Dark Journey

by Elaine Cunningham

  TEN

  The stolen Yuuzhan Vong ship careened through space at full power, following the barely perceptible signal emitted by the escape pod. Zekk sat at the helm. Tahiri wore the navigation hood, directing him according to information flowing to her from the navibrain. The small hands gripping the control were white-knuckled, but her voice remained steady and sure.

  Jaina and Lowbacca huddled together away from the others. “You and Tahiri did great, but I’ve got another puzzle for you,” Jaina said. “Danni Quee found a way to override the yammosk communications. That’s the only explanation for the Yuuzhan Vong confusion over Coruscant. Any idea how she did it?”

  The Wookiee went into a lengthy explanation, most of which went over Jaina’s head with a meter to spare.

  She put up a hand to halt the bewildering flow of information. “How do you know all this?”

  Lowbacca hesitated, then woofed a response.

  He had been recruited to work on the research team supervised by Danni Quee and Cilghal. That made sense to Jaina. The Force-sensitive scientist and the Mon Calamari healer had been spearheading one of many attempts to understand Yuuzhan Vong technology. Before coming to the Jedi academy, Lowbacca had had two passions: computer science and the study of Kashyyyk’s complex plant life. It had been the latter that prompted him to go alone into the dangerous lower levels of his homeworld’s forests during his rite of passage to young adulthood, and to pit himself against the deadly syren plant. The combination of computer skills and biological knowledge—not to mention his desire to take on the impossible—made him well suited to this study.

  Lowbacca let loose a few sharp woofs.

  “They had you taking apart captured ships? No wonder you knew how to mess with the worldship,” Jaina murmured, remembering a prank he had played with a small neural center. “So you know how Danni Quee scrambled the yammosk.”

  The Wookiee shook his head and gave a mournful moan. He hadn’t been there for Danni’s breakthrough.

  “Given your background, could you duplicate the results?”

  Lowbacca considered, then woofed an affirmative.

  “But can you go one step farther?”

  The Wookiee listened with growing fascination as Jaina described her plan. His furry shoulders shook with laughter as he made his way toward the dovin basal.

  Jaina watched, puzzled. Lowbacca returned in moments, coming at a lope and carrying a familiar-looking object in his paws.

  He handed a small globe to Jaina with a string of grumbled instructions. A slow, sly grin crept over her face as she understood what he’d found. She reached up and ruffled the fur on his head affectionately, and then went back to work.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Ganner demanded, eyeing the villip with disgust.

  She grinned at the older Jedi and turned to Zekk. “Let me have your seat.”

  He yielded the pilot’s chair, and Jaina settled down, pulled on the hood, and began to stroke the oddly shaped globe.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Zekk ventured. “Can you talk and fly at the same time?”

  Her only response was a derisive sniff.

  “We don’t know who will answer,” he persisted.

  “True, but chances are, that’ll be something worth knowing. The more we can learn about this ship, the better our chances for survival.”

  The outer layer of the villip peeled back, and the tissue within began to reshape itself into the likeness of the Yuuzhan Vong who had been “attuned” to this villip. In moments Jaina held in her hands a horrific face, one marked by fringed lips and a tangle of scars.

  She knew that face. Everyone in the galaxy with access to the HoloNet knew it. This was the warmaster Tsavong Lah. Not long ago, he’d sent a communication throughout the galaxy calling for the destruction of the Jedi, and demanding Jacen Solo. Jaina had seen that holovid replayed many times, but her blood boiled anew with each viewing.

  “The sacrifice has been completed?” the warmaster demanded.

  Jaina held the villip closer to her face and sent her brother’s enemy a knife-edged smile. “Not yet.”

  The villip crinkled into an ominous frown. “You were to contact me when your duty was complete, Nom Anor, and not before. Pray you are not contacting me to report another failure.”

  She glanced at her friends, her brown eyes sparkling with something resembling her old spirit.

  “Oh, this is too good,” she marveled. “This is Nom Anor’s ship! The villip must not be attuned to him, though, or you’d think Tsavong Lah would notice the difference.”

