Too Many Justins - Chapter 51

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Chapter 51 - Illusions

“Trust not your senses. They can be fooled. Trust only the Force.”

- Jedi Master Odan-Urr

Mission nodded her head in content recognition. The place was nice. And by 'nice' she really meant disgusting, foul and dangerous.

It was a true local's place. It smelled for one thing, the odorous sweat of thousands of players over the years, and a blue-gray haze of stale smoke hovered in the still air near the low ceiling, the floor perpetually damp from spilled drinks or spilled blood.

It was her kind of place.

No coat-check, no trophy women dripping with diamonds and gold; not to say that there weren't trophy women, and a few trophy men for that matter, but their fashion sense tended more toward the tawdry than the elegant; no serving droids with hoity-toity accents asking “Would madame care for another aperitif?” Just good honest pazaak.

Which, of course, meant good dis-honest pazaak. Mission hadn't crossed the threshold and taken ten steps before she noticed one player slip-deal her side deck, cleverly rearranging the cards without her opponent noticing. She had to credit the female; the woman wasn't particularly skilled, but for a Brolf to pull such a feat off with those long claws took some doing.

“Nice place,” she said to her escort.

“You think so?” asked Justin, his tone implying his teasing.

“Yeah. I think I could get comfortable here.”

“Not too comfortable, I hope,” came his reply.

Mission smiled. “I never let appearances fool me.”

“Well, then, why don't you make your self comfortable and I'll get us something to drink.”

Mission selected a table near the back, waiting until the furthest seat was vacated, so that she would have a good view of the majority of the room. She had long ago learned to keep the bulk of the trouble in front of her.

She played for hours, mainly winning, losing just enough to keep hope alive in her long string of opponents. And she didn't even need to cheat, the cards were working for her like they'd never worked before. Everything she had simply worked, her side deck dovetailing wonderfully with the main deck.

Justin Yer'natta sat nearby, close enough to give moral support but far enough away to prevent any calls of collusion, smiling when she won and giving her looks of confidence on those occasions when she lost. The only disappointment was the drinks.

Again.

*

Dustil dropped Tarre, already sound asleep, unceremoniously on the sofa, glad to be rid of her roving hands for the time being, his relief in stark contrast to how they'd spent the night before.

On the way up the lift, he'd tried to convince himself that he was simply upset about the loss of the horses, coupled with her not coming to join him at the stable. What had really pushed him over the edge, though, was the sight of Tarre and Bastila Shan, of all people, stone staring drunk and giggling like schoolgirls at 10 in the morning.

When the little historian finally awoke, several hours after dinnertime, Dustil started in on her. “You know,” he said, a harsh scolding tone in his voice, “I spent all morning alone waiting for you.”

“Oh, Dustil,” Tarre sighed before starting another fit of giggling. “Ow!” she winced at the peak of mirth, grabbing her head, “that hurts.”

“Good.”

Tarre shot him a glare and with her eyes still fixed on the dead center of his forehead, Dustil felt the room flush with the Light side. “Good?!” Tarre asked, her tone clipped, her bearing that of someone who was fully in control of her razor sharp faculties.

“All morning waiting for you? And you're off boozing it up with Bastila Shan?!”

“I was not...!” She stopped. “All right. I was in the cantina, but I had a very good reason for it.”

Dustil sat on the sofa. “This ought to be good.”

“Bastila caught me.” Dustil raised an eyebrow. “After you went, I hopped in the 'fresher. Of course, you had taken all the towels! So I thought I'd just slip next door...”

“To Justin's room?”

“Yes, to Justin's room. To find one to dry off with.” Dustil's eyebrow dropped and his face took on a new look, his mouth dropping open, the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

“You mean...?”

“Naked as a Pulatir-bird, thanks to you. And there she was, just as I walked through the pass-through.”

“You mean...? Dustil asked again, quite unnecessarily, Tarre thought.

“Bastila Shan, standing right there, big as life, staring at me.”

“What did you do?”

“The only thing I could think of. I screamed, ran back in here, dried off on the bedsheets and decided the better part of valor was to have a drink in the cantina. And who should walk through the door a second time?”

Dustil shook his head slowly. “You did have a busy morning.”

Tarre nodded as Dustil rose and walked over to her, taking her into his arms for a hug. “You have no idea.”

“By the way,” Dustil added, holding her close, “our horses have been sold off.”

*

“Good evening, Master Shan. I trust you had an enjoyable day?”

Bastila growled. Her head pulsed, the pressure forcing her eyeballs in and out of their sockets. “What are you doing?” she grumbled.

