Inheritance


2.

"Yes, the Misplaced Persons Office of the Subdistrict Constabulary."

I should have added, Subdepartment for the Deliberately and Habitually Lost, Special Division for AWOL Jedi Padawans. I do hope there aren't any tiresome forms to be filled out; I would rather this particular repeating nightmare not be kept on record. The boy likes any kind of game that involves keeping score .. and on this vexing account, I fear I must admit to not winning at the moment.

If he gets himself misplaced one more time, I shall be tempted to leave him in such dire straits permanently. It might save time and trouble in the long run.

Thankfully, the air-gondola pilot knows precisely where this obscure department of the local planetary police is located. One good reason for using a conventional means of transport, rather than a private Temple air-car. Another good reason would be the need for discretion. After all, I –better than most – know to what extremity of fervor gossip can reach, even within its hallowed walls. One can return home from a mission to find oneself transformed overnight into a scoundrel who exchanged acrimonious words with his own master, an object of pity who has been cruelly cast away and then orphaned, or –even worse- an instant celebrity, a legendary "Sith Killer." There is no limit to the dark transmutations of fact wrought by certain Padawans' overactive imaginations. There is no limit to how many speculative questions can be raised in the minds of so many bright-eyed and prurient observers. And a vehicle cannot be checked out from the transport pool without certain questions being answered.

The boy is going to be the death of me. Well, unless I am the death of him, first, of course. Were I a gambling man, like my former master, I should say that the odds presently stand evenly weighted in favor of either eventuality. I leave the final disposition of the question to the Will of the Force; but it is an established certainty, at this point in time, that neither of us shall obtain to a ripe old age so long as we are shackled together by mutual obligation.

I didn't want a Padawan. Not yet. Six months ago, I was headstrong and had much to learn. I was capable, at best. Now somebody calls me master. And not just somebody…. No. The Chosen One, if the prophecy is to be believed. I am responsible for the safe delivery of the Force's redemptive promise.

An intimidating burden, placed on willing but completely unworthy shoulders. And the Force's Chosen instrument of balance is not helping matters along any, either.

Now, as we draw nigh to the place where the kind officer of the peace has stowed my truant apprentice, after discovering him cavorting, unsupervised, in a scrap pile outside the Legislative district, I must once again decide what in the blazes I am supposed to do with this boy. What would Qui Gon have done? Stars' end, how would I know? Certainly I never put my own mentor through such a trial. Nor would I ever have dared such blatant disregard for the rules and expectations laid down from time immemorial for the conduct of younglings in the Order. That business at the annual Starside Expo with Garen and Reeft all those years ago doesn't…. doesn't count.

"Shall I wait, sir?"

"Oh…yes. Thank you." My pilot looks as though he hopes Jedi tip well. I suppose we do. Certainly I will; the Code does not forbid us to buy discretion at the current market value.

The policeman who found Anakin earlier is swelling with the pride of accomplishment. It is not every day a member of his profession is able to one-up the Order, and in person, no less. He hitches his thumbs through his belt and rocks back and forth on his heels, superciliously. "You lost something, Master Jedi?"

Ha ha. Gloat while you can, my friend; and be thankful you will not witness a Jedi losing his temper. "I appear rather to have found something," I retort, as Anakin peeps out from the confines of the Waiting Area, so designated by a dingy plastoid sign on the wall.

"Master!" he chirps. He hasn't the sense to feign contrition, or even regret. He has much to learn.

"Found him hanging out in the Dumps earlier – lucky the compactors weren't scheduled to run today – grisly way to go. Saved his life, I'd like to think."

Behind the man, Anakin rolls his eyes, eloquently refuting this assessment of his previous danger, and of his incompetence to save himself from ordinary peril. "He may live to wish you hadn't," I address the boy. So help me, Anakin, this is not happening again.

Our new acquaintance is shoving a datapad beneath my nose; his murmured explanations regarding the various scrolling forms requiring my attention and thumbprint go barely noticed. My Padawan is filthy – covered in splotches of oil, or grease, and distinctly disheveled. Even his tiny learner's braid is looking a bit frayed and tattered.

"You don't need to document this incident," I suggest, mildly, handing the data pad back.

"Ah, well, I don't really need to document this incident," the fellow obligingly agrees, bestowing an indulgent smile upon the boy standing behind him. "Off you go, young scamp."

"Wizard, Master! Did you just-"

"This way, Anakin. Good day, and thank you." A short bow to the somewhat befuddled officer and I am chivvying my wretched apprentice back into the air taxi. I slip the driver a sizeable credit chit – shiny and new, somewhat less battered and jaded than my expectations regarding the joys of teaching- and push Anakin back into his seat when he tries to lean over the outside panel.

He doesn't even apologize.

There is no emotion. There is peace. "Anakin. You left the scheduled field trip and its chaperones without permission, and engrossed yourself in a garbage heap. Would you care to explain that egregious violation of both the accepted rules and my direct order?"

He merely shrugs, his nose wrinkling in a peculiar mannerism of his own. "I tried to go with the other kids, really. At first. And I even paid attention and everything like you said. But the Legislative District tour is so boring, master! You said so yourself! And Master Muln told me how you and he –"

Thankfully, he possesses a sufficient glimmer of prudence, or survival instinct, to stop before he actually blurts out the entire tale in front of the taxi pilot, whose perked aural tubes widely broadcast his desire to hear said rumor. The story is not nearly so amusing as Garen seems to think, and I shall personally see to it that Master Muln exercises better custody of his tongue in the future. We had planned to spar later today, anyhow. And that is a cheering prospect.

Anakin smiles tentatively, mistakenly interpreting my resolution to thrash Garen as forgiveness of his own malfeasance. "It's just a garbage heap, master…. Nothing to get upset about."

Oh really? "Believe me, Anakin, you have yet to truly understand what being down in the Dumps means," I promise.