Psychometry was a valuable tool in Quinlan's arsenal, but like any tool, it could be dangerous. Dealing with psychic traces in the Force could be overwhelming, and Quinlan quickly learned that he needed mental discipline to cope with the emotions and memories that weren't his own. He had become adept at compartmentalizing what belonged to him and what didn't. The Jedi Order didn't have many members with his talent, and as a result, he was often recruited for investigations that required his expertise. His work as a Shadow kept him busy, but he welcomed the occasional break from the routine.
This particular mission was a refreshing change from the tedious ones that involved just waiting and maintaining cover. Psychometry was a strange gift that allowed him to connect the past to the present through the Force. Everything had a continuity in the inexorable flow of time, and psychometry allowed him to uncover the deeply buried history of things.
It was a burden that was often cumbersome, but it gave Quinlan a profound sense of the importance of context. He understood that nothing could exist without a beginning and that everything was connected in a path that was often ruled by chaos and happenstance. The slightest action could dramatically shift the course of fate, and Quinlan was acutely aware of this. It gave him an understanding of circumstances that was difficult to convey to others. They were blind to the vital sense that he possessed. Only the oldest beings could appreciate the depth of Quinlan's perception of reality when he chose to remove his gloves.
The weight of the past in everything was immense, and Quinlan found it too much to handle at times. The act of absorbing the memories of objects through touch often resulted in headaches and emotional fatigue. The stronger the memory, the more intense the associated emotions would be. Through experience and maturity, Quinlan had learned to detach himself from these emotions, but he was still cautious with his ability. He knew that he had to use it wisely to avoid the potential negative consequences.
Positioned between two rows of display tables, Quinlan raised his ungloved hand towards the organized objects waiting for his examination, without making physical contact. He hovered his hand over each item, feeling the Force emanating from them. Only the objects that resonated strongly with the Force caught his attention. Through years of practice, he had perfected his technique, which emphasized finesse and precision over brute force. By doing so, he could conserve his resources and pre-select which objects to examine more closely.
Several items had already piqued his interest, including an ornate paperweight, a wooden sculpture, and a luxurious robe. Despite having examined half of the gathered items from the ruins of the Chancellor's Office, there were still many more to investigate.
Quinlan had never needed to visit the Chancellor's Office before his death, but he could have warned his fellow Jedi of the danger lurking within. The nauseating Force impression he had sensed there without making physical contact was enough to indicate that something was seriously wrong. Though he had fled the room as soon as possible, he knew he would have to return and delve deeper into the currents that had barely grazed his awareness
But, one thing at a time, and he had some projects to keep him busy for the following hours.
Quinlan took the paperweight and the robe in his right hand, the one he kept gloved, and made his way to an unoccupied desk. He placed the objects carefully in front of him. The paperweight was made of glassy material, sculpted in intricate arabesques. The artificial light it captured was diffracted in tiny rainbows strewn in a halo around it.
As he looked at it more closely, the more he felt captured by a soothing feel. He distinctively felt how the compulsion acted on his general apprehension of the Force. Interesting.
The paperweight seemed to act like a shield, or more like a filter, transforming the ambient waves of the Force into something telegraphed as inoffensive. Quinlan didn't need to dwell on the obvious use of such a Force artifact, and the fact that it was sitting on the Chancellor's desk raised concerns. He made a mental note in the growing column of concerning facts about the whole affair.
Quinlan's attention then turned to the emerald robe, which shimmered like precious silk with silvery embroidery patterns. As Quinlan was not very knowledgeable about current fashions, he couldn't determine if the robe was a recognizable style that could provide any clues about its origin. It was a regular robe, and not a potentially harmful Force artifact. What interested Quinlan was that the garment probably belonged to the unknown Force user. The feel had a clearly different taste than the rest of the things retrieved from the office.
Quinlan removed his glove and buried his hand in the fabric of the robe, closing his eyes to focus his mind. He allowed his mind to fill with the images and impressions that marked the garment. Wariness, surprise, and alarm dominated the flavors. In the undercurrents, he could feel a cold, solid hate, closely tied to the gnawing chasm of grief and solitude. He captured images of a seated Chancellor, the amiable veneer of his behavior abruptly morphing into a terrifying howling face lunging at him.
