"Many cultures tolerate, even cherish naiveté in youth," one Jedi Master pontificated to an unseen audience. "The same rarely becomes an adult. In leaders, the attribute is unforgivable."
Imaginary note-takers nodded, more from lethargy than agreement. Upon The Desk, tasks that were within the Jedi's purview lounged in a pile, demonstrating the girth and mobility of a well-to-do Hutt.
"I didn't think it was going to be all smiles and gotta-gos. But this" -- she shook a datapad hard enough to rearrange ones and zeros -- "this is ridiculous!"
The victim bleeped a mild once before resuming its complacent stare. The superego glared with a deluge of missing sympathy. Reni felt her mouth stretch.
"At least no-one's here to see you make faces, 'General'," she tried a minute later.
The fall of head into hands muffled a groan. It had never failed her before -- humor, that is, not the torture of inanimate objects.
"General?"
She didn't bother moving. "What do you think, Bao-Dur? How many robes in the 'hypothetical annual stipend' of an 'active Jedi Knight'? Why brown? Need some meaningful lines on brown. And oh, should the Order go for offers from Ayelixe Fabrico, or stick to appearances of neutrality?"
"General?" Hesitation stippled the calm she lived in perpetual envy of.
Reni forced herself to face her superior in patience, but not without the fortification of one last scrub. He raised an eyebrow, but suffered to be waved towards an opposite chair.
Repliwood desk, port-side starscape -- all trappings of a rather prime location aboard the Engarde. For some unexplained reason, its Admiral had seemed fine with letting his ship be hijacked as base of operations for a cause he had no reason to champion.
The so-called Jedi Master was not ungrateful. She was grateful. She just ofttimes had to remind herself not to twirl on the neat revolving chair.
Swinging your legs counts too, an unnamed body admonished.
"Sorry, Bao-Dur. Bet you are relieved to have me out from underfoot, seeing as all I ever do in company these days is complain."
He frowned, but she permitted no pause for reply.
"Carth's kids have been sharing nicely, haven't they? Doz-Halk tells me you've shamed them into better shape than she'd forecast for in years."
"Doz-Halk says that of all raw recruits. They only need experience, perhaps a few pointers."
"And he's modest, no less!" Though fated to transience, her smile was a genuine. "What do you think of Carth? Carth is one of the most capable commanders I have ever met."
Bao-Dur folded his hands, nodded once.
"We, uh, talked a little. Telos is his home world, did you know?"
Still in silent mode (not that he had been given much leave otherwise), her nominal subordinate shrugged. Any other might have pretended intrigue, if only for politeness' sake, but the Iridonian's constitutional honesty was one of all that made him indispensable to her.
It is not always about you, 'General'.
"You probably know much better than me all that he's done for the planet. And he, Carth has spoken much of the value of your efforts. I know you haven't interacted all that much, but you like him, don't you?" The last came perilously close blurting, and Reni had to work at suppressing reflexive blabber.
More blabber, you mean.
Internal review at last caught up, and the battle became one of denying retreat to under the table. Could you be any more transparent? the part unfettered by pride wailed.
Amber eyes assessed her with a strange intensity. "So far, his actions have been honorable," was apparently all that caution allowed.
"I'm glad you think so too." Reni had to remind herself to tone down. "Carth is prepared to go to lengths to see Telos recover. He would jump at the chance to help set you up. He knows things, people, he can get you where it counts."
Some idiotic sentiment that needed approval on the other man's behalf blundered on even as she winced. "All this drudge repair-work is beneath your skills, Bao-Dur. It has been too long, but I haven't forgotten how alive you were back when... well, this time, this project would be one for unequivocal good, don't you think? The people working on this are the best, and not only in skills. Plus, I know how much you've missed the Pair, as much they've missed you. You'll put a permanent smile on their faces just by staying in the same sector..."
It did not bode well, his inscrutable wait until the words dried in her mouth. She was so carelessly accustomed to being able to read this man, that withdrawal of the privilege spun the universe.
"You gave me your word, General." The chill in his voice physically crawled up her spine.
"Bao-Dur..."
"Are you sending me away?" he asked.
Are you going back on your word? she heard.
The tech's intelligence had always loped alongside her own. Why did he refuse to see? Of all times, why now?
"Bao-Dur..."
"I just need a 'yes' or 'no', General."
"Y--y..."
Eyes slipped shut in defeat. Against Reni's will, somebody's lips trembled out a negative.
"Then there is no use rehashing this."
He walked out. The indentation on the vacated seat rose slowly, then stayed flat for many minutes.
It occurred that she had not asked why he had walked in.
"Master Jedi." The sentient's vocal range was shrill to Human ears, even after efforts by Senator and delegation to modulate. "The" -- insert syllables that defeated the single-tongued -- "may not be one of the more visible in this galaxy, but we are a people with a long tradition of..."
