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No. 19: BLOOD TRAIL
“Come, Jedi! Attend me!”
Qui-Gon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as he felt his jaw clench slightly; behind him and to his left, he heard Obi-Wan release a small, soft sigh.
“We are here, Ambassador,” Qui-Gon kept his voice in a carefully neutral tone, as he stepped through the doorway, “do you require assistance?”
“The kitchens have brought up my food. Have your boy taste it, I want to make sure it isn’t poisoned.”
Qui-Gon stepped forward, lifting the lid off the dish, and passing his scanner over it; “I do not detect the presence of any toxins, Ambassador.”
“I don’t care what your corruptible device tells you, I want one of you to taste my food before I eat it, and the boy would be of less use in a fight than you, Master Jedi – that makes him expendable, and I demand he tests it for me.”
Qui-Gon opened his mouth to argue, but before he could summon a suitably diplomatic reply, Obi-Wan stepped around him, lifted a fork from the tray, and scooped up a tiny helping of the rice, fish and vegetable dish. He popped it into his mouth, swallowed it, and set down the fork. Qui-Gon shot him an amused look as the twenty-two-year-old Padawan held his arms out to the sides, glanced down at himself, and then met his Master’s gaze with a nod.
“Not dead,” he confirmed, “I guess your food is safe, Ambassador.”
“Safe enough, I suppose – though you didn’t need to take half of it in one go, you greedy young wretch, and you used my fork to do it! I’ll have to demand a clean one be sent up from the kitchen, and my dinner will be stone cold by the time I get to eat it!”
“I’m so sorry, Ambassador… should I just use my bare hands next time? If so, I’ll have to politely request that you don’t order the soup…”
“Gah! Get out, both of you, and leave me to my dinner in peace. Just don’t stray too far! Those assassins will stop at nothing, you know!”
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan both gave a slight bow, and stepped out of the room, as the door slid shut behind them, allowing both Master and apprentice to let out tired sighs and exchange amused glances.
They were on Kerkoidia, a blue-grey planet in the Expansion Region and the base of the Retail Caucus. Their assignment was simple; an ambassador had been sent from the nearby planet of Umgul to renegotiate standing trade agreements with the representatives of the Retail Caucus. The Jedi were to have no involvement in the negotiations – their remit was simply to keep the ambassador alive. Two previous representatives sent had been suddenly, conspicuously, and publicly murdered before the negotiations could even begin, resulting in widespread civil unrest and outbreaks of violence on Kerkoidia.
Rumours abounded, of course, but the strongest prevailing theory was that rival cartels seeking to overturn the rule of the Retail Caucus were interfering with the negotiations in order to destabilise the economy, which relied heavily on trade with neighbouring planets and systems, in order to seize power – and therefore profit.
Their charge was Ambassador Riganti Jortavus, a middle-aged, imperious politician with sharp, angular features and an acerbic personality. He oozed supercilious charm to anyone with whom he thought he could curry favour; anyone he did not deem beneficial to advancing his political machinations he considered to be beneath him, and made sure that they knew it.
They had collected the Ambassador from Umgul and transported him to Kerkoidia within the space of a couple of days, but it already felt like a lifetime. To his hosts, Jortavus had been nothing but polite, disarming, charming, smiling and accommodating; shaking hands and bowing and scraping and generally ingratiating himself at any opportunity. The two Jedi, however, were treated with sneering contempt, commanded and dismissed like the lowest of serfs, as if they were not solely responsible for ensuring the Ambassador’s personal safety… though he liked to remind them of their duty at every opportune moment.
Qui-Gon’s personal communicator chimed, and he shared a knowing look with his Padawan.
“Yes, Ambassador?”
“I hope you are still there, Jedi! I have not forgotten the Chancellor’s offer to tour the market district this afternoon! I expect you to ensure that the area is safe for me to walk through!”
“We will be in attendance with you, Ambassador,” Qui-Gon confirmed, “although I must remind you that I strongly recommend you politely decline the Chancellor’s offer. It will be much harder to ensure your safety in a public place…”
“And risk offending my hosts? Absolutely not! Umgul relies heavily on trade with the Retail Caucus for our own economic stability! These negotiations are extremely important to my people… your job is to make sure that I am kept safe to complete them, is that understood, Jedi?”
“Yes, Ambassador,” years of practice and mental discipline kept the weariness and frustration out of his tone as the channel snapped shut, and Qui-Gon returned the communicator to his belt.
There was a moment of silence, and from the corner of his eye, Qui-Gon saw Obi-Wan angling a slight smirk up at him.
“It’s hard to understand why anyone would want to assassinate the Ambassador. He’s such a lovely fellow.”
“Perhaps you should go in there and ask him, Padawan.”
Obi-Wan let out an amused huff; “I’m not brave enough to deal with politicians on my own.”
“The Jedi Council usually sees fit to keep me well away from them.”
“Ah, yes… I was wondering which member of the Council we had upset this time to get landed with this assignment.”
“Are you implying that our current mission – in service to the Jedi Council, our great Order, and the Senate of the Republic that we are sworn to protect – is in some way a punishment, and not the esteemed honour of carrying out our oaths as Jedi with unquestioning loyalty and devotion?”
Obi-Wan cocked his head to one side slightly as he considered this.
“It was Master Ki-Adi-Mundi, wasn’t it? After you told him it was ridiculous that Jedi should be at the beck and call of the whims of politicians, when we ought to be following the will of the Force, while you were beating him in that game of Sabaac?”
“… Yes.”
“Ah,” Obi-Wan nodded, rocking on his heels, smiling to himself, “right. Excellent…”
They lapsed into silence for a while, standing either side of the door to the Ambassador’s quarters. Since arrival on Kerkoidia, they had neither of them slept and had eaten only sparingly of their rations. Their plan was to get through the tour of the market district before Jortavus would be safely ensconced in the negotiating chamber at the Exchequer Building, allowing them the chance to get some much-needed rest while the Retail Caucus took over management of the security arrangements.
It was therefore not long before the door opened and Jortavus swept out, dressed in the flowing, formal ambassadorial robes of his office, green and purple with accents of black and gold. At only five-foot-seven, he was a couple of inches shorter than Obi-Wan, and significantly shorter than Qui-Gon, but this did not stop him from tilting his head right back so that he could peer down his nose at the tall Jedi Master.
“Well?” he demanded, imperiously, “what are you waiting for? Escort me to the plaza, we do not want to keep the Chancellor waiting… and make sure there are no snipers or suspicious-looking characters about!”
Qui-Gon bit back a sharp retort and inclined his head slightly, as Jortavus began to stride down the corridor, head held high, until Qui-Gon called out.
“Ambassador? Perhaps I should walk ahead of you, just in case there is a sniper.”
“What?”
“If you are ahead of me, you are putting yourself in the line of fire. Perhaps I should go first?”
“Oh,” Jortavus hesitated, clearly considering this; his ego demanded that subservients walk behind him, but his sense of self-preservation was clearly at war with it, “oh… very well, I suppose, but… I would prefer to have you watching my back, Master Jedi. Let the boy go in front of me.”
