care about that. That relationship didn't make you my uncle. You have a
relationship with me. It's not boyfriend-girlfriend. It's no longer Master-
apprentice. I think we both know that neither of these is right. It's partners,
whatever that means. Whatever we figure out for it to mean. If we're partners,
it's something that lasts until one or the other of us is dead. And whether that
pains Jag or not, he's keeping it to himself, because he's smart enough to know
that he can't control my relationships for me.
"So-once again-are we partners, or do you go off to die alone?"
Kyp sighed. "I see you inherited your father's considerable powers of
negotiation."
She ignored the jibe at Han's style, so very different from her famous
mother's.
"That's right. So?"
"So we're partners."
"Good." She hoisted her glass. "Drink to it."
"Do we have to?"
"We have to."
Jag chuckled. "It's a drink that makes death-duels with Vong pilots pale in
comparison."
TWELVE
Borleias
Commander Eldo Davip, captain of the Lusankya, the greatest New Republic
ship engaged in the defense of Borleias, took the turbolift down to the Beltway.
The Beltway was a central corridor running the length of the Super Star
Destroyer, from stern to prow. It was not a corridor for pedestrian traffic; the
octagonal shaft featured a tracked hauler at the top, allowing it to be used for
transportation of heavy equipment. It was wide enough that skilled pilots could
have flown paired X-wings wing-to-wing along its length.
As the turbolift slowed to a halt, he pulled on a pair of darkened goggles.
When the lift doors opened, the precaution proved to be an appropriate one;
directly in front of him, mechanics were welding another section onto the
apparatus that now filled the forward portions or the Beltway, blocking all
movement forward of this Point.
The outer shell of the apparatus was rolled metal meters thick. Each
section of the shell was a hundred meters long, open at either end, with the
prow end slightly narrower than the stern, allowing the sections to he installed
in an overlapping fashion. The mechanics welded them together at the overlaps.
Inside the shell were metal cables drawn in intricate weavelike patterns
through hardy metal rings on the interior surface of the shells. The pattern of
the cahles, their carefully monitored tensions, was not only to keep the shell
straight and durable along its length; as soon as they were in place, cargo-box-
sized containers were situated among them, tied off by more cables, instrument
packages attached and carefully attuned.
The apparatus now stretched a third of Lusankya's length, hidden away in
this access shaft. None of the Vong's extraordinary visual sensors could detect
its fabrication; none of their strategists could anticipate its use.
Davip sighed. Its use would mark the end of his most prestigious command.
But prestige wouldn't mean a thing if the Yuuzhan Vong won, so he watched the
continued manufacture of the apparatus, and wished it well.
On the planet below, on the second floor of the biotics building, Captain
Yakown Reth set his dinner tray down at a table, allowing it to clatter, and sat
heavily on the bench before it. He didn't bother to keep his disgruntle-ment
from his face.
Opposite, Lieutenant Diss Ti'wyn, who flew in Reth's squadron as Blackmoon
Two, smoothed down fur that had suddenly risen on his neck. A brown-and-gold-
furred Bothan, Diss was unusually attractive by both Bothan and human standards,
and received an enviable amount of attention in social situations. "What crawled
down your flight suit and stung your butt?" he asked.
Reth snorted, amused despite himself. "We're in real trouble here on
Borleias."
Ti'wyn gaped at him. "Really? I thought we were winning."
"Stop kidding. I mean, in trouble worse than being outnumbered, besieged,
and doomed."
"Oh." Ti'wyn speared a cooked slice of hardy local tinfruit and popped it
into his mouth. "So vent already."
"Don't talk with your mouth full. No, Diss, this is no joke." He lowered
his voice so his words would not carry to the next table. "I think we're in real
trouble at the command level."
"General Antilles? He has a great reputation."
"Bear with me. You know who's commanding Lusankya."
"Eldo Davip."
"A first-rate foulup if ever there was one."
"Granted... but he did do all right during the big Yuuzhan Vong push a few
weeks back."
"A fluke, I'm sure. Anyway, Ninora Birt escorted a shuttle out to
Lusankya's repair station. She said that repairs weren't going well. Whole banks
of turbolasers and ion cannon batteries were still out of commission. I didn't
think Lusankya got that badly hammered in the last engagement. Did you?"
"Not really."
"Which points to colossal mismanagement on Corn-Zander Davip's part, which
General Antilles either doesn't know about, or hasn't corrected, which doesn't
speak well of his skills."
Ti'wyn shrugged, noncommittal, but he no longer looked as cheerful.
"That's just the start. You remember when the Advisory Council visited?"
"Very hush-hush. They had a meeting with Antilles and his general staff,
then rushed off."
"A mechanic who's just been transferred to Black-moon Squadron was in the
hallway when they left. He says Counselor Pwoe was furious. Pwoe was saying that
Antilles had refused command of Borleias, and only relented after making demands
to the Council."