Reni nursed a terminally ill smile and tried not to glance at the monstrosity of a chrono cutting off the woman's circulation. The one built into her brain had sufficed to set combat strikes by, so it had to be the mechanical one at fault. Too many weeks older and tangibly less wise of such scenes, she would not have put it past species Politico to run on deliberately slower circuits, anyway.
A unnecessarily stealthy glance confirmed that Mandalore stood still where last recorded, glowering invisibly but not impalpably behind the coveted helm. He had turned out to be the only one of her companions to possess both the time and inclination to prove that misery shared was not misery lessened.
That is to say, the "inclination" part was debatable. His persistence quite likely served only because he wanted a more convenient venue to exhibit his anger. No directions were required to scope his target -- nobody, least of all self, was particularly pleased with the Exile of late.
Stop cringing. You are not some neglected youngling to be begging for approval.
Knowing one's shorts and doing something about them were two disjoint strains of bantha, or so ran her latest excuses.
The Senator moved her lower-arms to beneath her lower-breasts, followed by upper-arms to the set above it. Reni kept eyes firmly away from a mane which she was convinced swished by volition. She only hoped that eye-contact did not constitute something like a death-challenge to this species.
HK-47 could have come in useful. Unfortunately, his circuits were currently maxed out with the formulation of ways to be as un-useful as programming allowed.
Even the droid knows to rebel. Droll.
"You are of course familiar with recent events that have given beings cause to be wary. If the Jedi truly wish to re-establish their presence, perhaps they would be wise to consider relocation. The" -- another tangle Reni blamed on the inadequacies of the Human brain -- "is a beautiful system, rich in people and resources. You must have heard of our fabled..."
Stop griping. Would you rather it be Senator Kesy'na'a? Simultaneous to suppressing one shudder, Reni juggled one nod plus one attempt to fashion the Force into ear-buffers. The alien's voice phased in and out as talent wobbled around an uncertain medium.
Pay attention! rapped over mental knuckles. It is only the future of all Force Sensitives in this galaxy that is being discussed. Or are you above such worldly concerns, 'Jedi Master'?
The accused retracted guilty thoughts, and put them to wondering if this is how multiple personalities were made.
It is not as if it is anything but "if" this, "perhaps" that, "maybe" some other thing. We are wasting time--
We are scouting the field! Did you expect to camp outside the Galactic Senate until some unknowing soul takes pity?
I know, I know already! But this isn't wh--
interlude
"--isn't what I should be doing."
As per temperament, the narrowing eyes formed pools of scalding chokolate. Ever since another had labeled their owner "Princess", the Jedi-Who-Wasn't had found it impossible to resist locating the million plus one details arguing for it.
"Typical." Lilt lifted the word into realms aspired to by public speakers. "It has never been your place to solve problems, has it? Only to complain about them."
"I don't need to remind you of who it was who remained behind."
"Yes, you need not. We both know which is the more difficult task -- staying to handle the consequences, or dashing off to wreak more harm than you can claim to have solved!"
"I regret many things. The necessity of action is not one of them."
Lips of a color that, if not externally wrought, might well inspire efforts to replicate such. Their current curl, though, was less than congenial and entirely irreproducible. "It was too much to hope that you might learn from your mistakes. I can only pray the Force that the galaxy survives more lessons that benefit none but you."
The Jedi-Not grew aware of a quiet thunder. "Make your point, or leave it. Obfuscation is another lesson I fail to appreciate."
"It's always about you, isn't it? What of these 'students' of yours, whom you would stage as founders of the new Order? What do they have to say on the matter?"
"I have made no choices for them."
"What choices have you left them? What choices will they have when the Senate laughs at their faces, or the Sith seduces with promises of guidance? What will you do then, but be just as quick to abandon them? Exactly like you abandoned those who called themselves your friends, your teach--"
"Enough!" The atypical volume drew a flinch from the aristocratically-boned face and unwelcome pleasure from the Jedi-Not. The latter continued at a temperature deliberately opposite to the former's. "What would you prefer I do? All beings must forge their own futures. I won't take that freedom from them."
"These are not your children! You don't even have the years to pretend to be capable of standing in for--" Lines pinched a flawless brow, and the Princess paused for a half-second. "It is not 'freedom' that you're leaving them, only responsibilities that were never theirs in the first place."
"Responsibility belongs to those brave enough to answer."
"Then, by your own admission, you are a coward of the worse sort."
If intended, the strike was miscalculated. "Have I ever claimed otherwise?"
Aether almost shivered, but the Princess reined in. Tresses shook wardingly from side to side. "They said you had changed," she complained to some inner council. "The War, the Exile... but no, you are exactly the same cold, calculating..."
Her focus swung back outwards the moment logical conclusion arrived.
