Too Many Justins - Chapter 58

Just a reminder: Usual disclaimer stuff. All characters remain the property of their creators. Additionally, song lyrics remain the property of the lyricist. (In this chapter that would be: Bernie Taupin)

Chapter 58 – The Past Always Catches Up

“No matter how far you go, no matter how fast you run, there'll always be one guy just stubborn enough to hunt you down and kill you. So make sure you shoot him the first time you get the chance. And shoot him a couple of times, just to be sure.”

- Davik Kang

“Damn that Jolee Bindo!”

“Master?” asked Kelley, his head poking around the doorframe of the small food-prep.

“Kept me tied up all evening over some prattle! Wanted to ignore his orders and 'investigate more'. Fool! Damnable old fool!”

“Master?”

“He made me miss 'Girls on Fire'! Again.”

“Not to worry, Master, I've recorded this week's episode as always.”

Atris smiled, the fury in her face gone in a flash. “What would I ever do without you, Kelley?” But displeasure clouded her features an instant later. “But you know I prefer watching it during the initial broadcast.”

“There are still a few minutes left. I'll turn on the Vid for you.”

Atris heaved a deep sigh as she got settled in her favorite chair. Kelley had arranged to have it brought from her apartment in the Jedi Temple.

“I suppose it's better than nothing, although I'm sure I've missed the special guest.”

“The one that does the theme music?” Kelley asked.

“Yes, that's the one. He was supposed to have a small part in this episode.”

The display came on, and sure enough, she had missed him.

'Oh, go on!' Kat said, a resigned look on her face as Mucha smiled, grabbed her things and ran off.

Atris reveled in her new-found secret joy. The show was a long-time smash hit in the Middle and Outer Rim, but still relatively unknown in the Core. It made her feel even more special, knowing that she was already a fan, well before the show gained massive popularity in those parts of the Republic that really mattered.

She loved Kat, the intelligent and thoughtful one of the three, seeing the most of herself in the quiet brunette. Duchess, of course, is what Atris fantasized her life would be like, a veritable parade of handsome, wealthy men doting on her. Bringing her gifts. Taking her to bed. But always with her firmly in control.

Mucha, on the other hand, was too foolish for the Jedi Master to feel any sympathy for, like the time in season eight when she got drunk at the Advertising and Public Relations Professionals Convention on Deko Neimoidia. Weeks later she learned that she was pregnant and didn't know which of the twenty men she'd been with might be the father. The ending was hilarious as expected, with Mucha learning that her test results had been switched with another female's, although not before she'd had the entire Middle Rim in an uproar, but it just gave Atris more reason to ignore her.

The scene followed Kat for a moment longer before she too left the table. The music started, a wonderful male voice singing the words that Atris could imagine were in Kat's heart.

What have I got to do to make you love me?

“Oh,” she said, recognizing the voice, “he did another song.”

Kat stepped outside the cantina alone and stood on the walkway, waiting for a taxi.

What have I got to do to make you care?

The scene cut to the pretty young woman sitting silently in the back seat, anguish and self-pity written across her face. Atris knew she was thinking of Kuchon, the man she had loved. And who had walked out on her.

What do I say when it's all over?
'Sorry' seems to be the hardest word

The droid at Kat's fashionable apartment complex stepped aside as he held the taxi door for her. She reached into her beaded designer handbag and took out her credit chip, payed the fare and walked inside, a second droid holding that door open for her. The scene, Kat the only living being, added to the sense of isolation; Kat was in her own little world, alone.

It's sad, so sad
It's a sad, sad situation

Kat opened the door to her empty apartment and walked in, dropping her bag carelessly on the small table in the entryway.

And it's getting more and more absurd

She walked to the small bar and poured herself a drink, straight Corellian Whisky no doubt, in a glass that was much, much too tall for her own good.

It's sad, so sad
Why can't we talk it over?

She took a hologram of Kuchon that she still kept on a shelf over to the balcony and looked out at the lights of the city. The picture faded to the credits, the last haunting words of the wonderfully sad song plucking at Atris' heartstrings.

Oh it seems to me
That sorry seems to be the hardest word

“Master,” interrupted Kelley.

“Yes?” Atris quickly wiped a little dew from one eye.

“There is someone here to see you.”

“Who is it?” she asked.

But Kelley didn't answer. Instead the voice was a deep, strong bass. “Channy?”

“Klash?”

*

“So, Master, what do we do now?”