“Doing?” asked Juhani, confused. She was sitting and reading. Messages from the holonet had just been delivered and she was going over the news from Coruscant. The message from Yuthura she would save for later, when she could be alone.

“Yes, doing,” repeated Bastila.

“I am reading.”

“No, the other thing.”

“Other thing?” Juhani whispered under her breath.

Bastila's head pulsed harder, the Cathar's shouted replies, deliberate no doubt, reverberating around the room. And then there was that incessant hissing; hiss, pause, hiss, pause.

“That!” Bastila complained, immediately wincing and grabbing her temples from the sound of her own voice.

“Breathing?”

“Yes. Breathing. Stop it!”

Juhani set down her datapad and walked to the Jedi Master, hunched forward on the small sofa, her elbows resting on her knees, her head in her hands. “Just stop it,” Bastila groaned.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Juhani asked. She placed her furry paw on Bastila's forehead. “Perhaps...”

Bastila turned her head slowly, her eyes slits, her teeth grinding together before swatting the Cathar's paw away.

“Perhaps it is a side effect of the Vortal seed tea,” continued Juhani, unfazed. “You have been looking somewhat.... deflated... of late.”

Without thinking Bastila looked down at her front, the vague memory of someone fondling her in the cantina swimming before her eyes. She did feel different, not as constrained by her clothes, less... Less what?

“You might want to draw upon the Force to set yourself to rights,” Juhani added.

Bastila lingered a moment with her head down before responding to the sensible suggestion. The Cathar watched the pupils of her eyes expand and contract twice before the Master closed her eyes completely.

“By the way,” Juhani added as the human's back straightened, her former master drawing a deep breath. “A holomessage arrived for you.”

“Really?” Bastila asked, unable to keep excitement from her voice, her mental distress at her sudden physical 'comfort' forgotten.

Juhani nodded and retrieved the datapad. “Yes. From Master Vandar.” She was surprised to see Bastila's disappointed reaction. The reply from Vandar had been expected; the pair had worked together in writing the report about the situation on Kashyyyk as they cruised through hyperspace.

Dejected, Bastila took the proffered pad and read. In a moment her despondency turned to anger.

“But... The Wookies!” Bastila said, startling Juhani.

“The Wookies, Master Bastila?”

“The Wookies.”

“The Wookies?”

“Yes, the Wookies. Vandar says that since Kashyyyk is not a member world they are not afforded the protection of the Republic or the Jedi!”

“You mean... Czerka will be free to...? He cannot possibly mean that!” Juhani's eyes widened before narrowing to cold slits.

“Right here,” said Bastila, walking over to the Cathar, her slender index finger pointing out the passage. “ 'As a corporation operating under license from the Republic, Czerka Arms...' They changed their name, the snakes... 'will be investigated under the Indigenous Peoples and Planets Act for the violations documented in your report. Until such time as the investigation is complete...' ”

“Then they will not get away with it,” said Juhani, looking hopeful.

“Possibly not. But an investigation could take years.” The Jedi Master turned away, dropping the pad on the table. Juhani retrieved it and continued to read as Bastila paced the room, her mind turning over the words and the meaning behind them.

After a few moments she stopped, her decision made, and she looked back at her former padawan.

“You're with me, aren't you?”

“Of course. I am with you always, Bastila, you know that.” Juhani frowned, her furred face creasing, showing a series of delicate stripes normally hidden from view. “With you where?”

“Kashyyyk.”

“Kashyyyk? But...” the Cathar asked.

Bastila didn't hear, her mind already considering her next, unsavory, move.

Two Jedi could cause Czerka a lot of trouble, but without the backing of the Republic or the rest of the Order, they alone would not be able to save Kashyyyk. Bastila would need help. Jedi help. Fortunately there were two other Jedi aboard.

Unfortunately, one of them was Tarre Adjura.

*

“Hey, beautiful.”

Tianna opened her eyes and looked up into Carth's face, his chin covered, as always, with that scruffy day's growth she found so attractive. “Hello, Admiral.”

Carth gave her a playful glare. “Formality is fine, but not here.” He took her hand and squeezed. “How are you feeling? You gave me quite a scare.”

The blonde made a small frown. “Scare? I had a broken leg.”

“Well, yes but...” the spacer fumbled. “I brought these for you.” He pointed to the small bouquet of flowers at her bedside.

“Flowers? For...?”

“Good,” interrupted a medical droid, rolling up as Tianna strained to see past Carth's old orange jacket to the flower arrangement beyond. “You are finally awake.”

