by George Mann
That was what had become of Marsden. That was what had manifested in his room each night, what he’d seen in the corridors of the ship, haunting his every move, following him from pillar to post—the ghost of his former supervisor.
Denholm lurched back, stumbling, trembling. He collided with a stormtrooper, but he didn’t care. The only thing he could think about was getting as far away as possible from that dreadful, nightmarish vision before him.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, squeezing so tight that he whimpered. He felt himself twisted around, propelled by that searing grip . . . to discover it was not a stormtrooper he had collided with, but Lord Vader himself.
The dark lord peered down at him through the glassy eyes of his mask, and Denholm saw himself reflected in their gleam, tears streaming from his eyes, body racked by terrified sobs. He stuttered something unintelligible, jabbing his finger in the direction of the specter. But Lord Vader did not reply.
Denholm, appalled, tried to make sense of what was happening. But it was only as he felt the vicelike grip of spectral fingers close around his own throat that he realized the ghost of Marsden had been trying to warn him. He’d followed Marsden’s path all too closely. The fate that had befallen his superior was soon to be his, too.
His body jerked as he was lifted from the ground. His fingers went to his throat, clawing at the terrible invisible hands that were crushing his windpipe. The choking sound filled his ears again, only this time, he knew it stuttered from his own breathless lips.
Denholm’s last sight before he crumpled to the ground was his own reflection in that terrible, haunting mask, his last sound the satisfied rasp of Lord Vader’s laboring lungs.
The very next day, a young officer by the name of Saul Toten was summoned to the captain’s office, where he found himself inexplicably promoted with immediate effect.
IN THE FARTHEST REACHES of the unexplored regions of Wild Space, the moon of Lupal circles a dying star whose heart is formed from a core of the purest kyber. The star is ancient, and the pressures of untold eons have caused the kyber to fracture, resulting in vast solar flares that erupt from its center—flickering, angry gouts of red, as if the damaged kyber itself is bleeding into the frigid depths of space.
Indeed, in the cantinas of the Outer Rim, it is claimed that if one sails close enough to the flares, it is possible to hear the star screaming, crying out in the slow, final throes of its oncoming death.
Such is the fate of Lupal, which, when the heart of the star finally shatters entirely, will be bathed in the burning ejecta of the exploding star and scoured bare, all signs that life ever existed on its surface incinerated by the flames.
Of course, Lupal was not always a world on the verge of oblivion. During the age of the Old Republic, before the fracturing of the star and the advent of the solar flares, Lupal was a paradise of unparalleled reputation. Over many thousands of years, a great civilization had risen and flourished on the moon, a highly evolved culture that revered art and aesthetics, philosophy and tolerance. On Lupal, the native peoples established themselves as one of the great civilizations of their age, but so content were they, so peaceful and inward-looking, that they had never felt the need to take to the stars or establish colonies on other worlds. Thus, when the heart of the star broke—some believe after witnessing the devastation wrought by the wars that had riven the galaxy—the people of Lupal were unprepared for the horrors that followed.
Those early, terrible eruptions from the injured sun were enough to bring their civilization to its knees, bathing the moon in harsh crimson light that heralded oncoming waves of destruction. Those few who were not killed outright by the atmospheric disruption and ensuing radiation managed to flee on evacuation barges sent by neighboring worlds, but the survivors were few and far between and were soon scattered amongst the stars, their once great culture reduced to nothing but memories and ash.
Now Lupal is a ruin, overgrown and littered with the detritus of the great cities that once covered its globe. It is inhospitable and deserted, long ago abandoned to its fate.
Nevertheless, the draw of its former glory has been enough to tempt numerous explorers to seek fortune there over the years, from treasure hunters to historians, thrill seekers to archaeologists.
So it was that one group of explorers, intent on uncovering the secrets of those long-lost people—and recovering, too, what remained of their treasures—set out on such an expedition to Lupal, ignoring all warnings of peril and seeking only glory, knowledge, and wealth.
