Crosscurrent (6 page)

Kell tilted his head as if to acknowledge the point, but he knew better. What he experienced while feeding could be experienced only by him. The Sith, like the Jedi, conceptualized the galaxy through the lens of the Force. But Kell knew the Force to be but one aspect of the greater skein of Fate. Neither the Sith nor the Jedi saw reality’s truth. Kell would, when he fed on the one whose soup held revelation.

“So you say, Darth Wyyrlok.”

“So I say,” Wyyrlok said. Again that smile, as if he could read Kell’s mind.

Thunder rumbled. Kell felt others in the darkness around them. More Sith. Servants of Wyyrlok.

“Naga Sadow walked this ground,” Wyyrlok said, his clawed hand gesturing at the brick walkway. “And Exar Kun after him. Then, no crippling Rule of Two limited the power of the Sith. Wisely, Darth Krayt has undone the mistake of Bane. Therefore no Rule of Two limits the One Sith today.”

Kell said nothing. He cared little for the intricacies of the Sith religion. And the Chagrian’s incessant use of
therefore
drove Kell to distraction.

“Why have I been summoned?” Kell asked.

Wyyrlok took a step closer to Kell. The Sith around them in the darkness drew closer, too. Kell felt as if he were standing in the middle of a tightening knot. He muffled his presence, quelling his
daen nosi
, deflecting perception. Between his psychic camouflage and his
mimetic suit, he would be nearly invisible to those around him.

Wyyrlok blinked, looked past and through him for a moment, before his eyes refocused on Kell’s.

“Clever, Anzat.” He gestured with his chin out into the darkness, causing his lethorns to sway. “But they will not harm you except at my command. Therefore, you have nothing to fear.”

Kell nodded, but nevertheless maintained his psychic deflection.

“An opportunity has been revealed to the Master,” Wyyrlok said, and took another step closer.

Kell held his ground while lightning lit up the sky. “What kind of opportunity?”

“I will show you,” Wyyrlok said, and offered his fanged smile.

Concentration furrowed Wyyrlok’s brow. Their
daen nosi
intertwined. An itch formed behind Kell’s eyes, then a stabbing pain. He screamed as images exploded in his mind: an icebound moon in orbit around a blue, ringed gas giant, a night sky exploding in a rain of power.

He clutched his head and sagged as the images burned themselves into his memory. He lost control of his muscles and his feeders emerged from his face, squirmed like cut power conduits. Fighting through the pain, he wrapped his fingers around one of his vibroblades, drew it.

The mental intrusion ceased, as did the pain. He snarled, brandished his blade, drew its twin.

Wyyrlok made no move for his lightsaber. He stared into Kell’s eyes.

“I do not require a lightsaber to kill you. Therefore, an attack would be foolish. Are you foolish, Kell Douro?”

Kell considered, calmed himself, and sheathed his blades. “What is the meaning of the vision?”

The Chagrian gave his false smile. “That is what you will determine. The vision portends something important, Anzat. And the Master has concluded that it will begin on Fhost. There, a sign will be given to you. Perhaps even the sign you have long sought.”

Kell tried to hide the excitement birthed by Wyyrlok’s words. He imagined lines of fate coalescing around Fhost, catching it up in a net of destiny. “I know its location.”

“You will, therefore, travel there. Watch for the sign. Learn what there is to learn. And, perhaps, take what there is to take.”

Kell rubbed his eyes, as if erasing them of the remembrance of pain. “Why me?” He gestured out into the darkness. “Why not one of them?”

“Because it is the Master’s will that the One Sith remain quiescent. Therefore, we must use intermediaries.”

Kell had had enough of Wyyrlok’s
therefores
. “To whom shall I report what I learn?”

“You will report back to me,” Wyyrlok said. He frowned, as if struck with a thought, and said, “The Master believes it likely that the Jedi have received a similar vision. The Force is moving in this matter. They may, therefore, interfere. You should not allow interference.”

