Too Many Justins - Chapter 52

Just a reminder: Usual disclaimer stuff. All characters remain the property of their creators. Additionally, song lyrics remain the property of the lyricist.

Chapter 52 – Secrets and Stories

“The things we keep to ourselves say as much about who we are as the stories we tell.”

- Lady Gwenneth of Darlyn Boda

The walk to the Fantasia's main lift took much longer than expected, although Tarre Adjura couldn't figure out why. There were only the four of them after all.

Juhani, the Cathar, led the way. No surprise to Tarre there, really. She'd read the feline's files, as she had of all the Jedi for the last ten or so years (“It's historical research...” she'd told herself over and over). Juhani was strong, willful and determined, toward the upper end of the scale in the physical gifts of the Force, lightsaber combat especially Tarre noted with personal chagrin, average to slightly below in the softer skills like healing or thought manipulation. And right near the bottom in controlling her temper. “Although a short visit to the Dark side is plenty of reason for the Council to put a blot like that on your permanent record.”

Bastila Shan came next, walking alone, followed by Tarre and Dustil, side by side, his hand periodically brushing hers. Juhani's arrival seemed to have smoothed over Bastila's fury and the four traveled in silence. But every now and then the brunette Master would spin on her heel, making a complete revolution. And each time, Dustil would step away a bit, pulling his hand back. Tarre found both actions annoying.

“What are you doing?” she asked aloud, just as Bastila had spun to face her again.

The lady Knight stopped short, wobbling a bit as she regained her balance. “What do you mean?”

“The twirling. Why are you twirling?”

“I wasn't twirling.”

Tarre rolled her eyes. “Of course you were twirling. Dustil! Wasn't she twirling?”

The padawan didn't readily respond. “Ahh, well...”

“Of course I wasn't twirling! Honestly, Tarre.”

Juhani rejoined the group, having walked on a little ways before noticing that the others had stopped. “Is there some problem?” she asked.

“Knight Adjura accused me of twirling.”

“Twirling?” parroted the Cathar.

“I did not accuse you of anything,” said Tarre. “I simply asked you why you were doing it.”

“I wasn't doing it.”

“Oh, for the love of...” Tarre threw up her hands. “Forget it.”

“No,” replied Bastila, “you asked me...”

“No. I said forget it, so forget it. Let's just get you back to your ship and send you off to Kashyyyk.”

As the group resumed their walk, Tarre decided it was, in fact, Bastila that was slowing them down, all her twirling (“The nerve! Lying right to my face.”) and stepping this way and that. Shuffling her feet and rocking her shoulders back and forth. It almost looked like she was...

“Dancing!”

It was only then that Tarre noticed the music playing throughout the massive ship.

*

Mission's lips tingled as she and Justin parted. She moved to grab his lower lip between hers, but missed as he pulled back smiling. He reached behind him to open the apartment door. Once inside, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close, lifting her to meet him and she got the kiss she was looking for.

“Mmmm,” she sighed as he set her back down. “That was soooo nice.”

“Thank you,” Yer'natta replied. “Why don't you make yourself comfortable.” He slipped off and Mission moved to the small couch, removing her gun belt and hanging it over the back of a chair as she did.

In a moment Justin reappeared, two tall, slender glasses in his hands. “'Creme?”

“Yes, please.” Mission sipped the cool liquid, the bubbles first tickling her tongue and then burning her throat in that familiar way. “Tasty.”

In a flash Justin kissed her again, his passion evident. “Very tasty,” he said. “Your turn.” He took a large swallow and waited for her to kiss him back. She did, and they went back and forth until both glasses were drained, and Mission's vest and top had joined Justin's in a pile on the floor.

“Don't you think we should... you know?” he asked.

“Should what?” Her words came in small pants.

“Move to the bedroom.”

The Twi'lek's eyes went wild. “The bedroom?”

“Of course. That is the traditional place to do these sorts of things.”

“But...”

“But what?”

“I...” Mission froze, her mind running at full speed, the Crème notwithstanding. “What are you doing Vao?” she screamed inside her head. “Isn't this what you been spending every night lying awake dreaming about?”

“Isn't he exactly what you've wanted these last few months?” she continued, Justin looking on surprised. “'Get it out of your system' didn't you say?”

“Justin, I...”

She pushed him away, grabbed her clothes and her blasters and ran out of the apartment. “I can't.”

*

“{Did you find him?}” asked Halarunga.

“Yes,” said Justin Blacque, “he's right here.” With that he hauled Brawbacca over the edge of the platform, careful to make sure the big Wookie whacked the back of his head on the edge of the rough-hewn logs. “Sorry,” he added deadpan, looking at the groaning pile of fur at his feet.

“{No! Gwarshawk!}”

Justin left the moaning rebel and walked toward the female, confused. “Who's Gwarshawk?”

“{He is...}” Her voice simply faded as she looked over at Brawbacca being hauled to his unsteady feet by two loyalists. She said no more until the rebel leader was far beyond earshot, and even then she motioned the human to follow her inside.

