Chapter Five: A Battle with Wooden Blades

Cress' eyes were cold and calculating as he took stock of the situation. The stalemate had held for several minutes now. Every so often, he would fire wildly toward one of the catwalk corners. It didn't take long for some of the other surviving troopers to do the same. He couldn't easily communicate with them, but they trusted his lead on where to fire and how often, and sporadic bursts of return fire came back every time.

He checked his gear. In addition to his blaster, he had three grenades. None of them were smokers. Cutbacks from the Senate meant that squadrons no longer received smoke grenades for routine operations, so all of his grenades were incendiary. Another blaster and another three grenades hung from Bixwill's belt, though the sergeant himself had long since lost consciousness. Cress checked him periodically. Still alive – so far.

Cress picked up the scanner he had used to check the crates. Foodstuffs, mostly – basic rations and provisions for the outer worlds. Essentially paste, but with enough nutrients to keep a man alive. Also a few boxes of mechanical equipment. Regulators for the upkeep of moisturizers and farming equipment.

One crate, destined for Taris, held scientific supplies. Including a few chemical agents. Cress scanned the list.

Sulfron. He strained to remember his science courses from the Academy. If he remembered correctly, sulfron would react with fire, and would let off a thick plume of acrid smoke.

Please let me be remembering correctly.

First, he would have to get the crate open. It was near the center of the bay, in direct line of fire from all four corners.

Suicide. But what was the alternative? Hunker down and wait for the pirates to space them all?

He would have to take the chance, and hope that even if he fell, he would live long enough to drop a grenade into that crate. It was the only way to give the rest of the squad a chance to live.

He tensed himself, prepared to make his move.

"Keep moving!" Caecinius barked to his students. "Don't stop moving!"

The students were now paired off, dueling with their practice swords. Caecinius moved between them, observing. Any student who made the mistake of standing still was instantly tripped by the instructor's wooden blade, falling painfully back onto the practice mat.

He came to Canlyn, who was fencing with Ashara Zavros, as usual. Theirs was an unlikely friendship. Canlyn was studious and earnest to the point that many of her peers found her to be downright standoffish. Ashara was the opposite; the Togruata was gifted, but lazy in her studies, prone to unseemly emotional displays, and a little too confident that her native skill would carry her through all situations.

Ashara's fury allowed her to drive Canlyn back, but her lack of discipline provided several openings. Canlyn ignored the first few of these, allowing her opponent to tire herself with attacks. With a sudden feline hop, she pivoted, circling Ashara. The Togruta lunged, but in so doing left yet another opening. Canlyn exploited it, jabbing straight in, knocking the air out of the girl's lungs. Had this been genuine combat with actual lightsabers, Ashara would have died on the spot.

Canlyn did not pause in her onslaught. She followed with another strike, drawing her sword to a perfect stop an inch from Ashara's face.

"I yield," Ashara said. She grinned at her friend. "One of these days, Lyn, I am going to beat you."

"Not if you can't learn discipline, you won't," Caecinius growled.

Ashara jumped, not having sensed his approach, while Canlyn merely bowed her head.

"Canlyn has perfect form," Caecinius declared, loud enough for the entire class to hear. Gradually, the other students stopped their duels, turning to watch.

"Perfect form!" he repeated loudly. He addressed Canlyn, while still projecting to the class. "Your footwork was exactly as we've trained. Rapid to adjust to an enemy's moves, but basic to conserve your own energy, to keep you from wearing yourself out too quickly. You left no openings. You allowed Ashara to exhaust herself. When she attacked again, you exploited the opening she gave you. It was textbook."

"Thank you, Master," Canlyn said humbly, keeping her head bowed.

"In fact," Caecinius said, "I think you need more of a challenge." He raised his own wooden sword. "Fight me."

Canlyn looked startled. "Master?" she said. "I am not on your level."

"We can learn much by sparring with our betters," he replied. "Unless your ego cannot sustain a loss?"

Canlyn looked up, a flicker of defiance in her gaze. Caecinius was genuinely surprised to see it.

Well, maybe there are teeth in there after all.

The defiance vanished, and she inclined her head again. "I will face your lesson."

The two took up fighting stances, circling each other. Canlyn retained a perfect defensive stance, sword ready to deflect any of his assaults. She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to advance or retreat as the situation required. Caecinius opened his mind, and felt that her senses were also open, probing him for his intentions.

Her own intentions were clear. Her stance was purely defensive, her strategy absolutely reactionary. Whatever act he took, she would counter. She could not hope to win, but she could prove herself by maintaining her position for a respectable interval.

Caecinius did the very thing he had told his students never to do in battle. He stopped. He held his sword upright, directly in front of his face. A weak defensive posture that left much of his body wide open.

Canlyn continued to circle, regarding his posture warily. Caecinius closed his eyes, keeping his senses alert while clearing his mind of all intentions. She was probing, trying to detect the nature of the trap. She sensed nothing.

He held his weak posture. The other students began whispering, some laughing.

He was fairly sure it was the laughter that did it. Canlyn knew it was a trap, but she took the bait anyway. She lunged.