“Finally?” Tianna asked. Carth stepped back to make room.

“We expected you to wake up two hours ago.” The droid lowered an appendage filled with sensors against the Lieutenant's bare shoulder. “No indication of systemic impact.”

An overhead scanner activated, the beam passing down her body. “No remaining damage.”

“So she can go?” asked Carth.

“Once her paperwork is complete, yes,” answered the medic, rolling back toward the exit. “You may dress now.”

Even before the droid was through the door, Tianna threw off her blankets and stood. Carth, shocked, quickly turned his back so that he was staring at the blank wall next to her bed. She noticed.

“Carth? What are you doing?”

“I'm... You didn't need to jump right up like that did you?”

“How else was I going to get dressed, silly?” The Admiral stuttered for a moment. “Would you hand me my panties, please?” Tianna asked, smiling behind his back at his obvious distress.

Without turning, and trying desperately not to actually touch anything, Carth carefully picked through the neatly folded pile of clothes on the bedstand before finding the appropriate article. He lifted it gingerly by the tiniest part of the waistband with the very tips of his fingers and held it out to the side. Tianna snatched them away.

“You'd think you'd never seen me naked before, Carth. Honestly, you weren't this squeamish on the bridge!”

Wounded by her jab, Carth turned back to her, a response on the tip of his tongue, only to spin right back when he saw that she was still topless. Tianna couldn't help but laugh.

“Bra?” she asked. Carth held it out.

“Jumpsuit?”

After a moment of rustling fabric she finally said “Okay, Mister Shy. You can turn back around.” It was only after he'd followed her instructions and turned to face her that she actually zipped the suit up with a carefully measured deliberation, leaving him a good long look at her barely covered top, before finishing off with a quick, pouncing kiss on his still startled lips.

“You really are something Admiral Onasi, you know that?”

At that moment the medical droid returned, a transparent sheet in its three-fingered hand, and five minutes later the pair were walking out the front entrance of the hospital, Tianna's arm linked through Carth's, the Admiral juggling the flowers and vase in his other.

“What now?” she asked.

Carth took a deep breath and jacked his eyebrows; he actually hadn't considered what came next. “I don't know. What would you like to do?”

“Don't we have orders? For Borleias?”

“No, actually. I got word through FleetNet from Dodonna. She sent Klashtan Darney instead.”

“Darney? I've never met him.”

“Not surprised. He's been out near Rutan for years. He's an old crony of Dodonna's, there were even rumors of... Well...” Carth looked away guiltily.

“Rumors of?”

“Fraternization.”

“That's a pretty cold way of describing it.”

“It wasn't with me!” He looked back at her, shocked at the suggestion. Tianna laughed, so Carth pressed on. “I never put any stock in it, not that it wasn't possible. Forn was always too...” Carth left off.

“What?”

“Wild. She was pretty loose, an old-style captain. Hard fighter, hard partier.”

“So that explains it,” Tianna said under her breath.

“Explains what?”

“I was her handler for nearly a year, you know, so it always fell to me of cover up for her.”

“Like?”

“Like the time she gave the keynote at the Cadet graduation. She hit the punch pretty hard and got a bit friendly with one of the young fellows.” Tianna was mildly surprised at Carth's blasé reaction.

“Yeah. That sounds like Forn. When I was her Exec on the Invincible she had a thing for the Master Gunner. I ended up having to water down her private bar to keep the lid on.”

“Seriously?!” asked Tianna, startled even after her own experiences.

“Oh yeah. But the Fleet was a different place back then, back in the days before hyperspace and electric lights; when we had to cross the interstellar void in wooden starships, rowing all the way.”

Tianna laughed. “I had no idea you were that old, Admiral.”

“Certainly! Although Dodonna is much, much older.”

“And were you as wild as she was?”

“No,” Carth answered with a chuckle.

Tianna pulled herself close to him, pressing against his shoulder. “What about now?”

*

“What now, master?”

“When. do we. reach. Borleias.”

“Two days, master. I have hidden you in the wine cellar.”

“whine. Cellar.”

“Wine, the drink. Kelley brought several cases for Atris' dinner table.”

“Weakness.”

Sebek took a deep breath. The pain was very much less this day, but it was still bothersome. Wine would be a welcome help in numbing it. Perhaps on the way out.

“Yes, master,” she replied.

“is. There any. Word. on. Moving. the Fleet.”

“None yet, but we are still in hyperspace. No communication will be possible until we arrive.”

