[child of sah'ot: part II]

[ansketil]

Title: Child of Sah'ot: Part II
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars and am making no money. The characters mostly belong to G. Lucas, and those that don't are so embedded in his setting that they might as well.
Rating: PGR (unlikely to go up)
Characters: Luke Skywalker, Mara Jade, Mon Mothma, and a few of the Jedi Praxeum crew. Timeline is fairly loose and I like to play fast and loose with the EU so pretty much anything can happen.
Summary: Life for young Jobin Mothma becomes interesting when his grandmother is invited to the wedding of Mara Jade and Luke Skywalker. (NOTE: not an OC!fic).
Author's Note: And the next part...

 

Part II

"All of you here know nothing. I will not

Bring to the light of day my troubles, mine –

Rather than call them yours."

Oedipus the King

Lieda embraced him: warm and all-encompassing, while a holo monitor droned in the background: "… it is now reported that twenty-three of the guests are dead and over half are injured… President Organa is currently submersed in bacta for minor burns but she is expected to make a full recovery and her office has informed us that she will make a statement later this evening. Meanwhile, many people have begun to lay flowers outside…"

"I thought I'd lost you both..." Lieda contained herself hoarsely – she'd been crying.

"We're a lot tougher than you give us credit for," Mon said coldly from her seat, her rigid posture did not invite comfort. Anger suffused her pale cheeks and her blue eyes were quietly furious; previously immaculate robes were charred and, like Jobin, her whole body was coated in a thin layer of burnt dust. Her short hair was sticking up in places and there was a bacta cast on her right arm.

Jobin said nothing, just let himself be hugged. He was uninjured, protected by his heavy robes and his grandmamma's body. His eyes were wide and he had not spoken since they'd been examined by the medical droids – they'd told Lieda it was shock.

Which was true; the explosion felt almost like an analogy to Jobin, an illustration of the knowledge that had shaken him to the core of his being; the fact that someone else had previously owned his very essence, and that person was… was…

The anger he'd felt before the explosion returned full force: fury that his life had been ripped from him, furious that everything he'd aspired to, for which his grandmamma had groomed him ever since he could remember, was now as much ash as the taste of bitter fumes in his mouth. You don't even have proof... But he knew. The clearest image was burnt into his memory: "Your Majesty?" The awe in those dark eyes, so close to death.

He wriggled out of Lieda's grasp. "I'm going to clean myself up," he said calmly, his face immobile, and made for the room to which he'd been allocated as quickly as was possible without running.

With the door sealed shut behind him, Jobin allowed himself to collapse, tears streaming from his eyes. He could not show this hysteria to his family, hyperventilating: as horror, anger, fear and despair mingled and salty water cut rivulets through the blackened dust on his face as he squeezed his eyes tight shut, willing the whole thing to be some nightmarish dream. He staggered into the bathroom, face to face with something that looked not at all like the late emperor. His face was a gray-black mess into which was set sky-blue eyes and white teeth, Streaks of ginger shone through the dirt in his hair, glimmering oddly. Jobin managed a humorless smile and began to scrub his face violently in an effort to distract himself; turning his skin from black to raw pink.

When most of it was gone, he stripped off his previously white robes and dumped them on the floor. Usually, Jobin would usually be careful to fold his clothes – both clean and dirty – and place them in their appropriate location. But he wanted to distance himself from all that was written across the material which lay crumpled on the floor.

Naked, he examined himself: hands and feet, legs and arms, working his way inward from his extremities. Just the same as they had been yesterday and so very different... This was someone else's body. He thought of the Clone Wars and all those soldiers... and the man who had directed them. Convulsing, he threw up, missing the sink, splattering the tiles and the marbled bench. The tears returned and he stared at himself, not bothering to wipe the vomit dripping from his chin.

Haunted eyes stared back at him, and Jobin tried to mitigate the despair in those features. He cringed and made it into the bath, flicking on the hot water while he sat there. What will I do? What does...?

Jobin's thoughts tumbled to a halt as boiling water scalded his backside; he hissed in pain and slammed his hand on the sensor: Lady Jade. Mara Jade knows.

Forcing himself to put everything aside in order to breathe, he sat on the side of the sunken bath, scalded flesh on cold tiles. Jobin closed his eyes and breathed: In... Out... In... Out...

Alright… Whatever the Jedi had suspected, she'd decided, at the last minute, to keep it from him. She'd been cagey but there had been something in her green eyes... perhaps it had been compassion that had made her choice? If it had been that, then he could hope that she would not inform his family. He could not bear seeing that knowledge reflected in his grandmamma's face. It might kill her. Would kill her even if life did not leave her body.

