Surprising Yet Inevitable

“There. We’re finished.” Bel-San gave the small girl in his care a smile, running a hand over her hand. “Don’t let her take off the sling for another three days or so. The bones have knit together well, but I don’t want her thinking that she can go back to climbing in the Gardens quite yet. Check back with us in a few days.”

The girl, who had been surprisingly well-behaved despite her young age, thanked him softly, then pressed her face against her Creche master’s leg. The master gave him a tired smile. “You’ve been wonderful. I’ll make sure there’s no climbing.” He took the girl’s hand, leading her out of the examining room.

As they left, Thysse stood from his seat where he’d been watching, making several notations on his datapad. It was a bit of a departure from his old observation days in the classroom, since his supervisor was actually almost ten years his junior. As often happened with the Nautolan, he attempted to keep a straight face in pronouncing his verdict, but a grin escaped across his face regardless. “Well, your reputation did precede you on this score, Jacoba. You truly are fantastic with the kids.”

Bel-San shrugged, not sure whether to seem pleased or disinterested in the praise. “After twenty years of doing something, you tend to get good at it.”

The Healer tilted his head. “You didn’t seem surprised that she wasn’t fully healed yet.”

“She’s Nacean. Had quite a few of them in my classes. Great at mathematics, but they get longer bloody noses than any species I know. They’re slow healers.”

Thysses narrowed his dark eyes. “A bit of an unfair advantage you’ve got. I’m supposed to be asking the questions that will stump you.”

“Don’t worry. What is it you’ve got me signed up for tomorrow, some sort of amphibian lung discussion? I don’t think I’ll have any sort of intelligent thing to say.” “Good. You’re not supposed to, at least not yet.”

They left the room, walking down the hall towards the common area. “When’s our next patient?”

“Soon. We’re going over to the Creche wing, actually. Several newborns have just arrived, and I thought you should get some experience there.”

“That’s excellent. Do you think that—“ Bel-San stopped mid-sentence and mid-stride as powerful Force wave rocked his mind, and he glanced at Thysse, wondering for a moment if they both had felt it, until the wave’s signature became clear and he realized it had been for himself alone.

“Are you all right?” Thysse looked at him curiously.

The wave subsided, but a lingering sense of alarm still hung over his thoughts. “Yes. But something’s wrong.” From the intensity of the feeling that had passed along his bond with Qui-Gon, Bel-San thought, it must be monumentally wrong. His head filled immediately with terrible images, already conjuring up possible scenarios. Force, he thought, don’t let it be Obi-Wan. But if it were Obi-Wan, would Qui-Gon still be conscious? Alla! “I apologize, and I’ll do whatever I must to make up for this, but I have to go.”

“What happened?” Concern colored Thysse’s features.

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s bad.” He bobbed his head in the semblance of a bow. “I’m sorry.” Without waiting for the Healer’s response, he turned on his heel, tearing down the corridor, his robe billowing out behind him like a sail.

When he was a padawan, he very rarely, if ever, won against his closest peers when he was sparring. Strenuous mental activity had never fazed him in the slightest, but the more physical side of Jedi life had been perhaps the hardest aspect for him. Also, it didn’t help that his three best friends were Payter, Mace, and Qui-Gon; all of them taller and stronger than he.

There was, however, one thing he could always do well, and nearly always better than the rest of them: run.

He ran as if the dark side itself reached for his heels. His lithe, compact frame sped through the corridors as he ignored the gazes cast in his direction. The Temple itself became a blur, as if he had made the jump to hyperspace. Racing into the nearest turbolift, he bounced on the balls of his feet, trying not to let his mind imagine any more terrible things. As the doors parted on Qui-Gon’s floor, he burst through the opening, his feet nearly flying until he skidded to a stop in front of his friend’s door.

The palpable sense of anguish that had ripped through their bond earlier had ebbed somewhat, replaced by the hollow distance of shock. He tried palming the door with no success, and then punched in the code, after a frightening moment where he wasn’t sure if he remembered it correctly; it had been awhile since he last used it.