Kell put his hands on the hilts of his blades. “I understand. What form will the sign take?”

Wyyrlok shrugged. “The Master believes you will know it when you see it. He believes in your ingenuity. And your desire to find the one that you seek.”

Kell licked his lips, knowing he would get nothing more, though he had been given precious little. “Is that all, then?”

Wyyrlok held out his hands, as if to show himself harmless. “You are free to go.”

Kell backed away from Wyyrlok, down the stairs, and
toward his ship. He checked his chrono as he walked. He had last fed only half a standard hour earlier, yet he felt the need to feed again, to recapture the certainty that feeding brought him. Wyyrlok’s words had poked holes in that certainty. They always did. The Chagrian left him ill at ease.

From behind, Wyyrlok called out above the rain. “Why do you serve the Master, Kell Douro?”

The question confused Kell, halted his steps. He shook his head, his mind suddenly jumbled, his thoughts inchoate. “What? What did you say?”

“Consider the answer to that question, Anzat.” Kell could see the Chagrian’s fangs bared in a smile, even through the rain, and there was nothing false in it. “Then consider anew who sees reality’s truths. You are not the only one who can shape perception.”

Thunder boomed; lightning ripped the sky. Kell shook his head to clear it, started to answer Wyyrlok, but saw that he had gone. His head felt muddled. A headache nested at the root of his skull. Out of habit, he checked his chrono again.

He had lost a quarter of a standard hour since he’d last checked it moments ago. He had no idea how.

R
elin started to lose forward momentum the instant he leapt clear of the air lock. He activated the magnetic grips in his gloves and boots as he fell. Time seemed to slow as he plummeted toward the transport, and an image of the transport against the background of stars burned itself into his memory. Remaining focused, holding the ship in his telekinetic grasp, he steered his descent and reeled himself in. He could not afford to slow himself with the Force and he hit the surface of the ship hard, thumping his helmet on the hull and for a moment scrambling the HUD.

The transport lurched the moment he alit, and the sudden shift in momentum nearly threw him. He cursed and grabbed the protuberances nearest to hand. The Force and his magnetic grips kept him anchored. For an instant he feared a scan by the transport crew had detected his presence, but the ship had swerved left and down, probably an evasive maneuver in response to the detection of the Infiltrator.

Drev would be under pressure soon. Relin had to move fast.

He hung on to the transport as it sped toward the
dreadnoughts.
Harbinger
and
Omen
had long sleek bodies dotted everywhere with batteries of rotating laser cannon turrets, typically used for ship-to-ship combat. As he watched, the cannons rotated in the direction of the Infiltrator, but they would have difficulty getting a fix on the small, stealth-equipped starfighter.

In moments a rapid reaction squad of Sith fighters, like flying knives, streaked from the bay.

“Incoming,” he said to Drev over the encrypted channel. “Ten
Blade
-class fighters. Stay among the smaller craft and the dreadnoughts will not fire.”

He glanced back but could not see Drev and the Infiltrator, could see only the dark side of Phaegon III, a handful of the transport shuttles going evasive, and the floating rock of the dead moon. He returned his gaze to the dreadnoughts and focused on his mission. The transport was making for
Harbinger
.

Interior lights from observation decks and viewports flickered here and there along
Harbinger
’s and
Omen
’s lengths. In shape, the dreadnoughts reminded Relin of gigantic lanvaroks, the bladed polearm favored by the Sith. The tumors of bubble-shaped escape pods lined the spine that connected the forward bridge section to the aft engine and landing bay sections.

Like most Jedi, he’d studied the available schematics of Sith starships. He knew their layout. And he knew where he was going once he got aboard.

The transport straightened its course, descended a bit, and headed for the bay. Relin estimated time of arrival, removed three of the mag-grenades from his flexsuit, and crawled along the transport as fast as he dared until he reached the housing for the engine nacelles. He stuck all three charges to one of the nacelles and waited.

