by Troy Denning
Nom Anor didn’t bother to translate. “Your opinions are of no interest to the Supreme Overlord.”
Sal-Solo licked his lips nervously. “The only way I can guarantee the success of the plan is to be given a free hand in Corellia,” he said.
Nom Anor translated this.
“Tell the infidel he misunderstands,” Shimrra said. “Tell him that the only way the plan will succeed is if I am given a free hand in Corellia.”
Sal-Solo looked startled as this was translated, and his lips began to frame a protest, but Shimrra continued.
“Tell the infidel that we will give his associates in the Centerpoint Party all assistance necessary to gain control of the Corellian system. He will direct them to cooperate with us. Once Centerpoint Station is taken by his people and surrendered to our forces, the Centerpoint Party will rule Corellia in a state of peace with the Yuuzhan Vong.”
Sal-Solo’s eyes widened as he listened to Nom Anor’s lengthy translation. The executor did not bother to state the fact that, in the Yuuzhan Vong language, peace was the same word as submission.
Sal-Solo would find that out in time.
Sal-Solo licked his lips again, and said, “May I stand, Executor?”
Nom Anor considered this. “Very well,” he said. “But you must show complete submission to the Supreme Overlord.”
Sal-Solo rose to his feet but didn’t straighten, instead maintaining a sort of half bow toward Shimrra. His eyes ticked back and forth, as if he were mentally reading a speech before giving it, and then he said, “Supreme One, I beg permission to explain the situation on Corellia in more detail.”
Permission was given. Sal-Solo spoke about the complex political relations at Corellia, the Centerpoint Party’s desire to cast off the New Republic. As he spoke he seemed to grow in confidence, and he paced back and forth, occasionally raising his eyes to Shimrra to see if the Supreme Overlord was following his argument.
Nom Anor translated as well as he could. Onimi, from his posture at Shimrra’s feet, watched with his upper lip curled back and one misshapen fang exposed.
“I shall have to return to Corellia immediately in order to undertake the Supreme One’s plan,” Sal-Solo said. “And regretfully I must warn that it will be difficult to gain cooperation once it is known that the Yuuzhan Vong plan to seize the Centerpoint weapon after we evict the New Republic military.”
“The answer to that difficulty is a simple one,” Shimrra said through Nom Anor. “Do not tell your associates that the Yuuzhan Vong are destined to control the weapon.”
Sal-Solo hesitated only a fraction of a second before he bowed. “It shall be as the Supreme Overlord desires,” he said.
Shimrra gave an appreciative growl, then turned to Nom Anor. “Is the infidel lying?” he said.
“Of course, Supreme One,” Nom Anor said. “He will never voluntarily relinquish a weapon as powerful as the Centerpoint device.”
“Then tell the infidel this,” Shimrra said. “It will not be necessary for him to return to Corellia—he will simply inform us which of his Centerpoint Party associates we should contact in order to deliver his orders and our assistance. Tell the infidel that I have a much more important duty for him to perform. Tell him that I have just appointed him President of Ylesia and Commander in Chief of the Peace Brigade.”
Nom Anor was struck with admiration. Now that is truly inventive vengeance, he thought. Thrackan Sal-Solo had destroyed thousands of Yuuzhan Vong warriors at Fondor, and now he would be publicly linked with a Yuuzhan Vong–allied government. His reputation would be destroyed; he would be at the mercy of those whose warriors he had killed.
Sal-Solo listened to the translation in horrified silence. His eyes ticked back and forth again, and then he said, “Please tell the Supreme Overlord that I am deeply honored by an appointment to this position of trust, but because this would make it impossible for his plans for Corellia to be realized, I regret that I must decline the appointment. Perhaps the Supreme Overlord doesn’t realize that the Peace Brigade is not admired by all Corellians, and that anyone identified as Peace Brigade wouldn’t be able to command the respect necessary to win power in Corellia. It is, furthermore, absolutely necessary that I be in Corellia to coordinate the Centerpoint Party, and…”
Sal-Solo went on at some length, long enough so that Nom Anor began to feel toward him a thorough contempt. Sal-Solo, convinced of his powers to charm others, thought that once he could get in the same room with Shimrra, he could talk to him, one politician to another, and convince him of the rightness of his schemes. As if he could lobby the Supreme Overlord of the Yuuzhan Vong the same way as he might lobby some miserable Senator from his homeworld!