As the door started to open, he shoved himself through the opening before it was truly large enough to allow him entry, scraping his shoulders on the edges.

“Qui-Gon! Where are—“ He stopped when he saw his friend leaning his head against the wall in his common room. Bel-San’s pulse sounded in his temples, and his breath came in quick, shallow bursts. “What is it? Is Obi-Wan okay? Are you okay?”

No answer came, and Bel-San took another step forward, knocking his foot against something hard, making a metallic sound. He glanced down, and he flinched when he saw the silver container on the floor. In his new profession, such transports were only used in the most dire of circumstances, and often became tombs for their occupants. He heard the anxiety enter his own voice as he spoke. “Why do you have a fridge in here?”

As Qui-Gon raised his hand, gesturing in the direction of the box, Bel-San saw he was shaking.

“What in…Oh, Force.” Bel-San’s voice died in his throat, his lips twisted in disbelief. “How did…he get here?”

“Payter.”

Bel-San drew a sharp breath, hissing between his clenched teeth. Staring down at Xanatos’ thin, sallow face, he could barely see the shadow of the young man he had been before he left the Order. He knew the younger man was still alive, and part of him wished it wasn’t so. “Gods, Qui-Gon, I don’t even know what to say.”

“I don’t need you to say anything,” Qui-Gon said, his voice brittle and quiet, like sand blown across glass. He turned to step closer to where Bel-San stood, his movements mechanical, lacking their usual grace. “I know he’s not dead, but, can you…I’m not sure what the readouts all mean, and—“

“Oh. Yes.” Eager to do something helpful, Bel-San crouched down next to the container, his gaze focused on the long panel of blinking displays. The vital stats all read in the single digits; that came as no surprise, thanks to the environment of the container, which kept the occupant’s body functioning at minimum levels to allow him to travel. As he examined his patient further, however, Bel-San let out an unrestrained gasp.

“He’s missing an arm!”

Qui-Gon sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “That’s not new.”

It took Bel-San a few moments to figure out his meaning, and when he did, he pursed his lips before he spoke. “You never told me you had to--”

“It’s not something I really enjoy talking about,” Qui-Gon said flatly.

Bel-San wanted to question him further, but he knew now was hardly the time. He stared for a moment at the place where Xanatos’ arm should have been, and he realized, and not for the first time, that despite Qui-Gon’s cheerful maverick reputation, the man could be ruthless when he had to be.

He laid a hand on Xanatos’ chest, suppressing a shudder when he felt how close the man’s breastbone was to his skin. Closing his eyes in order to probe his extremely faint signature, Bel-San frowned several moments later when he pulled away. “He’s in stasis, obviously. It doesn’t appear to be a medically induced stasis, though…I mean, there’s no internal bleeding or anything severe enough to put him that far under to travel. And yet…there’s something else there, but I’d—we’d, I mean—have to do more tests to know.”

“He looks terrible,” Qui-Gon said, an unreadable expression on his face as he looked down on his former apprentice. “Is…is he dying?”

Bel-San’s gaze met his. “I honestly don’t know. If he was when Payter put him in stasis, he might not have survived the trip anyway. But it’s impossible to know unless we take him to the Infirmary.” Saying this caused a thought to spark in his mind, and he pressed a hand to his temple. “Force! Obi-Wan! He’s going to come home…what will he—“

“I spoke with him already.” Qui-Gon rubbed his forearms with his hands, as if he’d suddenly gotten cold. “I’m shielding him now. I told him enough to stop his questions. For the moment. Kerge is in class, so there’s time to…” He looked away, pulling over a nearby stool, and collapsed onto it. “I can’t feel him at all, Bel-San.”

Nodding, Bel-San bent down and closed the lid on the container, sealing Xanatos back inside. “It’s the stasis, remember? You said the same thing about me after my Master—when they put me in stasis. It’s not you.” Feeling utterly at a loss now that his hands were empty, he walked the few steps into the kitchen, emerging with two glasses of water. “Here. Drink.”

