Too Many Justins - Chapter 57

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

Chapter 57 – A Night in Paradise

“Paradise is as much a place of the mind as it is a place of nature.”

- Talabac of Gallfrey

The stage faded into darkness for the last time. After a moment lights placed around the field came up slowly, letting everyone's eyes adjust. Couples and families stood and stretched, or bent down to fold up chairs or blankets. Drinks were finished, food boxes were picked up and the crowd made their way out of the bowl and toward the transports.

Justin walked out from behind the stage, finishing the last handshakes with the rest of the band.

“No, no. Not tonight,” he said, calling to the others.

“Oh ho!” said The Fabulous Milhaus, catching sight of Bastila Shan. “I gotcha!” He laid a finger aside his nose and gave Justin a sly look.

The soldier-musician gave a laugh and shook his head. “See you around, Milhaus. Try to stay out of trouble.”

The drummer gave his own belly laugh at that.

As Justin walked in their direction, the three Jedi were joined by Tigara while two people they didn't recognize attended to their chairs and tables and food. “Are you all ready to return?” the Cathar asked in her soft purr.

“Return?” said Bastila, her voice betraying her wish that the night would never end.

Justin arrived at that moment. Without a sound he stepped to Bastila and took her hand in his. “I didn't have a chance to tell you before. You look lovely.”

“I... Thank you.”

He turned to the others, still holding her hand. “Tarre, Dustil. I'm so glad you could be here, although I'm a little...”

“Surprised?” asked Tarre. “We certainly are.”

“Okay,” Justin replied. “More than a little then.”

“You were going to Kashyyyk, last time we talked,” the red-head added. “How did things go there?”

“Well enough. Well enough.” He paused to look at Bastila again. She, on the other hand, kept looking at Tigara. “You don't happen to know where a little Wookie named Gwarshawk is, do you?” he asked.

“Actually,” said Bastila, the memory of his odor the entire trip in the Star of Peltion from Ploo making her eyes water once more, “he's here.”

“Here?”

“With Mission,” she added.

“Mission?” said Justin.

++ Who else is here that you didn't tell me about!! ++

== Jedi Juhani. Carth Onasi. Lieutenant Tianna Ression... ==

“What Vandar couldn't make it?” Justin growled aloud, his eyes raised to the stars. Bastila looked offended before realizing he wasn't speaking to her.

“None of us was supposed to make it,” said Tarre with a touch of indignation in her voice, ignoring his non-sequitur.

“Well...” Justin fumbled.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” interrupted Tigara, “but we need to get going. The approach to the house isn't lit and the longer we wait the more dangerous it will be.”

“Yes,” said Bastila distractedly. “Yes. We... I'm sorry, Justin.” She looked around quickly, frowning slightly as she looked at Tarre. She made up her mind and with a quick motion, leaned forward and kissed the soldier. “We have to go.”

Justin held her hand a little longer than she intended. “Please...” she said.

He smiled. “It's okay. I'll find something to do.”

*

Bastila rode the entire way back to the complex in silent misery.

“What an idiot!” she scolded herself as she stared out the side window. “I should have stayed with him. Wherever he is, whatever he's doing.”

“Bastila.” It was Tarre. “Relax. You don't need to worry about Justin.”

The brunette looked at her, but the interior of the speeder was too dark to see anything. Even calling the Force only showed Tarre's glowing form without detail. But she could imagine the little red-head's face, the look of self-righteous pity is was sure to hold.

Ever since the 'lightsaber incident' as Bastila had grown to call it over the years, ever since Tarre was assigned to Vima Sunrider, her former friend had always looked down on her, always considered herself the superior of the two. Bastila's physical advantages not withstanding, she'd always felt inadequate in the rhistorian's presence, much like with Vrook Lamar. It was one of the reasons she'd left their friendship behind as they had grown up.

Through the Force she could see Tarre and Dustil pressed close together, her head on his shoulder. “Probably with her arm around him,” she thought. “Can't you just leave me alone to be unhappy?” she said aloud.

“Unhappy?” Tarre shifted, facing the Jedi Master. “He's here isn't he?” she asked. “Isn't that what you've been wanting? Why do you see only the darkness in every situation?”

“Darkness? You...” Bastila couldn't even finish and she turned violently toward the window, practically pressing her face to the transparent panel. Tarre was right. When left to her own devices, she inevitably drew the worst conclusions, finding only the bad wherever she looked.

“Bastila,” Tarre said touching her gently on the arm, “he loves you very much.”

“He... he said that?”

“He didn't have to.”

As Bastila turned back, the speeder drifted over the wide pale concrete of the landing pad, the bright running lights illuminating the Star of Peltion and another little ship, a startling bright blue, sitting just in front. They continued on toward the house.

“In fact,” Tarre continued, “if I've learned anything at all about Justin Blacque over all those weeks, I wouldn't be the least surprised if he wasn't already here. Waiting for you.”

