Tattoo
It was a slow day in the cantina.
Wilted as if from the crushing heat of the day outside, the Bith band played even more lethargically than usual, a soporific tune almost by accident escaping from the confines of their dreary instrumentation, sapping both energy and motivation from those unfortunate enough to be in its range. Though he was no connoisseur of Bith music himself, Bandon was sure he'd heard far better in much worse cantinas than this corporate-run place.
He could surreptitiously cause one of the band members to have an "accident", but his annoyance with the awful music was a small thing, and hardly worth going to the trouble over. In days past, the knowledge that he possessed such power would have made the impulse impossible to resist. Now, he was far too disciplined to carry out such an unenlightened act for no real benefit.
He was an acolyte no longer, he was not even apprentice to the champion of justice. Bandon was successor to the leadership of Great Cause itself.
So rather than messing with a Bith's bowels, Bandon sat quietly at the bar and sipped his drink while he watched galactic news on the holo overhead, listened to their hideous distortions of the truth while he mulled his faith to the cause.
"Pretty terrible music, huh?" He looked over to see a young Twi'lek sitting several stools over from him. She seemed to have read his mind.
Bandon tried a smile. "Not my kind of poison."
The girl shrugged. "Yeah, it's pretty bad, but believe me, it's nothing compared to the crap they used to play at cantinas back home." She tipped her drink at him. "It's bad, but it ain't as bad as it gets."
Bandon found himself staring at her. She reminded him of himself, some fifteen years ago. She was a streetchild, he tell that much from looking at her. She had the look, the swagger, the same rough-and-tumble attitude of the classic urchin, although she looked prodigiously better manicured than he'd ever been, before Malak saved him from that life.
"Do you come here often?" Bandon asked, as hungry for conversation as he was for the food he'd ordered ten minutes ago. Talking with acolytes was like conversing with starstruck granite slugs with infuriatingly short attention spans.
"Nah," the Twi'lek replied, "this is my first time. I'm just ducking in for a few drops. Figured I could use some liquid refreshment."
Bandon eyed her with mock suspicion, enjoying the game. "You look a bit young to be out drinking. When I was your age I couldn't even get in to places like this. Either the bouncers or the barkeeps would turn me out every time."
She giggled. "Oh, well they don't let me places neither. You just have to know what to say and how to say it, and people will believe just about anything you tell them." The girl pointed to the back of the place, where the confused barkeep was attempting to accomplish some menial task. "And of course, sometimes people can't tell you from a bantha. The poor guy's probably working triple shifts because all his buddies took the day off without notice."
Bandon's spirits fell. He'd been hoping only for conversation, but found dishonesty and exploitation instead. The callousness of it burned at his heart. He sipped his drink, contemplating whether he should punish the girl. Would she even understand her sin?
"Hey, that's a pretty nice tattoo," she remarked, indicating the ink mural on his neck.
"Do you know what it means?" he asked rhetorically. Of course she didn't. "It represents my commitment to a cause that is higher than any of our lives; the cause of justice."
He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Originally, it was meant as a brand of shame and dishonor that the hypocrites and pharisees inflicted upon our first leader, as punishment for straying from their ways. But those of us who believe have adopted it to stand for our beliefs." He traced the snaking lines and whorls with his fingers. "The Great Cause is embodied by this mark, standing for unity through sacrifice, equality by humility, and our righteous, unchangeable destinies as unremarkable cogs in the grand machine that is galactic society."
Bandon reflexively clenched his fist and touched it to his forehead, then to his lips. "I am proud to wear this Mark."
The Twi'lek just stared at him. She probably thought him daft; Bandon didn't care. "Uh-huh," she said. "Well, good for you."
Suddenly, Bandon got a measure from the girl, his sixth and seventh senses telling him something relevant about her. There was more to her than an innocuous prank on a disabled Ithorian, she was important to... something.
