Day Zero...
Renani shook her head, right fingers worrying a thread out of left sleeve. The grey robes she had mysteriously begun parading failed dismally at flattery, but succeeded in helping Carth enforce lines between the twins. Color-coordination was apparently neither part of the Jedi nor General job description, for black on white on grey made the Exile look almost sickly sallow. In contrast, the Revan he knew managed to make even Jedi garb dazzle.
At times like these, the Admiral found it becomingly easy to forget the trifles, such as gripes at the ages she took to groom.
"I don't believe Telosian protesters staged the kidnap," she said, bringing him back to focus. "It was too planned, too, well, too obvious." Her choice of the last word was halting, as was the coming sentence. "I think, it feels, like someone very well-connected, very powerful, was trying to... almost like... I don't know."
"Then it will be more dangerous if you leave," the Admiral stated firmly. "I know it must look like we haven't been doing much of a job, but we never anticipated" -- he took a breath -- "Security is on alert. You, your people will be sa--"
"No," she interrupted, eyeing him. "Don't hold yourself to such promises, Carth. They are unfair to all, and cannot change anything."
He swallowed, snatched one hand back from re-arranging datapads on his desk. "Is it that Ambassador? But the problem has been cleared up! Whatever other holds he has on you, surely they are all in the past..."
Ten days before Zero...
"I think Bassy likes him," Mission whispered, re-enacting blue imp. It was, unfortunately, a performance the bile in Carth's gullet made impossible to savor.
"Bastila is Jedi," he tried to convince himself. "She has got to know this 'Az' is nothing but trouble."
"Why, Mr. Onasi! I never took you to be the jealous type."
"This is serious, Missy," he snapped, though it felt like an admission to the "old geezer" she so enjoyed needling.
"I am too serious! Az is a good guy, even if he likes to flirt. You didn't think Bassy was gonna pine away forever for y-- ah, uhm." The last sparks of temper dissolved in a sudden inability of indigo orbs to meet brown.
"What do you mean, 'pine'?" He sharpened his gaze, indulging in a yen for Jedi mind-powers. However loath the claim, said powers might also have seemed attractive once or twice in the past. "Who's the bastard?"
The Twi'lek muttered something under her breath, but he could not cajole enough to breach her silence. Loyalties, it seemed, had shifted somewhat since Carth was last around.
His attention sidled to the red robes slouched besides Bastila's regal carriage, as the nominal "they" fielded yet another discussion a.k.a. accusation-lobbing session. The Exile constituted the one female of his acquaintance not blatantly taken in by the Ambassador's ready smiles, polished wit, and -- he had on good authority -- "scrumptious looks".
Carth frowned again at his educator on all things Prince Charming. The less shiny side of the credit was that there was something disturbingly unhealthy about Reni's responses. She had been quietly distracted for days beforehand, but since the strange reunion two days ago with her Rimworld "friend", he'd almost been tempted to ask if her Force repertoire included vanishing acts.
The golden baritone calmed the umpteenth bout of hysteria, enough for Bastila's mezzo to repeat whys and wherefores of believing the Sith not to be credited the recent jeopardy. The arguments seemed to be forgotten just as quickly as they had been the last ten-plus times. Admittedly, "nobody died" didn't impress the Admiral's own set of ears that much, either.
As an only variation from listlessness, he thought he caught Reni in a flinch.
Conspicuously absent was her unlikely, self-styled protector, Mandalore. There was little doubt of everybody else's preferences on the matter, but Carth found himself unexpectedly ambivalent. Fickleness had never counted in all the faults he found with Canderous, so the apparent desertion was ominous. Besides, he admitted to self, the Mandalorian would have had no compunctions against rectifying a certain Ambassador's notion of proper place.
One of the most detestable aspects of Carth's new job -- the adjective relevant even after three years -- was the latrine-duty aliased "political correctness".
"I dunno how some people can be so ungrateful," Mission grouched. Defensiveness rose in the Admiral's throat, then he noticed the direction of the glower. "Az has been doing all the 'Jedi Master's' work for her in these conferences, even when she's nothing but awful to him. I mean, when's the last time you saw her without that look on her face, like she thinks he's a madclaw or something?"
Having been tempted to adopt the same for himself, Carth refrained from comment. He also congratulated himself for not pointing out that diction really did not need to be dressed up with at least one emphasis per sentence (Dustil had not been particularly grateful of such corrections).
Oblivious, the girl continued her furious mutter. "Poor Az. Love must really be blind for him to still be chasing after that, that, icicle of--"
"Whoa!" Several heads turned, to which Carth bared teeth in what he hoped came across as dismissal. "What are you talking about, 'love'?" was hissed at a more discrete volume.
"I heard him propose," she stated with conviction. "Nearly made me fall off the-- ah, did you know that Az's people are polygamous? He's never married though. Been waiting on Miss Tease there, I suppose." Her headtails swung, disbelief marring her face. "Can't imagine why he would want such a--"
The paternal instincts the kid professed to be irked by turned on, full force. "That's not very fair, Mission. You haven't spoken ten words to the woman."
"Anybody can say anything," came the sage defense. "It's what they do that counts."
Tongue itched to point out that she didn't seem to have any issues when the smooth-talker was a certain dark-skinned, thick-lashed male. Experience counseled against providing fodder for rebellion. "Mission, what Rev--"
"I don't want to talk about it."
The clinch was, he didn't want to either. It was Kaelynn's role to get everyone to mutually communicate. It was Carth's role to contribute the occasional glower or, very, very rarely, rend out a confession.
"Miss--"
"I," she declared with the conviction of youth, "think he's much better off with someone like Bassy. With the old Jedi Council gone and all, there's plenty of room for change in the Code. The chant about love blah blah Dark Side is getting old anyway."
Two pairs of eyes, one brown, the other indigo, played avid subscribers to the ongoing saga. Each time a doubt of the future role of Jedi arose, Senator Arr'skra and Ambassador Baraka bid to answer. Each time the latter scored, Bastila flashed a subtle smile, lines flexed on the Exile's back, and something unpleasant coiled at the back of Carth's throat.
The Admiral propped one elbow, trying to rub his forehead without advertising the fact. Every last drop of paranoia swam dizzily in an ocean of disturbing new concepts.
