by Claudia Gray
His silent sympathy broke through where no words ever could have. She leaned her head against Geode’s side and let the tears come. Patiently he waited with her as she cried, for a dozen reasons and none at all.
Reath waited until everyone else was preoccupied—by grief, duty, or whatever else—then assembled his equipment pack. He prepared as though for a mountain expedition, with cables and clamps, and double-checked his lightsaber. Nobody noticed him leave the Vessel and enter the station.
He had the space to himself, it seemed. After what happened to Dez, nobody from the other refugee ships had any interest in exploring further. The only sounds were the whirring and beeping of droids; the 8-Ts were placidly mulching, as though nothing had happened. To them, he supposed, nothing had.
Reath found the small planter he’d put down earlier and placed it back within his pocket. Then he eased his way into the tunnel, going step by step, mindful of his own slow, steady breathing. Body and spirit as one, whispered Master Jora’s voice in his memory.
His feet landed on the lower ring with a metallic thud. If anyone else were on the station, they’d have heard him for sure. Reath was grateful he could keep this secret for a while.
He found the exact curve they’d taken before, found the circular door. Opening it again seemed both foolhardy and necessary. Since he knew about the helix rings, he reasoned, he could avoid setting them off.
Then Reath froze as he saw, through the small slits in the door, a faint, flickering light.
This wasn’t the burning blaze that had forced his eyes closed when Dez had been…lost. It was dimmer, smaller. It was also unfamiliar, unauthorized, and severely suspect. If someone was tampering with Dez’s death scene—or if it turned out that this wasn’t Dez’s death scene—
With one hand on his lightsaber, Reath slowly pushed open the door until he heard a bloodcurdling scream. A small figure scrambled back through the tunnel. “Get away from—Reath?”
“Nan?” he said. She sat on the floor, heavy with relief that it was only him. “What are you doing down here on your own?”
“Investigating.” She pushed her chin forward and folded her arms. “Since everyone else seems like they’re ready to write Dez off as dead, when there’s no body—”
“No proof, nothing!” Relief eased him, and he sat down beside her. “I thought I was the only one who wasn’t ready to accept it.”
Nan measured him with a look and apparently found him more interesting than before. “Okay. So at least some of you Jedi can think for yourselves.”
Reath didn’t think there was any shortage of that, really, but there would be time later to talk to her about the traditions of dissent within the Order. “What have you found so far?”
“Just got here, really. Where should we start?”
“We move forward through the tunnels, watching out for the rings, and see if we can find evidence of what this area was used for. Knowing its purpose might give us some answers. Maybe Dez was transported somewhere else, or taken farther down to an even lower level than we’ve found yet.”
“That’s more or less what I was thinking.” Nan got to her feet; she seemed to have been studying the rings’ fastenings at the floor level, but to no avail. “Let’s move.”
The tunnels stretched into what seemed like an infinite darkness. Reath kept his glow rod steady, as did Nan, but the sound of their footsteps echoing into the unknown got undeniably creepy after a while.
To break the silence, he said, “How did you come to be Hague’s ward? If it’s upsetting—”
“A person’s growing up without their parents, and you wonder if it’s upsetting?” But Nan seemed more amused than offended.
“Sorry. I realize that parents are important, but Jedi are raised in the temples together from early childhood. They take most of us in when we’re only toddlers, and that’s all we’ve ever known. So I don’t assume people come from families. Maybe I should.”
Nan shrugged. Her long ponytail fell over one shoulder, framing her round face as though the shadows that surrounded them had draped themselves over her. She’d carried the blue streaks in her hair through to the ends. “It’s okay. My parents died well. They did their duty.”
Had they been military? Reath decided the subject was too sensitive to pry for more information.
“That was about two years ago,” she continued. “Hague was already a family friend. He may only be in charge of a small ship these days, but once he was a brilliant commander. When he offered to foster me, I thought, great. This way I’ll get to learn from the best.”
