Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights III_ Patterns of Force - Michael Reaves [52]
There were tears sparkling in the Zeltron’s eyes as she finished. Den realized his own eyes had grown moist and his breath had all but stopped in his throat. It had never occurred to him that there had to have been a singular moment in which that particular memory, as Dejah put it, had resurfaced for his friend, never to be put aside again. Nor had it occurred to him that the one way in which I-Five was all droid was in his capacity to relive his past in vivid, perfect detail. Combined with his ability to imagine and theorize like an organic, well …
He couldn’t even begin to imagine how much pain I-Five must be in.
Den drew in a long breath. I-Five may not have seen Lorn Pavan’s death in real time, but Den was willing to bet he’d imagined it time and time again. And because he was a droid he could not escape it, even in sleep, since droids didn’t sleep. The only other respite was temporary deactivation, which was not a real respite at all, since no subjective time was lost.
I-Five could not forget his loss, or gain perspective on it through the balm of years. Ever.
Which left only one course of action open to him.
“You think I-Five wants to avenge Lorn Pavan.”
“If someone destroyed I-Five, or killed Jax, wouldn’t you contemplate revenge?”
Would he? He liked to think that he’d only contemplate justice, but who knew? He considered the idea now and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I might, at that. Okay, so we may have a vengeful droid on our hands. What can we do?”
Dejah shrugged. “I don’t know that we can do anything before the fact, though I suppose we can try.”
“You bet we can.” Impulsively, the Sullustan reached across the table and put his hand over the Zeltron’s. “If the two of us, along with Rhinann, keep up a united front, and if we all vote down this mad idea, Jax has to listen, doesn’t he? Especially if you—you know—help out a little with that seductive sweat of yours?”
She cocked her head to one side and smiled in bemusement. “You want me to influence Jax?”
“In this case, yeah. And I’m perfectly willing to admit it’s a slimy, hypocritical thing to say, but I’m willing to say it: do your best. If it’ll keep Jax and I-Five out of deep ronto poodoo, I’m all for it.”
Dejah’s eyes twinkled at him, and she laughed, the sound trilling lightly in his ears before cascading down into a sultry purr. “You’re an odd one, Den Dhur,” she told him. Then her tone became serious again. “I suppose there’s a chance we could fail, even united, but … there’s always the bota.”
He nodded. Truth to tell, he didn’t like even thinking about bota—the very word conjured memories of Drongar and his time served on that plaguey world in vivid detail. The recollections might not be as realistic as I-Five’s, but they were more than enough for him.
“Rhinann thinks you have it,” Dejah said bluntly.
What—was she eavesdropping on private conversations now? He didn’t ask her that; instead he fell back on his usual refrain. “He said that?”
She tilted her head. A nod? A semi-nod? A maybe? Den wasn’t sure. The Zeltron was humanoid enough to share a great deal of body language with most hominid species, but there was always a chance of misreading something.
“Well, Rhinann is wrong,” he replied. “I don’t have it and I don’t know who does. For all I know Five still has it.”
Dejah gave him another ear-curling look. “Our would-be assassin? That hardly seems wise.”
“Look, if that bota represents what you think it represents—the survival of the—” He made the lightsaber gesture again. “—then I-Five will hide it where it will come to no harm and do the most good—if