Day Zero...
"Come, come, Carth. Let's not pretend we don't both know what they say: Revan might smash you a new face with ol' right-hand Malak, but it's her left that snaps your neck from behind, every time."
The hand-rake through regulations-skirting forelock was designed to steer attention from a gut-sigh. It was however doomed by the fact that it worked better on those of female persuasion; more likely it was the sotto-voce grumbling that had any distraction value.
The incoming query clinched it. "Hmm? Do speak up, old boy. Ears are the first to go, you know."
"I said, I'll see you senile before I see you uninformed, Vladik. So, no, I can't find it to believe that you're here pumping me for the latest in sludge."
Another early rank-riser (Wars were undeniably good for careers) the other Human Admiral looked the holo of comfort in dress uniform and a seat half again too short. The attire was excused by a just-concluded meeting. The furniture had no excuse. Carth didn't spend too much time in apology of the latter, though. The blond who had blazed a fighter-pilot reputation despite his height had had thirty or so years to get used to the way of things.
Between tugging an over-starched collar and shifting the too-high cut of pants, Carth took a moment to wonder if wrinkle-resistant cloth was a trade secret of military families.
Well, to be fair, there was no questioning Vladik's trials by fire. Moreover, every street-beggar managed to look spiffier than Carth, according to the verbal humor of one Mission Vao. What stung more had been her Padawan cohort's ill-concealed amusement.
Okay, so he was a little... sensitive about the issue, these days.
One thick finger lifted to waggle him away from the preoccupied drift of his thoughts. "Three months' escorting the lady, and you haven't got one teensy morsel to share with an old buddy? Whatever happened to all that Onasi charm?"
The scowl Carth treated him had plenty of the opposite. "Could you get to the point? Assuming there is one." He drummed his digits, still reeling from the odd Renani-Bastila confrontation. As Luck liked to have it, his "old buddy" had barged in just in time to save him from having to decide which suicide to chase down.
Okay, so he might have been entertaining the third alternative, and sock what anybody might have to say about cowardice. That tidbit had a vanishing need-to-know list which Vladik was definitely not on.
"I don't have time to play games," he stressed.
"Still the same straight-lane Onasi." The admonished steepled fingers around a belly that his sigh hollowed. "Surely you have learned by now that it is all about games, old boy. Learn to put it on with the epaulets, or you'll spend the next few decades wearing misery."
"You may walk and talk like a player, but you'll always be a bit mild for a Stanislav, Wookiee."
Eyes darkened to emerald. "High praise," was the genuine comeback. Then, silk over steel, "But not warranted when it comes to... certain affairs. You know this, Onasi." Hardest struck was the softly repeated, "You know."
Carth blew out a breath; it had failed to buoy his spirits anyway. "Then let's save the moves for the enemy, Wingman."
Pairs green and brown each took measure of the other. Both found readings close enough to true.
Vladik cleared his throat, and spaced out the retrieval of an anonymous oblong datapad. From the way he handled it, Carth all but expected him to pronounce it live and ticking. He found it impossible to look away, though the other made no move to relinquish the object. He was more generous with words, even if he looked mightily uncomfortable to be speaking them. "There has been talk that you spent a year in arms with a Mandalorian, when you were with Revan. Surely you understand tha--"
"I have always been loyal to the Republic," Carth returned with heat, even as he thought Can't say the Republic has always been loyal to me. "Kaelynn herself could not have persuaded me otherwise. So, no, I don't understand how you could even think I'd betray the Republic on account of some Mandalorian scrag--"
"I may have-- no, no, I was wrong to do so. I just couldn't risk it, old boy. Not when it comes to--" The sentence hung on a swallow.
"You couldn't risk it?" Carth repeated, but with the spice of incredulity. "We've known each other for coming on twenty years, I have all the clearance you do, and you couldn't see any way around sitting in that damned chair and playing word games about something I have no damn clue about?"
Thick blond eyebrows grew thundery. "Friendly fire vapes just as good as hostile, Carth. Better, since it comes from the back. You and I and every blimey survivor of the fedding Wars knows that, so don't act like we haven't all scrimped on those almighty principles more often than we've stuck by them!"
"I've lost just as much as you to the Wars, and after," Carth mustered with more vitriol than he'd thought was in his blood -- after Kaelynn's leaving, that is. "I really don't give a Krish's word what the other Admirals think is fashionable, you don't see me going 'round accusing old comrades of--"
In the breadth of one blink, all two-point-two meters of one Vladik Stanislav towered. Hands slammed with enough force to make the repliwood desk dance. "There happens to be one hell of a difference between us, Onasi," he spat with venom, "and he's on deck ten shooting sims off the more gullible half of my crew!"
