IV. A Sign of Trust
No one remembered who he was. No one knew his name, or the name of his supervisor. Wherever he walked, he went unnoticed. He was a simple Temple worker: one of the nameless, faceless, unremarkable hundreds assigned, temporarily or permanently, to the menial labor on which the Jedi Temple depended.
And then he was not.
No one complained--or even cared--when he left the Temple and his "shift" early. That was unsurprising, though, since he wasn't actually on the payroll. But his unassuming air was just one part of a complex disguise that extended even into the Force itself. When infiltrating the sanctum sanctorum of the enemy, one must walk very softly, indeed.
From an inner pocket of his utilitarian garb, he withdrew a vial containing a single hair. His Master had neglected to warn him that another agent was active in the Temple.
* * *
**Week 4, day 4: How the hell am I supposed to keep a private journal like this? The writing pad I started out with has--ahem--mysteriously vanished. My only option now is to peck out my words, letter by unfamiliar letter, on this weird keyboard-thing. I suppose I could write all this in Spanish, but I think the Bith language has fried my mental circuits. No verbs, only gerunds. How all these different species manage to communicate with each other is purely beyond me.
Whoever said that Americans take their freedoms for granted was right. I've been around the Temple long enough now to know that all private terminals use passwords--except for the one in my quarters. There's some pretty beefy cyber security here, but as far as I can tell, my files are totally unsecured. So how can I write safely about my thoughts and feelings--about when I'm happy, or annoyed...or utterly scared out of my mind?...**
She'd never kept a journal before now, but Cathleen decided she liked it. It was a good way to release the day's tensions--except for the times when she didn't dare put down what had really happened to her.
**...This morning, I asked the Ithorian librarian (and just try saying *that* three times fast!) if she'd seen a Zabrak in the Library lately. She gave me the Ithorian version of a blank stare and told me- -in stereo, no less--that Jedi Master Eeth Koth hadn't visited the Library in almost two weeks. Then she reminded me rather pointedly not to forget to turn off my speed-learning headset when I was done with it. I haven't even had to use the damn thing in four days. I guess every species must have its jerks.**
There she was, cracking her knuckles again. It was a nervous habit. She forced her hands into fists, but found her foot tapping.
* * *
It was almost two weeks after what she'd privately dubbed 'the Zabrak incident,' and Cathleen had almost succeeded in convincing herself she'd imagined it. She wasn't exactly used to telling one alien being from another here--for all she knew, all Zabrak of that particular race looked like him.
She saved her latest journal entry, rubbed her eyes, and collapsed back onto the couch in the main room of her quarters. Her stomach growled, and she looked wearily at the wall chrono. It was close enough to the dinner hour, so she gave her short hair a quick brush, and headed to the Library level's cafeteria. Most of the food here was similar to what she was used to, but the few times she'd run into something exotic had given her pause. Add to that the fact that she herself had never been more than a marginal cook, and Cathleen felt safest trusting her digestive system to the relatively tame cafeteria on this level.
Of course, she made sure before she ate what everything was. The last time she'd eaten something unfamiliar--small, sweet brown globes called grunkstl- -she had learned too late that the "dessert" was actually the eggs of a large insect native to Sernpidal. Her spine still crawled every time she thought about it.
Upon entering the large mess hall, she found a smile creeping onto her face. Obi-Wan was already seated at a table not far away, and had seen Cathleen come in. He grinned at her, and nodded at her to join him. She waved back, but picked up a tray of food before weaving her way over to the proffered seat. Fortunately, she recognized everything on her plate--a good thing, since it had been at Obi-Wan's suggestion that she'd tried the grunkstl.
Cathleen greeted him with a nod. "So what are you still doing here? I figured you and Master Qui-Gon were off saving the galaxy again."
She had to give him credit. His grin never even flickered as he answered, "Oh, we've been assigned to Temple duty for a while."
*I'll bet,* she thought in sudden anger. The Council had mentioned Qui-Gon being the "best choice" because of his skill with the Living Force. And Qui-Gon himself had admitted to having developed a better sense of her, possibly because of the same. Why hadn't she seen it before? Her open files, Qui-Gon's quick reaction--however well intentioned--to that nightmare, and now the pair's continued presence in the Jedi Temple: she was still under the Council's surveillance.
She felt bad for Obi-Wan, since he was genuinely trying to be friendly, but her lingering irritation made her a poor dinner mate for him. After repeated attempts to curb herself, though, she finally gave up. "Look, I'm sorry I'm so grumpy today," she tried.
Obi-Wan leaned toward her, as though he were about to disclose a secret. "A stranger materialized among us. She has a completely different perspective on the Jedi, possesses a class of midichlorians never before seen, and hails from another galaxy entirely." He twinkled at her. "Imagine our surprise, then, that this stranger actually has bad days, just like the rest of us."
Cathleen could have melted on the spot; but she clutched her anger long enough to bite out, "And what other earth-shaking information has the study of this stranger exposed? What vital particulars has your scrutiny unveiled?" Obi-Wan's smile hardened almost imperceptibly, just long enough for Cathleen to catch a glimpse of the General this young man would someday become. She immediately regretted her sharpness, and looked down at her tray--as if somewhere in that cold food, there might be words for an apology.
"Would you do something for me?" His tone was gentle, almost fond. She nodded, her eyes clouding over at his tender voice. "Would you just trust us?
"Trust us enough to let us trust you."
