Chapter 58. Implementing a Defense
Jedi Master Dooku hid his mounting impatience well. The wounded legalitor had been carted off to the medical center not long before, conscious enough to witness Dooku's formal renunciation of the title.
The dead female, identified as the legalitor's business partner by the reception droid - found deactivated and undamaged in a corner - was carted off to await formal identification and whatever rites her family saw fit.
The reception droid fussed and muttered, but no one paid it any attention. Its only contribution was the few seconds scan in its memory banks of a man's entry and a woman's surprised voice: "You're not the – what are you doing to our droid?"
Then nothing.
Dooku had no wish to see the details of what transpired next, but it would have been helpful to have it recorded. The visitor, almost certainly the killer, had been male, broad-shouldered and moderately tall.
And dressed like a Jedi.
The true Jedi, he, was not dressed as a Jedi. That seemed to confuse the constabulary droids, hence the wait for the supervising inspector and a connection to the Jedi Temple to verify his identity. Had it been other circumstances, he was sure Yoda and Mace both would have found the situation amusing.
Like him, however, they were brief and to the point.
There were only two Jedi known to be on Serenno and one was in front of them, Mace declared. The other? Sensing the line of inquiry immediately, Mace pulled up a hologram scan of Obi-Wan from the personnel files to compare against the droid's all too brief view. Bulk could be faked, height enhanced, but certain biometrics could not.
The constabulary was satisfied. And Dooku grew more impatient.
Then the Force shoved him with an almost physical blow. Obi-Wan! Trouble had now found him.
And he was precisely two cycles away.
His nostrils flared at the familiar scent – musky and ancient like time itself. Old stone, the planet Coruscant itself, from a time when there had been a planet and not just a cityscape, layered with duracrete and permacrete.
The Jedi Temple.
Stolid and enduring. A Temple to solidity; its foundation planted into true soil and substrate while its spires reached into the heavens, anchored at one end and soaring at the other.
A place of echoing silence, doors that opened and closed with knobs and where steps now crumbling at the edges led up and down.
Some might call it haunted by the past, others, a refuge from the present.
To the man who stood here once more, it was all that and more.
He had been young then, wide-eyed but never innocent. A restless spirit, dissatisfied with the limitations forced on him. A young man, who had a taste for varied adventure, had explored here once. He knew its sub-levels, some dank and mossy with disuse, long forgotten, some dry and dusty, of no purpose and hence long forgotten.
He knew its old entrances, rusty or overgrown, unguarded by man or spirits.
He knew its passages, the well worn ways to forbidden pleasures – the lure of the dice and of the seduction. Hedonistic hallways, he had sardonically called them. The fever had been in his blood even then, the need to be free of all constraints, be they moral, ethical or physical.
Oh, yes, "The Boss" knew his way around the Temple, even better than BB. Even so, being here gave him the shivers.
He had called it home once. Also, hell.
He had explored its depths even as an initiate. He had made it a hidden lair as a padawan. He had once intended to make it a tomb for all the Jedi.
And now, it would be a tomb to BB, his protégé – and a threat to all that he held dear. A body could lie here for undisturbed centuries, though a violent death might shake the foundations of the Temple's vaunted sense of invulnerability. Yoda was capable of sensing such a vast disturbance, so to be entirely safe, he had a gas canister and hypospray primed to put BB to eternal sleep.
A strangely absent BB, other than in a lingering Force signature which he had not apparently tried hard to shield, here so far below; one that had strangely deteriorated into shreds and shards of apparent insanity. The holophotos littering the walls would have proved that, even to a non-Force sensitive.
All of Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Dozens of them; one in particular arresting and sickening: it showed a smiling young man at the side of an elder, presumably Qui-Gon Jinn. A moment in which all had been in harmony, if one went by the un-shadowed smile and the laughing eyes. A hand resting on the young Jedi's shoulder, the rest of the figure viciously slashed into oblivion.
But that was not alone what made this holophoto so chilling.
It was the scrawls of certain madness in dripping red and razor sharp edges, so incongruous when juxtaposed against the remnants of the unsullied original, pinned by some purloined blade against a wall so as to dominate the room.
It was all the other holophotos as well, scattered around, some on the floor and showing signs of being ground to pieces by a foot. It was the pieces chopped and diced from the somewhat intact photos of men and women, banished by a blade from Kenobi's side.
It was the holophoto in position of pride, overlooking an untidy bundle of blankets, a photo of Kenobi in profile leaning forward, a smile on his face and his hands resting affectionately on the shoulder of what seemed to be a woman, based on the shapely curves of the torso. Blonde haired, whoever she was, but where her face should have been was crudely plastered that of another - that of BB himself.
