Wow, I've been impressed by the number of people writing in to say that they like the story. Thanks, I've done my best to keep the old creative moods going. This thing started off as a plot bunny and has become something much more. I'm going to keep it running until the end I have sketched in my head appears. And that won't arrive for some time. Eep. I'd better keep writing! Many thanks to Sepharih for suggesting that I read a book called Shimmering Sword by Nick Jamilla. That was the inspiration for part of this chapter. It arrived via Amazon on Saturday and I finished it yesterday. Eep2. R&R people!


The sun was starting to go down when the man stopped running, for the simple reason that there was nowhere left in front of him to run to. He was standing at the top of a rocky outcrop, broken shards lying around it where they had crumbled and cracked in the past. The path – if it deserved the name, being little more than a line in the dust and rock – ran down at a 45 degree angle behind him, and was the only way up or down from the outcrop. Three weeks before, that path hadn't existed.

He paused and pursed his lips in thought. Given the fact that he had been running for an hour now and he was barely out of breath, he needed to extend his run. Again. And make it more arduous. Again. Sitting down he pulled his legs up and assumed the classic meditation position, before exhaling slowly. Any observer glancing at the outcrop would have thought that there was a statue there, he was so still. As he slipped into a Jedi meditation ritual Xander Harris permitted himself a small burst of satisfaction. He was doing well.


It hadn't exactly started that well. Sitting down with a pad and pen and leafing through the book after he got to the house, he had created and then torn up no fewer than three training plans. None of them were exactly what he needed.

The problem was that there was an awful lot that he lacked. No Jedi Master to question. Hell, not even a fellow Jedi-capable person to swap theories with. No Jedi Temple, although he had some very clear memories of the echoing halls and corridors of the Coruscant-based building. No training facilities, no remote targets, hell, no lightsabre!

That was some thing that had worried him a great deal. A lightsabre not only marked a Jedi out, but also, in some indefinable way, defined a Jedi in a way that he still didn't understand. It was confusing. However, the fact remained that he couldn't make a lightsabre, not with the technology currently on Earth, and certainly not without certain key components.

Some things he could make – he'd been able to collect and then assemble the circuit board that would allow him to set the proper length of a blade, something that had got him a good exam mark from an impressed, if somewhat baffled, physics teacher at school, who thought that he was making a circuit board for a TV remote. He just prayed that Mr Oblonski never tried to replicate what he'd done, or he'd blow his TV up the first time he tried to change channels. The aluminium needed for the outer surface of the handle was easy to obtain as well. So far, so good.

Unfortunately there were three key components required for any lightsabre that made it rather difficult in this case to finish it off. Two existed, but were hard to obtain. The third did not exist and probably wouldn't even be invented for a few hundred more years. The first two were a gem to act as a focusing crystal and a superconductor to project the energy. The former had to be a gem and it had to be a tough one – that is, a very hard one, a diamond, ruby, emerald or sapphire to handle the sheer amount of energy that would be projected through it. Although admittedly a ruby was out of the question, as he was damned if he was going to have a red lightsabre. He might as well write 'Sith' on his forehead. It also had to be a certain size – at least the same general dimensions as the tip of his thumb. Small gems just wouldn't work, as a lightpencil might look cool but he doubted that vampires would just stand still while he sawed their heads off with a two or three-inch beam.

Ooookay, a gem the size of the end of his thumb. They did exist. Unfortunately they tended to be owned by insanely rich people or royalty, and he could hardly write off to the Queen Elizabeth the Second and ask her for a loan of the Koh-i-Noor. Not unless he wanted the State Department and the FBI to knock on his door one morning and say that the British Government wanted to ask why he wanted the biggest diamond in the world from her crown. So a focusing gem looked a little out of his reach for the time being.

Same with the second part, the superconductor. He would need a powerful one that was small enough to fit inside the handle. Again, these did exist. However, they belonged to advanced companies with shed loads of money, power stations and probably the US military. Buying one off the first two would take a lot of cash and when it came to the latter he had no desire to be hauled off to Leavenworth and asked a lot of questions.

