ignite the stars │ch. 16
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Satine Kryze is an internationally-recognized scholar in genocide studies who recently resigned from the Department of State over her concerns regarding the agency's ethics. Ben Kenobi is a tenured professor at Georgetown University studying the use of religion to justify military conflicts. Once high school sweethearts, the two haven't spoken since parting ways for university. That is, until Satine accepts a research fellowship - at Georgetown.
---
Ventress is the following week’s featured speaker at the weekly seminar, and Satine gets to the lecture hall early so she can have her pick of seats. She joins Vos in the front row, placing her sweater over the seat beside her to reserve it for Ben, who is still at office hours.
“Hey, Satine,” says Vos with a grin. “How’s the book coming along?”
Satine waves at Ventress, who is loading her slides onto the presentation screen. Ventress nods in acknowledgement.
“Outline is complete, and it’s been approved by the publisher,” says Satine. “Which is a massive relief. And I’ve got solid first drafts of the first few chapters. I’m pretty much where I need to be in terms of the grant deliverables.”
“Kudos,” says Vos. “I mean, good for you, but I’d fucking hate to write a book. Sounds miserable.”
Satine laughs. “Sometimes I feel that way, too.” She nudges his shoulder. “Hey, I heard your master’s student scheduled her thesis defense. Does she want folks to attend the public portion to support her? Or would that make her nervous?”
“Aayla would eat up the attention,” says Vos. “So plan to be there.”
“Email me the details?”
“You got it, boss.”
Satine smiles. “Is she planning on sticking around to do her doctorate here?”
“I hope so,” says Vos. “But she applied to a bunch of programs, and she’s gotten some great offers of funding. She’s still weighing everything.”
“I bet you’re proud of her,” says Satine. “And you should be proud of yourself, too. Her success speaks to your skill as an advisor.”
She thinks she sees him blush. “Nah,” he says. “I had nothing to do with her accomplishments. She could have done it all without me.”
Ben joins them at that moment, brushing a kiss to Satine’s temple. Satine moves her sweater so he can sit beside her. “I’ve been looking forward to hearing about Ventress’ recent work,” he says. “That’s what she’s presenting today, right, Quinlan? Her fieldwork from last summer?”
Vos nods. He opens his mouth to respond, but Dooku Serenno has already risen to his feet, stepping to the center of the lecture hall.
As usual, he begins his introduction.
Satine leans forward. She’s also eager to learn more about Ventress’ work. Though she’d done a deep dive into Ben’s research, she hasn’t had time to investigate her friend’s background as much, and she realizes this is something she must rectify.
Ventress, it turns out, had received one of the prestigious Fulbright awards to complete a portion of her dissertation research in Canada as part of her graduate studies. She’d spent her Fulbright year living amongst First Nations groups in the Arctic, and she’d received another impressive grant to fund a year with an Alaska Native tribe.
Even Serenno’s drawl can’t make Ventress’ life unimpressive.
Eventually, he returns to his seat, ceding the floor to Ventress, and the audience quietly applauds. Ventress doesn’t thank Serenno for the introduction, and Satine smiles to herself at this.
Satine quickly realizes that Ventress is the most effective public speaker in the department, and it doesn’t even take a complete sentence.
“A recent survey of Native youth found that sixty percent of respondents knew an Indigenous person who had gone missing or been murdered,” begins Ventress. “Such violence against Native people in the lands that are currently called the United States - the land that Indigenous people know as Turtle Island - is commonplace, so much so that we’ve labeled this epidemic as the Missing and Murdered Indigenous People crisis.”
She looks out over the audience, pausing.
“If this is a novel statistic to you, you are part of the problem,” says Ventress, flipping to her next slide. “Stanton described first eight, later expanded to ten, total stages of the process of genocide. The final stage - the final phase of genocide - is denial. This includes when past or ongoing genocides are forgotten, or never taught in the first place.”
Satine feels seen.
How many times has she had to explain to American colleagues what happened in Bosnia? How many times has she had to watch their confused or disbelieving faces as she cuts herself open, before she’s had a chance to heal, to explain what had happened in her country? How many times must she hear I had no idea from colleagues who should be smart enough to know basic international history?
