LIVING HISTORY
by ardavenport
= = = Part 11
"I do not see any significant injury," Ee-Ee-Seven announced in its calm feminine tone. "However, I do detect some lingering symptoms of your serphrada infection. You should be wary of it for the next two days."
"I shall." Qui-Gon nodded and pushed himself off the examination table. Ee-Ee-Seven, a medical droid as efficient and well-programmed as any that might be found in the Jedi Temple, inclined its sleek angular head and withdrew. They were in the concealed medical center of the Naardin Castle, a modern anachronism that served it and the nearby town if historical methods were insufficient. While he was being examined by Ee-Ee-Seven, Healer Zhenum had stopped by, smirked at Obi-Wan and commented that he'd gotten his medical droid after all.
Qui-Gon straightened and inhaled a few long, deep breaths. The sudden dizziness that had caught him by surprise was gone, but it was just declining and dormant. Instead of grasping for balance this time, he had simply fallen, letting the Force absorb the impact.
Opening his eyes, he found Obi-Wan looking up at him. Qui-Gon held his arm out to the door.
"Shall we go?"
They left the small, but well equipped med-center in the lower levels of the Castle. A wooden door slid shut behind them. There was a medical symbol on it, but otherwise the entrance was flush with the wood wall paneling.
"Why would they wish to conceal their med-center down here? If someone were seriously injured, there could be a delay in getting them medical attention."
"It is the price they pay for their attention to historical detail, Obi-Wan." They climbed up a stone stairway. "They did not have medical droids available in the Naardin Castle's era." He sensed his Padawan's disapproval, but did not admonish him for it. At only sixteen, experience would have to teach him that one had to accept that people made their own choices.
At the top of the stairs, Obi-Wan led the way back to Tamwa Hall. He had made friends with some of the performers and they had shown him around the day before. But he slowed as they approached.
"Master," Obi-Wan lowered his eyes before looking up again. "Is it necessary to be so . . . confrontational with Director Tykon? As the Director pointed out, he is in charge. We are already late and it can only make our part in this more difficult."
Qui-Gon frowned. But he had to admit to himself that his Padawan had clearly warned him about Director Tykon's behavior, and yet he had still been taken aback by it. He folded his arms before answering. "No. It is not necessary. However, our mission is only to assist in his production. We are not under his authority; that was made clear at the briefing back at the Temple," he reminded. "And Director Tykon obviously only responds to actions, not words." He looked down at his Padawan speculatively. "You did sense Director Tykon's anger, did you not?"
"Yes, Master."
"Did you sense its source?"
After a moment of intense thought, Obi-Wan shook his head.
"It comes from the most common source of much anger. Fear."
"What is he afraid of?"
Qui-Gon gazed over Obi-Wan's head toward Tamwa Hall. "He is unhappy with his Play and very afraid that he will not succeed with it. He believes that if he tightens his control over all parts of it, and drives it to be the best it can be, he may yet succeed." He sighed. "But he is convinced that it is not enough. He is afraid of that and it makes him angry. And he is spreading his fear to his performers who are competing against each other and already fearful for their own success."
"Do you sense what is wrong with the Play?" Obi-Wan asked with wide-eyed interest.
"No." He shrugged. "I have no idea. The artistic merits of this History Play are not our concern. But we would do no service to it by giving in to Director Tykon's tantrums. Or his fear."
Among the performers and crew of the holo-drama that he had been assigned to assist so many years ago, there had also been a lot of fear. They worried over their scenes, their clothes, their bodies, their voices. In constant tension, they bragged about old projects that they worked on and fictional new ones they expected to do. Whether they were happy or sad, or trying to get their serious Jedi advisor to laugh (and succeeding a few times), they were always performing, always lying and always afraid that whatever they were doing would not work. Even Roetee Zhazem, elderly, at the end of a successful career and confident that she would always be loved and admired, was at least partially driven by a deeply ingrained fear of failure and rejection.
A smile quirked at the corners of Obi-Wan's mouth as they continued back to the main hall. They heard the music, a quick tune from a single keyboard player, as they approached and stepped out from the darkened corridor to the daylit hall, blue sky showing through the its windows.
Director Tykon had arranged all the Yarrs into a large group performance, some standing in place, some waving their arms to the music, some prancing and twirling to music.
We all love the Sith
We will always be
Grateful for your charity
It's you we all are with
For all eternity
You're our only diety
Qui-Gon paused and raised his brows. It was a very pretty tune, energetically sung by the chorus, but the lyrics were a bit disquieting. He supposed that this part came early in the Play, before Yarr was defeated. A special recording of the final performance was to be sent to the Jedi Council and he wondered what their reactions would be.
His sixteen year-old Padawan stared with open-mouthed surprise. At his age, Obi-Wan would have only a limited education about Sith, which was only sensible to discourage the young from seeking out tempting, but dangerous knowledge. And since no Sith had been seen by any Jedi since their defeat nearly a thousand years ago they would have no practical experience with tham at all. That left younger Padawans like Obi-Wan a bit naïve about just how broad some different points of view could be about the Dark Side.
