The Final Prophecy: Edge of Victory III

by Greg Keyes

  And got an answer, of sorts, from the ship itself. Another hit like that would be too much.

  “We’re no longer being held,” Tahiri said.

  “Life is good,” Corran replied, and punched them to where the stars didn’t shine.

  * * *

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that thing was?” Corran asked, as his pulse began to slow to something approaching normal.

  “I don’t suppose so, no,” Nen Yim replied. “But its field test seems to have gone quite well.”

  “Yes, congratulations,” Corran said. How long before you use it against us? Well, at least he knew it existed, whatever it was, and unless she was lying it was a prototype, not likely being used at this very moment against the Galactic Alliance.

  “This is making my head spin,” he muttered.

  “What?” Nen Yim inquired.

  “Nothing.”

  “Not to interrupt,” Harrar said, “but I’m wondering if what you said about our destination is true?”

  Corran turned and noticed that the Prophet had joined them.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s been our destination from the very first.”

  “You deceived us,” Nen Yim accused. “Why?”

  The Prophet drew himself to his full height and crossed his arms. “To see how we would react,” he said. “If we had tried to force the location of the planet from him, then he would have known we were not to be trusted, and we would never have finished the trip.” He looked pointedly at Corran. “Isn’t that correct, Jeedai Horn?”

  “That about sums it up,” Corran replied. “That’s a pretty savvy analysis for a holy man.”

  “Understanding is the essence of enlightenment.”

  And also the basis of espionage, Corran added to himself. I wonder what your job used to be before you were a Prophet.

  Maybe Tahiri could tell from—something. He made a mental note to ask her later.

  “How far, then, are we from our destination?” Harrar asked.

  “I’m not certain, because we have to proceed in small jumps for a time. Probably a few days.”

  The next jump brought them to the fringes of an unnamed star system. The primary appeared as a tiny blue sphere, but around it sparkled a vast ring that shone as if it were made of a few hundred trillion corusca gems. Tahiri watched in fascination. Sometimes it seemed cloudlike, sometimes almost liquid.

  “You must have seen many such wonders,” Nen Yim said.

  Tahiri had heard the shaper’s approach, but hadn’t turned. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Every star system is unique. Every star system has its own beauty.”

  “This one certainly has. Is that ice?”

  “I would imagine,” Tahiri said. “I wasn’t trying to figure it out—I was just enjoying the sight of it.”

  “Perhaps the system is poor in heavy elements. The original torus of matter condensed into ice balls, which were then torn apart by tidal forces.”

  “Maybe a wandering giant made it as a wedding gift for a nebula,” Tahiri said.

  “Why should you assert such a ridiculous explanation?” The shaper seemed truly puzzled.

  “Why must you pick everything apart?” Tahiri asked. “Besides, if you believe Yun-Yuuzhan made the universe from his severed body parts, you ought to be able to believe anything.”

  Nen Yim was silent for a moment and Tahiri thought the conversation was probably over.

  “Belief is a strange thing,” the shaper said at last. “It has immense inertia. My master did not believe in the gods at all.”

  “And you?”

  The shaper’s headdress tendrils knotted thoughtfully. “Religion, I think, is metaphor, a way of relating to the universe that does not require reason. It’s not very different from your appreciation of this star system for its mere appearance. My joy comes in understanding. You’re right—if I could take the universe apart and put it back together, I would.”

  “And thus rob yourself of half the wonder,” Tahiri said.

  Nen Yim snorted disdainfully. “Wonder is you making up stories about giants and wedding gifts,” she said. “Wonder is my people attributing the creation of the universe to an act of dismemberment. It is avoiding true mystery through fantasy. And if the universe refuses to conform to your fantasy, does it cease to be wonderful? That is a conceit of the highest order.”

  “Your own explanation was no better than a guess.”

  “True. But it is a guess that can be investigated and tested. It is a guess I will gladly relinquish if proven wrong. It is a guess that will serve as a tool to help me find the truth. For me, that is a far greater wonder than anything taken on faith.”

  “So you don’t believe in the gods?” Tahiri asked.

  “I think there must be something behind them that is real. I do not think they are real in the orthodox sense.”

  “That’s interesting. What do you think they are?”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t have even a guess to use as a starting point.”

  “How about this?” Tahiri mused. “Here’s a guess for you. Your gods are actually a misunderstanding of the Force.”

  “The energy field you Jeedai claim informs your powers?” She sounded dubious.

  “You don’t believe in the Force?”

  “In the sense that it’s clear you draw on some sort of energy to perform your tricks, as your machines draw on a power source, yes. That does not mean it is some all-pervasive mystical energy with a will of its own, as you Jeedai seem to believe. Indeed, if it is, how can you explain the fact that the Yuuzhan Vong do not exist in the Force?”

  “Well, that’s a mystery,” Tahiri said. “But the Force isn’t like a battery. It’s a lot bigger than that.”

  “So you believe. If so, perhaps your Force and our gods are both misunderstandings of something that somehow encompasses us all.”

  Tahiri felt a little chill. That was what Anakin had believed, or very near.

  “You believe that?” she asked.

  “Certainly not,” the shaper replied. “But … thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “At least I have a guess to proceed from, for now.” She glanced about. “Where is Corran Horn?”

  “He’s taking a break before the next jump to hyperspace. What did you need to see him about?”