  Ganner threw up both hands. “I don’t know, Jaina. You’ve definitely looked better.”

  “And you still look like a holovid hero. Where’s the justice in that?” she shot back good-naturedly. “Anyway, Lowbacca thinks this villip is a way for a ship’s pilot, whoever that might be, to report to a fleet admiral. When you think about it, that makes sense. I don’t have a complete handle on how villips work, but from what I hear they seem to allow one specific person to talk to one other specific person. But what happens if that villip connection is broken? They’ve got to have some way of communicating with a ship, not just a person. Lowbacca found this thing onboard, living in a hydroponic vat. Maybe the ship itself attunes the villip, and the pilot’s connection with the ship allows communication.”

  “Who is this?” the warmaster demanded.

  Jaina turned her attention back to the globe. “Let’s put it this way: I’m contacting you to report another failure,” she said, turning his earlier words back upon him.

  Tsavong Lah’s cruel eyes narrowed. “This is not Nom Anor. You are not even Yuuzhan Vong—the villip is translating.” His face twisted with fury as the logical answer presented itself. “The Jeedai!”

  “Got it in one,” she mocked.

  For a long moment, the image of Tsavong Lah merely glared at her. Then his frayed lips twisted in a sneer. “And this, I suppose, is where you offer yourself in your brother’s place.”

  “Why bother? I know you won’t let Jacen go.”

  “That is true enough, but are you so sure of your motivation?” he taunted her. “You are the lesser twin, the one who would fall in sacrifice. Perhaps it suits your purposes to keep your brother’s sword far from your throat.”

  Jaina began to understand what this “sacrifice” entailed. “We would fight each other?”

  “Of course! That is how it is done.”

  An image flashed into Jaina’s mind from the time she and Jacen had been held captive at the Shadow Academy, forced into dark-side training. They’d been made to fight with lightsabers, long before they were ready for such weapons, and to fight for their lives against a foe cloaked in a hologram. They’d pitted her against Darth Vader—a symbol of her past, and a portent of her future. Jacen, however, faced the same apparent foe. Neither of them had realized until the hologram cloaking devices were shut off how near they’d come to killing each other.

  Despite all she’d been through before and since, the horror of that moment still visited Jaina in dreams.

  Her mind raced as she tried to improvise a plan. It occurred to her that it might be best to play into the war-master’s perceptions.

  “That’s how it’s always done,” she agreed, letting the memory of the Shadow Academy imbue her words with dread. “Jacen and I are twins. This is our destiny.”

  “You understand this much, yet you run from destiny?”

  She inclined her head in a bow. A look of surprise flickered over the villip-reflected face, indicating that her gesture of respect had somehow been translated.

  “You are right, Warmaster. Nom Anor’s ship is disabled. I can run no farther.”

  “What is your position?” he demanded. “Obviously you are wearing the pilot’s hood. Ask the ship.”

  “A moment, please.” She put the villip down carefully, then looked at Ganner and mouthed the words, Get Lowbacca.

  The big Jedi nodded and sprinted off in search
of the Wookiee. A few moments later a big, hairy fist thrust out into the central corridor and gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Here goes,” Jaina muttered, and turned back to the villip.

  “I can’t get an answer from the ship,” she said, her tone defensive and edged with a bit of a whine. “Is there some way the ship could be traced through the yammosk that controls it?”

  “Nom Anor is an independent agent. His ship answers to no yammosk. But sometimes a yammosk can pick up a stranded ship; the dovin basals are strongly inclined to link.”

  “This dovin basal is ailing,” Jaina said eagerly. “Linking might keep it alive long enough for me to …”

  She let her words trail off. A sneer crossed Tsavong Lah’s reflected face as he read the meaning Jaina intended to portray. Obviously, he thought she was stalling for time, gaining needed repairs in hope of fleeing capture.

  “I have sent agents to oversee the sacrifice. No doubt they are in close pursuit. You will be meeting them shortly.”

  Before Jaina could respond, the villip shifted back to its formless state.

  “What now?” Ganner demanded.

  Jaina’s smile was thin and feral. “They’ll come to us.”