“Your parents probably would’ve liked that part,” Reath offered. “Right?”
“Yeah. They would’ve loved that part. My dad always said Hague was as good a strategist as he’d ever known.”
Definitely military, Reath decided. He wondered whether their home planet was a strongly militaristic one, or whether Nan and Hague were part of a smaller subculture. The sociological ramifications would be ripe for study…if that were the kind of thing he still got to do. Which it wasn’t.
Another turn in the tunnel brought their glow rods to bear on a second door, this one far larger than the first. No slits or windows, just black, forbidding metal. They exchanged glances, then hurried forward to investigate.
“Control panel,” he murmured as he checked it out. Patterns of interlocking circles suggested functions, which let him hazard a guess. “Unfamiliar configuration, but this looks more like it’s for maintenance, rather than primary programming.”
“I agree,” Nan said. “It’s not what you’d call user-friendly.”
While Reath couldn’t read the unusual symbols etched on the panel, the lack of colorful sections or a larger screen definitely suggested that it wasn’t for general use. It was a place for service workers to double-check settings, that kind of thing. This indicated that people wouldn’t normally travel through the tunnels on foot.
What drew his attention next was the thick plating around the edges of the door. “Does that look like an airlock to you?”
“One hundred percent.” Nan took a deep breath. “On the other side of that door is the void. You can feel the chill in the air.”
It was true. Reath had already begun shivering. “To me this looks like it was once a launching station for smaller transit pods. The rings probably powered the pods to leave the station. Their own engines would kick in once they’d cleared the airlocks.”
Nan hugged herself. “And Dez got in without a starship—but the tunnels launched him anyway.”
The hope had been to prove that the rings hadn’t instantly disintegrated Dez. Now Reath had to pray that they had. The alternative was that Dez had been flung forward at bone-crushing speed and then ejected into the vacuum of space. He knew from research that death took longer in outer space than most people realized—up to fifteen seconds to lose consciousness. Not a long period in any absolute measure, but an excruciating amount of time to suffer the hopelessness of mortal terror. And if Dez hadn’t been able to exhale, then he would’ve endured the oxygen expanding within his lungs until they ruptured.
Reath closed his eyes. All he could do was bear a kind of witness to that suffering.
“Are we done here?” Nan said, very quietly.
“Yeah. We’re done.”
As they emerged from the tunnels, Reath heard the sounds of—celebration?
That sounded so wrong right then. He and Nan shared a look, and he could see that her consternation matched his own. The two of them hurried toward the airlocks, where the Orincans and the Mizi were chuckling and clapping hands on one another’s backs. Leox stood nearby, his expression more solemn, but not unhappy.
“What’s going on?” Reath asked.
“Looks like our time on this depository of strangeness is coming to an end,” Leox said. “The galaxy at large just got a communique from the Chancellor of the Republic.”
Nan lit up. “Is hyperspace cleared? We can travel again?”
“Travel’s still limited.” Leox sighed. “But there’s an open channel to Coruscant. The senior Jedi have decided it’s time to go back home.”
Cohmac’s lightsaber flew from his belt to his hand, igniting the second he touched it—
Which was very nearly too late. The giant white serpent slithered toward them at incredible speed, a fine spray of salt marking its way like the wake of a ship. Its mouth opened wide, revealing three huge fangs and a throat already rippling in anticipation of prey.
As soon as his blue blade illuminated, it was joined by another—Master Laret’s—and two white ones. Cohmac had wondered whether it was really necessary to have a two-bladed lightsaber, whether maybe Orla wasn’t just showing off.
Faced with the serpent’s fangs, however, he could see the appeal of an extra blade.
In the very second the serpent struck, all three Jedi attacked at once—Cohmac from one side, Master Laret from another, and Orla from top and bottom simultaneously. The serpent had no chance; it was dead almost within the same second. However, its weight and momentum sent it barreling forward, knocking Cohmac and Orla onto their backs before it skidded to a permanent halt with its head at the very mouth of the cave.
