“Goodness me—by Nomgon’s Arm!” She studied the alien human faces gazing worriedly down at her. “Who are you people? What happened to me?” Using her hands to push herself into a sitting position, she added bewilderedly, “Why am I lying on the floor?”
Luminara studied her fixedly. “We were hoping you could tell us that.”
“This—this is my shop. My place. I was showing some wares to a customer.” One hand went to her head and rubbed her graying brush of mane forward. “Alwari, he was. Said he was Pangay Ous, and wore the right raiment. But his manner was odd.” Her face added wrinkles of distaste to those shaped by age. “There was another with him, I think. I remember because he was ugly, and yet his companion made him look handsome.”
“A young human female, dressed like,” Luminara broke in. “Have you seen anyone like that?”
The elderly native blinked. “Ou, to be sure. Very attentive she was, though I suspect not intending to buy anything.” She smiled, showing sharp Ansionian teeth. “When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you can tell, even with different species.”
“Where is she now?” Obi-Wan inquired in his soft yet commanding voice.
“Why—I don’t know. I don’t know where any of them are.” The proprietress looked down and shook her head. “Last I remember, we were speaking of odors, and then…” She looked up blankly. “Then I opened my eyes, to see you three bending over me. What do you suppose could have?…”
“Masters! Out here!”
Responding to Anakin's call, the two Jedi hurried to the back of the shop and out the rear entrance whose door was now ajar. They found him standing in an alley, kneeling and pointing. The pavement was dry and thick with dust. The marks of the two sets of footprints were clear to see. Thank the Force, Obi-Wan thought, for the absence in the back alley of a muddling breeze.
“Ansionian footprints.” Luminara looked up, glancing both ways down the alley. “By themselves, confirmation of nothing.” She indicated the numerous other prints that marred the avenue’s dusty coating. “Many feet have recently trod this path.”
“But these begin right from the doorway,” Anakin argued. “And see how deep they are compared to some of the others. As if the two who made these deeper ones might be carrying something.” He gazed down the shadowed passageway. “All Ansionians are more or less the same size—and weight.”
“Three go into the shop, two come out, and neither of those sets human.” Obi-Wan was nodding approvingly. “You are learning to see beyond the obvious, Anakin. Would that you always continue to do so.”
Luminara had shut her eyes tightly. Now they opened anew. “I cannot sense her presence anywhere. If she has been taken, I should be able to detect her distress. But there is nothing.”
“She might be unconscious.” Obi-Wan had moved farther out into the alley, the better to scan its most distant reaches. “If the two locals who took her intended her ill, they might have used the same method to knock her out that they used on the owner of the shop.”
“Or she might be dead,” Anakin pointed out. In another setting, among other people, his comment could have provoked angst or outrage. Neither Luminara or Obi-Wan reacted, however. As Jedi, they were not offended by objectivity, no matter how sensitive the subject.
But within, Luminara was churning. While a Jedi might not show many emotions, that did not mean she did not have them.
“This is a sizable city. How are we going to find her?” She fought to keep the anger she felt in check.
“We could ask the city authorities for assistance,” Anakin proposed helpfully.
Obi-Wan set the suggestion aside. “That’s all we need now, at this delicate stage of negotiations. To confess to our hosts that one of our own has gone missing, and that we were helpless to prevent it. How much confidence in our perceived omnipotence do you think that admission would inspire?”
Anakin nodded understandingly. “I see what you mean, Master. Sometimes I am too direct.”
“A common affliction of the inexperienced, for which you are not responsible.” He looked back at Luminara. “We have to find her ourselves, no matter what her condition.” His anxious colleague smiled tightly. “And quickly, lest our Ansionian hosts sense something is amiss.”
Luminara indicated the shop. “First we get as detailed a description as we can of the two Alwari who were here at the same time as Barriss. Then I think we should split up, each of us taking a third of the city. Using this shop as a nexus, we’ll fan out and sweep as much of the community as we can; asking questions, offering rewards locally, and striving to sense Barriss’ presence.”
