Chapter 7

He knew it wasn’t the Jedi way to hate, but he was coming to hate paperwork.

After that first day Jorel had fallen into a steady pattern. He’d wake at seven a.m., ship’s time, and be ready to go by eight, at which point Sergeant Hisku would come in no matter how dressed he was. They’d get breakfast, say hello to Sergeant Major Gars, and then they’d continue their tour of the ship.

Tour wasn’t really the right word, Er’izma wanted him to know the ship, from the dorsal power network to each of the sixteen dual-heavy turbolaser batteries, to every corner of every hanger. “This ship, like the Force, works together. No part of it is un-needed, and all must be known,” his Master had said, and Sergeant Hisku had taken that literally.

Jorel wasn’t a gearhead, but he was coming to understand how it all worked, the weak points, the strong points, what could be patched quickly and what, if it were sparking, he needed to get everyone away from fast. It was, slowly, making sense, but spending nearly as long doing that as he spent training his Force abilities seemed a bit much.

After three hours of that, there was lunch, and then came training with his Master, the same time, every day. He’d asked Sergeant Hisku, and once he’d convinced her that no, he didn’t know why, she explained that Er’izma was even busier than he was, and had to schedule this training time out in advance. When Jorel had to explain that, in the Temple, there was no real set schedule after the basics were learned, but Masters teaching and Initiates learning as they would, she’d looked at him like he was insane.

“How do you get anything done?” she’d demanded, disgusted.

Gesturing to himself, feeling a bit defensive, he stated, “By working at your own speed? Taking as long as you need to get it done right?”

“Is that why Commander Er’izma said you were lacking?” she shot back imperiously.

This was something he was learning about Sergeant Hisku’biatha’pusi. Given a clear direction, usually teaching him about, or more accurately shepherding him around, the ship, she was cool and professional, but present her with an alternate way of doing things and she tended to react. . . badly. In some ways it reminded him of his teachers, who insisted that theirs was the only right and proper way to do things, though he’d had the good sense not to tell her about that comparison. “He said I needed to improve to be at a Knight’s level,” Jorel corrected. “Or should I call you lacking because you can’t do a Major’s job yet?”

Watching her sputter had been well worth the time it took to memorize the rank structure. She’d rallied a moment later, and returned to her task at the time, explaining how, and why, the power converters worked. He had asked if it was really necessary to know all this, as it seemed to be more of an engineer’s job, only to be informed that, had Er’izma commanded him to be an engineer, he’d need to not only know the mechanics of the device, and how to spot-repair it, but the base math and concepts that made it work so he could build one from scratch, if so required. Looking for help from the other crew members nearby, who were watching with amusement while they worked, an older looking blue-skinned, red-eyed man just nodded solemnly.

His Force training was going. . . well, it was going. Healing and Empathy, his worst subjects, he’d actually made some improvement on. Ironically, they required the exact opposite approaches, which had tripped him up both ways. The key to both was emotion. Force Empathy required one to “still oneself in the Force,” Er’izma had explained, explicitly outlining what the Temple’s teachers had only given in vague statements. “Every living thing has a presence in the Force, though those weak in it have subtler effects. To hear how the ripples their emotions make, you must still your own ripples in the Force, walking quietly instead of running if you wish to hear the footsteps of those lighter than yourself. Center and calm your emotions, and those of others will reach you through the Force.”

That had, of course, led to a lot more meditation, though on his own time after his day was done.

Healing he’d picked up a bit more easily as, despite what the teachers had said, it required emotion. One had to want someone to be healed in order to do so effectively. However, that wanting itself had to be specific. His Master had stressed that it was a wanting someone to be whole and healthy for the sake of being whole and healthy, not out of personal desire, that lent itself best to healing. Other emotions, like fear or anger, would cloud the connection the Light side of the Force, making it harder to mend wounds and revitalize flesh.