Qui-Gon took the glass dumbly, and held it between his palms like an egg. “Do you think he’s going to live?”

Sighing, Bel-San took a drink, buying himself a few seconds of time to scramble desperately for an answer. “Payter sent him home in a fridge. That’s never a good thing. But I truly don’t know.”

It took Qui-Gon a while to process his words, and when he spoke again, despair robbed his voice of all its resonant tones. “What am I going to do?”

“We can take him to the Infirmary, if you want, and see what can be done for him.” Bel-San waited until Qui-Gon lifted his gaze from the floor to meet his own. “Or you can let me take care of it.”

Instantly, Qui-Gon’s eyes pinned him in place, his body tensed. “What do you mean?”

Holding up a palm, Bel-San attempted to assuage him. “I mean I can take care of it without you, if you’d rather not be involved.”

“That is not an option. It’s not. I can’t…Force, I almost wish I could.” He cradled his head in his hands, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, voice ragged. “It would make it so much easier. Just make it go away. But that’s not me. He needs to go to the Infirmary. I’ll take him.”

He felt his chest constrict, as if his ribs were shrinking. Xanatos had taken so much from Qui-Gon, and Bel-San had been powerless to intervene. His friend had regained much of himself in the past several years—his joy, his hope—and the thought of having to watch Qui-Gon’s heart break a second time over the same padawan sickened him. This time, however, he wasn’t willing to be a mere observer.

“We’ll take him,” he corrected, dropping a hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder for a moment before letting it fall to his side.

A flicker of warmth entered Qui-Gon’s eyes before it vanished as he spoke. “It’s not even him in that box, you know. It wasn’t even him…at the end. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. The thing is,” he said softly, his voice close to breaking, “I have to see this through. Payter was right; he belongs to me. If he can be saved, if he can’t…it’s my duty to see him through.”

Bel-San nodded, even though he didn’t think the unconscious stripling was worth the breath of air he took every minute. Yet he knew Qui-Gon, and he knew that in spite of it all, the man still felt like Xanatos’ master. “I understand.” He activated the antigravity lift on the container, and moved towards the door.

“I wish I could,” Qui-Gon said softly, setting his untouched glass on top of the stool before following behind Bel-San into the bright corridor.

***

Qui-Gon stared at the monitor in the workstation, his eyes following the basic script, reading through the saved list of wires that had gone out over the past years, almost as familiar to him as a litany.

The Council approved a new apprenticeship, Master Jinn, formerly master to Knight Alla Warez , and initiate Xanatos Galbatere. Xanatos Takes Top Honors in Forms. Padawans head up a new initiative to help Coruscant’s homeless, pictured here is Xanatos, padawan to Qui-Gon Jinn. Student scores perfect marks on this year’s exams: Padawan Galbatere. Master Jinn and padawan return from another successful mission, restoring order to the government on Spelias.

It went on like that for pages.

Then, the final entry came, subtle as a sixty-meter drop. Padawan Xanatos Galbatere has turned, leaving the Order. Whereabouts unknown at this time. He had read over these same entries countless times in the last five years, taking the words apart and putting them back together again, searching for a connection between the first entry and the last. Though he’d been a poor literature student, always preferring to draw rather than write what he saw, he knew enough about motifs and themes to know that within the scope of the story, the ending should be surprising yet inevitable.

The funny thing was, it had been too shocking to be surprised, and he far too rooted in the Living Force to have forseen anything beyond the next five minutes.

Bel-San had told him once about a planet he’d visited, one with very limited technology, and the resident scholars there had all of their documents written on wood pulp, or animal skin. One of the rooms, he’d said, had been filled from floor to ceiling with stacks of such paper pulp, and the scholar had been searching through the piles, sifting through a virtual sea of writing, trying to find one sheet he’d lost. The image had never left Qui-Gon; sometimes he wished that he could print the pages of the past and stack them up like columns. On a datareader, history seemed to weigh nothing at all, as if the words there meant nothing more than a wisp of smoke. Perhaps on paper, it would all make better sense. Maybe then he’d be able to see the beginnings of the darkness.