Qui-Gon felt his teeth clench slightly, but nodded in acquiescence. From the moment they had met him, Jortavus seemed to have come to the conclusion that Obi-Wan, being a mere Padawan, was therefore somehow expendable, of less value that his Master, and it was this odious, cavalier attitude towards the apparently disposability of his apprentice’s life that rankled Qui-Gon the most. Obi-Wan, of course, bore it without complaint and in good humour, and stepped forwards, leading the way… though Qui-Gon cast his amusement down their training bond as Obi-Wan set a sharp pace, used to keeping up with his Master’s long-legged stride, forcing Jortavus to do a slightly undignified trot in order to keep up with him.
By the time they arrived in the plaza at the front of the conference centre, Jortavus was red-faced and glowering, more than a little breathless, though he greeted the Retail Caucus Chancellor with a low bow and a simpering smile.
“Chancellor – I am truly honoured you would grace me with your personal presence for our tour this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Ambassador,” the Chancellor waved her hand magnanimously, “the market district is not far and it one of the oldest sites of historical interest and trade on Kerkoidia… all of the traders are master crafters and artisans, only the greatest devisers and artificers are given licenses to trade there. You will find many rare treasures and the best fresh produce Kerkoidia has to offer.”
“I am very much looking forward to it… will we be taking a shuttle, or a speeder, or…?”
“Oh, no – we will be walking – it is not too far, and there are several sites of financial and historical interest along the way. My guards and your Jedi will assure our safety, I am sure. If you will follow me…?”
I do not like this, Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon cast the thought through their training bond, though his expression did not flicker, be on your guard, Padawan.
Yes, Master.
The Chancellor and the Ambassador talked at length about everything and nothing, the machinations of master politicians. They were accompanied by the Chancellor’s Personal Assistant and a small entourage of four security guards, all wearing black armour and visored helmets. The two Jedi walked side-by-side immediately behind the two politicians, hoods drawn up, but every sense on high alert.
They reached the cobblestoned streets of the market district within an hour, after a slow walk along the river, as the Chancellor pointed out many of the sights and historical buildings. The market was indeed a long, narrow street; either side, there were open-fronted shops with tables set out and brightly coloured canopies flapping slightly in the breeze. People bustled from one stall to another as vendors cried out, touting their wares to shoppers, tourists, resale merchants, and anyone else whose gaze tarried upon their stalls.
Qui-Gon felt his concern inch up another notch at the press of people coming and going, though the crowd did seem to part willingly enough for the grim-faced, visored guards escorting them. There were too many people around to get a clear reading through the Force, but he sensed a growing unease, and he saw Obi-Wan glancing around, a slight frown furrowing his brow as he no doubt felt the same thing.
At each stall, they paused, allowing the Chancellor and Ambassador to inspect the wares on offer, sometimes asking questions or listening politely to the seller’s enthusiastic explanation of their produce; either the processes involved in producing the items for sale, or some interesting fact about their cultural or historical significance, or an exposition on the quality of the goods for sale. Many of the vendors offered free samples to the Chancellor and her esteemed guest, no doubt looking for some form of favour or flattery in return.
A flutter of warning in the Force made Qui-Gon look up, scanning the crowd with a keen gaze. There, ahead of them, three figures in hooded, dark blue cloaks were making their way down the narrow street towards their group. They stuck out amongst the crowds of shoppers as they paid no interest to any of the stalls they passed, clearly focussed on another goal entirely, as the rest of the crowd milled happily around them, ignorant of the sense of impending doom Qui-Gon could feel shivering through the Force.
“Obi-Wan – I think we are about to have unwelcome company.”
“I see them, Master.”
“Protect the Ambassador – I will see to this.”
“Yes, Master.”
Qui-Gon stepped forward and passed the two guards at the front; the Chancellor and Ambassador completely ignored him, though the guards clutched their weapons a little tighter, spotting the three figures as Qui-Gon approached to confront them. Obi-Wan moved closer to the Ambassador, standing back-to-back with the politician as he was engrossed in the study of some intricate, ink paintings, waxing lyrical about the artistry to the delighted creator and the approving nods of the Chancellor.
The three robed figures came to a halt, pressing closer together as Qui-Gon approached, towering over them, glancing at each even as he reached out with the Force, trying to get some sense of what he was dealing with.
“May I ask your business here?”
The middle figure moved, raising something metallic to their lips; a communicator, Qui-Gon realised, as they uttered a single word.
“Now.”
Qui-Gon’s lightsabre was in his hand and activating even as the three figures threw back their cloaks, lifting their blasters; screams erupted as the crowd panicked; some trying to flee, others trying to hide, as blaster fire erupted around the square… from all angles. Even as Qui-Gon deflected fire from and quickly took down the three robed figures, he realised that there were indeed snipers on several of the rooftops; three of the four guards were already dead, along with the Chancellor’s assistant, taken down by the sharpshooters. In amongst the high-pitched whine of blaster fire, Qui-Gon heard the distinctive, percussive bangs of old-fashioned slug-throwers, hurling deadly metal projectiles through the air, and he hissed in dismay, knowing from experience how useless a lightsabre was against such weapons, unable to deflect the bullets like they did the energy discharge of a blaster.
Screams, bullets and blaster fire filled the air as terrified civilians ran in all directions, crashing into each other in their blind panic, the street littered with casualties, dead and wounded, simply unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Qui-Gon spun, deflecting a blaster shot on pure instinct, scanning the crowd; the Chancellor was cowering behind the artist’s stall, her eyes wide with unbridled fear, protected by her one surviving guard, but there was no sign of the Ambassador… until Qui-Gon saw the distinctive flash of a blue lightsabre, and then he was running.
His own green lightsabre was enough to make the crowd part before him as they fled, trying to clear the street, the whole district now in chaos. Sirens sounded as emergency services and local law enforcement closed in on them, and Qui-Gon drew level with Obi-Wan, joining the Padwan’s frantic defence of the Ambassador, who had fallen to the ground on his knees with his hands clasped over his bowed head, cowering in terror.
“They are on the roofs, Master!”
“I see them, Obi-Wan!”
The battle was bloody, brief, and decidedly one-sided. There were only a few shooters armed with slugthrowers, and most of these either fell to law enforcers or ran. Blasters stood little chance against expertly wielded lightsabres, and those assassins that were not felled by their own fire being deflected back at them were quickly surrounded by armed law enforcers… only to be shot down as they refused to surrender.
“Ambassador! Come on, we need to get out of here!”
“I have a shuttle coming for us!” the only surviving guard was there, one hand grasping the Chancellor’s arm and dragging her along behind him, the other clutching his raised blaster, “down there and to the left, Jedi – clear us a path!”
