The Final Prophecy: Edge of Victory III

by Greg Keyes

  “That’s bad?” Nen Yim asked.

  “Yes, that’s bad. Have you even laid in a jump?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You’ve never flown?”

  “No.”

  “Watch her,” Corran told the Prophet, casting a glance at the priest as he did so. This thing was going sourer every second. He moved quickly to stand next to the shaper.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s—look, we’ll make a short jump first—Borleias. Do you have a star chart in there, anything like that?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Or maybe. I’m not attuned enough to see it if there is one. But there are ships approaching.”

  “Any way to show me the ships?”

  “Yes.”

  A nearby wall panel coruscated, revealing a surface that raised icons to represent ships and their movements.

  “I can’t tell how close they are, because I don’t know the scale here,” Corran said. “But I think you ought to bear aught-six-two-aught-aught-one.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “That way!” Corran pointed, feeling an entirely appropriate déjà vu.

  “Do not order me.”

  “Look, I’m a pilot. You certainly aren’t. Anyone knows a hyperspace jump this near a singularity is suicide.”

  She ignored the comment. “There are ships that way, too,” she reported.

  “Yeah, I see them. Does this thing have any guns?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well—fly fast. And figure out how to plot a jump.”

  A coralskipper came up on their tail and started to fire. The first few shots missed, but the next connected, and the ship shuddered slightly. It almost seemed to cry faintly, as if remembering its earlier trauma from such weapons. That shook Corran a bit—was the ship sentient? And if so, why did he hear it when Nen Yim was the one under the cognition hood?

  But then he understood. The ship existed in the Force.

  He’d assumed from its obvious organic nature that this was a new model of Yuuzhan Vong ship. Now he didn’t know what it was.

  The coralskipper unloaded again.

  “Jink!” Corran said. “Jink!”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean by that,” Nen Yim said.

  Corran felt like strangling something—possibly himself, for letting such a relatively simple mission get so far out of control. “Why can’t any of these stinking ships have normal controls?” he muttered.

  “You mean controls of metal and plasteel?” the shaper asked.

  “Yes. Yes!”

  “It does,” she replied. “This ship is a grafting of machine and biotechnology. The original controls were—I could not understand them.”

  A grafting of machine and bio—later. “You took them out?”

  “No, they’re beneath that screen, covered by a lamina. The sight of them offended me.”

  “Oh, I see,” Corran said, as he staggered toward the place she had indicated. “You’re completely insane. You’ve appointed yourself pilot, you’ve no idea what you’re doing, and you don’t mention to the only qualified pilot that there are controls—” He ripped off the lamina, revealing an entirely familiar set of instruments.

  “I can fly this,” Corran grunted. “I can fly this! Get back there and help Tahiri!”

  “I don’t—”

  “—know what you’re doing,” he repeated. “We’ll all be killed, here, now, and you’ll never see your mystery planet.”

  “Very well,” Nen Yim said. She removed the cognition hood and started back toward Tahiri.

  “If she doesn’t live,” Corran called back to her, “the whole deal is off.”

  “Then she will live,” Nen Yim shot back.

  Corran threw the ship into a scissor-roll, dodging a fresh barrage of plasma bursts. One scorched along the hull, and he felt the ship’s cry of pain.

  Then he felt the wound close, itch, and heal.

  Interesting.

  The controls were on the old-fashioned side, but the ship itself handled like nothing he’d ever flown. And despite what Nen Yim had said, he found controls for lasers and—something else.

  Well, let’s see if they work. He veered hard port and up, making the turn in half the time a ship this size ought to, and came in above one of the pursuing skips. Hopefully, he squeezed off a few shots.

  The console said he had four forward lasers. Only one fired. The beam scorched out—and was swallowed by the skip’s void.

  Corran wisped by the skip, feeling rather than seeing the other two on his tail, and then pulled up, hard, and grinned when the fire from the two pursuing skips struck the one he’d just shot at.

  “I guess they don’t have their war coordinator on-line yet,” he said.

