Star Wars_ Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor - Matthew Woodring Stover [129]
He had taken her sight, cut away her hearing, erased her senses of smell and taste and touch. He had stripped her kinesthetic sense, so that she was no longer aware of her own body at all. He had shut down the activity of certain neurotransmitters in her brain, so that she could no longer even remember how being alive had felt.
She wasn’t fighting him. She didn’t know how. He wouldn’t let her remember what fighting was.
She just wouldn’t let go.
She had something that her brother had lacked, some inner spark of intransigence that sustained her against the Dark. He couldn’t guess what this spark might be; some sort of primitive, girlish emotional attachment, he presumed. Whatever it was, it must be extinguished once and for all; she must sleep forever. The problem was how to do it without killing her outright. The meltmassif shadow nerves would contain only his consciousness; he needed her brain to be fully functioning to maintain autonomic functions. He hadn’t gone to all this trouble to simply trade his decaying body for one that was already dead.
This was taking far too long. The boy Jedi had been ready to let himself slip away in a fraction of the time; of course, the boy had given him more to work with. He carried with him an inner darkness that would no doubt have astonished his sister, had she lived long enough to discover it. Had Skywalker not damaged Shadowspawn’s control crystals, none of this would have been necessary in the first place. But as the situation stood, he could only drive his will deeper into the Dark—to gnaw away her resistance with the single-minded intensity of a Klepthian rock otter chewing into a basalt clam’s shell.
But when he finally did break through that resistance, he found her brain not weak and quivering, but hard like a burnberry stone, and shining with a brilliant white light that was not imaginary at all. That light stabbed him like a knife in the eye, and drove him reeling back.
He took that stone in the palm of a hand made of the Dark, and with a Dark rock hammer he struck it … and the imaginary hammer splintered in the imaginary hand. He came at the stone like a gem harpy, and swallowed it into a crop powerful enough to pulverize diamond, but it burned its way out. He made fists of whole galaxies and brought them together to crush this one tiny star, but when their cataclysm faded back into the Dark, the tiny star shone on.
“What is wrong with you?” he shouted at the star in frustration. “What are you, and why won’t you die?”
“I can tell you that.” The voice came from everywhere, or nowhere: a young man’s tenor, with the flattened, nasal accent of the far Outer Rim.
Cronal jerked upright in the absolute blackness inside the Shadow Egg.
“If you’d made friends with the Melters, instead of making them your slaves, you might have discovered all kinds of things they can do for you.” The voice was coming from inside Cronal’s head. “As for where I am, well …”
The interior of the Shadow Egg suddenly flared with light: blue-white light, from a crackling energy discharge that spidered across its inner shell. An instant later the shell collapsed, splashing around Cronal’s ankles and draining off the repulsorlift platform that had supported the Shadow Egg.
Twenty meters away, on the ledge that curved outward from the tunnel mouth, stood a slim young man in a Republic flight suit who held, loosely and casually in one hand, a lightsaber of brilliant green.
LUKE TRIED TO KEEP HIS BREATHING SLOW AND STEADY, while his heart thumped against his rib cage like a trapped slashrat trying to break free. For an interminable stretching moment after the meltmassif