Head cradled in his hands, crying, even as he shut his eyes tight against them. He groped for focus: what will I do when they question me about the wedding? What will I say if anyone realises?

He could not tell anyone – it would be unbearable. Innocence was the best policy, the only policy. As much as he hated the idea of playing on beings' pity, for him to know would be, for some, enough for him to be guilty. For as long as he could remain Jobin Mothma, ignorant of his genetic progenitor, he would. And if that meant he had to lie, then so be it. What is a lie, after all, if it promulgates the truth?

More stable now that he had determined a course of action, Jobin proceeded to have his bath. He then cleaned up the mess he'd made and curled into a foetal position on the bed. For hours he lay there, but too many thoughts harassed his mind for sleep.

Finally, he gave in and took his holo-port to bed, muting the audio. He searched for images of the Emperor as a young man. There were very few sources for him when he was Jobin's age. It was unsurprising that most modern holo-documentaries focused on the disfigured tyrant. Eventually, he found a dated, ridiculously pro-Imperial, (that must have been what allowed them archival access), documentary which detailed Palpatine's life before he entered the Senate. There was a holo-still from 65 B.B.Y., showing the graduates of the Naboo Legislative Youth Program that year. Palpatine, in his twenties, was placed near the front by virtue of his height.

Jobin's own lake blue eyes stared out at him, a little stiffly. His mouth was set firmly, and he looked both bored and determined at the same time. His hair was longer than Jobin's was now, in the Naboo fashion, brushed back from his wide forehead and his skin was paler, untouched by the Chandrilan sun. "… At twenty-four," the text underneath scrolled in Basic for the hearing-impaired, "Palpatine was already an accomplished individual. His interest in political philosophy had prompted him to write several acclaimed disquisitions on the subject. His love of music, which he would sustain all his life, led him to compose several pieces for the Theed University Chamber Orchestra…" Jobin quickly turned the volume to its lowest setting and leaned in close.

The music was subtle and slightly discordant, but there – unmistakable to even Jobin's sleep-deprived brain – was the Mid-Rim Baroque style that Jobin favoured. Shorn of its indigenous affectation, it bore a remarkable similarity to a melody Jobin might compose.

The thought terrified him. He switched off the projector and lay there in the darkness...

...No one could call those feral eyes human. They hungered as sentient beings were never meant to hunger. "Come, young one, I am still waiting." This time there was no abyss, but a yawning cavern and the emperor stood just within its shadow. "Knowledge is of no use to those it does not benefit. Do not squander gifts."

"What gifts?' Jobin spat at the old creature.

A slow smile, decaying; Palpatine sighed, "I cannot believe I was ever this young." Papery fingers stroked Jobin's cheek. "Dear one," ancient lips whispered in his ear, "Do not fear it as fools do. Your anger is more powerful. And do not fear those who will judge you, for your mind is not theirs to see. They are constrained, as ever they were. Use that, it will serve you well."

"Are you real?"

The laugh gurgled up as if from the depths of some ocean, creaking as it hit the air and made Jobin dizzy. "Why, child, I am as real as you are..."

He woke to the worried eyes of his mother, her hand on his shoulder. "It's late; Jobin, you and mama have been summoned to give evidence." He groaned and rolled away from her, burrowing further under the covers. "Did you sleep at all last night?" she asked softly – it was unusual for her son to sleep late.

Another groan.

"Darling, if you don't want officials to come in here and seize you as you are, I suggest you get up." Lieda ruffled his hair. "I love you. Once those carrion-birds are through with you, you can go straight back to bed, I promise."

The door hissed shut behind her and Jobin rubbed his eyes. On auto-pilot, he got up and went into the bathroom and, ignoring the mirror, washed himself, and dressed in a nondescript white tunic.

Once dressed, he confronted the mirror again, this time approaching it as he would his opponent in a debate, carefully, from all sides. Front on, the resemblance was striking, but hopefully not to obvious to those who weren't familiar with what Palpatine looked like as a youth. His unlined face and fizzy red hair were his greatest assets there. His profile was where the danger lay, but short of cosmetic surgery there was little to be done about it.

