Galactic Gladiators
by Lilith Sedai
FIC: Galactic Gladiators
by Lilith Sedai (cara_chapel@hotmail.com)
Series: Balance the Force - Story 1
Archive: Archive: Master/Apprentice (not transferrable)
Categories: Pre-slash, slash, angst, het, action/adventure, Qui/Obi, non-Q/O, first-time, drama, non-con, AU
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dubious consent or non-con sex, graphic violence, graphic sex, a few het sex references, and egregious abuse of Irish Gaelic. The more I write, the darker this seems to be getting.
Spoilers: At this late date, if you get spoiled for canon, it's your own fault. ;-) This story is set well before TPM canon occurs, and while it's not specifically intended to be AU, it may not be 100% consistent with all aspects of Star Wars' encyclopedic canon.
Summary: Obi-Wan, more attuned to the Unifying Force than his master, believes his nightmares may be a warning about the future. Qui-Gon, preoccupied by the Living Force, disregards the warning. Lengthy and convoluted mayhem ensues. There's a lot of plot in this one, so you should really be able to sink your claws into it... so to speak. ;-)
Feedback: It's been a long time since I've written in this fandom; I wasn't prepared for the boys to show back up and take over my life again. But I'm very glad they have, and I hope you are, too. I enjoy feedback, either on-list or off, but please know up front that I'm not particularly good at responding to it, especially when I'm consumed by RL responsibilities. If you would be offended by not receiving an in-depth response, please use your discretion. Still, there aren't a lot of Q/O people out there anymore, which increases your chances. ;-)
Intellectual property disclaimer: I grovel before the mouse. Please, don't sue. But really, Disney. You guys aren't even selling Qui or Obi merchandise anymore. Surely this little dabble in the waters, conducted purely for fun and not for profit, shouldn't constitute a significant threat to your Galactic Empire....
Acknowledgments: Thanks to Rayphile for handholding and for putting up with all these dratted Jedi. Thanks to Elycia for more handholding and for being willing to squee. Thanks to Merry Amelie for beta comments and encouragement. Thanks to Ewan McGregor for Moulin Rouge, The Pillow Book, and Velvet Goldmine, and to Liam Neeson for Rob Roy.
NOTES: I'm creating a glossary for this fic as I go; I'll include the latest version of it with the zero post for each section of the story. It contains information to help you keep track of character names, places, obscure canonical things, stuff I invented and wanted to refer to without pausing for half a page to explain, and translations of Irish Gaelic. The glossary may contain spoilers for later parts of the story.
PART I - The Dream
Obi-Wan ran, mindless, breath rasping in his lungs. He fled through razor-whip fields of moon-silvered grass, dry blades lacing ribbons of blood across his forearms, his legs, and his face. He shoved through crowds of people, hard shoulders buffeting him from his path, bruising him, knocking him to his knees, blood staining the knees of his pants and stinging on his scraped palms. He ducked away from crowds, stumbling through alleys where noxious liquids splashed underfoot and squeezed through his bare toes, where broken glass caught the streetlights in a diamond spray and stabbed agony into his feet, making him limp, his footprints bloody now, and still he ran.
He darted up a steep concrete stair, then stretched out his legs and sprinted, dredging up a last desperate burst of speed as he flew past a row of closed shops, his breath burning like white molten metal in his chest and a taste of copper souring his tongue. They were closer now, very close.
He didn't look back, because if he did, he would slow down just enough that the claws could seize him, bite through his shoulders, puncture his lungs, and drag him in so that gleaming fangs could rip his throat open to the bone. He scrambled on, his strength fading, pain lancing through his feet and his chest. There was an escape; he knew there had to be. All he had to do was find it, but his mind felt thick, sick with terror. A terrible rasp of breathy laughter, hot dank breath in his ear, and the claws closed on his shoulder, shaking him like a child's rag doll, sprawling him onto the pavement, where he screamed--
Screamed and screamed and finally jolted horribly awake, staring into the shadows of his own room, flailing clumsily for a moment at the hand on his shoulder before he understood it belonged to his master.
Qui-Gon had seated himself on the mattress calmly, unshakable, and his hands were warm and soothing as he gathered Obi-Wan in like a youngling, holding him and stroking his back silently as they waited for the adrenaline to ebb away.
"The same dream again?"
"Yes, master." Gradually Obi-Wan's shuddering subsided, and his breath began to calm in his chest, his heart slowing reluctantly, his mind struggling to throw off the shroud of the dream.
One part of his mind cataloged Qui-Gon's soothing touch, the warm strength and carefully leashed power of the arms that cradled him, but he felt so shaky it was impossible to appreciate the embrace properly. The dream still held him in its fist, and the conscious world felt thready and surreal.
"Calm yourself. Breathe, and find your center," Qui-Gon murmured, his chest a soft tenor rumble against Obi-Wan's cheek. "Let your fear dissipate into the Force."
"That's easy for you to say," Obi-Wan groused, his heart only half in the complaint, but he meant it more than he wanted to admit. The dreams seared his consciousness with a vividness that made reality feel thin and insubstantial by comparison. "What if the Force is sending me visions?"
Qui-Gon sighed almost imperceptibly, but Obi-Wan's ear rested on his master's chest, his cheek pressed against the soft inflation and deflation. It spoke of his master's uncertainty and, possibly, of worry.
"After all, the healers said the images did not seem sourced in any conscious trauma I have endured, past or present," Obi-Wan persisted. "Could it be the Force is showing me my future?"
"Or a psychic projection from a Force-sensitive in distress, an echo of a cry for help answered long ago. We must not react to fears."
"But Master, the Unifying Force is--"
"--Is usually unreliable as a guide of actions. The future is uncertain. Inhabit the moment and center yourself in the Living Force, padawan."
Obi-Wan bit back a sarcastic response; the dual nature of the Force was always a point of contention between himself and his master. Would Qui-Gon ever take his sense of the future seriously? Probably not, and though his master had a valid point about dwelling in the future distracting one from the moment, Obi-Wan was old enough now, self-confident enough, well-trained enough to believe that he might have a valid point, also, if he were ever allowed to make it heard.
His right to be treated like an adult was hard to defend, however, given that he was still sweating with the terror of a dream, and being cradled like a child.
Qui-Gon shifted to relieve a cramped leg, and his hand slid along Obi-Wan's jaw, steadying his head, rasping against the stubble of beard that had grown as he slept. Unintentionally erotic, that sensation finally penetrated the haze that surrounded the young Jedi. He could not react quickly enough to sublimate the flare of liquid heat irresistibly piercing down through his belly to his groin.
Qui-Gon remained impassive, but he smoothly lifted Obi-Wan away from his chest and helped him sit up on his own. Obi-Wan swallowed past a knot of embarrassment and frustration, then sighed deeply, trying to release the tension into the Force along with the lingering remnants of his dream, before his indiscretion could grow even more humiliating. "Or it may be a cry that needs answering now, if we knew what to do." He would need to meditate on the dream.
"Yes. Meditate on it later, to see if you can find clarity," Qui-Gon suggested. After a moment he rose, his knees crackling faintly, and stepped to the doorway. Light from the hall shone in a nimbus around his tall, muscular form, glowing in his hair, picking out highlights of burnished gold among the brown and silver mane. "But for now, dismiss it and live in the moment. Prepare yourself for the morning meal. It will be dawn soon, and for today's training, I believe you would benefit from performing a Serenity Seeking."
Obi-Wan stifled a heartfelt groan. Not again! He hated that set of exercises, and Qui-Gon knew it. "Yes, master." He carefully kept his dismay from his voice.
Qui-Gon nodded satisfaction and slipped away, and Obi-Wan drew his knees up to his chin, glad of the chance to regain his composure. The sky outside was already shading from dull black to leaden grey, the inevitable strings of air traffic slipping along computer-controlled pathways of Coruscant's commuter grid in their endless silent ballet.
In the 'fresher, he keyed the shower cubicle for a hard, needle-like spray and stepped into the steam. He turned his back against the powerful jet of hot water and sighed as it slowly began to relax muscles still drawn taut by the nightmare. He shook his head, his padawan braid snapping against the wall of the cubicle. Serenity was the single feature of the Jedi code that most challenged his abilities, and tonight he had failed not once, but twice, in his quest to achieve it.
"There is no fill-in-the-blank, there is only the Force," Obi-Wan muttered, turning so that the water cascaded down his other shoulder. "Any given emotion leads to some other emotion which leads to yet another emotion which inevitably leads to the Dark Side." The litany was maddening: predictable, over-generalized, and deliberately obtuse. How could he believe in it when he could very clearly see the Jedi around him regularly experiencing and profitably directing their emotions? How could he accept that one of the most fundamental building blocks of the sentient psyche was inevitably unwholesome and must be strictly rejected, without exception? He ducked his head under the spray and lathered his short-cropped hair.
It was like those maddening phrases taught to all the padawans, the sayings meant to take one out of oneself and thus put one at harmony with the universe. But instead of transcending his consciousness while entertaining the moment of inner silence that arose from the fact that there was no answer to questions like "What is the sound of one hand clapping," he must transcend the entire surface level of the Jedi doctrine and accept its inner contradictions. He must accept the paradox that while emotional response was inevitable and even healthy, it must be frowned upon, set aside and rationally considered, then governed in whatever way produced the most beneficial result (if one could decide what was a desirable outcome and what wasn't). He leaned his head back into the spray, rinsing, and blinked droplets out of his eyes. In his opinion, Jedi were not creatures of serenity; Jedi were creatures of powerfully controlled and selective emotion.
Saying that to anyone would probably get him in trouble-- even thinking it too loudly in the wrong company would probably earn him a thump on the shins from Yoda's gimer stick. But he had a feeling that, even so, Yoda would be pleased with his pragmatism. He could picture the little master glaring up at him after delivering the reprimand, mouth pinched as he tried not to smile, the tips of his ears giving him away in spite of himself as they lifted with amusement.
"Feel, don't think; use your instincts!" He looked down at the soap in his hand as he scrubbed his chest. That was one of his own master's favorite teachings, and contradicted all of the above quite neatly. However, Qui-Gon didn't seem to use it any more consistently than the other Jedi achieved their passionless ideal. He especially didn't use it when interacting with Obi-Wan.
Perversely, Obi-Wan decided to take that teaching as his guidance for the day. After all, he was in for a miserable morning of sorting sand and other mind-numbing tasks that some pompous old pedant centuries ago had set as the standard curriculum for soothing agitated padawans. Evidently the man had been misinformed that boredom was synonymous with serenity.
The one thing Obi-Wan knew about serenity was that it was all but impossible for him, especially where his master was concerned. He did not want to be indifferent to Qui-Gon Jinn.
He slid the soap down his body, enjoying its slickness and the silky texture of his own muscular belly. His instincts said he needed to feel, most certainly. And if he really wanted to waste time on technicalities, he could explain masturbation away quite tidily with a number of perfectly orthodox Jedi rationalizations. It would help dissipate the residual muscle tension from the nightmare, for example.
Enough effort wasted on thinking.
Obi-Wan wrapped his hand loosely around himself, cradling the soap lightly against his skin. His body obliged him enthusiastically, his cock beginning to swell and fill.
He stroked lightly, luxuriantly, watching the way the skin slid along his stiffening shaft. He hummed softly, the low sound resonating in the enclosed space. So good. He didn't get to do this often enough; most of their missions didn't provide many opportunities for private time, and despite a few secret fantasies to the contrary, he was not about to start tossing off in front of Master I-Only-Use-Mine-for-Pissing.
He smiled, tongue sliding out and licking a droplet of water from his lips. Lack of privacy was a two-edged sword, and it was one he had found as profitable as it could be frustrating. Occasional nudity was inevitable when lives were so closely intertwined, and by the Force, when it came to nudity, Qui-Gon had acres of it.
Obi-Wan purred, fingers tightening, and braced his palm against the hot, wet wall of the cubicle. Maybe he should start tossing off in front of Qui-Gon. If he did, maybe his master wouldn't be able to put him off so casually. Obi-Wan would tease him without mercy-- he would moan, like this, sliding his thumb around the tip just so, spreading the gleaming fluid that welled there. He would squeeze like that, and tilt his head back, making water from the shower send gleaming trails over his face and his throat, tracing down his chest and around his nipples.
If he did that, perhaps Qui-Gon's eyes would follow him, and Obi-Wan would know only because he glimpsed their hot gleam, likely from behind the shielding curtain of Qui-Gon's hair, but Qui-Gon would not look away. His tongue would slip out of his mouth and moisten his lower lip; perhaps his teeth would also sink into it as he watched Obi-Wan toss his head, sending a spray of water arcing gracefully from his braid.
Obi-Wan moaned and speeded his strokes, his thighs sliding together sensually as he shifted his feet. Behind his facade of carefully cultivated serenity, Qui-Gon's heart would race, and his own shaft would stiffen; he would be helpless to prevent it, captivated by the sound of Obi-Wan's quick, harsh breathing. And then Obi-Wan would moan his master's name-- the merest whisper, barely perceptible, and please--
"Please, don't---!" The claws had him, rending; they ripped through his chest, splintering his ribs, and he watched his own lung collapse as they scythed through it, seeking his beating heart--
Obi-Wan nearly shouted aloud at the unexpected intrusion into his fantasy, and his hand clenched painfully on himself. His erection withered promptly and he reeled, reaching out for balance. The door of the cubicle sprang open under his weight, and he staggered against the wall, panting, shuddering as it chilled his overheated body.
He glimpsed his own face in the steam-smeared mirror; he looked much younger than his years-- his eyes wide with terror, his lip bitten, his cheeks flushed red with the heat. Surely that had not been a dream!
Obi-Wan grimaced and steadied himself slowly, reaching out for calm, channeling away fear. It seemed Qui-Gon had not sensed his distress this time; likely Obi-Wan's self-indulgence had caused him to turn a blind psychic eye for the moment. Very well; Obi-Wan would not speak of the vision until he had more evidence to present in defense of his case.
He dried himself off and dressed swiftly, going out into the kitchen with his hair still wet. Preparing breakfast was his duty, one he enjoyed. It was not a difficult task; he would slice fruit, and they should have protein of some kind-- scrambled eggs this morning; he didn't feel like spending the extra effort on making an omelette, and the only vegetables he had on hand were dried peppers. He put the kettle on to brew some of Qui-Gon's favorite spiced tea. His master was in the shower now, and Obi-Wan timed his preparations with the ease of long practice, familiar with his master's rhythms. He served the hot eggs just as Qui-Gon stepped out to take his seat at the table.
Qui-Gon smiled at him faintly as he sat; apparently Obi-Wan's indiscreet reaction to being held and his self-pleasure in the shower were to be set aside just as firmly as his vision.
"It smells delicious." Qui-Gon began to eat absently, scanning his electronic reader and sipping his tea. Obi-Wan noted that once again, he had not trimmed his beard. The omission tickled a curl of warm sensation through Obi-Wan; he liked the sharp contrasts between polish and roughness in the big man.
"Thank you, master." He seated himself and picked up his fork. Perfectly polite, to a word, the two of them made a picture of serenity, the very model of proper Jedi.
Obi-Wan addressed his attention to his plate, but remained intensely aware of his master's presence, and he made a clandestine inventory of the familiar impressions as he ate: his master's long mane of hair, trimmed indifferently and pulled back with casual haste, always slightly unkempt, dark brown but touched with silver, now damp, hastily combed back and left to dry on its own. The untrimmed beard, not tended at all today, coarse on his neck, made Obi-Wan's mouth water with the need to nuzzle in and rub his face against its bristles.
Obi-Wan could look for hours at the way he sat with one elbow propped on the table, holding a forgotten slice of palu between his thumb and forefinger, ready to be bitten when he remembered. His hawk-like nose, broken long ago in a fight and badly set, dominated his craggy face and momentarily distracted the casual onlooker from Qui-Gon's incongruously soft, sensual mouth. His eyes, their blue deep and dark, striking, were bright with intelligence as they flickered across the screen of the reader. His cloak and tunics, as much a part of him as a second skin, were just as rough and simple as the rest of him.
His body long and broad, essentially masculine, Qui-Gon was built to a subtly larger scale than most humans, but his size never sat awkwardly on him. Jinn was more species than surname to him, Obi-Wan knew. Sometimes he wondered if all the Djinn were like his master; if they were, Force help anyone who tangled with them.
And yet, for all his outward roughness, Qui-Gon's mind was quicksilver, and his aura shone of gold and green; his spirit was the essence of calm and his words were liquid honey, always chosen with the greatest care, expressed deliberately, but lilting with the melody of his all-but-forgotten homeworld. His sense of humor was subtle and wicked. He could be as mild as milk or as harsh as stone, as tactful as the most skilled diplomat or as hard-headed and stubborn as a Corellian mud-goat. He was among the very best of the Jedi and was, as Yoda and the Council frequently complained, the least tractable.
Women frequently found Qui-Gon Jinn just as irresistible as Obi-Wan did, but Qui-Gon was oblivious to them. And to men as well, as near as Obi-Wan could tell. And most especially, Qui-Gon was oblivious to love-struck padawan learners. Obi-Wan found it excessively annoying that his master had chosen apparent asexuality as his single point of perfect orthodoxy with the will of the Council.
Feeling wry, Obi-Wan chewed his food with every outward evidence of enjoyment, but did not taste it, so lost was he in his thoughts. When Qui-Gon's comm unit chimed, it startled him, and he nearly dropped his fork. He decided he had eaten enough, so he stepped away to the sink with his plate, delicately granting his master a measure of privacy to answer the communication.
