Legacy
Book I
Chapter 21
On the second day, the ion storm beat a dignified retreat, a draigon slinking back to the invisible fastness of its lair, leaving only a gloomy penumbra in its wake. Qui-Gon set out at dawn, hiking across the wide plains to the base of the forested rise, and thence up into the woods where the Jedi had left their shuttle upon their initial descent. Solitude provided him ample time for reflection, and reflection a proliferation of insight.
That moment aboard the Nemoidian ship – when Obi-Wan had appeared like a legendary genie, the deus ex machina bursting in upon a wicked narrator's scheme – had been revelatory. He had, for the first time in ten long years, seen his former apprentice from the outsider's perspective – as hero, as warrior, as savior, peacekeeper, as Jedi. The Force had been with him – and not a mere extension of Qui-Gon's own connection. No, this was different, resplendent in its own right, a flame set to burn in its own sanctuary lantern, kindled from a familiar hearth but shining now in its own right.
Not snuffed prematurely by Darkness, as Xanatos' light had been. Not drowned in the despair engendered by loss, as Qui-Gon's own had temporarily been. Not chilled to a pillar of icy purity, a merciless radiance like the passionless stars, as had Dooku's. No, this was warmth and compassion, fierce bright delight and grave intellect, open and yet guarded, hard and yet soft, somber and yet joyful – and above all, beneath all this: recklessly, absurdly courageous.
His stride lengthened, carrying him beneath the wide canopy of Niffrendi's native trees. A weight lifted from his shoulders, manifested as a spring in his loping gait. For that moment had also assuaged the most bitter doubt gnawing at his heart. He had seen in the young Jedi's face not obedience, not duty or abstract principle, not need or calculating expedience, but pure and simple friendship.
And in that freely offered alliance, he found a second youth, the seed of true immortality.
The Force blazed about him, in soundless chorus.
And there, a staid matron primly waiting his return, stood the ship. Its hull was coated in an decorative collage of avian droppings, gooey rivulets tracing an elaborate web upon the once gleaming surface. He chuckled, privately grateful that Obi-Wan was not here to see the fulfillment of his own grim prophecy – for surely the young man needed no further fodder for his wit, nor occasion to evidence his reputedly 'godly' powers.
He tramped up the sticky ramp with a smile of contentment playing about the corners of his mouth.
Under the glowering supervision of the cloud-laden skies, the Folk of the Stones went to work, harvesting the ionite deposits laid down by the Scythe's relentless swinging. Kernn's company marched back to the standing circle, where they found not only the astounding graveyard of eleven automated tanks, but also a windfall of the precious crystal more abundant than any before. By some serendipitous alchemy, the lightning's effect had been enhanced by the alloys in the tank shielding, somehow precipitating the creation of a lodestone effect; soon enough, small groups of prospectors were excavating the earth around the mangled machines, whooping and hollering to one another as they uncovered hoard after hoard of newborn treasures.
Obi-Wan watched the proceedings from the comfortable and relatively sheltered vantage point of a small glacial boulder. Pressed against a slight concavity at its base, and wrapped in two thermal blankets, he breathed deeply of the frosty, ozone-scented air. He would not – could not – remain another day within the suffocating confines of the Holes, despite all Qui-Gon's insistent exhortations that he rest and keep warm. The Jedi master had obviously longed to issue an incontrovertible order, but had graciously resisted the temptation of long habit, issuing only a series of subtle reminders on his way out, the fretful clucking of a mother thranctill leaving its nest.
That image was worth a private chuckle or two. Obi-Wan pulled his too-thin coverings closer against the pervasive chill, and let his gaze wander form the diligent Folk up to the bruised face of the heavens. Black and green, yellow and grey, the smoky skies still bore the marks of last night's assault. Above them, somewhere high in orbit, the Nemoidian Core ship must still have loitered…
His mood plummeted unexpectedly from contentment into gnawing unease.
Whatever the ultimate end of the Paxellian raid upon the Trade Federation outpost, blood was on his hands. Ghurb and Tord – and their associates – may have survived the raid… but it seemed unlikely. The young warriors had the advantage of surprise, ruthlessness, and – most pertinently – the promise of divine favor. Under such circumstances, it was probable that they had taken no prisoners, fighting until no foe was left standing, or else until they had been themselves felled, to the last man.
