Chapter Twenty-Two
ZAALBAR
To see his village reduced to the staging ground of slavers, the dominion of his lying brother—his father dead or exiled—turned all the happiness of the trees, the sights and smells of home—to merest ash. Zaalbar did not mind so much to be dishonored and reviled as a mad-claw. It was no more than he deserved, and it was so good to hear the sounds of his people's language again from others that he didn't care that they cursed him. But to see his people reduced to Czerka prey—that was the worst thing.
Chuundar had not imprisoned him, the better for him to see what had become of his village, the way the Czerka stood beside Wookiee guards, the gold jewelry and the credits they lavished upon Chuundar and his favorites. The way Chuundar mocked his enemies and the less fortunate of the village—those he had sent or allowed to be sent to indignity and enslavement. And as a testament to his might and Zaalbar's own comparative weakness. Chuundar did not need to restrain or imprison him. It was enough that his guard watched Zaalbar's every move, that the entire village hated Zaalbar, leaving him no friend and no support. Were it not for Chuundar's defense, in fact, they might have beaten Zaalbar with the flats of their swords and left him for dead outside the gates of the village.
So Zaalbar was to wait, to endure the sights and sounds of Chuundar in power and the knowledge that all knew his dishonor—not only as a mad-claw, but as a Wookiee who had taken on a lifedebt, then suffered its subject to go beyond his sight into the most dangerous part of Kashyyyk to save his worthless pelt again.
He should have been beside Aithne as she ventured to the Shadowlands in search of her Star Map, fighting the kinrath and the other monsters of the undergrowth with her. He wished now that he had never brought her here. Better to let her go to his village alone and join her later than to suffer this greater dishonor.
He grieved for Mission too. After Taris, after the Gamorreans in the sewers and Darth Malak's attack upon the planet, she should not have had to see him torn from her again so soon. He missed her now, her chatter and her cheer—for three years now, she had been his near-constant companion. They had only ever been apart for a few hours at a time. She had learned the language of his people merely to be his friend. She had been interpreter, comrade-at-arms, partner in crime. She had been a truer sibling to him than Chuundar ever had been, and he had tried his best to serve as he believed Mission's own brother should have done, though he knew he had never replaced Griff within her heart. He loved Aithne Moran the more for what she had done and was doing for Mission, yet now he worried his capture had been the cause of some division between them. The last he had seen of them, Mission had been shouting at Aithne.
"Worried about your friends?" Chuundar asked him, clapping his hands at an attendant, who had been standing ready with plates of food. The attendant brought them close. Chuundar took them and dismissed the she-wook with a nod. He gave one of the plates to Zaalbar.
Zaalbar considered refusing the food for a moment—he wanted nothing from his brother. Yet, starving himself would only weaken him, and if something about his circumstances changed, he might need to be strong. He began to eat. "You may not know the meaning of friendship—of family, Chuundar, but I have not forgotten."
"Do you say I do not know the meaning of family?" Chuundar asked. "Then why have I suffered to spare you, brother? I would be well within my rights to demand your death—you were exiled from this village upon pain of death. Yet I would see you reconciled to me, and to all of us, if I could, and if you would permit it."
"Reconciled to a slaver and a liar—and to a murderer as well. What is the purpose you have sent my friend to the Shadowlands for but a murder by proxy? It was wrong."
"She did not have to agree to it," Chuundar pointed out. "The outsider could have refused. Who here would say you are worth such a ransom? And I wonder that you could call me murderer, mad-claw. Would not you have slain me years ago? Would not you slay me now, had you but the power?"
"I do not know," Zaalbar admitted. "I was truly mad when I discovered what you are. Yet to slay one's kin is a grievous sin. I believe I would have regretted it, had my attack succeeded. Not for your sake, but for the sake of my own honor."
"You have no honor," Chuundar told him. "Yet it amuses me to see you try and grasp at it all the same. To see you, who attacked your own elder brother with your claws, stand there and lecture me upon my morality. To see you chide me for using the outsider for my purposes, while you stood by and let her go, and she your supposed lifedebt. What would be more fitting, do you think? For your lifedebt to perish in the Shadowlands, trying to save your life, or for her to tarnish her own honor in a murder, so mistress and slave might be more alike than ever?"
"I am not her slave!" Zaalbar cried. "Aithne Moran saved me from slavery! I honor her not just for that, but because she treats me as an equal—never a dumb beast, never a meat shield, never a chattel. She is my friend, and her honor is beyond reproach. She has proven it many times since we first met. Do not impeach it!"
"I do not see her honor as so unimpeachable," Chuundar replied. "She allows one such as you to remain in her presence and in her service, and again, she did not protest when I asked her to take care of my little problem for me. Then again, I do not see honor as the be-all, end-all, as you and the other simpleminded fools in this village do. What of profit? What of polity? What of progress? You and others would eschew all of these for your vaunted honor. Perhaps your Aithne Moran is not so blind. Perhaps she sees a value in you beyond your honor—or lack thereof—as I do."
Zaalbar covered his ears, turning away. "I will not listen!" he declared. "Your words are poison, Chuundar!"
Chuundar laughed. "As you like. Your Aithne Moran cannot return from the Shadowlands soon—if she should return at all. The two of us have plenty of time."
AITHNE
Gorwooken, the elevator attendant charged with taking them down into the Shadowlands, was an idiot. He was loyal to Chuundar but was not in on Chuundar's dealings with the Czerka slavers. Accordingly, he ascribed to the popular opinion that all humans were scumbags, and whenever he had to talk to them at all, he was surly and insulting. Aithne didn't bother translating his remarks for the others.
