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Nothing in the Dark - continued

(continued from part 11)

Obi-Wan was buoyed by seeing Henet Ga'uun seated at a table in the dining hall, an extensive array of information spread out around him including his datapad, two readers and an assortment of durasheets and holodisks. He did not look the type, with his rough hewn but handsome face and long tail of dark blonde hair, but Ga'uun was supremely bookish and went everywhere with a veritable mountain of data under his arm.

They ate, exchanging pleasantries and information amicably enough, but as time passed and more Jedi began to enter the cafeteria, Qui-Gon could see Obi-Wan becoming ill at ease.

Obi-Wan felt the increasing number of Jedi in his proximity as a physical weight. To offset it, he attempted to add another layer to his already heavy shielding. The results were not good. The noise in the dining hall only seemed to increase. That combined with the mingled food smells was too much; his persistent low grade nausea was no longer low grade. He excused himself, saying he had left some materials in their quarters.

The change in Obi-Wan had not escaped Ga'uun's attention.

"How is he, Qui-Gon?" the archivist inquired. Though they did not see each other often, with Qui-Gon's busy mission schedule, they were old friends. Qui-Gon had been enlisted to counsel Henet through his withdrawal from active field service ten years before, after he had nearly been mortally wounded. Qui-Gon had encouraged Henet's interest in reading and research and a love of arcane knowledge. Ga'uun had gone on to become one of the Jedi's most accomplished galactic historians.

Henet was always one to provide a willing ear. At the moment, while that might have been just what Qui-Gon needed, it was not what he wanted.

"The answer to that question is far too long for the time we are allotted, Henet," Qui-Gon answered truthfully.

"He's made himself so scarce. People are eager to see him, concerned for him and curious."

"Too curious," Qui-Gon commented. "An order of old women."

"Easy. Friends, remember? It's going to happen, after one vanishes and reappears. With an ex-initiate in tow, no less."

Qui-Gon took a slow breath through his nose and released his impatience into the Force. "Apologies."

"Don't worry about it. I know how powerful the need to protect can be. The master-apprentice bond sees to that."

"Yes," Qui-Gon said curtly.

"Excuse me?"

"We are having a . . . period of adjustment." Ga'uun looked probingly into Qui-Gon's troubled eyes. "There's more to this."

"That would be an understatement of significant proportion. However, I . . ."

"Qui-Gon," Henet said, "you need not explain yourself to me. I would say you don't have to explain yourself to anyone, but . . ." Ga'uun inclined his head toward one of Obi-Wan's agemates walking in their direction.

Obi-Wan knew his departure would not go unnoticed, but the discussions he imagined, including the one Qui-Gon was doubtless having with Knight Ga'uun, had to be better than the gossip he would have caused running from the room with his hand clamped over his mouth or worse yet redepositing firstmeal on the dining hall floor. In the corridor, he controlled his pace but pulled his cowl up and shrank into his cloak.

He had thought the way he had been feeling the past two days was a reaction to being back combined with the less than amicable appearances before the sub-council and missions oversight. In the dining hall, he had experienced a rampant case of nerves merely being around other Jedi. He had not been aware of doing everything in his power to avoid people he knew; he now saw that for what it was.

Since their arrival, he had been clinging to Mekall like a security blanket or a well-worn stuffed toy. Life at Mekall's, for all the internal turmoil, had been quiet, even contemplative. He wished for its separateness now, or some small, very quiet space of his own.

The gathering crowd in the dining hall had felt threatening. Almost everything here felt threatening. Temple life seemed so . . . foreign. The embrace of the community was not the same; he did not feel part of it in the way he had. It did not feel like a safety net beneath him anymore. Being a Jedi was not protection enough. It had not saved him. Worse than that, it had sealed his fate. This place and its delusions of security and superiority had done nothing to help. It had caused him to be pitched, bound, gagged and blind into a hellish abyss.

Alone.

Helpless.

Abandoned to the mercies of the merciless.

Unable to move an eyelash to defend himself.

The too-familiar tremors had him. Spiraling downward, Obi-Wan fled to the gardens. He looked for a bench to sit down before controlled descent was not an option. He slowed his ragged breathing and exhaled as evenly as he could manage.