“What...? You mean...? Of course! If they could arrange for him to perform here maybe he's a guest!”

Even before the speeder came to a complete stop Bastila opened the door and jumped out, running across the wide, white drive, her feet crunching on the crushed shells.

“Yeah, something like that,” said Tarre to her back before turning to Dustil.

After a moment or two, Tigara wondered why the others hadn't gotten out as well and she flipped on the interior lights. With a single glance into the back she flipped them off again and turned to face front, rigidly holding her head forward. Then she closed the privacy screen to the back seat.

*

Bastila rushed in through the wide front doors, the cool conditioned air making her skin tingle.

The house was dark. A few lights flicked on automatically as she approached, only to turn back off when she passed. Not stopping in the empty Great Room, she paused just at the near end of the long hall.

“Now where would he be?” she thought.

“Food!”

She dashed back across the Great Room, the same lights flicking on and then off in reverse order, skidding to stop just outside the large dining room. This part of the complex housed all of the food related areas. The 'large dining room' came first, followed by a short hall that ended in the kitchen. A second, smaller dining room was off the hall to the right.

She stood for a moment and smoothed her dress, running a hand through her hair, trying again to get that one little stray piece to stay off her forehead and with its mates. It was useless, she knew; her father had always tried to do the same thing when she was a little girl with no success, and nothing about it had changed since then. With a deep breath she stepped to the door and it slid open with a tiny hiss.

Bastila stopped after only one step. The room was empty. The chandelier began to glow as she stood there frowning. She huffed and put her fists on her hips.

“That would have been entirely too simple, now wouldn't it,” she scolded.

She crossed the large room, maneuvering around the huge table and the many chairs. The vases were empty, the plates and utensils were all put away, leaving only the rich red wood to glow in the yellowish light. She passed through the far door and into the hallway and then on down. She stopped at the door to the kitchen itself and again adjusted her dress and her hair before rolling her eyes at her own behavior.

“Honestly, you'd think I was some adolescent.”

In a way she was, she supposed, having so little experience with men in an... intimate... sense. “I wonder if Tarre could tell that Justin and I had only... you know... that one time?”

Nor had her disastrous encounter with Mission aboard the Negotiator had done anything to increase her knowledge of the proper forms and customs of such conduct. Quite the opposite in fact. It had also made her that much more skittish where her emotions, especially her more raw, primitive emotions, were concerned.

“Oh Force, I hope Tarre was right about him,” she whispered. “I love him so much.” And then she stepped through the door and into the kitchen.

*

Tarre and Dustil finally vacated the speeder, letting the chauffeur leave at last, both of them a touch embarrassed when they realized that the young Cathar was privy to their activities.

“Boy,” said Dustil as they crunched their way across the drive, “I hope Tigara's report doesn't include anything about us. I'd hate to think what the Chairman would say about our behavior in the back seat of his limousine.”

“Dustil, darling,” Tarre said, pressing against his shoulder as the walked, “I'm pretty sure the Chairman already knows.”

She could see his concerned expression in the moonlight, the cool blue making the slight damp feel even colder, and she rolled her eyes. “Men!” she said to herself.

The Great Room was dark when they entered, the lights in the nearest conversation pit switching on as they approached.

“Everybody's in bed early,” said Tarre, looking at her chronometer. “If Tang had this thing set properly it's only a little after 10. I'd have thought Mission Vao at least would still be up, maybe having a drink at the bar or something.”

“Yeah.” Dustil paused and tilted his head to one side. “I wonder what my dad and Tianna did while we were at the concert?”

Tarre gave him a look. “Are you really sure you want to know?”

Seeing her expression, he answered, “When you put it that way, maybe not.”

Tarre went behind the bar herself and poured a short glass of something brown.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she replied.

“Pour me one too, while you're at it.” After the vision of his father and Tianna, Dustil thought a drink might be a good idea.

Tarre gave him a doubtful look, but pushed the first glass across to him, pouring another while she stood on a small stepping stool set so the bar top was at a workable height. Dustil took the proffered glass, raised it to his lips and tossed it down at a swallow.

*Cough!* *Cough!* *Cough!* *Cough!*

“That's whisky,” Tarre said dryly as he continued to sputter. With little sympathy for the headstrong padawan, she took her own and drew a long slow sip. Liking it, she finished the rest at a throw. After a suitable pause for the burn to subside, she added, “A very good whisky. Not that I expected any less.”

Dustil continued to cough and hack, so Tarre took the glasses, put the bottle in its place and walked back around the bar.

“Come on, hot shot,” she said, taking the gasping Onasi by the arm, “let's go to bed.”

*

The kitchen was organized just as in most restaurants. Separate sets of counters and cabinets were arranged in two rows across the width of the room, providing work areas for several cooks at the same time. Along the walls were shelves for storage, or racks holding a huge variety of pots and pans. If droids didn't do the cooking for the guests, those who did didn't use any automated food synthesizers either. It was all 'old-fashioned' in this kitchen.

