Rebirth: Edge of Victory II

by Greg Keyes

  He nodded sagely. “Yim. Yim Yim Yim.” He clubbed his twisted, dead hands together. His eyes were open but seemed to see nothing. “Yim,” he concluded.

  Yun-Yuuzhan, what part of you was he? she wondered, quills of disgust pricking up her spine.

  “I do not like that name,” Kae Kwaad said in a sudden, angry burst. “It offends me.”

  “It is my name, Master.”

  “No.” Wiry muscles quivered in his arms, as if he were on the verge of attacking her. “No,” he repeated more calmly. “Tsup shall be your name. Nen Tsup.”

  Nen Yim stiffened further. Tsup was the name of no crèche or domain she had ever heard of. It was, however, an antique word for the sorts of slave who tended their masters in unseemly ways. The word itself was so obscene it was rarely used anymore.

  “Come, then,” the master said, with an air of detachment. “Acquaint me with my demesne.”

  “Yes, Master Kae Kwaad.”

  Feeling ill, Nen Yim led him through the moldering halls of the worldship to the shapers’ quarters, through a tremoring hall that had begun to have periodic spasms, past her own quarters to the master’s apartments, which had stood empty since before her coming to Baanu Miir. Five slaves staggered behind them, nearly buckling beneath the weight of enormous transport envelopers.

  When the opening dilated, the master stood, staring into space.

  “Where am I?” he asked, after a time.

  “Your quarters, Master.”

  “Quarters? What, by the gods, are you talking about? Where am I?”

  “On the Baanu Miir, Master Kae Kwaad.”

  “Well, where is it?” he screeched. “The coordinates. The exact location. Must I repeat myself?”

  Nen Yim found herself twisting her fingers together, like a terrified crècheling. She stopped it immediately. “I do not know, Master. I can discover it.”

  “Do so!” His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Your adept, Nen Yim.”

  A crafty look came over his face. “I do not like that name. Use the one I gave you.”

  “Nen Tsup,” she said softly.

  He blinked, slowly, then snorted. “What a vulgar little thing you are.” He sneered. “Hurry. Find out where we are. And then we shall shape something, yes? It will amuse us.”

  “Master, I wish to speak to you about the ship’s rikyam, when you have the time.”

  “Time? What is that? It is nothing. The brain will die. You do not confuse me with your talk, Adept. No, you do not confuse or amuse or titillate me, though you think it. Yun-Harla herself could not have me! Flattering yourself. Trying to trick me. Get out of my sight.”

  When she was alone, Nen Yim sank down into a crouch and softly beat the heels of her hands against her head.

  He is mad, she thought. Mad and crippled. Tjulan Kwaad sent him to taunt me, nothing more.

  Beneath her feet, she noticed, a patch of the inner hull was rotting.

  A day passed without her seeing him, but when Nen Yim entered her laboratory, there was the twisted, demented Kae Kwaad. He’d somehow unsealed the dermal shelf where her experiments were hidden and was stroking her personal qahsa with the carapace of his right hand. She hadn’t tried particularly hard to hide anything, reasoning that doing so was wasted effort. Her modifications to the ship were ample evidence of her heresy. Hiding the experiments would only delay the inevitable.

  “I like this,” Kae Kwaad said, waving at her tissue samples. “I like the colors.” He smiled vaguely and pointed his useless digits to his eyes. “They trickle in here, don’t they? After that they don’t get out. They just talk and whistle, wriggle and curl.” He scratched one dead hand absently against the other.

  “Tell me what you’re doing, Adept,” he said.

  “Master, I’m only doing my best to heal the ship. If I have strained protocol, it was only because I thought it best for the Yuuzhan Vong.”

  “Strained it? Strained it?” He laughed, an unpleasant scratching sound. Then, as abruptly, he folded down onto one of the slowly shifting benches and placed his head between his hands.

  “I requested a master because I do not have access to protocol records above the fifth cortex,” Nen Yim went on. “I had no answer to the rikyam’s dilemma, so I sought one.”

