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| - The Jedi Temple rose high in the most auspicious of Coruscant’s districts, and its towers even further into the sky of the great capital city. In this, it seemed to float above the buzzing, hazy maelstrom of activity that characterized the rest of the grand planet. While a trillion lives glittered, spun, and moved with the rapid-fire pulse of the heart of the galaxy, the Temple stood still, staid, and reflective. Z’meer considered the image carefully, and determined the Temple, and perhaps the Jedi Order itself, served as an anchor for the ship of the Republic, awash in the galaxy’s stormy seas. She found the simile most appropriate, and resolved to keep it in mind for the future. It was a heartening sign, finding something worthy of safekeeping in this particular moment. The Jedi Knight sat cross-legged, floating several centimeters above the floor, in the southeast tower of the Temple. Her eyes were open, but she did not see visually. Instead, she looked only into the Force, searching inward, stretching toward her own truth. August presences surrounded her, pillars of strength and devotion to the Force. They numbered twelve; great Jedi all, the full strength of the High Council. For a long while Z’meer sat, contemplating, meditating, a demonstration of calm, collective patience and understanding. She knew the import of this meeting, and would wait however long might be necessary until the Council had made its determination. If she failed that simple task, and gave in to ambition, she was resolved to refuse regardless of the decision rendered. It was the only just choice to make. Words were spoken, level and plain, the tenor of everyday conversation, but each carried great weight. Twelve beings must come to a decision, and for approval to be granted it must be done unanimously and without coercion. Z’meer could not argue her case one way or another, it was unnecessary; she presented it simply by her very being. The truth lay in the Force; it was up to the Council to interpret it. The Jedi did not hear the words; her awareness was elsewhere, for it would be a gross breach of decorum to listen in on these deliberations. To isolate oneself from that which was immediately proximate, while retaining essential awareness, that too was a test, and one that mattered now. And yet, Z’meer felt at ease with it all, under no pressure whatsoever. She had scarce imagined that would be the case, whenever she thought of this day in the past, but now it all seemed unimportant. Her life would shift to a new stage, or not, but she would be happy either way. When conversation ceased, it did so suddenly, and Z’meer knew immediately that a decision had been made. She blinked once, and her vision returned from its far-away place to the normal everyday colors and brightness of the tower. Mace Windu stood in front of her, with the other council members in a wide ring on all sides. All had left their seats, even the serpentine Master Rancisis and the diminutive Grand Master Yoda. They were clearly united, and it was Windu, as the Master of the Order, who presided. That stern, strong face, always exuding readiness, was well known to Z’meer. She was only a few years younger than the Master of the Order. They had been initiates at the same time. Yet, though the features were instantly recognizable, she did not know the man behind them well. Mace Windu was a man of boundless talent and immense strength of will; his career had rapidly surpassed those of his peers, accomplishing more in a few short decades than Z’meer might hope to achieve in a lifetime. Once, she might have felt vaguely envious of this, or at least wondered how anyone so young could rise so high, so quickly. No longer; she had come to understand that leaps in insight were irregular, and unpredictable in all walks of life, but especially in the Force. This applied to her own case before any others; a year ago she had believed this moment lay decades hence, and now, she was certain it was time. “Z’meer Bothu,” Mace Windu began, his voice holding that seemingly effortless depth and power that fit his current position so effectively in the public eye. “It has been determined that you have obtained skill and knowledge in the Force, and strength and resolution in everyday life such that you must be considered a Jedi Master. By the authority of the High Council, that rank is now bestowed upon you. Rise, Master Bothu.” They did not clap, it was completely unnecessary; Z’meer could feel the pride and goodwill all around her in the Force. She was a Master! It was seemingly impossible to believe and utterly inevitable all at once. She bowed her head gently. “I am honored; and I shall prove worthy of this distinction through word and deed.” As