Master Apprentice
Archive
|
|
|||
POETIC PROLOGUE
But these are tainted years, ours; the blood of men far away
tumbles again in the foam, the waves stain us, the moon is spattered.
These faraway agonies are our agonies
and the struggle for the oppressed is a hard vein in my nature.
Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us,
leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers
but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces...
For my part and yours, we comply, we share our hopes and winters,
and we have been wounded not only by mortal enemies
but my mortal friends (that seemed all the more bitter)...
we go on loving love and in our blunt way
we bury the liars and live among the truth-tellers.
My love, night came down, galloping over the spread of the world.
"The Watersong Ends" by Pablo Neruda
Part of Obi-Wan remembered what he had found on Tatooine, but part of him willingly forgot. His intellectual mind remembered, but his lower animal mind, which had been puzzled at that brief encounter with a man so unlike his loved Master, decided to ignore it. At times when his higher brain was not fully engaged, his animal mind misled him, as on the occasion when he returned from a mission, exhausted, and searched fruitlessly for Qui-Gon’s book of poetry to read a verse before sleeping. It had taken him more minutes than he cared to admit before he remembered: he had sent the book -- along with the saber, tunic, and braid -- to Shmi, to give to "Jon."
After Anakin had confidently assured him that the box had arrived, he had hoped to hear from Shmi. He knew better than to expect any communication from Qui-Gon himself. But time passed, and there was nothing.
She might not have given Qui-Gon any of the items. Or, if she had, Qui-Gon might not have told her what, if anything, he remembered about them. Would the brain-damaged Qui-Gon have any idea what the lightsaber was, or the long thin braid wrapped around the hilt?
Once Obi-Wan had a dream of Qui-Gon giving the items a cursory examination and then tossing them in the recycler. In his dream, he watched the unwanted gifts tumbling down an endless chute into darkness. He woke up crying.
If Qui-Gon had experienced some great recovery of his memory upon seeing the items, Obi-Wan would have heard of it, he was sure, from Anakin if not from Shmi or Qui-Gon himself. So that hadn’t occurred. He hoped at the least that the man had seen the items as evidence that someone had cared for the lost Jedi Qui-Gon Jinn -- cared enough to preserve keepsakes.
There was so little he could do for Qui-Gon, so little they shared now. Not even memories. His love for Qui-Gon had condensed down to its essence. He wanted his Master to be happy. He wanted him to know that he had been loved -- even if Qui-Gon never remembered who or when or how. He couldn’t say those things directly to Qui-Gon. The suspicious Jon would never hear it, coming from him. So he had said it indirectly, with those few last mementos that he had kept of his Master’s life.
Missions became more frequent. There was unrest in the Republic across multiple zones and systems, an inexplicable upswing in violence. The Council sensed that there was an underlying pattern, but none could deduce the source. Obi-Wan consoled himself that Tatooine was far from Republic space and unlikely to be touched by any of the dire events that concerned the Jedi.
In his increasingly few spare moments, he wondered what had become of Qui-Gon, or even if he were still alive. "Jon’s" erratic memory and hot temper could easily lead him into a fatal situation. He could only hope that Shmi’s influence outweighed Qui-Gon’s self-destructive tendencies. Surely if anything serious ever happened, Shmi would tell Anakin, and Anakin would tell him. Surely.
Perhaps in some future year, he would have an opportunity to visit Tatooine again. He had left a piece of himself on that godsforsaken rock.
POETIC INTERLUDE
...Do you want to be the lone ghost walking by the sea
blowing his pointless, disheartened instrument?
If only you would call
his drawn-out sound, his evil piping,
his melody of wounded waves,
someone would come perhaps,
someone would come,
from the crowns of the islands, up from the red sea depths
someone would come, someone indeed would come.
Someone would come, blow with fury,
That it may sound like the siren of a broken ship,
Like a lament,
Like neighing from the midst of surf and blood,
Like fierce and self-devouring waters.
"Barcarole" by Pablo Neruda
Wishes when fulfilled come with unforeseen consequences. He knew there was a Jedi aphorism to that effect.
Obi-Wan was in a starfighter on his way to Kamino when his instruments showed an urgent incoming message from the Temple. The header showed an auto-forward from his personal account.
Frowning, he played it.
Qui-Gon appeared on the small screen.
The recording said, "This is a message for Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. This is -- you know who this is. You said I should call if I ever needed anything. Now we’ll see if you meant that.
"Jabba’s discovered that there’s a group of us moving against him here in Mos Espa. An attack is imminent. We’ll fight, but you know as well as I that we can’t win if he throws the full resources of his clan against us. Not unless a miracle happens.
"I don’t mind dying myself, but there are too many others involved. These people aren’t trained fighters, and they have families, children. I need you, Kenobi. If you ever thought you owed me anything...or if I negated that by how I treated you when you were here, then think of Shmi. You know Anakin would do anything to help his mother. And, if it helps you to make your decision, consider what Anakin will think of you, if you leave his mother and friends to the Hutts."
Qui-Gon’s gaze flickered away, then back into the commscreen, as he collected himself for his closing appeal. "Please, Kenobi...Obi-Wan. I’m begging you. There’s a good chance few or none of them will survive unless someone intervenes."
The screen went blank.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and felt the small ship collapsing in on him. Why now? Why did it have to be now?
This could not have come at a worse time. It was enough to make one suspect a malevolent universe.
He held himself still, reaching for calm. He needed his best judgment, his best instincts. He could not mindlessly react out of worry and fear. Whatever happened to Qui-Gon, he could endure. After surviving his Master’s previous assumed demise, he knew he could endure anything. Qui-Gon had chosen to remain on Tatooine, outside of Obi-Wan’s reach and responsibility, refusing the help of the Jedi healers. Obi-Wan had long known that while Qui-Gon had escaped death the first time, it was probable that fate would catch up with him: either madness as his wounded mind disintegrated, or a random accident or killing as was common enough in a place like Tatooine.
