Beyond the Last Illusion

Chapter 20

Devrill Thwarp was enjoying himself immensely. Seldom did he have a chance to finish a job with so much personal flair. Usually it was in and out, get the job done and collect the pay, no frills. This was something else again. It felt good. It felt real. Lijke he was making a difference, not just making a living.

The young Jedi was in a world of hurt. Those nerve probes must be nasty business. Tiny clawed things attached to a microfilament, they were working their way up his vertebrae, one on either side, wrapping the thin neuro-compatible thread around the spinal cord as they went. It was all part of the procedure, the droid had informed him. Extracting somebody's brain from his body was a delicate operation. Everything had to be just right. Thwarp watched the Jedi arch and twist and grit his teeth and try not to groan. He was soaked in sweat. He had to be afraid, even if he didn't show it. Thwarp just had a gut feeling about that. Nobody – Jedi or not – would want to end up like those kriffing brain jar monks. Well, nobody except the crazy B'Omarri themselves.

And then he idly wondered how many of them really, really wanted it, either. Did they get to this stage in their journey of enlightenment and regret the decision, he wondered? Now there was an intriguing thought. But he would never know the answer for sure.

His philosophical reverie was interrupted by an agonized cry from the doorway.

"Well, what do we have here?" He made the Duchess a mocking courtly bow, and seized her by one arm, twisting cruelly. She gasped, and her eyes travelled to the suffering Jedi.

"Stop!" she cried out, desperate. "Stop! I'm here, I surrender, you unspeakable demon! Let him go!"

Thwarp unholstered his blaster and set it against her delicately curved temple. She closed her eyes.

But no. that was too easy. There wasn't any style in that. It would ruin the moment. "Now wait a minute," he said, shoving her forward. "I'm so glad you joined us. I think you might want to watch a little bit." She cried out again as he pushed her sharply in the back, toward the droid's operating table.

"This next part is most interesting," the droid warbled in an academic tone. "Once the probes have completed their progress at the top of the spinal column, I can gradually shut down all major neurological functions that support animal life. The electro-pulsors will keep the relevant brain functions suppressed, so as not to induce shock. Then I will induce a temporary coma in order to effect the extraction. Just another ninety seconds, I estimate."

The Duchess tried to escape his grip, but Thwarp kept a tight hold on her, savouring every delectable second.

"Obi Wan!" she sobbed.

Dazed, half-broken, he managed to turn his face toward the sound. Absolute horror flitted over his features. "Satine!" he gasped. "What are you…! I said – I said –" But the rest of it was cut off by a long writhing cry of agony. His eyes rolled back and every muscle went rigid.

Devrill laghed and laughed, as the Duchess screamed and sobbed. This was delicious! And then he spun round in alarm. His joy was cut short by an unexpected and very unwelcome sound: a snapping hiss followed by a low thrumming tone. The tall Jedi stood in the doorway, his grey eyes flashing dangerously. His green blade hummed ferociously in the small space.

Thwarp let go his prisoner and turned the blaster on the newcomer instead, emptying six or seven full power shots into the Jedi at point blank range. The green blade swept and spun; the deadly bolts blasted into the ceiling, the floor, the countertop, the light fixture, and the brain jar waiting for its new occupant. Red liquid spattered everywhere, slicking the floor and staining clothing crimson. Thwarp skidded and slipped over the floor, backing away from the advancing Jedi. He wasn't going to go without a fight. He turned the blaster's point on the Duchess instead, crouching at the far end of the room, her clothing splattered in scarlet droplets, her resplendent hair coming loose from its knot.

He sighted down the barrel –

-and the last thing he saw was a flash of brilliant green light across his eyes.

"You," QUi Gon barked at the droid. "Stop this procedure at once."

"There is no need," the emotionless robotic medic droned. "It is progressing without complications."

Qui Gon felt his temper snap. He held his pulsing saber to the thing's neck joint. "Halt it or I will scrap you," he threatened.

The words had no effect. "Destruction is one of the illusions practiced by the realm of sensory data," the droid intoned, its optical sensors gleaming with what could only be termed fanatical light. "That statement does not compute."

