Best Intentions, Chapter 2

Carth stormed into the bedroom red-faced and tight-jawed. His eyes narrowed and scanned the dark space. Thin slats of light striped the room but provided little in the way of visibility. Posters of starships--late-model star cruisers studded with heavy laser cannons--covered the walls, and a row of shelves along one wall lay practically buried in replica Republic soldier equipment and tiny battle fleets.

'Dustil,' Carth prompted, quiet, yet tense.

From beneath the bed, Dustil could sense the wrath behind that voice--the fear and anger barely concealed behind his father's normally jovial features.

'Dustil, come here.' The voice was more firm now--commanding. Dustil felt his muscles beginning to comply involuntarily. He could see his father's figure silhouetted against the hallway light in the door frame.

'Dustil!' There was no more delaying.

'No, I'm not coming out.'

'Yes! You are coming out this instant!'

Dustil immediately popped out from under the bed. His father's eyes didn't so much as blink. He'd known exactly where he was all along.

'I didn't do anything,' Dustil blurted out, already on the verge of crying. He hated himself for that. He tried to feel angry--to feel strong--but when his father came down on him like this he always felt small. He kept his eyes glued to the ground to hold the tears at bay.

'Dustil Onasi, did you go through my footlocker?'

Dustil could feel the shame like a weight on his head. He felt it pushing him into the ground--smashing him into the floor. He shook his head no without even thinking.

'Your mother said otherwise.' The voice became harder now, more accusatory. 'Are you lying to me?'

The prospect horrified Dustil. He could sense his father's hulking presence before him. Without even looking up, he could feel his authority--the crisp power of his Republic uniform, still on. He smelled slightly of engine fuel, but his uniform was always clean. His strength filled the room. How could he lie to that?

'I was just looking,' Dustil said, breaking the silence. 'I... I didn't know.'

Carth held out his right hand, and there it was. Perched there in his palm, deceptively still and unassuming, lay a worn blaster pistol. 'Did you take this out?'

'Y-yes.' The tears threatened to return.

'And you took it outside?'

'Yes.' He concentrated hard on the pattern of the tiles beneath his father's feet. They had dull, black dots amid a field of white. In the creases where the tiles met, some of the dots seemed to collide and overlap. He thought it looked like an immense, galactic starfight.

'And you fired it?'

The tears retreated as Dustil down-shifted into excuse mode. 'But no one was around. It was just at the rock-field behind the school. No one saw me. It blew up some rocks, but... '

'Dustil!' The yell shut him up immediately. 'You are never to take this blaster out of my locker again. Never!'

'Yes, I know... '

'And you are never to go into my locker again for anything.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Do you understand?'

'Yes.' The tears were returning.

'Look at me, Dustil.'

It was too late. Dustil turned his face up toward his father's. Tears blurred his vision and dropped soundlessly into the firefight on the tiles below. His face reddened as he fought to keep himself under control. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' The tears flowed, but Carth did not make a move to hug or console him.

'I need to know you will never go through my things without permission again,' he said. 'Ever.'

'I won't, I swear!' Dustil was gasping between words now.

Carth made his way into the room and sat on the bed. The room was still dark save for the dim light of the setting sun streaming in through the window. He motioned for Dustil to join him on the bed. 'Come here,' he said, the edge in his voice now softened a bit.

Dustil wiped his eyes and sat on the bed beside him.

'Look,' Carth began, 'I just want to know you won't get hurt doing something stupid.' A slight smile seemed to flash across his face for a second before disappearing. 'Every day you're reminding me more and more of someone else I know... Sometimes I forget that.' His voice trailed off.

Dustil's vision became clear again as the tears left his eyes. In the calm left behind, his mind raced to predict where this conversation was headed. What sort of punishment would his father concoct this time? Why did he always do such stupid things?

Carth seemed to recognize his son's vacant look. He put his arm around Dustil's shoulders and pulled him closer to break the daze. 'Dustil,' he said. 'Do you know who you remind me of?'

Dustil sniffed loudly. 'No.' In his mind, possible choices streaked passed: the reckless infantry trainees down at the base, the incompetent neighbor whom his father cursed under his breath, the criminals he saw on the news captured and locked up for petty robbery--all thoughtless, all stupid, all essentially doomed.

'You remind me of myself,' Carth said.

Dustil's mind skidded to a halt. His father was no failure.

'Don't look so surprised,' Carth said. 'You're my son, an Onasi, and all this is rightfully yours.' He lifted the blaster slightly in his hand to indicate he was speaking of the weapon. 'But being an Onasi is about more than firefights. It's about more than weapons and more, even, than the Republic. It's about responsibility.'

