Inheritance


38.

I take one last look at my very chastised and morose Padawan, and decide to exit the shelter. The kicked-akk-puppy face he has affected will avail him nothing; after all, I am not the one with a fatal weakness for pathetic life forms. I simply don't wish to witness his melodramatic display of self-pity. Besides, it is my turn to take a watch in the Feorian village. Tension runs high among the villagers, and the Dark seems to coil like a mist, seep like a toxic ooze all about us.

This is to be credited to my actions in the jabuur-weki's lair. By breaking the focal point of the vergence, I permitted the dark energy of this place to flow unfettered, unanchored. It is difficult to say whether this is an improvement or not, but I did what I felt I must. And there is no undoing what has been done. We must simply deal with the consequences.

I meet Master Windu halfway across the square. He's surrounded by the solicitous crones whom I encountered earlier, and I cannot suppress a small flare of amusement at his expense: I see that the widows and old maids of the village have found an eligible subject for their fawning attentions – one much closer in age to themselves. His eyes narrow minutely as I approach, but I purposefully do not meet his gaze.

The changing of the guard is effected with ease, though the Feorian women do trail rather hopefully after him as he departs. Master Windu is extraordinarily strong in the Force; I cannot help but wonder – idly – whether the insistent women will inveigle him into blessing their amulets, and what eventual effect such a benediction might …

Well, never mind.

I rein my wandering thoughts back to the present moment, for I sense a familiar if unwelcome presence lingering on the outskirts of the village – one distinctly not Feorian. I was under the impression that all the planetary officials and outsiders had left, long ago… but I see now that I was mistaken.

"Why, hello there," the self-proclaimed expert on Feorian culture greets me, raising his hand in salute as though hailing an old friend. "Glad you Jedi are hanging on here a bit… wearing out your welcome, eh?" He unwraps a small package and fingers its aromatic contents.

Bacci. Stars' end. "There seems to be need of a peacekeeper here," I observe, as he thrusts the vile wad into his mouth and commences chewing. A small trail of brown liquid escapes one corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," he snorts. "Those young riff-raff are nothing but trouble. They've got no respect for their own roots. And it's up to them to pass down the tradition, keep the spark alive, you know? Think about it, wouldya: all it takes is one generation to destroy an entire culture. And all it takes is one bad seed in that generation to start the ball rolling. Just one, master Jedi." He shakes his head, chomping contemplatively. "Damn pity."

I wish I knew why his off-hand remarks seem to curdle my very blood. It must be the imbalance in the Force here: I banish the bad feeling with an effort.

"You're not much older than that idiot Yonso," he continues. "You gonna be the one to bring the edifice of your whole Jedi tradition down in a shambles?"

Force forbid.

"Or you gonna be the one to carry the torch, eh? Protector of the sacred flame and all that?" He spits emphatically, creating a small yellow-stained crater in a pocket of unthawed frost.

For the love of…. But I am a trained diplomat, am I not? There is a use for every sentient being, some wisdom to be gained. "You disapprove of the younger Feorians' views," I reply, evenly. "But they only wish to obtain an education much like that you have enjoyed yourself, and to broaden their horizons."

"Line their pockets, more like," the fellow harrumphs. "All this talk of university and moving off-world, giving up the old ways and whatnot – you know what that's about, don't you? They see the credits. They want cash, luxuries, the power to buy aircars and fancy clothes and girls. The high life. Most these young rebels want to cast off their traditions so they can jump both feet forward into modern decadence. Believe me. Seen it before."

"You would prefer they remain poverty-stricken and discontent? This is hardly a utopia." My gesture encompasses the sagging buildings, the frozen earth, the overcast skies.

He shrugs and spits again, this time spattering a gritty trail across the hard-packed stones of the village square. "Bet you your family jewels this revolution of Yonso's ain't so idealistic as you might think. Those youngsters found a source of cash hereabouts. Don't know what- but they did, believe me. This all comes down to money. Most things do."

His cynicism is revolting… and yet, there is truth in what he says. An image of the ithyll-packed cave rises unbidden into my imagination, its slick walls lined – quite literally – with glittering wealth. Marshak, the greedy Outer Rim warlord who owned these people before their recent liberation, was the center of a well-established smuggling ring. It is likely that Yonso is quite familiar with ithyll, and its current market value. On the other hand, I would indeed bet my family jewels that my jaded friend here would not hesitate to capitalize on such a discovery.

He is surely not so naïve as to suppose the Feoorians could keep such wealth? I raise my brows. "I doubt the terms of their land grant would permit such a … cashing-in," I object, gauging his reaction.

He chews a few times more, then dribbles a large clot of bacci-saturated fluid onto the ground between our feet. "Nah," he admits. "They got rights to live here in perpetuity and all that, but the land still belongs to Outer Gola. The land and any natural resources contained therein, of course. Presidency ain't stupid. That's how these things work."

I see. "They can benefit from agriculture, though," I suggest. The barren soil likely provides little more than subsistence farming, if that. The Presidency was indeed generous. "And they make handicrafts from stone and so forth."

He nods, chewing quietly again. "Yeah, yeah. Horticultural products and artifacts produced from harvested or collected natural substances are considered property of the laborer. Galactic Trade Law provision." He sweeps a hand over the squalid dwellings and the empty plains beyond. "It's a world of abundant opportunity out here. All they've got, believe me, is their tradition. That's the ticket. That's what will eventually pay off. Hand-crafts, exotic items - huge market for stuff like that in the Core. Yonso's following a shooting star – ain't gonna get him nowhere. And the chief's too stubborn to consider setting up his people as a trade franchise." He sucks in a tell-tale breath and I step aside reflexively as he sends another comet-tail of filth sailing through the air to land with an audible splatter against a small boulder.

"How… unfortunate," I remark.

"Yeah," he agrees, absently. Then, snapping to attention, "You ever seen the weavings these women make? Now those are worth a fortune, to someone who has the right connections."

I abstain from making any reply.

And eventually- the conversation having run dry, so to speak - the man ambles away, saluting me casually, almost mockingly, as he wanders back toward the village outskirts and his waiting vehicle. I watch him go, pondering the problem of the Feorians: their isolation, poverty, internecine strife, and the treasure which does not, legally, belong to them at all. Part of me is inclined to lend ear to Anakin's repeated lament. As he would say, if this is the conundrum in which the tribe's people find themselves, then how truly are they free?

And how truly have we Jedi helped them?