by Sean Stewart
me once. That means I've got two left. Here's one," she said, and gritting her
teeth she grabbed Hanna's lightsaber blade with her naked left hand.
"You can't do that!" Hanna yelped.
"Want to bet?" The blade burned and spat, but Scout held on to it for dear
life and jerked down. Unable to believe what she was seeing, Hanna couldn't
bring herself to let go of her weapon fast enough, and down she came, falling on
top of Scout, who was already rolling, her right hand already sliding up to the
neck of the Arkanian girl's tunic.
The two of them rolled over and over across the floor, and then Scout was on
top with her left hand still tight around Hanna's blade and her right hand
clamped around the Arkanian's throat. Scout was lion Hand's best pupil; her
choke holds were very precise, always centered beautifully on the carotid
triangle, and they invariably induced unconsciousness within ten seconds. Scout
bore down, counting off the seconds she still had to hold on to Hanna's
lightsaber. One, two, three . . .
A film swam over the Arkanian's milky eyes, like frost creeping over a pond.
Four, five.
"It's not . . ."
Six.
"Fair," Hanna whispered.
Seven.
And she surrendered.
Scout yelled and threw away Hanna's lightsaber. She rolled off Hanna's limp
body and forced herself to her feet and swore a long stream of words that were
absolutely not to be uttered inside the Jedi Temple, shaking out her poor
burning left hand. Her legs were trembling so badly she thought she would fall
down again, but she managed to bow to Master Xan.
Iron Hand regarded her. She wasn't smiling anymore. "You know, Esterhazy, if
this had been a real fight—"
"With respect, Master . .." Scout stopped to catch another breath and wipe
the sweat out of her eyes. "With all due respect, that was a real fight. This is
real," she said, waving at the room. "Lightsaber was real, set to a real
setting." Behind her, Hanna began to moan softly. "She's real." Scout looked
toward Hanna. "It was a real fight."
After a long moment, Master Xan finally nodded. "I guess it was, at that."
Some heartbeats later the clapping started. The applause was still mounting
as Scout walked out of the chamber, shaking off offers of help, and limped
toward the infirmary.
4
The Jedi Temple rectory was buzzing with commentary on the tournament as
apprentices and Masters alike sat down for their midday meal. Even Master Yoda,
who usually took his meals alone or in the Jedi Council Chamber, had hobbled up
to one of the long trestle tables and clambered, grunting and snuffing, up onto
the bench, where he sat benignly surveying the hall. "Master Leem!" he called,
waggling his cane as she came into the hall. "Mm. Sit with me awhile, will you
not?"
Maks's long jaw made tiny chewing motions. She had really wanted to find her
Padawan, Whie, and give him a couple of tips before the afternoon bouts resumed.
But in truth, that was more to calm her own nerves than to help him; the boy had
gone through his first two matches effortlessly, disarming his first opponent,
who then tapped out, and putting the neatest little wrist lock on the second, so
they were both barely inconvenienced by being beaten. The boy had always been
smooth that way, like a diver who hit the water so cleanly he barely left a
splash. He didn't need her help.
Besides, when the Grand Master of the Jedi Order invited one to dine, one
could hardly turn him down. Even if she wanted to.
Frankly, even beings who would follow Yoda to the gates of Death preferred
not to share his meals. Perhaps traveling the length and breadth of the galaxy
had given the Master a more wide-ranging palate than mere mortals, or perhaps he
was so evolved a being that he didn't care what he put into his body; or perhaps
when one lived eight-hundred-odd years all one's taste buds died. Whatever the
reason, the old gnome's preferred foods were notoriously disgusting. He was fond
of hot, swampy stews that smelled like boiled mud; small dirt-colored appetizers
that jiggled uneasily on the plate; and viscous drinks, both hot and cold, that
ran the gamut from burned syrup to grainy sludge. As Master Leem settled on the
bench beside him, the oldest and greatest of the Jedi was peering happily into a
bowl of dark brown-and-gray stew, studded with little floating chunks of what
looked like raw animal fat and spackled with the scales of some small reptile.
The whole concoction smelled like dead womprat that had been left ou t in the
sun.
"Fought well this morning, your Padawan did," Yoda mumbled around a mouthful
of stew.
A moment earlier, Master Leem had been looking forward to a platter of dry
grain with a side of dried candleberries and a mug of fragrant naris-bud tea,
but as the smell of Yoda's lunch reached her, she abruptly lost her appetite.
"Yes, Whie did very well," she said, eyes suddenly gone glassy.
"Had a nightmare last night, did he?"
"He said it wasn't one of the . . . special dreams."
Yoda gave her a sharp glance from under his ridged eyebrows. "Believe him,
did you?"
"I'm not sure," she admitted. "It's not like him to lie about something like
that. It's not like him to lie at all. But he was badly scared. And there was .
. ."
"A stirring in the Force."
Master Leem nodded unhappily. "Yes, I felt it, too." It had woken her in the
middle of the night, like a distant scream, so faint that at first she couldn't
think what had jolted her upright in her bed, with the hair prickling around her
neck.