"It is because of you they are no longer with us! Because of you, that over three-quarters of ours are gone, and the rest-- let me tell you exactly what you left in your wake, Exile. We, who used to be icons, we now skulk amongst pariahs, not knowing what to fear most. The Sith, who would devour us to the last child? The mercenaries, who would slaughter us for pittance? Or the common people, who would exterminate those they see as a curse? The Force abandoned you for your despicable actions, but you have forced us into pretending to be blind."
"If you will not change, then hear this, 'General'. You need us to resurface? Jedi do not trust easily these days. You would throw upon us ill-trained Padawans? I can assure you these 'New Jedi' will fail."
"Leave, and know that there will be nothing when you return. If you even have it in you to bother."
end interlude
--whatever is necessary, insisted second-self. Your lot has always been to do whatever is necessary.
Eyes slid shut, only to fly open as brain recalled the existence of company. In the midst of her grappling, Reni was pathetically grateful when a tall Bothan scurried up ("tall", meaning that politeness did not require her to stoop).
"Pardon the intrusion, Senator" he began with a toothy grin for the addressed, then proceeded to lay out all twenty-two syllables to perfection. "I have only just been told my schedule has been cut short, and, well, you know how it is. Would you permit me to steal this charming young woman away for a few minutes? Oh, not long, I'll never hear the end of it otherwise. 'Fifteen-hundred hours, my aides say, and stars help me if I delay by so much as one precious minute. You don't mind, do you? Most gracious, thank you."
Reni managed to draw half a breath and issue one bow, or as well as a one-headed could while being hurried in the opposite direction.
"Ah," her rescuer uttered at journey's end, contentment needing no translation. He propped upon a stool, signaled the barkeep, and refused to expound until she was similarly settled.
Since he seemed inclined to savor his drink indefinitely, Reni ventured to open. "My, uh, thanks, Senator..."
He employed the mystery red goop in a dramatic little flourish. "Besk Arr'skra, at your service. And please, anything but 'Senator'."
Both charm and modesty were undoubtedly practiced, but Reni found herself put at ease nevertheless. "Only if it is 'Reni'," she countered. "Though I could be persuaded to invest in a flex-mask or two right now. Or maybe a makeover."
Laughter followed well-concealed startlement. "My sources were right about you, I see. But of course, how could any less be expected of the founder of such a delightful establishment?" Alien physiology was hard to read, but his eyes made a good show of twinkling.
"This? No, no, all credits go to Atton Rand and Bao-Dur," she protested, with pride. "I am just here to look ugly."
"Hmm? We have to work on your self-image, chumani." He waggled a clawed finger in parody of the Human gesture, then drew out a sip. "Ah. So. It is 'Jedi Rand' whom my gustatory organs have to thank, eh."
Besk seemed to find the conjugation amusing in the extreme, and Reni wondered "Did you know him, before?"
"'Before', as in some deep, mysterious past before being reborn Jedi? Haven't a clue," was the Bothan's cheerful confession, made in a tone that suggested much joy in the finding out. "Had a round or two late last night. Hmmm. Might have been three, or early this morning. Anyway, here was this Human with the Paza'ak deck, who didn't see fit to remind me of the 'Jedi' or 'boss' parts, mind you. Jedi modesty, one supposes."
The Exile watched the Senator segue from stern to mischief, mesmerized by his fluency in alien body-language. He flourished with a suggestive wink.
"Fascinating fellow. Just the right amount of shifty to not be tedious, if you like. The kind nice ladies like yourself all fall for, no? Heh. I'm not complaining. If it weren't for him, I'd still be languishing in the bore that Citadel Station was."
As little as she cared for cantinas and their ilk, one of Reni's specialties involved peeking from the other vantage. "Ground Zero of two major Sith attacks" did not sound like a particularly catchy line for tourists, or settlers, but "Site of historic Republic-Jedi negotiations" seemed more likely to appeal.
The "delightful establishment" hosting the latest ambassadorial party was an odd and oddly charming mix of realism and escapism. Darth Nihilus had, amongst sundry accomplishments, carved out Czerka Corporation's lack of integrity in a structural language. Sheared bulkheads and melt-frozen ceramisteel remained as testimony, not to mention the floor Senator and Jedi had just braved. Less "deck" and more imagination, it was an airy collaboration of shields and flexiglass. Only those with utmost confidence in Bao-Dur's wizardry -- or a suppressed sense of self-preservation -- perambulated with nonchalance.
Unique in its lack of apology, the locale struck a theme close to the Telosian heart. One could touch the permanence of scars in each blaster-painting. One could breathe the hope caged delicately within its slipshod bubble.
If nothing else, The Fall lived up to title.
Having downed the last questionably orange dreg, the Senator set his glass down with a clink. "Mmph. Outer Rim Rum Drop. I'd ask if you'd like a shot, but I've heard that Jedi don't...? Makes a person wonder how our good Jedi Rand managed to come up with such an... eclectic menu."