"Yes, Master Yoda." Qui-Gon paused, listening. "...I see. Of course. We will be ready at the appointed time."
An assignment, then. Typically, Qui-Gon did not reveal more until he had signed off and tucked away his communicator.
"The Serenity Seeking must be delayed. We are to be dispatched to Xinune." Qui-Gon leveled thoughtful eyes on Obi-Wan, his expression faintly speculative. "You remember King Tabare."
Of course. Obi-Wan tilted his chin, acknowledging. "We helped him negotiate a fair treaty with the Trade Federation not long after you made me your apprentice." He also remembered Tabare's son, Tiran. Tiran had been a marvelous companion for a young Jedi, and an education all to himself. Though spoiled and occasionally petulant, he had a lovely body and a passionate, engaging spirit. Between them, they had used his and Obi-Wan's spare time, while the adults conducted endless mind-numbing debates, to explore the rather decadent city of Takat. It had been Obi-Wan's first delightful foray into the wonders of common pleasure dens and fleshpots.
Qui-Gon had given Obi-Wan leave to explore with the prince, but he had not approved of having a drunken apprentice who weaved his way back to the palace long after his normal curfew, stumbling against the walls, singing loudly and off-key. Of course, he had decreed the inevitable disciplinary training exercise the next morning. Obi-Wan chuckled ruefully to himself as he dried the plates and tucked them away. Qui-Gon was nothing if not an effective teacher. He had appeared at Obi-Wan's bedside just before dawn slanted its first rays through their opulent rooms, and relentlessly dragged his whimpering padawan from the cocoon of blankets where Obi-Wan had shrouded himself to escape the growing light.
They had spent the few hours before the day's diplomatic negotiations quite instructively. Qui-Gon decreed they would spar with training sabers, and Obi-Wan learned the absolute futility of attempting to defend against attack by a skilled opponent with his reflexive responses hopelessly sluggish due to the alcohol that lingered in his system. He could still remember the bruising thuds on his thighs and ribs as Qui-Gon's wooden blade flicked past his guard again and again, each blow driving another merciless spike into the titanic headache that already thumped remorselessly through his brain like an All-Terrain Armored Transport walker.
Though that had been punishment enough to discourage repeated drunkenness, it was only half the exercise. Struggling with more abject desperation than success to control his treacherous guts, which kept clenching with punishing cramps and nausea while they fought? That was unspeakably worse. The object lesson completely convinced Obi-Wan of the dual folly of lowering one's guard during intoxication and allowing oneself to succumb to the physically debilitating after-effects of consuming too much alcohol. He had confined himself solely to sexual excesses thereafter, unless he was safe at the Temple.
By and large, Qui-Gon had remained outwardly neutral to Obi-Wan's preferred recreational activities, other than arranging for him to attend a seminar on procreational control and warning his padawan that forming personal attachments was not the Jedi way. He needn't have worried; Tiran was a more than congenial bedmate, but Obi-Wan had never fallen in love with him, nor with any of the numerous other partners whose bodies he had shared with great enjoyment in all the years since.
Bodies were only bodies. They were pleasant enough when properly used, but only one man would ever hold Obi-Wan Kenobi's heart and soul in his keeping, and that man was indifferent to his favored status. Obi-Wan stifled a sigh.
"Tabare has requested our assistance with a personal matter, padawan," Qui-Gon continued. "While this is hardly common procedure, his close ties to Chancellor Valorum and our personal history with the family both dictate our cooperation."
Qui-Gon drummed his long, blunt fingers on the edge of the table, a rare sign of irritation. "Tiran has left his father's house and cannot be located. He and his father disagreed over an arranged marriage, designed to consolidate the family's base of power with a rival faction and assist in the preservation of peace on Xinune. Tabare hopes that you and I may find Tiran, and that we will be able to persuade him to return home and accept his intended."
Qui-Gon's eyes measured Obi-Wan narrowly as he spoke, and Obi-Wan felt himself flush slightly in spite of all he could do.
"He should not have to marry if it is not his wish." Obi-Wan kept his tone mild and unassuming.
"It is the will of his father." Qui-Gon shrugged. "It will do much to further the cause of peace."
"But at what cost to Tiran?" Obi-Wan retrieved Qui-Gon's empty plate and mug, rinsing them and tidying away the last traces of their breakfast.
"Tiran is of royal blood; his responsibilities to his people dictate that his choices are not always his own to make. It is the will of the Force that he is who he is, and he must walk the path that is set before him."
Obi-Wan knew this was so; however, he did not like it. As a Jedi, he had chosen his own path and privations; however, Tiran had been born into his responsibilities and granted no chance to choose. But this was not the proper time to debate the place of fairness within the will of the Force, and he kept his thoughts to himself.
"I wonder if your feelings are perfectly clear on this matter." Qui-Gon pressed Obi-Wan patiently.
"I'm not jealous of Tiran's marriage plans, if that's what you're asking." Obi-Wan stepped around Qui-Gon's chair and into his room, pulling out his travel pack, pondering his selection of clothing and equipment.
"You could be instrumental in persuading Tiran to accept his destiny." Qui-Gon leaned his long, rangy body against the doorframe, watching Obi-Wan. "If you have developed an attachment--"
"My forbidden attachment to Tiran is limited to a rather shallow, if cordial, friendship, I'm afraid. Hardly a debilitating passion." Obi-Wan managed not to roll his eyes. At times like these, the minute scrutiny to which his emotional state was subjected nearly drove him mad, though he knew Qui-Gon meant well. A wistful heart might read Qui-Gon's persistence as jealousy, but such a thing was unlikely. Of course, even if it were true, Obi-Wan would not know. Qui-Gon Jinn was legendary among the Jedi for more than his skills with a lightsaber-- he was also unsurpassed in the art of reading subtle emotional cues in others, and in the practice of concealing his own.
Obi-Wan knew from long experience the pointlessness of the attempt to penetrate his master's calm facade, but he glanced sidelong at Qui-Gon anyway. Sometimes a visible effort to conceal was a clue of its own. Sure enough, his master's body betrayed a subtle message that he was effacing something-- Qui-Gon's arms were folded, though he wore the mantle of calm like a cloak. Unfortunately, Obi-Wan had no idea what that oh-so-placid look concealed.
Qui-Gon offered no further comment, but did not withdraw; when he did not speak again, Obi-Wan turned back to his pack and resumed sorting his travel gear. "When is our presence required?"
"A transport will wait for us on landing platform six in two hours." Qui-Gon was still watching him, implacable; his impassive regard very nearly made a spot between Obi-Wan's shoulder-blades itch.
"I shall meet you there." Obi-Wan made the implicit request for solitude polite, but firm, reaching into his closet to select from his small collection of civilian garments.
After a moment he felt the itch dissipate, and when he looked up again, Qui-Gon had gone.
Obi-Wan arrived punctually at the landing platform, as was his custom; the transport had just begun to settle, engines roaring and servomotors whining as it extended its landing claws. The long hatch ramp began to whine its way down even before it touched the platform. Qui-Gon was nowhere to be seen, but even as the transport touched down, boarding ramp grounding itself with a shuddering thump, he arrived from within the Temple with his pack slung casually over his arm.
Though the Jedi master seemed unhurried, his long legs only took a few strides to cover the distance between the lift and the ramp. Obi-Wan fell in behind him as he boarded, idly watching the hot exhaust currents flip his master's hair around his shoulders. Two more people trotted with puffing haste in Qui-Gon's long-limbed wake, Temple staff in their simple tunics, pushing a repulsorlift bearing a large and sturdy crate. Obi-Wan stepped up beside his master, raising a questioning brow as they directed the crate onto the ship and disappeared toward the hold.
"What in the world is that?" But even as he spoke, the truth struck him, and the corners of Qui-Gon's mouth lifted in spite of itself, and the Jedi Master's eyes danced with mischief. Qui-Gon grinned at him, and he groaned aloud. Of course. Sand, for the Serenity Seeking. It was going to be a long journey.
Three days later Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan arrived on Xinune, and were swiftly escorted through Takat to the palace.
They were assigned sumptuous quarters, and as Qui-Gon expected, they had hardly walked through the door when Obi-Wan kicked off his boots and flopped wearily onto one luscious, wide bed, festooned with brightly embroidered pillows and soft fluffy coverlets.
"It feels like falling into a cloud," Obi-Wan groaned, and he rolled over onto his back, eyes closed in bliss. Qui-Gon halted in the doorway to the bedchamber and held himself absolutely still, only his eyes moving as he beheld the vision before him, listening to Obi-Wan groan out loud at the sheer pleasure of clean, soft bedding. Too often, the best available bed for a Jedi was oozing swamp mud or chilly steel deck plates.
"Comfortable?" Qui-Gon made sure his voice was jovial. In truth, it wasn't difficult to do; his padawan was beautiful, and Obi-Wan had performed very satisfactorily in his duties on the way to Xinune, despite his complaints.
"It's better than sand." Obi-Wan groaned. "Sometimes I think you'd like to see me buried in a desert for the rest of my days!"
Qui-Gon felt the corners of his lips twitch, and he allowed himself to experience a distinct sense of satisfaction. When Obi-Wan mastered coarse sand, he planned to start drilling the lad with particles of smoke.
Obi-Wan cracked open one eye, looking at him suspiciously. "I never want to see sand again, not even on a tropical beach."
Qui-Gon arched a brow at him, unable to suppress the faint smile that played on his lips. "If you don't practice, how will you improve your mastery of serenity?" It was easy for Qui-Gon to see that the finite limitations on his skill irked and frustrated Obi-Wan. "Lifting ten thousand grains at once and controlling each individually to move it into an orderly pattern is quite a respectable accomplishment for a padawan of your years."
Obi-Wan opened the other eye, narrowing them to glint at him dangerously. "When you can lift hundreds of thousands and make moving mandalas, in color?" He ran a hand idly down his chest to his belly and back up to press the flattened palm over one nipple.
After a moment's contemplation, Qui-Gon judged the movement an innocent one. Fortunately for their training relationship, Obi-Wan had never pressed the issue of his growing desires. It was torment enough resisting the lad, even without an overt attempt at seduction. Qui-Gon's earnest hope was to evade the issue indefinitely.
"That's the difference between being a Jedi Padawan and being a Jedi Master," Qui-Gon responded, ignoring the sensual gesture. "Discipline and experience, serenity and fine control." He narrowed his own eyes, holding Obi-Wan's gaze to be certain his apprentice was paying attention. "I have spent many decades, beginning long before you were born, honing the control it takes to channel my energies in harmony with the Living Force. To achieve control of the world outside yourself, you must govern the world within, accept the energies inside you, and choose to channel them productively. The more of your focus and energy you devote to the Force, the more your skills will grow."
"If you follow that train of logic to its ultimate conclusion, sitting still and never moving again, focusing your entire being on the Force, would make you all-powerful." Obi-Wan's tone was dismissive, and he drew up one knee, his eyes wandering up to study the lacquered patterns of the ceiling.
"Some Jedi have made that choice, and passed into the Force accordingly. At one with the Force, they are indeed all-powerful." His thought trailed away as Obi-Wan unhooked his belt and began shouldering out of his tunic.
"All powerful and quite dead, into the bargain," Obi-Wan pointed out, voice muffled behind a tangle of cream-colored cloth. He tossed it lazily at the floor and lay back again, hooking one thumb into the waistband of his leggings in a way that made Qui-Gon's mouth go dry. He was both maddeningly beautiful and perfectly oblivious to the threat he posed to Qui-Gon's control! So very, very young, still burdened with all the fire and passion that marked the turbulent span of adolescence, he was not yet capable of understanding Qui-Gon's position and his choices.
Bared except for leggings, Obi-Wan squirmed against the silk coverlet and sighed with blatant hedonism at the sensation of the fabric against his skin. Qui-Gon did not betray himself with so much as a flicker of expression, but let it all wash over him like water over stone. Obi-Wan must believe him quite bloodless if they were to survive this... phase... intact.
"Abnegation of self through meditation is a course of action that I do not condone at present," he agreed easily. "And yet, if you would grow to be a great Jedi, more of your focus is required." Exercising considerable restraint, he did not point out that many of the greatest Jedi warriors, philosophers, and peacekeepers had chosen a path of celibacy, channeling their sexual energy and using it to facilitate their greatest works of mind and body.
Obi-Wan had not Qui-Gon's skill with masking his temper; visibly nettled at the implication that he had insufficient focus, he let his lips pinch tight.
Before his apprentice could settle on a sally designed to prolong their verbal sparring and inadvertently obligate Qui-Gon to continue watching him molest the bedding, the Jedi Master levitated his apprentice's pack over to the bed and dropped it onto his belly, provoking a muffled "oof!" and a glare.
"I saw that you selected clothing appropriate for undercover operations in the city," Qui-Gon stated calmly, lightly passing over more accurate descriptions for the outfits Obi-Wan had concealed in his pack-- though the term cat in heat sprang to mind. "We should start the search as soon as possible, but the King will want to consult with us when he learns we have arrived."
"Yes, master." Spurred to action, Obi-Wan launched himself out of bed and began digging in his pack. Qui-Gon, all too aware that his apprentice felt no shame in baring his fine young body to change clothes in front of his master, decided discretion was the better part of valor, and slipped out.
He did not need to see Obi-Wan's flesh to be tempted by it. Every golden-ivory inch of his padawan's lean, tight-muscled form was already branded on Qui-Gon Jinn's inner eye; it was a sculpture he daily helped his padawan tend. And while lust was Obi-Wan's most obvious weapon, it was also his weakest, when it came to an assault on his master. Far more dangerous was Qui-Gon's own very natural regard for his padawan learner-- the bonds of respect and affection that arose and deepened whenever humans of compatible temperament associated closely together over time. Those powerful connections could not be purged, not with self-pleasure, which Qui-Gon did not indulge, nor even with deep meditation and the aid of the Force. They simply were, and must be accepted and, as Obi-Wan himself would agree, directed productively.
Obi-Wan and his master merely had very different ideas of what productivity entailed.
Qui-Gon trailed his fingertips thoughtfully over the silken coverlets of the bed in his own chamber. It would indeed be comfortable-- almost sinfully so. And though his slowly aging bones would gratefully welcome a soft, warm bed, he rather believed Obi-Wan would benefit from an object lesson in asceticism. His own cloak would be his only bed, and though it was not as decadent and sumptuous as the one provided, it would still be far superior to many he had endured as a field operative. The thick pile of the carpet and the well-heated air were luxuries enough.
He laid his cloak out next to the wall and put his pack beside it. Half a dozen mirrors hung on the walls, and he caught sight of himself in one briefly as he worked. He dismissed the image just as rapidly. Appearances were unimportant.
A whisper of sound behind him announced Obi-Wan's presence; he turned and found his padawan waiting in the doorway. Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon's simple pallet and chuckled wryly to himself, but did not comment. Qui-Gon immediately noted that Obi-Wan wore his usual cloak, but had changed the clothing he wore beneath it. Qui-Gon studied him for a moment; he wore black under the robe, a lustrous gleam visible in a narrow strip through the cloak's parted front-- the smooth hide of some hapless beast, well-tanned and sumptuous. Soft suede boots peeked out from the hem.
Qui-Gon realized he was perilously close to staring. He turned away, experiencing a moment's remorse to realize that, while his own appearance mattered little to him, Obi-Wan's evidently mattered a good deal more. He filed the inconsistency away for future meditation and straightened his spine. Obi-Wan stood aside for him to pass, and they strode out together to meet the king.
Tabare had not changed much. His paunch had expanded slightly and his hair was visibly thinning on top, but his glittering eyes were still keen with intelligence and his beringed fingers were deft and decisive on the keyboard of the comm panel that swiveled in front of his throne.
"Master Jinn. Padawan Kenobi. Be welcome! I trust that your rooms are to your liking." He clasped each of their hands in turn, and Qui-Gon observed that the wrinkles around his eyes were deeper, the tension in his expression hinting at sleepless nights of worry.
"Quite." Qui-Gon bowed. "We are grateful for your hospitality. What information do you have for us concerning your son?"
"Tiran vanished at the start of the lunar cycle, a day before the formal announcement of his betrothal was to be made public. His rooms were undisturbed except for the removal of several prized possessions-- his comm pad, family holos, a sum of credits adequate to provide for him through a prolonged absence, some clothing." Tabare shook his head ruefully. "We disagreed, of course, about the marriage. Our final conversation was quite confrontational. But that is in the report you should already have seen."
Qui-Gon nodded. "What additional information have you gathered?"
"He hasn't returned to the palace, and there's no sign of him in his favorite haunts. At least, not the ones I know about." Tabare tried to minimize his display of anxiety, but his face grew even more haggard, and he wrung his hands, twisting the ruby ring on one forefinger. "I've worked the palace guards and the local enforcement agents as hard as I dared, but there's no sign. He hasn't used his comm key codes or his credit vouchers or left any other electronic imprint-- no record of him on any palm locks or voice identification sensors, and computer scans don't turn up his face on any public surveillance media."
"In other words, Master Jinn, I have no information. He might have left the planet that first night, but if he did so, no port security device recorded his activity. And if he did so afterward, he was well-concealed. All extra-planetary craft have been scanned and anomalous readings investigated before they were granted permission for liftoff. I've had his friends watched, and no leads have emerged. It is as if he simply ceased to exist." Tabare's voice trembled, and the flow of words ceased.
"May we see his rooms?" Qui-Gon inquired. "We may be able to pick up traces of his aura in the Force."
