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(continued from part 4)
Qui-Gon held Knight Chun firmly as he entered the Healers' Dome. The young man groaned and seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness. He'd commed Healer Tand as he left the ashes of Master Leem's pyre, so he could be ready. The Force near Chun felt odd to Qui-Gon, as if the air around the young man had gone thick with mist. It made him a bit light-headed.
As soon as they entered the Mind Healer's section of the Dome, Healer Tand motioned him through. "This way. Quickly."
Qui-Gon felt it when he passed into the Force-shielded room, and so did Knight Chun. He trembled in Qui-Gon's arms, eyes opening wide.
"You have to get away from me," Chun whispered. "Sith ... the Sith---"
"Relax, Knight Chun," Tand said as he laid a hypo spray against the young man's neck.
"N-no." Chun clutched at Qui-Gon as he lowered the young man to the bed.
Tand was already reloading the hypo spray. "He's fighting the sedative."
Brown hands clutched Qiu-Gon's tunics, pulling him closer. Bruck's usually cool, pale eyes seemed clouded and wild. "Xan's in danger."
Tand pressed the hypo spray again. Bruck did not resist as the Healer moved to restrain him, but he kept his eyes focused on Qui-Gon, and struggled to speak. "Make them call him back before ... " Bruck's eyelids drooped, obscuring most of his pale eyes, but still he struggled to speak. "Hurt him ... "
Tears dripped from the corners of the young man's eyes, even as his body went limp from the sedative.
Qui-Gon stepped back, shaken. The odd sensation in the Force around the young Knight had not diminished with his drugged slumber.
"Thank you, Master Jinn." Tand pushed a lock of wild red hair behind his ear as he deftly attached a monitoring device to his patient's quiescent form. "We should leave this room immediately."
"Aren't you going to help him?"
"Whatever this is may be dangerous to other Force sensitives. Can't you feel it?" The Healer urged Qui-Gon toward the door. "Every Force-shielded room has an associated monitoring room. We'll study his condition from there and decide on a course of action. Thank you for your help."
Tand closed the door behind them and rushed off. Qui-Gon wandered back the way he had come, feeling dizzy and nauseated. The odd sensation he'd experienced in Knight Chun's presence lifted gradually. Around the next corner, he found Kenobi parting company with Healer Phol. The young man's face was covered in small, red welts.
"Don't scratch!" Phol slapped Kenobi's hand away from his cheek. "Put some of this in a bath and soak. Should ease the itching. Ah, Master Jinn! See to it that this young man doesn't scratch, and the irritation should be gone by morning. May the Force be with you!"
With that, she turned and disappeared down another passage, leaving Qui-Gon and Kenobi staring at each other. Qui-Gon smirked, not even trying to hide his amusement at the picture Kenobi made, irate and covered with spots.
"Funny, is it? Felt like being stung by a swarm of ganets."
Qui-Gon sobered. "But nothing serious, I hope?"
"Just an allergic reaction of some sort, though there was no trace of foreign stubstances." Kenobi made a move to scratch, but stopped himself, wincing. "Bastard do this to me with the Force?"
"Seems likely, though I've never heard of anything like it," Qui-Gon answered. "Don't be too hard on Knight Chun. Whatever's wrong with him is much worse than anything he did to you."
Kenobi nodded. "Can we go back to your quarters now? I'd really like to have a soak." He shook the bottle of medicine Healer Phol had given him.
"Of course. Can you find your way back on your own? I need to talk to someone."
Kenobi cocked his head to the side, obviously curious about the Master's business, or else suspicious of being left to his own devices. "I'll see you there."
"I'll bring something to eat from the refectory."
Kenobi gave a curt nod and left. Qui-Gon hoped he would not regret leaving Kenobi unsupervised, but he was fairly certain the young man had had enough excitement for one day.
When Qui-Gon finally entered his quarters some time later, he was pleased to find that Kenobi had been true to his word. The door controls were set to allow Kenobi into the quarters, but wouldn't open for him from the inside. The timecode for his entrance showed that he had come directly from the Healer's Dome. But why would he want to loiter about the Temple with half the Padawans and initiates gawking at him? If the Council hadn't insisted on these security measures, Qui-Gon would have done away with them after the day's events. However, he didn't want to do anything else to annoy the Council for at least a fortnight, discretion being the better part of valor.
That he'd been insistent enough to approach the council tonight had more to do with Knight Chun's oddly passionate insistence than with any concern for his own standing. Master Yoda and Master Windu were both rather brusque, refusing to discuss Xanatos' mission and implying that he must really need a sabbatical if he seriously believed the fever dreams of an ailing Knight held portents for his former Padawan.
Master Windu even went so far as to suggest that his past dalliance with Xanatos could be seen as unhealthy, especially if he kept jumping at shadows of worry. "That is the very reason the Order forbids attachments, Master Jinn."
It had sounded almost like a threat of censure. It probably was. Maybe Xan was right about Master Windu's bowel problems.
In any case, all he could do now was to meditate and see that he and Kenobi ate their refectory meals before they went cold.
He called out, but Kenobi didn't answer. He could feel the other man's presence in the refresher, so he knew his charge had not tricked him by opening he door to the quarters and then not entering. He put the food down and walked to the 'fresher door. He knocked.
"Kenobi! I brought food!" Qui-Gon knew the young man hadn't eaten much today, and suspected he'd be ravenous, but there was still no answer. He opened the door.
