Hi all! Wow, wasn't that an interesting few weeks? For all of you who are
still here, here is chapter 10.
Oh! And (incoming shameless self-promo) I have a new fic out. The Depth of Obsession. Same type deal, Obi, Qui, eventual pain.If you finish this and have a spare minute (and, of course, want to) check it out. (end self- promo)
And lighted eagle, thanks for wanting to print it =) I have absolutely no objections.
Now, with that small issue out of the way, on we go.
"No. No deal, Samaron."
The small man scoffed, "I think that I am being *more* than reasonable, brother. After all, we both know that none of the planet actually belongs to you. I just made it appear as if you were leader of that land to appease the small minority bent on having you as their chief." Samaron leaned forward, his hands clutching the edge of the small crystal table, his dark eyes fixed on the man sitting across from him, "I am offering you - and, mind you, I don't have to offer anything - everything you had. The only difference is that I would mine the Yarik. You would not have to pay the cost of labor and machinery, and you would still get a hundredth of a percent of the profits. It actually works out to your benefit."
Polusti shook his head, "No. I will not do that. Our treaty gave me full rights to that land. At the time, you thought you were giving me the planet's most inhabitable area. It's not my fault that you did not anticipate it to be the planet's largest asset. No, I will not give in."
"Oh, come off it, Polusti! You know I will have that land, one way or another." Samaron's voice had lost its semblance of calm, "With the amount of credits I would give you, you could live ten lifetimes without want!"
"But what about my people?" Polusti stood, fists clenched, "How will they *benefit*? Yes, it is enough to give me and mine a life of luxury, but what about them?"
Samaron laughed, "Do they really matter? Each of us is in this for ourselves, not for everyone else. To ensure our own survival, we cannot be overly concerned with the lives of others." He smirked, "Hell, as long as they pay their taxes, I couldn't care less if they spiced themselves into a stupor daily. Did you learn nothing from our childhood? Sometimes, to get what is best for you, you have to," he paused, "put your own progress in front of the progress of others."
"Like you did our mother?" Polusti growled, unsuccessful in removing ten years of hate from his voice.
"Exactly."
Both leaders were now standing, glaring at the other - and Obi-Wan paused for a moment to thank the Force for that table between the two. The two Jedi stood against the wall, silently observing - as they had been rather forcefully instructed. Samaron, before he entered the conference room, called the two aside and - with a group of bodyguards equipped with blasters strapped on in painfully obvious places - suggested that they might wish to be, as he put it, "flias on the wall."
They had both suspected that their presence was mainly for show by then, anyway. An intimidation tactic - not a very successful one, considering Polusti trusted the Jedi to protect his daughter, the fragile, but impossibly stubborn girl who insisted on attending the negotiation - and a form of decoration which he had shown to his adoring advisors, without fail, every dinner meal for the past three weeks.
The girl sat next to her father, face placid, but emotions raging. Fear, the predominant one, rolling off of her in waves; fear for her father, fear for the bodyguards poised behind her, poised to defend both father and daughter, fear for her people, fear for her uncle and his bodyguards, even fear for the Jedi, but - surprisingly - no fear for herself.
An uncomfortable silence blanketed the room as the brothers, without words, each vied for dominance over the other. In the end - and Qui-Gon would never be sure which side broke the quiet - the smallest sound, preceded by a screeching warning from the Force, shattered it.
With a click - signaling the activation of a blaster - a new war had begun.
All occupants of the chamber were acutely aware of the origin of the sound, but there was a slight hesitation - from both parties. It was as if no one came to the meeting with the actual intention - or conscious thought - of using their weapons, that is, sans one.
Samaron glanced around the room - from his bodyguards, to his brother's, to the Jedi standing apparently quite calmly against the glassy wall - anxiously awaiting someone - preferably from his entourage - to make the first move.
He was soon sorely disappointed as no one, not even one of Polusti's men - which would have at least prompted the exchange of fire - made any gesture vaguely resembling a threat. The sudden stalemate seemed to absolutely infuriate the diminutive man as he snatched a blaster from the holster strapped diagonally across the guard to his right and, momentarily fumbling to turn on the weapon to which he was infinitely unaccustomed, hastily raised it to eye level and took a sort of blind aim. His shot - though, missing the target of his brother by a good four meters - still posed the need for retaliatory response and, almost before the Jedi had ignited their 'sabers, the small room was engulfed in blaster bolts.
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon voice rose over the deafening roar of the combined weapons, "protect Nariba."