simple as that, it was done, the ceremony was complete, and nothing further formal was required. “It seems we are adjourned,” Windu noted, allowing himself a slight smile. The council began to disperse moments later. Z’meer discovered she was at something of a loss as to her next step, and chose to remain in place for a time. This proved worthwhile, for she wound up exchanging greetings with several of the council members she knew personally, including Eeth Koth and Yarael Poof. Eventually she found herself walking from the chamber in the company of the esteemed Master Yoda. “Most welcome an elevation, this is,” the Grand Master began, and it was clear he had not chosen to escort the Order’s newest master by chance. “Approaches, a time of crisis does; new voices must we have.” “I shall do all I can to preserve peace in the galaxy, Master,” Z’meer resolved, as she always had. “I hope to return to the field very soon, there is much to do.” “And new skills you gained, yes,” Yoda nodded, tapping along with his cane. “Master Fay, well she is?” “As vibrant as ever,” Z’meer agreed, recalling the legendary woman whose company she had left only a few months past. “Though she too is worried that recent developments sow the seeds of great peril.” “Much there is to do, of course,” Yoda admitted, sounding old for perhaps the first time in the new master’s experience. “Searching for a proper course, the Republic is; ready we must be, when the time comes.” “And we must preserve the peace until a decision can be reached,” Z’meer argued, letting slip a bit of her belief. She knew the growing woes of the Republic, but surely the proper course of reform could be found, would be found. It would simply be difficult, any democracy as vast and discordant as the Republic could not move swiftly until poised upon the very brink of crisis. They would not seek the correct path out of the storm until the seas threatened to swamp them under. The Jedi must anchor them long enough for that moment to come. “We must, agreed, but stretched thin we have become, so fast has the Republic grown.” That was one truth, but perhaps only half of it. Z’meer did not voice the second part, that perhaps the Jedi had become too strict, that they accepted too few students and failed too many of these, so their numbers would not grow. She did not truly believe this, the Jedi Code was immensely challenging and required great sacrifice, those chosen to devote themselves to it must be selected with great care, but she could not silence the voice of outsiders, especially those Sector Rangers she had long served beside, who pled constantly for more Jedi. “Does the Council have duties for me?” Z’meer wondered. Traditionally masters had a great deal of leeway in such matters; trusted to follow the Force as it revealed its needs to each individual, but perhaps there was some symbolic task that she, as the newest master, might undertake for the betterment of the Order’s standing. “To your discretion the Council trusts,” Yoda answered, merrily and without strain, but unexpectedly he added more. “Wonder I do, considered teaching have you?” “I…I,” Z’meer paused, though she kept walking, and her gaze glanced up to the light of the setting sun through the high windows. It calmed her surprise, and helped to order her thoughts. “I had, yes,” she told Yoda. “I know I have not taken a Padawan before, but I decided that, should the Council advance me today, I would look for a student.” She stopped, both in speech and motion. “But Master Yoda, I have been often in the field, especially of late, and I am unfamiliar with the current crop of initiates. As matters stand, I expect I will return to the Rim soon, and there will be little chance.” “Eight days from now, the Apprentice Tournament is,” Yoda smirked wryly. “Will you not stay to see if there is one who impresses you?” It was a cunning ploy, one that had completely slipped by Z’meer’s sense of the Grand Master in the Force; a telling reminder in how much more she still had to learn. She was chagrined, but also glad. The Council had clearly planned this from the beginning, and she had no reason to refuse. “Of course Master Yoda, it would be my pleasure.” & & & Z’meer stood atop the balcony of the dueling arena, one of several hundred Jedi in the stands observing. She had taken advantage of her freshly conferred Master’s rank truly today, using it to secure a coveted front row seat with an excellent view. Other Masters had done the same, and it was a very prestigious group indeed that the newly promoted Jedi found herself among. To her left was Master Tra’s M’ins, a Jedi Consular well known for his diplomacy that Z’meer had met on several occasions but did not know particularly well. On her right, in a position all were fully aware was not