“By the way,” said Justin just as the pair stepped inside, “how is Zaalbar?”

“{Fine,}” came the male's growls.

“{You are sure you didn't find him?}” asked Halarunga, barely recognizing her husband's arrival.

“Well, I found a lot of Wookies. And in far better condition than your friends up here, what with all the kolto they had access to. Sorry about that, by the way, I feel partly responsible. But none answering to that name.” He paused, looking the two big Wookies over. “Is one of you going to explain?”

“{Gwarshawk is our son,}” said Zaalbar, his arm sliding around his mate's waist.

Justin was very confused now and he frowned, wondering what could cause Halarunga so much consternation. It was almost as if she didn't want him to know that she was his mother. “On the other hand, it might just be worry. Stop looking for conspiracies everywhere, Blacque.”

It wasn't as though Gwarshawk would be the first Wookie to be killed or disappear in a war. The loyalists were still collecting their dead after all, each one a son or daughter. But it couldn't be easy, not knowing.

Over the years the soldier had learned to put those feelings into a box and set them aside. It wasn't that he didn't or couldn't feel empathy, but if he'd taken time out from fighting the Machines for every lost man or woman, for every mother's tear...

“{He was only a child.}” Justin's eyes snapped to Zaalbar.

“Oh.” Children went missing during wars too, making it all the harder to hear. “I'm sorry.”

“{He saved your crewman,}” said Zaalbar.

“Saved my crewman?”

“{Yes,}” answered Zaalbar, joining them. “{But he is only a child. Six years old.}”

“{A very special child,}” added his mate.

“Six...”

Halarunga shook her massive head, the long hair of her beard swaying. “{You do not understand. Gwarshawk... is crippled.}”

Justin gave a puzzled frown.

“{His legs and feet,}” injected Zaalbar, “{and his right hand. From birth.}”

“You said he saved my crewman.”

“{He did,}” answered Zaalbar. “{Juhani and Bastila said so.}”

“{We looked down at him...}” said Halarunga, ignoring the conversation, lost in a world of the past. “{So small. So wet.}”

Zaalbar pulled her tight to him.

*

Mission sat in the taxi speeder all the way back to the hotel critiquing her performance.

“What an idiot!” she said to herself. “There he was. Just.... there! And I...”

“I what?” she spoke aloud.

“Ma'am?” asked the droid driver.

“Nothing. Man trouble.”

“Oh.” The driver, a feminine droid by a strange coincidence, lapsed back into silence.

“I mean, there we were,” Mission continued, “on his couch, half undressed and...” She threw her head back in disgust.

“Was he not attractive?” asked the droid.

Mission chuckled. “He was fabulous. Muscular, tall, black hair.” “Why am I opening up to this droid?” she asked herself.

“Sounds nice.”

“He was. And a really good kisser.” Mission sat forward in the seat, leaning over the back of the barrier, her head poking into the driver's compartment. “Really good.”

“But?”

Mission sighed. “But.. I don't know... I mean, I've been... you know, alone for a while and...”

The droid just nodded as she steered the speeder in and out of traffic.

“I guess I just panicked,” said Mission finally.

“It could happen to anyone. At least he wasn't some creep. Some of my fares don't look so good climbing into the back seat after their nights out.”

The speeder pulled to a stop and Mission passed over her payment.

“Oh, you don't need to worry about me,” she said through the open door. “I can handle myself.”

“That's what they all said too,” added the droid as the Twi'lek walked away.

A moment later Mission was at her hotel room and she paused to adjust herself. Redressing in the back of a cramped taxi was bound to leave one a bit out of sorts and she wanted all the possible moral authority she could manage for dealing with young Gwarshawk.

The door slid open and sitting on the foot of one of the beds was the little Wookie, washed, brushed and perfumed. He even had a ribbon tied into a bow in his topknot.

Mission clamped down on a laugh and waved the Nanny-droid out.

“Well!” she said. “You look,” she sniffed deeply, the perfume covering up most of his noxious odor, “and smell, clean.”

“{I am clean, Aunt Mission},” said the little Wookie, his growling bark as deadpan as a Wookie can make it. “{Would you please take the ribbon out?}”

Mission sat on the bed beside him and undid the powder blue ribbon, tossing it onto the other bed. “Done. Punishment over. Deal?”

“{Deal.}”

The Twi'lek fell back with a sigh, her lekku twisting out of the way as her head hit the mattress, and the thought that she could have been in Justin Yer'natta's bed at that very moment flashed through her mind.

“{So where are we going next?}” Gwarshawk asked, reality interrupting Mission's secret fantasy.

“You are going home.”

*

“So Master, one more day. Excited?”

Atris looked up from her reading with a scowl. “Thrilled.”

“What are you reading?” asked Jolee, craning his head around to look over her shoulder. “Entertainment news?”

“It there something you wanted, Bindo?”

