Chapter 11. Ways of the Force
The lower levels of Coruscant were the ideal place to get lost among cheap joints and shady figures with dubious backgrounds and equally dubious reputation, all of them lurking around corners and crowding bars and canteens. Criminals, spies, bounty hunters. Life was bubbling here like a pot of spicy soup over the fire, carefree, unrestrained, and strangely comforting. Nobody asked questions. Nobody wanted answers. Being alive was a sufficient cause for celebration. After all, the inhabitants and visitors alike were too well aware of how difficult it was to stay that way.
Tur's vast knowledge of this particular area was not a result of his desire to explore or penchant for rule-breaking. In his constant returns here when things got out of control and even the Force could offer nothing to alleviate the tension he has always felt some kind of affinity with those who roamed these dingy streets. They never came out here for entertainment. Everyone who set foot in these neon-lit bars was forced to do so. Poverty. Unemployment. Loneliness. Grief. Guilt. Unrest. The grand and prosperous districts strove to be uniformly happy and content and squeezed out those who couldn't take part in the merriment or at least act accordingly, putting on a brave face. That's what has always drawn Tur here: sincerity. Freedom to rant and rave, to grieve when sorrow's tearing your insides apart, to celebrate when you're ecstatic. Nobody pretended to care when they didn't. No-one offered help unless they could and were willing to give it.
The bar Tur entered hasn't changed a bit since the early years of his Knighthood. Same crowds. Same deafening music, drowning out like a flood all connections with reality. Same brightly coloured drinks. Nautolans and Twi'leks, Mandalorians and Dresselians, Miralukas and Togrutas, humanoids and strange insect-like creatures, chatting, arguing, wallowing, drinking, fighting. A carousel of life.
– Sith! Isn't that about time?! – a small olive-coloured hand descended on Tur's shoulder, and he automatically caught it, spinning around, ready to fend off the attacker.
– Well, I'll take it as a warrior's greeting, – the slender Mirialan woman narrowed her eyes, her arms crossed at her chest, her smile widening as a gleam of recognition sparkled to life in Tur's wary glance.
– Lu! That's unbelievable! Still spying around? – the ex-Jedi returned the grin, earning a playful shove from his acquaintance.
– As far as I remember, that's called "intelligence", so that's Agent Eiolu to you, Knight Le'em.
– You still remember me, – smirked Tur, lowering his gaze.
– Not that easy to forget when someone let your sorry hide linger for a while longer.
– In fact, you could have fought them off, I only lent a hand.
– Yeah, yeah, I know, Master Jedi, modest as always. So, – she sipped the neon-lime liquid from her tall glass, – I guess I don't want to know where you've been and what's going on, just as you don't want to tell.
– Lu, I –
–Chill out, big guy, I get it. Relax. I know the rules. But then, I know pretty much everything.
– You heard?
– Word goes round. These, – Lu pointed at the crowd, – are youngsters. The… ah, older generation was quite interested in your escapades. After all, a visiting Jedi and all that.
Tur fell silent. He came here to escape the past, to spend time in some numb floating nothingness where time wasn't listed among the dimensions. However, long-buried years seemed to be willing to catch up with him and have this unpleasant reunion. It wasn't as if he didn't want to chat with Lu. On the contrary, he found himself quite glad to meet her. But all of this felt wrong.
–Feeling blue again, Blue Sword? – long tattooed fingers drummed a tune on the his nearly full glass.
– Always, Lu. Never ceased to since.
The air was getting thick and uncomfortable, each breath strained and never sufficient to supply the lungs with oxygen.
– So I see, –whispered Lu, removing the straw from her drink and draining the remaining half in one gulp. Her skin got darker and she suppressed a cough, hoarsely ordering another shot.
– Why did you come here? – she turned to Tur again, gulping down another swallow.
– I thought a lot had changed, – he replied, staring absently at the swirling blue of his glass.
– So did I.
