Remnant: Force Heretic I (24 page)

“This is Leia. Where are you, Tahiri? Assistant Primate Thrum pointed out that we seem to have lost you. To be honest, I hadn’t noticed. I was so wrapped up in the tour.”

Tahiri smiled to herself. “Sorry,” she said, playing along with the charade. “I should have called you before now. I went to go back to my room to get something and must have taken a wrong turn along the way.”

“Would you like us to send someone to fetch you?”

“No, that’s all right. I can find my way back.”

“Are you sure?” Tahiri could hear Thrum babbling something behind Leia’s words, but couldn’t quite make it out.

“I’ll call you if I can’t retrace my steps. Until then, I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe.”

There was no good argument to that. It wasn’t as if she was out on the streets where a criminal element might threaten her; she was inside a government building populated by clerks. And Thrum could hardly insist that she return because
they
were nervous about
her.

“That’s fine, Tahiri,” Leia said. “Come back when you’re ready. Have fun while you’re young, that’s what I say. And I’m sure Assistant Primate Thrum would agree.”

The line went dead. Tahiri smiled even wider, imagining the frustration Thrum must have been feeling in the face of Leia’s incessant chattering.

The thought of the talkative locals brought something home to her then. The Fia around here were conversing
with none of the driven intensity of Primate Persha or her assistant. They were discussing the everyday occurrences of their lives in some detail, yes, but nothing more than that. She couldn’t help wonder if the endless chattering of the Fia she had been formally introduced to was the nervous prattle of someone hoping to avoid awkward questions.

She continued through the building for a while longer before coming to the realization that she wasn’t about to learn anything new this way. The corridors were remarkable only in that they all appeared almost exactly the same, and the only doors she found to be open led to nothing more interesting than storerooms or offices, often occupied by gossiping bureaucrats. Because she didn’t know what exactly to look for, beyond anything that might explain the communications blackout to Galantos, she didn’t have any clear objectives. And besides which, after an hour or more, she was starting to get a little bored with the game.

Deciding to make her way back to the others, she found a turbolift and dropped ten floors; she walked around briefly before going back up the same shaft to the floor she had started on. Then, figuring that if she had any pursuers on her tail, this would set them back a little, she wound her way back to the security post she had snuck through earlier. The same guards were there when she returned, both looking tremendously relieved to see her.

“Mistress Veila! You have returned!”

“Please forgive our lack o courtesy when you came by earlier,” said one, approaching her. “It was remiss of us not to be here to give you directions.”

“It’s really nothing,” she said breezily. “I had a nice stroll.”

“Please allow me to escort you back to your rooms,” he said obsequiously. “We would hate for you to become lost again.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tahiri said, with a small wave of her hand. “I can find my own way back.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” the second guard said, stepping up beside the first.

His partner nodded. “She can find her own way back,” he said, and gestured her through without another word.

In fact, Tahiri did know her way back to her rooms, but that wasn’t where she was heading. She was letting her instincts, not her head, guide her again. Someone else had stayed in these rooms—she was more convinced of this now than she had been before. She half closed her eyes to shut out the distraction of her physical senses, walking where her feelings led her, reaching out with the Force to make sense of her suspicions. Whoever it was who had been the Fia’s guest, she could feel their echoes and shadows all around her: in the walls, the carpets, the gilt-edged cornices, the carvings …

She moved along the corridors, the feelings becoming stronger with each step she took, finally reaching their peak when she turned into one long passage leading to a wide viewport. The viewport itself looked directly out into the clear skies of Galantos, the sunlight through the decorative and colored glass casting rainbow hues across the numerous doors that lined the passage.

She stepped uneasily forward, her hands reaching out to touch each door in turn as she passed. They all seemed devoid of anything out of the ordinary, and yet the corridor rang with an odd, discordant resonance. The feeling was so strong now, in fact, it was almost tangible. Someone—

She stopped abruptly. Her entire body tingled as her fingertips came into contact with the door at the far end of the corridor. She wasn’t normally able to sense individuals so strongly, particularly in the ambience of an unfamiliar world. So what made this one so special? Why was her stomach churning at the thought of opening this door? What exactly was it in these echoes that disturbed her so intensely?

