Chapter 5

Jorel woke, incredibly comfortable. Checking the display next to his bed, he saw it was still incredibly early, his body rousing itself at the same pre-dawn hour that he’d had to get up at for years. With no time given to him that he needed to be ready to start training from his Master he turned over, and promptly fell back to sleep.

Waking again, still early, but not quite as bad, he blearily moved to roll out of bed, to do his morning calisthenics, only to find more bed there. Laying facedown on the absurdly smooth sheets, his brain caught up with his body, and he remembered where he was. Sitting up, he scooted out of his bed, to the oddly warm steel floor. Moving through his normal exercise set, the space in his room large enough to allow him to do so, he cleared his mind as he let the Force run through him. Doing so always helped wake him up, though he’d had to always do so in private. At the Temple they’d insisted he sit still if he were to calm his presence in the Force, but this moving meditation was something he’d started doing years ago, and it centered him.

Finishing, he moved through his private quarters to the refresher. His own, private refresher. Figuring out the shower, he made another amazing discovery. Temperature control. Showers in the temple were communal, a Jedi having no need for such luxuries, and the water was in their ‘freshers was on an on/off switch. It was warm-ish, and it came out slowly. Enough to get wet, to wash away sweat and soap, but that was all.

This shower could be as warm, or as cold, as he wanted, and he luxuriated underneath it. Worth becoming a padawan for this alone, he thought to himself, taking his time. When he’d finally had enough, he grabbed the towel hanging off to the side, and dried off. Naked, he moved back through his main room, nodding to the woman at his desk, and returned to his room.

Wait.

Slowly, he stuck his head back through the doorway, and looked back at his desk. A blue-skinned, red-eyed woman in the same deep purple uniform that everyone wore stared right back at him. Racking his memory, he had no idea what race she was. Other than the odd coloring, she might as well be human, with no visible differences like antennae, horns, or head-tails. “Um, hello?” he asked, vividly aware of his naked state. “Can I help you? Also, what are you doing in my room?”

“Jorel Drettz?” she asked instead, her voice clipped.

“Yes?” he replied, still confused.

From her cold look, she wasn’t impressed. “Are you? You don’t seem sure.”

“I am,” he said, feeling a bit awkward. Looking back, he found his clothing was gone, a brown uniform folded on his made bed. “This for me?” he asked, picking it up.

“No, it’s for the other Padawan the Commander’s taken on,” the woman informed him, her unamused voice drifting through the doorway.

Picking it up, it was the same smooth material as Master Er’izma’s, only instead of what he assumed was the rank tab was the winged saber with a starburst hilt, the symbol of the Jedi Order. “Well, tell him I’m borrowing his clothing,” he shot back, taking a moment to figure it all out.

Unlike his old initiate tunic, which was made of rough but strong fabrics - the discomfort one felt wearing it supposed to help one focus - this was light, and slid over him easily. More than that, it didn’t tug here and there like his old clothing did. Moving back and forth, it shifted with him, and it almost felt like he was barely wearing anything at all. Jumping forward into a handstand, he sprung back up, completing the flip, and landing with a slight clack from his new boots without issue.

Attaching his lightsaber to the side clip of the provided belt, he stepped back out into the main room. “So, do the doors not lock here, or. . .”

“I have access. I need to have it to do my job,” the alien woman stated, standing up. She was a half a head shorter than he was, but stood overly straight, just as the others had. As with most aliens, it was sometimes hard to determine age; she could be younger than him, or she could be old enough to be his grandmother, he’d only know when he looked up her race. Rather than say something to make the situation more awkward, he just gave her an inquisitive look, and she explained, “Showing you around.”

“Oh, you must be. . .” he trailed off. He remembered most of it, but long experience had told him that most of a name wasn’t good enough. “I’m fairly sure I’m going to absolutely butcher your name, sergeant, so I’m not gonna even try.”

She walked right up to him, staring him in the eye. “Try,” she challenged.

Well, he thought, she literally asked. “Sergeant Haiku’bantha’puzi?”