The lights were on at thirty percent; the bath was filled with placid water, but he didn't see Kenobi. The situation only puzzled him for a moment. In the initial dimness, he hadn't seen the bit of clear tubing hanging over the side of the bath.
Kenobi had immersed himself in the medicinal water, and was breathing through the tube. Qui-Gon moved closer and covered the tubing with his thumb. Two seconds later, Kenobi's head burst up from the water, sputtering.
"Bastard!"
"You didn't hear me when I called to you."
"Of course I didn't," Kenobi said, still indignant. "My fucking ears were full."
"Sorry." Qui-Gon did feel bad for giving the fellow a fright, but he found it hard not to smile when he realized the medicine had tinted both the water and Kenobi slightly purple. "Was immersion really necessary?"
"My face got the worst of it, whatever it was." Kenobi glared at him, purple water dripping from the tip of his nose. "If you have a better idea, feel free to correct my technique."
"No, I'm actually impressed. Very practical."
"Did you barge in here intending to scare me, or did you just want to gawk?"
The tinted water and the dim lights obscured most of Kenobi's body, but Qui-Gon was suddenly aware the younger man was naked. He knew that the young body hidden in the shadows would be something to behold, even purple. His mouth went dry. "I, um, brought food."
The mention of food evidently earned him Kenobi's immediate forgiveness and complete interest. "Oh, fantastic! Where is it? I could eat a bantha."
"It's waiting for us on the table." Qui-Gon made a move toward the door.
"Could you bring it to me?" Kenobi lowered his eyes. "The itching really is miserable, and this stuff helps quite a lot."
Qui-Gon realized that Kenobi expected him to refuse, or even mock him. He nodded and left, returning with both their servings a moment later.
"I hope you don't mind if I join you," he said, sitting carefully on the 'fresher floor. "I usually eat alone, but it's terribly dull."
Kenobi's only answer was a brief smile before he tucked in to the meal. They ate in silence, but Qui-Gon did not find it awkward. Kenobi ate his meal and was soon eyeing the uneaten portion of Qui-Gon's.
"You may have it, if you like," Qui-Gon said, proffering the container. Kenobi accepted, allowing his fingers to touch Qui-Gon's hand as he took the food. He ate it slowly, making the act as sensual as possible, keeping eye contact with Qui-Gon the entire time. Though he knew what Kenobi was doing, it never occurred to him that he should look away.
His meal finished, Kenobi licked his fingers with deliberate slowness, all the way to the knuckle.
"Would you like to join me, Master Jinn?"
Kenobi's voice broke the trance that had immobilized Qui-Gon during the erotic display. "Pardon?"
"Get in here with me." Kenobi's voice was breathy, seductive. The water's getting cool. I bet you could keep me warm."
"I ... " Qui-Gon's mouth was suddenly numb; he knew what he should say, but found himself unable to say it.
"You could pretend I'm a saurid -- I'm already purple." Kenobi leaned back in the water and began to undulate in a manner quite unlike a saurid, for which Qui-Gon was unconsciously grateful. The young man's pale body seemed to glow in waves as parts of him came closer to the surface of the tinted water, then receded.
Qui-Gon scrambled to his feet and bolted out of the 'fresher, Kenobi's laughter ringing in his ears.
Xanatos drank slowly, careful to diffuse the effects of the intoxicant, though he thought it would be to his benefit to appear affected by it. He sometimes thought he would be better suited to work as a smuggler or pirate, rather than a Jedi Knight. Even undercover work for the Jedi was bound up in endless rules.
Everything had gone well enough so far. He'd visited a few systems, resurrecting an alias he'd used to great success on similar missions. Lairso Meenk had the reputation of a cunning and resourceful smuggler. His dealings often led him to the Rim and beyond, so he had many contacts in out-of-the way places. When things got hot, he'd disappear to some distant hideout, or so he'd let it be believed.
Truth was, Xanatos loved everything about being Lairso Meenk, from the wardrobe to the seedy cantinas he frequented. The ship was a beauty, too, small but fast. He could pilot it alone, of course, but he also enjoyed pretending to audition copilots, which was part of his cover for this mission. He'd hang around, make noises about hiring someone, then move along when he'd gathered all the gossip to be had about the rumored 'bug smuggling.'
To keep from angering any qualified job seekers, he let it be known that he was only interested in taking the youngest, most attractive hopefuls up for a test drive. His peers would wink and let him have his fun.
At least, that was the idea. The fact of the matter was that few of those interested were to his liking. Xanatos squinted through the gloom, trying out his bad-boy stare on a youngish fellow at the far side of the bar. His Meenk persona never failed to win admirers, with his tight leather leggings, boots with buckles above the knees and a pale tunic to set off his fair complexion and blue eyes. He'd added a bit of kohl to augment the lacy fringe of his jet lashes, but not enough to be obvious. It emphasized the eyes just enough to catch the kind of attention he wanted.
Mission or not, Xanatos was going to get laid. It would be consistent with his cover, but he didn't bother making excuses for his decision. Bruck had accused him of wanting to be a Jedi ascetic like his master, but nothing could be further from the truth.
The reality was that Xanatos indulged himself whenever possible. Surely the council had no idea that his affinity for undercover work was due in part to the availability of mind-altering substances and other epicurean delights that the Jedi Code would deny him on ordinary missions.
