Calumnious Art
For thither he assembl'd all his Train,
Pretending so commanded to consult
About the great reception of thir King,
Thither to come, and with calumnious Art
Of counterfeited truth thus held their ears.
— Excerpt from Paradise Lost by John Milton
A drawling voice grinds out words in a monotone: "…stable. Vital systems functioning. Brain activity present."
The world is a sterile-smelling doldrums. My eyelids are far too heavy to move, and so I occupy myself by feeling out my surroundings through my remaining senses.
The recycled air moves gently past my face, cool and bland. I can hear the quiet whirring of machinery about me, as well as a strange, partly muffled hissing sound—it alternates at relatively regular intervals from the sound of air being drawn in through a filter, to the air being pushed back out. I feel myself lying in a prone position upon my back, the upper half of my body put at a noticeable but slight incline. My eyes still stubbornly remaining shut despite my best efforts, I experimentally move my fingers. Their response is sluggish and weak, but improving steadily, and I feel them rubbing against the fabric of the bedsheet upon which I lie.
The memories choose that moment to crowd in, flooding my brain in a useful but startling deluge. On an impulse, I try to move my arms, and I feel a set of straps limiting my progress.
That provides sufficient motivation for my eyes to snap open, and a glaring white light intrudes upon my vision.
Confused, I attempt to work the puzzle out with a slowly awaking mind. I should have revived as soon as I'd hit the ground—which means someone must have shot me with either a stun bolt or a tranquilising drug of some sort, since my head feels intact and painless, only somewhat dazed.
A drug, I know, from the physical and mental sensations I receive. But why? A stun bolt would have been far quicker to administer, even if it wouldn't have kept me out for quite as long.
The hissing in-out sound of rushing air is beginning to infringe upon my unsteady thoughts. Annoyed, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the light while I try to figure out where the noise is coming from.
And then, with a certain degree of shock, I realise that the timing of the sound coincides with my own breathing. Every time I inhale, the sound of an air intake comes to me. Every time I exhale, the sound turns to that of air whooshing out the filter. Curious, I stagger my breathing, cutting off my inhalation halfway and exhaling in a rush. The sound follows suit without delay.
But only now do I actually realise the noise does not come from one of the machines around me. Their purpose is merely to monitor. No—I locate the sound at a different spot entirely.
My own throat.
It takes every last iota of my willpower to lie still. What have they done to me? That answers any questions I had about the purpose of the anesthetic drug, at any rate. I hesitantly reach out with the Force, having a much better control by now, and find a few life forms curiously looking on from a different room.
I've been opening and closing my eyelids at small intervals up until now, feeding them small doses of the light around me. Now I'm able to open them fully, and I find myself in a medium-sized white room, my back and head raised high enough on the incline of the mattress to look down at the foot of my bed. On the far wall in front of me is a darkened pane of transparisteel, and it is behind the pane that I detect my observers. I begin to feel remarkably like a biological experiment, and the thought does absolutely nothing in the way of calming me.
At my movements, I hear a whirring to the right of me, and I cautiously turn my head to see the droideka with both its weapon-arms aimed directly at my head, obviously giving the message not to try anything stupid. An identical noise makes itself known to the left, and any hope of trying to escape flees my mind quickly. I cannot help but wonder if I will meet the same fate as that of Qui-Gon Jinn. But then, what of this thing implanted in my throat?
A door at the side of the room slides open, and I am not surprised to see an all-too-familiar Neimoidian step in, stooping slightly under the doorframe to ensure clearance for the head ornament. I watch him as carefully as the droidekas do me, uncertain of what he has in mind.
"You may have won some battles, but you have lost the war, young Jedi," he comments in a badly hidden smugly superior tone. I find his cowardice almost repulsive; this creature called Nute Gunray will seize every opportunity presented to him to gloat in his security and financial well-being.
"You may have noticed a small mechanism within your throat," he continues. "It will bring you no harm. We have enough knowledge of the human structure in our medical databanks to know upon inspection you were unable to speak, so we have provided you with a cybernetic voice for convenience's sake."