Ventress meets her gaze. She nods at Ventress, who gives an almost imperceptible nod back.
“In the United States,” Ventress continues, “there are five hundred and seventy-four federally-recognized tribes. Others are state-recognized, and others still don’t have recognition at all. That means that the United States has committed genocide at least 574 times. In many cases, that genocide continues.”
She moves to the next slide, moving across the raised platform, from one side of the lectern to the other.
“In Canada, a several-hundred page report published five years ago acknowledged that the federal government had committed genocide and was continuing to commit genocide against its Indigenous peoples. The report included recommendations for reconciliation, but most of those recommendations were ignored.”
As Ventress pauses for a moment, it’s so quiet in the lecture hall that Satine can hear a colleague behind her taking notes.
“Genocide, of course, is not the focus of my research. But I bring this up to provide context. Beyond the structural violence that Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island face, there is significant physical and direct violence that we must survive every day. And for many of us, it is about merely surviving. This is often not a life in which Indigenous people can thrive.” She transitions to the next slide. “My work focuses on predicting locations of violence against Indigenous peoples so that each tribal community or village can protect itself, its people, and its sovereignty. I map so-called ‘man camps’ - transient camps of mostly male contract workers, building infrastructure like pipelines in rural locations. These man camps are associated with increased violence against Indigenous people, and Indigenous women in particular.”
Over the course of the next hour, Ventress details her methods and showcases the maps she’s created. Satine isn’t an expert in GIS - geographic information systems - by any means, but Ventress’ work is clearly, beyond any shadow of a doubt, exceptional. The content is triggering and hard for Satine to listen to, but Satine doesn’t for a moment think to leave.
Satine knows she’s a guest on these lands. This is the least she can do to honor the original caretakers.
It seems like she blinks and the lecture is over, with another round of applause. Satine remains seated as her companions rise to leave, and Ben glances her way, his expression telling her he knows the lecture must have been a difficult one for her to hear.
“Go on,” says Satine. “I’ll meet you in your office.”
He nods, and he and Vos follow the others up the stairs and out the door of the lecture hall. Satine stands and steps up to the lectern.
“Your talk was excellent,” Satine begins, and Ventress looks at her as she logs out of the computer. “It made me very grateful you decided to befriend me instead of declare me your enemy the day I arrived. The latter probably would have been easier to do, especially since our fields overlap slightly.”
Ventress grins at this. “I don’t start fights,” she says. “I only end them.”
Satine laughs deeply.
Ventress tucks her thumb drive into her pocket. “Listen, Satine,” she begins. “There’s an Indigenous artist market being held at the National Museum of the American Indian over Spring Break. Want to check it out?”
“I’d like that,” says Satine, nodding, and she follows Asajj up the stairs.
---
The next week moves too quickly for Satine’s liking. She blinks and Spring Break has arrived, and Ben has boarded a plane out of the District.
She’s proud of him for facing his grief. But she’s also not particularly looking forward to the time apart. They’ve been alternating spending the night at each other’s places, taking a load of things from her place to his every time they head to Old Town so that the eventual move is less overwhelming. She’s taken over a section of his closet and half of his dresser. She has a phone charger on her side of his bed.
So, naturally, her bed feels empty without him beside her.
Satine rolls over in the dark. Before Ben had left for the Metro to take him to the airport, he’d kissed her deeply and pressed a small metal object into her palm.
Taken aback, Satine had examined the key.
“The place will be half yours in two months,” Ben had reminded her. “So my spare key really isn’t all that much of a spare now, is it?”
“You just want someone to water your plants while you’re gone,” she’d quipped, and she held onto the way he laughed like it was a lifeline.
Now, Satine throws back the covers and stands, making her way over to her desk, where she grabs the sweater she’d stolen from him the night he’d first held her, the first time she’d cried in front of him in years. She slips it over her head and pads back to bed.
The smell of him is faint, but it’s still there. Pulling the duvet back over her, she succumbs to sleep.
---
On Monday afternoon, Satine takes two buses toward Capitol Hill. She’s finally put away her peacoat for the season, switching to a navy trench coat. The District seems to support this decision - peak cherry blossoms line the sides of the bus route, welcoming spring at last. Satine pulls the stop request cord, thanks the driver, and jumps off the bus outside of the museum on the National Mall.
