Archive: m_a and http://www.strangeplaces.net/torch/
Category: AU, action/adventure, first time, drama
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: JA 1 and 2, and the movie
Summary: On a mission to Tatooine to negotiate with Jabba the
Hutt, the young Jedi knight Obi-Wan Kenobi runs into some
unexpected trouble as he tries to deal with the reappearance of
the long-vanished Qui-Gon Jinn, who has an agenda of his own.
Feedback: is a wonderful thing.
Disclaimer: Me, I'm unreliable. I got these evil hand issues.
Author's notes: I owe an immense debt of gratitude to elynross
for not only providing the original inspiration, but also
ranting space, encouragement, editing, continuity, and
hand-holding; this story literally would not have existed
without her, and I can't thank her enough. (If you don't like
it, it's all my fault.) Thanks also to Rachael Sabotini for
helping me find a certain word.
This is an AU. Reader beware. :-) It diverges from canon
partway through JA 2, but nevertheless incorporates a lot of
the Tattoine parts of the movie, in different ways.
The music was insistent, shrill and loud, running in hectic
cadences over the clatter of glasses and goblets, over bursts
of laughter and scattered words in a dozen different languages.
Sound and scent filled the hall, pushing at the shadows. Oil
drops spattered on a brazier hissed, first sweet, then burnt,
and the air carried hints of several toxic and intoxicating
substances. Breathing deeply, Obi-Wan got a lungful of tlao
smoke and wrinkled his nose in discreet revulsion. He plucked a
small skewer of diced vegetables from the tray of a passing
server and bit into a chunk of keet tuber to kill the taste of
tlao. A thin stream of tuber juice, not quite hot enough to
burn, ran down his wrist and soaked into his sleeve.
Obi-Wan reached forward to take a pinch of herb-spiced salt
from a small bowl and sprinkle it over his vegetables, and then
wiped his fingers on the same damp sleeve. It would probably
pass for good table manners here. No one was watching him
particularly closely anyway, as the novelty value of having a
Jedi around had faded after the first evening. He did his best
to stay unobtrusive, to see rather than be seen; there was an
elusive whisper in the force that told him that there was,
indeed, something here to see for the observant, something it
would be important for him to see.
It would be nice, he thought wryly, if he could get to see it
soon. Being a guest in Jabba the Hutt's palace wasn't his idea
of a good time, or his idea of a mission, either. Waiting
silently through days and nights of riotous partying and
unobtrusive business dealings... So far it had been nothing but
an exercise in patience. It was undoubtedly good for him, and
it was very, very boring.
He was leaning sideways to avoid the flying tentactles of a
drunkenly staggering Tulkuth with a half-empty pitcher of zin
wine when Jabba barked out a sharp command. The musicians fell
silent. Obi-Wan straightened up in time to see two helmeted
guards grasp the heavy tasseled cords to a drapery on the far
wall and pull. The drapery parted to reveal a darkened doorway
where bodies flowed like shadows before coming out into the
light.
There were perhaps twenty of them. Most, but not all, were
female. Oiled flesh shone in the red-tinted light, and
gold-spangled clothing glittered. Not very much gold-spangled
clothing, though. Obi-Wan watched with detached appreciation as
the line of beautiful, beautifully painted pleasure slaves
wound through the hall, watched as each of the slaves came to a
halt in front of one of the guests. He nibbled on a fthek stick
as he listened to Jabba's guttural comments, trying to pick out
individual words--he could read some Huttese, but the spoken
language still sounded like a gurgling drain to him.
Another reason why he was the wrong choice for this mission, he
thought: he was a young, unpartnered knight who didn't know the
language, sent off to negotiate with a syndicate that virtually
owned this little rim world and everyone on it. Obi-Wan kept
from shaking his head, only bit down a little harder on the
fthek stick. He must have faith in himself. His master did--all
his masters. He smiled faintly. It was only a recon mission.
Jabba had asked to meet with a representative of the Jedi to
discuss "issues of mutual interest," but so far, the
discussions had mostly consisted of sly looks and
self-satisfied chuckles on Jabba's part, polite silence on
Obi-Wan's. The feeling that he was waiting for something
persisted, though, and now it was growing stronger.
The translation of Jabba's rumbles came moments later through
Bib Fortuna, who hovered by the dais, constantly looking up at
Jabba, and then down again. "My master hopes that you will all
enjoy his little gifts."
Jabba's rumbling laughter in the background made it clear what
form he expected that enjoyment to take. Obi-Wan was pondering
his possible responses to this, and how to wriggle out of the
offer, when someone stopped in front of him. He looked up,
mentally prepared for one of the spangled and painted beauties,
and was stunned into silence.
This was no supple young pleasure slave. This was a man who had
seen more than twice Obi-Wan's years, a tall man whose bare
arms and shoulders had grown muscled through hard labor, a man
whose skin showed the scars of a thousand fights lost and won
over the years. He wore no silks, no spangles, no paint, only a
pair of dirty breeches from some thick, rough cloth and a chain
around his neck. Purely for the sake of effect, that chain, a
part of Obi-Wan's mind said; it was the hidden transmitter that
was the true symbol of slavery here on Tatooine, here in
Jabba's palace. Barefoot and bruised, the man stood before
Obi-Wan in an attitude that could best be described as serene.
Which, considering the circumstances, and considering the man,
was something of an achievement.
The hair was longer, shaggier, generously streaked with silver.
The nose had been broken at some point and healed crookedly.
The eyes, clear blue and as steady as lasers, were exactly the
same.
Qui-Gon Jinn. Here. As a slave in chains.
Obi-Wan breathed deeply and kept his thoughts to himself,
inside his head and off his face. His mind teemed with
questions. He had last seen Qui-Gon on Bandomeer, fifteen years
ago, when the man had made it clear that he was not going to
take Obi-Wan Kenobi as his padawan learner. Half a year after
their final parting, the Jedi master had made a brief visit to
Coruscant, never to return again. Obi-Wan was aware that there
had been any number of search and rescue missions during his
apprenticeship and the first years of his knighthood; he had
been part of one such mission, which had been disguised as a
lengthy set of trade negotiations. The negotiations had fallen
largely to him while his master concentrated on trying to find
the missing Jedi. Obi-Wan had been successful; his master had
not.
Now Qui-Gon stood before him on a planet half a galaxy away
from where he'd disappeared. Stood before him a slave of the
Hutt. When Obi-Wan reached out with his mind, all he could
sense was the presence of a living body. Something was blocking
him. Whatever it was did more than just keep the force away
from Qui-Gon; it also kept Qui-Gon away from the force, made
him invisible to all but ordinary sight. Try as he might,
Obi-Wan could not touch Qui-Gon's thoughts.
Fifteen years of captivity, fifteen years of being locked away
from the force... was it possible? Obi-Wan had to work hard to
conceal a shudder. Was it possible to go through that and still
be sane? He searched Qui-Gon's eyes for a sign--of recognition,
understanding, complicity, anything--and got a clear,
unreadable look in return.
"My master hopes you will enjoy your little pleasure toy,
Jedi," Fortuna said. There was a roar of laughter from Jabba,
and more words, like cold porridge being scraped out of a bowl.
The pale Twi'lek smiled unpleasantly as he went on, "If you
don't, or if you grow tired of him, we will send him back where
we found him, of course. As soon as he has been properly
punished for failing to please."
Obi-Wan hoped he was keeping his reaction off his face. Many of
Jabba's guests were watching him and Qui-Gon with interest,
amusement, scorn. The drunken Tulkuth was screaming with
laughter, spraying everyone around him with wine. To them, it
was supremely funny to see a Jedi presented with this slave,
this choice. Obi-Wan sensed that most of them were expecting
him to reject Jabba's gift, and that they couldn't wait to see
what Jabba would do to him if he did. What Jabba would do to
both of them.
Well, those expectations would not be fulfilled. There was only
one response possible. Obi-Wan had to accept, had to keep
Qui-Gon with him for as long as possible, to find out what had
happened to the man all those years ago, and to devise a
strategy for getting him out of Jabba's palace, off this
wretched sand-heap of a world, and back to Coruscant, back to
the Jedi, where he belonged.
Did Jabba know that Obi-Wan would recognize Qui-Gon, or did he
think Obi-Wan was too young to ever have seen the Jedi master?
Obi-Wan considered the possibilities. In either case, this was
a danger and an insult, and he was going to have to be very
careful not to acknowledge that. He'd been set up for this, and
he was going to have to handle it, somehow.
"Not so little," he said, making a deliberate show of looking
Qui-Gon up and down before turning to Fortuna, "but I believe
he may clean up rather well. Please thank your master for me."
There was a mocking glint in Fortuna's eyes as he turned to his
master, and Obi-Wan tried to make out what was said in the next
flurry of Huttese, but failed; all he understood were the
malicious chuckles that followed. Jabba was watching him
speculatively. Jabba had asked for a Jedi, Obi-Wan reminded
himself, and there seemed little doubt that this was what lay
behind the request. This was a message; if he were not meant to
recognize Qui-Gon, surely he would be allowed to communicate
with those who would, or Jabba's coup would not be nearly so
satisfying.
Jabba slapped a hand against his moist belly, and the music
started up again.
Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan took a moment to calm his breathing
and center his thoughts. Well, he had Qui-Gon Jinn. Now what
was he going to do with him? He couldn't just grab the man and
rush off to the nearest holocomm unit. Looking up again, he saw
that many of the other guests were already making free with
their gifts, pawing and groping. The Tulkuth was lying back
with his head in the lap of a voluptuous Yarna woman, grinning
blissfully as she poured wine down his throat. That, Obi-Wan
thought in some distaste, was not how he wanted to spend the
rest of the night.
Qui-Gon was still standing in front of him, but now he took a
small step forward and knelt at Obi-Wan's feet. There was no
humility in the gesture, but neither was there any arrogance;
Qui-Gon might have been settling in for meditation. Until he
spoke. "How may I serve you, master?"
In the flickering light, Qui-Gon's face was striped with sharp
shadows; his cheekbones stood out, and despite the solidity of
his large body, he looked worn. Obi-Wan put his fthek stick
aside and picked up the skewer of vegetables again. "Fetch more
food," he said. Bending forward, he wrapped his fingers around
a strand of Qui-Gon's hair and tugged at it, pulling him a
little forward, and spoke quietly enough not to be overheard.
"Get whatever you like." Then he leaned back, flicked the
strand of hair away as though he had been playing with it, and
let go.
Watching Qui-Gon get up and move away, Obi-Wan bit into a
cooling slice of grilled something-or-other, not tasting it. He
wasn't sure if Qui-Gon recognized him. It had been a long time,
and although Qui-Gon looked much the same except for the
greying hair and the fine web of lines around his eyes, Obi-Wan
had gone from a thirteen-year-old boy to a
twenty-eight-year-old man. Without touching the force, Qui-Gon
might not be able to sense the similarities beneath the surface
changes. Not that it mattered, really. Qui-Gon would know
what he was, would know him for a Jedi by his clothes
and his bearing, and that was all that was important.
Obi-Wan darted a quick look towards Jabba, and found that the
Hutt was fondling his favorite dancer, seemingly uninterested
in what his Jedi guest and his Jedi slave were doing. That
simply had to mean that they were being observed by someone
else. Scanning the room with the lightest of force-touches, he
found one of the guards keeping a careful eye on both him and
Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan pulled back into his own mind and tossed the
skewer away with half the food on it uneaten. No, he couldn't
run off to the nearest holocomm, but he badly wanted to do it.
He wanted to put in a transmission to the council. He wanted to
talk to his master. He wanted to tell someone. He'd
found Qui-Gon Jinn.
When Qui-Gon came back he was carrying a small pitcher as well
as a plate piled high with food. Obi-Wan moved to one side on
the couch, creating a free space, and Qui-Gon put the plate
down there and knelt on the floor again, with the same grace
and the same utter lack of deference. It made something tighten
in Obi-Wan's chest, and he wanted to raise the other man up,
seat him on the couch, and hand him the plate and watch him
eat; wanted to treat him with the respect he deserved.