The ride down to the Shadowlands was long, and it didn't necessarily lend itself to conversation like travel on the walkways above. Every meter they descended, the forest got darker and gloomier. The tachs climbing up and down the trunks of the wroshyr trees began to sound eerie instead of just irritating. Now and then, Aithne saw kinrath webs in the distance, and she could hear crashing and limb-cracking in the undergrowth that sounded like larger, clumsier beasts. The light changed from dappled yellow and green, to gray, to a dim, unnatural twilight, a murk that wasn't nearly complete darkness, nor yet the darkness of night, but the worst possible daylight for seeing. The kind of light where the eyes strained to see more than a few meters ahead and each movement made you jump.
"Charming place," Aithne muttered. Finally, the basket elevator touched bottom, and in the distance, Aithne heard a fire crackling.
She gestured at Gorwooken. "Is that fire a good thing?" she asked him.
Gorwooken laughed at her. His fangs flashed in the darkness. /Anything that made a fire down here isn't a Wookiee,/ he told her. /So, you have slaving scum or worse. Good luck, Aithne Moran. Welcome to the Shadowlands./
Aithne translated this for the others, as well as Gorwooken's promise that he would remain on guard over the basket but would not accompany them, nor lift a claw to defend them from the beasts of the Shadowlands or help them achieve Chuundar's task. They left the elevator basket and stared out into the gloom.
"Great," Aithne said. "Alright. Let's head for the fire."
"That does not seem wise," Bastila said. "Didn't that Wookiee just say that anyone who has built a fire is probably our enemy, and not a Wookiee? And aren't we looking for a Wookiee?"
"No, she's right," Carth said. "If we've got an enemy down here, better to find them now and deal with it—one way or another—than to just ignore them and hope they go away. They could decide to sneak up on us later."
Aithne nodded, and the three of them started over the forest floor toward the sound of the campfire. This was more difficult than it sounded: the wroshyr roots could be as thick and as tall as city walls, forcing them to take meandering paths rather than any straightforward approach. They'd run into dead ends, have to retrace their steps, reorient themselves.
"Should've bought a Kashyyyk coordinate system from Czerka, however objectionable their business practices," Aithne muttered. "We might spend longer down here trying to find where we are than anything we're looking for."
"Climbing equipment might've been nice too," Carth agreed.
"Waste of energy," Aithne disagreed. "No point going over the roots in the way if we don't know what we're looking for is on the other side. Ah."
They'd rounded what felt like their twelfth enormous tree root and come into sight of the campfire. Aithne saw several heavy packs ranged around it—they'd contain supplies enough for long-term camping. Their supposed enemies had come ready to stay awhile. Then she made out that two of the three figures around the campfire were Wookiees—surprising, after what Gorwooken had said. Then she noticed that these Wookiees had probably been off-worlders for a bit. Their claws were dull, not sharp from extensive tree-climbing. Their weapons were standard Exchange issue. They were slaves—or thugs.
The third figure was a small but muscular human male in armor that she recognized. "Guys," she said to Carth and Bastila, "I think I know how Malak got our descriptions and the knowledge we've been working together."
"The bounty hunter on Taris," Bastila murmured. "He survived."
Aithne stepped into the circle of the campfire's light and held her right 'saber at the salute, though she didn't activate it. "Calo Nord. What are you doing here?"
Nord faced them, and the firelight glinted off his goggles. "Looks like the gang's all here," he said. "I have to give you credit. You've led me on quite a chase. But nobody gets away from Calo Nord in the end. You got lucky on Taris; the Sith saved you from a quick and gruesome death. But I promise you, the Sith won't be getting in my way this time."
"You know," Aithne remarked, "Malak doesn't expect you to survive this. We intercepted a general death order from a team of Dark Jedi earlier today. They're dead. Yet here we are. You think you can do better?"
"You're a challenge, Moran," Nord admitted, "or whatever your name is. I might be a little sorry when you're gone. But it's show time."
Bastila leapt into action, her yellow lightsaber blazing as brightly as the campfire down here. She engaged one of Nord's Wookiee companions, and Aithne observed with interest and a little disappointment that his sword had cortosis weave, so it might reasonably be expected that the other's would as well. Then she had to jump, as half a dozen blaster bolts hit where she had been standing merely a split second earlier.
She ignited her sabers, taking up a double-saber variant of a Form III stance—with Nord focusing his fire on her, Soresu was going to be her best bet right now. Onasi had fallen back behind a tree root and was lining up his shots, so maybe he'd give her something of a break too.
Still, she arranged things so when she took on the second Wookiee, his body was between her and Nord at all times. She hadn't wanted to avoid a fight with Calo Nord back on Taris for nothing. He kept moving, dodging Carth about as well as the rest of them dodged Nord himself—and hurling the odd grenade, just to keep things interesting. In fact, Aithne found herself prolonging the fight with the Wookiee. She could only really use him as a meat shield so long as he was alive. She could try to use him longer, but then, she'd have to carry him.
But when Bastila's Wookiee went down, Aithne went ahead and killed hers too. She didn't want to be fighting her Exchange thug longer than Bastila. That was just embarrassing. They took up positions on either side of the campfire, challenging Nord—he could try for one of them, or he could try for the other, but whichever Jedi he took on meant the other one would get him.
Under those hellish goggles, Nord looked angry now. Despite all the signs indicating he should've taken them more seriously—the lightsabers, the price Malak had put on their heads—there wasn't a scratch on the three of them yet, and all his backup was dead. He hurled a grenade in Onasi's general direction, popped three shots off at Bastila, then ducked a shot from Carth—not at all in the general direction he had thought—moving toward Aithne.
Aithne had the sense she always got in the final seconds of a fight. She could almost taste victory. Nord was moving too slowly; he wasn't going to be able to get his blasters up and facing her in time. She lunged, only to see Nord hadn't entirely ducked to dodge Carth. He'd retrieved a short, razor-sharp knife from his boot, and it was moving at a speed too slow for her energy shield to absorb. That knife could pass through her shield like it wasn't even there. She was caught up in the momentum of her swings and watching in slow motion as the knife, glinting in the campfire, arced up toward her heart.
