Too Many Justins - Chapter 50

Just a reminder: Usual disclaimer stuff. All characters remain the property of their creators. Additionally, song lyrics remain the property of the lyricist. (In this chapter that would be: Issac Hayes and David Porter; Diane Warren; James Taylor)

Chapter 50 - Crossings

“And across the bridge I stepped, across the bridge I stepped; not caring where I left, unsure of where I went”

- Republic Poet Laureate Crullis Vash

Dustil sat alone on a fence rail for the better part of an hour waiting for Tarre, continuously checking his chronometer and muttering about the inconsideration of females with regard to time. Tianna was another one who had kept him waiting on mere whim and many was the occasion when he had convinced himself it was purely deliberate, a not so subtle attempt at testing the limits of his affection.

He'd always wait, of course, it being his role as the male, to be the one to wait patiently or impatiently as the case may be. It didn't mean he liked it, it just meant he did it.

And he was doing it again that morning, without so much as the horse groom to keep him company, poor Crucian leaving for his quarters in a funk. By the time the cramps in his insufficiently padded backside had complained about the particular angularity of his seating surface, he had grown concerned that something had happened to his little Jedi.

In his worry about Tarre and the ultimate destination of his horse, and hers too, Pixie being an especially lovely and well mannered animal, he paced back and forth, his eyes darting to the stable entrance every few minutes.

With their horses gone he had to content himself with reliving earlier rides. He preferred Starlight, a powerful Palamino, but whereas he could choose from among most all the horses, Tarre, given her diminutive stature, was left with only one, Pixie, the little Asturian. Fortunately the bay had just the right mix of grace and athleticism to both suit Tarre's skill and satisfy her competitive streak. He had learned of both their very first day together at the stable, when she had put the spurs to her mount, tearing off and challenging him to keep up.

He did, finally, catch her, but she had led him a wild chase, back and forth across the rolling terrain, weaving in and out of the specially planted trees, across the small stream, Tarre taking it at a jump, and then immediately back again, the sound of her taunting laughter mixing with the pounding hoof beats, setting his heart on fire. By the time she stopped, dropping gracefully out of the saddle, he had ben so wild he had hurled himself from the stirrups at her, wrestling her to the ground in a fit of playful anger.

She ended up on top, for although he was much bigger and stronger, she was surprisingly skillful in such close quarters and he had looked up into her eyes for a long moment before they both realized where they were and what they were doing. They quickly separated, making small talk, laced with apologies and platitudes to cover their mutual embarrassment.

Since then, however, all embarrassment had fallen by the wayside. He was in love with her and she with him, and now they spent nearly every waking hour together.

“Except for this one,” Dustil grumbled aloud, checking his wrist again. “What can be keeping her?”

In his mind, he went back and forth over the morning and the night before. Had he said or done something to make her mad? “Did I leave the seat up again?” he wondered.

“No. Not the seat...”

Could it have been the...

“Oh Force! The towels!”

There had been three: one for the floor to keep from making puddles, one for his hair, one for around his waist, leaving... none.

“Oops.”

*

“I don't know about you, but I've run out of funds.”

Mission looked up from the table, her hand automatically withdrawing her credit chip, already updated for the winnings from this last hand. She looked across the table anxiously. “Oh, Justin. I'm sorry!”

Justin Yer'natta just smiled. “Hey! I'm an adult. I know the penalties for playing with sharks.”

The little Twi'lek blushed as she smiled, her cheeks glowing purple. “Don't worry about it,” he added. “There's plenty more where that came from.”

He paused to finish his drink, a tall ale, leaving only a film of white sliding back down to the bottom. “Unfortunately,” he added, dabbing his mouth with a cocktail napkin, “you seem to have run everyone else off.”

Mission looked around. The pazaak pit was full, they were always full no matter where in the galaxy one went, but she saw that there was no line of willing victims waiting to fill Justin's seat. Seeing the ever watchful eye of the pit boss come to rest on her, she stood, vacating the table.

“Yeah. Looks like I was a little too obvious,” she said.

Justin smiled. “Bah! Rich stiffs. Twenty credits for an ale and there's still a thousand credit limit?”

“A thousand isn't too bad for a place like Ploo. This is the famous Fantasia, you know.”

“It's nothing. Kinrath feed.” Justin leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There's a place I know. Local.”

“Yeah?” Mission's eyes sparkled. There weren't many things she liked better than a good pazaak room.

“Oh yeah. No limit.”

