CHAPTER ONE

Morgan Katarn was afraid. Afraid that he had missed something important, afraid that the planet which hung just beyond the transparisteel view port would prove unsuitable, and afraid that in spite of his considerable efforts, the Imperials would find the three hundred and forty-seven men, women, and children under his care and transport them to slave labor camps from which few, if any, would return.

All because they had exercised that most basic of human liberties -

the right of free speech. First in meetings held within the privacy of their own homes, then in loosely organized gatherings, and finally in Baron's Hed, Sulons principal city. Because the demonstration was over before Imperial forces had time to react, the colonists escaped without arrest, much to the local Commandant's embarrassment.

However, thanks to the holos that had been taken and a traitor in their midst, it was only a matter of time before the "agitators" would be identified and punished.

Even though Morgan Katarn admired the philosophy of nonviolent resistance, which the demonstrators espoused, and believed the strategy would work in the long run, he feared the "long run" might last a thousand years - a period of time during which millions might suffer and die. That being the case, he had elected to stay home. Some of the demonstrators had labeled him a coward and pointed out that nonviolent resistance often required more courage than combat, but Morgan stuck to his convictions. Armed resistance had weakened the Empire's grip and armed resistance would bring it down.

The Imperials could have responded to the demonstration in anynumber of ways - including show trials, transportation to slave labor camps, or out-and-out murder. But the demonstrators considered that unlikely . . . until three families were massacred in one night, their homes burned to the ground, and Imperial AT-AT tracks left for everyone to see.

Morgan Katarn had their attention by then and, with funding supplied by Rebel sympathizers, organized an escape plan. The effort that followed, which involved hiding the fugitives on a long-abandoned space station, hiring a blockade runner, slipping out of Sulon's system undetected, and making the long, uncomfortable flight to Ruusan, had been nothing less than a series of minor miracles. However, the hard part was over now - or so Morgan hoped. He turned to Captain Jerg.

The merchant officer was a tall, somewhat gaunt man, who favored a Republic-era Captain's cap, a sweat-stained tank top, and once-white pants. His feet, for reasons Morgan had never understood, went eternally bare. "So," Morgan asked, "what's it like down there?"

Jerg gave a characteristic shrug. "There's some low- profile indigs, pockets of ruins, and a lot of good-for- nothing real estate. The planet has a class-one atmosphere though, enough gravity to keep your feet on the ground, and something more . . . Something so special you can't hardly find it anymore."

Morgan saw the gleam in the other man's eyes, knew it was a setup, and asked the question anyway. Success, assuming such a thing was possible, would hinge on Jerg's cooperation. "Yes? What's that?"

Jerg grinned. His teeth were badly in need of cleaning. "There ain't no Imperials down there .... Get it?"

Morgan forced a chuckle, indicated that he "got it," and posed the obvious question. "So how did you find it? And what's to say the Imperials won't, too?"

Jerg shrugged. "It happened about ten years ago. There was a Destroyer on our tails. We took a random hyperspace jump and wound up here. As for the rest, heck, you're old enough to know there ain't no certainties, no way to be absolutely sure of the crew or to guarantee that an Imperial probe droid won't drop in for a look-see. But it ain't happened yet . . . and that makes this the best shot you're likely to get."

The answer wasn't especially reassuring, but it was honest, and the fact that Jerg and his crew continued to store contraband on Ruusan was a testament to the blockade runner's faith. That, plus the fact that the space station's holds were both cold and crowded helped make the decision. Morgan nodded. "All right, then . . . take them down."

The Cyclops carried two shuttles - both of which were kept in excellent repair - a necessity since so many of Jerg's cargoes were transferred under less-than-ideal circumstances. And it was a good thing, since each shuttle would have to make nine trips before the fugitives and their gear arrived dirtside. Morgan accompanied the first load of passengers.

The colonists, for that's what they were about to bccome, were an uncharacteristically silent group - teeth chattering from days spent in the nearfreezing holds and bodies hidden beneath multiple layers of clothes. The children, a normally rambunctious lot, were withdrawn.

Morgan could hardly blame them. Life on Sulon had been hard, but most of the protesters had been second- or even third-generation farmers, which meant the security of a house to live in, whatever possessions they had managed to accumulate, and enough to eat.