No, he could not afford to spontaneously respond to Qui-Gon’s plea. His own priorities should be his current mission -- of critical importance, given recent events -- and his Padawan. The young man was on Naboo protecting Padme Naberrie, despite Obi-Wan’s protest to the Council that Anakin was not ready to take on solo missions. This news was exactly the test that Anakin did not need.
Obi-Wan thought a moment, then sent an urgent reply to Qui-Gon. He had no idea if it would be received it in time, but he sent it anyway:
"Jon, I’ll be there as soon as I can, but it won’t be immediately. Delay a confrontation if you can -- leave the city, hide in the desert, go offworld, whatever it takes. I’ll get there, I promise. Just, please, please, protect yourselves. This cause is not worth your deaths."
And now for Anakin -- what message should he send to Anakin? Shmi might have already notified Anakin of the crisis -- but Obi-Wan wasn’t certain. Shmi would know, as Obi-Wan did, that Anakin would drop everything and run to her, if he thought she were threatened. Shmi might not want her only son to risk his life in a losing battle to protect her.
Difficult, all difficult, no matter what he chose to do.
Obi-Wan decided to wait. This was not something he wanted to share with his volatile Padawan via remote messaging. Hopefully he would have a chance to make Tatooine soon, and when he spoke to Anakin, he could give his Padawan an eyewitness account of the situation. Better Anakin stay with his current mission to protect Padme on Naboo, rather than compromise both her and his safety by abandoning the assignment.
The universe was a dangerous place. He would have to trust that Qui-Gon could take care of himself, take care of Shmi and the others. Perhaps Qui-Gon had retained enough of his Jedi skills to protect his little group. For a while.
He prayed he would not come to regret this too greatly. He already had enough regret over Qui-Gon to last a lifetime.
POETIC INTERLUDE
...I’ll tell you the news.
I lived in a suburb...
with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood...
Bandits...
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children’s blood.
"I’m Explaining a Few Things" by Pablo Neruda
After departing Kamino, Obi-Wan realized that he had a brief window for a detour to Tatooine. The homing device that he’d planted on the fleeing craft was broadcasting effectively. It might even be advisable for him to break off pursuit, to let the quarry believe that it had escaped.
He felt duty-bound to notify the Council. They were furious, if senior Jedi could be accused of such an emotion. Mace Windu snapped, "You’re delaying your pursuit?"
Obi-Wan repeated patiently, "The tracker is functioning, Masters, we can easily see him to nest. I can make Tatooine and be back to the mission before much time has passed."
"We do not approve of your decision, Knight Kenobi," said Ki-Adi-Mundi, "but we are not in a position to prevent you. You will be censured for this."
"I understand, Masters, but this is something I must do. I’ll contact you after I resume course."
Obi-Wan terminated the call and returned to his astronav calculations. If he pushed the envelope, it would save precious hours getting to and away from Tatooine.
He could tell while still in the air that the fight was over. The port traffic controller was broadcasting a recorded message saying that all landing facilities and services were temporarily closed. In his flyby, he could see large sections of Mos Espa had been destroyed, recently destroyed. A few streams of smoke still blew low over the city. The streets looked deserted.
Obi-Wan landed the small fighter in an open square. A stiff breeze threw dust into his face as he opened the canopy. He jumped down to the ground, squinting his eyes against the flying sand, and began to run.
Shmi’s shop was an empty shell filled with rubble. It had taken a direct hit from an explosive. He slowed, wondering if he should look for survivors buried in the mess, but he didn’t sense any living Force presence nearby. He kept running, on towards the Slave Quarter, dodging a small dust tornado that was spinning madly down the street. His robe flapped and twisted around him from the wind.
The Slave Quarter resembled a centuries-old ruin, although he knew this carnage had to be only days or hours past. He saw bodies lying half-under pieces of collapsed walls and ceilings. His Force sense told him that there were nothing alive in the immediate vicinity. He kept running, although he already knew what he would find.
Shmi’s house was destroyed, the upper floors caved in on the lower. Sand was drifting over the remains. He blinked furiously to clear his eyes of blown sand grains, and the tears came suspiciously quickly.
He shouted into the wind, "Shmi? Jon? Qui-Gon? Anyone here?"
No answer. He had expected none.
Despair hit him. Why was this the outcome, so often? Why did people have to die so frequently for no good reason? He tried, they all tried, but there were too many conflicts and too few Jedi. Sometimes it seemed for each person they saved, another ten, hundred, thousand people, equally deserving of protection and life, were lost. The fact that he knew a few of the victims in this instance didn’t diminish the deaths of all those he did not.
He picked his way over the broken blocks of what used to be Anakin’s childhood home, Shmi’s home, Qui-Gon’s home, looking for any sign -- of what, he wasn’t sure. The footing was unstable, chunks shifting under his feet, and he almost twisted an ankle. The kitchen table was there, its legs broken under it. Bits of droids and equipment were scattered about like metallic confetti.
"You're too late."
He whirled, saber in his hand.
Standing by the edge of the pile of rubble was an old woman buried inside layers of clothing. She had a wide hat tied onto her head with a scarf, and her bright little eyes peered out from under the brim.
"Too late," she informed him, waving an arm at the desolation. "All wrecked. Mos Espa's finished."
"What happened?" he asked.
"Jabba. Jabba the Hutt," she said with exaggerated articulation, and she spit theatrically. "All his stooges and crooks, they just up and destroyed the place. Dead people everywhere."
"Do you know what happened to Shmi Skywalker and her friend Jon?" he asked.
