Unrequited (with Alligators)
Alice (Alice2PL@aol.com)
Archive: M_A, anywhere else just ask
Rating: G
Pairing: Q/O
Category: Humour
Spoilers: None
Series: Prequel to Enough Said. Probably.
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns them. We play with them.
Feedback: I would be grateful
Summary: Boom
Notes: Thanks to - Lizzy, for the speedy beta; Gloriana for the
technical assistance; Gloriana's husband for putting me
straight about Mr Donne.
The mechanic's name was G'dave and the news was not
encouraging.
"It's the parts, d'ye see. I'm going to have to order them
especially. We don't carry them in stock. And then they're
going to have to come all the way from - " He paused to suck
his teeth, thoughtfully. His diminutive assistant, M'ron, a
grey being of indeterminate species nodded furiously from his
position at the mechanic's elbow.
"How long will it take?" Obi-Wan Kenobi felt a headache
beginning to stir.
"Days, could be weeks. And then we'll have to strip it down.
It's not a simple job, you know." G'dave looked indignant at
the implication. M'ron shook his head sadly and drifted away.
"Can you be more precise? We need to leave as soon as
possible."
There was a sharp intake of breath. "You can't rush this sort
of thing. It's delicate work, you know. One false calibration
and the next time you go to hyper drive - boom!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan could see M'ron, perched
on top of an oil drum, carefully installing what appeared to be
a length of hairy string into the guidance unit of a cruiser.
Obi-Wan shuddered and went off in search of his master.
After emerging, blinking, into the light after fifteen months
of the Imiprimxtl peace talks, BOOM sounded pretty good to
Obi-Wan Kenobi. He longed to wrestle with alligators, surf down
a volcano or rescue a fair maid from a dragon. Or possibly all
three simultaneously whilst composing a sonnet. Anything other
than spend one more moment in the same little grey room as a
set of charmless, pettifogging slug-descendents with a
prodigious grasp of historical detail and an over-inflated
sense of grievance. He suspected that his master had felt much
the same.
On the conclusion of the negotiations, Qui-Gon had decided not
to wait for the regular shuttle to Coruscant but to hire a
smaller craft in order to depart before each side of the battle
divide noticed the wild victory celebrations of the other and
chose to smell a rat. Which was how they had come to be
stranded in yet another provincial backwater.
Umms was peculiar. It was the sort of planet that the trade
routes by-passed in order to get somewhere more profitable. The
advanced technology of the Federation had penetrated certain
centres, but Obi-Wan suspected that elderly women still brewed
potions to charm away warts.
The local Grand Duke had invited the honoured Jedi to be his
guests while they sorted out their transport problems. This was
not quite the blessing it seemed, for the little town was deep
in preparations for a royal wedding and the castle was packed
with guests, caterers and visiting clergy. The only remaining
space had been a small attic room currently used for storing
cleaning equipment, half full tins of paint and the reserve
bunting. It had been a cramped and, for various reasons, rather
tense few nights.
Obi-Wan pushed the reasons for the tension from his mind. He
lifted his hood to keep out the persistent drizzle and began
the climb up the steep cobbles to the castle. He passed the
stalls selling flags, pencils and chamber pots with both royal
crests, souvenir mugs with optimistic portraits of the happy
couple and deeply suspect commemorative sausages. A wedding was
always good for business.
A little later that evening, in a small, badly maintained hut
not far from the Ducal Guard Barracks, the Executive Committee
of the People's Revolutionary (Direct Action) Front had reached
item four on the agenda. The secretary, a lady of advanced
years, was still transcribing Matters Arising in her laborious
long hand but the group's most enthusiastic activist had called
for a vote.
" ... to express solidarity with our brothers, currently in
struggle against the monstrous demands of the forces of
imperialism. For the motion? Against the motion? Put your hand
down, Brother Pring, you're not mandated to vote on this one.
Motion carried unanimously.
"Item five: Response to the Marriage of the so-called Grand
Duchess Ysbal to the supposed Prince Trev'r. Brother M'gum
reports that he is confident that the explosive device will be
ready in time for the ceremony. Brother Crump has obtained a
detailed map of the sewers from the Municipal Planning
Department and -"
"Point of order, Mr Chairman!"
Brother Rupert, a gently raised young man who now affected a
shaven head and rolled his own in order to be as one with the
workers, paused irritably at this interruption. "Yes?"
