The New Republic military appeared to be in a state of disarray since the fall of their capital. They had undertaken no coordinated operations since Borleias, and showed no sign of doing so.
Delegates from several worlds had come to the Yuuzhan Vong offering surrender or neutrality. It was difficult in the current conditions to determine whether or not their credentials were genuine, so it wasn’t often clear whether they had been sent officially or not.
Leaders of the Peace Brigade, infidels who were collaborating with the Yuuzhan Vong, had established their capital on Ylesia. They had the beginnings of their own fleet, though their equipment was drawn from a variety of sources and was hardly uniform. Yuuzhan Vong cadres were doing their best to train them.
While Yoog Skell made his report, Nom Anor tried his best to remain rigidly calm. The itch had turned his skin to fire. Desperately he willed himself to be still.
He noticed, as he stood in silence behind his chief, that Yoog Skell’s hand was surreptitiously scratching his leg under cover of his desk. So Yoog Skell had the itch as well, and the stress of his report had made him surrender to the weakness of scratching.
Nom Anor wished he dared surrender to such a weakness.
After Yoog Skell’s report, there was a moment of silence before Shimrra responded. “This ‘Fyor Rodan,’ ” he said. “This ‘Cal Omas.’ Is it known whether they will favor submission or war?”
“Supreme One, I will defer in this matter to my junior colleague Nom Anor,” Yoog Skell said. “He is a specialist on the subject of the infidels, having lived among them for many years.”
Shimrra’s baleful rainbow gaze lifted to Nom Anor, and again Nom Anor felt the chill of fear. He could feel Shimrra’s presence, the gods-given power he possessed, and it sat on Nom Anor’s heart like a great weight.
At least he forgot all about his itch.
“Supreme One,” he began, and was thankful he hadn’t stammered, “according to the analysis provided by our agent Viqi Shesh, Fyor Rodan was a supporter of Borsk Fey’lya, though he occasionally showed signs of independence. His only consistent position was on the matter of the Jedi, whom he always opposed. As far as we know, he hasn’t expressed an opinion on the matter of peace or war. Neither has Cal Omas—who has, however, consistently supported the Jedi.”
Nom Anor wished, as the word left his lips, that he hadn’t mentioned the Jedi, which might remind the Supreme One of too many mistakes that Nom Anor had committed in the field. But Shimrra, to the intendant’s relief, pursued a different tack.
“This Fey’lya punished Rodan and Omas for their independence?”
“Not as far as I know, Supreme One.”
“Fey’lya was a weak creature,” Shimrra mused. “He scarcely deserved the honorable death we gave him.”
“Supreme One,” Nom Anor said, “the citizens of the New Republic lack a proper understanding of hierarchies and the duties due to one’s superior. They believe that a certain amount of independence of mind is permissible. Borsk Fey’lya’s attitude was not unusual among their leaders.”
Shimrra absorbed this, then nodded. “One of our great missions, then, shall be to teach these creatures the proper meaning of submission.”
Nom Anor bowed. “Undoubtedly, Supreme One.”
“I wish this Cal Omas killed. Have your agents carry out an assassination.”
Nom Anor hesitated. “Few of my agents are in place on Mon Calamari,” he said. “We—”
Shimrra’s eyes glittered dangerously. Nom Anor crossed his arms obediently. “It shall be as you desire, Supreme One.”
The Supreme Overlord’s next question was so soft-spoken that it caught Nom Anor by surprise. “We shall teach the New Republic the glory of the gods. And what shall we teach the Jeedai? More importantly, what have they taught us?”
At the mention of the Jedi, fear paralyzed Nom Anor’s tongue, but after a brief internal struggle he managed to wrench a satisfactory answer from his half-numbed mind.
“We shall teach them how to increase the glory of the Yuuzhan Vong through their extermination! And what they have taught us is that their treachery is boundless, and must be answered with death and blood.”
He heard a growl of agreement from the warriors, and also from members of the intendant delegation.
Shimrra, however, was silent. Nom Anor felt the Overlord’s eyes on him, and felt again the presence of Shimrra’s mind pressing on his own. It was as if his very thoughts had become transparent, completely exposed to the Overlord’s inquiring mind. Again fear shimmered up Nom Anor’s spine.
