TWELVE

“The damage looks much worse from out here,” C-3PO said, staring up at the belly of Millennium Falcon from the foot of the landing ramp.

Han glared at him from under the ship, where he, Leia, and a Caluula Station mechanic were compiling a list of needed repairs. “Who asked you, Threepio?”

The protocol droid adopted a posture of inquisitiveness. “No one, Captain Solo. I was only remarking—”

“Threepio,” Leia cut him off. “That’s enough for now.”

“Of course, Princess Leia. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“That’ll be the day,” Han said.

Cracken, Page, and the rest of the rescued officers were standing off to one side, fielding questions from several other Caluula mechanics, who had dropped what they were doing to surround the Falcon the moment she had settled on her landing disks.

The ship was blistered, dented, and punctured.

“She’s a storyboard for the whole war,” the mechanic said.

Han nodded. “You got that right.”

The mechanic wedged his forefinger into a hole in the underside of the outrigger cockpit. “I’ll bet this one’s not half a meter from the pilot’s chair.”

Han swallowed audibly. “I’ve had closer calls.”

Leia glanced at the mechanic. “You might have heard, he’s a regular moving target.”

The mechanic grinned and clapped grit from his hands. “Well, she’s taken a bruising, but I figure she’ll live. It’s just a matter of pulling together replacement parts.”

Han looked relieved. He had his mouth open to thank the mechanic when a tall, purple-complected humanoid wearing military utilities approached him.

“Welcome aboard Caluula Station, Captain Solo.”

Before Han could reply, a silver-haired human officer stepped in and saluted him.

“Captain Solo, sir. I was with you at Endor.”

Han thought for a moment. “Uh, Denev, right?”

The man beamed. “I’m proud that you remember me, sir.”

“Likewise, Captain.”

Leia folded her arms across her chest and stared at Han. “That’s the tenth person who’s recognized you. What is this, a gathering of your fan club?”

Han frowned at her. “Very funny.”

“No, really, Han. Maybe you should have become an actor instead of a war hero. Just think of the following you’d have.”

Han grabbed hold of his own chin. “You’d pay good credits to see this face blown up a hundred times normal size?”

Leia pretended to think about it. “When you put it that way …”

“Captain Solo,” someone said.

Walking briskly toward the Falcon was a portly but energetic human major general.

“Base Commander Garray,” the man said, extending his hand to Han.

Han shook hands and gestured to C-3PO and Leia. “Our droid, and my wife, Leia Organa Solo.”

Leia elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Thanks for second billing, darling,” she said through a clench-jawed smile.

Han caressed his ribs and eyed Leia. “The droid’s generally well behaved.” He indicated Page, Cracken, and some of the others, introducing them by name.

Garray nodded his head several times. “Glad to meet all of you.” His gray eyes returned to Han. “Captain Solo, please tell me Mon Cal command sent you.”

Han compressed his lips. “Wish I could, Commander. The truth is, we got hit hard during a rescue mission at Selvaris, and Caluula was the only place the Falcon could go.”

Garray’s obvious disappointment was fleeting. “We’re proud to have you on board, regardless—all of you.” He turned to his even more portly adjutant. “Chief, see that Captain Solo’s passengers are treated for injuries and well fed.”

The adjutant saluted. “If you’ll follow me, sirs,” he said to Cracken and the others.

Han kept silent until everyone had moved off. “What’s the situation here, Commander?”

Garray tilted his head to one side. “Take a walk with me, and I’ll explain.”

He led Han, Leia, and C-3PO on a slow tour of the docking bay, in the strobing light of arc welders, past technicians and soldiers who looked every bit as scarred and patched up as the ships they were working on. Humans appeared to comprise the majority of Caluula’s personnel, but mixed among them were Brigians, Trianii, Bimms, Tammarians, and other species from star systems proximal to Caluula. Nearly every individual and craft reflected the war’s years of savagery. Some of the ships combined so many disparate parts, they were unrecognizable.

“The Yuuzhan Vong showed up about a month ago,” Garray was saying. “And it’s been steady fighting ever since. Our defense platform is history, and for the past local week we’ve been under constant siege. But it’s become clear that the Vong want to occupy Caluula rather than raze it, or they’d have dropped a moon on it or poisoned it like they’ve done elsewhere.”

“Occupation seems a good guess,” Leia said. “One of the ships we saw on our way in is a yammosk vessel.”

Garray nodded. “That’s already been verified.”

“Still, it’s curious that the Yuuzhan Vong would choose Caluula,” Leia went on. “I don’t know a great deal about the Tion Hegemony, but I do know it lacks most of the resources the Yuuzhan Vong usually come looking for.”