Jolee's eyebrows bounced once. “I suppose you can read whatever you like.”

Atris sat silently, her eyes piercing the dark-skinned male.

“I just stopped by,” Jolee continued, “to tell you that we will be arriving in Borleias tomorrow.”

“The Captain told me that last night at dinner.”

“Did he?”

“And there was a message, from you, on my commlink this morning to the same effect,” added Atris. She set her datapad aside. “Why are you really here, Bindo?”

“Why am I here? Why are any of us here? Tusca of Maldion said, I think it was Tusca of Maldion, 'Why dost the mortal world appear? Why dost the river flow?' Have you ever read any of Tusca's work?”

“No.”

“Pity. Great poet. Pretty good philosopher, too. The river flowing bit was always one of my favorites. Reminds me of the time Andor Vex and I were stranded on Devaron, caught between this group of locals and the river.”

“Bindo.”

“Now the river was deep. We stood there looking back and forth between each other and the river. Back and forth. Back and forth.”

“Bindo.”

“And fast. Did I mention that the river was fast? Fast and deep, a bad combination for a pair of young smugglers with a posse of angry locals breathing down their necks. I did say the locals were angry, didn't I?”

“Bindo!” exclaimed Atris. Jolee stopped. “Is there something, something specific, you want of me, or am I to be the recipient of another of your long, fanciful tales of a mis-spent youth?”

“Well, when you put it that way... I just thought you would like to know that we'll be in Borleias tomorrow.”

“I do know it. I have know it since yesterday. Now please leave me to enjoy my reading.”

“Certainly, Master Atris,” apologized Jolee. “I had no intention of interrupting you.”

Jolee walked away, out of the room and into the long corridor, heading back to his quarters, but not without noticing the nasty stare he received from Kelley.

*

The two Wookies left Justin alone, the sun long set, and slowly made their way to their sleeping room, each exhausted by their recent ordeal. Zaalbar physically spent from his wounds; Halarunga emotionally spent from hers.

Finally, someone knew. Someone knew their secret. No possibility of mis-hearing. No confusion at the words.

In a way it was a relief, a weight lifted off them both. The secret that had dogged them for so many fretful years was out, at least a tiny little bit, into the open. They had admitted it to the others, to Juhani and Bastila, but neither Jedi had reacted, perhaps not hearing the words, or perhaps not believing them.

They talked quietly as they lay together, talked of how to punish the Rebels without alienating everyone, how to rebuild the Village. But mostly they talked of how to tell the truth to the Wookies that Gwarshawk was their son, heir to the Chief of the Tribe.

“{At least Revan believes,}” Halarunga said with a last effort as she lay beside her husband.

“{He does believe. But he is not Revan.}”

Surprised, and somewhat fearful at the revelation, Halarunga tried to sit up, but she was just too tired. “{Then who is he?}”

“{A friend, I should think.}”

Back in the other room, Justin paced the floor silently, considering the situation. Wookies and Jedi, children and parents, friends and enemies.

== 'Mo, which ship made the delivery? ==

++ The Star of Peltion, sir. ++

== Where is it now? ==

++ Unknown, sir. It is possible it is already processing for another run. Would you like me to find out? ++

== Affirm, but cancel any deliveries. ==

++ Sir? ++

== Find out where the ship is now. Then reassign the remaining crew, with bonus compensation, and send the 'Star to the Beach House. The long way. I don't trust Czerka. I want to look her over before we put her back to work. ==

That settled, Justin turned his mind to Kashyyyk and the just ended rebellion. It amazed him that beings would bother with such petty trifling, with such mindless pursuits as power through force. Didn't they know how fleeting such power always was? How insignificant the illusion of such power? How pointless the fight to rule one's fellows, when there were so many more important battles to be fought? Rule by force, by fear, by terror, rarely lasted even a single generation.

“No better than a Meatbag!” He shook his head in indignant disbelief.

He supposed it was inevitable, even in this dimension, that there would be beings like Brawbacca, as weak-willed or ambitious or just plain callous as those of his own, preying on their fellow beings. It still bothered him, even after so many years, that there were actually life-forms that would help the Machines sterilize the galaxy. It seemed inconceivable to the rational mind, and yet he had seen it with his own eyes.

His memory still held the terrible images of Meatbags, living beings happy to collaborate with Life's enemies for personal gain or some misguided worship of death and destruction. Justin didn't know which was worse.

He'd seen the rich and powerful send the destitute off to camps to be destroyed like so many farm animals, all for a few pieces of gold. Or a few extra days of breathing. Not that it really mattered; the Machines destroyed everyone in the end anyway. Sending billions off to the “Processing Facility”, which the Meatbags denied to their last breath, was enough to spare their lives, for the moment. The Machines turned on them at the first opportunity.

On the other end of the spectrum were the mindless drone Meatbags, those who hung on his unliving enemy's every command in a sort of ecstatic trace; entire cultures developing around the Machines, cults of death, happy to kill for their mechanical masters.

