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Galactic Gladiators

by Lilith Sedai

PART III - The Arena

Loading and unloading the beasts required Qui-Gon to tranquilize Maj'lis, which he accomplished by mixing a soporific in the animal's morning meat. He felt guilty about drugging the cat, but afterward, he was relieved he had. The move was pure chaos, a frantic interlude of cranes and hoverlifts and minor collisions, combined with the shuddering of liftoff and the turbulence of mountain flying. It left the doped cats on edge, yowling with miserable confusion in the hold as the overloaded craft climbed sluggishly up the slopes of the mountains.

The arena was stunning. The cargo craft approached the mountains at dawn, and the rising sun cast stark shadows from the peaks into the bowl where the combat would occur. Snowfields and glaciers glittered in sparkling splendor beneath the craft as it circled, gradually gaining altitude along the steep mountain flanks, and Qui-Gon knew they would make an effective fence for the place.

He reached automatically for calm, but it eluded him, as it had so often of late. Anticipating Obi-Wan's presence left his heart in his throat; he felt eager for battle in a way no Jedi should. It clouded his Force awareness and colored his actions. He sighed. It was hard to remember he was not considered a Jedi anymore; being Jedi was at the very core of him, and he had never known anything else. He stiffened his spine and set his worries about the Council aside. He still had enough self-discipline to know he must leave that problem for the future.

Unloading posed as many problems as loading, and by the time Qui-Gon had installed Maj'lis in his niche just below the arena floor, eaten a hasty meal, and set up his own spot in the dormitory, the setting sun had left the arena in shadow. He hardly had time to think of Obi-Wan; two of the cats had broken loose and fought, and helping subdue them and treat their injuries occupied much of his afternoon.

The night wind held needles of ice, crystals driven down from the low skim of clouds that hovered around the shoulders of the peaks. A crescent of greenish moon lit up the scudding clouds and turned the pale streaks in the stone to pearl. Already, two transports were docked on the landing platforms, waiting for morning to disgorge their wealthy clientele into the stands.

The transports looked serene, but inside they were far from quiet. Applying just a little concentration, Qui-Gon could hear the minds aboard the transport. They were convivial, drinking and conversing and watching more holos-- these seemed to be training videos, tests of the gladiators' potential. Betting was already underway, based on this small sample of the fighters' abilities.

He shook the snow from his beard and wrapped his cloak around himself tightly; he began to walk, prowling around the circumference of the oval. He extended his senses, drawing on the wild calm of the wintry night; the chill, indifferent grandeur of the peaks soothed him. His padawan was cut off from the Force, but this near, Qui-Gon might find him anyway. The wall of the arena was pierced by tunnels at regular intervals, barred with heavy duranium doors, leading down to living areas where the fighters were housed. Behind each one lay countless dozens of minds, humanoid and alien, Force-sensitive and mind-blind in varying degrees. He sifted and sorted, his mind extended to his limits, the hum of sentient energy buzzing past him and through him. Then the next, and the next. He prowled on, oblivious to the cold, until he reached the deepest part of the oval, and reached out, finding a vaguely familiar presence waiting for him there.

Tiran! Not Obi-Wan, but Prince Tiran, wakeful but fading toward sleep-- and a small knot of minds next to him, connected to him. One was badly fractured, two sleeping and composed. Qui-Gon trembled, but not from the cold, pressing his body against the duranium portal as if the few millimeters of closeness could extend the reach of his thoughts. One was the girl, he thought; the other.... yes. Yes. It had to be Obi-Wan, the living flame of him reduced to its lowest ebb, his sleep all but dreamless, unable to feel Qui-Gon calling to him through the dead silence, the insulating emptiness where the Force had been silenced within his spirit.

Qui-Gon's fingers hooked into the support braces on the door, and he extended his mind again, cradling Obi-Wan's faint presence, seeking all the information he could. His padawan's body was weary, chafed and worn, but intact. He was thin, undernourished, and had lost muscle. He had traces of numerous drugs in his system. More than traces, if Qui-Gon wanted to be honest. He had several recent minor wounds-- bolts from training remotes, perhaps, inflicted as he was assessed for battle readiness. But he was there.

Qui-Gon could go, retrieve his lightsaber, and cut his way through the door. He thought he could reach Obi-Wan without much trouble, but the Force whispered against it. Obi-Wan's Delta Six had a beckon-call, but it was keyed to Obi-Wan's Force-signature, and he'd been unable to reset it by himself. Worse, Obi-Wan couldn't call it either, not without the Force. They would have nowhere to run but the killing cold of the mountain shoulders, the glaciers and the ice fields, the snow and the avalanches. He might make it down alive, if they weren't caught, but not Obi-Wan. Qui-Gon could sense the tiny capsule implanted inside his padawan's body, and the wicked defense mechanism built into it. He wouldn't like to try to remove that without expert assistance; it would explode immediately when exposed to atmosphere.