"I should like to point out that the matter of bomb location
has not been the subject of consultation at branch level, and
that furthermore -"
"As you know very well, brother, according to Section XIV of
the party constitution, subsection vii, paragraph 2(b) the
placing of explosive devices is a decision solely for the
Executive Committee," he glared at the offending fellow
activist, "and as the need for security is pressing, I suggest
we leave the details to the relevant sub-committee: i.e.
myself, Brothers Crump and M'gum."
"Yes, but -"
"Item six: Drain Clearance and Annual Maintenance of Party
Premises." Brother Rupert glared significantly at the bucket in
the corner of the room into which the rain was dripping. "For
the second year running, I have to report that not a single
member has come forward to support these necessary tasks. I
cannot help but feel ...."
The meeting ground remorselessly on into the night.
Not so very far away, in a rather better appointed room deep in
the Ducal Guard Barracks, General Rapz and a select gathering
of his fellow officers had been discussing the sad state of the
nation whilst passing the port.
" ... served their purpose but their time has passed. What
remains is a sad rump - weakened, inbred, lacking direction.
The Grand Duke and his entire family must be expunged. The only
way to restore this great people to its rightful place is
through the smack of robust leadership..."
" ... sweep the board clear ..."
" ... a fresh start ..."
" ... opportunity to purge vice and corruption ..."
" ... hear, hear ..."
"We are all agreed then." General Rapz leaned back and swept
the table with a firm, heroic gaze. "We strike immediately
after the ceremony. When I give the word, all those in the
cathedral will be placed under arrest and escorted to the
Municipal Baths, where they will be held until trial as enemies
of the state. Gentlemen - a toast. To victory and future
greatness!"
"To victory!"
A shower of glass hit the fireplace. The cleaners on Umms were
usually the first to know when momentous decisions had been
made.
Obi-Wan half-listened to the aged dowager on his right. His
attention was focused on his master, sitting across the table,
bathed in the glow of candlelight reflected by the antique gold
plate. He shouldn't, he really shouldn't. He wrenched his
attention back to the ancient lady who was explaining her
latest project.
" Of course the pattern is all in the construction of the
picot. Now I know some of the younger gels have taken to using
coloured thread but to my mind ..."
Ah. Tatting. He looked across the table and considered a
shuttle in those big, gentle hands. The candlelight catching
the texture of the skin, the tendons of the fingers flexing,
extending, the thread slipping, twisting, looping and sliding.
In, out, licence my roving hands, and let them go before,
behind, between, above, below.... Oh stop it, for pity's sake!
He bit into his cheek.
"Are you all right, young man?"
"Yes, Your Grace, I'm sorry." He nailed his attention firmly to
her wayward dentures and slipped back into diplomat mode. "I
was just remembering some remarkable examples of torchon work
on display at the Cultural Centre on Hohenzollern IV. The
colours had faded with age, of course but ..."
Obi Wan trudged up stairs to the attic room much later that
night following an energetic fencing session with half a dozen
of the Ducal Guard and a long cold shower. He felt that if he
could only spend the next hour alone, peacefully memorising the
Protocols for Cleansing the Environs of the Ruling House
Following the Ceremony of Ellipsis on Zenactis B, he stood a
fighting chance of seeing the night through without complete
disaster.
Or he could talk to his master. No he couldn't. Because that
would involve an answer. And 50-50 was not good odds. Actually,
probably less than 50-50. Cold certainty about the likely
response settled like treacle in the pit of his stomach. He
tried to consider living without, without - no it would be a
world in perpetual eclipse. No, no, no...
He opened the door to discover that a rusty bicycle and a stand
of redundant billiard cues had joined the existing clutter.
Qui-Gon was already in the narrow bed. Obi-Wan stood in doorway
trying to work out whether it was physically possible to take
off his boots in there without risking serious damage.
"You might find it more convenient to undress outside,
Padawan."
Oh, well, it was too cold to take off much.
At about the same time, deep in the castle cellars, between the
somewhat depleted barrels of Old Peculiar, a more furtive
conversation was taking place.
"He is a marksman - you are sure of that?"
"He comes highly recommended. Apparently he has an album,
excellent references -"
"But did you check he is a marksman?"
"Well, I understand most of his best work has been with
explosives but of course the specifications of this job ruled
out that method. I'm pretty sure he has used precision weaponry
on some of his contracts."
"You fool! I'm going to be standing on the steps next to them!
I told you to get a specialist! Ye gods - when you want to get
a job done properly, knife the staff and do it yourself - "
There was a gurgle, followed by a damp thud.
