Chapter Text
Sifo was gone. The marked unease that always haunted his sleep when they were apart had greeted Yan in the morning, along with an empty and cold half of his bed. That, and a brief note on a piece of flimsi on his nightstand—Sifo’s personal touch, his delicately curved script inscribed in a deep blue ink. It was a gentle farewell, full of promise.
Only, of course, Dooku knew better than to trust in that promise. The future was already out of Sifo’s control.
The grief that swamped him was stifling. He’d been staring at that piece of flimsiplast for so long, carrying it around in the breast pocket of his inner tunic since Sifo’s departure, only to learn that his Padawan had been seriously injured on Naboo.
Yan allowed himself few material reminders of his attachments—Qui-Gon's Padawan braid, long and silken, curled in a box in his study; an anniversary Choosing gift from Komari. Sifo’s note. How fitting that every token he’d kept became sooner a memento for the remembrance of the dead, or very nearly so. Komari had vanished. When the Healers told him Qui-Gon had been injured, they’d taken care not to say how seriously, but Dooku was no fool; he knew how dire the situation must have been for them to contact him at all.
Besides, he still had his Council codes. He could easily find out whatever he needed—and he had.
Now Sifo was gone, and the Force had held a note of sorrowful finality since his departure.
For the first time, Yan found himself at loose ends. Not that he had nothing to do—he simply couldn't convince his mind to settle on any of it. Agitated, his thoughts hopped from one concern to next, never long enough to do anything about it—all in an attempt to avoid thinking about the root of his anxiety. So Yan had heaved an exasperated sigh and unfurled his meditation mat, in the hopes of reasoning out his answer.
It wasn’t any great mystery. Disappointing, even, in its mundanity, and for the fact that he’d pinned it down in a matter of seconds.
For the first time in years he was worrying over his ‘overgrown fool of a Padawan’ again. That had surprised him; Dooku rather thought himself beyond such pointless agitation. It was unproductive. Qui-Gon was here, alive and recovering—surely there was nothing to worry about anymore.
They'd barely exchanged a word over the last few years, mostly because both were rarely in-Temple. Even their enforced rest periods overlapped infrequently. There were few of those, too, now—the galaxy was indeed spinning into disarray, minor crises sprouting everywhere, all clamouring for immediate attention. In past years, Yan had been near-forcibly grounded—by order of Grandmaster Tyvokka himself—for a handful of short rest periods, two months at a time, at most. These days, a Master-Padawan pair was lucky to get two weeks in as many years.
No one wanted to be forcibly grounded by injury.
Dooku directed brisk, clipped steps down to the Healers’ Halls. It was late—Temple night-cycle, somewhere in the third hour. Few beings were about, and Yan spared a moment to wonder at that. He was sure he remembered a time when the population of the Temple had been far greater. The relative emptiness was never so obvious as during the night cycle, when he passed more insomniacs than members of nocturnal species.
At least insomniacs had their own strange code of conduct. They never pried, never intruded, never offered him more than a solemn nod of solidarity. If they ever found someone else to share their wakefulness, it was usually someone close—though on occasion new friendships could be forged at night. He’d met Sifo that way, when they were crèchemates. These nights, Dooku was not close with any of them, nor did he signal any wish to be approached. He walked quickly, footsteps inaudible, and he only bothered to slow his pace and relax the grim lines of his expression when he finally reached the halls of the medical wing.
Dooku was well aware that Healers all but lived in the ward, but he wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him as he stepped into the office of his Padawan’s primary Healer.
A young woman lay sprawled across two chairs in front of the Healer’s desk, half-buried under a dark, seemingly oversized robe. One ankle rested against the back of the chair at her feet, the other foot dangled jauntily off the arm. Her head lolled over the arm of the opposite chair in a way that made his neck ache in sympathy.
A sleep-graveled voice startled him out of his contemplative stillness. “I have no idea how that could possibly be comfortable, but she hasn’t slid to the floor yet.”
Dooku only managed to cover his surprise with years of practice, privately scolding himself for his distraction. He’d been so focused on the sleeping Jedi—an apprentice Healer, perhaps?—that he hadn’t seen the Master Healer behind the desk.
“Terza,” he uttered a little too sharply. He thought better of himself, and inclined his head apologetically. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”
Her sleepy half-glower eased. “If you have tea, I'll leave you in peace.”
“Ah.”
He hid a wince, though perhaps not quickly enough. Terza must have seen it, for she sighed and shook her head, pushing herself up out of her seat.
“Never mind, you can come watch me make it. And maybe, if you're nice to me, I'll make you a cup.”