“And whose fault,” Shimrra asked in a voice all the more ominous for its quiet tone, “was the fiasco in the Well of the World Brain?”
Nom Anor fought his way to the surface through a current of blind panic. “My Lord,” he said, “though I am not blameless, I beg you to remember that I operated under the authority of Warmaster Tsavong Lah.”
The warmaster stood tall, not deigning to respond.
Nom Anor battled terror as he realized the others were perfectly willing to sacrifice him. “We all underestimated the treachery of the Jedi, Supreme One,” he said. “We were misled by the creature Vergere—I no more or less than others.”
Shimrra fixed Nom Anor again with his baleful look. “Thousands witnessed this disaster,” he said. “One of the Jeedai, they were told, had been converted through the Embrace of Pain to the True Path, and would willingly sacrifice one of his peers in the Well, and offer his death to the gods. And instead what do they see? The great doors slammed in their faces as our tame Jeedai escaped, while the supposed sacrificial victim held off an army with the special Jeedai weapon that was supposed to have been taken from him.”
“The World Brain was endangered!” Ch’gang Hool cried. “The Jeedai could have destroyed our last dhuryam, just as he destroyed all the others!”
“This catastrophe has led to heresy!” spoke the priest, Jakan. “Thousands were led to doubt the wisdom of their superiors and the reality of the gods!”
Shimrra’s eyes once again settled on Nom Anor. “Heresy. Doubt. Danger to the dhuryam on which all our plans for our new homeworld depend. Proof of the heroism of the Jeedai fighting in our own capital, before the eyes of thousands. And, Executor, you will have us believe that this was entirely the workings of one little avian, this Vergere?”
Nom Anor’s vision began to darken. He felt as if his soul were being squeezed by a ruthless velvet hand. He gasped in air and tried to speak in his defense.
“Supreme One,” he managed, “none of us trusted her completely. All her meetings with the captive Jedi were monitored. Nothing seditious passed between them. Her explanations for her behavior were plausible. She proved her loyalty more than once—she led Jacen Solo into captivity on three separate occasions. When the Jedi was tortured, his physical responses were monitored, and truly indicated that he was learning the Embrace of Pain—he was accepting the pain as if he were Yuuzhan Vong! When he announced his willingness to proclaim the True Doctrine and sacrifice the other Jedi whom he himself had captured, no one doubted him.”
“And the importance of the twin sacrifice?” Shimrra inquired. “The idea that this Jacen Solo should not be killed immediately, but held until he could be sacrificed along with his sister? Whose notion was that?”
“Vergere’s,” Nom Anor said. He felt the presence of the Supreme Overlord begin to squeeze his mind again, blotting out his thoughts. He could see only Shimrra’s ruthless, glowing eyes. It is like the Embrace of Pain, he thought, mental torture at the hands of a yammosk. Through the horrible pressure he held to one word. “Vergere!” he cried. “Vergere! It was all Vergere!”
“Supreme One,” another voice said. Through the blur of oppression and terror, Nom Anor recognized the priest Harrar. Another betrayer, he thought, another one come to crush me with some burden of blame.
“I was present, Supreme One,” Harrar said. “The idea of the twin sacrifice was partly my own, partly Khalee La
h’s, partly Vergere’s. I confess that I was duped. The truth is that Vergere fooled us because none of her actions seemed capable of a treacherous interpretation. Why did she lead Jacen Solo into captivity not once, but thrice? She had numerous opportunities to help him escape, but did not do so. Why did she participate in his torture? Why did she manipulate him—or seem to manipulate him—on our behalf?
“I have concluded,” Harrar finished, “that if Vergere is not loyal to us, neither is she loyal to the infidels.”
Nom Anor sobbed for breath as the mental pressure was released. Through his dimmed eye he could make out Harrar standing in the delegation of High Priest Jakan. The high priest did not seem pleased to hear his subordinate’s confession—thus far the college of priests had escaped any blame for the catastrophe, and now Harrar was likely to bring unwelcome attention to his caste.
Nom Anor’s blood sang with gratitude for Harrar. The priest had saved him.
The warmaster, on the other hand, looked at Nom Anor as if he were on the verge of throttling him.