He had not been abandoned. Qui-Gon had looked for him. Qui-Gon had . . . let him slip away. Left him to fall into the hands of the enemy.

Obi-Wan focused his breathing again, attempting to let his despondency flow out with the breeze which brushed his face. Bright laughter wafting over from a group of initiates on the play grounds helped him regain control. He considered meditating, but the prospect of what worse might lurk deeper in his thoughts was too unsettling. It had not done a drop of good the day before anyway. A short walk helped Obi-Wan calm down enough to get to the archives not long after Qui-Gon and Henet Ga'uun.

Ga'uun showed them the scrolls, which had been delivered during the night. There were five of them, all in extremely fine print on very old parchment. The texts were delicate and had to be stored in a controlled environment. A small section of the archives had been walled off with transparisteel to create a coldroom.

In the name of expediency, Qui-Gon had decided that he and Obi-Wan should work on separate scrolls. To his vexation, he now found that would separate them. Due to the handling protocols, there had only been time for the first of the scrolls to be uploaded. The second scroll would have to be translated from the original text. Qui-Gon would begin translating the second scroll in the coldroom while Obi-Wan would remain outside interpreting the first. Ga'uun did not have time earlier to give the pair the background materials he had compiled. He did so now along with a brief update of events on Arcan 3 overnight. Then he retired for the day, leaving master and padawan to their reading. By nightfall when he returned, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan were beginning the translations.

They worked diligently. Now and then, Qui-Gon would look up to check on Obi-Wan whose head seldom rose and whose fingers ticked over the keyboard of his datapad as he digested what he read and translated it into both Standard and modern Canna.

Obi-Wan turned aside his master's invitations to break for meals, deferring to the exigency of the situation. He would make do with the ration bars which had conveniently found their way into his pockets.

Qui-Gon had midmeal in Mace Windu's quarters, staying longer than he intended as he used Mace for a soundingboard regarding the conclusions he had come to overnight and how to implement them. Nightmeal found him returning to his own quarters. Mekall met him wearing that resentful look. Qui-Gon did not sigh. Aloud.

"Where's Obi-Wan?" Mekall demanded.

"He chose to remain in the archives and continue working. He has meal rations with him. I would have thought he'd have communicated with you."

Mekall's expression darkened. "Do you have something you'd like to say?" he asked.

As usual, Mekall found intent where Qui-Gon had meant little or nothing. "If I did have, Mekall, I would come right out and say it. I had no hidden meaning. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to make my meal."

Mekall followed him through the kitchen door. "You could stop him," he said, unable to keep his eyes off the wall, though no sign of the sexual encounter with Obi-Wan remained.

"If it becomes necessary, I shall. In the meantime, there is an assignment which must be completed."

Qui-Gon had been taking spices from the cabinet. He turned around to face Mekall, to ward off what must surely be coming next. Indeed, Mekall's mouth was open to speak.

"I could no more stop him than you could," Qui-Gon preempted him. "The only one who can help Obi-Wan is Obi-Wan. I believe he will come to see that shortly. If he does not, then I will have to consider other measures. What do you intend to do? Besides snarling at me?"

Mekall closed his mouth.

"I am sympathetic to what happened to you, Mekall. You have obviously had a difficult life. But I will not apologize nor will I continue to bear the brunt of your wrath. You're too smart to harbor an unresolvable grudge against the body of Jedi for the rest of your days. It's time to let it go."

Qui-Gon succeeded in rendering Mekall speechless. A variety of emotions played across Mekall's face before he finally spoke. "You know, last night, for the first time since . . . I don't even know, watching the two of you go through that charade, I was glad my life has turned out the way it has."

"Then cultivate that, Mekall. Though it was not a charade. You know full well that as Jedi we make certain choices. Discipline is one of them."

"He's in pain."

"He knows his limits."

"What if he doesn't right now?"

"I trust Obi-Wan. Do you?"

"I . . . yes."

"Then it is up to you and me to be supportive of him until he is ready to come to terms with whatever it is you and he are not telling me."

"Look -"

"It is the truth, Mekall, as plainly as I am able to speak it. For now. See to yourself. I believe that is the surest way you can help both yourself and Obi-Wan."

