ELEVEN

“We’re going to come out of this in one piece, right?” Judder Page asked as Han was returning to the cockpit.

In the adjacent chair, Pash Cracken repressed a smile.

Millennium Falcon had been in hyperspace for just under five standard hours, most of which Han had spent elsewhere in the freighter, evaluating the extent of the damage and checking on the passengers, who were crammed into every available cabin space.

Han looked from Page to Cracken to Leia, who had remained in the copilot’s chair throughout the lightspeed transit. “Didn’t you tell them everything would be fine?”

She shrugged. “Maybe they don’t trust me.”

Han strapped into the pilot’s chair and swiveled to the two Alliance officers. “You can trust whatever she says.”

Page grinned. “Well, that’s just it, Han. She told us to ask you.”

Han frowned at Leia. “Maybe it’s time we reviewed our roles aboard this ship. I do the piloting. You reassure the passengers that the pilot always knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course, Captain,” Leia said. “Might I tell the passengers exactly where we’re headed?”

Han swung to the navicomputer display. “Unless we took a wrong turn at the last nebula, we should be coming up on Caluula any minute now.”

Leia stared at him. “Caluula? In the Tion Hegemony? Could you have picked a more out-of-the-way planet?”

“Hey, I got us away from those Vong skips, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“I had to make a judgment call.” Han continued to make adjustments on the console and overhead instrument panels.

Leia eyed the lubricant smears on his hands, and a small bump that was forming on his right temple. “Everything go all right in the back?” she asked quietly while Cracken and Page were engaged in a separate conversation. “I thought I heard some cursing.”

“That must have been Threepio,” Han mumbled.

“He never was good with tools—”

“Coming out of hyperspace,” Han interrupted, reaching forward to prime the sublight drives and ready the subspace transceiver.

The starlines sharpened to points of light, and the starfield rotated slightly. The ion drives flared to life with a deafening whoomp! and the ship began to lurch and hiccup. From aft came the sound of stressed alloy, then an indistinct severing as if some component had been torn away.

“What was that?” Leia asked.

“Just another piece of us,” Han said flatly. “Nothing important … I hope.”

A distant object grew larger in the viewport, slowly defining itself as a linear array of geometric modules, linked by girderlike structural members and transparent tubular passageways. Docking berths extended from each module, many of them housing ion cannons and turbolasers in place of ships. Sprouting like a faceted mushroom cap from the center of the array was an enormous shield generator.

Han relaxed into his chair. “A thing of beauty if I ever saw one.”

“Looks awfully beat up,” Leia said dubiously.

Han straightened somewhat. “Yeah, now that you mention it. But the last time I passed through here the station was stocked with aftermarket parts from Lianna.”

“How long ago was that?”

Han thought for a moment. “A couple of years, I guess. But—”

A blast rocked the Falcon from behind, snapping everyone back in their chairs.

“Another piece of us?” Leia asked, leaning in to check the sensor displays.

“Worse.”

Leia’s eyes were big when she glanced back at him. “What was that you said about outrunning those skips?”

Cracken raised his eyes to the overhead viewport. “They couldn’t have followed us through hyperspace! It can’t be the same vessels!”

Han veered the Falcon hard to port, a second before two magma missiles raced past the ship’s mandibles. “Somebody’s changed the rules!” He leaned toward the intercom and called the two Noghri by name, then fell silent for a moment, listening to their reply.

“I don’t care if the targeting computers aren’t responding! You’ve got eyes, haven’t you?” He growled to himself. “Have to do everything myself around here—”

A molten projectile hit the Falcon broadside, and a wire-filled module dropped, sparking, from the cockpit ceiling. Han barrel-rolled the ship, then dived abruptly. Alarms were screeching even before he pulled out of the maneuver, and the authenticators began painting dozens of yellow bezels on the tactical display screens.

Han and Leia looked up at the same time to find themselves squared off with a Yuuzhan Vong battle group of capital vessels, gunboat analogs, tenders, and what was certainly a yammosk-bearing clustership, similar to the one Han had helped cripple at Fondor. Sentry coralskippers were already streaking for the Falcon.

