The Final Prophecy: Edge of Victory III

by Greg Keyes

  A terrible wail went up from her pursuers. She could see them now, all horribly disfigured, all Shamed Ones. They raised their short clubs and faced the warriors.

  They didn’t have a chance—she saw that immediately. For an instant, the tracker held her eye, and she thought he would give her away, but instead his expression went grim.

  “Run!” he shouted. “We cannot win here!”

  Tahiri hesitated only an instant longer, then made a series of steplike leaps to the ground. The first of the Shamed Ones had already fallen when her feet touched the spongy soil.

  A warrior caught her motion from the corner of his eye and turned to meet her, snarling a war cry. His face transfigured in surprise when she answered it in his own language. He whirled his amphistaff toward her, a lateral strike aimed at her scapula. She caught the blade and cut toward his knuckles, but he parried with distance, pulled his weapon free of the bind, and lunged deep with the venomous tip. She caught it in a high sweep and stepped in, cut to his shoulder where the vonduun crab armor shed its fury in a shower of sparks, then dodged past, reversing the weapon and plunging its fiery point into the vulnerable spot in the armpit. The warrior gasped and sank to his knees, and she whipped the weapon around to decapitate him even as she launched herself at the next foe.

  Combat was a blur, after that. Eight warriors had dropped from the flier. Seven were left, and fully half the Shamed Ones were bleeding on the ground. She had an image of the tracker, his arms knotted in a neck-breaking hold. She saw another Shamed One strike a warrior on the temple with his club only to be run through from behind. Mostly she saw the lightning-quick amphistaff strikes of the two warriors trying to flank her. She cut at a knee, smelled the scorch of flesh as the blade severed through armor. An amphistaff whipped toward her back and she had to roll beneath the blow. Parry, thrust, and cut became her entire existence.

  Spattered with Yuuzhan Vong blood and bleeding from several cuts of her own, she suddenly found herself back to back with the tracker. He was all that remained of the six who had initially been following her, but there remained only three warriors.

  For a moment, they stood like that. The warriors backed away a bit. The leader was massive. His ears were cut into fractal patterns; great trenchlike scars stood on his cheeks.

  “I’ve heard of you, abomination,” he snarled. “The one-who-was-shaped. Is it true what they say? These pathetic maw luur excretions worship you?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Tahiri said. “But I know when I see a dishonorable fight. They were not only outnumbered, but poorly armed. How can you call yourselves warriors, to attack in such a way?”

  “They are Shamed Ones,” the warrior sneered back. “They are outside honor. They are worse than infidels; they are heretic traitors, not to be fought but to be exterminated.”

  “You fear us,” the tracker rasped. “You fear us because we know the truth. You lap at Shimrra’s feet, yet Shimrra is the true heretic. See how this Jeedai has laid you low. The gods favor her, not you.”

  “If the gods favor her, they do not favor you,” the warrior snapped.

  “They are delaying us,” the tracker told Tahiri. She noticed he had blood on his lips. “They delay us while another tsik vai arrives.”

  “Quiet, heretic,” the war leader bellowed, “and you may yet live to snivel a little longer. There are questions we would ask of you.” His expression softened. “Renounce your heresy. This Jeedai is a great prize. Help us win her, and perhaps the gods will forgive you and grant you an honorable death.”

  “No death is more honorable than dying by the side of a Jeedai,” the tracker answered. “Vua Rapuung proved that.”

  “Vua Rapuung,” the warrior all but spat. “That story is a heretic’s lie. Vua Rapuung died in disgrace.”

  For answer the Shamed One suddenly bolted forward, so quickly he took the leader by surprise, bowling into him before he could raise his weapon. The other two turned to help, but Tahiri danced forward, feinting at the knee and then cutting high through the warrior’s throat when he dropped his guard to parry. She exchanged a flurry of blows with the second, though it ended the same, with the warrior flopping lifeless to the ground.