"Obi-Wan," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He must trust in the Force, and wait for the proper opportunity to present itself. He had to believe his padawan could endure, could survive the arena until it came.

Qui-Gon drew back from the door at last, reluctant-- but the temperature was dropping, and he was already near frostbite, the metal bleeding heat out of his unprotected hands and face. "I will come for you, pada-- Obi-Wan," he whispered. "Endure a little longer, and trust in the Force. Trust in me."

Still, each step away from Obi-Wan felt a little heavier, and he was unable to sleep when he finally found his bunk, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts reaching out over and over and over toward that faint single spark, his lightsaber cool and heavy under his palm. The next morning, he was to take Maj'lis and patrol the perimeter, to prevent any of the combatants from escaping the razor wire and causing a commotion among the audience. He hoped he might be able to arrange to patrol Obi-Wan's quadrant of the area.

When the low alarm chime resounded, waking the Djinn handlers for their morning duties, Qui-Gon was still half-awake, still cradled protectively around his awareness of Obi-Wan. The boy was dreaming, formless and troubled, reliving images of the degradation he'd been forced to endure. Qui-Gon had been unable to help him, and he had to clamp down on his temper, forcing himself to reply equably to the customary joking and teasing among his Djinn brothers. Majnun was working on a datapad, and Qui-Gon approached him, preparing a calculated risk.

"I would like to work the south quadrant," Qui-Gon requested. "Maj'lis is difficult; I will need the advantage of not staring into the sun for most of the day."

"I have you in the northeast," Majnun responded. "We have Hutt seated there; they're troublesome, and I need your crowd control skills in that spot. The cat's size will be needed, too, if there's trouble in the stands."

"It would be better to station me in the south quadrant." Qui-Gon moved his hand subtly, so that it would not be seen, and pressed with his mind; Majnun frowned at him.

"No, I don't agree." His brow furrowed. "We don't anticipate any trouble there. You'll go where you're told, Ki-Gün."

Qui-Gon sighed to himself; the Temple records said mental domination had never been particularly effective against the Djinn, and he himself had always been adept at resisting it.

"Very well." He accepted, and returned to his bunk to dress. His uniform had changed from the restrained club attire to an ostentatious outfit that was clearly intended to draw the eye and to impress the ignorant. It featured a tall winged helmet with almond-shaped eye slits to see through, a hooked raptor's beak, and heavy cheek and chin-guards, with an elaborate eagle design etched into it and two luxuriant black-and-white plumes attached as crests. The helmet matched a golden breastplate, also filigreed with eagles and heavily embossed to indicate an impressive humanoid musculature. A thick burgundy cloak with gold lining and a golden Dramacore logo embroidered on the back attached to the breastplate with straps and clips. He had also been issued a black thermal bodysuit and tabard with a black leather belt, tall black leather boots, and supple black gauntlet gloves. A ceremonial handler's goad, lightweight black metal with golden accents, completed the ensemble, and clipped to a loop on his belt. The thing was entirely impractical, too heavy, and barely functional for its ostensible purpose. Even the boots were new and creaked when he walked; he knew they would chafe his feet.

He sighed and put it all on anyway; if he encountered anyone he knew, it would be an effective camouflage. At least it was warm.

Qui-Gon tucked his lightsaber inside the bodysuit, securing it behind his belt, and went out to fetch Maj'lis from his cage.

The arranha seemed to sense the special occasion, and was up, pacing in his cage, his green eyes alert, his ears pinned back sleekly against his huge head. Qui-Gon checked the collar and gem, touched the beast's mind, and ensured that all was in readiness. His heart was pounding hard inside his chest in spite of his outward calm. His sense of his pada-- of Obi-Wan was faint, but also stirred, and he knew Obi-Wan was being readied for combat.

He strode out onto the ledge and looked into the empty arena, beyond the sinuous coils of razor-wire. Other handlers were taking their places. He squinted against the sun, gazing across the shallow bowl to the southern quadrant, where one of his brothers was already in place, a hand on his arranha. The doors were still shut; the fighters would not be introduced until the crowds were seated.

The landing platforms hummed with activity, the heavy thump and drone of atmospheric engines rumbling through the mountains as transports docked and disgorged their passengers. Clients filed into the audience, taking up seats, peppering the severe grey stone with flecks of color. Hutts, rumbling their ugly guttural language, slithered down along specially extruded ramps, and slowly began to fill the boxes behind Qui-Gon. He soothed Maj'lis, whose flanks were quivering as he sniffed the air, taking in sounds and scents. He kept a leisurely pace, urging the cat along with him, patrolling the perimeter of his area. Maj'lis sniffed the air, and Qui-Gon did also. He caught scent of meat frying, a savory and smoky smell drifting across the basin.