Qui-Gon did not need telling twice as he took the lead, followed by the guard and Chancellor, then Jortavus, with Obi-Wan bringing up the rear. Two other blue-robed figures appeared, weapons in hand, only to be cut down with two quick swings of a green plasma blade, even as Obi-Wan covered their backs from four others, deflecting a barrage of fire as slug-shots and blaster bolts echoed around the narrow street, and then using the Force to pick up and throw a table, knocking three other would-be assassins off their feet.
Sure enough, an armoured shuttle was waiting for them at the end of the narrow street; Qui-Gon leapt to one side, lightsabre held aloft and turning to face their pursuers, allowing the guard and Chancellor to scramble aboard, followed by Ambassador Jortavus. Obi-Wan leapt in next, finally followed by his Master, as the pilot closed and sealed the door, lifting off immediately.
The five passengers immediately dropped onto the benches that ran the length of either side of the interior of the small shuttle, the guard and Chancellor on one side, facing Jortavus, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan on the other. There was a moment of stunned, breathless silence as they gathered themselves, until Qui-Gon was the first to speak.
“Are you alright, Ambassador?”
“No, I am not! Those… those… people… were trying to kill me!”
“I am aware of that – you are safe now.”
“Safe? Safe? I was very nearly killed, no thanks to you and that boy of yours, you were supposed to be protecting me, and you have failed in that duty spectacularly! I cannot believe you so recklessly endangered my life with your ineptitude when I have told you, time and again, just how important I am!”
“Are you hurt?” Qui-Gon let a slight snap creep into his voice, “I need to know if you are injured, Ambassador, and I am not just referring to your personal pride!”
“How dare you address me so? I will be making a complaint to the Senate about the rudeness with which you have spoken to me and your staggering incompetence, Jedi!”
“He’s fine,” the guard cut in, wearily, “thankfully, so is Madame Chancellor. Thank you, Master Jedi, for your actions today. Our troops will take care of the aftermath… and the investigation. Did you see how many assailants there were?”
“I counted at least… nine in the marketplace; four more on rooftops, and there were, oh, perhaps another half a dozen that tried to prevent us from escaping… do you agree, Padawan?”
Qui-Gon glanced across to his left when no reply was forthcoming; Obi-Wan was staring straight ahead, somewhere past the Chancellor’s shoulder. Qui-Gon frowned; there was a bead of sweat on Obi-Wan’s brow, and he was breathing in shallow, hitching gasps. His expression was slightly vacant, a little glassy-eyed and distant, as he stared blankly out of the window of their shuttle.
“Obi-Wan?”
“Hmm?”
The Padawan blinked, as if shaking off his reverie, turning his neck slightly to look up at his Master.
“Are you alright, Padawan?”
“Mmm…” Obi-Wan made a non-committal noise, blinking again; Qui-Gon felt alarm blossom in his chest when he realised that his Padawan was extremely pale, and seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open…
“Obi-Wan…? What’s wrong?”
“I… I don’t…” Obi-Wan faltered, his voice hitching slightly, as he drew in a slightly ragged, shallow breath, licking his lips, as sweat broke out on his pale face, “I… I’m sorry, I don’t… hah… I don’t feel so good…”
Every instinct Qui-Gon had was now screaming at him that something was seriously wrong. He glanced around the other occupants of the shuttle and then his gaze fell to the metal floor… and his eyes widened at the sight of crimson droplets spattered on the metal surface. A trail of blood, in small, irregular splashes, leading from the shuttle door to where Obi-Wan was sitting, gazing vacantly straight ahead. Qui-Gon reached out, clasping Obi-Wan’s upper right arm with his left hand, using his right hand to pull back the Padawan’s brown cloak, revealing Obi-Wan’s pale cream tunics beneath… and a blossoming, dark red stain rapidly spreading through the fabric. The Chancellor gasped and her hands shot to her mouth as the guard swore, turning towards the cockpit.
“Pilot! Divert us to the nearest hospital, immediately!”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t – I’m under strict orders from the Prime Minister himself to return to the Capital Building of the Exchequer immediately.”
“We’ve got an injured man back here!”
“The Prime Minister wants the Chancellor and the Ambassador placed under the protection of armed guards at the Exchequer immediately, sir, I can’t countermand my orders.”
“Do we at least have a medical kit on board?”
“There’s one in the storage locker, sir, please help yourself.”
The guard swore again and launched himself out of his seat as Qui-Gon rose, swiftly, grasping Obi-Wan and guiding him to lie down on the metal floor of the transport shuttle, as the Padawan’s frightened gaze met his.
“M-Master…? What… what’s happening…?”
“You are injured, Obi-Wan, I think… I think you’ve been shot.”
“…Shot…?”
“Some of our would-be assassins were using slugthrowers,” Qui-Gon’s hands shook slightly as he pushed aside Obi-Wan’s cloak and began unfastening his belt and tunic, tugging aside the fabric, “old fashioned weapons that hurl metal bullets instead of blaster rounds… our lightsabres are near-useless against them, as we cannot deflect them… oh, Force…”
His fingers were already slick with blood, and he forced himself to swallow his revulsion as he pressed down, hard, on the ragged puncture wound in Obi-Wan’s right-hand side, mid-way between his ribs and hip. Obi-Wan let out a choked off cry as his face contorted in agony, teeth clenched, and eyes screwed shut as he clutched his own hands over Qui-Gon’s.
“Keep still, Padawan, keep still… I must keep pressure on the wound, I am sorry, I am sorry… where’s that medical kit?!”
“Here, here, here, I have it!”
The guard – whose name Qui-Gon still did not know – crashed gracelessly to his knees beside the Jedi Master, shaking hands ripping open the small tin, almost scattering the contents on the floor. He pawed through it quickly, tearing open a packet containing a bacta dressing, passing it to Qui-Gon, who immediately pressed it to the wound, scowling as blood instantly soaked through it.
“Another!”
The guard tore open another pad, and another, as Qui-Gon wadded them up against the wound, even as Obi-Wan groaned and writhed beneath his firm grasp.
“Shh, easy, easy, it’s alright, it’s alright, you’ll be fine…”
Qui-Gon looked up in surprise to see the Chancellor had joined them on the floor of the shuttle; she was kneeling down and had eased Obi-Wan’s head into her lap, gently stroking his hair, trying to soothe him as he whimpered in agony.
“Give him some pain relief, for goodness’ sake!”
“There isn’t any, Chancellor,” the guard’s voice was shaking almost as much as his hands were, as he ripped open the last of the dressing pads, “this is only a basic first aid kit… oh, gods, there’s so much blood!”
“Stay calm,” Qui-Gon cautioned them both; he kept firm pressure on the blood-soaked dressings, even as he tried to channel healing energy into his groaning Padawan, then his frown deepened as he realised the problem, “oh, blast it – the slug must have gone right through, he’s bleeding from his back as well! Have we anything else we can use as dressings?”
“Here, take my scarf…”
The Chancellor reached up and unwound her lengthy shawl, wadding it up and passing it to the guard, who hesitated. Qui-Gon fixed him with a glare, not willing to take his hands off keeping pressure on the wound to Obi-Wan’s abdomen.
