Galactic Gladiators

by Lilith Sedai

PART II - The Devil and the Cat

Whenever the men were unable to maintain erections any longer, the recording sessions ended. The actors were unceremoniously flung back in with the remainder of the prisoners and fed, the usual protein swill in the communal trough. The food didn't go as far as it once had; every few days, they paused to pick up new victims-- some human, but more of them not, and though the number of appetites increased, the ration did not. The room had begun to get crowded, and sanitary facilities were inadequate, forcing them to mark out distinct territories around the hold so that they would not wind up sleeping in their own sewage.

Exhausted and sore, Obi-Wan slumped to the deck in the sleeping area, too tired to think of eating. He looked over at Taq, who lay where he had fallen. He was curled into himself, trembling. Obi-Wan did not envy him; Taq's assigned role as a masochistic bottom was proving to be more than he could bear. Obi-Wan grimaced, trying to cope with his guilt; he had not enjoyed playing his part as the sadistic top, either-- but he had learned his lesson early on, when they punished him for showing reluctance by beating the others if his performance failed to satisfy.

Before Obi-Wan could move to comfort him, Gida went and coaxed Taq into the sleeping area, then curled up with him. She began stroking his back. It was just as well; Taq usually wanted none of Obi-Wan's clumsy apologies or well-intended attempts at comfort. Obi-Wan could sympathize; it had to be hard to face the man who'd just fisted you against your will.

Obi-Wan sighed, his stomach turning with guilt, and glanced at Tiran, who slumped next to him, also watching Taq.

"He's not handling it," Tiran murmured. "They picked him to be pretty, not because he's tough."

"It doesn't help that they made him the victim." Obi-Wan sighed. "It would be better if that were me." He, at least, knew how to distance himself from his pain and accept that what happened to his body did not have to stain his mind or spirit. But it wasn't what Jata wanted. Obi-Wan had it easy-- the director seemed to prefer having him be the cruel one.

"It won't help him in the arena, either." Tiran stared at the bulkhead, morose. "None of us will last long if that's where we wind up. Except maybe you."

"Not with this Force inhibitor in me, I won't." Obi-Wan rubbed his belly. He could feel the capsule there, a tiny lump harder than the surrounding flesh, slowly releasing the Force-damping drug into his bloodstream. It was hardly noticeable, very near the surface, but if it truly were explosive, as Bilam warned....

Tiran was watching his fingers. "Why don't you just cut it out? I know you can ignore pain."

"Bilam said it'll explode if I try." Obi-Wan sighed. There was no way out; without the Force, there were too many to rescue, too many foes to fight, and between the drugs, the air-tight hold, and the constant guarding, there had been no way even to think of breaking free to flee in the ship's escape pods.

"Like a slave minder?" Tiran sagged. "I hadn't thought of that." His faith in Obi-Wan's miraculous Jedi abilities had waned steadily as the days went on with no rescue in sight.

"My master will find us," Obi-Wan tried to reassure him-- tried to reassure them both. It was becoming a litany even he had to work to believe; because of the drugs, Qui-Gon would not be able to find him within the Force. "Or I'll see an opportunity. The Force will provide."

Tiran slid closer to him; the deckplates were uninsulated, and they were very cold. He drew one of the thin, rough blankets over their bodies. "And then we'll go home," he said dully.

Obi-Wan blinked at his friend's lack of enthusiasm.

"And then I'll have to get married," Tiran explained, tucking his forehead against Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Oh. "Better that than this." Obi-Wan tried to be positive.

"Is it?" Tiran's hand slid over Obi-Wan's chest, and he nestled up against Obi-Wan's back. "It'll just be another prison-- even if it's a gilded one. At least here," his voice dropped too low for the others to hear him, "I can fuck someone I actually want."

Obi-Wan let his eyes drift shut. "That does take a bit of the sting out of it-- at least for the two of us." Not that either of their chafed, sore bodies were up for anything now, even if they had been eager for it emotionally, and they definitely were not. All of them were raw and miserable. So far, Dramacore's medical care did not extend past a few antiseptics for Taq when Obi-Wan was forced to draw blood-- that is, if you didn't count all the drugs that made them perform as directed.

"When we're in the arena, or running," Tiran hesitated so long that Obi-Wan began to wonder if he'd gone to sleep, "the weak ones will hold us back."

Obi-Wan bit his lip. His conscience told him there was only one answer he could give. "Then you will have to decide whether to stay with us or go on."

"But the two of us would stand a better--"

"Tiran. I'm a Jedi."

"And you were sent to find and rescue the Prince of Xinune. I'm your mission. There are too many of us; you can't save them all, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan sank his teeth in his lip until he tasted blood. It was true; sometimes the path of duty did not travel alongside the path of altruism.

"Plus, if we spread out there'll be a better chance for some of us to evade the arranhar."

"Tiran." Obi-Wan silenced him with a stern tone. "We'll have to do as the Force guides us when the time comes. Maybe it won't come down to a choice."

Maybe not, but he didn't believe his optimistic words. He shifted, eyeing Taq, who had quieted, and was sleeping softly in Gida's arms. Gida looked over Taq's shoulder and grimaced helplessly at him.

Obi-Wan had never seen her cry; she was strong. When her turn came for abuse at his hand, she took it with her jaw set and left it behind her in the studio. She did not blame him for it, as Taq seemed to.

He lay still, and eventually Tiran subsided into sleep behind him. He resisted his weariness, though, wondering if the conversation they'd just had illustrated the exact reason the Jedi felt personal connections were a problem. Certainly his prior relationship with Tiran changed the dynamics of his mission, and as former lovers, they found the sexual aspects of this situation less unpleasant than they might, but until now he hadn't considered the potential drawbacks of the association.

Being shut away from the Force was difficult; he'd spent his whole life relying on its intuitions and promptings. Trying to figure these things out on his own might eventually drive him mad. Maybe that was why Qui-Gon always nagged him to live in the moment.

Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan's stomach fluttered with guilt. His master must be deeply worried, but he would be following. Obi-Wan knew he would. Qui-Gon would find a way.

Gida stirred, the motion drawing his eye; she abandoned Taq to a puppy pile of others and slipped across the deck to kneel by Obi-Wan. He shifted, making room for her, and she slid into his arms, sharing warmth.

"I'm worried for him."

"As are we." Obi-Wan confessed. "Gida, I don't want to hurt him, but--"

"You have no choice. None of us do." She shivered slightly. "This is much better than the Arena, Obi-Wan. I don't think Taq understands that."

"He may have to learn." Obi-Wan touched his forehead to hers.

She shook her head, eyes shadowed. "Damn few of us will have time to learn anything at all."

Obi-Wan bit his lip and nodded, then pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin. "Rest," he advised her softly.

"We'll need it." Her voice was hopeless, but she settled against him anyway, and he felt her lashes brush lightly against his throat as she closed her eyes and slid into sleep.

He had never believed a Jedi could feel so helpless.

His month of hyperspace transit complete, Qui-Gon popped out of hyperspace near a sun that was slowly transitioning itself into a white dwarf, his comm panel lighting up immediately with transmissions. He found excuses to delay checking them, busy rousing himself from the remnants of his hibernation trance, stretching cramped muscles, and having his first good look at Tahl's planet. Unnamed except for a number on the galactic charts, the world looked pristine and unspoiled, at least from space. Even the darkness of the disc beyond the planetary terminator only betrayed a few light sources. The Force whispered to him; his choice felt right. Something was down there; all his senses told him his answers waited here.

The surface of the planet was perhaps 60% water; land masses floated serenely on blue-green oceans, with white clouds floating in the crystal-pure atmosphere. The Living Force was very strong on this world, where the environment was still relatively undamaged by sentient civilization. There was little of significance on the world other than natural beauty; his scanners showed few precious metals or other resources of monetary worth. This world's value lay in its seclusion on the boundary between the Outer Rim and Wild Space, and its lack of membership in the Republic.

Finally he could delay no longer, and he tapped to see his messages. Yoda appeared on the tiny holopad first, Mace at his shoulder. They both looked as if they had bitten into their morning gi-fruit and found half of a baka worm inside.

Yoda glanced up at Mace, giving him his cue. Mace began smoothly. "We have been notified of your intent to locate Dramacore's base of activities and attempt to rescue Obi-Wan. You should have cleared this with us, Qui-Gon. The Dramacore representative, Ruoto Millim-- he demands that you serve as the Jedi's negotiator, or they won't deal."

