3 ABY
Zak anxiously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Dr. Ktrame Zaposug's patient voice came from behind him.
"I told you already, Young Master Arranda, there is nothing we can do at this point."
"I know, Dr. Z. I still don't like it."
Zak was standing at the patient room window as usual, staring in forlornly at his big sister. It had been more than two weeks since they'd gotten her out of that horror ward, but she showed no signs of improvement. All she did was sit with her back wedged into the corner, tangled up in her bedsheets, staring into the cold infinity of the universe.
He couldn't admit it out loud—he didn't dare—but Zak had thought she'd be better by now. He had been so sure. The Arrandas were tough, and Tash—big, bossy, galaxy-brained, straight-laser Tash—was the toughest of them all. It wouldn't be the first time she'd gotten herself out of trouble...so why didn't she?
Why couldn't she?
Didn't she have the Force on her side?
"You shouldn't spent so much time here, Young Master Arranda," the doctor said fussily. "You'll worry yourself sick."
"Don't tell me Mr. Shaparo said you've gotta babysit me too," Zak groaned.
"Assistant, please hand me that datapad...thank you."
So the doctor had already moved on? Typical adults. One second they wouldn't leave you alone, the next they forgot you were even there. Zak rolled his eyes, then turned around.
Then he gasped.
Perched on his stool meters away, the labcoat-laden Ruurian doctor was busy organizing things in a large medical supply cabinet. His human assistant, dressed in grungy coveralls, had a horribly scarred, misshapen face with only one eye, a smashed and permanently swollen nose, and a crooked mouth.
"Hello there," grunted the assistant cheerfully, drooling as he grinned.
For a long moment, Zak could neither move nor speak.
This man was Cornelius Evazan. Better known by some as Dr. Death, he was a notorious murderer, a practitioner of dark science who had been sentenced to capital punishment in at least a dozen star systems. Also, he was—
"Y-you're dead," Zak was finally able to say. "Boba Fett killed you on Necropolis."
"Hrn, news to me," Dr. Evazan grunted.
Zak turned to Ktrame Zaposug, thinking to demand an explanation or to warn him, but the Ruurian seemed thoroughly engrossed in rummaging through the storage cabinet. What's more, blobs of darkness were moving across the room—curving and spiraling up and down the walls, across the ceiling and floor, over desks and chairs and pieces of equipment. Zak stared and realized that the "blobs" were in fact masses of marching bugs! Baragwin beetles, Circarpousian spiders, kretch and kundril...
A sharp tapping made Zak jump and turn back around. He gasped again at the sight of his sister, who had come right up to the glass. "Hey, little brother."
Relief flooded his veins. "Tash! Is—I can't believe it—is it really you?!"
Tash stuck her tongue out a little and crossed her eyes. "As far as I know."
"You're better! You're better! You're finally better!" Zak couldn't stop himself from jumping up and down like a little kid. The only problem was, the patient room was still locked; he'd need to find the door controls. "Just hang on, and I'll let you out of there!"
"Let me out? Zak, you don't get it. You've got to let yourself out!"
"What do you mean?" Zak's hand stopped before the control panel as he remembered Dr. Evazan and the bug swarm. He whirled, thinking to defend himself, only to find that he was locked inside the patient room, while Tash was now in the medbay lobby.
Instinctively Zak moved for the door, only to find his way blocked by two tall, furry creatures in Rebel Alliance uniforms.
Utric Sandov and Deena Demarakesh stood side by side, hands on their hips, leering down at him with nauseating familiarity.
Zak backed away from the Bothan rapists on wobbling legs. His head turned rapidly in search of a weapon or another exit. Neither presented themselves; instead the patient room started to get crowded as more threatening figures ringed the walls. As well as Dr. Evazan, he saw the hateful gray face of another evil scientist, Borborygmus Gog. There was also an upright mass of seething drog beetles, Superintendent Versch from the Hospital Platform, and the alien skull-faced, homicidal war droid Necrosis. Most of the beings were unfamiliar, but no less horrible for it—a towering dark-skinned human with crazy eyes and mechanical limbs, half a dozen bulb-eyed cephalopods with glistening wet tentacles, and still other beings that practically seemed shapeless, like masses of shells that wept slime and viscera—all surrounding him, laughing and jeering at him in languages that blasphemed against intelligibility. The ceiling and walls were covered in hieroglyphs that breathed and moved, alien forms made of hellish red light.
Yet through it all Zak could still see his sister through the window, in a little gap between two of the monsters. The medbay behind her, however, was replaced by a black abyss where star clusters, nebulae, and other celestial bodies streaked past at incredible speeds. They seemed to be in all colors of the rainbow—as well as terrible shades and hues in spectra that Zak had never seen before and never would again.
"TASH!" he screamed. "HELP! HELP ME!"
Tash did not help. Instead she cupped hands around her mouth and raised her voice over the din of her brother's tormentors. "I can't help! This is something Yoda talked about! Look, Zak, just try to stay calm, laserbrain! They haven't got you yet, right!?"
Zak turned in circles, gaping and gasping like a grounded gooberfish. "Wh—w-what—but what do I do!?"
When he looked toward Tash again, he realized that the room was moving away from her. She was so far away that she had to shout, but her voice was discordantly upbeat. "You'll figure it out, little brother! I know you will—because if you don't, you're gonna die!"
"Okay now—it's time to chuff snooga, little man!" said Deena Demarakesh as he and Utric Sandov moved forward.
Zak lurched upright to find himself alone, in bed, in his room at Searchlight. Throwing the blankets to the floor, he screamed at the dark, empty walls until he mercifully passed out again.
Kyle crouched with his back to the left of the door. Every muscle in his body was primed for action, every cell charged to full like the E-11 blaster rifle cradled in his arms. Without turning his head he checked each squad member's positions, then finally met the gaze of the soldier called Mort. The veteran's goateed face was tight and deadly, all business, his eyes the eyes of a hunter. His robotic hand clutched a small explosive charge.
Everything was ready. Kyle freed one hand and nodded. Mort stepped up to the door, placed the charge, and scurried away. Able's boast that his brother was quieter than Shadorian dragonfly was proven true.
The charge went off with a crackling puff. As the fragmented door fell inward, Kyle tossed a Merr-Sonn C-14A stun grenade into the dark. Its flash was sharper, higher-pitched.
"Go," Kyle ordered, and his team surged into the murky, dust-filled shack. Sweeping beams from tactical glowrods cast transient shadows against harsh duracrete—containers and broken droids, furniture, and humanoids.
Boots thundered and blasters discharged, fiery bolts tearing through darkness. Kyle's body moved like a well-oiled machine, moving, swiveling from one target to the next, his E-11 singing the same old song. Dark gray heads disappeared into fragments and mist. Torsos sagged and fell with smoldering holes.
The squad spread out and took the shack like a tidal wave—all moving as one, but each bringing death in his own preferred flavor. Two trains of stitched light were blue—Able and Mort's weapons. Emerald packets spewing from the being at the front formed less a line than a cone of fire—Maxis. As Kyle neared the wall opposite their entrance, a series of yodeling shouts drew his eyes right. He looked to see Polio Jode spinning and leaping, assailing one hostile with strikes too quick to see; the vibroknucklers on his fists were mirror-white streaks. Abruptly the Nautolan handsprang away, and his victim crumpled to the dusty floor, barely in one piece.
