Chapter Nineteen
AITHNE
She'd misstepped. She'd misstepped badly. Aithne left the cockpit of Ebon Hawk wanting to burn up into a crisp and die, and pretty sure that the fact that she wasn't was just further evidence that there wasn't any justice in the galaxy.
She could feel Carth over the fledgling Force bond she still hadn't put together the guts to tell him about—that he'd kill her when she did tell him about. She hadn't had any idea he liked her that much, but he was so hot and bothered right now that she was positive it wouldn't even be fair to be alone with him anytime in the next five days, even if she wasn't too thoroughly mortified to seek him out. Force, if she'd just turned her head that last second, pressed her lips against his palm—
She could break him. She could really break him. She might've already done it, because she knew well enough he'd get past lust and discombobulation soon and move right back into worse paranoia than ever, because she'd left him there after he'd turned her down. She'd done it because she had to get out, and she couldn't go back now, but he wouldn't see it that way. He'd come right back to them being in the middle of a conversation about all the things wrong on their mission and her saying something that threw that tram right off the tracks. And maybe she had been trying to put him off, just a little, but she was scared, and she was scared of the same things he was, but he made her less scared, and she'd just wanted—she'd just wanted him to hold her. Something simple, easy, and hot enough to shut everything else out. Just for tonight.
Except it was wrong, because that wasn't what Carth wanted, and she hadn't even considered that when she'd made her proposition.
Her face was still hot, that last blush in the cockpit with Carth written all over it for anyone and their droid to see. She wanted to go to bed, but there was no privacy there. No privacy anywhere, really, except the med bay or the cargo hold. Aithne chose the med bay: it was closer. She strode inside and shut and sealed the door behind her. She braced herself on the cot, staring at the bulkhead.
She'd told him multiple times he was complicated; that she thought anything between them was artificial, a product of their circumstances; that she wanted him to step off. She thought he was cute, nice, easy to talk to, yes. She couldn't help liking him, couldn't help trusting him, however he felt about her, but she'd been wary of anything else since they first started talking on Taris. She'd been protesting a little too loudly and a little too much, and he'd been listening.
Except he did want her, as badly as she wanted him and worse. He knew it was a bad idea. He was normally a professional, he still obviously had a lot of loyalty to whatever family he'd lost on Telos, even if he hadn't told her about them in any detail, but he wanted her anyway. All of her, and not just her body.
I'd want you to attach.
By the Force, she'd felt so small when he'd said that. Selfish and petty and cowardly. Steering clear of any emotional entanglement with a man with problems like Onasi had was just basic good sense—Aithne was nothing if not sensible—and yet . . . he was worth the damn in damn complicated. He was so worth the damn, especially if he wanted it. He deserved someone who could be enthusiastic about all of him. Someone who could commit to more than liking him and wanting to scratch a quick and dirty itch on the floor or against a bulkhead in one of the rare places on Ebon Hawk that people could be alone. Carth deserved someone who would think about what he wanted before outright asking him to do it. He was honest and trustworthy, which was rare enough, but he was also good, kind, and generous, with a brain that worked under a full head of hair, and a body he kept in shape. He was basically a space whale: so unusual he might as well be mythic. And she'd made him feel like that wasn't enough. Why? Because of his past? None of that was his fault.
Force, he was going to hate her in the morning. She could already feel the consternation, panic, and lust she'd stirred up back there hardening into suspicion up in the cockpit. She groaned.
So, of course, that was when Bastila knocked on the door. She could sense it was Bastila, even before the Jedi girl called out. "Aithne? Aithne, are you well?"
Her shields were in complete disarray, Aithne realized, starting to panic. She'd let them drop completely, and there was Bastila on the other side of their bond, beaming concern and alarm into her head. A wave of relief she hadn't slept with Carth swept over her—if his rejecting her had done this, she could only imagine what it would have been like if he'd taken her up on her offer. She didn't want to end up in some weird, psychic threesome!