Suddenly, a shoulder hit her hard from the back and slightly from the side. Aithne fell forward and turned her head to see Nord's knife plunging instead into Bas's side. Bastila fell, looking pained but . . . satisfied.
Fury swept through Aithne. She swept her right leg around, beneath Nord's guard, knocking him to the ground beside her. He was't ready for it. She was. She rotated her two lightsabers around in the same movement she used to jackknife to her feet and watched Calo Nord hit the dirt beside Bastila, armor smoking and melted. She smelled it when he crapped himself and knew, if he hadn't killed Bastila, at least he'd been killed.
She didn't waste time gloating. She didn't wait for Carth. She just knelt down beside Bastila. The side of her fellow Padawan's robe was already dark with blood. Her eyelashes fluttered. "Is it . . . over now?" she managed.
"The battle, not your life," Aithne snapped, assessing the damage. "Onasi! I need a coagulant shot and a ready bandage from a medpac before I take the knife out. Get one of the advanced pacs from my bag."
She thrust it at him, and he moved at once.
Aithne examined the wound, with her eyes and with the Force, sensing the organs and blood vessels beneath Bastila's robes. "You lucky, lucky moron," she muttered. "Caught you right between your lower two ribs but missed everything super important. Centimeters up or down, and you could be looking at a punctured lung or worse. What the hell possessed you to do that?" She spat the vulgarity at the younger woman, still furious, replaying that look of satisfaction on Bastila's face as she had fallen.
Carth handed her the shot. Aithne pulled out her own knife—the one she used for eating—and sliced Bastila's tunic up and down her injured side. Careful not to jostle Bas too much, but without taking too much care for her modesty, Aithne peeled the tunic away from Bastila's torso and away from the wound, leaving her exposed in only her bra. Then she injected the coagulant right over Bas's heart. It'd get to her wound faster that way. She handed Carth back the empty syringe for disposal and received a length of linen in turn.
"I've got the tape," he said.
She waited about thirty seconds, then said, "Ready?"
Bastila nodded.
"One . . . two . . . "before Bastila tensed up on three, Aithne pulled out Calo's knife. Bastila cried out, but then she was still, waiting. Aithne wrapped a length of linen around Bastila's entire side over the wound, binding it tight and fixing it in place with the tape.
"Get her an extra shirt," she told Carth then, and turned around to focus on the wound beneath the bandage. In six weeks, she hadn't had a lot of time to focus on a lot of varied Force abilities—she'd skipped over a lot of physical augmentation, stealth, and evasion abilities and only touched the surface on how to temporarily immobilize organic and synthetic enemies in combat. One thing she'd taken her time with had been healing. It was one thing that was always useful, and you couldn't always count on having a bacta tank, kolto shots, or even a more basic first aid kit available. She reached out with her feelings to sense the muscle fiber in Bastila's side, the veins and arteries and capillaries that ran through it. She called on the Force to knit it all together once again. She imagined the blood clotting, scabbing over, skin growing over the injury.
Color flooded back into Bastila's face. Suddenly, she was seizing Aithne's hand, over her side. "Stop, Aithne," she protested. "You will expend too much energy."
Bastila pulled herself into a sitting position, wincing, and accepted the shirt Carth offered her. She pulled it over her head, and Aithne sat back on her heels, breathing a little harder than usual. The Force was strong in the Kashyyyk Shadowlands. It was a place full of life. But Bastila's stab wound was the most serious she had ever attempted to cure, and she'd just sped it through roughly the equivalent of three weeks of natural healing—about three days with the assistance of kolto.
"What if we run into katarn or kinrath within the next five minutes?" Bastila demanded. "You could leave us both too weak to face them."
"What if the scent of your bleeding all over the place ended up drawing them even faster?" Aithne shot back. She reclaimed her pack from Carth and resituated everything inside. Then she withdrew a ration bar and thrust it at Bas. "Eat it," she said. "Drink half your waterskin too. We don't want you getting dehydrated from the blood loss or the healing."
"Don't fuss," Bastila told her. "You've done enough that I should be back to normal within two standard hours." She winced again, and rose, slowly. Aithne reached down to help her.
"Good. I don't want your death on that conscience you don't think I have. Next time, cut his hand off. Push him with the Force. Take the knife with the Force. Do anything except take the knife for me!"
"You are welcome," Bastila said, unwrapping the protein bar Aithne had given her.
"Did I thank you? I'm not going to. I will never, ever thank you for that kind of stupidity."
"Aithne," Carth said, stepping forward. "Come on." He gestured at Bastila, clearly wounded by Aithne's words now as well as by the knife she'd taken. Aithne glared at him and stalked away, taking up a guard position on the perimeter.
"We move out in an hour," she said. "You'll be ready enough to travel then, Bastila, and Carth and I will keep an eye on you until you're 100 percent."
They both thought she was being unnecessarily harsh, even cruel, and ungrateful. But Bas's shields were still rock solid, and Carth hadn't seen what she had—that expression of satisfaction on Bastila's face when she'd taken the knife for Aithne. It had been a stupid move—tactically, there had been about three other ways Bastila could have saved Aithne's life without putting her own in jeopardy, because she couldn't have known that the knife would deal her a painful but essentially harmless stroke—but the worst part to Aithne's mind was that it had been a calculated one. She didn't think Bastila had thought ahead far enough in the moment to deliberately risk her life to save Aithne's, to demonstrate her loyalty or to put Aithne in her debt—Bastila couldn't have counted on Aithne being stupid in the fight as well, and in a life-and-death, split-second-decision combat situation, no one had the capacity for that much forethought. Bastila's decision had been instinctive, but it had been instinct based upon a durasteel-hard conviction that Aithne's life was worth more than hers was. Even training, conditioning. That look—it had been that of a soldier who knew she'd done her duty, not a friend who'd saved a friend.