Perhaps he'd find a way to take the new Knight Chun along with him on his next mission as Captain Meenk, and lay the specter of asceticism to rest for good.
Thoughts of the white-haired young man made things low in his belly twist. He downed the remainder of his drink in one swallow, and let it hit his bloodstream without any Jedi tomfoolery to dilute its effects. He would not think of Chun now. He was trying to get laid, for Sith's sake.
The fellow at the bar finally caught his eye, and began a slow, seductive walk across the room. His hair was short, a plain curly brown with some unnatural blue thrown in for flare. The body was nothing special, especially compared to the fit musculature that constant Jedi training had afforded a certain bronzed godling that Xanatos was definitely not thinking about right now.
The fellow was healthy, slim and wearing a shirt made entirely of synthnetting. Xanatos knew from experience that the material would cut you if you pulled at it with your bare hands. Good thing he was wearing gloves.
"I'm Fawks," the fellow said as he joined Xanatos at his small table. He turned the empty chair around and rested his chin on the back of it. His eyes were a warm, unremarkable brown, but they held both intelligence and humor.
"Captain Lairso Meenk, at your service."
The man laughed, a clear, pleasant chuckle that left his full lips in an open smile. A real smile, not a cold, arrogant smirk, like ... some people.
"Are you really at my service, Captain? I don't think you know me that well."
Xanatos smiled, and was certain it was predatory. He never took his eyes off the other man -- a steady gaze could do miraculous things, Jedi persuasion aside. "I know that synthnetting is not something you wear if you expect a lengthy courtship."
Fawks fidgeted a bit, looking to the side as if surveying the bar, though Xanatos knew there was nothing over there more appealing than Captain Meenk. Fawks' profile was interesting, though.
Longish, aquiline nose, bit of a pout to the lower lip, beauty mark near the jawline that he was certain was real. The impression was one of sensuousness without a hint of discipline or control. The man looked back at Xanatos and smiled the smile of someone about to play their trump card.
"You're very direct, Meenk. I like that in a fuck." He leaned forward, close enough to kiss. "Do you have someplace we could go?"
Captain Lairso Meenk stood, tossed enough currency on the table to cover his drink, and left the cantina without glancing back to see if Fawks was following him.
He knew he was.
The hangar was only a short distance away. Captain Meenk keyed open the hatch and entered. He didn't turn until he heard the tap of lighter shoes on the deck plating behind him.
"Listen, Fawks ... " His voice was little more than a predatory growl. "You seem like a nice enough kid, but if you're still in my ship when I close the hatch, you'll do everything I tell you to do, or there will be consequences."
Xanatos could actually see it spread across Fawks' face, the knowledge of what was coming, the thrill of anticipation. The synthnetting had been a clue, of course, but it pleased him to know he could still separate a truly wanton submissive from the herd.
Fawks nodded, lowering his gaze and clasping his hands behind his back like a good boy. Xanatos reached out with a gloved hand and pinched one of Fawks' nipples through the synthnetting, giving it a twist that wrung a gasp from his new playmate.
"Last chance." Xanatos offered Fawks no assurances. He didn't promise not to scar him, and set no ground rules. Of course, he wouldn't do him any permanent damage, but Captain Meenk would never promise that up front; it was so much more fun with the uncertainty. The fear.
Yes, Xanatos loved being Captain Meenk.
Fawks swallowed hard, his face already flushed with that heady mixture of desire and terror. The hatch closed slowly.
The ship still echoed with the sound of its closing when Meenk grabbed Fawks with one gloved hand in his hair, the other knotted in the synthnetting and dragged him down the short corridor to the cargo hold. The space was mostly empty and dimly lit. The Jedi had supplied him with enough readily-tradable contraband to re-introduce Captain Meenk around his former haunts.
There was one metal container about the right size, and he bent Fawks over it. He put one hand on the back of Fawks' neck to tell him to stay put. He didn't struggle, even when Meenk drew a vibro-blade.
"Hope you weren't expecting romance." Meenk cut Fawks' leggings down the seam and pushed them aside, exposing his fine little backside. He gave each cheek a hard slap and watched the red print of his hand emerge, marking the pale skin. "Tell me you carry lube."
"Yes, Master," Fawks answered, his excitement showing in his shortness of breath. "Left pocket."
"Good boy," Meenk cooed. "You may earn your pleasure yet. Though I prefer to be called 'Captain'."
The lube turned out to be several single-use, disposable ampules of scented oil, along with several lubricated sheaths. "My, my, aren't you a little slut."
"Yes, Ma-Captain."
Meenk slipped on the sheath, squeezed the contents of one ampule between Fawk's cheeks and took him without further preparation. Fawks cried out at the intrusion, but the noises he made didn't sound pained for long. Meenk leaned over and spoke in Fawks' ear, never slowing his deep thrusting. "Am I too rough with you, slut?"
"N-no ... Captain."
"You deserve it, don't you?"
"Yes!" Fawks' cries had turned to a moaning deep in his throat. One of his hands slipped slowly out of sight, but Meenk caught his wrist in a merciless grip.
"Not until I say you can! Understand?"
Fawks shuddered with frustrated lust, but still gasped out a dutiful, "Yes, Captain."
Meenk took both Fawks' arms and crossed them behind his back, until he held both wrists in one large hand. The other hand reached down and tugged lightly at Fawks' balls in warning. "You don't want to know what happens if you come before I say you may do so."