She took a deep breath in and started building her shields up once again. Only when she'd managed it did she open the door to let Bastila into the med bay. "Haven't turned to the Dark Side in the past twelve hours, if that's what you want to know," she said.
Bastila's eyes were fixed on her face. "I did not believe that you had done so," she said, "but the intensity of the shame and guilt I felt from you just now indicates you are nonetheless deeply disturbed. What is it that you feel you have done? Is there anything I can do?"
Aithne laughed. "You're probably the last person who can help me right now, Bas."
Bastila stepped inside. She shut the door behind her again. "Is it Carth?" she asked. "Have the two of you had a . . . confrontation?"
"That your best guess, or did you get it from my head?" Aithne asked.
As upset as she was, she did notice that Bastila actually looked relieved. "I've been aware for some time that matters are . . . precarious between you and Carth Onasi," she said. "Unresolved, with reservations on both sides, but a dangerously mutual attraction, and one that goes beyond mere physical components. It is not something that requires a Force bond to see, though the fact that until tonight, you kept your feelings about him tightly under guard has been a clue in its own right, as I believe I have mentioned. I had hoped that both of you would be mature enough to set your personal feelings aside for the sake of the mission. Tell me: do you feel guilty now for rejecting him, or—"
Bastila was digging at their bond over the link. Aithne gave an enormous psychic shove, and Bastila actually staggered back about a meter. Aithne had accidentally shoved her physically with the Force as well. Aithne stood up from her place against the cot and reached out to Bastila. "That was an accident," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm still a little worked up. I need time to collect myself by myself, not your snooping inside my head, even if you're doing it out out of friendship or simple curiosity."
Bastila was quiet for a moment. She looked shaken, but also like she got it. "I understand. I apologize. That was an invasion of your privacy. I have never had such a strong psychic connection with another Jedi. I would not have expected I would be tempted to abuse it, and yet . . ."
She spread her hands, then let them fall to her sides. Aithne sighed. "It's power, to be able to know, to feel, what someone else is feeling, rather than just guess and muddle along without the extra help. I've definitely taken advantage of our bond from time to time to get a sense of things you wouldn't tell me otherwise."
"But to force an intimacy that hasn't been freely given is to steal it," Bastila finished, though she'd turned even paler for a moment. "We both must be more conscientious. Will you accept my apology for just now?" She extended her hand, and Aithne took it.
"Yeah. Don't do it again. And again—I'm sorry for pushing you. And for the bleedover that got you here. Can't have been very pleasant."
"In truth, it wasn't," Bastila admitted. She looked up, seemed to gnaw on her tongue a moment, then added, "There is a reason the Jedi discourage emotional entanglements. They can impair rational thought, lead to outbursts of uncontrolled emotion. The Jedi aspire to be above such things."
Aithne thought of Juhani in the ruins, Bastila's own discomfiture after the swoop race, and the excuses she'd made for the Jedi Council. "And are we?" she asked.
Bastila gestured to the cot. "Shall we?" she suggested. Aithne shrugged and sat down next to Bastila like the infirmary cot was a sofa. "It can be one of the hardest lessons to learn," Bastila told her. "I myself have never struggled with sexual or romantic attachment—or never yet—but I struggled a great deal as a child, when my family first gave me up to the Order."
Aithne looked away. The practical reasons behind why the Jedi took their apprentices away from their families when they were young were easy to understand. Ability with the Force had strong locative and hereditary components, but sectarianism, dynasties, and family blood feuds had devastated the galaxy and the Order in past millennia. It was also easier to indoctrinate a small child than an adult or adolescent—and Jedi indoctrination did have theoretical benefits in keeping more Force wielders from becoming mystical, superpowered abominations capable of wreaking havoc wherever they went in pursuit of whatever they wanted. You still got Exar Kuns, Revans, Malaks, and Mandalorian Wars—but she could see it wasn't constant chaos. Still, she thought ripping kids away from their parents and homeworlds had to be one of the coldest, worst things the supposedly good-guy Jedi Order did.
"Where were you from?" she asked.
