Reunion: Force Heretic III

by Sean Williams

  “After traveling as far as you have to beseech my help,” Sekot said, “you reject my offer. Are you sure?”

  “I stand by my decision,” he answered soberly.

  “Jacen …” Danni’s objection petered out with a bewildered shake of her head.

  “Military might is not what we need,” he tried to explain. “I cannot countenance destruction as a solution to the threat of destruction. In the long run, such a victory would only bring about our own downfall.” He faced Sekot once again. “I’m sorry, but I cannot accept your offer.”

  The image of his former teacher smiled. “Nevertheless, I have decided to join your cause.”

  Jacen frowned at Sekot’s unnaturally dry image. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you have achieved what you set out to do,” Sekot said. “I shall return with you to your war. Whether or not I can make a difference, of course, remains to be seen.”

  Vergere’s image moved over to where Jacen stood, his mind still numb with shock. To his surprise, the arm Vergere’s image placed around his waist exerted a faint pressure, like heavy fog.

  “We are done with running,” Sekot told him, softly, so only he could hear. “We must find a way to end this war. Perhaps together we can work out which way we must go. Not just for ourselves, but for the sake of all life within the galaxy.”

  Jacen turned to stare into the eyes of his former teacher. In them he found great intellect and infinite compassion, as well as an ageless, unfathomable wisdom the likes of which he could never hope to achieve. But try as he might, he could find no reassurance in them, and that troubled him more than he was prepared to admit.

  “It gives me great displeasure, Supreme One, to report on yet another nest of perfidy, this time in Numesh sector and overseen by the Prefect Zareb.”

  Nom Anor watched with keen interest as the court of the Supreme Overlord heard of the latest supposed threat to the status quo. The villip hidden in Ngaaluh’s robes caught the scene with perfect clarity as she presented her report. He listened with relish, feeling the need for some uncomplicated revenge in order to wash the taste of Shoon-mi’s betrayal from his throat.

  Shimrra was seated atop his yorik throne, one elbow resting on the throne’s arm as he gazed down reflectively upon those gathered before him. The baleful red eyes swept the attentive crowd. There was no sound apart from the shuffling of feet and the soft, creaking contractions of shifting armor, and Ngaaluh’s voice, tolling the doom of the former executor Zareb. The planted heretics had been interrogated; their testimony was plain.

  “It is with regret that I must deliver this news, Supreme One, but the conclusion is inescapable: you have been yet again betrayed by someone in whom you put your trust.”

  Shimrra shook his head at the inevitable conclusion. “How is this possible?”

  “My Lord, I fear—”

  “Not you, Ngaaluh. You have said all you need to say.” Shimrra rose to his feet and descended from his throne with calculated precision, red eyes glancing at a different member of his audience with each step. His voice, when he spoke, was like the voice of Yun-Yuuzhan himself.

  “The heresy is not a poison gas that sneaks in through the cracks. It is not spirits whispering in someone’s ear. It is not a contagion, floating on the wind. No, the heresy is spread by Shamed Ones who are flesh and blood like us. They possess no supernatural powers. Their love of the infidel Jeedai gives them no unseen advantage.”

  Shimrra’s posture was one of restrained fury when he reached the base of the steps.

  “So, Warmaster, can you explain how these flesh-and-blood heretics are able to corrupt my most trusted servants without being detected?”

  The mighty Nas Choka ground sharpened teeth together. “Our investigations continue through all avenues, Great One,” he said. “Of prime concern to us is the nature of the traitors Ngaaluh has reported. They are all, you will note, of the intendant caste.”

  “Indeed.” The Supreme Overlord turned to High Prefect Drathul, whose eyes shot hatefully at the warmaster. “Tell me, Drathul, how these Shamed Ones have been able to amass the resources necessary for their existence, let alone to undermine my authority.”

  The High Prefect shifted uneasily. “I can assure you that the chains of supply are being examined as we speak. We strongly suspect that some of the knowledge required to divert these resources was obtained from a renegade shaper.”

  Shimrra’s look of disdain required no words. “Master Shaper,” he said, turning next to Yal Phaath. “How do you respond to this claim?”