  The warmaster set aside the offending villip and bellowed an order. A subordinate came at a near run, bearing a second, larger villip.

  Tsavong Lah stroked the globe. No response. “Your other hand, Warmaster,” the aide suggested.

  He quickly did so, ignoring this latest reminder of how tenuous his new implant was. A villip, duly attuned, did not recognize the touch of his transplanted limb!

  The globe shifted to reveal a face similar to his own in shape and expression. The reflected warrior was younger, his flesh taut and clear, but not less scarred. Elaborate black tattoos covered an angular gray face. A small horn protruded from a high, broad forehead.

  “Warmaster,” Khalee Lah proclaimed, inclining his head in respect.

  “I have found the female,” the warmaster said without preamble. “She has offered to surrender—a ploy, of course, a pitiful attempt to buy time to escape. You will persuade the yammosk aboard the priestship to link with the frigate and accept this additional ship in its communication family.”

  “Of course, Warmaster.”

  “Inform Harrar that he may contact the Jeedai directly through the Ksstarr’s ship’s villip.”

  An expression of surprise crossed the young warrior’s face. “He possesses a commander’s villip?”

  “He holds it in trust,” Tsavong Lah corrected. “When the Jeedai sacrifice is completed, he will pass it to you, along with the rank and honors that attend it. See to it that this day comes soon.”

  His son inclined his head in a deep bow. “I am honored, Warmaster, but I would do so regardless of reward. My personal advancement is a pale thing compared to the service due our gods.”

  The warmaster received this pious speech in silence. “Go, and do.”

  Again the young warrior bowed, and the villip quickly inverted. Tsavong Lah’s lip curled as he regarded the villip. “Harrar seems to be failing,” he said softly, “in more ways than one.”

  Jaina flew steadily toward Tenel Ka, following the directions Tahiri gave. She did not notice when the villip began to change. Zekk’s soft, grim oath drew her attention back to the living communication sphere.

  It depicted a thin, almost aesthetic-looking visage, not quite as garishly scarred as the warmaster’s. An elaborately wound cloth swathed his head.

  “Harrar, a priest of Yun-Harla, the Trickster goddess,” the image said curtly. “It will be my honor to preside over your sacrifice.”

  “The honor is mine,” Jaina said dryly. She went on, “And thanks for the suggestion. I’ve been wondering what to call this rock. Trickster sounds just about right.”

  “That is not suitable. It is not possible. There is more to naming a ship than you could possibly know.”

  “It requires a special affinity, a deep attunement,” Jaina said. “Is that one of the things I couldn’t possibly know?”

  Raw fury flooded the Yuuzhan Vong’s face. “Whatever paltry tricks you may have in mind will serve no purpose. The attunement has been transferred. My ability to speak to you indicates that my ship’s yammosk is making contact with your dovin basal. Any minor control you have over the Ksstarr—”

  “The Trickster,” Jaina corrected.

  “—will be superseded,” he finished, ignoring the interruption.

  Tahiri let out a small gasp. To her credit, she did not remove the navigation hood.

  “You are establishing contact?” Jaina repeated in feinted alarm.

  “It is done.”

  Jaina turned the villip upside down, causing it to invert and break contact with the priest. She turned to her friends with a triumphant smile. The wave of shock and condemnation hit her like a physical blow.

  “Before you say anything, let me explain. Lowbacca has been playing with the ship’s sensors. We’re receiving their signal, but blocking ours.”

  “You can’t be sure of that!” Zekk protested.

  “I’m sure,” Tahiri broke in. “The Yuuzhan Vong ships manipulate gravity. That’s how they move, shield, even navigate. I’m hooked up to this thing. I should know.”

  “Go on,” Ganner urged.

  “The sensors gather information from shifts in gravity fields. Every ship has a pattern, sort of like a signature.”

  “That’s right,” Jaina broke in. “Lowbacca used some parts from the Hornet to rig up a mechanical disruption. The dovin basal doesn’t know that the signals it’s sending the yammosk are scrambled.”

  “It sounds feasible,” Ganner said, doubt still suffusing his voice. “But if you’re wrong, the Yuuzhan Vong might follow us to Hapes. We’d be endangering a world—a system—that is in no shape to defend itself.”

