Day Zero...
"--mind games it is, eh?"
"Statement: Affirmative. My former Master was particularly fond of giving opponents the -- quote -- 'go stab yourself'. As a matter of fact, a detail meatbags usually miss about my-- Interjection: This phenomenon is within meatbag parameters, since my vast array of talents must prove taxing for your limited--"
"How about conciseness, or is that just too far beyond your programming, rust-jaw?"
"Statement: The patina upon my outer casing was carefully designed for maximal--"
"Fine, fine, cut the gab."
"Continuation: I am of course programmed with a vast selection of psychoanalysis and manipulative protocols, tuned for a variety of targets that prove resilient to, or inconveniently situated for, ahem, conventional methods. My only handicap, it pains me to admit, is that such tactics are best applied by fellow meatbags, preferably ones with some emotional significance to the target. As such, my role has sadly been limited to more of an... advisory nature."
"Conclusion: all byte, no action. Swell."
"Indignant protest--"
"And an epic one it will be, I'm sure. But unless your 'methods' all involve talking the subject to death, just give me the damn intel. I want the number done on your current Master. Minus all that poignant commentary."
A metallic sigh. "Statement: The current Master was a favorite subject of the previous Master's, because effects designed upon her had the unique opportunity to be 'broadcast' to a wider audience. There are moreover a number of beautifully cultivated neuroses already in place, begging to be exploited. Ahhh, to just pre-process the possibilities is a task worthy of my programming."
"Elaboration: My favorite example is the Master's extreme aversion to contact, physical and more interestingly mental. It sends a current through my circuits to think that it is but a side-effect of-- Ex-cla-ma-tion: Permission to blast the faulty logic out of that bug-infested, spying dumbot of a--"
"Di'kutla! Verre d'n n--"
The last word abruptly truncated, as if the recording and/or transmission had been cut. A similar silence dropped in on the plushly appointed office of one Admiral Carth Onasi, Nebulon Frigate Engarde, Republic Fleet.
"Says it all, old boy. And rather well, you don't think?"
Carth pinched the bridge of his nose in the age-old non-remedy for one of the Human conditions.
"You can't tell me that after hearing all that--"
"--I know, I know, but it just..." -- he spelunkered for words, and waving a hand helped -- "it's just not like him."
Green eyes speculated discomfiting things. "I don't understand why you would protect this or any Mandy scrag-end."
"I am not protecting C-- the fripping Mandalorian!" He sighed for the too-many-eth time in too few hours. "It does the Republic no good to spin-tail down some joyride while the real action vapes out elsewhere."
To his annoyance, Vladik's conviction was less than absolute. "Carth, Carth, nobody is interested in casting aspersions; ahem, not those who count. But do scope the situation out objectively, please. Here we have, by all accounts, this 'Mandalore' who's running around mobilizing 'his' troops. I don't need to remind you, this is the fighting force that nearly had us crawling on ours knees? And now he's great pals with the strategic genius some say is second only to Revan. It's a strange day indeed that I'm the one saying this to you, but you have got to be spice-happy if you're not at all suspicious."
"Of course I'm suspicious. But the something going on here is not the obvious, I just know it. Look, I've seen better than any of you that there's not an ethical bone under all that plate, but the one thing that Mandalorian's never compromised is his 'honor'. He also has this... thing about protecting Revan. Whatever else he's up to, I don't think he's capable of giving her twin the big push." He had to mutter, "Not deliberately."
"The Exile is not Revan, old boy."
Carth took a deep breath, which he promptly lost. "Why do people keep on thinking they have to tell me that! You don't think I know that well enough? Kaelynn was only the woman I loved, after all. It's gotta be so incredibly hard to tell the difference between--" Having expected interruption and instead came to halt himself, the one Admiral challenged the other to a ferocious scowl.
Vladik exercised some strategic ingenuity of his own -- he sidestepped. "Carth, people change. And even if this Mandy is half a paragon, well, you did say he went off to the Outer Rims with Revan. Who knows what the Dark happened to them there?"
Perhaps there was something wrong with his ship's chrono; there was no way it was firstshift still, surely?
Carth blew out between steepled fingers. The should've-been-priming retort fizzled out as a dud, then even that much vaporized into profound lethargy. "The Admiralty's already gotten it on plasticine, holorec, and my fripping word that I don't know, Vladik. I'm the one she left behind, remember?"
"I believed you."
"Don't patronize me!"
A muscle ticked under the frame of blond locks, though the grinding teeth stopped short of audible. "You know, I probably was even worse of a colicky Wookiee during the... situation when it was my Dani, but you really must pick your fights better. I'm sure you've figured out by now that peacetime Fleet can be a lot trickier than anything that went on during the War. All I am trying to do is be your friend."
Carth rubbed a hand over his forehead. "I know, and it means a lot, really. I'm just, it's, it's just difficult. You get it."
"Sights on gold-lock," Vladik affirmed. A not-quite-comfortable silence later, he broached with bitten caution, "You know how all this is going to look at that mob camped outside your hull. Not" -- a raised hand emphasized -- "that they should be catching the tailwind of any of it. All I'm saying, maybe not all of your protesters are civvies. Perhaps some of them are pretty heavy on the decor, even."