That's it? That's all you wonder about? What about the idea, permission, funds? A certain tech's cooperation? The Exile permitted a shrug. "I am still at the 'astounded' stage."
"Ah, yes. Quite different, these Padawans of yours. Though you don't exactly make a case for status quo yourself, eh, Master Renani? Your appearance caused me to become quite embarrassingly discombobulated earlier, you know. We rabble tend to have mental holos of Jedi Masters that are, ahem. Let's just say that a pretty young thing like you doesn't exactly leap into mind."
"For some mysterious Jedi reason, I doubt if you have been 'discombobulated' a day in your life, Senator Arr'skra. Unless your audience was properly appreciative of the effort, of course."
Fur-rimmed ears flattened sideways, and Reni froze. That is not my mouth, her unpaid judge, jury, and executioner pronounced.
"Well! I must protest, Master Jedi. Are you accusing me of being a politician?"
"I, I'm sorry, I am usually not so unwarrantedly familiar with--"
First one, then the other pointed ear reversed position, but asymmetrically so as to produce a lopsided end effect. "Ah ah, tsk. Call me 'stranger' now, and you shall truly break my heart."
Muscles relaxed more than they had done in weeks, even while purportedly asleep. Finding herself victim of an irrepressible smile, the Exile shook her head admonishingly.
She had many less-than-noble causes to wish a prolonged tête-à-tête, but "I hope the fifteen hundred was just a, uh, small misdirection?"
The Bothan bore no visible chrono, and made no referrals to an invisible one. Reni imagined the supposed aides to have much to say on that; the Senator however seemed to rely blithely on her word. "Sadly, no. Blasted things, clocks. Want to throw the galaxy into chaos? Take away the ability to run things on schedule, and your work is ninety-nined, I swear."
"Are you sure it's wise, revealing that to a Force-user in a position of some power?"
"Of course it isn't. I'm scheduled to go down in history as a schutta of the n-th degree." Then his tone and face fell, alerting said Jedi to the probable vector of two shorter Bothans. "Ah, right. Business, business, is it any wonder the average Core-Worlder requires counseling at least thrice per lifetime? Who could help getting depressed if they have to leave such fine ladies ten minutes after meeting them? The next time they" -- the accused being well within earshot -- "let me out, you'll have digested a whole adventure across the Outer Rim."
Reni could not help an attack of wistfulness. "I think your playtime will come far before mine, Besk. So feel free to perform another rescue or two if you get to stop by."
Jovial eyes sharpened. "Ah. About your situa---"
He never made the finish line.
Besk Arr'skra was a rare product of his culture, in that he could care less about games of intrigue and power. That said, his choice of career did not truly present a contradiction. The Senator considered himself foremost a connoisseur, and what better seats were there to the grand theater of sentient behavior?
Of course, even the court jester must know enough lest it be the door or sarlaac pit, and so it was that Besk had osmotically come by a modest array of reading skills. What little literature there was on the antics of the Jedi community was always a fun romp; he would sooner have surrendered that last crate of Cassandran choholl to you-know-who than miss out on the "informal gatherings" that were all the talk amongst his latest circle.
Two earfuls (in tandem) plus a tedious trip had been one of his more profitable sacrifices. He had not expected the Jedi Exile to be so amusing, in itself a fact worth half his official wage.
He had definitely not expected the bonus of a never-in-most-lifetimes experience.
Senator Arr'skra had been told to "shut up" a respectable number of times, the larger portion couched in less polite terms. Even the good-old-fashioned rag in the mouth had not managed to make him shut up at first try -- groans and grumbles counted, didn't they?
He was completely, utterly silent now. "Not a blink" came to mind, which led him to worry whether the eyes were drying out while temporarily (one hoped) outside the yen.
His new acquaintance seemed unfazed by his sudden shift in verbosity, as well she might. Besk Arr'skra had been known to be wrong on occasion, but he didn't think he was wrong in assignment of blame this time. Otherwise, he might soon be in the unpleasant position of making his aides ecstatic by swearing off Rum Drops.
He went so far as to reflect that his current predicament, while not one to boast of in resumes, nevertheless did not seem overly dire. That was before he watched an impossibly swift form vault eight meters towards the far corner of the room.
When it resumed, his shuttle of thought had been spun around to the inverse conclusion: he should have waited to purchase the holorecord.
"--only 'Telosian entrepreneurs'. What laser-brains came up with that, I ask you? Like every Eriaduian rat and a half hasn't already fled the metropolis. Anyways, remember this Domo fellow of Vogga's who was all about to pull out his headtails after Reni. Guess where his--"
Mira the huntress had learned the easy way (through other people's experience) that no kernel of information deserved the fate of orphans on Nar Shaddaa. In fact, it was usually the obscure tidbits that landed the bounty, so it was with no hardship that she granted Atton Rand her immediate attention.
It followed that it was no insult when, midway through his sentence, she sprinted off as if a dozen mad Wookiees were on her tail.