  “Such knowledge did not come from our ranks, I assure you, Supreme One.” The master shaper locked his grotesquely modified hands nervously in front of him. “Our faith lies firmly in you and the gods.”

  The Supreme Overlord’s expression conveyed perfectly what he thought of that assertion.

  “Ah, yes: faith.” Shimrra turned lastly to the high priest. Nom Anor wished he could freeze the villip choir on the look on Jakan’s face. Watching the warmaster, high prefect, and master shaper squirm had been fine enough, but this was even better.

  “This heresy undermines the spiritual center of our mighty people, Jakan,” Shimrra said, looming less than an arm’s length away from the high priest. “The gods have every right to be displeased at the lack of faith we show in them. Your plans to rid us of this treacherous Prophet show a distinct lack of imagination.”

  “You may be assured, Supreme One, that retribution is at hand,” Jakan pronounced, a slight trembling of his hands the only sign of the terror he was surely feeling. “Such vile blasphemies will not go unpunished.”

  “Indeed they will not. Our enemies are flesh and blood, after all. They are nothing to the gods but aberrations.” Shimrra released the high priest from his stare, and Jakan visibly sagged.

  “The question remains, however,” said Shimrra, stalking back to confront High Prefect Drathul, “how to explain the spread of the heresy among the higher ranks on Yuuzhan’tar.”

  Drathul straightened, but remained silent in the face of the Supreme Overlord’s piercing stare.

  “Perhaps, High Prefect, I am betrayed more profoundly than I ever dared think. Perhaps there is a traitor in my palace, a recruiter for the vile sect that swears allegiance to the Jeedai.”

  Shimrra’s voice was low and threatening, and the implications were obvious. Every scar on Nom Anor’s head tingled to hear it. He had never hoped it would come to this. Not against the high prefect himself!

  “This poisoned kshirrup dares to purvey the Prophet’s rot among those closest to me, attempting to turn them against my will. The traitor steals secrets, misappropriates resources, tells me lies, holds a weapon to my throat that I cannot even see. What do you say of that possibility, Drathul?”

  The high prefect’s name emerged as a low, threatening growl. The audience craned forward to see what would happen next.

  “I think it is a possibility, My Lord,” the high prefect said in as firm as voice as anyone could muster under the circumstances, “but I assure you—”

  “Not another word, Drathul!” Shimrra leaned over the high prefect. “I am observant. I hear the whispers; I sense the hidden eyes upon me. I know when I am being betrayed!”

  The roar echoed through the chamber. Drathul visibly flinched at the bile in the words. Guards appeared from behind the hau polyp dais, and Nom Anor felt a keen sense of victory sweep through him. Drathul in the yargh’un pit? So soon?

  But instead of closing in on the high prefect, it was Ngaaluh whom the warriors surrounded. Staring dumbly at the villip choir, Nom Anor saw the blunt, scarred faces closing in, and it took him a long moment to realize what was happening. It took Ngaaluh just as long, for the guards were almost upon her before she proclaimed her innocence.

  “My Lord? What is this?”

  “This is treachery,” Shimrra said, turning to face her. His burning red eyes seemed to stare right into Nom Anor’s frozen heart. “You should know that w
ell enough.”

  “Supreme One, I swear—”

  “Seize her!”

  Shimrra strode across from Drathul, growing mightier and more furious in the villip choir with every step. The guards grabbed Ngaaluh and held her tightly. To her credit, she didn’t struggle, but Nom Anor felt her fear in the way the villip trembled.

  “Your evidence against Prefect Ash’ett was convincing,” Shimrra snarled. “Against Drosh Khalii and Prefect Zareb it was watertight. Almost too good, in fact. Wondering, I took the opportunity to question the witnesses you brought here, prior to their disposal in the yargh’un pits. When interrogated properly, they told a very different story.”

  “No—”

  “They were planted to deliberately incriminate Ash’ett, Khalii, and Zareb, weren’t they, Ngaaluh? You are the trusted one who turns against me, not these innocent intendants!”

  Behind Shimrra, High Prefect Drathul’s face glowed with a mixture of relief and anger.