Translation: Expect trouble from lapels housing many insignia pins. Why had Revan tried to destroy the Republic? From all that Carth saw, it seemed to be doing a pretty bang job on its own.
"Pardon?"
He shook his head. "I'll let you know when I figure out myself." A casual gesture encompassed the datapad. "Where'd you get that, anyway?"
"Tra--" Vladik began, but snapped his mouth shut in favor of waggling an admonishing finger. "Sorry, old boy. There's 'unauthorized access', and then there's 'unauthorized access'."
Carth shrugged a "had to try". "Alright. So what would these... gentlebeings say if the Exile was to leave? Hypothetically, of course."
Seven days before Zero...
"That's it. I've had it up to here" -- an empathetic gesture -- "with your manding excuses. Just you watch me, I'm going ri--"
"You are going right to your room, young man, and make sure you wash out that street-trash mouth of yours. I have some sanibuff sitting in storage bay C-two-six just for 'special' fellows like you."
Atton Rand produced his rudest scowl. The Zabrak woman did one better, scrunching the lines on her face just so that they stood out in stark blue caricature. He moved to push past her, but then the two stereotypically burly guards began to fidget with their blasters. Apparently, when the wife of the section's security chief said that "the General" was not to be disturbed, the goons took it to mean that she Was Not To Be Disturbed.
"Grotty aliens," was muttered low enough to be technically "under breath", but promptly enough to make it through the portal the shrew presently vanished into. In the next second, he whirled to jab an accusing finger at a stifled giggle. "And don't you think for a moment that I'll forget just how useful you have been, snerp."
"But Atton, you were doing so very well, I just didn't have the heart."
"You got the last part right."
"It's a job requirement," the bounty huntress retorted, carefully nonchalant. "If you're quite done here? I've got a few other places I'd like to see you humiliate yourself in."
"What's it with you? They've got Reni locked up in there, we haven't seen her in closing to two farkled days, and you don't find it the least bit suspicious?"
"Gee, lemme think. Could it possibly be, errr, 'house arrest'?"
"Right, why in space didn't I think of that? Of course you've seen the Light, and take everything out of Republic mouths on faith now."
Mira wondered if the rogue was cognizant of the two very Republic guards, both currently occupied in eyeing him like a piece of mis-chuted trash. It took lesser time to dismiss the question as silly. Even if the conscious Atton (if such exists) had conveniently forgotten, "Atton" the phenomenon piloted more seamlessly on instinct and peripheral information than any Jedi she had ever met. Including the Exile.
She had no doubt that he had already not-planned five scenarios the not-goons would misappreciate. His belt had done a bit of sliding around with all that gesturing, and now the lightsaber brushed the base of the hand so casually stuck on one hip. He stood with an obliging expanse of back for the guards to glare at, but his weight was all on the toes, primed for motion.
The bounty-huntress couldn't have explained to herself why she spent time casing one Atton Rand. There were plenty of reasons why he needed watching, certain Exile-induced impulses amongst them; nevertheless, she did not know why she had chosen the task, or the task chosen her. "Nobody else is" had thus far proven convenient.
"Oh, don't even bother," said Mira to the guards. "He only looks Human on the outside. Under all that... hair? It's actually a Gamorrean."
Neither buff so much as twitched. One had blue-green eyes, the other gray. Both looked like her as if there were only plexiglass between them and the twisty gray loops of her brain. Rather like Visas Mar on her Impassive Seer days, the huntress concluded, then stopped herself from checking (again) that they were not one whit Force sensitive.
"Hey!" lodged another non-appreciator of her wit. "At least I don't take wardrobe advice from 'Nar Shaddaa's most trashy'!"
Some days, Mira hated the pilot/rogue. On the other days, she hated him too.
interlude
"She doesn't need me."
Bao-Dur lacked imagination, or so he had been told. Whether or not one credited such complaints, he was fairly confident that it had never, ever covered a Mandalorian in any context involving confessionals. It was only unfortunate that the words had been encroaching like vines on Kashyyyk, demanding explosion, implosion, or both in quick succession.
The other did not laugh. The tech did not like to contemplate what his reaction to that might have been.
Such slight concession to politeness had to be (and was) promptly compensated for.
"Think you can handle the truth, Zabrak?" Mandalore asked, which was not to say that he followed with anything as logical as waiting for invite. "Truth is, you are complacent because 'your General' has always needed you that bit more than she does anybody else. The rest of them have to work at earning a place; you only have to get her to admit yours to herself."
Bao-Dur found the statement worthy of an eyebrow. "'Them'? What about you?"
A snort packaged several flavors of impoliteness. "How old do you think I am, to be panting after her arse like the rest of you pups?"
The Iridonian was less offended than might have been expected; the crudeness of language was clear a red Twi'lek. After all, Mandalore was quite capable of the manners of royalty when so inclined.
Not too old for all those stares, those you think no-one can tell.
Undiverted by the non-verbal opinion, Mandalore continued to share the hostile attention he gathered just by being dressed as he was and polluting the very Republic walkway. Bao-Dur tried to project that they were complete strangers, but it proved a hard sell. Especially with the man bubbling disapproval like the veritable cauldron.
"I have lived more regrets than you have years, Zabrak, so don't come whining to me for pity."
