FORTY-THREE

Two meters above the ground, the military speeder twisted through the ruins of the sacred precinct, closing on operational headquarters at the northern edge of what had been—only two years earlier—the Legislative District. Admiral Kre’fey perched on the back of the rear seat, his snow-white fur rippling in the wind and his short command cloak snapping behind him like a flag. To either side of him sat his Bothan aides. A human lieutenant had the repulsorcraft’s controls, and beside him was a Twi’lek gunner, her hands on the trigger mechanism of a front-mounted repeating blaster. A torrential rain had just ended, and the winding paths the Yuuzhan Vong called streets were running with water. The speeder shot past columns of drenched infantry soldiers with mud caked like clay to their boots or bare legs. If nothing else, the rain had washed some of the cinder and yorik coral grit from the air.

Kre’fey had never evinced a great fondness for Coruscant, but it was only fitting that he tour the prize that had cost the Alliance so many lives. Estimates of battle casualties put the number of dead at close to five million, with twice that number of wounded. More than three hundred capital ships had been destroyed, along with some eleven thousand starfighters.

The death toll for the entire war was almost incalculable, though the figure most often quoted was 365 trillion.

Now that Sien Sovv had designated Generals Farlander and Bel Iblis as occupation commanders, Kre’fey anticipated that he would be shuttling back to Ralroost before nightfall.

With the shattered Yuuzhan Vong armada still arrayed two million kilometers away, Alliance battle groups remained anchored above Coruscant. When it had finally come, the ceasefire had had less to do with loss of discipline or coordination among the enemy than something closer to loss of hope—to a palpable sense of desperation and gloom. In the aftermath of Shimrra’s death, hundreds of vessels had self-destructed or hurled themselves against Alliance ships as living missiles. Other vessels had deserted, jumping to hyperspace for star systems yet unknown. With hundreds of functional dovin basals continuing to deploy shielding singularities, Alliance landing craft and shuttles were being forced to adhere to strict descent corridors. Even so, the sky above the sacred precinct was filled with relief and patrol ships, and more were coming down the well every hour.

Orphan Coruscanti of diverse species lined the boggy byways and stood dozens-deep at makeshift medical stations, supply depots, and identity verification centers. As Kre’fey’s convoy of speeders made their way south from Westport, humanoids and aliens would turn to welcome “the liberator of Coruscant” with waves, cheers, and sloppy salutes.

Squads of commandos were on foot patrol in all quarters, performing structure-to-structure searches and controlling looting by Coruscanti and Yuuzhan Vong alike. Heretics who had joined the resistance were acting as interpreters and wranglers of creatures capable of ferreting out spies and imposters wearing ooglith masquers. Enemy weapons were heaped at each corner, awaiting cremation by aged AT-AT walkers and flamethrowers. YVH droids rolled and crawled like tunnel rats through warrens exposed by massive demolition and excavation machines. Elsewhere, teams of specialists were busy erecting temporary communications facilities to uplink with satellites already in orbit.

Galactic Alliance flags had been raised at what was left of the truncated Citadel, on the yorik coral dome that capped the Well of the World Brain, and atop other captured landmarks, but fierce fighting persisted in some districts that were without villip communication and had yet to learn of Shimrra’s death. To complicate matters, the sacred precinct had been partitioned into more than a dozen occupation zones, each overseen by a different species. Everyone was working toward the common goal of pacification, but because of the vast amounts of technology that lay buried under the thick vegetation, some claim-staking was inevitable.

Tinged with sadness and misgiving, Kre’fey’s gold-flecked eyes took everything in as the speeder rounded the mounds of debris and whizzed across the temporary bridges that spanned Coruscant’s abysmal canyons.

This is the prize we’re going to present to the Alliance members as a sign that life can now begin to return to normal?

The strangest sight he had seen—stranger than the groves of alien trees, the ngdins sopping spilled blood from the streets, the AT-ATs standing shoulder to shoulder with six-legged Yuuzhan Vong beasts—was Grand Admiral Gilad Pellaeon and six of his Imperial officers touring the area where the Imperial Palace had once stood.

Onetime enemies, now unequivocal allies.

Thousands of prisoners were being held at what the Yuuzhan Vong had called the Place of Bones, but thousands more had escaped into the wilderness the planet had become. On the other side of Coruscant, entire battalions were dug in. The commanders of those units were said to have vowed that they would fight to the last, and Kre’fey saw no reason to doubt them.