Jolee Bindo paused for a moment to consider his padawan's request. “Go to Kashyyyk as ordered. We don't have much choice, do we?”

At that moment they sensed more than heard the shift, the Defiant much too large to actually hear the hyperdrive from their quarters, as they jumped to lightspeed.

“I suppose not. Now.”

“Look at it this way, Yuthura, we'll be that much closer to Juhani.”

“I suppose that is one way of looking at it, Master,” the Twi'lek replied.

*beep* *beep*

“Now who could that be?” asked Jolee, turning to look at the commlink.

“Yes?” asked Yuthura as she pressed the button.

“Padawan Ban?”

“Yeron?”

“Yes, ma'am. It's Lieutenant Redfern. Is Master Bindo with you, ma'am?”

“Of course. He's right here.”

“What is it sonny?” asked the brown-skinned Jedi, stepping to Yuthura's side.

“Can you both come down to Sick Bay?”

“You mean now?”

“Yes, sir. Right now if possible. I have something to tell you.”

“Well, tell me now, son. No point in dragging an old man all the way down to Sick Bay.”

“Actually, sir, I'd prefer not to talk over the commlink.”

Jolee and Yuthura looked at each other with one eyebrow raised, mirror images of each other.

“Well?” Jolee thought into his padawan's mind.

“He wants to tell us something, something that he can't say over the commlink? Sounds important, Master.”

“Give us ten minutes, son.”

Ten minutes later, to the second, the two Jedi walked through the Sick Bay doors. The room was empty.

“Yeron?” Yuthura called.

The young human's head popped out from an adjoining room. He motioned with his head for them to join him before disappearing again. With more raised eyebrows, the Jedi followed.

The room was very small, small enough for just one, let alone Yeron and Yuthura and Jolee. And a fourth person Jolee had sensed the moment he stepped into the Sick Bay. The three obvious occupants stood pressed almost against each other, jockeying for position as Yeron worked his way around the Jedi to close the door. A large foam covered table took up almost all the rest of the space.

“We can talk safely in here. It's an examining room.”

“Obviously,” said Jolee, looking at the very table he had been examined upon.

“But it means there are no recording devices,” replied Redfern. “Privacy rights and all.”

“Okay, son you got us here. What's your news?” Jolee asked. “Or should your other guest tell us?”

At that moment Yuthura sensed the fourth person as well, realizing he, or she, was hidden under the table itself.

“Come on out,” instructed Jolee.

Pressing as far back against the wall as they could, the three made room for the fourth person to climb out from under. Jolee looked the young human up and down for a moment. The family resemblance was too strong for coincidence.

“Nice to meet you, Padawan Redfern.” The young man remained silent. “Do you want to explain what happened?” Jolee asked

The young man nodded. He was eighteen or nineteen, Jolee guessed, and he'd had a hard time of things recently. His robes were tattered, a few gaping holes in places.

“She's dead, sir. So is Knight Tokil.”

“We got that from your brother's message.”

“That's not the worst part, sir.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I think Master Atris had something to do with it.”

*

“Channy, I never expected to find you here.”

Klashtan Darney let out a big belly laugh. Atris had all she could do to keep looking at him without letting her disgust show in her eyes, especially at the revolting way his huge corpulence rolled and quivered as he guffawed.

“How did I ever think I was in love with this, this, pinguid pile? And to think I actually let him touch me!”

“Delighted to see you again, Klash,” the white-haired Master replied, standing to take his outstretched hand.

Given the size of his belly, it brought Atris much closer to him that she liked and she let go as soon as was socially acceptable for two who shared such an intimate past. Atris resumed her seat and motioned for him to do the same. Darney was neither blind nor a complete ego-maniac. He knew the reality of his size and he scanned the room for a seat suitable for his bulk, settling on the small sofa.

“You look wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Atris was at a loss as to what to say next. The usual platitude was 'so do you', but it was obvious from his appearance that Admiral Klashtan Darney did not look well. Nor anything like it. “Tea?” she offered.

“Oh, no thank you. I'll take an ale if you have any.”

“I... I don't think... Kelley!”

The Rodian was at her elbow in a blink. “Yes, Master Atris?”

“Do we have any... ale?”

“I'll check the cabinets, Master.”

Darney sat back, his bulk preventing him from sitting any more upright, the notion of a lap had vanished from his life years before, and he looked around, noticing a few personal items scattered about Atris' otherwise austere surroundings. Kelley had arranged for all his mistress' dunnage to be brought off the Defiant as soon as he heard the rumor that the ship was to be reassigned immediately, leaving Atris behind on the planet to assist the arriving Admiral.