The room was hot and packed with bodies exuding more heat, burning the oxygen. Inhale, exhale. She was standing so close, leaning her elbows on the dirty table, next to him, tight clothes following every curve of her body, her breast rising and falling, her naked arms covered by intricate black ornaments. Exhale.
– But nothing has changed, Le'em. Even you must see that, as daft as you are, – Lu's voice rang hoarse and slightly bitter, like a thinnest slice of tangy lime in the cocktail, almost difficult to discern in the roaring of the bar.– Nothing has changed.
Tur suddenly felt the urge to smash the glass to Siths, spilling the liquid, to crash down the table, plunge into the maelstrom of destruction. Drawing a deep breath, he let the Force flow, relaxing as it swept over him like a cooling wave. But it wasn't a better feeling.
The Mirialan finished her drink and swept the credits across the counter.
– Lu, I'm… you don't know how this is, – Tur began, sloshing the murky blue liquid in his glass. – It's not some… spacecraft you could repair.
– Don't you think I know that already? All that time… I must have grown, – the olive-coloured woman's lips curled in a wry smile. – But it still doesn't mean things have changed.
– I wish we'd forgotten everything.
– Me too. But here we are. Running after things we won't have.
– You can have everything you run after, Agent Eiolu, – a soft mirthless chuckle escaped his lips.
– Lightening the mood? Ah, that's the Le'em I like, – Lu stretched her shoulders, determination back in her black eyes. – Friends?
– Lu, I'm –
– Hush, Le'em, – her soft finger pressed against Tur's lips, silencing him. – Let's have no more of it, agreed? Now, to more pressing matters. I sense something entirely different bothering you.
– Am I that obvious?
– Apparently inebriation affects your shields.
– Inebriation, Lu? Wherever from did you get that?
– Intelligence, Master Jedi. Same information hunter as always. My stomach's still too weak for me to get promoted to bounty hunters' ranks. Not that I want it, – Lu muttered, looking at her hands. – And you're changing the topic. So sure little Lu can't or won't help you?
– If you're better at the art of persuasion that I am, you could go with me and talk those Councillors to send a rescue mission.
– A rescue mission? – the Mirialan whistled, eyeing the ex-Jedi suspiciously. – Where to?
– Eo'ra-A.
– Ployt?
– Yeah.
– Army required? – her olive lips curled in a smile.
– Just transport. I could take it from there.
– Come on then.
– What do you mean?
– You're in luck, buddy, –Lu's black orbs twinkled with victorious exhilaration. – I can drive.
– I still don't think it's wise to return here, – muttered Lu, barely moving her lips, scanning expertly their surroundings for any suspicious sign.
– Oh, will you just relax, Miss Intelligence. It's the Jedi Temple, not one of your jobs.
– Habit, Le'em. And… – her black eyes narrowed, sizing up the outline of the grand building, – I may not be a Force-sensitive, but I've got an eye for spotting trouble. And this plan of yours is making me uneasy.
–I won't be long. Just need to pick up some things. You'll go in with me, they will let you in –
– Do you honestly think I want to get inside? – the Mirialan raised her chin, giving Tur a mockingly haughty look. – Oh, the places I've been to… You won't believe it. But seriously, I can take care of myself, there's no need for disruption. I'd better wait here.
– Fine, – the exasperated sigh contained so much hardly contained annoyance that Lu burst with laughter, and Tur couldn't hide his grin. – As long as you're here when I return. When did you get your stubbornness?
– Ah, heroes of my youth, – she made a dreamy face, gazing at the sky. – Look, – Lu grabbed Tur's wrist, pointing with her glance at the platform where a ship was landing. – Those lights. That's a sign meaning emergency.
She was right. Ahead of them people were moving frantically, the Temple entrance blocked with the commotion, healers with a stretcher rushing to the opening ramp of the spacecraft. The emergency lights blinked and died out. Someone was shouting orders. The stretcher disappeared inside the Temple, and Tur's heart sank with a heavy premonition as he noticed a salmon-coloured Mon Calamarian running towards the doors, hastily wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. The ex-Jedi berated himself for selfishness and tactlessness but the words burst out of his mouth on their own accord.
