Part II
The day after Dxun…
I caught Bao-Dur talking to Mical and Visas about me in the garage. I couldn't hear anything in particular except for the two words that jump out at me from the crowd of words in a conversation every time. He was asking them about my memory loss. I listened closer and heard his low, melodic voice ask if it's real and how bad it is. But Mical and Visas don't know. No one on the ship does because, as my first Jedi Master once said, 'If you're not part of the solution, then you're part of the problem.' Mical and the Miraluka and all the rest of them were not part of the solution. I heard enough yapping about my wound and my exile and my lack of credibility with a certain Jedi Council to last a lifetime; I didn't need to add pointless questions about my post-war souvenir into the mix too.
But then I heard him ask—or more aptly, wonder aloud—why? He was hurt that I didn't remember him and he wanted to know why. So do I, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him, too, that if anyone was part of the solution, it was him, but I couldn't. There was too much going on with our present quest and the feeling that it would still be terribly awkward remained. Everything I was supposed to know about him was hanging between us.
I walked away from the garage before any of them could notice me with the Force.
The Force. It was everywhere now. Against my better judgement—and very nearly against my will—it was coming back to me, tentatively, cautiously, as though it was afraid of getting hurt again. And not just me. It seemed everyone around me could feel it too. Mira, Atton, Mical and even Bao-Dur. Kreia said it's because of me, because of my wound. I 'influence' people. My decisions are not mine alone, but somehow a joint affair where I can't even pick which set of robes to wear or how much sugar I want in my caffa in the morning without it affecting someone, somewhere on this damn freighter.
Later that night, as Atton plotted the hyperspace route that would take us to Onderon, I crashed into Bao-Dur on my way to my dorm. I rounded the corner and there he was. Being as short as I am, my face collided squarely into his chest and I felt his hands—one warm and real, the other humming mechanically—on my shoulders to steady me.
"Hi," I said, rubbing my nose. From the first I had admired how hard his chest appeared under his tight, dark green shirt. I wondered if that was residue from whatever he and I were during the war, or if it was new. This close up, my nose smarting from the collision, I decided it wasn't really subjective anyway. His body was magnificent, and that was just a fact. I glanced up into his face and my superficial thoughts fled and my heart hammered in my chest. Who was he to me? I wondered. And is he still…?
"I'm glad I found you again, General," he said, interrupting my thoughts.
"Well, this ship is only so big…" I said, with a short laugh he didn't join in on. His expression grew dark and I cleared my throat. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know how you do it. Aren't you bothered by him?"
"Him?" I ask. I plucked the image of Mandalore out of his mind and felt a scowl of frustration emerge onto my face. I don't know what I was expecting him to say to me, but talking about Mandalore was pretty far down on my list.
Bao-Dur regarded me intently and said slowly, "Traveling with him…It brings back too many memories."
I saw what he was doing then, trying to help me, and my scowl slipped. "Consider yourself lucky," I said, my voice betraying me.
A small, sad smile, touched his face, softening it even more under the contrasting sharpness of the horns that jutted from his head.
"There's nothing, General?" he asked, an echo of the conversation I overheard earlier.
"Yeah," I replied. "Nothing."
He nodded and I felt him come to some sort of decision. I hoped it didn't involve him giving up on me but I wasn't good enough with the Force yet to tell.
"I didn't want to talk about the war, but can I ask you something?"
"Sure," I shrugged. "Can't promise I'll have an answer."
"Why did you decide to fight?"
"The Mandalorians had to be stopped."
"Anything else?"
"No, not that I can recall off the top of my head," I snapped. I felt tears spring to my eyes but I willed them away. Not fair, I thought, that he knew all of it and I didn't, and I no longer cared if it was awkward to talk about or not. "What about you?" I demanded. "Why did you fight? Or did we already cover this at some point?"
He appeared as though he hadn't heard my anger and was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then he said, "I remember when word of the Mandalorian attacks arrived on Iridonia. My people had colonies across the Outer Rim. Many of them were the first systems to fall."
Behind his words I heard that we had, indeed, covered this topic before, but I wanted to know him, even if I had to start all over again.
"So you wanted revenge?" I asked in a low tone.
His eyes studied me, boring intently into mine. In the dim light of the corridor, his arm was the brightest illumination, giving his gray skin a silvery cast.
"Yes, General, I fought for revenge. I did not join to protect. I hated the Mandalorians. I wanted to destroy them—to give them the mercy they gave the people they conquered."
Bao-Dur's voice grew low and intense and he unconsciously took a step toward me, backing me against the corridor of the Hawk. I felt that energy between us, like what we had when we first met and my pulse quickened.
"I remember the thrill I felt when we fought them in battle. Victories were rare, but we celebrated every Mandalorian's death. Do you know how it felt? Do you remember, General?"
He was pressed against me now, his right hand flat against the wall beside my head, his left arm held at bay so that it wouldn't burn me. I could feel him urging me to remember, to rekindle some kind of shared ideal between us, but all I could manage was desire for him. Which was considerable.
"I-I don't remember," I whispered.
