Into the Void: Star Wars (Dawn of the Jedi) (14 page)

“Good training,” Lanoree gasps. They glance into their room—beds, benches, little
else. Their training robes are laid on the beds, and she can already tell how rough
they are, and how cold they will be wearing them.
Toughening us up
, she thinks. She asks the droid where their afternoon session will take place.

“Master Tave always takes his classes in the lower training levels,” the droid burrs.

“Of course he does,” Lanoree says. “Of course.”

“Attack me,” Master Tave says, “with anything you can.”

The students are hesitant. Even Lanoree pauses, though she knows that the Master will
not suggest anything he does not mean.

Then she walks to the weapons rack, picks up a slingshot, and fires a stone at the
Master’s head.

He steps aside and it misses.

She pushes a Force punch his way and he defects it with a flick of his fingers.

Lanoree dashes to the left, and her sudden movement seems to bring the room to life.
There are six Journeyers in the training courtyard, including her and Dal, and they
take her enthusiasm as permission to attack.

The Cathar twins go at Master Tave with heavy spiked chains that he easily avoids,
leaving them tangled and useless. Dal darts in low and fast, swinging a mace at his
legs … which are no longer there. Tave shoves Dal onto his back and kicks the mace
aside. A Wookiee roars and swings two short, heavy clubs that Master Tave ducks and
swerves around before planting a boot in the Wookiee’s rump and sending her spilling
to the floor. The last student to attack is a Twi’lek, who fires a Force punch so
powerful that it even takes Lanoree’s breath away.

Master Tave deflects the punch back against its originator, and the Twi’lek staggers
back with a bloodied nose.

The large courtyard rings with their heavy breathing, their bodies still unused to
the thin air. The fight drives their hearts, pumps blood, sharpens senses. But it
is far from over.

“Again,” Master Tave says. He is not even breathing hard.

This time Lanoree, Dal, and the Wookiee attack simultaneously from three different
directions, gasping, grunting—Lanoree trying to sweep Tave’s legs from beneath him
with a sly Force punch, Dal aiming a flying kick at his head, the Wookiee clumsy yet
strong with her deadly clubs—and within moments they are all on the floor, clasping
bruises and wallowing in wounded pride.

Lanoree and Dal lock eyes, and her brother grins.

They go again. The courtyard is a confusion of spilled bodies and bloodied noses and
swirling snow, and as Lanoree is casually cast aside for the third time, she sees
the Twi’lek go at Master Tave with a surprisingly adept combination of Alchaka moves,
the vigorous Force martial art. Tave seems to never be where a punch lands or a foot
kicks, and moments later the Twi’lek spins through the air toward a far wall.

The Master raises a hand and softens the flying boy’s impact.

Lanoree is sweating even in her thin robe, her heart racing, breathing hard. Dal looks
the same, but he also appears more alive than he has in a while. It’s good to see
him like that, but worrying, too. Each of his attacks was traditional—not once did
he try to channel the Force.

“You all try too hard,” Master Tave says. He walks among them with his hands behind
his back, and there’s no sign at all that he has expended any strength in holding
off their attacks. “You give in to effort and let it rule your moves.” He points at
the Cathar twins. “You both held your breath as you attacked, and your hearts will
not like that.” At the Wookiee. “A roar will not distract an enemy strong with the
Force, but it will steal your breath, empty your lungs, tire you quicker.” And at
Lanoree. “And you. You stumble, rather than flow. With every move you expend three
times the energy you should.” He stands in the middle of the scattered, panting, bleeding
students and sighs. “So. Breathing.”

For the rest of that afternoon Master Tave teaches them how to breathe. To begin with,
it feels unnatural and goes against everything Lanoree thought she knew, because breathing
is something she never thinks about. She has done it forever. It simply happens, like
her heart
beating, her blood flowing, her mind working both when she is awake and asleep. But
by the time they stop at midafternoon for drinks and a handful of local fruit and
nuts, she realizes the truth. Tave is showing them how to breathe with the Force as
well as with air. Perhaps later she will have to revisit her heart, her blood, her
thinking.

