Lineage IX
Chapter 14
The glory and wonder of supralight travel tended to wear rather thin after the first two hours, especially onboard a claustrophobically small shuttle-craft. Jedi, who spent a good deal of their otherwise adventuresome and varied lives sequestered in the cramped confines of such vessels, naturally had a diverse arsenal of customary amusements and pastimes with which to ease the inevitable boredom. There was always meditation, or quiet study, or routine maintenance on the ship itself. Some masters or padawans preferred to use the time for a game of strategy or skill, something to hone the mind and perhaps instill a lesson or two in the Force's mysterious ways.
And then there were Yan Dooku and his current apprentice - who seemed, by a common natural proclivity for such pursuits, to habitually rely upon the pleasure of intricate philosophical debate to while away the long hours in hyperspace.
"A valid point," the sentinel observed, magnanimously. "However, your premise ceases to be valid in the case of moral corruption."
"Master, what moral corruption on the part of any politician – even the Supreme Chancellor, for the sake of argument, could justify a violent secession? Bad leadership does not dissolve the fundamental tenets of democratic rule, as such."
"I do not speak of bad leadership. What if, for instance, the governing body of the Republic were to alter its own constitution in such a manner that it embraced a practice or principle contrary to the nature of true liberty?"
Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms. "You mean alter the constitution to permit… slavery, or something equivalent?"
Dooku waved an idle hand."For the sake of example. Slavery is not a likely scenario; what have we droids for, if not to satisfy the same economic demands that fuel slavery in the less privileged regions of the galaxy?"
His apprentice exhaled and nodded, admitting that this was true. Labor that could be bought and sold was an unfortunate foundation stone of the Republic's economic prosperity. The invention of droids had been a great blessing for sentients in this regard: only on far-flung planets where the cost of cybertronics made droids a luxury possession did slavery still flourish. He was no raving enthusiast for droids, himself – they were a convenience, it was true, and performed many menial and dangerous tasks that he would not wish upon any living being… but beneath the easy acceptance of this aspect of galactic culture there lurked a dark shadow. Droids were the metallic echoes of the slaves and underclasses that once had been, and still could be.
But his mind was wandering off topic. "But even suppose such an alteration was made, it behooves those who believe in freedom to fix the situation rather than to abandon their fundamental loyalties."
Dooku steepled his fingers and gazed at the blinking ceiling panels. "Ah, youth. You would go down with a burning ship, I fear."
The padawan's hackles rose. "What other alternative is there, Master? Abandoning one's post is…. is dishonorable!"
The Sentinel offered him a thin and sympathetic smile. "I felt the same at your age. But you will find that life is far more complicated than you suppose , and that a great many of the truths we cling to depend very greatly on one's point of view."
"Yes, Master." The argument was ended, for the time being. He checked the navcomp again, and then changed topics. "Do you think this manuscript in the Dantooine Enclave will truly prove illuminating? I don't see how it will help us locate the thief."
Again Dooku turned amused eyes upon him. "Oh, I doubt it will directly contribute at all. But many things that are inherently worthless can still be turned to profit as bargaining chips."
Obi-Wan frowned. "We cannot remove an historical document from the collection on Dantooine," he objected.
"Hm," Dooku answered. "We can do whatever is necessary to complete this mission. The rest of the Council and I have a ….tacit agreement."
His apprentice merely nodded once, a sober acknowledgment that the issue was out of his hands – and perhaps also an admission that he, too, would do whatever necessary to see this affair through to its bitter conclusion.
The personal stakes were too high to admit of failure.
The garbage trawler kicked and bucked like a fractious young nerf colt rebelling against its wrangler – but in the end, the tractor beam proved too much for its failing stabilizers and wrestled it into submission upon a high landing pad atop one of the stronghold's architecturally fanciful towers. Running lights picked out the edge of the circular platform in eerie phosphors; the vessel vibrated as a magnetic docking moor fixed to its hull like a lamprey; not a soul was to be seen though the viewport or sensed in the Force.
Qui-Gon descended the rickety ramp warily, hand resting upon his 'saber's hilt.
A sultry breeze caught at his lank hair and tickled his nostrils, laden with the earthy incense of aromatic woodfires and some other unfamiliar sweetness. He stood at the summit of a white pinnacle, scanning the decks below his feet for sign of access hatch or opening, reaching out through the languid plenum to feel the nature of this place's inhabitants, whether willing hosts or not.
