A simple pick-up

[Sorel Crieff]

“Hey, sweet-pea, what’re you hiding under that big ol’ robe?”

Sorel did not look up at the large, unshaven, rough-hewn, and somewhat fragrant man or his equally coarse and malodorous companions. She treated their knowing grins, the eager forward tilt of their bodies, and their leering eyes with equal indifference –though their collective body odour was somewhat harder to ignore – as were their emotions, so palpable were they, even to a non-Jedi. Patiently, she raised a spoonful of hot stew to her lips.

Sorel smiled to herself. A good student she had been, always mindful of her Master’s teachings. Observant and thoughtful, if occasionally impulsive. For now, she held her peace, kept eating, and said nothing. A judicious reaction, she hoped, one her Master would be proud of. The man who had voiced the impropriety whispered something to one of his friends.

There was a ripple of crude, unpleasant laughter. Leaning closer, he put a hand on her cloth-draped shoulder. “I asked you a question, darlin’. Now, are you gonna show us what’s under this lovely soft robe of yours, or d’you want us to take a peek ourselves?” An air of pheromone-charged expectation had now gripped his companions. Huddled over their food, a few of the establishment’s other diners turned to look, but not one moved to voice outrage at what was happening to the young woman or to interfere.

Spoon pausing before her lips, Sorel seemed to devote greater contemplation to its contents than to the insistent query. With a sigh, she finally downed the spoonful of stew and reached down with her free right hand. “I suppose if you really want to see…”

One of the men grinned broadly and nudged his hulking companion in the ribs. A couple of others crowded closer still, so that they were all but leaning over the table.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

Sorel pulled a portion of her outer robe aside, the metal environmental regulating bracelet that adorned her wrist glinting in the diffuse light of the tavern. Beneath the robe was a metal and leather belt. Attached to the belt were several small and unexpectedly sophisticated examples of precision engineering. Two of these were cylindrical, highly polished, and designed to fit comfortably in a closed hand. The aggressive spokesman for the group squinted at them, his expression slightly confused. Behind him, a couple of his previously hopeful cronies abandoned their leering expressions faster than a smuggler’s ship making an emergency jump to hyperspace.

“Kark it! That’s a Jedi lightsaber!” Expressions falling like hard rain, the band of would-be aggressors began to back off, split up, and drift hurriedly away. Unexpectedly deserted, their erstwhile leader was unwilling to admit defeat so quickly. He stared at the gleaming metal cylinders.

“Not a chance, no. ‘Jedi’ lightsabers, are they? Two of ‘em? Nah!” He glared belligerently at the suddenly enigmatic objects of his attention. “I suppose that would make you a ‘Jedi Knight,’ sweet-pea? A lovely, lithe Jedi at that!” He snorted derisively. “Do I look an idiot?”

The ensuing silence was deafening.

“Sure no Jedi carry two lightsabers, do they? Do they?” he growled insistently but with a hint of a question in the tone now when she failed to respond. Finishing another spoonful of her meal, Sorel carefully set the utensil down on her nearly empty plate, delicately patted her lips with the supplied linen napkin, wiped her hands, and turned to face him. Brown eyes peered upward out of her delicately-featured face, and she smiled coldly.

“You know how to find out,” she informed him softly. The big man started to say something, hesitated, and then reconsidered. The young woman’s hands rested, palm downward, on her thighs. The lightsabers – they certainly looked like Jedi lightsabers, he found himself thinking apprehensively – remained attached to her belt.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

Sorel sat quietly, as though nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. Abruptly, the gruff intruder became aware of several things simultaneously. First, he was now completely alone. His formerly enthusiastic companions had slipped away, one by one. Second, by this time the woman seated before him was supposed to be anxious and afraid. Instead, she only looked bored and resigned. Third, he suddenly remembered that he had important business elsewhere. “Uh, sorry,” he found himself mumbling. “Didn’t mean to bother you. Case of mistaken identity. Was looking for someone else.” Turning, he hurried away from the table and toward the tavern’s entrance, nearly tripping over a scraps bowl on the floor next to the door. Several of the other patrons watched him go. Others eyed the woman fixedly before finding reason to return to their own food and conversation. Exhaling softly, Sorel turned back to the remnants of her meal. Making a face, she pushed the bowl and what remained of the stew away from her. The boorish intrusion had spoiled her appetite.

