Legacy II
Chapter 9
"What?"
A vexed silence from the other end of the 'link betrayed Qui-Gon's displeasure at his mission partner's displeasure at his displeasure …. well, enough said. Mutual pique refracted its smoldering image through the Force's infinite lens, scattering a lovely nuanced spectrum of ill-tempered and strictly unvoiced retorts across their inner world.
"You heard me."
"Yes…" the junior of the pair drawled. "That would be the problem."
"Good." A pointed pause. "Contact me again when you've located him." The transmission ended with a curt blip.
"Former padawan," Obi-Wan reminded the no-longer-present Jedi master. He released a grumbling sigh and tamped down an alarming flare of resentment. Duty, duty, duty. If Qui-Gon truly thought that the inexplicable – or rather, all too tawdry and predictable- disappearance of one juvenile delinquent was somehow integral to their mission outcome, then he would do what he must. Qui-Gon's intuition was not infallible, but it was certainly eerily accurate most the time. And all things were interconnected; much could hang upon a narrow thread.
"Fine," he muttered, shoving the comm device back into its pocket. His fingers brushed against the folded paper he had discovered earlier, and he withdrew it again, just now recalling its existence. Unaccountably curious, he spread the thin sheet out upon a tabletop, its neatly printed contents bathed in a pool of pale lamplight. It was printed in Basic; his eyes flew over the tidy columns and bold section headers.
…when in the course of one world's sovereign affairs it becomes necessary for that commonwealth to dissolve the political bands which have connected it with that which hitherto has constituted a greater unity, and to assume among the powers of the galaxy, that separate and free station to which the laws of moral and political right and of the universal Force entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of all sentient beings requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to this separation…
The young Jedi's brows drew together as he perused the remainder of the text, one which enumerated in elegant prose the various offenses against the rights of individual planets and the nature of true democracy committed by the corrupt galactic Senate, and proposed a singularly radical and uncompromising solution to the unconscionable dilemma posed thereby.
"…Stars' end." He was looking at a seditious tractate.
Not that such a discovery necessarily entailed cause for alarm; there were vociferous pockets of rebellion and discontent throughout the Republic's vast extent. Citizens grumbled, spun wild fantasies of reform, called for blood, sent scathing messages to the glutted fatuity known as the Galactic legislature. Republic law allowed for such freedom of opinion, cherished it - at least in theory.
And yet deep instinct raised prickling hairs at his nape. This was different…. Circumstances suggested that it had been in circulation among the voting elite of this planet – and what had Dooku said? Unrest in the rims is merely symptomatic of the true decay. And another thing to consider: whoever had prepared this document was no fool. Holotext could be traced, analyzed, decrypted – had to be sent through cyberchannels, had to be read by tech device. This, on the other hand… once printed, it could be passed hand to hand, then destroyed without a trace.
A good assassin knew that the best way past an advanced energy bolt deflection field was with a blunt knife. Simple tools often trumped technology; the old could supplant the new, the simple supercede the complex.
He finished reading the impassioned and eloquent plea for secession, and then folded the incriminating paper back into a pouch. He hadn't time at the moment to fully consider the document's broader implications; at the moment, he'd been commissioned to hunt down an irresponsible brat and haul his sorry rear out of trouble.
He donned his cloak and swept out, in search of Terajon's underside.
"We will dine shortly, Master Jedi; your presence would honor our table."
Qui-Gon bowed. "Your hospitality is most welcome. May I have a look about your property in the meantime?"
The lady replied with a small, perplexed smile. "But… the inclement weather –"
"Will bring me no harm, Madame. And more to the point, neither will it deter a potential assassin."
This unpleasant reminder was received with a grave nod. Ue tucked an unruly coil of auburn back into its elaborate knot behind her head. "No of course not," she murmured. "Please, this way." She drew aside a damask drapery and opened double transparisteel doors to an ornamental garden walled on two sides by the moldering edifice's rear-facing wings.
"Thank you." Puling his cowl forward, the Jedi master stepped past the simple threshold into rain-spattered solitude.