Dustil fought to suppress a sigh in the face of the lecture he knew was coming.

Noticing Dustil's impatience, Carth lifted himself off the bed and stood before his son. 'I'm serious, Dustil.' The hardness was creeping back into his voice. 'You come from a long line of Republic soldiers, and regardless of whether you become one or not, that sense of duty is part of your heritage. For us responsibility is more than a word; it's a way of living.' He held out the blaster again. 'When you pick up this weapon, you are accepting a responsibility to do what's right--for the Republic, and for your family, and for yourself. I need to know, without a doubt, that you can be responsible for yourself before I can allow you to be responsible for others.'

He paused for a second then, with a flick of his wrist, slipped the blaster into a holster on the left side of his chest just underneath the top edge of his Republic-issue flak jacket. 'Until we both know you're ready, the blaster will be waiting. Do you understand?'

'I... ' Dustil began, half-heartedly.

'Look at me, Dustil,' Carth said, straightening into a military stance. 'I need to know you mean it or you'll never be ready.'

Dustil met his father's hard, soldier eyes, glowering in the dark of his room. For a moment he nearly wanted to cower away, to shrink into nothingness beneath that intense stare. But he didn't. He straightened his own shoulders and stood erect next to his father. He told himself that he could do this. He'd be a good son--the best son in the galaxy. He would be ready someday soon, and the rest of the world would respect his glare the way he respected his father's. At last he hardened his own face to match his dad's. 'I understand, sir.'

Carth held his composure a moment more before breaking into a warm laugh. He knelt down and pulled Dustil into his arms. 'I believe you, son.'

Dustil couldn't help but laugh with him.

Carth finally let Dustil go. 'Now, remember... when Mom asks, I didn't let you off so easily. As far as she needs to know, I also threatened to ground you for the rest of your life and stuff you into the cargo hold of the next vessel headed to Tatooine.'

---

The worn, curved steel of the Ebon Hawk's hallways always made Dustil think of his father. He could feel the man's essence in every rivet, floor panel, and blinking light--it hung here like nowhere else in the galaxy. It was a couple seconds before he realized Mission had already turned the corner toward the cockpit, and he followed after her.

He nodded toward the swoop hangar as they walked by. 'She won't bother him?' He caught a glimpse of Bao-Dur crouched on the floor next to T3 and Ana sitting at the workbench, idly swinging one leg. As they passed, her stream of questions floated through the open door.

'Is it supposed to look like that? Why is he talking backward?... '

Mission smiled at him as they moved past the range of Ana's voice. 'Does anything bother Bao-Dur?' Dustil laughed, and Mission's smile deepened. He noticed tiny crinkles around her eyes that he hadn't seen two years ago.

'I'm glad he'll have some company,' Mission continued. 'Especially company that's interested in learning to fix droids. Honestly, he's been so quiet the past few months... ' She trailed off for a moment, then shook herself slightly.

As they neared the cockpit, Dustil paused and put a hand on Mission's arm. She paused as well and turned, biting her lower lip. She gazed down at the deck, and Dustil gently squeezed her arm.

'I'm so sorry, Mission. I know you and Nya had gotten close.' He shook his head in frustration. 'We should have been there.'

Mission's head snapped up, and she pinned him with a hard look. 'No, you shouldn't have. You were doing what you should have been doing, which is keeping Ana safe.'

'I know. It's just... We can't keep on like this, Mission,' Dustil sighed. 'We can't keep on jumping from system to system, all spread out to avoid the eyes of the Republic. It's not even helping!' His voice rose in frustration, then softened again. 'And now Nya's gone.' He let out a long breath and gazed back at Mission. 'Please tell me Bastila has some answers for us.'

Mission shrugged. 'I'm strictly transport this time, Dustil. I haven't heard anything from the Jedi that you don't already know.' She shook her head. 'But I have to think it has something to do with Nya.' She sighed, then gestured toward the cockpit door. 'I should get in there. He may need help with the jump to hyperspace.'

Dustil's eyes followed her gesture. 'How is he?'

'Quiet. Which is weird.' She shook her head. 'I just don't think the thought ever occurred to him, you know? I think he always assumed she would outlive him. He never thought he would have to carry on without her.'

