Conquest: Edge of Victory I

by Greg Keyes

  Ten minutes later, he leaned heavily against a tree. In the distance the ravenous piranha-beetles had finished their task, and now, finally, Anakin felt his control of the Force slipping. His shoulder at last understood what had been done to it, and the pain was like burning liquid, dripping down his ribs, drooling across his chest and the side of his head. Each footstep brought a new wave of dizziness and nausea.

  He tried to take another step and found he couldn’t. With a sigh, he sank down onto the moss. Just a little rest, and then—

  A shadow fell across him. He looked up to find two Yuuzhan Vong warriors looking down at him, obviously not a part of the group he had just killed.

  He called on all of his energy, trying to find the piranha-beetles again, but they were a distant presence and gorged now, not as easily attracted to a meal by Anakin’s will.

  A third warrior appeared from the forest behind the first two. He looked different, somehow—mutilated like every other Yuuzhan Vong Anakin had seen, but he was more strikingly grotesque. Unlike the other two, this one was empty-handed.

  The newcomer snarled something in his language, and the other two turned.

  Anakin wondered, then, if he had slipped into a dream. The first two warriors grunted and spat words at the third. Anakin had heard the tone before—when the Yuuzhan Vong spoke of machines, or other things that they considered abominations. It was a tone of pure contempt.

  For a moment the newcomer seemed to cringe beneath this abuse, but then he grinned, all needle teeth and malice. Then he slashed one of the warriors in the neck with the edge of his gloved hand. The other warrior gave a hoarse cry of outrage, lowered his amphistaff, and thrust at the attacker. The unarmed warrior caught the shaft, leapt high in the air, kicking with both feet and striking the staff-wielder in the face.

  The first warrior down was coming back up, clutching his throat. The unarmed one grabbed him by the hair and drove stiffened fingers deep into his eyes, lifting him from the ground by the sockets. The warrior went rigid, and when the newcomer let him drop he fell to the forest floor, twitching.

  The warrior who had been kicked in the face didn’t get up. Anakin suspected his neck was broken. The unarmed Yuuzhan Vong was the only one still standing. He squatted next to Anakin and peered at him with eyes like algae-infested pools of water.

  He looked—sick. The Yuuzhan Vong showed their rank by scarification and the sacrifice of body parts, but this one looked like an example of that gone horribly wrong. His hair hung in dank patches, and his face and neck were covered with scabs and open wounds. His scars looked swollen and unhealthy. Spiky growths that looked like dead or dying implants moldered on his shoulders and elbows. He stank of putrefaction.

  After observing Anakin for a long moment, the Yuuzhan Vong rose, approached one of the bodies, and dug into its ear. He pulled out what looked like a worm of some sort and fed it into his own ear—or, rather, the festering hole that might once have been an ear. He shuddered, and his body spasmed as if in great pain. A thin drool of blood leaked from the orifice.

  He turned back to Anakin and held out his hand.

  “I am Vua Rapuung, Jeedai. You will come with me. I will help you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The young Jeedai fell, her body gripped with convulsions. A strangled cry filled the vivarium.

  “Interesting,” Mezhan Kwaad said, watching the reaction. “Do you see, Adept Yim, that—”

  “I fail to see what interests you, Master Mezhan Kwaad,” a voice said from behind.

  Nen Yim turned and immediately supplicated. Another master had just entered the vivarium, one so incredibly ancient the signs of his domain were entirely obscured. His headdress was a fragile, cloudlike mass, and both hands were those of a master. Both of his eyes had been replaced by yellow maa’its. He was accompanied by an adept aide.

  “Master Yal Phaath,” Mezhan Kwaad said. “How good to see you, Ancient.”

  “Answer me, Mezhan Kwaad. What so interests you about this creature’s agony? She is an infidel and cannot embrace the pain. There is no surprise in that and nothing interesting in it.”

  “It is interesting because the provoker spineray causing her pain has been designed to do so selectively,” Mezhan Kwaad replied, “one nerve array at a time. What we have just seen is a reflex unknown in Yuuzhan Vong. We may now confidently map a part of the human nervous system that has no counterpart in our own.”

  “And this is of what use?” Yal Phaath asked.

