Author's Note:
Sorry about the previous lack of paragraphs. :faceembarrassed: ;)
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◊ CHAPTER EIGHT ◊
"All right! I'm done enterin' it in! Put it with th' others!" Keil crowed when they'd finished organizing the store.
The little girl, who he now knew was named Heather, stood on her tiptoes to put the 0-7-5 G series coolant system on a shelf. Usually when someone was in her position, they staggered, but if he knew one thing about Heather by now, it was that she wasn't ordinary. Not even borderline…
Heather turned sharply, but gracefully. All her movements were fluid, reminding him of Lady Organa and Coral. But whatever skill those women had, Heather surpassed them, each motion blending into the others, inseparable. Occasionally, she would do something suddenly that didn't fit with her smooth pattern, but that was rare. Keil still hadn't asked her about her parents, but from what he'd seen, he was able to guess that she was another Temple castaway, like Coral.
"Is that all?" the nine-year-old asked, fixing her hair with grimy hands. She didn't seem to mind grease and grit. Sometimes, Keil had to remind her to wash up!
"Yep, that's all. Finally!" Letting out an inflated huff, he collapsed absurdly into the chair behind the counter.
The usual luster of her dark eyes brightened, and she smiled. Keil had the impression he was being granted a glimpse of a side to her that rarely surfaced. Casting her head back in a stagy manner, she flung her hand up in the air, saying in a prissy voice, "Oh! I am so tired, Keil! I have absolutely slaved over that computer all day!"
"An' I've been luggin' components all over th' store an' stackin' them!" They both burst out laughing, for they'd reversed their actual roles in those statements. Keil had carried the heavier things, of course, which were few; but Heather couldn't reach the new computer to enter the items. Somehow, she'd convinced Niz to straighten up the store. From the rumors he'd heard concerning Jedi, he was perfectly content not knowing how…
Abruptly, Heather straightened, her face hardening into a mask. Her eyes widened, and if Keil hadn't known any better, he would have called the expression one of fear.
He only had a mere second to glimpse all of this, and the girl vanished into thin air.
Keil started, beginning to look around for her, then stopped, realizing that wasn't a good idea just as a man walked in the door.
He was first struck by the man's eyes, which were of a deep, strong, blue. Royal blue, wasn't it? Those eyes were piercing; and, although they were too dark for that, when they looked at him they reminded Keil of ice…
The second thing he noticed was how much like Ronnie Organa the man appeared. Surely the Lady hadn't—
Suddenly, he realized one more thing: The man resembled Lady Organa!
"Can I help you?" Keil put on his servile smile and bow that Lady Organa had coached him on and that he and Heather had recently practiced, offering each other tips.
"Yes, please. I need an oh-seven-five gee series coolant system; if you have one, that is." The man's voice was colder than his eyes.
Keil nodded. "Oh, we have them."
There was the sound of something falling in the back aisle, the one furthest from the counter. The man whipped about, his hand on his belt, probably near a weapon. "What was that?"
Keil shrugged offhandedly. "Probably my girl. She loves tech stuff, so I let her look 'round all she wants while I'm workin'." He didn't see any point in mentioning that his 'girl' was a youngster he cared for, not a girlfriend.
He strode over to the shelf where Heather had placed the coolant system minutes beforehand. He handed it to the customer while he maneuvered behind the counter. "Here you go, sir. That'll be…" he keyed the item in the computer, "seventy-five credits."
Without a comment, the man wrote out a credit voucher, took the item, and left.
Once the man was out of view, Keil scratched his head, remembering that they'd had more than just one of those coolant systems earlier…
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When Ronnie's grounding was over, he ran out of his room into the living room, catching the tottering lamp himself. It was then he noticed that he was alone. "Mom? Dad?" he called. No response.
He stepped out in the hall, looking both ways. Even the security and attendants were gone!
Then he heard the screams.
He jumped, and ducked behind a small table, gasping in fright. Ronnie plugged his ears, trying in vain to block out the sound. Footsteps hurried his way.