Something inside Carth froze. Any other topic, and he would have gotten by with some inane line about how temper came under the fine-print for the Stanislav inheritance. But, the subject being what it was, all he could do was to strain his fists and decide that "can't get any worse" was a particularly meaningless statement.
"Um," he started to muddle through, but caught sight of something that sent thought slamming like insects on a windshield. It was the sight of hands, not his, trembling.
They were tucked away quickly enough after Vladik forked them through his hair. "I, ah, don't know what came over me."
"I'm, erm, me neither." Some fidgeting later, Carth offered, "Jedi tempers must be catching."
A weak laugh excused the weak joke and implicit apology. By mutual agreement, both men began independent studies of repliwood patterning.
"So, you said Dustil, he is here? Haven't heard a thing about it."
The other Admiral's near-smile telecommed gratitude for lines thrown. Politely ignoring the depths begging in Carth's last statement, he managed a chuckle. "Oh, that. That was meant to be a secret. You will remember to act surprised, won't you? Kid's been working his tail off trying to 'earn his place'. Especially after that hush-hush the both of you have been shut tighter than a Hutt's purse over. Been teaching my blooded officers a thing or two, too."
Carth grinned, discomfiture washed away by tidal pride. "What can I say? Takes after his old man."
Vladik didn't look convinced, but only grunted. Then, almost too softly, "I envy you your-- I envy you."
In imitated courtesy, Carth faked non-notice of the hitch. I envy you your wife could only come across all degrees of wrong, so he settled for, "High praises, huh? Glad to hear it."
"Don't you let on," Vladik admonished. "Won't do to have cadets with big heads walking around. Too bloody big targets."
"I believe you. Got to, it's 'Wookiee' for more than the size of your coveralls."
"Of course, of course. That'd be my prowess in, ahem, various areas."
"Watch it, Stanislav. A few more centis of ego, and they'll need a hacksaw to fit you into a cockpit."
"You're just jealous because chicks dig 'tall and peerless pilot'."
"Of course they do," muttered Carth.
Eight days before Zero...
"You!" A trick of light on brown irises was an illustration of "flashed with fury". "I might have known all bad credits must eventually turn up. He came here to get away from you, or didn't you consider that scenario, 'General'?"
Her hands were shivering, so Reni shoved them into voluminous red sleeves, tried to make the pose look intimidating rather than pathetic. The greater feat, however, was resisting the Kreia-voice that lectured: the most expedient route is such an easy glide, fingers, mind to mind...
"Well?" The voice reminded sharply that she was on a time not wholly her own. "Did you wake me up just to show me what kind of spice-happy scrag-end the great 'General' has become? You should know, I really don't care. So just git, go back to playing galactic hero or tragic figure or whatever. Leave us small folk with our small destinies be, for we sure don't want you in it."
"I know he is not here, Bez-Enth. Where is he?"
"Which part of 'away from you' didn't you understand?"
The tremors increased, but for a different reason that the Exile tried to defeat by clenching fingers hard about forearms. "He is in danger. Where. Is. He."
"The only thing he's in danger of is you!" The last word flew fresh from the Zabrak woman's mouth just as she shoved the old-tech door closed at the intruder's face.
It slammed open again, so quickly as to overbalance the owner of the small residence. Reduced to expletives for only one incredulous moment, she raised a retributory hand.
Whether a slap or a punch was intended remained Bez-Enth's secret to keep. Her eyes did not manage to track the arm that barred the strike, but widened post-hoc from shock. A surreal distance away, Reni was aware that her ulna pressed close to the cartridge of the other's larynx, her short nails sinking into the flesh of the other's forearm. The trembling had only worsened, but the sole thing uncertain about her grip was its intent.
The captive's throat moved in a restricted swallow, but did not attempt a scream. "Showing colors, eh?" rasped out. "Almost a pity, who's not here to see."
Listen. All those petty belligerent surface thoughts... listen deeper... are those not currents of a very different character? Guilt, perhaps? Worry? Secrets denied?
Much later, upon review, Reni would wonder if her internal dilemma had not been as internal as hoped, or less definitely resisted, or both. Right then, she only knew on an almost visceral level that the woman's sense spiked from masked fear to bare one.
"You're insane." Bez-Enth was whispering for more reasons than the pressure upon her throat. "Get away from me!"
"I ask one last time," Reni emphasized. "Where is he?"
It was a suitably grateful Renani who sank to cross-legged in a corner of the empty workroom. It was fairly cramped thanks to a disproportionate workbench, and smelled strongly of grease and other unknown chemicals -- but it was dark, empty, and there. Who would have thought it so difficult to find room on a ship the size of a frigate?