“Underground,” Mission said with a knowing nod. 'No Limit' pazaak was illegal most places, even in the Outer Rim, local government's preferring the regular and predictable tax revenue generated by Limit Tables, which drew a larger player base. To get truly high-stakes one had to leave the comfort of the cantina-side pazaak parlor and venture out into the Universe.

The underground universe, that is. A universe of gamblers and touts, liars and scam artists, clients and prostitutes, spice pushers and bounty hunters. And the Exchange. And the Hutts. On the wrong end of a 'debt collection action' it really didn't matter which; they both used the same tools for crushing bones. Mission Vao had no lack of enemies among either and her last experience with a Hutt had gone less than spectacularly.

“But this time,” she thought, “I won't be alone. I'll have backup. I'll have Justin.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said aloud, her voice steady as she worked to keep any undue enthusiasm under control.

Justin offered her the crook of his arm, which Mission accepted gratefully, slipping her hand through and stepping up close. She could feel his muscles as they walked out.

As one leaves the main casino on the Fantasia there are three options. To the left is the dance club, 11,000 square meters of thumping bass and spinning lights, with a bar 22 ½ meters long (“The longest on any cruise ship in space!” the promotional material exclaimed).

To the right was the theater, as silent as the dance club, the previous night's concert actually taking place on the moon below. Mission, much preferring pazaak, didn't even know who had performed, going so far as to shush one or two opponents who sought to break her concentration at the table by rambling on about it.

Directly in front was the cantina area proper, where Mission had started the night with a Nikta. Normally her favorite, it hadn't gone down well, upsetting her stomach, and she had switched to a powerful 'faux' Tarisian ale. Which also hadn't set well. She gave the bar barely a glance as they walked past, only really noticing a small human woman climbing up onto a stool.

It was partly the woman's height, surprising in that it was even less than her own, that had drawn her eye, but the overwhelming attraction was her bright red hair. Even wet, and in the dim lighting of the bar, it fairly glowed with an inner light, and Mission turned her head further and further as Justin continued walking, his pace moderated to allow her shorter legs to keep up without straining, just to look.

The last thing she noticed about the woman was her clothing, but it didn't really register before they turned the corner, blocking her view entirely.

A few minutes later they were alone in the lift, descending to the shuttle deck far below. Mission turned to Justin. Feeling her arm pull away from his, he turned to look at her, smiling.

“What?” he asked.

Mission shifted her weight to her toes, lifting up a few centimeters before dropping back down to her heels. She had wanted to kiss him, but pulled back at the last second.

“Nothing,” she said, blushing.

Justin gave her a quizzical look, reaching a hand out to touch her left lekku as it crossed over her shoulder. Mission's eyes closed at the sensuous touch and she felt his breath warm on her cheeks and lips as he leaned down.

Just then the lift stopped with a slight jolt and the door whooshed open. Mission pulled away without letting him kiss her, her eyes snapping open to see a mid-sized young human, his dark clean-cut hair a contrast to his light tan shirt. He stepped aside to let them out.

“Vao,” said the young man as he waited for the couple to move past.

“Onasi,” she replied.

Dustil Onasi stepped inside and programmed the lift.

As the door closed behind them, Justin turned to her.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?” Justin asked, slightly incredulous.

Mission answered with a half-smile, half-frown. “A guy I know. I certainly didn't expect to see him here.”

*

As he walked into the unlit room Justin knew it was bad. The smell alone said that. Even competing with the Wookie's natural 'scent' the smell of burned flesh was nearly overpowering. And there was just a hint of gangrene, of necrotic tissue that wasn't healing at the edges of the most serious wounds.

“{Zaalbar?} Halarunga asked. It was a whisper for a Wookie, but Justin winced and turned down his audio enhancement to keep his brain intact. “{Zaalbar, my love?}”

The big male stirred with a long drawn out sigh. Again Justin mentally adjusted his sensors, protecting them from the decibels. He'd been turning up the gain in order to help diagnose Zaalbar's injuries.

++ 'Mo? ++

== Heartbeat slow, but steady. Respiration 8, although I am not current with nominals for Wookie physiology. Severe topical burns with deep lacerations, subcutaneous burns, blunt trauma... ==

++ Enough. Is he dying? ++

== Quite possibly. It is likely he will not survive more than a few days without treatment. ==

++ Will this kolto stuff work? ++

“{Hala...}” Zaalbar grunted. “{Halarunga. Leave us.}”

“{But... Are you...?}”

“{Leave us, my love.}”

With a nod to her husband and a meaningful look at the small human, Halarunga took her leave. Once sure the female had left them alone, Zaalbar turned his massive head.