Qui-Gon hissed through his teeth. He hadn't considered that possibility, but it made sense. They knew they had the Senate in a vise, and they would make the utmost use of their leverage.

Yoda looked up at Qui-Gon sadly, tapping patterns on the floor at his feet with his stick. "No accord will Dramacore make, until conditions are met. No accord is made, and operations proceed. Move against them, I have, but diplomacy takes time. Help us stall them, you could. Our operatives have seen much already-- more videos have been made, and circulated, they have. Report back to Coruscant at once, Master Jinn. This the Supreme Chancellor expressly requires."

Like hell. Qui-Gon gritted his teeth. As if Dramacore could have been counted on to keep their bargain in the first place? And now the Senate wanted him to abandon Obi-Wan to try to chase a cat that was already out of the bag?

"Is there a response?" The computer queried politely. Half a dozen more awaited, from the same source, each coded urgent.

"No. Delete similar messages," Qui-Gon instructed coldly. He did not need to open the others; he could sense the other Jedi through the Force, telling him what he needed to know. The Council and the Senate were extremely displeased, and ignoring their orders would not be without consequences. So be it. He would deal with that after Obi-Wan was safe.

Three of the other transmissions were from Dramacore itself-- additional pornography samples featuring Obi-Wan in the starring role. Dramacore had the Jedi and the Senate by the short hairs, and they clearly intended to twist the balls right off them all. Qui-Gon resisted the temptation to scan the samples; Obi-Wan must be in them, alive, or they would not have been sent to him. As long as his padawan was alive, there was hope.

Another transmission was more welcome, this one from Tahl, with new information she had gathered. She had conducted analyses of the new holo samples, with blessedly clinical descriptions of their contents, and business records pertaining to Ruoto Millim. Tahl had identified some of the other victims in the holograms, and sent biographical sketches of each. Qui-Gon committed them to memory. He sent her no message, either; from the way this had gone so far, he had a hunch she might need all her deniability before this was over, and the automatic message receipt notification would be answer enough.

Finished, he sank himself into the Force and reached for the moment. His senses guided him subtly across the curve of the planet's face and toward the terminator. He switched off his navicomp and let the Force work through him; it led him to a mountain ridge near one of the larger cities on the back of the planet, and under the cover of night, he maneuvered the small fighter into a narrow valley, nestling it all but invisibly under a thick, tangled canopy of evergreen fir branches.

The tilt of the planet on its axis meant that this hemisphere was just finishing a winter cycle; the air was very cold and still, the ground and the vegetation were furred with a thick, white carpet of frost. He could see the lights of the city in the distance, and hear the city beckoning through the Force. There was no flicker of Obi-Wan's presence, but Qui-Gon could easily sense the distinctive aura of Dramacore-- a wrongness that felt almost like cancer on the peaceful landscape, extending its tendrils wide. Turbulent energies surrounded it and permeated it.

He climbed stiffly out of the cockpit and stretched, then dug into his pack. His Jedi robes would be too distinctive to wear here. He replaced them with a short homespun green tabard and a rough leather belt, and then pulled long, brown gauntlet gloves over his hands, flexing them experimentally to test for any impediment to his motion. Satisfied, he shouldered into a heavy brown jacket and slid his lightsaber inside the front seam, where he'd had a pocket constructed especially to conceal it. Last, he bound his long hair up in a single tail at the nape of his neck. He might be a miner, or a farmer, or any type of rough laborer. It would do.

He set forth at a rapid trot, sinking into the Living Force, and let his long legs eat the miles between himself and the city.

Dawn had begun to shimmer on the glass fronts of the buildings by the time he found his way into the outskirts, shushing guard animals with a subtle wave of his hand, keeping to shadows and alleys until he found a populated thoroughfare where his presence would not seem amiss. He watched for currency to change hands at a small open cafe, confirming he had none of the local vintage-- then went in himself. A touch of Force confused the waiter sufficiently to procure him a sparing but well-prepared breakfast of bread and seasoned meat with fruit juice.

He sat and chewed, watching the traffic patterns in the city and waiting for further guidance. Most of the workers were afoot, with a few riding public transportation vehicles. Despite the low-tech development, the populace was heterogenous. A wide variety of beings walked in the streets; humanoids of nearly every stripe, a few Gamorreans, a Wookiee or two, and-- Qui-Gon blinked.

A tall man strode across the street past the cafe. His hair was long, and it was sandy blond. He wore it bound into a tail down his back with a folded covering knotted over the top of his head. A complex geometric clan-mark decorated the cloth. Like Qui-Gon, he was noticeably larger than most other near-humanoids, raw-boned, his shoulders broad and his chest deep, his legs long. Like Qui-Gon, he had blue eyes and a prominent nose; his hands were large, and his stride loose and easy. As Qui-Gon watched, a lad on a rocket-scooter shot up behind him and he dodged to one side with deceptive lightness for someone of his bulk, barely noticing. He was strong in the Force, then, though clearly not Jedi-trained.

He was a Djinn. The clan-mark made it all but a certainty.

Qui-Gon gulped down the rest of his breakfast, swallowed his juice, and swung out easily into the street, his curiosity piqued. Djinn did not often leave their home system; they preferred to keep to themselves. Qui-Gon himself was quite a rarity; though they were strong in the Force and many had high midichlorian counts, Djinn parents were extremely reluctant to give up their children to the Jedi, preferring to keep them within the clan. The Temple records said Qui-Gon had been orphaned, with no close relatives left to take him; only thus had he become a Jedi.

He had rarely seen any of his fellow Djinn himself; most of his knowledge came second-hand from research into his own origins. But he had a clan mark, which had been tattooed into his shoulder before he was ever taken to the Jedi creche, and he should be accepted as kin, though possibly with suspicion.

"Hello, mo dheartháir," he greeted the other, who gave him a reserved nod.

"You didn't come on the transport with us," the man observed. His voice was deeper than Qui-Gon's, with a rough husk, and he spoke in a thick, sing-song accent. He smelled of smoke and another, more pungent smell-- some sort of large animal musk, if Qui-Gon was any judge.

"I've only just arrived. I'm still looking for work. It was good to see a clan sigil."

"And yet, I see none."

Qui-Gon shrugged. "Your pardon. My possessions were lost, and I have not been able to replace them. I bear my mark elsewhere." They stopped, and the man watched without comment as Qui-Gon shrugged one shoulder out of his jacket and pulled down his collar, revealing the small blue tattoo on his shoulder.

The other Djinn blinked. "I had thought your clan all passed beyond, long ago."

"I remain." Qui-Gon ventured a small smile. "I have been off the homeworld for many years."

Ice-blue eyes studied him minutely. "So it seems. You have the sound of the offworlders on your tongue, but I can hear our tongue, also." He bowed very slightly, from the waist. "I am Majnun Djinn."

"Ki-G&uulm;n Djinn is ainm dom," Qui-Gon gave his birth name in polite response, in their shared language, returning the bow. Majnun clasped his wrist.

"My clan has accepted jobs with a company whose headquarters are nearby," Majnun offered. "They were disappointed only ten of us came to answer their request. There are thirty Djinn there, more or less. You're welcome to join me, if you'd like. If you have skill with beasts, they may hire you."

"Beasts? What sort?" Qui-Gon fell in next to him effortlessly; it felt good not to have to shorten his stride to keep pace with a shorter person. "Riding beasts? Herd beasts?"

"Hunting beasts," Majnun said. "Felines."

"I have a way with all beasts," Qui-Gon said, concealing his sudden sharp interest beneath a placid smile. Majnun had to mean the arranhar.

"Good, because these aren't lap cats," Majnun warned. "They're wildcats, and they have claws that can slice through a transparisteel viewport. We work as handlers-- we feed them, groom them, exercise them, manage them in the hunt or while on guard. We tell them whom they should not kill." He paused, his eyes sliding toward Qui-Gon, expectant.

"And also whom they should kill?" Qui-Gon inquired lazily, nonchalant.

"The time and money are right." Majnun shrugged. "There is much our families need, back on the home world. Like you, those of us who are here have chosen to leave for a time, so that we can send home money for food and medicine. Under such arrangements, it is easily seen that outside the clans there are many whose continued existence is... less than consequential."

"I understand you perfectly." Qui-Gon inclined his head with a faint smile. "They are only outworlders, after all."

"I think you will be ideal," Majnun approved. He turned them aside and swiped an identification card through a slot mounted beside a grey steel door, which slid open.

Qui-Gon stepped inside, out of the light, and the door slid closed behind him.