“Push it underneath him, pad it under the wound, we must keep pressure on it to stop the bleeding! Quickly, man!”
The sallow-faced guard nodded and obeyed, cringing as Obi-Wan let out a bark of pain, gritting his teeth and moaning horribly.
“Stay with me, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon clenched his own teeth, trying to ignore the warm, wet, tacky feeling of blood welling up under his fingers, “come on, Padawan… release your pain into the Force, focus on my voice… stay awake, Obi-Wan, you must stay awake!”
“There is a medical facility at the Exchequer,” the Chancellor’s voice wavered a little but she maintained her calm, turning her gaze to the guard, “tell the pilot to land in the West Wing Hanger Bay, authorisation code KK04-AK96 priority one, and have them meet us there with a gurney and medics, immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Ambassador – do you have anything about your person that we might use to try to stem the blood flow?”
“Do I look like a blasted surgeon, Jedi?” Jortavus snapped back, but promptly wilted under the glare the Chancellor shot in his direction.
“This young man has been seriously injured in defending your life, Ambassador,” she said, coldly, as she placed a comforting hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, “and mine as well. A little gratitude and assistance would not go amiss.”
“Ah – yes – my apologies, Chancellor – the shock, the trauma – of the attempt on my life,” Jortavus stammered, “I’m, uh… erm… no. No, I don’t think I have anything useful…”
The Chancellor turned away with an irritated huff, though her expression smoothed out as she leaned over Obi-Wan, offering him a reassuring smile.
“I know it hurts, but we’ll be there soon, just hold on, young man… we will take care of you. You’re going to be fine.”
“M-M-Master…?”
“I’m here, Obi-Wan. Just hold on, Padawan – the Chancellor is correct, you are going to be alright…”
“H-hurts…”
“I know. Try to release your pain into the Force, dear one…”
Finally, after an agonising eternity had passed, the shuttle came in to land, swinging into an enclosed hanger bay as a ray shield snapped up behind them. There was a resounding clunk as the craft came to rest on the deck; as soon as the door opened, half a dozen armed guards came storming in.
“Chancellor – Ambassador – you need to come with us, immediately.”
“This young man needs immediate medical attention…”
“There are a team of medics standing by, but we must evacuate you first and get you to safety, ma’am.”
“Go,” Qui-Gon nodded, as the Chancellor glanced across at him, “thank you for your assistance, Madame Chancellor.”
“I hope he recovers, Master Jedi.”
Jortavus was already halfway out of the shuttle; he shot a quick look at Qui-Gon that was a mixture of anger, fear, contempt, and confusion, before allowing himself to be bundled away by the guards. The Chancellor followed, her surviving guard following at a swift trot.
Left alone in the shuttle, Qui-Gon let out a slow breath, calming himself and centring in the Force; Obi-Wan trembled slightly beneath the pressure of his hands; his breathing growing weaker, shallower, as he moaned softly, eyelids flickering as he fought to remain conscious. Qui-Gon poured as much restorative energy as he could into the younger Jedi, but his healing skills were rudimentary at best; it had little effect.
There was a moment of perfect silence; Qui-Gon, bowed over his Padawan, blood-slicked hands clenched tightly over the wound in his stomach as Obi-Wan lay on the metal deck, his own hands clasped over his Masters’, pale, shivering with pain, shock and blood loss.
The arrival of the medics shattered the peace in the most welcome and chaotic way possible. A team of yellow-clad figures burst through the door of the shuttle, several of them hauling large bags and various pieces of equipment, including a hover-stretcher. Voices clamoured to each other; orders were barked as each member of the team – there were at least half a dozen of them – descended upon the two Jedi in a whirl of organised chaos.
“Sir! Sir, can you tell me what happened?”
“He was shot – a slugthrower. The round went straight through…”
“Okay, entry and exit wound, great… he’s gonna need fluids, push an IV line right now, let’s get saline and synth blood for a human – he is human, right? – Right, get a bag going, you, get the O2 mask on him, I want BP and heart rate… sir, I’ve got haemostatic bacta dressings here, we’re going to plug the wound front and back, it’s gonna hurt him like a son of a bantha but it’s gotta be done, then we’re gonna move him, okay? Keep the pressure on for just a second or two longer while I get the dressings ready, hey, hey, you, get some pain relievers into him, we can at least try and make this a bit easier for the poor guy… okay, I’m ready, sir, are you ready? You can let go now… sir? Sir, you can let go now, I need to plug the wounds…”
Qui-Gon blinked, and reluctantly withdrew his hands, pulling back to allow the medic access; the yellow-clad man cast aside the blood-drenched bacta dressings and, without hesitation, pushed a tubular dressing straight into the bullet wound. Obi-Wan’s back arched weakly as he let out a cry of pain, muffled by the oxygen mask that had been strapped over his face.
“For the sake of the gods… I said to give him some pain relief! We’re gonna have to turn him, I need to get to his back as well.”
“Okay, okay, done! BP’s dropping and heart rate’s all over the shop, we’re risking defib here, we need to get him to the OR…”
“Gotta plug this hole first or he’ll bleed out before we get there, you got those lines in?”
“Running now, okay, hypo’s taking effect, now or never…”
“I’m ready – go!”
Qui-Gon watched in a kind of detached shock, feeling oddly disconnected from reality as three of the medics expertly rolled Obi-Wan onto his front, and there was so much blood… it was the first time Qui-Gon had seen the size of the exit wound and he had to swallow back his nausea as the medic did not hesitate to pack more dressings tightly into the wound.
“Okay, let’s get him on the stretcher, we’ve still got to keep the pressure on, OR two should be prepped and ready, let’s go!”
The stretcher was brought over and Obi-Wan lifted and deposited on it by the yellow medics… many of whom were now sporting bloodstains on their knees and hands from the slick deck plates. Without hesitation, two of them grabbed the stretcher and took off at a sprint, even as the one who had seemed to be in charge knelt on the stretcher itself, straddling Obi-Wan, keeping both hands pressed firmly on the dressings, a fourth running alongside carrying the intravenous fluid bags and oxygen tank.
“Where are you taking him?”
Watching his Padawan disappear through the door was enough to galvanise Qui-Gon into action, launching to his feet, the last two medics busy packing up their bags to follow their colleagues.
“The Med Bay’s not far from here, sir,” a young woman offered him a slight, sympathetic smile, “he’ll be going straight into surgery… Dr. Vashek is the Prime Minister’s personal physician and a great surgeon… I’m sure your friend will be okay.”
Qui-Gon barely thought to spare her a nod of acknowledgement as he broke into a run, following the team of medics as they hurtled out of the hanger bay, dashing down corridors and making quick turns until they entered the Medical Bay… and the chaos only intensified. Qui-Gon could make little sense of the medical jargon and rapid acronyms and numbers that were being tossed back and forth between the medics, but the stretcher was whisked away into a side room… Qui-Gon made to follow, but a hand on his arm stopped him, and he just managed to prevent himself from snatching up his lightsabre and severing the offending limb.
