by Tim Lebbon
“I don’t care about the bomber,” Lorus said. “There are five people dead who I care about, including two of my militia.”
“Sir,” the woman said, quieter.
“I didn’t kill any of them,” Lanoree said.
“They’re dead because the bomber was following you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m here on Je’daii Council orders,” Lanoree said.
“Why?”
“I can’t reveal the purpose of my assignment.”
“Why?” Lorus smiled.
Lanoree did not respond. She looked down at her feet and probed softly, so gently that she hoped he would not feel. What she discovered did not surprise her. He enjoyed the power his position gave him. He was something of a bully toward his staff. And though he had been in the presence of Je’daii before, he had no love for them.
“I’ve done nothing to make you hate me,” Lanoree said.
Lorus’s face fell.
“I know your mind. And there’s more I can do.”
“Not if I press the purge button on your cell and fry you to a crisp.”
Lanoree said nothing. Silence was more effective. It projected confidence.
Lorus snorted. “Je’daii. Rangers! I knew a Ranger once, several years ago. Vulk. Did you know him?”
“No,” Lanoree said. But she remembered the name and the sadness of people she loved. “My parents knew him.”
“Arrogant. Superior. He moved me out of the way once. I was a constable then, still in training, and he’d arrived close to here with two younger Je’daii. Those you call Journeyers. Too young and unable to control the powers you give them. Troublesome. There was a dispute at the time, two of the richer Kalimahr families bickering over mining rights for some distant asteroid or other. Vulk said he’d come to settle the dispute before it came to blows. Never did know why the Je’daii were involved, don’t care. But when I confronted him in the street—told him I had questions and that he and his young troublemakers would have to follow me—he told me there wasn’t time. Said he had a meeting to attend and a gift to make, otherwise blood would be spilled. And then he lifted his hand and … moved me aside. Picked me up, almost throttled me with that damned Force you people mess with. Dropped me out of his path. Walked on, without giving me another glance.”
Lanoree smiled. She could not help it, even knowing it would only enrage this proud, simple man more. But she had heard her parents talking of Vulk, and this sounded exactly like the man he had been. He had never permitted anything to obstruct what he thought was right.
It was a lesson her parents had taught her well.
“You’d laugh at me, Je’daii?” Lorus said.
“Only at Vulk’s memory.”
“You did know him, then?”
“No. Like I said, my parents did. And it was more than several years ago. Vulk died eight years ago in a Cloud Chaser crash a thousand kilometers from here. But I guess you’re so parochial you won’t have heard about that. He’d already killed fourteen Xang terrorists by then, and he was mortally wounded. He steered his ship away from populated areas, saving hundreds, maybe thousands. He crashed into the sea.” Lanoree said no more. But she watched Lorus’s expression change, subtly but definitely, and she was glad. It seemed the man had some measure of honor after all.
“So tell me about the dead Noghri,” Lanoree said.
Lorus grunted.
“I’ll not move you out of the way.” She smiled, pleased to see a twitch of response on Lorus’s lips. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded at one of the militia. The woman pressed switches on a control panel on the wall. The heat field imprisoning Lanoree shimmered and then faded, whispering away to nothing. Lorus sat and gestured at a seat opposite him.
“He’s known,” Lorus said. “There wasn’t much left of him.” Grinning, he pointed back over his shoulder at the female militia. “Ducianne found one of his toe claws snagged in her uniform. We identified him from security footage taken from the docking tree. What we don’t know is why a preacher would become a killer.”
“A preacher?” Lanoree asked. “He was Noghri, wasn’t he? Preaching isn’t something they’re known for.”
“A cult,” Lorus said. “There are many across Kalimahr, too many to keep track of. Unlike your Tython, we’re inclusive here. We welcome any species, creed, or breed.”
“As do we. But Tython is a challenging place for a non-Je’daii.”
“Yeah. Well. The Noghri was a Stargazer.”
