Still, time passed, and the kilometers unwound. Sunset found Morgan at the point where the desert gathered itself into dunes. The road had disappeared by then, lost below tons of drifting sand. Morgan steered the floater between a pair of wind-sculpted mounds, found a U-shaped harbor, and brought the vehicle to a stop.
The Rebel knew there might be, and probably were, better camping sites back in the foothills, but finding them in the dark would be difficult if not impossible, and he was tired.
It took the better part of an hour to secure the skimmer and find the equipment he needed. Dinner consisted of stew and an ice-cold beer. It was refreshing, but the temperature dropped while he was drinking it, and that caused him to shiver. He donned a jacket, emptied the can, and started some tea.
The sun disappeared behind a mountainous dune while Morgan washed his dishes and laid out the makings for breakfast. He found the utility lamps, connected them to the skimmer's distribution panel, and flipped a switch. The darkness took a sudden jump backward.
The wind shifted and blew from the north. Morgan shivered, shoved his hands into his pockets, and felt something approach.
Under normal circumstances, he would have refused the Force. But this was different. He was alone, a long way from help, and extremely vulnerable. The talent and the information it provided were suddenly welcome.
The Rebel tried to appear casual as he strolled over to the Codger, killed the work lights, and grabbed the blast rifle. The metal felt cool and reassuring as the human fumbled for a glow rod and moved away. Intruders, if there were any, would approach the vehicle, and lie had no intention of being there when they arrived.
Sand shifted under Morgan's boots as he climbed the side of the dune. Perhaps he'd be able to see who or what the creature or creatures were from a higher vantage point.
Ruusan had three small moonlets, which Jerg's crew referred to as "the triplets." The first satellite popped over the eastern horizon as Morgan arrived on the dune's wind-sculpted summit. The breeze made his collar flap.
The moonlight cast a surreal glow over the desert, and Morgan used it to reconnoiter. Something, or an entire group of somethings, had entered the area. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there.
Then, just as a second moon joined the first, he saw what he had come for. The natives were shaped like medicine balls. There were fifty or sixty of them, all told, rolling before the wind, headed his way.
The very idea was threatening. Morgan raised the blast rifle, sighted on the lead organism, and knew he couldn't fire, not without provocation. He lowered the weapon, felt for the electrobinoculars, and switched them on. Though larger, the creatures appeared as little more than green blobs when viewed on infrared.
The third moon appeared, adding even more light to the scene. Now Morgan realized the natives were possessed of specialized flaps of skin that acted as vanes. The natives could navigate in whatever direction they chose by raising, lowering, or turning their flaps.
The indigs, for he had no other name for them, had a ghostly quality. They ran before the wind and tacked as a group. They sought out minor obstacles such as boulders, hit them in a manner that threw their bodies high into the air, and tried to float as far as they could.
Something about the manner in which they moved communicated such freedom that Morgan wished he could be among them, rolling through the night, bouncing with joy.
It was that behavior more than anything else that caused Morgan to smile and sling the blast rifle over his shoulder. He was halfway down the dune before the risks associated with such a course of action occurred to him.
The bouncers, for that name seemed more fitting, deployed wind vanes, wheeled to the right, and rolled toward the dune. By the time
Morgan reached the bottom, the natives were a hundred meters away and starting to slow.
Morgan wasn't clear on the dynamics of the process but watched in mute fascination as tentacles appeared from within, curved back over globe-shaped bodies, and writhed when they touched the ground. Morgan theorized that the subtle manipulation of the tentacles, plus friction with the sand, allowed them to brake.
The ball-shaped beings coasted to a halt, stood on gathered tentacles, and opened their enormous, light-gathering eyes. It was then, as the Rebel looked into their immense pupils, that he realized the creatures were nocturnal. One of the natives "walked" forward on its tentacles, made a series of whistling noises, and waited for a response.
Morgan shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, folks, I don't understand."
A second globe approached, used one tentacle to smooth the sand and another to write with. Morgan was pleasantly surprised. The syntax was strange, the words archaic but understandable nonetheless. He translated as they appeared. "Finally, you have come." Morgan scanned the text again. The words seemed to suggest that the bouncers had been expecting him. But that was impossible. He held the glow rod in his left hand and used the multi-tool as a stylus. "You were expecting me?"
The native read the words, smoothed them away, and wrote his reply. "'And a Knight shall come, a battle will be fought, and the prisoners go free'. So saith the poem of ages."
Morgan frowned. It seemed the natives had mistaken him for a character mentioned in the poem of ages - whatever that might be. He chose his words with care. "Forgive me . . . but you are mistaken. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Jedi Knight."
This declaration seemed to stump the bouncer, but only momentarily. There was a great deal of whistling and warbling as he, she, or it consulted the other members of the tribe. Then, with a great sense of dignity, the native wrote his reply. "An alien knight will arrive from the east. He will fly through the air, stay the night in the city of Olmondo, and request directions to the Valley. So it is written. Knights can manipulate the Force; you manipulate the Force, so you are a Knight."