He's mine! Venom writ in dripping crimson, letters aflame with hate and fury and the exclamation point a dagger poised to decapitate the laughing man.
And the most repulsive, so obscene he fought nausea, a bare-chested BB, his powerful muscles bunched in a display of male pride, leggings undone and his hand caught mid-stroke as he defaced yet another photo.
Inexplicable and unwanted, pity surged through the man who had set the game into motion. Black had wrenched control from the Game Master and White was targeted for annihilation. The repercussions were out of his control and had always been; oh, in his egotistic assumption that his needs, his wants, his goals should be subservient to no one – to find he was now reduced to a pawn on a greater board than his imagination and selfish desires.
He had never thought beyond the moment, beyond the punishment and his revenge. He had used innocents and the guilty, alike.
Selfish he, thinking no one else was of consequence.
Now the consequences were bitterly and blatantly staring him in the face and shivering in his gut. Consequences beyond imagining; consequences that now shook the foundations of one who in his arrogance and pride had always thought his secure: so sure that he could dictate and play and toy with others and remain immune to and entertained by the consequences.
The despised shackles of conventionality and principled morality he had so long sought to escape or evade by imposing them upon others were, he finally realized, now shackling him as well.
And in the end, all were both victim and villain.
The Boss's skin crawled as if a million sandfleas were twitching just below the surface. This – this was the man to which he had entrusted Shmi's son. This was the man who was meant to watch over Anakin.
His son!
Oh, Force – oh, dear Force.
The rage built within him as he tore the small chamber apart. Spare Jedi tunics splat on the floor, glow rods shattered against walls as he searched and finally he found more fuel to fan his inner fire by pure accident, ripping down this – this "shrine" of lust and fury – words, scribbled on the backside of various photos. They reeked of uncontrolled passion: betrayal, destruction, and obsession.
Of a mind lost to madness, to obsession.
A man who had discerned too many truths and clearly meant to snuff them out – it was all there in the rambling ravings: strangle…carve…gut….
This was a viper of his own creation.
Then a name, one name caught his eye.
BB had Shmi's name. He had Shmi's name! Scribbled after it – Tatooine? A crude drawing as well, depicting a despicable desire and a spreading pool of blood along with an epithet that would make even a Hutt blush. He exploded in outrage and fear.
And then the molten lava of his fury flash froze to ice. He had always known BB was a bit unstable; he had known that not long after rescuing him from Agri-Corps exile. He had hoped a steady job and further teaching in the ways of the Force had settled the angry young man down. Instead, the dirty jobs and the unrestrained liberties had finally unleashed the demon within.
He had created this monster himself, oh, with aid from the monster's own obsessions and frailties, no doubt; a monster that had lost his fragile balance and no longer tip toed on the edge of sanity. He was now fallen to both madness and darkness.
What had been the impetus? Had it been inevitable and not attributable to any one thing, one person…his eye fell once more to the mad scribbling.
"Abduct Kenobi – Serenno. No! My Sith master can't have him. He's mine. Mine!"
Delusions, boasts, threats - such braggadocio from a self-inflated man, congratulating himself on how he had been anointed the heir apparent to – oh, how ridiculous – to a Sith.
The Sith were extinct.
Or so it had been believed, but beliefs were not always truth. Many times they were nothing but wishes wrapped in convenient wrappers of surmises and incomplete understanding.
Now stark realization stared him in the face; no matter how he wished to deny it.
The bogeyman of legend lived. That presence he'd sensed on Naboo – that evil that scented and sniffed, fed on the chaos of Jedi and opponent, was Sith: evil incarnate. It sought delight in torment and fear. It nurtured itself on the souls of others. It was aware and it was both purposeful and without purpose, for it would suckle on its allies as easily as on its enemies.
Self-satiation was its driving goal – and no one, no one was safe.
His blood curdled within his veins: BB fancied himself a Sith apprentice. No Sith would apprentice one such as BB, but a true Sith would not hesitate to use even such a flawed tool.
The tool had its own plan, Sith be damned.
His eyes returned to the rants and threats before him.
YOU CAN'T FORBIDE ME KENOBI; I'LL KILL HIM!
And Shmi – gentle Shmi, the one woman who had always had his heart – he snarled at the thought of her writhing in pain…
And The Boss knew there was those for whom he would sacrifice nearly everything, to see them safe from the Sith.
Damn his newfound heart!
A man without a heart was a man who could sacrifice those he loved because there was truly none he loved, only those he should. Such a man could sacrifice those he hated just as well.
Such a man could sacrifice everything but his own life.
