Abyss

by Troy Denning

  Luke was still reorienting himself when a second voice—this one deep and refined—said, “If you have the courage to drink of it, you will have the power to achieve anything.”

  “Anything?” Luke glanced over to find the flat-faced Gotal, Ryontarr, standing to his other side. “That’s a big promise.”

  “There is no limit to the strength that can be drawn from the Font of Power,” Ryontarr replied. “You can drink as deeply as you wish.”

  “Can I?”

  Luke turned back toward the courtyard. The tree ferns pushing up through its disarrayed cobblestones seemed as substantial and normal as his own form, as did the rest of the plant life, the mosses hanging from the arcade pillars and the line of fungi ringing the fountain’s basin. But like the walls back in the station’s meditation chamber, the ornate stonework was shadowy and incorporeal, with edges just distinct enough to suggest sculpted decoration that was both sinuous and grotesque.

  “Seek, before we left the station, you told me that my body still appeared substantial not because it was filled with the living Force, but only because I remained attached to it.” Luke pointed at a hairy yellow club moss as tall as he was. “But the plant life here appears substantial, too—and I’m not attached to it at all.”

  “But another presence is,” agreed Ryontarr. “Go on. You will see.”

  Luke stepped out of the arcade into the light of a harsh blue sun. As he grew accustomed to its glare, he saw that the courtyard sat in the bottom of a deep jungle valley, with steep walls blanketed in alien plant life rising to all sides. The highest wall, located at the far end of the courtyard, ascended more than a kilometer to the dipping rim of a volcano crater.

  Luke continued forward and slowly came to realize that the whole courtyard was filled with the acrid stench of sulfur. The fumes weren’t burning his throat or nose, since he did not actually seem to be breathing them. But they were making him queasy, and as he drew closer to the fountain, something inside him protested so violently that he felt as though he might retch.

  When he reached the basin, Luke could finally see through the curtain of steam to the font itself. It was a jet of water about as thick as his leg, so filled with sulfur and iron that it was as brown as a tree trunk—and so permeated with Force energy that it literally sent him stumbling back, his head spinning and his stomach churning. The fountain was not just tainted with dark side power, it was imbued with it—as if it were rising up from some deep-buried reservoir of dark side energy that had been building, preparing to blow for not just millennia, but since the beginning of time itself.

  Luke resisted the temptation to start hurling accusations. The Font of Power was clearly a dark side nexus, and Ryontarr, at least, would understand what that meant. Such nexuses arose as a result of any number of events—all of them bad. Perhaps a powerful user of the dark side had once lived in the valley—or merely been killed there. The Valley of Dark Lords on Korriban had become a dark side nexus because it had been inhabited by Sith Lords for so long, and a nexus had formed in orbit over Endor after Palpatine died there.

  Whatever the case, as a former Jedi Knight, Ryontarr would have known better than to think Luke would actually drink from the fountain without noticing the nexus. The Gotal had to have brought him here for another reason—some less obvious form of corruption, or perhaps just to test him.

  When Luke finally felt calm enough, he turned to Ryontarr and asked, “What happened here?”

  Ryontarr spread his hands to indicate that he didn’t know. “It’s as much a mystery as the Maw itself,” he said. “But does it matter? If you drink of the fountain, you will have the power to save the Jedi Order from extinction.”

  “From extinction?” Luke felt like he had been hit in the stomach with a Stokhli spray stick. Was that how their problems with Daala were going to end? Or were the delusions going to wipe them out? “Have you seen that?”

  Ryontarr nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Luke turned toward the fountain, wondering if drinking of its waters truly was the only way to save the Jedi Order—if that had been enough to convince Jacen.

  “How does it happen?” Luke asked. “The extinction, I mean.”

  “It has already happened,” Feryl said. He pointed a bony finger past Luke, toward the fountain. “Drink. It is the only way to save your Order.”

  Luke frowned in confusion—until he recalled that time did not exist beyond shadows. Of course, that didn’t mean that the Jedi were safe. Far from it, with young Jedi going mad and Daala determined to bring the Order itself to heel. Given all that, extinction seemed like a real possibility sooner rather than later.