“{Who are you?}”

Justin moved to the bedside, smiling, a small stand-light nearby making his face visible to the recumbent Wookie.

“{You look like Revan.}” Justin nodded. “{But you are not.}” Justin shook his head in agreement. Zaalbar repeated: “{Who are you?}”

“What gave me away?” the human asked. He paused for a moment before the light came on. “Smell.”

The big Wookie nodded. “{So, stranger who looks like my friend but doesn't smell like my friend, I suppose it is time for you to finish this.}”

Justin shook his head, an even larger smile breaking across his face. “No. It may be your time, or it may not, but I am not your assassin.”

“{Then who are you?}”

“That is a long story.”

“{I am not likely to go anywhere.}”

Justin laughed. And then he held out a hand. “I am Justin Blacque.”

A long low rumble issued from Zaalbar's chest, a rolling laugh to join the human's. “{Really?}” he asked, slowly wrapping his giant paw around Justin's hand.

*

Iestyn was functioning beyond all Buth Redfern's expectations and the padawan let the little droid travel further and further around the complex, even daring to allow it to leave the central tower all together and explore some of the other structures. The recycling pile, the foundry, the rows of Basilisks. None of which did anything to calm the young Jedi's nerves.

But what caused him the most anxiety, what really put fear into his heart; beyond the constant throb he'd felt since finding Knight Tokil's body, beyond the flash of terror of being trapped with his dead master, beyond his adrenaline and Force powered escape from the crushing armature on the flagship; was something the little hovering pod found in a small, innocuous room.

It was similar to the one holding all the Bee-six units, narrow, but nowhere near as deep. It contained only a single droid, about 2 meters in height, humanoid in build. It had two arms and two legs, but from there the main distinguishing characteristic was that it had none.

That really wasn't true. Everything, even the nightmarish crushing arm on the flagship had distinguishing characteristics, but what set this droid apart was that it seemed designed specifically to obscure those characteristics. It wore a cloak for a start, and its body, arms and legs appeared armored, which was especially odd for a droid. Small droids almost never had armor. Armor was reserved for large battle droids, like the Basilisks. And droid armor usually didn't look like armor at all, it looked like standard droid plating, just thicker.

This droid was designed to look like it was encased in armor in a very obvious manner, each articulated plate distinct, even down to minor wear marks. Buth had to look very closely at the Vid when Iestyn came back, but they were there. It looked like a human dressed in armor.

And it's face did little to dispel the notion. It was blank, a smooth featureless pane of silver, not reflective, not a mirror, more a semi-shiny metal covering the face, partly hidden by the hood of the cloak. The young padawan sat on his makeshift bed pondering Iestyn's find, startled by its familiarity. The Jedi did not generally dwell on failure, even less on disaster, especially not the youngest members of the Order who were even more sheltered than the rest, but even Buth Redferen had seen the Vid programs over and over during the Great War. And one image stuck in his mind was brought right to the forefront by Iestyn's discovery.

It was not the same, not in actual appearance, but the impression remained.

“It reminds me of Darth Revan.”

*

Bastila had wandered the halls of the Fantasia for a long time, her mood rocketing among anger, sadness, self-pity and self-loathing, until she came to a bank of lifts.

She stopped and looked around, stepping to the railing and looking out and down into the great atrium, the huge open space, many decks high, at the core of the liner. It was as if she were looking into a different universe. Like most Jedi, Bastila had spent her time in space aboard military vessels, or small workhorses like the Negotiator or the Ebon Hawk. All of them cramped, lacking amenities, lacking beauty. The Fantasia, with its gold trim, its relaxation spa, its art-laden walls and stained-glass ceilings, was the plaything of the rich.

And the perfect place for Justin.

She'd watched him hold a theater full of beings in the palm of his hand, had heard them clap and cheer; had clapped and cheered along. She knew he was a warrior, deadly and hard, pictures of him holding Dustil Onasi by the throat still fresh in her mind, but this seemed a better place for him.

“For them,” she reminded herself.

She pressed the call button. “Tarre Adjura might not be a very good Jedi,” she thought as she waited, “but she is ornamental.” She looked around again, envisioning Tarre's fiery red hair against the cream-colored walls of the atrium, a black clothed Justin at her side. She couldn't help but smile. The picture would be perfect.

“I'm not surprised they found each other,” she said, taking a step as the door opened. “Oh!” she exclaimed, finding it already full to nearly overflowing.

She turned first one way and then the other, pressing against one or another of the current occupants, sliding her way toward the back. Her deck was near the bottom of the lift's run, deep in the 'bowels' of the ship. Down she rode to the shuttle deck and a short ride back to reality. Back to Ploo IV and her future with the Jedi.

