Star Wars, page 9
Rooper raised her hand and the shield pivoted, flipping over in the air. Another gesture sent it wide, whipping around the outer edge of the cavern and flying in fast between the rampaging beast and the scattering party of intruders.
It struck the salmaca squarely on the tip of its beak as it reared up again, causing it to wheel its front legs and thud back to the ground, momentarily disoriented. The shield clattered to the ground.
“Get out of here!” called Rooper. “Before I let it eat you alive.”
The four figures turned on their heels and ran.
The salmaca gave a low, threatening growl and turned slowly to peer at Rooper.
Remaining still, she extinguished her lightsaber, throwing the cavern into abject darkness. She could hear the creature’s heavy breathing, smell its warm, putrid breath as it took a thudding step toward her.
She closed her eyes.
Calming thoughts.
Calming thoughts.
She could feel the salmaca’s seething anger, its animal desire to defend itself. And she understood. Yet the threat was gone. Rooper wanted it to know that she meant it no harm. That she was, if not a friend, exactly, then an ally. That she was the one who had defended it from harm.
She heard the salmaca snort and shake its head. It pawed at the ground for a moment, creating a clamor of grating metal. And then it turned and thudded back up to its perch on the top of the mound, slumped heavily back onto its belly, and closed its eyes.
Rooper finally exhaled.
Then, carefully negotiating a path through the darkness, she made her way out of the cavern, stopping only to collect the fallen shield.
Outside, she found Jerlyn sitting on the ground, crowded by the two droids. He looked up at her with a mix of gratitude and confusion. “What happened in there? Did you kill it? The others came out running and cursing like I’ve never seen.”
“Where are they now?” said Rooper.
“Heading back to the village, I guess,” Jerlyn said with a shrug. He gave her a shy look. “Thanks. For bringing Dee-Twelve back. And for whatever you did in there.”
Rooper smiled. “I just did what Jedi always do,” she said. “Protected everyone. Including the salmaca.”
“You what?” said Jerlyn. “But that means it’ll come back. I thought you were going to help us.”
“I have. And I will. You see, there’s something about the salmaca you need to understand,” said Rooper. She put her hand on his shoulder as she led him back down the track toward the village. “I need you to do something for me, Jerlyn. . . .”
Silandra was still in the meditation chamber, sitting on the mat with her legs crossed and her eyes closed, when Rooper finally returned to the temple. She leapt up as Rooper entered the room, abandoning all sense of poise and calm. “Rooper?” Her voice sounded anxious.
“I’m here, Master. Tired and disheveled, but here.” Rooper crossed the room and gently placed the shield at Silandra’s feet.
She thought she saw a glimmer of relief in Silandra’s expression. “So you are.”
It was over. Rooper’s relief was mixed up in a soup of satisfaction and exhaustion. She didn’t know what came next. Only time would tell.
“You found it,” said Silandra.
“I did. You didn’t make it easy on me, though. I’ll give you that.”
Silandra laughed, and it was such a happy sound that Rooper’s heart soared. “I told you it was a worthy challenge.”
“I’ll say. Leaving it out as a lure for a supposedly mythical beast was a pretty bold move.”
“But you rose to it admirably,” said Silandra. “What happened?”
“At first, I thought I needed to protect the villagers from the salmaca. But then I realized the salmaca was already protecting the villagers from the gant spiders. They just didn’t know it. And so I saved them from each other.”
“And?”
“And I told the villagers that the salmaca isn’t quite as discerning a hoarder as they thought. They’re going to leave scrap and junk out by the tree in the plaza each night so it doesn’t need to go rooting around in people’s houses for its nightly fix. When one of the village’s young men, Jerlyn, explained about the gant spiders, they soon agreed.”
“A perfect solution,” said Silandra.
Rooper swallowed. Her nerves were jangling. “Then I proved to you that I’m ready to be a Knight?”
Silandra looked her in the eye. “This was never about you proving to me that you were ready, Rooper. I already knew that. I’ve known for some time. This was about proving it to yourself.”
