Zannah shook her head and continued. As a Sith, she couldn’t imagine any reason to honor someone who abandoned her cause … though with only one Master and one apprentice, the Sith had been transformed into something very different from the Jedi Order and its vast numbers.
She made her way down the fourth hall, heading for the privacy of the last viewing terminal in the central aisle. She inserted the personal datacard Master Barra had given her to gain access to the Archive catalogs, and then resumed her search where she had left off the day before.
Gathering a list of index numbers, she typed in a pass-code to lock her terminal from other users, then wandered off into the stacks to retrieve the half a dozen datacards she wanted to study in further detail. By necessity the datacards in the Archives were nearly twice the size of her personal datacard; each one contained the full text of hundreds—if not thousands—of different titles.
For five long hours she continued her research without a break. Time and time again she brought datacards back to the terminal and scoured their contents, only to find that they offered nothing new. Frustrated, she would eject the cards and compile a new list of possible sources, then return to the stacks to switch the old datacards for those promising better results.
It was the rumbling in her stomach that told her it was time to take a break. If she became distracted—too tired or too hungry—her spell might falter, exposing Zannah’s true nature to those around her. It had happened once before, on the first day when she pushed herself too hard and worked long into the night. It had lasted only an instant, a momentary lapse, but that could have been enough to doom her. Fortunately, at that late hour the Archives had been mostly deserted, and nobody had been close enough to notice the Sith in their midst. Since then, however, Zannah had been much more careful.
There was one last datacard to check; then she would head down to the cafeteria and return once she had sated her hunger. She popped it into the terminal and quickly scanned the contents. When she found what she was looking for, she tapped a key; a block of text from an academic paper popped up onto the screen.
AN EXAMINATION AND EXPLORATION OF A MOST DANGEROUS AND RESILIENT ORGANISM
by Dr. Osaf Hamud
In my years of study I have encountered a number of life-forms that subsist primarily through symbiotic relationships established with other species. Some of these relationships are commensalist, in which neither species is significantly affected by the presence of the other. Others are mutualistic, enabling both species to benefit from their shared existence. And still others are parasitic, in which the host organism suffers while the symbiont thrives.
Of course, to properly classify any symbiotic relationship into one of these three categories, we must first explicitly define the meaning of words such as harmful or beneficial, a task that many have regarded as …
Zannah blinked twice to clear away the stupor settling in. The Archives’ general collection included everything from explorers’ journals that were as exciting to browse as any well-written piece of fiction, to academic papers so dry and boring they would test the limits of a Jedi Master’s patience. Apparently the works of Dr. Osaf Hamud fell into the latter category.
For a brief instant she considered simply popping the datacard out and going in search of a meal, but then made a quick search for orbalisk instead. A dozen pages scrolled by on the viewer as it skipped to the relevant section.
… called orbalisks by the local Nikto populace. One warrior recounted how he had been infested for nearly a full year before ridding himself of the creatures because they so disfigured him that he could not find a mate.
This returns us to our earlier dilemma of how to define harmful and beneficial. Revisiting the previous discussion, we must now include capacity to find a mate in our discussions …
Zannah pulled her eyes back up to the top of the screen.
… one warrior recounted how he had been infested for nearly a full year before ridding himself of the creatures …
In desperation she typed in a new phrase, then hit SEARCH again.
It is a fact generally assumed by most zoologists that orbalisks cannot be removed without killing the host. However, my research has revealed that an infested host can be cured, though the process is both dangerous and extremely complicated, as I will detail here.
First, the host must be in excellent health. As one might expect, the very definition of excellent and even health must be expounded upon …
She had found it. She had found it! Zannah leapt to her feet, pumping a clenched fist in a quiet victory celebration, barely able to contain a fierce shout of triumph. And in her moment of elation, the spell concealing her true identity slipped.
Zannah quickly regained control, glancing to her left and right to see if anyone had noticed. Heart pounding, she slammed the personal datacard Master Barra had given her into the terminal to copy over the orbalisk article.
Behind her a voice said, “Rain? What are you doing here?”
Darovit wandered along the wide aisle of the Jedi Archives’ fourth hall, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of knowledge in the stacks.
He had briefly tried looking for information on the native flora and fauna of Ruusan, hoping to broaden his knowledge so he could better help those who came to him for aid. He was used to a simpler world, however, and found the technology of the Archives daunting. An analysis droid had explained how to use the search and retrieval systems to find information in the stacks, but his brisk tutorial had left Darovit even more confused than before.
Other scholars were there, and he could have approached one of them to ask for help. But as a man who valued his own privacy, he was loath to interrupt theirs. Ultimately, he had simply started to wander up and down the aisle, waiting for Johun to return.
Darovit was beginning to regret his decision to come to Coruscant. He had let himself get swept up in the moment by the Jedi Knight, the thoughts of stopping another war with the Sith appealing to the romantic ideals that had first led him to Ruusan as a teenager. But those were the dreams of a child; he was older and wiser now.