“Executor,” Shimrra said conversationally, as Sal-Solo continued to speak, “is there a place where one might strike a human in order to cause immobilizing pain?”
Nom Anor considered the request. “There are organs known as ‘kidneys,’ Lord. One on either side of the lower back, just above the hips. A strike there causes considerable anguish, often so severe that the victim is unable to cry out. Or so I am given to understand.”
“Let us find out,” Shimrra said. He made a slight gesture, and Onimi rose from his place at the foot of Shimrra’s dais. In the dim light Nom Anor saw, coiled in the Shamed One’s hand, a batron of rank, the officers’ version of the amphistaff. He was shocked to discover that Shimrra permitted his familiar to carry weapons.
But who else would be more trustworthy? Nom Anor thought. Onimi must know that if Shimrra is killed, his own death will surely follow.
Onimi stepped behind Sal-Solo and flung out his lank arm. The whiplike batron froze into its solid form, now a lean staff, and Onimi with a single efficient swing slashed the weapon into Sal-Solo’s left kidney.
The human opened his mouth in a silent scream and fell like a bundle of sticks, hands scrabbling at the floor. Nom Anor stepped to the helpless man, bent, and seized him by the hair.
“Your resignation is declined, infidel,” he said. “We shall see you are transported immediately to Ylesia, where you may take your place as head of the government. In the meantime, you will give us the names of your associates on Corellia, so they, too, may be given their instructions.”
Sal-Solo’s face was still distorted by an unvoiced shriek, and Nom Anor decided that his information regarding a human’s vulnerable kidneys was true.
“Nod your head if you understand, infidel,” Nom Anor said.
Sal-Solo nodded.
Nom Anor turned to Shimrra. “Does the Supreme One have any further instructions for his servants?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shimrra said. “Instruct that human’s guards well.”
“I shall, Lord.”
Nom Anor prostrated himself beside Sal-Solo’s shuddering body, and then he and Onimi carried Thrackan Sal-Solo to his guards, who managed to stand the man upright.
“I believe I address you as ‘President’ from this point,” Nom Anor said.
Sal-Solo’s lips moved, but again he seemed unable to utter a sound.
“By the way, Your Excellency,” Nom Anor continued, “I regret to say that your companion Darjeelai Swan died while furnishing the Yuuzhan Vong information. Is there anything you wish done with the body?”
Sal-Solo again voiced no opinion, so Nom Anor ordered the body destroyed and went about his business.
The pale form of the cruiser Ralroost floated in brilliant contrast to the green jungles of Kashyyyk below, the immaculate white paint of its hull a proof that the assault cruiser served as the flagship of a fleet admiral and was maintained to the standard that befit his rank. Around the cruiser were grouped the elements of an entire fleet—frigates, cruisers, Star Destroyers, tenders, hospital ships, support vessels, and flights of starfighters on patrol—all formed and ready for their next excursion into Yuuzhan Vong–controlled space.
Jacen Solo watched the swarming fleet elements through the shuttle’s forward viewport. The outlines of the warships
seemed too hard somehow, too defined, a little alien, lacking the softer outlines of the organic life-forms he had grown accustomed to while a prisoner of the Yuuzhan Vong.
“Bets, anyone?” came his sister’s voice. “Where’s the next raid? Hutt space? Duro? Yavin?”
“I’d like to see Yavin again,” Jacen said.
“Not once you see what the Vong have done to it.”
He turned at the bitter tone in Jaina’s voice. She stood slightly behind him, her intent gaze directed toward Ralroost. A major’s insignia was pinned to the collar of her dress uniform, and a lightsaber hung from her belt.
Yavin was our childhood, Jacen thought. And the Yuuzhan Vong had taken that childhood away, and Yavin with it, and left Jaina a grown woman, hard and brittle and single-minded, with little patience for anything but leading her squadron against the enemy.
Sword of the Jedi. That’s what Uncle Luke had named her at the ceremony that had raised her to the rank of Jedi Knight. A burning brand to your enemies, a brilliant fire to your friends. That’s what Luke had said.