"Talravin," Bastila answered, naming one of the Core worlds. "My family is still there, the last that I heard. I have had little contact with them, as it is discouraged. I was not on good terms with all of them, but I missed my father terribly for a very long time."
"Who weren't you on good terms with?" Aithne asked.
Bastila shifted and stiffened beside her. "I was not on good terms with my mother," she answered, and Aithne could hear the hardness in her voice. "I was only a little girl when I left, but I was old enough to resent her and the way she treated my father. She pushed my father into treasure hunting. I spent all my young life on ships traveling from one false lead to the next. She whittled away my father's entire fortune, and I hated her for it."
"Hatred?" Aithne asked, raising her eyebrows.
"Yes, well, I was not a Jedi at the time," Bastila said. "And it illustrates my point: relationships with family members are fraught with powerful emotions. Such extremes are to be avoided. Anger and hate are the worst, but even love can lead to folly. I think my mother was relieved to give me to the Jedi, but my father was heartbroken."
"And you never tried to get in touch with him again?" Aithne asked.
For a long moment, Bastila didn't answer. Then she said, "A child is too young to understand the sacrifices that must be made. It is better if children have no contact with their family once they are removed. My letters never reached my father. Once I was older, I realized the wisdom of this policy. A Jedi must do what is needed, personal desires notwithstanding. Love can only obscure and confuse the matter." She looked over at Aithne, studying her face. "And, though I do have limited experience, I believe what is true in familial relationships holds true in romantic ones as well. It may be painful now—to have to refuse a man you wish you could accept . . ." she hesitated. "Or, perhaps, to be refused," she added, making Aithne grimace. Was it really that obvious? "But you will find it is ultimately for the best."
"I'm not sure if you'll believe me," Aithne said after a moment, "but I wasn't trying to step all over Jedi tradition my first day out from the enclave." She made another face. "I wanted to act within what's generally permissible, if . . . not necessarily recommended. Trying to address the bantha on the ship without—it doesn't matter."
"I see," Bastila said. She said nothing else, but Aithne could sense her discomfort through the air and through their bond. The Jedi didn't ban sex, and in fact many of them occasionally engaged in the odd casual liaison. Sexual release had several stress-relieving benefits that were helpful to individuals encouraged to work through their anger and frustration, and some species outright needed it for health reasons. It was just marriage and procreation that was poo-pooed by the Order, and even that hadn't always been the case according to the archives. But several Jedi philosophers posited that carnal passions too easily led to emotional ones, and that the higher an individual could rise above them, the closer they would be to true enlightenment and the heart of the Light Side—an all-encompassing compassion and empathy for others that had nothing to do with the pleasures of the flesh. It was the prevailing teaching among the Order these days, with sex more often viewed as a practical concession to weakness and imperfection than anything else. Aithne'd got the spiel from Vrook, Dorak, and a few of the others these past weeks, and it would have been what Bastila had grown up with. Considering she and the Council already thought Aithne was weak, Bastila would be very uneasy with the idea of Aithne playing with any sexy fire.
"I don't think you do," Aithne sighed. "You're probably thinking I wanted some sort of Jedi-acceptable tension release, but that I'm not trained enough to handle that kind of compromise. You're probably right, on both counts, but I can tell you, sitting here, I'm not feeling guilty or ashamed of wanting to sex up Carth Onasi. A bit relieved I didn't, because if you felt him rejecting me, you might've felt my—"
"Please don't go there," Bastila broke in, turning scarlet, obviously as mortified by the idea of a psychic threesome as Aithne herself had been.
Aithne smiled ruefully. At least she could enjoy Bas's embarrassment. "Yeah. I'm gonna work on my shields," she promised. She pointed toward the cockpit. "But my point was in the conversation we just had up there, I realized holding back to no-strings-attached, at least for me, has a lot more to do with fear and selfishness than any Jedi-like restraint. And had nothing at all to do with Jedi-like compassion or empathy for Carth and what he wants."