Sebek waited for a response, but nothing came.

The box sat silently as time passed and Sebek began to grow concerned. The longer the interview took the more likely it was that the Rodian would come by to fetch some comfort supplies for his mistress, catching her and her mechanical master in the open.

“Master?”

“Do not. interrupt. Sebek.”

“My apologies, master, but I grow concerned that we will be discovered. There are few places to hide among all the Republicers, and...”

“What.”

“Jolee Bindo and his padawan are here also.”

“Tell me. of this. Joe. Lee. bin. dough.”

Sebek spent a few anxious minutes relating her tale of Bindo and his radical Jedi ways; his inauspicious time as a padawan, the loss of his wife to Exar Kun and the Dark side, and his return at Revan's side.

“Revan.” the machine said.

“Yes, master. He seems intent upon thwarting us.”

Another worrisome pause. “Perhaps,” Sebek thought, “if it just made some noise I wouldn't find this so frightening.”

“I. must. Meet. Him.”

“Bindo?”

“no. Revan.”

Sebek's eyes went wide and she reached for a bottle.

*

*Tong!* *Tong!*

Brawbacca's eyes snapped open as the sound reverberated around him, his heart changing beat as the waves, amplified by the fluid, passed though his body. Outside the tank, on the other side of the thick sheet of transparent steel, stood a human, his gaze piercing the Wookie. The kolto and the curving plate made recognition all but impossible. His black clothing told that he was not from Czerka.

The rebel leader scrambled to disentangle himself from the rigging that held him submerged, pleased to find that he was not just alive, but that even the most devastating of his injuries was completely healed. Once clear of the gooey fluid this interloper would learn who controlled Kashyyyk.

Finally free, he pulled himself up and out of the tank, great wet globs of the healing liquid splashing to the deck, others running into his eyes and mouth and he worked to drop himself over the edge and in front of the tiny human. Before he could respond, Brawbacca's paws were bound together and in his rage he thrashed about, alternately hurling his huge paws around in the hopes of assaulting the stranger and trying to wipe his eyes clear. He roared in fury.

To no avail. In a moment, his strength gone; the kolto may have healed him but it had done nothing to rejuvenate him; he ceased thrashing and concentrated on wiping clear his vision, finally seeing the annoying little human standing before him.

“{What do you want? Release me!}”

Justin stood silently and looked casually over first his left shoulder and then his right. Brawbacca's eyes followed a few seconds later. There, seated in a line along the far wall, were twenty Czerka fighters, their eyes blindfolded, their mouths gagged, their hands bound. The Wookie looked down to see his own paws with similar adornment and again he applied his great physical strength to break free, wanting nothing more than to crush the little human's skull between his huge paws. He lunged forward.

“{I will kill you!}”

Suddenly his knees gave out, the most intense pain he'd ever felt piercing him from behind, far greater than even the blaster and bowcaster fire that had forced him into the kolto tank, fire spreading from his right kidney throughout his abdomen. For a long moment he was unable to breathe; his vision swam before dimming precipitously and he heard a voice from just behind his right ear.

“Now I don't want to kill you and you don't want to be dead. But if you ever do anything that stupid again, your next blink will be your last.”

In a moment the Wookie was able to draw a breath and Brawbacca looked back over his shoulder, the kolto hanging in slimy blobs from his fur, interfering with his vision, but he found no one behind him.

“I spoke with Zaalbar,” Justin said. The Rebel snapped his head back forward to see the black clothed human in front him again.

“{Zaalbar is finished!}” Brawbacca croaked with all the conviction he could muster, the pain still throbbing wildly in his belly, his breath coming in shallow pants. “{I rule Kashyyyk.}”

Justin laughed. Without warning Brawbacca succumbed to the devastating blow and he retched. The outsider stepped carefully around the disgusting puddle and knotted his fingers into the fur of the Rebel's face, twisting it to haul the Wookie's gaze to meet his own, the fight gone from Brawbacca's dark brown eyes.

“Rule Kashyyyk?” the human mocked. “If you're lucky, I'll put you back into that kolto tank before you die of internal hemorrhaging from that kidney punch. It might be interesting to have you healthy before I turn you over to Zaalbar.”

“{And if I'm not lucky?}” came Brawbacca's weak reply.

Justin moved in close, very close, his face right before Brawbaccca's, to be sure the wounded Wookie heard and understood every word.

“I'll just leave you to Halarunga.”

*

Yuthura Ban's eyes looked out from the shadows, hard as diamonds, as she looked across the small table. The light was directed nearly in the face of the person seated across from her.

