CHAPTER TEN
EMPTY SPACES
Pride is a dangerous indulgence.
—Temple Master Lha-Mi, Stav Kesh, 10,670 TYA
They spend fourteen more days in Stav Kesh, and sometimes Dal is taken away and taught on his own. This worries Lanoree. She wants to remain close to keep an eye on him, and when they are apart she can’t seem to reach him. She tries, but he is blocking her out. Only the weak-minded are always open to a Je’daii’s sensings, and Dal is far from weak-minded. He has had years to learn how to exclude his sister’s gentle probings.
Master Kin’ade continues to teach Lanoree and the others, but on those occasions when Dal is taken, it is the Temple Master Tave who takes him. In the evenings when Dal chooses to return to their room, Lanoree asks him where he goes and what he does.
“Weapon training,” Dal says. “They see my talents as a warrior and Tave is giving me one-on-one attention.” But she sees that even Dal does not believe that. When the group is being instructed on Force use of weapons, they are keeping him apart. Maybe they’re afraid that he will let loose with a blaster and hurt someone again.
Even worse, perhaps they believe he did that on purpose.
On their final day there, Masters Kin’ade and Tave welcome them into the Grand Hall. This is a structure built deep in the mountain, and it has become something of a legendary place among Journeyers over the centuries. It is said that Temple Master Vor’Dana fought and killed thirteen Sand Assassins in the hall more than two hundred years before, and sometimes when the wind is right lonely grains of sand still whistle and hush against the ancient stone.
Now, the hall is cool and still, illuminated by an array of burning brands and expectantly silent. The Journeyers stand along one wall as instructed, and Tave and Kin’ade are together, whispering and waiting for something.
What is this? Lanoree wonders. She glances sidelong at the Cathar twins, and they look back and smile. There is a special bond between the two of them that is deeper than the Force, and they trouble her. She looks in the other direction at Dal. He is relaxed and calm, glancing around the hall at the tapestries and the array of old weaponry hanging on hooks and resting in display cases around its perimeter. He catches her eye and grins.
“Master Kin’ade—” she says, but the Zabrak holds up one hand, fingers splayed.
Someone is coming. Lanoree can sense it, and she feels an approach in the flow of the Force. Moments later a shadow appears in a doorway across the hall. Temple Master Lha-Mi enters, walking confidently toward the students. The two Masters bow slightly, and then Lha-Mi pauses and examines the Journeyers. He spends some time looking them up and down, and when he reaches Lanoree, she can feel the strength of his regard. Sometimes love is not enough, Lha-Mi told her, but today there is no special message. He moves on to Dal, and then after a glance at Masters Tave and Kinade, says one word.
“Fight.”
The two Masters maintain ultimate control. When a Force punch is thrown with a little too much vigor, Master Tave reaches out and absorbs some of the impact. When a series of overenthusiastic Force shoves thuds along the floor toward the Wookiee, Master Kin’ade snatches them from the air and dispels them with little more than a grunt.
Lanoree avoids fighting with her brother for as long as she can. But soon she finds herself standing side by side with Dal, and, as they swap glances, she sees how much he’s enjoying this.
“No sides here,” Dal says. He leaps toward Lanoree in a clumsy, yet strong Alchaka move, and what happens next plays on her mind for a long time afterward. She lets him strike her down.
She tumbles, sliding across the stone floor and bruising her back, hips, elbows. She uses the Force to prevent herself slamming into a wall. Then she stands, and Dal is already charging at her again.
She ducks beneath Dal’s kick, slides past him as he spins and lashes out with his fist, trips him, stomps on his ankle, then drops astride him with one fist raised, ready to hammer down on his face.
“I need no Force to bring you down, brother,” she says, smiling. She is trying to lighten the mood, appealing to their close bond. But his eyes are filled with anger.
He punches Lanoree in the temple and she falls to the side, shocked more than pained. A kick to her ribs, another punch to her stomach. She rolls away from him but he is always there, and then she thinks, Why shouldn’t I use the Force? Am I holding back simply because of his sensibilities?