Though he could make out only shadow and silhouette in the cloud veiled darkness, the contrapuntal rhythm of slow-falling rain spoke volumes to his ear, attuned by experience and predilection to gardens of all kinds, to the steady pulse of the Force in such places. Droplets fell in muffled cadence upon delicate gravel paths, played sweet tympanum notes upon tranquil reflecting basins and overflowing pools, trilled a thousandfold arpeggio off stem and leaf. Above this liquid symphony a set of mournful reed chimes sang a haunting descant melody. The cold air, redolent of sharp herb and rich mulch, bore also the mineral tang of freshly turned earth from open fields beyond.
Employing a simple Force manipulaton to save himself a thorough drenching, the tall Jedi strode onward toward this wider expanse, leaving the house behind. Gusts of wind tugged petulantly at his cloak hem as he prowled about the fenced perimeter of the nearest pasture. Upon one side, gnarled orchard trees stood huddled against the skies' onslaught; between this stalwart regiment and the waving grass opposite ran a narrow road, one skirting the householders' private domain. The path was unpaved but compacted stone hard by perpetual traffic of laden repulsor craft - freight vehicles or agricultural machinery, in all probability.
Melting into the shades of grey between sight and substance, into his native refuge in the Force, Qui-Gon coursed along this narrow way like liquid shadow, river deeps running soundlessly over time-smoothed stone. Dooku had once been his master, too- and the Sentinel had not failed to impart the vital lessons of stealth to his student, nor the pupil failed to learn them, albeit sometimes under the threat of stern discipline. Wrapped in his voluminous cloak, immune to the rain's pummeling, he flowed silently and invisibly along the border between field and orchard, reaching far and wide through the Force in search of that which might be obscure to the senses.
Halfway round his circuit, he came to an abrupt halt, perceiving an unknown presence ahead, one equally focused and cautious as himself, an undercurrent of grim intention thrumming in the tense plenum. Exhaling slowly, he relinquished his impalpable mantle, and stood in the center of the beaten path.
"Halt!" a young male voice rang out. "Stop right where you are – I'm armed!"
The tall man shook his head, moth quirking a bit at this amateurish proclamation. "Put away your blaster," he advised his would-be assailant. "I'm not the intruder you are looking for."
Footsteps hastened nearer. A halo-rod was lit and raised high, piercing the night with harsh luminance. A thousand whirling droplets glittered in mid-air, illusorily suspended in its blinding shaft.
"You're intruding enough for me," the lamp's owner growled, stepping yet nearer, and squinting to get a good look at the tall stranger. The young man was muffled in a slick rain-coat, but his sure tread and broad frame bespoke a heavy though not athletic build. Closer to thirty than twenty, he glared up at the tall trespasser with undisguised suspicion, the bulky shape of his sidearm bulging in one pocket. "This is my family's land-holding," he barked. "And just who in the blazes might you be?"
"Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn." He flicked his cloak aside just far enough to reveal the burnished lightsaber hilt at his belt, and tilted his chin up in challenge.
"Oh… miirska." The halo-rod was politely lowered, permitting them to look each other full in the face. "My… my apologies, Daijon. I – there is – that is…. I thought – "
"You thought to accost a potential murderer with a single blaster and no better authority than your own voice?"
The young man blushed a violent crimson beneath his close-cropped dark hair. He was obviously a blood relative of some degree, though the coarser features and stockier build suggested a cousin more than a direct descendant. "You know about… how do… so it's true? I'm right?"
"The danger is quite real, or I should not be here. However, I do not sense any immediate threat beyond that you pose to yourself through this imprudent quest for trouble. I think we ought to retreat indoors – and perhaps make one another's acquaintance properly."
Still manifestly shocked at the sudden apparition of a flesh and blood, bone fide Jedi Master upon his hereditary estate, the self-appointed patrolman stammered out his acquiescence and made another deeply apologetic bow. "Atasowen Kenobi. You've doubtless met my uncle already – Daijon Tamasu?"
"Indeed I have. Shall we?"
He extended an imperious hand and shepherded the errant younger man back to the house, wondering just how many such personalities he would be obliged to wrangle in the course of this mission.