Dooku stepped aside as she brushed past him, and shook his head. Perhaps he ought to see about getting sleep couches placed in some of the Healers’ offices. Terza had been asleep face-first on her desk, and the young Jedi sprawled across two chairs was an advertisement for backaches. He was a former Councilor, after all. People just… did things, these days, when he asked. Of course, they’d waited the ten years he’d served as Councilor to actually start doing the things he asked them to. But he’d stepped down two years ago, now, and could no longer really find it in himself to complain.
“Can't sleep?” Terza asked as she made her way over to a nook Dooku had never previously noticed. The size of a modest supply closet at best, it housed a small kitchen for the Healers and some emergency supplies for patients—small juice packages in case of low blood sugar in humanoids, supplies for other species that he could not immediately identify or recall.
“They told me my Padawan was injured. I thought perhaps I’d look in on him.”
“It's the middle of the night,” the Healer noted, her expression carefully blank.
Neither judgement nor criticism; perhaps simple curiosity, but Yan didn’t feel like answering it. He met it with a neat deflection, instead: “And you're still here.” Dooku arched a dark eyebrow. “That seems worrisome.”
Terza sighed, reaching up for two dark red mugs and then a box of tea. “He hasn't been your Padawan for years, Master Dooku. There's a limit to what I can tell you.”
“Of course.”
She turned to give him a hard look, as if trying to pierce through his carefully cultivated mask as she considered her next words. “There's no way around the fact that he almost died. If Master Sifo-Dyas hadn't warned us—"
“Sifo?” Surprised, Dooku stepped back, right up against the counter behind him. “He warned you? About Qui-Gon?”
“Not exactly.” She shifted, turned to prepare the blend, hands fluttering through the ritual with practiced precision as she spoke. “He told us of the invasion of Naboo before the Senate ever heard word of it. He said the army had begun placing the Naboo in camps, and that the Naboo would likely try to resist the invasion. Master Sifo-Dyas asked if we had anyone to spare, in the hopes of assisting them. Of course, this just so happened to coincide with a dire necessity for research of Gungan physiology.”
A few moments’ silence hung in the air as she tapped her fingers against the counter in a faint rhythm, counting down the last seconds for the tea to brew.
“When was this?”
“Three tens ago.”
Three tens. That was the night when he’d begged Sifo not to follow the siren call of that vision. Yan thought he'd convinced Sifo to stay, that night. He’d awakened to an empty bed the next morning, felt cold horror wrap its hands around his throat, thinking that he had failed. But then a soft touch to the bond between them reassured him of Sifo’s nearness. Yan had found him in the Meditation Gardens, a gentle smile smoothing out tired and worried lines on his face, the sharpness of his features softened by the warmth of the morning light. That morning, and the next, and the morning after that, he’d known hope.
Terza turned back to him, cup of tea in her outstretched hand, which Dooku automatically accepted.
“He also told us that the team of Knights sent to protect Queen Amidala were likely to run into trouble, and would be seriously in need of our assistance.”
Terza leaned back against the counter, staring into her mug as she cradled it close—though Dooku was sure it should have burned her hands.
“Team of Knights? But they only sent Qui-Gon and his Padawan?”
She shrugged. “I am given to understand that Padawan Kenobi earned his Knighthood on Naboo.”
That struck Master Dooku suddenly, and hard.
He’d never met Obi-Wan Kenobi. Oh, he’d heard stories— everyone had heard stories about the Jinn-Kenobi team. They’d practically made it into Temple lexicon; ‘Jinn-Kenobi missions’ were the type where everything went to shit, and Councilors complained at length about the reports young Kenobi filed—“with passive-aggressive punctiliousness,” as Mace had put it.
(Of course, Mace also made a few passing comments on the quality of Jinn’s reports, but Dooku tended to agree with his former Padawan: so long as the salient points were there, the details were largely irrelevant. It just so happened that Qui-Gon’s details tended to be on the revolutionary scale. In his Padawan’s defense, though, Dooku had seen Qui-Gon get pulled into these sorts of things, and he couldn’t explain how the hell it had happened, either.)
Dooku pulled himself away from thoughts that were shaped a little too much like regret for his comfort, and sighed. “We’ve lost too many, in these last few years.”
Eyes unfocused, Terza stared at some abstract point and nodded. “Without those two, the Light of the Order would be rather dimmed.”
Dooku said nothing, and turned his attention to the mug in his hands instead. The tea, when it finally touched his lips, sent a rush of warmth through him. It cleared the late-night fog from his mind; the scent brought to mind a pleasant spectrum of cool blues and greens, though he’d never really associated scents with colours before. When he looked up, Terza gave him a knowing smile.
“Gift from a very good friend,” she said. “Outer Rim, very specific regional blend. It was a gift to her, apparently.”
“Your friend is incredibly generous.” Dooku stared down at the liquid’s surface, slightly stunned.