  “It’s being jammed,” Nen Yim’s voice floated up from the back. “I’ve seen to it.”

  Useful, this shaper. Annoying and incredibly dangerous, but useful. “How is Tahiri?”

  “I told you. She will live.”

  A wave of relief swept through him, and he turned his full attention back to the problem at hand.

  Ships were everywhere now, and not just in the direction he was leaving, and not all just skips. He began working out a jump, but not knowing the engine capabilities made that tricky—he’d have to get it right, not almost right. There wasn’t going to be time …

  “Hello,” Corran murmured to himself. “What’s that?”

  The silhouette looked familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. It might not even still be functioning, but at the moment it was his only hope. He changed course toward the object.

  A skip whirled in from below starboard, and from sheer curiosity, he tried the other weapon the ship seemed to have, but nothing happened. The skip, on a wrong vector to keep up with him, missed its own shot and went on, banking to come after him but losing kilometers in the process.

  “Fine,” he muttered. Obviously, whatever the weapon was, it didn’t work.

  Six or seven skips were going to have a shot at him in about a minute, but the satellite he’d seen at long range was pretty close now. Basically a five-meter-diameter sphere bristling with knoblike protrusions, it hung quietly in its orbit.

  As Tahiri had said earlier, there must have been millions or billions of satellites around Coruscant when the Yuuzhan Vong took it. The new tenants had been working to clear them out, but that was a huge job. Some had fallen of their own accord, but some …

  He fired his single laser at the sphere, and whooped when the blue sheen of a shield went up.

  Laser light was suddenly everywhere as the sphere began to whirl in complex maneuvers, firing at every ship it saw. Corran ignored those shots directed at him and just punched the drive as hard as it would go, which was hard. The skips went wild, spinning around the satellite, firing at it. Only one or two recovered from the surprise quickly enough to follow his new vector, and by the time they were even thinking about catching him he’d laid in his calculations and was watching the stars sleet away.

  “Whew,” he said, finally able to relax.

  “What was that, some sort of war machine?”

  With a start, Corran realized the Prophet was standing just next to him.

  “No,” he said. “It’s a training device for star pilots. Once fired on, it goes into offensive mode. Of course, the lasers are so weak they can’t do any damage, so most of the power goes to its shields. But with their voids gobbling the first few shots, the Yuuzhan Vong pilots would take a while to figure that out.”

  “Clever,” the Prophet said.

  “Thank you,” Corran said. “Now I want to see Tahiri.”

  Tahiri came to with Nen Yim bending over her.

  “She will be weak,” she was telling someone. “Perhaps for some time. The arm might be useless. It is too soon to say.”

  “Corran?” Tahiri mumbled. She turned to see him.

  But Nen Yim wasn’t talking to Corran. She was talking to a Yuuzhan
Vong, a thin man with a headwrap. A priest!

  Tahiri reached for her lightsaber, but didn’t find it there. “Corran!” she shouted.

  “I’m here,” the familiar voice said. “Calm down. We seem to be among friends.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Who are you?” Tahiri asked the priest.

  “I am Harrar.”

  “Another of our merry band of pilgrims,” Corran grunted.

  “The shapers and the Shamed are not the only ones with curiosity about this new world,” the priest explained. “I arranged to meet Nen Yim at the same place as the Prophet.”

  “Then you embrace our heresy?” the Prophet asked.

  “I embrace nothing,” Harrar replied. “I reject nothing. But Shimrra has gone to great lengths to keep this planet from our knowledge. I want to know why.”

  “Where are we?” Tahiri asked.

  “Hyperspace,” Corran replied. “You missed our exciting exit. This really is some ship.”

  Tahiri was taking in the rest of their surroundings, now. Like a Yuuzhan Vong vessel, Nen Yim’s vessel looked grown, organic. In no other way did it resemble a yorik coral craft.

  “What sort of ship is this?” she asked.

  “The ship is from Zonama Sekot,” the Prophet replied. “It was badly damaged. The shaper healed it. It is good—we arrive at Zonama Sekot returning one of its own.”