“All right then,” said Rooper, recalling how she’d felt talking to Jerlyn after she’d returned his droid and saved the salmaca a few hours earlier. Like she was ready for anything. Like she knew exactly what she had to do. “Let’s do this.”
Silandra laughed. “First you need a shower. And some rest. Then tomorrow we can talk to the Council.”
Rooper nodded. She sniffed her robes. “I suppose I do reek of salmaca droppings.”
Silandra screwed up her face in distaste. “You do, rather.” She beckoned to P3-7A. “Come on, Peethree. Time we were going.” She started for the door.
“Master, your shield,” said Rooper. She could hardly believe that after all she’d been through to recover it, Silandra was about to leave it there, unattended, on the meditation chamber floor.
Silandra paused, turning back. She glanced at the shield, then met Rooper’s gaze. “Keep it,” she said.
Rooper felt suddenly unsteady on her feet. “You mean for tonight? To clean it?”
“No, Rooper. I mean keep it. The shield is yours. You earned it.”
“But. . .but . . .” stammered Rooper. “It’s your shield. It means so much to you. You’ve always told me it was a symbol. A way of life.”
“And it still is. Now it’s your turn to carry it and embody all that it stands for,” said Silandra.
“Why?”
“Because one day, if you carry it long enough, if you uphold those values, you’ll come to realize like I have that you are the real shield and you don’t need to carry it any longer to remind yourself of that.”
Rooper felt tears pricking her eyes. “Are you sure?”
Silandra nodded. “I’m sure. My master gave the shield to me the day I passed my trials, and his did the same before that. It’s a tradition I’d like to honor.” She stepped forward and squeezed Rooper’s shoulder affectionately. “It’ll look good on you.” She gave Rooper one last, warm-hearted look and then turned and walked out of the meditation room. P3-7A glided quietly after her.
Rooper allowed herself a small smile, which she couldn’t prevent from turning into a beaming grin. She stooped and picked up the shield. She held it before her, running her fingertips over the familiar crest, the dents and scrapes that marred the edges of the otherwise perfect circle. She brimmed not with pride but with calm understanding—with purpose. “I promise to make you proud, Master,” she called after Silandra.
Silandra’s voice echoed quietly down the hallway. “You already have.”
Something gnawed at Ram Jomaram.
Even though he was standing in his favorite place on Starlight Beacon—the Mid-Tower Exquisite View Room (it surely had a real name, but no one seemed to know what it was, and when Ram called it that, everybody knew exactly what place he was talking about, so it stuck)—and beside one of his favorite people, Zeen Mrala, the sense of something icky eating him up from inside persisted.
The whole galaxy shimmered just outside those wraparound viewports, so it felt like you were floating amid stars and usually that gave Ram a sense of peace. But not today.
And really, there were so many candidates for what could be the cause of the gnawing. The Nihil bombing of the Takodana Jedi temple had been only a few days earlier, Ram reminded himself. The bang was so loud, so sudden, it seemed to still be echoing through him, and almost instantly the sun had been blocked out, the world had become a brutal cascade of rock, wood, dust, and screaming. For a few minutes, he’d thought he might be dead. Either dead or about to be. And then, bit by bit, the blue sky had returned and the sun was still shining and Ram and the others had gotten out of it with mostly cuts and bruises, thank the Force.
But Ram had emerged from the rubble feeling oddly okay. It was an eerie kind of calm—almost an emptiness—but it was probably better than being scared all the time. Still, even if he hadn’t felt it too much then, the terror might finally be catching up to him.
Or maybe the icky feeling was because he was away from his home planet, Valo, for the first time ever and had no idea when he’d be back. And much as he loved the new friends he’d made, the camaraderie he’d found on Starlight Beacon, there was still a small part of him that longed for the familiar jumble of his little garage in Lonisa City, his master Kunpar’s serene wisdom and gentle sense of humor, the chatter of the street outside. He even missed the younglings, even though he barely knew them because he was always so busy in his workshop, and certainly couldn’t remember their names.
