Growing Pains
Relative Goods
Qui-Gon Jinn hurried along the cordon, bypassing shouting holo-journalists and frantic spectators. Saldiin, the captain of planetary security, hustled forward to receive him, waving them through a press of armed guards striving to hold back the jostling throng.
"Master Jedi – all is well. The hostage has been released, and the threat neutralized. What of his accomplices?"
"Arrested and in the custody of your men," the tall man laconically replied, peering over the short Devaronian's head to gain a view of the capitol building's main foyer. The premier's daughter stood sobbing in the arms of her father; aides and secretaries and most the cabinet clustered round, offering congratulations and condolences, oblivious to anything but the happy reunion. "Where is the culprit?"
Saldiin's energetic stride faltered. "Dead, sir. We …ah… are having some difficulty recovering the corpse."
Dead. Qui-Gon nodded, understanding now the frayed jumble of his apprentice's thoughts, the disturbed and disturbing static bleeding across their Force bond. "Why?"
They halted before the massive bronzium doors of the auditorium where the debacle had unfolded. They were sealed shut form the inside, barred with magneto locks and a sizeable bar of durasteel. Saldiin grimaced and looked here, there, anywhere but the Jedi's craggy face. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I do not say this in accusation.. but the boy will not open the portals. And he does not listen to our requests."
A frown. That was, besides unacceptable, far from the padawan's norm. He pressed one hand against the smooth panel and triggered the automatic mechanism with a nudge of the Force, but the massive bolt remained securely in place.
"I don't know how he got that levered up in the brackets," the captain added, bemusedly. "It takes six men to lift it."
Qui-Gon snorted. "I'll handle this." He considered the curious bystander for a moment. "Would you grant us the courtesy of a few private moments, after you recover the body?"
Saldiin was a decent fellow. He gave a curt nod of assent, clasping hands behind his broad uniformed back. "It's a harsh job to lay upon the shoulders of a child."
"I am aware of this." The Jedi master cut off any further prurience with a dark half-smile. Outsiders seldom understood. And now was not the time.
It was no difficult matter to harness the Force's invisible and superabundant power; the interior bolt lifted from its moorings and floated to the floor a few meters away. When he heard the clunk of metal against marble tile inside, Qui-Gon pushed on the tall doors, sending them swinging apart on oiled hinges. The wide auditorium was hushed, the lights dimmed. Rows of lushly upholstered seats flanked a spacious central aisle leading to the stage; gaudy relief sculptures adorned the high ceilings; thick velvetar draperies muffled sound and fell in stately drapes along the outside walls. Upon the stage, limned in delicate blue by footlights, sprawled a headless body, right arm still clutching a blaster. The scent of burned flesh was in the air, and the tang of ozone.
Saldiin whistled between his teeth upon seeing the condition of the villain who had threatened to kill the young hostage and exact vengeance on her family for perceived injustices in the past. He withdrew a commlink and barked a few quiet commands into it. Then, "Forgive me, but… where is the, uh…?"
Qui-Gon descended into the empty orchestra pit and returned with a dark object bundled into a fold of his cloak. Saldiin's team hurried up the aisle now, bearing a stretcher and pall. It was only a minute's quick work to transfer the remains and cover them with due respect to life lost.
"Gods," the captain of the guard murmured. "Not a trace of blood. I've never seen such a thing."
A lightsaber cauterized where it touched. It was a clean death, swift and merciful. "Thank you," the tall man said, firmly, both dismissing and reminding the well-meaning official of his promise.
"Oh, yes. We shall give you a moment." He cast a last glance round at the scene of recent crisis and departed on the heels of his men and their grisly burden. The brazen doors clanged shut behind them, sealing the room in the finality of an ancient king's burial chamber.
He turned upon his heel, turning his face up to the rear balcony and the presence so discreetly ensconced within its shadows. "You can come down now."
His mandate summoned a white-clad wraith from its darkest recess. The lithe figure peered over the railing for a moment, vaulted one-handed over the barrier, and dropped like a jungle colwar to the carpeted floor just beside him, where it stood with bowed head and hunched shoulders, dark cloak slightly askew, braid dangling in a forlorn plumbline straight downward, pointing at a pair of scuffed field boots.
The Jedi master reached out to finger its tufted end. "Speak to me."
Obi-Wan's voice was a bit hoarse. "I couldn't … there was no open strike at his arm, Master. Because of the girl. And she was panicking too. He was going to kill her on the spot. I sensed it."
"I believe you." He gripped a handful of rumpled cloak and straightened it into place. His padawan did not look up. "Here. Let us sit a moment." He chose two of the soft chairs in the front row, beneath the looming stage-front.
The young Jedi sank into place, hands disappearing into opposite sleeves, expression determinedly closed-down. Qui-Gon reclined in his own posh chair, propping one boot upon the opposite knee. His long shanks barely fit in the narrow space.
"I tried talking him down. And offering him concessions. He was immune to my mind trick… he was delusional, Master. I – I offered to take her place, but he said that would never do. And the audience was restless, and screaming and shouting. He was going to do it, right there. And…."
"You had to save the girl."
Obi-Wan looked away. "Is she safe?"