The tide of passengers in the bulk freighter Blazoner ebbed warily around a certain six-by-nine square space, despite the crimp it put on styles across the rest of the deck. After all, arriving cramped and disgruntled was preferable to arriving sans bodily parts. The shunned locale housed two droids, plus one being who looked like that full-body armor might not just be a costume of academic interest. The bipedal droid had a whiplash manner of focusing on passersby, and the small utility model had been ascertained to be even more temperamental than reputed of its kind.
The whole to-do was fine -- more than fine -- by Mandalore. He had considered appearing undercover, or at least as a (mostly) anonymous Canderous Clan Ordo, but dismissed the plan for being less efficient. Whomever had gone to such pains to imply Mandalore's hand behind certain schemes would best be rooted out if Mandalore himself was on the prowl.
In actuality, the only thing that surprised him about the hunt was the role he had been "honored" with. Beside Revan's, the Wraith's head would be one of the most coveted scores for the people the duo had bested. Perhaps more so, even, for the elusiveness of its identity made it a trophy worthy of the most cunning. The title had, after all, been an all-purpose euphemism for "situation farkled".
The single variable was, if some bright pup or wily old hound had come so far as to postulate that the Jedi General, returned to make headlines, was one and the same with the Wraith. If so, she would be safer out trolling the Unknown Regions.
Once the girl got past castigating herself for the earning of her notoriety, he was convinced that she would appreciate the irony.
Three days and too many cul-de-sacs later, Mandalore had progressed from grim to grimmer. And, despite a presently lazy pose, beginning to feel the edge of fatigue.
He had not gone sleepless, of course -- that was a greenhorn's last mistake -- but for odd reasons had not found it as easy as usual to switch off. With HK-47's over-eager vigilance, he had not even the necessity of keeping watch to blame.
He was not to venture without the droids, the Exile had stated, the proverbial Jedi Master passing down doctrine. He might have, anyway, but for the threat of having them sicced on and fudging up his trail.
Mandalore snorted at the memory. Five steps away, two Selketh children with curiosities too big for their bodies finally wizened up and fled. While he had nothing against younglings (a necessary, if inconvenient, phase of life) it was fortunate for them that he saw no honor in taking things out on bystanders.
Compounding the foulness of his mood, he found himself dwelling atypically on past decisions: Should have ditched the tin cans. Can't move ten steps without tripping over one of them. The Exile's one to talk, when exactly who is watching her back?
The ratios in which the individual arguments weighed was not up for discussion, even with himself.
A judder in the grav system induced a couple declarations of pain, followed by a hush in the chatter around the sole, flashily armed passenger. The decibels gradually resumed as the Blazoner continued its blithe, plodding defiance of moniker.
Back against bulkhead, the very picture of unconcern, Mandalore permitted a memory, at most two, to assuage boredom.
/#Sitrep!#/
Jareb Ordo, nominal second-in-command and distant cousin (in that order of importance), performed a sharp about face to keep up with he who had just arrived to be met. While Canderous Ordo rated as a relatively compact specimen of their people, Jareb had grown up being teased "tiny". He matched the other's no-nonsense stride to a beat, however, having learned and learned well the import of appearances.
/#A-go,#/ he rapped out with some pride. /#The hut'uune all died before hitting the floor.#/
/#Don't brag a kill before gutting it,#/ Canderous snapped, impatient. /#Or did you forget how many brothers have dared the same?#/
/#We have them penned in,#/ came the confident rejoinder. /#Revan cannot delegate a challenge so close to Core Space, if only for political reasons. He will be there.#/
/#Revan's presence was never a problem; any ad'ika with a nose can track him by the stench of battle. The problem is, he has this Sith-spawned habit of slipping out before party favors are ready to be distributed.#/
/#Even Revan must obey the laws of physics. We have "acquired" control of outposts on all sides, and there has been no indication that the Republic fops have noticed.#/
The senior Ordo was unimpressed. /#A trap that fails to spring is worse than no trap at all. How many times has Revan worked our "ambushes" against us, now?#/
The other's black brows nearly crossed in a frown. /#We have studied these stations for months. There are no communications we cannot replicate.#/
/#Really.#/
/#Besides, we are not operating on a set pattern this time. Even if the accursed Jedi can really see into the future, the number of possibilities must overwhelm them.#/
/#I don't need you to tell me what I had hand in planning!#/ Canderous rebuked, though to no apparent effect. /#Revan doesn't need to know in advance where attacks will come from, if he has a method of locating them.#/
/#How can he?#/ Jareb shot back, undaunted. /#The stations are all dead-eye posts, virtually no traffic, and for sure none scheduled within the month. As far as any Republic schutta knows, everything's been getting along with their usual level of incompetence.#/
The skeptic snorted, but spared a lecture on "if you can ask 'what can go wrong', something will". Jareb was one of his more capable comrades, hence the (albeit informal) position, but had a tendency to overcompensate. /#Got to wonder,#/ he noted to self/#if Revan is just one person.#/
Jareb laughed. /#Don't tell me you buy all that Wraith nonsense too, Canderous. If you ask me, it's incompetence weeding out our ranks rather than some mystical, all-reaching avenger.#/
/#I didn't ask. And only a di'kut overlooks possib--#/
A never-questioned battle-sense saved Canderous from coughing the rest of his sentence out in blood, as he whirled just in time to defeat a sniper's aim at his skull. The backwash seared his ear, but the sensation never made it to high priority.
Cries of the less wily streamed through the air of one recently annexed Republic Outstation RSI-8. They were the only herald for the half-dozen gray-clad figures that magicked out of stealth field shimmers.
Canderous did not waste time considering how prophetic his doubts had been. The helmet in hand made it to his head, even as he rolled and brought his rifle up in one fluid move. The heat-tracking display in his visor obligingly painted unfriendlies in lurid red...
...only, it didn't. He watched for half a second's bafflement as one green blob felled another, then snarled into his comlink with a curse. /#The enemy have our transponders. Fall back to visual.#/ On an impulse, he added a /#Get 'em, boys!#/
As for any battle worth the mention, "getting them" proved easier said than done. The nature of the operation meant that there was not a huge advantage in numbers: four, perhaps five against each invader. Moreover, the other downside to the haste of the annexation soon made an appearance.
