Korr to a frozen, uncharted moon in the Unknown Regions. And there, Douro had found something of enormous interest.
Using the touchpad, Wyyrlok sped through the grainy video feed—images of space, Douro’s short time on Fhost.
Wyyrlok stopped at a moment in a cantina in which Jaden Korr had sensed Douro and turned to face him. There was no sound in the recording. Wyyrlok studied the expression on Korr’s face.
“Remarkable,” he said softly. He knew Jaden’s face quite well.
He continued the recording until he reached the point at which Douro had descended toward the frozen moon. Wyyrlok saw the fuzzy, pixilated, overhead view of a large, snow-covered facility. He recognized it as a Thrawn-era cloning lab. To judge from the architecture and power generators, he surmised it had been used a bit later in the Grand Admiral’s secret cloning program than the sites the One Sith had previously plundered for technology.
The possibilities of that intrigued him.
“Could it be?” he mused.
Not for the first time, he wondered how much of recent events the Master had foreseen, how far into the future the Master’s foresight extended. It was as though the Master had a recorder on the eye of fate, and through it saw and anticipated events like no one else.
Despite himself, Wyyrlok felt awed by the Master’s power.
Outside, the rain turned to hail and pelted the exterior windows. Lightning once more drew glowing angles across the sky.
Wyyrlok started the recording again and watched through Douro’s eyes as the Anzat set down on the moon. He sped through the images until he reached the point at which Douro had entered the facility. He stopped the video here and there as Douro stalked the corridors, enhancing this or that frame in hopes that something would confirm his suspicions. Nothing he saw made him certain, but everything was suggestive.
The timing was right. The location was right.
“It could be,” he said.
An ache rooted in the back of Wyyrlok’s head. At first he thought it the ghost of the wound that had taken half his horn, but no, it was something else. He wondered again about a possible implant, but then his connection to the Force grew weaker, attenuated. The power emanating from the case went quiescent. The disconnect was not altogether strange to him, though it remained uncomfortable. He recognized its source, had felt it many times in the past. Out of habit, his hand moved toward his lightsaber hilt, though he knew that the weapon would not function—the crystal powering it would have temporarily lost its attunement to the Force.
“How long have you been standing there?” he asked over his shoulder.
A soft rustle, then, “Not long.”
Nyss’s voice was as soft as a pillow.
Wyyrlok turned in his chair to face him.
The darkness in the hallway seemed deeper than usual, like ink, and Nyss Nenn stood in the midst of the pitch, his form lost in the shadows, his hairless face and head floating like a pale moon in the darkness. All Umbarans, born on a dim planet shrouded in darkness, lived in shadow. But Nyss seemed of shadow. He was not a Force user, not in the ordinary sense. But he was attuned to the Force somehow. Perhaps the Master knew the nature of Nyss’s relationship to the Force, but Wyyrlok did not; it was beyond his comprehension. What he did know was that Nyss’s presence, and that of his twin sister, Syll, could disrupt a Force sensitive’s connection to the Force. Nyss and Syll were unique among Umbarans and one of the greatest weapons the One Sith possessed. They could turn a Force user into an ordinary sentient.
Wyyrlok stared past Nyss at the darkness of the hall, looking for Syll.
“My sister isn’t with me,” Nyss said.
Wyyrlok found that hard to believe. The two were rarely apart. Their relationship was odd, psychologically symbiotic.
Lightning split the sky, casting the room in a flash of lurid light. Nyss winced in the sudden illumination. Wyyrlok took comfort in the Umbaran’s discomfort. Despite Nyss’s power, light disquieted him.
“Sit,” Wyyrlok said, and gestured at a chair, though not the one nearest him. “And do not use your power in my presence. I find it … irritating.”
“I should think,” Nyss said. He inclined his head, and the pain in Wyyrlok’s skull slowly faded. The Umbaran glided into the room, as silent as a ghost, and slid into a chair. His eyes fell on the case.
“Do you feel it?” Wyyrlok asked, nodding at the case.
“You know I don’t,” said Nyss.
“I know you can’t,” said