coincidence, was the Kel Dor Master Plo Koon, of the High Council. Heroic and learned, Master Plo commanded great respect, and Z’meer was aware that he had been among those who advocated her new rank. Not that she would speak of such things, of course. Below, two Initiates, their heads wrapped with opaque hoods to render them blind, fought back and forth across the ring. A Human and Devaronian, both male, they were of only passing interest to Z’meer. Her insight had not directed her to look for boys; she was quite certain her first padawan would be a female. So she stretched her gaze broader, instead. The other advanced initiates were gathered around the base of the ring, watching diligently. It was these that caught the master’s gaze, as her focus circled the edge again and again. Only thirty-two participants had been chosen to compete today, those their instructors felt would best display their talents through a demonstration of combat ability. The matches were enlightening to watch, but had little utility for her search. Though Z’meer had experienced life or death battle many times in her life, and expected to many more, lightsaber combat was not her favored sphere, and she did not intend to take as a Padawan a would-be Jedi Guardian. Yet the others she saw had not stood out as yet. They observed with care, and most displayed good focus, but only so much could be seen by watching a watcher. “Something troubles you Master Bothu?” Plo Koon mused from her side, the elevated skeptical wisdom for which he was known strongly in evidence. “They are too few,” the words filled her with sadness. “And perhaps only half will become Jedi Knights some day. Has the Council considered a drive to increase recruitment?” “It has, yes,” Plo’s own voice evidenced sadness. “We have all been encouraged to search for potential recruits,” Master M’ins interjected was unexpected, Z’meer had not even known he was listening. “But as the situation in the Rim has degraded, the Order’s reputation has suffered, and families have become somewhat…hesitant, in offering children to our care.” “The Trade Federation has also become a difficulty,” Plo Koon noted, a sentiment that Z’meer had experienced first hand in regard to many matters. “According to many of their agreements, immigration and emigration are heavily restricted, making it impossible for younglings to join us here.” This was news to Z’meer, and clearly to Master M’ins as well. “An outrage!” the older Jedi snapped. “Yes, but one clearly within their legal rights,” the Jedi had long been deferential to cultures that were unwilling to allow infants separation from their parents, or various other traditions. Z’meer knew that while sometimes an agreement could be reached, as it had with the Mirialans, all too often the Order simply ceased to be represented by those people. “The Council is working with the Senate to draft an exemption,” Plo Koon continued. “But progress has been slow.” “I shall make a point to watch Trade Federation activities more closely,” Z’meer announced quietly. “Master Fay was worried that some of their corporate allies had become overly aggressive as well.” This led to a somber silence among the three Masters. Plo Koon would break it a moment later. “Ooh, now there was a well chosen counter.” He remarked as the Devaronian upended his opponent after being pressed back, leading to a ground win. “Ah, the enthusiasm of youth,” Master M’ins chuckled, and the trio returned their attentions to the contest. The battles ran long, as usual, for the instructors made a point to orchestrate the pairings among closely matched opponents, with the intent to allow each initiate to display his skills to the fullest. Z’meer watched the entire tournament, patiently and carefully, but saw no one she would chose as a Padawan. Indeed, she found the format rather lacking, these highly structured duels, one on one contests featuring only the limited lightsaber cadences known to the initiates, to be rather limiting. The method was well suited to developing lightsaber skill, a matter that was traditionally important, but seemed to lack relevance now. Only a handful of Jedi in the whole Order had experienced a life-or-death battle with a lightsaber wielding opponent. Exposure to other forms of attack would be a better match for the modern day. Z’meer said nothing of this, however. Traditions were important, and history would seem to indicate that the Dark Side might slumber for a time, but would always re-emerge as a threat. Having every initiate learn the ways was a thorough method to sustain the skill base. She simply wished it were a more illustrative one. “You have had no luck as such, Master Bothu?” Plo Koon queried carefully when the matches were done. “Not, yet, no,” Z’meer answered timidly. “There