THIRTY-TWO

“Look at you—cowering like a herd of yanskacs!” the Supreme Overlord railed at the elite from his spike-backed throne in the Citadel’s Hall of Confluence. “On the eve of victory you allow yourselves to be frightened by an illusion—a piece of celestial chicanery!”

Even while cringing with the rest of them, Nom Anor had to give Shimrra credit. Despite the tremors that continued to rock Yuuzhan’tar, and the dangerous innuendoes that threatened to undermine his divine right to rule, the Supreme Overlord refused to be intimidated—if not entirely unmoved. With his long arms jerking about and his legs quivering, he looked like a puppet in a shadow play. Some said that his implanted eyes, too, were rarely still, and were constantly shifting color.

Shimrra raised the Scepter of Power toward the hall’s ribbed ceiling. “Some of you are whispering that the bright light that rises at sunset is an omen of doom—a living world rumored to have been encountered during the rule of my predecessor, whose name I will not deign to mention. I am not unacquainted with this rumor. Following my ascension to the throne I dispatched forces to search out this world—this Zonama Sekot—only to be informed that it was not to be found. So I asked myself: had it disappeared? Had Zonama Sekot been destroyed? Or was it nothing more than a lie perpetrated by my predecessor in an attempt to keep us from conquering and occupying what was by gods-given right our entitled domain?”

While Shimrra paused, Onimi circulated among the audience, baiting members of the elite to respond. Much to the displeasure of High Prefect Drathul, Nom Anor had conveyed Shimrra’s orders to the priests of the temples, enjoining them to devote their attention to Yun-Harla rather than Yun-Yuuzhan or Yun-Yammka. As a result, the royal seers were beside themselves with apprehension—expecting deception and manipulation of the worst sort—and the elite were wondering whether Shimrra’s actions had been undertaken for the benefit of the Yuuzhan Vong or for Shimrra himself.

“I will reveal the truth of it,” the Supreme Overlord said at last. “The bright light is not a trick of the eye. It is in fact the same living world!”

The audience was stunned into even more profound silence, especially Drathul and his coterie of Quoreal supporters. But the pronouncement was every bit as staggering to Nom Anor.

Coming clean was the last thing he had expected Shimrra to do.

“How could the gods allow this? you ask yourselves,” Shimrra went on in a tone of theatrical melancholy. “How, after all we have done to provide them with sacrifices and converts, after all we have done to cleanse this galaxy of infidels and heretics, could the gods turn on us? Again, I will supply the answer: this ill-omened world has been placed in the hands of our enemy as a final test of our worthiness to reign over them—a final test to gauge the strength of the Yuuzhan Vong heart!”

Shimrra pounded the floor with his amphistaff in a demand for silence.

“And yet what a daunting test they have set before us. A weak-minded person—a dissenter or a skeptic—might be tempted to believe that the gods have abandoned us, and that there is no possible way for us to succeed. I have thought long and hard about this. I have prayed, and I have ventured beyond contemplation and entreaty to look deep into our history for answers. And the gods have rewarded my search.”

Shimrra paused again, while a tremor rumbled the Citadel. Then he pointed the scepter to Qelah Kwaad and her adepts.

“The shapers know what I’m referring to when I speak of the eighth cortex. But for you commanders and intendants—even for some of you priests—I will explain. A cortex contains the protocols for shapings—the protocols that originally guided the hands of our ancestors in creating dovin basals and villips, coralskippers and yammosks. It is not a place but a state of mind. And as one approaches the superlative cortex—the eighth cortex—one comes full circle to the beginnings of the Yuuzhan Vong, to our primordial state of being. And what I found there, after enduring much pain and letting much blood—so much blood that my body howled in torment—was the solution, cast in the form of a simple lesson, such as might be taught to our spawn in the crèches.

“The lesson is this: that when they fashioned the universe—and ultimately the Yuuzhan Vong—the gods dispensed with all inequities by ensuring that the qualities of one creation would always balance the qualities of another. Where a poisonous tree takes root, adjacent to it stands a tree that provides the antidote for the poison. Where there are deserts, there are oases of water. And where the waters are vast, there emerge islands of sand and stone. This is the way of the gods—ensuring balance at every turn. I held this thought in mind when, in the depths of the eighth cortex, I heard a voice utter …”

“The rainbow bridge will appear and disappear,” Onimi recited from the center of the hall. “And the gods will make it seem that they are the authors of a great conflict. When the eclipse of the sun will then be, the divine omen will be seen in plain sight. Quite otherwise will one interpret it, for when a menacing stranger appears at the portal, look close at hand for the amphistaff that will send the stranger on its way.”

