Crosscurrent (33 page)

Only then did Kell realize what he was doing, that he felt nothing, that he was risking revelation by surrendering to his appetite prematurely.

The possibility of feeding on the human’s soup elicited no longing, no yearning expectation of revelation. He looked at Khedryn’s
daen nosi
, found them uncomplicated entirely, lines of fate that did nothing more than curl back on themselves forever, leading nowhere, offering nothing.

Khedryn Faal did not offer revelation. No one did.

Except Jaden Korr.

Their
lines were connected, Kell’s and Jaden’s. Only Jaden’s lines, once enwrapped by Kell’s, would map out the road to understanding, would scribe characters of revelation for Kell to read. Only then would Kell have what he had sought for centuries.

Disgusted with himself—and with Khedryn—he pulled back his feeders. They came clear of Khedryn’s face with a wet, slurping sound. A flood of blood and snot poured from Khedryn’s nose. Kell lowered Khedryn to the floor, loosening his grip on the human’s throat.

Attempting to draw in some air, Khedryn instead aspirated some of the blood and snot and began to cough. When he finished, he looked up into Kell’s face. The human’s eyes watered; a network of popped blood vessels made a circuit board of his eyes; blood and mucus slathered his mustache and beard.

“What are you?” he asked, his voice as coarse as a rasp.

Kell almost answered by reflex,
I am a ghost
, but stopped himself.

“I am a pilgrim,” he said instead.

Khedryn’s face screwed into a question and Kell, distracted, drove his fist into the center of it. Khedryn did not make a sound. His nose shattered, blood sprayed, and Kell let him fall on his back to the floor unconscious. He gathered up Khedryn’s blaster, searched him for other weapons, found none, stripped him of his comlink, and left him on the floor.

He considered slitting Khedryn’s throat with his vibroblade, but realized that he was indifferent to Khedryn Faal. And he would no longer murder with indifference. Perhaps his apathetic butchery had been the reason revelation so long eluded him. He must kill only with his spirit on fire.

And he was burning for Jaden Korr.

And Jaden had headed down.

Kell left Khedryn behind and followed after Jaden. His pilgrimage was nearing its end.

Khedryn swam in pain, drowning, flailing, seeking release …

He awoke on the cold floor of the recreation room, coughing blood. Each cough drove a spike of pain through his nose and nasal cavity. The metallic taste of blood clung to the roof of his mouth, near the back of his throat. He winced with remembered pain and terror, recalling the pointed appendages that had squirmed from his attacker’s cheeks and wormed up his nose. He’d been unable to breathe, unable to think, violated.

Nausea seized him. He sat up, vomited blood, snot, and his last meal onto the deck, where it steamed in the cold. Forgetting the details of his injuries, he steadied himself with a hand on the floor and his broken wrist screamed in protest. The pain from bone grinding against bone almost caused him to pass out. He held on to consciousness through sheer force of will.

After the room stopped spinning, after the pain in his wrist grew bearable, he used a chair from the sabacc table to help him to his feet. His shattered nose did not allow air to pass, so his breath wheezed through his mouth, left hanging open like a cargo bay door.

As he rose, he fixed his eyes on a sabacc card that had fallen from the table, staring at the image on it—a grinning clown face in an absurd hat. The Idiot. He almost laughed.

His body ached from the beating. The adrenaline dump and the aftereffects of the terror he’d felt left him weak, shaking, barely able to stand. He tried to collect his wits, gather his thoughts, endure the pain in his wrist.

Had the creature been one of the clones? It had seemed a Force-user. He’d felt it slip into his thoughts and command him to be still. The greasy feeling of being mentally violated had been reminiscent of Jaden’s use of the mind trick.

Why had it left him alive?

He did not know and did not care. It was enough that he was alive.

He reached for his comlink, thinking to warn Jaden, and found it gone. The creature had taken it. He looked around the room for his blaster, saw that it, too, was missing.

The creature seemed concerned only that Khedryn be unarmed and unable to warn Jaden. He had no particular interest in Khedryn, apparently. Khedryn understood the message—
Leave and it’s all over
. He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It had seemed exactly so since he had first met Jaden Korr.