are many skilled students, but I have not seen one that inspires me. I await the inspiration of the Force.” “The first Padawan is the most difficult choice,” Master M’ins offered helpfully. “Experience is the best guide to one’s teaching abilities, and without experience, I think you are right to be cautious.” “Your reports often speak of wild firefights alongside Sector Rangers,” Plo Koon smiled beneath his breath mask. “Our final event may be more to your style.” “I do hope so,” Z’meer agreed. The event in question was considerably larger in scope than the arranged matches that preceded it, and required a change of venue. The observers walked ahead of the initiates from the limited spaces of the sparring arena to the much large central hall of the Temple Dojo, which had been cleared out earlier for this specific purpose. Z’meer took the time to chat with Master M’ins, who had a vast array of knowledge regarding Rim regions she was personally unfamiliar with. Though diplomacy had never been her particular focus, he knew much she found very useful. The masters and knights assembled in a wide ring, hundreds strung out to form the boundary of the combat about to take place. At one end the temple instructors formed up, opening a gap through which each initiate would pass. These numbered over sixty, fully twice those chosen for individual battles. After passing through each youth, armed with nothing but a training lightsaber, was instructed to a specific spot on the floor by training remote. The starting points, like the battle to come, were random, and some students would have many of their fellows close by, while others were in relative isolation. “Our grand melee appears rather humble seeming, as usual,” Plo Koon joked. “Yes, and no,” Z’meer countered. The Kel Dor Master was certainly correct in that a large group of younglings wearing plain robes standing about did not have the visual impact of, say, a Hutt gladiatorial arena, but the intensity of focus and feeling in the Force more than compensated. The signal to start was similar, for it was not auditory, but came as a shout of energy in the Force from the lead instructor. Those initiates lacking sufficient attunement betrayed this in their stumble from the first step. Then chaos enveloped the arena. Acting on varied impulses the students picked out opponents and charged, leading to a bevy of individual combats as small groups formed, dissolved, and were broken. It was not completely without governance, these were potential Jedi, not Sith, and betrayal was not countenanced, but affiliation could shift rapidly, and a victory of two against one might immediately resolve into the same facing each other. Eyes could not follow it all, this shifting action that moved at something resembling the pace of true combat, and Z’meer did not initially try, instead reaching out with her feelings, searching for something that felt right. Her eyes focused far to her left, on a young woman there. Black-red haired, and with yellowed skin, she was locked saber-to-saber with an avian Mrlssi. The girl was not large, but she was significantly taller than her feathered foe, and sought to beat down his defense with a series of heavy, powerful two-hand blows. “Hmm…” there was something familiar about the presence of the girl in the Force, and Z’meer found the choice of assault intriguing. “A focused attack relying on strength, not her trained approach, but designed to exploit the weakness of her enemy.” “Caught your interest, has she?” As expected, Plo Koon’s gaze had followed that of the new Master. He was observing her, after all. “Possibly,” Z’meer was careful with her words. “She seems oddly familiar.” “She should,” Master Plo noted wryly. “You are the one who brought her to the temple.” That was a memory burned into the Jedi’s brain. “Shakvail,” she whispered. As they spoke the initiate Shakvail opposed lost the contest of the lock and attempted to step back for breathing space. The training saber darted inside his guard instead, and he yelped in pain as a nasty burn blossomed on his feathers. He fell to the ground at this wound, knowing the match had ended. His red and black haired foe turned away from this triumph, knowing other challenges approached. One came immediately, as a pair of initiates, male and female Humans, closed in rapidly. Z’meer watched as Shakvail considered escape with a single glance, but seeing no open avenue, advanced to meet the attack head on. Training lightsabers crossed in combat in a quick exchange before the fighters broke, circling about to make another attack. Even through the brief blow-and-counterblow dance, Z’meer saw that the pair over-matched the familiar face. Shakvail’s bladework was perfectly serviceable, given her stage of training, but the other two