Inheritance
18.
The Feorian chieftain and elders favor a long-handled hashka pipe as ceremonial seal upon the proceedings. The delicately crafted clay is passed hand to hand, the small bowl sending up a blue trail of grassy, sweet smoke which gathers among the slanted ceiling rafters and drifts out the central chimney opening. The planetary security officer and the Galactic Reservations inspector wrinkle their noses at the custom, producing murmurs of discontent among the gathered villagers. I, of course, accept out of diplomatic necessity. These men see only a mild narcotic. I see a sacred ritual signifying vital trust. There is not time to haggle over the niceties.
Inhale but shallowly, release through the nostrils, and allow the Force to purge away any unwanted effects. I learned how long ago. It's not a matter for concern.
The chieftain nods in approval. I sense a pair of very young and astonished eyes resting upon me with a potent blend of shock and awe-struck admiration. I squint balefully into the dark recess beneath the bench across the way, but Skywalker does not emerge from his hiding place. There must be at least one other with him – likely a Feorian youth, eager to know what his elders make of this jabuur-weki phenomenon.
I'll deal with them later.
"The victims appear to be in a catatonic state – almost complete cessation of cognitive and higher-level brain functions. I would surmise – based on initial scans – that they have sustained sudden and significant electro-magnetic radiation damage to the brain and central nervous system." The medical examiner from the next inhabited system provides this information with professional detachment. It is clear the Feorians understand not a word of it.
The chieftain shakes his staff at him. "The jabuur-weki hath struck them down! Rebels and blasphemers, all of them… and this is their punishment. Taken, their souls have been, because impure they were. Full of dangerous and twisted thoughts, corruptions of the old ways."
The security officers are diligently recording every word on their data-pads. "So the victims shared a common, ah, political persuasion or religious view?"
One of the oldest Feorians leans forward, pupils hugely dilated. "Eager to abandon their heritage, the young troublemakers are. Discontent with freedom. They no longer wish to be Feorian."
"If you will forgive my asking," I interrupt, "How many of you truly remember the ancient Feorian customs yourselves? When you speak of tradition, are you not referring to a set of abstract ideas?"
There is an unobtrusive lurker present at this convocation, a round-shouldered fellow with a sharp face and calculating eyes.. He coughs gently, drawing attention to himself where he hunches in a dark corner, looking a bit green about the gills. The smoke is thick by now.
"Excuse me," this person murmurs, in an oily undertone, "But years and years of painstaking research have gone into the reconstruction of the Feorian culture –"
"Exactly." I don't enjoy sophistical byplay. "Perhaps the younger members of the tribe simply wish to be part of that reconstruction process." This is a common enough problem, a textbook case study for a basic diplomacy course. The intelligentsia, the established authorities, and the upcoming youth movement are all represented here, accurately playing their roles. The only loose cannon is this jabuur-weki itself.
My words cause a minor uproar, in which the scholar and the chieftain shout hoarsely at each other, while the off-planet inspector and the police look on nervously, glancing my way once or twice as though they expect a demonstration of lightsaber technique any second.
Don't count on it, my friends. This is a petty tempest, at best. In the chaos, I think I can hear the soft choking staccato of a suppressed cough. Serve the little rapscallion right. Eavesdropping is not acceptable behavior for a Padawan, any more than unauthorized scavenging in junk piles. He'll just have to deal with the consequences.
Eventually, a tenuous order is restored.
"Accept the judgement of the jabuur-weki, we do," the chieftain asserts, in his wheezing voice. "Your aid is not needed." And in this dismissal he includes all present except his own people, and – I notice – myself. He waves an age-spotted hand, fussily. "Go, go, go. Our own affair, it is. A spectacle we are not."
The inspector from the Galactic Reserve Foundation finally pipes up. "But you have agreed to allow external observers and visitors, as one of the conditions of your land grant," he protests, almost petulantly. "And this creature or phantom poses a serious impediment to tourism."
I wonder exactly how much the Foundation charges for educational tours of the village – or what percent of solicited donations it skims off the top? Corruption in this day and age is measured in degree, not in kind – any more exacting standard would pave a smooth path to cynical despair. I'll have Jocasta Nu look into it later. Our beloved Temple archivist will find the question intriguing.
The police still haven't said a word, and one penetrating look at their head officer confirms my suspicion that they desperately hope I will take the investigation off their hands. I can't blame them.
"The Jedi Council's involvement has not been officially requested," I point out.
"Your help, will we accept, lord Jedi," the chieftain nods, his eyes gleaming dully in the low light.
"Not lord. We come to serve."
He wags his head back and forth sagely, gaunt face swaying atop his scrawny elongated neck. "Yes," he continues. "Stop these rebels and fools from endangering our people – this you must do. Do this, and placate the jabuur-weki. This be the business of the Feorians. Not thine." He glares at the outsiders, encompassing them all in a single withering disdain.
The scholar leaps to his feet. "Your tribe called the authorites in! You contacted the media! You can't have it both ways!"
"Summon thee we did not," another elder chuffs.
The medical examiner timidly clears his throat. "Ah… is it possible your rebellious youth were the ones to invite outside help?"
And that- while obviously the truth - incites another near riot. The meeting devolves into a writhing haze of blue smoke and gesticulating limbs. The Force is choppy with the befuddled mutual resentment of two dozen or so half-stupefied sentients, but I doubt any of them can do each other any real harm in their present condition. Already a few of the elders and one of the security officers has taken a seat again, lapsing into sullen reticence.
I rise, and stretch. The hashka leaves a stale odor in the air. Four quick strides bring me to the opposite row of benches, and a moment's fishing with one hand lands me a rare catch. I haul Skywalker out by the scruff of his young neck.
"Sorry sorry sorry," the poor creature moans. He looks acutely ill, and I can sense that we need to make a quick exit.
A dark shadow scrambling underfoot tells me that his accomplice is a Feorian youth of about the same age. I drag the Padawan out the longhouse door and deposit him on the other side of the threshold, just as Kenobi comes sauntering back into the village boundaries.
The fresh air seems to do the boy good. He's prodigiously sick all over his own boots, and I decide that this is now his master's problem.
Rank has its privileges, after all.
