Exodus

Chapter 1

This place is not what I expected. And therein lies a lesson: expect nothing. I am far too old to make such a simple error. I had anticipated ruthless, hardened malice. And indeed, there is plenty of that here. But I did not anticipate the softer, sweeter note: the undercurrent of suffering long endured, of faint hope worn thin by the slow acidic erosion of despair. There are slaves here – scores and scores of them, people whom I have never before seen in all the galaxy.

I am not here to free slaves. I didn't even know the practice existed in this sector, though it comes as no surprise. We are outside Republic boundaries, after all. The Outer Rim is chock full of such obscenities. I am not here to free slaves, but these strange people who skulk in the corridors, necks weighted down by evil slave collars, eyes weighed down by fear – they call to me. No, the Living Force calls to me. It sings in these people, a long lost melody suddenly called back to life. I am enchanted – and I should not be. A Jedi master should not be subject to such distractions. Were I not so enthralled, so horrified, I might already have found the one we are looking for: the escaped convict who fled to this system seeking refuge in a crime lord's fortress.

My comlink chimes.

"Obi Wan."

"I've found him, master. Hiding in a prison cell. Fourth sub-level."

My Padawan's voice is dripping with disdain. The coward we seek thought to disguise himself as a prisoner of the very warlord who shelters him. Clever, really…but not nearly clever enough to slip past my apprentice. Obi Wan is as cunning as any seasoned spice smuggler, as treacherous in his own way as a corrupted politician. I would never tell him these things – he would find the comparison appalling and then seek a way to subtly punish himself. A teacher must be wary of such impulses toward needless penitence. It is not the Jedi way to judge even ourselves without compassion.

"I'll be right there."

"Yes, master. I'll keep him company."

Now there is a smirk behind those clipped tones. Our captive, Rashon Kuravak, must be irate. He has just been discovered and cornered by a mere youth. Humiliating. Especially because the boy can't keep the enjoyment from showing on his face. He tries to be inscrutable, but his eyes are always going to betray him. There is so much to teach…and so much to learn. I just learned another lesson. My distraction – my preoccupation with the slaves here – has made me slow. It was the Padawan who accomplished this mission, not the master. Today, it is my student who has superior focus. He truly will be a great Jedi someday – there are only a few rough edges to be smoothed in his character: a sharp tongue, a thread of defiance, too many attachments. And a blind spot for the Living Force. But not for criminal fugitives.

I step over the threshold of the dank prison cell in the fourth sub-level. There, cringing against the stained and chipped wall, is Rashon Kuravak, a serial killer who had wrought inestimable damage on six different worlds, and who had managed to extend his killing spree to include the guards and warden of the outer rim detention center in which he had recently been incarcerated. He doesn't look so dangerous now, trembling at the end of Obi Wan's bright blue lightsaber blade, which burns scant centimeters from his throat. Sweat trickles down the killer's face and his mouth is drawn into a snarl of fear. His dark eyes flick to me as I duck beneath the low doorframe.

"Jedi," he grunts. "How did you find me?"

"The Force is a powerful ally," I inform him placidly.

"I don't think I like your Force," Kuravak laughs, with a bitter twist of the mouth.

"I don't think it likes you, either," my Padawan replies dryly.

"Obi Wan." I rein in my apprentice's sharp wit and approach Kuravak. "You'll be transported to Coruscant on a Republic prison ship," I tell the trembling prisoner. "Senate security guards have been sent to escort you. I suggest you come quietly and give us no further trouble."

"What about Manshak?"

I smile. "Your host? He is preoccupied with other matters."

"Damn you, Jedi. You and your trained monkey-lizard here."

If possible, the thrumming blue lightsaber blade draws closer to Kuravak's throat. The man tries to shrink into the unforgiving wall.

"Obi Wan." I put more steel into my voice this time. "We shall deliver him to the transport, and be finished with this business."

"Yes, master." The blade withdraws a tiny distance. Kuravak licks his lips and eyes me warily.

We depart, the defeated man secure between us. Nobody speaks. Manshak's strange slaves peer at us curiously, fearfully, as we pass through the halls of the warlord's palace and out into the waiting sun. The mission is complete.

I have to admit that I'll be thankful to leave this place. Not on account of the mission, of course. In fact, it has been an undisputed success. We arrived without detection; we easily managed to create a massive septic system failure, effectively distracting Manshak and most his personal retainers; we located the fugitive without difficulty; and we sent him packing, in the company of the elite Senatorial guard. I watched the prisoner transport shuttle disappear into the evening sky, to be sure that we are indeed finished with the mission. There's nothing to be uneasy about.