The Republics had booby-trapped the station.
The twists of corridors he had only schematic knowledge of, pressed annoyingly at the back of his mind. The resident Mandalore should be faring better, but enclosed spaces had an effect of equalizing small and large forces. A tactic he was quite fond of... from the employing end.
There was one sure solution to the current scenario: congregate, vac the rest of the station. Decision made, he issued the code for the essentials of such a maneuver even as he broke into a run. Certainty that the enemy had considered the same added just that much zest to his step.
Soon, the electronics in Canderous' headpiece became once again useful, if for the unenviable task of keeping score of his fallen. As yet another console exploded, taking out three men but leaving the sole enemy unscathed, he was forced to up the estimate by several invisible hackers. The coincidences were too well-timed for there to be anything less than sentient intelligence behind them.
Weapon live in hand, he punched the trigger vehemently and had the satisfaction of seeing the survivor crumple.
Full-suited brethren greeted the Ordos perfunctorily as they hit command center. Just as unceremoniously, the newcomers set to filling gaps in the perimeter, after a brief detour to verify that atmospheric controls were functional. There would be a remaining precisely four minute and thirty-seven second wait for the rest to arrive. Stragglers deserved to perish.
Of course, four minutes and thirty-seven seconds were similarly available to the enemy.
Emerging from an abbreviated duck, the residual heat from a plasma grenade scalded through Canderous' armor before regulators could scurry to compensate. He ignored both discomfort and the insanity of his visor display, punching rounds into the haze. A cry rewarded his efforts, but the return fire from behind an unguarded console announced that at least one enemy had stolen ground. On his next check, the fallen was nowhere in sight, though he was reasonably certain as to its location. The Republics -- at least, those worth fighting -- invariably risked much to tend casualties.
His own were sacrificing too many per victory, but if things continued as is, they would still hold ground. The surprising of Revan, though, was contingent on a schedule.
/#Skrag!#/ Jareb shouted by his side. /#There are Jedi with this lot.#/
Canderous would better have appreciated the warning had it come a few minutes earlier -- or hours, if not asking too much. At least, he groused to himself as he chucked an emptied clip (a procedure fully automated via muscle memory), a "where on this farkled station" might have been helpful.
A tall but distinctly un-Mandalorian-garbed whirlwind joined the fray, and he was forced to concede legitimate excuses for lack of detail. There was no convenient shaft of light to mark, hence it took minutes and yet more lives to ascertain that limbs were being cropped and blaster bolts returned in the tradition of their nemesis. It took more to locate the wielder, not plural, of cylinders that appeared to be all but the "light" part of "lightsabers".
The blade, Canderous concluded in awe, had to exist in the ultraviolet. Tuned as Mandalorian sensor technology was to the infrared of living beings and all but cutting-edge stealth, his visor was of no help.
A moment of misadvised superstition entertained some of the horrors bandied about regarding the Wraith, but the next blast shook him out of stupor quickly enough. If such a creature did in fact exist, so must a mode of defeat, he told himself. He who wallowed in the grimmer assumption might as well slit his own throat.
For one titillating moment, Canderous allowed himself to be mesmerized. He was one of too few Mandalorians who lived to compare Jedi fighting styles: superlative melee opponents, but tending to win despite of their mundane "support".
This group was of a class so different, it blew all he thought he knew out of subspace. There was no awkward scrambling of shooters behind Jedi vanguard. There was no waiting for another to take the risks or issue commands: one saw an opening, one took initiative, the rest adjusted. There were no redundant zones of coverage, no second glances to assure selves that backs were covered by those supposedly on the job.
There was a team as confident of each other as of themselves. There was a core of vibro-bladers who forced the Mandalorians to adopt the same, covered by an unflagging rota of snipers who latched onto every distraction.
The Jedi was all but indistinguishable, thanks to that invisible blade and a speed no flesh-and-blood should have been capable of. Even the Cathar, or the Zabrak who had turned up after Canderous' preemptive command to nuke electronics, were easier to pick out for being sole representatives of their species.
An inexplicable bout of envy assailed the Mandalorian commander. The seamless coordination, the combined innovation, was an ideal many of his trained for their entire lives without ever attaining.
/#Forget the Jedi,#/ Canderous instructed in an instant's inspiration. /#Team up, pick the rest out one by one.#/
The redistribution of firing patterns had a mixed effect. More of the enemy fell, but only after they took their pick of migrating and thus vulnerable Mandalorians. Having expected the Jedi to rush to rescue in the manner of Jedi, Canderous was unpleasantly surprised by a sizzle fifteen meters to his right. A random catch of light on a matt cylinder was the only indicator as the object sailed obediently back to its owner, whose other hand swung uninterrupted in an arc that economically intercepted three shots. One other shot bounced back from the apparently bare and waiting palm.
He tore eyes from the eerie phenomenon, cursing as they located the target of the Jedi's maneuver: the atmospheric controls would never again live up to either constituent of its name. Similar expletives peppered the unneeded report from the squad in charge, who had understandably not expected anything from fifty meters away to wreak such precise havoc. Canderous had not needed additional proof of the Jedi's competence, but acknowledged it anyway. The jury-rigged controls were purely mechanical, not susceptible to blaster fire, and stood a fair chance of surviving grenades. Apparently, they needed to work on "lightsaber-proof".
By the time he looked back, the Jedi had again resumed anonymity.
It was a single loss, but one that drastically shifted the balance. There was a noticeable slack in carnage as the Republics executed a staggered, organized escape. With the race off, Canderous knew their enemy's next move to be a vanishing into the proverbial air vents, the better to pick them off, guerilla style. He was also excruciatingly aware that, regardless of the success of that tactic, the delay would accomplish its goal of rending the web laid out for Revan.
Honor demanded that he see this battle through to the end; there moreover weighed the exhilaration of pitting wits against such capable opponents. Death was an acceptable price.
Practicality, however, interrupted. As close as they were to zero day, they could cede the station and still make their part of the ambush, albeit at much-reduced strength. There was also a matter of information burning in Jared's figurative pocket, information that was to play significant part in the coordination of their randomly allocated attack points.
