"Crunch, crunch, crunch…" came the loud crack of a wooden cylinder under my sharp teeth. Who would've known HOW badly my teeth itch! It's torture! I can't understand how Togrutas survive this.
While my teeth greedily gnawed the piece of wood, my eyes jumped along the lines of a book, studying letters and what they meant. Completely by accident, I stumbled onto a page about local timekeeping. Turns out, time on Tython is measured somewhat differently from what I'm used to—which I'd suspected, but now I'd found confirmation, even if by accident. (Who would've thought—in a children's ABC-book equivalent.) There are five hundred and twenty-four days in a year, each of them thirty-two hours long. So if someone is five, they can easily look ten.
Another detail was that the locals didn't have the concept of a "week" as such. Same with a month. Instead there was the concept of a "Takedu," which included twenty days. To keep from breaking my brain, I started associating those takedus with simple months.
This news shook me so much that I didn't notice how much harder I started going at the cylinder.
"CRACK!" F-fuck! Bit through it again. And that's already the seventh—just this takedu. By the way, an interesting phenomenon: if other kids get something made of leather with a relatively soft filling, I get wood, because I chew through that stuff in about thirty seconds. So, where's the box with these sticks?
***
"Well, Sha-a-ade." Mom stroked my head, healing a wound with the Force at the same time. I clenched my teeth and endured.
It's probably a funny sight from the outside: tears in my eyes, teeth clenched—but I'm not whining. I'm holding it. And the thing is, I mixed up the candy box with the dishware box. Knowing what a sweet tooth I am, Mom regularly re-hides the candy box, and every time farther away. This time, the box ended up on a kitchen cabinet. Since I can't physically reach it from there at all, I used the Force. Or rather, I tried to. And to my misfortune, something even worked. But not with the right box. It's good it was open, and I got off with lots of small cuts and one big one, not to mention the bumps on my head.
"Careful," she finished. The wounds themselves were gone, but the shock—and then the aching afterward…
"It was… juth by accident!" she smiled and pressed me to her chest, gently stroking my head.
"Well, it's okay, it's okay. It'll pass soon."
"I'm not crying!" I wriggle free. "It'th all o-kay!"
"Of course you're not crying—you're my strong boy," and after a pause she added with a faint smirk, "and tough, too."
That one stung. On the other hand, if you count how many times I've gotten into trouble because of myself, the claim is justified.
***
Imagine that—turns out I do have a father. I asked and found out he's a Miraluka who went to other stars on a sleeper ship. As I understood it, my birth is the result of their farewell. And judging by the emotions Mom felt while telling me about it, it was like saying goodbye to someone dying. Only later did I learn why: those who leave for the stars on sleeper ships never return. At least, none have returned so far. The sleeper ship itself is a half-kilometer-long monstrosity filled with stasis capsules for distant, long flights. They were armed to the latest tech, and in general each such ship is the peak of technical achievement. And the one Father left on is considered the last—and even that one illegal.
Given that there is no communication and no information at all about ships that left earlier, a ban was imposed on further use of such ships in space. Not without reason, by the way—after all, the Tython system sits in such an anomalous sector that you can just look up at the sky and see how much nasty stuff is hanging out there in space. And how, exactly, are you supposed to fly?
My dad was an explorer to the marrow. Taking something apart, studying it, understanding it—don't feed him meat, just give him an artifact. He crawled all over what's called the Old City, a mysterious and incomprehensible place buried in Tython's sands. Legend says there are functioning Infinity Gates there. I don't know if that's true or not, but judging by what Mother left unsaid, Dad did find something there.
And he also had an indirect connection to the Order of Starwatchers. A group of people who want to learn where their ancestors came from and, by any means possible, are trying to figure out how to return to their homeland. The Tythonites don't deal with them; the locals lean more toward isolation mode, while these ones stick their noses into every crack. I don't know what kind of relationship they had with Father; Mom doesn't say, but I can assume it was business. Probably. Both she and Dad dig up ancient artifacts.
But what I did understand is that Dad did find something. Something very important. Something that made him, despite the ban, leave the system surrounded by his associates. One way or another, I made a note to myself that in the future I need to visit the Old City. You know—just to check out the sights.