Dustil focused his Force energy and reached out slightly toward the cockpit. A wave of pain and bitterness washed over him and made his stomach churn. And beneath the pain was a barely contained spike of rage. Mission turned to enter, but Dustil kept his hand on her arm. She turned back and gave him a curious look. He gestured with his chin toward the cockpit. 'Has he... ?' He stopped as he tried to figure out how to say what he was thinking. 'He hasn't done anything strange, has he? Anything out of character? Besides being quiet, I mean?'

She shook her head. 'No, I... I don't think it's like that.' She bit her lower lip again. 'Though I guess I wouldn't really know.' She looked up at him. 'Maybe you could talk to him?'

Dustil's stomach clenched at the thought of wading through the waves of pain he felt from the cockpit, but he nodded. It was important that they know he was... all right. 'Has she come to him at all?' he asked.

'I think so. Sometimes I hear him talking. Sometimes he seems like he's playing pazaak. I figure it's her.' Mission smiled. 'Either that or he's finally gone nuts.'

Dustil didn't smile. But he let go of Mission's arm. She pushed the control panel, and the door slid open. As Mission stepped in, the wave of bitterness became almost palpable. Dustil caught a glimpse of gray hair over the top of the pilot's seat. It surprised him. After two years and everything that had happened, he didn't know why it surprised him. But it did.

Dustil suddenly felt very tired. He let the cockpit door slide closed again. He really wasn't ready for that conversation just yet. Food. Sleep. After so long without proper amounts of either, the thought of both prompted his body to send strong signals to his brain. Basic needs first. Potentially painful conversations after.

He turned and walked back toward the main hold. He walked slowly, his steps heavy. He set his pack on the floor, then dropped into a chair and sighed, letting his head fall back against the padding. He felt like he hadn't slept in weeks. Which wasn't far from the truth. He lifted his head and let his eyes rove around the hold, taking in the familiar panels and light displays, the galaxy map in the center of the room. Over the years the familiarity had begun to carry the pang of old memories. After a few minutes, he felt the familiar surge of the jump to hyperspace, and the hyperdrive engine revved on and then settled into a quiet hum.

Dustil continued to sit, lost in old memories. He let his mind float along the tide of faces, sounds, impressions. His father. Revan. Ana as a baby and a giggling, mischievous little girl. Ana at ten, suddenly lost and alone. Training with Jolee--and the quiet sadness of his death, long expected but painful nonetheless. The others that had been lost. Juhani. Visas. Mira and Mical. And now Nya. He prayed that Bastila had called them back because she finally had some answers, some solutions, a way to keep them all safe. He always kept a tight grip on hope for Ana's sake, but in quiet moments, he felt it slipping away from him. Or maybe he was slipping away from it.

The sound of footsteps stirred him from his reverie. He brought his head up and saw Mission emerge from the corridor that led to the cockpit.

'Well, we're under way,' she said brightly. She walked over and grabbed his pack, hoisting it over her shoulder. 'Come on,' she said, walking toward the port quarters. 'You can put your stuff away, grab some grub, then see if you can help with the piloting.'

Dustil stood, stretched his arms over his head, followed her. 'Sounds good.' He glanced at her as they walked down the corridor together. 'Thanks for picking us up.'

She shrugged. 'We've been telling you for years that you should come to Kashyyyk.'

'I know. I really thought we could keep the Hutts neutral.'

Mission snorted. 'For the right price, the Hutts will join anybody's side.'

Dustil shook his head. 'I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. Having us on Kashyyyk... it'll be dangerous, Mission. Especially for you and Zaalbar.'

She simply shrugged again. 'Hey, Big Z and I are in enough trouble as it is. The Senate's not dumb. They know Kashyyyk has become a refugee camp for Force users. Having a couple more won't make much of a difference.'

They came to the port quarters and stepped inside. Dustil turned and faced Mission. 'You know that's not true, Mission. They want Ana. And they won't stop until they find her.'

Mission's lips quirked in a mischievous smile, and for a moment, Dustil was strongly reminded of a 14-year-old street rat from the Lower City of Taris. 'Well then, we'll just have to make sure they don't find her, won't we?' She grinned at him, set down his pack, and walked out the door, leaving him to get settled in.

---

Dustil smiled. It was such a relief to be back on the Hawk, surrounded by people who could help them. And if he was entirely honest with himself, he was relieved for a break in looking after Ana. Bao-Dur would keep her busy, make sure she was fed and that she went to bed at a decent hour. Dustil walked over to one of the unmade bunks and dropped down with a sigh. He stretched out, basking in the luxury of an actual bunk. Then he caught a glimpse and a whiff of his stained and patchy coat. Sleep could wait, but showering really couldn't. He shut the door to the quarters, striped, and headed for the refresher. It was the single greatest sonic shower of his life. He would have stayed there forever, but his rumbling stomach had other ideas. He left the 'fresher, got dressed, and headed for the mess.