With a last shake of his head, Justin set about what he hoped would be a happier task than reliving the sad, sterile end of his own history.

++ 'Mo, pickup. ++

Justin walked out of the house to the center of the platform, the sleek blue fighter already waiting for him, and he climbed onto the winglet and into the cockpit.

“Let's see if we can find this little Wookie.”

*

As the lift door opened and the group stepped onto the shuttle deck, new music played. It was a surprisingly fast piece, the strings ringing inside her head, and Bastila felt a warmth inside she'd been missing since the Jedi Detention.

“Master Bastila?”

She stopped, stock still, at Juhani's words. “What?” Her voice was shaky, afraid she had done something embarrassing again.

“Maybe she still needs to get to Bestal III rather than running off to Kashyyyk,” said Dustil in a whisper.

Bastila's eyes snapped to the padawan, and she felt an indignant remark form on her tongue. But the music pushed it aside, the light tone, happy even, blowing it to nothing, like a puff of smoke on a warm summer's day. Surprisingly, she saw Tarre Adjura elbow the padawan in the ribs.

“I wasn't aware you were such an aficionado,” Tarre said pleasantly, her eyes still piercing Dustil.

“What do you mean?” asked Bastila.

“It's a piece Justin played, although I don't think he actually wrote it. Can't Get Enough he called it.” Tarre paused, a frown passing over her face. “In fact, everything we've heard since you burst in on us this morning has been his. I wonder what's going on?”

“His? You mean this is Justin's music playing?” Bastila looked confused.

“Of course. I'm surprised you don't recognize it. I would have thought you'd know all his stuff by heart. You traveled together for months before his little run in with the Council.”

“Run in?” asked Juahni.

“The Temple Observation Deck?” asked Tarre. When neither Juhani nor Bastila responded Tarre continued. “The slaver?”

“Yes, I remember. But a 'run in'? He got himself into a huge amount of trouble,” said Bastila with resignation.

“Hardly,” replied Tarre. Both Bastila and Juhani looked at her quizzically. “You don't really think a few hours in the Detention was all that Atris, or especially Condrut, wanted to dish out, do you?”

“Well... no,” the Cathar said haltingly, bad memories of that stressful morning coming back. Only the thought of sitting beside Yuthura Ban, feeling her warmth as they sat close together on the hard bench was any compensation.

Bastila's fear for Justin's safety came back in a flash. “Condrut looked as if he would pull his lightsaber and strike Justin down right there, his hands still in binders.”

Tarre actually laughed out loud. Not a very big laugh, but loud enough to offend both Juhani and her former master. “Listen to you two. Force! Condrut would have come out well on the wrong side of that one, I can assure you.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Dustil.

“I was there,” Tarre answered, matter of factly. “Not in the Council chambers,” she added, waving her hands dismissively, “but the last time Condrut pulled his lightsaber. It was not an auspicious occasion.”

“Why not?” asked Juhani.

“It was during the first round of a day-long dueling exhibition. He lost.”

“Lost?” asked Bastila. “Viggor Condrut?!”

Tarre nodded, her eyes gleaming.

Dustil eyed her suspiciously, not liking the look in her green eyes. “Why does that mean Master Condrut couldn't have killed Justin while his hands were bound?”

The little red-head gave a curious smile. “Because I was his opponent.”

*

Revan stood alone in his chambers. Truly alone, this time. He had sent even his Sith guard away.

His failure to learn how to control Time through the Force ate at him. Not even torturing the Sith Priest to death had changed his mood, nor did the rest of the day hold any promise on that front. He turned his Sith-skin mask over in his hands, considering it.

He liked the mask, liked how it felt upon his face; he could feel the power of the Dark side from the long dead Sith flow into his skin, through his pores into his body. He liked even more that it terrified the Mandalorians and kept them in line. Even Mandalore, even Canderous Ordo himself. Revan could feel his queasiness every time the Clansman stepped into his presence. The Dark Lord smiled. Ordo had taken to wearing his helmet, even with the painful dent, just to keep anyone from seeing that he turned green whenever he looked upon his master.

“If I can break Ordo with nothing more than a parlour trick, imagine what I can do to the Republic.” He laughed aloud.

And then he remembered the Jedi. The laugh ended abruptly.

“Sooner or later I will need to deal with them.”

A clash of weapons beyond the closed door cut short his considerations and he replaced his mask, the motion so smooth and fluid an observer would never notice the hurry with which the action was performed.

“Enter.”

Mandalore entered first, followed by two Sith guards. Again Revan smiled at Ordo's dented headpiece, his own mask hiding it from view.

“My Lord,” Mandalore began, “we have received communications from the garrison on Dxun. Several vessels, claiming to carry 'diplomatic emissaries', have requested permission to land.”

“Emissaries?”

“They wish to discuss joining with us.”