"I must be boring you," he said apologetically, backtracking from his strict formalness to encourage her to lower her guard again, though he doubted she would. "Please, return to your business. I'll not bother you any more."
She huffed and slapped some credits on the counter. "No, it's okay. I was just leaving anyway."
Not a total loss. She could be followed."Well, goodbye, then. It was nice meeting you. I'm Bandon."
Her eyes darted about uncomfortably. Bandon could taste the shadow of fear creeping over her skin like parasite. He took another measure and reaffirmed his suspicions. "Nice to meet you, Bandon," she replied and quickly sidled out of the cantina.
Bandon wiped his lips and rose to follow after courteously paying his tab. He had no fear of losing the girl, now that he'd taken measure of her Force signature. He could sense inconstancies around her; she was definitely connected with something, possibly even his primary mission, unlikely as it seemed.
The one benefit of his upbringing was that it had honed his instincts to a razor's edge. With or without the Force, they were his most powerful asset, and right now they were screaming at him to take the girl in, question her, find out all she knew. But he had a chance to let the answers come out on their own, better to see for himself what she was up to before resorting to less pleasant methods. Torture had its uses, but more often than not it obscured desired truths and fabricated new ones.
He'd follow her, find out exactly who she was, what she was doing on Tatooine, who her compatriots were. Only then would he question her and make sure she confessed to the vile deeds she was perpetuating.
It might be entirely irrelevant to his task at hand, but Bandon knew better than to discount a hunch when he smelled blood.
The hunt was on.
By the time Bastila sensed him, he was nearly on top of them. Just a faint ping, something usually denoting the presence of one with the potential, something to be ignored. But as soon as it registered in her conscious mind, that minor disturbance in the Force blossomed into a whirlwind of contained energy that roiled and whipped about, and perilously close.
This one bore the mark of Malak's own hand. She was good at reading Force auras and the ways they interacted with each other—her Battle Meditation abilities hinged on affecting those very things—and this one displayed the dominating influences of the Dark Lord's teaching. Whoever he was, it was clear to her that this was no Sith to be taken lightly.
Bastila stopped dead in her tracks, while Carth, Namenlos, and Juhani continued on, blissfully unaware of the magnitude of the threat almost upon them. "Get off the street, you fools!" she hissed under her breath.
"What is it?" Carth asked as Bastila herded them all into a dimly-lit droid shop, shooting overly suspicious glances about that could only serve to alert an observer. Bastila just wordlessly pushed him in.
Revan and Juhani, the two Cathar, seemed to better understand the concept of discretion, both having plenty of experience in avoiding notice. In fact, judging by their postures and how little either had spoken during the whole time since they'd landed, they were distrustful of everything and everyone on Tatooine, which wasn't necessarily unwarranted.
Revan, especially, had been introverted and quiet since suffering that one tumultuous nightmare aboard the ship. In some ways, evidenced by his few conversations—mostly with Juhani—he was calmer now than he had been in many weeks. But he still refused to have anything to do with her save the basic necessities of handling the business of their mission.
It felt as if this was his strange way of holding her accountable for some offense that he wouldn't voice and she couldn't imagine, much less perceive. Despite her esteem of a member of the Jedi Order, and his low standing as a fallen one with nothing to his self but a knife, he had somehow usurped her. Contrary to appearances, he was in control and not she. It was like trying to tether lightning.
Even if he remembered nothing—something Bastila highly doubted—even if he remembered himself only as Namenlos, one without a name, he still knew too well how desperately eager Malak and the Sith were to get their hands on him. Both his reports of the apparition in the temple and the razing of Dantooine attested to that.
And Bastila knew Malak would be no less interested in capturing her and any other Jedi he could, in hopes of twisting them into instruments of his maleficent purpose. Their fates were thus linked, and that much Revan did understand; it was why he was willing to embark on this mission, and why she trusted him to keep to it. Unless, as she feared, his loathsome past continued to corrode his soul.
