Best of Men
Day Zero...
"Are you leaving because of the incident?"
Carth Onasi was no forge-bright cadet. He understood that a commander could only do so much, see so far. He appreciated that Bad Things happened regardless, and that true view of a leader was found in the pick-up and dust-off of soiled berets.
Failure hunched his shoulders, nevertheless.
The Exile's eyes were distant, but one corner of her lips elevated two degrees. "Which one?"
"Any. All. Does it matter?"
Seconds counted before she answered. "No. In honesty, no."
He suffocated a sigh, but sank deeper into his chair. No, it would not have mattered if there had been nothing more exciting in the works than a stubbed prehensile of some Ambassador's sixth limb. The chapter might even have hastened to loom had it been such a smooth run.
Some creatures were not bred for quiet. Others could not be caged in quiet. But -- if one were lucky -- they sometimes alighted for a longer while.
And so, he had to be sure: "It wasn't the abduction?"
Eleven days before zero...
"--intolerable! This is precisely why the Jedi should--"
"--complete agreement. The--"
"--ss'yuirsss 't'k'ssy'nn--"
"--know we that not Sith it is? Deceived, much times have--"
"--always trouble, these Force--"
"--not be hasty, chash'nree. To eiknos is--"
"--more are in the coming? When heard you of--"
"--duty to prevent such--"
"--sshh'yreek k'thi'ssfftt! 'rrrstrri--"
"Oh, no you don't!"
The last presented itself as an actual yell, traceable to the not-so-diminutive lungs of a red-haired, green-eyed fury. An arm moved with Force-enhanced speed and snared itself one Jedi Master Renani -- or, more accurately, the edge of the robe concealing one Jedi Master Renani.
The latter, who had not truly entertained escape except for one confessed second, perchance two, stepped up complaisantly enough. Since the possibly amusing alternative was to be dragged in by the scruff, she did not even complain. Or, at least, took pains to keep it to herself.
"Leaving the Padawan to clean up, huh? Very responsible of you, Master."
The lowered voice was unnecessary, Reni reflected. In fact, some rather impressive acoustics might soon be prescribed.
"Let me inform you that while you were off playing with your friend the Mandalore -- yup, the one you tried to kill, oh what was it, one hour ago? -- good ol' Mira has been busy, again, trying to fix the humongous mess you made. And yeah, that includes the leftover goo!"
Exercising the judgment her ilk were famed for, the Jedi Master did not reciprocate by informing the bounty-huntress that it was fifty-three minutes, precise. Eleven minutes to transit to the Ebon Hawk, conveniently docked by the Ithorians' grace. Nineteen minutes to transit back (heavier system load, for some reason). "Discourse" had occupied a mere twenty. The remaining three had been for ducking miscellaneous limbs, possibly plus/minus an attempt or two or three to convince self of the advisability of retreat.
She doubted if the frazzled woman cared for a breakdown of the itinerary, however.
"The only thing I want to know is what that impossible brain of yours was thinking. Like, how you're gonna get us out of this big-time mess!" demanded the mind-reader.
Precognition was not a rare talent amongst Jedi, although useful precognitives were. Youngling Renani had often wondered how the Universe permitted such a paradox -- if she could "peek" into what her future self planned, then who was it who thought the plan up in the first place?
It was a question that had annoyed many Masters, none of which had seen fit to reveal that said impatience was a postcondition of the title.
"--heard a single word I said? Oh yeah? You must think I'm yesterday's mark! Right, so what did I say?"
On some days, the Exile was pathetically grateful for Force-augmented memory. On most, she just wished for a clearly labeled "Off". She might, however, have been guilty of some small degree of pleasure in reciting verbatim the last ten lines of "Galactic Opinion on Jedi, Current, by Mira".
As said lines re-registered in her own ears, whatever modicum there was went down the chute rapidly enough to have satisfied the huntress, had the latter only known.
Padawan Renani! Setting fire to Council chambers is not an acceptable way of resolving a conflict in the schedule of meetings.
The Exile let Mira grope for a retort half a minute longer than necessary, justification being so that it sufficed to produce just one of the facial arrangement called "smile".
"Senator Arr'skra. Uh, about the fifteen hundred..."
Atton Rand was acting the snerp, and he knew it.
"You know how eye-to-eye me and the witch were," he was saying, "and not just because she didn't have 'em. But I gotta admit she got it right once or twice. You don't do all that well in picking allies, 'General'."
A pale face pinched, but the Exile continued at a pace just outside the range of comfort for him to match. His mind burped up an irrelevant flash of red hair and short stride.
Atton Rand was acting the snerp, and he didn't care. It might even have been the point.
"Master Kreia died to teach me that lesson. I think the message came through." In her tone was that annoying, immutable respect. The pilot had given up wondering how she fit it in together with the rest of Jedi goodliness -- admiring a Sith had to be frowned on by the all-knowing Council, right?
He concluded that death must have put a significant damper on their style. "Yeah, yeah. Transponder's on, nobody's monitoring."
