SEVENTEEN

Ruthless deeds return to harass their architect, Nom Anor thought as he viewed the execution of the heretics.

The deaths were taking place not atop the yorik coral spire in the Place of Sacrifice, but in an area outside the sacred precinct, where many of Yuuzhan Vong beasts went to die, and warriors trained for combat. Once a sports arena in the district known as the Western Sea, it was now an ossuary—a boneyard—lush with swampy growth, rank with odors of decay, and the breeding ground for millions of meter-long yargh’un rodents. The bowl couldn’t hold many spectators, but Shimrra had ordered it filled to overflowing with bone stackers, workers, and low-echelon others, both as a blunt demonstration of his wrath, and as a warning to any who would follow the Prophet.

The doleful music of musicians went unappreciated.

The foodstuffs spread across the banquet tables for the elite went untouched.

The clawed beasts tasked with the executions snorted and bellowed.

This was not noble death but capital punishment.

It was three local days after the abortive sacrifice ceremony, and on orders passed down from Shimrra to High Prefect Drathul, and then on to Nom Anor, three thousand Shamed Ones had been gathered up—ten for every captive who had been liberated from the ceremony. What percentage of them were heretics made no difference, for this was an attempt to put an end to further enrollment—though Nom Anor felt that it might have precisely the opposite effect. Shimrra had sent warriors to purge Yuuzhan’tar’s underworld of heretics on previous occasions, but this was the first time he had done so openly, and had turned the mass arrests into a macabre entertainment.

Some were saying that Shimrra had crossed a dangerous line—but only those who weren’t aware of the lengths to which Shimrra would go to maintain his authority, and the mental power he could bring to bear when necessary. No one privy to the methods Shimrra had used to attain the throne voiced any criticisms.

During the intergalactic journey, Shimrra—by dint of noble birth, prophecy, and divination—had been placed among a pool of candidates who might one day be eligible for consideration to succeed Supreme Overlord Quoreal on his death. All the nobles who comprised that small, privileged group had been raised as if they might one day rise to the throne. They were doted upon, fed the finest foods, trained in warfare and religion. They enjoyed every luxury. Though overseen by the high priests, the selection process was markedly similar to the way in which infant dhuryams were tested, to determine which was most capable and worthy of becoming a worldship or planetary brain.

Shimrra was at once the pride and distress of Domain Ja-maane. Early evidence of his maliciousness, he had killed his own twin at just seven years of age, to eliminate a possible competitor from entering the pool. His majestic size was attributed to the work of shapers in his domain.

Domain Jamaane also had its share of distinguished warriors, and in distant times had produced more than the usual share of Supreme Commanders, along with three warmasters. The shapers, too, were praiseworthy, as were Jamaane’s priests. Still, the domain was not generally thought to be bellicose. But as the long voyage through the void began to gnaw at everyone, Jamaane members had grown outspoken about their impatience with Quoreal, who was cautious, traditional, and had done little to keep Yuuzhan Vong society intact at a time when guidance was needed most. Even so, no one believed that Domain Jamaane would actually rise up and make a bid to usurp Quoreal’s power.

In one bold action, Shimrra’s warriors moved against Quoreal’s, executing them, along with every member of their domains. Then they did the same to Quoreal, and they put to death almost all the priests, advisers, and shapers who had supported Quoreal in his attempt to steer a course away from the newly discovered galaxy.

Others knew better than to question Shimrra, and their wisdom allowed them to live. Domains like Shai, which had lost a great warrior during an early confrontation with the inhabitants of the galaxy. And the Praetorite Vong—though their fealty to Shimrra had been nothing more than a ruse to keep secret Prefect Da’Gara’s own invasion plans. Plans that Nom Anor himself had been drawn into, to the point of assisting the Praetorite in acquiring a yammosk—even if it was a faulty one that would have been condemned to death had Nom Anor not persuaded the shapers in charge of the biot to allow him to have it, in exchange for certain favors.

If Shimrra knew, Nom Anor might even now be among the ossuary’s dying, rather than mere witness to the event.

All around him, warriors were using their amphistaffs and batons to prod greater enthusiasm from the spectators, but they roused little more than ritual cheers, because, in the arena below, things weren’t going quite as planned.

If innocent had been arrested with guilty, there would certainly have been much beseeching of forgiveness from Shimrra. Instead, the Shamed Ones were going to their deaths—being torn limb from limb, clawed and gutted, gobbled like succulent fruits, tossed about like playthings—cursing Shimrra and the elites, and crying, “Yu’shaa lives! Long live Yu’shaa!”