It was with regret that he commanded retreat.
/#We have the Jedi!#/ Jared's excitement rang loudly enough to make Canderous wince. He scanned the progressively emptying area, easily locating the center of commotion. No other living Republic soldier showed face, a fact which he found exceedingly suspicious. Still, the armored circle closed even though some of its links met their fate upon introduction to their own fire. Apparently, being Jedi did not make one tireless.
Or invulnerable. Under a strange mix of anticipation and disappointment, Canderous barked/#Remember standing orders!#/ Feet could not move him fast enough.
The shift of showering bolts to stun was neither immediate nor synchronous -- vengeance was a hard call to ignore.
No sound marked the instant the Jedi was overcome. Only a cessation of weapons chatter dawned, as the ring of men surveyed their handiwork. Their commander approved to note that they maintained guard both inwards and outwards, but was less pleased with the ratio of attentions.
/#It's just a farkling girl!#/ one exclaimed.
After swift assessment, Canderous rounded in on the speaker. /#Tell that to all who fell, when you meet them,#/ he dismissed scornfully. /#Who's after the rest of them?#/
The men shifted on guilty feet, and offered up a few -- too few -- names.
The answering glare targeted Jared. /#Di'kut! They just left her, and you didn't think anything of it?#/
/#Heard her order them to,#/ was the sullen return.
Canderous held the gaze, unblinking if invisibly so behind his helmet, until the other turned. He was slightly mollified by the fact that most of the loiterers had gone off in the interim, presumably to catch up on jobs they should have been doing. Three men remained, two to manhandle the Jedi into restraints, one to maintain aim on the comatose form.
If any of them had been tempted before to underestimate Jedi, the past hours had provided permanent inoculation.
Upon closer scrutiny, Canderous was more inclined to forgive the unbecoming responses of his men. The specimen slumped bonelessly before him -- uncomfortably trussed up, long gashes decorating forehead -- fit the concept of "prey" far more easily than that of "predator". His eyes took in every unforgiving detail, and concluded that under the grime and blood she could have marked eighteen, twenty years at the most. Jet-colored hair, tangled in half-shroud over a strong-jawed face, emphasized an unnatural pallor of skin. It was nigh impossible to believe even though he had seen her in action.
/#Keep her sedated,#/ he reminded. Mandalore had ordered the capture of Jedi, a move Canderous thought eminently wise. He was not about to lose the windfall, no matter how unlikely, through simple, criminal overconfidence.
/#I told you sedate, not kill the Jedi!#/ Canderous bellowed.
/#She had some fripping kind of reaction! How was I supposed to know?#/
He willed his fist away from the other man's face, for done was done and it was not encouraged to prepare for a major battle by going ten rounds with one's second-in-command. /#Dump the body in the morgue, then. Mandalore will want autopsy,#/ he gritted out, registering a surprising hollowness of stomach. However subconsciously, he had looked forward to learning the nature of she who had managed to mow down two thirds of his company, and with a meager one dead on her side.
Two, now. Canderous bowed his head in respect and a teasing regret.
/#Are you questioning my competence?#/ Jared accused.
/#No, but keep it up and I will!#/ His tone continued the warning. /#The data. It has been transmitted to Mandalore?#/
/#Of. Course.#/ came in, barely civil.
/#Fine. Re'tur--#/
Before he could finish the dismissal, panting-interspersed-pounding announced an arrival. /#Ja, Jared!#/ the interruption managed after a couple seconds. /#Tell me you have not sent...?#/
/#Timing is crucial,#/ the twice-affronted snarled. /#Of course I have se--#/
A loud groan cut him off.
/#Spit it out. What else could possibly have gone wrong?#/
Bereft of armor, the messenger's swallow was visible. /#The, uh, the Jedi wasn't as, ahem, dead as we thought, and, uh...#/
Canderous' eyes squeezed shut. Fortunately, he'd had the accidental foresight to leave his helmet in place. /#And?#/ he intoned with careful false patience.
/#And she kind of, uh, we think she, erm, uploaded some kind of worm to our databanks.#/ The tail of the sentence was rushed almost to incomprehension.
Another commander might have put the man out of misery -- permanently. The senior Ordo was very, very tempted. /#Wonderful,#/ he instead declared. /#And, after jaunting around the Realm Beyond, toying with our computers, and apparently remaining invisible to twenty sets of eyes throughout, she left without saying "bye", of course.#/
/#Er, uhm. She, ah. One of the escape pods. Sir.#/
/#Did she sabotage sensors as well?#/
/#Well, no. But there are, uh, no life-signs.#/
With great deliberation, Canderous turned to add a satisfying dent to the nearest bulkhead. As violent as was his physical reaction, so were his words as finely controlled. /#Now, to encore, Mandalore will be demanding sitrep.#/
The console chose that moment to start blinking. Not to be outdone, the identification module spelled out the name.
/#Uh,#/ said the lad with the unfortunate stammer/#we could, uhm, say, it was the Wraith.#/
The attention he received for the effort was not of the admiring variety.
/#Well, she could be?#/
end interlude
"What!" exploded from Admiral Carth Onasi's mouth. At the moment, he very much wanted to be the cause of a diplomatic incident, maybe two. "You mean the 'great House Baraka' is a bunch of barbarians who condone slavery?"
"Certainly not," Azzam Zahid-Sharif enunciated with haughty calm, though there was no missing the underlying menace. "We practice commerce, as does the rest of the galaxy, and even your Republic recognizes contracts to be binding."
"This 'contract' of yours is a lifetime indenture! It has got to be invalidated by circumstances. What sane being would sign up for that if they had any kind of choice?"
"The original contract was nowhere near that duration, I assure you. It was Aleen's breaking of it, and the consequent harm her charges suffered, that makes me the unhappy executor of such a compounded debt."
"Surely," Bastila cut in before Carth could accuse the man of not appearing the least bit distressed, "there are mitigating factors. Renani was not in her right mind at the time..."
"Being bereft of this 'Force' is not the same as being bereft of judgment," the Ambassador chided, a fact which Carth could unfortunately not argue. "I must confess to being greatly disappointed by this reception. I had received the impression that Jedi are oath-keepers and honor all agreements."
