Lineage IV
8
"Fine. Die of asphyxiation. I'll be sure to mention your bravery in the mission report."
Obi Wan squinted through blearing eyes, still wheezing for breath that came only in tight, shuddering gasps. His head hurt, stars above…
Siri Tachi was kneeling beside him, one arm clamped about his back, beneath his shoulders. He coughed, and coughed, doubling over, the world wavering into mottled darkness. He could smell the toxic vapors still, their acrid stench, their burning tang in his lungs. Siri was talking rapidly to somebody else, and then her hands were pushing him upright again, not quite gently.
"Inhale, Kenobi. Stop being an idiot chosski."
She pressed a breathing mask – a standard issue emergency response model – against his face. He tried to wave it away, but Siri had him more or less in a headlock by that time, and the blurring, darkening world was slipping in and out of his grasp, as his senses teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.
So he breathed, and felt a certain cooling relief, and felt Siri Tachi keeping a firm hold about his shoulders, and felt the stirrings of toxic shock set his muscles to trembling. His seizing airway opened a trifle, and each indrawn gasp of oxygen-rich, medicated whatever-it-was brought new relief and redoubled grogginess. He slumped forward, wishing that Siri would simply go away and let him be… but of course, she would not.
Alepo Sator appeared briefly, his harsh voice softened by concern. "He's a good lad, that one. Have the boys load him up with the other injured. We'll head back to headquarters – we can use domes three and four as refugee shelters. Ord Fromag will have to send another medical team and a transport out here- we'll send a transmission when we get back. You need help?"
Siri Tachi's voice made some quiet answer, and Alepo's presence faded. Boots tramped and shuffled all around them; voices groaned and murmured, and there was the hum of many repulsor vehicles. The stench of smoking plastoid and metal filled the air, an ambient menace. He coughed again, chest aching. He could not open his eyes.
"They're all safe," Siri told him, squeezing his hand. "You saved so many people."
And with that knowledge came blissful relief. He returned the gentle pressure about his fingers, and let go, spinning away into lovely, drug-stupefied oblivion.
Virmma the Hutt was annoyed by the interruption. He waved a pudgy hand, dismissing the three scantily attired Twi'Lek slave girls who had been massaging his corpulent folds and bulges. His protocol model translator creaked forward to perform its duty.
"The illustrious Virmma inquires how he may be of service."
Qui Gon Jinn's mouth quirked at the corners. His Huttese was fluent enough to enable him to perceive the significant gap between the droid's polite greeting and the grunting vulgarities actually muttered by their host.
Adi Gallia's eyes narrowed, sensing the same thing. "We are looking for an associate of yours, whom we believe was transported here aboard the Privateer one or two planetary rotations ago."
The huge slug heaved his weight forward an inch and gurgled his reply to the silver droid.
"There are a great number of ships and subcontractors arriving on site each day," the translator smoothly glossed. "Virmma will require more specific details."
Qui Gon withdrew his compact holoprojector and cast a small rotating image of Soll Carthag above the plate. The transparent blue figure turned slowly in midair. The Hutt's eyes narrowed, and he burped out another obscenity or two.
"I am sorry, but this individual is not welcome in Virmma's vicinity any longer. He has not been seen in ten standard years, and we have no desire to do business with him. The great Virmma also suggests that you make inquiries in the Illixi sector Republic high security penitentiary."
Adi shifted her stance. "As Virmma undoubtedly already knows," the Tholothian Jedi master replied, sharply, "Carthag has escaped from prison and is on the run. We assumed he would seek refuge with a former employer."
Virmma lost his temper at this implication. He waved a fist in the air and ran his purple tongue over lipless jaws, sending a small trail of ooze dribbling down his many chins.
The droid wrung its hands and sought for an appropriate euphemism, but apparently its processors were not entirely up to scratch. "Oh dear," it mumbled, "Oh dear. The most respectable Virmma suggests that you Jedi, ah, -"
The Hutt bellowed with laughter and spelled out his instructions in halting Basic, replete with the commonly recognized hand gesture.
Qui Gon bowed curtly. "Some other time."
When they had been escorted, to the accompaniment of snickers and hooting, all the way the Virmma's palatial front gates, he turned to Adi. "He's not here. I sensed no deception in our Hutt friend, or his associates."
"No," she agreed. "Perhaps we should hunt down this freighter pilot instead. He's sure to be here somewhere, drowning his woes." She flipped her dark robe's hood over her face, and led the way toward Shagra Sedd's outlying slums.
Obi Wan groaned and shoved the thermal blanket off with a muffled curse.
He was back in his dingy quarters at the Ag-Corps base, quite alone, and aching head to toe. He sat up gingerly, noting that his head still spun a little with the sudden motion, and surveyed the blank walls of the room. No Qui Gon; no tentacled voyeur. Privacy was a rare privilege in his life, and he savored it. Then it occurred to him that he had not got here on his own, and that somebody had kindly cleaned him up and tucked him in.
He hoped to the nine unholy Sith-hells that it had been Alepo or one of the staff, not Siri Tachi.
Speaking of whom…. He reached into the Force, sensing the bustle of quiet, purposeful activity throughout the compound. Not just the everyday routine of growing and tending crops, either – there were a great many sentients present, and much fuss and bother being made over them. Running a hand through his hair until it stood upright in long spikes, his sluggish mind ground into gear and put the pieces together. Alepo Sator must have set up a refugee camp for the crash victims here, possibly in one of the Agri-domes. Ord Orsolon had no major medcenter, and only one spaceport. The director would send for help from the nearest Republic outpost… Ord Fromag, maybe. In the meanwhile, the injured passengers of the passenger liner would need food, shelter, medical care, and reassurance.
