The alignment he is attempting is delicate. Ten microns too far, and the energy will find shatterpoint. Ten microns too little, and it will trickle to no effect. Yet it is nothing he has not negotiated a thousand, a million times before, and the next eight steps are already unfolding in the remainder of his concentration.
"The pup's an idiot, but he's no Fool."
The microgauge winks as it strikes zero, and a deft nail flicks the support into "secure" mode. He releases and flexes the fingers of his right hand, the other set needing no such treatment. Then he makes the innocent mistake of glancing up. The act commits him to a conversation so bizarre, it will continue to perturb him for weeks.
Fully armored against the lull of a hyperspacing Ebon Hawk, Mandalore is located too close to Bao-Dur's workbench. The bulkhead supports that back, while those heavy boots are propped a step out from the vertical. A quick calculation decides for the tech: it must be maglocks that prevent the soles from slipping. Surreptitiously, he reaches for a vector magnetometer to test the hypothesis.
The silver helm is angled away, with no appreciation whatsoever for scientific interest. "Tumble-slabs, hah," the man behind the mask pronounces, and of course no sentence is complete without a snort.
The instrument takes seconds to calibrate, so Bao-Dur looks even though he has no need to. Ten meters in the indicated direction, a tousled brown head prances about a neat dark one. Brown dips every couple of steps as its owner sets down another colorful, shin-high oblong.
"He's damn persistent, I'll give him that. And devious as a nesting Farghul."
Not quite able to decide whether the tone is admiring or derisive, Bao-Dur concludes it is likely both. The speaker is not his concern. Preoccupied by the arduous task of block-placement, the pilot forgets where to place his feet. Fortunately his game-partner is a preternatural athlete; her sideways leap barely wobbles the pattern of slabs penning her in. The male Human heads up, ostensibly for apology, and so very casually chases a strand of hair from her face.
The Zabrak looks away.
The magnetometer blips a reading, just not one its operator expects. He sets it aside and revises the theory. Idle speculation bores him though, so he picks up a spectrometer to place in line with the mounted crystal. He eyes it critically and rotates it another two degrees clockwise.
"Less excuses for that in card games, eh? Gah, I missed how the pup convinced Exile to this frippery."
The "damn persistent" has something to do with it, Bao-Dur thinks, but is not about to tell. Mandalorian helms must be equipped with selective noise cancellation. The rest of them have had three whole days of "I can't believe you don't know !" and "You've gotta learn , it's classic!". He can almost mark the precise hours out of seventy-two, and thinks even Atton should have his victim's response memorized: politely decline; when that fails, politely defer.
There is a not-so-direct translation from all that politeness to how comfortable his General is with a person. Bao-Dur has it learned as natively as he understands droidspeak. What he lacks is the naiveté to believe discomfort is always negative.
He turns a dial up delicately. The beam runs true, splintering into the interior before a thousand facets snare pieces in unseen grasps. It emerges many times magnified. A careful hand and careful ear guides the intensity upwards, till the gem hums but does not scream.
"Three years in your army. You noble Republic types must all just have forgot to warn her of the 'ways of men'."
Teeth gritted (unsuccessfully) against the interruption, the tech turns his head. Whatever the composition of the "Atton Rand" iceberg, Bao-Dur diagnoses zero percent discretion. The rogue has graduated from slab-moving to General-moving, or so the hand on one maroon-clad hip claims. She moves lightly under the touch, and the watching man remembers:
interlude
The venue was a party. That fact alone was unremarkable -- the Republic military, Bao-Dur had discovered early on, could turn one excess keg of moonshine into an all-night celebration. It was not a talent that had him verily impressed, perhaps along the scales of "I can turn blue faster than you" or "my stick is bigger than your stick". Given a choice between going towards death happily sedated from "living to the full", or going chaste with every faculty painfully intact, he had never doubted which one to choose.
Not until fifteen meters away, did the Iridonian Zabrak consider that he might be intruding.
The General was -- how was it put? -- "mingling". She had an escort, itself so far from unusual as to be the norm. The Human male was very tall, nearly a head above her, hair dark enough to be one shade off blue. Similar yet different, the waves in her black locks distilled gold from the overhead lights. Together, they were... striking.
A stray gossip and two brought Bao-Dur a name: Dwane Kevron, Warrant Officer First Class. He did not stay for the standard bid-and-parlay of facts all "hunting" singles must know. He did observe that it is the only industry with a truly flat inter-planetary, inter-species exchange rate.
The noncom had one arm at the small of the General's back, palm nearly spanning the deep green of her not-quite-dress. The shimmery fabric was atypical enough for Bao-Dur to prep a closer look. Scooped across her shoulders and cinched at the waist, the simple assembly flared down her legs before reconvening at the ankles. The sleeves were soft cream, just translucent enough to hint at elegant lines up to slim wrists. It bore all the signatures of one of Tonya's concoctions, as if the General's usual idea of wardrobe was insufficient giveaway.
Uncertainty assaulted, advising the Zabrak to keep the anonymity of the crowd. As he witnessed Kevron murmur something too close to his General's ear, he could not imagine how he had come to assume she would have nothing better planned for the evening. Even in a universe without extracurricular activities, it was quite ridiculous once he actually thought.
Glad that he had told his Remote to wait instead of bobbing a beacon above his head, Bao-Dur turned to go. He would have gone, too, but for an inexplicable onset of non-movement. Unable to explain it, he turned -- and found the General looking directly at him.
The saner side of reason considered pretending the usual, tipping his head, and sallying on. Instead, he found himself gravitating in her direction.
She greeted him with too bright a smile. "Bao-Dur?"
"General," he answered, then a shrug for her eyes' queries. It was not impossible for him to be found attending, surely.
Her escort cleared his throat in the interrogative. The man stood well within the General's personal space, Bao-Dur noted. Under the soft cloth, her shoulders were set very square, her typically restless hands still. A frisson stood by like the honor guard of a stampede.