The conference was held a few floors up, with what looked like politicians, Jedi and security in attendance. Looking at the palace corridors with new eyes – the Imperial scarlet patterns embossed on the walls, the elegant shapes, and brilliant designs – Jobin no longer felt unsettled by finding them beautiful. A few beings were milling around the doorway as Jobin and Mon approached. Both their faces were inscrutable and with their twin white garments they did seem related. Luke Skywalker was one of those standing at the entrance, his blond mop messy, his clear eyes piercing. "Mon," he acknowledged, smiling sadly.

"I'm sorry, Luke."

"Mara was right, we should have just eloped." The Jedi Master shot Jobin a curious look, gauging his measure. "Jobin, wasn't it… after your uncle?"

"Yes," he tried to mirror Skywalker's calm tone.

His grandmamma cut in, "Jobin isn't my daughter's biological son, but we've raised him since he was little," Now is not the time to discuss my being left at the doorstep! Luckily, grandmamma heeded Jobin's silent entreaty.

"Ah." Jobin could almost see something click behind the Jedi's knowing eyes and his heart sank. Mara Jade had most definitely confided in her fiancée. "Looks like they're ready to start…"

The room looked disconcertingly like a court: a raised panel for the judges, benches for the audience and a desk at the front with an empty chair. To his dismay, this was where Luke Skywalker ushered him. Mon was directed to a bench.

Councillor Fey'lya was seated at the center of the panel. Next to him was Lady Jade, beside whom Master Skywalker was now taking his seat, with General Solo on the other side and Jedi Cilghal, the Mon Cal who had healed Jobin's grandmamma, plus others Jobin did not recognize.

Jobin allowed some of his nervousness to creep through his control. Hopefully, it would make him look young and innocent – which, he reminded himself – he was.

"This is the preliminary inquest into the attack on the wedding of Jedi Master Skywalker and Jedi Commander Jade. The terrorist, a former moff named Derran Takkar, died in the explosion. He used a false identity-card to gain access to the ceremony. However, security personnel were able to mitigate the damage thanks to a warning given by one of the guests."

That's right; I mitigated the damage, that's got to give me some credit, right?

"Jobin Mothma, can you explain to us how you know about the explosives?" the Bothan councillor's crisp tone demanded an immediate answer.

Innocent blue eyes blinked, uncertain. "This sounds ridiculous, I know, but somehow I… foresaw it." Skywalker leaned forward in his seat and the green eyes next to him narrowed; the atmosphere now felt charged in a way it hadn't been before. Jobin swallowed, attempting to restore moisture to his suddenly dry throat. Why do I get the feeling I just made a mistake?

"Take us through what happened from your perspective," Fey'lya continued, unperturbed.

Jobin answered the question in Basic, but leaned heavily on his Chandrilan accent, "As my grandmother and I were finding our seats, I began to feel dizzy. And it seemed to me that a man in the third row was threatening to set off explosives, and that there was another person close by, although I couldn't see him, who was bent on disrupting the ceremony. As the explosives were set off, I came back to reality, convinced that what I just witnessed in my mind was really about to happen. So I went straight to Master Skywalker."

"Thank you, Jobin Mothma. Does anyone have any further questions?"

"Have you experienced such prescience before?" asked the Mon Cal.

"Yes, but not to this degree: usually they're about quite trivial things, like whether the wind will be good for sailing tomorrow, or what someone will say."

"Thank you, you may vacate the witness seat," Jobin got up, managing not to look at Skywalker and Jade as he did so, and took a seat at the back next to Mon Mothma.

"You never told me you could do that," his grandmamma whispered, brows arching downward.

"It never seemed important," he whispered back. She fixed him with her Presidential Glare, but he was watching the next witness, the Chief of Security.

Unsurprisingly, they were stopped on their way out. "I see you have made great improvements, Lady Mothma," the Mon Cal said courteously. "May I ask the favour of a moment with your grandson? I shall return him to your rooms myself."

"Of course," Mothma couldn't refuse the Jedi through whose agency she had been cured, but Jobin knew she was reluctant. I bet they sent her to do this deliberately, so grandmamma wouldn't say no. The Jedi beckoned Jobin to follow her down the hall to what he suspected was Skywalker's suite. Luke Skywalker was seated in a chair, while Mara Jade was pacing. She halted when she saw Jobin.

"Come in," Skywalker told him quietly. Here it comes… "Jobin, what do you know of the Force?"

Jobin took a breath, even more conscious of the thin ice that lay under his feet than during the inquest, "The Force is a mystical politico-religious concept which has dominated aspects of galactic politics for millennia. Although there are other sects, the main proponents of the Force have been the Jedi and Sith Orders, whose members hold differing philosophical beliefs about the use of the power the Force is supposed to grant. That's um… that's about it."