My curiosity piqued, I try out the device: "If you're expecting me to thank you, you're gravely mistaken." Although it has a noticeable mechanical timbre and the pitch is slightly deeper and more resonant than before, it sounds nearly identical to my true voice. My mouth still provides the power of speech while the device feeds it with sound, pitch, and nuances. Through the vibrations, I sense that the filter itself creates the synthetic voice while allowing breath to pass through it.
"No, we merely expect you to engage it when necessary."
I debate the wisdom of sending him a mental message. While it would make him rethink my abilities and possibly give him a grudging respect for me, it would likely be more ideal for him to underestimate my powers as a Jedi-in-training. "And if I should refuse?"
His dull eyes glint with a hardness I've never seen in a Neimoidian before, and certainly have never expected from this particular spineless specimen. "We plan to hook your thought processes directly to a voice synthesiser, from where we will be able to hear every thought of your mind."
"That's a dangerous and lengthy process. Are you willing to risk losing me?" As well as all the credits, I add silently. Besides being an expensive project in the extreme, hooking up neural sensors of this type involves attaching them directly into the brain, something that has never yet been attempted upon a human subject, I believe, and I confirm that by sensing the Viceroy's somewhat uncertain resolution on the matter.
"You are not invaluable. Keep that in mind." With that, he turns and leaves the room.
That news, while certainly not encouraging, was not wholly unpredictable. I try to shift into a more comfortable position, wishing they might have taken the slight trouble to cover me with a blanket. My trousers and boots are still on, and I'm grateful enough that they bothered to slip me back into my undertunic, at least.
I close my eyes, turning my scrutiny to my throat, attuning my senses. The device seems to have been inserted directly into my windpipe, sealed against the inside of the bronchial tube all around. The air feeds through the filter quite easily, though it produces a mechanical wheeze. I note that the neurons that used to feed impulses to my larynx are similarly connected to the device. Also, the little voice producer is not completely within my throat. A section of it protrudes out, uncovered by skin but not jutting out of my neck. I inspect the tissues around the device, and am most pleased and relieved to note the absence of infection. I know this surgery was performed by very capable hands, and am glad for it, as I might have expected less.
The next priority, I decide, is to locate myself. I doubt the Federation would have taken control over Naboo hospitals already to such an extent as to provide surgery, especially in such detail; I reach outside the room uncertainly, not wishing to assume anything.
But my feelings were true. I am aboard a starship; I can feel the notable lack of human presence and the cold, lifeless vacuum of space outside the hull. My stomach twists itself into a sickening knot—I know escape on my own will be impossible to manage. I can only hope I'm not in a transport of any kind. If I am removed from the orbit or even the system of Naboo, how much harder it will be for the Jedi to locate my presence…
I reach out again, out of necessity, just as the vibrations begin.
The sour taste of fear and dread rises in my mouth, and I swallow in a vain attempt to clear it away as I notice the sound of a somewhat distant hyperdrive begin to kick in. I am indeed on a transport, and not one of the sphere-and-ring starships blockading Naboo. This ship is much smaller, while still having the capacity for a medical ward. No doubt the ship's crew had waited until the Viceroy left to move into hyperspace, as it was likely Gunray wanted to maintain his presence about Naboo.
They're taking me to someplace more secure where they can properly and safely barter for my release. But why? Viceroy Gunray had just expressed his opinion on my worth as a hostage to the Federation. It made little sense that they would install a voice synthesiser and bundle me aboard a transport to some remote location. All for one Padawan? I don't think so. There must be a reasonable explanation for all this.
One fact is that the Federation really doesn't need me. Knowing the Viceroy's general disposition, he would just as soon jettison me than go to all this trouble for some extra petty cash.
Another fact is that the Trade Federation's motives in stirring up this entire mess are as of yet unclear to me. Why would they wish to occupy Naboo in the first place? The Federation already has a small number of uninhabited planets for themselves; why would they need another, especially one with an established population? And why Naboo instead of a wealthier planet? Naboo is by no means poverty-stricken and backwards, but there are other planets that would yield an overall greater gain for the amount of trouble involved. Surely the Viceroy has realised this. Hasn't he? He may be cowardly, but he's not that dull-witted.