Her partner-in-conversation, though, both failed to share the philosophy and was no miser with opinion after he caught up. Mira glared more at the apparent lack of effort than the habitual grouching; she was in no mood to be reminded of her stature. "Space it, Atton. There's something happening in there!"
"Sure there is." He eyed the sub-sized portal with disdain. "It's called 'death by politics', sweets. Where they talk and talk and" -- he obliged with an analogy she would not repeat even to Hanharr -- "until you'd be happy to drill your own head just to get rid of the overflow." The rogue grinned, then added an afterthought "Pardon the language."
The huntress powered up blasters, both those in hand and the pair heredity had installed. A triumphant part noted that the pilot's holsters was no slower in emptying. They shared a grim nod, each scoping one side of the door before venturing in.
Generic Bith tunes underlay the cackle of mixed tongues and verbal ranges. A dozen awkward incarnations of youth loitered, more intent on school-issue nota-pads than ones used for taking orders. Occasional outbursts from the nominally adult population could be deduced from the pattern of proto-journalist clusters.
All in all, as peaceful a tableau as one could expect of an inter-galactic, "censors off" gathering.
"You coulda just said you don't like the music," the proprietor complained, but delivered it sotto voce.
Mira weighed their options. "Intergalactic incident" burnt the one hand, depending on (in)ability to explain away back door and self-granted exception to a "no weapons, no exception" policy. "Intergalactic incident" froze the other, provided that premonition was right about an unhelpfully non-manifest threat.
How does 'the Force made me do it' sound?
Before her next thought arrived, a blur of burgundy nearly took out a red Twi'lek. By the time the worthy managed a scream out of an already open mouth, more on-time yells had marked the robed figure's destination. For the deaf, there were also telltale flashes of light.
Dilemma solved, the two unofficial Jedi made short work of intervening space, seeing as they could not do the same with time.
Only one of them arrived. It occurred to Mira halfway that mindless scurry was not the most praiseworthy of strategies, and Atton apparently picked up the same. He made a hideous face, but did not protest that longer legs were better put to the longer circuit.
While skirting endless clumps of hysterical beings, Mira vowed that he would get no sympathy from her. The bounty huntress was not fond of admitting when another was more suited for a job. Then she was staring at the gaily-plumed diplomat prone at the Jedi Master's feet, plus the body of a kid who couldn't be more than fourteen, and admitted to other motivations for wanting to shirk this duty.
There was no blood. That would be too normal, too much a concession to the fact that death did in fact hurt.
The Exile didn't so much as blink. Whiter and fatter than her signature silver lethals, the blade made a mask of her face and black holes of her eyes. The effect lasted one scant second before evidence winked out.
Of course, the bounty huntress knew better than to expect a greeting, polite or otherwise. The hiss demanding grenades didn't count.
Mira's eyes widened. Granted, she had been guilty of a thought or two these past weeks on whether the pilot or his (to all appearances) unreciprocated love interest was the one to fill her worry quota with. Still-- "Shebs, have you gone Sith?" mouth protested, even as hand reached into the pack of nasties that habit kept.
The older woman coated the proffering with disgust. "Adhesives," was the terse clarification.
"Oh. Um. Right." Her own unthinking complaisance unnerved her, and Mira wondered for one shaking moment if the Exile was employing some kind of mind trick. That fabled Jedi skill was the one subject the Master refused to even mention in passing.
That plus an assortment of worries did not last long, if only because events derailed thought.
An unexpected spasm overtook her lungs, breath suddenly as precarious as silence on Nar Shaddaa. She proceeded to realize that much of what she had condemned as mindless panic was actually parallel distress.
Jedi Master Renani, champion of the masses, began a liberal distribution of grenades. The strands constricted around limbs smooth and scaled, hardened over toes and hoofs. There was an intake of collective shock, from which Mira deduced that she need not fear being swamped by embarrassingly grateful beings.
"Hey!" scraped from the huntress' throat as the Exile starting shooting at thin air, not even appearing to aim. Given that she had more than threatened any and all who presumed to touch the very weapons the woman had so casually annexed, she congratulated herself on restraint.
The fact that her lungs were busy turning themselves inside out might have helped with the lack of verbiage.
A chain of sparks overruled those Mira were already seeing. Within moments, "thin air" became a diminishing reality. After the next few, the insatiable tractor beam of vacuum had drawn her halfway across the floor before she was even aware. Hands scrabbled instinctively for something, anything, so long as it postponed the inevitable.
She found another's hand, or perhaps it found her.
Heedless of byplays, the drama continued. There was another series of massive discharges, the first of electricity, the second of pure, unsullied oxygen. Mira didn't even begrudge the seventy (or was it eighty?) percent of "useless" atmosphere her fellow sufferers might have found more gratifying.
An external force hauled her to her feet.