Qui-Gon left at midday and for nightmeal. It was the only way Obi-Wan was aware of time passing. He kept his head down and his mind on the pages in front of him. He had told Qui-Gon he would eat, but ended up disposing of the ration bars after taking only a bite or two. He had little appetite, nor did he particularly want to stop working.

The translation was tedious: labor intensive, time consuming and maddeningly detailed. The verb tenses had verb tenses; there were a remarkable number of declensions and, apparently, six genders. Obi-Wan was as glad of the specificity and peculiarity of the language as he had ever been of anything in his entire life. By devoting his complete attention to the task at hand, he was able to eliminate everything else from his mind. Somehow shepherding all these tiny bits and pieces of information into a coherent form was helping him hold all the little bits of himself together. Or, at least, not think too much about them.

He was somewhat surprised that Qui-Gon allowed him to remain at work after his erratic behavior, but he had assured his master he could perform. It was not unlike Qui-Gon to hold him to that. They had accepted the assignment and the translation had to be done.

If he could make it through the next few days. He had to begin feeling better soon.

Or not, he thought with a frown, refocusing his attention on the screen in front of him.

Late in the evening, hours after Ga'uun had returned to work, he came into Qui-Gon's enclosure. Qui-Gon did not look up when Henet entered.

"It's late."

"Hm. Yes."

"Qui-Gon?"

Now he looked up. Ga'uun nodded outside. Obi-Wan was asleep with his head on his keyboard.

"Best save him before those indentations become permanent."

Qui-Gon smiled.

"I didn't mean to offend you this morning. I only thought . . . Are you sure it's not too soon for him to return to duty?"

"I'm not sure," Qui-Gon said, "but the Council believes it is not." "They're so young. We ask so much which they perform so well. I think we sometimes forget how young they are. Do you want me to wake him?" Henet offered, seeing the admiration and worry with which Qui-Gon watched his sleeping apprentice.

"No, thanks Henet. It's past time we should have stopped for the night. We'll do no one any good if we cannot see straight to read." Qui-Gon closed his work and went to wake Obi-Wan.

Morning found Qui-Gon in the common room awaiting Obi-Wan, who came out of his room shortly before sixth hour shadowed by Mekall, tousle-haired, his eyes little more than slits, wearing a threadbare pair of Obi-Wan's sleep leggings and nothing else.

How is it that he always comes out of that room looking as if he's just been well f -

Enough! Qui-Gon upbraided himself. The battle with his envious train of thought was won easily enough, but he was more than a little disturbed. Not only were those thoughts still there, but so close to the surface.

Mekall offered to make eggs. Qui-Gon declined, saying he would be taking firstmeal in the dining hall. Obi-Wan barely looked at his master; he did not volunteer to eat with him. Qui-Gon had hoped he might but had not expected he would.

"Good morning," Mace greeted Qui-Gon as he settled his tray on the table opposite him and sat down.

"Morning," Qui-Gon responded.

"But not good?" Mace said, his manner changing in response to Qui-Gon's tone.

"No. Not bad, not good," Qui-Gon assessed.

"Did you sleep?" Mace asked, seeking to uncover the source of Qui-Gon's mood, though the lack of Obi-Wan's company spoke volumes.

"Not enough. We were working until very late. I did have another argument with Mekall," Qui-Gon said.

"What was this one about?" Mace inquired.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon answered. "Is there another topic?"

Mace felt sympathy for his old friend, but overnight he had been privy to reports Obi-Wan was not meeting his obligations. There were negative stirrings around about former initiate Mekall Nower, his relationship to Obi-Wan and their soul bond. Mace's morning meditations indicated Obi-Wan would be on his agenda today as well.

"I thought Obi-Wan would join us for firstmeal," Mace prodded.

Qui-Gon took too careful a look at the contents of his plate before saying, "I did not speak with him."

"You didn't." Mace kept the unhappiness out of his voice. Qui-Gon had been so resolute the previous afternoon, he was certain he would have sat down with Obi-Wan the first chance he had.

"The opportunity did not present itself," Qui-Gon said.

Mace was troubled by the care with which Qui-Gon was picking his words. "You need to create the opportunity."

"It's not as simple as you'd make it," Qui-Gon countered.

