Many truths that we cling to depend very greatly on our point of view. He relaxed, floating in the disjointed Force. Yes. There was a seed of truth there, depending how you approached the problem. From the Absolute's perspective, the establishment of tenuous peace would look like a compromise… the strength of Apsolon's society had been compromised – after all, raw strength was not necessarily a virtue, only a tool of moral commitment. One could express the facts in such a way.. from a certain point of view…
"Revision," the voice started yet again, though without intervening pain. "Jedi interference in the People's Libertarian revolution…"
The words washed over him, representing nothing more than a particular limited sentient perspective within the wide spectrum of perception and interpretation. The truth remained inviolably centered within the Light, unsullied by the refractions and perversions wrought upon it by sentient rhetoric and misrepresentation. The Absolutes' opinion merely buzzed in his ears harmlessly, a limited and fractured part of the truth, as all lies were at root. He felt no need to countermand the dictates of unreason, for his mind coursed within the Light, seeing the whole beyond the distorted part.
The voice ceased, and there was no further painful retribution exacted. A moment later, the coffin's lid creaked open, and he tumbled forward onto his knees, upon the hard floor of the empty chamber. The droid and the Remediation Counselor loomed over him, each surveying him with critical diagnostic abstraction.
"That wasn't so bad," the latter decided, staring at the young Jedi through bulging optic implants. "Here. Keep your blood sugar up."
A cup of muja juice was thrust under his nose, and he accepted it meekly, now intent on only on escape and making a report to Qui-Gon. If this was a taste of what treatment Master Gallia and her Padawan might have received at the hands of the Absolutes, he did not wish to waste another moment searching. They needed to move, and fast. He gulped down the sticky contents of the cup and rose to his feet shakily.
"Right," the brusque officer snapped. "This way. Back to class with you tomorrow, and I do believe you'll do better from here on out, won't you?"
They left the grim chamber behind, ascending from the underlevels back to the dreary city above.