  She turned to find the tracker impaling the leader with his own amphistaff. For a moment they stared at each other, the Shamed One and she. Then the Yuuzhan Vong suddenly dropped to his knees.

  “I prayed it was you!” he said.

  Tahiri opened her mouth, but heard the stir of treetops that could only be another flier arriving.

  “Come on,” she said. “We can’t stay here.”

  The warrior nodded and bounded to his feet. Together they ran from the clearing.

  An hour or so later, Tahiri finally halted. The fliers seemed to have lost them for the time being, and the tracker had been gradually dropping behind. Now he staggered against a tree and slid to the ground.

  “A little farther,” she said. “Just over here.”

  “My legs will no longer bear me,” the tracker said. “You must leave me for the time being.”

  “Just under this shelf of stone,” she said. “Please. It may hide us from the fliers if they sweep here.”

  He nodded wearily. She saw he was clutching his side, and that blood covered his flank.

  They scooted up beneath the overhang.

  “Let me see that,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I must speak to you first,” he said.

  “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

  His eyes widened. “No!” he said, so vehemently that blood sputtered from between his lips. Then, more quietly, “No. We thieved a ship from an intendant and came here to find the world of prophecy. We saw you land—is this the place, one-who-was-shaped? Is this the world the Prophet saw?”

  “I’m sorry,” Tahiri said. “I don’t know what you mean. This is Dagobah. I came here for … personal reasons.”

  “But it cannot be coincidence,” the tracker said. “It cannot.”

  “Please,” Tahiri said. “Let me see your wound. I know a little about healing. Maybe I can—”

  “I am dead already,” the tracker gruffed. “I know this. But I must know if I have failed.”

  Tahiri shook her head helplessly.

  The tracker straightened a bit, and his voice strengthened. “I am Hul Qat, once a hunter. Or I was, until the gods seemed to reject me. I was stripped of my title, my clan. I was Shamed. My implants festered and my scars opened like wounds. I gave up hope and waited for dishonorable death. But then I heard the word of the Prophet, and of the Jeedai Anakin—”

  “Anakin,” Tahiri whispered. The name twisted a blade in her.

  “Yes, and you, whom Mezhan Kwaad shaped. And Vua Rapuung who fought—you were there, were you not?”

  A deep chill ran through Tahiri. She had been Riina, then, and Tahiri, and she had nearly killed Anakin.

  “I was there.”

  “Then you know. You know our redemption belongs with you. And now the Prophet has seen a world, a world where there are no Shamed Ones because it will redeem us, where the true way can be—” He coughed violently and slumped again, and for an instant Tahiri thought he was already dead. But then his eyes turned toward her.

  “My companions and I wanted to find the planet for our Prophet. One of us, Kuhqo, had been a shaper. He used a genetic slicer to get access to an executor’s qahsa and steal its secrets. He found intelligence gathered about the Jeedai, and evidence that there was some connection between you and this world. Some of your greatest came here, yes? And now you. And so please, tell me. Have I found it?”

  He shuddered, and his eyes rolled. “Have I?” he begged again, so weakly this time it might have been no more than a breath.

  Tahiri reached out and took his hand. “Yes,” she lied, not even knowing exactly what lie she was telling. “Yes, you’re right. You found it. Don’t worry about anything now.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “You must help me,”
he said. “I cannot take the news myself. The Prophet must know where this world is.”

  “I will do it,” Tahiri said.

  This time she was not lying.

  Hul Qat closed his eyes, and even without using the Force, Tahiri felt him leave.

  Tahiri glanced at the opening of the cave, so near, and she knew that was not what she had come for at all. This was why she had come. The Force had brought her here, to meet this man, to make this promise.

  She rose. The fliers would find her if she remained still for too long. She hoped they hadn’t discovered her ship yet, but figured the odds were against it, since they hadn’t been looking for her and she had concealed it pretty well. Even so, she might have a little trouble getting out of the system, depending on how many and what sort of ships were orbiting overhead.