"If, ack, gah." An impressive bout of hacking followed, but did not seem to deter speech. "If you wanted to hold hands, Mir, asking would've done it."
The huntress opened her eyes, the better to demonstrate disdain. "Keep it up, flyboy, and I'll leave you in that gunk." The fact that she managed one whole octave lower than usual was not the only incentive to curb elaborate threats.
Atton made some nifty come-back, but for once Mira was too busy to take note. After a judicious touch of Force, she concentrated on mental relief. Poisoning, foiled. Intergalactic incident, sidelined. Jedi Master, not demonstrably unbalanced.
Time to relax the rigor mortis her fingers had on a certain rogue's grip, right?
An unmistakable suit tramped into view. With the near-lost luxury of hindsight, Mira processed that the shots which had taken out the shield generators had not all been from her conscripted instrument. She took the Mandalorian's presence on stride, though. It was a given that the Exile trusted him despite -- or, more likely, in spite -- that nobody else did.
As they approached, the Jedi Master fell breakneck out of trance. Mira started a protest on behalf of one rudely discarded micro-pulse blaster, but never made it to deliver.
Vacant on descent, the Exile's hand rose extended by a spear of light that terminated two centimeters from the Mandalorian's throat. The man did not outwardly react, but she noticed that he held very, very still.
The huntress had actually been less surprised when demanded for grenades to use on a crowd.
The white beam vanished. The threat did not.
Many beings tended to lump Mandalorian disregard of fear together with Iridorian disregard for life. Mira knew better. Suicide for atonement was a respected thing, suicide by default was about as despised as death via stupidity.
She found the scene completely senseless. The Exile did not go about threatening her allies. The Mandalore did not stand calmly waiting for slaughter.
Yet here they were, and yes they did.
Guttural consonants traveled a possibly unintended distance through the pocket silence. The chill of the Exile's glare was louder still. Mira glanced around in order to be dismayed that the state of their fine laundry had not detained any from their duty of witnessing the spectacle.
Atton doled a tidbit of attention sideways, but she scowled. "You want a personal translator, go invest in a datapad," she hissed by his ear.
When he opened his mouth, she would have kicked him but for the threat of ensuing complaints. "Fine! Just keep it down. It was 'eternal vigilant', or something. And no! How am I supposed know what her Jediness means? This is the Exile talking. And if you're gonna wisecrack about how I'm a Jedi now myself, of all the--"
"Kessel! I didn't ask for your pants, too. What happened to 'keep it down', sister?"
The huntress prepped a pointed silence. It arrowed off to nowhere, the fellow's line-of-sight having already reverted.
The two principals turned as one to leave, heedless equally of laments and demands. Slump banished from square shoulders, drag dispelled from brisk feet, the Exile strode as if she had rediscovered purpose in altercation. That non-simple fact shook the huntress in a Hanharr-grip.
The audience was glued in place. Atton Rand was no exception, even the version with "Jedi" prefixed, but dark eyes clung to every ripple of the woman's passage. He, Mira decided, was without doubt the most unflattering company a girl could keep. What she couldn't decide on was which was more disturbing -- the naked hunger, or that which seethed beneath it.
She had sworn off trying to understand Jedi in general, exiled ones in particular. Her brain, however, persisted in cycling and recycling the possible contents of the other's head.
"So much for detaching, huh. 'Jedi Master' should've lectured herself instead of you, Atton."
The bounty huntress knew all about sympathy and just rewards. This one did not disappoint.
"Umron," he sneered, and not even to her face. "If she had ever intended that strike, you really think he'd still be strutting around with a head?"
The bud of a retort was trampled by the pilot's solution to his own sticky situation. Mira's eyes might not be as impressively waif-like as the Exile's, but they could hold their own in rotundity.
Mr. and Mrs. Rand had apparently been of the species that successfully passes down the importance of clean underwear.
She pursed her lips, not caring if it was in a huff.
The datapad clattered harshly to a still. She had not meant to, but somewhere along the slide from pocket to hand to top of console, the object had somehow attained unnecessary momentum.
Gloved hands retrieved the device. A few seconds later it was replaced, edge perfectly parallel to edge.
"You believe this."
Rather than insult them both with an answer, she started one foot before the other. "I am still waiting," she bit off in the betweens, "for that compelling argument which will supposedly keep the Fleet from shooting you on sight."
Intractability was writ in each of the lines he did not speak.
"Need a recitation of charges?" Regardless, she measured out one per lap. "Terrorism. Endangerment of civilians. Treachery under truce."
"No operation of mine would ever have been so sloppy."
"But of course! That will certainly help convince the tribunal. Especially when that comes up."
He dismissed the indicated with disdain. "That is unmistakably flarg. I would have seen the last emwhulb responsible dead if I had known."
"Your behavior may be otherwise completely incomprehensible, but that much I believe!" Feet descended with more force than artificial gravity. "The Fleet marshals don't, and won't."