Looking over him, as if weighing him, he stared back, not sure what to say, so he wasn’t saying anything at all. She finally nodded, walking past him. “My name is Sergeant Hisku’biatha’pusi. You may call me Sergeant Hisku. Now follow me, I’ve been waiting for you to get up for an hour and it’s long past time for breakfast.” Feeling like he’d just passed some test, he followed her, out through the metal halls of the ship.

He’d missed it before, but, as he followed her, he noticed that the halls weren’t as bare as he’d first thought. In addition to purple accents here and there, they occasionally passed by art that should have seemed completely out of place on a warship, but somehow each piece seemed to fit in with the rest of their surroundings. Occasionally it was a painting, done onto the hull itself, or some kind of tapestry. There was even the occasional sculpture, but they were small, flattened things that didn’t obstruct foot traffic at all.

He also noticed he was attracting curious glances, though he wasn’t the only one. Walking a little faster, he fell into step with the Sergeant, quietly asking, “What’s with all the stares?”

Without looking at him, she replied stiffly, “You’re new, as is my status. That means interest, gossip, and all sorts of unprofessional behavior.”

He could practically feel the chill coming off her, so just nodded, “Gossip. Gotchya.” With nothing else to say, he followed her down through several more hallways before they entered a large hall, obviously a cafeteria.

Well over three hundred people were eating, relaxing, and chatting here, all wearing nearly identical uniforms, though he thought he could tell slight differences here and there. On autopilot, he followed Sergeant Hisku, grabbing a plate and moving down the buffet line, piling food onto his plate.

The susurrus of conversation behind them lessened, and the woman next to him stiffened as a booming voice called, “Little Bia! You’ll never believe the stories I’ve been hearin’ ‘bout ya!” A large man, of the same species as her, though with lighter blue skin, came lumbering out of the kitchens. He was built like Er’izma, only more so, a veritable wall of muscle, an apron straining over his uniform. He stopped, looking over Jorel, and once again the Padawan found himself with the sensation that he was being judged and found wanting.

Ignoring the familiar feeling, he stared the larger man directly in the eye, only for the cook, if his apron was anything to go buy, to suddenly grin broadly. “I like this one, Little Bia!”

“My name is Sergeant Hisku, Sergeant Major Gars, Sir,” she stated, not looking at him. “And your feelings are irrelevant to my duty.”

Not taking offense, the large man instead laughed. “Come see me at dinner, little Bia. I’ll make something special to celebrate.” He looked past them, at the quiet masses. “Quite yer gawking, ya bunch ah nosey youngins!” The sounds from behind them picked up again, and the larger man shook his head. “Nice ta meet ya, Padawan Drettz. You be listen’ to Little Bia, alright?”

That statement carried an underlying menace completely at odds with the large alien’s demeanor, but, as he was already planning on doing so, the Padawan nodded. “Understood, Sergeant Major.”

Without another word, the cook turned back and re-entered the kitchens, his booming voice easily heard commanding “Back ta work! Just ‘cause I’m gone don’t mean ya can slack off!”

Following Sergeant Hisku, who was even stiffer than she’d been before, to an open area of seating, Jorel looked around the room, really looked, and tried to pick out the details that’d be most important, like Anaïs would. The slight differences in the uniforms probably meant something, and there seemed to be a general pattern in the seating, but the first thing that sprung out to him wasn’t the purple of the clothing, but the blue of their skin.

Looking around, a full quarter of those eating had the same blue skin and red eyes of the sergeant and sergeant major. The tones varied from sky blue, to blue-black, and some were even shades of purple, but without fail they all had the same vibrant red eyes. They were so prevalent that it seemed there were only a few more humans than whatever these blue-skinned aliens were, with the other half of the crew being a giant hodge-podge of races, from Twi’leks, to Duros, to, if he was right, a Wookie who’d possibly dyed some of his hair purple.

