Rating: PG-13; Disturbing visuals, some language. Not for those with delicate stomachs.
Timeline: During the Jedi Purge
Summary: Ben Kenobi is being hunted during the Jedi Purge.
Disclaimer: The Jedi are George's.
Hinging out, the landing gear snapped into position as the battered, small ship hovered over the hillside. In a few decades, she would be a petite grande dame. Now, she was just aged, dated, not desired by either of the two wealthy classes - those wanting the latest in technology or those seeking venerated ancient vessels.
Longer than normal, the laser-scarred craft remained in the air waiting cautiously as if only in its continued motion was there safety and in rest there lay danger. Settling down like the paws of a mechanical animal, the round, flat pads of the landing gear disappeared into the long grass. When the whining hum of the engines ceased along with the blue glow from the replusorlift coils, all was quiet, hushed.
Briefly, brazened by the lack of movement, green-fledged avians trilled as they fluttered in the blades of the open field. With a whoosh of rapid wing beats, they retreated startled by the ramp levering downward.
Warily, confirming with his sight that his ship's sensors had been accurate, Ben Kenobi lightly trod down the ramp. Haggard and worn, his ease of movement a sham perpetrated by the slighter than Coruscant-normal gravity. His right arm held bent close to his broken ribs, he wore his lightsaber hanging at his left hip.
He gave a cursory glance at the gaudily-colored gas giant, Vanta, hanging low on the horizon as did Vanta's sun. Tidely-coupled with its planet, the large moon, Tsack, always held the same face to Vanta. Dawn had broken a few standard days before, but full daylight would not appear for several more as Tsack's revolution around Vanta matched its rotation on its axis.
Ben stood and watched the hilltop villa for signs of anything - welcoming or entrapping. The rectangular home of the Vanta system's Jedi guardian, Friona Mathuma, perched on summit appearing much as it did when her children had thundered out in a herd years ago. He reached out with the Force scanning for signs of life.
Cautiously, he pushed off into a wide-stepped floating near lope halting two-footed at the villa's central courtyard. Caught unaware of his approach, an armored anth scuttled like a half-drunken deep spacer on land leave hurrying back for list call. Storm-driven debris dirtied the flagstones, deposited damp in depressions and corners, sorting out where rivulets had run. The pleasant burble of the fountain was keenly absent, no longer flowing into the small pool where Friona's smallest children had splashed.
The home embraced the quadrangle courtyard on three sides, all plastisteel walls of windows. Gaping open like a nightmare-sized ameba, a blaster hole decorated one panel. Darkened opaque, the one panel stood out from its transparent siblings like a blackened and diseased eye.
Loping long steps, Ben passed the stagnant, vivid alga-teeming pool. Larva lurched liquidly underneath the threaded mats of living feathery masses. Metamorphized free of the fluid below, insects flew above in a swarm of black pinpricks.
Sidling close to the frozen undulation of the once-melted plastisteel, Ben peered inside. Nothing visual was amiss, Friona's home was the same cluttered collection of eclectic curiosities. The faint smell of death Ben knew would become a stench once he found the source. No, Anakin, no. Why?
Stepping over the low remanent of the window, Ben entered the silent tomb. Rooms were entered and exited. The smell, cloyingly fetid, hung in the air growing stronger. The sound of buzzing insects hummed in the air.
The body was chained to the wall. No, Ani, no. Bloated and black, the obscene corpse hung from chains impaled into the wall. Ben held his breath, held down his bile surging sour from his stomach. Turning away, he closed his eyes. Why, Ani, why? Dammit! We slept in her house, ate at her table!
Steeling himself, he unclipped his lightsaber and thumbed in on. He turned his head to look at the grotesic body covered with probing insects and free it in death from its fetters. Sudden shock at the realization that it was a male body, Friona's husband, made him snap his head around seeking hers.
As he held his humming blue blade, he saw the dark-splattered wall. Five blaster bolts had burned through where Friona had stood last. A few arm bones and a leg bone, a femur, lay scattered at the base of the wall. She had died on that spot. Her husband had been chained to the wall opposite, still alive, watching as the carrion vermin gorged themselves on her remains. Ani, you bastard. You kriffing Sithspawn. Why? What did they ever do to you to deserve this?
His Force sense told him there was no one alive in the home, but he called out the names of the two youngest children anyway. Ben continued through the house searching for them. Returning after finding nobody else, alive or dead, he was uncertain that boded well for the missing children.