After eating his first decent meal in months, Dustil thought about heading for the cockpit. A little part of his mind suggested that he should check on Ana. Dustil knew it was the little part of his mind that was a big, fat coward, but he listened to it anyway. He rationalized it by telling himself that Ana was his priority. He almost believed himself.

Dustil paused in the doorway to the starboard quarters. He had expected Ana to be asleep, assuming she was as tired as he was. Instead he found her sprawled across a bunk, her head hanging upside down over the edge and her feet propped against the wall. She held a datapad in one hand and was idly twirling a strand of her hair with the other.

He dropped down next to her and tried very hard to stifle a sigh. He almost succeeded. 'I thought you'd be asleep by now.'

Ana rolled her eyes, the only movement they made away from the datapad. 'Yeah, right. It's like mid-afternoon on Nar Shaddaa.'

He made no attempt to stifle the next sigh. 'It's also the middle of the night on Kashyyyk. Which is where we're headed.' He leaned over and turned his head to one side, looking over her shoulder at the datapad. 'What are you reading anyway? Is it too much to hope you're actually studying?'

'Holonovel,' she said absently. 'Mission brought it for me.'

'Remind me to thank her,' Dustil replied dryly. 'Another distraction--just what you need.'

Ana kicked him lightly in the shoulder, eyes still on the datapad. Dustil sighed again. Sometimes he despaired of ever getting her to devote as much attention to the scholarly parts of being a Jedi as to the fighting. He'd heard rumors at the Academy, stories from the older Masters of Revan's pranks and inattention as a Padawan. He wondered if it was genetic.

Ana finally glanced at him. She flicked the datapad off and twisted her legs down and her head up. She sat up cross-legged and facing him on the bunk.

'Mom tried to reach you last night.'

Dustil blinked at her for a moment, surprised by the rapid change of subject, then realized he had been thinking of Revan. Ana always knew when he was thinking of Revan. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it and looked out toward the corridor.

'I know,' he said finally, quietly.

'Why didn't you answer her?'

'It's not that simple, Ana,' he said, still looking out at the hall. The light was brighter out there, and a faint shadow of light spilled into the crew quarters. 'Communicating with those who have joined with the Force is... well, it's complicated.'

'No, it's not. It's easy.'

He clenched his jaw in frustration and turned back to her. 'Maybe for you,' he snapped. She frowned slightly at his harsh tone, and he chided himself for losing control. Discussing Revan was... never easy. Not lately. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, she was gazing at him closely, and he knew she could feel his frustration and his confusion and his still-tender grief.

'It is easy for you, Ana, because you were so close to her. Your mother and I... we didn't have that kind of bond.'

She gazed at him intently, her green eyes intense and serious. 'But we were a family.'

He let out a long breath. 'I know. We were, but... '

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he felt a wave of hurt anger wash over her. 'I can't believe you still think this is her fault,' she snapped. 'You always blamed her for everything.'

He felt his own brown eyes go hard. 'Enough,' he said, throwing his hand up to cut her off. He glared at her for a moment, but his anger drained away into shock when he saw tears spring up in her eyes. His hand instantly reached out to her, snaking around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. She stiffened for a moment, then wrapped her arms around him and squeezed hard.

'Ana, I'm sorry. I just... '

He felt her shake her head against his chest. Then she pulled back and looked up at him, thin streaks of tears bright on her face. She shook her head again and gave him a weak smile. 'It's not that. It's just . . .' She swallowed, and a few more tears slipped down her cheeks. 'Sometimes you look just like Dad.' She gave a slightly sniffly laugh. 'You just had his we'll-discuss-this-later-young-lady face.'

Once again he opened his mouth and found he had no idea what to say. Instead, he pulled her back into a hug, and she snuggled against him.

'I miss him so much,' she said in a quiet, muffled voice against his shirt. 'It's worse when we're on the Hawk.' She pulled away from him, dragging the sleeve of her shirt across her eyes. 'I mean, I love being here and seeing Mission and Bao-Dur and everybody, but it feels wrong, you know?'

'I know,' Dustil said quietly. 'It feels like he should be here.'

Ana nodded, staring down at her lap. 'I know the others can't come very often, but I always know I'll get to see them again. It's like... it's like he's the only one that's really gone.'