Hindsight argued that she should have been prepared for the fact: space was a huge commodity in, well, space.
Unfortunately, the locale proved to be on the side of too quiet, given the nature of her reading material. The impressively dry, superlatively tedious datapad was so arresting, she found herself drifting into a reverie every two sentences or three.
It was during the eleventh such rill-out that he appeared.
Reni hated her pale complexion that revealed every blush, however slight. Jedi did not startle. Nor did they daydream, dither, and otherwise make attoparsec progress through the task at hand. She had to wonder, however, if he was some first-year Padawan who had not yet figured out that, "communal sharing" policy or no, possession was a nearly impossible-to-suppress trait. As an example, this was her quiet space...
... except that memory struck her hard enough to remember that it wasn't. Plus, once they had stared gapishly at each other long enough, it occurred to her to look. The plasteel kit in hand and the one leg frozen over the workbench implied that--
"Oh, is this, this is your spot? I was just, it was--"
--it was just him, unfamiliarly familiar--
--and it was too early in "never" to start broadcasting that she was two lightyears off her rocket.
"Sorry, I was just leaving--"
"No! Uh, no, it's not. That is, the room's not in use. That is, I just use it sometimes--"
Reni matched the stain on the workbench to the shape of his clobbered-together kit.
"--erm, quite, uh, often," he amended, following her eyes. "You can sit there, you won't bother me. That is, if you want to, you could."
"Oh. Okay. Uhm, thanks."
The horned head nodded somewhat curtly, then turned to unpack. With relief that was not entirely inwards, Reni curled back into the corner. For the next ten minutes, she periodically re-routed eyes back to datapad. In contrast, the male alien never once strayed from laying out an array of complicated objects. Each gizmo apparently had to be aligned precisely to an angle; thus was she beginning to understand the pattern of grooves on the worktop.
He evidently owned the greater share of self-possession between them. The alternative, that he found her entirely bizarre and safest ignored at decameter's length, was too depressing.
They were told and told that the Force allowed no coincidences, yet encountering one was always, without fail, unnerving. Perhaps when she had accrued a few millennia's worth of experience...
"What are you doing?"
It significantly relieved her to hear the other confess to something so mortal as curiosity.
"Studying," Reni replied, and felt instantly bad for the reflexive grimace. The boy (man?) had hardly asked for his lair to be invaded, much less by a grump.
"Studying? For... school?"
She was staring despite self-admonishments about staring, and so caught the finely delineated eyebrow that shot up, the doubt that wrinkled a few delicately wrought lines. "I wish." -- and she truly did, for intellectual chores had never been hardship. "More like 'ground vehicles' and 'mobility'."
"Ah."
The ensuing silence prompted both sets of eyes to migrate to more neutral ground. Reni's unfortunate choice was a set of long fingers clasping a multitool. A smear of black interrupted the fourth knuckle to the base of the thumb. Beneath the confidence of familiarity, the hand twitched with eagerness to be rid of her awkward presence.
The Human would have been more than amenable to that, except she had nowhere to go.
"I, uh, well, it's because of the War, you see. It's looks so, well, easy in historical texts, everybody just magically knowing what to do. Maybe it would've been different if there were Jedi Masters here, but there's only us, and no matter what they might have told you I really don't think we have a clue of how to fight a real battle. Well, Revan perhaps does or at least thinks she does, but-- ah, yes, well, anyway. I'm just, uh, trying to, well, just trying."
"Ah."
Lips pressed against further logorrhea, Reni worked on her first exercise in strategic retreat.
"So, uh, how come you're--"
"--not with the rest of the Jedi?" A nervous laugh defied her control. "Not a very popular person right now, I'm afraid. There was something the others thought we should do, something I just couldn't-- it's complicated. But anyway I should go find them now. Won't do to be the first Jedi to get lost on a Republic ship--"
She made it halfway past knees to feet, but was halted while stooping to secure the detested datapad.
"Actually, I was only going to ask, why ground vehicles?"
end interlude
The hiss of air past metal was for once nothing so dire as escaping atmosphere, only a particular droid's rendition of a sigh.
HK-47 often found it disconcerting that its behavioral circuits came hardwired with a full set of Humanoid-equivalent expressions. For one who purported an elitist's disdain for lifeforms of the squishier variety, such mannerisms were, quite frankly, schizoid. Unfortunately, the fact seemed to have escaped its creator's otherwise exemplary (for a meatbag) logic circuits. Fortunately, the gap had similarly escaped every other being HK-47 had been fated to encounter in its artificial life.