"I never said it would by easy, only necessary and -"

"Mace, I couldn't do it. He isn't . . . " How could he explain without condemning Obi-Wan?

"Qui," Mace redirected him, "You said he is not his usual self. That he is trying his best, but it is obvious there's an underlying problem. I believe he would look upon your intervention in the spirit in which it was extended."

They debated tactics awhile, but the sparks of temper Qui-Gon had to suppress told him Mace was closer to the truth than he might have liked to admit. Perhaps he was procrastinating.

Both men were behind schedule and the nearly empty dining hall echoed with sounds of housekeeping by the time each went about his business, Mace to the Council chamber, Qui-Gon to the Archives.

Obi-Wan was already at work when Qui-Gon got to the library. The third scroll had been uploaded to the system. The fourth scroll had not. After a brief status report from Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon resumed his position in the coldroom thinking it simply was not his day thus far.

As he usually did, Mekall went back to sleep after Obi-Wan left. He did not feel any better when he woke again, but he got up, showered, dressed, ate, meditated, worked out as much as limited space allowed and showered again. He made himself caff, checked the Coruscant newsfeeds, then ran an ident-scrambled search for current events and obituaries from Larral. At the end of all this, it was still only early afternoon.

Before these past few days, Mekall had counted himself a stranger to helplessness in his adult life. That was, however, the label which best fit what he was feeling.

He was, of all ridiculous things, also homesick for Larral. Reading the newsfeeds from home only exaggerated that, but it had always been his habit to read the daily 'feeds. It was the only way to keep track of his friends now. He scanned the headlines then headed over to the obituaries.

While a news item could have been suppressed - the ruling families and politcal factions all had their representatives through whom what passed for the written truth was easily bought and sold - on Larral obits were a different affair. They were kept by the Public Health Authority and overseen by a humorless indigenous woman. She ran her department autonomously and was contemptuous of bribery. Death stats were a matter of public safety and, as such, beyond unscrupulous practices. Mekall had never trusted her.

Nobody was dead. Well, no one he knew closely. Not Lure. Not Yls. Not . . .

Mekall caught himself in a sigh picturing the last look Hilty had given him. That was no way to end their relationship. And what had he ended it for? Being here was getting tougher by the hour. Obi-Wan had pushed him away the day before, then drawn him dangerously close and followed that with the spectacular meltdown in front of his master.

Last night, having come back to the rooms nearly out on his feet, Obi-Wan had turned around and pressed Mekall into having sex. That he actually had to be talked into having sex was not lost on Mekall, but Obi-Wan's actions were as much the bond at work as anything else and fighting it would only have hurt them both. It had been easier to give in.

Easier or just less painful? Mekall asked himself. He continued to need the physical contact as they were having little mental interaction. Obi-Wan was shielding him out in convoluted ways that let elements of the bond function but kept Mekall in the dark about what he was feeling, how he was doing. Not that Mekall needed to feel him through the bond to judge that Obi-Wan did not know whether he was coming or going. With little idea how to proceed, Mekall did what he always did; he coped, endeavoring to keep busy to stay ahead of his frustrations, but it was doing less and less good. His thinking was becoming muddy, his body felt leaden, and today his meditation had taken him in dizzying, tightening circles when he had attempted to sort through the bond.

There were no conclusions to be drawn, no solutions to be found. When he had told Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan was compartmentalizing his emotions, he had never thought that would extend to him. It seemed there was nothing he was able to effect; all he could do was watch Obi-Wan self-destruct.

Qui-Gon presented an entirely different problem. He had caught Mekall off guard last night by speaking his mind. Mekall had made an effort to think about what he had said.

"You're too smart to harbor an unresolvable grudge against the body of Jedi for the rest of your days." Mekall heard Qui-Gon's voice repeating those words in his head with a smirk.

He wasn't so sure about that. Though he might be too smart to keep biting a hand extended multiple times in friendship no matter how rude and bad tempered he had been since arriving. If he was going to take Qui-Gon at face value, it would require a conscious suspension of his skepticism about Jedi motives and actions. But maybe it was time; maybe it was time to let go of some part of that past, to give Qui-Gon a chance to help. He and Obi-Wan definitely needed help and Mekall did not have many choices as to whom here he could ask.