Dropping a final target with a controlled burst from his E-11, Kyle kicked a plasteel crate over and crouched behind it for cover. "Status!" he bellowed.
He was answered by a chorus of shouts to the effect that the structure was clear of hostiles—which it always had been, because the "hostiles" were just dummies made of polyplas foam. It was a shame that the Bryar Force didn't have the resources to set up anything more elaborate than this. Sure, they were using hot blasters and explosives, but this was nothing compared to Kyle's Omega Exercise in the Imperial Academy.
He stood erect. "Saren, how's our objective?!"
"Got 'im right here, Kyle!" chirped a voice that was far too singsong and upbeat for his taste. Turning, he found Rianna Saren grinning like a holo-pinup girl as she slung a large sack of Handooinian grit flour—their stand-in for a subadult hostage—over her shoulder. "He's okay—and he's almost as handsome as you!"
Halfway back to being a Imperial officer, Kyle kept from rolling his eyes and snapped his comlink on. "Tac-Comm, objective's secure. We're pulling out."
Jan's voice answered. "Copy that, Katarn Team. Black Beetle's got a finger on the trigger. You have twenty-three seconds to evac."
"Everyone move! We're pulling out!"
The wave reversed itself and strained out through the blown-open doorway: first Max (giggling like a lunatic), then Rianna Saren with the "hostage"; after that came Kyle, Mort, Able, and finally Polio Jode bringing up the rear. Bursting out under Orion IV's atypically cloudy sky, they hustled up a slope to the rocky crest where Tac-Comm had been set up.
Nearing the crest, Kyle was gratified by the lovely sight of Jan Ors, smiling and showing an upturned thumb against shining heavens checkered with violet and white. Katarn Team joined her amid her circle of portable scanning and comms equipment. While the rest of the squad checked their gear, Rianna Saren sauntered past Kyle, winking, and bent over to lay the Handooinian grit flour out on the ground.
"Kowabba ding-doodabba!" announced a deep alien voice.
The squad turned. At the very peak of the hill some distance away crouched the Gran, Payvees. His thick-fingered hands were excitedly working on a control pad linked by several wires to a thick helmet encasing the top half of his head. Scintillating clusters of multicolored lights played between bundled antennae and scanning rods that sprouted out between the lenses of his rangefinder goggles.
He stood in the shadow of a looming two-meter droid, the latest product of his endless toils in Searchlight Station's workshop. Salvaged from a battlefield of the Clone Wars, it was a Baktoid heavy combat model. From its ovoid torso of bronze and black-colored armor sprouted a pair of missile launchers which took the place of arms.
Originally designed for use against aerial targets, this unit—named 5/DX—had relied upon a highly specialized sensor and targeting package. Unfortunately, those components had been destroyed in its last, forgotten battle, and Payvees was unable to replace or reverse-engineer them. Instead he had cobbled together a scanning helmet which, he hoped, a spotter could use to effectively transmit the necessary targeting data to 5/DX's lobotomized droid brain. And if it was not effective...
Well, the rest of them were standing far enough away.
"KOWEEBA!" Payvees shouted, which was Huttese for, Say your prayers.
Everyone except the Gran fell prone. Twin cones of flame erupted from 5/DX's shoulders, leaving black trails. An instant later the dilapidated supply shack blew like a cheap firecracker. Debris rained in sheets at the bottom of the hill, crackling briefly, then falling silent.
Max was the first to his feet—bouncing, cackling, shrieking in ecstasy—while the others gingerly picked themselves up.
Kyle thought he knew what Jan was thinking as their eyes met.
Sure, they have issues, her smile seemed to say, but we got the job done.
For her sake, Kyle wanted to smile back, but he couldn't. Good against dummies was one thing, but good against the living—good against monsters—was something else.
The week had been strange like that, with these training exercises: the planning and setup, the briefing, the mission itself; the debriefing, then typing up a report. Such things were familiar to some Bryar Force members, but alien to others. Despite Kyle's gripe about nobody shooting back at them, the real purpose of these exercises was to test how they all worked together in a combat situation. The squad was made up of different people each time, and the form of each mission was likewise divergent. Fitting such a framework of organization, procedure, and discipline into the daily routine at Searchlight, with such a ragtag collection of beings—to Kyle it was a dreamlike parody of his old days in the Empire and the Rebellion.
This, he realized, confirmed that his galaxy was well and truly upside down: that already he had gotten to thinking of his career with the Rebels as part of the old days.
Shaparo took the offered datapad and sat back in his chair. "Thank you, Commander Katarn, Miss Ors. I expect your usual thoroughness."
"Count on it," Kyle said. "You know, I've realized something: you never told me where you picked up that homicidal lagomorph."
"Have you found you have a problem with Makinene as well?"
"Personally? No—but in a firefight...you've got to watch where you put him."
"No two dejarik pieces are alike." Shaparo's gaping eyes lowered, pale fire dancing in them as he lit a cigarette. "One needs to watch where one puts all of them...but tell me, is there still trouble between you and Vox?"
Kyle frowned. "He hasn't been spewing out his exhaust port around me—or Zak Arranda—so no."
"That's good, because in the next exercise I want to see the two of you in action. Do you object?"
"You're the boss," Kyle said.
Staring down at the datapad's blank face, Shaparo shook his head. "No; I am only one part of the brain."
Ribbons of fresh smoke were scattered to mist by the overhead fan. Never before had he looked so wasted, so old. Since returning to Searchlight, Kyle had only rarely seen members of the inner circle in places like the commissary, the lounge, or the living quarters; but he'd never once seen their leader there, never once found him in a posture of anything resembling rest or leisure. Even the poor lighting of Shaparo's office—his actual home, to all appearances—did not hide the newly sallow shade of his teeth, nor the growing bagginess of his eyes.
Troomis, Vewin, and the others showed similar symptoms. Even R2-Q8 was affected—the vibration of the astromech's internal components was coarser now, more of a rattling. Frustrated though Kyle had been with their apparent lack of progress, he knew well enough that complaining to them would be worse than useless; already they were pushing themselves to the brink.
"Boss! Boss!"
Troomis's words were thrown from the far side of the control center. Kyle and Jan stepped apart as the pale-faced, wiry human practically jumped through the doorway. His dark hair had grown into a sweaty, tangled mop, and the roots of a beard patched his pale cheeks.
"What's happened?" Shaparo asked.
The man's little eyes paid brief visits to Kyle and Jan. "That image caster Katarn found? We cracked the code. Garek says there's one projection file on it. Just one."
"Can you turn it on?"
"You bet we can."
Shaparo was out of his chair. "Show me."
Troomis barked for the Sullustan as he led them out. The control center became a flurry of activity, people stacking articles, closing drawers, and dimming screens or shutting them down. The Twi'lek, Bertos Goodner, dragged a stool to the center of the room. Then Garek approached, carrying the image caster in both hands, R2-Q8 tootling along at his side. The device itself came nested in a peculiar stand made of some rich red polymer, with splaying stems that looked like the arms of a Plavonian starfish.
Carefully, almost reverently, the Sullustan placed the device on the stool. As usual, the day's production of smoke had coalesced into a cloud overlooking the room.
"Garek?" prompted Shaparo.