The Rodian returned a moment later, tray in hand, bearing a tall narrow glass of amber liquid.

Once the Admiral had taken a long drink Atris opened the conversation.

“So, Klash, I really didn't expect to see you here. I was under the impression that Admiral Onasi was being assigned to this post.”

Darney licked the foam from his lips with a great smacking sound that turned Atris' stomach. “He was, but...” Atris raised an eyebrow. “Well, Dodonna didn't actually say why, but something apparently came up and Carth was reassigned.”

“Carth?”

“Carth Onasi, Channy. Carth Onasi. You never were any good at the people side of things.”

Atris nearly scowled, but checked herself. “No,” she said sweetly, “that was more your specialty.”

Darney laughed, loudly, his face growing redder and redder, the veins in his neck standing out, his breath coming in wheezing pants between guffaws, until Atris thought he was going to have a massive coronary right on her sofa.

“That's one of the things I always loved about you, Channy,” he said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “You always had the most wicked sense of humor.”

Atris just gave him a thin lipped smile. In a moment the Admiral's laughter slowed, his breath became more regular if not less wheeze-filled and some of the shocking color flowed back out of his face. Once he had more fully recovered himself, Atris tried again.

“So, what are your orders?”

“Well,” he boomed, the last few panting breaths giving his voice a sharp, staccato impact, “Forn said to join you here and look over this droid fleet she's put together.”

Atris nodded.

“I take it,” Darney continued, “that you've inspected the troops?”

“Actually...” the white-haired Echani Jedi started.

“Oh, Channy!,” said the Admiral, shaking his head. “You still don't understand the Jedi's role in the Fleet. Even after all these years.”

“Jedi's role?”

“Of course the Jedi have a role. Didn't you ever pay attention?”

This time Atris did glare. “Enlighten me.”

“Well, in a lot of cases the Jedi cause more trouble than they're worth, really; all that strutting around, aloof, looking down their noses at the Fleet crews.” He paused to shift his bulk. “You have to understand, the crew looks up to the Jedi, hold them to a higher standard. But, they expect them to act with the responsibility that comes from such a position of respect. 'Nobles oblige' and all that. And one of those responsibilities is to inspect the troops, out of respect, if nothing else.”

He took another sip of his ale, smacking his lips as he finished and wiping his mouth with hand and then his hand on his trousers.

“The best Jedi I've ever worked with, well, they did more listening than telling. Far too many of them show up and assume that understanding the Force means never having to say you're sorry. They give themselves airs, talk down to the crew. I've even seen them talk down to the officers.”

“But aren't they usually listed as officers when they're assigned?”

Darney chuckled. “Oh sure. The Senate writes them a piece of paper and the Grand Admiral signs on, but everyone knows the difference between a real ship's officer and some Jedi with a badge.”

Without a sound, Kelley set another full glass on the side table even before Darney had slurped the last bit of foam from his first.

“I don't want to leave the impression that all the Jedi are pompous, arrogant, strutting, preening Manollium. There have been a few that understood their place in the Fleet, but damn few of them. Actually, I think that's why the Darksiders are easier to work with.”

Atris gave him a questioning look as he paused to take another long sip.

“Once they go over, they drop all the pretense. All the wishy-washy stuff falls away. They're decisive. They pay attention. They cut out all the crap and just get down to business. Yup. I'd take a Dark Lord over a Jedi any day.”

He paused to look at Atris' stunned expression.

“Right up until I felt the Force close around my throat, that is! Ha ha ha!” He bust into another fit of uproarious laughter.

“Excuse me, Master.” It was Kelley, holding the portable commlink. “There is a communication for Admiral Darney.”

“Wha...? Well, bring it here. Bring it here.” Darney wiped away a tear.

Atris bowed her head in permission and then sat quietly while Darney listened to the message, her only clue as to it's content was the sudden widening of his eyes.

“Well, I'm damned,” he exclaimed, handing the device back to Kelley.

“What is it?”

“That's the Fleet for you,” he replied, starting to move his massive form off the sofa. “We've been ordered to move.”

Kelley stepped to her side as Atris shifted in her chair as well, helping the Jedi Master to her feet. “Move?” she asked. “Where to?”

“Coruscant.”

*

Everyone began talking around the dining table at once.

“Look,” said Justin defensively, “I'm not a doctor. I just have a talent for biochemistry.”

“But you didn't shake Tarre's hand,” Dustil mentioned, desperation tinging his comment.

