FORTY-SEVEN

Save that Leia was smelling Ben’s sweet breath instead of her own nervous sweat and the couch was not sluing around beneath her, war looked much the same on a wall-sized holovid as it did from the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon. Plasma balls still rolled over their targets in blossoms of white fire, turbolasers still laced the air with dazzling lances of color, wounded vessels still bled dark clouds of flash-frozen crew. The inset image of a grim-voiced Duros war correspondent described how the massive Yuuzhan Vong fleet was steadily pressing forward behind the screen of refugee ships despite a fierce running assault on its rear by Wedge Antilles’s Fleet Group Three. The invaders had already crossed the orbit of Nabatu, the tenth planet of the Coruscant system, and were expected to reach the Ulabos ice bands by the end of the standard day.

The newsvid changed scenes, now showing the starliner Swift Dreams as it strayed into a barrage of turbolaser fire. Leia knew she should have felt something, should have been angered or frightened or something by the huge Yuuzhan Vong fleet sweeping down on Coruscant, but she was not. All she cared about was holding Ben in her arms, keeping his warmth pressed to her body. As the Swift Dreams began to vent a cloud of tumbling refugees, a Bith correspondent appeared in the inset and reported that Garm Bel Iblis’s Fleet Group Two continued to attack through the refugee screen, ignoring friendly-fire accidents such as the one shown and repeated orders from Admiral Sovv to stop. Several reliable sources claimed that Sovv had actually relieved Bel Iblis of command, an order that the general and his entire force also ignored. There were unsubstantiated reports of whole attack groups leaving Traest Kre’fey’s Fleet Group One to join Bel Iblis in his effort to stop the Yuuzhan Vong at any price.

A pair of military analysts came on the newsvid and began to argue about whether Garm Bel Iblis’s actions were the only way to delay the enemy until reinforcements arrived, or the first sign of the disintegration of the New Republic military.

“What a mess,” Han said.

Leia did not reply. It was the first either of them had spoken since turning on the vidscreen, and she had actually forgotten he was sitting beside her. He had been following her around since it happened, as though he were afraid it might be necessary to snatch Ben out of her arms again. His constant presence was starting to annoy her, though she could not bear even the small emotional turmoil that she would cause by telling him so.

The analysts were replaced by an image of Luke and Mara climbing out of their starfighters. As they joined a long line of exhausted Jedi stumbling across a Star Destroyer’s docking bay, a behorned Devaronian reporter appeared in the foreground and described how the Jedi-led attack wing continued their daring penetration missions, destroying more than fifteen capital ships in the heart of the Yuuzhan Vong fleet. While Eclipse’s losses were classified for intelligence reasons, casualties in both personnel and equipment were rumored to be high. No one had seen the famous Kyp Durron or any of his Dozen since the battle began.

Han used a voice command to change to the senate feed. Good old Han, worried about Leia being upset by news of the danger her brother was facing. She would have liked to be upset. She would have liked to feel something—anything—other than the hollow ache that consumed her now. Why had Han needed to change the feed? She just wanted him to go away and leave her alone.

The holovid split into two images, one showing the packed chamber, the other a hologram of Admiral Sovv standing before the high councilor’s console. The Sullustan was demanding that NRMOC confirm his dismissal of General Bel Iblis and a long list of officers who had deserted to serve under his command. Borsk Fey’lya appeared in an inset, his fur tangled and his eyes sunken with stress.

“You have another way to hold the enemy at bay, Admiral Sovv?” Fey’lya asked.

The Sullustan’s hologram continued to stare directly ahead. “Bel Iblis’s mutiny is undermining the command integrity of the whole military.”

“So the answer would be no,” Fey’lya said. “In that case, I suggest that instead of interfering with General Bel Iblis’s efforts, you follow his lead. You will not stop the Yuuzhan Vong by nipping at their heels.”

This caused enough of a tumult in the senate chamber that Ben opened his eyes and began to cry. The TDL nanny droid was instantly at Leia’s side, reaching for the infant with her four synthskin arms. Leia shielded Ben with her body and shooed the droid away. Nobody was taking this child from her.

Apparently speaking to Fey’lya via direct feed and unaware of the uproar in the chamber, Admiral Sovv did not wait for the audio to equalize, and his response was lost in the general tumult.

“I am also aware of how many lives we stand to lose here if you let the enemy drive that refugee fleet into our planetary shields,” Fey’lya said. “Admiral Sovv, as the chairman of NRMOC, I am not only instructing you to fire through the hostage screen, I am ordering you to. If necessary, you are to fire on those ships directly.”

Again, Admiral Sovv did not wait for the audio to equalize, and his reply was lost to the general uproar.

Fey’lya’s response was not. “Then you are relieved of command, Admiral Sovv. I am sure General Bel Iblis understands the necessity of my order.”

