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The soles of Corran’s boots squeak as he advances across the tile floor. The hologram opposite him retreats in kind. Then, in a flash, it lunges forward, forcing him to scramble away. He swings the lightsaber in the direction of an incoming strike. Misjudges it.
The holographic blade connects with his neck and flashes red. Dead.
“Reset the sim,” he wheezes, out of breath. Whistler — having already gotten bored of teasing him, never a good sign — complies without fuss.
Luke Skywalker had sent him a wealth of information on the Jedi Order of old. Most of the files were narratives and anecdotes that showed individual Jedi at their best. Proving that they were honorable and just, that they defended the innocent and fought the guilty. It was a blatant appeal to Corran’s outlook on his place in the galaxy: to the kind of person he was, as well as the kind of person he wanted to be.
It wasn’t all history, though. He’d also provided instructional materials. Corran had a lightsaber in his possession, and it was a smart idea for him to learn how to care for and use it. Skywalker gave him overviews of the forms he had managed to piece together. Main stances, overarching philosophies, practical applications. And holographic simulator programs for the various forms that were easily downloaded to an R2 unit.
The hologram dematerializes, then reappears an appropriate distance away from him. It salutes him stiffly — the form’s opening stance — and waits for Corran to do the same in turn. Then it launches forward.
Corran manages to parry its first strike. He lashes out with a riposte aimed (as much as he can) at its left arm. The hologram parries him, so he backs up, putting distance between them while he tries to figure out what to do next.
The idea was to start with blindfolds and remotes that fired low-energy bolts. And to his credit, Corran had started there. Beginning with the basics was a far better strategy for learning than was throwing himself into the deep end and expecting to succeed. Being able to sense incoming attacks with the Force rather than with his eyes and ears was crucial, as was doing so consciously instead of relying on gut feelings. And those were skills that other lessons could build on top of. But parrying — failing to parry, really — bolts from a remote got old quickly. And, he reasoned, a little variety couldn’t hurt.
It’s a challenge finding the time to practice at all. Thyferra’s been liberated, so the hard part is theoretically over, but most of his time has been swallowed up by the training exercises the Rogues are running through with the Thyferran Aerospace Defense Corps. When he’s not in his X-wing, he’s helping prep the next day’s lesson plans, or bar-hopping with the Rogues, or avoiding yet another not-quite-argument with Booster, or scrounging together a few minutes to spend with Mirax. Being a revolutionary doesn’t seem to come with time off for a honeymoon.
Today is a rare free day. The Rogues have been getting tired of long day after long day of teaching, and the Thyferrans need a break from learning, so Wedge has given everyone the day off. Most of the Rogues are out sightseeing, while Mirax has excused herself to spend time with Wedge. Corran, sweating in the early afternoon heat and poorly blocking an incoming strike, decides he’s a little envious of all of them.
The Jace family’s sprawling estate is full of little nooks and crannies — rooms with no clear purpose other than their own existence. He’d roamed the halls until he found an empty sunroom he judged large enough to practice in. Then he’d pushed furniture out of the way and propped its doors open to get some airflow. So far, there hasn’t been much of a breeze. Just suffocating humidity from the outdoors and warmth leaching in through the massive windows.
Whistler has pulled up the sim program for what Skywalker’s documents called Form Two. It’s designed for lightsaber duels, which has little application to the sorts of opponents Corran usually faces. But it’s simpler than the other forms. There’s no acrobatics, no spinning around, no using the off hand to add more power to one’s strikes. Just maintaining a precise stance while advancing and retreating along a single line. Focusing on accuracy in the basics rather than the execution of complex maneuvers.
And whether it’s with a remote or a simulator, he needs the practice with those basics. Badly. His escapades at the spaceport showed him exactly how little he knows — how far he is from the example Nejaa Halcyon set. While fighting a hologram he can see instead of a remote he can’t is a pleasant change of pace, he’s still losing more than he’s winning. Still trying to use raw strength to compensate for a lack of skill. Still not fighting well enough to not end up in a bacta tank. At least the bacta here is higher-quality than the stuff that gets shipped elsewhere.