Bastila hazarded a look out to the street. She saw nothing, and was tempted to say "I sense a disturbance in the Force" but had a feeling none but she would appreciate such a seemingly vague explanation. Instead, she succinctly replied, "There is someone out there whom I believe we should avoid."
"Sith," Juhani growled in a low voice. Bastila was impressed her senses were sufficiently attuned to be able to tell. She didn't know if that was because the Cathar was skilled, or that she knew the mark of the Dark Side because she'd been there herself. It didn't really matter which, but she was unable to keep herself from thinking of the crude colloquialism 'it takes one to know one'.
"Not just any Sith, I'm afraid," Bastila clarified.
"They're all the same as far as I'm concerned," Carth remarked, keeping his hand close to his blaster. "What makes this one different?"
Bastila lowered her voice so she would not be overheard by the others in the shop. "I think he may be here specifically to hunt for us."
That was problematic as both Namenlos and Juhani were like beacons in their traditional Jedi attire, as they'd not yet had the time to purchase new, less conspicuous outfits. Any Sith worth his salt would little trouble hearing word of Jedi wandering about Anchorhead, given the numbers of bored, laid-off mineworkers and jobless slouches eager for quick and easy credits for no effort expended.
"We're not exactly low-profile," Namenlos remarked, speaking for the first time since leaving the ship. "Juhani and I are too obvious."
"Nice to see you've grown a brain," Carth quipped as he checked his blaster belt.
Before Namenlos could deliver a scathing reply, an Ithorian salesperson noticed the four of them and approached him eagerly. "Ahh, customers! Can I interest you in purchasing one of the fine droids I have for sale?"
"What does he want?" Namenlos asked Bastila, not understanding the alien language and clearly uncomfortable at making this known.
Bastila had no trouble with the Ithorian's speech. "To know if we want one of his droids," she translated.
Namenlos made a face. "I hate droids. Ask him if he sells anything else."
"Why?"
"Just ask him!" Namenlos snapped impatiently.
"Oh, I have many other fine wares! I have moister vaporators from Czerka surplus, hunting equipment, and much more!"
"He understands us just fine, Namenlos," Bastila said dryly. "And he wants you to know that he also sells hunting equipment and moisture vaporators. And much more."
"How many moisture vaporators has he sold recently?"
"Not many, actually. I have many in stock..."
Bastila blinked. "What?"
Wheels turned furiously behind his glossy red eyes, evaluating some internal equation she had no access to. "If you were a hermit living out in the desolate wastes of a planet such as this, wouldn't you imagine that you'd have to have some sort of source of water? You'd need vaporators, and you wouldn't go to the big corporate supply kiosks, either, because like us, you'd probably not have incredible reserves of money. You'd buy your things at a second-hand store just like this one."
"I do not sell 'second-hand' merchandise!" the Ithorian protested. Bastila ignored him.
"What are you saying? Do you think he might have sold vaporators to this Komad Fortuna?"
"Komad! I know that name!"
Bastila felt like she could eat her tongue at this moment. She turned back to the Ithorian. "Do you remember when he was here last? It's important."
He scratched his head. "Now let me think. Sorry, I don't remember exactly when—I mean, I remember him coming here, always remember a customer, just not when it was. Um, maybe I can check the register; he always paid in dragon pearls and I always keep those on record." The temptation to seize the forgetful shop-owner's neck and throttle him into going a little faster was nearly unbearable, but Bastila forced patience on herself. Just because she was running outside normal protocol didn't mean she had free license to give in to her impulses.
The Ithorian took his time searching his register, an old-fashioned ledger done with real paper and ink, which made things go even slower. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to find—oh, wait a minute! Tannis, you old dog, come over here!"
There was a crash in the back of the store. "Ya need somethin', boss?" yelled a voice with an almost exaggerated drawl that sounded like a mix of several different accents.
"I can't seem to remember when it was that the bloke with all the dragon pearls was here last." He waved the book accusingly."This blasted ledger is from six years ago!"