"I don't want anything from you. Least of all talk on something you know nothing about."
"Bah. If you're the type to belly-up at the first sign of trouble, you're not worth her time. Or mine."
"Since when do you care, Mandalorian?"
"Right now, I don't even 'care' for the entertainment if you fancied a walk in the Big Isn't."
"That suits m-- Wait, this isn't hap--"
end interlude
"--pening."
The words splattered with little effect on the shimmer of an irritated shield, nor the more physical wall that had sprung up not one meter beyond it. Quick-throw, in Bao-Dur's expert opinion, which put the duration of his time-out on the scale of the two to three hours required for the material to set. The deduction accomplished little except to depress him.
He stuck an inquisitive finger into the fascinating glow, yelled at said finger's protest, then wondered how Mandalore had managed the feat. Upon second thought, he decided that he had not actually seen the man dissolve into both barriers, so it was perhaps not a failing on his part after all.
His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, his vision grayed at the most inopportune moments, and now he was starting to see things (or starting to admit to it).
"Shavit," he uttered, but there was not much energy to go around, much less into it.
Dithering, hmm?
"Hearing things" just made posting to the list.
All a-wait for timely rescue? Eh, such a fondness for that role. But this time She is not even to know you are missing, is She? Might She have a care if She did, think?
From The Ambidexterity-Challenged's Guide to a Counseling-free Life: "Only reply to those voices from pedigreed flesh-and-blood (and on occasion encircuited) beings." Bao-Dur should know, for he had wrote it.
Meanwhile, his mouth was busy with, "The General doesn't abandon her people."
The chuckle was so palpable, Bao-Dur made the mistake of looking around for a source. His head boomed disagreement with the motion.
The hopeful memory, or the denying one?
And then: Done always is easier to do again. Still, worry not. Years the wait will not be, not this time.
The tech wondered if hands-over-ears helped with Voices, before sluggishly recalling his present... handicap. In lieu, he squatted and with great care hung his head between his knees, hoping gravity would take the edge off the dizziness. Not that dizziness was an edge-y kind of thing; more of fuzzy, like crash-foam eating up the-- his thoughts were forking again.
What had he been doing?
Not coming for you. She is not. Nobody is. It is what you wanted, no, to hide? Hide you wanted, hide you do so well, Zabrak...
"Talk."
Bez-Enth resolutely did not look at the object being set down with exaggerated delicacy. She knew without looking that it was still recognizably a sheet of templast. As soon as the innocuous plastisheet had started blackening, oh so many days ago, she had drowned it in one of those flasks of "stuff" Bao-Dur was in the irreparable habit of stacking around. Hydraulic fluid, perhaps, or some more delicate treatment for his artificial arm; it mattered not to her except that it had been an excellent antioxidant. One did not become a renown "data miner" without a certain pool of back-of-hand knowledge.
Unfortunately, it was to be Bez-Enth's only victory over the odd letter. None of her considerable repertoire had managed to hack up the locale, much less identity, of the sender. She had even considered networking a linguist or two for leads on the unusual grammar -- for sure not any patois the Iridonian had ever encountered. She cursed her past self's curiosity, now. Still, there was enough damage that the only legible copy of the missive was inside Bez-Enth's head.
The Exile's brows knotted over her broadcasted defiance. The consequent lack of reaction was almost disappointing. Black eyes simply stared, as if force of will could repair the dictates of science.
It couldn't, of course. The charred surface could not possibly be remembering pixels and plex. The wrinkled top edge could not possibly be smoothing out, reconstituting words Bez-Enth had memorized in the seconds available to memory. Jith-tales were Bao-Dur's folly, not hers.
Something made her stare anyway.
"I can continue, if I must."
An intensity radiated from the Jedi. All experience yelled that it was as dark as those orbs boring into her, but, honestly? The woman had never possessed enough color in those sallow cheeks to be accused of either Light or Dark.
She remembered Bao-Dur gushing over "the General's" skill at "manipulating inanimate matter on a small scale". He had not at all appreciated her miffed (and, she thought, rather clever): "Like, all of your brains?"
"But it will tire me, and I cannot afford to be tired. He" -- was that an imagined skip in that dry, factual voice? -- "deserves better. You might not care much for me or my methods, but you cannot deny being just as... concerned, Bez-Enth."
"You can't even say his name, can you? I don't know how you think you can face him if you find him, after all you've done." She had meant the events of the still-morning, but found that she preferred the wider scope. "That's why you ran, isn't it? You can face the Jedi Council, exile, death, but you can't face Bao-Dur's disillusionment."
For a long while both were silent, one out of preference, the other, well, who knew? Then the latter spoke, with such an expression on her face that the Zabrak might have sworn it was a smile.
"I have done far worse than to threaten his friends, Bez-Enth. Or to hurt them."
The one word was drawled over slowly, with intent, and suddenly she was no longer on the verge of panic and right there drowning in its waters. "You wouldn't dare."
"I always do whatever is neccessary."
"Spoken like a true Sith."
"Whatever is neccessary."
"Go download a virus."
"But I don't want to do it that way, and neither do you. You know there is trouble, Bez-Enth. This is no time for us to be fighting over pride."
"Gee, it is 'us' now, is it?"
