AITHNE
Every one of my guards had fallen, but there were only three Jedi remaining, and their leader was a child. By her braid, a Padawan. She had done well to survive thus far, but I could sense her fear. Her master was one of the women now dead upon the deck.
She was now as I had been before the Mandalorian Wars. Alongside the fear, I could feel that same self-righteous sense of moral rectitude, the same determination and resolve. I could sense her strength within the Force, even if I couldn't also see its evidence across the bridge of my flagship. But beside me, the girl was nothing. Her defeat was inevitable, but she did not necessarily need to die. Within the fear were seeds of anger; within the self-righteousness, seeds of arrogance. She was out of her depth, and within weeks or months, she and all her power could be mine. I could almost pity her, as I could almost admire her.
"You cannot win, Revan," she said, striking a double-saber variant of a Form I opening stance and thereby proving how young she was.
Then the entire deck broke apart.
After a split second of shock, the hatred and self-recrimination rushed in: equal parts "How dare he?" and "How did I not see this coming?" There was pride, too, and irony—of course the moment my apprentice chose to finally do something right would be this . . .
I tried to laugh, but neither my throat nor lips seemed to be functioning. I could feel my life slipping away, fleeing its meat casing, and the leaking coolant and lubrication systems. I could not feel the deck beneath my back. But I saw . . . I saw the Jedi girl, the Padawan, staring down at me with wide blue eyes—a moment ago so full of resolve, now teetering on the edge of uncertainty . . .
"Aithne Moran, are you quite all right?" Aithne blinked. She looked around and met Bastila's wide blue eyes—the same eyes she had just seen in a . . .
What in the galaxy had that been?
For ages, she'd had nightmares about crashing, failing ships and the clash of red on yellow, blue, and green. They slipped away minutes after she woke up, leaving her with nothing more than vague feelings of unease about Jedi and all Jedi-related trappings. But she'd never had one awake before, and Bastila—Bastila had been inside her nightmare.
She was sure of it. Her eyes found the same little braid she'd noticed inside the dream, the perfect porcelain plate face, and those unmistakable wide blue eyes. Aithnestepped back and out, and her arms came up. There'd been something about Form II and droids and bags of meat and . . .
Bastila's eyes narrowed, and her hand moved toward her lightsaber. Aithne clutched her head, rubbed her temples, and looked around.
They were on a street corner just outside the apartment complex in the Upper City. She and Bastila had been talking about the attack on Endar Spire, and . . .
"Flashback," Aithne muttered. "Sorry." Only problem is, it wasn't my flashback. "When the Sith boarded, did you fight any Dark Jedi?" she asked. "There were at least two that I saw."
"I had to cut down two others in order to reach the escape pods," Bastila confirmed.
"I just had a—" she broke off. It was crazy. And the last thing she needed was for Bastila to start thinking she was crazy, as well as an incompetent rescuer. "Never mind. It's nothing. That's the complex up ahead."
She led the Jedi through the door to the rundown, low-rent, alien-dominated complex Carth had found them their first night in the Upper City. It had been two days since they'd been there. She hoped their apartment hadn't been taken over by some other ill-intentioned squatters in the interim. She tried not to feel Bastila's probing, worried gaze right between her shoulder blades. She got a weird feeling from this Jedi they'd been looking for forever. It could just be Onasi's paranoia rubbing off on her, what he'd told her about the Jedi specifically wanting her back on Endar Spire, but she had this wild sense that Bastila knew everything about her, didn't like her much, and was maybe even a little afraid of her. Except that made no sense at all, because she'd never once run into Bastila on Endar Spire or anywhere else. But if that was true, why had she been having nightmares about the woman for literal months?
The upshot of it was Aithne was more unnerved and off balance than she could remember being in her life, and a royal headache was beginning to drill at her temples.
They turned into a hallway lit with sickly fluorescent lights. The carpet underfoot was stained and ragged, but you knew it was an Upper City apartment complex because there was one. Aithne stopped at a nondescript door that looked just like all the others on the floor and entered the code Carth had programmed into its keypad to serve as their entrance lock.
She'd hardly put a foot through the door before she was bowled over by forty-three kilos of very relieved teenage Twi'lek. "You made it! Geez, you had me worried, but Carth and Big Z said you'd be back, and look! We cleaned the apartment!"