Bastila was silent. Aithne could feel her confusion through the Force. The younger woman swung her legs under the medical cot, staring down at the floor. "I—I think I see your meaning. You mean to say that the motives behind our choices have as much significance as the choices themselves. That a person may do everything according to the teachings and precepts of our Order—yet fail if the reasons behind their actions are not pure and honorable. It is a good thing to keep in mind. But Aithne—" she looked up. "I cannot feel that following the ways and traditions of the Order is not most often the best way to avoid temptation. Perhaps you should be more mindful of your feelings, but flouting convention is surely the more dangerous path."
Aithne grimaced again. "Don't worry. Carth didn't want to flout convention with me tonight, and after tonight, he's not likely to anytime soon. Or ever." She could sense him now—anger, fear, and humiliation had almost entirely replaced his earlier lust and consternation. Like she'd thought he would after she'd left, he thought she'd been manipulating him, and she wouldn't have the nerve to sort things out for days.
Bastila pursed her lips. "You shouldn't sell yourself short. You can have . . . you can have quite the impact. Even without wanting to kiss you, I have felt it. You've the Mandalorian's respect, the devotion of Mission and Zaalbar. Juhani says but little, and much of it is your praise. From the moment we all united on Taris, it's been clear Carth admires you."
"Kind of you to say so, seeing as you'd rather he didn't."
"I would much rather he didn't," Bastila agreed. "We cannot afford the distraction. I believe our fate will eventually drive us into a confrontation with the Dark Lord, and I would like nothing interfering with your resolve or focus that day. I remember how hard it was when I first faced Revan."
Aithne looked sharply over at Bastila, her dreams and that one vivid flashback on Taris flooding back to her mind. "Did you know Revan?" she asked. "Before Revan became the Dark Lord, put on that mask on Cathar, or people even started calling her the Revanchist? What was she called before?"
Bastila shook her head. "I was a mere apprentice at the time. Not only had my Battle Meditation not yet manifested itself, I had yet to construct my first lightsaber. I was far more interested in one-upping the other younglings at my lessons than I was in affairs upon the Rim or in the doings of Jedi far too young to ever take me on as a Padawan. When the schism occurred, of course I became interested in Revan—one of the youngest Jedi Knights in history, stubborn and powerful enough to defy the entire Jedi Council and lead dozens, hundreds, after her on a grand crusade to help the helpless. I was too young to see how reckless, how foolish it was, and fortunate only that I was also too young to join her. But by then, people already only called her the Revanchist. By the time I was chosen by a master, my Battle Meditation had manifested itself, and my master had begun taking me out into the field, it was Darth Revan, and even many of the younger Jedi had begun to forget Darth Revan was a human woman behind the mask. Revan was such a terrific figure, so iconic—yet I was crushed when she turned to the Dark Side."
Aithne hesitated. "Bas—what happened the day you faced her?" she asked. She couldn't bring herself to look at Bastila.
"Because of my Battle Meditation, my master and I were chosen to go with the strike team that boarded her ship," Bastila said. "Our mission was to capture the Dark Lord and not to kill her, and the Council believed my Battle Meditation offered us the best possible chance." Bastila went silent. "Even so, for a moment, I felt sure we would fail. One of Revan's Dark Jedi guards cut down Master Ines, though he died himself doing so. I—In point of fact, by the time we stood before Revan, there were only three of us remaining, and both of the others were wounded. Completely spent. Yet I knew it was the will of the Force I press on, do everything I could to bring in the Dark Lord. In the end, I never got the chance."
Aithne remembered the impact, the pain from her dream, the feeling of betrayal, of self-castigation that Revan hadn't seen it coming. "Malak," she murmured.
Bastila nodded. "He had sensed our presence aboard Revan's vessel, or perhaps had a report from his own bridge staff. He turned on his master, firing upon the ship while we were still onboard. It was his desire to kill us and his master both. Thankfully, we narrowly escaped the vessel as it exploded."
"But not before you watched her die," Aithne murmured. "The flashback on Taris, when we first met," she explained. "That was what I saw. Like I told the Council our first day on Dantooine. I saw you, right when Malak fired on that flagship, looking down at Revan, watching her die."