The students enjoy the session, but Lanoree does not allow herself to draw too close
to the others. Usually gregarious and willing to make friends, she feels the pressure
of her responsibility for Dal. And now that he has emphasized his independence from
her and their parents, that pressure feels even greater.

Dal also remains somewhat aloof. He’s enjoying the training, she can see that, but
he is also selective about what he is taking from it. The more Master Tave tells them
that the Force is their friend, their protector, the balance that they must find,
the more she perceives Dal’s attention wandering.

Perhaps he’s simply way out of balance
, she thinks.

And once she grasps this idea, Lanoree lets it grow. It’s uncomfortable, but something
she understands. Something that can be resolved. In her mind it’s far better than
the alternative.

That Dal truly hates the Force, and is doing everything he can to tear himself away
from it.

“Your first training session in Stav Kesh is almost at an end,” Master Tave says later
that afternoon. “This evening you will prepare food, scrub the kitchens, and then
return here to clear the training yard of snow and mud. You might also visit the Tho
Yor and meditate for a while. Meditation is a part of fighting. Centering yourself,
finding and ensuring your balance. And so attack me once more, with everything you
can.”

This time there is little hesitation. Lanoree and Dal are the first to react. Lanoree
uses the Force to send a piercing whistle at Master Tave’s ears, upsetting his physical
balance, but her follow-up attack with an Alchaka kick combination is parried and
countered, and her face meets the stone pavement. She feels her nose gush blood—the
second time that day—and rolls onto her side in time to see Dal spinning through the
air, victim of a Force punch from Tave.

The others attack, too, using combinations of the Force and the physical. This time
there is no panting and roaring, groaning and grunting, and the only sounds echoing
across the courtyard are the rustling of loose robes, the whisper of bare feet on
snow-covered stone, the impacts of flesh against flesh. Master Tave stands tall and
fights off every attack. His expression remains impassive, and his movements are fluid
and confident.

It is Dal who scores the first and only hit of the day. With Tave warding off a sword
attack from the Cathar twins, Dal feints a clumsy Alchaka assault, but then slides
within Tave’s reach and delivers an elbow to his face. Master Tave takes a step back
and his head turns to the side, spots of blood splashing his shoulder.

The courtyard grows suddenly still. Dal lowers his elbow, rubbing it slightly from
where it contacted Tave’s heavy brow. There is a stunned silence.

Master Tave smiles. “Good,” he says. “Very good, Dalien.” He slings one arm over Dal’s
shoulder and presses one clawed finger against his chest. “You’re learning to breathe
well, deep and gentle from the stomach instead of the chest. You’re learning to control
your body instead of letting your body control you. Now imagine what you could do
if you were willing to let in the Force.”

The silence in the courtyard goes from stunned to awkward. Dal says nothing.

But Lanoree can read his expression, and his thoughts, as he looks at Master Tave’s
bruised temple.

Who needs the Force?

“He let you get the hit.”

“No!”

“Of course he did. That’s Master Tave! You think he’d be fooled by a move more suited
to a tavern scrap?”

“He was tired, he let his guard slip. I got him. I hit him!” Dal is angry, she can
see that. But Lanoree cannot let him believe something like this. It will only add
impetus to his fleeing the Force.

“I’ve heard stories about him. He can hide in the Force! Slip away. Come back again.”
She smiles softly. “He wanted to let you gain confidence.
You were the clumsiest of all of us there, and he didn’t want you—”

“Are you serious?” Dal asks. “Don’t treat me like a child, Lanoree. I might be younger
than you, but I see more. I know more truths. And the truth is, strength doesn’t only
come from your stupid Force.”

“
My
Force?”

Dal snorts. They are high up on the wild, windswept top of the temple. It’s night,
and the views over the plains are amazing. But Dal looks at the sky.

“None of this is for me,” he says, and he sounds almost wistful. “None of this down
here.”

Even as Lanoree walks away, Dal is still gazing at the stars.

For a long while Lanoree stared up at the night sky. Alone out in the Tython system
she sometimes sat staring at the stars, letting the Peacemaker fly itself, and wondering
what was out there. It was part of the reason why being a Ranger suited her. One day
she would advance to Master, and then perhaps she would spend more of her time on
Tython, contemplating the Force, instructing and guiding others, and eventually becoming
an elder Je’daii. But youthful curiosity still drove her, and being alone in space
she had the time to dream.

