Reunion: Force Heretic III

by Sean Williams

  His mind instinctively probed at his enemy’s weaknesses as he flew, juking and firing whenever a target appeared before him. If Pellaeon had been following the Yuuzhan Vong force before them, then that suggested it was the remains of the fleet that attacked Bastion and Borosk in Imperial Space. Partial or total, it didn’t matter: the Yuuzhan Vong had suffered heavy losses and, if Jag had learned anything from watching the Galactic Alliance fight, there would have been a significant reduction in the yammosk-per-fighter ratio. Alliance pilots seemed to have an instinct instilled in them: to go for the head whenever possible. Destroy the decision-making part of an organism, and victory will soon follow.

  Well, he thought, wherever the head was in this particular battle, it had obviously decided to fight back. Coralskippers flew in sheets like rain upon the attacking forces, delivering through sheer numbers what tactics alone could not. Galactic Alliance versatility beat Yuuzhan Vong methods most times in a one-to-one fight, and Esfandia was no different. The longer it stayed ten-to-one, though, the less confident Jag was inclined to feel.

  Yet the shift in emphasis on behalf of the yammosks had one beneficial side effect: while the focus of the Yuuzhan Vong was on the skies above Esfandia, little or no attention was paid to what was happening below. And it was only then, as Jag turned his attention briefly downward to note that the Yuuzhan Vong bombardment of the planet had ceased, that he located Millennium Falcon. She was slipping unnoticed into the turgid, roiled-up mess that was Esfandia’s atmosphere.

  Jag had just enough time to wonder what Han and Leia were doing before the warship Kur-hashan cut off his view of the planet, blinding him with violent splashes of energy.

  Whatever they’re up to, he thought as he rolled his craft away from the incoming fire, I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough …

  When Ngaaluh was settled in her rooms, Nom Anor and his entourage slipped away. Their places were taken by three Shamed Ones who served the Prophet, so their absence would not be noticed. That their appearances differed from Nom Anor and his advisers didn’t matter—Shamed Ones were rarely looked upon with any scrutiny.

  Deep under the priestess’s quarters, accessible only by a secret passageway and passwords, were a series of basements that had been transformed from the infidels’ boxy tastes to something more organic; not even the Jedi philosophy could convince a Yuuzhan Vong to live in a lifeless coffin. Nom Anor inspected the new audience chambers and found them satisfactory. They were austere and secure, the only ostentatious element being the chair he insisted upon, placed on a podium so that during his sermons he would be visible to all. The Prophet’s role at the center of the heresy was crucial, and it was important to play it convincingly. Or so he told Shoon-mi. His enjoyment of the sense of power it gave him he kept carefully hidden.

  After a hasty meal of raw hawk-bat, Nom Anor retired to a private chamber to work on the heresy. The Jedi philosophy spreading among his minions was an evolving thing, requiring constant fine-tuning—especially with the Jedi Knights’ continued resistance to Shimrra’s attempts to have them purged from the galaxy. But it was important that the faithful be restrained from acting too precipitously when things appeared to be going well, just as it was for them to be given encouragement following any setback. There was a constant need to balance conflicting factions and agendas, needs and objectives.

  The minions he left in his wake played a key role in translating his will into action. Some had been chosen by Shoon-mi for their fanatical dedication to the Prophet, others by Kunra for their clearheadedness. Others Nom Anor himself had selected, seeing in them a keen understanding of the philosophy itself. These subordinate Prophets served as direct substitutes for the Prophet Yu’shaa, for it simply wasn’t possible to be everywhere at once, and there were so many questions, so many things the heretics wanted to know. What were the movement’s goals, beyond obtaining freedom for the Shamed Ones? Was displacing Shimrra atop the Supreme Overlord’s throne a goal of the movement if Shimrra refused to accept their demands? Would the Jedi Heresy replace the Great Doctrine as blueprint for the destiny of the Yuuzhan Vong? Where did the old gods and ways fit in?

