Editor's Note:Hello there! Star Wars was always my first love before Trek, but I've somehow never managed to actually write something I felt satisfied with. Padawan's Path is finally that something, in the spirit of my favourite book series growing up (Jedi Quest/Apprentice, Last of the Jedi. Jude Watson is genuinely my hero). I hope you enjoy. Please share it around to your socials (Tumblr, Twitter, etc) if you enjoyed it, as this really helps me out! Kudos/comments are always appreciated as well.
Editor's NoteII: If this wasn't your type of story, please check out my other works for Star Trek, especially Balance of Power! Yours truly, -K.S.
Dame, the woodland world, sits in the northern sectors of the galaxy, just beyond the worlds of Dantooine and Bogano. Although far removed from the primary trade routes, and just at the edge of the Galactic Republic's influence, it is a vital world for star base construction. Much like the worlds of Alderaan or Onderon, it has long been a staunch supporter of the Galactic Republic, and holds contracts with many businesses that hold high influence in the Republic Senate. This supremely unique position was attained millennia ago when Republic scout ships discovered the world, and the woodlands on its surface.
The trees of Dame are as much a signature of the world as The Theed Palace is to Naboo, or the Jedi Temple to Coruscant. They have brought great rewards to the planet, and enriched the monarchy that rules the populace. These trees are stronger than durasteel, and can be modified for use in the most dangerous of atmospheres, such as the vacuum of space. Selling this precious material to Outer Rim worlds that are too far removed from other Republic shipyards, Dame has taken on a highly envied position- and, this far away from the safety of the Galactic Republic's star fleet, has made it an imminent target for slavers, pirates, and the less-scrupulous corporations such as the Trade Federation.
Although Dame, and its monarchy, have managed to withstand all attempts at sabotage or takeover so far, a new threat has emerged in the form of an anarchistic group of mercenaries. Lead by a life-long criminal, and aided now by Trade Federation battle droids, the Supernova Mercenaries have brought anarchy to a dozen outer-rim worlds. They overthrew governments, stirred the populace into a frenzy, and then left these worlds to be ravaged by pirates, or to be taken over by the Trade Federation- who could leverage loans and debts to keep the planet in its grip forever. The Supernova Mercenaries are among hundreds of 'most wanted' criminal organizations on the Galactic Republic's watchlist, and their attack on Dame will prove just how dangerous they truly are.
Hawk Wynn made his way through the cramped confines of the Freefall II cruiser. The Freefall I was favourite among the more military-inclined mercenaries due to its ability to level a city in one sweep, but the Freefall II, while keeping the same basic shape, had been expanded to such a degree that it functioned as its own mobile command ship. Unfortunately, while it had more room, that space was still very cramped, especially when it had been filled from top to bottom with mercenaries and their gear.
Hawk Wynn pushed loose tubing out of his way, shoved past some mercenaries who were gambling with a set of holographic cards, and nearly stepped into a bucket of loose fruit someone had carelessly left on the floor. Life was not enjoyable now, but their voyage was almost over- and soon he'd have a whole planet to run wild on.
The thought was enough to bring a smile to the grizzled mercenary.
Hawk thumbed the control panel and opened the door to the cockpit, where his pilots sat navigating their little battle group through hyperspace. The door whined in protest as it closed behind him, still unrepaired after a recent run in with some bounty hunters in the Yavin system. Hawk made a note to have it repaired when they had the time, but for now he turned his attention to the diminutive Nemoidian on the console- his holographic avatar waving and warbling as the connection struggled to remain active.
"Shatha Mil," Hawk said, acknowledging the Nemodian.
"Hawk Wynn," Shatha responded, his voice nearly drowned out by static, "I trust you are now en-route to Dame without further issue?"
The slimy little bug's voice dripped with insinuation and avarice. Hawk wasn't sure if that was the correct way to describe someone, but there were no better words to describe someone like Shatha.