No one remembered who he was. No one knew his name, or the name of his supervisor. Wherever he walked, he went unnoticed. He was a simple Temple worker: one of the nameless, faceless, unremarkable hundreds assigned, temporarily or permanently, to the menial labor on which the Jedi Temple depended.
And then he was not.
No one complained--or even cared--when he left the Temple and his "shift" early. That was unsurprising, though, since he wasn't actually on the payroll. But his unassuming air was just one part of a complex disguise that extended even into the Force itself. When infiltrating the sanctum sanctorum of the enemy, one must walk very softly, indeed.
From an inner pocket of his utilitarian garb, he withdrew a vial containing a single hair. His Master had neglected to warn him that another agent was active in the Temple.
* * *
**Week 4, day 4: How the hell am I supposed to keep a private journal like this? The writing pad I started out with has--ahem--mysteriously vanished. My only option now is to peck out my words, letter by unfamiliar letter, on this weird keyboard-thing. I suppose I could write all this in Spanish, but I think the Bith language has fried my mental circuits. No verbs, only gerunds. How all these different species manage to communicate with each other is purely beyond me.
Whoever said that Americans take their freedoms for granted was right. I've been around the Temple long enough now to know that all private terminals use passwords--except for the one in my quarters. There's some pretty beefy cyber security here, but as far as I can tell, my files are totally unsecured. So how can I write safely about my thoughts and feelings--about when I'm happy, or annoyed...or utterly scared out of my mind?...**
She'd never kept a journal before now, but Cathleen decided she liked it. It was a good way to release the day's tensions--except for the times when she didn't dare put down what had really happened to her.
**...This morning, I asked the Ithorian librarian (and just try saying *that* three times fast!) if she'd seen a Zabrak in the Library lately. She gave me the Ithorian version of a blank stare and told me- -in stereo, no less--that Jedi Master Eeth Koth hadn't visited the Library in almost two weeks. Then she reminded me rather pointedly not to forget to turn off my speed-learning headset when I was done with it. I haven't even had to use the damn thing in four days. I guess every species must have its jerks.**
There she was, cracking her knuckles again. It was a nervous habit. She forced her hands into fists, but found her foot tapping.
* * *
It was almost two weeks after what she'd privately dubbed 'the Zabrak incident,' and Cathleen had almost succeeded in convincing herself she'd imagined it. She wasn't exactly used to telling one alien being from another here--for all she knew, all Zabrak of that particular race looked like him.
She saved her latest journal entry, rubbed her eyes, and collapsed back onto the couch in the main room of her quarters. Her stomach growled, and she looked wearily at the wall chrono. It was close enough to the dinner hour, so she gave her short hair a quick brush, and headed to the Library level's cafeteria. Most of the food here was similar to what she was used to, but the few times she'd run into something exotic had given her pause. Add to that the fact that she herself had never been more than a marginal cook, and Cathleen felt safest trusting her digestive system to the relatively tame cafeteria on this level.
Of course, she made sure before she ate what everything was. The last time she'd eaten something unfamiliar--small, sweet brown globes called grunkstl- -she had learned too late that the "dessert" was actually the eggs of a large insect native to Sernpidal. Her spine still crawled every time she thought about it.
Upon entering the large mess hall, she found a smile creeping onto her face. Obi-Wan was already seated at a table not far away, and had seen Cathleen come in. He grinned at her, and nodded at her to join him. She waved back, but picked up a tray of food before weaving her way over to the proffered seat. Fortunately, she recognized everything on her plate--a good thing, since it had been at Obi-Wan's suggestion that she'd tried the grunkstl.
Cathleen greeted him with a nod. "So what are you still doing here? I figured you and Master Qui-Gon were off saving the galaxy again."
She had to give him credit. His grin never even flickered as he answered, "Oh, we've been assigned to Temple duty for a while."
*I'll bet,* she thought in sudden anger. The Council had mentioned Qui-Gon being the "best choice" because of his skill with the Living Force. And Qui-Gon himself had admitted to having developed a better sense of her, possibly because of the same. Why hadn't she seen it before? Her open files, Qui-Gon's quick reaction--however well intentioned--to that nightmare, and now the pair's continued presence in the Jedi Temple: she was still under the Council's surveillance.
She felt bad for Obi-Wan, since he was genuinely trying to be friendly, but her lingering irritation made her a poor dinner mate for him. After repeated attempts to curb herself, though, she finally gave up. "Look, I'm sorry I'm so grumpy today," she tried.
Obi-Wan leaned toward her, as though he were about to disclose a secret. "A stranger materialized among us. She has a completely different perspective on the Jedi, possesses a class of midichlorians never before seen, and hails from another galaxy entirely." He twinkled at her. "Imagine our surprise, then, that this stranger actually has bad days, just like the rest of us."
Cathleen could have melted on the spot; but she clutched her anger long enough to bite out, "And what other earth-shaking information has the study of this stranger exposed? What vital particulars has your scrutiny unveiled?" Obi-Wan's smile hardened almost imperceptibly, just long enough for Cathleen to catch a glimpse of the General this young man would someday become. She immediately regretted her sharpness, and looked down at her tray--as if somewhere in that cold food, there might be words for an apology.
"Would you do something for me?" His tone was gentle, almost fond. She nodded, her eyes clouding over at his tender voice. "Would you just trust us?
"Trust us enough to let us trust you."