  Nom Anor was wearying of such questions, but he knew that in them lay his only chance of survival, let alone advancement. Spurned by Shimrra, he had no other way to attain power than through the tenets of the Jedi Heresy. That he didn’t believe in them himself didn’t matter in the slightest. That those below him did—with the assistance of the subordinate Prophets—was all that mattered, wherever those beliefs took them.

  He wasn’t certain if the work he ordered would result in freedom for the Shamed Ones, even as a sideline. He was simply using the movement to hurt those who had hurt him, via terrorism, political assassination, theft, and other means. He had been trained in covert activism; although his skills had mainly been used to attack the infidels, they could just as easily be turned against those of his own kind.

  Sometimes, late at night, he wondered what the future held for him. What lay in store for the skulking yet all-pervasive figure of Nom Anor? Would the Jedi Heresy succeed in returning him to an honored place in society, along with the Shamed Ones? Would he become lost behind the mask of Yu’shaa the Prophet, trapped by the very robes he had adopted as a means of escape?

  Ngaaluh joined him when she was able, to discuss recent developments on the surface. The priestess was clean and smelled of incense, but she was clearly exhausted by a busy day, by maintaining her pretence with flawless diligence.

  “I hear word from Shimrra’s court,” she said, sinking into a chair opposite Nom Anor with a weary sigh. “High Priest Jakan has assured His Dire Majesty that the fall of the heresy is imminent.”

  “Either he is overly confident or he is a fool, then,” Nom Anor said, unmasked. Ngaaluh knew who “Yu’shaa” really was, but that didn’t assail her belief in the Prophet. Her faith in the heresy was so complete that she had no difficulties believing it could seduce even an old scoundrel like the ex-executor.

  Ngaaluh nodded. “He is a fool. The heresy is too entrenched to be crushed solely by optimism and good intentions. But he has plans.”

  Nom Anor smiled at this. He toyed with a coufee while they talked, slicing thin wafers off a twig of waxwood and popping them one by one into his mouth. “How does Jakan intend to do away with me this time?”

  “He is petitioning for a total ban on access to the lower levels. Once all authorized personnel have been evacuated, he proposes to release a plague of wild spinerays into the tunnels. Shapers will increase their mobility, fecundity, and appetite, so they will breed and kill, breed and kill. Jakan predicts that anything living down here will be destroyed within a matter of weeks.”

  Nom Anor laughed out loud at the naïveté of the plan. “And who does he think will destroy the spinerays when this is accomplished? Who will stop them from escaping to the upper levels? The fool would throw the egg out with the afterbirth if Shimrra let him.”

  “Another plan concerned pumping corrosive gas into the tunnels,” Ngaaluh said. “This failed on the grounds that the gas could eat into the foundations and bring the planet’s surface down around us.”

  Nom Anor laughed again. “I daresay some would have found this an acceptable risk, nonetheless.” He nodded thoughtfully as he slipped another slice of waxwood into his mouth. “It is good they are desperate. It shows we must be worrying them.”

  “I believe so, Master. The strength and rightness of our convictions undermines every move they attempt against us. They cannot destroy us.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they won’t continue to try.”

  Ngaaluh bowed her head. “This is true, Master. And I will stop them as best I can.”

  “How goes our plan?” Nom Anor asked, taking the opportunity to change the subject to one of immediate concern. “Have you inveigled yourself within the corridors of the intendant Ash’ett?”

  “I have.” She nodded, sending shadows across her angular features. “He is exactly as you sai
d he was: greedy and self-serving. He mouths platitudes to the old gods and curses the Jedi, but would follow neither, given the choice. He is his own creature.”

  His own creature, Nom Anor echoed to himself. They were well-chosen words, and would have served as a good description of himself, too, had she but known the truth.

  “You agree, then, that he must fall?”

  She nodded. “With him out of the way, there will be room for someone sympathetic to our cause. I will place the ones we have prepared in his staff, and guarantee his destruction.”

