Precise Communication
A Star Wars fan fiction
by Galatyn Renner
"Send no reply. Send no transmissions of any kind." Obi-Wan Kenobi stalked out of the ship's viewing room.
Ertaé, not waiting for a look of approval from Sabé, got up and started after him. She had had enough of this little Jedi, who so obviously liked to pretend to be in charge while his Master was gone. Ertaé despised those who abused ill-gotten, temporary power and she wasn't afraid to say so.
She caught up with Obi-Wan in the main living area, He was looking for something, probably his comlink, which she had noticed was missing from his belt earlier.
"Padawan Kenobi," Ertaé said testily, "why is it you are looking for your comlink when no transmissions 'of any kind' are to be sent? Won't you be compromising our position?" She put her hands on her hips.
Obi-Wan knew the start of a lecture when he heard one; Qui-Gon often began this way. He deftly changed the subject and began hunting under the sofa. "'Padawan'? Not many people outside the temple use that appellation. Are you familiar with the Jedi?"
"I have read extensively on that subject, yes. Your philosophy. . . interests me. And I was under the impression that you said no transmissions."
Obi-Wan began digging through the sofa cushions. "Then recite for me the Code."
Ertaé did so.
"And the second one."
She began easily, the slowed toward the middle, finally mixing up two lines all together. "I can't remember the rest."
Obi-wan looked at her sternly from his now seated position on the couch. "Master Yoda recommends multi-kilometer runs for initiates who use the word 'can't.'"
"I do, every morning. On Naboo," Ertaé said defensively. "We're not just here to make the Queen look good, you know. We can work and shoot, as well as wield a paintbrush."
"And there's more to the Jedi than 'saber work and meditation. There's a lot of," Obi-wan grimaced, "public relations work. And diplomacy, of course."
"Not your forte, I take it."
"A lightsaber's much more straightforward, but it causes more problems in the long run. Qui-Gon has taught me that."
Ertaé softened a bit. "You must really look up to him."
"I do. He's like a father to me. I was just going to call and alert him to our present situation, but I cannot find my comlink. My private comlink, I might add." Obi-wan growled the last words in frustration.
"In that case, I saw Jar Jar with it an hour ago. He was trying to figure out how it worked." Ertaé laughed.
Obi-wan groaned. "And your worried about me compromising our position? He could breach the hull with that thing. It's a dozen other things besides a comlink." He started off in search of the disruptive Gungan, but paused in the doorway. "Which one are you?"
She couldn't possibly be mad at him anymore. "It's Ertaé."
"I like it. Good-bye, Lady Ertaé." And he was off to strangle Jar Jar.
Author's Note: Obi-Wan and Ertaé belong to the Plaid Guy, George Lucas, whom I happen to think is bloody brilliant. Cheers! Review, please!
A Star Wars fan fiction
by Galatyn Renner
"Send no reply. Send no transmissions of any kind." Obi-Wan Kenobi stalked out of the ship's viewing room.
Ertaé, not waiting for a look of approval from Sabé, got up and started after him. She had had enough of this little Jedi, who so obviously liked to pretend to be in charge while his Master was gone. Ertaé despised those who abused ill-gotten, temporary power and she wasn't afraid to say so.
She caught up with Obi-Wan in the main living area, He was looking for something, probably his comlink, which she had noticed was missing from his belt earlier.
"Padawan Kenobi," Ertaé said testily, "why is it you are looking for your comlink when no transmissions 'of any kind' are to be sent? Won't you be compromising our position?" She put her hands on her hips.
Obi-Wan knew the start of a lecture when he heard one; Qui-Gon often began this way. He deftly changed the subject and began hunting under the sofa. "'Padawan'? Not many people outside the temple use that appellation. Are you familiar with the Jedi?"
"I have read extensively on that subject, yes. Your philosophy. . . interests me. And I was under the impression that you said no transmissions."
Obi-Wan began digging through the sofa cushions. "Then recite for me the Code."
Ertaé did so.
"And the second one."
She began easily, the slowed toward the middle, finally mixing up two lines all together. "I can't remember the rest."
Obi-wan looked at her sternly from his now seated position on the couch. "Master Yoda recommends multi-kilometer runs for initiates who use the word 'can't.'"
"I do, every morning. On Naboo," Ertaé said defensively. "We're not just here to make the Queen look good, you know. We can work and shoot, as well as wield a paintbrush."
"And there's more to the Jedi than 'saber work and meditation. There's a lot of," Obi-wan grimaced, "public relations work. And diplomacy, of course."
"Not your forte, I take it."
"A lightsaber's much more straightforward, but it causes more problems in the long run. Qui-Gon has taught me that."
Ertaé softened a bit. "You must really look up to him."
"I do. He's like a father to me. I was just going to call and alert him to our present situation, but I cannot find my comlink. My private comlink, I might add." Obi-wan growled the last words in frustration.
"In that case, I saw Jar Jar with it an hour ago. He was trying to figure out how it worked." Ertaé laughed.
Obi-wan groaned. "And your worried about me compromising our position? He could breach the hull with that thing. It's a dozen other things besides a comlink." He started off in search of the disruptive Gungan, but paused in the doorway. "Which one are you?"
She couldn't possibly be mad at him anymore. "It's Ertaé."
"I like it. Good-bye, Lady Ertaé." And he was off to strangle Jar Jar.
Author's Note: Obi-Wan and Ertaé belong to the Plaid Guy, George Lucas, whom I happen to think is bloody brilliant. Cheers! Review, please!