That had led to another conversation, as he’d read about the Light side in the archives, only for the Temple’s instructors to rebuke him for using the phrase as an ‘archaic nomenclature’, even if some of those reports where only a few decades old, and that there was only the Force. Er’izma had just told him that was a discussion for another day, reminded him of the Temple’s policy of Padawans learning what their Masters taught them, even if it disagreed with their Initiate training, and to move on.

The time with his Master each day was split into thirds; discussing techniques, practicing them, and lightsaber combat training were all equally addressed. It’d been nearly three full weeks, and they hadn’t sparred like they had that first day. His Master instead worked with Jorel to better understand the meaning behind his combat style, its strengths, and its weaknesses, breaking down every move in detail. While the Knight readily admitted that he specialized in Makashi, the dueling form, he was familiar enough with the others Forms to explain their qualities. The older man was quick to remind him that, “Combat is a universal language. Just because one uses a defensive Form, Padawan, does not make the lightsaber cut any less. Just because you use an offensive one, does not change the physics of your strikes.”

While Jorel hadn’t scored another hit, he’d managed to narrow his telekinetic burst from an omni-directional blast to a cone, though he did have to point his fingers while gripping his lightsaber to do so. He’d accepted his Master’s light rebuke that doing so was a crutch that should be reduced, mostly because it came on the heels of the older man praising Jorel for how quickly he’d picked it up.

That said, the first time he’d caught his Master with it, Jorel had been blasted off his own feet by the man’s reflexive, answering blast without even seeing the man move. Twisting in the air, the Padawan had managed a stumbling landing, guard shaky, only to see he’d merely managed to push Er’izma back a single step. While the younger man knew he was progressing, he obviously had a way to go.

However, as fun as the training was, afterwards came the growing bane of existence: paperwork. It didn’t actually involve paper, though he was warned that for high government matters, and more archaic planets, it would. Instead, it involved staring at endless rows of numbers, reports, and every form of record possible. Being apprenticed to the Commander, he’d been smugly told by Sergeant Hisku, meant that he was also to help the Commander run the legion. That smugness had only lasted until Er’izma had, with a beatific smile, informed her that, as his attaché, it was her job to help Jorel do so.

Now they were both hip-deep in requisition forms and supply contracts, from everything to Jogan Fruit to Tibanna gas. As was routine, Er’izma poked his head into his Padawan’s office, which was next to his own, at the half-way mark. “Any questions, young apprentice?” the man asked, as calm as ever. Just as he had every day before.

“Yes!” Jorel sighed explosively. “Why do I need to do this? I know, I’m your Padawan so I’m supposed to learn what you do, but when am I ever going to need to know all of this stuff?” He gestured to the datapad filled with a seemingly endless supply of documents to review. “I’m not going to be in charge of anything like this once I’m a Knight!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the rest of the ship.

“Ah, I hadn’t realized you’d already mastered Farsight, Padawan,” his Master observed, “to know the path the future holds for you so completely. Perhaps you could show me your wise ways, far surpassing even Master Yoda.” At Jorel’s unamused look, he continued, “Do you think I’m only teaching you how to run a military unit?”

“Well, yes,” the younger man replied, before his brain caught up with his mouth. “Do you mean you’re not?”

Stepping in fully, Er’izma motioned for Sergeant Hisku to remain seated, summoning the folding chair from the side of the room without a gesture, gracefully sitting on it as it unfolded behind him. “Tell me, you’re on assignment to settle a dispute. There are two sides on two different planets in a system, let’s call them the Aenids and the Besors. The Aenids are being attacked by what they claim are the Besors, while the Besors claim innocence, and that it is the work of pirates. Both have agreed to defer to you, as a Jedi, but both insist their side is correct. What do you do?”

“I’d wait for an attack to happen, and capture some of the pirates,” he replied immediately, but he could already tell there were some problems with this. “Wait, you said it was two planets? That might be a lot of space to cover. Are they even in the same system?”

Er’izma nodded. “They are, and that could work, the Force may give you an insight into the location of the ‘pirates’ next attack, assuming they do so while you’re there, and haven’t been warned off, either by the Besors or by their own watchers. Though some will assuredly die in the attack, it might serve to get to the bottom of things.”