If it went badly he could always go back to hating Jinn later.

Or he could request an audience with Master Yoda. A snort of derision accompanied the thought.That was rich. The architecture had nearly killed him, so he would go to the architect for a cure.

Mekall shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs, but, at the same time, he had to smile as irony was heaped upon irony. Hilty would appreciate the ironies.

A scowl replaced the smile. Mekall had no time for wistfulness. Actually, he had too much time, which made it even more unacceptable. Action was what was required. He would transmit a message to Hilty.

Mekall went to Qui-Gon's desk where he composed a few circumspect lines which he sent from an address only three beings in the galaxy would know as coming from him. He was glad he had done it, but was left with an even more dissatisfied feeling. It would be days, at best, before he might receive a reply.

Unable to tolerate the idea of spending another day trapped in the rooms, Mekall decided to go for a walk around the Temple. The hallowed halls still made him nervous, but nervousness beat boredom and he was unwilling to concede the field to prehistoric inhibitions. He had to learn to cope with the place. He could conceivably be stuck at the Jedi Temple for years.

Mekall revisited the workout salles and the physical training rooms. He stopped to watch a group of young padawans being instructed in lightsaber handling. He went up a level past some of the classrooms. He walked through the creche, empty at midday except for two civilian workers. The crechelings would be in pre-training, learning to implement powers they were only beginning to understand they had.

In the dining hall for midmeal, Mekall ruminated on the parade of tan and brown apparel. He tried to remember when he had felt like one of them, when he had felt like one of anyone.

Who do you think you're kidding, feigning detachment? he belittled himself. Look at you. You still want it.

The hells I do. Want that? I want that about as much as . . . as much as I was planning to soul bond.

He chuckled once, low and melancholy. Maybe I do; maybe I do.

Whether a part of him still longed to be Jedi was beside the point. What had taken over when he had agreed to bring Obi-Wan to the Jedi Temple? And who was he to stand in its way? Returning here as an adult meant facing what he had lost, what he had given up and what had been stolen from him.

Mekall moved his food aside, appetite gone.

Gods, he hated this place. How had his life led him here? Will of the Force. Did the Force will this? Being in this place, amongst these people? Being reintroduced to a rawness in his soul he thought he had conquered a lifetime ago? Did the Force will that there was no reconciling that what he most wanted in the universe and what he most hated were one and the same? For there was no rationalizing or meditating away that to survive an impossible contradiction, he had spent more years than he cared to recall intentionally and methodically mutating or dismantling everything about himself he identified as Jedi. Piece by piece, day to day, year after year, he had been committing a suicide so gradual he had stopped feeling himself die.

Mekall pushed his chair back. Fresh air, he needed fresh air, somewhere to be alone. There were too damn many people in this damned place. He could feel attention focusing on him. He would not do this. Hells, of all places to let his shields slip. He threw what of them he could muster back into place and walked out, head up, unforgiving mien daring anyone to cross his path.

Memory led him up to the landing platforms. The chill breeze there helped tamp down the burning inside him and he was able to ease his racing thoughts by concentrating on the flights arriving and departing. As close to calm as he was going to get, Mekall took the turbolift down to the level of their quarters. He was met as he exited. Mace Windu had been waiting for him.

Windu requested that Mekall accompany him to the Gardens and did not speak until they were alone in an otherwise unoccupied grove. If Mekall had not known better, he would have thought the Council member was asking him to step outside to brawl.

"Mekall," Mace began.

"Master Windu," Mekall returned, unwilling to give him the upper hand for one second.

"I need to speak with you."

"What can I do for you, Master?"

"You use the title like a weapon."

"I use whatever weapons are at my disposal when I'm threatened."

"Do you feel threatened?" Mace inquired.

"I thought that was your intent. Perhaps you brought me out here to invite me for drinks and a session of remember when."

"No, I did not," The Council member replied. He paused before saying, "Qui-Gon is concerned about Obi-Wan."

"As are we all," Mekall assured him.

"As we all are. It is imperative that we uncover the root of Obi-Wan's . . . disturbance."

"How do we intend to do that?" Mekall asked pointedly.