She punches out, hard, and a great thud! reverberates around the hall. Dal is powered back away from her, arms and legs splayed as he flies through the air. Someone catches him and drops him, hard, before he smashes against the wall. Lanoree does not see who but assumes it is Tave or Kin’ade.
She stands, holding her head and willing the heavy throbbing pain from her insides. But sometimes even the Force cannot dull such agonies, and in her studies she has come to trust pain. It is there for a reason, and to mask it can lead to more damage and worse pain later.
“You lower your defenses,” Kin’ade says, and at first Lanoree thinks she’s speaking to Dal. But she is actually addressing her. “You should be able to anticipate such clumsy attacks, and counter them. Your brother’s Alchaka moves are rudimentary at best, and he does not use the Force to wield them.”
“I know,” she says softly, facing Master Kin’ade but glancing sidelong at Dal. He is standing across the hall from them, and he looks dejected, defeated.
“Cease,” Lha-Mi says, and the fighting ends. The Cathar twins embrace, bloody and smiling. The Wookiee and Twi’lek draw close together and slap each other’s shoulders.
Lanoree looks to Dal, but he has already turned his back on her.
Kin’ade walks ahead of Lanoree, saying nothing. Lanoree has been told to follow her, and she suspects that she is being taken to Lha-Mi one last time before they depart in the morning. Tomorrow, she and Dal commence their long, dangerous journey to Anil Kesh.
The Temple of Science lies more than a thousand kilometers to the east on Talss. They will have to cross the Moon Islands to reach Talss, and once there they’ll be faced with a long hike across a wild land. Lava arcs burst from ancient volcanic tunnels; mountain slopes are smothered with ash trees; and strange, sometimes deadly creatures stalk the valleys and ravines. Wilder still is Anil Kesh itself, straddling the mysterious and deadly Chasm high in the mountains. No Je’daii has ever descended to its bottom and survived, and many of those who have tried were driven insane. Daegen Lok, the Prisoner of Bogan, is one such man—his fascination with the Chasm led to his downfall. All young Padawans are told his story.
Lanoree was looking forward to time on her own with Dal. Yet now, she is fearful as well. Of Dal, what he is becoming, and what he might do. She is desperate to not let her parents down. And though she still tries to believe that her brother can be saved and brought to the Force, deep down she knows the truth.
His days on Tython are numbered.
“Wait here,” Master Kin’ade says. She rests a hand on Lanoree’s shoulder. “This is the last time we’ll see each other, for now at least. I hope your onward journey is safe, Journeyer. May the Force go with you.”
“Thank you for all your training,” Lanoree says.
Master Kin’ade looks as though she wants to say more, and Lanoree is surprised when she senses doubt exuding from the Master. But then the room beyond where they wait is no longer empty, and Kin’ade merely smiles.
“Enter,” a voice says, and Lanoree recognizes Lha-Mi once more.
The small, hexagonal room is lined with images of people Lanoree does not know. There are a mix of people, all species and colors, and at points around the walls there are also empty spaces. Lha-Mi stands in a doorway on the far side of the room.
“Everyone I have let down,” the Temple Master says. “All those people—Je’daii and not—whom I have failed throughout my long life. I keep the room open for anyone to view, because it’s important to know we are not all perfect. Pride is a dangerous indulgence. I’m a Temple Master now, but even that doesn’t exclude me from failure. In many regards, my failures are greater, because as a Temple Master there is so much more expectation put upon me, and responsibility brings more risk.” Lanoree says nothing. She is being spoken to, and Lha-Mi invites no response.
“It’s down to me, of course, whose images I place here,” the old man continues. “Some would argue that there are those here who let themselves down, rather than being let down by me. And there are others who might name some images that are missing.” He walks slowly around the room. “There are spaces. Gaps yet to fill. I hope to still see areas of bare wall here when I am older and closer to death, but …” He shrugs and touches cold, bare stone.