The uniqueness of the National Museum of the American Indian's profile is immediately apparent, and the buff- and golden-colored limestone reminds Satine of natural rock, which she’s sure is intentional. Her eyes follow the lines of the building as they curve into themselves, reminiscent of waves or perhaps wind. Her first thought is that the building looks peaceful.
She breathes out.
The next moment, she spots Asajj, who is sitting on one of the stone benches outside, partially hidden by the beginnings of wetland plants commencing their spring growth. Satine realizes that the gardens, too, must have been planted with deliberate care, each species chosen for specific reason.
Asajj, of course, notices her before she approaches. She stands as Satine nears her.
“Should have figured you’d prefer to wait outside,” says Satine. “You can take the arctic out of the girl but…”
Asajj chuckles. “High fifties is practically tropic for me, even if it’s still brisk for others.” They begin to walk toward the entrance. “But for you, as well, as I understand it?”
Satine holds the first door open for Asajj, and Asajj holds the next one for her. “True,” acknowledges Satine. “Norway would have kicked me out if I complained about the cold,” she says with a laugh.
They open their bags for security and proceed through the metal detectors, and Satine steps to the side to take in the interior of the museum. To the left is the information desk, and everything in front of them is wide open space, a multi-purpose area that Satine guesses is often used for performances or lectures. Today, it’s filled with artist booths. Though the market doesn’t start for another half hour, the area is already bustling as the artists finish setting up.
Beyond the market is a massive set of stairs leading to different levels of the museum, each floor with various exhibits.
Asajj glances at Satine. “Want to get food first?”
“You read my mind,” says Satine, and they wander to the museum’s cafe. Mitsitam Cafe, Satine knows, is famous for using ingredients indigenous to the Americas. Satine orders a manoomin - wild rice - dish and sits with Asajj as they wait for their food.
Asajj suddenly looks at her. “Do you ever find yourself wanting to go back?” she asks. Her voice is soft but sure. “To Bosnia, that is. Not to Norway.”
Satine shrugs. “Yes, and no. Sometimes I think I do. But I think ultimately what I want is to go back to an idea that doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe it never existed.”
Asajj nods. “Before…”
“Yes,” says Satine. “Before the fighting. An idealized version of what I left.”
Asajj breathes out. “I never knew that version of my village,” she says. “But I heard about it. The Elders…some of them had parents or grandparents who had known it. Who had seen it. I wish I had.” She breathes in. “So I understand. It’s why I don’t go back, I think. I mourn what I never got to see.”
Their food is set before them, and they thank the server.
Satine takes her first bite of wild rice. “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe the work you’re doing will allow future generations to see it.”
Asajj looks off into the distance. “Perhaps,” she says. “If so, it would be worth it.”
---
The next morning, Satine goes to her usual spot in the library. Campus is empty, with most of the undergraduates and graduate students - and the faculty, for that matter - off on Spring Break. It’s a nice change of pace, though she admits to missing the chaos of a busy semester. It’s easier to get lost in.
Satine sets her jacket on the back of her chair and drops her bag at the work station, heading to the stacks in search of a text. When she gets to the call number, she frowns.
The book isn’t there, even though the online database had indicated it hadn’t currently been checked out.
“Looking for this?”
Satine feels her heart stop for a beat. She turns to face Derren Malek, who is holding up the book she’d been searching for in his tattoo-clad hand.
Satine doesn’t move.
The corner of Malek’s mouth turns up. “It’s been difficult trying to find you on your own since we last talked,” he says. “Your friends seem to have set up a system. Thought I’d take advantage of there being literally no one else in the library today.”
Satine swallows. “How closely have you been watching me?”
He’d known exactly where to find her. Had he followed her to this spot before? Had the presence of students been the only thing not stopping him from approaching her then?
She curses herself, realizing her phone is back at the desk.
“Close enough,” says Malek. “Curious, isn’t it? You’ve had the undivided attention of two men this semester. Kenobi, of course, and myself. A madness shared by two, indeed.”
Satine clenches her jaw. Her thoughts drift to her and Ben’s conversation, back when he’s proposed their thought experiment.
“This is madness, though, you know,” she says.
