by James Luceno
[Han Solo,] she said, smiling down at him, [we want you to have this.]
Han’s brows knitted. He set the box down on the stool and unlatched its finely wrought metal clasp. Inside, snug in a bed of cushioning material was a beautifully carved bowcaster, its marked and blemished skeleton stock polished to a deep brown gleam. An artfully disguised magnetic accelerator, the weapon propelled explosive quarrels at extremely high speeds. This one was equipped with a sighting scope and a recocking mechanism few human hands would be capable of operating.
“I recognize this,” Han said, nodding. He compressed his lips to trap a moan fighting to escape him. “It’s one of the first I ever saw him make.”
Malla hooted. [Chewbacca fashioned it shortly after we married—while you were here. He fashioned better versions in his time, but this one retains the warmth and power of him.]
Han hefted the weapon. “I feel it.” He turned and hugged Malla, his head barely reaching her chin. “I’ll treasure it.”
Waroo handed Han a carry pouch made of hide. [This also belonged to my father. I know he would have wanted you to have it.]
Han placed the curve-bottomed pouch over his shoulder, knowing full well that it would hang down past his knees. Malla, Waroo, Lowbacca, and the rest boomed their delight in earsplitting yowls. Jaina returned with a plate of food in time to join in the laughter.
“If Chewie could see you now,” she said, grinning for the first time all day.
Han backhanded a tear from his left eye, smiled, and put his arm around his daughter’s waist. “The big lug would bust a gut.”
Jowdrrl, Chewbacca’s chestnut-colored female cousin, growled something to Malla that Han didn’t catch. Seeing Han’s inquisitive expression, Malla explained. [Jowdrrl is wondering when you and your family will be returning to Coruscant.]
Han and Jaina traded shrugs. “I hadn’t thought about it,” Han said. “Tomorrow sometime, I Suppose.”
Jowdrrl lowed in elaboration. [I ask only because Dryanta and I need a small measure of time to prepare.]
Han’s features mirrored his bewilderment. “Prepare for what? Are you coming to Coruscant with us?”
Chewbacca’s father, Attichitcuk, yaupped in a meaningful way. [Jowdrrl and Dryanta are arranging the feast for Waroo and Lowbacca’s farewell.]
“Waroo and Lowbacca,” Han said nervously.
[They will be assuming Chewbacca’s life debt.]
Han’s jaw came unhinged. He glanced from one Wookiee to the next in rising dismay. “But—but you can’t. Chewie’s dead. All debts are off.”
Attichitcuk issued a sustained, bass-register growl. [Death may have extinguished my son’s defiant flame, but our debt to you continues until yours is extinguished.]
Her lower lip between her teeth, Jaina placed a comforting hand on her father’s arm, only to have it shrugged off. Han was shaking his head back and forth.
“No, no, I can’t accept this. Chewie saved my life ten times over. He died saving Anakin’s life.” His agitation increased as he spoke. “Besides, I’m the one who owes all of you a life debt.” He cut his eyes to the dark-brown son of Dewlannamapia. “Your mother was kinder to me than my own.” He searched out Gorrlyn. “Your husband, Salporin, gave his life protecting Leia from Noghri assassins.” He appealed to Jowdrrl and Dryanta. “Your cousin Shoran died aboard the Pride of Yevetha saving me!”
[As you would have died for them,] Attichitcuk rumbled, nearly showing his fangs. [A life debt is just that.]
Malla, too, was glowering at Han. [You would not defame Chewbacca’s memory by refusing to allow his debt to be honored.]
Jaina swallowed audibly. “Dad doesn’t mean any dishonor.” She glanced at her father. “Right, Dad?”
Han stared at her, mouth still ajar. Malla’s vibrato growl had summoned a memory of a day following the wedding when Han had tried to persuade Chewie into remaining behind with his bride rather than accompanying him back to Nar Shaddaa. He thought, too, of Groznik, a Wookiee who had attached himself to the Rogue Squadron pilot Elscol Loro, wife of a man named Throm to whom Groznik was life-debted.
“Right, right,” he said at last, looking from Jaina to Malla. “I’d cut off my arm before I’d dishonor Chewie’s memory in any way. You know that. It’s just that. . . ”
Everyone waited.