“Indeed?” Revan was pleased. He knew his strategy was sound, his tactics flawless, but even he had not expected such rapid results. A group wished to join the Mandalorians, even before knowing of his own participation? It was a remarkable achievement. Among the Jedi, those superstitious Force-worshipers, it would be taken as a sign, a fortuitous omen. Revan had cast aside those teachings long ago, laughing behind his blank face at Kreia and the others, Lamar, Zhar Lestin and Tokare; their childish reactions. He'd even used it against them, against Malak specifically as he twisted the man to his purpose.

Revan did not believe in the predestined Force. He believed in Revan.

“We must meet them. Arrange it, Mandalore.”

*

It was like old times.

Sad times.

Justin sat silently in the cockpit as Marauder circled deep within the planet's atmosphere, scanning for a certain energy signature, for a certain living being. What made it different, what made Marauder happy, was that Kashyyyk teamed with life. The scanner display was filled to overflowing with life signs and the little ship wanted Justin to notice and be pleased. The pair had spent far too many years scanning dead worlds in the vain hope of finding survivors; plants or animals, perhaps far underground, hidden far from the Machines.

Marauder worried about its Captain, its friend. Justin had spent so long alone the ship had seen how he had changed. He had been trained, groomed, made, to protect life. But when there was no more life to protect existence became nothing more than a fight to smash the Machines; a meaningless fight to avenge Life. And each year a little more humanity slipped away. He grew more and more like his enemy, cold, calculating, hard.

“How about some music?” Justin asked aloud, reaching down by the side of his seat and pushing a button.

Fear of Rain came on, the percussion thumping its way around the small cockpit for a moment before the keyboard arpeggio faded in.

It was one of Justin's favorites, an instrumental, Justin preferring not to have singing disturb him, played by one of his favorite artists. He had discovered it way back in his first days on his homeworld, sneaking off after lights-out, unable to sleep, and immersing himself in what remained of his culture, examining and reexamining what artifacts remained after so many years of war.

The song was a bit dark and sad for the current situation, Marauder not pleased with the choice. Fortunately, it was nothing a slight alteration to the playlist couldn't fix. Not wanting to change the mood too abruptly, the ship moved another piece, by the same artist, to the next slot before the current one finished. It too was dark, but not as much, with more of a “driving”, pressing beat. And Justin really like the saxophone part about 2 minutes in. At least that's what the instrument was called when the recording was made, Justin had the documentation to provide it. Over the year or so he spent traveling the Outer Rim he'd concluded that the closest match in this galaxy was a fanfar, and he never missed an opportunity to have a fanfar player sit with him after the cantinas closed for the night.

Marauder was right about the saxophone part, Justin thumped his hands on the sides of his sling-back seat in time to the beat, but the song carried other risks, and the ship hoped that the music itself would be entertaining enough.

Not this time; Justin closed his eyes, took a deep breath and remembered.

“Come on, Sommerset,” he cried, “let's go! Otherwise we'll get caught in the rain before we get to the pond!”

“I'm coming, I'm coming!” answered his companion, sliding her foot into the stirrup. “I know how much you want to swim.”

Justin looked back over his shoulder, waiting until just before the auburn haired beauty swung her weight across the saddle to put his heels to his horse, tearing off past the guards with a smile. Never one to back down from a challenge, Sommerset, Captain of the Guard, gave her mount the end of the reins and thundered off after him. The pair flew out of the encampment, Lady Alberta's tents and attendants falling away behind them, their laughter riding the gentle breeze back to the sentries.

In a few moments they disappeared over the rolling hills and the two lovers were alone on the grassy slope.

“What's keeping you?” Justin called. “Should I slow down?”

“Not on your life, demon!”

Justin had tried to explain that his powers were not borne of the majik wielded by some members of this world, but from a far advanced technology. He might as well have saved his breath. Sommerset might love him, but her love was for a Demon, a user of majik, not a man.

As he rode along, the word reminded Justin of how he came to join these people, and how he discovered their ability to sense, shape and sometimes even control the fields of energy that surrounded them. “Majik” they called it. But to a Tech-savvy off-worlder, a soldier from a star-spanning race, he saw it simply as energy, although he was intrigued with their abilities, Lady Alberta, ruler of Amron Thong, in particular. The small, dark haired woman, lovely in her own way, had a reputation for sorcery that made her own people both proud and fearful of her.

And she had Sommerset completely under her spell. The much taller woman once told him that Alberta claimed to have cast a binding spell over her, keeping the powerful warrior at her side as her defender. At first, Justin didn't believe it, but having seen the two together over several months, Sommerset swinging from incensed to disturbingly ecstatic with a look or the wave of a hand, he wasn't so sure.

And Justin was certain Alberta was growing ever more concerned of his own influences over the Captain of the Guard. It had started innocently enough, Alberta sending Sommerset off to guard a shipment of old books being brought from her home in exile, fearful that old enemies would like nothing better than to steal her most powerful majiks and turn them against her. Justin, preferring the soldier's company to her mistress's, went along, riding with Sommerset and her few hand-picked troops.