Yoda bent back to his bowl, slurping and gobbling. "Told you of how he came
to us, have I?"
"No, actually. I was on a long mission when he came to the Temple. I think he
had been here three years before I ever saw him." She could still remember the
occasion. She had agreed to take a class of five-years-olds into the garden for
a botany lesson, learning the names of plants and their uses. Even then the
Force had been strong in Whie. He had fallen behind the others, and when she
went to look for him, she found him stroking the buds of a Rigelian iris, which
opened and flowered at his touch, as if he were softly pulling the very
springtime through them.
Still smiling at the memory, she turned to look for him in the crowded room,
partly out of fondness, and partly to get her nose away from the appalling
stench of Yoda's gumbo. Whie was three tables over, sitting with his age-mates
and yet a little apart, not fully joining in the raucous conversation around the
table. There was always a little reserve to him, as if he saw something others
couldn't see and didn't know how to share it. Then again, he was one of the
eight apprentices still standing in the tournament, so perhaps it wasn't
surprising that he kept to himself, to gather his thoughts and keep his
concentration focused. As if feeling her gaze on the back of his neck, he turned
and met her eyes with a half smile and a respectful nod.
A good Padawan. The best she'd had, though of course one wasn'
t supposed to
have favorites.
Yoda followed her gaze. "Born on Vjun was he." His ancient tongue crept out
to wipe brown and gray stew-slime from around his wrinkled mouth. "Insane, the
father went. And his mother . . . very strong she was. Very strong."
Maks felt her three eyebrows furrow. "I had no idea."
"Mm. Begged us to take him, she did. 'Take him from the slaughterhouse.' Her
words those were. Drunk she was, and half out of her mind with grief, for there
was murder in the house that day."
"Good heavens."
Yoda nodded. "Not clear to me, our path that day was. Knew even then the
mother could change her mind. But the Force was strong in him . . ." The old
Master shrugged and snuffed. "We guessed. We dared. Wrong or right, who knows?
Sometimes wrong and right only have meaning in small time. In big time, in
decades, in centuries . . . then we see that things are as they are. Each
choice, the branch of a tree is: what looked like a decision, is after only a
pattern of growth. Each act, you see, is like a fossil, preserved in the Force,
as—aiee!" Yoda broke into a sudden squawk as a rectory droid came to the end of
the table and took his bowl, still half full of stew. "Stop! Stop! Eating this,
I am!"
"This bowl contains a substance my sensors cannot identify as food," the
little round droid said. "Please wait here, and I will bring you one of today's
specials."
Yoda grabbed on to the edge of his bowl. "Ignorant machine! Not on menu, my
food ever is. Made special for me, was this!"
The droid's servos whined as it fought to pull the bowl from the table.
"Preliminary readings cannot confirm the edibility of the contents of this bowl.
Please wait here, and I will bring you one of today's specials."
"Back!" Yoda cried, whapping the droid on the arm with his cane. "Mine! Go
away!"
"You are bound to enjoy today's special," the droid said. "Baked dru'un
slices in fish sauce. Wait here, and I will bring you some."
Yoda fetched the droid another thump with his cane, yanking on the bowl. The
droid yanked back. The bowl shattered, sending flying stew everywhere, most
particularly on the robes of Jedi Master Maks Leem.
"Oh, dear, a spill," the little droid said with satisfaction. "Let me clean
that up for you."
Yoda's round eyes grew wide, and he stared at the droid with great intensity.
"Bah!" he said, with an explosive grunt. "Droids!" The Master of the Jedi Order,
quivering with frustration, stuck out his tongue at the droid, which was now
happily picking gobbets of what looked like stewed tendon off Master Leem's
robes.
Ten minutes later Master Leem had returned with fresh clothes, and Master
Yoda was staring glumly at a plate of baked dru'un slices in fish sauce. He
brightened as Jai Maruk entered the refectory, and summoned the lean Jedi to
their table with a waggle of his stick. "Come to watch, have you?"
Master Maruk joined them with a grave bow to Yoda and a courteous nod to
Master Leem. "Master Xan gave me a tip."
"Tip? Tip about what?" Maks Leem said.
Jai Maruk plucked a mug of steaming stimcaf from the tray of a passing droid,
which Yoda eyed with disfavor. "You have a Padawan still alive in the
tournament, yes?"
"That wasn't really an answer," Master Leem observed.
Master Maruk permitted himself a rare, small smile.
"Eight alone remain," Yoda remarked, glowering at the back of the beverage
droid as it rolled away across the room.
"Seven, surely," Maruk said. "The weaker girl, Esterhazy—I heard she went to
the infirmary with burns on her leg and hand."
At that moment, a murmur rippled through the benches nearest the eastern
doors of the big hall as Scout limped in. Yoda glanced at the tall Jedi with a
sly smile. "Went, yes."
"Did you know she was coming back?"
"Guessed it only, did I."