  “My Lord,” he said, “this is inconceivable. Ngaaluh’s treachery explains much, but for the Prophet to have reached here, into your very court—”

  “I did not say anything about the Prophet, High Prefect,” Shimrra said, turning. “This traitor uses the trappings of the heresy to accuse her victims, but that does not mean that she adheres to them herself.” Shimrra prowled across Ngaaluh’s field of view. “No. I sense conspiracies within conspiracies, here. It will take some time—and no considerable effort—to disentangle the truth from the web of lies concealing it.”

  “I will tell you nothing!” Ngaaluh gasped. The view through the villip shook as her body spasmed. Nom Anor watched and listened in horror as his spy emitted a pained cry, then slumped into the arms of the guards.

  There was a commotion. The view shook, and for a moment Nom Anor couldn’t tell what was happening. When the villip was still, faces loomed in close, and he realized that Ngaaluh was prostrate on the ground, with people bending over her.

  “Poison,” one of the guards said. “I fear that she has escaped us, Supreme One.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Shimrra’s voice was surprisingly calm. “We could not have trusted the confession of a priestess of deception, even under the most intense interrogation. Her discovery and death is enough to warn the person or persons she served that we are not fools. We cannot be deceived for long.”

  “The damage she did can be reversed,” High Prefect Drathul said. “The lies she told can be rescinded. My intendants’ names can be cleared.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Shimrra’s reply surprised Nom Anor. “Ash’ett, Khalii, and Zareb will not be wasted. Already reports of heresy are on the increase. Fear of punishment is driving this new purge, and I would not see that undone. One good thing will come of this fiasco. That is a certainty.”

  The villip continued to transmit as one of the guards kicked Ngaaluh’s lifeless body.

  “What shall we do with this?” he asked.

  “The usual.” Shimrra’s voice was dismissive. “Whether the Prophet sent her or not, she will serve as a warning to anyone else who would attempt to spy on me and to sow division in my court. Her hidden master will see that I am no fool. He will know that it is only a matter of time before I find him, too, and before he shares her fate.”

  “That time is long overdue,” High Prefect Drathul said.

  “It will come, faithful servant,” the Supreme Overlord said. “It will come …”

  Shimrra’s voice faded into the background as Ngaaluh’s body was hauled unceremoniously from the throne room. Nom Anor couldn’t tear his eyes from the wildly swinging view. Muffled grunts and the sounds of heavy footfalls accompanied the morbid procession through the palace. There were no exclamations, no questions. A dead body these days was not an unusual sight.

  “Master,” Kunra said from the shadows, his voice tremulous.

  “Be quiet,” Nom Anor growled. He wasn’t in the mood for a conversation. Ngaaluh was gone, and with her he had lost his best means of enacting his will on Yuuzhan’tar. Without her, he could no longer observe Shimrra and his court; nor could he tell what plans the Supreme Overlord was concocting against him. The chance to revenge himself on his enemies had slipped through his fingers, just when he had felt that he had been on the verge of success.

  The rocking of the villip ceased for a moment, and Nom Anor’s eyes, which had been staring blindly at the villip choir, registered the scene again. Ngaaluh was swinging back and forth. The guards were counting. When they reached “Three!” the world whirled and the body fell.

  Ngaaluh and the villip came to rest atop the charnel pit, tilted slightly to one side. Nom Anor had a perfect view of rotting bodies piled up in their hundreds. Somewhere in there were the pseudo-heretics he had sent to their deaths, along with Prefect Ash’ett, Drosh Khalii, and all the faithful who had been betrayed by Shimrra’s new regime of terror. The boastful Commander Ekh’m Val was in there, too, faceless and nameless, his dreams of glory shattered.

  How long, Nom Anor wondered, until the Prophet himself joined them?

  “Nom Anor—”

  “I said, be quiet, Kunra.” He heard a worried crack to his voice, but couldn’t hide it. “There is nothing to say.”

  Together, in silence, they watched the bodies rot. When darkness fell, the view in the villip choir faded to black, but still Nom Anor watched. Hypnotized, he could only stare and think.

  How long?

