Into the Void: Star Wars (Dawn of the Jedi) Page 13

  “You sound like one of the clans on Kalimahr praying to one of their Sprash Gods.”

  “Difference being, I know the Force exists.”

  Tre Sana smiled and nodded, never taking his eyes from hers. It was a strange moment. Dam-Powl had made him unreadable, and Lanoree wondered why the Je’daii Master had employed such a dangerous man. Or perhaps what she’d done to him that had made him this way.

  “But there’s not always balance, is there, Je’daii?” he asked, as if he knew everything.

  “Eat,” she said. “It’s really not that bad.” She turned her back on him again, sat in her cockpit seat, and thought of those experiments she had put on hold. There was darkness there, if she did not use caution. But she was comfortable. She was balanced. There was no reason at all to worry.

  Lanoree stayed there for some time, and Tre must have read her need to remain undisturbed. She was glad of that. She didn’t like having someone else in her ship, and despite all her best efforts, being constantly reminded of his presence was putting her on edge.

  Ashla and Bogan were out of sight, along with Tython, a hundred sixty million kilometers away on the other side of Tythos. Yet she felt their pull and presence, as did every Je’daii wherever they might be in the system. Ashla was light and Bogan dark, and they tugged at her with a comforting gravity, as if she were suspended at the most perfect balancing point between the moons, influenced by both yet pulled in neither direction.

  It had not always been like this. After she had lost Dal, halfway through her Great Journey, she had experienced a period of unbalance. Returned home. Learned from her parents to be trusting and trustworthy in the Force once again. It had been nowhere near serious enough to warrant exile, but it had troubled her greatly then, and still did now.

  And Dam-Powl had warned that her experiments had the potential to upset the balance once more. The alchemy of flesh—genetic manipulation of cells that, though seeded from her own body, had a life of their own—held such dangers. But Lanoree could not help playing to her strengths. Ignoring them would be like trying to deny the Force itself, and she had already seen the results of that.

  Death, she had believed. But now in Dal maybe something worse. A terrible kind of madness.

  Perhaps at some point during this mission she might find cause to return to her studies.

  “Greenwood Station,” Lanoree said. “The Stargazers were communicating with someone there. That’s not good.”

  “It’s not?” Tre asked.

  Lanoree looked at the partial communications Ironholgs had managed to extract from the damaged memory cell. All of them had been encoded, and even when deciphered by the droid they had used mundane language that was beyond any code breaker. But the origin and destination of each signal had been scrambled with military-level ciphers.

  “Greenwood Station is one of the worst places on one of the most dangerous planets in the system,” Lanoree said. “If there’s a general dislike for the Je’daii on Nox, they hate us there. It’s surrounded by three destroyed domes, bombed by the Je’daii during the Despot War. I was only young then, thirteen. But my parents went to war, and my father served some of his time on Nox. A terrible place, he told me. Acid rain, corrosive gas storms. We warned the domes the bombings were going to happen—they were supplying Hadiya with weapons, however much nonmilitary pressure we exerted—but thousands still died. Many thousands. No one has ever really known how many.”

  “I’m older than you,” Tre said. “I seem to recall Greenwood Station being bombed as well.”

  “But not destroyed. The original dome was breached but quickly repaired. It’s a damaged place, and everything around it is ruin.”

  “But it’s still where they make the most advanced military tech outside Tython,” Tre said. It seemed he’d known everything about Greenwood Station, but had feigned ignorance and let her say it anyway. Another one of his games.

  “And how would you know that?”

  “I’ve had cause to use them, from time to time.”

  “You’ve been there?” Lanoree asked. She had no interest in Tre’s business or his reason for using high-end tech. Not then.

  “Of course not! I told you, I hate space travel.”

  “But you’ll be known there?”

  Tre raised an eyebrow, shrugged. “Not by anyone who’d help us.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re Je’daii.”