Instead, Obi-Wan picked at the food, selecting a small chunk of
bread and chewing it slowly before nodding at Qui-Gon. "Eat,"
he said.
Qui-Gon's brows drew together briefly. "This food is intended
for the guests, master, not for the slaves." Carefully,
casually, with eyes lowered, "The guests may, of course, do
what they please with the food."
And with the slaves, presumably, but what did that have to do
with... ah. Obi-Wan tore off another chunk of bread, holding it
out. Qui-Gon looked up, and their eyes met briefly. Then
Qui-Gon bent his head and took the bread from Obi-Wan's
fingers. Hoping that Qui-Gon would only have selected food
items that he liked or at least tolerated, Obi-Wan went on
feeding him, dipping the bread in hocha sauce, tearing the
roast iribird breast into chunks small enough to chew. It was
odd to feel Qui-Gon's lips against his fingers, and the
occasional brush of beard. Obi-Wan picked up his mug and filled
it from the pitcher Qui-Gon had brought, held it to Qui-Gon's
mouth, and tilted it carefully to let the man drink at a slow
pace.
He could feel the guard's eyes on the back of his neck and
leaned back, taking a piece of bread for himself and nibbling
on it in a leisurely fashion, trying to project an air of
relaxed indifference. Qui-Gon sat still and calm, but his eyes
strayed to the half-full plate, and then back to Obi-Wan's
face. Obi-Wan drank from the mug, swallowed, and asked quietly,
"Are you still hungry?"
"Yes, master."
The words sounded wrong to Obi-Wan. He had once hoped to call
this man master, and it was disconcerting to be in a situation
where Qui-Gon would address him that way. Somehow, that
phrase, spoken in Qui-Gon's warm, resonant voice, made him
remember everything that had passed between them all those
years ago, on the ship out from Coruscant, on the planet where
they'd fought the draigons, on Bandomeer. It had been such a
pivotal time for him, changing his life forever. He wondered if
Qui-Gon even remembered it.
To distract himself, he picked up another piece of iribird and
held it out to Qui-Gon, and went on feeding him until the plate
was empty, only eating enough himself to maintain a pretence of
still being interested in the food. Around them, the party went
on, getting wilder and noisier. When Obi-Wan glanced up he saw
that the Tulkuth had shredded his pleasure slave's clothing and
drenched the remaining scraps in wine, and was alternately
chewing on them and licking the woman's exposed skin. Others
had gone farther than that--Obi-Wan averted his eyes, partly
out of politeness, and partly out of a very real desire not to
see a Toydarian in the throes of sexual ecstasy. Some of his
fellow guests had retired, either into dark corners or to their
rooms.
Well, then.
Obi-Wan put the mug aside and got to his feet with slow
deliberation, leaving plenty of time for his movements to be
noticed before he turned to look at Jabba again. The Hutt
seemed to be ignoring him, but the moment Obi-Wan took a step
away from where he'd been sitting, Jabba said something that
made those around him laugh, and Bib Fortuna called out, "My
master hopes that you will enjoy yourself."
"Please tell him that I fully intend to," Obi-Wan said; he was
fairly certain that Jabba understood Standard, but he was
willing to play along with the Hutt's pretense of needing an
interpreter for the time being. "Good night."
He nodded at Jabba, unable to take courtesy far enough to
actually bow, and snapped his fingers at Qui-Gon, gesturing for
the man to follow him as he walked towards the nearest doorway.
During the previous evenings he had stayed late, watching and
listening, hoping to find out something of interest. Tonight he
felt certain that nothing could be more interesting than to
talk to Qui-Gon Jinn.
It was a relief to get away from the tlao smoke and the music.
In the dimly lit hallway, Obi-Wan slowed down and turned to
smile at Qui-Gon for the first time, over his shoulder, but
didn't try to say anything just yet. His room was some distance
away, and they walked in silence, meeting only the occasional
house-droid.
After a while, Obi-Wan became aware that someone was following
them. He touched the force currents and recognized the presence
of the same guard who had watched them back in the hall. That
wasn't entirely unexpected, but it was still annoying. Obi-Wan
kept part of his attention on the guard as he walked along,
Qui-Gon a silent shadow behind him. When they got to the room,
Obi-Wan palmed the door open, went inside and stood still for a
moment, listening, tapping into the force. The guard was still
nearby, settling in somewhere... watching them.
Obi-Wan made an effort to keep from frowning. He could put the
man to sleep, but there was monitoring equipment running as
well, and if he disabled that, he would be acknowledging that
he had something to hide. He couldn't afford just yet to
shatter the pretense that there was anything going on here
beyond a guest having been offered a pleasure slave for a
night, even though he knew that Jabba knew that he knew that
Jabba knew, and so on and so on, that there was far more to it
than that.
Turning around, he fisted a hand in Qui-Gon's hair and dragged
the tall man's head down, bit an earlobe and breathed, "We're
still being watched."
"I see," Qui-Gon acknowledged on an indrawn breath, before
saying out loud, "What do you desire, master?"
"Cleanliness," Obi-Wan said, thinking it was probably rather
high on Qui-Gon's wish list, too. He let go of Qui-Gon's hair,
unwilling to be more demonstrably forceful than he had to now
that communication had been established, and made it clear with
a brief gesture that he expected Qui-Gon to follow him into the
next room.
There was a water shower there, an expensive luxury on this dry
world. Obi-Wan unfastened his utility belt, laying it aside
carefully, with the lightsaber still attached, on a gleaming
inlaid-stone counter holding rows of jars and bottles. It had
taken him half an hour, the night he'd first arrived, to find a
simple cleanser to use that wouldn't make him smell like a
prostitute, a rancor, or someone's overspiced dinner.
Behind him Qui-Gon said, "Master," in a tone of voice that
wasn't quite a question, reminding Obi-Wan that he needed to
keep giving orders.
"Strip," he said, pulling off his own shirts and folding them,
separately, putting them down on top of the utility belt. "Get
in there and adjust the water temperature."
How did people speak to pleasure slaves? Not that it really
mattered all that much; he was here openly as a Jedi, it was to
be expected that his behavior might be different from that of
other guests. And there was something slightly disorienting
about commanding a man to whom he would normally owe the
deference of knight to master. A man he had last seen striding
away across a plascrete docking bay floor in a spaceport on
Bandomeer, silent and unacknowledging. So much had changed
since then.
Turning, he found that Qui-Gon wore nothing underneath the
rough pants. Nothing except scars and bruises. Obi-Wan frowned
slightly and rummaged among the selection of jars again. There
had to be something that would soothe aching muscles and help
the abused skin to heal. He extended his force sense and let
his mind drift along with his fingertips over lids and
screwtops. The shower started up behind him. There was
something that might work. He pulled out two bottles and put
them aside, then grabbed the cleanser, stripped off his boots
and pants, and stepped into the shower area to join Qui-Gon
under the water.
It was oddly reminiscent of the communal showers in the temple
training facilities. Obi-Wan scooped up some cleanser on two
fingers and passed the jar to Qui-Gon, who was standing
perfectly still with a strange expression on his face. After a
couple of moments, when Qui-Gon still did not move, Obi-Wan
began to rub the cream into a lather over Qui-Gon's chest. It
turned a nasty shade of brown. He rinsed it off and started
over. Qui-Gon was absolutely filthy. Obi-Wan wondered what kind
of work duty would make the dirt and grime settle so deeply
into a man's skin. He was rubbing at a dark streak on Qui-Gon's
shoulder when Qui-Gon finally moved, closing one large hand
around Obi-Wan's wrist. "I can wash myself--master."
Obi-Wan offered the jar again, and this time Qui-Gon took some
of the contents. "I think it will go faster if we share the
work," he said, and pushed at Qui-Gon's shoulder to get him to
turn around.
Qui-Gon tensed, instantly, muscles tightening under Obi-Wan's
touch. Obi-Wan stopped and looked at his own hand resting on
Qui-Gon's skin for a few moments before looking up to meet
Qui-Gon's eyes. There was a silence so loud that it completely
drowned out the sound of rushing water, a silence that lasted
for an immeasurable heartbeat, and then Qui-Gon very slowly and
deliberately turned the way Obi-Wan's hand had asked him to
turn. "Yes, master," he said in a low voice.
Faced with a large expanse of dirty back, Obi-Wan only
hesitated for a moment before starting to scrub at it. He could
feel the discomfort in the way Qui-Gon held himself, and
ignored it, keeping his touch firm and businesslike. Skin
peeled off as he scrubbed, catching under his nails. He
wondered how long it had been since Qui-Gon had last had an
opportunity to get completely clean.
At least the other man seemed to be physically all right. Dirty
and battered, and rather too thin for his height, despite the
muscle tone that had come with hard labor, but Obi-Wan couldn't
detect any signs of recent injury or of illness. There were a
few scabs here and there, scratches, bruises, nothing serious.
Standing on tiptoe, running his hands into thick wet hair, he
spoke quietly into Qui-Gon's ear. "We need to make a plan for
getting you away from here. Jabba will be expecting it, though.
Do you have any idea why he decided to do this?"
Qui-Gon shrugged minimally and tipped his head back as Obi-Wan
massaged his scalp, working up a lather. "He hasn't confided in
me. I imagine he likes to show off the fact that he has a Jedi
in chains. He owns this world. The Republic has no power here."
Suppressing a desire to ask Qui-Gon not to state the obvious,
Obi-Wan concentrated on untangling the snarls that his fingers
had run into. It seemed to have been some time since Qui-Gon
had last met with a comb. The hair at the back of his neck had
scraggled itself badly, creating a clump as thick as Obi-Wan's
wrist. He worked at it carefully, a piece at a time, smoothing
in an oily cream. Qui-Gon had finished washing himself and just
stood still under Obi-Wan's touch.
"I have a ship waiting at the spaceport in Mos Espa." Obi-Wan
tugged on Qui-Gon's hair until the other man tilted his head
back under the streaming water. Untangled, Qui-Gon's hair fell
to the middle of his back; the ends were ragged and uneven.
Obi-Wan rinsed it out and tapped Qui-Gon's shoulder lightly as
a sign that he was done, then picked up the jar of cleanser.
"Do you know where in your body the transmitter is?"
"No." Qui-Gon turned around and took the cleanser away from him
and began to wash him, long-fingered hands brisk and impersonal
on Obi-Wan's body. "Probably somewhere along the spine, but I
was unconscious when it was put in. The force inhibitor is in
the collar--the chain."
Obi-Wan blinked, then squirmed a little as Qui-Gon reached
around him to rub over the ticklish places on his back. "But
that chain is loose. You could just pull it over your head."
"Not... very easily."
"But you could do it?" Obi-Wan looked up into Qui-Gon's face
and got an unreadable look in return. There had to be something
more to it, then. He tried to touch the chain with the force to
discover what held it there.
Only Qui-Gon's hands on his shoulders kept him from recoiling.
Qui-Gon pulled him close, wetting his hair thoroughly, leaning
in to say, "Two of the links are welded around my collar
bones."
Obi-Wan nodded mutely, teeth clenched. The chain read to his
senses like a force drain, an energy sink, a black power-eating
hole. Now that he looked at it, he didn't know how he could
have missed it. There must be a shielding field built into the
chain that worked to disguise its true properties against a
casual probe. And Qui-Gon was wearing that--that thing,
that abomination, not merely around his neck, against his skin,
but in his body. Shivers of horror crawled over
Obi-Wan's skin as he leaned in and saw, now that the shielding
field no longer affected him, the places where the metal
pierced Qui-Gon's shoulders.
He took a deep, painful breath, collected his unruly emotions,
and soothed them down into a low hum of acknowledged
discomfort. It was all he had time for at the moment; he could
meditate later. If Qui-Gon could handle this, then so could he.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and tipped his head forward as Qui-Gon
knelt down to wash his legs and feet.