Obi-Wan trudged downstairs trying to convince himself that he
was alert. The night had been utterly miserable. He had decided
that the only way to avert disaster was to pretend sleep while
remaining rigidly awake. His eyelids felt as though they were
coated in gum and syllogisms fluttered through his head,
digging their claws into his synapses. The only bright spot was
the fact that Qui-Gon continued to remain in ignorance of his
predicament. Obi-Wan could only assume that his master was
still drained after the marathon peace negotiations.
He yawned. With any luck, he would be able to find a quiet spot
for a nap after breakfast while his master paid his respects to
the happy couple. He composed himself and adopted a suitable
public expression to meet his master at breakfast.
The butler met him at the door with a message to meet Qui-Gon
in the cellar.
He reached the bottom of the stone steps to find quite a crowd
gathered in the shadows. Stretched out on the floor was the
body of the Castle Constable, a knife between his ribs. Qui-Gon
was kneeling beside the body, attempting to gain some
impression of its final moments. Obi-Wan moved behind him and
rested his hands on his shoulders, lending support. Even
through his shielding, he felt the familiar warmth as he
concentrated on anchoring his master.
The results were inconclusive. There was an impression of
threat and the feeling of an oddly familiar force signature but
it had been too long since the event. Obi-Wan felt his master
reach for greater precision but the awareness thinned and
slipped away even from him. Qui-Gon touched the Constable's
face in apology for the intrusion before turning to face the
man's deputy.
"There might be a threat to the ceremony. It is possible that
the Constable interrupted conspirators or was even part of a
conspiracy himself. I must advise you either to delay the
proceedings or to take extra precautions."
The Deputy Constable glanced nervously about him. He had the
air of a man desperate to avoid the weight of responsibility
hovering above his shoulders.
"It will not be possible to delay the ceremony. All I can do is
to alert the Guard. Ser Jedi, can you help us - seek out the
danger?"
"We will do what we can. You must warn the Grand Duke of the
possible threat."
"Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Right." The man straightened his
tunic, stiffened his spine and headed up the stairs.
There was a small, polite cough from the corner of the cellar.
The Castle Janitor looked enquiringly from one Jedi to the
other. "Sirs? The lads and me, we've got a lot on today ..."
"Ah yes, of course. There is nothing more to be discovered
here. Please -"
They stood aside as the remains were unceremoniously removed
from the cellar.
Puzzled, Obi-Wan moved closer to Qui-Gon. "Master? Did you feel
...?"
"Yes," Qui-Gon looked up the steps thoughtfully, "unexpected,
wasn't it."
Deep, deep, down in the sewers, brother Crump finished his pork
pie and consulted his map. He was careful to wipe his fingers
and brush away the crumbs as the Municipal Planning Office was
very particular about such things and he didn't want to incur a
fine.
His torch flickered and died. He hit it against the crumbling
wall and a faint glow returned. It didn't help very much. What
had seemed perfectly straightforward on the surface acquired a
whole new dimension underground. One sewer really did look much
like another and he had been walking for hours. He was pretty
sure that he had passed this way before and the bomb was
becoming heavier with each horrid, squelchy step.
He came to a decision, scratched his stomach and heaved himself
off the ledge. The vile water swirled almost to the top of his
waders and a former dog drifted past, legs waving recklessly in
the air. Hardship must be endured for the sake of the Cause,
Brother Crump reminded himself as he set off with renewed
determination. Mind you, his sinuses hadn't been this clear in
years.
High up on the battlements of the castle, Obi-Wan took a deep
breath and relished the thought of action. This was the release
of energy his body craved. Well, not exactly perhaps, but it
would do for now. He looked across to the other pinnacle, where
Qui-Gon was keeping watch. His master had been convinced that
the threat would come from on high but the ceremony was almost
over and there was no sign yet. They had seen the procession
wind its way through the narrow streets to the Cathedral.
Thousands of tiny figures lined the path of the carriages,
their cheers muffled by distance. At the moment, they were
waiting for the completion of the ceremony and the reappearance
of the bride and groom on the steps.
The difficulty was that the castle, built in the days when
church and ruler were at odds, offered a multitude of vantage
points for the determined sniper. Most of the guard had been
required in full ceremonial fig to line the route to the
Cathedral, leaving the less photogenic to patrol the castle.
They had not been able to persuade the Grand Duke to change the
arrangements. Of course not. To make changes would be to admit
vulnerability.
Just a few more minutes and the time of greatest danger would
be past. The Cathedral doors swung open. He felt the stab of
warning from his master.
