Like some wandering satellites …
He was about to try to explain his feelings to her when her phrase returned to him. The words were niggling at his thoughts, demanding attention. For some reason her use of the metaphor troubled him, but not because of what it meant to him. It made him think of the fruitless quest Vergere had sent him on—although it wasn’t immediately apparent why her simple words caused this reaction in him. Satellites? As far as he was aware, Zonama Sekot didn’t have any satellites. In fact, he doubted it could have even kept one with all the hyperspace jumps it had performed. Perhaps it had acquired one since—
Then the answer struck him in one blinding flash. It was so obvious he could have kicked himself!
Consumed by the inspiration, he completely forgot about Danni and their conversation. Afraid of losing any more time, of missing an opportunity, he abruptly stood up.
“Jacen?” Danni said, her expression puzzled as her hand fell back into her lap. “What—”
“I’ve got it!” The exclamation came out with a laugh. “Come on, Danni. Let’s go!”
He hurried down the stairs, heading back to the ground level and the massive pile of books they had sorted through. He was vaguely aware of Danni running behind him, calling out for him to stop and asking what was wrong. But there simply wasn’t enough time to stop and explain; she would have to hear what he had to say when he told the others.
Everyone looked up when he ran to the table. Danni was only a few seconds behind him, her look of confusion reflecting the expressions of the others.
“We need to run another search,” he said breathlessly as he stepped up to Wyn.
His uncle was the first to respond. “Another search? But, Jacen, we’ve already searched every planet in the—”
“Not for planets,” Jacen interrupted. “For moons.”
Luke crinkled his brow at this. “Why would we do that?”
“Think about it,” he said breathlessly. “If Zonama Sekot entered a system around a gas giant, it wouldn’t show as a world, would it? It’d be registered as a satellite—just like Yavin Four. A habitable world in a habitable zone—but it would be listed as a moon! Don’t you see? We would have missed it!”
“But Jacen,” Danni said from behind him, “the tidal forces of entering such a configuration would be incredibly severe.”
He dismissed her protest with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure Zonama Sekot could find a way around that—just as it always found a way to escape whenever it needed to. It’s resourceful and determined.” He faced his uncle, wanting the Jedi Master to believe him. “I know I’m right about this. We have to do the search.”
His uncle thought about it for a long moment, and then turned to Wyn. “Will it take long?”
The girl looked nervous at being the sudden focus of such attention. “That depends on how many possible targets there are.”
“There probably wouldn’t be too many,” Danni said. “System captures are scarce enough as it is, but the acquisition of extra-solar world-sized moons by gas giants would be extremely rare. I’d be amazed to find even one in the last hundred years. The odds of it happening in a system’s habitable zone are minute.”
“Could Jacen be right, then?” Mara asked.
Danni studied Jacen critically, then shrugged and smiled. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
Jacen sent a wave of warm gratitude in her direction.
The look of rage on Shimrra’s face was the most satisfying thing Nom Anor had ever seen. Even from a distance and viewed through a villip beacon concealed in Ngaaluh’s robes, it thrilled him to the core of his black heart.
“Tell me again,” Shimrra said, in the tight, too-controlled manner that presaged an explosion of anger, “how your incompetence led to the fugitives’ escape.”
“Yes, Dread Lord.” Taking a deep breath, the commander Hreven Karsh repeated almost word for word his explanation of how his warriors had allowed a small and relatively helpless party of Jedi and Imperials to slip through their fingers in the Unknown Regions. Nom Anor was coming into the story late, but it appeared as though this party, led by the Skywalkers, had been instrumental in foiling an operation that should have taken the insular but fiercely militaristic nation known as the Imperial Remnant out of the picture altogether. From there, they had moved into the Unknown Regions. Karsh, sent by the leader of the attack on the Imperial Remnant, had tracked the mission from a distance but lost them on the edge of Chiss space. The present whereabouts of the Skywalkers remained, much to Karsh’s embarrassment and chagrin, unknown.
