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Text Transmission: Return: MYoda, eyes only/JT,C
 

Dearest and most clement Master:

It is only just that you demand an accounting of me, and if the distance that separates this ship from Coruscant were not such as to make it impossible, I would leap to give it in person.  I know well that you would hear it fairly--how could I not know, I, who was raised at your venerable knee?

From my earliest years your wisdom and utter incapacity for hasty judgment has been my guiding light in a dark and chaotic world.  It goes without saying that you will weigh every word of this document, and every extenuating circumstance that it details, with the same clear-sighted fairness (not unmixed with melting compassion) with which you dried my childish tears and chucked my trembling lip in years gone by.

I therefore place in your hands, with simplicity and utter trust, this unbiased account of the affair.  May the Force be with you as you judge the conduct of those concerned, and reflect, as doubtless you will, that we are none of us angels.

I remain,

your humble servitor in the Force (and eager student always),

Qui-Gon Jinn, M., O.J.S.O.
 
 

It was not much of an evening, as evenings go.  My senses were recollected, my mind composed, my every emotion poised in perfect balance.  Fairly routine.  I padded sedately through the hushed hallways, another expiatory shift of deadfiling in the Temple archives winding to a close.

"What cheer, Padawan?" I inquired.  I entered our common room to find my peerless apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi, elbow-deep in datapads and ancient tomes.  "Reading, eh?"

"Yes, Master," he replied forthrightly, ever the tireless servant of truth. "I am reading the Code."

This apprentice of mine is possibly the only creature alive who considers our august Rule the main ingredient of a large night off, but what can I do?  These prodigies will have their endearing quirks, and I've learned to take the rough with the smooth.

"Is that so?" I asked, feigning a bit of the keen old interest.

"Yes, Master," nodded Obi-Wan, toying with one of cracked folios. "Are you familiar with Knight Griwonne and the Empress of Ostia, Master?"

"Can't say that I am.  Classmate of yours?"

'It was 400 years ago, Master.  Knight Griwonne and the Empress met by chance and loved by fate.  Inequity of rank was a gulf between them, but they knew that a life without true passion was meaningless."

"Oh, hmm."

"They defied cold custom with the fervor of their devotion, knowing well their fate."

"You don't say?"

Obi-Wan sighed feelingly.  "The lovers were lashed to twin stakes and put to the torch, and so they perished: each calling the other's name, whilst the devouring flames roared about them."

"Excellent.  Obi-Wan," I said, hoping to turn the conversation, diverting as it was, "How about joining me in the refectory for a bite?  A late snack," I elaborated, seeing his blank look.  "Really, Padawan, an earmite couldn't stay frisky on what you're eating lately."

Obi-Wan dropped his eyes modestly, as if I had just offered him high praise.  "I've been campaigning to extinguish the base nature," he said, brushing one of the Codebooks reverently.  "The body is a good slave, but a bad master, Master."  And then he looked up at me, smiling in a dim, pious sort of way, as if he expected a pat on the head.

I felt we weren't communicating, somehow.  I fetched his cloak and tossed it at him.  "Let's go."

"But Master, I'm not--"

I gave him a dose of the ever-efficacious eye--I was feeling just a bit tired, you know--and he rose without further protest and followed me out the door.

****

Is there anything quite so cozy as our dear refectory after hours, with its 90-meter ceiling softened by shadow and its endless ranks of steamtables bedewed and somnolent?  Even the slightly unappetizing slogans chiseled into the walls--with their improving emphasis on suffering, self-denial and death--manage to seem almost cheery, at night.

There were only a few other late grazers dotted about.  I waved Obi-Wan to a table, and he seated himself with an air of resignation that would have drawn an admiring whistle from love's scrappiest martyr.  So austere does my padawan wax of late that it's poor policy to leave him in charge of the grub, so I made my solitary way to the kitchens to rustle up what I might.

The pickings were unusually slim.  It being a Thursday, I found vast tubs of leftover jellyfish salad, of course, but I had no wish to bear so hard on the boy as all that.  This left me with only some bruised fruit and a chunk of sweating Alderaanian nurf cheese, and I had to pause and run a quick mental review of Obi-Wan's prodigious list of life-threatening allergies.  The nurf cheese struck me as chancy, but things are always changing on the allergy front, it seems.  I headed back to the dining hall for a quick consultation.

Obi-Wan was nowhere in sight, and I'll admit I felt a nasty jar.  What with one thing and another my padawan has been snatched so many times that I've developed what Brainsorter Pymm calls a conditioned response, even when he goes missing in the secure bosom of the Temple.  However a moment's work with the breathing and whatnot put me right again and I was able theorize that he had merely wandered off.

I quietly explored the halls and soon spied him in a dark alcove with two other Learners.  There was a furtive air about the group that put me instantly on my guard, for they had their shorn heads stuck together in a manner indicative of padawan conspiracy since time immemorial.  I drifted into concealment, straining every sense to catch their words.

"Listen," one of them hissed.  I placed the voice: it was none other than the pestilential Garen, a creche-mate and chronic egger-on from Obi-Wan's rocky youth.  "Just listen!  I'm trying to explain.  That hound Xooli has left us all in the lurch."

"I don't understand what Xooli has to do with it in the first place," replied Obi-Wan flatly.

"Shh!  I told you, he had the book, but then they knighted the cur, and you know how it is: once the braid came off he couldn't get a solo mission fast enough.  Now he's on the far side of the galaxy--"

"Lolling in the sunshine," interjected another voice, belonging, predictably enough, to another questionable influence from greener days, a lad by the name of Reeft.

"--no doubt, as Reeft says, lolling in the sunshine.  And the book," concluded Garen, "Is in the hands of hostiles. The situation is explosive."

"Why did Xooli have it at all?" demanded Obi-Wan.  "You said the senior padawan was supposed to have it.  I've been senior padawan for two years."

"Always the late bloomer, eh?" chuckled Garen, in an attempt at jocularity I might have told him would not go over well.  There was a heavy pause.

"Look," continued Garen awkwardly, "It doesn't matter, now is your chance to shine."

"Two years, and this is the first I'm hearing of it?"

"Obi-Wan, don't take it personally, but this little tradition isn't exactly endorsed at the highest levels, if you take my meaning.  And there's, ah, a perception about you, I'm afraid, however unjust..."

"Yes?"

"It's a slander of course, but there were those who feared you might place honor, probity and the Code over the well-being of the Padawanate, if it came to the test."

"That's a filthy thing to say," whispered Obi-Wan furiously.

"You don't have to tell me!  We've been boosting for you all along--haven't we, Reeft?"

"Absolutely.  Boosting like mad."

"Buck up, old cringer!" exhorted Garen.  "Confound your accusers.  Get that book back, and show them all the rare stuff of which you are made."

"Any suggestions as to where I might start looking?" asked Obi-Wan in a tone of sarcasm that was quite novel to me.

"That's easy," replied Reeft.  "Tahl has it."

"What!"

"Damn it, Obi-Wan, speak lower," hissed Garen.

"Are you insane?  Has it escaped your notice that Knight Tahl is head of Internal Investigations?"

"And credit to her office, too," agreed Garen.

"So it's burglary, then?  You expect me to break into a knight's quarters--a knight who happens to be the Temple's Chief Inquisitor--"

"Now you have it," encouraged Reeft.

"--and steal a book," continued Obi-Wan coldly, "an illicit book, that contains cruel and possibly fatal intelligence about every master in the Order?  A book that exists for only one conceivable purpose: blackmail?"