Jakan, Nas Choka, Qelah Kwaad, and Drathul could only look on in dismay, for the suggestion was that everyone arrested was a heretic—or had at least been somehow persuaded to show disdain for tradition.

None of the elite would even dare glance at Shimrra, save for Nom Anor, who, out of the corner of his one real eye, saw that the Supreme Overlord was laughing.

Everyone in the Ralroost’s, briefing center had fallen silent in response to the hologram Admiral Kre’fey had conjured from a projector. Shimmering in diaphanous blue light were images of a world engulfed by vines, giant ferns, and trees with enormous fronds, some fan-shaped, some as delicate as feathers. Spires and pinnacles and flat-topped bluffs rose from the luxuriant vegetation, and in the distance immense mountains heaved, their alloy bones protruding through the verdant cloaks that had been thrown over them, and their faces marred by geometric openings. Water-filled basins abounded, reflecting the light of a bruised sky, and flowing slowly through deep gorges were rivers without twists or bends or oxbow lakes.

Mossy outcroppings jutted from jungle patched in brilliant scarlet that darkened to crimson, or joined with other patches to form expanses of shimmering black or spark-gap blue, all shot through with streaks that shimmered like precious metals. Winged creatures flitted from height to height, hunting just above the canopy, while massive beasts lumbered below.

All in all, it was a planetscape too haphazard, too uneven, too immature to be real.

And in some sense, it wasn’t.

“Coruscant,” Kre’fey told his audience of several hundred Alliance officers.

At the touch of Kre’fey’s left forefinger a second holo superimposed itself on the first, showing the Senate, Calocour Heights, Column Commons, the Glitannai Esplanade, and other once-celebrated locations of the former galactic capital.

“You can see that things have changed,” the Bothan added.

Seated to one side of the command rostrum, Han and Leia remained as thoughtfully silent as everyone else. With Kre’fey stood most of the officers who had been present at the informal briefing that Han, Leia, and Jaina had attended four days earlier.

“You undermine your own argument for attacking Coruscant,” a Hutt said from front row center. His name was Embra, and he was commander of a resistance group known as the Sisar Runners. “Clearly the planet is beyond restoration. From what we have been given to understand, the Yuuzhan Vong even managed to alter the orbit and rotation.”

“Why should we waste our dwindling resources on rescuing Coruscant, in any case?” an Agamarian officer said. “What did the New Republic Senate do for us when the Yuuzhan Vong invaded? They hung us out to dry. They allowed the worlds of the Outer and Mid Rims to fall, while they recalled the fleets to protect the Core.

“Many of the choices made were regrettable,” Sovv said, in thickly accented Basic, his black eyes shining. “There are countless examples of gross misjudgment. But those were political concerns, and they shouldn’t be reason enough to splinter us now.

“Shimrra wants us to believe that Coruscant can’t be rebuilt, and is protected by hidden defenses. But it is not beyond redemption. Yes, the orbit has been altered, and the surface temperature has been raised. But it is certainly not uninhabitable. Much of the vegetation is surface cover. Underneath, beneath the veneer, much of our technology is intact, or at the very least repairable.”

Rogue Squadron leader Gavin Darklighter stood up. “Sirs, according to reports made by Jacen Solo, Coruscant is protected by hidden defenses. Jedi Solo indicated that an attack would set in motion contingencies that would ultimately render the planet unfit for reoccupation.”

“We’ve taken Jacen Solo’s report under advisement,” Kre’fey said. “But because of what he experienced during his captivity, we are not inclined to accept his statements as incontrovertible.”

Han was quick to put his arm around Leia’s shoulders. “Easy there, manka cat. What’d you expect Kre’fey to say?”

Leia turned to him. “You believe Jacen.”

“Of course I believe him. But these people aren’t as smart as we are.”

“That’s not what you said at Caluula.”

Han waved his free hand in dismissal. “Ah, that was only for show.”

Sovv was speaking. “Our attack on the Peace Brigade convoy at Selvaris was merely the first step in destabilizing Overlord Shimrra.”

“A question, Admiral Kre’fey,” said a wing commander Han didn’t know by name. “I thought we won the war at Ebaq Nine.”

“That’s not a question,” Kre’fey grumbled, “but I’ll address it anyway. The war will not be won until we’ve retaken Coruscant. Our crusade is not only justified, but essential. Coruscant cries out for vengeance!” He softened his tone to add, “Shimrra’s planned attack on Mon Calamari will leave Coruscant lightly defended and vulnerable. Even if we fail to catch Shimrra’s home defense fleet napping, it’s possible that we can kill Shimrra or make things too unpleasant for him to remain on Coruscant. An attack is the last move he expects us to make.”

