lifted up the red handkerchief. At the sight of it, nervous apprentices
scrambled up from their benches. "Or even a dining room free-for-all. Eight
contestants remain. May the Force be with you," Master Xan said, and she let the
red cloth slip from her fingers.
As soon as Master Xan started talking about "real life," Scout guessed what
was coming. She scanned the room, locating the rest of her comrades in the Round
of Eight, checking to see who might make the best opponent. Not Lena—Lena was a
friend; besides, the Chagrian was looking straight at her.
Sisseri Deo, all 2.3 golden-skinned meters of him, was sitting with his back
to Scout just one table away. As Master Iron Hand continued her little
lecture—wasn't she enjoying herself, that grim old lady!—Scout slid from her
bench carrying her cup of muja juice, and shuffled forward a few steps as if
trying to make out what the Master was saying.
The red handkerchief went up. Everyone who didn't want to get caught in the
crossfire of lightsaber blades and dirty dishes jumped to their feet. Scout
glanced over at Lena, checking to make sure the Chagrian wasn't sneaking up on
her. So far, so good. She edged casually over until she was right behind
Sisseri. In purely physical terms, Sisseri was by far the strongest remaining
combatant, a huge boy with muscles like tree roots under his gleaming skin.
Scout had watched his second-round match, when his roundhouse kick had taken out
Forzi Ghul, and she had no interest in going up against him.
By the worst luck, just as the red handkerchief slipped from between Master
Xan's fingers, Sisseri spun around to face Scout.
She swore.
The handkerchief hit the ground.
Sisseri grabbed for his lightsaber.
Scout tossed her cup of juice in his face.
Up snapped his hands, the lightsaber a beam of blue light humming wildly over
Scout's head as he frantically tried to wipe the juice out of his eyes. Ignoring
her lightsaber completely—there was no point in trying to duel Sisseri, he was
far too good for her—she charged straight into his chest, letting her hands find
the neck of his tunic. She found the sweet hold, her strong wrists cranked, and
she felt the old familiar pressure of fingers and cloth cutting into her
opponent's neck. Great, she thought. Now all I have to do is count to ten and
hold on. One, two . . .
The muscles in Sisseri's legs bunched, and with a little Force tingle Scout
knew what was coming next. He launched himself backward, twisting in midair like
a dragonsnake in its death throes so as to come crashing down on the tabletop
with Scout underneath him, but she had felt it coming and wiggled around him in
mid-flight, so she was on top again when he hit the table with a whump.
Three, four . . .
The Firrerreo kept rolling. His giant hands flexed, but for some reason the
Force was flowing easily for Scout now and she knew he would try to pull her
hands away before he knew it himself. Keeping the choke hold on with her right
hand and forearm, she reached down with her left and popped the pressure point
in his elbow, so his arm went numb and tingly.
Five, six . . .
Sisseri stopped thrashing and lay on the tabletop, blinking as if trying to
summon the Force, but his eyes were glazing over. He gave a long, despairing
hiss and glared at her with bulging eyes, his face congested and still running
with juice. "I hate . . ."
Seven . . .
"I hate muja juice," he gasped, and yielded.
Scout rolled off him and crouched beside the table, peering around the
refectory. There seemed to be six combatants left. Pirt Neer and Enver Hoxha
were taking up most of the attention with a scintillating lightsaber duel. Whie
and Hera Tuix were fighting hand-to-hand, but still at range, trading kicks,
punches, and blocks. That wouldn't last; no matter how elegant one was at range,
unarmed fights always went to ground in the end, where it was all grappling
skills and joint locks. Lena was just standing up over Bargu, the skinchanger,
who was clutching her arm with one hand and bowing in defeat.
Lena's eyes met Scout's, and they exchanged weary, wary smiles.
elegant little wrist lock, and although Hera was trying to come up with a
counterattack, odds were she would have to tap out at any second. Scout found
Lena's eyes. "Now!" she said, and charged, with Lena right on her heels. Whie
was stronger than either of them, but if they could take him now, together,
while his back was turned and he was holding on to Hera, they might get him out
of the equation.
They were at his back. Lena leapt in, but something about the set of Whie's
body whispered to Scout that he knew exactly where they were.
Hera yielded.
Whie leapt into the air, five effortless meters, turned a backflip, and
landed gently on a tabletop behind them. Lena ran into the table where he had
been standing, and if Scout's one Force talent hadn't come to her aid she would
have done the same, leaving them both at Whie's mercy. Instead, she was waiting
with a whirling lightsaber slash at his legs as he landed on the table. He met
her blue blade with his green one in a shower of sparks.
Then something strange happened. Whie stared at Scout, his mouth dropped
open, and he recoiled.
"What's the matter?" Scout growled. She swiped across her face with her
injured left hand. A few spatters of muja juice showed on the bandage, but that
hardly seemed like a reason for him to be staring at her as if he had seen a
ghost.