She stood placidly as those around jostled her slightly, moving in or out, starting journeys or ending them.

“They looked good together,” she thought, her head slightly loose on her neck, bobbing in time to the lift's music. “They deserve to be together. I'll just go back to the Jedi. It's better this way, better not to see him. A clean break.”

The lift remained full as they descended and she started humming, not really paying attention, more feeling the music than consciously listening. A smile broke out without her knowledge and she sang along:

“Well don't you ever be sad. Lean on me, when times are bad. When the day comes...”

She closed her eyes and swayed gently with the beat, a clear area suddenly appearing around her in the crowded lift, although no one had gotten off recently.

“... about to drown. Hold on. I'm coming. Hold on...”

There was a small commotion as the lift door opened and several people stepped out as a group, which suited Bastila, giving her much more room. Suddenly she pulled up, looking around at the startled faces of the few people waiting to get on, hesitating for a moment. She swallowed hard and smoothed the front of her robes, lifting her chin to look up at a light in the corner of the lift ceiling and taking a deep breath.

Around her the silence finally gave way to whispered conversations, discussions of the previous night's concert for the lucky few who attended, lamentations from those who did not. Bastila looked down at her feet, remembering Justin staring at Tarre Adjura, both of them smiling their love for each other across the open stage.

It was you who put the clouds around me.
It was you who made the tears fall down.
It was you who broke my heart in pieces.
It was you, it was you who made my blue eyes blue.

The pleasure disappeared as she listened both to the quiet conversations and to the words that sang in the background, and she felt a rising tide of resentment and anger, the song reminding her of Justin's looks at Tarre the night before.

and I feel fine anytime she's around me now,
She's around me now
Almost all the time.

“Bastard!” she hissed, her eyes flaming, her hand convulsively squeezing and releasing her lightsaber. The others edged away again, the lift car silent except for the music and Bastila's mutterings.

“And her! Naked in his room!”

The doors opened and the lift emptied; those waiting were warned off, warned to wait for the next car.

“She's probably always naked! Would be just like her. That beach upbringing. All loose morals and no clothes.”

Bastila continued, her tone growing more and more angry, her voice louder and louder until she realized that the lift had stopped. She looked around the car, empty save for her, the destination controls blank. With no input it had simply stopped at the last programmed floor, the passengers who had wanted to go there long gone. She had obviously missed the shuttle deck.

Without caring where she was, she pressed the button and stepped out. Directly in front of her, across a darkened opening, blared a neon sign:

It's Five O'Clock Somewhere

“A cantina,” said the Jedi Master. “Good. I could use a drink.”

*

Tarre ordered a third shot, the other two merely paving the way; the first scoured her throat and the second deadened the sensation.

Seeing Bastila Shan had upset her terribly. She dried off as best she could, threw on clothes and ran off. She'd wanted a drink, (“to wash the taste out of my mouth”) but at 7:30 in the morning she had no idea where she might find one. Then she had remembered the Purser's desks and making her way to the nearest, she learned that she could indeed get a drink, as hard as she pleased, on the main entertainment deck right next to the casino, an all-day/all-night cantina called 'It's Five O'Clock Somewhere'.

She would have laughed if she hadn't been so upset.

Bastila always did that to her. The brunette was much taller, her face nearly always set in a disapproving glare. They had been friends once, even close friends Tarre thought. But that all changed when they became padawans, Tarre to Vima Sunrider, Bastila to Vrook Lamar.

Bastila had always dreamed of being Vima's padawan. And Tarre always wished she had been.

Tarre never cared for Vima, staying with her partly out of tradition, but mostly because leaving her would have meant leaving the Order and by then she had found her beloved Archives. From that first day, Tarre knew she would walk on broken glass to stay. No irritating Jedi master was going to drive her away.

It was there that she first met Atris. Indeed the white-haired Knight had given her the tour personally. Atris was then the master of the Archives and Tarre would visit at every possible opportunity, sometimes even lying to Vima of her whereabouts in order to go, slipping out of lightsaber training or meditation to prowl the lonely halls. She learned much about the Archives, much about the Order and much about Atris. The first two she liked, the third not so much.

Tarre had grown to mistrust Atris, specifically her seemingly unquenchable thirst for Sith lore, and especially Sith holocrons; always edgy about it, the white-hired near-human sometime seemed to descend into an outright manic lust for them. She would meet privately with certain Jedi bound for the Outer Rim, or unsavory characters just returned from there. It was this behavior that led Tarre to her two greatest violations of the Order's rules.

