SIXTEEN

There hadn’t been a ceremony to equal it in untold generations. As vast as the worldships were—and notwithstanding the views of distant stars and even more distant galaxies—they weren’t large enough to contain the magnificence of high ritual. Compared to Yuuzhan’tar’s Place of Sacrifice, the worldships were mere theaters.

And yet, for all the grandeur and spectacle, Nom Anor was too consumed by apprehension to appreciate a moment of it. He marched in step with the procession, but the expression on his face would have been better suited to someone on his way to be executed.

Located midway between Shimrra’s Citadel and the skull-shaped bunker that housed the Well of the World Brain, the Place of Sacrifice was dominated by a hundred-meter-high truncated cone of yorik coral, helixed with carved stairways and honeycombed with passageways that served to channel blood into fonts and other basins. On the flattened top the priests performed their rituals, and encircling the base were the yawning pits of the corpse-disposing maw luur. To one side of the spire sprawled a grouping of temples, oriented to the sacred directions; and to the other, a repository, in which were stored the holy relics Shimrra’s worldship had conveyed across the dim reaches of intergalactic space.

Constructed in accordance with the hallowed texts, and in homage to the ancestral architecture, the complex was dense with conifers, ferns, palms, and the like, wrong for the latitude but somehow thriving. The air hummed with the sounds of insects and crab-harps, and was heady with the smell of paalac incense, which wafted in thick, curling clouds from bone braziers.

Along the perimeter of the quadrangle were pens for the blood-sopping ngdins, and at each corner sat a mon duul, whose enormous tympanic belly was capable of amplifying the utterances of the various celebrants. Since the priests had not yet grown to trust Yuuzhan’tar’s World Brain, the matched pair of consuming beasts known as Tu-Scart and Sgauru waited in the wings with their handlers, in case the capricious dhuryam failed to command the maw luur to execute their tasks.

More specialized than yammosks, dhuryams had full responsibility for worldshaping. Their decisions were based on the continuous streams of data they received from planet-wide networks of telepathically linked creatures. But Yuuzhan’tar’s dhuryam had been behaving as if there were glitches in the data flow, and it had already ruined several sacrifices by spewing fetid-smelling wastes from the maw luur.

Shimrra, however, had apparently found a way to placate or otherwise bring the World Brain into line, because thus far the sundry biots were functioning smoothly. Nom Anor suspected that the Supreme Overlord had tricked the dhuryam into thinking that, by providing the maw luur with nourishment, it would be helping the gardens and copses of trees to flourish.

He and some of Yuuzhan’tar’s consuls entered the Place of Sacrifice to music that was at once solemn and celebratory. Sated on yanskac and snack beetles, and mildly intoxicated on sparkbee honey grog and other home brews, the crowds of onlookers applauded exuberantly. Thousands of warriors kneeled to both sides of the grand avenue, heads lowered and amphistaffs curled sedately around their extended right arms, fists planted solidly on the ground. With guards posted at all entry points and circulating through the crowd, it seemed improbable that any Shamed Ones could get within a phon of the place.

Regardless, Nom Anor continued to torment himself with worry.

Behind the intendants marched elites of the four castes—High Priest Jakan and his coven of savants; red-cloaked Warmaster Nas Choka and three dozen of his Supreme Commanders; Master Shaper Qelah Kwaad and her chief adepts; and High Prefect Drathul, baton of high-office in hand, and leading his cabal of personal consuls. Last came Shimrra, without Onimi—for, as a Shamed One, Onimi was barred from attending such weighty proceedings—but accompanied by his quartet of hideous seers. Attired in a train of living insects and holding the royal scepter, the Supreme Overlord rode atop a yorik coral sled drawn by a pack of bissop hounds.

All fangs, talons, horns, and blades, female dervishes whirled at the base of the spire, while the elite arranged themselves in tiers below Shimrra’s moonbeam throne. Nom Anor sat close to the top, with an unobstructed view of the sacrificial platform toward which Jakan climbed, followed by a gang of executioners, priestesses, and young acolytes.

At the appointed moment—when the sun had reached a place in the sky from which it could set the rainbow bridge aflame—the captives were led into the complex by a parade of ngdin handlers and Chazrach troops, riding twelve-legged quenak beasts.

Counting what the Peace Brigaders had managed to deliver and those captured only three standard days earlier at Caluula, the captives numbered close to one thousand. Military officers, political officials, soldiers, and protestors from scores of worlds along the invasion corridor—men, women, even a few adolescents who had fought bravely enough to be rewarded with honorable death—they had been purged, bathed, perfumed, mildly sedated with sensislug gas, and blessed with tishwii leaf smoke. Manacled, they wore white robes that glowed with green designs and were veined in black along arterial networks down the sleeves and fronts.