"I am not here to judge you, and you don't respect me enough for it to matter anyway."
"More like 'not at all'."
"Help me find him, Bez-Enth."
"Oh, now you're asking?"
Lids lowered, but only for a petaflop. It was with stalwart eye contact that the Exile said, "I will beg. Do you want to hear it?"
"...but that's still too kind for that mangy whelp of a neutered kath-hound," the bounty huntress exposited in great detail to "tall, dark, and cool", all the while maintaining unwavering eye contact. Now, if only the drink would do something about that taste left in her mouth, she'd be in business.
When the Exile deigned from this latest bind she had twisted herself in, she and Mira were going to have a Talk. The Atton Situation simply could not be permitted to carry on.
Hah. Knowing "Master Jedi", she'll just bat those pathetic huge eyes and look like she's about to cry.
A few prickles later: Okay, okay, so I'm being a little little bit unfair. Fine, a little more bit. By all the huntress' calculations, the end result would be about the same anyway as if she had.
"That kind of kiss, eh?" the third in a crowd interrupted over her shoulder.
Is this my Jedi Trial and someone just forgot to tell? "Look, if you don't have enough of your own sodding business to-- ah, I, uh, Senator Arr'skra!"
He tapped her partner-in-conversation twice on the shoulder, and seemed to study the consistency. "Ah, Deltron spice wine. Good choice, good choice, but let me introduce you to a Bothan delicacy, eh? Bartender! Two tumblers of chi'ffa. Blend in the lightest touch of shadun. And make sure you chill the glass, not dump ice in the drinks." He turned to shake his head at Mira. "Aliens. Can't ever seem to understand that proper chi'ffa is to be served neat, not with all that" -- his hands waved dramatically -- "water. Water. Pfft. Tasteless, textureless, good for nothing. Well, producing fish, maybe."
Two big (cold) glasses and many glances askance later, Mira took a cautious dip. "There's no alcohol," she pronounced accusingly.
"Not a spittle," the Senator agreed cheerfully. "Oh dear, you weren't aiming for drunk and disorderly, were you? Tsk, tsk, tsk. The state is a disgrace. Criminal waste of alcohol, I tell you. Fine spirits should be savored in little sips on the tip of one's tongue-- unless they should be taken in one big mouthful and sloshed around, of course. Hmm. Anyway, it is of utmost importance to keep that pretty department of faculties at just the buzz level, my dear. Think of all the delectable sensations you'd be missing out otherwise!"
"I, uh, didn't know you frequent this... establishment, Senator."
"Haven't I told you to call me Besk? I am sure I told you to call me Besk. It does wonders for an old man to hear a sweet young thing call him by his forename."
"Listen, erm, Besk, was there something you wanted to...?"
"Ah, all business, business." Ears flicked. "Youth nowadays. Hand one a paza'ak pot, and I swear she'll put it into down payment for charity. Charity is all well and good, yes, but it should start at the self, no?"
Mira was not as collected as she had thought, for she found no response. Unfortunately, Besk Arr'skra's imagination was very rapid; it jumped from a minor grimace to nearby word, from the nearby word to:
"Eh, that looks like Jedi Rand is in for the floor tonight. No? A week? Two?"
"The only business 'Jedi Rand' has inside my sleeping quarters is when I have him trussed up, castrated, and packed for the highest bidder!"
Mira surprised herself with the fierce disclaimer. Then she narrowed her eyes in a sudden understanding of why this harmless, shameless hedonist was Bothan Senator.
He continued appearing the proverbial "uncle, concerned" -- not that even in her orphaned youth had Mira ever imagined relatives furnished with, well, fur. "Oh." He winced. "You must excuse my slight sympathy, very slight. Purely as a fellow male, you see."
She made a noncommittal sound, but the politician was turning out to be as difficult to refuse as the Exile. Must be why he's the only one she greets with a face that doesn't look like it grew on Hanharr.
"First kiss, eh?"
Shock was quicker on its feet than dismissal. There was no possible way either "Besk" or "Senator Arr'skra" could have intel on that.
He was, however, evincing every indication of being as happy to dissect the matter as a gourmet meal. "Hmm. Wouldn't have put down a stake for the boy to be a bad kisser. Now, me and Human males get along just like Selkath and water. I do like curves and a little pelt on my, ahem, partners, but a man must always keep one nose up for competition, see. And, alas, alas, I must concede that young Rand is the type to, how do you put it? Charm the pants off a Jedi?"
Mira snorted, involuntarily amused. "That's what he thinks, but look where he's not getting with our good girl Exile." In a lower register, but more empathetically, "Genius thinks that sticking his tongue everywhere else will somehow get her to see what she's missing."
Ears flattened disapprovingly, or so the huntress construed. "So, good kiss, bad reasons."
"Atton Rand has no fragging reason to let that sarlaac-refuse near my face, unless he has a dental appointment with my lightsaber!"
Besk took a mouthful of his drink and swirled it savoringly around his mouth. Then he reached into a pocket and pulled a slightly crumpled packet, which he sniffed delicately before rending with a sharp-ish claw. "Cracknut?"
The huntress accepted, did as the name suggests, chewed with thought. "I don't even know why I'm telling you any of this," she lobbed with some degree of suspicion.
