“Up with that I cannot put.” Leox shook his head. “A man’s gotta have standards. And since I lack the financial wherewithal to declare my independence from the Guild, my personhood must be asserted sartorially. In other words, you can take my beads from my cold dead body.”
Affie suppressed a smile. “You know, the Jedi would probably say you were putting too much emphasis on worldly things.”
“My relationship to the metaphysical is my own to judge, Little Bit.”
“Don’t call me that!”
Cohmac Vitus was a man of reason and logic. While he did not deny he possessed emotions, he never allowed them to cloud his judgment—or so he hoped. His precise, mathematical mind preferred the tangible to the nebulous, the quantifiable to the mysterious. More than one of his fellow Jedi had pointed out that this was an unusual frame of mind for a mystic. However, that was part of what Cohmac felt he brought to the Order: steadiness and rationality.
So why did that mindset now feel less like a gift and more like a defense?
Because you are traveling to the place where you first learned the harm that arises from imprecision. From emotion. All that was born between Eiram and E’ronoh.
For a moment he was back in the caverns, Orla shivering at his side, staring in fear at the shapes in the frigid dark.…
Cohmac shook his head, as though he could physically rid it of the memory. The best way to get out of the mind was to exercise the body. Options were limited on a ship that size, but a brisk walk through the corridors would do. He made his way through the Vessel, hoping for privacy. The hope was in vain, as he almost immediately came across Dez rapt in conversation with Reath Silas. “I mean,” Reath was saying, “would you call us monks?”
“Not exactly,” Dez said. “I see you haven’t been able to talk Master Jora out of the Padawan braid.”
“No such luck.” Reath gestured vaguely at the back of his head. In olden days, the braid had been mandatory, at least among apprentices from species that grew hair on their heads. These days, not every master required them; Cohmac had no intention of doing so, if he ever took another Padawan. Master Jora Malli clearly felt otherwise.
Cohmac intended to absent himself, but before he drew away, Reath turned to him. “Excuse me, Master Vitus? May I ask how you go about discovering and recording new legends? As a folklorist, I mean. Just find the local wisewoman, ask for a story?”
“Sometimes.” Cohmac gazed out of one of the Vessel’s very few, small windows at the brilliant, eerie blue of hyperspace. “Often it is more complicated. There are always the stories a people want to tell about themselves…and then there are the other stories. The secret ones, the dark ones, the ones whose meanings are more difficult to comprehend. Those aren’t the ones they offer to outsiders. Of course, those are generally the most important of all.”
They were the stories that would have done the most good, between Eiram and E’ronoh.
Dez grinned as he set about restrapping his boots. “How do you get them to open up about those?”
“It varies,” Cohmac said. “There are species who respect outsiders who push them hard, demand the facts. There are also species who eat outsiders like that. It’s best not to pry until you know which kind of culture you’re dealing with. While you’re waiting”—he shrugged—“you study their art. Paintings, tapestries, literature. Symbolism and allegory can reveal a lot. Then you ask about the art, and the legends come up naturally.”
“Crafty,” said Reath. “But also ingenious.”
“Thank you.” Cohmac inclined his head.
Dez said, “That’s got to be a challenge for you, doing something so completely new. To go off the map.”
“Literally,” Reath joked.
Cohmac could’ve said that he’d been to that area of space before. Specifically, to the lost moon between the twin planets that served as hosts for the new Starlight Beacon.
But there was no need to speak of it, and Cohmac had learned to limit his words. It was far too easy to say too much.
In the cockpit of the Vessel, Leox Gyasi chewed on a spice stick and considered the navicomputer readings.
(The spice stick was legal in Republic space. For now. Mostly because they hadn’t had time to get around to outlawing everything yet. Maybe the sticks would make the cut and remain legal. But maybe not. Leox had laid away a stash just in case.)
Oughta see signs of other traffic, he mused. Clearer signs than this. Are the readouts blurry? If so, why?
“Geode, buddy,” Leox said, “you seeing what I’m seeing?”
Geode’s ominous silence told the whole story. Something was genuinely wrong with hyperspace traffic. Deeply wrong. The few traffic patterns he could make out were moving in directions that didn’t make any sense.
Leox muttered. “Not liking this. Not liking it at all.”
The ship was still moving forward, under no more than the usual stresses, so they might as well keep going. The problem might be local, he figured—something they’d fly right by.
Orla Jareni hoped to spend at least part of their voyage to Starlight Beacon talking with the Vessel’s crew. She’d be buying a ship of her own soon, something she’d never done before. As much as she’d studied specs and models, she still thought there might be valuable tips to glean from people who spent their whole lives navigating the stars.
(Some Jedi fell into the trap of thinking that non-Jedi didn’t have anything to teach them. Orla, however, always remembered that every single being in the galaxy knew at least one thing she didn’t.)
Affie Hollow seemed the likelier candidate for the conversation, Orla decided, if only because Affie seemed to have a greater commitment to sobriety.
Yet Orla found herself putting off the chat. Actually talking about purchasing her ship would mean talking about her decision to become a Wayseeker. As little as Affie knew about the Jedi, she would surely ask the most obvious question: Why?
At the moment, Orla didn’t feel confident of her answer.
She could simply say instinct. That was true, but unlikely to satisfy Affie’s curiosity. It was more likely to pique it.
Or she might say, The Jedi Order and I no longer…see eye to eye.
Also true. Also likely to get her into trouble if anybody from the Council ever heard of it.
Probably the best answer would be, I needed to come to know the Force in a deeper, even more meaningful sense. Also true, and both long and dull enough to discourage further questions.
Wayseeker, her mind had whispered, and there she was: Walking away from the Order to navigate an unknown region of the galaxy all by herself. Hoping that out there she would find the purpose her recent missions had lacked.
“Am I deluding myself?” she muttered as she stood in the mess, making herself some Chandrilan tea. “If I can’t find the answers at the Temple, what makes me think I’ll find them out here? What would my master say if she could see me?”
Then she paused, hoping no one had overheard that. Probably not, but on a ship so small, you could never be certain. She resolved to keep her musings internal for the duration of the voyage.
Orla took a moment to center herself—but found she couldn’t. The energies on the ship were becoming muddled. Even frenzied.