  Tahiri was about to ask more, but Corran spoke up.

  “Oh, yes, that,” he said. “We’re not going to Zonama Sekot.”

  THIRTEEN

  All eyes turned to Corran.

  Yu’shaa was the first to speak. “Blessed One, what can you mean? After all we’ve done? My followers died so that we might make this voyage. They put their faith in you.”

  “And I put my faith in your words, Yu’shaa—your promise that this voyage would include you and you alone. Now we have a shaper and a priest, and I don’t know anything about either of them.”

  “I explained about the shaper,” the prophet said. “I knew nothing about the priest.”

  “Consider,” Harrar interposed. “Nen Yim and I risk far more than this—Prophet. He is already hunted, already condemned. He has little to risk on this journey and everything to gain. I, on the other hand, am a powerful and honored priest. Not only have I consorted with Jeedai, but I also seek Zonama Sekot, a planet absolutely taboo to us. If Shimrra learns of this, I will be dispatched without honor.”

  Corran nodded. “Probably. Unless Shimrra himself planned this whole fiasco.”

  “I assure you, he would never do such a thing,” Harrar replied.

  “But I’ve only your word for that, and we are, you know, on opposite sides of a war.” Not too diplomatic, Corran. He started again. “Look, you three aren’t the only ones who think Zonama Sekot is important. There are already Jedi there, negotiating with it. Your people have attacked the planet at least once. Bringing one of you there—especially one seeking peace—that was one thing. Bringing three of you is another matter.”

  “Contact these other Jeedai,” the Prophet urged. “Discuss it with them. Surely they will agree that if peace is to be achieved, the initiative must come from both the Jeedai and the Yuuzhan Vong.”

  “He’s right,” Tahiri said.

  Corran shot her a hard look. “I’d like to speak to Tahiri alone,” he told the others.

  “Of course,” Harrar said. The others didn’t say anything, but they stayed where they were as Corran escorted Tahiri to what was appeared to be some sort of common area.

  “Corran—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “No,” he snapped. “Listen. We’re outnumbered here. I can’t have you disagreeing with me in front of them.”

  “Then maybe you should stop making decisions without consulting me. We’re a team, remember?”

  “And I’m by far the senior member of the team. If you want to disagree with me, fine. But do it in private. We can’t have them thinking you and I are divided. And in the end, I certainly hold the power of veto, because I’m the only one who knows where Zonama Sekot is.”

  “Contact Kenth. See what he thinks. Or better yet, talk to Master Skywalker.”

  “Well, it seems Sekotan ships don’t come equipped with HoloNet transceivers,” Corran replied. “If they did, I would do just that.”

  “We could go to Mon Calamari, get a decision from the council.”

  Corran lowered his voice. “That’s where I’m going to tell them we’re going.”

  “But we aren’t? Where are we actually going?”

  “Zonama Sekot.”

  “What? But you said—”

  “I lied. I wanted to see what their reaction would be.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t tell yet. Let’s give it a few days, see what shakes out.”

  “That’s dangerous,” she said. “I’m pretty weak. If it comes to a fight …”

  “If it comes to that, I’ll deal with it,” Corran said, grimly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sorry. The old man has to have some secrets. But if this goes sour, none of us will make it to Zonama Sekot. Orders from headquarters. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” Tahiri replied. “I understand you perfectly.”

  “Good. Now, did you notice anything a minute ago? Any reaction I might have missed?”

  “I doubt it. But I don’t like the priest.”

  “Why?”

  “Nen Yim and the Prophet are both heretics. I can’t imagine a high-ranking priest cooperating with either of them.”

  “If a high-ranking shaper can be a heretic, why not a priest?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she said. She sounded dubious.

  “If you suspect him, why did you think we ought to continue the mission?”

  “Because it’s important. I think Nen Yim and the Prophet are on the level. We have the priest outnumbered, and I don’t think he’ll try anything until we reach the planet—whatever else he has planned, he wants to reach Zonama Sekot as much as the rest of us.”