They had indeed cleaned the apartment, Aithne saw. The dust and neglect that had greeted her upon her return to consciousness days ago was gone, the window out to the balcony was clear and sparkling, there were new sheets upon both the beds and on the sofa, as well as two other bedrolls set up waiting. The others had even tracked down and put together a few plastic shipping crates in the center of the room to make a kind of dinner table, and there were green placemats on it and a glass jar full of colorful anemone.
She'd suggested Carth find some way to keep Mission and Zaalbar busy instead of coming down to the track today, but she hadn't expected this.
"I never expected an Upper City apartment to be this small and rundown," Mission said, "but I think it looks a lot nicer now, you know? And Big Z fixed the water pipes so the sink in the fresher don't run so brown. We ain't got nothing but ration bars for dinner yet, mostly 'cause this place don't have nowhere to cook it, but Carth says there's a couple good takeout places around."
"Welcome back," Carth told her. Aithne met his eyes, and felt a sense of relief and grounding, of homecoming to it that she wasn't altogether thrilled with. He'd been nice last night, even for him, and she'd been more scared than she'd wanted to admit. His confidence in her had let her have confidence in herself. It'd meant something that he'd opened up the way he had in the garage, even without going into specifics that were too painful, and something else that he'd kept her company while she'd knocked back shots in the Hidden Bek mess, stopped her when she'd had enough, and walked her back to the barracks after, supporting her with an arm around her shoulders when she needed it and then going right back to his own bunk without so much as one smart comment.
He turned to Bastila then. "Padawan Shan. See you're free of the Vulkars."
"Yes. Would you be kind enough to introduce your friends?" Bastila asked.
Carth nodded. "Sure. Bastila Shan, this is Zaalbar and Mission Vao. They've become what you might call attaches of Aithne, whom you met at the swoop track. We couldn't have arranged to race in the planetary without their help these past few days. Zaalbar's a fine tracker and warrior, and Mission is a first-rate demolitionist and security expert, and quite possibly the best stealth operative I've ever seen."
"Good to meet you, Bastila," Mission piped up. "These two haven't shut up about you and you being the key to the entire war effort since we met. I never knew a Jedi before."
"Yes, well, I believe the plan was to keep that relatively quiet until our escape from Taris," Bastila said. "Still, it's lovely to meet you both, and the Republic values your efforts."
"Now we just need to figure out a way to get off this planet," Carth said.
A small worry line appeared between Bastila's brows. "You mean you don't have a plan to get off Taris yet? What have you been doing all this time?"
"Getting you," Mission said, looking at Bastila oddly, "and let me tell you, it ain't been easy! First we—"
"I see," Bastila said in a clipped voice, cutting her off. "Well. Now that I'm back in charge of this mission, perhaps we can start doing things properly. Hopefully our escape from Taris will go more smoothly than when you 'rescued' me from Brejik."
Mission looked hurt, then angry. "Now see here, princess, we all risked our lives to save you! We could've been turned into rhakghouls or torn apart by the Vulkars and their droids getting the Bek prototype accelerator! Then, after everything else, Aithne almost gets herself blown up on a swoop bike, after hardly never racing anything before, and becomes Taris swoop champion just to save your ungrateful little flat Jedi bu—"
Aithne was gratified by Mission's heated defense of her, but it was about time to cut the kid off, she thought. Carth was faster. "That's enough, Mission."
The kid clenched her knobbly blue fists. "But Carth!"
"I know," he said. He looked at Bastila then. "It's a little presumptuous to assume we haven't been doing anything while you've been imprisoned," he told her. "I know you're new at this, but a leader doesn't berate her troops because things aren't going according to plan." More severely, he added, "Don't let your ego get in the way of the real issues here."
Bastila inflated like an offended toad. She'd done that at the swoop track too, when Aithne had pointed out that announcing one was a Jedi on a planet under Sith quarantine probably hadn't been the smartest career move. But thinking about it, it wasn't a huge surprise. Aithne had recognized at the track that Bastila's snappish accusations and defensiveness probably had as much to do with fear as anything else. She had to have been even more scared the past few days than Aithne and Carth had been. Captured as a slave; separated from her lightsaber; fitted with a neural disruption collar that would have left her entire world a haze of darkness, noise, and confusion. And she was about as close to Mission in age as she was to Aithne herself. Padawan, Carth had called her. Wasn't that the lowest rank a Jedi could have and still be official?