“It’s just that I’m not ready.” He shook his head as if to clear it, then looked up at Attichitcuk and the others. “Chewie’s still alive for me. I can’t just allow him to be. . . replaced. You’ve gotta understand that. He was more than a protector. He was my closest friend.”
The Wookiees exchanged sympathetic looks and indecipherable brays.
[He clings to his memory of my husband,] Malla remarked sadly.
[He needs time,] Attichitcuk growled, somehow without making it sound menacing.
“That’s it,” Han said, grasping at straws. “I just need time.”
After what seemed an eternity, Chewbacca’s father nodded his huge head. [Then time we’ll grant you. The life debt involves more than simply providing shelter from bodily harm. It succors the spirit, as well.]
Han saw the truth of it. “I want that to go on.”
Malla put her huge paws on his shoulders. [Then it shall.]
THREE
Holographic images of star systems and entire galactic sectors pirouetted in a blue-gray shaft of projected light. Flashing overlays showed hyperspace lanes that linked far-flung regions of space. The pressure of a fingertip against a touch screen was sufficient to conjure information on individual worlds, stars, or lightspeed routes. Dots of artificial light expanded to reveal data on native species and cultures, planetary topography, population statistics, and in some cases defense capabilities.
“It disheartens me to have to subject you to inert technology, Eminence,” Commander Tla’s tactician apologized, “but we have yet to discover a way to separate the data from the metallic shells that sustain them. And until our villips have had a chance to absorb the captured information, we have no choice but to make do with some of the enemy’s own machines. Each has been cleansed and purified, but I’m afraid there is simply no disguising their vacuity of spirit.”
Though repulsed by the devices that had been conveyed to him, Harrar granted the tactician absolution. “To abhor a thing in ignorance is to fear it. A deeper understanding of machine nature will only firm my resolve to see machines exterminated.” He waved his abbreviated hand. “Proceed.”
The tactician, Raff, inclined his tattooed head in a bow, then raised a bony, gloved hand to the animated hologram. “As you can see, Eminence, we have here nothing less than a portrait of the galaxy. In broad strokes to be sure, and yet detailed enough to aid us in our push toward the Core.”
His protected forefinger made contact with the touch screen, and a representation of the Obroa-skai and neighboring star systems took shape in the cone of light.
Scrawniness wasn’t confined to the tactician’s hands. Rail-thin wrists poked from the voluminous sleeves of his robe, and a spindly neck protruded like a baton from the robe’s high and equally spacious collar. Pledged in service to Yun-Yammka, the god of war, Raff had a mouth that was a black-stained maw, featuring an outsize tooth that sometimes wreaked havoc with the clarity of his speech. But it was his powers of rumination and analysis that counted most. Frequent rapport with war coordinators and dovin basals kept him abreast of nearly all aspects of the war, from details on individual New Republic warships to combat casualty statistics. In keeping with his abilities, his hairless and distended cranium was adorned with etchings suggestive of the eddies and convolutions of the enhanced brain contained within.
“Unfortunately, the bulk of the liberated data is historical in nature and of dubious value. Obroa-skai dedicated itself to preserving cultural documents in the original languages and access formats.” The tactician gestured toward a levitated pallet stacked with blood-smeared durasheet texts, data cards, and other storage contrivances, waiting to be
slagged by holy fire. “Thus the need for such an endless array of decryption and translation devices. Even so, our assault on the library world was justified. Ultimately—and once rendered in villip speech—these documents will yield a wealth of information regarding the psychological makeup of many of these species, and that knowledge will be crucial to our maintaining control over conquered territories.”
A male attendant, barefoot and sheathed in a long tunic, climbed the rough-hewn yorik coral steps of the command platform to place plates of food and a carafe of amber-colored liquid on the low table that separated the priest and the tactician. His pointed chin was etched in deep purple to suggest a beard, and the sacs under his closely set eyes were fully tattooed. His forehead sloped sharply back from a prominent brow and was in the same way covered with signs and designs.