"As I said, I had nothing to do with this."
"The Republic recognizes guilt by complicity."
"The same as they do 'innocent until...'?"
"It's not that simple, and you know it! Don't pretend to have forgotten whose territory you're in, or that the Mandalore are no longer recognized as a sovereignty."
Or why that is now so, neither needed words to hear.
"Then perhaps it is time we reminded you."
Deciphering the object of that statement would require a thesis on interpretation.
Frustration sealed her eyes. "Is this some convoluted plan to map out my limits? Or do you simply have a fondness for this room?"
He stood stonily erect. She resumed pacing.
"My people called you the Wraith. We still do."
It was not the non-sequitur that stilled her. "That thing died at Malachor V."
His glance elaboration enough. "This is not your field." There followed another hesitation. "Revan might, but you cannot win this battle."
"Escape pods are that way. There are even shuttles, for the discerning customer."
"This isn't about me! This is about you, and your gamorrean refusal to see that some wars are not yours to fight!"
"These are my people, Mandalore."
"These are people who would throw you to the firaxa, if they thought that would it get off their fat behinds."
"That is your excuse? If all who seek self-preservation at another's expense deserve to die--"
"They are irrelevant. You need reminding of who you are, all that you are."
"I am their protector, foremost! I could have removed the threat before it came to--"
"That is why you can only fail in this arena. These creatures will see nothing short of a supernova under magnification. They will live out their pathetic lives and never comprehend the most obvious of what you do 'for them'."
"That is the way things should--"
"--not be done. Not if you want to get anywhere with--"
"I will not endanger sentients for something as paltry as recognition!"
"That is my point, exactly! Leave this game for those who have nothing better to do. You didn't make General by not knowing how to delegate."
Many sentients assume that to be a warrior was to lack appreciation for the power of words. Many sentients are imbeciles not worth their weight in reconstituted molecules.
A true warrior recognized might in all its forms. A Mandalore warrior lived to pit and measure himself against all the guises adversity employed, least of which was the physical.
Nevertheless, had it been anybody else, Mandalore would have dispensed with the tedium of words and gone to blows a long while ago. Above the exultance of blood through his veins, he posited that news of his restraint might very well send a respectable horde into apoplectic shock.
Of course, had it been anybody else, he would never have found it worth the bother.
Righteous cold wavered from jetlike eyes. For one moment there was no remote Exile, self-possessed General, sedate Jedi Master -- just a youngling tempted by play. The next banished the mirage.
It was not a youth's face that he saw when he looked, and look he could not seem to help but do. Weather and worry had composed a fine script of wrinkles, field medicine had contributed punctuation marks. Modern cosmetics could have made swift work of both, except that their bearer was not of the type to take such pains. As well no warrior should.
Mandalore forgot, all too easily, how few number of decades the girl actually owned.
A herd of emotions trampled obnoxiously where that thought vacated. Gah, was what Mandalore told himself. What he said out loud was, "You aren't just the Exile, now. Let your troops earn their feed, General."
She had once claimed that their kind differed only in execution of ideals. He had believed her. Minus moral dressage, they were both of people who measured the universe by duty and necessity.
The intensity of her gaze shifted almost to hopeful. Seconds dripped by where he could almost hear a pile-up of all the voices in her privy. Then a curtain of lashes fell, and the leashed vibrancy drained from her on exhale.
The Jedi had always taken the prize for self-denial.
"I can't ask them to clean up my messes."
Her voice was meek. He was angry, but knew very well what not to pin on that persuasion. The opening had passed, but the battle would keep.
A hand lifted in unnecessary ward. "What we are here to discuss, is today's assassination. Attempted assassination."
He refused to spare another glance at the tumor benighting the console. "You didn't believe that. Why the assumption that I knew anything of it?"
"Are you denying that you did?"
She might, or so Mandalore thought with a certain humor, have appeared less surprised if he had confessed to staging the entire fiasco.
He was no scholar, but had never needed a dictionary to reject "slow" as an adjective regarding the Exile. It wasn't like any tome existed that could adequately describe the Exile anyway. In the meanwhile, Mandalore had a surplus of time, a dearth of entertainment, and the Ebon Hawk's security room was as secure as they came.
He waited.
A hiss followed a shake of head. "You came up with the others, Mandalore. If you had not known anything of the scope and timing of the attack, you would have gone to secure the perimeter."
No, not 'slow'. "I see. Anybody who missed this deduction should be shot, naturally."
Puzzlement creased her features, and it was his turn at hints. "Of course, you might not have much of a Fleet left to execute me, after."
"You think they won't figure it out?"
"They will be happy to use your reasoning, I am sure."
The thoughtless way the Exile dismissed that scenario should have been disappointing. She mumbled something about Mandalore and sense that their current leader chose not to hear, then drew out a breath. "I suppose there's nothing to be done now, except hope this once for incompetence."