Bastila did make it hard to pity her too much, though. Instead, she tilted her narrow little chin and glared. "That hardly strikes me as an appropriate way of addressing your commander, Carth. I am a member of the Jedi Order, and this is my mission—don't forget that! My Battle Meditation has helped the Republic many times in this war, and it will serve us well here, I am sure."
"Your talents might win us a few battles," Carth conceded, "but that doesn't make you a good leader. A good leader would at least listen to the advice of those who have seen more combat than she ever will." He folded his arms, staring down the girl. It was effectively insubordination—implied insubordination at the very least—and Aithne thought she just might love him for it, because Bastila really deserved it, at least at the moment. She could tell Mission felt grateful and gratified for the defense too.
"So, maybe relax a little and we can talk about that plan we don't have yet?" Aithne suggested gently. "Besides, adhering closely to a military structure right now isn't really going to help us keep a low profile while we're still in Sith territory. Major Onasi and I have mostly done away with it for the duration as an additional security measure. We should also consider the fact that, of the five of us, you're by far the most visible and vulnerable here, and putting you at the front will not only likely diminish your opportunities to use that Battle Meditation of yours but could get us all in hot water pretty quickly."
Bastila transferred her glare back to Aithne. "You know, I had my doubts about this mission," Carth muttered, "and here you are, acting like a spoiled child."
That got Aithne's attention, and she looked from Carth to Mission. "Well. At least that makes three of us."
Mission's tense expression cracked as she remembered Aithne's joke during her fight with Carth down in the sewers.
Bastila's glare seemed to diminish a little into confusion. Her blue eyes flicked from Carth and Mission, back to Aithne, then to Zaalbar. "I see," she said finally. "It's true that I don't have much military experience; perhaps I should not be so quick to judge. Very well, what do you suggest?"
Both question and the entire direction of her body language were aimed at Carth. Aithne could feel an almost physical wall in the Jedi's regard toward her, a tangible exclusion, and again she got that sense the younger woman both disapproved of her and feared her without reason.
"First of all," Carth said firmly, "we can't get hung up on who's in charge. We all need to work together if we want to get off this rock. The answer's out there; we just have to find it."
His eyes moved from Aithne to Bastila, challenging them. Aithne bowed silently. She felt the power dynamics of the group shift and lock into place, even if Bastila wasn't ready to admit it. Aithne was going to have to exercise some degree of diplomacy, like she sometimes had to on escort missions for corporate executives. Mission and Zaalbar were hers, by virtue of Zaalbar's pledge to her. Carth wasn't, quite, but he was reasonable and clever enough to know a good plan when he heard one, and while Bastila, for some reason, was absolutely unwilling to work with Aithne—strange, if Carth's information was accurate and the Jedi had requested Aithne's transfer in the first place—she would follow Carth. That more or less made Carth leader of the mission to escape Taris, with Aithne and the others as specialty consultants he was trusting to facilitate their plan. They would ultimately have as much leeway as he chose to give them. And while trust with Carth was a loaded concept, Aithne had an idea she'd earned his, at the very least in her capacity as a professional, and that Zaalbar and Mission had done the same.
"The sooner we start looking, the better," Bastila said. "I've already been a prisoner of the Vulkars, and I don't plan on being captured by the Sith."
"We won't let that happen," Aithne said.
"I think we'll need some more help getting off Taris," Bastila went on. She moved over to the table the others had set up in the center of the room, and Aithne took it as the Jedi's acceptance of their own help. She sat, cross-legged, at one of the places, and Aithne and the others moved to join her. "Maybe if we ask around, one of the locals can help us out. We should probably start by asking around in the cantinas."
Mission raised a brow, painted human style for convenience in speaking with humans. "You know I'm local, right?" she asked. "And Big Z has been for the past few years."
"Yes, but I doubt either of you have access to Sith launch codes or a starship," Bastila pointed out.
"You got a point there," Mission agreed. "Could maybe help you slice some codes, though, if we find out where they are. Or break into a ship. And hey, Carth's a pilot. He can fly us."
"I actually think the best plan right now is dinner," Aithne said, and Zaalbar roared agreement. "I won a deadly swoop race and killed a bunch of Vulkars today, and I'm just about worn out. I'm not sure Bastila has had a proper meal in days. We'll eat and rest, and tomorrow morning we'll all be refreshed, thinking more clearly, and a whole lot less grumpy. We'll start at the cantina per your suggestion, Bastila, and see what we can find. In the meantime, I think someone mentioned takeout?"