At first it appeared that fate was on their side, for the expedition leader—a human woman named Fionn Tucat—had planned most precisely, charting the ebb and flow of the solar flares to find a suitable window to make their approach to Lupal.
Thus, the expedition led by Tucat and her associate Romina Foss—along with a hired crew comprising a one-eyed Lasat known as Borzul; a Togruta named Cavrolo Sys; a Shistavanen called Kordus Vrak; and two excavation droids, HCT-10 and RF-U5—landed on a plain on the outskirts of the ruined city of Thrass and hastily established camp.
The day’s undertakings went well, and soon the droids had made a reconnaissance of the area, mapping the surrounding ruins. The radiation emitted by the damaged sun meant that much of the crew’s equipment was inoperative; long- and short-range scanners provided unreliable readings, and comlinks returned only buzzing static. Nevertheless, the mood amongst the crew was jubilant, for the riches they had dreamed of for so long finally seemed within their reach. Surely there, amongst the ruins of the fabled city, they would find the treasures they sought.
That night, however, Tucat’s predictions of the ebb and flow of the solar flares proved unsound, and the flares began again in earnest, lighting the entire sky red and casting the surface of the moon in a dark, sinister hue. It was an ill omen, for Foss had heard tales of the crimson flares and knew they were said to twist people’s minds and infest their dreams with horrors. Many of the expeditions that had preceded them on Lupal had ended in disaster, and more often than not, such failures were attributed to the strange influence of the red light. Tucat and the others had heard those tales, too, but had long before dismissed them as fearmongering, believing them to be the sort of stories passed around by explorers such as themselves to dissuade others who might consider plundering Lupal for the abandoned treasures they wished to protect for their own gain.
As the evening wore on, however, it soon became clear that the flares had brought with them more than mere eerie light—for something about the strange, flickering glow did, indeed, seem to affect the mood of all those present.
It began as little more than a mounting sense of agitation amongst the team, a feeling of annoyance with their fellow crew members. They each began to question the motives of their shipmates and to doubt one another’s work, muttering under their breaths or making barbed comments behind one another’s backs. At first it was easy to put such things down to sheer exhaustion, for the journey had been long and arduous, and they had spent a great deal of time in one another’s company already. Yet they soon came to recognize that something greater was afoot.
None felt this more keenly than the Shistavanen, Vrak, for, despite his wolflike appearance, he was the gentlest and calmest of them all, and the least likely to allow dark emotions to manifest. Yet the red light had stirred something deep and primal within him, and as he paced the perimeter of the camp he was forced to fight feral urges, for he knew he could not allow such terrible instincts to surface.
Alas, as the team settled in to eat that night, huddled around a fire pit they’d dug out on the plain, what might have been a minor disagreement between Borzul and Vrak over who should take first watch instead erupted into a blazing row. Before the others were able to intercede, Vrak had grievously insulted the Lasat, shoving him backward over a fallen pillar and inciting a roar of anger from Borzul that might have been heard for several kilometers in every direction, had there been anyone else on the abandoned moon to hear it. It was
all Sys and Tucat could do to separate the warring friends, for the rage of the strange light was upon them both, driving them toward violence.
Soon after, the Lasat retreated to his bed to avoid further confrontation, and all agreed that a good night’s rest was needed—that the strain of the expedition and the unexpected return of the solar flares was resting heavy on all their hearts. They agreed that all would be well by morning and their exploration of the ruins could begin in earnest. Ashamed and concerned at how readily he had struck out at Borzul, Vrak agreed to take first watch, after all, and continued to circle the camp as the others slept, focused all the while on keeping his wilder impulses in check.
The next morning, however, all was far from well, as there were signs at the edge of camp that a struggle had taken place. The grass had been churned, showing evidence of frantic movement, and there were rust-colored stains on the ground that might have been blood. Borzul’s blaster was lying discarded beside a cluster of small rocks.