  Luke turned to study the fountain. He could feel its dark power swirling around him, inviting him to use it to save what he had spent a lifetime building, what he loved more than life itself. And he was tempted, just as every man was when he saw an easy way out of a desperate situation. All he need do was return to the basin, stick his head into the dark geyser, and drink of those poison waters.

  But even if Luke were willing to corrupt himself, he wouldn’t be saving the Order. He would only be making it dependent on his own strength, and that was no more a formula for building a strong organization than it was for raising a healthy child. If he wanted the Order to survive him, he had to let it strengthen itself by going through this struggle without him—just as he had to let Ben make his own mistakes, if Ben was going to develop the wisdom to lead the Order after Luke was gone.

  When Luke did not return to the fountain, Ryontarr asked, “What are you waiting for, Master Skywalker? Surely you want to save the Jedi Order?”

  “Of course I do,” Luke said, spinning on the Gotal. “But you and I both know I won’t do that by drinking from this fountain.”

  “Then how will you save it?” Feryl pressed.

  “I won’t,” Luke said. “The Order is strong enough to save itself.”

  Ryontarr and Feryl exchanged glances, obviously disappointed in Luke’s decision.

  “Stop playing with me,” Luke ordered. He fixed his glare on Ryontarr. “You knew I’d never drink from that fountain. So why bring me here?”

  “Why indeed?” A thin smile came to Ryontarr’s lips, then his gaze shifted away from Luke back toward the fountain’s yellow smoke. “Because you asked us to.”

  “There is no need to be angry with us, Master Skywalker,” added Feryl. “If you are afraid to see what you came seeking, it’s no fault of ours.”

  Luke frowned. “Afraid?”

  He turned back toward the Font of Power—and felt a chill of danger sense race down his back.

  Staring out of the yellow fog were a dozen sets of eyes, some too narrow and spaced too wide to be those of any species Luke recognized, others more round and human-like, all burning with the golden anger of the dark side. They were set in puffs of black vapor shaped like heads, more than half resembling the large, wedge-shaped skulls that Luke and Ben had seen still locked in the detention cells aboard the space station.

  The other heads seemed more familiar in shape. One was lumpy and large-browed, with the long head-tails of a Twi’lek. Another was more triangular, with the long snout and triple eyestalks of a Gran. The rest were human, but so badly distorted with sunken cheeks and bony jawlines that they were difficult to recognize.

  Recalling what Feryl had promised back in the meditation chamber—that Luke would be able to look into Jacen’s heart—Luke began to understand why the Mind Walkers had brought him here: perhaps Jacen had drunk from the fountain. He started back toward the basin, searching for the head that most closely resembled his nephew’s.

  As Luke drew closer, a new patch of dark vapor began to coalesce in the steam. He went straight toward it, wondering whether he would be able to speak with it—and unsure what he should ask it first: Why did you turn to the dark side? How could you murder my wife? What did I do wrong?

  By the time Luke had reached the edge of the basin, the dark cloud had grown to the size of a hu
man head. But it had a long cascade of golden hair that fell into the bubbling waters of the fountain pool and vanished, and its eyes were tiny, silver, and deep-sunken, like two stars shining out of a pair of black wells. A tentacle of cold, wet nothingness reached out to Luke, wrapping itself around his leg, then sank into his flesh and began to squirm up inside him.

  Luke gasped and tried to back away, only to discover that he was pulling the vaporous thing along with him. To his astonishment, it appeared to be female, with a large, full-lipped mouth so broad that it reached from ear to ear. Her stubby arms protruded no more than ten centimeters from her shoulders, and in place of fingers, her hands had writhing tentacles so long that they hung down past the rim of the basin.

  Luke.

  The voice sounded cold and familiar and half remembered inside Luke’s mind, a dream-lover’s whisper. The cloud smiled, revealing a mouthful of curved teeth as sharp as needles, then extended a dark tentacle in his direction.