While Nom Anor struggled to recover his presence of mind, Shimrra interrogated Harrar and the warmaster. In the end, the Supreme Overlord leaned back on his throne, disappearing into its spiky interior.
“Interesting,” he said. “For fifty years this Vergere has lived among us, and none of us knew her true nature. For fifty years she studied us, and learned our ways, and was able to plan her treachery.” He leaned forward and turned to Jakan. “Priest!” he said. “Is this creature not the true incarnation of Yun-Harla the Trickster?”
Outrage quivered in the priest’s jowls, but when he spoke his voice was firm. “Never!” he said. “Say rather that Vergere is the embodiment of evil!”
“Is she a Jeedai?” someone queried.
“She can’t be,” Harrar said. “The Jeedai derive their abilities from something called the ‘Force,’ and their use of it can be detected by a yammosk. If Vergere were Jeedai, she would have been unmasked.”
Shimrra’s deep voice was reflective. “Jeedai or not, I wonder about her. Isn’t such a deception, over such a long period, a kind of masterpiece?” He looked down at his creature, Onimi. “Is she not worthy of admiration, to deceive so many for so long?” he asked, and gave Onimi a kick. Onimi, startled, looked up and began to warble.
“Out of the World-Well, and into thin air,
That devious trickster, the traitor Vergere.”
And then, with a fawning glance at his master, Onimi added slyly:
“But some little pets are more suitably loyal,
I’ll still be your friend, and share your throne royal.”
Shimrra burst into laughter at this, and shoved Onimi with his foot, pushing him another step lower. “You may share my throne from there, Onimi!” he said.
Onimi shaded his eyes with a hand and peered out at the assembled delegations. “I still have a better view of things than any of these, Supreme One,” he noted, thankfully forgetting to speak in rhyme.
“That wouldn’t be hard,” Shimrra said, almost as an aside.
Uneasy laughter rolled around the great chamber. Nom Anor, still dizzied from his interrogation, sensed the anxiety and fear that lay beneath the laughter. Would the Supreme Overlord choose another one to humiliate?
Shimrra faced his audience. “The lesson of all this is simple,” he said. “Let all follow my example, and permit no pet to inhabit a position of trust.”
The delegates chorused agreement. Nom Anor couldn’t help but think, however, that Onimi was trusted at least to the extent of being permitted to attend meetings where important matters were discussed. If Onimi were a spy, he could give his secret masters much useful information.
But if Onimi were a spy, surely Shimrra, through his powerful presence that saw into souls, would discover the fact?
But Vergere, too, should have been discovered, should she not?
“High Priest,” Shimrra said, turning his head toward Jakan. “My apologies for delaying this vital discussion until now. I wished us all to give it our full attention. Please bring to everyone’s attention this matter of heresy.”
The better to make his presentation, Jakan rose to his feet, his formal robes brushing the floor. His daughter, the priestess Elan, had adopted the treacherous Vergere as a pet, and then died on a mission to assassinate the Jedi. The loss of his daughter had hardened Jakan in his religious orthodoxy, and hardened him in his determination to implement the will of the gods.
“I, too, bring word of infiltration,” he said. He gave a ponderous pause, his head turning left to right to view each delegation in turn. As the priest’s eyes crossed with his, Nom Anor felt a thrill of fear. Was the high priest about to accuse someone here?
“Not by dangerous spies,” Jakan went on at last, “but by dangerous ideas. Priests from as far away as Dubrillion have reported that they have discovered unauthorized, clandestine meetings among the lower orders—meetings that claim to be religious ceremonies. Meetings in private quarters or empty countryside. Meetings where our own True Way is denied, and where treasonous, heretical concepts are spread to the people.”
Again the priest paused solemnly, as if to emphasize the gravity of his words. Shimrra spoke into the silence.
“Heresy is nothing new. Why is this of such great import? What sort of people take part in these ceremonies?”
“Shamed Ones,” Jakan said in a fierce whisper, as if the words themselves were obscene. “Shamed Ones, and workers. Precisely those castes needing the greatest guidance in matters of belief. Sometimes”—again his voice dropped into a dramatic whisper—“workers and Shamed Ones are found at the heretical ceremonies together.”
