Growing Pains
Sick Leave
Qui-Gon Jinn waved open the door to his quarters and smiled upon the sun-striped tableau laid out before him. Afternoon radiance spilled in bright bars of shadow and light through the angled window blinds over the balcony doors, painting the smooth floor in a harmonious pattern of parallels, glowing shafts gliding from the balcony threshold toward the meditation cushions, which had been pushed out of place, across a tea-cup and its amber dregs, over the low table – adorned with a blinking datapad, several holotexts, and another empty teacup - down to the floor again, around yet another abandoned tea-cup, and up to the worn settee he had imported from an unoccupied neighbor's apartment, upon which was sprawled a rumpled mass of cloak and twisted thermal blanket, a handheld holo-projector currently replaying Master Merr Benthos' edifying comparative astrobotanical lecture in an endless loop, and a gently snoring padawan.
Discarding his own cloak, he trod across the hushed and twilit common room as light-footed as a colwar, discreetly levitating all three teacups into his hands as he made his way into the adjacent kitchen nook and set about preparing his own infusion of strong tarine leaves. One eyebrow rose as he noted that the honey container had not been properly sealed, and that it was half-empty – but he merely popped the vacuum tightly into place and took an appreciative first sip of his own cup.
Back in the common room, he flicked fingers at the blinds, angling the shades upward so that the panoply of stripes now fell smoothly across the pale ceiling, and deftly extricated his holo-projector from Obi-Wan's loosely clasped fingers. Master Benthos was droning on about the natural defense mechanisms of common galactic kineto-flora, and Qui-Gon allowed the recorded explication to roll onward for a few more seconds before he regretfully switched the device off, reducing the revered expert's presence to a glimmering echo of blue light. He pocketed the small disk and settled in upon the nearest round meditation cushion to savor his tea and to breathe away the tension of the day, allowing his pent-up energy to dissolve into the Force's currents much as the rising steam coiled into the room's warm, 'cycled air.
Remaining sequestered in the Temple without assignment and with very minimal occasion to train his apprentice was not Qui-Gon's preference; he possessed an active temperament to match his broad frame and even more freely ranging opinions. But under present circumstances, there was little choice. Some rites of passage and milestones along the path must be endured, and surely the inevitable bout of bantha flu was one of these unavoidable bumps in the road to maturity. He had counseled Obi-Wan to be patient- and he so he must heed his own advice.
As though sensing the thought, his padawan finally stirred, perhaps subliminally registering the presence of his mentor, despite his mind-fogging illness. He levered himself upward muzzily, scowling into the darkened chamber and squinting through the gloom until his bloodshot eyes focused upon the Jedi Master's silhouette perched in the corner.
"Oh. Master," he rasped, by way of greeting.
"Good afternoon." There was no need to make quotidian inquiry after the young Jedi's health – the healers had callously declared that it would be best to allow the painful but not life threatening disease to run its course, thus incubating a strong lifelong immunity- and besides, the victim's mental shields were tenuous at best. Qui-Gon sat with closed eyes, serene in the moment.
"Uh." A patter of bare feet on the smooth floor, proceeding across the room at a gait uncharacteristically lacking in fluidity. The fresher door closed, then opened again a minute or two later, and the faltering steps made their way into the kitchen. There was the gentle thunk of ceramic set upon the counter, a muffled grunt, a muttered imprecation, and then a sharp ripple in the Force as the padawan failed twice and then succeeded admirably in wresting the vacuum seal off its jar.
"Obi-Wan," the tall man warned his protégé, "If you consume all the Phindian honey, you will be running a marathon about the Temple perimeter one hour after the healers clear you for duty."
"Live in the moment," the impertinent rascal shot back, hoarsely. This declaration was followed by a softly mutinous clink of spoon being stirred in cup. Footfalls padded closer again, steadier now. A muted thump as weight settled onto the opposite cushion.
Qui-Gon opened his eyes, mouth twisting in an effort to suppress his amusement. "You do realize that sick leave does not entail a suspension of all obligations, young one."
His disheveled apprentice gulped down a scalding mouthful and coughed a bit on it. "Of course not, Master." His voice was still gravelly, congestion dulling the edges of his normally clipped syllables. "So our sparring match is still on."
"I think not," the older man snorted. "Quiet recuperative activity does not include being on the receiving end of a thrashing in the salles."
"But you're not recuperating, Master, so that restriction does not apply," came the inevitable sly rejoinder.
"However, Master Li did not proscribe you being on the receiving end of disciplinary action," Qui-Gon remarked, casually.
Obi-Wan frowned over his tea-bowl, weighing the risk-benefit ratio of making any further reply. Apparently illness had augmented his ordinarily feeble sense of self-preservation, for he merely dipped his head and took another long draught.
"I do have some good news, " the Jedi master continued, satisfied that he had won the bout. "Your friend Padawan Eerin is coming up to visit shortly."
Obi-Wan brightened visibly, then lapsed into another pensive scowl. "I thought I was quarantined." He imbued the term with a wide range of derogatory nuances.
"Mon Cal are not susceptible to bantha flu… and besides, Master Seva says, it is better to meet mischief head on than vainly strive to contain it."
The padawan graced his teacher with a look of sheerest affront, though it was unclear whether he objected more strongly to the sentiment or to the underhanded appropriation of his own favorite authority.
"I, too, have studied the aphorisms of the sages," the tall man reminded his student. He nodded at the tomes lying upon the table. "- Speaking of which, I was delighted to find that you were listening to Master Benthos' botanical excursus. He is a great devotee of the Living Force."
"I finished all my own books," Obi-Wan grumbled, defensively.
"Ah." Qui-Gon concealed his knowing smile by taking another long drink. "…Here comes Bant."
