Reunion (20 page)

Is this what you would have done, Jaina
? he wondered.
Would you have gone this far
?

He kept on firing until his laser cannons threatened to melt and his shields were on the verge of collapse. In case he needed those systems on the way out, he rested them while he rotated his fighter around its center of gravity and prepared to retrace his steps. The view behind was the same as in front: nothing but boiling debris and the red-hot outlines of load-bearing structures, now deformed and sagging. A shudder rolled through the corvette, but he couldn’t tell if it was a result of his actions or from elsewhere. For all he knew, the ship might have been on the brink of exploding, or it could have simply been changing course.

Gunning his engines and keeping a close eye on the instruments, he powered his way back through the burning ship. Occasionally, great clumps of anti-reactant foam clogged his path, and he was forced to burn his way through, starting new fires in the process.

As he neared the outer hull, he picked up the speed. The impact site of the gunship wreckage gave him more room to maneuver, and a greater feeling of exposure, too. Inside, he’d been relatively safe. Once outside again, he would come under the targeting system of every weapon on the corvette’s hull—along with the targeting reticles of every skip within firing distance. The faster he came out, the better.

White heat faded to blue streaked with yellow, then orange, and finally red. Then abruptly there was nothing ahead of him but stars. He put his shields to maximum behind him and pushed the throttle as far as it would go. Burned black from nose to stern, his starfighter shot out of the burning ship like a particle discharged from the business end of a charric. He fought to keep his damaged stabilizers under control and ignored a blast of noise
from his comm. Until he was certain he had his clawcraft under control, he didn’t have time to look around.

When he did, he was amazed to find that his plan appeared to have worked. The corvette was in serious trouble, burning in too many places to count and looking like it could break up at any moment. Dozens of Imperial fighters were pounding it without relief. Nearby, the cruiser was coming under similar attack. The places where the gunship fragments had hit were targets for repeated combat runs, leaving them gaping and vulnerable. The holes vented gases and bodies in huge clouds, making navigation dangerous for Yuuzhan Vong and Imperial alike. Any chance of the northern flank becoming a focus for resistance now seemed very remote.

“Jag! You made it!”

The greeting burst out of his comm like a miniature explosion, closely followed by an X-wing swooping in from his right.

“Nice to hear your voice, Enton,” he replied. “How’s everything out here?”

“Much improved now, sir.” This came from Twin Sun Four, settling into position off his port side. “I think you’ve shown those Imps a thing or two.”

I certainly hope so
, he thought as he continued to guide his battered starfighter out of the thick of things.

“Congratulations on a job well done, Colonel Fel.” The voice of the Grand Admiral from the comm broke across his thoughts. “Consider me … surprised.”

“I hope I managed to make a difference, sir.”

“Oh, that you did,” the Grand Admiral said. “It’s becoming obvious that neither we nor the Yuuzhan Vong are going to control the planet. I’d expect a stalemate to form anytime now: us on one side, them on the other. I doubt that anyone will be getting any closer than low orbit. That should allow the ground crew time to find the base, at least.”

“Have we heard anything from them, sir?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Pellaeon said. “Although you might want to check with Captain Mayn. Tell her that if there’s anything I need to hear, she knows where to find me.”

Jag frowned, sensing something in Pellaeon’s tone but not sure what it was—and certain it wasn’t any of his business. “I’ll contact her immediately, sir.”

“I’d consider doing more than that,” the admiral said. “You’re going to need more than just a wire brush to get rid of that scoring.”

Jag smiled as he turned his clawcraft around for
Pride of Selonia
. He had no idea how badly crisped he’d gotten inside the gunship and the cruiser, but if the admiral had taken time to comment on it, it must be bad.

He checked in with Captain Mayn, who ordered him back in no uncertain terms. There was a heavy strain in her voice, as though she was deeply worried about something.

“We haven’t heard from the
Falcon
,” she explained when he asked. “A garbled transmission came through a short time ago, but we couldn’t decipher it. We suspect the Yuuzhan Vong are jamming transmissions from the surface.”

“That’s not good,” Jag said. “They could be calling for help. Is there any way we can get down there?”