Nom Anor’s single eye was drawn irresistibly to the Shamed One Onimi, condemned by the gods through the failure of his implants. For once Onimi seemed inclined to remain silent, though his lanky body half reclined in a pose of insolence. His upper lip was again curled to reveal one long, yellow tooth.
“And the nature of these heretical ceremonies?” Shimrra prodded.
“They venerate the Jeedai,” Jakan said, and this time there was a murmur of outrage and surprise from the crowd. “The power of the Jeedai has brought into question that the gods favor the Yuuzhan Vong. They believe that Yun-Harla and Yun-Yammka are aligned with the twins Jaina and Jacen Solo. And some of the heretics, here on Yuuzhan’tar, have in the last weeks begun to revere a being they call the Ganner. Ganner, of course, was the name of the Jeedai who gave his life at the battle of the World-Well.”
Shimrra fingered his chin. “Where do the lower orders acquire these heresies?”
“The contamination was probably begun by slaves from the New Republic who labor alongside the workers and Shamed Ones,” Jakan explained. “Slaves who admired the Jeedai and their philosophy.”
Jakan clenched his fist and shook it. “At the moment the heretics are not organized, they have no real leaders, and their doctrine is a jumble of contradictory ideas. Stop them now—root them out, before they grow into a force that weakens us from within!”
Again the priest offered a dramatic moment of silence, and then he turned and bowed toward Shimrra. “Such is my report, Supreme One.”
Nom Anor heard a sigh from his own superior, Yoog Skell, but he was unable to work out what the sigh meant. The itching was a tormenting blast that seared Nom Anor’s flesh.
“Have you any specific recommendations concerning this crisis?” the Supreme Overlord inquired. “Kill the heretics is final, but lacks detail.”
Jakan bowed again. “Supreme One, my recommendations would demand absolute segregation of the slaves from our own people so as to prevent the spread of inappropriate ideas. Public sacrifice of the heretics. Rewards for those who renounce their false paths and turn in their fellows.”
Yoog Skell sighed again, more loudly this time, more wearily. “Supreme One,” he said, “while I am certainly no friend to heresy, I must beg for less drastic methods. We are engaged in a war that may continue for
klekkets or even longer. The combined labors of workers and Shamed Ones and slaves are necessary to advance our objectives. We have settlements to grow, food crops to raise in half-wrecked ecosystems, ships and weapons and other vital items to ripen and harvest, and Yuuzhan’tar itself to transform from a machine-poisoned, artificial landscape into our perfect ancestral paradise.”
Jakan bowed toward Yoog Skell. “Our paradise can scarcely be perfect if it contains heresy.”
“I concede the high priest’s point,” Yoog Skell said. “But an inquiry into all our workers would be disruptive. Segregation of the workers from the slaves is impossible at this stage—they are all engaged in vital work. Going amid them with bribes aimed at getting them to turn on one another—imagine the disruption! Imagine the situation if the workers start accusing overseers in the hope of seeing them brought down! Imagine how many false accusations we should have to weed out from the true!”
“That would be the task of the priests,” Jakan said. “Your own people need not concern themselves.”
“But if the workers should accuse warriors? Or shapers? Or even loyal priests?”
Nom Anor realized that Yoog Skell was pointing out to the shapers and warriors that Jakan’s plan put them at risk as well as the workers, whom no one cared about.
Yoog Skell spoke on. “Besides, who cares what the Shamed Ones think? The gods hate them anyway. And whose fault is it that the workers lapse into heresy? Haven’t the priests already failed in their duty?”
Jakan, bloated with injured dignity, was about to make a furious rebuttal when Shimrra held up a hand for silence. All eyes respectfully turned to him—all except that of Nom Anor, who was blind to everything but a sudden blaze of his own itching torment. The itch was spreading. Now his back was on fire, where he couldn’t scratch even if he wanted to!
“The gods have placed me upon this throne as their instrument,” Shimrra said, “and I agree with the high priest that heresy may not be tolerated.”
A satisfied look inflated Jakan’s face, a satisfaction that died away at the Overlord’s next words. “But the high prefect has a worthy point. When we are at war, it is foolish to disorder one’s own forces. I don’t want disruption among the workers at such a time, particularly since the workers are uneducated and may have adopted these beliefs without knowing their dangerous nature. Therefore—”
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