A flash of motion caught his eye-- children running, dangerously close to the coiled wire, annoying audience members and disturbing food vendors and their carts, racing around the arena basin. He frowned at them, forbidding, then forgot his purpose-- the last one was Walek, trailing the group as if he were part of it. His eyes caught Qui-Gon's for half a heartbeat before the group darted away from the arranha like a school of colorful fish scattering from a predator, all of them but Walek vanishing in half a dozen directions at once. The padawan hunched forward with hands on his thighs, gasping, giving a creditable imitation of being too winded to run further.

Misi was here, then. Qui-Gon stepped forward and caught the lad's shoulder. "I believe your seat is in the southern quadrant," he rumbled. "Get back to your mistress and find your places at once."

"Yes, sir." Walek straightened, giving Qui-Gon a convincingly worried look, and hurried off.

Qui-Gon watched him go, weaving in and out of the crowd; there was Misi, wearing rather more modest garb; Walek delivered his message and they set out together, walking briskly south. Conveniently, Walek was not particularly skilled at shielding, and Qui-Gon found a chink where he could tether his own awareness in the padawan's mind to watch for Obi-Wan.

He looked around the stadium again, scanning for trouble, but found only anticipation and excitement. It was early in the season; nobody had yet won or lost. There were no debts or vendettas-- no fresh ones, at least.

The sun had melted away the thin skim of snow, except in the shadows where it had not penetrated, and the day was warming. A faint shimmer of climate-control repulsor-bubbles surrounded the cold-blooded Hutt; desert creatures, if they were exposed for too long to these temperatures, they would become torpid and eventually hibernate.

Qui-Gon led Maj'lis back to their starting position, aware that he was pacing, impatient for the contestants to emerge. Even as they arrived, trumpets sounded over the public address, the Dramacore company fanfare hushing the crowd. Everyone seemed to lean forward with anticipation as the tunnels creaked open and the gladiators emerged, bearing bright banners, each group wearing tabards in identifying colors.

Qui-Gon's heart surged into his throat as Walek spied Obi-Wan; he let his mind look through the boy's eyes, his hand closing on the goad so hard it hurt.

Walek watched as Obi-Wan's group fanned out along the wall of the arena, Tiran bearing their standard. Qui-Gon stiffened; the blue flag bore the white wings and lightsaber logo of the Jedi. Obi-Wan stood at the center of the group, dressed in the poor copy of Jedi garb that the company had provided for him. His arms were folded and his face calm, but Qui-Gon, long-time connoisseur of all things Obi-Wan, could see the subtle tension in his posture.

He ground his teeth; Dramacore had made his Obi-Wan a target. There would be hell to pay over the use of that symbol, if there hadn't been already from the kidnapping. Qui-Gon's mouth pursed bitterly. He suspected the Council and the Senate would be at least as concerned about the former as the latter.

As Walek watched, Obi-Wan began to scan the tiers intently, searching. Searching for him, Qui-Gon realized. Seeking, but not finding, a faint frown creasing his brows.

Qui-Gon's whole soul swelled with anguished love, overwhelmed with the need to meet that gaze-- and with the growth of his love came rage. Qui-Gon shuddered, consumed by the desire to leap down, lightsaber blazing, and fight the whole damned arena if that was what it took, wash the whole place in blood and kill every last being, until Obi-Wan was safe.

It was too powerful and too sudden for him to damp it. It flooded down the tenuous connection, and Walek startled, suddenly aware of his probe. The boy's shields abruptly firmed and shut him out.

Qui-Gon gritted his teeth with annoyance as the matches began. Today's combats were hand to hand, group against group; clusters of holocam droids already flitted about, greedily filming.

He was limited to flashes and flickers of awareness, all that he could grasp across the quarter mile that separated him from his padawan. Obi-Wan led his group into battle with Tiran at his side-- the prince had received combat training, and was at least a competent ally. The girl was less so, in spite of all her battle scars, and the others protected her even as she struggled to protect the broken one.

The Force ebbed and flowed with the fortunes of the battle. Qui-Gon could hardly keep his mind on his job; fortunately, no conflict had yet erupted in his section. He had to spare time and focus to calm Maj'lis; the arranha had caught his anxiety and was shifting, claws scoring the stone, a low, quivering growl in his throat as he sought for prey to target.

Before he had finished calming the arranha, a whipcrack of Force energy startled Qui-Gon, and his fists clenched, then loosened: Misi. The Jedi Master intervened on Obi-Wan's behalf, deflecting a kick that would have shattered his femur. Qui-Gon had hoped, but had not been entirely sure, that she would protect Obi-Wan; her action allowed him to relax.

