Help Me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, You're My Only Ho - cont'd
(continued from part 27)
Bruck stumbled as he got out of the speeder, but quickly righted himself and waved the driver off. Qui-Gon Jinn and Kenobi were already disappearing through the doorway ahead.
He couldn’t keep up with the frantic Master’s long strides if he tried – not in the condition he was in – but he followed all the same. For a moment he thought he might lose the contents of his stomach, and paused by a waste receptacle.
Everything inside him seemed to shake, but he knew it didn’t show to those passing by him. His eyes itched unbearably, a constant reminder that he could no longer cry human tears. He rubbed them and kept walking.
He’d just seen a Jedi Master come within a hair’s breadth of losing his soul to the Dark.
A lifetime of dedication and service could have been gone in an instant. Even Bruck’s unique sensibilities had given him little warning — thank the Force it had been enough. He could still feel Qui-Gon’s roiling emotions through the Force, the smell of the Dark Side filling his senses.
Little gods, he felt sick.
He would find Qui-Gon and help him if he could. Then he could rest.
It took all Qui-Gon’s remaining self-control not to scream, or punch the wall. He sat quietly enough outside the treatment room where Obi-Wan had been taken, forearms resting on his knees – his thunderous expression warning enough to those who passed by that he was in no mood for talk.
He looked at his hands. They were large and capable, callused and strong. Bruised and smeared with blood. Blood had gotten in the lines on his hands and dried there. His knuckles were bruised but not cut; the blood on them was not his. He didn’t even know the name of the man he’d beaten unconscious, and could not bring himself to care.
These very hands, now drooping between his knees, had nearly beaten a man to death — perhaps he was dying even now, from a brain injury Qui-Gon had inflicted. The possibility should have been more important to him, but he felt only ambivalence.
He turned his hands palm up. There was blood there, too. Obi-Wan’s blood, outlining the ridges of his fingerprints – the remnants of a gentle touch to his lover’s face.
The rage roiled up inside him again, only this time he hid his face in those bloody hands and wept.
After a moment, he felt a cool hand on his back and a warm, peaceful presence by his side. The touch calmed him, but he did not look up. He didn’t have to; he knew it was Chun.
“He will be well,” the young Knight said calmly. “It looked worse than it was.”
“How do you know that?” Qui-Gon’s voice sounded weak and petulant in his ears. Chun did not answer, but unhooked a lightsaber from his belt. Qui-Gon knew it was not Chun’s, but his own.
“Hold it for me,” Qui-Gon whispered. “Just a bit longer.”
Chun returned it to his belt. “As you wish, Master Jinn.”
There it was – the subtle reminder of his rank. He was a Jedi Master. A Jedi Master who had broken the Code by falling in love and who had nearly beaten a man to death in rage, but still a Jedi. He had a duty to the Light, and always would, even if he left the Order.
“He loves you.” Chun’s voice was quiet, as if the Knight were also shaken by the events of the last hour. “It is difficult for him to trust. Overcoming the hurts between you will not be easy, but you must do it, Qui-Gon. For both your sakes.”
Qui-Gon turned on Chun then, feeling the unfocused rage surge like a fire in his veins. “How is it that you think you know so much about him?”
Chun bowed his head and rubbed at the back of his neck as he spoke. “Kenobi and I are connected. I can’t explain it – I am only just beginning to understand it myself.”
“The way you’re connected with Xan?” Qui-Gon heard the jealousy in his voice and it shamed him. What happened between Bruck and Obi-Wan on the way to Lentrebi Prime had been a matter of necessity, not love. Bruck answered the question, diplomatically ignoring the implication.
“No. It’s older, and less... personal.” Bruck seemed like he was about to say something else when his face changed. The calm expression was replaced by a grimace of pain.
“Are you well?” Qui-Gon said, watching as Bruck staggered to his feet and turned as if to leave. “Should I get a Healer?”
Chun shook his head. “I’m fine. I just need to go. Rest.”
It was a lie and Qui-Gon knew it. “Is it Xan?”
The Knight paused in the doorway, giving Qui-Gon a weary smile over his shoulder. “May the Force be with you.”
“And also with you,” Qui-Gon answered, knowing he could not follow Chun, even for the sake of Xan. For good or ill, he belonged here, with Obi-Wan.
Bruck felt it when Xanatos left Coruscant; through whatever shielding Xan had managed, he felt the sudden distance in their bond, the darkness closing in.