The Exile stopped to punch at a keypad. The transit station lit and beamed a standard, saccharine wait-for-service. Apparently, the gap it left in the agenda was at last large enough to fit one Padawan, for dark eyes finally deigned to meet his own only slightly lighter orbs. It was a while before she spoke, but no matter. Atton Rand was always glad to play stare.
He had only fading memory of a time when that gaze had been no-nonsense and bracingly direct. Even this one held a timidity that lanced through one part of him and beckoned the other with all that restitution had sworn off.
"What enchant a life to trace / pending death in every face?" quoth she on behalf of some obscure poet. "Besides, it's a recipe for self-fulfilled prophecies, straight up."
"Sure, right, charity is good for the soul and all. That won't stop the next scrag-end from putting a shiv through your neck! You can't be that naive, 'General'."
"No, I am not," she agreed with what he suspected was regret. "But when beings earn my trust, it is theirs until they throw it back at my face. I refuse to give up that much, Atton."
He caught mind's hand reaching for a deck, and dealt a corrective slap. Atton Rand, the Jedi version, had nothing to hide. Nothing.
Not even an impatient roll of eyes. "Well, some already have, or does it take death and dismemberment to get your attention? You must have suspected the Mandy of something, or do you expect me to believe that was a lover's spat you had back there? And what deal on a sith-scoured rock could possibly be so urgent that bot-boy hasn't come running to baby his shields? All I got was a communiqué -- a communiqué, not even a holo-record! -- babbling about some tune-up or the other taking up all his precious time. And it's been like that for days, let me tell ya. Techie's just looking for an out if you ask me."
"But you have heard from Bao-Dur?" The question held an odd edge that the Exile usually never let free.
Atton didn't like it. "Hah. If you call a few measly bytes 'heard', yeah."
She nodded, but took her time about it.
"The point is, the Outer Rim ain't no Upper Taris. You want guys like those two at your back? I though you were a Jedi General, not a suicide watch. It's just plain asking for-- and you're just never going to listen, no matter what I say, are you?"
"I always listen, Atton." However, nothing was forthcoming about said hearings being in conjunction with just consideration.
He ground his teeth. "Whatever. So, advice from Atton Rand isn't worth flarg; maybe evidence is. Didn't want to have to whip this out, but. Here."
The transit swooshed into existence. The Exile glanced between it and the proffered datapad, and took two seconds to chose the latter. She did not, however, forfeit speaking softly into the wrist-comm. before thumbing the display to "on". The pilot's brows drew in conclusion of who monopolized the other end.
"You! You Jedi!"
Reni's shoulders drooped. As a whirlwind worthy of the Force descended, the pilot turned to wondering if there was more to the Jedi Master's apparent hurry to pander to yet more outraged aristocrats.
According to the bright yellow duranex coverall and wisps of hastily-bunned hair, the Human woman approaching vector zero cared not to claim herself amongst them. The unconcealable curves and elfin face would however be the envy of many from that class, or so the male Jedi judged. Zeal rouged high cheeks and brought sparks to violet eyes. Slender, work-stained fingers fisted in one hand while the other brought a drag-footed teen up short.
For once not the one at the business end of an irate female's mouth, Atton made full use of the time to appreciate the aesthetics.
As if sensing his intentions, the awkwardly thin face of her escort scrunched into an impressively hideous scowl. Still, given that Human progeny spent a certain span of their lives resentful of everything and everybody, the pilot was inclined to allocate him as much thought as for an out-of-sorts gizka. It might even simply be the boy's way of expressing pleasure at having been propelled across the station corridor.
The fist lifted, flattened in a resounding slap.
His sabers were in hand even before the report from his ears... except that they weren't. Confusion pursued a steady increase as he tugged at the stubborn black cylinders; he had been so sure that he had rid his gear of all traces of glue.
The culprit turned not even one hair. She also appeared oblivious to all four welts on a darkening patch of skin.
Atton Rand was not.
"Madam?" The single word the Exile requited was of a flavor with field rations.
Jedi trappings were a recent addition to Atton Rand's arsenal. In was unfortunate that he had enough aversion to the wrong side of Stasis to forfeit the two steps towards curling fingers around a certain stem of a neck.
"Oh, it's da fine airs fer the grand Jed'eye lay-dy, issit? Ye just watch yesself, Jed'eye. Or mebbe ye'd fancy bein' a-called Sith. Ye're not foolin' this un, no siree. Eye knows yer kind. Pretendin' ta be all nice an' all, bidin' ye time ta suck da soul outta good folk."
The doll with an angel's face and a streetchild's tongue drew in her less offensive arm. The attached youth resisted, but the woman was apparently a wrestler on the side, for he ended up stumbling to "safety" behind her back.
"Well eye'll be fregged afore eye let ye think ye kin hurt me boy. We got insur'ans, see. I mebbe not much ta ye airs, but I knows folk. I got friends, see, and if anythin' else happens ta me boy or me they gonna let da whole world know just who ye are, Sith."