Hreven Karsh was an inexperienced commander. His relative, Komm Karsh, had died trying to obtain information from the abominable libraries on Obroa-skai, and he had slipped into the empty shoes with ambitious relish. His ritual modifications—vonduun crab armor plates inserted under his skin and coaxed to grow and overlap at odd angles so that his skin took on the appearance of a buckled, jagged crust—had been conducted in haste. The wounds, in fact, were still weeping. But the discomfort they would have caused was nothing compared to the indignity he must have felt at having to detail his failure to the Supreme Overlord—nor to the punishment that would inevitably follow.
“We are presently combing the fringes of the Chiss empire for any sign of the fugitives and—”
“ ‘Combing’?” the Supreme Overlord interrupted, descending with menace from his spiny, bloodred throne of yorik coral. His scarred, slashed, tattooed face twisted into a sneer. The mqaaq’it implants in his eye sockets burned with an all-too-familiar glare. “Did you say ‘combing’?”
Karsh swallowed uneasily as the Supreme Overlord approached with careful, calculated steps. “I did, Great One.” There was no mistaking it for anything but an apology.
“What are you, Karsh? The handmaiden of some infidel princess?” Shimrra snarled out his words barely centimeters from the commander’s face.
“My Lord, no! I only meant—”
“We are the Yuuzhan Vong, Karsh. We do not comb. We take. This galaxy and everything in it belongs to us—including the worlds in the Unknown Regions! You will remind the Chiss of that fact. If they are harboring the fugitives you seek, then you will not let their borders hinder you. Nor will you pander to their delusions of grandeur. You will put them in their place—and you shall do so by taking what is rightfully ours, not by combing delicately through that which the Chiss mistakenly believe to be their own. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Supreme One!” Karsh stiffened in resolve. “I assure you that the Jeedai will be found. I swear it on my domain’s name.”
His tone had lost its frightened edge. He sounded more relieved that the audience with Shimrra seemed to be drawing to a close. If he was lucky, he might yet walk away from this meeting unscathed. With the luxury of distance from Shimrra’s wrath, Nom Anor knew better. By sending Karsh into the Unknown Regions, Shimrra had effectively sacrificed the commander in a gambit that would do nothing more than antagonize another enemy.
“Excellent, Karsh. Excellent.” Returning to his throne, Shimrra sat and faced the commander one more time. “Now, come to me and give me your hand.”
Karsh did so, climbing the steps nervously to Shimrra and extending one scarred, clawed hand. The Supreme Overlord looked the commander in the eye and smiled.
“No,” he said, resting back in his black-and-gray robes. “Sever it and give it to me. I will keep it as a reminder of your promise. Should you fail me again, I shall sacrifice each and every member of your domain to the gods. Is that understood?”
Karsh nodded tensely, understanding all too well that Shimrra meant precisely what he said. Taking a sharp-edged coufee from the scabbard at his side, he raised it with one hand and, with a blank expression on his face, neatly sliced off the other. The severed limb fell with a heavy thud to the floor. A patter of light footsteps came as the bent, mutilated figure of Shimrra’s familiar capered forward to collect it while Karsh stood rigidly to attention.
/> Shimrra waited a long moment as Karsh’s lifeblood spilled out onto the ground, splashing his boots. Then he nodded his approval to the commander. “You may go.”
Karsh walked stiffly to the exit. The view was perfectly clear in the villip. At last, Nom Anor had exactly what he needed: an insight into Shimrra’s inner sanctuary, an ear to the Yuuzhan Vong leader’s words and thoughts.
Things were clearly not going well for the Supreme Overlord. The lack of advancement since taking Yuuzhan’tar seemed to have afflicted the entire Yuuzhan Vong force. Resistance had formed where previously there was none, supply lines had been sabotaged, terra-forming of the capital world was at a standstill, and the priests warned incessantly of the tightening hold of heresy on the lower ranks. This last part pleased Nom Anor the most. His efforts had sent a tide of dissent lapping at the walls of Shimrra’s stronghold.
Nom Anor’s satisfaction deepened as the conversation in Shimrra’s throne room moved to other matters. He could hear every word perfectly. Attacking Ngaaluh had turned out to be the best thing he could have done. Far from making the priestess fear him, it seemed to have bolstered her resolve to defy the Supreme Overlord.