Questions and concerns tormented him. What was to be done with the heretics and the Shamed Ones; the noncom-batants and the children; the World Brain, the roving beasts, and the other biots? Several chief commanders were already advocating that Coruscant be defoliated entirely. Others wanted to preserve some of the planet’s new look. And still others wished to see the former galactic capital transformed into a kind of memorial, joining the ranks of Ithor, Barab I, New Plympto, and other worlds.

So despite the cheers and welcoming waves, Kre’fey didn’t feel like a liberator, much less a hero—at least not yet. The Bothan declaration of ar’krai—total war—meant just that, and his species was going to expect him to take the lead in pushing for extermination of the Yuuzhan Vong. But the Alliance’s chief commanders were hardly in accord on that matter. And now that a cease-fire seemed to be in effect, the politicians were eager to wrest control of the situation from the military. Kre’fey had long thought of Chief of State Cal Omas as an honest and honorable human. But as well meaning as Omas was, he didn’t always see reason. It scarcely helped that his very influential Advisory Council included six Jedi, a Caamasi, and a Wookiee. With everyone weighing in, it could take months or even years to reach a consensus regarding a final solution to the long war …

The skimmer came to a rest in front of Alliance headquarters—an example of Old Republic–classic architecture that had been partly released from its mantle of vegetation by lasers and missles; trees were still rooted in the roof and vines dangled over the ornate columns and shattered window openings.

Kre’fey strode briskly past logistics officers and communications specialists, analysts and slicers, protocol and mouse droids. Ultimately his aides escorted him into a debris-filled room that was being readied for General Farlander. A holo-projector occupied the center of the cleared space, and in the blue cone emanating from the table stood half-sized holograms of Sien Sovv and Cal Omas. For much of the battle for Coruscant, elected officials had been on the move, in and out of hyperspace. But for the past four days, Omas and the others had taken refuge on Contruum.

“Congratulations, Admiral Kre’fey,” Omas said. “Thanks to you we have reclaimed our capital.”

“Such as it is,” Kre’fey said.

Sovv made a sound of agreement, then said: “Nevertheless, your efforts are appreciated by one and all. What is the situation there, Traest?”

“We’re on the verge of turning a hopeless situation into an impossible one.”

“Any change in the disposition of the enemy vessels?”

“None.”

“Any overtures by Nas Choka?”

Kre’fey forced an exhale. “Much of the fight has been bled from the spaceborne warriors, but we’ve received no word from Nas Choka. He recalled the dregs of his Muscave and Zonama Sekot flotillas, but has neither advanced on Coruscant nor withdrawn.”

“What do you suppose they’re waiting for, Traest?”

“They’ve never suffered a defeat—let alone had to deal with the sudden death of their Supreme Overlord. Normally there would have been a pool of candidates, one of whom would have been chosen by the priests and shapers to accede to the throne. The elite would have been guided by signs and portents, and any potential successor would have to have demonstrated certain abilities. But it’s all moot, because Shimrra apparently saw to it that no one was standing in the royal wings. With Shimrra and High Prefect Drathul dead, Nas Choka is the highest-ranking elite. But in fact he wields no more real power than High Priest Jakan and Master Shaper Qelah Kwaad, both of whom we have in custody. A scramble for power had broken out among some of the lesser prefects and consuls, but it’s unlikely that any of them will be officially recognized as an heir apparent. What’s more, the heretics, along with many of the Shamed Ones, seem to be looking to us for rescue, protection, even redemption of some sort.”

Sovv took a moment to absorb Kre’fey’s remarks. “Should Nas Choka break the cease-fire and advance, are our fleets in a position to prevail?”

“Probably,” Kre’fey said, “though at considerable cost.”

“Do you wish to press an attack?” Omas asked carefully.

Kre’fey shook his head. “Not at this point. Until this morning we had no means of communicating with Nas Choka. But we’ve finally been able to persuade the Supreme Commander of the enemy home fleet to act as our liaison with the warmaster, commencing with villip transmissions.”

“Would a full surrender be too much to hope for, Admiral?” Omas asked.

Kre’fey touched his face in a gesture of uncertainty. “As I say, sir, the Yuuzhan Vong have no protocols for surrender. They’re expecting us to behave as they would under similar circumstances, by executing most of them and enslaving the rest.”

Omas frowned. “All these years of fighting and they still don’t understand us.” He paused, then said, “Admiral, you face the daunting task of convincing your commanders that there is nothing to be gained by exterminating the Yuuzhan Vong.”