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s the Operating Room – you can’t go in there.”
“I need to…”
“I know you want to be with him,” the medic gave his arm a gentle squeeze, “but trust me, sir, the doctor knows what he’s doing. Your friend’s in a bad way, not gonna lie, but this is his best chance…”
“Far from it,” Qui-Gon tried to keep the frown off his face, well aware that the medic was only trying to be helpful, “we are Jedi… if I can just get him back to the Temple, our Healers…”
“Jedi?”
The man released his arm and stepped back in shock, but quickly recovered himself, shaking off his amazement with the ease of a consummate professional.
“Doesn’t make a difference,” he shook his head, “with that level of trauma and blood loss… your friend would have been dead within minutes. Dr. Vashek is the best – he’s the Prime Minister’s personal physician – he’ll get your friend stable enough for you to take him back to Coruscant. What are a pair of Jedi doing on Kerkoidia anyway?”
“Protecting an Ambassador…” Qui-Gon sighed, realising that he really ought to check in on Jortavus at some point, as little as he actually wished to, “that’s how Obi-Wan was… shot.”
“Yeah, we heard about the attack in the market district – the whole Exchequer is on lockdown at the moment,” the medic sighed, shaking his head, “apparently there’s rioting and a lot of fighting still going on out there… look, sir… you’re covered in blood. Let me show you where you can wash up…”
Qui-Gon raised his hands, grimacing at the sight of the caked, drying blood crusting on his skin, releasing his revulsion into the Force as he nodded; “Yes. Please.”
The medic nodded and gestured; Qui-Gon glanced reluctantly at the door to the Operating Room, and then obediently followed the man to a nearby refresher. He pushed the door open, and in the sudden silence of the small room, his own heartbeat sounded too loud and too fast and it was all too much… he grasped the edge of the sink and focussed, forcing himself to quell the tide of emotions, releasing them to the Force, before he methodically set about washing the blood from his hands with a kind of clinical detachment, trying not to think about how much of Obi-Wan’s blood he was rinsing down the drain, just how much of the precious fluid now stained his cloak and his robes, crusting on his skin and beneath his fingernails, and there was so much of it…
Obi-Wan’s blood…
His knees almost buckled, but he held himself upright. He cleaned and dried off his hands, adjusting his cloak to hide the worst of the stains on his tunics, and drew in a deep, steadying breath, summoning the Force to strengthen himself, and stepped back outside. He found the reception desk, where a nurse favoured him with a knowing, sympathetic smile.
“There’s a waiting room just over there if you want to wait for news, but your friend will be in surgery for some time,” she told him, “I can get someone to fetch you some caff or something if you like?”
“No, thank you,” Qui-Gon shook his head; he glanced briefly at the waiting room but saw little point in making use of it; the Force would tell him if anything were to happen to his Padawan, and, as much as he loathed the idea of leaving him with these strangers and their conventional medicines, he had duties to perform, “I must… I must leave, for a short while. This is my personal communicator frequency. Please call me immediately if… if there is any news. I will return as soon as I can…”
She nodded, as he cast a forlorn glance towards the Operating Room where Obi-Wan’s life was in the hands of complete strangers, before he turned, and left.
Ambassador Jortavus had long since passed from fear into the sullen fury of someone who had been taken from the limelight of being the most honoured guest to one relegated to the bottom of other people’s priorities. Qui-Gon stopped by the quarters assigned to the Ambassador long enough to make sure that the man was indeed unharmed by the attack in the market district, was under armed guard under the orders of the Prime Minister, and would not be in a position to cause any unnecessary upset to anyone. Jortavus had railed a little about being effectively under house arrest, confined to quarters, and kept in the dark about why the whole Exchequer was on lockdown. He had been quite vociferous about how poorly he felt the whole matter was being handled, and of course, it was all Qui-Gon’s fault.
Qui-Gon had excused himself through gritted teeth, promising to try to find out exactly what was happening and when the Ambassador might be able to meet with the Chancellor or the Prime Minister to finalise the negotiations for their vital trade agreements. As Qui-Gon closed the door behind him, he could not help but scowl a little; Jortavus had not even asked after Obi-Wan, and that had annoyed the Jedi Master more than he cared to admit.
A brief meeting with the Chancellor – who was more than willing to welcome him into her quarters, and had happily served him tea – confirmed that the worst possible scenario was unfolding. Following the failed assassination attempts in the market district, the Retail Caucus was being directly challenged by a faction known as the Free Capitalist Society, seeking to wrench power from the ruling Caucus. Fighting had broken out across the capital city, but ground troops were clearing out the civilian population even as battle droids were being sent in to confront the uprising.
“Has this ever happened before?”
“There have been rallies and a few protests that usually had to be broken up by civilian authorities,” the Chancellor had admitted, “but nothing so widespread or violent. I am sorry that you were caught in this, Master Jedi… and the Ambassador as well, of course. How is the young man who was with you?”
“He lives,” Qui-Gon lowered his gaze slightly, “he is in surgery. I am waiting for news.”
“Our medical facility is first rate… I am sure he will be fine. And you can assure Ambassador Jortavus that once the lockdown is lifted, we will resume our negotiations. I am sure it will not take long…”
His next task was to contact the Jedi Temple, but on attempting to reach his ship, he was blocked by armed guards who bluntly informed him that nobody was permitted to enter or leave the Exchequer due to the lockdown, which meant that the hanger bays were off-limits. Qui-Gon tried to reach the Prime Minister and the Chancellor to request permission to access his ship to use the communications array, only to then find out that all communication channels were being blocked for security reasons.
With nothing else to accomplish and unable to even update the Jedi on their precarious position, Qui-Gon returned to the medical bay. He took a seat in the waiting room… and waited. Meditation offered little respite from his own grief and exhaustion, but it did help to pass the time…
“Master Jedi?”
Qui-Gon opened his eyes. Several hours had passed, according to the chronometer on the wall.
“Yes?”
“The other Jedi… he’s just come out of surgery,” the doctor was an older man with silvery-grey close-cropped hair and grey-green eyes; he tilted his head slightly and he spoke with a soft, lilting voice, “it was… touch and go… for a while there. We almost lost him… but he pulled through. I think he will be fine… we managed to repair the internal damage and stop the bleeding. We have him in a bacta tank at the moment… we can’t leave him in there for as long as I’d like, we have several injured ground troops to tend to as well, but I’ll bring him out in a couple of hours and once the nurses have got him cleaned up we’ll move him to a ward to recuperate.”
“I would like to take him back to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant as soon as possible.”
“I can’t release him yet,” the doctor shook his head, firmly, “even once he’s out of the bacta he will be very weak and probably quite sore, definitely exhausted. He’ll need to rest… and I’ve been told we are currently in lockdown, so it won’t be my call as to when you can leave… a nurse will come and fetch you when he’s ready for visitors. I have other patients I must attend to, if you’ll excuse me…?”
“Of course… thank you, doctor, for your efforts on his behalf.”