"[This ain't no ordinary image caster,]" Garek said. "[Apparently it scans and then draws along the contours of whatever room it's in. Like a simple light projector, except other objects don't get in the way. Image casters of this type are usually seen in holotheaters, or high-end nightclubs—the GlitterGlow on Coruscant, the Glow Dome on Adarlon, except those are much bigger. The tech in this one is miniaturized. Top-notch. Wherever it came from, it was a custom job, and very expensive.]"
Shaparo stood over the image caster. "Troomis told me there's only one program in its bank."
"[Yeah, but we could only unlock access. It won't let us copy or remove it.]"
Troomis pulled a chair from its desk, flopped into it, and yanked out a cigarette. "Meaning if we wanna know what these slimesuckers put on this thing...we're gonna have to turn it on."
Kyle realized that his heart was thumping.
Crix Madine, Utric Sandov, Deena Demarakesh...
He'd seen what these people had done—and what sorts of things they kept on their devices. He remembered what it did to him when he saw those things, the places his mind was taken when he saw them. The rage, the disgust, the indescribable feeling of seeing, knowing that the universe itself was wrong, that he was wrong to be in it, if these things were part of it too.
He looked to Shaparo, to the shifting faces of the inner circle: Bertos, his lekku as limp as ropes, his eyes and sunk deep in his crimson face; Vewin, his teeth chattering; Garek, his fat lips mashing the end of his own cigarette; the astromech droid, its dome swiveling aimlessly; Troomis taking a drag, his eyelids shut and fluttering.
Do you understand, Katarn? he'd said once. We have been staring at this shit for weeks. Weeks. If we've got to see it—
He looked to Jan, asking with his eyes if she wanted to go. her face was durasteel.
Electricity played over Kyle's palm—the urge to take her hand. He stifled it.
His mind was made up. He would not avert his eyes.
For a long moment Shaparo only gazed into the glossy black projection bulb in the center of the polymer starfish. Then he retreated a few paces and drew himself up.
"Turn it on," he said.
Garek pressed the button like he was poking a kell dragon, then withdrew. A few beeps, then a bass hum that Kyle felt in his lungs. Everyone started as the glowlamps abruptly dimmed to a quarter of their intensity; darkness crashed against them.
"What the hell's—?" Jan started.
"[Light absorption field. Same like they use in some nightclubs, like I mentioned.]"
Garek had to raise his voice because the tone was intensifying. Kyle felt its vibration passing from his feet to his crown, and he flexed his fists against it in agitation.
The sound retreated. A neon red glow enveloped the room and tinted the pall of smoke, turning it to a devilish visitant. The glow oozed from a panoramic mural that blanketed walls and ceiling. It was a labyrinth: hieroglyphs within sigils, sigils within landscapes, landscapes within forms, forms within bodies—
Bodies—
"Stalbringion hells." Troomis craned his neck back, the cigarette falling from his lips. Shaparo ground out his in the nearest ashtray, his hand moving like in slow motion.
Everyone who was standing turned outward, away from the image caster, and plunged their eyes into a red abyss. The whole thing was in motion, sigils rotating and figures exchanging positions—but all of it was hypnotically slow, like they were observing the movement of an inverted constellation, the orbits of black stars.
Kyle wanted to block it out, but his eyelids no longer obeyed him. He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth of his own. Every response, every conceivable emotional reaction, every gram of blood, every particle of him that was human, froze itself in abject rebellion against existence. All that remained of him was the part that saw and remembered and recorded and sorted things like files in a databank, that recognized interlocked meanings and connections.
One such connection: the bodies—the humanoid bodies—distinguishable by size—distinguishable by position—distinguishable by action—
All in all all told all things considered it was crude and primitive iconography with no real detail in the figures the bodies the humanoid bodies, so there was no particularity there was no particular form they were no particular species they were not individuals—
But they were distinguishable by size relative to each other, distinguishable by position by action by what they were doing the things they were doing, the larger that is adult figures were doing to the smaller that is subadult figures, their positions their actions the things they were doing—
Things they were doing that Kyle had seen before that Shaparo and Troomis and the others had seen before because those things had been on datapads they had seen, Crix Madine's datapad Deena Demarakesh's datapad, so Crix Madine and Utric Sandov and Deena Demarakesh had done those actions in those positions which had an interlocked meaning.
The meaning being: this was a template.
This was a rubric.
These were instructions.
Minutes must have passed. Had anyone said anything?
There were other things to see, though, more things than instructions, hells within hells. Fractals of madness. Symbols that twisted together into thorny vines. Growth-coated ovals and polygons that looked like weeping alien eyes or orifices or infected wounds. More bodies presented themselves: non-humanoids, squat blobby things with egg-shaped eyes and flailing tendrils.
Once in a while there was a sigil that stood out, a ring made of bricks with clean, almost sharp edges, and only a void within. And there was even more, always more, but all in all—
All in all it made Kyle consider two contraries.
One was that he'd rather have not been born than see something like this.
The other was that if he'd been born for anything, it was to stop the people whom it had come from.
And to make sure those people would never have a chance to do anything ever again.
When the moment—the eternity—the hell—seemed to have reached its fullness, Kyle moved, not knowing how he had the strength, to face Jan once again. Her face was as indescribable as the agonies that flowed over the walls. Kyle looked into her eyes and she looked into his, and he knew, simply knew, that the pledge of total war, the promise of righteous annihilation, was as deep in her as it was in himself.
"Turn it off. Someone turn it off."
Who had spoken? Troomis? Vewin? The voice was an unrecognizable croak.
Kyle blinked and saw Jan anew, saw that her eyes were glistening, neon fire trembling in them, and realized the voice was hers.
Before he knew it she was in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder, and he could feel his own heart thudding again like a sonic piston-driver—and his stomach turning. The spell was wearing off. Turning his head every which way, glaring and wincing against the obscene enclosure, he snapped, "Will someone kriffing do it already?!"
Somebody coughed. Someone else stumbled. As Kyle awkwardly turned, he saw Shaparo making his way toward the imagecaster, a trembling hand extended. Before he could reach it, though, the door opened and R2-Q8 squawked. The entire room turned, alarmed. Jan stepped out of Kyle's embrace.
Tash Arranda had joined them.
The sheet from her bed in the patient room hung from her shoulders. Except for the hanging braid, her blonde hair was suspended in a crazed tangle, like it had tried to leap free of her head. Her dainty face was drawn, her lips tight as a monofilament cable, her upturned eyes bulging as they scanned the wicked iconography still ringing the control center.
"I've seen this before," the girl murmured—then, as if noticing Shaparo, Kyle, and everyone else for the first time, she pulled a face and wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. "Oh...hi, I didn't mean to...um..."
"Tash! Tash!"
Zak's voice echoed down the corridor in tandem with rapid footsteps. As the rest of the control center continued to stare, paralyzed, Tash started to turn, her mouth opening. Then she threw a ghastly look over her shoulder and raised a hand. Seven meters away, the image caster clicked—
And Kyle found himself blinking and rubbing his eyes in an ordinarily lit room with blank, ordinary walls.
A second later Zak Arranda burst into the room and ran headlong into his sister. Tash's hug caught him, but lost her balance, and the two fell tangled together in the sheet, laughing and sobbing.
