Destiny's Way Page 15

  Then Pellaeon had presented Han with a new hyperspace comm antenna to replace the one shot off in the fight with the Yuuzhan Vong. If there were any more bulletins about Jacen or any other friends or family, Han and Leia would be able to receive them without Pellaeon acting as a relay.

  Han eased himself out of the pilot’s seat. “I want to get that antenna installed at our next jump point,” he said, “and get your message and a copy of that Deep Core map off to the capital. And I’m going to send a copy of the map to Wedge Antilles, too, just in case no one in the capital knows what to do with it.”

  “Good idea.” An idea struck Leia. “I wonder if Pellaeon’s antenna has been tampered with. Maybe anything we send will be transmitted to Imperial Headquarters.”

  “It won’t matter,” Han said. “The Empire already has the information they gave us.”

  “True.”

  “I’ll replace the antenna again, with one of our own, when we get back to Mon Calamari.”

  Leia followed Han to the galley. He looked at her. “So were those Core charts worth this trip?”

  “Yes. We can keep fighters in the Core for years, raiding the Yuuzhan Vong.”

  “Even though the Empire isn’t about to attack.”

  “Not without preconditions, anyway.”

  Han looked grim. “He had a lot of nerve asking for our planets,” he said.

  “They’re not our planets anymore, which I suppose was his point. But I think that was just a test. If I’d agreed to his idea, it would have told him how desperate we are.”

  Han’s tone turned thoughtful. “Would that have brought him into the war, or scared him off?”

  “Good question.” Leia considered the matter. “I think I’ve come to the conclusion that we don’t want the Empire in this war.”

  Han was startled. “You sure? All those Star Destroyers? Those troops?”

  “That’s right,” Leia said. “Pellaeon said he’d join us if we started winning victories. But once we start winning, we don’t need the Empire any longer. What Pellaeon really wants are concessions ahead of time, and then to be at the peace table when it’s over. He wants a peace that serves the Empire’s interests.”

  Han began slicing up charbote root. “And here I was starting to think that Pellaeon was a good guy.”

  Leia made an equivocal motion of her hand. “I’m not saying he isn’t, at least by Imperial standards. But he’s a head of state, and he has to look out for that state’s benefit. He didn’t persuade the Empire to end the war with the New Republic on the grounds that it was the moral thing to do, he did it by persuading the Moffs that it was in the Empire’s best interests. Right now the Remnant has barely recovered from the last war—why should Pellaeon get into another life-and-death struggle unless it’s to his advantage?”

  “I guess,” Han said.

  “Not too much charbote root, Han,” Leia said.

  “I’m a Corellian. I like charbote root.” But he stopped cutting, and instead gathered the root slices and dropped them into the saucepan. Then he turned to her.

  “Do you know,” he said. “I’m not sure I need any food right now.”

  “Really?” She frowned down at the stove. “Normally you’re ravenous at this time of day.”

  “What I just remembered,” Han said, “is that we had hoped to be alone together on this voyage. And that now that Grand Admirals and Imperial spies are off the ship, we are alone.”

  “Oh.” She blinked at him. “Oh my.” The look in his eyes made her skin flush with warmth.

  He took her in his arms. “I think we deserve a little time together,” he said, “don’t you?”

  THIRTEEN

  “Pray to the Pardoner Yun-Shuno,” the Shamed One said. “Pray that her promises will soon be fulfilled. Pray that the Jeedai soon liberate us from those who oppress us with terror and violence.”

  “So we pray!” the tiny group echoed. Some of them, even as they chanted the response, did not cease from scratching at the fungus that tormented them. Beneath the sound of the ceremony was the constant whisper of fingers against inflamed skin.

  “So we pray!” Nom Anor echoed the words with the others. Wearing an ooglith masquer that disguised him as a common worker, he had infiltrated the tiny heretical sect. This was his second meeting.

  Infiltration was one of his skills, and he had fooled more suspicious folk than these fools.

  But no more, he thought as he scratched idly at one leg. These people are doomed.