You are being foolish
, she chided herself.
You are a Jedi Knight and that is an empty room. There’s nothing in there to be frightened of, but fear itself.

The door slid open when she touched the keypad: nothing to hide, it would seem, or else the door would have been locked. But the mysterious presence hit her like a wave of stale air, making her flinch.

Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard voices calling her, so, despite her apprehensions, she stepped into the room. Her movements were slow and awkward, as though she were trying to take strides in a Mimban swamp.

As expected, the room was unoccupied. It was far from being empty, though. The feelings were so strong now that her entire body felt as though it was about to explode—and, such was the discomfort they were giving her, right then she would have been happy if it
had.

Still allowing her instincts to guide her, Tahiri stepped over to the bed, lifting the quilt covering it to look underneath. Finding nothing, she lifted the entire mattress.

There.

At full stretch, she could just manage to get her fingers on the tiny silver object that lay on the dusty floor. And the moment she touched it, a shock went through her that sent her reeling. She lay on the floor, clutching the object, panting to catch her breath and fighting to hold the darkness at the back of her mind from sweeping in.

This was it: this was what had been calling to her. Just like the voices were calling to her now …

“Mistress Veila! Are you all right?”

Was it a Fia who had called her name? She couldn’t be sure; she was too busy trying to stay conscious.

“You must come with us, please,” the owner of the voice continued. “You should not be here!”

She felt herself actively complying with the request, even though she seemed to have no real control over her body. It was as if she were lost in a vague fog, her movements as clumsy as a puppet’s.

Turning, she saw three Fia guards at the door, one stepping in to take her arm and guide her out into the corridor. There, the other two took position close behind her. They were speaking, but she couldn’t quite make out the words, as though she were disassociated completely from her body, looking down from above on all that was happening. And it was all because of the thing in her hand …

She brought the pendant up to examine it more closely. It was silver in appearance, but fashioned from a substance unfamiliar to her, and molded in the shape of a bulbous-headed, many-tentacled jellyfish—a bizarre cross between an Umgullian blob and a Sarlacc.

But she knew what it was. Although she’d never seen anything quite like it before, she recognized it immediately.

It was an image of the Yuuzhan Vong deity Yun-Yammka, the Slayer.

A wail came bubbling up from inside her, crying out in a language she wasn’t supposed to know:
Ukla-na vissa crai!

Tahiri clutched the totem to her chest as the world grayed around her and plunged her, finally, into black.

*  *  *

In the week following the telling of the Rapuung story, Nom Anor accompanied I’pan on his missions to the upper levels. Using his knowledge of security codes and resource management, he was able to appropriate many of the raw materials the Shamed Ones needed to build their new home, things they hadn’t previously been able to gain access to. Slowly but surely this ragtag bunch of Shamed Ones was becoming indebted to him, living a life they would not have been able to had he not been introduced to them. He had given them the lambents that supplied them light when the bioluminescent globes failed, and the arksh that gave them warmth during those colder nights, as well as the h’merrig, the biological processor that produced a significant percentage of their daily food. He had stolen the materials in good conscience, not caring how the thefts might hurt Shimrra’s war effort. For now, all that concerned him was engendering the trust of his new companions. And while his small contributions had helped in this, it hadn’t been enough to win over everyone—especially the likes of Kunra, who remained suspicious of his motives.

None of that mattered right now, though. He was on another mission with I’pan, and this time collecting equipment and gaining the Shamed Ones’ trust was far from his mind. This time, he had a different agenda.

“How much farther?” His tone was full of irritation as he squeezed himself between two enormous conduits.