were highly skilled; both had fought in individual matches earlier. Shakvail appeared to know this as well, and her next series of moves attempted to split the two and dart away. This failed, and she was struck a glancing blow to the shoulder, leaving her robe smoldering and her position desperate. “A worthy attempt,” Z’meer noted, feeling a slight disappointment. “But not quick enough it seems.” “You think it over so soon?” Plo Koon asked skeptically. “Surely it must be,” Master M’ins supplied. Z’meer agreed, but felt it unnecessary to say anything. Shakvail paused, and she raised her blade directly in front of her, so the slender brilliance of the energy rested between those eerie teardrop eyes. Then she attacked. “Something has shifted,” Z’meer spoke with an indrawn breath, and she focused her senses on the young initiate. Sabers crossed, as the boy, a tall youth, met the blow first. Shakvail threw her body forward, and her left foot lanced out to stomp down on her opponent’s. Caught suddenly off-balance, the boy wrenched back, wide-open, and Shakvail’s training saber speared him in the gut hilt-first. He crumpled with a moan. The girl snapped in with a sweeping blow to avenge her ally, but Shakvail pushed forward, blocking close in and charging. Though the Human initiate was too quick to be overwhelmed, but was suddenly facing a series of sharp, irregular jabs aimed at her hands. It was not a proper set of Jedi moves, and was a truly random and non-standard attack, but the girl’s eyes went wide, and she let loose a wild defensive flurry in a state of near-panic. Shakvail’s training saber clipped her across both knees. “What’s this?” Master M’ins gave voice to a question Z’meer most thoroughly shared. “Breaker trance,” Plo Koon supplied. “According to Master Windu, it is something like the ability to sense shatterpoints, though it is an innate trait, not a skill of the Force.” “And not without a downside,” Z’meer noticed immediately. Shakvail moved instantly from her swift victory to charge another opponent, a Gran. She attacked oddly once again, launching a spinning slide the came in behind the stalk-eyed alien, cutting low in a blind spot, allowing her to pierce the defense raised. The Gran was defeated, but Shakvail was on the ground, and an opportunistic initiate leapt at her, beating down her guard with a rapid attack, and then finishing the fight with a sweep to the left side. Though the rules of the contest were clear, Z’meer watched the initiate try to get up again afterwards, her whole body shaking and her presence in the Force wavering strangely. Twin impulses, deeply opposed, warred there, and her energy drained rapidly as it fought itself. After a moment the issue was decided by default, as Shakvail no longer had the strength to fight left. “A dangerous talent,” Z’meer commented softly. “She tries to control it with the Force, but cannot do so fully. Am I correct in assuming it is a species trait?” “Yes,” Plo Koon’s reply was swift. “The archives indicate the Safol possessed this strange warrior’s trance naturally. Though its affects are unusual, such states are not unprecedented.” That was true enough, Z’meer knew. Many species in the galaxy had states of being where hormonal factors overrode reason; Wookiees, Gamorreans, and others. Such states normally increased physical capabilities, but an increase of perception, even through the Force, was surely not impossible. “I would like to meet with her, Master Plo,” Z’meer said, drawing a pleased expression from the Kel Dor. & & & Shakvail’s side ached. She meditated, sitting calmly in one of the Temple’s innumerable alcoves, and the pain was minimal, but it still ached. The wound was an open rebuke to her, to her limits, to the choice to unleash her breaker trance at all. So she meditated, wondering if that had been the right decision or not. Was it right? Part of her said no. The tournament was intended to show off abilities of initiates, of skill and knowledge and control of the Force, not natural power. The ability resting within her veins and nerves was no Jedi technique. But it was a part of her. The breaker trance was her Safol heritage, and it was the only thing, apart from the largely cosmetic aspects of her appearance, to truly separate her from Humans. To not use it would be to deny her flesh, her origins, and that was not required, or even wise. Jedi with great strength or size fought with lightclubs that better fit their hands, Jedi with multiple arms carried multiple sabers, and Jedi with hormonal power that supercharged flesh and bone were encouraged to develop the skill. Was she different? Other Jedi had peers, precedent, to call upon. It was never mentioned openly, but Shakvail was fully aware that she was the only Safol in the Order; worse, the