STAR WARS - THE NEW JEDI ORDER - Destiny's Way

by Walter Jon Williams

  It was plain curiosity that had driven Nom Anor to infiltrate the sect. Was this group such a mighty threat to orthodoxy as High Priest Jakan had said? Was the message of redemption by Jedi so powerful that it constituted a danger to the Yuuzhan Vong and all they stood for?

  When the meeting was over, Nom Anor made his way out of the structure through a door used only by workers.

  The night of Yuuzhan'tar was cool and refreshingly free of the scent of the Shamed Ones' rotting flesh. A night breeze soothed Nom Anor's flaming skin. Phosphorescent lichen shone on bits of undigested rubble, relics of the planet's old civilization that were gradually being broken down into more useful, basic elements. By the phosphorescent light Nom Anor wandered away from the center of the new Yuuzhan Vong city into an area of wreckage and half-dissolved rubble that had not yet been cleared for settlement. He wanted to be free of distraction so that he could think.

  The workers' heresy was an incoherent muddle, he thought. And yet, if the heretics had a leader, a prophet—no, a Prophet— someone who knew how to adapt this doctrine into a weapon, then they would become something to reckon with.

  Obedience, yes, but not obedience to the ruling castes; obedience to the Prophet. Outward passivity and humility to those they considered their oppressors, but inside the keenest resentment and hatred, and an arrogance that demanded a galaxy. Someone—yes, someone like Nom Anor who had spread a religious doctrine on Rhommamool that had caused the inhabitants to destroy themselves in an interplanetary war—someone like Nom Anor could make out of these heretics something very dangerous. All that was necessary was to create a tipping point, a point at which the arrogance and hatred could be brought to overwhelm passivity and caution, and then the heretics would become an army.

  Yes, it was lucky these heretics were being suppressed.

  Scratching himself on the elbows, Norn Anor turned back toward the city, and in the sky saw the spiraling rainbows created by the dovin basals on the great hovering palace that housed Shimrra. Now there is power, he thought. But what rainbows have these here-tics cast?

  He walked back toward the settled area, and to his surprise found himself walking along a clearly defined road. He hadn't realized that the shapers had grown roads out this far.

  And then he saw something coming toward him along the road, a riding quednak with someone astride it. Nom Anor stepped to the side of the road, and—in his character as a simple worker— bowed in servitude with his arms crossed. It was only as the scaled, six-legged creature thumped by that Nom Anor thought he recognized the silhouette of the rider.

  Onimi. That bulbous, misshapen head was unmistakable.

  What was the Supreme Overlord's familiar doing here, so far from the palace and any of the centers of government?

  Nom Anor thought for a long moment as the beast thudded into the distance, and then followed.

  Kashyyyk was a brilliant green crescent in the glittering darkness of space, and around it Jaina could see the silver gleam of the New Republic capital ships that had turned the planet into one of the New Republic's forward bases.

  She was in command of Trickster, tensed under the cognition hood in case enemy were present as they jumped out of hyperspace. Instead a message of jubilant welcome came from the elements of the New Republic fleet that had remained behind at their new base, and she and the rest of the fleet had stood down from their alert.

  Lowbacca growled cheerfully.

  "I'd love to join your family on Kashyyyk," Jaina said. "A furlough in the green trees would be ideal." Just what she needed to ease the tension she felt in her shoulders and arms, the dirge of grief and sorrow that played in her mind, the sadness that flooded her heart.

  Lights flashed on the comm system that Lowbacca had jacked into the Yuuzhan Vong ship, and the unit tweedled. [Message from the flagship,] Lowie said.

  "What does the general want?" Jaina wondered.

  [It's not Farlander,] the Wookiee said- [The message is from Admiral Kre'fey. He wants you and General Farlander to report on board Ralroost—"at your earliest convenience," he says.]

  And now we pay for our success, Jaina thought.

  "O great warrior, is this the damutek of the noble intendant Hooley Krekk?"

  Tattoos on the warrior's face creased as she scowled at Nom Anor. She waved her amphistaff in the direction of the city.

  "You are not permitted here! Get your miserable carcass back to your barracks!"

