The Final Prophecy (6 page)

“True,” Nen Yim agreed. “And parts of its structure are not alive. But—”

“Then it is an infidel thing!” Shimrra thundered. “It is
nothing
like our ships.”

Nen Yim actually reeled at the force of the statement, and for a moment she stood paralyzed, unable to think. To contradict Shimrra—

She drew her strength back to her core. “That is so, Dread One,” she admitted. “As it is, it is an abomination. And yet, at its heart the biotechnology is similar to our own. The infidel engines, for instance, could be withdrawn and replaced with dovin basals. The living structure of one of our own vessels could have such a ship grown around it. This biotechnology is compatible with our own.”

“Compatible?” Shimrra growled. “Are you saying that this is one of our ships, somehow transfigured by the infidels?”

“No,” Nen Yim replied. “In outward form, this thing is very different from our vessels. The hull is not yorik coral. The architectures of our ships were derived from various creatures of the homeworld, and those structures can still be recognized in their design. The alien technology is different. It begins with relatively undifferentiated organisms that specialize as the ship grows. I suspect that some sort of manipulation is involved in the ontological process to guide the final outcome. That is why they used a rigid frame to grow the ship around—developmentally, it had no internal code to produce such a structure on its own.”

“And yet you still maintain it is similar to our gods-given ships?”

“At the most basic level, yes. Cellularly. Molecularly. And that is the most
unlikely
level at which we should expect to find resemblance.”

“Again. Could the infidels have stolen our technology and distorted it?”

“It’s possible. But according to the qahsa, the planet of its origin is itself a living organism—”

“That is a lie,” Shimrra said. “It is a lie because it is impossible. Ekh’m Val was deluded. He was duped by the infidels.”

Nen Yim hesitated at that, but could not directly dispute it even if she wanted to.

Instead, she took another approach.

“I’m relieved to hear this,” she said. “I thought the tale unlikely myself.” She drew herself straighter. “Still, there is nothing in the protocols that could account for a ship like this, nor do I think this technology is a result of the manipulation of our technology. It is both alien and similar to our own.”

Shimrra was silent for a moment. Then his voice came again, leashed terror.

“It is not superior.”

“No, Dread Lord. Just different.”

“Of course. And you can develop weapons against it?”

“I can. Indeed, Lord, there are already weapons in the protocols that would be most effective against technology of this sort. Oddly, they are weapons we have never built or had use for.”

“As if the gods anticipated this necessity.”

Nen Yim tried to keep her thoughts quiet.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Excellent. You will assign a team to develop these weapons immediately. And you will continue to study the ship.”

“It would be helpful, Great Lord, if I had other examples of the technology.”

“No such exists. The planet was destroyed. You have all that remains.”

Then why do you want weapons against …
Nen Yim started to think, but savagely cut herself off.

“Yes, Supreme Overlord.”

With a wave of his massive hand, Shimrra dismissed her.

    A cycle later, Nen Yim settled onto a sitting hummock in her private hortium and regarded Ahsi Yim. The younger shaper was narrower in every dimension than Nen Yim, and her blue-gray flesh had an opalescent sheen about it. Her attentive eyes were a rare shade of bronze.

Her master’s hand was very new, but they were peers.

“What brought you to the heresy, Ahsi Yim?” she asked softly.

The other master considered this quietly for a moment. The fine silver tendrils of lim trees groped feebly about the room in search of sustenance. Plants from the homeworld with no obvious use, Nen Yim had resurrected them from genetic patterns in the Qang qahsa. They pleased her.

“I worked on the changing of Duro,” she said at last. “On the surface of things, on the record, we worked strictly by the protocols. And yet, often the protocols were not suitable. They were not sufficiently flexible for what needed to be done. Some of us—did what was necessary. Later I was assigned here, to Yuuzhan’tar, where so
much
went wrong. The strange itching plague—well. The masters there were very orthodox. I saw the shortcomings of that. At the same time, I saw evidence of the infidels’ ability to adapt, to change their abominable technology not just in small ways, but in large ones. I determined that in time, because of this, they must ultimately triumph unless we did the same. So I practiced heresy.”