Now they faced starting over, and, even worse, on a planet they'd never heard of, with a minimum of supplies and the constant threat of discovery. It was enough to make the most determined optimist a little depressed. A line formed and jerked through the lock as a crew member checked the settlers against the list on his datapad.

Morgan spotted a woman struggling to corral three small boys.

Citizen Roskin, if he remembered correctly. The Rebel leader scooped the youngest of the brood into his arms and offered the boy's mother a grandfatherly smile. "Can I give you a hand? My son is grown. But I remember when he was this size."

The woman smiled gratefully, provided her name to the purser, and passed through the lock. Morgan nodded and followed. One vessel was dawn on the surface, so the hangar bay seemed half empty. The remaining shuttle crouched as if ready for action. The ramp gave slightly as they shuffled aboard. The interior smelled of paint and ozone. Twenty rows of bolt-down seats had been installed in the cargo compartment. A crew woman pointed them toward the rear, and they obeyed. Morgan found a seat for the boy, secured his harness, and did the same for himself.

There was a wait, and the youngster atarted to fuss. Morgan removed the multi-tool from a belt pouch, popped the power pak into the palm of his hand, and offered the device for inspection. Kyle had given it to him five years before, and the handle bore his initials. The toddler grabbed the tool and shoved one end into his mouth.

Morgan remembered that Kyle had been equally fascinated by his father's tools and, more important, by what they could accomplish. By the time he was a teenager, the lad could disassemble, troubleshoot, and repair anything on the farm, including Wee Gee, the family's one-of-a-kind droid.

The pilot interrupted Morgan's thoughts with a perfunctory safety lecture, lifted the shuttle on its repulsors, and guided the vessel out through widely gaping doors. The cargo compartment had no view ports, so there was nothing to look at.

The boy removed the now-gooey object from his mouth, said something unintelligible, and allowed the tool to slip from his grasp. Morgan strained against his harness and managed to grab the device before it drifted away. His thoughts returned to Kyle.

There were only two things he regretted about his life - his wife's premature death, and the fact that his lack of financial resources had forced Kyle into a choice between life as a subsistence farmer and the Imperial Military Academy on Carida, an institution well known for its engineering curriculum, its unbending discipline, and its ability to produce the kind of fanatics he sought to defeat.

Morgan remembered the day they had parted - how Kyle had looked in his uniform and how difficult it had been to keep his voice steady. "I want you to remember, son, when you're at the Academy, how very proud I am of you."

Kyle nodded, said all the right things, and boarded the first in a series of ships that would carry him to Carida. Time passed, but the questions continued to nag: What would the Imperials make of his son? A man to be proud of? Or a monster capable of murdering people in their beds? And whose fault would that be? Kyle's? Or his?

The boy gurgled, smiled engagingly, and crossed his eyes. Morgan smiled in return. "I don't know about Kyle, but they won't get you."

"Fort Nowhere," as Jerg's crew liked to call it, was shaped like a six-pointed star. All-purpose blaster cannon had been mounted at each of the star's points, the ball turrets ensuring that any attacker, regardless of approach, would enter an effective crossfire.

The cannons, plus subsurface missile batteries and rammed-earth walls, made the fort impregnable by anything less than a full-scale Imperial raid. A more-thansufficient deterrent to pirates and the rarely seen natives.

A series of interconnected caverns were used to warehouse Jerg's cargoes and the supplies required to maintain the 'Clops.

The pilot produced the necessary codes, received clearance, and lowered the shuttle onto a sun-faded X.

The ramp touched duracrete, a light appeared, harnesses were released, and the passengers were allowed to disembark. Many appeared dazed as they left the ship, staggered under the weight of the noonday sun, and shucked layer after layer of clothes.

Morgan followed them off the ship, located those he had identified as having leadership potential, and led them through a blastproof gate.

The land looked tough, as if it had been half-cooked and then left out to dry under the sun.

Mountains were a barely seen presence to the west. A roadbed so old that only its vegetation-clad symmetry served to give it away angled to meet them. The settlers eyed the harsh landscape, squinted into the sun, and kept their thoughts to themselves as they climbed a hill. Fresh crawler tracks led the way.

The supplies were stacked as Morgan had requested, within eyesight of the fort but beyond the scope of its direct influence, a necessity if the newcomers were to establish their independence and protect their children from the seamier aspects of fortress life.