The sigh came about because the Hunter-Killer unit found itself addressing yet another meatbag quirk. The twist was that it originated from one of the least likely of its current Master's meatbags. Still, the integrated probability was a significant twenty-three percent, so HK-47 was not overly concerned about the tuning of its extrapolation subroutines.
"Concession: You have proven an acceptably bloodthirsty meatbag in the past, if disappointingly less so at present. As a (superior) droid, however, I am most certainly not susceptible to the chemical imbalances meatbags romanticize as 'friendship' and 'love'. Statement: To aid your pitifully organic circuits, be notified that such grounds will unfailingly fail to move me."
"Sithspit," came the un-heartbroken reply. "You've been vocal enough about how underutilized your 'talents' have been since reactivation. Think of this as an opportunity to exercise those rusting threat-assessment packages."
"Truth: The new Master possesses a despicable tendency to treat my more interesting abilities as, hmph, extraneous. It is for sure beyond your capabilities to remember how degrading it is to be regarded as no more than a walking blaster. Reduced to cataloguing the patheticisms of dying meatbags, while my circuits yearn for meatier missions! Oh, for a nice gory political silencing, or a deliciously covert strategic remov--"
"Mockery: Oh, spare me the poignant remembrances, droid. Now, to aid your ailing electrical circuits: that was an order, not a proposition."
Mechanical fingers twitched on the blaster that never left their grip, but the Master's latest instructions had triggered some frustratingly non-circumventable catches in its logic. As was too often the case, HK-47 had to settle for a verbal shot. "Statement: My loyalty subroutines specifically prohibit actions that would jeopardize the current Master."
"Right. Then you'll be thrilled to know that I'm not out to get your Master, not for any part of the War. In fact, it's very much in my plans to see her alive and functional, which means getting her over this battered-wife flarg and away from those lube-spined Jedi. You may consider that the reason for this little... exercise."
The meatbag doled out all the correct indicators of casualness, both during the speech and after. However, the claims he managed not to make were almost as interesting an observation as his changes, from previous behavioral history, around the Master.
Naturally, HK-47 had some favorite protocols that prevented premature (or prevented, full stop) divulging of information. It selected the response, "Indignant protest: The anthropomorphism is offensive. My facilities are not subject to--"
"--meatbag foibles, bla bla. Now if you're done with the coy act, I want that report!"
For an eternity of seven-hundred-and-thirty-nine processor cycles, HK-47 parsed possible outcomes of various degrees of compliance, and weighted them by fitness in accordance to its list of prioritized goals. Personal penchant for exposition was unmistakably not part of said accounted factors -- a droid was, after all, far superior to organics in impartiality. Along with a number of other aspects.
"Compliance: Oh, very well. The previous Master has also often expressed concerns about the current Master's blind spots. In fact, my speculation subroutines assign a high probability to the postulate that Malachor V was primarily intended as a lesson for, as well as leverage against, the current Master."
"Elaboration: Quite obviously, the most significant of the Master's weaknesses is an over-trained sense of responsibility. The previous Master found it quite easy to convince the current Master that just about anything is her fault. Her sense of obligation can then be used to 'persuade' her to tasks initially objected to. Observation: The Padawan meatbag has also shown some facility in this regard, as proven by the latest series of events."
"Elaboration: In addition, the Master..."
interlude
"--call 'pom-hopper'." At the blank, he filled in, "Naboo swamp animal. Walks on surface leaves."
The girl nodded, then raised an eyebrow in artless imitation of his favorite expression.
"It's the undercarriage, see," he explained. "Well, actually you can't, not from this holo, but I could show you someday. All air-dropped vehicles have a weight limit, and the genius who designed this used it all up for the top plating. So it's a great place to stash troops when there's danger of air raids, but I wouldn't want to be in one of those when it tries to pass anything beyond one meter of water."
She tilted her head.
"It's the op-clearance." She did not look any more enlightened, so he continued, "Distance from ground to undercarriage, at full design load."
Comprehension starburst in space-black eyes. "So that's why it's blacklisted for high-H planets." The grin, which revealed a dimple on the left, was entirely unexpected in spontaneity and genuineness. "'Pom-hopper', huh? I'd hate to find out what you wizards call old Bones that brought us here. Or actually, think I'll love it."
"It rattled?"
"With a capital 'R'."
Still mirthful, the young Jedi's head tipped, restricting vision to that held in one hand while the other propped a sharp-ish chin. Bao-Dur shook his own, the better to keep a maniac's-smile strictly mental. It was not often that he found himself with a willing audience -- the other techs got a bit miffed when lectured to by a junior, while the rest of the galaxy hired techs precisely so that they could wash their hands of all "shop talk".