"That's it exactly." Garen sounded relieved.  "You've always had a keen mind, Obi-Wan, no matter what they say."

Obi-Wan was silent for a long moment, and I could picture him grappling fiercely with his unspotted soul.  I think I may very well have held my breath.

"I'll do it," he said at last.  "I'll get that book."

"That's the lad!"

"And then it's going straight down the power core."

"No, damn it!"

"I knew it," muttered Reeft bitterly.

"Do that, and you ruin us all, Obi-Wan."  Garen's voice took on a hue of eloquent desperation.  "Think!  That book has survived for millennia, and its existence is the only curb these tyrants will ever know--the only thing that makes a padawan's life anything near bearable.  You might as well throw the next generation of knights down that power core while you're at it, don't you see?  What of the Republic then?  And what about us, your fellows?  What about tradition, hope, esprit de corps?"

"What about our money?" added Reeft.

"Ah.  Now we come to it," said Obi-Wan.

I heard Garen scuff his boots uncomfortably.  "Well, yes.  There are other considerations--not that you should need any, if you have any soul.  But it's true that a certain interest has arisen regarding your prospects, among your peers."

"Wagering?"

"Again, yes.  In fact, you'll be pleased to know that Reeft and I are risking our poor substance on your abilities, bosom friend."

To my chagrin, Obi-Wan sounded almost flattered.  "How much?"

"Seven credits."

"That's all?"

"Both ways," admitted Reeft.

"Thank you very much," replied Obi-Wan with dignity.  "I suppose it's another pool?"

"Indeed it is," said Garen warmly, and with not a little pride.  "A hundred to one that you recover the object in a week, thirty to one you get it in a month, odds on that you tank entirely.  And so forth, thus and so--you get the picture."

There was another moment of reflective silence, and then Obi-Wan said quietly:  "Place another bet, Garen.  I have twenty credits that say I'll get the book back in three days."

Garen laughed outright, then gurgled as something shushed him--an elbow, presumably.  "Obi-Wan," he continued, subdued,  "Be rational, old sponge.  Where would you get twenty credits?  Everybody knows you haven't a pin."

"My Master's started giving me an allowance."

"Gods below!  Are you serious?"

"Every week."

"What's gotten into him, do you suppose?" asked Garen curiously.  "Feeding you, giving you an allowance--is he all right?"

"He seems all right, apart from that," answered Obi-Wan thoughtfully.  "Perhaps it's a kind of test.  It's funny, though--when he caught me dropping it in the poorbox I heard about it for days.  No matter," he announced, with the sudden air of a lad who, putting his hand to the plow, turns not back. "Twenty credits, three days.  We'll divide the winnings.  Leave the rest to me."

"The ring can't handle those odds," objected Reeft.

"That's the ring's problem," replied Obi-Wan tersely.  "Surely you can manage that much without my help."

I heard a comradely backslap.  "You seem very confident, old weasel," said Garen, "And it does me good to see it, in this desperate hour.  But why don't you make it fifteen, and stand us all to a real supper?"

"Force!" breathed Obi-Wan.  "I've got to get back--my master is probably looking for me right now.  Remember: twenty credits, three days--and don't mess it up for once, you two."

"Tut, tut," I heard Garen say, but Obi-Wan's steps were advancing and I sped silently back to the hall ahead of him, pondering these things in my heart.

****

I rose the next morning with no small sense of anticipation, eager to see how Obi-wan was going to wedge intrigue and skullduggery into his busy schedule of training, good works, and doing down gross nature.  It was clear to me that early intervention would be worse than none at all; these padawans want a fine measure of rope to hang really well.  You can imagine my disappointment, then, when I walked out into the common room and found that he was already up and scuttled away.

It was a setback, but a minor one.   He could only be headed in one direction, and I had ways of anticipating the lad that he dreamed not of.  To Tahl's quarters I turned my face, and by taking paths obscure I arrived just as he presented himself at her door.

My good Master, as you doubtless know, when one has a task in hand, there are ways and there are ways.  I felt at this point that my errand was to safeguard a precious vocation entrusted to me by the Force from a looming  occasion of sin, and if that meant lurking in a secret passageway to eavesdrop, I'm glad I was Jedi enough to do so.   I hope you will bear this in mind when you are mulling over penances and public correction.

At any rate, I had just eased myself into a nicely suffocating little piece of real estate adjacent to Tahl's cell when the door buzzed.  I heard the usual noises of someone rising from a desk and keying open the door, and I tried to peer through a little chink between the masonry and the hidden door.  The angle was unsatisfactory, though, and all I got was a rather uninformative glimpse of the open fresher opposite my position.

Tahl's voice was indecently hearty given the hour.  "What?  Hey?  Who's this?  Young Obi-Wan?  They're unlimbering the big guns now, eh?"

"Good morning, Knight Tahl," said Obi-Wan stiffly.

"It isn't customary to ring the bell when you come to steal something, dear boy.  I had expected something with more dash from the intrepid Tunneler of Demba.  But these are strange times," she added philosophically.

"May I come in, ma'am, or do you want to have this conversation in the hallway?" asked Obi-Wan.

"Oh, do enter! Enter by all means, and let's decant our heavy hearts-- deep, as it were, unto deep.  Tea, Padawan Kenobi?"

"No, thank you.  Knight Tahl," began Obi-Wan, crossing my limited line of vision, "It's plain you know why I'm here."

"Yes, and I want to take this opportunity to express my dismay that even your fallen and apostate buddies could sink quite this low.  To unleash the fire-breathing Obi-Wan Kenobi on a poor old blind woman! Fie, fie!"

"It's also clear to me," continued Obi-Wan, with that dogged imperturbability that is one of his better traits under circumstances that bore no resemblance to these, "That simply trying to steal this book from you would be a waste of effort.  You're too clever for that, ma'am."

"A game sortie with the old butter," observed Tahl. "You've been struggling to stay awake on missions, and that's commendable.  But let's skip it, shall we?  What do you think?"

"Just as you say, then.  Knight Tahl, you have this book, and you haven't turned it over to the Council or destroyed it.  May I ask why?"

I heard Tahl seat herself at the desk, and there was a sort of creak as she leaned back.  I assumed she was steepling her fingers or engaging in some other form of body language chosen to convey iron control, but when she spoke her voice contained a faint trace of uneasiness, at least to one who knew her well.

"Young man, some of my property has been taken.  I want it back.  Return it to me, and you can have your book of sins."

"Something of yours has been stolen?"  Obi-Wan sounded properly aghast.  "What is it?"

"My diary," replied Tahl, and I felt those simple words send a spike of dread right through my vital organs.

*****

I returned our modest rooms, reflecting not a little sadly on the changes the unforgiving hour can bring.  How high had been my heart when I had departed that morning--intent only on chivvying my erring student to his inevitable and well-deserved doom.  It just goes to show you, as this same student has so pithily and oft observed, that all happiness in this passing world is but a semblance and a mocking shadow.

I noticed the message light blinking, and seated myself before the console (and far be it from me to warble my own praises, serene Master, but I trust you will note that I was alive even at such a pass as this to the sacred demands of duty).  Three messages popped up, and all of them bore the same signature: xdcruet @ offworld.holo.

It is well said that when padawans tramp through one's life bringing woe, they come not single spies, but in battalions.  Sighing and perhaps asking myself just how much more terror and melancholy one initially promising morning could manage to hold, I opened the first.