After I cracked my lineage open a bit, I clung to Mother with different questions—specifically, Force sight. Mom explained that I'm too small and shouldn't even think about it, but after I told her about my second sight (the one I used to find candy!), she just blinked in astonishment. Coming out of her stupor, she began explaining to me, clearly and simply, the specifics of the Togruta and Miraluka traits that had combined in me into one. It turns out the montrals (the horn-things, or lekku on the head) are hollow inside. With their help, Togrutas literally scan the space around them like sonar. Miraluka, on the other hand, are born with an enhanced version of Force sight. Besides the fact that this eyeless people, thanks to the Force, have spherical vision, they also see through walls perfectly and can "feel" the emotions of those who fall within their field of view. Unfortunately, that field is fairly small, and to enlarge it you have to train long and hard. But for me… for me, those traits stacked on top of each other. I will never have the usual "Force sight" everyone is used to, but instead I have something of my own. If Togrutas' waves are perfectly physical, then mine are made of the Force—which is why they pass through ALL obstacles in their path and return with a massive amount of information, up to and including emotions. This process takes less than an attosecond, which is, excuse me, ten to the minus eighteenth power. I specifically freaking timed it! For comparison: a millisecond is ten to the minus third. Think it's a cheat? And I answer—NO WAY! Mom, using "Force sight," detects an object that has entered her field of view THREE times faster. In theory, if I develop my ability, I'll be able not only to speed up the wave itself, but also increase its power. The only problem is that neither I nor Mom know how to develop it, because nothing like this has ever happened before.
Warning me not to show off this trait, she got serious about my training.
***
"Auh, oh, ai, a-a-a-ahhu-hu-hu-hu-u-u-uu—" my scream cut off when something heavy flew into my chest, and I couldn't dodge it. "Uu-uh, khah-khah-khah. Oh…"
"Alive?" Mom walked up, leaned down, and stared hard into my eyes.
"Just great…" I stick up my thumb. "Ow…" my hand cramps sharply, and I pull it to myself.
"Heh."
Squatting, she began moving her hand over the injured spots, using Force healing. About a minute of "magic," and it's a little easier. At least I can move. Despite her kindness, Mom was very brutal in training, and I got hit hard and often. Especially at first.
"Again!"
"E-e-eh!" Getting up, I brace myself for the next serving of pain. Come on, Shade, you'll endure. At least it's better I get it in training than a slipper to the back of the head for running through the house in dirty shoes. Or is she still sulking because I once again devoured "Sweet Joy" all by myself? Most likely.
***
Jump, duck, step, a leaping turn and landing. Set a hard block against an invisible opponent, redirect the weapon to the side, and with a Force blast smear the dummy against the wall.
Turning to Mother, I look into those serious eyes and smile. Mom nodded to herself and broke into a smile. For a full minute, she threw vegetables at me from five different sides and didn't hit me once, while I still had to deal with the dummies.
"Good job!" she praised, stepping closer and ruffling my hair. Though there was nothing hard about it. Remember dodgeball? As a kid I loved that game to hiccups. And now that love got layered onto two traits at once and turned into something new and so interesting! Though, to be fair, I have to admit it was hard to start, because bruises, bumps, and scrapes were beyond counting—but I'm used to it. My own evil Pinocchio.
Now, about those traits—but first, let me explain something. Everyone knows the song: "In every little child, in every boy and every girl, there are two hundred grams of explosive, or even half a kilo"? I proved the truth of that saying on my own experience. And now, attention, question: where do you put all that energy that gushes out of your ass like a fountain and urges you to do something stupid but interesting? For an ordinary kid, that energy goes into mischief, toys, and street games. But I'm not ordinary! I'm a headcase son of an even more unhinged Togruta woman who can, alone, shred a whole special forces battalion into salad—without particularly breaking a sweat. And I'm not joking. To my surprise, Mom specializes in… killing. And it's not about bloodlust, or mental deviation, or any other filth. No, it's much simpler. It's her worldview, with a point that goes: "Spare the enemy—doom a friend." And Mom doesn't spare. She hits only once, but with her whole soul—and with a guarantee.