"We must, naturally, explore all possible contributory factors," Mace answered, ignoring Mekall's sarcasm. "Obi-Wan's injury on Kiradian, the period of time he cannot recall. The root of your union."

"Naturally," Mekall parroted, asperity in his tone. I knew it, he thought, Jinn blames the bond.

"It is . . . unusual," Mace added.

"Unusual?" Mekall retorted.

Mace was starting to understand what Qui-Gon meant about Mekall's intransigence. "If you would be willing to submit yourself to examination," he explained, "we could begin to establish what factors might be ruled -"

"It's not going to happen," Mekall declared.

"Excuse me?" Mace responded. "I won't."

"I had hoped we would be able to reach some accord," Mace persisted.

"That's your idea of compromise?"

"The bond is -" "I didn't force the bond on him."

"I did not say you did," Mace responded.

"Then what are you saying?" Mekall asked.

"I believe you know what I'm saying."

"Know what you're . . . I certainly know what you seem to be implying. The genesis of this bond was as much a surprise to me as anyone. It wouldn't have happened unless - If anything, he . . . "

"He?" Windu encouraged.

"Do you think I'm that easy?" Mekall jeered. "I'm not going to dignify your fishing expedition by disputing -"

Mekall cut himself off. His expression morphed from ire to indifference. His eyes raked Windu's form from his highly polished boots to his equally distinctive pate. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "It's funny, I might have been offended if I gave a hisx's arse what any of you thought of me. It is nice to know I wasn't overestimating the loathsomeness of this august institution."

Windu's discerning eyes studied Mekall as he relegated the effects of Mekall's diatribe to the Force. The man had a way of getting under one's skin. As he took in the rapid change in Mekall, Mace had to admit he also had impressive control when he chose to. Many emotions were brewing behind those shields. Before Mekall had put a stop to it, Mace had sensed he was masking more than anger. Mekall was saddened, or more precisely, disheartened and . . . scared? What had he to fear from the Jedi? Mace needed to speak with Qui-Gon as soon as possible.

"Pathetic." Mekall's lip curled in disdain. "Truly pathetic." He turned his back on Windu and started toward the building.

"Walking away may not remain an option," Windu stated.

Mekall stopped. "Now you are threatening me."

That was it. "I don't have to threaten, boy," Mace warned Mekall. "Remember to whom you're speaking."

Mekall did not turn around.

Mace had come looking for Mekall in hopes that they might establish a dialogue. Failing that, he had no choice but to deliver an ultimatum.

"Until more can be ascertained about the nature of your connection to Obi-Wan, the Council requests you curtail your activities within the Temple."

As Mekall still did not turn to face him, Mace folded his robe closed and strode away.

Mekall stood rooted to the spot by warring impulses. Charging the Jedi master, tackling him and resorting to violence was a tantalizing but unfeasible prospect. He could pursue and try to challenge Windu, but the idea of being civil to him after that pronouncement was repugnant. Besides, any additional conversation stood a good chance of becoming even more acrimonious and he wanted to save his wrath for the one who deserved it. Jinn. I believed him last night. How could I have been so stupid?

I guess this is what he meant when he said I should see to myself. Keep to myself more like. Two-faced, conniving, manipulative coward. Sending a Council member to do his dirty work.

Mekall swallowed his pride and left the Gardens. Telling himself he was not obeying Windu's directive, only putting distance between himself and the Temple, he took an air taxi to the closest shopping quadrant. The locale offered ample space for walking off his indignation and the chance of seeing someone other than Jedi. If he saw one more brown robe, he was not responsible for what he might do.

With a cleansing breath, Mekall let the thought go. Letting himself get worked up would serve little purpose now. Later in the rooms he would unleash it to its best advantage.

The walking did relax him. The shops were providing a passable diversion. Maybe he could locate a sex shop and buy Obi-Wan and himself a particularly lurid toy to accidentally flaunt in front of Jinn. Mekall was amusing himself with that prospect when he heard

"Mekall? Mekall Nower?"

The store window reflected a man staring at him as if he had seen a resurrection.

"Yes Leb, it's me," Mekall consented.

Leb Denarva. They had been good friends.

