Rebel Stand

by Aaron Allston

  flying is all about."

  Jaina winced. She'd forgotten that she had switched over to the general New

  Republic military frequency to respond to Rebel Dream. But despite the fact that

  the mistake was hers, she couldn't let a jibe like that go by. "So you're the

  masters at flying out of an engagement zone?"

  "Ooh," Ace-One said. "Don't say engagement. Unless you're volunteering,

  that is."

  "Ace-One, Reckless Abandon. Do you suppose you could confine your courtship

  rituals to groundside?"

  "Copy, Reckless. Twins Leader, look me up when we're on the ground. Ace-One

  out."

  Jaina switched back to send out only over squadron frequency. "Arrogant

  little monkey-lizard."

  "I agree." That was the mechanical voice of Piggy, Jaina's Gamorrean pilot

  and tactics expert. "I know him."

  Borleias

  Creatures moved within Tam Elgrin's field of vision. He couldn't seem to

  hold his eyes open enough for visual clarity, so most of the time they were mere

  blobs of white or orange, walking back and forth before him, speaking in muted

  tones.

  He was content with that for a while, even content to understand that he

  wasn't thinking clearly, wasn't remembering, but eventually curiosity got the

  better of him and he forced his eyes open wider, forced himself to focus.

  He could see now that the traffic was beyond the bed he lay on. A clean

  sheet in a soothing blue covered his large, ungainly frame. Beyond his feet was

  the metal footboard of a bed, and beyond that was some sort of pedestrian

  traffic lane; the blobs of color he had seen were people, humans and the

  occasional Twi'lek or Rodian or Devaro-nian, most in medical whites, some in

  pilot jumpsuit orange, moving past his field of vision, paying him no mind.

  To either side of his bed were hung opaque curtains of that same

  offensively inoffensive blue, so patently obvious a measure to provide him with

  privacy from two directions and suggest calm that he finally understood that he

  was in a hospital.

  That realization was enough for now. He didn't need to know why he was

  here. The fact that his brain worked well enough to process information again

  was sufficient.

  But a moment later, a figure left the traffic lane and moved into his

  curtained cubicle. It was a Mon Calamari; Tarn's long experience with nonhumans

  suggested that it was a female. She wore medical whites, and her skin was a

  deep, appealing pink. "You are awake," she said, her tone suggesting that it was

  a minor achievement, something for which everyone should be at least slightly

  pleased.

  "Urn," he said. It was supposed to have been yes, but it came out um.

  "Do you know what has happened? Where you are, and why?"

  He shook his head. "Um."

  "You've been rather badly used by the Yuuzhan Vong, conditioned by them to

  do their bidding. But you resisted your conditioning and probably prevented a

  tragedy. Resisting it did you a certain amount of physical harm, which is why

  you're here now."

  It was as though he had been facing a dam between him and his memories...

  then the dam crumbled and memories washed down over him, hammering him, sweeping

  him away. He remembered being on the world of Coruscant as it fell to the

  Yuuzhan Vong, remembered hiding and running from them afterward, remembered

  being captured by them. Then there were days-how many? Only two, though it

  seemed like a lifetime-of lying on a table that twitched, of listening while one

  of the Yuuzhan Vong told him to do things, of feeling agonizing pain whenever he

  worked up the nerve to refute their words, refuse their orders. The pain came

  even when his refusal was deep in his heart, even when it was made without him

  speaking or glaring or shaking his head to let them know of his rebellion. The

  table always knew, the table always hurt him, until the words of the Yuuzhan

  Vong came and he could no longer resist them, no longer offer even the most

  secret of refusals.

  Then he had been allowed to "escape," reunite with his employer, historian

  Wolam Tser, and escape Coruscant to Borleias, a temporary stronghold of the

  reeling New Republic military. There he had spied upon the New Republic

  operations, the scientist Danni Quee and the pilot Jaina Solo.

  Only when he knew that he would have to kidnap one of them and kill the

  other had he found the strength to withstand the pain that came whenever he did

  not leap to the bidding of the Yuuzhan Vong. And he'd fallen, certain that the

  pain would kill him.

  "Are you still with us, Master Elgrin?"

  "Um," he said. "Yes." He opened his eyes; the Mon Cal female was bending

  over him, her mouth slightly open, her eyes moving independently as she looked

  him over.

  He knew from experience that her expression suggested slight distress,

  though it would not have been obvious to someone who knew only human

  expressions. "It's not 'Master' Elgrin. Just... Elgrin. Or Tam."

  "Tam, I am Cilghal. I will be working with you to overcome the lingering

  effects of what was done to you." She cocked her head, a human mannerism,

  perhaps one she had learned from being among humans. "I am sad to have to tell

  you that your courage in resisting your conditioning was not a cure for you. You

  still suffer the effects of that conditioning. We will work together to erode

  those effects, to return you to normal."

  "If I'm still-why isn't my head killing me right now?"

  Cilghal took one of his hands in hers-a smooth, webbed hand much larger

  than his, but not cold, as he'd expected-and moved his hand up to his brow.