Soon he was in waking meditation, just as he had been before the conflict at Kenobi’s rooms, seeking guidance. He had learned to exist in the Place Between, not only in meditation, but also in waking life. This made him more Lentrebi than human, but his motives were entirely human.
He had seen something like the path Xanatos was on in previous meditations, and every time he had found a path that would avert the most likely outcome. Now his choices had dwindled to the tiniest of threads.
He headed for the berth where his small Lentrebi craft had been stored, and hoped there would be time enough to see this through.
Bail felt utterly ridiculous when the authorities had arrived, standing there with two blasters at his feet and one ready in his hands. The men inside had not stirred, but he dared not let his guard down.
So the Senate District Authority officers were greeted by the sight of the newly infamous Senator guarding three unconscious beings – any one of whom appeared capable of snapping him in half without breaking a sweat.
“Thank the gods you’re here,” he said, and while he tried to explain what had happened, guards summarily whisked the prisoners away to a medical facility.
He’d been over his account of events three times before Lahns returned with his speeder and corroborated the story. Bail had seen the skepticism on their faces as he tried to explain that he had not personally been involved in the fracas, but had brought the two Jedi who had rescued the inhabitant of these rooms from the three ruffians and taken him to the Temple Healers’ Dome. They had again been surprised when he told them who the victim was, and his occupation. He could actually see the moment when their assumptions clicked into place, but he didn’t mind.
They were mostly right, anyway.
As soon as they had finished questioning him, he commed the Temple for an update on Kenobi’s condition. The Healer there told him Kenobi would recover fully, that the injuries had been less severe than they appeared.
Bail heaved a sigh of relief and decided it would be best if he did not attempt to see Kenobi right away. The look on Master Jinn’s face as he carried Kenobi – aside from being one of the most terrifying things he had ever seen – had been enough to ensure him that Kenobi would be well cared for. Maybe even loved, which Bail had to admit was not something he could offer.
Kenobi was beautiful (or at least he had been), and Bail would always owe him an enormous debt of gratitude. But the fierce love in Master Jinn’s eyes was something he could not rival – at least not where Kenobi was concerned.
Lahns took Bail back to his rooms, where he showered and changed before attending to what seemed like a billion messages left on his private comm. Most were Coruscanti news organizations, who should not have had his private code, but a few were from Alderaan.
None of them were from his father, which was probably a blessing. After a moment’s hesitation, he deleted everything. He felt certain it would fill up again before latemeal.
Before he could walk away it began chiming again, and he shut down the chime.
It had been a long day, but it was not over yet.
Orima Durante dragged the injured Ichthilin, Shalki, toward the pressure doors which separated the Kleranoms from the portion of the Malum IV base where he intended to stay. There had not been quite enough among his crew for all the Kleranoms to successfully lay their eggs.
He needed as many of them to deposit their eggs as possible, because a female Kleranom with unlaid eggs became three times as aggressive as usual. Orima had some doubts about whether the area where they were held could confine them, if that happened. After they laid their eggs, they died, which was a much more convenient state for them to be in when the Sith sent someone to collect the samples.
He hoped that would be soon.
The Ichthilin made the sharp, clacking noises of his race, but Orima wasn’t wearing a translator. He just assumed it was saying things like, “What are you doing?” and “Please don’t hurt me.” Wasn’t that what beings in that position always said, whatever their species?
He chose a place with two pressure doors forming an airlock. Through the small window, the airlock itself appeared free of Kleranoms, so he opened the near door and threw in the Ichthilin.
“You had a good run, but I require your services elsewhere,” he said as he kicked the fish-creature away from the lowering door. He was trying to crawl out and the door closed on his forelimb, breaking it so thoroughly that the white ooze his kind used for blood squirted all over the deck, and Orima.
He could hear it screaming, but the sound gave him no satisfaction. It would draw the remaining Kleranoms, and that was good, but the fact that he could hear it meant that the door had not closed properly. Once he opened the other door, he would have to leave it open so a Kleranom or two could make use of his last pathetic crewmember.
And that meant one less layer of protection between the remaining crazed Kleranoms and himself. There should only be one or two left after Shalki completed his final assignment, but Orima still didn’t like it.
He retreated to the very center of the hub to comm the Sith. Hopefully, he would be pleased to know that he had found replacements for the missing captives. That might be enough to save his skin. The substitutes were not Force-sensitive, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all.