"What happens if the links are broken?" he whispered. "Would
the removal of the chain trigger the transmitter?"
"So . Obi-Wan didn't think Jabba, or anyone on
Tatooine, had that kind of knowledge, although it was
conceivable that the Hutt had bought it somewhere. Or perhaps
he had just bought Qui-Gon and didn't know how the trap worked,
only that it did.
Waiting until Qui-Gon rose up again, he leaned in against the
other man's broad chest and asked, "Do you know where the
transmitter control is kept?" Qui-Gon shook his head. "Does
Jabba keep it himself, or is Fortuna in charge of it?"
"I believe they both have access to the control system,"
Qui-Gon said. He began to wash Obi-Wan's hair with leisurely
care. "It would be best if we could find a way to disable the
transmitter. To disable all transmitters. I cannot leave
without--" He paused. "There is a woman--and a child."
Obi-Wan blinked and got cleanser in his eyes. He put his arms
around Qui-Gon to steady himself as he tilted his head back and
washed it out. "You have a child?" That was unexpected, and it
would certainly complicate matters. It would be difficult
enough to rescue Qui-Gon from this place and this situation. To
try to rescue two more people would tip the scales a little
further towards 'impossible.'
"Not mine," Qui-Gon said into his neck, shielding the words
behind a double curtain of wet hair, Obi-Wan's and his own.
"They are also slaves." Qui-Gon's voice dropped even lower. "I
believe the boy may be the chosen one. The one we've been
waiting for."
So many responses to that rose in Obi-Wan that he was incapable
of speech at first. His hands ran along Qui-Gon's back in long
unthinking caresses, moving as if trying to soothe and
reassure.
"The one you've been waiting for," he surmised, working
it out for himself. Of course he knew the legend of the chosen
one. How strange for Qui-Gon Jinn to have such a belief in an
ancient prophecy that he'd do anything to see it fulfilled--he
who, according to Temple gossip, and even the few stray
comments Obi-Wan had heard from his own master over the years,
had always been so willing to bend the code and defy tradition,
who saw most rules as guidelines and most absolutes as
suggestions. It threw a whole new light on the man, Obi-Wan
thought. He had to ask, "Was that why you refused me, Qui-Gon?
Because I wasn't the chosen one?"
Qui-Gon ran his hands through Obi-Wan's hair, rinsing the
cleanser away. They were firm and steady, and so was his voice
as he said, "No." Obi-Wan's head was tipped back again, water
pouring over him. "I believe we should get out of here before
we use up all the water in the palace."
While it might be a deflection, it was also a perfectly valid
observation, and Obi-Wan pushed his fingers through his hair to
make sure that all the cleanser had rinsed out, and then turned
the water off. The room turned silent. They'd have to stand
close and speak quietly. Obi-Wan stepped off the shower tiles,
and Qui-Gon followed him, only to walk past him to fetch a
towel, obviously intending to dry him with it. Obi-Wan stayed
where he was and wrung his hair out; Qui-Gon had wound his
together into a wet knot at the back of his head.
"Bring more towels," Obi-Wan said, blinking water out of his
eyes.
"Yes, master." Qui-Gon came back with a pile and set them on
the edge of the counter, pushing a few jars aside. He took one
and turned to Obi-Wan, who tilted his head invitingly.
While Qui-Gon dried his hair, leaning in close, Obi-Wan said,
"How can you know what the boy is, when you can't touch the
force?" In some ways it seemed like a cruel question to ask,
reminding Qui-Gon of his enforced limitations, but Obi-Wan
wasn't sure how far he could trust the judgement of a
force-blind man focused on an ancient prophecy.
Qui-Gon sounded perfectly calm and untroubled as he answered,
"I've seen what he can do. I know."
He finished with Obi-Wan's hair and began to dry his shoulders
and back. The towel was finely napped, and Obi-Wan found
himself missing the rougher cloth of Temple standard issue,
missing the way it scratched his skin. When Qui-Gon came around
to rub at Obi-Wan's chest, Obi-Wan leaned close until their
skin touched and asked, "And the woman, you love her?"
"Yes," Qui-Gon said, sounding a little surprised, "yes, I do.
She is--extraordinary." Obi-Wan leaned back to get a good look
at the other man. The expression in Qui-Gon's eyes was almost
clear: fondness, and renewed calm.
It didn't tell him all that much, though. Obi-Wan wished he
could read the other man better. The force was no help to him
here, and he had so very little previous knowledge of Qui-Gon's
mannerisms and moods to draw on; besides, he wasn't sure how
far he trusted his own twelve-year-old perceptions. His view of
Qui-Gon at that time had been strongly colored by his own
wishes and disappointments. He could not use it to judge the
way Qui-Gon acted and reacted now. There wasn't much he could
use at all--on top of the calm of a Jedi, Qui-Gon now had the
carefully neutral expression of a man who had spent many years
at the mercy of others' whims.
Looking down at the top of Qui-Gon's head as the man knelt to
dry Obi-Wan's legs, Obi-Wan decided that he simply had to find
a way to meet these two slaves, the child and the woman,
himself and find out what it was about them that had led
Qui-Gon to form such a strong attachment to them. The boy might
well be force-sensitive. Even without being able to touch and
use the force himself, Qui-Gon would know what signs to look
for, and how to ask the boy what he was experiencing without
alarming him.
It was a long step from finding a force-sensitive child to
assuming that the child was the chosen one, though. Obi-Wan
lifted each foot in turn, spreading his toes as Qui-Gon ran a
corner of the towel between them. The chosen one, who would
bring balance to the force. Obi-Wan had never quite understood
how that was going to work. It implied that the force was
unbalanced, a concept he couldn't quite grasp. The force was
the force. It just was. He put a hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder and
urged him to stand up again.
Obi-Wan took a dry towel from the pile on the counter and
reached up to dry the remaining drops of water off Qui-Gon's
face. He asked into the folds of towel that separated his face
from Qui-Gon's shoulder, "Are they here in the palace?"
Drying Qui-Gon's throat was easy. Drying his shoulders was
harder--it was difficult for Obi-Wan to overcome his revulsion,
and Qui-Gon shifted away whenever he came close to the chain.
Obi-Wan's touch grew tentative, and Qui-Gon took the towel out
of his hands, taking care of the tricky area himself.
Then Obi-Wan took the towel back and pulled Qui-Gon's hair
loose, letting it fall forward over the man's face. He began to
squeeze the water from it between towel folds, as Qui-Gon
whispered, "No, they live in the slave quarters in town.
They're not Jabba's slaves, they belong to a local junk dealer,
Watto. The woman's name is Shmi. The boy is Anakin."
Obi-Wan nodded. He would be able to find them tomorrow and form
his own opinion of the child. But even if this Anakin were
force sensitive, which Obi-Wan did think was very likely, there
seemed little chance that the junk dealer who owned him would
simply let him go in order to be trained as a Jedi, and even
less chance that Watto would release the woman, an adult who
was presumably at full working capacity and hence even more
valuable. Obi-Wan didn't have the money to buy them, and he
sincerely doubted that the council would agree to let the order
pay.
That left either trickery or theft. Obi-Wan looked almost
resentfully at Qui-Gon. Rescuing a lost Jedi from those who
held him captive was one thing; stealing valuable property from
an uninvolved third party something completely different. "You
could come back for them," he suggested.
Qui-Gon shook his head. A strand of damp hair slapped against
Obi-Wan's chest. "No. Anakin needs training. It can't wait."
What could wait, Obi-Wan decided, was this particular argument.
He needed to contact the council, he needed to see this child
for himself and talk to the mother, and he needed to come up
with a plan to get Qui-Gon free of the chain and the
transmitter. He needed to get Qui-Gon dry--well, most of the
water had already evaporated. It was just the hair that kept
dripping. Obi-Wan pulled it back over Qui-Gon's shoulders and
went around him, catching the wet strands and toweling them
carefully, trying to avoid creating any more snarls.
While he worked, he extended his senses towards their unseen
watcher yet again, and found that the guard was still watching
them intently. Obi-Wan didn't sense any particular concern,
though, so their actions couldn't be all that far from whatever
the guard had been told to expect.
By the time Obi-Wan put the towel aside, they were both dry. He
flipped Qui-Gon's hair forward again and took the jar he'd
picked out earlier from the counter, beginning to smear
ointment over the scratches on Qui-Gon's back. Obi-Wan worked
quickly and efficiently, fingers sliding over smooth and
scarred skin, pausing at the small injuries he found, taking
care not to press on the bruises. He knelt down to attend to
the backs of Qui-Gon's legs, and his eyes were caught by a mark
high up on the left flank, a patch of white and red keloid
stripes that looked as though the skin had been torn repeatedly
over a previous mark, almost obliterating it.
Obi-Wan touched a finger to it, trying to make out the original
shape of the scar, but Qui-Gon tensed up and shifted away from
him. Only a small motion, and then Qui-Gon instantly stopped
himself, but Obi-Wan didn't try to touch that spot again. He
got to his feet and silently rubbed ointment on to those places
on Qui-Gon's chest that needed it. When he was done, he put the
jar aside and gestured at Qui-Gon to precede him back into the
bedroom.
It was darker there, just a small pool of light by the head of
the platform bed. Qui-Gon walked over there, and Obi-Wan went
with him, almost walking right into Qui-Gon's back as the other
man stopped. When Qui-Gon turned around, Obi-Wan found himself
face-to-link with the chain and grabbed on to Qui-Gon's arms to
keep from backing away. Qui-Gon bent his head, hair once again
falling forward to shield their faces. Looking up, Obi-Wan
whispered, "Watcher's still there. We have to--"
"I know." Qui-Gon stroked his back, fingers trailing along his
spine in an impersonal caress.
Obi-Wan wondered how he would have responded to such a touch in
a normal situation--shifted his weight, arched his neck,
touched Qui-Gon in return? He could not imagine a normal
situation involving both sex and Qui-Gon Jinn, this long-lost
stranger who was now tracing Obi-Wan's left shoulder blade with
a callused thumb. He could barely imagine this
situation.
"It feels odd." Not the bone-deep wrongness of trying to go
against the will of the force, but strange and unsettling.
Force currents swirled uneasily around them. With Qui-Gon shut
away from the force, Obi-Wan had a feeling that he was only
getting half the picture.
"As you said, we have to." The quiet words were completely
matter of fact. "I've been a slave for a long time. I've done
worse things."
Before Obi-Wan could decide how to interpret that,
Qui-Gon pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed, and slid
down to his knees and bent his head, and then Qui-Gon's mouth
was on him, sucking him in, tongue playing with him and coaxing
him into a full erection. Obi-Wan drew a deep, shuddering
breath. Earlier, in the bathroom, he'd almost managed to forget
the reality of what they would have to do, to make this
convincing. One thing to think that they could perform some
casual sex act, another entirely to feel Qui-Gon's lips wrapped
around his cock, to be serviced, there was no other word for
it, by the kneeling man.
No way to stop it. Obi-Wan knew that, rationally. Qui-Gon must
please him, or be taken away and punished, and they could not
be separated now, before any definite plans had been made. He
would not give Qui-Gon up to more ill-usage. Obi-Wan leaned
back on both arms, spread his legs wider so that Qui-Gon could
move in between them. They could do this. He could do this. It
was necessary, and Qui-Gon's tongue was so soft... Obi-Wan
closed his eyes and let those wet gentle touches work on him,
try to drag him under.
He felt Qui-Gon's hands lying steadily over his hipbones,
thumbs arrowing down towards his groin, stroking a little now
and then, irregularly, as if the other man had to remind
himself to do it. Felt the steady suction of Qui-Gon's mouth
and throat, a degree of technique that suggested a certain
amount of experience. Felt a slight stirring in the force as
the guard, watching them, reacted to what he was seeing with a
mixture of amusement and lust. Obi-Wan sighed and tried to let
go of thought, to immerse himself in sensation. The sheer
sensual pleasure of a mouth on his cock, heat, pressure without
friction, it was good, and then the slightest scrape of teeth
startling an unforced moan out of him... never mind why this
was happening...