Terza laughed quietly and shook her head. “I suspect she ran the risk of abandoning her addiction to caff for an addiction to something far less accessible.”
“Mm,” he managed, once again overwhelmed and dragged under by the glorious complexity of the brew. Only after about two thirds of the mug did he recover wits enough to ask, “May I see him?”
Terza nodded. “Far end of the hall, on the left.”
Obi-Wan was half-awake, seated on a bench near the door. He had propped himself up against the wall; a young boy lay curled up against him, golden head in his lap. That it was the Temple night cycle didn't seem to matter: he was watching his Master in spite of heavy, drooping eyelids, stubbornly clinging to wakefulness. That, Dooku thought, with a sudden rush of nostalgia, had once been his task. Many, many years ago.
Now, his former Padawan lay still and pale, and far too thin, a breathing mask over his mouth and nose. The boy beside Obi-Wan Kenobi slept without dreams; Qui-Gon's face was pinched.
What a strange sight they were, Yan thought: a young Knight with a Padawan braid, and a child in ragged clothes, wrapped in a medical-issue blanket. Watching from the door, unobserved and unobtrusive, Dooku felt almost as though he were intruding.
But they all three of them had one heavy weight in common, worrying over the fate of Qui-Gon Jinn. Dooku suddenly felt bowed with it, like he had not been in decades.
“Padawan,” he said softly, feeling an old twinge.
A pair of bright green eyes snapped up to him. To his credit, Obi-Wan didn’t startle, though he probably hadn’t been expecting visitors at this hour. He simply turned a cool, assessing gaze on Dooku—politely questioning, even.
Yan couldn’t quite articulate what was unsettling about it.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I wanted to see—my Padawan,” Dooku offered, shoving his sudden discomfort aside.
Obi-Wan nodded, as if that were obvious enough. “He’s just fallen asleep again, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right.”
Yan cast a quick glance about the little room. There was a chair up against the far wall; he picked it up easily and moved it near the foot of the bed, a comfortable distance from his Grandpadawan.
“I’d also come to realise that we haven’t been introduced, and I felt it was time to rectify the situation.”
It wasn’t a proper introduction, not the kind he would have wished for. But Obi-Wan looked like several hundred klicks of bad road, and Yan thought that perhaps the young man could use a distraction. Force knew, he wouldn’t mind it himself. Dooku was pleased to see the glint in Obi-Wan’s eye, the court- and senate-perfect nod, the polite and utterly flawless response delivered in turn, without hesitation.
“Tell me my Padawan has been taking care of himself,” Yan said quietly, his own eyes heavy with sleepless nights.
Obi-Wan offered him a thin smile. “I’m afraid he hasn’t been given a choice in the matter,” he said.
That surprised a laugh out of the Jedi Master. “Oh, finally, someone who knows how to keep him in check,” Yan said, through a quiet chuckle.
“Alas, I regret to disappoint you, Master,” Obi-Wan replied smoothly, “but I don’t believe anyone in this Temple is possessed of such a talent.”
“Do you doubt me, Knight Kenobi?” Dooku said archly.
“Of course not. As the Master, so the Padawan, as I’ve often been told.”
Now that quick turn of wit was painfully familiar. Dooku snorted, and shot the young Jedi a pointed look.
“You must be great fun at parties,” he commented dryly. “Kings and Queens have taken heads for less talented tongues, you know.”
“Duly noted, Master,” Knight Kenobi replied. “I shall endeavour to keep my talents in my own head, and my head to myself.”
He sounded almost contrite—but Dooku was wary of it now. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were obviously a well-matched pair, and he was beginning to wonder what other irritating quirks of Qui-Gon’s had been elevated to high art by his apprentice.
Of course, now that he no longer had a Padawan of his own to discipline, he could almost appreciate those quirks.
Almost.
“And who is your young charge?”
An odd look briefly flickered across Obi-Wan’s face—there and gone in an instant. “An Initiate,” Obi-Wan said. “Recently accepted to the Temple crèche.”
“Oh? Did he transfer from one of our satellites?”
“Not quite.” Obi-Wan’s expression was shuttered. “We were stranded on Tatooine, in need of replacement parts for the Naboo cruiser. Anakin helped us secure the parts,” he glanced down at the sleeping child, “and apparently won his own freedom—pod racing.”
Dooku felt his eyebrows creep up. “He’s… a bit old to be accepted as an Initiate, isn’t he?”
Obi-Wan made a noncommittal noise. Yan pretended to mull it over for a minute, mostly watching the young Knight instead. Obi-Wan gave away little, but the way his arm rested over the boy’s shoulder was distinctly protective.
“Well,” he said finally, “Qui-Gon always did have a way with unusual students. And a habit of picking up strays.”
Obi-Wan seemed, if possible, even more wary now. “Unusual. Like Xanatos?”