>Hi, Qui-Gon

>Long time no hear from.  How's the Life been treating you, hey?  I've been thinking about you a lot lately.  I've been thinking about a lot of things. I've always been a thinker.  I guess that's why I suffer so.

>Like the other day I did a merger with this tasty technotransit concern, and the beauty part was the clause that let us devour the pension fund and some other deadwood whole.  Aboveboard and legal all the way.  I've been working on that stuff.

>Then it got all weird.  I was kicking back, thinking about Mr and Mrs Joe Clockpunch huddled in their ratty bedsitter with the heat off, their pea brains unable to grasp the enormity of the force that had laid waste their simple lives (me!), and suddenly it was like you were in the office with me.  I saw you making that face.  You know the one I mean.  The one were your eyebrows go up and your eyelids go down and your nose looks shorter.

>It wrecked the whole rest of my day.  I even left work early.  I bet you're happy, in some unhappy Jedi kind of way, that you can still do that.  Just thought you'd like know.

>Xanatos
 

The next read:
 

>Hey, Qui-Gon

>Man I'm sorry.  Didn't mean to be a rotten, ungrateful, no-good son of a bitch.  I'm not thinking too clearly, or I never would have said that.

Man I'm sorry.  I can't stop thinking.   Everything's coming apart.  You have no idea.  You can't imagine.  Enemies everywhere.

We so much history.  I really respect you, okay?  You understand what I mean by respect?  No you don't.

You're the only one who understands me.  Someone's at the door.  BRB.

>Xan
 

The next:
 

>How dare you ingore me.  I won't be ingored.  Do you have any idea who you're talking to? I hold the fates onf millions in this hnda. You always ingored me.  You never let me in.  Thanks for killing my father tough guy.

>Whatever forget it lets call it even.  I've got this amazing idea for a holozine.  We'll rake in millions on advertising alone.  You could be the consultant.  I'm sending sketches.

>X
 

I was at work composing a measured reply when the instant texter obscured my screen.
 

>XanMan:    Hey

>QGJ:    How much have you smoked, Xanatos?

>XanMan:   Back  off I'm on vacation.

>QGJ:    Where are you?

>XanMan:    I'm on vacation.  I want to die.

>QGG:    Tell me where you are.

>XanMan:    I cant deal I'm so tired.

>QGJ:    I'm tracing this, Xanatos.

>XanMan:    I don't want to fuck people over thats not who I am.  Its the only language they speak though.  I'm all alone.  there's only me and my will to win.  Fuck it hurts.

>QGJ:    You're at the Kriterion on Alderaan?

>XanMan:    i HATE THIS PLACE wHAT A FUCKING WASTE OF DOUGH

>QGJ:    I'm sending a transport, Xan.  I want you to come here and rest for a few days.

>XanMan:    No transporst my enemies are legion!  (!!!!) (Cant say more)

>QGJ:    It's going to be all right.  We'll discuss it when you get here.

>XanMan:    Cant you come?  Why cant you come?

>QGJ:    I'm in the middle of an emergency.

>XanMan:    Why cant you come why

>XanMan:    yYou wont come?

>QGJ:    Sit tight.  Drink water.  I'm on my way.

****

As all things shipish were ticking over as well as could be expected--we weren't venting anything so far as I knew and the convulsing maw of lightspeed had yet to spit us out and smear us all over space and time--I sat back in the pilot's seat and listened to Xanatos snore.  My mind, as they say, was full, and I was trying to plot a course of action based on what I
had overheard in--well, adjacent to--Tahl's quarters, twelve hours previously.

I replayed the exchange in my mind, not for perhaps the hundredth time, but something near enough to suit me indeed.

Tahl had just dropped her bombshell about the nature of her missing property, and so engaged was I in reeling and clutching my brow and the like that I almost missed what followed.

"Your diary?"  Inequity of rank might have been a gulf between them, but Obi-Wan still had the pluck to adopt a tone of bewildered disapproval.  "Jedi don't keep diaries.    Diaries are against the Code.  Diaries are egotistical and binding exercises in self-love. Diaries are--"

Tahl barked at him impatiently and commenced to share her opinions on a range of topics, some of them quite personal .  One has to be in just the right mood to appreciate the full charm of Obi-Wan's extemporaneous sermons on the Jedi charism, and she clearly wasn't.  I knew how she felt; and by the time she paused for air Obi-wan did too.

"Very well, then." In the wake of Tahl's eloquent barrage Obi-Wan contrived to wrench himself from the all-absorbing topic of virtue and actually come to the point. "Who took it? Do you know?"

"I know, all right," replied Tahl bitterly.  "The little Sith sent me a message.  Does the name Bruck Chun ring a bell?"

I heard a kind of choked sputter and I would have given a lot to see the lad's expression, but I could imagine it clearly enough.

"Bruck--*Chun*?"

"Friend of yours, eh?" asked Tahl.  "Well, this makes it interesting.  Good!  Nothing like a motivated conspirator."

"Say no more, Ma'am," grated Obi-Wan dangerously.  "I'll handle this."

"Wait, whoa, hold on there," exclaimed Tahl.  "You just can't go and beat it out of him--apart from the fact that I don't like your chances, that sort of  thing is bound to attract notice.  Notice, Padawan," said Tahl patiently, "Is something we wish to avoid.  Do you follow me?"

"You needn't be concerned.  By the Force, ma'am, what do you take me for?  We'll just have an nice little chat," added Obi-Wan under his breath.

And then, before Tahl could utter another word, barely pausing for a curt "Good day to you," he was charging out the door.

I am second to none in my appreciation of these secret passageways when there's a day's skulking to be done, but they simply weren't designed for swift movement even if one isn't going on for two meters tall.  By the time I had extricated myself Obi-Wan was long gone and my heart felt strangely heavy.   There was little to do, it seemed, but return to quarters and
ponder my long list of ill-bodings.

I seem to be making a hash of the chronology here, patient Master, and I beg your forgiveness.  This confession is painful for me.  As I recall, I have already given you the gist of Xanatos' troubled communications, and my decision to step in--a Jedi's duty ever--may be inferred.  I should add that before going down to the docks to engage in the standard ritual of pleading,
lamentation and veiled threat that constitutes the requisition of a ship, I left my padawan a note:
 

O:

I've gone to collect Xanatos.  He's going through another bad patch.  Return apx 12 hrs.

Q

PS:  While I'm gone I want you to read Gung-Hwa's essay on the eternal torments reserved for padawans who practice deception.

Have a nice day.
 

****

Revered Master, as you are well aware, Xanatos has found secular life something of a trial in recent years, and has had frequent recourse to drugs of the street.  Obscene amounts of money and influence have only made it worse for him, sparing him those ordinary consequences that might have halted his slide.  This, too, is on my head.  I can't put my finger on exactly
how, but it is--it's all on my head.

As I sat in that chair and watched my poor fallen boy twitch and drool, I came to a chilling realization: Brainsorter Pymm had been right, dead right, spot-on about everything. He had predicted all this long ago and I had turned a deaf ear--and this was the gruesome harvest.

My hands balled into fists as I swallowed the bitter pill at last.  There was nothing for it, no way out, no card left to play.  Xanatos and I were going into therapy, and we weren't coming out until we were both either dead or reasonably well-adjusted.

****

It pains me deeply to say it, my master, but these Brainsorters are a vainglorious lot. While it's beneath their dignity to positively cavort and preen when you go to them and admit brokenly that they have been calling it correctly from the get-go, they have ways of making their sentiments known.