The site occupied a rise and looked out onto one of the planet's many reddish-orange wastelands. The location, plus the supplies, and the cool, clean water that gushed from the recently drilled well, were sufficient to raise the colonists' spirits. Jokes were told and discussions begun. Twenty minutes later, the newly landed colonists were hard at work revising Morgan's plans, arguing over how to divide the surrounding land, and jockeying for power within a government they hadn't formed yet. Morgan smiled. Things were on the right track.

Morgan stayed with the settlers for three local days, welcomed successive waves of colonists, ensured fair treatment of the newcomers by the "firsties," helped erect temporary shelters, and guided groups into the caverns where mirrors and fiber-optic cable would be used to pipe sunlight down from the surface. Morgan was a farmer himself, and when he explained how sunlight could be combined with fertilizer and drip-style irrigation to produce healthy crops, they believed him.

Finally, when it became apparent that some of the colonists had become too dependent on his leadership and others chafed under the restrictions it imposed, Morgan knew that it was time to leave them for a while.

He borrowed a skimmer. It was more than ten years old, dented from hard use, and nearly stripped of its yellow paint. The name Old Codger had been hand lettered onto the floater's bow, and that seemed to tell the story. But appearances can be deceiving. Morgan conducted his own inspection and found that the skimmer, like all of Jerg's equipment, was in excellent repair.

The rear seats had been removed to make room for cargo, so Morgan had plenty of space to stash his borrowed camping gear, a crate full of parts, the tools required to install them, and four five- liter containers of water. This would be more than enough if he was careful.

The natives weren't supposed to be hostile, but Morgan took a blast rifle just to be safe, along with a comm set and survival gear.

Morgan knew that as in most desert environments, the best time to travel was at night. But he wanted to see the countryside. By traveling in the morning and evening, he hoped to avoid the worst part of the heat and still see the sights.

He left so early in the morning that the stars were out, and the sentry shook his head in amazement. He figured that anyone who ventured into the badlands, and didn't have to, was out of his mind.

Morgan, who hadn't taken anything like a vacation in more than fifteen years, gloried in his freedom. The speeder hummed, the stars wheeled, and the wind caressed his face. It was fresh and carried the scent of the low-growing bushes - from which aromatic oil could be extracted if the colonists cared to give it a try - that covered much of the land.

For lack of a better destination, Morgan chose to follow the old roadbed. It took considerable resources to build such a highway . . . .

So where would it lead? To a city? Full of ancient ruins? He hoped so.

Jerg's crew, none of whom looked forward to rotations on Ruusan, did what they were required to do but ventured no farther than was absolutely necessary. The initial survey, conducted years before, had revealed one low-profile sentient life form, and that was all they needed or wanted to know.

Morgan, who never tired of learning, reveled in the opportunity to explore and observe. The landscape assumed a soft, almost surreal quality as the early morning light painted it in shades of lavender and gold. The air, which was so completely different from the stale, recycled stuff available aboard ship, was fresh and cool.

The feeling of intoxication was so strong that he laughed out loud, opened the throttle, and cheered as the skimmer surged ahead. It was good to be alive!

Hours passed, the sun hung high in the sky, and Morgan looked for a place to stop. He was hungry and, more important, very, very warm. A semirigid awning had been included in his equipment, and it was time to deploy it.

Morgan scanned the terrain ahead, spotted an interesting rock formation, and angled off to meet it. The boulder, for that was what it appeared to be, looked like a half-buried loaf of bread. The sun was just past its zenith, which meant that "big loaf" threw some shade to the east. Morgan steered the speeder into the rock's protection and felt the temperature drop.

Work had always come before play in Morgan's life, and some habits are hard to break. He instructed the on-board computer to run a routine diagnostics check on the floater's power plant and tugged, snapped, and swore the awning into place. It was then, and only then, that he took time for lunch.

The cooler, which had its own power source, was extremely efficient. The beer was cold, the locally grown fruit juicy, and the sandwich filling.

Having eaten his fill and restowed his gear, Morgan decided to circle the rock. The landmark was so prominent and so close to the road that it was certain to have been noticed. Maybe, just maybe, he'd find something of interest.