He knew what duty required of him as a Jedi. He fumbled into his clothing and out the door, making a straight line for the greenhouse domes, where he could feel the buzz and swell of sentient life centered like a busy hive of bezzils. There was an alluring scent of food in the air, and he guessed from the pale light and the dull rumbling of his own stomach that it was again morning, the start of a new day and a new task.
Dome three had been transformed into an impromptu dining hall. Staff members and some of the rescued passengers were seated at improvised tables, nothing more than overturned storage crates, chattering and milling about as the Agri-Corps kitchen staff hurried to serve hot dishes undoubtedly concocted from mandrangea beans. Others trickled in and out of the dome's wide doors, a disorderly line wending its way toward dome four.
He set aside his appetite and followed this steady streamlet to its source. Dome four was larger, and beneath its broad curving roof were rows and rows of cots and sleeping mats, pieces of spare furniture and even shipping palettes put to imaginative use. Any scrap of fabric or cloth that could be salvaged had been re-purposed as a blanket – though the dome's inherent thermal properties kept the temperature inside pleasantly warm. Alepo Sator and some of his people were present here, speaking to their guests; and directly across from the entrance, kneeling by the side of a distraught mother clutching a pair of howling twins, was Siri Tachi.
He picked his way through the disorderly labyrinth of sleeping arrangements. Alepo intercepted him in the open central area.
"There you are, lad. Feeling better?'
Obi Wan bowed. "Much improved. How can I be of assistance?" He gazed round the noisy enclave, bracing himself. Gardening, cooking, and now… his heart sank… childcare. But a Jedi did not shirk unpleasant duties.
The horticulturalist patted his arm lightly. "You've helped enough already. Without you, most these folks would be dead. And we wouldn't be in this predicament. But it should be short-lived - Ord Fromag is sending help and an evacuation transport as soon as possible. We just need to withstand siege for a day or so."
"That's good news," the young Jedi smiled. At least he had accomplished something meaningful during his tour of duty here.
"I'll need your help in the main dome later, though, " the botanist warned him. "With everyone involved here, we're short handed. And I've got one or two chores that can't wait. Why don't you eat and let these people thank you, then meet me at meridian?"
The Padawan frowned. "I'll eat… but there's no need to make a fuss – I do not think –"
Alepo poked a finger into his chest. "You let 'em thank you, 'cause they want to. You don't get to skulk in a corner 'casue you're too modest to care. Closure. You save the day, you need to follow through."
He sighed. "Very well."
Alepo winked and strode away in the direction of the exit.
An infant's ear-splitting shriek drew his attention back to the family huddled at the dome's far end.
"Kenobi!" Siri Tachi called, impatient. "Would you help me here, for a moment?"
He stepped forward, only to have a squalling baby thrust unceremoniously into his arms by an exasperated Siri. "Here – hold her. I'm not the maternal type," she snarled.
"And I am?" he objected, shifting the squirming bundle against his chest and watching the young mother try to soothe this child's inconsolable twin.
"They're ill," Siri snapped at him. "Just go… walk around or something, so I can get this other one to sleep." She turned her back on him and addressed her attention to the ailing child.
Vexed by her imperious tone, he strolled away, muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath. The baby girl hiccupped and wailed her hearty agreement.
"Yes, I know, but there's nothing we can do to help," he assured the fussing infant. "Padawan Tachi is not a diplomat, by birth or by training. We must abide her presence with patience and humility and –"
The child vomited a goodly quantity of sticky white glop over his front.
"And forbearance," he finished, wryly. "Thank you for that lesson, my master. But you cannot intimidate me with your threats. I have endured far worse companionship than yours."
The baby quieted, watching the panoply of light and shadow play against the dome's grimy roof. She raised a fist toward the mesmerizing spectacle, and he instinctively shifted her onto her back, so she might have a better view. They walked and walked, about the dome's perimeter, one lost in contemplation of the ceiling, the other lost in contemplation of the Force, until the child had fallen into a deep slumber in the crook of his arm and he came up with a start against the form of a short, middle aged humanoid with grizzled hair and a jolly, laughter-lined face.
"Oh ho! Your pardon," this jovial personage smiled. His eyes crinkled in surprise as they lighted upon the 'saber hilt at Obi Wan's hip. "Another Jedi!" he exclaimed. "It's a regular infestation. You are, I presume, the one to whom we all owe our lives."
Recalling Alepo Sator's words, the Padawan bowed. "We come to serve. It was only my duty." The baby stirred restlessly, and he adjusted her weight.
The amicable fellow beamed at him. "Well, I am glad to see you in one piece, and glad to be in the same condition myself. I hope you will accept my heartfelt gratitude."
"Ah… yes. Thank you. It was my honor." How did one accept such praise? He would have to ask Qui Gon about this later. Public – or private- accolades made him distinctly uncomfortable.
His new acquaintance offered a bright, engaging smile. "I've embarrassed you," he said, perceptively. "Never mind me. Perhaps we shall have the pleasure of speaking again … my friends and family call me Choollo. You?"
"Obi Wan Kenobi." He omitted his title; after all, he technically didn't have rights to it.
Choollo winked and ambled away, hands folded behind his back. Obi Wan shrugged and continued his slow circuit of the dome, the baby girl snoring peacefully in his arms.