Obi-Wan looked at the empty corridor. Yoda was gone. No one would see if he gave Bruck the beating he deserved. Bruck was often cruel, but usually not so brazen. He was deliberately provoking Obi-Wan, trying to get him to loose his temper.
But why? Obi-Wan wondered.
Of course! “You knew all along that Qui-Gon Jinn was coming to search for a Padawan, didn’t you,” Obi-Wan said slowly, as the suspicions hardened into certainty. Since Obi-Wan was the oldest apprentice in the Temple, the Jedi Masters would encourage Qui-Gon to take him — the lost cause. Bruck would not want that to happen.
Bruck laughed. “I made sure you didn’t find out. If I’d had my way, you wouldn’t have found out until he’d left.”
Bruck hoped to become Qui-Gon’s Padawan! And the only way to do it was to make sure that Obi-Wan failed. He’d tried to keep him from preparing, and now he was trying to make him mad. Obi-Wan’s anger, his impatience, had been his downfall often enough in the past Bruck hoped to fill his mind with rage and despair so that he would not be open to the Force.
Obi-Wan had been raised in the Jedi Temple since he was a baby. He hadn’t seen much of greed or hatred or true evil. The Masters shielded the children from such things, the keep them from turning to the dark side of the Force.
Yet now Obi-Wan saw into the heart of ruthlessness. Bruck was plotting to steal his dreams.
He could not let him know how important Qui-Gon’s visit was to him. He could not let Bruck know how he’d caused the fear to rise in him, fear that he would never be a Padawan.
Obi-Wan smiled. “Bruck, three months from now, when you turn thirteen, I hope you’ll make a great farmer.” It was the single worst insult that he could muster, to suggest that Bruck’s mastery of the Force was so small that he would be fit only for the Agricultural Corps.
Bruck leaped toward him with a snarl, his lightsaber held high. Obi-Wan spun to meet him with a cry on his lips. Flashing blades clashed in a burst of light and buzzing sound as the boys met in the room’s center.
Weary as they were, the boys fought until they could hardly move. By the time they crept from the training room, both boys were badly burned and bruised.
Neither had won, and both had lost.
As Obi-Wan headed to his chamber, Bruck took a lift to the upper rooms of the Temple, where the healers practiced their arts. He limped into the medic’s chambers, pretending to be more hurt than he was. His clothes were slashed and singed from the practice sabers, and blood ran from his nose.
When the medic saw him, their first question was, “What happened?”
Bruck gasped, “Obi-Wan Kenobi…“ and then pretended to faint.
One of the healers looked at him, then said brusquely to a droid, “Go notify the Masters.”
Chapter 2
Obi-Wan Kenobi was bandaging his burns in his room when he got the bad news. He was trying to imagine ways to impress Qui-Gon in the morning. He considered ways to improve his fighting skills — anything he might say or do to convince the Knight that he was worthy to become a Jedi’s Padawan Learner. But then Docent Vant brought a data pad and showed him his orders.
Suddenly all his plans and dreams were shattered.
“Here now, it isn’t that horrible.” Docent Vant said. She was a tall blue-skinned woman with an elegant headtail that twitched nervously.
Obi-Wan stared at the orders in shock. The data pad told him that he would ship out of the Temple in the morning. He needed to pack his bags.
He was to report to the world of Bandomeer — some planet he’d never even heard of, out on the Galactic Rim. There he would join the Agricultural Corps.
“But I don’t understand,” he said numbly. “I still have four weeks until my birthday.”
“I know,” Docent Vant said. “But your ship, the Monument, leaves tomorrow, with a thousand miners aboard. It can’t wait just because you have a birthday.”
In shock, Obi-Wan looked around at his room. Overhead, three model Verpine fighters droned near the ceiling. He’d made them himself. Repulsorlift fields held them aloft, and their running lights flashed purple and green as they hummed about. Miniature insectoid pilots swiveled their heads, as if to look around. Books and charts were piled on his study table. His lightsaber hung in its usual place on the wall. He couldn’t imagine leaving here. It was his home. But he would leave it all gladly for the hard life of an apprentice. Not a farmer!
He would never be a Knight now. Bruck had been right, Obi-Wan thought bitterly. Yoda had been trying to make him feel better.
The shock and despair made him feel sick He raised his gaze to Docent Vant. “I could still be a Jedi Knight.”
Docent Vant touched Obi-Wan’s hand tenderly. She smiled, revealing pointed teeth. She shook her head. “Not every one is meant to be a warrior. The Republic needs healers and farmers, too. With your Force skills, you will be able to treat sick crops. Your talent will help feed whole worlds.”
“But —“ Obi-Wan wanted to say that he felt cheated. He deserved four more weeks. “It’s a job for rejects, initiates too weak to be knights. Besides, tomorrow Qui-Gon Jinn will be looking for a Padawan. Master Yoda said that I should fight for him.”
Docent Vant shook her head. “That was before the Masters heard of the beating you gave initiate Bruck. Did you really think the healers would not tell what you had done?'
In dawning horror, Obi-Wan realized what had happened. Bruck had set the trap, and he had walked straight into it. He wanted to protest, to say that he was innocent. It had been a fair fight. And healers? Surely
