CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MEMORY OF PAIN
A Je’daii needs nothing but confidence and comfort in the Force. Clothes for warmth, a ship to travel in, food for energy, water to slake thirst, a sword to stab, a blaster to shoot … all these are luxuries. The Force is everything, and without it, we are nothing.
—Master Shall Mar, “A Life in Balance,” 7,538 TYA
Lanoree relaxed in her reclined flight seat. She had plotted the fastest course she could from Kalimahr to Nox, and now she was eager to see if Ironholgs could download more information from the damaged memory cell. Nox was a big planet, and of its almost ninety domed manufacturing cities, almost half might conceivably be capable of taking on a commission for the Gree device. Lanoree had no doubt that the specific expertise required would reduce that number to a mere two or three, but as yet she had no real idea what that ancient technology might entail. She was flying blind into a storm, but that was the only direction to take.
She’d contacted Master Dam-Powl and told her of the situation. The Je’daii Master had promised that she could instruct those few Je’daii currently on Nox to monitor incoming off-planet traffic, but it was a notoriously renegade planet, and the majority of travel to and from Nox was unregistered. Finding Dal and the Stargazers’ ship would be like finding a particular pebble on a beach, especially considering Lanoree still had no clue what type of ship they might be flying.
Dam-Powl had asked if Tre was still with her, and Lanoree had nodded. The resulting silence had been loaded. But the Twi’lek had not moved from Lanoree’s cot to speak to the Je’daii Master, and Dam-Powl had nodded and then signed off.
Lanoree stared at the stars and stroked the scarred mass on the back of her left hand. She still remembered the day Dal had given her that. The beginning of the end.
“So you actually live in this thing?” Tre Sana asked.
“It’s my ship, yes.”
“It’s a bit … bland. Not much of a home. Don’t you get claustrophobic?”
“With this view?” Lanoree hadn’t even raised the back of the flight seat.
But perhaps Tre was growing bored, and confrontation would pass the time.
“I never did like space travel. Always makes me feel sick. We weren’t built to travel through space. However well shielded a ship is, I’m not convinced I don’t get baked by radiation every time I leave the atmosphere. Your grav unit’s configured wrong, too. I feel twice my usual weight, and that’s making me feel even sicker.”
Lanoree raised and turned her flight seat, smiling. “Is that all?”
“No. It stinks in here. I know you’re probably used to it, but … electrics and grease and the smell of you. And let’s face it, your ship is small. You sit where you sleep when you eat. And that fresher … I have to tell you, Je’daii, I’ve been in some of the seediest taverns in the worst of the Nine Houses on Shikaakwa, and even they have better amenities than you. How can you wash in recycled water? Where’s the shower?” His face fell as if he had just recognized a terrible truth. “And what do you eat?”
“Ah,” Lanoree said. “Food. Good idea.” She stood and entered the living area, opening a small cupboard set in one wall. As she did so she nudged the droid where it worked at a drop-down bench. “Anything yet, Ironholgs?”
The droid did not even reply. It was tweaking and adjusting a delicate arrangement of wires and chips on the broken end of the memory cell, and it paused briefly as if disturbed, then continued.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Lanoree said. “Now then, Tre. Here. Take your choice.” She threw a handful of packets across her cot, several of them landing on Tre’s legs.
“What’s this?”
“Dried food. What, you think I’m hiding a hydroponic pod somewhere at the back of the ship?”
Tre picked up a silvery packet and looked at it in disgust. His face wrinkled, lekku drawing back as if from something poisonous. “You eat this stuff?”
“Hot water, some salt. Some of it can be pretty good. Although you’ve got dangbat stir there. Got to admit, that’s not the best.”
“How long do you spend in this thing?” Tre asked, looking around, feigning disbelief.
Lanoree was starting to get annoyed. She hadn’t really wanted him along—didn’t trust him, especially since she’d seen the true, harder Tre behind the quips and false face he displayed. But she was stuck with him now, and he with her. Civility didn’t cost much.
