Shimrra’s mood became dark. “I am eager to deliver an end to our enemy before that planetary nemesis undoes us.” He sharpened his gaze on Nom Anor. “Are we safe, Prefect?”
Nom Anor mustered his courage. “With any luck, Dread Lord, Zonama Sekot is a dead world. If not, it certainly has no sense of where it is, let alone where we are.”
SEVEN
Luke and Mara Jade Skywalker stood in the trapezoidal entrance to the cliff dwelling that had been their home and shelter on Zonama Sekot for what had felt like three standard weeks. The span of time was only a guess based on human circadian rhythms, because the days had been anything but regular since the living world’s abrupt jump to hyperspace, lasting anywhere from fifteen to forty hours, as Zonama’s governing intelligence struggled to reassert control.
Torrential rain continued to lash the Middle Distance, driven by gales powerful enough to snap and topple the giant boras and strip the reddish trees of their globular leaves. The sky was an inverted silver bowl, with massive storm clouds stacked high in all directions, deep purple to black, and incandescent with continuous flashes of lightning. Peals of thunder resonated from the bare rock walls of the chasms that housed the cliff dwellings. As if from deep below the surface came a hollow moan, like breath across the narrow mouth of a container. Many believed that the sound was caused by wind rushing across Zonama Sekot’s three-hundred-meter-high hyperdrive vanes.
Caught in an updraft, three sheets of lamina building material spiraled up from the floor of the chasm and disappeared over the rim.
“This place is coming apart,” Mara said.
Luke nodded but said nothing. He had his right arm around Mara’s shoulders, and the side of her face was pressed to the soft weave of his dark cloak. The persistent gusts whipped Mara’s red-gold hair about her face and across her mouth.
To Luke’s left stood R2-D2, emitting a steady stream of mournful chirrs and chatterings, his status indicator flashingfrom red to blue and his third tread extended to keep himself from being blown over. Luke put his left hand on the astromech droid’s hemispherical head.
“Don’t worry, Artoo. We’ll come through this all right.”
R2 swiveled his primary photoreceptor to Luke and warbled in renewed hope.
Mara snorted a laugh. “What a guy. Always a kind word for pets, small children, and droids.”
The cliff dwelling—walls of tightly fitted stones enclosing two small spaces—was located in the canyon’s middle tier of natural ledges. Cavities in the bare rock face opposite were likewise partitioned into hundreds of separate dwellings, but many of the vine-and-lamina suspension bridges that had joined the community’s two halves were gone, as were the pulleyed platforms the Ferroans used for vertical transportation. Two kilometers below raged a ribbon of muddy water, dammed in places by knots of fallen boras and other detritus.
Word had it that similar conditions prevailed throughout the Middle Distance, which was the name given to the equatorial region where the Ferroans had settled more than seventy-five years earlier, when Zonama Sekot had resided on the other side of the galactic plane, in the Outer Rim of known space.
“Corran is coming,” Luke announced in a matter-of-fact tone.
Mara slipped out of his embrace and leaned out the entrance to gaze around, one hand clasping her long hair. “Where?” she said, just loudly enough to be heard. “I don’t see—”
She interrupted herself when she saw his head poke above the rungs of a wooden ladder that rose from a lower tier. Soaked to the bone, Corran held his jacket closed at the neck. Water dripped from his furrowed face and the graying beard and mustache that framed his mouth. His limp hair was pulled into a short tail at the back. He smiled when he noticed Mara, and hurried for the cliff dwelling, using his free hand to sluice some of the water from his
Nom Anor mustered his courage. “With any luck, Dread Lord, Zonama Sekot is a dead world. If not, it certainly has no sense of where it is, let alone where we are.”
SEVEN
Luke and Mara Jade Skywalker stood in the trapezoidal entrance to the cliff dwelling that had been their home and shelter on Zonama Sekot for what had felt like three standard weeks. The span of time was only a guess based on human circadian rhythms, because the days had been anything but regular since the living world’s abrupt jump to hyperspace, lasting anywhere from fifteen to forty hours, as Zonama’s governing intelligence struggled to reassert control.
Torrential rain continued to lash the Middle Distance, driven by gales powerful enough to snap and topple the giant boras and strip the reddish trees of their globular leaves. The sky was an inverted silver bowl, with massive storm clouds stacked high in all directions, deep purple to black, and incandescent with continuous flashes of lightning. Peals of thunder resonated from the bare rock walls of the chasms that housed the cliff dwellings. As if from deep below the surface came a hollow moan, like breath across the narrow mouth of a container. Many believed that the sound was caused by wind rushing across Zonama Sekot’s three-hundred-meter-high hyperdrive vanes.
Caught in an updraft, three sheets of lamina building material spiraled up from the floor of the chasm and disappeared over the rim.
“This place is coming apart,” Mara said.
Luke nodded but said nothing. He had his right arm around Mara’s shoulders, and the side of her face was pressed to the soft weave of his dark cloak. The persistent gusts whipped Mara’s red-gold hair about her face and across her mouth.
To Luke’s left stood R2-D2, emitting a steady stream of mournful chirrs and chatterings, his status indicator flashingfrom red to blue and his third tread extended to keep himself from being blown over. Luke put his left hand on the astromech droid’s hemispherical head.
“Don’t worry, Artoo. We’ll come through this all right.”
R2 swiveled his primary photoreceptor to Luke and warbled in renewed hope.
Mara snorted a laugh. “What a guy. Always a kind word for pets, small children, and droids.”
The cliff dwelling—walls of tightly fitted stones enclosing two small spaces—was located in the canyon’s middle tier of natural ledges. Cavities in the bare rock face opposite were likewise partitioned into hundreds of separate dwellings, but many of the vine-and-lamina suspension bridges that had joined the community’s two halves were gone, as were the pulleyed platforms the Ferroans used for vertical transportation. Two kilometers below raged a ribbon of muddy water, dammed in places by knots of fallen boras and other detritus.
Word had it that similar conditions prevailed throughout the Middle Distance, which was the name given to the equatorial region where the Ferroans had settled more than seventy-five years earlier, when Zonama Sekot had resided on the other side of the galactic plane, in the Outer Rim of known space.
“Corran is coming,” Luke announced in a matter-of-fact tone.
Mara slipped out of his embrace and leaned out the entrance to gaze around, one hand clasping her long hair. “Where?” she said, just loudly enough to be heard. “I don’t see—”
She interrupted herself when she saw his head poke above the rungs of a wooden ladder that rose from a lower tier. Soaked to the bone, Corran held his jacket closed at the neck. Water dripped from his furrowed face and the graying beard and mustache that framed his mouth. His limp hair was pulled into a short tail at the back. He smiled when he noticed Mara, and hurried for the cliff dwelling, using his free hand to sluice some of the water from his
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