"It's—one of my more intense memories," Bastila said. "It is never far from my mind, particularly when unsettled. That, as much as a scarcity of masters, is why I have yet to be reassigned as a Padawan Learner to someone else. Master Ines was killed, and I—the Jedi do not believe in killing their prisoners. No one deserves execution, no matter what their crimes. Seeing Revan on the deck of her burning vessel—she and Malak were great Jedi once, heroes in every sense of the word. It has proven impossible to forget—how far those heroes may fall, and the end to which it can lead."
"You pitied her," Aithne realized, awestruck. "Even after her guards killed your master, you were sorry to see her die. You're still sorry she died." Bastila Shan was a much nicer person than she was, Aithne thought. She didn't seem it; she was so prim and officious, but when when Aithne imagined her on that ship, with her de facto Jedi parent dead behind her, looking at a traitor to the Order who'd corrupted Force knew how many Jedi and Republics and killed a million others, and feeling pity . . . she couldn't fathom that kind of compassion.
Bastila looked both pained and embarrassed. "Please. We really shouldn't speak of this anymore. The memory of my confrontation with Revan, of Master Ines's death—and of the others—is . . . painful. I should . . . I should go."
She stood, and Aithne looked up at her, concerned. "Seems I can't do anything right tonight," she said. "Go, if you need to. I'm sorry."
Bastila shook her head. "It's nothing. I'm sorry—for everything." She practically fled the med bay, and Aithne flopped over on the cot, staring at the bulkhead. Her first day as captain of Ebon Hawk was going swimmingly, and she hadn't even tried talking to Mission yet.
She caught the Twi'lek on her own the next day, looking up communication protocols in the briefing room after breakfast. "Mission. I was hoping we could talk."
The girl swiveled on her stool. "Yeah?" she said. "You want to explain why we're leaving my brother on that dust ball Tatooine?"
Aithne leaned up against the table. "Aside from the fact he chose to go there and might still want to be there?" she asked.
Mission blushed, and her lekku twitched, but she raised her chin and folded her arms. "That doesn't mean we can't look him up. I got the feeling you don't even want to, Aithne. I'm not saying I'm gonna leave you or anything. He left me! I'm staying with Big Z, and I want to fight the Sith, but come on! He's my brother!"
"And he left you," Aithne retorted. "You were nine years old—"
"Ten," Mission snapped.
"Right, because that's so much better. Ten years old, and he went off with his girlfriend and left you alone with every perv, user, criminal, and gang member in the Lower City. Frankly, I don't care if it was Griff's idea or Lena's, it was indefensible. Twi'lek ten is just the same as a human ten, and it was too young. You can look out for yourself now, most of the time. You shouldn't have to, but you can. How well were you doing then?"
Mission looked furious. "I did alright! Griff taught me what I needed to know. I never starved or nothing. I steered clear of the spice runners and trash like the Vulkars. I didn't get raped. I never had to think about selling myself into slavery, and I was smart enough to avoid the losers who'd try to make me a slave anyways, which means I did a little better than a Jedi down there. I never even got beaten up too bad, so there!"
"Believe it or not, most girls your age don't consider dodging starvation, rape, addiction, and slavery to be 'doing alright,'" Aithne said grimly. "Any of it could have happened. Your brother left you to it, and part of you knows it. Forgive me if I don't think flying off to face that is the best thing for you right after Taris."
Mission's eyes were shining with angry tears. "He knew I'd be okay," she said rebelliously. "He must have. He wouldn't have—he wouldn't just—"
Aithne raised her eyebrow at the girl. Mission's chin wobbled. Her lekku thrashed. "You believe Lena!" she accused Aithne. "Everything she said about my brother! He was going to come back for me! He was! Even if it was his idea to leave me behind, it wouldn't have been permanent! He probably was just trying to skip out on his debts when he left Taris and wanted to trick the creditors by leaving me behind for a while. I'm sure he meant to come back! He promised! It's just that things didn't work out how he planned!"
