Lineage VIII

Chapter 1

The topmost spire of the Jedi Temple rose, majestic and tranquil, from the pyramid's center, a beam of light ossified in purest white marble, surmounted by a single chamber with transparent walls. From this eyrie the entire sprawling city planet, the coruscating ocean of light and life, appeared to spread in concentric ripples outward from the Temple precinct, the entire galactic Republic beneath the watchful eyes of its appointed guardians. From this vantage point, the horizon was clearly visible in every direction, curving gently at the periphery of vision, giving the illusion that the megalopolis might at any moment slide over the rim of its own terraced immensity and into inky night. There were no stars visible, due to the ambient radiance from the endless city of three trillion inhabitants; the solitary observer enclosed in the tower's topmost turret seemed to float above the galaxy itself, a super-celestial power peering down upon the affairs of mortals, upon the vast machinations of the Force itself.

And if vertigo ensued, he might rely upon the anchor of deeply ingrained words, of a mantra reaching back to the foundations of individual memory, of the carefully measured rhythm of his own breaths to hold him in place while the giddy world reeled about its placeless center, while time perpetually unraveled toward its infinite vanishing point, while the past and future collapsed into the absolute singularity of Light.

And when the meditative trance was ended, and the lonely observer once again opened his eyes to realize that the luminance within was matched by a morning splendor that set the inlaid floor and the pale roof awash in blinding white and gold, he might find his feet again, albeit a trifle shakily, and he might raise the cowl of his hood over his head in deference to that Force which indwelt and flowed through and bound all things together, and he might descend by the same time-worn steps that had carried him to this sanctuary the evening previous, a solitary pilgrim in ritual observance of a long-established custom.

And when he again reached the base of the tower, and quotidian existence, he might hurry to find another blessed like himself - bound to the same path but further ahead on the journey- with whom to share the wondrous things he had learned. And so the day might begin anew: a young life marking the passage of another year, another step toward wisdom.

"Master?"

Obi-Wan absently deposited his cloak on the nearest solid object, which happened to be the floor, and strode through the small and obviously unoccupied apartment to the balcony, where he half-expected Qui-Gon Jinn to be waiting for his arrival.

The obvious absence of the Jedi master's bright Force signature seemed in manifest and absurd contradiction the self-evident fact that he should be there.

The Padawan stood upon the empty balcony, frowning. It was well past the customary hour for breakfast – closer, indeed, to noon – and Qui-Gon always observed this humble but meaningful ritual with him. Even last year, when they had spent Obi-Wan's seventeenth life-day in a prison cell on Uutamu – due to an unfortunate diplomatic misunderstanding- the Jedi master had managed to concoct an ad hoc celebration involving a battered deck of sabaac cards, a half-pint of bootlegged Corellian brandy and a well-placed mind trick that had eventually led to their escape. He passed back into their hushed quarters, noting that tea had been made and consumed, but no second cup set out for his use.

He even checked the master's private sleeping room, on the unlikely theory that the tall man was unaccountably laid up in bed and shielding so strongly that he could not be detected by his own apprentice.

The young Jedi rubbed at his suddenly growling stomach. His vigil had been completed while fasting, as was traditional; nearly twenty hours out from his last meal, he had to admit to a ravenous appetite and a small degree of fuddled thinking. Qui-Gon Jinn was not here; he ought to move on to the next logical question, which was either where in the blazes is he, then? or possibly do we have any food lying about?

He was simultaneously contemplating both these conundrums, each one with an equally starved and increasingly vexed half of his mind, when he finally noticed the small object left in the precise center of the common room's low table, presumably to attract his attention. He picked up the coded identity key, a small data chip which would grant access to Temple databank files and resources restricted to the use of Knights or Masters, and then unfolded the note tucked neatly beneath it.

On flimsi, of all things.

Obi-Wan's brows rose as he perused this missive's contents. Qui-Gon's handwriting was much like the man himself: bold, fearless strokes of the stylus scribed across the thin surface with a sure grace, but difficult to decipher because the characters would not be contained within the bounds of conventional form. After struggling over the mess for a few moments, the young Padawan determined that datapads and fingerboards were a great blessing, that his own compact and precise penmanship was a much-overlooked virtue, and that understanding what the words said in no way elucidated their meaning.

Obi-Wan, the short message read, I think the time has come. Take this to Troon Palo- he will give you private access to the personal records. May the Force be with you.