“You know, you have a real knack for this!” Leia said while she called for a status readout on the shields.

“It’s not me,” Han protested. “The navicomputer has itself convinced that trouble is the Falcon’s default preference!”

“A likely story.”

Han didn’t alter course. “Grab a holo of that clustership. Download any drive signatures you can pick up and paste everything into the battle analysis computer. Then hold on to your stomach!”

He waited for Leia to carry out the tasks, then threw the Falcon into a near-vertical climb, continuing up and over in a loop that sent them racing back toward Caluula’s orbital station. The quartet of curve-tailed, six-legged skips that had apparently chased the Falcon from Selvaris were directly below, spewing plasma missiles, even as they jinked and juked to evade incessant laser bursts from the dorsal and belly AG-2Gs.

Leia swiveled to the commboard. “Caluula Station, come in!”

“Transmit our identification code,” Han said.

“Caluula Station, this is Millennium Falcon. Please acknowledge.”

“Say something,” Han muttered. “Call us a name—anything!”

The closer they came to the station, the worse it appeared. Many of the modules had been holed and scorched by fire. A pitched battle must have raged for weeks, unknown to Galactic Alliance command because of the disabled HoloNet. Han wondered briefly how many other planets or orbital stations were in similar straits.

“Millennium Falcon, this is Caluula Station,” a female voice said at last. “Someone should have told us you were coming.”

Han clamped his right hand on Leia’s left in relief. “Caluula Station, even we didn’t know we were coming,” he said into the mike. “We’ve got drive trouble, and a couple of coralskippers are hounding us. Any chance you could lower your shields long enough to take us in?”

“Can do, Millennium Falcon—so long as you can guarantee that your ship’s as fast as she’s rumored to be.”

“Pull in the welcome mat while we’re making our approach,” Han said, “and the Falcon’ll still get us inside with time to spare.”

“We won’t hold you to that, Millennium Falcon, but come on in.”

“First we’ve got to lose these rock spitters.”

Routing additional power to the main thrusters, Han fire-walled the throttle and began to take the Falcon through a repertoire of stomach-churning evasive maneuvers. The tandem-piloted skips did their best to keep up, singeing the Falcon’s, stern with gouts of plasma. But as the Falcon neared the station, the enemy vessels had to contend also with laser beams and the sting of ion cannons.

“Don’t worry,” Leia assured Page and Cracken as Han continued to rocket for the small window Caluula Station had opened. “Han does this all the time.”

The moment the Falcon soared into the station’s embrace, the shield repowered. Repulsed by heavy fire, three of the skips peeled off and jagged for the protection of the battle group. The fourth kept coming, only to be stunned by the shimmering energy field, then fell prey to the station’s powerful batteries.

Leia swiveled to face Cracken and Page. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Color slowly returned to their faces, and they nodded.

Steadying his shaking hand, Han cut power to the thrusters and allowed a tractor beam to convey the Falcon safely into a docking bay.

Seat of the galactic government since the fall of Coruscant, the water world of Mon Calamari was nimbused with ships of all category and classification, from twenty-year-old scallop-hulled Mon Cal cruisers to gleaming Star Destroyers fresh from the yards of Bothawui and distant Tallaan. The star system’s inner worlds were similarly encircled, ever on alert that the Yuuzhan Vong might one day decide to fold their myriad battle groups into a single armada and strike at Mon Calamari from the heart of the galaxy.

Inbound from the hyperspace reversion point well beyond Mon Calamari’s single moon, Jaina weaved her X-wing to Ralroost, one of the largest and whitest of the ships in orbital dock, and was the last pilot of Twin Suns Squadron to drift into the fleet flagship’s spacious though welcoming hold.

A Bothan Assault Cruiser originally commissioned for the defense of Bothawui at the conclusion of the Galactic Civil War, Ralroost was under the command of Admiral Traest Kre’fey, who had emerged from relative obscurity at the start of the Yuuzhan Vong invasion to the position of second in command of the entire Alliance fleet.