Justin looked incredulous. “I didn't need to. She's pregnant. She's putting out enough pregnancy hormones and other compounds that I could tell just by... uhm.” He stopped, already having said a bit too much to retain anything like decorum.

“Go on,” the little red-head ordered. “We're all adults.”

“Smell,” Justin said quietly.

“Ewww,” said Mission. Bastila glared. “Well it is!” the Twi'lek insisted.

“Is there anything we need to do?” asked Juhani.

“Not for a while yet,” answered Justin. “We've got a hospital on one of the other islands. I can have a limo take you there, or I can have a doctor brought here. Your choice, Tarre.”

“Justin,” interjected Bastila, “how is it that you know there is a hospital here?”

“I was thinking of his presumption to order the staff about,” added Juhani.

“Well,” replied Bastila, still upset about his plans to leave for Manaan, “he's always been arrogant, so I just put that behavior down to his personality.”

“Could we please focus on only one conversation at a time?!” demanded Tarre, the outburst making her feel a little better. “I'm pregnant. Justin owns the place. Move on!” She turned away from the two Jedi and back to the outsider. “So what about this doctor?”

“Owns?” said Bastila.

“Oh Bastila!” lamented Tarre, as if talking to a child. “Sometimes you are just so dense. Of course Justin owns this place.”

She looked then at Dustil. He wore the same expression as Bastila. In fact, everyone but Carth and Tianna wore the same dumbfounded expression.

“Is this true?” Bastila asked Justin.

Again Justin was distracted by his fingertips, and it took him a few seconds to respond. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I own it.”

“But... how?” the Jedi Master wondered.

As Justin spoke he looked not at the Jedi Master, but at Tianna, which unnerved the blonde even more. “Remember last night, when you mentioned about my music on the Fantasia?”

“They had time to talk?!” thought Tarre.

“Yes,” Bastila said slowly, knowing that the topic must apply, but not quite sure how.

“I got paid very well for that contract.”

“How well?” the brunette's asked suspiciously.

“The Tourosian deal alone was worth Cr6 million.”

Bastila's right hand fluttered around behind her, looking for her chair. “Six... six? Did you say six?”

“Million?” added Mission.

Justin nodded. “And that was just for the on-board music. The ad campaign was another six. Then there were the guest spots on the Vid serials, two Feature cameos, a bunch of incidental music, two more Theme songs. Oh, and the concert on Ploo IV. By the way, thank you for that Dustil, although I decided to donate all those proceeds to charity, not actually performing and all.”

Bastila dragged her chair under her, but only managed to get it part way there. When she sat she nearly missed the seat and the fumbled for a moment to get her balance.“Donate?”

Justin looked at his fingertips again. He shook his head. “Well, it would be taking money under false pretenses. When I found out about the problem on Kashyyyk, I asked Tarre...”

“Sorry,” the red-head interrupted, “I... panicked.”

Justin looked at her and smiled. “Bastila told me, although it took me while to grasp her explanation. And I'm sorry for putting you on the spot like that. I'm just glad everything worked out. Thank you again, Dustil. Or should I say 'Dad'?”

Dustil was sitting stock still, his eyes wide, his breath coming in shallow pants. The soldier looked at Tarre. “I assume he's the...”

The little historian gave him a powerful glare, to which the outsider only smiled.

“Yeah...” Justin said, under his breath.

“You were saying,” said Juhani, wondering if they would ever get back to Justin's startling comment, “... about Knight Adjura?”

Justin just shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing more to say, is there? I offered up the doctor. That's about all I can do.”

For a while everyone just sat looking at Tarre. Everyone except Dustil, who just stared into space, panting. The little red-head put her hand on his leg.

Suddenly, Mission spoke. “Hey, Justin. What were you going to say about Tianna?”

Before answering, the soldier looked for the blonde, but she wasn't there.

And neither was Carth.

*

The Council was meeting in a few minutes, called to discuss a developing situation. Another developing situation.

“What shall I say?” Vandar wondered, sitting at his desk, looking down at the little metal leaf Lena had given him.

Vandar had seen two others just like it, both also provided to their owners by Justin Blacque. The first had been affixed to Padawan Juhani, the other to Mission Vao, although in each case it had been placed just below the woman's left collarbone using some technique or technology even the Jedi medical staff couldn't understand. He assumed they both still had them.

From the reports he'd received, Juhani's version held some sort of tracking or homing device which had allowed the Cathar to receive a set of coordinates that led them to Justin's incapacitated body. He assumed the one in his hand contained a similar device, but he had no idea how he might activate it.