He cowered against the table, making himself as small as possible. Racara appeared suddenly, grabbing his arm and dragging him away, her jaw set.
"Mom?" he whimpered, pleadingly.
The Shi'ido's voice was terse. "She's delusional. C'mon." Her tone left no room for argument.
"What's de—de—"
"Delusional. She's crazy."
When Ronnie heard that, he fought with all he had. "Mom!" he cried. "Let me go! I want Mom!" Suddenly his face stung, and the room whirled. He felt Racara pick him up. "Mom!" he cried once more, giving up when he realized that fighting the Shi'ido was pointless. "Mom," he whimpered, softly, as they left the hall; the door, once closed, blocking out any trace of Mana's screams…
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Mana Lee Organa thrashed, shrieking and screeching unintelligibly. She did, in fact, sound insane.
Yakrino Organa stood at her side, his face dour. He'd tried to get through to her, but she didn't seem to know who he was. The attendants and security were convinced she'd gone daft, and Yak was loath to agree with them. She was sweating up a storm, and at this moment was gripping his shirt front and shaking him as if pleading; for what, none could tell.
She released him, falling hard on her knees. She moaned something that sounded like die or tie, they couldn't quite tell. Mana wept; something Yak was close to doing, himself.
That morning, he'd awaken to Mana's tossing and turning, moaning in her sleep. Believing her to be having a nightmare, he'd prodded her, only to have her twist suddenly, eyes blazing, and wham him across the chest. He winced, massaging the bruise. She'd done a 'good' job.
At that moment, someone entered. Yak sighed, frustrated. He was having a hard enough time keeping the people present from calling a psychologist; he didn't need anyone else!
"By the Force!" he heard a blessedly familiar voice exclaim. "Lady Organa!" Keil stepped forward, gesturing placatingly. "Chill!"
Yak noticed a little girl at Keil's side. Her head was cocked to one side as she frowned, listening to Mana's inarticulate cries. He was about to ask Keil about her when the child's dark brown eyes, her most striking feature, brightened momently. She stepped forward, tapping Mana, who was still on her knees, on the shoulder.
"Tee yan may?" To everyone's surprise, Mana nodded in a desperate manner. Yak noted that the 't' sounded a little like 'd'.
"Sock! Aye yan may key—" Mana broke off, surprised the girl understood her. Everyone realized it was a language Mana had been screeching before, not gibberish, and those who'd insisted Yak call a psychologist felt guilty.
"What are you saying?" Yak murmured.
The girl's face didn't flinch. "She is concerned for or about someone or something."
"What?"
She gave him an incredulous look. "Give a girl a chance to ask, would you? I have said at total of three words to her." The child turned back to Mana. "Tieyin jave aye. Aye tie doe ayen sheev. May key horkan?"
Lady Organa smiled and replied, "Aye may key zo." She shuddered. "Zo lind zov!"
"Drevon's on Alderaan, and she's worried about him contacting the Temple," the child told Yak over her shoulder. "Tieyin may. Zo tieyin rahn key tee. Aye quick zo."
Mana's relief was evident. "Shawn, Heather."
"Sheen, Mistress L—Lady Organa." The girl, apparently named Heather, smiled, but painfully.
Yak took the girl's arm and guided her from the room. Keil followed. "How do you do that?" the changeling inquired. "First, you disappear into thin air. Then, you—"
"Keil!" She interrupted him, her irritated tone making her point with ease: shut up!
Undaunted, Keil continued, although he skipped over some of what he'd been planning to say. "An' now, you're speakin' gibberish with a lady who knows perfectly good Basic!"
"Used to know Basic, you mean." Heather's voice was hushed. "She does not, anymore."
"Why not?" Yak's voice was sharp, suspicious of the girl, although he was smart enough to figure out she was probably from the Temple.
Her wearied gaze fell on him. "Mana has a parasite that blocks the mind and memory. You are pretty lucky. If whoever it was had left the parasite alone, Mana would have total amnesia. As it is, the culprit is a Force user who wanted to make all of you think she was crazy."