Kre’fey compressed his lips. “Sir, after the barbarity the enemy has visited on us for five years, many local commanders won’t be willing to put aside vengeance for compassion. But perhaps some will, and in time others may follow. By the same token, it may prove impossible to convince the Yuuzhan Vong on occupied worlds to capitulate without a fight. Word of Shimrra’s death is being relayed by villip to planets throughout the invasion corridor. In several star systems the Yuuzhan Vong are already decamping. But we have our work cut out for us, regardless.”

“Zonama Sekot survived the battle?” Sovv said.

Kre’fey snorted. “I would say ‘triumphed.’ Though I failed to realize it at the time, the entire battle for Coruscant turned on that planet. If for whatever reason the Yuuzhan Vong hadn’t been so intent on destroying it … Well, let it suffice to say that we might not be having this conversation.”

“We’ve heard rumors,” Omas said, “that there was a second Supreme Overlord—a power behind the throne, as it were.”

Kre’fey nodded. “I’ve heard those same rumors. But they have yet to be corroborated by anyone.” “There’s also talk about a vessel contaminated with Alpha Red.”

“That happens to be fact, sir. The vessel was one that escaped from Caluula. The Yuuzhan Vong attempted but failed to deploy the bioweapon against Zonama Sekot. Allegedly it has been tractor-beamed into deep space. We have ships searching for it, if only to establish whether the toxin remains virulent.”

“Stay on that, Admiral,” Omas said.

Kre’fey nodded again. “Sir, assuming a surrender is forthcoming, have you chosen someone to negotiate the terms?”

“Many are urging me to solicit the assistance of the Jedi.”

Kre’fey’s face twisted. “Is that wise, sir, in light of Master Skywalker’s statement at Contruum that he would consider giving Coruscant to the Yuuzhan Vong if he thought that would end the war?”

Omas laughed shortly. “I never took Skywalker’s remark at face value. But we do need to reach a decision regarding Coruscant’s importance in the scheme of things. Perhaps the fact that we reclaimed it will be sufficient to serve as a symbol of our unity.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Kre’fey said evenly, “we can’t allow the Yuuzhan Vong to keep even a square kilometer of Coruscant. Even if we can’t reoccupy the planet for a hundred years, Coruscant is essential to the stability of the Alliance. No species will rest comfortably with the Yuuzhan Vong imprisoned at the center of our galaxy. Coruscant must be seen as a symbol that not only have we prevailed, but also that the threat has passed, and order has been restored.”

“I concur, Admiral,” Omas replied in the same even tone, “but we’re going to have to do something with the Yuuzhan Vong—something more than disarm them and send them back into the intergalactic void.”

“I suspect that they would sooner fight to the death than return there,” Kre’fey said. “In any event, we haven’t ships enough to escort them from the galaxy.”

“Some have suggested imprisoning them aboard their own ships,” Sovv said.

Kre’fey grimaced. “The warriors, perhaps. But do we also imprison every female, every child, every Shamed One? Wouldn’t we be sentencing them to a lingering death rather than an expedient one?”

Omas heaved a sigh. “Those I trust to safeguard our financial health may not warm to the idea of spending trillions of credits to imprison warriors who are beyond being rehabilitated.”

Kre’fey turned slightly to face Omas’s image. “Sir, will you consider establishing a war crimes commission?”

“Such a commission is under consideration, Admiral. But who would you have us bring to trial?”

“We could begin with Nas Choka.”

Sovv shook his head. “We’re going to need him if we hope to subjugate the warrior caste. Try Nas Choka, and you will have that fight to the death.”

“I agree with Admiral Sovv,” Omas said. “Shimrra is dead, as are Tsavong Lah, Nom Anor, most of the Peace Brigade … More to the point, how do we separate the ‘war criminals’ from the religious zealots? Should we attempt to root out those commanders responsible for attacking refugee ships, or perhaps those who were directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of millions of hostages at Coruscant? They’re all guilty—the entire species. We may as well start with their gods if we’re going to initiate criminal proceedings.”

Kre’fey allowed the silence to linger for some time, then said, “Sir, we still have Alpha Red.”

Omas nodded solemnly. “I respect your courage in being the first to broach the subject, Admiral. But Alpha Red is no longer an option. Use of the bioweapon isn’t a decision one person, three, or even a hundred can make. I promise, however, to discuss all other matters with the members of my Advisory Council.”

