DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
N.B. Thoughts indicated by // and Italics
Obi-Wan awoke slowly. His head was pounding, his throat was horribly dry, every muscle in his body ached, and his hands and feet tingled unpleasantly. He opened his eyes tentatively, then closed them against the light. //Great,// he thought, //now my eyes hurt too.//
There was someone else in the room. He had glimpsed her briefly and could feel her presence faintly. It was Yemil Ch’Andri.
“Your soldiers could have killed me,” he said hoarsely, keeping his eyes shut.
“So sorry,” she answered, making it obvious she wasn’t.
“Why was it necessary that they all shoot me?” he asked, wishing desperately for a glass of water.
“I can’t afford to take chances, Jedi.”
Obi-Wan winced. So like her brother.
“Garret sends his regards,” he managed.
“Still sore about him deserting you?” she said, picking up the bitterness in his voice.
Obi-Wan opened his eyes again, squinting against the light. He wondered if it was that bright on purpose. //Probably,// he reflected.
“Surprised, Jedi?” she asked with a smirk. “I assure you, Garret is very loyal; he followed my instructions to the letter.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Obi-Wan, trying to keep his voice strong and level.
“Suit yourself,” she said easily, still smiling.
Obi-Wan’s eyes had adjusted to the light and the fog in his mind was slowly clearing.
“Where’s Qui-Gon?” he demanded, still not daring to sit up.
“Ah, now we get down to business,” she said, and her smile disappeared, replaced by a mock sorrow. “I’d hoped we might have had a little more leisure time, but you Jedi are always so persistent.” She sighed heavily. “Ah, well. I suppose there’s no avoiding it. You see, my dear young Kenobi” --Obi-Wan flinched at the way she pronounced his name, as though he were an insect-- “your Master is in a cell halfway across the Palace. I’m afraid he put up quite a struggle when you were, ah ... sedated. My soldiers, of course, are trained to fight back--just like you, Jedi-- and I’m afraid they outdid themselves that time.” Her voice trailed off wistfully.
“What have you done to Qui-Gon?” said Obi-Wan, an edge to his voice. “If you’ve killed him....”
“Oh, no!” interrupted the ambassador. “No, he’s certainly not dead, but in order for him to remain that way, I’ll need a little cooperation from you.”
Obi-Wan sighed and closed his eyes again. He had been expecting something like this.
“I want to see him,” said Obi-Wan. “I need proof before I cooperate.”
“It’s a long walk,” Ch’Andri said, with false concern. Her sarcasm was beginning to get on Obi-Wan’s nerves.
“I don’t care,” said the Padawan, forcing himself to sit up. His muscles protested, his right arm seizing up as he used it to steady himself. The pounding in his head resumed with vigor and he felt dizzy and nauseous, but somehow he kept his face neutral and his eyes fixed on the face of the woman before him.
She looked him over quickly. “Very well,” she said dryly. “Follow me.” She typed something into a datapad she produced from a pocket in her robe and the opaque containment field around the cell flickered and disappeared. The ambassador rose and strode out of the cell, never looking back.
Obi-Wan struggled to his feet, noticing that his boots had been taken along with his cloak and utility belt. The floor was cold marble and stung his feet, numbing his toes. His knees were weak and every step sent a shock of pain up his legs and back, but at least walking restored his circulation a little.
He caught up with Yemil Ch’Andri, limping a little. He might have imagined it, but it seemed she quickened her pace slightly. He matched it defiantly. He understood then why she had ordered all the soldiers to fire: if he had been stronger he could have attacked her, maybe gotten his lightsaber back and escaped. As it was he could barely walk and his headache kept him from reaching out to the Force. He had to admit, it was a good plan; she didn’t even need to tie his hands.
They walked in silence for nearly half an hour before Ch’Andri stopped at a large armored door and pulled out the datapad again. She typed in a code and the door slid open, clanging into place overhead. Obi-Wan looked into a wide corridor, lined with containment fields on either side. He could see the forms of restless prisoners inside, although they could not see him.
The ambassador led him down the hallway, looking neither left nor right. At the end of the corridor she typed on the datapad again and a small door opened in front of her. It closed behind Obi-Wan, but he didn’t notice.
Instead he stared fixedly at a wide cell in front of him, blocked by a forcefield. There was a stone slab in the back, and upon it was Qui-Gon. The Master was asleep, one arm dangling off the slab on which he lay. The forcefield blurred Obi-Wan’s vision of his Master, but he could see clearly enough the blood and bruises covering Qui-Gon’s face and arms and the dark stains on his robes. He had clearly been beaten viciously and looked close to death.
Obi-Wan’s anger was growing strong, threatening to control him. He almost let it, tasting for a moment the power it could give him. But he could not let the Dark Side influence him, even to save Qui-Gon, and he ruthlessly suppressed it.
Then something caught his eye. In the corner of the room was a tall cylinder filled with a thick, slightly cloudy liquid: a bacta tank. Now he understood: in exchange for... something... from him, they would heal Qui-Gon.
