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

by Tim Lebbon

  The power she sometimes experienced as she molded flesh to her own desires was shocking, but right now she found meaning in her experiments at last. It’s not just alchemy, Dam-Powl had told her. It’s not just learning the art for the sake of it. It’s practicing to be the artist.

  Lanoree gathered herself, resting her hands on either side of the experiment’s small pedestal. Her wound was deep and wide, its edges weeping and its depth burning. But at the moment Dal had tried to kill her, she had gathered herself behind the Force, and it had swallowed much of the impact. If she hadn’t done that—an instant, an instinctive action—her heart and lungs would have been blasted across the mine’s floor. Her brother believed her dead. At least she had given herself a chance.

  She breathed deeply and welcomed the Force flowing through her. Closed her eyes. Shut away the pain that threatened to make her sick, the tiredness that lured her down to sleep, and death. The Force grew stronger in her, tingling in her fingertips and toes, her neck, her wounded chest, and she directed it into her experiment.

  The alchemy came alive within her. It was a burning star with a dark heart. That, I have to watch, she thought, but agonies swept through her, distracting her. The power was wonderful. She smiled.

  The flesh before her started to bubble and boil, and without opening her eyes she stripped off her tattered robe and undergarments and leaned forward.

  The smell of burning flesh filled the Peacemaker.

  She heard a pitiful whine from Tre but did not look. If he was afraid, he could cover his eyes.

  Bogan loomed and she opened her mind’s eye to embrace its darkened surface, and at the same time she felt a warm, wet touch between her breasts. It caressed the angry wound and numbed. Lanoree welcomed the contact and sought more, leaning farther forward until she was directly over the pedestal of flesh. My flesh, my experiment, my very own alchemy of self.

  She sought and found Ashla, a bright spark within the Force. And experiencing herself in balance, the talents she had been made aware of at Anil Kesh, and which she had been practicing for so long, began to flow.

  Flesh flowed with them.

  Bogan is in her dreams. She was there before becoming a Ranger, but only briefly in the company of others. A visit, an education. And in her memory Ashla was always a constant light that drew her away from darkness.

  But in these dreams there is no Ashla. She stands on a hillside on Bogan, beside the ruins of stone buildings thousands of years old, looking up at another Bogan staring down. Two moons, both of them dark. No hope of light.

  Lanoree sprang awake and sat up, clutching her hands to her chest. She was on her cot, still naked but with a thin sheet gathered around her waist. Ironholgs clacked. Tre sat slumped in the corner, head to one side and eyes barely open.

  “The sleeper wakes,” he said weakly, and he looked very sick.

  Beside her cot, on the floor between her and Tre, was the experiment. It was withered and dry now, the petrified remnants of something long dead. Even the blood that had dripped onto its base was dark, dry, and flaked, as if it had fallen long ago.

  She looked down at the wound in her chest and took in a deep, startled breath. Her skin was rough and scarred, and there was a definite depression in her chest. But the blaster hole had vanished. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, twisting to the left and right, and felt no pain inside. Nothing out of place. Nothing missing.

  “You look better,” Tre said.

  “You look worse.” Lanoree stood from the cot and quickly snatched up her clothes, pulling them on, then knelt beside Tre, resting one hand against his cheek.

  “I think whatever poisoned me on Nox has reached somewhere vital,” he said. “My heart staggers. My breathing … light.” His lekku were limp and pale, and she had never seen his red skin so wan.

  “I can help you,” she said, but then she frowned. That withered thing, dry and old … there’s nothing left. “Not how I helped myself, but I can use the Force to cleanse your blood, perhaps. To purge you.”

  “No time,” Tre said. “I’ll be fine … had worse … no time.”

  And Lanoree knew that he was right. There was no time, and perhaps even now they were too late. Dal might not have killed her with the blaster—

  But he meant to, he wanted me to die, he shot me to kill me!

  —but if he reached the Old City and initiated the device, then he might succeed in killing her anyway.

