Andros Terome could no longer sit still.
He and Jin Esoth had been sitting still for the past two hours. Master Esoth had not said a word, barely even made a sound, in nearly four. The only sound Andros Terome had heard for the past several hours had been Esoth's own breathing, and the barely perceptible hum of the engines at lightspeed. It had now become so quiet that his own thoughts were maddeningly loud.
Andros stood up, his pink skin slowly returning to its normal colour as he stretched and paced their cabin. Esoth barely stirred.
Andros Terome was not pleased with this pairing. He was frustrated. He had hoped to be paired with a master who could teach him how to catch up to the others, how to increase his connection to the Force, or maybe even to improve his skill with a lightsaber. Andros was proficient, but a Jedi Master would surely have been a treasure trove of information on forms beyond Shii-Cho.
Instead, all Jin Esoth had done was quietly introduce himself when they were alone, and from there on out it had been meditation. Silent meditation. Silent, slow, agonizing meditation. About what? Andros didn't know, Esoth hadn't said. Presumably connecting to the Force, or maybe it was about forming a spiritual bond between master and padawan. How would Andros know!
Andros stopped pacing and stared at Master Esoth. Undisturbed, silent. His mustache barely even twitched.
He looked closer to a statue of a Jedi than an actual living one.
Andros picked up a credit chit sitting on the shelf, probably left over from whoever had used the ship before them. He took aim, and prepared to throw.
"I would not advise that, Padawan," Master Esoth said, his gentle voice generating a surprising amount of calm on Andros' frustrations. His face remained passive, and he still didn't open his eyes.
Andros looked between the credit chit in his hand and Esoth, and decided to heed the advice. Placing the chit back on the shelf, Andros turned back to his master who, to his surprise, finally had his eyes open. They were a deep, dark brown. They spoke of great sadness, or perhaps contemplation. Either way, Andros felt his skin flush as his Master's penetrating gaze continued to study him.
He was being evaluated, surely. Just like every teacher, every lecturer, had done thousands of times in the past. Studied, scrutinized. Doubted.
Zeltrons did not make good Jedi. That fact had followed Andros his entire life.
Emotions were not part of the Jedi code. Zeltrons changed colour with every emotional shift. Peace, introspection, connection to the Force- these were things that made a good Jedi. Zeltrons struggled to connect to the Force, and more of them became smugglers, racers, bounty hunters, or some other scum than anything else. Jedi were champions of justice. Andros Terome could barely hold his own in a fight against training droids.
And now, worst of all, Andros Terome, one of the only Zeltron Jedi, was paired with Jin Esoth, a man who was so strongly connected to the Force it was said he had only used his lightsaber twice in the past four years- and apparently had spoken just as many times too.
Jin Esoth sighed in resignation, and slowly stood up, folding his arms beneath his sleeves.
"You are in turmoil, Andros Terome," Jin spoke again, catching Andros' attention, "You feel that you are not worthy of being a Jedi, that because of your race you struggle to find the Force."
Andros was caught completely off guard. Were his thoughts that easy to read? How long had Master Esoth been listening in on his mind? How often did Esoth do that to others?
"This is incorrect," Jin said, closing his eyes for a long moment, somehow managing to turn even the mere contemplation of thought into a meditative act, "You struggle to connect because you are blocking yourself. Your skills with a blade pale in comparison to your potential in the Force, and yet both suffer because of your own refusal."
Andros couldn't speak. The sudden a thorough evisceration of his character was unbelievable. His skin flushed with embarrassment, and then anger. He couldn't tamp down on either, and merely stared dumbfounded at Master Esoth until he could find the right words.
By the time he did, Master Esoth had already knelt down again and entered another meditative trance. Although Andros could have railed against his Master, he knew that Esoth could already feel his thoughts on the matter, could hear his unspoken words just as surely if he had yelled them at the top of his lungs.
There was no point, and Andros Terome simply stood rooted to the spot, stewing in his own anger at having been told off so thoroughly yet succinctly. What did Esoth even know? He had known Andros for little over twelve hours, and had barely said a word in that entire time.
Master Esoth knew nothing, Andros thought, and he is a foolish monk masquerading as a master.
His anger continued to bubble and rise, but it would do no good to unleash it. Probably just another lecture from Esoth. Another brief, yet harsh, evaluation of a failing Padawan, who hadn't even been given a chance to succeed. Esoth was a fool, and he would remain one. Andros Terome would rise up in spite of his master- he could, he simply had to push hard enough.
No, the voice in the back of his head said, these are not my feelings.