  Nom Anor, still in his worker guise, bobbed in feigned humility. "With all respect, O Commander, if this is the damutek of Hooley Krekk, then I am permitted here."

  The warrior was not appeased by Nom Anor's casually promoting her two degrees. "This is not the damutek of Hooley Krekk! Now begone!"

  It was not the damutek of Hooley Krekk, whom Nom Anor had just invented on the spot, but it was the heavily guarded damutek to which the Shamed One Onimi had traveled, a fact proven by Onimi's riding beast seen standing before the building and quietly licking a fungus-covered rock. The damutek was a large, bulbous, three-lobed structure that radiated a faint pinkish light. There was at least a platoon of warriors either on guard or camped in the vicinity, so whatever the function of the building might be, it was of some importance.

  And standing in the entrance to the damutek, a pair of Yuu-zhan Vong were in conversation, their distinctive living headdresses marking them as shapers.

  "Oh, woe! Oh, misery! Oh, unhappiness!" Slapping himself on the head repeatedly, Nom Anor pranced about in a little circle.

  This was enough to attract two more warriors, one of them a subaltern, unusually short, with stringy hair.

  "What is the meaning of this?" the subaltern demanded. The warrior explained, and the subaltern turned to Nom Anor.

  "There is no Hooley Krekk here! Now get back to where you belong!"

  "But I belong at the damutek of Hooley Krekk!" Nom Anor wailed. "I was given very explicit directions—left at the Square of Hierarchy, then south to the Boulevard of the Crushing of the Infidels, then right at the Temple of the Modeler, then on down the long road to the end." He began slapping himself again. "Oh woe! My supervisor will punish me!"

  "I’ll punish you if you don't get out of here!" the subaltern said. He cocked his amphistaff over his shoulder.

  Nom Anor fell on his face and groveled before the others. "May I beg the officer's pardon? May I ask where I went wrong?"

  "Tow went wrong when you were born," one of the warriors joked, and the other laughed.

  "Where is this damutek?" Nom Anor asked. "What is the name of this place, so that I can explain to my master Hooley Krekk how I came to be here?"

  "This damutek is for shapers only!" the subaltern said. His amphistaff slashed down like a whip, and fire burned along Nom Anor's back. "Now clear out before they stick you in their blasted cortex!"

  Nom Anor scuttled away sideways like a great crustacean, then rose to his feet and scurried down the road. Inwardly, despite the pain that flamed down his back, he gave a smile of satisfaction. Warriors are so predictable, he thought.

  Cortex was a shaper term for some kind of shaping protocol or technique, which meant that this was a shaper project secret enough to move some distance out of the capital, where its business could go on unobserved, and important enough to station warriors as its permanent guard. The two shapers seen in the entrance only confirmed this.

  And Onimi was a part of it somehow.

  Nom Anor stumbled on a fault in the road, and at the jar fresh pain shot along his back. That warrior hadn't held back when he'd slashed down with the amphistaff. Nom Anor's teeth ground as he thought of the arrogant little pipsqueak with a weapon longer than he was, and he cast an angry glance over his shoulder at the sawed-off subaltern with his two warriors. I'll remember this, he thought.

  And then he thought of the heretics at their meeting, the anger and hatred that they couldn't acknowledge even to themselves, and he thought: Yes. This is how it starts.

  Jaina combed her hair and
changed out of her coveralls to walking-out dress, which was as smart as she could get for the admiral, since her full-dress uniform hadn't caught up to her as she'd moved through her last several postings. Walking-out dress, however, was still sufficiently formal that she felt uncomfortable, and kept tugging at her collar as she sat with Farlander in the shuttle that carried her to the admiral's Bothan Assault Cruiser.

  One of Kre'fey's Bothan aides met Jaina and Farlander at the lock, and escorted them to the admiral's suite. The cruiser's air had a spicy alien scent.

  When they reached Kre'fey's quarters, they were kept waiting a quarter of an hour by a secretary until they were called in to meet the admiral. Kre'fey was alone in a formal briefing room, standing at the head of a long, empty table. Farlander and Jaina approached the admiral and saluted.

  "General Farlander and Major Solo reporting as ordered, Admiral."

  Kre'fey's milk-white fur rippled as he returned the salute. "You have your report?"