“Okay,” Orla said, panting, as she clambered to her feet and they all switched off their lightsabers. “Rule one. Don’t ignore the local myths if those myths are trying to warn you.” She pointed toward the carving of the serpent.
Cohmac nodded. He felt foolish, and angry with himself for having let his master down. “Master Simmix assigned me the legends reading for a reason. I thought they were merely stories. Background that might inform us a little. So I didn’t pay enough attention.” The stories had indeed spoken of serpents a long-ago goddess had banished to the planets’ moons. Why hadn’t he reflected on the fact that most legends were rooted in some truth?
It didn’t matter that much, really. The serpent was dead and no longer a threat. His mistake had not cost them. Yet Cohmac remained haunted. Probably that was because he couldn’t help seeing the faint resemblance between this creature and the Filithar. Most specifically, to Master Simmix.
Some masters were stern and severe. Some were remote. Some continually challenged their Padawans to defend every opinion, every action, every thought. All approaches could be successful in molding excellent Jedi Knights. Yet Cohmac had always been grateful for a master who was kind.
Now Simmix was gone, and they’d left his body behind as though it were nothing.
It is nothing, Cohmac reminded himself. Crude matter. Master Simmix is one with the Force.
Those thoughts helped. But only so much. He was left with the hard knowledge that he’d ignored Master Simmix about the legends. That he’d carelessly neglected his duty to keep his master safe.
That he’d gotten his master killed.
All the while, Master Laret’s head had been bowed and her eyes shut. She was renowned for her ability to find paths with the Force, and it appeared she’d done so again when she said, “The caves form a network beneath the planetoid’s surface. It is logical to assume that the Directorate has hidden the hostages somewhere within this network, and the Force tells me they are not far away.”
“Then let’s go,” said Orla.
Already Master Laret had closed her eyes and was reaching out through the Force to see if any other giant serpents, or other similarly unfriendly wildlife, might be lurking within the tunnels. Cohmac did the same.
Nothing close, he thought. But that’s not the same as “nothing.”
The next time Isamer sent minions to prepare a hideout, he’d make sure he sent people with some sense of comfort. Yes, the caves were all but impregnable to anyone who didn’t have in-depth surveys on hand. (Which Isamer did, and he’d wiped many droid memories to ensure no one outside the Directorate could say the same.) But it was cold down there, dark and cramped, and the fool humans who’d chosen that spot hadn’t considered that the top of the cave came too low for the comfort of a Lasat. Isamer was tired of being hunched over, tired of the weary hostages huddled in one corner, tired of waiting for this operation to end.
Already the governments of E’ronoh and Eiram had taken the first inevitable steps: offering ransom for their stolen royalty, ineptly investigating the kidnapping and following the false trails Isamer had left for them, making clumsy public appeals for calm that had only panicked their citizens more—and asking for the help of the Jedi.
As the Hutts had explained, the greater activity between the Republic and that area of space made it inevitable that some planet or other would turn to the Jedi in a crisis. By creating a crisis at the right time and place, Isamer and the Directorate could ensure that the Jedi rescue mission would fail horribly. Both rescuers and hostages would, by the end, be very messily dead. The Jedi Order would mourn its lost Knights, these planets and all their neighbors would realize neither the Republic nor the Jedi could help them.
Then nothing would stand in the way of the enslavers’ bounties. Planets would instead turn on other planets, on their own subcultures or nondominant sentient species, offering up people to enslave in the hopes it would keep them from being enslaved themselves. Fear would triumph. And Isamer would profit.
One of the guards barged into the inner chamber, salt dusting his cloak; in the corner, both Thandeka and Cassel flinched. “Lord Isamer,” the guard said, “in the ship we found the dead body of the Jedi.”
Too easy. Isamer narrowed his golden eyes. “How many Jedi did you find?”
“Just…just the one, Lord Isamer, a Filithar, no one else was with—”
“Fool!” Isamer growled. “They would not have sent only one Jedi on this mission.”