"And what if you're wrong about that?" Aithne challenged her. "Or we find out he's long gone from Tatooine, and we can't find any record of where he went? From what Lena said, it sounded like she and Griff have been broken up for a while."
Mission swallowed. A tear fell down her cheek, then another. "I have to find him," she whispered. "Aithne—I gotta know, one way or the other. Look, what if you're right? What if you and Lena are both right? I been idolizing him all this time, maybe ignoring some of his faults, but he raised me. What if . . . what if that's all I am too?"
Aithne reached out and seized the girl's hands. "It's not!" she ground out. "Mission, you ran through a pit full of rhakghouls screaming at the top of your lungs for someone to help your best friend. You asked everyone you could think of and even begged a couple of near strangers for help. Then you followed him right into a life debt and a war rather than abandon him. You're one of the bravest and most loyal people I've ever known. You are so much more than your brother."
Mission rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I knew you and Carth would help me," she said. "I knew you guys wouldn't let those Gamorreans sell no one into slavery. I knew you two would risk your lives rather than let something like that happen, right from the start. You're good, both of you. I never expected you to do all you done for us, though. Saving us from the Sith on Taris, getting Big Z a salary so the life debt ain't ever anything like slavery, all the stuff you guys are teaching me. If I ever do leave you guys—I—I'll be able to do anything, and there won't be no staying in flophouses or skifting newbies at pazaak either. I could—I could make some big money, and legal, and don't you think I don't know it, Aithne Moran! Be more than any Twi'lek from Taris's Lower City I ever met. I—I know I don't really deserve it."
Aithne was so angry at a world who'd let this girl believe she didn't deserve consideration, wasn't good enough for an education, that she had to cheat and scrounge just to survive and that was fine. She could half believe anger led to the Dark Side, because she half wanted to burn down Taris all over again, and kill Griff Vao for good measure.
"You deserve a life," she said. "Everyone does. A life where they don't have to worry about slavers or drug runners or gang wars, where they're going to sleep next or what they're going to eat next. A life with dignity, where they can learn what they need to make a decent living within the confines of laws designed to look out for them, instead of laws that make victims of people like them. And everyone deserves to have at least one person they can count on to make sure they get that life. None of that is anything you should have to be grateful for."
Mission looked up at her. She'd stopped crying, but her gray eyes were still haunted. "Yeah, but you don't understand, Aithne—life isn't like that, not for almost anybody, and especially not for me and Big Z, before you and Carth showed up. So we do have to be grateful. That's why Big Z swore you that lifedebt, and that's why I did too, sort of. Almost as much as me not wanting to leave him. When people like us find people like you, we have to hold on with both hands—or claws. Whatever. I ain't never leaving you, or not for years and years. But I have to find Griff too, even if he did abandon me. Can you—can you try to understand that, just a little?"
Her eyes were enormous, her face somber and pleading. Aithne sighed. "Can you understand why I don't want to look for him right now?" she countered, as gently as she could.
Mission sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I guess," she said. "I'm still crying every five minutes and yelling at you whenever Griff comes up—you! I guess I get that you might not want to head to Tatooine right now. I couldn't . . . I might not be a lot of help finding that Star Map thing. Maybe I need a little more time to think."
"That's all I want for you, Mish," Aithne told the girl. "A little more time to settle, to prepare for whatever we could find out on Tatooine. I want you to be ready when we finally do start looking for Griff."
Mission hesitated. "Okay," she said. "I don't like it. But I get it, you know?" Her lekku twitched, and she folded her arms around herself, then unfolded them. "Can I—could I get a—" she broke off, but Aithne knew what she wanted. She stood, crossed the distance to Mission, and folded the girl into her arms. Mission clung to her, burying her face in Aithne's shoulder for a long moment. Mission didn't like to admit she liked hugs, that she needed anybody, but she was fourteen years old, and she'd been toughing it out longer than any kid should have to, going through things no kid should go through. Aithne felt Mission shudder against her twice, then the Twi'lek pulled away, smiling shakily.
"So. What are you working on today?" Aithne asked her.