Despite a hurried search of the area, Borzul was nowhere to be seen. Suspicion immediately fell on Vrak, but the Shistavanen was found in his bunk, having handed over the watch to Sys during the night as agreed. He had no knowledge of the Lasat’s disappearance, and it was eventually decided that Borzul must have risen early and wandered off into the ruins to explore or hunt, perhaps suffering from the effects of the solar flares and wishing to be alone.
They agreed to seek him out, just to be certain, but the scanners were still inoperable and the ruins too dense and overgrown to mount an effective search. Even the droids could find no evidence of the Lasat’s trail. He had simply disappeared, and the only sign he had left behind was a torn patch of grass on the very edge of camp.
The mood amongst the remaining crew was sullen and suspicious, and soon a heated debate had arisen as they argued over what to do. Tucat and Foss advocated widening their search, but Vrak was pensive, for he feared he had driven the Lasat away with his anger the previous evening. Confiding in Sys, he explained that his anger had seemed so intense, so primal, that he feared losing control, and if the solar flares continued as they had, the crew should consider restraining him to avoid further confrontation.
Tucat and the others knew of the Shistavanen’s gentle nature, however, and understood he felt a sense of responsibility for what had occurred the previous evening. Believing him to be overreacting and hoping that Borzul would soon return of his own volition, they decided to set about their excavations. The increase in solar activity meant that it would be unsafe to evacuate the moon for at least a few days, so it was decided that the mission would continue. Nevertheless, they agreed to keep one another in check and to work on individual tasks to avoid rising tensions, only coming together to compare finds and share meals. That way, they reasoned, they would minimize any friction that might arise between them.
Yet, come evening, Borzul had still not returned to camp, and Tucat had begun to grow worried. If the Lasat had wandered off into the ruins of Thrass, had he found himself trapped or in danger? Or perhaps worse, was there another, less scrupulous expedition working somewhere nearby that had abducted Borzul during the previous night? Perhaps even an unknown creature native to the moon that had taken the Lasat as food?
Further searching was out of the question, however, for the crimson flares were coming with increasing regularity, and the ruins of Thrass, along with the expedition camp, were bathed in red light as dark as spilled blood.
It was in this red glow that Vrak once again began to pace the perimeter of the camp. With every surge from the damaged sun he felt his hackles prickle, his primal instincts threatening to overwhelm him. Try as he might to deny them, he could not, and soon his senses were filled with the scent of fresh blood and warm flesh, and the small part of his mind that still maintained some level of civilization wished that his friends had listened and restrained him, for he knew beyond doubt that this was a battle he would surely lose.
Indeed, as the flares grew in intensity, so did his urges until, unable to hold back any longer, he threw back his head and issued a terrifying howl, his eyes glistening red and feral in the eerie light. Nothing but beast, guided by the primal urges unleashed by the sun, the thing that had been Vrak fell upon the camp in a blind rage.
The first to go was the droid HCT-10, whose industrial-strength servos proved no match for Vrak’s brute strength. The wild Shistavanen wrenched the droid’s arms from its sockets, pounding the dome of its head until it split, and HCT-10 went down in a shower of sparks and slurred commands.
Next was Sys, who looked on the Shistavanen in wide-eyed terror as Vrak burst into his bunk. He realized that he should have trusted his friend’s instincts and bound him. It was with intense sadness that Sys succumbed to the beast, and it was over in a matter of moments.
Alerted by the sound of the beast’s rampage, Foss had risen from her bunk, retrieving the blaster she had hidden nearby earlier that night. She sneaked from her tent, peering out into the red light in search of whatever monster was laying siege to the camp.
At first, spotting Vrak, she felt a wave of relief, thinking that he, too, was on a defensive prowl—but upon hearing her ragged sigh he turned to regard her, his eyes glowing bright red. Blood dripped from his fur, and she understood with horror that he was the one she sought—the terrible monster loose in their midst.
With a growl, Vrak lurched toward her, teeth bared, talons flashing.
Foss cried out, squeezing the trigger of her blaster. The shot struck Vrak in the shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground with a whimper, smoke curling from the searing wound.