  “Great,” Lanoree said. It was a perfect place for the Stargazers and Dal to flee when they knew she was on their trail. And yet …

  This was not about escape. Some of the older communications her droid had plucked from the damaged memory cell proved that. They were going to Greenwood Station for one reason, and that could only be the construction of the Gree device. How complete their plans were, Lanoree could not tell. The old Osamael Or diary was far from comprehensive, and there was no way of knowing whether he had ever found those Gree plans. If he had, perhaps they existed in another diary. One that Kara had been too sensible to leave even in her hidden room. And even if the Stargazers did have the plans in some form, whether they could build the device effectively—and make it actually work—was something no one could know. Her mission remained one of unknowns and ambiguities.

  One thing she was certain of: this had already gone further than she could have hoped. The dangers were too great, the chances of Dal’s success too dreadful to comprehend. The chase had to end on Nox, and there she would face her brother.

  “I’ll plot a course,” Lanoree said. “Then we’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”

  Tre feigned surprise and held his hands out, indicating the narrow but comfortable cot.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Lanoree said. She pointed at the door she’d shown him before.

  “With the laser pods? And the food stores? There might be space rats in there.”

  “I keep a clean ship,” Lanoree said. “And I’m sure you’ve slept in worse.”

  “Well …” His three lekku stretched in amusement. Lanoree tried not to smile; she sensed that he wanted to make this as painless as she did.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s just get by. I’ll fly us there as quickly as I can.”

  “I’m not sure I want to get there that quickly,” Tre said, and his tired smile might have been the first genuine one she’d seen.

  “We’ll be fine. I’ll look after you.”

  “And who’s looking after you?”

  The Force will be my guide, Lanoree thought. She turned her back on Tre and went up into the cockpit again to chart the fastest, safest course to Greenwood Station on Nox. All the while she was thinking of Dal, and that as a Journeyer she had never truly understood how dangerous he might be.

  Not until close to the end.

  Even though Master Kin’ade is adept at healing, Lanoree’s arm and hand still hurt. It will for some time, Kin’ade told her. I can fix the damage, but the scarring will remain, and the memory of pain is stronger than you think.

  The memory of pain means that she can barely sit still, even in Temple Master Lha-Mi’s chambers.

  Dal is also there. His own wounds are less serious than hers—bruises and lacerations from impacting the ground—but Master Kin’ade paid them just as much attention.

  “You are not here to be punished,” Temple Master Lha-Mi says to Dal. Even though the chambers are large and impressive, Master Lha-Mi sits in a simple wooden chair, his sword propped beside him. Lanoree has heard many tales of this man, and this sword. “You are here so that I can hear what happened at the top of Stav Kesh. I’ve learned through my long life that stories are … fluid. And that the truth is often found in the sum of the parts. So I’ll have each of you tell me your own version of events.”

  “It’s very simple,” Dal says. He is sitting before Lha-Mi alongside Lanoree, and on his other side sits their instructor. “Master Kin’ade took away all my senses and expected me to shoot straight.”

  “I haven’t yet ask
ed you to speak,” Lha-Mi says. His voice is not stern, but it carries the authority of age and experience. “Master Kin’ade. If you will begin?”

  She stands and bows her head. “Master. I was training a group of students with the Darrow sphere.” She goes on to relate events exactly as they happened, expressing no opinions, simply relaying the facts. Lanoree cannot perceive any elaboration to her story—it is exact and correct in every detail. Kin’ade finishes and bows again.

  “And now you, Lanoree Brock,” Lha-Mi says.

  “It’s as Master Kin’ade described. I did my best to feel the Force and fight the sphere, but I admit to becoming overconfident. The others did well, mostly. Some bruises, burns, bloody noses, and one or two hits on the sphere, too. And then it was Dal’s turn. He moved well, and at first I thought he was seeking the Force, and I felt … proud. Pleased for him. But then the Sphere took him down easily, and he pulled his blaster. He got off several shots before Master Kin’ade stopped him.”

  “She flung me to the ground and almost broke my arm,” Dal says. “I almost went over the parapet.”

  Lha-Mi does not even look at Dal. He is still staring at Lanoree, his old eyes almost closed as he listens and thinks. “And your thoughts when one of those blaster shots passed close to your arm?”