The hologram sweeps its blade under his guard. Slashes through his torso. Flashes red.
“Reset,” he gasps. His muscles burn. Without thinking, one hand comes up to his chest and finds the shape of the Jedi credit under his thin shirt. He calls up the memory of the mental exercises Skywalker asked him to do and tries to center himself.
The exertion almost reminds him of running laps when he was training for CorSec. His father had been a CorSec officer, as had his grandfather — or one of them, anyway. He’d been dead set on following in their footsteps, and spent more time at the gym than strictly necessary to ensure he passed the physical portion of his entrance exam. At a certain point, lulled by the pounding of his pulse and the thud of his feet hitting the ground, he’d stop feeling tired and start enjoying himself.
He advances before the hologram can and takes some form of control over the start of the bout. Parries a strike and ripostes. Speeds up his attacks. Slows his breathing.
He’s the air in his lungs. The sweat on his brow and neck and chest. The muscles in his arm, tensing as they move. The slide of his boots on the floor. The chain digging into the back of his neck, and the medallion weighing it down. The silver blade he’s wielding. The warmth and wetness and life that permeate everything on the planet. The person at the door —
He fumbles his strike. Comes up short. The hologram takes advantage of the opening and cuts through his waist. Dead again. Well, there’s always next time, he thinks, chagrined. Then he turns to face the half-open door.
In strides Bror Jace. He’s dressed for the weather and the day off, wearing shorts with a loose and mostly-unbuttoned shirt. There’s nothing sloppy about his appearance, but he’s a little less put together than he ever was when he was serving in Rogue Squadron. His blond hair is brushed without being properly styled, and he’s barefoot. In one hand, he’s holding a datapad, and in the other, he’s got a glass of what looks like iced tea.
He looks at home. Most likely because he is. This is the life he left the squadron for — a life of family estates and homeworld responsibilities. A life of hot weather and cold drinks.
He raises his eyebrows as he looks down at Corran. And the lightsaber. And the hologram. Amusement tugs at his mouth. Corran knows from experience that it’s not supposed to seem mocking. His face just looks like that. “Practicing, are you?”
Corran double-presses the ignition button. The lightsaber turns off, silver blade retracting. He tucks the hilt into the crook of his elbow, then wipes his palms on the legs of his flight suit. The upper half of the garment is unzipped, its arms tied around his waist. It’s a little mismatched with the elegance of the lightsaber, but it’s still comfortable. “I’m not going to get any better without practicing. What do you want?”
“Nothing important.” Jace dips his chin. “I merely assumed you would be out exploring the city with the others, rather than inventing more work for yourself.”
Whistler hoots out a little jab about Corran’s work ethic, which Corran tactfully ignores. He finds nothing unusually pointed in Jace’s tone, but all the same, he raises his hands. “Look, if I’ve stolen your favorite reading room, I’ll leave. You’ve been a gracious host, and I don’t want to step on your toes.”
Jace just waves the comment away. Almost flippantly. “Don’t be absurd. I would not begrudge you enjoying the space.”
“It is nice,” he says. And he's telling the truth. Light streams in through the windows in the walls and ceiling, showing off the clear blue sky and verdant jungle around the estate. The furniture he’s haphazardly shoved out of the way is wooden, with cushions upholstered in white linen. There’s even a potted plant here and there. Like everything else in the Jaces’ mansion, it’s all very tasteful, and very expensive. It makes him feel out-of-place. “Who’s your family’s interior designer?”
“That would be my mother,” Jace says. “She’s tried to pass the hobby on, but I haven’t her aesthetic sensibilities.” Then he smiles. “She will be delighted to have her work appreciated.”