“You are welcome, Master Jedi.”
More long hours passed. Qui-Gon was dimly aware of the coming and going of the doctors and nurses outside of his door; as time wore on, even the consummate medical professionals began to look more worn and haggard, unable to clock off as their relief shift workers could not enter the building under the terms of the lockdown. He saw several of them taking turns to nap in one of the other side rooms, keeping each other going with dry humour and copious amounts of caffeine.
Eventually, a harried-looking nurse with dishevelled hair and dark circles under her eyes walked into the small waiting room, leaning heavily against the doorframe, plastering a wan smile on her face.
“Master Jedi… your colleague is waiting for you. If you’ll follow me, please…?”
Qui-Gon rose, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cloak, and followed her down several corridors, until they reached one that was lined with doors, looking for all the world like a hotel, right down to the numbers on the doors. She stopped at door 7, and pushed it open quietly.
“In here,” she whispered, “his clothes were ruined but his personal belongings are in the drawer of the unit by the bed… please use the intercom if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Qui-Gon inclined his head slightly, and she departed quietly, closing the door with a soft click behind her.
Qui-Gon turned towards the bed, and allowed himself a quiet sigh, his eyes passing over the supine figure on the bed, even as he tentatively reached out with the Force. Obi-Wan was lying on the bed, propped up at a forty-five degree angle, a single pillow behind his head. His Jedi tunic, robes and cloak were gone; he was clad only in a light grey cotton gown, which only served to make his pale complexion look all the more waxen. A blanket covered his legs and was tucked around his waist. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, misting slightly with every soft exhalation; intravenous lines snaked into the crook of his left arm, drip-feeding him vital fluids and medication. His hair had been let down, no doubt by the nurses, his nerf-tail gone and braid unfastened, now just an incongruous-looking strand of long hair.
Qui-Gon slowly crossed to the bedside, taking care not to disturb any of the equipment or lines, gently placing his left hand upon Obi-Wan’s right one. The young Jedi stirred slightly, as much in response to that as Qui-Gon’s gentle mental brush against their training bond. Through it, he could sense his Padawan’s consciousness; dimly aware of the discomfort of his injury but thoughts and perceptions muddied by what were no doubt some very strong pain relievers.
“Mmm… Master…” he breathed, softly, forcing his eyes open and blinking heavily.
“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon managed to raise a slight smile, “how are you feeling?”
“Ah… tired,” the Padawan admitted, “I… I don’t remember… what happened?”
“You were injured, dear one, while defending the Ambassador… but you are going to be fine.”
“The… the Ambassador?”
“Unharmed, thanks to you,” Qui-Gon assured him, “he is safe and under guard, we are back at the Exchequer. You just need to rest, Obi-Wan. Get some sleep… I will be right here with you. Sleep, Padawan.”
With a sleepy murmur, unable to fight the Force-suggestion in his weakened state, Obi-Wan had little choice but to drift into slumber. Satisfied that he would sleep for some time, Qui-Gon opened the drawer of the unit. Relieved to find Obi-Wan’s lightsabre there, he took it and attached it to his own belt, unwilling to leave it unsecured where anyone might stumble across it. A small plastic pot held the beads and ties that normally formed Obi-Wan’s braid, along with the band from his nerf-tail, and Qui-Gon smiled to himself. Selecting the first bead, he leaned over the bed, picking up the fine strands of hair, even as he began to re-braid them, slotting in the beads and tied back where they belonged, until it was complete, and he gently tucked the braid back behind Obi-Wan’s ear. Placing his hand on the Padawan’s brow, he sent a pulse of healing energy into his wounded student, before he settled himself into a large armchair in the corner of the room. Leaning up against the tall side, he allowed himself the luxury of a yawn, stretched, and then made himself as comfortable as possible, before drifting into a light doze of his own.
It was nearly another full day before the lockdown was lifted, but, as it turned out, the Ambassador had finally been permitted to meet with the Chancellor. In light of the attack in the market, it did not take them long to finalise their trade agreements for the next fiscal year, all parties generally agreeing to stick to the status quo in order to have the matter resolved quickly – a great show of fortitude and strength for the Retail Caucus to demonstrate that things were ‘business as usual’, and a boon for the Ambassador who could return to his people with the news that there would be no increases to their tariffs or import duties.
Qui-Gon learned from an exhausted but elated orderly that the uprising had been quashed, the perpetrators all either dead or arrested, and the lockdown on the Exchequer was lifted, allowing a change of medical personnel and for transport ships to start coming and going as well. The Jedi Master left Obi-Wan’s side for long enough to report to the Jedi Council; he confirmed that as soon as Obi-Wan was well enough to travel, they would return Jortavus to Umgul.
“It would take longer for us to wait for a transport ship to reach us than it would for us to make the journey ourselves,” he confirmed, “Obi-Wan will be safe aboard our ship and I will return with him to Coruscant at the earliest opportunity.”
For his part, Obi-Wan spent another night in the medical bay; he slept more often than not, only awakening when the nurses came to bring him food or to change the bacta bandages that were wrapped around his waist.
“He just needs to rest,” one of the doctors told them both, as she was doing her rounds, “I would have liked to keep him here for a few more days at least, but I won’t oppose you taking him home if you make sure he doesn’t overexert himself. He lost a lot of blood. He will be weak for a while and his stomach will be sore. I recommend a bland diet, no alcohol, keep up with doses of pain-relievers every four to six hours as he needs them, and again – plenty of rest. He will no doubt feel quite sick and dizzy for a while anyway.”
Qui-Gon had nodded and thanked her and her colleagues for all of their assistance. He fetched clean tunic and robes from their ship, helping Obi-Wan to dress himself, noting the way the Padawan winced and whitened as he tried to bend down to pull on his boots, clutching at his midriff with a grimace.
“Allow me, Padawan…”
Just as he had managed to get Obi-Wan into his boots and cloak and had returned his lightsabre, a porter came in, pushing a hover chair.
“The doctor said you’re not to walk too far, sir, so you’re to use this to get to your ship… I’m to take you there, if you’d like to take a seat…?”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan balked a little, but at his Master’s nod, he reluctantly took a seat, though his features immediately relaxed with relief, “thank you…”
“No problem – got everything? Yes? Great. Lead the way, Master Jedi, sir…”
Qui-Gon inclined his head, and accordingly led the way back to their ship; he took some time to get Obi-Wan settled into one of the bunks in the passenger living area, piling a few extra pillows onto the bed, knowing it was more comfortable for him to be propped up a bit instead of lying flat. Once he had got his Padawan settled – the younger Jedi giving him an amused eye roll and insisting that he was ‘fine’ as Qui-Gon fussed over pillows and blankets – the Master went to fetch the Ambassador.
“It’s about time, I’ve been packed and waiting for hours for you to escort me to my ship!”
“This way, Ambassador…”
“I know where the hanger bay is, Jedi!”
As they entered the bay, Jortavus brightened considerably at the sight of the Chancellor, waiting for them by the door.