But a man with a heart – could not do so, not without sacrificing that very life he wished to protect.
And there was more, not easily hidden to a man such as him.
BB had gloated over his destruction of the healer, Jorak, hacking into the Order's own computer to send a virus to send the healer and his ship to a fiery death. The Jedi would never now connect him to Anakin or to Qui-Gon, or even to the Order itself. But BB had acted on instinct and somehow made that connection.
It was there – the surmises, the conjectures, the conclusions.
He had to act fast. If BB knew of Anakin's parentage and was on the track – he squeezed his eyes shut when he found the final piece and wiped it from the datapad – the genetic records that connected him to Anakin, and would as well connect him to the Temple.
There would be no mercy for him when the Jedi knew – if they knew. Qui-Gon Jinn and he would face off – and the Jedi would show him no mercy for destroying the man he had once regarded almost as a son.
By the greater threat was to Shmi. It stared him in the face. Tatooine. BB would find her, oh, yes, he would find her.
And what was worse, he would not just kill her. He would torment her and use her.
That could not be allowed to happen.
No matter what he might have to do to prevent that.
"You heard them, Masters," Depa said, settling back comfortably, legs tucked underneath her. "They only voiced what many have noticed – the Temple has been –" she hesitated.
Mace pinched his nose and nodded sourly. "The fog in the Force has dissipated a bit."
"To Obi-Wan's absence this has been attributed, mmm."
The three Jedi stared at each other. Correlation is not causation, Mace reminded himself. No Jedi could truly know another, but the boy had been living with him for weeks now. He had seen his ups and downs, had been privy to his fears and insecurities, and had shared his moments of joy and happiness.
There was strength and layers of depth to Obi-Wan, but not hidden depths of deceit. He knew that, as surely as he knew the Force existed.
Yoda knew as well. The ancient master knew far more than he was letting on: he was not surprised at the revelation; rather almost expectant. He seemed saddened as well as almost – apprehensive. Of Obi-Wan? No… no, not that wasn't quite right. Worried? Did he fear – and fear was something Mace would have never associated with Yoda - not Obi-Wan himself, but for him? What had the Force shared with him? Yoda's ears lifted at the scrutiny, but he remained silent.
Unaware of the troubling undercurrents of thought roiling deep within her former master, Depa nodded. "Master Jinn's earlier accusation against Obi-Wan's integrity is now public knowledge and privately debated. Some of the – points of contention are – persuasive."
Mace winced, Yoda muttered under his breath. "How?"
"That's just it, this rumor doesn't seem traceable. I've had discreet inquiries made and Qui-Gon has not openly shared his 'concerns' with others, other than one or two close friends. One might surmise that it has been observed how suspiciously he has looked at Obi-Wan and how protective he is of young Anakin. I've even had Chancellor Palpatine ask me if Obi-Wan is in 'protective custody' or under investigation for misconduct."
"Dear Force," Mace groaned.
And though the grim pall had indeed lifted, it was only from the Temple, for it had found a new home - in Mace's heart.
Thwang! The thin branch eluded his raised hand to whip into his face.
"Blast it!" Half a pant, half a grunt and barely audible, the curse slipped out as Obi-Wan ignored the sharp sting above his eye, just as he had been ignoring the sweat trickling down his face or sliding under his collar. The physical discomfort meant little in and of itself but what it signified was of greater concern.
He was out of shape – and running for his life.
Only one half or more cycle of running, dodging and circling around and he was already winded and without a clue as to where safety lay.
I have a very bad feeling about this, his mind muttered.
You think he snapped back to himself, only bothering to glance at the minor vibroblade slash across his arm to verify the thin trickle of blood that had initially dampened his sleeve was still clotted and not marking his passage. The pain was negligible. He'd done worse dodging branches on some romp through the woods at his master's side. Trees could be vicious things, thin little growths whipping at one without warning. Bushes he could bulldoze through, but fighting through armed whips that had it in for one was never fun.
Not that facing a lunatic, unarmed, was not in itself a form of madness, although a form of madness he was now all but certain he would have to soon engage in. And trying to outsmart a lunatic while sane oneself was a tricky proposition indeed.
He wiped the back of his hand across his lips; they felt bruised and swollen from the unwanted assault upon them. The kiss had been an attempt to dominate him and unsettle him, he well knew, to humiliate and horrify him into easy submission to a lethal blow. Now that it was over, in the past, something that should be dismissed from memory like any other unwanted physical assault, it refused to entirely dissipate, even though largely set aside in consideration of something far more valuable - survival.
It wasn't even an assault that would leave a wound – no bacta patch needed, no healing required.
