by James Luceno
“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.
“Dressed in an ooglith masquer, this one could easily pass for a human,” she whispered to Vergere.
“He’s an ambitious one, Mistress,” Vergere whispered back. “Take care.”
Nom Anor bowed to Harrar, though not as deeply as he might have.
“Before the invasion commenced, and as a means of testing what we were up against,” Nom Anor said, “I seeded several worlds with a variety of illness-producing spores of my own design. One class of spores—a coomb variant—met with success, causing some one hundred individuals to fall ill and die, save for one—a human female Jedi Knight. Neither self-propagating nor contagious, the malady has not spread to the other Jedi.”
Nom Anor scrutinized Elan. “By all accounts the human remains gravely ill, but she has thus far managed to survive, I assume by drawing on the Force. Her resistance, however, is a blessing in disguise, for I feel certain that we can make use of it to get close to the Jedi.”
“Infiltrate them, you mean?” Elan said.
“Assassinate them,” Harrar answered from his cushion. “Or at least, as many as possible.”
Nom Anor nodded. “Such an event would prove demoralizing to countless populations. If even the Jedi could be brought down, what hope could there be for the rest? Confidence in the Jedi and the Force would be dealt an irreversible blow. Worlds would begin to capitulate without a fight. Supreme Overlord Shimrra could be apprised that our mission has been executed ahead of schedule, and that we await his coming.”
Elan looked from Harrar to Nom Anor and back again. “What part am I to play in all this?”
The priest moved forward, until he was hovering before her. “One for which a priestess of the deception sect is uniquely suited.”
FOUR
Han stood on the brink, with the tips of his knee-high black boots projecting over the edge of the natural bridge. The voices of his friends were distant enough to be indistinct. Fog that had clung to the giant trees all morning was falling like fat drops of rain. At once rank and perfumed, the breath of Kashyyyk’s perilous and impenetrable underworld made his head swim. Nearby, a pair of kroyie birds rode updrafts in an oblique ray of sunlight.
With deliberate intent Han let go of a piece of wroshyr bark he had been turning about in his hands and watched it fall from sight. That section of the bridge lacked anything in the way of a railing, and nothing stood between him and the abyss.
“You’ll want to watch that first step, flyboy,” Leia said from behind him.
Han gave a start but didn’t turn around. “Funny thing is, ground zero’s always a lot closer than you think.”
Leia’s footsteps drew nearer. “Even if that’s true, you might want to consider a sturdy pair of repulsor boots.”
He aimed a skewed grin over his shoulder. Kashyyyk’s humidity had fashioned a mane of Leia’s long hair, and updrafts tugged at her flowing skirt and sleeveless blouse.
“No need to worry, sweetheart. I’m already down there.”
Leia came alongside him and glanced warily over the edge. “And I thought the view from our apartment was unnerving …” She took gentle hold of Han’s arm and eased him back from the edge. “You’re making me nervous.”
“That’s gotta be a first.” He forced a smile. “I’m fine.”
Leia’s brow furrowed. “Are you, Han? I heard about what happened with Malla and Waroo.”
He shook his head in renewed agitation. “I have to put an end to this life-debt business once and for all.”
“Just give it time. They’ll understand. Remember when I couldn’t even go to the ’fresher without Khabarakh or one of the other Noghri insisting on accompanying me?”
“Yeah, and you’ve still got the Noghri bodyguarding you. Not to take anything away from all they’ve done for you.”
“I know what you’re getting at.”
Han shook his head. “Uh-uh, you don’t know what I’m getting at. See, you could probably command the Noghri to stay away from you. But Wookiees are different. If you think that Lowbacca or Waroo are going to let this slide, you’d better think again.”
Leia crossed her arms and grinned. “Okay. So as soon as we get back to Coruscant I’ll have Cal Omas or someone propose legislation that limits the terms of a Wookiee life debt.”
“And risk angering Councilor Triebakk? Forget it. I’ll deal with this in my own way.”
Chilled by Han’s scowl, Leia straightened her smile. “I didn’t mean to sound flippant, Han. I understand what you’re feeling. Today couldn’t have been easy for you.”
He averted his gaze. “I wish I understood what I was feeling. I thought the ceremony would help put things to rest, but it’s only made matters worse. Maybe if I’d been able to retrieve Chewie’s body and there’d been some kind of funeral …” He allowed his words to trail off, then shook his head angrily. “What am I talking about? It’s more than missing out on some ritual.”
Leia waited for him to continue.
“I know I can’t change what happened at Sernpidal, but I blame myself for getting us into that fix to begin with.”
“You were trying to save lives, Han.”
“And a lot of good it did anyone.”