  There, he felt the device, helmetlike, covering the top of his head. "This

  apparatus," she said, "senses the onset of your headaches. It interferes

  electronically with your pain receptors, reducing or eliminating the pain.

  Later, we can fit you with an implant to do the same thing without being

  noticeable. The implant will also allow you to reward yourself by initiating the

  release of endorphins whenever you do something you know to be in defiance of

  the will of the Yuuzhan Vong. It will, we think, gradually counter the

  conditioning you have received."

  "But what's the point? I'm going to be tried. And executed. For treason."

  "I think not. This base is under military law, and General Wedge Antilles

  has said that you are to be commended, not punished. There will be no trial for

  you."

  Tam felt his eyes burn, then tears came. Whether they' were tears of relief

  or shame for the forgiveness he'd received but had not earned, he could not say.

  He turned away from Cilghal so she would not see them.

  "I will go now," she said. "We will talk later. And you will get better."

  TWO

  The tall man pounded on the black stone wall. The wall stretched up as far

  as the eye could see-at least in these dimly lit reaches of the ruined undercity

  - and was angled back, not truly vertical. The stone from which it was made was

  glossy, with little gray stipple patterns throughout, lending it beauty and

  complexity. The wall did not seem to be made of blocks of the stone; the entire

  wall seemed to be one sheet
, unmarked by lines or creases.

  The stone held up against blows from his fist. He found a block of

  ferrocrete nearby and swung it with all his considerable strength at the wall.

  The ferrocrete shattered.

  He ignited his weapon. It hummed with every move of his arm and cast its

  red glow on the stone. He drove it into the stone.

  The stone did not warm, did not burn, did not welt away.

  He withdrew his blade and touched the point where it bad rested. It was

  warmer than the surrounding stone, but did not burn his flesh.

  He shouted, the echoes of his anguish bouncing off the high ceiling and

  nearby walls of this chamber.

  He had to have what was beyond the wall. It was everything. He had never

  seen it, never fell it, hut he knew it was there, knew with a memory that had

  been vivid long before he had become aware.

  The tall man felt something, a presence, nearby. He raced to a mound of

  rubble, collapsed from mined ceiling, and swept a block of duracrete aside.

  In the niche beyond huddled a small figure, a human male.

  The tall man reached in and seized the other, yanking him forth. The

  smaller man wore rags and stank of sweat, months of sweat; his hair was long and

  ragged, and fear filled his dark eyes.

  The tall man did not speak to him. He did not know words. Instead, he made

  a thought-an image of the black wall shattering, opening to reveal the treasure

  beyond-and shoved it into the mind of the other. The smaller man stiffened and

  shrieked as the thought lodged in his mind, occupied it fully.

  Then the tall man sent another thought, a ques-tion: How?

  The smaller man trembled in his grip, and thoughts, hundreds of them, tiny

  and scurrying like rodents, flashed through his mind.

  Then there was an image. A machine, something man could hold in two hands,

  from its nozzle came a blinding blaze, a cutting fire. The small man thought of

  that fire piercing the wall, cutting a door, allowing the tall man through.

  The tall man formed another thought. In it, the small man would go forth,

  find that machine, and bring it here. Immediately. With ruthless strength, he

  hammered that thought into the small man's mind, heard his new shriek. Then he

  dropped the small man.

  His new slave, weeping, sobbing, ran off into the darkness.

  Borleias

  Colonel Tycho Celchu, Wedge Antilles's second-in-command, entered the

  general's office. He was grinning and could not seem to stop, unusual for the

  reserved officer, who seldom betrayed emotions for more than a moment in any

  official situation. "General," he said, "I present you with the officer in

  charge of the Taanab Yellow Aces." He gestured like a master of ceremonies

  toward the door, which he'd left open behind him.

  Into the office stepped a broad-shouldered man, handsome and dark-haired,

  the sort on whom middle age settled like a set of rakish clothes. He wore a

  jumpsuit of poisonous yellow accentuated by jagged lines of black, like a. mad

  decorator's interpretation of a brain wave, and, instead of saluting, struck a

  heroic pose. "Captain Wes Janson reporting. Uh, sir."

  Wedge rose to clasp Janson's hand, then dragged the man to him in an

  embrace. "Wes! They didn't tell me you were part of the incoming group."

  "I laid down some bribes. Couldn't have them spoil my big moment. Say,

  what's to drink?"

  "Home-brewed poison, for the most part, except on rare occasions. Here,

  sit." Wedge took his own seat, and, once Tycho had shut the door for privacy,

  the other two followed suit.

  Janson pulled a data card out of one of his jumpsuit's many pockets and

  flipped it onto Wedge's desk. "I'm sure you've gotten the inventory from

  Reckless Abandon already, but here's my copy, just to make sure they're the

  same. Foodstuffs, ammunition, munitions, spare star-fighter parts, several

  barrels of inadequately aged Taanab fruit brandies..."