The padawan nodded slightly and began to inch across the chamber, deflecting innumerable bolts as he went. His aim had to be precise; the beams, if rebounded to the crystalline walls - or floors, ceilings, table and chairs for that matter - would simply ricochet off in another direction and undoubtedly cause more problems in the long run. Instead, he had to either hit the shooters - preferably with a debilitating and not mortal wound - or hit the once fine, now scorched tapestries draped down the walls. They would not last forever, though, and with every shot, the target cloth was burned away, leaving sentient marks - and rather small sentient marks, at that - the only other option.
And all these difficulties were in addition to his own steadily waning strength.
He had recently tried to limit himself to three painkiller "breaks" a day - two or three hyposprays per "break," - and when he could, maybe two, but the pain was increasing exponentially with every passing day. The hyposprays helped as he could not seem to release much into the Force, but they left his muscles slack, ill equipped for any type of battle - a point which, until then, hadn't been much of an issue. He silently thanked whatever gods might be listening for his lack of painkillers that day - though while searching through drawers, shaking empty containers, hoping to find a blessed full one, it was the same gods he had cursed.
Yet despite the lack of nerve-numbing substances coursing though his veins, his body was tiring. Be it from pain or lack of use, Obi-Wan knew that he could not go on fighting forever. Get the girl and get her out. That was the only way to end this - or, at least, his part in this. The padawan inwardly smiled despite the situation. Perhaps this would end their mission. Perhaps the Council would deem the planet unsuitable for Jedi contact and he and his master could go back to the Temple - and he could resume his normal weekly schedule.
Either that or they would be staying indefinitely.
Turning so to better see the girl, Obi-Wan thankfully noted that Polusti had the same idea as the apprentice and was attempting to discretely usher his daughter from the fighting. She, however, refused to leave the room. This decision led, inevitably, to a subdued argument between the royals; the petite girl, hand on the hip of her burned dress, angrily brushing strands of hair from her face as she told her father - who was in a similar shape and whose face had taken on an interesting shade of grawa fruit red - quite plainly that she would not leave his side.
All the while, Obi-Wan was slowly closing the gap and mentally preparing a way to get her - well, them, as it appeared - out. He was at his last few meters when a shrill warning rang through the Force. The padawan quickly glanced about, desperately searching for the source of the alarm. His first thoughts went to his master - who, though engaged in a particularly heavy bout of blaster rounds, was relatively no worse for the wear. He then scanned the perimeter, pausing frequently to deflect the still numerous bolts. His answer finally came as his gaze swept the wall against which Polusti and Nariba were arguing.
Samaron had crept up, somehow unnoticed, behind his brother, blaster in hand. He silently checked the charge before aiming it - and at that short of a distance, even his lacking blaster handling would most certainly prove deadly - at the center of the unsuspecting man's back.
Still too far away to physically help, Obi-Wan screamed at the chief in an attempt to alert him to the danger he was in. His cry was received.
Nariba saw, though Polusti was too concerned for her welfare to notice, Samaron poised, blaster aimed, standing behind her father. A strangled cry rose from her throat as, almost without thought, she shove him aside and, as a result, took the blaster shot intended for Polusti in the center of her chest.
For a moment, she seemed suspended in air. As if the body was allowing the spirit to depart in a manner befitting the sacrificial act - to leave this world standing proud. But, this, as all moments, came to a quick end and the girl's body crumpled to the floor, a cascade of deep violet settling upon her as her billowing dress came to rest on the glittering floor.
Polusti stood, stunned - perhaps unable to move. He simply could not tear his eyes from the fallen angel lying before him. She was the image of perfection - save the blackened wound puncturing her chest - a sleeping princess.
The other, however, was not as captivated by the figure before him - though she did have an effect, else Polusti would have joined his daughter quite a few seconds before - and soon raised the blaster to take another shot. This shot, as the one before it, would never meet its intended target.
Obi-Wan had used the delay to flip himself over the stream of fire and deflect the bolt, though hastily as he had nearly been too late. The bolt caught the 'saber blade and deflected only to rebound off the adjacent wall and return.
Too intent on disarming Samaron - which he did by way of slicing the blaster in two - Obi-Wan did not sense the misguided bolt until it was upon him. The beam slammed into his lower back, ripping tissue and nerves, and throwing him into far worse pain than he could recall. He loosed an agonized scream - through the Force, air, or both, he wasn't sure - and succumbed to the welcome darkness.
