Help Me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, You're My Only Ho - cont'd
(continued from part 22)
Qui-Gon woke with a gasp, his consciousness rushing headlong from one nightmare to another. Images of his Obi-Wan enveloped in cloying Darkness faded from his mind only to be replaced by physical darkness before his wide-open eyes. His mouth hurt, as did his shoulders and arms. He was bound, naked on his side with his wrists and ankles locked together behind him.
Fighting back the urge to struggle or cry out, he reached for the Force. The only answer was a painful buzzing in his head. He swallowed, feeling the weight of something pressing down on his tongue and the chill of too-cold metal against his throat. He was collared with a Force inhibitor, and a metal gag had been locked between his teeth.
His heart began to race; Obi-Wan needed him, but he didn’t even know where he was. Qui-Gon took a deep breath through his nose, fighting down the tide of panic and rage welling inside him.
He had gone to meet with Finis... Oh, hells. It came back to him – the trap, and how anxious he had been to take the bait. How could he have been so blind to the warnings of the Force?
Even more troubling, Qui-Gon had to wonder why anyone would go to such lengths to take him out of play. If he had been investigating anything official, he would naturally assume his abduction bore some relation to his mission. But he had done nothing for days other than search for Obi-Wan and visit Xanatos.
A chill spread through his chest at the thought of his Obi-Wan mixed up with people willing to abduct a Jedi.
He knew without considering it that he had been abducted – the sterile recycled air and the thrum of engines through the metal flooring beneath him spoke eloquently of space travel.
His bonds were sturdy binders; he tested them but soon had to admit defeat. As things stood, he was utterly helpless. The deck plating – he felt certain he currently lay in the hold of a ship – felt damp under his face, no doubt from his own saliva where it poured out around the bit in his mouth.
Exploring the edges of the metal gag as best he could, he realized it was more than a bit between his teeth, secured around the nape of his neck to keep it in place. There was also a metal plate pressing against his tongue – the side of it had cut into his cheek while he had been unconscious.
Branks. Qui-Gon had heard of such barbaric devices, though he had never expected to find himself subjected to one. He would be unable to articulate anything intelligible. He might have been easily captured, but whoever had him now was not taking any chances.
Carefully Qui-Gon rolled onto his back. It hurt to have all his weight on his bound arms and ankles, but he had some hope that he might manage to sit up. He could feel a wall at his shoulder. He inched along it until he felt a corner. Soon he had determined that he was in a cell no more than four feet long and almost that wide.
Using the wall to help him sit up, he soon discovered the vertical dimension of the space was little more than its length. He wasn’t in a cell at all – he had been stowed in a smuggler’s hold, a small, hidden compartment – like so much contraband.
With what little mobility he had, he began to bang against the walls. It was possible that no one aboard even knew he was there. If he could attract someone’s attention, he would know for certain one way or the other.
After a few minutes of this, a small window appeared above his head. The light was near blinding, even though the flap only opened a crack.
“Settle down in there,” a harsh voice rasped, “or I’ll give you a taste of this, see?”
Qui-Gon’s overwhelmed eyes could not make sense of the darker shape outlined in the slit of the opening, but he recognized the electrical sound of a stun prod sparking. He stilled. The sliver of light disappeared.
Whoever had him couldn’t keep him in this hole long. If they had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be drawing breath now. They would have to let him out soon; he would have his chance, and he would be ready.
Thoughts of his dream, of Obi-Wan surrounded by darkness, rose up in his mind. Ruthlessly, he pushed them aside. He would get back to Coruscant and find Obi-Wan, but for now, he must concentrate on the task at hand.
Even without access to the Force he could meditate. He must keep his mind clear, or he would not be able to help anyone – not Obi-Wan and certainly not himself.
Alone in the lofty seat of power that was his office as Chancellor of the Galactic Senate, Palpatine scanned through the video taken from the surveillance of Kenobi’s rooms. The sex didn’t interest him particularly, though his usually unimaginative guards had managed to surprise him with their inventiveness and stamina.
He especially loved watching Kenobi, the charming host, laugh and smile and make appreciative noises as they took him in tandem and separately. After a bit, Palpatine sped up the vid, pausing occasionally to note a particularly telling expression or mannerism on the part of the young courtesan.
The time code on the surveillance feed showed they had been at it for nearly seven hours when the guards began to tire. Finally, they slept.
Kenobi waited a bit before carefully wriggling free of their tangled limbs. Palpatine had to switch feeds to follow him through to the ‘fresher. The courtesan turned slowly, his gaze fixed on the walls and ceilings of the small room, pausing briefly on the small air vent that concealed the camera.