“No argument, Princess. Caluula’s mostly been a haven for scientists, because of some sort of natural phenomenon that occurs down there every so often. Our best guess is that the Yuuzhan Vong want to use Caluula as an entry point into the Tion Hegemony and the Corporate Sector. Then there’s the shipyards at Lianna, though they haven’t been turning out much since Sienar Systems pulled up stakes.” Garray took his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head in exasperation. “But the Vong have to go through us to get there, and, thank the Force, that hasn’t happened yet.”

“If they’re looking at occupying the rest of the Tion Hegemony, they’d have concentrated their efforts at Lianna,” Han said. “For one thing, it’s closer to the Perlemian, which they pretty much control anyway, from Coruscant to the Cron Drift.” He shook his head. “They’ve got something else in mind. Maybe using Caluula as a staging area for an attack on Mon Calamari.”

“We considered that,” Garray said. “But I don’t have to tell you that Caluula’s well removed from the easy space lanes. Mon Calamari’s three microjumps direct, or you return to the Perlemian by way of Dellalt and Lianna, which takes just as long.”

“So what do the Yuuzhan Vong want with Caluula?” Leia asked.

Garray looked at her while they walked. “Captives. The Vong commander of the battle group even intimated as much.”

“You’ve actually spoken to him?”

“Tattooed head to toe,” Garray said, “and soon to be black with blood, if we have anything to say about it. He promised us noble deaths and everlasting life.”

“Tough offer to turn down,” Han said.

Garray snorted. “Personally, I’ll take the here-and-now.”

“Where are you from, Commander?” Leia asked.

“Abregado-rae.”

Han was surprised. “You’re a long way from the Core. Why’d you leave?”

“It was raining Vong fireballs, and I started to feel like I was in the way.”

Leia nodded contemplatively. “There’s no safe corner left.”

Garray sighed with her. “Not if the Yuuzhan Vong have their way. One more major push from them at this point … Well, who can predict how things will turn out, right?”

“Expect surprises,” Han said.

“There’s a small resistance force operating downside on Caluula. But if this station falls, I don’t see how they’ll be able to hold out against a full-scale invasion.”

“Just how bad off are you?” Leia said.

“Well, you’ve seen our starfighters. They’re held together with spit and glue, just like we are. Ever since the HoloNet went down, we’ve had to rely on courier communication with Mon Cal, and that takes anywhere from three to five local days. In fact, we dispatched a ship just hours before you arrived. Galactic Alliance command hasn’t been able to spare us any matériel, in any event. So we’re critically short on food, munitions, spare parts, bacta. Many of the volunteers who came to our support are wounded. We’ve a lot of sick and dying.” Garray paused, becoming more somber by the moment. “I’ve been fighting the Yuuzhan Vong for four years. I feel like I was a lot younger when this war started.”

“We all were, Commander,” Han said.

He recognized Garray’s type: done in by years of command; of sending soldiers to their deaths. A man who no longer needed to prove to himself that he was a hero. He was just doing his job, and hating himself for it.

Garray forced himself to brighten. “But don’t worry, we’ll get the Falcon repaired, and we’ll have you on your way in no time.”

“We don’t want to take your personnel away from their jobs, Commander,” Han said firmly. “Leia and I will see to the repairs ourselves.” He paused, then added: “Between you and me, Garray, if Cracken and the rest weren’t expected on Mon Calamari, we’d be staying behind to help you.”

Garray smiled. “I appreciate that, Solo. Reinforces everything I’ve heard about you all these years.” He glanced at Leia. “Will the two of you join me for lunch?”

“We’d be honored,” Leia said. She deliberately fell behind Han to whisper, “Everything he’s heard all these years … One day they’re going to build a statue of you.”

Han gestured broadly. “These are the people who deserve statues—every last one of them.”

They continued to walk and talk and bump into people who knew or recognized Han—and Leia. Caluula seemed to have drawn every celebrated soldier, mercenary, and ne’er-do-well from within a thousand parsecs. Commander Garray excused himself to attend to business, but promised he’d rendezvous with them in the mess hall.

They were emerging from one of the transparent connectors that linked the station’s separate modules when Han heard what he thought was a familiar voice. The source of the voice was a dark-haired man as old as himself, dressed in a worn gray flight suit that was cinched at the waist by a broad red belt. Of medium height but broad-chested, he was sitting cross-legged atop a cargo crate, in a murky area of the module, between a golden-furred Bothan and a tall Calibop whose wings were folded behind him. Surrounding the trio stood roguish-looking human and alien warriors in similar gray flight suits, who might have made up a separate starfighter squadron, or just as easily a criminal swoop gang from Nar Shaddaa.