The Jedi platitude spoke itself into existence for Andros Terome, and he felt the hot embers his rage begin to dim again. He needed to be mindful of himself, and remember that even if he could not see the wisdom that did not mean there was none there. Jin Esoth was a Jedi Master with years of experience, to call him a fool was to do the man a disservice, and Andros knew that.
Of course Andros wanted to be better. Of course he wanted to surpass his master, that is what all Jedi wanted: continually improving oneself, always become better than the previous generation. That constant evolution was what had allowed the Jedi Order to flourish and survive for so many years. It was not unnatural for him to want that too, but he needed to be careful to not let that determination slip into pride. Pride was an easy path to the dark side of the Force, Andros had been warned constantly to not fall into its grasp.
If the way he received Master Esoth's instruction was flawed, then he would adapt. Perhaps meditation was not for him, at least in this serene sense.
Andros looked around at the assorted books on the shelves of their room. Most were placeholders of no real substance or value, placed there for looks and aesthetic. However, Andros had always connected to his thoughts best when he could keep his mind and body occupied. Perhaps there was opportunity here.
Sitting cross legged some distance from his master, the Zeltron padawan concentrated. Deep, steady, forceful breaths attuned him to the atmosphere of the room. Slowly, he catalogued each and every item, floor panel, and even the wires and bolts in his mind's eye. Taking hold of a few books, Andros used his connection to the Force to slowly lift himself from the ground until he was floating just a foot above it. The books, caught in the pull of the Force, circled around him in wave-like motions, dipping and rising but always moving.
His mind and body now focused on the tasks of maintaining both his levitation and the pace of the books, Andros finally tamed his torrent of emotions and opened his thoughts to deeper analyzation.
Both Jedi, master and padawan, remained in silent meditation for the remainder of the trip, the only sound between them the ruffling of the book pages as they danced around in the air.
Rif Aro and Rama were shaken awake by the sudden quake that reverberated throughout the ship. The lights in their cabin automatically came on, their harsh white light briefly blinding Rif. However, another quake sent the lights flickering into a quick demise, bathing the room, instead, in the dull orange-red glow of the emergency lighting.
Rama rolled out of bed, his DL-18 blasters flying from their place on the table and into his hands. Rif quickly followed, making sure his lightsaber was attached to his belt. The pair exited their quarters, making their way to the bridge as a cacophony of booms erupted from outside the ship.
On the way, they ran into Ceres and Den, who appeared wide awake despite their hours-long training sessions. The masters briefly exchanged a stoic glance, silently communicating to each other with the Force. The Padawans, on the other hand, reflected far more fear than their teachers.
"What do you think it is?" Rif asked Ceres.
"Turbolaser fire, I believe," Ceres answered, the serenity and assuredness in her voice unbroken despite her expression, "We are under attack."
Breaking into the cockpit at a dead sprint, the two younger padawans nearly ran right into the backsides of their masters, who had come to a very sudden stop.
"Status report," Den asked.
"Typical welcome for a Jedi team," The captain responded sarcastically, his eyes fixated on the battle unfolding before them, while his hands expertly flew across the console, "Suffice to say this is more than a pirate raid, Master Jedi."
Brilliant red laser bolts pinged across the cockpit, the shields illuminating with each strike in a blinding clash of blue and red. In the distance, a deep, dark, green world seemed impossibly far away. Surrounding it was a strange combination of vessels and capital ships, only a few of which the padawans could recognize.
"Trade Federation," Rama and Den said in unison.
After exchanging a glance, Rama took the initiative.
"Captain, aim straight for that capital ship, the Market-class one."
Following Rama's outstretched hand, pointing at the battle ahead, the padawans saw which ship he was talking about.
It was curved, with a circular command station orb on one end, and a long, winding hangar on the other. Not quite as impressive or as powerful as the more infamous Lucrehulk command ship, but just as deadly against the many powerless worlds and colonies in the Outer Rim. Capable of holding a hundred different starfighters and nearly three hundred battle droids, the Market-class command ship was a frightening foe indeed- especially when all you had was a diplomatic cruiser.
The pilot wordlessly followed Rama's order, drifting the ship until it was head on with the Market-class, weaving up and around an endless array of blaster bolts, plowing headlong through the hailstorm of droid starfighters in order to stay on target.
"Once we get within two hundred meters, bank sharply towards the planet," Rama continued, "We'll skirt right into their blind spot and head on down."
"What about all these fighters? We might blind the command ship, but they're not going to be so easily fooled," The co-pilot asked.
"Leave them to me," Rama answered, "Does your main defense cannon have manual targeting capabilities?"
"Yes sir," The pilot answered, "Go right up the central shaft near the dining room. I'll take it off automatic once you're there."
"Very good," Rama clapped a hand on Rif's shoulder, "Rif, you're with me."