In that case, their occupation of Naboo may not be because of exports and imports or anything economical.
This thought makes even less sense. Those things are all the Federation operates on, all it truly cares about.
I sigh, the filter of the synthetic larynx lending an odd wheeze. It seems as if my speculations are leading me absolutely nowhere at all. Well, if the Federation doesn't care about me, who does?
The interesting question slips through my mind, and I only take notice of it as it begins to fade, grabbing it by the tail and giving it a shake almost too late.
What if the Viceroy is giving me to someone else, making an untraceable trail? The problem is, I cannot think of anyone of any organisation who would want me as a captive any more than the Federation. Not enough to pay for me, anyway, as credits are undoubtedly what the Viceroy is counting on. I could imagine one of the Council members making a seemingly valuable hostage, but a lowly Padawan?
I simply don't have enough information to understand it. I draw in a deep breath, refreshing my mind, and decide to attack some other problem.
The hut. The hut beside the river, or more importantly the happenings within, and then its disappearance. A vision, perhaps? I've never recalled one being so realistic—but there's no other explanation. Unless I'm going crazy. The very thought of me losing my mind is enough to send a chill touch of fear down my spine, which is a good thing, considering I'm lucid enough to feel fear. I'll assume it's a vision, then. What of its significance? Did the people within the hut represent anything? Did the hut itself? The dust in the air? There seems to be an infinite amount of factors that could be involved. My eyes still closed, I replay the memory within my mind, step by step.
"Bad for business," comes the familiar wail, and I open my eyes with a start.
The same old man slowly trudges up to the foot of my bed and looks down at me despairingly. I can identify him easily, but I'm surprised at how very old he looks. The dim innards of the cabin hid much of the age from his face—he looks far older than I've ever seen a human, perhaps two hundred.
I want to ask him who he is. I want to know why he is here, and how he came in without opening the door if he's not a vision. But one way or the other, my mouth does not move. Again, the Force feels evasive in his presence, and I cannot read anything from him whatsoever. Even more curious, the droidekas on either side of me take no notice of him at all.
One gnarled hand emerges from the voluminous robes (which seem to be in typical Jedi colours), searching for the firmest spot at the foot of the bed where he can sit. I try to move my feet obligingly, but they too are secured with straps. He sits anyway, breathing heavily and blinking often, his eyes seeming to be unfocused. The mattress sinks under his weight accordingly, as if he were real.
Then he twists himself about as best he can, facing me. His eyes have a few seconds of clarity in which they focus upon my face. He blinks twice, his face drooping into a sorrowful expression, and mumbles, "Sidious plots." He brings up one unsteady hand, and points at me, wheezing, "Bad for business…" Then the clarity of his expression fades and his spine loses what posture it had as he glumly turns to face the wall.
A movement to the right catches my eye, and I turn my head to see the woman standing there, holding the baby in her arms and jostling it gently on occasion. Contrary to the old man's situation, in the light she appears younger than before, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Now I can see the infant's face peering out of the folds of dark cloth, and it looks to be a toddler instead of the newborn I'd thought it was.
The woman sighs, adjusting the child in her arms, never taking her eyes off the old man and completely ignoring me, speaking to her progeny instead. "Not much time left, now. Your grandfather used to be strong, but he became weak quickly. We'll last a lot longer, won't we? We'll leave a proper legacy behind." She smiles down at the child, a beautiful expression except for the malicious glint in her eye.
The old man doesn't appear to hear her, or notice her at all, sitting very still.
Shifting the child again, the woman sets him down on the floor, still holding his hands. The little one wobbles precariously on his feet for a moment, then takes hesitant steps in the old man's direction, accelerating surprisingly quickly as his upper body moves forward, the little feet trying to catch up. This the old man notices, and turns toward the baby with a soft wordless cry, infused with joy and hope—but before the child can reach the old one, the woman swiftly strides forward, reaching out and striking the side of the elder's head with a hard blow. I tense and gasp, watching the old man's body crumple and slide off the bed, hitting the floor with a muffled thump as the woman looks to the child.