It was also just as empty as the dining room, and Bastila walked around the first countertop, unsure what she was looking for, but not wanting to walk back out empty handed. Halfway along she heard the door slide open and she turned quickly, looking for some danger.

“Justin!” she exclaimed, seeing him standing just inside the kitchen.

“Sorry if I startled you. I heard some noise and...”

“No. Never,” Bastila lied. She should have know he was there, should have known where he was all along, but she hadn't even though to use the Force. “What an incompetent... You've grown lazy, Jedi!”

“I thought... you might be hungry after your show and...” Her words just trailed off. She wanted to run right over to him and throw herself into his arms, but she wasn't sure how.

“Talk! Say something!” she screamed inside her head 'Something' was all she managed, something stupid. “How have you been?”

“Fine. And you?” Justin wasn't any more comfortable seeing her so close and yet so far away. They stood across the work counter from each other, that single meter of smooth polished steel feeling as if it were lightyears wide.

Bastila nodded, the words dying in the back of her throat. “Tell him how much you missed him!”

“I heard your music.” (“*Groan* You really are terrible at this, Bastila Shan!”)

“I know. I saw you at the concert.”

“No. I meant on the Fantasia.”

“You were on the Fantasia? When?”

“A week or so ago.” She picked up some cooking instrument, a handle with a bulbous construction of looped wires. It was pointless, but it kept her hands from shaking. “We arrived at Ploo IV the day before your concert.”

Justin smiled. “You went?”

The Jedi Master nodded, her eyes damp and sparkling. “It was so hard... seeing Dustil looking at Tarre.”

“Dustil?” he thought. “What...?”

“Dustil?” he asked, aloud this time.

Bastila nodded. “Yes. He was just sitting there and looking at her. I thought I'd lost you for certain.”

“Lost me?”

“When I saw how... I know I'm... high maintenance, but I don't know how to be different. It's just... when he looked at her...”

Justin frowned. “Bastila, I'm afraid you've lost me. You were jealous because Dustil was looking at Tarre?”

“Of course. Dustil was on stage, and he was looking at Tarre, and I just kept thinking 'Justin is in love with her. And not me.' Silly really.”

Justin shook his head as his eyebrows wandered around his forehead. “I'm not usually this slow... You were worried that I was leaving you because Dustil was looking at Tarre?”

The whisk slipped from Bastila's nervous fingers and clattered on the counter, metal on metal, making a terrific racket. “I hope that won't wake anyone.”

“Bastila, are you feeling well?”

“Oh, yes. Very well, thank you. Mission stopped off at Bestal III and got me a sack of Vortal Tree seeds. They taste like decaying pond algae, by the way, but they do seem to be working.”

“Maybe I'm not feeling well...” Justin said, looking at his feet. “Wait... I see! Tarre was on stage and Dustil was in the audience and...” His expression, so hopeful in a successful conclusion turned to cold exasperation when he saw her shake her head.

“No, no, no. Dustil was on stage, looking at Tarre. Don't you see? That's what made me so... upset.” Putting the whisk back, Bastila took a different tool, a long thin handle with a wide flexible blade on one end.

Justin cursed having sent Marauder away for the night. The extra memory and processing capacity of the ship would be welcome under the circumstances.

“Bastila, I asked Tarre to sit on stage for me.”

Her mind still back in the theater, Bastila turned the utensil this way and that before answering abserntly q.“Yes. She said something like that, but...”

“Wait... You mean...?” Justin mumbled, the fog slowly lifting. “Dustil must have taken... It was... Dustil on stage! And he looked like me! Oh, no wonder...”

He glanced left then right, measuring the distances to each end, calculating how long it would take to run either direction to join her. Instead he put his hand down firmly and vaulted over, landing to her left, his arm already around her waist. Justin wrapped his other arm around her, and when she didn't pull back, he drew her toward him. “I am so, so sorry.”

They kissed for what seemed like hours, and a few moments later they were both very glad that the kitchen door, ordered especially that way by the Interior Decorator for some unknown and unexplained reason, had a lock.

*

Tianna lay staring at the ceiling, tears filling her eyes and running down her cheeks onto the pillow. She was alone.

She'd told Carth about Dustil and now she was alone.

She hadn't told him the truth, of course. She had wanted to, desperately, but hadn't. “How could I?” she thought. But she'd still told a tale close enough to the truth to bring her little world, or at least her little fantasy, crashing down around her. She replayed the scene over and over in her mind, Darth Infieda so disgusted by her feeble performance that the hateful words had stopped, leaving the little girl inside her to cry in bed alone, without even the Darkside's torture for company...

“Carth, I knew Dustil,” she said.

It was too dark to see his expression, but his tone told her of his dismissive attitude.

“You said that, all the way back on Ploo. Remember?”

“I know I did, but... Oh, Carth this is so hard.”