The shock made him drop the fabric, adrenalin spreading to his extremities. After taking a deep breath to calm himself, he resumed his investigation, curious about the identity of the Force user who clearly knew about the Chancellor's true nature. If his suspicions were correct, Quinlan believed that they owed them big time.
]o[
Obi-Wan slumped heavily in the chair facing the workshop door. He closed his eyes as he massaged his temples. Pain pounded against the walls of his skull, and burned a fiery and inflamed furrow in his shoulder, but the most difficult thing to bear was the pure, heavy exhaustion that oppressed his mind. He still was under the psychic backlash, and he was beginning to suspect that his condition would not be easily solved. He still hadn't had the time to examine the damage done to his soul-kyber, and would not until he was sure no one could observe him.
The irony of the situation did not escape him. He had managed to gather the full attention of not only the Jedi Order, but the Coruscant Guard as well. As far as he knew, no one had yet made the connexion between himself and the perpetrator, but he felt that was only a question of time.
He didn't even know if it would be wise to flee and cut his losses, but he felt reluctant to leave definitely the Temple. Obi-Wan had appreciated the semblance of normal life he had adopted as an archivist. Being a guardian of knowledge agreed with him, and the quiet days spent studying ancient tomes with fellow scholars soothed his wounded soul.
Obi-Wan was paying for his poor planning. He should have thought about contingency plans, he had had more than two decades in this timeline to prepare.
He made a mental effort to stop his self-recriminations, but the fatigue didn't enable much self-control. Self-loathing was a very old habit, an old demon that still came to haunt him in his moments of vulnerability. With his long years of existence, Obi-Wan had gotten good at handling self-doubt, but it had never completely disappeared. Time and wisdom had helped him to make peace with his mistakes and shortcomings.
However, having the opportunity to relive his life, and choosing a radically new approach to his decisions had reactivated his tendency for doubting and second-guessing everything. Returning to a child's body exposed you to internal fireworks as soon as you experienced the slightest emotion. Age's benefit was learning to distance oneself from the more painful aspects of emotionality, but existence tended to get really dull after a couple of centuries.
Obi-Wan found it difficult to comprehend the Sith's fixation on achieving immortality. While he could understand their desire for control and dominance, he believed that time needed to be filled with meaningful experiences to have any real value. Simply accumulating wealth and power was meaningless without utilizing it to create and improve the lives of others. The true value of power lay in its ability to be harnessed for the greater good
Obi-Wan's power had become meaningless without something to protect. Since the tragic day that robbed him of everything he held dear, Obi-Wan had been waging a constant battle against himself to resist the lure of despair. As a solitary witness to a bygone era and the last repository of a dying culture, he found himself struggling to find purpose and meaning in a galaxy that seemed to have lost its way. The temptation to give up on life, to let go and surrender to the darkness, had been a constant companion to him over the decades, along with the grief and solitude that seemed to follow him like a shadow. They were with him always, because Obi-Wan didn't get along much with selfishness. He needed to feel useful. Maybe he could have made a difference with Padmé's children, but the tragedy had continued in its absolute horror, and they had both died mere hours after their mother.
In that moment, he had felt his sanity slipping away, as the whispers of the dark side beckoned to him, promising comfort and an escape from the pain.
Obi-Wan let out a sigh, determined not to allow his mind to wander down that path, especially with the precarious state of his mental shields. He focused on reining in his emotions, taking a deep breath that he tried to make as deep as possible without agitating his wound. He reminded himself that he had achieved his most important goal, but there was still much work to be done. He needed to ensure that all the sacrifices and efforts made thus far were not in vain, and he had to bring an end to Sidious's reign and clean up the remaining Sith. There were still a few more out there who required his undivided attention, and he knew that being imprisoned would only hinder his plans. Therefore, he needed to secure the freedom to act in any way necessary.
