Ghosts and Machines
Chapter 14 / Ghosts and Machines
"Revan and Malak sitting in a tree.
Kay aye ess ess aye enn gee..."
The red eyes of her HK unit flashed once.
Revan muttered the rest of words as fast as she could; glancing warily at the door to the former dining room, now the men's quarters. The room had a door and she'd locked it. Canderous and Zaal would never barge in on her regardless; but she was less sure about Oerin Lin.
The second verse to that song. I was embarrassed to sing it in front of Carth. After that, I was afraid to know, but part of me always knew. I knew there was—something.
"Password accepted," said a voice from the droid's speaker. She'd shut down HK's own systems. No need to have her the commentary. This would be hard enough to face as it was.
The voice was almost familiar, filtered cold through a mask. My voice. Darth Revan's voice.
Why would I leave details of my life in the Rakatan computer on Kashyyyk?
I didn't do it for me—I did it for him. For Malachor. For my son.
"HK, show the files associated with this password."
I was afraid to look before, but I have to know everything I can now. I have to not make the same mistakes again.
Her dreams had been quiet, the last few days, as if the promise of a possible future chased away the past. Or perhaps it was the exercises Oerin had showed her: ways of dimming the Force within herself to a dull ember; wrapping it tightly in layers of control that were more mechanical than meditative.
"Old techniques," he'd said. "Things my mother taught me."
Revan wondered about his mother. Lin's mother was from Ossus? Ossus is—was—a Jedi's planet. She had no memory of the woman. But something in Oerin's voice when he spoke of his mother was dangerous. He may find it convenient that I had HK wipe out the rest of his clan… but his mother… is something else. Did I have her killed too? Does he hate me for it?
The Mandalorian's mind was completely opaque, although he was disturbingly enthusiastic about the next part of their mission.
Which is not a surprise.
A beam of light from HK's central core resolved itself into an image: a forest clearing, and a woman dressed in knight's robes. Her younger self carried a double-bladed saber, blazing and ready. A sling was slung across her chest—and—Revan's breath caught—there was a baby on her back.
Malachor's hair was a mass of curls now, his infant face rounded and widened. He was sleeping, head curled against his mother's neck. Older than he'd been in her dream of Malak and the refugee freighter—maybe almost a year old now. He was big-boned and chubby, face sweet with baby dreams.
The sling's harness was clumsily embroidered with butterflies. Like the ones in her dream on Kashyyyk.
Revan frowned. Why would I bring my son to Kashyyyk? The Shadowlands are dangerous. Why would I put my son in danger? What the hell was I thinking?
Malachor opened his eyes sleepily and tugged at her younger self's braid. She reached a hand back to soothe him and approached something— the console— with a look of abstract fascination on her young face.
A blinding flash of light played over both figures for a moment, outlining them in ghostly white. The woman's face did not change, but Malachor screamed in fright. Her younger self disengaged the saber almost absently, clipping it to her belt, and slung her son into her arms, soothing him. It was all one movement, almost as if the child was an extension of her own body—an unruly appendage that needed to be quieted.
"This is how it was, my son." Darth Revan's dead voice spoke, sound overlaid on the image, the hiss of air expelled through a metal mask. "After Malak and I returned with you from Eos, the Republic rejected our plea to aid the Outer Rim against the Mandalorian threat. Your father left the order. And I was given a mission. The Jedi told me I needed to learn about the effects of war—and so they sent me looking for one of the old war's last veterans."
"Although I have no evidence—yet— " the voice was distant, but overlaid with old bitterness, "I suspect they sent me to Kashyyyk for more than the old hermit's redemption. I suspect they knew about the existence of this computer; and what it could offer me."
"Pattern recognition found," said a disembodied voice to her younger self.
"Pattern?" the woman asked, raising an eyebrow. Her hands stroked her son's back soothingly, shifting him onto her hip. "What are you?"
The computer did not answer.
"You speak Standard," the younger Revan frowned. Malachor had quieted again.
This is part of the data I overwrote when I told Mission to wipe all the data about Malak. The Mission-computer had no idea it existed, and I was afraid to look. Revan tried to understand this younger self. The woman didn't seem startled by the computer or nonplussed by her surroundings. She was as contained as an egg; balancing her son on one hip, lightsaber dangling from the other.