“Another fan?” Leia asked.

Han rubbed his stubbled jaw. “I definitely know the voice from somewhere. But I can’t place the face.”

“So ask him.”

Han nodded and sauntered over to the soldiers, every one of whom monitored his approach with a mix of amusement and wariness.

“I’m Han Solo. Am I right that we’ve met?”

The man looked at him askance, almost as if to display the ragged scars on the side of his furrowed and somewhat dark-complected face. “Not in the flesh, Captain, though we have come close. I guess that means that we’re not entirely strangers.” He extended a meaty hand. “Hurn.”

Han tried out the name twice, then shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But you’re sure we never served together? During the Rebellion, maybe?”

Hurn shrugged. “I’ve one of those faces that used to appear familiar to everyone.”

Han caressed his jaw. “Ever been to Dellalt?”

“Don’t think so.”

Han nodded uncertainly, then tipped his head in parting and walked away.

Leia waited until she, Han, and C-3PO were out of earshot of the group to ask, “Did he mean ‘familiar’ before the Rebellion, or before all the scars?”

Han glanced over his shoulder, and shook his head in ignorance. But any response was drowned out by the sudden blare of klaxons. Instantly, the station was thrown into managed chaos. Everyone knew precisely where to report and what to do—except Han, Leia, and C-3PO, who weren’t sure whether they should go to the nearest battle station or simply stay out of everyone’s way.

Appearing out of nowhere, Garray put a quick end to their confusion.

“Enemy reinforcements have arrived. Another entire battle group.”

Leia was astonished. “They must be desperate to have Caluula to spare so many ships.”

Garray agreed. “Our shields should hold.”

The commander’s adjutant came running to report that the station’s long-range scanners had zeroed in on something unusual. Garray led everyone to the nearest display screen, on which the adjutant called up a holocam view of what looked to be a colossal space slug, with a wedge-shaped head, a dorsal pouch, and a mouth that had to be eighty meters wide.

Garray narrowed his eyes to slits. “What in the galaxy am I looking at?”

Leia loosed a troubled exhalation. “That, Commander, is what the Yuuzhan Vong call an yncha. The one they deployed at Duro practically ate an orbital city.”

Garray stared at her, scarcely able to speak.

The klaxons began to trumpet a more dire alert.

“Commander,” an ensign said, “enemy vessels on the attack.”

Han looked at Leia. “Guess we will be hanging around, after all.”

“Studious person that you are—or at least claim to be—you no doubt took to heart the Supreme Overlord’s admonition that nothing untoward should interfere with the coming sacrifice,” High Prefect Drathul hectored Nom Anor. “Given especially the diminished number of victims.”

Former prefect of the worldship Harla, Drathul had a wide and broad-browed face, sufficiently scarified to demonstrate his allegiance to the gods, but not so much that the scars marred what Drathul considered handsome features.

He had kept Nom Anor waiting for half a local day, while the sun climbed high into the sky, making the rainbow bridge shine like a jeweled necklace. His windowed and drizzle-topped quarters in the prefectory overlooked the Place of Hierarchy, south of the Citadel, in a district once known as Calocour Heights. Nom Anor still remembered the heights from one of the first of his reconnaissance missions, when the market area had teemed with pushy survey takers and blazed with flashing musical advertiscreens. Free product samples delivered from worlds throughout the galaxy had been on continual display, floating on repulsor carts and wafting wonderful aromas into the air.

“I took the Supreme Overlord’s admonition to heart,” Nom Anor said from the exquisitely woven vurruk floor mat to which he had been shown by Drathul’s attendants. The high prefect himself spoke from a pillowed recess in his dais.

“Then you’ll be interested to know it has reached my attention that a coalition of Shamed Ones is intent on disturbing the ceremony.” Drathul fixed Nom Anor with a gimlet stare. “I think you are not entirely untutored in the tactics of the heretics, Prefect.”

“I profess to know something of them.”

Drathul was clearly entertained by the response.

“You give yourself too little credit. Such self-effacement is not becoming to one who has managed to escalate himself from mere executor to prefect of Yuuzhan’tar in so short a time. Who, on at least two occasions now, has enjoyed private audience with the Supreme Overlord; who, I would risk saying, even has Shimrra’s ear.”

Nom Anor feigned a short laugh. “Hardly his ear, High Prefect.”