“One problem after another,” he murmured.

Dizziness overcame him. His legs gave way and he sagged gingerly into a chair at the sabacc table, struck with the fact that the last people to sit there were all dead.

He daubed his nose, wincing at the pain, and slowly drummed his fingers on the table. He thought of Marr, of Relin, of Jaden. All were putting their lives in danger for … what?

For something bigger than themselves, he decided. For something they believed in.

What did Khedryn believe in?

His drumming fingers waited for an answer. He decided they could wait a long time.

He flashed on his last conversation with Marr. His friend had said that helping the Jedi was the right thing. He’d been certain of it.

Khedryn stopped drumming his fingers.

He could not always run.

“Kriffin’ son of a murglak broke my kriffin’ nose.”

He stood, fought down the dizziness, and headed back the way he had come. His wrist throbbed with
agony. His nose leaked blood and felt as if it had been smashed with a hammer. But he was through running.

He remembered the way to the lift, but he had a stop to make on the way.

Jaden felt light-headed as the lift sank into the moon. He grounded himself in the Force while the hum of the lift’s motors proclaimed its rapid descent. By the time it slowed, he figured he had descended a hundred meters or more.

The doors parted, the aged mechanism squeaking loud enough to make him wince. Air ten degrees warmer than that in the surface installation flowed into the lift compartment. It bore the whiff of things dead a long while.

He stepped out and into a circular room with an overturned desk and chair near the single door that provided egress. Dried blood, brown and crusted, stained the walls.

It was not a spray pattern, Jaden realized. Someone had slathered it on the walls as if it were paint. The shapes and patterns made no sense to him, their meaning plain only to the mad.

The lift doors closed behind him. He activated the comlink.

“Khedryn, do you read?”

In the silence, his voice sounded as if he were speaking through a voice amplifier. Water dripped somewhere behind the walls, the rhythm that of the distress beacon.

The comlink exploded in static.

“Khedryn, do you read?”

More static. He was too far underground. He muted the comlink and walked into the room. He realized with horror that he was walking on clumps of hair, lots of it. Human hair. Brown, black, blond, gray. It was scattered all over the room, like fallen snow.

He knelt down and took some in his palm. Ragged pieces of the root clung to the clumps, little brown bits of dried scalp that made Jaden’s mouth go dry. The hair had been ripped out in handfuls.

Dread settled on Jaden like a funeral shroud. The ceiling suddenly seemed too low, the light too dim, the whole of the complex as oppressive as a tomb. Whatever had happened in the facility had been not merely violent, but macabre.

A large brown stain covered the floor near the desk, as if someone had bled out there. Other than the unsettling scattering of hair, he saw no sign of any bodies.

Licking his lips, he put his hand on the door control—not a hatch but an ordinary door—and it slid open. The stink of old death—a stale, sickly sweet stench—wafted through, stronger than before. He wondered when he would encounter the bodies. He knew it was only a matter of time.

A wide, curving corridor stretched in either direction. From the angle of the arc, he surmised that the corridor formed a circle and came back on itself.

Putting his free hand on his blaster, as tense as a coiled spring, he went left. Blaster marks scored the white duracrete walls here and there. Blood spattered the walls. Together, the scorches and blood looked like some ancient, indecipherable script, pictographs of violence. Again, he found stray pieces of stormtrooper armor, souvenirs of the slaughter that had occurred. Again he found no bodies.

At intervals he encountered double doors along the inner wall. All were closed and would have required a card reader to pass, but the readers had been destroyed by either blasterfire or lightsaber.

Wanting to understand the layout of the complex, he delayed opening any of the doors until he walked the entire corridor. As he had suspected, it formed a circle.
Each pair of double doors stood opposite another pair. Drawing a line between each would neatly bisect the circle ringed by the corridor, another example of the Imperial fetish for symmetry.

He walked to the nearest set of the metal double doors. In addition to the destroyed card reader, the doors also had a manual lock and bar. The bar, a rod of titanium alloy, lay on the ground near the doors, bent.

Whatever was behind those doors, the doctors had not wanted it to get out.

But it had gotten out, and it had slaughtered everyone in the facility.