  "Yes, sir." Farlander handed the admiral a disk. Kre'fey dropped it in a reader and glanced at the information. "One capital ship lost, another disabled," he said. "Nearly a hundred starfighters lost, with only forty percent of the crews rescued—all in an unauthorized action to chase an enemy Supreme Commander who wasn't even there, and following an operational plan devised by a junior lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir," Farlander admitted.

  "And a stunning victory," Kre'fey continued, still reading. "Seven enemy capital ships destroyed, a pair of transports holding thousands of warriors, and a Supreme Commander killed along with his flagship." His eyes lifted first to Jaina, then to Farlander.

  "My warmest congratulations to the both of you," he said. "I wish my other subordinates demonstrated this kind of initiative." He shook Farlander's hand. "Brilliant work! I will put you both in for commendations."

  Jaina flushed at the warmth of the admiral's response. She felt the tension in her wire-strung muscles ease. "Thank you, sir," she murmured, and then was surprised to see Kre'fey step before her, then pause for a long moment with his gold-flecked violet eyes fixed on her.

  "I wished to sec you in comparative privacy in order that I might give you some news of your family." Jaina stared at him in rising horror and felt herself brace for it, her parents dead or captured, or perhaps little Ben Skywalker ambushed in the Maw and killed.

  "Your brother Jacen has escaped the enemy and has arrived safely on Mon Calamari," Kre'fey said. "When you have a chance to catch up with your personal messages, no doubt you'll hear the story in more detail."

  Jaina stared at Kre'fey in cold astonishment. "Are you sure, sir?" she said. "I saw him, and the Yuuzhan Vong—I was there—"

  "Of course it's true," Kre'fey said. "Your brother's been on the holonews—he's very much alive."

  Jaina could only gape at him. Why didn't I know? It had been Jaina who had insisted on the reality of Jacen's death in the face of her mother's belief in his survival. Why didn't he reach me through our twin bond? she demanded of herself. And then an answer came to her.

  Because I cut him off. She had been driven into a near-mad frenzy by Anakin's death and Jacen's capture; she had embraced the dark and turned her life to vengeance. She had cut off all contact with those she loved. Including Jacen, who must have needed her dreadfully.

  She pictured Jacen calling to her over and over, and receiving no answer. He must have thought I was dead. What kind of despair had she brought him?

  She tasted bitter failure on her tongue.

  "Would you like to sit down, Jaina?" Farlander's voice floated toward her from beyond the shadowy wall that cloaked her mind.

  "Yes," she answered. "If I may."

  She groped her way to a chair, and as she lowered herself into it, she managed to remember the niceties. She looked up at Traest Kre'fey. "Thank you, Admiral," she said. "I appreciate your telling me this way."

  "It was the least I could do for our new hero," Kre'fey said as he took the seat at the head of the table. "You and General Farlander have given us a great victory, and I would like you to give me an informal briefing now, before I arrange a full staff conference tomorrow."

  "Very good, sir," Farlander said. Even as he answered Kre'fey, his concerned eyes still rested on Jaina.

  "Your tactics involving the Jedi?" Kre'fey asked. "Creating a kind of meld? Were they successful?"

  "They worked, but we had too few units with Jedi in them," Jaina said. "We need more Jedi in order to make it really useful. And even then it doesn't always work." Her thoughts darkened as she remembered Myrkr. "If the Jedi aren't in agreement among themselves, the meld can fall apart."

  Kre'fey brushed aside all doubt. "I'll put in a request for as many Jedi pilots as they can send us. Who knows what the high command will make of it?"

  "Who blows?" Jaina repeated. The New Republic had never quite decided what to do with Jedi in this war, but then the honors were even—the Jedi hadn't been quite sure what to do with themselves.

  "I'd like to share some other news," Kre'fey said. "I've just returned from Bothawui, where the mourning for my cousin Borsk Fey'lya has now ended. While I was there, I managed to meet with a good many important Bothans, and I'm pleased to report that I achieved some success."

  "That's very good, sir," Farlander said.

  "As you may know, intrigue is common among Bothans," Kre'fey said. "The periods when we arc united as a species are rare, and usually occur only when we are facing a common danger, as we did during the Empire. But now, as a result of Chief of State Fey'lya's death, the Bothan Council has decided to declare that the highest state of war now exists between Bothawui and the Yuuzhan Vong."