That life stance went down for me better than bread and salt, and so I, inspired by my parent's example, tried to imitate within the limits of my development and talents, soaking up everything I was shown or told no worse than a sponge. Yes, sometimes Mom overdid it in training. Yes, sometimes I got hit so hard I felt dead among the living. Yes, sometimes they dropped "Force pressure" on me made purely of negative energy. But I endured! And I remembered those Jedi—and especially Yoda (I don't even know what he did to me, but I really, really disliked him)—with their "the dark side is quicker, easier." Bullshit! You hear me, green shorty? Bull. Shit. Sitting and meditating is easy; try staying calm when you're being kicked, set on fire, sometimes turned into a hedgehog, and sometimes put through an electric discharge that, for an ordinary person, would actually kill. What-what? That's not humane? Well, congratulations, pal—you're on Tython, they've never heard of humane here. And besides, experienced Je'daii sometimes die just because they got eaten, so the situation dictates its conditions.
But back to my mother. Let's count the traits I ended up with: all Togrutas without exception are predators and learn to move from birth, and to make it easier and quieter, they move without shoes. Instead, special wraps are wound on the feet to protect from sprains, and I wasn't an exception despite being a half-blood—that's one. Because it's one thing to move silently with the Force, and quite another to do it without.
Next, my current mentor—and part-time mother—is one of the best killers. What can a person… a Togruta like that teach? Answer: correctly—how to kill. Hand-to-hand combat training and blade training became a dense part of my life. No, I didn't become some mega-assassin or anything. Compared to Mom, I'm nobody, and I still have a lot to learn. But I can't be called "harmless" now either, because if anything happens, I can hit back properly. Add survival skills—and you get something capable of living in Tython's realities.
Now, about the Force. I didn't drop THAT discipline in any way, and I'm not going to. Rejoicing no less (or even more) than over a box of candy, I trained enthusiastically in that sphere. Formally, Mom was breaking tradition by teaching me—not only earlier than I should, but also now, instead of the temple teachers. I should already have entered Padawan Kesh, but I'm still doing private lessons with Mother. And what else am I supposed to do if I'm shoveling this knowledge in by the bucket? And to make it interesting, the whole process was turned into a game.
For example: guessing. She takes three cups and a seed. I have to guess which cup the seed is under, relying exclusively on the Force. With experience in finding secret candy stashes, this came pretty easily. True, if I guess wrong, I'll get a solid shock hidden like a mine under the false cup. So, as a side note, I learned to defuse Force traps—yeah, there's that kind of nastiness here too. I can't set them yet, but I can sort of defuse them. Bruises and burns help, so to speak. On the other hand, the "atrocities" were moderate and sparing, and some of the energy got burned off.
Or hide-and-seek. Mom hid, and I searched, and vice versa. But you had to search first and foremost not with eyes, but with the Force. The only thing I got by on was the sense of kinship. If not for that, I'd never find her in my life. But they found me. Always. In the first second. She would just finish counting and immediately "spot" me, but for fun she'd pretend to search. I could see it in her eyes, which kept flicking toward my location. But the most annoying part is that when I'm searching, she always—always—sees me. Always nearby. Yet I have to tear myself inside out to find her. I remember the moment the wrap on my leg tore. I was on the stairs then, got tangled, and flew down from the third floor straight onto glass. I couldn't fly, and I couldn't slow my fall either, but luckily for me the whole flight lasted exactly two seconds, after which I got caught. One moment—and she's right there. Standing, holding me, and smiling. I'd never had a feeling like I did then. A feeling of pride and safety mixed with complete hopelessness.
"I'll never reach that level of mastery," I thought then.
But there's one detail worth noting. Since the search was through the Force, I decided to ask: "Can you hide it?" Mom smiled then and tried to explain that it wouldn't work for me. Not that level. But I reminded her about my second sight and kept insisting. In the end, she gave in. To be honest, what I was told was from the genre of "Break your brain," but I tried. It was interesting. And it was necessary. There are many dangers on Tython—three dozen species of deadly predators alone. And when the time for pilgrimage comes, I'll need to be able to hide. Hide well. So… it's just a pity the successes are small. "Fold up your aura and merge with the background of the Force," you know, is somewhat problematic. But nothing—first step's taken. Now all that's left is to develop, and that's time and training.
So my day now looked like eight stages: early rise, speed breakfast (last one washes ALL the dishes in the evening), physical training in the yard, theory, then lunch, Force exercises, surviving training with that same Force, dinner (if you lost—dish duty), shower, and sleep. The order changed, some things varied, but the essence stayed roughly like that. But sometimes… events happened that knocked the rhythm out of place. For example, when unexpected "guests" showed up at our place.