Obi-Wan was currently alone in the room, surrounded by silence in the dead of night. The laboratory was deserted, devoid of the usual bustling activity of researchers lost in their work. Researchers were not a particularly quiet population. Normally, Obi-Wan enjoyed the lively chatter and banter of his fellow Corps members, finding comfort in their company. However, he knew that if he had to flee, he would not hesitate.
Madame Nu had gone to her office to gather supplies before studying the coffer in the proper setup. Obi-Wan surreptitiously checked his bandage and bacta patches. His work, done in a hurry, was falling apart. His lightsaber wound, while in part cauterized, still oozed blood. He would need to find a moment to reapply his dressing and attend to his injuries properly.
Gathering his meager strength, he sat up to study the coffer more closely. It was covered with Sith inscriptions, of which he had long mastered all the semantic subtleties. However, he would have to use subterfuge to hide his knowledge, for no one in the Temple was supposed to know as much as he did. In the wake of the current circumstances, it would be wise not to gather more attention than he had on him for now. The locking mechanism was probably based on elaborate encryption using both Sith language and the use of the Force, and Obi-Wan was a specialist in cracking those types of systems.
Obi-Wan replaced his optics in front of his eyes. They allowed him to magnify the micro-inscriptions that were hidden between arabesques. In these kinds of artifacts, it was essential to map out the least of the traced symbols with the utmost care, because a mere sign could upset the entire meaning of the whole text. The Siths were known to utilize this feature, a testament to their sadistic nature. After years of exploring dark, deserted Sith temples, Obi-Wan was intimately familiar with their complexities.
The mechanism securing the device was a complex, multi-layered lock, complete with a failsafe that required a specific person's Force imprint. While it was a formidable lock, it was not impregnable, and Obi-Wan was confident that with careful and methodical work, he could eventually crack it. Of course, he would still have to be wary of traps, because Sidious was a bastard of the worst kind.
He would bend to the rhythm of Madame Nu to stick to credible skills. He struggled with conflicting desires: on one hand, he longed to slip back into anonymity and evade the weight of responsibility, while on the other, he recognized the importance of staying in control of the situation.
Obi-Wan pulled out a pad and made a show of taking puzzled notes. He scratched his short beard and ran a hand over his face, before exhaling a heavy sigh. Sometimes, he was really fed up with always having to put on a facade.
]o[
Fox was on his way to the medical wing of the barracks, which served as the living quarters for the clones stationed on Coruscant or on leave. The barracks consisted of rows of bunkrooms that could accommodate up to six clones, and huge mess halls that served meals in rotation to feed the impressive number of men that needed their nutrients. Compared to their life on Kamino, where they were closely monitored and restricted in their individuality, the barracks offered them a newfound sense of freedom.
Their quarters on Coruscant, or on board of warships, weren't what natborn considered as decent accommodations, but they were truly luxurious for them. The natborns they were serving under were not very concerned about what private life the vode managed to have. Regulation and discipline were enforced by a chain of command consisting primarily of other clones, except for the high command. On the practical side, clones did not suffer unwanted interference.
On Kamino, clones were under constant surveillance, to quell any attempt at expressing too much individuality. They were regularly culled: defective units were sent to decommission, and their biological matter was probably recycled and reused. Kamino, their birthplace, was a living hell.
The outside world had given them a taste of freedom. They were together, and no one bothered to really inspect what they were doing in their free time. They had a realm that belonged to them, where they could enjoy themselves between battles and training.
Fox knew his brothers were adapting well to the life they had been engineered for. Kamino wasn't a battlefield, and Kaminoans weren't the most usual sentients populating the galaxy. Their conditioning had given them a minimal exposure to the outside world, and in the emptiness of their shared identity, something had spontaneously emerged. Their reduced lifespan had the paradoxical effect of enabling the foundation of a unique culture, complete with their own vocabulary, idioms, and customs. While some aspects were borrowed from Mandalorian tradition, the culture was fundamentally theirs.