Majnun led him down a labyrinth of corridors until they emerged in a courtyard ringed with repulsor-field cages. Inside each cage crouched a mountain of claws, hair, and fangs, yellow slit eyes all fixed on the newcomers as they emerged and stepped into the center of the area.

"The arranhar," Majnun gestured to them. "Each one wears a collar. If you focus, you may find you can become aware of it." He handed a helmet to Qui-Gon; it was padded inside with a sweaty rag, and its top was spiked. Wings swept back across the face of the helmet, providing a guard for the wearer's eyes. Qui-Gon wrestled it onto his head.

"Direct your thoughts at the green gem on the cat's collar," Majnun advised him. "Through it, you may find you can tell the arranha what to do. At times, it may prove rather difficult to get it to listen. It is best to anticipate such times and remove yourself from the cat's reach beforehand." His voice was dry. "Try it now."

His voice receded suddenly as he stepped away, and Qui-Gon lifted his head, unsurprised to see the field at the front of one cage fade. The arranha inside stirred, shaking itself and rising to its feet with an air of lazy menace. Its green eyes narrowed and fastened on Qui-Gon, and it padded forth to investigate.

Qui-Gon reached out and touched the gem easily with his mind. It was a Force-enhancer, keyed to the animal; hastily he reached for the shape of its energy matrix, found the pattern, and slid his mind inside it, through it. He extended his hand, unspeaking, palm outstretched perpendicular to the ground. He did not bother to vocalize; the crystal made this simple enough that a gesture would suffice.

The animal stopped, its eyes narrowing; it growled, lips drawing back from fangs as long as Qui-Gon's foot. Its claws scored the sandy stone ground with a sound like a strip-saw peeling back the hull of a junked spacecraft.

Qui-Gon locked eyes with it for a long moment, then moved his hand so that his palm lay sideways, fingers toward the beast. It sat, roaring at him with annoyance; he could not suppress a flicker of pride. Next, he stepped forward, and let his palm move so that it pointed to the floor. The arranha lay down, its tail lashing. Ignoring Majnun's gasp, he stepped forward once more, then again, gauging the thing's mind-- it was startled, but not truly angry. He lowered his palm a foot, and the cat lay down on its side.

"Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat!" Majnun breathed the curse in reverent tones.

Qui-Gon stepped around the arranha, examining it for evidence of rebellion, maintaining careful, even strides so as not to alarm the beast. Finding none, he looked up at Majnun. "Do I have the job?"

Moments later, Qui-Gon Jinn, the newest employee of the Dramacore corporation, was on his way to be fitted for his uniform, issued a lodging in the trainers' dormitory, and given duties.

Majnun assigned Qui-Gon a simple job as his first: he was to take one of the older arranhar, a relatively docile female, and stand an evening's security watch in the Gamblers' Club.

"Not that there's likely to be much trouble-- not tonight; we're between combat cycles, and there won't be much wagering. But the clients want to come in anyway and see the show; they like to eye up the talent." He chuckled, contemptuous. "There's a new episode almost every night, and we have a firecracker of a series going now. At least, the bosses think so, and the club is jammed every night with people who want to watch."

"Why so much interest?" Qui-Gon asked. "If there's no battle, and no betting."

"There's plenty to watch-- you'll see what I mean. And supposedly management has found themselves a Jedi. Not much of one, if he let himself get caught for the show; I have my doubts that he's real. But the bettors believe it, and he's pretty enough to be a big draw."

Qui-Gon smoothed the flare of tension and anger carefully; Majnun was untrained, but might still be sensitive enough to sense a lapse in control. "They have a Jedi here?" Perhaps there was hope....

"No, not here. The club show is a hologram recording. Their pet Jedi probably won't arrive here for a while yet. And when he does, they won't be fools enough to put him on display in the club, not if he's a real Jedi. They'll save him for the arena battles, or for the chase. They won't risk letting him run amok with the clients nearby. Not before the wagering starts, anyway." Majnun spat. "Jedi are trouble."

"That they are," Qui-Gon agreed mildly. "Are there often battles here?" Qui-Gon pulled on his uniform breeches, brown leather, and laced them closed.

"Usually. And we're in charge of making sure things go as they should." Majnun shook out the brown leather singlet that made the next layer of Qui-Gon's outfit and helped him on with it, then lifted the heavy armor shirt that went over that. It took visible effort. "These things are awful," he warned. "Far too heavy for running or fighting. But the bosses think they sell the product."

The shirt was indeed heavy; it was metal, golden scales cunningly joined to look like the skin of a draigon, ebbing and flowing, following the motions of Qui-Gon's muscles. It lapped over his hips behind, and split at the front to allow him to move; it flowed like water-- and offered about as much protection.

"The armor won't turn claws; it won't turn anything except clubs and fists or maybe a metal blade, but it's pretty, and that's what matters." Majnun straightened a few scales that had been knocked awry. "Here's your helmet."

He took it and put it on. There was nowhere to conceal his lightsaber, and no way to arrange a place, not with Majnun watching him. The cat would simply have to serve, if he required a weapon.

Majnun put on armor of his own, and together they led the arranha to a large service lift, which rose slowly for a span of many meters, then halted, its doors opening to deposit them onto a raised dais in a recessed alcove, overlooking an enormous room with a bar stretching along three walls. The other wall was made of transparisteel, and looked out over the glittering city and to the mountains beyond, where Qui-Gon's ship waited. His dais was strategically positioned in the corner between the view and the end of the bar, turned at an angle so that it commanded a view of the entire space.

The room was a shallow pit, tiers of seating stacked around a central dance floor. It was empty of all but staff-- bartenders, waiters, and waitresses, all busily preparing the area for clients, polishing tables and inlaid metal, filling shakers of spices and providing necessaries like napkins or new flowers wherever needed. There were no serving droids, not even an electronic drink mixing unit; bottles stood in neat rows on shelves behind the bar, a glittering display of exotic jewels. Tables and chairs arranged neatly on tiers of flooring surrounded the empty area at the center of the room, and an array of holographic projectors hung from the ceiling above: the area could double as both dance floor and projection pad.

The arranha knew its business. Leaving the lift and padding forward, it levered itself onto a thick, hair-dusted cushion; then it stretched and put its head down. Qui-Gon could feel its boredom, but also its anticipation of the evening.

"You'll watch the clients and interfere if there's trouble-- yes, you're a glorified bouncer, and she's your weapon. I'd usually stay with a new man for the first week or more, to ensure he has control of the cat, but I think you can manage her without my help." Majnun grinned at him. "If you look all right after an hour or two, there are things I need to be doing elsewhere." His gaze moved to the arranha, and he smiled, looking almost fond. "Her name is She'ba."

The arranha shifted at the word, yawning and exposing needle-sharp teeth and gleaming fangs. A beam of light from the setting sun fell on her couch, and she stretched, basking in the golden glow. Qui-Gon laid his hand on her head. She'ba flicked an ear forward for stroking, and Qui-Gon obliged her.

"I shouldn't need her. I have a way with people." Qui-Gon found just the place she wanted to be scratched, and she began to rumble so loudly that the scales of his armor jingled with the vibration.

Majnun chuckled. "If your way with people is as good as your way with the cats, then I'd better start looking for another job."

"I don't think you need to worry." Qui-Gon looked around the room. "I'm grateful for your help, and I know my place. Speaking of my place, do I stay up here with the cat, or may I wander?"

"As you like. There's a repulsor-field generator here," Majnun gestured, "And a remote control pad, here." He handed o`ver the small device. "Tuck that in your pocket. Leave the field up unless there's trouble. The field stretches across the front of this space, and she can't get through it-- or I should say, she won't go through it, not unless she's in a rare fit of rage, and willing to take some burns to get at what she wants. Release the field when you need backup, and feed her an image of what you want done. Be sure to select a target and send its image strongly when you call her; she's much harder to deter after she fixates on her prey. If she chooses the wrong victim, there will be some unpleasantness, of course. A great deal of it for her prey, and afterward, the management won't be at all pleased with you. You'll be disciplined, and that isn't always limited to docking your pay. But everything that goes on in here is recorded; if you call her, the security vids will back you up, as long as you direct her at the troublemakers."

"I will only call on her in a dire emergency." Qui-Gon meant it; he would not want to loose such a beast in a room of innocents.