  “Could he have some sort of tracer on him?”

  “Maybe. That would be bad.”

  Corran considered that for a moment.

  “Rest,” he said. “Keep your eyes and ears open. We’ve got time to think about this. It’s a long trip.”

  * * *

  Tahiri found Nen Yim at the helm of the ship gazing out at the stars. She stood there for a moment, trying to control her feelings.

  But she needed to talk to the shaper.

  “Jeedai,” the shaper said, without turning.

  “Master Yim.” She said it in Yuuzhan Vong.

  “So some of our implants did take.”

  Anger flared again, but Tahiri fought it down. “Yes,” she said. “I am no longer human and I am not Yuuzhan Vong. Congratulations.”

  “Congratulate my late master, not me.”

  “So you take no blame for me?”

  “Blame? What blame is there? Mezhan Kwaad was a shaper. She shaped you. Had I been in charge of the project, I would feel no remorse for what you’ve become.”

  “Right,” Tahiri said. “No remorse. No pain. No passion. There’s nothing in you, is there, Nen Yim? Except maybe curiosity and duty.”

  “Duty?” Nen Yim murmured, still staring out at space. “Do you know when the last time I gazed on stars like this was?”

  “Should I care?”

  “It was on the worldship Baanu Miir, one of the older ones. Its brain was failing, and an involuntary muscle spasm ripped one of the arms open. I stood in the vacuum staring at the naked stars, and I swore that no matter what, I would save that worldship and the people on it. I practiced heresy to do so, and still I failed. Even yet, the people might have lived, if your infidel friends hadn’t obliterated the new worldship we were meant to move to.”

  Now she did turn to Tahiri, and despite her calm tones, her eyes blazed. “I have risked my life, and I have taken life and shaped te
rrible things for my people so that we never have to live in the abyss between galaxies again. I have risked even more to see the secrets encoded in this universe around us and solve their riddles. Perhaps you do not call this passion. But hatred, I think, might fairly be called that. You, Jeedai, slew my mentor. Jeedai destroyed the new worldship and doomed thousands to miserable, honorless deaths. I have hated Jeedai.”

  “And you hate them still?”

  “I have stepped back from my hate. My heresy requires that I see things as they are, not as I wish them to be, not as I fear them to be. The riddle of Zonama Sekot may well be the central question of Yuuzhan Vong existence, and the Jeedai seem to be involved. Since I must place the good of my people before my own whimsy, I must remain open to all possibilities, even the possibility that the creed of this ridiculous Prophet has salience.”

  “And what about me personally?”

  “You?” She shrugged. “Mezhan Kwaad sealed her own doom. She practiced her heresy too openly, almost flaunted it. Worse, she ruined a noble warrior merely because she feared he would disclose their illicit affair. That brought about her downfall. You were the instrument of her death, and that again was rooted in her failure—had her shaping of you been competent, you could never have turned on her. I hated you for a time. I find now I do not. You hardly knew what you were doing.”

  “Oh, yes I did,” Tahiri said, recalling the crystallized fury of that moment. “I remember it very well. I could have disabled her instead of killing her. But after the pain she put me through, that you helped put me through—”

  “And so you hate me?”

  That’s a good question, Tahiri mused. “In the Jedi view,” she told the shaper, “hate is to be avoided. If there is hatred in me for you—and there may be yet—I do not want it. The Yuuzhan Vong have taken much from me—my childhood, my identity, someone I loved. But I am as much a part of you now as I am native to this galaxy. I have reconciled my different natures. Now I want to help see that reconciliation between my parent peoples.”

  “You seek an end to the war?”

  “Of course.”

  Nen Yim nodded. “I do not see the same honor in pointless slaughter the warriors do, I must admit. Pursuit of it has bred stupidity. We have taken far more worlds than we need, and probably more than we can defend. Shimrra, I sometimes think, is mad.” She cocked her head, and the tendrils of her headdress did an odd, squirming dance and settled in a new arrangement. “How are your wounds?”