At the base of the platform a lone figure waited patiently in the shadows. Harrar bade the attendant prepare libations for himself, the tactician, and the figure below. He sipped his drink while he considered the tactician’s appraisal of the spoils of battle.
Generations of travel in intergalactic space had taken a toll on many Yuuzhan Vong vessels—warships and worldships alike. Where their interiors had once been warmed by sumptuous curtains and carpets, and the monotony of their decks balanced by rich mosaic inlays, an austere coldness now prevailed. The vaulted ceilings of communal spaces were still supported by ornamental columns, but their surfaces were grazed, marred, and cheerless. The bioluminescent growths that provided oxygen and light didn’t thrive as they once had, and often flickered like guttering candles. Even the grotto-like spaces reserved for the elite had a forlorn aspect.
“What do the seized documents have to say about the Jedi?” Harrar asked after a moment.
“Curiously little, Eminence. One senses that data on the Jedi were either purposely withheld from the library or systematically purged.”
Harrar set his drink down. “The distinction is significant. Which interpretation do you favor?”
“The latter. Since the libraries are replete with philosophical documents of all variety, why disallow studies on the Jedi?”
“Perhaps it is the Jedi who disallow such documentation,” Harrar suggested. “Perhaps they are more secretive than we realize.”
“That would explain the lack of iconography attached to them, along with the fact that the Force does not appear to be the manifestation of a supreme being.”
“And yet you have reason to believe that the records were purged.”
“Even if proscribed by law, Eminence, it’s likely that a written or oral history would have been compiled—if not by a Jedi, then by someone outside the order, even someone who was opposed to it. A chronicle of Jedi deeds, biographies of prominent Jedi, that sort of thing.”
“An order, you say.”
Tactician Raff glanced at the unrevealed figure below, then nodded in affirmation. “The Jedi appear to have begun as an order devoted to the pursuit of philosophical and theological studies. It’s unclear whether they were the first to discover the energy source they call the Force, or whether they were simply the first to discover ways of accessing it. In either case they seem to have evolved gradually from cloistered meditators to public servants, and for thousands of generations they served as the guardians of justice throughout this galaxy.”
Harrar steepled his six fingers and tapped them against his tattooed lips. “That would have required an army.”
“Precisely, Eminence.”
“But no army of Jedi has been dispatched against our warriors. Battle reports indicate encounters with a mere handful.” The priest smiled faintly in revelation. “Someone not only purged Obroa-skai’s libraries but the Jedi order itself.”
“That is my belief.”
“But who?”
The tactician shrugged. “Advocates of the so-called dark side? Those whom the Jedi call Sith?”
Harrar leaned back against the cushions that propped him. “Then we may have allies in the galaxy.”
“If any Sith remain, we may indeed.”
Resolute footsteps trespassed on Harrar’s reply. Their source was a young female of severe beauty, whose long, shimmering garment accentuated an already lean frame. A turban encased most of her raven hair, and iridescent insects shone from the borders of her robe. Long strides carried her boldly to the foot of the command platform, where she folded her arms under her breasts and inclined her head and shoulders in a deferential bow.
“Welcome, Elan,” Harrar said pleasantly.
Elan lifted her head, which was neither as sloped as the priest’s nor as asymmetrical as the tactician’s. Wide across the cheekbones, her face tapered to a cleft chin.
Ice-blue, her eyes swam in a sea of lavender and maroon swirls, and her nose was wide and almost without a bridge.
“Your pleasure, Eminence?”
“For the moment, only that you join us.” In invitation, and absent even a hint of condescension, Harrar patted the cushion adjacent to his own. “You’ve arrived in time to witness the sacrifice.”
Elan glanced over her shoulder.
Accompanying her was a diminutive creature of motley countenance and a peculiar manner. Made piebald by an arrangement of short feathers, the trim torso supported two thin arms, each of which ended in graceful four-fingered hands. Willowy ears and twin antennae corkscrewed from an elongated, modestly disproportionate head, whose rear attenuated to a finely feathered ridge. The slightly concave face was slant-eyed, wide-mouthed, and delicately whiskered. A pair of reverse-articulated legs and splayed feet propelled the creature in agile leaps.
Harrar took note of Elan’s hesitation. “Your familiar is also welcome to join us.”