The Sith valued Aithne's death above Bastila's capture. The Republic thought Bastila was the key to their war effort. But the Jedi Council—they'd put Aithne in charge of the mission that could lead to Malak's defeat, but they'd been giving Bastila orders all along that Aithne hadn't been privy to. Aithne was beginning to suspect that Bastila's Battle Meditation didn't figure nearly as largely in the Jedi's plans for the war as it did in the Republic's or the Sith's, that the Jedi's hopes rested—and that the Sith might know they rested—upon Aithne's hunt for the Star Forge. Or else, why dispatch bounty hunters to Kashyyyk?
Did the Sith have a spy on the Jedi Council? Elsewhere in the Dantooine Enclave? Nord's survival on Taris explained how the Sith knew about Carth and Aithne's involvement with Bastila. Karath's position high within the Sith fleet explained the bounty on Carth. But Carth, with his usual unerring instinct for the holes in every story, had also pointed out the single, biggest question of them all: why was Malak offering the kind of credits for Aithne that he was? The Sith had to have information on Aithne's position as spearhead of the mission to find the Star Forge. Only, if Aithne died or fell to the Dark Side or quit, Bastila could still search for the Star Maps, couldn't she? They were both having the dreams about Revan's past visits to them. Or—was Aithne having the visions, and Bastila merely listening in through their bond?
Are the visions just mine?
Aithne's head spun. Enough. She was to the point where she needed answers. She didn't care how horrible they were, they couldn't be as bad as this cloud of uncertainty, this . . . Darkness around everything the Jedi Council intended for her. But the time to ask for them wasn't while Big Z was being held by his slaving brother, and the place to ask for them wasn't the depths of the Kashyyyk Shadowlands.
She looked over at Bastila, sitting against a wroshyr root and drinking from a water bottle. Bastila wouldn't give her answers willingly. Was she a better or worse option than Master Zhar on Dantooine, once they returned to deal with Sasha, one way or another? Either way, she'd need a plan, a strategic and tactical approach to convincing the Jedi to part with whatever information it was they were keeping so close to their vests. And she might need help. Aithne looked over at Onasi and suppressed a groan. She was going to have to apologize to him again, wasn't she? He was the only one also asking the questions she wanted answered, and since she'd decided she did want them answered, she couldn't exactly reassign him.
At the end of an hour, they extinguished Nord's campfire and left the bodies of him and his comrades to the wildlife. They moved out into the Shadowlands, moving more by instinct than anything else. Aithne stretched out with the Force, feeling all around not just for life but for intelligence—a mind at work that might be Chuundar's Wookiee. The first mind she sensed—apart from Carth and Bastila's—caught her entirely by surprise. Not only was the mind human, not alien, it was alive to the Force, without the touch of the Darkness she'd sensed in the Sith she'd met on the walkway.
"What—"
"I sense him too," Bastila said, catching Aithne's sideways glance. "There is a Jedi here," she told Carth.
"Another hunter from Malak?"
"Not a Sith," Bastila corrected. "A Jedi. His mind is not tainted by the Dark Side. I cannot imagine what he may be doing here, however."
Fighting, it turned out. As they drew near, they heard the sound of snarling and the hum of an active 'saber in the distance. They rounded a tree the approximate thickness of a skyscraper on Coruscant and navigated its roots to find a human Jedi beset by four katarn—great, hulking quadrupeds; slow and clumsy, but they made up for it by hunting in groups, with brute strength, sheer viciousness, and determined persistence predation. These ones had likely been hunting this man for a while, but he was certainly holding his own.
He was on the shorter side—maybe only a few centimeters taller than Bastila—and looked to be nearly seventy years old. But he was in fighting trim for all that, with powerful shoulders and a gymnast's build. He didn't seem to be too bothered by the four katarn attacking him, facing off against them in Form I with what seemed to be a few personal rather than studied variations. His lightsaber, like Aithne's own, was Consular green.
Even as they watched, the old man finished off the katarn, felling one after the other of them with final but not overly aggressive strokes. He raised his eyes to look at them then—acknowledging their presence in reality and in the Force. He wasn't even breathing heavily.
"Ah, the damnable racket of battle," he said. His voice was a rough but fairly warm baritone. He gestured to the dead beasts surrounding him. "Watch yourself. There are even more of these crawling beasts in the underbrush."
"Doesn't seem to worry you much," Aithne answered. "But you have us at a disadvantage."
The man reattached his lightsaber to his belt, and held out a strong, calloused hand for her to shake. "I'm Jolee," he replied. "Jolee Bindo. Follow me to my camp, and we'll talk a bit."
"Any particular reason you're camping down here?" Aithne asked, falling into step with the man.
"Well, it isn't because I like the stink of dead katarn," Bindo replied. "Keep close. My camp is nearby, under a log." He caught her eye and grinned, flashing a full set of white, healthy teeth. "Yeah, I live like some burrowing rodent. I fought the Sith, now look at me. Hmph!"
Jolee Bindo led the three of them to his so-called camp site, though "camp" turned out to be an understatement. The "log" Jolee lived under was the approximate size of a warship. It was long and low, a great piece of a fallen trunk that the Jedi had carved out and built up not into a temporary shelter but into a house that had obviously been there for some years. Cheerful light blinked from the windows.
Aithne looked at the Jedi curiously, standing by the door. Jolee Bindo wasn't on assignment here; he'd been living here for a long time. "Well don't be all day about it," he told them. "Come in already. Welcome to my home, such as it is."
He led them inside. Aithne's sense of wonder grew. Jolee's habitation was a masterwork. He'd carved the home piece by piece, so all its furnishings seemed to grow right out of the walls, floor, and ceiling. Pieces of what looked like a starship had been hung up on the walls, supporting the idea that Jolee had crashed, once upon a time, and just . . . chosen to stay. Jolee had hollowed out an earthen pit in the center of the floor and carved a chimney above it, and it looked like that was where Jolee cooked his meals. The bed in the corner was made and pressed with linens that looked like they had to have come from Czerka or the Wookiees but smelled like it had been stuffed with vegetation. In fact, the whole home smelled of forest and wood fires. It was not an unpleasant smell, but it was very different.