It was the oddest life-day offering to date. He pocketed both items, a simmering discontent making itself felt beneath his pulse. It was not the yet undisclosed contents of the records, or whatever it was he was supposed to look at, but the blithely impersonal manner of the gift's – or mandate's – delivery that so irked him.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, pensive.

Everything had a meaning, the inscrutable actions and words of a Jedi master in particular. But what was the subtle significance of this strange request? Of the tall man's studied absence on a morning when his company would be expected, even desired? Or was that the point: at eighteen standard, was Obi-Wan now too old to need such things? Was this a hint that he had best grow up, move on, renounce such juvenile sentiment and learn to stand entirely on his own, in time of joy as well as time of sorrow? It might be an admonishment, one delivered with utmost gentle tact and compassion, and yet with firm authority.

Even so, it still felt more like a reprimand.

He sighed and watched the filtered sunlight play across the opposite wall, stomach still insistently rumbling.

Perhaps he ought to eat before delving any further into the murky implications of the note and the code key. He held out a hand, summoning his cloak from across the room, and shrugged into its familiar folds with a residual pang of disappointment.

Though he harbored no expectations, this still paradoxically fell short of them.

His progress to the lower level dining hall was arrested by a familiar voice, and the unbecoming patter of jogging footfalls – in the Temple's public concourse, no less.

"Obi-Wan!"

Hunger could wait for Bant. The young Mon-Calamari healer closed the space between them and barreled into him, wrapping her arms about his ribs in an effusive hug.

Acutely aware of others' scrutiny, including the Master Oppo Rancisis' beadily disapproving stare, he gently squirmed free of the unbecoming display. "Ow."

"Oh," his friend smiled. "Sorry! I forgot about your shoulder – but you're doing so well. I hacked into the records and checked your physical therapy schedule. Master Li wanted to clear you yesterday but Master Jinn said you would only push too hard in the salles and it was better to wait. But that's good news, isn't it?" Her globular silver eyes blinked up at him, shining with affection.

"Bant … I was going to the refectory –"

"I know," she prattled on. "But I have an hour free – I asked Master Li specially, because it's your life day. Do you want to go swimming in the artificial river?"

He almost said yes. Breaking a rule – even one honored more in the breach than the observance – sounded like a delightful distraction at the moment. But such a rebellious sentiment had no place in the heart of a Jedi. He was supposed to be mature. Old enough not to need a celebration, or an occasion of disobedience to mark it. "I – no."

Bant's face fell. "No?"

Qui-Gon's studied aloofness had a point to it. It was time he stood on his own. "I have to outgrow that someday, Bant."

Her vestigial gills flared outward sharply, wounded feelings bleeding across her mental shields in a sloppy puddle.

"No – Bant – I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

Blinking rapidly, she took a step backward. "It's fine."

"No – please forgive me, I intended only –"

"May the Force be with you," Bant managed, blessed formality saving them both from further pain. She bowed, and retreated in the opposite direction, leaving him with a remorseful twisting deep in his gut, and absolutely no appetite.

Push too hard in the salles, his arse. He turned on his heel, foregoing midday meal, and headed straight for the Temple dojo.

Well over two hours and seventeen separate kata later, Obi-Wan collapsed upon a side bench, head spinning despite the Force's swift-flowing currents, the pulse of blood and ethereal fire in his veins. If he had not been Jedi, his body a sieve open to the universal life energy, he would surely have fainted from too much exertion hard on the heels of little sleep and less food. As it was, he lowered his head between his knees for a moment, anyhow, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass as he sucked in slow, steady breaths.

And he had to admit that his newly healed shoulder, recently blasted into an ugly mess-during that mission, the one to Apsolon, the one with Siri Tachi - was hurting like the blazes. He ran two hands through his short-cropped hair and took grim comfort in consideration of the fact that he deserved the discomfort for being such a lout to poor Bant.

His morose introspection was brought up short by an unexpected presence. He jerked his head up, shamed to be caught in such a posture of vulnerability by one as revered within the Order's ranks as the silver-haired newcomer. Obi-Wan sprang to his feet to make a formal bow. "Master Dooku!"

The elegant Jedi master surveyed him with a hint of humor behind his cool façade. "Ah… Kenobi. I trust you are well?" His grey eyes swept over the empty salle. "Stars' end, you've reduced your opponents to nothing."

It was difficult to discern whether the older man spoke these words in subtle derision or in fond jest. Obi-Wan frowned, his discreet mental prodding slipping off the Jedi master's shields like rain over polished glass.

