Closer scans, however, revealed that not to be entirely the case. There were at least six hot spots on the hemisphere facing them, and even as they watched, another blossomed into life.
Droma zoomed in closer to examine the cause.
“Aerial bombardment,” he said. “Someone’s dropping mines from orbit.”
“They’re taking out the sensors,” Leia said. “The Yuuzhan Vong are still here!”
Han’s eyes darted across the displays in front of him. “I’ve got a strong presence in close orbit. Seven capital vessels, nine cruisers. Not many skips detached, though. No sign of the local defenses, or the reinforcements from Mon Cal.”
“I think I can guess why not, too,” Droma commented.
Leia knew exactly what he meant. The Yuuzhan Vong force in orbit over Esfandia was enormous by any standard. Against the two squadrons and one frigate Esfandia had possessed, plus the two squadrons Mon Calamari had dispatched to investigate, it was almost obscene. Overkill didn’t cover it.
“I thought the Vong’s resources were stretched,” Droma said.
Han just grunted. A crackle of information flowed across newly reopened communications lines. Captain Mayn and Jag were looking for instructions.
“Tell them to hold off for a moment,” Leia ordered. “We can’t go in like this. It’d be suicide.”
Han turned in his seat to face her. “We can’t just leave, Leia.”
She nodded in agreement. “The relay base must still be down there, otherwise the Yuuzhan Vong wouldn’t be wasting time taking out the sensors. Without the base, none of it would work.”
“So what are we going to do?” Han asked. “They’re going to see us any second.”
Leia stood to look over Han’s shoulder, placing a hand gently on his neck. The Yuuzhan Vong forces were formidable. “If we can get past the capital ships, we might be able to make it down into the atmosphere and find the base before they do.”
“Then what?” Droma asked. “We’d be in exactly the same position as the base. It would just be a matter of time before they find us.”
She could feel her frustration mounting as a solution to the dilemma failed to present itself. If they had to abandon Esfandia, they might still be able to jury-rig another relay base elsewhere that would allow them to reestablish contact with Mon Calamari.
She shook her head irritably. It would still mean leaving innocents here on Esfandia to die, and the thought of that simply made her feel ill, reminding her as it did of the time back on Gyndine, where so many had to be abandoned to a cruel fate.
There has to be another way, she thought.
Almost in answer to the thought, a bleeping sounded from the sensor suite, announcing hyperspace emissions from the far side of the planet.
“Incoming,” Droma announced, his tail wrapped around the base of his chair, gently twitching.
“That’s all we need,” Han muttered. “Maybe it’s time we bid a hasty retreat, after all.”
“Hold on.” Leia switched vantage points to look over Droma’s shoulder. “I don’t think they’re Yuuzhan Vong. Broadcast an emergency on the Imperial codes.”
“Imperial—?” Han started, but clammed up at a glance at the scanner display. The corner of his mouth curled up into a grin as he sent off the coded transmission. “Well, I never thought I’d be glad to see a Star Destroyer.”
Not just one of them, Leia noted. Two of the massive vessels were lumbering out of hyperspace over Esfandia, fully equipped with support vessels and TIE fighters already streaming from launching bays. The way they swooped in to engage the Yuuzhan Vong filled her with an immediate sense of optimism and kinship.
She didn’t immediately recognize the markings on the Star Destroyers, but judging by the blast scoring and other minor damage, it looked like they’d both recently seen combat.
The Falcon’s comm bleeped, and Han quickly answered it. It was Grand Admiral Pellaeon.
“I should have known I’d find the Millennium Falcon here,” he said. “You’re always at the heart of trouble.”
Leia felt a smile creep across her face. “It’s good to hear from you, Gilad.”
“As it is you, Princess,” he said.
“That’s not Chimaera you’re flying,” Han put in. “It looks too old.”
“It’s Right to Rule,” Pellaeon said. “One of the oldest in the fleet. We’ve been chasing this sorry bunch halfway across the galaxy, trying to restrict the amount of damage they inflict. We lost them at the last jump, which is why we’ve only just arrived. Our intelligence data on your remote stations is sadly out of date.”