"Yeah, you deserve a little celebration, Taris Swoop Champion!" Mission cheered.
"Very well," Bastila agreed. "I can't say I'm opposed to dinner." Her stomach growled loudly even as she said the words, and her cheeks turned a light rose pink.
Carth, Mission, and Zaalbar volunteered to go grab some fried squid, seaweed rolls, and fish cakes from a corner street vendor. Bastila, they all agreed, shouldn't wander in the Upper City in the evenings when a Sith patrol came by every two minutes at most. Aithne begged a headache, that she'd inhaled too much swoop exhaust down at the track, and went out to the balcony for some fresh air.
She closed the door behind her and took a deep breath. The night air filled her lungs, clean and crisp. Aithne could hear the hubbub of the city from below. The lights of the city sparkled and shone. There was so much life on Taris. Even in the grime and filth of the Lower and Undercity, Taris teemed with life. The streets and tunnels were like arteries, pulsing with blood, will, and inspiration.
The feel of it was so different from the feel of the mind of metal and wheels inside her nightmares, that wasn't staying conveniently within the confines of her sleep anymore. But the way she felt things now, reached out and sensed life and light, fear and darkness, planned out her steps and considered the risks and benefits—that was exactly the same.
The waking nightmare outside the complex was the first time she'd heard a name inside her recurring dream. Nightmare-Bastila, a woman Aithne had never met in her life before today, had called her dream-self "Revan," as in Darth Revan, deceased leader of the Revanchists and lord of the Sith, the general who had won the Mandalorian Wars then turned nearly all the army they used to do it and come back to attack the Republic themselves. Bastila had earned her fame, even as a Jedi Padawan, not only with the power of her Battle Meditation, but by her participation in the successful assassination of the Sith Lord. The Republics were glad Revan was gone; before Revan's death and the assumption of Revan's place by their less-talented if more brutal apprentice, Darth Malak, they had been losing badly. The Republics still had a lot of ground to make up, but Revan's death had signaled a change in the war, a respite for the Republic, followed by an uptick in the closeness and ferocity of the battles as the Sith strategy slacked and changed to one much more destructive, but also less controlled and less effective.
But why in the galaxy should Aithne dream about being Revan, fighting a Bastila she'd never even met?
The balcony door opened behind her. Aithne, vainly, hoped it was Carth, Zaalbar, or Mission, but she didn't smell takeout, and it was much too soon for the three of them to be back anyway. "Do you need something?" she asked.
"You seem as if something is troubling you." Bastila's Core accent had a tentative, reserved tone to it. "Something more than a simple headache."
Aithne turned to face the younger woman suddenly, leaning back against the balcony railing. "You Jedi have heightened mental abilities, correct? Powers through the Force or whatever. Extrasensory perception, degrees of precognition. You can use your abilities to influence weak minds. Can any of you communicate mind to mind? Using words or pictures? Memories?"
Bastila looked guarded. "Such things are not unheard of. Why do you ask?"
"Back there," Aithne said, gesturing, "outside the apartment. We were talking about the attack on Endar Spire, and I zoned out on you for a minute. I said it was a flashback. Thing is, Padawan Shan, it wasn't mine."
In a flash of intuition, she knew she was right. The stricken expression on Bastila's face, a sudden sense of fear, of being overwhelmed, unprepared . . . and none of it was hers. Aithne narrowed her eyes. "Don't they teach you to control your emotions at Jedi school or something? You're—" she waved a hand. "You're in my head somehow. You have been since the swoop track, and I gotta say, it's scaring me a little. Outside the apartment, I had a flashback. Not to Endar Spire. To an attack on another ship: Revan's flagship. And you were there, fighting Revan. The only survivor of an attack team of maybe half a dozen Jedi knights. I think it was the day Revan died."
She didn't say that it was an expanded version of a nightmare she'd been having for ages or that in the flashback, she had actually been Darth Revan. Already, Bastila's fear had spiked. Aithne could actually taste it, like a bitterness at the roof of her mouth. She didn't understand any of it, but it scared her too.
"Can you stop it?!" she complained, pushing at her temple. "Goodness, the headache—it's you! I know you don't like me for some reason, which is weird considering Carth said your people asked for me in the first place, but that's no reason to Force it into my head!"