"Yes, Shatha," Hawk replied, "The trouble we ran into around Yavin is behind us. Bounty hunters," He scoffed, "They're more prevalent than dust out here, and not a single brain cell between the lot of them."
Shatha rubbed his grimy, pointed fingers together, pleased to hear this, "Good, we need no more distractions. The Trade Federation has a debtor's fleet prepared to sweep in as soon as you are established. The acquisition of Dame will make me the richest Nemoidian in the Outer Rim!" He cackled, "Even that slug Nute Gunray will be jealous, because I'll have done it without ever getting my hands dirty in the whole affair."
Hawk had met many men and creatures throughout his career, but none were as disgusting as Shatha Mil. The Nemoidian was a middling businessman on his homeworld of Cato Nemoidia, who made his living in the business of slavery and dealing out blasters and other weaponry to a variety of scum. He did, however, have one thing above other Nemoidians, and it made him a very dangerous man indeed.
Shatha Mil owned seven debtor's fleets, and he used them mercilessly.
Debtor's Fleets were a Trade Federation invention, and usually only made their appearance after a world defaulted on a loan, or, in the case of Hawk Wynn's Supernova Mercenary group, when a world fell into anarchy. They mobilized an entire battalion of battle droids across entire planets within hours, and they were assisted by a variety of hired help in the form of disgruntled Mandalorians, Bothan slavemasters, and Dug pirates. Debtor's Fleets, put simply, were one of the Trade Federation's most fearsome assets- and to own seven of them put a Nemoidian in a league of their own.
"Of course, Shatha," Hawk said, trying to hide a sneer the longer the conversation wore on, "We will contact you when we have taken over the planet."
Shatha barely registered him, waving him off as he went back to scheming and plotting. The communication ended and Shatha's hologram fizzled into non-existence.
"Jeeze, boss," Boral Iko, one of the pilots, said, "When are we going to be done working for this guy? He gives me the creeps."
"When we're done," Hawk said, clearly intoning that was the only answer Boral would get, "Once we've got Dame, we can get back to the real business of bringing anarchy to a complacent galaxy."
Boral nodded, resuming his work, and Hawk turned and left. He still had another matter to attend to before they arrived on Dame, one that was far more pleasant than dealing with Shatha Mil. More pleasant, to be sure, yet far more dangerous. Supernova's most valued asset currently sat in their own private quarters onboard the ship, cleaning their blaster rifle and sharpening their poisoned blades.
Once again passing through cramped hallways, Hawk Wynn prepared himself to meet the cunning, death-defying bounty hunter cloaked in silver armour- the imposing Gembleed.
The Jedi Temple on Coruscant stood as magnificent as any building ever could. With its unique spires clambering towards the skies, its base firmly entrenched into the endless city, and the very aura of the place made it a landmark so inscrutable, so unforgettable, that it was known as far out as Tatooine. The Temple's inhabitants, the Jedi Order, were even more famous, with tales of their triumphs and adventures almost as commonplace in the galaxy as the stars. They had been stalwart defenders of peace, staunch supporters of the Republic, for over ten thousand years, and, unless the fates intervened, would continue to do so for ten thousand more.
Today was special day for three members of the Jedi Order in particular, and they each waited with bated breath and excited trepidation in one of the Jedi Temple's meeting rooms. Housed in the southern spire, this meeting room was saved for a special event that each Jedi went through in their lives, and being called here was, for many, a once in a lifetime event. With pale maroon flooring, an implacable silver ceiling and walls, and three long windows, the only difference between it and other spire rooms was its distinct lack of furniture of any kind. This room is where Jed Initiates, mere learners who trained with many Jedi masters, were introduced to their own, singular, Jedi Master, who would teach them for the rest of their lives until they, too, became Masters.
The three gathered in the room now were a special group indeed. Not only for graduating to Padawan at the same time, but for having remained friends and rivals throughout their training. They each, as Grand Master Yoda would have said, were luminous beings, and their paths would forever be altered by the meeting of their masters today.