"It would take longer to wait for the opposite."
His comeback did not seem to impress.
"Might you at least share the amusement that you found so worth the risk?"
"I already have." Mandalore was not known for patience, but he did know much of adaptability. The battle would keep because the alternative was unacceptable, and anger was useless unless one could act upon it. He decided it was time for role reversal. "How did you know the shields would have come back up?"
"They are Bao-Dur's." Her tone could not comprehend lack of faith.
"Right. That Bao-Dur, the one who's been playing wenton for days."
"He... misunderstood my intentions." The confession was all reluctance.
He snorted. "Somehow, I don't think it's those kind of intentions that you're talking about."
A tracery of veins bloomed on pale skin. "What do you take me for? I would never force... much less...!"
"I'm sure he lives in dread of the day that you might."
She turned away.
That rolled a chuckle off his tongue. "I take back the sitrep. It's not the tech who's in hiding, is it?"
Crimson cloth delineated precisely aligned shoulders. "Your point, Mandalore?"
"A man does what he can for entertainment. I especially look forward to how you'll convince those fops that bio-adhesive residue is the latest word on fashion."
A groan that was not one whit Jedi terminated a pause. He watched the Exile bring her head to rest on the bulkhead, and was floored by his relief that it had not been at damaging speed.
"Did you know? All those people who have ever signed up, and there was never as many as one legalite?"
Day Zero
The Jedi Exile marched the corridors of the Republic Frigate Engarde. She might have been aware of frightening ensigns and lieutenants and perhaps even the commodore or two who caught the rictus on her face, but it was of little concern.
For the first time in disproportionate months, the skin on her flesh felt almost like her own.
Startled brown eyes rebuked her unannounced appearance, though Bastila's lips remained wisely closed against a protest that would have gone unheeded anyways. Carth appeared as nonplussed by seeing her outside his friend's door as she was seeing him inside. An audience made what was about to take place even more awkward, but since it was to be the Admiral, it was perhaps just as well.
"Exile Renani. Was there something urgent?" Bastila asked in a tone that presumed the negative.
"Yes. Something that should have been settled three months ago."
Carth strung a puzzled look between the two. He had earned more than respect, so Reni omitted the wait she would otherwise have performed for Bastila.
"I am leaving within the week," she stated, but with a hint of apology towards the man. The rest of her words were for the woman. "You may inform the Jedi-in-hiding that there will be a meet in four day's time, starting at thirteen hundred Galactic Standard hours."
"Wha--" the Princess visibly caught herself on the brink of outburst. "You are in no position to make demands."
"I am not making any. I am simply informing you of events that will take place regardless of your actions. Or lack of them."
"This is preposterous. Carth is the commander of this ship, not you. He can--"
Though nominally addressing Bastila, it was to the Admiral that Reni spoke. "He can delay us if he so chooses, but not indefinitely."
He shrugged, unhappily resigned.
Bastila fused her eyebrows. "I told you that she--"
Their exchange threatened to degenerate into a game of "me tell you tell her". Reni's patience was also less than finite of late. "You are welcome to the many opinions I am sure you have. Please feel free to expound in my absence." She nodded again to their silent third. "I will ask a moment of your time later, Admiral."
"Stop!" The un-Princess tone was what managed to halt her exit. "You can't just decide that you want nothing more of duty, and expect us to scramble on your behalf!"
Reni glanced at the satina skirt, the jacket with hints of Firrerrean silk. The ruddy complexion might have been from catching the point, but then again might not. "It has to be one or the other, Padawan. I can't both be 'Jedi Master' when responsibility comes calling, and 'Exile' when 'the Jedi' do this or that."
Bastila confirmed the flush.
"Whatever you decide, I know my course. It is up to you whether 'your' Jedi start scrambling on their own behalves, or remain comfortably in their holes."
"Up to...! The Masters saw the danger our gathering presented to people, to entire worlds! What makes you think there is any way of contacting my brethren, especially since it is the very thing we spent years trying to avoid?"
Reni let displeasure out in a sigh, though its replenishment was immediate. "This is no time to play pretend, Bastila. The Council couldn't 'really' have disbanded the Jedi any more than they could have stopped listening to the Force. It would have been more believable to claim they did not trust you with the key. You could even have tried saying that you never tried to find out."
The dutiful Padawan was no doubt aghast at the insinuation. The Exile, however, had recently decided to permit herself her lack of care.
"Nihilus is gone. The Jedi-in-hiding have about as much impact on the galaxy as 'common' citizens, less if they're doing it right. At this point, it really doesn't seem to matter one way or the other whether a whole roomful joins up, or we have to start from scratch."
Jedi Masters, it seemed, were not immune to being petty. This one heard herself say, "Perhaps it is time you remembered the 'Jedi' part of your title, 'Princess'."
This time, no dissent kept her from leaving.