The door chime sounded a moment later. "I'll get it." Obi-Wan stood, hitched his sagging sleep pants up, shrugged his cloak closed over his bare chest and shuffled to the door to greet his childhood friend personally.
"Obi!" the enthusiastic apprentice healer peeped, tumbling over the threshold and wrapping her salmon-colored arms about him in a fierce embrace. "You look horrid."
"Thank you," the subject of this assessment intoned dryly.
Bant Eerin recovered from her initial excitement sufficiently to notice Qui-Gon, standing quietly at the common room's far end. "Master Jinn." She made him a deep bow.
The tall Jedi nodded graciously and bestowed a warm smile upon her- an easy sign of indulgence or affection that never failed to spark a tiny flutter of chagrin in his own severely disciplined padawan. Qui-Gon strode to the door, tweaked Obi-Wan's frazzled braid, and slipped into the corridor outside. "I'll have a droid bring up proper food for you," he told the pair of adolescents. "I'll be in the arboretum. Contact me by 'link if there's a problem you can't handle, Padawan Eerin."
"I'll take good care of him," the eager Mon Cal promised, to the Jedi master's satisfaction and her friend's manifest annoyance.
When the panel had slid shut again, Bant turned on her companion. "Stop pouting, Obi. Master Li sent me specially. It's part of my training and I'm going to use you as a case study for my pathology coursework."
"We come to serve," her fellow padawan snipped, executing a mocking bow.
Bant snorted. "Stop being a grump or I won't give you the muja fruits I smuggled up from the garden."
"There aren't any in season-" Obi-Wan began to object.
"-Shows what you know. The hydroponic dome is chock full of things you can't even imagine."
Obi-Wan trudged back toward the old settee that had taken up residence beside the low table. "I can imagine quite a lot, Bant. And foraging in the greenhouses is forbidden."
Bant puffed out her round chest and blinked her enormous globular silver eyes in smug triumph. "Not for healers."
"Blast it." The patient threw himself down upon the couch, crossing his arms in vexation and propping one foot upon the opposite knee. "Why do healers have all the privileges?"
The Mon Cal girl settled primly beside him and opened her satchel. "Maybe you should be friendlier with the healers, so you can enjoy the side benefits." She rummaged in the flexible case, eventually producing three gorgeous, perfectly ripe muja fruits – which she jestingly withheld at arm's length. "Say please, with your best manners."
Her friend rolled his eyes, arched his borws and let his head fall back. He addressed the ceiling in his most bombastic style. "Oh Padawan Eerin, peerless font of munificence, take pity upon this poor wretch and enliven the pathetic and dreary trammels of his existence with a single gleaming ray of compassion. Preferably two or three, actually."
Bant handed over two of the round prizes and bit into the third herself. "You're full of the most amazing bantha chissk, Obi," she said, around a large mouthful.
Satisfied with his conquest, Obi-Wan favored her with a radiant grin. "Master Seva says, suit your choice of weapon to your opponent – ow!" Bant's good-natured slap sounded loudly against his thigh. "I thought you took an oath to do no harm?"
The Mon Cals' gleaming eyes narrowed. "I don't think that did you any harm, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Now." She thrust a webbed hand into her bag again and came up with datapad and stylus. "You can help me with my homework, since you are unfairly excused from your own. Oh! And I almost forgot. I'm supposed to take a blood sample. Another one, I mean. The authorities on Hession want a clean specimen so they can confirm the outbreak."
Obi-Wan bristled. "So now I'm a specimen?"
His comrade's mouth twisted humorously. "You've always been quite the specimen. Just accept it as the will of the Force. And give me your finger. Thank you."
He complied, with less than the perfect grace befitting a Jedi Knight, and then tucked his insulted hand back into the wide sleeve of his robe like a shelled amphibian retreating into the fastness of its carapace, while Bant slotted the sample into a reader.
"Okay. That's done." She picked up her 'pad again. "Why don't you relax? I'm going to interview you. Anecdotal evidence is important in tracing the origination of an epidemic."
"This is not an epidemic, Bant. Hence the star-forsaken quarantine."
But the apprentice healer was not be put off so easily. She made several preliminary entries to her report and then paused, stylus suspended over the plate. "Crazy bantha fever is propagated by sand mites, right? So let's hear how you managed to get infested."
Obi-Wan released a throaty sigh reminiscent of Master Yoda at his most cantankerous.
"Mission?"
"No. Training exercise."
The Mon Cal padawan giggled a little. "I'm sorry," she smirked, apologetically. "But you are so disaster prone. Let's hear the story."
He nibbled thoughtfully at the second muja, idly levitating the pit of its demolished companion into Qui-Gon' empty tea-bowl across the way. "I really can't tell you the story, Bant. It would be … compromising."
She frowned, large opalescent eyes studying him warily. "To your dignity?" she scoffed. "Believe me, I've seen you-"
"No. There were certain… aspects… of our undertaking which need to remain off the record."
The Mon Cal girl propped both hands upon her hips, bunching her tunics beneath balled fists. "What are you talking about? You make it sound like some kind of clandestine operation…" A gasp of dawning realization. She pointed a webbed finger at him. "You and Master Jinn broke a local planetary law, didn't you? You two are incorrigible! That's shameful!"
Obi-Wan bolted upright, color surging into already flushed cheeks. "I didn't say that!" His mouth tightened, stubbornly. "And it wasn't my idea, anyway."
Bant tucked the 'pad back into her bag. "Fine. I won't record it. So much for my pathology project. But I still want to hear the story." She leaned forward, eager and attentive.
Obi-Wan heaved a deep breath and launched into his narrative, in a tone of academic abstraction. "Well, then. It all began with the dancing bull kata."
TBC