The next moment he was swallowed down deep, tight ripples
drawing him in and in and he fell back on his elbows with a
gasp. Electric jolts played along his spine. Pressure rose
within him, building up and up. For some strange reason he
pictured himself reporting to the council, saying seriously and
soberly, I found Qui-Gon Jinn, and he's sucking my cock.
Then he threw his head back and felt himself coming, mouth open
in a silent cry as he spasmed over and over into the demanding
wet heat.
When he finally opened his eyes, the room looked very dark.
Obi-Wan looked down along his body to see Qui-Gon still
kneeling in that one lone pool of light, head bent forward,
lids lowered. The hands that had tightened on Obi-Wan's hips
relaxed their grip. Qui-Gon's hair gleamed now that it was
clean, shone subtly like dark wood grained with silver; it hung
forward and almost obscured the chain.
Obi-Wan breathed in, and out, and levered himself up into a
sitting position again, scooting back and drawing his legs up.
He patted the freed space on the bed, feeling his own residual
body-heat on the covers. "Come here. Lie down."
"Yes, master." Qui-Gon stretched himself out where Obi-Wan had
indicated, still not lifting his eyes. It occurred to Obi-Wan
that just as he had no idea how to behave with a pleasure
slave, so Qui-Gon probably had no idea how to behave as
a pleasure slave, and there was a watcher who would be judging
their success at what they were trying to do. Putting a hand
over Qui-Gon's heart, Obi-Wan felt it beating strongly, and
read the tension in Qui-Gon's body from it.
"I am Jedi," he spoke out loud, to the hidden guard as well as
to Qui-Gon, "and we do not make a habit of taking pleasure
without giving anything in return."
Obi-Wan ran his hand down Qui-Gon's chest and over his belly,
feeling tiny muscle tremors in response; he repeated the caress
over and over, keeping it slow. After a while he straightened
his fingers to brush over a nipple in passing, felt it tighten
under his touch and continued to stroke down along Qui-Gon's
body, following the trail of hair until he reached his goal. He
curved his hand around Qui-Gon's shaft, feeling it grow against
his palm, soft skin stretching over hardness in response to the
gentle touch. Obi-Wan dragged his thumb over the satiny head,
caught the first tiny drop of wetness welling up and spread it
out.
It was easy to slip into a series of familiar motions, caresses
meant to tease and enflame. The taut length of Qui-Gon's cock
was eager against his palm, answering every stroke with a
slight quiver. Like touching a lover... except that he wasn't
touching a lover. Glancing up at the other man's face, looking
at the tense lines radiating out from Qui-Gon's eyes, Obi-Wan
was struck by sudden doubt and regret.
He was touching this man intimately under circumstances where
there could be no refusal, coaxing a response from Qui-Gon's
body that Qui-Gon might not be willing to give him. In essence,
he was taking something that Qui-Gon, a slave for so many
years, might not have had any chance to offer voluntarily for a
length of time that exceeded half of Obi-Wan's life.
The first sex act had been unavoidable, and Obi-Wan did not
regret it; it had been necessary to play along with Jabba and
deceive Jabba's staff. Qui-Gon had chosen the act, presumably
because he found it bearable. This, though... Was he forcing
himself on Qui-Gon? It would be impossible for the other man to
say no now. Obi-Wan slowed his hand, hesitant, unsure.
Perhaps he should--no, he couldn't stop now. That would be to
pile unkindness on top of insult, and as if to underscore that,
Qui-Gon thrust up ever so slightly against his touch. Obi-Wan
ran his fingers down the thick shaft, stroked the sac that was
tightening with Qui-Gon's increasing desire. He would go on,
then. Feathering a light touch down over the insides of
Qui-Gon's thighs, Obi-Wan watched the muscles ripple in
response. He leaned forward into a more comfortable position
and put his other hand on Qui-Gon's chest, grazing each tightly
peaked nipple with his palm, then flicking the nearest one with
a nail, over and over. Qui-Gon was quiet, so quiet, but the
next breath was deeper and more unsteady.
Obi-Wan wrapped his hand around Qui-Gon's cock again, and it
bucked into his slow caress. He found a rhythm, following the
minute cues of Qui-Gon's body, the small shifts, the almost
inaudible sighs. Qui-Gon kept his eyes closed tight, and the
fingers of one large hand tensed and loosened, tensed and
loosened, a tiny movement that almost hypnotized Obi-Wan. He
felt as though he should be holding his breath, stopping his
heart, anything not to disturb Qui-Gon's silent ascent into
pleasure.
When he sped up the pace of his hand, he could feel the shift,
the response. It wouldn't be long now, Obi-Wan thought. He
watched Qui-Gon intently, watched the still face and the
trembling eyelids, the pulse leaping in the hollow of the
throat. One still-damp strand of hair had curled forward over
Qui-Gon's shoulder, meandering like a dark river over pale
skin. Qui-Gon's lips parted, just barely, no more than hinting
at teeth and tongue. Obi-Wan moved his hand faster, moved his
hand just so, and there it was, that muscle clench like
a stutter of the body, the frown, the jerk of hips as Qui-Gon
came with no more sound than a hiss of breath, spilling himself
in hot bursts over Obi-Wan's fingers and his own stomach.
The smell, that rich heavy sex smell, rose off Qui-Gon like
steam, hung in the air, almost tangible. Obi-Wan watched
Qui-Gon's body relax into unaccustomed softness and lassitude.
It looked good. He slowly released his grip on Qui-Gon's
softening cock and lifted his hand to his mouth, tasting the
wetness with the tip of his tongue. Bitter. Obi-Wan shifted
down and climbed off the foot of the bed, crossing the room to
pick up a dropped towel. He wiped his hand, then went back to
the bed and started to clean up Qui-Gon, who opened his eyes
again at the first touch, but said nothing.
They were still sticky, but it would do until tomorrow. Obi-Wan
hung the towel on the nearest corner of the bed, turned off the
light, and climbed back into bed over Qui-Gon, trying not to
put his elbows anywhere inconvenient. He fumbled for the thin
sheet he'd been sleeping under the previous night, unfolded it,
and spread it over them both. The room wasn't completely dark;
a little light seeped in from a grate over the door. Obi-Wan
could make out Qui-Gon's profile, the jut of his nose, the
glint of silver in the bristling beard. It had been all brown
fifteen years ago.
Fifteen years. It didn't seem possible. Obi-Wan tried to
imagine being blocked off from the force for even a day, and
couldn't fathom what it might be like; the closest he'd come
had been during a severe illness some years earlier, and even
then he'd been able to dimly sense the force currents, if not
use them. To be completely cut off must be like not being able
to breathe. Fifteen years--was it possible?
Something stirred at the back of his mind. He thought back,
trying to remember when he'd first become aware of the search
for Qui-Gon Jinn. There had been the mission two years ago, the
one he'd been a part of, and the time before that when Master
Yoda had surprised everyone by actually leaving the temple,
and... a few other incidents sprang to mind, but they only
dated back seven years, not fifteen.
Shifting forward, Obi-Wan put his head on Qui-Gon's chest.
Stray hairs tickled his nose. He took care to speak as quietly
as before, being familiar with the illusion that darkness
muffles sound. "How did you come to end up here, Qui-Gon?"
There was no answer. Obi-Wan breathed softly against Qui-Gon's
skin. Muscles stiffened under his cheek. He persisted. "What
was your mission?"
There was a long silence. Qui-Gon relaxed again, as if by a
conscious effort, and that slow movement shifted Obi-Wan's head
on Qui-Gon's shoulder until his forehead brushed against the
chain. He jerked back, just barely catching himself before he'd
leaped to the other end of the bed. Obi-Wan drew a deep breath
and reminded himself that he was a Jedi, not a sand flea.
Raising a hand, he pretended for the benefit of their watcher
to scratch at a spot on his chest; then he lay down again,
keeping well away from the metal links.
When Qui-Gon finally spoke, quietly, into the top of Obi-Wan's
head, what he said was, "So you became a Jedi after all." At
that moment it felt to Obi-Wan as though it had been only days,
or less, since Qui-Gon had refused him. "Who trained you?"
Their questions floated in the darkness, unanswered. Obi-Wan
closed his eyes. Qui-Gon's chest was not the most comfortable
of pillows, but it would do. Testing the force currents, he
found that the hidden watcher was beginning to relax his
attention, believing them sated and on the verge of sleep. Now
would be the perfect time for a hushed talk about plans for the
next day.
He thought about being abandoned by Qui-Gon on Bandomeer; he
thought about his master; he thought about Qui-Gon's absence,
Qui-Gon's undisclosed mission, and that mark on Qui-Gon's hip.
And then he fell asleep.
When he woke, he was sweaty and a little cramped from lying
pressed up against Qui-Gon all night in the same position. He
wasn't used to sharing a bed with someone as big as Qui-Gon.
The man's arms and legs seemed to be everywhere. Obi-Wan worked
his hand free from under Qui-Gon's shoulder and sat up slowly,
leaning back against the wall. Its rough surface was
morning-chilly against his warm, damp skin; judging by the
light that filtered in through the high window, it was still
very early.
Qui-Gon asleep looked as guarded as Qui-Gon awake, as though
years of slavery had taught him not to let his true face show
even in sleep. The chain rested heavily around his throat.
Drawn by morbid curiosity, Obi-Wan leaned forward to look at
the places where the links pierced Qui-Gon's body. Metal
disappeared smoothly into flesh; there was no redness or
irritation, just the wrongness of it, a wrongness Obi-Wan did
not need to use the force to know.
He felt ashamed of himself. Last night he'd shied away from the
touch of that metal as he would have shied away from touching
fire; yet Qui-Gon lay there sleeping under its weight, had worn
it long enough to grow used to the terrible touch.
Obi-Wan gathered himself and vaulted lightly over Qui-Gon,
landing on the floor on the balls of his feet. He stretched,
rolled his shoulders, and went into the bathroom to relieve
himself. Passing the mirror, he noticed to his surprise that he
had small bruises, like a cluster of blue-black grapes, on his
hips from the grip of Qui-Gon's hands. Also, his hair hung in
his eyes, a tangled mess. That was less of a surprise.
Forgoing the luxury of another shower, he washed quickly in
lukewarm water and spent a couple of minutes combing himself,
shaving, and putting a little of the cream he'd used on Qui-Gon
last night on his own bruises. It made them less noticeable, if
nothing else. Obi-Wan rinsed his mouth with jad-flavored water
and took another, longer look at himself. He'd come perilously
close to being angry at Qui-Gon last night; the question about
his master had brought up feelings Obi-Wan had thought long
gone and forgotten.
On Bandomeer, he had been a child, uncertain of many things.
Now he was an adult, a Jedi knight. The past was the past. It
could not be changed. He hadn't even thought about Qui-Gon's
rejection in years. Turning away from the mirror, Obi-Wan went
back into the bedroom again. He caught Qui-Gon in the middle of
an awakening stretch and had to smile at the sight. When
Qui-Gon lowered his arms and caught sight of Obi-Wan, there was
a flicker of something in his face, something beneath that calm
neutrality that made Obi-Wan take an involuntary step forward.
As quickly as that, though, it was gone again.
Something else took its place. The past was the past, but the
recent past was very close. There was a physical tension
humming through the room now, as if the air between them
remembered what they had done last night. With Qui-Gon's eyes
on him, Obi-Wan became conscious of his own nakedness, but he
refused to feel any embarrassment. "Good morning," he said
instead, and took another step forward, and another. Then he
was right by the bed, and to his surprise Qui-Gon moved over to
make room for him.
It was easy to slip back under the sheet, to settle in the
crook of Qui-Gon's arm. The rusty "Good morning, master," that
he got in return chased a little of the tension away, reminding
Obi-Wan, perhaps reminding them both, of the game they played.