He scanned the Hutt, who were cheering their own battle section, some watching individual battles on handheld viewing pads. All seemed well, and he stroked the arranha, working to calm it even as he struggled to calm himself. A cry went up from the crowd, and he glanced down; a large Gamorrean had crumpled to the sand, his Malastarean opponent shaking triumphant fists over his head.

The momentary distraction from his thoughts served to make him aware of another Djinn approaching-- it was time for him to step out and eat, then. The Djinn, a grizzled old veteran with silver-white hair trailing out from under his helm, eyed Maj'lis warily. "Don't be too long about it. I don't like watching this one."

"Yes, mo athair." Qui-Gon stepped away, sparing a glance toward the far end of the arena, but the Force was tickling at him now, urgent, and he followed it away, down the tunnel toward the living quarters. He moved carefully, his mind open and waiting for guidance. A few moments before he would have entered the mess, raised voices filtered into the hallway, and he paused. The first was Majnun-- and anger ignited in him, a slow burning flare-- the other could only be Ruoto Millim.

Qui-Gon froze, still as death. Pressing flush against the wall so that his shadow could not be seen through the door, he listened.

"I don't care what you say. We're changing the schedule, Djinn. I need your best handler and your best beast; the chase has to go off tomorrow."

"I'm still training someone to handle that beast," Majnun sounded sullen. "I was to have another lunar cycle--"

"Fuck that, Djinn, I don't give a bantha's balls. We've got to be rid of that Jedi, now. The other Jedi don't like the publicity they're getting. I would've sworn they couldn't get to us, but they've found a way. Curse that little green troll!" Qui-Gon could hear Millim pacing. "He's a bastard, that one, sitting there blinking at you and tapping that fucking stick, talking in backward circles, but the whole fucking galaxy hops when he says 'frog.' The Senate passed a resolution, the wizards twisted some tails, and now the Arilan government is threatening to deny us access to the transmitters on their territory in the core. If we lose those transmitters, we lose two thirds of our viewers-- more than half the Outer Rim-- and all our advertising revenue!" Millim spat.

"You ought to let him go."

"We can't afford it." Millim's voice sank to a whine. "We've already sold the advertising for the chase; he's the biggest sensation since ever. The pornos alone have grossed more than last season's entire Galactic Gladiators series."

"Still, you ought to know better than to shit where you eat." Majnun snorted. "Kidnapping a Jedi and not expecting any consequences? I should pull my people and go home now."

"But you won't." Millim's voice changed, sly. "Because of the bonus you'll get for staying. I'll bump it to five percent of what we net from the chase, if your beasts win."

"The beasts don't concern me. My kin do."

"You have that animal and that handler ready tomorrow or you won't get anything on contract at all-- and I'll have your worthless hide into the bargain!"

"I'll have them ready." Majnun's hand slammed against the tabletop. "But I don't like it. What if the Jedi wins? What if he kills my kinsman?"

"He's not winning." Millim''s voice was flat. "You do your job, and I'll see to mine."

"You'll send a man with a blaster?" Majnun scoffed. "Blasters are no good against Jedi. And if you're wrong, if any of my kin are hurt, my people and I will all return to our homeworld." Majnun's voice seethed with contempt. "Then you'll have no one to tame your precious beasts or run your precious hunt, titim gan éirí ort!"

"It's only for backup. Not even a Jedi can outrun the arranhar."

"That I'll agree with," Majnun said slowly. "A Jedi could evade one arranha, maybe. I've seen men who could. But not more than one."

"Send the whole fucking pack, then, and I don't care who handles them!" Millim threw something, a datapad, from the sound of it; glass crackled and an object slid across the floor. "Just shut up and arrange it. I've got to get to Jata and set up the press event for the starting line. The course hasn't even been defined; we'll wind up having to cover some civilian losses, but it'll be worth it to get those fucking Jedi off our backs."

Qui-Gon slipped away and concealed himself in a cross-corridor before Millim could catch him. He could control one arranha, but more? It would take focus, and an incredible amount of power. More power than Qui-Gon could summon on his own, unless...

Unless he used the Dark Side, drew and amplified the Force with his rage and his pain. A Dark Jedi's power increased exponentially with the strength of his emotion, and when it came to fury over what had been done to his padawan, Qui-Gon had plenty to spare.

How much could he handle without turning? He had no idea. Jedi tradition held that the more often a Force user drew on the Dark Side, and the more of it he used, the more he endangered his soul. Worse, the Dark always took a price-- sometimes it set up a feedback loop, enhancing the very emotions that summoned it, driving the user into a berserker rage and causing him to destroy the very goals he hoped to accomplish.

Qui-Gon had not intentionally drawn on the Dark Side so far, though his emotional state had brought him to the very brink. To reach for it, to invite it deliberately... that wasn't flirting with damnation. That was inviting damnation in and offering it the deed to the property.

He had much to meditate on, and little time left.

PART IV - The Chase