"Oh, sweet Shmi," cried the woman. "What an angel she was. And her boy was always so nice to me. Years and years ago when he left, he bought me a cooling unit, wasn’t that thoughtful?"
"What happened to Shmi?"
The old woman wagged a finger. "I told him that too, when he came, he asked, where's my mother? Poor boy, I had to tell him. Gone, I said." She began picking through the rubbish, looking for gods only knew what.
"You told this to whom?" he asked.
"I told you already! Shmi' s boy, when he came asking. I told him, it's Jabba that did it, that oversize worm."
"Anakin...Shmi’s boy was here?" So either Shmi or Qui-Gon must have messaged Anakin. He imagined Anakin frantically searching for his mother in this devastation.
"Are you deaf?" she said, exasperated. "What did I just tell you?"
"When? When was he here?"
"Oh, earlier," she said vaguely.
"Where did he go?"
"To Jabba’s place, to get Jabba. I told him, watch out, that Hutt's a wily one. But he rushed off. Young people never listen."
"Where is it?"
She pointed out over the skyline. "Somewhere out that-a-way. They say you can’t miss it. Big, big place. You watch yourself. That Jabba, he’s a bad fellow."
Despite his own hurry, he could not in good conscience leave an old woman alone in a war zone. "What about you? Is there anywhere you’d like to go, away from Mos Espa?" he asked.
"Go away?" she exclaimed. "Not a chance, young man. This is my home. I like it here. No, I’m staying."
One less thing for him to worry about. "Thank you," he said, and ran back towards his ship, leaving her poking through the shattered pieces that used to be a city.
POETIC INTERLUDE
If you should ask me where I’ve been all this time
I have to say, ‘Things happen.’
I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth,
on the river ruined in its own duration...
Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock
with day? Why the dark night swilling round
in our mouths? And why the dead?
should you ask me where I come from, I must talk
with broken things
with fairly painful utensils,
with great beasts turned to dust as often as not
and my afflicted heart...
I know not what to answer:
there are so many dead,
and so many dikes the red sun breached,
and so many heads battering hulls
and so many hands have closed over kisses
and so many things that I want to forget.
"There’s No Forgetting (Sonata)" by Pablo Neruda
Jabba’s headquarters was a large complex built against a rock outcropping. Obi-Wan left his ship under the overhang of a narrow wash, out of firing range from the walls, then quickly climbed the embankment. No need to hide; he wasn't afraid of Jabba. After his first encounters with Hutts at age twelve, he felt that he knew the species quite well. Hutts were depressingly predictable.
As he approached the building, it became obvious that something was wrong. His Force sense couldn't locate the mass of living beings that should be in residence. The complex felt as empty as the surrounding desert.
He reached the main door. His investigative shove pushed it open, and he saw that the locking mechanism had been severed. Not messily, as with a blaster, but neatly, as with a lightsaber. Someone with a saber had come through this entry. Anakin? Or Qui-Gon?
The entryway inside was littered with bodies, some bearing the marks of blaster fire, others lying in cauterized pieces, the result of a saber strike. Obi-wan hopped nimbly over corpses as he moved into the overarching hallway.
He followed his instincts through the passages, searching for the main set of rooms that had to be at the heart of this place. Occasionally he passed more bodies.
He entered a large columned space of irregular size and shape. Almost all the lighting was out; it was very dim. In one area there was a raised platform; from the nearby accoutrements, it looked to be a low throne for a Hutt. There were plenty of dead here too, but no person he recognized, nor were any of them Hutt. He was evaluating which of the various entries to investigate next when he heard a whirring noise.
A squatty droid rolled from the shadows into the slightly better light in the center of the vast room. It whistled at him interrogatively.
"I'm looking for a Jedi," he said in response. "Have you seen him?"
The droid gave an affirmative squeak, rotated forward slightly, and a beam of light shot from its side. A holo appeared. Anakin in miniature.
The holo spoke, and its tone was bitter. "You're too late, Master. We were both too late, thanks to you."
The holo Anakin folded his arms. "I raced here from Naboo as soon as I heard, but it was too late already. My mother said in her message that Jon had commed you earlier. How much earlier, Master? When did you hear? When were you planning to tell me?
"I can just imagine what you thought. You thought, but we have missions to attend to. You thought, the Order needs us to do our duty. You thought, Anakin doesn't need to be distracted by this right now. You thought this could wait.
"You bastard." Anakin’s tiny figure clenched its fists.
"You haven't learned anything, have you? Too little, too late. Story of your life. You always stinted your personal commitments in order to be the perfect Jedi. Oh, I’m sure you didn’t mean for this to happen, you never do, you just make one decision at a time, one more sacrifice, one more trade-off, and hope you can get away with it. Look what that’s all added up to.
"My mother is dead. And others. And Qui-Gon. How hard was it for him to overcome his hatred and call to you for help? For what good it did him. I wonder if he cursed you at the end, as I did when I saw all this. I've already paid Jabba back, but not in full, that vermin crept away like the coward he is, while I was dealing with his mercenaries. But he’ll get his. And so will you. Don’t worry, Master, I’m not threatening you. I don’t have to. The universe will even the score with you, without my help.
"And I've decided something else. I'm not going to be like you. I'm going to take care of the people I love. If I have to choose between the Order and them, I choose them. I’m taking Amidala back to Naboo, and we’re going to get married. I don’t care what you or the Order think. Throw me out if you like. That’s all right by me. If your life is the best that the Order has to offer, then I’m not sure I want to be a Jedi any more.
"So, Master, enjoy your visit to Tatooine. I’ll see you soon. We won’t speak of this. There’s no point, talking won’t change anything. But know this: I’ll never forget what you did here, or rather what you didn’t do."
The holo blinked out.