Sitting down across from the Sergeant, he dug in, the food much better than anything the Temple ever served. It was only after he’d finished that he glanced up and saw his compatriot was staring. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “That was just really good.”

She looked at him, then down at the food on her plate, gaze returning to him with a single, thin raised eyebrow, red eyes skeptical. Not providing further comment, she ate her own food at a more sedate pace while he nursed his tea, waiting for her to finish. The woman started to go faster as he waited, before slowing herself down, continuing at a steady pace. Jorel didn’t really care, he had nowhere to be, and looked past her to continue his study of the collected crew. Yes, it was a Wookie, and yes, he, or she, had dyed their fur purple.

Sergeant Hisku finished, pushing her tray away, and let out a long breath, drawing his gaze. “I’ve shown you the closest galley to the command decks, and it’s open twenty-four hours a day, five days a week. This place never closes, so if you need food, it’ll be serving some duty-shift, the food changing in twelve-hour cycles,” she informed him, tone clipped.

“We follow galactic standard time and date, which means the ship’s time will have very little to do with whatever planet we’re orbiting,” she informed him, her obviously reciting this from memory. Jorel had to do it enough times he recognized it immediately, and she wasn’t making it sound natural like Ana could. “It will be up to you to familiarize yourself with the local time if the commander orders you deployed. When not called for duty, you will have basic privileges, which means access to common areas and recreational facilities, until such time you’ve been certified for technical areas, and classified areas will be handled on a case by case basis.”

“Classified?” he asked, wondering what kind of Jedi ship would have that kind of stuff on it. ‘Classified by who?’ was another question. “What’s classified?”

“That’s classified,” she shot back, a slight bit of humor causing the corner of her mouth to twitch upward, before she continued on formally, “To prevent issue and to maximize both your training and use to The Flock, I have been assigned as your official attaché for the duration of your tour of duty.”

“’Tour of Duty’?” he echoed. It made him feel a little silly, but Anaïs had taught him how not understanding the exact terms could lead to problems later on.

She stared at him, annoyed. “Until you’re a Jedi Knight.”

“Five years?” he asked, skeptically. Would he really need a babysitter for that long? If he worked hard, he should be able to figure out this entire ‘ship’ thing in a month or two, three tops.

She nodded once, curtly. “That is how long it normally takes.”

Not really knowing what else to say, he apologized. “Sorry.” She glared at him. “Well, you’re obviously not happy about this. So, sorry.”

“Pulled that from my mind, did you?” she asked, her antipathy barely hidden.

“Um. . . no,” he replied, understanding a little why she might be upset. He’d always hated it when his teachers took offense at his own emotions, even when he was doing his best to control them and didn’t actually say anything. “I’m actually really bad with the entire ‘sensing emotions through the Force’ thing. It’s just, you know, obvious. And, well, wouldn’t it be kind of rude to do that? I don’t know what I did wrong, but, well, sorry. If you want, I can ask my Master to assign me someone else.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, the two of them staring at each other, before Sergeant Hisku seemed to deflate, shoulders dropping as she sighed, looking down. Muttering something, Jorel only catching ‘Stupid idiot’ and ‘messed this up on my first kriffing day’, she took a deep breath, cheeks darkened a deeper shade of blue that might be a blush, and told him. “You’ve done nothing, Padawan Drettz. I was taken from my command position for this assignment this morning, and I wasn’t expecting it.”

“You didn’t get a choice?” he asked. After all the talk that Er’izma had done about not making people do thing-

“I did,” she disagreed. “But you don’t just say no to the Commander.”

Jorel shrugged, “I did.” That got him another incredulous stare. “I mean, I eventually said yes, but I did. If you really don’t want to do this, I could-”

“No,” she interrupted. “No. I. . . I appreciate the offer, Padawan Drettz, but I accepted this duty, and I will carry it out to the best of my ability, as befitting an officer.” She hesitated for a moment. “You really told Commander Er’izma no?”