The baby begins to cry. She reaches for him, to pick him back up, but he runs, beyond her reach and around the bed, to the left side of me, coming around to the head of the cot. She follows, seizing up her skirts and giving chase. They move out of sight as they circle the bed, and I crane my head back, trying to shout, but somehow I cannot. And when I look back, in hope that their path might take them back into sight, I notice the prone form of the old man is gone, as is all sounds of the pursuit behind me.
Shaken, I unclench my fists that had automatically curled up at the atrocity. The sight haunts me, burned into my memory. I hope it will prove to be useful in the future—Force knows it's already painful enough. I had already begun to feel a sort of connection to the old man. For what reason, I do not know. Who can say why the mind works as it does? Or the Force, for that matter.
I hear a door hiss open somewhere behind my head. Unable to see there, I listen intently, wondering who would bother to come in after the Viceroy had come in to inform me on my position. No doubt I was under constant surveillance—what would this new sentient want? Its gait sounds different than the Viceroy's, the quiet footsteps pattering in at a higher rate. I hear it coming around to the right side, and I wait for its appearance, rolling my eyes over and reaching out to get a sense of it.
The droidekas also take notice of this new visitor, but keep their weapons trained on me. I repress a sigh, any insignificant hopes of a rescue effort dwindling away.
It's a Sullustan, I see soon enough, thinner than most I've seen and peering down at a datapad as he comes up to the side of my bed and dressed in a type of scrubs. He shifts his gaze to my face. "Uh-hummm. The implant is working well?"
"There haven't been any problems," I reply, "though this infernal breathing noise is rather intrusive when I'm alone."
Slight humour pinches the corners of his round black eyes as he produces a small hand-held mirror and brings it by my chin, slowly angling it. "Yes. Now tell me when you have a good view of the implant."
"That's it," I say as soon as the view centres itself. I cannot help but gape at the thing, knowing it's within my own neck. Not much more than ten square centimetres are visible of it, mostly a small panel with a few lights and one or two switches and what seems to be connection inlets. The surface runs nearly flush with my skin, as I had suspected before.
"Good," the Sullustan says. "Now. Do you see the black switch? If you will allow me…" He reaches up underneath my chin, and through the mirror I see one spindly finger depress the switch.
I can hear a quiet whirr start up in my throat, and all of a sudden the unnatural noise of my breath is gone. I look at him curiously and try to ask him what happened, but no sound emits from my mouth, just as before I got this implant.
He knows my question anyway; he nods as he withdraws the mirror. "That moved the membrane inside the device. Instead of spanning your windpipe, it has rotated ninety degrees to allow the air to pass unobstructed, as the membrane itself is quite thin. Pressing the same switch again will move it back into position. If I may?"
I nod, and he thumbs the button again. A short moment passes, and my speech returns.
"What does the other switch do?" I ask.
"Oh, it allows you to tune the membrane, as it were. These sockets will hook the device up to a certain machine that will allow you to download more programmed voices in, and once you have expanded your database to more than one voice, pressing this gray button will let you run through your repertoire. Fascinating, no?"
"Yes. Fascinating," I murmur, not thrilled at all. "I don't believe I've ever heard of such a design before."
The Sullustan puffs himself up somewhat. "That's because it hasn't gotten around much yet. I just made it a couple of standard years ago. It has undergone many tests, the result of which you saw here. It'll serve you well, I can assure you."
There will always be such creatures who think too much of their ingenuity, and need a bit of deflating from time to time to keep a healthy and down-to-earth mind. Such is the Sullustan's case, I presume, after a quick brush of his mind and posturing on the subject. I turn my head to look at him with a vexed stare. "No one ever asked me if I actually wanted one."
He wilts, ever so slightly, but it's enough for anyone with a trained eye to notice. "You need one," he presses, somewhat unsure of how far I'll take this. "That's the idea. Necessity is the—"
"Mother of all invention," I finish wearily for him. "I did not even need one, if that's what you're thinking. I'm perfectly capable of communicating with the others of my Order."