Bastila blushed to high color, but seemed otherwise at a loss for response. Carth turned pleading eyes to the woman who had so far not volunteered a single word in her own defense.
The Exile obliged, though her response was at great affront to his taste. "The Ambassador is right. It, it was my responsibility, my failure..."
"You planned to take off when there's only two months left to term, knowing full well the insane laws they have about that kind of thing? You planned for this girl to be injured so badly in a dance -- and I won't even go into how improbable that sounds -- she's now paraplegic?" Discovering that he had leapt to feet sometime between outrage and incredulousness, Carth decided to put the vantage to good use by levering a round of glares. "Don't tell me any of you believe that a Jedi, especially this General of the Mandalorian Wars, just happened to miss those tiny details?"
"I wasn't much of anything at the time, Carth."
This is surreal. Plain surreal. Attention redirected back to Az just in time to catch a disturbing, quickly erased shade in obsidian eyes. "Something else is going on here, clear as Tatooinian day. If you think you can just parade in here and quarter off my friends to some kind of prettified slavery, you've got another thing coming, mister Ambassador or whatever other titles you may have."
A long sigh was his answer. "I had hoped to do this discretely, in a civilized manner," the Ambassador claimed. A hand swept, indicating the privacy of Carth's office and a mere two ominously silent Republic officials. His dark head inclined regally in the latter's direction. "In view of these, ah, expressed feelings, however, I must insist that the charged be placed under security until the matter can be resolved."
The Twi'lek and Rodian conferred in whispers. Carth knew that further theatrics would help none of them at this point, but his hands twitched in temptation.
"It is only just," deluged upon an already-bowed head. "Renani, also known as Aleen, you are hereby..."
interlude
/#Ani, have you seen a communiqué from Mez lately?#/
/#That Duros pal of yours? I dunno, it's prob'ly round here somewhere.#/
/#I've looked everywhere.#/
/#Aw, so she missed one week. Big deal.#/
/#I'm worried, you insensitive schutta.#/
/#She prob'ly found herself a nice bloke to chum up with, it's about time doncha think?#/
/#Eck. Don't you go around trying to manage other people's love-lives.#/
/#Sheesh, woman, don't bite my lekku off. You know I have eyes only--#/
/#Can you be serious for one minute! It's not like Mezerel to forget. Think I should check in with the Commander?#/
/#You wanna tell the Comman-- oh, by the moons of Ryloth, don't tell me you're still playing that word game.#/
/#That "word game" is how we kept the Mandal--#/
/#--kept Mandies from picking off outposts, blah, blah, blah. I know already, after twelve years! And I keep on telling you, the Wars have been over for ages.#/
/#That doesn't mean we should just sit around like Hutts and wait for the next one to sock us.#/
/#Sweetie, you know how much I love ya, but you're kitchen staff on a station of hundreds! Let the rest of 'em continue this secret mumbo-jumbo if they got nothing better to do. We--#/
/#I might not be some toity tech or prissy pilot, but I do my part, which is more than I can say for--#/
/#Whoa, whoa! That's not the way I--#/
/#Ptah! I'm not arguing with you over this. Lucky for us it's the Commander and not you who gets to decide if its important.#/
/#I can't believe he's still holding to that messages monitoring thing that went on in the War. I mean, hullo! There's not even any Jedi left to see whatever patterns all these little warnings make. You're just wasting--#/
/#The rest of them high-ups have eyes just like the Jedi, don't they? And Mezerel is my friend. I happen to like making up these puzzles with her. And if there's any chance that something bad's happened, I'm sure not--#/
/#Okay, okay! We'll go. Just hope the Commander doesn't laugh his face off...#/
/#He'd better not. Aayla and Chee got messages from their pals, but they're not right. There's something going on, I just know it...#/
To: Admiral Hal Bertold
From: Captain Raimond Bertold
Re: Ke'sush, Admiral!
Captain Raimond Bertold reporting for duty, sir!
icon: grin Aw, c'mon dad. If a son can't rib his father about a certain shiny new set of epaulets, who in the Fleet dares? Good to know that the Powers-That-Be are finally getting round to finishing up decorations for the Mandy Wars. icon: salute
How's mom handling the news? I'll betcha she hit the roof, or was she the one who finally wore you down to take the promotion? Being a star pilot herself never stopped her from taking it hard whenever you larked off on missions. She had an especially hard time with those counter-infiltration ops. as I recall. Never quite trusted the intel, said it was too vague to work, but hey I always told her it can't hurt to check things out. Best case you'll come home complaining of being bored.
Oh yeah, before I forget: where's the last place Lorelei was stationed at, again? That itchy foot of Sis' is gonna come back and bite some day. Moving around, then around some more... must be those spacer genes. Wonder where she got those from icon: wink.
So, Isa is finally ready to take the leap, I think. It's not like she doesn't already know, but, stang, getting to popping the question is giving me the jeeves! icon: grimace Please, please tell me you didn't get it perfect when you asked mom, but she said "yes" anyway... I'm just asking one of those long stories "for posterity", aren't I? Well Isa always said...
1032: A8-T4-J3 to Q9-E3-R13
1033: M3-J1-R14 to F10-K9-I6
1034: Q2-I9-E4 to I1-A12-S5
1035: O3-J4-W12 to O10-K1-Z2
1036: W5-W9-K5 to S10-I7-R9
Box.
Embarrass yourself not further, my friend.
Whaddaya mean, "box"? You musta been working your head too hard, friend. 1035 sure ain't wiggin' with the list of rules we agreed on. You can only do O3-J4-W12 to S11-K8-Z2 or O3-J4-W12 to O7-K11-Z2, so pick your poison.
Now, behold a master in action!
Option 1:
1037: ...
end interlude
One tap infused threads of gray with color. A second circled convergences of said color in red. The third dissolved the web into the blank of an inactive screen.
Mandalore frowned at the datapad, though its contents had not morphed since the last viewing. Since it was supposed to be a static display, alteration should warrant the deeper frown, but such hair splitting did not concern the warrior at the moment.
One might have surmised that he be pleased to have been granted solution to that which had stumped a generation of Mandalorian code-breakers/spies -- likely the first and currently only of his kind to hold the honor. As it turned out, he had performed the "suitably impressed" part, but gratitude would have to wait for temporal distance to dilute his annoyance.