The disappearance of Olokk, and their own ship, they would have taken in stride, attributing both events to the caprice of their wily god. Perhaps the conquerors had pilfered a Nemoidian shuttle and were even now hastening back to their own realms, eager to report upon their first egress into Republic space. The Nemoidians, meanwhile, would send emissaries to determine the fate of their colleagues, and receive a nasty shock upon arrival. Niffrendi's government, robbed of its conspirator in illegal shipping contracts, would be plagued with the twin threat of economic ruin and broader reprisals from the Galactic Trade commission, stirring up further trouble and encouraging its leadership to court Hutt favor as a means of salvaging the situation. All in all, not a brilliant mission outcome.
He still had much to learn.
The wind clawed bitterly at his insufficient wrappings, and he pressed closely against the rock-face, mind spiraling further and further outward into the skein of connections, the infinite web of the potential. Niffrendi's fraudulent attacks had perpetuated rumor, which had transformed into a self –fulfilling prophecy, attracting the interest of genuine barbaric tribes in the sector, pretense tipping over the fulcrum of possibility into bland fact. It had been a dangerous gamble; what petty increase in profit margins could justify it? He felt- he knew- there must be more to the story. Why, in truth, did the Niffrendi desire to build a standing militia? Why, in truth, was the Trade Federation so keen on ferrying shiploads of ionite to Baktoid Armories sub rosa? Who, in truth, was managing this affair, and again: why?
Why, why, why….
"Is this how you always fritter away your spare time?" a familiar voice chided.
He roused himself from an introspection so deep it bordered on unitive meditation; Qui-Gon was standing a pace away, cloaked and cowled against the night's biting chill.
"It's late," Obi-Wan remarked, surprised more by the abrupt departure of daylight than by the unheralded appearance of the older man.
"Kerrn's people have loaded the sleds and are ready to depart… as are we. I've brought the shuttle back down."
The young Knight stood, shivering. "So soon?"
"The storm has subsided; best to leave while we may be assured of a safe ascent. And, more pertinently, we are due at a rendezvous outside the system in three standard hours. A Service Corps freighter is being sent to meet us. They have a Jedi healer on board, in transit to the Core – and the capacity to send a secure transmission to the Temple ahead of our return."
Obi-Wan cocked a sardonic brow at the casual mention of healers. "Good. The sooner we can make a report, the better."
His pointed reply did not succeed in deflecting Qui-Gon's attention from the unwholesome subject of medical personnel. "The sooner we can get you patched up, the better," the tall man added, with infuriating placidity.
"I can take care of myself."
They walked, slowly, toward Kerrn and the heavily-laden magtrain palettes. "That, Master Kenobi, is not under dispute; but it is an established fact that you never bother to actually do so."
Obi-Wan's mouth tightened, in a silent concession of defeat – very temporary defeat, he assured himself. He would deal with this 'healer' person when they embarked upon the freighter. For now he would be content to escape the biting frigidity of Niffrendi's night air. Focus on the present moment, was that not the key?
Kerrn shooed them on their way with a gruff gesture. "Bring yer own trouble with yer, wherever yer go, I reckon, " he grumbled, not without an undercurrent of humor. "In your debt, the Folk of the Stone are." He jerked his chin at the colossal mess still languishing upon the muddied plains, the battle-field detritus of some titanic clash. "But too much of a good thing's still too much."
"May the Force be with you." Obi-Wan solemnly bowed to the nomadic company's leader.
"You keep yer Force; we're stockpiling ionite. Stars watch over yer, now."
"Indeed." Qui-Gon also executed a graceful bow, and the two Jedi strode off in the direction of their own vessel, past the last rise.
"Covered in vile chisszzk," Obi-Wan muttered, fastidiously, upon catching sight of the hull. "As I predicted."
"A Jedi craves not material luxury," Qui-Gon reminded him as they ascended the ramp. "Besides, it will burn off in the atmosphere."
"Hm. I'm piloting," the younger man decided, as breezy as ever despite the marked crimp in his trademark swagger.