He'd probed it with the Force and with such mundane instruments as x-ray, magnetic imaging and high-intensity hyper-spectral scans, all to no avail. If it was a tracker it wasn't doing him much good.

As he considered it, turning it over in his three-fingered hand, his thoughts went back over his most recent vision.

Again in the Great Hall. Again no statue of Ooroo. Again Justin and again the screaming, panting woman. Again Jolee Bindo. Again Bastila Shan. Again Dustil Onasi.

But this time another figure joined them all, his mask hiding his face. In this case he was all the more recognizable for it's presence.

Mandalore.

And with Arca Jeth's words of warning ringing in his ears, Vandar was sure he'd made a mistake.

“Master Vandar?” asked a voice from the reality of his office.

“Yes, Kavar?”

“We have a report that the Mandalorians are attacking Aargau.”

The little alien frowned and then closed his eyes.

“Yes. A most definite mistake.”

*

Even without a satisfactory explanation of what went on, what was still going on, at Aargau, Revan had a timetable and it was to be kept.

At the appointed second of the appointed hour of the appointed day, three minutes past 2 in the morning local time, the make-shift Basilisks, cobbled together from parts of the stolen Republic Fleet, activated their thrusters and pushed themselves away from the carriers, descending upon the tiny, lump-shaped world.

Kessel.

Within the hour Mandalore stood before his Emperor, ready to make his report.

“Success, My Lord. We control Kessel.”

“I expect nothing less, Canderous.”

Revan touched the Clansmen with the Force, feeling his anxiety at the use of his real name. The Dark Lord laughed silently, pleased with himself.

“Send for Admiral Plith.”

“The Laharan?” Ordo immediately realized his question might be mistaken in intent. “That Admiral Plith, My Lord?” he added to make it clear that he had not, would not, could not, dare to question the Emperor's command.

“Is there some other Admiral Plith? Someone that you've hired recently? Someone who has joined your cause, Ordo? Perhaps he is the one who attacked Aargau without my permission.”

Mandalore bowed and left to carry out his Emperor's orders.

Two hours later, Plith was on the surface leading his troops, the newest of Revan's Admirals arrived with his adjutant.

“Your Excellency,” said the Laharan, a tall, lanky humanoid.

Revan dismissed any further comments with a wave of his hand.

“Admiral, you and your forces will garrison Kessel. I am sure the Hutts will be most interested in its return to their control. Under no circumstances are you to relinquish the system. Do you understand, Admiral?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“I expect great things of you. Do not disappoint me.”

“No, never, Your Excellency!”

Another wave of a his gloved hand dismissed the Laharans from his presence. Mandalore dared to step forward and ask a question.

“Why use the Laharans, My Lord? They'll never hold the system. You must know that.”

“On the contrary, Canderous, Plith and his people will hold the system for as long as I want them to.”

“Why? How?”

“The Darkside, Canderous, the Darkside. Kessel is a world of the Darkside, addictive spice not withstanding. Once within its influence, the Darkside will bind them to me. They will fight to their last breath for me.”

“I and my people would do the same, My Lord,” boasted Mandalore.

“No, Canderous, you would not,” replied Revan. “You would not.”

*

The Council chamber was as silent as a tomb except for the slow baritone of Jolee Bindo.

'You all know me. I'm too old and crotchety to be impressed easily, but I can't express strongly enough my sense of disquiet at Padawan Redfern's account of the situation.'

The message finished and the old human's bluish image flickered and then vanished.

Condrut spoke. “There is most assuredly a Mandalorian threat, we have all seen it. But it comes from the Rim, not this... this... delusion.”

“Isn't Atris there now?” asked Lonna Vash.

“Yes, she is,” the older man answered, “and I can tell you, with the utmost conviction, that the Mandalorians are not. Mandalorians! What does this youngster know of the Mandalorians?” He made a wave with his hand. “We'll be believing Dathka Graush has risen from the grave next!”

“Agreed,” said Vrook Lamar. “Two Jedi find themselves the victims of unfortunate accidents. A padawan sees some ships and draws the wrong conclusion. Hardly the makings of a conspiracy.”

“But Master Bindo?” asked Kavar Meiag-Couth.

“An old storyteller like Jolee Bindo?” added Wsstyr in his odd Ithorian accent. “He has simply confused reality with one of his stories.”

“He's never...”