Qui-Gon wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a Healer he did not know by name tapped him on the shoulder. He had been staring at his hands. He’d washed off the blood at some point, though he scarcely remembered doing it.
“You can see him now,” the Healer said. “He wasn’t badly injured, but we put him in bacta to help heal the lacerations.”
“He’s out now?” Qui-Gon didn’t know if he could stand to see Obi-Wan floating unconscious in that viscous, red fluid.
The Healer nodded and left quietly. Qui-Gon approached the door, hands trembling. Obi-Wan might send him away; after all, it was Qui-Gon’s fault he’d left the Temple. In a moment he would know, for good or ill.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Obi-Wan lay there, eyes open but heavy-lidded. The Healers had done their magic to reduce the swelling, but the bruises were still evident – red, blue and greenish splotches covered his face and neck. His hair was stiff and dark with dried bacta.
The corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth quirked in a grin. “My hero.”
Qui-Gon stood frozen in place, for a moment unable to move or speak. When he finally went into motion, he rushed to Obi-Wan’s bedside in two quick strides. He fell unselfconsciously to his knees by the bed, and when Obi-Wan reached for him, Qui-Gon took his hand and kissed it. “Can you forgive me?”
Obi-Wan shifted in the bed, as if trying to get a better look at him. A deep line appeared between his brows. “What in the seven hells are you on about?”
“I didn’t believe you,” Qui-Gon said. “I was a blind fool — I pushed you away.”
Obi-Wan’s expression went from one of puzzlement to something unreadable. A mask. “Oh. That.”
“I was a fool. I should have believed you,” Qui-Gon said. “I’ve been searching for you ever since you left.”
“Well.” Obi-Wan looked at his other hand, which lay in his lap. “I’m grateful you found me.” He turned a wary look in Qui-Gon’s direction. “Could I have my hand back? And please get up off the floor.”
“My apologies.” Qui-Gon stood and let go of his hand, though it pained him to lose that little bit of contact. It would take time to rebuild something between them; he knew that, but felt disappointed all the same. “I should let you rest.”
He turned to go.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “There’s a chair. I imagine it is somewhat more comfortable than the floor.”
Qui-Gon paused and took in the image of the man before him – flesh mottled with bruises and newly healed cuts, eyes sunken and wary, almost haunted. The lovely, cultured voice remained the same, but the words had a distance in them.
He didn’t know what else he could do, so he sat in the chair. Obi-Wan wasn’t looking at him.
“I don’t blame you, you know.” He spoke softly but with little emotion. “For Xanatos, and everything.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s just like you to blame yourself for not believing me, after all the lies I told.”
“But we had gotten past that, hadn’t we? As your lover I should have-” He couldn’t say more, though he tried for a moment – his voice had simply stopped, replaced by silent tears.
As a Jedi, Qui-Gon had been taught there was no shame in emotion as long as it did not master you, but he felt shame. Shame for his tears, and shame for his actions. “If I hadn’t driven you away-”
“Tell me you’re not going to blame yourself for this,” Obi-Wan said, indicating his current appearance with a broad gesture. “It was my choice to leave. Blame yourself, blame Xanatos. I know! Blame my parents -- they sold me to Cragin in the first place. Even I had no choice in that.” He sighed, leaning back into the pillow. “What’s done is done.”
“You’re right,” Qui-Gon whispered. “But when I saw you like that, I…”
Obi-Wan rested his left hand gently on Qui-Gon’s bowed head. It felt oddly stiff and heavy. Qui-Gon straightened up and saw that three of his fingers were splinted with delicate bone-growth stimulators. They’d broken his fingers. A spasm of fresh rage washed through him, and he tried to release it to the Force. Obi-Wan moved the hand out of sight under the sheet.
“That’s nothing,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”
“Have you?”
“Oh, definitely,” Obi-Wan said nonchalantly. “Worse injuries, worse customers – not that I’m not grateful for the rescue-”
“Those men paid you?”
Obi-Wan hesitated. “Well, no. I only meant-”
“Those were not customers, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said. “They were sadists of the worst kind. They hurt you. They were forcing you.”
“Can you rape a whore?” Obi-Wan had never sounded so flat and emotionless. It chilled Qui-Gon’s blood to hear it. “I mean, sometimes there’s money and sometimes there’s not. Sometimes it’s nice and sometimes… not.” His hands twitched. “I never saw a credit of what I made for Cragin the whole time I was there. It all runs together.”