"My apologies," Bastila said, and the pain retreated somewhat, as did her sense of the younger woman's emotions, like she had put it behind that wall again. "This . . . sharing of someone else's memories, experiencing their emotions. Such talents are often a sign of Force sensitivity. Actual visual impressions from another, like your flashback today to one of my more intense memories, cannot occur if both parties are not sufficiently open to the Force. I've been somewhat . . . excited today, but even so. I apologize," she said again, "that it has apparently bled over into you and caused you pain. I did not intend that it should do so, and you're right: the Jedi Council would instruct me to control it."
"Just make sure you do," Aithne said, running her fingers through her hair. "I have enough in my own head without dealing with someone else's overflow." She tried to accept the implications of the fact that she was somehow capable of eavesdropping on Bastila's emotions and witnessing her "more intense" memories, and if it was Force stuff, the fact that in her version of the memory she'd been in the place of Darth Revan instead of Bastila herself was something she didn't even want to think about—did it mean she was some sort of natural Force enemy to the Jedi they'd spent all this trouble trying to find or something? Or that Bastila thought of her that way? If so, why? The only thing she'd ever done to Bastila was rescue the girl when Bastila would have been in a much more vulnerable position than any woman ever wanted to find herself. A little defensiveness wouldn't be uncalled for, but if Bastila's head was somehow putting Aithne on a level with Darth Revan, that was something else entirely. She wondered if the Jedi was entirely sane.
"So. I'm Force Sensitive, huh?"
"So it would seem," Bastila said in a remote, worried voice. "Given the circumstances of our first meeting and my own heightened emotional state then and since, your own natural talent has perhaps been feeding off my own Force abilities. Now that I am aware of the problem, I can set up . . . safeguards, to keep my mind from affecting yours again. However, the Force can be complicated. Even I with all my training cannot fully understand it yet. This matter is best left to the wise masters of the Jedi Council. Once we escape Taris, we can seek the guidance of the Council, if you wish. They will understand the significance of your vision, if there is any."
Aithne's wariness of Jedi rose up in the back of her brain. "Your people knew about me before this," she accused, suddenly certain, not from Bastila's emotions, but from the facts as she knew them. "Some Jedi or other sensed me with Force magic back on Deralia and got the Republic to conscript me. What do the Jedi want with me, Bastila?"
"I have no knowledge of this," Bastila answered. "Endar Spire was light on independent reconnaissance personnel. To facilitate the quick deployment of our attachment, the Jedi took the liberty of reviewing the files of currently unassigned Republic soldiers within a certain navigational radius. Your tactical and proficiency scores on certain metrics were impressive, and you happened to have completed basic training and be available for duty. Nothing more."
That . . . made sense, Aithne thought. Of course it was something like that. Carth's paranoia was getting to her. "Sorry," she muttered. "Just—I didn't want to serve in the first place. I'm a little sensitive about it. And now I need the benefits and the consistent paycheck, so I'm staying, but still—"
"I understand," Bastila told her. "The first time connecting emotionally with another sentient being—on a tangible, conscious level—can be overwhelming, and it must be doubly so to learn of your Force Sensitivity in such a manner. It may help if, for the moment, we just focused on the task at hand. We can't afford any distractions. And—" she added, nostrils flaring and a smile playing at the corner of her lips, "I believe the others have returned with our dinner."
Aithne gladly put aside thoughts of her supposed Force Sensitivity for dinner, but even though Mission chattered almost consistently, with Carth and Bastila providing occasional commentary, Aithne found herself unable to keep up the conversation.
It helped to know that her assignment to Endar Spire had been mostly coincidence, but reading in between the lines, if she was Force Sensitive enough that Bastila would suggest consulting the Jedi Council about it, it was a big deal. A lot of people were Force Sensitive. There were whole species that were. But it usually wasn't a matter for the Jedi. Usually, Force Sensitivity as such was just a matter of particularly keen senses, slightly sharper powers of intuition. Sometimes a marked lucky streak or, conversely, a talent for getting into trouble. Aithne could accept she had all of those markers.
But the thing was, Force Sensitivity as such didn't necessitate any ability to consciously wield the Force like the Jedi or Sith Dark Jedi. But if Aithne had suddenly started having visions and experiencing mental bleed with trained Jedi, there was reason to believe she might have powers. People used people who had powers, especially if they didn't really know how to use them. And Aithne had already had enough of being used this year. She certainly didn't want to let the Jedi use her; she disapproved of the Jedi.
