Nemak entered the cantina as usual and looked around.
Everything was as it always was.
On a small stage in the corner, a brass quartet of Biths was playing.
Twi’leks were dancing around poles.
The room swam in a haze of not-always-harmless incense.
A multi-armed droid worked behind the bar.
The Jedi headed toward him.
Ordering himself a low-alcohol aperitif, Nemak looked around and listened to the Force.
The Force told him nothing definite.
But something like “if you stay, there’ll be trouble” came through.
Looking around once more, the Jedi Knight decided to stay and at least grab a bite.
Ordering a standard meal set, Nemak took a free table.
Next to him was a massive, and far from decorative, column.
Apparently, its purpose wasn’t just to hold up the ceiling.
Briefly touching it with the Force, the Knight just chuckled.
A long-empty hiding place, which apparently even the current cantina owner didn’t know about.
“Funny,” the young Jedi huffed, turning away.
He was much more drawn to the view of one of the dancers, and the ability to keep the entrance in his peripheral vision added a couple of points to the chosen table.
“Your order, sir,” a good-looking young waiter set down a tray of food.
“Thank you,” Nemak nodded, managing not to grimace.
“Anything else you’d like, sir?” the youth asked confidentially, leaning slightly toward the Jedi.
“No,” Nemak cut him off coldly, reflexively using the Force.
Watching the waiter scurry off to work and mentally lamenting the customs, the times, and the sheer impossibility of eating in peace, he began to eat.
The food was exotic — in the sense that he’d never tried anything like it before — but quite tasty.
A bit spicy, but that was accounted for.
The meal set came with a tart drink that perfectly offset the flavor and quenched the fire of the spices.
Alcoholic, of course.
The cantina owner was an experienced fellow — at least, he used this time-tested, simple trick liberally.
No sooner had Nemak finished his salad and drained the decanter of local brew, than the Force warned him of danger.
The sensations were rather vague and weak, but still distinctly recognizable.
It’s hard to forget that feeling that precedes getting hit by a discharge from a training droid-ball.
The Jedi didn’t have to look for the source of danger for long.
Four boisterous guys appeared in the doorway — red-faced, with the square builds of muscleheads.
The guests had clearly been drinking for hours and were now in the stage of looking for adventure.
Before Nemak could get a good look at the newcomers, they immediately singled him out from the crowd.
Naturally, when there’s a choice of who to fight, people who’ve lost the last shred of caution pick the most exotic opponent — or the most dangerous, depending on how you look at it.
One thug elbowed another and pointed meaningfully at the Jedi.
The group exchanged a couple of words that Nemak, of course, couldn’t hear.
And what difference would it have made, anyway?
None.
The four guffawed and sauntered over to his table.
“A Jedi, huh?” the leader of the thug gang grinned, plopping down unceremoniously on a free chair.
“At your service, gentlemen,” Nemak chuckled.
He wasn’t drunk, but he’d had enough to catch a certain buzz.
“You’re a bold one, I see,” the leader bared his teeth.
“Well, there’s nothing to fear,” the Jedi smiled sincerely.
“Boss, looks like he doesn’t respect us.
He wants to insult us,” said the smallest of the group.
“So you’re looking for a fight, you Jedi scum?” the baboon leader started his rather cliché self-aggrandizement.
“Oh, come now,” Nemak’s smile widened.
“On the contrary, I’m being perfectly polite and civil with you, gentlemen,” he added sarcastically.
“Get him, boys!” the leader commanded and tried to punch the Jedi in the face.
Naturally, an average thug, no matter how hard he tries, can’t match a trained fighter with the gift of foresight in strength and reaction speed.
Nemak easily dodged the blow.
He jumped up, knocking the table over onto the leader.
In the same motion, he dislocated the jaw of the thug standing next to him.
A straight kick turned the third attacker’s knee into a grasshopper-leg, but from there, everything went wrong.
The Force screamed bloody murder, forcing the Jedi to act on autopilot.
The lightsaber was in his hand of its own accord.
A circular motion.
A swing, and the cantina’s noise was drowned out by a scream of pain.