She wondered how her old and new Masters would have appreciated her handling of the situation. ‘No noise, no fuss.’ As she was growing older she was occasionally having to deal with an excess of testosterone. Often on minor worlds. But she’d given them a story to tell, as well as a lesson. She rose and paid for the meal and exited the establishment. Whispers, mutterings, and not a few awed words of admiration trailed in her wake. It was easy to find them wanting and she often had to remind herself she was a Jedi, and not a typical citizen. She was the best placed to deal with the problem after all. But if she weren’t, who would have protected the 16-year old girl that was about to be accosted?

‘Anyone can handle a weapon. Reason is much more difficult to wield.’ She’d lost count of the times she’d been told that when she was tempted to settle an argument with a lightsaber. She was learning.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

As she walked, she eyed a stall dripping with jewellery: necklaces and earrings, rings and diadems, bracelets and hand-sculpted flash corneas. Such conventional personal ornamentation was traditionally forbidden to a Jedi. As one of her teachers had once explained to her and her fellow Padawans, “A Jedi’s glow comes from within, not from the artificial augmentation of baubles and beads.” Still, that necklace was just gorgeous. If she could buy it and get her Master to augment it with some Force power? A barrier for example? She smiled inwardly and carried on walking.

She turned another corner, looking to fill the time before the shipment she’d been asked to collect was ready. She’d already been delayed a whole day and hoped the medical supplies would be ready this time.

Stopping sharply, she threw out her senses. Her eyes flicked rapidly from side to side and she was suddenly no longer introspective. Her every nerve was alert, every sense on edge. Before she could question the reason for her reaction, the Force had informed her to have her lightsaber out, activated, and fully extended before her. Without moving her head, she raised it to a challenge – the two hilts clipped together in a seamless movement to create a saber staff. She still saw nothing – which was when the Gamorrean plunged from above – to spit itself neatly on her upraised lightsaber. There was a brief stink of burning flesh as the Jedi extracted the beam, and the startled Gamorrean, its now useless killing axe locked in a powerful but lifeless grip, keeled over onto its side. The heavy body made a dull thump as it struck the ground.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

The attackers swarmed down from rooftops and out of second-story windows, came bursting through doorways and up out of otherwise empty crates; it was as if they oozed out the surroundings. Someone, Sorel mused grimly as she retreated, had gone to considerable trouble and expense to arrange this ambush. In the midst of genuine concern, she had to admire the plotter’s thoroughness. Who ever it was clearly knew they were dealing with more than a young female tourist out for an afternoon’s sight-seeing. There are typically only two ways for non-Jedi to defeat Jedi in battle: lull them into a false sense of security, or overwhelm them with sheer force of numbers. Subtlety obviously being a notion foreign to her present assailants, a diverse rabble of bloodthirsty but untrained individuals, their employer had opted for the latter approach. In the crowded, active streets, the large number of attackers had gone undetected by Sorel, their hostile feelings submerged among those of the crowd. Now that the attack had begun, the Force throbbed with an enmity that was out in the open as a dozen well-armed hired assassins fought to get close enough to their rapidly withdrawing target to deliver a fatal blow. While the narrowness of the street and the aimless fleeing of panicked bystanders eliminated a clear line of retreat and kept the Jedi from sprinting to safety, it also prevented those of her attackers who were wielding firearms from setting up a clear shot at their intended target. Had they been tacticians, those in front who were swinging blades and other less advanced devices would have stepped aside to give their more heavily armed comrades room in which to take aim. But it was likely a reward had been promised to the one who made the actual kill. While this served to inspire the foolish rabble, it also made them reluctant to cooperate with one another in achieving their ultimate objective, lest it be a colleague who claimed the substantial bonus.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