Obi-Wan turned his head, burying his face in Qui-Gon's soft
hair. He felt the curve of an ear against his lips. "Will you
be able to leave the palace with me?" he asked. "Or do you have
work duties to keep you here during the day?"
Qui-Gon shrugged one shoulder, bumping Obi-Wan's chin. There
had to be a more convenient position that would let them both
talk without its being immediately apparent, and audible, to
whomever was assigned to spy on them this morning. Obi-Wan
reached over Qui-Gon's chest and tugged on his shoulder,
rolling them towards each other until they lay face to face,
with hair falling everywhere in tickling strands.
"I don't know," Qui-Gon said, lips brushing against Obi-Wan's
cheek. "My instructions were only to please you sexually during
the night. No mention was made of what might happen the
following morning. But it would surprise me if Jabba didn't
have a plan for it. For us."
That seemed very likely to Obi-Wan, too, but he felt uncertain
of what that plan might be. He curled his arm loosely around
Qui-Gon's shoulder and hoped they looked as though they were
kissing. "That means we have to come up with a better plan."
But what? Obi-Wan toyed briefly with the notion of attempting
to buy Qui-Gon from Jabba, of saying that Qui-Gon had pleased
him so well that he wanted to keep the man. He didn't have the
money, though; his knight's stipend would certainly not cover
the cost of a healthy adult slave.
"Do you have anything to trade with?" Qui-Gon asked.
"No." Obi-Wan blew a strand of Qui-Gon's hair out of his mouth.
"I doubt Jabba would let me trade for you. He may have some
very specific price in mind when it comes to your freedom."
"I meant for Shmi and Anakin," Qui-Gon said. "I will not be
leaving without them." Obi-Wan drew a deep breath, but
Qui-Gon's fingers against his lips silenced him momentarily.
"They're slaves. Don't you want to see them set free?"
The question was so serious and so earnest that Obi-Wan came
very close to just agreeing; he caught himself just in time and
found himself thinking that Qui-Gon must have been a formidable
negotiator. After marshalling his thoughts, he said, "Do you
know how many sentients live on Tatooine? Do you know how many
of those sentients are slaves? Yes, I want to see your Shmi and
Anakin set free. I'd like to see all the slaves set
free, on this planet and every other planet. But that is not my
mission here."
"Missions change." Qui-Gon didn't sound impressed. "You must be
able to adapt to changing circumstances. When you came here you
didn't know that you would find me; now you are planning to
rescue me. Surely you can adjust your thinking to include the
rescue of a woman and a child as well. What difference does it
make?"
"It makes everything three times as complicated, for one
thing," Obi-Wan said. The temptation to agree with Qui-Gon had
just grown considerably less. "It is my duty as a Jedi to do
everything in my power to free you and bring you?"
"The boy is the chosen one. He is the one who will bring
balance to the force."
"You think he is the chosen one. And you haven't been able to
touch the force for--"
A sharp rap on the door made Obi-Wan bite back the rest of the
sentence. He sat up and glared at Qui-Gon, considered wrapping
the sheet around himself as a makeshift sarong and leaving the
other man naked on the bed, then shrugged and got up to hunt
for his pants. He didn't bother to put a shirt on; he wanted to
make it clear that whoever was on the other side of that door
had interrupted something. The surveillance tape would
hopefully show that he and Qui-Gon had been whispering
inaudible sweet nothings to each other. He was very taken with
his pleasure slave, he reminded himself. Not annoyed. Not at
all.
When he opened the door, Bib Fortuna's smirking face did
nothing to soothe his temper. Obi-Wan simply stood and waited,
staring back, until Fortuna stopped smirking and said, "My
master wishes to see you. He invites you to breakfast."
Obi-Wan could think of few things that appealed to him less
than watching Jabba the Hutt eat breakfast. He nodded. "I will
come as soon as I am dressed," he said and closed the door
again. When he turned around he saw that Qui-Gon was sitting on
the edge of the bed now, sheet draped haphazardly over his lap.
Their eyes met for a moment, and then Obi-Wan went into the
bathroom to get the rest of his clothes.
He dressed quickly; although he didn't mind keeping Fortuna
waiting, he did want to find out what Jabba had to say. Perhaps
there would be a clue there to Jabba's true intentions,
something that would help him come up with a plan for Qui-Gon's
rescue, since Qui-Gon himself was apparently not going to be of
any help.
Once he was dressed, he left the bathroom and headed straight
for the door, but then stopped before lifting his hand to open
it. While he stood there, trying to determine if the slight tug
on his attention had come from the force, or from somewhere
deep in his mind, Qui-Gon came up behind him, putting both
hands on his shoulders, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.
"You asked what my mission was." The words were calm and quiet,
as though they hadn't come close to arguing just moments ago.
"Offworld. Offworld Corporation, and Xanatos."
Obi-Wan drew in a deep breath. Then he just nodded sharply and
opened the door. Fortuna was standing outside, a peevish
expression on his fungus-pale face, and when Obi-Wan stepped
outside, the majordomo merely turned and walked away, clearly
expecting him to follow. Obi-Wan waited until he heard the door
click shut behind him, then walked after Fortuna. His mind was
spinning, turning over Qui-Gon's revelation. After Xanatos' and
Offworld Corporation's actions on Bandomeer, it wasn't
surprising that the Jedi would take a certain interest in both
the man and the company, but Obi-Wan wondered exactly what
Qui-Gon had been doing during those seven years, and where the
initiative to his mission had come from in the first place.
Jabba's palace was quiet so early in the morning, quiet and
dark, shuttered against the early sun as well as the drifting
sand that, nevertheless, got in everywhere. Obi-Wan felt it
under his feet, hissing under the soles of his boots. The small
maintenance droids that whirred along the floors could never
keep up, as the sand came whispering through windows and doors
and tiny cracks in the walls, day after day. Free of all
deliberate purpose, it was nevertheless utterly relentless, and
Obi-Wan was reminded of the look in Qui-Gon's eyes. Was it
possible to be following the will of the force when you could
no longer sense the force?
So, Qui-Gon had been after Xanatos, rogue Xanatos who still
carried his lightsaber in defiance of the Jedi, clever Xanatos
who had left the order and built a financial empire stretching
over a large part of the galaxy. Obi-Wan focused his eyes on
one of Fortuna's tentacles. He wasn't going to frown.
Obviously, that mission had not been successful. Qui-Gon was
here, and Offworld Corporation was still in business, dubious
practices and all. Obi-Wan wondered if anyone else had been
sent after Xanatos, and failed, or if Qui-Gon's disappearance
had discouraged further pursuit.
Jabba's throne room smelled of stale tlao smoke and spilled
wine. Looking over Fortuna's shoulder as they entered, Obi-Wan
saw that Jabba was up on the dais, sitting there as though he'd
never left, seemingly absorbed in choosing the finest among the
small yellow-skinned amphibians that crawled over each other in
a round glass bowl. When they drew closer, Jabba looked up as
if startled and said something, waving a stubby hand at a bench
that had been placed in front of the dais. Fortuna looked back
over his shoulder. "My master asks you to sit down and make
yourself comfortable."
"Thank you," Obi-Wan said, looking straight at Jabba. He sat,
wondering if Jabba really thought that a Jedi would be
intimidated by something as simple as being seated on a lower
level, although there was certainly an unpleasant optical
illusion that the great bulk of the Hutt would fall forward and
crush anything in its way at any moment. Perhaps it was just
habit; Jabba probably did it to everyone.
Jabba spoke again, with his mouth full of amphibian, and
Fortuna translated, "My master wishes to know if the pleasure
slave was to your liking."
"Yes, very much so," Obi-Wan said at once, still ignoring
Fortuna and keeping his eyes on Jabba, despite the tiny yellow
leg that was sticking out of the corner of Jabba's mouth. He
wasn't going to say anything that Jabba could take as a reason
to send Qui-Gon away again. "Will he be at my disposal while I
stay here?"
Jabba chuckled, flicking out a few inches of tongue to catch
the stray amphibian leg and crunching down on it with slow
relish. Only after licking his mouth yet again did he answer,
punctuating his reply with more self-satisfied chuckles. "My
master says that he will give the slave to you," Fortuna said,
"in exchange for a small favor."
Obi-Wan tried not to look as surprised as he felt. It seemed he
had misjudged Jabba's motives. This wasn't all about gloating,
then; Jabba wanted something. "What kind of favor?"
"My master says," Fortuna paused, and Obi-Wan had time to think
that he was growing rather tired of those words, "that he wants
you to be present as mediator at a business meeting. Tomorrow.
If the meeting goes well, the slave will be yours."
Obi-Wan dropped his eyes for a moment. This combination of
blackmail and bribery was probably the only way Jabba could
come up with to get a Jedi negotiator to work for him, but it
begged the question of why Jabba felt he needed a Jedi in the
first place. He looked up again. "And if the meeting does not
go well?"
Before Fortuna had even finished translating the question,
Jabba bit the head off the next amphibian and crunched it in a
pointed manner. Obi-Wan nodded. It was difficult not to get the
message. Jabba muttered a few words, once again speaking with
his mouth full. "My master says that you will ensure that the
meeting goes well, Jedi."
Obi-Wan considered his options. He could explain that it was
against the code to use the force in order to manipulate
negotiations to one side's advantage, and that the Jedi did not
allow themselves to be either blackmailed or bribed into taking
sides. Then he'd either get thrown out of the palace, or Jabba
would decide to test his resolve, probably by doing something
unpleasant to Qui-Gon. It would mean taking immediate action,
coming up with some kind of rescue plan off the top of his
head. Better to say nothing for the time being, he decided, and
give himself until this meeting tomorrow to come up with a
plan--and find a way of getting Qui-Gon to go along with the
plan, short of hitting him over the head and carrying him off
like an unwilling bride in a raid-of-the-Outer-Rim-barbarians
holovid.
"Tell me about this meeting," he said. "What will the
negotiations be about?"
"You will find out tomorrow," Fortuna said, without even the
pretense of consulting Jabba. Jabba was nearly impossible to
read, but Fortuna looked a little nervous.
Obi-Wan got to his feet, looking up at Jabba, trying to meet at
least one of the large eyes. "How do you expect me to present
your side of the argument without any information?"
Jabba leaned forward until Obi-Wan thought he really was going
to tip over, and rumbled on at length, without any laughter,
then broke off with a sideways glare at Fortuna and tossed the
rest of the yellow amphibian into his mouth. "My master says
that..." Fortuna fidgeted, and one of his tentacles fell
forward. He wrapped it around his neck. "My master feels
certain that you will know what to say and what to do when the
time comes." Fortuna glanced up at Jabba, and then turned to
Obi-Wan. "You are dismissed. Come with me."
Obi-Wan looked at Jabba for a long moment, then followed
Fortuna through the hall and back outside. The palace was
beginning to wake up; there were footsteps in the distance,
clatter and voices. Instead of taking Obi-Wan back to his room,
Fortuna led him the shortest route down to the ground level
entrance where he had arrived a few days ago. Another guest was
taking his speeder out, and the large door slid upwards with a
grating sound--sand in the machinery, Obi-Wan diagnosed without
difficulty--to let in the sunshine.
When Fortuna slowed down, Obi-Wan stepped up beside him. "I
take it I'm not getting any breakfast."
"The slave will be waiting in your room when you return,"
Fortuna said, flicking his hand towards the speeder Obi-Wan had
rented in Mos Espa. He turned to go.
"Wait," Obi-Wan said, putting a bit of force encouragement in
his voice. "I would like you to tell me more about this meeting
tomorrow."
Fortuna paused. "My master doesn't want me to talk about the
meeting."
Obi-Wan lifted his hand, as if to push back his hair, wove the
force currents into a simple push, and sent it towards Fortuna.
"Tell me what you know about the meeting tomorrow."
"The meeting is important to Jabba," Fortuna said, his eyes
slightly glazed.