The man beneath him trembled in response, as Meenk set about finding his own pleasure, with a will.
Xanatos rarely carried any implements used exclusively for sex play, so neither did Captain Meenk. He much preferred to improvise as he went along, and was rather proud of what he could come up with in the heat of the moment.
Fawks' synthnetting shirt had proved very useful. Meenk had left the collar and used a strip of the netting as a leash, with smaller strips used to bind him, when desired. A few odd strands bound together also made a serviceable flail.
The young man was quietly weeping at Xanatos' feet, having just finished cleaning his boots with his oh-so-talented tongue. Fawks' pale back was criss-crossed with a fine lattice of welts. His wrists were bound to his ankles, forcing him to rest his weight on his forehead and his widely-spread knees; any other position would have allowed his straining cock to come into contact with his thighs or his belly, and that wouldn't do.
"You've been a very good boy," Xanatos murmured, reaching down to stroke the sweat-damp curls of his playmate's head. "You've been very patient, and you have pleased me well."
He moved very slowly, careful not to startle Fawks, who was obviously deep in that mental place submissives go when they near the limits of their endurance. Captain Meenk touched him gently, lifting his pretty face just enough to see the surrender in his eyes. The tear-streaked face was irresistible.
Their first kiss was gentle and achingly sweet; fresh tears fell from Fawks' eyes when it ended.
"Shhhhh. There now," Xanatos whispered. "It's time for your reward."
Gently, Xanatos helped Fawks turn over so that he rested on his back, knees bent. The submissive looked up at him, something like worship in his dark eyes. Xanatos wondered if he understood how a god would feel, to be so loved and feared all at once. He drew the vibro-blade again, and Fawks whimpered.
He'd withstood many shallow cuts in tender places over the last several hours, and his breath quickened with renewed fear.
"Be still, now." Xanatos barely recognized his own voice, but then, it wasn't his voice after all, but Captain Meenk's.
Fawks obeyed. He remained utterly still, though his sobs echoed a bit more loudly against the cold metal walls of the hold. Xanatos moved between his spread legs, and carefully cut loose the synthnetting that he'd tied around the base of Fawks' cock, and the bit constricting his testicles fell away with it. Fawks let out a gasping sob of relief.
"Poor boy," the husky voice of Meenk cooed. "You've endured so much and given me so much pleasure. You've earned a handsome reward."
Xanatos moved slowly over Fawks' body, licking his wounds, gently sending a bit of force healing into them. He knew the man wouldn't notice; he was too caught up in the endorphin surge their game had brought on.
"Please ... " Fawks moaned, and Captain Meenk obliged him by engulfing his weeping cock to the root.
Fawks screamed, convulsing with sudden pleasure. Xanatos held his hips to still him, wanting to draw out the release. He swallowed around Fawks' ample erection, tasting bitter pre-come on the back of his tongue. The younger man writhed and whimpered as Xanatos worked him. He was very close when the erstwhile Captain Meenk moved away, preparing to enter his willing pet one last time.
Fawks' entrance was still quite slick from earlier use, and Xanatos' sheathed cock slipped in easily. He fell forward, letting the weight of his nude body bear down on Fawks.
"Captain, please," Fawks gasped, only to have his mouth consumed in a forceful kiss. The younger man ground against Xanatos with more force than he expected, after what he'd endured. Xanatos' pace was more leisured this time, his need less urgent, but Fawks was frantic.
When Xanatos cut the synthnetting strands that bound Fawks' wrists to his ankles, he was not prepared for the man to grasp at him so frantically, scratching down his back and buttocks. He found he liked it, and thrust harder.
Fawks' moans turned to open-mouthed cries of pleasure as he climaxed. Xanatos tumbled into his own orgasm before the last of Fawks' pleasure ebbed out of him.
He found a rag to clean himself, then gently wiped his lover's belly and between his legs. The raw look in theose dark eyes at that bit of kindness was enough to remind Xanatos that he was on a mission, that he was supposed to be Lairso Meenk, expert smuggler and Captain of the Muldare.
He dropped the rag and left the hold. When he returned in fresh clothes, Fawks was beginning to collect himself and his few shreds of clothing.
"Here," Captain Meenk said, tossing and old tunic and leggings in Fawks' lap. "They'll be big on you, but I can spare them."
Looking up at him, Fawks muttered, "Why bother?"
"I can't very well send you out there naked."
The young man looked truly confused. "Why not?"
That's when Xanatos realized that Fawks had never fought him, never said "no" never begged him to stop, not even when the vibro-blade was in play. He couldn't have known that Captain Meenk wouldn't gut him or emasculate him. He'd been bound too well to have stopped him, but he hadn't even tried to get away. Either Fawks was too innocent to know what could happen, or too jaded to care.
Xanatos wasn't betting on innocent.
Either way, the galaxy was not a safe place for people like Fawks. He looked into those large hazel eyes, shrouded with heavy lids, wondering what he could do for this man, if he could help him. He was a Jedi, after all. Wasn't he supposed to help people?
He almost burst out laughing. Perhaps he was more like his former master than he thought. What could he possibly do to keep Fawks from getting himself into dangerous situations in the future? He was a grown man, for Sith's sake. He couldn't let himself feel responsible for every pathetic creature he fucked, no matter how good a fuck it was.
"Consider it a thank you." Captain Meenk grinned out of Xanatos' face. Fawks grinned back.
