Mace quarter second

As he reached his decision, the men behind him reached
their range. Professionals indeed: without a word, they
leveled their weapons, and twin packets of galvenned
plasma streaked at his spine. In even the best-trained
human shooter there is at least a quarter-second delay
between the decision to fire and the squeeze on the
trigger. Deep in the Force, Mace could feel their decision
even before it was made: an echo from his future.

Before their fingers could so much as twitch, he was
moving.

By the time the blaster bolts were a quarter of the way
there, Mace had whirled, the speed of his spin opening
his vest. By the time the bolts were halfway there, the
Force had snapped his lightsaber into his palm. At three-quarters, his blade extended, and when the blaster bolts
reached him they met not flesh and bone but a meter long continuous cascade of vivid purple energy.
Mace reflexively slapped the bolts back at the shooters but instead of rebounding from his blade, the bolts
splattered through it and grazed his ribs and burst against
a trash bin behind him so that it boomed and bucked and
shivered like a cracked bell

Shatterpoint