Jaden took a handle in hand, conscious of how cool the metal felt in his palm, and pulled it open.

A narrow corridor led straight about ten meters before ending at another metal door. Above it was written:

Hallways and rooms opened along the corridor’s sides, and Jaden noted them in passing—a few offices with chairs and desks overturned, loose flimsies cast over the floor, destroyed computers and data crystals scattered everywhere; a conference room, its chairs toppled, the conference table cut into pieces by a lightsaber. A wall-mounted vid display had a burn hole like a singularity in its exact center. He assumed that there was a laboratory somewhere, but he did not stop to look for it. His feet carried him of their own accord to the door that led to the observation deck.

A half-full caf pot sat on the floor in the corner of one office, somehow completely unaffected by the chaos. Caf mugs, too, littered the floor here and there, all of it the ruins of ordinary activity and interaction.

His eyes caught an unexpected shape and he stopped, staring at it.

Set atop an overturned desk was a single shoe, a woman’s shoe browned with dried blood and still wrapped in an age-yellowed steri-slipper, the kind worn by laboratory techs.

The scene struck a visceral chord in Jaden, repulsed him. Someone or something had to have consciously
placed
the bloody shoe there, as if its presence exactly there were important, as if it were some kind of trophy, as if it made some kind of sense.

A realization struck him. He was seeing reified madness.

Dr. Gray’s head, the hair on the floor, the shoe, all of it the acts of deranged minds.

The clones had gone mad. Perhaps they had been unable to reconcile the two poles of their origin, Jedi and Sith. Perhaps a misstep along the sword-edge a Force-user walked would lead not to a fall into the dark side so much as a descent into madness.

Jaden’s mind turned to Khedryn, to the stories he’d heard of Outbound Flight’s failure. Master C’baoth had gone mad, and his actions had led to many deaths.

Jaden feared he was slipping himself; he felt an abyss to either side. Yet he could not stand still. He craved certitude, yearned for it the way a drowning man did air. He unmuted his comlink, and static shouted at him.

“Khedryn,” he said, knowing it was hopeless but wanting to say something aloud, a human sound to break the funereal silence of a facility that felt like a crypt.

A metallic clang from somewhere ahead caused him to tense. Moving slowly, he muted his comlink again and approached the door that led to the observation deck. He stood before it for a moment, his lightsaber sizzling in his hand, his other hand on his blaster, but the sound did not repeat. He slid the door open, crouching to reduce his silhouette.

A large, round chamber opened before him. The lights suspended from the high ceiling had all been shattered, their glass littering the floor like broken ice, so he flashed his glow rod around the room. It had to have been one hundred meters in diameter. Waist-high computer console towers rose here and there from the floor like stalagmites, each one an eerie simulacrum of the communications tower that screamed into space for help.

He stepped inside, and the feel of the floor immediately struck him oddly. He crouched and shined his glow rod directly at it.

It was transparisteel, dimmed the way
Junker
’s cockpit viewport could dim when the ship entered hyperspace. He also noticed a latticework of hair-fine filaments that ran through it, capillaries of unknown purpose. He knelt and looked through the transparisteel; he could just make out the ghosts of shapes in the room below, but nothing distinct.

On the far side of the room, he saw the dark hole of an open lift shaft, the door only half shut, an eye frozen in the act of closing.

He rose and walked to one of the computer consoles. The interface was intuitive and controlled the lighting in the room he was in, as well as the lighting, temperature, and noise in the rooms visible through the floor. He turned on the power to the rooms below, expecting the lights to be nonoperational. They functioned, illuminating the equivalent of a fishbowl. He pressed another key to eliminate the dimming effect on the floor.

The observation deck overlooked a subcomplex of rooms that Jaden assumed to have been the clones’ living quarters. Hallways radiated outward from a central meeting room and attached mess hall. Two dejarik sets sat atop a table in the meeting room, the static-laden holographic creatures facing each other across the battlefield,
the games unfinished. The chairs in both rooms had been pushed neatly under the table. Plates and eating utensils sat in orderly stacks atop the serving counter in the mess. Unlike the rest of the facility, everything in the clones’ rooms was in place, tidy, and invariably white, cream, or some shade of gray.