  It didn’t matter, though. She had a promise to keep.

  Even if she could figure out exactly what she had promised.

  TWO

  The port shields of Mon Mothma collapsed and plasma punched through the hull like a fist through flimsiplast. At the point of impact, matter became ions, and supersonic droplets of molten hull metal sleeted through the next four decks, arriving before the sound or vibration of impact, shredding the frail life-forms within before their nervous systems had time to register anything amiss. Behind that came a shock wave of superheated air expanding with such fury that blast shields bent and warped, and the wave-front swept the decks end to end, searing everything in its path. Two hundred sentient beings winked out in an instant, and a hundred more in marginal areas fell—perforated, burned, or both.

  Then, like a giant taking back its breath, space sucked everything out through the gaping hole, leaving vacuum behind, and quiet.

  At the helm of the Star Destroyer, it was far from quiet. Claxons blared and panicked young officers stuttered through emergency procedures. Simulated gravity vanished, and someone shrieked.

  Wedge Antilles closed his eyes as the illusion of weight faded and reasserted itself.

  I’m so tired of this, he thought.

  He opened his eyes to a barrage of smaller plasma blasts aimed directly, it seemed, at his face as a squadron of Yuuzhan Vong coralskippers made a run straight at the bridge. Turbolasers flared three of them into debris. The rest peeled away at the last instant to avoid impacting the still-functioning bridge shields.

  Wedge didn’t even blink. The skips weren’t their problem right now. That would be the Yuuzhan Vong Dreadnaught analog that had just popped into existence and blasted a hole in their side.

  “Twenty degrees starboard and twelve above horizon,” Wedge commanded. “Now. Commence firing.”

  He swung on the lieutenant at tactical. “What else has joined our little party?” he demanded.

  “Four frigate analogs, sir,” the lieutenant told him. “Coralskippers—we’re not sure how many flights, yet. And of course, the Dreadnaught. Sir, I’d say the Yuuzhan Vong reinforcements have arrived.”

  “Yes. We’ll wait a bit to see if there are any more. Tell Memory of Ithor to watch our wounded flank. We’ll have to slug this out.”

  His whole body itched at the prospect. In his heart and in the caves of his reflexes, Wedge was a starfighter pilot. Sure, capital ships had firepower, but they were so slow maneuvering. He’d feel a lot better in an X-wing.

  He’d feel better without the weight of dead crew on his shoulders. Losing a wingmate was hard enough. Losing two hundred …

  But he wasn’t in an X-wing, and when he’d come out of retirement as a general, he’d known what he was getting himself into. So he watched, lips pursed, as the monstrous ovoid of a ship swung into view, as the Mothma’s turbolasers razoring toward yorik coral returned blossoms of plasma. Most of the lasers arrowed straight, then abruptly curved into sharp hooks and vanished as the tiny singularities the Yuuzhan Vong vessel projected pulled the light into them. About every third beam went through, however, scribbling glowing red lines in the coral hull.

  “Sir, the Memory is unable to come to our aid. She’s engaged with one of the frigates, and she’s taking quite a beating.”

  “Well, get somebody there. We can’t let them hit us in that flank again.”

  The controller looked up from his station. “Sir, Duro Squadron is requesting the honor of protecting our flank.”

  Wedge hesitated infinitesimally. Duro Squadron was a bit of a wild card, a collection of pilots—some with military experience, some without—dedicated to the liberation of their home system.

  The fact that it was precisely that system they were fighting in right now could be a problem, for various reasons.

  But it didn’t look like he had any other choice.

  “Tell them yes, without our thanks,” Wedge said.

  “Three more ships just reverted, sir,” Lieutenant Cel informed him, a catch in her voice that might be the start of panic.

  “That’s it,” Wedge said. “Or it had better be. Get me General Bel Iblis.”

  A moment later, a hologram of the aging general appeared.