Looking at the datapad on his desk, Jorel thought about it. “These pirates, how many of them are there?”

Sitting back, the Knight shrugged. “Unclear. Some say they have a single frigate and a handful of fighters, some say they might have a several corvettes, some that they have two frigates, several corvettes, and a small group of fighters. It’s all hearsay and rumors. The pirates have been careful to destroy or capture any droid that sees them.”

“And how developed are the planets?” the apprentice pressed, starting to get an idea of what he needed to do.

“Both have a large capital city, and several small cities spread out across the planet, along with dozens upon dozens of smaller communities,” the older man revealed. “The attacks are quick, only lasting a few dozen minutes. Death and destruction seems to be their aim.”

“So they’re not raiding for supplies,” Jorel continued. “Which means they’re being paid somehow, so I could go through the government’s finances to find suspicious spending! Both governments,” he added, “in case they’re attacking their own people to get something from the Republic, maybe restitution or aid funds.”

“Easier said than done, depending on what’s going on, but a possible avenue. And tell me, young Padawan, would you have considered that a week ago?” his Master inquired.

“Well, no,” he was forced to reply, “But now that I’ve learned this lesson, does that mean I can stop?”

Er’izma got up, the chair putting itself away. “And lose someone to help me with the prodigious amount of paperwork this operation requires? I think not. No, you still have more to learn, young Jorel, and one of those things is that there are many reasons I take so many Padawans.”

Laughing, the Knight left Jorel to his work, as the younger man tried his best not to be annoyed.

He failed miserably.

>​

It was the beginning of their fourth week, sixteen days since he’d joined the crew, when the routine was finally broken up. Sergeant Hisku walked into his room, as usual. What was not usual was the sheathed sword at her hip. “Officer’s blade,” she offered as her only explanation, “got it yesterday. Let’s go.”

Following her, he couldn’t help but steal glances to it, and the way the other crew looked at it: with respect, surprise, and a little bit of envy. Jorel and Sergeant Hisku, following ship protocol, were together four out of the five days of the week, the last their day off to rest and recuperate. Jorel had been spending the last three studying, meditating, and practicing, while Sergeant Hisku had been off doing something other than assisting him, though she had given him orders to “Don’t get into trouble, you know where to go, if you don’t know, ask, I’ll see you in two days,” the end of his first week.

“So,” he commented as they walked. “I haven’t seen the other officers wearing blades.”

“They’re for combat and official functions,” she explained with her normal coolness, though there was a bit of added stiffness to it, staring forwards. Part of Jorel wanted to push her to be as open as she’d been their first day together, but after she’d helped him limp back to his room, she’d gone back to the cool, professional, detached officer she’d been trying to appear to be at first. He still elicited a reaction from time to time, but she obviously wanted to keep a sense of decorum, and he wasn’t so much of a nerf-herder that he was going to mess with her just for the fun of seeing her fail at what she was trying to do.

However, there was a difference between trying to get her to break her professionalism and finding out what was going on. When she didn’t say anything else, he prodded, “So, why are you wearing yours?”

She shot him an annoyed glance, obviously wanting to not talk about it, but it was something he was interested in, and she had said that he was supposed to ask questions if he didn’t understand.

“Because I need to ‘get used to it’, which means I need to wear it as much as possible until I’m told not to,” she stated. “Which means I need to sleep with the thing, for some kriffing reason,” she muttered to herself.

Glancing down at it once more, Jorel couldn’t help but be interested in the weapon. It was sheathed, but it was long, the blade maybe a little shorter than his lightsaber’s, and the width of the blade maybe a little more than the diameter of his own saber. It was curved slightly, and had a small, circular cross guard, something that, more than anything else, caught Jorel’s attention. Lightsaber’s didn’t have such things, of course, and he wondered how it would affect the techniques one could use.

“My eyes are up here,” she stated crossly, and he glanced upwards as they walked.