  “We cannot shape what we do not know,” Mezhan Kwaad answered. “This species is new to us.”

  “It strains the protocol,” the older master said. “What can be discovered that is not codified already?”

  “But, Master,” Nen Yim said, supplicating as she did so. “Surely in a new species—” She broke off when the master flicked the gaze of his maa’its toward her.

  “Are all of your adepts so insolent?” he asked dryly.

  “I should hope not,” Mezhan Kwaad said stiffly.

  Yal Phaath turned back to Nen Yim. His headdress writhed slightly in the air, turning a pale blue. “Adept, if knowledge is not to be found in the archives and sacred memories, what then does a shaper do?”

  Fear glittered in Nen Yim’s nerves. What could he see, with those strange eyes? The maa’its probed the hidden regions of the spectrum, of course, and the domain of the microscopic, but did they peer farther yet, into the sins crouched beneath her skull? She contracted the tendrils of her headdress into a ball, a deep supplication. “We petition the Supreme Overlord, Master, that he might ask of the gods.”

  “Correct. There are no new species, Adept. All life comes from the blood and flesh and bone of Yun-Yuuzhan. He knows them all. Knowledge cannot be created; that is the stuff of heresy. If the gods do not grant us knowledge, it is for good reason, and to seek further is an attempt to steal from them.”

  “Yes, Master Yal Phaath.”

  “I suspect this is not your fault, Adept. It is your own master who uses the provoker spineray so. You are susceptible to her influences.”

  Mezhan Kwaad smiled gently. “The protocol of Tsong specifies the use of the provoker in just such a manner.”

  “I am aware of that. But you strain the intent of that protocol. Not to breaking, perhaps. And yet who knows what I might have observed had I arrived a little later?”

  “Are you accusing me of something, Master?” Mezhan Kwaad asked mildly. “If not, one might believe you are merely jealous because Lord Shimrra chose Domain Kwaad for the honor of this shaping.”

  “I accuse you of nothing, nor am I jealous. But dangerous heresies have surfaced in recent years, most often among Domain Kwaad.”

  “I have never been accused of heresy, nor have any of my subordinates,” Mezhan Kwaad said. “If you try to bathe me in the filthy secretions of slander in a pitiable attempt to regain the favor of your domain with Lord Shimrra, you will discover I can be a most unresting foe.”

  The old shaper drew himself very erect. “I do not slander. But I watch, Mezhan Kwaad. Rest assured, I watch. And now—”

  He broke off suddenly and staggered. His aide caught him. Nen Yim was still wondering what had happened when she suddenly felt something pressing her entire body, as if she were deep under water. Her lungs labored to draw the syrupy air and her pulse hammered.

  Through flashes of blue and black, she saw that Mezhan Kwaad and Yal Phaath’s aide were also struggling to breathe.

  The pain increased sharply. Soon her eyeballs would collapse, then her heart. Striving for calm, she spun her failing gaze around the room.

  The young Jeedai stood at the side of the vivarium, hands pressed against the transparent membrane. Her green eyes blazed and her teeth were drawn back from her lips in a rictus of fury. Nen Yim saw murder there, and suddenly understood.

  She staggered toward her master. Mezhan Kwaad had already collapsed. The ol-villip that controlled the provoker spineray had fallen from her hands. Nen Yim took it up an
d stroked the variable tissues, all of them at once.

  The Jeedai screamed and pounded on the membrane, and for an instant the pressure actually increased, crushing so hard that Nen Yim couldn’t breathe at all. Then, more suddenly than it had come, the uncanny pressure relented, and her lungs jerked in a much-needed breath.

  The Jeedai writhed on the floor of her chamber. Nen Yim watched her, reaction starting to set in.

  An eight-fingered hand fell on Nen Yim’s shoulder.

  “Adept,” her master said, in a strained voice. “The ol-villip, please. Before the specimen dies.”

  Nen Yim nodded dumbly and handed Mezhan Kwaad the organism. Mezhan Kwaad adjusted it until the Jeedai stopped her contortions and succumbed to unconsciousness.

  “That was well-wrought thinking, Adept,” Mezhan Kwaad told her.

  “What happened? Tell me,” Yal Phaath demanded impatiently.