Lips itched to smirk, an urge Atton pardoned in view of the illogic of the spiel. Had the Exile been Sith, it would have pleased her mightily for "da whole world" to know. Had the Exile been the quiet sort of Sith, the woman would by now be spice-happy over sharing air with so "grand" a personage. Had the Exile even been a less "particular" Jedi, she would have been wondering why she had wandered all this way into the station, and what droyk was her kid doing, skimping school?
Atton Rand had been there. More often, he had done that, albeit via more mundane techniques.
Then he glanced sideways, and levity dwindled like Tatooine mist. He had long ago concluded that this particular Jedi was dangerous -- not for the bodies by her feet, but for to look upon her was to realize how many things one failed and yet desperately wanted to be.
She audienced the rant with gravity, posture neutral and carefully lacking hint of what any halfway intelligent being must feel when faced with such absurdity. Atton thought it a wasted effort on all accounts. The aggrieved was too stimmed-up to notice, the Jedi seniors were too dead to care, and the rest of the Jedi (with exception of Padawan Princess) had yet to peek out from behind their security blankets.
"Me hubbs was a 'Public soldier, just ye know. Unner Cap'n Onasi, too. He's an Adm'ral now, da Cap'n, and he'll hear all about it sure as day if ye take that accursed blade ten feet near me boy again. Ye kind already killed me hubs by fillin' heads wi' all ye hero rubbish, tho' ye were all happy enough to be a-sittin' on ye bums while da Mand'lor'ns did in da rest o' us! Ye showed ye colors quick enough, dincha, Sith? I ain't lettin' ye hurt no more of me family!"
There was a certain magnetism in angry beauties, so Atton refrained from outright laughter. Realization, however, put forth words before it struck to him to censor, assuming he would have wanted to. "So the kid's one of our would-be saboteurs? Ha. Looks pretty alive to me." Another thought visited. "All pieces intact, too."
The mother proved unexpectedly up to the vocabulary. "Me boy's a good 'un! Same as was his da, so go spread yer poison sommere else. We did just fine afore ye came and we'll do just fine right after ye leave!" She did not -- quite -- stamp her foot.
Surely it would not constitute one of those "intergalactic incidents" Mira worried compulsively about, Atton bargained with himself, if he were to indulge in a tiny smile.
"Yes, he is," Reni agreed. Her eyes were aimed behind the woman's shoulder, and there was a sudden spike above sullen resentment.
Atton Rand perked at the bouquet of fear and guilt.
"I think," the Exile continued, still intense on the boy, "I made a mistake." It was almost a full second before her attention shifted back to the woman, and half another before she said formally, "My apologies, Madam, to you and your family. I know it comes late, but if there were any medical bills..."
The bud of a mouth dropped open, then snapped back into a line. Her ensuing words, however, sounded like they had been stalled from hyper to sublight. "Just, just ye stay away from us." She paused, then thought to add, "And take ye accursed mee-nions with ye!"
Reni inscribed a half-bow. "If that is what you wish. I hope to trouble you no further, Madam."
"Yeah, ye do just that!" Jewel eyes now uncertain, she tarried for a few more seconds, then marched off. Still implacably gripped, the youth tripped after.
Atton rounded in. "What species' flarg was that? That woman was a joygirl if I've ever seen one, not royalty. And 'I made a mistake'? Come on! How more guilty does the kid need to get?"
The Exile remained staring after them. "Was," she stressed. "I can imagine queens with less comportment. She is to be admired, not scorned. Such strength was never asked of me, even when... How many people, do you think, can hope to bear half as well the hand life dealt her?"
Despite the address, he sensed that the confession was a private one, and had to look away. Dignity was such an indivisible part of this woman's mien -- even Force-blind and barely clothed -- that it was a short slip to equating "exile" and "sabbatical".
It occurred to Atton Rand then, to consider that the Order kept their Jedi supposedly above material possessions beyond robe and lightsaber. The subsequent question of what they had left one disgraced, helpless was-Jedi went down like a dose of raw caf.
"The boy," Reni continued more briskly, though still contemplatively, "the boy has learned his lesson, I should think. He was only selfish, for perhaps unselfish reasons."
"You mean, 'me boy' misses the cushy life back when 'ma' used to 'entertain', so if that nice sithy guy wants to swing credits for a little harmless espionage, gee why not?"
"Perhaps he wants to prevent her from ever having to again."
"Yeah, 'perhaps' will draw you a palace on Ryloth."
She sighed. "Yeah, I used to think that physical comfort is something a Jedi should scoff. Then I tried it on for size."
"You should know" did not follow, but that was where imagination served.
"How did you get Mira to shut up about her 'intergalactic mess' anyway?" he deliberately veered. "Or is Atton Rand too low on the firaxa chain to bother with details?"
"Never underestimate the lengths Senator Besk Arr'skra will go to be entertained." The shrug was uncomfortable, but the tone deliberately light. "I suppose it helped that the 'Jedi slash Sith' didn't actually kill anybody in her rampage."
"Heard something like that, but since when do you do resurrections?" He scrolled back to a revelation. "The 'lightsabers'! Hah. Let me guess, you'll want to move the Jedi on to shock-staffs, next."
"Unfortunately, they don't deflect bolts as well." A pause, then, "Okay, so it's 'not at all'." Another pause, then, "And they won't stand up to 'regular' 'sabers."