He snapped back in a moment, effortlessly parrying. She recovered quickly, scrabbling backward while parrying his counterattack. He smiled in spite of himself. Impressive. He had anticipated ending it right there.

They circled each other again. He didn't try for another trap. She was too smart to fall for the same trick twice, and her peers' laughter would mean nothing to her now. He lunged for her feet, trying to trip her. Her Cathar reflexes were too fast for that. She leapt over his wooden sword, answered with a swing at his torso.

The blow was fast, but only partially committed – She held back enough to snap quickly to defense if he moved in. As a result, he was able to bat it away. He swung a series of blows at her. She deflected them, but with increasing difficulty. She was tiring.

Still, she remained determined. The defiance was back in her eyes. She refused to lose easily.

She went on the attack, this time committing fully. Had she done that the first time, she might have given him trouble. But her exhaustion betrayed her. He parried, advanced again.

Four strong blows. He got under her blade and pulled, wresting it from her grasp. He swung his blade again at her feet. She again leapt over it. She reached out with her mind, brought her blade flying back toward her hand.

Caecinius' wooden sword batted hers away in midair. He turned back to her, lunging full force into her stomach. She fell onto her hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air.

Caecinius stood above her, his wooden sword on her neck, much like an executioner's axe.

"I yield," she gasped, not without difficulty.

Caecinius sheathed his sword, reached out a hand to help the padawan to her feet. She took it.

He yanked roughly, slinging her halfway across the mat. She landed hard on her side.

The students looked at him, shocked.

"Never assume your enemy is honorable," he told them. "Not unless you want one of these." He touched the scar on his face.

He walked back to Canlyn, extended his hand again. She looked as if his hand might turn into a snake and bite her.

"See?" he said to the other students. "Canlyn learns her lessons quickly. Make sure you do the same. Class dismissed."

As the students put up their wooden swords, he helped Canlyn to her feet.

"Good fight," he congratulated her.

"The resolution was preordained," she replied. "No mere padawan can win against the Academy's swordmaster."

"You might have had a chance if you had committed fully to your first assault, when you still had your full strength. You were intimidated by my reputation, so you held back. Even on offense, you still fought defensively. Fight with commitment, Padawan, and few will match you. That is the real lesson. In genuine combat, you cannot afford to hold back."

"Covering fire!"

Cress screamed the order. The next two things happened exactly as expected. The surviving Republic troopers opened fire at the catwalk, focusing on the corners. The pirates fired back, their fire focused in the center of the room.

Exactly where Cress did not run.

He knew the pirates would be prepared for a desperate assault. Instead if running to the center, he grabbed the lid of the crate that had been his cover, using it to shield himself as he jumped from one crate to another, advancing steadily on his target.

He passed Private Hanok, the squadron's best shot. Cress pointed to the crate that was his goal.

"I need that box opened!" he snapped.

Hanok nodded, leveled his blaster rifle at the crate's locking mechanism. One shot, and the lid came off.

The pirates had adjusted their fire now. Cress' makeshift shield deflected one blaster bolt, but the impact sent the lid flying from his hand.

Time's up, he realized.

He ran, full pelt, to the crate, pulling an incendiary from his belt as he moved. He skidded to the box, the change in speed and angle throwing off the pirates' aim.

"Fire in the hole!" he shouted, as he dropped the incendiary in. He dove into a roll, frantically putting as much distance between himself and the crate as possible.

The grenade detonated, the heat so intense that it set the metal itself aflame. The sulfron interacted with the fire exactly as anticipated, and thick smoke filled the hangar bay. From above, he heard the pirates cough as it reached them.

"Advance!" Cress shouted.

The troops went into action. There were some coughs, and one private was pushed back by the smoke. But the others moved in, still firing at the corners.

Cress felt his eyes and throat scream against the chemical smoke, but he kept moving forward. He found the foot of the catwalk, and was aware of Hanok at his side.

They advanced with the inevitability of machinery. The pirates gagged against the smoke. The first two they encountered were already on their knees. Cress shot one, Hanok the other. The third man had torn some cloth from his tunic and tied it around his mouth. He fired at them as they approached. The Troopers' aim was more practiced, however. On even ground, the pirate had no chance.

The pirate captain, Laresh, dropped his rifle, held up his hands. "I surrender!" he announced.

The man dropped to his knees, hands already on his head. Making sure he could not be viewed as offering any resistance.

Cress and Hanok stood over him. The private hesitated.

Cress did not.

"Gun!" he shouted, raising his blaster and firing.

Hanok joined a second later, and the two troopers shot Laresh repeatedly, the impact pushing his body further and further back until he finally toppled from the catwalk, his corpse landing on the hangar bay floor.

When the smoke cleared, a blaster pistol was found strapped to his back shoulder, mere inches from where his hands had been. Hanok asked Cress how he had known. Cress lied and said he observed the man's right hand moving.

The truth was, he had anticipated the shoulder holster. But in the smoke, he could not be certain whether Laresh's hand had been moving to it or not.