  “The Jeedai did it,” Mezhan Kwaad replied. “Surely you’ve heard of their powers.”

  “Do not insult me. I am, of course, current on the information concerning the Jeedai. They can move objects, communicate with one another as villips do, even influence the minds of weaker creatures. But there has never been any evidence that they can affect Yuuzhan Vong. Quite the contrary.”

  “I beg the master for permission to speak,” Nen Yim said.

  Yal Phaath gave her a reluctant glance. “Speak.”

  “The Jeedai did not affect us, not directly. She affected the molecules of the atmosphere, compressing them.”

  “She tried to crush us with our own air?”

  “And would have succeeded but for my adept,” Mezhan Kwaad observed.

  “Amazing. And this power—it is not generated by implants of any kind?”

  “She has no implants, either biological or”—her voice lowered—“mechanical. From our earlier interrogation, she believes that she is manipulating a kind of energy produced by life.”

  “Ridiculous,” Yal Phaath said. “If such a power existed, why would the gods deny it to the Yuuzhan Vong?”

  Mezhan Kwaad smiled a carnivorous smile. “The gods have not denied it to us, they merely withheld it for a time. And now they have delivered it.” She stepped to the vivarium membrane and parted it with a flick of her fourth finger. She knelt by the unconscious Jeedai and stroked her face.

  “She is young, her body and mind still pliant to shaping. The warriors promise us more like her, soon.” She stood, looking down at the creature for a few moments, then stepped away and resealed the membrane.

  The old master shrugged. “For the glory of the shapers and the Yuuzhan Vong, I wish you success.” He sounded doubtful.

  “You may observe anytime you wish,” Mezhan Kwaad said. To Nen Yim it seemed as if her master was taunting Yal Phaath.

  But the old master ran a negative ripple through his tendrils. “Among other things, I’ve come to take my leave. The new project awaits me, a shaping that will end this Jeedai threat forever.”

  Mezhan Kwaad stiffened a bit. “Oh?” she said politely.

  “Indeed. Under interrogation, the infidels who serve us admitted that they were tricked by those who presently harass our ships in space. From this information came a most interesting item, about a certain sort of beast, one that can sense and hunt these Jeedai.”

  “The infidels knew where to find these beasts?”

  “No,” Yal Phaath said. “Not those on this moon, at any rate. But we have sources in their senate, and one of them was able to discover and provide the information. As it turns out, the beasts are native to a world already in possession of our Lord Shimrra, a planet the infidels call Myrkr. I am to oversee the shaping of these beasts.”

  “Interesting, about these beasts, if true,” Mezhan Kwaad allowed. “For the glory of the Yuuzhan Vong, I wish you well. I also wish you success in leaving the system. Apparently the infidels have been quite successful in preventing outgoing traffic.”

  “I have no fear,” the ancient master replied. “If Yun-Yuuzhan wants my life, it is his to take. But I suspect he has many tasks for me yet.”

  “Captain, one of the Yuuzhan Vong warships has broken orbit,” H’sishi said. “It has a substantial escort.”

  Karrde stroked his mustache. “Get Solusar up here. Meanwhile, close distance, and have the Etherway and the Idiot’s Array lay down a barrage. Let’s keep her in the gas giant’s mass shadow for as long as we can.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dankin, the pilot, returned.

  “And get Solusar up here,” Karrde repeated. “We’ll need him for this.”

  “I’m already here, Captain Karrde.”

  Indeed, Solusar was standing just behind him. “Ah. Perfect. The Yuuzhan Vong are trying to punch a ship through our defenses, presumably to leave the system. My question is, should I let them go?”

  “You haven’t let any others go,” Solusar pointed out.

  “True. But none of those tried in such force. If we fight here, I’ll lose ships, more than we can spare. If I thought relief was on the way, I might risk it. As it is, I need to know—are there Jedi on that ship?”

  For an instant, Karrde saw a twinge of what might pass for fear in the Jedi’s eyes.

  “I can’t be certain,” Solusar said stiffly.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t sense the Yuuzhan Vong in the Force. Their ships might as well be lifeless asteroids as far as my senses are concerned.”

  “Then I should think the children would stand out in quite a spectacular manner.”