“Once, I was in deep space for over two hundred days, tracking a Special Forces cell from Krev Coeur gone mercenary.”
“Two hundred …” Tre shook his head in despair.
“I don’t need what you need,” Lanoree said. She slipped a food packet into a metal pocket behind the cupboard hatch and charged it with hot water. Delicious smells filled the cabin, soon whisked away by the climate conditioner. “I know what Dam-Powl’s promised you, and I’m sure you’ll get it. But vast estates don’t interest me. Fast ships, great wealth, prominence, standing in the community. Overflowing credit accounts on a dozen worlds.” She took the packet and started eating. “Men. Adoration. Even respect. I don’t need any of that.”
Tre laughed. “Then you’re—”
“Because I know there’s more to life,” she said, cutting him off. She was tired of his inanities and angry that he could be so superficial. In the face of everything she knew, and all that he must know, such shallowness offended her. “There’s the Force. It binds and holds us, and makes everything precious to me. It’s our reason for being. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. And that’s much more precious than fine foods or somewhere comfortable to wash.”
“You sound like one of the clans on Kalimahr praying to one of their Sprash Gods.”
“Difference being, I know the Force exists.”
Tre Sana smiled and nodded, never taking his eyes from hers. It was a strange moment. Dam-Powl had made him unreadable, and Lanoree wondered why the Je’daii Master had employed such a dangerous man. Or perhaps what she’d done to him that had made him this way.
“But there’s not always balance, is there, Je’daii?” he asked, as if he knew everything.
“Eat,” she said. “It’s really not that bad.” She turned her back on him again, sat in her cockpit seat, and thought of those experiments she had put on hold. There was darkness there, if she did not use caution. But she was comfortable. She was balanced. There was no reason at all to worry.
Lanoree stayed there for some time, and Tre must have read her need to remain undisturbed. She was glad of that. She didn’t like having someone else in her ship, and despite all her best efforts, being constantly reminded of his presence was putting her on edge.
Ashla and Bogan were out of sight, along with Tython, a hundred sixty million kilometers away on the other side of Tythos. Yet she felt their pull and presence, as did every Je’daii wherever they might be in the system. Ashla was light and Bogan dark, and they tugged at her with a comforting gravity, as if she were suspended at the most perfect balancing point between the moons, influenced by both yet pulled in neither direction.
It had not always been like this. After she had lost Dal, halfway through her Great Journey, she had experienced a period of unbalance. Returned home. Learned from her parents to be trusting and trustworthy in the Force once again. It had been nowhere near serious enough to warrant exile, but it had troubled her greatly then, and still did now.
And Dam-Powl had warned that her experiments had the potential to upset the balance once more. The alchemy of flesh—genetic manipulation of cells that, though seeded from her own body, had a life of their own—held such dangers. But Lanoree could not help playing to her strengths. Ignoring them would be like trying to deny the Force itself, and she had already seen the results of that.
Death, she had believed. But now in Dal maybe something worse. A terrible kind of madness.
Perhaps at some point during this mission she might find cause to return to her studies.
“Greenwood Station,” Lanoree said. “The Stargazers were communicating with someone there. That’s not good.”
“It’s not?” Tre asked.
Lanoree looked at the partial communications Ironholgs had managed to extract from the damaged memory cell. All of them had been encoded, and even when deciphered by the droid they had used mundane language that was beyond any code breaker. But the origin and destination of each signal had been scrambled with military-level ciphers.
“Greenwood Station is one of the worst places on one of the most dangerous planets in the system,” Lanoree said. “If there’s a general dislike for the Je’daii on Nox, they hate us there. It’s surrounded by three destroyed domes, bombed by the Je’daii during the Despot War. I was only young then, thirteen. But my parents went to war, and my father served some of his time on Nox. A terrible place, he told me. Acid rain, corrosive gas storms. We warned the domes the bombings were going to happen—they were supplying Hadiya with weapons, however much nonmilitary pressure we exerted—but thousands still died. Many thousands. No one has ever really known how many.”
