Refugee: Force Heretic II

by Sean Williams

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Like you—like all of you—I was born and raised on one of the many worldships that crossed the gulfs between galaxies, following our ancestors’ vision of a promised land.”

  It was the truth, of course, just not the whole truth. Nom Anor had acted as an advance scout, arriving many years before the main body of the migration. His mission had been to gather information about the governments and species occupying the worlds ahead. He had prepared the way for later agents, exploring pressure points and sowing seeds of dissent. Those seeds had flowered into rebellions and counter-rebellions, destabilizing the New Republic and widening the cracks that had ultimately led to its downfall. During the war, he had helped found the Peace Brigade that had so jeopardized the Jedi cause, and set many other schemes into motion. But there was no way he was going to let them know that.

  “Is the war wrong?” asked one from the front, his eyes wide and hungry for answers.

  That was a difficult question. Being pro-Jedi didn’t necessarily mean that the galaxy wasn’t intended to be the Yuuzhan Vong’s new home. It didn’t mean that it was wrong to fight the Galactic Alliance, since it wasn’t ruled by Jedi and didn’t openly advocate Jedi values. It was perfectly reasonable to be soundly pro-Jedi and yet at the same time fanatically opposed to any suggestion that the war should be ended.

  The trouble was, Nom Anor suspected that the Yuuzhan Vong were now losing the war. He had no confidence in Shimrra’s ability to restore the situation. He understood the bankruptcy of the Supreme Overlord’s regime—he knew of the lies, the betrayals, the desperate search for an antidote in the form of the eighth cortex. Without a radical change in direction or fortune, the Galactic Alliance was going to win.

  For the worshipers of Yun-Yammka, the god of carnage, there was no such thing as losing. There was only winning or dying. A failure to defeat the Galactic Alliance would inevitably mean a fight to the end, and the destruction of all that Nom Anor held dear. His only hope, therefore, was to change the direction of the war from beneath, by muddying the waters for the enemy. Would the Jedi be so keen to attack when they had supporters in the Yuuzhan Vong ranks? He suspected not. They were warriors, but they were also guilty of compassion.

  “The war is an aberration,” he said, offering the reply he always used when fielding this kind of question. “It is a lie. We should never have been fighting the Jeedai in the first place, since they are the only ones who will speak up for those without voices—those like us. Nor should we be fighting those who call the Jeedai allies, either, since alone the Jeedai are insufficient to destroy the Supreme Overlord. We should be fighting the ones who pit like against like, who use fear and betrayal to keep the powerless in their place, who would strike down Yun-Yuuzhan himself in order to satisfy their greed! It is never wrong to fight for what is ours, but you must make certain that you do so for the right reasons. Be clear who your enemy is. It is Shame. But together, like the grass, we can bring an end to this Shame once and for all.”

  The audience responded enthusiastically to his words, and this time Nom Anor did smile. They were his now, would do anything for him. He had led them to the noose, and they had happily put their heads through of their own accord.

  “What do we do now, Prophet?”

  Nom Anor sought out the questioner, and recognized him as the one with the severely decayed arm. The acolyte’s eyesacks were a deep, intense blue, almost visibly pulsing with blood. His stare was the kind Nom Anor had seen many times before—before and since he had formed the cult. For some, belief was so much more than just a guide to living: it became life itself. That was understandable, he thought, when they had so little else to live for.

  “You are among the first to receive the Message,” he said, addressing the whole room. “Your duty now is to spread it to others so that they, too, will come to understand it. Some of these may choose to come here and receive further instruction, themselves to become messengers. The Message will spread like a flood, washing our Shame away.”

  A murmur of approval rolled around the gathering, punctuated by the nodding of many heads.

  “There will, of course, be those who will hear the Message but do nothing with it,” Nom Anor went on. “They will keep it in their hearts—secreted away from others as though it were some rare spore they have found. For these individuals I feel nothing but pity. The Message can only be of value if it is heard—for that, and that alone, is its purpose. Remaining silent after you hear the Message is akin to giving approval of the way you have been treated, of being complicit with the enemy …”

  He let the sentence trail off, then sighed. The time had come to end the audience. He had said everything he needed to say.