Kre’fey swallowed hard. “May some wisdom accrue from it.”

If jubilant celebrations were taking place on many worlds, stars were the only lights in Zonama Sekot’s night sky, and by day only the remote disk that was the Coruscant system’s primary.

“It’s getting colder,” Luke said, as he and Harrar followed Jacen through the boras. “Most of the energy Sekot dedicated to keeping the planet warm was diverted to the mountaintop defenses. Zonama can’t remain in this orbit for much longer—not without risk to the forests.”

“Perhaps that’s what Sekot wishes to discuss,” Harrar said. “Inserting Zonama into a more nourishing orbit.”

Jacen glanced over his shoulder at the priest. “We’ll know soon enough. The reflecting pool isn’t much farther.”

Jacen had mentioned the pool several times, though Luke had never been there and was eager to see it. The suggestion to assemble at the pool had been Sekot’s, relayed through Magister Jabitha, who had visited Luke in his and Mara’s cliffside dwelling.

Luke felt as if he had done little more than sleep since arriving on Zonama Sekot a week earlier in the Millennium Falcon. While Jacen had been successful at neutralizing most of the venom delivered by Shimrra’s amphistaff, Luke knew that he was not yet completely healed, and might never be. His body was gaining strength daily, and he was able to keep up with his nephew and Harrar on the undulating path, but his physiology had been altered by the venom, and he was compelled to draw subtly on the Force to sustain himself. Perhaps it would just be a matter of time until his body dealt with the vestiges of the venom, but he suspected that the damage had been done in the first instance of his being pierced by the serpentlike weapon. As had been the case with Mara, healing tears could only do so much. He realized that the battle in Shimrra’s bunker had brought him very close to the dark side, whose venom was every bit as potent as that of the royal amphistaff. But he had no regrets about having skirted that razor’s edge, and knew in his heart that he would have walked even closer to the edge to safeguard Jacen or Jaina.

What troubled him was that they, too, appeared to have suffered as a result of their confrontation with Onimi—Supreme Overlord Onimi. Several of the Jedi and the Ferroans had already remarked to Luke in private that Jacen looked older, and just that morning Luke had heard whispered exchanges regarding Jaina’s sudden and uncharacteristic gravity. Neither Leia nor Han had said anything to Luke, though their concern was evident. But then, who hadn’t been affected in some fashion by the events that had unfolded on Coruscant and Zonama Sekot?

The planet itself had been damaged, chiefly in the Middle Distance, where the Ferroans were doing what they could to rebuild their homes and nurse the boras back to health, the frosty conditions notwithstanding. Most of the several dozen Yuuzhan Vong warriors who had been hauled to the surface were traumatized. After some effort, Harrar had talked them into leaving the place where their coralskippers had been set down, but they remained confused as to whether they were prisoners or guests. The presence of the Jedi had confirmed their worst fear—the one the heretics had embraced—that the gods had allied with the Jedi to obliterate the Yuuzhan Vong. And yet a few of the warriors had undergone what amounted to conversion experiences, espousing to their humbled comrades that they could feel the gods in the sweet taste of Zonama’s water, in the soil under their feet, on the wind, and inhabiting the giant boras. To them, the living world was a paradise regained, and they had urged Luke to recount that to the Yuuzhan Vong elite, should he decide to agree to mediating the surrender, as the leaders of the Alliance wished.

“We’re here,” Jacen announced suddenly.

He led Luke and Harrar onto an intersecting trail that descended a short but steep slope, ending at a tranquil pool fringed with ice and surrounded by towering boras. Luke had expected to meet only with a thought projection of Sekot—perhaps Anakin or Vergere—but instead Jabitha was there, having somehow arrived first by some other path from the canyon.

“Some of what I wish to say you must have guessed by now,” Sekot said through Jabitha, as Luke, Jacen, and Harrar were approaching the edge of the pool. “Especially regarding the Yuuzhan Vong.”

“You told Danni that you wanted to welcome them home,” Luke said. “Were you suggesting that Zonama is actually their primordial homeworld?”

“Much as I evolved from the consciousness that presided there—the consciousness of my parent—Zonama is a seed of Yuuzhan’tar, the world that birthed the Yuuzhan Vong and became the template for their gods.”

“I wanted to believe,” Harrar said in astonishment, “but I didn’t dare …”

“Where is Yuuzhan’tar now?” Jacen asked.

