Legacy 2

Chapter 21

Qui-Gon relinquished the pilot's seat to Atasowen, and folded himself into the Force's rejuvenating embrace. Terajon's sculpted geography rolled away beneath the speeder, the countryside a piebald chequerboard of orchard and field, tilled soil and terraced hill, every contour softened by centuries' cultivation, not a spot left undomesticated, wild or free. They spoke little, all four of them exhausted by the morning's unrest. Kashi-Tan sat in mortified silence beside his father in the back row, shame swallowing any excuses he might have ventured to make. The afternoon sun sank behind them as they sped for the family estate, the setting sun casting avaricious shadows over the outlying farmsteads and villages inside their property bounds.

The house lay in deep twilight when they returned; a pall not only of encroaching night but of danger settling over its stately bulk.

Qui-Gon noticed the alarming lacuna immediately: Obi-Wan was not here, and had not been here for many hours. He dashed for the front doors, which hung open, the hospitality torches unlit. Strife hung in the air, fear and desperation a stale echo upon the stairwell.

"Daijisa!" he called out, expecting no answer. "Iko-Re!"

A faint moan from upstairs; it took him only a moment to find the boy, crumpled in a miserable ball upon the floor of his mother's private chamber. The Jedi master turned him over, gingerly, running a hand over the boody gash along his hairline, probing with the Force.

"Iko-Re, look at me."

Blue eyes fluttered, struggled to focus. "I … I tried… I –they-"

"Shh." The injury was significant, but would not be fatal. Concussion, almost certainly. There were other bruises, and a dislocated shoulder. "Easy. We'll get you to medcenter. Who came? Who was it? Where is Obi-Wan?"

Iko-Re frowned, panting raggedly. "He left… they came.. took her..! Oh!" His face contorted. "I couldn't stop them, they took her, and and-"

Possibilities, likelihoods, wild speculation: these all clamored for his attention. But this was a moment for action, decision. Footfalls pounded up the stairs behind him. "Obi-Wan left? Why?" The young Knight would not have abandoned post for any but the most pressing reason. Had he gone in pursuit of the assassin?

"My bike," Iko-Re slurred."Took…."

Atasowen uttered some hearty curse and knelt beside his wounded cousin.

"Where is my wife?" his uncle exclaimed.

Qui-Gon stood, faced the stricken patriarch squarely. "She has been kidnapped."

Tamasu had the look of a man who has been impaled upon the spot. "Ue," he moaned.

There was no time to indulge in emotion. "Atasowen," the tall man ordered. "You must call for the medics. Go with your cousin to the medcenter. He will need you there. Daijon." He turned to the white-faced father. "You, and your associates. All those who were friends of Senator Mushibi. You must find safety – the threat to your lives is grave."

Tamasu nodded, wits returning to him slowly. "Yes… Yes. Seniiko has a bunker beneath his house – one of his historical projects, and old shelter for-"

Qui-Gon waved a hand. "Summon him here immediately, then collect the others. Go to his stronghold and stay in hiding until I return or send word. Do you understand?"

The other man was not accustomed to taking orders, but he meekly submitted to the Jedi's authority in this crisis. He cast a last appalled look at his youngest son, strange emotions ghosting over his lined face.

"He will be cared for. Go."

While Tamasu hurried on his way, and Atasowen called the local paramedics, Qui-Gon located Iko-Re's bedroom and made a hasty appraisal of its contents: lavish four-poster, heaps of costly and fashionable clothes, shaving kit, cologne, expensive souvenirs and collectibles, a target practice blaster rifle, various and sundry trophies and plaques, mementos from a presumably exclusive secondary school, several half-empty bottles of sakuri or other liqueurs hidden in a cupboard, decks of cards, money scattered carelessly in piles, a brand new commlink, and seven other 'pads and avante garde electronic devices, holos of four different young ladies– all of them older than Iko-Re – the detritus of a life squandered upon petty pleasures and thrill seeking.