Drathul scrutinized him some more. “However did this come about?” he asked, as if to himself. “Was it not Nom Anor who sent the priestess Elan to her death, who created the bumbling Peace Brigade, who helped engineer the disastrous assault on Fondor, who allowed the traitor Vergere to escape, who has disguised himself as a human, a Duros, a Givin, and who knows how many other species, who is rumored to have refused a duel with a Jeedai and to have murdered his own operatives with an infidel’s weapon, who all but lured Warmaster Tsavong Lah to dishonor at Ebaq Nine?” He paused briefly. “Look how his plaeryin bol stares at me—so eager to spit venom.”

“You misunderstand, High Prefect.” Nom Anor touched the artificial orb that substituted for an eye. “Just a particle of sand, lodged in the corner. In fact, you have succeeded brilliantly in disparaging me. But you neglect to add that there has been a bright side to all those events. Or else—” He grinned faintly. “—how is it I have come to wear the green robes of high office?”

Drathul was infuriated. “The sole reason I tolerate your presence and your escalation is that you are known to have been in the company of my predecessor, Yoog Skell, when he died. I know in my heart that you had something to do with his death, and were it not for his death, I would probably not be sitting here, delighting in rebuking you.”

Nom Anor inclined his head. “I exist but to serve, High Prefect.”

“Precisely. Which is why I command you to root out this coalition of Shamed Ones, and either talk some sense into them or have them killed. I would prefer the former, since I suspect that additional killings at this point will only incite them further. But know that I plan to hold you personally responsible for any interference at the sacrifice, just as Shimrra will me. Do you trust that I speak from the heart, or do I need to bolster my words with threats of what will befall you should you fail me?”

“I will do my best, High Prefect.”

“Your tricks bear watching, Nom Anor. This has always been so.”

“I trick no one but myself, High Prefect, by imagining myself more than I am.”

Nom Anor had had his consuls arrange for a saddled bissop to carry him back to the spacious residence that came with his new status. But for all that he had received, he had earned the envy, anger, and distrust of many, as was frequently the case with those escalated because of actions that needed to remain secret and undisclosed. Others in Shimrra’s close company suffered similar indignities, in part because Shimrra was fickle and full of contradictions, as if jerked this way and that by his emotions or what passed for revelations from the gods.

Even mighty Nas Choka was not immune to petty jealousies, which is why he had tripled his complement of bodyguards—something Nom Anor had considered doing, but ultimately rejected. There was small advantage in announcing one’s apprehensions to one’s adversaries.

But how to keep those apprehensions concealed from the heretics …

He had mistakenly believed that the abrupt disappearance of Yu’shaa, the Prophet, would have weakened the movement. Instead, Nom Anor had only provided his gullible audience with a martyr, more so because many believed that Yu’shaa had been put to death on orders of Shimrra.

Tucked away in his residence was the original ooglith cloaker Nom Anor had worn when exhorting his followers to rise up against the system that had doomed them to become outsiders; a system that perpetuated a belief in gods who would deliberately shun their creations. It would be a different matter if every Shamed One was guilty of overreaching or pride, but in fact no one could explain—the shapers least of all—why implants were rejected. As a result, however, countless individuals were left wondering for the rest of their miserable lives where they had erred, when they had displayed pride or if they were paying for the transgressions of other crèche or domain members. The elite pretended sympathy, when in fact they fairly luxuriated in witnessing their competitors fall from grace. How grievous what befell Consul Shal Tor at the last escalation—but how happy I am that it wasn’t me.

Only a short time ago—before his life-turning decision on Zonama Sekot—Nom Anor, sufficiently inflamed by the inequity, had wished to see his entire culture tumbled down; to see Shimrra shaken from his polyp throne by the debased members of Yuuzhan Vong society. And he had very nearly succeeded. What might have come from that was unclear. If the war were lost, what would it mean for Nom Anor, since—save for the Jedi—the inhabitants of the galaxy the Yuuzhan Vong had invaded were not above barbarity?

Flight, imprisonment, execution … he couldn’t take the chance.

Now the very movement born of rumors escaped from distant Yavin, and given order and embellishment by Nom Anor himself, threatened to deprive him of all that he had achieved by opting to foil Zonama Sekot, and thereby reinstate himself in Shimrra’s good graces.

The thought weighed on him as his living transport lumbered past the Place of Sacrifice, where priests and savants, adepts and initiates were busy preparing for the coming ceremony; past the shell-like shops of workers; and past solitary Shamed Ones, in their threadbare garments, begging for alms.

Before Nas Choka had been escalated, he had had occasion to reproach Nom Anor for pride, and counsel him look to Yun-Shuno, god of the Shamed Ones, for pardon.

All these years later, here he was their prophet.