Knowing the Exile, she'd have gotten herself into another handful or so "situations" by the time he got back.
A memory bloomed that was completely off-topic, but then so was the question the girl had pulled one otherwise-forgettable day/#How's my accent?#/
He'd had to think about it, but failed anyway to come up with anything definitive, perhaps a slight formality of phrase. Blinkered by Revan's facility with languages, he had thus been further surprised by the claim that Mando'a and Zabraki were the only two within the twin's grasp.
That she professed to hate language studies, yet had expended much effort to master an enemy's, had piqued the Mandalorian.
/#Idiot's Guide to Tactics,#/ the former General had explained, grinningly. /#Covert ops should not be attempted without ability to at least sound, if not look, like one of the natives.#/
There was, as he had dryly pointed out, the small matter that most Mandalorian warriors were not also eunuchs.
/#Never underestimate the power of the Force,#/ she had quoted in fond mockery.
And what made her think all Mandalorians were weak-minded enough to manipulate, he had wanted to know. There might have been a certain degree of asperity in the question, for alto had registered as tenor and he was righteously disturbed.
/#I don't do mind tricks.#/ Deep distaste had stained her protest, but lightened to mischief with the explanation/#I can, however, slow down the air in people's throats.#/
He had snorted, but otherwise let her have the last word. The subsequent disappointment had been proof enough that he had just thwarted a demonstration. It might have been worth the humiliation, though, just because the girl so rarely indulged in levity...
Useless distractions. Focus, Ordo.
He tapped again at the datapad, a little more forcefully than necessary, then took a moment to ruminate. That such an improbably scheme was sustainable and had produced useful data was deserving of awe. That it remained at more-than-half strength -- completely voluntarily -- was nothing short of miraculous.
That it had been leaked to not just any Mandalorian, but Mandalore himself, was... disquieting.
It might be that the Exile thought the network impervious, betting on the army of hackers required to beat the chrono of war. It took a fool, though, to discount that any construct can be circumvented, and Mandalore had made a point not to underestimate since the Jedi of the Invisible Sabers.
It might be that the information was somehow booby-trapped. In another history, that option bore much watching.
It might be as simple as a test of allegiance. But then, "simple" had never seemed compatible with the Exile, and to expect one's opponent to conform to one's own logic was one for the halls of infamy.
Bah. Philosophizing is an excuse for the impotent.
Gloved fingers chucked the centimeter-thick plane carelessly to top a pile of gear, then folded behind his helmet in a stretch. His mind's eye was the only set that continued tracing the Mandalore's present zigzag to target: a cluster of points off-centroid of the red.
The Exile's loyals were good, herself better, but nothing beat a good old fashion dose of insider information.
A grin bared his teeth, and the Republic spies putting on a show two meters away were no wiser of it than they were of anything else. When this rigmarole finally concluded, he planned to have a hearty laugh over the guises they had pasted on, the latest being the stock mooning couple. It might have been more convincing had they not also come across like bipolars detesting each other's guts.
Apparently, he was deemed insufficient threat to warrant better than two pathetically unseasoned kids. Mandalore was not even much disappointed.
They were doing the job for him all that much faster.
Nine days before Zero...
He awoke debilitated, and knew immediately that it was not from drink.
The equation did not overly burden a pulsing head: Bao-Dur would no sooner imbibe the poison sentients called "alcohol", than contemplate soaking hand-crafted circuitry in etching acid.
Unfortunately, it was also the simplest of all the riddles scheduled for him. For the moment, however, he was content to remain on his back. Eyes charted a duracrete ceiling, three featureless walls, and a small overhang that was the sole divisor between "inside" and "outside".
He did not wonder if the escape was as accessible as it seemed; it was almost assured that a shield took care of that detail. No cell was complete without that particular finishing touch, unless it happened to be of the low-tech dungeon variety.
There had to be some urgency to his situation, yet the tech could only seem to entertain two thoughts in his brain. One: Bez-Enth would deliver a most annoyed (and annoying) "I told you so".
And two: the General would remark, "We really need to work on your idea of 'infiltrate', Bao-Dur."
"I can't believe you're siding with that Sith-spawn over this!"
Bastila looked pained, but could apparently still summon haughty righteousness at first klaxons. "I am not 'siding with' anybody, and neither should you be, given your current responsibilities, Carth. An Admiral of the Republic and the host of diplomatic proceedings should not allow his... personal inclinations to--"
"My duty is to uphold the ideals of the Republic, not pander to slavers because they look pretty," he snarled, having forgotten for the moment the Republic's take on "servitude" on Taris.
"Punishment for a crime is hardly the same as slavery."
"Reni hasn't even been tried, but you've already assumed her guilty!"
"I do no such thing! If I assume anything, it is no more nor less than what she has freely admitted to!"
Tradition dictated that the third person should insert a protest at being talked about rather than to, but this instance merely looked serenely on with eyes that were not altogether present.
A snip of the past drifted before the sole male's eyes: Bastila, hands folded over chest. Renani, voice low and intense. The words themselves were beyond memory-Carth, though the shift of a third set of feet told some tales. Carth's approach had been cue for smiles and bland faces; nevertheless he had caught the tech's mildly admonishing "Claws out, General?"
At present, Bastila's eyes flitted too guiltily for his comfort. The younger Jedi had exhibited such symptoms only once before. He'd learned that she feared a re-emergence of Revan via that confidence.
There was something either brewing, or already drawn and quartered amongst the women. Carth sinkingly concluded that both were quite amenable to the oncoming injustice, even if their reasons were polemic. Is it too much, he groused, to ask for one ally?
"Where is Bao-Dur, anyway?"
So, Bao, the General would voice. You've gotten us inside hundreds of enemy shields. How about getting out of one? Just for kicks. A corner of her lips would then tease upwards in the proclamation, Look, they've even put the controls on the same side.
"I'd have preferred them on this one," he muttered, "if it's all the same to you."
Ah, but then you'd complain it's too easy.
Another uncharacteristically flighty circuit completed, the tech finally convinced himself to a more systematic examination of the cell. Fingers ran lightly over all he could reach, eyes imprinted color and texture, and feet took him laboriously from wall to adjacent wall. Methodology was Bao-Dur's forte; his General was the one who flitted from task to task and still landed unerringly where she needed to be.