Her first difficulty was deciding how to phrase her admission. There was little point in concocting a massive lie, not with Dustil so close at hand. Part of her, some Dark part, was sure she could seduce the young Jedi into supporting whatever story she told (his obvious attachment to the little red-head notwithstanding), but she rest of her simply didn't have the energy for it. She'd grown tired of all the lies.

“I met Dustil at a political function,” she started.

“You said that too.”

“And I got to know him very, very well.”

“You mean...?

“Please, Carth. Let me finish before you... hate me. I... I seduced him.” She felt the old pilot stiffen under her. “I seduced him,” she repeated, “in order to get a hold over him. To compromise him. To... get him to spy against the Jedi.”

Carth's breathing came fast and shallow now. Tianna could feel his hands shaking as he took them off her body.

“I took his information and passed it along to...” And here was where her courage failed. “... the Fleet. To Dodonna.”

Carth didn't respond. “I told him I was working for the Sith...” She broke down then, that one word triggering so much self-hatred inside her. “I told him... that I would help him destroy the Jedi.”

He pushed her off him and climbed out of the bed, took his robe off the bench at the foot of the bed and stepped to the french doors, the moonlight framing him in it's blue-gray glow. Pausing a moment to cast a single glance back at her, he stepped through the door and out into the night.

Hours later, hours she'd spent crying, he hadn't come back.

She was still alone. And she didn't like it.

*

“Explain this.”

Mandalore stood as if frozen. Revan, Emperor of Lahara (and soon of the galaxy if the two of them had any say in the matter) was in a rage. His tone was soft, but his eyes burned yellow and lightning danced around his head and down his arms.

“My Lord?” Ordo asked, truly unknowing.

“This.”

With a wave, Revan hurled the datapad at Mandalore, the device striking him with such force that he staggered. Somehow, through Revan's use of the Force no doubt, it didn't shatter into a million pieces. Ordo read the headline:

Mandalorians Attack Aargau!

The report of the surprise attack was still sketchy in detail, but it went on to talk in very plain terms about the sightings of thousands of Basilisks descending from the skies, destroying everything as they swept across the face of the doomed world.

“But... My Lord! We made no attack!”

Revan's next wave hurled Mandalore himself, tossing him like a rag doll, against the far wall. “Basilisks, Ordo?”

“But...” was all the stunned Canderous Ordo could say before he was lifted up again by the Force. As Revan held him suspended in mid-air the Clansman felt his chest compress. No simple throat choke this time, it felt as if a thousand metal bands were tightening around him.

“I did not authorize an attack on Aargau,” said Revan quietly.

“Nor... did... I... my....” Mandalore couldn't get the last word out. Suddenly the pressure was released and he pulled in a huge belly full of air.

“For you sake, I hope you are not lying to me, Canderous. I do not like liars.”

Revan turned, his cloak snapping to compete with the popping of the Force lightning.

“Find out who did!” he called back as Ordo hit the floor, gasping. “I wish to speak with them.”

*

“Am I just the next one on the Fleet's hit list?” Carth wondered as he sat looking at the slowly turning stars, the humid air cool on his exposed skin. He pulled his robe around him against the chill. “I really thought we had something... I can't believe it was all just a scam.”

“Even with all the Jedi I've known over the years... How could Forn think I would turn my back on the Republic?”

“Dad?”

Carth looked up from his stern contemplation, too self-absorbed to be startled by his son's approach. It was nearly dawn, the first pale light coming up into of the now moonless eastern sky, and he couldn't really make out the younger man's expression as he approached.

“You're up late,” Carth said.

“Yeah, well...” Dustil ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Carth motioned to one of the empty chairs.

“Nice night,” Dustil said.

Carth just grunted, but whether in agreement or disagreement his son couldn't tell.

“Are you still mad about this afternoon?” Dustil asked.

“Yeah, in a way, I guess I am. And about something Tianna said to me tonight. I know I wasn't a very good father and all, and speaking as a Fleet Officer I should probably look at it differently...” Dustil frowned in the dim light, wondering where his father was heading. “But I must say that I never suspected you'd spy against the Jedi.”

“Tianna told you?” Dustil whispered.

“She said she put you up to it!”

“But dad!”

“Don't you dare 'but dad' me! Like I said, I'm not a Jedi, I'm a Fleet Officer. I should think differently, but I don't. I can't stand a traitor, Dustil. I can't and I won't.”

“Will you listen if I explain?”

The words were such a surprise to Carth, such maturity in not launching directly into a series of adolescent denials, that his resolve wavered. “Okay. Explain.”

“Yes. I did... spy on the Jedi. I did. I wish I could take it back, but I can't. I can't undo it. But... with Tarre...”

“Does she know?”

The question was angry, just as Dustil expected. “Who wouldn't a spy lie to, I suppose” he thought. “Yes,” he answered, “she knows. I told her.”