only Safol in the galaxy, as far as anyone was aware. She was unique, her circumstance was unique, and her breaker trance was unique. The Jedi Order was not very fond of unique. There were a number of very good reasons for that, all beginning with the incredible power Jedi must be trusted to handle with superb judgment and the greatest care. An unproven, unknown factor required greater scrutiny. Shakvail knew all of this, had paid considerable attention to the detailed and careful explanations offered by Jedi as notable as the Master of the Order Mace Windu himself. She knew, and she accepted, for she wanted more than anything to be a good Jedi. She was also a twelve year old girl, and could never shake the feeling that this was somehow unbelievably unfair. “Shakvail!” one of the fosterers called from down the hall. “You have a visitor.” The Safol perked up, and she stood hurriedly, the pain in her side suddenly forgotten. She hoped terribly hard that it was some knight or master come to see her, come to make her a padawan. It had to happen, it must! She had to have impressed someone at the tournament, none of the Temple’s regular Jedi had expressed any interest, and she was running out of time. If the tournament hadn’t worked, she was staring at a future in the AgriCorps. She’d passed the Trials, so that would be utterly unfair. Then she heard the footsteps in the hall. They were soft, easy, and with a lightly measured cadence not rushed at all. Shakvail held her body tight, trying to look her best, and wishing she was taller, more mature. Then the Jedi appeared and she forgot all about it, shifting to studying this visitor with avid intensity. She was a Human woman, not young but not yet middle aged, in white and tan robes. Her outfit was unassuming, but her face was mysterious. Smooth and flat with gentle lines, it was oddly ornamented. There was a broad, bow-shaped ribbon mark in the center of her face, magenta shaded with the circle above the eyes and the tails extending down across her nose and out to the cheeks. Her lower lip had a small bar of the same color in the center. She wore large, ball-shaped earrings of the same shade. Her brown hair was ordinary enough, but it was pulled back into odd, winged pigtails, seeming to Shakvail as if a small bird had landed on the back of her head. The initiate had never seen a Human Jedi so adorned, it was strange. Somehow, this woman was oddly familiar, but Shakvail could not summon any image from memory. “So, you are Shakvail,” the voice was strong, stern, and focused, not what the initiate had expected from the woman’s gentle outer appearance. “I am.” “I am Master Z’meer Bothu,” the Jedi announced. That was a name Shakvail knew, both from a recent announcement, and from an older, more precious recollection that now bubbled to the surface. “I know you!” she burst, and then clamped a hand over her mouth, blushing in embarrassment. Z’meer smiled lightly. “I think we can pardon your outburst, this time,” She was gentle, but stern in that moment, every inch the Jedi Master. “And you are correct, but tell me, how is it that we know each other?” Shakvail’s stomach flipped at that question, and her body trembled. Long had she thought, wondered, fixated on that incident, and she had often thought of the Jedi whose name was mentioned atop the official report. What would she say? “You…you were the one who brought me to the Temple as a child.” She managed. “A safe answer,” Z’meer nodded slightly, her dark eyes boring down on Shakvail. The initiate could not hold up to that gaze, and her eyes darted wide, shifting to the apexes of her droplet orbs, staring far apart with the peripheral tunnel vision this provided, snapping the image asunder. “But not a complete one,” the Jedi continued. “Tell me Shakvail, the truth, all of it. Do you resent me? Hate me? Fear me? I see you have studied hard, and that your origins hold a great fascination for you, so you have surely formed an opinion. What is it?” “You…saved me,” Shakvail managed, still looking away without turning her head. That was true, it was! But it was not all of it. “And…you…you orphaned me.” “Ah,” that was all, a single syllable nothing more, and the strange reply wrenched the initiate’s attention back to the Jedi. She turned to see the beginning of tears in her eyes. Z’meer’s hand descended to her shoulder, the right one, the uninjured side, and by gesture brought her to sit. The Jedi followed gracefully. Shakvail sat, looking at this woman, and wondering, truly confused. Z’meer was silent for a time, leaving the initiate to tremble nervously, all her hopes and dreams and fears warring in her. Why was this woman here, now? She’d never come before, not once. Shakvail knew that absolutely, she’d asked the fosterers many times. “Saved