No matter how many times he read through them, the same thought always came to mind, and this day was no exception. I never saw it coming.

“Qui-Gon?”

His head jerked up sharply, and he took a deep breath when he saw Bel-San’s silhouette in the doorway. His friend had found him a small private waiting room, and he’d been thankful for the privacy. Powering down the workstation, he watched as the files that transcribed Xanatos’ training vanished on the darkened screen. He waited until Bel-San got closer and he could see his face before he asked him anything. Bel-San, however, had started to develop that maddening habit all Healers had of the insructable expression. “Any news?”

“I’ve been working with Thysse and some of the others. Right now, he’s in the process of stabilizing Xanatos, but it’s going to take awhile. He was in stasis for a long time; wherever he came from, it wasn’t nearby.” Bel-San’s eyes held kindness, but Qui-Gon could take no comfort from it. “I think it would be best if you headed back home and got some rest. There are probably some long days ahead. Also,” he added quietly, “I’ve done what I can to impose a gag order, but there’s only so much we can do. Especially with the guards in place now…”

“I knew it was only a matter of time.” Loosing a held breath, Qui-Gon shook his head. Soon the Temple would know, and he wanted to make sure he was the one who explained circumstances to Obi-Wan, and not some Jedi wire or worse, another padawan. The knowledge that the Jedi community at large would become aware of Xanatos’ presence made him want to crawl under his chair. Deep within his mind, he felt the old urge to fly away, to leave behind the stares and the pity, to take the next mission out and hope the pain wouldn’t follow behind.

“Like I said, there are long days ahead of us. All the more reason for you to head home. I promise the moment I have news, I send you word directly.”

Qui-Gon nodded, pulling himself to a standing position. He knew his words would sound hollow, but he said them anyway. “Thank you.”

Bel-San moved closer to the door, gesturing with one hand. “I have to stay here for now, but someone else came by to see if you were here. I think you should see her.”

He excused himself as Alla came into the room, her face pale. “Master,” she said, her voice hushed, and opened her arms to him.

Accepting her embrace, he felt the warmth of her hands through the fabric of his tunic. “You’re a welcome sight,” he whispered. She squeezed him tighter, and he wondered again how it was that they, with so much less in common, had made it work, while he and Xanatos—such kindred spirits, seemingly—had fallen apart.

“I knew something was wrong. I knew it, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Why didn’t you call me, Master?” Alla murmured more admonitions against his shoulder, but he ignored them, deciding to be grateful for her presence instead. “I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t the way you wanted things to be.”

Qui-Gon’s shoulders sagged as he released her. “No. It really isn’t.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Her hand reached for his, taking his much broader palm within her own.

He felt the Force move between them, binding them and balancing them as it always had, and he clung to it like a rope bridge over a ravine. “Walk me home?”

***

Kerge ran down the corridor, knocking into a smaller padawan, and he mumbled an apology before taking on another burst of speed. His master had taught him to keep his ear to the ground, and this time, the earth had rumbled up one hell of a rumor.

He turned the corner, slapping his palm on the pad by Qui-Gon’s door, half-expecting a crowd there already, or at least a few milling Jedi. The hall was deserted, though, and part of him wondered if what he’d heard was just part of the Temple gossip mill, a poorly reported story of mistaken identity, or some Coruscant hearsay. It wasn’t as if talk of dark Jedi didn’t surface from time to time.

The expression on Qui-Gon’s face, however, left him with no doubts.

As the door shut behind him, he dropped his pack, walking slowly over to the couch where the Jedi Master sat, surrounded by datafiles and datareaders. Carpet, table, and all the available seating were covered in a layer of technological information. Peeking out from beneath a pile of datachips was a battered sketchbook, and an old holobook, which glowed faintly, though Kerge couldn’t see the pictures. It was as if Qui-Gon had been assigned a fifty-page autobiography with accompanying scrapbook, due first thing tomorrow.

“So,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes still focused on the screen of the datapad in his lap. “You have the look of someone who already knows.”