Obi-Wan stood unmoving. All dead. And Anakin had come and struck in vengeance, and put himself on the path of the Dark. Killing indiscriminately was not the way of the Jedi, regardless of the provocation. When absolutely necessary, death was dealt with intent, targeting those individuals whose elimination would most quickly bring about cessation of hostilities. This mass execution of everyone who stood in one’s way...this was butchery. This was what the Jedi were against. But it was what Anakin had done. If he asked, he was sure his Padawan would say that they had attacked him first. But that was irrelevant. Anakin was skillful enough to evade such as these, Gamorreans and Rodians and other rented thugs known for muscle and not for brains. The simple truth was that Anakin had wanted to kill them, and their resistance gave him an excuse.
So this was the outcome of his delay: Shmi dead, Qui-Gon dead, who knew how many others dead, and Anakin exposed to the Dark. Anakin was right, he thought to himself, such is your legacy, Kenobi -- then he stopped himself. Self-pity was useless. He hadn’t caused this crisis or killed these people. Even if he had rushed here straightaway, there was no guarantee that he would have been in time, or have been able to do anything other than guide a few to safety. One man, even a Jedi, could not offset an entire army of mercenaries. It was easier to kill than to succor.
He would keep telling himself that.
The droid rotated its dome and beeped expectantly. That stimulus brought him back from his reverie.
What next. He had to think what to do next.
There was nothing to do. He might as well leave. There was nothing left here for him.
But no. The last time Qui-Gon had died, when he had thought Qui-Gon had died, he had rushed off, back to his mission. Later, he had dearly regretted his haste. He would give himself time, as he should have then.
The rest of the galaxy could wait for once.
He decided to walk through the fortress to ensure there were no survivors, no one in need of assistance. That at least was a positive effort. It was what a Jedi should do.
Wandering through the maze of hallways and tunnels, he thought of burying or burning the corpses, but there were too many. The dry desert air would likely mummify them where they lay. He would leave them be.
POETIC INTERLUDE
It is difficult
to teach bones
to disappear,
to teach eyes
to close
but
we do it
unrealizing.
It was all alive,
alive, alive, alive
like a scarlet fish
but time
passed over its dark cloth
and the flash of the fish
drowned and disappeared...
It has been, it has been, and now
memories mean nothing.
Now the heavy eyelid
covers the light of the eye
and what was once living
now no longer lives;
what we were, we are not.
"Past" by Pablo Neruda
At one intersection, he thought he heard a faint sound.
It was futile to hope, he knew, but his heart speeded up. He turned in the direction of the noise. A short distance later, he heard it again. Yes, that was real. Someone, something was alive here.
He scuttled down a narrow winding metal staircase to a lower level. There were barred cells lining the walls. A dungeon of sorts. The noise was coming from the last cell. He broke into a run, and threw himself at the last set of bars, catching himself hard on his hands.
It wasn’t Qui-Gon, or Shmi. It was a thin, dirty, hollow-eyed human.
The disappointment was so crushing, it took him a moment to begin to breath again.
Limping forward, the man croaked, "Thank the gods. I thought no one would ever come. What happened?"
Obi-Wan rallied. "There was a battle. I think everyone else is dead."
"Let me out, please, let me out!"
A flash of the saber, and the door swung open. The man staggered past Obi-Wan, towards the guards’ station.
"Is there anyone else down here?" called Obi-Wan to the man’s back.
The man said something unintelligible and waved an arm.
He would check. No one should have to die down here in these cages.
Obi-Wan paced the length of the tunnels, looking into each cell. He need not have bothered. Only two were occupied, and those prisoners were already dead.
At the end of one corridor, he peered through a barred gate into what appeared to be a large, multi-story arena. The bulk of a huge creature lay like a mountain in that open space. Obi-Wan could see that the monster's head had been sliced in half, directly through the braincase. The oversize snout and teeth lay a short distance from the rest of the body. He was glad; if the beast had been alive, he would have had to decide whether to free it, kill it, or leave it to die by slow starvation. He was relieved to be spared the choice.
Back at the foot of the stairs, the freed prisoner was sitting on the floor, gulping from a jug and eating rations. He’d found food somewhere, either the guards’ private stash or the prisoner’s supply. Obi-wan started to walk past him, then stopped. He didn’t want to speak to anyone right now, or take responsibility for another being. But the Jedi in him was too strong. He suppressed a sigh and knelt down by the man. "How do you feel? Are you injured?"
Mouth full, the man shook his head, then swallowed. " ‘m all right. Just gotta eat something."
"Don’t overdo it," said Obi-Wan. "You’ll make yourself sick, and it won’t help you if you throw it all up. Are you able to get back to Mos Espa, or wherever your home is?"
The man nodded. "I can walk. Or maybe there’s a speeder somewhere. Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"I came here looking for someone, but...I was too late." On more than one count, he thought to himself.
"You said everybody was dead?"
"Yes."
"You sure?" The man wiped his face with his forearm.
"I think so. There’s no one left alive here, other than us. I’ve checked all the cells."
"What about the ones they froze?"
"Froze?" Obi-Wan asked.
"Carbonite. Jabba likes his trophies. Though from what I heard, though, the setup they’ve got here is whacked, they kill a lot of ‘em in the process. Not that it matters if all they’re going to be is wall decoration."
"Where?" Obi-Wan managed to say.
"Up there somewhere. I didn’t see it but --"
The man’s voice faded as Obi-Wan clattered up the stairs.
Back to the main room, looking frantically at the many doors. He dashed from one to the next. His Force sense told him nothing; he had to rely on his eyes, squinting in the darkness.
Finally in one corridor he saw them: series of large panels sunk into the walls, disappearing into the gloom around the curve of the hallway. Carbonite slabs, each with the outlines of a body inside. Jabba’s trophy collection.
Obi-Wan checked the panel closest to him. The embedded monitoring unit blinked an alert, indicating that the individual inside was dead.
