Star Wars_ Cloak of Deception - James Luceno [29]
“Then you’ll stand with Valorum,” Toora said. “You’ll support taxation.”
“Not yet,” Palpatine said carefully. “He views taxation as a means of punishing the Trade Federation and, at the same time, of enriching Coruscant—an approach that will alienate not only the Trade Federation members, but also the outlying systems. Before I cast Naboo’s support with one side or the other, I want to see how the votes stack up. Just now, those who hold the middle ground stand to reap the most. Those who see all sides clearly will be in the best position to guide the Republic through this critical transition. If Valorum has sufficient support without the backing of my sector, so much the better. But I won’t flinch in my obligation to do what is ultimately best for the general good.”
“Spoken like a future party whip,” Taa said, with a guffaw.
“Indeed,” Argente said, in all seriousness.
Toora appraised Palpatine openly. “A few more questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Palpatine gestured toward the stage. “While I’d be glad to discuss these matters at greater length, the performance is about to begin.”
Outfitted in lackluster tunics and soft boots, the Jedi students stood in two opposing lines, two dozen lightsabers ignited in brilliant cast, raised in twice as many hands.
At a word from the lightsaber Master, the twelve students comprising one line took three backward steps in unison and set themselves in defensive postures—feet planted wide and lightsabers held straight out from their midsections.
Custom-built by each student, to suit hands of varying size and dexterousness, no two of the lightsabers were alike, though they did share some features in common: charging ports, blade projection plates, actuators, diatium power cells, and the rare and remarkable Adegan crystals that gave birth to the blade itself. There were few known materials in the galaxy that a lightsaber could not cut. Fully powered, and in the right hands, a lightsaber could cleave duracrete or burn its way slowly though a starship’s durasteel blast doors.
At the next word from the Master, the second line set themselves in attack stances, giving their shoulders a quarter turn, lowering their center of gravity by bending slightly at the knees, and raising their lightsabers in two-fisted grips, as if to swat a pitched ball.
At the instructor’s final word, the second line advanced in earnest. The students in the first line set their lightsabers to defend and, with choreographed precision, retreated purposefully as they allowed their opponents to hammer repeatedly at their elevated blades. When the defenders had been driven halfway across the room, the lightsaber Master called the exercise to a halt and had the groups reverse positions.
Now it was those who had defended who attacked, the blades of light thrumming and grating riotously against one another, auras merging, filling the air of the training room with blinding flashes of illumination.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan watched from an observation gallery set slightly above the room’s padded floor, deep within the pyramid that was the Jedi Temple’s towering base. The exercise had been going on all morning, but only a few of the students showed signs of fatigue.
“I can remember this like yesterday,” Obi-Wan said.
Qui-Gon quirked a smile. “It’s a good deal of yesterdays for me, Padawan.”
Though separated by more than a score of years, they had both passed their youths in the Temple, as was the case with all Jedi, whether students, Padawans, Jedi Knights, or Masters. The Force revealed itself