The captives were brought to a halt at the foot of the spiral staircases that twisted around the spire. By then Jakan and the others had reached the top and were waiting eagerly.

At Shimrra’s nod of consent, Jakan raised his arms and spoke, and the bellies of the four mon duuls carried his invocation far and wide.

“Accept what we offer as evidence of our wish to render unto you what is rightfully yours,” the high priest intoned. “If not for you, we should not exist!”

Dedicated lambents illuminated statues of the gods, which lined the quadrangle. The statues would be anointed with first blood. But because of the special nature of the sacrifice, Yun-Yuuzhan would receive only a healthy share, with much of the sacrificial blood going instead to Yun-Yammka, god of war.

Guards began to force the captives to ascend the staircases. Despite their sedation, they floundered and fought, showing no appreciation for the honor that had been bestowed on them. In the end, though, there was little they could do to affect their fate.

The first of the captives had reached the circular platform when a howl rose from below. With nearly half the audience of elites rising to their feet, Nom Anor couldn’t see what was going on. It sounded as if a battle had broken out among some of the guards stationed at the base of the spire—perhaps a domain dispute. He pitied those who lacked the self-control to delay their contest until after the sacrifice. But at least he wouldn’t be blamed.

Then he realized what was actually happening.

As if detonating, carefully camouflaged chuk’a caps were popping from the quadrangle’s hexagonal paving stones. The shells of an aquatic creature, the caps concealed the entrances to shafts that must have descended into the maze of canyons below the Place of Sacrifice—down to the wide thoroughfares that had once separated the tall edifices of Coruscant, down into the dusky underworld of scrub growth and meandering pathways the Shamed Ones had claimed as their own.

Out of the shafts were emerging hundreds of Shamed Ones—Yu’shaa’s flock of heretics—armed with amphistaffs, coufees, an array of homemade weapons, even a few blasters! Momentarily taken off their guard, the warriors—many in ceremonial armor only—were slow to react, and dozens were felled in an instant. As the Shamed Ones spread out into the crowd, the commoners began to panic, surging down into the quadrangle.

Fearing that the heretics had come for Shimrra, the slayers closed ranks around the Supreme Overlord, unfurling their amphistaffs, heedless of any who might be standing in front of them. But Nom Anor saw that only a small contingent of Shamed Ones was closing on Shimrra’s dais, and that this group was clearly a diversion.

It was the prisoners the heretics had come for.

Oblivious, thinking perhaps that it was all a hallucination, the captives were being scooped off their feet by bands of heretics and rushed back into the labyrinthine underworld from which the pariah army had climbed. Not all of them made it to safety; scores were dropped by thud and razor bugs, along with three times as many Shamed Ones.

Shimrra’s black-smeared seers were flailing their arms in dread, and Jakan appeared to have been struck deaf and silent. The executioners, however, were rushing down the staircases and lashing out with their keen weapons, determined to administer at least a few decapitations—as if the gods could be satisfied with a snack, when they had been anticipating a feast!

What blood was running into the quadrangle, the ndgins were thirsty to absorb. Unable to contain themselves, they were wriggling free of their handlers, and, in so doing, providing slick patches of crushed bodies for warriors in pursuit of the heretics and the captives they had set free.

Nom Anor wasn’t sure if he should flee, throw himself on one of the slayers’ coufees, or crawl to Shimrra on his belly and beg forgiveness while there was still a chance. He glanced over his shoulder to see Drathul skewering him with a look of unmitigated hatred. The high prefect had said that he would hold Nom Anor accountable for any interference, and now Drathul was intent on making good his threat.

Pressed among the crowd, Nom Anor readied his venom-spitting eyeball. Drathul was already shouldering his way through the throng, brandishing his baton. Was Nom Anor going to have to kill another high prefect just to save his own neck?

Shimrra would have expected no less of him.

Drathul was almost within arm’s reach of Nom Anor when the Supreme Overlord’s voice rang out above the melee of droning thud bugs, snapping amphistaffs, and sizzling blaster-bolts, his huge head rising above those slayers that made up his living fence.

“High Prefect Drathul! No more of this shall we brook! At this place is our patience and goodwill sundered!” Shimrra stood to his full and imposing height, towering over everyone. “I demand the heart of every Yuuzhan Vong who has aided and abetted the Prophet!”

Everyone in the vicinity was cowering, except for Nom Anor, because of how tightly he was wedged in place. Perhaps that was why he alone happened to be gazing past Shimrra when one of the slayers slipped away into the crowd. Except that the individual wasn’t a slayer. Master of disguise that he was, Nom Anor recognized that the deserter was wearing an ooglith masquer, which not only cloaked his appearance but also reshaped his body.