Foss turned and ran, calling for Tucat to do the same, and made for the nearby ruins, where she hoped she might take shelter to either wait out the effects of the flares or protect herself from further attack by the enraged Shistavanen.
As she ran, Foss heard Tucat break for cover, too, along with the other droid, RF-U5, and she gave thanks that her alarm had been heeded.
Scrambling over the tumbledown wall that marked the boundary of Thrass, Foss found herself amongst the ruins of the once great city. Even then, washed in the crimson glow, they retained much of their former glory, despite the slumped buildings and collapsed roofs, the blocked alleyways and sagging roads. She hurried down one such street, leaping to avoid the heaps of crumbling stone, ducking beneath fallen lintels, and weaving through deserted buildings that had once housed families.
Behind her, all the while, she could hear the sound of Vrak sniffing her out, continuing his hunt despite his wounded shoulder, driven insane by the light of the red sun.
The night grew long, and for a while Foss rested, her back against the wall of an old store, her blaster clasped in her hand. Her breathing came hard and fast, her heart thrumming in her chest. She knew she should feel scared, but all she really felt was an intense anger at what had happened. This, she knew, was the effect of the red light, even then, permeating her every thought, coloring her view. Would she, too, succumb to its curse if she stayed there long enough? She understood why the moon remained unplundered, why the previous attempts to explore the ruined cities had all failed. The red light was a form of poison, a malign influence that turned friend against friend, ally against ally. It was the essence of corruption, making her doubt everything and trust no one.
This, though, was a battle she was determined to win. She would not allow the anger to take root and grow. She would fight it every step of the way. And she would make it off that moon alive.
A chilling howl erupted from the ruins close by. Foss tightened her grip on her blaster. Something moved to her left. She shifted, pushing herself away from the wall, twisting her blaster to face it . . . only to discover it was Tucat and RF-U5, emerging from the mouth of a nearby alleyway. She lowered her blaster in relief, waving Tucat over. The other woman looked tired and close to the end of her tether. She was unarmed and walked with a limp, suggesting she’d either twisted her ankle during her escape through the ruins or Vrak had at
some point caught up with her.
Foss took a step toward her, grateful that the two of them might escape together.
It was then that the thing that had once been Vrak burst from the upper story of a nearby building, silhouetted against the stark red light, a raving, frothing beast intent only on the hunt.
Foss screamed as Vrak fell upon Tucat, who, resolute to the last, raised her fists in defense, attempting to keep the creature at bay. Foss tried to get a clear shot, but it was no use; the alleyway was too narrow, and she risked hitting Tucat if her shot went wide.
With dismay, she watched as the creature closed in on Tucat, talons gleaming in the moonlight, and as tears pricked Foss’s eyes, she heard Tucat call out to her to run.
Blinded by her sheer instinct to survive, Foss ran. Through the shattered city she tore, ignoring the snagging of her clothes, the grazing of her limbs. Behind her, the droid rode a spear of rocket fuel, burning the last of its reserves as it tried desperately to keep up with Foss and to keep ahead of the Shistavanen, who followed at a frenetic pace, howling for more blood.
Foss knew that her only hope of survival was to reach the ship, to risk navigating the solar flares and flee the system, for so long as she remained on the moon she was at risk, not only from Vrak but from the sun’s dreadful influence on her own mind.
In the distance the ship loomed large, a glimmering beacon on a stretch of plain. She could hear Vrak closing in on her, and she pushed harder, driving herself forward, step after step. RF-U5 had surged ahead of her, guessing her intent, and had opened the door at the rear of the ship, powering up the systems for takeoff. A few more steps and she would make it.
Foss sensed the monster at her heels, felt the tips of his talons scratch at her clothes . . . and then a roar from out of the darkness caused her to lurch sideways just as Borzul slammed into the running form of the Shistavanen, sending them both crashing to the ground. They rolled, thudding over the rocky terrain, gnashing and snarling as they thrashed at each other—Borzul trying to pin the Shistavanen down, Vrak intent only on finishing off the Lasat who had escaped him once before.