So it was that Sorel was able to deflect bursts from blasters as well as blows struck by less technical weaponry such as long swords and knives. With high walls shielding her on either side and merchants and vendors continuing to run for cover, she had room in which to work. Bodies began to pile up in front of her, some intact, others missing significant portions of their anatomy, these having been neatly excised by whirling shafts of intensely coloured energy – Sorel working steady, silently and above all ferociously. She not only kept her attackers at bay, but began to force them back. There is something in the hushed, frighteningly efficient aspect of a fighting Jedi that takes the heart out of an ordinary opponent. A would-be murderer has only to see a few blaster shots deflected by the anticipatory hum of a lightsaber to realize that there might be other less potentially lethal ways to make a living. Then, just when the Jedi was on the verge of pushing the remaining attackers around a corner and back out into an open square where they could be more effectively scattered, a roar of anticipation rose above the fray as another dozen assassins arrived. This melange of humans and aliens was better dressed, better armed, and tended to fight more as a unit than those who had preceded them.

A tiring Sorel realized suddenly that the previous hard fighting had never been intended to kill her, but only to wear her out. Steeling herself, she once more found herself retreating back down the narrow street she had nearly succeeded in escaping. Drawing new courage from the arrival of fresh reinforcements, her surviving assailants redoubled their own attack. The Padawan was forced steadily backwards. Then there was no more backwards. The side street dead-ended against a featureless courtyard wall. To anyone else it would have appeared unscalable. But a Jedi could find hand-and footholds where others would see only a smooth surface.

Dropping to his knees, a man clad in tough leathers took careful aim with a blaster. Sorel blocked both his shots before taking one hand briefly off the lightsaber to gesture in his direction. Like a living thing, the dangerous weapon flew out of his hands, startling him so badly he fell backward onto his backside. Protected by his fellow assassins, he did not panic like a common killer but instead scrambled to recover the blaster.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

Lunging, she disarmed a Rodian who was trying to slip in under her guard. Letting out a yelp of pain, he stepped back and switched the hooked blade it was holding to his hand. Knowing she couldn’t climb and use her weapon, too – she wondered how she was going to make the ascent without being cut down from behind. But her first concern was scaling the wall.

She shut down her lightsabers, slipped them back onto her belt, pivoted, took a few steps, and leapt. The jump carried her partway up the wall, to which she clung like a spider. Finding seemingly invisible fingerholds, she began to ascend. She was almost at the top when she felt it – a shot managed to graze her ribs. But she ignored the pain and scrambled over the top of the wall and dropped down into an empty courtyard that she ran across and blended into the crowd beyond.

Just then thunder boomed overhead, and for some reason she could not quite put a finger on she was afraid it signified the approach of more than just rain.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

Sorel made haste to the hangar – but wisely chose an indirect route. Anyone who was capable of employing that many would be assassins would not doubt have bought intelligence too. So she occasionally doubled back, checking she wasn’t followed before making her way to the roof of the spaceport where the medicine was to be loaded into her ship. Entering through a skylight, she glanced at her vessel and saw that crates were indeed being loaded.

Momentarily distracted, she jumped when a female Twi’lek port official tapped her on the shoulder. “Is all in order Master Jedi?”

Sorel smiled. “Not a Master, just a Padawan – and yes, everything is well. Once the crates are all on board I’ll be on my way.”

The Twi’lek smiled and thrust a sprayer forward, catching Sorel with a full burst right in the face. Her training kicked in and she held her breath – thankful to her Master for teaching her the ability. But she’d already inhaled the substance and even the bracelet on her wrist was unable to filter out its effects. Her eyes flickered but did not roll back, and she started to reach for the lightsaber slung at her waist.
Startled and beginning to panic, the Tw’lek squirted her again, and then a third time, before she finally went down. In a testament to her training, she’d absorbed enough vapour to put out a whole squad of troopers.

The Twi’lek dividied her attention between the entrance and the now unconscious Padawan, as she struggled to stuff the human female into an empty cargo container she had brought with her. Once she’d stowed her, she headed to the back-entrance – the dirty service alley was deserted and she made slow progress to the shielded and secure apartment she’d been allocated, limping as she transported the container .