He paced quickly and silently along the hallway, moving from shadow to shadow, looking for the one panel he thought, he hoped, to find. Counting as he passed by: two, four, six...
She was in panel eighteen.
Shmi’s profile was as solemn as it was in life. She looked thoughtful, pensive, not as though she was staring possible death in the face.
Obi-wan bent to examine the life-support panel embedded at the bottom edge of the panel.
The indicator was negative. Shmi was dead.
Oh, Anakin. I’m so sorry, my Padawan, he thought.
He considered releasing her from the carbonite, then wondered why. It was a fitting memorial. She was caught forever at the moment when she had died for something she believed in.
He wondered if Anakin had seen her. He thought not. Anakin would not have left her here like this. When he saw Anakin again, he would tell him, and let him decide if he wanted to return to Tatooine for her, or let her stay here forever, a silent watcher in a deserted fortress, victorious in death over the enemy who had been driven from his home.
He continued down the hallway.
He came to the last panel. Qui-Gon wasn’t here. He couldn’t have missed him, but he inspected each panel on the way back, just in case.
Qui-Gon must have been killed in the fighting. There was no way he would have let the Hutts take Shmi otherwise. If he wasn’t here, it must be because he wasn’t captured alive.
That was it, then. It was over.
Numbly, he retraced his steps, back through the main room, out towards the gate where he had entered the palace. It had been less than an hour since his arrival.
"Sir, wait! Wait please! Excuse me!" a voice called from back towards the core of the building. A protocol droid was skittering down the hallway, chasing him.
"What do you want?" he asked resignedly.
"Sir, my compatriot said that you were looking for the Jedi." Obi-Wan realized that ‘compatriot’ must refer to the small droid in the main room, the one who had shown him Anakin’s holo.
"Yes, but he’s already come and gone."
"Yes sir, so you won’t be wanting the other one either?"
The words pierced his brain, crystalline clear. "Which other one?"
"The one in carbonite, sir. We showed the young gentleman, but he said he was in a rush and couldn’t wait. If you’re too busy as well, sir..."
"Where? Where is he?" he demanded.
"Back in the audience hall, sir. Jabba always put the newest highlight of his collection there. With the lights out, it’s rather difficult to see...Sir, wait for me! I’m coming, sir!"
The main room again, but too many of the walls and corners invisible in the dark. The little R2 unit beeped at him. "Where is he?" Obi-Wan shouted, and the droid trundled a short distance, then clicked on a beam of light from its dome.
An opaque block against the wall was framed in the circle of illumination.
Qui-Gon was recognizable under the ropey layers of carbonite. His hands were behind him, as if they were bound. His aquiline profile and upper chest showed through the solidified drip, long loose hair marking a line from his temples to his shoulders. Along his breastbone was a vertical tube. His lightsaber, hung around his neck with a cord. Everyone knew that only Jedi wielded lightsabers. A fitting trophy indeed for an Outer Rim crimelord.
Qui-Gon was here, and Obi-Wan had almost walked away without finding him. The droid said that Anakin had seen him -- but in the holo, Anakin hadn’t mentioned Qui-Gon. Had Anakin just assumed that Obi-Wan would find him? If Obi-Wan had left unknowing, would Anakin have said anything? Or would Anakin have thought it was justice that Qui-Gon stay here entombed along with Shmi?
Before he looked at the life support settings, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The outcome would be as it was supposed to be. Perhaps Qui-Gon was finally at One with the Force, finally at peace.
The inset panel wasn’t readable. The indicator lights were malfunctioning.
He hit the sequence to begin the thawing procedure. He would have done it anyway, regardless of the lifesign reading. Just in case. It occurred to him that he had not had that "just in case" thought in regards to Shmi. His mistake. He would go back and release her, after he found out about Qui-Gon.
The carbonite began to bubble and melt. The figure inside shifted slightly, as the material around it softened. Obi-Wan caught the body as it pitched forward, lowering the limp weight to the floor.
The torso in his arms shuddered and gasped for breath.
"Easy," said Obi-Wan, trying to steady his voice, to sound reassuring. "Easy. You’ll have hibernation sickness."
Qui-Gon sprawled on his hands and knees, Obi-Wan embracing him. The big man’s naked back was bloody with bruises and torn flesh, freshly preserved by the carbonite. Rasping noises as Qui-Gon’s stiff vocal cords failed to respond properly. "Shmi," the shredded voice finally rasped, deep and hoarse.
He didn’t want to tell Qui-Gon, not yet, but he couldn’t lie. "She...she’s gone, Jon. She’s beyond all this."
"Shmi...they took her. Where is she?" Qui-Gon sounded almost hysterical. He clearly hadn’t understood Obi-Wan’s implication.
Pressed, he admitted, "She’s dead. She didn’t survive the freeze. I’m sorry."
Qui-Gon’s body sagged, then pulled away. "Where? Where is she?"
"You can’t help her. You should rest."
Abruptly Qui-Gon reversed direction and lunged at him. The strength in those shaking hands was frightening. Qui-Gon’s eyes were blank and unseeing; vision was particularly susceptible to hibernation aftereffects. "Take me to her!" he roared in Obi-Wan’s face.
"All right," Obi-Wan said. "All right. She’s nearby. Can you walk?" He doubted that Qui-Gon would permit himself to be carried.
Obi-Wan stood slowly, taking Qui-Gon with him, the bigger man’s fingers biting in Obi-Wan’s shoulders, compensating for his unreliable legs. He had done this before: he remembered all those times he had helped an injured Qui-Gon, assisting as his Master struggled to maintain his footing and his dignity. Obi-Wan tucked his shoulder under the taller man’s armpit and gripped him tightly around the back.