"Certainly." Tabare withdrew an access key from his voluminous sleeve. "I left them undisturbed after our initial search. He's stubborn; I feared it might come to this." He led them down a long corridor, their feet tapping on slick marble floors and echoing in the high-vaulted ceilings. "I'm not insensible of the honor your presence does me, Master Jinn. The Jedi are kind to indulge an old man who is afraid for his only son."
"The Jedi live to serve, Your Majesty," Qui-Gon said smoothly.
Tabare eventually halted before an ornate door, its rich wooden panels inlaid with deep blood-red gems and gold leaf. Qui-Gon stood aside when it opened, and Obi-Wan took his cue. He walked inside alone, pulling back his hood to better extend his senses. Qui-Gon reached and closed the door behind him, shutting himself and the King out in the hall.
"My padawan's prior dealings with your son should increase his sensitivity to Tiran's Force aura," Qui-Gon explained. "I barely knew your son, but Obi-Wan and he were... quite closely associated."
Tabare chuckled ruefully. "I remember. Tiran was inconsolable when you departed. He moped about the palace for weeks." Tabare studied Qui-Gon for a moment, visibly considering his next remark. "That's why I asked for you specifically. Tiran prefers the company of other men. I believe it is one factor in his rejection of his betrothal. I hope it is also a factor that will prompt him to reveal his whereabouts to Padawan Kenobi."
Qui-Gon nodded. "That is my hope as well, I must con--" A cry, barely audible through the heavy wooden door, froze the words in his mouth. He wrenched the portal open faster than thinking, darting through to find Obi-Wan crouched on the floor, panting, quite alone.
"Padawan!" Qui-Gon called, truly alarmed; Obi-Wan's emotions were a twisted jumble of terror and pain, and he flinched away from Qui-Gon instinctively, rolling to his feet and tensing to fight, his eyes glittering with terror for a long moment before his shoulders slumped and he let his arms fall.
Tabare stood blinking at them both from the doorway, distressed; Qui-Gon raised a hand, palm out, to warn him to stay as he was, then ignored him and stepped forward, pressing the other against Obi-Wan's forehead. Claws. Blood.
"The nightmare," Qui-Gon realized.
"More of a daymare this time." Obi-Wan tilted his head at the window, where half the planetary star still hovered above the horizon.
Qui-Gon frowned, troubled; his Force sense clamored warning at him, and he forced himself to settle into the moment. "What happened?"
"I put myself in a meditative trance to reach out for Tiran's trail," Obi-Wan confessed reluctantly. His blue eyes rose somewhat guiltily to Qui-Gon's. "Instead, the vision came."
"I thought this was behind us. Is this the first time since the nightmare we discussed on Coruscant?" That guilty look said it was not. "You've concealed it from me?"
"You believed it was unimportant, Master." Obi-Wan straightened with simple dignity.
"I may have been mistaken." Qui-Gon suppressed annoyance, both with Obi-Wan and with himself. "When has it come?"
"In the shower, the morning after the dream," Obi-Wan admitted reluctantly. "I wasn't meditating, but I was... distracted."
Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh, knowing full well what had preoccupied his padawan. "And other times?"
"Once, on the transport. I was in deep meditation, counting sand, and I was able to break the vision and recover, though I had to restart my count. You were displeased with how long it took me to finish, if you recall."
"You should have spoken," Qui-Gon admonished him, frowning. His intent to inquire after Obi-Wan's meditations on the meaning of the dream had slipped his mind. His lapse was unpardonable.
"Forgive me, my master." Obi-Wan cast his eyes down to the floor.
Qui-Gon considered his padawan for a moment, and judged Obi-Wan's shame was punishment enough for his silence. "Forgive me, as well. Let us try together to seek Tiran's presence. I will assist you. Should this... vision... return, I want to know immediately."
Obi-Wan acquiesced, lifting his chin and composing himself for a shared trance; Qui-Gon hesitated minutely. More than three years past, he had begun to avoid unnecessary mental contact with Obi-Wan. He could set aside his apprentice's feelings, but he had no wish to provide Obi-Wan access to his own unsettled emotions through imprudent telepathic intimacy. Still, this nightmare worried him, and he would not risk further neglect of his padawan's psychic safety.
Qui-Gon prepared himself with some care, then lifted his hand lightly to Obi-Wan's face and closed his eyes, cautiously merging his consciousness with Obi-Wan's through their training bond.
Obi-Wan's mind and spirit were warm and familiar-- he crackled with energy, impatience, and insight. But as Qui-Gon had expected, Obi-Wan's desire for Qui-Gon was everywhere, shining brightly, surging with exuberant joy in response to his presence. Qui-Gon very nearly gasped aloud; the feelings were much stronger than the last time he and Obi-Wan had shared their thoughts. And worse, desire was not their limit.
Qui-Gon felt as though he had unwittingly seized a naked electrical cable. The sheer overwhelming force of Obi-Wan's sweetness and affection arced and snapped over him, a siren song calling inexorably to the carefully buried depths within Qui-Gon's own heart. Beckoned so intimately, Qui-Gon's suppressed emotions flared in response and built. They too were stronger than he had let himself realize, he understood with sudden dismay, threatening to overwhelm every barrier he had so carefully put in place, to explode like a supernova and reveal his love.
"Control yourself, padawan," Qui-Gon snapped, his voice tight with strain, feeling his own control rapidly slithering through his grasp, as his emotions burned away interior layers of psychic defense as though they were tissue. "Focus on the task at hand!" Exerting a titanic effort, he caught hold of the cascading reaction inside himself and swept the feelings into a tight compartment in his mind, shielding it thrice over. Force curse it, had he moved quickly enough?
It seemed he had. Embarrassment swept through Obi-Wan, a smothering blanket, and contrition followed swiftly, with resolve in its wake. Obi-Wan fed the emotions away into the Force, and mercifully, the overwhelming electricity went with them.
"I am sorry, master." Obi-Wan cast out clumsily, redirecting his focus toward Tiran.
Qui-Gon reached out for calm; found barely enough to compose himself, and nurtured it until it grew, then expanded the energy to include Obi-Wan, encouraging his padawan's attempts to reach serenity and soothing the tangle of energy their connection had provoked within the Force.
It took time to center and find a meditative trance, and longer still to soothe the chaotic ripples the explosive contact had created in the Unifying Force. Qui-Gon wondered if they had damaged the faint traces of Tiran's psychic resonance beyond repair, but even as he began to despair, Obi-Wan's keener sense of the prince curled around a tendril of Force and pursued it.
"He was frightened, angry." Obi-Wan spoke, his voice low and throaty. "He did not mean to return here." Obi-Wan pulled toward the window and Qui-Gon trailed him, maintaining their connection, working to channel energy and amplify Obi-Wan's own natural abilities. "He gathered his belongings, then stood here until he saw-- a signal? A person? Something. Then he went out." Obi-Wan's eyes opened and looked straight into Qui-Gon's; a flush rose in his cheeks and he looked away. "He meant to go to a nightclub. I think I know which one."
Qui-Gon tucked his arms inside his sleeves. Obi-Wan's eyes flickered down, noting it, and he realized the gesture had inadvertently betrayed some fraction of his unease. Obi-Wan's eyes returned to his and hesitated there a second too long, a faint line forming between his brows. A curious expression, almost calculating, gleamed in the blue-laser depths of his eyes, but after a pause he released Qui-Gon's gaze and moved away, turning to Tabare. Slowly, Qui-Gon exhaled a breath he had hardly been aware of holding.
"Your Majesty, the trail is cold, but I can follow it. May I have your permission to investigate, beginning at the Blue Bantha nightclub?"
The King nodded eagerly, and Qui-Gon gestured Obi-Wan to precede him as they left the rooms. As he did, his Force sense murmured, twining soft tendrils of warning: danger still gathered. Perhaps it was associated with the dream; perhaps it was not.
"Shall I accompany you, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon murmured on impulse, stepping near to his apprentice's shoulder.
Obi-Wan's eyes darted a glance at him, flashing up and down, and a wry smile curled the corner of his mouth. "Qui-Gon, the Blue Bantha is a specialty club. You would stand out like a Tusken raider in a crowd of Jawas."
Qui-Gon pursed his lips; he didn't like that comparison even a little. "I could obtain the proper clothing."
"So you could. You would still stand out. Besides, there may be no time for delay, and I'll need the flexibility afforded by operating alone." Obi-Wan's eyes were opaque, though his expression seemed polite enough.
"Very well, then." Qui-Gon acquiesced with ill grace. "But if you should experience a return of the vision, or if you sense danger, I want you to pull back and call for me. I'll be waiting."
"I will," Obi-Wan promised. "Count on it."
They arrived at the kitchens after winding through a maze of hallways and levels. Bypassing ovens and storerooms, Tabare led them to the servants' exit. Obi-Wan shouldered out of his demure, concealing Jedi cloak and passed it to Qui-Gon. He had dressed entirely in sleek black leather, tailored into an open sleeveless vest, a loose silver-studded utility belt, and a pair of breeches that might as well have been painted onto him, revealing every ripple and curve of muscle he possessed-- and more. Qui-Gon blinked in spite of himself; Obi-Wan looked dangerous, almost feral, and something about the boots he wore rendered his stride predatory, eloquent of smoldering sex.
Obi-Wan looked back only once, his hand on the door. "You're staring, master." His lips curved in an inexpressibly mischievous smile. Qui-Gon jerked his eyes to his padawan's and drew back, feeling his cheeks heat with a blush for the first time in decades. He folded his arms protectively over his chest. Obi-Wan raised both brows in astonishment at this, and Qui-Gon could have cursed. Too late, he forced them to lower to his sides. Incredibly, insolently, Obi-Wan winked at him, and then he was gone, strutting out into the night, his lightsaber gleaming from a sheath fastened low at his hip.
"Well. That was an... unexpected transformation." Tabare latched the door and stepped back, hesitating, at something of a loss. "And now, I suppose, we wait."
"Indeed." Qui-Gon inclined his head. "Lay your fears to rest, Your Majesty; Obi-Wan is quite capable." Of precisely what, he would not care to speculate-- not after that performance. He shook himself out of his momentary confusion. "Nevertheless, he is my responsibility, and he is not yet a Knight. Please hold a transport in readiness for me, in case he calls for aid."
"A speeder bike will be waiting on the private landing pad just beyond the balcony of your rooms."
"Then I'll retire there and rest. I'll report to you when we have new information to share." He went straight to his rooms, but did not lie down on the pallet he had prepared for himself; instead he folded his legs and sank down to meditate, seeking his center. The day had been filled with disturbing events that he must reconcile with the Force. And then what he must do remained to be seen.
Obi-Wan strode away from the castle crisply, flagging a taxi to take him to the club district in the city center. His instincts were yammering at him, insistent; something was amiss with his master. Qui-Gon's reaction to touching Obi-Wan's mind had been as interesting as it was unexpected. Even a Force-blind nerf-herder would have felt the volcanic swell of... some titanic reaction, abruptly confined and locked away. Qui-Gon's distraction had prompted Obi-Wan to goad him at the door... but realistically, the incidents augured nothing good. Probably Qui-Gon was about to lose his long-held patience with his apprentice's unwanted feelings. Obi-Wan sighed.
The trip was short and uneventful, and Obi-Wan was glad to leave his depressing thoughts behind him. He paid the cabbie and got out in front of the club, using a touch of Force here and there to facilitate a little convenient line-hopping.
The Blue Bantha had not changed significantly since he last visited Takat. He still had to use a mind trick on the bouncer to get in; it wouldn't do to show his real identification even now that he was of age to enter legally. Inside, the club still reeked of alcohol, the smoke from half a dozen exotic intoxicants, and overheated bodies. The clientele were still exclusively young males, nearly all of them humanoids. Many were dancing to a frenzied beat that had been amplified to a volume that made Obi-Wan's flesh vibrate on his bones and shook a fine haze of dust down from the walls and ceiling.
Eyes turned to follow Obi-Wan as he made his way to the bar. Some gleamed with appreciation, some with jealousy, others with frank lust. Obi-Wan made a point of meeting those gazes with flirtation, cool challenge, or outright threat, as necessary-- some of that lust was responding to his air of comfortable wealth rather than to his good looks.
He ordered a bottle of dark, stout ale and turned to face the room, scanning the crowd lazily, as though seeking a hookup for the night. The Force swirled through the building in muddy, confused eddies, disturbed by the raw aggregate of emotion in the place, both positive and negative. It was hard to find clarity and focus on a single point to follow. Any traces of Tiran had been dissipated long ago by the violent flows.
Waiting for the Force to guide him, Obi-Wan tipped the bottle to his lips and swallowed for show, though he let none of it enter his mouth. It was a pity he had business to attend; he didn't have a chance at leisure very often, and since he had spent the past days bunking in a room with his master, it had been a long time since he tended to his body's needs.
Setting his cap to wait for Qui-Gon was pointless.
Obi-Wan smirked wryly. He and the other padawans used to joke about it; it was common among the Jedi for apprentices to develop crushes on their masters, and he and his friends used to work out their sexual frustrations by one-upping one another, speculating on what it would take to get their masters to succumb to a seduction. The rules of the game were simple and juvenile: you began by saying "My master wouldn't fuck me even if..." After that, it became a competition to see who could come up with the most extreme set of conditions. What had Obi-Wan said? He could recall the scene as if he were still there, Bant and Reeft and Garen all sitting on pillows in front of the couch in Master Tahl's quarters, half-drunk and laughing.
"My master wouldn't fuck me even if he'd lusted after me since the moment we first met, if I stuffed him to the ears with the galaxy's most potent aphrodisiacs, if he learned he had to fuck me or we'd both turn to the Dark Side and die, and if he knew that only by fucking me could he save the entire universe from extinction. He wouldn't do it even then, not even if you offered me up to him on a golden platter, naked, tied up, pre-lubricated, begging for it, surrounded with marital aids, and if his only other choice was having sex ten times a day for the rest of his life with Yoda. On top," Obi-Wan murmured with a rueful laugh. That was it; that one had trumped all the others. His friends had laughed too, but agreed emphatically. Though they all hastened to assure Obi-Wan he was very desirable, Qui-Gon's control and his cool reserve were legendary.
"No, thank you," Obi-Wan murmured to a young man who undulated up against him briefly, whispering a husky invitation to dance. "Perhaps later." He remained where he was, gazing around the room, the bottle cold in his palm.
Rumor among the padawans had it that Obi-Wan's master was actually a virgin. Obi-Wan thought it might easily be true. His friend Bant was Master Tahl's padawan, and had confided in Obi-Wan that as part of Bant's sexuality training, Tahl had disclosed her own personal choices and the reasoning behind them. It seemed Tahl and Qui-Gon had considered becoming involved when they were new knights, and instead they had chosen celibacy and separation as the better way to serve the will of the Force.
Obi-Wan shook his head. It wasn't a path he would ever want to choose for himself, but his own observations indicated that Qui-Gon never returned the slightest sexual interest to anyone, disregarding overtures with as much diplomatic tact or cold bluntness as he judged the situation required-- even using a mind trick, if necessary. Maybe he was still in love with Tahl and simply had no intention of doing anything about it. He certainly showed no intentions of doing anything about Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan pretended to take another swig of his ale. The Force still swirled without leading him forward, but he could feel clarity hovering just outside the corner of his mind, and knew his patience should be rewarded soon. He settled in to wait, letting his mind drift.
Of course, Qui-Gon's possible virginity had inspired Obi-Wan's feverish adolescent fantasies to dizzying heights. He couldn't restrain a wry smirk just thinking of them: the passionate student transformed into the wise and gentle teacher, the tables turned in every possible way, he had envisioned a thousand and one tantalizing possibilities for tender victory, and even for bitter loss-- if they were losses that meant he first got to sample the pleasures Qui-Gon denied to everyone else, of course. They were only fantasies, but Obi-Wan was a realist, and even in his dreams, he knew that heartbreak was more likely than fulfillment.
He had grown older, as all the padawans had, and as several of the masters had gently predicted, the padawans all moved on-- except for Obi-Wan. His interest in Qui-Gon had never faded. Instead, it strengthened. Where once he had felt awe and lust, now Obi-Wan also felt respect, desire, deep affection, and more love than he sometimes believed he could contain.
The Force tickled lightly at his mind, and he realized a pattern of motion kept drawing his gaze. Breaking out of his reverie, he watched several men who had congregated around a booth cut into the wall of the club, near the north rear corner. He slowly became aware that the activity there was not the same simple, random ebb and flow the rest of the clientele displayed; one man reclined at the table and formed the nucleus of a definite organization. No more than two or three other people were present there at any given time, but at least half a dozen men were using it as a base for their activities in the club.
The single man who kept his seat at all times spoke to each of his companions, and then one of the other sitting men would go out to radiate through the area, often on the dance floor-- focusing on young men who, like Obi-Wan, were alone. The man would speak to a boy, perhaps two or three, but they did not dance, they did not come to the bar, and the men did not go with anyone up to the privacy cubicles located discreetly on the second floor. Instead, each man would return to the table, only to go out again when his turn came.
As Obi-Wan watched, he realized something else: the boys the men spoke to were going up to the privacy cubicles alone, and not all of them returned. When the insight formed, unease pulsed along the surface of the Unifying Force, and he could almost see the seething ultraviolet tendrils of darkness. Something distinctly unpleasant was happening.
Time to investigate more closely.
Obi-Wan pushed away from the bar, abandoning the fast-warming ale, and strode out onto the dance floor. Maybe one of the men would come to him.
