Lineage IV
13.
The plastoid bulkheads were not only warped and charred – a predictable result of the explosion consequent upon the ship's initial impact – but they were also stained, and brittle with age. Hairline cracks fretted the smooth white surface where the insulated wall curved down to meet the scuffed decking material. It was… seedy. Rather like the interior appointments of the Monument, of undying and unpleasant memory. The Hutt-controlled Monument had been ill maintained and decrepit, also; and it had been full of uncivilized people too. The recollection seemed to jolt something deep within him, and in another heartbeat Obi Wan was fully and disturbingly awake.
He was on his side, facing the interior cargo hold wall; his ankles were firmly secured with some kind of thick wire; and his wrists were similarly bound behind his back. In fact, they were tied exceedingly tightly to somebody else's hands. He could feel the weight and warmth of another pair of shoulders pressing against his own, and by craning his head sideways he could glimpse enough cream-colored tunic and golden hair to confirm the identity of his partner in captivity.
"Siri," he whispered hoarsely, but she made no answer. Her presence was dull, muted. He concluded that she must still be unconscious. They had been utterly stupid to be caught in such a trap – but then, what reason had they to suspect one? And why had the Force not given more warning? Was Choollo behind this predicament? And if so, did he have a co-conspirator? And were either or both of them able to shield their intentions in the Force?
Any way he looked at it, this was not good.
A bit more industrious squirming and squinting earned him the reward of several other foreboding revelations: he and Siri had both been stripped of lightsaber and comlink; the wire that held their hands and feet pinioned had also been wound into makeshift collars about their necks, and was routed through one of the ship's utility power outlets; and there were two voices speaking in the corridor just beyond: one familiar and one unfamiliar, but both leaving a spreading stain of malice in the uneasily rippling Force.
"Siri," he tried again, nudging against her without effect. This was well beyond not good. It was verging on outright bad. He drew in several Yamalsa technique deep calming breaths and centered his focus on the conversation outside the bay doors. Information was power, and power was freedom. What could be the subject of debate out there?
Choollo's voice was easily recognizable. "Patience!" he reprimanded his unseen companion. "Those two are money in the bank, do you understand? You don't touch them until I'm done negotiating."
This was met by a deep and rumbling objection, one issued in accented tones that Obi Wan placed as Klatooinian. His heart sank. He knew little about Qui Gon's current mission; but he had done enough covert database research to know that the escaped convict Soll Carthag was of Klatooinian extraction. And the Force left no doubt in his mind: the strange rasping voice belonged to the infamous killer. Somehow, horribly, Carthag had been aboard the crashed liner, and had been hiding here all along.
Come to think of it, Obi Wan might have saved the infernal barve's life. He gritted his teeth and released a very resentful breath.
"Yes, me," Choollo was saying, anger tinting his own voice now. "We wouldn't be in this fix if you hadn't botched the hijacking with your over-enthusiasm."
His fellow criminal snorted out some tart reply, one that Obi Wan could not quite make out but which clearly bore all the emphatic disdain of a hearty curse.
The thump of heavy footfalls came nearer as the speakers slowly paced along the adjacent corridor.
"What are you talking about?" Choollo snorted. "You've got disruptors and two drones, don't you? And a full case of ammo for your toy there. And that trap you rigged up in the hold was quite clever. Impressive for someone more accustomed to relying on equipment than brains."
The Klatooinian grunted another acid reply, and the footfalls carried the pair away again, toward the ruined passenger hold and the destroyed cockpit beyond.
"Siri!" Obi Wan tried yet again, this time prodding at her mind with the Force, none too gently.
She groaned and shifted against him. "….It's a trap," she mumbled, some of her disorientation and soreness echoing across the Force. Then, less lethargically, "Kenobi?" Then, every bit as sharp and alert as ever, "What in the blazes are you doing here too?"
He could not see her face but he could well imagine the sarcastically tilted eyebrow. "I felt that you were in danger," he explained. "…And then I came to help you."
"Nice job," came the facetious reply.
"We're in this together," he pointed out, temper flaring. "A little collegial respect would be appreciated."