  Lanoree slapped a compartment open and dropped a medpac into Tre’s lap. “Here. Drugs. I’m sorry, Tre. Do what you can for now, and I’ll …” He waved her away.

  She rushed into the cockpit and ran her hands across the Peacemaker’s controls. It felt like coming home. She fired the engines and then paused as the ship shuddered around them. “Thank you, Tre,” she said. “For coming to rescue me.”

  “Only ’cuz I can’t fly your ship,” he said from behind her. She smiled, pleased that he was nowhere near the bad man he had once been. She only hoped he had more time to make things even better.

  The scanners flashed, warning lights chimed. She switched on comm to send a message to Tython, but the flatscreen was a haze of snow and crackles. Nothing manifested, and its level indicator fluctuated rapidly. She could have examined the readings closer, but there was no need. Sometimes instruments gave voice to what was visibly obvious.

  Outside, the skies and surface of Sunspot were in turmoil. The fiery clouds and lightning she had witnessed as Tre and Ironholgs pulled her from the mine had increased. Now they looked cataclysmic. Fingers of lightning thrashed down all around, making the ground shudder and the air bend. The skies were deep red and violent orange, streaked here and there with white-hot flame that ignited massive, thundering explosions high up.

  Malterra was close. Gravities fought as each planet exerted influence over the other, and it seemed that both sought dominance.

  They could retreat underground into the deepest mines, as most of Sunspot’s miners did on every such occasion. For four days they would live down there, feeling the world around them shaking and sensing the great energies being expended above. And then they would climb to the surface to repair any damage, and the mining would begin again.

  Dal planned this, Lanoree thought. He must have. Once in a Malterran year, a quarter of a Tythan year; such coincidence can’t be an accident.

  But Lanoree knew that she had no choice. If she desired, she could consult the ship’s computer and calculate the odds of her being able to pilot the ship out through such a storm. But she never liked hearing the odds.

  “Can you make it up here, strap in?” she asked Tre. She heard a groan, and then his shuffling footsteps as he came to join her. He stank. His breathing was ragged.

  “I’ll probably puke again.”

  “Don’t worry. Ironholgs, prepare for takeoff.”

  The droid clacked and clicked.

  Lanoree increased power to the engines. The ship felt strong and confident around her, and as she took in a deep breath, she felt the same. I am renewed, she thought. She knew that the sense of power and superiority she felt was wrong; her alchemies were talents that should be borne lightly.

  Ashla and Bogan be damned. She had a more immediate fight on her hands.

  “Here goes nothing,” she said, and the Peacemaker blasted from Sunspot’s surface and into cosmic chaos.

  The most direct route from Sunspot to Tython would have taken them straight through Malterra. Lanoree programmed the route four times, and each time the ship’s computer threw out a different alternative. So in the end she took manual control, switched on four screens with different scaled space charts, and trusted her instincts.

  There is no fear; there is power, she thought, and she worked with the Force to see them through. She felt queasy. She convinced herself that it was the result of her healing, as opposed to an unsettling of her balance. But the flesh was strong. The strength, the potential! She could not hold down the excitement she felt at such arcane alchemies.<
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  “We should wait,” Tre said beside her, weak and scared. She did not answer. He knew as well as she how much was at stake, and how much of a start Dal had on them. They had to travel as fast as they could. There was no other way.

  The Peacemaker took a pounding as she curved them up out of Sunspot’s atmosphere, but the craft had been built to last. The noise was tremendous, and she could hardly hear her own shout. The straps cut into her shoulders and chest. The windows shimmered with heat on the outside. Her seat creaked in its mounting, loose panels rattled and shook, and the flight stick vibrated so hard in her hand that soon her fingers and forearm grew numb. She could not let go. She fought the storm through the ship, and calmed herself with the Force, and Dal was large in her mind’s eye.

  She remembered his face as he’d pointed the blaster and his eyes as he’d pulled the trigger, and there was nothing there.