The music pulsed at him, insistent, and he started to move, falling in with the crowd. Sweat-slick limbs and swaying hips buffeted him; hot eyes met his, and he let propriety slip away, reaching for abandon and finding it in the frenetic pulse of the beat. No measured, formal katas here-- just primal rhythm and thrusting motion, instinct and heat. Soon sweat slicked his chest and spiked his hair, whipping from his braid. Transcendent, this-- the opposite of serenity, connection to the Living Force through passion and sex and desperation and lust.
Outwardly lost in the rhythm, he coolly tracked the purposeful men as they ranged about the club. One was watching him; he could feel the prickle of awareness in the Force, and he let the press of bodies shift him in that direction. The man caught his eye, smiled, and approached. His hand was cool on Obi-Wan's sweating shoulder, and Obi-Wan could smell something sweet and cloying-- cologne?-- wafting from his body before the cacophony of odors in the club overwhelmed it and carried it away.
"You're too pretty to be all alone. " Manicured fingers slipped into a shirt pocket and Obi-Wan glimpsed a fat roll of credits as the man drew out a card, extending it to Obi-Wan between two fingers, smiling a smile of silk and promise. "Meet me upstairs for a drink?"
Obi-Wan smiled greedily at the sight of the money. "By all means." He accepted the card, which had a number written on it, and the man slid away. Classic bait and switch, but the comforting weight of his lightsaber still hung at his hip, and Obi-Wan approached the stair with confidence.
He climbed past giggling couples and through a pungent layer of smoke and flashing lights. The rooms were ranged around a square balcony on the level above the dance floor. Each cubicle had a number on it, so he went to the room number that matched his card, reaching out cautiously through the Force. No one was waiting inside. There was a strengthening sense of wrongness, but nothing fully formed, so he stepped cautiously inside. A dim, dirty glow panel lit the place, and he wrinkled his nose at the stained mattress that lay on a shelf on the left side of the alcove, leaving barely enough room to sidle in.
Obi-Wan eyed the glow panel-- there was a surveillance camera behind it, no doubt; he could feel the faint hum of its motor. Of more concern was a vent in the ceiling; were they gassing the boys for easy kidnapping? He couldn't sense gas, but he would have to be careful. He held his breath automatically, stepping farther in. There might be a contact tranquilizer, maybe on the mattress, or... he focused on the glow panel, which seemed to be pulsing bright and dim, and he realized he could hear his blood roaring in his ears. Or... on the card! Too late, Obi-Wan knew the danger; his knees were already weakening and his mouth was going dry. He reached for his center hastily, and speeded his metabolism to try to burn away the drug, but it was all he could do before he saw the floor coming up at him. With the last of his consciousness, he cried out: Master!
Then the floor exploded against his forehead in a shower of sparkling pain, and he knew no more.
Leaving King Tabare, Qui-Gon went into his room and seated himself in the lotus on his pallet, tucking his long legs up carefully. He wasn't as young as he once was, and his knees resisted, but a lifetime of training meant he could still coax his body to obey.
His spirit, however, was another matter, and as he began to settle, the calm of meditation eluded him. How much had Obi-Wan perceived? It was impossible to know what had slipped. Perhaps nothing significant, even given Obi-Wan's behavior at the door. Obi-Wan could be capricious; his sense of humor was a central part of his personality, and it was one thing Qui-Gon loved about him. His padawan was still terribly young. As such, he was prone to mercurial swings of mood-- and of hormones. His psyche was far more unsettled than Qui-Gon's, and he was far less able (or inclined) to control himself. The entire routine at the door might mean as little as his writhing on the silken coverlet of his bed.
Qui-Gon sighed, feeling his energy vibrating erratically, well out of center. The day's events had left him more badly shaken than he had thought.
He ran himself through a youngling's calming exercise: he was a lump of clay on the wheel. With every breath, he envisioned firm, skilled hands pressing the clay, smoothing it, bringing it into balance. Only then could he become a fitting vessel for the Force. If he remained out of center, he would spin himself apart.
It took a long time before he was smooth and serene, before he could begin to delve into himself and make himself a vessel, before he could fill himself with the Living Force.
His meditations took focus as they deepened, singling out the common thread of his unease: his own treacherous responses to Obi-Wan.
All his life, Qui-Gon had been satisfied with celibacy. That included his relationship with Master Tahl, though it had been a source of some physical discomfort, especially when he was younger. But she had been a peer, not a padawan. In retrospect, Qui-Gon had to admit they had rarely enjoyed the kind of closeness he and Obi-Wan did. Only twice had they been paired for missions. Perhaps they had resisted their attraction because it was centered in their bodies, not in their minds, and each had somehow known.
In practice, Qui-Gon realized, the most intimate relationship nearly every Jedi had was with his padawan. A padawan learner became the balance of his master in mind and body, and the two must work together in harmony. Obi-Wan was padawan and more to Qui-Gon. He was Qui-Gon's right hand, indispensable. He was the perfect balance to everything Qui-Gon embodied: Unifying Force to Living Force, deep connection to fierce independence, passion to serenity, warmth to reserve, youth to age. ....Raw sexuality to asceticism and celibacy.
Qui-Gon could anticipate the very arguments that Obi-Wan would offer in favor of becoming lovers; he had already debated them with himself a thousand times. Obi-Wan would say passion with control was not harmful. Attachment already existed, and could be balanced by responsibility, restraint, and a commitment to duty. Sexual energy could be channeled just as productively through gratification as through denial. There were dozens of variations on this theme, and to each, Qui-Gon had an answer. Control of passion was hard to achieve; best not to over-burden it. Intense attachment was harder to restrain when duty demanded; better to keep attachment minimal. Mere physical gratification was not worth the risk; better to maintain equilibrium than to seek out peak experiences.
Risk. The Force thrummed somberly within him, and as it resonated in his soul, Qui-Gon understood a fundamental truth about himself. Outwardly he spun in harmony with the universe, but his center was false. As Obi-Wan matured, he exerted an almost gravitational pull on his master. This made Qui-Gon's energy grow more and more distorted. The clay of him was more dense in some places than others, where Obi-Wan's energy had concentrated it. No vessel made of such clay could endure. He might seem fit for his tasks, but he would warp and collapse when he was worked.
Qui-Gon Jinn touched his center, and found unexpected darkness there. Slow, insidious, by subtle degrees, fears were creeping through him. His attachment to his padawan had grown too strong, even without a sexual component. Each day he grew more afraid of damaging Obi-Wan, darkening Obi-Wan, and ultimately losing Obi-Wan. It gave him no pleasure to know that he had been right when he resisted taking another padawan, but the point was moot: it was done, and it had altered him.
Whether he acted on his desires or not, such persistent, gnawing fears had absolutely no place in the mind of a being who presumed to call himself a Jedi master.
He must decide what to do about them; he must reclaim his center and re-assert his control. His emotions must be managed and his fears purged, whatever the cost.
Qui-Gon opened his eyes, and realized he felt perfectly calm, with the coming of resolve.
There was much to be done, if only he knew how he might reach his goal. Perhaps it would be sufficient to arrange a spirit-healing retreat for himself after they returned to Coruscant. Obi-Wan could remain at the Temple and work on his mastery of lightsaber forms; he would benefit greatly from the experience of combat with other Jedi. Meanwhile, Qui-Gon would profit from the isolation; he could use it to work through and come to terms with the emotional imbalances growing inside him.
He was halfway to the comm unit when Obi-Wan's cry for help struck him, shattering his calm like glass.
I'm coming! he projected, but Obi-Wan's presence was already gone. Qui-Gon did not know how or why, and had no leisure for reflection. He hardly felt the tremor in his knees, stumbling and recovering as adrenaline surged alongside the instincts that propelled him out onto the balcony and over the railing.
The promised speeder bike waited on its small launch pad, and he vaulted atop it, not waiting to settle into the seat before he kicked the throttle. Its engine screamed, G-forces kicking Qui-Gon in the chest, but he hung on with hands and thighs, clamping his body around the bike to reduce the drag of the wind. One foot slammed the throttle all the way down, and he dove off the platform, his robes and hair streaming out behind him, arrowing toward the city center, zeroing in on the psychic residue of Obi-Wan's desperate cry.
The nightclub was an unimpressive concrete box, squat and ugly, with a flamboyant neon sign and an equally flamboyant line of patrons waiting for admission. Qui-Gon retained just enough subtlety to slow the speeder bike and bring it around to the back of the building, finding a steel loading dock where a battered hovercraft was parked. Men were working to unload the crates and cases of liquor piled in its belly.
Qui-Gon flung himself off the bike almost before it stopped, stalking toward the door that led inside.
"Hey! You can't-- " one of them called and reached for the blaster at his hip, but Qui-Gon barely noticed him, one hand channeling Force energy in his direction as though shooing away a gnat.
"I can," he grated through clenched teeth, never looking away from the door.
"You can," the man quavered, gaze wandering around in obvious confusion, before he shook himself and returned his attention to his bill of sale.
There was no sign of Obi-Wan, merely an empty room of the sort one might find in any bar like this-- impersonal and filthy, meant as a refuge for hasty couplings. Qui-Gon flung the door open so hard it rebounded off the wall, shuddering; he knelt on the floor, reaching out into the Force. Obi-Wan had fallen here, fallen and lain unconscious. Men had dragged him away, back out to the very platform where Qui-Gon's speeder bike now waited.
He hesitated-- there could be significant benefit in investigating downstairs; someone might have insight or knowledge into what had happened-- but he was alone, and time was of the essence. If he could catch up to whoever had taken his padawan, he could rescue Obi-Wan and the need to press his investigations here would become largely academic.
Qui-Gon ran back out onto the dock, where the work boss now ignored him, and revved the speeder bike again, shooting skyward. He had Obi-Wan's trail now, the echo of his padawan's Force signature muted but reassuringly steady. He reached out to it, adjusting his course by instinct.
The Force told him Obi-Wan was unconscious but uninjured, drugged. Qui-Gon leaned forward again, shifting the gears and coaxing a bit more speed from the bike, which was already running full out. He thought he might make visual contact with the kidnappers at any time; the sense of his padawan was enticingly near. The course led directly toward a main artery of traffic flowing through the city; the kidnappers must plan to vanish into anonymity there. They were not even traveling particularly fast; likely they were not counting on their victim being a Jedi with a companion in hot pursuit.
Qui-Gon decided he would single out the vessel and creep up on it without being seen, then overfly it. He could abandon the bike and drop down on the canopy to cut his way in, take the kidnappers prisoner, land the vessel, then call Tabare for assistance.
But even as he banked around a tall skyscraper and saw the glowing thread of traffic stretching out before him, his sense of Obi-Wan's presence simply winked out, leaving no trail to follow.
Qui-Gon nearly shouted out loud in his frustration; an icy spear of terror struck his heart. He continued anyway, sliding the bike into an opening in the traffic flow, casting about in desperation for some trace of his padawan, and found none. He had no idea whether he was even flying in the right direction. He eased himself out of traffic and hovered over the roof of a nearby penthouse, where a small garden gleamed like an emerald against the night. He reached for the Living Force contained within it, embracing the serenity and calm of growing things, but there was no message for him there.
Obi-Wan might be dead, or he might merely be shielded from the Force. He couldn't tell.
He reached for the bike's comlink and signaled Tabare.
"Yes, Master Jedi?" The king appeared on the small screen too quickly to have been sleeping; he looked weary, but hopeful.
"Someone has drugged and abducted my apprentice," Qui-Gon explained, terse. "I ask that you extend the security measures you have used in seeking Tiran to seek him as well."
Tabare's face fell. "They won't get off this planet with him," he answered simply. "Do you think this is related to my son's disappearance?"
Qui-Gon hesitated. "I don't know yet," he confessed, "but I will find out." He cut the connection and started the bike again, arcing back around the way he had come. He would turn the Blue Bantha inside out if he had to, but he was going to find Obi-Wan.
Fear. It gnawed at his mind with alarming persistence, coaxing him to panic, inviting him to wallow in suffocating emotion, but he shut it down savagely and reached for cold logic instead. The kidnappers were unlikely to have noticed his pursuit; he must be stealthy. He would not want to alert a larger organization to his investigation, if he could avoid it. Back to the loading dock, then.
The delivery vehicle had left by the time he returned, so he concealed his speeder bike on a nearby roof and leaped onto the top of the club, where he dialed his lightsaber's power cell down until the blade was only a few inches in length and needle-thin. He swiftly disabled the lock, easing the door open soundlessly and gliding into the upstairs hall. It remained as squalid as his earlier hasty impression had indicated. Scuffed black paint covered sagging plaster walls, and every few feet another door punctuated the wall, some of the cubicles open, some occupied. Flashing lights illuminated the haze of smoke, and the building shook with amplified bass. The room where Obi-Wan had been abducted was still empty.
Qui-Gon felt the Force stir, and he faded back toward the open entry, reaching out lightly to confuse the mind of the approaching man so that he would not be noticed. It was a strong young lad, perhaps Obi-Wan's age or a bit more. He stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Qui-Gon raised a brow, still hesitating in the shadows, but no one followed the young man up, and after a time, he came out again, looking sullen and angry as he stamped his way back downstairs.
Qui-Gon frowned. Surely that was unusual. He ventured back out into the hall and moved around the U-shaped terrace; another room directly across from Obi-Wan's cubicle was empty, and he slid inside, closing the door and again used his lightsaber on low power to drill a pinhole through it so that he could observe.
It happened again and again-- and then one man did not come out. Qui-Gon's enhanced senses heard a thump. Two men in nondescript coveralls suddenly appeared out of the adjacent cubicles and entered the one Qui-Gon watched. Hastily they emerged, dragging a limp body between them, and hauled it away to the loading dock. Then they returned to their positions. Now that he had a fix on what was happening, he could sense more wrongness, downstairs. The men's energy was calm and confident; it was a smooth operation, well-coordinated and highly practiced.
Qui-Gon grimaced. Again, he needed to be in two places at once. He eased farther back inside his room and took out his comlink.
"Your Majesty, I seem to have discovered a kidnapping ring," he spoke softly. "Young men are being taken from the Blue Bantha. I believe it likely your son may have been among them, as well as Obi-Wan."
Qui-Gon related the relevant details, and the King promised to dispatch a discreet team to investigate, but Qui-Gon had no patience to listen. He waited, trying to maintain his calm, as the next few patrons came and went-- and then another seemed to meet with approval. Like the last, this lad appeared particularly strong and athletic, and Qui-Gon wondered if those were the key characteristics in his selection.
He let the two removing men resume their places before he emerged and lightly jumped across the open space between the sides of the terrace.
"The lock won't shut. Someone's tampered with it," he heard outside. "Low-power blaster fire, or maybe an energy blade."
"A blade. Jata told you that other one was a Jedi whelp, and they never travel alone."
"Send Bilam a warning--"
Qui-Gon let them go no farther. He burst through the door, lightsaber flashing. A delicate stab fried the comlink one man held, and a precise swing bisected the barrel of his blaster, still in its sheath. The second man, still frozen with shock, was disarmed and silenced just as swiftly. He scowled at Qui-Gon, trying to hold his eye, but the feint did not speak as loudly as the Force, and Qui-Gon slashed back neatly with one hand, catching the first kidnapper's throat; he went down choking, blood bubbling from his lips. The second man balled hamlike fists and raised them at Qui-Gon, then thought better of it and let them drop.
"Where are you taking these young men?"
"I don't know. I just hand them over." He glanced at the humming green flame of Qui-Gon's lightsaber, and at his companion, who was still crumpled on the ground, clutching his throat.
"Who else is involved?" A shrug.
"Sleep," Qui-Gon shoved Force at him, and the man crumpled. He repeated the process with the other kidnapper, turning him on his side to keep his airway clear-- neither of these two would escape the justice he had coming.
He could follow the transport with the kidnappers and their most recent acquisitions, or he could strike here, where he was certain to find more prey. Qui-Gon cursed the lack of backup that crippled his search. But the King's forces were swift. He could sense Tabare's team gathering, preparing to storm the club from below, and he slid back inside. If he backed their move, he could insure that no one else escaped.
Two clients were nearing an alcove, and their eyes went wide when they saw him, but he ignored them. His priority was the other two kidnappers, both easily caught off-guard and sent to sleep with a mind trick. He dragged all four men into a single room and tied them there, and when Tabare's team broke into the club he vaulted over the railing to join them.
The patrons were quickly subdued, and Tabare's captain, an upright young woman with silvering blonde hair and an ugly keloid scar across her left eye, saluted him. "I am Kalari, captain of the King's Guard. Master Jedi, if you can truly hear a lie, as they say, we will be much indebted if you would help us interview these people."
Qui-Gon sighed. The transport's trail was cold already; worse, by the time everyone here could be queried and the innocent separated from the guilty, it would be dawn. But someone here would be likely to know where he could find Obi-Wan find him and rescue him, or at worst, retrieve his padawan's corpse and avenge him. He clamped down tight on that possibility, refusing to consider it, refusing to act on the flare of anger the possibility provoked. He would do the job that had been placed before him.
"I've already subdued four of the kidnappers and left them bound in Room 6. If your men can take them into custody? Good. Let's begin."
It turned out to be a specialty club, indeed. Every patron and most of the staff were young men between sixteen and twenty-five, all human or humanoid, and all of them were homosexually oriented. The latter was did not concern Qui-Gon. Jedi who chose the route of attachment made their liaisons based on attraction to mind and spirit; gender of the body was often only an incidental factor. However, he sensed disgust ranging from mild to extreme in a number of Tabare's troops.