The further they traveled from Alberta's seat of power, the more open Sommerset became, until on a clear, warm night, the other troopers laying about on the open ground, the air far too still for sleeping in the tents, Justin and Sommerset found each other in the way he had hoped since their first meeting. Now, only days later, they rode together like a long-time couple, each teasing the other.

Thunder cracked in the far distance.

“Now would be a good time to slow down!” Sommerset called out as the boom rattled down the valley. Her horse was a powerful Andalusian, bred and trained for battle; the noise of a simple storm wouldn't faze it, but she held little expectation for Justin's. A true Thoroughbred, she felt his animal too high-strung and skittish for the open fields, let alone a thunder storm.

“Looking back on it now,” Justin considered from Marauder's cockpit an unknown number of dimensions away, “I should have listened to her.”

Marauder saw the thoughts passing through Justin's head, sensed his blood chemistry change, measured his slowing breathing, as he mulled the past. Again the ship rearranged the playlist, pulling Justin's most favorite of all to the top; he'd taken to calling it “Bastila's Room”, imagining seeing her standing in the open french doors to the gardens, the soft ocean breeze blowing her dress around her, the sunlight framing her beauty; a dream he'd all but given up for lack of seeing her.

By now, of course, Justin was suspicious, especially because this was the third song in a row by the same musician.

“ 'Mo!” He shook his head slowly at the ship's obvious manipulations, but he appreciated the effort, especially when the music reached the break, the duet, about halfway through. The horn and guitar, playing together, harmonizing and then separating, reinforcing each other, swirling and driving, was his favorite passage of all.

“You know,” he said, the sternness gone from his voice, “I've always wanted to find someone to actually play that duet with. I wonder where I can find a fanfar player these days.”

*

Buth awoke with a start, Iestyn tapping him not so gently on the side with it's waldo. The padawan looked at the nearby datapad, half disassembled to make a real-time communications device, cursing once again his failure to give the little droid a voice of some kind. Even the beeps and clicks of binary would have been easier to work with than constantly having to consult the data display.

“A ship?!” he asked.

Iestyn 'nodded', it's body rolling up and down, the single optical sensor bobbing like a face.

Rescue! A chance to escape and tell the Jedi of the danger!

“Hold on there, Redfern!” he scolded himself, Master Frosh's warning still echoing inside his head. “What kind of ship?”

He looked at the orange text as it ran up the tiny screen. “A shuttle? Who's shuttle?”

Buth heaved a sigh of disappointed resignation at the answer. He sat up and closed his eyes, drawing a cleansing breath and centering himself in the Force. No point in panicking for want of information. The droid didn't know.

“Iestyn, go out and check. But stay hidden! Understand?”

Again the droid nodded, and pulling it's waldo back into a halo it slipped away silently. Buth sat and looked around his small hiding place, counting the items he'd need to pack before making an exit. He just hoped it would be leisurely.

*

As the four Jedi came to the Fantasia's shuttle bay, Dustil pulled Tarre aside into a shallow alcove.

“What?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.

“I... I want to go with Master Shan and Knight Juhani. To Kashyyyk.”

Tarre smiled in both joy and worry. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Very sure. Will you come with me? Master?”

Tarre snorted in laughter.

“What are you two doing over there?” called Bastila, her tone cool where the little red-head was concerned.

Dustil's smile was constrained. “What?”

The little Jedi stretched up on tip-toes and kissed him quickly on the lips. “All right, I'll come. But only if you never call me that again.”

“What? 'Master'?”

Tarre pursed her lips.

“You don't want me to call you master, master?” Dustil continued. Tarre glared at him, her lips still compressed. “But master, why don't you want me to call you master, master?”

At her limit, she swatted him on the arm, none too gently he noticed, and pulled him out. “Come on or I'll show you how I deal with unruly padawans!”

The pair rejoined the others under the raptor-like glare of Bastila's eye, but not before Dustil, timing it carefully so that Bastila would notice, and so that Tarre would notice Bastila noticing, pinched the red-head's bottom.

“Promise?” he whispered as she gyrated away from his grasp.

Tarre smacked Dustil so hard on his own backside the popping sound echoed down the corridor. “Does that answer your question, padawan?!”

Juhani raised an eyebrow. Bastila's jaw dropped. Careful to make sure she showed no sign of how much her hand stung, the little red-head stopped before Bastila, looking up and down the taller woman. “Well? Are we going to Kashyyyk or not?”

Bastila simply stood motionless, unable to respond. Tarre shrugged her shoulders and walked around her, Dustil and then Juhani following, and onto the shuttle.

The trip to the surface lapsed in complete silence. Juhani had nothing to say, Dustil's bottom was actually sore, Tarre had said all that was necessary, and Bastila was still too shocked to string together two coherent syllables.