They made a feeble procession, step by step, Qui-Gon’s lightsaber swinging erratically, bumping their chests. The taller man’s breath rattled in his lungs. Obi-Wan wondered if Qui-Gon even knew who was holding him, or if he cared. It didn’t matter. Qui-Gon had enough grief without thinking of the Jedi who had failed him. Again.
POETIC INTERLUDE
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write for example: the night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
Through nights like this I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
That is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
"Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines" by Pablo Neruda
Clumsy, tripping over each other’s feet, they reached the slab that contained Shmi. He leaned Qui-Gon against it to free himself to bend down and activate the thaw. Qui-Gon pressed himself against the stony outlines of Shmi’s body, groping with his hands to see what his blind eyes could not.
As the carbonite melted, Qui-Gon heedlessly sunk his forearms in the liquefying ooze and pulled Shmi from the slab. Obi-Wan barely kept the two of them from crashing headlong into the floor.
Qui-Gon ran fingers along her arched neck, frantically searching for a pulse. Obi-Wan’s Force sense told him that she was gone. He said gently, "I’m sorry, but...she didn’t make it."
With a whimper that was worse than a scream, Qui-Gon crushed Shmi’s limp body to him and began rocking slowly, back and forth.
Obi-Wan put out his hand, then drew it back. He shouldn’t interrupt. He quietly drew back, giving Qui-Gon privacy for his pain. He could hear Qui-Gon sobbing, the wracked hiccups of a grown man crying.
Obi-Wan wrapped his robe around himself so tightly he could feel the cloth stretching taut across his shoulder blades. He clamped his hands on his elbows and forced himself to listen, to pay attention. A Jedi stayed in the moment and did not try to escape it because the moment was uncomfortable. He could not ease Qui-Gon’s grief. He could only show his respect for them both by witnessing.
So was this how the universe kept the balance? Shmi lost Anakin to the Jedi. The Jedi lost Qui-Gon to the unknown Dark. Shmi gained Jon, the remnant of that lost Knight. Then Jon and Anakin both lost Shmi. And through it all, himself, Obi-Wan, a bystander seemingly incapable of influencing events in any significant way.
Obi-Wan plunged into his own emotions, searching for the thing that he most feared. Was he glad that Shmi was dead? Had he hated Shmi for stealing Qui-Gon from the Order, from him, even if this Jon were only a shadow of the real Qui-Gon?
With Qui-Gon’s weeping accompanying his thoughts, he realized, no. No, he didn’t hate Shmi. What had she done, other than rescue Qui-Gon, a man she barely knew, give him care, a welcome and a home? If that kindness had transmuted into love on both sides, how could he resent that? He could mourn the lost possibilities for himself and his Master, but he had done that long before, after Qui-Gon’s assumed death. No, he felt no satisfaction, only regret. Not so much for her, although she died before her time, but for those she left behind who would feel her loss keenly. Anakin. Qui-Gon. Those two lives would be radically changed by her absence, in ways he could not begin to predict. Anakin’s commitment to the Light had already suffered. And whatever small happiness Qui-Gon had found in the aftermath of his erased Jedi existence, he had lost it now.
In the uneven lighting, Obi-Wan saw bruises and dried blood on Qui-Gon’s back. That he could help with, although it would be difficult, not to be in physical contact with the body he was trying to heal. Remembering Yoda’s oft-repeated comment that physical size and distance were an illusion, Obi-Wan summoned his energy and directed it towards the kneeling man, losing himself in trance.
Time passed.
Qui-Gon sat back on his heels, wiping his face. The movement alerted Obi-Wan and he refocused back into himself. He was weaving on his feet; in his fervor to heal, to do a small positive act in this awful situation, he had poured out more of his strength than was advisable. He took a moment to steady himself.
The hum of a lightsaber, and the upwards flash of a green blade. "NO!" shouted Obi-Wan, leaping forward --
-- and skidding to a halt at Qui-Gon’s annoyed expression.
"What in the twin hells?" demanded Qui-Gon, his right hand holding his saber, the left holding his long severed mane. The hair on the back of his head showed the angular slice of the cut. There was a faint singed smell.
"Sorry, I...wasn’t certain what you were doing."
"You thought I was suiciding," deduced Qui-Gon. "That’s my right, if I choose." He placed the bundle of hair in Shmi’s loose fist, folded those unmoving fingers around it. "She always liked my hair."
"Jon...I greatly regret what happened," said Obi-Wan.
"It should have been me," Qui-Gon said with uncanny calm.
"I understand," Obi-Wan said. "There are many of us who would make that choice, if it were permitted." He knew that Qui-Gon wouldn't hear any deeper connotation in the words. But he knew what his own statement meant. If he rather than Qui-Gon had been lost, then Anakin would have been trained by Qui-Gon and had the benefit of a more accomplished Master’s guidance. Qui-Gon would be alive and well, at home in the Temple. Those outcomes would have been worth his own premature death.
Qui-Gon’s eyes stared out into the blank wall. "I remember this place."
Of course, thought Obi-Wan, it was only a short time ago, days, hours --
As if he had heard the thought, Qui-Gon said, "Not recently. From before. Before I knew Shmi."
Shmi had suspected that Qui-Gon had been kept by Jabba. Perhaps this was a clue to what had happened to turn a Jedi Master into Jon. "What do you remember?" Obi-Wan asked.
"Not much. Dark inside and bright outside. Working. I remember cleaning, and trash. There’s a pit just outside the walls where they dump their refuse. I remember that."
There was a humming behind Obi-Wan’s eyes from his heightened prescience. Qui-Gon was concentrating on the memory -- if he pushed, if he listened closely, he might get a glimpse --
It happened easily. At some level he was still mentally in tune with Qui-Gon, enough to quickly sync with his thought patterns. Obi-Wan saw it in his own mind’s eye. Dim corridors. Armed guards. Frightened servants. Voices.