Presently a flagstone slab scraped aside to reveal a broad square of darkness leading below. Out of this slowly widening aperture the head and shoulders of a dozen dwarfish figures emerged, their grotesque bodies and faces partially obscured by fanciful and definitely antique armor, their shambling gaits and inelegant grunts and snuffles proclaiming that these were not the breathtaking Ieng'lis of spacers' legend. They tromped to a standstill some two meters from his knees, thrusting a bristly forest of short spears and crude mattocks upward at his comparatively towering form.
"Halt, intruder!" the captain of these gargoylish interlopers snarled at him, in a voice as rasping and rough-hewn as the white stone beneath their boots. "Who are you that has the audacity to trespass where only fools dare tread?"
The Jedi master's brows rose, complacently. "A fool, clearly."
This reply caught the diminutive troll off guard momentarily, but he swiftly reverted to protocol. "And what business brings you here to Iembo, oh Fool?"
Qui-Gon inclined his head politely. "I bring a gift for your …mistress." The Force guided his tongue, as it had so often his footsteps. "From the Old One of Nal Hutta."
The latter name manifestly meant nothing to the malformed soldiery, but at mention of their mistress a palpable frisson ran through their squat ranks. "A gift for Her? A Token? We cannot present this Fool to her – he stinks!"
Their leader promptly latched onto this difficulty, recognizing a problem that fell within the bounds of his competency to set aright. "Aye, Fool. You stink like a whoreson swine. What have you been doing?"
"It makes for a long tale," the tall man answered, tightly. Inured by force of necessity to his own scent, he was nonetheless painfully aware that he must by now reek abominably of swamp and bacci and grease and the indescribable filth and decay of the garbage trawler. And his garments were a sorry departure from acceptable Jedi uniform- frayed and stained and darkened with a year's worth of hard travel and very few laundering facilities. He must look the fit counterpart to his repulsive odor.
"You cannot have audience with Her until you've bathed," the guard informed him, pertly. "Filthy livestock must not pollute the halls of the Ieng'lis."
Pateince. Forbearance. "Show me where I may divest myself of these garments and make myself presentable," he said, with the patience and forbearance of a true Master.
"This way," the stump of a warrior grunted, leading the way into the tower, his retinue of outlandish companions surrounding the tall Jedi like a nerf being led to slaughter. "Come along."
They set down upon the rolling Khoonda plains, lying eastward of the ancient Enclave buildings. Dantooine's flat grasslands opened up before the millennia-old structure, a swelling green ocean rolling in gentle waves towards the shore of its solitary island. The Enclave's main rotunda did not rise majestically skyward like the pyramid of the Temple on Coruscant, but its four solid buttresses, bracing the central hub like immovable cornerstones, echoed the soaring spires of its sister sanctuary.
Dooku and his padawan strolled along the crumbling and time-beaten road leading to the main eastern gates.
"The Force is… heavy here," Obi-Wan remarked, struggling to formulate the sense of refracted light, of ghostly shadow and luminance hanging over the Enclave buildings and the surrounding area like a mantle woven of memory and portent.
"This place has seen many a rise and fall," Dooku agreed. "And the Force remembers. But we shall encounter few, if any sentients here now – the Keeper, of course. And perhaps one or two other travelers or supplicants seeking refuge. If we meditate in the western courtyard, we may be able to pierce the veil of distance…. I should like to see what our enemy is about."
"I am willing, Master." Under Dooku's tutelage, his natural talent for Unifying vision had flourished, tended like an exquisite greenhouse bloom under the Sentinel's expert care. Deep meditation as Dooku taught it was a world apart from communion with the Living Force, as Master Qui-Gon had always sought to instill in him. Not that incubating such visions was always a pleasant experience. Sighing, he drew his cloak close about his shoulders despite the day's warmth and the glint of joyous sunshine upon the bleached tips of wild grass. He would do what he must, if it meant hunting down their foe.
"Excellent."
They were met at the doors by the Keeper, Master Perra Cephaalus, whose protuberant back-sweeping cranial ridge almost knocked against the lintel as he made them a deep obeisance.
"Master Dooku. It has been a long time. And…?"
The Sentinel held out a gracious hand as his apprentice bowed to the reptilian Jedi. "My Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi."