Brainsorter Pymm's response to my request for an appointment was to theatrically lay waste to his entire calendar--thereby shunting who knows how many of my addled brethren off on chinless residents and the like: the insinuation being, of course, that I had dallied so long in matters therapeutical there was not a moment to lose.

I do not think even the sternest critics of Qui-Gon Jinn will say that he is a high-handed or impatient man.  You may be sure that I bore this treatment with the meekness that is my hallmark, forbearing even to bridle when Pymm handed me an appointment for the mind-crunchingly wee hour of sixth chime.

"I'll see you both tomorrow then," he said, his cool gaze betraying glints of a most unseemly professional triumph.

"Tomorrow," I agreed, humbled and wormlike, and made my inglorious escape.

It occurred to me that I might want to have a last check on Xanatos as he walked in dreams beneath the bloodscrubbers, so back to the wards I went.  I had just drawn aside the bedcurtain when I heard a bit of shuffling and commotion and there at the admitting desk was none other than Bruck Chun, supporting a lolling and insensate padawan who was also known to me.

"Hey, a little help here?" called Bruck.

"Mumph," said Obi-Wan.

Oh my Master, how true it is that the Force taketh away, but it also, according to those in the know, giveth.  It was clear to me that this was one of those moments when a person can't really know which end he's getting, so I withdrew into the curtains and waited upon events.

"What's this?"  A strained and hard-done-by voice, that could belong to only to that persecuted species known as night-duty Healer, rasped without.  "Ah.  Kenobi.  Might have known.  Well, what happened this time?"

There was a bit of hefting and creaking, as of a non-compos padawan being deposited onto a gurney.

"We were researching, um, maps," supplied Bruck.  "I think he hit a protected file because there was a bang and the console blew him ass over kettle, clear across the room.  Whew!" added Bruck admiringly, "you should have seen him go."

"What kind of file does that?" asked the Healer incredulously.

"Look, is he going to be all right?" Bruck's tone was uneasy.  "Because I really have to be getting back..."

"Let's just see.  How many fingers, Padawan?"

"Incrediblah," replied Obi-Wan.

"Hmm, okay.  Let's see what this does."

There was a sort of zap, a yelp in the offing, and presently Obi-Wan said: "Master.  Where am I?  Oh, no."

"Welcome back, Kenobi.  Lie still."

"I can't stay here.  Oh, my."

"You *are* staying here, at least until your eyes uncross.  Lay down!"

"No, thank you Healer Yin, I must be going.  My gratitude--oh, ungh.  Give me a hand, Chun."

"Kenobi," grated Healer Yin, "if you walk out of here against medical advice I'm blacklisting you for good.  You can whistle for healing the next time your Master carts you home in a dozen pieces, you hear me?"

"So be it," intoned Obi-Wan shakily.  I heard some uneven pattering as he tottered away.  Bruck followed with steadier step.

"Imbecile," muttered Healer Yin.

I passed like a shade through the ward and paused just inside the doorway.  As I'd hoped, Obi-Wan hadn't gotten far before pausing for breath.

"This doesn't change anything," I heard Bruck say.  "I want that map."

"I still thinks it's rubbish," panted Obi-Wan.

"You'd better hope it's not, Kenobi, if you want Tahl's diary back."

"There are no secret tunnels or exits in the Temple, Bruck.  Can't we just fight for the cursed diary?"

"A fight would be enjoyable, true, but not very productive.  You know my price, and I really don't see your difficulty.  You're the hummer with maps.  Start humming."  And with that curt directive Bruck departed.

At this juncture it was revealed to me by an interior voice that a visit to the file room might be in order, and I left my fogged but sturdy padawan to make his way through the gloaming alone.
 

***
 
 

Some little time later I made my way back to the old lair, and I would not be putting too bright a spin on things if I described my spirits as considerably risen.  I confess I was rather looking forward to watching Obi-Wan writhe under my questions about the day's activities without actually resorting to lies--this being an aspect of our relationship has never failed to yield good things.   It seemed, after all, but a fair reward for an exceptionally trying day.

The glorious thing about training a creature like Obi-Wan is that he does half the dirty work himself.  A lad who tosses and turns over the use of salt needs very little by way of prodding when it comes to true remorse.  In sooth, one glance at the boy as I entered our tiny kitchen told me that here was to whom the guilt demons were enthusiastically applying their studded
and flaming whips, and that to gratifying effect.

The industrious lad was laboring over a pot of tea, and rose a satisfying meter or so straight into the air when I quietly wished him good evening.  Preoccupied, I suppose.

"Ai!  Master!  You're back," he noted, with his usual acuity.

"Indeed I am, Padawan," I confirmed, and--losing no time getting down to the nitty gritty--I asked: "And how was your day?"

"Oh, ah," replied Obi-Wan.  "Well, Master.  Well.  It was, ah, eventful."

"Really."

"Yes.  Yes.  Among other things," here Obi-Wan seemed to find a bit of inspiration, "I was informed that I am to deliver a speech at the reception for new padawans."

I had to give him points for crust, but the battle had only begun.  "Goodness, they want you to make a speech?  They're unlimbering the big guns now, eh?"

There was a moment of sloshing as Obi-Wan missed the teacup altogether and water cascaded about gaily.

"They say it's traditional," Obi-Wan continued shakily, reaching for a towel.

I handed it to him obligingly.  "Traditional?  I'll say!  Two years you've been senior padawan, and this is the first you're hearing of it?  I'd get humming on that speech, if I were--"

A musical tinkling filled the air, the kind that always accompanies the dropping and smashing of a good porcelain cup or two.  I stooped to help Obi-Wan gather the various shards, and when I saw how hard his poor, youthful, conscience-stricken hands were shaking...I'll admit it: I rather lost heart.  I sent him out to the common room and finished the tea-prepping myself.

If a stag at bay were ever to sit upon a couch, fold his hands in his lap and wait for tea, he would look much like my Obi-Wan did when I entered.  I decided, soft as I am, that all the just and instructive torment could wait a while, and set about soothing his quivering soul.  I talked of this and that and he slowly began to calm, doubtless in the fond hope that the swinging scythe had passed him by.

After some little time Obi-Wan recovered so far as to inquire distantly about Xanatos' well being, and to cover his disappointment well when I informed him that Xan was fine, just fine.

After a bit more sipping and silence, Obi-Wan cleared his throat.

"I read an interesting history the other day, Master.  About a Gamorrean Pirate King and his simple, unlettered slave."

"Sounds like a fizzer, Padawan."

"It was quite memorable, Master.  The slave worshipped the Pirate King, you see, with a rare and precious ardor.  Each day the Pirate King would ride off to rape and plunder, and each night the slave would kneel just inside the tentflap, waiting for his return, holding a soft and scented towel: so."

Obi-Wan demonstrated, bowing his head and raising his hands palms-up.

"Goodness.  Every night?"

Obi-Wan raised his head.  "Every night, to wipe the soot of pillage from his master's face, to cleanse the blood of slaughter from his master's hands."

"What a work ethic!"

"He lived for it, Master.  But the Pirate King was blind to his devotion, of course.  A mere slave was beneath his notice.  So the Pirate King went his merry way, plundering and pillaging, and became so intoxicated by his own glory that he did not return to his tent for a whole fortnight."

"A cautionary tale to be sure.  Never get too caught up in your work, my young Padaw-"

"And then, Master," continued Obi-Wan, overriding me with just the slightest evidence of strain, "And then came the day when the Pirate King found his way back to his tent at last.  He drew aside the flap and there was the slave, holding the towel as always.  But when the Pirate King reached for it, the slave's hands were rigid and cold, and as the Pirate King watched, the
slave toppled slowly to the ground and lay still."