"Ach, what could be the harm? I'm just an old man whose only excitement comes from dodging a couple of firaxa aides. They have enough teeth to fill one rancor each, I swear, and it takes hours just to pry them off. And anyway besides, we have a mutual friend."
"Oh, yeah. Of course. It always comes back to her."
He coughed. "In your plans to make the boy forget her?"
"It's 'in my plans' to stay five parsecs from the slightest smell of Atton Rand. And I'd be quite successful, if her Jedi-Masterness could only ever learn to clean up her own forked tragedies!"
"Atton said he has it 'taken cared of'?"
Even to Bez-Enth's apathetic eye, the Exile looked like she either couldn't swallow the name, or couldn't make herself say it; odds were on both. She had shoved her hands into her sleeves again, but the Iridonian had already had her fill of the tremors the "Jedi" could not seem to control. Since apoplexy was the least likely diagnosis, Bez-Enth wondered for the n-th time if she was in some form of withdrawal. It would at the very least be an excuse for the behavior.
"How?"
"How what?"
"How did he say he could get the ship repaired? Or did he not mention that it happens to be a few bolts short of decom?"
She blinked. "You think I gave the tail-end of a skalrat? Lover-boy wants to redshift you off, I'll pay him 'good riddance'."
"Fine. Then how did he explain knowing to contact you? Atton couldn't hack into a database with T3 to back him up."
"Right, I forgot that you think you're the only one Bao-Dur ever talks about."
"I just spent the whole of last year listening to him tell Atton to 'get to the point' so he can 'get back to work'. It would be just as strange if they were suddenly each other's confessionals."
"So sure, are you? Oh, yeah, he's not allowed to have friends other than you."
"Bez-- fine, you don't know. But you didn't think it was the least bit suspicious when this" -- a nod at the templast -- "just turned up to give you the perfect plan to 'distract him for a couple weeks'?"
"So shoot me for being not even half as paranoid as you. Or do you only wave the 'weapon of a Jedi' nowadays?"
The Exile stared at her, long, hard, and without a single blink or other involuntary movement.
"Look, you are the one who picked up this Atton fellow to get a-snuggly with. All I know is, he said he'd get you out of contamination range if I could keep Bao-Dur away for a while, make you think he wants to quit. That jives just fine with my program. I really don't care if your pal's plan is to stick a shiv up your brain while necking you."
"Didn't it bother you at all to deceive your-- to deceive him like that?"
"About as much as it bothered you to run away eleven years ago, I suppose, the only time he ever really needed you around. Actually, it should bother me less -- I'm protecting him, you were and always are just protecting yourself. But knowing you, I'd be surprised if you felt a thing at all."
"You don't kn-- I won't believe you didn't put a tracker out for Maes Anonymous. You had to have been curious, if nothing else."
Bez-Enth muttered several choice profanities to herself.
"What?"
"I didn't get anywhere, okay! Think you can do better? Prove it."
"I don't have the time or inclination to-- This bug you planted, are you sure it didn't open up some kind of backdoor? Was there anything that looked like carrier code, anything at all? What about redundant code? A lot can be hidden in what looks at first like it's just poorly made."
"Why you keep on insisting that Bao-Dur saw something that isn't there, plain and simple--"
"How are you explaining his disappearance to yourself? Because I would really like to know."
"Don't know him half as well as you think, do you? He just has this awful habit of losing track when some project or another acts up. I'm sure he's just--"
"You are reaching, and you know it, Bez-Enth!" The Human seemed paler than her pallid norm, and drew several breaths in order to continue. "He has never failed to inform me of--"
"He's not under your command any more, 'General'! There's not a single farkled soul who is!"
But the Exile had stopped listening somewhere between "command" and "General". Then she whirled and began to disassemble the console. Its owner would have acted on righteous outrage, except that recent memory recoiled. Instead she could only count the throb of her horns and watch the wiring be pulled apart for no reason at all, then put back completely wrong.
"You seem to have plenty of time to waste with hassling me and tearing up my home like some--"
It was all lost on the Exile, busy as she was with powering up the console and drumming an annoying ditty on its side. Two minutes and an incoherent jumble of symbols (really, what did that infernal woman expect?) later, she slowly lowered her forehead until it rested on the screen.
"Get your--" Bez-Enth began heatedly.
The words that chopped her sentence were as soft as they could be above whisper: "He, he remembered."
"What?"
"A trick he taught us all when 'under my command'."
"I'm so happy for you, but unless it'll pull him out of thin air, I don't see why you couldn't--"
"It's his PRTD, Bez-Enth."
"Wh--"
"Planned Route To Destination. I, it is, was, SOP -- Standard Operating Procedure -- to leave an encoding if there was any indication that it would be a solo op." Finally seeming to collect herself, the Exile slapped both hands on her laps, rose, started collecting the few tools and spikes she had spread around.
Bez-Enth watched her for a few heartbeats. "It must just have slipped your mind to check before that whole Sith 'act'."
No reply.
"I'm coming with you."
That produced a startled pause. "I will need to move fast."
"Fast, right, you and which invisible slicer? Or were you planning to sic that thing at every lock and console in sight?"
"If it takes." Under the oh-so-dry tone was mockery.
