Candles Against the Sea
Chapter 14: Laceration
Obi-Wan left Nibbi in his box and strode toward the entrance of the alley, lifting his face as he unconsciously yearned toward the softened late-day light illuminating the street beyond. He didn't like the dark and closeness of the alley, the feeling that the walls were leaning in, the damp mugginess and the faint scent of rotting refuse. Again the urgent need to get Nibbi out of this situation pricked him, but he shook his head, knowing that he was making progress. Tomorrow he would ask the child, once more, if he was willing to accept help.
He paused just before he reached the street, instinctively shrinking back, pressing his right shoulder to the damp wall as the Force shrieked a warning. His hand strayed to his 'saber hilt, hidden in the folds of his tunic. Something was deeply, dangerously wrong.
Casting out with his senses, Obi-Wan felt the intense focus of Amora's four-man guard spread across the street beyond. They were dressed in casual attire, he knew, engaging in innocent, pedestrian activities, except the one that always pasted himself firmly to Amora's side, pretending to be her older brother. The young Jedi hadn't even needed the Force to spot the undercover IS guards that first day he saw them—long training in the warrior's arts had given him eyes to see that indifferent poses held muscled readiness, and unfocused glances were actually intensely aware of every nuance of their surroundings.
Amora was heading home, a few minutes later than usual—perhaps something had held her up at the clinic. Her sense in the Force was relaxed, slightly wandering, though as always it held that core of impenetrable sadness. Something was amiss with her, as Obi-Wan had known from the beginning, but she was not the source of the current threat he sensed.
The darkness at the edge of Obi-Wan's perception drew tighter, black and opaque, a burning edge of night leaking a slow spread of poison across the day. He gasped involuntarily, a sharp inhale of dank, miasmic air that almost choked him. It was danger, hungry, thirsty, needing, lusting, and it was, it was . . .
It was heading straight for Amora.
Obi-Wan hurtled out of the alleyway, his lightsaber a shaft of pure brilliance in his hand, and flung himself between Amora and the darkening threat. Without a conscious thought, the bright blade flashed before his face to deflect the blue bolt that flew out nowhere, slinging it harmless toward the sky to disappear against the blue. But that wasn't the only one.
"Get down!" the boy screamed, but the guard next to Amora had already pulled her down to the pavement, covering her body with his own.
Amora struggled, yelling incoherently, then stilled as the guard murmured something in her ear. Two of the other guards had already been taken down, red bolts this time, smoking holes in a smooth forehead, a muscular chest, laying as still as Amora did now, but not by choice. The fourth guard crouched behind a vendor's stall, blaster in his fist, grim determination hard in mouth and eyes. The rest of the street had emptied already, Obi-Wan noted. Good.
Obi-Wan swallowed. Already the 'saber was wavering slightly in his shaky fist—so slightly that he hoped no one else could see. The exhaustion was overtaking him, as it always did about this time of day. He turned slowly to assess the area, lightsaber on guard before him, and breathed in a deep, slow breath, drawing in great, thick streams of the Force with the thin air. His fist steadied somewhat, though he could feel the weariness lurking in his bones, waiting to leap on him and drive him to ground.
Not yet. Not yet. There were five of them, two on the rooftop, one in the alley to the north, one approaching from each end of the street. Obi-Wan brushed one of their minds and encountered only a vague sense of duty—a hired gun. Another mind, and he shuddered convulsively, fingers tightening on the metal hilt. These were no political foes, seeking to kidnap the President's daughter for leverage in some fanatic cause or game of intrigue.
These were corrupt businessmen looking for prizes, high-quality merchandise to hire out to customers always greedy for a new experience, a new thrill. And they were looking for children.
More blaster bolts, firing in stuttered synchronization. Obi-Wan spun, lightsaber weaving a ribbon-dance of protection. He tried to deflect the bolts back whence they came, but was too busy flashing to meet the next to see if he succeeded.