"Off-- Dwane, this is Bao-Dur, best tech on my team." Unexpectedly, the grin sparked the corners of her eyes. "Actually, it's 'best tech on any team', but one mustn't boast."
The noncom smiled. "Pleased to meet, Bao-Dur."
A return was clearly indicated, but what could there be to say to a man he didn't and didn't want to know? He nodded, and hoped it sufficed.
"Grand getup, isn't it? Only needs a bit more leg-shakin' to get it really rollin', but I can't seem to get this pretty lady to give me half a whirl, shucks." Deep green eyes turned a little more sharp. "Care to give a fellow a tip?"
The Iridonian made a vague sound, then watched each ensuing second don thicker and thicker coats of discomfort. Each was an unnecessary reminder of why he found social situations so tiring. Small talk, by Bao-Dur's assessment, equaled no small effort.
"Was there something...?"
Both eyebrows wanted to rise, but Bao-Dur was well-trained in the semaphore of his General's cues. "Well, the prototype we discussed is ready for testing. I, er, thought you might want to watch the fireworks, but of course there's no need to interrupt..."
"No, no, not at all. I did ask to be told as soon as you have it ready." She turned to give the other a lift of lips. "I hope you don't mind, Dwane. Duty calls."
From the Human's daze-over, Bao-Dur judged that it must be the first real smile of the evening. "But we've just--" the noncom began a couple minutes too late; the rest of his protest stuck in the intervening crowd. The tech and his General made it outside at a rather indecent clip, but the only eyes to see were too inebriated to matter.
The Remote greeted them with a musical train of bleeps. Its owner frowned an admonishment: it was not supposed to make snarky remarks in the anonymity of droidspeak, not even if that was the only language it could vocabulate. As things stood though, it might be less inclined to "forget" if someone would quit spoiling it with her rare laughs.
"Sure that you're not a Sensitive, Bao? Because I can almost swear the Force sends you specifically to my rescue."
He glanced at her, lips begging leave to curl. "Sorry, General. The only type of 'force' I understand is mass times acceleration, plus the relativistic generalization."
She groaned. "One of us has to, I suppose."
The smile escaped; he was distracted by knowing for fact that she was rather conversant in both theories.
It was six corridors to the cargo bay he had annexed for this latest project. They walked, soundless down to every footfall. Bao-Dur was amused that familiarly scuffed noses peek at him from under that dressy pants-skirt -- it would seem that not even Tonya or the kath hounds of fashion dared suggest any footwear less comfortable and battle-ready. He was not aware that their strides struck in exact unison.
"We suspected right: Mandalorians use only passive systems in their armor. If this set is anything to go by, that is," the tech explained. Movements sure and easy with their return to his domain, he circled the prop and gave it a critical run-down. The General trailed, never lagging to turn, never close enough to get in his way. They had perfected the arrangement so long ago, it no longer bore noticing.
"I'd love to get you a nice full battle-group of these to play with, Bao-Dur, but it seems that their owners don't believe in sharing or caring."
It took him a second to realize he had stopped moving. Eyes strictly ahead, he turned the other way, one improvised workbench coming up. He allowed only a mild, "If it's all the same to you, General, I'd prefer no repeats of how you got us this one."
No reply, but something in the air shuddered and grew subdued.
For a few quick minutes, his fingers ran checkup of the rifle at place of honor. The power pack was still oversized, hence the scope badly fitted, but Bao-Dur was otherwise satisfied with the report. A year, closer to two ago, and he would have blithely assumed everything was as he left it. He had since learned that the helpful colleague or enthusiastic janitor could be as lethal as the most diligent saboteur. Present company only made him that much more conscientious.
Having carefully not once looked away from a procedure he could and had performed blind and single-handed, he was startled to find anxiety in the General's lilting, jet-black eyes. Imagination could provide no reason, so he tried, "No explosions this time, General. In fact, we won't see a thing if I've got it done right."
As assurances went, it was an inane one to make to a woman whose quiet days meant no skirmishes before breakfast plus no major excursions after dinner -- quite deserving of the eyebrow she quirked.
Bao-Dur shrugged, aimed, fired. With as little pomp, lavender-tinged energy washed over the mock-armor. Two very different heads paid it scant heed, both intent on the multimeters hooked up about it. One minute and twelve seconds into the count, the hairy one bobbed over to try her hand (and the other one, and her feet) at moving its limbs. The impression was "dance partner from hell".
The tech caught himself in a smile. It almost triumphed over the frown when-- he slammed a fist into the ceramisteel bulkhead, disproportionately furious.
"Bao-Dur?"
Her voice was very quiet, and perhaps half a meter to his front and right. He could not make himself look. "Six minutes, thirty-seven seconds." The words surfaced from him like bubbles in stale water. "Varies from five to eight. Nothing I try breaks the eight-minute ceiling."
"Eight minutes of frozen Mandalorian? Some parents would take one on for a gadget like that. An unfrozen one, even."
Bao-Dur began disengaging sensors, stripping them of temp-contacts even as the Remote anxiously whirred, for it was a job it believed no organic was precise enough to dispatch. Busywork -- and he sometimes wished this General was typical enough to be no wiser. His knuckles were beginning to swell too much for movement; he told them they doth protest too much.
Long, slim fingers closed over his thicker own, so what choice was there except to instantly still? There was a reason he was loath to meet those eyes, yet there was really no choice in that, either.
After that concession, retreat was impossible.
"You did great, Bao-Dur. Eight minutes is more than I'd hoped for."
"Not enough."
"How not?"
"How so? What can eight minutes possibly be enough for?"
"Enough to stop an alarm. Enough to foil a plan. Enough to save a life."
"Exactly: Not nearly enough."
"Enough for what we must do, B--"
"Nothing is ever enough!"