There was nothing to be found by either set of talents. No bumps, no cracks, no variation in the grainmush shade.
I'm not swooning over their choice of interior decorators either.
"That," he informed, "was a singularly unhelpful observation."
Agreed. Your subconscious is a miserly fellow, my friend.
A sigh wended its way up. Years had not weaned the Iridonian from imagining her presence when quiet grew too profound. It was not a habit Bao-Dur was proud of. She did not deserve to be compared, least of all against some ideal of his mind. He had put superlative effort into shedding preconceptions since their reunion, and just as spectacularly failed.
It was all the General's fault, naturally. As hard as it was to divorce reality from fantasy, it was that much harder with the reality she insisted on projecting:
The unwavering intensity of attention. The snippets of sly humor, designed to induce paroxysms hours after digestion. The incurable need to investigate everything. The "mysterious" disarray of his workbench, loudly appointed labels unheeded.
In short, situation normal.
Bao-Dur had forced himself to catalogue the many changes; yet even though subdued, sadder, injured in a way that constricted his throat, the General's essence was true to the ghost that empty evenings had conjured.
Good judgment of character is usually considered a strength.
He shook his head. It was no strength to succumb to obsession. Pride remained adamant that Bao-Dur maintain his identity apart from those countless satellites her orbit snared.
The business portion of his brain finally kicked up a possible solution, and a slight grin graced the tech's face. A rather unpleasant shock had established that the shield generator was too robust to overload with the charge in his artificial arm. However, as the General loved to emphasize, the cleanest way to beat the enemy was not a frontal assault--
--but to convert their cause. Or vice-versa, in this case. Very slick, Bao-Dur. I like it!
"Self-praise really is bad form," he reproved absently, already frowning over the intricate sequence of points that flesh-fingers visited on the bands of his artificial left. The task occupied the greater part of the tech's concentration, yet a vestigial sense felt the void where the General should have been, hovering with her inexhaustible curiosity of all things novel.
Under a blow labeled "obvious", he almost fumbled the sequence.
Hey, no beating up my student. He's not used to relying on the Force, that's all.
"I should have thought of it sooner," the recently Padawan-ed insisted. Abandoning technological efforts, he settled to a cross-legged pose reminiscent of the one his teacher favored. Eyes shut on exhale.
Mical had once described Revan, the blinding nova of her presence. He had observed that the General's registered scarcely brighter than nominally Sensitive, mused that the Masters were thoroughly puzzled by her ability to draw so greatly on the Force.
Bao-Dur had his private theory. Dxun had furnished one proof, where his fledgling senses had nevertheless caught the breeze of his General's presence. No overwhelming achievement, perhaps, but for the fact that she had been on the planet Onderon and he on the moon.
Surely, from less than half a world (he hoped) away, he could not fail to make contact...
interlude
The grease of food spilled through the air, prompting her stomach to roil in futile anticipation. Informing it that insufficiency should be modus operandi by now, Aleen dodged her way between tables, arms aching under yet another loaded tray.
"Mind over matter" was more like "wishful thinking", in this case. Human physiology did not become inured to hunger until well into the starvation phase, and her employers did not find it profitable to maintain their workforce just one ledge above collapsing. They were actually on the generous side by most standards; employees were provided with all that basic subsistence required.
The problem lay in the definition of "subsistence". Apparently, the upkeep of their dainty proportions let the other serving girls get by with equally dainty eating habits. The alien giantess felt misplaced enough without insisting that she used to put away twice as much on good days.
The sensation of being full was long forgotten, at any rate. Here, she was at least out of danger of black-outs, even if extra caution in rising was still necessary.
Well, you did learn that there's an art to begging, an inner voice consoled, not very consolingly. Perhaps if you had put more effort into appearing pathetic, and less to grouching about the filth...
Her mind shuddered and forcibly ejected the memory of how low she had been prepared to -- had, in fact -- sunk.
"Merciful" and "compassionate", huh? Imprisonment would have been kinder than--
"Hey! We've been wa-a-a-itin' fore-e-ever o'er 'ere, gurrrrlie!" a loud voice slurred. "So unless ye're prep'rin' more than grub for us, getcher skinny arr--"
Mindful of obligations, Aleen dumped the tray on the table instead of his head. One beefy hand promptly located the bodily part the man's words had just disparaged. She took some pleasure in hypothesizing how unbecomingly color would show on dark skin if clumsiness were to overtake one of the soups being handed out. It wasn't like he needed any help in that department, but still.
Unfortunately, self-preservation dictated that a proper reaction to the affront be suppressed in favor of a prim recitation of the bill-pad that they all, invariantly, could never be bothered to read. So, she tolerated the grimy paw that squished credits plus gratuitous contact into hers, then had to collect another two orders before depositing the offending chips and scrubbing the afflicted palm off her apron.
As a Mandalore would say, "K'atini, verd!"
A General she used to know had never subscribed to the "suck it up" prescription for motivating troops, but that was a lifetime ago, and Aleen could not afford to waste energy on bygones.
Naturally, she did so anyway.
"Omigosh, Aleen!"
The named paused, tipping her head down to examine a mass of black braids reaching somewhere below her chin. Sparkling black eyes and a pair of dimples beamed, and she felt an eyebrow rise -- the expression acquired from a certain persona of that other lifetime.
"Here, let me take that," the other woman declared, adroitly appropriating the wooden tray and balancing it on five fingers. "Lord Azzam Zahid-Sharif himself is here, asking for you specifically. Imagine that! You might, ah, want to clean up a bit before you head over. What could he possibly want, I wonder?"
"I do not know. We have never spoken."
"The young Lord does have quite an eye for the ladies, you know." Her compatriot giggled, winked suggestively, and finished with a sigh. "Ah, to be called to personally serve--"
An older woman bustled to their location, cutting off the end of the sentence. "Samirah has told you?" she asked brusquely, but did not wait for answer. A critical eye lingered over the unflattering crop of hair, migrated to crookedly redone seams, and concluded on mismatched shoes. "Could you not have, just once-- pshht. I suppose there is nothing to be done about it now, not with his Lordship already waiting. It doesn't do to inconvenience a Lord of a House, no matter how tolerant he is. You two would do well to remember that. You, especially."