The pilot spent the short flight in unrestrained brooding, perhaps a quarter of his attention spared for the console and nav computer. Qui-Gon did not interfere, for that was no longer his role… and he knew, from long experience, that the crux of his companion's convoluted thoughts would in due time be distilled into a humorous elixir or a potent draught of wisdom. He kept his own counsel, and waited for the inevitable slow transmutation of experience into knowledge.
They reached the rendezvous ahead of the Service Corps vessel, and hung suspended in empty space just clear of the star's far-flung gravity well.
"We didn't solve anything," Obi-Wan sighed, at long last.
"The most frustrating aspect of an investigative mission," the Jedi master answered, mildly. "But I think it is safe to say your actions will effectively delay further perfidy by a generous margin."
The younger man tilted his head, pensive. "True."
Qui-Gon drummed fingers against his 'saber's hilt. "The Council will confer with the Chancellor, and he in turn with the Senate; beyond that, much depends on the Trade Federation's reaction to the inevitable accusations, and the behavior of the local government. For now, it is out of our hands."
The young Knight exhaled slowly, releasing nebulous anxiety. He drooped visibly where he sat, then withdrew the ionite shard from his tunic's inner folds and turned it idly between his fingers. "I meant to leave this upon the plain – that is their custom. They excise a part of their hearts with each carving… a cathartic ritual of sorts."
"Not every symbol is efficacious." Qui-Gon observed, gravely. "And not every tradition wise." He addressed the curved cockpit ceiling, feigning merely academic interest. "Denial is another form of attachment; to reject a thing is merely to cling to it in a negative modality."
"Yes, I know."
"I know you know," the Jedi master smiled.
And that brought them full circle, back to a beginning.
The huge Service Corps vessel reverted to realspace a few points off their starboard bow, as though on cue. "And here is our ride home. Shall we?"
The Service Corps crew had sent a confounded welcoming party to meet them. Obi-Wan was intent upon effecting a neat getaway before the promised medico could interfere with his freedom; he strode down the shuttle's ramp into the vast freighter's docking hangar with all the aura of confident authority he could muster, given his disheveled appearance – hand on 'saber hilt, chin high, back straight and the Force rampant about him, a proud invisible banner for all the gawking world to see.
No healers for him, thank you.
"Obiii!"
He nearly stumbled upon the traction bar at the ramp's foot, heart skipping in undiluted joy. Behind him, Qui-Gon broke into a soft chuckle.
Before he could recompose his imperturbable façade, Bant Eerin had flung herself into his arms and wrapped him in an effusive hug, eliciting a rigid and soundless gasp of pain as she jostled his ribs and bad shoulder.
"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry! Obi, I missed you! I'm so happy to see you again! Oh, you're hurt, you stupid reckless gundark they said someone needed me but nobody told me it was you and – oh! Master Jinn."
The tall man returned her deferent bow, pacing unhurriedly across the decks to confer with the waiting tech crew and ship's officer.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi!" Bant gasped, globular eyes blinking in astonishment. "Where is your braid? You aren't! Are you…? " Her round mouth formed a perfect "o" of delight; two milky Mon Cal tears dribbled down her salmon-colored cheeks. "You are," she finished, reverently, wrapping him in another – but more cautious- hug.
She still smelled of salt and an elusive oceanic tang…he pressed his face against the top of her head. "Missed you, I did."
The Force quietly rejoiced, and Bant squeezed harder, making him whimper in protest.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Master Li told me you were home, that all was well – he never said -! Oh, he was just waiting so you could spring it on me like this! And then you go off and, and – what have you been up to?" The apprentice healer splayed both webbed hands on her hips, reverting to her professional role with alarming rapidity.
He managed a shaky grin. "This and that… piracy, warfare, espionage, flying through ion storms, all the usual." He glanced past her shoulder, to where Qui-Gon towered over the curious Service Corps volunteers and crewmen, eyes twinkling in open amusement.
"Well, you're all mine now," the Mon Cal informed him, grasping his good arm firmly in one hand, like a schoolmarm shepherding a recalcitrant child. "When are you ever going to learn to take care of yourself?"