“Did they move?” he asked with a grin. “Because I’m pretty sure they’ve always been there. Sorry, just looking at your weapon. Aren’t Sergeants officers? I thought they were, so why are you only getting a sword now?”

She ignored him for a long moment, answering as they entered the mess hall, “Only Captains get them.” She didn’t say anything else, and while Sergeant Major Gars looked at it and gave her an approving nod, he didn’t comment on it at all. As they sat down, she had to adjust it several times before it sat comfortably on her hip, finally twisting the sheath so it laid across her legs.

He ate, watching her, before finally asking, “You’re upset. Why?” At her sharp look, he pre-empted her comment, “Still suck at Force Empathy. You’ve watched my training, you know that. What’s up?”

“Nothings ‘up’,” she stated coolly, but he stared at her, waiting. She tried to eat, glancing up from her food several times to see him waiting, before finally putting her fork down and answering, with a quiet vehemence, “I’m not a Captain.”

He thought about that, continuing to eat himself as he turned that statement over. “So, you don’t think you should have it?” From her response, he was spot on.

“It’s not right,” she pronounced, hands tightening on her utensils. “Just because I. . . I didn’t ask. . .” she struggled to put her displeasure into words. As usual, she’d chosen a table away from other people, so there wasn’t anyone around to hear their whispered conversation. “I haven’t. . . there’s an order to these things!” she finally exclaimed in low but strong tones.

He nodded without comment, considering her words, and what he’d learned about the woman before him. “So, what’s the order for attachés?” At her sharp look, he explained, “Well, with how often Er’izma-”

“Commander Er’izma,” she corrected.

“With how often Er’izma takes Padawans,” he repeated, using her annoyance at his lack of protocol to distract her from her own issues, “there should be some kind of way of doing things.”

“If there is,” she stated immediately, with cold anger, “I wasn’t told. Nor could I find it.”

While he wasn’t the best with Empathy, that was true, he could still do it a little now, and took a drink, centering himself, trying to still his own presence in the Force. The crew were abustle with emotion, louder than the Temple ever was in the Force, their emotions spilling everywhere, but he could isolate Sergeant Hisku. She didn’t have the strong sense of self a Jedi did, but it was stronger than a normal person’s. He could sense her anger, ill-repressed like it was, but below that, faint to his senses, were the barest hints of confusion and. . . betrayal, rippling through the Force around her, though the presence of the ship itself seemed to smooth it all out a little.

“So, where to next?” he asked, and as she announced that they were going to be looking over the ion cannons, again, and he groaned in dismay, her emotions stabilized a little in gratitude and a wee bit of sadistic glee.

>​

That day, as Jorel tried to finely manipulate a long durasteel rod with telekinesis, he asked his Master something that had been bugging him for a while. “Master, why haven’t we gotten to Delle yet? It’s as far away from Anaxes as Coruscant is, and that took us a few hours.”

“Don’t stop,” Er’izma instructed, as he considered the question, watching the floating piece of metal pensively. “You said you were a pilot, young Padawan. Tell me, what do you know about astrogation?”

He shrugged, trying to spin the bar. He could do so on two axis, but then moving it while it was spinning was something he was struggling with, made harder by the fact that his Master insisted he sit with his hands folded while he did so. “Ask an Astromech, don’t go off the Hyperlanes without a good reason, and the lower a hyperdrive rating a ship has, the faster you go, for some reason.”

“And what rating do you think this ship is?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Two? Maybe two and a half?”

“Try five.”

Dropping the bar with a loud clatter, he looked at his Master in disbelief. “Why? Yeah the ship’s big, but that means it’ll take us forever to go anywhere! I know they’re expensive, but with how much you spend on everything else, couldn’t you afford a better one?”

Er’izma didn’t say a word, just looking meaningfully at the bar. Once it was in the air, spinning again, he answered. “I wasn’t aware that you were in such a hurry. It is not a matter of affording, Padawan Jorel, but of law. Tell me, what do you know of the Ruusan Reformation?”