  Come.

  That was the last thing Luke intended to do. Whatever else this thing was, it was female—and that meant it wasn’t Jacen. Luke took a step backward, then suddenly he was in the arcade again, standing between Ryontarr and Feryl. When he looked down at his hand, he was surprised to see that it was neither shaking nor sweating—but somewhere, he felt pretty certain, his entire body was trembling in fear.

  Luke turned and glared into the depths of Feryl’s bottomless eye sockets. “That … was …not … Jacen.”

  “Of course not,” the Givin answered. “Jacen wasn’t even tempted.”

  Ryontarr clasped a hand over Luke’s shoulder. “But don’t feel bad, Master Skywalker. In the end, you did the right thing, too. That’s all that matters.”

  WITH PUCKERED BROWS HANGING LOW AND HEAVY OVER HOLLOW EYES and bony cheeks, Rolund and Rhondi Tremaine reminded Ben of Ugnaughts more than humans. The two Mind Walkers were seated in the Shadow’s galley, sucking down sip-packs of hydrade from the medbay and squeezing raw nutripaste straight from a ten-kilogram storage bladder. Their yellow hair lay helmet-pressed to their heads, their nostrils were inflamed and flaky, and their lips were so chapped and split, it was a wonder the hydrade wasn’t dribbling out through the cracks.

  Having just checked the supplies in medbay, Ben knew that the hydrade had come from the last case, while the nutripaste was the third bladder that he had lost to hungry Mind Walkers in a week. If the drain on their stores continued at this rate much longer, the first thing the Shadow would need to do upon leaving the Maw was reprovision. Still, he did not chase the pair off, or even object to their foraging. What little he had managed to piece together about Sinkhole Station—as the inhabitants called it—had come from talking with hungry Mind Walkers, and on their last visit the Tremaines had proven more informative than most.

  Ben stopped in the galley hatch and studied the wretched pair for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. “I could get you a couple of glasses of hyperdrive coolant,” he said. “Your deaths would be long and painful, but it has to be better than what you’re putting yourselves through.”

  Rhondi shook her own head and pulled the sip-pack away. “Too hard to go beyond shadows when you’re barfing blood,” she explained. “But thanks for the suggestion.”

  Rolund licked a gob of nutripaste off his fingers, then nodded at the equipment satchel in Ben’s hand. “What’s with the tool bag?” he asked. “The last time we were here, you said you were just finishing the repairs.”

  Ben nodded. “I did.”

  He stepped into the galley and started to join the Tremaines at the table, then thought better of it and put the bag on the staging counter opposite. Mind Walkers were ravenous for fluids and food when they returned from beyond shadows, and he didn’t want to share the contents of the satchel. He covered the maneuver by drawing a glass of hubba juice from the conservator, then left the satchel on the counter and turned back toward his guests.

  “We’ve been spaceworthy for two days,” Ben said, joining them at the table. “Now I’m just bored waiting around.”

  “If you say so,” Rhondi said. Her gaze slid across the aisle. “So what don’t you want us to see in that satchel?”

  Ben smiled. “Sorry—I guess that wasn’t as subtle as I thought,” he said. “It’s just an intravenous kit, and I don’t want you guys draining the drip bag on me.”

  “An IV?” Rolund asked, his frown mirroring Rhondi’s so precisely that it unsettled Ben. He still hadn’t established whether they were twins or just regular siblings, but sometimes they seemed as close as Killiks. “What for?”

  “My dad’s suck-nozzle keeps coming out of his mouth,” Ben explained. “He’s starting to get pretty dehydrated.”

  The Tremaines managed to avoid looking at each other, but the glimmer of alarm that flashed through their hazel eyes was unmistakable. For an instant, Ben thought that the problem suggested something was going wrong beyond shadows, and he waited with clenched teeth for one of them to break the news to him. Instead Rhondi deliberately looked away from the IV kit, as if it suddenly held no interest, and Rolund reached out a little too casually to squeeze some more nutripaste from the storage bladder. Then Ben figured it out: the suck-nozzle wasn’t falling out of his father’s mouth.