Qui-Gon took a deep breath and tried again to release his anger to the Force. How could Obi-Wan possibly rationalize what was done to him? “If you didn’t want it, it was rape.”
Obi-Wan was already shaking his head. “It’s not that simple. I’m not some helpless victim. You can’t agree to be raped. If I agreed to it-”
“You did not agree to this. You were shot with a blaster – that does not equal agreement.”
Obi-Wan stared at his hands. “I’ve agreed to things I hated as much, or nearly so. Bacta takes care of the scars. Did I ever tell you a Gamorrean nearly cut off my left nipple, once? Some people get off on the strangest-”
“Obi-Wan-” Qui-Gon touched his shoulder, and Obi-Wan flinched away.
“Don’t touch me,” he said. “Not when I don’t see it coming, okay?”
Qui-Gon nodded. Obi-Wan reached out and took hold of his wrist and placed Qui-Gon’s palm against his face. “I do want you to touch me, Qui-Gon.”
Obi-Wan smiled up at him, almost shyly, and licked his lips.
“Maybe what you want isn’t what you need,” Qui-Gon whispered. Unsure of what he should do, he asked the question that had been bothering him. “Who were those men?”
Obi-Wan released his hand. For a moment Qui-Gon thought he wouldn’t answer.
“I only knew one of them. The one you fought was called Larkin. He was one of the Chancellor’s private guards, whom I was supposedly contracted to entertain. At least, that’s what I was told.” His eyes lowered. “I’d just got the lot of them out this morning, but Larkin hadn’t wanted to go. There was a scuffle and he broke his wrist, evidently. I guess he found some help and came back.” He shook his head, as if that would make the memory go away. “How did you find me?”
“Senator Organa’s driver saw blast marks on the door.”
Obi-Wan leaned back against his pillow, eyes glazed, remembering. He spoke softly. “When they landed, I thought it was Bail coming for me and went out to meet him. I tried to fight, but Larkin got me with the blaster.” He wriggled against the bed. “Bacta’s great for blaster burns, too.”
“I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan.”
“Don’t be,” he said. He took Qui-Gon’s hand again. “You got me out of there before… Did you know Larkin said he was going to blind me?” His voice broke, but he didn’t stop. “He kept cutting me, telling me I wouldn’t be fit for the stalls in the lower levels when he was finished with me. Then he put the blade up to my eyes. His fingers were so bloody… it was my blood.”
He wept then, and let Qui-Gon held him, soothing him as best he was able. The tears passed quickly.
“It wasn’t so bad,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I knew you were coming.”
Guilt twisted in Qui-Gon’s chest. Even though he knew he had done his best, he had still failed Obi-Wan. He gently stroked Obi-Wan’s bacta-stiffened hair, wanting to believe his ordeal had been lessened by the knowledge that rescue was imminent. “How could you have known?”
Obi-Wan pressed his cheek against Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “You’ll think I’m insane.”
Qui-Gon pulled back to look his lover in the eyes, lifting a hand to stroke Obi-Wan’s cheek. “Tell me.”
“Very well. Just remember I had taken a few blows to the head just prior.” Obi-Wan grinned and stared into the light above his bed. “There was a voice in my head saying, ‘We’re coming, Qui-Gon is coming,’ over and over. I think it was Bruck – he was with you, right? I thought I was losing it, but when you came I just assumed it was something you Jedi do.”
Qui-Gon paused to absorb this. “No. Bonded Jedi, maybe. Bruck is uniquely talented, but I should think that even he would only be able to communicate like that through a very strong bond.” Not a Force bond, surely. What had he called the Lentrebi bonds, lines of fate?
“Mystical voices notwithstanding, I knew you were coming.” Obi-Wan’s voice trailed to a whisper. “I could feel it.”
Now Qui-Gon could feel it, too, as the nascent lover’s bond between them opened, and Obi-Wan’s light began to warm his darkened soul.
Obi-Wan looked at him, breathless. “That’s new.”
“It’s a lover’s bond,” Qui-Gon whispered. “I suspect it has been growing between us for some time, whether we acknowledged it or not.”
“Lover’s bond?” The love seemed to flow between them, soothing and sweet.