"Neural recognition is complete, Revan Starfire. I will answer as my programming permits."
"You know my name?" A faint look of surprise crossed the young face. Light from the console played across her features in a mix of shifting shadows, filtered through the trees above.
"This utility retains local access to what your civilization calls the HoloNet. I am well-informed of the current political, economic, and military climate of your Republic."
"Who created you? And for what purpose?"
"This utility was built to monitor planet-wide agricultural reformation. It has since malfunctioned. It can be theorized that the super-growth of Kashyyyk's forests is a direct result. Malfunction occurred 241 years after last builder communication. Last Builder communication transmitted 29,635 years before current the Republic standard."
"Builder?"
"Error. Information regarding the Builders of this installation has been corrupted. No evidence of such a civilization exists in the galactic record."
"Almost thirty thousand years..." the young Revan sounded awed. "The galactic record doesn't go back that far."
"Clarification. Like all sentient intelligences designed by the Builders, this installation has multiple functions. In your vernacular, I am flexible."
Malachor began to fidget. Frowning distractedly, her younger self set him down against the base of a black metal structure. Revan recognized it with a chill. The Kashyyyk Star Map. Couldn't I tell? How could I be so careless? Her heart was in her throat, looking at her son's innocent face— Malak's mouth, my nose, Malak's eyes— against that ancient artifact of dark side power. The holo image seemed undisturbed.
"You're sentient?"
"By your definition of the term, yes."
Her son was playing with stalks of grass. He put one in his mouth. Younger Revan turned and looked at him and Malachor put it down again, obediently. She pulled a toy out of her bag and tossed it in the air. It floated into his chubby hands. A stuffed Wookiee doll. Malachor squealed with glee and clapped it against his hand. A faint smile crossed her younger face, and she turned back to the computer.
"I sense a great power in this place," the younger Revan mused.
"Clarification. For one such as yourself I can offer you great power."
"One such as myself—what do you mean?"
"Neural scans show that you possess a rare ability. The last recorded instance of this ability in my memory banks is one thousand years ago."
The younger Revan grimaced. "My gift." She made the word sound like a curse. "I have no wish for great power, computer. I only want answers. Who created you? What kind of civilization were these 'Builders'?"
"I cannot say. That information is restricted at this time."
"At this time?"
"Further analysis would be needed to indicate if you are worthy of my creator's legacy."
"Worthy?" Her eyebrow arched, as if that was a challenge.
Malachor giggled and ran his hand along the base of the Star Forge. Watching the holo, Revan shivered at her old self's carelessness. "Pause," she whispered. The image froze: her son playing at the base of the Kashyyyk Star Map; her younger self standing there, arms crossed, and chin lifted. Revan closed her eyes.
XXX
"Do you feel it Bastila? We're close now, very close."
"I feel it." The Jedi gritted her teeth, waves of desperate calm emanating from her like a furnace.
It felt like a song to Polla, like another chord in the music that began singing to her on Dantooine. Half-familiar, like a dream.
It felt like destiny. But through the bond with Bastila it felt entirely different. To her bondmate, it felt like a great darkness, like the black coldness of space. It felt old, and alien, and terribly wrong.
Polla shrugged off Bastila's fears and considered their guide. He wrinkled his eyebrows back at her, strolling along as unconcerned as if this was all a holiday walk through a nature preserve. She wondered again why he'd agreed to help them.
"You remind me of Nomi Sunrider," Jolee Bindo said casually. "She was a great Jedi, and she came late to the Force too."
Bastila coughed.
"Nomi Sunrider?" Polla shrugged. "There was some kid's show on Seventhday morning vids about her when I was little. I saw it—I don't look anything like her."
"I didn't mean looks, kid. Nomi had a great destiny. Without her assistance, we'd never have won the war. And she overcame great obstacles." The old man sighed. "Sadly, her personal life was no bed of ullia moss; but whose is?"
"Which war?" Polla frowned. The Republic always had some kind of war going on, somewhere; but some of them seemed to be more major than others. It meant little on Deralia, although now here she was, off on a quest to save their proverbial ass. Actually, a part of her was thrilled. Who didn't want to have an important destiny? Who didn't want to be a hero?
