Lineage IV
10
Siri Tachi showed up punctually for their first date, her weapon ready in hand and the set of her shoulders declaring a firm intention to deliver an unforgettable thrashing.
Obi Wan polished off the melorine fruit he had been snacking upon and tossed the pit nonchalantly into the composter on the dome's far side, deftly opening the container's lid at the last moment with a subtle nudge of the Force.
"I thought those fruits were forbidden," Siri remarked acidly.
He raised a brow. "So is sparring for the sake of settling a personal dispute."
"We don't have a dispute," she corrected him. "You have an attitude problem."
Dawn light softly illumined the interior of the greenhouse. "So I'm told," he smiled tightly, unclipping his saber and adjusting the power setting to low. "But I thought that was the subject of debate."
Siri's blade snapped into vibrant life, humming in the warm air beneath their chosen arena's dome. "I'm not arguing with you, Kenobi. I'm teaching you a lesson."
He saluted her, blade singing a bright and sonorous note as he swung it in the showiest display of speed and accuracy possible, tracing a quadruple helix about his body and ending in a casual guard position. Siri's eyes narrowed, and the Force flared with their mutual disdain.
"Best one out of one wins?" he suggested, tauntingly.
Siri Tachi was a talented swordswoman; she was fast, unpredictable, skilled, and cunning. It was a rare pleasure to cross blades with her, and so… since life in the Agri-Corps did not admit of many undiluted pleasures… Obi Wan prolonged the duel as much as possible. He parried, twisted, blocked and lunged, evading strike after strike by a hairsbreadth, not bothering to launch his own offensive. Siri's furious assault powered both of them, driving them through a complex dance around the perimeter of the small dome, across its width, and around the small space in the opposite direction, he retreating steadily and she pushing against his defenses with every ounce of her considerable resolve. Their sabers clashed, the edges shrieking in glorious discordant cacophony as they met and parted and locked together again, always whirling, slicing, cutting, slashing, spinning, hammering down in blinding streaks of blue fire.
It was intoxicating.
Obi Wan rolled backward over one shoulder, evading a killing blow. He sprang upright and leapt, spiraling over Siri's head, to land behind her. Her pivot was flawless, but he still had the advantage; and in the next instant their roles were reversed and he was on the offensive, raining down a hailstorm of Ataru lightning from every direction, airborne more often than he was upon the ground, grinning widely in sheer exhilaration.
Siri stood her ground, commanding the center of the space, fighting hard to withstand the onslaught. "Ataru is a circus show, not a fighting style," she snarled.
He landed, made a lightning quick feint, came in under her guard and disarmed her in one fluid, economical motion. Her saber deactivated as it skittered under a row of shelves.
"Fierfek," she hissed. "What was that?"
"Makashi," Obi Wan informed her, gallantly holding her at saber point. Her face was highlighted in blue by the pulsing blade.
"Master Jinn is teaching you Makashi?" she said, incredulous.
"No." He backed her slowly into the curved wall of the dome. "Master Dooku."
Siri's left heel hit the plasteel paneling. Her eyes flashed, and she twisted to the side, ducking and reaching a hand out to summon her fallen saber back into her grip. Obi Wan held out a hand and sent it sailing in the opposite direction again, twisting with her, slipping behind and pinning her free arm in a Corellian wrestling hold.
"You sneaky barve!" his captive spat out. He pulled her closer, until he had his other arm wrapped tight about her waist, his knee locked on the inside of her thigh, her weight off-balance, dependent on his whim. Her golden hair was coming loose from the braid's tight plaiting, tickling his nose and chin as she struggled vainly for release. "Who taught you that low-down spice-smuggler's tactic?" she demanded, breathless. "Master Jinn or Master Dooku?"
He grinned, leaning in close to her ear. "Master Kenobi."
Siri's retort devolved into an inarticulate yelp as he tightened his grip yet further, forestalling any attempt at escape.
"Yield," he suggested. "Before I decide to cut off your hair as a trophy."
She stiffened in outrage. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Jedi do not affect personal ornaments." Siri's hair was silken soft, even bound tightly in its thick braid. "I would be promoting your humility. And you forget, I am a dishonorable, treasonous, sneaky barve. So really, why wouldn't I ?"
"Fine, you arrogant gundark... I yield! This time."
He released her, summoned her weapon into his hand and returned it with a deep bow. "Thank you for the lesson, Padawan Tachi. I am in your debt."
Siri graced him with a look of cold dignity, bowed formally, and withdrew in an icy silence, the greenhouse door admitting a blast of frigid air into the dome as she exited.
Karnas was by no means a convenient detour; the hyperspace route required a complex set of jumps, and a frustrating length of time in transit, even in the powerful Republic light shuttle.
"You're too lax with that Padawan of yours," Adi interrupted the cockpit's silence with an unsolicited opinion. "He's headstrong, too much so to be granted such liberties."
Qui Gon's lips thinned. "He is headstrong; but his instincts are very good. If he says there is something amiss, I am confident it is so."
"Perhaps," the other Jedi master granted, "But the local authorities should be competent to handle it. When will he learn not to throw himself headlong into every crisis that presents itself?"
The tall man leaned back. "You mean, when will I learn the same?"
Adi released a gentle snort of laughter and turned to face him fully. Her voice was deep, rich in timbre. "One of you is going to have to act as anchor, Jinn. And you're too old to learn new tricks. What will happen when your famous luck runs out?"
"There's no such thing as luck," he reminded her, forcing his tone to remain casual.
"I'll be quite frank with you," the Tholothian pressed on, ignoring his attempt at lightness. "I argued for a much longer term of probation in the Agri-Corps. It was Master Yoda who whittled it down to six weeks."