This time, the audio could not be adjusted to filter out the din in the chamber. Hundreds of senators stood and began to shout their disdain of the Bothan; a smaller number rose to applaud his courage and decisiveness. Then, one by one, holograms of Sovv’s Sullustan protégés began to appear on the speaking floor beside the admiral. There were the Generals Muun and Yeel, Admiral Rabb, Commander Godt, and a dozen others, all powerful figures in the New Republic military who owed their rise to Admiral Sovv. Fey’lya did not seem all that surprised to see them appearing before him, but his beard fur bristled when General Rieekan, Commodore Brand, and even his fellow Bothan Traest Kre’fey added their holograms to those standing with Admiral Sovv.

“We don’t need to watch this,” Han declared, still trying to shield her from anything upsetting. “How about one of Garik Loran’s old holodramas? Those always used to make you laugh.”

Leia shook her head. “This is fine.”

The disintegration of the New Republic military ought to keep her mind off the empty hurt inside. She signaled the droid for a collapsipack of formula and settled back to feed Ben. Now, if she could get Han to go away and leave her alone, she just might make it through the day.

Fey’lya rose and tried for a while to quiet the chamber. When this resulted only in a louder outburst of shouts, he gave up and returned to his seat, then disappeared behind his instrument console and began to work the controls. Apparently, he noticed that his face was still on the vidfeed, because he scowled and flipped something, and the inset disappeared.

The Solos’ comm unit began to beep for attention. Han frowned and started to rise.

“Han!” Surprised by the alarm in her own voice, Leia caught him by the arm. “Where are you going?”

Han gestured vaguely in the direction of the study. “To answer the comm.”

Leia shook her head and pulled Han back to the couch. “Don’t leave me.”

Han’s face melted. “Never. I’m not going anywhere.”

The comm unit continued to beep. The vidscreen split into three images, one showing the uproar in the senate galleries, another the holograms of Sovv and his supporters, and the third the top of Borsk Fey’lya’s head as he stared at his instrument console.

C-3PO stepped into the door. “Excuse me, Master Han, but the comm unit is requesting attention.”

“We know, Goldenrod,” Han said. “We lost a son, not our hearing.”

C-3PO’s photoreceptors dimmed noticeably. “Oh, of course.” He clumped out of the room. The turmoil in the senate chamber finally began to fade, though there was still too much noise for the sound droid to pick up Admiral Sovv’s voice when his hologram spoke to Fey’lya again.

The chief of state looked up long enough to signal the commanders to wait, then returned his attention to his instruments and spoke briefly.

A moment later, C-3PO walked into the room with a portable comm screen. He glanced at the vidscreen and tipped his head in robotic bewilderment, then turned to the couch.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Chief of State Fey’lya is asking to speak with Mistress Leia.”

“Me?” Leia’s mind would normally have leapt immediately to speculations as to why Fey’lya would be calling her at such a time, but all she could think of now was that she hadn’t slept or bathed or even brushed her hair since it happened. “No. Absolutely not.”

C-3PO glanced at the vidscreen again, then said, “He said to tell you it was matter of galactic security.”

Leia looked to Han, and she did not even need to say anything. He simply took the comm screen from C-3PO and put it on the couch between them, with the built-in holocam facing him.

“This is Han, Chief Fey’lya. Leia can’t talk right now.”

On the wall screen, Leia watched Fey’lya’s hand run through his head fur. “Yes, I’ve heard that something might have happened to Anakin. If that’s so, I’d like to express not only my own sympathy, but that of the entire New Republic.”

“We appreciate that.” Han glanced at the wall screen and rolled his eyes, then looked back into the comm unit’s holocam. “Now, I’m sure you’ll understand if I sign off.”

Fey’lya’s hand darted out toward his instrument panel. “Wait—there was one other thing, General Solo.”

“General?” Han looked over the comm screen at Leia and cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re reactivating my commission? You can’t be that desperate for line officers.”

It finally occurred to Leia that her husband was playing with the New Republic’s chief of state not for his own amusement, but in an attempt to cheer her up. The effort touched her, even if it failed to come close to drawing a smile.

“Not yet, General Solo.” Fey’lya’s ears twitched, a rare sign of being flustered. “Actually, I was hoping to prevail on Leia to say a few words of support for my government to some of her old friends in the military.”

Han glanced over the comm screen.

Fey’lya seemed to realize Leia was listening in, because he quickly added, “I’m sure Leia realizes how supportive I have been of the Jedi recently, and the military has several sizable droid orders pending approval with Tendrando Arms.”

Leia sighed and stared at the floor. Was this what Anakin had given his life for? The thought was so depressing that she started to sob again.

“Sorry, Chief Fey’lya,” Han said, reaching for the comm screen power switch. “This time, you’re on your own.”

To Cilghal’s sensitive nostrils, the foamy fungus eating away the scorched metal of the surviving X-wings smelled almost as foul as the soiled flight suits of the eight exhausted pilots themselves. There was an acidic edge to it, and the metallic mustiness of corrosion—a common-enough smell on oceanic worlds like her own Mon Calamari, but certainly a rarity coming from the rustproof alloys used in starfighters.