“I hope in time to be able to answer that question. I suspect, though, that it was destroyed by its symbionts—by the species that became the Yuuzhan Vong, in retribution for what my parent did to them: casting them out, severing its connection to them—stripping them of the Force. All as a consequence of their hunger for violence and conquest, which had been awakened by a single confrontation with a warfaring race. I further suspect that without my parent they were unable to move beyond the biotechnology they were given—or stole. In need of a guiding consciousness, they created a pantheon of gods, to whom they ascribed the powers that were once the province of the living world of Yuuzhan’tar.”

“The empty eighth cortex,” Harrar mumbled. “The shapers accepted that they shouldn’t create new biots, when in fact they couldn’t.”

Jabitha-Sekot continued. “Evidently, before my parent died, it dispatched the seed of the world that would come to be called Zonama Sekot, and the seed drifted to this galaxy, took root, and grew … For untold generations I lay dormant in Zonama while the Yuuzhan Vong plundered the home galaxy, and were forced at last to embark on the search for a new home, carried on the same currents that brought Zonama Sekot here.

“Then those I originally knew as the Far Outsiders appeared—not by coincidence, but drawn genetically to Zonama Sekot, much as a creature finds its way home, as occurred a second time in the Unknown Regions.” Jabitha looked at Harrar. “It’s possible, too, that I called out to you.”

“Welcoming us home,” Harrar said, “only to be attacked again.”

Jabitha nodded. “The unprovoked attack by the Far Outsiders stirred something in me. Counter to the teachings of the leaders of the Potentium, I became aware of the existence of evil. In a sense, evil helped give birth to my awareness. Now I understand that the acts of the Far Outsiders may have been nothing more than a reawakening of the evil my parent experienced when its symbionts used its creations not merely to defend Yuuzhan’tar, but to launch an era of bloodshed that resulted in the death of countless worlds—along with many latent planetary consciousnesses.

“But I did not pursue those stirrings, those suspicions, until Zonama became lost in the Unknown Regions, and, through Nen Yim and Harrar, I comprehended that the Yuuzhan Vong had been stripped of the Force. My most grave misgivings were confirmed when I learned of the bioweapon that was being hurled at Zonama.

“I understood that a cycle of violence was being perpetuated, and that I had to make a critical decision. There was no right or wrong way to decide. There was only my choice, and its consequences. I could have accepted the Alpha Red, ending my participation in the cycle, or I could have sent it back at the Yuuzhan Vong, ending their participation. In the end I elected to sue for peace.”

“On Coruscant,” Jacen said, “when I reached out for you with my Vongsense, I sensed your conflict.”

“What are the consequences of your choice?” Luke asked.

Jabitha’s gaze fell on him. “I will tell you …”

Nas Choka sat stoically on the acceleration couch of the Alliance shuttle that was conveying him and five of his Supreme Commanders toward the gaping docking bay of Ralroost. He wore an unadorned tunic, trousers, headcloth, and pectoral. Only the command cloak that hung from his shoulder horns distinguished him from his subordinates; and, like them, his frame was thinner after long days of fasting, and his cheeks, lips, and arms bore fresh bloodletting cuts.

The world again known as Coruscant dominated the view through the shuttle’s starboard transparency, and between the planet and Ralroost floated hundreds of warships, dispersed to protect Coruscant against a surprise attack by the warriors who had once taken and occupied it. Nas Choka considered how easy it might have been to launch a final onslaught and perish in the blaze of glory the Alliance certainly expected. But what glory could be derived from a battle the gods had no interest in supporting?

No, while the reason for the gods’ abrupt abandonment of the Yuuzhan Vong was unknown, it was clear that they desired something other than sacrificial blood. Unless it was the blood of the Yuuzhan Vong they craved. Did the fault lie with Shimrra for having usurped the throne from Quoreal, or perhaps for having failed to heed the prophecies regarding the living world of Zonama Sekot? And yet, if all Yuuzhan Vong were to be punished for Shimrra’s pride, why hadn’t the gods allowed them to be wiped out by the Alliance or killed by the very bioweapon Shimrra had sent against Zonama Sekot?

It was because these questions remained unanswered that Nas Choka and his commanders had submitted without protest or anger to personal searches by teams of distrustful Alliance warriors, and why they sat impassively now. The only item Nas Choka had been allowed to retain was his tsaisi—his baton of rank—which he would present to the Alliance’s chief commanders before requesting that he be allowed to end his own life.