"Pull up a stump, and be comfortable," Jolee suggested. "We should discuss a few things."
Aithne tilted her head. Then, slowly, she walked over to a bench near the fire pit. Carth and Bastila followed her, and they all sat down. "I think I know how this works," Aithne said. "You live here, and we're tourists. As such, you already have a good idea what we're looking for. You're willing to help us to it, but only if . . .?"
Jolee was kneeling across from them, building up the fire. "What I guess and what you can tell me might be two different things. Before we get into the matter of information and payment, maybe we should get to know one another a little better, hmm?"
Aithne bowed in assent. "Aithne Moran, Bastila Shan, Jedi Padawans," she answered, gesturing to herself and Bastila in turn. "Major Carth Onasi, a colleague of ours from the Republic. We're on a mission from the Jedi Council but seem to have run into a little local trouble. You're Jolee Bindo. You have a lightsaber and use the Force, but you failed to explain exactly why you're here."
The fire had begun to crackle and climb, and Jolee rose to his feet with a groan, pressing his back. He then sat across from them in a wicker chair. "Ah, what is there to tell? Jolee Bindo is the crazy old man in the dangerous woods. I'm content with the impression I give."
"Meaning, for the purposes of this interview, that's all we need to know," Aithne said. "Other than the fact that once upon a time, you fought the Sith. You dropped that too, you see."
"Did I?" Jolee asked mildly. "You have annoyingly good ears. It doesn't matter. Those days are gone. Leave them in their graves." He unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and turned it over in his hand. His eyes glinted with a look similar to Carth's when he thought of Telos, and he continued in a reflective tone, almost as if he were talking to himself. "I've seen my share of the dark and the light, and frankly, both extremes annoy me. Of course, I have felt the rumblings of change . . ."
His words trailed off into a murmur, but just when Aithne was certain the hermit had forgotten them completely, his eyes snapped up and caught hers with an expression of challenge; curiosity; and sharp, searching intelligence. She sensed him examining her through the Force, like a puzzle he was determined to work out. The feeling was unnerving, but it was also—for the first time in a while—unaccompanied by any sense that this strange, solitary Jedi feared her.
That in and of itself was enough for Aithne to like him. Her own Force sense of the man pressed his potential importance on her, even more insistently than it had when she'd met Canderous, before she'd known what was happening. And if things were as they appeared, and Jolee had been separated from the Jedi and the Council and their wars for years, she might be able to trust him.
Bastila was warier. "I can feel the power of the Force within you, old man, but I do not see the taint of the Dark Side. I think you are a servant of the Light, despite what you claim."
Aithne was amused. "And we're suspicious of that, are we?"
Bastila didn't take her gaze off Jolee, but she answered Aithne. "It makes me curious. If this man has not been corrupted by the Dark Side, why has he remained in this place for what has clearly been a considerable time? Surely he could have bartered for passage from this world with Czerka—or if he had objections to that plan, there must have been a spacer or supplier. Well, Jolee?" she challenged him.
"I can assure you I see more gray than dark or light, young lady," Jolee answered. "I'm just a stubborn old man, tired of the foolishness of others."
"Alright, we'll proceed on those terms—strangers on a mission, long-term resident of the area that they're searching," Aithne said. "As I said, we've become somewhat embroiled in a local power struggle—"
"Yes, among the Wookiees," Jolee smiled. "Intriguing creatures. I like that they have little patience for bureaucrats. But of course, even here there are hidden things that manipulate."
He raised a bushy gray eyebrow, and Aithne folded her arms, impressed. "The current Rwookrrorro chieftain's holding our companion hostage and manipulating us to kill another Wookiee down here for him. You wouldn't happen to know anything about the crazy old wook he wants us to murder?"
Jolee inclined his head. "Maddened with grief, perhaps, but not crazed. I helped him pass to the lower forests where only a Wookiee could follow. Some other matters will determine if you can. There is a barrier that . . . well, we'll talk more of that in a moment."
"And you don't happen to know why Chuundar wants this Wookiee dead?" Aithne probed.
Jolee's teeth flashed, and he didn't answer directly. "Czerka Corporation was smart to put that one in power. He's as good at destroying Wookiee culture as dropping corpses full of Ardroxian Flu. Will you work for him or against him, I wonder? I'll be interested to see."
"We'd prefer to work against him," Aithne answered plainly, "but unless we get to the target, I don't see us being able to leverage him against the current chieftain. You mentioned a barrier?"
"That Wookiee the only thing you want down there, lass?" Jolee prompted her.
Aithne narrowed her eyes. Beside her, she felt Carth and Bastila both tense. "You know where the Star Map is," Aithne said.
Jolee clapped his hands three times. "Bravo. I knew that had to be why you were here. The problems of a few Wookiees don't amount to anything before the concerns of the Jedi. No, you are here for the map."
Aithne didn't like that. She glared at Jolee. "We came for the map," she qualified. "Honestly, on my priority list, figuring out Chuundar and his would-be mark is a lot higher up. The Wookiee he took hostage, Zaalbar, swore a lifedebt to me. I have a responsibility to him. And he's my friend. However, I can't just kill the guy Chuundar wants me to kill, especially if he's a lever that could boot the slavers' man out of control of Zaalbar's home village. But if the map and the Wookiee are in the same spot, please, help us get down there. If you want compensation for doing so, tell us what you want and we'll pay, if it's reasonable and we can afford the fee."
"What I want is simple," Jolee answered. "You must do a task for me and then allow me to join with you. I will then remove certain barriers in your path."