“Madame Chancellor! So good of you to come to see me off, how very charming of you.”
“Ambassador… yes, of course,” the Chancellor inclined her head slightly, “I wish you a safe journey home. Indeed. Now… Master Jedi… I was hoping I might be able to speak to your young colleague?”
“Certainly, Madame Chancellor,” Qui-Gon nodded, ignoring the look of shock that flickered across Jortavus’s face before the smooth mask of diplomatic impassivity was back in place, “he is already aboard our ship… though I’m afraid he may be asleep; the doctors stressed his need to rest…”
“I promise I will not disturb him,” the Chancellor replied, with a slight smile, “this will not take long.”
“Allow me, Madame Chancellor,” Jortavus all but shoved Qui-Gon aside to proffer his elbow; she hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but enough for Qui-Gon to recognise her reluctance, before she accepted his arm and allowed the Ambassador to escort her across the bay and up the ramp of their waiting ship.
Qui-Gon followed; as they boarded, the Chancellor politely disengaged her hand from Jortavus’s arm with a murmur of thanks, crossing the lounge to the only occupied bunk. Obi-Wan was lying utterly still, a blanket drawn up to his chest, head slightly to one side, breathing slowly and shallowly, eyes closed.
“He is even younger than I first thought…” she exclaimed, softly, surprised, gingerly sitting on the edge of the bunk, “how old is he?”
“Hah… I am twenty-two standard, Madame Chancellor,” Obi-Wan replied on his own behalf, stirring and blinking his eyes open, “I… oh… ah… please forgive me if I do not rise and give my customary bow…”
“Oh my,” the Chancellor’s cheeks reddened slightly, as she hid a smile behind her hand, “you are forgiven, young Jedi… now, please forgive me; I cannot recall either of your names!”
“Obi-Wan,” the Padawan said, softly, even as he unconsciously clutched his stomach with his right hand, “I am Obi-Wan Kenobi… this… this is my Master…”
“Qui-Gon Jinn,” he supplied, offering a polite bow to the Chancellor.
“Then I am pleased to know you both – my name is Arosa Antalla.”
“Arosa!” Jortavus interjected, ebulliently, “I did not know that. What a lovely name, Chancellor.”
“Oh… thank you, Ambassador, yes,” she managed a tight smile, which suddenly became warm and genuine as she turned back towards Obi-Wan, “I owe you both a great debt of gratitude. You saved my life as well with your brave actions. Thank you, both… you are always welcome on Kerkoidia. I… I have a small gift for you both. It is not much, but it is all I can think to offer to a Jedi…”
“Your thanks are appreciated, Madame Chancellor,” Qui-Gon replied, dipping his head slightly, “and gifts are not necessary… we were doing our duty, and though we are pleased to have been of service to you and the Ambassador… we are sorry for the lives that were lost to the violence that day.”
“It is merely a small token of my appreciation,” the Chancellor reached into a brightly embroidered bag she carried on a long strap over one shoulder, pulling out an ornately painted tin, “this is a special type of black tea leaf, grown only in one of our Far Eastern provinces. You expressed a liking for it in my quarters, Master Jinn, and commented that both you and your young friend appreciate a good brew…”
“That sounds wonderful,” Obi-Wan raised a slight, tired smile, “thank you, Ambassador – this is very kind of you.”
“I will leave you to rest now,” Chancellor Antalla gently patted Obi-Wan’s hand, earning a shy smile in response, even as Qui-Gon accepted the tin of tea with amused gratitude, “feel better soon, young Obi-Wan. My thanks again, Master Jinn…”
“Allow me to escort you back out of the bay, Chancellor…”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, thank you, Ambassador,” she replied, coolly, “I am sure you are keen to be underway so that this young man can return home to recuperate as soon as possible.”
“Oh… oh, yes, of course…”
“Farewell to you all.”
“Farewell, Chancellor,” Qui-Gon bowed politely; as soon as she had departed, he withdrew the ramp and sealed the hatch, making his way to the cockpit, where their pilot and co-pilot awaited their orders.
“Sir?”
“We are ready. Get us to Umgul as quickly as possible; once we have returned the Ambassador to his people, we will be returning to Coruscant immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Satisfied with this, Qui-Gon withdrew to the passenger lounge, wanting nothing more than to brew some tea, check in on Obi-Wan, and get some much-needed sleep. However, he found himself drawing in a calming breath as he discovered Jortavus striding up and down the length of the lounge, lights on full brightness, as he loudly dictated his report on his eventful visit to Kerkoidia into a hand-held recorder.
“Ambassador,” Qui-Gon interrupted, as the man was mid-rant about the lack of proper precautions taken by the Jedi even before he had arrived on the planet, “perhaps this could wait until you return home?”
“How dare you interrupt me while I am working?” Jortavus was red-faced and scowling, any pretence at concern or sympathy gone in the absence of any other high-ranking officials, “This report is of paramount importance and must be made while my memory is fresh and the trauma of these events still recent enough to recall… I wish to prepare my report without your interference, Jedi, especially when I intend to have a copy sent to the Senate with a strongly worded complaint about your attitude, ineptitude and your insolence!”
“At this point, Ambassador, I have little interest in your personal opinion of me,” Qui-Gon deliberately kept his voice low and even, “but I will remind you that Obi-Wan was severely injured protecting your life after you attended a tour I strongly recommended that you decline in the face of the risk it presented. He needs to rest. Quietly.”
“Oh! I see! Now you’re trying to blame me for the fact that your boy was stupid enough to get himself shot!”
“Ambassador,” anyone with any sense of self preservation or even an ounce of common sense would have detected the edge of steel in Qui-Gon’s quiet voice, “I will not discuss this with you further. You will remain quiet for the duration of our journey or I will make sure you spend the rest of the voyage locked in the cargo bay – and I do not give a damn about what you may say to the Senate or the Jedi Council. I have a long history of defying authority and under far less trying circumstances than these. You will allow Obi-Wan some peace and quiet in which to rest, is that understood, Ambassador?”
Jortavus opened his mouth as if to argue, saw the look on Qui-Gon’s face, and wisely closed it again. With an annoyed harrumph, he dropped the recorder onto the table with a clatter, and retreated to an armchair on the other side of the lounge, pulling out a datapad from his briefcase and turning the back of the chair on the Jedi as he settled down to type instead. Qui-Gon allowed himself the rare indulgence of shooting a glare at the man’s back, before releasing his irritation. Smoothing out his expression, he turned, and took a seat on the edge of the bunk, even as he felt the ship finally lifting off.
“Obi-Wan,” he murmured, softly, placing one hand on the younger Jedi’s shoulder as he stirred again, opening his eyes, “how are you feeling, Padawan? Do you need anything… food, drink, pain-relievers, an extra blanket, or more pillows…? Or perhaps you would like to join me in a quick sparring match?”