"Sound sleeper, eh?"

"He was dead, Master.  He had died of love."

"Of love?"

"Of love."

"You can die of that?"

"Oh yes, Master," said Obi-Wan.  "You can."

I shook my head skeptically.  In my experience Gammoreans were made of sterner stuff.

"Well, slavery's a terrible thing, Padawan.  May the Force grant that it be eradicated, and that eftsoons.  We can only hope--where are you going, Padawan?"

"To bed, Master, with your leave," sighed Obi-Wan mournfully.  "Goodnight."

*****

"Good morning, Xanatos," said Brainsorter Pymm.  "It's good to see you again."

Xanatos merely squinted in response, his expression saying as plainly as words that he didn't know which was more unlikely: that anyone might consider it a good morning, or that anyone might find the sight of him enjoyable. Xanatos was clad in pale pajamas and disposable slippers; he had certainly appeared to better advantage in the past and vanity, the ancient tyrant,
was obviously giving him the elbow.

"Master Jinn," acknowledged Brainsorter Pymm.  I nodded at the man warily, but apparently my moment in the sun had already passed, for Pymm was turning back to Xanatos.

"How are you feeling theses days?" inquired Pymm, easing a datapad onto his lap.

"Fine," snapped Xan, with an energy that belied his wan and dissolute visage. "This whole thing was a mistake, a big fat cock-up, and  I'm ready to leave. Now."

"Why do you want to leave, Xanatos?" asked Pymm imperturbably, his fingers tapping at the keys.

"Because I have a business to run.  Because I don't have a word to say to any of you.  Because he--" a white finger rose in accusation--"ruined my life."

"Ah," said Pymm.

"Just a moment," I said.

"How did Master Jinn ruin your life, Xanatos?"

"Here now--" I began.

"By being a cold, emotionally repressed Jedi careerist who never gave me the affirmation and support every child needs.  By never failing to raise the damned bar, now matter how well I did, by never giving me enough affection or approval, and--oh!  I almost forgot!  By murdering my father right in front of my eyes.  Shall I go on?"

"You seem to have given this a great deal of thought," observed Pymm.

"Fucking believe it," assented Xanatos with heat.

"That is quite--" I contained myself with an effort and reached for the trusty calm detachment, breathing deep.  "Xanatos, this is a strange retelling indeed. In point of fact, I spoiled you rotten.  I spent the better part of a decade petting and praising and showering you with gross indulgence.  If blame for your misspent life is to be laid upon anyone," I continued with no inconsiderable helping of dignity, "let it be me.  But try to cleave unto the truth, for once: it was my blind and excessive devotion that brought you down."

"I'm sure," murmured Pymm, "that Xanatos, being a responsible adult, is quite willing to take responsibility for his own--"

"Bullshit!" snarled Xanatos, the veins on his pale neck beginning to bulge smartly.  "What a self-serving, mucking, hypocritical crock of shit!  What about my third tier encetiaology exam?"

"Your third tier...?  What are you talking about?"

"He doesn't even remember, you see!  It was always like that.  He ignored everything that was important to me.  I'd go to him with a brilliant scheme for making a few credits on the side and he'd harp about holy poverty. I'd come up with a foolproof idea for ending a civil conflict and he'd tell me Jedi don't use poison.  Nothing was ever good enough for him!  Nothing I ever did was right!  Why?  Why?  Why?"

It was plain to me that the conversation was deteriorating in all the tried and familiar ways, but Brainsorter Pymm's fingers were flying over the datapad, and he was saying "Oh?" and "Hm?" in all the right places, in a nauseatingly encouraging manner.  Xanatos, never one to scorn a credulous hearer, took the bit between his teeth and simply ran.

I doubt it can be justly said that Qui-Gon Jinn falters in the face of unequal conflict, but these two were openly leaguing against me and the field was shaping to be theirs.  I was at a loss to understand what could be accomplished by such shameless ganging-up, but even this innocent observation brought the roof in upon me.

"Listen to that!" howled Xanatos. "Avoidance!  Paranoia!  He's always the victim!"

"No one is ganging up on you, Master Jinn," added Pymm coolly, tapping away.

And so it went.  After fifty minutes of enthusiastic character assassination Pymm pronounced the session a good one, scheduled another, and dismissed us to our separate paths.

Looking strangely contented, Xanatos scuffed off to watch dramatic serials on the infirmary holo, and I strode forth--weary and heartsore, but purposefully withal--to take up the next burden of my busy day.

****

When the spirit is dazed and drooping, when the forces of a hostile reality are ranged against one, there is no comfort like the counsel of a trusted friend, I always say.  Mace Windu has ever been my trusted friend, my bosom confidante even--and I found my steps turning to his offices as surely as a petal seeks the sunshine.

I was admitted to the presence without undue fuss and, after obtaining a reasonable assurance of secrecy, launched into a recital of my various quandaries.  Mace took it all well, nodding thoughtfully when appropriate and giving every evidence of astute ponderings.  When I came to the bit about Tahl's diary, though, a disturbing thing happened: Mace's stylus--with which he had been toying idly in the manner of important men--shot loose and careened halfway across the floor.

"Tahl kept a diary?' he choked, showing no inclination to retrieve it.

Master, I am but a humble footsoldier in the Company of Peace and Justice: no precognitive surely, and no diviner of minds.  But I would have to be considerably dimmer than I am to have misread the charged and guilty atmosphere that suddenly obtained in Mace's well-appointed workspace.

"Yes," I answered acidly.  "She did."

Mace's demeanor told its own eloquent tale.  I watched as grim understanding dawned in his darkened orbs, and we spent a few pleasant moments glaring at one another wordlessly.  Then, as there was no more to be decently said or done, I rose and made my way out with what civility remained to me.  How fickle, how faithless and fickle is...well, everybody, it seems.

My good Master, it is true that in the dewy days of my early knighthood, flush with youth and rising sap and all manner of buck, my commitment to certain aspects of the Jedi ideal was not all it might have been.  If anybody knows this it is you, for you were the one who levied upon me those numerous and perhaps grotesquely excessive penances that recalled me to the sweet path of temperance in the end.  But bad as I was, I was never, I hope, a rakehell or wanton crusher of hearts.  My affections were deep and profoundly exclusive, in their serial fashion.  And in this, as in so many other things, I now had to acknowledge myself the naive and hopeless exception.

Ah, well, I told myself, as I entered the lift and sadly thumped the pertinent button: there's always Obi-Wan.  He goes through the odd enthusiasms and phases, I told myself further, but if a person is looking for loyalty, Obi-Wan is the lad.  A rock, that padawan of mine, in an inconstant world, as steadfast a companion as ever--

Then it hit me.  Obi-Wan's panel review, fretted over and prepared for with the  quiet and all-consuming performance anxiety only Obi-Wan could generate. Scheduled months before, and over and done with an hour since.

What can I say, my Master?  It had completely slipped my mind.

****

I returned to quarters yet again, cutting a smart pace.

Ask the squabbling and disaffected factions of a hundred worlds and they will tell you that Qui-Gon Jinn is a man of action.  He is made of quicksilver when it is time to step lively.  He makes haste, he tarries not.  And when he has completely forgotten to attend the long-dreaded panel review of his blameless and devoted padawan--thereby failing to provide the affirmation and support every apprentice needs--he knows how to move.

Much good it did me.  I had scarcely gone twenty meters before I collided with something petite and squeaking and found myself staring down into the goggle eyes of Healer Apprentice Bant.