Carth took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out. “I don't have any responsibilities to the Jedi, so I won't tell them, not if Knight Adjura already knows. The Jedi can deal with you as they see fit. Tianna, on the other hand...”

“They will, dad” said Dustil, missing Carth's last comment. “I want them to. But...” He paused. He may have told Tarre what he had done, but he hadn't told her why, and he hesitated again. “I was wrong. I was angry and I was wrong.”

“Dustil, you don't...”

“Yes, I do. I do. I need to explain it all. You're all the family I have left. You deserve to know.”

*

Tarre rolled over, her half asleep mind realizing Dustil was gone.

“Why is he always the one that gets up early?”

She had awakened once before, not very long before by a glance at the chronometer, to find Dustil pressed up against her back. She'd just wanted to sleep. Uninterrupted.

'If you touch me one more time, Dustil Onasi,” she'd whispered sharply, not even moving in response to his caress, 'I'll break that hand off!'

“I guess I was a little mean,” she thought, sitting up to look around their room. “He is only 22. I suppose an 'old woman' like me should be grateful for his interest,” she said softly. Tarre was only nine years his senior, hardly an old maid, but popular stereotypes exist in all walks of life.

Her background had been substantially more open than many of her contemporaries, but even she had no practical experience in these things. There were several times she had been tempted, and once she had almost given in, but her Archives made her hesitate. She knew the Jedi had not always been so strict in their dealing with relationships, but that had been of little comfort with Atris watching her every move.

It was different with Dustil. She loved him, very passionately. And she didn't care who knew.

“I suppose that's how I know it's really love.”

With a yawn she left the bed. The room was warmer than she wished, but she grabbed her fluffy robe anyway, before setting off to find her Padawan.

Tarre walked through the Great Room. “I wonder where he is?” she thought, her feet making quiet padding sounds as she crossed the smooth stone tiles. She called the Force, opening herself to Dustil. Their expression of their love for each other through their bond only seemed to deepen the feelings between them.

She felt him, felt the cool air on his arms, saw the dimly lit figure across the dimly lit table, felt the anguish in his heart. Barefoot, the little red-head hurried outside to join him.

It was obvious that Tarre had entered the scene in the middle of the conversation, so she hung back, not ready to intrude, staying just close enough for the Force to let her hear.

“Tianna told the truth about how we met,” Dustil said. “She was across the Hall, with Dodonna. I was with Vandar. I saw her, looked into her eyes and something...”

Carth closed his eyes in the darkness, remember his own meeting with the beautiful blonde.

“We talked. That night and others. Only at official functions at first, but then other times. More and more. I... fell for her. She was so... different and open. She was everything the Jedi around me weren't. We... slept together a few times before she started asking questions.”

The old pilot heard his son's typical tale of the spy; the dirty little games, playing on the 'target's' sympathies, trying to gain some hold, some obligation, over them. Anything they could use to turn that person against their own. And he saw all the parallels to his past few months with Tianna.

“I joked about it with her at first,” Dustil continued, “figuring she was just some Jedi fangirl. But then she mentioned 'others', people she knew, people she worked with. People who wanted to do the Jedi a great deal of harm.”

He paused, a slight gust of wind blowing water off one of the small waterfalls between the many pools, making a wet splashing sound in the dark.

“That made it easy,” Dustil added.

“Why?” asked Carth, surprise bringing him out of his self-centered considerations.

“Why? I hated them. I hated the Jedi.”

Carth's look asked the question his voice didn't.

“Because they were supposed to defend us,” Dustil answered. “They were supposed to save us. The Jedi are the protectors of the Republic. They said it all the time. They said it so often that we all believed it.”

“Oh, Dustil...” thought Tarre from the darkest shadows.

“They said it so often that I think even they believed it.” Dustil paused, letting his words sink in. What he had to say next was sure to hurt his father. “If they defend the Republic, why did you have to go off to fight?”

“Because...” started Carth, but then the words deserted him.

“Because they let you down, too.” Dustil stood up suddenly, his emotions running hot, needing a way to vent. He paced for a moment, his head thrown back, breathing deeply. “The Jedi will save us,” he said in a falsetto, derision dripping from every syllable. “I can't tell you how many times people said that as the Sith troopers marched across Telos. 'The Jedi will save us!' ”

He turned back to his father, fixing him with a stare, his eyes almost glowing in the near dark. “The Sith would mow them down by the hundreds, all of them chanting 'the Jedi will save us' like it was some sort of prayer.”

Dustil stooped by the pool, dipping his hand into the warm water. He stood, shaking the water off his hand before rubbing the two together.

“You wouldn't remember Selene, dad, but I do. You wouldn't remember because you weren't around when I met her. Or when I knew her. Because you off were covering up for the Jedi who didn't bother trying to save us.”