  There were fewer than a dozen in the little group, which met in the shadowy lower levels of a minor office of the intendants, a place normally empty at night. The group was led by a Shamed One, a former member of the intendant caste whose arm implant had gone spectacularly wrong, and still dripped a trail of slime wherever he went. Even workers should have had better taste than to listen to anything said by this pitiful creature.

  It was plain curiosity that had driven Nom Anor to infiltrate the sect. Was this group such a mighty threat to orthodoxy as High Priest Jakan had said? Was the message of redemption by Jedi so powerful that it constituted a danger to the Yuuzhan Vong and all they stood for?

  When the meeting was over, Nom Anor made his way out of the structure through a door used only by workers.

  The night of Yuuzhan’tar was cool and refreshingly free of the scent of the Shamed Ones’ rotting flesh. A night breeze soothed Nom Anor’s flaming skin. Phosphorescent lichen shone on bits of undigested rubble, relics of the planet’s old civilization that were gradually being broken down into more useful, basic elements. By the phosphorescent light Nom Anor wandered away from the center of the new Yuuzhan Vong city into an area of wreckage and half-dissolved rubble that had not yet been cleared for settlement. He wanted to be free of distraction so that he could think.

  The workers’ heresy was an incoherent muddle, he thought. And yet, if the heretics had a leader, a prophet—no, a Prophet—someone who knew how to adapt this doctrine into a weapon, then they would become something to reckon with.

  Obedience, yes, but not obedience to the ruling castes; obedience to the Prophet. Outward passivity and humility to those they considered their oppressors, but inside the keenest resentment and hatred, and an arrogance that demanded a galaxy. Someone—yes, someone like Nom Anor who had spread a religious doctrine on Rhommamool that had caused the inhabitants to destroy themselves in an interplanetary war—someone like Nom Anor could make out of these heretics something very dangerous. All that was necessary was to create a tipping point, a point at which the arrogance and hatred could be brought to overwhelm passivity and caution, and then the heretics would become an army.

  Yes, it was lucky these heretics were being suppressed.

  Scratching himself on the elbows, Nom Anor turned back toward the city, and in the sky saw the spiraling rainbows created by the dovin basals on the great hovering palace that housed Shimrra. Now there is power, he thought. But what rainbows have these heretics cast?

  He walked back toward the settled area, and to his surprise found himself walking along a clearly defined road. He hadn’t realized that the shapers had grown roads out this far.

  And then he saw something coming toward him along the road, a riding quednak with someone astride it. Nom Anor stepped to the side of the road, and—in his character as a simple worker—bowed in servitude with his arms crossed. It was only as the scaled, six-legged creature thumped by that Nom Anor thought he recognized the silhouette of the rider.

  Onimi. That bulbous, misshapen head was unmistakable.

  What was the Supreme Overlord’s familiar doing here, so far from the palace and any of the centers of government?

  Nom Anor thought for a long moment as the beast thudded into the distance, and then followed.

  Kashyyyk was a brilliant green crescent in the glittering darkness of space, and around it Jaina could see the silver gleam of the New Republic capital ships that had turned the planet into one of the New Republic’s forward bases.r />
  She was in command of Trickster, tensed under the cognition hood in case enemy were present as they jumped out of hyperspace. Instead a message of jubilant welcome came from the elements of the New Republic fleet that had remained behind at their new base, and she and the rest of the fleet had stood down from their alert.

  Lowbacca growled cheerfully.

  “I’d love to join your family on Kashyyyk,” Jaina said. “A furlough in the green trees would be ideal.” Just what she needed to ease the tension she felt in her shoulders and arms, the dirge of grief and sorrow that played in her mind, the sadness that flooded her heart.

  Lights flashed on the comm system that Lowbacca had jacked into the Yuuzhan Vong ship, and the unit tweedled. [Message from the flagship,] Lowie said.

  “What does the general want?” Jaina wondered.

  [It’s not Farlander,] the Wookiee said. [The message is from Admiral Kre’fey. He wants you and General Farlander to report on board Ralroost—“at your earliest convenience,” he says.]