“Folie à deux,” says Ben. “A madness shared by two.”
With a growing horror, she remembers the way the floorboards had creaked behind them.
“You were there,” says Satine. “That day.”
“The Secretary said you were smart,” says Malek. “I’ve come to have my doubts, however, considering how absolutely idiotic you’ve been when it comes to Kenobi.”
He steps toward her.
“Not that he’s been any smarter about you,” says Malek. “The Secretary has all the evidence he needs.”
Satine steps back.
“You’ve been recording us.”
“You made it easy.” He laughs. “The Secretary knew of your first weakness: your research. You’d do anything to protect it, and, thus, to protect your reputation to ensure your work can continue. But now we have an insurance policy. Because, as it turns out, the formidable Satine Kryze has not only one weakness but two. And the second happens to be Ben Kenobi.”
“Leave him out of this.”
“But you’ve brought him in! And that’s on you.”
Satine reaches out to steady herself against the stack of books beside her. “What do you want?” she hisses.
“To remind you,” says Malek. “You’re toeing the line. Accepting the invitation to speak in Paris in September puts you in a position to cross it. Depending on the contents of that speech.”
Satine glares at him. “The Secretary wants to see the speech before I give it.”
Malek laughs again. “Stupid girl. He wants to write the speech you will give.”
Satine shakes her head before thinking about it. “When hell freezes over.”
Malek reaches out to grab her elbow, gripping her tightly. Satine has to force herself to not gasp at the pain.
“Your career is not the only one at stake now,” Malek says. “You’re conspiring with Kenobi, a conspiracy that involves an arranged marriage while you’re applying for citizenship. I can’t imagine that’s something that USCIS will take kindly to hearing. Beyond the knock to Kenobi's academic reputation, that could doom him to an avalanche of legal troubles.”
He pulls her closer so that her body is flush against his, forcing the book into her hand.
“Toe the line, Ms. Kryze,” he hisses. “Your first step will be to ensure that Kenobi discerns nothing of this conversation. The second will be giving that speech in September exactly as the Secretary has prepared it.”
Ben’s name from his lips lights the fire that sparks the match, and Satine remembers her first few self-defense trainings. She considers what Ben, Asajj, and Quinlan have taught her.
Use what you have available.
Well, right now, what she has available is twofold: the element of surprise, and the book she’s holding with a death grip.
So Satine pushes the book upward with all her might, feeling it collide with Malek’s face and hearing the telltale sound of delicate bones crunching. She jumps back and races toward the staircase, grabbing her bag and stuffing her jacket and the book - now bloodied - inside while never breaking stride. Once she’s out of the library, she runs to the nearest bus stop and joins the line boarding the bus that has just arrived, checking over her shoulder to make sure Malek hasn’t followed her. She holds her bag to her chest as she finds a seat, trying to figure out where she's headed.
Mercifully, the route takes her toward her home, and Satine jumps off the bus only a few blocks away. Still checking behind her, she speed-walks to her condo.
She holds her composure until she's inside, shutting the door behind her and bolting the lock.
Then Satine doubles over, wincing, finally letting herself vocalize her discomfort. But instead of picking herself up, she sinks to the floor, breathing heavily, dropping her bag to the ground.
Then she dials 911.
The dispatcher assures her a uniformed Georgetown University police officer is on their way and will arrive at her home within minutes. But as soon as Satine hangs up, doubt begins to seep in, and she hesitates.
Should she have made that call? Would it have been better not to report it?
She hesitates. The force with which Malek had gripped her elbow would no doubt leave bruises. It was technically assault, and she’d been justified in her response, knowing that it was possible he could become more aggressive. She knows his history.
But she also knows how these types of cases usually end, why women don’t bother reporting abusers. She knows the statistics, the numbers of women who make reports to police but who aren’t taken seriously. More than that, reporting Malek is likely to lead to retaliation from him - or, even worse - the Secretary.
Had she just crossed that line that Malek had warned her about? Had she just ordered her own deportation with that phone call? And why hadn’t she waited for a clearer head before making the call?
In shock, she waits for the squad car to arrive.
Five minutes pass, and then five more. After half an hour without hearing sirens, Satine crawls from her place on the floor to the couch, forced to reckon with the reality that help isn't on its way.