"In other words, they're what little Padawans run around swinging before they're weaned," leapt from the mouth of one recent convert to the utility of the Jedi trademark.
"Not quite. It is oddly difficult to get lessons across when they're unconscious. Though there have been some Masters who studied..." The present Master broke off, a wise decision since her only listener was about to rill out.
The transit tube noisily incarnated the next transport. Ponds of black lingered after the escape had diminished, then turned in calm assessment. "Suppose you are chasing down someone for questioning. The target is ten meters ahead and fast. What do you do?"
Atton scowled. "I hate it when you go all 'Master' on me," was the complaint.
She continued her gaze. Eventually, he answered, as they had both known he would.
"Whaddaya think? I'd set my blaster on stu-- oh."
She smiled like he was some precocious youngling. What stung worse was the betrayal of his reflexive appreciation.
"Yeah, well. Didn't know you could make them like that, anyway."
Eyes drifted to wistful. "I can't. But a friend could."
"Yeah, yeah. Bot-boy. Should've guessed."
Smile was next, in fading to grim as the Exile dealt with the datapad. That delicate grip between thumb and forefinger was cousin to that applied on one of (unfortunately) two sets of robes when she had tramped in post the pleasures of Dxun. She probably thought that nobody noticed how, well, finicky she was.
Atton Rand noticed everything.
Idly, he pondered on another observation: substitute just about anything for "the tech", and the Exile never seemed to notice. But the pilot had once tried mouthing some clever thing about Mira, and been rewarded with The Glare for days on end.
"No mystery about it," the Exile asserted without looking up. "If your name-calling hurt Bao-Dur, he is quite capable of correcting you himself. Mira is... Mira is different."
"Don't." The vehemence in the syllable shocked Atton himself.
Her attention was his swiftly enough, if halfway between puzzlement and annoyance. "I thought you wanted me to read this."
"So read that, and stay the frell out of my head!" The pilot could not explain the strength of his reaction, but the moment was not one in which he cared.
The Exile's face leeched of its already inadequate color. "I w-wasn't... No." She shook her head, dropping to a whisper. "I heard-- I thought-- No."
For the second time in the day, Atton's feet stuck firmly to ground while Reni took off. This time, it was something not-external that held him.
This time, she ran.
/#Bao-Dur!#/
He caught the flying bundle, if barely. It immediately grew arms that latched upon his midsection, inattentive of the Humanoid need for breath. A smile crept upon the tech's mouth even as he shook his head above the one that had buried itself in the crook of his neck.
/#Bez-Enth.#/ He gently but firmly disengaged, pushing the woman out to arm's length. /#It is good to see you, but we should not tarry. I came as soon as I could...#/
Color-lined lips spread in a smile that diffused up to honey-brown eyes. /#Of course you have time to greet an old friend,#/ came in chiding tones/#who, need I remind, has seen no horn or hoof of you for over a year!#/
/#I missed you too,#/ he murmured, but started towards the slope end of the structures behind her. /#We should hurry. Shuttle-hopping took me too long, and if the particle containment is--#/
/#Uh uh.#/ She remained firmly immobile, thus did his commandeered hand. /#No problem is so urgent that it can't wait until after dinner. Better yet, the morrow, when there is light enough to see.#/
Vision narrowed in confusion. /#You sent word yourself, Bez. I thought--#/
/#Well,#/ she cut in/#the problem turned out not to be so immediate after all. Come, we can talk in the warm, over a meal.#/
It was Bao-Dur turn to play statue, until she turned from tugging to look. /#Bez-Enth?#/
He saw the protest in the other Zabrak's throat, but so did she correctly deduce mutiny in his stance. More than anything else, though, the ensuing prefabrication startled. /#We managed to fix most of it. The rest can wait,#/ she stated, then shivered. /#Stars, it is cold! We can talk inside.#/
He felt in him all the quiet of a storm. /#The truth, Bez-Enth.#/
Defensiveness smothered a flash of guilt in her eyes... but he knew her, her fundamentally direct soul. /#The truth?#/ she spat, casting his wrist with force. /#The truth? The truth is that you upped and left us with one miserable recorded message thirteen months ago, just because you stumbled across that disgraced General you fancy yourself beholden to! Do you have any idea what I've gone through since then?#/
/#The only disgrace,#/ he spoke with care/#is in how the Fleet and Jedi rewarded her.#/
/#She abandoned you, Bao-Dur! You lost your arm because of her, and she abandoned you! Did she even remember you whe--#/
/#The General is not to blame.#/
/#Why can't you see that she used you? She is still usi--#/
/#Enough.#/ The volume startled them both, and he had to deliberately unclench fists. /#Enough, Bez-Enth,#/ the tech continued in a better facsimile of his customary mildness/#We have quarreled enough on this subject for you to know I will not change my mind.#/
The incandescence in the woman's eyes blazed almost to physical spectrum. She looked away, but experience taught him better than to think she had put the matter to rest. /#Fine,#/ she clamped teeth around the word. /#I'm freezing. Let's go.#/
Bao-Dur felt, but it was not the teething wind, the flaking air. Looking down, he was almost surprised to find nails still marking palms, and said palms ever so faintly trembling.