Ben steeled himself over the husband's body to cut through the chains. Pausing, he furrowed his brow at the odd cant to its head, unnaturally tilted. Powering down his lightsaber, he stepped back and shot a look in the direction its bulging eyes were fixed on. Ben looked back at the death-black face. It's been moved, after, deliberately.
Holding his breath once again, he crouched down placing his head near the body's. He followed the line of sight trying not to gag, not to look into the seething maggot-filled mouth. Lips eaten away, it grinned insanely around the pressure-protruded tongue.
It was looking at the window, low. Window? Window? Ben stood and stepped to walk to the destroyed window in order examine it closely. Windu! Mace was here.
Exhausted and unused to the light gravity, his booted foot nudged the dead man's leg. The writhing, feeding maggots inside hunched as one, giving the corpse the macabre illusion of life. Ben swallowed, fighting to keep down what little remained in his stomach.
He concentrated on the window, frantically searching the window frames and the control units. Nothing. The long, sheer drapery caught his attention. Grabbing a hold of the hem at the bottom he felt each weight enveloped in the fabric. Pulling his vibro-shiv from his belt, he sliced through the curtain and squeezed out the metal message cylinder.
He held it up to his eye, but he knew his trembling hand was shaking too much for an accurate scan and the device would fail to activate. Sitting down on the floor, he steadied his hand with the other and depressed the base of the cylinder. Unblinking, he allowed it to scan his retina. The message cylinder satisfied that the intended recipient was confirmed, began to scroll its message inside disappearing as quickly as it was read. The end reached, it blanked out dark.
Ben lowered the message cylinder from his eye and turned it over in his hands. Mace, I thought you were dead. I thought that monster got you, too. Thank the Force. He held it up between two fingers and grimacing with pain from his broken ribs, leaned over to place it in one of the pouches on his belt. My knees. They didn't get my knees. Thank the Force, they didn't get my knees, he repeated trying to convince himself. A carrion insect from the body landed on his lips. He sputtered it away and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Awkwardly rising to avoid a sharp pang of pain from his ribs, Ben left the room. He returned with a bed sheet and arranged it flat on the floor under the body of Friona's husband. Ben's saber nicked through the chain holding the left arm. The arm flopped down torquing the torso to the right.
Ben's shoulders sagged with resignation as he repositioned the bed sheet beneath the body dangling from one pivot point. Cutting through the remaining chain, he watched as the body fell onto the sheet. With a sound like cloth being rent, the belly ripped open and vomited out maggots and intestines. A gush of fresh rot-stink blossomed out.
Ben retched, emptying his stomach of thin, sour bile. He quivered as he wiped his beard with his sleeve.
Hunting for all the skeletal remains of Friona, he gathered them up and placed them on the sheet with her husband's body. He carefully double-checked for any strays. Tying the sheet with a cord of carbon-rope, he left it and walked out of the home.
Dragging the spade behind him, Ben left the tool crib and trudged out to the hillside. The low gravity falsified his weariness, making each footfall light and high. Halting, he intended to select a suitable grave site. It was several minutes before he snapped alert, realizing that he hadn't been lost in thought, but had just been standing there, blank.
He hefted the spade and dug it into the ground. Lifting the soil, he tossed it aside. He concentrated on the three motions - dig, lift, toss. He forced himself to think of nothing else. Dig, lift, toss. The repetitive physical motion was a respite. Dig, lift, toss. The rich soil was a life-promising tang that scented the air. Dig, lift, toss. Sweat sheened his sleeved-bared arms and ran down his face, saltily stinging his eyes. Dig, lift, toss.
He dared not rest on the handle of the spade, so he dropped it and returned to the house. Force-lifting the sheet-shrouded bodies, he levitated them out of the blaster hole in the window and over the courtyard. From behind, he guided the bodies towards the grave and held them over the hole. Weak, he lost control and they plummeted down into it with a thud. He grimaced. Forgive me.
He half bent down to the spade and half called to it with the Force. He covered the bodies. Dig, lift, toss. Forgive me. Dig, lift, toss. If I had only gotten here sooner. Dig, lift, toss. Damn you, Ani Dig, lift, toss.
When all the disturbed dirt had been mounded, he bent his head and rocked on his feet, intoning a chanted prayer. May the Force be with you and you one with the Force, he concluded. Out of habit, he returned the spade to the tool crib, replacing it where he had found it.