Ram glanced over at Zeen, and the answer he’d been looking for hit him all at once, so suddenly he almost gasped. It wasn’t any of those things that was gnawing at him. It wasn’t even him that was being gnawed. It was her. Anyone who took the time to look could tell that the normally calm, collected, badass Mikkian girl was struggling. First of all, her head tendrils were all sad and droopy. And her normally warm pink pallor looked faded, sallow somehow. Zeen was always cheering everybody else up. Sometimes, in the most backward form of Zeen magic, she’d even do it by making fun of them—a concept totally outside of Ram’s understanding. But it worked! She never seemed ruffled by danger or the imminent possibility of death, just walked straight into it, blasters blazing. But now she was the one going through. . .something. . .and it was something so bad that Ram could feel it, too.
He opened his mouth to say something comforting and then closed it because he realized he had no idea what that would be. I hope you’re okay wasn’t right, because she clearly wasn’t. Feel better soon just sounded goofy. I think you’re amazing was true, and might make her smile, but almost definitely had nothing to do with why she was sad. Ram allowed his imagination to tumble down a wholly ridiculous thought line—never mind the Nihil, Zeen’s strange cult upbringing, her best friend, Krix, turning out to be a terrible person—all of that was secondary to whether or not Random Padawan Ram Jomaram thought she was amazing. He let out a sudden guffaw at the notion and Zeen blinked at him.
“Are you okay?” she asked, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. At this point, Ram was leaned over, the wildly inappropriate laughter having doubled up on itself and taken him right over the edge. None of this was how it was supposed to go.
“I. . .ah,” Ram gasped, finally getting a hold of himself. “Sorry, I. . .Aha. . .hoo boy!” At least Zeen was giggling, too, now. So there was that. But otherwise, Ram had managed to completely ruin his friendly check-in before word one had even been spoken. “I’m okay! I was just . . .” He took a breath. “Let me try this again.” Just say what’s in your head, Ram, he told himself. Don’t try to make it too deep. “I was just wondering if you were okay because you look really sad.”
Zeen’s eyes got wide, and for a moment Ram felt his whole body clench. He’d messed up! He should’ve just kept it to himself and let her open up to him when and if she was ready. Then she put her head down on his shoulder and simply sobbed, and Ram let all that overthinking go. He imagined it floating out into the endless starscape around them as he gently placed one arm over her heaving shoulders. That was what people did in holodramas when someone was crying, and it felt right, especially when Zeen nuzzled closer as her sobs slowly died down, her head tendrils draping over Ram’s Jedi robes, tickling his neck.
“Everyone thinks I’m so tough,” Zeen whispered. “But I’m such a sap deep down.” She sat up and boggled her eyes at the soaking-wet spot on Ram’s shoulder. “Oh, stars! I’m so sorry!”
Ram waved her off. “Please. Robes stained with Mikkian tears are high fashion on Valo.”
She snorfled a laugh, then wiped her nose. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ram said, hoping his sarcasm wouldn’t come across as callous. “You seem great.”
Zeen chuckled again, and Ram exhaled. “No, but seriously,” she insisted, “I’m really okay. Sometimes you just have to cry, you know?”
Ram didn’t know, not really. But it did seem useful. Zeen did look much better. “Are you homesick?” he asked, because it was easier than admitting he didn’t understand what she was feeling.
Zeen pondered that one for a few seconds, like there were words trying to come out of her mouth but she wasn’t sure what they were yet. If anyone had cause to be homesick on Starlight, it was Zeen Mrala. The one planet she’d thought of as home, Trymant IV, had been nearly decimated in a torrent of flaming debris—one of the deadly Emergences following the Great Hyperspace Disaster. On top of that, the people she’d grown up with, including her childhood friend Krix, had disowned her because she was a Force user, and they didn’t think anyone should use the Force. (Weirdos, Ram thought. That’d be like telling people not to use oxygen.) Ram missed home; Zeen literally had no home.
“Something like that,” she finally said with a sniffle. “It’s hard to explain.” She squinted at him. “But seriously—are you okay, Ram?”
“What?” Ram gaped, leaning back and shimmying his shoulders incredulously to demonstrate just how okay he was. None of this was going right. “I’m absolutely fine!”