She’d heard stories of the American law enforcement system. She can hazard a guess as to why the police haven’t arrived.
So she calls Asajj.
Fifteen minutes later, Satine opens her door to Asajj and Quinlan on her porch.
“Tell me everything,” says Asajj, stepping past her.
Satine rolls up her sleeve and reveals the purple bruises near her elbow as Quinlan shuts the door behind them and locks it. Asajj reaches out to take her forearm, studying it.
Then she puts an arm around Satine’s shoulders and guides her to sit back down on the couch. “Call Kenobi,” she says to Quinlan, who reaches for his phone and steps into the kitchen.
“Malek followed me to the library,” says Satine. “It was the same threat he gave before. A reminder.”
Asajj looks at her with discerning eyes. “You didn’t call the cops because you’re worried that will make him escalate this threat further.”
Satine bites her lip. “I did call the cops. They never showed up, and it’s been almost an hour.”
Asajj lets out a sharp breath. “Judging by your tone, you don’t think it’s just because they triaged you to the bottom of the list.”
“No,” Satine agrees.
Asajj sighs. “There’s blood on your blouse,” she points out.
Satine looks down and notices she’s right.
“I’m assuming you managed to land one on Malek?”
Satine nods.
“Good,” says Asajj. “Did you break his nose?”
“Probably,” admits Satine.
“Even better. Look, if you’re right about the reason the cops didn’t come, you don’t need to worry about Malek reporting you for punching him. He won’t want to draw attention to it - because he won’t be able to explain his injuries without explaining what provoked you. But just in case…we need to take pictures of the bruising. And since I don’t see blood all over your knuckles, I’m assuming you struck him with something else? A library book? I’ll get Vos to see if he can find it after he finishes talking with Kenobi. Anything that leads credence to your story, if the cops eventually do decide to do their job and investigate.”
“No need for Quinlan to go anywhere,” says Satine. “I have the book. In my bag.”
The first traces of a smile cross Asajj’s face. “You didn’t check it out? You rebel.”
Satine lets out a half-laugh, half-sob, and Asajj grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch to toss around Satine’s shoulders.
“You’re too cold,” Asajj says. “You're coming down from an adrenaline high.” She moves to the thermostat to increase the temperature, then sits down next to Satine.
Quinlan emerges from the kitchen at that moment. “Kenobi’s headed back,” he says, and Asajj fills him in on what Satine has told her.
He cracks his knuckles. “We’re going to need to establish a schedule,” he says to Asajj, who nods.
“A schedule?” asks Satine.
"Like keeping watch,” Asajj says. “We’ll take turns. You shouldn’t go anywhere alone - on campus in particular - for a while. And Kenobi’s about to become your shadow, so you should prepare yourself.”
Quinlan takes a few steps into the living room. Into the silence, he says, “There’s a flight out of Madison in two hours. Lands in DC this afternoon. We’ll stay with you until he gets here.” He holds out his hand to Satine, and she realizes he’s holding a couple CBD gummies. “Kenobi told me which cabinet you kept them in; he figured you could use them.”
Satine takes the gummies gratefully. “Thanks,” she murmurs.
“He’ll text once he’s checked in at the airport,” Quinlan says. “I’m going to get some lunch for us. Any requests?”
“Something warm,” says Asajj, and Satine realizes she’s shivering.
Quinlan nods and slips out the front door. Asajj stands to lock it behind him, and then she moves toward Satine. “I’m going to grab you a different shirt,” she says. “Is that alright?”
Satine nods, not even really registering the question.
She’s vaguely aware of Asajj leaving the living room, less so of her coming back in with Satine’s sleep shirt. Satine lets her friend lead her toward the washroom, and Asajj steps out as Satine changes into the other top. Satine drops the blood-stained blouse to the floor like it’s on fire.
She follows Asajj back to the couch wordlessly, and they both sit together. Asajj turns on the television to something mindless.
By the time Quinlan returns with steaming bowls of pho, the CBD has clearly started taking effect. Satine manages to get down most of the pho, and she sets the empty takeout styrofoam on the coffee table.
And then she sinks back into the couch cushions and into blissful oblivion.