  And now we pay for our success, Jaina thought.

  “O great warrior, is this the damutek of the noble intendant Hooley Krekk?”

  Tattoos on the warrior’s face creased as she scowled at Nom Anor. She waved her amphistaff in the direction of the city.

  “You are not permitted here! Get your miserable carcass back to your barracks!”

  Nom Anor, still in his worker guise, bobbed in feigned humility. “With all respect, O Commander, if this is the damutek of Hooley Krekk, then I am permitted here.”

  The warrior was not appeased by Nom Anor’s casually promoting her two degrees. “This is not the damutek of Hooley Krekk! Now begone!”

  It was not the damutek of Hooley Krekk, whom Nom Anor had just invented on the spot, but it was the heavily guarded damutek to which the Shamed One Onimi had traveled, a fact proven by Onimi’s riding beast seen standing before the building and quietly licking a fungus-covered rock. The damutek was a large, bulbous, three-lobed structure that radiated a faint pinkish light. There was at least a platoon of warriors either on guard or camped in the vicinity, so whatever the function of the building might be, it was of some importance.

  And standing in the entrance to the damutek, a pair of Yuuzhan Vong were in conversation, their distinctive living headdresses marking them as shapers.

  “Oh, woe! Oh, misery! Oh, unhappiness!” Slapping himself on the head repeatedly, Nom Anor pranced about in a little circle.

  This was enough to attract two more warriors, one of them a subaltern, unusually short, with stringy hair.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the subaltern demanded. The warrior explained, and the subaltern turned to Nom Anor.

  “There is no Hooley Krekk here! Now get back to where you belong!”

  “But I belong at the damutek of Hooley Krekk!” Nom Anor wailed. “I was given very explicit directions—left at the Square of Hierarchy, then south to the Boulevard of the Crushing of the Infidels, then right at the Temple of the Modeler, then on down the long road to the end.” He began slapping himself again. “Oh woe! My supervisor will punish me!”

  “I’ll punish you if you don’t get out of here!” the subaltern said. He cocked his amphistaff over his shoulder.

  Nom Anor fell on his face and groveled before the others. “May I beg the officer’s pardon? May I ask where I went wrong?”

  “You went wrong when you were born,” one of the warriors joked, and the other laughed.

  “Where is this damutek?” Nom Anor asked. “What is the name of this place, so that I can explain to my master Hooley Krekk how I came to be here?”

  “This damutek is for shapers only!” the subaltern said. His amphistaff slashed down like a whip, and fire burned along Nom Anor’s back. “Now clear out before they stick you in their blasted cortex!”

  Nom Anor scuttled away sideways like a great crustacean, then rose to his feet and scurried down the road. Inwardly, despite the pain that flamed down his back, he gave a smile of satisfaction. Warriors are so predictable, he thought.

  Cortex was a shaper term for some kind of shaping protocol or technique, which meant that this was a shaper project secret enough to move some distance out of the capital, where its business could go on unobserved, and important enough to station warriors as its permanent guard. The two shapers seen in the entrance only confirmed this.

  And Onimi was a part of it somehow.

  Nom Anor stumbled on a fault in the road, and at the jar fresh pain shot along his back. That warrior hadn’t held back when he’d slashed down with the amphistaff. Nom Anor’s teeth ground as he thought of the arrogant little pipsqueak with a weapon longer than he was, and he cast an angry glance over his shoulder at the sawed-off subaltern with his two warriors. I’ll remember this, he thought.

  And then he thought of the heretics at their meeting, the anger and hatred that they couldn’t acknowledge even to themselves, and he thought: Yes. This is how it starts.

  Jaina combed her hair and changed out of her coveralls to walking-out dress, which was as smart as she could get for the admiral, since her full-dress uniform hadn’t caught up to her as she’d moved through her last several postings. Walking-out dress, however, was still sufficiently formal that she felt uncomfortable, and kept tugging at her collar as she sat with Farlander in the shuttle that carried her to the admiral’s Bothan Assault Cruiser.