Dustil swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat and reached out to gently stroke her hair. 'I know.'

She gazed up at him again. 'I'm sorry I was mean. And I'm sorry I was a brat before.'

He smiled and brushed a stray strand of hair off her face. 'You weren't that much of a brat. And besides, you're a little sister. Being a brat is kind of your job.'

Her expression stayed serious. 'But I'm your apprentice. And I'm supposed to listen to you. I want to be a good Jedi, Master.'

'You will be,' he said seriously. 'I've never doubted it.'

A slightly sly grin lifted her lips. 'Then you'll let me make a lightsaber?'

'Ana... ' he sighed. His hand went unconsciously to the lightsaber now clipped to his belt.

Her eyes flicked down to his hand, and she sighed as well. 'I know. A lightsaber is about more than fighting. It's about responsibility.'

He met her eyes. 'I hear you say the words,' he said firmly, 'but I don't believe that you understand them.'

'But I do understand. You said... '

He stood, turning to walk from the room. 'Now's not the time, Ana. Good night.'

'Bao-Dur says he can help me do it.'

He stopped at the door and turned around, one hand on the light switch. 'Bao-Dur's not your Master. I am.'

She pouted at him. 'Maybe I want Bao-Dur to be my Master.'

Dustil rolled his eyes. 'I'll be sure to bring that up at the next meeting of the Council.' He flipped the lights off and walked out into the hallway.

'Dustil?'

'What?'

'I love you.'

'I love you, too.' He hit the door release, and as it slid closed, he called out, 'But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you make a lightsaber.'

Her answering growl escaped just before the door slid closed, and he walked down the corridor to the main hold laughing. When he got there, he stopped, the laughter dying on his lips. He had intended to go back to his bunk in the port quarters, but the wave of emotion still emanating from the cockpit rebuked him. His friend was in pain, and Dustil was too much of a coward to make sure he was okay. It was not only selfish but dangerous. They had just had so much of pain in recent years; it was hard to face it voluntarily. But Dustil knew it was no excuse. He squared his shoulders and headed for the cockpit.

He palmed the door open, then had to stop on the threshold and pull in a sharp breath. Pain swirled through the Force, turning the tiny space to rough edges and brittle light. He forced himself to focus. He pictured his father at the controls, guiding the ship neatly through hyperspace. Probably wearing his ugly orange jacket. The thought made Dustil smile and smoothed out a sphere of calm in the Force around him. He reached out with the calm toward the figure slumped in the pilot's seat. Dustil let out the breath he'd been holding. The man had never been a glowing pillar of light, but Dustil felt no taint of the dark side in him.

'Hello, Dustil,' the pilot said without turning.

'Hey, Atton.'

Dustil stepped forward and dropped into the copilot's seat. He checked the telemetry readouts silently as he struggled to figure out what to say. After a few long minutes, he sighed and decided to plunge in.

'I heard about Nya, Atton. I'm sorry.' He turned and looked at the older man for the first time. His hair was mostly gray now, and there was a new scar that ran the length of the right side of his face. It turned in at his mouth and twisted his lips in a perfect mockery of a scoundrel's sardonic grin.

'Come to check up on me?' Atton said scornfully without turning. 'Make sure I don't go off the deep end like your stepmom?'

Dustil stiffened and fought desperately to keep his emotions in check and maintain the bubble of calm he'd cleared for himself. Atton's bitterness battered at him, and the man's words triggered an answering cascade of anger within Dustil. Feeling his own rage spike in response to Atton's shocked Dustil enough that it slipped away in the rush of panic that followed. Dustil closed his eyes, swallowed, and took a deep breath. The anger in the cockpit was so palpable, so present; he hadn't felt anything like it since Korriban. No. That wasn't true. He had felt it much more recently than that. He'd felt it when he'd learned of his father's death four years ago. He'd felt it the next week when he'd arrived with Bastila, Yuthura, and the others on Citadel Station. When he'd seen the wreckage of twisted metal hanging over the blackness of space. When he'd seen the footage of the destruction of Telos's still-fragile surface where hunks of the station had dropped from orbit. They'd never found Revan's body, but her rage had lingered like a nearly physical force. He had felt it. The darkness in it called to him. Bastila and Yuthura denied it, refusing to accept that their friend and leader had once again been the cause of such devastation.

Dustil knew better.

Dustil stared out at the field of streaking stars and forced his thoughts back to the cockpit. The much more immediate problem was the man beside him. He'd seen what Revan had done in her grief, and she had been savior of the galaxy two times over. He looked back at Atton, at his twisted grin, at the deck of pazaak cards on the console, at the bottle that stood half-empty next to them.

