Lineage IV
5.
Qui Gon Jinn stood behind his apprentice, hands resting gravely upon the boy's shoulders. "In my absence," the Jedi master said, "I must charge you with a solemn duty: the preservation of this creature's life."
Obi Wan tensed. "What if I kill it, master?"
"You will do no such thing. My confidence in you exceeds your own."
"That is not saying much, master."
They regarded the burgeoning extremities of the latest stray, its green protuberances like so many arms of a cephalopod. The plant was at least twice the size it had been at the time of its informal adoption as Qui Gon's ward.
"You haven't killed any of Alepo's plants," the tall man pointed out, lightly.
"Well, none but those he wanted dead. But this is different. I should rather you take it with you, master. It can tend the navcomp and listen to your lectures in my stead."
"Brat. Someday you will take a Padawan of your own. If you cannot protect a simple creature like this, how will you handle the stress of raising an impertinent rapscallion?"
"My hypothetical Padawan will not have tentacles," Obi Wan declared, firmly.
The Jedi master clapped him on the back. "You will be brilliant. I trust you. Now, one more thing before I depart."
The young Jedi's eyes widened as his mentor unclipped one of the two 'sabers hanging at his belt.
"This weapon is your life," Qui Gon told him, soberly. He placed the gleaming hilt back in its owner's hand. "I also trust you to bear it with honor and keep it safe until I return."
Obi Wan's fingers closed about the weapon with reverence. "Yes, master."
There was a moment of silence. The Padawan stirred. "And I trust you to do the same," he offered, quietly.
The tall man's expression softened. "I give you my word…. And also some parting instructions. Since you now have this in your possession again- " he tapped the 'saber's hilt, "It would be folly to forbid you the cultivation of its art. I want that Ataru level three kata mastered when I next see you."
"The Rising Wind kata?" his student clarified, not quite managing to disguise his eager anticipation.
"Yes. And I think a full fitness regimen would not be out of place. You need to make up for a month's idleness. Every morning, and every evening, starting tomorrow. You know the usual routine."
"Yes, master." One would think he was giving the boy a peerless gift. Perhaps he was; and there was also the matter of companionship to be addressed. An exhausted Padawan was less liable to be waylaid by certain forms of distraction.
"Between that and Alepo's work, I should think your days will be quite full."
Obi Wan spared their potted companion a dubious glance. "Quite."
Qui Gon nodded, and led the way out, to the open field where Adi's transport awaited.
Their formal good-bye was nothing more than a mutual bow and the traditional words of parting.
"May the Force be with you, master."
"And you."
A few minutes later, the ship was a dwindling speck in Ord Ursolon's ragged cloud-streaked sky, a shadow soon blotted out by the indifferent sweep of azure and white. Obi Wan watched it disappear, and then turned his steps toward the greenhouse dome and his humble agrarian duties.
"Well done, lad," Alepo Sator chuffed, mopping sweat off his own brow with one bedraggled sleeve and eyeing the crate of newly-picked beans. "That's the lot of 'em. Let's see now…. Tomorrow I'm taking you with me out to the transplantation colony. We'll seed a new hillside; the reforestation project is going well."
ObI Wan nodded. "Yes, sir."
The horticulturalist looked with evident satisfaction on the beds and orchard rows of the central Agri-dome. "Fertilizer laid, pest control set up, irrigation system installed, mulch turned, composter cleaned out, beans harvested. You've earned yourself a reprieve, I think."
The young Jedi waited, eager for his release from duty. Saber practice.
Alepo shrugged his malformed shoulders. "You can finish off your work hours today in the kitchens, I 'spose," he declared magnanimously. "Nice break for you."
Obi Wan hoped that a deep bow would serve to conceal his utter disappointment. "Yes, I'll see what help they need," he sighed.
"No mumbo-jumbo mystical nonsense in my kitchens, either," the botanist called after him as he departed. "You hear?"
Oh, he was going to either going to be Knighted for the patience he developed on this assignment… or he was going to turn to the Dark side. The deciding factor would be whether or not he was forced to consume mandrangea beans again tonight for supper.
The kitchen supervisor regarded him as though he were a mental patient when he offered his services for the afternoon.
"Ever cook before?"
A fair question. "Ah…no, not precisely," he admitted. Home economics was not included in the standard Temple curriculum. Though Galactic economics was. But that wouldn't help him excel in this strange realm.
She chuckled, hands splayed upon ample hips. "O-kaaaaay," she responded slowly, turning a thoughtful circle in the center of the bustling room. "Who needs rescuing? I gotta Jedi Knight without a job here," she called out to the boisterous staff.
One or two catcalls and at least one off-color remark were bandied about the echoing interior of the industrial kitchen. Obi Wan made to fold his hands into opposite sleeves, only to realize that he was without his robe or outer tunic.
"Don't' mind them," the supervisor grinned. "I know what you can do. Here." She led the way to a steaming tank of water and a heap of newly-harvested tubers. "You just undress these lovely ladies here… Peel 'em., " she explained succinctly when this first remark was met with blank incomprehension. "Like so." She dunked a fat tuber into the hot water, withdrew it, and twisted off the skin with an expert flick of the wrist. "You don't need no Force powers to do that, boy. Set to."
Reluctantly he took up his station on the nearby kitchen stool and tried his hand at the simple task, with much less impressive results.