"Why would they do that? Wouldn't have been easier to just let her have amnesia? It would have the same effect on all of us!" Yak was a bit skeptical of the girl's conclusions.
"Easier, yes; but only if it were the others who the individual was interested in harming. How would you feel if everyone considered you crazy, but you were not, and you were unable to tell them otherwise?"
Yak had paled. "Of course," she continued. "Once the person realizes you can communicate with her, he will probably 'release the bull', if you take my meaning."
"What about—can't she—can't she be healed, somehow?"
Heather looked down, one bare foot fussing with the carpet.
"Heather!" She turned towards him. "Will my wife recover?"
The girl answered reluctantly. "She will have to heal herself."
"And?" Yak prodded, his patience gone.
"I do not know how to tell her what is wrong with her."
"Just say, 'You have a parasite in your brain.' That's it!"
Heather closed her eyes, sighing. "Sir," she said softly, "I do not know the words for 'parasite' or 'brain' or even 'heal'." Her dark eyes, woebegone, met his. "And there is only one more person who, to my knowledge, speaks this language."
"Who?" Yakrino Organa was getting sick of the girl's 'beating around the bush'.
Her voice tight, she sighed again. "Drevon."
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"What are you going to do to me?" Ronnie asked, a bit fearfully.
Racara's fluorescent green eyes narrowed. "I don't know what happened to Mana, but I'm not letting it happen to you. I'd get your father out of there, too, but he won't leave your mother."
"What about Vici?"
"We're going to get her."
Ronnie was quiet as the Shi'ido hailed a cab. Opening the door, Racara hissed, her right leg buckling.
"What is it?" the boy asked innocently.
"Nothing!" she snapped. She was obviously under extreme stress. She yanked on his arm. "Get in!"
"I'm getting in!" he complained.
"Where to?" the cabby asked gruffly.
"Shishan." Racara answered absentmindedly, not paying attention.
The cabby gave her a strange look. "What was that, again?"
"Pediatric hospital." She didn't even notice that she'd just given their destination in two languages.
Ronnie noticed, however, and gulped, wondering if Racara had the same problem his mother did…
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Inside of a particular 0-7-5 G series coolant system, two minute larvae hatched, one knocking a diminutive switch, igniting a fuse…
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From the way Heather picked at her dinner, none could tell that she was actually quite hungry, having not eaten all day. Yak's shrewd questioning, however, dampened her appetite. She tensed, and glanced around for a chrono. "What time is it?"
"It's seven o'clock. Why?" Yakrino Organa's sharp voice was filled with mistrust. Heather couldn't blame him.
She shrugged. "Just wondering." Her mind worked fast. Seven o'clock… They had been planted at four, would have hatched around six, and had a one-point-three hour fuse… Heather did the math.
Twenty minutes! She gagged, choking on her casserole. Jumping out of her chair, she spit the food into a napkin on her way out. And she still had to find the—to find him! She groaned aloud. Yoda was right; she was an idiot!
Ignoring everyone's cries, she raced down the hall, jumping out a window into the garden, and dashed out of the palace. Hardly a ghost of a wind disturbed those she passed. Once she made it to the bazaar, she slowed down abruptly, controlling her breathing and blending in with the crowd. In less then a second, she'd switched from sprinting to sashaying.
Heather cast a cagey glance over her shoulder as she turned down an alley leading to the city's slums. Within view of a lively bar, she began acting as if she was looking for someone she knew. "Dad?" she called, knowing there was no father to answer her. "Dad?" Her brow was furrowed, and her face showed fear.
The masquerade had the desired effect. A few persons of descriptions that Heather preferred not thinking about showed up.
"Lookin' fo' yo' daddy, sweetie?" A scantily clad woman asked, putting her arms around the girl. Heather, nearly gagging from the woman's rank perfume, nodded. "What's 'e look like?"