"We will manage--"
"The only thing we ever manage is to keep them coming," he threw at her, confident that there was no refute. "They keep coming, and they will never stop. Everything we do to retaliate will only ever drive them on, because fight is exactly. What. They. Want."
The ensuing minute proved that she had no quick answer.
"Give me one single example of something, anything, we have on our side that has ever been 'enough'."
Something flickered in the General's face. It segued into a soft smile, as if the answer were obvious: "You."
The answer was so off-base, nothing could persuade him to agree. He almost reminded her viciously of his family, his entire family, whose fates he had not even been adequate to share. But it was not something he talked about -- and how could he, while those eyes damned him with such absoluteness?
The General's hand retracted, at which Bao-Dur's complained of the very air it had been perfectly content to wear before. Her gaze did not grant him the same reprieve though, and the glow in her cheeks was more parts fervor than embarrassment.
"You, and people like you, are why we will win this War, Bao-Dur. Yes, the Mandalorians are in it just for the 'challenge'. That is why they will lose, that is why they must lose. The alternative is unacceptable."
"We lost Kadritna VIII two days ago," he reiterated what she already knew. "The Mandalorians fired some form of hyper-accelerant over the entire moon. A 'demonstration' to a planet that had already plead to surrender. We saw it burn from space. Three billion souls."
"The unacceptable happens every day?" the General quoted right out of his mind.
Anger garroted his throat.
"You are right. We see atrocities each time we step into the field. We see atrocities all the way over on 'safe' ground. We cry, we rage, and we hurt beyond the meaning of pain. But Bao-Dur, Bao-Dur, we will keep right on stepping into that field, because each of us has something too dear to us to not try."
His fist clenched, but he did not notice the lack of pain. "Whatever it costs us?"
"There are things much worse, than to die protecting the precious."
Like being the one thus "protected", the Iridonian thought. But it was not something he talked about, and the air he breathed was always clearer, sharper, around this General. Her victories blushed through the helpless fog of his wrath, ever eroding.
There was only time between him and concede. With Revan, with her, perhaps they need not just char like insects in the plow of a fore-shield. Perhaps their losses would be more than tally on some Mandalorian scorepad, perhaps the weight that will swing the guillotine.
He dared not hope -- yet she was right: he did not know how not to.
"Don't you ever get tired?" he asked, softly now.
Her lips listed to the left, to be punctuated by the bud of a dimple. "Every day, by noon. But I can't very well let you lot of stim-packing soldiers show a Jedi up, now can I?"
Bao-Dur shook his head, the better to hide a smile. Calmer, he left the drudgework to a happier Remote, and went to notate readings from the mock-Mandalorian armor. The General stood mid-room, head angled towards the real set.
The knuckles about her upper arms were painted in sharp relief. They told him it was the ghosts of memory that gripped her, not the kinder undertow of thought. He spent minutes being sorrier than she knew.
"General?"
She startled, if imperceptibly to most.
"About, ah, men like Officer Kevron..." His acuteness of embarrassment, Bao-Dur weighed, was worth the flip from General to flustered girl. Still, he gave both eyes precise schematics as to where they belonged.
"Oh! He uhm, that is, he was, ah I, he... what about him?"
The last two entries had to be erased, because the tech had no clue which ap had herded them in. "Well," he tendered, but was stuck for three entries. "When there's a, well, soldiers in a War, they, uh, we, uh, there's a lot of talk about 'living for the Final Jump'. I just don't-- you should know, men like Kevron usually only want one thing."
"Oh!" -- curious, was that relief? -- "Oh, yes, I, erm, I know all about men like that."
Nothing shorter than a rampaging Mandalorian could have stopped Bao-Dur from turning to raise an eyebrow.
Those planes of cheek grew quite spectacular in shade. "Not like, what I mean is, it's hard for a Jedi not to notice that, uhm. Not that I try to peek or anything, actually I try quite hard to keep it all out, but sometimes people are like shouts and men like Officer Kevron just think so loud about, uh, 'one thing' that it's like this drone that won't fade into the background and oh I'm glad somebody is amused, are you laughing at me?"
The Zabrak shook his head.
"Hmph." Then, with not insignificant seriousness: "I'll let the insubordination go, Bao-Dur, if you promise to always come rescue your poor old General from Darth Suave."
"Before or after 'meet the parents'?"
end interlude
The memory remains as Bao-Dur has always intended, pristinely private. The only quantum he rations Mandalore is: "She already knew."
"It's been ten years, tech. Even the lowest maintenance woman likes a little refresher course."
Said tech wonders if he can get one too, because he is sure not comprehending any of Mandalore's Basic.
"A confident one, was she? And you're telling me you swallowed that act?"
If Bao-Dur ever allows nostalgia drive of his tongue, he cannot imagine a more unlikely confidant. "The General knew we would defeat you. She always said we had the greater stake."
"Really. Your General was wrong."
"We're not the ones reduced to hiding on some abandoned moon."
"Bah. Think, boy. So she actually believes that pretty little line, but you and I both know exactly how the paza'ak would've turned if Revan -- if she -- weren't in your deck. It was them who won the War, not some fat Republic on begging-to-be-fried shebs. Yes, we lost. But we did it gloriously, and only to the most worthy of opponents." A snort. "Loverboy has no idea who he's groping. None of them do."
Self be spited, Bao-Dur looks sharply at the last. The guiding hands had grown bolder, and thinks to teach a lither set how to dance. It goes like so: Atton tries to maneuver, finding it needful to drape half himself over her in the process. The General's execution of orders is the usual creative. One persuading this way and the other tending to that, they tumble. The block they are trying to set up rocks as if in laughter, but remains triumphantly upright.
"Idiot should've stuck to paza'ak, though I'll bet he ran out of stamina to keep pressing that suit."
Were he so inclined, Bao-Dur could inform both that zeros far outweighed significant digits in that probability. The General's span of interest only ever extends to where she has the subject mastered, and Paza'ak is not exactly renown for complexity.