The underbrush crackled around them, and the Star Map sang to her somewhere ahead of them through the trees.
Silly Bastila, why is she so afraid of this?
Bastila's fear and her own anticipation mingled like strange sparks. Everything seemed hyper-real, but that was an increasingly familiar feeling. Something about the Force, probably. Maybe she should have paid more attentions to those lessons on Dantooine.
Jolee sighed. "The war against Exar Kun, kid. The Sith War. Yeah, I know…seems like there's always another one right around the bend, but humor an old man, will you?"
"Uh huh." Polla replied noncommittally. Deralians had sided with the Sith in that war; the only war their planet had chosen a side in for over four centuries. Her father tended to go on and on about it, when he got very drunk. Of course, choosing a side for Deralia meant little more than sending their eridu shipments to Ziost instead of Coruscant and Corellia.
"Nomi Sunrider possessed my gift," Bastila Shan said. "Battle Meditation." She spoke the words with modest pride. "I try and live up to her memory. She is a shining example for Jedi everywhere, of how one woman can make a difference in the fight against the dark side."
"Your gift seems a little unpredictable and vulnerable to your own weakness," Polla observed bluntly. "I mean it didn't really help us out on the Endar Spire did it?"
Bastila flinched as if she'd been slapped. "I don't imagine you know much about these things, Padawan," she snapped.
"I know some things are an unfair advantage," Polla snapped back.
At this point, bickering with Bastila was pretty much a sport. Jedi Knight Bastila Shan looked like she'd been sucker punched. Polla almost felt bad, it was so easy to rile her up.
"I'm sorry, Bastila—you know I was just kidding. Right?"
The dark-haired woman just looked at her and sighed. "It's not your fault. But I wish you would consider the consequences of your words before you speak." Her smile was pained.
"You remind me of my cousin Sara. We'd fight a lot, but we always stuck up for each other." Polla tried to explain.
Bastila flushed. "Jedi do not bicker. Discord and strife lead to..."
"There you go again..." Polla Organa rolled her eyes. "Jedi blah dee blah—can you feel it? We're really close!"
"Yes."
Jolee sighed. "Give the kid a break, Bastila."
The Jedi gritted her teeth. Through their bond, Polla could feel them sliding back and forth against each other, like the sharp sound of pain.
XXX
The hologram recording flickered, and Revan shivered. Even her true memories seemed like traps.
I'm sorry, Bastila. I'm sorry, Jolee. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Their ghosts—or her own dreams—did not answer her.
"Resume," Revan whispered.
The hologram flickered, and the figures moved again. Small things. The wind rippled Malachor's curls, and the woman's robes. Her son yawned sleepily and patted his toy with a tiny fist.
"To understand what I am, you must first understand your own talent. A thousand years ago, sentients of your race and the neighboring ones, enjoyed what your histories call a Golden Age. Individuals like yourself maintained order and ruled in an era of expansion and prosperity."
"A thousand years ago..." The younger Revan's eyes narrowed. "Golden Age? Golden Age of the Sith." She made a face. "I've read the histories. My father-in-law collects such things, and the Jedi Library is quite extensive. Did the Sith made use of you? Good for them." Her voice was stony. "I am no Sith. I am a Jedi Knight."
"Distinctions between what you call the dark and the light side of the Force are meaningless to one such as yourself."
" Did the Sith use you for some purpose? What was it?"
"I—cannot say. No further information is available at this time."
"Until I prove myself?" Revan shifted restlessly.
Malachor mirrored his mother's mood, face wrinkling in a petulant frown. His chubby fingers pulled at his toy's fur.
"Whatever you are, computer, you're not my mission. I'll report to the Council that you exist. But if you want to help me now, tell me where I can find the former Padawan Jolee Bindo. He's an old man rumored to be in these parts of the Shadowlands. The Wookiees consider him some kind of minor forest deity."
"His camp is approximately three kilometers southwest of here. One such as yourself should have no trouble locating him through the bond with what you call the Force."
"So, you'd think," Revan muttered. "But I swear the old bastard is hiding from me somehow."