“That's not true! Bastila...” Carth replied, but his heart really wasn't in it. Dustil was right, the Jedi were too little, too late. Too many defections to Revan's side, too few who would take up the cause against him out of... antipathy? fear? cowardice? Even with Bastila Shan's help... And what did that amount to? One young girl, about the same age as Dustil was now. Even with the Force, even with her Battle Meditation; as Carth looked back on it, it seemed even more like a bad joke, that day she had walked onto his bridge and presumed to give him orders; what could the Republic expect from a single Jedi as young as Bastila Shan?

“You're right Dustil. The Jedi weren't our saviors....”

The young man looked at him, trying to make out his expression, the Force providing little help, his father's aura a mixture of so many different emotions and thoughts that he couldn't sort through them all.

Carth stood up, his back stiff and his legs feeling like lead. “... I'm just not sure they deserve to die for it.”

*

“{Come on, Aunt Mission!}”

Gwarshawk shook the little Twi'lek by the shoulder.

“{Come on!}”

Mission opened one eye and gave the smelly little Wookie a myopic look.

“Wha...? Gwarshawk! Do you know what time it is?” She rolled onto an elbow, looking first at the chronometer, and then, the early hour registering with her brain, over at Juhani's bed.

“Do not worry about me, Mission,” the Cathar purred from under her blankets, “I was ready to get out of bed now anyway.”

“{Aunt Mission!}” Gwarshawk warbled, the Wookie equivalent of a whine.

“Okay! Okay. Give me a minute, geeze.” She looked over and saw Juhani shifting under her covers. “Beat it, little guy. Girl stuff.”

The male pouted but did as ordered, waiting outside the door to their shared room until both women had done what ever constituted 'girl stuff'. He would have sat down, except there wasn't a chair in the hall and he didn't like sitting on the floor because his bad feet made it hard to get back up again. And he didn't dare go out into the Great Room for fear Mission would slip away without his seeing her, as she had the last time she'd promised to look at his tree.

So he stood right in front of the door, not even moving when Knight Adjura and Padawan Onasi walked by. He wondered why she was looking so upset, given the happy things he saw when he looked at her. But knowing he was just a little boy, he kept his questions, and his information, to himself.

Gwarshawk like having secrets.

*

“I thought you wanted some caffa to help calm down your stomach?” said Dustil, walking down the short hallway to the kitchen to join her. “Why are you just standing there?”

Tarre turned and gave him a caustic look. “Because the door is locked.”

“Locked?”

“Yes, locked.” She stepped back and gestured with her arm for him to try it himself.

“It's locked,” he said. Tarre rolled her eyes. “Who would install a lock on a kitchen door?” he asked.

Tarre moved past the padawan and kicked the door hard with her foot. She was rewarded with a thudding sound from the other side, followed by a feminine yelp, a series of metallic clanks and clatters, muffled voices and laughter. In a moment the door slid open and Justin Blacque stood smiling in the opening.

“Good morning!” he chimed.

“About time,” groused Tarre. “I need some caffa.” She tried to get past the soldier, but he held his ground, keeping her out.

“Why don't you both have a seat in the small dining room and I'll bring some?” offered Justin, smiling even harder.

“Because I'd rather get it myself,” she replied. She pushed once more but he stood firm.

Tarre took a step back and contemplated her options. She could use the Force and knock Justin down; it was possible she'd get in a lucky shot as she had once before; she could stand there and argue more, or...

“Good morning, Bastila!” she shouted around the soldier barricade.

A strangled exclamation came from the other side of the cabinets. When Justin took a half step back and turned to look, Tarre ducked down and slipped past him, walking straight back to the caffa machines along the back wall. Dustil snapped to it just as she slipped by and when Justin turned fully to follow Tarre, he walked in as well.

There on the floor behind the countertop, her hair disheveled and struggling with her garments and one of her sandals, was Bastila Shan. Caught quite literally with her panties down, the Jedi Master hurriedly stood, putting her hands behind her back, her borrowed sundress having no hiding places. Chivalrously, Justin stepped to her side, and placing his arm around her back, relieved her of the problematic garment and slipped it into one of his many pockets.

“Not exactly hygienic,” commented Tarre to no one specific, looking at the counter next to the pair, “but my stomach is already upset, so I won't mention it.”

The red-head activated the caffa machine. Dustil joined her, turning his back to the guilty couple. Justin pulled the panties part way out, but Bastila silently shooed him to put them back, simultaneously adjusting the fit of the dress's top across her front. When Tarre turned to look in their direction the pair snapped into a pose of complete innocence, smiling.

In another moment the bubbling and snapping of the machine slowed and Tarre turned back to pour her cup. Bastila did a bit more adjusting, but Justin made no additional moves regarding her clothes, instead interrupting her with a quick pouncing kiss on the nape of her neck. Distracted, Bastila was still adjusting when Tarre turned back again, catching her.

The little Jedi walked toward them, Bastila and Justin smiling again. She stopped in front of them and took a long sip, letting the hot liquid sit in her mouth. Then she set the cup down and standing on her tip-toes, reached around and behind the lady Jedi, pulling something light pink, trimmed with white lace, from where it had been so casually discarded among the herbs and spices.