Unlike their card-firaxa of a pilot, the tech gets back to his day job. "The General may think you are important for reasons all her own," says he, "but that doesn't oblige me to small talk, Mandalorian."
"Stand down, soldier. Don't worry, I'll restrain myself from falling over to woo you."
Bao-Dur counts to ten. Then he counts fifteen. "I don't care who you try to... pursue, as long as T3 does the cleaning up."
"Such claws you have, boy. And here I thought we were building an understanding."
"I 'understand' one thing about you, Mandalore: your kind don't build, they destroy. It is a good day if I don't have to notice you exist. There's nothing about you as a person that I care to 'understand'."
"Flarg. My opinion matters to the General, and that bothers you quite a bit."
He catches the frown before it can flaunt, but its scream persists. "Your General" was acceptable, "the General" is Bao-Dur's territory. The Mandalorian has not and can never earn the right.
A sudden apprehension derails him. "So, you knew her. Before Dxun."
Silence, though the Iridonian hardly expects to find himself ambivalent. Atton's voice carries over the interim, intimately indistinct.
He stares at the beam for another six-point-eight seconds the crystal takes to saturate, then tunes it down to a halt. Calculations are always what he relies on, numbers to navigate the quiet waters of his intuition. Yet he has begun to trust other wings more of late, such as the indescribable something that whispered this timing. The fledgling Jedi imagines his mentor's appraisal, even if she is currently... occupied.
The afterimage fades at a pace Nature dictates. It does not impede transferring the crystal from support to the palm of his right hand. It is warm, not hot, but burns into his senses like the aftertaste of a nova. Bao-Dur probes, and can almost feel the individual molecules vibrate in a tandem that persists though the crystal cools. The image may be wishful thinking on his part, but he is convinced the General will know.
"Four years ago, Revan left me on a planet at the edges of Known Space. I insisted I'd follow. She broke my legs, overloaded the blaster in my hands. I should have died, but this atin of a girl decided she needed a 'project'."
The tenuous vision disappears. "I suppose no self-respecting medcenter would take you."
Mandalore snorted. "Out of the gooeyness in your soft Republic hearts? Besides, she dragged me to some smelly two-well village smack in the middle of nowhere."
"How long?"
"One year, two months. Worst nurse in this galaxy. Fine torturer, though."
Though it quite amazes that he is being told as much, Bao-Dur does not ask. He does not think he can handle affirmations of the "who matters to her matters to me" kind. Instead he postulates, "So, you are grateful to her."
"I swore to see her dead by my hand. Upon my honor."
The tech replaces the gem, sliding it into the lightsaber slot with unthinking care. Only then does he turn. Mandalore's helm is angled away, one General in targets.
Annoyance has defeated courtesy, and her "instructor" is banished to a very noisy sideline. She stands in the middle of the bay, oblivious. Both arms are loose about her waist, fingers living a melody to which no other soul is privy. Bao-Dur knows that she thinks. Atton, from that stream of ignored commentary, either does not or does not care.
"How very... Mandalorian," the Iridonian remarks. His mind tallies the past, and comes to the chill conclusion that it is not opportunity that stays the other's hand. The pursuit of Revan, then? And yet that does not seem quite right either to he who watches.
"She told me, 'not today'."
He thinks, because he has never known the General to do without. The prognosis: "Every day is 'today'."
The answering grunt is little other than noncommittal. Sixty degrees rotates Mandalore out of profile. "I remember we were just like you, those of us who fought besides Mandalore the Ultimate."
Bao-Dur meets the current one eye-on, grip on his newly-reassembled lightsaber purely subconscious. If there exists something he would consider a greater insult, the warmonger must not have tried hard enough to find it.
"Pretend all the righteousness you like, boy, but you still know exactly what I mean. Magnificent, wasn't she? No-one more fit of mind or body. No foe could daunt her, no situation she could not outwit. You will follow her into a singularity without being asked. You will die a thousand times over if it is for her cause. By her side, you are stronger, faster, better. You are tested to the height of your skills, and higher. There is no more addictive feeling."
The easy slide of tenses is not lost on the listener. "Is that what you tell yourself," he demands, "when you see the faces of the innocents you slaughtered? That it is for one you followed? The lives you crushed, the worlds you destroyed, all worth it because they 'improved' the likes of you?"
"There is no honor in fighting a weaker opponent. It was the attention of your best that we wanted. Taking those lives were only necessary because your superiors refused to admit we were a threat."
"Tell that to the unarmed masses you fired upon from orbit. Tell that to the billions who starved because you blockaded supply lanes. Tell that to the residentials that you plowed through to get to one single installation."
"What coward's 'tactics' is it to retreat troops to the nearest metropolis? What kind of government plans defense stations in the middle of populated areas, strategizing on 'decency' in their enemies? Your Republic is a Hutt with rotting disease, begging to be put out of misery."
"And those families made to watch for their turn to be tortured? Friends made to fight as spectator sport? Children told to run as hunt for bored warriors? Are those examples of your 'honorable battle'? Part of Mandalorian 'mercy'?"
"Only real combat can reveal which warriors lack of self-control. Those of ours earn a shot in the gut, but who do you think many of your Republic heroes are?"
There is a pause that neither fills.
"Perhaps there are a few things I regret," Mandalore admits. The tone is thoughtful, almost private, yet he continues with confidence: "Being in arms with Mandalore can never be one of them. Just as you cannot regret being your General's man."
"It may mean nothing to you, but our General has only ever raised her blade in the defense of those you would murder."
"So sure, are you? Glowfies in your visor?" A low chuckle follows. "We were just like that, too. Of course we knew Mandalore the Ultimate had weaknesses; fools don't make two days into a campaign. But he had no faults that mattered. You are one of few Republics who knows how it is like to follow such a leader: The best a man can aspire to, and more that he can only dream of."