That was thoughtless. He’d walked into that himself, Yan knew, but he didn’t allow himself to betray his reaction with so much as a twitch.
“DuCrion’s Fall was a choice,” he said, firmly. “His own choice.”
The tension held for another moment; then Obi-Wan let himself uncoil. “Yes. A choice he made repeatedly.”
Yan nodded. “Precisely that.”
It had taken years for Qui-Gon to even begin to accept that as a possibility—thanks in no small part to the young man who now sat beside him and guarded his dreams. At least, Yan suspected as much: Qui-Gon’s change of heart corresponded with the appearance of a third apprentice in his life. While early reports on Padawan Kenobi had been somewhat mixed, well—everyone had an adjustment period, and keeping up with Qui-Gon Jinn required a certain amount of trust.
For all his stern admonishments on the dangers of attachment and inevitability of betrayal—though he still believed he was correct—Yan thought he’d come to understand Qui-Gon a little better in the intervening years. His former apprentice needed those connections, and no amount of training could extinguish that need or replace it.
“Xanatos was, nevertheless, a gifted student,” Yan added, pulling himself away from all the things he and his former Padawan would never agree on. Dire thoughts, indeed. “And few Masters could keep up with Feemor Tsals.”
“Tsals?” Obi-Wan tried out the name, uncertain. “I’ve never met him.”
“You wouldn’t have. He hasn’t been seen back at the Temple in years. Actually, last I heard, he’d been deployed to Bandomeer, to clean up the mess Offworld left behind. Qui-Gon’s affinity to the Living Force is undisputed, and they were a good match in that regard. Knight Tsals has been making good headway with land restoration.”
“I didn’t know Master Qui-Gon had another Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, puzzled.
Ah. Of course not. “Qui-Gon took over the last three years of his training,” Yan explained, “and tends to underestimate just how much of an impact his teachings had.”
Foolish of him, but understandable. The first Apprentice Qui-Gon had been responsible for, from Choosing to Trial, went and Fell at the age of twenty-one. Plenty of time to get attached there, Yan thought. Feemor has been a friend, if not an equal, and he’d come under Qui-Gon’s instruction almost fully formed, habits and quirks already set, both good and bad. He hadn’t needed Qui-Gon for guidance, not in the way a young Initiate might.
Dooku had never been very good at open displays of affection, himself; he couldn’t sit for hours at his Padawan’s bedside as the boy rambled through a fever. Qui-Gon was—different. He’d raised Xanatos, and cared for the boy deeply, through every illness and injury and anything Xanatos cared to share with him. Three years of being partnered with an almost-Knight must have looked quite irrelevant, next to that.
Judging by the expression on Obi-Wan’s face, he’d easily reached the same conclusion.
On the spur of the moment, Yan decided to elaborate a little. “Feemor’s Master was embroiled in what, by rights, should have been considered a diplomatic dispute, and was killed for being too much of a nuisance to the governing body. Fomenting a revolution, I believe the charge was—by teaching the locals how to grow their own food. Qui-Gon was sent to mitigate the situation, against all sense. But Qui-Gon succeeded where Feemor’s Master had not, and young Padawan Tsals proved a quick study.”
Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “I see. I suppose I thought we would have been introduced at some point, even so.”
Yan huffed, amused. “You never even met me.”
Obi-Wan bent an unimpressed, if mild, look at him that seemed to say, your point?
Yan supposed that was fair enough, but there were extenuating circumstances.
“Master Yoda’s lineage is one of wanderers. And, perhaps, we could stand to learn a thing or two about keeping in contact with old friends.”
Or, perhaps, swallowing our pride and negotiating a truce, Yan added silently, glancing over at Qui-Gon. He wasn’t sure which one of them deserved that criticism more. Jo would probably tell him that he ought to be old enough to know better, but he couldn’t help thinking that Qui-Gon didn’t need him there. Even after Xanatos’s betrayal, when Dooku had attempted to offer his assistance, Qui-Gon’s response had been uncharacteristically biting.
As you said, my Master—my tendency to get attached would only be my downfall. I am merely striving to live up to your example.
That had felt rather like a slap in the face, for some reason. Yan thought he would’ve felt vindicated—at last, his Padawan was learning. But it wasn’t a lesson he’d ever wanted Qui-Gon to learn, for all he knew it to be inevitable; certainly, it should not have come in the form of the loss of a Padawan.
All the same, Yan had murmured his apologies and seen himself out the door. He probably should have stayed.
“I suppose it rather does create the impression that we can tackle anything on our own,” Yan muttered. “The Council should never have sent you out to investigate that blockade without backup.”
Obi-Wan frowned at him. “The Council didn’t send us,” he said. “We went at Chancellor Valorum’s personal request.”
That brought him up short. “What—why?”