The third part was the doozy. A lightsabre needed a lot of power to run, so you needed a reliable power source. A department store's worth of batteries would lead to a lightflicker, even if he got the other parts. Connecting something up to a handy power main would work. Unfortunately the concept of running a lightsabre off a pair of jump leads leading to a power outlet meant that the useful range would be rather limited to the length of said jump leads. Not helpful when it came to general slayage duties on the Hellmouth. Besides, the jump leads would probably melt, and all he needed was one smart vamp to turn up with a pair of wire cutters and he'd be a smear on the pavement.

No, he needed a power cell, something that could both store large amounts of energy and use part of that energy to recharge itself. Great. Just what power companies had been looking for. Wonderful. Oh and it had to be small enough to incorporate into the handle. Right. Hum. Did any exist? Nope, not a hope in hell. While he was at it he might as well wish for a date with Kate Moss and the keys to Fort Knox, although the latter might solve his gem problem.

There was a diagram in the book that laid out how to construct a power cell from scratch. However, he was unsure if he had either the parts or the skill needed to build it. And any mistakes and there'd be a large, smoking, hole in the ground with his atomised remnants floating down around it. He still wasn't sure if the risk was worth it.

That just left his sword. He was quite fond of it now and, in true Xanderness, had even named it. It had an eagle on the hilt, so he called it Aquila, the Latin for Eagle. He would have to make do with Aquila, even though he knew, in his heart of hearts, that he would never be any real kind of Jedi without a lightsabre.


Getting better swordsmanship was just part of the plan that he had eventually worked out, which had led to the run that had finished at the outcrop. It was all a question of time. Proper Jedi training took years. Children were taken in at an early age, as Padawan learners, and were then trained and taught as a part of a strict but fair regime. Unfortunately he didn't have that kind of time. He had friends risking their lives on the Hellmouth and a Slayer to find. Buffy was still in Los Angeles and was still putting out large distress signals in the force.

But there was another kind of training, one that had been glimpsed in The Empire Strikes Back. He had always wondered just how long it had taken Han Solo to get from the Hoth system to Bespin in the film, at the same time that Luke Skywalker was training on Dagobah. Days? No, weeks? Sublight engines had a certain maximum speed, although Obi-Wan's memories were a little vague on this subject, not being a spacecraft engineer.

That meant that Yoda had used an intensive training regime, cramming as much as possible into a relatively short period. He had some elements of that from his memories, which he had used to put together The Plan, as he called it in his head. There were four main parts to it.

The first was physical fitness, and this was important. There was no such thing as a lazy Jedi. And besides the best way to stay alive on the Hellmouth was to be very, very fit. It was also a good discipline to have. Train your body, train your mind. So it was a case of hard runs, as often as possible, along the desert floor, up into the hills, along the mesas, everywhere he could go. He didn't have a small green pointy-eared gnome to balance on his shoulders, but he did have a small pack that he could stuff with rocks. He'd already named it Yoda and used a green marker pen to draw a pointed ear on each side of it. The fact that there were so many rocks and ledges all over the place made it easy to practice his agility as well, the leaps, somersaults and general agility. He'd made himself use the force as little as possible there.

The bruises had faded after the second week.

The second part was swordwork. This was easier but almost as draining as the physical training. Hell, it was physical training, only highly refined. Hours of practice, in stance after stance, memories running through his head of drilling on Coruscant, on Corellia, on Talus. Memories of a real duel on Naboo. And the fighting after that... Although the drills he was doing were different to the memories – he had to use more caution, more control. He was using a steel sword, not a lightsabre that was able to sear through flesh, through bone, stone and iron. Hours on end of practice, of moving from position to position, slowly at first and then faster and faster. And then again using the force.

That was like the third part of The Plan. His control of the force was improving day by day. It was there all the time now, just a moment of mental thought away, but he still doubted that he could grasp it properly in the event of an emergency, so he was redoubling his efforts there. At least twice a day he hoisted himself up to balance on first both hands and then just one, remaining still while rocks of various shapes and sizes hung in the air next to him. That morning he had taken a step beyond that, making them move through the air, some describing loops, others orbiting each other like a miniature map of the Solar System. He lacked the strength to keep it up for long, but it had been an important stretch.

