Inheritance


17.

Qui-Gon used always to say that a fresh day would bring fresh perspective. And he was not mistaken, per se; he simply chose to conveniently ignore the corollary proposition – a fresh day often brings fresh trouble, as well.

Today is a fine case in point. Shortly after dawn we were afflicted with a plague of speeders, containing - in ascending order of vexatious prurience - the local subdistrict medical examiner, an officious inspector from this sector's confederacy of beaurocratic dunces, a few dour-faced members of the planetary security forces, and a pestilent mob of holonet reporters.

"Whoa-ho! Jedi!" one of the more daring wretches accosted us. "Are you fellers here to wreak sweet vengeance on the foul oppressor of these innocent folk? Can I bother ya for an interview?"

"No," Master Windu told him, flatly.

"How 'bout you, my lad? A word to the wise… or at least a smile for the ladies? Six billion viewers in this sector, just show the droid a bit of love there, right?"

I am a patient man. But there are limits. "I don't think so." And I may have overdone it a trifle when I sent the cam-droid spinning off into the distance, but the gesture did serve as ample demonstration to the other clustering scavengers that this is a Jedi affair, not a three-ring circus replete with Sullustan fire-eater and a troupe of comedic mimes.

At this point in the proceedings, Master Windu startled me with a hearty clap on the shoulder. "If I didn't know better, son, I'd say you need a cup of caff this early in the morning."

"Forgive me, master." A Jedi does not indulge in such unseemly displays of temper. "But why are they even here?"

Even he had no ready answer for that question. "I don't know… yet. I'll accompany the chieftain and the important visitors to the longhouse; you had better contain the situation here."

A harsh penance, but a well-deserved one. "I'll not let the contagion spread," I promised.

And off they sallied, leaving me here to fend off the ravening hordes single-handedly. Where in the blazes Anakin has got himself to, I don't know – I can feel him faintly somewhere in the Feorian village, full of mischief and curiosity. I do hope there aren't any scrap piles here in the middle of the Outer Golan tundra…. But I haven't time for such idle speculation, because the amassed Holonet forces have suddenly opted for a full frontal assault.

"Hey! Why can't we go into the village? Have a look-see around?"

"There is nothing to see." I've not forgotten Master Yoda's reprimand of only a few days ago – but it's this or aggressive negotiations. And journalists are among the most decidedly weak-minded classes of people in the galaxy. It's an occupational hazard, I suppose. Chakora Seva said that the mind assumes the form of that upon which it meditates; and surely those that spend their days producing insipid drivel for mass consumption are no exception to the rule.

A few of them stop pressing forward so eagerly. But not all were swayed by my suggestion. "Then you can tell us what's going on here! The people have a right to know!"

"Nothing is going on here. There's no breaking news." A few more wander away, deactivating the hopeful cam-droids hovering like a swarm of tisska- gnats just overhead. "Move along, move along."

There seems always to be, in any given crowd, one obstreperous personality over whom mind influence holds no special power. "That's …alarming," this fellow says to me, when his colleagues have dispersed, idling back toward the speeder convoy in knots of two and three, mumbling among themselves.

I fold hands into opposite sleeves, making sure that my cloak covers the lightsaber hilt at my side. There is no need to augment his feeling of unease; we come to serve, not to terrify the citizens of the Republic. "Few would find the dispassion of others a cause for alarm," I reply, mildly. Nothing happened here. There's nothing to remark upon. Move along.

But he goes nowhere in a hurry. Instead, he inserts a chaw of some filthy low-grade bacci root into his mouth and smiles knowingly as he stands there chewing, much like a bantha ruminating upon its cud. "You here last night?" he inquires conversationally.

"Perhaps."

"So you got to see this jabuur-weki thing?"

Interesting. "The local legend holds it to be invisible," I provide.

He smiles some more, chomping diligently. "I know. I been studying these people and their customs for years. Like to think of myself as an amateur expert." He jerks his head over one shoulder, in the direction of the retreating reporters. "Not like that sensationalist clown-act. I'm trying to delve into the real thing, ya know?" He spits upon the frozen soil, leaving a dark-stained smear of froth a scant meter from my left boot.

Personal feelings and tastes are of no importance whatsoever. Exhale. "An admirable ambition." And it is possible this amateur expert may know more of Feorian custom and legend than the Feorians themselves. I remember well that the original group Qui-Gon freed from slavery had scattered and inaccurate knowledge of their own roots. Some of that patrimony has been, so to speak, spoon fed back to them by men such as this - for better or for worse. In this case, the scholars bear a deadly burden of responsibility, a great deal more power than is healthy for one group of rational beings to wield over another… but I must keep my focus on the present moment, where it belongs.

"So," my new acquaintance proposes, baldly, "You gonna let me in there or what?"

I bow. Halfway. A gift from the Force is still a gift and must be acknowledged. I did learn a few things, in the course of twelve years' apprenticeship, and this is one of them. Every sentient is valuable and useful.

Even the ones that expectorate reeking gobs of half-masticated bacci in public.

In this, as in so many things, much depends on one's point of view.