“Councilors,” said Condrut, raising his voice ever so slightly. “What this padawan did or did not see is of no consequence. The Mandalorians are our problem. They are the threat. We must fight!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

The room descended into a muddle of bickering, Masters for or against the motion drifting about, shifting back and forth until the groups settled into their positions and silence came.

“What do you think, Vandar?” asked Master Ell.

All eyes turned to the green tridactyl. Vandar took a deep breath before answering.

“I agree with Master Condrut.”

A lesser man would have started at Vandar's words. He had never, ever supported one of the conservative's proposals in open forum before the assembled Council before. Usually he opposed all of them, some claim to a vision showing him the error of their plans. The day would be memorable for this reason alone.

“Vandar? You agree?” said Vrook Lamar. “Were you not the one who argued against casting our Order into battle with the Mandalorians the last time?” He and Condrut, along with Wsstyr and Atris, had formed a conservative block on the Council, trying to hold the line on the Order's position within the Republic.

“Most assuredly, Master Lamar,” replied the little alien.

Lamar pressed on, cutting Vandar off, if indeed he intended to say more. “Then why?”

Vandar looked composed, the gravelly old Master having asked the question he had wanted to answer anyway. “Revan.”

“Another vision?” asked Kavar.

Vandar nodded. It wasn't often that he lied to the Council, and he wasn't really sure he was lying in this case, but the situation was far too important to stand on ceremony. Or the truth. “Revan's role is still murky, the future shifting back and forth. Always in motion.”

“But Revan is responsible?” rumbled Condrut. They had all lived through Exar Kun as young Jedi, and another both Revan and his apprentice Malak as old Jedi. A third time was unthinkable.

“Revan is involved,” clarified Vandar. “I do not say he is responsible.”

“But he is working with the Mandalorians? You've seen this?”

Vandar did not respond.

Condrut threw up his hands. “This is impossible!”

“No,” countered Vandar, “it is very, very real. The Republic is in great danger. Great danger indeed.”

“And yet you let him go!” bellowed Condrut. “Again!”

There was a pause as all the Councilors considered the potential.

“And you think he is involved?” asked Ell.

The little Master could only answer with a sigh.

*

Carth wandered in from the pool, straight to the wet bar in the Great Room, missing Justin entirely as he sat on one of the large sofas. After breakfast everyone had gone their separate ways, leaving each of them to contemplate the fallout of the outsider's shocking revelation.

As the old pilot walked behind the bar and pulled a full bottle of Corellian Whisky from the shelf, Justin stood, setting his synthitar aside.

“It's about time I got started inspecting the 'Star. How about lending me a hand, Admiral?”

Carth looked up as the clear brown liquid reached the rim of the small glass. “Another time, maybe? I'm not very good company right now.”

“You know,” said the outsider stepping to the bar, “I could say something about hospitality and free food and booze, but...”

Carth pursed his lips at the social blackmail and with a suspicious eye he tossed back the drink, following it with a single small cough. Justin took the bottle from Carth's hand, brought it to his lips and tipped his head back, way back, drinking down at least half of the bottle at one go. Carth had a flashback to the galley of the Negotiator, another time when he'd been feeling sorry for himself.

“... I'm usually much more easy-going than that,” Justin added, nodding Carth in the direction of the door.

“No. I'm not good company today.”

“Okay, “ said Justin, resigned. “I'll see you later, Carth.”

A moment later, long enough for the Admiral to pour another drink, Tarre Adjura stepped into the Great Room. She was actually less than pleased to see him standing there and she walked over without a word, took the drink right from his hand and drank it down herself.

“Hey!” Carth complained. “You shouldn't do that!” He grabbed the bottle and pulled it close to him, keeping her from another.

Tarre gave him a caustic look. “What do you care?”

“I do. I care.”

Tarre gave him a half-smile. “Okay.” She closed her eyes in that way only Jedi can, the way Carth had seen them do over so many years. “There, satisfied?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“So,” Tarre added, looking somewhat wistfully at all the rest of the bottles on the shelf behind the Admiral, “what do you think I should do instead?”

“Well, I guess you should drink a lot of water. And eat vegetables.” Carth actually laughed. “Listen to me. You'd think I was actually a good father.”

“You could be.” Tarre looked at him, so seriously that the old pilot stopped chuckling. “Dustil needs a father. And... so do I.”

“Knight Adjura, I...”

“Tarre. My name is Tarre.”

“Tarre.” Carth took a deep breath and stepped back, dropping his head and running his hand over his mouth. “What...” He rubbed his mouth again. “What are you going to do?”