Satisfying the clones was a relatively simple task: providing them with basic necessities and the camaraderie of their fellow soldiers. A bit of action added to the mix and they were content. Their design, geared towards regulated moods and behavior, made them an efficient and obedient army. The Republic had unwittingly acquired a perfectly convenient military force.
Fox made a deliberate effort not to delve too deeply into questions of free will and… free labor. He focused instead on doing his job conscientiously and finding freedom in his work ethic. By leading and looking after his brothers, he could make a positive difference in their lives. If he remained faithful to the path expected of him by the Republic, he would not have to question his own autonomy and self-determination.
A captain from one of the squads, along with the team's medic, had requested Commander Fox's presence. Their urgent tone and preoccupied air prevented him from telling them off. Even though he was in charge of the crisis center, he could not leave his brothers in distress, and it was his duty to take a few minutes to attend to their concerns.
As he stepped into the infirmary, Fox saw five brothers sitting on examination tables, all staring off into space. The medic, Surge, was hunched over a datapad, frowning as he examined the brother facing the entrance. When he noticed Fox, Surge's face visibly relaxed into a relieved smile. "Commander, glad to see you here," he said.
Fox nodded in greeting and asked, "What's the situation?"
"These vode are part of the same intervention squad. They returned from a mission a few hours ago. Their bunkmates called me, completely creeped out. According to the exams, they are in perfect health. But their behavior…." He trailed off, troubled.
"Surge?" Fox prompted.
"They're not catatonic; they respond when spoken to, but… How can I put that… mechanically? And they haven't taken the slightest initiative since they came back. Instead, they seem content to stare at nothing like that."
"Where were they deployed?"
"Senate sector, then into sector 7 in pursuit of a fugitive."
Fox felt like an icy wave crashing over him. The events were necessarily connected. They have another lead. Fox just wished his brother wouldn't have been involved.
"You need to continue the examinations and keep me informed as soon as you have more information. I'll ask for the input of a Jedi Healer, as it could be the result of a Force technic."
]o[
Mace rubbed the tense muscles at the back of his neck with his palm, feeling the knots beneath his skin. The night had been long, and unfortunately, it wasn't over yet. After several hours of tough negotiations, they had finally been able to take Palpatine's body to the Temple. It had taken a combination of persuasion and legal tactics to make the zealous authorities yield, and Mace was sure he wouldn't forget Wilhuff Tarkin anytime soon. The man had been deliberately difficult, and Mace couldn't help but suspect he was intentionally obstructing their efforts. However, the Jedi couldn't afford to waste more time, and Mace had resorted to using words like "obstruction" and "terrorism sympathizer" to win his case.
Now, Mace had to coordinate everything. He had competent and reliable personnel on hand, at least for those he could personally vouch for. The instructions were clear - disseminate as little information as possible to avoid hindering the investigation. They couldn't keep events a secret forever, but the longer they could delay speculation, the more effectively they could work.
Mace needed to brief the council on the latest developments and share his lingering doubts and worries about the situation. He believed that the matter was far more significant than it appeared and had the potential to cause considerable upheaval in both the Republic and the Jedi Order.
Although the security department had failed to apprehend the perpetrator, they still had plenty of testimonies and recordings to analyze, which would take time. Master Sinube and Master Vos were currently shouldering their share of the investigation, and seemed to have some leads to explore. Mace headed towards the Archives, hoping that Madame Nu and her team had made progress on the item recovered from Palpatine's office.
While en route, he had made a detour to the Temple's canteen to gather some pastries that he could offer to help alleviate some of the stress that was sure to accompany a night of little sleep. Mace liked Madame Nu, be he was wary of her legendary difficult mood.
Upon entering the Analysis and Research Laboratory, Mace found Madame Nu and Kenobi in the midst of their work. Madame Nu was typing on her datapad while Kenobi was writing on a flimsiboard. "Hello, Mace. It's good to see you. Kenobi has made some progress, but we still have a ways to go," Madame Nu greeted him with a smile. Her hair was disheveled, and her usually neat bun was on the verge of collapsing.
"I brought breakfast. I thought we could all use it," Mace said.