"Ooh!  Master Jinn!"

"Ah, young Bant.  I beg your pardon.  Good day to you." I ducked to one side and gave escape my best shot, but she remained glued to me like a plaster.

"How is Obi-Wan, Master Jinn?  His head and internal systems?  I heard he was poorly again."

"He's very well now, Bant.  Why, here's the lift.  Good day--"

"I'm going down too!  Isn't that fine.  And what a fine day it is, Master Jinn.  I think on days like this the Force showers Its glory about us like fine Pheria crystals, unto each according to his goodness.  Don't you, Master Jinn?"

"All the time."

Several dozen floors slipped past.  Bant heaved a musical sigh.  "I think Obi-Wan is such a special person, don't you?  I think he is a favorite child of the Force.  All those accidents and things--that's a sign of predilection, viewed through the veil of pain and illusion."

"Neatly put."

"He'll be a warrior saint one day, a light that will illumine the eons."

"I shouldn't be surprised."

"What a rare soul," burbled Bant.  "Such a sweetieboo."

I could summon no rational response to that.  The image of Obi-Wan's face should he learn of the description held me in thrall.

"I'll bet the angels of Iago--oh!  Here's my floor!  Tell Obi-Wan to stop by, won't you, Master Jinn?  Healer Yin thinks he might be setting up for an aneurysm.  Bye bye!"

And then she passed from my life, leaving it much the poorer.

****

I crept into our common room on tentative tread.  The place was absolutely still.  And then I heard it: a faint rustling crackle from behind Obi-Wan's firmly shut door.

A dose of gentle tapping struck me as a good idea.  "Padawan?"

"Yes, Master," came the ghostly response.

Obi-Wan was sitting at his desk, a datapad and the ruins of an expensive, beribboned box of Zaliva's Honeystraws before him.  He was munching steadily.

"So, Padawan."  I paused and might actually have plucked at my tunic if I were prey to such lapses.

Obi-Wan's eyes flicked at me and flicked away.  He seemed a bit off color. "Yes, Master?"

I cleared my throat.  "Busy at work I see, my Padawan.  How like you."

"Yes, Master."  Obi-wan stuffed another Honeystraw into his mouth with no detectable relish.

"What's that you have there?  Honeystraws?"

"Yes, Master."

"I had no idea you liked those dreadful things," I said cheerfully.

Obi-Wan turned to gaze at me without expression.  "I bought them for you, Master."

"Oh."

"With part of my allowance," enunciated Obi-Wan.  "For you.  For helping me prepare for the panel."  Then, incredibly, he ingested another.

I have witnessed many grievous tableaux in my years of service, but for some reason the sight of my ascetical padawan grimly distending himself with Honeystraws rattled me like nothing in recent memory.

"Obi-Wan.  About the review.  I'm so very sor--"

"I passed, Master."  Obi-Wan bent to type once more.  "I passed.  And now I am working on my reception speech."  His fingers hit the keys evenly, punctuating his words.  "My-re-cep-tion-speech."

"How's it coming?  Need any help?"

Obi-Wan froze.

My comlink went off.

I pulled the wretched thing off my belt and barked "What?" with perhaps a trace of asperity.

"I'm calling on behalf of Brainsorter Pymm.  We need to see you.  Xanatos is--"

Obi-Wan rose unsteadily and left the room.  The fresher door banged shut.

I closed my eyes and took my thumb off the squelcher.

"I'm on my way."

*****

"Well, he's gone!  He's gone, that's all!"  Healer P'Toop glared at me venomously.

These healers will never love me, I fear.

****

Healer P'Toop had much to say to me and said it passing well.  His remarks were delivered as he cut a blistering swathe through the wards, snapping orders, tossing charts and intimidating the infirm into health and wholeness once more.  I bobbed in his wake, endeavoring to shove a word or two of exception in edgewise.

"I don't need to tell you that Xanatos is unstable, immoral and utterly devoid of impulse control," continued Healer P'Toop, offering no evidence that he was growing weary of his theme: that a Xanatos loose in the Temple, even a Xanatos wearing paper slippers, was a scourge of no petty magnitude. I felt the point an obvious one, and had for some time.

"No, you don't," I agreed.  "And as I said, I'll find him.  Now, about Obi-Wan.   An entire box of Honeystraws--"

"Eh?  Oh, yes, him.  Bant!"

"Yes, Master!" piped Bant, popping up from the floor tiles, or so it seemed.

"Bant, did you know that Master Jinn brought the fiend Xanatos back to the Temple again and let him get loose?"

"Eep!"

"Now see here, P'Toop, it was you who let him--"

"And on top of that, death stalks Master Jinn's padawan yet again, in the form of acute abdominal distress."

"Oh, no!"

"Relax, Bant, it's just a sour tummy."  P'Toop scribbled furiously on a pad. "Fill these for Master Jinn, there's a good lass."  He rolled his eyestalks and turned to me.  "When you catch that lunatic Xanatos, drug him, sir. None of your foolishness," he added warningly.  "We all know what he's capable of."

"You know," I offered meekly, "Brainsorter Pymm says--"

"Brainsorter Pymm!"  P'Toop rounded on me with such fearsome indignation that I thought better of sharing a perspective from that corner--clearly it was one of those quagmires of professional disharmony the layman does well to avoid.  Instead, I let P'Toop wish me good day--I'm sorry to report that he did so with a deplorable lack of that forthright and burning sincerity to which every Jedi ought rightly aspire--and trailed after Bant to the dispensary.

When the dear child had finished her calculations and eternal prattling and handed me the two hypos, I hesitated and handed one back.

"Young Bant, I need to find Xanatos.  Can I trust you to look after Obi-Wan?"

Bant nodded solemnly and with much shininess about the eyes.  "Oh, you can, Master Jinn, you know you can!  I hold it as a sacred charge."

"That's the way, Bant."

"He's so fragile and vulnerable beneath his brave facade, but a girl always knows."

"I'm sure you do."

"Count on me.  I'll soothe the suffering he'll try to hide.  I'll ease the fevered brow he'd never complain of.  I'll--"

I left her to it, as time was pressing, and silently wished her luck.

****

It is problematic on the best of days to guess at what goes on in that head of Xan's.  As none of the porters had called in a pajama-clad fugitive fighting his way out at the gates, it seemed reasonable to begin my search on the sublevels--the sinks and nether regions being Xan's natural element lo, these many sad years.

I soon found myself poking about in the dark and cavernous underbelly of Mother Temple, never an elective pastime for the sound of mind.  For sheer congeniality I'd back our storerooms and cellary against the bowels of a Sith dungeon any day of the week, but only on principle, and if I had real money to chuck away.

I entered the decorations room, where a single swaying globe lit the melancholy specters of Solstice past: pile upon row of dim glass balls, brittle finery and leering figurines.  Solstice at Solsticetide is a trial; to be plunked down into a Solstice graveyard in the middle of high summer is simply unnatural.  Against the order of things.  Creepy, is the word I'm searching for.

A tiny sound behind me and I whirled, senses aflame, the primed and trusty hypo leaping into my hand.

The pale eyes of Bruck Chun blinked up at me.  I may have blinked back.

"What are you doing here?" we inquired simultaneously.

I had completely forgotten about this oozing young buboe, this nefarious pivot upon whom all our various woes were turning.

"I'm looking for a way out," said Bruck.