She began intercepting shipments of materials, examining and categorizing them secretly at night, in order to remove the most 'dangerous' Sith materials before Atris could learn of their existence. Tarre knew it was wrong to keep the head of the Archives in the dark about them, according to the rules anyway, but she did it. She had continued, in fact, right up until she left Coruscant with Justin, having absconded with a collection of 3 more only a few days before the outsider made his first visit to the Archives. She'd hidden them in the 'safe room', a specially designed storage room protected on the outside by a clever (in Tarre's opinion) use of an ancient Sith mind control technique she had learned from Dathka Graush himself.

Her secret had remained safe from all inquisitive eyes, Atris having walked past it dozens of times over the years without once noticing anything out of the ordinary. Until Justin showed up, of course. The first time she had been late he had blundered straight in, giving her what had been the greatest shock of her life until that very morning.

“But it was a close second,” she said aloud, downing her shot.

“Hm?” asked the barkeeper.

“Oh, nothing. Another one, please.”

The Elomin gave her a look. “Are you sure, miss?”

Tarre fixed him with her best imitation of Bastila Shan, her eyes closing to slits, even though it meant she couldn't see him clearly when she did, the alcohol already doing its work on her central nervous system.

“Just pour, okay?”

“What every you say, miss.”

“I don't want to be able to feel my head before I'm through.”

“Well that will do it,” came a cold, imperious voice.

“Not once in 16 years,” said Tarre without looking at the speaker, “and now twice in one morning.” She quickly tossed back the shot, holding the empty glass out. “Hello Bastila. Another.”

“Don't you think you've had enough?” asked the lady Knight, sliding onto the seat next to her.

Bastila had seen Tarre from the back as soon as she had walked through the entrance, hardly believing her eyes and the coincidence. First, that she herself had deliberately and without provocation walked into a cantina for a drink, and second that the next to last person she wanted to see in the entire universe was already there.

Tarre waited until the glass was full again before turning toward the brunette.

“I've already had too many. Or too few, I don't know which.” She drank without taking her now unsteady eye from Bastila. The stools adjusted automatically to the sitter's height, and in a moment Tarre found herself on a level with the Jedi princess. “But the point is,” she added, setting her glass back on the bar, “I haven't had exactly the right amount.”

“Oh? And when will that be?”

Tarre pushed the glass back to the barkeeper. “Another,” she said. “What does it matter to you?”

“Miss?” the barkeeper asked Bastila, as he set the refill next to Tarre's hand.

“Of course she will,” Tarre interrupted. “On me! Something fruity, with bubbles, no doubt.”

Bastila glared. That Tarre Adjura, (“a drunken Tarre Adjura no less!”), would speak to her that way! “Well, I'll show her!” she yelled inside her head. Aloud, “I'll have what she's having.”

Tarre gave her another unsteady look. “Are you sure?” she asked, waving her refilled glass. “This isn't Crème de... Crème de... This doesn't have bubbles!”

Bastila glared even harder. “How many has she had?”

“That one makes five,” answered the barkeep. Tarre gave her a crooked smile. Bastila set her jaw.

“Catch me up.”

“Ma'am?”

“Right here,” said the Jedi Master, tapping her finger five times along the bar. “Line them up right here.”

*

Later, for the story was long and Zaalbar, even with the kolto Justin had brought, was still very badly injured and needed to take two breaks for sleep and one for water, Justin concluded, finishing the tale in the present.

“{You are as disruptive and troublesome as he was,}” commented the Wookie.

“It goes with the name, I guess.”

The two shared another laugh, Justin seeing and liking the proud Wookie leader, Zaalbar admiring his new friend's candor. And seeing so much of his 'alter-ego'.

“{So what will you do now?}”

The soldier paused, surprised by the question. Before him lay a great warrior, leader of his people, felled during an insurrection, felled by open rebellion, but Zaalbar was not asking for help, was not pleading for himself or his people; he was genuinely concerned for Justin's plans, the plans of a man he had only known for an hour.

“Are you asking because I remind you of Revan?”

“{No. And yes. Your tale...}”

“You believe me?”

“{Why so surprised? Of course I believe you. And not because you look like my old friend. I believe you because it is the truth. I sense it, just as I sense you.}”

The big Wookie paused to catch his breath, less labored now thanks to the kolto, but in spite of his sleep he was quite tired.