Aithne hesitated. Bastila had a point. A man as capable as this one seemed, and a Force User—whether or not he was an active Jedi now—could have certainly arranged for transport off Kashyyyk any time he wished. Even if he had crashed here to begin with, he had chosen to remain. Why leave now, with her, on the acquaintance of just a few minutes? Worse, why use what he knew of the Shadowlands as leverage to force the issue? Why try and arrange not just a ride offworld but an indefinite place in their little entourage?
The tactic, more than his refusal to tell much about his background, got Aithne suspicious.
"Is guidance to a single Star Map and a Wookiee worth a billet on our ship with no time limits or restrictions placed on your stay there?" Aithne asked.
"That'll have to be up to you," Jolee answered. "What's your mission worth to you? What price would you pay for the life of your friend? It's not like I'm going to be a liability. I can help you."
"You're sure you don't want credits instead? Goods in trade?" Aithne asked.
"I'm old but not senile, young woman," Jolee told her. "I know what I want. Besides, the test is simple. Since they began expanding in the Shadowlands, the Czerka have left me alone for the most part. Until recently, anyway. A group of them set up camp not far from her. Poachers is all they are. I'd like them removed from this place."
Aithne blinked. The test was simple. It could even prove to be quite enjoyable. And the format indicated Bindo was interested in the welfare of the forest after he left. "You want me to boot some slaving poachers off your lawn? I'm in, as far as that test is concerned. I'm less certain about the billet on my ship. Why us? Why now? And why ask for more than just the ride offworld?"
"Good questions," Carth muttered.
"Why now is my business," Jolee answered. "I've seen all I wish to here. I'm really sick of the trees. And perhaps your destiny might show me something new. You never know."
"You want to play tourist saving the galaxy," Aithne summarized.
"Quiet retirement gets boring," Jolee replied. "I've just decided I want an exciting one."
"The minute we show up." Aithne looked at her companions. Carth, predictably, looked suspicious; Bastila, incredibly annoyed.
"Our mission is not something to be taken up on an old man's whim," she said. "I do not think we need this person, Aithne. We can find another way."
"Within the next few days?" Jolee asked. "Without falling down a hole, being eaten by a katarn, or losing your way back?"
That last caught Aithne's attention. She thought she could find her way back to the elevator topside now. They weren't too far. It was possible. But she was already worried about their being down here without a Wookiee guide or a Kashyyyk global positioning system. The trees down here could look annoyingly similar, and they took ages to walk around.
"He's right," she said. "We need him. Whether we're trying to find Chuundar's Wookiee or the Star Map, we don't want to be down here weeks feeling our way, living off the beasts we kill and tripping over tree roots in the dark. Without knowing where the water is or access to a shower."
"So we're stuck with a companion we know nothing about."
Carth, naturally. Aithne made a face. "Not nothing. He has a lightsaber and uses the Force, and you heard Bastila: he's free of the corruption of the Dark Side. He's also been here for years, Carth. I doubt Malak's had a sleeper agent down here that long."
"Yeah, but Revan might have, though," Carth muttered.
Aithne thought back to her dream. "No. I don't think Revan trusted organic servants by the time they came down here. Right. Jolee, where are your unwelcome guests? How many of them are there?"
Jolee grinned. "They are not that far northeast of here. There are usually five in the area, as far as I can see. The captain of the lot is the one that earned my ire. Mishandle my garden, will he? Hmph!"
Aithne rose. "Well. What must be done is best done now, and all that." She extended her hand to Jolee, and they shook. "We will talk more about your dreams for an exciting retirement and what all you imagine they entail, but for now, you've carried your point."
"Good," Jolee said, walking Aithne and the others back to the door. "Return to me here, and we will see how you have done. Shoo! Shoo!"
Aithne left with the others but stopped a ways away, just out of easy earshot of Jolee's cabin. She sighed, and turned around to face Carth and Bastila, both of whom looked stormier than the dimness of the Shadowlands could warrant. "Alright. I'll take your criticism now."
Carth began. "Look. I get where you're coming from. These trees all look the same, and Zaalbar's in danger, and with bounty hunters already showing up, we shouldn't stay in any one place too long. But do you really think taking on the new guy just because he asks—for reasons he won't explain—is a good idea? Bindo's more stubborn about answering a question than I am, for goodness's sake!"
"You'll remember I didn't have a problem with that," Aithne pointed out. "Just a problem with your blowing hot and cold. I didn't press Zaalbar for details about his life, either. Turns out I was wrong there. But Jolee—I think I've actually heard of him."
"He was a great traveler and adventurer among the Jedi before the war with Exar Kun," Bastila confirmed. "Yet something of an eccentric and a rebel, if I recall. He never advanced far within the ranks, and he disappeared from the records decades ago. I do not believe he can provide any substantial aid to our quest beyond our immediate need, and it troubles me that he seeks to force his company upon us."
"I was bothered by that too," Aithne admitted, "right up until he used the word 'destiny.' Now I kind of think he has some sort of ability with the Force in that line—a capacity to sense the potential around or within a person. Will you start calling me out as arrogant and insufferable again if I cite what you and the Council have both said about the potential dramatics in front of both of us?"
Bastila scowled at her. "No," she said, "yet for Jolee Bindo to wish to accompany the two of us out of idle curiosity seems frivolous."
Aithne shrugged. "To that, I imagine that if I'd stayed somewhere like the Kashyyyk Shadowlands for years—for whatever reason—and a couple of good-looking people with a fascinating destiny came along, I might want to up and follow them home too."
"Wait—just two good-looking people?" Carth asked, feigning concern.
Aithne looked down her nose at him. "Two good-looking people with fascinating destinies, I said," she sniffed. "You're boring."
Carth grinned. "As long as I'm still handsome." This seemed to mean he was finished making his objections. Although she'd set the joke up to ease the tension, Aithne lost her nerve now, and just offered him an uncertain smile in return where a couple of weeks ago she might have insulted him again or flirted instead. She looked back at Bastila.