Well? Want more? As always, be a good lil Jedi and review!
Oh! And (incoming shameless self-promo) I have a new fic out. The Depth of Obsession. Same type deal, Obi, Qui, eventual pain.If you finish this and have a spare minute (and, of course, want to) check it out. (end self- promo)
And lighted eagle, thanks for wanting to print it =) I have absolutely no objections.
Now, with that small issue out of the way, on we go.
"No. No deal, Samaron."
The small man scoffed, "I think that I am being *more* than reasonable, brother. After all, we both know that none of the planet actually belongs to you. I just made it appear as if you were leader of that land to appease the small minority bent on having you as their chief." Samaron leaned forward, his hands clutching the edge of the small crystal table, his dark eyes fixed on the man sitting across from him, "I am offering you - and, mind you, I don't have to offer anything - everything you had. The only difference is that I would mine the Yarik. You would not have to pay the cost of labor and machinery, and you would still get a hundredth of a percent of the profits. It actually works out to your benefit."
Polusti shook his head, "No. I will not do that. Our treaty gave me full rights to that land. At the time, you thought you were giving me the planet's most inhabitable area. It's not my fault that you did not anticipate it to be the planet's largest asset. No, I will not give in."
"Oh, come off it, Polusti! You know I will have that land, one way or another." Samaron's voice had lost its semblance of calm, "With the amount of credits I would give you, you could live ten lifetimes without want!"
"But what about my people?" Polusti stood, fists clenched, "How will they *benefit*? Yes, it is enough to give me and mine a life of luxury, but what about them?"
Samaron laughed, "Do they really matter? Each of us is in this for ourselves, not for everyone else. To ensure our own survival, we cannot be overly concerned with the lives of others." He smirked, "Hell, as long as they pay their taxes, I couldn't care less if they spiced themselves into a stupor daily. Did you learn nothing from our childhood? Sometimes, to get what is best for you, you have to," he paused, "put your own progress in front of the progress of others."
"Like you did our mother?" Polusti growled, unsuccessful in removing ten years of hate from his voice.
"Exactly."
Both leaders were now standing, glaring at the other - and Obi-Wan paused for a moment to thank the Force for that table between the two. The two Jedi stood against the wall, silently observing - as they had been rather forcefully instructed. Samaron, before he entered the conference room, called the two aside and - with a group of bodyguards equipped with blasters strapped on in painfully obvious places - suggested that they might wish to be, as he put it, "flias on the wall."
They had both suspected that their presence was mainly for show by then, anyway. An intimidation tactic - not a very successful one, considering Polusti trusted the Jedi to protect his daughter, the fragile, but impossibly stubborn girl who insisted on attending the negotiation - and a form of decoration which he had shown to his adoring advisors, without fail, every dinner meal for the past three weeks.
The girl sat next to her father, face placid, but emotions raging. Fear, the predominant one, rolling off of her in waves; fear for her father, fear for the bodyguards poised behind her, poised to defend both father and daughter, fear for her people, fear for her uncle and his bodyguards, even fear for the Jedi, but - surprisingly - no fear for herself.
An uncomfortable silence blanketed the room as the brothers, without words, each vied for dominance over the other. In the end - and Qui-Gon would never be sure which side broke the quiet - the smallest sound, preceded by a screeching warning from the Force, shattered it.
With a click - signaling the activation of a blaster - a new war had begun.
All occupants of the chamber were acutely aware of the origin of the sound, but there was a slight hesitation - from both parties. It was as if no one came to the meeting with the actual intention - or conscious thought - of using their weapons, that is, sans one.
Samaron glanced around the room - from his bodyguards, to his brother's, to the Jedi standing apparently quite calmly against the glassy wall - anxiously awaiting someone - preferably from his entourage - to make the first move.
He was soon sorely disappointed as no one, not even one of Polusti's men - which would have at least prompted the exchange of fire - made any gesture vaguely resembling a threat. The sudden stalemate seemed to absolutely infuriate the diminutive man as he snatched a blaster from the holster strapped diagonally across the guard to his right and, momentarily fumbling to turn on the weapon to which he was infinitely unaccustomed, hastily raised it to eye level and took a sort of blind aim. His shot - though, missing the target of his brother by a good four meters - still posed the need for retaliatory response and, almost before the Jedi had ignited their 'sabers, the small room was engulfed in blaster bolts.
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon voice rose over the deafening roar of the combined weapons, "protect Nariba."