Ralroost’s tractor beam conducted the shuttle through an invisible field and allowed it to berth. Released from their harnesses, the captives were escorted down the ship’s ramp and toward an area of the vast hold where no less than five hundred Alliance officers and officials stood at attention behind a semicircular arrangement of tables and chairs. The sterility of the huge space chilled Nas Choka to the bone. The scrubbed air had an unpleasant tang; the intense yellow-white light gave every object a sharp aspect; the smooth deck was uncompromising; the ceiling was a chaos of girders and ducts. Hundreds of starfighters rested on their hardstands, and droids shuffled about like slaves.

A mixed-species orchestra assaulted the captives with martial music, and an artificial breeze tugged at flags representative of some of the galaxy’s species—several of which had been vanquished by Nas Choka himself. Humans and others documented the occasion with holocams and other recording devices. Though much of the meaning was lost on him, Nas Choka recognized the display as pageant and ritual, pomp and circumstance.

Sovv and Kre’fey were determined to put on a grand show.

The open end of the half circle of tables faced a row of six chairs, atop which Nas Choka and his commanders were obviously meant to sit. Interpreters—Alliance species and Yuuzhan Vong heretics, by the look of them—were standing by to make certain that everyone understood one another.

When the fanfare ended, the officers and officials seated themselves. At the semicircle’s apex sat white-furred Kre’fey and big-eared Sovv, along with several human commanders Nas Choka recognized from intelligence reports—Pellaeon, Brand, Bel Iblis, Farlander, Antilles, Rieekan, Celchu, Davip, and the Hapan queen, Tenel Ka, who was a Jedi, as well. Alliance intendants were scattered, but close to the military commanders sat Cal Omas and his principal advisers: the Wookiee named Triebakk, the Gotal named Ta’laam Ranth, the lank human director of Intelligence, Dif Scaur, and the golden-furred Caamasi named Releqy, whose intendant father had been ritually killed at Dubrillion by Commander Shedao Shai.

The Jedi—in cloaks so homespun they might have been made by Shamed Ones—had an arc of the half circle to themselves. Conspicuous among the three human males was Luke Skywalker, the killer of Shimrra. The two seated next to him had the look of warriors. The only other human was a dark-haired female, who struck Nas Choka as more intendant than warrior. The remaining pair of Jedi were nonhumanoid females: a Barabel who might have been at home among the Chazrach, and a Mon Calamari, whose long head brought to mind that of a Yuuzhan Vong beast of burden.

Occupying the distal end of the arc’s left curve sat Jakan, Harrar, Qelah Kwaad, and several lesser priests, shapers, and intendants.

When the captives had been positioned in front of their rigid chairs, Nas Choka waved for his commanders to be seated and stepped forward. The dread moment had arrived. Proffering his baton of rank, he dropped to one knee.

“In surrendering this,” he said in Basic, “we surrender ourselves.”

It was a historic utterance, and every Yuuzhan Vong in the docking bay—loyal and heretic alike—inhaled sharply and with purpose.

“I ask only that I be allowed to be the first to die—by my own coufee.”

“Rise, Warmaster,” Sovv said. “We understand that honor attends such actions, but that cannot be permitted here.”

Still kneeling, Nas Choka regarded him in confusion. “Then appoint any warrior you see fit to kill me.”

Sovv shook his tiny head. “There will be no executions, Warmaster.”

Nas Choka gritted his teeth and came to his feet. “So you mean to enslave us, as we did the Chazrach. In place of coral seeds, you will implant us with devices that will control—”

“Warmaster,” Jakan cut him off. “Hold your reply until all has been laid before you.”

“Great things are still expected of you,” Harrar added.

Nas Choka glared at the priest. “This from a defector.”

Harrar made no effort to parry the accusation. “What I did, Warmaster, I did for all of us.”

Nas Choka made a chopping motion with his right hand. “I no longer wear that title, priest. If we are neither to be executed nor enslaved, what would the Alliance do with us? This bold new order holds no place for the warrior caste.” He turned to Skywalker. “The Jeedai are warriors. What will you do without war?”

Skywalker rose from his chair. “From the start you’ve mistaken us for warriors, when we are nothing more than the guardians of peace and justice. You could be that, as well, Nas Choka. Though it would require that you adapt your battle traditions to a new form.” He held up his lightsaber and ignited the blade. “This was once a weapon.”