The guard behind the stall was firing back, and the one covering Amora raised one hand to assist, though Obi-Wan could see that it was difficult from his position on the ground. He leaped and flipped from one side to the other, trying to use the lightsaber economically, moving it neither too far nor not enough, keeping it centered over Amora as much as possible.
Still he wasn't good enough, wasn't fast enough. The weariness crept from his bones to drag his limbs slowly toward the earth, like an ugly creature clinging to him, pulling him down. The guard grunted as a bolt slipped through Obi-Wan's defenses and struck the man's leg, and the Padawan could have cried in exhaustion and defeat. Not enough . . . can't hold on . . . please, please, please . . .
He didn't know what he was begging for, mind spinning too painfully even to articulate his need, except to know that he could not do this much longer. Two more deflections, heavy arms swinging the lightsaber like an axe instead of a beam of pure energy. Then he all but sobbed in relief as his plea was answered, and they began to back off. This prize carried too high a price for savvy businessmen—they left behind two dead, one on the rooftop and one on the street. Obi-Wan didn't know whether Amora's guards had accomplished this or he had done it himself with a deflected bolt, and at the moment he could not muster enough energy even to be curious. He would care later. Much later.
The Jedi apprentice sank to his knees, panting, and finally extinguished his lightsaber before it sank to the ground and rolled away from his nerveless fingers. Amora fought her way out from under the wounded guard, her face red and streaming tears. At the sight of the panting Jedi she sat heavily on the pavement, face draining of color, mouth moving silently.
Obi-Wan stared back at her, vision starting to blur and fracture. He had nothing to say.
The unwounded guard reached them, comlink already to his mouth as he called for back-up and medical assistance. Dark spots began to converge on Obi-Wan's peripheral vision and he squeezed his eyes shut, pushing them away by main force of will. He didn't have time for this. Something . . . something else, he had to do something else, protect someone else . . .
He shot to his feet, sucking in a breath as if to yell, but it escaped him in a whimper. He didn't have to go back in the alley to know. Nibbi was gone.
X
Master! Nibbi has been kidnapped!
Qui-Gon sat up straight in his tall conference chair. "Close the spaceports."
Rayel Tooks tossed him a curious glance from across the wide, polished wooden table. "What did you say?"
"Close the spaceports!" Qui-Gon stood abruptly and fought to keep himself from pacing in agitation, holding himself still through iron control. But his fists, clenched in the folds of his robe, were quivering imperceptibly.
Tooks flipped his communicator up from where it rested in his palm, thumbing the activation button, and set it to his lips. While a distant part of Qui-Gon was gratified by the swift action, another part of him screamed that it was already too late. He could feel Obi-Wan's fear and sorrow weeping through the bond.
They had communicated by mind before, in moments of great need, but never across such a distance. And never had he felt his Padawan so vividly, as if the boy were standing beside him at this moment. Unconsciously Qui-Gon reached out to touch him, fingers grasping only air.
President Hindegar had been hastily assuring the other members of the current council meeting that all was well, that the Jedi Master was not mad, but had received some sort of instruction from the Force. Then he stood, his gaze locked on Qui-Gon's.
"Shall we take my speeder?"
He nodded, and they went.
Throughout the short drive to Onorda Street Qui-Gon focused on the bond, trying to send his apprentice calm and assurance. We're on our way. Everything's going to be all right, I swear it. I swear it, Padawan.
It was not a Jedi trait, to swear. Most lived by the creed that their word was their bond: yes was yes and no was no. But in this instance it felt like the right thing to say. Obi-Wan needed more than mere words. He needed the weight of a promise.
Gradually the Padawan's agitation diminished, and Qui-Gon almost felt the small, shaking fingers against his. Obi-Wan knew. Somehow, without sitting on these afternoon strategy sessions, without hearing about the Sylelian asteroid belt and what happened there, somehow he had divined for what purpose his little friend had been stolen. He had every right to be afraid.
I'm coming, Obi-Wan. We'll find him.
He felt the brush of warm air against his ear, a singled whispered word. Hurry.