He tested the door in the tool crib leading into the main house. He was surprised it opened. He gave a small snort of derision at this small piece of effortlessness. A short hallway led to a refresher station as he remembered.
Turning the tap on, nothing happened. No water. He took a deep breath and grabbed the cake of soap. He shuffled outside, back to the fountain and its pool.
Plunging his lightsaber into the green pool, water steamed up in a plume of white vapor and vigorously boiled, purifying it. His conscious twinged at the thought of the dying micro fauna and flora. Force forgive me He undressed, dropping his tattered clothing at his feet and tested the water. He withdrew the warning toe quickly and looked around wondering how to occupy himself while it cooled. Naked, he entered the home going through the tool-crib door.
The large kitchen was much as he had seen it last. A new floor and a mural of this moon's planet, Vanta, painted upon the largest wall were the most obvious changes he noted as he walked through towards the chiller unit. The table had been set, plates and utensils in disarray. There had been food there, now eaten by scavenging animals.
His hand on the handle of the chiller unit, he stopped short of pulling it open. It did not vibrate with the comforting hum of energy indicating it was operating. Another stench awaited him inside.
He furiously opened cabinets searching for anything edible immediately. Several jars of preserved fruit were neatly rowed. He swiped one off the shelf and removed the lid rapaciously. Grasping a golden-amber fruit with his fingers, he shoved it dripping sticky nectar into his mouth. He chewed once, and swallowed it. Two more fruits disappeared into his mouth before he began to chew and taste the sweetness. With the container in his hand, he continued to eat as he ambled to the mural. Admiring the artwork, he finished the container and threw back his head draining it of the juice.
He removed another container from the cabinet and as he opened this one, he read the label. He shrugged his shoulders. The fruit's name meant little to him. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down with the container poised over table's surface. He paused for a moment and then swiped the table clear of the dishes with his other hand. As they crashed to the floor, he winced in the pain the movment caused his ribs. The sharp pain abated, he ate more leisurely, savoring the sweet, soft fruit.
With a wan smile, recalled when he had eaten here last, the table crowded with Friona's family. Her husband bellowing at the children to mind their manners. Then, later at night, or what had passed for night on this moon, the ease of comraderie with just the adults. They had all cheated shamelessly at sabacc, getting worse as the night wore on and the bottles of lomin-ale downed. Friona's husband protested to no avail, laughing hysterically at the Force-slipped high cards into hands.
Friona was a good one with lewd jokes, and Anakin had actually blushed, cheeks tinging red as his eyes widened at the coarse punch line. I thought I was going to bust a . . . Ben rested his head in his hand elbow on the table top, staring hard at the table's wood grain. Why, Ani, why? In the name of the Force, why?
He shoved himself away from the table and returned outside to the pool. Stepping in the warm water, he gazed around, searching with the Force before he lowered himself in. The pool, mostly decorative and useful only for amusing young children, barely immersed him to his groin. Scrubbing hard, he lathered the soap into his skin. The putrid death-stench had stuck in his nose. Sticking soapy fingers into his nostrils, he tried to clean their hairs of the cloying reek of rotting flesh. The soap stung sharply.
Ben eased back, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of warm water. In the low gravity, if he lay still, he barely floated . . .
An electric pulse burst through his body, he snapped awake and sat up with a rush of water pouring off his frame. He frantically searched the fabric of the Force of any signs of other life as he looked with his eyes and listened. A bit calmer with the lack of any evidence, he stood and frowned at his dirty rags. A useless look at the sun still low on the horizon gave no indication of how long he had slept.
Dripping wet, he entered the home and then Friona and her husband's room. He hadn't ever been in this part of the house, but the wardrobe alcove was obvious. Ben Kenobi soon found himself wearing the clothes of a dead man.
***
Part 2
Come on, Mace. Where are you? Ben Kenobi hugged his chest and resisted the urge to pace as he leaned against the old building. As the twilight darkened, the crowd lining the street thickened as hurrying pedestrians filled in the sparser spaces. Fathers hoisted their children to perch on their shoulders amid the noisy hubbub of anticipation.
Food vendors called out, adding verbal entreaties to the enticing scents. Crusty, salted breads warmly fragranced the crisp air with yeasty richness. Ben shifted his thin weight and sheathed his hands under his arms. Everyone else seemed to sip from a hand-warming cup of thick challo steaming aromatic vapors.