“Obi-Wan, do you think the same people as those who were assaulting Master Luminara and Padawan Barriss when we arrived are behind this?” Anakin wondered.
“Impossible to say,” the Jedi knight replied. “There are so many factions opposing any one of them. And as you know, there are offworld interests at work here as well.” In his quiet way, Anakin saw, Obi-Wan Kenobi was more than a little displeased. “This is all we need—to add heat to a flashpoint. But politics aren’t important now. What matters is finding Barriss.” He did not add “alive and well.”
He did not have to.
NEWSBLINK (Coruscant News Network)—Nemrileo irm-Drocubac, representative from Tanjay VI, died yesterday when his aircar collided with a heavy-equipment delivery vehicle in south quadrant, section ninety-three, of the exclusive Bindai suburb where he lived. Questioned at the site, the pilot of the delivery craft declared that his vehicle’s internal guidance system had suffered an undetected software failure that led directly to the fatal collision. Investigators on the scene were attempting to confirm his assertion, though their efforts have been complicated by the severe damage to both vehicles.
Representative from Tanjay irm-Drocubac leaves behind a wife and two children. Though active in the growing secessionist faction, and suspected of sympathies with the more extreme members of that movement, he was well respected by his colleagues and coworkers, as well as by his supporters on his homeworld. In accordance with Tanjay tradition, his ashes will be scattered tomorrow above the capital city where he lived and worked for the past fifteen years of his life.
A grieving Chancellor Palpatine is scheduled to deliver the eulogy.
(end transmission; end article)
Chapter Five
“For a young humanoid female, she weighs more than I would have expected.” Kyakhta let out a tired whoosh of air as he and his companion set the sack down on the bed. In response to movement within, Bulgan released the seal at the top. Sitting up, Barriss shuffled the sack off her shoulders. It fell to her waist and, when she stood, to her feet. Her ankles were strapped together and her hands secured behind her back. A quick glance downward, then up at her captors, found her focusing on Kyakhta’s smile.
“Looking for this, apprentice?” From a bag slung at his waist, he removed her service belt. It contained all of her personal gear, including her comlink and lightsaber. Shuffling over, Bulgan tentatively fingered the latter.
“Jedi lightsaber. Always wanted to try one.”
Kyakhta yanked the belt away, let it slip back into the open bag like a sedated snake. “Don’t touch that, you idiot! Don’t you remember briefing where Hutt warned about handling such devices? A Jedi lightsaber can be tuned to its owner’s personal electrical field. Try activate this one, and you likely blow it to bits. Along with you your dumbself also.”
“Ou, that right. Bulgan forget.” Turning, he once more considered their bound captive. “Not much to look at, is it? I could break it in half easy.”
“Only physically.” Unable to run or gesture, Barriss sat down on the bed. “You obviously know who I am, what I represent. Are you aware that even as we speak there are three Jedi hunting furiously for me, and that they will not be happy when they find out what has happened?”
Kyakhta laughed while Bulgan chortled gruffly. “Let them look. They not find you here.” He indicated the hig
h smooth walls that enclosed them. “This is safe place, and in any case you not stay here long.” Remembering, he flicked the switch on his call-in. “Already, other being notified. They come here, take you off our hands. Then we a little rich, and done with you as well.”
Choosing not to dispute the claim, she continued quietly. “What do you, or whoever you work for, want with me?”
The two Alwari exchanged a look. “Not our business,” Kyakhta finally replied. “Catching you our job. Questions not our job.” He turned to leave the room. “Report in success now. I looking forward to it.” He straightened. “Bossban don’t think we can do it. Be nice surprise for him.” His smile widened. “I think I make him wait a little while before I tell him so.” He gave his companion a shove. “Watch her close, Bulgan. Beware Jedi tricks.”
“No worry, Kyakhta.” Hunched over but alert, the other Alwari settled himself on a bench opposite the shackled human. “Bulgan watch carefully.”