“Clever boy, aren’t you?” Palpatine grinned, considering the upturned face on the vid – so deceptively angelic and innocent-looking. He saw more deeply, though. Palpatine saw the cunning, the fear as Kenobi began to grasp the first glimmers of his predicament.
The guards hadn’t left to eat or gone to their homes to sleep, and every move any of them made was being observed by the Chancellor. Kenobi knew that much, and it was enough to rattle him. Not to the extent that he was tempted to bolt, though.
Palpatine knew the true gravity of his situation would hit only after it was too late for him to do anything about it. He looked into that face on the vid, wondering how long it would take to make him ready. To make him ripe for the Dark Side.
The moment passed and Kenobi went about his ablutions, as if a thorough scrubbing could remove the taint of his guests’ forceful attentions. Did he press his face to the cool tile and weep, or was that merely wishful thinking on Palpatine’s part? No matter. The time would come when he would no longer be able to hide his pain.
Sitting back in his comfortable chair, Palpatine smiled to himself. Lucky that idiot Durante had known where to find such a strong Force sensitive outside the Jedi Order. Growing the Kleranom larvae inside Force sensitives had improved the efficacy of their little anti-Jedi cocktail. Perhaps before long they would see what might come of growing them inside a sensitive being dominated by the Dark Side.
Kenobi, untrained as he was, would be of no use to him as an apprentice, but his turning would provide a pleasant enough diversion. There was still plenty of time in Palpatine’s plans to allow for some fun before he sent the pretty courtesan to Malum IV.
On the screen, Kenobi had left the ‘fresher and gone to the sitting room to take what rest he might upon the empty sofa. Palpatine sped up the file to the time just before dawn, when two more of his personal guards had let themselves in, in search of the bit of fun he’d promised them. Kenobi fought back his tiredness to greet them cordially, but the mask was slipping.
Good.
Palpatine continued to watch until the time to discharge certain obligations of his position neared. He went about his duties with a kindly, indulgent smile upon his lips and a spring in his step.
“No, Father, you don’t understand,” Bail Organa interrupted the King of Alderaan’s diatribe, with a fierce passion he hadn’t known he possessed. “I realize that you do not approve of my choices-”
“This goes beyond disapproval,” King Organa said, his voice low with anger. “I’ll have you recalled!”
“You’ll try,” Bail acknowledged. “You may succeed. What I mean to impress upon you is that I will not go quietly, like some dog called to heel.”
“You cannot honestly believe that the good people of Alderaan will re-elect a...” here he waved his hand in an eloquent gesture of dismissal, “...even if he is the Crown Prince.”
“No,” Bail admitted. “I will serve out my term, though. I’m prepared for the fight, Father. I’m my own man now.”
The king grunted derisively at Bail’s statement. “We’ll see about that.” Abruptly, he signed off.
Bail punched the disconnect button unnecessarily and slumped back in his chair with a forceful sigh.
“That went well,” he said to his empty office.
As much as it pained him to think of losing the support of his home world, he knew he would be able to make his way on his own. He was too old to be sent to a re-education center without his consent, and his father knew it. Once the holo-nets got word of it – and he had no doubt they would, sooner or later – he would be a figure of revulsion to most of his constituents on Alderaan.
Maybe he could make something out of that. Jase had a group on Alderaan, working within the system to change people’s attitudes, but Bail wasn’t sure if he was ready for activism. He wasn’t sure he could call his desires ‘normal’ without feeling the shame that still gnawed at his soul.
On impulse, he called up his personal contact directory and found the last comm codes he had for Jase. A holo of his former lover’s face appeared before him. Bail stared for a moment, wishing he could see the real Jase. What would he give to touch that face again, now that he could finally admit what he wanted, if only to himself.
Jase must have moved on by now; Bail had no idea what he would say to him.
After a moment, he switched off the holo and rested his face in his hands. He had a lot of nasty business to face today; Jase would have to wait.
Xanatos luxuriated in his body as the world came back to him. In meditation, he and Bruck could walk together through huge forests, under the twin suns of Lentrebi Prime. He always roused from these meditations feeling refreshed and whole, like a cup filled with light.
In these meditations, less and less lay between them – physical barriers were nothing to the mind. The spirit. Xanatos sighed.
In meditation, both he and Bruck were whole.
He glanced over at the healing form of his lover, so still upon the other bed in their room at the Healers’ Dome. He looked so fragile, his once-rich skin tone seemed ashen against the crisp white sheets. Xanatos’ heart clenched – Bruck’s condition was his fault. If only he hadn’t...