“A revelation, I told myself.” Shimrra took over. “Clearly from Yun-Harla. So I ordered the temple priests to beseech the goddess for help—to sacrifice to her, and to treat her as if she were Supreme Overlord of the universe. And our supplications have not gone unnoticed, for she has provided us with the solution to the test the gods have placed at our portal.”

Nom Anor could barely keep his features from mirroring his inner state of confoundment. He wasn’t the only person in the Hall of Confluence who knew that the eighth cortex was nothing more than a pretense—empty as the gravitic yield of a dovin basal. So what was Shimrra doing, conjuring revelations from nonexistent protocols? Obviously he had concocted the riddle and its resolution, but to what end?

Once more, the elite had to wait, while a more powerful quake shook the Citadel, causing yorik coral dust to rain from the vaulted ceiling, high overhead.

“The solution has only just been delivered to Yuuzhan’tar,” Shimrra said. “Delivered in the form of a stricken space vessel and its crew of afflicted slayers and a dying shaper. On a remote and insignificant world known as Caluula, the vessel and its passengers fell prey to a virulent chemical agent created by our enemy and released in the hope of destroying all things Yuuzhan Vong—from myself down to the simplest of our creations.

“The chemical agent might have done just that, had it not been for the acuity of the shaper, the unconventional actions of his valorous crew of warriors, and the perceptiveness of your Supreme Overlord, who ordered that the vessel be kept from setting down on Yuuzhan’tar, or coming in contact with any other vessels.

“Now witness the beauty of cosmic balance at work! Tchurokk Yun’tchilat!—Witness the will of the gods! For this ill-omened world that lights our night sky, this living world encountered by our forces so many years ago, drifting at the very rim of this galaxy, must, too, have been fashioned by Yun-Yuuzhan and be linked to us in prophecy. Linked, and therefore vulnerable to the deadly contagion fashioned by our enemy, and sanctioned by the gods!”

Once more Shimrra gesticulated with the Scepter of Power. “The crippled vessel is the amphistaff we will hurl to drive the stranger from our gate! The ship that shall be our salvation, and our means of transcending the test the gods have seen fit to engineer!”

Nom Anor was beginning to feel like a gnullith: inflated by Shimrra one moment, only to be deflated the next. A toxic chemical agent capable of poisoning Zonama Sekot? Anyone familiar with Commander Zho Krazhmir’s reconnaissance mission to the living world knew that Krazhmir had attempted and failed to poison Zonama Sekot. And if a Yuuzhan Vong-created toxin had failed, how could an enemy-produced toxin be expected to succeed? More important, if such a bioweapon existed, surely Nom Anor’s former network of spies among the Peace Brigade, or those still in place on Mon Calamari, would have learned of it by now.

Had Shimrra concocted the story only to rally the warriors and priests, and ensure that the Yuuzhan Vong die in a blaze of glory? Or had Nom Anor underestimated the Supreme Overlord yet again? Was he even more brilliant than he had first seemed on usurping the throne?

“Zonama Sekot is a death star,” Shimrra was saying. He aimed his amphistaff at Nas Choka and his Supreme Commanders “Fly to it, Warmaster! Take your mighty armada to Zonama Sekot, and make clear to the gods the unflinching resolve of the Yuuzhan Vong!”

What does the Force want for the Yuuzhan Vong?

The question echoed in Jacen’s mind long after he had returned to the hollow that had become his haunt on Zonama Sekot.

He drew his lightsaber from his cloth belt, activated the green blade, and waved it through the brisk air. Unnerved by the thrumming sound, birds perched in the surrounding boras took to the pale blue sky.

Jacen stood with his feet parallel, right foot forward, carrying his weight on the balls of his feet, then springing off his rear foot in attack. On the slope of the hill, he spread his feet wider, and angled them to one another. He swung the blade without ducking or flinching, bobbing or weaving, assuming an ideal attitude as he glided forward in uninterrupted motion, or took short steps with each foot to maintain his focus and equilibrium.

He held the pommel at middle guard, slightly in front of his stomach, with the tip angled up at thirty degrees, and worked through several velocity and dulon sequences. Then, lowering the tip as if to point at an opponent’s knees, he slashed diagonally upward. He raised the lightsaber over his head, handle pointed to his imaginary opponent’s eyes—critically angled for a Yuuzhan Vong—and slashed downward. Elbows pointed to the ground, he held the lightsaber upright, over his right shoulder and alongside his head, then spun through a series of jung attacks and jung ma parries. Finally he held the lightsaber low on his right side, with the blade pointing at the ground behind him, and performed a sweeping upward diagonal. Front-flipping high into the air to the edge of the pool, he threw himself through Forceassisted rolls and full-circle whirls, shooting to his feet to execute rotating side strokes and short twisting wrist snaps until his breath came fast and sweat dripped from his face.