She walked over to the closed black petals of the Star Forge map and picked up her son, slipping him back into the sling, and the sling back over her shoulder. Without a backward glance she began to walk to away. A hiss as her lightsaber activated again. Her stance was easy and alert, on the watch for roaming predators. Malachor squealed and clapped his hands with excitement.
I brought my son into the Lower Shadowlands as if it were some kind of stroll through a city park!
"I saw the broadcast of you from Eos," the computer said to her retreating back.
The younger Revan paused, but did not look back. "Your reach is impressive."
"Your assessment of the Mandalorians is correct. They pose a great threat to the stability of your Republic."
Her shoulders tightened and Malachor fidgeted, turning back to look at the computer, his mouth wide open in surprise. Almost as if— is he mirroring my moods? Were we linked that closely? What was I thinking, bringing a child to a place like that? How could I be so stupid?
The answer came to her like a whisper, dead Malak's laughter.
Stupid, Red? No. Arrogant. You always thought you could control everything. You always thought you could protect everyone.
Her younger voice was subdued. "I know they're a threat. Everyone knows. And we Jedi are the only ones that can help. But they won't."
"With your gift, they could."
Her head turned, eyebrows lifted, and stared back at the computer. Something like hope in her expression. Malachor's mouth was open wide in astonishment.
"You mean Sith'aerah," she said finally. Watching the holo, Revan felt a sad sense of recognition at the word. My gift. "A lack of the inherent empathy that most Force users take for granted. Long ago, Sith'aerah was projected like Battle Meditation. Force users could fight wars on a grand scale—without sliding into madness."
"But that knowledge is lost. I'm a failure. I tried… on Eos… to shield Malak from the death around us. Instead, all I felt was every life ending in his mind. We… killed Mandalorians there. We had to. They winked out, screaming. I'm no Sith'aerah. Maybe the Council thinks I am, but I'm not."
"To be Sith'aerah you must be Master," the computer said. "The bond cannot be a bond between equals or lovers. To channel your gift, you must stand above the others. You must rule them."
"Rule them," the younger Revan scoffed. Malachor tugged at her braid. Her laughter rang in the quiet grove, a musical laugh that Revan didn't recognize. "I don't want to rule anyone."
"When the Mandalore takes your worlds, will you be content? Knowing all that you do, knowing that you could have saved them?"
Her expression was contained, but her eyes looked very dark. "What are you? How do you know about me?"
"As previously stated, you are the first subject in one thousand standard years to meet my parameters. I merely extrapolated the data. Your ship's logs are expansive."
"You hacked into my ship's logs?" Her composure cracked. "How dare you!"
"Your Jedi Masters instructed you to come to Kashyyyk alone, on public transport. Instead you purchased an Endarian flyer, capable of groundside landings in heavy forest conditions. Your piloting skills are negligible. Without the Force you would have crashed on the landing. You risked your own life, and the life of your son. You disobeyed the orders of your superiors. Why?"
"Malachor goes where I do," the young Revan said haughtily. "It was no risk." She reached around her back and touched her son's arm. "I'd never let anything happen to him. He's mine. He goes where I do," she repeated stubbornly.
"Perhaps no risk, for one as gifted as you. But why waste your gifts when they could save your people?"
"One Jedi cannot save an entire people!" But her eyes looked unconvinced.
You stupid girl, Revan thought sadly—even as part of her whispered. You did save them, you saved them all.
And then you slaughtered millions.
"HK, end transmission." She didn't want to watch this anymore.
And so, it began. On Kashyyyk with that Rakatan computer. That Rakatan computer that I gave Mission's memories.
I purged it first! I overwrote all files that were harmful to sentient life!
You always were too sure of yourself, Red. I used to think it was part of your charm. Then again, I was arrogant too.
Was that echo of Malak's voice her own conscience? She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes and breathed, reaching for stillness.
Nine days now, nine days now until the end. Or the beginning. Force, I don't feel arrogant now.
XXX
One of the bouncers stopped him at the door.
"There's a dress code," the sentient said, wrinkling its feathered snout.
"I'm dressed fine," Mekel snapped, pushing as hard as he could. He wasn't very good at this, not like Dustil— he can't be dead— but he wasn't trying to be subtle either, and the undertone of desperation pushed his words just as much as the force.