“I think it will be Hutt space myself,” Jaina said. “In Hutt space the Yuuzhan Vong have had their own way for too long.”
Yours is a restless life, and never shall you know peace, though you shall be blessed for the peace that you bring to others.
Luke had said that as well. Jacen felt an urge to comfort his sister, and he put an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t reject the touch, but she didn’t accept it either: he felt as if his arm were draped around a form made of hardened durasteel.
It didn’t matter, Jacen thought, if she accepted or rejected his help. He would make his aid available whether she wanted it or not. Luke had offered him a choice of assignments, and he had chosen the one that would place him near Jaina.
When Anakin had died, and Jacen had at the same time been made a prisoner of the Yuuzhan Vong, Jaina had allowed herself to be overcome by despair. The dark side had claimed her, and though she had fought her way out of that abyss, she was still more fragile than Jacen would have liked. She had grown fey, haunted by death, by the memories of Chewbacca and Anakin and Anni Capstan and all the many thousands who had died. To his horror Jaina had told him that she didn’t expect to survive the war.
It wasn’t despair, she insisted; she’d beaten despair when she conquered the dark side. It was just a realistic appraisal of the odds.
Jacen had wanted to protest that if you expect death, you won’t fight for life. And so he volunteered for duty with the fleet at Kashyyyk, determined that if Jaina wouldn’t fight her utmost to preserve her life, he would fight that battle on her behalf.
“I think Yavin is a good bet for the next strike,” another voice said. “We’ve had squadrons clearing Yuuzhan Vong raiders off the Hydian Way, as if they’re preparing a route for us. We might soon find ourselves moving in that direction.”
Corran Horn stepped to the viewport. The Rogue Squadron commander wore a battered colonel’s uniform that dated from the wars against the Empire.
“Yavin,” he said, “Bimmiel, Dathomir…somewhere out there.”
A polite hissing signaled a disagreement. “We forget the enemy are behind uz,” hissed Saba Sebatyne. “If we take Bimmisaari and Kessel the enemy will be cut in two.”
“That would bring on a major battle,” Corran said. “We don’t have the strength to fight one.”
“Yet…” Jaina said, and through their twin bond Jacen felt the fierce power of her calculation. She had probably reckoned to the day when the New Republic would have the power to shift to the offensive, and could hardly wait.
The Sword of the Jedi wanted to strike to the enemy’s heart.
The shuttle swept into Ralroost’s docking bay and settled onto its landing gear. The droid pilot, a metal head and torso wired onto the instrument console, opened the shuttle doors. Its head spun clean around on its shoulders to face them.
“I hope you enjoyed your ride, Masters. Please watch your step as you exit.”
The four Jedi stepped out of the shuttle onto Admiral Kre’fey’s pristine deck. Scores of people bustled about, rode hovercarts, or worked on starfighters. Most were furred Bothans, but among them were a fair number of humans and other species of the galaxy. Jacen was suddenly conscious that he was the only person present without a military uniform.
They stepped toward the bulkhead, with its open blast doors that led forward to the ship’s command center. Above the open doors was a sign:
HOW CAN I HURT THE VONG TODAY?
This was what Admiral Kre’fey called his Question Number One, which everyone in his command was to ask her- or himself every day.
In a few moments, Jacen thought, he’d hear an answer to that question.
Jacen craned his head as he passed through the blast doors, and on the other side he saw Kre’fey’s Question Number Two.
HOW CAN I HELP MY OWN SIDE GROW STRONGER?
The answer to that question was going to be a little harder to find.
The four Jedi reported to Snayd, Admiral Kre’fey’s aide, who took them to a conference room. Jacen followed the others into the room, and in the dim light he first saw the Bothan admiral Traest Kre’fey, who stood out by virtue of the unusual color of his fur, the same brilliant white as Ralroost’s paint. As Jacen’s eyes adjusted to the room’s darkness he saw other military officers, including Commodore Farlander, and another group of Jedi who were quartered on the cruiser. Alema Rar, Zekk, and Tahiri Veila. Jacen felt the welcoming presence of the others greeting him in the Force, and he sent his own warm reply.