  Scanners showed that they were almost fifteen kilometers above the planet’s surface, and she increased the power to break them into space. Once there, she hoped the abuse the ship was undergoing might lessen.

  But she was wrong. Space itself was being rippled and torn by the forces exerted between the two planets as they rapidly closed on each other. They would pass within half a million kilometers of each other, and that sounded like a comfortable distance. But flying between them felt like dropping a feather into the winds of Talss’s grassy plains. Her instruments went haywire from the magnetic and gravitational chaos dancing between worlds. Ironholgs skittered across the cabin behind her and tipped onto his side, sparks arcing from several slits on his head.

  “Your droid’s exploded,” Tre said. Even his voice sounded dismantled, broken into constituent parts by the incredible assault on the ship and everything within it. “How long till the Peacemaker goes, too?”

  “The Peacemaker won’t go!” Lanoree shouted. “Your brain will fall from your butt before that happens.”

  “I think it already has,” he shouted. She was pleased to hear humor, because perhaps that meant Tre was feeling better. Maybe the medicines he’d taken had helped. But she could not fool herself. She had cured her own terrible wounds using arcane and dangerous Force alchemy, but Tre was different. The poisons eating at him might be slowed, but to stop them would require expert attention.

  She tried to communicate with Tython, to warn them, but all comm systems remained down. An hour after the attempt, her own message came back to her, surprising her with its air of desperation. She felt sick, and Tre vomited beside her. At least this time he turned away from her before letting go.

  “That’s the second time you’ve done that to my ship!” she shouted. No reply from Tre. She glanced across, and he was sitting with his chin touching his chest. His lekku hung limp and unmoving. She switched on the grav unit, but it was malfunctioning in the storms. Her stomach rose and fell. She pressed back into her seat. Something seemed to have come loose in her chest, and she probed delicately, using the Force to feel out the geography of her wound. It felt fine; her fix had been good. Perhaps it was simply her held breath.

  Time moved on, every moment an eternity. The Peacemaker shook and vibrated, and more rattles developed. The ship was being shaken to pieces. Arc lightning struck them three times, the third time such a heavy charge that every seam and hole in the hull, control panel, and structure lit up as if they were being burned apart. Lanoree screamed out loud but could not hear, and she quietly prepared herself for death. I’ll feel nothing, she thought, but she knew what she would see at the moment of death: the madness on her brother’s face.

  But the ship held together and they did not die.

  When they were a million kilometers out from Sunspot, Malterra passed its closest point to that planet. Lanoree watched the passage on one of her scanner screens, and wondered at the immense forces and pressures being exerted there right now. In those deep mines, miners huddled. She had every respect for them and wished them well.

  At last, as the storms seemed to be getting better instead of worse, she ran a full systems check on the ship. Ironholgs was still out of action so she had to do it herself. They had taken a battering. Life support was damaged, but would last them to Tython. One of the laser cannons had been fractured; she shut off the pod supplying it in case of leakage. A fuel rod had ruptured, and she jettisoned it into space. But the hull integrity was good, and all vital systems were functioning. The Peacemaker was well enough to get them to Tython, and that was her only aim.

  She plotted the fastest course that would take them to the Old City and handed control to the ship’s computer.

  As she unbuckled herself and stood to squeeze back into the main cabin, something struck her.

  Lanoree gasped and sank back into the seat. A vision. A blow. A ripple in the Force, far greater than she had ever felt before. A ship, she thought. A battle. Death and chaos, and one among them …

  Then the vision was gone, leaving barely an echo in its wake. Dal’s ship? She thought not. There was no sense of recognition at all; indeed, a coldness had taken her, and an alienness seemed to haunt the shadows of her mind. Soon, that too was fading.

  Lanoree shook her head. Then she lifted Tre from the copilot’s seat and carried him to the cot. His eyes opened as she lay him down.

