Tatooine Engagement
There is really nothing quite like the luxury of returned motion. Perhaps I occasionally carry this to the extreme, but I can hardly help it. I find one kata in particular to be especially invigorating.
Despite the oppressive heat of the binary suns, I keep my under-tunic on. Sunburn isn't something I wish to deal with, not now, and I'd never liked the feeling I received from grains of sand adhering to my sweat-dampened skin. The only downside to the clothing is the heat, forcing streams of perspiration down my forehead that I hardly notice in the depths of my concentration.
When I'd first learned this kata as a junior Padawan, the motions had felt ridiculous, like the bizarre uncoordinated dance of a lightly salted Arcona. That's what I had related to my Master, at any rate; he'd laughed and assured me that grace was a thing to be learned.
That fact became evident when I'd watched Master Medrik Bhen'ud perform it for me before she began teaching me the routine. Her small lithe frame tightened in every circle formed by what would have been wildly gesticulating limbs were it not for her exceptional control, making the whole kata a blur of spiralling magic refined with decades of practice. It helped, of course, to know that she was human as well, and if her sixty-year-old body (extremely honed but still aged in my opinion) could accomplish the difficult pattern, then so could I. The perseverance had paid off, and it hadn't taken me sixty years, either. Only one year of painful lessons.
The memory of the first few exercises still brings up a wince, and I quell the thought rapidly, wondering at the mind's ability to wander when it is supposed to remain in strict meditation.
It's no use keeping a tight rein. The time passes quickly when my thoughts meander the networked trails of my imagination. I fall to wondering how many Padawans have done katas in the Outer Rim while on missions. Although that is a moot point, since the assignment borne by my Master and me had never actually specified for us to come to the Outer Rim territories. Tatooine is a remote backwater planet, and I hope I'll never have the occasion to come back. It seems like a complete dump, a useless orbiting rock around an otherwise fascinating binary-sun system. I quickly assuage myself with reality; this desert planet will likely never again require my presence. With any luck, Qui-Gon and I will soon be back on Naboo, teasing out the wrinkles in the mercantilist mind of Nute Gunray.
My bare foot pounds the sand in finality, the rest of me coming to a complete halt. I stare down in mild astonishment at the faint ring of moisture I'd cast upon the grit, knowing now would be a good time to head back to the ship for a long deep drink of water. The loose sleeve of my tunic affords some relief as I wipe my face, the fabric absorbing the salty beads slowly. Wind gives no comfort here; it is as blistering as the suns themselves, whistling past the ridges of my ears in short heated bursts.
But now that sound becomes overridden with another, a faint mechanical buzz that comes to my ears in a slowly growing crescendo. I turn, trying to find the source of it, and discover it comes from somewhere on the other side of the glistening Nubian shuttle. Knowing I will be able to find this approaching object with an extra sense, I attune my inward senses to the Force again, this time stretching beyond myself.
A wave of cold washes over me, overcoming the suns for a moment. This is that thing I'd been feeling, all the way back on one of the Trade Federation stations… and it is speeding my way with a tide of malicious intent.
I grit my teeth and race under the fluidly curved belly of the ship, my heels pumping against the loose sand. I hadn't seen any need to bring my lightsaber outside with me before. Stupid.
I must admit, the sight is nothing less than astonishing. The minuscule dark speck rapidly expands to what could be positively identified as a humanoid on a strangely-built speeder. Then the occupant suddenly gives a flying leap, its body twisting into the air as the speeder flies off unguided and collides abruptly with a bank of sand.
The stranger (which I quickly catalogue as a Zabrak, though the intricate tattoos are rather distracting) ends his spinning arc with a felinoid-light landing upon the nearest dune, and a hostile pair of red eyes bores into me.
What I wouldn't give for that comforting metal cylinder to fit snugly into my palm just now, as I see the creature has one of his own, though at least twice as long as any I'd ever seen.
The Zabrak has one hand arched, fingertips meeting the sand, while the other holds out the lightsaber hilt with sinuous grace, arm parallel with the horizon, and to his credit remaining steady as stone, creating a masterpiece of a fighting position.