The transports had been the first to arrive from Kashyyyk, and many were already docked and disgorging their cargoes of freed prisoners. Despite devastating losses to the star-fighter squadrons, the mission had been deemed a success. Dozens of former New Republic officials and scores of commanders had been rescued, and most of Alliance Intelligence’s double agents had been extracted. The operation might have gone far worse had the stingcrawler coralskippers arrived sooner than they did, or had the deadly skips pursued the transports to Mon Calamari. But instead they had remained at Selvaris to safeguard the Peace Brigade freighters that had yet to be unloaded, and to escort those prisoner ships to Coruscant.

Seizing the opportunity, Chief of State Cal Omas’s media team had spun the mission into a public relations event meant to send a message to the governments of threatened worlds to hold out; that unlike the fallen New Republic, the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances was not about to allow any more star systems to fall to enemy rule. As a result, several hundred military personnel, civilians, and media representatives were on hand to greet the rescued. Booming applause erupted for each one to emerge from a transport. Weeping spouses rushed to embrace their returned partners. Children, clearly confused by all the commotion, wrapped their arms tightly around the legs or waists of their liberated mothers or fathers.

Medics and droids worked side by side to move the injured onto repulsor gurneys and hurry them off for bacta treatment. Most of the rescued, of whatever species, needed little more than minor attention and a couple of hearty meals. Others were in critical condition. The fact that none had been implanted with surge-coral was a constant reminder that they were to have gone to their deaths as sacrificial victims.

Few civilians and no one from the media took notice of the battered starfighters that entered Ralroost’s, hold in the wake of the transports. Jaina didn’t mind, but she had to laugh. Not all that long ago she had been a media darling, because of her capture of a Yuuzhan Vong ship and the brief role she had played as “the Trickster Goddess”—a weapon unto herself. Now she was just another weary pilot returning from a mission that had nearly gone completely wrong.

Five Twin Suns pilots had died. But that was breaking news only to those who had survived.

A human crew chief rolled a ladder up to Jaina’s X-wing while the canopy was rising. Two crash-team techs rushed in to effect repairs and check on carbon-scored Cappie.

“Welcome back, Colonel,” the young woman said.

Jaina descended the ladder, took off her helmet, and shook out her brown hair. Loosening the tabs of her flight suit, she put the helmet under her arm and began to circle the X-wing, her eyes scanning the hold for signs of Millennium Falcon. Not too far away, Lowbacca, Kyp, and Alema Rar were emerging from their craft.

“Has there been any communication from the Falcon?” she asked the crew chief after she had completed a second circle of the starfighter.

The woman unclipped a datapad from her belt and gave the small display screen a perfunctory glance. “Not that I’m aware of, Colonel. But the Falcon might have been directed into one of the frigates.”

Jaina forced an exhale. When the crew chief started to move off, Jaina grabbed hold of her arm—forcefully, until she realized what she had done and relaxed her grip.

“Could you check on that?”

The woman frowned and rubbed her bicep.

“Please,” Jaina added.

This time the crew chief spent a long moment studying the data screen of her portable device.

“Sorry, Colonel, no sign of the Falcon anywhere.” She smiled sympathetically. “If I hear anything, I’ll find you.”

Starfighters and gunships were still arriving—some on a wing and prayer. Jaina moved to the edge of a balcony that overlooked the docking bay’s magcon field. Gazing out at all the moving lights, the octagonal shipyards, and the distant orbital Fleet Command Annex, she stretched out with her feelings. At the edge of her awareness she could sense that her mother and father were alive, but in grave danger. Her mind made up, she hurried back to the starfighter and clambered up the ladder to the cockpit.

“I’m going back out,” she informed the puzzled crew chief.

“Sir?”

Jaina pulled her helmet on and settled herself in the seat. “If anyone asks, I’m back at the Mon Eron reversion point.”

The young woman grew flustered. “But your ship … your droid!”

