Undercity Sewers, Taris, AR: day 18
Revan and Bastila crossed blades, the two double-ended sabers flashing and spinning in the dimly-lit room.
The watching slaves kept well away, to the edges of the small holding room. They had long since given up trying to convince the Jedi pair to let them free. Obviously, whatever they were doing here had little to do with them.
Mission Vao sat against the wall, occasionally glancing up at the sparring Jedi, much of her attention absorbed in the small device in her hands. She had been trying for over a week now to rig up something that would allow her to hack through a manual lock. She had allowed herself to be captured under the assumption that all the doors in the sewers were the same - complicated, old, electronic, and above all hackable. She had never once encountered a manual lock down here, and she explored the sewers regularly.
Zaalbar had been reluctant to leave her, ready to throw himself into the fray again and nevermind that they would restrain a wookiee slave far more securely than a mere twi'lek child. She had screamed for him to run, that she would be fine, and he had gone.
Her wookiee friend would be cursing himself for that now, she knew. But she had made him promise long ago not to throw away his life coming back for her in case of just such an event, and had to believe that his honour would hold him where his common sense would not.
The Jedi's lightsabers clashed just in front of her and she flinched involuntarily. She knew they wouldn't hit her, even if she decided to start dancing in the middle of the room. Their control of their blades, their flow in battle, they always knew exactly and precisely everything that was around them.
She, like the other slaves, had given up trying to convince the pair to free them all. Days of wheedling had bought her nothing, and they were obviously content with their arrangement. Whatever that was. The man 'Revan' disappeared for hours a day, while Bastila stared at her datapad screen. Then he returned and they practiced fighting each other with their lightsabers. This lasted until well past when the slaves usually went to sleep, forcing a new schedule upon them unless they were miraculously able to ignore the bright flashing lights and constant sizzling clashes of the two Jedi going at it.
Mission growled and resisted the urge to hurl her device at the wall. It wasn't working, but it was better than nothing. She tucked it under her 'pillow' and laid down, watching the spectacle. It was more entertaining than anything else in their lives, she had to admit. It normally wasn't everyday you saw a pair of Jedi practicing, and each with a double-ended lightsaber at that. One of the rarest styles of fighting, that was.
Back and forth, they surged and flowed, dancing lightly, striking heavily. Circling, jumping, coming up just short of a wall, just shy of the ceiling, their deadly sabers never touching their opponent's body or their surroundings, only clashing, sizzling, flashing. It might as well be a choreographed performance, but it was always different. Always shifting. No two nights the same.
When Revan slowed, Bastila slowed to meet him. When Revan sped up, Bastila increased her tempo to match.
Mission sat up, watching the fight with narrowed eyes. Yes, Bastila was the superior fighter. Under serious circumstances, Mission would have said she was toying with her opponent, but it was obvious that something else flowed between them.
The Force, probably, that mystical power that set Jedi apart from mere mortals. The power shared by their dark opposites, the Sith. Mission shuddered. If there was one thing worse than being a gamorrean slave, it would be capture by the Sith. Everyone had heard the stories.
She lay back down, her epiphany fading to another useless fact in the back of her mind. So what if Bastila was a superior fighter? The weird Jedi weren't going to help them. They weren't going to do anything but what they always did.
Mission closed her eyes, envisioned the lock and her device for cracking it. She was doing something wrong, just had to figure out what.
—=====—
Bastila sat beside Revan, both of them breathing a bit heavily from their evening's exertion. Revan was improving, slowly, steadily. His body's muscle memory needed time and practice to build up, though his mind and instincts knew what to do.
The explorer Nile Chan had been, prior to the Council reshaping him, knew nothing of the Force or wielding a lightsaber. Bastila suspected that the reborn Revan would now be an excellent shot with a blaster, should the opportunity or need arise. The way his hands moved, quick to the saber hilt, the way he had at first tried to hold it, it all pointed to instincts for blaster usage. Which made sense, the frontiers of space were never safe for lone travelers.
"How long do you think it will be before Malak gives up and leaves?" she asked.
Revan pursed his lips, tilted his head in a half-shrug. "No more than a few weeks. He's impatient, easily distracted from the long term by brief fixation, but not a complete fool."
He fell silent. Bastila cast about for another topic of discussion. Revan wasn't the type to initiate idle chatter, but he would carry on a conversation without complaint.
"What do you make of the gamorreans' ship?" she asked.
"Servicable enough. Slow, heavy. They must have a servicer on Sleheyron, because that tub is loaded with much more sophisticated equipment than grunts like these would know how to use. They'd blown a shield conduit switch and didn't even notice. That would've been sucking down power like crazy, keeping the rear deflectors at full constantly."
The inflection of his voice was different when he talked about ships and repairs. Not quite an accent, Bastila couldn't place the exact change. It disconcerted her a little, forced her to think about how Revan had been rebuilt using someone else's life.
And that always brought her thoughts back to all the time they were wasting here in a gamorrean slave pen when they should be out helping with the war.
"Why is Malak so powerful?" she asked without thinking. "How does he find new ships, new supporters, so quickly."
"The Star Forge's output speed is unrivaled," Revan replied. "He'll never be wanting for ships. Or droids. The supporters, though. . ." He pursed his lips. "Probably threats, promises of power, and utilizing sheer greed. It's amazing the sort of bribes you can offer with such a high-speed production line."
Bastila blinked at his conversational tone. Had he just casually revealed the source of Malak's fleet as though it were common knowledge?
"The Star Forge?" she asked, hesitantly.
"It was ancient, crafted with perfect mastery of the Dark Side. . ." he hesitated, eyes drifting away to stare into the middle distance. "It tried to corrupt me, I think it may have succeeded with Malak. I couldn't get away from it fast enough, once we finally got it set to start building ships, but he kept finding excuses to visit again. Inspections, calibrations. . ." Revan shook his head. "I should have stopped him, but I was too busy, too distracted. And I wanted to stay away from it, so I didn't argue. I should have seen sooner."
He fell silent, and this time Bastila did not attempt to restart the conversation.
This changed everything.