“Do?” she replied, sliding the empty glass across the bar to him. “I'm going the drink a lot of water. Eat my vegetables. And marry your son.”

“Marry?”

“Of course. It's what you do when you get pregnant.”

“But... You're both Jedi!”

Tarre nodded. “That does complicate things.”

“I'll say.”

As Carth looked the little red-head over, he saw that she seemed reticent to talk more, so he let her sit quietly.

“Dad?” she asked, so shocking Carth that he twitched, dropping the bottle with a terrible shattering racket. Tarre immediately hopped off the stool and rushed around the end of the bar, grabbing a pile of towels as she went. She handed them to him as she dropped to her knees. With a wave of her hand all the pieces of broken glass floated up off the floor, drops of whisky falling into the puddle. With another wave they all flew into the trashcan.

“There,” she said, smiling at him as he joined her on the floor. “Sorry. I couldn't resist. I've always missed my parents. I guess... I guess I'm not really a very good Jedi.”

“Well...” Carth wasn't sure how to approach the subject. “Getting pregnant...”

“No. It isn't that.” The little red-head took a deep breath. “I've spent a lifetime in the Archives, assuming that that made me a little better than everyone else. Now that I look back on it, it doesn't seem like I've spent my time very well. Knowing something isn't the same is learning something.”

“Well...”

“I know you don't think you were a very good father,” Tarre interrupted. Carth opened his mouth to object, but Tarre pressed on. “But that doesn't mean you couldn't be a good grandfather.”

“Oh Force, that makes me feel old.”

“How old did you expect to be when you were a grandfather? 80? Then Dustil would be 60 and you and I wouldn't be having this conversation.”

Carth couldn't help but laugh, still on his knees behind the bar.

“You know,” Tarre continued, “a very wise friend of mine once said 'Life isn't just about the big moments. Life happens in all the little moments too.' ”

“And this is one of those little moments?”

“No, not at all. A pregnant Jedi is never a little moment.”

Carth laughed even louder.

“Dad?!”

Dustil's call from the far side of the room stopped him. Carth stood quickly, guilt written on all his features.

“What...?” The padawan's question died when he saw his lover pop up from behind the wet bar as well.

“I... spilled something,” Carth answered, holding up the wet rags.

“And I was helping him clean it up,” Tarre added with a smile. “You two will want to talk,” she said. “I think I'll go eat some vegetables.” She stood on tip-toes and gave Carth a quick, daughterly kiss on his stubbily cheek. “He needs you,” she whispered. “And so...” She paused to look down at her hand running down her belly. “... do we.”

She slipped around the bar, kissed Dustil quickly on the lips and walked out, leaving father and son with an awkward silence.

“What was that all about?” Dustil asked cautiously.

Carth stood for a moment, watching his future daughter-in-law drift out onto the terrace.

“She's some girl, son.”

Dustil turned to watch her as well, his comment just as distant and distracted as his father's. “Yeah, she is.” He frowned. “Did you just call me 'son' ?”

*

“Mister Blacque?”

Justin looked up from his place in the Star of Peltion's pilot seat. “Yes, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

Tianna couldn't look at him, her head hung low, staring at her own feet. Justin watched, waiting, sensing her pulse and respiration, the moisture in her skin, the rise and fall of her hair follicles. And the energy that swirled around her.

He worried. He'd never been very good in his timing, never really figured out just the right moment to speak the right words; sometimes too early, more often too late. He knew he'd gotten incredibly lucky with Yuthura Ban, his failure with Sommerset more the norm.

He could sense Tianna struggling with something, but there were so many possibilities... Was it her relationship with Carth? Or her relationship with Dustil? Or how her relationship with Dustil was affecting her relationship with Carth? Or the sudden realization that she might just have been pregnant? Or was it something else entirely?

“Would you like to sit?”

The blonde's eyes opened. “No... I...” She began to walk, going a few meters before she turned back, stopping just short of him and then going back the other way.

“Pacing. Great,” thought Justin. “I've never been good with pacers.”

“By the way,” he said, “I'm sorry about the crack I made at breakfast.”

Tianna stopped at the far end of her path, facing him. “Crack at breakfast?”

“About you not being pregnant. Sorry about the 'yet' part.” He smiled wanly. “It was a cheap shot.” She nodded, but did not resume her pacing, just standing looking at him.