A memory upped Bez-Enth's tally of intruders:
/#Bao-Dur, you're the one who won't buy a microcaliper without dissecting it six ways to suicide! Now about this Human, all you can say is 'I like her'?#/
He shrugged, and it was apparent between the two of them -- Bez-Enth, and the circuit board -- who had the larger share of his attention. She did note an odd, private curve on his face.
/#Sometimes, it is just that simple.#/
Bez-Enth did not like Bao-Dur's "General". She did not like the way the woman strung him along, the demands she made on his attention and loyalty. That said, there was no disputing that siccing "the General" on a problem was eighty percent of getting it done. The other twenty inevitably involved spectacular special effects; it was just that one could usually not afford to count.
"I am coming with you."
"No."
"I don't care what you--"
"That was not a question."
"Great, because I wasn't--"
Sleep.
Even in the incandescence of fury, Bez-Enth felt sweat chill on her back. She had always rated "the General" to be about as warm as solid nitrogen and as fuzzy as a molecular stiletto, but it was as if the Jedi had just transcended. There was something horribly ruthless in those eyes, something entirely more terrible. Eyes darker than vacuum and a greater force of destruction. Eyes unraveling every last thread of thought that dared gather...
interlude
"There are occasions where I find myself rather envious of you, Bao-Dur."
Under the glitterstim lighting, midway through a delicate adjustment, the Iridonian tech took a moment to be curious. He was less nonplussed when midnight surroundings dissolved into the stark bright of the Ebon Hawk's hangar; nor did he wonder that his eyes required no time to adjust. He did spend a thought, perhaps two, on his shortage of one functional limb, plus quite a few more on how Mical might justify being where he was. There was a certain spot by a certain workbench that only one person had rights to.
The intruder edged towards a shiny piece of circuitry, impervious to warning glares as well as his inappropriate occupation of space. Before fingers could mangle the prize, a more callused set snatched it to safety. Mical had the grace to beam a chagrined version of his ready smiles. Bao-Dur was not appeased.
The historian dropped the expression after half a minute of stewing. Since peace was evidently in lockup until the scene played to one of their satisfactions, the tech resigned himself to the requisite "Why?"
Mical chuckled, but uncomfortably. "Oh. A silly thing, only."
Then why bother me with it? he wanted to ask, but had been brought up by nonbelievers of rudeness.
"You served with her for two years of the Wars, didn't you? Or was it three?"
"'Her'?"
"The Master, of course."
"About that number."
"You seem to know her very well."
A raised eyebrow was the only response that came to mind. Fortunately, it was remarkably all-purpose.
"I would have said she seems very familiar with you as well, but she does have that effect on everybody, doesn't she?" A smile piped up as blue eyes played truant. "She makes it so easy to be, well, easy, around her, somehow. Yet I do not think she understands how incredible that is. It is instinct to her."
Bao-Dur shrugged. Of all the things he had ever been accused of, being a people-person had never come up. When that failed to break the other's spice-dreamer facade, he began fidgeting with random instruments, though he had no idea what he was supposed to be continuing.
Mical cleared his throat with a touch of embarrassment. "That is besides the point, however. Perhaps not that much besides it, but, ahem." Slight creases formed on his broad, smooth forehead. The Zabrak was used enough to Humans that their features no longer seemed discomfitingly flat, but there was still that slight hitch between what was there and what he expected to be able to read.
"When I really think about it, though, I find that she is just as much a mystery to me as all those years ago, back in the Academy. I have to say I know more about Mira, or even Visas, than the Exile herself. It is... disturbing. I suppose it is appropriate, considering that she is our Master, yet..." He terminated the sentence with a supplicatory gesture.
"Everybody has secrets. I don't believe the General is actively trying to keep some."
The upturned palm grew an indicating finger. "That is just the kind of thing I am talking about! I have never met another person who is so open, yet so closed, both at the same time!"
Privately, Bao-Dur wondered where Mical had thought to find a parallel for his General.
"You think you understand how she thinks, then she comes up with something completely unbelievable that cannot possibly work. But you follow anyway, and of course it works because it is her, and then you look back and it is simply lost as to how you could have doubted in the first place."
Confirming that Humans (of the live variety) did indeed have finite lung capacity, the Disciple paused. He need not have bothered with the hopeful face, however, for Bao-Dur had no banalities to offer.
A sigh deflated his entire frame. "I am rambling to the wrong crowd, aren't I? You always did seem to understand her moves before the rest of us. Is it because of all you went through together during the Wars?"
The once-soldier tried charity on for size. "Logic is not always the quickest or clearest path. With the General around, I've learned you can't go that far wrong by just jumping when she does. It will be straight into the action, if nothing else."
"Faith is an easy thing when it comes to her, yet you just seem to know at a... at a deeper level." Golden tresses shook off near-visible droplets of frustration. "I can't find the right words for it. You know what I mean, though?"
The last time he'd checked, Bao-Dur had not yet cracked the code of Universe, Life, and Everything, so: "No."
Mical threw both hands up in surrender, then brought one to rub at the back of his neck. "Perhaps not, at that. I suppose it is easier for you, being an alien."