Satine was frantically pushing controls, looking for the binders' release trigger.

"If I destroy you," Qui Gon pointed out in his most diplomatic tones, "There will be nobody here with your skill. Never again will a monk of this community be able to attain full enlightenment."

This got the droid calculating. "That would constitute a lamentable cultural tragedy, " it duly concluded. "I must preserve the B'Omarr way of life and traditions."

"Then release my friend," the Jedi master commanded it. "Remove those nerve probes."

Satine found the release, and loosened the restraints, pulling them off with her own hands. Obi Wan did not stir.

"I am sorry," the medic intoned. "They are not designed to be removed. I can deactivate them, but they will have to remain in place."

"What?" Satine briefly turned terrified eyes upon Qui Gon, then returned her attention to his Padawan. She held his face between two trembling hands. He did not respond.

Qui Gon let out his breath slowly. He felt an overwhelming compulsion to Force-throw the wicked droid into the far wall – but such sentiments were fruitless and a path to the Dark Side. "Deactivate them, then, for stars' sake. Take off those electropulsors. Now."

The droid hastened to obey. Qui Gon chafed one of his apprentice's hands. The skin was ice cold. He touched his forehead – questing with the Force…trying to feel how deep the damage might be.

"Is he…? Will he…?" Satine whispered querulously.

The Jedi master scowled deeply. "We must find help. And fast," he said, brutally suppressing all emotion. There was nothing to be gained from worry or fear. "We need a Jedi healer. Let us go – without delay." He leaned down and lifted Obi Wan over his own shoulders, then carefully straightened. "There is no need to stay here."

As he strode out the door, he cast one last look at the red-spattered floor, where brain liquid seeped into the slain bounty hunter's rumpled clothing. The droid was left amid the wreckage, nervously wringing its hands.

As they hurried up the passage to the main level, several B'Omarr monks scattered out of their path, long spindly legs scratching against the cold tiles of the monastery floor as they disappeared back into the omnipresent shadows.

Epilogue

Mantra from the Jedi Temple tradition (anonymous attribution):

Rejoice in life while you have it, for it comes from the Force. Relinquish your life when your time comes, for it returns to the Force. Grieve not for those whose life ends, for they are one with the Force. Despair not for those who still live, for they too are filled with the Force.

Qui Gon Jinn repeated the age-old words in his mind, breathing in the truth of them, resting in their wisdom. He must act, with courage and not despair.

The Pelioni police had found them outside the monastery, having arrived to seek out their missing member. Informed that his murderer was inside the B'Omarr fortress, and already slain, the police had opted to declare the case closed. They had too many pressing concerns to deal with elsewhere. Large scale protests arranged by the Land Distribution Initiative were threatening the peace of the capital city.

They had grudgingly allowed him to borrow an older model security shuttle, persuaded by his Force-laden suggestion that they would be rewarded for their generosity, as they were helping a Jedi in need. Now he piloted the rickety old ship to the nearest source of assistance he knew: a long shot, but their only chance. Someone who might – just possibly – be convinced to help them. If that failed, then there was nothing more he could do. Time was running short, and he must still carry on the mission to protect the Duchess, alone if that was the will of the Force.

The very thought chilled his blood. He glanced over his shoulder, thorugh the cockpit frame into the stripped-down passenger hold normally reserved for transporting criminals. Satine sat in the corner of the dismal space, cradling Obi Wan's head in her lap.

The young Jedi was beyond exhaustion, and still in great pain. The Duchess, Qui Gon perceived – wishing that he had not – was weeping soft tears over him.

Qui Gon turned back to the viewport ahead. He pushed all alarm to the back of his mind, and checked the nav computer. Clenching his jaw in determination, he thrust them forward, past light speed into hyperspace and whatever destiny lay before them.

Author's Note:

Gentle readers….do not weep soft tears over the young Jedi, nor curse the vile bounty hunter's name. Attachment and anger are, after all, two swift paths to the Dark Side. Instead, read this tale's immediate sequel, which is titled On Distant Shores, and will be posted serially beginning 11/13/11.