Barriss stared as the single door closed heavily behind the one who called himself Kyakhta. A loud click followed his exit. Without her lightsaber, she would not be able to penetrate the barrier, and her limited mastery of the Force was not sufficient to allow her to pierce it mentally. She was trapped until her friends could locate her. That they would do so she did not doubt. Only the time factor troubled her. Would there be enough of it before she was transferred from this place and handed over to whomever had arranged for her abduction? Of one thing she was certain: whoever it was, was likely to be both more ruthless and more competent than her two comparatively simple Ansionian captors.
As time passed, she waited for her guard to grow tired, or to leave. He did neither. Nor was she able, try as she might, to influence his mind. That could be, she reflected, because according to every indication there was not much mind there to influence. That might explain why neither she nor her Master had sensed its hostile intentions.
They had used the unconscious shopkeeper to distract her attention. Upset with herself at falling for the diversion, she repressed the growing irritation. Anger was another kind of distraction, one she could not presently afford.
“Maybe bossban give Kyakhta and Bulgan bonus,” her watcher observed aloud. “Jedi lightsaber would be nice. Then Bulgan go home, show to clan. They let Bulgan back in. And those who object,” he made a swinging motion with one heavy hand, “Bulgan cut off their heads!”
“You speak fondly of your bossban.” She made a conscious effort to appear and sound as helpless and resigned as possible. “Who might that imposing individual be?”
A slow smile spread across her guard’s face. “Padawan try to fool Bulgan. No Jedi tricks here. Bulgan and Kyakhta little slow, maybe. But that not mean we stupid.” Rising and lumbering forward, he loomed over her seated form; a broad-chested, bald-pated, threatening mass of muscle and bone, unusually massive for an Ansionian. “You think Bulgan stupid?”
“I did not say that, nor did I mean it,” she responded soothingly. The Alwari backed off. “But I do see something else about you that I am sure of.”
The hulking native’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What that? Careful be, Padawan human. Bulgan not afraid of you.”
“I can see that. What I also see, and can sense in ways you cannot imagine, is that both you and your accomplice are in pain—and probably have been for a long time.”
“In addition to the usual Jedi training, many of us have our own special abilities. Areas of learning that we are especially drawn toward. Myself, I am a practicing healer.”
“But you human. Not Ansion.”
“I know.” Her tone was tender, reassuring—compelling. “And I can’t fix your poor back, or give you a prosthetic to replace your missing eye. But the pain in your mind is akin to the pain nearly all warm-blood sentients experience. It arises from certain kinds of neural breakdowns and malfunctions. It’s as if someone was trying to wire a very complex computer an all the necessary materials and components were laid out before her, but she wasn’t quite sure how to link everything together. So she did a job that was a little too hasty. Do you understand anything of what I’m saying, Bulgan?”
The Alwari nodded slowly. “Bulgan not dumb. Bulgan understand. Haja, that just how Bulgan feel most of the time. Not wired right.” Tilting his head slightly to one side, he stared at her hard out of his one good eye. “Padawan can fix that?”
“I can't make any promises. But I can try.”
“Fix pain in head.” Her captor was clearly exerting a considerable mental effort. “No more pain here.” He rubbed his forehead with his open palm. “That be a big thing. Bigger even, maybe, than credits.” The effort at extended cogitation having exhausted his limited intellectual resources, he glared at her again. “How know Bulgan can trust you?”
“I give you my word as a Padawan, as a student of the Jedi arts, as one who has dedicated her life to their high ideals—and to mastering the skills of a healer.”
Obviously torn, her captor took a deep breath, glanced circumspectly at the door, and then turned back to her. “You try to fix Bulgan. But if you try trick, I—”
“I’ve given my word,” she interrupted him, forestalling his threat. “Besides, where could I go? The door is locked and barricaded from the outside. Or haven't’ you realized that you’re locked in here with me?” She did not smile. “Your friend is taking no chances.”