Corran nods. Part of him is still assessing his surroundings: Jace has seemingly given him permission to stay in the room, but isn’t making a move to leave himself. Instead, he’s standing in the doorway and making small talk. An awkward tension starts to fill the room, making the moisture in the air feel all the thicker.
It worsens as Jace half-closes the door and takes a few steps into the room. “I did not hear much of Jedi before joining the Alliance,” he says, light and conversational, despite the obvious way in which he directs the discussion. “We on Thyferra have always been more concerned with our own politics than those of the galaxy at large. The Republic bought bacta from us, and continued to hold up its contracts when it became the Empire, so we had little reason to care about the change in regime and what it entailed.”
Jace is doing something that he and Erisi both do – or did, anyway. Asking for something without debasing himself to the point of actually asking. And Corran decides he ought to try and be generous instead of difficult. Iella had rightfully called him on being contrary and aggressive. Jace has a real talent for bringing out his flaws. “I don’t know all that much more about the Jedi than you,” he says. “I’ve mostly been reading personal histories.”
“And information on swordsmanship, it seems,” Jace says, a smirk pulling at his mouth.
“Evidently.”
Once more, silence starts to extend, uncomfortable and stifling, between them. Outside, leaves rustle. A set of windchimes jingle. A songbird chirps out a mating call, and another trills back.
Corran gives up on generosity and asks, “So do you want me to give you a lecture?”
Jace takes this in stride. “Blasters are more common and versatile weapons, as are staffs and polearms. Lightsabers strike me as limited in comparison, but I imagine they must have some utility, considering their role as the signature weapon of the Jedi.”
“Yeah, just some.”
Jace gives him a flat stare in lieu of an actual response. It’s a challenge to cut him slack when he’s being just as difficult as Corran is. They make each other worse. That fact, however, probably matters less for Jace, who has no reason to care about how Jedi ought to act.
A Jedi, by Corran's best assessment, ought to be gracious. He looks down at the hilt in his hand. Mulls over what strategy Skywalker has given him access to. “It’s more defensive than a blaster in long-range combat,” he says. “A skilled swordsman should theoretically be able to block bolts from a blaster, and even direct them back at their opponents. In close quarters, you’re unlikely to run into another person with a lightsaber, so you can generally just cut through whatever weapon your enemy is using.”
Not that he has the ability to pull off any of those maneuvers yet. A couple of stormtroopers with standard-issue blasters very nearly did him in.
But if Jace is thinking about that particular incident, it doesn’t show on his face. All he says is, “So it counters other weapons well. That’s a significant point in its favor.”
“Well, it’s only as good a weapon as the person wielding it,” Corran says. “Someone with no skill can do more harm to themselves than to their opponents.”
“As it is with all weapons.” Jace walks over to one of the chairs Corran pushed aside, then settles himself into it. “If you’ve the time, I would be interested to see a demonstration.”
And going off of the ease in his posture — the way he kicks his feet up onto a low table and crosses them at the ankle — he’s not leaving until he gets one. It’s one thing to have Mirax watching and laughing at him when he misses a bolt from the remote, and to have Whistler chiding him for making another stupid mistake. It’s another to have someone else bear witness to his foibles.
But it’s also a challenge: the primary currency of their relationship. “Do you not have anything better to do?” Corran asks, eyeing him.
“Not particularly,” Jace says, with the dismissive air of someone who’s telling a lie.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite,” Jace states.
That’s a dead end, then. Corran decides he’ll push on it later. He turns away, then takes a slow breath. Tries to muster up the focus he’d found earlier. Presses the lightsaber’s ignition button and watches the silver blade jet out. Then he looks to Whistler and says, “Ready when you are.”
Whistler, obliging, restarts the program. Corran brings his right hand to the standard guard position and arranges his feet appropriately. The hilt always feels too long for a one-handed grip, but it’s what the form demands. He salutes, then advances as the hologram does. He lunges, tries to get a strike in, which the hologram parries. And then he’s on the back foot yet again, blocking its riposte as it swings for his chest.