Bez-Enth was six meters away and counting, before all that he felt surrendered to follow.
"The next time you decide on an impromptu joy-trip, try and remember that the Mandalore do not wait well."
She did not move from cross-legged, palms upturned, head bowed. She did not wonder what had betrayed her location, nor how full-body armor had attained the flexibility required to darken this same space.
There were no footfalls, but the voice was suddenly closer. "Discovered how to hide from yourself yet, Exile?"
She did not startle. "You made a mistake."
"Hmph."
"You should never have followed me. There is no glory where I travel. Just pain, betrayal, and death."
"I wasn't informed of the 'following' part."
"My destiny will be a small one, if I can at all help it.
"I'd advise against stuffing krayt dragons into footlockers. Unless mimn'yet is your type of dish."
"The alternative is uglier than even you could claim to want, Mandalore."
"Know much about my desires, do you?"
"You will find Revan more quickly on your own."
"Youth. Always in a hurry."
The Exile remembered that they had a mutual acquaintance, one who existed in the wrong tense. It was a good thing her eyes were already closed, for they were dry with tears she did not know how to shed.
"Why are you here, Mandalore?" she asked, but knew that answers to both (implied) questions would not be contained in words.
After reeling a wait, he made an impatient sound. "What is this really about?"
Her heart resumed its unruly thudding. "I heard him," she heard herself confess to the last person she could imagine playing confessor.
Mandalore was recognizable by carefully cultivated, sardonic indifference, an armor more proof than any of mortal make. A Reni of any other time would have been curious of the suddenly exposed tension; the Reni of now only answered the question he gave no voice.
"Atton. I heard Atton."
Eyelids reluctantly slackened, unsurprised to find sight assisted by magnatorch. Greened to preserve night-vision, the diffuse illumination paintbrushed banks and banks of empty shelves. In unthinking flight, some instinct had nevertheless positioned Reni to face the wall that had separated two Duros merchants. To visitors, the divide was as ridiculous as ineffective. The Dobo brothers, however, had appreciated the significance of symbols.
One bumbling Jedi had rid Citadel station of both tenures, though only one by intent.
Laughter fizzled like champagne in her throat. "And no, that was not from reading your thoughts." The next word was a whispered "Yet."
"I have yet to accuse Jedi of being too sane," he said, reading hers. "Feel free to prove me right."
"It is worse now," she obliged.
The subsequent halt proved too long for one of them. "An expected trend of aging."
"Mandalore the Psychologist" was deserving of a smile. The verbally admitted "So is my falling apart" was not.
"I charge by the hour," he prodded.
"Why are you still here, Mandalore?"
"My health demands it," he growled. "Now get back to the point."
Reni billed a further five minutes before letting on, "I should never have let Kreia teach me to listen."
A snort summarized the diagnosis: "Obviously, she failed. Does that solve your problems?"
"Revan could always do that, and I..." Reni began, but found the continuation to be elusive. "I didn't even know. I could have sworn Atton spoke. With his mouth."
"Yes, that is common to most Humanoid species."
"I can see why you come so highly recommended."
"I'll admit that hearing Rand's thoughts may be a traumatic experience, but you Jedi have been doing it for millennia."
"Not without effort! Not without knowing. I couldn't tell the difference. I still can't tell the difference. And it feels, now it feels like if I just let go the littlest bit, I'll hear all of them. Everybody, crowding in. Like standing in a riverbed, waiting for the dam to fail..."
"So what kind of atin just stands there?"
"'Stubborn'? Too mild, Mandalore. And isn't that a compliment anyway?"
"Noted."
It was only two flaps of near-translucent skin, but she was so weary of the lifting.
"I can still see you, Exile."
"Can you?" she asked, but did not want to know. "And what do you see, Mandalore? A killer. A tear in the Force. A scream that just won't stop echoing."
His frustration crackled through senses, the keenness of which she had so suddenly found despicable. "I. See. You," he intoned, in an address targeted for the particularly slow.
Reni laughed again, with just as little mirth. Some day, she would call the man on his "plain warrior" persona.
But not today.
Sound perished on a sigh. "Alright, alright. I am done with the self-pity and melodrama. What did you need to speak to me about?"
It was some minutes before he replied.
interlude
In reality, the room was easily the largest open area onboard, chairs and tables having been unbolted and shoved unceremoniously out of the way. However, only five square meters of it held focus, a fact not only due to dilute emergency lighting. The ambulatory soul did not need ambient moans and pain-filled shuffles to fill in the repeated tableau. Makeshift bedding, unhappy camper -- five square meters was enough to seed the mosaic.
A Figure emerged, swathed so thoroughly that it might have been the crowding gloom personified. Uncertain steps escorted it to an adjacent heap, careful descent brought it to knees. Some minutes after the prone stilled its restlessness, the Figure rose. The recovery from the simple motion testified to a lengthy circuit.
The same mysterious intent vectored it into the five square meters of Universe. Some unseen force brought it to staggering halt half a meter short.