Rif Aro was a human male of fourteen from the foundry world of Trokan III. Having been taken from the world at the age of four, Rif, like many Jedi, had very little attachment to his homeworld. However, some things transcend environment, and Rif Aro possessed the same dogged determination that was a trademark of Trokan III's citizenry- and it had gotten him into trouble more than once. Rif Aro was a year behind most Padawans, having gone unselected by a Master the previous year. He was determined to catch up as fast as he could.
Ceres Myfton, a Mirialan girl of fourteen, was known by many of her peers as a bastion of serenity and peace who was as impossible to know as she was to upset. Her dark green skin was interrupted by two things: Bright, piercing ruby eyes, and her special Mirialan tattoos. Mirrored triangles ran from the center of her bottom lip to her chin, with two thin lines following on either side from the corner of her lips. She, like many of her kind, was strong in the Force, and she used this to ensure her lightsaber skills were second to none in her class. Ceres had been given the chance to join a Jedi Master two years prior, but had refused to do so- believing the Force had a path that she could not deviate from. Now, she felt the Force had guided her to this moment- and she would not deny its will.
Andros Terome, a Zeltron male, was the last of this trio. Prone to his emotions and highly competitive, Andros had struggled to connect to the Force, and had thus focused on improving his skills with a blade and the more rudimentary Force powers such as push, pull, and jump. Andros' skills with a blade were impressive purely for the ferocity with which he struck, often astounding other Initiates. At thirteen, he was right on track for a Jedi, despite his struggles. Today, Andros knew, was the beginning of the rest of his life, when he could finally learn how to be just as impressive as his friends.
Rif fidgeted with the hilt of his lightsaber, turning it over in his hands and feeling the ridges press into his flesh- allowing him to ground himself back in the present. Constructed three years ago, it had been his most constant companion, and his most preferred method for meditation. Rif found movement, exercise, to be the perfect place to balance his mind and his body, and he enjoyed the obstacle courses in the Temple immensely. Not many Jedi Initiates preferred the method, but Andros Terome did- and that had made the pair fast friends years ago.
Ceres stared out the window, watching the flow of traffic and the artificial orange of the sunset as it grew in intensity. She missed the Room of a Thousand Fountains; the cacophony of gentle sounds and sensations of misted water always numbed her into peaceful meditation. In fact, Ceres had perhaps spent more time in that room than her own dormitory, much to the amusement of her friends. Despite the mask of serenity, Ceres was eager to meet her new master. The Force had guided her to this moment, and her excitement was nearly impossible to control.
Andros stood between his two friends in the center of the room, hands clasped tightly behind his back, legs stiff, posture at perfect attention. His pink skin flushed a deep red on his cheeks as he felt the heat of the room begin to grow. Zeltron emotions were powerful things, and their skin often flushed when they felt them intensely. Right now, Andros did his best to focus on being the perfect, model Jedi, and held his posture tighter still. His closest friends were each at one end of the room, and, deep down, he feared this was how the rest of his life was to be- forever separated from his friends, drawn to the path of the Jedi in all the directions it could take him.
The doors suddenly whooshed open, taking them all by surprise. The turbolift had been completely silent, and none of them had even felt the faintest whisper of new presences approaching them. Rif and Ceres promptly left the windows to stand next to Andros.
Three Jedi Masters walked off the turbolift, allowing the door to close behind them softly. Each of them had selected an Initiate to take as their own, to train and to teach all they could learn for decades to come. Between the three of them there was more than a century of experience, each one with lives as rich and adventurous as any holo-novel.
