Chapter Thirteen

Another drudge filled day. Like the one before it and the one before it. Mind numbing in its sameness. Awaken to the shriek of the morning siren. Trudge to a breakfast of nearly inedible slop, that must be wolfed down fast enough to avoid it being 'accidentally' knocked from the table or having filth 'accidentally' dropped into it. Then herded down to the laundry. Hot, muggy, stifling. Endless circling that made his ankle ache and swell. His broken wrist had started to heal, but the hours of being forced against the cart had caused it to twist out of shape. The only break in the monotony was when Gaikusan 'came to visit,' as he liked to call it with a hissing laugh. The results of those visits left Qui-Gon barely able to move for days afterwards. On the whole, he preferred the monotony.

Qui-Gon sighed deeply as he pushed the laundry cart. The worst was the mindless task gave him time to think. Made him wonder if anyone in the Temple was searching for him. Gaikusan had said they had been told he was dead. Did they believe that? Had he been abandoned? At first he was able to convince himself that surely the Jedi would not believe he was dead. All Jedi have connections to others that allow them to sense each other. But his own ability to sense those he was bonded with had diminished with his ability to use the Force.


Physical weakness from injury and malnutrition made the needed concentration difficult. And his fears interfered. Doubt limited his access to the light side of the Force. Which created a vicious spiral, for as his connection to the Force dimmed, so his doubt and fears grew.


Deep in his misery Qui-Gon failed to notice the hunk of laundry soap that Jan'k kicked in front of him. His foot coming down squarely on the slippery mass, his weakened ankle gave out causing him to lurch drunkenly to the side. The cart, loaded down with dirty clothes, careened wildly into the prisoner in front of him. The collision threw the prisoner forward, tipping his own full cart over, burying him in contents of Qui-Gon's cart. The prisoner's cart flew forward, crashing into a guard.

Mayhem erupted. Prisoners began to attack each other as the guards furiously tried to restore order. Qui-Gon crawled to the side of the room, doing his best to avoid both the fights between the prisoners and the lashes from the guards' whips. From the relative shelter found between two of the immense cleaners, Qui-Gon watched in a fascinated horror as the violence escalated. Suppressed anger and frustration of the prisoners exploded outward. Many attacked any that were near them, with no goal other than to give their rage a physical form. The shriek of the riot alarm went off, triggered by one of the guards after whips alone failed to stop the riot. Into the laundry poured dozens of guards, armed with shock batons and stun blasters. The guards' reinforcements indiscriminately struck out at the prisoners, using the massive bursts of electricity from the shock batons and the paralyzing stun blasts to immobilize the rioters. The doors to the laundry burst open and in came the Head Warden.

The Warden took in the chaotic scene before him with a cold, appraising look. Mounds of clothes were scattered across the floor, baskets upturned and several of the folding tables overturned. The guards had most of the rioters subdued, the few remaining prisoners still fighting were those that were intent on attacking each other. A few more stun blasts took care of last of the disturbance. An eerie silence came over the room. Taking advantage of it, the Warden barked, "You have five seconds to assemble yourselves in line before the entire group is punished with 100 lashes per individual."

The prisoners scrambled to try to form a line, tripping over mounds of clothing as they did so. Those that were unconscious were pulled into a pile by a few of the guards. Qui-Gon made his way out of his shelter to get in line, a hard knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He had a bad feeling about this.

"The person who gives information to who caused this chaos will be rewarded. It is in your best interest to come forward now." The Head Warden snapped as the
prisoners scrambled to get into a ragged line. Jan'k stepped out of line, his head bowed contritely but inwardly he was gloating. He knew he would be able
to pin the blame on Duursema for causing the riot easily. The puny human would get the full punishment and he'd get a nice reward for cooperating with the
Warden. "I have information," he said.

"Then out with it!" The Warden ordered. Jan'k lifted one of his large, muscular arms and pointed down to Avril Duursema who was standing at the very end of the line.

"Duursema started this. He slammed his cart into another prisoner."

"Which prisoner was that?" demanded the Warden. From further down the line another prisoner stepped forward, blood from a gash across his back darkening
his fur. "Sir, it was me. He rammed the cart into me for no reason at all. That made me lose control of my cart. Its all his fault."

The Warden stomped down to where Qui-Gon stood. "Is this true?"

Qui-Gon glared at Jan'k. He knew very well that Qui-Gon had not deliberately started a fight. "No, Warden."