"She doesn't have any business fighting," Maruk said, shaking his head. "Left
hand badly burned and bandaged, limping on her right side—another lightsaber
burn, probably. What did you think of the way she competed this morning?" he
asked Yoda. "Not quite in keeping with the Jedi ideals, I would say."
Yoda shrugged. "Which ideals mean you?"
"Too much trickery."
"Resilience, though," Master Leem said. "Lots of that. And courage."
"Mm. One more, too," Yoda murmured. The younger Jedi looked at him. "She
never gives up," he said. Yoda's old eyes went narrow and crinkly. "Think you
still to the Agricultural Corps she should be sent?"
"It's not for me to question you as to the development of our apprentices."
Yoda tapped him on the shins with his stick.
"All right," Jai said testily, "Yes, I do. I think she is smart and
determined, and in the Agricultural Corps she could do a lot of good for many
years. A Jedi Knight has a different kind of mission, and in the work we do, I
think she would be dead in six months. How glad will we be that we let her dream
live, when the dreamer is dead?"
"That she is not so strong in the Force as some surely requires an extra
effort from her," Master Leem said thoughtfully. "But perhaps it also places a
greater responsibility on us." She was a kindhearted Gran, and she hated the
idea of sending Scout to the Agricultural Corps. "Perhaps we should exert
ourselves even more in her training. Nobody can say Scout hasn't brought her all
to being a Padawan; can we say we have worked as hard to make her a Jedi
Knight?"
Yoda cackled. "A kind heart and a cunning have you, Master Leem. Jai Maruk,
take a little wager with me, will you?"
Jai looked pained in the extreme. "Of course, Master, if you wish it."
"Watch the tournament, how it finishes. Of the eight remaining, should the
young one finish in the bottom four, then to the corps will I send her."
"After beating out three-quarters of the other students to get this far?"
Master Leem exclaimed.
Yoda shrugged. "Worse tests must any Jedi face, against far more terrible
odds. And as Master Maruk says, not strong is the Force in this one."
"And if she finishes in the top four?" Master Maruk said suspiciously.
"Second, third, fourth: then an apprentice she remains. But if she wins,"
Yoda said, poking Jai Maruk in the chest with his stick, "your Padawan she will
be."
"Mine!" Maruk blurted. "Why me?"
Yoda snickered. "Why, then would you have lost, Jai Maruk. And need to learn
about winning from one who knows how."
Master Maruk, looking singularly as if he had just had one of the
spiny-collared toads of Tatooine shoved forcibly down his throat, was spared
having to answer as Master Xan clapped her hands for attention. The tables of
Jedi apprentices, well trained to pay immediate attention—not for nothing did
they nickname her Iron Hand—fell silent at once.
"Apprentices, Padawans, Jedi Knights, and Masters: the first half of today's
tournament has been extremely enlightening. The participants have fought with
skill and courage—sometimes with great beauty . . ." Her eyes rested for a
moment on Whie. "And sometimes
with remarkable, ah, ingenuity." This remark
accompanied by a dry sideways glance at Scout, who colored but kept her chin
fiercely upright.
"I said earlier that the apprentices who were to spar in this contest made it
clear to me that they wanted the tests to be more lifelike; more closely
resembling situations they might find if they were dispatched outside these
walls into that larger world where even now a war is raging." Heads nodded
around the refectory tables. How serious they are, Master Leem thought, and once
again her heart went out to this generation of children raised not as keepers of
a Republic's peace, but soldiers in a galactic war.
"I commonly hear our apprentices talk about Coruscant, and the stars beyond,
as 'real life.' I wonder, sometimes, if they think what we teach them is merely
pretend," Master Xan continued. "I assure you, it is not. The living Force you
come to see here, under Master Yoda's guidance, is the truest reality; beyond
these walls it is the truth, masked by hope and fear and treachery, that is
hardest to see."
Yoda's old head nodded agreement with these words.
"But it is true that in real life we rarely face our enemies one by one, in a
closed room, with comfortable mats on the floor," Iron Hand said. "Out there,
situations are more chaotic. Instead of fighting in a sparring room, you might
find yourself drawing your lightsaber in a docking bay, or a library, a city
street, or even . ." She paused, lifting her eyebrows. "Even in a dining room,
for example. Under the impression that you had hours before your next exertion,
you might have just eaten a large meal," she said, looking at Sisseri Deo, a
tall golden-skinned Firrerreo who was one of the eight remaining combatants. He
looked down at his plate, and the nictitating membranes of his eyes flickered
rapidly with dismay.
"Out there, you might not have remembered to pay attention closely enough
earlier in time, leaving you confused as to who, exactly, your opponents were,"
she continued, glancing at Lena Missa. The Chagrian girl wet her blue lips with
her forked tongue and looked quickly around the room, trying to remember who all
the morning's victors had been.
"Out there, it's rarely so easy as single combat at a defined time and place.
More likely it is a barroom brawl, a fistfight in a back alley." Iron Hand
