TWENTY-EIGHT
With the armada engaged in a climactic battle at the distant world of Mon Calamari, there was little for the occupants of Yuuzhan’tar to do but await word of the outcome—even for a prefect who had already contributed some of his own blood to ensure victory and who wasn’t inclined to fraternize with the commoners gathered in prayer at the various temples. Instead, Nom Anor had opted for an afternoon nap. But he had barely shut his eyes when his cushioned sleeping pallet began to shake, with such increasing force that it was bucking across the room when he was finally tipped from it and sent sprawling onto the floor.
Overhead, cracks and fissures were spreading across the domed ceiling and down into the walls. Yorik coral dust swirled in the light and rained down on the vurruk carpets, and from elsewhere in the prefectory came screams of pain and panic. A rumble built deep underground and rolled like a wave underfoot, sending objects near and far crashing.
Dodging an overturned sclipune—a chest of keepsakes—then a toppling lambent stand, Nom Anor crawled frantically for the ledgelike balcony that overlooked the Place of Hierarchy. Everything outside was in motion, shuddering and crumbling, and the quality of the afternoon light was changing, as if fading to twilight. Groups of workers were rushing from the portals of the structures that surrounded the quadrangle. In a deranged herd they ran, stumbling and staggering, for the tree-lined paths that wound through the public space.
Kneeling, Nom Anor shielded his eyes and gazed toward the sun. But it wasn’t Yuuzhan’tar’s primary that had everyone in a panic. It was the crescent of planet that took up an enormous portion of the lower sky. Even as he watched, the green arc thinned as it advanced visibly on the star. It was impossible to judge the planet’s distance or true size, but it was twice as large as the shining orb it seemed intent on driving from the sky.
And it suddenly struck Nom Anor that the rainbow bridge had vanished!
Clasping his hands on the balcony balustrade, he hauled himself to his feet. Across the quadrangle the facade of a structure collapsed, burying hundreds of Yuuzhan Vong under jagged chunks of yorik coral. Then a harsh and terrible wind blew in, uprooting trees and toppling statues. The wind filled the air with so much grit that the permacrete bones of many a New Republic building and spacescraper were laid bare.
A roar raced through the sky, and a crevice split the ground, running diagonally through the quadrangle. Benches, shrubs, and a throng of hapless workers plummeted into the yawning opening. Swarms of sacbees liberated from their hives spiraled into the crazed sky. Thousands of birds were already on the wing—but not flying so much as being blown to wherever the howling wind was taking them and everything it had ripped from the surface.
Nom Anor planted his feet wide and stared into the sky while the gale tugged at his tunic and tore tears from his eyes.
Was this real, or a product of his feverish brain?
Below the balcony—in arrant defiance of the daytime curfew Shimrra had imposed on them—a band of Shamed Ones were down on their knees, raising their hideous faces and rail-thin arms in celebration of the newly arrived planet that was literally shaking Yuuzhan’tar to pieces.
Weakly, fatalistically, Nom Anor accepted the truth.
Zonama Sekot had not only returned to known space; it had made Yuuzhan’tar its destination and target!
An updraft carried the voices of the Shamed Ones to Nom Anor’s ears: “The prophecy has come to pass! Our salvation is at hand!”
He hung his head in defeat. Everything he had predicted was coming true.
The balcony groaned and the front edge tipped downward. Carefully, Nom Anor began to back toward his work chamber. He had just reached the threshold when someone threw a forearm lock on his throat, and he felt the point of a coufee press against his temple. His assailant dragged him backward into the room and whispered harshly in his right ear.
“Tell me what you know of this, or die this instant!”
Nom Anor recognized the voice of Drathul. “A weapon of the heretics,” he rasped, his own hands tight on the high prefect’s forearm.
The knife drew blood, sending a black trickle coursing down the yoke of Nom Anor’s robe.
“You would insult me further by lying? We know you have the Supreme Overlord’s ear on this and other matters!”
Drathul aimed his blade at the sky. Zonama Sekot was moving swiftly. Already its convex edge was nibbling at the sun. In moments the sun would be not merely eclipsed but entombed.
“We?” Nom Anor asked weakly.
“Those of us who would have preferred to heed Supreme Overlord Quoreal’s admonitions, along with the wisdom of his priests who counseled against invading this cursed galaxy,” Drathul said. “This is the living world discovered by Commander Krazhmir before the invasion. The same one recently rediscovered by Commander Ekh’m Val!”
“Then you know more than I,” Nom Anor said, close to passing out.
“A portent of defeat!”
“Portents serve weak rulers and superstitious fools,” Nom Anor said with his last remaining breath.
Abruptly, Drathul released his choke hold and spun Anor around. Grabbing a handful of Nom Anor’s tunic, he pulled him close and pressed the coufee into the front of his throat.
The landquake had ended, but Nom Anor was hardly out of danger.
“Speak the truth, or lose your ability to speak!” Drathul’s breath was foul with fright. “The heretics who bow in jubilation beneath this very perch while everyone else runs in panic … They know it is the living world—the primordial homeworld promised to them by the Prophet. Not this travesty we have created of Coruscant. Do you deny it?”