And from the way the slayer moved—with a somewhat trembling gait—the imposter could only be Onimi.

For the fourth and final microjump that would deliver them at last to Mon Calamari, Han and Leia had sealed off the cockpit and spent the entire time in each other’s arms, Leia on Han’s lap in the pilot’s chair, her arms around his neck. By the time the Falcon reverted to realspace Han was delirious, and Leia felt that, as safe corners went, the cockpit wasn’t too shabby—at least until they happened on the real thing.

Approaching the water world from well beyond its solitary moon, they were greeted by the sight of an enormous, perhaps unprecedented gathering of warships—a unified force of battle groups, flotillas, and fleets from all regions of the galaxy: Bothan, Bakuran, Imperial Remnant, and Chiss; Sullustan, Hapan, Eriaduan, and Hutt; Corellian and Mon Calamarian. In a glance they saw Mediator-class battle cruisers, Belarus-class cruisers, Lancer-class frigates, and Hapan Battle Dragons. They saw ensembles of Nova-class battle cruisers and Corellian gunships; reprovision flotillas of KDY Marlclass heavy freighters; attack groups of Imperial II-class Star Destroyers, Republic-class cruisers, and Immobilizer-class interdictors, their hemispherical gravity-well projectors accented by starlight.

There were Ralroost, Right to Rule, Harbinger, Elegos A ’Kla, Mon Adapyne, and Mon Mothma; the Super Star Destroyer Guardian, and the ancient Dreadnaught Starsider.

“You disappear for a couple of days,” Han said when he was past his initial astonishment, “and the kids turn the house into party central.”

Wordlessly he and Leia maneuvered the Falcon through corridors formed by the massive ships. The confined lanes were thick with starfighters and tenders. Ultimately they were requested to surrender control of the freighter to one of Ralroost’s tractor beams, which carried them gently into the cruiser’s immense starboard docking bay. A large crowd had turned out to welcome the Falcon home, and cheers and applause filled the scrubbed air as Han, Leia, and their roster of very influential people descended the boarding ramp.

Jaina rushed from the sidelines to hug her parents for dear life.

Han was nonplussed. “We’d’ve been here sooner, but we had to spend three days at sublight making repairs to the repairs.”

“I knew you were at Caluula,” she said, refusing to let go of him. “I should have listened to the Force and gone there.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Leia said, taking a moment to gaze at her daughter. “Has there been any further word from the station?”

“A courier arrived from Caluula yesterday,” Jaina said. “The station and the planet fell to the Yuuzhan Vong. Hundreds were taken captive and sent to Coruscant.”

“The sacrifice,” Han said.

Jaina nodded grimly and began to lead her parents away from the Falcon.

Han thought about Pash Cracken and the rest who had chosen to remain at Caluula—rescued only to be captured again. He was reminded of what had often happened at the beginning of the war, when countless refugees had been taken advantage of by pirates and Peace Brigaders.

“Is there news from Coruscant?” he asked.

Jaina nodded. “Good and bad—but you can hear for yourself. Admiral Kre’fey wants to bring you up to speed personally.”

“Give us a hint,” Leia said.

Jaina lowered her voice. “The Yuuzhan Vong have amassed an armada. We’re expecting them to strike us here.”

Han blew out his breath. “That explains all the ships.”

“Let’s just hope that wasn’t the good news,” Leia said.

Jaina talked nonstop for the several minutes it took them to ascend to Ralroost’s command deck and ride a skimmer to a conference cabin amidships. Han and Leia were disappointed to learn that the Jedi still hadn’t heard from Luke, Mara, Jacen, or the others. It wasn’t like them to remain out of contact for so long.

The white-furred Bothan admiral, Traest Kre’fey, rose from his chair at the head of the long conference table as Leia, Jaina, and Han were being escorted into the cabin space. His violet eyes took in Han and Leia, and he smiled broadly. “We were all starting to wonder if you’d decided to take unannounced leave.”

“Well, we have our own idea about what constitutes a vacation,” Han joked.

Leia managed to smile, but just barely.

By all, Kre’fey had meant the dozen high-ranking officers who were seated at the table. Defense Force Supreme Commander Sien Sovv; Grand Admiral Gilad Pellaeon; Generals Wedge Antilles, Garm Bel Iblis, Keyan Farlander, Carlist Rieekan, and Airen Cracken; Commodore Brand, Queen Mother and Jedi Knight Tenel Ka, and bulky Major General Eldo Davip—promoted as a result of his brave actions aboard the Star Destroyer Lusankya at the Battle of Borleias.

