Avon scowled at Vernestra. “That was only like two years ago. Stop acting like you’re so mature,” she muttered, realizing full well that talking back was the opposite of being grown-up about the matter.
Ugh.
Vernestra didn’t seem to mind. She gave a wave and disappeared down the corridor to find her room. Avon turned to J-6.
“I suppose you know where we’re staying?”
“Of course, Mistress Avon. That is my job, is it not?”
Avon turned and followed J-6, a little of her bad mood melting away. J-6’s response had been less than cordial, and while most would find that distasteful in a protocol droid, Avon was intrigued. A month before, she had uploaded a slow-acting code along with the lexicon of swears (there had been half a dozen) that would gradually strip away the factory programming and let J-6 in essence reprogram herself. Avon had always disliked how droid personalities seemed to be hardwired when they were built, and it seemed fairer to let J-6 decide what kind of droid she wanted to be.
Avon was hoping it was something more interesting than someone who cared way too much about etiquette.
They turned the corner to another corridor, and a human-looking woman with bright pink hair and a pair of greasy coveralls came running toward them. She was so busy looking over her shoulder that she didn’t notice Avon and J-6, and before Avon could call out a warning, the woman ran right into the protocol droid.
J-6 did not move, but the woman went stumbling backward before landing hard on her rear end. It was pretty funny, and Avon couldn’t help letting out a little laugh.
“Are you okay?” Avon asked. The woman jumped to her feet, refusing to meet Avon’s eyes. She had a piece of silver wire woven around her lip, the metal piercing the skin several times like it had been stitched into her face. It was a strange sight, and reminded Avon a bit of how the Mon Calamari liked to hang beads and other jewels from their barbels, those whiskers that grew around their mouths. It was fascinating, and Avon wanted to ask the woman if setting the wire in her face hurt, but the woman’s fierce expression didn’t exactly invite conversation.
“I’m fine,” the woman spit out. “You should teach your droid to watch where it’s going.”
“And you should actually watch where you are going,” J-6 said, and Avon’s breath hitched. Oh, that was definitely not part of the droid’s original protocol programming.
Excellent, this would require further observation.
The pink-haired woman said nothing else, just continued off in the direction she’d been headed. Avon and J-6 went to their quarters to prepare for dinner, the incident quickly forgotten by both the girl and her droid.
Honesty Weft did not want to be in space. He did not want to dress up or eat a formal dinner, and he did not want to be a good Dalnan ambassador’s son. But there he was, on the Steady Wing, about to do all those things.
No one ever cared much what he wanted.
“Are you going to keep scowling into the mirror, or are you going to finish getting dressed?”
Honesty’s father entered his room. Ambassador Weft was already dressed in the plain, formal tunic of the Dalnan ambassadorial corps: a sedate tan tunic with a high collar and matching trousers. Even his boots were unremarkable. The Dalnans were not ones for frivolity, not even the usually ostentatious Pantorans who had made a home on the planet known for its agriculture.
“Perhaps you could pass along my regrets?” Honesty asked hopefully, tugging at the uncomfortable collar.
“That doesn’t sound like something a warrior would say,” the ambassador said, a smile flitting across his tanned face. He helped Honesty tuck the collar into place, the smile smoothing away into his usual bland expression as he worked. Honesty’s father had once explained that the hardest part of being an ambassador was not letting others know what you were thinking. Honesty had tried to match his father’s air of polite interest more than once, but his usual scowl always came through.
One more reason he would never be an ambassador.
“I’m not going to be anything since I’m missing my Metamorphosis.”
His father sighed, gave Honesty’s collar one last pat, and sat on the edge of his son’s bed. “This again.”
“Yes, this again,” Honesty said, not bothering to hide his frustration as he adjusted his formal tunic. “Everyone else is testing into their vocation right now, and I’m here! By the time I get back, everyone is going to be at least an apprentice in their field, and I’ll be stuck in the nursery with the rest of the babes.”
“There is something to be said for taking one’s time,” Ambassador Weft said. “Don’t always be in a hurry to be the first one out of the gate. Sometimes the first of the herd is just quickest to the slaughter.”
“I’m not talking about a stupid farm, I’m talking about my life!” Honesty shouted.
His father stood. “I am not going to spend the entirety of this trip arguing with you about why you are here. Your mother and I made a decision, and we expect you to respect that. Leaving Dalna will give a measure of perspective that will help you no matter what vocation you choose. If you don’t want to be considered a babe in the nursery, stop acting like one.” His voice was even and calm, even though the words felt to Honesty like a verbal slap. “You are going to be a witness to history. If Dalna joins the Republic we’ll get security and safety in our sector of the galaxy. You’ll get to see what diplomacy looks like firsthand, and maybe even get to meet the Chancellor. You should appreciate that instead of acting like a spoiled zeftgeist fat from too much grain.”
Honesty opened his mouth to argue, but the ambassador was already on his feet and moving toward the door. “Janex and the rest of the delegation will be here momentarily. I expect you to greet them with a smile and words of anticipation, not sulkiness. Do not disappoint me.”
With that the ambassador left the room, and Honesty was left with nothing but the angry tears of frustration that streamed down his pale cheeks.
Later, after takeoff and some deep meditation, Vernestra walked into the dining room where dinner would be taking place, feeling centered and eager to be on her journey. There were six dining areas located on the ship, but the best, most intimate one had been set aside for the Dalnan delegation, a server droid assured Vernestra. She was chagrined to find she was one of the last to arrive. Master Douglas and his Padawan, Imri Cantaros, were already seated at one end of the table next to a few men and women Vernestra did not recognize. Avon was nowhere to be found, but Vernestra was sure that J-6 would make certain the girl attended the formal affair, so she put those concerns aside and strode toward the table set with an almost impossible number of silver utensils.
“Vern! You’re just in time,” Master Douglas said with a grin.
Vernestra grimaced. “Master Douglas, I hope you know Avon Starros loves calling me Vern thanks to you. You are rubbing off on her.”
Douglas laughed, a hearty sound that made even the dour-faced Dalnans seated to either side of him smile briefly. “I should hope so! The girl is a genius. Avon will be one of the greatest minds of her generation. I would be honored to be counted amongst her influences.”
Vernestra smiled and took the seat that the server droid indicated, directly next to Imri. As she settled, Vernestra assessed her dining companions. Master Douglas was a tall human, stocky and effusive. He was chatty and relaxed in his demeanor, nothing like Vernestra’s master Stellan had been. Douglas’s dark beard grew thick and unkempt across his pale face, and his robes were rarely worn; instead he preferred to wear the simple tunic and trousers of the Outer Rim settlers of planets like Dalna. He did have his lightsaber, as a proper Jedi always would, but that was the only indication of his status. That night he had worn the required tabard of a Jedi Master, the gold scrollwork set against the snowy material impressive even if it was clear it had been hastily unpacked.