Down the street, music sounded growing gradually louder as the Landfall parade marched nearer. Ben with forced slowness looked casually up the street at the approaching latecomers and then in the opposite direction.
Shavit, Mace, where are you? There is just enough time, if you come now.
Imperial banners fronted the parade line and Ben turned his head staring instead at a hairline fault in the plaster of the restored building. Beonaar was one of the first planets discovered and settled after the invention of the hyperdrive. Its Landfall celebration honored the event with most of the festivities occurring within the ancient quarter of its once capital city.
Colorful floats, dancers and musicians paraded by. Ben lit his last cigarra and blew out smoke as he divided his attention between the marchers in the quaint garb of that long-ago era, the crowd hemming the street and the few people zigzagging a path down the walkway. The crack of snapfires reporting brought cheers from the children delighted at the loud sound that startled them and the bursting sparkles of light.
Ben drew in another drag from his cigarra and frowning, regarded the ember consuming its length. Hurry, Mace. Come on. Where are you? Adults started pointing into the air several meters above the ground and tapping their children. Hovering holocams whirred by occasionally pausing to capture the crowd for broadcast on the HoloNet. Ben lowered his head.
Excitement built in the crowd as people jostled for even clearer, closer views of the street. As if in slow motion, Ben watched as a pickpocket bumped into a man and lifted his wallet. Ben started forward half a step and stopped himself. The thief disappeared into the throng. Ben clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms as he forced himself to lean back against the stone bricks. Ben felt guilt as if he had committed the crime. He blew out smoke with a snort and shook his head. One of us does at least.
The crowd cheered as the parade's dignitaries passed in several open hovercraft. What? The system's shockball champion was waving and smiling as he passed slowly by. How are they going to explain? Ben watched and listened to the celebratory crowd. It sunk in. History was rewritten by the victors.
Kenobi refused to surrender. The younger man, the anachronism, the museum piece within him in this new order wanted to rail against the omission. His sense of honor demanded that at least there be an exhibit of what once was. Jedi had defended and protected the fledgling settlement.
The Beonaar Security Force rode escort on speeder bikes. As they glided by, one focused on Ben. Ben wished he could make himself invisible, but what the officer saw was nearly the same. Through the Force, Ben projected an image of an old woman. The officer kept going, his attention drawn elsewhere.
Mace, hurry. We can still make it before they close the . . . A thought occurred to him, interrupting. He grew hopeful. He hadn't heard anything to the contrary, but the reason that the spaceports closed for the duration of the celebrations was . . . Due to the Jedi! The Jedi back then had closed the planet to ships for a short time. Maybe, they won't close the ports now.
The food vendors were making their final pleas. Ben keenly knew the denomination of the one coin in his possession. In spite of this fact, he hunted with his hands in his pockets for others.
The body demanded. The Jedi could provide. The man resisted. Ben Kenobi blew into his red-raw hands warming them with his breath as the food vendors made their last sales, packed up and left.
The traditional countdown was shouted. The crowd roared. The spaceports closed.
The families disbursed, compass-rosing the street. Ben still waited. A child carried by her mother smiled at Ben and held out in a chubby hand an offering of food. Switched to ride her mother's other hip, the child pivoted watching Ben recede as her mother entreated her to turn around. Ben's small patron was not deterred. She let the food drop from her hand.
Ben hung his head. Mace, we can still think of something. Just come, dammit. The child's partially eaten food was only three steps away from him.
The body walked three steps. The Jedi followed the Force. The man left his pride behind. Ben Kenobi, leaning against the ancient building again, greedily plucked at the tart-sweet kernels in the papery husk.
As if a scene change in a holodrama, the family-heavy crowd was replaced by one more uniform in age - young adults. Musicians tuned up and began to play, luring dancers into the street. Ben picked through the husk until it was futile and dropped it. In small circles, the men pounded thick staves, lifted them overhead and twirled as the women darted in and out.
The staves' primary purpose though was more potent. Liberally flowing taps decanted buata into their hollow centers, the goal seemingly to fill the staves as rapidly as possible, cutting off only when the foaming brew overflowed in graphic sexual symbolism. Shouts of "Hiiah!" proclaimed the completion of the act.
Ben patted his clothing double-checking for a cigarra he may have missed. He embraced his body, the air grew colder as the night grew older. I'll be warm soon, he assured himself. As soon as Mace gets here. He promised himself all the small comforts that were currently denied him. All he had to do was wait just a little longer. Mace would come through with credits for food. For a ship. Mace would watch his back, allow him to sleep . . .