"It was pretty good, wasn't it?" They shared a laugh.
"Would you like something to eat before you go?"
"Nah." Fawks dressed quickly. He had made a bundle out of his cut pants and gathered up the larger bits of synthnetting, tidying the hold.
"You don't have to do that," Meenk remarked.
Fawks shrugged as he headed for the hatch.
"Maybe we could do this again," Meenk said with his seductive smile. "Next time I come through this sector."
"Sure." Fawks nodded, looking at his shoes. "Look me up."
Xanatos opened the hatch, and let him go. He shouldn't feel guilty. Sex was a need, like any other. But, Fawks ... lacked a healthy sense of self-preservation. Odds were against his next liaison being with an undercover Jedi.
He took a few steps down the ramp and called after Fawks. "Take care of yourself, okay? Not everyone out there is as nice as I am."
Fawks turned to him, and Xanatos read regret and sadness in his hazel eyes. The young man wearing Xanatos' cast-off clothing opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out at first. He swallowed an tried again, as tear spilled own his cheek. "I-I'm sorry."
Xanatos felt a warning in the Force a second before the dart struck him. It would have been enough time to evade it if it had been aimed a little higher, but it caught him as he tried to dodge. The last thing he saw before the world went black was Fawks collapsing in front of him, with a blue dart stuck in his neck and a shocked look on his face.
Bruck Chun was never alone, even in the most Force-shielded room in the Healers’ Dome.
Not even in his own head.
The darkness was with him, always. Some part of him was aware of where he was, or rather, where his quiescent body lay, but mostly he was somewhere else. It was cold and dark, but not empty. He heard the dry rustling of leaves, the moan of wind. The Sith was with him, the one he’d killed. Bruck could feel its presence slipping through his mind like oil, tainting what it touched.
The visions came, bursting like bubbles in his awareness. Dreams of darkness and pain. Sometimes it was a flash of the Jedi Temple reduced to a smoking ruin. Other times he saw his lover, mutilated and bloody, his spirit still lingering in the lump of meat that had once been so beautiful.
Bruck tried to scream through his paralyzed throat.
“You also linger in useless flesh, Jedi pup.” The rasp of a voice came through the darkened wood where he sat in his dreams. “Why don’t you get up? Go tell them of your visions. Change their fates.”
That was exactly what he had been trying to do for he knew not how long, and the creature must know this. The hateful, taunting voice laughed at him. “I could never have devised a punishment for you more perfect than this. To see the fall of the Jedi through your dreams and be powerless to stop it.”
The laughter echoed through Bruck’s dream wood until he could bear it no longer.
“I killed you! You’re dead. Leave me be!” The scream had no true voice, but it had as much substance as anything in the nightmare darkness where he wandered. It echoed through the phantom trees.
The silence following his words lasted a moment before the Sith daemon spoke again. “You killed me. And I shall never leave you.”
The laughter resumed in a deeper tone that blended with the moaning of trees as they bent in a wind Bruck could not feel. He huddled at the foot of a tree, hands pressed to his ears. He couldn’t block out the noise, but something was different.
There was light. The bark of the tree seemed to glow with it, pale and dim, but there. He clutched at it and wept for his Master, his lover, the Order, but mostly for himself.
Qui-Gon watched the projection of Knight Chun while Healer Tand went over the data streams provided by the med droid monitors that also sent the image.
“His neurological function seems to be fine.” The Healer did not sound pleased by that information. “There’s no sign of anything that could be responsible for his seizures, or even any evidence that they occurred.”
“That’s bad?” Qui-Gon turned his attention to the Healer for the first time since he’d entered the monitoring room.
“Yes and no. It’s good that he is intact, but this data gives me nothing to work with. I haven’t a clue what is wrong here.” Tand rubbed his eyes and slumped a little. “It makes no sense.”
“What about his presence in the Force?”
“That’s what doesn’t make sense! He’s been dosed with Force-suppressants – enough to put Master Yoda in a coma – and still his aura grows.” Tand pointed to his data reader, at the latest readings from the med droid in Chun’s Force-shielded room. “Yet his midichlorian count has not changed. He’s simply not a powerful enough Jedi to project an aura like that.”
Qui-Gon looked back at the image of the young man. His bronze skin was ashen, lost in a sea of crisp white linen. Knight Chun seemed rather small, strapped onto the bed. “Why is he restrained?”
“If we don’t secure him, he removes the monitoring devices and attempts to leave.”
Qui-Gon sighed. “Understandable, I suppose.”
“No, it isn’t.” Tand sounded irritated. “He does all this without regaining consciousness, at least until he pulls off the monitors. He never opens his eyes or resists the droids when they come at him with a hypospray.” Tand dropped the data reader none too softly. “If he’s NOT conscious, then how can his movements be so coordinated? Look at this.”
Qui-Gon obeyed as Tand called up a holo of Chun’s last escape attempt. He moved like someone aware of his surroundings. He sat up, pulled the monitoring strips off of his body, stood and moved to the door. He almost succeeded in opening it before the med droid injected him with a sedative and placed him back on the bed.
“But if he was indeed conscious, he could have easily evaded or disabled the med droid.” Tand rubbed his eyes again. “Bruck Chun is healthy and young. All of his records indicate that he is as strong-willed and serious-minded as any Jedi. What is happening to him?”