  “I was frightened for Dal,” Lanoree says.

  “Because of what Master Kin’ade might do to him?”

  “No. Because of his own loss of control.”

  “And now your version of events, Dalien Brock.”

  Dal sighs deeply, an almost petulant breath. But Lanoree can sense his fear.

  “Go on, Dal,” she says. He glances sharply at her, then his gaze shifts to her bandaged arm and hand, and he looks wretched.

  “I tried,” he says. “I tried to find the Force.”

  He’s lying, Lanoree thinks. I know him so well, I can hear it in his voice.

  “I tried my best—and when the sphere hit me, I went for my blaster, tried to … follow the Force, shoot where it told me.” He shrugs. “It didn’t work. I’m sorry, Lanoree.”

  “Every scar tells a story,” she says, repeating something their father once told them.

  Temple Master Lha-Mi nods. “It’s fortunate that no one was killed. Master Kin’ade is adept at healing, and I consider myself lucky that she chose Stav Kesh instead of Mahara Kesh. She can mend flesh wounds and knit bones, given time. But no Je’daii can defeat death. Your actions were foolish, Dalien. Led by impetuousness, not guided by the Force. I put that down to youth’s enthusiasm. Perhaps some more traditional weapons training might be in order for the next few days, Master Kin’ade.”

  “Just what I had in mind,” Kin’ade says. She stands as if at a silent signal and motions Lanoree and Dal to stand, too.

  “Stay with me, Lanoree,” Lha-Mi says. The other two leave, and then Lanoree is alone with the Temple Master. He is old and strong, but not intimidating. There’s a kindliness to him that makes her feel comfortable, and she can sense his concern.

  “Your brother,” he says, and then he says no more. A question?

  “He’s trying,” Lanoree says. “He knows what our Great Journey is for, and he’s doing his best.”

  “No,” Lha-Mi says. “I fear he has already given up. For some, the Force is never comfortable or easy to find balance within.”

  “No!” she says, standing before the Temple Master. He remains seated and composed. “Our parents are Je’daii, and we will be also.”

  “You already are, Lanoree. I sense a great future for you. You’re strong, sensible, mature, and you have—” he held out his hand, tilted it left and right “—balance, give or take. But your brother is different. He carries a darkness within him, and his shunning of the Force makes it too dark to penetrate, too deep for me to plumb. There may still be a way back for him. But you have to realize how dangerous he might be. You have to be careful.”

  “I made a promise to my parents. He’s my brother, I love him, and I’ll save him.”

  “Sometimes love is not enough.” Lha-Mi rises and takes her hand. He speaks no more. But she feels a touch on her mind, brief but potent, that shows her a blink of what Dal had been thinking in the Temple Master’s chambers.

  Deep, dark thoughts.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SCARS

  The Je’daii say, “There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.” But they are ignorant of your lives, your struggles, and their superiority blinds them. They say, “There is no fear; there is power.” Yet in their power they are smug. And I will make them fear me.

  —Despot Queen Hadiya, 10,658 TYA

  Even from a distance, Nox looked like hell. Lanoree plotted a route that brought them into the planet’s atmosphere well on the opposite hemisphere from Greenwood Station, swinging them in an arc around the planet and approaching from the nightside. The seas were a heavy, sullen gray, the landmasses mostly covered by sickly looking yellowish clouds that glowed and pulsed with interior storms. The small patches of land she could see between the clouds were of a uniform bronze color. There was no green. She wondered what Greenwood Station had been like when it had been named, or whether the name was bitterly ironic.

  Tre sat in the copilot’s seat again. He hadn’t said much for quite a while, and Lanoree was starting to fear that he was succumbing to space sickness. If that happened, he’d be no use at all and she’d have to leave him in the Peacemaker. And she would not leave him here with her ship alone and awake.

  She knew exactly where to hit him.

  “Pretty,” he said as they started skimming the atmosphere.

  “Not very. It’s going to get bumpy.”

