Cover image for Traitor
Title:
Traitor
Author:
Stover, Matthew Woodring.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Random House, 2002.
Physical Description:
3 audio discs : stereophonic, Dolby processed, 4 3/4 in.
General Note:
Compact discs.
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780553713176
Format :
Audiobook on CD

Available:*

Library
Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
Central Library XX(1183061.19) Adult Audiobook on CD Audiobooks
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Summary

Summary

Deep in the bowels of the captured capital planet of Coruscant, a hunted Jedi hides with an unexpected mentor who teaches him new ways to understand the Force and what it means to be a Jedi. Abridged. 3 CDs.


Excerpts

Excerpts

ONE COCOON In the dust-swept reaches of interstellar space, where the density of matter is measured in atoms per cubic meter, a small vessel of yorik coral blinked into existence, slewed through a radical curve that altered both its vector and its velocity, then streaked away, trailing a laser-straight line of ionizing radiation, to vanish again in the gamma burst of hyperjump. Some unknown time later, an unguessable distance away, in a region indistinguishable from the first save by the altered parallax of certain stellar groups, the same vessel performed a similar manuver. On its long journey, the vessel might fall into the galaxy any number of times, and each time be swallowed once more by the nothing beyond. Jacen Solo hangs in the white, thinking. He has begun to riddle out the lesson of pain. The white drops him once in a while, as though the Embrace of Pain understands him somehow: as though it can read the limit of his strength. When another minute in the white might kill him, the Embrace of Pain eases enough to slide him back into the reality of the room, of the ship; when the pain has crackled so hot for so long that his overloaded nerves and brain have been scorched too numb to feel it, the Embrace of Pain lowers him entirely to the floor, where he can even sleep for a time, while other devices--or creatures, since he cannot tell the difference anymore, since he is no longer sure that there is any difference--bathe him and tend wounds scraped or torn or slashed into his flesh by the Embrace's grip, and still more creature-devices crawl over him like spider-roaches, injecting him with nutrients and enough water to maintain his life. Even without the Force, his Jedi training gives him ways to survive the pain; he can drive his mind through a meditative cycle that builds a wall of discipline between his consciousness and the white. Though his body still suffers, he can hold his mind outside the pain. But this wall of discipline doesn't last forever, and the Embrace of Pain is patient. It erodes his mental walls with the inanimate persistence of waves against a cliff; the Embrace's arcane perception somehow lets it know that he has defended himself, and its efforts slowly gather like a storm spinning up into a hurricane until it batters down his walls and slashes once more into everything Jacen is. Only then, only after it has pushed him to the uttermost limit of his tolerance then blasted him beyond that limit into whole new galaxies of pain, will the Embrace slowly relent. He feels as if the white is eating him--as if the Embrace eats his pain, but never so much that he can't recover to feed it again. He is being managed, tended like wander-kelp on a Chadian deepwater ranch. His existence has become a tidal rhythm of agony that sweeps in, reaches an infinite crest, then rolls out again just far enough that he might catch his breath; the Embrace is careful not to let him drown. Sometimes, when he slips down from the white, Vergere is there. Sometimes she crouches at his side with the unblinking predatory patience of a hawk-bat; sometimes she stalks around the chamber on her back-bent legs like a dactyl stork wading through a swamp. Often, she is incongruously kind to him, tending his raw flesh herself with oddly comforting efficiency; he sometimes wonders if she would do more, would say more, if not for the constant monitoring stares of the eyestalks that dangle from the ceiling. But mostly he sits, or lies, waiting. Naked, blood seeping from his wrists and ankles. More than naked: utterly hairless. The living machines that tend to his body also pluck out his hairs. All of them: head, arms, legs, pubis, armpits. Eyebrows. Eyelashes. Once he asked, in his thin, weakly croaking voice, "How long?" Her response was a blank stare. He tried again. "How long . . . have I been here Excerpted from Traitor by Matthew Stover All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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