  “And now you have a master.” Kae Kwaad chortled. “And now we shall shape.”

  “Perhaps Master Kae Kwaad would like to review the damage to the spiral arm.”

  “Perhaps the master would have his adept listen instead of speak. Today we are shaping. Recall the protocol of Hon Akua.”

  Nen Yim stared at him. “We are to form a grutchin? But the fleet is replete with grutchins.”

  “Inferior grutchins. Your generation! In your haste to make them stronger, faster, tougher, you have forgotten the most important aspect of shaping! The essence!”

  “What is that, Master?”

  “Form. Have you ever seen a perfect grutchin, Adept?”

  “I … do not know, Master.”

  “You haven’t! You have not! In the mind of Yun-Yuuzhan is a perfect grutchin. It has never been seen by Yuuzhan Vong except in the protocols—never in living form. You and I, Adept, will incarnate the grutchin in the mind of Yun-Yuuzhan. It shall be perfect in form and proportion, precise in hue. When we are done, Yun-Yuuzhan will know us for true shapers, who create in his image.”

  “But the rikyam—”

  “The rikyam? How can you even think of such a mundane matter when we are to embark upon this? Once we have created the perfect grutchin, do you really expect Yun-Yuuzhan—or those simpletons Yun-Harla or Yun-Ne’Shel—will deny us anything? Now we must work!”

  It was soon after this that Nen Yim began to seriously consider the murder of Master Kae Kwaad.

  PART THREE

  DESCENT

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Leia found Jacen where he had been for the last several days—tinkering with one of the captured E-wings. Since they had taken the freighter, he had hardly said a word to anyone, and on their return to the Maw he had thrown himself into the project of fitting the fighter with augmented shields and readying her for extended flight. Han had been almost as sullen. Her husband was tough, but there was only so much loss that even Han Solo could take. It had been good to see something of his old cocky, arrogant self reemerge, though she wasn’t going to admit that to him aloud.

  But Han’s good humor had been short-lived. His fight with Jacen and the following silence had managed to leak most of the fuel from his engines.

  Jacen glanced down at her from near the astromech housing, but didn’t say anything.

  “Jacen,” Leia said, “could I talk to you, please? Or do you intend never to speak to me again?”

  Jacen gazed down again. “What’s there to talk about? I think you and Dad have presented your point of view from pretty much every angle there is, and I think you know mine.”

  “It must be nice to be so sure about everything,” Leia told him.

  Jacen uttered a short, guttural laugh. “Yeah,” he replied, “must be.”

  That had a raw sound to it that bothered Leia. How could someone so young sound so cynical? Especially Jacen, whose ideals had always been lofty ones. Of course, she knew better than anyone that most cynics were crash-burned idealists. Was Jacen that hurt?

  It made what she had come to say all the harder, but she had to say it.

  “Anyway,” she said, taking the plunge, “you’re wrong. There is another angle to look at this from.”

  “And what would that be?” Jacen asked. She didn’t know whether he sounded more like Han or herself in that moment of caustic sarcasm, and she wasn’t sure which would make her angrier.

  “Jacen, would you knock off the rebellious teen act for just a minute? And maybe consider for just a second that the entire galaxy doesn’t spin around you and your moral decisions?”

  Jacen continued to stare stonily at her, but he lifted his shoulders lightly, as if accepting yet ano
ther onerous burden. “I can try that,” he said. “What have I missed?”

  “You’ve missed that your father needs you, that’s what. That I need you.”

  “That’s not fair,” Jacen said. “I don’t want to be a pirate, so you’ll try emotional blackmail?”

  “Is that what you call it? Jacen, maybe we weren’t the best of parents. Maybe we weren’t around as much as we could have been, and maybe this is your way of paying us back. But if your only interpretation of ‘your father needs you’ is that I’m trying to manipulate you, then I’ve been a far worse mother than I ever dreamed. If that’s all you see, by all means, go. I wouldn’t want you on those terms.”

  “Mom, I—” His voice went strange, and with a sudden start she saw he had tears in his eyes.

  “Oh, Jacen—” she began.