He had a sudden and compelling desire to throw the whole lot out the bay window. Give him six months with Iko-Re in the Temple, under his sole authority, and – but such was impossible. He rifled through the disorderly contents of a hand-carved desk, and at last came up with the object of his search: the anti-theft tracking device for the dissolute youth's grav-bike.

Exhaling, he activated the satellite location service. "Obi-Wan…." He growled, waiting for the coordinates to be confirmed.

A minute later he was lifting the family's speeder into the air, and hurtling away across the fields, heliotropes in the last pasture shuddering frenziedly as the aircar sped over their humble white blooms.

Time shredded into diaphanous ribbons, translucent pennants only loosely fettering mind to matter. At the center, where light welled endlessly, there was no measure, no beginning or term, no need and no want. Somewhere far, far outside this motionless fulcrum, matter groaned and burned, demanding release from bondage, crumbling …. Slowly… into darkness.

A little longer…. his focus wavered, center blurring again periphery, into the demands of gross matter. Stay focused. Be ready. Do not let go.

A sharp dissonance sundered him again into the here and now, shattering the trance. His heart gave a great and painful leap, stuttering out of unity into tempestuous life. His chest ached fit to burst, spots swam even before his closed eyes. He squinted through fair lashes, through sparkling droplets, registering dimly the sealed door, the cloying clouds engulfing him on all sides.

Danger danger danger.

Sweat slicked fingers closed about his 'saber's hilt.

Now- now-please now - the portal hissed open, the acrid vapor swirling agitatedly as clean, fresh sweet air rushed into the breach. He sprang upright, muscles screaming, throat raw and burning, Light flooding through him in thunderous waves. The sapphire blade spun and slashed, unerring and fleet, carving swift destruction through a forest of spindly legs and arms, showering circuits, decapitated droid heads, unwieldy weapons. The yellow miasma dissipated, melded into the smoke rising off the decimated droids, a pallid veil smeared across his vision.

One last figure stood, clad in a grey unisuit, neither tall nor short , slim nor heavyset, short hair cropped to an indiscriminate length. He snarled, pinned this blank apparition against the wall with one upheld fist, and brought the thrumming 'saber's blade to bear upon its throat.

The last tendrils of dioxis melted into the cold air beneath the tunnel , wisping up and out the passageway into the open night beyond. He bared his teeth, knowing that this, at last, was the true culprit, the puppeteer behind the cold-blooded mummery – and looked at the face of his captive.

Jedi or not, he gasped in horror.

And then brought the pulsing weapon's edge even closer, all but scorching the prisoner's skin.

She didn't flinch. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Heart hammering in revulsion – in fear, there is no fear – in anger, a Jedi knows not anger – he narrowed his eyes and pressed closer until they stood a breath apart, her life hanging on the thread of undeserved mercy.

Jenna Zan Arbor.

Cold, steel grey eyes surveyed him , mockingly, then slid over his shoulder to the outer doors, the massive post and lintel gateway to this underworld realm. Another woman's voice sounded behind him, a strangled cry of dismay, one that set his pulse skipping yet again. Ue.

Zan Arbor's thin, colorless lips curved into a humorless smile. "Your weapon, please. "

"I don't think so."

"Where is your filial piety?"

So she knew. He glanced down at her dull unisuit, at the unfamiliar insignia of a white sun rising over a crenelleted horizon. New Dawn. "Let her go, or you die."

She laughed in his face. "In cold blood? We both know you won't do it. I, on the other hand, have no such qualms about your pathetic dam… she's past her prime anyhow – I can always harvest organs for research later."

Sounds of futile struggle outside; there were four sentients and, he guessed, another squadron of armed droids. He could take them all – but not with the hostage in their midst.

"Kill her," the perverse scientist ordered, blandly.

"No!" The 'saber's brilliance expired as he whipped round, releasing his own prisoner. "Stop!"

Cold fingers plucked the hilt from his fingers. "Better."

"Obi-Wan!" Ue cried out, in anguish.