"Where’d he get to, that lazy shit? Where -- oh there you are, under the table. Get out here and get this cleaned up. Hurry or I’ll zap you one."
"Geerash, you shouldn’t zap him that often. We’re not supposed to kill him."
"Zapping won’t kill him, you coward. His brains are already so scrambled, it won’t make him any worse. Get to it, you." A kick and the thump as it made contact. "Pick that up and dump it outside. When you’re done, go unload the crates of that cargo skiff. That goddam driver says it’s not his job, so he’s just going to sit on his ass. I dunno why we still buy supplies from that prick."
"Geerash, I still don’t think you should let him go outside, or around the transports. What if he runs away?"
"Runs away where? He wouldn’t last a minute outside. He doesn’t have enough sense to come in from a sandstorm."
"But if something happens to him, we’ll get in trouble, we’re supposed --"
"Stop worrying. Nobody’s ever come looking for him yet. And if they do, we just say he’s around somewhere. This place is so huge, you could hide an army in it. Now stop complaining or I’ll make you do his job."
The vision faded, and the sight of the kneeling Qui-Gon swam back into view. The big man rolled his head, flexing his shoulders. Obi-Wan speculated that Qui-Gon was probably too numb from shock and hibernation sickness to notice any healing effect from Obi-Wan’s efforts.
"Thank the gods that Anakin wasn't here to see this," said Qui-Gon.
Obi-Wan said reluctantly, "Anakin was here."
Qui-Gon looked at him sharply. "Here? Where is he?"
"I assume he's on his way back to his mission. He arrived and left before I did. He killed most of Jabba’s minions. The rest fled."
"I'm surprised that he didn't take his mother with him," Qui-Gon murmured.
"I don't think he knew she was here, like this. This corridor is easy to miss." He didn't mention that Anakin had known of Qui-Gon's condition, and had left him.
"I can't imagine what he's feeling. But I'm sure he doesn't want condolences from me, given my role in all this."
Qui-Gon turned his gaze towards the other slabs. "Who are the rest of them?"
"You can see?" asked Obi-Wan.
"A little, it’s coming back. Who are they?"
Obi-Wan said, "I have no idea. Unlucky opponents of Jabba's. Might any of your friends be here?"
"Might be. Either way, I’ll release them. All of them."
"All?" asked Obi-Wan. That hadn’t occurred to him. Perhaps it should have. "Some of them might be very dangerous individuals. Jabba keeps unpleasant company."
"Of course all of them," said Qui-Gon irritably. "I'm not leaving anyone here, not like this. For those that are criminals, they get a reprieve. Maybe they'll take their grudges back to Jabba and save me the trouble."
A shuffling sound down the hall, and Obi-Wan put his hand on his saber hilt. False alarm: it was the released prisoner from the lower dungeon.
"Jon! Jon, is that you?" the man called.
"Dorik? So there's at least two of us. Where have you been?"
"Waiting to get fed to the household pet as part of an evening's entertainment. There were more of us, Keet and Mija and others, but...they went ahead of me. Jon is that...oh shit, Jon, it’s Shmi. Dammit, I’m sorry, Jon." Dorik patted Qui-Gon’s shoulder.
"We all lost people we loved," said Qui-Gon. "I’m not a special case. Take a look at the slabs. See if you can find any of us. I'm going to release them all, but I'd rather do the knowns before the unknowns." The man Dorik went up to one slab and said, "This looks like an Aqualish. If we --"
Obi-Wan stood to one side as if forgotten. The two men obviously knew each other well, and he had became a bystander again. His comm beeped, and he automatically replied. "Kenobi here."
"Knight Kenobi, your homing beacon has been traced to the planet Geonosis. We need you to proceed there directly." Master Windu sounded distinctly put out.
"Understood," he said quickly and killed the connection, not wanting to either acknowledge or defy the command.
Still down on his knees, Qui-Gon gave him a look both weary and sardonic. "Sounds like you have somewhere else to be." Dorik, perhaps feeling the tension, moved further down the hall, peering at the carbonite slabs.
Obi-Wan said, "I'm not leaving until I'm sure that you're all right."
"All right?" said Qui-Gon. "Listen to yourself. None of us are going to be all right, whether you're here or not. I suppose I should thank you for the rescue but I can't decide just yet if it was a blessing or a curse. But I suppose I should say thanks for stopping by. It’s what I asked you to do, after all."
"I'm sorry I didn't get here earlier." Words seemed so inadequate to his feelings. I would have given my life for yours, or for hers was closer to the truth, but sounded melodramatic even unvoiced inside his own mind.
Qui-Gon snorted. "I'm not angry, if that's what you're concerned about. Even if you’d come immediately, it wouldn’t have been in time. The attack started right after I messaged you. I didn't expect you to show up at all. You've already exceeded expectations, why not leave on a high note. You can't do anything else here."
Obi-Wan was nonplussed. He had expected anger, accusations. Instead Qui-Gon was harsh but dismissive, much as he had been towards Obi-Wan during their first encounter, back on the balcony at Shmi’s house.
Dorik bustled back from his inspection of the slabs. "Among all the others, there's three of us, Jon, and two even look like they're alive. You know, there's a lot of good stuff lying around. A few droids, various transports, weapons, odds and ends. We should get moving if we want to collect it before the scavengers show up. The other scavengers, I guess I should say."
Climbing stiffly to his feet, Qui-Gon said, "We're not scavengers. These are the spoils of war. Although I wouldn't call us victors." He turned to Obi-Wan "Goodbye, Jedi. And thanks for sending the lightsword earlier." He patted the saber hilt, still dangling around his neck. "It was useful."
"I’m glad," said Obi-Wan, wondering what Qui-Gon had thought of the other items -- the book of poetry, the datacard with its images of Obi-Wan, the singed tunics, the braid.