  “No, Mom, it’s all right.” He clambered down from the craft and wiped at his eyes. “I deserved that.”

  “I didn’t come here to hurt you. I’m not even sure I came here to persuade you to stay with us. I just wanted to try to explain why your father is acting the way he is. Jacen, your dad is always proud of you even when he doesn’t understand you, which is most of the time. He’s always tried to be supportive of your decision to become a Jedi Knight, even though the farther you step into that world the farther you go from him. You’re more a part of Luke’s universe than you are of his, and his biggest fear is that you’re ashamed of him, or somehow think him less because of what he is, because he can never be or even fully understand what you’re becoming. Deep down he knows he’s losing you a little more each day, and that soon enough you’ll be strangers. This little spat of yours has only served to confirm that for him.”

  “He told you all of this?”

  “Of course not. Han doesn’t talk about things like that. But I know him, Jacen.”

  “You’re right, then.”

  Leia frowned, a little confused by this sudden turnabout. “About what?”

  “You’re right—I hadn’t quite seen things from that vector. Thanks. Thanks for telling me.”

  She reached to embrace him, and to her relief, he folded willingly into her arms.

  “How could he ever think I was ashamed of him?” Jacen whispered.

  They parted, and Jacen looked at her through tear-sparkled eyes. “This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,” he said.

  Leia’s heart felt like neutronium. “You’re still going?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I decided to stay with you guys two days ago.”

  “What?”

  “Dad was right. Or part of what he said was right. I made a commitment when I came out here with you. I’m holding to that commitment. And with me along, we’re more likely to be able to hijack these ships without hurting anyone. I’ll be able to tell if there are captives on board. Turning my back on this whole thing feels worse than being a part of it. I still don’t like it, but I’ll do it. I won’t fight Dad anymore.”

  “Then why have you been working on the E-wing?”

  Jacen shrugged. “It was something to do other than sit around waiting to get into another fight. Somebody can use it. That’s why we took it, right?”

  “Right,” Leia assented.

  “So when do we head back out?”

  “Soon. The captain of the freighter gave up some interesting information. They came via Wayland, which is where they picked up the weapons, but most of the cargo originated on Kuat.”

  “Kuat?”

  “Yes,” Leia said. “Of course, we don’t know exactly who sent the supplies—the company name they gave was a shell, and we haven’t worked back to who’s really the source of the funds, but we will.”

  “Jaina thought there was something rotten about the senator from Kuat, Viqi Shesh, when they met back on Duro. You don’t think …?”

  “I don’t trust Viqi Shesh as far as an Ewok could throw her,” Leia said. “But it’s still too early to make accusations.” She paused. “By the way, there’s something else you should know—there’s news from Coruscant. Chief Fey’lya ordered Luke’s arrest.”

  “You’re kidding. He really made good on that threat?”

  “Maybe, or maybe it was just a more elaborate bluff. Luke and Mara didn’t take any chances, though. They left before the arrest could be made and joined up with Booster.” Her voice softened. “So you see, there are other things you could be doing.”

  “Now you’re trying to change my mind again?”

  “No,” Leia said firmly.

  “Fine,” Jacen answered. “What else did you learn from the captain?”

  “That there will be another ship along in a few days—a freighter full of captives.”

  Jacen tried on a little smile. “Well, I’d better finish up with this E-wing today, then, if the Princess of Blood is going to be there to meet it.”

  “Don’t you start that nonsense, too. Just because you’re going with us doesn’t mean you have to indulge every stupid thing your father comes up with, you know,” Leia said.

  “No, you’re right to the core, Mom. We Solo men have to stick together. And I kinda like the name. I’ve been thinking about something to paint on the side—”

  “This conversation is now over,” Leia said, as seriously as she could. But she felt she could breathe freely again for the first time in several days, as if her lungs were suddenly twice the size they had been.

  “Let me tell Dad, huh?” Jacen said.

  “You’ve got it.” With a lighter step, she went to make her own preparations.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The reversion to realspace was different in the Yuuzhan Vong ship, somehow. Slower, maybe. Anakin made a mental note to try to discover whether that was merely perceptual or real. If the latter, were the alien ships more vulnerable during reversion? It would be worth knowing.