“You don’t want to see Dal’s image here,” Lha-Mi says. “You’re learning well, and your experience shines through. But it’s your face I have no wish to see on the walls of this room, Lanoree. So heed this warning. Ignore it, suffer the consequences, and I will have let you down. Your brother grows more unstable and dangerous every day. Be wary of him.”
“I will, Master Lha-Mi.”
The old man sighs. “There was a time when people like Dalien …” He trails off.
“What?” Lanoree asks.
“Harsher times,” Lha-Mi says. “No matter. Go safe, Lanoree Brock, and may the Force go with you.”
Lanoree watches the Temple Master turn and leave the room of his shame, and when he has gone she spends some time looking around at the faces staring back at her. She wonders what became of them. Dead, banished, fled out into the system?
She hopes to never find out.
And she swears that neither her face nor her brother’s will fill one of those empty spaces.
Down in Greenwood Station, Tre Sana became someone else.
Lanoree sensed it when they emerged onto the first bustling street of shops, taverns, and other places of pleasure. Not in any Force way, because whatever Dam-Powl had done to the Twi’lek had rendered him almost immune to Lanoree’s probings. But in the way he carried himself. His manner, his bearing, his interaction with the world shifted subtly. The Tre Sana she had met on Kalimahr and with whom she had spent days cooped up in her Peacemaker turned into the man Dam-Powl had warned her about.
He became dangerous.
They walked along the street side by side, and Lanoree kept the hood of her robe raised. A few people glanced at them but only casually. Most were too involved in their own lives to be concerned with anyone else. Sellers displayed their wares on metal market wagons—food, drink, and an array of drug slips that promised a temporary escape from the reality of this wretched place. People stood outside drinking establishments, trying to lure passersby inside with promises of the best drink. And all the while, farther toward the center of the dome, the chimneys throbbed and pumped, the machines thumped away, the ground shook, and great trains trundled in or out with raw materials or finished products. The people were the oil that kept the dome working, and Lanoree sensed that safety and sanity here rested on a thin skein of smoke.
While they walked, she kept her senses open for any sign of Dal. But she wasn’t even sure she would recognize him anymore.
“There,” Tre said. He pointed along the street.
“What?”
“Listing point.” He walked forward, shoved a tall man aside, and pressed several buttons on a box mounted on a short, stumpy pole.
“I was using that!” the man said. He might once have been human, but some terrible growth had eaten at his face, and gleaming artificial eyes were set in the remains of eye sockets.
“How about using this?” Tre said. He shifted his jacket aside and displayed the small blaster on his belt. I didn’t even know he had that! Lanoree thought.
“You’re carrying!” the man said. “No one’s allowed to carry in Green—”
Tre shoved him hard. Arms pinwheeling, the man stumbled back into a group of women wearing dull red worksuits, and one of them tripped him. They laughed.
Tre turned his back on the fallen man and started working at the listing point. Its small screen showed a map of Greenwood Station, and as Tre tapped at the keys, the map zoomed in to a sector, then a small network of streets. A green glow pulsed. Tre swiped the screen clear and nodded at Lanoree.
“The scumhead is listed?” Lanoree asked.
“No, but someone who knows someone who knows him is.”
“Right. Easy.”
Tre started walking.
“You could have waited to use it,” she said, walking alongside the Twi’lek.
“Just keeping up appearances.”
“I thought you hadn’t been here before?”
“I haven’t. But I know how to get by here. Trust me.”
Lanoree tried to smile and roll her eyes, but Tre was not even looking at her.
Someone had been run over by a train. Lanoree saw the commotion as they approached a wide road that led to a tunnel mouth beneath the dome’s lower edge. A woman was screaming in grief, and a small crowd had gathered around a sickening red smudge on the road’s rough surface. Most people quickly walked on. The trains must have been huge and heavy because there wasn’t much left.
“No security? No help?” Lanoree asked.