  Someone was removing it.

  Ben grabbed his hubba juice and took a long drink, quieting his anger and considering what to do. He would learn nothing through furious accusations or violent threats, and would probably only be placing his father in greater danger. So far, the Mind Walkers did not seem interested in killing Luke Skywalker, because if that was their intention, there had been plenty of opportunities to make an attempt over the last week. But they did seem eager to let him die. The difference was subtle yet significant, and that, Ben knew, was what made it the key to puzzling out what the Mind Walkers were really doing here.

  Ben returned his hubba juice to the table, then fixed his gaze on Rhondi and sat waiting with an attitude of silent expectation. She responded by smiling politely, then looking away and squeezing some nutripaste from the storage bladder onto her fingers. Ben continued to hold his gaze on her, keeping his expression thoughtful and attentive, letting her know that he was studying her every move and contemplating what it meant.

  The last time the Tremaines had come to raid the Shadow’s stores, Ben had used the technique and quickly had them spilling their life histories. Like most of the younger Mind Walkers at Sinkhole Station, the pair had actually been born inside the Maw, at a secret colony that Admiral Daala had established toward the end of the warlord era. And like all Force-sensitives born there, Rolund and Rhondi had been deemed unsuitable for military service. Instead they had been groomed from childhood to become intelligence operatives.

  Upon reaching adulthood, they were sent out to spy for the Maw colony. Their assignments had varied widely, from gathering information to subverting security on vessels targeted for appropriation. For the next decade, they served in an espionage organization so efficient that Daala was able to keep the colony well supplied and growing while she managed to assemble and equip the entire Maw Irregular Fleet—all in utter secrecy.

  Then came the Second Galactic civil War and the destruction of centerpoint Station. The Tremaines and the Maw colony’s other Force-sensitive agents began to experience terrible longings to return home. When Daala denied their requests, the longings became paranoia, and the operatives universally began to believe that the whole war had been orchestrated just to expose them. Eventually, the paranoia became obsession, and the agents deserted en masse. Stealing any vessel they could find, they began to return to the Maw, following a mysterious urge to seek refuge in its heart—a compulsion that invariably led them to Sinkhole Station.

  The other Mind Walkers—those who had not actually been born in the Maw—had simpler stories. Universally Force-sensitive, they had all experienced a strong emotional connection to the Maw the first time they visited it. That bond grew stronger over time, compelling them to j
ourney ever deeper into the cluster of black holes. Eventually, they arrived at Sinkhole Station and began a lonely, ascetic existence in which they spent all their time communing with the mysterious Force presence that had drawn them here.

  Then, a couple of years ago, the ascetics’ meditations had started to take them to new heights. They began to see the ineffable truth that all life was illusion, that the only existence lay beyond their bodily shadows in the divine glow of the Force itself. Their presences actually began to leave their bodies as they meditated, traveling to a beautiful paradise dimension where there was no pain or suffering, no anger or fear, only the pure eternal joy of being.

  Ben had no idea what to make of this “paradise dimension,” but it was clear that the destruction of centerpoint Station had changed something fundamental in the Maw. Whatever that change was, it had rippled across the galaxy like a Force nova, turning hundreds of Force-sensitive beings who had once lived inside the Maw into delusional paranoids. And the thing that frightened Ben, that had had him gnawing at his insides like a hungry cancer for the last two days, was that he had lived in the Maw for two years early in his life.

  After a long two minutes, Rhondi finally grew uncomfortable with Ben’s silent scrutiny. Still licking nutripaste from her fingertips, she met his gaze and said, “That’s not necessary, you know.”

  Ben continued to watch her. “What?”

  “The quiet stare,” Rolund answered. “We probably know more about interrogation than you do. If you have a question, just ask. We have nothing to hide, I promise.”

  “Okay.” Ben kept his gaze fixed on Rhondi. “Why don’t you want me to put my father on an IV?”