Madame Nu hesitated, eyeing the food dubiously. She was on the verge of saying something like "no food in my archives," but her silence revealed her exhaustion. Kenobi gave a slight nod and greeted Mace, but he looked no better than when they met in Palpatine's office, with bloodshot eyes and a sweaty forehead.
"A little break would indeed be welcome. I think we've gotten through the hardest part, Madame Nu, but we can't discount the possibility of an additional trap."
"What could you share about your current findings?"
Kenobi shrugged, and seemed to suppress a sudden grimace.
"It is obviously a container, extremely secure. Unfortunately, at this stage, it is impossible to know what it contains. As Madame Nu said, we made good progress to decipher a portion of the code, but we still had a lot of work to complete the deciphering. The question, however, is why this artifact was located in Palpatine's office." Kenobi paused, cast a troubled look at Madame Nu, and frowned. "Whatever we find in this object should be linked to the person of the Chancellor."
Mace acknowledged Kenobi's words with a grave nod. The thought that had been nagging at him since he became involved in this investigation had been verbalized, and the implications were staggering. He knew that he had to inform the High Council about this as soon as possible. Separating the Jedi Order from the Senate was becoming more and more likely, and Mace foresaw many exhausting discussions and debates in the coming weeks and months.
Kenobi grabbed one of the pastries with his right hand, before sinking with a sigh of relief into the chair that faced the bay overlooking Coruscant. The laboratory faced north, so it saw little direct light. However, a few clouds had caught the first rays of Coruscant Prime, the system star, and edged in a fiery pink that was almost painful to the retinas.
Mace took a seat on a laboratory stool, while Madame Nu scrutinized the food options he had brought. Finally, after some consideration, she settled on a spicy cinnamon roll, which happened to be one of Mace's preferred pastries as well. The cooks at the Temple varied in skill, but the pastry chefs were truly exceptional, and they were fortunate to have them on staff.
"We've never had the pleasure of interacting before, it seems, Archivist Kenobi," said Mace, picking at his pastry frosting.
The man shook his head, and a small, knowing smile, graced his lips, "I must have fetched holobooks for you once or twice in these past months, but I understand that I had not left a memorable impression. "
Mace shifted uneasily. "Oh, pardon my faulty memory."
Kenobi shook his head dismissively. "I have only been in the temple for ten months. I spent most of my career as an archaeologist with the ExplorCorps, very far from the Core."
"Hm, that must change you; the work here surely isn't as exciting as raiding abandoned ruins."
"It has its charm. After all, I grew up here in the Temple. And I think I've wandered and explored enough in my life to earn my retirement."
"You seem a bit young to speak like that."
"You know, some experiences age faster than others." Kenobi smiled, showing his teeth. Mace found his smile oddly vaguely threatening.
"I'm delighted to have Obi-Wan on our team," interjected Madame Nu. "We've made leaps and bounds in our understanding of the Sith arts since he's here."
"It seems to me that it takes a certain…mind to navigate the treacherous twists and turns of Sith semantics," noted Mace. "Where does your fluency come from?
"I've always been a bit of a nerd at heart, and the subject has always fascinated me," explained Kenobi with a small shrug. "I find that research and puzzles suit me better than fighting. And my medical condition had not permitted me to follow the Knighthood path." A sharp glint flashed across the archivist's eyes, and he suddenly seemed less docile and unassuming.
Mace felt a slight unease prickling at him. He was aware of how the current setup of the Order tended to render their non-combat forces invisible. However, they were the very backbone that held the entire organization together. They formed the support system upon which everything depended, without which no Jedi could survive and be shielded from external threats.
Yet, the Jedi themselves were not immune to the allure and natural glamour that knights and diplomats radiated, and it was the knights who often assumed positions of power within their ranks. They were, after all, the public face of the Order, and their image was more naturally associated with authority and influence.
Madame Nu quickly brushed off the awkwardness. "Luckily, you didn't waste your time on such trivialities, young Obi-Wan. It would have been a waste of your talents," she remarked, disregarding the unease in Mace's demeanor.
Kenobi nodded, graciously accepting the compliment, as he finished his treat.