Gravel crunched under his boots, an insect buzzed in his face, and beads of sweat dotted Morgan's forehead. A wave of hot, sultry air swept in from the plains, ruffled the low-growing bushes, and lost its will to live.

Fissures appeared in the rock. Some were large enough to stick his hand into, though he didn't. Patches of lichen clung here and there, and an animal scurried into its burrow. Interesting but not what he had hoped for. No graffiti, no pictographs, and no tool marks.

Finally, having circumnavigated three-quarters of the rock and concluding that it had no secrets to conceal, Morgan found the very thing he'd been looking for - signs of life.

The first thing he noticed was that while the blue- green ground cover grew fairly evenly everywhere else, this patch of earth was bare.

So bare, and covered with strange, striated tracks, that he concluded it was subject to ongoing use.

of equal interest was the fact that twenty-five or thirty holes had been excavated in the area. All were shallow, and some contained scraps of semitransparent tissue that produced an unpleasant odor and dwindled in size as insects carved the treasure into bug-sized servings and carried them away. What was the stuff, anyway? And, more important, what created it? And why?

At first, Morgan thought the holes were too symmetrical to be the work of animals, but that was before he remembered the nearly identical nests that Sulon's flatwings liked to construct and realized his assumption was wrong. He had no reason to believe that sentients were associated with the holes, but that was the way it felt. Such feelings Morgan had fought to suppress his entire adult life.

Morgan had always been aware of the Force. As a child, with no one to guide his actions, he had used his abilities to animate toys, to entertain his baby sister, to nudge people in the direction he wanted them to go and, finally, in an act that changed the rest of his life, to push a bully off balance. Not much, just a little, so his first blow would be more effective. And the stratagem had worked. How could Morgan know that the bully would stagger backward? Would trip over a root? Would fall ten meters to the rocks below? Would die as a result?

No one knew what had actually taken place that day, and no one ever would, except for Morgan. And what he knew, or thought he knew, was that he was too weak, too flawed to be trusted with such an ability, a talent that never ceased to plague him, to convey information he didn't want to receive, to remind him of that terrible day.

Suddenly paranoid, Morgan looked up and scanned the horizon. The desert shimmered and, with the exception of a single wind rider, was empty of life. Or so it appeared. But the Force said otherwise.

Morgan returned to his skimmer, his steps not quite as deliberate as he would have liked them to be, and was pleased to see everything just as he'd left it. The decision to abandon the original plan and travel during the worst part of the day suddenly seemed natural.

The next few hours were as unpleasant as the first few had been pleasant. In following the roadbed, Morgan was forced to face the sun.

The goggles helped but failed to eliminate the glare. The sun screen provided shade but couldn't counter the heat.

Still, time passed, and the kilometers unwound. Sunset found Morgan at the point where the desert gathered itself into dunes. The road had disappeared by then, lost below tons of drifting sand. Morgan steered the floater between a pair of wind-sculpted mounds, found a U-shaped harbor, and brought the vehicle to a stop.

The Rebel knew there might be, and probably were, better camping sites back in the foothills, but finding them in the dark would be difficult if not impossible, and he was tired.

It took the better part of an hour to secure the skimmer and find the equipment he needed. Dinner consisted of stew and an ice-cold beer.

It was refreshing, but the temperature dropped while he was drinking it, and that caused him to shiver. He donned a jacket, emptied the can, and started some tea.

The sun disappeared behind a mountainous dune while Morgan washed his dishes and laid out the makings for breakfast. He found the utility lamps, connected them to the skimmer's distribution panel, and flipped a switch. The darkness took a sudden jump backward.

The wind shifted and blew from the north. Morgan shivered, shoved his hands into his pockets, and felt something approach.

Under normal circumstances, he would have refused the Force. But this was different. He was alone, a long way from help, and extremely vulnerable. The talent and the information it provided were suddenly welcome.

The Rebel tried to appear casual as he strolled over to the Codger, killed the work lights, and grabbed the blast rifle. The metal felt cool and reassuring as the human fumbled for a glow rod and moved away.

Intruders, if there were any, would approach the vehicle, and lie had no intention of being there when they arrived.

Sand shifted under Morgan's boots as he climbed the side of the dune. Perhaps he'd be able to see who or what the creature or creatures were from a higher vantage point.

