Star Wars, The Rise of Darth Vader

Murkhana. Final Hours of the Clone Wars

Dropping into swirling clouds conjured by Murkhana s weather stations, Roan Shryne was reminded of meditation sessions his former Master had guided him through. No matter how fixed Shryne had been on touching the Force, his mind s eye had offered little more than an eddying whiteness. Years later, when he had become more adept at silencing thought and immersing himself in the light, visual fragments would emerge from that colorless void pieces to a puzzle that would gradually assemble themselves and resolve. Not in any conscious way, though frequently assuring him that his actions in the world were in accord with the will of the Force.

Frequently but not always.

When he veered from the course on which the Force had set him, the familiar white would once again be stirred by powerful currents; sometimes shot through with red, as if he were lifting his closed eyes to the glare of a midday sun.

Red-mottled white was what he saw as he fell deeper into Murkhana s atmosphere. Scored to reverberating thunder; the rush of the wind; a welter of muffled voices . . .

He was standing closest to the sliding door that normally sealed the troop bay of a Republic gunship, launched moments earlier from the forward hold of the Gallant a Victory-class Star Destroyer, harried by vulture and droid tri-fighters and awaiting High Command s word to commence its own descent through Murkhana s artificial ceiling. Beside and behind Shryne stood a platoon of clone troopers, helmets fitting snugly over their heads, blasters cradled in their arms, utility belts slung with ammo magazines, talking among themselves the way seasoned warriors often did before battle. Alleviating misgivings with inside jokes; references Shryne couldn t begin to understand, beyond the fact that they were grim.

The gunship s inertial compensators allowed them to stand in the bay without being jolted by flaring anti-aircraft explosions or jostled by the

James Luceno