"We still have a few minutes before nightfall." Majnun tilted his head, inviting Qui-Gon to follow him. "You have a 'fresher cubicle behind that door-- use it as little as you have to; I'd use it before the club opens, so you don't need it later. And hit that control pad, will you?" He stepped off the dais and to the bar. "Behind the bar, in this lockbox, is a cache of blasters, if they're needed. Let me key your palm to the lock..." he punched in a code and reached for Qui-Gon's hand. "Just so. Now it'll open for you. Not that She'ba won't be enough, but better safe than sorry. Clients are forbidden to carry any kind of weapons on the premises; if you see someone has one, you can make him leave. If someone pulls one, that's what She'ba is for. If someone starts a fistfight, she can end it. Company policy is zero tolerance for violence inside the building or in the waiting area, and the clients know the penalty." He flexed his long fingers into claws, and his eyes gleamed inside his helmet as he closed them to illustrate his point.

"Are there other transgressions to watch for?"

"Not really-- 'no violence' covers everything from damaging the facility and furnishings to damaging patrons or staff. If people want to lie down on the floor and have sex or fry their brains with drugs, they're welcome to it as long as they don't inconvenience anyone else excessively-- you can make them move to clear the walkways, if you want. They sign a release accepting the club's authority when they come in, including an agreement that means the company owns the security video and can sell it, too." Majnun grinned. "You're not supposed to play, though; you have to stay alert."

He moved onward. "This is the door to the clients' refresher. You may need to come in here and discourage bad behavior from time to time, or if you see a need, you can tell one of the barkeeps to call a cleaning crew. Up on the dais where you stand, you'll see a row of vid screens tucked up behind the cornice line; the ceiling is higher in there than out here. The screens feed you all the security camera footage-- in the refresher, behind the bars, out in the waiting line, in the cloak room, and angles from various parts of the room. Things can get obscured when it's full of people." Finished with the circuit of the room, he led Qui-Gon back to the dais.

"If you need backup, double-punch the repulsor field button, and an alarm will sound below; the other keepers and I will come up immediately with more arranhar, and with blasters." Majnun shrugged. "That hasn't been necessary for as long as I've been here. Usually one arranha is more than enough to cool off any hot tempers; everyone's seen what they can do on the chase holos."

"Actually, I haven't," Qui-Gon lied pleasantly. "Though I assume it's impressive."

"You'll have plenty of chances to watch tonight. They re-run programs over the dance floor all night long; you can catch the highlights and get a feel for what you'll be doing when the combat cycle begins."

He nodded, glancing over his shoulder; the sun was just sinking behind the mountains, sending their long shadows out to encompass the city. As darkness fell, he went to his place and waited for clients to enter the bar.

It was easy, at first. Majnun stayed at his side, as promised, for a while. The patrons had not yet begun to drink in earnest, and the crowd was light. People danced in the center of the pit, with holos flashing overhead-- and while the crowd was calm, Qui-Gon had leisure to watch the arranhar at work. It went much as he had suspected; claws that could shred transparisteel made rapid confetti of organic bodies. It made him think of the girl in the holovid with Obi-Wan; he did not doubt one of these had raked her with its claws, but she had survived. Maybe she wished she hadn't.

Majnun stepped out after a time, and Qui-Gon's focus sharpened. He paid more attention to the vid screens, alert for trouble. The energy of the room was changing; some few patrons had overindulged, and their loss of control built, pulsing darkly within the Force. The crowd was growing larger, too, and the music pulsed faster. Patrons lined the tiers, some watching the holos, eyes flashing, mouths open. Qui-Gon watched one sleek and elegant woman in scarlet, the white blonde of her hair elegantly swept into a chignon coif, lick her lips as she watched blood trickle down off a shredded corpse, vanishing just before it touched her upturned face.

The whole place thirsted, he realized-- the alcohol most of the clientele were drinking would not slake such a thirst. The combat shows had been replaced with an unending montage of gore; writhing bodies, flying spray of crimson droplets in the air, an obscene parody that, soundless, took on an aspect of lust-- screams of pain like screams of rapture, taut bodies convulsed in a grotesque parody of orgasm.

And then the holos changed again.

Qui-Gon's body stiffened as Obi-Wan coalesced in midair, striding forward. He wore a rough approximation of Jedi robes, but they did not sit well on him; they were ill-made, ill-fitting, and the man inside them bore little resemblance to the proper Jedi padawan Qui-Gon knew. He could hardly think to call this man Obi-Wan. The other hologram he had watched had been perhaps the first one taken; this was definitely not. He could not tell how much later this new one had been made, but much had changed while he was traveling to this place, long weeks wasted in the hyperspace transit.

Obi-Wan's decorum had frayed badly, and his serenity was gone. His hair was longer, falling about his face, spiked with grime, his pale body thinner, bones protruding against his white skin. He was smudged with dirt and oil, and he moved like a predator, his hips leading, as he stepped forward and curled his fingers under the girl's chin. She was lying prone before him, and he snatched her to her knees.

It had to be the drugs, Qui-Gon thought, feeling the distant sting of his nails slicing open his palms. It had to be. She'ba lifted her muzzle as she scented his blood, but he ignored her. He had no ability to rip himself away-- not from the vision of that slow, confident strut, or the husky command in Obi-Wan's voice, or the lazy authority of his bearing, or the little savage half-smile his padawan couldn't possible be aware of as he snapped his fingers and the girl knelt, her hair puddling at his feet, to press her mouth to his boots.

Qui-Gon caught a stir out of the corner of his eye; two men in the tiers seemed to be arguing over a woman. Irritated at the interruption, he took a half step forward and hesitated, arrested by the sight of Prince Tiran stepping up and Obi-Wan directing him to his knees with a faint turn of one hand, exactly as Qui-Gon had signaled the arranha in the courtyard only this afternoon.

Obi-Wan laughed, long and exultant.

A red haze of agony and rage swept Qui-Gon's vision, and the Force bisected his awareness between Obi-Wan and the club as the budding fight escalated. He surged forward with the cat even before his conscious mind fully registered the knife flashing sideways in the crowd below. The force field fell and the arranha leaped, an extension of Qui-Gon's will. She struck with all the force of his rage driving her, and screams arose, clients scrambling away from the spray of blood and from the knife clattering free on the gleaming jet black of the floor.

She'ba crunched the arm she held between her jaws, splintering bone, as Qui-Gon landed lightly next to her. He fell to one knee and clamped a powerful hand over her victim's spurting brachial artery. That was one advantage of a lightsaber: cautery was far less messy and dangerous than this.

She'ba growled, and Qui-Gon glanced at her; she worried her trophy, pinning it with one paw. Qui-Gon realized suddenly that all of her claws were bloody, and that the flow between his fingers was growing sluggish.

He looked at the man beneath his hand for the first time; as he watched, crimson stains seeped through the tatters of his clothing and pooled on the floor. His head fell to one side, and his throat gaped open. In the blink of an eye, the cat had simply shredded him.

Qui-Gon looked up to the nearest bartender, his stillness a false oasis of calm inside the crowd, who were frantically trampling over one another, desperate to get away from the arranha. Words came to him, unbidden: "Call a cleaning crew."

The mess was swept away almost before Qui-Gon could direct She'ba back onto her couch. Settling, she licked her pads placidly. Qui-Gon watched her, struggling to ignore the holo; his mouth tasted sour with adrenaline, and his stomach churned. He could not find even fragments of serenity within himself, not with the holo of Obi-Wan still continuing, not with his whole being battered by that sultry voice, the lascivious way his padawan's hands pressed open the girl's thighs, the practiced, eager way his hips shoved forward as he entered her, all just visible in the periphery of Qui-Gon's vision.

The blood of the man Qui-Gon Jinn had just helped kill in anger still dripped off his hands. He could have stopped the fight without bloodshed, but he had let himself be distracted, and the cat had been more violent than he anticipated. The man had made a very poor choice.

Qui-Gon had killed many men in his lifetime, and he tried to tell himself this one was little different. He had drawn a knife; he was a threat to the peace and his death was just, even though it had been dealt in anger. The dead man and all these other people were just an extension of Dramacore's evil, corrupted by it and feeding off it and feeding it. The Force whispered these things to Qui-Gon, twining sinuous around his heart, and his hands shook minutely, belief and rejection at war in his soul.

If it had been Ruoto Millim? Qui-Gon knew he would have felt no guilt at all.

He looked up at the image of Obi-Wan, whose head had tilted, his mouth fallen open, his braid trailing over one dark nipple, his hand a fist in the girl's hair as her body accepted him. This was the true violation-- the devastation of his padawan's innocence. In the face of it, nothing else mattered. Those responsible would pay.

Wrath swirled around him, and sank its claws into him, and feasted on him.