All she had to do was hold on to her captive, keep her alive and well, and await further instructions.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

Sorel awoke and sat up, still in the crate she’d been transported in, although the lid was open. She struggled to her feet. Her ankles were strapped together and her hands secured behind her back. A quick glance downward, then up at her captor, found her focusing on the Twi’lek’s smile.

“Looking for this?” From a bag slung at her waist, the green-skinned Twi'lek removed the Jedi’s service belt. It contained all of her personal gear, including her comlink and lightsabers. “Jedi lightsabers. Always wanted to try one.”

“You obviously know who I am, what I represent. Are you aware that even as we speak other Jedi will come looking for me, and that they will not be happy when they find out what has happened?”

The Twi’lek laughed. “Let them look. They won’t find you here.” She indicated the high smooth walls that enclosed them. “This a safe place, and in any case you won’t stay here long.” Remembering, she flicked the switch on her call-in. “Already, others have being notified. They will come here, take you off my hands. Give me the reward Then I will be a little rich, and done with you as well.”

Choosing not to dispute the words, Sorel spoke again. “What do you, or whoever you work for, want with me?”

The Twi’lek looked disinterested. “Not my business,” she finally replied. “Catching you was my job. Questions – well they’re not my job.” She sat on a bench opposite the shackled Jedi. “I will just watch you carefully.”

Sorel stared around. without her lightsaber, she would not be going very far, and her limited mastery of the Force was not sufficient to offer her many choices to escape. She may have to do this without the help of the Force. Only the time factor troubled her. Would there be enough of it before she was transferred from this place and handed over to whomever had arranged for her abduction? Of one thing she was certain: whoever it was would likely to be both more ruthless and more competent than her comparatively simple captor. As time passed, she waited for her guard to grow tired, or to leave. She did neither. Nor was Sorel able, try as she might, to influence her mind.

She was upset with herself at falling for the trick to capture her, and she did her best to repress the growing irritation. Anger was another kind of distraction, one she could not presently afford. “Maybe you could look for a bonus out of this. The deal was to hand me over, right? The Jedi lightsabers would be valuable, no? You could even just keep one, nobody would expect me to have two.”

She made very effort to sound as helpless and resigned as possible.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

The Twi’lek frowned. “You’re just trying to fool me. No Jedi tricks here.” She stood and loomed over the Jedi’s now seated form. The proximity allowed Sorel to sense something from the Twi’lek.

“No tricks, but I do see something else about you that I am sure of.”

The Twi’lek’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What? Careful Padawan. I’m not afraid of you and captured alive gives a lot of scope.”

“I can see that. What I also see, and can sense in ways you cannot imagine, is that you are in pain – and probably have been so for a long time.”

The Twi’lek’s eyes flickered. “How–how do you know that?”

Sorel had sensed pain – both in her captor’s back that no doubt caused the limp she’d seen and also in her mind. A constant numbing sensation.

“In addition to the usual Jedi training, many of us have our own specialities. Areas of learning that we are especially drawn toward. Myself, I am a practicing healer.” It was not exactly true but she knew enough from her senses that there was something wrong and she needed to come up with a plan. “And I can’t fix your back, But the pain in your mind is akin to the pain nearly all warm-blood sentients experience. It arises from certain kinds of neural breakdowns and malfunctions. It’s as if someone was trying to wire a very complex computer and all the necessary materials and components were laid out before her, but she wasn’t quite sure how to link everything together. So she did a job that was a little too hasty. Do you understand?”

The Twi’lek nodded slowly. “I’m not stupid. And that’s just how I feel, like I’m not wired right.” Tilting her head slightly to one side, she stared at Sorel. “You can fix it?”

“I can’t make any promises. But I can do my best.”

“No more pain? That would be a big thing. Bigger even, maybe, than the credits.”

Sorel could sense she was weakening.

Then the Twi’lek snapped “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I give you my word as a Padawan, as a Jedi, as one who has dedicated her life to their ideals.” She didn’t over-egg her argument but kept it simple.

Obviously torn, her captor took a deep breath, glanced circumspectly at the door, and then turned back to her. “You can try to fix me. But if you try trick, I–”

“I’ve given you my word,” Sorel interrupted her, forestalling the threat. “Besides, where could I go? The door is locked."