“Have you told Anakin that you’ve made your peace with not being able to save Chewie?” Leia asked cautiously.
Bitterness contorted Han’s face. “That was my biggest mistake—putting him in the pilot’s seat.”
“Han—”
“I don’t mean that it was Anakin’s fault. But I know I wouldn’t have made the same decisions he made.” He snorted a bitter laugh. “We’d all be dead—Chewie, Anakin, me … And now this crazines
s about continuing the life debt.” Han paced away, then whirled to face her. “There’s no way I’m going to be responsible for the death of another member of the honor family, Leia.”
“You weren’t responsible.”
“I was,” he snapped. “Who knows what kind of life Chewie would have had if I hadn’t dragged him all over the galaxy running spice and chak-root and whatever else we could smuggle.”
Leia frowned. “Meaning what, Han? That you shouldn’t have rescued him from slavery? For all you know, Chewie might have ended up dying in an Imperial labor camp or in some construction accident. You can’t allow yourself to think that way. Besides, don’t try to tell me that Chewie didn’t enjoy gallivanting around with you—and that had nothing to do with a life debt. You heard what Ralrra said: Adventure was the reason Chewie left Kashyyyk to begin with. You and he were two of a kind.”
Han firmed his lips. “I guess I know that. Still …” He shook his head mournfully.
Leia placed her fingers under Han’s chin and turned his head. Positioning herself in his gaze, she smiled broadly. “You know what I remember most? The time Chewie strapped me to his chest and carried me across the underside of Rwookrrorro. Like I was a toddler.”
Han snorted. “Consider yourself lucky. One time I had to ride in a quulaar slung from Tarkazza.”
Leia clamped a hand over her mouth but laughed anyway. “Katara’s father—the one with the silver stripe on his back?”
“That’s the one.” Han laughed with her, but only for a moment. Then he turned and gazed out over the treetops. “It gets easier for a moment, then I’m right back to remembering. How long does it take, Leia? Till you’re past it?”
She sighed. “I don’t know how to answer that without sounding trite. Life is all about change, Han. Look at this place: luma-poles have begun to replace phosflea lanterns, repulsorlift vehicles are replacing banthas … Things have a strange way of reversing direction when you least expect them to. Enemies become friends, adversaries become confederates. The very Noghri who tried to kill me became my protectors. Gilad Pellaeon, who once came here to enslave Wookiees, fought with us at Ithor against the Yuuzhan Vong. Could anyone have predicted that?” Leia extended her hands to massage his shoulders. “Eventually the heartache fades.”
Han’s muscles bunched under her touch. “That’s the problem. The heartache fades.”
He sat down, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the bridge. Leia squatted behind him and wrapped her arms around him. They remained unmoving for a long moment.
“I’m losing him, Leia,” he said despondently. “I know he’s dead, but I used to be able to feel him alongside me, just outside the edge of my vision. It’s like if I turned quickly enough, I’d catch sight of him. I could hear him, too, clear as day, laughing or complaining about something I’d done. I swear, I’ve had conversations with him that were as real as this one. But something’s changed. I have to think long and hard to really see him, or hear him.”
“You’re getting on with your life, Han,” Leia said softly.
He laughed shortly. “Getting on with my life? I don’t think so. Not till I’ve found some way to make his death count for something.”
“He saved Anakin,” Leia reminded.
“That’s not what I mean. I want the Yuuzhan Vong to pay for what they did at Sernpidal—and for all that they’re continuing to do.”
Leia stiffened. “I can understand that coming from Anakin, Han, because he’s young and hasn’t figured things out. But please don’t make me hear it from you.”
He shrugged out of her hold. “What makes you think I know any more about life than Anakin knows?”
She dropped her hands by her sides and stood up. “That’s something I hadn’t considered, Han.”
“Well, maybe you should,” he rasped, without turning around.
Where moments earlier images of the sacrifice had played, twenty captives now huddled inside an inhibition field, raised and sustained by two small bloodred dovin basals. At the center of the mixed-species group stood the Gotal H’kig priest, whom Harrar had promised imminent death. The field’s hemispherical outline shimmered like waves of rising heat.
With Harrar, Nom Anor, Raff, Elan, and her pet observing from the command platform, a youthful Yuuzhan Vong warrior wearing a wine-colored tunic entered the hold, paid obeisance to his elite audience, and approached the field.
“An assassin,” Elan said to Vergere in hushed surprise.
“A mere apprentice,” Harrar amended. “Said to show little promise—though the task he is about to execute will escalate him in the eyes of many.”