There was nothing controlled about its fall this time.
The Observer knew this place: an annexed mess hall of a Republic Frigate, occupants persuaded to groans of a vastly different sort than over food. He knew the Figure, though it had yet to reveal voice or face. He even knew the Script: the wordless study, the implacable leave.
"Force," stole in a whisper so low as to be robbed of gender, race, identity. Unprepared for the novelty of a voice-over, the Observer might have jumped but for the lockdown on his limbs. Its progenitor covered the last meter on fours.
It was not a child's exuberant crawl, but a last resort of the overcome.
The mode of transport profoundly disturbed he who watched. He strained to shout things are not as they seem!, to wake the delinquent to a crux he would forever regret missing -- yet his role remained as passive as the one he would chastise.
The Figure looked, but denied itself touch. Only its voice crept the remaining inches, the familiar cadence oddly diffuse, as if it was the very air that spoke rather than some bodily orifice. "Fo--" it began to repeat, then aborted the word with a shudder. "What have I done?"
Nothing you did not have to, fizzled on the Observer's frozen tongue.
The Figure laughed, yet there was no motion to it. "I am truly a monster, to find comfort in that you are not able to see me like this."
His vision blurred from anger, at the Sleeper, at events. It had to be the call of some malicious deity to have arranged the Figure's awakening into this particular umbra, the one hour in endless days when fatigue had forced the Sleeper to forsake vigilance.
The cowled head made a painstaking sweep, breath increasing in harshness. Its unseen gaze alighted on the ugly swath of bandages swallowing a limb, where it remained as minutes eked on.
"I can't help you," it whispered, defeat heavier than cloak. "I never was much of a healer, was I, my friend? I could only take away pain, and dared to complain about it. Now, I only wish..."
"But wishes are useless. And I, I am... worse. It, the universe, it feels so... hollow. I can't-- I am always going on about me, aren't I? You, you would understand. More so, now-- stars! What have I cost you? What have I cost us all?"
The Observer watched the Figure crumple, huddling in on itself as if its monologue had been a leak of something fundamental. Perhaps the loss had been evident much earlier, and it was only his negligence that lent contrast.
He did nothing, but fumed at the durasteel bars of inaction.
"Blood will be demanded," the inexorable prophesied. "People might be happy that the threat is ended, for now, but it will not be long before they discover the price. And then..."
"They will need somebody to blame. You, you too, will need somebody to blame."
He was helpless to protest the conclusion it next drew.
"I cannot cost you, any of you, that as well."
The Figure rose, a movement born of will and nothing else. Memory and knowledge painted for the Observer the sad smile he could not actually see. "You will not understand what I must do, I think. You have always given me too much credit. You will be angry" -- it faltered, then drew breath -- "That is as it should be."
"Serving with you has been the greatest honor of my life. Perhaps," it continued a little later, though without conviction, "there might come a day when you can think about me not too unkindly. Our paths will never converge again, dear friend, but I, I..."
One limb finally unlocked... but opportunity -- and Figure! -- had fled.
On one fringe of the five square meters, a shadow stirred. Its vantage was not so much concealed as ignored; certainly, it made no effort to hide displeasure at both entrance and exit of the specter. The disapproval lingered long after it had returned to the subject of its interrupted study.
Neither Observer nor Sleeper were of a mind to notice.
end interlude
--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--
In one blink, Bao-Dur transited to awake. Sight registered nothing beyond the vagary of dark, but he would have noticed nothing were it light.
The Dream had not visited for over a year. He had always dismissed it as some unfathomable fiction of his subconscious, ambivalent as to comfort or torment.
Now, while eyes registered nothing, he perceived a searing, belated clarity.
Ten years. Lids shut on the thought. Ten years. The sheer waste was crippling, and the tech was suddenly terrified of ceding another ten, or twenty, or--
The unfamiliar surroundings cost a little fumbling, but proved no real obstacle. Determination spurred, willing and about to forgo jacket despite an inhospitable outside.
/#Bao?#/ Not two meters distant, the voice was sleepy and annoyed.
/#It is nothing, Bez-Enth.#/ He tried not to sigh. /#Go back to sleep.#/
Undertone grumbles heralded the click of an old-fashioned switch, the subsequent blind of light. He could almost hear the General: "Oof, Bao-Dur. Didn't we discuss 'reverse psychology', already?"
/#First you sulk all through dinner,#/ admonished the only physically present female/#then you sneak off in the middle of the night. How is that supposed to sum up to "nothing"?#/
Many were the words that begged to be spoken, but prohibited for the sake of peace. He reminded himself again that loyalty, however mis-expressed, did not deserve all the vitriol temper wanted to unleash. /#I need to use the comm.#/ was the edited version.