"Order?" The Sullustan looks at me with a puzzled expression written upon his jowled face, then he blanches. "No one said I was dealing with a Jedi."
I roll my eyes to the ceiling, not wishing to again clarify the point that I am in fact just a Padawan, and not Jedi yet. "Apparently you've been kept in the dark about many things. But perhaps you can tell me why the Federation requires me to have the power of speech at all."
He fiddles with the datapad, turning it over in his little hands while studiously avoiding my gaze. "I'm only a surgeon. I don't hear much while I'm cooped up in the med wards. Besides, it's not really my place to know."
"You can tell me what you do know," I suggest softly. "I'll keep it a secret."
He pauses for a moment, as if considering, then nods. "I can tell you what I do know. You'll keep it a secret. Won't you?"
"Of course," I assure him, thankful I was able to perform a mind-trick without using my hands to direct the flow of power.
"Well," the Sullustan says thoughtfully, quietly, leaning against the side of my bed, "there's been some rumours circulating that say Gunray really isn't the main power, here. There's talk of someone else running the show, from a hidden platform. You know?"
I nod once, keeping my voice low. "So perhaps there isn't as much underneath that three-pronged head-dress as everyone thought."
The Sullustan snickers. "Guess not, in that case. From what I understand, he's just a lackey for this hidden sentient, who's got his own agenda. I don't know what he's up to, but seeing from what's been going on, it can't be good. Either his ideas are going to be something revolutionary, or he's going to plot himself into a really deep rut, one that the Republic'll bury him in."
I shiver, remembering the wail of the old man. Sidious plots! Bad for business! "What do you suppose this hidden sentient wants?"
He gives me a toothy grin. "Money, or something. That's why people plot, right? Because they want more of whatever power they've got. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some other things to check up on." Clutching the datapad securely, he makes back to the door I cannot see, exiting the room.
I sink back, relaxing muscles I hadn't known I'd tensed, and began to think again. Sidious plots? Did he mean insidious plots? That's rather non-specific. Many beings come up with insidious plots. But if he did mean to say "sidious", what does that mean? I frown, closing my eyes, annoyed by the hissing sound of my breath, and reach for the button with the Force very carefully.
I am successful—the membrane within my throat rotates and the sound stops, leaving the room in an eerie quiet. A silence that I can put to use.
I try to piece this puzzle together, albeit with very limited knowledge of the situation. So there may be a hidden planner directing the Viceroy. That would mean, then, that this plotter would have instructed the Federation to invade Naboo. That makes more sense, anyway, than if the Federation would have operated on its own. This hidden agenda makes things more complicated, but it clears up that question at least. I can try to find why our elusive plotter wishes to occupy Naboo later. But for now… I have an intuitive feeling that the visions of the old man, woman, and child are intimately connected to this puzzle, but I haven't the slightest inkling how. Not yet.
I relax even further, letting loose the troubles of my mind and body. I feel any sort of vision would be helpful at this stage, no matter how troublesome to me. I let go of myself, wandering into the soothing embrace of the Force, sinking into a meditation.
You didn't think it would be that easy, did you? I'm still here, you realise. You can't get rid of me.
I gasp, my eyes snapping open, staring wildly at the ceiling. It was too close an encounter.
I might have had you, right then. A shame really, but I suppose there'll be another time. No living being can keep their guard up at all times.
Not even you, I think to him, remembering the instant before the Zabrak's death.
But now I'm invincible. You can't kill a being who's already dead.
Why must you attach yourself to me? Why can you not rest in a peace you've never earned? I clench my teeth, warding off an attack on his part.
What? Would you rather I occupied someone else? Amidala, perhaps?
My breath hisses between my teeth. You wouldn't dare.
Ah, but I would. The only way you'd be able to rid her of me would be to execute her, and you'd never be able to do that, would you?
I close my eyes. Why don't you find someone else? Like the hidden planner, perhaps. Make yourself useful and find out who he is.
Mocking laughter echoes throughout my mind. I already know him, foolish Padawan. And you'll never guess what he's doing right now.
I ball up the loosened bedsheet inside my fists, and gather the courage to ask, What?
At the end of this trip, he's waiting for you.