Qui-Gon easily identified the innocent-- the relatively innocent, at any rate. Kids out looking for a connection he released immediately. Addicts he freed next, after planting a suggestion in their minds that they reconsider their life choices. But there were a few people present who were more serious criminals-- drug pushers, thieves, rapists, murderers. Tabare's troops processed them efficiently and shipped them off for disposition with the city authorities.
Last remained the kidnappers. It was easy to sense their guilt and fear; it had a particular flavor in the Force that matched the men he had incapacitated on the second floor. Investigation into their belongings showed several of them had been paid in gems and other commodities that would be salable on any one of a hundred worlds, not necessarily limited to members of the Republic.
One particular individual sent a vibration into the Force that left Qui-Gon's hackles raised and his intuition clamoring. The others had little knowledge; questioning and judicious mind touch showed that they knew little to nothing, but this one... he was not susceptible to the mind trick, and he was the calmest of the bunch, glaring daggers at Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon reached out, sifting through the items he had carried, which the guards had placed on the tabletop between them, and came up with his identification chip. It revealed that he was Ruoto Millim, and that he worked in the holovid business, producing entertainment programs for a large concern called Dramacore.
"I know about Dramacore's programming." Captain Kalari looked at the man coldly. "Master Jedi, people die on their shows, for no better reason than to amuse the audience. Volunteers are sent to arenas to battle monsters, or put out on hostile planets without supplies or weapons. Holovid cameras follow to see how long they can survive. There's a heavy betting culture associated with the most popular ones; we've had problems before in Takat with gangs of organized criminals putting out hits for non-payment of wagers."
Obi-Wan's vision. Qui-Gon held himself absolutely still, resisting the urge to vent his kindling rage on the man, who sat back with arms folded, looking bored, neither confirming nor denying the accusations.
"Dramacore has a signed contract and indemnity waiver from every contestant, and we make the winners filthy rich." Millim was not flustered. "We also produce consensual erotic entertainment, both hard and soft core," he pointed out calmly. "It's our most popular product. I've been here tonight scouting for talent. Unfortunately, the locals are sadly lacking."
"I have questions for you." Qui-Gon interrupted him, weary of his oily self-assurance.
"And I would like to consult my solicitor. You can't hold me without proof on this world, even if you are Jedi." Millim sat back in his chair, reaching out to the heap of his possessions that the guards had placed on the table; he selected a small pipe, loaded it, lit it, and blew the smoke in Qui-Gon's face.
Qui-Gon folded his hands and looked at the man impassively. As a Jedi, he was not bound by local legal customs; as a Jedi Guardian sworn to serve the Senate, he had authority to act as he wished on any world in the Republic, up to and including the execution of those he found deserving. "We have the testimony of several witnesses, not to mention your associates."
"You used your mind tricks on them." The man waved a hand theatrically at Qui-Gon to illustrate. "It won't stand up in court."
"Which court is that?" Qui-Gon inquired politely. "King Tabare's court, where you would defend yourself from an investigation into the disappearance of his young son, a frequent client of this place, or do you prefer a court of the Republic, where the word of a Jedi is automatically accepted as truth?"
"The court of public opinion, for one. And I can see to it that everyone in the galaxy knows how you've mistreated me. Everyone knows the Jedi are puppets of a corrupt administration." The man spat the words dismissively. "Nobody believes in your vaunted Jedi justice."
"Where is the young Jedi who was taken from this place?" Qui-Gon ignored the insults; they did not concern him-- his only interest was in his padawan's welfare.
"I don't know of any Jedi here tonight other than you."
"A young man, of your approximate height, wearing a small ponytail and braid, dressed in black leather jacket, pants, and boots. Sandy brown hair, blue eyes."
"I never saw anyone like that here." Again Millim spoke truth.
"Who are Bilam and Jata?"
Millim smiled. "I don't know anyone by those names." The lie jangled, brazen and unconcerned.
"Where is your operation based?"
"Everywhere." The same oily, self-satisfied smile resulted.
Qui-Gon ground his teeth. "Are you aware that I can dissect your living mind with the Force and take the answers I want?" It would not be easy; this man had natural defenses beyond the norm, but Qui-Gon was confident.
"Are you aware that what you just said was being recorded?" Millim had entirely too many teeth; he grinned up at the ceiling, and Qui-Gon belatedly sensed a surveillance camera whirring quietly away in the corner. "My company has already transmitted the video of this interview halfway to Coruscant."
Kalari cursed. "Jom, see to that thing right away, and find any others, too!"
Qui-Gon forced himself not to react, other than raising a hand to delay Jom for another moment. The holovid transmission was a distinct inconvenience-- not an insurmountable one, but to strike now would not bring favorable attention to the Jedi. While it was within his authority to dispense justice, Qui-Gon acknowledged that the Supreme Chancellor and Senate would not be best pleased with the explanation that Qui-Gon's need for haste had caused him to attack a voting citizen without pausing for a proper trial, especially if the incident were made available on the popular holos all across the galaxy.
The trail was growing ever colder as Qui-Gon sat and parried wits with this despicable creature.
"Captain, take this man and imprison him in the King's best security facilities. On my authority, he is not to be released to anyone short of a Jedi Councilor who bears the authorization of Supreme Chancellor Valorum." Qui-Gon rose. "I am sure we will meet again, Millim, and I will warn you now, as publicly as you like-- should your men harm a Jedi, justice will come for you swiftly and without mercy."
"Sounds like good holovision." The false joviality dropped from Millim's eyes. "We'll see how long you can ground me, Jedi. You'll soon find out it's not as long as you anticipate." He went with the guards as though he were a lord being led to his harem, calm and condescending.
Qui-Gon lowered his restraining hand and the whine of a blaster bolt brought an end to the whirring of the small camera. Kalari sighed. "Master Jedi, forgive me; our lapse was inexcusable."
"None of us could have anticipated that our quarry could be holovid makers who might think to use one of the club's security measures for their own purposes." Qui-Gon absolved her, making the words as gentle as he could; it was not much, but he was exhausted and disheartened, and he still could feel no traces of his Padawan. "Captain, do you or any local police organizations have information about Dramacore's presence on Xinune? I need to learn everything I can about their holdings here, and on nearby worlds. Have it sent to my room in the palace."
"Yes, Master Jedi."
Qui-Gon retrieved his speeder bike and banked back toward the palace. He had calls to make, research to do, and the king must be informed of the night's happenings.
Six hours later, Qui-Gon was still busy. His first order of business had been to call the Temple at Coruscant, speaking first to the Council about Obi-Wan's abduction, and then transferring the transmission to Master Tahl. He had hardly believed he would be speaking to Tahl so soon, but she was a Loremaster, and he badly needed her assistance. He knew he could rely on her to prioritize his requests for information on Dramacore. Not only that, but if information was there to be found, she could find it, and swiftly.
His next move was to contact the Jedi stationed nearest Xinune; two would arrive before the end of the sun cycle, and another within a day thereafter. There would be no more question of insufficient backup.
After that he reported to Tabare, who looked bleary and worn; he had not slept any more than Qui-Gon. The king grimaced at the mention of Dramacore.
"I've tried a dozen times to bar them from Xinune, both the company and their products. Those men are jackals. If they've taken Tiran and put him on one of those filthy--" He caught hold of himself with an effort. "They'll never set foot here again, if I can arrange it. I'm usually not in favor of censorship, but there are limits."
Qui-Gon agreed, regretting that he had no better news to relate-- either for Tabare or for himself. "Your Majesty, I must return to my quarters and begin examining the files on Dramacore. There may be a lead, or the Force may guide me to my next steps."
"May the Force be with you," Tabare agreed soberly, and Qui-Gon departed.
A recorded transmission from Tahl waited in his rooms, and he felt a pang of guilt as her blind eyes looked out at him through the holoscreen. "I've collected all relevant information on Dramacore from the Jedi Archives," the recording said. "It's attached here, and keyed to your retina scan. But I've also highlighted areas of particular interest, and I haven't finished searching. A great deal of the accumulated information is repetitive, and there's a lot of worthless junk-- public relations, advertisements, and similar things. Bant is working to prepare a condensed digest for you, but I'll spend my time focusing on locating information that isn't so readily available and is much more important-- tax records, hidden holdings, legal violations. Investors, properties, recording locations, anything I can find by running correlative searches-- it will take time."
Tahl hesitated, and her eyes, still lovely even though they no longer functioned, seemed to look right through Qui-Gon. "I can feel through the Force that your distress over Obi-Wan is very great, Qui-Gon. Do not blame yourself for this. And... don't waste energy second-guessing your feelings for him, or condemning yourself for having them." She hesitated, as though to say more, but then her jaw firmed. "Time is passing and Obi-Wan needs our help. Trust in the Force. I'll communicate again soon, with more information."
Qui-Gon let his own eyes close as her image faded. Had he done right by Tahl? He could not know, but to think her blind because of her damaged eyes was folly. She had seen what she needed to know without Qui-Gon ever speaking a word.
He set his shame and regret aside and dove into the archive records.
Obi-Wan stirred painfully. It was dark, and his head felt as though it weighed a hundred kilos. The inside of his mouth was dry and leathery, and a cotton cloth had been wadded and jammed between his teeth, then tied in place with a leather strip, which bit into the corners of his lips and chafed his cheeks and ears. His clothes were gone, and cold metal pressed against his back and legs-- they'd taken his lightsaber, of course. A jolting motion shook him, side to side. He reached out for the Force and touched nothing.
The cuffs that trapped his wrists might be generating an inhibitor field, or he might be drugged. His Temple training in psychopharmacology had familiarized him with half a dozen drugs that hindered or disabled Force-sensitivity. Few were this completely efficient, and those did not come cheaply. Someone had recognized that he was a Jedi-- someone with plenty of credits to spend.
He blinked blearily; light filtered to his eyes, creeping through the seams of the container he lay in and revealing its shape with a regular pattern of straight lines. The box where he lay was not very tightly sealed. His fingertips ventured up and touched cold metal. The box lurched and tilted; someone was carrying it, probably up a ramp or set of stairs. He listened; he could hear powerful engines growling in the background. A ship-- he was about to be transported offworld.
Obi-Wan managed to kick at the box beneath his heels and shift his weight, thrashing back and forth like a fish.
"Shut up," a rough voice answered him, and the box shook violently, then thumped down with a deafening clang onto a metal deck. "Bastard's awake already. He ought to have been out at least till we hit hyperspace. They never get it right--" The voice subsided into the distance, grumbling curses. Obi-Wan twisted in the box, trying to gain leverage to pop open the lid and free himself, but it was latched shut, and without the Force, he couldn't budge it.
His metabolic boost had worked, then, but his rapidly clearing mind was useless as long as he couldn't touch the Force or break free from captivity. He would simply have to bide his time and await an opportunity.
"What have we got this time?" A new voice, lighter and less gruff.
"Label says it's a Jedi. One of the trainees. He ought to be good for a laugh." The original voice was back, and a kick jarred Obi-Wan's prison. "You like it in there, Jedi?"
Not particularly. Obi-Wan reached uselessly for the Force again.
"Enjoy it while you can." The voice laughed. There was a sound of fumbling and the click of latches, and with a scraping creak the lid lifted. Obi-Wan blinked against the bright shipboard lights, shining from directly over his face. "We know how to deal with Force sensitives around here." The man was thick around the neck and waist, bald, with a filthy grey coverall that looked and smelled as though it had never been laundered. He held up his hand; he held a syringe with a thick hollow needle, made to inject a long-term release capsule. "Hold him down, boys. Thrash too much, Jedi, and you'll wind up with a needle broken off in your gut."
Obi-Wan would have accepted that in return for his freedom, but he heard a clang and felt the lurch of repulsorlifts, and knew the ship had taken off; any simple escape had just been thwarted.
It didn't matter; several men stepped over and forced him down against the floor of the box as the first one injected him. "If you try to cut that out," the fat man grinned, blowing a fetid breath into Obi-Wan's face, "It'll explode, and you'll be a bloody mist all over the walls." He injected it straight into a muscle, which spasmed, cramping painfully. Then they injected him again, a smaller needle this time, and slowly the cramps began to ease.
"Give it a second." The second voice belonged to a more slender man, relatively well-dressed, with pale hair, almost white, curling tightly against his skull. "When it takes effect, we'll put him with the others."
The second hypo turned out to be a muscle relaxant, and by the time the men lifted Obi-Wan out, he couldn't move. Only his involuntary muscle systems remained active, and he was grateful for that. A rough hand jerked away the leather gag, then pulled the cotton one from his mouth and tossed both into the box. He felt the click of a key at his wrists, and the cuffs were removed, letting blood flow back into his hands. It stung.
"Is this the best the Jedi can send after us? I won't be wagering on you when you turn up in the show." The man who had injected him tossed away the empty syringe with a laugh. "I ought to know by now everything's always just hype."
The white-haired man nodded, a smirk on his face that sparkled in his eyes. "Now you're starting to get it. You gotta sell the product, no matter what it takes. It doesn't matter who you're dealing with. They may act high and mighty, but they exaggerate everything. It's all in the advertising." He tilted his head toward a bulkhead, and Obi-Wan heard the slide of an automatic door. A guard waved his weapon at the opening.
"Get back, you worthless lot, or you'll get a blaster bolt for breakfast." The men who held him maneuvered him through feet first and dumped him in; the door slid shut again.
Obi-Wan couldn't move, but hands grasped his arms and legs and gently straightened them. A face appeared over his, heart-shaped, with dark hazel eyes, a shock of dark brown hair, and sensual, full lips. Tiran. He had matured, losing some of the thinness of adolescence, his jaw and chest deeper, but he was unmistakable. The prince blinked at Obi-Wan, his mouth falling open with shock.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi?!"
Tiran tugged on his arms, helping straighten his neck. He felt much better with his body laid out flat on the floor and his head in Tiran's lap.
"You know this guy?" Another face poked into Obi-Wan's field of vision, a foxy male face with a narrow mustache, his head capped with a shock of golden blond hair.
"He's a Jedi Knight," Tiran exulted, and the room echoed, perhaps two dozen voices gasping the word, and the room began to buzz with excited conversation. "He must have come to find me. He'll get us out of this."
A padawan, actually, not a Jedi Knight. Obi-Wan couldn't speak, but he would have rolled his eyes, if he could; he was hardly able to focus on Tiran's face, much less perform a miraculous mass rescue on the spur of the moment.
"They caught a Jedi?" The blond boy looked dismayed. "I hope they don't expect us to fight him."
"They'll want him to run," another voice-- female, this time-- predicted grimly. "Can you imagine the wagers?"
Run? Obi-Wan blinked. He tried to wriggle his fingertips and succeeded. Good.
"We're so fucked," the blond boy groaned. "You feel that?"
Obi-Wan did; it was the familiar push of acceleration as a ship blasted upward, struggling to escape a planetary gravity well. So much for King Tabare's claim that no ships left Xinune without being searched for Tiran.
He could move his toes now, so he set about improving his circulation by flexing every muscle he could.
"Help him," Tiran told the others, and hands reached out to touch Obi-Wan, massaging life back into his limbs.
"Tiran," he managed thickly at last. "I'd like to say it's good to see you."
"It is good to see you." Tiran grinned, and steadied Obi-Wan as the ship lurched.
"Hyperspace," the blond moaned. He was right. Obi-Wan could feel the momentary sensation of stretching that always accompanied a jump.
Tiran waved him off impatiently. "How did they capture you, Obi-Wan? Was it part of your plan to find me?"
Obi-Wan grimaced. "I'm afraid it wasn't. I was hunting you, but I foolishly fell for their trap."
"But you're here now. We'll find a chance to escape." Tiran was as boyishly optimistic, as daring, as he had always been.
"There is no chance." The girl shook her head. Now that he was able to sit up, Obi-Wan had his first good look at her. She was naked-- all of them were-- and a shocking array of fresh scars crossed her body in parallel lines, not ending at her face. She felt Obi-Wan's gaze and bent her head, her long dark hair falling over her face, hiding the scars.
"What do you mean?" Obi-Wan questioned her urgently. "What do you mean, they'll want me to run for wagers? Who are they?"
"'They' is Dramacore." She shrank into herself as though her hair could cover more of her body-- the scars were livid on her breasts and belly, and across her thighs. "Haven't you seen the holovids?"
Obi-Wan frowned. As a Jedi, he had little time for popular entertainment. The few cultural events he attended were much more highbrow than holovids. Jedi attended operas, ballets, plays, diplomatic events, or great cultural expositions. They didn't watch holovids.
"They put Gida in the arena," Tiran said quietly. "She survived."
"I haven't seen the holovids. What is Dramacore?"
"They make gladiator combat shows and broadcast them everywhere. The winners get money-- the winners are supposed to get money: a king's ransom and more. But you see what I got. And I wasn't even kidnapped like you; I signed up. They came to our planet and I was stupid enough to think I could win. Most people don't get a chance to sign up."
"Gladiator combat," Obi-Wan said slowly. "And people gamble on the winner."
"The gambling is legendary-- almost as legendary as the advertising fees. Whole planets have changed hands because of the show. Sometimes they make us fight each other, sometimes they put monsters in a ring with us, sometimes they let us go, give us a day's head start, and set the arranhar after us." Gida shuddered. "An arranha did most of this." She lifted her face, and her eyes glittered from behind the scars; he realized one pupil was milk-white. "I tried to climb out of the arena, but there's razor wire strung everywhere, and I caught my ankle. The arranhar patrol on the perimeter, and one of the bastards ripped me open and threw me back in. I got lucky-- I fell on a holocam droid, and its repulsorlifts were strong enough to keep us both hovering above the action, so I lived." She smiled, humorless. "They healed me up just so they could put me back in the ring later. Jata, that's the one with the white curly hair, said people would like to look at the scars. They'll wager on me because of my luck."