“So?” she began. “And don't lie because I'll know.”

She paused to watch a drop of sweat roll down the side of his face. He swallowed hard.

“Well?” she asked, her normally sultry voice now hard to match her glare.

“I really can't say, ma'am.”

Yuthura casually picked up the butter knife from the table and rolled it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, the blade catching the harsh light and reflecting it into his face. Yuthura called the Force and the young man felt a tingling all around his neck, the hairs standing on end. She hated to do it, a left over from her time with the Sith, but she needed to know. “You wouldn't want to lie to me now, would you?”

More sweat and another swallow. Yeron Redfern really did want to set her mind at ease about her master, but he was under not only professional constraint, privileged communication between physician and patient and all that, but Jolee Bindo had threatened him with bodily harm should he speak of their visit with his padawan.

“Honest, Padawan Ban, I can't say anything about it, really I can't. Master Bindo came to me as a patient and I can't discuss his condition without his permission.”

The Twi'lek withdrew into the shadows, her seat creaking slightly as her weight shifted back. She dropped the pretense. “Yeron, please,” she asked. “Master Jolee... We had a bad run-in... on Coruscant. I'm worried about him.”

Yeron looked left and right, wishing the light wasn't so blinding. He would prefer to know for sure that they would not be overheard. He shifted forward, dropping his head slightly so that his mouth fell into an inky shadow. Yuthura move forward to meet him halfway, her lekku twitching in fearful anticipation.

The Lieutenant started and stopped three times before finally saying the words Yuthura wanted to hear: “He's fine. For his age.”

Yuthura gave a questioning look. “Really,” Yeron added.

“Really?” she asked, grabbing him by the arm, her grip far stronger than he expected.

“Yes.” A pause. “Padawan, can you... you know, let go?”

Yuthura quickly released her grip and pulled her arm back. “Yeron, I'm so sorry! It's just... I've been worried about him for so long, and you know how he can be. Well, maybe you don't, but...”

Yeron smiled.

“You're positive that he's all right?” she asked again.

“Absolutely positive.” Yeron, though young, had sense enough not to mention to the purple Twi'lek that he would recommend that Jolee Bindo eat more green leafy vegetables and have a glass of red wine with a few more meals. “With the Force, he'll live to confound padawans for twenty, perhaps even thirty more years.”

“Oh Yeron,” Yuthura effused, the weight of concern falling from her visibly, “you don't know what a relief that is.”

“Don't get me wrong, Padawan Ban, he is old, but on the whole, he's as healthy as anyone.”

*

“I'm sorry Master Bindo, but Master Atris is not here.”

“Oh!” Jolee exclaimed, truly surprised to find her out. “I'm sorry to have missed her. Might I wait?”

The Rodian nodded once and asked if the old Jedi wished anything. Jolee declined and Kelley disappeared into an adjoining room, only to reappear in a moment, a small silver tray in hand. Jolee watched as Kelley placed the tray on the table beside the single arm chair and adjusted the matching silver cup, plate and spoon to be just so. The valet then picked up the pillow that sat on the chair and plumped it before putting it back, after which he again departed, leaving Jolee alone in the small sitting room.

The old human looked around as he decided where to sit for his wait. The room was similar to the one he shared with his padawan, Yuthura Ban; a small sitting room with two chairs at right angles to each other, bedrooms beyond, and a small food-prep, which, if it was identical to the one Jolee and the Twi'lek shared, was barely large enough to prepare a cup of caffa. As he looked, the old Master saw what he expected from Atris, a place of quiet, ordered solitude.

And then he saw something so out of place he actually felt compelled to take action. In front of the chair was a small footstool, about the same height as the seat, but sitting at an odd angle to the chair, the right corner much closer than the left. As he moved to the 'other' chair, the one Kelley had not touched, he nudged the footstool, squaring it up.

Jolee took his seat and Kelley returned, carrying a silver teapot which he set upon the tray, carefully arranging it so that the handle pointed toward the front of the chair. He then looked down and moved the footstool back to its original position before departing once again. The old human noticed.

“Kelley,” he asked, “do you know when Atris will be back?”

“I couldn't possibly say, sir,” came the reply from the food-prep.

With the Force, Jolee again straightened the footstool. “I watched her grow up in the Order, you know,” he called out, covering his actions.

“I wasn't aware of that, Master Bindo,” came the slightly muffled reply from the other room.