Besides, she liked the adventure. In that regard, perhaps she and her brother were
alike.

She glanced back into the living area and saw that Tre Sana was asleep. A pang of
annoyance hit her that he slept so easily on her cot. But it was the best place for
him right now. As they powered across the Kalimahr sea toward the Khar Peninsula,
Lanoree needed to report in. There was much to tell.

She lowered the volume on the flatscreen and then keyed in Master Dam-Powl’s code.
The soft chiming went on for some time, and then the screen flickered and Dam-Powl’s
face appeared.

“Ranger Brock,” Dam-Powl said. She looked as though she had been asleep. “I wasn’t
expecting to hear from you so soon.”

“Master Dam-Powl,” Lanoree said, bowing her head briefly. “I have a quiet moment.
And there is progress. Troubling progress.”

After the brief time delay, the Je’daii Master heard her words and appeared suddenly
more alert.

“My brother Dalien is aware that I’m pursuing him,” Lanoree said. “He has his spies,
and they followed me from the moment I landed. I’m on the way to one of the Stargazer
temples right now. I believe he might be here, right on Kalimahr.”

“Did you make contact with Tre Sana?”

“I did.”

“He’s proved useful?”

Lanoree considered this for a moment, then nodded. She chose not to mention Dam-Powl’s
genetic manipulation of Tre. It seemed irrelevant, and perhaps even intrusive. She
was a Je’daii Master, after all.

“Have you questioned any of those close to your brother and the Stargazers?”

“Yes, a woman called Kara. Rich, revered in Kalimahr society. Something of a hermit,
though she seems very aware of any events that have interest for her. She funds the
Stargazers. Didn’t seem concerned about letting us know that.”

“Hmmm,” Dam-Powl said. “It’s from someone like her that we received some of what little
information we have. It seems not all those who fund the Stargazers agree with what
they’re now attempting.”

“I think Kara does.”

“She said as much?”

“Not in so many words. But we searched her apartment. And I found something.”

Dam-Powl shifted as she became more interested.

“Master, are you familiar with the tales of Osamael Or?”

“Should I be?”

Lanoree smiled. “Perhaps not. A story my parents used to tell me when I was a little
girl. He’s something of a myth, from at least nine thousand years ago. An explorer
from the very early days of our ancestors’ time on Tython. It’s said he developed
an interest in the Old City and disappeared down there, never to be seen again.”

“And the relevance?”

“He was real. And when I searched Kara’s apartments, I found a secret room that contained
several very old books. There was trouble—
her security droids came, and I had to make a creative exit. But I took one of the
books with me.”

“And?”

“And it’s Osamael Or’s diary from his time exploring the Old City. One of them, at
least.”

“One of them?”

“It’s incomplete. But it contains something that …” She pursed her lips.

“Ranger?”

“It seems he found something of the Gree down there,” Lanoree said. “And if my translation
of the diary’s obtuse wording is accurate, the technology your spies heard about—the
dark matter device—might well be of Gree origin.”

Dam-Powl was silent for a while, and she did not hide her shock.

“It contains instructions?” she whispered.

“No,” Lanoree said. “Much of what it says is obscure and does lead me to believe the
stories of Osamael’s madness. But there are three mentions of something that translates
as ‘step to the stars.’ And toward the end of the diary—it’s very short, and I suspect
much more once existed—he says he’s searching for designs.”

“Did he find them?”

“Right now there’s no way of knowing.”

“Designs for a device to initiate a hypergate,” Dam-Powl said.

“So does it exist?”

Dam-Powl did not answer. It was as if she had not even heard the question. “Very little
is known of the Gree,” she said instead. “If these Stargazers
do
have technical plans for something of Gree origin, they’re toying with technology
way beyond us.”

“You really believe that?”

“Even though the Gree have been gone for millennia,” Dam-Powl said, “technology that
old might as well be ten thousand years ahead of us instead of ten thousand behind.
It’s obscure. Arcane. Not to be touched.”