Morgan felt a sense of wonder. Could the bouncers manipulate the Force? He doubted that was the case, but it seemed clear that at least some of them could feel it, which explained how they had managed to locate him. Morgan swept the words away. New ones replaced them. "It's true that I have the ability to detect fluctuations in the Force and that I flew across the desert, but the similarity ends there. Please allow me to point out that I didn't stay in the city of Olmondo. Nor have I asked for any directions."
The bouncer read the words, exchanged whistles with its companions, and wrote one word: "Wait."
Morgan watched in amazement as bouncers danced every which way, formed a circle, and started to dig. Half of their tentacles ended in deltashaped appendages which acted as small but efficient shovels. Sand flew, and a crater appeared.
Then, just as Morgan was about to ask what they were doing, the activity stopped. A bouncer nudged the human from behind; lie stumbled and paused in front of the newly formed depression. His light wobbled over the ground, slipped into the crater, and settled on something completely unexpected - the top of a stone obelisk. It was black, and alien script descended into the sand.
The bouncer's leader, assuming that was what he was, wrote with one tentacle and pointed with another, not in the direction of the recently uncovered artifact, but straight downward. "Olmondo."
Morgan felt ice water trickle through his veins. Olmondo! A city was buried beneath his feet! Who knew how tall the obelisk was? Twenty? Twenty-five meters? How the bouncers knew where to dig was a complete mystery, as was the extent to which his actions were aligned with the poem. Was the whole thing coincidence or something more? What if the bully had lived? What if Morgan had learned to use his talent, had studied under a Master, had carned a Knighthood? Would fate have drawn him here, to complete a mission laid down hundreds of years before? There was no way to be certain.
The question sounded innocent enough but raised the very real possibility that the bouncer was making fun of him: "Are you ready for the directions?"
Morgan rose early, prepared a Spartan breakfast, and went looking for the natives. While the human's instincts had d
riven him to find safety among the dunes, the bouncers had preferred to spend the night out on the plains.
He rounded the same dune he had climbed the night before, fully cxpccting to see the bouncers nestled into the sand but was domed to disappointment. Rather than the bouncers themselves, he found a series of shallow depressions, each covered by what looked like a carefully shaped, plastic tent which was actually made of thin, semitransparent tissue, the same sort of stuff he'd seen next to the bread-loaf-shaped rock. Unlike most tents, each of these contained a strange, inverted cone.
A closer inspection showed that the early morning sun had already warmed the air inside the tents to the point where water droplets had started to form on the inner surface of the cones. Morgan could see that as the water globules grew larger, they would eventually slide down the super-slick surface into the tissue-lined reservoir at the bottom of the depression. Later, when the bouncers emerged from whatever hiding place they had retreated into, a supply of water would be ready and waiting for them.
The solar still in the skimmer's survival kit operated on the same principle. It was an interesting example of the manner in which environment can shape evolution. The human was careful to leave the depressions undisturbed.
Morgan scanned the entire area but was unable to find any trace of the black obelisk. The bouncers had reburied the monument rather than risk discovery. The human felt honored by the extent of their trust and wished he'd been able to spend more time with them.
As on the day before, the morning hours were quite enjoyable. The air was cool and crisp, and his spirits were high. The path, memorized from directions received the night before, carried Morgan into the foothills. The land appeared untouched at first, consisting as it did of rocky, scree-covered hillsides; hard, flat-topped mesas; and deep, flood-carved canyons.
But as time passed, and Morgan's eyes grew accustomed to his surroundings, he saw hints of the distant past. Or did he? Had nature carved out the seemingly uniform terraces that interrupted a distant hillside? Could that pile of boulders have been part of a building once? Was he tracing the course of a riverbed or an ancient thoroughfare? There was no way to be sure.
One thing was certain, however. As the sun rose, and Morgan made his way even deeper into what he had come to think of as "the badlands," the Force thickened and acquired substance.
With it came the weight of his own doubts, failures, and inadequacies. Did he believe in destiny? And was this particular destiny his?
The possibility that it might he filled Morgan with regret. What had the poem said? "And a Knight shall come, a battle will be fought, and the prisoners go free?" What battle? What prisoners? Was the poem little more than historical gibberish, or was it something important, something he should have prepared for . . . . The human hoped for the first - but feared the second.
The hours passed, an ancient roadbed appeared, and he followed it upward. The air, which should have grown progressively thinner with increasing altitude, became thicker instead - so thick that the
human found it difficult to breathe and wondered why the skimmer was unimpaired. He checked his indicators and checked them again. All were green.
Then, as the road took a turn to the right and passed between piles of rubble, he felt something tickle the back of his mind.
The touch was feather light initially but evolved into a steady hum. The vibration increased until his flesh tingled and his teeth started to chatter.
Morgan wanted to turn back, wanted to run, and knew that was the way he was supposed to feel. Someone, or something, didn't like visitors and knew how to keep them away.
The worst part was the knowledge that while he had the natural, inborn talent necessary to handle the situation, it wasn't enough. He lacked the knowledge and experience necessary to make use of the talent. That being the case, Morgan could do little more than observe and pass his observations on to someone else.
The road gave way to an open area guarded by towering rock formations that looked like sentinels. Curiosity plus a sense of personal connection drew him on. The skimmer slowed and coasted to a stop.