The Warden lashed out with his fist and Qui-Gon's head snapped viciously to the side. He gestured to two guards who grabbed Duursema and pushed him to the ground. "Lying is severally punished here, Duursema. It's in your best interest to tell the truth."

Qui-Gon swore inwardly as he was roughly pushed on the ground. "I'm not a liar Warden."

"Of course not." The warden sneered. He gestured to the two holding Qui-Gon on the ground. "Your punishment is fifty lashes for starting the riot and first lash for lying. Then two weeks in the Hole." The warden chuckled maliciously. "Take him to solitary detainment until tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir," the guard said. "What of evening meal sir?"

"No. Not for him."

Qui-Gon's stomach tightened. No evening meal. He didn't resist as they led him out of the laundry room and shoved him into a cold dark featureless room. Water dripped on him from a small leak in the ceiling. He closed his eyes in despair. What was he going to do now? His stomach growled relentlessly when he judged it to be dinnertime, but no one came to feed him. He clenched his teeth. He knew how to act better than this. He was a Jedi whether Temple believed him alive or dead. He knelt in the cold, dark room and ignored the water dripping around him. In his cell, any attempts to meditate were interrupted by the verbal abuse of his cellmates. If nothing else, he now had the opportunity for a moment peace. Qui-Gon closed his eyes and began to meditate.


Sometime later Qui-Gon was jerked out of his deep meditation when they came for him. "Come on, scum. It's breakfast time."

The guard sneered as he grabbed the Jedi Knight by his arm, yanking him to his feet. He pulled Qui-Gon into the mess hall and dragged him up to a platform that had been set up with two posts that were not more than an arm's length apart. Qui-Gon's mouth went dry as he was led up onto the platform. His arms and ankles were chained spread-eagled between both posts. "Keep the count, scum. Only the lashes you count aloud go toward your punishment." Qui-Gon clenched his teeth. He had a very bad feeling about this. He watched silently as other prisoners began entering the room.

*******

The prisoners of Tuvlat stood in silent rows filling the mess hall. It was time for first meal, but no food was to be served that morning. Instead, they were to witness the first part of the punishment of the instigator of the riot, Avril Duursema. Fifty lashes and first lash, whatever they meant by that, and then two weeks in the Hole. The way the warden had laughed when he pronounced the last had made a cold shiver run up Qui-Gon's spine.

Chained upright, spread-eagled between two posts, Qui-Gon intellectually appreciated the strategy of the punishment, even as he was about to bear the brunt of it. Focusing on the impersonal analysis of the situation helped keep him from dissolving into panic about what was coming.

The guards had made it clear to the other prisoners that the lack of a meal was his fault, part of the punishment for the outbreak of the riot. Even for those who had not even been in the laundry, didn't get to eat. Kept on the edge of starvation, a single missed meal was a true hardship. This would certainly destroy any goodwill they might have had towards him. Had his intention been to lead the prisoners against the guards, it was doubtful any would follow him now.

"Keep the count," he had been warned. Only the blows he counted aloud would count towards his fifty lashes. Keep the count, he told himself, again and again, almost a mantra, as the Warden approached with a heavy, metal studded whip. "One," as the first blow fell. Keep the count, it was his focus. Concentrate on that, not the searing pain across his back and wretchedness from being trapped in this nightmare.

He'd wanted to keep his voice calm, as befitting a Jedi, but as the beating continued he screamed out the numbers, pouring his anguish, fear and anger into each one. "Thirty-three, thirty-four . . . " The heavy leather whip bit into his back, cutting deep. Blood flowed freely down his back. His screams died down as his voice grew hoarse and tears poured down his cheeks, barely able to manage to keep the count from having almost lost his voice.

Several hundred men filled the mess hall, but the only sound was the sharp crack of the whip and the screamed count. "Fifty." Qui-Gon sagged forward, hanging heavily in his chains. The roaring agony of his torn back blotting out the pain from this weight pulling against his manacled, half healed wrist. "Evjak, front and center," ordered one of the guards.

Qui-Gon recognized one of the workers from the laundry. "Those that participated in the disturbance will be punished with twenty-five lashes and half rations for two weeks. The first lash will go to the instigator of the disturbance." So that was what the warden had meant by first lash, Qui-Gon thought numbly as the whip once more ripped across his back. At least he was not required to keep this count, as the blow fell, Evjak called out "one." Twenty seven times the first lash was administered to Qui-Gon. At last it was over, all except facing the Hole.

********