Kerge nodded, though he wasn’t sure if Qui-Gon even noticed. “One of the kids in astrophysics is a Healer’s padawan.”

“I would appreciate it,” Qui-Gon said quietly, finally looking at Kerge, “if you’d not say anything to Obi-Wan until he gets home. He’s with Slade, and he’ll be home soon.”

“Of course.” Kerge sensed the muscles in his back had tensed, the way they always did when he knew his Master was in a truly foul mood. He didn’t really know what Master Jinn was like when pushed up against a wall, and though he doubted there would be any broken furniture, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

“There’s food, I think, if you’re hungry.” Qui-Gon waved his hand absently in the direction of the kitchen, but his gaze didn’t stray from the datapad.

Kerge took several steps, as he was quite famished, but a nagging reservation resurfaced in his mind, and he halted. He’d heard several different stories about how exactly Xanatos had appeared back in the Temple, but none of them seemed truly believable.

“Master Jinn? May I ask you one question?”

Qui-Gon looked up at him, the dark circles under his eyes giving his face a grayish cast, and nodded. “You can ask.”

“I don’t want to get into the whole thing with you or anything, but I want to know…how did Xanatos get here?”

Though nothing changed about the way Qui-Gon was sitting, or the tone of his voice, Kerge could only think that the Jedi looked more guarded than he had seconds before. “He came in a medical transport.”

“I heard that. But who sent him?”

The question hung in the air for several moments before Qui-Gon looked back at his datapad with a sigh. “Your master sent him.”

Hairs rose on the back of his neck, and though Kerge tried to keep the emotion from his tone, he proved unsuccessful. “Is he all right? Did he sent any word?”

Qui-Gon shook his head, and slipped a chip into a nearby datareader, and held it up to him.

Q—think this belongs to you; K & O must be away. Access via pass. P

Kerge read the message about five times, searching for a hidden message meant only for him. If his master was going to send any word, which could seriously compromise his mission, surely he would have taken the opportunity to communicate with his padawan.

Except there was no subtle subtext, no underlying meaning of any kind, other than the fact his master had just sent a dark Jedi back to the Temple in a box, and he didn’t want Kerge to know about it.

“What the hell!” He felt a wave of anger sweep through his mind, and he fought it back, trying to release its fury to the Force. “Why didn’t he just shoot off a flare gun, with a giant “I’m Right Here” sign hanging over his head? He’s gone crazy!”

It took him a moment to realize he was shouting, and once he did, he didn’t care. If his master’s position was discovered because of this message, and it was the last thing he ever said…Kerge couldn’t even fathom it. “He’s tripping up. He can’t keep going like this!” He flung an accusing finger in Qui-Gon’s direction. “He’s jeopardizing his own life just to send you back that stupid sack of shit you called a padawan—“

“That’s enough.” Qui-Gon’s gaze held him for a moment, but its potency wavered, and Kerge leapt back into his tirade.

He shook his head, moving back a pace from Qui-Gon. Why would his master risk his life just so Qui-Gon could get some closure? It didn’t make any sense at all. “Look, I get that you’re really upset because my master sent him home to you in a box, but don’t you get it? He shouldn’t have sent him at all! He should have left him wherever he found him!” Fear closed itself around his heart, and he nearly choked. “He’s trying to save kids’ lives. He can’t afford to waste his time cleaning up your messes!”

“I mean it! That’s enough, Kerge!”

The Jedi Master was standing now, but Kerge threw the datareader to the floor, and it broke into several pieces, scattering across the carpet. “It’s bad enough Xanatos screwed with your life, but he’s fucking with Payter’s now, and I really can’t deal with that.” His legs began to ache, and he felt the overwhelming need to run, to be anywhere other than this room. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait!” Qui-Gon reached out a hand, trying to grasp his arm, but he was already at the door, his bootsoles pounding across the corridor tiles. He thought at first the Jedi Master would be at his heels, dragging him by the collar back to his room, setting him up for rock scrubbing sessions within the next thirty seconds, but the only thing following behind him was his own shadow.

TBC