As if he could feel Dustil's gaze, Atton reached out for the bottle and took a long pull. He lowered the bottle and sighed. 'Look,' he said wearily. 'I've been down that road. I don't particularly like where it leads, and I don't plan on doing it again.' Atton finally turned to face him. His eyes were sharp with grief and frustration. 'I had thought you of all people would get that.'

'I do,' Dustil said firmly. And he did. It was one of the reasons he had eventually grown to trust Revan. He understood how sometimes even the memory of the dark side could keep you from it. But he also understood how that memory could be tempting. To forget everything and let your rage and fear and hate claw its way out of you from the inside until you were left raw and bleeding. And clean. 'I just need to know you won't hurt Ana.'

Dustil expected anger. He even welcomed it, as long as it was directed at him and not at the galaxy as a whole. But Atton's voice was calm. Even. 'You really think I'd do that?' he said. 'After Nya died to protect her?'

The calmness of it disturbed Dustil. If there was anything Atton was not, it was calm. Dustil met Atton's eyes seriously, searching for some hint of what the man was thinking under the tidal wave of emotions. 'What are you talking about?' he said carefully. 'You weren't anywhere near Nar Shaddaa when you were attacked.'

Atton met his gaze then, and for the first time, Dustil felt like he had the other man's attention. 'What do you think is going on here, huh? You think all these deaths are a coincidence? Accidents? Missions gone wrong?' Atton frowned, his new scar twisting and contorting his lip. 'We're being hunted, Dustil. Picked off one by one.' He turned away from Dustil and looked out over the streaking starfield of hyperspace. 'Believe me,' he muttered. 'I've seen it before.'

'You know something? You saw something?' Hope was somehow real to Dustil again. If Atton had information, real information after so many years, they could use it.

Atton looked up at him again, seeming almost startled by the intrusion of hope into the darkness of the cockpit. 'I... maybe.' He turned back to the controls. 'Bastila wants to talk about it in Council.'

Dustil could feel the other man retreating away from the conversation, away from him, and decided it was not the time to press. They had to make time to grieve, to deal with the darkness, or it would break them. It was a lesson Dustil had learned well. 'I am sorry,' he said quietly.

'I know,' the pilot sighed. 'Just... let it lie, all right?'

Dustil nodded. 'All right. You want me to take over for a while?'

Atton shook his head. 'Nah. I got it.'

Dustil stood and walked from the cockpit. As he stepped into the corridor, he heard Atton's voice again, too quiet to make out any words. He glanced back, and for a second, he thought he saw a pale blue glimmer take his place in the copilot seat. He heard a distant laugh, and then the glimmer faded away.

Two days later, when the Hawk finally set down amid the towering trunks of the wroshyr trees, Ana sprinted down the exit ramp and jumped to the ground before it had even clanked into place. She launched herself at the figure waiting on the landing pad.

'Canderous!'

The gray-haired man caught her in his still-powerful arms and embraced her fiercely, causing Dustil a momentary worry for her ribcage. When he finally set Ana down, Dustil noted with some envy that the Mandalorian stood as straight and tall as ever. The years didn't seem to touch Canderous, though he was now well past seventy.

'You've grown,' Canderous said to Ana. He looked her appraisingly up and down. 'And not just taller.'

Ana flushed and scowled at him, awkwardly crossing her arms over her chest. Canderous laughed and looked up the ramp at Dustil.

'And you've gotten fat.'

Dustil grinned. 'Nice to see you, too, Canderous. Don't suppose you'd like to help us unload the cargo?'

Canderous snorted. 'Hey, I'm not the one who needs the workout.' Despite his words, Canderous strode up the ramp, bent down, and lifted a large cargo crate with apparent ease. He turned to grin at Dustil, who bent to lift another crate. Dustil's knees cracked loudly as he straightened up, and Canderous grinned.

'What's the matter, kid? Not enough battle in the galaxy to keep you in shape? What would your father say?'

'He'd say you wouldn't talk so big without your fancy Mandalorian healing implant.'

Canderous let out a loud laugh and shook his head. 'You sound just like him. And I'll tell you what I told him. No implant in the galaxy can buy back thirty years, kid. You're joining the recruit training session tomorrow.'

Canderous turned and headed down the ramp. Dustil followed, sincerely hoping Canderous was kidding about the training session. He had a bad feeling he wasn't.