It disturbs Bao-Dur to face such sentiments. He is not in the habit of prejudice, yet had dismissed Mandalore with the sum of two attributes: bloodlust, arrogance. It disturbs him more that prejudice is required to dismiss Mandalore's claims. Things were much simpler back when Mandalorian idea of conversation ran in lines of "For Glory!" and "Good day to die!".
Mandalore's voice grows an obvious smirk, though his faceless head remains impenetrable. "Of course, none of us lusted much after Mandalore the Ultimate. Or were better at hiding it."
Ignoring the insinuation, the Zabrak wonders if this is some oblique confession to the same. He does not like it. "If you think that was why any of us followed," he scoffs, "you are stupider than what you suggest."
"The quintessential chaste Jedi, eh? You were very careful of her reputation, no doubt."
The contents of Mandalore's brain, Bao-Dur remembers, are of less interest to him than HK-47's. He resumes the more important task of refitting his lightsaber. The trappings removed in his experiment are in orderly arrangement by his hand.
It is true, and he realizes, that he had chomped straight on a mouthful of lure. Is the General aware that the questionable interior of that suit smells strongly of cunning? The loyal ex-soldier is inclined to "yes", but observation gets in the way: she has a perilous tendency to trust this one.
"If you want bawdy stories, go bother Atton. I have never wasted thought on the General's... private activities."
"Right. Just like you have 'never noticed' her effect on you before."
Faster than counter-instruction, his hands stop in remembrance. The words are, indeed, his. Their verity, like the good question of whether he had actually wanted to be Jedi, are not the issue.
interlude
By present galaxy's standards, Bao-Dur was not an ambitious man. Most specifically, he had never wanted to be a clingy gizka, however popular the job description was with the crowd that mobbed the General for "just like you" lessons.
"Having you here has an effect on me, General," he heard his perverse self confess. "I never noticed it years ago."
Her hand froze over a phaseshift calibrator. There was some guilt in the motion. The top-of-the-line from Sienar Systems boasted of touchpad controls, and with a little pressure sticks to any iron-alloy surface. It also took annoyingly long to re-tune if "accidentally" reset. The one the General had found to fiddle with was an older model, with buttons and a harness clip.
"Always General-proof your workspace" was Bao-Dur's time-tested policy. His worry quota was therefore free to fill with trying to articulate: "I feel... calm. More in control. The anger is still there, but--"
"I'm sorry! I am sorry, please don't, let me, I, I will try to explain."
He was flabbergasted. Atton's wisdom was that the tendency of women to do that was best evidence of one's maleness. Bao-Dur had never contemplated needing proof.
The General had apparently thought long and hard on something, even if the "what" was so sharp on tangent that her tech had fallen off the edge. The swiftness of elaboration testified.
"Master Vrook always warned me, but he, I, well, you've met him. He was never charismatic like Master Kavar, or righteous like Atris, just honest even if that made him hard, and... stern. When you're young, you give such things too much weight. You think you're so clever to know which nod placates which old relic, all of whom have forgotten that the Force, like Life, is about evolution. And then when you're older, you forget that you're no longer allowed the stupidities of youth."
The irises of her eyes seemed like space, vast, distant. Bao-Dur remembered granting Atton an undeserved truth: he knew his General, and still she was The Mystery.
An apology quirked at him. "Uhm, not 'you' as in you, of course."
"Accusing me of being always a good boy?"
That startled a cough and a healthier shade from her cheeks; her fingers relaxed their torture of the calibrator by a fraction. She lowered her lashes.
Bao-Dur leant a little against his workbench as he waited for the General on it to gather thoughts, courage, and/or both. The amount of real estate wasn't tremendous, but he always kept the left side clean and mostly clear. Since he had no major pieces on the worktop right then, she took up about one quarter, and swung her heels against the front.
The hyperdrive diagnostic should have completed, and needed to be revised before lastshift. There was a bit of a lag that had been cause of many a sad warble from T3-M4. G0-T0's repulsorlifts had a skew that caused an "unsightly spin" when it turned. Remote did not like the weight of its new cutting laser, and wanted a more compact design.
The tech only sat, the litany a soft background. preoccupied. He had truly never noticed before this strangest hunger: almost like his fascination for gadgetry, yet not remotely like it or anything else at all. He was silent, and still, because he did not want the General to be.
"Why are you here, Bao-Dur?"
"Tired of me already?"
"What? No, of course that's not what I meant!" She spoke with such vehemence that she apparently embarrassed herself, and so went back to staring at the calibrator. It was upside-down, a fact which she tried to correct on the sly.
They'd had this conversation before. Surely it was reasonable to expect his relief to be milder the second time around.
"I mean, you don't have to stay, you know. You've done your duty a thousand times over, and I'm sure any post is yours for the asking. As much as I, we, need you around, you mustn't feel obligated at all. If there's something you'd rather be doing, somewhere you'd rather be..."
"It's not like I have much choice in the matter, General. T3 will rig the hatch shut, and while I'm bypassing it HK will put a stun bolt into my back. G0-T0 probably has my name blacklisted in every database by now anyway."
She smiled, with some amusement but zero happiness. "You've built a life for yourself, Bao-Dur, away from the bloodshed, the memories. Of all the things you have and are sacrificing, I can't let the future you want become one of them."
"Then you don't have to worry, General. I think I'm finally getting there, and all I have to do is stay right here."
"B--"
"All I did before Telos was drift around. I was looking for something, something I never found. I was looking for a purpose. Telos was a worthy cause, yet I was getting frustrated there as well. All I could manage were small improvements, but I need to do more. You've spoilt me for the 'stand and wait' role of service, General. I know I can make the most difference by your side, and that's enough for me."
"You are wrong. The good you have done will stand for generations to come, you don't need me for that. Following me has only ever forced your skills towards destruction, and no matter how deserving the enemy every fallen only adds to your pain. You know there will always be death where I walk, Bao-Dur. Sometimes, I think it is my truest companion."