you and orphaned you,” Z’meer spoke at last, her sternness absent. “How succinct and accurate, you may have a way with words young one.” She looked straight at Shakvail, measuring her up and down. “But in a way, all Jedi are orphans. We leave our families behind before we are old enough to form memories. The Order is our family. I wanted you to have that family.” It was hard to be rational, to be fair, when talking about this. Shakvail could barely control her emotions, had to draw on the Force, to take al the strength she could there, even more than in battle, to hold together. “That’s one kind of family,” she could not keep from snapping. “But there’s another, and that’s one the Jedi can’t replace.” “All species are equal among the Jedi, all origins,” Z’meer responded. “Your situation is unusual, surely, but in the Force, we can feel our similarities, can transcend the barriers of species. I cannot think of you as orphaned that way.” “You’re Human, there’s quadrillions of you in the galaxy, how could you understand?” “My master was not Human, but I remain closer to her than any other,” Z’meer’s sternness, a governess for a petulant child, returned. “We are all Jedi first, is that not enough?” Shakvail had heard this before, too many times, and it wasn’t easy to handle, not when she wanted to be a Jedi, wanted it so bad it made her shake. It was the only viable path, but this one thing she could not accept. “Jedi first not Jedi only!” she shouted, unable to hold back, not facing Z’meer, not with all those memories, all that loss, directly in front of her. “I’m cut off, the only one! By myself, and there’s nothing to fill it. Be a Jedi, they say, don’t worry about being Safol, they say, it’s not important, the Force transcends your roots.” “Doesn’t it?” The Breaker Trance brought a sense of weakness, and words too could be a form of battle. The Force spoke into her body then, and gave her a weapon she had not expected. As she was, she could not hold back from using it. She screamed. “Then why do you have those marks on your face?” Z’meer’s mouth opened wide, stopped, and then silently closed. The Jedi master drew in an audible breath. “These marks indicate my survival, free of plague, to adulthood. They are from Turial, my homeworld.” She took another breath. “It seems there is something to your point, Shakvail.” It was as if the sky had opened up before her, that admission, small and limited though it was, validated so many years of longing and searching. The Jedi was far from finished, however. “Accepting that it is a terrible tragedy to lose one’s origins, what exactly do you intend to do about it?” She paused, amending the remark. “I have never forgotten that day; it was a failure I will never leave behind entirely. I searched had to find everything I could on those pirates, and all the places they had plundered. A crack team of analysts from the Sector Rangers was also involved, but there were no successes.” “I know,” Shakvail had read everything the archives contained on the incident at least three times, but had found no clues as to where she was truly from, where any Safol might survive in the galaxy. “I accept that, but I’m going to keep looking, even when I become a Jedi Knight, I won’t ever stop. I have to; I feel it in the Force.” At this Z’meer said nothing. “I’ve studied, read in the archives, all about Safols, and near-Humans, and the New Sith Wars, and colonial history in the Republic, anything I could find. I’m meant to find the answer to my own species, to our extinction, I know it.” Shakvail had felt certain of that since moments after she truly felt the Force for the first time. It had held steady throughout her young life. There was nothing she knew better in the universe. “And to do that I have to become a Jedi.” “Jedi serve the Force, the galaxy, and its people,” Z’meer spoke carefully, and Shakvail could sense the import of her words. “Perhaps seeking the answer to this question will do that, and perhaps not. Perhaps you will find yourself called to other duties, and never find the time to seek out this answer. Are you prepared?” It was not the question the initiate expected. She had not truthfully expected a question at all, but instead a dismissal of her attachment to her origins. “I am.” She spoke firmly, and declined to say anything more. Let the words stand as her commitment itself. The Jedi Master looked at her for a long time, and now Shakvail stared back, unflinching. She was ready, she knew it. This was her calling, and this woman, who had pulled her from a cargo container ten years ago, had to know that better than anyone. “Yes, you are,” Z’meer said at last, rising to her feet. “Stand, padawan.” Shakvail practically jumped into the air.
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