  He barely heard Kunra leave to attend to the work of the heresy.

  How long? …

  EPILOGUE

  The bridge of Pride of Selonia was the quietest it had been for a while, with only a handful of crew members working at stations around where Leia sat at the communications console. For the last couple of days it had been kept busy, along with the Widowmaker, mopping up the stragglers of the Yuuzhan Vong strike force that had attacked Esfandia. But now that there was a lull in activities, the crew were concentrating on preparing to return to Mon Calamari for a well-earned break. Millennium Falcon was doing likewise, docked for the moment with the Selonia while it underwent diagnostic checks and minor repairs. Captain Mayn had given Leia permission to use the bridge’s communications facilities to test out the antenna array. While she waited for the go-ahead from Commander Ashpidar, she distracted herself by observing the planet below on the monitors around her.

  From orbit, the gray atmosphere of Esfandia appeared unchanged. Bathed only by starlight and the occasional drive flash, the planet had absorbed the recent injections of thermal energy as a lake would absorb a teaspoon of salt, returning to its near absolute zero state within a matter of hours. Glancing at it via Pride of Selonia’s instruments, Leia hoped the Brrbrlpp life-forms had returned to their normal ways of life, chatting among themselves and sifting edible motes from the dense air in which they floated. She wondered how long the stories of the battle that had brought bright light to their skies for the first time would circulate, and whether it would encourage an outward surge in their culture.

  “Princess Leia.” A voice with as much emotion as a droid crackled out of the comm.

  Leia put her thoughts to one side. “I’m here, Commander.”

  “Engineer Gantree has completed her preliminary checks of the antenna array and pronounces it ready for a test run,” Ashpidar said.

  She didn’t have to manufacture her relief. “That’s excellent. Tell Fan I’m impressed.”

  “I shall do so.” Even through the wooden tone, Leia thought she detected a flicker of pride. “You can commence transmission when you are ready.”

  “I presume you’ll be monitoring it.”

  “Only to check signal quality and perform further calibrations.”

  “Understood. Give me twenty seconds.”

  Leia closed the comm line and activated the transceiver. She punched in the sequence for Mon Calamari. A signal check came back green almost immediately. So far, so good, she thought. Next she keyed Cal Omas’s private number, vaguely awa
re that it would have been close to the middle of the night where he was on the distant water world.

  “Here goes nothing,” she muttered to herself.

  Seconds later, the Chief of State of the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances appeared in the holoprojector.

  “Whoever this is,” he said, bleary-eyed, “you’d better have a good reason for calling me on my private number at—”

  “What’s the matter, Cal? Did I disturb your beauty sleep?”

  He blinked back sleep, squinting from the holodisplay. “Leia? Is that you?”

  “You don’t even recognize me?” Leia affected a hurt expression. “It hasn’t been that long, surely?”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “Just the holo is kind of fuzzy. Besides which, I’m half asleep!”

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Cal,” she said sincerely, “but I figured you’d want to know that we’ve repaired the communications base at Esfandia. Generis won’t be far behind.”

  “This couldn’t have waited until morning?”

  Leia smiled. He was steadily waking up, and the grumpiness became more of an act with every passing second.

  “I’ll bet Grand Admiral Pellaeon doesn’t take this long to get himself together.”

  “I’ll bet the Grand Admiral sleeps in his uniform,” Omas said. “Why do you mention Pellaeon, anyway? Is he there, too?”

  “Indeed he is,” Leia said. “As are the Ryn.”

  “The Ryn? What have they got to do with anything?” He sighed, knuckling his eyes. “Maybe you should just explain from the beginning what’s been going on, Leia.”

  “It could take a while.”

  “I plan to be back in bed in ten minutes, so skip the exposition,” he said. “Is this transmission secure?”

  “No. Not at this end, anyway. But what I’m telling you isn’t a secret here. It’s common knowledge.”

  Leia summarized the Battle of Esfandia in as few sentences as possible. Cal Omas nodded throughout. He didn’t interrupt to ask questions, and she admired that in him. A good Chief of State had to trust the judgment of those under him—and Cal Omas was turning into a very good Chief of State.