"That loss of control," he continued, "it turned me into a weapon. It did the same to you, General, but we fought back, the two of us. After the last cup was raised and drunk and the lights were out, we celebrated. You and me."
"We did?" I asked, my voice no more than a whisper.
He nodded.
"How?"
His response was to kiss me, which is exactly what I was hoping for when I asked that question in the first place.
His lips were soft but insistent, and I parted mine readily for him. The warm, heavy stone of my desire settled into my lower belly and I pressed myself against him. I ran my hands over his chest and he took that as a cue to do the same. His hand, his real hand, slipped over my robe and then inside it to cup my breast. I was overcome by a duality of sensations—the thrill of a first kiss, a first touch, and the safe, comforting caresses of a customary lover. Bao-Dur was new and yet familiar to me at the same time.
I didn't know why, exactly, but I expected everything to be come together at that moment. I braced myself for the flood of memories that were sure to add to the trickle that begun when I first met him on Telos. Nothing happened. There was just he and I in that little hallway and my memories remained AWOL. I stiffened and pulled away.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be," he murmured, moving toward me again, but I backed away. The pain in his eyes irritated me. Aloud I said harshly, unfairly, "I don't even know you."
That shot hit its mark and I snapped my jaw shut, too late.
"Yes, you do, General," Bao-Dur replied softly, his voice tight. He began walking away, then, towards the port dorm, or maybe to his garage. "You have to. We saved each other."
That night, as I lay in my bunk, a thousands thoughts and sensations warred within me. I turned Bao-Dur's last words over and over in my head, but they made no sense, and the taste of his mouth on mine was more real than any of the words we exchanged anyway. My hand crept down to finish what he and I started in the hallway, but sleep, somehow, claimed me quick. But that turned out to be all right; the memories that were revived in my dreams were a thousand times better than anything I had planned for myself.
It rains on Dxun nearly every hour. The lush, green foliage is everywhere and there's water in the hot air. Insects chirp and hum and buzz in a symphony of raw, instinctual music, their discordant harmonies swimming around us until that rain comes. Then the only sound is the patter of thousand drops on the broad, flat leaves…and against the armor of my helmet.
Crouching low, I make a furtive gesture with my hand, once, then twice. Instantly, soldiers, their armor a green camouflage, detach themselves from the scene around me and take up the positions I ordered. Bao-Dur is on my right. He is always on my right. Out here, in hot, thick air, I breathe easier when he is beside me. Hell, even in base camp, in the chow line, during drill runs—I am happier with him beside me. When he is off repairing some damaged valve or turbo-lift or any of a thousand other tasks that require his expertise, I become annoyed, uneasy. I snap at my men more than usual. People are starting to talk about us behind my back, but I don't care. We haven't broken any rules, I just feel safer when he's around. If the price of that security is a petty rumor or two, I gladly pay it.
Beside me on my left is Private Faldoon. Faldoon is a short, ebon-skinned soldier who tells the most obscenely filthy jokes as if he were describing the weather. I liked him instantly and so he's always on my left…until the Mandalorians roar out of the green in front of us and then Faldoon's blood smatters my face and helmet like the rain.
I scream in protest and my repeater screams with me. Those sounds serve as our battle cry—my orders for my men to attack. But they don't need any incentive. The Mandalorians are pouring out of the forest, stepping out of their stealth field generators like phantoms slipping into corporeal skin.
All around me are the sounds of blasters firing, men screaming in death or in bloodlust. The green foliage is crushed under booted feet, splattered with blood, and torn apart by our weapons. The Mandalorians are bolder than any other enemy I have ever faced. They don't take cover like we do, but march steadfastly ahead, mowing down any who get in their way.
I think that this is the end, that this battle is going to finish me, but then I feel a burning sensation in my stomach, as though I'd swallowed a smoldering ember. At first, I honestly think I've been shot, but then I recognize it as the same intense feeling of absolute rage that I felt when word of the first Mandalorian attacks came to Dantooine.
A ragged, primal scream tears out of me and I lift my repeater to my cheek. Every Mandalorian who comes within my sights is felled by it…or the repeater blasting next to me. A quick glance to my right shows me Bao-Dur. He is roaring with the same kind of ferocity that tells me he has the rage burning in him too. His normally serene face is a mask of hatred and for the first time, I really see the sharp points of his horns, and the way his tattoos stand out, stark and black on his pale face. Every squeeze of his trigger is for Iridonia. Mine is for those who have not yet fallen. To me, every dead Mandalorian is a score of his victims spared, and both Bao-Dur and I do not stop firing until the jungle is still and silent, and the rain puddles are red with the blood of our enemies.
But my anger is not sated, it only burns hotter and brighter for our victory and I mutter the Code, mostly because I know it's what I'm supposed to do in a time like this, but it doesn't help. I am less a Jedi every day. I glance at Bao-Dur and see the same fire burning in his eyes. My mumbling of the Code becomes a curse because even in victory, there is no relief for either of us.