Kelley returned with a plate of pastries, noticed the footstool, set the plate on the table with more noise than he probably intended, in fact bumping the tea cup and knocking it against the spoon in a clatter, and readjusted the footstool back to its original, diagonal position.

“Yes,” said Jolee, sitting back in his chair, the image of innocence. “I've seen her grow so much over the years. Why only yesterday she was just a young padawan, a girl really, worried and... well, even a little scared. I bet you can't imagine that now, eh Kelley?”

“Undoubtedly Master Atris was once a young girl, Master Bindo.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. But now... well... I don't know if you've noticed, but Master Atris seems a little... uncomfortable. Is she not feeling well?”

“I couldn't possibly say, sir.”

“No. I suppose it isn't really your place to say.” Jolee stood and moved toward the other chair and, making sure Kelley saw him as his did so, moved the contentious footstool back into square.

“Master Bindo.” For the normally subdued Kelley the words were practically a shout. “Master Atris likes to have her stool placed just so.” He realigned it once more.

Just then the outer door slid open and Atris stepped slowly over the threshold. She looked even more stiff and uncomfortable than Jolee could remember from the days before and she stopped abruptly as she saw him standing beside Kelley. In a flash, the valet was at his mistress' side, Jolee was certain he saw her waver slightly. Kelley took her arm and helped her to her chair.

It was then that Jolee saw the meaning behind the crooked footstool. As Kelley moved along her side the slight twisting left him enough room to stay with her until she turned and got herself settled. Only then did the Rodian turn the stool square, gently lifting Atris' leg and placing it on top. Kelley then poured out a cupful of tea and, seeing that she was situated, quietly disappeared from the room.

“Bindo,” the white-hair Jedi Master said, her tone less caustic than exhausted, “may I offer you a seat?”

“Thank you, Master,” Jolee replied before resuming the chair to her right.

“What brings you to see me?”

“I wanted to ask you how you were feeling.”

*

There were no chronometers in the pazaak hall, which lent the place an eerie, disjointed atmosphere. Mission had little concept of time, of how long she had played before finally getting up for a stretch.

After a long run of excellent luck just after she and Justin Yer'natta had arrived, play had see-sawed back and forth, the opponents here much, much better than aboard the Fantasia, which wasn't surprising. There she had been playing people rich enough not to mind losing, what was a few thousand to the mega-wealthy? In the dingy recesses of this club it was a different story. Here beings played for life and death, a hand's winnings the difference between eating and starving; paying off a hefty debt or vanishing into the river when the debt came due.

On the whole, Mission was just about where she had started when she took a break, perhaps a few hundred up.

“What's wrong?” asked Yer'natta.

“Nothing,” Mission replied, stifling a yawn. “I just need to stretch and get a drink.” The young blue Twi'lek was surprised to find her companion as fresh as a flower; he certainly looked much better than she felt. “I wonder if he was actually napping back there while I was playing?” she said to herself.

The pair wandered to the bar, a short, weather and beer beaten, rickety old affair under the balcony that led to the 'rooms' and placed their orders from the limited choices offered: beer. Mission shrugged, beer wasn't on her short list of preferred beverages but she was thirsty enough not to care.

The glass was cold and flavorful, with a strong thick head that gripped the sides, sliding back down in a white mass as she set it back on the counter, empty. But once again she found that it didn't satisfy. Something, and Mission couldn't decide what, was not quite right with it.

A sound from the pazaak tables, chairs being pushed back sharply, put a pause to her strange displeasure. There was a flash and the high-pitched whine of a blaster rattled the room.

“You all saw it!” yelled a man. Across the table, a second clutched his chest before collapsing. “He drew first. It was self-defense,” he continued.

There were many calls around the room, mutterings and other vocalizations supporting the assertion. The man holstered his pistol.

“It was a lot of things,” said Mission, breaking the first rule of being an Op: not getting involved, “but self-defense wasn't one of them. He didn't draw first, you did.”

“What?” the gunman asked. He took a step in her direction.

“You dropped your head to the right, getting him to draw, while you drew your blaster with your left. Shot him before he even got it out of his holster. Not a bad move. Not very good, but not bad.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Did I say you were a liar? Did any word I say sound like 'liar'? I just said you feinted with your head while you drew with your left. You're alive and he's dead. That's the point, isn't it?”

The man snorted. “What's your name, little miss?”

Mission drew herself up to full, if moderate, height before breaking the second rule of being an Op. “My name is Mission Vao. What's yours?”

“I'm Pers Vils'mer.” His gaze was hard. “And you'd better remember it,” he added, a thick finger pointing directly at her.