"Who is Jabba meeting with?"
"A man he has done business with before. He doesn't want to
talk about it."
"What is the meeting about? What is the man's name?"
"I don't know. Something to do with the spice trade." Fortuna
shifted slightly backwards, and Obi-Wan knew he couldn't keep
up the questioning. He relaxed, letting the force pressure
dissipate, and nodded as if in thanks when Fortuna gave him a
chilly look, turned, and strode off.
Everything on Tatooine had something to do with the spice
trade, Obi-Wan mused. The spice trade, or gambling, or both. It
was no surprise that the meeting might involve spice. But the
real question remained: who was Jabba meeting with, and why did
he want a Jedi on his side? Obi-Wan wandered over to his
speeder and ran one hand along its scuffed side, feeling the
marks of several years' worth of careless rental drivers. The
Hutts controlled the planet. Jabba was the most powerful Hutt
in the area. Republic law and Republic law enforcers were not
welcome here, never had been. For Jabba to make it clear, in
his own inimitable way, that he needed a Jedi, indicated a
serious problem.
First, Obi-Wan decided, he had to contact the council. There
had to be some place in Mos Espa where he could feel reasonably
sure that the holotransmissions weren't monitored round the
clock by Jabba's staff. Wouldn't take him long to get there...
He stopped his hand right over a dent in the side panel, torn
between the impulse to laugh and the impulse to scowl. Fortuna
had led him here and left him. Jabba had known that Obi-Wan's
first decision would be to get out and make a report.
Humor won, and Obi-Wan was smiling faintly as he jumped into
the speeder and powered it up, calling out to the droid
stationed by the exit to raise the door again. He'd be a fool
not to contact the order and tell them about Qui-Gon Jinn just
because Jabba expected him to do it. If the upcoming
negotiations were a test that he might fail, it was all the
more important that someone else should know what was happening
here.
The sunshine flooded his eyes with color after the dim
corridors of the palace. Heat rolled over him as he came
outside, and the glare of the twin suns beat down on him. Not
even the full glare, he reminded himself, picking up speed to
get a cooler breeze against his face. It was still early; it
would get much hotter later in the day. Just as well he wasn't
wearing his robe.
It was a strange planet, this, appealing in its own way, with
the sand and the rocks and the enormous, brilliant blue sky.
There seemed to be more sky on Tatooine than anywhere else in
the galaxy, Obi-Wan thought, perhaps because it seemed so large
and overwhelming and beautiful contrasted with the flat
dreariness of the planet's surface. Tatooine did not look like
a planet that would support a crime syndicate; it barely looked
as though it would support life at all. And yet there was so
much life here, he could feel it, all around. Life, and the
force, warm as the sunshine, dancing all around him. Obi-Wan
touched the speeder controls with a light hand, went a little
faster, and felt the wind tug at his hair.
This mission was turning out to be very different from what he
had expected. When he'd been given his initial briefing, he'd
speculated that there was some connection to the spice trade,
perhaps that Jabba wanted information on whether the Jedi were
planning to move on the smugglers who brought spice in from the
rim worlds to the planets of the Republic. Never in his wildest
dreams had he thought he would come across Qui-Gon Jinn again,
much less find himself in a situation where he had to have sex
with the man.
That was a little odd, too, Obi-Wan thought. If Jabba wanted to
use Qui-Gon's enslavement as a way of blackmailing Obi-Wan into
doing what Jabba wanted, surely a simple threat of violence to
the helpless man would have been sufficient? The pleasure slave
setup seemed unnecessarily complicated, unless the reason was
only that it appealed to Jabba's perverse sense of humor and
desire to demonstrate his power over Qui-Gon, and to some
extent Obi-Wan. It could, Obi-Wan admitted, be intended purely
to humiliate them. Jabba didn't know very much about the Jedi,
after all.
When Obi-Wan reached Mos Espa, he took the speeder down to the
spaceport district and parked it in the rental company's lot,
where company security guards would keep an eye on it. Before
he left the speeder, he took off his sash, utility belt, and
outer tunic, put his belt on again, and the tunic over that,
held together with the sash. There was no point to flashing a
lightsaber around unless he had to, in this place. Checking
that he could still get at the 'saber easily enough, Obi-Wan
jumped out of the speeder and set off to explore Mos Espa on
foot.
He hadn't seen much of the town on his arrival, except to note
that it was very small for a place that boasted a spaceport.
All the buildings were low, seemingly huddled together under
the big bright sky, many of them painted a stark white that the
sun rendered glaringly unpleasant. On the narrow dirt streets,
pack animals nosed at the sleeves of offworlders in expensive
environmental suits, while the occasional cargo freighter took
off from the port, streaking a white vapor trail across the
dome of cloudless blue.
Obi-Wan walked down to hangar five and slipped inside, avoiding
the spaceport officials who had just collared a scruffy-looking
woman in tattered coveralls and were accusing her of trying to
dodge out of her docking fees. His ship was waiting where he'd
left it, a small Ya'an Arrow that looked like scrap metal held
together with rusty nails and flew like a dream. Going around
it, he checked that no one had tried to tamper with the locking
mechanisms or with his force shields. Everything was in order.
Of course, the way the Arrow looked, no one would want to
tamper with it. When Obi-Wan had tracked down the saboteurs
that had attempted to blow up the Ya'an Corporation's main
factory during a tour for three visiting planetary leaders,
Ya'an's grateful president had tried to give him a few battle
cruisers as a reward. Obi-Wan wasn't certain how the ensuing
explanations and negotiations had led to him being offered the
Arrow as a permanent loan, instead, but he was definitely
grateful to Master Windu for managing it. A small, fast,
unobtrusive ship was certainly much more useful to a Jedi than
a battle cruiser, most of the time.
He considered going into the ship to use the holotransmitter in
the cockpit, but the crew over by the hangar entrance had let
go of the woman and were starting to look his way, and there
was a much higher docking fee if one wanted access to the ship
between docking and takeoff. Paying for a call somewhere else
in Mos Espa would be cheaper, Obi-Wan knew, and he didn't feel
motivated to persuade the spaceport workers into making an
exception from their unreasonable and exorbitant fee system
just for him. Besides, he'd sealed the lock with an extra twist
of the force, a fairly complicated piece of work that could be
undone easily enough, but would take time and effort to reset.
Not worth the trouble, he decided, and walked away from the
ship again, tugging on the hem of his outer shirt with one hand
to make sure it covered his lightsaber. His intention was to
keep a low profile around Mos Espa. Obi-Wan nodded politely to
the hangar crew as he passed them again and went back out into
the street, where he followed a few freighter loaders who
seemed to be coming off their shift. They led him to a street
lined with cantinas and food stalls; Obi-Wan paused and sniffed
the air, trying to find something edible. The first thing he
saw was a selection of the same amphibians Jabba had been
enjoying for breakfast. At least these were grilled, not raw.
About halfway down the street, he found a seat under a
makeshift awning and ordered a simple meal, mixed vegetable
mush and bread. Obi-Wan ate slowly, listening to the
conversation around him, which was carried on in a number of
different languages. Most of it seemed to center around
podraces, working hours, and the possibility of giving up life
in the city and becoming a moisture farmer instead. When a
sleek, predatory-looking being of a species Obi-Wan had never
seen before passed in the street, the conversation grew hushed
for a moment, and then resumed with greater fervor. So, that
was one of those lunatics who risked his life on the podracing
circuit. Someone had lost money on him, someone else had won,
yet another someone just wanted to gripe about overtime and a
projected increase in port traffic coming up.
Obi-Wan leaned back in the shade with his bowl of mush. He
rather liked the small-town air that Mos Espa projected, even
though he knew the place was larger than its low houses and
primitive streets made it seem. A group of children ran by in
the street, laughing, and one of the port workers called out a
friendly comment to them. Nice. At moments like this, it was
almost possible to forget about the spice trade and the slavery
and the desert raiders and the gambling fever.
The water he'd ordered with his meal was stale, tasting of the
metal container it had been tapped from. Obi-Wan drank it
anyway. This climate leeched moisture from the body. The
loaders were drinking challa tea, which encouraged water
retention and provided an energy boost, and did long-term
damage to the kidneys. More people on Tatooine were addicted to
challa than spice.
Someone had heard a rumor about double shifts. Someone else
said there were always rumors about large trade deals. Obi-Wan
began to listen more closely, wondering if it had anything to
do with Jabba's upcoming business meeting, but the conversation
drifted on to other subjects.
While he was mopping up the last of the mush with the last of
the bread, the port loaders finished their tea and got up to
leave. The last thing Obi-Wan heard was a comment about the
brand new Ya'an luxury cruiser that had docked early the same
morning. He wondered if it was the same model as the prototype
he'd seen during his mission. It had been an amazing piece of
work, combining the best of military strength with the best of
civilian luxury. Maybe he should have held out for one of those
instead of the Arrow, Obi-Wan thought with a wry smile, then
downed the last of his water and got to his feet as well.
He wished Qui-Gon had been a little more forthcoming with
information. Walking briskly along the street, keeping an eye
open for a place that displayed the sign that would indicate a
public holocomm facility, Obi-Wan wondered where Watto the junk
dealer conducted his business, and how he was going to ask to
meet two of the man's slaves. Not that he knew exactly what he
was going to do when he did meet them, either. Take a look at
the boy, and then what? Unless Obi-Wan could prove that the boy
wasn't force-sensitive, he didn't see how he could convince
Qui-Gon that this Anakin was not the chosen one. And if Qui-Gon
loved the woman, as he had said he did, there was no way he was
going to want to leave her behind.
Obi-Wan felt his brows draw together and worked consciously at
relaxing them. He slowed his pace. There was room aboard the
Arrow for two more, easily enough room if one was a small
child, but that didn't change the fact that he had no idea how
to get them free. He needed to talk to the council, he decided,
and get some advice on how to proceed both with the question of
the two other slaves and with Jabba's attempt at getting a Jedi
negotiator of his very own. Dodging around three eerily silent
Jawas, he rounded the next corner and found himself on a larger
thoroughfare, where a caravan of huge pack beasts was going by,
their regular tread sending vibrations up through his feet and
straight into his skull.
Obi-Wan paused to watch them. They were surprisingly shaggy
animals for such a hot climate, he thought. One of the beasts
was shaking its head fractiously. Fur hung down into its eyes,
all the way down to distended nostrils, and as it came closer
Obi-Wan saw that it was snorting white foam. That couldn't be
normal. None of the other animals were doing it. No one else
appeared to be paying attention; people were moving past the
animals, intent on their own business. The big beast's next
step was a staggering sideways lurch, barely missing the Jawas,
who had followed and passed Obi-Wan. They scurried away.
Obi-Wan began to walk closer. He looked around for whoever was
in charge of the caravan, but saw no one. The handler must be
up by the lead animal.
A deep honking sound, like a distressed brass instrument,
called Obi-Wan's attention back to the animal, and he saw it
stagger in the opposite direction now, and then toss its head
more violently, stamping its front hooves, shaking all along
its long body. The people in the street were finally noticing
that something was wrong, shoving at each other to get out of
the way. With another trumpeting distress cry the beast reared
up, and Obi-Wan saw that there was a woman on the other side
who was being pushed forward as others hurried to get clear.
The pack animal, unbalanced by its burden and by whatever was
wrong with it, was beginning to lurch, about to fall.
Running forward, full tilt, Obi-Wan dove under the flailing
hooves, rolled, came to his feet by the woman's side and put
his arm around her waist, sweeping her along. Her weight slowed
him down, but he compensated with the force, managing a few
more swift steps so that when the beast crashed down on its
side, shaking the ground, its fur barely brushed the edge of
the woman's long skirt. Dust rose in a heavy cloud. All the
other pack beasts had begun bleating. The woman sneezed.