She made a show of consulting the wall chrono. /#It is nearly three past midnight!#/
/#So it is, and five in the evening at Citadel Station.#/
It became immediately obvious that, if anything, the argument counted for negative weight. /#Don't tell me. Her Lordship requires that you attend her at all hours.#/
Deciding that "actually, she wants me to go away" was a particularly pitiful retort, he settled for /#There are things you don't understand, Bez-Enth. The situation is... delicate.#/
Her expression darkened. /#Oh, of course. Nobody outside of "the General's" clique can possibly understand. We're all imbeciles, after all.#/
He felt, acutely, the passage of time. /#Why are you so upset, Bez?#/ he asked. /#This is not like you.#/
There was truth in the statement. His fellow Iridonian was possessed of a flash-fire temper, easily ignited but equally as ephemeral when quenched. The bitterness embedded in both tone and stance was bewildering.
/#Why am I--#/ she halted the incredulous tirade with a harsh shake of head. /#You really have no clue, do you? Fine. We'll go to the comm. center so you can satisfy your sense of duty. Then maybe things can finally get back to normal around here!#/
Bao-Dur bit his tongue, finding it prudent to not comment that "normal" tended to read like "high adventure" with the General around.
interlude
"Deal's off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Deal's off! I expected it, you know. The minute 'token of confidence' was mentioned, actually."
"There appears to be a misunderstanding. We have adhered to the letter of the agreement."
"Right. I must've signed up for terrorism-by-proxy in my sleep."
"The stipulation was for no direct harm to result from use of the information. None was."
"Oh yeah? So that poison gas thing was just a party trick?"
"I reiterate: no beings came to harm from the incident."
"No thanks to your wannabe suicide-duo!"
"The intent was only to issue a warning. You must surely agree that it is unwise to re-establish the unhealthy dependence the Republic had on the Jedi, especially under its current leadership. If an apprentice could overcome the more significant twin..."
"'Overcome'? 'More significant'? Oooo, how politic."
"The facts remain."
"Your 'intel' could really use some work on the 'intelligent' part, you know? This is Darth Manipulator we're talking about. You think Revan didn't know exactly what species of knot she was twisting Malak into?"
"Are you claiming that Revan staged her return to the Jedi? It is extremely unlikely that a mind wipe could have forwarded any of her plans."
"So maybe she missed that detail. Turned out just fine anyway, doncha think?"
"While your talents are undisputed, Surgeon, there are others more qualified to speculate on Revan's motives, and we have had no indication--"
"You think Reni hasn't already worked all this out and more? You think you've got dibs on everything she might think? What do you all yourselves again, the Society of Idiots? No wonder ol' Revvie had to tidy up her playground. But I really am a nice guy underneath, so here's one for free:"
"Revan is... flexible. She'll do anything, and I mean anything, so long as the chips eventually fall her way. Now, you might think that Renani is the same -- which is a sore sight up from buying her 'Revan's stronger' act -- but you never know where you'll hit duracrete on the oddest things."
"You wanna pick one to be more afraid of? Frankly, both gals terrify me."
end interlude
"What?" Mission Vao blurted, a laugh tinting her soprano. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Azzam Zahid-Sharif of House Baraka ("answers to 'Az'", pronounced "Ah-z") demonstrated how brilliant teeth could be against olive skin. A shake of head followed, obsidian beads in obsidian hair clacking musically with the movement. "Just a man's silly astonishment, that such an accomplished young lady has yet to set foot on her homeworld."
For one whole minute, Admiral Carth Onasi actually considered tolerating the man, for his last snapshot of the Twi'lek girl's giggle was four-plus years old. Then he recalled every nuance of Az's smooth baritone and even smoother charm, and nixed the urge as ridiculous.
An irritating voice nagged that his dislike of the Ambassador might merely be proportionate to "the ladies'" enjoyment of the latter's company. Carth dismissed it with a claim of being above such. It was only natural to be concerned for his friends, especially when "friends" were one impressionable young girl plus one sheltered Jedi.
He chased the unjustifiably un-appetizing appetizer around his plate, and missed Kaelynn horribly; even Revan would have been welcome substitute. His mind's furnishings of irreverent comments and sniper-shot humor, a la the absent, simply never measured up to the real thing.
"You've been all over Ryloth, I'm sure," Mission declared wistfully. "What's it like?"
Az did not need further cajole to launch into a lyrical description of wonders sampled, all the while subtly underlining how the girl's "beauty and grace" was exemplary of her species. Mission rolled her eyes, but the delicate pink of her cheeks deepened nonetheless.
Carth had to admit, if grudgingly, that the Ambassador had finesse. He flirted, but lightly, without guile, displaying both sharp intelligence and a becoming modesty. It took all the Admiral's paranoia overtime to muster any degree of discomfiture, and even that was swiftly eroding.
Then Bastila spoke, and Carth was reminded all over again.
"I must apologize for my fellow Jedi, Amb-- Az." She smiled beautifully, though her forehead hinted at a frown. "One would think that four years in the military is sufficient to learn punctuality, but..."
One multi-ringed hand lifted in a careless wave. "No need, no need. The Master Jedi is a busy woman, and I can hardly complain about waiting in such delectable company, can I?"
Even more than Miss Jedi-should-not-form-attachments's blatant regard, something about the way Az titled Reni was disturbing.
The older female issued a silvery laugh. "You are quite the ladies' man, Az. But we are on to you, aren't we, Mission?"