The rueful half-smile on Obi-Wan’s face reminded him so strongly of Qui-Gon, an ache lanced through his chest at the sight of it. “Because the Chancellor can no longer assign missions to the Jedi without the Senate’s approval, and the Trade Federation has a seat on the Senate.”
Yan nodded slowly. “True. The corruption of the Senate knows no bounds. But the Council certainly miscalculated, sending you and your Master back to Naboo without assistance.”
Obi-Wan shrugged, suddenly looking young and lost and uncomfortable again. His eyes slid back to Qui-Gon’s still form. “Perhaps they did.”
It seemed odd, that Qui-Gon’s apprentice would hesitate to criticise the Council. Yan had been particularly proud of that tendency in his Padawan, for all that he felt Qui-Gon was honing his skill on the strength of his Master's nerves. Still, Yan had never actually discouraged him. There was an art to expressing one’s displeasure, in such a way that the Council understood your point but could not, in fact, hold any of your words against you. He’d enjoyed teaching Qui-Gon the art of subtlety and double-talk, and his student had taken to it like a fish to water.
Obi-Wan’s reticence seemed entirely inexplicable, particularly when he’d been so quick to needle his own grand-Master, whom he’d only just met.
Or perhaps that wasn’t the problem, Yan realised. Master Yan Dooku, whoever he might be, was not a Council member (not anymore), and he had no say over Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life. Obi-Wan was a young man only just Knighted, and his Master likely wouldn’t be there to defend him, should any Council member choose to make his life difficult. Obi-Wan had spent most of his Apprenticeship out of Temple, and Yan knew how isolating that sort of life was, for all that it had been Qui-Gon’s friend Tahl who’d driven home the point that his young Padawan felt it far more keenly.
He was wondering what to say to that, short of offering the young man his support—which would be unfair meddling, and wouldn’t permit Obi-Wan to learn to speak for himself—when he sensed a Healer’s approach. Terza appeared in the doorway seconds later, and gave him a faint nod.
Then she turned her attention to the young Knight, complete with a pointed look. “Obi-Wan. I am going to drug your tea.”
The young man’s lips thinned to a stubborn line, but Terza didn’t let him get a word in edgewise.
“You can sleep in your quarters, or you can sleep here. Just know that if you choose the latter option, tomorrow I will definitely order you back to your quarters, with the expectation that you shower, feed yourself a decent meal, and get at least three hours of sleep in. In a bed. Am I understood?”
Obi-Wan gave in with grace. “Yes, Healer,” he said, and bowed as best as he was able from his seat.
Dooku sighed, and took that as his own cue to leave. “I look forward to getting to know you a bit more, grand-Padawan. Rest well.”
Obi-Wan gave him an equally respectful nod and quietly bid him good night. For a moment, as Dooku passed her in the doorway, he thought Terza wanted to say something. Whatever it was, in the end, she must have decided not to.
Terza’s nighttime rounds were almost always quiet. There were stubborn stragglers like Kenobi, but she couldn’t blame him for worrying. Qui-Gon had been improving on Naboo, but then he’d taken a four-day jaunt through hyperspace. For most Jedi, it was a somewhat uncomfortable experience; for a Master of the Living Force, it was a drastic change from the Theed Palace gardens, and a serious stressor to the injured Jedi.
Another spell in the bacta tank had certainly helped. In that time, Obi-Wan hadn’t stepped away for more than a few moments. Terza instructed the Apprentice Healers to let him stay, ostensibly because he was still under observation for the psychic overextension.
He was going to be paying for that overextension in persistent low-level fatigue for the next few months, so far as Terza could tell from available data. Medically speaking, Obi-Wan probably didn’t need constant Healer oversight any longer, but hyperspace travel hadn’t done him any favours either. On balance, if Terza had to choose between Obi-Wan worrying about his Master and not sleeping in the Healers’ Halls, or Obi-Wan worrying and not sleeping somewhere else, she preferred he do the worrying where she could keep an eye on him.
He wasn’t the only stubborn straggler Terza had to contend with tonight, but the one in her office was a bit of a mystery.
Terza eyed the crumpled figure stretched across the two chairs in front of her desk. “Don’t you have your own room, Lia?” she said.
The heap of cloak and limbs shifted and grumbled. “Too quiet. You know Temple Guards don’t talk? At least Healers yell at you.”
Terza snorted into her fresh mug of steaming tea, and edged around her desk, careful not to disturb the datapads, or the snowdrift of ink-laden flimsi notepads. “Your quarantine is over, and you’re willingly staying another day to get yelled at by Apprentice Healers.”
Lia scrambled up, with stiff-muscled difficulty, from her awkward sprawl, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “Don’t—” she fought through a yawn “—don’t forget, I don’t know anyone anymore.”