The edge of that statement went jaggedly down his internals. "You are wrong, General. Every life you took was towards the preservation of thousands. If nothing else, Telos has taught me that destruction is sometimes the only cure. I tried to do there exactly the opposite of what I did during the War, but I can't change the past by running away or towards it. Besides, if I am honest, there are parts I don't wish to be any different."
"You said that your thoughts and actions were poisoned by anger. But it wasn't you, Bao-Dur. It was the things I asked of you, and... and mostly just being around me. That poison, it was me, it still--"
The words were horrible enough. That it was she who stated them magnified his outrage.
"That is not a claim you have any right to make. What do you know of why I came to be part of the corps? What did you read on the bio page, General? Another refugee from Iridonia? 'No living relatives'? Do you know anything at all about how?"
It was a rhetorical, because the one person to tell the tale never had. The sand of years was supposed to have been its tomb. Instead it had built a terrible pressure, one its guardian had almost no knowledge of. But the General's bid had punctured something vital in that self-defense.
"A company of Mandalorian sadists murdered my family."
It was not something he talked about... but if he did, Bao-Dur had always thought his voice would be calm, narrative. As it turned out, he couldn't tell whether he whispered or bellowed at top lung capacity.
"I don't know if they were stragglers, deserters, or just bored. It was after the main attack wave, after the slave-taking raids. All I knew at the time was we hid in a cave for ten days. Ate lichen off the walls. There was a small stream, too small for fish. Tasted like blood, but only when it didn't taste worse. On the seventh day, we stopped hearing the blaster fire, the screams. We thought we were lucky."
"They put my father on a pike, shot him full of stims every hour, sharp. Wanted him alert as they had their 'fun' with the family. One of them blastered the flesh off my mother's legs because she dared to kick when he-- that was how I learned that the 'technique' is called 'the Burning'. I had two brothers, a sister. I can't remember their voices anymore, but I still hear their screams. The youngest gets to watch everything. Back then, I had never imagined such brutality could exist."
"Their bodies were what I saw each time on the battlefield, General. Sometimes, I thought I heard the laughs of those, those animals, amongst the Mandalorians we met. But I could have been fighting one or two or six of them face-to-face, and I could never have known. Never. There would be no justice until every last one of their kind were exterminated, and even then, what good is justice? Justice is for the living, not the dead."
"That is what I was, General, that is what I felt. That is still me, sometimes when I'm not careful. How can you say it wasn't? How can it have had anything to do with you?"
"Please, don't think that I... I'm not making light of your experience, I am not. But, letting hate drive your actions, that isn't you, Bao-Dur. You are the most conscientious person I know, and not because of this guilt you feel you must carry."
"You need to understand, the Masters always worried about my tendency to form Force bonds. The other Padawans had to be extra vigilant because I could never quite hold my share of mental shields. Then we... left the Academy, and I, I forgot their warnings. You know how tired we always-- no, no, no excuse. I must have connected all of us, when we fought, why we fought. I must have amplified everything, Bao-Dur. Pain. Hate. Anger. Vengeance. You would never have--"
"Then you don't know me as well as you think, General! It's not always about you. Some things even have nothing in them about you at all. You think I was incapable of my own utter lack of remorse? Think again. I would have, there was nothing I would not have. In the year before you came, I went to bed each night thinking up ways to make Mandalorians pay. I imagined repeating to that company every last of those things they made sure I will never, never forget. I never woke in the night from nightmares, I slept and dreamt of killing Mandies. Then I got up, went to work, and made each weapon come true."
Belatedly, with great effort, he stopped. It took more seconds to persuade his hand from cramping over the workbench ridge. His other, nonexistent arm ached with a fierceness forgotten since the first year of its loss.
The General's eyes were wide, dark with something more vast than color.
The Zabrak knew his temper to be terrible. He had promised himself, long, long ago, to never aim it where least deserved. It was a vow more often broken than kept, yet the hand sneaking up on his was steady, unafraid.
The contact was minimal; their knuckles barely brushed.
Like a lanced wound, the ugliness drained from Bao-Dur's emotions.
He found his fingers snaring hers. It would never have passed censor had he been in full self-control, but he could not make himself let go. When it made it past his throat, his voice was only soft.
"Then you stepped out of that junk-pile freighter, General. You joined our fight and I saw more Mandalorians fall than I dared hope, given what I had seen of the Republic army. But it wasn't the same. I wasn't the same. I couldn't just kill them and feel nothing but safe satisfaction anymore."
"You do... this. You did forge some kind of connection between all of us, just not about hate or anger. Even in the thick of battle, I couldn't escape your compassion, your... respect for the enemy. It was more than I could manage, but I was reminded. I knew you were counting on us, and that left no room for revenge."
"I don't think I could live with the things I would have done if it weren't for you."
The moment wrapped around them, thick and pulsing like the throb of a heart. It was a long while before the General spoke.
"That wasn't me, Bao-Dur, that was you. The only thing you needed was reason to stop punishing yourself for events you had no way to prevent."
The Zabrak sighed as he released her hand; it went to nest with the other in her lap. Self-condemnation seemed to be one thing neither of them could agree to let go. Perhaps they were both learning to move on, though.
"You're glowing again, General."
Much like how an agitated shield rainbows, pink flashed in the nimbus around her. But he had to blink, and the impression was stuffed back where he could not quite follow.
"Ialwaysbelievedyouareforcesensitive, Bao-Dur."
He took a minute to parse. "The Force in everything, huh, General? Even half-machines?"
"Please, not so loud. If you really are half machine, I'd have to surrender to HK about 'superior lifeforms'."
"Well, I haven't seen a 'meatbag' designed for on-site upgrades yet."
The banter was familiar, comforting, but it was the undercurrent that his attention circled eagerly around. He watched the General twirl one of the knobs protruding from the calibrator: four notches clockwise, three notches anticlockwise, repeat.