  “The reinforcements are here,” Wedge told him. “Listening posts have them coming through the Corellian Trade Spine, so they’re most likely our buddies.”

  “Is it too many to handle, General Antilles?” Bel Iblis asked.

  “I hope not, sir. Is your force ready?”

  “We’re on our way. Good luck, General.”

  “And to you.”

  The image vanished. Wedge set his mouth grimly, watching the battle reports.

  They had already spent a standard day in heavy fighting, driving through the outer defenses of the Duro system in a matter of hours. The inner system had put up more of a fight, but they’d been close to mopping up when Yuuzhan Vong reinforcements arrived.

  Wedge had been expecting the reinforcements—counting on them, really—but they’d hit hard and fast. A reassessment of the situation put the odds marginally in favor of the Yuuzhan Vong, which again was no surprise.

  It was also okay—they hadn’t come here to win, but they couldn’t leave yet, either.

  “Prepare interdiction,” Wedge said.

  Four more Yuuzhan Vong frigates jumped into the Duro system, changing the odds yet again.

  “Sir?”

  “Interdict,” he said.

  The great ship’s gravity-well generators came on-line, as did those of Memory of Ithor and Olovin.

  Positioned as they were around the Yuuzhan Vong force, they would prevent the Vong from leaving the system, at least until the interdiction perimeter was reduced to dust.

  Of course, none of the Galactic Alliance ships could leave, either.

  “Break off the attack and form up in containment positions,” Wedge said calmly. “I don’t want any of those ships reaching hyperspace.”

  “What about Duro, sir?” Cel asked.

  “Duro is no longer our concern, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cel said, clearly baffled.

  Good. If his own people were confused, hopefully the Vong were more so.

  The Alliance ships broke off their push toward the planet and retreated into a broad hemisphere, putting the Yuuzhan Vong fleet with the planet at its back, handing them back the defensive advantage that Wedge’s earlier push had taken from them, but also trapping them more securely in the system.

  “Hold the line,” Wedge commanded. “We stick here.”

  Spreading the battle group so thinly gave the Yuuzhan Vong an obvious advantage, but the Vong ships seemed to hesitate, perhaps suspecting another of the traps they had been so often led into lately.

  Still, caution was not natural to the Yuuzhan Vong, and they now clearly had the advantage in numbers. Several destroyers began forming up for an assault on the wall the Galactic Alliance had built.

  “Do they have any interdictors of their own?” Wedge asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, Commander Yurf Col is requesting communication.”

>   Wedge repressed a sigh. “Put him on.”

  A moment later a holo of the Duros commander appeared. His flat face was unreadable in terms of human expression, but Wedge had enough experience with Duros to know he was radiating a cold fury.

  “Commander,” Wedge said, nodding.

  The Duros came bluntly to the point.

  “What in the space lanes are you up to, General Antilles? I’ve lost good pilots today, and now it appears you’ve given up our target.”

  “I’m sure you are as aware of the situation as I am, Commander,” Wedge said. “The reinforcements make further assaults untenable.”

  “Then why are you interdicting? That makes no sense. I happen to know that we have twice as many ships in reserve. Summon them, and let’s finish this.”

  Patience, Wedge thought.

  “Perhaps you aren’t aware that the Yuuzhan Vong have means of tapping our communications,” he said mildly.

  “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that you might have just passed on important intelligence to the enemy.”

  “If we obliterate that enemy, what they learn will be of little consequence. I don’t know why you want to hold them here. They still don’t have a decisive advantage—we can win this, if we attack instead of—whatever you’re doing. And with a few reinforcements, we could certainly prevail.”

  “Commander, I understand this is your home system. I understand that for you, this fight is personal. That is, in fact, one of the many reasons I am in charge of this operation and you are not. You agreed to fight under my command, and you will do so. Do you understand?”

  “I understand you have bungled this from the start. We could have won in the first few hours if you had followed my advice.”

  “That is your opinion,” Wedge replied. “It is not mine, and mine is the one that counts right now.”