"What was that length of hair that came in the same box?" asked Qui-Gon, as if he had sensed Obi-Wan’s curiosity.
Obi-Wan said, "That's a Jedi Padawan’s braid. It's traditional for students to give their braid to their Master, their teacher, upon their ascension to Knighthood."
"Ah. I had no idea. Thought it was a love token or some such damn thing." Qui-Gon laughed without humor.
Daring, Obi-Wan said quietly, "It was that too."
Qui-Gon shot him a narrow, suspicious glare, very like the expression that he had seen on the man’s face during his last visit to Tatooine. That glance told Obi-Wan it was time for him to leave.
"I'll be going then," Obi-Wan said. "I would like to know how you’re doing, where you end up. If you wouldn't mind letting me know."
"No point, is there?" asked Qui-Gon rhetorically. "Shmi’s dead, Anakin's lost touch with all his old friends here. He won't care about what happens on Tatooine from here on out."
"I do," said Obi-Wan.
"Do what?"
"Care."
Qui-Gon said gruffly, "Go back to the Jedi and spare me your guilty conscience. I'm sure there's more blood on your hands than this. I already said that I don't hold you responsible. If I did, you'd be dead already." He turned to Dorik at the next slab.
This coldness wasn’t Qui-Gon’s fault, Obi-Wan knew. Qui-Gon was still trapped inside his twisted memories. He was grateful that Qui-Gon hadn’t attempted to kill him. Not that he would have succeeded, but it would have been painful and embarrassing to have been forced to incapacitate the older man right after freeing him from the carbonite.
Nothing else to do, then. Time to go.
Obi-Wan bowed to Qui-Gon’s back, said, "Be well, my Master." As the man ignored him, moving further down the call in conversation with Dorik, Obi-Wan went down on one knee beside Shmi’s body. He whispered the phrase from the Code under his breath -- "there is no death, only the Force" -- and patted her clasped hands in farewell.
An outrageous idea hit him. He glanced up -- Qui-Gon and Dorik were some paces away. Seizing the moment, he took a piece of Qui-Gon’s hair from Shmi’s grip. You won’t begrudge me this, will you? he thought. After all, you had him for the last years, and I sent all my treasures of him to you. You were a generous woman, you’ll let me keep this.
Curling the length of hair into a loop, he tucked it into his belt as he walked away.
Back on his ship on the way to Geonosis, Obi-Wan noticed that he had tracked sand into his starfighter cockpit. Tatooine was determined to follow him, in substance as in memory. He brushed a little pile of sand together, and put it into a small container in his utility belt. He might not ever return to Tatooine. He would keep these tiny particles to meditate upon, back at the Temple.
He would think later on what to do about Anakin.
POETIC INTERLUDE
Of all I have done, of all I have lost,
of all I have startlingly won
in bitter iron, in leaves, I can offer a little:
a frightened savor, a river which the feathers
of burning eagles are beginning to cover, a sulphurous
receding of petals.
I am no longer forgiven by whole salt
Or continuous bread...
I have sought and found, wearily,
under the ground, between the fearsome bodies...
Alongside the materials
for a death-agony, between knives and moons
dying nocturnally.
Now, in the midst
of unesteemed velocity, beside
wireless walls,
at the bottom bisected by terminals,
here I am with what shipwrecks stars,
vegetably, alone.
"Brussels" by Pablo Neruda
Helping the Order regroup after the carnage at Geonosis, Obi-Wan got another message from Tatooine.
He was beginning to dread messages from Tatooine.
Reflexively he ran his fingers over the bracelet on his left wrist: a woven braid of hair, no thicker than a Padawan braid. His remembrance of Qui-Gon, stolen from Shmi.
He opened the file. A young human woman appeared, nervously clasping her hands in front of her.
"Knight Kenobi, you don’t know me, but I tried to send a message to Anakin Skywalker, and it bounced back with a note from the administrator saying you should screen it first. It’s attached -- I’m hoping you’ll forward it, once you’ve heard what I have to say.
"I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Beru Lars, and I’ve been a friend of the Skywalkers for years. Shmi was almost like a second mother to me. Anakin and I weren’t that close as children -- he was always so adventurous and outgoing, and I was very shy -- but I’ve always thought of him as a friend. Ever since Owen and I moved out to our new farm, I hadn’t seen much of Shmi, but she seemed very happy with her husband Jon. I knew she’d gotten involved in politics, but I didn’t know how serious it was until the Mos Espa massacre.
"Anyway, I just wanted Anakin to know how very, very sorry I was to hear about his mother, and to tell him if he ever wants to come to Tatooine, he has a home here with us. At least for my part, I’d be glad to see him. He and Owen never really got along. Owen’s very practical, doesn’t go in for podracing and things like that.
"Well, that’s all I had to say. Please give Anakin a hug for me."
Screening his Padawan’s personal messages didn’t appeal to him, but if the Temple administrators thought he should, he would. He dutifully scanned Beru’s attachment to Anakin, and it was just as she said: an expression of sympathy.
He sent the message along. Anakin needed all the friends he could get, to help him heal after his mother’s death.
He, Obi-Wan, could do with a few supportive friends himself. But no one, other than the Council, knew about Qui-Gon / Jon. As far as the rest of the universe was concerned, Qui-Gon Jinn was dead. And as far as Qui-Gon’s memory was concerned, he, the real Obi-Wan, had never existed.
It appeared that the universe was still keeping score.
Notes on Part II: for the detail-minded, this story is in very rough agreement with canon history (from what I know). (Of course the specific circumstances are quite different.) Mos Espa was the main city of Tatooine until it fell into decline and was replaced by Mos Eisley. Part of that transition was the move of Jabba’s residence from its previous location to a new site.