Qui-Gon thumbed the button that released the repulsor field and stalked out into the crowd, prowling through the club, the dark Force trailing after him. Wherever he passed, a hush fell and the clients gave way. For the rest of that interminable night, they gave him no further trouble.

He was relieved when the huge window overlooking the city finally turned gray and the lights on the buildings winked out; he could hardly credit that the torturous evening was done. His clothes and hair were soaked with the stink of exotic smoke, and his tabard was wringing with sweat under the heavy mail.

Majnun came up in the lift and showed him where to take She'ba, and how to feed her; when this was done, Qui-Gon was free to go to his place in the dormitory where the handlers stayed. Most of them were just rising, readying themselves for their day's work. They eyed Qui-Gon with curiosity, but remained silent as he shouldered out of his damp tunic and leather breeches and went in to the showers. He let them have a look at the tattoo on his shoulder, overhearing a few sympathetic muttered comments about his decimated clan.

"Welcome, mo dheartháir," one said, stepping slightly aside to pass him in a doorway, and he nodded and returned the greeting in kind. They shared Majnun's response to Qui-Gon: cautious but calm, they extended a tentative acceptance, his right as distant kin. It would do.

He hung his towel and stepped under the fierce, hot needles of the shower. Finally, a moment to meditate and try to purge some of the unpleasantness that hung about him like the foul scent of the club. He pictured the hot water washing away the muddied, clouded energies, pictured the heat and the soaking comfort pushing them out and leaving serenity in their wake. But Obi-Wan intruded, Qui-Gon's memories of the holo fraying at his control, preventing him from finding serenity. How had they reduced his padawan to what he had seen? What damage had been done, what scars left that Qui-Gon would have to try to heal?

The sense of another presence disturbed him, and he opened his eyes, bending forward to let water work through his hair. Majnun stepped into the spray from the next showerhead. "You did well. We reviewed the security data, and it's clear the man drew a knife. That was all the management needed to see."

"Thank you." The words tasted sour. "If I'd been faster, I could have prevented the bloodshed."

"I don't see how you could've reacted much faster. As it was, the two of you had him before he could even stick the knife into someone." Majnun cracked one blue eye to glance at Qui-Gon, squinting against the lather of soap. "Without the cat, only a Jedi could have moved fast enough to disarm him and keep him from knifing someone."

The Force tickled at Qui-Gon; Majnun's aura felt purposeful, inquisitive. Qui-Gon reached out, trying to form a sense of what was different. Why had the man brought up the Jedi? "Even Jedi have limitations." Qui-Gon scrubbed a handful of soap through his hair, his words following where his instincts led. "They can be killed. It's just a matter of knowing how."

Majnun chuckled. "And you have this knowledge?" He scrubbed at his chest casually, but every ounce of his attention was clearly focused on Qui-Gon's response.

Qui-Gon stretched his neck, letting soapy water cascade behind his back, letting the Force lead him, his suspicions firming. "How else would I have obtained a Jedi weapon?"

Majnun laughed, rueful. "I saw it, I must confess. I nearly skewered myself when I searched your gear."

"The sword is dangerous," Qui-Gon agreed mildly. He pushed down his annoyance with himself; he should never have let the lightsaber out of his sight. He wouldn't have, if he'd had a choice. "In more ways than one. Authorities in the Republic immediately arrest any civilian who's caught with a Jedi blade; they know very well someone had to kill a Jedi to get it."

"I've heard they turn Jedi killers over to the Jedi," Majnon agreed. "For 'justice.'"

"For a swift execution." After a fair trial, though Majnun didn't need to hear that. Qui-Gon stepped out of the shower, slicking water out of his hair with both palms. "That's why I keep to the fringes of the Outer Rim, instead of returning to the homeworld."

Magnun shook water from his own hair, eyes sober as he looked at Qui-Gon. "You must forgive my invasion of your privacy, mo dheartháir. It's my job to oversee new hires, and for a Djinn to appear out of nowhere, one I do not know, one from an all-but-vanished clan... it's unprecedented, and warrants investigation."

"No offense is taken." Qui-Gon toweled water out of his eyes.

"The sword is a dangerous trophy. Why do you keep it?" Majnun asked.

Qui-Gon looked at him levelly. In this, at least, he could be truthful. "On the day the Jedi's blade was last used, someone was taken from me: someone more important to me than my own life." The words hurt, darkly illuminating the pain in his soul; it was the first time he had confessed the strength of his love for Obi-Wan aloud. His voice fell, hoarse. "I've carried it ever since. One day, it will help me take my vengeance." He knew the sentiment was unworthy of a Jedi master, but it was true.

Majnun nodded, hearing that truth; some of the suspicion finally left his aura. "Rest well, then, brother, in hope of the day."

Qui-Gon nodded and went to his bed, pulling on leggings and rolling himself up in his coarse blanket. He badly needed to meditate, to come to terms with the night's events and to clear his mind and cleanse his soul.

Obi-Wan lay on his back, wakeful in spite of weariness, trying to catalog the state of his mind and body, trying to retain some vestiges of control. He had lost count of the days, and of the bodies, of the mouths and hands and bent backs, the spread thighs, the soft breasts, and the hard cocks, even the alien bodies, barely compatible with his own, forced to serve the director's inventive imagination. The latest adventure had involved a sljee, and Jata's creativity had been particularly loathsome-- or, as he would say, inspired.

Obi-Wan squirmed uncomfortably; his mouth would be sore for a month, and as for his ass-- he forced the thought away and laughed bitterly at the grey ceiling of the cargo hold; he would never have thought it could be so unpleasant to have as much sex as anyone could ever possibly have wanted. Of course, not wanting it to begin with had a lot to do with that. Still worse was wanting it-- the aphrodisiacs they shot him up with ensured that whenever he touched or was touched, his body wanted it, writhed for it, reveled in it. His cock was always eager for more, and the artificially enforced lust always poured through him in a molten flood, all of it against his mind's will.

He rolled to his side, up against Tiran, who was asleep, exhausted from his own part in the filthy business. The two of them had been judged the most desirable, and were the most common performers; they were also the weariest. Obi-Wan yawned and rubbed his grainy eyes. He could not meditate deeply without touching the Force, and the residue of the drugs in his system kept him from reaching even a light trance. He could not heal the raw skin on his body, the injection tracks in his arms, or the bone-deep weariness that dragged at him constantly now.

All he could do was use the discipline he'd learned in his training to retreat as far inside himself as possible, to retreat and let the drugs take over, shielding his mind and spirit while his body endured. Withdrawing allowed his body to respond eagerly to Jata's commands while he watched from a distance, shielded and numb and silently repelled by every act, every sensation. It had made things considerably easier when he learned to do that, leaving his body on autopilot, responding purely to external stimuli and commands, rather than being hobbled by the reluctance of his mind. He wished the others could be granted that luxury.

Worse than all the horrors of daily rape, Obi-Wan suffered due to his continued isolation from the Force. He wasn't sure how much more of that he could take; he had never gone so long without its soothing presence enfolding him and guiding him. In his dreams, he wandered an endless desert, thirsting, always knowing that life-giving water awaited him just across the next dune, just past the next ridge-- but he could never find his way to it. Over and over he withered, stumbled, and died, knowing that the water was there, never finding it.

He reached out and drew Tiran close, taking comfort in his friend's warm skin. Tiran was tall and his shoulders broad, reminding Obi-Wan of Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan formed the name in silence, his lips trembling, his mouth caressing the syllables. If he shut his eyes, he could almost pretend Tiran was Qui-Gon and that Obi-Wan was wrapped around his master, drawing comfort from him. He needed it badly. The sight of Qui-Gon would be almost as welcome as the warm embrace of the Force. He nearly despaired of it now; Qui-Gon had not found him, and it had been months, so long that his hair flopped over his eyes now, matted and unkempt.

The videos must have been released, Obi-Wan knew. The Jedi would have seen them. His master would have seen them. Seen him.

He felt bitter tears sting under his eyelids, and held himself very still so as not to disturb Tiran, as they slid over his cheeks and dripped onto the deck. His stomach rolled, threatening to sick up its meager contents. Qui-Gon kept his body pure, his soul and spirit above such sordid sexuality. He had already rejected Obi-Wan's feelings quite coolly. How much colder would he be, after this? How would his master react when Obi-Wan asked to resume his place at Qui-Gon's side, after seeing all the things that Obi-Wan had done and the things that had been done to him?