Lena hissed, recovered herself, and darted in to attack. Scout knew she would
thrust low, and slashed high, hoping Whie couldn't parry both attacks. Instead
of jumping back like any normal person, though, and falling off the table, Whie
leapt forward, over their heads. A Force shove in her back sent her sprawling
into the table he had been standing on, sending up showers of baked dru'un
slices, a sleet of fish sauce, and a rain of juice and water.
She rose and shook her head, sending little bits of lunch out of her hair. A
line of lightsaber cuts went pin-wheeling across the room, followed by a round
of spontaneous applause. Lena's feet raced by her table. Then a lightsaber came
hissing and spitting through the air, bounced on the floor, and rolled to a stop
less than a meter away. An instant later Enver Hoxha appeared, his face
contorted with desperation, lunging for his weapon.
Scout reached out and grabbed it. "No!" Enver shrieked as Pirt Neer caught up
and held her blade to his throat. "Well?" Pirt's voice said, somewhere high
above.
Enver stared daggers at Scout.
"Thanks a lot, Scout," Enver snarled, and surrendered. He stood, to a round
of applause, and brushed off his pants. "Well done, Pirt. You may as well
collect Esterhazy so I can get my lightsaber back."
"Not a bad idea—ulp!" Lena had come up behind Pirt while she was accepting
Enver's surrender, and put a sturdy arm bar on her. Pitt sighed and yielded.
Lena's cheerful blue face beamed at
Scout. "Are you just going to sit there,
or are you going to come out and play?"
There was a whirring buzz, lightsabers clashed and sparked, and Lena
disappeared in a dance of fancy footwork across the refectory tables. Scout
groaned. She should, she really should go help.
She edged out into the open. Lena and Whie were the only two combatants left.
They were going at it in the wide clear space in front of the swinging kitchen
doors. Whie was pressing Lena hard, his lightsaber spinning a cage of green
light around her. Scout sprinted toward the pair.
Too little, too late. As she watched, Lena went through a parry-feint-beat
attack-fleche combination, trying for a straight thrust into Whie's chest. He
sidestepped, limber as a whipcord. He used his blade to guide hers harmlessly by
while at the same time letting his free hand clamp on to her sword hand. He
continued to pivot, sinking his weight exactly as Master Iron Hand always taught
them, and now Lena's sword hand was caught in a thumb lock that her own momentum
was making worse. An instant later they finished like a pair of dance partners:
Whie behind the Chagrian girl, pinning her arm behind her back with her thumb
folded up at an unnatural angle. He gave the slightest upward pressure on her
thumb, and the lightsaber dropped from her hand. One more little nudge had her
on her tiptoes. She yielded.
He smiled, let her go, and accepted her surrender with a grave bow. She
answered with a curtsy and a laugh, amid the applause of those watching.
Oh, well, Scout thought. So much for tackling Whie two-on-one. She had a
plan, but she had really, really been hoping she wouldn't have to use it. She
sighed and switched her lightsaber over to her left hand. She trained
left-handed often enough that it wasn't completely implausible that she would do
such a thing as a desperate ploy to throw him off. For that matter, he might
even think she was left-handed. The brutal truth was, she had probably spent a
whole lot more time worrying about him than he had ever spent studying her.
She thumbed the power switch, and her lightsaber came on. Stars, how she
loved its sound, the weight of the handle in her hand, and the pale luminous
blue blade, clear as the sky at first light. She might not be the greatest Jedi
apprentice ever, but she loved the Temple and her weapon and this life, and if
even Yoda himself tried to take that away from her, she would go down kicking
and screaming to the very end.
A small serving droid wheeled through the swinging doors from the kitchen
area and surveyed the refectory, emitting a series of dismayed beeps and
whistles as it took in the shattered crockery and the food spattered over half
the floor and some of the walls. Several tables showed scorch marks from stray
lightsaber strokes.
Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy—Scout to her friends—cut a little figure in
the air to catch Whie's attention. "I guess that leaves you and me, sport."
Whie turned. His face fell. "You're still—I mean, I thought I was done."
There was something insulting about the way he stared at her and then looked
away. "Hey, we don't have to fight," she said.
His shoulders sagged with relief. "I would prefer that. It's just—"
"—You can always surrender," she finished sweetly. Scattered laughter in the
room. The serving droid scooted forward, its round head spinning anxiously from
side to side.
"Me? Surrender to you?" Whie struggled to master himself. "I don't think so."
Drawing himself up with cool formality, he drew his lightsaber and bowed to her,
Master Xan, and Master Yoda.
Scout drew herself up to do the same, but as she dipped toward Whie, the
little serving droid buzzed up to her. "Oh, dear, a spill," it said, peeling a
slice of mashed dru'un in fish sauce off her hip. "Let me clean that up for
you."
Laughter roared around the room. Scout blushed to the tips of her ears. So
much for her dignified entrance. "Let's go," she said, and she leapt in.
