Paul Kemp: Crosscurrent

He walked to the nearest console and powered down the lights. The rooms below went dark. He thought they should stay that way.

Somewhere down the lift shaft, a can or metal drum fell, rolled across a hard surface, and rattled itself still.

Startled, Jaden flashed his glow rod around the room. The beam pierced the darkness but illuminated nothing. His fingers warmed as thin tendrils of blue Force lightning snaked from his fingertips and swirled around the glow rod.

He stilled his mind, fell into the Force, and calmed himself. He reminded himself that the clones had been prisoners, victims. He reached out through the Force, feeling for another Force-user nearby, but encountered nothing.

"I am here to help you," he called, his voice echoing around the large chamber, its own version of the distress beacon.

Help you, help you, help you…

No response.

He moved to the open doors of the lift, lightsaber at the ready. The control panel had been destroyed. A charnel reek drifted up through the doors, fumes from some forgotten hell. Shielding his nose with his forearm, he beamed his glow rod down the shaft. It descended perhaps thirty meters. The lift compartment sat at the bottom, its interior visible through a large rectangular hole in its top. He guessed that a lightsaber had cut the hole.

He hung over the void for a long while, smelling death, listening to nothing but his own heartbeat. He had to go down. Metal rungs ran the length of the near side of the shaft, but he did not bother with them.

Drawing on the Force, he picked his spot atop the lift compartment, and leapt. The Force cushioned his impact and he hit the top of the lift in a crouch. Without pausing he lowered himself through the hole in the roof and into the lift proper, lightsaber to hand.

The smell of death was stronger. He started to call out again, but thought better of it.

His glow rod lit a long, narrow corridor that sloped downward. The air felt humid, moist with putrescence. Long, thick streaks of dried blood stained the duracrete floor. Jaden followed them as he might a trail of bread crumbs.

They led to a wide stairway that dropped another ten meters. A large metal hatch waited at the bottom of it. He descended sidelong, his back against one wall. A card reader hung from the wall to one side of the door, its wires and circuitry hanging loose like innards.

Twenty or thirty stormtrooper helmets lay on the floor to either side of the door, stacked into a rough pyramid. Some of them still had heads in them, for Jaden could see dead eyes behind some of the lenses.

The scene reminded Jaden of an offering.

Stenciled on the wall over the doorway:

Across the hatch, written in an enormous, diagonal scrawl of dried blood, were three words. Jaden felt chilled when he read them.

"Mother is hungry."

Jaden stared at the hatch a long while, rooted to the last stair. Moving from it seemed a fateful step, a portentous act. Holding his ground, he again reached out through the Force, feeling for the presence of any nearby Force-users.

Making contact almost instantly, he winced at the bitter recoil caused by the touch of a dark sider-but not a pure dark sider. Jaden felt the dark side as though it were adulterated with… something else, the same way his own signature was that of a light-side user adulterated with… something else.

Sentience curses us with a desire to categorize.

He looked down at his hand as if it were a thing apart from him, a piece of him that had betrayed the rest and thereby corrupted the whole. Tiny streamers of Force lightning curled around the glow rod, twisting like things alive.

The regard of the Force-user on the other side of the hatch fixed on him. The mental touch felt as greasy as the air, just as infected with putrescence.

He descended the step and opened the hatch.

The stink hit him first, the reek of old decay. Computer stations lined the walls of the large, rectangular chamber. Blank readout screens dotted the walls here and there. Loose wires hung from everywhere, the entrails of science.

A hole opened in the center of the room, a perfect circle several meters in diameter, like the gullet of some gargantuan beast. Machinery hung from armatures above the hole. Jaden recognized the apparatus immediately-a Spaarti cloning cylinder.

"You have come to pay homage to Mother," said a voice, a dry, rough version of Kam Solusar's voice.

A figure stepped from the darkness on the far side of the chamber. Shaggy white hair-the color of Master Solusar's-hung loose almost to the clone's waist. Most of his features, too, reminded Jaden of Kam-the high forehead, angled cheeks-but not the eyes. The clone's eyes were as dark and lifeless as pools of stagnant water.

"Kam Solusar," Jaden said, the words slipping free before he could stop them.

The clone sneered, and in that expression lost any resemblance to Master Solusar, who so often wore a smile.

"I do not know that name," the clone said. "I am Alpha."

Alpha wore mismatched attire: clothing salvaged from the facility, bits of stormtrooper armor on both shoulders, the forearms, and the hands, and a rough, handmade cloak fashioned from the hide of some creature that must have lived under the ice in the moon's seas. In the clone's movements, Jaden caught the suggestion of an imposing physicality, controlled savagery. He looked larger than Kam, more there.

Jaden cleared his throat, stepped forward. He lowered his lightsaber but did not deactivate it. "I have come here to… help you."

The clone held his sneer. "We require no help from you. Only the ship that brought you."

"We?"

"Are you Jedi or Sith?"

Jaden took a half step sideways, as if to avoid the ugly import of the question. He reached the edge of the cloning cylinder and winced when he saw within it.

Bodies lay piled in a grotesque heap, a tangle of decayed limbs, torsos, heads, and tattered clothing-a compost heap of butchery. Empty eye sockets stared up at Jaden. Age-ruined lips showed teeth bared in snarls.

"Beautiful, is it not?" asked the Kamclone. "Mother is where life begins and ends."

The stink caused Jaden's eyes to water. He guessed that almost every person in the facility had ended up inside the cylinder, inside Mother.

Fighting down his disgust, he asked, "How many are you? How many survived?"

"How many of them?" the clone said, and a knowing malice slinked into his dead eyes. "Or us?"

The clone stepped to the edge of Mother and started walking the circumference of the cylinder toward Jaden.

Instinctually, Jaden walked the circumference in the same direction, away from the clone, the two of them pacing the face of a chrono, keeping time under the shadow of the inevitable.

The clone nodded at the cylinder, an insane reverence smoothing his expression. "We return here from time to time to thank Mother for our lives. She can create it from the root of a hair, Dr. Green once told me. You were right, Dr. Green," he said to one of the corpses.

Jaden felt entirely exposed. More of them could appear at any moment. He reached out with the Force. He perceived no one else, but it was possible they could screen their presences.

They continued their circling, the pace quickening. Jaden knew what must come but he delayed it, discontented with the realization that all he had endured, all he had asked others to endure, had resulted in no answers. The clones had showed him nothing. The Kamclone was mad. Perhaps they all were. Perhaps he himself was, too.

"Why do you walk away from me?" the Kamclone said.

"Because it does not have to be this way."

"It does," the clone said, his right hand twitching. "Mother is hungry."