He retreats further, putting distance between them. Wrong decision. The hologram takes advantage of the space to rush in and push him back even more. He tries to block an overhead strike that comes screaming down, but doesn’t get his arm high enough in time. The holographic blade connects with his head and flashes red. He’s getting sick and tired of that color.
“Is that the best you can do?” Jace asks, aggravatingly airy.
Corran wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his free hand. A better man would wave off the jab. But Bror Jace has a knack at bringing out the teenaged part of him that’s perpetually desperate to prove that his confidence is justified. So he rolls his eyes and has Whistler restart the program.
He loses the next bout, and the one after that. He wins the next, barely, and then goes straight back to losing. Sweat soaks through his shirt. His heart tries to beat itself out of his chest.
The whole time, Jace watches him, still pretending that he has nothing else he’s supposed to be doing. It’s almost like having Erisi around again. Corran’s not sad about her death, per se, especially since it was him who killed her. But in an odd way, he does miss her. For all her lies and betrayals, they had gotten along well. She had found him charming. Had become close with him. Had kept him around when she could have had anything or anyone she wanted.
And there were moments, here and there, where she’d looked at him like she wanted to eat him alive. In retrospect, he can see the tension between the part of her that liked him as an equal and the part of her that could only have him as a subordinate, or even a possession. In the moment, it had just been horribly uncomfortable. But underneath that —
You’re married and she’s dead, he thinks, more forcefully than necessary. He blocks a strike, sweeps in for a riposte that comes up short.
Unmarried and miraculously unmurdered, Jace continues to observe. Like Erisi, he grew up wealthy, with anything and everything he could want a snap of his fingers away. Except this, apparently. There’s something so childlike about his interest. He’s lounging in his expensive chair as though he’s a naive boy-king instead of his father’s politically savvy heir apparent. Whatever responsibilities he’s neglecting to be here have got to be important.
Corran lunges forward. Feints for the hologram’s left side, clumsily, but sweeps around to the right quickly enough to catch its arm. As the lightsaber passes through its wrist, its simulated hand and blade fall to the ground soundlessly, then disintegrate.
He recovers, stands back upright. Turns the lightsaber off and mops sweat off his brow. His hair’s falling out of the tail he pulled it back into — he pulls the elastic band off, then smooths his hair back and ties it up again. He’s too tired to be properly happy with his victory. He’s lost so many times that winning feels unearned.
When he looks over his shoulder, Jace is still staring at him. Intense and unbothered. His expression slides under Corran’s skin like a blade. It looks far too much like the ones Erisi used to give him. He stops chewing on the inside of his lip to say, “That is a marvelous weapon.”
“It is, isn’t it?” He finds he’s too worn-out and breathless to come up with a snappier rejoinder. Or to resist when Jace beckons him over.
His gaze is fixed on the lightsaber in Corran’s grasp. Something uncomfortably like hunger flashes in his dark blue eyes. He sets his now-half-empty glass down on a nearby table and starts to reach forward.
Then, in an act of remarkable self-restraint, he stops. He looks up at Corran through thick, blond eyelashes. His mouth starts to open, but no sound comes out.
He’s too wealthy to be accustomed to actually asking for things, Corran thinks, annoyed at the satisfaction that bubbles up in his chest. Erisi often used demands to get around the embarrassment of making requests. But a lightsaber is too important for orders, so Jace is left without anything to say. Another little victory he isn’t pleased with.
He holds the weapon out and loosens his grip on it. The desire in Jace’s eyes morphs into relief and delight. Delicately, he takes it.
“Planning on turning it on?” Corran asks, flexing his now-empty hand.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Jace replies, and, accordingly, makes no move to mess with the ignition button. Or any of the other buttons, for that matter. He just looks at it. Turns it over in his slender hands. Watches the way the sunlight catches and reflects off of the polished silver metal. The tendons on the pale insides of his wrists flex.