“Don't forget this,” she said, handing it to Bastila.

Dustil, having taken his own cup of caffa, turned to see an expressionless Bastila Shan take a woman's bra from Tarre. With nothing better to do, and with enough sense to keep his mouth shut, he took his caffa and joined her, the pair walking slowly to the door.

Just as the door slid closed behind them, Tarre and Dustil were peppered with an outburst of laughter.

*

“{Hurry up!}”

Mission chuckled and shook her head at the comment. That Gwarshawk, with his slow shuffling walk, would be harassing her to pick up the pace was bordering on the surreal.

“He's a kid, that's for sure,” she commented silently.

She had followed the little Wookie all along the back path out of the complex in near darkness. The sun may have risen, but the thick ground cover and the tall palms, though their tops were lit to a brilliant green, kept any direct light well out of ground level. Gwarshawk, however, never misplaced a single step; having grown up in the odd twilight of Kashyyyk, he seemed to have a sixth sense about his surroundings.

“And he's starting to smell again,” she noticed, waving a hand in front of her, the still air near the ground seemingly filled with the mark of his passing.

They walked for a long ways, leaving the housing complex behind and far below them, as the little Wookie led her higher up the mountain. Eventually the path leveled out, running across the face of the slope rather than up it, and within twenty or so minutes she found that they were around the far side, the eastern sun streaming directly into her eyes.

“{Not much further now, Aunt Mission!}” Gwarshawk called, the excitement in his tone obvious.

Another ten minutes passed. Suddenly he stopped and turned to face her.

“{See?}”

“See what, Stinky?”

He raised his weak right arm and pointed, even further up the mountainside. “{That!}”

*

“Good morning, Knight Adjura, Padawan Onasi,” said Juhani, entering the Large Dining Room and taking her usual seat.

“Good morning, Knight Juhani,” answered Dustil. Tarre nodded but remained silent, debating whether another sip of caffa would quiet her stomach or add to its distress.

“Not feeling well again, Tarre?” Mission asked, entering just then. The red-head shook her head, not daring to open her mouth to answer. Even with the caffa, today was worse than the last two, that was for sure, she thought.

Breakfast was a substantial affair, served buffet-style from a long wooden sideboard along one wall, and Juhani was looking forward to a new favorite: poultry eggs fried in butter. Normally she ate poached eggs on the few occasions when she didn't just have fruit, they being more what she thought of as 'her style'. Aboard ship it had been scrambled eggs once or twice. Since they were easier for the food synthesizer to make, they actually had a small amount of flavor. But she had tried a fried egg the first morning and fallen for them in a big way.

Of course, at the Chairman's House she had fruit as well; luscious, exotic fruit. The sideboard held bowls of it, some cut, some whole. Some were old favorites, some were totally unknown, and a few she recognized from the extended briefing at the Open Air Market on Coruscant, the day they had left in such a hurry.

“This looks great,” Mission commented.

“Did you leave Gwarshawk at his tree?” the Cathar asked.

“Uh huh,” the Twi'lek said, popping a bite of something into her mouth right from the big serving bowl. “I don't know how he manages to climb all that way.”

“He is a Wookie,” Juhani said. “It that catiine melon you are eating?”

“Yes, it is, “ answered Justin walking in with Bastila. The pair were dressed as everyone would expect, Justin in his rumpled black trousers and sweater, Bastila in her robes, the previous day's sundress no doubt in the laundry, so it took a moment before either Juhani or Mission responded with surprise at his sudden appearance.

“Justin!” squealed Mission, tossing her plate onto the table and running over. She threw herself into his arms and gave him a big hug.

“Nice to see you too, Mission,” he said as she dropped off him. He looked around the table, his eyes resting on Tarre for a moment before moving along. “Tarre. Dustil. Knight Juhani. Good morning.”

He stepped aside to let Bastila past. “Bastila, would you care for some breakfast?”

A sick as she felt, Tarre just couldn't let the opportunity pass. “The caffa is fresh. I know that for a fact.”

Dustil had the misfortune of having just put his cup to his lips, so the laugh he struggled to choke off slopped caffa all over. Justin shot her a look. Bastila just tossed her head and walked straight to the sideboard and started filling a small plate.

The four early arrivals watched the pair negotiate the buffet. Bastila would turn her head slightly one way or the other, trying to keep track of Justin while he popped from side to side, always so close that the two brushed together constantly.

Juhani and Mission exchanged knowing smiles.

“Try some of this,” Justin suggested, holding out a serving spoon.

“No, thank you.”

“Just a little. It's a specialty.”

“No. I don't care for any.”

“Just one little...”

“All right. Fine.”

Mission and Juhani shared a silent giggle.

