Star by Star Page 28

  Trying not to read anything into the lack of envy in the eyes of those around him, Nom Anor stopped before the cognition throne and pounded his own chest in salute. “I come straight from the docking chamber, my master.”

  Tsavong Lah peered down from the throne, little more than eyes and mouth visible through his cocoon of sensory feeds. “As ordered—good.”

  Nom Anor’s mouth went dry. No words of welcome, no hint of praise. “I am sorry that it took me this long to rejoin the fleet. My journey was delayed by the difficulties of leaving Coruscant.”

  “Not an easy thing to do with all of Planetary Defense hunting you, I am sure,” Vergere’s thin voice said. She pushed through the crowd and peered up from between two readers. “You are to be congratulated on your escape. It was most ingenious.”

  “Yes, planning is everything.” Nom Anor had difficulty keeping the rage out of his voice, for he was convinced that Vergere lay behind the attempt on Fey’lya’s life. He had considered the matter from every angle, and she had more to gain from it than anyone. “I’m only sorry it was necessary to disappoint you.”

  “Why would I be disappointed in your escape?” Vergere spread her arms. “Your value to our cause is well known to all.”

  As accustomed as Nom Anor was to the gamesmanship of politics, the subtle mockery of this half-pagan creature was too much. Not only had she interfered with his mission and nearly gotten him imprisoned, now she was ridiculing him before his master and peers.

  “There is no need to play the shy bunish, Vergere.” Nom Anor had to struggle to keep his voice icy, and even then his fury was tangible enough to draw a quiet murmur. “You are to be applauded on your ingenuity. I had not thought a mere pet capable of so much cunning—or daring.”

  Had Vergere been a Yuuzhan Vong, Nom Anor’s words would have been enough to draw a blood challenge. As it was, the little creature only pricked her antennae. “Do you accuse me of what happened in the senate?”

  “A bold attempt to remove a rival,” Nom Anor confirmed. “Whether or not the assassination succeeds, I am blamed by the infidels and the warmaster both.” He shifted his attention to Tsavong Lah. “The fact of my return stands as proof both of my worth to the Great Doctrine and of my faith in the warmaster’s ability to see beyond such primitive ruses.”

  Vergere’s beakish mouth opened as though she might hiss, then she caught herself and seemed to calm. “Do not blame me for your failures on Coruscant. It only makes you look more the—”

  “Enough.”

  Though the warmaster spoke quietly, the mere sound of his voice was enough to silence Vergere—and save her life. Had she uttered the fateful fool, Nom Anor would have been not only within his rights, but expected to kill her on the spot.

  “The assassination of Borsk Fey’lya—or the attempt—holds little interest for me.” The shadow of a smile came to Tsavong Lah’s lips. He manipulated something in an arm sack, and the throne’s legs folded, lowering the warmaster to a more comfortable speaking level. “Before you arrived, Nom Anor, we were discussing General Bel Iblis’s pathetic scheme to undermine the morale of our warriors with this nonsense about Jeedai twins. How did he think of such an idea?”

  Nom Anor knew what Tsavong Lah wanted to hear, but he was not foolish enough to lie in the warmaster’s presence—not with Vergere waiting to pounce on his every word. “I have no knowledge of how Bel Iblis prepares his plans.”

  “Then guess,” Tsavong Lah said. “I command it.”

  Nom Anor’s throat grew scratchy. The blaze bugs, temporarily released from their station by the idleness of the throne, began to descend on the group. The touch of their hot abdomens stung more than the stab of their proboscises, but such was the price of service. No one did more than shoo the ravenous creatures away from their eyes, and the readers did not do that much.

  “My master, humans are not like Yuuzhan Vong. Twins are not an infrequent occurrence,” Nom Anor said. In all of Yuuzhan Vong history, there had been only a few twin births—and these only when the gods wished it so. In each instance, one had murdered the other in childhood, then matured to lead the empire through a time of grave crisis. Lord Shimrra himself had murdered his twin brother before growing up to have the dream that foretold the finding of this new galaxy. “Their birth suggests no special favor of the gods.”