  “They should, and they don’t. If it weren’t important, I would say there are no non–Yuuzhan Vong on any of those ships. But it is important. If I’m wrong, we might end up letting them go—then we’d be fighting here for nothing.”

  “How might you be wrong? I don’t understand.”

  “The Yuuzhan Vong not only don’t exist in the Force—they make me doubt my Jedi senses altogether. They make the whole area … murky, somehow. I’ve no better way to explain it.”

  Karrde looked back at the screen. The Yuuzhan Vong had scrambled fighters.

  “I can’t wait much longer, Solusar. I have to decide. Forget the ships; try to sense them on the moon. If they’re still there, they can’t be on that warship.”

  “I’ll try,” the Jedi said. He closed his eyes.

  Karrde watched the enemy fighters race closer. So far, he had managed hit-and-run operations at minimal risk to his people. He’d made good use of mines and asteroids and other classic guerrilla weapons of intrasystem war.

  But if he had to stop that ship, he would have to commit to a real stand-up-slug-it-out battle, a battle he could win—at the cost of the war.

  Maybe that was all they wanted. His instincts certainly told him that this was a decoy of some kind, not what he was fighting for. Solusar seemed to concur. But if they couldn’t be sure …

  “First fighter wave in thirty seconds,” H’sishi said tonelessly.

  “Get ready, people.”

  A good crew. They would die if he asked them to.

  “Tahiri,” Solusar breathed. His face was beaded with sweat.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tahiri. And Valin. Sannah. Anakin. They’re all down there.” His voice dropped lower, into a register of anguish. “Tahiri’s been tortured.”

  “But they’re down there.”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

  “Thank you, Jedi Solusar. Dankin, break off the attack. We’re letting this one go. Lay down minimal cover fire and tell the other ships to burn jets. We’ll fight another day, people—when it really counts.” Karrde took a deep breath, trying to release the pent-up tension in his neck and shoulders.

  “And hope those Solo kids find that rogue Terrik before we have to fight that fight. After this, I’m definitely looking into getting my own Star Destroyer.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Anakin arched his back and tried not to cry out as whatever the Yuuzhan Vong put on his wound sent cosmic flares o
f pain through his body.

  “You hate pain,” Vua Rapuung said with evident disgust.

  Anakin couldn’t and didn’t disagree. He just gritted his teeth and waited for it to pass. He knew the Yuuzhan Vong venerated pain in themselves and others. It was one of many unlikable tenets of their unhealthy religion.

  “What hit me?” Anakin asked instead.

  “A nang hul,” the warrior grunted. “Thud bug.”

  “Poison?”

  “No.”

  The two sat in a damp cave behind a waterfall. It was slick with fungus and moss. The Yuuzhan Vong had evidently been hiding in the cave for a day or two, for various of his possessions were already in it, including the patch he had just applied to Anakin’s shoulder. He’d peeled it from a pale green, roughly rectangular pad several centimeters thick. The pad consisted of many thin layers, like leaves of flimsiplast glued together. Rapuung had pressed one of these detached skins over Anakin’s wound. Like everything else the Yuuzhan Vong used, it was alive. Anakin could feel it squirming, digging into his wound. It occurred to him that the warrior might be poisoning him or something even worse. But if Vua Rapuung wanted him dead, he could have accomplished that anytime. After all, he had made short work of two Yuuzhan Vong warriors, and Anakin didn’t have the strength to fight off a wokling.

  “You saved my life,” Anakin said reluctantly.

  “Life is nothing,” Vua Rapuung said.

  “Yeah? Then why take the trouble?”

  Vua Rapuung’s black eyes glimmered murkily. “You, Jeedai. You fight your way toward the shaper compound. Why?”

  “Your people have a friend of mine. I’m going to get her back.”

  “Ah. The female Jeedai. You wish to save her life. How pitiful. What a pitiful goal.”

  “Yeah? Well, I didn’t ask for your help, you offered it. So explain or kill me. I haven’t got time to waste.”

  “Revenge,” Vua Rapuung said, his voice low, his eyes slitted. “Revenge, and to prove that the gods—” His eyes suddenly went hard and glittering. “I need not tell you, human. I need explain nothing to you, unsanctioned offspring of machines.” He spat the last word out as if it were poison he’d suddenly discovered in his mouth.