The lieutenant pleaded, “But we saw no tracks, no signs that anyone escaped.”
“You did not see them because the Jedi are cleverer than you. They know how to conceal themselves. Others must have survived and escaped. Find them and eliminate them, now!”
The guard scurried out. Isamer, in a fouler temper than before, coiled in his chair and stroked his claws over the hilt of his blaster. He hoped they’d get to the end of this soon, because he was in the mood to slaughter someone. Anyone. A glorious battle with a Jedi would be preferable, but merely executing the hostages would do.
If it weren’t for the Jedi’s vaunted mental abilities—the potential that they might’ve sensed the absence of the hostages—Isamer would’ve killed them already.
In the corner, Thandeka’s eyes met Cassel’s in mutual dread. Cassel whispered, “I hope the Jedi find us soon.”
“You put more faith in the Republic and their wizards than I do,” Thandeka said.
“That’s funny.” It was the first time there had been any edge in his voice, any hint that their worlds were enemies. “Seeing as how Eiram’s the one that begged for their help.”
“I doubt it.” Surely Dima would’ve had more pride, Thandeka thought…then imagined she were the one safely at home while Dima was in danger. Thandeka would’ve stopped at nothing to get her queen back. She would’ve pleaded for help from any who might give it, even the Republic. Even the Jedi. Still, pride made her add, “You can’t know that.”
Cassel sighed, the spark of animosity already extinguished. “No, I suppose I can’t. It’s just strange to think of turning to the Republic when we’ve always guarded against them, well, swallowing us whole.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have thought of it like that.” She leaned back against the wall and wished for painkiller to treat her throbbing head. “Maybe we should’ve thought about having someone to turn to in times of crisis. About not standing alone.”
“Our two worlds have always stood apart from each other,” Cassel pointed out, but he sounded thoughtful. Well, thoughtful for him, anyway. “Not even the history books know why. It’s just tradition. That’s not actually a very good reason to do anything, is it?”
Thandeka looked at Isamer, and at the heavy blaster holstered on his side. “It doesn’t seem like it
at the moment.” Anything that would’ve kept them out of this situation—even friendship with E’ronoh—would’ve been better than sitting there with her wrists bound, waiting to die.
Orla had thought Cohmac and Master Laret were probably being paranoid about the threat of more snakes. How many giant serpents could eke out an existence on a nearly dead rock in space?
Answer: at least five so far.
Fangs slashed down at Orla, backed as she was against the cave wall. Nearby the vibrating hum of Master Laret and Cohmac’s lightsabers told her they were fighting off the fourth of the serpents that had attacked them so far, but number five there was all hers. Unfortunately, she was wedged in a place that didn’t allow her to strike. But it didn’t allow the serpent to reach her, either—by a few centimeters—so she’d take it.
“It doesn’t make any sense for you to be here,” she muttered at the snake. “How does a carnivorous species manage to live on a moon with almost no other animal life?”
Enough of that. She knew she had a bad habit of looking only at what was logical and sensible, which obscured the fact that the galaxy was neither.
Orla centered herself in the Force as best she could. Breath in, breath out.
Then, as the serpent lunged open-mouthed toward her again, she jabbed her lightsaber straight forward—burying it in the roof of the serpent’s mouth.
It howl-hissed, a ghastly sound. Through the Force she felt the creature’s pain and knew a moment of pity for it, a mere beast that had only been hunting for food.
I’m sorry, she thought. But “food” is not something I ever intend to be.
When the serpent collapsed, dead, Orla could see Cohmac and Master Laret standing over another dead snake. Cohmac was breathing hard, and even Master Laret looked slightly ruffled.
“We’re clear for now,” Orla said. “Right?”
“I believe so,” replied Master Laret. Her expression reflected none of the immense relief Orla felt at the thought of no more snakes. Instead, grave and thoughtful, she moved closer to her Padawan.