  "Wonderful." Wedge slipped the card into his data-pad, reviewing the words

  that scrolled up on his screen. "How long will you be insystem?"

  "Oh, until I get killed, I guess."

  Startled, Wedge glanced up at him. "How's that again?"

  "The Taanab Yellow Aces is an all-volunteer unit. Financed by the same

  fund-raising effort that went into purchasing and delivering all those inventory

  goods. Organized by me. When I resigned my commission, I told my superiors I'd

  be back with a piece of Tsavong Lah in my pocket. I can't disappoint them."

  Wedge smiled. "Care to transfer into Rogue Squadron?"

  "I'd love to. But I can't. I brought a squad and a half of Taanab and

  refugee pilots who sort of have the right to follow my lead."

  Tycho made a tsk-tsk noise. "How very responsible of you, Wes."

  Janson shrugged, rueful. "Sad side effects of age, I'm afraid." His

  expression became livelier. "Which you can help me forget. Tell me about a

  female pilot, Twin Suns Leader. She has a nice voice. Does she have looks to

  match?"

  Wedge, struggling to keep from laughing, exchanged a glance with Tycho.

  "Well, yes. She's nice looking."

  "Married? Attached?"

  "Attached, I think. Recently attached." To my nephew, Wedge added to

  himself, no matter how hard they try to keep others from noticing.

  "So, who is she?"

  Wedge frowned as. if remembering. "Jay something. Isn't that right?" He

  turned to Tycho,

  "I think so."

  "Jay, Jay..." Wedge let his expression clear. "That's it. Jaina Solo."

  Janson's face paled. "Jaina Solo."

  "I'm sure that's the name."

  "Sith spawn, I was flirting with a nine-year-old."

  "Nineteen," Tycho corrected. "And she has more kills than the three of us

  put together at the same age."

  Janson sighed, defeated. "I guess I'd better apologize to her and then

  throw myself on her lightsaber."

  Wedge shook his head. "No, just ask Han to shoot you. It'll be more

  merciful and it is his right as a father."

  "You're still a nasty commanding officer, you know."

  Wedge merely smiled.

  Domain Hul Warldship, Pyria System

  The Yuuzhan Vong warrior Czulkang Lah was old, far older than any who had

  been seen by the natives of this galaxy; under the scars, tattoos, and

  mutilations that rendered his face almost black and his features almost

  unrecognizable were deep wrinkles of age. The frailty of his form was concealed

  by the augmented vonduun crab armor he wore, armor that added the strength of

  its own muscles to his.

  He stood in his preferred control chamber of the Domain Hul worldship. The

  walls were thick with the stations of his various advisers and subordinate

  officers, including his personal aide, the warrior Kasdakh Bhul. Most of the

  stations were series of shelflike recesses in the yorik coral wall, and upon

  those recesses were villips, the preferred communications method of the Yuuzhan

  Vong; some were in contracted form, featureless blobs, while some were everted

  to look like glossy, colorless Yuuzhan Vong heads whose lips moved and voices

  emerged in perfect synchronization with distant officers and spies.

  Above Czulkang Lah's seat was a great membranous lens, in diameter three<
br />
  times the length of a tall warrior; it gave him an unparalleled view of the

  space before Domain Hul, and could contract to magnify very distant objects.

  Before the old warrior was a priest. He was tall, his leanness suggesting

  self-deprivation, and he wore the ceremonial robes and head wrap of the order of

  the Trickster goddess, Yun-Harla.

  "Welcome, Harrar," Czulkang Lah said.

  "It is my honor to come before you again." The priest offered the sort of

  bow that equals exchange, then straightened. "And to find you engaged in work

  benefiting the gods and befitting your status. I bring you ships and ground

  reinforcements to help you in your aims." Indeed, the reinforcements had made a

  flyover to announce their presence to, and respect for, the old warrior,

  commander of Yuuzhan Vong forces in the Pyria system.

  "I am directed by my son to offer you every assistance in capturing Jaina

  Solo." The old warrior beckoned to a much younger male who waited near the wall.

  The younger warrior stepped forward and knelt. "Harrar, I bestow upon you Charat

  Kraal. He has been in charge of special operations where Jaina Solo and other

  matters are concerned. He leads an inventive and well-motivated unit made up of

  Kraal and Hul pilots and knowledge harvesters. My burdens of command will be

  lightened, rather than increased, if you simply take him off my hands and assume

  direct control of those operations."

  Harrar addressed the younger warrior. "Do you feel you can readily transfer

  your service?" The question was a matter of life and death; should Charat Kraal,

  in honesty, say he could not, he would naturally be killed and a more agreeable

  commander installed.

  Charat Kraal raised his head to look into Harrar's face. The warrior's nose

  was not just deformed, a mutilation common to Yuuzhan Vong warriors, but

  entirely missing, with ragged, reddened edges all around to suggest the violence

  with which it had been removed. His forehead was high, more like a human's than

  that of a 'uuzhan Vong, and elaborately tattooed with perpendicular lines and

  stripes that drew the eye back along it and made it seemed flatter. "My duty is