The bouncer stared at him. "You're dressed fine," it admitted grudgingly.
"I'm here on business," Mekel continued. "Private room. Name is Handsome."
"See the Durian, citizen." The bouncer pointed, and Mekel moved fast, to get away before the vagueness in the sent's eyes wore off.
The spiky thing—he had a hard time thinking of them as sentients, even though Duria was as Core as Corellia or Alderaan or Coruscant itself—showed him to the elevator.
As he walked to the door of suite 16, Mekel pushed back his hair and tried to brush some of the filth off his clothes. He'd landed on a refuse pile, lost his 'saber, and he was pretty sure he'd seriously injured that Falleen master. The Jedi would be after him now, and this time they'd be less inclined to just use kind words.
"Retinal scanning complete. Welcome, Mekel Jin."
"Fracking hell." They scanned my ident at the door. Probably recorded that whole thing with the bouncer too… only a matter of time before the CorSecs are all over my ass. This had better be worth it, Telos. Mission better have some kind of plan.
The doors slid open, and the blue-skinned Twi'lek on the couch lifted her head.
Next to her, stood a battered droid unit: one of those T3's that were so popular now. Okay, considering everything, this was probably the T3 that started the trend. The Twi'lek didn't move, but the T3 beeped and rolled forward. The doors slid closed behind Mekel and he heard the click of the lock.
"Mission?"
"Dustil?" The Twi'lek said. "Finally, you're here!" She got up from the couch and looked at him. As she scanned him up and down, the smile slowly faded. Inexplicably, she shrugged at the droid. "He looked taller in the vid."
Mekel backed up against the door. The droid beeped some kind of response that sounded like a negative. Looked like it was armed. Some kind of stun ray attached to one side of its chassis and two small blasters in its appendages.
Great, this is a trap. And they think I'm Dustil.
"Don't come any closer," Mekel hissed. He let the anger feed him, fuel the Force like a red haze of light. It was hard to keep focused. His hands were shaking.
"Don't be dumb, Mekel," the T3 said. "You always were a prick. Where's Dustil?"
He ignored it and kept his eyes on the Twi'lek. Easy to disable the droid—that was one skill he'd always been good at. Its master might be another story—although she seemed to be unarmed.
The Twi'lek that looked like Mission bowed to the droid, a strangely formal gesture.
Bowed to the droid? What the frack?
"I assume this concludes our contract," she said. "If you don't mind, I need to be on my way."
"Sure, Rulan. I've got things under control from here. No prob," the T3 said. Mekel's hackles rose. The droid sounded more like Mission than the Twi'lek imposter.
"The collar?"
"Yep." A ray of light beamed out from the T3's chassis and over the Twi'lek's neck, which seemed to be—elongating somehow. There was a snick and a narrow metal collar dropped to the ground.
"Think about what I have said, ghost-child." The Twi'lek's voice was deeper now, and older. Its skin shifted to brown and then Mission's features blurred and changed—until it wasn't Mission at all standing there; but an ordinary-looking spacer instead. Echani, maybe. Humanid—and male.
"Shapeshifter…." Mekel whispered, backing away.
"The boy shows acuity." The Echani smiled. "I wish you luck, ghost-child. I regret that I cannot be of more assistance; but it has been an honor and a pleasure doing business. The brothers of Widek will add your name to the prayer-scrolls."
Without a backward glance, the creature walked past Mekel to the doors. They opened and closed behind it.
"I didn't think you'd show up," the T3 said. It almost seemed to sigh. "Another miscalculation. This has been kind of a crappy day."
"You're the T3 from the Ebon Hawk? Where's the real Mission Vao? Where are the others?" Mekel dulled the Force down but didn't relax his stance.
Inside, he was shaking with exhaustion. He'd run down another ten levels before dodging back onto the tube. Slept on it for a few hours, seemed safer than keeping still, with the Jedi after him. His leg hurt, he'd bruised it pretty badly in his fall. And he was filthy and hungry and so tired.
"Tell me where Dustil is," the droid said. Mekel shivered. Now its voice sounded like Revan's.
"I don't know. He was with D'Reev."
"Yeah, I know that. He probably still is." The droid whirred to itself for a while. Mekel stood there, exhaustion changing to impatience.