"And combat isn't all Dramacore sells." Tiran looked away from Obi-Wan, a fine line creasing between his heavy brows. "They make us fuck on camera."
The word was matter-of-fact and ugly, and Obi-Wan winced.
"They can't make it rape if we agree we aren't raping each other," Gida said, leaning forward, intense. "They can't make us fight if we won't fight each other."
"The line between being forced to fuck at gunpoint and agreeing we're willing to fuck one another so as not to get shot still escapes me," Tiran snapped. "And you told us yourself that no matter how many oaths they take, some people will fight one another in the arena rather than be shot or given to the arranhar."
"It's true." She retreated behind her hair again. "But it's all we have." She looked up at Obi-Wan. "Will you take the oath? We're companions; we're in this together. We don't rape and we aren't raped; we cooperate to survive. We don't fight each other; we stand united. We only defend against attack. If one of us attacks, he's not one of us anymore. He's one of them."
"I will not rape or be raped, and I will not fight my allies," Obi-Wan said simply, holding her eyes with his. The semantic differences the oath specified were narrow, but he found them meaningful. He gazed around the circle at the others-- more than three dozen of them, humanoids and non-, large and small, male and female, their eyes on him, some of them shining with desperate hope.
Gida nodded decisively. "Then you're one of us, Jedi, until we can find an escape-- or until death takes us in the arena."
"They won't waste much time, will they." The blond boy looked toward the door, his eyes haunted.
"They won't," Gida agreed. "They'll feed us first, though." She looked around the circle. "But we've forgotten our manners, what's left of them. This is Cido, and Taq, and Mirani--"
Food turned out to be a liquid protein concentrate, swilled into a trough while several guards held the captives at blaster-point. When they withdrew, the prisoners hastily knelt before the trough to eat. Obi-Wan touched the stuff and licked his fingertip, then grimaced. Tiran watched him as the others ate.
"We'd better eat too, Obi." He dipped his hand in the trough and scooped up a handful of the viscous liquid. "Keep up your strength." He licked at it as it dripped through his fingers. "We could be in for a long night." His eyes were shadowed. "Good thing you and I are already lovers, you know. It won't be as bad."
"Yes," Obi-Wan agreed. "That's fortunate." He made himself swallow a handful of the concentrate, wrinkling his nose at the heavy chemical flavor and cloying sweetness. "Have you noticed any weaknesses in this setup? Is there any time of day when they open the door consistently, any guards who seem more sympathetic than others? Any doors, vents, or extra exits from the cell?"
Tiran shook his head unhappily. "Just the one where you came in, and no. I've been here for about a week, but so far they're a well-oiled machine. We've been forced to make pornographic holos regularly. I think they recorded us during the day and then went out after more of us during the night, but I've lost track of time in here, and I can't be sure. About a quarter of us were taken on Xinune; the others were already here when I arrived. They like people who are distinctive-- strong, beautiful, or capable in some particular way. They want unusual skills and good looks. Those are the big sellers, Gida says."
Tiran kept eating doggedly as he spoke. "They wanted me because I'm a prince; they want you because you're a Jedi. We'll both drive heavy betting. The first night I was here, they forced me to sign a contract agreeing to let them use my image however they wish, agreeing to perform as directed, and absolving them of responsibility in the case of my injury or death. From what I could see, whoever wrote it, it was good-- tight, legal."
"No contract signed under coercive circumstances will stand up in a court of the Republic, no matter how well-written."
Tiran smiled painfully. "I hope you're right."
The door slid open without warning, and guards carrying laser rifles began to step through in pairs, followed by the fat, bald man Obi-Wan had first heard speak.
"That's Bilam," Tiran murmured. "He likes to hurt us."
Jata stepped in last, his cool eyes scanning the prisoners. "Bring the Jedi and the prince," he pointed to Obi-Wan and Tiran. "I think they will be very much in demand. And bring the two of them, as well." He pointed to Taq and to Gida.
Flanked by two guards, Bilam stepped up to Obi-Wan. "Sign this," he offered a data reader and a stylus. "Or don't." A smile split his face, revealing stained, crooked teeth.
"And if I don't?"
"I'll torture your friend there until you do." Bilam smirked. "Are you prepared to accept responsibility for that, Jedi?"
"I do not sign this contract of my own free will," Obi-Wan said coolly, but accepted the stylus and imprinted his name as directed. Bilam snatched the pad back, anger and disappointment flashing in his bleary gray eyes; Obi-Wan had spoiled his fun.
Jata took the data reader from Bilam. "Excellent. Everything is in order." He laughed softly. "Prepare them and bring them to the recording room."
Despite his sleepless night, Qui-Gon returned to his room and settled down to search through Tahl's information instead of going to bed. Unfortunately, Dramacore's operations on Xinune seemed limited to a few offices that handled local publicity and advertising services. Tahl might turn up more; Qui-Gon did not give up hope.
Obi-Wan's continued silence, the complete absence of his familiar presence in the Force, preyed on Qui-Gon's nerves, distracting him from his work. His mind kept returning to worry at the emptiness like a tongue probing the socket of a missing tooth. He couldn't stop himself from replaying the evening's events in his mind, trying to sense where the turning point had been, where it all went wrong. He could have insisted on accompanying Obi-Wan. He could have tried to follow the kidnappers after he lost them, instead of giving up and returning to the club. He could somehow have stowed away on their vehicle and let them take him to Obi-Wan.
He couldn't even be sure the Force had guided him in what he'd actually done. His state of mind was increasingly disturbed; he had never paused to realize how much he relied on the vibrant hum of Obi-Wan's psychic presence in the corner of his mind. To think of what was happening to his padawan now--
Qui-Gon heard a creak and realized his fingers were bending the thin metal of the desk. He made himself fold them in his lap. After a moment his comm chimed, interrupting his pacing-- he did not even know that he'd risen.
He seated himself and forced a serene expression. "Yes?"
"Master Qui-Gon." A knight appeared on the screen-- Misi Raksen, a fairly well-established Jedi watchman who had just taken her first padawan. He'd been expecting her. "We've arrived at the spaceport. Are there any new leads?"
"None." Qui-Gon shook his head.
"I've brought my personal records on Dramacore. They're very active in this sector, and I've been collecting evidence of illegal activities: front companies, connections, political liaisons, tax dodges, properties they control through their fronts. I've been trying to find their arenas and chase locations, but they're cagey."
"Your information should be useful." Qui-Gon felt a flicker of hope. "Can you transmit?"
"Right away." She pressed a data chip into the viewer, and Qui-Gon's comm bleated softly to indicate receipt. "Qui-Gon, as far as I know Dramacore has never captured a Jedi before." Her voice was sober. "But they've done nearly everything else, and I'd say they'll be absolutely beside themselves with glee at getting one. They'll put him in a battle arena, or let him go and have the arranhar chase him until they cut him down."
She hesitated, her eyes sympathetic. "Sometimes their gladiators don't just fight, either. If they have a fighter they think is pretty enough, or popular enough, they feature him in pornographic holos and sell them at a premium. Sometimes they blackmail the fighter's family or connections with the videos, if they think it's worthwhile. When they're backed into a corner, they sometimes use pornographic blackmail holos as leverage to get away with murder-- quite literally. Rather than let the holos be broadcast, wealthy families pay ransoms and drop charges; governments fail to pursue lawsuits, lawyers abandon their clients, and Dramacore keeps turning out their so-called 'entertainment.' A few of their stars win-- and win big; they make a huge publicity event out of the big winners, produce shows that display their lifestyles after they collect their winnings, even have reunion shows for the contestants-- but lots of the contestants aren't volunteers and most of them never make it out of the combat arenas alive. A couple of the winners who complained publicly about their treatment during the battles later disappeared in what I can only call suspicious circumstances."
Qui-Gon's heart sank. Obi-Wan's situation was even worse than he'd feared. He clamped down on a flicker of rage, forcing it to subside as far as he could. He could not extinguish it; wrath glowed inside his spirit like a reactor core nearing meltdown.
"The leader we captured said he would not remain a captive for long," he said, and Misi nodded ruefully. Qui-Gon could feel the truth of it in the Force. Tabare would never agree for such a video of Tiran to be broadcast-- it would ruin his son's arranged marriage, for one thing, and worse, it would undermine Tiran's future authority as a ruler.
And as for the Jedi-- to allow the public to see a Jedi, even a padawan, rendered powerless and exploited, forced to perform sexually, and then pursued to his death in a combat arena? Both the Council and the Senate would walk barefoot over red hot coals before accepting a public-relations disaster of that magnitude. They would sacrifice Obi-Wan, if necessary, and wait for a better opportunity to deal with Dramacore.
"Then we'll study our information for clues, and if the Force doesn't guide us to Obi-Wan, we'll wait for Dramacore to make the next move." Qui-Gon kept his tone level, but it took effort. "I will find Obi-Wan."
And so the days passed, with more Jedi arriving-- specialists in various areas, each contributing valuable skills. But it was to no avail; there were no leads, and Millim had nothing to say.
Qui-Gon barely slept and rarely ate; Tahl sent him more information, and he coordinated it with the others, releasing it freely, but driven to examine each set of knowledge himself, in hopes that he might see some vital clue or make some connection the others missed. Hours stretched into days, and the tension in the palace built.
Qui-Gon could not even bear to lie down to sleep-- every minute he wasted took Obi-Wan farther from him, and increased the danger to his padawan. While others rested, he pored through his data files again and again, or tried to meditate, questioning the Force, seeking patterns and pathways in the future-- but insight eluded him; manipulating and reading the Unifying Force had never been his greatest strength.
He knew he was more distressed than his position as Obi-Wan's master warranted. The attachment he had formed to Obi-Wan was too deep, even if he had never acted on his feelings, and now he must pay.
He grew increasingly short-tempered, his Jedi serenity and calm center moving farther from his grasp than they had ever been before, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care. After he found Obi-Wan, then he could rest and reclaim control. For now, he chafed and studied and paced his rooms like a tessek in a cage as he waited for the other shoe to drop.
It didn't take long.
On the fourth day after his padawan's disappearance, the quiet chime of Qui-Gon's comm unit sounded soon after dawn. The mild noise gave no clue to the devastating content of the message it signaled, but the Force stirred uneasily, warning him, and the Jedi master moved to the comm panel with dread, keying the message to appear onscreen.
The message was a recording, not a live transmission. A masked man appeared, spreading palms theatrically wide. His voice purred smoothly. "My good friends, I'm pleased to show you the latest from Dramacore's growing catalog of specialty holographs, this impending special release. Though, of course, should any of you wish to possess this holograph exclusively, arrangements may of course be made, if you act quickly. I regret that for us to consider your offer, exclusivity negotiations must begin with a good-faith gesture: the immediate release of Ruoto Millim, whom I understand is in custody due to an unfortunate misunderstanding." The man bowed and his image faded.
The Dramacore logo appeared, a stylized representation of the galaxy core with whirling arms flashing like a throwing star, and Qui-Gon's stomach rolled as a fruity voice introduced the holo, lingering with vibrant glee on the summary-- "In this amazing true-life video, Intimate Lust presents Dramacore's exclusive scoop on forbidden Jedi passion! See the shocking truth about the galaxy's mysterious freedom fighters, the Senate's private police force-- learn all about the smoking-hot private lives of these decadent mystic knights as they take royal princes and Dramacore's own galactic gladiator superstars for their secret lovers!"
The opening credits teased behind the words: first with an image of Obi-Wan's face contorting in a sensual gasp, his eyes closed and his padawan braid coiling sinuously against his cheek, his lips swollen. Then Tiran faded into view, the sharp planes of his handsome face lit from above so that his shadowed eyes almost made him look savage, then a young woman with a badly scarred face and striking eyes behind a wild mop of black hair, kneeling with her hands open on her thighs as she stared smokily out at the viewer, her bare breasts prominent, her legs widespread.
Qui-Gon's finger stabbed the 'pause' key with nearly enough force to shatter the console top.
Almost simultaneously, his comm board lit up with two urgent calls.
He took the one from Coruscant first, knowing it would be Mace or Yoda before it ever coalesced ...into Mace and Yoda. His jaw set with irritation. No doubt they thought it best to show him a united front.
"Masters." He inclined his head politely, masking his weariness and his badly frayed temper. This conversation was inevitable, though everyone already knew what would be said; they were just wasting precious time.
"We've received a communication from Dramacore," Mace said without preamble. "It's a pornographic holovid featuring your padawan, with a blackmail threat attached."
"I received the same communication," Qui-Gon acknowledged. "I've not yet had time to study it for clues to Obi-Wan's whereabouts. Have you studied it yet?" He could hear his own anger in the tightness of his tone, but had no strength to push it away.
"Distressed you are, Qui-Gon. And not without cause." Yoda's ears were drooping. "Respect your padawan's need for privacy, we do, but the council must know what has happened."
"We may be able to help with the investigation. If any of us see anything, we'll notify you immediately." Mace met Qui-Gon's eyes levelly, almost daring him to object.
"Will you serve refreshments at the viewing?" Qui-Gon heard bitterness in his tone, and regretted his words; all they did was show how badly his core of serenity had been damaged. In truth, he would not stop the viewing if he could, not if there was a chance the Jedi could use the video to locate and help Obi-Wan.
"Qui-Gon--" Mace's very tone patronized, but Yoda huffed and swung his stick at Windu's shin, making him grimace and fall silent.
"Understandable, your anger. But you must come to terms with your feelings, Qui-Gon Jinn. Depending on you, Obi-Wan is. Be ready when the time comes to act!" He sighed. "Unfortunate this is, and embarrassing. Nevertheless, notified the Supreme Chancellor must be. If this video comes to light, there will be much trouble."
Qui-Gon suppressed a flare of anger at Yoda's effortlessly accurate insinuation about his feelings for Obi-Wan. This was no time for petty bickering over personal details. "Then you want me to release Ruoto Millim, as they request." The words tasted foul in Qui-Gon's mouth, and impotent rage began to swell inside his heart.
"Wisdom, this is." Yoda nodded, his ears still low. "Much is involved here, not only Kenobi's reputation."
"Dramacore will have more demands when Millim has been released," Mace stated neutrally. "They will contact us."
"And you will buy the recording." Qui-Gon's lips curled with distaste. "You will negotiate and bide your time, and Obi-Wan will die in their filthy arena while you do nothing!"
"Our first priorities must be to protect the reputation of the Jedi and safeguard our ability to bring peace and order to the Republic." Mace tilted his head, his tone sharp-- self-righteous and patronizing.
"Listen to yourself." Qui-Gon lifted his chin, glaring at Windu with open anger. "I knew what you would say before I ever received this call. Obi-Wan's life and the violation he has endured mean nothing to you; your only concern is how this will reflect on the Jedi!"
"A concern it is for us, yes, but especially for the Senate! Order must be preserved." Yoda thrust his stick at the holocamera, as openly agitated as Qui-Gon had ever seen him. "Ask you to dishonor your padawan we do not, Qui-Gon! Nor must you abandon him. You may yet find him, and halt this evil."
"Then let me be about it." Qui-Gon bit the words off with savage precision, reaching for the terminate button, and he could see Yoda shaking his head as the transmission ended.
"Go well, that did not," he mocked the old master bitterly. There would be time to continue this argument later-- at great length, without a doubt, and with exhaustive reference to the inappropriateness of his behavior. He didn't give a damn.
The second flashing light opened a circuit to the King; Tabare had also received the holovid, and his face was haggard and gray. "Master Jedi, I--"
"I received one as well, and one was sent to the Jedi Temple at Coruscant." Qui-Gon sighed. "I hope you will forgive me, Your Majesty, but I will have to share this transmission with the Jedi who have come to help us. We must watch the hologram together. We may be able to discover useful information."
"Kalari, too," Tabare said. "She may know things you don't, or recognize places on Xinune that aren't familiar to the Jedi."
"Agreed. Your Majesty, this will not be pleasant. Perhaps it would be for the best if you do not watch--"
"I will watch, Master Jinn." Tabare's mouth pinched tight. "He's my only son."
"Very well," Qui-Gon agreed reluctantly, understanding that Tabare would not be persuaded to do otherwise. "Do you have a private holosuite?"
They assembled in the holosuite rapidly at Qui-Gon's request. Tabare sent his servants and guards away, and finally all who remained were the three Jedi and Misi's small padawan, plus Tabare and Kalari. Qui-Gon raised a brow at the young one's presence, and Misi put her hand on his shoulder.
"Guard the door, Walek, and remain outside until I come for you. We are not to be disturbed." She straightened, and when they had watched him go, Qui-Gon realized there was no more excuse for delay. This must be endured, no matter how painful.
In his pocket, he carried a data chip with the message stored on it. Taking it out, Qui-Gon slid it into the slot and keyed the holoprojector. The projection equipment was among the finest he had ever seen, and when the recording started, the image coalesced in three dimensions, swirling in the center of the large room.
After the logo and the introduction, the scene faded in on a dimly lit room with four doors, each with a person standing in front of it. The figures were life-sized and vivid, the resolution crystal clear and smooth. If not for the absence of the aura a live being generated in the Force, Qui-Gon might have thought they were real. Obi-Wan was, of course, one of the four.