The Jedi moved through a world that was not his own. The concerns of an entire galaxy weighed upon their shoulders; their decisions affected trillions of lives. Darovit didn’t want that kind of responsibility. Surrounded by the grandeur and glory of the Archives, all he wanted was to return to his simple hut in the forest.
Unfortunately, that might no longer be an option. He was here now, and Johun seemed determined to have him speak before the Jedi Council.
To take his mind off his plight, he began to study the other scholars. They were all Jedi: Padawans and Masters, young and old, human and otherwise. He noticed an attractive young woman with long, dark hair staring intently at her viewscreen, chewing on her lip as she delved into some work of academia.
There was something familiar about her, though Darovit was sure he had never met her before. Over the past decade he hadn’t met anyone except those few individuals who sought him out in his hut, and the woman certainly didn’t look like she had come from the farms or villages of Ruusan.
He crept toward her, not wishing to interrupt her studies but trying to figure out if he knew her. For several minutes he watched her; she was obviously frustrated, unable to find what she was looking for in the datacards. Suddenly she leapt up, clenching her fist victoriously, and Darovit felt a familiar presence wash over him.
For the first ten years of his life, that presence had been at his side constantly. As children, they had shared a bond that went beyond being cousins—they were as close as brother and sister. And though the figure before him had black, not blond, hair, there was no doubt in Darovit’s mind who she was.
“Rain?” he called softly, so as not to startle her. “What are you doing here?”
The woman spun to face him, her eyes wide. She stared at him blankly, unable to recognize the man she had last seen as a boy ten years before. Then her eyes dropped to the stump of his right hand
, and her jaw fell agape.
“Tomcat?”
He nodded, then added. “It’s Darovit now. But sometimes I think I still like Tomcat better.”
“You’re a Jedi now?” she said, confused by his presence in the Archives.
“No,” he answered quickly, unwilling to be mistaken for something he was not. “I stayed on Ruusan after … after this.” He held up his stump. “I became a healer.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to—” He stopped midsentence, suddenly realizing the danger Rain was in. The danger he had brought upon her.
“Rain, we have to get out of here! The Jedi are looking for you!”
“Tomcat, what are you talking about?”
“A Jedi came to Ruusan. I told him about you and Bane. That’s why they brought me here!”
The young woman’s eyes glowed with pure hatred and anger, and for a second Darovit thought she was going to kill him in the middle of the Jedi Archives.
“How much do they know?” she demanded. “Tell me everything you told them!”
“Rain, there isn’t time,” he protested. “I’m just waiting here for them to come get me. They could be here any minute. You have to get out of here or they’ll find you!”
She turned and punched a key on the terminal; a small datacard popped out. She snatched it up and stuffed it beneath her clothes. Then she grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him back down the aisle toward the central rotunda. She moved as quickly as she could without drawing attention, her pace something between a brisk walk and a run.
Darovit made no move to resist, though he did ask, “Where are we going?”
“Tython,” she whispered. “I have to warn my Master.”
They reached the rotunda, but instead of turning down the first hall and heading toward the exit, she led him into the third hall.
“What are you doing, Rain?” Darovit asked, his voice rising slightly. “We have to get going!”
One of the other scholars—an older woman with coppery red hair sitting at a nearby terminal—turned to stare at them, her attention drawn by Darovit’s exclamations.
“Quiet, Tomcat,” Rain shushed him, nodding apologetically in the woman’s direction. “You’re disturbing the other patrons.”
The old woman turned back to her viewscreen, dismissing them. Darovit’s companion gave his arm a rough shake.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. “But you have to get out of here. Leave for Tython before they find you here.”
“I don’t know where Tython is,” she snapped back through clenched teeth. “We need to find a hyperspace route.”
Taking the terminal one down from the red-haired old woman, Rain punched a series of buttons. A second later the screen came to life with a list of reference numbers.
“Got it,” she said, shoving Darovit into the seat by the terminal’s viewscreen. “Wait here.”
She disappeared into the stacks, moving with the same half-walking, half-running stride. As Darovit waited for her to return, it occurred to him that his loyalties had suddenly shifted. He had been lured to Coruscant with the notion of helping the Jedi wipe out the Sith and prevent a war. But the abstract concept of widespread galactic suffering meant little when he had come face-to-face with his childhood friend. Now all he could think about was what would happen to Rain if she was caught, and he realized he was willing to do whatever it took to keep her safe.
Less than a minute later she returned and slapped a datacard into the terminal. Leaning across Darovit, who was still seated in the chair, she tapped away at the controls until an image of a cloud-covered world appeared on the screen.
“I need to copy this,” she said, pulling out the datacard she had been using when he first saw her and jamming it into another slot on the terminal.
“Why not just take the original?” Darovit asked.
“Sensors on the Archive doors,” she explained. “Removing an original will set off alarms.”
The terminal beeped and the datacard popped out, the copying complete. Zannah stuffed it into her robes, then hauled Darovit up by his elbow.