“None of that!” Bruck interrupted Xanatos’ thoughts, his voice stronger than it had been since their... accident.
Pleased by the sound but still annoyed, Xan answered, “None of what?”
“I can hear your thoughts, T’Crion.” Bruck hadn’t even opened his eyes, but the characteristic Chun smirk curled the corner of his mouth. “Complete nonsense.”
“Is it?” Xanatos unfolded his legs from his meditative pose and let them dangle off the side of his bed. “You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t-”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t chosen to jump after you.” Bruck’s pale eyes opened and fixed their gaze on Xan with such ferocity that he felt the urge to look away. “Bravest damned thing I’ve ever done, and there you go, taking credit for it. Typical.”
“At least you’re feeling better.” Xanatos smiled; he couldn’t help it. “I can tell by the way your overwhelming humility is returning.”
Bruck said nothing, and the moment that passed between them became a thing so earnest and raw that Xanatos had to look away. His mind retreated from the intimacy of spirit that they shared during their meditations – easier to play these verbal games. It kept their corporeal relationship pleasantly distant.
The sound of rustling linen brought his attention back to his sometime lover’s bed. Xanatos watched as Bruck slowly turned back the sheet covering his body and patted the mattress beside him.
“Come here,” Bruck said.
Xanatos blinked, his mouth gone dry. Bruck made no further comment, but carefully edged his way to the other side of the narrow bed. The movement seemed agonized in its slowness, but Bruck’s face betrayed no hint of pain. Xanatos looked away.
“You’re not well enough.”
The Chun smirk deepened.
“The Healers are still watching us on their monitors.”
One white brow quirked in counterpoint to the smirk.
“I... can’t.” Xanatos clenched his hands into fists to stop their trembling.
“Neither can I.” Bruck chuckled, the timbre of his voice more melodious than Xanatos remembered. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have you close to me, does it?”
Xanatos let out the breath he’d been holding. “I suppose not.”
“Then come here, you giant git.” Bruck shifted a little more, muttering, “What gave you the impression I was up for shenanigans? One-track mind, I tell you.”
Xanatos smiled weakly, wondering why his chest suddenly felt so empty. He squeezed in beside Bruck carefully; he didn’t want to cause him any more pain than he already had.
“Relax.” Bruck’s whisper tickled in his ear. “I’m happier at this moment than I have ever been.”
Xanatos took a deep breath and tried to relax. An arm surprisingly heavy for its size crossed his chest, palm resting over his heart. Bruck felt so warm against him and the sweet scent that rose from his skin filled the air around him.
Xanatos didn’t deserve this man’s affection; selfishness alone had kept him silent.
“I hurt Kenobi,” he said. He mustn’t stop until it was all out. “I beat him and I bit him and I would have... I almost-” Xanatos had to force the word out through the growing tightness in his throat, “-raped him.”
The truth was out, though barely whispered, and Xanatos knew Bruck would turn away from him now that he realized what sort of person he’d nearly died saving. Now Bruck knew the truth, and Xanatos fought to hold back his tears.
"'Almost'?" Bruck spoke quietly, betraying no emotion.
Xanatos considered the question, deliberately calming his breathing. He couldn’t look at Bruck, but he believed those pale eyes could see inside him, down to his very soul.
“Everything hurt so much, but when I gave in to the anger and the hatred began to flow... it all went away and I was hard for the first time since...” Xanatos stopped, swallowing back the next words and the thoughts that went with them. “I felt alive.”
“What stopped you?” The breath of Bruck’s whisper touched his cheek, soft as a feather. Or a kiss.
Xanatos managed to face him. “I saw what I was becoming – that’s why. I couldn’t stand the thought of being like... that man.”
Xanatos tried to pull away, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to see Bruck’s love turn to shock and revulsion as he truly saw the man he’d nearly died for, but Bruck caught him and pulled him closer.
“You stopped on your own.” Bruck laughed, even as he held Xanatos more tightly. Xanatos felt Bruck kiss his hair and his face, ever so gently kissing his tears away. “The Light is still stronger in you, Xan. There’s your proof – you stopped yourself.”
Bruck’s laughter broke over Xanatos like a wave and soon he chuckled as well. “You forgive me, then?”
“The offense is not mine to forgive.” Bruck stilled, fixing him with eyes that seemed ancient. “But our path is easier than it might have been.”
It pained Xan to ask, but he had to know. “If I had...If I hadn’t stopped myself, would you have left me?”