At the raised brow, he hastened to correct the diplomatic oversight. "It is just that as a, uh, Human male, it is often quite difficult to, uh, ignore certain of the Exile's, erm, attributes. I suppose she simply does not, ah, affect you the same way."
The Zabrak had long ago observed one tenet in his corner of reality -- all conversations about the General with fellow males were doomed to this particular gravity well. "She is the General," he asserted with rather more annoyance than usually allowed.
"Yes, I suppose she is that, to you. Would it that the rest of us could be as chaste in our admiration, she would not be so reclusive as she has been of late, I believe. But your relationship has always been a--"
Eyes that had been slanted oddly at him abruptly sparked very, very wide. "By the Light," Mical breathed, voice rising as befitting a revelation. "I do believe there might be a sibling-bond between the two of you!"
The Iridonian felt, and thought he must show, an utter blank.
Unfortunately, the lack of reaction did not drag on the historian's excitement, nor did it blunt his mounting certainty. Bao-Dur would not have been overly surprised were he to whip out a datapad and start scribbling. Then again, his current mental health was rather on the numb side.
"I really should have suspected something like this sooner," muttered Mical. "The Jedi Council decided early on that the Twins had a link that was entirely too dangerous, did you know that? They were taught to dissociate almost the instant they came into the enclave's custody. But, such a powerful connection, between budding Sensitives... it must have been like trying to cut a river in half."
Bao-Dur blinked, slowly, once, twice.
"Don't you see?" The Disciple asked, but buzzed at too exalted a scale to be bothered with such piddling details. "Just like all that water has to go somewhere, so should have all that psychic energy. I wouldn't be the least surprised if they just transferred it elsewhere, subconsciously."
Bao-Dur began to feel quite disgruntled by the sudden scientific zeal holding him under nanoscope. He found that he preferred the muffle of shock.
A frown disturbed Mical's face, but not his spirits. "It would explain this connection I can almost touch," he continued pontificating, "between the two of you. I am only surprised that it was you... er, not that there is anything wrong with... but, ah, you did spend your childhood on Iridonia, didn't you? I suppose it is possible, being a Force thing. Likely, even, since the Council would have actively deterred bonds with any of the local Sensitives. It would have had to be a quiet thing, and the distance would have helped to dissipate--"
"Mic--"
end interlude
"--al." The rebuke scurried forth and bounced with phrenetic speed off bare, close walls. The pace of blood through his veins was not much better, though Bao-Dur was a little confused as to why.
Fine, make that "a lot".
"Mical?" he again reminded the air. The floor was unkind to his shoulder blades and tail bone, but neither could be persuaded to shift. The shadows hid no other sentient, but he could not quite recall why he had cared. There may have been an important point, once, but as of right now all his attention was held by the word "sibling".
Siblings were, in his substantive experience, beings who existed to drive one over the brink of tolerance and well into insanity. As final revenge for uncharitable thoughts, they then vanished from existence at cost of staggering pain.
Why was the word replicating uncontrollably in his mind?
So difficult to figure? But know, you do already. One thing, it all comes back to. One person, always, always. Have you understood why She asks, you answer?
"She's the General," he answered, then remembered that he did not believe in Voices.
A circle is She, a circle embedded in a polygonal universe. But past is Her time, while yours has never come. Why follow the follower of dying echoes?
"She needs me."
Never has She said it, thought it, believed it. Never have you.
"She's my, she is my friend." Words were no friends of his cracking throat, but self-control seemed as nebulous a concept as everything else, bar some.
Friend, you are Hers. Is She yours? To death, She lead you. To kill, She taught you. When She left? When She would again leave? When always you it is that--
"Yes!"
Such devotion. What will it earn you, pray?
"It is not always about profit."
How is it not? Would do-gooders do good, if it did not make them feel it? All selfish, the ultimate drives of sentience. Evolution requires it.
"I'm not going to debate the ethics of intent versus effect with you."
And why not? You have what else to do with time?
That deserved a certain answer. He gave it.
Or, it is perhaps the companion, not the venue, hmm? You miss them, such frivolous discussions with Her.
He shut his eyes, imagining that it also squeezed the Voice out. His horns ached.
Fancy She misses them too? Such devotion, as already She has proved She forgot?
She ran.
She ran at Force Speed and to the pinnacle of her ability. It was a stupid expenditure of energy, one she would no doubt come to greatly regret. It was also just another pail in the pond of bad judgments she had contributed to this mission.
Dallying in known space.
Offending Bao-Dur.
Taking Atton's word on a passed message.
Taking too long to solve the sabotage.
Not dealing with Baraka.
Getting arrested.
"Interrogating" Bez-Enth. Obvious, obvious! That she had nothing to willingly or unwillingly offer.
Wasting time with the templast, just to show up the woman.
Forgetting to trust Bao-Dur.
That least forgivable of an unforgivable lot throbbed to the beat of her unhappy head, whilst its accusations knifed into her heels. Bez-Enth was right, she should have remembered protocols that she herself had established. She should have known that he would not have forgotten. The faith worst kept had always been hers.
Avoiding Atton.
Avoiding Baraka.
Avoiding Bao-Dur.
Getting snarky with Bez-Enth.
Failing to "appropriate" a speeder.