“And were discovered. You would have been sacrificed to the gods if I had not had you brought here.”

“I serve my people,” Ahsi Yim said. “The protocols do not. I would die for that.”

“So would I,” Nen Yim said. “And so I risk both of our lives once more. Do you understand?”

Ahsi Yim did not blink. “Yes.”

“You may have heard that the Supreme Overlord brought me something to examine.”

“Yes.” Eagerness showed in Ahsi Yim’s eyes.

“It is a ship,” Nen Yim said, “a ship based on a biotechnology much like ours. The phenotype is radically different, but the genotype is similar. More similar than anything in this galaxy thus far. And the protocols have in them certain weapons that seem designed peculiarly well to deal with it. Shimrra claims the gods must have anticipated our need. What do you think?”

Again, that long moment of consideration, but this time accompanied by an excited writhing of tendrils on her headdress.

“I think that is not true,” Ahsi said softly. “The protocols have not changed in hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. They have not ‘anticipated’ anything else in this galaxy. Why should they anticipate this?”

“Perhaps nothing else here required the intervention of the gods.”

Ahsi made a dismissive motion. “There is much here we could have used the help of the gods with. The
Jeedai
, for instance. And yet there is nothing in the protocols that even hints of them.”

Nen Yim nodded. “I grant I believe as you do. Then what explanation do you offer?”

“Our ancestors met this technology in the past. We battled against it, and the weapons from that battle remain in the Qang qahsa.”

“And yet no record of any such event exists.”

Ahsi Yim smiled faintly. “Even the Qang qahsa can be made to forget. More recent events have been elided. Have you ever tried to learn of Shimrra’s ascension to Supreme Overlord?”

“Yes,” Nen Yim replied.

“The record of
that
seems implausibly thin.”

Nen Yim shrugged. “I agree that records can be erased. But why erase knowledge of a threat?”

“You think this ship a threat?”

“Oh, yes. Shall I tell you a tale?”

“I would be honored.”

“I have in my possession the personal qahsa of Ekh’m Val, the commander who brought this ship to Lord Shimrra. He was sent years ago to explore the galaxy. He came across a planet named Zonama Sekot.”

Ahsi Yim’s eyes narrowed.

“What? This means something to you?”

“No,” she said. “But the name disturbs me.”

Nen Yim nodded agreement. “Ekh’m Val said the planet itself was alive, its life-forms symbiotic, as if shaped to live together.”

“They shape life as we do?”

“They shape life, yes. Not as we do. And the sentient race there is nothing like Yuuzhan Vong—indeed, from the records, I think they must be a race native to this galaxy—Ferroans.”

“Then I retract my earlier statement. Our ancestors can hardly have met this world before.”

“It seems unlikely. And yet, at the same time, it seems the only possible answer to the puzzle.”

“What happened to Commander Val?”

“He was attacked and repelled, but he managed to capture the ship before leaving the system.”

“And the planet?”

“Shimrra claims it has been destroyed.”

“You do not believe him?”

“No. I’ve been asked to create weapons that might affect it. Why should I do that if the danger has passed?”

“Perhaps he fears there are more such worlds.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps he merely fears.”

“What?”

“If we
have
met this race before, and fought them—perhaps they remember it better than we. If we have the key to attacking their biotechnology, perhaps they have the key to ours as well. Ekh’m Val was defeated, after all.”

“A few ships against a world.”

Nen Yim smiled thinly. “Tell me—what sort of memory do you think our glorious ancestors are more likely to have purged from the Qang qahsa? A glorious victory or an ignominious defeat?”

Ahsi Yim pursed her lips. “Ah,” she said. “And you think Shimrra knows something we do not.”

“I think he knows many things we do not.”

Ahsi Yim’s tendrils curled in agreement. Then she leveled her liquid gaze directly at Nen Yim. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Nen Yim replied, “I think you know things I do not. Have connections that I do not.”

“What sort of things?” she asked, stiffly.

“For one, I think you have heard of Ekh’m Val before.”

A long silence, this time. “Are you asking something of me?” she said at last.

“If this planet exists, I must see it for myself. The ship alone is not enough. I must know more.”