A pair of glazed slat-pupiled eyes swept over the younger human and then returned to the Councilor. "I will show you to the sublevels, if your research is urgent. Shall I inform the collective to prepare guest quarters for you?"
Dooku inclined his head. "We will remain one night. Thank you. My padawan will contribute to the shared work."
The Keeper again flicked bulging eyes over the apprentice Jedi. "Very good. As you know, Padawan, we live in strict community here, without droids or servants. All those who eat and rest also work. You may contribute for yourself and your master this evening, in the kitchens. Tool Raggi, who has washed the pots for seventeen standard years, has only days ago returned to the Force – and there is an unfortunate backlog in his work."
Obi-Wan nodded his understanding, noting with ironic detachment that the rule of he who eats, works did admit of at least one loophole, inasmuch as a Master's share could still be shouldered by his learner – all in the name of humility and growth in wisdom, of course.
"This way," their serene host murmured, leading them deep into the central building and thence to the subterranean archives where some of the galaxy's most ancient artifacts and texts still resided.
Qui-Gon was left alone, eventually, in a small chamber buried deep within the maze of corridors and intersecting halls that constituted the Iemban mountain fortress. A pit occupied the center of the circular room, one into which a scant half-meter of scalding water had been poured by a foursome of the stunted minions who had escorted him here. There was no evidence of technological convenience at all, though he supposed the discreet hole set into a jutting ledge on one side might lead ultimately to a modern 'cinerator or sterilizer unit. The domed ceiling of this room was carved elaborately with scrollwork and an undulating floral motif, though the walls were bare of ornament. A single glowlamp hung pendant from the central rafter, casting glittering reflections upon the steam-crowned bath.
He had gratefully stripped away the grimy layers of his clothing and examined the primitive scrubbing brushes and hard cleansing block when another of the diminutive household staff blundered in, bearing a heap of gauzy silver-sheened cloth. "Here," this person grumbled. "We have nothing else that will fit your proportions. You will appear before Her barefoot as a supplicant. Leave the foot-coverings here and they will be cleaned."
The Jedi master nodded his thanks and understanding.
"Wash that feculent mane," the dwarf added on its way out, pointing a stubby finger at the tall man's unbound hair. "And your vermin-riddled hide."
There were various oils and perfumes laid out upon the bath-pit's edge. Stepping down into the blessedly hot pool of water, Qui-Gon decided that diplomacy demanded that he avail himself abundantly of every luxury here provided.
"Ah, here we are," Dooku breathed, withdrawing the vacuum-sealed canister from its marked slot.
Obi-Wan watched entranced as the Sentinel broke the seals and slid a long roll of aging parchment onto the slab table in the underground chamber's center. Ancient glowlamps overhead spilled a circle of luminance upon the pallid scroll, gently flattened and smoothed by the Jedi master's manicured hands.
"It's in B'tmoth'an."
"Yes," Dooku agreed, frowning over the document's hand-inked contents. One finger delicately traced along the first vertical column of text, bottom to top. "But this is assuredly the counterpart to the missing holocron. A codekey, if you will."
"A safeguard in case the original teaching line was lost."
A grim nod. They both knew that many ancient holocrons had been fashioned to reveal their secrets only to the acolytes of their original makers, thus preserving the secrecy of Dark traditions through a Force-anointed lineage. "This scroll would enable anyone… of sufficient talent, of course… to access that artifact. And I daresay the thief will soon find himself in want of this."
The padawan frowned. "But it is here, Master, and surely it is safe –"
"No," Dooku interrupted. "This is not a safe haven. The Enclave has been sacked and pillaged many a time in the past. This would better be kept on Coruscant, among the Temple Archives."
Now Obi-Wan shifted uneasily. "Master, you must be aware how sensitive relations are between the High Council and the community here. We should not do anything to disturb that balance."
The older man's thin lips curled into a tight smile. "What they do not know will not hurt them, Padawan."
His apprentice folded hands into opposite sleeves, eyes sliding sideways to the modern database record terminal set in the far wall. Removing an artifact without their fellow Jedi knowing would be problematic. And unethical, a repressed but adamantly righteous part of him added.
But his misgivings were swiftly palliated, as Dooku deftly returned the aging piece of vellum to its protective tube and slotted it back into place. "A most productive afternoon," the older man remarked. "I believe we are expected to join the Community for evening meal and meditation – and then you have duties to attend."
"Yes, Master," his companion sighed.