Sithspawn, I think, I'm finished. This thing's had some sort of hellishly effective training. I won't weave any falsehoods; I am terrified, rooted to the ground for the barest moment. Any non-sensitive drunk can clearly see this poised demon is seething with murderous design, directed at me, a sweat-drenched Padawan standing rigid on the dune, scared witless. What a sight the whole scene must be.
I hear the whirring of the boarding ramp pistons slowly releasing their hold, and know the ship must have been alerted to the Zabrak's presence. Sure enough, the pilots we'd freed back on Naboo begin to pour out, blasters raised and ready.
I find myself shouting hoarsely, "Close the ramp! Close it!"
For the stranger's blood-red eyes had wavered as the ramp opened, flickering eagerly as the pilots came out. He is searching for an entrance, of that I have no doubt.
But why? What is there…
The answer presents itself finally. The queen. He's after the queen.I wonder what kind of sum the Federation had presented to such an evidently accomplished assassin.
A horrible smile stretches the striped face, as if the Zabrak tells me I have no idea, and the monster reaches up with his free hand.
I glance back over my shoulder at the sound of a loud sickening crunch, and see four of the pilots writhing on the ground, their heads bent at unnatural angles. Swallowing my revulsion and fear, I return my eyes to the assassin, who meets my gaze coolly. He's toying with me, I know.
Blaster fire begins to pour from the remaining pilots, who are already sick with horror. It's turned away with the crimson blade that erupts from one end of the lightsaber hilt, the bolts batted away to extinguish themselves in the sand, marking their deaths with little pits of glass. Several spats of energy, however, are returned to their owners, and a handful more of the pilots crumple to the ground, scattering the rest in a blind panic. They are pilots, after all, adapted to impersonal killing, and have never had the experience of a true battlefront. Their fear is short-lived along with the Naboo pilots themselves as the Zabrak assassin rips arteries, crushes vertebrae, and pounds hearts into silent submission with a powerful invisible hand.
It is the first time I've seen such a measure of dark power in a sentient, adding to the nauseating fright that threatens to take my reason. I fight it down, allowing it to pass through and away from me. The boarding ramp is still open, and I am the only one standing in the Zabrak's way.
He rises to his full height fluidly, taking a few steps forward, lightsaber still blazing from his grasp.
I mince to the side, the ground almost unbearably hot underneath my feet, the heat easily coming through thick calluses. I watch him carefully, see his snide expression that betrays his thoughts. What can a snot-nosed little Padawan do to stand in his way? …Whoever he is. I have a feeling, though, that he hasn't come to exchange names and other pleasantries. He could be quick and ruthlessly efficient. Or he could drag this out, hazing my mind over with distracting anxiety.
Moving in a predatorial circular motion, he evidently is plotting the latter, wanting to have a bit of fun with this upstart Jedi trainee before he moves on to his real business. The problem is, I can feel his plan beginning to take effect as I misstep, twisting my ankle painfully in the loose sand.
Oh, why had Qui-Gon returned to bring back the boy now? He could have waited until tomorrow… I wince, straightening my foot before resting my weight on it again. It must have taken him longer than he wanted to sell that podracer.
I can almost hear the creature's snicker aimed at my twisted ankle. Clumsy little Padawan.
Not only am I half-exhausted from that ill-timed kata, I instinctively know my training would never match this Zabrak's. Both my lightsaber and my Master have been misplaced; I feel thoroughly disheartened.
It's then that I draw a sharp intake of breath at the spark of familiar life that presents itself to me with deadly concern. My Master is coming, and he has sensed the disturbance.
Armed with a new confidence, I stare back at the sentient horror, who begins to advance on me. Thankfully, some genius inside the ship finally decides to close the boarding ramp, and the Zabrak slips his lightsaber away, breaking into a headlong sprint as the ramp rises from the sand. He'd been waiting for it all along—
With a few long paces, I leap at him, snaring one black-robed calf between my hands and compressing it as hard as I can, making a dead-weight of my body. My opponent's momentum is unexpectedly arrested and he falls to the ground with a brusque thump that might have been comedic if my situation hadn't been so dire.
He snarls terribly and rolls, flicking his leg with a powerful twitch of his muscles. I can feel them contract under my hands and his leg snaps me to the side, bringing me roughly to impact with the ground while he reaches for his lightsaber.