By the time the ramp opened and the four stepped onto the deck of the landing hanger on Ploo's fourth moon, she had regained some modicum of composure, but while behind them the shuttle filled with guests returning to the cruise ship, the lady Knight stood, a look of contemplation replacing her stunned expression, wondering what to do next. She actually hadn't formulated a plan beyond 'Get Tarre and Dustil to go to Kashyyyk' and now that that had been accomplished she was at an impasse. Her mind already agitated, she noticed that Justin's music had followed them even onto the watery moon.

“Master Bastila, is there a problem?” Juhani asked.

“Well, actually, I'm not sure how we should make our way to Kashyyyk.” It sounded good, or at least as if she had been thinking about it for more than just the last few seconds, which she hadn't. Bastila instantly regretted her words, fearing Tarre Adjura would jump on the situation and berate her for her lack of forethought.

Tarre frowned, but didn't say anything, mindful of Dustil's presence. If he really was going to turn over a new leaf and try to make up for at least some of the harm he'd caused, her laying into Bastila for starting them off on some hair-brained adventure without a safety net would be a mistake. If she was going to teach him, if she was going to be his Jedi master, she needed to set the right tone.

She didn't need to be a Vrook Lamar certainly, all grim and frigid, but neither did she need to be a Vima Sunrider, flashing into action on a whim while constantly criticizing and belittling. “Red-hair should be the only thing we have in common as masters,” Tarre thought. So she kept her mouth shut.

Dustil noticed Tarre's restraint and, in a spirit of contrition, he remained silent as well.

Juhani picked up on her former master's quandary. “It would be stealing to take the Star of Peltion, but perhaps the Admiral...” She left off, remembering the coolness between he and Bastila. “But perhaps not,” she continued, acting as if it was a simple change in topic.

Bastila nodded absently. It actually wasn't an all-together bad suggestion, even if it would mean spending more time with Carth and Lieutenant Ression. To say nothing of adding Tarre Adjura and Carth's son to the mix. She wasn't sure which group would suffer the greater indignity and discomfort, Carth and Tianna or Tarre and Dustil.

“More likely,” she thought, “it will be me.”

With nothing decided and without saying a word, Bastila started walking, the others following along behind. As she walked, she thought not about her problem but about the music drifting around her, like a pleasant undercurrent. It brought back so many pleasant memories, and she silently hummed along.

The three ships, the Negotiator, the Star of Peltion and Big Z, were in completely different parts of the massive starport. The Negotiator was the furthest away in the military/government area. Big Z was closer, but still beyond a reasonable walk, docked with the other 'small craft'. As a commercial vessel, the 'Star was the nearest to the shuttle hanger, only a few minutes away, and the Jedi arrived just in time to see two familiar faces step out of a taxi speeder.

Carth Onasi stood to one side to allow Tianna Ression to exit, his hand held out for her, and although she resisted taking it, she did smile at his chivalry.

As the pretty blonde came up to her full height, Tarre Adjura felt a sharp pain in her right hand. She looked down to see Dustil's hand wrapped around hers, squeezing it like it was a muja fruit.

“What?!” she screamed in her head.

“That's her!” came the mentally shouted and totally unexpected reply.

“Ahh!” Tarre jumped as the words formed inside her head. Juhani's ears pricked at the exclamation.

“It is only Admiral Onasi and Lieutenant Ression,” she said calmly, “although I did not expect to see them here, either.”

“What?” asked Tarre, somewhat shaken.

“That's her!” hissed Dustil.

“I said,” repeated the Cather, “it is only Admiral...” Juhani's words ran out and she stood looking at the pair, holding hands, each with a strangely startled expression. “Are the two of you all right?”

Both Dustil and Tarre came to their senses at the same time, looked down at their linked hands and promptly let go and stepped apart. Bastila, meanwhile, walked on ahead, oblivious to the miniature drama playing out behind her, intent only on walking past Carth and Tianna without being noticed, using the Force to blind them to her presence.

“Hello, Master Shan,” the blonde said.

“Bastila? Where?” asked Carth.

Caught, Bastila stopped and smiled, not too sheepishly she hoped. “Good afternoon, Carth. Lieutenant.” As she spoke she nodded to Tianna, but if she noticed a slight blush on Tianna's face, she made no mention.

“Bastila!” said Carth. “I'm kind of surprised to see you here. I hope you got Gwarshawk handed over to Mission okay. I saw her at the hospital, but she didn't mention him. She looked... good, by the way.”

“Did she?” replied the lady Knight, pleased to hear that at least one of their party was doing well. She took a moment to consider the new arrivals, waiting for the other Jedi to join her.

Bastila saw that the pair seemed fit; Carth no longer carried his arm so awkwardly and Tianna's leg was unsplinted. It didn't take much deduction to figure out why Carth had been at the hospital the same time Mission happened to drop by.

“So what are you doing here?” asked Carth.

“As a matter of fact, we... Oh! How rude of me. Carth, Lieutenant, this is Knight Tarre Adjura and Padawan Dustil Onasi.”

