“Where is she?” asked Master Skywalker, also standing. “Is she hurt?”
“She’s here in the city,” Cilghal explained, moving hurriedly toward the door. “Medics found her a few moments ago, unconscious. I’ve advised Tekli to bring her in. I’ll go there now to supervise her examination.”
“I’ll alert Mara,” Master Skywalker said as Cilghal left the room. “She’ll want to be there. And Jacen, too.”
“What about you, Hisser?” Danni asked as the Master reached for his comlink to make the call. “Will you come?”
For a moment Saba was confused. “There is little this one could do for Tahiri—”
“No, the mission.” The young human woman reached across the space between them to touch her arm. “It sounds crazy, but Vergere knew what she was talking about. Are you going to come along?”
Saba froze, barely hearing Danni’s words. Few humans touched her. Barabels were best known for their violent—some would even say barbarous—ways, and it was well known that a wrong gesture or word could be enough to provoke a challenge. Sometimes they became the target of status-proving assaults from other species—usually by adolescents going out of their way do so in order to prove that they weren’t afraid of what might happen as a result. In days gone by she might have ruthlessly shown them that they should be afraid—but now she was a Jedi Knight, and she had learned to quell such automatic impulses. Or so she’d thought.
Danni was a friend. They had worked together in the past. She trusted Saba not to hurt her.
She quelled the reflex to strike out, but she couldn’t quell the dismay that filled her at what might happen if she made the same mistake again. She had attacked the wrong people once already. How was she ever to make up for that?
“It would be an honor to accompany you on any mission,” she said, “but it would be better if you found someone else. Someone whose judgment haz not proven to be so poor.”
“It’s not your fault—” Danni began.
“Their deathz were from this one’s hands.” Saba shook her head solemnly. “Their memory is this one’s accuzer. This one failed to feel the people trapped in that slaveship because of anger and hatred—blinded by dark emotions. If this one had shown more control, they might still be alive today.”
“That’s true,” Master Skywalker said. Saba looked up. She hadn’t noticed the Master finish his calls. “And they might be slaves of the Yuuzhan Vong, too. Or food. Wishing that things were otherwise does nothing to erase memories. Wounds do not heal by ignoring them.”
“This one appreciatez what you are trying to do,” she said with quiet regret, turning to face him, “but I cannot.”
“We’re not asking you to come out of sympathy, Saba. We—I am asking you to come because you are a Jedi Knight, and we need your help. Your life sensitivity has grown enormously since the loss of your people. You have to admit that we could use someone like that, where we’re going.” He watched her, gauging her reaction. “Do you really want me to order you along?”
The thick black plates covering her body stiffened. “I would not like to fail you, Master. If I fail again, my people fail with me.”
“So don’t fail, Saba.” The Master smiled. “Think of it as a hunt—one last hunt for the honor of your people. How better could they be remembered?”
That thought caught her. What the Master was proposing wasn’t a battle in which victory meant instant death for one side. The quest to find Zonama Sekot would be played out over weeks, maybe months, through dangerous and uncharted territories. There would be clues to discover, trails to follow, traps to unravel. They would have to be stealthy, keen-sensed, and quick-witted. Who knew where it would lead them, or what they might find at the end of it?
Her tail thumped the floor. Part of her responded to the challenge—and there was a challenge implicit in the Master’s voice. A reminder of who she had been, and still was on many levels. She was a hunter, the end result of generations of breeding and a lifetime of instincts. If anyone could hunt a living planet, it would be her.
How better could they be remembered?
“If you’ve no further objections,” Master Luke said, “I’d call that settled. You’ll come with us on the hunt for Zonama Sekot.”
Saba vacillated for a few seconds longer, then acquiesced with a nod. A hunt was better than waiting around Mon Cal for the Yuuzhan Vong to attack.
“This one will come,” she said.
His smile widened. “Thank you, Saba.”
“I’m glad,” Danni added, squeezing her arm tightly, then letting go.
Saba dipped her head in a gesture anyone familiar with Barabels would instantly recognize: honored obeisance with overtones of awe.