That night, the regiment celebrates our victory. Tankards of Tarisian ale are clashed together to spill their frothy contents down the arms of celebrants. Someone is playing a Kloo horn, someone else has pulled a female into his arms and so there is dancing. A bonfire is lit and the light of the flames cast dancing shadows over the base and color the faces of my men and women gold and red.
My regiment hails me for leading them to victory. I salute them in return for making their stand and showing the Mandalorians that Dxun has not yet fallen. I do not say that the battles are done and the jungle moon is ours. They know that truth—that battle will come again and the victory we have stolen today is one small, bright spot in a canopy of black space. We can't hope to hold Dxun much longer, but we did today, and that's all that matters. We are alive. We may not be tomorrow, but tonight belongs to us.
With these thoughts in my head, I find Bao-Dur standing off to the side, alone, as is his wont. He sips from his tankard watching the fire, and I see him savoring what he can out of this victory, even if his voice does not join those shouting our triumph to the night.
I approach him and he says nothing, but when I meet his eyes, my legs go weak and rubbery at the look in them.
"General," he says in that silky voice that is utterly unique to him.
"Why don't you ever call me by my name?" I ask, stepping closer to him.
"Because you're my general," he says.
"Not tonight," I hear myself reply.
As soon as those words leave my mouth, he tosses aside his ale and hauls me towards him. My heart is pounding and I am so conscious of his nearness, I forget everything else. All these weeks of long conversations and chaste moments of friendship between us are suddenly not enough. I want more—I want him— and so when he kisses me hard, urgently, I don't fight it. I kiss him back, tasting the ale on his lips and tongue, and feeling his muscular arms wrap around my waist.
My hands travel up his broad shoulders and to the back of his head. I touch one of his horns, running my palm over it, and he moans into my mouth. His kisses become almost violent and I can't stand the feel of my armored vest against his chest. I want his skin on mine, I want to feel the blood coursing through him and his heart pumping in time to my own.
I take him by the hand and we sneak hurriedly through the base. Most everyone but a few sentries are taking part in the revelries, and though my desire is making me careless, I'm still wary enough to keep us from getting caught. It's not allowed, what we're about to do, and though I spend my days barking orders and rules at my men and expect them to be followed without question, tonight I am going to break them. The rules, the Code, everything is meaningless compared to the warm, strong hand that's holding mine as we run.
Inside my tent, our clothes are stripped away and I lay back on my bunk, drawing him down on top of me. I feel the weight of him, and my arms wrap tightly around his neck, holding him to me. Every part of him is big and thick and heavy, and I'm glad of it. I need the contact of another life—I need the irrefutable presence of him pressed to me and inside me, so that the terrible hollow ache will go away, if only for these few stolen moments.
He moves slowly at first and then faster, until it's all I can do to keep from crying out in ecstasy. But I can't cry out because if anyone heard us, we'd both be sent to the stockade and then he'd be taken away from me. Instead, I gasp his name and feel his pleasure, both physical and emotional, surging over me. He is pleased to hear me breathe his name and he kisses me long and hard until it is over, and then we lie with our limbs entwined and our skin bathed in sweat.
In the wee hours before dawn, he doesn't say anything as he dresses to leave. I don't say anything either, but lie still and watch him go, my body aching pleasantly and missing him already. I miss him too, but the next night he returns…and the night after, and the night after that. He slips into my tent through the back long after lights out, and stays until just before first dawn. Sometimes we fuck with no word or further ado, me bent over the footlocker and he with a secure grip on my hips. Other times, he is gentle with me, sliding into bed beside me and laying kisses up and down my spine until I am half out of my mind for him. I don't care either way, gentle or hard, I just want him. I need him. Bao-Dur is the one solid, real thing I have in this whirling chaos of war.
In an environment where life is snuffed out on a daily basis, it's the nights with him that remind me I am still alive.
I woke with a start and banged my head on the bunk above mine. Visas was in it, sleeping soundlessly while Mira tossed and turned restlessly on the other side, but neither woke with me. Rubbing my forehead and muttering a curse, I drew on my outer robe and crept out of the dorm.
The Force told me I would find him in the garage. I stood in the doorway, watching him. His artificial arm cast a blue-white glow, and looking at it I realized that for all the memories that were returning, I still had a long way to go. But at least now, I thought, I had some firmer ground to stand on. Thanks to him.
"Bao-Dur," I said, and he turned. His remote beeped some sort of greeting, I supposed. I couldn't be sure since, like its creator, it couldn't manage to say my name either.
"I didn't see you there, General," Bao-Dur said, his thick voice low with fatigue. He must have been awake a long while, working here, I realized. It's time for him to go to bed.
I stepped into the room and he put the hydrospanner he'd been working with on the table. He knows I know now, I thought, but thinking, right then, was not terribly important.
"I remember Dxun," I said. "I remember us."
The smile that came to his face was beautiful but fleeting. "There's more, General," he said. "My arm, your wound. That Force-forsaken machine I built."
"Sssh," I admonished. "I know. But let's just celebrate this small victory for now," I said, slipping into his arms.
"Just you and me, like we used to."