  She’d taken them in a steeper descent than was normal, eager to enter the atmosphere as quickly as possible. The longer their approach, the more likely they’d be noticed. She could see at least seven other craft on the scanners, all describing different descents to various parts of the planet, and she’d heard no hailing on the comm. But that didn’t mean they weren’t all being tracked. And maybe those other seven were expected.

  Heat built around the Peacemaker’s nose, shimmering their view and then hazing it out completely. The window’s shields closed automatically, and Lanoree kept her eyes on the scanners to maintain manual control.

  “Really,” she said. “It’ll be bumpy.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” Tre asked. “Don’t worry. I think I’ll stay here. Strapped in.”

  Even after six days, she still didn’t like him sitting in the cockpit beside her, because she couldn’t talk to herself anymore.

  The Peacemaker started to vibrate as it carved its way down into the planet’s toxic atmosphere. Lanoree swung the ship to the left and down, increasing the speed and angle of descent, and every now and then she glanced sidelong at Tre to see how he was taking this. Spaceflight was simple compared to the traumas of entering an atmosphere. And despite all he’d said, he seemed calm and confident with what was happening.

  “Almost there,” she said.

  “Good.” He exhaled deeply, as if suddenly aware that she was watching. “Don’t like this at all.”

  They dropped, and soon Lanoree leveled them out, flying above Nox and feeling the ship’s responses at being back in an atmosphere again through her hands. The Peacemaker was rattled but unbroken. It cruised.

  Lanoree skimmed them along the coast of one of the largest continents, flying low enough to avoid basic radar-based scanners but not too low to be dangerous, and a while later she edged them inland toward their destination.

  There was no saying whether Dal and the Stargazers were here yet. Just as when they’d entered Nox’s atmosphere, Lanoree knew that they were flying blind.

  The destruction was worse than she could have imagined.

  Lanoree remembered some of the Despot War. She’d been only thirteen at the time, but she would never forget watching her parents leaving home, false smiles hiding the fear that they might leave their children as orphans. She had watche
d the holos and heard the reports, but her real knowledge of the war came from what she’d read and seen of it down through the intervening years. At the time it was happening, war was always confused. The truth emerged afterward.

  She’d learned about the Despot Queen Hadiya uniting Shikaakwa’s crime barons under her charismatic rule and then attempting to exert her influence across the rest of the settled worlds. There had been a surprisingly enthusiastic rallying to her cause, as she promised safety and wealth and a freedom from Je’daii interference. Denying the Force, demonizing it to all who followed and listened, her aggression had been brutal but short-lived. The Je’daii swore to confront any moves made against them, and also to protect all those who did not wish to be subjugated beneath Hadiya’s rule.

  After a period of phony war, during which there were many small skirmishes in space and on some of Kalimahr’s moons, Hadiya had taken the war to Tython. Working in secret she had built a formidable army, well equipped and heavily armed, and had taken the Je’daii somewhat by surprise. The invasion was massive, brutal, and the battles fierce. But the Je’daii had the Force on their side, and everything Hadiya hated had worked against her. The defining moment of the war had been catastrophic. Following Hadiya’s death at Kaleth and the defeat of her armies, it had taken a long time to count the true cost of the conflict. A hundred thousand Tythans dead. Ten times that many of Hadiya’s forces, and many more seriously injured. Wounds ran deep, and remained so even now, more than a decade later.

  Before Lanoree now was one such wound.

  She knew about the manufacturing domes on Nox that had been bombed by the Je’daii—attacked for providing arms and weapons for Hadiya’s armies—and she had seen holos of the act itself. But holos were at a distance, imagination was limited by experience. Nothing could prepare her for seeing the truth with her own eyes. It was startling to see how effective a Je’daii military strike could be, and though Lanoree had seen plenty of combat, she had never been involved in a full-scale war.

  She didn’t even know the name of the first ruin they passed. Her Peacemaker flitted quickly by, but the scale of the devastation was still staggering. The city must have been eight kilometers in width, and now very little of its original protective dome remained. The ruins inside were a charred, melted mess, holding lakes of rancid water and pointing accusatory slivers of wrecked buildings at the sky.