Not sure about what something a thousand years ago had to do with hyperdrive law, he tried to recall what he’d learned. It’d been covered, once, during the history lessons he’d had as an Initiate, a minor footnote in history. “Happened at the end of the New Sith Wars. Made it so Jedi couldn’t lead militaries. Since the Sith were all dead, we didn’t need to.” He gave the training bay in what was very obviously a warship a significant glance, “Or, at least, that’s what I thought it was.”

“It was more than that,” his Master stated solemnly, ignoring the padawan’s implied accusation. “It led to the demilitarization of the entire Republic, a complete abolishment of its military, and much more. While small planetary defense forces were allowed, to deal with pirates and such, the Republic decided it had no more need for war.”

Slowing the bar, he used it to point to his Master, then Sergeant Hisku, then the officer that had walked in with Er’izma. “No military?” he asked dryly.

“Ah, but we are a Judiciary Legion. It says so in the Senatorial declaration that bequeathed it to me,” the Knight smiled.

“Judiciary Legion?” Jorel echoed, only for Er’izma to nod. “How are you supposed to use a Judiciary Legion?”

“Judiciously,” the older man replied, without missing a beat. “But, among the other restrictions in the Reformations, was one based on the Hyperdrives any armed ship over a certain size. There are exceptions which we, sadly, do not qualify for. What’s worse is that, the less travelled the Hyperdrive Route, the longer it takes, as the slower one must go so as to avoid possible rogue objects that could generate enough of a gravity shadow to damage a ship in Hyperspace. From one end of the Galaxy to the other, it would take us four months, though that would be going through the Core, so it would likely take us longer than a mere hundred and forty days.”

“Then, when are we going to get where we’re going?” Jorel asked.

“The day after tomorrow,” his Master shrugged. “Is that all?” The Padawan’s eyes darted towards Sergeant Hisku, the Knight following his gaze and understanding in an instant what had taken him several minutes of questioning. “I see. I believe that’s enough practice for now. Sergeant Hisku’biatha’pusi, if you’d care to join us?”

She glanced at the other officer, who nodded to her, before quickly marching over. “Commander?” the blue-skinned woman asked, obviously ill at ease.

Turning to her as Jorel stood, the Knight gestured to her weapon. “From your record, you passed your combat training with high marks. If you’ll draw your blade, please take a guard position.”

She hesitated before doing so, the weapon, now unsheathed, was shown to be made of a whitish metal. Squaring her feet, she took what was immediately recognizable to the Padawan as the opening stance of Form I, Shii-Cho, the Determination Form of Lightsaber combat. “Master?” he asked in turn, not knowing what was going on.

“Did you know, that before we adopted these weapons,” the Jedi stated conversationally, taking out his own shoto blade, “the ancient Jedi used metal swords? It shows in some of our forms, Makashi being one of the notable exceptions. We swing as if our weapons have edges, turn as if they have weight, and move as if it doesn’t take more than a glancing blow to cut through anything. Practically anything.”

Showing the Padawan that his saber was set to full intensity, the Knight lightly tapped the metal sword, creating a small shower of sparks that sprayed harmlessly, though the Sergeant still flinched slightly. Instead of cutting through the metal however, there wasn’t so much as a single bit of scoring on the flawless looking metal blade. “Master?” Jorel repeated, trying to think of what this was. “Mandalorian Iron?” It was known that the armor of those soldiers, who sometimes hunted Jedi, could take hits from a Lightsaber, but the material was beyond rare and the secret of its creation held tightly by-

“Oh, no,” the older man laughed. “Nothing so extravagant. No, there are a small number of materials that can stand up to a lightsaber’s blade. Sergeant Hisku’biatha’pusi’s blade is made from a phrik alloy. Our blades could still cut through it, with enough force and time, but it would take several dozen fights before it would be ruined by our weapons. On a training setting,” he turned down the weapons intensity, lightly pressing it against the woman’s tightly held blade, creating only a sizzling and a couple sparks. Once he pulled it back, her sword still looked pristine, “It might as well be a saber itself. And this alloy’s weight is not an issue for the forms as well. Sergeant, if you’d hand the Padawan your sword?”