A man in greasy coveralls poked a head of disheveled salt-and-pepper hair out of the back. "Well, a'course it is, boss. Ya need to get the one from the top of the stack for the recent logs." The man gave Bastila and Juhani a lop-sided grin. "Hallo there, ladies, my name's Tannis. Ah'm Mister 'Thorian's resident droid repairman. He brings in a lot of sand-blasted pieces of junk them Jawas gives 'im, an' ah'm the one who gits 'em back in workin' order."
Namenlos cleared his throat to catch the man's attention. "Good to know, Mister Tannis. Do you remember when the old man named Komad came in?"
Tannis backed up a few steps, noticing Namenlos for the first time. It certainly wasn't hard to find such a visage intimidating, especially when his displeasure was so evident. "Yeah, ah remember him. Tried to take 'im to the cantina with me, but he weren't one for the ladies, if ya know what ah mean?" He chuckled nervously to himself. "Er, perhaps not. Um, well, let's see if me an' ol' Mister 'Thorian here can find the register for ya."
It took the two of them another five minutes to locate the correct ledger, during which Carth wandered off to look at the droids in boredom, Namenlos edged closer to Juhani, and Bastila tapped her fingers on the counter, trying to resist the urge to strangle the both of the shop-keeps.
"Aha! Here it is!" the Ithorian pronounced triumphantly, brandishing a slightly newer-looking leatherbound book, which he immediately began leafing through, under the supervision of the drawling Tannis.
"A'right, so it looks like your man came in 'bout five months ago, purchased that troublesome old HK-47 droid and some parts for 'is T-350A vaporators. Now, those're some mighty old pieces o' equipment, but ah tell ya, they don't make 'em like they used to. I swear, the old T-300 series could pull a liter from a block o' sandstone the size of your-"
"That's wonderful," Bastila interrupted. "How often does he come here?" she asked.
"Oh, well let me look..."
"Best guess?"
Tannis shrugged. "Ah'd say 'bout once every six or seven months he comes here. Some o' the other places he'll go by a bit more frequently. He don't git grain here, that's for darn sure."
"So he just comes, buys his things with a few dragon pearls, and then leaves? You don't have any idea where he lives?"
"Oh, I 'spect just about everyone knows where he lives; out in the Dune Sea's where!"
"But Tannis has been out to his place once or twice, before," the Ithorian put in.
"Is that so?" Bastila asked the grease-monkey.
Tannis nodded. "Yep. Ah been out there a few times. Didn't always work for Mister' Thorian, ya know; ah used to be with the Czerka surplus market a block over from here. That's where he gits his foodstuffs, and every once in a while needs someone to drive a company vehicle out to 'is place to deliver some goods he couldn't take himself."
"We would really appreciate it if you-" Bastila was interrupted by the sudden chiming of her comlink. "Excuse me." She turned away and opened the channel.
"Bastila, you there?" It was Mission, and she sounded worried.
"Yes, I read you, Mission. What is it?" she said in a low voice.
"I'm with Big Z and Canderous back at the ship. We got all the stuff you wanted us to get; you know, food, and clothes, and stuff. Anyway, we were getting everything onto the ship, and I think someone's been watching us."
Bastila's heart missed a beat. "Say again, Mission?"
"I think someone's watching us. Canderous says he thinks we're 'under surveillance'. Anyway, all I know is Zaalbar saw some creepy-looking guys glancing in our direction, and I don't know, it just feels like there are eyes on me all the time, now."
It really was amazing how even those not sensitive to the Force could still feel its machinations. The girl was in trouble, no doubt about that. "Mission. listen carefully, I want you to get back to ship-"
"Already done."
"Good. You and the others, stay in the ship. Don't do anything on your own, we're coming back to you."
"Bastila, what's going on?" Now she sounded scared. The girl had a better grasp of the situation than she realized.
"Mission, I will deal with this. You just stay put."
"No, tell me what's going on!"