  “My friends, I fear for all of you. Although we have right on our side, we are still fledglings who must confront hostility at every corner. Should word of our existence and identities ever reach the higher ranks, then every one of us involved will be hunted down and killed. Therefore, I ask you all to take every precaution as you spread the Message and recruit for our cause. A whisper will spread, but a shout would most surely be silenced. With patience and perseverance, we will prevail. I ask you to go now in the strength and knowledge that the spirit of freedom is with us!”

  Nom Anor stood and opened his arms, as though to embrace them all. At the signal, the doors at the back of the cellar opened, allowing the newly recruited acolytes to file out. He smiled beneficently as they left, radiating goodwill and trust. It was very different from how he had once dealt with underlings. There was a time when he would have sent them off with curses and threats, trusting in fear to keep them loyal. But this wouldn’t work on the Shamed Ones; threatening them with punishment would only demonstrate that he was no different from the rest of their masters. If he had learned one thing from his disguise, it was that when fear was a way of life and there was nothing left to lose, the only incentive remaining was reward.

  When they were gone, he collapsed back into the throne. Go now, in the knowledge that you are the instruments of my authority, and the means by which I shall attain the glory I deserve …

  “A good audience, Yu’shaa?”

  He looked up. The Shamed warrior Kunra, who acted as his bodyguard and occasional conscience, had entered the room, closely followed by Nom Anor’s truest believer, Shoon-mi Esh. Shoon-mi wore the robes of a priest, though without the insignia of any of the Yuuzhan Vong deities. Kunra wore no armor, belying the cowardice that had caused his fall from grace. Knowing their true selves, Nom Anor thought them a pathetic entourage for any would-be revolutionary; but he had to admit that the converts responded well to them.

  “Nothing special,” he said in his usual rough voice. There was no need to soliloquize with these two. “What we are gaining in quantity, we’re losing in quality. A couple of them looked like they were about to die on their feet.”

  “I apologize, Master.” Shoon-mi made fawning motions with his gnarled hands. “I did not feel it my place to turn anyone with need aside.”

  “Soon you will have to, Shoon-mi.” Beneath his tiredness and irritation, Nom Anor felt an abiding satisfaction at the way the movement was growing. Every day brought more penitents to their door, seeking the truth of the Message spreading around Yuuzhan’tar. “Perhaps it is time to start training the Select. You have the list?”

  Shoon-mi nodded vigorously, eager to please. “I have identified seventeen who qualify.”

  “Loyal without being blind,” Nom Anor said, going over the prerequisites for those chosen. “Quick thinkers, but not too intelligent, yes?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Then call them to me.” He glanced around at his surroundings. “The sooner the better, for I grow weary of the stench down here.”

  Shoon-mi inclined his head. “They will stand before you tomorrow, Master,” he said, making to leave.

  Before he had gone five steps, Nom Anor stopped him. “Shoon-mi,” he called. The Shamed One turned to f
ace him. “I could not have done this without you. I want you to know that.”

  The highest of Nom Anor’s acolytes beamed with pride as he scurried off to do his duty. The self-styled Prophet buried a flash of irritation. Although part of him wished he had killed the fool when he’d had the chance, he had to acknowledge Shoon-mi’s usefulness. He was dedicated and resourceful, and Nom Anor felt he owed it to Shoon-mi’s sister, Niiriit, one of the first true believers of the Message, not to kill him. Kunra would be sure to remind him if he tried, he was sure.

  That wasn’t the most irritating thing, though. Shoonmi’s willingness to work for nothing but praise stuck in Nom Anor’s throat like a bone.

  The ex-warrior stood in silence by the door, watching him. Nom Anor had come to know Kunra well enough to realize when he had something on his mind.