“No. And don’t even think about trying, Colonel. You’re not going anywhere until we check out your ship.”

“Don’t worry, Captain,” he said. “I think one crazy stunt is enough for one day.”

As he arced around the
Selonia
and moved into position to dock, he asked the question that had been on his mind since he’d emerged from the belly of the alien corvette.

“Captain, is Jaina there?”

There was a long pause. When Mayn returned, her voice was more strained than ever, and Jag knew that this was the source of the woman’s anxiety.

“It might be easier to talk about that when you dock,” Mayn said.

Jag felt an icy nausea squeeze his stomach. “Is something wrong?”

“To be honest, Colonel, we don’t
know
. None of us here is a Jedi, so we have no idea if her condition is normal or not.”

“
What
condition?”

Even over the crackling comm, he heard Captain Mayn take a deep breath. “She’s unconscious; possibly in a coma, Dantos says. We don’t know exactly when it happened, and we don’t know when she’s likely to snap out of it—if she snaps out of it at all. I’m sorry, Colonel; I wish I could offer you better news. But the fact is, we just can’t reach her.”

We can’t reach her
. Captain Mayn’s words seemed to echo in Jag’s ears. As he jockeyed his clawcraft around to the docking bays, he asked, “When did this happen? Where did you find her?”

“In Tahiri’s room,” Mayn answered. “She’s been like that since we arrived.”

Jag nodded, his jaw tightening. He’d known the answer before asking the question. That didn’t make hearing it any better, though.

He gripped the controls of his clawcraft tightly as he carefully brought it in to dock, even though his every instinct urged him to hurry.

“Are you still there, Colonel?” he heard Mayn ask after a few seconds.

But he didn’t have time to reply; he was too busy clambering from his cockpit. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he was running through the corridors, heading for Tahiri’s room.

*  *  *

The area surrounding Shimrra’s palace had undergone considerable change since Nom Anor’s expulsion. Bio-engineered life-forms extruded from the walls, floors, and ceilings of buildings as they slowly ate their way through the lifeless constructs of the planet’s previous occupants, fashioning them into immense new extensions to house the Supreme Overlord’s vast number of servants, executors, and other support staff.

There was no mistaking the palace itself. A worldship standing on one end, it rose like a majestic mountain from the ruins of the old world. It was a thing of awesome beauty and intimidating splendor with its mighty rainbow-edged wings stretching out across Yuuzhan’tar for all to see.

The exterior of the inner sanctum, Shimrra’s private chambers, had been heavily decorated with slender, curving spikes that reached for the sky as though to snatch at the clouds. The number of entrances had been reduced—possibly in response to failed attempts by the heresy to get inside—and each one was now protected by heavy security.

Still, the priestess Ngaaluh had no difficulty smuggling a villip inside, with which to spy on proceedings. Cleverly incorporated into elaborate robes and ornamentation, it saw what was taking place with perfect clarity. Nom Anor, on the receiving end of its transmissions, saw, too.

A full court had gathered to hear the priestess’s report on the Vishtu region. Nom Anor recognized many of the faces gathered before the Supreme Overlord. Many were ones he had himself served with. The others were recent additions, replacements for those lost in action or killed for failing their master. They watched proceedings with keen, cautious eyes, knowing that opportunities for
advancement would be frequent in such an environment, but that risks were concomitantly high.

Then, of course, there was Lord Shimrra himself. Nom Anor felt an immediate adrenaline rush the moment his eyes fell upon the Supreme Overlord. It was easy to forget, when bathed in the rhetoric of the heresy, how striking Shimrra was—how gloriously
wrathful
. Every fiber of Shimrra’s being screamed out in torment, tortured by the very garments he wore. He radiated psychic distress on every frequency—yet beneath that there burned a cold, implacable surety of purpose. He was like a natural force whose very presence demanded attention, and it took all of Nom Anor’s will just to lower his gaze.

“…  resources provided by Prefect Ash’ett proved barely adequate for my investigation.” Ngaaluh’s report droned on, giving details in abundance, but offering no real information. “I was forced to procure my own means. And what I found was disturbing to an extreme. Numerous cells of heretic movements have formed in the consul’s staff at all levels of seniority. It is clear, Great Lord, that the situation warrants serious scrutiny.”