"The Force is an energy-field that encompasses all life. Those who're Force-sensitive are gifted with insights into its mysteries. You, Jobin, are one such."

"So… I'm a Jedi?" Jobin asked warily.

"No," Skywalker and Jade exchanged a glance, "but you could be trained as one."

He was now a political commodity. Such commodities were not generally known to live very long. As he had no personal power of his own, he had nothing to protect himself with from Republic and Imperial alike but his native talents. Jedi training, while it could be a trap, would be very useful, if half of what he'd heard about them were true. But he couldn't jump the blaster. "Is that why you asked me here?"

Uneasy silence; Mara Jade took the floor: "Not many people are gifted with future-sight... It's a very rare talent, even among... Jedi…"

Do not squander gifts … Knowing they were watching him very carefully, Jobin dredged up cheerfulness from somewhere, "So...?" he smiled.

Skywalker answered: "Look, this isn't an easy thing to say, so I'm just going to come out and say it – abilities like yours are too precious to go untrained. You will have to return with us to Yavin IV to receive training as a Jedi."

"What about my family?" Jobin frowned.

Cilghal gave a wet sigh, "Lady Mothma has told me of her plans for you, but if Master Skywalker is right, then your talents have the potential to do so much for the galaxy." Her aquatic eyes had a strange sheen to them. "Of course, we cannot make you come."

Jobin felt very alone in that moment; caught – with no one to share his fear of what would become of him should they take him to the Jedi Temple. It was a very neat trap and he hated them for it. They know, surely they know, and I'm right where they want me… He had no option but to continue: "I hardly think I'm that special…"

The Jedi Master's serious mien split into a grin, "Didn't you just foresee an attack on my wedding that a number of fully trained Jedi, including me, were unable to predict?"

Jobin looked down at the floor. Perhaps here was something he could admit safely? "Yesterday was different. I've never had an experience that vivid – I think it was because I was so on edge–"

"Why were you on edge?" Lady Jade's question flew like a blaster bolt.

"I've been having vague premonitions – ever since we left Chandrila; it feels like… like I'm in the shadow of something and I don't know what it is."

"Darkness is only a shade, do not fear it," Cilghal spoke up. I'll comm. you next time I want a self-help inspirational holo, shall I? Jobin thought snidely.

"If what you say is true then it is all the more necessary to train you," Blue on blue, their gazes locked, Jobin and the Jedi Master, "think of what you could do with some actual tuition…" Blessed Sah'ot – both the fruit and the prod; if I don't agree they'll doubtless inform my family, or take me by official decree, a political prisoner. nerf-shit! And if I agree…? He saw his latent abilities as little more than a nuisance, bringing him unwanted attention. Possibly they were exaggerating his importance to suit their purposes… But there was still that niggling curiosity – what would it be like to be able to wield his insight at will? Was it even possible?

He bowed in the formal Chandrilan fashion, hands at his sides, bending from the waist. "I am honoured, noble Jedi." He took a calculated risk, not meeting their eyes as he bowed, denying them access to his soul – a ritualised snub, had they known it. "I shall inform my family."

Mon Mothma took the news with her customary sangfroid, but Jobin could sense her bitter disappointment. Her ambition had been for him to enter the Senate before he was twenty – it was a life's dream disrupted – but she was used to making concessions for the greater good. Lieda Mothma was depressed, she'd wanted him to stay on Chandrila and develop his compositions, but there was no one she had to fight against now, without seeming selfish. Her body betrayed its tension and the fury in her movements was palpable. "I'll call home and have them box up your things and ship them to the Yavin IV." She left the room. For Jobin, it was frightening to think of his room being cleared – the dacha would not be home anymore.

His grandmamma took his hand calmly, "I've known many Jedi… it… it would be an honour to count my grandson among them." To others it might seem like a fairly formal remark, but to Jobin, who knew how much it must cost Mon, it was a relief. He could sense her sadness and all she was giving up and allowed himself to wallow in the feeling for a moment, using her feelings as an outlet for his own, for they were deep inside his heart, under magnetic locks. His grandmamma was the most distinguished, wonderful being in the galaxy and for her to discover… He blinked. For all he knew, he might be a Jedi hostage for the rest of his life.

"Thank you, grandmamma."