Elan glanced at the stranger standing nearby, then reached for her companion’s right hand. “Come, Vergere.” She climbed the stairs and sat, making room for Vergere, who settled in like a nesting avian. Then she looked at the priest. “Why have I been summoned, Eminence?”
Harrar feigned disappointment and motioned to the nearest attendant. “Let us observe the sacrifice.”
The attendant bowed and voiced a command to a pair of artfully concealed receiving villips, which instantly fashioned an optical field. A sweeping view of local space resolved in midair, filling the entire forward portion of the compartment and eclipsing bulkheads and furnishings alike. It was as if that portion of the faceted ship had been rendered clear as transparisteel and the cosmos ushered aboard.
Obroa-skai’s primary was a roiling cauldron at the center of the villip-choir field. Hurtling toward the star was a battered Gallofree transport that had been captured during the battle, its ablative shields just beginning to blush with heat. Inside the pod-shaped vessel, some two thousand captives and droids, cleansed by sound, purified by incense, and stacked like split firewood, lived out the remainder of their lives.
Harrar, his guests, and attendants fell silent and remained so as the rosiness the star had imparted to the nose of the transport began to spread aft, reddening alloy and liquefying superstructures. Parabolic dishes, sensor arrays, and shield generators melted like wax. The outer husk wrinkled and began to peel back from the frame. The hull blistered, buckled, and finally caved. The ship became a torch, a hyphen of flame, then vanished.
Harrar raised his hands to shoulder height and held them palms outward. “In praise of the Creator, Yun-Yuuzhan, and in humble gratitude for his actions in our behalf, accept these lives unworthy of life. May we find continued support for the challenge you have set before us, of bringing your light to this dark realm and of ridding it of ignorance and evil. We open ourselves to you. . . ”
“May you find sustenance in our offerings,” the others in the hold murmured.
“We lift up our hearts. . . ”
“That you might prosper.”
“We give ourselves freely. . . ”
“Through you will we conquer.”
Caught in the embrace of nuclear fire, the signal villip that had been tailing
the transport was incinerated. As the visual field destabilized and faded, Harrar’s attendants gradually resumed their duties.
“I will arrange for the images to be analyzed for portents,” the tactician promised.
Harrar nodded. “See that the results are sent to Commander Tla, He may not place much stock in such things, but where omens are ignored and failure ensues, we have the makings of a convert.”
The tactician bowed. “So be it.”
Abruptly Harrar’s cushion rose from the command platform and carried him out over the steps. “We will now speak to the matter at hand,” he announced.
Elan made her eyes alert with interest and squeezed Vergere’s hand.
“Thus far our campaign has been blessed with easy victories,” the priest began. “Worlds crumble and populations fall at our feet. But while I’ve no doubt that we will someday rule these species, I fear we’ll encounter great difficulties in altering the way they think. Something other than superior weaponry will be required to accomplish that.”
He gazed at Elan. “Our chief impediment is a group that calls itself the Jedi. Think of them as a kind of moral police force—small in number but very influential.”
Elan glanced briefly at Vergere and once more squeezed her hand. “What sort of gods do these Jedi worship?” she asked.
“None to speak of. Rather, they draw spiritual strength from a pervasive reservoir of energy known as the Force.”
“And you have some strategy for subverting or nullifying this Force?”
“At the moment, no. However, there may be something we can do about the Jedi.”
Harrar indicated the stranger at the foot of the stairs. “Elan, this is one of our field agents, Executor Nom Anor. Aside from being instrumental in helping secure a foothold in the Outer Rim, Nom Anor has managed to recruit agents from among the native populations and carry out many acts of sabotage and subversion. He is taking time out from his usual duties to oversee a project he and I have planned.”
Elan leveled an appraising gaze at Nom Anor as he climbed the stairs to stand before her. Slender and of medium height, he was ordinary-looking, even with the facial markings and broken facial bones that attested to more than the usual sacrifices. Somewhere along the way, he had either lost or purposely surrendered an eye. Though the socket was a black aperture just now, Elan could discern that the bones had been reconfigured to house a plaeryin bol—the venom-spitting organ that resembled an eyeball.