“I’m older than you,” Tre said. “I seem to recall Greenwood Station being bombed as well.”
“But not destroyed. The original dome was breached but quickly repaired. It’s a damaged place, and everything around it is ruin.”
“But it’s still where they make the most advanced military tech outside Tython,” Tre said. It seemed he’d known everything about Greenwood Station, but had feigned ignorance and let her say it anyway. Another one of his games.
“And how would you know that?”
“I’ve had cause to use them, from time to time.”
“You’ve been there?” Lanoree asked. She had no interest in Tre’s business or his reason for using high-end tech. Not then.
“Of course not! I told you, I hate space travel.”
“But you’ll be known there?”
Tre raised an eyebrow, shrugged. “Not by anyone who’d help us.”
“Why not?”
“You’re Je’daii.”
“Great,” Lanoree said. It was a perfect place for the Stargazers and Dal to flee when they knew she was on their trail. And yet …
This was not about escape. Some of the older communications her droid had plucked from the damaged memory cell proved that. They were going to Greenwood Station for one reason, and that could only be the construction of the Gree device. How complete their plans were, Lanoree could not tell. The old Osamael Or diary was far from comprehensive, and there was no way of knowing whether he had ever found those Gree plans. If he had, perhaps they existed in another diary. One that Kara had been too sensible to leave even in her hidden room. And even if the Stargazers did have the plans in some form, whether they could build the device effectively—and make it actually work—was something no one could know. Her mission remained one of unknowns and ambiguities.
One thing she was certain of: this had already gone further than she could have hoped. The dangers were too great, the chances of Dal’s success too dreadful to comprehend. The chase had to end on Nox, and there she would face her brother.
“I’ll plot a course,” Lanoree said. “Then we’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”
Tre feigned surprise and held his hands out, indicating the narrow but comfortable cot.
“Don’t even think about it,” Lanoree said. She pointed at the door she’d shown him before.
“With the laser pods? And the food stores? There might be space rats in there.”
“I keep a clean ship,” Lanoree said. “And I’m sure you’ve slept in worse.”
“Well …” His three lekku stretched in amusement. Lanoree tried not to smile; she sensed that he wanted to make this as painless as she did.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s just get by. I’ll fly us there as quickly as I can.”
“I’m not sure I want to get there that quickly,” Tre said, and his tired smile might have been the first genuine one she’d seen.
“We’ll be fine. I’ll look after you.”
“And who’s looking after you?”
The Force will be my guide, Lanoree thought. She turned her back on Tre and went up into the cockpit again to chart the fastest, safest course to Greenwood Station on Nox. All the while she was thinking of Dal, and that as a Journeyer she had never truly understood how dangerous he might be.
Not until close to the end.
Even though Master Kin’ade is adept at healing, Lanoree’s arm and hand still hurt. It will for some time, Kin’ade told her. I can fix the damage, but the scarring will remain, and the memory of pain is stronger than you think.
The memory of pain means that she can barely sit still, even in Temple Master Lha-Mi’s chambers.
Dal is also there. His own wounds are less serious than hers—bruises and lacerations from impacting the ground—but Master Kin’ade paid them just as much attention.
“You are not here to be punished,” Temple Master Lha-Mi says to Dal. Even though the chambers are large and impressive, Master Lha-Mi sits in a simple wooden chair, his sword propped beside him. Lanoree has heard many tales of this man, and this sword. “You are here so that I can hear what happened at the top of Stav Kesh. I’ve learned through my long life that stories are … fluid. And that the truth is often found in the sum of the parts. So I’ll have each of you tell me your own version of events.”
“It’s very simple,” Dal says. He is sitting before Lha-Mi alongside Lanoree, and on his other side sits their instructor. “Master Kin’ade took away all my senses and expected me to shoot straight.”