*****

I've said it before and I'll say it again: negotiation is the name of the game.  Give me measured discourse and the barest stab at cutting a deal and--though I'm loath to say it myself--I'll lug home the goods every time. As I leaned over the desk in Bruck's quarters hastily sketching an escape route using some--not all--of the crawlways and secret egress known to me, I could only consider it a deed well done.

I finished and handed the map to Bruck.  "Bon voyage, young man.  Good luck in the wide world.  A Jedi's path is not for everyone.  Doubtless your Master will be disappointed--" I tried not to smile, picturing the poor woman collapsing in a swoon of hysterical relief--"But into each life some rain must fall.  Fare thee well."

Bruck scanned the map eagerly.  "It looks good."

"It is good.  And now," I said firmly, holding out my hand, "Tahl's diary."

"Okay, okay."  Bruck knelt and pulled a heavy trunk away from the wall, exposing a small slot carved into same.  The boy thrust his hand into it and scrabbled about for an instant, and I watched his pale visage go almost translucent with shock.

"It's gone," he gurgled.

*****

Most distressing.  Knight Tahl, that pillar of the Order and Head of Internal Investigations, had incontrovertibly bagged it for parts unknown.  It is most unlike these Inquisitors to slither away, under cover of night or otherwise: it boded ill.

I returned from my unfruitful fact-finding foray to her office with furrowed brow, and it was with brow still furrowed that I palmed the door to my quarters.

Xanatos looked up from his spot abaft my favorite chair, wrapped cozily in my spare robe and hefting my personal mug.

"Hi, Qui-Gon.  Where have you been?"

It was no time to stand upon ceremony.  To leap upon the fellow, hurl him floorward and jam the hypo against his neck was the work of an instant.

"Hey!  Get off me!"

"None of your tricks, Xan," I grated as he squirmed.

"Ommph!" replied Xanatos.

I kept my weight--Force and physical--on him, waiting for the sedative to take effect.  When his thrashing abated I eased off.

Xanatos stared at me, highly offended.  "What the hell's the matter with you, you idiot?  I was just sitting here!"

The fresher opened and Obi-Wan staggered forth.  I rose hastily.

Obi-Wan took in the scene rather owlishly.  "I'm sorry, Master.  I couldn't shift him.  I'm not feeling quite myself."

Xanatos got to his feet, straightening my robe and shooting me a wounded look.  I ignored him.

"No matter, Padawan.  How are you feeling?  Did Bant stop by?"

"Yes, Master.  Right before that--" indicating Xan--"showed up.  I'll be better soon, I'm sure."

"No doubt.  I'm taking Xan back to the healers now, so--"

"Oh no, you're not!"

"Well, you're not staying here," spat Obi-Wan, gripping the doorframe unsteadily.

"Qui-Gon, I can't stand that place.  I'm climbing the fucking walls."

"Force, listen to the mouth on it," groaned Obi-Wan.

"I'm serious.  Don't you care about my recovery?"

Obi-Wan's face became oddly serene, if a bit greenish, and he turned and bolted into the fresher once more.

With an effort I blocked out the sounds of distress coming from within and gave my attention to Xan.

"Xanatos, you know this cannot be."

"Why not?  I'll be good."

"You don't know how, pitiable creature.  And get out of my robe."

"That's another thing: why's it so cold in here?"

I was beginning to feel rather dangerous.  "Xanatos--"

The fresher opened again.  Obi-Wan strode into our midst, looking absolutely boomps-a-daisy from braid to bootsole.  The transformation was amazing.

"Well!" said Obi-Wan brightly.  "I seem to be over it.  I feel fine now, I must say.  Fine, fine, fine."

"Thank the Force for that," muttered Xanatos.

"Oh, Xanatos," chuckled Obi-Wan indulgently.  "Always cracking wise.  Ha ha."

Obi-Wan ducked into his room and returned with a datapad of strange and antique design.  He shook it next to his ear, then shrugged gaily as if to say:  I'll wing it!  and tucked it carelessly into his belt.

"Good Master, I have a speech to give, so I'll leave you to your visit."  Obi-Wan tugged playfully at Xan's pajama collar in passing.  "You know, you look pretty good in that," he grinned.  "See you later!"

And then he was gone.  Xanatos and I gaped at each other.

"Who the hell was that?" asked Xan.

I thought about the hypos.  I thought about Bant.  I thought about Obi-Wan delivering a speech to a room full of new padawans, under the influence of a concoction calculated to pacify a warlike career junkie of Xan's caliber. I grabbed my former padawan by the scruff of the neck.

"Let's go," I said.

*****

"Have the decency to stand still," I snapped at Xanatos, who was fairly bouncing on his heels with anticipation.

"I can't help it.  A man can live his life and die without seeing something like this."

"Oh, shut up.  Obi-Wan will do very well, I'm sure."

"Yes," replied Xanatos dreamily.  "I think so, too."

I craned my head in the direction of the podium.  The place was packed from floor to ceiling with the Hope of the Jedi and their assorted well-wishers, making a frontal assault on the stage impossible.  One could only peer over the sea of shorn little heads and pray for the best.

The Creche Master concluded his moist remarks about fleeting time and lessons learned at the knee and yielded the floor to Obi-Wan.  He was obliged to do this several times, as Obi-Wan was standing with his hands behind his back, staring with rapture at something up among the rafters, seemingly deaf to earthly cries.  When the Creche Master resorted to walking up and poking him, however, he rejoined our plane and took a spot center stage, clearing his throat.

"Well, good afternoon!" he sang merrily, drawing shy titters and a chorus of  "Good afternoon!" from the youth of the assembly.

"I must say," confided Obi-Wan, "It's surprisingly pleasurable to be here.  The fact is I'm not much for public speaking and I was pretty sure that death in any form would be preferable to doing this, but a little while ago my attitude changed, somehow.  I feel simply terrific about life, and about being a padawan, and I just want to share that with all of you.  All right?"

"All right!" shouted the children.  Xanatos sniggered.

"Being a padawan," continued Obi-Wan, "Is a glorious and noble thing.  It's also fun as all get-out.  Certainly there are those blue times, when they slip poison into your goblet or slap a Force-suppressing collar on you or simply won't shut up and sign the treaty, but at the end of the day it's all worth it, I promise."

Obi-Wan looked the audience over and beamed.  "Why is it worth it?  I'll just tell you.  Peace and Justice, for starters.  You can't have too much of either.  Peace?  Absolutely smashing!  Justice?  Give me more!  I'm crazy about the stuff, and you should be too."  Obi-Wan leaned forward, hands on knees.  "Come on, little persons, how do you feel about Peace and Justice?"

"Hooray!" cried the children.

Obi-Wan cupped a hand to his ear.  "What's that?"

"Hooray!" screamed our gentle learners.

"I can't hear you!"

"HOORAY!" roared the Flower of the Order, and the floorboards trembled uneasily.

The adults present began to trade looks and I can't say I blamed them.  It was a unique approach in my experience, too.

Xanatos was bent double, quaking with mirth.  I kneed him in the chops and he smartly resumed an upright position.

"Then you have your Master," Obi-Wan was saying.  "How perfectly swell it is to have a Master, someone to train you and teach you and drag you out of slave pens when you haven't the faintest notion who you are.  Masters are tall and wonderful.  Masters are always right.  Of course you'll worship the ground your Master walks on after a bit.  You might even fall in love.  In fact, I guarantee it."

It occurred to me that we were fast approaching territory best unexplored by the ten-to-twelve set, but a strange paralysis seemed to have gripped us all.  And there was something about Obi-Wan's suddenly dewy expression that made my heart feel like one of those breakfast fruits, upon being dropped into a pulper.