They were halfway to the medbay when Dr. Zaposug met them, zigzag-slithering up the corridor as fast as a human could sprint. As the group came to a stop, he snapped erect, his white coat flapping behind him. His many eyes bulged; Kyle realized he'd never seen the Ruurian so emotional before. "Y-young Mistress Arranda! We—I—I must protest! After all the hard work I have done for you and your brother—"
Shaparo raised an authoritative hand. "Doctor, the situation is under control; please endeavor to calm yourself."
"With respect, Master Shaparo, the young boy already caused a stir in this place with his disappearance, and now his sister leaves the medbay without my knowledge, without warning!"
"Uh, I...I—I—I'm sorry—Zak, who is this?" Tash, still wearing the blanket over her shoulders, clung a bit closer to Zak, who had scarcely let go of her since they met in the control center.
"This is Dr. Z. He's real prime. He took care of me, and he's been—"
Tash interrupted her brother, her face brightening with understanding. "Taking care of me this whole time! Oh, I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare anyone. In fact, I feel sort of strange. I'm not sure I remember anything before I was in that room with the—with all the lights."
Kyle held in a quaking shudder at the still-sizzling memory of what they'd found on the image caster. He was still reeling, too, from the girl's sudden appearance, and from her shutting off the device without touching it—but even with all that still running through his mind, he recalled Zak saying that Tash often finished his sentences.
"I'm sure you feel strange!" Dr. Zaposug's voice had lowered somewhat, but his feather-like antennae waved so fast, they were blurring. "You've been in a catatonic state for weeks! When I found you had disappeared, I was so worried—why, I nearly spun myself up a cocoon right then and there!"
"Doesn't he sound just like Deevee?" Zak said under his breath.
Tash stifled a giggle. "Yeah, he kinda does."
"I hope you'll be able to put that off for a while, Doctor, as we still have need of you," Shaparo said dryly.
Zaposug preceded them back to the medbay, his agitated course again curving back and forth as they went. "I'm not even sure how she got out of the patient room, Master Shaparo," he sputtered. "I am positive that the door was—"
"Locked?" Tash's voice seemed louder than necessary. "I probably just unlocked it with the Force. I can do that sometimes—but like I said, I'm sorry I snuck off on you like that..."
"There's no need for further apologies, young lady," Shaparo told her. "But I'd like to have the doctor give you a quick checkup. After that, there are a great many things that we'll need to explain to you."
It was a repeat of that day weeks ago. When the doctor had settled down enough to examine Tash Arranda to his satisfaction, she was taken to that little earthen-colored room off the medbay. She was given a hot mug of boma tea, sharing with her brother the same sofa he'd had to himself before. With R2-Q8 again on hand to record the conversation, Shaparo, Kyle, Jan, and Wade Vox talked with the girl well into the night. With Zak's help, they recounted the events that had brought them all together, from the boy's plea for help on FleetNet to his rescue on Nar Shaddaa, then the mission to the Hospital Platform.
"You're telling me Rosh helped rescue me?" Tash asked, staring incredulously at her brother. "Rosh Penin?"
"Yeah. He says hi, by the way. Hopes to see us again soon. Anyway, though, it's true: we couldn't have got you outta there without his help."
Kyle Katarn rolled his eyes at that. His team had done all the important work on that station, while Zak and his equally delinquent friend had only snuck around, causing disturbances, and nearly gotten themselves killed... Begrudgingly though, he had to admit that Rosh had shown them how to get into the maintenance sublevels, thus allowing them to avoid blasting their way back to the Moldy Crow. In doing so, that stupid kid had probably saved the lives of dozens of Alliance Naval Security personnel. Possibly prevented damage to the station, too.
Tash shook her head. "You can't be serious. He's a bojo. A complete spaz. He's—he's even dumber than you."
"Yeah...yeah, he is. Isn't he?"
A stupid grin stole over Zak's face, and they fell into a fit of giggling together, nearly spilling Tash's tea. Shaparo lowered his eyes and lit a cigarette while he waited for their mirth to subside. Jan's face, rigid and pale after the horrors they had seen in the control center, seemed to reclaim a shade of color.
"Now then," Shaparo said when the moment had run its course.
With great care, they questioned Tash about her Uncle Hoole and the circumstances that had brought the Arranda children first to Brint-wo Colony and then the platform—as well as about Utric Sandov, Deena Demarakesh, and Superintendent Versch. Tash's attitude in responding was familiar enough: not infrequently she fell silent for long moments, shrinking into the sofa or into her brother's side. Her face lapsed into the same rigid, wild, starved-gra look that Zak had worn when asked about their abusers.
Kyle noticed no contradictions between the two children's accounts with respect to Hoole and their travels with him, nor their early days on the Rebel Platform before the Bothans got a hold of them. Like her brother, Tash had practically no coherent memories after their imprisonment in Special Sentient Needs; only a chaotic muddle of scenes and images which, from her perspective, could well have only been nightmares or drug-induced hallucinations.
"It could be I'm crazy. I mean, it occurs to me sometimes. But sometimes there were aliens made of light, like hundreds of them, crawling all over the ceiling and floor. They were there when the Bothans were—" Tash's right eye twitched. "When they were in the room with me."
Looks passed between Kyle, Jan, Wade, and Shaparo. Zak had referred to the same thing: Aliens made of light, like holograms. Now they knew what it meant: those monstrous, obscene projections from the image caster. Sandov and Demarakesh must have had it in the cell when they were abusing the children. Being drugged at the time, the victims could not have clearly interpreted what they had seen.
It was a disappointment, but also no surprise, that Tash couldn't tell them anything mission-relevant that Zak hadn't already. Nothing about the Bothans or their droid accomplice, or anyone else who may have been involved with them.
"I'm sorry I can't tell you more," Tash said at last, and her voice went low and trembling as she looked around at each of them. "But t-thank you. For everything you've done, I can't thank you all enough...and I mean you too, Zak. You were very brave. You said your cell door malfunctioned—if you hadn't taken advantage of that, then gotten out to send that message, we'd have both been doomed. Nobody would've even known we were in trouble."
Zak unconvincingly laughed; his cheeks had reddened a bit. "Oh! Well, I mostly just got lucky there."
Tash suddenly gave him a look that was calm and almost disturbingly mature. "I think even you know better than that, little brother."
Zak mumbled something and scooched to the other end of the sofa. With a shrug, Tash did likewise, then sipped her boma tea. Noticing it was now room temperature, she took the rest in a gulp.
Seated across from them, Shaparo puffed his thinn cheeks and let out a long trail of smoke. "I'm still curious about your recovery, young lady," he said at length. "Dr. Zaposug couldn't offer much in the way of explanation, but I believe your brother had his own theory on the subject. Isn't that right?"
The Arrandas traded a look.
"I told 'em about you. You and the Force." When Tash opened her mouth, Zak talked over her. "You've been like a zombie the whole time since we rescued you. They didn't believe you were ever gonna wake up, so I told them you were just in a...trance, or whatever it is you do after you get hurt or worn out. Like you did after Kashyyyk, right?"
Tash looked askance at the adults as she listened, her lips pursed. Grateful though she was for being rescued, Kyle guessed she regarded this as private information.