Bastila put her plate down between Juhani and Dustil, deliberately apparently. Justin paused before sitting across the table, one chair down from Mission, putting him directly across from the brunette. It seemed to everyone that he wanted to start, or possibly continue, a conversation with the lady Jedi, but Bastila was having none of it, and she worked diligently on her breakfast, her head down.

Justin picked away at his food for a few minutes, constantly looking at the brunette, hoping to catch her eye, before throwing in the towel. He put his head down and vacuumed his plate clean, giving her a long firm look before getting up and refilling it. Bastila ate much more slowly, almost elegantly, and the others, especially Tarre and Dustil, puzzled over what had happened between the two to so quickly chill their relationship.

Finally, Bastila threw her fork down with a clatter. “Do you really have to go?!”

Justin didn't answer right away, pausing to swallow his last mouthful. “It isn't for a few days yet. And I'll only be gone for a week or so.”

Bastila did not seem impressed by his answer, but before she could reply a young woman's head popped in through the hall door to the kitchen.

“Another pot of caffa for the table,” ordered Justin, giving the intruder a glance, “and more fried eggs for Knight Juhani.”

“Yes, sir,” said the woman and then her head disappeared.

The pause did not improve Bastila's attitude. “Why not?! We wind up here by accident. You have prearranged plans to come! It doesn't sound to me like you were very interested in meeting with me. And then once we are together, you immediately run off somewhere!”

“It isn't immediate,” Justin replied. “I won't be leaving until Datunda. And it isn't to somewhere. I have to go to Manaan. Bastila, we talked about this. Ten minutes ago you were fine with it.”

“Well, I'm not fine with it now!” She pushed her plate away violently and stood up.

At that moment the entry door slid open with a gentle hiss, a sharp contrast to the vehemency of the suspended conversation. Carth Onasi walked in, looked over the group and immediately turned to leave. But just as he stepped to the door it slid open again, revealing Tianna Ression. She stopped when she saw him, dropping her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and walked past, her shoulders down. Carth turned in place as she went by, his gaze following her.

Justin stood immediately and walked over, his hand out and a smile on his face.

“You must be Lieutenant Ression!” he beamed. “I'm Justin Blacque.”

Tianna looked up as if from a dream, startled to see the black garbed soldier moving so quickly to her. Her eyes went back and forth between his smile and his hand. “I... ahhhh....”

“You (*urp*) shake it,” Tarre added, putting her fingertips over her mouth just as the words came out.

Hesitantly, the rogue Sith put out her hand. Justin took it firmly and gave it two solid pumps. But then his face went strange. His eyebrows knit and he held on.

In the interim, Tianna looked more closely at his face, her recognition dawning slowly. “Revan!”

Justin's spell was broken and he dropped her hand, his face quickly losing it's odd cast, although his eyes remained questioning. He smiled. “I get that a lot.”

Carth had moved to just behind Tianna's shoulder during Justin's 'fit'.

“Justin? What are you...?” His words trailed off because he couldn't believe his eyes. Justin Blacque had done any number of strange things in their collective presence, but this one was simply stunning.

He stood looking at his hand, running his thumb over his fingertips for a moment. And then he brought it to his mouth and touched the tips of his fingers to his tongue.

Carth was incensed. “What the hell are you doing?!” he demanded.

“Hmm?” said Justin, his mind only just returning to the room. “Oh. Sorry. Sorry, Lieutenant. Sorry, Carth.” He cast a quick glance at Bastila before turning back to Tianna.

“Well?” the old pilot pressed.

“Hmmm?”

“What are you doing?!”

“Oh,” Justin paused, sheepish. “Uhmm. DNA and bio... chemical... assay. Bad habit, really. Pretty rude, I guess.”

“Learn anything interesting?” asked Tarre, regretting it again. She pushed back from the table, but Justin answered before she could stand. What he said made her forget her stomach entirely.

“Yeah.” Again Justin looked at Bastila and then at Tianna.

Tianna's eyes went wide. Carth's narrowed suspiciously. “Like?”

Everyone focused on Justin, but he continued in silence for a moment.

“Revan...?” Tianna asked weakly, dreading what she might hear.

“Well?” added Carth. “Is it something about Tianna? Is she sick or something?”

Everyone's thoughts returned to lunch the day before, when both Tianna and Tarre Adjura admitted to a touch of queasiness.

“What?” said Justin, distracted again. “Oh! Sick? No. No. She isn't sick.”

“Oh Force!” interjected Bastila. “She's pregnant!”

Tianna spun to face her.

“Pregnant?” Justin replied. “Oh, no. No, no no. She isn't pregnant.” He looked squarely at Carth and then back at the blonde. “Not yet.”

Again he looked at his fingers, running his thumb over them once more.

The room was completely silent, everyone looking at all the others, so absorbed in the situation that no one noticed the young woman enter from the kitchen hall. She had plenty of time to swap out the caffa pot on the table, put the fried eggs on the sideboard and exit before Justin spoke again.

“Tarre on the other hand...”