"It is so sweet to love," sighed Obi-Wan radiantly.  "To love!  To love and ask nothing, to eat your broken heart out in silence, to love unnoticed and ignored--and still to love: passionately, singly, eternally!"

Returning from the heights, Obi-Wan paused and shook his head.  "Oh, my. It's so difficult to make oneself clear.  Permit me to offer an illustration. There was an odalisque of ancient Malastare--or was it Mantiguay?  It's not important, what matters is that he...he...oh, wait, forgive me, I seem to have lost my train of thought."

At this point the Creche Master finally roused himself from his stupor and stepped forward.

Obi-Wan waved him off.  "No, it's all right, thank you, I have my notes."  He held up his bizarre datapad and squinted muzzily.

"Let's see: In defense of the oppressed padawanate and in the cause of Truth, be it recorded that Master Nimzoid is into leather with non-sentient--no, wait, that's not it."

Obi-Wan smacked the datapad irritably and frowned.  "Padawanate, blah blah blah, Master Bibbli Meeks has a record in two systems...Force, what is this?  Sorry, just bear with me..."

I was calculating the odds of a making a Force-leap that would take me to the stage and deliver us all from our agony when the door beside me slammed open.

"Where's Yoda?" roared a voice to chill the boldest.  "Where is he?  I want answers NOW!"

The newcomer with the exceptional lung capacity was our beloved Mother Docent, that square, meaty paragon of ruthless efficiency of whom all Jedi go in fear.  I stepped neatly to one side.

Mother Docent plowed through the assembly like a great ship of war, tossing padawans and masters like foam.  Only Yoda stood firm in the face of her terrible advent.

"I am here," he announced tranquilly.

Mother Docent wheeled and squinted down at him.  "Yes, there you are, and you had better think fast, sir, I warn you.  Look at this!"  Mother began waving a flimsy.  "My daughter's gone!  My sweet darling girl!  Run off with one of your filthy, rutting, ass-grabbing padawans!  What are you going to do about it, hey?"

"Which padawan, Mother?"

"Bruck Chun!" howled Mother Docent.  "That animal!  I want him!  I want his guts on a plate!  I want his balls in a vise!  I want--"

I felt I heard enough for my needs.  As it was now possible to skirt the fringe of the milling and disconcerted throng, I abandoned Xanatos and reached Obi-Wan's side in a trice.

"Master!" exclaimed Obi-Wan glowingly as I grabbed his arm. "You came!  Er--where are we going?"

"Anywhere but here, padawan," I replied.

****

"Don't overpack, Obi-Wan," I called, cramming a few needfuls into a fieldbag.  "Time is an element."

I paused at the console.  The priority light was blinking, and only deathless devotion to duty guided my hand then, for it was surely not my will.

A text-only message popped up on my private channel.
 

QUI-GON DARLING IT'S COMING APART.  EVERYTHING RUINED QUI-GON MY DEAR.
DIVORCING BEEFOE--CONTRACTS SUSPENDED--STRIKES LOOMING--ALL IS LOST.  COME
BERIBOO IMMEDIATELY OR I DON'T KNOW WHAT.  HELP US QUI-GON DARLING YOU'RE
OUR ONLY HOPE.  LOVE AND KISSES MEECY
 

I realize that my methodology in settling the first holoactors' strike is something perhaps not universally admired, but we all take a certain pride in our work and hate to see it go into a ditch without a fight, don't you agree?   An economy in peril, two hearts sundered, holoactors threatened with unemployment--I am as stoic as the next Jedi, but I am not made of stone.

"Obi-Wan, let's go!"

"Yes, Master."  Obi-Wan trotted up, carrying a satchel.

I held up a hand.  "A moment.  Before we go forth again to face what chances we may, it is only fair to tell you: I know everything."

Obi-Wan stood very still.  "Everything, Master?"

"Everything, Padawan.  About the Book of Sins, about the wager, about Tahl's diary, about...everything."

I've noticed these padawans all take it in highly individual fashion when the known universe comes crashing down and their doom finds them at last.  Obi-Wan's approach was to go white as a dead moon, sway a bit and fold his arms formally.

I'll give him this, his voice was firm.  Not loud by any stretch, but firm.  "Master.  I confess--"

"Later, I think.   But about that book: did you break into Padawan Chun's quarters?"

"Yes, Master."

"And then you returned the diary to Tahl?"

"Yes, Master."

I opened the door.  "And the Book of Sins--you have it now?"

Xanatos stood in the hallway, still wearing my robe.  "Ah, taking it on the lam, I see," he observed tightly.  "I thought as much."

I kept my eyes on Obi-Wan.  "Where is it, Obi-Wan?"

"It's in a safe place, Master.  But you needn't give it a thought.  I've read it, and there's not a word about you in the Book of Sins."

Xanatos laughed.  "Oh, yes there is!"

Obi-Wan looked straight into my eyes.  "No, there's not," he said softly.  "Not a single word."

I let my glance linger for only a moment before turning to Xan.

"Xanatos," I said, "Here we part."

"Qui-Gon," said Xanatos, "The fuck we do.  I've seen Temple shitstorms before.  Get me out of here."

"Hah!" snorted Obi-Wan, by which comment I inferred that he was fairly sober once more.

"You won't get far if I raise the alarm.  Relax, what's the big deal?  I just want a ride--you can drop me anywhere."

I looked at Xan.  He looked at me.  Obi-Wan looked at us both.

"Depend on it," I said.  "Let's get moving."

*****

And so we came by paths obscure to the hangar, and thus I used my unreturned chip to key the vessel--which is, my Master, quite a poor specimen and scarcely deserving of all this fuss, in my humble opinion.

In a heartbeat or two, it seemed, the spangled orb of Coruscant had rolled away and lightspeed was painting patterns of deliverance past the viewport.  I threw a quick glance aft to be sure Xanatos was occupied, and then I sealed the bridge.

I turned to my padawan, who had his nose glued to the controls and was clearly avoiding my eye.

"Obi-Wan," I said gently.  "We must talk."

****

Oh, what a talk that was, my good Master.  I can't ever remember having a talk quite like it.  I do assure you that if I died tomorrow I would go out beaming.

Astonishing, really, that you can live with a lad, train him, hang from shackles in dank dungeons with him--and yet remain completely ignorant of the depths of his pure heart and his exceptional skills at conversation.  I would never have dreamed that my shy, studious Obi-Wan possessed such...eloquence.  And at the risk of vanity, I must report that despite advancing years my gift for discourse remains vigorous and undiminished, when I'm truly inspired.

We make planetfall on Beriboo in three days, and all is as well as it could possibly be.  Except of course for Xanatos, who has an infuriating tendency to come upon Obi-Wan and myself at quiet moments and dissolve into howls of mocking laughter.  I'm all for shooting him out an airlock, but Obi-Wan radiantly counsels mercy and I find, somehow, that I can refuse him nothing.

My Master, I have a very good feeling about this mission to Beriboo, and if you can resist the temptation to send knights after us to haul us home in chains I have no doubt a new contract for the holoactors will shortly be forthcoming.

I rely as always on your sage counsel and eagerly await your next communication.  And I rejoice in the Force, which is wise in all Its ways and lavish of happiness even to the most grievously obtuse and unworthy; and I know it is with you, good Master, and shall be ever.  Know that I am honored to remain

your devoted servant,

Qui-Gon Jinn
 

QGJMOJSO877775376****
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