Nom Anor was beginning to tire of the prick of coufees. Shoon-mi’s, months earlier; Kunra’s, just weeks ago; and now Drathul’s.
“It is a living world,” he admitted, “but only that. Neither portent nor fulfilled prophecy. Merely another surprise in a war filled to overflowing with surprises.” Pushing the coufee aside, he brought his right hand to his neck to staunch the flow of blood. “The living world whose return I tried to prevent,” he added, glaring at his superior.
“You tried to prevent?”
Drathul’s weapon arm dropped to his side. He gazed at Nom Anor in naked incredulity.
“On Shimrra’s command,” Nom Anor said through his clenched jaws. He grabbed at his green robe. “How else do you think I come to wear this? Through merit? Through domain privilege?” He spat on the floor. “Through acts of treachery and deceit!”
Drathul sank to the floor in weary confusion. The room was growing darker by the moment, as Zonama Sekot cast its immense shadow across the face of Yuuzhan’tar. Hailstones the size of ngdins were striking the balcony, bouncing into the room and skittering across the floor.
The high prefect looked up at Nom Anor. “What should I do?”
Nom Anor took a moment to languish in his small victory. “Pray to the gods, Drathul, that Zonama Sekot has come in peace.”
The blank expression conveyed by the dedicated villip of Supreme Commander Saluup Fing belied the dread in his words.
“The planet appeared out of darkspace and hurtled into the Yuuzhan’tar system, Fearsome One. It nearly grazed the holy world, sundering the rainbow bridge and scattering the moons—the innermost of which nearly struck Yuuzhan’tar as it was outward bound. It is a catastrophe of epic proportions, Warmaster. As if engineered by the gods—”
“Enough, Commander!” Nas Choka said. “The vessels under your watch will remain where they are. None should attempt to move against the intruding planet.”
“The armada will soon return, and I will decide then our best course of action.”
The countenance of Saluup Fing smoothed out as the villip relaxed and inverted to its normal leathery aspect. Nas Choka paced from the choir of biots to his command bench, but found on arriving that he was too agitated to sit down.
He had ordered Yammka’s Mount to revert from darkspace in the Mid Rim, so that he could receive a follow-up report from the Supreme Commander on the events that had transpired at Yuuzhan’tar some time earlier. The warmaster had ordered everyone but the chief tactician from Yammka’s Mount’s command chamber, and Nas Choka turned to him now.
“There have been rumors,” the tactician said carefully, “of a world capable of moving through darkspace.”
“The world encountered by Commander Krazhmir’s reconnaissance force, during the reign of Quoreal,” Nas Choka said.
“Yes, Warmaster. I feared broaching the subject with you, because—”
Nas Choka silenced him with a motion of his hand.
He had been a mere commander at the time, but loyal to Domain Jamaane—Shimrra’s domain—and one of a group of high-ranking warriors who had helped Shimrra wrest power from his predecessor, putting to death many of Quoreal’s warriors and intendant supporters. Regardless, rumors of a living planet had persisted. It was rumored further that the planet, known as Zonama Sekot, not only had warded off Zho Krazhmir’s forces, but also had been pronounced an omen of ill tidings by Quoreal’s coven of high priests.
Knowing, however, that Quoreal feared the warrior caste, the commanders loyal to Shimrra saw the priests’ pronouncement as a ruse—a subterfuge aimed at steering the worldship convoy away from the galaxy to which it had drifted, and thus avoid an invasion that would escalate the warrior caste. Quoreal had paid only lip service to the importance of sacrifice and war, without ever recognizing that the deterioration of Yuuzhan Vong society owed in large part to their absence. But Shimrra knew better. He understood that the warriors needed a war, lest they go on killing themselves, and, more important, that the Yuuzhan Vong needed a home.
All well and good. But now a living world had suddenly reappeared. Nas Choka was too much of a realist to give credence to the idea of the planet being an omen of defeat, but as a strategist he had to wonder: if it was the same world that had defended itself successfully against Zho Krazhmir, then Zonama Sekot had had an additional fifty standard years during which to become a weapon unlike any the Yuuzhan Vong had ever faced.
“Warmaster,” the tactician said, “could this alleged living planet be nothing more than a fabrication of the Alliance—or, more accurately, the Jeedai?”
Nas Choka considered it. “I would hear more of this.”
“Fearsome One, perhaps this world, this fabrication, is the secret strategy the Alliance was engineering while we readied the armada for the battle at Mon Calamari. All the rushing about, all the diversion observed at Contruum and Caluula and other worlds … Perhaps all that was executed in an attempt to divert our eye from what was being fabricated and prepared for launch?”
“Only a fool would reject the possibility out of hand, tactician,” Nas Choka said. “But suppose for a moment that it is not a fabrication but an actual living world—the source of the rumors that have endured since before the invasion began.”
The tactician frowned. “If that proves to be true, and if indeed the infidels have coaxed it to enter the war on their side, then they have perpetrated their greatest transgression yet.”
Nas Choka nodded sullenly, then took a deep breath. “Whichever the case, the Alliance waited too long to spring this surprise. With our war vessels only two jumps from Yuuzhan’tar, and additional battle groups being recalled from Hutt space and other sectors, no intruder—living or fabricated—can prevail!”