I spring up, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ankle for the moment. I'd successfully delayed him, and now he will never get inside the starship. The boarding ramp gives one final hiss as it closes, and the sound is echoed by a rush of air between the Zabrak's teeth. Apparently this Padawan has proven to be more trouble than he'd bargained for.
The arrival of my Master is imminent; as long as he keeps his haste, I might keep my life.
Just before I know my unknown enemy's lightsaber will ignite, I issue a time-old challenge. "Have you honor?"
The Zabrak doesn't say anything, doesn't move a muscle, only stands there, a little surprised, staring back at me.
"Have you honor?" I repeat, a bit nervously. "Then put away your weapon."
A wicked smile curves his tattooed lips, and he tosses the hilt, letting it spin off to land somewhere near his abandoned speeder.
My gamble for time has worked; I'd appealed to his warped sense of humour successfully. I can almost hear his thoughts: So the little Padawan wants to play for time. I know I'll be shown a new game.
I drop into a drilled-in ready stance, the one I've been using since my crèche days. I know if I live through this, it will be the stuff of legend among Padawans. The thought does little to comfort me.
The Zabrak's smile changes to one of almost startling camaraderie as he saunters closer disarmingly.
The Force flashes a warning. I whip my head to the side as an elegantly poised foot whistles through the air, the boot's edge narrowly missing my temple. Finishing the movement in a cartwheel, I land just in time to aim a roundhouse kick of my own as he regains footing.
Throughout our brief spar, the Zabrak never quits smiling. I find the expression unnerving, considering it is backed by a nefarious sense of what this creature will do to me once he's finished playing.
Master Qui-Gon must have cloaked himself; he quickly enters the game as a motivating snap-hiss hummm fills the air.
The Zabrak quickly draws a short knife from his boot and I am filled with a thick upset as he snares the back of my tunic and brings the point under my chin. He has cheated.
Qui-Gon stands only a couple of meters away in a quiet rage, his emotions making themselves known throughout the living Force as the Zabrak's sense gives away a little uncertainty.
It's a trick of the wild that would often play itself out on the unwary; my Master had taught it to me long ago. Frighten a cub and come to terms with the enraged mother, who will often arrive with large sharp teeth bared and dripping. Qui-Gon's sentiments hardly differ now, even with the standoff.
I feel the knife tip dig into my skin, piercing the dermis and freeing a trickle of red blood.
Qui-Gon hides it well, but I can easily tell he is in a quandary. "What is it you want?" he growls menacingly.
"Amidala." The voice is somehow smooth and grating at the same instant, lending a horrible, oily tone.
"Drop the knife!" The command is borne through the air by a young voice, and I carefully roll my eyes to the side, dreading what I know I'll see.
Sure enough, she stands angrily at the edge of the half-lowered boarding ramp, though I'm surprised to see her dressed as one of the handmaidens.
Now, I press on Qui-Gon. Never mind me. You must do something now.
He stands rooted, knowing what he must do yet uncertain of the approach.
I glare at him, and bring up my heel like lightning.
The Zabrak grunts in pain and slashes upwards.
Qui-Gon roars wordlessly and leaps what little distance there is left to skewer the assassin, who darts away at the last moment and sprints for the boarding ramp, ignoring the pain I've caused between his legs. My Master hotly pursues him, swiping at his heels the entire distance. Again, the boarding ramp is open for one tantalising moment, then slides shut before the Zabrak can reach it.
Utterly foiled, he continues sprinting, redirecting his course by a few degrees to the deposit site of his still-intact speeder and lightsaber.
Qui-Gon comes back to me hurriedly, as I knew he would, cautiously lifting my head from the ground and cradling it before applying pressure in the way of a torn-off sleeve to the slash that stretches from larynx to right ear lobe. I'm dimly surprised that it doesn't hurt, only gives a throbbing numbness as I feel the warmth of my blood well up. From the look on his face I know it could have been worse, though my life is still in desperate jeopardy, and lies in the hands of my Master and whatever medical aid can be contrived from the starship. If I last that long.
My life continues to soak his sleeve crimson. Every movement takes an eternity to complete, every shift of my Master's hands under my head draws out into hours. So much time for thought, for memory.
But I can still see his blue eyes, full of distress. His voice cracks. "Obi-Wan?"
I manage a weak smile and a shallow sigh before my consciousness fades into free oblivion.