That was likely true enough; Terza remembered the gangly limbs, the injuries, the bookish withdrawn Padawan who sat curled up on a biobed reading about all sorts of things that caught her interest, usually diseases and infections. Terza had enjoyed feeding the young girl’s curiosity, and even thought that she might one day snag another brilliant Apprentice Healer, or a medical researcher, at least. She’d even recommended Lia for Corellia’s field medic training program herself.
Liura had done well in the program. She held highest marks in both theory and practicum seen in the last twenty years. By the time she completed the training, Lia was one of very few qualified Senior Padawans permitted to volunteer for a crisis mission on the Mid Rim. But after that, Terza had lost track of her.
She’d always assumed Lia had been Knighted and transferred to a full-time posting on Corellia, or one of the worlds the Corellian Jedi served. Lia hadn’t returned to the Coruscant Temple in over a decade, and few of her agemates were not assigned elsewhere in the galaxy—Terza had checked. It seemed especially a pity that she didn’t remember Lia’s closest friends all that well. One of Lia’s agemates had visited her quite frequently whenever Lia was at the Healers’, but… Zekarion had died some months before Liura left Coruscant.
“I’m very sorry,” said Terza, “that your re-introduction to the Temple had to start with us.”
“I’m not. The other option happens to be the Council.” Lia looked up finally and grinned. “Besides, you’ll be seeing more of me soon.”
“Yes, bacta. Thank you for that. Master Jinn practically owes you his life.”
Lia dipped her head with a faint smile. “I’m glad. I had no idea about the blockade, and I don’t want to imagine what the Trade Federation would have made of it if they got their grubby little flippers on that shipment.”
Terza agreed, but it wasn’t the question foremost on her mind.
“I’ve wanted to ask you—how did you know to send it to Naboo? There’s… no mention of any tendency to prescient visions in your file.”
Said file had already been chock-full of surprises, not least of which was the twelve-year gap in medical history. Terza had already been planning a call to the Corellian Temple’s Healers regarding the importance of sharing information. Then the first attempt at testing a blood sample had raised an instant error message: [This identity has already been entered in system, please attempt again].
The second attempt had brought back a more concerning alert:
Identity: Liura Shar’ii
Rank: Senior Padawan
Status: Inactive; PKIA
(“Yes,” Terza had explained patiently to an attendant droid, “and she’s sitting right in front of me.”
Liura chose that precise moment to mimic the droid’s voice box with eerie accuracy, and said, “All things are possible in the Force.”
The droid had been far more amused than the Healer.)
Terza had somehow never imagined that Lia might leave the Order, but the records—or lack thereof—told a different story. Jedi missing for longer than five years were presumed killed in action; the missing medical history indicated that Liura had dropped out of contact for at least twelve years.
Lia shrugged, uncomfortable. “Well, there wouldn’t be. My Master was certain my gifts did not lie in that direction.”
Terza made a soft, sympathetic noise in the back of her throat, but if anything Lia looked more uncomfortable.
“He wasn’t exactly wrong.”
“You saved the life of a Jedi Master, Li. Maybe you should let that guide your estimation of your abilities.”
Lia snorted softly. “Perhaps there is some room to develop my skills in that direction, but I haven’t really had the time. One moment of insight amid a hundred murky hints seems of a bit less value than consistency.”
Terza scowled at her. “As your Healer, it is my duty to inform you that you are actively damaging your mental health by putting yourself down. Stop thinking in terms of what you lack and start acknowledging what you’re good at. I won’t clear you for duty until you do.”
Lia sat back, surprised. Terza noted, with some interest, that the young woman looked wary.
“I—that is,” Lia cleared her throat, “the Council never said anything about reinstating me. Or allowing me to stay.”
“Don’t think for a moment I’ll let you back out before I’ve got you patched up, see if I don’t. I outrank the Council on medical matters, and I’ll treat a civilian if I bloody well want to.”
Lia’s eyes glimmered suddenly with suspicious moisture, and she quickly ducked her head. “Thank you, Master.”
Terza gave her a moment to recover, then changed the subject. “Tell me about the bacta.”
Lia shrugged, her gaze still focused on her hands where they lay folded in her lap. “It’s difficult to describe. An entirely new species of microorganism, a colony of which essentially bolsters your immune system and makes it more efficient? And, I suspect, it’s Force sensitive. Sounds like something out of fairytales, doesn’t it?”
“Are the Vratix Force sensitive?”
“Not that I’ve been able to tell. There’s probably an argument to be made for latent Force sensitivity, but I can’t imagine that debate has been settled since I’ve left the Order,” Lia added wryly.
Terza snorted. “Ask Master Nu.”
“ No, thank you,” was Lia’s quick and prim retort. “Wasn’t itching for a repeat of Year II Philosophy with Master Ahn.”