Morgan saw an opening, its edges ragged with broken rock, and knew the mystery lay below.
The human left the skimmer and started for the hole. The atmosphere thickened, turned to quicksand, and pulled at his legs. Voices, so distant that the words merged into a single moan, caused his head to throb.
The opening, created when the roof of a cavern had collapsed, was a half-kilometer across. A single shaft of light found the bottom, and shadows hid the rest.
The stairs were covered with debris but were still navigable. They curved to the right. The voices continued to moan, and some grew more distinct than others. They pushed, prodded, and pulled at his consciousness. These were the prisoners of the poem, the entities he'd been sent to rescue but lacked the resources to help.
Finally, having curved halfway around the vertical shaft, the stairs came to an end. Morgan stepped out onto the Valley floor, moved under an entrancelike arch, and was stunned by what he saw.
A shaft of sunlight slanted down to illuminate the Valley's floor and the hundreds upon hundreds of monuments that covered it. Some were little more than upright slabs, made from rock that had been part of the chamber's ceiling. Others were more elaborate, ranging from blocky tombs to beautifully sculpted statues, miniature temples, and spires covered with alien hieroglyphics.
The human knew without being told that this was a place of death, a prison full of unreleased spirits, and a repository of unthinkable power. Power so vast, so terrible, that it could extinguish a sun, plunge an entire solar system into darkness, and condemn billions to death. But only if it fell into the wrong hands ....
He pulled the multi-tool from its pouch with the intention of scratching a warning into the archway but couldn't control it. The device fell from nerveless fingers and struck the ground-
The moaning grew to a crescendo. Morgan placed his hands over his cars, but the sound originated from within. He back-pedaled, his head splitting with pain, knowing he had failed. All he could do was hope that a real Jedi Knight would discover the place, fight the battle that must be fought, and release the prisoners from their bondage.
Tears flowed from Morgan's eyes and wet his beard as he climbed the stairs and made his way to the skimmer. No matter what, he told himself, no matter how many excuses offered themselves to his lips, he couldn't escape the fact that he had failed.
It took hours for the wails to fade, for the atmosphere to release him from its cloying grip, and for the Force to feel as it should.
During the days it took to reach the fort and the weeks that passed during the voyage home, Morgan never forgot the Valley or the spirits trapped there.
So strong were his feelings that the experience was still very much on his mind many months later when his activities on behalf of the Alliance brought Morgan into contact with a Jedi named Rahn.
It had been a long day, and they had finished dinner. Wee Gee removed dishes from the table as a fire crackled in the fireplace and shadows danced across the walls. When the conversation took a philosophical turn and the moment seemed right, Morgan took the plunge.
The words were halting at first, but Rahn was a good listener, and clearly interested . . . so interested that he leaned forward and placed his chin on his fists. Rahn had dark skin, high cheekbones, and extremely white teeth. His eyes sparkled with excitement. "Yes! Go on. The Master Yoda told me about such a place, and I searched for it. What did you find there?"
Morgan finished the story and watched, fascinated, as Rahn paced back and forth. Energy seemed to crackle around him. His robes swirled and were attacked by sparks from the fire. "This is important . . . very important. So important that I must gather a team to investigate. We need experts to probe and understand this place. Then, with you as our guide, we will make the necessary journey."
Morgan remembered the cavern and shuddered at the thought. Still, if it meant freedom
for the voices that continued to fill his head, then he would go. "Whatever you say. I'll provide the coordinates."
"No!"
The answer was so vehement that Morgan was taken aback. Rahn saw his confusion and held up a hand. "Sorry, my friend, but the knowledge is safer with you. Much safer. I must travel. And there are those who hope to find me. Hide what you know and leave instructions for someone you trust. Those who follow the dark side would like nothing better than to find this place and use it for evil."
Rahn left the following day, and the Knight who never was etched is secret into stone and left it for his son. Then, like countless farmers before him, he plowed and planted. Winter waited, and people must eat.
He was murdered a few months later.
CHAPTER TWO
The planet had been a beautiful place, possessed of long, sunny days, snow-topped mountains, rushing rivers, and broad, fertile valleys. Valleys that had been cleared, farmed, and owned by four generations of settlers.
But that was before the Rebellion, before the resources it had consumed, and before one of the SoroSuub Corporation's mineral reconnaissance droids settled into the middle of Farmer Zytho's Braal field, tested the soil, and literally hit pay dirt.
Little more than three local months had passed before the liners dropped into orbit, and the settlers were "paid" for their farms and shipped to a desert world on the edge of the Rim.
The liners had barely broken orbit when a pair of SoroSuub freighters appeared and sent shuttles down toward the surface. Ten thousand machines rumbled out of their durasteel bellies, established their positions via global positioning satellites, and growled toward preassigned sectors. Each could eat, process, and deliver fifty tons of ore a day. The Emperor would get his weapons - and the share owners would get their money. Nothing else mattered.
This explained why the roads had fallen into disrepair, many of the once-tidy farmhouses had started to sag, and previously green fields had been transformed into machine-carved pits.
Dark Forces: Rebel Agent Page 2