With the lightsaber in her left hand she made a hard, straight lunge with a
single disengage around his first parry, easily blocked by his second. He was
sliding her along exactly as he had done Lena . . . his free hand dropping onto
her sword hand and twisting it around, using the lightsaber handle as a lever to
create the initial thumb lock. The whole thing was incredibly smooth: the
fighter in Scout couldn't help but admire his balance, his precision and body
awareness. She would have had a hard time countering the technique, even if she
had wanted to.
Three seconds into their fight, and it already looked to be over. He was
standing behind her, just as he had been with Lena. A single nudge, exactly
placed, sent pain shooting up her thumb and into her wrist. She dropped her
lightsaber with a clatter. "Let's stop," he said. Pleading.
It was the strangest thing—he hadn't been nearly this flustered dealing with
Lena, and Lena was a more dangerous opponent than Scout by anyone's reckoning.
Scout had seen boys with crushes seem this nervous around the girl of their
dreams—it made sparring practice acutely embarrassing for everyone—but she had
been working through arm locks with Whie only yesterday, and she would swear on
every star in the Republic there hadn't been anything unusual about his behavior
then.
He gave her thumb another nudge, and she found herself standing on tiptoe, as
if somehow she could climb away from the little needle of pain shooting through
her thumb. "Yield!" he whispered.
"Not this time," she said. And then, gritting her teeth, she dropped down,
into the pain, and back, driving straight into the teeth of his hold. All he had
to do was keep it steady, and her thumb would snap like a dry stick.
But he let go, as Scout had known he would. He was too nice, too sporting to
hurt her that badly, and the Force was with her now, and the element of
surprise. She turned into him, unwinding the arm he'd had pinned against her
back as he loosened his hold. The instant before he decided to leap clear she
felt it coming, took his arm like the spoke of a wheel so that when he made his
jump she could swing him fluidly into a perfect shoulder throw.
Three seconds later it was over. Whie was lying flat on his back on the floor
gasping for breath, while Scout sat on his chest and grinned. She had her right
hand twisted in the collar of his robes, which she bunched as he started to
twitch. "Un-unh," she said, tightening her hand just a little to show she had
the choke hold if she needed it.
Whie glared up at her, sighed, and yielded. Scout let go of his robe and
stood up.
The little serving droid rolled back and forth in dismay. "Oh, dear," it
said. "There's been a spill."
Someone laughed, and then the clapping started. Master Leem ran by her to
attend to Whie, but Master Xan gave Scout a small, wintry smile.
Lena skipped out of the crowd. "Scout! That was incredible!" she cried,
grabbing both Scout's hands to swing her around in a victory dance. "That was
great! Who would have guessed in a million—Scout?"
"Hand," Sc
out whimpered. "Not the left hand."
"She did it on purpose, you realize," Hanna drawled. The Arkanian girl
regarded Scout coolly. "She was counting on Whie's good nature, guessing he'd be
so worried about hurting her he would stop fighting and she could catch him off
his guard."
"It wasn't a guess," Scout said.
"I don't see why you have to sound so contemptuous about it, Hanna," the
Chagrian said. "It was a smart idea and it took a ton of guts to go through with
it."
Hanna shrugged. "Oh, absolutely! Who am I to deny Esterhazy her moment of
triumph? And, like grabbing my lightsaber, it should be such a useful tactic in
real combat. As long as she's fighting only the very nicest Trade Federation
combat droids, of course—and until she runs out of thumbs."
"Look, I'm sorry," Scout said, in a low voice. "I just did what I thought I
had to do. I didn't mean . . ." But Hanna had already turned her back.
"Don't you apologize to her!" Lena said. "Vindictive stuck-up Arkanian prig.
She's just mad because you beat her fair and square."
"I beat her," Scout said tiredly. The little droid was still picking bits of
food off her robes. The lightsaber burns on her leg and hand were throbbing with
dull red fire. "I don't know about fair and square. Some days it's hard to
believe I'll ever make any kind of a Jedi."
"Hey. Tallisibeth?"
Scout turned to find Pax Chizzik, the stocky eleven year-old boy she had
beaten in her first match, crouching beside her. "Tallisibeth," Pax said firmly,
"being a Jedi is about being resourceful, keeping your eyes open, and never,
ever giving up. You taught me a lot about being a Jedi today."
Scout looked at him, speechless. "Oh. Oh, you're so . . . so good," she said,
sniffling, and then she burst into tears.
5
Yoda and Jai Maruk found Scout in the infirmary, where Master Caudle was
putting bacta patches on her burned hand. "Though I don't know why I should
bother fixing her up, if she's going to make a habit out of grabbing people's
lightsabers." Master Caudle looked dryly at Yoda. "Three days and she'll be
fine."
"It's not a big deal," Scout said. "I made sure it was the left hand that
got, urn . . . sacrificed." She looked anxiously at Master Yoda. "I'm in
trouble, aren't I?"