Obi-Wan brushed dust and grit out of his eyes with the sleeve
of his free arm, and then put the woman down. She was short,
but sturdy, and under the tan dust her hair appeared to be
dark. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes." There was a pause as she shook her skirts and picked up
the bag that had slid from her shoulder; it had been flung
forward by their momentum, or it would have been lying under
the large bulk of the animal. "Yes, I am fine."
"Good." Obi-Wan put a hand on the beast. Its life force was
ebbing out fast, huge ribcage heaving with shuddering breaths.
He sent a questioning force tendril into the big body, looking
for the source of the problem.
A burly man came running down the street from the head of the
caravan, carrying a heavy barbed pike in one hand. "Hey!" he
yelled. "What're you doing to my khant?"
Obi-Wan waited until the man had reached them and come to a
halt before he answered, "Your khant nearly killed this lady."
The animal spasmed, almost rolling over onto his feet. "I
believe it's suffering from severe dehydration. If you treated
your animals better, perhaps they wouldn't die in the middle of
the street."
"How I treat my animals is my business." The man looked past
Obi-Wan at the woman. "But I guess I'm lucky I didn't end up
owing Watto even more. Hey, tell him I'll be by in a few days."
He turned to kick at the khant, which responded with a faint
fading bleat. "Now I gotta get this out of the street."
"And you might consider apologizing to the lady," Obi-Wan said.
The pain of the dying khant slid over his force-sensitized
nerves like the rasp of a file.
The man looked over his shoulder, a blank stare. "Apologize to
her?" He snorted. "And to the ground for landing a khant on it
as well? Get out of my way, I got work to do."
Obi-Wan was about to phrase his request more strongly, when he
saw in the corner of his eye that the woman was shaking her
head, a 'let it go' message in her dark gaze. He turned to her
instead, taking in the way she stood, the look on her face. It
reminded him of something, though he couldn't pin it down. "Are
you certain you're all right, ma'am--I'm sorry, I don't believe
I caught your name."
"Shmi Skywalker," she said, looking a little amused. "I'm fine.
Thank you for what you did." She hitched the bag up as it began
to slide off her shoulder. "I must go. Watto doesn't like it
when I'm late."
"I'll walk with you," Obi-Wan said instantly, falling into step
beside her when she began to walk down the street. The force
must have guided him in more ways than just allowing him to be
in the right place to save a life. Her name was Shmi, and she
had a connection with Watto. Hopefully, neither name was
particularly common on Tatooine. "Shmi Skywalker, do you have a
son named Anakin?"
"Yes." This time her look was faintly concerned. She shook the
sand off her skirt with one hand as she walked. "Have you met
him? What has he done now?"
"I haven't met him. Qui-Gon Jinn told me about you and your
son."
They rounded a corner, leaving the caravan and the dying khant
behind, although Obi-Wan could still sense its death struggles,
growing progressively fainter. It was quieter here, and Obi-Wan
listened to his own words. What was he going to say to this
woman? Qui-Gon thinks I should free you, but I disagree?
Qui-Gon thinks your son is the chosen one, a Jedi legend, so
I'd like to take a look at him before I come to a decision?
"You are a friend of Qui-Gon's?" Her voice changed. Her face
changed. Turning his head, Obi-Wan looked at her, really
looked, took her in again beyond the quietness and the dusty
clothes and the lopsided knot of dark braids at the back of her
head. This time he saw that look on her face for what it was:
the same serenity, the same strong calm, that he'd seen in
Qui-Gon's eyes last night. Briefly, he wondered who had taught
it to whom. "Then I am doubly pleased to meet you. How is he?
It has been some time since he could come to visit."
It occurred to Obi-Wan that the least he could have done was to
ask Qui-Gon if he had any messages for this woman. He had hoped
that he'd be able to bring Qui-Gon himself to Mos Espa, though.
As it was, all he could think to say at first was, "He is
well." The details of how he had found out Qui-Gon's state of
health were not something he cared to go into at the moment.
They walked on in silence for a while. Then Shmi said, "You are
not a slave. Have you come for Qui-Gon, to free him?"
Instead of considering his answer, he just said, "Yes. If I
can."
She nodded. "Good." Shmi began to shift her bag from one
shoulder to the other; it looked to be heavy, and Obi-Wan
reached out to pluck it from her grasp, shouldering it himself.
There were hard sharp edges in there, one of which immediately
started digging into his kidney. "This is not his place."
"No," Obi-Wan agreed. He watched Shmi as she led
Obi-Wan followed, feeling suddenly breathless and a little
uncomfortable. It was no wonder, he thought, that Qui-Gon loved
this woman.
The suns were higher in the sky now, and when they stepped from
the shade of a wall into the sunlit center of the street, the
heat fell like the lash of a whip on Obi-Wan's skin, sharp and
burning. He thought that perhaps he should have worn his cloak
after all. He couldn't even afford the luxury of wishing for a
breeze; when the wind rose, it only blew sandstorms over
Tatooine, not cool relief. A shifting dune could bury a house,
a whole quarter of buildings. Sweat began to trickle down his
sides, soaking into his inner shirt, and he spent a moment
trying to coax his body into adjusting better to the climate.
He didn't want to end up like the khant.
They were on a street in the commercial district now, where
merchants sold most things from moisture farming equipment to
sand-flea ointment to seden fruit. Obi-Wan looked around,
seeing the crowds, the way people moved. Trade seemed to be
flourishing. He turned his head in time to see Shmi walk
through the low door of a storefront and followed her inside,
into the cool, cluttered interior of Watto's junk shop.
It was a dimly lit cave of a place, and he blinked, letting his
eyes adjust. Parts, as well as assembled mechanical items, were
strewn everywhere in no noticeable order, and there was an open
doorway at the opposite end of the room, probably leading out
into a storage yard. On the left, a counter ran along part of
the wall, and Obi-Wan put Shmi's bag down on it between a pile
of half-rusted gears and a box full of nailgun cartridges. Shmi
took a couple of steps forward and smiled. "Ani, come out. You
shouldn't leave the shop unattended."
A boy rose from behind the counter. Even in the low light, his
blond hair shone, and there was a white gleam of teeth as he
smiled back, looking a little embarrassed. "I was looking for
the ten-wedge grips. I knew it was you, Mom." He came around
the counter with an eager bounce in his step and stumbled on a
box on the floor, righting himself with something that Obi-Wan
recognized as half natural balance, half force assistance. That
certainly answered that question. Turning towards Obi-Wan, he
said, "Can I help you, sir?"
Shmi also turned towards Obi-Wan. "This is my son, Anakin," she
said, her voice full of love edged with the faintest worry.
"Ani, this is a friend of Qui-Gon's."
"My name is Obi-Wan."
"Pleased to meet you!" Anakin said cheerfully and came forward
to clasp Obi-Wan's hand, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The boy had a pleasant, open face, marred by a scar that
twisted along the right side of his jaw and partway down his
throat. He had the awkward arm and leg length of someone who
had been doing a great deal of very fast growing; Obi-Wan
thought he looked to be in his early teens measured in standard
years. That was entirely disconcerting. Obi-Wan had been
expecting a small child, a toddler, not a boy who was probably
too old to be chosen as a padawan, and with no training
whatsoever. Qui-Gon knew very well that Jedi training had to
begin in early childhood.
"I have fifteen of the new components," Shmi said, opening the
bag, "unless they broke when I dropped the bag. I must ask
Watto how soon he needs the other twenty."
"He's out," Anakin said, turning away from Obi-Wan to help his
mother unpack the bag. "He got a message about someone wanting
to see him about... something," Anakin shrugged with a quick
smile. Looking at Obi-Wan again, he went on, "How is Qui-Gon?
Is he all right? How do you know him? I've never seen you
before. You're not from around here, are you?"
"Ani," Shmi said, chiding mildly.
"No, I'm not," Obi-Wan said, answering the last question first.
There was something very engaging about Anakin, but at the same
time, also something that disturbed him. Or perhaps he'd just
picked up on the slight worry in Shmi's demeanor, without even
knowing what she was worried about. "I knew Qui-Gon a long time
ago, when I was no older than you are now, but I've never been
to Tatooine before."
"Oh." Anakin scratched at his chin, stared at Obi-Wan, and then
looked lower, at Obi-Wan's hip. "You're a Jedi knight, aren't
you." It wasn't a question, and when Obi-Wan looked down, he
saw that his outer shirt had become disarranged when he'd
carried the bag; the handle of his lightsaber was showing.
"Yes," he said, seeing no point in trying to deny it.
Anakin's eyes lit up. He jumped up to sit on the counter,
shoving the box of cartridges aside. "Have you come to free
Qui-Gon? Have you come to free the slaves?"
For a moment, Obi-Wan had an inner vision of the two of them,
Shmi and Anakin, sitting together in the evenings, in the
mornings, during the long hot days, talking about freedom,
wondering if Tatooine would ever be different, if the galaxy
would ever be different, if anything would ever change. It made
his throat burn, and he was irrationally furious at Qui-Gon for
putting him in this situation. But although Anakin's words
echoed Shmi's, there was a different thrust to them. Shmi's
visions of change were peaceful, but Anakin sounded as though
he wanted things to happen. He sounded so young.
"What I came for and what I will do may not be the same thing,"
Obi-Wan said. "But a single Jedi does not have either the
authority or the ability to free all the slaves of Tatooine."
"Someone should," Anakin said, drumming his heels against the
side of the counter. "It's wrong. Someone should do
something about it, and about the spice trade, and the water
cartels! What good is being a Jedi if you can't help
people?"
"We can help people," Obi-Wan said. "But we don't have the
right to decide for them what we're going to help them with. We
go where we have been asked to go." As an explanation both of
the Jedi order's charter, and of the Republic's policy when
sending the Jedi on missions, it was so woefully inadequate
that it made his head hurt, but it was, as far as it went,
true. They went where they were asked to go. And sometimes what
they were asked to do when they got there was sadly
insufficient, but that didn't change the fact that they could
not, by virtue of having abilities others didn't, decide right
and wrong for the entire galaxy.
"Slaves," Anakin spat out, "don't have the right to ask for
help."
"I know that." Less than five minutes, and the boy was already
losing his temper. What was Qui-Gon thinking? That Anakin was
force-sensitive seemed certain enough, but then, so was Shmi,
and of the two of them, she appeared more temperamentally
suited to the life of a Jedi, despite being much too old,
rather than just a little too old. "And Jedi knights do not
have the right to start revolutions."
"Qui-Gon says that the Jedi fight to protect the weak and
uphold justice in the galaxy."
"Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan said, mentally consigning Qui-Gon to the ice
caves of Hoth, "is right, but he oversimplifies. Bad things
happen all the time, all over the galaxy, and we can't be
everywhere."
"But now you're here." Anakin jumped down from the counter
again and took a step forward. "If I were like you, if I could
do what you can do, I would, I would--"
Obi-Wan lifted his chin a fraction, looking down at Anakin.
"You would do what?"
"Everything!" Anakin burst out. He was flushing with emotion,
and the scar stood out on his fair skin, a scarlet stripe.
"Something, anything, it's not right to let us live like this.
It's not right for things to be like this."
"Ani." Shmi touched the boy's shoulder, stroked soothingly down
his back. "You cannot just struggle in all directions at once,
like a widgecat in a trap."
"You don't struggle at all!" Anakin said hotly. "You just wait
for things to happen, and they never do! I'm going to make
enough money to free us both, and then--" He broke off, looking
his mother in the eye, and then looked down.
"Your dreams are too big for your life just yet," Shmi
whispered.
Anakin raised a hand, tentatively, and put it on his mother's
arm. "I'm sorry, Mom," he said. Shmi put her hand over his, and
they stood like that for a while. Obi-Wan tried to be
invisible. When Anakin looked up, his eyes were clear and light
once again. He turned his head to look at Obi-Wan. "I'm sorry,
sir."