“I haven’t yet asked you to speak,” Lha-Mi says. His voice is not stern, but it carries the authority of age and experience. “Master Kin’ade. If you will begin?”
She stands and bows her head. “Master. I was training a group of students with the Darrow sphere.” She goes on to relate events exactly as they happened, expressing no opinions, simply relaying the facts. Lanoree cannot perceive any elaboration to her story—it is exact and correct in every detail. Kin’ade finishes and bows again.
“And now you, Lanoree Brock,” Lha-Mi says.
“It’s as Master Kin’ade described. I did my best to feel the Force and fight the sphere, but I admit to becoming overconfident. The others did well, mostly. Some bruises, burns, bloody noses, and one or two hits on the sphere, too. And then it was Dal’s turn. He moved well, and at first I thought he was seeking the Force, and I felt … proud. Pleased for him. But then the Sphere took him down easily, and he pulled his blaster. He got off several shots before Master Kin’ade stopped him.”
“She flung me to the ground and almost broke my arm,” Dal says. “I almost went over the parapet.”
Lha-Mi does not even look at Dal. He is still staring at Lanoree, his old eyes almost closed as he listens and thinks. “And your thoughts when one of those blaster shots passed close to your arm?”
“I was frightened for Dal,” Lanoree says.
“Because of what Master Kin’ade might do to him?”
“No. Because of his own loss of control.”
“And now your version of events, Dalien Brock.”
Dal sighs deeply, an almost petulant breath. But Lanoree can sense his fear.
“Go on, Dal,” she says. He glances sharply at her, then his gaze shifts to her bandaged arm and hand, and he looks wretched.
“I tried,” he says. “I tried to find the Force.”
He’s lying, Lanoree thinks. I know him so well, I can hear it in his voice.
“I tried my best—and when the sphere hit me, I went for my blaster, tried to … follow the Force, shoot where it told me.” He shrugs. “It didn’t work. I’m sorry, Lanoree.”
“Every scar tells a story,” she says, repeating something their father once told them.
Temple Master Lha-Mi nods. “It’s fortunate that no one was killed. Master Kin’ade is adept at healing, and I consider myself lucky that she chose Stav Kesh instead of Mahara Kesh. She can mend flesh wounds and knit bones, given time. But no Je’daii can defeat death. Your actions were foolish, Dalien. Led by impetuousness, not guided by the Force. I put that down to youth’s enthusiasm. Perhaps some more traditional weapons training might be in order for the next few days, Master Kin’ade.”
“Just what I had in mind,” Kin’ade says. She stands as if at a silent signal and motions Lanoree and Dal to stand, too.
“Stay with me, Lanoree,” Lha-Mi says. The other two leave, and then Lanoree is alone with the Temple Master. He is old and strong, but not intimidating. There’s a kindliness to him that makes her feel comfortable, and she can sense his concern.
“Your brother,” he says, and then he says no more. A question?
“He’s trying,” Lanoree says. “He knows what our Great Journey is for, and he’s doing his best.”
“No,” Lha-Mi says. “I fear he has already given up. For some, the Force is never comfortable or easy to find balance within.”
“No!” she says, standing before the Temple Master. He remains seated and composed. “Our parents are Je’daii, and we will be also.”
“You already are, Lanoree. I sense a great future for you. You’re strong, sensible, mature, and you have—” he held out his hand, tilted it left and right “—balance, give or take. But your brother is different. He carries a darkness within him, and his shunning of the Force makes it too dark to penetrate, too deep for me to plumb. There may still be a way back for him. But you have to realize how dangerous he might be. You have to be careful.”
“I made a promise to my parents. He’s my brother, I love him, and I’ll save him.”
“Sometimes love is not enough.” Lha-Mi rises and takes her hand. He speaks no more. But she feels a touch on her mind, brief but potent, that shows her a blink of what Dal had been thinking in the Temple Master’s chambers.
Deep, dark thoughts.