The admonished bowed her head, needing no reminder of her near-daily gaffes.
"Well? Straighten up, for decency's sake! I will not have it said that my girls are slouches and slobs. And it wouldn't kill you to put a more pleasant look on that face. The Divine knows I've got enough customers complaining about you as it is."
Aleen forced herself to correct the stoop that was her subconscious' bid at narrowing the physiological gulf, one she was stuck on the other side of. However, the hail of a hundred eyes (to mind, if not fact) did not do much for improving the sweetness of her expression.
A huff disapproved of her efforts. "I hope you appreciate what an incredible opportunity the Lord might be granting, girl. I don't want to hear of him being disappointed, you hear? Though I can't imagine but one reason he might. For sure I've never seen nobody more like a runyip bumbling around vors-glass, but maybe it's the oddness that catches the eye."
The off-worlder already knew she was no beauty, even if skin which would rather burn than tan, plus length of limb, drew her as exotic amongst petite, dark-complexioned females. The lack of belonging allowed just about anyone free reign to demonstrate "appreciation" of said attributes.
A last cache of pride stiffened her spine and sent adrenaline on a spike.
An unappreciated giggle prompted the older woman to shoo the youngest off. One hand clamped on the remaining's forearm. "Don't you dare give me the ugly eye. Think yourself above us, do you? Even the entertaining girls at least earn their weight! You think it is bad for you here? You haven't seen the real world."
"I have little left but dignity. Life here is not bad," Aleen lied, "and surely preferable to surrendering the last of my principles." Her shoulders had reverted to cowed, a condition she tried to surreptitiously rectify.
"I'd say, so long as you can continue on as a mynock. Just you know that we won't cover for your ineptitude forever. Hmph. Go, go. But you had best think very carefully, girl. Sometimes life is about taking what you can get."
"I, I am trying, Jumanah," weakness whispered.
The other's glower dogged her every step, and Aleen had to wonder if that resolve was doomed to turn out false as well.
end interlude
"My answer will not change."
"Stubbornness is one of the things I admire about you," said Lord Azzam. "But even a falumpaset must learn to comply for its own good. I cannot do anything about the sentence, Aleen, yet I am trying my best to mitigate it."
"I am no longer that person," she declared, but volume and degree of conviction both emerged inverse to plan. The VIP suite was just opulent enough to remind her of past fineries, and he -- he was the proverbial page out of a best-entombed past.
"You would prefer I call you 'Renani', or 'Exile', perhaps?" Beads tinkled in a shake. "It is no hardship. Still, you cannot deny who else you were, and are."
Cowardice was not in "recommended behavior for Jedi", much less for one so-called Master. It was only remnant self-respect that persuaded her feet to hold ground, however; every other instinct voted for diving behind the closest cover.
Note to self, was humor's last bid, getting placed under house arrest is no way to win an avoid-him game.
Sculpted features gentled, deep-set eyes grew murky with something akin to pain. As one might approach a fey creature, the Ambassador moved slowly, hands unthreatening by sides.
It was not an unjustified caution. Robbed of the couches and foot-table she had been swift to put between them, it took every gram of will Reni had to not back away. It took many more that she did not have to keep from flinching as he closed in -- and he came very, very close.
"Tell me."
At a vantage to trace every bob of the man's throat, Reni slid discomfited eyes elsewhere, but could find nothing within peripheral vision that was neutral. A finger lifted her chin, removing one more option.
"Look me in the eye," he breathed, "and tell me that you find me utterly repulsive. If you can, I will bow out gracefully, I swear."
She managed to stumble away, minutes tardy as well as dizzy from attempts to deny breath. Arms wrapped about waist, helpless to damp the tremors coursing both body and mind. Eyes shuttered, refusing to acknowledge triumph -- or worse, sympathy -- in his.
His words pursued. "You cannot deny feeling this, between us."
"There is nothing 'between us'. Except my gratitude, perhaps," the Exile insisted, and felt the better for it.
He made a soft sound, half-laugh, half-sigh. "I don't understand you, Aleen. I don't understand how you can be the most alive woman I have ever met, and yet refuse to live."
So who is this creature you profess to want?
But that was an accusation Reni had never been able to make to his face, for there were days when she teetered over how readily self became whatever others required. Those moments of revulsion were to be steered around at parsec's radius.
She settled for a pathetic, "Why are you doing this?"
Distilled fear pumped through his veins. Eyes flew open upon a gasp, and it was an act of pure will that kept him from crawling to cower in the nearest corner.
He was penned inside a box so small, he could not see the sides.
He was drowning on dry land, lungs having forgotten the purpose of air.
He was screaming so loudly his throat bled, yet no sound emerged.
He was--
Cool surface impacted his back. His body had sought refuge in the one place instinct marked, after all, despite orders and the uselessness of the effort.
It took Bao-Dur ten minutes to regulate his breath. He brought hands to swipe at his face -- whether to rid reality or sweat he knew not -- but stalled, fascinated by their uncontrollable tremble.
The General, imaginary or otherwise, was silent.
A shudder worked its way up the base of his spine. Silence, thick, cloying silence, clogged his cell and flooded the outside. The entire universe had vanished but for the seven-by-seven square meters hazy eyes reported, and he was starting to doubt--
Bao-Dur shook his head, willing the motion to shed both the nausea and the crushing terror like droplets from a gundark. While not a particularly effective strategy, he was eventually able to blank his mind micron by hard-won micron.
In the surreal aftermath, he wondered how it was that only a bit more than a half-year's familiarity could override thirty-odd years of doing without. He wondered if this was how spice-addicts felt upon withdrawal, if this was the General's experience as--
He shook his head again, resolutely driving thoughts in a different direction. Inevitably, they returned to the one impossible fact of his current reality: the Force was no longer there.
He had assumed that the fuzziness was temporary, that the dullness of his senses was some tenacious effect of the condition he had awoken in. He had not considered that he could, for the second time, have become an amputee.
"No," fiercely whispered. "I, I can't, I must not... operate on that assumption. It has to be something about this place..."
Close-mouthed walls glared back.