The place was not difficult to find. In fact, the embassy air-car pilot seemed to know precisely where it was located. He brought the vehicle to a discreetly humming standstill some few blocks away, at the outskirts of the township surrounding the legislative district. By Coruscanti standards, the whole area was a backworld village – though here the tidy sprawl of businesses and fashionable town houses must constitute a large urban incursion upon bucolic paradise. Even in the …. disreputable…. Sector at the city's margins, not a spot of vandalism was apparent, not a single vagrant or beggar present upon the streets.
"Shall I wait,sir?"
The young Jedi glanced down the empty thoroughfare, gleaming with the reflected sheen of a hundred festival lights, a perpetually moving tapestry of ripples and waves beneath the steady deluge. "Yes. I'll be back shortly with another passenger."
The pilot's unease wafted through the Force, muddying its currents. "Are you… making an arrest, Master Jedi?"
Obi-Wan offered the poor man an encouraging smile. "Of sorts. Don't worry – the culprit isn't dangerous."
Which pronouncement was received with round dubiety, in consideration of the fact that a Jedi Knight had been dispatched to retrieve the villain. But, true to form, the man held his tongue and gave a brief nod of acknowledgement before scooting the aircar a discreet distance away.
The establishment itself presented an impeccably groomed façade and a boldly graven plaque declaring its name and purpose. Apparently here on the Stewardship, even debauchery was undertaken in a genteel manner; why should not sin also be done in good taste? This … house of ill repute… was clearly legal and socially sanctioned, for anything else would only foster a less palatable alternative, seedier incarnations of the same venue, ones offensive to the culture's sensibilities. Obi-Wan's brows rose at the nicety of this arrangement, the sheer… civility of it.
Qui-Gon's teachings must really have got under his skin if he was questioning the sanity of his own most deeply cherished prejudices.
"Hm," he grunted, passing a hand over the motion sensitive door chime.
A shapely protocol unit answered the summons, its vocabulator expertly pitched halfway between soothing and seductive. "Admittance is for members, or by prior reservation, Daijon."
"Oh, I'm expected."
The thing cooed prettily at him. "Your name?"
"Kenobi." Heads were going to roll. Well, they would be if the Code did not forbid such satisfyingly emphatic expressions of disapprobation.
"This way please, Daijon. You are welcome. May I take your cloak?"
"No – I'll keep it." He followed his obliging escort into a posh vestibule and then up a wide double staircase onto a luxuriantly furnished landing, and from thence to a quiet hall punctuated by elaborately wrought doors. The droid ushered him to the last of these on the left hand side and passed a code key against the plate.
"Thank you." He was in the dimly-lit suite and assessing his new surroundings with the alacrity of a battle-hardened advance scout before the servitor had bumbled halfway down the corridor. The set of rooms was small but lavish, everything about them sensuous, expensive, and artisan-crafted. There was a trickle of malice eddying in the universal energy – somewhere proximate but not too near; however, the vague threat by no means emanated from chambers' occupants.
A soft arpeggio of female laughter echoed in the next room. He pushed onward, brusquely thrusting aside the intervening curtain, and glowered upon the vignette within. Three young and exquisitely coiffed and painted courtesans hung in various artful poses upon the person of their extremely underage patron, a youth of not more than seventeen with fair skin, strongly cut features, impishly laughing eyes and a pair of dimples to match. This insouciant and clearly inebriated character was lounging at his ease among the threesome, garments and dark hair sufficiently disheveled to suggest that he had initiated the standard launch sequence for further improprieties.
Obi-Wan encompassed the three women in a sweeping admonitory glare. "You'd best leave," he recommended, flatly.
They complied immediately, though with a bit more smiling and ogling than he found strictly comfortable.
"Sooo serious, Daijon," one of them murmured on her way out, trailing a petite hand along his shoulder before finally withdrawing.
"You," the young Jedi addressed the spoiled reprobate half-sprawled before him, "are coming with me."
The lad polished off his glass of fermented sakuri and pulled a face, tossing a silken pillow at the intruder. It veered off course in midair and hit the far wall.
"I don't think so, " the boy slurred, grinning drunkenly. "And who in all hells' misbegotten moons are you supposed to be anyway?"