“{There is logic too. When you entered this room I thought you must be an assassin. But you did not strike. Why? Because you are not an assassin. Then what are you? You look like a friend. But you are not that friend. You tell a fantastic tale. Either you tell the truth or you lie. Why would you lie? What could be gained? So, you did not lie.}”

“You are very wise.”

“{I learned from the best. From Bindo. And from Revan.}”

Justin smiled at Jolee's name, happy to hear Zaalbar join him in his like for the old human.

“{And you are a terrible sycophant,}” the Wookie added. “{Wise!}”

*

Dustil was so distracted that he programmed the wrong floor into the lift and ended up stepping off on the shuttle deck, wondering why the queue to get on was so long. When he finally looked around and noticed all the embarkation signage he turned back. A moment later, stepping aside to let the lift's two passengers walk past before stepping back on, he was alone.

“That was a shock, seeing Mission Vao,” he said to himself, this time for certain up to Tarre's stateroom. He could still smell Mission's perfume and the stranger's cologne, bringing to mind the image of the pair kissing... Not that he knew or even cared who the little blue Twi'lek spent her time with. It was more just the visual impact of seeing someone he knew in a place he never expected to see them.

He mused on it for a while, using the long lift trip to go over it in his mind before putting it away, as he had so many other things, and making his way to the rooms.

Without bothering to knock he entered the passcode and stepped through the door.

The room was dark, lights just flicking on at his entrance, having automatically powered off to save energy. Given how many systems there were in common areas, hallways, restaurants, the casino and such, and how little time most passengers spent in their cabins, the savings were tremendous. Dustil was reminded of the number of hours he and Tarre had spent in her rooms, but the lights had generally been off for extended periods on those occasions.

“No, no. Focus Onasi, focus.”

A shout brought no response, which he should have expected, all the lights being off. Some small part of him, a part that was fighting to stay rational while the rest of him started a slide into panic, knew that even if she were hurt the lights would have remained on. This was the Fantasia after all, the pride of the galaxy and the Fantasia did not use motion sensors or anything as quaint as that. If the lights were off, Tarre was not there.

“She must really be mad,” he said aloud.

*

"Bastila,” said Tarre in an uneven slur, “why did you ever let Vrook Lamar brainwash you into taking the fall for that prank in Vima's class?"

Bastila blinked, trying to sort out which of the little red-heads in front of her was speaking. "He did not brainwash me! He showed me the error of my..."

"You conceited youngling-wrangler, you!” Tarre slammed her empty glass on the bar, nearly losing her balance in the deal and Bastila made an awkward grab to help steady her, which only served to make her lose her own balance.

“You know damn well it was my idea,” the historian continued, wondering briefly why she could no longer see her nemesis. After a pause she figured out that she was facing the wrong way; she was looking into the casino. Even more unsteadily, she swiveled on her stool. “You spent the entire night on your bunk in the dorm giggling like an idiot when I told you about it!”

“Another!” Bastila ordered holding out her glass and motioning toward Tarre's empty.

“Ma'am, I don't think...”

Bastila squinted, fixing her gaze on the 'middle' barkeeper before waving her hand in a ragged arc.

“... And Hirsh,” Tarre continued, oblivious to the exchange, “was the one who actually messed with the sabers while...” Tarre shook her head in an effort to dislodge the memory, “somebody... Bee... something... Bee... Bee... Beyalli!, That's right Beyalli and I stood guard. All you did was not give everything away by laughing when Zhar Lestin walked in!" Tarre suddenly noticed Bastila's strange expression. “What are you doing?”

Bastila spoke in a low, dull tone, her words as slurred as Tarre's, her eyes still fixed on one of the many barkeepers dancing on the other side of the bar, “We haven't had enough. You can pour us another drink.”

Tarre broke out in a fit of giggling, knocking her empty glass over.

“Look, Ma'am. I'm going to have to cut you off...”

Bastila just kept staring, repeating the words over and over until her own eyes started to flutter closed.

“Forget him!” said Tarre, giving the bigger woman a push on the arm. Tarre's hand just brushed by Bastila and she tumbled forward, her head coming to rest against the Jedi Master's shoulder, breaking Bastila's stupor.

“What?!” she asked.

“Forget him,” said Tarre, giggling so hard she could barely get the words out. Bastila found it impossible not to join her, laughing in spite of herself. “As I was saying,” continue the red-head, “a week later we find out you've blown us all in on the deal to the Training Council!"

“I did not blow all of you in!” answered the brunette, her words all in a giggled jumble.

Tarre pushed herself upright with both hands pressed directly on Bastila's chest. Bastila looked down as the red-head pulled her hands away and something flashed through her mind, something offensive, but it slipped away before she could tell what it was.