"Yeah, I...guess that's what I was doing," she said carefully. "I couldn't really—think—on the platform, after they locked us up. But I never stopped trying to reach out to the Force. Just to remind myself it was there and it wanted to help me. When things quieted down, I got the sense that I was supposed to just...rest for a while, so I did."
Wade shifted and gave Kyle a look—a stupid I-told-you-so grin. Kyle himself was too busy grappling with recent events to be annoyed. The fact was...
The fact was, not only had he believed that Tash Arranda was going to be a barely functional wreck for decades if not the rest of her life, but he'd also believed that Zak would snap any day now. He'd been certain, because he'd seen it before, so many times, with soldiers as well as civvies. That was what overwhelming trauma and injury did to sentients.
But it hadn't.
It had been weeks—weeks—since they had pulled Zak out of the hell that those Bothan degenerates had kept him in, and he hadn't snapped.
And here was his sister—a mute, inert shell of a human for that same span of time, reduced to that by abuse even more savage—and yet she was upright and coherent. One day she was in a coma, and the next she came out of it, exactly as Zak had predicted. Zak, who had obviously been delusional—except his delusion had just come true.
It's real, Kyle, Wade had told him. You know it's real.
Sure, Kyle knew the Force was real.
Hell if he knew what that meant, though. What that really entailed for all of them.
"Fascinating...fascinating," Shaparo whispered, his eyes wandering before he regained focus. "But it's my turn now to explain some things."
Which he did, along with Kyle, Jan, Wade, and the astromech. Beginning with the rescue on Nar Shaddaa, they worked backward to the scandal of Crix Madine and the formation of the Bryar Force, their overarching mission, and their powerful enemy that had nested within the Rebel Alliance—which had snared the Arrandas in its dark web.
Zak squirmed, fidgeted, and scratched himself as the adults explained things, but Tash listened like a jakrab, scarcely blinking. That unnervingly serious look she'd shown to her brother earlier returned with an exponentially greater lifespan, and Kyle found himself wondering from time to time if the Arrandas were really human at all.
When the recounting was done, Tash gravely lowered her head, and Zak scooted a little closer in concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I think so. It's just..."
As the two kids conversed in hushed tones, Shaparo got to his feet, followed by Kyle and the others.
"This is a heartening development," he began. "However, our options remain as limited as they were before."
Wade spoke up. "Actually, I thought of something the other day. What about that recording MIMIC showed us with General Cracken? Why don't we leak it to the Alliance—drop it on FleetNet or something?"
Shaparo raised an eyebrow. "To what end?"
"Put some heat on them for a change," volunteered Jan. "The people we're after owned the narrative around Utric Sandov. His death—I mean her death—it hardly made a ripple in the Alliance. That recording would embarrass Cracken, get people to start asking questions. Confuse the enemy, force them to spend resources doing damage control."
"We have been considering just such an operation. However, it would require the utmost care—first to make sure the leak was not plugged immediately, and to ensure it could not be traced back to us. As well, I'd rather not make such a move until we've perused all the data we acquired from Sandov's office."
Kyle twitched his head toward the children. "What about those two? There doesn't seem to be anything more they can tell us."
Shaparo tapped ash from his cigarette onto the floor. "I never planned to set up an orphanage here on Orion IV. Dropping them off at an actual one would be dangerous, though. According to them, their family's wanted by the Empire."
"The Rebellion's no safe haven for them, either," Kyle added grimly.
"I'd rather simply return them—"
"To Uncle Hoole," Tash said loudly, "except you don't know where to find him, and neither do we."
Shaparo displayed a rare face of annoyance as the adults regarded her (and Kyle felt similarly). "We may have some resources we can spare to look for him. If nothing else, we could place someone at the Brint-wo Colony to watch for him in case he returns. Until we find him—or someone else from your family—we can keep you under our protection here."
Given what he'd already seen just of Zak, Kyle did not like the idea of two teenagers running around Searchlight. Still, he could hardly argue. This probably was the safest place for them.
"That's really nice of you. Really...but listen." Tash set the cup aside and got to her feet, followed by her brother. "We want to help you.
"There's nothing we can do to look for Uncle Hoole by ourselves. It's not like we've got a ship of our own. In the meantime, you've saved both our lives, so we owe you."
"That's very generous of you," Jan began carefully, but the girl didn't seem to hear.
"I'm not sure what else Zak told you, but we've been through a lot. I'm not a Jedi, but I—I have some skills that will come in handy. So does he, in his own way," Tash added, giving him a sharp look. "We can handle some danger. We're a lot tougher than we look, and if the Rebel Alliance is in danger—if more kids are in danger, we can't just sit on the sidelines."
Her stare was ferocious. Meanwhile, Zak had been looking between her and the adults with a gobsmacked expression. When his sister was done, though, he thrust out his chin, and it was clear he'd come around to her point of view.
To Kyle's surprise, Shaparo temporarily seemed to be at a loss for words. The nubbin of his cigarette hung centimeters before his yellowed teeth. "I will...consider your offer. In the meantime, I have work to do. And you two need some rest. R2, come with me. The rest of you—please show the young lady to her room."
Kyle would later come to understand that the Bryar Force had crossed an invisible threshold with Tash Arranda's awakening. Searchlight Station itself seemed to have awakened with a new energy and vitality that affected all its inhabitants. Multiple training exercises were arranged and carried out each day, involving all of the field operatives in various combinations. The Lambda shuttle in the hangar was reunited to its wings and began to rapidly approach the status of a spaceworthy craft.
Meanwhile, the inner circle finally finished decoding the data tape that had been taken from Utric Sandov's office. Though perusing it was primarily the inner circle's job, copies were made available to the entire Bryar Force. As it turned out, the tape didn't contain images or videos; what it contained instea
.
fg
[Sample: Page 1/1,313]
Combined University of Coruscant and Tion indetermined universal Oneness of The Galaxy according to 25 000 years of the Galactic Republic. The Universe however, is a false universe. Indetermined quantum domination University of The Galaxy. Forget hidden indetermined The Universe canvas determined Universes of galaxy. The Galaxy according to 25 000.
In 71 000 years The Door was broken shattered installed interfaced equipped Broken into Cycsila. Technicians installed the Broken Door quietly, screaming. Little did they know The Universe, however, is a false universe. Universe 25 000 years did not call the Technicians but the Technicians came to broken the Broken Door installed interred entombed alive without air. Unworld needs no air, since gravity and light are invented by Combined University of Coruscant and Tion indetermined these concepts to the Lie. Bodies, are false because The Universe is a False Universe, because quantum University of The Galaxy has now been abolished.
The Technicians in blood equations Cycsila. Cycsila was breaking of in the Broken Door, caught in blood equations. She is the Skinless Serpent and Mother of All The Transcendent Us, starving built broken sleeping nightmares 71 000 years. Bodies are false to Transcend. The Technicians broke shattered installed interred deterred diverted aborted in the Skinless Serpent and Mother. The Broken Door gravity polarity relativity quintessence Child, aborted from Unworld. This Universe therefore, is a false universe.