“Yeah,” answered Mission, the thug's name making no more impression on her than hers had on him, “that's about all I'm gonna to do for the rest of my life, remember your name.”

Mission stepped away from the bar, her right hand at the ready, but another voice changed the balance of power.

“Hold it right there, pet,” said someone from the balcony high above. Looking up, Mission saw a Twi'lek, his blaster trained on her. “Drop your blasters. Slowly.”

With no other choice, Mission moved to undo her holster with her left hand, carefully pulling back the free end of the belt and popping the pin. As she did, the belt came loose, the holster dropping off her hips. With a quick twist of her wrist the little blue Twi'lek grabbed her right blaster, held suspended by inertia as the holster fell away, and the room was again filled with the high-pitched scream of a blaster bolt. It tore through the balcony railing and into the male Twi'lek beyond. He stumbled forward and fell through the broken railing onto the bar below, just as Mission's holster and other blaster hit the ground.

Vils'mer made a move, but Mission was already aiming at him.

“Don't even...”

*Feeoow* *Feeoow*

Mission spun wide-eyed toward the two blaster shots behind her. Justin Yer'natta stood facing the staircase, his own small pistol drawn and smoking. A Rodian clutched his chest before he tumbled down the last few stairs.

“Mission,” Yer'natta called out, “this way!”

Mission quickly turned back to face Vils'mer, his hands half way between his own blaster and a position above his head. She shook her head. Without turning her back on him again, she grabbed her holster and moved to Yer'natta's side. The pair backed their way out of the pazaak hall.

As they piled into a waiting taxi, Mission commented: “I didn't even know you had a piece.”

“Only for emergencies.”

“I suppose that qualified,” she added.

“Well, I could see you had the first two, but when the Rodian drew his blaster I figured you needed a little help.”

“Well, now that that's over, what do you suggest?”

“How about my place?” Justin asked.

*

Raised as a Jedi, Bastila Shan would never consider herself superstitious, but she still checked her chronometer seven times on the trip to the Fantasia from the apartment she shared with her former padawan on Ploo IV and she checked it twice more as she stood outside Tarre Adjura's door, just to make absolutely sure it wasn't 6:30 in the morning.

Logically, she needn't have bothered. She hadn't left the apartment until nearly 2 in the afternoon, ship's time, but she checked anyway, her heart racing each time she looked at her wrist, the correlation between the time and the sight of Tarre Adjura naked in Justin's stateroom now burned into her subconscious. What so held her attention was how... “Pert” was the word that kept running through her mind, especially after Juhani's comment about her own physical appearance... Tarre was.

Perhaps it was a side effect of the Vortal seed tea, perhaps she really was 'deflating'. Ordinarily a Jedi would think of nothing so shallow a thing as her feminine appearance, but that was before her bad experiences with the pheromone addiction, it providing just such a constant reminder of her condition. She thought back to her conversation with Yuthura Ban as the two went to buy Juhani's new Knight's robes. Then she thought of the robes themselves.

“And Juhani still doesn't have them,” she thought dejectedly. “I wonder now if she ever will.”

But her mind quickly came back to her loose fitting top; fabric that had strained to cover her now hanging loose, flabby even. Every morning as she had dressed and every night as she had undressed it had been a constant reminder of her condition. Now she felt just the opposite, as if she were swimming in her formerly form-fitting undergarments.

“Oh well, just one more thing for Justin to prefer about Tarre.”

She pushed the chime.

As happened the day before there was no immediate response and a flash of panic came over her. Could it be a repeat? Bastila didn't think she could handle finding them naked together again.

She called the Force to calm back down and as she felt the warmth flow through her she realized that she could hear muffled voices from behind the door.

“Just do it!” said a woman, Tarre no doubt.

“You can't be serious, darling!” said a man.

“Justin!” thought Bastila angrily. She was immediately ashamed of her reaction, knowing that it was still her intent to do the noble thing and leave the lovers to be together. But before she could reprimand herself further the door slid open and she was not exactly face to face, Tarre being so much shorter, but looking right at at the red-head.

“Bastila,” said Tarre, her own discomfort plain to anyone less distracted than Bastila Shan, “what, ah, brings you here?”

Bastila fumbled for a moment herself before responding. “I...” She took a deep breath, pulling her shoulders back, drawing herself up to he full height. “I...” She paused again before the Jedi Princess made her appearance. “There is a problem. On...”

*Crash*

“Hell and death!” came a masculine roar from the 'fresher.