She was pinned between two uniformed men, both clad in the same grey unisuit as their leader. Behind them, silhouetted in pallid moonlight, a bristling forest of the spindly security droids, limbs creaking softly as they shifted position. Ue's posture was rigid, her presence a seething pit of fear and resentment and grief. It twisted sharply in his own gut until he slammed mental shields down, blotting out the uninvited efflux of emotion.

Jenna Zan Arbor spoke softly. "It is simple for a trained observer to elicit any desired response in a given subject; one must only know what stimulus to use. I assume I need not explain the situation to you?"

He closed his eyes briefly. Not good. But a solution would present itself; the Force would guide. "Very well," he growled, submitting for the moment. A Jedi first and foremost protected the innocent, those with no other means of defense. "I will accompany you."

"Of course you will," Zan Arbor murmured, dangerously.

He spun, instantly, reflexes outstripping sensation itself – but though the dart whizzed past his neck it still embedded itself in his shoulder, piercing through both layers of tunic. He swatted the tiny object away, registering the brief explosion of pain, and reeled backward into the tunnel wall. The toxin hammered into him like a black avalanche, smothering his defiant yell, melting Ue's echoing scream into meaningless gibberish, the howling emptiness that rose and rose then crashed down, obliterating and inexorable.

Qui-Gon found the missing grav-bike neatly propped against an informational kiosk. The phospho-lit column displayed a rotating text and picture gallery, one detailing the burial practices of ancient starfaring tribes, some fo the first sentient colonists on Terajon, long before the Republic had been solidified into a single federal entity. The vehicle's thrusters were tepid to the touch – it might have been sitting here for hours. Obi-Wan's signature lingered about the machine – bearing with it a sonorous chiming, a peculiar resonance all its own – but he could discern no trace of the young Knight's presence here now.

Fear hung in the air; and strife had left invisible gashes across the Force's placid currents, ugly scars of violence and tall man cautiously proceeded within the open tomb itself, boots striking against metal scraps in the sloping passage. His hand found a dim illuminator embedded in the wall, and brushed against its touch sensitive plate. In the resulting glow he counted a half-dozen expertly dissected battle droids, their felled corpses littering the entire corridor, all the way down to a second interior panel. Beyond this second threshold lay the ancient ship itself, final resting place to some forgotten war leader.

Inside, a gruesome spectacle awaited him. Bodies, faces bloated and rictus-hard, blood seeping from mouths and nostrils, eyes staring glassily at nothing. The Jedi master raised a wide cloak sleeve to cover his mouth; the suppurating odor of death and the aftertaste of dioxis closed his throat. He stepped over the unfortunates in the forward hold, pressing onward into the tomb proper. There, laid in state upon a primitive slab, the mummified king reposed. More bodies sprawled at his feet, every visage constricted in an agonized death-mask.

And fluttering like dried leaves among the twisted roots of a forest, paper and ink pamphlets, a scattering of perverse blossoms upon this funerary train.

But no Obi-Wan. Some of the mercenaries' bodies were lacking a limb; others bore the smoldering marks of a 'saber wound. A battle then, ending in… what? A trap? He squatted beside one of the nearest, tugging a spent blaster from rigid fingers. The weapon was brand new, and bore the guild imprint of Baktoid Armories.

He stood again, releasing a long breath. So. New Dawn again. Somehow, his former apprentice had been lured to this place – perhaps by means of the droid he had captured?- and then cornered. The ugly scene left in his wake suggested a particularly violent conflict... but to what end? And was Ue's disappearance connected?

It must be.

He sought the clean air above ground again, tipping his face to the heavens, where stars now peeked from between scudding rainclouds. Battle droids of this variety were deployed on short term missions. They had to be recharged and re-programmed for each successive sortie, requiring a central operation base. It would be difficult to conceal such a unit anywhere on Terajon, where every square meter of land was accounted for. Orbiting ships were strictly monitored and recorded. Where else might one seek concealment?

He gazed up at the passionless stars again - and then shifted focus to the three moons, clustered snugly together in one corner of the night sky.

Perhaps he knew where to look after all.