The last part had come as rather a surprise. Mental training, he had thought, would come with the other areas. But then he had glimpsed a very clear memory of Master Yoda looking at him and making "Mmmm?" noises. "Corellian lampfish jumps, it does, jumps when danger threatens. Sometimes jumps out of the water, because it does not plan, plan yes, where to it jumps. Anyone can jump, but a Jedi must plan where to jump to. Tactics you must learn yes, mmm, but strategy you must grasp, young Obi-Wan, so not to be a lampfish."

Given the fact that Ob-Wan had made it to the rank of General in the Clone Wars, this made sense. And frankly, given the number of times that they had been saved on the Hellmouth by a last minute piece of luck, or a just-in- time plan, this made a lot of sense.

So he'd started to study. His uncle had a computer with internet access in the house, and had left him with a stern warning that he accessed any 'inappropriate' sites there would be hell to pay. Xander had started off small by logging into a few chess sites. It was a good way to start by playing people over the Internet at chess. The moves were basic but the variations could lead to complicated patterns. It was a good way to grasp basic strategy, to look not just two or three moves ahead, but five or six, depending on the potential options that opened or closed once a particular move was made. From there he had moved on to more sophisticated war games. It was a good start.

Deep in a meditative state Xander sat there on the outcrop. It was interesting the way that the force flowed here, in a place so unlike Sunnydale. The nearest people were miles away, there was just the native wildlife and... Even in the grip of the force he frowned. Then he opened his eyes.

The sun had set a while ago and the sky in the west was a red glow, shading to dark blue overhead. Turning his head he looked down the valley ahead. After a little while he saw a dust plume emerge from the dark shadow of a hill to one side. It was a car. Only it wasn't being driven by humans. Nope, there were definitely mixed signals coming from that car. A demon, yuck, no, two demons, both evil – there was horrible signal of the dark side coming from two of them – two vampires as well, with that whole weird dead/demon vibe in the force and a... he had no idea how to classify the fifth occupant of the car. Part human, part demon, but with a goodness that he'd never been able to associate with the latter before. Plus, the fifth inhabitant was feeling very sorry for himself. And very afraid.


The person that had baffled Xander was sitting in the back of the car. He was not a happy bunny, as his Ma used to say. No, he was afraid for his bloody life, that's how he felt at the moment. He was also getting over his initial confusion. Which just left a lot of fear.

The previous night he had finally paid off Tancred the Frank the three grand he had owed him after that lame nag of a so-called favourite had limped in fourth at the 2.30 race at Chepstow the previous week. Tancred had a certain policy when it came to people owing him money – pay up fast or extortionate interest rates started to make your life a misery. Nonpayment of said interest led to missing body parts.

It had taken some fast talking here and there, a few favours called in, a few favours given, a lucky win at the 4.30 race at Dublin, but he had finally raised the money to pay Tancred off. Which was a good thing, as the old demon never forgot a debt. Rumour had it that if he could ever prove that Charles Martel had borrowed 50 silver pennies off him before the Battle of Poitiers in 732AD, then the operation of compound interest would mean that the governments of both France and Germany would be bankrupt in a day.

He had therefore had a few drinks to celebrate before going to bed, before being woken up by the ominous sound of his front door being smashed down by two nasty-looking demons. Saying that he'd paid off Tanky, no sorry, Tancred, sorry about that, he knew that the demon hated to be called Tanky, had met with little response, other than a massive blow to the temple from the smaller one's fist and after that it had been goodnight sweet prince.

Waking up, with a massive headache, he had discovered that he was wedged in between two unsmiling vampires in the back seat of a car that had had its windows spray-painted over. The two demons that had kicked his bloody door down were in the front, with the smaller one driving. He looked like a snake. The other, far bulkier, one looked like a bloody nightmare, all bone ridges and red scales and a lot of attitude. None of them were familiar. None were in a talking mood, and his initial questions had been met with either glares or mumbled threats to shut up and that they didn't know who this Tanky was. Now, hours later, they were somewhere in the desert east of LA. This was bad. The desert looked cold and increasingly dark and he wondered how the hell snake-eyes in the front could see through the windscreen to drive properly. Glancing out to one side he blinked. He could have sworn that he had seen a movement on top of that rock thingy off to one side. Imagination.

Doyle sighed and slumped a bit lower in the seat. This was turning out to be a bad day.