“What do you know about them?” Lanoree sat down, at ease, comfortable. She was loading her questions with the subtlest of Force pushes, barely a suggestion. And perhaps now she was getting somewhere.
“Not much,” Lorus said, shrugging. His red Sith skin looked strange in the artificial light, the color deeper, bloodier. “They’re one of the lesser sects, hardly any members, no real influence. One of many who seek to look beyond the Tythan system, way back into history. I’ve had no dealings with them before. They’ve never caused trouble.” He frowned. “Until now.”
“They want to go home,” Lanoree said, remembering Dal once saying, One day I’ll find my way home.
“There are many who maintain an interest in where our ancestors came from. Who resent that we were ever brought to Tython at all.”
“Are you one of them?”
“Not at all,” Lorus said. “I’ve got it good here.”
Lanoree asked more questions about the Stargazers, information held on them, and any prominent members. She barely touched Lorus’s mind, and he seemed not to notice. Without hesitation he consulted an old computer in the wall and gave her a name and address.
“Ah, yes. Kara. She’s not openly affiliated with the Stargazers. But she’s incredibly rich—made her fortune in swing dust mining—and it’s whispered that she funds them, lets them stay in properties she owns around Rhol Yan and beyond. But these are just whispers. I’ve found no proof.”
“Really?” Lanoree raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve had no need to look. The Stargazers haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Five counts of murder?”
“And that’s for me to investigate. Please, Je’daii, don’t explode this one. She’s one of Rhol Yan’s elite, and it would leave much more of a mess.”
“I’ll do my best,” Lanoree said. “I’m grateful for your time.” And with a nod to the two militia she exited the holding room. She glanced back once to see Lorus staring into the inactive cell, frowning, and probably already wondering who had interrogated whom.
Leaving the militia post, Lanoree quickly lost herself in the bustle of late afternoon.
“Someone tried to kill me,” Tre said.
“Seems quite common around here.”
“You, too?”
Lanoree shrugged. “Who was it?”
“I didn’t see. A shot, then they were gone.”
“You don’t seem overly troubled.”
“It’s not the first time it’s happened.” Tre Sana tried to exude calm, but there were signs of his being flustered—his clothing a little awry, eyes flickering left and right, lekku unsettled.
They had met outside Susco’s Tavern and then walked through the streets. It was evening now, and everywhere was a different kind of busy. Earlier, the walkways had been thronged with residents and visitors all going somewhere, a purpose in their strides. Now the ebb and flow was less urgent, destinations less certain. They drank and ate, and music emanated from many establishments, vying for the greatest volume and subtlest lure. It was a more relaxed scene than earlier but more chaotic.
Dirigibles floated above the city, the larger intercontinental ships higher up illuminated with extravagant displays that danced and pulsed light across the sky. Smaller craft drifted down and rose again, ferrying people from docking trees up to the larger vessels. Several were moving away to the east, and Lanoree wondered what lay in that direction.
She had already contacted
her Peacemaker to ensure that everything there was as it should be. Ironholgs had spat and buzzed as if annoyed at being disturbed, but all was well. She yearned to be back in the ship, alone.
“Easy for someone to follow us out here,” Tre said.
“I’ll know,” she replied. And perhaps she would. She was much more alert now, and she kept her mind open to threatening thoughts, sudden movements, being the focus of attention. The Noghri had been more than willing to kill innocent bystanders to get away from her—until he’d made his broadcast, at least—and she could not let crowds be protection. But she could not know everything. And there were people like Tre who had been altered specifically so that they could not be read.
Master Dam-Powl, you should have told me more, Lanoree thought.
“My brother knows I’m coming,” Lanoree said.
“And he’s trying to kill you?”