The padawan nodded slightly and began to inch across the chamber, deflecting innumerable bolts as he went. His aim had to be precise; the beams, if rebounded to the crystalline walls - or floors, ceilings, table and chairs for that matter - would simply ricochet off in another direction and undoubtedly cause more problems in the long run. Instead, he had to either hit the shooters - preferably with a debilitating and not mortal wound - or hit the once fine, now scorched tapestries draped down the walls. They would not last forever, though, and with every shot, the target cloth was burned away, leaving sentient marks - and rather small sentient marks, at that - the only other option.
And all these difficulties were in addition to his own steadily waning strength.
He had recently tried to limit himself to three painkiller "breaks" a day - two or three hyposprays per "break," - and when he could, maybe two, but the pain was increasing exponentially with every passing day. The hyposprays helped as he could not seem to release much into the Force, but they left his muscles slack, ill equipped for any type of battle - a point which, until then, hadn't been much of an issue. He silently thanked whatever gods might be listening for his lack of painkillers that day - though while searching through drawers, shaking empty containers, hoping to find a blessed full one, it was the same gods he had cursed.
Yet despite the lack of nerve-numbing substances coursing though his veins, his body was tiring. Be it from pain or lack of use, Obi-Wan knew that he could not go on fighting forever. Get the girl and get her out. That was the only way to end this - or, at least, his part in this. The padawan inwardly smiled despite the situation. Perhaps this would end their mission. Perhaps the Council would deem the planet unsuitable for Jedi contact and he and his master could go back to the Temple - and he could resume his normal weekly schedule.
Either that or they would be staying indefinitely.
Turning so to better see the girl, Obi-Wan thankfully noted that Polusti had the same idea as the apprentice and was attempting to discretely usher his daughter from the fighting. She, however, refused to leave the room. This decision led, inevitably, to a subdued argument between the royals; the petite girl, hand on the hip of her burned dress, angrily brushing strands of hair from her face as she told her father - who was in a similar shape and whose face had taken on an interesting shade of grawa fruit red - quite plainly that she would not leave his side.
All the while, Obi-Wan was slowly closing the gap and mentally preparing a way to get her - well, them, as it appeared - out. He was at his last few meters when a shrill warning rang through the Force. The padawan quickly glanced about, desperately searching for the source of the alarm. His first thoughts went to his master - who, though engaged in a particularly heavy bout of blaster rounds, was relatively no worse for the wear. He then scanned the perimeter, pausing frequently to deflect the still numerous bolts. His answer finally came as his gaze swept the wall against which Polusti and Nariba were arguing.
Samaron had crept up, somehow unnoticed, behind his brother, blaster in hand. He silently checked the charge before aiming it - and at that short of a distance, even his lacking blaster handling would most certainly prove deadly - at the center of the unsuspecting man's back.
Still too far away to physically help, Obi-Wan screamed at the chief in an attempt to alert him to the danger he was in. His cry was received.
Nariba saw, though Polusti was too concerned for her welfare to notice, Samaron poised, blaster aimed, standing behind her father. A strangled cry rose from her throat as, almost without thought, she shove him aside and, as a result, took the blaster shot intended for Polusti in the center of her chest.
For a moment, she seemed suspended in air. As if the body was allowing the spirit to depart in a manner befitting the sacrificial act - to leave this world standing proud. But, this, as all moments, came to a quick end and the girl's body crumpled to the floor, a cascade of deep violet settling upon her as her billowing dress came to rest on the glittering floor.
Polusti stood, stunned - perhaps unable to move. He simply could not tear his eyes from the fallen angel lying before him. She was the image of perfection - save the blackened wound puncturing her chest - a sleeping princess.
The other, however, was not as captivated by the figure before him - though she did have an effect, else Polusti would have joined his daughter quite a few seconds before - and soon raised the blaster to take another shot. This shot, as the one before it, would never meet its intended target.
Obi-Wan had used the delay to flip himself over the stream of fire and deflect the bolt, though hastily as he had nearly been too late. The bolt caught the 'saber blade and deflected only to rebound off the adjacent wall and return.
Too intent on disarming Samaron - which he did by way of slicing the blaster in two - Obi-Wan did not sense the misguided bolt until it was upon him. The beam slammed into his lower back, ripping tissue and nerves, and throwing him into far worse pain than he could recall. He loosed an agonized scream - through the Force, air, or both, he wasn't sure - and succumbed to the welcome darkness.
Well? Want more? As always, be a good lil Jedi and review!