The Padawan gritted his teeth. He would do it, no matter what it was, if it would save his Master.
Yemil Ch’Andri saw the determination in his face, and smiled smugly. “I see you understand the situation,” she said.
“What do you want from me?” he asked wearily. He already knew his life was forfeit, and was glad to give it for Qui-Gon’s sake. After all, he owed it to him.
“Don’t sound so depressed, Jedi,” she cooed. “I’m not going to ask you to do anything that will hurt you or your precious Master. All I want is an address.”
Obi-Wan was puzzled. An address? What could she want with that? Then it hit him.
“You want me to betray the rebels.” It was not a question, merely a statement of fact.
“Think about it, Jedi,” she said, suddenly serious. “His life for their location. They can at least fight back. How strong is this Master-Apprentice bond I’m always hearing about?” She stared at him expectantly.
“You lied,” he remarked. “If Garret really were a traitor you would know already.” He felt triumph, but it was quickly smothered as he realized fully what she had just asked him to do. She wanted him to forfeit a hundred lives. He couldn’t do that, but he also couldn’t let Qui-Gon die. He felt his heart was splitting in two. The choice should have been easy; he should have refused, choosing the lives of a hundred over the life of one, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
Qui-Gon had always given his Padawan everything he had--devotion, friendship, fatherly love. Obi-Wan wouldn’t let his Master die. He couldn’t.
“Congratulations,” said Ch’Andri, jerking Obi-Wan out of his thoughts. “I wondered if you’d figure that out.”
What was she talking about? Oh, yes, Garret. Now he remembered. And he realized that if he chose Qui-Gon’s life, he would be the traitor, not Garret. But Qui-Gon’s face still haunted his mind.
“I...” he began. What would Qui-Gon think? He would surely be disappointed in his Padawan. Maybe he would even hate him for destroying the rebellion he had promised to lead. Obi-Wan knew he couldn’t live with his Master’s disapproval, but as long as Qui-Gon was alive, that was beside the point.
“I’ll show you where they are,” he whispered, although the words nearly tore him apart. He took a shaky breath, forcing back tears. “But first I want to see him healed.”
“Don’t you trust us?”
He shook his head absently. It was slightly better now that the decision had been made.
“So why should we trust you? I want a promise. I want your word as a Jedi.” She was ruthless.
//I’m sorry, Master,// he thought through the containment field. Then, out loud: “I promise.”
Obi-Wan was having trouble breathing. He had just, in essence, killed a hundred people who trusted him. He had betrayed Garret, Corena, the little girl KeRaad... KeRaad. He had almost forgotten her, but he knew she could save them, if he let her.
Her connection to the Force had startled him when he met her. Maybe he could use it to reach her and warn her of the danger. Even so, Garret probably wouldn’t listen to her if she tried to tell him, but at least Obi-Wan had the hope of saving one life.
He knew he would have to enter a trance to have even the slightest hope of reaching her; their bond was not strong. It usually took the closeness of Master and Apprentice for long-distance psychic communication, but he had to try. His biggest problem lay in getting the chance. In his current state it would take a long time and a lot of work and concentration to reach a trance state, and somehow he suspected his captors did not intend to leave him alone for any length of time. Yet for the first time since his capture, Obi-Wan was beginning to feel a glimmer of hope.
He would at least have to wait until he was back in his cell to begin a trance. The Padawan’s thoughts returned to his Master. He turned to Ch’Andri.
“Heal him,” he commanded. “You have my word that I will lead you to the hideout.” Whether the rebels would be there when they arrived was a different matter....
Yemil Ch’Andri hesitated, thinking. “Agreed,” she said abruptly, and motioned to a couple of medic droids in the corner. The forcefield around Qui-Gon was released and Obi-Wan watched with a mix of worry and relief as the droids began preparing the bacta tank. He winced inwardly as Qui-Gon was stripped of his robes, revealing more bruises and cuts. It looked as though a few ribs had been broken, and the blaster wound had only gotten worse.
The oxygen mask was fitted over Qui-Gon’s nose and mouth and the droid medics eased him gently into the bacta juice. Obi-Wan released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. No matter what else happened next, Qui-Gon would recover.
“What will happen to him after you find the rebels?” he asked, even though he hoped all they would find was an empty basement in a deserted house.
“Why, you’ll both be released, of course. I’ll personally provide a transport for you back to Coruscant. For services rendered,” she added.
Obi-Wan nodded. She wanted to be there when the council found out about Obi-Wan’s betrayal of the rebels, to make sure no details were left out. But there would be no betrayal. He would not let all those innocent people die, nor would he give Yemil Ch’Andri the chance to gloat over him and the rest of the Jedi. Failure was not an option.
Ch’Andri, he felt, despite her sadistic streak, was an honorable woman. She would have to keep her word and release them. Then they could return to Coruscant and bring the situation before the Jedi Council, maybe even the Senate, and Callodas Three would gain its freedom.
Obi-Wan realized he was smiling as he was led back to his cell.