“Greetings!” Kre’fey returned the salutes of the three military Jedi, and stepped forward to clasp Jacen’s hand. “Welcome to Ralroost, young Jedi.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Unlike other military commanders, Kre’fey had been happy to work with Jedi in the past, and had sent a specific request to Luke Skywalker for more Jedi warriors.
“I hope you’ll be able to help us in this next mission,” the admiral said.
“That’s why we’re here, sir.”
“Fine! Fine.” Kre’fey turned to the others. “Please be seated. We’ll begin as soon as Master Durron joins us.”
Jacen seated himself in an armchair next to Tahiri Veila, the soft, smooth leather embracing his body. The little blond Jedi gave him a shy smile, her bare feet swinging clear of the carpet beneath her.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
Her wide eyes turned thoughtful as she considered the question. “I’m better,” she said. “The meld is helping a lot.”
The fierce, impulsive Tahiri had loved Jacen’s brother Anakin, and had been present at Myrkr when Anakin had met his hero’s death. Devastated by Anakin’s passing, her fiery character had come close to being snuffed out. She had withdrawn, and though she had continued to function as a Jedi, it was as if she were only going through the motions. Her impetuous personality had vanished into a subdued, ominously quiet young woman.
It had been Saba Sebatyne, the reptilian leader of the all-Jedi Wild Knights Squadron, who had suggested that Tahiri should be sent to join Admiral Kre’fey at Kashyyyk. Kre’fey wanted as many Jedi as possible under his command, to form a Jedi Force-meld in combat, all the Jedi linked together through the Force and acting as one. Saba insisted that the Force-meld would help a wounded mind heal, by drawing a Jedi in pain toward light and healing.
Apparently Saba had been right.
“I’m glad to know you’re doing better,” Jacen said. His own experience with the meld, on Myrkr, had been more ambiguous: if it amplified Jedi abilities, it also enlarged any disharmony that existed among them.
Tahiri gave Jacen a quick smile and patted his arm briefly. “I’m glad you’re here, Jacen.”
“Thank you. I wanted to be here. It seemed to be where I was needed.”
He wanted to experience the meld again. He thought it could teach him a great deal.
The doors slid open, Kyp Durron entered, and at once the mood of th
e room seemed to shift. Some people, Jacen thought, carried a kind of aura with them. If you met Cilghal, you knew at once you were in the presence of a compassionate healer, and Luke Skywalker radiated authority and wisdom.
When you looked at Kyp Durron, you knew you were seeing an enormously powerful weapon. If only Jacen didn’t know how erratic that weapon had been.
The dark-haired, older Jedi wore a New Republic–style uniform without any insignia, to show that he led an all-volunteer squadron that fought alongside the military forces but was not formally a part of them.
Kyp and his unit, the Dozen, had always gone their own way. They flew with Kre’fey not because they were under orders, but because they chose to.
Kyp and the admiral exchanged salutes. “Sorry I’m late, Admiral,” Kyp said. He showed the datapad he carried in one hand. “I was getting the latest intelligence reports. And, uh—” He hesitated. “—some of the data were kind of interesting.”
“Very good, Master Durron.” Kre’fey turned to the others. “Master Durron has submitted a plan for action against the enemy. As it’s fully in line with our operational goals as established by Admirals Sovv and Ackbar, I’ve given it my tentative approval. I thought I would place it before my senior commanders, and you squadron commanders, to see if you might have anything to add.”
Jacen looked at Tahiri, startled. She was a squadron commander? Her feet would barely reach the foot controls in a star-fighter cockpit.
And then, as what he’d heard struck home, he exchanged a quick glance with his sister. Kyp Durron’s plans, in the past, had been aggressive in the extreme; at Sernpidal he’d tricked Jaina and the New Republic military into destroying a Yuuzhan Vong shipwomb, thus stranding untold numbers of Yuuzhan Vong in intergalactic space and dooming them to a cold, lingering death.
Kyp was said to have changed in the months since then, and had been appointed to the High Council that advised the Chief of State and oversaw Jedi activities. But Jacen was prepared to examine carefully any plan put forward by Kyp Durron before he could bring himself to approve it.
Kre’fey surrendered his place at the head of the room and seated himself on a thronelike armchair. Kyp nodded to the admiral, then swept the others with his dark eyes. Jacen sensed Kyp’s firmness of purpose, his conviction.