“Why?”

“Because I think if I do not, our species is doomed.”

Ahsi pursed her lips. Her tendrils knotted and waved. “I can promise nothing,” she said, “but I will see what can be done.”

From the bridge of
Yammka
, Nas Choka surveyed the ruins of the occupation forces from Fondor. They weren’t much to look at.

He turned slowly to face Zhat Lah.

“How did this happen?” he asked. His voice was low, pitched only for the commander.

“Duro was attacked, Warmaster, as our intelligence suggested it would be. The executor there requested reinforcements. My men were hungry for battle, and I complied.” His eyes narrowed. “Then they came. I recalled the ships when I understood the ploy, but they were prevented from leaving the Duro system by their interdictors. The infidels kept our forces pinned in the planet’s gravity well and then
fled
. They are cowards!”

“Are you telling me cowards took the system you were entrusted with from you? You were beaten by cowards?”

“Warmaster, we were outnumbered. We fought until there was no hope.”

“No hope?” Nas Choka asked, in scathing tones. “You were yet alive, and had ships, and say there was no hope? Are you Yuuzhan Vong?”

“I am Yuuzhan Vong,” Zhat Lah growled.

“Then why did you not fight to the last? Might you not have taken a few more of their ships with you to the gods?”

“A few, Warmaster.”

“Then why did you flee? Where is the honor in that?”

Zhat Lah’s split lips twitched. “If the warmaster wishes my life, it is his to give to the gods.”

“Of course. But I asked you for an explanation.”

“I thought our remaining ships might serve better than to be cut to pieces in a battle we could not win.”

“Did you?” Nas Choka asked. “You had no thought for your own life?”

“My life belongs to the gods. They may take it as they will. I do not flinch from death. If the warmaster wishes me to take my personal coralskipper back to Fondor, I will die in battle. But given the numbers, the rest of my ships would have been destroyed with relatively little damage done to the enemy. If this was wrong, the responsibility is mine. My men own none of it.”

Nas Choka looked back out at the wreckage.

“Two frigates, all but undamaged. A battle cruiser with only minimal damage.” He turned to Lah. “You did well,” he said.

The commander’s eyes widened fractionally with surprise.

“We have spread ourselves too much, over too many star systems,” Nas Choka said. “We have lost too many ships because too many commanders have no more sense of strategy than to fight to the death.”

He clasped his hand behind him and regarded Lah. “We have the late leader of your domain to thank for this situation.”

“Warmaster Lah conquered most of this galaxy,” Zhat Lah protested. “He gave us their capital, now our Yuuzhan’tar.”

“Yes, and he spent warriors like so much vlekin doing so, and gave little thought as to how we would
hold
such vast territories.” He waved his hand. “Things are changing, Zhat Lah. Things
must
change. The infidels have adapted. They have undermined many of our strengths, but we have
undermined ourselves even more. The pride of our warriors weakens us.”

“But the pride of our warriors is what we are,” Zhat Lah protested. “Without our pride, without our honor, we are as the infidels.”

“And yet you retreated because you thought it best.”

“Yes, Warlord,” he replied, his tone finally subdued. “But it was not … 
easy
. I take the stain on myself, yet there is a stain.”

“Listen to me,” Nas Choka said. “We are the Yuuzhan Vong. We have been entrusted with the true way, the true knowledge of the gods. Our duty is to bring every infidel in this galaxy to heel and either send them screaming to the gods or bring them to the true path. There is no middle ground, there is no faltering. And there can be no failure. Our mission is more important than you or me, Commander, and it is more important than your honor or mine. Lord Shimrra himself has said it. And so, feel no stain. To win this war, we must set aside much we cherish. The gods ordain the sacrifice. We are blameless. We are those who do what must be done. And so I tell you again—you did the right thing.”

Lah nodded, understanding lighting behind his eyes.

“Now,” Choka went on, “these tactics—these feints and sudden withdrawals, these
strike-here-and-hide-there
maneuvers—what enables this? The infidels have no yammosk to coordinate their movements.”

“They have communications, Warlord. Their HoloNet allows them to communicate instantaneously over the breadth of the galaxy.”