“I’m still not sure.” The Twi’lek rubbed her temples.

 

[Sorel Crieff]

Immediately, Sorel jumped on the opening offered. “Confusion comes from the pain you’ve been living with. Let me try to help you. Please. If I fail, it costs you nothing. Even if I succeed, you can still keep me in here. I’m trusting you too”

“OK,” the Twi’lek said.

Meeting her gaze evenly, she gestured toward her bound wrists. “You have to untie me. To do this kind of work, I need my hands.”

Her captor was instantly wary. “What for? Another Jedi trick?”

“No. Please trust me. There are vastly more important things at stake here than my life, or the size of your future credit account. Imagine a pain-free life.”

The Twi’lek reluctantly stepped behind Sorel and passed a desealer across her wrists. The opaque bond that restrained them promptly dissolved, breaking down into cellulose, catalyst, and water. Relieved to have her hands free, she rubbed firmly at her wrists. As the circulation began returning, she beckoned for the Twi’lek to approach.

“Come here,” she instructed her gently. She did so with head bowed, shuffling her feet like a child approaching its mother. Sorel was careful, she couldn’t afford a single false move. Extending both hands, palm downward, she tenderly cradled the sides of the Twi’lek’s skull. Her eyes closed, and she began to concentrate. A throbbing ran through her as her focus sharpened. An enduring, agonizing ache that through straining and training she made her own. She let herself flow outward toward it, surrounding it with the soothing balm that was her own harmonious inner self. Within the damaged, misfiring neurons that were the source of the Twi’lek’s ongoing hurt, the Force compelled a subtle realignment of tissues, an almost imperceptible but physiologically critical alteration. She stood holding her captor like that for several long, silent minutes: healer and patient locked together in that mysterious, inscrutable mutual melding comprehensible only to another conversant in the Jedi healing arts. She was no master of them but she knew enough – and the patient was willing. Not until all felt normal and natural and well did she finally allow herself to withdraw from the vulnerable state into which she had placed them both. Opening her eyes, she found herself staring back at her captor. But there was something different about the Twi’lek now: a faint but discernible change of posture, a glint instead of a dullness in her eyes.

“How do you feel?” she finally prompted when no words were forthcoming.

“Feel? I feel good. Very good.” Making fists of her hands, she raised them toward the roof. “Really exceptionally remarkably good!” And she performed a little dance, joyfully throwing her arms repeatedly into the air all the while, lifted her hopes in concert with her spirit. Then she stopped, lowered her hands, and said to Sorel in a notably different tone of voice than she had used before, “But you’re still my prisoner, Padawan.”

 

[Sorel Crieff]

When Sorel slumped, her captor grinned. “For about another minute.”

“You mean? ...”

The Twi’lek bent to pass the desealer across her ankle bonds. They dissolved promptly, allowing Sorel to stand easily. Her feet and legs felt numb from lack of use, and she would have fallen had her captor not caught her.

“My name is Sorel Crieff, the sooner I get to my ship and off your planet, the better it will be for me and, I suspect, for you. For surely your employer will not be pleased to learn of the unexpected turn you have done him. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time a Jedi escaped.” Feeling slightly naked without her service belt, she pointed to it and asked “Can I have it back?”

 

[Sorel Crieff]

She made her way back to her ship. Constantly alert, she made it to the cargo bay and checked the crates. All had been delivered and signed for. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief and then she had a thought. Opening the first crate, she saw it was empty. And the next. In fact all of them were. This was clearly no more than a simple case of theft. The reason she’d been assigned was that previous shipments had fallen into the hands of pirates. Clearly an inside job – where the pilots were on the payroll and no doubt there were never any pirates, just a ship to sell on the black-market. But having signed for the goods, the Coalition was honour bound to pay up – even if the goods were not delivered. But by using a Jedi in the employ of the Coalition, their ruse was likely to be found out – ending a profitable business no doubt. No wonder they wanted her dead.

So she walked to her cockpit and filed the report, and plotted a course back home, with the evidence in the cargo hold. She just had to watch out for pirates now!