“Almost there.” I’pan looked around to get his bearings, then headed for a small hole in one of the walls. On the other side was a ferrocrete tunnel originally intended to give maintenance droids access to a seemingly endless stream of cables and pipes bunched overhead. The tunnel curved away slightly to the left and had no entrances or exits other than those that had been knocked through
the ferrocrete by other explorers. For all Nom Anor could tell, it might have circumnavigated the entire wretched planet.

They came across the corroded remains of a droid halfway along their journey. It was slumped on its side, burned out and stripped of all its useful parts. The expression on its blackened, empty face was a hideous parody of life. Nom Anor kicked it over, stepping on the fragments for good measure as he passed.

Soon they reached a narrow crack in the side of the tunnel, and I’pan put a knobby finger to his lips, calling for quiet. Then he slipped awkwardly but soundlessly through the crack. Nom Anor waited anxiously in the tunnel, fearing a trap. There was nowhere to hide in this endless, abominable place.

I’pan’s hand suddenly reemerged from the crack and waved him through. “They’re not here yet,” he said. “We’ll have to wait.”

Nom Anor followed I’pan into the sub-basement. Despite years of infiltrating the infidel societies, he still felt slightly hemmed in by the sharp edges, flat planes, and impossibly perfect corners that characterized such rooms. Nothing in nature exhibited such properties as these artificial monstrosities—or at least not simultaneously, anyway. It felt as though their very design was intended to suck the life out of those who occupied them, as if in some vain attempt to fill their terrible emptiness.

The room’s only door was locked from the outside. If he was patient, he told himself, he would soon be safely back in the reassuring jumble of the deepest levels, where the weight of all the buildings above warped the edges, bowed the planes, and thwarted the corners sufficiently to fool the mind into thinking it might almost be natural.
Almost
.

I’pan collapsed bonelessly into a corner, appearing in the shadows to be little more than a pile of rubbish under all the rags. Finding a spot in the center of the room, where someone had unsuccessfully attempted to soften the room’s harshness by planting a vurruk carpet, Nom Anor concentrated on breathing exercises to pass the time. He was much fitter than he had been before Ebaq 9. He hadn’t noticed how the years of stress had racked his body until a few weeks of a solid, simple exercise regime washed it clean. His pulse was again strong, and the gash across his fingers had healed perfectly into a ragged, attractive scar. He felt younger than he had in decades. Nom Anor’s self-imposed exile may not have advanced his return with any great speed, but physically it was doing him a world of good.

The sound of scuffling from the far side of the basement’s door broke his meditation. Nom Anor and I’pan rose to their feet together as the lock clunked, the door opened, and three people stepped through. The leader, a tall man with no eyesacks to speak of, stopped in front of I’pan but stared critically over at Nom Anor. He held a sack in one hand, which he passed to I’pan without a word.

I’pan took it. “Aarn, T’less, Shoon-mi,” he said when the door was safely shut, addressing each of the strangers in turn. “I have brought someone who wishes to learn more about the
Jeedai.
”

The three Shamed Ones studied Nom Anor closely. It was clear they didn’t recognize him. He knew their type well. They carried an air of toil with them, as though subservience was an atmosphere that could be bottled. I’pan had explained in advance that these three didn’t belong to a rogue group such as the one Nom Anor had stumbled across; such were rare, even following the
spread of the Jedi heresy. These three were properly employed workers operating under cover.

“His name is—” I’pan started, but was stopped as Nom Anor stepped forward, pushing his companion aside.

“I am Amorrn,” he said. The false name was intended ostensibly to avoid alarm over his former existence, but mainly to reduce the chances that word of his survival would reach Shimrra.

The tall one nodded. “I am Shoon-mi,” he said, “Niiriit’s crèche-brother. When she fell from grace, it was I who freed her from the priests’ cells and allowed her to escape. She has told you about me?”

Niiriit hadn’t, but Nom Anor could see in the man’s sad eyes a yearning for acknowledgment. He knew this sort, too: his immediate family would have been Shamed along with Niiriit, and he was brave enough as a result to resist the established order in small ways, yet too cowardly to abandon it entirely.