"It is, isn't it? Great Force. It really is you." Denarva was ice blond and skinny as anyone Mekall had ever known. Mischievous, angular face. Ritually scarred eyebrow of his home world. Enough cheekbones for at least two people. Wearing the dark brown cloak of a Jedi knight.

"How are you?" Denarva opened. "Who are you? I can't believe it. Wait. Start with the first. How are you?"

"I'm well." Mekall smiled and discovered it was genuine. He was pleased to see his old friend, mostly. "You?"

"Fine. Fine." Leb was shaking his head just slightly.

Tiring of being amazing, Mekall remarked, "No braid. How long have you been a knight?"

"Almost seven years," Leb replied. "I can't believe it."

"I never thought you'd make it either," Mekall joked.

Leb broke into a broad smile. "Still funny. No, I can't believe it's you."

"You said that."

"Sorry. I never thought to see you again. When you left, there was no explanation. They said . . . "

"What did they say?"

The smile disappeared from Leb's face. "You just left. Didn't even take your things. They sent some personal items back from E-Corps, but Master Chand-Sed gave everything away. We always wondered . . ."

"If I survived?"

In hesitating, Leb looked exactly the way Mekall had last seen him. The headboy who has met a friend after his expulsion; survivor's guilt. It was little more than an instant before Leb conquered it and gave it to the Force, but it had been there.

"It doesn't matter, Leb," Mekall assured him. "It was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was," Leb resumed. "What has happened to you? You look well. Where have you been?"

"I've been working in microtech."

"Here?"

"No, not here."

"What brings you to Coruscant?"

Mekall thought before answering. "I came back to . . . help a friend."

"I don't mean to pry," Leb deferred. "Will you be here long?"

"Can't tell."

"We should get together. Rehash old times. I know I'd not be the only one who'd -"

"Leb, I have to ask you not to tell anyone I'm here."

"Do you have trouble with the authorities?"

Mekall held a smile at bay. "Not as such. I'm here for - Do you know Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

"Of course."

"You know he was abducted while on a mission."

"Yes, but why do you?"

"I found him. I brought him back."

"Oh," Leb looked relieved. "So the Council asked you to stay."

Mekall lost part of the struggle against a sardonic smile. "Something like that."

"I would like to get together," Leb said, slightly perplexed. "I have an appointment, but if you give me your code."

"Give me yours," Mekall countered, taking a mini-datapad from his pocket. He did not want to give out Obi-Wan's number as his. "I'll call you."

"Mekall," Leb asked as he punched in his personal code, "May I . . . Thash. May I let him know?"

Thash. Hearing the name felt like running face first into a plascrete wall. Mekall covered it as best he could saying, "Yeah. Tell -"

"I'm sorry," Leb interrupted him.

"Don't be. I'm the one who . . . Tell him -"

"No," Leb's eyes narrowed as if something pained him, "you're going to have to tell him yourself." He nodded over Mekall's shoulder.

Thashunem Rohr was not looking in their direction as he approached the two men. He was saying goodbye to an acquaintance. Thash turned to greet Leb and did a double take.

"Mekall?" he asked, the tone in his voice matching the disbelief on his face. He looked at Leb for confirmation.

"Are you real?" Thash asked, looking at Mekall again. Thash's face was still boyish. His blue eyes held the same spark. His dark hair was almost shoulder length. The beard did him justice.

"Afraid so, Thash," Mekall said.

"We're due back," Leb reminded Thash, taking one of the packages he was carrying.

"This is unbelievable," Thash continued. "We can't stay. Are you . . . Will you be? Staying?"

"For a time."

"Tell me where I can reach you."

"I can't, but if you give me your number . . . " Mekall held out his datapad to Thash.

Thash handed his other parcel to Leb and took the handset.

"Truly glad to see you," Leb said, "I hope we get to see each other again." He sounded as if he wanted to say more, but walked away.

"Yeah," Mekall agreed perfunctorily, without looking. He was too dumbstruck by having Thash in front of him to be able to look anywhere else. Thash looked up with a smile and handed the datapad back to Mekall.

"You will call?" Thash asked.

"I'll call," Mekall replied.

Thash walked off to join the other knight. Mekall's heart felt like a stone in his chest, cold, heavy and old as a planet's core, as he watched the two long robes trailing away.

(continued in part 13)