“Now,” said the Master, standing, “let’s go find out what happened to Tahiri.”
Deep in the bowels of Yuuzhan’tar, a cloaked figure moved stealthily through the shadows. His ooglith masquer was failing, drying around the edges and beginning to peel away, rejecting the face beneath just as the society to which he had once belonged had rejected him. Those living above him—in that artificial landscape that had once been known as Coruscant but was now named after the legendary Yuuzhan Vong homeworld—they would surely kill him if they ever found him. He knew that without question. They had tried often enough in the last couple of months he’d been forced to live in the filthy underworld of this revolting planet. But Nom Anor had no intentions of letting them find him just yet. He had learned to hide well in these artificial caverns and tunnels, among the abandoned machines that littered the underworld. It made him sick to have to dwell among such abominations, but it was necessary if he was to survive—and he would survive.
He moved furtively along the artificial roads, cursing under his breath as he silently damned the one who had effectively destroyed him. He lashed out at one of the numerous droid husks standing in his way, not caring that the rusty metal gashed his fingers. His insides burned with anger at the contemplation of his fall. Should he remain down here another ten years, he knew he would never forget that betrayal, and never surrender his anger.
When the quiet had finally settled around the noisy clatter of the droid he had just smashed, he continued walking—a fugitive in this forsaken and forgotten underworld. He knew that his thoughts were slightly imbalanced, that isolation and near starvation were taking their toll. But that did nothing to undermine his determination to survive.
The deep, artificial caverns of Yuuzhan’tar were places he’d had no great wish to visit, let alone flee to. The invading armies of the Yuuzhan Vong had flushed all manner of vermin from them, including entire cultures that had existed in the crawlspaces of the original inhabitants’ government. Strange, wild-eyed outcasts all, they had been either sacrificed as part of Warmaster Tsavong Lah’s purification program, or turned into slaves or soldiers for use in further battles. Once the caverns had been declared empty, they had been abandoned, and ignored as irrelevant. The new warmaster, Nas Choka, recently recalled from Hutt space, had continued the purification campaign. Everyone had assumed that the underground ruins were empty still …
As he stood dripping blood from his cut fingers, he began to realize that a new sound had joined those far-off echoes—something other than just the sounds of dripping water and creaking of old metal. In fact, someone was coming toward him. A whispered voice was amplified by the walls around him into a faint susurrus, like that of a faint and distant wind.
Nom Anor wrapped his bleeding hand in the remains of his cloak to prevent it from leaving a trail and ducked into a nearby alcove. He strained to listen to what was being said by the approaching voice, but it was impossible to discern. He couldn’t even decide how many there were. He presumed the voice had an audience, but could hear no other footfalls.
He tore off the dying ooglith masquer and tossed it to the ground. If it was another search party sent to find him, then the disguise would be of no use anyway. And if it wasn’t a search party, then he would need every sen
se available to him. Either way, the masquer had become irrelevant to his needs.
A ragged figure carrying a dull, bioluminescent lamp came around the corner, heading in the opposite direction to Nom Anor. The figure was hunched and unkempt, its robes flapping around it like the wings of some uncoordinated flying beast. It was muttering one phrase over and over, hoarsely and under its breath:
“Sha grunnik ith-har Yun-Shuno. Sha grunnik ith-har Yun-Shuno.”
He recognized the phrase. It was a simple incantation to the gods, asking for clemency. The incantation wasn’t directed to one of the gods to whom the former acquaintances of Nom Anor had appealed. It was intended for Yun-Shuno, the thousand-eyed deity of those who had failed or been outcast from Yuuzhan Vong society—the Shamed Ones, as they were known.
With that realization, all worry of capture left him. The creature was a Shamed One, and he therefore had nothing to fear. Shimrra would never send a Shamed One to do a warrior’s job—and even if the Shamed One guessed who he was, the lowly creature would have no reason to turn him in.