  “They know we’re heading there,” Jaina pointed out, “which makes a Yuuzhan Vong attack on Hapes all but a foregone conclusion. They’ll have to make a stand eventually.”

  “They?” Ganner asked, eyeing her with speculation. “Not we?”

  “I’ve got someplace else to be. The rest of you are welcome to come or stay, as you choose.”

  “You’re going after Jacen,” he stated.

  She shrugged. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  “What’s your goal, Jaina?” Zekk said softly. “Obviously it’s not survival. You don’t really expect to rescue Jacen—not even you could be that … optimistic,” he said, improvising in response to the lowering storm in her eyes. “The way I see it, that leaves vengeance.”

  “Which leads to the dark side,” she said impatiently. “Spare me—I’ve heard all the arguments. Repeatedly. The way I see it, Jedi have a responsibility to act. Act! We don’t have the luxury of philosophical debates. It was the schism between Jacen and Anakin, their endless dithering over ‘what a Jedi should be,’ that brought them both down.”

  “That’s unfair,” Tahiri whispered. “It’s cruel.”

  “Is it? Let’s look at the facts: Anakin is dead, Jacen was captured. If the surviving Jedi continue to dither, we will be destroyed and the Yuuzhan Vong will have won.”

  They stood in silence for a long moment as they considered her grim logic.

  Alema was the first to speak. “We Twi’leks have a saying: If you refuse to decide, the decision is made without you.”

  “Get the job done,” Ganner agreed.

  “Time to hunt!” the Barabel shouted from his position at the stern.

  “You’ll need a healer,” Tekli said with a sigh of resignation.

  Jaina turned to Zekk, a question in her eyes.

  “I’ll be remaining on Hapes, or going where I am most needed,” he said softly, a world of regret in his eyes.

  Who could need him more than Jacen? Jaina tamped down the surge of anger and accepted his decision with a curt nod. But she made no attempt to shield her emotions from him.

  For a moment she felt Zekk waver, fe
lt the strength of her vision override his deeply held beliefs.

  Temptation welled, fierce and strong. She would free Jacen somehow, but it would be easier with the other young Jedi at her side. If she could sway Zekk, she could bring them all to her side.

  Under her control.

  It was a logical end to the path her thoughts had taken, yet Jaina quickly shied away from it. Swiftly, subtly, she pulled away from Zekk, hoping that he would not notice that she, not he, had caused him to question his hard-won values. The puzzlement that flickered through his Force-sense suggested that she’d succeeded—that he hadn’t realized what she had nearly done.

  She pulled off the pilot’s hood and tossed it to Zekk. “I need some time alone,” she said abruptly as she spun away from the other Jedi.

  Her path took her toward the small chamber where they’d left Anakin’s body. None of them followed her, but she felt their relief that she was taking steps to finally “deal with her grief.”

  And perhaps it was time. After the first terrible surge of loss, Jaina had simply stored away her emotions. It was not so different, really, from the years she’d spent protecting herself from the constant bombardment of other people’s emotions.

  She hesitated at the threshold, staring at the quiet stranger laying on the Yuuzhan Vong bunk. He looked to be at rest, and his still form bore little resemblance to the image burned upon Jaina’s mind. The grime of battle had been cleaned away, the terrible wounds bandaged and then covered with clean clothing—linen and leather scavenged from somewhere.

  The features were Anakin’s. The height, the form. But his ice-blue eyes had been closed, and the unruly brown hair neatly brushed. Jaina came closer, and without thinking she reached out and tousled it with the big-sisterly gesture she’d so often employed.

  A soft step behind her announced Tekli’s presence. “Better,” the Chadra-Fan agreed. “That is how it always seemed to look.”

  Jaina turned to the little healer, her eyes dry and her heart cold. “Thank you for what you’ve done here. I didn’t want our mother to see him as he was.”

  She turned and walked calmly away, acutely aware of the grief emanating from the Chadra-Fan. She accepted this with gratitude: it seemed right that someone should be able to grieve for Anakin.