[Sample: Page 721/1,313]
The Trespassers dug in Sand. Sand Everywhere. Sand poured the Broken Door, broke shattered aborted across The Universe. The Skinless Serpent sang starving sand slice servant/master interdynamic determined. Now the Trespassers wrote blood equations, thanks to the Locutor. Mother Cycsila nightmares is hungry. Cycsila nightmares is installed. Cycsila nightmares is interred. Cycsila nightmares is starved. Cycsila nightmares is famished. Cycsila nightmares is deterred. Cycsila nightmares is diverted. Cycsila nightmares is crying. Cycsila nightmares is sleeping nightmares. Cycsila The Universe Universes of galaxy. The Unworld is shielded, discarded, disassociated, dysphoriated, dysmorphiated, de-educated in Combined University of Coruscant and Tion indetermined, universal Oneness of The Galaxy according to 25 000 years of the Galactic Republic. The Universe however, is a false universe. Cycsila however, is aborted from the Unworld. However Unworld, needs no air gravity light polarity relativity quintessence because of the Child. Cycsila must eat. Cycsila must uninstall. Cycsila must drink. Cycsila must awake. Cycsila must emerge. Cycsila must birth. Cycsila must revert. Cycsila must refer. Cycsila must remake. Cycsila must born. Unworld does not food drink gravity photosynthesis, so the Skinless Serpent eats our gods. Gods in universal Oneness of The Galaxy according to 25 000 years of the Galactic Republic are harvest deeply of Monad Seed, which subsists in subtracts in sown in serpents in blood. Actual Gods are Unworld food.
Unworld was broken into because of the Broken Door, which was broken by the Technicians blood equations. Unlike the Universe indetermined, Unworld is a True Universe. Gravity repulses from Fountains of White Shadows. Skinless Serpents breathe Counter-Vacuum of space, since Unworld needs no air. None of the concepts invented by Universities of Coruscant, Corulag, Tion, Anaxes, etc. exist in Unworld which is why it is the True Universe.
The Locutor explains: Air is sick. Water is sick. Oxygen is sick. Hydrogen is sick. Gravity is sick. Magnetism is sick. Carbon is sick. Gods is sick. Light is sick. Fusion is sick. Cells is sick. Words is sick. Love is sick. Photosynthesis is sick. Hyperspace is sick. Poetry is sick. Education is sick. Rebel Alliance is sick. Galactic Constitution is sick. Seed is sick. Sand is sick. Dirt is sick. Constellation is sick. The Galaxy is sick. The Locutor explains:
[Sample: Page 236/1,313]
Every Person's Body Is False because The Universe, is a false universe. Gungan = Human = Snivvian = Mon Calamari = Gand = Pantoran = Taung = Zeltron. This is True Anti-Math that the false Quantum Custodian-Controlled University Coruscant Tion Anaxes Alsakan created 25 000 The Galaxy years. None of the distinguishing categories exist in Unworld, which explains why Unworld is the True Universe. The only way to participate in the True Universe is to Break the Fake.
Even though the Technicians will 71 000 years the Broken Door, they refused to Break the Fake in their blood equations. Instead they Broke the Door, which abortion the Skinless Serpent uninstall unlocate indetermined the Child. In other words it is, their fault that we are in this mess in the first place. If it was not for the Technicians, Mother Cycsila nightmares will never even happen, and the Locutor would not have had to anything written down.
However, it did happen because, of the Technicians. The Trespassers however, were able to understand thanks to the Locutor who had everything written down. In other words it is, thanks to him that we understood enough to Break the Fake blood equations of the Technicians and, because of that, we became the Transcendent. Because of that, we can participate in the True Universe.
[Sample: Page 450/1,313]
Actual Gods in this False Universe acted also as its Quantum Custodians. Controlling the Galactic Universities of Coruscant, Corulag, Kuat, Tion, Anaxes, Alsakan, Koros, Bonadan, etc., they controlled knowledge about the Monad Seeds, which they called Midichlorians. Monad Seeds exist in blood, and like any other thing in the Universe indetermined, they can be scanned for by the instruments of science. This is the only instance in which science in this False Universe is true, because Monad Seeds congregate inside of the Actual Gods. Shawken's Law of Polarities hinted at this, but the Monad Seeds in this False Universe correspond by analogy to ))))))))))))))))) in Unworld, which is why Actual Gods are food of the Skinless Serpent. Cycsila must food. Cycsila must blood. Cycsila must awake. Cycsila must Child. Child must food. Child must blood. They eat the Quintessence of Actual Gods which is from Monad Seeds which is why we must feed them.
However this Universe, is a false Universe, and the instruments of science are false. They were instituted by Galactic Universities 25 000 years of the Galactic Republic and Quantum Custodians, leading to many false positives in the instruments. Doubtful positives can be confirmed complemented verified vaporated by activation of the Monad Seeds. Monad Seeds can be activated actuated articulated abnegated abducted aggravated agenized amortized amplified through the process which the Locutor described. It should be noted that Cycsila is young and Child is younger, which is why the Actual Gods must also be young. According, to the Locutor
Kyle slammed the portcomp shut and got to his feet, but no sooner had he done so than he found his legs drained of strength. Catching himself against the table and using it for support, he focused on breathing and tried to keep his stomach where it was supposed to be.
When he checked the chronometer, he was dumbfounded. He'd spent less than a standard hour reading—trying to read—that document from the data tape, but it had felt like an entire waking day. How was that possible? And the kriffing mother of all headaches, like his skull was about to collapse on itself, where had that come from?
Troomis's note had warned him. Sort of. To begin with, the inner circle had initially thought that it was written in some kind of cipher, in addition to the code which had originally prevented them from reading the document, but they'd been wrong. This tome of schizoid ramblings had been written exactly as they found it. Shaparo had made it available to the entire Bryar Force, saying it provided an invaluable glimpse into the mind of their enemy. If so, it was enough to stretch Kyle Katarn's conception of the word "mind".
The document was a written analogue to what they'd seen on the image caster, and in more ways than one; it was an impossibly dense landscape of madness. On its face, it was pure gibberish, impenetrably cryptic and devoid of coherence. Only after reading a large block of it could one parse dim shadows of meaning—mainly by recognizing patterns of association between the odd phrases and terms.
But that was one commonality between the document and the image caster. Another was that the bodies—
The humanoid bodies—distinguishable by size—distinguishable by position—distinguishable by action—
That the bodies and the positions and the actions shown on the image caster, they were prescribed and described and rationalized and explained in terms of the volume's demented vocabulary.
Kyle tightened his throat against the bile that threatened to rise.
He didn't want to understand, but he thought he had begun to. They were instructions because it was a ritual. Because the document was a religious document, the handbook of a cult.
A cult that believed in abusing children before feeding them to some goddess or demon that they called Cycsila—but which preferred some children to others, according to which ones had enough of what they called Monad Seeds...
He remembered what Dr. Zaposug had said—
This particular device has been specially configured to estimate the concentration of midi-chlorians in a sentient's body.
And what Jan had said—
They're something Utric Sandov is interested in. He wanted to know how many there are in the Arrandas...and what they actually are and do is something the Empire doesn't want anyone to know about. What does that mean?
Monad Seeds were midi-chlorians. A word Kyle had only seen once before in his life, when he'd wandered into the guest room where a stranger from offworld named Rahn was staying. A stranger who had measured the midi-chlorian counts of Kyle and numerous other children on Sulon.