The Healer was not really asking Qui-Gon for answers, but one sprang to the Jedi Master’s lips before he thought better of it. “Could some outside force be influencing him?”
Tand turned a surprised look in Qui-Gon’s direction.
“I don’t see how. Mind-altering drugs and those used to increase suggestibility were the first substances I scanned for. It would have taken massive doses or an extended period of treatment to overcome his will this thoroughly. It would leave traces…”
Qui-Gon left the healer to his musings, while he merely stared at the image of the young man who seemed to be sleeping, but wasn’t. Something… something was going on there, Qui-Gon could feel it.
“I assume you’ve done a complete psychic examination?”
Tand’s look turned hard. “You assume the opposite, you mean.”
Qui-Gon left his hands tucked into his sleeves and stood very still, the model of Jedi serenity. One of the oldest diplomatic tricks in his arsenal. Say nothing and let the person’s conscience make the accusation. Tand took the bait.
“I couldn’t risk sending anyone in to read him when we don’t know what he’s capable of doing to them in this state!” Tand was angry, but mostly at himself. Frustrated. “You saw what he did to the prostitute-“
“Kenobi.”
“-but can you tell me how it was done? None of us has the least idea how a simple Force attack could produce a rash.”
“It was not a simple Force attack.” Qui-Gon realized the truth as he spoke. “I was there; it was…different.”
“’Different’ doesn’t help me, Master Jinn. How can I assess the risk to those treating him, if I don’t know what he is capable of?”
“How can you know what he’s capable of if you don’t examine him?”
Healer Tand sighed. “He was exposed to a Sith, for Force’s sake. Quite a feat, since we’ve been under the impression that the Sith have been extinct for centuries. Then there is the Lentrebi factor. I have people scouring the archives for anything they can find regarding either the Sith or Lentrebi-human bonds. Give them time, Qui-Gon. Chun is stable. We can afford to wait.”
Qui-Gon looked at the image of Knight Chun again. He felt something, he was certain of it. Something… different. As he watched, light glinted from a tear as it slipped from Bruck’s closed eye into the white hair at his temple. The Healer followed Qui-Gon’s gaze.
“That’s just a reflex – a reaction to the sedatives we’ve given him,” Tand said. “Makes the eyes water. I can assure you he is not in any pain.”
Qui-Gon bowed, no more than a slight inclination of his head in Tand’s direction, and left the room. He’d keep his opinions to himself, for now.
On the way back to his quarters, he had time to consider what a waste of resources it was to have an experienced Master, such as himself, bound to the Temple indefinitely. Nothing to do but brood on the vague prophecies of an ailing young Knight and what they might mean for his former Padawan’s mission. And what of Kenobi?
Their star witness to the Kleranom smuggling was making his life unnecessarily complicated. He felt awkward in his quarters, where the young man’s eyes seemed to follow him everywhere. Kenobi hadn’t spoken to him since the incident in the fresher. Not a single word. To be fair, Qui-Gon admitted he had not spoken to Kenobi either. Hadn’t the little imp humiliated him enough?
As uncomfortable as his quarters had become, Qui-Gon also felt guilty when he left Kenobi there alone. He wasn’t allowed to leave Qui-Gon’s rooms without supervision. Qui-Gon supposed that was just as well, considering the reception his fellow Jedi had given the young man. Even if he hadn’t been Force-sensitive, he could not have taken their whisperings for anything except the gossip they were. But Kenobi was extraordinarily Force-sensitive, and Qui-Gon wondered if the young man could read him sometimes, even through his shielding. It was an uncomfortable thought.
He breathed deeply before palming open the door. He was a Jedi Master and a skilled diplomat, surely he could handle a bit of awkwardness. He possessed the skills necessary to put his guest at ease. Qui-Gon composed himself and entered.
Sounds of things being picked up and moved around and cupboards opening and closing came from the food prep area. Qui-Gon heard the door to the cooling unit slam shut and angry footsteps coming in his direction. He had a moment to consider leaving his quarters again, but couldn’t bring himself to be so cowardly. The Kenobi situation had to be dealt with, and he might as well face the moment.
“Do the Jedi make a habit of starving their prisoners?” Kenobi glowered at the Jedi, lips pressed together and chin thrust out at a defiant angle. “There isn’t a bit of food in this place fit to feed a mynock.”
“My apologies,” Qui-Gon said. “I do not usually take a morning meal, but it was thoughtless of me not to consider your needs. Shall we go to the refectory?”
“I’d rather not.”
Of course not, Qui-Gon thought, berating himself for not realizing it sooner. “Would you like for me to have a meal brought here?”
“I would like to be afforded the courtesy having something useful to do. I had hoped to make a meal for us, but no .” Kenobi threw his hands up in disgust. “I have some skill when it comes to preparing food, Master Jinn, but I doubt even a Jedi could make a decent meal of tea leaves, a bottle of oil and the lonely, shriveled tuber I found in the cooling unit.”
Qui-Gon winced to hear of the state of his food stores, but knew it must be true. He couldn’t remember the last time a meal had been prepared in his rooms. Perhaps the last time Xan had visited? “I — ”
“You mean to drive me barking mad, don’t you?”
“Certainly n—“
“Locked away with nothing to do and no food! The Senate wants to know about Orima and all that? I’ll have thing or two to say about how Jedi treat their guests, as well.”