"What demands?"
"I don't know. What demands would you make?"
"Pleasure yacht, a lifetime pass to the Errant Venture..."
Reth eyed the sliced sausage swimming in spice sauce on his plate. That, as
much as this talk, was going to cost him his appetite. "Stop kidding around. And
then there's this Jaina Solo thing."
Ti'wyn nodded in agreement. "If we have to circle one more time just
because her squadron always gets first clearance to land-"
"She and her pilots are getting special treatment in every category there
is. First access to spare parts, first access to bacta, full proton torpedo
loads, first repairs to starfighters and astromechs... Have you ever seen one of
them eating here?" Reth gestured around at the rest of the mess hall, crammed
with tables, ringing with noise.
"No."
"They have their own lounge, and rumor says they have their own chef off
Rebel Dream."
"Her mother's old ship."
"Her mother's old ship. Twins Suns hasn't done anything Blackmoon Squadron
hasn't, and can't do anything we can't, except show off names of important
mommies and daddies."
"Keep it calm, Yak. There have got to be political reasons behind this.
With politics, nothing runs right... but without politics, nothing runs."
Reth nodded grudging agreement. "It just keeps piling up, and I have to
question Antilles's competence."
"Keep it down, will you? You're starting to sound like a mutineer in
training."
Reth flashed
his second-in-command a broad grin. "Nothing like that. I'm
just trying to figure out whether I should put in for a transfer, try to get in
with a squadron in one of the other fleet groups. I'm not sure what to do yet.
If you hear anything along the lines of what I've been saying... well, you'll
just keep your ears open, won't you?"
Ti'wyn waggled his pointed, oversized Bothan ears. "Always do."
Transport Ship Fu'ulanh, Coruscant Orbit
Wrapped in the concealing folds of her cloakskin, willing her shaper's
headdress to remain still so as not to give away her caste to observers, the
Shaper Nen Yim followed the Warmaster Tsavong Lah out onto the gana-dote tongue.
Ganadotes were immobile creatures. Born as a flat, long shell about five
paces long and wide and a pace high, they were little more than a mouth, an
anus, a large canal connecting them as well as opening into side stomach
chambers, and a tongue.
But when grown to maturity and trained in their masters' wishes, they made
magnificent entryways and vie wing-boxes. Kept fed by servants bringing clip
beetle shells and other nutritious waste and dropping those foods straight
through their stomach valves, shaped by hormones to change their dimensions,
ganadotes could be transformed into domed or spherical vestibules. The tissues
that lined their intestinal tracts were beautifully iridescent, and a proper
diet kept excretion to a rare event.
But it was the tongue that made the ganadote such a charming architectural
feature. One trained in its use could step out onto it and, by leaning or toe
pressure, cause it to extend, lower, raise, position its tip anywhere in
relation to the creature's body.
And that was what Tsavong Lah did. Once Nen Yim was in place, he coaxed the
ganadote tongue out over the large chamber at the heart of this living ship,
over the crowd, short of the fibrous leaves that blocked off the far exit from
the chamber.
Tsavong Lah threw up his hands, tossing his cloak back over his shoulders.
"Priests and shapers, devotees of the Great God Yun-Yuuzhan, I salute and
welcome you. Soon, you will be taken from this place to nearby Borleias, where
my sire, Czulkang Lah, drives the infidels into dejection and defeat."
The listeners, perhaps thirty, castes evenly divided between shapers and
priests of Yun-Yuuzhan, raised their voices in noises of celebration,
appreciation.
Nen Yim could make out the faces of many, including the shaper Ghithra Dal,
whom she had accused, and Takhaff Uul, the priest who had been in Ghithra Dai's
constant, if surreptitious, company these last many weeks.
"As you know," Tsavong Lah said, "you travel there to take possession of
Borleias once it falls. That green, rich world, almost free of the touch of the
infidel, will be your reward for service to the gods, service to the Yuu-zhan
Vong. Half will be the domain of the priests, half of the shapers, all united in
the worship of Yun-Yuuzhan. All you need to do to claim it is raise your mighty
temples, your gloriously crafted domains upon her.
"Sadly, you will fail to do this."
And there it was, the start of the warmaster's revenge, expressed in a
handful of calmly expressed words.
The crowd quieted, with many of its members turning to one another,
muttering questions.
"I look forward to waking each day without being assailed by the smell of
sickness, the odor of the decay of my own arm. I look forward to rising each
morning in the sure knowledge that I have not displeased the gods-only a few
rogue priests and shapers who dared to misappropriate the god's will." Tsavong
Lah's voice turned thunderous, and Nen Yim saw his broad back shake with the
emotion of his words. "I look forward to knowing that those who remain behind
are united in their hatred of the infidels, not in their greed for what they may
obtain at the expense of others. I rejoice to think that you will soon be gone."