  One of Kre’fey’s Bothan aides met Jaina and Farlander at the lock, and escorted them to the admiral’s suite. The cruiser’s air had a spicy alien scent.

  When they reached Kre’fey’s quarters, they were kept waiting a quarter of an hour by a secretary until they were called in to meet the admiral. Kre’fey was alone in a formal briefing room, standing at the head of a long, empty table. Farlander and Jaina approached the admiral and saluted.

  “General Farlander and Major Solo reporting as ordered, Admiral.”

  Kre’fey’s milk-white fur rippled as he returned the salute. “You have your report?”

  “Yes, sir.” Farlander handed the admiral a disk.

  Kre’fey dropped it in a reader and glanced at the information. “One capital ship lost, another disabled,” he said. “Nearly a hundred starfighters lost, with only forty percent of the crews rescued—all in an unauthorized action to chase an enemy Supreme Commander who wasn’t even there, and following an operational plan devised by a junior lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Farlander admitted.

  “And a stunning victory,” Kre’fey continued, still reading. “Seven enemy capital ships destroyed, a pair of transports holding thousands of warriors, and a Supreme Commander killed along with his flagship.” His eyes lifted first to Jaina, then to Farlander.

  “My warmest congratulations to the both of you,” he said. “I wish my other subordinates demonstrated this kind of initiative.” He shook Farlander’s hand. “Brilliant work! I will put you both in for commendations.”

  Jaina flushed at the warmth of the admiral’s response. She felt the tension in her wire-strung muscles ease. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, and then was surprised to see Kre’fey step before her, then pause for a long moment with his gold-flecked violet eyes fixed on her.

  “I wished to see you in comparative privacy in order that I might give you some news of your family.” Jaina stared at him in rising horror and felt herself brace for it, her parents dead or captured, or perhaps little Ben Skywalker ambushed in the Maw and killed.

  “Your brother Jacen has escaped the enemy and has arrived safely on Mon Calamari,” Kre’fey said. “When you have a chance to catch up with your personal messages, no doubt you’ll hear the story in more detail.”

  Jaina stared at Kre’fey in cold astonishment. “Are you sure, sir?” she said. “I saw him, and the Yuuzhan Vong—I was there—”

  “Of course it’s true,” Kre’fey said. “Your brother’s been on the holonews—he’s very much alive.”

  Jaina could only gape at him. Why didn’t I know? It ha
d been Jaina who had insisted on the reality of Jacen’s death in the face of her mother’s belief in his survival. Why didn’t he reach me through our twin bond? she demanded of herself. And then an answer came to her.

  Because I cut him off. She had been driven into a near-mad frenzy by Anakin’s death and Jacen’s capture; she had embraced the dark and turned her life to vengeance. She had cut off all contact with those she loved. Including Jacen, who must have needed her dreadfully.

  She pictured Jacen calling to her over and over, and receiving no answer. He must have thought I was dead. What kind of despair had she brought him?

  She tasted bitter failure on her tongue.

  “Would you like to sit down, Jaina?” Farlander’s voice floated toward her from beyond the shadowy wall that cloaked her mind.

  “Yes,” she answered. “If I may.”

  She groped her way to a chair, and as she lowered herself into it, she managed to remember the niceties. She looked up at Traest Kre’fey. “Thank you, Admiral,” she said. “I appreciate your telling me this way.”

  “It was the least I could do for our new hero,” Kre’fey said as he took the seat at the head of the table. “You and General Farlander have given us a great victory, and I would like you to give me an informal briefing now, before I arrange a full staff conference tomorrow.”

  “Very good, sir,” Farlander said. Even as he answered Kre’fey, his concerned eyes still rested on Jaina.

  “Your tactics involving the Jedi?” Kre’fey asked. “Creating a kind of meld? Were they successful?”

  “They worked, but we had too few units with Jedi in them,” Jaina said. “We need more Jedi in order to make it really useful. And even then it doesn’t always work.” Her thoughts darkened as she remembered Myrkr. “If the Jedi aren’t in agreement among themselves, the meld can fall apart.”