“No,” Tarre said. “No, you're right. You didn't. You claimed it was all your idea and all your doing! You took the blame for everything. How do you think that made the rest of us feel? Knowing you had taken all the credit?”

“I can't believe you can sit there... you are still sitting, aren't you?... and tell me you wanted to get into trouble for that!”

“All for one... remember?”

Bastila's mouth closed without any sounds coming out.

“Besides,” added Tarre, “maybe if I'd taken some of the blame Vima would never have picked me as her padawan.”

*

“Why didn't you tell me you were dying?!”

Jolee exploded. “Dying! Girl, whatever put that idea into your head?”

“Aren't you? And then trying to keep it from me?”

“Do you listen to yourself when you talk? Where did you get the idea that I'm dying?”

Jolee snapped his fingers. “That damned busybody medic! I'll go down there and...”

“You mean you aren't dying?” asked Yuthura, torn between crying in joy and wanting to tear her master's arms and legs off for worrying her so.

“Of course not!” Jolee exclaimed. “Although this sort of treatment isn't likely to add any years... Betrayed and berated. Just like the young. First they ignore you, then they take you for granted, then they pester you.”

“I have never ignored you,” Yuthura said irritably, walking up behind her human master. “Or taken you for granted. Why do you think I was looking for you?” She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her head to the back of his, holding him tight.

Jolee felt her arms; her strength and her love. And he felt a tear forming in his right eye. “Okay! Okay!” he blurted, shrugging his shoulders, shaking her off, the situation becoming entirely too maudlin for his taste. “Save it for Juhani.”

Yuthura pulled back reluctantly, wiping a lone drop from her eye. Jolee moved off, his right hand quickly moving to his face, but from behind the purple Twi'lek couldn't see what he was doing.

“So you aren't dying?” she asked.

The old man turned back to face her, one eyebrow raised. “Sweetie, if the Star Forge couldn't kill me, what makes you think I'm not immortal?”

Yuthura laughed and ran to him, taking him into her arms again, much to Jolee's embarrassment, and she squeezed him all the tighter the second time. “Oh Master! I've been so worried since I found you with that horrible holocron.”

“Okay. Okay. Enough with the water works, girlie.” He rubbed his upper arm where she had held him. “ 'Immortal' doesn't mean indestructible. That hurt, you know.”

“Then why did you go to see Yeron?”

“Because I'm old, whether you believe it or not, and I haven't been feeling... right.” Jolee noticed her expression change. “And before you go all pity on me, I don't intend on slowing down one little bit. So don't you dare hold any doors open for me, or pull out my chair, or any other damn fool thing you youngsters do to ease your consciences about old people.”

Yuthura smiled through her embarrassment.

“When you need to treat me with Docha gloves,” the old curmudgeon continued, “I'll let you know.”

*

The shocks were piling up on Dustil and he wasn't the least bit happy about it. First the horses, then Tarre not showing up, then seeing Mission Vao, then Tarre not being in her room, then finding out from the ship's commlink that she was in the all-day cantina.

“Doesn't want to go riding so she can start drinking before breakfast?!” he asked aloud as he rode the lift down to the Entertainment deck.

After all he'd been through that morning, the casual observer might have thought Dustil would be prepared for anything when he walked into the cantina, sheepishly ready to apologize to his lover for leaving her 'high and dry'. He was not, at all, prepared to find her sitting next to Bastila Shan.

“Oh no!” he thought as he saw them together, facing each other in animated conversation. But by far the biggest shock of the entire day, perhaps his entire life, was seeing that they were both drunk. His embarrassment lasted only a few seconds.

“Drunk?! At 8 in the morning! Drunk as thranta!”

He rushed across the room. “Tarre!” he shouted as he drew up on them.

The pair spun to look in his direction, Tarre finally losing all sense of balance and ending up on the floor at his feet. Bastila, meanwhile, had tipped backwards and only the fact that she whacked the back of her head on the bar top kept her positioned over her stool. She blinked a few times before noticing that someone new had arrive and that Tarre had disappeared.

Bastila raised her head a little too quickly, a sudden pounding making her ears ring, finally seeing the red-head on the floor. She bent forward to help and her bottom slid off her seat. Unfortunately, just at that moment Tarre tried to stand and simultaneously Dustil moved in to help lift her to her feet. All three of them collided, sending Tarre back to the floor. Bastila slurred an apology as she lay draped over the young padawan's back, before she once again broke into a fit of uncontrollable giggling, Tarre joining her an instant later.

“Tarre!” Dustil scolded.