Heather made herself tremble as she gestured. "H—he is t—tall, d—d—dark haired, w—with d—deep blue eyes." She gulped, as if nervous. "He was supposed to come for me!" she wailed. "He left me at the library and never came—" She broke off suddenly, an impassive expression momentarily passing over her features before she started sobbing. "He never came back for me! He never—" She buried her face in the woman's skimpy shirt, saturated with the offending perfume.
The woman's hand, loaded with tawdry rings, stroked Heather's hair. "Theah, theah…"
Heather felt the woman trace the design on her hair clip. The woman suddenly held her at arm's length, and squatted to be on her level. Was it her imagination, or did the woman's eye just gleam knowingly?
Whatever it was that the woman knew—or thought she knew— she obviously had enough sense not to parade it in front of the others. She beckoned they go inside. "I'll 'andle this 'ere youn' 'un." The woman led Heather to a side alley, out of the bar's view. "So, Miss…" Here she paused, as if dredging up a memory long kept buried. "Miss Ornar, what brings ya t' this side o' town?"
Heather blinked. Ornar? Where had the woman come up with that? Unless… She reached up and tapped her hair clip, asking, "Morn lin ayen sheev?" This tells (of) my parents?
The woman frowned, and Heather knew her poor grammar was evident. "If ya be askin' if I know yo' family from that clip, then sock, yeah. Ya still ain't told me what ya be doin' 'ere."
"I am looking for my father."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Tell me, Ornar, d' ya even have a daddy?" Her gaze pierced Heather's. "I tho't not. So, ya be lookin' fo' a friend."
Heather hesitated. "Not exactly…"
The brow went up even higher. "An enemy, then?"
Heather got indignant. "I did not say that!"
"No, sweetie, ya tho't it. An' that be all I need t' know." She got up, taking Heather's hand and leading her away. "Ya kin call me Banni."
Banni? Heather thought, wondering if that was her real name. Nee, she knew, meant royal or royalty, but she didn't know what ban meant, if anything. "I am Heather. Heather Ornar, apparently. I… messed with something that belongs to the man I am looking for, and must find it before it… causes harm." Oh, that sounded normal!
"I see."
Probably more than I want you to, Heather realized. You are my species. "What am I?" she asked suddenly, not really meaning to say anything. She recalled Keil's question: 'What are you?'. She hadn't been able to answer him.
"Fallanassi."
Heather stopped, staring in disbelief. "You are kidding." She looked away, then back at Banni. "I mean, I know you are not, but—Fallanassi?" Heather had heard of Fallanassi; they were a supposedly mythical species that everyone believed to have died out centuries ago, if they'd lived at all. Like the Anzati.
Heather suppressed a shudder. Oh, she knew they weren't gone… While she'd been thinking this, Banni had kept walking, so Heather trotted to catch up. "Where are we going?"
"Wheah ya want." Banni didn't seem too happy to be helping Heather. In fact, she seemed to resent it.
"You do not have to help me if you do not want to—"
"That's th' problem!" Banni exploded. "I do have t' help ya 'cause if I don't, I'll git in trouble w' th' Circle! So shut up an' folleh, an' I'll take ya wheah ya need t' go. After that, ya be on yo' own!"
What's the Circle? Heather wondered, but she knew better than to vocalize this thought. Banni… 'Nee' probably means 'regal', for she can't be royalty because she wouldn't have to help me if she were… 'Ban'… Her eyes widened with the surfacing of a memory. 'Ban' means 'slave'! She's a royal bondservant! She scowled. Or a noblewoman that's a slave. Her eyes narrowed as she decided to keep a close eye on 'Banni' from then on…
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Jedi Knight Drevon plugged the new coolant system into his ship. He grinned wickedly. Soon, Alderaan's pathetic scoundrel of a prince would be in the midst of a scandal big enough to sour the planet's reputation for centuries.
His dark blue eyes dimmed momently, reminded of the little Temple brat he'd let slip. She was one of them.
Drevon's lips curled into a snarl as he clenched his fist, envisioning what he'd do with that ban if she led Ornar to him. She'd have to, he knew; she was bound to that despicable family.
So he'd just handle the two of them.