The Jedi listened with such singularity of purpose, assimilated at such a rate, that he had spent a first few minutes tripping over words for dread of saying something wrong on a subject he knew backwards, sideways, and even right-sight-up. Granted, she was getting more of an education on mechanics instead of the homeworked logistics, but she had perked up considerably from the sotto voce grumbling that had earlier prompted his help.
She tucked away the swath of hair that had fallen out of a perfunctory ponytail, and once again lifted gimlet eyes his way. Then, with almost-frightening offhandedness, "Kind of easy to plant explosives on the undercarriage with all that clearance, isn't it? Or cut through it."
"The Mandalorians tried that, once." Teeth protested more than memory. "I keep on saying we should do a blush-net coating" -- and, for her benefit -- "Lights the whole thing up a while after tampering, pretty much impossible to detect or get rid of. But my supervisor didn't think much of the idea."
"Why not?"
"Too much work," he gave the party line. "before and after."
"Too much work?"
Because of that emphasis, words escaped him before thought. "Most Republic fops still think the Mandalorians are no great threat. Over half of my people died, a quarter more were enslaved, and they still think that their 'superior ideals' or more likely sheer numbers will crush whatever 'little uprisings' they could possibly meet!"
Silence triumphed in the aftermath. Bao-Dur was not accustomed to ranting, and certainly not to people he had known for anything less than a decade, maybe two. He turned away in wait of the usual sorrys and poor-yous, more than a little annoyed with himself.
"I felt, I felt them," the girl whispered. "I felt Iridonia."
The horned head snapped back, but the alien one was down in contemplation of scars on unexpectedly callused hands. Of course, he should have expected -- Jedi life was hardly reputed to be all coming-out parties and annual balls -- but there was something... vulnerable about her, unlike the other one. The rather similar other one, although Bao-Dur was not excused from the alien tendency to find that "they all look the same".
What took him most aback? The dearth of platitudes? The revelation of his birthplace? Or, could it be, the impression that her confession was also an unprecedented first?
/#Bao-Dur!#/ a third voice precluded answer. The two sentients jumped in their seats; the datapad fell clatteringly to ground. /#You'll never believe what hap--#/
/#Hi, Bez-Enth,#/ he offered up when the pause had sprouted way past silly to a degree of painful. Letting eyes slide to periphery, he found his bench-mate frozen in a half-twist, half-stare. /#Uh, this is A-- Renani. Jedi Renani.#/ The latter's utter lack of movement was, to choose the mildest adjective, disconcerting, and he hoped address would persuade her out of it. "Bez-Enth, my friend."
/#Oh, ha, very funny.#/ The other Zabrak leaned one hip to doorjamb and stuck a hand over the other. /#Give it up, chumani. It might have been more believable if she didn't look halfway into pissing her pants, but I don't think so.#/
The only piece of luck Bao-Dur had been granted since the start of this War-alias-Nightmare was that the Jedi did not seem to understand Zabraki... or was an adept at not hearing things. "Bez-Enth," he spoke in deliberate Basic, unaccountably nervous. It was only Bez-Enth, after all. "I was just helping the Jedi out with some of her, erm, studies."
"Oh for the sake of--"
"Hello," the third found her voice, but ducked her head to accomplish it. "Just, just Reni, please. G--, uhm, it's ni-- uh, hi."
"Right. Reni. Okay, Bez-Enth here. And boyo did remember to mention somewhere that he's Bao-Dur this time, didn't he?"
The maligned scowled. The Human did not laugh, but the tilt of her almond-shaped eyes grew curly as she glanced his way. It was quickly dropped in favor of patterning out scuffles with her boots.
Bez-Enth stared in a clearly interrogatory manner. A helpless shrug was the only answer Bao-Dur had for her.
"Igotta-- I have to go. It was, you've been a great help, Bao-Dur. I'll, ah, we might seeeachotheraround." She could not finish the sentence quickly enough; had, in fact, started to feet by the time of his name.
"Wa--" he belatedly called out, but finished the syllable in an emptier room: "--ait." From sitting, he bent to scoop up a flat, palm-sized gadget, the display of which had been flicked off though probably not by intent. "Guess she really didn't care for 'On Ground Mobilizations and Vehicular Strategies'," he noted to self.
"Should I be getting worried?" sailed over his head. The tone was arch.
Bao-Dur had one hand free. It fit the space between eyes and fore-horns quite nicely.
end interlude
"I don't know, okay!"
It took Bez-Enth two seconds to process that her mouth was the one culpable. The shame in capitulation was much faster visiting. "Probably took off just so he won't have to see your face," she recouped.
It was not so many decades ago that Bez-Enth had summed the "Jedi" up as pathetically shy, a harmless albeit stranger-than-most one of Bao-Dur's innumerable pet projects. It had not taken many months at all for the shell-hutt to burst out of that skin.