  “What is it?”

  “You’d better see for yourself.” Kunra turned and walked through the hall’s main entrance and into the antechamber. From there, he led Nom Anor along a short corridor to the small cell in which Kunra slept. There, immobilized by blorash jelly, lay a female dressed in rags. Her cheek was heavily bruised, but her eyes were open and filled with defiance.

  “She was carrying this,” Kunra said, offering Nom Anor the remains of a small, larva-like creature. Its leathery shell had been crushed and would have been barely recognizable had not Nom Anor seen such things many times before. It was a villip.

  The female had obviously intended to bring it into the meeting so that the person on the other end could watch the Prophet in action. That in itself was not necessarily sinister; some of the acolytes had attempted to spread the Message via villips before—or so they had claimed. Nom Anor knew, however, that he couldn’t afford to take the chance.

  “Does Shoon-mi know?” he asked, keeping his stare fixed on the female.

  “No. I make sure to check all acolytes before they reach him. This one came alone and was out of the way before he had a chance to suspect anything.”

  Nom Anor nodded his approval. It made things much simpler.

  “I want the name of the person holding her master villip,” he said coldly. “Find out how much she knows about us while you’re at it—get the information any way you have to. Then kill her.”

  Kunra didn’t argue. “I understand.”

  The female started to struggle, her protests muffled by the gag in her mouth. Nom Anor ignored her. “I shall explain to Shoon-mi that we have to relocate again.”

  “He won’t like it.”

  He faced Kunra. “I’m sure he’d prefer it to dying.”

  Without a further glance at the prisoner, he turned and walked away.

  PART TWO

  DESTINATION

  The freighter came out of nowhere from hyperspace far too close to Bakura and going into an instant spin. Its drive units stuttered at random, which wasn’t helping the freighter’s situation, while its subspace was transmitting nothing but static—which to Jag Fel sounded a lot like the buzzing of angry insects.

  He had spent a lot of time and effort memorizing the manufacturers and model names of both Republic and Imperial vessels, but he was having difficulty identifying this one. Its distinctive asymmetric design suggested something from the Corellian Engineering Corporation—possibly somewhere between the YT 1300 and the YT 2400—although he couldn’t be 100 percent certain. Either way, it was in poor shape, and that wasn’t likely to improve in a hurry.

  He would have happily ignored it had it not been for the fact that whoever was flying it was coming dangerously close to where Pride of Selonia was stationed.

  “Flights B and C, stand by.” Jag switched to a commercial channel. “Unidentified freighter, you are infringing upon our space. Change course immediately or we will be forced to take action.”

  More static was his only reply.

  He swung his clawcraft away from Selonia in order to meet the incoming vessel. His wingmate followed, S-foils opening smoothly on her X-wing.

  “Bakura Orbital Control,” he commed on local channels, “has anybody given this freighter approval to occupy our orbit?”

  “Negative, Twin One,” came the instant reply. “This flight is unauthorized. But we’ve certainly seen her before.”

  “You have a registration listed?”

  “Oh yeah. She goes by the name of Jaunty Cavalier and is owned by a Wookiee called Rufarr. In fact, I’m surprised to see him return here. He left owing me some credits.”

  Not your usual Wookiee, then, Jag thought as he watched the freighter tumble toward him. And not your usual approach, either.

  “I think he’s got more to worry about at the moment,” Jag sent. “Requesting permission to nudge her out of harm’s way.”

  “As long as you promise not to be too gentle,” Orbital Control quipped.

  “Do what you have to, Twin One,” added Captain Mayn from Selonia. “Just make sure she gives us a wide berth.”

  “Jaunty Cavalier,” he tried again. “You have ten seconds to comply with my instructions or you will be intercepted. Please respond.”

  Still nothing but crackling over the comm.

  “Okay, we’re going in.” He applied power to his thrusters and brought his clawcraft alongside the tumbling freighter. “Flight B, come closer and add your shields to mine. We’re going to try to give her a little push.”