The last was Reni's most immediate crime, and she dreaded to find out the consequences. It was probably just as well that she had not tried to hot-wire anything in her current... state, but that was just her trying to comfort herself.
She would have prayed to the Force for the ability to pull through, except that a Hutt doled out better interest schemes.
Poor plan, worse than no plan.
Losing temper with Bez-Enth.
Being preoccupied with...
The landscape deteriorated, but she hardly noticed. While the ambiance rose smoothly into noon and dipped lazily into night, the scenery hopped and skipped choppily. She welcomed the latter, because it meant progress, but hated the former, because Time was the worse enemy.
She ran.
You feel It, so close. The Force, as your kind call. Near. It welcomes, right here.
"Yes." He whispered, because nothing stronger could be produced. "No." It couldn't be, could it? He was sure-- he thought that-- he might have-- something was missing. Had been missing?
So easy, one step. One step to an end. No more pain, no more want, no more impossibilities.
He nearly reached out, but shied at the last moment. "Can't," he croaked -- who was he? "Wait'n for Gen'ral."
He knew who that was; he almost certainly did.
The silence was long, at least to his misaligned sense of time. It may have been longer still.
Perhaps, right you are.
It is only a Voice, or less, the figment of one. So he told himself, but he heard anyway the sly upturn of eyes, the falsely concerned brow.
Perhaps She indeed will come for you. And She will die.
He did not believe!
Tsk, tsk, tsk. Which one to prefer, you wonder?
He could not comprehend his own answer.
"My-- our employers wish to be advised of the whereabouts of this Mandalore."
"Gee, really? So glad to find people who want to expand their minds. State of education these days? Atrocious, I tell ya."
"This information is required."
"Good, good, warms my very bones to hear of such enthusiasm. I'm so happy for them."
"You will procure this information, Surgeon."
"This zdrinbagh is great. Sure you don't want some? Not much for the carnal appetites, huh? Not much for the smarts, either. Or maybe momma forgot to teach you that if you're gonna sit in a restaurant and only have things coming out of your gab instead of in, well, people are gonna stare."
"Distraction will not excuse you from duty. Your instructions stand."
"Instructions? Lemme check. Nope. Don't remember no instructions."
"Our sources stopped tracking the Mandalore shortly after he left the vicinity of Citadel Station. Our employers desire knowledge of his present location, and itinerary."
"Oh, was that for me? See, I thought I heard you talking to somebody I don't know, and my momma taught me it's rude to eavesdrop."
"You may most likely obtain both from the Exile."
"'Sources' playing hooky again, eh? Exile's gone and gotten herself shacked up with a couple of Republic akk dogs, or haven't you heard. It's just a little bit difficult to get one word with her these days."
"We are confident you will persevere. Especially since your plans require ingratiating yourself with her."
"Hey! When a lady says 'no', I hear 'no'."
"I trust I will not have to remind you of certain consequences, should you persist in your inability to deliver."
"Gee, but what if I have a short term long term memory?"
"That is not my concern."
"Ow, was that supposed to hurt?"
"I see no purpose in the continuation of this--"
"Fine, fine. Your employers want me to play a little pet-and-tell with the Exile? Not gonna happen unless I get some help. See, there's just this small detail of..."
"I like mysteries, challenges, you know I do. But sometimes, a girl just needs it in big, clear letters what your intentions are."
The deep night sky performed "silence, unimpressed". In her peripheral vision flirted the ghosts of an active shield, too coy to be directly looked at. Similarly, the puzzle lay strewn like so many toys of an absent child, its logic balking her tired mind. She was slipping, she knew. She should have been faster. She should not have made a roster's worth of mistakes. She should not be stuck on simple follow-the-directions. She should not be close to panic.
Renani the Reluctant Jedi (Master) ran a hand through half a head of grimy, sticky, very disgusting hair. She considered flattering Bao-Dur's hairstylist with imitation, but there was just no time. Rising from a crouch, the near-blackout convinced her to pay her ration pack homage instead.
She chewed mechanically, having already forgotten that she was, and looked out again into the deadland not one meter from her nose. Even Force Sight could not pierce a darkness as much of life as of light. Kreia's Force trick could not see her through where there was simply no oxygen. And her benighted self was certainly no help in figuring out where onwards one errant tech could have gone.
On the verge of sparking graffiti with a fist, Reni caught herself, and stopped. She did not need to be in any more ineffectual shape than she was already.
"One time," she told the absent, "just one time, I wish you would manage a more realistic view of my abilities. You never leave me any room for anything less than perfect. You always set me up to disappoint!"
The words rattled with surprising harshness. The cold air, previously refreshing, now only quiveringly chill, held no reply.
The Exile did not need one, for she knew: "I already have."
He did not remember when breathing had started to be such a chore. Relax the throat, expand the lungs -- not too much though, because what followed was only to compress them again. Then repeat, repeat, repeat, until some seconds' negligence brought attention back into shocking fore. It was all very annoying, and extremely bad design.
Still, in interludes where he had half a thought to spare, he remembered to hope.
You will have your way, then. The near-chatty tone was flash-frozen. She will come for you, and then she will die.
He would have clapped his hands over his ears, but his... condition contrived to misplace the effort.
She will die in your place. And then you will be where, O dreamer?