Ruusan had three small moonlets, which Jerg's crew referred to as

"the triplets." The first satellite popped over the eastern horizon as Morgan arrived on the dune's wind-sculpted summit. The breeze made his collar flap.

The moonlight cast a surreal glow over the desert, and Morgan used it to reconnoiter. Something, or an entire group of somethings, had entered the area. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there.

Then, just as a second moon joined the first, he saw what he had come for. The natives were shaped like medicine balls. There were fifty or sixty of them, all told, rolling before the wind, headed his way.

The very idea was threatening. Morgan raised the blast rifle, sighted on the lead organism, and knew he couldn't fire, not without provocation. He lowered the weapon, felt for the electrobinoculars, and switched them on. Though larger, the creatures appeared as little more than green blobs when viewed on infrared.

The third moon appeared, adding even more light to the scene. Now Morgan realized the natives were possessed of specialized flaps of skin that acted as vanes. The natives could navigate in whatever direction they chose by raising, lowering, or turning their flaps.

The indigs, for he had no other name for them, had a ghostly quality. They ran before the wind and tacked as a group. They sought out minor obstacles such as boulders, hit them in a manner that threw their bodies high into the air, and tried to float as far as they could.

Something about the manner in which they moved communicated such freedom that Morgan wished he could be among them, rolling through the night, bouncing with joy.

It was that behavior more than anything else that caused Morgan to smile and sling the blast rifle over his shoulder. He was halfway down the dune before the risks associated with such a course of action occurred to him.

The bouncers, for that name seemed more fitting, deployed wind vanes, wheeled to the right, and rolled toward the dune. By the time Morgan reached the bottom, the natives were a hundred meters away and starting to slow.

Morgan wasn't clear on the dynamics of the process but watched in mute fascination as tentacles appeared from within, curved back over globe-shaped bodies, and writhed when they touched the ground. Morgan theorized that the subtle manipulation of the tentacles, plus friction with the sand, allowed them to brake.

The ball-shaped beings coasted to a halt, stood on gathered tentacles, and opened their enormous, light- gathering eyes. It was then, as the Rebel looked into their immense pupils, that he realized the creatures were nocturnal. One of the natives "walked" forward on its tentacles, made a series of whistling noises, and waited for a response.

Morgan shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, folks, I don't understand."

A second globe approached, used one tentacle to smooth the sand and another to write with. Morgan was pleasantly surprised. The syntax was strange, the words archaic but understandable nonetheless. He translated as they appeared. "Finally, you have come." Morgan scanned the text again. The words seemed to suggest that the bouncers had been expecting him. But that was impossible. He held the glow rod in his left hand and used the multi-tool as a stylus. "You were expecting me?"

The native read the words, smoothed them away, and wrote his reply.

"'And a Knight shall come, a battle will be fought, and the prisoners go free'. So saith the poem of ages."

Morgan frowned. It seemed the natives had mistaken him for a character mentioned in the poem of ages - whatever that might be. He chose his words with care. "Forgive me . . . but you are mistaken. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Jedi Knight."

This declaration seemed to stump the bouncer, but only momentarily.

There was a great deal of whistling and warbling as he, she, or it consulted the other members of the tribe. Then, with a great sense of dignity, the native wrote his reply. "An alien knight will arrive from the east. He will fly through the air, stay the night in the city of Olmondo, and request directions to the Valley. So it is written. Knights can manipulate the Force; you manipulate the Force, so you are a Knight."

Morgan felt a sense of wonder. Could the bouncers manipulate the Force? He doubted that was the case, but it seemed clear that at least some of them could feel it, which explained how they had managed to locate him. Morgan swept the words away. New ones replaced them. "It's true that I have the ability to detect fluctuations in the Force and that I flew across the desert, but the similarity ends there. Please allow me to point out that I didn't stay in the city of Olmondo. Nor have I asked for any directions."

The bouncer read the words, exchanged whistles with its companions, and wrote one word: "Wait."

Morgan watched in amazement as bouncers danced every which way, formed a circle, and started to dig. Half of their tentacles ended in deltashaped appendages which acted as small but efficient shovels. Sand flew, and a crater appeared.