“Someone else deserved being his padawan more,” Jorel shrugged. “I only said yes because she was already being chosen as someone else’s padawan, I just didn’t know it at the time. It was all kind of sudden.” He paused, before grinning wryly, “We both seem to have that in common. Master Er’izma suddenly offering life-changing choices,” he added at her uncomprehending look.

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Sergeant Hisku nodded, not saying anything. “Well, If I’m to be your attaché, we’d best get started,” she announced, standing up. “And that means we’d best get started if we’re going to make it to your scheduled training.”

“My what?” he asked, but she was already striding across the cafeteria with purposeful steps.

<>

Dropping the weights to the ground ten feet away, Jorel sank to his knees, forcing himself to not gasp, but to take deep, regular breaths.

“About what I thought,” his Master observed, from his position in the center of the room. He hadn’t trusted Jorel’s official assessment, and Jorel couldn’t blame him after learning about his own Mental Shields, but that meant for the last hour, at least, the Padawan had been using every Force ability he knew.

Jorel’s Force Control was “Passable, with room for improvement, as is true with all things,” while his other abilities were “About as expected.” It was only the Knight’s informing him that he was measuring the Padawan on a Knight’s level that made those assessments not sting. When Jorel had pointed out that he wasn’t a Knight, and wanted to know how he measured up against other his other Padawans, Er’izma had asked in turn, “Why does that matter? It’s who you’ll become, not who you were, that counts in the end.”

It was hard to argue with that, so Jorel hadn’t bothered.

“Take a moment to gather yourself, my Padawan, then we’ll test your skill with your blade,” the older man ordered. Nodding Jorel got to his feet, stretching out his tense muscles, glancing at the weights that’d landed on the padded floor. He could perform the general push and pull, but lifting more than two things stressed him to the point it was physically draining, and three was nearly impossible for him to control. All uses, however, required him to focus on it to the point that he couldn’t do anything else, just as was the case for every other ability he had, other than Force Control.

Moving through basic warm-ups, he looked at the entrance, where Sergeant Hisku was standing, as she’d been the entire time along with an older human man who’d been accompanying Er’izma. When his Master had agreed that Jorel was, as he put it, “Woefully inadequate” at Force Empathy, Jorel had glanced at her, and she’d seemed to relax slightly. Jorel had given her a look, and she nodded, before Er’izma had cleared his throat and the Padawan had refocused on his task.

Centered and ready, Jorel took his place across from his Master, glancing at the older man’s shorter blade handle. Jedi Consular’s, like the Knight in front of him was, sometimes wore shoto blades, as they never planned to use them relying entirely on the Force instead and only carried the shorter saber as a token gesture. “Ready when you are, Master,” he stated, unholstering his blade and igniting it. Checking the intensity, he realized it was still on its training settings, having forgotten to set it to normal after his spar like he was supposed to. He mimed turning it down, but from the look the Knight sent him, it was obvious Er’izma had noticed.

The older man, smoothly unclipping his sword and igniting it in turn, held it down and in front of himself, shifting his stance to stand at an angle in relation to the Padawan. Jorel was right, it was a shoto blade, only 2/3rds the length of the Padawans standard saber, but something else caught his attention. The blade was a deep, vibrant purple. A purple that Jorel was becoming quickly accustomed to.

“Did. . . Did you color everything the same purple as your lightsaber?” he asked incredulously. Surely a Jedi wouldn’t be that vain.

The Knight just smiled serenely. “I’ve found I have a strong preference for that particular shade.”

That wasn’t a no, Jorel thought, but as the Knight gestured for the Padawan to begin, he did so. Coming in with a strong opening slash, standard for his preferred style, Form V: Djem So, the Knight’s purple blade danced up not to meet it, parrying the attack, but to come from behind it, accelerating Jorel’s own strike as it deflected it upwards, Er’izma stepping in close.

The form Jorel used dictated that the counter to this was to step back and spin, coming around with the full strength of the rotation into another strike, but with the Knight’s blade in front, and Jorel’s blade high up and to the side, the Padawan instead flooded his body with the Force as he threw himself backwards, barely missing the almost lazy stab that, even with the shorter blade, would’ve pierced the Padawans chest had it been fully powered, or have severed his spine if he’d tried to twist around.