Bastila sighed. "Mission, there is at least one Sith here in Anchorhead. I felt his presence earlier, and it's possible he may have targeted you."
There was a pause on the line. Then a very small, "What do I do?"
"As I said, stay put. I will take care of this."
Another long pause. "Okay."
Bastila clicked the comlink off and returned to the others.
"What was that all about?" Carth asked.
"We have some trouble," she answered. "We'll have to take this up later," she said to Tannis and the Ithorian.
"But-!"
Namenlos stopped her. "Bastila, we can't back out of this now. We're too close." There was such intensity in his face, but as always, it was too narrowly applied. He was not considering the ramifications of his actions, not thinking of others, only himself.
"There is a Sith on the loose in this city, and he has targeted our ship. I have to deal with him or we run the risk of becoming trapped on this planet. And more importantly, Mission's life is potentially at risk."
To her surprise, he didn't argue her point. "Well, then you go. Let's split up," he suggested.
Carth came forward to protest. "Now, wait just a minute-"
"We split up," Namenlos cut him off. "Bastila, you and Carth return to the ship, make sure everything and everyone is safe. Juhani and I will try to find Komad."
Bastila squirmed. The last time she'd left those two alone together, the results had nearly been disastrous. If either of them slipped, even the tiniest bit... she didn't want to think about the consequences.
But the danger was real and potent either way she chose. The Sith presence in Anchorhead was a disturbing reminder of the mission that loomed over all their heads; stopping the Sith crusade. If their ship were taken they would literally be at the mercy of the Sith, trapped and unable to flee. They also needed to find the Star Forge, or their whole purpose here would be for nothing, and Komad was the only lead they had.
She realized Namenlos was correct in his reasoning. Her decision was made. "Carth, you and I will go back to the ship." She silenced his protests with a raised hand and approached Tannis again, preparing to use a little extra persuasion if need be to achieve her ends. "I need you to take my two colleagues to see Komad, please."
As it turned out, no intervention was necessary. Tannis would probably have been happy to do whatever she wanted without much questions. "Sure thing. Like ah said, ah've been there a few times. Gotta warn ya, though, the ol' chap's not used to havin' too many visitors. 'E's a bit eccentric, usually just likes to talk to his trophies when no one's around, which is most o' the time."
Tannis eyed the two Cathar, his gaze spending a little extra time on Juhani's bosom, which drew a glare from Namenlos. "You two don't look dressed for desert travel. That dern sun'll fry the skin right off ya, wearin' stuff like that. Lemme see if ah can find something in the back for ya, and then ah'll warm up the ol' speeder."
Namenlos didn't like this Tannis character, not one bit. It wasn't just his grating voice or his irritating way of speech, his leering eyes, or even his general lack of hygiene. Something about the man put him on edge. His insistent curiosity could be part of it. Tannis chatted almost nonstop while he took him and Juhani through the back of the store, trying to engage them in conversation. He made an especially concerted effort to draw a reaction from Juhani, who feigned ignorance of his thinly-veiled advances.
As he handed them some sort of gauzy linen robes, Tannis noticed the lightsabres hanging at their belts. "So you both're Jedi, ah see?"
Namenlos rudely grabbed the garments from the man's grubby hands, patience wearing thin. "Do I look like Jedi?"
Tannis drew back momentarily, reevaluating. "So, you'd be with the Sith, then?" he offered with much extra caution.
"Do labels really matter? You said you'd take us to see Komad, are you going to do that or are we going to stand here and have pointless chit-chat?" Namenlos retorted roughly.
Getting the message, Tannis snapped back to business. "Alrighty, let me just git ya both into your proper desert garb. It's pretty simple. Ya just wrap it around as best ya can, try to cover as much o' your faces as possible." He demonstrated by draping large doubled folds over each of Namenlos' shoulders and cinching it at the waist with a tan sash, then helped him wind another fold around his head and face. "Why don't ah let you help the lady into hers, and ah'll get the speeder running."