The door whooshed open and out stepped...

“Dustil?” asked Bastila, incredulous. “What? What...? What are you doing here?” Her confusion lasted only a second before jealousy pushed it aside. She glared down at Tarre. “First Justin and now Dustil?! I always knew you were loose, but I never expected you to be such a... such a trollop!”

Tarre stood stunned at the accusation, her mouth falling open. Even Dustil was take aback at the Jedi Master's words.

“I come here...” Bastila continued, sweeping into the room to rescue young Onasi from the clutches of an obvious 'man-eater'. Tarre was left standing at the doorway, Bastila's words hurled back over her shoulder at her former roommate, “... to ask you to help me save Kashyyyk from Czerka and what do I find? Dustil Onasi under your spell, a fine upstanding Padawan of the Order, twisted by your strange predilections!”

She grabbed Dustil by the upper arm and started to pull him along behind her, wanting to get him out of Tarre's den of iniquity.

“Justin not enough for you, eh Tarre? Have to corrupt poor young Dustil as well?”

It was then that she noticed that neither Tarre nor Dustil were in anything like a state of undress. Her mouth moved without making sounds for a few seconds as her logic caught up with her passion. She paused, looking back and forth between the other two, Tarre still standing at the doorway. “What were you doing?”

Dustil answered as he pulled out of her grip sharply. “If you must know, we were discussing your getting Tarre drunk!”

“My?” Bastila rounded on him, tightening her jaw. “My getting her drunk?! I'll have you know, young man, that she was already well into her cups when I found her, slurring her words to the cantina barkeeper. And I am not used to being spoken to in such a way by a padawan!”

Dustil's temperature joined Bastila's at the upper end of the scale. “Well you should start, Knight Shan!”

“Master Shan,” Tarre interrupted, her words spoken without emotion. She was distracted by something and only partially following the events racing around her, just enough to notice the tell-tale signs in Bastila's garb and set Dustil straight on her rank.

Her comment only threw the young man for an instant, “All right. Master Shan. Our being here is our business, and I suggest you stay out of it. Justin...”

“Justin! Exactly!” exclaimed Bastila, spinning to face the pass-through door, completely ignoring the others. She moved quickly and the door opened automatically as she approached. “Unlocked I see. Why am I not surprised.” She turned back to Tarre as she stepped over the threshold and into the outsider's room. “Does Justin know about Dustil?”

Tarre caught the question and puzzled that she didn't really know the answer, although for an entirely different reason, but her mind was focused on something she was sure she had missed when Hurricane Bastila had blown past her... But what?

“Justin!” called the brunette, her voice echoing hollowly around his empty room. “Come out right now!” She moved to the 'fresher, knowing from recent experience that it was a hiding place for men hoping to avoid the wrath of a woman.

Empty.

Bastila tore the perfectly squared covers off the bed. “Justin Blacque you come out right this minute!”

“Justin isn't here,” said Tarre, still groping for the missing piece to the puzzle. Dustil stepped to her side and put his arm around her waist.

“He's gone,” he added, “if it's any business of yours.”

“Gone?” Bastila whirled to face the couple. “What do you mean gone? He was with you yesterday morning, or did your shower wash that memory away?”

“Justin is on Kashyyyk,” said Dustil.

“Kashyyyk. That's it!” yelled Tarre. “Kashyyyk! Bastila, what did you say about Kashyyyk?”

“Kashyyyk?” Bastila parroted, “I didn't say... Oh, yes! I wanted you to help me save Kashyyyk from Czerka.”

It sounded so much better the first time she had said it, Bastila admitted to herself and she frowned. Tarre's laugh startled her.

“I don't think you have to worry about Kashyyyk. Justin went there.”

“Are you sure we shouldn't be more worried?” quizzed Dustil.

Tarre shocked Bastila far more than Dustil when she turned and cuffed him sharply on the shoulder.

“What in the Force is going on here?!” Bastila roared.

But before either could explain, they were interrupted by Juhani's soft purring voice, “Master, we must hurry. The shuttle to Ploo IV leaves in ten minutes. There is barely time to get there by lift. When you took so long to return, I...” The Cathar stopped, her face showing confusion. “Where is Justin? And why is Padawan Onasi here?”

“That's just what I want to know!” demanded the Jedi Master.

“Look, Bastila,” said Tarre, “I'm not going to Kashyyyk under any circumstances, but I'll be glad to explain things in the lift if it will send you on your way.”

(With a thankful tip of my hat to William Bowers and 'Support Your Local Sheriff')