A fond, amused smile tugged at the corners of Obi-Wan’s mouth as he managed a slight shake of his head; “No, thank you, Master… I am alright. Although I am afraid I do not feel up to a sparring match right now…”
“Perhaps later, then,” Qui-Gon replied, letting his amusement and affection shine through his mental shields, delighting in the warm reciprocation he got from his student, though there was an ache of underlying pain behind it, “hmm… are you sure you do not want any pain relief?”
“It… ah… it makes me feel sick,” Obi-Wan admitted, “I… I am trying to use the Force instead, but…”
“You lost far too much blood to be able to use the Force effectively, my dear Padawan,” Qui-Gon explained, gently, reaching out and brushing back Obi-Wan’s braid, then cupping his cheek with the hand that did so, “the synthetic blood you were given, while vital to you, would not contain midichlorians… it will take time for your body to return your levels to normal. I’m afraid conventional medicine is your only option… but we can use a lower dose to help avoid the nausea.”
“Oh… yes, thank you, Master…”
Qui-Gon rose to fetch the medical kit; he selected the correct hypospray and administered a dose of the pain relief; it did not take long before Obi-Wan’s eyes grew heavier and he soon drifted off to sleep. Qui-Gon tarried by his side for a few moments longer. He then rose, crossing to another bunk. He shot a look at Jortavus, still sitting with his back to the two Jedi, before the Master waved his hand, lowering the light level down to twenty percent. Jortavus spluttered in surprise and growled something under his breath, but made no other move. Satisfied the Ambassador would leave them in peace, Qui-Gon removed his boots, lay down on the other bunk, pulled the blanket around himself, and let himself finally get some rest.
When they arrived on Umgul, they landed at the Consulate where the Ambassadorial Offices were located, their pilots bringing their ship to rest on one of the circular, open-air platforms on the roof of the vast building. A whole team of staff were there ready and waiting to greet the returning envoy; for his part, Jortavus waited until the ramp was extended and the hatch opened, shooting a contemptuous look over his shoulder.
“An aide will come for my luggage,” he waved a hand dismissively, “I release you both from your service towards me. I hope I am fortunate enough to never lay eyes on either of you again.”
“That feeling is mutual, Ambassador. Good day to you.”
Qui-Gon waited until the last scampering aide had departed with the Ambassador’s belongings, before closing up the doorway again and signalling their readiness to depart to their pilots. He ran a hand through his hair, cast a quick glance at Obi-Wan, who was apparently still asleep, and decided that a shower would help.
By the time he emerged, dressed in clean tunics and with his long hair hanging loose and damp around his shoulders, he had to suppress a sigh that was part fondness, part annoyance. The bed was empty, his wounded Padawan leaning heavily against the kitchenette counter-top, clutching his stomach, face contorted in pain.
“Obi-Wan… what in the name of the Force are you doing?”
“Um… I’m making us some tea, Master…”
“I can see that… you are supposed to be resting, Padawan. You are paler than your tunics, come, at least sit down…”
Four long strides and Qui-Gon had crossed the room to Obi-Wan’s side, offering his hands, allowing the Padawan to grasp his arm, almost collapsing into his Master with a sigh of relief. Qui-Gon helped the trembling young man take a few unsteady steps and then set him down in one of the high-backed armchairs, settling him back as he winced and put a hand to his stomach.
“Do you need…?”
“No,” Obi-Wan gave a small shake of his head, though his tight expression belied his words, “no, no thank you, no pain relievers… just… just the tea, please, Master… I wanted to try the leaves the Chancellor gifted to us.”
“It is rather good,” Qui-Gon agreed, “it has a smoky, but not unpleasant flavour, and rather floral undertones… I think you will approve.”
He went to the kitchenette and found the water had already been boiled and left to steep in a pot. Pouring out two cups, he carried them both over to the armchairs, passing one into Obi-Wan’s slightly shaking hands, receiving a murmur of thanks in return, and then taking a seat himself. There was silence for a few minutes, though Obi-Wan made a quiet noise of surprised approval as he sipped his tea for the first time. Qui-Gon waited patiently; he could sense something in the Force, a kind of contemplative curiosity emanating from his student, but he was not willing to press the matter, Obi-Wan would speak when he was ready…
“Master…?”
“Yes?”
“I… um… I still… I still can’t remember what happened to me. Why can’t I remember? What did happen?”
“How much do you remember, Padawan?”
“We… we were in the Market District,” Obi-Wan swirled the tea in his cup as he gazed into it, thoughtfully, as if the dark liquid could offer some sort of insight, “the Chancellor and the Ambassador were looking at some paintings… there was a warning in the Force, and then there were…blasters firing, and loud bangs, and people running and screaming… I remember seeing your lightsabre in the crowd, I drew mine, I got the Ambassador behind me, and then we were running, and then… then… I… I think I was on the floor, and you told me to hold on… and… and it… it hurt… it hurt so much… then I woke up in the Medical Bay of the Exchequer. They said I was shot. I don’t remember. How can I not remember?”
“I do not think you were aware of the injury, or at which point it was incurred,” Qui-Gon tried not to picture his beloved Padawan lying on the cold metal floor of the transport shuttle as the Master’s hands tried desperately to prevent the blood flowing from his wound, pooling beneath him on the deck plates, “adrenaline, perhaps, and the rush of the moment… it was not until we were on the shuttle that we realised you were hurt. Some of our attackers were using slugthrowers… our lightsabres cannot deflect their rounds… you were hit with a metal projectile. It… it passed right through you.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan glanced down at his waist, lightly pressing his right hand to his abdomen, “that… that explains a lot…”
“Indeed… and I can sense your growing discomfort, Padawan. If you will not accept pain relief, then please at least return to bed and rest… the Healers will want their turn with you when we get back to the Temple…”
“Oh, great,” Obi-Wan groaned, but nonetheless allowed his Master to help him to his feet, supporting him as they crossed the room, where Obi-Wan found himself being deposited on and tucked back into his bed.
“It is for the best, Obi-Wan – as much as I share your distaste for having to spend any time in the Halls of Healing, conventional medicine is no match for the skills of the Master Healers of the Temple. I am sure you will bear their ministrations with your usual fortitude.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan hid a yawn behind his hand, and then shot Qui-Gon a cheeky smirk, “I’m not the only one who will need fortitude though, am I?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If I’ve got to face the Healers… you’ll have to face the Council,” Obi-Wan grinned and grimaced at the same time, “I’m sure Ambassador Jortavus will have filed his report by the time we get home… I wonder what the Council will have to say…?”
“I dread to think,” Qui-Gon huffed, though his own amusement was evident, “with any luck, they will ban me from political assignments for the foreseeable future…”
“Yes, it’s about time we got some safer assignments… like wrestling some Gundarks, or chasing down pirates, or tackling spice runners, or confronting an army of battle droids, or maybe taking on the Hutt syndicate, or…”
“Obi-Wan – for the love of the Force – go to sleep.”
“Yes, Master…”
Letting out another sleepy yawn, he nestled himself into the pillows and hummed in contentment as Qui-Gon affectionately ran a hand through his hair, soothing him into sleep, as they made their way home.