The Exile looked so ridiculously young, still. Of course, all Humans of intermediate age looked childlike to Zabrak, what with their smooth unmarked features. The Iridonian even knew of some more radical members of her society who found Human visages distressingly flat to look upon. Those had not taken well to being forced out of segregation, per courtesy of the Mandalorian d'javl.
Unfortunately, Bez-Enth had enough years that age had segued from being an advantage to being a most insidious enemy. Perversely, the other woman seemed to just have popped out of a wormhole with one end stuck in the past. Still plain and drab, in Bez-Enth's opinion, but hers was not the one that counted. More than the favoritism from Time, though, she resented the Exile for that wormhole -- its other maw wide open, and well on its way to sucking back all she thought she had secured.
The Jedi did not gloat; Bez-Enth would have preferred such proof of fallibility. Instead, she was so completely still for so many slowly trickling seconds, the Zabrak began to wonder if she was one of those jack-heads, rilled out to cyber-land.
A voice like chipping ice startled her. "I suggest that we move this inside. You might not enjoy your neighbors hearing what you've been up to."
Bez-Enth would have sucked in an indignant breath, if not currently in an... inconvenient position. It did not stop her from grinding out, "Like anybody'll believe one word from your crazed m--"
"--ou--oof," she finished, but from the inside of her home, and from having been rudely "sat" on the nearest chair.
The Exile remained standing. If she had at all any delusions of it ending in anything but further humiliation (hers), the Zabrak would have thrown more than visual daggers. But no matter how bedraggled, timorous, or generally harmless the woman appeared, the poison of experience had taught better.
"Those messages to Atton were not Bao-Dur's writing. They were yours."
"What!" the response was askance. "You have no pr-- I don't even know who this farkled 'Atton' is!"
An eyebrow raised, the gesture so like the absent's that her fists tightened into her palms. "You are a hacker, Bez-Enth. You'd sooner refuse breathing than information," the other informed. Eyes bored with the edge of raw obsidian. "You may know him well enough to trick Atton, but I know him too."
Bez-Enth refused to believe that the scoundrel had actually shown the messages to the woman he was panting after, delusions that himself lead the pack or no. She knew men like him, knew them very well, knew he would have done nothing if not palm the chance to sideline a rival.
She pursed her lips, and let the sneer convey what she thought of the claim.
"I am trying to believe that you are guilty of nothing but criminal stupidity," the Jedi intoned. "I am trying very hard."
Bez-Enth had seen "the General" in action before, all one-point-eight-something meters of implacable, more silent than the death she dealt. Any sliver of morbid awe the Zabrak might have harbored had been ploughed down by the sight of those -- one in particular -- by her side. Bao-Dur, her gentle, mild-mannered Bao-Dur, might as well have run her through the heart with that vibroblade he'd wielded as nonchalantly as one of his gadgets.
That full weight of personality was crushing, robbing more breath than the arm that had physically pinned her before. Fear ran rivulets down her spine, but hate held her firm.
"Fix it," passed like judgment. "They got to him because of your antics, Bez-Enth. Now fix it! Tell me exactly what you did."
It was as close as she had ever heard the unnaturally quiet woman come to a yell. Something triumphant yet bitter inscribed circles in her left-stomach. "I have nothing at all to tell you, you paranoid freak! Who are these imaginary people you imagine 'got to him'? Mandalorians? Sith? Or is it some mysterious extra-galactic threat this time?"
His General was not one for songs of praise. In fact, it was the offhand, unpremeditated statements of confidence that made her regard so precious. Perhaps moreso than her attempt to grant him the unwanted out, her blatant admiration of one Carth Onasi had shaken the firmaments of Bao-Dur's world.
Late, unsolicited gossip had educated Bao-Dur on what (more precisely, whom) Humans considered attractive. Add to that the General's professed admiration, and it was not inconceivable that Admiral Onasi might never need fear disappointment should he decide to come a-calling.
Whatever reason such a man might cite for such behavior -- a man who, by all accounts (not least of all his own) had spent four years in wait.
The possibility was... concerning. His General may not have requisitioned a keeper, but the tech liked to think that she considered him a friend. Such were privileged to the occasional worry.
It had always been a quota he fulfilled with ease.
He recalled: So far, his actions have been honorable.
The Bao-Dur of then had not wanted to dwell on what came after "so far", nor "intentions" versus "actions". The one of now was not any more enamored of the task.
He jumped to his feet, forcing thoughts to more productive labor. A discharge of the shield, perhaps, though it hearkened back to one of the first things he had tried. It might just be enough to threaten the more mundane barrier, if very focused...