Qui-Gon Jinn had never wanted Obi-Wan's body, he would never want Obi-Wan's love, and now he might not even want him as an apprentice. And maybe the Council would agree. Maybe there would be no place for Obi-Wan to return to in the Jedi Order-- stained and shamed, perhaps he would be set aside. Maybe the Force itself would have no more use for him.

Biting the inside of his cheek fiercely, Obi-Wan told himself those were only his fears speaking, groundless and exaggerated by pain. But he could not touch the Force, could not read its currents and taste his possible futures, and could not feel how he fit into the scheme of his own life anymore. The Jedi taught that Force users cut off from the Force eventually went mad. Now he understood why.

He almost missed the faint shock of the transport sliding out of hyperspace, but the trembling of its descent through atmosphere was unmistakable. He looked around the crowded hold. Another planetfall meant another group of prisoners-- he had no idea where they were going to fit any more. And at some point, if no extra food was provided, people would begin to starve.

Gida noticed the change in the ship's velocity too; she woke and blinked, rising from Taq's side to look for Obi-Wan. She stayed with Taq now, whenever she could; he had retreated into himself, never speaking, rarely moving, never seeking out food. She brought him a measure of what she could grab for herself and made sure he ate it; she made sure he had a blanket when he slept, and she kept the others from bothering him-- at least, outside of the studio. No one was safe inside it. Obi-Wan could see her growing weaker, but had not spoken. She was wise enough to know the consequences of her choice.

Gida rose. "We're nearly full. They'll take us back and put us in the arena soon," she murmured to Obi-Wan.

"I'm almost looking forward to it." Insanely enough, he was-- to get off this ship, out of the filthy press of strangers' bodies and away from the enforced orgies, to stretch out his muscles under the sun and fight? It sounded like heaven, and it would give his master a better chance to find them. Tracking a ship through hyperspace was all but impossible.

"It's not going to be an improvement." Her eyes were haunted. "We're the favorites, Obi-Wan-- you and Tiran and I. They wouldn't use us so hard if the audiences didn't pay to see us. They won't let us rest until we're dead."

"We might survive. You survived."

"And for what? To do it all again?" She stared at the deck. "I wish I hadn't."

Obi-Wan could see her point. He reached for her and drew her up against his side; she sighed and relaxed against him. "You're stronger than the rest of us. You always give comfort."

Obi-Wan barked a harsh laugh; he couldn't help himself. "I was just thinking how strong you are, to help Taq the way you do. All I do is hurt him."

Gida nestled further under his arm. "You don't want to. That matters." She looked up at Obi-Wan, biting her lip, her eyes unusually vulnerable. They had been naked for so long that Obi-Wan hardly noticed flesh with his eyes anymore, but her body was very warm, and her skin was soft. Her hair tickled his arm-- long, like his master's hair, a feather's brush against his skin. Again his heart cried for his master: Qui-Gon! The words all but choked him, trapped inside his clenched jaw, inside his Force-blind mind.

He slid his arm closer around her, supporting her, and she sighed. "I won't live long in the arena, Obi-Wan. It was only luck that I survived the first time." Her hand moved over his, pressing it to her, the slightest downward pressure, and he did not need the Force to read what she was asking.

Very well. If he could give comfort, he would, and perhaps he could take some for himself in knowing he had eased her burden.

Obi-Wan nestled his face into her hair and let his hand wander downward, very slowly, very carefully. He felt her sigh and shudder in response. This was little enough to ask. He had done so much to her in the studio-- painful and not, against both their wills... but never before at her choosing, and he had never been directed to pay attention to her pleasure. It was a relief to be capable of doing something-- anything-- useful.

Her hips lifted against him and she made a small sound, her fingers closing around his arm. "That's nice," she breathed. "Feels good."

He did it again, very gently. Her flesh was raw and swollen, like his; she lifted at the slightest brush of his fingertips.

"Tell me what it's like to be a Jedi?" Her voice was barely audible, the faintest whisper.

He did not answer for a long moment, considering the unexpected question, wondering what in the world to tell her. "It's all I know. I don't know if it's 'like' anything." She was warming under his fingers, slowly but surely. "It's all about discipline and control. I work constantly to control my body and my mind-- and to control the Force. But you can't force the Force." He and the other padawans used to laugh about that, laughter that released the frustration of struggling to learn the control of surrender. "To control the Force, you have to let it control you. I spend days on end sometimes sorting sand, learning patience. But I spend days flying, too-- literally, on days when I'm working on my piloting skills. I study the Jedi philosophy and our code of ethics. And I practice lightsaber katas with my master, learning the Forms of Combat. They're very beautiful, and very satisfying." Just referring to Qui-Gon and to their life together wrapped his heart with bittersweet pain. "We're frequently assigned to missions to serve the Senate, and sometimes they aren't very comfortable. Often we wind up fighting for our lives."

"Tiran says he was the mission that landed you here." There was a hitch in her breath, and Obi-Wan's fingers moved easily now in the slickness of her body.

"He is." Obi-Wan shifted her slightly so that he could see her face. She was beautiful, even with her scars-- perhaps partly because of them.

"Are the Jedi--" she gasped softly as his fingers re-settled. "--like a family? Or is it like being at a school, where everyone looks out for themselves, and the teachers couldn't care less how you do?"

"That doesn't sound like a very good school." Obi-Wan pondered the question. "I have friends and companions, and the Jedi look out for one another." It was true, but there was, somehow, very little real intimacy about it, now that he thought about it. The most intimate relationship he had.... "My master and I... I suppose we're family. Of a sort." Of the sort that, when Obi-Wan passed his trials, could abruptly cease to be connected and never be revisited, if that was what either of them wanted. Assuming he would ever take his trials now, or ever have the right to call himself Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan again.

She shifted to look at him, and he tried to explain. "My master and I live together and travel together. He teaches me and corrects me. He sees to my well-being, and I do the same for him. We look out for each other on missions as I learn the crafts of our calling... he teaches by example, showing me the art of being a Jedi Knight. I'm his padawan. It's almost like being his son. I'm his student, his responsibility-- his creation, ultimately his gift to the future of the Jedi." He could not keep the raggedness from his voice.

"You must love each other very much," she said softly.

"Jedi do not love." It was a lie, he knew-- or perhaps he was not a Jedi, and never had been. The words echoed hopelessly in the hollow pit that had become his soul.

She was quiet for a long time. Then, "I'm sorry."

Obi-Wan kissed her cheek in silent answer and stroked her without further speech, patient and gentle, until her body shuddered and arched against him, and her nails dug at his wrist; then he eased her down to lie between himself and Tiran and held her until she slept.

The shaking of the ship moving through atmosphere eventually reduced as they decelerated, and the floor shuddered beneath him as they touched down. It sent a ripple of unease through the group, but most settled back to sleep, believing it would take a few hours before the first new prisoners arrived.

This time, they were mistaken. The doors opened immediately, and guards filed in, holding shock-lances, poking the sluggish sleepers awake.

"Get up, you lazy maggots." Bilam led the guards, kicking and jabbing with his shock-lance. "Up and out!"

Obi-Wan surged up rapidly, helping Gida and Tiran avoid the shock-lances. He could see natural light filtering faintly through the door, and he pressed forward ahead of the others, trailing his friends behind him. They spilled out of the craft unchecked, to find themselves standing on a wide shelf of stone. A blue-white sun shone overhead, small and cold; the air battered against Obi-Wan's skin and the stone leached warmth out of his feet. The wind howled through the valley, lifting Obi-Wan's hair and making his skin pebble with chillflesh.

This must be the arena. Great care and expense had been taken to enhance a natural valley that formed a wide oval between mountain peaks; seats and boxes had been carved into the stone flanks of the peaks that sloped down toward the plateau on which they stood, and the floor had been leveled with the same stone-- the masonry probably worked from the very stuff carved out to make the seating. Anti-grav landing platforms had been erected around the peaks that loomed above the tiers of seats, partly sheltering the area; huge cascades of snowmelt from the mountains foamed and fell at irregular intervals around the circle, channeled between shoulders of worked stone that glittered in the sun, coated with gleaming ice from the spray. The cataracts roared into basins situated on the lowest level of the seating area, from which the falling water was presumably piped out deep below the battle surface. The entire place was empty, except for them and their transport. Obi-Wan glanced up, tracking a rumble that did not match the engines of the transport, and saw an avalanche tumbling down the shoulder of a faraway peak, probably disturbed by their landing.