“So very nice to see you again, Padawan,” said Tianna, a pleasant smile on her face. She quickly turned to Carth. “We met at the New Year's celebration last year, while I was assigned to Admiral Dodonna.”

Carth's curious expression, a mix of surprise and distress, changed immediately to delight at her explanation. For as long as Carth had searched the galaxy for his son, he still wasn't very good at having the boy around, and finding him on such an accidental destination as Ploo IV, in the company of Bastila Shan no less, and then to have him already known by his Executive Officer was stretching coincidence just a bit too far.

“Maybe there really is a 'Will of the Force',” he thought to himself.

“So,” restarted Bastila, “we are heading back to Kashyyyk, to help settle the situation there.”

“That'll be convenient,” came another voice.

“Mission?” Bastila's voice wavered, ever so slightly, before she clamped down on it. The Vortal seed tea may have helped calm the lustful cravings, but there was still much to be embarrassed about her 'condition'; Tarre Adjura's presence added an entirely new level of stress to the situation.

“{But Aunt Mission, I don't wanna go home!}”

“Shush, you!” Mission scolded. “You're going back to Kashyyyk?” she asked of the group in general.

“Mission, how did you know we'd be here?” asked Carth, now seriously considering if he should just get it over with and join the Jedi, the Will of the Force so obviously in control of his life.

“I didn't. The 'Star is just the closest to the hotel, so I figured I'd start here, see if Theo was heading back, and hand Stinky here off to him. ”

“{But I don't wanna go back! I wanna stay with you!}”

“You're going back, and that's final, young man. If you don't your... Aunt... will have my little blue butt in a sling. And yours too!”

Carth chuckled to himself at Mission's remarks, and especially her tone, noting how much she'd matured over the years, sounding almost like a small Bastila Shan in her handling of Gwarshawk. Except for the 'butt' comment, of course.

“Kashyyyk?” he asked, turning back to Bastila. “Why back to Kashyyyk? I would have thought you'd be ready to finally get to Bestal III.”

Bastila smiled. “That's already been arranged for, thank you.” She paused and walked over to the Twi'lek. “Mission, I want to thank you for that.” She bowed.

For her part, Gwarshawk tugging on her arm in an effort to get away, Mission just smiled. She hadn't done it for thanks, she'd done it because it needed to get done. “Anytime.”

“So, young Gwarshawk,” continued the lady Knight, “I suppose it's time for you to be saying your goodbyes.”

“{I DON'T WANNA GO!}” the little Wookie howled.

“Hey!” came a hoarse shout from the hanger, a human dropping his large duffle and pulling his sidearm. “You leave him... Oh, it's you.” Theo Miz Plantis stepped off the ramp of the Star of Peltion and holstered his blaster. “All of you, I see. And some new folks. Jedi no less. I feel honored being seen off like this.”

He walked across the open decking, his hand outstretched. The entire group, except Tianna and Gwarshawk, unconsciously drew a sharp breath at the similarity with their first meeting with Justin Blacque. “I'm Theo Miz Plantis, Knight...?”

“Adjura,” Tarre replied.

“Enchanted,” said Plantis, taking her hand gently in his and raising it to his lips to kiss. He turned next to Dustil. “Knight...?”

“Padawan, actually,” the younger man replied, “Padawan Dustil Onasi.”

With a firm shake, Theo said “You two aren't related, are you?” his head nodding toward Carth.

“Actually,” said Dustil, “he's my father.”

“Really?! This call for a celebration!”

“Celebration? Why?” asked Bastila.

“Why not? I just got laid-off.”

Juhani, at last entering the conversation, said “Why should that be cause for celebration?”

“Well, when I say laid-off... Re-assigned is probably a better word for it. And with a substantial bonus for all that trouble on Kashyyyk.”

“What about your crewmates?” asked Carth.

Plantis' face went serious. “Nothing's going to bring them back. But the Company did right by their families, that's for sure.” He took a breath. “Come on.”

Leading the way, Plantis took the entire group, Bastila and Juahni, Carth and Tianna, Mission and Gwarshawk, even 'new friends' Tarre and Dustil, to the ship, stopping only to grab his overstuffed bag.

“Why don't you all make yourselves comfortable. Have a cup of caffa. I'll only be a few minutes and then we can talk more. I need to get my gear to the spacer's hostel before they run out of beds.”

Theo walked away from the ship, only stopping to look back once. Gwarshawk was still hanging near the open ramp, looking forlorn. At that moment the little Wookie noticed the control panel on the wall, the lights blinking in a curious pattern.

“Hey, little guy, don't look so glum!” he called back. “But whatever you do, don't press that orange...”

The ramp pulled closed in a flash and the main repulsor array activated, lifting the ship clear of the ground. In seconds the landing gear was retracted, and with the take-off procedure complete, the Star of Peltion launched itself skyward with a roar.

“... button,” finished the out-of-work cargo handler. Plantis stood in the empty hanger for a long while, the wind and dust of lift-off swirling around him, his face contorted in bemused contemplation.

“At least I have my gear.”