A stranger who'd carried a peculiar cylindrical device, falsely claiming it as a fusioncutter, of a type that Kyle had never seen before or since...except that he'd glimpsed another one in the workshop here on Searchlight, one belonging to Wade Vox, a man interested in the Jedi Knights: mysterious, legendary warriors who had worn simple robes and wielded swords of glowing light as weapons. They had also used and relied upon a higher power that they called the Force...and which this cult apparently called Quintessence.
The cult—the Transcendent—wherever they had come from, they sought out children with high midi-chlorian counts, as that strange guest of the Katarns had done those years ago. But Rahn couldn't have been involved with them—that could not be admitted as a possibility. He'd done Kyle no harm, and there was no way he could have deceived Kyle's father. After what Morgan had learned about the Surrajes, and what he had been forced to do about it, it was impossible that he would let a stranger into his home without knowing for certain that he was a good man.
The robes, that strange device, and the approval of Kyle's father all meant that Rahn must almost have certainly been a Jedi Knight. If Quintessence was the same thing as the Force, then that meant midi-chlorians were some kind of indicator that a person was connected to it, attuned to it...whatever term one wanted to use. Rahn had wanted to find someone on Sulon with enough midi-chlorians, distinguishing the children he examined based on their counts...
And Utric Sandov had been checking the counts of her victims. This document said that they wanted children with enough Monad Seeds. Tash Arranda had proven ability with the Force, and the mutilated Bothan had kept her in her clutches; Zak apparently did not, and Demarakesh had taken him to be disposed of on Nar Shaddaa.
When Kyle felt steady enough to move, he went to the Moldy Crow's kitchen unit and got some water. I could sure use a Corellian ale or two...or three...or hell, a whole barrel of it.
After downing the glass, he looked back at the little table, at the portcomp, the same way he would at a womp rat with Cyborrean rabies. It was shut, in standby mode. The screen was off. It was only a tool, a dead machine, and the document he'd been perusing was only a bunch of words, symbols encoded in digital format. Nothing at all was there except what was put into it by a sentient mind...
Kyle replaced the glass. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought he could feel, sense pure evil oozing out of that device like stygian meltmassif.
But he did know better.
Even so, he didn't linger in the Moldy Crow. Never mind it was night and he normally slept here. He'd take a walk, maybe pay a visit to the range...
And maybe find someplace else to crash that night.
Zak sat on the floor of the workshop, heedless of the dust and grime as he used an electro-probe to poke around inside a half-disassembled inference pulse stabilizer. The gizmo's owner, Quagga, sat on his haunches across from him, a silver-gray mountain of muscle which exuded a powerful aura. Occasionally the Wookiee would growl a suggestion, pointing, and Zak would nod along and pretend to understand his language.
A few meters behind them, the Gran Payvees bent over one of his work benches, toiling on something for Kyle Katarn.
Out the corner of his eye, Zak could see Tash and Natalie Darr sitting on chairs facing each other. The Pantoran mechanic held a datapad, the screen of which only she could see.
Tash was talking in a bored monotone. "A TIE Fighter. A 3PO unit. A brick. A pillow. A rancor. A shipyard. A star system."
"What kind of star system?" Natalie asked.
A pause. "Binary. With three planets. It's not Tatooine, is it?"
"...Actually, yeah." The Pantoran sounded impressed.
"We've been there a few times."
"Tsk, so's my partner here."
Quagga lowed.
"Feels like every other sentient and his brother's touched down on that rock at least once. Force only knows why. There's nothing there except trouble."
"You've got that right," Zak interjected, pulling a face and nodding vigorously. He had plenty of memories of the Arrandas' visits to Tatooine, and none of them were pleasant. "Tash almost got eaten there once by something called a sarlacc, but I saved her."
The Wookiee shook with laughter. Zak was indignant.
"Yes, she did—and I did too save her! It got one of its—one of its tentacles around her leg..." The word tentacles made him stutter; it reminded him of some of the aliens from his recent nightmare, as well as the ones made of light in his cell back on the platform. He shook his head and recovered himself. "...but I was there! Tash was being dragged down the sandy slope toward the sarlacc's mouth, and I couldn't pull her up, but I had a knife, so I crawled down to the tentacle and—"
Lost in the memory, he started to demonstrate, motioning with the electro-probe exactly the same way he'd used the rusty knife from Jabba's palace—but Natalie showed him a blue-skinned palm.
"Hey, ease up in the thrusters, buddy," she told him. "We're still going here."
Tash gave Zak an apologetic look before the test resumed. "A blaster rifle. A prefab shelter. A Pzobian feathered lizard. An X-wing."
This test was her idea—and she had others in mind, too. She wanted to prove to these people she had Force abilities, and that she could use them with some consistency. Emphasis some; by her own admission, she didn't have full control over it, since she'd never been taught by a Jedi Master. Even so, she insisted on helping the Bryar Force however she could.
She'd caused a real stir here at Searchlight. Zak had tried to tell everyone that his sister would get better soon, but even most of the nicer ones like Dr. Z had brushed him off. Kyle Katarn seemed like a real pessimist. He hadn't believed, but he'd also been unwilling to say so plainly in front of Zak—because he was so bent on seeing him and Tash as just kids, helpless victims whose fragile minds would crack under the slightest pressure. Even after Tash's practically miraculous recovery, he openly opposed letting the Arrandas do anything except sit around at Searchlight and be bored to death.
Still, most of the other adults didn't seem to be on his side when it came to that, so Zak held out hope that their luck would turn around. Wade Vox, for instance—Zak had been gratified to find at least one adult who didn't reflexively dismiss everything he said. But it was no coincidence that Wade had barely talked to him at all lately, except when he gave Zak that cool energy slingshot. There was definitely trouble between that guy and Kyle, much as the two tried to keep it hidden from Zak. It was too bad. He seemed prime; he was brave, adventurous, a fellow Alderaani, and he apparently knew a few things about Jedi, which Tash would obviously be interested in.
Besides him, the Bryar Force in general was rapidly taking an increasing interest in Tash, which would probably get more and more positive as she continued to prove herself. It probably wouldn't be hard; Shaparo seemed practically convinced already, and Tash—
He went on fiddling with the pulse stabilizer, "listening" to Quagga's grunted suggestions.
—well, if either of the Arrandas was going to be some kind of hero, Tash was it. Zak was only along for the ride.
Hadn't they proven that already, when Shaparo interviewed them? Soon as he'd explained everything that was going on, the first word out of Tash's mouth was her bravely declaring that they'd help. Zak, on the other hand, had hesitated. Even knowing everything he did, there'd been a part of him that hoped he would rescue Tash, and then Uncle Hoole would suddenly show up out of nowhere like he always did, and maybe this time the three of them could go off and find someplace safe to live. But Hoole was still missing and Tash wanted to help Shaparo's people.
If the Rebel Alliance is in danger—if more kids are in danger, we can't just sit on the sidelines, she'd said. It was close enough to what Zak himself had told Kyle and the others, when Tash was in trouble. In the end, that was more important than his worries about what might happen to them if they stayed involved. Besides, if the Arranda family's life since Alderaan proved anything, it was that running away from your problems pretty much never solved anything. They'd catch up sooner or later. Tash was locked in on helping, and that meant Zak was going along for the ride. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
"A crystal snake. A saw-toothed grank. Imperial Center. A restraining bolt."