  “Then you are saying the Solo children are twins?” The reader who asked this was Kol Yabu of the Undying Flame, a “half-and-half” whose burn-melded body had been carefully shaped to appear male from one profile and female from the other. As an apostle of the Undying Flame, Kol Yabu worshiped the twins Yun-Txiin and Yun-Q’aah, brother and sister gods of love and hate and all things opposite. “You admit that Jacen and Jaina Solo are twin Jeedai brother and sister?”

  Nom Anor tried to wet his throat, but found his swallow as dry as bone dust. “I admit nothing, Reader.” He looked toward Tsavong Lah and decided it was probably well that the warmaster’s face remained hidden behind a glowing mask of blaze bugs. “Our spy, Viqi Shesh, claims the two Solos are twins, and that their mother and uncle are also twins. Perhaps she is the one we should ask about Bel Iblis’s plan.”

  Tsavong Lah avoided the half-and-half’s gaze by glaring at Nom Anor. “Viqi is either a traitor to her own people, or an infidel double agent. I have no faith in her.”

  “In this matter, we can trust only the opinion of a Yuuzhan Vong,” Vergere agreed. Unlike the others, she was not limned in scintillating blaze bug light—perhaps because she kept ruffling her feathers to keep the hungry creatures at bay. “And Nom Anor was on Coruscant. Surely he took time to investigate a matter of such importance before fleeing?”

  Nom would have liked to claim there had been no time, but he knew better than to think he could defeat Vergere’s trap so easily. Deciding his only hope lay in the unexpected, he took a deep breath, then looked the warmaster in the eye and told the truth.

  “There were many records to support Shesh’s claim, my master, and I doubt they were planted. Even in obscure sources, I found nothing to contradict her.” When the blaze bugs began to leave the warmaster’s angry face and take wing, Nom Anor decided his only hope of redemption lay in a risky strategy. “Clearly, fortune was smiling on us when the one named Jacen escaped you at Duro.”

  The cognition throne trembled and hopped forward—no doubt in response to the clenched fists inside its arm sacks.

  “Tell me how.” The warmaster’s voice was low and harsh, for he did not enjoy being reminded of how Jacen had used the Jedi sorcery a year earlier to rob him of a foot and prevent the sacrifice of Leia Organa Solo.

  Nom Anor took a deep breath, then turned to Kol Yabu. “How would Yun-Txiin and Yun-Q’aah view the sacrifice of only one twin?”

  The half-and-half considered this for a moment, then said, “The Twins do not demand sacrifices, but the Balance is all.”

  “That is not what the executor asked,” Tsavong Lah said, glowering at the priest. “Answer clearly, or I will ask for a reader who does.”

  Kol Yabu’s eyesacks paled; he—or she, Nom Anor had never checked to see which—answered to Vaecta, but such a request from the warmaster would not be ignored. “Offended is not the word, Warmaster. The Great Dance would grow unstable.”

  Tsavong Lah considered this and nodded. “I thought as much.”

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Nom Anor said, determined to exploit his gains. “Perhaps Lord Shimrra would look favorably on a sacrifice of twin Jedi? You could have them fight each other, as Lord Shimrra fought his brother, just as the gods have ordained that twins must do since the beginning of Yuuzhan Vong history.”

  Tsavong Lah sat back in the cognition throne, considering. “It would make a great gift to Yun-Yuuzhan, would it not?”

  There was no reader to answer, for only Lord Shimrra himself communed with Yun-Yuuzhan, the Cosmic Lord.

  “They will never fight each other,” Vergere said, always eager to undermine Nom Anor. “They are as close
as a pilot and his coralskipper, these two.”

  Nom Anor was spared the necessity of countering her argument by the warmaster himself.

  “We will have to break them first, that is all,” Tsavong Lah said. “And Nom Anor should arrange to netcast the combat for the New Republic, I think.”

  “As you wish, Great Warmaster.” Nom Anor allowed himself a quick smirk in Vergere’s direction, then said, “Nothing could dishearten the Jedi more, I am sure.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  A nasal Bith voice keened in anguish somewhere in the middle of the Exquisite Death’s frigid hold, and Jaina knew Ulaha was in the jaws of the voxyn again. Like the rest of the strike team, Jaina sat facing a wall of red yorik coral, bent uncomfortably forward with her elbows between her knees, her ankles and wrists fastened to the floor by gummy masses of blorash jelly. She was barely clothed and filthy and in too much pain to care, though she did wish it were not so cold. She was shivering, and shivering made everything hurt more.