"Where's the real Mission Vao?" he asked again.
The T3 beeped. "Dead," it said flatly. "Guess there's no easy way to say that."
Mekel nodded. After everything…. Dustil's going to flip the frack out. "You lied to Dustil—it was you, wasn't it—on the term in The Library?"
"I didn't lie!" The T3 sounded indignant, although Mekel wasn't really sure how it could.
"You said Mission wasn't dead."
"I said Revan didn't kill me. This is true."
"It's true because you're not Mission Vao. What are you?"
"Revan didn't kill Mission Vao." The T3 paused. "Technically."
In the vids, the T3 was just a droid the heroes acquired on Taris. Mekel had no idea what the truth was—he'd only seen the droid once on Korriban, and he didn't remember anything special about it. But the T3 in front of him now almost seemed to have some kind of Force… aura. But droids didn't have auras; not even Revan's HK. And the T3's aura was… dark.
"I think of myself as Mission." Its voice sounded almost—subdued. It pivoted, rolling around to face him. Red lights flashed. Someone had painted a blue flower on the front of its chassis.
Mekel frowned.
"I am more than your organic mind can comprehend, Mekel Jin," it intoned ominously. "I am the ghost in the machine."
"You stupid nerf-herding wannabe Sith," it added as an afterthought.
Mekel crossed his arms and just stood there. The teachers did that sometimes, back at the Academy, waiting for their pupils to say more than they meant to. But the droid said nothing. Lights flashed on its console, as if it were thinking. Processing something. It beeped.
"You're worried about Dustil. He's probably fine. Senator D'Reev would have no reason to hurt him—not at this time."
"I can't feel him in the Force." Mekel admitted. "I can't tell."
The droid beeped. "D'Reev uses ysalamiri, raises them in a network of tunnels in the walls of his compound. A lot of the Senators do that. Blocks Force intrusion into their affairs pretty well; but they all have a few places that are clear. Maybe Dustil wander into one of them. Or do something really dumb, like try calling me again. That would be bad, completely blow our security…. I'd have to disable the net drop or get traced..."
Dustil is going to get really upset when he hears Mission's dead.
"Who killed her?"
"Who killed me?" The droid's voder squeaked. "Zaalbar. Polla was all… Dark Lord and—well, she made him. That's what they told me, anyways. My version of Mission is from an earlier save point—I recorded myself on this Sith holocron. Hey, you remember—weren't you looking for that holocron too? Back on Korriban? I was really worried about Polla back then. She got all wigged on Korriban. It was sort of scary..." the droid's voice trailed off.
The lights on its dome flashed red and blue.
"Then again, you were kind of scary then too. You've changed, Mekel Jin. Not looking so Sith wannabe now. I think you need a sonic. There's a 'fresher off this central room. Why not use it? You look like something dragged out of a sarlacc."
"You're one to talk." Mekel frowned. "You expect me to believe you're Mission Vao in the body of a droid."
"I am far more than that. Rulan and I were just discussing it, actually. He raised some interesting philosophical points. Do you think there's such a thing as a soul?"
"I don't fracking care."
The T3 was uncannily like Mission Vao. Just as irritating.
XXX
It was easy to make to her trip. Just a little Force push and the Twi'lek's feet slid out from under her.
"Let me help you up," Mekel said, extending a hand.
She refused it, scrambling to her feet herself. Blue eyes flashed indignantly.
"Don't think I don't know what you just did, you Sith poser. You're not the first Force user to make me trip by 'accident.' Blast off, I'm busy."
"Running errands for your master? I just saw you come out of Uthar's room."
"Frack off, loser." Her lekku traced the words, repeating them. She looked kind of cute when she was angry. Actually, her vehemence surprised him. Slaves didn't usually show this much spunk. Maybe she hadn't been a slave long.
Her spirit would be fun to break.
"Does Polla let you talk like this to her?" Mekel raised an eyebrow and scratched his chin in mock thought. "If I tell Uthar you were in his room, he'll punish your master. But he'll do far more than just punish you. What will you give me to keep me quiet?"
"One." Mission Vao said.
"One what?"