“Oh, no. No, my love. Never.” Bruck kissed the tip of Xanatos’ nose. His breath smelled like the woods after a rain on a hot summer day. “It would have made the healing of your soul more difficult, but far from impossible.”
“Oh.” Xanatos felt a sudden heaviness in his belly.
“I was just glad to hear that you were strong,” Bruck whispered, perhaps catching the gist of his thoughts. “I’ll never stop loving you, Xan.”
“What if I ate younglings for breakfast?”
The white brow twitched. “At least then I wouldn’t have to love you nearly so long, thanks to your abominable diet.”
“What if-”
“Not if you were a Lord of the Sith, down to the bone, would I ever stop loving you.”
Xanatos could see the truth in Bruck’s eyes. He wasn’t joking. Though loving a man so lost in darkness would be like holding hot coals to his soul, Bruck would endure.
Xanatos closed his eyes, as if the sight of that much devotion burned them.
“None of that,” Bruck chided. “I’ve lured you to my bed to help you relax, not so you could go all maudlin on me.”
“Sorry.” Xanatos leaned over and kissed Bruck, gently at first, but then more deeply and passionately than he had intended. What started as tenderness had blossomed into desire. He pulled away, blushing. Bruck was not well enough, yet, for them to take things very far.
“Hmm.” Bruck ran a cool hand over Xanatos, making him shiver. “Someone is getting a surprise.”
“Not you, obviously,” Xanatos said.
Bruck smirked again. “Lentrebi pollen has an amazing effect on some humanoids.”
“I thought Lentrebi only pollinated once every hundred years or so.”
“True,” Bruck sniffed, “but I’m only a teensy bit Lentrebi. Maybe this is only a cross between Lentrebi pollen and humanoid pheromones.”
For a fleeting moment, Xanatos wondered what planet had given up Bruck Chun to the Jedi, and whether they knew what they were missing. Then all thought was lost to the grip of his lover’s cool, clever hands.
In the darkness, Qui-Gon waited, all too aware that the thrum of engines had ceased. The slaver’s ship had made planetfall somewhere, probably outside the Republic. The smuggler’s hold opened and he was dragged out into the light, eyes stinging. The binders tightened painfully around his wrists and ankles.
“I push this button, you say goodbye to hands and feet,” a gruff voice said. “Them as buys your kind don’t mind the damage, long’s you’re livin’. Understood?”
Qui-Gon tried to nod, but it wasn’t easy with his face pressed to the deck plating, the metal of the branks biting into his cheek. When the fellow lifted him up, he realized he hadn’t been expected to answer. The ankle binders separated from the wrist binders and each other, allowing him to walk. A large, heavy hand pressed to his back, urging him forward.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the frame ahead. His heart beat faster and he tried to release his fear to the Force, only to add a splitting headache to the mix. He bit down on the metal plate in his mouth to fight back a wave of nausea.
His experience cautioned him to patience – now was not the time to fight – though it took some effort not to bolt. Soon enough he was fastened into the framework, arms and legs spread wide. Jedi training ensured that he was as comfortable with his nakedness as he would be clothed, but he had seldom been left in such a vulnerable position.
Then the sonics hit him. Hard. In only a few seconds they left him scrubbed nearly raw. Gasping around the metal in his mouth, it took him a moment to recover his composure. Without the Force, he found it easiest to revert to the most basic form of meditation.
Breathe in through nose and mouth, then out. He slowed the rhythm of his breathing and gradually relaxed. He was in the hands of the Force now, whether he could feel it or not.
The being who had dragged him here moved into the range of his vision, and Qui-Gon got his first good look at him. He was shorter than Qui-Gon but squat and powerfully built. Vaguely humanoid with green skin, he seemed almost as wide he was tall, every inch of it muscle. A bandoleer held a few weapons or other devices within easy reach of his huge, meaty hands, but otherwise he wore only a leather breechclout.
He ambled closer, and turned his hairless face up as if inspecting the Jedi, prominent tusks distorting his unmistakable leer. The creature grunted appraisingly as he placed an enormous, three-fingered hand on Qui-Gon’s belly. He tried not to let his revulsion show.
The hand moved lower, tugging roughly at his sex. Qui-Gon blanked his mind in a futile effort to ignore the touch of fingers as large as his own wrist. He kept his breathing slow and even, but his body remained tense, ready to fight or flee. Qui-Gon knew he could do neither.
“Not bad, for hooman,” his captor said. “Reeksha’s bigger.”