Landing a dozen feet away, Jorel stumbled slightly but kept his guard up as his Master smiled. “Good. So you’re a follower of the way of the krayt dragon, yet you already are aware of its weaknesses.”

The Padawan blinked, wondering if his preferred form was in his official records, or if the Knight was able to recognize his fighting style from a single move. Also, he wasn’t sure what the other man was referring to, as the weakness of his chosen form was the physical demands it put upon the user. He wasn’t tiring himself out; he’d just dodged.

“Or. . . you don’t?” Er’izma asked. “How interesting. That form, while its strikes can be overwhelming, leaves one vulnerable. The full counters,” he continued, pointing his free hand up and rotating it in a circle, “require the time to complete, and the space to work in. Try again, and feel free to use any Force techniques you wish.”

Jorel hesitated. Other than Force Control to enhance one’s body, Djem So didn’t use any other Force techniques. Moving in with the same strike he had before, the Knight started to move his shorter sword the same way as well, but Jorel used the extra force the other man gave his sword to take a small jump back, spinning around and taking a leap forward, swinging his sword twice as hard.

However, his Master wasn’t there, but had backed up as well.

The attack went wide, but with his Force enhanced body Jorel was able to bring his blade back into a block at the last moment, knocking the stab to the side. The Knight ran his blade down the Padawan’s, saber angling in to take the younger man’s wrist.

Shoving hard, Jorel pushed the purple blade off, his own blue blade raised high and coming down in a double-handed strike. Instead of deflecting again, Er’izma parried the blow, catching it and holding it. “Also,” the Knight commented conversationally, “If you fight someone whose proficiency with Force Control is better than your own, that Form is of reduced effectiveness. However, while that is an issue as a Padawan, it will not remain so for long. Still something that one should be aware of.”

Trying to find an opening, their blades locked, Jorel realized he needed to make one. Focusing inwards he called upon the Force, breathing out hard as he tried to use Telekinesis without gestures to focus it.

The blast detonated outwards, only as strong as a firm push, but Er’izma still took a step back as Jorel’s blade came free, flashing forward again and again, trying to strike out at the older Jedi, not like he’d been instructed in Djem So, with his full strength, but with conservatively powered blows, breaking his stance when deflected to the side. Sometimes he’d step with the Knight’s deflection, using it to move him into another strike while avoiding the counter, sometimes he’d shift in the opposite direction, using the force of the Er’izma’s deflection to spin himself, making sure to keep distance after he felt the stinging buzz of his Master’s saber on his back when he didn’t allow himself enough space.

Back and forth they went, Jorel pushing himself where he could, trying to call on his Telekinesis to help, but needing to either have locked blades or created distance to give himself enough time to bring it to the front of his mind. The Padawan was quickly soaked with sweat, muscles straining, but coming ever closer to hitting his Master, who always seemed half a step ahead of him.

Increasingly frustrated, he found himself wanting to hit the smug Knight, who didn’t seem to be bothered at all by their fight, not even breathing hard while Jorel was nearly gasping with exertion. Part of himself wanted to hurt the man who was humiliating him, to show him that Jorel wasn’t to be made a fool of, but he clamped down on that feeling, hard. Jorel knew, from his own practices as he’d taught himself Force Control, pushing past the base level of instruction, beyond which the Temple instructors refused to help with, that darker emotions, un-Jedi-like emotions, could enhance his strength, but Jorel would win through skill, or not at all.

Sinking deeper into that resolution, directing the Force through his body, he pushed himself faster, moving harder, the crackles of the meeting blades running on top of each other in an electric drumbeat of combat. The Knight’s expression, one of amusement, slowly shifted to one of concentration, even if it was only the smallest bit. No longer holding back, or at least not holding back as much, Er’izma started to move backwards and forwards in the signature method of what the Padawan finally recognized as Form II, Makashi, the duelist’s form.