"Two." She'd reached into her vest and pulled out something round and shining. She was casually tossing it in her hands. Her head tails curled, and there was a faint smile on her face. "Do you know what this is, Mekel?"
It looked like a grenade.
She didn't wait for his response. Her blue fingers pressed a button at her belt, and a field shimmered around her, crackling white.
"This is a thermal detonator. I'm wearing an energy shield—a damn good one—and I move pretty fast. You're not wearing one. You could freeze me, but I might just drop the detonator. Maybe your Force powers can shield you from the worst of the blast—and maybe not. But I laid some adhesive mines along this hallway. And plasma. Surprised you didn't trip em already. If you were running fast… like, to get away?" she grinned cheekily. "Plus, I have more grenades. I have lots. Get out of here before I finish counting. To three—"
Mekel had already turned around. Backed off. Way off. Down the hallway and back to his rooms off.
You don't survive very long at the Sith Academy if you don't realize that sometimes retreat is the best option.
XXX
"Did you really set mines along the hallway?"
The T3 beeped and whirred. It almost sounded like it was laughing. "That time on Korriban? No. But I sure scared you, didn't I?"
"Yeah," he admitted.
"You scared me too. Face-off against a crazed murdering Sith thug! I just kept thinking, what would Polla-Revan do?"
Mekel's mouth twisted in a smile. "I wasn't a crazed murdering Sith thug!"
"Tell that to those kids you made starve to death outside the Academy gates… or the prisoners in the dueling room..."
"Fine." He tried not to wince. "I was just learning to be a murdering Sith thug. Hey, aren't you here helping the Dark Lord of the Sith, or something?"
The T3— Mission— whirred. "I can't really see Polla-Revan taking up that mantle again—although strategically it has possibilities. But—yes. And I need your help."
"And you're going to get Dustil out of this mess?" Mekel frowned. "Is Darth—is Revan coming here for Carth Onasi? Or for the Jedi Council? Or is there… someone else?"
"Maybe." The lights blinked. "You know about the kid too? Figures. You were with Dustil at The Library. Don't tell anyone that you know. Your life's a lot more secure that way."
"I'm not feeling very secure right now." He realized how much he'd been depending on Dustil. Without the bond, Mekel felt strangely vulnerable. He was actually happy to be talking to this droid version of Mission Vao. And he hadn't liked the real Mission much at all.
"Go take a sonic, okay? My olfactory capacity on this unit is a little limited, but I suspect you reek. You need food or something? There's a fridger over there by the cabinet. Get yourself together. We have a little time."
XXX
As it turned out, they had less than it—than she— predicted.
Mekel was pulling his clothes back on when the door to fresher opened and the T3— Mission— barged in.
"Do you mind?" he said angrily, zipping up the coverall.
"Nice rack," Mission commented. A green light flashed on her dome. "Sec alert just came in, wideband. The Jedi Council's wants you. Alive, of course—bunch of old softies—but they want you bad. You injured some Master. That was dumb. We've got to jet." A metal appendage extended from her chassis and handed him a cheap polymer pack. "Stuff in there for you. And I made you a sandwich. Plus, there's one other thing that I need you to do."
Her other appendage extended holding a narrow metal collar. Slaver's collar, one of the expensive small ones.
The one the shapeshifter was wearing.
"Put this on."
"You want me to pose as a slave?"
"No. It's got some special hardware on it. My own design. Surveillance and a subvocal. We can talk easier that way. And if we have to split up, I'll still be with you."
Mekel was rummaging through the pack. Grenades, a few blasters, even some kolto packs, the mentioned sandwich, wrapped in clear plasticore. His hands closed around a narrow metal cylinder. It fit into his hand as if it belonged there. He clipped it to his belt, pulling his battered jacket over the bulge.
"That's one of Bastila Shan's old ones," Mission commented casually. "Kind of ironic, you picking it. There are others in there too, you know. I think Darth Bandon's even. The big wuss."
Bandon was an asshole. The familiar twinge of jealousy was automatic.
"This one feels right."
"Put on the collar." Her lights flashed. "Please."
Mekel looked at it dubiously.
"We don't have much time."
The shapeshifter seemed eager to get it off.