His last remaining days on Coruscant, Jobin devoted to learning about the emperor; there was no better place to do so, after all. Of course, he already knew what his tutors had imparted – all the important dates, and the question over which they had laboured so: how did it happen? But of Palpatine he knew precious little – a man with no mitigating features, of limitless ambition, who didn't care what was crushed underfoot in his quest for power. Where better to start than the Coruscant Archives? Jobin walked among towering shelves of holo-books, telling the archivist he was doing a project on the late emperor. Occasionally, it was useful to look two years younger than he actually was. The archive droid pointed to a full three floor to ceiling bookcases. Thinking he would fare better with the pre-Imperial material, Jobin pulled out a swathe of holo-biographies of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine and began.

Five hours later, Jobin felt as though he might as well have been banging his head against the table for all the information the books imparted. Now armed with an extensive knowledge of the Trade Federation's occupation of Naboo, the strengthening of the executive powers of the office of supreme chancellor, and an ocean of historical minutiae he would have normally found fascinating, he felt no better informed than he had been before he started. A section of each book had spent time elaborating on the personal qualities of the chancellor – some found dedication, some frigidity. About the only thing Jobin had learned was that Palpatine had been a person of very few indulgences. He occasionally attended musical performances, he occasionally attended Senatorial fetes. But he never appeared to display any personal opinions – the sole channel for Palpatine's own voice was the official one. It makes sense, I suppose, Mon is like that too. Even in private, she's presidential. If he were in the same position, he would behave similarly. All the same, it was frustrating. Finding the chancellor was proving difficult; perhaps Jobin might have better luck with the emperor?

Personal information about the galactic sovereign was much more forthcoming. Each recorded their own impressions, naturally, and Jobin began to get a sense of Palpatine's range. The man was an actor, no two ways about it. Malicious, vindictive, sadistic, demanding but also wise, amusing, kind (if one was to believe the words of a certain aide), gentle even! The only really consistent thing about him was the fear he evoked in everyone who spoke with him directly. Jobin leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. What am I looking for: similarity or dissimilarity?

He didn't know. But he was now certain his answers wouldn't come from holo-books. Wandering out the grand entrance to the archives, Jobin looked across the government district toward the Old Palace. A transfixing monument to one man and his creation, even when its innards had been ripped out by the New Republic, the shell still evoked its terrible inception. Shimmering like a black opal in the sunlight, the building was alive with activity. Jobin had to work furiously to fight down the feeling that all of it was somehow his. Slipping in among a parcel of Corellians on a tour, he let himself be shepherded through the official history and up into the Emperor's Gardens, where a Bith botanist began to explain the provenance of the exotic foliage.

It was possible that these would be his last few days of freedom. Seated on the rim of a sculpted onyx fountain; Jobin closed his eyes, his hands resting in lap, inhaling the dewy scents of the hothouse gardens. It was possible he would never see Lake Sah'ot again.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" Luke Skywalker sat down next to Jobin, trailing one hand in the bubbling water.

"I suppose not," Jobin didn't open his eyes.

"When did you find out?" the words were unexpectedly gentle and reached right through Jobin's fears.

"During the ceremony…" he was surprised by how easily the confession came and he opened his eyes to the pellucid gaze of the Jedi Master.

"Part of your vision," it wasn't a question so Jobin didn't respond. "I don't envy you your thoughts."

Jobin grinned without a trace of humour. "It wouldn't be so bad really; I could deal with it, if only…" He paused, his throat constricted.

"…Your family?"

He nodded. "My grandmother would die if she found out. It would destroy her – if it was revenge which motivated whoever left me with them, they chose a very effective method." By impressing on Skywalker the cost to Mon Mothma rather than himself, he hoped to sway the Jedi not to reveal his secret. "Rather inspired, I guess, if a waste of resources."

The Jedi's next words were careful, as if Jobin were an explosive which might go off any second, "You don't trust me, do you?"

"In my position it would seem inadvisable to trust anyone – especially you."

"Then why did you just admit what you did?"

"I… don't know. Since it's obvious Lady Jade has told you everything already, I'm not exactly sticking my neck out."

"How old are you?" the question caught Jobin off guard.

"Sixteen, but I'm told I look younger."

An attempt at humour: "I have to say you don't seem anything like the last one!" It lessened Jobin's opinion of Skywalker considerably, that he found it necessary to bring up the clone who had laid siege to Coruscant, so he just stared at the Jedi, waiting for him to say something worthwhile. "Look, neither Mara nor I are eager to tell anyone about you. On Yavin you'll be just another student. And… powers such as yours used for good is something I would dearly love to see."

Jobin didn't speak and the two off them fell silent, soaking up the atmosphere of the Emperor's Gardens.