The Longest Afternoon

The air in the Republic diplomatic shuttle’s main conference room was thick with the scent of stale caf and recycled oxygen. Three padawans sat in rigid silence behind their respective masters, eyes glazed but hands busy. Ahsoka Tano, perched behind her master Anakin Skywalker, subtly tapped her left index finger twice against the table’s edge—the signal for "how many more minutes?" From across the room, Barriss Offee, who had been meticulously cataloging trade route regulations in her mind, responded with a slight twitch of her right eyebrow and a barely perceptible shake of her head—"no idea, but it’s been an eternity." Beside Ahsoka, young Caleb Dume, his stomach audibly rumbling despite his best efforts, traced a small circle on his thigh with his thumb: "hungry." Ahsoka bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a grin. The negotiator from Ryloth, a Twi’lek named Senator Vok Che, was droning on about shipping taxes for monosodium crystals. Master Plo Koon, Barriss’s master, listened with patient stillness. Anakin fidgeted, his leg bouncing under the table. Depa Billaba, Caleb’s master, had her eyes closed in meditative focus—or possibly sleep. The padawans used the cover of the masters’ distraction to develop an increasingly elaborate hand-signal language. Barriss, the rule-follower, had initially resisted. But after the third such mission in two weeks, even she admitted that silent communication was the only way to preserve their sanity. She now lifted her cup of water, took a sip, and as she set it down, her fingers flashed a sequence: "If I have to hear one more analogy about crystal purity, I will force-choke the senator with a data pad." Ahsoka’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Caleb snorted, quickly disguising it as a cough. The negotiation entered its third hour. The topic shifted to docking fees. Ahsoka, bored beyond measure, began a new game: she would point at various objects in the room—the decorative plant, the holoprojector, the senator’s elaborate head-tails—and make a ridiculous face. Barriss responded with deadpan judgment. Caleb, meanwhile, drew a crude picture of a bantha on a flimsiplast sheet and slid it under the table to Ahsoka, who added a tiny lightsaber to its horn. They passed it back and forth, each adding a detail: a cape, a crown, and a speech bubble that read "I am the Senate." Just as Ahsoka was about to add a third eye, Master Billaba—without opening her eyes—spoke quietly: "Padawan Dume, I suggest you focus on the present. That flimsiplast would make a good note for the final summary." Caleb froze, then carefully folded the drawing and tucked it into his robe. The other two padawans exchanged glances of pure panic. But Master Billaba’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. The Council pretended not to know indeed. The last hour was the hardest. The negotiations hit a snag over tariffs, and the senator’s aide, a nervous human male, began reciting historical precedents in a monotone. Ahsoka’s eyes glazed over. She let her head droop slightly, then tapped out a signal for "emergency—suggest evacuation." Barriss responded with a raised eyebrow: "Define emergency." Caleb’s stomach growled again, this time loud enough for the senator to pause. "Is there a creature in this room?" he asked. Anakin, grateful for the interruption, said, "Just my padawan’s training. She’s learning to do impressions." Ahsoka shot him a death glare. Finally, the fourth hour ended. The trade agreement was signed with a flourish of datapads. As the masters stood to exchange formal pleasantries, the three padawans rose stiffly, their legs asleep. They fell into step behind their masters, but not before Ahsoka flashed a final signal: "Same time next week?" Barriss’s lips curved into a rare smile as she signaled back: "Only if there’s food." Caleb nodded emphatically, then mouthed, "I’m starving." Back in the corridor, as they filed toward the hangar, Anakin turned to Ahsoka. "You know I saw those hand signals, right?" She grinned. "Master, you taught me half of them." He chuckled. "Just don’t let the Council catch you." Ahsoka’s montrals tingled with the thrill of conspiracy. The Padawan Survival Club was alive and well.