To demonstrate the truth of his assertion, Reeksha brought out his member and began to stroke it roughly. Qui-Gon knew he shouldn’t look, but once he’d seen it he couldn’t look away. Even flaccid it was the side of a humanoid forearm, and it was growing under Reeksha’s ministrations.
Aghast, he watched as Reeksha’s segmented foreskin opened like the petals of some strange leathery blossom. Each segment began to ooze a greenish fluid, which Reeksha spread over his length. The smell reminded Qui-Gon of a fetid swamp. At last he looked away, closing his eyes.
Biting down on the metal between his teeth, Qui-Gon stifled the fearful sounds his throat wanted to make. That thing would tear him apart.
Them as buys your kind don’t mind the damage, long’s you’re livin’ he’d said.
Oh, Force, please, no. He fought down the terror, slowed his breathing as best he could. He kept his eyes shut tight, but he could still feel Reeksha moving beside him, behind him. I can bear it... Oh, Force help me, I can bear it...
He couldn’t help trembling as he felt Reeksha’s slimy hands grasp his hips to steady him. He pulled against the binders and screamed around the branks, surrendering to the urge to fight, futile as it might be.
Much to his surprise, Reeksha released him suddenly. Qui-Gon hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps, but now he heard the sound of voices coming closer.
“Nonsense! I’m sure you’ll have something that will interest me.” A woman’s voice – a voice so familiar it made Qui-Gon’s heart ache long before he remembered the name and face to go with it.
“The merchandise in this section is not ready for sale.” A male voice, perhaps the same harsh rasp that had threatened him with an electrical prod earlier. He opened his eyes just before the woman turned the corner into the chamber where he was, with the slaver behind her. Reeksha scurried away, out of sight.
“Oh.” The woman stopped short, and met Qui-Gon’s gaze. Her eyes were green with rings of gold. Though her face was more careworn and her hair the color of rust, the eyes were unmistakable.
Tahl.
She winked at him before turning to face the slaver. “See there, Mavron! I knew you’d have something I’d want!”
Qui-Gon kept his wits about him – he still needed to play his part – but it took most of his Jedi resolve to keep from weeping tears of relief. The hold of a slaver’s ship was the last place he expected to see his old friend. After she had left the Order, he’d thought her days of coming to his rescue were over.
Qui-Gon had never been so glad to be wrong.
“This one is reserved for a special buyer – he’ll pay three times what this one would be worth on the open market,” the unkempt slaver Mavron remarked.
“What’s so special about him?” Tahl asked, with a playful leer. “Other than the obvious.”
Her cool hand stroked Qui-Gon’s naked thigh; something in his belly did a low, uncomfortable roll.
“Something ‘bout magic in the blood,” Mavron shrugged. “I think the buyer’s a bit wrong in the head, to tell you true, but he pays good for poor quality flesh if the blood tests right. I have a standing bounty on special ones in some systems, just for this buyer.”
“He’s from the Republic, then?”
Mavron clammed up then, realizing he’d said too much. “I don’t ask where they come from, as long as I get paid.”
“Of course,” Tahl laughed, sounding worldly and fashionably bored. She turned to Qui-Gon as if she were inspecting him more closely. “This one has such a nice face, though. Are you sure you won’t part with him? I’ll match the other buyer’s price, and you won’t have to go out of your way.”
“Malum IV ain’t out of my way,” Mavron said. His body language made his interest in her offer clear. “And we have a steady deal.”
“Well, he seems fit enough, even if he is a bit long in the tooth.” Tahl smiled at Mavron, and walked around Qui-Gon, testing his muscles here and there. He flinched away from her touches and told himself it was part of the act. Her smile broadened slyly just as she decided to get really fresh. “I like a slave with spirit... among other things. I’ll match the price and give you twenty thousand for your trouble.”
“You know how to close a deal, Lavona,” Mavron said, holding his hand out to Tahl.
She clasped the slaver’s hand, and Qui-Gon quietly let out the breath he’d been holding.
It took some time before the transaction had been finalized, and Qui-Gon did not breathe easy until Tahl led him, docile as a dog on a leash, onto her ship and closed the entrance. She removed the Force inhibitor and his other bonds in a brisk, businesslike manner.
“There are some spare clothes in that locker and the sonics are through that door,” Tahl said. She had turned her back on him and begun the preflight check.
“Thank you,” Qui-Gon said, realizing that was all he could manage at the moment. It would be so much easier to talk to her with the crusted green slime gone from his body and the clean clothes of a free man on his back.
Part 24
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