"That would be appreciated, I'm sure we can handle this ourselves," Juhani answered. She put a calming hand on Namenlos' arm, keeping him from voicing the abrasive comment on his lips.
Tannis vanished out the back.
Namenlos buckled his belt around his waist and checked both his weapons out of habit. The desert garb was surprisingly light for its bulk, and it breathed well, actually cooling him instead of locking in the murderous heat. Juhani needed little help to mimic his actions as she dressed herself for desert travel, taking less time than he had to get the whole outfit assembled.
Seeing out the thin gap between folds of the garment gave him a strange sensation, something vaguely familiar which stopped just short of a frail recollection. Thoughts sank back into inky obscurity moments before coming into full light, remaining elusive. It wasn't comforting, but not quite disconcerting either; it was simply odd.
Tannis poked his head back in. He was wearing tan garb of his own, but the drawl of his voice made it easy to tell it was him. "Well, come on, now. Let's take us a little jaunt out to the Dunes, meet us a hermit!"
The speeder looked old and well-worn, but serviceable. Open-air cockpit, with a long, rounded front end and three large engines in the back, it looked like something that had seen hard use
and a reputation for being dependable, but maybe a little finicky. Tannis climbed in the front, into the driver's seat, while Namenlos and Juhani seated themselves in the back. It stuttered at first, then mellowed into a low roar as the loud engines cranked up.
"Sorry 'bout the noise!" Tannis yelled unnecessarily to them.
They stopped only briefly at the gates of the settlement. Tannis moved quickly through after flashing some sort of pass at the Czerka guards stationed at the entrance, and then, abruptly, they were on the dunes, Anchorhead vanishing over the horizon with alarming swiftness. The Dune Sea was before them.
After gunning the engines for a few minutes, Tannis throttled back and let the speeder coast, reducing the awful engine noise by half. The wind was hot and the sun beat down like a physical force, but Namenlos couldn't help noticing the eccentric beauty of the desert, the odd charm that came with rolling dunes as far as the eye could see. It wasn't somewhere he'd like to spend fifty-odd years, but as a spectator, he enjoyed the view.
"Misa," he whispered, not knowing why.
"Pretty nice, ain't it?" Tannis crowed from the front seat. "Most o' this here's Sand People territory. I give it a wide berth, an' we always cut the engines to reduce sound when passin' by, otherwise, they can hear you for miles away. People've been killed who got too close, or made too much noise. If you ain't careful you can run into a sarlacc pit, but don't worry, I won't drive us into any holes. I was a hunter for 'bout ten years..."
He just talked and talked. Namenlos wanted to punch the back of his head, if it would make him stop talking so he could enjoy the scenery. Juhani must have been thinking the same thing, but she did nothing. Their eyes met silently in acknowledgment of each other's exasperation.
"Didn't you say you need to keep the noise down?" Namenlos couldn't help but ask.
Tannis' head flicked back. "Yeah, that's what I'm saying. If you don't cut your engines down quiet—"
"Well, if you're just going to talk so much it's a wonder the whole desert doesn't know we're here!" Namenlos fired at him, unable to contain his irritation any longer.
"I was just pointing out a couple things of interest," Tannis mumbled and quickly fell silent.
Namenlos looked back at Juhani. She might have smiled in relief, it was hard to tell under the desert garb.
The trip took almost two hours, but Tatooine's twin suns weren't close to dipping below the horizon yet. Namenlos saw nothing in sight, but Tannis assured him they were close after moving into the foothills of quite an impressive range of mountains and passing several landmarks—which he fastidiously pointed out.
Tannis slowed the speeder. "Uh-oh," he mumbled.
"What? What is it?" Namenlos growled as Tannis stopped.
"This ain't exactly the way I remember this lookin'."
Namenlos vaulted out of the vehicle and looked around. There was nothing in sight. Only sand, sand, and more sand. There was nothing to indicate anything had ever been here, just a perfect drift of scorching sand.
His hackles rose.