“Well, you never know; Master Nu might come down on your side in an argument—if it’s well-sourced and strongly backed.”
“She did, ” Lia said, a sour look on her face, “and earned me the permanent ill graces of the teaching Master in the process.”
Terza couldn’t help it; she laughed. “Oh, I see. You impressed the Head Archivist, but somehow this isn’t achievement enough for you.”
“I wanted to pass the class without earning a permanent stink-eye from Master Ahn,” Lia grumbled back at her. “How dare I agree with her Master, indeed.”
The Healer shook her head, tamping down her amusement. Still, the thought of Jocasta Nu reminded her—“There are some old records, actually, of the use of Kolto during the Sith Wars. There were some intriguing passages that suggested the material was Force sensitive, and could be—instructed, almost, by a Healer.”
Lia grinned up at her. “Bacta is chatty, if you know what to listen for. Highly adaptable, given the right parameters. I rather thought you might like to look into the Force-control of it—could help Healers develop a fine control over the healing process.”
Terza nodded. “What interest did the Vratix have in sharing it with us? I can’t imagine you spoke to them about the Force.”
“The sample the Vratix shared is tailored to suit Human physiology, per their agreement with Eriadan business partners, but they feel their current development horizon is quite limited. The Vratix expressed an interest in learning more about other species. They seemed genuinely upset that their product has never made it into major trade, and is instead being monopolised by the Eriadan elite.”
Terza raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose sharing with the Order ensures that a corporation will not take advantage of them and their product?”
“Well, the Order is not a member of the galactic market, as such. Most of what you produce is open-source, for all the Service Corps hold the patents on a number of things. You also have the distinction of being considered an educational establishment with means to do the kind of research most corporations can’t do. How’s the Order’s funding on that end, by the way?”
Terza thought about it for a minute.
“Better than most other ends,” she admitted. “Appropriations has taken on the new strategy of allocating funds to specific activities, it’s becoming intolerable. But research is still solid. It’s not like we’ll be the ones making money on it in the end, anyway—we'll have to hand our work over for some company to produce.”
Lia pulled a face. “Tell me that’s not a legal requirement.”
“More of a monetary one,” Terza said. “The costs of production are simply prohibitive, and we don’t exactly have the space. Starting a new company of our own? Force help us, I’m not sure we could afford that either. The certification and quality assurance costs for medical devices and pharmaceuticals alone are staggering.”
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that,” Lia said.
It was said simply, glossed over as the young woman went on to describe some of the more specific details she’d learned while watching the Vratix’s production process. Terza decided she’d been joking and put the topic firmly out of mind.
It was easy—bacta was a fascinating new thing. There had been vanishingly few instances of an allergic reaction, though Terza could foresee potential difficulties with confinement in the tanks. Lia confirmed that ways of handling that particular issue were limited and not well established, since Vratix tended not to have a problem with the confinement.
“There is a bacta mist variant for lung infections, and a topical salve—which, I take it, is what you’ve been using to treat Master Jinn’s injuries while the tank was not available.”
“For the most part,” Terza confirmed. “But there was a marked improvement when we got him back to Coruscant and put him back in a tank. He didn’t take travel very well.”
Liura went sharp-eyed. “Improved how?”
Terza sighed and sat back. She was still debating just how much of her patients’ medical information she was comfortable sharing with Liura, even in view of the fact that Lia had seen the value of bacta and sent a sample back to the Order.
But then again: Liura Shar’ii was a field-certified medic. Whatever Lia’s reasons for not seeing a doctor herself in the last decade, she hadn’t neglected keeping her certification up to date—she had the Republic-issued papers to prove it, even. The Republic system might not know what to make of Force-sensitive Healers, but Liura was still a medical professional.
“The Naboo were able to provide us with some cloned tissue. We reconstructed the ribs, where damaged, using a bone-scaffolding matrix implant. As you know, muscle scaffolding matrices are still much more difficult to work with than bone matrix. We’ve repaired the damage to the diaphragm and the intercostal muscles as best as possible. So far, the foreign tissue and the implants have not been rejected.
“Exposure to bacta has shown remarkably fast and orderly growth of muscle tissue along the scaffolding material,” Terza continued. “Master Jinn had a low-grade fever for the final forty-eight hours of the return flight. In bacta, his body temperature reverted to normal within an hour.”
Lia bit her lip thoughtfully. “He’s breathing on his own?”
Terza tilted her head, not all that surprised at the question. Oh, you noticed, she thought, well done.
“He has been, since we took him out of the bacta tank the first time,” she replied.
Lia hadn’t seen the scans, but she seemed to have a good estimate of the radius a lightsaber wound would have. Terza wasn’t certain whether she should be impressed or morbidly fascinated.