Jorel took it, and it was lighter than it looked. It still had more weight to it than his lightsaber, and the balance seemed off, but he mentally ran through his own preferred Form. Looking it over, he saw that both the forward and backwards edges were sharpened, and the curve wasn’t as pronounced as he’d first thought. While not optimal, he could likely still use most of the moves of Djem So with this blade. Handing it back to her, she took it, returning to her guard position, keeping her face impassive but obviously as lost as he was. “I suppose so, Master. That is fascinating, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

At his obvious confusion, the Knight smiled widely, deactivating and holstering his small saber. “Have you ever heard the truism, ‘to teach is to learn twice?’”

He had in fact heard such a thing. Repeatedly. Usually when a Master, or Anaïs, and some part of him wondered how she was doing, bullied him into helping instruct a group of younglings. It was even true, to a point, having to explain a thing making him consider it from new angles and helping him to understand. . . “No.”

Erizma’s eyes twinkled, in a way that must’ve been some kind of Force trick. “I think you’ll find, Padawan, that you do not have a choice in the matter. But I am a kind Master. You have the basics of understanding reports down, so you only will need to do so for an hour after our training each day. After your dive into the endless task of paperwork is done, you shall spend two helping to guide young Hisku’biatha’pusi, just as I am guiding you. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“But,” Jorel sputtered, trying to find an argument that would work. Teaching younglings with a Master, and Anaïs, looking over his shoulder was one thing. This was something entirely different! “But I’ve only just become a Padawan myself!”

The Knight nodded, “And she is as proficient as an Initiate who hasn’t yet passed their trials. I know you assisted them.”

“She isn’t a Jedi!” he tried, and he winced at both the indignation he could feel from her, and the cool judgement he received from his smug Master, but he wasn’t wrong!

“I am not asking you to make her one, Padawan,” Er’izma noted, expression neutral. “But all living things have a connection to the Force. Will she reach the heights you will someday stand upon? Likely not. But does that mean she is to be ignored because of that?”

Jorel grit his teeth, hating it when people put words in his mouth. He could double-talk as good as anyone, but if he said, ‘I disagree’ and meant ‘I think you’re a kriffing idiot’ he made it clear. “I didn’t say that, Knight Er’izma. I was trained as a Jedi, Master, in case you forgot. I don’t know how to train someone who isn’t a Jedi, because I’ve spent almost my entire life surrounded by nothing but Jedi, and I don’t want to do something wrong, or be unfair to her because of it.”

The older man just smiled again. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Now, all we need is the, oh, here it is, come in trooper!” A younger looking man, maybe Jorel’s age, walked through the doors carrying a sheathed sword that seemed to be the same as the one Sergeant Hisku was holding, still in the guard position. However, the handle was an almost fluorescent orange. Taking the blade, he waved the young man off, unsheathing the weapon. This one seemed to be made of steel, though the edges were rounded off.

“Training with live steel is an accident waiting to happen, so if you are to spar, you are to use this,” Er’izma instructed. “It’s toughened to the point that training settings shouldn’t damage it too badly. But, for practicing Forms individually or anything else where you are not to be at risk of striking each other, you are to use your real sword. Is that understood Sergeant Hisku’biatha’pusi?” She nodded, and he smiled at them. “Wonderful. I’m sure this will take a little time, so you can forgo going through reports today. Never say I am not an understanding Master. You two have fun, and try not to do anything that brings either of you to the Medbay!”

With that he left, the two of them watching as he left without a look backwards, the Captain he’d walked in with following and closing the door behind him.

An awkward silence stretched between the two of them, broken when she finally asked, “Not a Jedi?”

He flicked a few fingers at her, putting a fifth of the force he normally put into his blasting push, only to be surprised as she stumbled back several steps, arms windmilling as she recovered her balance and glared at him, announcing, “I have a sword, you know.”