A flurry of whispers circulated around the throne room. High Prefect Drathul looked particularly concerned. As head of the intendant caste on Yuuzhan’tar, Prefect Ash’ett fell under his governance. Any stain on Vishtu would inevitably reflect on him.

“I find this disturbing,” Shimrra rumbled from on high. His grotesquely magnificent throne towered over the penitents gathered before him, yet he did not seem dwarfed by it. Darkness and power radiated from him in waves. “Once again, Ngaaluh, you display unflinching bravery in bringing such news to my attention.”

Another whisper; the Supreme Overlord had killed many underlings for delivering better news.

The priestess bowed low, unfazed. “It is my duty, Great One. I do not shirk from it.”

“You have evidence, I presume?”

Ngaaluh snapped her fingers. Guards brought forth five prisoners in cages made of coral and sinew that formed a natural shell, through which numerous perforations admitted air. The cages unfolded with a gentle pressure on the outer spinal ridge, and the five prisoners tumbled out. They whimpered and cried as they struggled awkwardly to their knees, but none of them pleaded for mercy.

“These were apprehended in the act of spreading the word of the Prophet,” Ngaaluh explained, perfectly truthfully. “They all work for Prefect Ash’ett.”

The prisoners were pushed facedown onto the floor by Shimrra’s swarthy bodyguards. They squirmed and wriggled, but were unable to escape. Bound by blorash jelly at wrists and ankles, the deformed creatures looked hideous in the face of Shimrra’s imperial perfection. Everything the Supreme Overlord had, the prisoners lacked. There was beauty in pain and ugliness; Nom Anor had forgotten just how splendid it could be.

“You,” Shimrra said, gesturing at one of the prisoners at random with a single long, clawed finger. “Are you a servant of the
Jeedai
?”

“With every breath,” the prisoner gasped, knowing he was sealing his death sentence with those words. His eyes were wild with hatred and rebellion, but trembling limbs betrayed his fear.

“You do not fear the gods, then.”

“No.”

“Do you fear me?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Our freedom and our honor!”

The court hissed to hear the heresy spoken so brazenly in the very heart of the Yuuzhan Vong empire. All, including Nom Anor, expected Shimrra to enact an immediate and terrible revenge on the source of such a foul
challenge—but the Supreme Overlord, as he so often did, surprised them all.

“Interesting.” Shimrra’s voice was measured, almost bored, as though they were discussing nothing more than fleet movements in a distant part of the galaxy. “It is as you have stated it, Ngaaluh. Tell me, do the
Jeedai
instruct these heretics personally, or do they direct them through another?”

The prisoner interrupted before Ngaaluh could answer. “I obey my conscience; I obey the Prophet!”

Nom Anor cursed. That wasn’t what the fool was supposed to say!

“My personal opinion is that Ash’ett is involved,” the priestess said, recovering quickly and getting the correct message across.

“But you have no
direct
evidence?”

“In time, I will provide it.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Shimrra turned his attention back to the prisoners. “Throw them to the yargh’un pit. Their screams of torment will provide a pleasing ambience during my communion with the gods. And while you’re about it, bring me Prefect Ash’ett.”

“It would be good to hear his side of the story, Lord,” High Prefect Drathul said as the heretics were dragged away. “I am certain that he can prove his innocence. He is a loyal and faithful servant—”

Shimrra silenced him with a gesture. “Whether Prefect Ash’ett is corrupt or not,” he said, “the fact is that he has allowed the heresy a foothold in his affairs. That is not acceptable. He must be reminded of the consequences of laxity—as must everyone in a position of responsibility. I want every member of his immediate family executed in the yargh’un pit. If they offer resistance, execute everyone in his entire domain and install another in Vishtu sector. A confession will not be required; suspicion alone
is enough. This is the price of laxity that all will suffer if the heresy is not wiped out.”

The orders provoked gasps from the audience. Its severity was extreme, even for Shimrra. Prefect Drathul’s face went a sickly shade of gray, Warmaster Nas Choka grinned a predator’s smile at the fate of the intendants he despised, and Nom Anor, far away, cackled gleefully.