"Everyone feel heard?" she asked. "We do need Jolee's help rather badly right now, whatever happens after we leave Kashyyyk."
Bastila huffed. "I admire your way of making such weighty decisions about the long term based on such a short-term advantage," she said. "Nevertheless, the Council placed you in charge, not I. As you like."
"If you have a better idea . . ." Aithne invited her, extending her hand.
Bastila let out a long, frustrated breath. "I do not," she said at last.
"Well then. Let's go kick the poachers off Jolee's turf before he vacates the premises."
They set off in the direction Jolee had pointed them in, and it wasn't too long before Aithne spotted the Czerka campfires through the trees. She motioned the others to a halt and considered her approach. While she'd had few qualms about killing the slaving party who had murdered their captive up on the walkway—they'd shot to kill first after she'd offered them what she still considered a merciful punishment for their actions, however severe it might have been by Czerka's own standards—she was less inclined toward open violence here. The hunters would have been as likely or likelier to be written off by their superiors as the patrol. They were stationed in the Shadowlands, after all. But for so many to go missing in such a short span of time might get someone at the base asking questions, and Ebon Hawk was still right in the middle of the Czerka station. Canderous and Juhani could no doubt hold off any attackers for a long time, but subjecting them to the risk of attack with Sasha and a distraught Mission onboard as well was a risk Aithne couldn't conscience. Besides, she didn't want to hold that she wasn't going to assassinate someone for Chuundar then immediately turn around and kill a bunch of people for Jolee, just because she happened to like him better and the people he was offended by less.
She tilted her head slightly toward a nearby root. "Stay behind there," she told Carth and Bastila. "I'm going to scout out the camp more closely, and I want to do it without alarming the men if possible."
Carth and Bastila didn't like it, but she wouldn't even really be going out of view, so they were forced to be satisfied that if Czerka started shooting at her—in panic or for worse reasons—they would be able to help her in a hurry. Accordingly, Aithne crept closer. She made out five figures around the campfires—all human. Czerka had a nasty record of discrimination against nonhumans. Then she saw two others returning from the trees off to her right, dragging a string of tach corpses. Aithne clenched her fists. This single party would probably kill two or three times as many in a day. It would leave the kinrath and katarn and other predators down here hungry and could drive them to desperation. The insect population would soar, which could have a negative impact on the trees themselves. She hated careless hunting, particularly when the hunters ended up discarding most of their kills. Czerka would harvest the glands of the tachs and dispose of the remains. The only good of the harvest would be to liquor aficionados and users of certain types of hallucinogenic spice who could just as easily get buzzed or high off of other substances.
So. Seven men total. Armed, Aithne saw, with standard Czerka-issue blaster rifles. No real armor to speak of—and they wouldn't be trained up to a military standard either. Fighting them shouldn't be a deadly prospect, if it came to that . . . but then Aithne caught sight of a few pieces of equipment that offered another solution.
Czerka wasn't equipped or prepared to deal with the predators of the Shadowlands either. Their guns and traps were really only good for killing tachs. So the company had equipped the hunting party with several sonic emitters—rare, expensive equipment that drove larger animals off by giving off a frequency at a pitch painful to several. If she was somehow able to sabotage or destroy that equipment, the hunting party would likely be forced to withdraw sooner or later, and they wouldn't be able to return very quickly either. It might, she thought, even be possible to sabotage the emitters in such a way that she wasn't at all connected with their failure.
The general darkness of the Shadowlands made it fairly easy to approach one of the guards on duty near the sonic emitters without alerting the rest of the camp, and the shrieking of the tachs and echoing noises through the trees made it difficult for her conversation with him to be overheard. It took some doing to persuade him not to shoot her at first; he was jumpy from hours awake and on duty in an area where nearly everything moving was a deadly enemy. Aithne was normally averse to using the Force to persuade people to do what she wanted. It felt sneaky and manipulative. It felt like taking people's choice away. She reasoned that, in this instance, since the alternative was probably murder, she was doing the Czerka hunting party a kindness. Anyway, the guard wanted to leave the Shadowlands too. Of course he did. Flashing her spacer badge and skirting around her reasons for being in the Shadowlands herself, she got him talking about how miserable and scared he was then "suggested" he sabotage his own emitter. Aithne then snuck around the camp's perimeter and repeated her performance with a second guard. Judging the failure of two emitters would probably be sufficient, she returned to Carth and Bastila.
"What were you doing?" Bastila hissed.
Aithne motioned for the others to get comfortable. "With any luck, encouraging our friends to leave in a way that won't be traced back to us at the outpost—at least, not in any way that should invite Czerka retaliation. We're going to need to stake the camp out to make sure it works, though."
They didn't have long to wait. Twenty minutes after they'd taken up their post, a bone-chilling roar rang out through the camp. A massive creature, bigger than the rancor beast Aithne had encountered in the Tarisian sewers, lumbered into the clearing where the Czerka had their camp. It was a dull, sickly yellow, with spikes that dripped poison running down its back and tail. Its claws extended nearly a foot from its massive hands, and serrated tusks protruded from its mouth.
Aithne froze. She'd thought it would be a group of katarn or kinrath. She hadn't expected anything like this. Master Dorak's apprentice back on Dantooine had described such a creature once—a terentatek, a Jedi-killer. Bred by the Sith, terentateks fed on the Force, and had once hunted Force users to near-extinction. The Jedi had in turn made them extinct, or so it had been thought.
Aithne reached out beside her and gripped Bastila's forearm. "Don't move," she said, as quietly as she could. "Don't even breathe. And whatever you do, don't reach out to the Force!"