“Our resistance leaders on Coruscant maintain that the time is ripe,” Airen Cracken said. “The Shamed Ones are ready to make their move. Intelligence now believes that Alliance prisoners were rescued not for sacrifice or hostage taking, but as a means of sending a signal that the heretics are ready to ally with us in the fight. Shimrra is well aware of the fact that he is fighting on two fronts, and his planned attack on Mon Calamari smacks of desperation. He knows that he needs to defeat us before we succeed in amassing a force sufficient to threaten him, or before the heretics conspire to pitch him from the throne.

“According to the same report Colonel Darklighter made reference to,” the general continued, “the seedship that conveyed the World Brain to Coruscant was overwhelmed, and thousands of captives escaped. Many of those former slaves—who have been forced to survive on grayweave and whatever they can forage, steal, or ransack—have found their way to the resistance. With help from us, they can weaken the Yuuzhan Vong from within. An unexpected attack on the world the enemy knows as Yuuzhan’tar will be as demoralizing to the Yuuzhan Vong as the fall of Coruscant was to the New Republic.”

The audience stirred, but no one had questions.

“I wish to speak for a moment about the attack on Mon Calamari itself,” Kre’fey said.

Again the Bothan’s hand went to the holoprojector controls. The 3-D image showed a pliable-looking, bulbous-headed marine-looking creature, trailing a mass of tentacles of varying length and thickness.

“A yammosk,” Kre’fey said. “The gigantic, genetically engineered creature that serves as a war coordinator for the Yuuzhan Vong. Its telepathic abilities, though limited, enable it to facilitate communications among war vessels, and to project its thoughts and feelings onto others—Yuuzhan Vong, human, and so on. By virtue of its capacity to meld with coralskippers and other craft, its presence can affect the outcome of any military engagement.

“Analysis of recent battle recordings suggests that the Yuuzhan Vong armada will take the form of this monstrosity—with warships, gunship analogs, and coralskippers strung out to represent tentacles, and capital ships, tenders, carriers, and actual yammosk vessels comprising the armada’s fortified heart.”

Kre’fey’s light pointer indicated the tentacles.

“Our strategy will be to sow confusion in these keys areas, by using our fastest ships to strike and fade, gradually opening fire lanes to the center. These attacks will commence the moment the armada emerges from hyperspace. As the main body of the armada nears Mon Calamari space, the ranged weapons of our largest ships will begin to hammer away at the center. Concurrently, courier ships will be dispatched to Contruum, where our fleets will be standing by. We anticipate that when the Yuuzhan Vong commander at Mon Calamari learns that Coruscant is under siege, he will attempt to jump some of his battle groups back to the Core, by way of Toong’l and Caluula, trusting the yammosks installed on those worlds to coordinate withdrawal and protect against the possibility of ambush.”

“With all due respect, Admiral,” a Mon Calamari officer said, “Nas Choka is a far more shrewd warmaster than Tsavong Lah was. He won’t be taken in by intelligence disinformation. And at Toong’l and Caluula, he’ll be on the watch for interdictors, or mines of the sort we employed successfully at Ebaq Nine.”

“Precisely,” Kre’fey said. “Which is why we’ll employ none of that. Instead, Alliance infiltration teams will by then have incapacitated the yammosks on both worlds. Deprived of battle coordination, the withdrawing battle groups will be vulnerable to counterattack. The odds are against our inflicting sufficient damage to rout them. But the longer we can keep them from returning to the Core, the greater the chances of our Contruum fleets scoring heavily against Coruscant—and against Shimrra.”

Han made a low sound of puzzlement, and Leia turned to him.

“What?” she said.

“Doesn’t add up. If Caluula had been defended in the first place, the Vong wouldn’t have been able to use it as a staging area now.”

Suddenly Han was on his feet. Leia assumed that he wanted to share his concerns with everyone on the rostrum. Instead, he said, “I want to be counted in on the Caluula mission.”

Admiral Kre’fey swung to him. “Thank you, Captain Solo. Consider it done.”

Leia was still staring at him when he sat down.

“What?” he said.

“You, is what. Selvaris, then back to Selvaris. Caluula, and now back to Caluula? Besides, you just volunteered for something you said didn’t add up.”

“Yeah, but I’d sooner volunteer us for the mission than have anyone else risk it.”

Leia shook her head in wonder. “You’re trying to get us killed, is that it?”

“Just the opposite.” Han grinned. “I can’t have you getting bored with me.”

“Well, this should be good for at least another twenty-five years.”

Han patted her leg, then grew serious. “Here’s the real reason: I want us to do it for everyone who died or was captured at Caluula.”