The smoke from the grills and incense was overpowered by the foul stench of seared flesh.
Shock.
“Nobody move!” Nemak heard as if through cotton.
“Sergeant, they attacked him first,” said a woman who’d emerged from the crowd of onlookers.
“We’ll check the recordings, sort it out.
Don’t worry.”
“You won’t see anything on them.
That one, the one without the arm,” the girl pointed at the unconscious man, “was behind the column.
I saw him pulling out a blaster.”
“Doesn’t look like he had time to use it,” the local law enforcement sergeant expressed reasonable skepticism.
“I sensed him,” Nemak finally managed to shake off the shock of what he’d done.
“One of your Jedi tricks?” the lawman snorted.
“Exactly.”
“Right.
So, miss, are you willing to confirm your testimony?”
“Of course,” she snorted.
“In that case, wait a bit — I’ll write up the report and review the camera footage.”
Actually, the sergeant didn’t doubt the Jedi or the witness’s words.
What’s more, he knew the injured parties all too well.
Not that they were frequent guests at his station, but they visited regularly.
In handcuffs.
“Well, sooner or later they were bound to run into someone,” the lawman shrugged mentally and thought the guys were lucky.
If a hardened mercenary had been in the Jedi’s place, there’d be four corpses here, not just a couple of cripples and one amputee.
After quickly reviewing the footage and verifying, for peace of mind, the truthfulness of the woman’s and the Jedi’s testimony, the sergeant drafted a standard report, attached copies of the video files, and went to the beings waiting for him.
“Here you go,” the policeman handed the datapad to the girl.
“Done,” she returned the signed report.
“Have you been a witness before, Miss Zol?” the sergeant inquired.
“I worked as a secretary on a mining planet for five years — certifying reports, examining bodies, giving testimony in court, even assisting in investigations…”
“I understand,” the sergeant cut her off and handed the datapad to the Jedi.
“Here you go,” Nemak returned the official device to the policeman.
“All the best,” the sergeant saluted and headed for the exit — he still had a lot of work to do.
“How about buying a girl a drink?
I did save you from a lot of trouble, after all.”
“Uh…
er…
yeah, sure.
What’ll you have?” Nemak found his footing.
“I’d prefer something to eat.
I’m a bit short on credits,” Zol shrugged.
“How come?” the Jedi blurted out without thinking.
“Uh…
sorry,” he immediately realized he’d been tactless.
“It’s fine, I get it — the new jumpsuit is misleading,” the girl laughed and turned so said jumpsuit would advantageously emphasize her assets.
“So, what can I order for you, my savior?” the Jedi said, barely managing to pull himself together through sheer force of will.
“I want meat,” Zola answered in a feignedly capricious voice.
“You’re just like my apprentice,” Nemak laughed, gradually overcoming his strange timidity and confusion.
“Ha, so are you really a Jedi?” the girl batted her eyelashes.
“Well, yeah — actually, the real deal,” Nemak shrugged.
“Cool!” Zola tossed her head.
“I thought you were just pretending.”
“And my saber didn’t tip you off?” Nemak asked in genuine surprise.
“Well, who knows where you got it, and besides, you swung it so fast I couldn’t even tell.
Maybe it’s just an ordinary plasma cutter?
You have no idea how many of those I’ve seen in my life.”
“A lot, apparently.”
“You can’t even imagine how many.
I’ve seen plenty of times what they do to bodies,” the girl sighed and turned away.
“You know how often gangs have their little disputes and constantly use plasma cutters as weapons?”
“No,” Nemak shook his head, finishing placing the order.
“And it’s good that you don’t,” Zola summed up, mostly her own thoughts and memories.
“Listen, where are you headed?” she changed the subject.
“What makes you think we’re headed anywhere at all?” Nemak asked, following some instinct, and grew wary.
“Well, it’s not like you’d have some important mission in this backwater, would you?” Zola shrugged.
“I’ve been stuck in this hole for three weeks, and I’ve already figured out that nothing ever happens here.
At least, nothing worth the attention of the Jedi Order.”