"Safe, and her family both grateful and relieved. "
But his student barely acknowledged this. A deep furrow appeared between his brows. "There wasn't another strike," he insisted. One hand peeped out from its wide sleeve, tracing cuts and slashes in the air." The hostage was pressed against him, like this… and the blaster was here… I had to engage from ready-three, my 'saber was under my cloak, he didn't think I had a weapon – it had to be sai mok or or…" His technical analysis broke off on a long and shaky inhalation, and his hand dropped to his knee, clenching in the robe's folds again.
"I can well imagine the difficulty," the older man gently assured him.
"I couldn't… there wasn't another opening."
Qui-Gon laid a hand on his protégé's knee. "So you killed him."
The bald declaration stung like an open faced slap. Obi-Wan looked up sharply, eyes round with pain.
"Sometimes there is no other solution. You have meted out death before."
"But that was different! I chose this!"
Ah, the heart of the problem. A fatal strike in the heat of combat, where one deadly intent was pitted against another, action flowing without thought from the wellsprings of Force-guided instinct, was indeed subjectively disparate – jarringly dissimilar – to this moment of cold blooded choice. "Did you choose in anger? In fear? In hatred?"
An introspective pause, enough to suggest true self-examination but not scrupulosity. "NO. I wasn't feeling anything. Or, at least, only the cold. The Force was cold, Master. It was… I couldn't breathe. There was just this moment when… I realized."
"You did well," Qui-Gon sighed. "I am sorry it was you and not I who happened to be on this security detail. I anticipated an attack upon the premier's own person, not his family."
"I still killed him," the padawan repeated, numbly.
Fists beat a polite but insistent staccato upon the huge doors; a jumble of voices sounded in the foyer beyond. The Jedi master stood, regretfully. "We must move on. There are still duties to be met."
Obi-Wan rose, tugging his cowl over his head. "Yes, Master."
And out they filed, the younger of the pair treading wearily in his master's footsteps, past the towering portals and into the unavoidable hubbub without.
The Jedi were given a handsome appointed suite to occupy for the night, though they were unable to escape the demands of diplomacy and the aftermath of the day's events until nigh on midnight. A solicitous protocol unit had been left to tend their needs, and it wasted no time in relieving them of cloaks and preparing a tureen of hot shikavria which it assured them was both delectable and nourishing.
Qui-Gon thanked it for its service and promptly set it into standby mode, propping its gleaming figure in a far corner.
"Eat." He proferred a steaming bowl to his comrade, who declined with a rueful shake of his head.
"There is more to accomplish here. Our oversight may be required for another week, minimally. And diplomacy, as you know, is weary work."
But Obi-Wan refused. "I should retire , " he suggested, gazing longingly at the plush sleeping accommodations in the room adjacent.
The tall man ladled up another serving for himself and set both dishes at the table. "Dine with me first, " he ordered, in a tone that brooked no objection.
His padawan reluctantly settled into place. "Yes, Master."
Conversation at table was limited; postprandial niceties much abbreviated. Qui-Gon briefly considered reviving the droid so that it might tidy away the mess, but decided that the affair could wait until morning. Obi-Wan hovered halfway between dining alcove and the bedroom, waiting upon a dismissal.
But they had not yet finished their discussion. "Sit with me," the tall man said.
"…We will meditate now?"
Qui-Gon flopped elegantly onto the overstuffed settee and gestured for his young friend to do the same.
An awkward silence followed, in which they acclimated themselves to the unconventional arrangement. Traditionally, habitually, they knelt facing one another for any such exchange. The padawan shifted against silken cushions, unconsciously projecting a desire to throw two of the wide pillows upon the floor and take up lotus position.
"No you don't. Tell me about what happened again. You are still disturbed."
Obi-Wan ran a hand through short-cropped hair and rested elbows upon knees. "I killed him. That's all."
"He killed himself, from a certain point of view. A man who embraces a destructive path – who undertakes violence such as he intended – is no different than one who hurls himself into a magma pit or off a cliffside. Would you say that the force of gravity or the heat of the earth killed him, or that he died at his own hand? That by which he occasioned his demise is a tool, not a wiling cause."
The padawan buried his face in his hands, slumping wearily forward. "I chose to kill him, Master. I was a willing cause."
"Of the girl's safety. Not of her assailant's death. The latter was means to an end, not the direct purpose of your action. You know this." He wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "It is a question of relative goods."
They were silent for a long minute. "That … is much easier to stomach in theory. "
"Indeed." In fact, in the unity of things vivified by the Force and thereby mysteriously bound together, the lesser evil did not cease to weigh in the scales of compassion, nor the greater good eclipse all those dethroned by its ascendancy. One could save a life at measureless cost, and yet do right; one could choose wisely and honorably and yet reap pain as sole reward. "But that does not make it untrue."
"I saved a life today," Obi-Wan miserably intoned.
Qui-Gon slowly tightened his tentative hold, then smiled wanly when his companion allowed himself to be drawn into a loose embrace. "I know. I am sorry."
And there they remained, in a melancholy solidarity, until sleep's merciful descent leveled the ragged peaks and valleys of duty into a uniform peace.