Nom Anor waited until the Shamed One came abreast of his hiding place, then stepped out in front of it, quickly and with menace. His sudden appearance had the desired effect: the Shamed One—a middle-aged male—reared back, flapping his robes in terror before collapsing to the ground, squealing as he begged for mercy.
“This place is forbidden to all of Yun-Yuuzhan’s children!” Nom Anor boomed down to the prostrate figure. “Explain your presence here!”
“Have mercy, Master! I am nothing—not worthy even of your contempt! The gods have spurned me and I crawl like a worm through the belly of the world!”
“I know what you’re doing,” Nom Anor spat. “I’m not blind, fool! But you still haven’t told me why you are doing it. Stand up and address my face!” The plaeryin bol in his left eye socket tensed, ready to spit venom should the Shamed One show any sign of recognizing him.
The scruffy creature raised himself to a hunched crouch, holding his lamp upward in supplication. His face in the dim light was lumpy and twisted; his eyes were crooked, and his nose seemed to be on the verge of sliding right off his face. The result of poor breeding practice, Nom Anor observed disgustedly to himself.
“I am lost, Master. That is all. I swear it! I was separated from my work detail and became confused. I tried to follow their voices, but the echoes confused me. I am worthless and humble and submit to your will in all things, Master.”
The Shamed One bent low, still mumbling his apologies and supplications. Nom Anor pushed him roughly backward with one foot. The former executor knew a liar when he met one. The question was, why was the Shamed One lying? And, more importantly, what exactly was he lying about?
“What is your name?” he asked when the Shamed One fell silent.
“Vuurok I’pan, Master,” the creature replied, barely looking up.
“How long have you been lost down here, I’pan?”
“I have lost track of time, Master,” he said. “But it feels like hours.”
“Do you have water on you?”
“No, Master,” he answered, averting his stare to the ground. “There is no drinkable water down here that I have found.”
“Really?” Nom Anor ran a thick finger over his painfully cracked lips. “It is odd, then, don’t you think, that your lips do not seem as dry as mine?”
The Shamed One’s eyes went wide as he stammered out a reply. “It feels like hours since I became lost, Master. But perhaps it hasn’t been so long.”
Nom Anor resisted the urge to smile in triumph. Poor liars tripped constantly over their untruths. “Tell me,” he said, stepping over to I’pan. “What was the work detail you were assigned to? Who was your overseer? If it wasn’t so long ago that you became lost, then they might not be too far away. Perhaps we can find them, yes?”
Vuurok I’pan whimpered. Nom Anor kicked him again, putting all his rage and frustration into the blow.
“Fool! Who do you think you are lying to? You have no tools and aren’t even dressed for underground detail!”
“Please, Master! I am no one. I am nothing. I am rishek olgrol immek’in inwey—”
“Silence!” Another kick. “Your voice is an offense to my ears!”
The Shamed One became a bundle of quivering rags, face covered by sticklike arms and bony back upraised. Nom Anor thought rapidly to himself. If this Vuurok I’pan creature was a runaway, then he must have found some way to stay alive in the underground of Yuuzhan’tar. If Nom Anor could gain access to that means, he, too, might be able to live a little longer. That, for now, was all that mattered.
“Take me to the others,” he snarled, putting every iota of command into his voice.
“Others?” the Shamed One squeaked. “What others?”
“Understand this, I’pan,” Nom Anor said. “The only reason you have not died a coward’s death is because you could be of value to me. Should it turn out that I have overestimated your worth, then I shall be sure to reconsider my actions.”
“No, Master, please!” I’pan quickly withdrew on all fours, cowering a meter or so away. “I shall take you to the others, I swear! I swear it on the name of—”
“If your Shamed tongue so much as dares utter one more word, I shall rip it out and eat it for my sustenance.”
I’pan fell silent without another word. Instead he stood and—slowly, as though wary of turning his back on Nom Anor—began hobbling back the way he had come. Nom Anor followed just as cautiously, aware that he had no particular reason to trust this broken spirit he had coerced into doing his will. For all he knew, I’pan could be leading him into a trap—or worse, if he was as foolish as he appeared, leading them both to their doom on the surface, convinced he might be able to bargain a pardon from the warmaster.