Ripples played across the immaterial surface of the inhibition field as the warrior stepped through its one-way perimeter. Nearby guards raised their amphistaffs in anticipation of a desperate charge, but whether out of fear or curiosity none of the prisoners made a move against the intruder. Once inside, neither did the warrior move, except to turn slightly in the direction of the priest.
“Observe closely,” Harrar said to Elan.
A subtle gesture of Harrar’s right hand was the assassin’s signal to begin. Swinging about, the youth emptied his lungs with a sibilant and protracted exhalation.
The effect on the captives was almost immediate. To a being they fell back in surprise, then in stunned realization, and finally in agony, clutching at their windpipes as if the inhibition field had been drained of breathable air. Smooth faces turned a ghastly shade of cyan; others lost color entirely or blackened, as if scorched by fire. Limbs and appendages spasmed, and tufts of fur wafted from the hirsute. Sudden blood mottled the flesh, then began to seep and mist from burst capillaries. Some of the prisoners fell to their knees and vomited blood; the more resilient staggered about, lurching into one another, until they fell writhing and gasping to the deck.
Only the assassin remained standing, but not for long. Knowing better than to draw a breath, he hurried for safety, only to find that the dovin basals maintaining the field were denying him egress. He spent a desperate moment moving along the perimeter, as if hoping to discover some gap, some oversight that would permit him to escape. Then the full awareness of his predicament dawned on him. Turning to Harrar, he drew himself up to his full height, snapped his closed fists to the opposite shoulders, and inhaled deeply. Blood began to stream from his nose and eyes. Torment warped his features into a macabre mask, but no sounds escaped him. His body trembled from head to foot, then he pitched forward to the deck.
All at once the inhibition field began to teem with hundreds of spontaneously generated life-forms no larger than phosfleas. In crazed motion they scuttled over the prostrate bodies and massed along the edges of the field, as keen on finding some way out as the warrior had been.
Harrar motioned one of his acolytes forward. “Capture a specimen and bring it here—quickly!”
The acolyte bowed and rushed to the field. Reaching a gloved hand through the invisible barrier, he pinched one of the scurrying critters between his thumb and index finger and ran it to the command platform. Even before he had reached the steps, the frenetic activity in the field began to abate, as if the swarm had suddenly expended its energy and was dying.
The acolyte delivered his tiny hostage to Harrar, who pinched the jittery thing between the three fingers of his right hand and held it up for Elan’s inspection. Faintly opalescent, the creature was a flattened disk, from which sprouted three tiny pairs of articulated legs.
“Bo’tous,” Harrar explained. “Both carrier and byproduct of the toxin. Precipitated from the assassin’s breath. They grow rapidly in the presence of abundant oxygen, but are extremely short-lived.”
“Your weapon against the Jedi,” Elan said knowingly.
“A skilled host can manage up to four bo’tous exhalations. But in a sealed environment, there is no defense—even for the host. Do you understand?”
“I understand that a host runs the risk of dying with his victims.”
“The toxic effec
t of the exhalation is very brief,” Nom Anor added. “A host must be in close proximity to her target.”
“Her target,” Elan said.
Harrar held her in his gaze. “We would like to arrange for you to be captured by New Republic forces. Commander Tla—while not entirely enthusiastic—has even agreed to afford them a victory in the process. Once in their custody you would ask for political asylum.”
Elan looked skeptical. “Why would they accept me?”
“Because we would convince them that you are a worthy prize,” Nom Anor answered.
Harrar confirmed it with a nod. “You would provide them with valuable information. Information regarding why we have come to their galaxy and what we have left in our wake. You would also tell them of dissension among our ranks—of disputes that prompted your flight—as well as information of some strategic merit.”
“Does Commander Tla know of all this?” Raff interjected uncertainly.
“Most of it,” Harrar replied.
“Then I must protest, Eminence. I fear this will become too costly an enterprise.”
“I will accept responsibility,” Harrar said. “Let us not have genuine dissension, tactician.”
Tactician Raff stood his ground. “Eminence, has not Executor Nom Anor just informed us that a Jedi Knight survived an earlier attempt at poisoning? Why, then, should bo’tous prove effective against any one of them, let alone a cadre of Jedi?” He glanced at Elan. “Notwithstanding the obvious sophistication of your designated delivery system.”
Momentary doubt clouded Harrar’s expression. “You do justice to your station, tactician. Your suggestions?”
Raff considered it. “At the very least, your infiltrator should be provided with accessory weapons—whatever Executor Nom Anor deems necessary to ensure success, should the bo’tous prove ineffectual.”
Harrar looked at Nom Anor, who motioned in dismissal. “Unnecessary. But easily accomplished. There is a species of amphistaff that can be modified and implanted in the body for just such a purpose.”
Satisfied, Harrar nodded. “Continue, Executor.”