Privately, Carth opined that the knowledge did not seem to be doing either of their sensibilities the least bit of good.
He also wondered how the other man could smile as much as he did, and yet make each occasion seem like the first bequeath.
"I would not dare think otherwise. Matriarch Baraka did not raise her heirs to be fools." Concern entered Az's brow for the first time. "I am not offending you, am I? I have heard that the Jedi -- how shall we put it? -- discourage certain aspects of life. One so beautiful, however, must surely be used to male appreciation. It is a bad habit, I admit, but please believe that no insult was intended..."
Bastila tried to hide a smile, though not very valiantly by Carth's meter. "I am not offended," she said softly, then colored at how shyly the sentence had turned out. Chokolat eyes flicked somewhat guiltily to take in her older acquaintance's visage.
He cleared his throat in what he intended to be a warning manner. "So, what did you say your business was with Reni again?"
The other raised one sculpted black eyebrow. "I believe I said it is something only she can decide to share," he said. "Though you are to be commended for the attempt, Admiral Onasi. Not many can boast of friends like you."
Forty seconds later, Carth was no closer to formulating a reply that could pass as anything but petty. Fortunately for his pride, he made up with a sighting of one distinct red robe.
The Exile navigated intervening tables without looking up from something in hand, which probably would have had Bastila ready to pontificate on "frivolous use of the Force"... had the latter not been preoccupied with impressing a certain personage.
"Sorry I'm--" Having looked up, she never made it to finish. Later, on hindsight, Carth would think that either the datapad or the Jedi looked all but poised to fall. Had she mustered a glance his way, he might have been confused by accusation in her eyes.
Not missing one beat, nor one too-handsome smile, the Ambassador rose in a courtly bow.
"Aleen," he greeted, voice rich with warmth. "Or, should I say, Jedi Master Renani?"
"Sorry," the synthesized voice pronounced unapologetically. "Link O-87-CS cannot be established at this time. Please try again."
/#Nothing has changed since the past hour, Bao-Dur,#/ came a voice across the tech's shoulder. /#Just leave it for the morning!#/
He shook his head in a fit of irrational stubbornness. /#I have said you need not stay,#/ was repeated as immediately as the last time, then just as swiftly put aside. /#This cannot be in the hardware,#/ he told himself/#Uplinks to other outposts are functioning. Perhaps a ride on one of their channels--#/
/#You haven't had any more success the last, what, twenty times? Look, you're tired, I'm tired, and it is only three hours to sunup, so can we please quit this before you rouse the whole colony?#/
Swallowing a sigh, he managed not to point out that her voluminous protests were the more likely to cause the latter. /#You don't have to hover, Bez-Enth.#/ He censored a fervent "please!", and continued/#I am old enough to stay up nights.#/
/#Oh ha, ha. Who did you learn your humor from, "the General"?#/
The mystery of her resentment was still such, though figuring it out had admittedly been nowhere near high on Bao-Dur's list of priorities. /#You could help,#/ he tried a different admonishment. /#You are always the better with computers, and I believe this a software issue.#/
/#Not good enough for your General, apparently.#/
His efforts stilled for a moment, as he wondered if that might be the underline of her ire. It was plausible, although his side of recall claimed that the General had sought Bez-Enth's approval far more than vice versa. /#Your technical skills were never the reason you were not chosen to be part of her team,#/ he said, trying to decide how much insight to reveal.
/#You're right,#/ she allowed, inciting a double-take. It was soon to be disappointed by the elaboration/#Reason was more like, Miss Widow-maker couldn't stand seeing anybody else within ten meters of her pet tech.#/
Astonished to speechlessness, Bao-Dur could only wonder at how ten years' in absentia could have resulted in so skewed a construct of history. He wondered too that he had seen not the slightest build-up to the present storm, even if the War was not a subject he had been willing to dwell much on.
In truthful moments, he had to admit to refusing to speak of it at all; quiet reminiscences with the General on Dxun had been the first time he allowed that another might understand. While he regretted the fact that Bez-Enth had found his reticence hurtful, he could not regret the silence itself.
Some confidences should not be inflicted, even if demanded.
/#That is not fair,#/ he rebuked, turning grave eyes to her/#and not at all as I remember things.#/
/#Of course not. Ten years, yet you remember every detail about her.#/
/#Do you think,#/ he asked with knifing brows/#I would have forgotten you in ten years?#/
Eyes locked until the darker pair sidled in remorse. Ferocity draining in a long sigh, Bez-Enth laid a reconciliatory hand upon his arm -- the intact one, knowing him to still be touchy about the other. /#I hate it when we quarrel,#/ she murmured.
The confession, vastly divergent from all he knew of his friend's temperament, threw a snare upon his thoughts. For the first time, he noticed the weary that wrinkled her features, the unhappy turn of her mouth.
/#It's just that-- never mind. I will help you tomorrow, I promise. But please, I cannot think at this hour.#/
Bao-Dur nodded, feeling abruptly ashamed. Still-poised fingers flexed, then resolutely aimed for "off".
He allowed himself only one backward glance.