"Your incompetence is inspiring," she snapped back at him.
"I suppose it would be, by comparison to your own ineptitude."
"If you're so clever, then what's your brilliant plan?"
"To escape," he drawled sardonically. "Though I shan't impose upon you if you've other plans."
"I don't need your irony, Kenobi!"
"I don't require your charming company, either."
"We are kriffing tied together, in case you hadn't noticed, " Siri snarled.
As a matter of fact, he had noticed; and it was a mercy of the sweet Force that it hadn't been face-to-face. At least this way he didn't have to tolerate Siri Tachi's smug expression. "Really."
"Yes." She sat up roughly, hauling him painfully upright along with her. They leaned against one another's back, knees folded before them, heads turned over one shoulder, temples and cheeks just brushing together. Siri's hot breath set the loose strands of her hair fluttering over his face. Her fingers abruptly twisted into his, and stayed there. Surprised, but not … displeased… he offered a gentle reassuring pressure.
"The Force," he reminded her.
"Yes. I know. I – I'm sorry. I've never been in this situation before."
"I have," he replied grimly. "Just remember our training. Don't center on your anxieties; focus on finding a solution." And in saying these words to her, he found that he himself came to believe them more firmly. How strange. And an even stranger thought flickered across his racing mind. Did Qui Gon ever…? But no. That was unthinkable.
Siri's clasp upon his fingers did not loosen, but the sour tang of fear in the Force dissolved into a bright and ferocious resolution. Siri Tachi was a fighter, down to her core. "Relax. Pay attention. Conserve strengths and resources. Plan for escape. Be patient. Act when the Force so bids you," she recited. "And then kick their sorry asses afterward."
He raised a brow. "I don't remember that last bit. Who taught you that part – Master Gallia?"
He could feel Siri's smirk in the Force. "No. That was Master Tachi."
The Force pulsed and gathered between them, endlessly refracted down a mirrored hall. It was a simple younglings' exercise, something learned in the crèche; but only now did they fully realize its worth and importance. Two Jedi were much stronger than two, when they worked in unison, pliant to the Force's guiding and shaping influence.
The wire binding them was tethered to a mooring ring imbedded in the deck – an anchor for securing tarps or crash netting over bulky cargo items. This prevented them from simply yanking their way free of the power outlet; but it did not preclude cutting through their unusual bonds.
Obi Wan's focus was narrow, centered on the task at hand, while Siri's remained wide and grounded deep in the Force, a sail gathering supernal wind. Together, they managed the delicate operation almost effortlessly. The knife tucked inside Obi Wan's left boot – and thankfully overlooked by their captors, who must have searched them in haste and falsely assumed that their 'sabers represented the sum total of weaponry carried on their persons – floated up out of its hiding place, unfolded in mid-air, and gently wafted toward the taut bundle of wire stretched between their bodies and the mooring ring. The blade touched the first wire; a nudge, a harder nudge, a sustained pressure on the fraying coil, and the metallic cord snapped apart.
The two young Jedi exhaled together. Three more strands. The knife turned, descended upon the next piece of wire, pushed, sawed – and severed it.
The bay doors slid open.
"What's this?" a hulking Klatooinian growled, crossing the space in three long strides and making a snatch for the levitating knife, even as the small object flipped neatly out of his grasp and went skidding across the decks out of reach beneath a cargo palette. The newcomer held out a calloused hand; the Force surged; and the knife came obediently sailing out of its cover. Obi Wan scowled, sending the thing veering off in mid-flight. It embedded itself blade-first in the rear bulkhead with a solid thunk.
Soll Carthag – for it was undoubtedly, undeniably he – leaned over the uncooperative Padawan, and delivered a stunning backhanded blow to his face. Obi Wan's head slammed backward into Siri's skull and she gasped in unison with him.
Carthag yanked the knife out the insulated panel and turned it over thoughtfully in his broad, ridged hand. "Hand-forged. Artisan quality," he grunted. "Very nice." Two swaggering steps brought him back over to his prisoners, the knife clamped loosely in his large fist. "I see you two haven't yet learned to behave."
