Yoda by Sean Stewart

these walls it is the truth, masked by hope and fear and treachery, that is hardest to see.”
    Yoda’s old head nodded agreement with these words.
    â€œBut it is true that in real life we rarely face our enemies one by one, in a closed room, with comfortable mats on the floor,” Iron Hand said. “Out there, situations are more chaotic. Instead of fighting in a sparring room, you might find yourself drawing your lightsaber in a docking bay, or a library, a city street, or even…” She paused, lifting her eyebrows. “Even in a dining room, for example. Under the impression that you had hours before your next exertion, you might have just eaten a large meal,” she said, looking at Sisseri Deo, a tall golden-skinned Firrerreo who was one of the eight remaining combatants. He looked down at his plate, and the nictitating membranes of his eyes flickered rapidly with dismay.
    â€œOut there, you might not have remembered to pay attention closely enough earlier in time, leaving you confused as to who, exactly, your opponents were,” she continued, glancing at Lena Missa. The Chagrian girl wet her blue lips with her forked tongue and looked quickly around the room, trying to remember who all the morning’s victors had been.
    â€œOut there, it’s rarely so easy as single combat at a defined time and place. More likely it is a barroom brawl, a fistfight in a back alley.” Iron Hand lifted up the red handkerchief. At the sight of it, nervous apprentices scrambled up from their benches. “Or even a dining room free-for-all. Eight contestants remain. May the Force be with you,” Master Xan said, and she let the red cloth slip from her fingers.

    As soon as Master Xan started talking about “real life,” Scout guessed what was coming. She scanned the room, locating the rest of her comrades in the Round of Eight, checking to see who might make the best opponent. Not Lena—Lena was a friend; besides, the Chagrian was looking straight at her.
    Sisseri Deo, all 2.3 golden-skinned meters of him, was sitting with his back to Scout just one table away. As Master Iron Hand continued her little lecture—wasn’t she enjoying herself, that grim old lady!—Scout slid from her bench carrying her cup of muja juice, and shuffled forward a few steps as if trying to make out what the Master was saying.
    The red handkerchief went up. Everyone who didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire of lightsaber blades and dirty dishes jumped to their feet. Scout glanced over at Lena, checking to make sure the Chagrian wasn’t sneaking up on her. So far, so good. She edged casually over until she was right behind Sisseri. In purely physical terms, Sisseri was by far the strongest remaining combatant, a huge boy with muscles like tree roots under his gleaming skin. Scout had watched his second-round match, when his roundhouse kick had taken out Forzi Ghul, and she had no interest in going up against him.
    By the worst luck, just as the red handkerchief slipped from between Master Xan’s fingers, Sisseri spun around to face Scout.
    She swore.
    The handkerchief hit the ground.
    Sisseri grabbed for his lightsaber.
    Scout tossed her cup of juice in his face.
    Up snapped his hands, the lightsaber a beam of blue light humming wildly over Scout’s head as he frantically tried to wipe the juice out of his eyes. Ignoring her lightsaber completely—there was no point in trying to duel Sisseri, he was far too good for her—she charged straight into his chest, letting her hands find the neck of his tunic. She found the sweet hold, her strong wrists cranked, and she felt the old familiar pressure of fingers and cloth cutting into her opponent’s neck.
Great,
she thought.
Now all I have to do is count to ten and hold on. One, two…
    The muscles in Sisseri’s legs bunched, and with a little Force tingle Scout knew what was coming next. He launched himself backward,