“I owe you my life, Master,” Ngaaluh had gasped up at him from where she had lain on the floor, the day they had met under their new circumstances. She had been weak and pale, but gradually regaining her strength. The antidote Nom Anor had administered was slowly taking effect. “You are truly Yu’shaa, the compassionate one, and I am your humble servant.”
Nom Anor recognized an opportunity when he saw one, and he had no reservations in exploiting one when it came his way.
“I have given you back your life,” he had said to the priestess. “With what are you prepared to repay me?”
“I would repay you with my life, my Master.”
“You would willingly risk it for me?”
“Without hesitation, my Master.”
“And if I were to ask you to risk it for the Jedi?”
“If you were to ask me to risk it for a ghazakl worm, I would do so without question,” Ngaaluh had said. “But for the Jeedai I would gladly offer my life in sacrifice, so that I might again become one with the Force.”
Nom Anor remembered Ngaaluh’s words distinctly. It was a conclusion that hadn’t come from him or his followers, but rather something Ngaaluh had devised herself. Over subsequent days, as the priestess slowly regained her strength, Nom Anor had probed for the source of this and other conclusions Ngaaluh had come to before deciding to seek out the Prophet for herself. It transpired that Ngaaluh had had contact with the treacherous creature Vergere, who had sowed the seeds of doubt in her mind while in the safekeeping of the deception sect. Ngaaluh had been doubting the established pantheon for some time since, and had been seeking a way to incorporate the Jedi and the Force into the worldview she’d been brought up to accept. Some of the priestess’s conclusions echoed Nom Anor’s fictitious propositions—such as the idea of the Force being an echo of the spirit of Yun-Yuuzhan—but others were truly her own. The idea that death reunited the Yuuzhan Vong with the spirit of their creator was, in Nom Anor’s opinion, an inspired one—and one that allowed him to offer the Shamed Ones an excuse to risk their lives in his service.
As someone well acquainted with deception and deceit, she had tracked the Prophet’s Message to its source and, by virtue of her sincerity, had inveigled herself among the acolytes. Nom Anor was not so naive as to take the priestess’s servitude at face value. He knew there was a possibility that Ngaaluh was a double agent, emptily spouting the words she knew Nom Anor wanted to hear. Nevertheless, the opportunity to send Ngaaluh back to Shimrra equipped with a villip beacon was one too perfect to turn down.
“… marked downturn in the far-reaches destabilization program,” a subaltern was saying. “The infiltration phase is complete in many rival communities, with conflict escalating to the point of open war in others. But in at least two major instances the infidels have intervened to halt our work. In both cases the work of our agents was not just undone but ultimately used to strengthen the infidels. I fear that this counteracts the successful work achieved in other areas.”
“This was the program initiated by Nom Anor, was it not?” an aide asked. “If so—”
“Do not speak that name in my presence!” Shimrra interrupted sharply, standing. Then, with more composure but no humor at all, he smiled. “Not until I have his severed head before me and I wear his flayed skin as a cloak will I hear the traitor’s name again.” The Supreme Overlord’s mqaaq’it implants burned like miniature suns. “You will do well to remember that. Otherwise it will be your head I shall have before me.”
The aide backed away. “Yes, Most Potent and Powerful One. I simply wished to point out that the fact that this program is the work of—of a certain former executor might explain its failure. It was flawed to begin with, My Lord, and perhaps therefore should be abandoned.”
“No,” Shimrra said thoughtfully, descending the steps of his throne. “It was a good plan when it was proposed, and it is still a good plan. We will continue with the program for the time being. It is an effective use of resources in a region far from the main front. Any temporary alliances formed as a result of the incompetence of our agents will be corrected when the rest of the galaxy has fallen.”
As the subaltern retreated into anonymity, Nom Anor told himself that he should be feeling satisfaction, not hurt. Shimrra’s acknowledgment of his destabilization plan was the highest praise he had ever received from the Supreme Overlord. It was nice to know that, reviled as he was, his skills were at least appreciated. But to hear himself dismissed as a “certain former executor” was galling.