Jaina fastened her chin strap as the canopy was lowering. “They’re used to it.”

For all the worldshaping and geologic surgery performed on Coruscant, Westport, north of the former Legislative District, remained a landing area. Its floating platforms, docking bays, and maintenance buildings had been slagged, and in their place stood grashals and other mollusklike housings, scattered across a vast expanse of fused yorik coral tableland, with room enough for more than ten thousand vessels. Though few would recognize it, the aerodrome had fared far better than Eastport, Newport, or West Championne.

Royal coralcraft had transported Shimrra’s retinue from the worldship Citadel—which rose to the east, atop what had once been the Imperial District—to within a kilometer of Westport. Once back on the ground, the Supreme Overlord was conveyed the remaining distance by royal palanquin. The ornate and grotesque litter was held aloft by a pride of dedicated dovin basals, and was both preceded and trailed by an entourage of servants and courtesans, as well as by the most recent additions to Shimrra’s company—the four female seers, and members of the newly enhanced warrior sect known as slayers.

Strewn with flowers trampled to airborne fragrance by the bare feet of attendants, the winding path to the landing field meandered over the rounded summits of crushed edifices and across countless bridges that spanned those artificial canyons the Yuuzhan Vong had been unable to fill or otherwise efface. Choirs of insects honored the gods with their trilling songs, and carrion birds picked at the vestiges of the plague of stink beetles. The sky was a radiant purple, with the rainbow bridge faintly visible, halfway to apogee.

But the flawless sky belied the melancholy nature of the procession, for all who formed it knew of the events that had transpired at Selvaris. The enemy had somehow learned of the Peace Brigade convoy and had ambushed it, recapturing many of the captives who were slated to be sacrificed at the imminent ceremony. Quick action on the part of a Yuuzhan Vong commander had resulted in the escape of three Peace Brigade freighters, which had communicated the convoy’s distress to Yuuzhan’tar. A band of slayers had been dispatched, and had performed brilliantly, much to the displeasure of many an elite warrior, who regarded the slayers as abominations to the caste system, and who fretted about the augmentative power they provided the Supreme Overlord.

Nom Anor walked several paces behind the skull-adorned palanquin, in a group that included High Priest Jakan, Master Shaper Qelah Kwaad, Warmaster Nas Choka, High Prefect Drathul, and other elites. He had been worried about receiving blame for the Peace Brigade’s failure—the back-stabbing group was essentially his creation—but thus far no one had been inclined to hold him responsible. His defense would have remained unchanged, in any event: that acts of treachery were only as successful as the traitors who perpetrated them.

The Peace Brigade freighters had not been allowed to land on Yuuzhan’tar, but their non-Yuuzhan Vong commanders and crews had been shuttled to the surface by yorik-trema. With them had arrived the Alliance captives, along with the commanders and crews of the Yuuzhan Vong escort vessels. The latter groups were kneeling in ranks in an area of the landing field reserved for the naming, blessing, and tattooing of war vessels. Herded off to one side and immobilized by blorash jelly were the Alliance captives, and in the center of the field, flung down on their faces, lay the Peace Brigaders.

Nom Anor considered that Shimrra might order the procession to trample the prostrate Brigaders, but instead the Supreme Overlord called a halt to the entourage when his palanquin had reached the center of the field. The mixed-species lot of already battered turncoats knew enough to remain facedown on the rough ground, while High Priest Jakan’s acolytes, joined by Onimi, circulated among them, anointing them with paaloc incense and venogel.

Then Jakan placed himself among their midst, his hooded eyes surveying the lumps and welts that slayers had administered to the Brigaders before they had been shuttled down to Yuuzhan’tar.

The high priest moved on to the Yuuzhan Vong warriors and summoned their commander, Bhu Fath. A towering warrior with inadequate skill for command, his escalation had come about only as a result of persistent petitioning by members of Domain Fath, which included several important consuls.

“How many captives did you deliver, Commander?” Jakan asked.

Bhu Fath pivoted slightly to salute Warmaster Nas Choka. “Six packets—nearly five hundred.”