Except I still have that feeling. The bad feeling. The one that feels like quanta worms squirming in my gut. I didn't tell Qui Gon about it – but then, I'm sure he knows anyway. I can tell by the way he watches me set up the camp gear and prepare our rather bland dinner. The words hang unspoken between us : keep your focus in the present moment, where it belongs.

I am focused in the present, master. See? I'm stirring this delightful pre-fab mush we brought to eat. The insects are humming madly, just beyond the circle of firelight. There are two predators to the east, about a half a klick away, but they are far too intimidated by us to be any trouble. I don't know any of the constellations overhead, but I could draw them in the dust, accurately, if you were to challenge me. I could lift the stone by your right boot – there. I just did. There. I let it drop. You didn't notice. Now who lacks focus on his surroundings?

"Obi Wan."

Oh. I stand corrected. Qui Gon is still hyper-aware of the present moment, even though he appears completely absorbed in the datapad he is reading. I know what he's looking at: a species profile. He's trying to figure out who those people were – the slaves we saw inside Marshaks' stronghold. Neither of us have ever seen people like that before – all huge flopping feet and scrawny necks and mournful eyes and blotchy skin. They were so…muted…in the Force. So downtrodden. I think they would be delighted by anything, by any scrap of pleasure anyone might throw to them. They might even like this disgusting mush. Hmmm….if I weren't a Jedi, I could tell you how it tastes, But I'm forbidden to indulge in such unseemly language, so I really can't.

"Master. Dinner is served."

"Thank you."

He actually eats the vile mess, but it's clear he hardly tastes it. He's too preoccupied by those slaves. The squirming feeling in my gut returns, and I lay down my bowl. I have a very, very bad feeling about this.

"Why haven't we left yet, master?" I didn't intend to sound so accusatory, but I know full well that we're not here to enjoy the local scenery. Qui Gon is reluctant to depart – he feels that the mission is not entirely complete.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and returns to his perusal of the species profile databanks. The feeling only intensifies. Breathe, breathe, release it to the Force…But the trouble is this: the disturbance centers around my master. He is weighing options, weighing my possible reaction, weighing the Council's possible disapproval. I know that look in his eyes, that strange blurring in the Force that forms an invisible corona about him when he's in this mood. The Force is laughing, sharing a secret joke with Qui Gon Jinn. I wish he wouldn't listen….

"Master." Traditionally, a Padawan only speaks when spoken to. But whoever inscribed that rule into the precepts wasn't taking my master into consideration. "We have accomplished our mandate. You aren't planning on adding another objective to this mission?"

"I will do what I must, Obi Wan." Oh, Force help me. Here we go again. And I have such a very, very bad feeling about this. Immediately I know what he wants to do. I can read it in his eyes, in his mouth, in the air around him.

"We are not going to free those slaves, master. We weren't sent here to do such a thing. This isn't even a Republic territory. We are forbidden to interfere –"

"Padawan." Now I am on very thin ice. Probably already cracked and sinking. I bite my tongue. I was going to say something about pathetic life forms. If I had, the reprimand would have come, sharp and stinging. Qui Gon believes in compassion above all things, even the Code. He will not tolerate what he perceives as flippant disregard for others. He will not tolerate the slightest taint of snobbery. I can feel my cheeks burning with shame.

"Forgive me."

Qui Gon uncurls from his reverie and offers a weary smile. I am forgiven. "Why don't you get some sleep?" And I am also dismissed. I should have known better than to challenge him in such a disrespectful manner.

I stack the eating utensils, and crawl into our tiny thermal shelter. The tent is barely large enough to accommodate Qui Gon's length; but the close quarters serve to maintain a steady temperature during the frosty nights. I wrap my cloak around myself tightly and curl on my side. Sleep would be welcome…if the bad feeling will permit.

"I shall meditate on this, and then consult the Council."

That is Qui Gon's voice, from outside the tent. He does not owe me reassurance or information. But he offers it anyway, because he is Qui Gon. He knows that these words are a balm to my troubled mind. Sleep seems less distant, more tangible. The bad feeling ebbs away a bit, and I thrust it to the back of my mind. Sleep…yes. Sleep.

I answer the comm summons. Some clever relay officer has transferred the signal to me, since I am the Council member closest to the sector, having just finished some diplomatic business on Phojun; and I was not asleep anyhow. I prefer to spend the nights in meditation. The quiet of the Force is much preferable to the chaos of dreams.

"Qui Gon," I say in surprise.