Qui-Gon pulled up his hood and stepped back, hiding his expression inside the comforting shadow of his cowl, and tucked his hands deep within his sleeves.
The figures stepped out of darkness and moved slowly toward the center of the room, which brightened as they moved forward. Qui-Gon's eyes remained riveted to Obi-Wan's holograph. His padawan was alive, but obviously drugged; his eyes glittered and his hands shook slightly. His face was flushed, and his lips parted. His stride was not fully balanced, and from the way he glanced about, carefully checking his surroundings and the location of the others, Qui-Gon knew he could not touch the Force and read its currents.
His padawan still wore the black leather he had on when Qui-Gon last saw him, but the 'lightsaber' that swung at his side was not right-- a prop, not a weapon. The other prisoners were completely naked.
"A false weapon." Misi pointed it out, and other murmurs concurred.
"He is drugged," Qui-Gon added. "He cannot touch the Force."
The group reached out, inviting him to join his mind to their circle, and he erected careful shields and then did so. It was disconcerting to watch the other Jedi move about the room, walking into the holograph and examining it from every angle as it ran. Qui-Gon remained still, withdrawn. Obi-Wan was moving, lifting Tiran's face, sliding one palm under his jaw, thumb caressing his lips. He looked reasonably calm, but a telltale ridge waited under his leather trousers. Qui-Gon shifted, lifting his chin, refusing to look at it. That was much more difficult than it should have been.
"He has been given a Force inhibitor and aphrodisiacs," Knight Birin said. "Perhaps a hypnotic to increase his receptivity to suggestion."
"This was recorded on a transport. The deck plating is consistent with a Barloz-class medium cargo freighter," his partner Cai offered.
More soft words were spoken, but Qui-Gon could hardly hear them. His eyes were fixed on Obi-Wan, who leaned in and tilted his face up gracefully to kiss Tiran. Appalling music thumped in the background, suggestive and discordant.
"Computer, silence soundtrack," someone said. The music ceased, and the soft sounds of mouths meeting filled the room instead. Qui-Gon swallowed, his throat dry. Tiran was taller than Obi-Wan, but his padawan clearly dominated the scene; the other boy and girl stepped up passively and after a moment, Obi-Wan slid his arm around the boy's waist and pulled him in, one hand sliding up his spine. His mouth moved lasciviously on Tiran's, and as he kissed the prince he reached for the girl as well, drawing her against the others, one hand resting lightly on her smooth hip.
"The vocal track shows signs of tampering," said Cai, standing at the comm panel and watching a readout there. "They are being given directions we do not hear. Partial reconstruction may be possible; there was more than one microphone in the room and residue exists on secondary tracks."
"They have cast Obi-Wan as the aggressor." Qui-Gon hardly recognized his own voice. "To reflect unfavorably on the Jedi."
The four holographic prisoners split apart and Obi-Wan's hands moved to Tiran's shoulders, caressing. Slowly, he pressed the Xinune prince to his knees. His hands tightened to fists in the prince's hair, and Tiran began to nuzzle at the leather trousers. The blond boy and the girl withdrew slightly, and the boy moved behind her, fondling her as they watched and waited. Tiran delicately popped the button of Obi-Wan's trousers with his teeth, and Obi-Wan smiled, hazy but with obvious relief, as the prince reached in and freed him.
Tabare made a weak noise of protest, but the voices of the others had already ceased to matter to Qui-Gon. He withdrew from the mind-link, realizing he could not maintain enough control over his shields. The others must not know what this was going to do to him.
"Suck my cock." Obi-Wan's voice, a sultry growl, crashed against Qui-Gon quietly but with devastating effect; he instantly went rigid beneath his clothes, and his fists clenched with the need to lash out and strike something. Tiran obeyed, his lips parting, and he took the tip on his tongue, but then Obi-Wan's hand slid behind his head, dragging him forward, urging him to move faster. He sank down, eyes closed, and obeyed, his throat working with effort. Obi-Wan's length gleamed wet when it emerged from his mouth. With a sigh, Obi-Wan tilted his hips and began to thrust. Tiran struggled to accommodate him, but Obi-Wan's hand was firm on his neck, and he took Tiran's mouth without mercy, his lashes fluttering, his head tilting back. The leather trousers fell to his thighs, revealing his perfect, muscular bottom.
Qui-Gon's jaw locked so tightly a muscle began to twitch in his temple. It was all but impossible to breathe. The blond boy was moving now, and the girl; the girl reclined on her back and scooted up until she lay between Tiran's thighs, reaching for his erection; the boy knelt between her knees, a vial of oil in his hand, and pressed his chest against Tiran's back. He slicked his fingers and his cock, and worked his forefinger into Tiran, who shuddered and squirmed.
Tiran began moaning deep in his throat, the sound half-choked around Obi-Wan's cock. Obi-Wan directed the prince relentlessly, both hands fisted in his hair. He was purring, a low satisfied rumble; Qui-Gon's blood thundered in his ears, all but drowning Tiran's soft moans and the slick sounds of hands on flesh.
"Take it," Obi-Wan instructed, and Tiran gasped as the third boy extracted his fingers and replaced them with his cock, pushing up and in with one smooth stroke.
Pinned between the three of them, Tiran writhed; the light caught the sleek planes of his long, pale body, winking off a gold ring in his nipple. Obi-Wan's finger hooked into it and tugged, twisting slightly; this produced a low, throttled wail in the prince's throat.
Obi-Wan chuckled, and Qui-Gon thought he might go mad at the rich, exultant sound of it. Due to both the drugs and the relationship he once shared with Tiran, his padawan was only partly acting. The Dark Side swirled in Qui-Gon, feeding-- rage, jealousy, pain, shame, lust.
"Qui-Gon, are you all right?" Misi's alarmed voice intruded, and she laid her palm on Qui-Gon's shoulder.
He snapped his head upright, glaring out of his cowl, and the pure fury in his stare propelled her back a step, sending her hand to hover over her blade.
"No," he said, simply but precisely, biting off the words. "Would you be, if it were Walek?" His jaw seized tight; he could not speak further. She shook her head once, her eyes sympathetic and her lips vanishing into a thin line, then stepped away politely.
The holo drew him, relentless; Obi-Wan and the blond boy were both thrusting hard into Tiran now, their hands sliding over his chest and back, holding him upright even as their thrusts buffeted him back and forth between them. Tiran whimpered, helpless, sweat sliding down his ribs; his face was flushed with effort. The girl still worked his shaft in one hand, her other arm curled around his thigh to brace him.
Qui-Gon caught sight of Tabare's white face over the hologram; he looked like he could sick up everything he had ever eaten.
"Ah!" Obi-Wan gasped, and his hips pulled back as he came; stripes of gleaming pearl painted Tiran's face and some fell in the girl's hair. Obi-Wan's hands tightened until his fingertips made white dimples on Tiran's shoulder-- they would turn to bruises, Qui-Gon knew. The blond boy withdrew from the prince, and the girl slid out from between his thighs, leaving him unspent. He knelt there, shuddering, eyes on the floor, his chest rising and falling as he gasped for breath. The girl petted him, comforting; her dark hair was in disarray, and it stuck to the sweat on his shoulder as she drew him against her, the gesture strangely protective.
Relief began to fill Qui-Gon-- was it over?-- but hope drained away quickly as the blond boy stepped forward and raised one slender hand to tweak Obi-Wan's nipple. Obi-Wan smiled, considering him through slitted eyes; his shaft was shrinking, cradled in his hand as he stripped the last drops of semen from the tip.
"Whatever shall I use on you?" His left hand fell to the false lightsaber, curled around it, and Qui-Gon's nails cut into his palms.
Obi-Wan drew the hilt, one hand turning the blond boy, bending him over.
"Brace your hands on your thighs." Obi-Wan retrieved the oil and poured a generous measure on the hilt in his hand. After a slight hesitation, a glance toward whoever was directing him, he pressed the hilt to the young man's body and ignored the hiss of pain as he began to push it inside.
Obi-Wan worked slowly-- as much a kindness as a tease, perhaps. As he leaned over the blond, Tiran crept forward on his knees and slipped in behind him, easing the tight leather trousers down over his thighs.
The girl worked at the straps that fastened Obi-Wan's boots, and helped him kick them off; together she and the blond took the trousers off him and threw them aside. Then Tiran nuzzled against Obi-Wan's backside, kissing the cleft. The prince's hands pressed Obi-Wan's cheeks apart, and he led with his tongue as he leaned in, making Obi-Wan groan and pause in what he was doing, his even white teeth sinking into his lower lip, his belly taut. The girl stood and worked his jacket off his shoulders, leaving him naked. She tossed it at Qui-Gon's feet, where it lay crumpled.
"It is not to be borne!" Tabare's voice, hoarse with anger, slid past Qui-Gon's consciousness. "Such an indignity for my son!"
The tableau continued, indifferent to the king's complaint. Obi-Wan pressed the fake saber hilt inside the blond by gradual stages, adding oil, carefully turning it to ease the way, until he was satisfied, and then he began to slide it out as carefully as he had pressed inside, coaxing the blond to accept it, working until it moved freely before he started to move faster. He was quivering, perspiring with the effort of control, his hair turning to spikes and his chest gleaming with silver trails as the droplets gathered and slid downward.
Tiran took him in hand, stroking him to hardness, still plying his tongue. The girl waited, watching; one hand moved between her thighs, her fingers busy. She rolled her nipple and pinched it, and her small pink tongue darted out to slick her lower lip, but Qui-Gon had no eyes for her, only for Obi-Wan, who had begun undulating back against the tongue that fucked him. He had found the sweet spot for the blond, who was struggling to stay upright, sinews quivering, mewling each time the hilt pressed over his prostate, his slender cock red and gleaming at the tip.
Obi-Wan's breath came harshly in his throat; his heavy-lidded eyes were glazed with passion, and he hardly seemed to know where he was. At last he withdrew the hilt and flung it away. "Go have her," he directed the blond toward the girl with a casual tilt of his chin, and turned back to Tiran, dragging him upright and punishing him with a brutal kiss. He drew back, eyes glittering, mouth wet, and licked his lips.
"Now I want you to fuck me." He slid his open palm down his belly and up again, letting it rest over his nipple-- the very gesture he had made without thinking in front of Qui-Gon, squirming with pleasure on his sumptuous palace bed. Through the haze of lust and anger in his mind, Qui-Gon realized Obi-Wan's nipple had been pierced also, and sported its own gleaming golden ring.
The shock of the familiar motion, combined with the smoke of lust in Obi-Wan's words, drove a lightning surge of sensation straight through Qui-Gon's cock. He very nearly screamed. His balls were an agony of pressure, and he thought he had not breathed since the whole scene began. He could taste blood, and did not know when he had bitten the inside of his cheek. His whole mouth was filled with the sour tang of metal.
Tiran and Obi-Wan sank to the floor, each kissing and biting at the other's lips. Qui-Gon could feel every beat of his own heart sending a spike of unwanted urgency through his cock. Tiran lifted Obi-Wan's legs and hooked them over his shoulders, kissing the inside of his thigh. He was more relaxed now, and his ease as he arranged their bodies was telling, hinting of past intimacy.
Obi-Wan stretched his arms out over his head, smiling, his eyes burning hot. They held Tiran's as the prince slicked himself with the last of the oil; a spark of lust leaped across the gaze, and Tiran obeyed the unspoken communication, driving in without preamble.
Obi-Wan hissed, arching; he caught his own legs behind the knees and held himself open for Tiran.
"Give it to me hard," Obi-Wan rasped, "and hurry up."
Tiran did, bracing his hands on the deck. He plowed into Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan gasped, his lips open, his eyes growing wide and dark. Still he held Tiran's gaze, still the electric current of lust bound them. "That's it," he gasped. "Harder." The corners of his mouth curled up with satisfaction, and tension left him; in the part of his mind that could still think clearly, Qui-Gon understood his padawan's conscience, still present though buried under the drugs, was finally clear-- no longer taking, but taken, his responsibility for the others had lessened.
Obi-Wan and Tiran might almost be alone. Qui-Gon could hear the girl whimpering, but he did not turn his eyes toward her. Obi-Wan's head jerked, helpless, his braid flung across the floor, as Tiran found the right angle and began a punishing rhythm that dragged hoarse cries from Obi-Wan's throat. Qui-Gon could see his padawan's shaft lying against his belly, taut and full again; he reached and caught it in his hand, squeezing and tugging upward in short, sharp strokes.
Tiran's eyes were closed, his mouth slack; he was breathing hard, making a low grunt of effort at the extent of each thrust. It could not last long, and it didn't; within moments, his muscles shuddering with the strain, Tiran succumbed. With a low growl he shoved his entire length into Obi-Wan, and his body convulsed as he spent himself.
Obi-Wan keened, his wrist twisting as he stroked himself; one, two, three more frantic tugs, and then he jerked, face contorting as he painted his belly with semen. Tiran collapsed onto him and they lay there, limp and gasping, the prince's face buried in Obi-Wan's neck. Obi-Wan's free hand rose and smoothed over Tiran's back, soothing him.
The images faded abruptly, and were replaced by the masked man.
"We do hope you have enjoyed this small sample of our wares, and we trust it will inspire you to do business with us again very soon." Amusement oozed into his voice. "There is, after all, much more where that came from, and our writing department has hardly touched the limitless bounds of creativity and specialty interest scenes that may be made available to you." He bowed. "Dramacore appreciates your patronage."
The recording was over.
Qui-Gon sagged, but there was no relief. The nightmare wasn't over. Jealousy and rage and lust still surged and boiled inside his heart, and he knew instinctively that he had to release them into the Force-- as quickly as possible, before they consumed him.
Without a word to anyone, he whirled and stalked out.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten the guard. Even as the door hissed shut behind him, he heard the snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting, and instinctively he reacted, raising his hand and lashing out defensively with the Force. A body flew; Qui-Gon was startled to recognize Walek as his attacker, the padawan's lightsaber clattering onto the marble floor as he struck the wall hard.
Hastily Qui-Gon released the apprentice, who staggered against the wall, righted himself, summoning his lightsaber to his outstretched hand. His throat bobbed as he gulped with fear, but he clutched the lightsaber firmly, falling into the first position of Soresu, and he calmed himself with a visible effort, prepared to defend if Qui-Gon attacked.
Qui-Gon's throat closed with shame. A ten-year-old padawan, probably only partway through learning the first kata of his chosen combat form, the lad was nonetheless ready to remain at his post and die against one of the order's three best living swordsmen. Furthermore, the apprentice was not at fault for igniting his lightsaber; he had not swung at Qui-Gon. It was quite appropriate to prepare for defense when he perceived so much dark energy approaching. Qui-Gon could feel the darkness pulsing around himself, crackling with energy like heavy thunderclouds. He must have terrified the boy, storming out like this.
It was lucky he hadn't injured the child.
Another moment passed, electric with tension, before Walek turned off the blade, dropping his guard. "Forgive me, Master Jinn."
"It is I who should ask forgiveness, young padawan." Another time he would have gone to his knee, attempting to explain and comfort, but today it was not in him. "You acted rightly; even another Jedi may pose a threat." He tried to smile, and felt the brittleness of it. "If you will excuse me, I must meditate and purge my anger."
"Yes, sir." Walek resumed his post as Qui-Gon stalked away.
Force curse it, right now a quarter-trained padawan was a better Jedi than he was. His state of mind was so disturbed from the stress of uncontrolled emotions that he thought he would probably fail the Trials required to become a Knight, if he had to re-take them to prove his fitness for going on. Suffering through that hologram made the Trial of Spirit he'd endured so long ago look like a children's picnic in a nature park.
Qui-Gon swept through the palace, domestic staff and members of the King's household scuttling out of his way hastily. He ignored them. He had never felt so relieved to reach his rooms; once the door slammed behind him, he fell to his knees on the carpet, trying to reach for meditation and peace.
They eluded him. His body was a wreck of hormones and adrenaline, and he could not concentrate. The images of Obi-Wan kept playing inside his mind, an infinite loop of torment that forced both his body and his spirit to a breaking point of tension. Qui-Gon bit his lip; strung taut between the demands of his body and the fury in his heart, he could not find a way to release his distress into the Force.
He could only think of one thing to do that would help-- and he had never done it before. He had vowed to reserve himself for the Force, disdaining mere physical indulgence, but after nearly 180 years of life as a Jedi, it was time to try a new solution; he was desperate. It was shameful-- horribly so, to let the rape of his apprentice affect him in such a way-- but there was no other viable alternative, except perhaps to succumb to the Dark Side, let his anger have free rein, and destroy everything he could reach, definitely including Ruoto Millim-- an unacceptable, if attractive, solution.
Qui-Gon clenched his fists, set his jaw, and stood. Feeling strangely like a condemned prisoner, he stripped off his cloak and let it drop to the floor. His leather belt fell from him next, then his sash and his tunic. He stood for a moment, half-fearful, half-exhilarated, and sat down on the too-soft bed. He began loosening the straps of his boots, unfastening them one at a time, drawing his feet out and letting them settle into the carpet.
It felt as if he were peeling back layers of himself, baring someone he did not know-- discarding layers of years, philosophies, experiences, even actions, leaving only a man-- and not a very proud one. Was this how others felt, the non-Jedi? Exposed and purposeless, driven by emotions they could not always control?
He stood, wearing only his leggings, and went over to the window, looking out at the lush garden courtyards below. A shaft of sunlight fell over his chest, warm and sensual. Compared to the boiling darkness inside him, it felt.... clean, safe.