She did not answer. The Noghri’s camera had been plugged into the comm column to send the images of her, and it seemed likely that they were sent to Dal. From what the Je’daii Masters had told her, he appeared to be the head of the Stargazers, or this faction at least. But why would the Noghri be so willing to kill himself rather than be captured? Lorus had called them a cult, but they worshipped nothing. They craved a single purpose, but that made them more like a criminal gang than a group of twisted fundamentalists. They were an enigma she had to solve.
“So when are we seeing Kara?” she asked.
Tre’s surprise was obvious. His extra lekku twitched in annoyance because she’d found out something he’d believed was a secret. Perhaps concealing something from a Je’daii had given him a sense of power. Either way, his brief display of petulance did nothing to endear him to Lanoree.
“Don’t worry—I didn’t pluck her name from your mind.”
“I know,” Tre said, trying to smile again. “So where did you hear about her?”
“I have my sources.” It would do no harm to let Tre think he was not her only contact on Kalimahr.
“I spoke to her people earlier, as I said I would,” Tre said. “Before the bastard took a shot at me. She’ll see us at midnight.”
“Where?”
“You don’t know everything about her, then,” Tre said, confidence restored a little.
“Only her name and where she lives.”
“And never leaves. Rumor has it she hasn’t left her apartments in thirteen years.”
“Why?”
“She can’t. Come on. Time to introduce you to some Kalimahr culture. It’s close to where she lives—we can kill a couple of hours.”
Lanoree didn’t like his turn of phrase, but she followed as he led the way, always on guard, keeping her mind open, listening and sniffing for trouble. She sensed plenty. But for now, none of it was for them.
The Pits was aptly named. A subterranean tavern deep beneath one of Rhol Yan’s more salubrious quarters, it displayed more than anything Lanoree had yet seen of the mix of cultures, people, and philosophies that existed on Kalimahr. She had heard of gladiatorial combat on Nox; and once on one of Mawr’s moons, visiting the Je’daii recluse Ni’lander, she had witnessed the results of a contact knife fight. Ni’lander had told her that the fights were often arranged for money or standing, and that the losers did not always survive. On such an outpost as Mawr and its moons this had not surprised her. On Nox, such brutality was commonplace. But she’d believed Kalimahr was better than that. More settled. More civilized.
On the surface only, it seemed.
Even as they descended the freestanding spiraling staircase that led down through a large, poorly lit cavern, the scent of violence, excitement, and desperation reached her. Human sweat, Krevaaki must, the sweetness of a Sith’s blood—the smells filled the cavern, rising on wafts of noxious heat from the tumult below.
The tavern was built across the cavern floor thirty meters beneath the streets. Its focal point was a deep trough in the floor, a natural pit in which two combatants fought. One was a big human with an extra set of arms grafted on his hips. The other was a Wookiee, pelt patchy, hide lacerated; and around his neck was a heavy control collar, lights flickering as electrical pulses urged him into greater fury. His screams were as much of pain as anger. He carried a metal-studded club, and it was already glistening with scraps of the human’s flesh.
“This is culture?” Lanoree asked as they descended the last curve of staircase.
“The ass end of it,” Tre said. “You grow used to it. They use mostly criminals and murderers. That’s what they say, anyway. I try not to question it.” He glanced back at her, and his three lekku touched and turned, telling her, A good place to remain anonymous.
And much as she hated to admit it, that was probably more true than even Tre knew. Because not only was the Pits filled with all manner and race of people, it was also somewhere that leveled everyone. Every patron was here for the drink and the fight. A person not riled up, drunk, and filled with bloodlust would stand out.
It would be easy for Lanoree to see anyone following them.
They reached the floor and Tre shouldered his way to the nearest bar. There were several placed around the pit, and most were doing brisk business. Lanoree followed, senses alert, hand on her hip close to her sword.
A thud, a gargled scream, and a shout. Hands waved, and the crowd roared. Betting chips were illuminated; and across the other side of the pit, several gambling pods were rushed as people went to claim their winnings.