“Not as good as theirs, obviously,” Leia said.
“We’re here to try to turn our luck around now.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are you joining us?”
“We’re at your command, Admiral.” Leia said.
“I’ll have targets for you shortly. Commander Ansween will relay them to you.” Then, almost as an afterthought, the Grand Admiral added: “Nice to be fighting beside you finally, Captain Solo.”
Han looked up at Leia when the line closed a moment later. “We’re taking orders from an Imperial now?”
“Things have changed,” she said. Her heart was telling her that Pellaeon could be trusted, and the Force was telling her the same thing. “He’s defending a Galactic Alliance asset. Think how strange that must feel to him.”
Han chuckled ruefully. “I guess. It’s just that I’ve never been one for taking orders—from anyone. I hope this newfound camaraderie between us isn’t going to make him think that’s about to change.”
Leia smiled at her husband; one hand fondly massaged his neck. “I’m sure Pellaeon’s fully aware of that, Han.”
The comm unit crackled back to life, this time with a female voice—obviously the commander whom the Grand Admiral had mentioned.
“Your primary target is the destroyer Kur-hashan,” she said. A flood of charts and other data accompanied the message on the Falcon’s monitors. “This is a yammosk-bearing vessel. Secondary targets are support vessels. Engage at will. Right to Rule out.”
Han punched a course into the navicomputer. “You got that, Selonia?”
“Loud and clear,” came back the voice of Captain Mayn.
“Jag?”
“Twin Suns awaits your orders, Captain,” Jag said. He sounded calm and controlled, but underneath the cool exterior Leia knew he was primed and ready for combat.
“Are we about to do what I think we’re about to do?” Droma asked, somewhat nervously.
“You’re the one always second-guessing everyone,” Han replied. “You tell us.”
“It doesn’t take much foresight to know we’re still outnumbered. While it’s nice that we have company and all, it still only makes two Star Destroyers against sixteen of the big uglies.”
“I know,” Han said, a wide, familiar grin settling onto his face. “It makes it so much more interesting when the odds are stacked against you, don’t you think?”
PART TWO
CONFRONTATION
Blood. That was the first thing Nom Anor noticed as he emerged from the warrens under Yuuzhan’tar: not the sudden sharpness of light, or the wind, or even the towering remains of the planet’s previous rulers. It was the smell of blood, thick and heavy on the air.
He breathed in deeply, and smiled to himself.
The Prophet and his entourage were on the move again. Nom Anor, Shoon-mi, and Kunra all accompanied Ngaaluh as she supposedly spearheaded an investigation into religious corruption in the renamed Vishtu sector of Yuuzhan’tar. Officials at all levels eased her passage. Her sudden notoriety had preceded her: who better than a priestess of the deception sect to uncover deception among the higher ranks?
Ngaaluh brought with her an extensive entourage of her own, all unaware that she was in fact the servant of the corruptor, and that the corruptor himself moved among them. It was the perfect cover. Nom Anor, under heavy disguise, had take
n the persona of a lowly worker, the next rung up from a Shamed One. It was his job to supervise the care of the baggage-vrrips, massive six-legged bovine creatures bred purely to haul heavy loads from place to place. The goods in Ngaaluh’s case consisted solely of records, plus five prisoners for interrogation. Nom Anor had overseen the selection of these prisoners. They consisted of would-be heretics: a handful who had proven too unreliable or mentally unstable to be of any use to him or the cause. Nom Anor, in his guise as the Prophet Yu’shaa, had fed them very specific lies. Allowed to think that the Prophet had accepted them, these five had been sent out to spread a perverted version of the word of Yu’shaa. Ngaaluh’s spies—still faithful to Shimrra, and believing they were doing the will of the Supreme Commander—had caught them in due course. Interrogation would reveal terrible secrets about Vishtu sector and the various officials who oversaw it. Thus they did the work of Nom Anor by unwittingly spreading misinformation.
“Halt!”