The little historian looked up at him, bleary eyed at first, but she quickly recognized her young lover, and with a sudden gleam, launched herself up and forward to kiss him. Bastila saw this, but in her present condition she was more than willing to put it down to the fact that, unlike her, “Tarre Adjura simply can't hold her alcohol. Attacking poor Dustil like that!”

“And you!” the padawan bellowed, rounding on Bastila Shan. “For all your fire and brimstone temperance speeches...” Bastila's puritanical pleasure at his hangover on Nubia rising fresh and new in Dustil's mind, “... How dare you get her drunk!”

Bastila reeled, which wasn't difficult given her lack of balance.

“Come on you!” Dustil said, taking care to reposition the red-head's active hands, already trying to get his sash undone. Tarre's head was so loose on her shoulders he decided it would be better to just pick her up and carry her out.

Bastila remained standing as well as she could for a long while, staring blurredly at the spot vacated by the two other Jedi before she was interrupted by an annoying voice from behind her.

“Hey! What about your tab?”

With a swishing step, Bastila Shan turned, rummaging around her suddenly voluminous robes, all the while the barkeeper staring at her. After several moments she found what she was looking for, pulling it forth with a triumphant flourish. She slapped Justin's old credit chip on the counter and then made her own way, unsteadily, to the exit.

*

“{So that was your kolto?}”

“Well...” Justin said with a shrug, “in the 'royal' your sense, perhaps. I can't take any credit for making it.”

Zaalbar laughed. “{No. You are certainly not a fish.}”

“No,” answered Justin, joining his laugh. “But that wasn't what I meant, either.” He shifted positions, sitting at the Wookie's bedside. He took one of the massive paws in his hand and pulled. Zaalbar pulled back and for a moment they were at a standstill, the Wookie and Justin pulling equally until Zaalbar's exhaustion caught up with him and his arm went limp.

“{Wheew!}” It came out a long, smelly sigh. “{I am still very weak, it seems.}”

Justin waved his hand once or twice, trying not to be too rude but wanting to dissipate the invisible cloud. “How could he even smell me over that?” he wondered. Aloud, “I meant that I own the company, put up the seed money; someone else actually runs things.”

“{A company?}”

“Yes. Coral Reef, it's mine.”

Zaalbar sank back on the bunk with another odorous sigh. “{I never thought of Revan as a businessman.}”

“I've never thought of myself as one either. Which I'm not, really. T3 actually does the day to day stuff.”

“{I wondered what had become of the droids.}”

“Droids? There are more?”

“{HK-47. Although I still don't understand why Revan kept that bug-eyed orange assassin around.}”

“Bug-eyed?”

Zaalbar gave a rumbling chuckle. “{Always calling everyone a 'meatbag'.}”

Justin froze, his eyes riveted on the brown Wookie, and he drew five or six short, quick breaths. “Meatbag,” he whispered.

After a moment, Zaalbar noticing his strange reaction, Justin asked, “Do you know what happened to the shipment?”

“{They took it.}”

“They?”

“{Czerka. Down on the forest floor, the Shadowlands.}”

Justin's face hardened. He'd had run-ins with Czerka before, most notably over some construction contracts T3 had negotiated on Taris. There had been some unexplained 'accidents' that had halted work for a few months, halting payments from the Republic along with them. Fortunately, no one had been seriously hurt and things got straightened out before Justin was forced to look in personally.

Then there were the problems hiring crews to work in the new kolto processing facility, rumors spreading that those who took Coral Reef's offer were never heard from again. Again the situation went unexplained by the authorities. And then there was the trouble in getting fuel at Ploo IV...

Three times he was willing to overlook. No one had been hurt, but...

“{The females got the ship back, Mission and Bastila and Juhani. And another, a blonde who I don't know. But two of the crew had been killed.}” Justin's eyes snapped back to the Wookie's. “{Torture.}”

The outsider took a long slow breath before standing. He walked to the door without a word and with a nod, left Zaalbar to his recovery.

As the door opened Halarunga looked up expectantly but received only a small bow before Justin took his leave. Quickly she rushed to the door, her fear exploding in a great gushing sigh as she saw her husband turn in the bed to look at her, smiling.

“{Follow him.}”

She reached the outer door in a flash; Halarunga could move quickly for a big female; but even so Justin was already approaching the far side of the platform. The twins ran to her in a noisy scramble.

“ 'Mo! Pickup!” he shouted.

And with those words the Wookies, like the Jedi before them, were treated to the sight of a strangely dressed Revan hurling himself over the railing and into the abyss.