She wandered back out to the balcony after dinner. It had all been too much, these past few days. From the hazy boundaries and nondefinitive back-and-forth with Carth Onasi to her sudden acquisition of a lifelong Wookiee companion and a teenaged Twi'lek ward, to almost dying multiple times, to discovering she might have Force powers—she wondered if she might be better off just melting into an alley somewhere first thing tomorrow. Desertion hadn't ever been her style before, but it was looking better and better by the hour. She hadn't wanted any of this. She wanted to go back to when life was simple.
Then the door creaked behind her again, and Aithne turned, half-angry. Couldn't they leave her alone to brood for five minutes together?
It was Carth. Of course it was Carth. She wasn't sure if it was his chivalry or his paranoia that had drawn him out here to check on her. Either way, it was more complications she didn't want or need. "What do you want, Carth?" she sighed.
"Wow," he said, looking taken aback. "There's a greeting for you. I was coming to see if you wanted me to break out one of the advanced med kits the others and I picked up at the clinic this morning. There ought to be something in there for your headache. I know it was still bothering you at dinner."
"Oh, that was just the aftereffects of our new Jedi friend, pounding her way into my brain by accident," Aithne said.
"Bastila?" Carth said, surprised. "She's been inside your head? That's a huge violation of your privacy. We're allies. Did she give a reason for it?"
His protectiveness of her was somehow endearing and annoying at the same time. "I told you it was an accident," Aithne said, waving her hand. "She's a wet-behind-the-ears, fresh-off-the-assembly-line Padawan, like you noted right after her arrival today, and apparently still doesn't understand everything about the Force. And since she's been under at least as much stress as we have these past few days—" Aithne waved her hand again. "Ding-ding, I've got mail. Because, apparently, I can feel things like that."
"You're Force Sensitive," Carth said, grasping what she was getting at. "That . . . makes a lot of sense, actually. You didn't know?"
Aithne shook her head. "No clue, and no training either. I don't know how to keep her out, and since she's only just started trying to keep me out and I have no idea whether she might slip up again . . . Just, on top of everything else that's happened the past few days, it's a lot. Also, she doesn't like me. I think she's actually terrified of me, and I can feel it. It isn't fun."
"Well, think about it," Carth reasoned. "She was supposed to be in charge of this mission, and she ended up having to be rescued from slavery by the newest recruit to her blown-up command ship. She's probably just a little insecure."
Aithne snorted. "Huh. More than a little."
"She'll come round," Carth promised. "She's not a bad person, just . . . young. And a whole lot more sheltered and uptight than Mission."
Aithne looked across the shining vista of the Tarisian Upper City. The stars weren't too visible from here, but she could see the Sith blockade ships, drifting across the night sky up there. There were at least ten she could make out. "So—I didn't do anything too embarrassing last night, did I?"
"I didn't let you have that much," Carth said without looking at her. "A hangover could've hurt your performance in the swoop race. You tripped a bit. Called me annoyingly handsome and infuriatingly nice. There was some more about my horrible Jacket of Doom and raging paranoia."
Aithne closed her eyes, face hot. "Yep, that sounds about right. You think flinging myself off the balcony at this height would actually kill me, since I didn't manage to blow up on Gadon's swoop bike this morning?"
"It's fine, Aithne," Carth said. "We're both adults here. Like you were saying, a lot's happened the past few days. Things have gotten a little strange, and more than once. I can admit you're an attractive woman. That doesn't mean either one of us have to be unprofessional. We'll get off-world, drop Bastila off at the Jedi Enclave, and we may never see each other again. You'll finally be through with Major Paranoia."
Aithne blushed even hotter at that. She hadn't been tipsy when she'd said that one. "You heard that?"
"Nothing you haven't said to my face more than once," Carth replied, without looking at her, "if in slightly more mature terms. But in my defense, you've kinda been pushing all my buttons. Straight from the moment you woke up. You're just so damned capable it can't help but bring up some . . . some pretty bad memories. When I think of all the men who have betrayed us in this war, the one that stands out above them all is the one I respected the most. Saul. He was a friend, a mentor. I admired the hell out of him. Then you come along, with your whole . . . you," he made a gesture that seemed to encompass her entire body and personality, then went on, "and the Mandalorians and Sith foot soldiers and every word of that damn file, and I . . . I can't help but be a little wary, is all. Once upon a time, I trusted someone a lot like you. I . . . I missed the signs, and my homeworld burned."