Jakan shook his head in disappointment and glanced up at Shimrra. “Less than half the minimal amount required for a ceremony of such magnitude.”

Shimrra gazed stonily from the hard bed of his palanquin, but said nothing, even when the seers began to consult their divination biots and moan in distress.

Nas Choka separated himself from the procession and gestured to Bhu Fath and his subalterns.

“Our warriors acquitted themselves well by destroying many enemy fighters and reclaiming two of the ships that might have escaped with the rest. One warrior in particular is noted for having saved our own escort vessels from destruction, in addition to other acts of bravery.”

“Bring this one forward,” Shimrra said, “so I might cast my benevolent gaze on him.”

“Commander Malik Carr,” Nas Choka called.

Nom Anor couldn’t believe his ears. After the calamity at Fondor, Malik Carr had been demoted and removed from battle. Now here he was, standing in Shimrra’s gaze, a hero! Would everything reverse itself in due time?

Carr genuflected to Shimrra, then Nas Choka, and remained on one knee. At a motion from the warmaster, a subaltern hurried forward with a command cloak, which Nas Choka draped over the horns implanted in Carr’s shoulders.

“Rise as Supreme Commander Malik Carr,” Nas Choka intoned, “reinstated because of his courageous actions at Selvaris. We will soon assign him to a command more worthy of his station.”

Malik Carr snapped his fists in salute and returned to the ranks.

“Dread Lord,” Jakan said a moment later, “occurring as they did in an arena of battle, the death of many infidels at Selvaris counts for something. But as I say, the captives on hand number too few to constitute an appropriate appeal to the gods. We must offer more than this paltry lot.”

Commander Blu Fath risked a forward step. “My Lord, could we not let these virulent Peace Brigaders substitute for those they surrendered?”

Fath’s proposal met with a few shouts of approval, though mostly from members of his domain.

“Such acts of replacement are not without precedent—” Jakan started to say, when Shimrra silenced him with a look.

“They are not worthy of honorable deaths,” Shimrra said. “Not only did they allow their league to be infiltrated by enemy spies, but several of their ships also abandoned the arena at the first sign of engagement, taking with them supplies and a number of sacred objects that were en route from Obroa-skai.”

Shimrra stepped down from the litter, causing a stir among warriors and priests alike, a group of whom unfurled a living carpet in advance of Shimrra’s steps. Onimi followed, capering as he trailed his master.

“On which worlds are we currently engaged in surface contest?” Shimrra asked Nas Choka.

The warmaster thought before speaking. “I could name twenty, Great Lord. Fifty.”

Shimrra grew angry. “Name one, Warmaster.”

“Corulag, then.”

Shimrra nodded. “Corulag it shall be. See to it that the Peace Brigaders are implanted with surge-coral and sent to the front to join the ranks of our human thrall. In battle, perhaps they will redeem themselves.”

Nas Choka saluted. “Your will be done.”

Shimrra turned then, and beckoned to Drathul and Nom Anor.

“Momentous plans require momentous ritual. Therefore, the sacrifice can neither be delayed nor interfered with. Make certain that the consuls and executors in your charge be advised that I will brook no further upsets. Should anything untoward occur, I will look upon you and your charges as I would any who seek to meddle in our holy venture.”

“Understood,” Drathul and Nom Anor responded in unison.

Nas Choka waited patiently for Shimrra to settle himself on the palanquin before saying, “A suggestion, Great Lord.”

Shimrra granted him a gaze. “Proceed, Warmaster.”

“We are presently engaged in a campaign to occupy a world known as Caluula. If you would permit our efforts to be doubled there, the planet will fall and many captives will be available to enrich our supply. Why not let the brave defenders of the orbital complex serve to compensate for our dearth of illustrious sacrifices?”

“Caluula, you say.”

“Distant from Yuuzhan’tar, Great Lord, but vital to our ultimate designs.”

Shimrra looked to Jakan, then the seers, who nodded.

“Let it be done.”