Sighing, he rolled his eyes. “You say that like it means something. Grab your sparring blade, I guess I should see how good you are. I figured you were combat trained, but lightsaber forms?”

“It’s not like they said what it was,” she grumbled, sheathing her blade and walking to where Er’izma had placed her training weapon. “Just that it was a sword fighting form, one of a half dozen, and they all had odd names like Atari and-”

“Djem So?” he asked, getting a look and a nod from her. “And you were trained sword fighting because. . . ?”

“It’s quiet, there’s no friendly fire, blades don’t need to be reloaded, and sometimes some idiot has shields that’ll block blasters, but not swords,” she listed off. “Are you saying most soldiers aren’t?”

That. . . was a good question. “Druk, I don’t know,” he sighed. “Where else have you served?”

Now she was looking at him as if he was being thick, an eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

“You’re Republic Military,” he said. “Sorry, ‘Judiciary.’” He corrected with air-quotes to fully express how silly the distinction was. “So, you’re a Sergeant, which means you’ve been doing this for a bit. Where did you serve before this ship?”

She paused, and for the first time since he met her, she seemed. . . awkward? Not just unsure, but with a tinge of worry, as if there was something else there she didn’t want to talk about. “Are you going to teach me, or not?” she asked instead. It was an obvious deflection, but he went with it. This day was weird enough, and he could always question his Master about it later. The man was infuriating in how he’d answer any question, but half the time the answers, while true, didn’t help.

“What’s your favored Form?” he asked instead, only to get a blank look. “If you had to pick one to specialize in, which one would you pick?”

“The defensive one?” she asked more than said. “Sorjetsu?”

“Soresu,” he corrected, and she nodded. “My best friend, only friend, really, preferred that one.” Once more the silence stretched between them. “Which means I know a bit about it, if just from sparring with her,” he explained, getting a nod of understanding. “Come on. Give me your best shot, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“No Force powers,” she stated warily, as she approached him, training blade at the ready.

He just grinned at her, “You think I’ll need them?”

>​

By the end of their four hours of sparring and training, he’d found that, while good for an Initiate, even Anaïs was a better fighter. Sergeant Hisku had pushed herself, hard, and while she hadn’t hit him, he’d seen worse. However, strained and drained as she was, they were about to leave for the medbay when Jorel received a message on his personal datapad from his Master, reminding him that as long as the cuts weren’t more than a few centimeters deep, and the bones weren’t fully broken, he could handle this himself, and get extra practice with Force Healing in the process.

While he was fine, Sergeant Hisku needed some help, and it was only by having her read the message herself that she let him heal her. It took a bit to get in the right mindset, his own guilt at pushing her a bit harder than he’d meant to, of all things, getting in his way. However, it was only a matter of time before his hands started to glow a subdued yellow, golden threads stretching down to her, sinking into sore muscles, bruised tissues, and strained ligaments, undoing the damage done by overzealous training. It wasn’t a reversal of the damage, but it accelerated the healing, the gains in strength and flexibility still occurring. Anything worse than a light cut would’ve been beyond Jorel’s very limited capabilities, but this he could help with.

Her cheeks had darkened in embarrassment at needing to be healed. He’d shared in that feeling himself. He, as her instructor, should’ve called an end to it earlier, but she’d started to pick up on some of her problems, mainly trying to attack with Form I while not transitioning her stance out of Form III, though she’d started to adapt the motions slightly, to do so in a half-way manner. He was sure the Temple Battlemaster would be abhorred to see the two of them changing the ‘pure’ Forms as they were, but Master Drallig would probably be having a fit at Jorel’s teaching a non-Jedi forms to use with a metal sword of all things, so it didn’t really matter.

The next day they’d gone back to business as usual, though there was still a level of awkwardness between them. After an hour of paperwork, they’d returned to training and sparring, where both of them were careful not to overdo it, Even them, both of them a little sweaty, him from constantly demonstrating moves and shifting around her as she trained, and her from his putting her through her paces, but he had to admit she wasn’t that bad. Her sword, while odd and unbalanced for him, seemed to work very well for her. Getting used to training someone whose blade had weight, however light, was making things harder, but Sergeant Hisku refused to back down, and her complaints were never directed towards him.