He used the soft, warm glow of the sun as a focus, and it helped bring his awareness out of his spirit and into his body. Distasteful or not, his new strategy was already working. His body's need had begun to focus, building anticipation. Paying attention to it helped the darker emotions recede; the lust eclipsed the anger and beckoned him, seductive.
He stepped to the connecting door that led to Obi-Wan's room, keyed it, and slipped inside. His padawan's pack lay carelessly abandoned on the bed, and Obi-Wan's everyday clothing had been tossed in a heap over the back of a straight chair. Qui-Gon himself had returned Obi-Wan's cloak to this place, folding it neatly in a deliberate counterpoint to his padawan's typically messy personal habits. Other than leaving his few possessions, Obi-Wan had barely touched this place long enough to make an imprint.
He went to the chair, and with one trembling hand, he reached to caress the rich brown of Obi-Wan's cloak. He could smell his apprentice's scent on the cloth, and it sent a hot pulse of desire shooting through him to curl insistently at his groin. Anger was fading; there was not enough room for it here, not in the same space with his desire for Obi-Wan.
He sighed, closing his eyes, concentrating the image of his Obi-Wan lying on this very bed in this very room, smiling up at him.
Very carefully, very deliberately, ignoring the guilt that whispered at him, he took his padawan's cloak, walked over to the bed, and lay down where Obi-Wan had lain. He cradled the cloak carefully to him, as if it were a living thing, inhaling deeply of his padawan's scent. Then, for the first time in a very long life, Qui-Gon Jinn slipped his hand inside his leggings, curled it around his erect flesh, and began to touch himself.
It felt awkward and uncomfortable, and his cheeks heated with self-conscious blood-- but it also felt inexpressibly good. His breath hitched in his chest as he explored, tentative fingers mapping the unfamiliar shape of the swollen length. The faint hint of Obi-Wan's scent lingered with him, and he closed his eyes, inhaling slowly.
He tried a long, smooth stroke, discovering what to do, how to make it feel good. The pleasure burned in him like the slow heat of the sun on his skin. It made him think of his padawan-- but not as he appeared in the hologram; instead, he pictured Obi-Wan as he stood by Qui-Gon's side every day. The way his leggings rode low on his hips after he got up in the morning when they were quartered in the Temple, while he was making breakfast for them both. The intensity of the focus he brought to his training; the way he sank into lightsaber katas, all other things forgotten but the perfect harmony of mind, body, and the Force. The way his eyes sparkled above the sly smile he often wore as he glanced over to his master to share the joke when something amused him. The way his chin lifted and squared as he advanced into battle, indomitable. His loose-limbed, confident stride and the sway of his hips as he walked....
Qui-Gon shifted restlessly, his hand tightening; he remembered touching Obi-Wan's mind and finding feelings like this one waiting there-- feelings Obi-Wan had for him. As full of wonder as it was of danger, this knowledge....
"Obi-Wan." The name escaped him on a breath, a soft murmur of passion, a delightful frisson shivering through him with the reverent sound. His hand moved, his body teaching him the way. Faster now, a gentle twist at the top, moving the loose skin around the tip. The hard, rough callus on his thumb felt good just there, teasing unexpectedly sensitive skin.
He thought his Obi-Wan would have responded to Qui-Gon as he had to Tiran-- more so; he would have been joyous, willing, eager, and open, not drugged and coerced. Qui-Gon heard himself whimper softly, low in his throat; his body was restless with the energy flowing through it, its focus building inside his moving palm. His hips and thighs shifted, his back arched, and his muscles worked to find a way to channel the energy, to release it. His stomach tightened, and his free hand wandered restlessly, seeking out sensation, scraping nails over skin that already felt unimaginably charged with sensation.
This was the pure Living Force; concentrated, distilled, blazing like a star. How could he have turned his back on it for so long? He pushed his hips upward, driving himself through his fist. He lost himself fully in the moment as sensation gathered, strengthening, driving his consciousness out, leaving only room for itself-- and then burst in a supernova, leaving him to slump back on the bed, drained and sticky.
He blinked at the ceiling for a few long moments, realizing it would be an excellent idea to remove his leggings first the next time. His anger was still with him, but was contained now, and its subsidence had left a deep, spiraling weariness in its place. The bed cradled him lovingly, and Obi-Wan's scent soothed him. Clumsily he pulled the cloak over his bare chest, over his face. How long had it been since he last slept? Before he could work it out, his eyelids sank shut, and he faded away.
A hand shook Qui-Gon's shoulder, and he surged to wakefulness instantly, prepared to defend-- but it was Misi, standing well back from him, her gaze carefully cool. Qui-Gon could have cursed, and he felt color rise into his cheeks-- caught lying amidst Obi-Wan's things, reeking of sex? Unforgivable. And then, there was the matter of Walek.
"Master Misi," He sat upright, drawing the cloak over himself. "I apologize for frightening your padawan. We took one another off-guard."
"He is unharmed." She nevertheless radiated disapproval. "The Council have contacted me regarding Ruoto Millim's disposal. I thought it best to include you in this."
"Indeed." He stood, wincing as tender hairs caught and pulled. "I must dress. We will go to the cells at once."
She swept out, and Qui-Gon peeled his leggings off himself, grimacing, and took a hasty shower. As a form of meditation, that had definitely been a change from the norm. It had been what he needed, though, and that was what mattered.
He dried his hair hastily with a towel and put on fresh clothes, then went out. Misi was waiting, and Walek, who inclined his head politely towards Qui-Gon, a perfect picture of decorum. Qui-Gon tried not to notice how close Misi stood behind her padawan, protective of him and wary of Qui-Gon.
They collected King Tabare and flew the short distance to the royal guard house, where Millim was housed. He was relaxing, reclined on his narrow, hard cot, and seemed unsurprised to see them.
"I suppose you've brought a Jedi councilor with a signed release order from Supreme Chancellor Valorum?" Millim grinned, hard and triumphant.
"Release him," Qui-Gon instructed Captain Kalari. She pursed her mouth with distaste and opened the cell, standing back to let the man walk out.
"You will contact your superiors and tell them you have been set free," Qui-Gon instructed, aware that his calm was only the thinnest veneer. Anger seethed just under the surface, and Qui-Gon savored it in silence beneath tight shields-- only he could know how close this man walked to death. "And then you may address your exclusivity negotiations to the attention of the Jedi Council on Coruscant."
Millim's grin widened. "I want a transport to my offices in the city."
"Escort him," Qui-Gon directed Kalari. He would not need to tell her to maintain surveillance; Birin and Kai were already prepared to pick up his trail as he left the facility. "Make every possible convenience available to him."
Millim raised a brow, and a spark of dislike flashed between him and Qui-Gon; there was no love lost on either side. "Including a permanent Jedi companion, no doubt. Will you honor me yourself?"
"You have no further value to me." Qui-Gon lifted his chin, looming over the smaller man.
"Too busy watching holovision to bother?" He winked.
Qui-Gon wanted to slap the smirk off Millim's face; somehow, he managed to keep his hands dangling loosely at his sides. All it would take was a minute; a minute, and the slightest precise whipcrack trickle of Force, and Qui-Gon could have everything he knew. If Misi was not there--
But she was. He stepped back, folding his hands inside his sleeves. "Ruoto Millim, I will find my padawan, and I will return him to his place within the Jedi. It is well for you that I will do this. If, by some chance, I do not--" he paused, again aware of Walek and of Misi, perhaps most of all of Walek. The boy was no less important or valuable than Obi-Wan; Qui-Gon would not have an impressionable lad see how badly a senior Jedi had darkened, if he could help it. "We will meet again, and you will find this meeting very little to your liking, I think."
The low purr of threat behind the calm of his words fell on fertile ground; it actually produced a flicker of fear in the man's eyes, and Qui-Gon would have to be satisfied with that-- for now.
"Stay away from me, Jedi. We don't film without a contract and contract means legal." Millim prudently put Kalari between him and Qui-Gon. "Let's go," he blustered at her, and Qui-Gon watched him narrowly as they strode out. Another lead, burned for nothing-- allowed to walk free, as Mace and Yoda insisted.
Heeling at their command galled Qui-Gon bitterly. If this failed, Millim was not the only one with whom he would conduct an unpleasant interview. The one with the Council might be less... satisfactorily instructive, but it would without doubt be explosive in its own way.
Qui-Gon remained silent as he accompanied the others back to the palace. The Jedi had created a file of their observations, and he uploaded it to his datapad. The Council had added to it as well.
Qui-Gon spent the ride appending his own impressions-- mostly of his intuitions into Obi-Wan's psychological and physiological state, but it might be helpful. He read the other notes carefully-- there was speculation about the make of the transport, and someone had confirmed the identities of the two previously unknown prisoners. He scanned a transcript of vocal remarks that had been edited from the final version of the holo and restored via electronic enhancement-- they were mostly directions on how to perform; nothing that offered a clue into Obi-Wan's whereabouts.
Nothing. Nothing. And again, nothing.
He set the analysis aside and checked his personal mail. Tahl had sent him more data about Dramacore, so he dove into that next. This was more telling. She had identified filming locations for several of the Dramacore shows, and provided insight into their extensive blackmail activities and illegal operations. It seemed they were well-accustomed to coercion, and they liked to carry out their business operations far outside the jurisdiction of Republic law: they made most of their holos on remote worlds whose native populace were not yet technologically advanced enough to develop long-range spaceflight on their own.
He walked away from the others, unchallenged, when they reached the palace, and meandered toward his room, still staring at the location shots Tahl had included. He let his intuition drift, questing for currents in the Living Force.
Qui-Gon flicked between photographs of cityscapes, remote mountain ranges, battle arenas and amphitheaters. Tahl had sent copies of show holos, too-- mostly of combats or chases to the death. Qui-Gon began to watch, but after a time he paused the screen in the middle of a chase program. The image showed a creature he had never seen before.
The thing ran on all fours, like a cat, but could stand upright and even walk on its hind legs if it chose. It had a short tawny pelt, slightly longer on its head, with sharp fangs in both its upper and lower jaws. All four of its appendages were equipped with opposable thumbs. The thing was possessed of incredible flexibility and speed over nearly any terrain, and its tactics displayed high, near-sentient intelligence combined with extreme predatory savagery. Long, scything, razor-sharp claws tipped all four of its oddly hand-like paws. Qui-Gon had already watched half this chase, and had learned that when it captured its quarry, it simply shredded the corpse and then devoured it.
Those must be the creatures from Obi-Wan's nightmares. Qui-Gon knew now that Obi-Wan had seen visions of his future. Why hadn't he listened? If he had, he could have linked his mind with Obi-Wan's, and that would have afforded him the chance to see the visions for himself. He might have seen some landscape feature that would match these holos, or some other clue that might have given a clue to a place to start looking for his padawan.
Tabare might claim that nobody could have smuggled Tiran off Xinune, but Qui-Gon's intuitions insisted that the king was mistaken. Dramacore's methods were so dodgy that they would need to get their prisoners as far from the Republic and its laws as they could.
How had the Dramacore transport, where the holo of Obi-Wan and the other prisoners had been shot, evaded royal port security? Bribes were one possibility; corrupt officials might easily be persuaded to sign off on a harmless-seeming cargo manifest, or to skip the bio-scan inspection before a ship lifted off. He could consult Kalari about possibilities, but the planet was too large to narrow them down quickly enough for the information to be useful. Qui-Gon was already lagging dangerously, and falling farther behind as he searched.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes-- his afternoon sleep had not been adequate to rest him in body and mind, but he had to think in spite of that.
The pornographic holo was only a distraction, if a potentially lucrative one; a Jedi gladiator would be pure gold in arena combat or in a chase.
The nightmares indicated a chase was the more likely of the two. Qui-Gon nodded to himself. It made sense; a chase could easily be turned into a serial, and even without access to the Force, Obi-Wan's training rendered him a formidable runner.
If only he could reduce the odds in the gamble, he would leave Xinune; his instincts said there was little to be accomplished here. Increasingly, he sensed, he needed to pursue the Dramacore vessel and be at hand when his padawan most needed him.
He sent a transmission request to Tahl's comm code, scanning through the information again while waiting for his answer. She answered swiftly, and her slender, dark features appeared before him.
"Qui-Gon." She lifted her chin, welcoming but proud.
"Tahl." He keenly felt the burden of words that were unsaid, but he did not have time for them, which she knew. "Your information has been useful, but I must ask for more."
She nodded once, her face impassive.
"The Force leads me to believe Obi-Wan is meant for the chase. Do you have more information on the locations Dramacore prefers for shooting chase holos?"
"Give me a minute." Her long slender fingers tapped tapped at the console, and Qui-Gon watched. Objectively he could remember feeling love for her, even desire, but in the wake of his feelings for Obi-Wan, in the stress and growing despair of the fruitless search, there was nothing but friendship left. It made him feel strangely hollow inside as he watched her work; he didn't know what to say.
"I can't be positive-- that's why I didn't include this information in my last transmission." Tahl's fingers flew. "But I believe time is of the essence; Dramacore usually doesn't keep captives alive for long. The viewers get bored easily, so the demand for new gladiators and new thrills is high." She moved effortlessly, reaching out to retrieve data chips unerringly despite her blindness.
"The world or worlds they use aren't archived in any Republic holographic database, so I wasn't able to match city skylines or natural landscapes. I did get one thing that might be a lead, though." Tahl punched up an image; it replaced her face on Qui-Gon's screen. It was a still shot extracted from a night sequence, with a ridge of mountains half-eclipsing the sky.
"Bant cataloged these for me. This shot is from one of their most popular chase programs, and it shows a decent slice of starscape. I ran it through the archive computer a dozen different ways. The computer was able to triangulate a planetary coordinate based on star positions. The shot is blurred from camera motion, and the planet's light pollution washed out everything except a couple of dozen stars of the highest magnitude, but the computer says there's a 70% chance of accuracy. There actually is a world at the coordinates the computer suggested. I'm transmitting planetary coordinates and information now."
She hesitated, tapping at her keyboard with one long finger. "There's no guarantee that's the only planet they use for the chase, but several of the most recently released episodes contained skylines that matched the world where this starshot was taken."
Qui-Gon grimaced. 70% accuracy on the star scan, plus an indefinite ID of the planetary base? It wasn't good enough, but it would have to be. He trusted Tahl's intuitions.
"Do the Council know about your findings?"
"No." She looked at him sightlessly, raising one delicate brow. "Do you think they should?"
"Give me a week, and then tell them. They can do whatever they like."
Her lips curved up very slightly. "I would not want to be Dramacore, or anything else that might be foolish enough to stand between you and Obi-Wan."
Qui-Gon flushed, glad that she could not see it. "Tahl, I..." the words dried up.
"Find him," she said simply. "May the Force be with you, Qui-Gon."
Qui-Gon's course of action was clear at last; he felt the rightness of it in the Force.
Hastily, Qui-Gon signaled King Tabare. The king still looked as if he hadn't slept; his eyes sunken and deeply shadowed. "I have increasing reason to believe Tiran and Obi-Wan have been smuggled off-planet," Qui-Gon told him quietly. "I believe I know where they are being taken. The Force is leading me in this."
Tabare looked at Qui-Gon with haunted eyes. "I hope so, Master Jedi. Do you need a fast ship?"
"No, I have one of my own."
"Then I'll have Kalari give you take-off clearance right away."
"Thank you. I'll communicate when I can." Qui-Gon cut the link and rapidly packed Obi-Wan's things, then his own, including a generous supply of ration concentrates and water. The transport he and Obi-Wan had taken from Coruscant was swift, but not swift enough; bulky and unwieldy, with a crew complement of six, it would slow Qui-Gon down. Fortunately, it was not their only craft. Obi-Wan's Delta 6 starfighter was along for the journey, docked sleekly to the transport's flank, along with a powerful hyperspace drive ring. With that, Qui-Gon could halve the duration of any potential hyperspace travel. He was not the natural pilot Obi-Wan was; as a devotee of the Living Force, he preferred to fight with his feet on the ground, but he could acquit himself well enough in a fighter if he had to.
Only when he was settling into the uncomfortably tight cockpit did he message Misi.
"What do you have?" She could feel it in the Force, then; her voice was tense with expectation.
"I don't know yet. But I believe I may know where they're taking Obi-Wan. I'll transmit coordinates. Misi..." he hesitated. "I know you have reason to distrust my objectivity in this matter. But I ask you not to inform the Council of this."
She paused. "And King Tabare?"
"He should follow your lead. I've told him what I'm doing."
"You walk a dangerous line, Master Jinn." Her voice was sober, and he knew she did not mean setting out to rescue Obi-Wan alone. "Obi-Wan would not want you to lose yourself for him." She sighed. "The Dark Side is taking root in you, Qui-Gon. You've lost your objectivity about this. I've felt your anger, and your excessive attachment to Obi-Wan. They cloud your mind." Her voice gentled, trying to soften the blow. "We've all felt it. Your future is uncertain, and many paths lead to shadow."
"I can control it." Qui-Gon lied, hoping he would find a way. "But I'll do what I must to save my padawan."
"That's what I'm afraid of." She terminated the conversation abruptly, and he dismissed her from his mind. She was right-- but he had spoken the only truth that mattered to him now.
Qui-Gon blasted out of Xinune's gravity well without incident and programmed the hyperdrive with Tahl's coordinates. As the starfield stretched into hyperspace, he reached for as much of the Living Force as he could gather. It was enough to set a deep meditative trance, one that would rest him and reduce the resources he consumed during his trip. Force willing, it would also help him master himself.
PART II - The Devil and the Cat
Archive