“I have been careless—“
“And the way they look at me when I do leave these rooms…” Kenobi trailed off and slumped into a chair. He sat for a moment, not looking at Qui-Gon. The Jedi Master was at a loss for words. What could he possibly say? He was very disappointed in his fellow Jedi, knowing how their whispers and stares had hurt the young man even though he had affected ambivalence for the most part. Kenobi sighed heavily and spoke in a voice so quiet Qui-Gon strained to hear it.
“I am grateful for your kindness, Master Jinn. You have never treated me as anything but a guest in your rooms. I just… I would like to be useful. I am not accustomed to idleness, though you may not believe it.”
Qui-Gon was about to protest in his haste to reassure Kenobi when he realized that he had no idea what might be required of a prostitute, besides the obvious. “You enjoy cooking, then?”
Kenobi looked at him, moving only those clear, grey-green eyes, his expression both sad and serious. “When I could. The others rather enjoyed my meals, and I was glad to please them.”
“Do you miss your friends?”
“Cragin’s other whores?” Kenobi snorted, going more sullen. “There were a few I liked well enough, but the ones I was closest to left him some time ago. One by one, they paid off their contracts and moved on.”
“Sounds lonely for you.” Qui-Gon said it quietly, not meaning to offend.
“I never lacked for admirers.” Kenobi’s smile was wry, but not humorless. “I don’t blame any of them for leaving and not looking back. I don’t intend to.”
“I could show you how to use the com to order foodstuffs from the commissary. They use droids for delivery.”
“I’m locked out of the com.”
Qui-Gon winced. “I can fix that. Your access will still be restricted, but I think the Council won’t object to limited clearance. Given time, they may be convinced to allow you the freedom of the Temple grounds without my supervision.”
“I don’t care to wander about alone, but it is kind of you to offer.” Kenobi sounded so dispirited that it pained Qui-Gon to hear it.
“I said I would teach you some exercises, meditations and the like,” Qui-Gon offered. “It may help to block out some of the ambient impressions you may get from other beings. If you are still interested, that is.”
Kenobi looked up sharply, his interest evident before he thought to disguise it. He bowed his head a bit, feigning indifference. “I suppose. Anything to pass the time.”
Qui-Gon nodded and made his way to the com unit. It would be but a moment’s work to allow Kenobi limited access. He had just finished his security adjustments when Kenobi approached him.
“How is he?”
Qui-Gon must have looked confused, because Kenobi went on. “The white-haired Jedi. You went to see him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.” Qui-Gon closed the com security panel and sighed. “He isn’t well.”
“But the Healers can help him.”
“I hope so,” Qui-Gon answered. “They aren’t sure what ails him, so treatment is difficult.”
“I-I didn’t hurt him, did I?” Kenobi looked small and lost. “Sometimes I do things – I don’t know how, but…”
The young man looked so miserable that Qui-Gon placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Whatever is wrong with him, I’m certain it has nothing to do with you. He was ill well before he met you.”
Kenobi shook his head slowly, deep in thought. “He seemed so… familiar, I suppose. It’s just a feeling. I can’t place it.”
“Knight Chun’s illness is not your fault.”
Kenobi nodded, then looked up into Qui-Gon’s eyes. “Could I see him? Do you think they’d let me?”
“Perhaps.” The beginnings of an idea stirred on the edge of Qui-Gon’s thoughts. He should meditate on it, he decided. “Didn’t you say something about preparing a meal? You can place an order for whatever you need, now that I’ve cleared you to contact the commissary.”
“Thank you,” Kenobi said as he moved to the com, excitement evident in his voice. Qui-Gon headed for his private chamber; he found he was quite anxious to meditate.
“Master Jinn.” Kenobi called to him just as he reached his door. “I am sorry about what I said at the pyre. I-it was all so strange to me…”
“Don’t trouble yourself over what is past, Kenobi. Perhaps the Force will grant you the opportunity to ask Knight Chun’s forgiveness. You have mine.” He smiled warmly at his serious young guest before retreating to his sleep chamber. So much was happening that he didn’t understand; he definitely needed to meditate.
Qui-Gon emerged from his meditations some time later, feeling both refreshed and ravenous. His rooms were suffused with a mixture of delicious aromas, none of them very familiar. As he entered the common room, Qui-Gon gaped openly at the sight before him.
The drawn shades dimmed the room quite effectively, and candles glowed on the low table. What little furniture Qui-Gon was accustomed to seeing had been moved back along the walls.
Kenobi appeared, carrying two plates layered with rounds of thin, glutinous bread. He placed one at either end of the low table. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back with the rest of our meal.”
The Jedi Master sat on the floor in the place Kenobi had indicated, wondering what would come next. When he’d given his charge permission to prepare their noon meal, he’d had no idea it would be so elaborate. A warm cup of his favorite tea sat next to the plate before him; he sipped it and allowed himself a smile as his stomach rumbled in anticipation. He watched in silence as Kenobi entered the room two more times, each time bearing two bowls.
When all four bowls were arranged to his liking, Kenobi sat at the opposite end of the table. He regarded Qui-Gon with a look of smug intensity before he spoke.
“This is called grenach-kal , a meal of such delicacy that the Latachi people of Gillious Prime serve it only to their Monarch, no more than once a solar cycle.”
Qui-Gon sat in amused silence as Kenobi explained the contents of each bowl. The mixture of spiced meat represented Conquest, the vegetables represented Abundance, the fruit, Delight.