"Practice makes perfect," the stout cook advised, wiping her hands on a stained apron and shuffling away to holler at her other staff.
Obi Wan glanced sidelong at the pile of tubers waiting his attention. He was either a long way from perfection or a fanatical overachiever, he reflected wryly. With a grumbling sigh, he devoted himself to the pursuit of culinary excellence, or humility, or a bit of both.
Against his own better judgment, Obi Wan sat across from Siri Tachi at dinner, sliding into the dingy plastoid chair and offering her a cautious nod of greeting.
After all, it would be downright rude to pointedly ignore the only other Jedi Padawan in the small Agri-corps dining hall.
She surveyed him coolly and swallowed a mouthful of mandrangea bean stew. "So," she remarked. "Do you plan to make this a permanent assignment or is it merely a tour of two years, like the lay volunteers stint?"
He blinked. "Six weeks," he explained, tapping his utensil against the edge of his bowl peevishly. "I'm nearly finished."
Siri dipped a piece of bread in her own stew, frowning a little. "So six weeks is what it takes to atone for outright treason."
The utensil snapped down beside his plate with a sharp crack. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, forcing his voice to remain level. He was a diplomat. A peacekeeper. He could keep the peace with another Jedi, surely.
Her eyebrows arched upward. "So you weren't actually accomplice to the escape of a dangerous prisoner, and you didn't defy Master Jinn's direct order?" Her face relaxed, a trifle. "I should have known those accusations were too outrageous to be true." There was almost a touch of apology in her eyes, a softness that hinted at a generosity beneath the hard exterior.
His hands slipped down into his lap. Focus. Calm. "No, " he answered truthfully. "…That is all accurate. From a certain point of view."
Aggravated, she shoved her own empty dishes aside and gripped the edge of the table. "I suppose you think you're a model of humility when you confess to that," she snorted. "Did you ever pause to think how your actions reflect on others? You do what you want-" She leaned forward, voice dropping to a growl. "And you don't consider how that calls the dedication of every Padawan in the Temple into question? You dishonored all of us, Kenobi. Well done."
He no longer wanted to eat. The stew cooled, an unappetizing mess of bits and thick liquid. It turned his stomach. He dragged his gaze upward to hers, and saw beneath the anger a definite hurt. Master Gallia must have, somehow, discussed this matter with her… questioned her own motives and reliability. Siri was, after all, known to have quite the hot temper herself.
"I.. I am sorry, Siri," he began, because he owed her at least that much.
"No," she cut him off. "You don't need to apologize. You need to think. Because if you can't discipline yourself to stay on the Path, then you and the Order and the galaxy at large would be better served by you staying here, where you can't wreak any more havoc. If you are hell-bent on failure, then at least keep the consequences on a small scale."
The apology dissolved into indignation. "I'm not a failure, Siri Tachi."
She folded her arms across her chest, studying him with implacable, deadly calm. "I don't see a success, yet," she threw back at him.
He stood. Perhaps it would have been better to ignore her after all. He pivoted, and then, as an afterthought, turned back again and plucked a piece of meat from the stew, wrapping it in a napkin. Siri watched impassively, with the serenity of one who had just trounced her opponent in a sparring match.
He bowed deeply and retreated with utmost dignity, belly clenching in rage and mortification.
The thing was happy to see him.
Or so he chose to interpret the enthusiastic undulations of its tentacles upon his entrance. ObI Wan slid the door to his - their- quarters closed and approached his remaining roommate with extreme prejudice.
"Here," he told it, unwrapping the bit of leftovers and dangling the morsel above its central stalk, the prickly tube like a stunted proboscis surmounted by a disturbingly mouth-like orifice. A coil of green writhed upward and seized the offering, dropping it into this open cavity. The meat slid into a viscous goop within, and the edges of the opening slowly sealed, two rows of interlocking ridges meshing together like tiny teeth. The tentacles shuddered and relaxed, drooping over the shelf and onto the floor.
At least one of them had enjoyed his dinner.
He rolled onto his back atop the sleep cot and gazed idly at the plastoid paneling of the ceiling. He should meditate, release his anxieties into he Force. But he was not feeling like much of a Jedi at the moment. Simply being born Force-sensitive did not make one a Jedi. Indeed, it could make one into a monster just as easily. Had not Qui Gon said that Soll Carthag was such an individual? He rolled on his side and tucked one arm beneath his head. Siri Tachi had a point : if he could not discipline himself, then the galaxy would be better off with him safely relegated to obscurity. Perhaps he was, in some awful way, precisely where he belonged. Perhaps that was why Qui Gon and the Council had seen fit to send him here to the Agri-Corps: so that he might realize this for himself and choose it willingly, without the additional pain of being forcibly ejected from the Temple.
He curled in on himself a bit. A green tendril drifted in his direction and traced a loving curve around his ear. He batted it away viciously, but another two or three made similar egress, tickling at his nose and throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and ignored their attentions.
Negative thoughts were a product of imbalance, either of fear or attachment or both. He exhaled slowly, banishing the entire line of speculation into the Force's soothing currents. The tight knot beneath his ribs loosened a little, and his limbs relaxed. Eventually, the plant's curious examination of his person ceased too.
He drew in one more deep centering breath, and was instantly asleep.