Obi-Wan just nodded and tugged his shirt back into place. The
lightsaber was a comforting weight at his hip, much lighter
than the weight of the rights and responsibilities it brought
with it. Stepping forward, he began to help Shmi unpack her
bag, setting down a row of small speeder engine components on
the counter in the space Anakin had left free. One, at the
bottom of the bag, had broken, and the individual parts were
bent beyond repair. Shmi sighed a little at it and handed it to
Anakin, who turned it over carefully, and then shook his head
and went and put it in a bin of scrap metal in the corner.
"When will Watto be back?" Shmi asked. "Perhaps I can bring
another component this afternoon. He said he needed them today
for a repair project."
"I don't know." Anakin looked unconcerned. "He said it might
take a while. It's been very slow here this morning, though.
I've been out there," he waved his hand at the back door,
"working on the pod."
A shadow went over Shmi's face. Obi-Wan looked towards the
sunny rectangle of the back door and tried to make out anything
outside it through the glare of light. "Are you repairing a
racing pod?"
"No, I'm building one. Come and look!" Anakin picked up the
ten-wedge grip he'd been looking for before and went to the
back door, throwing an eager look over his shoulder. Obi-Wan
followed him, and after a moment, so did Shmi.
The back lot was larger than one might have expected from the
size of the shop, and full of junk. In a carefully cleared area
in the middle sat a racing pod, a rather small and
battered-looking one, constructed to accommodate a relatively
short racing pilot. Anakin went around it to where one of the
side plates was propped open and tapped with the wedge grip at
something that clanked hollowly.
"I would say that you have built one," Obi-Wan said. He went
closer to study it. It was made of used parts, hence the
battered appearance, but very carefully put together; solid
work, Obi-Wan thought, running his fingers down a tightly
welded seam. Solid, but unprepossessing. "I'm not sure it will
sell, though. I thought podracers preferred flashier
equipages."
"We're not selling it." Anakin's head appeared over the other
side of the pod; there was a smear of grease on one cheek now,
and he looked intent and happy. "I'm going to race it. There's
a big race the day after tomorrow. If you're still here, you
can come and watch."
"You race pods?" Obi-Wan kept the surprise out of his voice,
but only just. He'd seen a holo of the podraces on Malastaire
once, watched the pods sweep at tremendous speed over the
treacherous racing course. It was fast and it was dangerous,
requiring reflexes far above what most humans could muster.
"That must be quite difficult."
"Yes." A trace of smugness crept into Anakin's voice. "I'm the
only human who can do it."
"It's because you can sense things before they happen, isn't
it," Obi-Wan said, considering it as he spoke. "You feel as
though you're being guided by something." Not only force
sensitive, then, but very powerfully gifted, to have survived
so far, to have taken part in a podrace relying on the force to
guide him and with no real training in its use. Obi-Wan
wondered what the boy would have been able to do if he had been
trained in the temple from an early age.
"Qui-Gon says I should trust it," Anakin said.
Qui-Gon would say that, Obi-Wan thought. Although as advice to
a force-sensitive boy for living through a podrace, it was
undoubtedly sensible. It made him wonder if Qui-Gon had already
begun, in some ways, to try to teach Anakin. With Anakin so
old, and their meetings of necessity not too frequent, and
Qui-Gon force blind... Quite apart from going against Jedi
precepts, it was an impossible endeavor. "What else does
Qui-Gon say?"
"Lots of things." Anakin disappeared again, and there was a
squeaking sound of metal working on oil-slick metal. "About how
everything is connected, and he knows--ungh!--the greatest
stories, about other planets and stuff." A clank, and the thud
of something falling to the ground.
Obi-Wan sauntered slowly around the back of the pod, running a
hand over the sun-hot metal. Building a functional racing pod
was a remarkable achievement for someone as young as Anakin. It
was impossible to doubt that the pod was entirely Anakin's
work; when Obi-Wan sought deeper, below the surface, he could
sense the boy's force signature all through the construction,
saturating it so strongly that it tingled against Obi-Wan's
fingertips. He walked up to Anakin, who had propped up one of
the side plates and was halfway into the interior of the pod,
tugging at something.
Looking over Anakin's shoulder, Obi-Wan resisted the temptation
to help the boy out with the ten-wedge grip, which was a little
too large for his hands, and instead said, "Those coils are
fairly loose, compared to a speeder engine construction."
"I know," Anakin's voice echoed weirdly from inside the pod, as
though he were wearing a metal helmet. "But with tighter coils,
they overheat really fast, and then you need a much bigger
cooling system."
Obi-Wan nodded, although Anakin couldn't see him. The design of
this pod was very pared down, minimalistic. "That would make
the pod too heavy?"
"Yeah," Anakin confirmed, and wriggled backwards until he could
stand up straight again. "That and it's just one more thing
that can go wrong." He grinned and wiped at the smear on his
nose with his sleeve. "Some of the racers build bigger pods
with bigger, stronger engines so they can handle the extra
weight, but I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?" Obi-Wan bent down to look inside the pod. There was
a heavy smell of engine grease and combustion fuel. "A stronger
engine gives you more speed."
"Some." Anakin sounded as though he were still swiping at his
nose. "But speed isn't everything in podracing. The bigger pods
don't handle so well, and when you're racing on a course with a
lot of tight spots, you have to be able to turn like that,"
Anakin snapped his fingers. "The bigger pods can take the lead
out in the open, but then they get into the narrow canyons and
crash. They're fast, but they don't fly so good."
"I see." Obi-Wan tapped a finger against the coils. "You could
use a little more tension here. Give me the ten-wedge grip." He
reached back with one hand and felt the grip press into his
palm. "Thank you."
The grip fit his hand much better than Anakin's, and it was
easy work to tighten the coil bolts until the coils sang with
just the right pitch of tension. Emerging into bright sunlight
again, he saw that Anakin was looking at him, head cocked. "I
thought you didn't know a lot about pods."
"I don't. But I do know a few things about engines." He found
it relaxing to do all the work on the Arrow himself, including
mechanical tune-up and repairs. Working with his hands freed
his mind to think of other things. It even made it easier for
him, paradoxically, to connect to the living force.
"Great! Let me see what it looks like." Anakin pressed past
Obi-Wan and ducked his head slightly to get under the raised
plate. "I really wish Watto had a set of smaller grips." The
boy's voice echoed hollowly from the inside of the pod.
All at once Obi-Wan felt the force stir, sweep past him like
the heavy wing-beat of a large black bird, darkening the sky.
He could see nothing, was blind to both time and space. The
world did not lie against his skin. Heavy, wheezing breaths
sounded in his ears, and the sound was painful to him, bone
pain, the pain of failure. There was a flare of red light.
Obi-Wan heard his own voice say, sadly, Only a master of
evil.
He felt dizzy. Dropped back abruptly into his body, he
staggered, and steadied himself with a hand against the side of
the pod. When he could focus again, he met Shmi's eyes across
the pod; she had stepped forward from the doorway and was
watching him with intent concern. "Are you all right?"
"Yes." He glanced to the side to find that Anakin was also
watching him, looking more perplexed than worried. Anakin's
eyes were very clear, like the sky. Obi-Wan collected himself,
setting his strange experience aside for the moment and
concentrating on what he saw when Shmi looked at him. "I'm
fine."
After holding Obi-Wan's eyes a moment longer, Shmi shifted her
gaze to Anakin. "Ani, I must go. When Watto comes back, tell
him that I will bring another component later this afternoon in
place of the one that got broken."
"Yes, mom."
"And remember that you are watching the shop. Don't spend all
your time out here working on the pod."
Anakin rolled his eyes. "You know I'll notice if anyone comes
in, Mom. I'll be paying attention, I promise." He turned the
ten-wedge grip over in his hands. "And Watto knows I'm working
on the pod."
Shmi nodded, but she didn't look entirely satisfied. She
smoothed at her skirt, brushing out the last of the sand and
dust that had caught there, stirred up by the khant's fall.
Obi-Wan walked back around the pod again, catching her eye.
"You are leaving?" She nodded. "If it's not too badly out of
your way, could you show me where the nearest public holocomm
facility is?"
"Of course," she said, shaking out her skirt a final time. "I
would be glad to help you. Anakin, I will see you later today."
Shmi turned and went into the shop.
Obi-Wan paused, half turned to look at the boy by the pod. The
back yard was bathed in hot light, and he could barely
recapture the sensation of darkness, cold, fear. The jagged
pieces of scrap metal stacked all around looked harmless. "I
believe we will meet again, Anakin Skywalker." Unwilling to
meet Anakin's eyes any longer, he followed Shmi through the
junk shop and out into the street on the other side.
The bustling street life of the commercial district surrounded
him with the sensations of normal, everyday activity, clearing
the last lingering sensations of the vision from his mind. Once
again he adjusted his brisker steps to Shmi's shorter ones and
walked beside her along the line of storefronts and
awning-shielded stalls. He studied the wares on display, trying
to see a pattern, but when breathing masks were followed by
gloves and cooking pots, he shook his head and gave it up. Shmi
hitched the shoulder bag up with a one-sided shrug, and it
brushed against his arm.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Obi-Wan smiled at her and shook his head, disavowing the
necessity for an apology. "Does Watto often leave Anakin to
mind the shop?"
"Sometimes."
"He must trust you and Anakin a lot." Trust, between Tatooine
slaves and slave owners, came enforced with a transmitter that
could cause instant death. Nevertheless, Shmi and Anakin seemed
to have a great deal of autonomy. Looking at Shmi, Obi-Wan
could see how anyone might easily come to trust her; her
presence was so honest. Surely it must be clear even to those
who couldn't sense her in the force.
"Watto is kind," Shmi said seriously. "Considerate. He will
give Anakin an afternoon to himself if business is slow and
lets him take scrap parts to play with."
"Enough parts to build a racing pod?"
She looked away for a while, unnecessarily adjusting the
shoulder strap of the bag. Fidgeting, in Shmi, seemed so
unexpected that Obi-Wan sharpened his attention. "No, not this
time. Ani thinks of the pod as his, but he is building it for
Watto, and he will be racing it for Watto. He wants us to bet
all our savings on the race, on him, so that we can buy our
freedom."
Obi-Wan didn't know exactly what a slave's freedom was worth
here on Tatooine. He didn't know how much money a slave might
have to bet with, either. He didn't want to ask. The
awkwardness of being free, the embarrassment and guilt of it
that Anakin had tried and failed to trigger, woke in him at the
simple longing in Shmi's voice. His lightsaber seemed heavier
than ever before. He turned the next corner at Shmi's silent
prompting and said, "So he had his own pod once." She nodded.
"Was that how he got the scar?" Obi-Wan's fingers wandered
along his own jaw.
"Yes. There was a big race on Boonta Eve, three years ago.
Another racer cut him off, and he crashed. He was lucky," Shmi
said, her voice trembling with subdued fierceness. "Many
podracers die, or are permanently injured. Whenever he races...
my heart is dying piece by piece."
She stopped, and Obi-Wan stopped with her, putting a hand on
her arm. For once the living force was in harmony with him--or
perhaps with her--and without really trying he could sense her
pain, and the depth of her love for her son. Pain and love
flowed together like the blue and green waves of a vast ocean.
She was water in the desert. Obi-Wan blinked, shook his head to
clear it. Looking over Shmi's shoulder, he saw that they were
standing in front of a cantina, and there was a public holocomm
sign by the door. He pressed her arm a little harder before
letting go. "Thank you for showing me the way here."
"People should help each other," she said, and looked up at
him. "I must ask you one thing. About Qui-Gon."
"Yes?"
Shmi spoke slowly. "Will the Jedi take him--back?"
"We will be glad to have him back," Obi-Wan said. "We've
searched for him for years." Belatedly, he realized that that
had not, perhaps, been exactly what she had asked him.
But she nodded, and smiled a little. "Then I am glad, also."
Her lips did not tremble, nor did her voice. "Tell him that I
am thinking of him."
"I will," Obi-Wan said, and found that he was speaking to her
disappearing back. He stood where he was and watched her walk
away down the street, step by careful step, getting out of
everyone's way.
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