There.
Just ninety metres below.
The glint of metal.
He dropped from the parapet.
As she strode down the aisle, Princess Ysbal, a solid, healthy
young woman decided that her life's work was just beginning.
Her new husband was a tall, wispy young man, untroubled by
intellect but she felt sure she could make something of him. At
the very least, she now had her own establishment. Ah, yes.
Time to spread her wings, to take command. She even found it in
her to smile at the oily General Rapz as he escorted them out
of the Cathedral door to the acclamation of the waiting crowd.
At which point there was the sound of thunder and the ground
trembled beneath her feet. To her right, she saw the burial
ground and ancestral ossuary sit down more firmly. There was a
sharp crack and General Rapz leapt backwards. This was the last
thing she saw for some time because at that point her husband
and several of the guard flung themselves heroically on top of
her, knocking her senseless with their breastplates.
Obi-Wan dangled from the flagpole protruding from the lower
parapet, reflecting that he really deserved what was about to
happen to him. All right, someone blowing up the Grand Ducal
Ossuary was a little unexpected but if he had been at the top
of his form, it wouldn't have distracted him. Oh, Qui-Gon was
going to make him pay for this. He glanced down at the assassin
who was clinging tenaciously to his left boot. "Are you all
right down there?"
"Oh yes, yes, fine. You come to expect this sort of thing in my
line of work."
"Really?"
"Of course, I only do it part-time nowadays."
"No demand for your services?"
"Oh, there's always demand. No, it's these big interplanetary
firms, mechanisation, droids undercutting the small independent
craftsman. You just can't make a living out of it any more. Did
you know that on a clear day, you can see the Rude Man of Penge
from here?"
Obi-Wan swung round for a better view. He would have asked the
obvious question had their rescuers not arrived at that moment.
The wedding celebration was a rather awkward affair. The death
of General Rapz, now proclaimed a Hero and Knight Companion of
the Roll of Honour, cast a certain blight over the proceedings.
Nevertheless, the Grand Duke insisted that the feast continue
and that a portrait of the great man be placed at the foot of
the table, draped in black crepe so that all would be reminded
of his sacrifice. At intervals during the evening, the Duke was
seen smiling and raising his glass to the portrait. Somehow, it
did not surprise either Jedi, when the news came that the
assassin had mysteriously escaped from the dungeons. They made
their excuses as soon as was decent.
The small hours of the night dragged wearily past. Obi-Wan
stretched out along the edge of the bed, trying not to move. Or
think. Or go to sleep. Or touch his master. He was trying to
visualise himself ice-skating, naked, on Hoth, embracing a
jellyfish. Now there was a tricky problem. Where would you fix
the skates? How many would be required? Could a jellyfish
survive the temperature?
Dammit - time for some action. He would say he had felt the
need for early morning meditation on the roof. He made up his
mind and swung his feet out of the bed. Straight into the
spokes of the bicycle, which promptly verbalanced, carrying him
with it. Suddenly it was raining billiard cues. A resounding
crash, followed by the spread of a cold, viscous fluid down the
back of his neck indicated that the paint tins had joined the
party. He wondered, miserably, where the bunting had gone.
A light snapped on. Qui-Gon just gazed at him. His lips
twitched and he held out his hands to assist his hapless
apprentice.
"You never looked lovelier, padawan."
"Master, I -"
Qui-Gon's smile faded. He took a deep breath. "Obi-Wan, the
answer is yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
It was entirely possible that the grin that split Obi-Wan's
face met somewhere round the back of his head.
Several hours and much scrubbing later, Obi-Wan was still in
the highest spirits. There were still some parts of him that
were periwinkle blue but mere details like that could not
possibly quell this absolute joy. He felt like hugging each of
the castle's inhabitants, apart from the Duke. (Now, how long
would that take? At, say, twenty-three seconds per hug, taking
into account the gardening staff and the boy who tended the
midden, a tentative estimate would be...). He made his way down
the cobbled streets towards the engineering sheds.
Interestingly, the souvenir stalls, each with their
black-shrouded portrait of the Hero, were now selling memorial
mugs, hat stands and black puddings. One or two loyally
celebrated the promotion of the Duke's son, Prince Rupert to
the rank of General of the Ducal Guard with extra flags and
ivy-wreathed miniatures. A funeral was always good for
business.
End
John Donne, Elegy XIX 'To His Mistress Going to Bed' second
stanza:
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America, my new found land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blessed am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
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