“What of the fourth bowl?” Qui-Gon asked.
“That is warm water.” Kenobi smiled that brilliant smile of his, and Qui-Gon’s mouth went dry. “You dip your fingers in it before you begin.”
Kenobi demonstrated how this should be done and Qui-Gon followed suit, wondering if the Latachi people were as deliberately sensuous in that act as Kenobi.
“Tear off a piece of the bread, like so,” Kenobi kept eye contact while he explained. “Then use the bread to wrap up a morsel from one of the bowls, and eat.”
He smiled as he popped the neat little package into his mouth. Qui-Gon followed his example, sampling a bit of the spiced meat first. It was heavenly, and he said so.
“I can see why it is so highly praised. Where did you learn to prepare it?”
“Seems the current Monarch of Gillious Prime made a mistress of his cook, then sent her away.” Kenobi continued with just the hint of wistfulness in his voice. “She was well-compensated, though. I suppose I’ll never know whether she taught me this out of affection for me or to spite the Monarch. Perhaps she was simply tired.”
Qui-Gon ate a bit from the vegetable bowl, taking a moment to savor its delicate flavor. “She taught you this complicated dish because she was tired?”
“She had leased me exclusively for a tenday,” Kenobi said with a quirk of one elegant brow and mischievous smile. “A tenday is a very long time.”
A moment passed before Qui-Gon resumed chewing and swallowed his mouthful of sweet fruit. “I hope you had no difficulty acquiring the ingredients from the commissary.”
“I didn’t find everything, of course, and this dish usually takes much longer to prepare. I was hungry, so I improvised.” Kenobi sipped his tea, looking over the brim at Qui-Gon with more than his usual heat. “One of my many talents.”
Qui-Gon tensed. He’d been half expecting Kenobi’s next double-edged remark or attempt at seduction, and dreading it. Not that the young man wasn’t delightful, but he couldn’t go through life only relating to people in a sexual way.
“Why not?” Kenobi cocked his head and fixed Qui-Gon with a sharp, irritated gaze.
“I beg your pardon, Kenobi.” Qui-Gon winced. Had he been projecting his thoughts? “I meant no offense.” Kenobi was somewhat mollified by Qui-Gon’s apology, but not entirely. His miffed expression was really quite adorable. “For a Jedi Master, you’re awfully easy to read.”
“Sometimes.” Qui-Gon chuckled. “Especially around you, it seems.”
“I’m tired of this, Jinn. Tired of this place, tired of the lies, tired of dancing around not saying what I mean.”
The young man was right, of course. He had not been completely honest with Kenobi, or even with himself. Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak, but Kenobi cut him short.
“If you say something calm and apologetic, I swear I’ll…” Kenobi struggled for moment, then pressed his lips together. “I’ll be cleaning things up. Seems I’ve lost my appetite.”
With that he stood, took his plate and teacup and left Qui-Gon to finish his meal alone. He found the fare much less enjoyable in solitude.
Soon, he began clearing the table and joined Kenobi in cleaning. The preparation for the meal must have created quite a mess, considering how long Kenobi had been in there and how much was still left to do. They worked side by side for some time, neither speaking. Qui-Gon could feel Kenobi’s emotions, swirling around him in the Force – frustration, confusion, longing.
“Kenobi-”
Fingers pressed against Qui-Gon’s lips, stopping his words.
“Go. Sit. I’ll be along shortly.”
Thus dismissed, Qui-Gon went to the common room and waited. He did not wait long.
Kenobi entered, his face a mask of determination. “Why do you want to teach me Jedi meditations? I will never be a Jedi.”
“But you are sensitive to the Force. You have abilities through the Force that frighten you. I think you could benefit from increased control.”
“How do you mean I could benefit?” Kenobi cocked his head to the side, considering. “Will the Force help me in my chosen profession?”
“It can be an ally in any walk of life,” Qui-Gon admitted. “It can open doors to many professions. Not all Force adepts become Jedi.”
“And how many become prostitutes?” Kenobi was beginning to smile.
“I only know of one.” Jinn left no question who he meant. “He wasn’t raised by the Jedi.”
“My profession is an honest one. It’s all I’ve ever known, and I am very good at it. Why does it bother you, Master Jedi?”
“Because you didn’t truly choose it – it was chosen for you.”
“Many children are placed in professions not of their choosing, including Jedi. You said so yourself.” Kenobi’s expression was calm and reasonable, which Qui-Gon found unusually frustrating.
“Didn’t what happened with Orima teach you anything? Prostitution is dangerous.” Kenobi’s only response was a raised eyebrow. Perhaps Kenobi could read him at times, but Qui-Gon found he could read the young man without even trying. “Yes, Jedi face danger as well, but we are trained to face it. We serve the Galaxy.”
“And we service the Galaxy. Bringing peace, one customer at a time.” Kenobi smiled at his jest. “At least when I hold my own contract, I will be able to choose my customers. Do Jedi ever have that choice?”
Qui-Gon was silent as he considered Kenobi’s words. Perhaps he didn’t have a good reason to see Kenobi in a different profession. He had never thoroughly examined his feelings on the subject. That was the crux of it.
Kenobi finally sat beside him. “I want to learn whatever you have to teach me. Perhaps you will persuade me, in time.” His smile was gentle and without artifice, his posture earnest but not seductive. Qui-Gon smiled.
“When would you like to begin?”
(go on to part 6)