– Padawan Eerin! Bant!
The girl turned to him without stopping, sniffling and hiding her face, but the phrase she whispered made Tur's insides freeze.
– It's Master Tahl.
– Is she injured? – but the padawan had already disappeared in the building, and it was another voice that answered Tur.
– Why do you care?
– Qui, please, this is not the time, tell me –
– Why? Because I see old flames are replaceable, – the Jedi Master gestured at Lu, still clasping Tur's wrist.
– It's not like that, and you know it. Qui, I have a right to know!
– You lost it when you left her here, –Qui-Gon swallowed tightly and suddenly turned away, his shoulders slumping, and Tur stared as the Jedi unsteadily made his way to the doors like a sleepwalker, vanishing behind the closing panels.
– Tur, I should go, – the hand released his wrist and for some unknown reason he shuddered at the loss of warmth, the wind chilling him to the bone.
– No, Lu, it's alright, don't mind him –
– It's not alright, Tur, and you know it, – the Mirialan's black orbs were grave, and when she used his name Tur always understood it meant business. – Here, – a charcoal appeared out of nowhere, its cool end pressing against the skin of his palm. – That's my comm. frequency. Call me if you still need a lift.
– Right, – he sighed, tracing with his finger the elegant lines Lu had drawn on his hand. – Take care.
– You too, Le'em.
After a few paces she stopped, looking over her shoulder.
– Go! May the Force be with you, – Tur didn't have time to catch her timid smile, but the words lingered in the air, their tenderness at the same time welcome and tormenting, and he shook his head, as if coming out of a spell, rushing to the Halls of Healing. Tahl. He needed to see Tahl.
The halls felt empty as Tur walked towards the Halls of Healing, hardly restraining himself from breaking into a run, the only sounds that reached his ears being his own heartbeat and the echo of his footsteps. The Togruta padawan at the reception furrowed her brow at his request.
– I'm sorry, Master –
– Le'em.
– Master Le'em. I'm afraid I cannot divulge this information, you're not listed as Master Tahl's relative.
– He's with me, Saahta, – appearing out of nowhere, the salmon-coloured Mon Calamarian came to Tur's rescue, and the Togruta's face softened.
– Forgive me, Master, it's just meant to be confidential. I'll refer you to Master Tahl's healer, she'll be here when she can.
The Togruta left, and Tur propped his chin with his fists, leaning on the desk.
– I'm sorry for your Master, Padawan Eerin, – he knew it sounded awkward, unfeeling, formal, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere, and the oppressive silence was wearing him down.
Luckily, the girl seemed to understand him.
– It's Bant, please. And… I know you are. I think I even know how…
– Been listening to Master Jinn? – Tur snorted quietly.
–Oh, no, Master Le'em. He… he isn't that bad, actually.
– I'm aware of that, – his throat tightened, the worry getting the better of him.
– You were friends. Oh, I'm so sorry, – the Mon Calamarian suddenly squeaked, covering her mouth with her hands. – You wanted to hear about Master Tahl. I'm not a healer, but at least I could tell what I know. She was hit by a Force wave, –at Tur's incredulous stare she added hastily, – but nobody can define the source. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was just a simple mission, just supervision of an exchange of prisoners. There was one they didn't want to give away, a Rattataki, and when… she… Master T-t-tahl… reminded about the tr-truce, someone… – Bant's could no longer suppress her sobs, and Tur tentatively put his arm around her shoulders, trying to provide some comfort. – S-sorry…
– It's alright, you don't need to talk about it, I'll ask the healer, – Tur soothed, but the girl shook her head.
– No, s-s-sorry, – she sniffled, willing herself to calm down. – She – they said she'll heal. Physically. But her Force presence is scattered and it's pulling her down. She… – the Mon Calamarian's hands gripped Tur's tunic as she exhaled into the soft cloth, – she make never wake up.