“Not much, mostly various stories, but I’m not stupid — I understand there aren’t many of you, and you don’t bother with trivial stuff.”
“What makes you say that?”
“If there were a lot of you, you’d be everywhere.
And there’d be far fewer stories about you, and certainly not ones this wild.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Nemak didn’t pursue the subject, especially since their order arrived just then.
The Jedi had the opportunity, and very quickly, to see for himself that the girl was indeed very hungry.
“Probably only Mirr can match her, after waving a sword around for ten hours,” the Jedi noted.
“Phew, thanks,” Zola pushed away the empty plates.
“You’re welcome.
It’s the least I could do for you.”
“Okay, if you don’t want to say where you’re headed, I won’t insist.
I understand — secrecy and all that — but could you, by any chance, drop me off at Homtom?”
“We can, but not right away.
We still need to stop by a few places along the way,” Nemak shrugged.
“Well, I’m not in any hurry anymore,” the girl’s face fell.
“I was late for the funeral anyway,” she muttered into her glass.
“I sympathize,” was all Nemak could say, clearly sensing his interlocutor’s pain.
To say I was very surprised would be an understatement.
After another round of cantinas, the teacher returned in the company of a lady.
He introduced the girl as Zol.
He told me she had helped him a lot, recounted an attack by some kind of kamikaze bandits, and delighted me with the news that the woman was flying with us.
No, in principle, I have nothing against the fairer half of humanity, but this was all a bit too cinematic.
Plus, the teacher reeked not only of alcohol but also of some suspicious smoking mixtures.
They were hardly harmless — at any rate, they made me sneeze like crazy.
After ten minutes of inhaling the aromas, I even got dizzy.
What can I say, I was forced to simply flee to my own cabin just to stop interacting with this pair.
Notably, no one tried to stop me.
“To hell with droids, first order of business is to worry about filters or master the appropriate technique!” I decided, and began searching.
I went through both disks and finally found what I needed.
True, it was more of a practice, something like self-control.
However, such trifles didn’t bother me at all.
In short, I spent the next day in meditation, trying to learn to regulate my sense of smell sensitivity.
The progress was so-so, but the main thing was — there was progress!
With the appearance of the fellow traveler, life became more fun.
The lady turned out to be a curious woman.
She simply couldn’t sit still in her cabin, so she roamed the ship.
Everything interested her, everything needed to be seen and touched.
One consolation — the teacher threw himself into training with doubled zeal.
No doubt he was showing off for the passenger.
Still, if she motivates him like that, I’m all for it and ready to put up with her.
Actually, I have a rather strange attitude toward her.
She seems like the sweetest creature, but for some reason the fur on the back of my neck tries to stand on end and I involuntarily want to bare my fangs.
And in the Force I sense her as completely ordinary — I don’t feel any danger or harm from her, but my predator instincts rebel.
Maybe I’m just jealous of the teacher?
After all, nowadays he pays much more attention to her.
Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know.
Something won’t let me accept such a simple explanation.
It got to the point where I tasked Pif with trying to learn anything about our guest.
He honestly rustled through the network but found nothing contradicting the version I knew.
He only added some minor details and various tidbits.
This very Zola had a couple of accounts on various social networks.
Not to say she was an active user, but still, she made posts more or less regularly.
So, if desired, one could trace her life path quite clearly.
Besides vague suspicions and feelings, there was another not very pleasing moment: as soon as we land on another planet, our fellow traveler latches onto the mentor’s tail and goes on a bender with him.
As a result, Sensei comes crawling back heavily drunk and also smells of suspicious “incense.” This is, of course, an excellent incentive to quickly learn to regulate the sharpness of my own sense of smell, but I’m starting to worry about the teacher’s health.
However, he has achieved some success in medical Force techniques.
Only, he applies them in the morning, when he should have done so in the evening.
That would reduce the harm to the body by many times.
It’s not even that the body suffers, but that a psychological dependence develops, which can’t be removed by any mighty “sorcery” so easily.
To deal with this crap, willpower is needed, and Nemak hasn’t shown any of that.
So far he’s just got a restless energy.
Well, let’s hope that over time it will grow and become a steel rod.