Nas Choka laughed ruefully. “Thousands of my warriors would willingly attest to the fact that it is a weapon still.”

Skywalker acknowledged the remark with a nod. “In peaceful times it is only a symbol of the fight we wage with ourselves—to keep us from taking the wrong path.”

Nas Choka lifted his chin. “We have always acted in accord with the warrior decree.”

“We accept that,” Skywalker said. “But you’re going to have to learn to do without many of the biots that defined you as warriors.”

“Name them, Jeedai.”

“Your amphistaffs and coufees, your blorash and firejelly, your thud bugs, razor bugs, and plasma eels, your vessels and war coordinators …”

“In exchange for what—digging implements and plows?”

“That remains to be decided by your custodian.”

Nas Choka scanned the officers and officials. “Who is that to be?”

“Zonama Sekot,” Skywalker said.

Nas Choka stared at him in alarm. “You would surrender us to our true enemy! The living world we tried to poison! The world where our amphistaffs slither away, our thud bugs take flight, our villips and dovin basals turn to fruit … And yet you deny that we will be executed! Send us instead back to the intergalactic void, where we can at least die with dignity!”

“Perhaps our biots have something to teach us,” Harrar said. “If they can overcome their conditioning, perhaps the warriors can.”

“Words!” Nas Choka snapped. “Because the priests, shapers, and intendants have nothing to lose by imprisonment on the living world.”

“We lose more than you know, Nas Choka,” Harrar said sadly.

“We honor a tradition that cannot be altered!”

Harrar stepped from behind the table to approach. “You honor a much older tradition, Warmaster. One that began on the planet that was parent to Zonama Sekot.”

“Parent?”

“Zonama Sekot is our world, Warmaster. It is Yuuzhan’tar.”

Nas Choka threw his head back and bellowed at the ceiling. “Then we are truly defeated!” He looked at Harrar again. “Was all this due to Shimrra, priest? Were our wanderings nothing more than a ruse to return us to the world from which we were cast?”

“Only the gods can answer that.”

Nas Choka narrowed his eyes. “Do the gods reside there?”

“In the sense that Zonama Sekot incorporates all aspects of Yun-Yuuzhan, Yun-Ne’Shel, Yun-Shuno …”

“You make no mention of Yun-Yammka.”

“That one we concocted,” Harrar said, “when we turned to war.”

Nas Choka snorted in disdain. “I thought as much. You’ve been deceived, priest. The Shamed Ones proclaimed that the Jeedai incorporated all aspects of the gods, and clearly they are not gods.” He allowed his words to trail off, then said in a more controlled voice, “On these matters, I speak only for myself. We are the defeated. Do with us what you will. But tell me, Jeedai, is our imprisonment to endure in the shadow of your Coruscant, as a constant reminder of our failure?”

Skywalker shook his head. “Zonama Sekot has no desire to remain in known space, risking reverence, exploitation, or both. Zonama Sekot will return to the Unknown Regions, where it has knowledge of a star system that, over time, could be colonized by the Yuuzhan Vong—that is, once Zonama Sekot and the Yuuzhan Vong have become reacquainted.”

“What of our childbearers and offspring?”

“They will also find a new home on Zonama Sekot.”

“And the Shamed Ones? The heretics?”

“They will need little persuading,” Harrar answered. “On Zonama Sekot our society will be able to redefine itself, without the need to abandon completely its core beliefs.”

Nas Choka’s broad forehead wrinkled. His gaze lingered on Sovv and Kre’fey, on Cal Omas and Luke Skywalker. “This seems a curious leniency.”

“We haven’t yet stated all our terms,” Kre’fey said sharply.

Nas Choka folded his arms across his chest. “Then do so.”

“Villips have been relaying the news of Shimrra’s death to occupied worlds throughout the invasion corridor. Some of your commanders have left; others remain entrenched. We don’t want to have to liberate each and every one of them at the cost of additional lives.”

Nas Choka nodded. “I will summon them to Coruscant. Those who refuse, we will help you hunt down and kill.” He held Kre’fey’s baleful stare. “State the rest of your terms, Admiral.”

“We demand that your shapers assist in the reconstruction of Coruscant, by persuading the World Brain to reverse some of the changes it wrought.”

Nas Choka almost smiled. “Will it not trouble you, Admiral, to know that a Yuuzhan Vong dhuryam rests at the center of your galaxy?”

Kre’fey sniffed. “Consider it, Warmaster, the foundation for an enduring compromise.”