Han and Leia needed no introductions to any of them, but there were others they recognized only by species rather than name.

Han threw everyone a grin of greeting. Leia shook hands with Gilad Pellaeon and Keyan Farlander, kissed Wedge and Tenel Ka on both cheeks, then went to Airen Cracken, with whom she had spoken briefly from the Falcon.

“Pash was one of the officers captured at Caluula Orbital and taken to Coruscant,” Cracken said. “But I’m hoping for the best. No one knows Coruscant better than my son, and if anyone can escape, it’ll be him.”

Han, Leia, and Jaina found seats for themselves.

“Just to catch you up,” Kre’fey said, “the sacrifice ceremony took place as scheduled. But our agents report that before anyone had been put to the coufee, there was an uprising by several hundred heretics. The heretics managed not only to interfere with the ceremony, but also to abscond with more than three hundred Alliance prisoners.”

“Just to spoil things for Shimrra?” Han asked.

“We’re not sure, at this point. But we have learned that an untold number of Shamed Ones have been rounded up in return, and are apparently going to be put to death. No Alliance personnel were among those seized, so presumably our people are being well hidden.”

“If they’re even alive,” Han said. “The Shamed Ones could have staged a sacrifice of their own, in honor of whatever deity they worship.” He glanced at Cracken. “Sorry, Airen, but I think it’s premature to consider these heretics as allies.”

“We agree,” Kre’fey said. “The possibility of a secret sacrifice or a hostage scenario cannot be ruled out. However, we have also learned the purpose of the original sacrifice was to ensure victory for the armada Shimrra plans to launch against Mon Calamari.”

Han and Leia pretended to be surprised by the news. “Do we know when or how they’re going to do this?” Leia asked.

Sovv spoke to the question. A Sullustan, he looked as if he were wearing a large-eared, heavy-jowled mask. “Intelligence has determined that the enemy plans to attack directly from the Perlemian Trade Route. Secondary salients will be launched from Toong’l and Caluula, both of which now host yammosks. There appears to be a twofold purpose for installing war coordinators on those worlds: first, to coordinate flanking attacks; and second, to provide rear-guard defense in the event the initial wave is repelled.”

Han glanced around the cabin. “How many Yuuzhan Vong vessels are we talking about?”

“On the order of five thousand,” Bel Iblis supplied flatly, the fingers of his left hand smoothing his drooping mustache.

Han sat away from the table in shock. “Then we haven’t a chance.”

“Not force against force,” Sovv said. “But we have high confidence that the enemy has made a strategic blunder by opting to stage from remote worlds like Toong’l and Caluula.”

Bel Iblis nodded in agreement. “More important, we think we can take advantage of the fact the Yuuzhan Vong are expecting us to turn tail and scatter.”

Han regarded the inscrutable Sullustan and the gray-haired human. If there was any lingering bad blood between Sovv and Bel Iblis over what had occurred during the evacuation of Coruscant, there was no evidence of it now. In fact, everyone at the table appeared to have reached an accord.

“Why wouldn’t we be better off scattering our fleets?” he asked carefully. “We’ve enough ships to open dozens of new fronts.”

“And wage a war of rebel actions for the next ten years, while the enemy grows stronger?” Kre’fey said. “No. By scattering we would leave Mon Calamari open to assault, and we certainly don’t want to see happen here what happened on Coruscant. There is no more dangerous species than one that views killing as cleansing.” He gave his head a determined shake. “This must be our decisive step.”

“Without going into detail at this time,” Sovv said, “let me just add that we plan to give all appearances of being caught unawares by the armada, and of engaging it head-on. This alone will give the enemy pause. In fact, half our forces will have already relocated to Contruum, which has agreed to serve as our staging area—thanks to the efforts of General Cracken. We’re counting on Captain Page to prevail on the leaders of Corulag to do the same.”

Han shook his head in confusion. “Staging areas for what? The farther from Mon Calamari you place those fleets, the more trouble we’ll have communicating with them. And if you’re thinking of jumping them back to Mon Calamari by surprise, then maybe you need to be reminded of what happened to the Hapans at Fondor.”

Tenel Ka acknowledged Han’s remark with a veiled nod.

“Fondor was a special circumstance,” Commodore Brand said. “Our strategy would have worked if … In any case, it isn’t our intention to jump the fleets back to Mon Calamari.”

“What is your intention?” Leia asked.

Kre’fey cleared his throat meaningfully. “By devoting only half our battle groups to the defense of Mon Calamari, the remainder will be free to move against our primary target—Coruscant.”