Counterstrikes came hard and fast from his Master, but he was able to parry and dodge them, sometimes turning them into strikes of his own, sometimes parrying just in time, never letting up as they moved back and forth across the space. Even when Er’izma moved forward, causing the Padawan to back up, the younger man never stopped attacking, lashing out at any opening, always on the offensive even as he nominally retreated. After letting go the latest in countless telekinetic shoves, Jorel darted forward only to stumble, his leg giving out, but he turned that fall into a sweeping strike, catching the edge of his Master’s hip.

It was a glancing blow, not a disabling strike, but even as Jorel collapsed, hard, onto the padded floor, he was happy. I win.

A freshly minted Padawan against an experienced Knight? And one that specialized in lightsaber combat at that? There was no way he’d win a normal duel, but he’d scored a hit, and that’s all that mattered.

“You seem oddly pleased for someone’s who’s collapsed in exhaustion, young Padawan,” Er’izma commented, but, even face down on the ground as he was, Jorel could tell his Master was smiling.

Rolling himself over, he looked up, seeing the amused grin on the Knight’s face. “I hit you.”

“But I am only a Consular, and a Diplomat,” his Master protested, still grinning. “Surely striking me in a spar is not that great a feat of prowess.”

Jorel looked at the man, who still wasn’t even breathing hard, and couldn’t help but laugh, even though his ribs hurt. “Kriff that. If you’re a Consular, I’m a Hutt.” Struggling to his feet, his Master waited until he was standing before nodding to him in a formal end of the fight, deactivating his saber and clipping it back to his belt. “So, Makashi? I didn’t have a chance, did I?”

“I’ll say you acquitted yourself well, my Padawan. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Hisku’biatha’pusi?”

Glancing over, he saw the blue-skinned woman staring at him, wide eyed in shock. Jorel waved at her, and she flinched, collecting herself and returning to her cool, reserved expression of professionalism. “Hasn’t seen Jedi fight?” he asked his Master.

“I’m afraid that my previous apprentice did not care half as much for the blade as you do,” Er’izma revealed. “Which is a pity. She was proficient, but preferred Niman, much to my shame.”

“Form six?” Jorel asked, and his Master nodded. “I thought you used it too, since you tried to get me to use other Force abilities, and you only do so with that form.”

His Master looked like he’d stepped in something unpleasant, facing the Padawan fully. “And why is that?” Not giving the young man time to answer, he continued with uncharacteristic vehemence, “Because it is a weak form, easy to learn because there is so little to it. We are Jedi, we have the Force to assist us, so why others claim that only that pale shadow of a true form can use the abilities we all share, when that pitiful excuse for a martial art needs them to even function on par with real forms, I have never understood.”

The Knight glanced at his Padawan, “I am sorry. It’s an ongoing debate I’ve had with others, especially Master Dooku, as to what truly constitutes ‘Makashi’, as well as some complaints I have with the combat standards the Order has instituted during this ‘Time of Peace’.”

Despite himself, he felt his heart sink a little. He thought he was pressuring his Master, when the older man had been fighting with an enormous handicap. “So you weren’t even trying?” And he’d thought he’d been able to challenge a Knight? He should’ve known better.

“I have said I would not compare you to other Padawans, Jorel,” Er’izma stated calmly, “but I will compare you to Knights, and I would put you on par, or better than, some Consulars. Actual Consulars,” he added.

He wasn’t sure if his Master was being kind, but that did make him feel a bit better. “Then how would you be compared among the Guardian’s, Master?”

“You’ll find that one’s rank in the Order has little to do with combat ability,” the Knight stated. “For instance, should I ever have the pleasure to have cause to spar with Master Halrol, I very much doubt he’d fare as well as you have. Now, I believe you’d best return to your room and clean up. If I’m not mistaken, the chefs onboard are preparing something special for your first dinner with us, or at least,” he whispered conspiratorially, though the sound carried across the entire training area, “that’s what I’ve heard.”