  “Excellent.” He nodded sagely, inwardly crowing with delight. Prefect Ash’ett was an old rival, someone who had shown no compunction when it came to squashing those around him in order to advance himself—Nom Anor among them. Like many of his old rivals, Ash’ett had risen to power on Yuuzhan’tar, taking territory and glory as the opportunities arose during the fall of the infidel empire. Such power should have been Nom Anor’s. Ash’ett’s time of reckoning was long overdue, and would come with interest.

  “I have identified another unworthy,” Nom Anor said. “When we are done here, we will move to Gileng, where a certain Drosh Khalii has grown fat on the profits of war for too long.”

  Ngaaluh nodded again, her eyes gleaming in the yellow lichen torch. If she was daunted by the thought of having another target to consider before this one had been eliminated, she didn’t say.

  “The hard work of revolution goes ever on,” Nom Anor said.

  “We are making progress, Master.”

  “Indeed.” He resisted the urge to ask Where to? “Do you have anything else to report?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Tell me, then,” he said, offering Ngaaluh a slice of waxwood. The priestess accepted it but didn’t place it in her mouth straight away.

  “I hear whispers in the court, Master,” she said.

  “That is not uncommon. At any given time, there might be hundreds of rumors crossing the galaxy.”

  “The name of the Unknown Regions, as the Jeedai call them, recurs in these rumors. The missions they speak of, however, seem unrelated to the Chiss. Their focus is on something entirely different.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m not sure, Master. There are few details beyond what I have told you.”

  “Gossip,” Nom Anor said, dismissing the news with a wave of his hand. “Idle chatter among the ruling classes as they seek to deflect blame from themselves. I’ve seen it a thousand times before.”

  “As have I, Master—but these whispers persist. Something is afoot. The enemies of Shimrra are restless.”

  “Well, if so, perhaps we can use them to our advantage.” Anything distracting Shimrra from the heretics was a potential boon.

  Ngaaluh slipped a piece of the waxwood between her tattooed lips. “There is a rumor I heard from a very reliable source of a mission newly returned from the Unknown Regions. The mission had been gone an extremely long time, and its commander was surprised on his return to find that many of his commanding officers had been replaced.”

  Not surprising, Nom Anor thought. The life expectancy of the warriors decreased the closer one got to the top.

  “Go on,” he said, hoping the story would soon get interesting.

  “The commander, one Ekh’m Val, sought an audience with the Supreme Overlord himself. He boasted of finding the lost world of Zonama Sekot.”

  “Zonama Sekot?” Nom Anor frowned. “But the living planet is nothing more than a legend.”

  “Not if this Ekh’m Val is to be believed.”

  “What happened when he spoke to Shimrra?”

  “I don’t know,” Ngaaluh said, leaning in close, her eyes glittering. “That I haven’t heard. Commander Val appears to have disappeared.”

  “Really?” Nom Anor was mildly intrigued now; he couldn’t tell why Ngaaluh was telling him this, but the story was an interesting diversion. “Perhaps he was lying and paid the price for it.”

  “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But the rumor persists. There may be truth behind it.”

  “Do you think it is important?”

  “My instincts tell me to listen. The Jeedai teach that we should trust those instincts.”

  Nom Anor almost rolled his eye. “By all means listen, then—and report back to me if you learn anything of importance.”

  “Of course, Master. I am your obedient servant.” Ngaaluh smoothed her robe and waited for him to speak.

  He took pity on her and tossed her a compliment as Shimrra might have tossed the yargh’un a heretic for a snack.

  “You’re doing excellent work, Ngaaluh. Your skill at deception is admirable.”

  Ngaaluh snorted. “It’s all I can do to not cry out my rage against the atrocities that Shimrra commits upon the truth.”

  “Your perseverance does us all proud.”

  The priestess paused, turning the remaining waxwood between her callused fingers. “It is hard at times,” she said.

  “You should rest,” Nom Anor said. Ngaaluh looked exhausted, physically as well as spiritually. He, too, felt the need for stillness. While nights, per se, might not have technically existed in the depths of Yuuzhan’tar, he still had to listen to his biological rhythms. “Go back to your chambers, before you’re missed, and get some sleep.”