Sensing, then, that someone was watching him, he deactivated the blade in sudden self-consciousness. He sighed and sat down. He was a decent lightsaber master and sai acrobat, but nowhere near as skilled as Luke, Kyp, Mara, Corran—or Anakin.

His heart just wasn’t in it.

As he stared at the hilt of his lightsaber, his thoughts began to spiral back three years, to the planet Duro, and the vision he had had returned to him, as if no time had passed.

One moment he was working alongside a group of Ryn refugees, and the next he was falling backward into a vacuum. Hearing Luke calling to him, he pivoted to see his uncle robed in pure white, half turned away, holding his shimmering lightsaber in a diagonal stance, hands at hip level, point high.

Jacen shouted that Jaina had been hurt, but Luke didn’t respond to him. Luke’s attention was fixed instead on a Yuuzhan Vong warrior in rust-brown armor, who was holding an amphistaff across his body and mirroring Luke’s stance. Standing on the far side of the slowly spinning disk that held the three of them, the warrior wasn’t visible through the Force. He was simply a void—a darkness that promised death, as surely as Luke’s luminosity promised life.

The disk resolved into a spiral-armed galaxy.

Poised at the center, Luke dropped into a fighting stance, raising his lightsaber to his right shoulder, point upward, while Yuuzhan Vong warriors advanced from the darkness. Luke was steadfast, holding the center and counterweighing the invaders, until at last their numbers increased sufficiently to tip the balance of the disk in their direction.

Desperate to know what to do, Jacen called to Luke again. This time Luke turned and tossed his lightsaber in a low humming arc, trailing pale green sparks onto the galactic plane. Anger welled up in Jacen, even as fear and fury focused his strength. He wanted to destroy the enemy. He stretched out his hand for the lightsaber … and missed.

That miss was all it took.

A dark, deadly tempest gathered around the invaders, and the galactic plane tipped more swiftly toward them.

Jacen felt himself begin to shrink until he was no more than a tiny, insignificant point in the dark tempest. Helpless, disarmed by a moment of anger, doomed by a single misstep—the galaxy doomed with him.

A voice like Luke’s but deeper shook the starfields, booming, Jacen, stand firm!

The horizon tilted farther and Jacen lunged forward, determined to lend his small weight to Luke’s side—to the light—only to misstep once more. He flailed for his uncle’s hand, missing time and again.

Finally, Luke seized Jacen’s hand and held it tightly, urging him to weather the storm. The slope steepened under their feet. Stars extinguished. The enemy scrambled forward, eclipsing worlds, entire star clusters, distant galaxies.

And again the voice boomed: Stand firm!

As the Yuuzhan Vong attacked—

Jacen returned to himself—to the here and now.

Since that vision he had fought the enemy on countless worlds, wounded Warmaster Tsavong Lah, triumphed over many lesser opponents, been stripped of and returned to the Force by Vergere, and been deemed a Knight by his Jedi Master, Luke. And yet he continued to feel as if he were a student.

The Jedi of the Old Republic had been too focused on indoctrination and ranks. If you were a Padawan, then you were something less than a Knight; and if you were a Knight, you were something less than a Master … But who was to say, now that there was no Jedi Council of sagacious Masters, that even a mere Padawan couldn’t be more Forceful than someone of higher rank? Perhaps it was something a Jedi needed to hear directly from the Force?

Ranks now were more like battlefield promotions—like Jaina’s promotion to colonel. Even the Jedi Knighting ceremony … It made no more sense to him than it had to Jaina. They had to analyze their paths separately from those things.

But if his twenty years of tutelage had been his education, and the time he had spent with Vergere in the bowels of the Yuuzhan Vong seedship and on conquered Coruscant had constituted the trials of a Padawan, what then was the decision he faced now?

Was it, too, not a trial, of sorts?

What does the Force want for the Yuuzhan Vong?

Stand firm, the voice in the vision had told him.

Occasionally he would get a sense that his education was nearing completion, and that the past year had been his true trial—possibly unlike any a Jedi Knight had ever faced—but the feeling never lasted long.

“Practicing, Jacen?” a female voice asked suddenly.

He knew then who had been watching him.

Sekot’s thought projection of Vergere rose from the center of the pool.

“Always,” he said.

“To achieve what?”

“Mastery.”

Vergere nodded. “Jacen, to tap deeply into the Unifying Force, we will have to surrender our desire to control events. We will have to unbridle ourselves of words and of thinking, because thoughts, too, are born of the physical world. We must refrain from analyzing the Force, and simply allow the Force to guide us. Our relationship with the Force must be impeccable, without the need to be supported by words or reason. We must carry out the commands of the Force as if they were beyond appeal. And we must do what must be done, no matter who attempts to stand in our way.”