Zeen made a theatrical display of rubbing her eyes and blubbered, “I’m absolutely! Fine! I swear!” with a deep, Ram-like hiccuppy sob. He hadn’t even been crying! Why was she like this?
“That’s not even funny,” Ram said, but the giggles crept out anyway.
Zeen burst out laughing. “That’s not even funny!” she insisted between chuckles. “But seriously, Ram: I know what it’s like being on your own far away from everything you know while the whole galaxy seems to be catching fire around you.”
“Exactly!” Ram said. “You do! So it makes sense that you’re upset! Me? I’m just, you know. . .I’m good. For real!”
Zeen’s dagger stare made sure Ram knew she wasn’t buying it, not for a second, but then a jaunty baritone came over the comms: “Padawans of Starlight! This is Buckets of Blood in the main mess hall! We have freshly baked treats! Repeat: we have freshly baked treats! First come, first—whoa! Whoa! Slow down!” A noisy clamor overtook his booming voice—the sound of those delicious doughy delights being gobbled up by the first wave of attackers, no doubt. Ram couldn’t really be bothered to try to make it in time; everything that had just happened was spinning too many circles through his mind. But Zeen was already at the door.
She shot Ram one last stern glare. “To be continued, Padawan Jomaram. Don’t think you can just pretend everything’s okay when it’s not and get away with it! Not with Zeen the Interrogator!” She pointed two pink fingers at her eyes, directed them back at Ram, then dashed off.
All through the long night, their conversation marched an ongoing procession through Ram’s thoughts. He barely slept, then popped out of bed the next morning with a singular vision—a mission, really. His friend was upset; he had to do something. It was that simple. “Where are you rushing off to?” asked his droid, V-18, lumbering back to their quarters from a long night hanging out with his droid friends just as Ram was leaving.
“Gotta see some folks about a thing!” Ram yelled over his shoulder. There was no time to lose.
The golden, brightly lit corridors of Starlight Beacon bustled with activity. Robed Jedi strolled by, deep in their conversations, as various admin and tech personnel hurried back and forth. Beneath it all, the deep hum of the space station chugged along, keeping the light of the Republic shining for the far reaches of the galaxy. There is one way to cheer up a homesick person, Ram reasoned as he ducked around a big loadlifter droid and then dashed between two arguing Ithorians with a bright “Excuse me! Pardon me!” If they can’t go home—and Zeen most definitely cannot—then you have to bring home to them!
Ram rounded a corner into the mess hall and stopped short just as the air became thick with the smells of Dargen Boorho’s mild, mass-produced morning slop. Zeen sat where she always did, at one of the far tables, along with the Padawans who’d helped her escape her dying planet—Farzala, Qort, and Lula. They were all cracking up about something, as usual, their laughter so infectious and unrestrained that Ram found himself smiling, too, as he approached. “Ram!” Zeen yelped, still in a fit of giggles. “Welcome to the table of absolute chaos!”
Ram had to get Zeen out of there for his plan to work, but he had to be smooth about it. “Thank you! What’s happening over here?” That wasn’t smooth at all, but it was better than just asking Zeen to leave.
“Now that Qort’s taken off his skull helmet for good,” Lula said, trying to collect herself, “we’ve discovered he has a hidden talent we never knew about!”
“Oh?” Ram glanced at the short Aloxian Padawan. Qort had worn a ceremonial crab skull over his head for most of his life, but it had been shattered in the explosion on Takodana. Now his handsome royal-blue face and shy smile were out for all the world to see.
“Impressions of famous Jedi!” Farzala cackled. “Okay, okay, okay, wait, do Master Elzar!”
Qort’s round cheeks seemed to harden and grow chiseled as his brow furrowed with epic concern. He gazed at some far-off point, then, in a suddenly resonant and halting voice, said, “Listen, Padawans, the Force is the Force. Don’t worry about the rest.”
Ram marveled at the accuracy. Qort hadn’t spoken one word of Basic when he wore the helmet, and even now, the few Basic words he did speak were just a sprinkled seasoning over his mostly Aloxian phrases. But when he was performing someone else, his diction, accent, grammar—everything was perfect.