  Something in Kre'fey's phrasing caused Jaina to look up.

  "Highest state of war?" she repeated. "But you're at war already, aren't you?"

  Kre'fey looked solemn. "We've been in what you could describe as an 'ordinary' state of war," he said. "The highest state of war—it is called ar'krai—was not declared even in the days of Palpatine. Ar'krai has been declared only twice in our past, and was declared only when our survival as a species seemed to be at stake. It means that we will declare total war against our enemy, and not cease until he has been completely destroyed."

  "You've . . . destroyed species?" General Farlander asked.

  "In the distant past," Kre'fey said. "We did not cease our ar'krai until our enemies were destroyed to the last individual, their names written out of the histories, and their planets reduced to dust floating on the stellar wind." He placed his hands on the tabletop, his white fur reflecting perfectly in its dark polished surface. "So shall we do with the Yuuzhan Vong," he said. "They shall become dust, or we shall become dust ourselves."

  Jaina looked at Kre'fey's determined face, and a chill ran up her spine at the quiet certainty that lay behind his words.

  Nen Yim couldn't quite suppress a shudder as she reached toward the Shamed One, if only to hand him a bladder-flask. Nor could she suppress her alarm as he opened the flask immediately and began splashing the balm on his misshapen body. The tendrils on her headdress waved in agitation.

  "This is for the Supreme Overlord!" she said.

  "I'll save enough for Shimrra," Onimi said.

  "There must be enough for, for the other shapers," Nen Yim said. "They must be able to create tons of—"

  "I know, master heretic shaper," Onimi said. "I'll leave enough for the shapers."

  He slathered the pale green lotion over his grayish, inflamed flesh and sighed. "It works," he said.

  "Of course it works!" Nen Yim snapped. Even if Onimi was her only conduit to the Supreme Overlord, his impudence was often more than she could bear.

  Onimi seemed oblivious to the shaper's loathing. "Think of all the hours of labor you've saved us," he said. "All that scratching."

  The balm had certainly saved Nen Yim's own sanity. Since she had returned from Tsavong Lah's command to work on Yuuzhan'tar directly tinder Shimrra, she had been one of the worst affected of the
itching plague's victims. She had barely been able to focus her mind to the point that she could puzzle out an antidote.

  She and Onimi faced each other in a room screened off by membranous partitions that pulsed with bright oxygenated blood. Phosphorescent lichen filled the air with a reddish light that was useful when dealing with photosensitive tissues. The tang of the lotion contrasted with the organic odors that normally filled the air, the coppery scent of blood or the loamy scent of undifferentiated protoplasm, the tissue on which Nen Yim performed her grafts, forced mutations, and other experiments.

  Performed her heresy. The eighth cortex was known to the Yuuzhan Vong as the ultimate grade of shaper knowledge, the most refined and perfect of the procedures given by the gods in ancient times, known only to the Supreme Overlord and the few master shapers with whom he shared the knowledge.

  Only the handful who had seen the eighth cortex knew that it was a fraud. It was, in fact, practically empty. It contained only a few advanced techniques, most of which Shimrra had already given to his people.

  Yuuzhan Vong knowledge had reached its end. And so Shimrra had found Nen Yim, a shaper already convicted of the heresy of not merely repeating the procedures given the Yuuzhan Vong in ancient times, but actually seeking new knowledge. It was now the task of Nen Yim and her adepts to create the eighth cortex, to provide the new knowledge and new procedures that would enable the Yuuzhan Vong to win the war and exist successfully in their new homeland.

  Nen Yim had first call on any Yuuzhan Vong resources. Her research took first priority in any dispute, even over urgent war aims. Her team was housed in its own damutek, isolated and guarded. Her only visitor was Onimi, her direct conduit to the Supreme Overlord.

  But the guards, she knew, were not simply to prevent an enemy from interfering—they were to prevent Nen Yim and her own people from escaping to contaminate other Yuuzhan Vong with their heretical ideas. The Yuuzhan Vong chosen for the eighth cortex project were insulated from the rest of their own race-Insulated like a plague.