  “Half a day and we’ll be entering Tython’s atmosphere,” she said.

  “Just blast me into space. I’ll feel better that way.” He sat up slowly and squinted at Lanoree.

  “How do you feel?”

  “How do I look?”

  “Covered in vomit.”

  “That’s how I feel.”

  Lanoree sat next to him, frowning. “Everything feels so strange.”

  “Well, you did just heal a hole in your chest. You should be dead.”

  She thought of her experiment and the life she had coaxed into it.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I need rest.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Wake me when we’re approaching Tython.” Without even hearing Tre’s response she fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

  Her dreams are strange. She is aware that they are dreams, yet they are more chilling than ever before. She constantly tries waking herself, but she does not feel in control.

  There is a figure. Tall, cloaked, armored, an unmarked helmet hiding its features. In its hand is a weapon the like of which she has never seen before. A sword, but strange, with pure Force as its blade.

  The same dream, again and again.

  Only hands on her shoulder and a familiar voice bring her up from that vision.

  “Lanoree. Tython. But something’s very wrong.”

  Approaching Tython, the chaos on the planet’s surface was evident.

  “What’s that?” Tre asked.

  “Force Storm.” Lanoree had never witnessed one from space, but it looked far more violent and widespread than any she had experienced before. She tried contacting Master Dam-Powl again, but though her comm unit was now functioning, no signals could pierce the storm.

  “He’s started already,” Tre said. “Whatever it is your mad brother’s trying to do, it’s begun.”

  “Maybe,” Lanoree said. And that was her great fear. If Dal initiated the device, perhaps Tython’s first response would be a shudder of the Force and storms to rip across the planet’s surface. “Maybe I’m too late.”

  She jumped into the cockpit and steered them into a dive into the atmosphere that was all but suicidal.

  Every moment might be their last. She would make them all count.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE DESCENT

  Never forget that we were brought here. Tython is a planet rich in the Force, but it is also a place of mystery, unknown to us, existing here for eons before the Tho Yor arrived. Its age is deep, its stories deeper. We are but residents here; our true home is in the Force.

  —Master Deela jan Morolla, 3,528 TYA

  For Tre, the descent must have been terrifying. The Peacemaker blazed, hull creaking in protest at the incredibl
e forces and terrible heat, flames smearing the windows, acceleration pressing him back against the seat with enough pressure to make his ears and nose bleed and his lekku drain of blood. Lanoree barely noticed these physical effects. The Force was in turmoil, and the closer she came to home, the more lost she felt.

  But though she sought Dal and his mad plans, she was not convinced that this storm was connected to him. She sensed it all across Tython, erupting from the deep places of the world and springing from the widest skies. The disturbance was powerful, but the planet still stood solid.

  She thought again of that vision in her dream and the strange feeling she’d had flying through the violent space between the inner planets.

  Dal is my focus, she thought. Gripping the flight stick she urged the Peacemaker into an even deeper, more dangerous descent. She was forcing the ship past its design constraints and thrusting it into the danger zone. But there was no other way. Every breath she took between now and finding Dal might be one breath too long, and her last.

  The Peacemaker burst from the clouds above Talss. She headed west, skimming hilltops, watching scanners confused and disturbed by the ongoing Force Storm, and an urgent chiming marked a partial return of her comm signal.

  She immediately sent a signal for Master Dam-Powl. It was answered in moments, and the flustered Master appeared on the Peacemaker’s flatscreen.

  “Lanoree,” she said. “I … the worst.”

  “Master! Dal gave me the slip, but I know where he’s going, and I know what he has.” Dam-Powl’s image seemed not to be hearing the message. She looked older than before, distracted, and she was not as well presented as usual. Lanoree could not even tell where the Master was transmitting from; the room around her was clean, modern, empty.

  “… ship from out of system …” Dam-Powl continued speaking, but Lanoree could not hear. She adjusted some controls, checked transmit levels. But the storm’s effects were insurmountable.