The flickering blue image is unmistakable. Nobody ever told the old rogue that long hair better suits the young. But he seems bent on defying the common wisdom anyway. He wears his grizzled mane like a king. He stands like a king. But he speaks like a Jedi. I know; I grew up with this man. Beneath the maverick's surface, his heart is true. He is the opposite of his master, I think. Dooku's polished exterior is flawless, but of late I find myself doubting the purity of heart within. If the stark choice were laid before me, I would choose Qui Gon. I hope never to make such a choice.

"Master Windu," he addresses me. Formally. So this is an official report.

"I take it your mission to retrieve Kuravak is complete?"

"Yes," he replies in his soft, deceptively gentle voice. "He is en route to the Republic high security prison as we speak."

"And you are in route to Coruscant as we speak," I add, knowing that this is not so. He feels rooted in the Force. His feet must be on some world's surface. I can always tell.

"No," he admits freely. There is no intimidating Qui Gon. He is a Jedi master, and he is Qui Gon. That is all there is to it.

"You seek the Council's advice on another matter," I prompt. As though he needs it. But he treats every interaction with the Council like a game of sabaac. I must play a card, or he will not respond. I must participate in his terms. He thinks I do not perceive this; or else, he knows that I do and he enjoys the subtle power play.

"Yes." And then he launches into it. I brace myself. "We discovered that the warlord sheltering Kuravak has an extensive holding of illegal slaves."

"Illegal on his world?"

"No," Qui Gon brushes aside the all-important distinction as though it is a gadfly. "It has taken some research for me to identify them, but I am certain that the people enslaved by this warlord are Feorians."

Leave it to Qui Gon Jinn to find a lost remnant of a people thought to be extinct hundreds of years ago. Even the Temple Archives have listed this group of beings as a vanished race, a mere cultural artifact. The Feorians. A gentle culture – not particularly advanced, but very peaceful and rich in poetry and artisanship. There would be many in the galaxy willing and eager to give them protected status as refugees, to sponsor the reestablishment of their society. I know what Qui Gon is hoping for.

"They are outside our jurisdiction, Qui Gon," I sigh.

"The Force does not have a jurisdiction, Mace."

He reverts to my personal name when he is angered. The name is a reminder of the friendship we once shared – before my position on the Council made it difficult to maintain such amiable relations. Now we respect each other, we spar with each other. We could not be friends as we were in our youth. I have a sacred duty to the Jedi Order. Qui Gon has a self-appointed duty to challenge the Order's complacency. He thinks himself above the Order – a servant of the Force itself.

"Your discovery is important," I concede. "We will assign a team to investigate and record the existence of these people. Thank you for alerting us."

He isn't satisfied. "Obi Wan and I are already here," he says, obstinately.

"You are diplomats and field agents. This should be left to others," I warn him.

"I see." His tone of voice tells me that he sees me as a coward and a fool.

"What does your Padawan think of this?" I ask, innocently. Qui Gon thinks he is impenetrable, but I know all the chinks in his armor.

"Obi Wan knows his place," is the terse answer.

So. The apprentice has already challenged his master on this point. That confirms everything I suspected. Admittedly, Kenobi hasn't even seen two decades of life – but you could use him as a failsafe tox indicator. He is so acutely devoted to the Code and to its every nuance that his reactions are a fine gauge of how much rebellion and headstrong whimsy are going on behind the scenes. He has committed a few serious offenses himself – no doubt under the wise tutelage of his master – but even then, he reacted with violent self-recrimination. The Council didn't even have to instruct him. He gave a perfect, detailed account of his every failing, down to the last minutiae, with a look of pure remorse. He's perfect for Qui Gon. He's like the bell around the felix's neck.

"Good," I say. "I'm glad one of you does." Ha ha, you old rebel. Take that.

Qui Gon doesn't surrender, or even acknowledge the hit. "I am requesting permission to extend our stay here for a matter of days, pursuant to the discovery of the Feorians."

"You will depart for Coruscant at first light tomorrow morning," I command. Enough is enough.

Qui Gon bows, in a manner that conveys absolutely no respect or submission, and ends the transmission. I keep my scowl planted firmly in place until I know the link is severed.

And then I let myself relax, even chuckle a little. Qui Gon. Pure, undiluted Qui Gon Jinn. It's a heady draught.. Part of me wishes that I wasn't on the Council. I might sneak over there and..help out. But the time for such antics is in the past. And the Order has much to safeguard, including its own integrity. I am right; I have done the right thing in ordering them home. I will meditate on what should be done about the Feorians. The Force will show a way, as it always does.