Ben snapped awake. A man's stave had lost its cap and while he twirled it dancing it had spewed out dousing another. Tempers flared and caught the attention of the security officers. Ben called on the Force and the man fled in terror witnessing a horror only he could see. The other drunken dancers laughed and called out scornfully at his retreating cowardice. Keep going. There's nothing to see here. The officers laughed also as they continued on their rounds.
The bacchanal in the street continued oblivious to its weary watcher. "Hiiah!" Another stave was filled with buata and the tottering possessor like many around him sought out a recipient of his largess. With foggy logic, he convinced a woman to drink from his stave. Triumphant, he lifted his buata-filled stave upward. The others celebrated with him in his success as he held it up at an angle for her to drink. For although the circle dance had set, patterned steps, this amusement was devoid of standard rules. The men cajoled and dared, hoping to flounder upon the correct set of criteria.
Two prostitutes walked the street ignoring the Ben. Ben hunched his shoulders against the chill as he watched for Mace. The pair of security officers returned. With a beckoning wave of his hand, Ben suggested to one of the prostitutes that she should pay attention to him. She thought that idea mutually worthwhile.
She commented that it was cold as she ran her fingers through his hair. Ben agreed. She knew of a warm place she revealed as he played with a loose lock of her hair. Ben told her he wanted to see it. The security officers' backs were visible from over her shoulder as they walked past. She stated he would enjoy the warm place but it cost credits. Ben answered that he was currently short of credits, but would have some soon. Her interest evaporated.
The other woman wanted to know why she had wasted her time with him, he clearly didn't have any money. The woman looked at Ben with a puzzled look on her face as they walked away. Ben morosely thought to himself that they were very wrong. He was worth a great deal of money. Vader has made sure of that.
With the passage of hours, most of drunken dancers wavered home, nearly vacating the ancient street as the new day approached. Ben still waited. He fought for control of his fluttering eyes. Two women - close relatives, perhaps sisters - walked down the street. Ben tried to focus, to concentrate. The older one guided the younger in a controlled hurry.
No one willingly looked at Ben anymore, avoiding eye contact lest they see the humanity within the detritus. She did. The younger woman stared out with vacant eyes. She was gone, safely disappeared deep within herself. The Force tugged at Ben and he levered off the wall. The burnt, colorful paper wrapper of a snapfire trailed uncoiled down the walk pushed by the breeze.
"Do you have any extra credits?" Ben begged. The paper wrapper snagged on an uneven stone of the street curb.
"I'm sorry," the woman said with deep compassion, but her voice was hushed, rushed. "He's dead." The paper wrapper tore free and blew away.
Ben Kenobi fell in free-fall. "How?" he managed to utter. The hull breached, Ben floated in vacuum.
The woman cast a look at her companion with the wide, depthless eyes. "It was quick," she answered. Ben knew she lied. The woman scanned her surroundings, scared. Attempting secretiveness, she succeeded. She looked as if she held secrets. "You've got to go." Like a flock animal, she had flashed her warning signal and she herded her companion away. The predators were on hunt.
"Wait," Ben desperately grabbed her arm. "The credits. What about the credits? Mace promised he would have credits." Terrified, she tried to wrest her arm free. Ben held it. "Please."
"I don't know anything about credits," she said. She was honest in her ignorance. Ben let her go. She hustled away.
"I need a place to sleep." Ben trotted after.
"I'm sorry. I can't help you." She walked faster.
"I need food." He stopped.
She halted her steps. When she turned around she was crying. "Wait here. I'll be back. It's the best I can do."
With the morning sun shining weakly warm, Ben was nudged in the ribs by a foot. Wincing in the pain of his still-healing ribs, he blinked in the bright sunlight trying to focus on the face looming over him. "Go sleep it off somewhere else. Before I call the security force," the shopkeeper grumbled.
Ben picked himself off the ground in a panic. "A woman. Have you seen a woman?" he asked as he frantically looked up and down the empty street. "Maybe two. Sisters."
With a wary eye, the shopkeeper regarded Ben. "Haven't seen anybody." He paused and his face softened. "Say, you look like you could use a helping hand. I probably will regret this, but . . ."
Ben lowered his gaze, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away. I would, my friend. I would.
End