Then, just as Morgan was about to ask what they were doing, the activity stopped. A bouncer nudged the human from behind; lie stumbled and paused in front of the newly formed depression. His light wobbled over the ground, slipped into the crater, and settled on something completely unexpected - the top of a stone obelisk. It was black, and alien script descended into the sand.

The bouncer's leader, assuming that was what he was, wrote with one tentacle and pointed with another, not in the direction of the recently uncovered artifact, but straight downward. "Olmondo."

Morgan felt ice water trickle through his veins. Olmondo! A city was buried beneath his feet! Who knew how tall the obelisk was? Twenty?

Twenty-five meters? How the bouncers knew where to dig was a complete mystery, as was the extent to which his actions were aligned with the poem. Was the whole thing coincidence or something more? What if the bully had lived? What if Morgan had learned to use his talent, had studied under a Master, had carned a Knighthood? Would fate have drawn him here, to complete a mission laid down hundreds of years before? There was no way to be certain.

The question sounded innocent enough but raised the very real possibility that the bouncer was making fun of him: "Are you ready for the directions?"

Morgan rose early, prepared a Spartan breakfast, and went looking for the natives. While the human's instincts had driven him to find safety among the dunes, the bouncers had preferred to spend the night out on the plains.

He rounded the same dune he had climbed the night before, fully cxpccting to see the bouncers nestled into the sand but was domed to disappointment. Rather than the bouncers themselves, he found a series of shallow depressions, each covered by what looked like a carefully shaped, plastic tent which was actually made of thin, semitransparent tissue, the same sort of stuff he'd seen next to the bread-loaf-shaped rock. Unlike most tents, each of these contained a strange, inverted cone.

A closer inspection showed that the early morning sun had already warmed the air inside the tents to the point where water droplets had started to form on the inner surface of the cones. Morgan could see that as the water globules grew larger, they would eventually slide down the super-slick surface into the tissue-lined reservoir at the bottom of the depression. Later, when the bouncers emerged from whatever hiding place they had retreated into, a supply of water would be ready and waiting for them.

The solar still in the skimmer's survival kit operated on the same principle. It was an interesting example of the manner in which environment can shape evolution. The human was careful to leave the depressions undisturbed.

Morgan scanned the entire area but was unable to find any trace of the black obelisk. The bouncers had reburied the monument rather than risk discovery. The human felt honored by the extent of their trust and wished he'd been able to spend more time with them.

As on the day before, the morning hours were quite enjoyable. The air was cool and crisp, and his spirits were high. The path, memorized from directions received the night before, carried Morgan into the foothills. The land appeared untouched at first, consisting as it did of rocky, scree- covered hillsides; hard, flat-topped mesas; and deep, flood- carved canyons.

But as time passed, and Morgan's eyes grew accustomed to his surroundings, he saw hints of the distant past. Or did he? Had nature carved out the seemingly uniform terraces that interrupted a distant hillside? Could that pile of boulders have been part of a building once?

Was he tracing the course of a riverbed or an ancient thoroughfare? There was no way to be sure.

One thing was certain, however. As the sun rose, and Morgan made his way even deeper into what he had come to think of as "the badlands,"

the Force thickened and acquired substance.

With it came the weight of his own doubts, failures, and inadequacies. Did he believe in destiny? And was this particular destiny his?

The possibility that it might he filled Morgan with regret. What had the poem said? "And a Knight shall come, a battle will be fought, and the prisoners go free?" What battle? What prisoners? Was the poem little more than historical gibberish, or was it something important, something he should have prepared for . . . . The human hoped for the first - but feared the second.

The hours passed, an ancient roadbed appeared, and he followed it upward. The air, which should have grown progressively thinner with increasing altitude, became thicker instead - so thick that the human found it difficult to breathe and wondered why the skimmer was unimpaired. He checked his indicators and checked them again. All were green.

Then, as the road took a turn to the right and passed between piles of rubble, he felt something tickle the back of his mind.

The touch was feather light initially but evolved into a steady hum. The vibration increased until his flesh tingled and his teeth started to chatter.

Morgan wanted to turn back, wanted to run, and knew that was the way he was supposed to feel. Someone, or something, didn't like visitors and knew how to keep them away.

The worst part was the knowledge that while he had the natural, inborn talent necessary to handle the situation, it wasn't enough. He lacked the knowledge and experience necessary to make use of the talent.