"Actually, you resonate more clearly than the average Jedi, Bao-Dur." Her voice was far away in analysis, but then faltered. "Uhm, Master Kreia says I'm mistaken."
The tech did not rate Kreia fit for the mentoring of his General. The woman had too many agendas, hidden or otherwise, too cavalier a knowledge of her student's needs. Unfortunately, his observation was that the General had an ingrained need for approval. She had not compromised her sense of right for it, and he trusted she never would, but that did not make it easier to watch her agonize over self-doubt.
"I am not asking Kreia," he said with calm. "If there were ten other Jedi Masters on board, it's not them I would ask, either."
Her smile was shy. "It's like, like" -- the occupied hand waved -- "your phaseshift calibrator, Bao-Dur. You told me that the residual field from the hyperdrive leaves a very loud signature, no getting away with warping spacetime just like that. Yet an unaligned calibrator won't show any readings at all." Then she froze, and set the instrument down very carefully. "Erm, I didn't...?"
Bao-Dur shook his head. After some insisting, his mouth did not find it necessary to twitch.
"I'm not sure why, but it's like that with your Force presence. Kreia says it's because you're, ahem, alien, but I-- anyway. Most sentients are like flames. Sensitives are orders of magnitude brighter, though of course it varies. You're more like a, a crystal. Easy to miss because it's not bright the way Jedi are used to, but to a probe at the native frequency it, you... resonate."
The General's eyes refocused, earnesty tuning down to embarrassment. "I'm probably just mis-digesting Atton's turn at the autochef."
He raised an eyebrow.
Her hand strayed towards the calibrator, and began to spin it in half-circles, anticlockwise, clockwise. "I just know you can be the best kind of Jedi, Bao-Dur. You only have to want it."
For a long while, they both stared at the tool she was abusing, physically now that she had done with the metaphorical. Bao-Dur's silence was a mystery. Hadn't they just come full circle to precisely what he'd initiated the conversation for? Yet the only reply was the squeak of plastopress protesting her hand's activity.
There were little clicks he could almost hear inside himself: pieces he had not known were loose falling into place.
"You've always tried to understand the wiring of my universe, General." He finally felt it right to admit: "I think I would like, perhaps you could teach me how to see the stars in yours."
The motion stopped.
Bao-Dur was confused.
It occurred to him that sometimes "yes" instead was "no" or "maybe". Perhaps the General had meant it in the abstract: yes, he could be trained, no, not at all did she personally want to do it. After all, whines for attention were her daily fare. There was Mical, with his eagerness for study. There was Atton, all charm and wild potential. And in between exploding planets and assassination attempts and military conspiracies, it wasn't like she had many hours to donate to furthering one tech's maybe-potential.
"You don't like Master Kreia much, do you?"
He was confused, going on confused-er. "I trust your assessment that she is necessary."
"But you disagree with her methods, and think little of her as a person."
"She tries to manipulate you, General. She is not succeeding, but it is not something you can expect me to like."
"I suppose it must come across that way, but, Bao-Dur, how can a teacher not require authority over her pupil? Master Kreia is only trying to sort out my weaknesses. That is what Masters do. They make you face truths, especially unpleasant ones. Not all lessons can be enjoyed, and sometimes it is the teacher's burden to be hated."
"I dislike Kreia because she is wrong, not because she is harsh. You don't need her, General. You already know how to do the right thing. She is the one who does not."
The General gave the calibrator liberty, and slid both hands into the long sleeves of her newly favorite robes -- the crimson set from Onderon's Queen. Her eyes spoke to the instrument, not him.
"You trust me too much. Bao-Dur, after the War, Malachor V, how can you think I would be a good guide or any kind of guide through the trials a Jedi must face? I spent the past ten years forgetting every lesson. And right now? I am... I'm, I don't even know what I am."
"It's not by being blind that I trust you. I've seen your share of mistakes. It has always been how you fix them, not how you keep from making any. As for who you are, it's simple: you're you. You teach me just by being you. It's not something you could forget, even if you tried to. When it comes down to it, you already are my guide."
"But I, if, a, a mentor has to tell you to do things, to, uhm, correct when you're wrong."
"If you have issues with giving orders, General, now is a bit funny of a time to discover it."
"I... there's just this selfish little part who can't stand to lose you as a friend, Bao-Dur."
"Good."
She looked up.
"It's not in my plans to be lost, General."
Bao-Dur did not understand his insistence; it was not in his personality, definitely not in their roles as General and tech. Perhaps it was a breeze from the path before her, an inkling of what he would need if he was to follow. He was ready to spend every ingenuity, but needed a cipher to her world. The realization was one to be tucked into the deepest trench of his soul.
She eyed him like she did not know what to do, but he fancied there was some part not entirely reluctance.
"Condition: I won't answer to 'Master'."
"Wouldn't want to upstage HK-47, General."
"Can I order you out of 'General' too?"
"No."
end interlude
It was a private moment. Even if Mandalore plans dedicatedly for each eavesdrop, he can at least inflict his confidences elsewhere. To make it easier for better-armored heads, Bao-Dur asks a question he knows the answer to: "Do Mandalorians practice discourtesy in front of a mirror?"
"How did you guess? And some of us wash our shebs, too."
The species are generally boors, but the Zabrak is beginning to suspect that their specimen is only selectively crass. He wonders just who had ordered the man and/or information, for refunds are definitely in order. "Then get back to primping," he returns, "and let me get back to work."
"Nah. Cleaned the out last month. We only bathe daily when there's a War worth the effort."
Bao-Dur slides the last panel in place before he spins. "Your meaningless War cost the most-- cost people like the General more than you can ever comprehend!"
A snort filters through metal, followed by a thunk as Mandalore leans back on the bulkhead. "Look at your General. Or if you prefer, just carry on and pretend that you're not."