But what choice did he have? He had to go where the Shamed One led him. It was either that or continue wandering aimlessly through this gods-forsaken planet. He had survived this long, true, but how much longer could he last before he succumbed to thirst and hunger? Or before one of the search parties got lucky and found him?
No. He needed these “others” if he was to survive. If they were as pathetic as I’pan, he was sure he would be able to use them to his advantage …
I’pan began to relax as their journey progressed. His posture straightened and his voice became firmer, advising where to step cautiously and where to duck his head. He occasionally stole glances at Nom Anor as they walked, nervously at first, but then more boldly as they moved farther into the tunnels. The former executor could practically hear the other’s mind turning over. He had no doubt that the Shamed One suspected now who he was.
“What?” he barked after I’pan turned around for the third time in as many paces.
“Nothing, Master.” I’pan focused all his attention forward.
Nom Anor grabbed the neck of his flapping robe and hauled him off balance. “What is it you are thinking, my stinking worm?”
“I am wondering, Master …”
“Speak it!” Nom Anor shook him to loosen his tongue.
“Are you—are you a Shamed One like us?”
Nom Anor struck I’pan so hard that blood from his gashed fingers splashed in a wide arc across the metallic floor between them. I’pan bounced off a nearby wall and collapsed to the ground with a pained grunt. Before he had a chance to collect himself, Nom Anor picked him up again and hurled him into the opposite wall. This time I’pan could not hold on to the lamp, and it went flying down the corridor, its pale light reflecting briefly off abandoned machinery buried in the walls.
The moaning of the Shamed One as he again tried to pick himself up only incensed Nom Anor further, and the former executor’s vision dissolved into spinning blotches as a torrent of rage exploded behind his eyes. He heard himself screaming words that even he couldn’t understand as he pummeled I’pan again and again, the Shamed One curling around himself to protect his face from the assault, whimpering helplessly as blo
ws and kicks were rained down upon him.
When the fit had passed, Nom Anor sagged into himself, his anger and energy spent. Leaning against the wall, still panting heavily, he forced himself to think rationally.
Vuurok I’pan was huddled in a corner, trembling with fear. Realizing just how close he had come to killing the Shamed One to assuage his rage, despite the fact that I’pan might yet prove to be of great assistance in keeping him alive, Nom Anor offered a hand to help him to his feet. The Shamed One took it apprehensively, clearly fearing another outburst.
Nom Anor pulled him in close, breathing steadily into his face.
Are you a Shamed One like us?
“Ask me that again, I’pan,” he said, “and those will be your last words.”
Nom Anor released I’pan, walked a few paces down the passage, and collected the lamp. Returning, he shoved it into I’pan’s quivering hands.
“Show me the others,” he said, gesturing for I’pan to continue walking. The Shamed One did so, and in silence, not looking back once for the remainder of their journey.
Master Cilghal’s infirmary was a world unto its own. Large enough to hold three examination tables and a small audience, it was designed to be a classroom as well as a place of healing. Shelves of obscure remedies and arcane technologies lined every wall; an open door led to an herbarium for growing medicinal plants; and three full-sized bacta tanks off to one side took up almost a quarter of the room. Saba liked it because, unlike most surgeries or medic stations, this place was not sterile and lifeless. Thanks to the curved walls and undulating ceiling being layered with sopor-moss to aid the patients’ recovery, the air in the room was both rich and invigorating.
The human Jedi Tahiri Veila lay unconscious on the center examination table. A small group had gathered around her, watching with concern as Master Cilghal examined her. Several of Saba’s apprentices had spent time with Tahiri while on their mission to the Yuuzhan Vong worldship orbiting Myrkr, seeking out the voxyn queen. It had been a mission that had not gone smoothly, and had resulted in the loss of a number of their party—including Anakin Solo, Han and Leia’s younger son. Only one of Saba’s apprentices had survived. It had been a perilous mission, so she was lucky to have even that one survive. Tesar—
Remnant: Force Heretic I Page 6