  Ngaaluh nodded and rose painfully to her feet. “Our struggle goes well. I have hope that we will achieve our goals soon.”

  He only nodded encouragingly, hiding his weariness behind a careworn smile. “Go, now, my friend.”

  Ngaaluh bowed again and left the room. Barely had she gone when a soft knocking issued from the door.

  He sighed. “Yes?” he called, expecting it to be Kunra to advise him of the successful deployment of the fake heretics.

  The guard outside opened the door to admit Shoon-mi. The Shamed One peered cautiously into the room.

  “Forgive me, Master, for visiting you at this late hour.”

  Nom Anor irritably waved away his lackey’s concern. “What is it?”

  “I was wondering if there was anything I can get you, Master.”

  “If there was, don’t you think I would have called you?”

  Shoon-mi nodded as he took a step into the room. “It’s just that you didn’t call for your evening meal. I thought that—”

  “I wasn’t hungry, Shoon-mi; it’s as simple as that. I had work to attend to.”

  Shoon-mi executed a pious bow. “Forgive me, Master. I had only your well-being at heart.”

  “It’s appreciated,” he said. “But now I really must rest.”

  “As you wish, Master.” Shoon-mi bowed a third time, and went to leave. As he was approaching the door, he turned back as though he had forgotten something. “I have taken the liberty of taking your masquer to have it refreshed.”

  “My masquer?” Nom Anor looked around at where it normally hung with the others on stalks by his bed. Sure enough, the skin and features of the Prophet were missing. “Very well. It was starting to look a little shabby. Good thinking, Shoon-mi.”

  “I shall have it returned to you in the morning, Master, in time for your first audience.”

  Fatigue rushed through Nom Anor at the thought of resuming his usual routine so soon. Being outside had reminded him of how far he had fallen. He may have risen on the back of the rising tide of heretics, but there was still a long way to go before he could walk freely in the natural world.

  “I’m sorry, Master,” Shoon-mi said. “I am babbling while you should be resting. Are you certain that there is nothing I can assist you with before you retire?”

  Nom Anor shook his head, waving his religious adviser away. “I promise you that I will call should I need anything, Shoon-mi.”

  With that the Shamed One bowed one last time and left. The door clicked shut again, and Nom Anor threw the heavy bolt across to ensure he had no more interruptions. Outside, he thought he could hear voices whispering—Shoon-mi and Kunra, rapid and emphatic, as though arguing—but he didn�
��t have the energy to listen in to the conversation. Let them fight among themselves, he thought, reclining on the bed with a chorus of creaking sinews. At least it keeps them occupied.

  Exhaustion carried him quickly into sleep, and once there he dreamed of a man with a face more scarred than any he’d seen before, flayed and salted and left to fester. The nose was an open wound, and the mouth a jagged and lipless mess. Incongruously, two red mqaaq’it implants stared out at him from where eyes should have been, giving the visage an air of authority.

  The image snarled at him—and Nom Anor awoke to the realization that the face was his own reflection, but the eyes belonged to Shimrra. He shuddered on his narrow bed and pulled the covers tighter around him. Sleep, however, had fled, and he lay huddled in silence until dawn broke, far above, and duty once more called.

  “Almost there,” Han said, dipping the Falcon’s nose a little deeper into the turbulent soup that was Esfandia’s atmosphere. The freighter’s chassis shuddered under the extra forces she was being asked to bear. She was riding the dense, frigid gases she encountered with all the grace of a ronto.

  Leia clutched the sides of her rattling seat to prevent herself from being thrown to the floor, mentally keeping her fingers crossed the whole time. In the copilot’s position, she did what she could to assist Han in the “splashdown,” as he’d called it. She’d never entered such a dense atmosphere before, outside a gas giant. The situation was compounded by the fact that the heat of the Falcon alone tended to make the bitterly cold, liquid air explode in new and turbulent ways around them as they plummeted groundward, not to mention the various hot spots left by the Yuuzhan Vong bombardment. She doubted Esfandia had experienced such an input of energy for millennia.