“If you’re asking about nerve damage, it appears that Padawan Kenobi managed to reverse some of the heat injury in his attempts to manage his Master’s shock response. Master Jinn still has use of most of his involuntary breathing control apparatus.”
“Well now you’re just burying the lede,” Lia complained. “We know nerves are even more of a bitch to fix than musculature.”
“I’m more interested in the fact that Kenobi has very limited Healer training, and yet managed to treat the injury appropriately where most first-responding Healers tend to miss the opportunity,” Terza remarked. “The optimal window for that kind of attempt is very narrow.”
“It's a very complex technique, at that.”
“Exactly. Obi-Wan’s success also makes it difficult to judge exactly how effective bacta is on that front, I’d say.”
Lia was suitably impressed. So was Terza, actually. She’d thought, after Obi-Wan finally succumbed to psychic exhaustion, that there was no way Qui-Gon Jinn would be able to fight his way back from the edge, not when he’d needed every last bit of his stubborn Padawan’s reserves just to hold on this long. But some twenty eight hours later, he was still there—recovering, and apparently even healing on his own. Bacta or no, Terza had been sorely tempted to check on Kenobi, to see if he wasn’t trying to send some amount of energy to Jinn against all her admonitions.
She found Kenobi sleeping the sleep of the recently-beaten-within-an-inch-of-their-life.
“That’s quite a confounding variable,” Liura agreed, after a moment’s thought. “Though really that confounding variable must apply to all of it—muscle, bone, lung.”
“Stomach and spleen, and nearly pancreas,” Terza nodded. “Yes it does. The lung is… superficially scarred, not much we can do about that. We will monitor Master Jinn for any sign of breathing difficulties, pneumonia, or infection, and re-evaluate his condition in at least a year to determine whether there is a necessity for cloned replacement organs. If,” Terza couldn’t resist adding bitterly, “such are still available.”
Liura slumped back in her seat and subjected Terza to another long, evaluating stare at that.
“You know,” she said eventually, with the air of a cat picking her way carefully across uncertain terrain, “this is an educational and research institution. There are a number of worlds that have a—rather dim view of Republic legislature on the point of cloned tissues, who might be interested in some of the Order’s projects. An exchange of ideas, if you will.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting—”
“Something that would put the Order at risk? No, I really wouldn’t like to,” Liura interjected. “But I can think of several entities who work with very advanced tissue replacement matrices. And, as you know, anything created on a matrix from multipotent or induced-pluripotent patient cells is not considered a cloned tissue.”
“Right, because you’re using cells harvested from the patient, even if they’re altered to suit your needs,” said Terza. “Simply an older form of genetic, structural engineering.”
“No one wants to work with mega-corporations, and I wouldn’t recommend it, either.” Liura frowned, rubbing at the spot between thumb and forefinger absently. “Smaller companies are struggling in this economy. Mega-corporations are delivering better and faster, at cheaper prices, and some particularly popular products are even sold at a loss. On top of that, they’ve been—well, they’ve literally taken mining rights by force, you know this, but they’ve also been sabotaging production lines and research and all sorts of—” Lia cut off the recitation with a harsh cough. “Anyway. Some of the more fortunate companies have been outsourcing production and increasing their trade with the Outer Rim. Smugglers have been carrying a lot of legitimate cargo lately.”
Terza gave the thought a moment to settle. “You’re thinking of doing business with the Outer Rim? Or—”
“Or. There are still relatively few companies on the Rim who can compete with Republic tech. They’ve had their own economic crisis to scramble out of for the last—oh, about five years. That’s not quite enough time for a full recovery.”
There were a few companies Terza hadn’t heard about in some time. Some had filed for bankruptcy ages ago, unable to compete, but some had held their own, for better or for worse, against TechnoUnion and Trade Federation pressures.
Then, of course, there were a number of systems nearer to the Core that went a bit blind over certain Republic policy, but Lia hadn’t mentioned those.
“It’s still a corporate partnership,” Terza said finally. “It’s all too easy to imagine ending up in a situation similar to the Vratix.”
“Force knows the Order is full enough of good negotiators, we could always write up a limited and agreeable contract. They still need a legitimate Republic Core or Mid-Rim contract, whether it’s research or trade, to qualify for certain tax breaks. The less trade you do in the Republic, the more expensive it gets to pay membership.” Lia shrugged. “It’s just a thought. Unless you own a significant portion of company shares, or have a founding member’s stake, what you fear will always be a risk. Of course, now isn’t exactly the best time to be building up a new company, not unless you’re Outer Rim.”
Terza just stared at her for a long moment. “What have you been doing for the last decade,” she muttered.
“Lots of things.” Lia’s smile was bright, full of teeth, but not a lot of joy. “Lots of only slightly legal things.”