Bao-Dur counts to twenty-seven. Meanwhile, the indicated sets a final slab down with a fleeting pat upon its lurid top. Satisfaction dances in the little dramatic pause before she tips it over. Clacks trip sweetly around the cargo bay.
The zigzags of color has the tech staring too long, and he finds he has abandoned his count. The interpretation -- which had to exist -- mystifies him still. Then he blinks, and understanding snaps into place. A grin almost eludes custody. He allows himself an oblique of Mandalore, but full-body armor has no language.
"Tell me you would change her. Tell me you would want her to be any less than the supreme warrior, the ultimate strategist."
Bao-Dur wonders how the other had known to refrain from the usual adjective: "perfect". She is not perfect, yet there is no-one more entrenched in his esteem. It is not a thought he will ever speak, for Mandalore has stolen that script. The tech is not eloquent, most certainly not charismatic. It does not make him happy to discover that his anathema can be.
"She is what she is, not what your War made her. She might have been different without it, but she would have been happier."
"Bah. Happiness farms contentment, and contentment is a stagnant state of being. The only way to grow is to be stretched beyond comfortable. All the potential in the galaxy is nothing without the greatest challenge to forge it."
"It is your definition of 'challenge' that needs fixing, Mandalorian."
They are neither of them looking at the other, but something in the air is sticky and elastic.
"--hate to say this, sugar, but it just looks like a bunch of lines to me," Atton's voice carries. "Whaddaya mean there's a pattern in it?"
"Then you should just sit down and figure it out." The General's reply is distinct because she is striding across the bay towards them.
The Zabrak shakes his head minutely at no-one, cuts Mandalore out of thought allocation, and turns back to verifying his handiwork. The motions are routine, his mind free to chuckle. One might hope that their pilot be capable of recognizing a travel route he himself plotted. The General has exaggerated one dimension while compressing the other though, and only Bao-Dur's seat renders it closer to correct perspective. He wonders how long it will take Atton to see that the trick in advice is sometimes to down every letter.
Maroon lines cross his peripheral vision, parks by the right side of the workbench. Mischief still winks in the eyes that demand his attention, and lips that are not quite straight laments, "Ah, so quickly they forget."
Such cryptic-ness deserves both eyebrows, Bao-Dur judges. "General?"
"Oh, just some random memory. There was a Darth Suave in it, I think."
"Ah." The disclosure that she remembers flusters him for reasons none of which he understands. He refocuses on busy fingers, thinking it will go easier if he does not simultaneously have to maintain eye contact.
The General is familiar with his habits, and simply watches as he works. He is competent, the task completes too soon. No remark interrupts when he proceeds to tidy the workspace. Nothing is out of place, for its only other user has not had time lately to fiddle.
The Remote issues a low blat.
The weapon is carefully angled towards air, for Bao-Dur prefers on-board death and dismemberment kept to a minimum. HK-47's idea of interior decoration is "more the better (squishy variety)". T3-M4 is too sophisticated for cleaning duty. Of the other five "meatbags", not even Visas Mar can meet a certain person's standards for post-battle hygiene.
He depresses the thumb switch. The shaft blazes into existence, soft, steady. The tech is pleased to detect not one of those sunspots present in typical lightsaber blades. He is unsurprised, for he had intended just that.
"Incredible," the General utters with awe. "I have never felt a crystal more... smooth? Um, clear? Oh, I can't describe it. But of course you don't need me to tell you, you can feel it for yourself."
Even after he shuts it down, she does not look away nor at anything else in the five-senses universe. He forgets to ask if she can follow the kinks of quantum probability; if so, the all-important how?
"Incredible." Barely audible, a breath gapes her mouth. "Could you show me how you made that, Bao-Dur?"
"I could," he says, intending to tease, "but then I won't be the only one with a smooth-um-clear lightsaber to throw around, and I kind of like that."
The expected retort is tardy. Only just noticing the hands folded correctly over one knee, he looks up. She smiles, but it is only an attempt.
Before he can think, the General slides off her half-on the bench. Black eyes had fled the second he was in danger of meeting them; she is about to do the same. "Well, I'll get out of your, erm, horns." She nods at the suspiciously quiescent third. "Mandalore. No ideological wars before breakfast, okay?"
"Hmph."
"General?"
The word catches her in mid-step, but Bao-Dur must have imagined the second between stop and turn. He forces himself not to shirk. "I didn't know how long you intended the... order to stand." He still does not, and finds himself uncomfortable with all possible answers.
"It was never an order." A wistful something has webbed over her voice. "But it all seemed to drag on forever, didn't it?"
"Not nea-- I, uh, it has always been an honor."
Still confused, he hopes they are talking of the same thing. It is a doubt he is unused to.
"I would never hold you to anything in the past, Bao-Dur."
"I know, General."
She is silent, searching, for longer than he likes. Then her face sunrises.
Bulkhead eclipses the last thread of red before the tech turns back. He thumbs the lightsaber on.
A certain amount of aesthetics is expected of every lightsaber, as point of pride if nothing else. Bao-Dur's is only plain. The focusing crystal is a common Ilum blue. The hilt is a comfortable fit for his flesh hand, yet carefully long and wide enough for the other to grip. The end result is unassuming, stolid with bolts and panels because he likes to play. It is not meticulously symmetric like Mical's, boldly decorative like Mira's, sleekly lethal like Visas Mar's, defiantly angular like Atton's.
Bao-Dur has never doubted his handiwork, but knows he has no skill for pleasing designs, only effective ones. Most days, "pretty" is simply not something that concerns him. He is not prepared for the General to have found his little experiment profoundly beautiful.
Her loss for description lingers, niggling his mind. The exercise had been to purify the beam, but "pure" no longer feels like the right word, somehow.
He does not notice as Mandalore straightens, then without so much as an unquiet footstep, leaves.
He does not notice as Atton slumps, scowls for four minutes, then with an impolite word beelines the exit.
"True", Bao-Dur decides as a memory etches into his retinas: "True" is the correct adjective.