Cilghal used a plastifibe agitator to scrape some of the yellow growth into a sample bag, and the musty smell grew stronger. Though she had already scanned for the typical Yuuzhan Vong attack toxins, she found herself wondering if she should have taken the time to return to her laboratory for her breath mask.

Behind her, Kyp Durron sneezed, then asked, “What do you think?” After several dozen terrifying hours zipped tight in his EV suit because of a vacuum leak in his cracked canopy, he was by far the worst-smelling of the survivors. “A new kind of weapon?”

“Not a very effective one, if it is,” Cilghal said. “If this is all it grew in the time you needed to limp back to Eclipse, it will not destroy many fighters before the tech crews steam it off.”

She continued to scrape and finally reached bare hull. As her nose had led her to suspect, the metal was pitted with corrosion. The fungus was metabolizing the X-wing itself—but why? The Yuuzhan Vong would not have gone to the trouble of creating a self-heating, vacuum-hardened fungus unless there was a purpose to it.

Kyp sneezed, and Cilghal turned to face him.

“How long have you been doing that?” she asked. “Were you sneezing in your EV suit?”

Kyp shook his head and wiped his nose on the cuff of his flight suit. “It started when I unzipped.”

“Spores.” Motioning Kyp to follow along, Cilghal took her sample bag and started toward the hangar hatch. “They wanted it to produce spores.”

Cilghal was just about to palm the control pad when the blaring roar of an assault alarm reverberated through the cavern. It continued for fifteen ear-piercing seconds, then was replaced by the watch officer’s voice.

“Attention all crews: This is no drill. We have an incoming yorik coral vessel.”

“Sith blood! It has to be that frigate again.” Kyp had already explained to the watch officer that their return had taken so long because of a frigate that kept turning up behind them. “I could have sworn we had lost him.”

Before Cilghal could stop him, Kyp turned and ran off to join the bustle as the ship crews prepared Eclipse’s motley assortment of backup starfighters for launch. With the Errant Venture in a protective orbit around the base and well crewed by refugees from Reecee, there was no question of a single frigate destroying the Jedi stronghold.

Unfortunately, Cilghal knew, there was no longer any chance of keeping the secret of its location. As a vessel traveled through hyperspace, its hull built up a tachyon charge that was not released until it entered realspace again. If she was right about the fungus growing on the eight X-wings—and apparently she was, given the approaching Yuuzhan Vong frigate—the spores were freeing the tachyons in hyperspace, creating a long thread of faster-than-light particles leading straight to Eclipse.

So absorbed in this theory was Cilghal that when she returned to her laboratory, she immediately set to work stripping a tachyon gun from a spare S-thread spinner. The Mon Calamari was not very good with human mechanical equipment—she preferred to rely on Jaina or Danni for such jobs—so the task absorbed all of her concentration for the next quarter hour, until the base alarm blared again and the dismayed watch officer announced that the frigate had sacrificed itself to slip three skips past Eclipse’s outer defenses.

The whole base shook as the two big turbolasers opened up on the small vessels. At first, Cilghal took the erratic ticking she heard to be subsurface vibration from the weapons, but then she noticed a complicated repeating pattern, and it was coming from the gravitic pulse coder standing in front of the captured yammosk’s cell.

Cilghal rushed over to the observation window and found the creature’s tentacles splayed straight out in the pool, its body membranes pulsing in consonance with the ticking of the pulse coder.

“So you do talk!”

Cilghal turned to the pulse coder and found it scratching a complicated series of peak and trough readings onto a flimsiplast drum. They did not yet have enough data to convert the marks into a meaningful message, but it seemed likely that the scratches would translate into identity codes, vectoring instructions, and target priorities. Cilghal activated their own makeshift gravitic wave modulator, adjusted the amplitude to match that being recorded, and began to generate the gravitic equivalent of white noise.

The yammosk stopped pulsing for an instant, then whirled around in its tank and launched itself into the viewport with a resonant thud. Cilghal stumbled back, and the creature held itself against the transparisteel, its tentacles lashing along the edges in search of a seam.

Cilghal turned off her modulator. When the yammosk dropped back into the water and began to pulse again, she knew they had succeeded.

The watch officer’s voice came over the internal comm system again. “Suicide run! Close all airtight hatches, secure environment suits, and prepare for impact in ten, nine …”

Cilghal glanced at the pulse coder’s flimsiplast drum and suddenly knew what was recorded there. Though she could not have translated the message directly, she felt certain it said something like, “Here I am. Destroy me—destroy me at any cost.”

There was no time to disconnect all of the power and data feeds and save the pulse coder. Cilghal ripped the flimsiplast off the scratch drum and flew out of the doomed laboratory, almost forgetting to slap the emergency hatch seal as she left.