The last time she had looked into his eyes they had been fixed, open in apparent death in the stasis box in her hideout on Coruscant. “Infieda's hideout” she corrected to the faint howls of hatred from the Dark Lord. She looked at him more closely this time, looked at this living man, wondering what she could learn from him now.

Back then Darth Infieda had wanted to learn the ways of the Darkside, how to kill and maim. How to twist an opponent or an ally to her will, as Revan had done to so many over the years. She knew that he had “gone back,” back to the Light, bringing Bastila Shan with him. “Saving the galaxy” as she heard repeated so many times that her stomach turned. But she also knew how powerful was the lure of the Darkside and she had harbored great hopes that where Shan had failed she would succeed in bringing him back to the Sith. Together they would rule the galaxy.

Then he died, and along with him her dreams of conquest. Her master, Darth Sebek turned on her, driving her away from Coruscant. Driving her toward Carth Onasi.

“How had that happened?” she wondered silently, Justin's resurrection forgotten for the moment. At first she saw Onasi as a tool, a stooge for her to use as she had used his son, a means to an end.

But over the months “something changed”

“But what?” She spoke the words aloud. Justin said nothing. He got up and walked over to her, taking her shoulders in his hands, the same expected sensation of remarkable familiarity coming through his fingertips again.

“I'm going to take the boat out in about an hour or so,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”

“Boat?”

“My sailboat, down in the bay. Just a little upwind to another island, drop the hook, do a little swimming, eat some lunch, drink some wine, sail back. Nothing major.”

“I've never been sailing before.”

“Then you're overdue.” He let go and pulled a small container from one of his many pockets. “But you'll probably want to take one of these about fifteen minutes before we go. I'd suggest taking it before you head down.”

Justin turned to leave.

“What is...?” she started to ask.

“Seasickness. And don't forget to bring something you feel comfortable swimming in. I'll have everything ready at 10:45. Okay?”

Tianna nodded without even meaning to.

*

“What do you think we should do?”

“Do?” asked Juhani. “I am not sure there is anything we should do.”

“Of course there is,” contradicted Mission, “I'm just not sure what. Bastila?”

“Why ask me?”

“Don't you have any ideas?”

“Ideas? Ideas about Tarre Adjura? Jedi simply do not engage in that sort of behavior.” Mission looked at Juhani, making sure the brunette noticed. “Well,” Bastila fumbled, “when I say behavior... what I meant was...”

“Foot in again, Bastila Shan,” the Jedi Master scolded herself.

She crossed the room and sat next to the Cathar, looking at her very seriously. “I'm sorry. I speak without thinking.”

Juhani gave her a faint smile and a nod.

“No. Not that,” said Mission. “I just thought we were supposed to throw a party or something.”

“Party?” answer Bastila, “Mission, the Jedi are hardly known for their parties.”

“Don't be so sure about that,” said a light, musical voice.

Each woman said the same thing, “Tarre!” but their intonations made all the difference.

Bastila's was a mixture of embarrassed surprise at being caught talking about the red-head and disappointment in her obvious lapses in judgement as a Jedi. And perhaps something else. Juhani's word was tinged with happiness and sadness, pleased at her new friend's situation and just a little sad that Yuthura was not with her to share. Mission's exclamation was pure joy.

“Sit by me!” the Twi'lek said. “I want to feel your belly!”

Tarre laughed. “Mission, I can't be more than a few weeks pregnant, so it's, what, about,” She held up her pinky, wiggling it, “this big?”

“Yeah,” Mission replied. “It'll be a few months yet. But I get to be first!”

“Second,” countered Tarre. Mission frowned, so Tarre continued. “I think Dustil deserves that honor, don't you?”

“Oh, right.” The Twi'lek winked. “By the way,” she added, “how's the punk taking it?”

“The punk is not taking it nearly as well as I am.”

“How are you taking it?” asked Bastila.

Tarre sat next to Mission, who put her hand on the red-head's belly anyway before it was brushed away absently. “I'll be leaving the Order, if that's what you mean.”

“Leaving?!” said Juhani, actually shocked at the thought.

“I don't see how I can stay.”

“But Nomi Sunrider...!” the Cathar offered.

“Was the end of the line,” Tarre answered, shaking her head slowly. “Trust me on that Knight Juhani. The Council will come down so hard on us for this...”

“That isn't fair!” complained Mission.

“The Council isn't about fair or unfair, Mission. Is it, Bastila?”

The brunette looked at Tarre, surprised by the question. “Is it what?”

“Unfair. When was the last time something you were told by a Master, especially a member of the Council, seemed fair?”