Pecku ran up to them, a flat comp-screen in his hand.
"Director Tykon thinks that it would be better if you worked more closely with me and Eris Mwat, our other assistant director." He pointed toward an unshaven man with frazzled dark hair in loose tan clothes. Pecku raised his arm, getting Mwat''s attention. He ran a hand over his thick, unkempt hair as he jogged up to them; Pecku introduced them and left.
Mwat rubbed his hands together nervously. "Ah, well, we're not quite ready for the Darth Yarr auditions yet," he looked behind him at the dancing Yarrs, obviously hoping that they were ready, "so, maybe we can . . . uh . . . "
"Perhaps you could show us the stage area and where we will participate in the play?" Qui-Gon politely suggested.
"Ahh!" Mwatt raised a hand with a big grin. "Excellent suggestion!" He led them around the practice area down to the far end of Tamwa Hall to where the stage was being constructed. They stopped at one of a number of new sound suppressor field posts where Mwatt touched a yellow control on it. A square portal opened and work noise, voices, banging and machinery squeals came out. They went inside, the door closing behind them. The workers there only glanced their way as they continued their tasks around and under the huge stage platform, dragging long cables, putting together technic components and inserting them into recesses in and around the stage.
Mwatt led them to a holo-table. On it glowed an image of the completed performance space. The outline of Tamwa Hall glowed pale yellow with the stage, orchestra area, seating areas in various shades of green and blue. The assistant director pointed out the different main areas before pointing to several towers along the sides of the Hall.
"And here," the towers lit up under Mwatt's fingers. "Are where you'll sit for the Play." The circular platforms at the top of the towers had tiny seats on them. "You'll enter after the general audience with the Venerates of the Castle and the other honored guests and you will be introduced before them, before the Play starts." He made a negative gesture with his hands. "You won't have to say anything, just bow, or whatever Jedi do. We'll work out the details before the final rehersals."
Qui-Gon nodded. "Will there be any intermissions?"
Mwatt held up one finger. "One. In the middle. We're still working out the details of what facilities you'll be using, but the Venerates and honored guests will have exclusive use of their own freshers and consumables."
"And after the performance?"
"The party starts right after the final accolades. Right after. The house lights go down to total black and then up to the party. It's tradition. Since you're from off-world we can't insist that you stay, but it would be nice if you could . . ." Mwatt seemed afraid to ask them to go to the party.
"We will be honored to attend," Qui-Gon assured him.
Mwatt's hip bleeped and he took out a com unit.
"Where the sssats are those Jedi?!"
Tykon's complaint came out of the com loud enough to make some of the stage technicians nearby chuckle.
"Aaah, sounds like they need you again," Mwatt quickly led them back out of the stage area to where the Yarrs were practicing. Pecku hurried to meet them, pointing where they should stand, a certain disatance away from where the Director impatiently waited with five rows of Yarrs at attention behind him.
"Now, watch us," Tykon commanded. He took up a ready stance with a red lightstick, Pecku with a blue one.
Whack-whack! Eeeee-Fwack-whack! Whack-whack-whack! Eee-Fwack! Whack! Eeeeee-Fwack-whack-whack-whack! Whack! Fwack!
Lightstick whirling, Pecku attacked with a yell and a wild frenzy of blows, driving Tykon back a few paces before he parried, whirled and struck back. Their movements were fast and fluid, but otherwise it was truly awful fighting. Qui-Gon reminded himself that it was really dancing, even if it was done with pretend-lightsabers.
They finished, both retracting their lightsticks. Tykon pointed the stub of his at Qui-Gon.
"Now, show us that, or however you would do it."
Qui-Gon sighed. Tykon was no less intense, but he sensed that the Director had re-focused his aggression elsewhere. Unclipping his lightsaber, he turned to Obi-Wan. "You will attack, I will defend."
His Padawan nodded, unclipped his own weapon and stepped back. His arm swept upward, the blade igniting as he rushed forward. Qui-Gon evaded, backing up three steps before spining around and blocking the attack. They exchanged several more blows before Qui-Gon stepped back, ending the display, their lightsabers hissing off. Qui-Gon silently looked toward Tykon who paced at a respectful distance.
"Do it again, but make it different this time." He turned to the attentive rows of Yarrs. "Watch carefully!"
It seemed that if Tykon did not say anything about how they changed it, then presumably it was not important. Qui-Gon nodded to Obi-Wan and activated his lightsaber again. This time he did not back up to the attack; he blocked and dove to the side and forward so they switched places. They broke off after several more blows.
"Again!" Tykon commanded.