Nine snow-capped peaks stretched into the sky around the battle arena, their shoulders harsh and forbidding. There was no sign of vegetation and the oxygen tasted thin, his lungs laboring for breath, so Obi-Wan guessed they were well above the tree-line. Except for huge, gleaming coils of razor wire wrapped thickly about the perimeter of the battle floor, there was no apparent fence or boundary; Obi-wan guessed that any fighter who managed to escape would swiftly die of exposure on the mountainside.

"Home again." Gida muttered, her eyes shadowed. "We'd better get inside before we freeze." She reached out for Taq, who had trailed them at a distance, and nodded to a tunnel near the landing site, located at one of the narrow ends of the oval. The guards emerged from the transport behind the last of their prisoners and chivvied the group toward it.

Obi-Wan obeyed, putting his body between his friends and the shock-lances as often as he could. He regretted stepping inside the cold stone channel and losing the light of the sun, but it was warmer without the bitter bite of the mountain wind.

The facility that awaited was spacious and surprisingly comfortable, at least compared to the transport. There were individual beds with blankets, a real sanitation facility with flush plumbing and shower heads set in the wall over drains spaced evenly around the stone floor, and a seating area where they could assemble to be fed.

"We'll be watched every moment," Gida said quietly. "They won't let anyone try to self-injure." She sat down on a bed near the tunnel, and the others took up the cots nearest to hers. They were carved straight into the stone walls, recessed alcoves in various shapes and sizes, made to accommodate a variety of humanoid and non-humanoid bodies, packed so closely together that there was only barely room to sit up on the edge of each mattress. "There's a medical facility too, but it's next to the staff area. That area is smaller, but much nicer." She lay down on her chosen bed, the second one up, and Taq slipped into the one below, leaving the two uppermost for Obi-Wan and Tiran.

"In a day, maybe two, the tournaments will start," she explained. "We'd better get the rest of our sleep while we still can."

They lay down, but Obi-Wan still could not sleep. He had half-expected Qui-Gon to sweep down when they finally made planetfall, swooping in like an avenging angel, but there was no sign of the man. He knew it was irrational, but he could not deny his dismay.

He would have to be alert; there were bound to be more escape opportunities now, if only he could find a way to get them through the mountains and down into the valleys where they wouldn't freeze. His master taught there were always opportunities provided by the Force for those who remained patient.

The next day the tournament staging began. In groups of ten and twenty, the prisoners were outfitted in rough, ill-fitting clothes and herded up to the arena, where they were drilled against a variety of remotes. Observers and droid sentinels stood by, rating their skills, and Obi-Wan realized a bracket was being drawn up with great care. There would be one large fight to cull the ranks, then the combats would be optimized to give the audience time to build its preferences for one fighter or the other, and to let suspense build, before the gladiators were even issued weapons. It wouldn't do to squander the best fighters and let them fall out of the ranks early.

Obi-Wan wasn't sure if he would qualify as one of the best or not; without the Force, his fighting skills were severely reduced. The group assembled around him was daunting, to say the least-- he was the only full human in the group. Most of the fighters in his group made him look very small, and they were taken from races with quick reflexes, strong bodies, and fierce warrior cultures. They eyed him warily-- the tale of the captive Jedi had spread rapidly among the prisoners, and he knew he was widely feared.

There were many in his group who had not been on Obi-Wan's transport, and throughout the day, new ships arrived, each disgorging its complement of warriors into different areas of the arena.

Obi-Wan stood still amidst the chaos, glad of his new boots and the rough clothes that kept the cruel wind off his skin. He reached for serenity and found a semblance of it, enough to seem confident and thus encourage the fears of the fighters who surrounded him. He would need every advantage he could cultivate, if he were to survive long enough for Qui-Gon to find him. There was little he could do for Tiran, Gida, or Taq now-- they were all in different groups, and would be reunited only after the long day was done.

Obi-Wan was singled out then, and stepped up to take his turn dodging bolts from a training remote. Without the Force, this was going to be a challenge, but he had been performing this exercise ever since he was old enough to walk. Setting his jaw, he bounced on the balls of his feet and prepared to move.

Hours later, aching in every bone, bruised and burned in places and limping on a half-turned ankle, he returned to his bunk and found the others already waiting, similarly battered. Taq sported a black eye in addition to his wounds; he was sitting curled with Gida in her bunk, and his mouth pinched when he saw Obi-Wan was not unscarred. Obi-Wan couldn't tell if the expression reflected triumph or disappointment.

"I could almost go for some holo filming instead of what we did today." Tiran groaned, flat on his back in his bunk with one arm over his eyes.

"Don't say that," Obi-Wan requested earnestly, hoisting himself up to his bunk. The muscle soreness in his body actually felt good; he knew it was a sign of healthy exercise. He had performed well enough when measured against sentient opponents, but not against the remotes, which were much faster and didn't give off subtle body signals to let him know how they would move next. "We should shower." He felt as though he had rolled in offal; the months spent shipboard had been bad enough, but after a day spent sweating in his clothes, he couldn't bear himself.

They went in as a group, drawing security from the companionship, and Obi-Wan nearly whimpered when warm water struck his body and poured through his grimy, filthy hair. He lathered soap into his hair with almost frantic relief, and scrubbed himself hard, the bath cloth peeling away layers of dirt and dead skin.

"So good." Tiran moaned, leaning into the spray with his eyes squeezed shut.

Obi-Wan could sympathize; he turned his own shoulders into the spray, wincing when one of the burns from a remote's blaster bolt fell under the powerful jet of water. He shifted away from the pain, and the hot water began to melt the tension out of his abused muscles. They lingered in the showers until they slumped where they stood, exhaustion and relaxation beginning to overwhelm their tired bodies.

There was no way to shave, but combs stood waiting in a jar near the entry, next to a few racks of threadbare towels, and Obi-Wan ran one through his wet, tangled hair. He slowly loosened his padawan braid, working methodically-- the untended braid had matted, and it took a great deal of patient combing to free the long strands and untangle them from the beads. He put the tiny ornaments in his mouth for safekeeping, then dried and re-braided the hair as best he could-- this symbol of his apprenticeship was all he could cling to until Qui-Gon came for him.

He had to believe Qui-Gon would come.

The combat cycle would start soon. Qui-Gon took the words as a mantra, reciting them quietly inside his head as he led She'ba around the perimeter of the club; she was docile enough tonight, and it worked wonders to deter the less decorous clients.

He had not been forced to kill, since the first night-- he had talked drunken beings out of killing, broken an assortment of limbs, and threatened to call the cat, but never since the first night had he let a situation escalate so far.

It helped him remain sane if he made his patrols whenever Obi-Wan's holograms were featured, which meant he got plenty of exercise. Obi-Wan was popular among the patrons, and sometimes holos of him were run three or more times in a night. Qui-Gon stalked the tiers, knowing that the patrons who looked into his helmet saw the bitter set of his jaw and the simmering flame in his eyes, and were afraid of him nearly as much as they feared the arranha on the tether he held. Obi-Wan's voice cried out in passion above his head, and he ignored it, stony, shoving a passed-out drunken lordling aside roughly with his boot to clear the stair. The young man's head thumped hard against the leg of a chair, but Qui-Gon was indifferent. His temper had been on edge for so long he had nearly forgotten what serenity felt like.

There was a flicker in the Force tonight, as if something important were present, but masked; it made him increasingly uneasy. He had already prowled the club twice, seeking it, when his eyes fixed on a child sitting placidly at a table near the entrance. Feeling his gaze, the boy glanced up at him, eyes clear and calm.

It was Walek, missing his braid and wearing civilian clothes, but unmistakable.

And that must be Misi with him, concealed effectively within an elaborate hairdo and a dress displaying cleavage to her navel, ensuring that would be all most men saw of her, a filmy cowl drawn over her face just to be certain, her Force aura skillfully damped. But Walek was still young, unskilled in subterfuge. Even as he watched them, Qui-Gon saw Misi nudge her padawan, who obediently lowered his face, but the damage was already done.

Qui-Gon stroked She'ba's ear and touched the jeweled collar with his mind. She loped away gracefully to her couch, and he went to the door, standing behind the table, unable not to look out across the pit to the place in the air where Obi-Wan hung projected. Qui-Gon hissed with fury in spite of himself; tonight, his padawan was sprawled across the squat body of a sljee, squirming helplessly, the sljee's thick, sinuous tentacles probing his every orifice, forcing their way into his mouth and his ass, curling and twining around his jutting cock. Qui-Gon could hear the pain and the lust in Obi-Wan's voice as he moaned around the tentacle in his mouth, his cries growing more shrill and desperate as the thing forced itself deeper and deeper into him.