  Ulaha screamed again, and Alema Rar, sitting next to Jaina in much the same condition, mumbled something through swollen lips. Jaina, who was having trouble collecting her thoughts after the voxyn screeched in her face, recalled something about teamwork and opened her emotions to her companions. Immediately, she felt Jacen weaving them into a single entity, calling upon their mutual confidence and fellowship to lend strength to their suffering comrade.

  Though everyone except Ganner—who was being held somewhere else in the mistaken belief that he was the group’s leader—had faced the breaking at least once, Duman Yaght kept returning to Ulaha, allowing the Bith just enough time to drop into a Jedi healing trance before awakening her to begin again. Poor Ulaha had been to the center of the hold so many times that the others were attempting to prolong their own sessions to buy time for the Bith to recover. Jaina recalled dimly that she had managed only one answer before an angry Duman Yaght pushed her at the creature’s face, drawing the compressed-wave screech that had blasted her into unconsciousness.

  When Ulaha’s cries grew quiet, Duman Yaght said, “Growing accustomed to the drool, are we, Bighead?” His favorite torture was to place Ulaha’s wound beneath the voxyn’s acid-slavering jaws. “We shall have to try something new.”

  Ulaha screamed. Jaina struggled to look over her shoulder, but could turn only far enough to see Anakin, Jacen, and several others straining to do the same. For her, that was the worst part of the breaking, the listening to friends scream without knowing what was happening to them. She felt Jacen drawing upon her concern to reinforce the Bith. Ulaha’s scream grew a little less visceral, and Duman Yaght sensed the change. He always sensed the change.

  “You don’t have to tell me where to find the Jeedai base,” the Yuuzhan Vong said. “Just admit there is one.”

  Ulaha’s scream returned to its anguished pitch, and this time Jacen seemed unable to relieve the Bith’s distress. Jaina looked to her other side, where Eryl Besa sat stiff-bodied and wide-eyed, the victim of a neural tail shock—a voxyn attack form they had not known about until Duman Yaght suggested that Eryl experience it. After a moment, Jaina finally caught the other woman’s eye and raised her brow.

  Eryl frowned in puzzlement, then seemed to understand and shook her head. The daughter of a fanatic space racer, Eryl had been conceived and born on a long cross-galaxy run, then spent most of her childhood speeding up and down the mapped arms of the galaxy. Somewhere along the way, she had developed the ability to tell by the texture of the Force where she was in the galaxy at any given moment. It was her job to alert Anakin once they were safely behind Yuuzhan Vong lines, where they would be far less likely to run into space mines and curious picket ships. Unfortunately, it was taking longer to cross the war zone than anyone expected—perhaps, Jaina suspected, because Duman Yaght hoped to make a name for himself by returning to his masters with the location of the Jedi base.

  “What harm is there in admitting it?” Duman Yaght asked. “The Yuuzhan Vong already know of its existence. Just admit what we know already, and you can rest. You can go into your healing sleep.”

  “There … is … no base …”

  “No, don’t lie.” Duman Yaght’s voice remained as eerily calm as always. “Give me your hand. I want to tell you about the neuropoison.”

  An involuntary whistle of terror escaped Ulaha’s nasal cavities, but she said nothing. Jaina imagined the commander holding the Bith’s hand over the sensory bristles along the voxyn’s back, for Cilghal had detected a powerful neurotoxin coating the spines. There would be an antidote in the equipment pod, but it was as untested as the rest of the inoculations and antivenins she and Tekli had administered before the strike team’s departure.

  “Your skin is so thin, and the tiniest puncture will inject the poison,” Duman Yaght said. “Our shapers claim the effect is not the same on all species. Some fall into convulsions and sink into an endless sleep of pain. Others weaken over many hours, slowly growing so feeble they can no longer breathe or swallow. Some drown in their own saliva.”

  In the silence that followed, Ulaha’s pain and fear grew heavy in the Force. Jaina opened herself to both sensations, hoping to ease her comrade’s burden by taking some upon herself, but she was too frightened to be of much help. Bith had only one lung, and the coufee attack aboard the Lady Luck had pierced Ulaha’s. If she had to fight a neurotoxin, as well … Jaina wanted her to admit the existence of Eclipse. She couldn’t help it; she just did not want to see Ulaha die.