The moment the transport cleared the landing bay’s shielding and started to slow, he activated them, put them on a ten-second timer, and began counting down
in his head. Two more Blades sped past him and out of the ship.

Ten, nine …

He worried for Drev. His Padawan was an extraordinary pilot, but the sky would be thick with Sith fighters. Relin would have to be fast.

Eight, seven …

The activity in the landing bay gave it the appearance of an Eesin hive. Pilots in full gear were carted in levs to their Blades. Droids wheeled and walked here and there. Organics and machines unloaded open transports and loaded what looked like raw ore onto lev pallets. The sight of the ore, the greasy feel of it, made Relin queasy.

He remembered a moment years before when he and Saes, then still a Jedi, had happened upon a crystal that enhanced a dark side user’s connection to the Force. He shuffled through his memory until he recalled the name of the ore—Lignan.

The feel of it was the same. It had to be the same material.

He had never imagined there could be so much.

A female voice on the loudspeaker announced commands. “Cargo droid team four to landing bay one-sixty-three-bee.”

Relin reached out with the Force and felt the minds around him as the transport settled into a landing bay and powered down its engines. Autoclamps secured its skids and gases vented with a hiss. Relin discerned ten or so beings nearby, none a Force-user, all weak-minded.

Five, four …

Using the Force, he entered their minds and erased himself from their perception.

Three, two …

He leapt from the ship, hit the floor in a roll, found his feet, and ran. Augmenting his speed with the Force, he covered a hundred meters in the tick of a chrono.

Zero.

Behind him, the mag-grenades blossomed into a cloud of flame and heat, and the secondary explosion from one or both of the transport’s other engines rocked the landing bay. The concussion wave nearly knocked him from his feet. Shards of metal, chunks of flesh, screams, and sparkling motes of the transported ore peppered the area. The presence of the ore in its naked form made his stomach churn, and he took care as best he could to touch none of the particulates.

An alarm screeched and the crew near the wreckage scrambled for the firefighting gear. A medical droid wheeled past Relin.

“Firefighting team to main landing bay,” announced the female voice.

Ears ringing, Relin hurried down a corridor in the direction of the hyperdrive chamber. He flipped back his helmet, letting it hang by the hinge at the rear of the suit’s neck, and put the helmet’s removable comlink in his ear.

A firefighting team, several curious crew members, and three towering, red-skinned Massassi in security uniforms stormed past him at intervals. He used the Force to deflect their perception as he hurried along. The interior of the ship reflected the mind-set of its Sith builders: all hard edges, sharp corners, and pure functionality, with no allowance for comfort or aesthetics.

The sound of the alarm grew fainter, and he allowed himself to feel a small sense of relief. He reached an intersection and paused for a moment to gather his bearings. He shuffled through the cards of his memory, recalling the direction of the hyperdrive chamber.

Left. And not far.

A hatch to his left slid open to reveal the muscular, vaguely reptilian form of a Massassi warrior in the deep black uniform and epaulets of security personnel. A lanvarok
hung across his back, a blaster on the trunk of his thigh. Bone quills poked from his knuckles. Metal ornaments pierced his wide nose and small ears. Studs had been implanted underneath the red skin of his forearms, biceps, and hairless scalp. The Massassi’s eyes fixed on Relin before he could use the Force to blind his perception. The tentacles of the Massassi’s beard quivered over his broad, toothy mouth. A vein in his temple visibly throbbed.

“We need assistance in the landing bay,” Relin said. “Something went wrong with the—”

The Massassi took in Relin’s flexsuit, the lack of a uniform. His yellow eyes narrowed and his clawed hand clutched the hilt of his lanvarok, pulled it free. The large polearm could be spun by a wielder to release the sharpened metal disks mounted on its haft, or the jagged bladed end could serve as an ax. A crude weapon, but dangerous.

“Who is your superior?” the Massassi asked, his voice as guttural as comm static.