  “Well?” Corran said, studying the changed star chart. “Where are we? Are we surrounded again?”

  Beneath the hood, Tahiri turned her head this way and that, as if looking for something.

  “Nothing that I see,” she said. “There are plenty of ships in the system—most of them around that planet with three moons—but none of them look like Yuuzhan Vong yorik coral. And none of them seems to be paying attention to us.”

  “Interesting,” Corran mused. “Three moons, eh? Is there a space station near that planet?”

  “That could be what that is,” Tahiri said.

  “From your description, this likely is the Yag’Dhul system. The Givin have pretty good detection equipment. I wonder if this ship somehow dampens the hyperwave shock during reversion? Or if it’s fully cloaked?”

  “I’ll ask the ship if you want,” Tahiri said.

  “Do that.”

  After a brief pause, Tahiri shook her head. “It doesn’t know, or I’m not asking the right question. But it doesn’t detect any probes locked on us.”

  “Maybe that’s why the slower reversion,” Anakin speculated.

  “You noticed that too, huh?” Corran said. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, at least we didn’t jump straight from a supernova into a neutron star. Though I suspect we don’t have a lot of time here. Tahiri, any sense of what this ship was supposed to do once here?”

  This time Tahiri nodded in the affirmative. “Yes. We’re supposed to scent the readiness of the enemy.”

  “So it is a scout ship,” Anakin said.

  “Which means the main fleet will be expecting intelligence from us,” Corran concluded. “The question is, how long will they wait before deciding something has gone wrong? Tahiri, can you fake a message? Stall them a little?”

  Tahiri shook her head. “No. I’d have to use a villip, which means they would see my face.”

  Anakin watched Corran ponder that unhappily for a few seconds. “There are always the prisoners,” he told the older Jedi.

  “I realize that,” Corran said, “though I doubt we can hope for their cooperation. It’s worth a try, though. Meant
ime, we have to make contact with Yag’Dhul. Any ideas there?”

  “The warmaster had a villip modified to broadcast on our frequencies,” Anakin said.

  “True. Can you do that?”

  “No,” Anakin confessed.

  “Tahiri?”

  “The ship doesn’t know how to, and neither do I. We can fire a remote villip at a ship if it gets near enough.”

  Corran barked a phrase of laughter. “Which would certainly be interpreted as an attack. That’s a last-ditch option. Anything else?”

  “Sure,” Anakin said. “I can modify the emergency beacon in the survival pack and run it through one of our wrist comm units.”

  “Do it, then,” Corran told him. “Meanwhile, I’ll interrogate prisoners while Tahiri keeps an eye on surrounding space and an ear up for queries from the fleet. Anakin, be back here in half an hour.”

  Corran surveyed the prisoners. The prison was makeshift—there probably was a real one someplace, but Corran hadn’t wanted to waste the time looking for it. Using medical tape from the survival pack, Corran had fastened the living captives to the walls of the corridor leading to the helm, where he could keep an eye on them.

  He studied the shapers first. They both had headdresses that looked like squirming masses of snakes. One had a hand that resembled some sort of sea creature, except that the fingers had tool attachments: pincers, a knife, and so on. Tahiri had insisted that the shapers needed to be strip-searched, and Corran had agreed to a hasty one. The search had produced several dubious organisms that had been placed in another chamber some distance away.

  The remaining survivors Anakin and Tahiri had identified as members of the Shamed caste—workers who maintained the more unpleasant functions of the ship.

  He didn’t see anything in any of their eyes he thought he could work with—no fear or uncertainty, just a nearly uniform and haughty anger. Still, with a species you didn’t know, it was hard to tell what facial expressions meant.

  “Do any of you speak Basic?” he asked.

  One of the shapers lifted his head, his orange-limned eyes fierce. “I speak your infidel tongue. It tastes like the waste excretions of an ill vhlor on my tongue, but I can speak it. Please, ask me something so I may deny it to you.”