"That's no fit sight for a child!" Qui-Gon growled, jerking his head toward the holo, his voice ripping harshly at his throat, which felt as raw and flayed as his mind.

She turned her head coolly to survey Qui-Gon. "You have no say in who comes here, Djinn." Her eyes judged him, and her voice entered his mind, though her lips were still. You ignored their transmissions, so the Council has declared you rogue. It would be correct to arrest you now.

"Go hifreann leat, cailleach!" Qui-Gon spat, and reached instinctively for the cat's mind; once more confined behind the repulsor field, She'ba rose in a powerful surge and roared, pacing back and forth along the front of the cage, her green eyes blazing. He let his thumb rest on the field's trigger button, scowling his threat at Misi and meaning every bit of it. Half the club was staring now, round-eyed, at them instead of at Obi-Wan, sparing occasional nervous glances for the increasingly agitated arranha. Qui-Gon held Misi's eyes, unwavering.

Misi might not have been able to translate the oath word for word, but she understood him well enough. Look at yourself. Ice dripped from her aura. What would Obi-Wan say?

He would say "Help me," Qui-Gon answered her instantly, his point punctuated by an agonized whimper from the hologram. And I will not be hindered in that. Do not force my hand.

Her eyes softened, very slightly, from absolute zero to merely glacial. Transports carrying arena fodder have been landing all week, in the high peaks of the mountains. I believe he is there.

The games are to begin in two days, Qui-Gon responded. I have arranged for my cover. I will see to his rescue. Then you can arrest me and drag me back to the Council. Not before.

"If you don't want to debate your rights with the arranha, you'll take the boy," he snarled, "And get out." He stood away from the door and made a pointedly elegant gesture in its direction. "Now."

Agreed. "Come, little one," she said loudly, looking aside from Qui-Gon's eyes. "We aren't wanted here." She sailed out, regal, with Walek in tow, and Qui-Gon returned to the cage to soothe the agitated cat.

Two more days.

When morning dawned, Qui-Gon went down to the dormitories, but he did not lie down after showering; instead, he congregated in the yard with the rest of the Djinn. Excitement ran high; the men chattered together as they walked among the cages, anticipating the battle. Some were already planning their wagers, and Qui-Gon listened to their inside information without appearing to listen, scrubbing cages and currying gleaming pelts alongside them, exchanging greetings with particular friends. Hard to imagine he'd been here for only two months, awaiting the combat season-- it felt like decades of impatience and hiding, centuries of anguish in the Club as he tried not to hear the holos, tried not to watch them.

Soon only a token guard would be left here; the others would go to the arena to police the contests. Unfortunately, Qui-Gon had no seniority. Nearly every evening, he and She'ba guarded the club. If he wasn't careful, he'd be left behind here while the others went. That was unacceptable, but perhaps there was a way....

Qui-Gon approached a cage where a huge young male lay, easily a hundred kilos heavier than its nearest competitor, its slitted eyes glowering out at the activity that surrounded its cage. The keepers were all giving the cage a wide berth; it had not yet been a moon cycle since Maj'lis had broken control and savaged his most recent keeper, and none had yet volunteered to try to replace the dead man.

"'Ware, mo dheartháir." One of his brothers warned him. "Don't go too close to that one."

"How else am I to tame him?" Qui-Gon asked reasonably, and the red-haired man made a soft chuff of wry amusement.

"Feisigh do thoin fein, then," he said, amiably enough. "Just don't say nobody warned you." A handful of the brothers laughed, listening.

Qui-Gon laughed with them, realizing the byplay had caught Majnun's attention. "He's a fine lad, and he'll be needed in the Chase."

"You just want the bonus for handling the arranha who catches the best runner."

"Perhaps I do." Qui-Gon let a smile curve one corner of his mouth.

"If you want to work with Maj'lis, we'll have to clear the courtyard." Majnun whistled, and men began to file out, some of them pausing to turn winches that rolled the arranha cages back into their niches in the walls. "Be careful, Ki-G?n. I'd just as soon not bury you tomorrow."

Qui-Gon wished briefly for his lightsaber, then dismissed the thought, and took up a rattan training goad from the rack on the wall. He tested its blunt point and the flex of its long fibrous handle. It bent in his hands, springing back quickly-- it seemed in good repair. Such a thing would not be helpful if Maj'lis determined to kill him; they were intended for tapping a cat to direct it or gain its attention, not for defense.

"Open the cage," he called when all the men had retreated behind the iron portcullis that locked the courtyard entry, and the repulsor field fell with a brief sputter.

Maj'lis barely lifted himself, stalking forward with bent legs, the tip of his tail twitching, and Qui-Gon centered himself carefully in the Force, reaching for the cat's collar. That was easy enough, but the mind behind it was not. Seething with rage, that mind flared bright with hate, and the focus of its murderous rage had bent on Qui-Gon. Maj'lis remembered freedom, remembered being the alpha male and mating the females in his pride, running wild and free, and the cat knew this irritating creature in front of him, with the pathetic goad, had taken his freedom and pent him here.

Qui-Gon dodged faster than thought, and felt the arranha's claws rip the air a finger's breadth from his shoulder. He was already rolling in the dust, the Force whispering to him, revealing where the next leap would land, and when it did, he wasn't there.

A clawed paw slammed down where he had been a fraction of a second later, and another jarred the ground less than a hand from his ear the merest fraction of an instant after that. The cat lunged forward, thinking it had him, but its jaws only caught in the tail of Qui-Gon's shirt, ripping it. He was already on his feet, dodging lightly away, the cat in hot pursuit, raking air with razored claws, yowling its frustration.

Qui-Gon danced, falling into the Force, millimeters ahead of the razor-sharp claws and dripping fangs, darting under the beast's belly, avoiding the flailing back legs, and gaining a few seconds as Maj'lis reversed, legs churning. He used the time to reach out with his mind, sliding through the enhancing gem and calling to Maj'lis.

Calm, he sent the cat, but its mind was ablaze, and it brushed him off easily. He dodged again, backpedaling, and the goad deflected the cat just enough to save him from spilling his intestines all over the ground. He felt the razor-sear of pain as the very tip of one claw tore through his shirt, finding skin, and drew blood. He couldn't keep this up indefinitely.

The cat turned its head, tracking him, muscles bunching for a spring, and Qui-Gon reached out again, looking for a weakness, a way in. Freedom.

The cat paused, tail lashing. It stepped forward and Qui-Gon circled, keeping it moving, preventing it from setting its haunches to spring.

I can give you back your freedom. He sent an image of the cat running wild, back in charge of a pride, away from civilization and sentients.

Maj'lis roared; his claws scraped deep furrows in the masonry. He extended his long neck, sniffing toward Qui-Gon as if to smell a lie.

Help me and I will help you, my friend. Qui-Gon strengthened the projection, drawing as much Force as he could hold, reinforcing the certainty of his words and the truth of his vision.

Maj'lis growled again, but did not spring; he rose and paced around Qui-Gon, eyes blazing. Qui-Gon turned slowly, not letting the cat work its way behind him.

Freedom... or the cage. You must choose. Qui-Gon let the goad fall, kicking it away, his gaze locked with the cat's. The jeweled collar pulsed, flashing bright with the strength of the Force that flowed between them. Qui-Gon held out his hand, palm extended and open, and focused his thoughts, directing them through the conduit of the gesture, sending the cat an image of their quarry. Help me find him, and on my honor, I will free you.

Maj'lis drew its lips back, baring fangs as long as Qui-Gon's forearm, curious in spite of itself. The cat had no concept of honor, but Qui-Gon had piqued its interest, and with that curiosity, its resistance snapped. Qui-Gon felt his victory, his will settling into the arranha's mind, but he did not press his luck. After a long moment, the cat turned its head and the tension simply flowed out of it. It sat down on the stones and began to lick one pad, clearly considering the conflict at an end.

"Tá tú glan as do mheabhair!" Majnun approached cautiously, shaking his head with disbelief. "Are you sure you aren't a Jedi?"

Qui-Gon chuffed a wry laugh. "I can assure you I'm not." Not anymore.

"If you're serious about wanting money, you should join the Chase yourself, I think." Majnun shook his head. "Place a wager on yourself to win. I haven't seen anyone beat the cats yet, but after that? I almost think you could." He laughed and cuffed Qui-Gon lightly, knocking a cloud of dust from his sleeve.

"Get him back in his cage and prepare yourself to move to the arena." Majnun retrieved the goad and handed it back to Qui-Gon. "You've just earned a promotion."

Qui-Gon obeyed.

PART III - The Arena