“There’s some, if you can afford it,” Tre said. “But Greenwood Station is like any other city on Nox—run by the Corporations. They’re the law, and the people work for them. What security does exist is concerned with maintaining production, ensuring the safety of Corporation members—most of whom probably live in the central tower—and protecting the city from attacks from other cities.”
“That still goes on?”
“More often than you think. Come on. Nothing to see here.” They walked on, and Lanoree spared one final glance for the grieving woman.
“Sounds more like Shikaakwa,” she said.
“Oh, it’s nowhere near as organized,” Tre said.
They crossed the wide train track and entered a district closer to the central manufacturing zones. The ground shook with a constant vibration, and the workers’ accommodation buildings were much more regimented. People moved through the streets, red-clad workers on their way to or from work; and here and there were groups of armed guards, watching for trouble but apparently expecting none. Their weapons were obviously displayed, and they all looked mean.
Lanoree touched the weight of her sword and kept her face down. It was doubtful that anyone would identify her as Je’daii simply by looking at her, but she could not disconnect from who she was so easily. She feared her eyes, her expression, would betray her.
“Here,” Tre said, nodding at a gray accommodation tower. “Not the scumhead, but an associate. Equally unpleasant.”
“Can’t wait,” Lanoree said.
Inside the tower, up fourteen flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and when Tre knocked at a door, there was no answer. Lanoree kicked it in. The person who’d been pressed, listening, to the other side fell back and tripped over a piece of furniture, spilling drug slips and bottles of a rancid-smelling drink. Lanoree Force-shoved the door closed and pressed it into its broken frame.
“Well,” Tre said. “Lanoree, meet Domm, a business contact of mine.”
“Still keeping fine company I see, Tre Sana,” Domm said from the floor.
“She’s virtually asleep right now,” Tre said, going with the flow. Lanoree was impressed. “You’d hate to see her awake and angry.”
“I know a Je’daii when I meet one.”
Lanoree was on the fallen man in an instant, sword drawn and pressed across his throat before he could draw another breath.
“You know one of these, too?” she asked.
“No,” Domm said. He was Zabrak, but terrible wounds disfigured his face, leaving a tracery of scars behind. His breath stank of chemical staleness. “But my father did. One of your sort parted his head from his shoulders twelve years ago.”
“Where?”
“Kaleth.”
“Then he shouldn’t have been there,” Lanoree said. “We were protecting our own. That’s what I’m doing now. And you know the Je’daii … protecting their own, we’re more than happy to take heads.” She pressed down on the sword, knowing exactly how much pressure to exert before drawing blood.
“I’m looking for Maxhagan,” Tre said.
“So?”
“Come on, Domm.”
“Find him yourself.”
“You tell us, it’ll save us time,” Lanoree said. “Don’t be like your father.”
A flash of fear was replaced by defiance in Domm’s eyes. He even managed to smile against the sword’s pressure. “You won’t just slaughter me,” he said.
Yes, she will. Lanoree pushed the thought. She’s mean and desperate, and she’ll take my head from my shoulders without even breathing heavily.
Domm’s smile dropped and he looked nervously back and forth between Tre and Lanoree. He smiled, defeated. His anger faded away, and Lanoree wondered if he really cared about his dead father at all. Maybe it was just a convenient reason to hate.
“Let me up,” Domm said.
“No.”
“I need to stand and—”
“No,” Lanoree said again. “You’ll get up, feign weakness, lean against that cupboard over there. Then you’ll try to distract us and take the blaster that’s stuck beneath its upper table. You might even get off one shot. But then I’ll kill you, and that’ll be an inconvenience to me. So, no, you’re not getting up. And now my pressure on this sword will continue to increase until you tell us where Maxhagan can be found.”
Domm’s eyes had grown wide as he heard the thoughts plucked from his mind.
Lanoree smiled. “And if you could read my thoughts, you’d know I tell the truth.” She leaned down on the sword and its keen edge pressed against the heavy scar tissue on his throat. Skin split. Blood flowed.