Corran’s palms itch. It’s like watching someone else yank open his closet doors and start putting on his clothing. Nejaa Halcyon’s lightsaber was waiting for him, waiting for the moment when he would need it. It isn’t his in the sense that a Jedi’s lightsaber traditionally was, wasn’t made by him or for him. He’s not as skilled with it as a proper Jedi would be. He’s even avoiding the sorts of dedicated training that Skywalker could provide, and staying with Rogue Squadron instead. But Skywalker said they were passed down to one’s descendants. He feels a sense of responsibility for it — to it. And it’s uncomfortable watching someone else manhandle it.
He shouldn’t be trusting Bror Jace with it. It’s not right. But there’s something open and genuine in his face as he holds it, and Corran can’t bring himself to ask for it back.
Jace draws a fingertip down the hilt, over a delicate bit of detailing, leaving smeared prints on the metal. “This is excellent craftsmanship. You made it?”
“Thanks for assuming so, but no,” Corran says, his skin still crawling. “It was my grandfather’s.”
“Then he was very skilled,” Jace says. He holds the hilt in an approximation of the two-handed grip it was intended for. Then — slowly, but not exactly hesitantly — he hands it back to Corran. “I should hope he passed such skills on.”
Compliments from Bror Jace — or what passes for such, anyway — are rare. An almost-pleasant surprise. And they’re much harder to respond to than his insults or challenges. Pushing aside a gripe about how difficult it’s been to access any of the skills he ought to have inherited, Corran says, “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”
“I look forward to it,” Jace says.
His fingers clench and tighten around the lightsaber. The self-critical part of him thinks it’s silly to feel relieved to have it back in his grasp. He’s been using it one-handed while he practices, but it’s simply not supposed to be wielded in that way. And even when he is using both hands, the fact that it wasn’t designed for him stares him straight in the face. Its original owner, whether he was related to Corran or not, whether he would have passed it down to him or not, clearly stood taller than he does. Nejaa Halcyon’s lightsaber is too wide, too long. Someday, Corran will make himself a lightsaber of his own: this is just a substitute.
But it’s not just a substitute. A lightsaber can hardly be described as just anything. It’s a massive responsibility. An example to live up to. Nejaa Halcyon was a true Jedi Knight. Nejaa Halcyon had a family and protected them, at all costs, even after his death, even as the Empire began hunting down and killing Jedi Knights. All Corran has is a wife he’s too busy to spend time with and a weapon he’s too busy to train with.
And, he remembers, an unwatched message from his father that he’s trying to forget about.
Whatever familial duties Jace may be neglecting to gawk at Corran, they can’t be heavier than this. But they’re both indulging things they shouldn’t. Wedge tolerated their rivalry because it was productive, because it drove them to improve, because it seemed to make them better. But there’s nothing to fight over anymore: Jace left the squadron to attend to his responsibilities, and Corran’s putting off doing the same. This, here and now, is just them pretending that they still have things worth saying to one another.
If Nejaa Halcyon was not his grandfather — and if Jace had not needed to return to Thyferra — maybe the two of them could have stayed in Rogue Squadron together. Maybe they could have continued their little competition, saying, I’ll get you next time, just you wait. Maybe they could have even been friends. But they both have larger obligations to attend to.
Corran has a lightsaber-shaped one in his hand and a holographic message waiting in Whistler’s files. There are things that Jace can’t begin to compete with, no matter how much money and influence his parents pass on.
“Corran,” Jace says — he’s always been Corran in Jace’s voice. The Thyferran dialect softens the cresh, trills the reshes. It was affectionate in Erisi’s mouth. It’s less so in Jace’s. It even seemed presumptive at the start, defaulting to his first name, but at some point, entitled became the way it is. At least that hasn’t changed.
Corran wastes a moment waiting for Jace to say something more. He doesn’t. So, instead of continuing to sit in thick, humid silence, he asks, “What?”