Aithne blinked. "Saul. Saul Karath. You knew the admiral of the Sith fleet?" Her voice went soft. She couldn't believe he was telling her this.
"He was my commanding officer back when the Mandalorian Wars first began," he confirmed. "He taught me everything about being a soldier, and I looked up to him." Carth's face grew dark. "Saul approached me before he left. He talked to me about how the Republic was on the losing side . . . and about how I should start thinking of my survival. I know now that he was trying to recruit me into the Sith, but I couldn't have conceived of it back then. I argued with him, and he got angry, and he left. I never saw him again."
"And then he glassed your homeworld," Aithne realized.
"Saul was my mentor," Carth explained. "He led us to so many victories against the Mandalorians, even when things used to be at their worst. I just . . . I couldn't conceive of it. He . . . he couldn't be serious. I was wrong, of course—he not only left us for the Sith, he . . . he gave them the codes to bypass our scanners. I remember waking up as the first of the Sith bombers snuck past our defenses and began destroying half of our docked ships. I knew right away what had happened. I could have stopped him, I could have stopped it all, if I'd just paid more attention."
"You really think stopping one man, even an admiral, could've averted the entire destruction of . . . Telos?" she hazarded the guess, judging by his lack of a Core accent to Onasi's Basic, Saul Karath's involvement in the attack, and the fact that it had occurred fairly early in the war against the Sith. Carth nodded confirmation, eyes far away.
"I don't know," he answered her. "Maybe. He might have killed me if I'd tried, or I might have killed him. I was stupid, however, and I let him go. I've fought Saul for years now, and if I ever catch up to him, he will regret what he's done. He will regret it."
"So. You're fighting for the revenge now. I hear that's not the best reason to fight," Aithne said, trying to keep her voice light, nonjudgmental, and without a hint of how much his confidence actually meant to her.
"It's not," Carth answered. "But . . . it's all I've got left."
"I'm sorry," she said. Sorry was inadequate, really, but Carth seemed to appreciate the sentiment anyway.
"I guess I wanted to tell you, make sure you knew the way I've acted toward you hasn't been personal. That, if anything, it's . . . it's a compliment. I wanted to tell you, before we leave Taris."
"Huh," Aithne said. "Most frustrating, inconvenient compliment I've had in my life." She met his eyes. "But thanks. I guess it's nice to know you do admire me—professionally speaking."
"Professionally speaking," Carth confirmed, extending his hand to shake. Aithne shook it, and he held it a moment. "Though if we weren't working together, if I'd just met you on shore leave somewhere—"
"I'd feel the same way about you I feel now: 'too damn complicated,'" Aithne interrupted, withdrawing her hand. "And yes, you are worth the 'damn,' handsome face, niceness, and all."
He caught the double meaning and smiled.
"Thank goodness for the Jacket of Doom," Aithne remarked, looking back over the Tarisian skyline. "I think it's been my salvation. Every time I've felt a bit weak, I think, 'a man with that fashion sense . . .'"
He laughed aloud then. "Friends?" he asked.
"Even though we will hopefully never see one another again after Taris?" Aithne challenged him.
"Even though we will hopefully never see one another again," he confirmed solemnly, eyes dancing.
Aithne grinned. "Friends," she agreed. Suddenly, she was exhausted. "I'm going to go to bed," she said. She turned around, and he followed her back into the apartment.
Bastila was already asleep on the bed that had been Aithne's before the Undercity. With Mission on the couch and Zaalbar on the floor, that left a single bed in the apartment. Aithne and Carth stared at it, then down at the empty bedroll on the floor next to the Wookiee.
"He's showered since the sewers, right?" Aithne asked.
Carth laughed again, though this time, he kept his voice low, so as not to wake any of the others. "I'll take the bedroll," he offered.
Aithne's rebellious thoughts flicked for a moment to the fact that that would put her in his bed, then she just felt grateful. "Thank you," she said.
She crossed over to Mission and put a hand atop the girl's head. One of the girl's head-tails wrapped around her hand, as if even in her sleep, Mission wanted her to stay.
It was too much, Aithne thought, for maybe the fortieth time in the past three days. She disentangled herself from Mission, walked back over to Carth's bed, now hers, plopped down onto it, and instantly fell asleep.