“Locked in?” He rubbed his bare skull, his hand passing to either side of where a dark mane would normally be. “Bulgan confused.”
Immediately, she jumped on the opening thus offered. “Confusion comes from the pain you’ve been living with. Let me try to help you, Bulgan. Please. If I fail, it costs you nothing. Even if I succeed, you can still keep me in here because the door is locked from the outside.”
“That right. Padawan speak truth. Ou, you try.”
Meeting his gaze evenly, she gestured toward her bound wrists. “You have to untie me. To do this kind of work, I need my hands.”
He was instantly wary. “What for? Jedi trick?”
“No. Please trust me, Bulgan. There are vastly more important things at stake here than my life, or the size of your future credit account. Are you familiar with the secessionist movement?”
The Ansionian made a negative gesture. “Only movement Bulgan know is in bowels.” He thought a moment longer. “Kyakhta be unhappy,” he muttered. The he reluctantly stepped behind Barriss and passed a de-sealer across her wrists. The opaque bond that restrained them promptly dissolved, breaking down into cellulose, catalyst, and water. Relieved to have her hands free, she rubbed firmly at her wrists. As the circulation began returning, she beckoned for him to approach.
“Come here, Bulgan,” she instructed him gently. He did so with head bowed, shuffling his feet like a child approaching its mother. A very strong, very dangerous child, she reminded herself. She did not have to ask him to lower his head farther. His poor bent spine had already placed it within reach. Extending both hands, palm downward, she tenderly cradled the sides of his skull, careful not to cover the aural openings. His flesh was warm to the touch—the normal Ansionian body temperature being several degrees higher than that of a human. Her eyes closed, and she began to concentrate.
A throbbing ran through her as her focus sharpened. An enduring, agonizing ache that through straining and training she made her own. She let herself flow outward toward it, surrounding it with the soothing balm that was her own harmonious inner self. Within the damaged, misfiring neurons that were the source of the native’s ongoing hurt, the Force compelled a subtle realignment of tissues, an almost imperceptible but physiologically critical alteration.
She stood holding him like that for several long, silent minutes: healer and patient locked together in that mysterious, inscrutable mutual melding comprehensible only to another master of the Jedi healing arts. Not until all felt normal and natural and well did she finally allow herself to withdraw from the vulnerable state into which she had placed them both.
>
Opening her eyes, she found herself staring back at her captor. But there was something different about him now: a faint but discernible change of posture, a glint instead of a dullness in his eye. He straightened slightly, as much as his broken, permanently bent back would allow, and looked slowly around the room.
“How do you feel?” she finally prompted him when no words were forthcoming.
“Feel? Bulgan feel—I feel good. Very good.” Making fists of both three-fingered hands, he raised them toward the roof. “Really exceptionally remarkably good! Haja, jaha, ou ou!” The little dance he proceeded to perform, joyfully throwing his arms repeatedly into the air all the while, lifted her hopes in concert with his spirit.
Then he stopped, lowered his hands, and said to her in a notably different tone of voice than he had used before, “but you’re still my prisoner, Padawan.” When she slumped, he grinned, showing fine Ansionian teeth. “For about another minute.”
“You mean?…” his intent became clear when he walked over to her with a spring in his step that had been absent previously and bent to pass the de-sealer across her ankle bonds. They dissolved promptly, allowing her to stand. Her feet and legs numb from lack of use, she would have fallen had he not caught her in his strong arms.
At which point the door clicked and Kyakhta entered the room
To say that the senior Alwari was startled by the sight that greeted his bulging eyes was an understatement worth of a senior tax collector. The sight of the Jedi Padawan unbound was disquieting enough. The sight of her slumped slightly in his partner’s arms was a spectacle that constituted an irresolvable conundrum. If Bulgan did not with his first utterance say exactly the right thing, Kyakhta was ready to bolt back outside and lock them both back in.
Fortunately, the heretofore guileless Bulgan was no in a cerebral position to do so.
Star Wars: The Approaching Storm Page 7