"He was running from Czerka mercs earlier this year."
"Of course he was. It's what you were always asking of him, isn't it? Play hero, and so what if he loses an arm or a leg or a life doing it."
For hardly the first time, Reni wished that sentients would not fall so dramatically into either will-fawn-at-feet or will-stab-at-first-chance regarding herself. When had good-old-fashioned apathy become a commodity? "Bao-Dur was not in the War for me, Bez-Enth."
"No, you just bossed him around like he was."
"Could you reserve whatever it is you have against me for later? We are short of one male Iridonian, in case you haven't noticed. About yae high plus horns, glowy arm. A bit hard to miss."
"He would have been safe if he'd never met you, or if you'd had the smallest decency and stayed gone! He'd never have had these idiot notions of being able to save a world, heck the galaxy. He'd have stayed--"
She wondered if the Iridonian realized how many contradictory paths her responses railed on. Instead of dousing them with the intended reason, however, Reni heard her mouth hijack itself: "If you truly think that, then I must wonder how well you really know him. Do you know he feels guilty for being restless before the War razed Iridonia? Do you know what he vowed after Malachor V? Do you know his temper, his pride in controlling it, his dedication to his sense of right?"
interlude
"They gave me a squad."
Startled, Bao-Dur only just managed to not weld a permanent short-circuit that would have had his Remote bopping off walls -- that, or having to roll instead of float around. Something sharp prepared in his throat even as he flicked the thumb-control to off and swiveled about-face on his seat.
Wide, jet-dark eyes stared at him, more prominent than he remembered on an angular, pale face. Admonishment evaporated from short-term memory.
"I've been told it's a universal truth, that a commander in possession of a front-line unit must not be in want of a tech. Or at least in this corner of the galaxy."
He did not -- quite -- gape. While his mind spun for a plausible context, though, the Human girl was already ahead and pressing the rest of many dense words onto his ears.
"I disagree. I have not forgotten anything you said. This cannot be a War of brute force, not if we hope to win. The Mandalore may seem to fight like bull katarn, but that is only the aspect they wish us to see. The longer we sit inside our safe little illusions, the more civilian worlds they will raze, the more atrocities they will commit, simply because they do not see our military as paying them sufficient attention."
Bao-Dur frowned, not because he did not agree, but because he still could see no way around the apathy, the arrogance he had battled more often than the enemy, all these past months.
"You've seen much more of the War than I have, I don't need to tell you it only gets uglier out there. I can't promise you anything, only that you will have all possible chances to make a difference."
He could not place why so perfect a speech should appear to him like a mis-sized hydrospanner. Then it struck: her speech had been perfect... perfectly rehearsed!
Bao-Dur had never been quite up-to-date with social graces, but for once instinctively knew that the building chuckle equated to consequences he would regret. Meanwhile, having run out of script, the Jedi had started rambling something about reduced pay and shared quarters -- none of them advertising points, in his private opinion. Deciding that it was unkind to let her obvious discomfort continue, he informed her of the foregone conclusion: "Alright."
"--demotion of sorts. Of course, you're not military, but-- waitaminute, what, you just said...?"
"I'm in."
"B-b-but, are you sure? I mean, you will be the only tech in a fighting unit. I hope but don't think that will change soon. Revan might consider it, but she is a genius with machines already and doesn't need the help."
"So, it will be harder for you to misplace me."
"But it's, uh, well it is a bit noisier than the ideal workplace. Getting shot at might be a bit distracting too. Then there's all that getting injured and dying and you should know I'm almost completely useless as a Healer, no matter what you might've heard of Jedi. I'm thinking maybe I could order people not to get hurt, but that might not go down too well."
"Won't have to complain of boredom, then."
"But you have to know it was almost a joke! A joke that they agreed to let us on the front-lines, that is. They say it's because... well actually it doesn't really matter. I think people just got tired of the 'Jedi attitude', and think failing will teach us a lesson. I don't get it. How can that be any kind of good with morale as low as-- er, well, it's, uh, it feels... anyway, you--"
"The Mandalorians destroyed my world. They destroyed my people. I saw them gut our elders because the old don't make good slaves, because it terrified us to see respected figures strung up like farmkill. I saw them maim children and force families against each other, because it broke us to see our leaders beg."
It had been a routine day, War, no War. Bao-Dur had picked up the usual list of maintenance orders, spoke the few requisite words to supervisors, sunk his attention as deep into work as it would go. He did not lament experiences, as many were wont to over caf and meal breaks. How could they possibly compare with those who had not survived, much less those currently living such tales? And yet, here he was, revealing some sample of the pain and injustice and hate to those old/young eyes. That face, surely a stranger's, but which seemed to reflect everything he felt.