Lanoree had no desire to see, but still she stood on tiptoes to look down into the pit. The Wookiee was leaning against one wall with blood caking his ragged beard. For a moment she thought he was the loser, but then a mechanical arm swung down and speared the human’s corpse, hauling it out, swinging it over the heads of the crowd, and flinging it into shadows at the cavern’s extremes.
She heard a splash, and then a frenzy of movement as unseen creatures made short work of the vanquished.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Every decent shred of her Je’daii self wanted to close this place down. And her very basic human side wanted only to leave. But this was an easy place to cast her senses around, and every mind she touched was transparent to her. Base emotions flooded the Pits. Unpleasant emotions, true, such as she had learned to control many years ago during her Je’daii training. But simple to read for any threat or sense of being observed.
Tre nudged her arm and handed her a drink. “Not the best wine on Kalimahr.”
“You surprise me.” She took the glass and looked around. “You come here often?”
“No,” Tre said. Perhaps that was disgust in his voice.
“These places are allowed?”
“Tolerated. They channel aggression, and the Council of Rhol Yan welcomes that. So they turn a blind eye.”
“How civilized,” Lanoree said. “You really are an inclusive society.”
“It’s not my society. I just come here from time to time.” He took a sip. “Anyway, don’t judge Kalimahr from this, Je’daii.”
“Difficult not to.” She initiated comm to the Peacemaker, asked if there were any communications from Tython or elsewhere. There were none.
“Next bout’s beginning,” Tre said, and this time his distaste was obvious. Perhaps he downed his rough wine to dull his senses. He was becoming more of an enigma than ever.
In the pit, a wretched-looking Cathar, naked but for the spiked manacles around his wrists, stood shivering. And as three barred gates were opened and human-sized, gray-skinned creatures slithered shrieking through curtains of fire, Lanoree was reminded of the second time she had saved her brother’s life.
Heading south across the Strafe Plains toward Stav Kesh, Lanoree hopes that she and Dal will find common ground. Away from Thyr and the Silent Desert even she breathes a sigh of relief, though in their time at Qigong Kesh she made great advances in her understanding of Force Skills. She tingles with the Force. Her mind is awash with it. Yet she has to remember her promise to her paren
ts.
This journey is as much for Dal as for her.
“Getting colder,” she says.
“Good. I like the cold.” Dal is quiet, but when they do talk, she senses no animosity from him. Perhaps he is just thinking things through. Trying to settle himself, find balance. I wish Mother and Father were here, Lanoree thinks, because they might be able to make sense of their son.
Since leaving Qigong Kesh he has seemed much more at peace, and she hopes this is a good sign. Their journey to the southern coast of Thyr was an interesting one, meeting people on the way, sharing stories with Journeyers undertaking their Great Journey in the opposite direction, and having the opportunity to see some of Tython’s great sights. And once at the coast, the great Cloud Chaser airport was a wonder to behold. High on the cliffs above the roaring ocean, they sat together to watch several big airships launch, drifting down and out across the ocean in silent majesty.
Their turn had come, and the flight south to the tumultuous continent of Kato Zakar had been their last chance to rest.
Kato Zakar was often referred to as the Firelands because of its extremes of volcanic activity. But much of this volcanism was located in the continent’s heartlands almost thirty-two hundred kilometers south of the coast where they landed. Their destination was much closer. In the high mountains almost five hundred kilometers inland lay Stav Kesh, the Temple of Martial Arts.
The Strafe Plains are a tough, cold environment—windswept scrubland prone to frequent localized Force Storms and scattered with leaning columns of ice-sharp silica and dangerous magma-filled swallow holes that can appear without warning. Molded largely by the elemental Force itself, the Strafe Plains are a manifestation of what draws every living thing together. The Force as a tactile thing. Powerful. Sharp.
As the landscape rises steadily into the high mountains, Lanoree remains alert, watching the wildlife of the Strafe Plains. It’s said that the common spinner birds can sense a swallow hole’s imminent emergence, and that they will fly spirals around any area about to erupt.