“What news of the heretics?” Shimrra asked.
High Priest Jakan glided reverently forward. “Our spies have failed to penetrate the inner command circle,” he said. “Our lack of knowledge of their doctrine is too great, their loyalty too strong.”
“Loyalty to what?”
“To their leader, Great Lord. He is the one from whom this heresy springs.”
“And what is his name, this so-called leader of Shamed Ones?”
“He is called Yu’shaa, the Prophet.”
“A prophet?” Shimrra offered a short, menacing laugh. “Does he see things, this prophet? Things that are to be?”
“So it is said, Great Lord.”
“And does he see his own death, I wonder?” The high priest did not say anything to this, nor did Shimrra expect a response. The Supreme Overlord clenched one gnarled fist and raised it in the air for all to see. “I want him destroyed. Do you hear me? I want him found and destroyed. I want him crushed along with all of those who follow him!”
“It will not be easy,” Ngaaluh announced evenly, disguising the voice of her heart behind an intelligence report. Claiming information gleaned through the work of her sect, she had persuaded the priest Harrar to allow her into the throne room with him. “Yu’shaa’s followers grow steadily with each day. His message spreads farther. His voice, through them, is slowly building from a whisper into a shout that will soon be too loud to silence.”
Shimrra turned on her, a mask of cold anger. From the steadiness of the image he was watching, Nom Anor knew that Ngaaluh neither flinched nor trembled as the Supreme Overlord approached her.
“And what is it they will be shouting, priestess?” he said. He was so close to her now that the seared and tattooed face of Nom Anor’s former master seemed to fill the villip. “What is it they want?”
Ngaaluh didn’t hesitate. “They want status, Highest One. To be un-Shamed. They want acceptance.”
Shimrra’s hideous visage creased in puzzlement. Acceptance? Un-Shamed? Nom Anor could barely repress a cackle. He could almost read the Supreme Overlord’s mind. What sort of infidel nonsense was this?
The puzzlement faded. Shimrra pulled away. He was no fool. He would not mistake the ultimate goal of the heresy. The concept of redemption of the Shamed Ones struck at the v
ery heart of Yuuzhan Vong hierarchy. It undermined the authority of those who stood at the top of that hierarchy. It gave a voice to those who were crushed at the bottom.
On the glorious day when Nom Anor walked into the Supreme Overlord’s throne room as the un-Shamed leader of a rising tide of resentment, he would look in Shimrra’s eyes and stand before him as an equal. Only then would Shimrra know just how thoroughly he had lost and how triumphant Nom Anor had been.
That a “certain former executor” could tunnel into the heart of the Supreme Overlord’s ziggurat from its deepest basement would show everyone that he was someone to be reckoned with. His name would be accursed no longer.
In a high-pitched singsong voice, Onimi, the hideous familiar of the Supreme Overlord, spoke:
“Know, my Lord, they will not succeed
In turning seditious dreams to deed.”
Shimrra turned his attention to his familiar. “I agree that it sounds preposterous, inconceivable—but if every Shamed One were to revolt, to take up arms …”
“Numbers alone will not suffice,
nor any amount of sacrifice.
Night and day you are protected by
guards loyal to you, prepared to die.”
“Indeed,” Shimrra said, scowling around the room at those attending. His thoughts, again, were obvious: on top of the shapers, intendants, and priests who were having increasing difficulties maintaining his realm, Hreven Karsh had failed him, a perfectly good plan set in place by a fugitive was beginning to fall apart, and a priestess had just delivered his death sentence. And these were the people who were supposed to protect him?
No, things most certainly were not going well for the Supreme Overlord.
Indeed, Nom Anor echoed with growing elation. And if I have my way, Shimrra, things are going to get a whole lot worse for you yet!
When she walked into the Bakuran infirmary ward, Leia couldn’t help feel as if she’d done it all before. She’d been in enough med units in her time to know that they all pretty much looked the same, and this one was no exception. However, this wasn’t the source of her déjà vu. What gave this moment such a strong sense of familiarity was the patient.
Refugee: Force Heretic II Page 35