“Yes, my Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon kissed him tenderly, mindful of his recent injuries. “I should have told you long ago.”
“It’s… lovely.”
Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan fading into sleep and eased him back onto the pillow, his hand still knotted in Qui-Gon’s tunics.
“Rest now,” he said softly. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
Obi-Wan muttered something unintelligible as sleep gripped him, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help but smile. He needed the rest.
So did Qui-Gon. He pulled the chair closer to the bed and rested his head near Obi-Wan’s hand. He didn’t want to sleep, for fear that upon waking he’d find it had been a dream and Obi-Wan was still lost to him.
The ship Palpatine had arranged for Xanatos to take to Malum IV was fast – extraordinarily so – but the trip still took longer than he had hoped. He didn’t want to think about what he was about to do, or what had happened to him at the hands of Orima Durante. His mechanical hand closed around the lightsaber hanging from his belt, while he told himself it was justice he was after, not revenge.
But if that were true, then why had he felt the need to shield his thoughts and feelings from Bruck? Skulking off like this would only arouse Bruck’s fears once he realized that he’d gone. Despite his precautions, Xanatos knew Bruck would discover his ruse before he could get back to Coruscant.
Xanatos hoped his lover would understand why he needed to do this – why he must be the one to capture Durante. This was the only way he would ever be able to look himself in the eye again. Once Durante was in the hands of the authorities, Xanatos could say that he had won in the end, despite all he had suffered.
He needed to win, to prove himself. Xanatos needed that happy ending. He hoped he’d get the chance to face down some of Durante’s henchmen as well.
Xanatos heard the chime on the craft’s navicomputer indicating his arrival just seconds before it dropped out of hyperspace. The barren rock that was Malum IV appeared before him, and he began landing procedures. He was careful to remain out of sensor range, even though he suspected his craft was too small and well-cloaked to register on the pre-fabricated base’s equipment.
He used a breather to get to the entrance the plans suggested would be the least used, carrying an extra for the prisoner he would have with him on his return to the ship. The hatches opened easily with the manufacturer’s codes Palpatine had given him, and soon he was in a long corridor. The space was dark, illumined only by distant red emergency lighting. Debris littered the floor.
Xanatos ignited his lightsaber, both for the light it cast and the reassuring buzz of it. Let the ruffians in Durante’s employ come after him now – then they’d see what a Jedi could do when he wasn’t strapped to a table and drugged out of his mind.
He pushed these thoughts away and focused on the moment. His lightsaber showed him a scene of devastation which increased as he walked toward the base’s hub. If he hadn’t seen the base from the outside, he might have assumed it had crashed. Bits of machinery had been torn out of the walls and thrown every which way; some hanging wires sparked against each other in the distance.
That was not all; there were shapes. Hulking, irregular shapes that he had first taken to be displaced or broken furniture. There were cages – doors open but mostly intact – and he soon realized that the hulking shapes were the forms of dead Kleranoms. Some had been violently dismembered, while others merely slumped over as if asleep.
But they weren’t asleep – they were dead. Spent, having reached the end of their life cycle. He knew this when he encountered the first of Durante’s crew.
Xanatos knew the face, frozen now in a rictus of horror. He was one of the ones who had broken Xanatos’ fingers to rouse him when he lost consciousness during his time as Orima’s captive. Warily, he leaned in and felt for a pulse.
The man was alive. Xanatos looked more closely and saw the mark of a Kleranom sting on his neck. Paralyzed, then. Xanatos turned to continue his search for Durante, but saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The body had moved.
Xanatos had his ’saber at the man’s throat, but the face had not changed. Then, in the glow of his lightsaber he saw the source of the fleeting movement – hundreds of Kleranom eggs had been deposited in the man’s gut. They were faintly visible under the skin, a mass of roundish lumps, filling his torso. One of them wriggled, the first to hatch.
He leaned down and looked once more into the living man’s eyes. Xanatos knew he could give the man a quick death with a flick of his wrist. He leaned in even closer, and smiled.
“Do you like that?” He repeated the only words he had ever heard this particular waste of skin say. “Does it feel good?”
A heat and tingling spread through Xanatos’ body; his smile never faltered as he turned away, leaving the hatchlings to their meal.
Many light years away, a robed figure sat in a darkened room, smiling. A light on the commdesk before him blinked – a message from Malum IV. One bony finger caressed the air, and the light went out.
Part 29
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