Nom Anor whipped his vrrips into line as Ngaaluh’s caravan approached the entrance to Vishtu’s command enclave. The clumsy entourage staggered to a halt in a cloud of dust. Bugs swarmed around them, getting under hoods and into clothes, driven mad by the smell of blood. Two warriors guarded the entrance, grotesquely armored and scarred in imaginative ways. One of them growled for authorization, and Ngaaluh’s chief underling presented it for inspection. Security was tight. Ngaaluh watched from an ornate seat on the back of the largest vrrip as one of the guards checked and double-checked her authenticity. Her expression was one of weariness—appropriate for the moment, thought Nom Anor, and probably quite genuine, too. The journey had been long and tiring, even from the comfort of Ngaaluh’s seat.
The guard expressed dissatisfaction with the authorization, much to Nom Anor’s surprise. It was the one thing about the entourage that was unquestionably genuine. An argument broke out between the underling and the guard, and Nom Anor craned to overhear what was being said. Had the guards somehow learned of the Prophet’s imminent arrival and stepped up their vigilance?
Nom Anor caught the eye of Kunra, in the disguise of the caravan’s junior vrrip handler. He was unrecognizable beneath a mask of blasted tissue, heavily scarred as though from extensive, nonritual burns. The ex-warrior nodded and tightened his grip on the long, rigid whip that all vrrip handlers carried.
Before Nom Anor could edge closer, a mailed, thorny hand struck him across the face. “This does not concern you, worker,” snarled the second guard, whom Nom Anor had not noticed circling the caravan. “Do not interfere in the matters of your superiors!”
Nom Anor kept his head low, partly as an act of obeisance, but also to hide any damage that might have occurred to the masquer hiding his real face. He also didn’t want the guards to see the anger he could feel burning in his chest—an anger and loathing that would have surely given him away as something other than a lackey from the worker caste.
He had to contain his emotions. For all intents and purposes, he was a lackey, and given that station he could expect to be kicked and beaten at the whim of those above him.
He gritted his teeth and mumbled something suitably obsequious. The warrior guard grunted and walked away.
“Are you all right?” Kunra whispered when the guards were out of earshot.
Nom Anor straightened and checked his features. His masquer was intact. “I’ve had worse,” he said, staring balefully after the guards.
That was true enough. Working up the ranks of executors had been a long and painful process; he had received as many beatings as he’d given. Working closely with the pain-loving Shimrra and his coterie of sadomasochistic warlords had kept him treading a tightrope between influence and agony, never knowing when he might find himself tipping onto the wrong side.
The thought warmed him that he would one day return every single one of those indignities on those who had administered them. None would be spared. Every slight along that path to revenge only fueled his determination, from the lowliest guard to the high prefect himself …
Finally the guards called out for the gates to be opened, pacified by their brief exercise of authority. Massive muscles strained under the effort of opening the way ahead of Ngaaluh. The once artificial door had long since been replaced by a swarbrik, a sturdy organism that, if attacked, could excrete a highly toxic gas and regenerate its tissues at a heightened rate. It groaned as its keepers poked and prodded it into activity, slowly obeying their commands and allowing the caravan through.
Nom Anor cracked his long whip, and the vrrips grumbled into life. Their giant haunches rocked from side to side, and Nom Anor forced himself to concentrate on his hefty charges. He didn’t have time to appreciate the moment as the giant arch crept over him, and the road’s dusty scent subtly changed to give way to more exotic spices. For a minute or more, his concerns were focused solely upon the vrrips and his job. It was important, he knew, not to arouse any further suspicions. To those observing him, he was a worker, nothing more; no one should suspect for a second that he was anything more than a lowly vrrip handler, shamed into submission.
Ngaaluh’s expression didn’t change once, not even as they passed a wide, dark pool where it seemed the swarbrik itself was bleeding. The creature was sick, weeping from a dozen breaches in its thickened hide. Nom Anor could see no obvious cause of the illness. It was just another of the many small ways in which the World Brain was still malfunctioning on the surface of Yuuzhan’tar.
His smile returned beneath the masquer. Perhaps, he thought, there were advantages to living underground after all.
Jag didn’t waste time questioning his orders; he was just glad to be out of hyperspace. While Pellaeon forced a wedge between the planet and the Yuuzhan Vong to prevent further bombardment, Jag drove the squadron he shared with Jaina like an arrow at the warship Kur-hashan.