The effort did not go unnoticed, and earned him a swift backlash, Dooku's own perception thrust stiletto-like beneath the Padawan's shields, fleet and accurate as a serpent's strike. "Ah… I see. This is a special occasion, one meriting felicitations. You are quite grown up, I must say. And where is dear Qui-Gon on this blessed day?"

Almost wincing visibly, Obi-Wan straightened his spine further. "He is engaged in a research project, master." Would it be rude to abruptly excuse himself? Probably. He remained frozen to the spot.

Dooku leaned back against the pale wall, crossing his legs. "Yes… too well do I remember Qui-Gon's little projects. They are like starvling akk pups: he adopts them for a time, raises them nearly to maturity and then forgets about them in the heady flush of new enthusiasm for the next one, and then the next." A weighted pause. "A Jedi should finish what he starts, Padawan."

Ws that an insult to his master? Whatever his own pique at Qui-Gon Jinn, Dooku - the man's former mentor- had no right to demean one of the most generous and compassionate Jedi ever born. Certainly not in front of the man's Padawan. "I beg your pardon, master." The infinitesmal twitch of Dooku's mouth should have warned him, but his tongue outraced his prudence. "If my master is to be accused of such failings, I am obliged to credit them to your tutelage. In my experience, master, it is you who does not finish what he has started."

Yan Dooku was on his feet with the lethal grace of a man twenty years his junior, cold fire burning in his deepset eyes, his aquiline features drawn into lines of severe displeasure. Obi-Wan's heart skipped a beat, but they were fully engaged and it was too late to back out. Not with Qui-Gon's honor on the line.

"So you wish me to finish the 'saber lessons I so rashly began with you these four years ago? I warn you, Padawan, Makashi is not a tool for puerile indulgence in dramatics."

The accusation doubled the still-smarting insult posed by Dooku's sudden, and never explained, withdrawal of his favor in the wake of a mission now two years gone; Obi-Wan tilted his chin up, face as coolly polite as the older man's. "On the contrary, allow me to demonstrate that my master has completed that which you did not."

Dooku chuckled darkly, silver brows rising in a sardonic arch. "Brave,,, but, ah, foolish, my young friend."

They were faced off across the dojo's smooth floor a moment later, age against youth, cynicism against loyalty, Makashi against Ataru.

The ensuing contest was spectacular- and brief. In the end, Dooku helped his gasping opponent off the floor, returned the Padawan's fallen weapon to its owner, received the obligatory bow of gratitude with gracious detachment, and left with his opinions and reputation as a master duelist quite intact.

"Oh," he said, turning in the doorway as he swept out. "Six minutes is, for someone of your age and experience, most impressive. Should you ever wish to finish what you have started, I would be honored."

Clutching at his ribs, not quite able to summon a fitting retort, Obi-Wan merely responded with a pained and miserable nod, watching the older man's cloak swirl contemptuously in at his heels as he retreated down the corridor.

He limped to the shower rooms to wash away his sweat and to apply salve to his new bruises and battered dignity.

On his way out of the salles, he had the further misfortune to run into Master Pertha.

"Ah! Padawan Kenobi – perfect. Might I ask for your assistance, if you are not otherwise occupied?"

Obi-Wan regarded the Temple's infamously overenthusiastic biological expert with a sinking heart. To lie was forbidden. To accede to the elderly Togrutan's request would be folly. "Ah…"

"Delightful! It won't take but a moment – I need your sharp young eyes, that's all. I've some new specimens to unload in the smaller arboretum – teaching advanced galactic botanopathology to the apprentice healers this study rotation – and the Force has provided a wonderful opportunity! Six spore-bearing micohastae veniferousi, straight from Rugosa! Beautiful! But I have trouble finding them in the packing material. My sight isn't what it used to be, you know."

Wryly, Obi-Wan wondered whether this latter fact accounted for the eccentric master's use of the term beautiful to describe reticulated fungal masses covered in poisonous spines.

"Just come this way, young one – we had best stop and pick up protective gear from the quartermaster… we don't want you touching our little friends directly." Master Pertha bustled his unwilling assistant along the corridor, eagerness shining in the Force like a manically flickering lantern. "By the way, where is your master? Qui-Gon would be absolutely thrilled to have a glimpse of these rare creatures."

"Oh, I'm sure they would sharpen his appreciation of the Living Force… I'll make a point of telling him, master."

"Yes, yes, do," the biologist urged him, far too preoccupied to indulge in trivial wordplay.

Master Pertha was no fun at all. Resigning himself to his fate with a small sigh, Obi-Wan trailed dutifully behind the Togrutan Jedi as they traversed the intervening passages. It was turning out to be that sort of day.