“District Six,” Domm said. “Market. He runs a stall … selling … imported water.”
Lanoree frowned, but could sense no lie in Domm’s words.
“Hiding in plain sight,” Tre said. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
“He is,” Lanoree said. She started to ease back on the sword.
“You should kill him,” Tre said. His words were light, unburdened by feeling.
“Kill him?”
“He knows you’re a Je’daii. Knows we’re here. And we’re already at a disadvantage. One call from him to anyone in Greenwood Station and we’re compromised.”
Lanoree never looked away from the man beneath her sword. There had been many whose flesh had parted around this blade, but all of them had been fighting back at the time. Shooting down the pilots had been unavoidable, though their deaths pained her. She was not in the habit of killing for killing’s sake.
“There’s another way,” she said. She sheathed her sword and sat up astride Domm’s chest. He did not move; he seemed to sense that this was far from over.
“We don’t have time!” Tre said.
“This won’t take long.”
Lanoree calmed herself and gathered the Force, and Master Dam-Powl’s face and voice came to her. There are some who are troubled by what you and I excel at, but they don’t understand the potential. Maintain control, keep yourself balanced, and it will serve you well.
Lanoree felt the power of the Force swirling and flowing within and around her, personified by Ashla and Bogan, their attraction and repulsion perfectly balanced, and Lanoree suspended weightless, faultless, between them. She lifted skin dust from the floor and chose four particles, and they became her servants. Concentrating on them, expanding them in her vision and giving them a touch of the Force, she dropped them into Domm’s upturned eyes.
He blinked and cried out, but could not move. His eyes watered, and then he squeezed them closed. But by then it was too late.
“I’ll wait outside,” Lanoree heard Tre say, and he sounded like a child afraid of the dark. But her eyes were closed, and she did not see him leave.
“Keep calm, keep quiet,” she whispered with a slight Force push, and Domm grew motionless beneath her. She delved down, vision growing dark, the sense of touch intense and shocking as the dust particles forged through his eyes and back into his brain. She felt the warm wetness of his insides. She sought, the dust sought; and when she found the places she wanted, she paused, gathering strength and molding the Force to her will. This was the dangerous part. She felt Bogan looming and darkness closing, and balance drifted. Power grew around her, and she breathed deeply, trying to ward off the ecstatic sensations flooding through her. The pleasure of control. The ecstasy of darkness.
The dust transformed into elements of her will, and Domm started to choke as her will was done.
Keep calm, Lanoree thought, and this time she was speaking to herself. Bogan grew large and heavy, and she felt the irresistible lure of shadow—freedom from constraint, reveling in power.
And she fought her way back to balance, the denial of Bogan difficult but ultimately triumphant. The sense of loss was staggering for a time, but it quickly faded.
This was her talent, Dam-Powl had told her. The alchemy of flesh, however minute that element of flesh might be. Transformation, transition, and Lanoree tried to hold down the sense of pride at her achievement. She had not touched the experiment on her ship since the start of this mission, but she had not lost anything that she had learned.
She stood from Domm and went to the door that Tre had left open behind him.
“It’s done,” she said, and Tre’s voice answered from the corridor beyond.
“You had the face of Dam-Powl. Her darkness.”
“And her control,” Lanoree said. Of course. Dam-Powl must have performed something similar on Tre. But Lanoree didn’t mind frightening him. Tre afraid might serve her well.
“Is he …?”
“I seared his memory. For a time he’ll remember nothing, not even his name.” Domm writhed on the floor and struggled to stand.
“For a time?” Tre asked.
“I’m not sure how long.” And she was not. It could be mere days, or perhaps much longer until Domm returned to the damaged person he had been, a dark shadow in his mind where the memory of what had happened was a charred emptiness. “Better than murder.”
“If you say so.” Tre was standing in the corridor, back against the wall.
“Now tell me you know where District Six’s market is,” she said.
Tre nodded. There was no easy smile this time.