Jace narrows his eyes at him for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth as he thinks. Then he shakes his head. It’s almost imperceptible, probably unconscious, but Corran’s made a career out of noticing things that people would rather he ignore. “Whether you are a novice or not, I would not have expected you to develop skill with the sword. You have always struck me as too practical for such things.”
“It’s my inheritance,” he says. The Jedi credit under his shirt transforms into a duracrete brick. He tries to keep the weight out of his voice and fails. “You know anything about that?”
Jace nods. It’s a solemn gesture. Oddly empathetic. Corran has the horrible sense that he, for his part, has also picked up on something that Corran would rather not share with him.
Before they can fall into silence again, Corran asks, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
Jace raises an eyebrow. “Work,” he says, nodding towards the datapad he’s still holding.
“That’s all?”
“Yes, just my entire career,” Jace says, somehow leaning back further into his chair. He doesn’t look like a man who’s about to spend a few hours reading his pilots’ reports or studying Zaltin’s spreadsheets. “I doubt you’d find it interesting.”
The part of Corran that thrived in CorSec — the part that still longs to be just like his father — decides to keep pressing. “What if I said I would?”
“Then I would tell you it involved trade secrets,” Jace says. Spreadsheets, then. Assuming he’s telling the truth, which, based on his evasiveness, he probably isn’t. “You would have to make a very compelling argument in your favor.”
His eyes are bright, and his smile is dangerous. Not threatening, per se. Something else. Something that ties the chain around Corran’s neck into a noose.
They were never ones for long, drawn-out discussions. Maybe, in another galaxy, there would be something more to say. Something other than goads and challenges. But there isn’t.
So Corran hooks the lightsaber on a loop on his flight suit and waves Whistler over. Meeting Jace’s eyes firmly, he says, “I’m going to hit the showers, but I’ll see you and your people tomorrow.”
Jace doesn’t deflate. He has far too much ego for that. But something about him lessens — his sharp smile fades, and some childish hope slips out from between his fingers. “Of course,” he says.
Tomorrow, they’ll be back in their starfighters. Helping whip the TADC into shape. Maybe even showing off a little. But instructors don’t have the privilege of competition for competition’s sake. They’re teaching the Thyferrans how to not get themselves killed. There’s just no room for anything else.
And so Corran leaves, Whistler right on his heels. Sweat-drenched and overheated and unhappy, he trudges through the estate to the wing where the Rogues have been put up. He opens the door to his and Mirax’s room. She’s still out with Wedge, of course. Married or not, she’s never going to be the type to attach herself to his hip and follow him everywhere. She’s self-sufficient.
If there’s something wrong and unnatural with their relationship, as Booster keeps insisting, the problem doesn’t lie with her. Corran’s always gone for people he shouldn’t. Women who are already married, women he’s allergic to, women who were Imperial spies, women whom his father would have hated, women whose fathers hate him — women who don’t need him.
Corran leaves Whistler in the bedroom and slips into the refresher. It's spacious. There’s a large mirror above a counter with two sinks, and a glazed window set into one wall. And the Jaces have real showers with real water — of course they do, they’re planetside and rich.
Pretending Whistler isn’t storing a message from Hal Horn won’t make that message go away, but it allows Corran to put off making a decision for a little while longer. It lets him stay with the squadron and treat his Jedi training like a hobby that he seldom has time for.
He shakes his head and turns the shower on. Then he unhooks the lightsaber from his flight suit. He stares at it for a moment, at the sets of fingerprints that don’t belong on it. Imagines the hands that made it, the way they would have fit around it. He sets it on the counter before it can become too large and too heavy to hold. He’ll pull up Skywalker’s instructions and clean it later.
He shucks off his dirty clothes. And then he pulls off the chain his grandfather’s Jedi credit hangs from. He sets it next to the lightsaber so that the weight and the water-soaked air can’t strangle him.
Corran turns back to the shower. Gets the water as cold as it’ll go and steps in. It hurts.