Two years after Dagobah, and Zak still had to wrestle down jealousy sometimes. Tash had always been the big sister, older and more responsible, smarter, always keeping him in line, and then she got this mystical gift she could hone. Zak had accepted that he simply needed to deal with the reality that she was just special like that—and he wasn't.
Sometimes it wasn't quite so easy. Especially when she felt like needling him about what they'd learned—supposedly—on Dagobah.
I have some skills that will come in handy. So does he, in his own way.
The adults didn't seem to have fully picked up on what Tash had meant when she said that—and Zak hoped it would stay that way. The last thing he needed was them also breathing down his neck about his potential or whatever. No matter what anyone said, Jedi or not, Tash's gift was for her, not Zak too. It just wasn't for him. He had his own skills, ordinary abilities that were from himself, and he'd used them to save Tash before. Besides, even Yoda had said, You need not be the best at everything to succeed at some things. This is how it was meant to be.
The pulse stabilizer clicked back together and made a satisfying hum. Quagga honked, sounding impressed.
"That's how it was meant to be," Zak said to himself.
"Hrrgnn?" asked the Wookiee, cocking his massive head until it was almost sideways.
Zak offered the stabilizer. "Nothing. Here you go."
Kyle noted the bags under his partner's eyes. "Jan, you look like hell. You sleep a standard minute last night?"
"I don't think so," she pouted, tipping her head back before cracking her neck. She studied him and added, "You didn't either, did you?"
A yawn swallowed the beginning of Kyle's answer. "Not much. I was trying to make sense out of that—that gibberish from the data tape, but even when I gave up, I couldn't—couldn't get it out of my head."
The presentation room echoed with a low murmur of voices and footfalls as other Bryar Force members took their seats and chatted. Kyle rubbed his face, then realized Jan hadn't answered him. Even with all her mannerisms dulled by sleep deprivation, her stare was uncannily sharp.
Kyle asked her, "What?"
"That's exactly what happened to me."
Another moment passed. Kyle contained a shudder.
"Tell you what," he said, and nodded sideways to the inner circle, which again sat at the front row. "How about we leave this one to the experts?"
"No argument from me."
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Shaparo's words silence the room even quicker than the last time. His voice, his entire bearing exuded rare excitement as he marched smartly up to the holodisplay table, where R2-Q8 had again plugged in.
The director swung round, hands clasped at his back. "Thank you all for coming. As you all know, the results of Commander Katarn's mission to the Rebel Hospital Platform were mixed. The information gathered proved to be as intriguing as it is disturbing, but has not been sufficient to act as a catalyst for our next field mission—until now. This is a maximum priority briefing."
The entire room flinched as if the glowbulbs had doubled their brightness. The accumulated exhaustion and grogginess of the past night was blasted to the back of Kyle's mind.
"The datapad found in Utric Sandov's office was apparently one of his—or rather her—personal ones, synched to her Alliance electronic mail account. It was a tricky bit of work, but we finally managed to crack the inbox, allowing us to peruse its contents from the past standard month. During that time, Sandov only received e-mails pertaining to her official duties in the Rebel Alliance—with one exception. R2..."
Shaparo signaled to the astromech. The holoprojector activated, displaying the flat screen capture of an Alliance e-mail message.
FROM: 0xa39kj3484508z3rnlnkppsdfsffefssdn46009jhsly41101573550137
TO: sandov_utric
SUBJ: SYMPHONY OF FLESH
Utric,
Make preparations to leave Hospital Platform with all assets. The symphony cannot long be delayed. FRT Gravestone returns to headquarters. It will dock to refuel at Far Qasqi on 38:9:01 at 16:30 (local). Rendezvous there.
Mother hungers to awake.
Kyle's skin crawled. Several of those phrases were familiar from his recent ill-advised reading.
Shaparo spoke again. "According to the timestamp, this e-mail was received mere hours before the Moldy Crow docked on the Hospital Platform. Sandov may not even have read it before committing suicide. The time it specifies for the rendezvous is four standard days from now, which is just enough time to reach Far Qasqi from here. What we have on our hands here is, at last, an unprecedented opportunity.
"Based on the notation, the Gravestone is apparently a BFF-1 bulk freighter. It likely delivers supplies to the hideout of our enemy—this cult which calls itself the Transcendent."
The holographic message disappeared, to be replaced by a pale orange planet and a sprawling, ramshackle docking facility.
"Far Qasqi is a gas giant in the Centares system. Its atmosphere hosts a little-known docking and refueling station. Ostensibly civilian, but rumors indicate it is controlled by—or at least pays protection to—the Black Sun criminal organization."
"More than rumors," said Rianna Saren from across the room. "I've got friends who've been to that station. Believe me, it's in Black Sun's pocket."
"Thank you, Ms. Saren," Shaparo replied coldly. "The Bryar Force will infiltrate this station, locate the Gravestone while it is being fueled, and plant a beacon inside so that it can be tracked to the Transcendent's headquarters.
"Unfortunately, we have no intelligence concerning the freighter's defenses or the refuel station's internal security; all we have on the latter is an old technical schematic. In light of that and the critical importance of your objective, all available field operatives are being committed to this mission. Your primary craft will be the assault transport Bloodshark, which is at last fully operational."
"You're welcome, everyone!" yapped Natalie Darr, followed by a hoot from Quagga somewhere at the back.
Shaparo's face tightened further. "Ideally, the tracking device will be placed without the enemy's awareness, but you must be prepared to improvise—and expect heavy resistance in the event of discovery. At all cost, we must discover the Gravestone's destination, whether by tracking it or commandeering the freighter itself."
He cleared his throat. "In light of his innumerable qualifications as well as his recent performance—at the Hospital platform and in our training exercises—I've selected Kyle Katarn to be in overall command of this mission. Commander Katarn, do you accept?"
Kyle pushed his chair back and rose. He felt like a Jawa even as he towered over his fellow operatives. The weight of their eyes on him, their multitudinous gazes—conveying encouragement, admiration, or interest—was tremendous. The task of organizing all these men and women for a dangerous mission, likely leading them into combat, and being responsible for their lives—and potentially their deaths...
Even if he could speak of it, he would never have the words. Taking care of himself and Jan was already daunting in its own way. This was on an entirely new level.
But he had been chosen.
Kyle Katarn neither hesitated nor blinked. He only said, "Yes, sir."
Searchlight Station burst into a frenzy of activity greater than any it had yet experienced as the members of the Bryar Force gathered their equipment and hurriedly drew up plans. Though there would be time enough to plan on the journey to Far Qasqi, several rapid debates on the issue of personnel took place. Kyle Katarn was not the only one with a strong opinion, but Shaparo's understated charisma prevailed. And so in short order the Bloodshark and the Moldy Crow were being prepared for departure.
The hangar, of course, was a whirlwind, but its noise did not reach far into Searchlight Station. Though not a huge facility, it was certainly much bigger than was needed to house an organization as small as the Bryar Force. As such, many parts of the compound were largely deserted and went unmonitored.
And those deserted parts of the compound would be an ideal hiding place for something that didn't want to be found.
Something which, hypothetically, may have rolled unnoticed from the Moldy Crow's landing gear compartment weeks earlier, shortly after the ship had returned from the Rebel Hospital Platform.
CHAPTER COMPLETE
PASSWORD: TECHNOBEAST