"No, Warmaster." That was the voice of the priest, Takhaff Uul, young for
his posting, ambitious beyond his years. "There has been no such treachery. You
must not think it. Only in the true service to Yun-Yuuzhan can ' you save your
arm, save yourself from the company of the Shamed Ones."
"There are some who say that trust is a matter of faith," Tsavong Lah
replied. "I say that trust is a matter of knowledge, of observation. Find one
who is trustworthy, and there is trust. Find one who is not, and there is none.
But I will give you a chance at life. Takhaff Uul, do you trust our gods?"
The youthful priest cried up to him, "I do, Warmaster."
"Do they trust yow?"
"What? I don't understand."
"If they trust you, trust that your motives have been true, trust that you
have thought only of their honor and not your own, I am certain they will save
you. From this." He raised his radank claw arm, pointing its pincer at the
enormous leaves covering the chamber's far entryway.
That was Nen Yim's cue. Beneath her robe, she stroked a tiny kin to that
enormous plant, coaxing it to act. It did; it curled into a tube.
So did the ones in the distance, revealing a dark gap in the wall beyond;
the gap was four times the height of a Yuuzhan Vong warrior, four times as wide.
A snuffling noise emerged from the gap, then something like a low, muted
roar. Then something emerged.
Like a Yuuzhan Vong, it had two arms, two legs. But its stance was low,
crouching, animalistic. It had tremendous muscles, hard and corded enough to
support its tremendous weight, for it was as tall as the gap through which it
emerged. Its face was tusked, its teeth were huge, and its head swiveled as it
spotted the Yuuzhan
Vong on the chamber floor. Its eyes followed these small creatures with the
avidity of a hungry beast.
"This is a rancor," Tsavong Lah said. "A beast of this galaxy. You do not
deserve honorable death at the hands of one of our own living weapons. When you
die here, it will not be as fighters, but as food to sate the creature's
appetite."
"What if we kill it?" That was the voice of Ghithra Dal, filled with spite.
"Then you live for a while longer," said the warmaster. "A short while."
Through the gap emerged another rancor, then a third, and a fourth. They
spread out from the gap, moving along the walls of the chamber, circling their
tiny prey.
Tsavong Lah leaned back, and the tongue retracted, carrying him and Nen Yim
into the ganadote mouth. As the first screams began, as the first roars echoed
from the chamber walls, they turned away from the feasting scene below and the
warmaster led the shaper out through the back way.
"Warmaster, may I ask two questions?"
"You may." They emerged from the ganadote into a large, blood-blue
corridor, and were joined by Tsavong Lah's personal guards, who marched a
respectful distance ahead of and behind them.
"First, will there be no outcry from the priesthood of Yun-Yuuzhan, from
the shapers?"
"An outcry? Of course there will be. A cry for blood. When word returns to
us that their transport was attacked by pilots of Borleias, all its passe
ngers
slaughtered, there will be a great cry for revenge."
"Ah." Nen Yim walked along in silence for a moment, knowing that his reply
had spelled her doom, too. "Should I not go with them? Or is my death to be a
different one?"
"I can't kill you. You're on loan from Overlord Shimmra. Besides, I have no
reason to wish you harm." They entered the stomach compartment that now housed
Tsa-vong Lah's private transport. The eyelidlike wall on the far side was closed
now, keeping the chamber's atmosphere intact. They walked to the transport's
ramplike protrusion and climbed into the creature's passenger stomach. "I am
pleased with you, Nen Yim. Do you plan to tell this story? To rouse hatred
against me?"
"No."
"If you did, what would happen?"
She thought about that as she settled into her seat. Its fleshy surface
flowed around her waist, her torso, holding her in place against the
acceleration to come. "The only reason to do so would be to harm you. In which
case it becomes the story of a discredited shaper against that of the warmaster.
And I would die before I could present proof."
"And such a waste. Your cleverness, used in our service, more than makes up
for the loss of Ghithra Dal and his conspirators. Will you use it in our
service?"
"I will." She did not hesitate. Tsavong Lah said our service. To her, that
meant the Yuuzhan Vong, not him personally, and she could swear to that with a
whole heart.
"Some day soon, the seedship will return to this world and complete its
transformation. I wish you to return to Lord Shimmra and study the World-Brain.
I wish you to do nothing to displease the gods... but to find that knowledge
which the gods do not mind us knowing."
"I will, Warmaster."
"Then speak no more of your death. It will come when the time is
appropriate. It is not appropriate now."
Coruscant
Baljos Arnjak was beginning to look like he, too, was being Vongformed. His
beard and mustache were growing in; shaggy and in colors that ranged from light
brown to black, his beard seemed like a riotous life-form not native to this
world. The orange jumpsuit he wore when not traveling in Yuuzhan Vong armor
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