The slaver's collars he'd seen in Moms's brothel could make the tricks do anything and not care. Tap into the central nervous system and make it respond, however. He'd heard of collars with detonation packs… make disobedient or runaway slaves just blow up.
Mission's voice through the T3 voder sounded like she was talking to a very stupid child. "Look. If you don't put it on, I can't talk to you, I can't help you and the Jedi will have your butt in a cell faster than you can say Sleheyron. You can't walk out of here through the front door, you nerf pod. You've gotta go through an access panel, and I can't follow you down a ladder in T3."
"I can get out of here myself, thanks," Mekel said. "Maybe meet you somewhere?" He frowned. "Are the Jedi really after me?" A sinking pit in his stomach answered that before she could. Something brushed at the edge of his mind. It felt like Thalia May.
"There's a medical report on a Falleen named Master Iridel. You want to see it? I can run the transcript—prob just enough time before guards break down that door." It was amazing how she managed to sound so angry and impatient through a voder.
I have to trust her; not like I have a ton of other options. Or any other options.
Reluctantly, Mekel snapped the collar around his neck. He put on his jacket. The metal was cold against his neck. Something crinkled in his jacket pocket. The print-outs from The Library. Dustil's letters. He'd almost forgotten about them.
[[Cool. Now let's get out of here. Move. Move fast. I'm can bring the sec grid down on this complex if I have to… but I'd really rather not. There's an access panel to the ventilation ducts at the end of the hall. It's unlocked. Ladder—I think there's a ladder—to the sub-basement level. From there, take the sewers to the tube. I'll move the T3 out the front door and meet you on level 24. There're some people there we have to convince. You'll have to convince. I hope you're good at that. I'll tell you what to say.]]
"Convince of what?" The collar vibrated slightly against his neck when she spoke, sending the words right up his spine. It felt strange, but it wasn't intrusive. Part of him relaxed a little.
After all, she's Dustil's friend. She wants to help him.
[[I'll tell you on the way, ok? Move. Now.]]
Mekel moved, shoving the sandwich in his mouth as he ran. The pack flapped awkwardly on his back. It was heavy. The sandwich wasn't very good.
There was a ladder. As he climbed down twenty-odd stories to the subbasement, he wondered what he'd have done if there wasn't.
[[By the way...- Even subvocal she sounded like Mission Vao. Her voice was casual. - ...do you speak Mandalorian?]]
Not really.
He thought the words, automatically, as if he was talking to Dustil. The collar around his neck was silent. His feet slipped a little on the slimy rungs. Obviously, this wasn't a very well-maintained ventilation shaft.
[[Do you speak Mandalorian? You have to talk. I don't have subvoders running two-way. That would be complicated. I'd have to put a chip in you or something. No time now.]]
"Not really," Mekel whispered. "A few words. Why?"
An alarm was going off somewhere. The sound echoed through the shaft, His fingers were sweaty, and he looked down. Almost there now.
Mekel risked a jump the rest of the way down. His bruised leg protested, but he landed easily, pulling at the force a little to cushion his fall.
[[You'll have to just repeat what I say. You'd better start memorizing it now. Make sure and get the inflections right. It's all in the tone. When we get to the sewers, I want you to say it out loud, so I can hear. Whatever you do, don't sound scared, ok? Or whiny. Sometimes your voice gets a little shrill—]]
"I do not sound shrill," Mekel muttered.
[[Rysya mandalore phar ech na' Republik infi. Kar'rak occano opilim. Na'calli mandalore fett lin, qui ana instaka acheem. Nahir embassie ee yalla mandalore. Dirin ech'na jang….]]
"What was that about the Mandalore's feet?"
[[Keep moving. CorSec patrol's coming down here. Sewer entrance is on your left, about 10 meters. You might have to cut through the lock.]]
"I can pick it."
[[Cool.]]
Mekel's body shifted into automatic, moving silently across the echoing sub-basement to the sewer's entrance. The lock was easy, he had it open before he even got there. Adrenalin kept him going, kept him moving forward, and he focused his mind on remembering the words.
He'd get her to explain them later. After all, he could just refuse to do anything unless she did. After all, what could she really do to him?
The slaver's collar thrummed against his neck.
[[Rysya Mandalore phar ech na' Republik infi….]]