The Force flashed with sudden resentment. Qui Gon exhaled very deliberately. He tipped his head back slightly. "This has more to do with your Padawan than mine," he stated, simply.
Adi was a Jedi master, and did not deny it. "I trust Siri to comport herself appropriately. We had a lengthy discussion regarding Padawan Kenobi before we landed on Ord Ursolon."
"Indeed." Qui Gon was a Jedi master, and understood that this discussion had also encompassed much about himself and his infamous maverick streak.
"If he drags her into trouble, I will personally oversee the consequences," Adi promised.
"Apparently you lack confidence in your apprentice's prudence," he remarked, clamping down on his rising annoyance.
Adi shrugged and raised her brows. "She is young, and so is he."
Qui Gon held his peace. Their mission was too vital to be sidetracked by a personal dispute. Perhaps later, at the Temple, he would invite Adi to spar with him. But for now, he chose to maintain a collegial peace.
"True enough," he demurred.
Obi Wan swung the rickety Agri-Corps speeder to a halt just outside the reforestation project and deactivated the remote security sensor using the code Alepo had provided. A bleep on the controller's screen gave him clearance to nudge the hovercraft over the buried magneto-line and meander his way through the newly seeded area to the edge of the young forest.
He swung himself over the speeder's side and crunched his way over the frost-laden earth toward the eastern boundary. He had chosen a place with a pretty view, one that Qui Gon would have admired for its pristine majesty, the stark vales and ridges of the ascending hills, the gorges where water had flowed in abundance before Ord Ursolon's ecological devastation.
The thing was still there, very much alive, and perceptibly larger. Its phenomenal rate of growth alone confirmed the wisdom of moving it to a new home; he was fairly certain it would soon no longer comfortably fit inside the Agri-Corps housing unit's small rooms.
"You're turning into quite the sarlaac," he teased it, cautiously approaching the central stalk. Tentacles writhed about his ankles, crept up his back and played with his nerftail and braid. He swatted a few of the more prurient tendrils away and unwrapped the small package he had brought for the creature's delectation.
"Mandrangea bean patties," he announced. "Vegetarian fare all this week – but, mind you, these are highly nutritive, Padawan; a Jedi should not be so particular about his vittles."
The plant snatched the highly nutritive offering out of his hand with an alacrity suggestive of vexed intolerance for prolonged lecturing, and promptly dropped the bean patties into its mouth-like cavity. A moment later, however, its esteem for vegetarian cuisine seemed to plummet sharply; the tooth-ridges parted and the spattered remnants of its meal flew in all directions, a veritable explosion of processed vegetable matter. Only Obi Wan's Jedi reflexes saved him from the unsavory shrapnel.
On cue, a brindle-coated springer emerged from beneath the nearby trees, intrigued by the sudden rainfall of edible matter, and set to eating the tentacled thing's far-flung emesis. Quicker than thought, a thick tendril snapped forward and coiled about the unfortunate animal, choking its life off with a rib-crushing constrictor's vise. The furry morsel was quickly hoisted into the air, and dropped into the gaping orifice in the plant's center. The serrated ridges meshed together; the bulbous chamber beneath swelled; and the coils and arms of the predator rippled with gentle satisfaction.
Obi Wan stepped backward, repulsed. "So uncivilized," he muttered. "Uugh, master." He beat a hasty retreat downhill, his pricking conscience assuaged by the confirmation that Qui Gon's pathetic life form was, to say the least, flourishing under his expert care.
He steeled himself for the task ahead, and headed for the crash site.
The crash site was a dark fortress in the Force, its twisted, molten ramparts bedecked with ethereal tatters of dread and malice. The ship's ruins rose from the rocky hillside like the carcass of some mighty beast, blackened and blasted open by the explosion, its innards strewn over its hull, dangling in clots and bunches from shredded bulkheads, ruined decking.
It took an effort of will to push forward, and climb into the empty framework. There was little to be seen. Emergency workers had obviously removed any sentient remains that could be found after the explosion; yet death lingered about the place, as did the stench of slagged metal, melted plastoid, innumerable toxic engine coolants and drive lubricants. Obi Wan's flesh crawled.
He wasn't sure what it was he thought to find here; he knew only that what he had seen, what he had felt, during those desperate minutes of the rescue, had been the traces of malice. He picked his way through the warped hold toward the cockpit. The doors had been blasted clean off by the final conflagration; he slipped over the threshold into the mangled remains of the ship's control center. The blackening of fire had not eradicated all traces of the pilots' sudden deaths. The Force shifted beneath him, nauseating.
He gripped the charred doorframe and closed his eyes. The Force seemed to heave and roll, a spasming that echoed in his own gut, a choking and retching, as though some secret were ready to be spat up from hidden depths. He clenched his teeth, riding out the awful sensation… and then wheeled about, certain beyond all rational explanation that he was being watched.
His hand went to his saber's hilt, and he half-crouched, reaching through the Force, seeking the other presence...
Nothing.
He drew in a deep breath. Bad nerves? Or an echo, something dredged up from the past, a memory lingering in the aching Force here?
Either way, it was enough. He jumped away, bounding down through the wreckage to the cold ground, pulling the duster close against the pervasive chill. Night was approaching, and on the distant horizon, an angry brewing of red and orange could be seen rising like a flood. By now he could easily recognize the signs of an imminent dust storm, and made no delay in returning to the landspeeder. At this altitude, he was safe from the bitter storm; but it would never do to be caught in the lowlands between here and the safety of the Agri-domes when the dark winds came clawing across the plains.
He jumped into the lightweight vehicle and powered down the hillside at a swift clip, outracing the oncoming wall of dust clouds and leaving the ominous corpse of the fallen ship behind.