  Two X-wings and another clawcraft joined him and his wingmate. With half of Twin Suns all working simultaneously, the freighter’s heading gradually began to change, but it required a redirection of all available power to both engines and shields from all ships. Jag kept a wary eye on the freighter, just in case she tried anything.

  Five degrees would do it, he decided. That would take the freighter well past Selonia and clear of Bakura’s atmosphere—

  He caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. At that exact moment a dozen instruments on his console spiked, and he realized that a spray of neutrinos had just washed over him.

  “Did anyone else catch that?”

  “Affirmative, Twin One,” the leader of Flight B replied. “Look at the drive units.”

  Jag craned to look out the rear of his cockpit’s transparent canopy. The freighter’s engines were stuttering furiously now, thrust ebbing and fading in wildly erratic energy swings.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” he mumbled under his breath.

  The words had barely left his lips when the drive units emitted a particularly bright flash, then died completely.

  “Break off!” he called over the comm. “All fighters, disengage immediately!” He was already wrenching the controls of his clawcraft up and away from the stricken freighter. “Full power to aft shields! Put everything you’ve got between us and that thing! She’s going to—”

  There was a blinding white flash from behind him, then something picked up his clawcraft and spun it like a top around all axes. He clutched at the sides of his flight seat, hearing nothing but the scream of tortured matter over the comm.

  Then the rough ride was over, and the stars reappeared.

  Jag damped down his spin and checked on the four other starfighters. He was relieved to find them all present, if a little shaken by the experience. All that remained of Jaunty Cavalier was a jagged chunk of wreckage, possibly a section of the forward structural chassis. The rest had been blown to atoms by the drive failure.

  “Bakura Orbital Control,” he said solemnly into his comm. “I think you can kiss your credits good-bye.”

  “Don’t write it off just yet, Twin One,” came the voice of Captain Mayn. “We registered a launch from Jaunty Cavalier just before the detonation. It looked like a small pod of some kind.”

  This surprised Jag. “An escape pod? Are you sure? I didn’t see anything.”

  “I’m positive,” Mayn returned. “It was on the opposite side of the ship from you, which was probably why you didn’t see it.”

  “Heading for Bakura, you mean?” Jag was still slightly disoriented from the
shock wave, but he knew his up from his down. Every spacer did in a gravity well. “Does it have thrusters?”

  “They’re firing, but it’s not enough. Reentry will be too steep. Want to go fetch it, or should we hand it over to Bakura OC?”

  “Negative on that,” Orbital Control said over the open line. “We wouldn’t be able to get there in time. Sorry, Twin One, but it’s going to have to be you or no one at all.”

  “Understood,” Jag said, silently hoping there’d be no more surprises in store for him.

  He sent his clawcraft swooping around the growing cloud of wreckage, his engines on maximum burn. The pod appeared on his scope a second later, streaking downward. Its velocity was increasing, but it was no match for a clawcraft at full throttle. He decelerated cautiously alongside as it loomed large in his scopes. There were no obvious booby traps or triggers, just the blinking of an emergency beacon, bright and repetitive on the subspace channels.

  Jag didn’t know exactly what sort of communications capacities the Corellian Engineering Corporation provided its escape capsules, but he didn’t imagine they’d be much. Before locking on to the pod, he scanned the subspace channels looking for any transmissions from the kind of local comlink the occupant—if there was one—would probably be using. He picked up various low-power transmissions, including just about every navigational beacon for a light-month, before finally lucking onto a faint voice calling stridently:

  “—n emergency! Someone answer me, please! I’m in need of assistance. Can anyone hear this? I’m—”

  “This is Colonel Jag Fel calling the occupant of life pod—” He checked the ident number visible on the stubby cylinder as it rotated into view. “—one-one-two-V. Can you hear this?”

  “Yes!” The reply was immediate and drenched with relief. “Yes, I can! Thank the Balance you found me! I was beginning to think my escape had all been for nothing!”