“Twin Two, take Six and Eight around the left flank. Three, take the right with Five and Seven. The rest of you, with me.”
Twins Four and Nine pirouetted neatly to create a V-shape with Jag in the middle, moving in perfect synchronicity. He was beginning to forget which pilots were Chiss and which were Galactic Alliance in origin; they’d spent enough time fighting together to have become one. To a casual observer, the clawcraft and X-wings may have looked different, but the ships in their crosshairs were the same.
The Yuuzhan Vong were just waking up to the fact they were under attack from two sides. Kur-hashan’s coral arms seemed to erupt, dispensing coralskippers like seeds to the galactic winds. The flat ovoid yorik-vec assault cruisers—fast but low in firepower—swept around the grotesquely organic capital vessel to engage the attackers. Pride of Selonia powered in to meet them, laser cannons blazing.
The normally dark environment of Esfandia was soon shattered by the almost stroboscopic effect of all the ships’ weapons firing, while screaming engines cast cometlike sprays of energy across the starscape, bringing a false dawn to all sides of the planet. Faster, furious specks darted by the thousands between the artificial and organic behemoths turning to battle. With his sensors turned to maximum just to enable him to see the planet, the light flashing around him soon overwhelmed Jag. It was as if he were seeing the universe from a completely different scale, with the larger ships appearing as quasars and the smaller vessels swirling around them taking the role of galactic clusters—all sped up so that trillions of years of motion was compressed into seconds.
A skip erupted into fire off to Jag’s starboard, dragging him from his reverie. He silently chided himself; idle thoughts like that were dangerous in combat.
“You want to watch yourself there, boss.”
The voice belonged to the Y-wing pilot whom Twin Suns Squadron had recruited from Bakura. She’d proven more than capable in combat in the fight against the Ssiruuk, and had volunteered to help fill some of the empty spots created since the mission had begun. The pilot had jumped at the opportunity—and with the skip that had been about to attack him now a boiling mass i
n his wake, Jag was glad she had.
“Thanks, Nine,” he said, swinging his reticle around to target another coralskipper. “That one must have crept up on me.”
“There’s another on your tail, One,” said Four, retroing heavily to pass under the Yuuzhan Vong fighter that Jag hadn’t noticed coming in from behind. He pulled himself into a tight spiral and came out on a completely different heading, seeing spots from acceleration. He ramped his inertial dampener up a notch and fired at a skip that flashed by with alarming suddenness. His shot was casually soaked up by a dovin basal. The coralskipper tailing him, however, wasn’t so fortunate; it disappeared in a stuttering flash from his rear screen. He felt his clawcraft shudder slightly from the shock wave of the nearby explosion.
“Much appreciated, Four.”
“You’d do the same for me,” the Chiss pilot returned.
“Count on it,” he said.
Ordinarily, Jag would never have permitted such casual banter among his pilots. The Chiss were taught discipline before they could crawl. But he’d found that, in this instance, with the squadron’s mix of Galactic Alliance and Chiss pilots, a small amount of informality helped everyone come together and function effectively as a team in the most trying of circumstances—such as now, at three-quarters strength, and grossly outnumbered besides.
“Don’t take any chances,” he ordered his pilots. “We’re here to protect the Selonia. Besides the Falcon, we’re all that stands between it and Kur-hashan.”
“Copy, One,” came back Three, currently harassing a blastboat analog many times its size. “Where is the Falcon, anyway?”
Jag scanned the displays before him, looking for the distinctive disk-shaped freighter. It wasn’t immediately visible, and he didn’t have time to look for it, as the Yuuzhan Vong resistance suddenly stiffened and he found himself in the middle of what seemed like three firefights at once. A grin formed on his face as he put aside thoughts of the squadron in favor of his own survival. To Jag, there was nothing quite as satisfying as confronting a worthy adversary. Until now, the Yuuzhan Vong fleet had seemed disorganized, almost dispirited, and his pilots had managed to pick them out of the sky with relative ease. But there seemed to be some spirit returning to their attack. The advantage of surprise was well and truly gone.
Reunion: Force Heretic III Page 8