That being the case, Morgan could do little more than observe and pass his observations on to someone else.

The road gave way to an open area guarded by towering rock formations that looked like sentinels. Curiosity plus a sense of personal connection drew him on. The skimmer slowed and coasted to a stop.

Morgan saw an opening, its edges ragged with broken rock, and knew the mystery lay below.

The human left the skimmer and started for the hole. The atmosphere thickened, turned to quicksand, and pulled at his legs. Voices, so distant that the words merged into a single moan, caused his head to throb.

The opening, created when the roof of a cavern had collapsed, was a half-kilometer across. A single shaft of light found the bottom, and shadows hid the rest.

The stairs were covered with debris but were still navigable. They curved to the right. The voices continued to moan, and some grew more distinct than others. They pushed, prodded, and pulled at his consciousness. These were the prisoners of the poem, the entities he'd been sent to rescue but lacked the resources to help.

Finally, having curved halfway around the vertical shaft, the stairs came to an end. Morgan stepped out onto the Valley floor, moved under an entrancelike arch, and was stunned by what he saw.

A shaft of sunlight slanted down to illuminate the Valley's floor and the hundreds upon hundreds of monuments that covered it. Some were little more than upright slabs, made from rock that had been part of the chamber's ceiling. Others were more elaborate, ranging from blocky tombs to beautifully sculpted statues, miniature temples, and spires covered with alien hieroglyphics.

The human knew without being told that this was a place of death, a prison full of unreleased spirits, and a repository of unthinkable power.

Power so vast, so terrible, that it could extinguish a sun, plunge an entire solar system into darkness, and condemn billions to death. But only if it fell into the wrong hands ....

He pulled the multi-tool from its pouch with the intention of scratching a warning into the archway but couldn't control it. The device fell from nerveless fingers and struck the ground-The moaning grew to a crescendo. Morgan placed his hands over his cars, but the sound originated from within. He back-pedaled, his head splitting with pain, knowing he had failed. All he could do was hope that a real Jedi Knight would discover the place, fight the battle that must be fought, and release the prisoners from their bondage.

Tears flowed from Morgan's eyes and wet his beard as he climbed the stairs and made his way to the skimmer. No matter what, he told himself, no matter how many excuses offered themselves to his lips, he couldn't escape the fact that he had failed.

It took hours for the wails to fade, for the atmosphere to release him from its cloying grip, and for the Force to feel as it should.

During the days it took to reach the fort and the weeks that passed during the voyage home, Morgan never forgot the Valley or the spirits trapped there.

So strong were his feelings that the experience was still very much on his mind many months later when his activities on behalf of the Alliance brought Morgan into contact with a Jedi named Rahn.

It had been a long day, and they had finished dinner. Wee Gee removed dishes from the table as a fire crackled in the fireplace and shadows danced across the walls. When the conversation took a philosophical turn and the moment seemed right, Morgan took the plunge.

The words were halting at first, but Rahn was a good listener, and clearly interested . . . so interested that he leaned forward and placed his chin on his fists. Rahn had dark skin, high cheekbones, and extremely white teeth. His eyes sparkled with excitement. "Yes! Go on. The Master Yoda told me about such a place, and I searched for it. What did you find there?"

Morgan finished the story and watched, fascinated, as Rahn paced back and forth. Energy seemed to crackle around him. His robes swirled and were attacked by sparks from the fire. "This is important . . . very important. So important that I must gather a team to investigate. We need experts to probe and understand this place. Then, with you as our guide, we will make the necessary journey."

Morgan remembered the cavern and shuddered at the thought. Still, if it meant freedom for the voices that continued to fill his head, then he would go. "Whatever you say. I'll provide the coordinates."

"No!"

The answer was so vehement that Morgan was taken aback. Rahn saw his confusion and held up a hand. "Sorry, my friend, but the knowledge is safer with you. Much safer. I must travel. And there are those who hope to find me. Hide what you know and leave instructions for someone you trust. Those who follow the dark side would like nothing better than to find this place and use it for evil."

Rahn left the following day, and the Knight who never was etched is secret into stone and left it for his son. Then, like countless farmers before him, he plowed and planted. Winter waited, and people must eat.

He was murdered a few months later.