Bastila flicked her eyes to Aithne to show she understood. The Czerka down in the camp ran every which direction from the monster, but one guard was too slow. The terentatek, with uncanny swiftness, pounced upon the unfortunate watchman. Aithne was forced to watch as the beast clubbed the man down with its tail. Its claws sliced the man open like paper, and the mighty beast knelt to the steaming corpse to eat. Aithne closed her eyes. It was probably for the best. The others would have two reasons not to return too quickly. But if the thing wasn't satisfied when it finished its dinner!
The beast snorted. It raised its head, fangs dripping blood. Its green eyes caught at every speck of light in the darkness and reflected it back. They were more intelligent than the eyes of any animal she'd seen. The terentatek surveyed the darkness. Aithne wanted to tremble, but she willed herself to stay absolutely still as the monster's gaze swept right past her and her companions. The beast sniffed the air. But finally, after a moment that seemed to last an eternity, it lumbered off into the distance toward the deeper forest, and Aithne could breathe again.
JOLEE
The travelers were all passed out on his floor asleep. They'd be his companions first thing tomorrow. Been a while since he'd had some of them. After supper and a two-hour chat, Jolee already felt the consequences of years of living alone. He was anxious, irritated. Part of him wanted to kick the strangers straight back out again, just like the Czerka he'd had them dispatch above as a test. He breathed through it. View it as exertion, old man. A test of your own. The first trial of many that lie ahead.
At first blush, they were all good, kind young people. The man, Carth, and the younger Jedi, Bastila, were definite hero-types. The older Jedi—the woman calling herself Aithne Moran now—not so much, but even she was displaying an admirable loyalty to her companions on this visit to the Shadowlands. And she was sharp. She'd contrived a way to get the Czerka poachers back to their outpost with only a single casualty—and that one unlikely to be traced back to or blamed on her. Whether she'd done it to be merciful or practical, he couldn't guess. Her emotions were difficult to make out, her intentions even more so. The web of possibility around her was far too complicated, almost blinding. He wasn't certain Aithne Moran was the same person who had visited the Shadowlands three years ago and locked the Star Map, but the feel to her was similar enough that he was curious, dammit. The person who'd visited then certainly hadn't been with the Jedi or the Republic.
He didn't know much about what was going on in the galaxy these days, and he hadn't known any more back then, but he'd still known a Sith when he'd sensed one. He'd shielded and tracked the presence to the Star Map, several hours' walk away from his home in a particularly Dark area of the forest. He'd found the Sith there installing that pesky holointerface. It'd been impossible to tell if they were male or female, or even to be certain what species they were. Very stereotypical, this Sith had been—big black cloak engulfing the body; war mask obscuring the face. Left a Sith looking deadly and mysterious, which was as good as charisma for a young lord just starting their rise to power. Granted an extra aura of intimidation. Made it easier to frighten others, or to relate to particularly racist individuals. Concealed the expressions and body language of those who hadn't quite learned to lie or bluff.
Still the Sith had left Jolee uneasy. Deeply uneasy. Despite the amateur costume theater, there was considerable heft and power to the Sith's presence. And if this one had already switched to nonorganic guards over valuable intelligence points—well, that was a sign of precocity. That meant the Sith was powerful enough that all their organic servants were untrustworthy: already cowering in terror or plotting murder. They had reason and sense enough to have developed a healthy paranoia. And the scope and feel of the Force matrices that surrounded them—some of them already broken, emanating chaos—there was a sense of destiny hanging over the Sith like nothing he'd seen since Nomi Sunrider, Exar Kun, or Qel-Droma. And worse.
He'd left. The Sith had come to the Shadowlands on a mission of secrecy. If they found him, he had no doubts they could destroy him. He was old and out of practice fighting anything but the dumb beasts of Kashyyyk. But the Star Map had drawn him back, and in three years, he hadn't been able to get past the security system that Sith had installed.
If Aithne Moran was the same person he had seen then, he didn't understand why they had seemingly allied with a Jedi Padawan and a soldier of the Republic, why Moran would give no indications of having ever been here before. The old urge to explore, to see new things, to learn was rising in Jolee again, and Aithne Moran was a kind of mystery he had never before encountered.
There weren't many, even among the Jedi Order, who saw fates and destinies the way Jolee did. In the same sense that some Jedi warriors saw the exact places to strike the enemies or obstacles they encountered in the field to make them all come crashing down, or some tacticians intuited openings in a battle, Jolee had always been able to see the cracks and pivot points of the world. He rarely understood what they meant until the things they signified came to pass, but he had had more of a knack for finding trouble than almost any Jedi in the Order back in the day.
Except maybe, trouble's found me this time. Literally shown up on his doorstep, as if to say time to get up and get your wrinkled ass back out there.
Jolee made a face at the girl sleeping on his floor. He wondered if Sith Lords had been this young back in the day. He'd be willing to bet the lass wasn't even thirty.
And is she a Sith Lord, or isn't she? She was a trifle pale, but in a way that suggested her ancestors hadn't come from a slice of ground where the stars were overly radiant, not in a way that suggested she'd conducted abominable experiments with Force necromancy or poured her life's energy into destroying her enemies. When her eyes were open, they were a little on the golden side, but not to any remarkable or unnatural extent. Warm, intelligent, and sparkling—not sickly or filled with any particular rage.
He could almost think he'd mistaken her for someone else entirely, but the power was just the same. Swirling Force, suffocating sense of impending destiny, all of it. Tomorrow would clench it, he thought. If she wasn't the same Sith who came here three years ago, she would most likely fail at the holointerface, just as he and Freyyr had. It was possible she might get past it, that she might be smarter than he was or have technical skills enough to disable it some other way. But if the thing recognized her . . .
What would he do if it did? If she was a Sith Lord returned? Then, he thought, he would want to know exactly what she was and why behind the mask was a girl wild, maybe a little unconventional, but definitely not fallen to the Dark Side, and who genuinely seemed to have forgotten being here. And if she wasn't—well, her destiny still seemed promising. Either way, he was in for a time.