After the third attack, the Director allowed the Yarrs to form a circle, so they could all get a good view (from a safe distance) while Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan spared. Then Tykon paired off the Yarrs to imitate them; he loudly praised a few while shouting abuse at others, sometimes taking away their lightsticks and smacking them. After eight more attacks, the Castle staff was setting up the tables and chairs for midday repast. Pecku yelled out for a break.
Immediately, most of the Darth Yarrs pushed their masks back, revealing their relief. Clipping their lightsabers to their belts, the two Jedi watched Pecku and Tykon conferring over a potable comp unit on a side table, the holo-recorders descending down to them. A woman in a shapeless green poncho and gray pants, her hair a mass of blond curls trailing down her back, joined them.
Most of the dancers were getting touch ups and minor repairs to their costumes by the team of body techs - - apparently, the Darth Yarr costume required some maintenance - - so the food line was relatively short when Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan got in it. There was hot stew, chopped fresh vegatables and leaves, a fruit and nut salad and crusty grain flats. They got their meals along with water, and took their trays to an end of one of the long tables.
They ate in silence, but Obi-Wan kept looking over his shoulder, presumably for the friends who had shown him around the Castle yesterday. Qui-Gon contemplatively chewed as he scanned the enormous hall. Eight thousand years ago, this Castle fortress had been the site of a Sith Lord's fall. Now, that was all History.
Obi-Wan's watchfulness was finally rewarded when three of the dancers approached, still dressed in Darth Yarr's black and red, but with their masks hanging from straps as they carried their food trays.
"Good day, Venerate Jedi Obi-Wan," the smallest one of the three greeted them. Obi-Wan introduced her, Yana Twarn, and her friends, Jutwa Eris and Timoz Wemi. They lowered their eyes as Obi-Wan introduced him to them, as if they were embarrassed to be noticed. Twarn sat next to Obi-Wan, but not too close. The others sat next to her, furthest away from him. Nobody else sat near them, though glances kept darting their way from the other tables.
"I hope you are feeling well, today. We are honored to meet you," Twarn said with well-rehearsed pleasantness, though she was all fearful nerves underneath. She was nearly monotone in color, brown skin with short hair only a few shades darker.
With a neutral smile, he inclined his head back to her. "Yes, I am quite recovered, thank-you."
Emboldened, she lowered her head and plowed on. "You danced very well; I think Director Tykon was especially surprised. Pleasantly so, I mean," she hurriedly added.
Qui-Gon knew that he had thoroughly irritated Tykon by challenging his absolute authority and he doubted that she was foolish enough to believe otherwise. She was just stating it politely. He nodded again. "Thank-you."
He ate, breaking and dipping crusty bread and crisp green vegetable sticks into the brown, savory stew.
"Do you think you did well in the practice?" Obi-Wan asked the three next to him.
"It's really hard to see in those masks," the young man grumbled. "I kept up the pace, but I was swinging blind half the time."
"I got stuck with Feldwim and he messed me up almost every time. Especially when Tykon was looking. He's barely good enough for a bit part," Yana complained.
"I kept getting hit. It's a good thing these costumes are padded. Did you get hit with those sticks?" Timoz added, leaning over her plate to look at the Jedi. "Did you get hit?"
"Uh, no," Obi-Wan answered. Qui-Gon smiled and kept eating. He could think of a few touchy Jedi Masters who would have been quite offended to be asked if they accidentally 'hit' their Padawans during any practice session, even with just a lighted stick.
The performers warily looked at him, but he did not look back. Technically, he was a member of the Creative Committee that would decide their fates in the Play, so their interest in him was driven by their desperate longing to succeed. They did not know that he was going to cede his vote to the others, Nothing he could say would set them at ease, so he settled for saying nothing.
Sitting in the middle, Obi-Wan squirmed. Earnestly determined, Yana Twarn started up the converstion again.
"You never said that your Master could dance so well."
"I did not know it myself, until today." Obi-Wan's brows rose in his direction. Declining the invitation to join in, Qui-Gon took another bite. Twarn's companions kept their heads down, their eyes darting back to their food when Qui-Gon glanced their way.
"Oh?" Twarn's dark brown eyes widened as she looked around Obi-Wan at him. Qui-Gon kept chewing.
"Well, I suppose that what we do is similar. We fight on stage, and I know that's supposed to be like fighting, but that's just pretending . . . to be fighting." Twarn's attempt to make conversation stumbled to a stop. Obi-Wan was looking a little cross at him.
Qui-Gon put his eating utensil down. "Will your auditon for this part be after our meal?"
The three dancers all jumped and Eris's eating utensil clattered to the floor. Twarn cleared her throat.
"There is always a rest after eating, then some more practice before another break and then the audition."
"Hmm, then I presume I will not be needed. I will take this time to tour the Castle on my own." He stood, sliding from between the table and and bench. Obi-Wan started to rise, too, but he held up a hand. "Stay. You can com me if I am needed." He bowed his head to them all and left.
= = = End Part 11