It wasn't a kiss such as the one that had so nearly led he and Siri astray, all but poised to consummate their love until they had realized that it was love, far deeper than affection and far more disastrous that had led them to the brink of a chasm that only grew wider when it had so nearly been bridged; no, there had been no tenderness, no affection, no prelude to an intimacy a Jedi should never know – oh, Force, oh, Force, oh, Force.
Obi-Wan's stomach coiled and twisted in revulsion; he stumbled, fell to all fours and retched. Lost in his concentration, focused on escape, he only now remembered what he had subconsciously noticed when the two men had tumbled to the ground….
Assault is assault is assault – all is vile, all is bad, all is survivable, c'mon, Kenobi – focus on the here and now – who cares what he might have done, figure out a way to stay alive.
He sat up and wiped his mouth clean. He can track you. Think. You have to think smart so think.
But taking too much time to analyze the situation was a good way to end up dead; too little, the same.
While perhaps not the wisest course of action, making a run for it had seemed the sensible thing to do. So far he had eluded capture, but the other was Force-sensitive, though not a Jedi. A new Sith apprentice, perhaps, hurriedly recruited and not fully trained? An assassin sent to avenge the death of another? Immaterial questions, at the moment. He just knew he had to move, come up with a plan while his attacker was angry, hopefully too angry to draw on the Force to plant Obi-Wan's feet to the ground or paralyze him into inaction when next they met.
Discretion and a quick exit were sometimes preferable to bravery and defeat, but true escape might be impossible and confrontation all but inevitable.
He absently raked a nail down his arm, frowning. For such a minor scratch, the thing suddenly stung like a swarm of insects had congregated on one spot to feed on his blood. Surely the assassin wasn't playing dirty by using a poisoned blade, was he?
Was there even such a thing as playing dirty in a game of life or death? Dirty: now there was an idea.
The thought spurred him to his feet, a half formulated plan taking shape. He made a beeline for the mansion, and then doubled back past the gardens. With luck, his attacker would waste time searching the rooms. Luckily there were only droids within. He could arm himself with some garden implement, surely, though ideally he'd like to meet Force with Force.
Trickery and deceit, it seemed, would have to take its place.
His lungs were soon burning, his legs heavy. The exertion was taking a toll on a weakened body not yet returned to full strength. Spots danced in front of his eyes and his panting rivaled the thud of his feet against the ground.
Finally, he was at the implement shed. Like an exhausted wraith he stumbled inside, fingers fumbling for something, anything, to defend himself with. "Too heavy," he rejected an unwieldy tool, "too light," another.
A pruning shear was tucked in his waistband; random bags of feed and fertilizer were tucked hither and yon. A pad, two, stuffed in his shirt…he paused, ears cocked. There - a faint rustle, a hint of a breath, a whistle of sound – and he whirled, jabbing outwards with a small flanged fork and caught the fake Jedi across his upraised arm. The prongs were not sharp enough to penetrate deeply, but the man cried out in pain anyway, dropping the vibroblade from numbed fingers. Obi-Wan was quick to scoop it up and slash, but even wounded, the assassin nimbly dodged and reached for his lightsaber.
It was too bad - for him - that he wasn't paying attention to anything but Obi-Wan, his eyes crazed with hate and his lips curved in a satisfied smirk as he anticipated a quick victory. A thoughtfully and deliberately placed second flanged fork shot upwards as soon as the assailant's foot landed on the upwardly curving prongs - in blatant defiance of all safety protocols - with a most satisfactory whoosh and thump.
It was too bad - for Obi-Wan – that one sore and hopefully broken nose and one impaled foot later only resulted in a shout of pure fury that gave impetus and strength to a lopsided lurch forward. Two incredibly strong hands closed like a vise around Obi-Wan's neck and squeezed so hard that the young Jedi could barely comprehend the infuriated ravings over his mind's demands to breathe, just breathe.
Unable to even wheeze, Obi-Wan jabbed upwards with the vibroblade and buried it to the hilt in spongy flesh. Warm blood spurted over his hand and stained his forearm.
He had no time to savor the sweet air filling his lungs or blink clear the black spots before his eyes.
No time to recoil from an instinctive revulsion at his mix of relief and horror at that very relief: necessary or not, to save one life – his - by possibly taking another's.
No time at all to prepare to meet the Force far sooner than he'd ever expected.
For in that same moment a lightsaber hilt had rammed against his gut and his eyes had tracked down. A finger rested on the power switch.
Oh, not good…not good at all. Obi-Wan looked up, swallowing hard as the stranger giggled.
"Say bye, bye."
And the finger pressed the switch.