At least, the one’s he’d heard muttered under her breath hadn’t been.

The day after that, though, they were barely done with breakfast when both their commlinks chimed, summoning them to the bridge for the first time. It was massive, with a highly vaulted ceiling, two pairs of slanted support beams coming down from either side to form a raised corridor down the middle. Rows upon rows of consoles were set in the lower side sections, along with a raised dais at the end, where Er’izma stood, along with the Togrutan he’d seen when the first arrived. Wracking his brain, he remembered her name just as they walked up to the pair.

“Master, Major Zara,” he nodded, getting a raised eyebrow from the woman and a slight smile from the Knight. He wanted to ask why they were called, but he didn’t know how to say it in a way that might not be taken as ‘out of line’ by the stiffly standing Officer. She seemed even more formal than Sergeant Hisku was.

His Master, likely sensing his distress, answered the question anyway. “We’re about to arrive at Delle, which means we’ll have left the Core and now are into the Colonies, thank the Force. We’ll stop to resupply and attend to some business here. As my apprentice, you and Sergeant Hisku shall come with me to observe, to learn, and to see the real-world ramifications of all those reports I’ve been making you read.”

He turned and looked out the enormous windows at the front, gazing into hyperspace for a single moment before that shifting tunnel dissipated and the stars streaked back to static points of light, a blue and orange sphere seeming to pop into existence below them.

“We’re being hailed,” a man at terminal to their right announced. “Transmitting codes, we’ve been cleared to approach, Sir.”

A woman on their left added, “Scans coming up clean. Looks safe, Commander.

“Good,” Er’izma nodded. “If you’d be so kind as to call our supplier, Captain Torrel.”

The four of them stood, waiting until the holographic bust of an older woman appeared on the projector in front of them. “Knight Er’izma!” she smiled, but there was something a bit strained about it. “So good to see you!”

“And you as well, Lady Evensdawn,” he greeted in return, head tilting forward slightly in the barest hint of a bow. “There are many reasons why I chose you as my supplier, among the others on Delle. I assume our supplies are ready for pickup?”

The woman’s expression, which had started to warm, tightened again. “About that. I have most of it,” she quickly added, “but the shipment of Bacta from Shelkonwa, as well as some parts, were. . . lost. Pirates, you see. I can still get them for you,” she reassured him, “but not for another two weeks, half a month at most!”

“Pirates?” the Jedi asked, starting to grin. Unlike his normal variations of that expression, which always seemed to be on his face in some manner, though, Jorel could feel a certain edge to it. “And if we were to recover the other supplies the bandits have taken, would you be amenable to purchasing them, at standard cost?”

The woman winced, but nodded, “That would be appropriate. I can send you the surviving ship’s reports, but they’ll have likely fled from where they intercepted the convoy.”

“We’ll worry about that, my dear,” he said, physically waving away her concerns. “We’ll pay you for the supplies you have managed to secure, of course, and should return before the month is out, ready to settle our new contract. As always, my Lady, it’s been a pleasure.”

The smile Lady Evensdawn gave him, while seemingly tired, did seem genuine. “Likewise, Master Jedi.”

The connection was cut, and Er’izma turned. His presence in the Force, diffuse and so weak as to barely be noticeable, seemed to surge into being, a phalanx of soldiers ready for battle. The presence throughout the ship felt like it rose in kind, all of the bridge crew sitting straighter, as if they could feel what Jorel was feeling in the Force.

“Major Zara,” the Jedi ordered, all hint of genial serenity gone, replaced with calm, confident command, “Let’s get those supplies, then make ready for departure. It appears that some have believed that, merely because they are not in the Core, and off of major hyperspace routes, they can do as they please. We shall correct them. Inform the crew,” he smiled, and it was a sharp thing, full of teeth.

“We’re hunting pirates.”