  No sooner had she given thought to this emotion than she felt a flood of similar feelings from the others. Jaina knew that persuading Ulaha to admit the planet’s existence was only the first step of the breaking, but what harm was there, really? The strike team would be seizing the ship soon, and at least Ulaha would still be alive. She felt a flash of alarm from Alema and a certain bewilderment from the Barabels, but there was no doubting the general feeling of the group. They agreed.

  “Bighead, you must think carefully before you answer,” Duman Yaght said. “This may be your last chance. Is there a Jeedai base?”

  Tell him! Jaina wanted to scream.

  “You know … the answer,” Ulaha gasped.

  “I am sorry, Bighead. That is not good enough.”

  Say it!

  “Yes!” Ulaha cried.

  The group let out an emotional sigh of relief, but now Alema seemed worried and the Barabels sad.

  “Yes what?” Duman demanded.

  “Yes, there is a Jedi base,” Jaina said, yelling into the wall. “She admitted it! Now let her rest.”

  “Jaina, be quiet!” Alema hissed. “He’s trying to break—”

  The admonishment was interrupted by a hollow crack, and Jaina looked over to see a Yuuzhan Vong warrior holding the butt of an amphistaff over the Twi’lek’s unconscious form. There was a surge of anger from the other Jedi, but Jaina felt only guilt. It had been her outburst that prompted Alema to speak without permission.

  Duman Yaght said something in his own language, and the guard tossed a small button-shaped beetle on the floor beside each of Jaina’s wrists and ankles. The blorash jelly released its adhesive hold on her flesh and slid away to encase the struggling insects. The guard jerked Jaina to her feet and spun her toward the center of the room, where the commander stood holding Ulaha’s hand over the voxyn’s sensory bristles. The Bith’s normally pale skin had gone translucent with blood loss, and she was so weak that a Yuuzhan Vong warrior had to hold her up. The rest of the strike team sat along the edge of the small hold, partially clothed, filthy, and facing the walls. Only Ganner, whose presence they sometimes sensed forward and sometimes not at all, was absent.

  Duman Yaght studied Jaina, then asked, “You think I do not keep my word?”

  Jaina fixed her eye on Ulaha’s hand. “That remains to be seen.”

  The commander seemed confused by her challenging tone, then recovered and smirked. “Very well. You are the one in control here.”

  He said somethin
g to the guard holding Ulaha, who returned the injured Jedi to her place next to Tekli, laying the Bith on her back instead of the uncomfortable sitting position in which everyone else was bound.

  “The Bith may rest and heal.” Duman Yaght smiled at Jaina. “And you will determine how long.”

  Jaina began to feel sick and frightened, but forced herself to raise her head and step forward without being summoned. Warm feelings of encouragement and confidence flooded into her as the others reached out to prepare her for the breaking. She felt fairly confident that Duman Yaght would not let the voxyn kill her—he had already bragged to her about the place he had been promised at the Great Sacrifice—so she saw every reason to think that with her companions supporting her, she could buy Ulaha enough time to enter a healing trance and stabilize her wounded lung.

  But Jaina’s confidence was not enough to keep her from trembling as she approached. Only the strength flowing to her through the Force had prevented her from wailing like an infant the first time Duman Yaght tried to break her, and this time would be worse—much worse. The commander could not allow her to challenge him and succeed, and there were so many ways he could hurt her without killing her, so many things to remove or disfigure or break.

  A fresh surge of confidence buoyed Jaina up as Jacen relayed Anakin’s resolve to keep her healthy, Zekk’s admiration of her bravery, Ulaha’s weary gratitude, Tekli’s calm assurance that all of their injuries could be repaired. She stopped before Duman Yaght and looked up into his face.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to thank you.”

  He soured her stomach by clasping the back of her neck. “No need.”

  He guided her to the voxyn’s head. Though the creature’s malicious hunger rippled through the Force with a carnal urgency, the thing seemed very much the master of its instincts, quivering with excitement, yet keeping its yellow eyes fixed on its master to await his command. Duman Yaght paused a meter from its jaws, turning Jaina to watch the beads of sour-smelling drool as they dripped from the voxyn’s fangs and landed, smoking, on the floor. Jaina swallowed; her back was covered with thumb-sized circles where the drops had fallen the time before. She started to kneel.