Clad in grey Jedi robes, without a cloak adorning his shoulders, Den Fitla seemed to scowl at all three of the Jedi Initiates. His black boots were immaculately polished, and his jaw was set sternly. Greying hair and furrowed brows only added to his stoic countenance. In his fifties now, Den Fitla had gone much longer than most Masters without taking a Padawan. Something in the Force had now called him to do so. One of the Jedi Order's premier duelists, a classmate and rival of Cin Drallig, was an imposing presence indeed.
To his right, in the typical tan robes and brown cloak, was Jin Esoth. A Master for only five years, he had returned from intensive work in the Mid-Rim's colony worlds to choose a Padawan to aid him. Master Esoth, despite only being in his thirties, was known to be a logical, slow, careful man, who made no decision quickly, and pondered greatly. His tanned skin closely cropped hair, and short mustache gave most the impression that he was stern, and perhaps he maintained that appearance exactly for that deceptive reason.
To Den Fitla's left, the maroon-robed Jedi Master Rama looked over each of the Initiates with a small, cocky smile. Unlike the other Masters, who were human, Rama was a member of the Nikto species- an alien race with hard edged features and small horns peaking out around their head. His sunken eyes were intensely studious, and his relaxed demeanor betrayed the powerful body underneath. He wore forearm guards, each one emblazoned with the symbol of the Jedi Order. His black gloved hands, hidden beneath crossed arms, flexed as Rama took in the atmosphere of the room. Unlike every other member of the room, Rama did not have a lightsaber equipped to his belt. Instead, on both sides, sheathed loosely in holsters, were DL-18 blaster pistols with wine-coloured plating.
Rif Aro couldn't believe his eyes when he spotted them. Jedi Master Rama was one of the exceedingly rare Jedi Rangers- a type of Jedi that favoured blasters over lightsabers. Often referred to in holo-novels as Jedi Gunslingers, they had been prevalent during the age of the Old Republic, but had since nearly gone extinct as the Republic had entered a more and more civilized age.
"Initiates," Den Fitla said, the sudden snap of his voice bringing everyone to attention, "Today, the Force has guided you to the next stage of your lives. The Temple has been your home, but from hereon out it will only be your respite. The galaxy is now your home, and all of its citizens, good and bad, are in your care."
His voice was steady, but his sheer volume could have rattled the Initiates' bones.
"The Jedi Order has survived because of each master and padawan who forges a bond does so mutually, because the Force demands peace and unity. The evils of the galaxy, the temptations of the dark side, cannot hold but a candle to the power that is the bond of master and padawan. Together, we are free, together, we are brighter than any darkness. Today, Initiates," Den Fitla paused to scowl at them, before favouring them with a smile that would have been kind had it not seemed so unnatural for him, "You become true Jedi. One of us will become your master, and the Force will bring us into the future- stewards of our chosen specialties, and champions of justice."
A tense silence followed as Den Fitla resumed his stern appearance.
"Ceres Myfton," He spoke the name into existence, locking eyes with the Mirialin, "The Force has guided me to you, and I would be honoured to have you as my padawan learner."
Ceres blinked in surprise, looked to Rif, and then Andros, and stepped forward towards Den Fitla, bowing to him. He returned the bow, and she moved to stand at his side.
"Andros Terome," The passive, gentile voice of Jin Esoth said, "The Force has called me back to you, and I ask that you join at my side as my padawan."
Andros and Rif were both surprised, sharing a look between each other and then Ceres. The fact that Den Fitla had chosen Ceres had been surprising, to be sure, but it was understandable. Jin Esoth taking on someone like Andros Terome was a shock to the young Initiates. Still, Andros went to Jin Esoth, shared a bow with the Jedi Master, and stood at his side.
Rama huffed a chuckle and studied Rif Aro, "I can't stand on ceremony like my fellow masters," Rama said, the amused confidence in his voice somehow putting Rif at ease, "Rif Aro, do you want to be a Jedi Knight?"
Rif, wide-eyed, nodded.
"Come on then, Padawan Aro," Rama held out a hand to the young human, the Nikto's smirk growing wider, "The galaxy awaits."