An invisible wave of power almost knocked the weapon out of his grip again. The Klatooinian's yellow eyes slatted beneath his horned brows. "What was that chissk about?" he asked in a dangerously low tone, shoving the knife into an interior pocket of his filth-encrusted jumpsuit.
"Consider it a warning," Obi Wan replied evenly. "Release us now, or I cannot guarantee your safety."
The killer dropped to one knee before him, nostrils flaring wide. His breath was a hot malediction. "Jedi scum," Carthag smiled, displaying grime-stained teeth "Beg for my forgiveness, or I cannot guarantee your safety."
"Please forgive our mistake," Siri piped up demurely. "….We mistook you for an intelligent being."
Carthag reached a heavily muscled arm around and seized her chin. "Spirit," he leered. "Do you know why I enjoy killing your kind so much? Because you Jedi are all the same – you fight until the last moment, and you die ever so slowly. It's excellent sport. And in your case, pretty, I think I'll take my bonus sooner rather than later."
The threat was no sooner out of his mouth than an explosive Force push sent him careening into the opposite bulkhead. Carthag's horned skull left a dent in the plastoid wall. He bared his teeth and instantly regrouped.
"Protective, are we?" he addressed the other Padawan, with a lecherous chuckle. He lunged forward, thrusting blunt clawed fingers beneath Obi Wan's tunics, exploring freely. "I'm happy to have you instead – I'm not particular that way."
Obi Wan curled backward and brought his feet up into the Klatooinian's gut, hard. Carthag stumbled backward with a curse.
"Touch either of us and you will regret it," Siri growled.
Carthag stood and paced over to the inset control panel by the entrance. His hand strayed softly over the touch pad. "You are both mine, little Jedi," he grinned, flicking the power outlet into life.
His two prisoners screamed aloud as the powerful current sizzled through the wire wrapped about their limbs and necks. They writhed, backs arching rigidly against each other as they cried out in acute pain, tongues of blue fire snapping and curling about their agonized bodies.
After a while, Carthag switched the power off. He moved to crouch beside his panting, violently trembling victims. "Not so smart-mouthed now, are we?" he inquired, casually withdrawing the stolen knife and grasping Siri's thick golden plait in one hand.
"…No!" she gasped, voice breaking in outrage.
"I can take whatever of yours I want," Carthag whispered in her ear, and promptly severed the thick twist of hair with one savage slash. His free hand curled in Obi Wan's short nerf-tail next, and he swiftly cut that off, too.
"The Padawan braids come off after we get to know each other more intimately," he promised.
Obi Wan's response, though unvoiced, must have resounded in the Force, for Carthag kicked him squarely in the gut by way of reply. "You're first," he decided. "She can watch the proceedings."
"Carthag!"
Choollo's curt summons interrupted the polite tête-à-tête.
"What are you doing? We need them intact."
The Klatooinian moved away a few paces, sullenly. "They tried to escape, so I subdued them. Here – take these. You'll need these trophies and their weapons to prove we've really got them."
Choollo accepted the proffered items with a long-suffering sigh. "The Ag-Corps comms will be down for a good long while. I made sure of that. I'll deliver the ultimatum in person – Sator is a farmer, not a negotiator. He'll cave easily. You stay here and exert some self control in the meantime. I shouldn't be too long."
"Good," Carthag scoffed. "I'm done with this kriffing dustball."
"Patience."
Their voices died away, and the bay doors slammed shut behind them.
Siri made a small choking sound, half whimper, half angry sob.
Obi Wan wrapped his trembling fingers about hers again. "It's all right," he reassured both of them. "Patience. A solution will present itself."
They slowly, shakily centered themselves in the Force once more, breathing in peace and clarity.
"Do you… do you think we will ever see our masters again?" Siri asked, keeping her voice flawlessly level.
Obi Wan shrugged, carefully. "Of course," he asserted. "Though… I have a bad feeling that when we do, they are going to kill us."
They shared a moment of dark mirth, chuckling softly together in the gloom of their cold makeshift prison.