Unanticipatedly liberating.
"If there is any chance at all of taking the fight to those monsters, instead of sitting here pampering to Republic egos, nothing will stop me from taking it."
A deep while later, she smiled. It was not a happy expression, but a pact as grave as ritual, yet it completely transformed her face. In that moment, the tech could not comprehend how he had ever rated those features to be on the awkward side of ordinary.
"I have a feeling I'll be thanking you for many years to come, Bao-Dur of Iridonia."
He almost injected something suitably bloodthirsty about Mandalorians and comeuppance, but again some instinct realized it would be the last thing to impress. Instead he returned a grin, and managed to keep it on the right side of feral. "Oh, I think I've got a few limbs to spare."
Dark eyes widened, in pleasant surprise, Bao-Dur rather thought. His revised guess was that the Jedi had not been listening at all, but moonlighting on some other dimension (a familiar accusation). He ended up wondering if she was ill or otherwise in pain. Hip-to-toe with them for the past year or no, the Iridonian Zabrak didn't know all that much about Humans. Unless the occasional racist snipe on the structural integrity of hornless crania counted.
"Not on my forsaken watch!" The volume dispelled some if not all questions. "So if that's really the way you feel, we have one major--"
"Whoa! A joke, a joke," he defended self, though not with overt apology. "A bad one, perhaps, but sometimes, they're all we've got."
She had left her mouth open on the last word, and quite a bit of color had accumulated in her cheeks before she shut it like an afterthought. The physiological response, Bao-Dur had observed in Human colleagues when drunk and rowdy, but none to such degree. He found it fascinating briefly before he found it worrying, bizarre as the whole interlude had so far been.
He scraped a nail over a back-horn, trying to think of what to say to...
end interlude
...walls that had all the texture and appeal of grainmush, with none of the attendant softness.
An enduring confusion later, Bao-Dur inscribed an angry palm-print on one of them. Now was no time to be drifting into thoughts ten years had lectured to suppress. More disturbingly, how had his legs managed to wander? His quarrel was still with the shield across the room.
Licking cracked lips did little to sooth them, had not for some time. The unsteadiness of his remaining hand was yet another cause for grimness.
How many, hmm? How many out of how many days can a Zabrak make do, you think?
"You think you know it all, do you, 'Master Jedi'?" The epithet was no honorific. "You dump him for ten blithering years, and that makes you an expert on all things Bao-Dur? Were you here when they told him they had to remove his arm, General? Were you here when he wouldn't let a soul to within two meters? Were you here to pick up all the pieces he thinks he's lost?"
"No, I wasn't. I missed ten years of being his friend, because I thought it more important to be his protector." The Exile whispered the next sentence: "And even that, I had already failed."
"Damn right you did." The satisfaction of finally routing their "conversation" her way let Bez-Enth produce a grim smile, or at least a baring of teeth. "Luckily, not all of us take off whenever it's convenient for them. So go ahead, try whatever Jedi tricks you think you can on me. I've been protecting him since we were kids, and I'll damn well keep on protecting him. Especially from you."
Something dangerous and quite frankly terrifying shrouded the Exile's face, and for a moment her eyes unfocused as if at the beckon of some unheard voice. "If I did, no effort of yours could stop me," she claimed.
Bez-Enth could only believe. The racing of her heart induced nausea, but she glared gamely back.
A fraught hour later -- or perhaps it was a minute -- the Exile was first to break. It was more virtue than vice that she did, but the merit was short-lived. "Hey, keep your bloody claws off that!" Bez-Enth demanded as her home console was activated without so much as by-your-leave.
An array of computer spikes proceeded to sully her worktop. Mobilizing frozen limbs, she moved to shove the intruder bodily away.
A hand, unnatural in strength and speed, pre-empted and sent her crashing backwards into a fortunately placed couch. She scrabbled for the comm., only to barely evade a similarly headed bolt of electricity. That impossibility singed cloth from her arm and scored into her skin. The pain came too short a while later.
She screamed. No-one came running; thanks to Telos' unpredictable weather, the living units were well insulated indeed.
The Exile turned back to work, having already forgotten her host.
"He hated you, you know," Bez-Enth snarled, digging fingers into her arm in hopes of distracting from the agony. "Know the one thing you are? You are the only person he's ever admitted to hating. Out loud."
The figure stilled under robes that hung like sheets off her frame -- and that was all. Two seconds later, the violation of privacy continued.
"You may think you have him back now, but the part of him that hates you will never go away, 'General'. I know it, you know it, and even he knows it: you knew, didn't you? And left anyway. You knew you could have saved his arm."