“Let’s go. Before your friends show up.”
Not bothering to return the original back to the stacks, she half-led, half-pulled him away from the terminal. She whisked him to the rotunda, then down the main aisle of the first hall and out the exit, leaving the Archives behind them.
20
I don’t understand, Master Valenthyne,” Johun said, casting his gaze from side to side as they made their way down the aisles of the Jedi Archives. “I left him here less than an hour ago.”
He had expected to find Darovit sitting at a terminal in one of the four halls, or possibly examining the bronzium busts in the rotunda. But when he brought Master Valenthyne to speak with the young man, Darovit had vanished.
“He’s probably just lost somewhere in the stacks,” Farfalla assured him.
Johun signaled to a passing analysis droid. It turned and made its way toward them with quick, stiff-legged steps.
“May I be of assistance?” it inquired helpfully.
“I’m looking for someone,” Johun explained. “A young man.”
“Beings of all species and ages visit the Archives,” the droid responded. “I would be better able to provide assistance if you could provide a description, Master Jedi.”
“He is missing his right hand.”
There was a soft whir as the droid accessed its recent memory banks.
“I believe I recently saw the man you are looking for in the third hall,” the droid offered, turning to lead them in that direction.
Johun didn’t bother to wait; he pushed past the droid in his haste. Farfalla followed closely at his heels.
There were many people examining the datacards located in the third hall, but the Healing Hermit of Ruusan was not among them.
“We’ve got to find him!” Johun said to his Master, then ran up and down the entire length of the hall, peering into the side aisles to see if Darovit was hidden among the stacks. His disruptive antics drew the ire of several of the other scholars.
Farfalla reached out and grabbed Johun as he ran past a second time, stopping him before he could make another lap of the hall.
“He’s not here, Johun,” he said.
There was a loud clearing of the throat, and two men turned to see an older redheaded woman glaring at them.
“Master Valenthyne,” she said, “I respectfully remind you that the Archives is a place of contemplative research. Your young friend would be better served to resume his exercises out in the training yards.”
“Our apologies, Master Qiina,” he whispered. “But this is a matter of some urgency. We are looking for someone who has gone missing.”
“It is easy to lose oneself in the wisdom of the Archives,” Qiina replied. “I myself often disappear for days at a time.”
Farfalla smiled politely at the jest. “This is somewhat different.”
The analysis droid that had been helping them earlier toddled over toward them, having only just now caught up after they left it behind in their haste. Johun glanced at the droid, then back to Master Qiina.
“We’re looking for a young man,” he told her. “He’s missing his right hand.”
Qiina raised her eyebrows. “I saw him not thirty minutes ago. He was with a young woman.”
“A woman?” Farfalla asked in surprise.
“They seemed to know each other,” the old Jedi informed them. “They called each other by silly little nicknames. Tomcat and Rain, if I remember correctly.”
Johun seized Farfalla’s arm. “Rain was his cousin! The one he met down in the caves. She’s here!”
“Do you know where they went, Master Qiina?” Farfalla asked.
The old woman shook her head. “They were using that terminal over there to look something up. Then they left.”
Farfalla turned to the droid. “Is there any way we can find out which
records they were viewing?”
“I am sorry, Master Jedi,” the droid replied. “To protect the privacy of our scholars and to avoid compromising their research, the terminals do not store any data on which records they were used to explore.”
“Your friends seemed to be in quite a hurry,” Qiina offered. “I doubt they even bothered to return the datadisk to the stacks. It might still be plugged into the terminal.”
Johun rushed over to the screen. It was still logged on, under the name Nalia Adollu. As Qiina had guessed, there was a datacard loaded in. He pulled up the disk’s index as Farfalla came and peered over his shoulder.
“Tython,” the Jedi Master remarked, picking out the common theme among the thousands of articles and papers referenced by the index. “Birthplace of the Jedi.”
“That must be where they’re going,” Johun insisted. “Bane must have gone into hiding in the Deep Core!”
He turned to Farfalla, clutching his Master’s arm in his urgency. “You have to convince the Council to let us go after them.”
Farfalla’s eyes were cold and hard. “I doubt the Council will be in any great hurry to take action in this matter,” he warned.
“But Master Valenthyne—” Johun pleaded, only to have the other man cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.
“The Council will not help you, Johun. Therefore we must go to Tython ourselves.”
Johun’s eyes went wide in surprise.
“I swore a vow to General Hoth,” Farfalla explained, his voice taking on the hard tone of military command he had not used since the disbanding of the Army of Light. “I promised I would not rest until the Sith had been cleansed from the galaxy. I still intend to honor that vow.
“Go find Masters Raskta and Worror,” he added. “They also served with Hoth on Ruusan. They will join us in our cause. Tell them we leave within the hour.”
The first thing Zannah did after the Loranda had escaped Coruscant’s orbit and made the jump to hyperspace was wash the black dye out of her hair.