  “I don’t want to raise any undue alarm, but I think something is wrong with the ship.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yes. The space-folding function of the dovin basals seemed erratic in the last jump. I checked them, and there may be a problem.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “I think they are dying.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Bilbringi system in ten minutes,” Commander Raech of Mon Mothma announced. “Prepare for iminent combat.”

  Wedge clasped his hands behind his back, didn’t like the feel of it, and crossed his arms in front of him instead, staring into the nothing of hyperspace, wondering what would greet them when they decanted.

  “You fought at Bilbringi before, didn’t you sir?” Lieutenant Cel asked. “Against Thrawn?”

  Wedge gave her a tight grin with little real humor behind it. “Are you a student of ancient history, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir—I was ten during the blockade of Coruscant. I remember it very well.”

  “Well, yes, Lieutenant, I did fight here at Bilbringi—as an X-wing pilot. I don’t think I ever got anywhere near Thrawn.”

  “No, sir. You divided Thrawn’s fleet by attacking the shipyards, didn’t you?”

  Wedge looked at her, puzzled. “Now you’re just sucking up,” he said. “Who would remember that?” he asked.

  “They made a big deal of it on the vids,” she said, a little abashed. “It was a great victory.”

  “It was nearly a terrible defeat,” Wedge said. “We got decanted early by Imperial interdictors, too far from the shipyards. Thrawn wasn’t even supposed to be there at all—we’d set it up te
n different ways to make it look like we were going to hit Tangrene. But Thrawn was spooky that way. Absolutely brilliant. If he hadn’t been assassinated by his own bodyguard during the battle, there’s no way we would have won.”

  “You sound as if you admired him, sir.”

  “Admired him? Sure I did. He was a different sort of enemy.”

  “Different from the Yuuzhan Vong, you mean, sir?”

  “Different from the Vong, the Emperor, any other Grand Admiral—from anyone,” Wedge replied.

  Cel nodded as if she knew what he meant. “What do you suppose Thrawn would make of the Yuuzhan Vong, sir?”

  “Ground Vong, probably—if he had a few examples of their art.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cel said. She paused. “I’ve heard good things about Admiral Pellaeon.”

  Wedge nodded briefly. “He was here, too. Of course, he was with Thrawn, fighting for the Empire. I’ll have to ask him how he remembers that whole thing, once this is over.” It’s like some weird reunion, he thought. Pash was here then, as well, a starfighter pilot like me.

  Now he was the general in charge of the flight group, Pash Cracken was the commander of Memory of Ithor, and Pellaeon was on their side.

  “The best thing about Pellaeon was that he knew his limitations,” Wedge said. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a very good tactician and excellent at command—but when Thrawn died, he didn’t kid himself that he could salvage the battle. That alone set him apart from most Imperial commanders, who more usually had inflated opinions of themselves. It’s why we were able to beat them early on. The Vong are a little like that.”

  He said that last more to reassure the obviously nervous lieutenant than because it was the absolute truth. True, a lot of Yuuzhan Vong commanders fought on when they ought to retreat, but it was from a very different sensibility than what had motivated, say, Grand Moff Tarkin. A more dangerous sensibility.

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s just hope we don’t get surprised at Bilbringi.”

  “Lieutenant,” he said, as the reversion alarm began belling, “I can promise you that if we are, I’m absolutely never coming to this system again.”

  But realspace brought no surprises. They decanted exactly as planned, and in a few moments tactical displays began explaining, in their mechanical way, the situation.

  Which was also pretty much what they had expected. Below them, toward Bilbringi’s primary, were what had once been the Bilbringi shipyards. Some of the shipyard structures were still there, though the Golan II Battle Stations that had guarded them were conspicuously absent.

  And in the asteroid belt near the shipyards, the Yuuzhan Vong had set up their own shipyards. Of course, the Yuuzhan Vong grew their ships, feeding them the raw materials of the asteroids.

  Finally, there was a sizable flotilla assembled. He counted two interdictor cruisers—made obvious by their spicular configuration—and twelve additional capital ships ranging in size from about half to nearly twice the size of Mon Mothma.

  His battle group was less than a third as large, but then again, he was less than a third of what was really in store for the Yuuzhan Vong at Bilbringi.

  “Orders, General?” Commander Raech asked.

  “Start bringing us in,” Wedge said. “Pellaeon and Kre’fey are under orders not to rendezvous here until we’ve assessed the situation and given the clear, and pinpointed their most strategic positions. Let’s do our job and make sure we don’t lead them into a trap.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The battle group began to move in.

  “Sir,” the officer at control informed him, “message coming in from Memory of Ithor. For you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant, I’ll take it.”

  A moment later, Pash Cracken’s voice came over the comm. “Well, General,” Pash said, “seems like old times.”

  “Yes, I was just thinking that, too,” Wedge replied. “At least things are starting smoother this time.”

  “You can say that again. Boy, they’ve really redecorated, haven’t they?”

  “Yep. Maybe I’ll hire them to do my place on Chandrila,” Wedge quipped.

  “Right. Early Vong deco. Whoops—looks like they’re moving,” Pash said. “I’ll let you get back to the general thing. Don’t forget I’m back here, okay?”

  “That’s not likely. Good to have you on my wing, Pash.”

  “Thanks, Wedge.”

  Wedge turned his attention back to the coming battle. The Yuuzhan Vong ships were in motion, all right, forming quickly into two groups. One was about the size of his own, and included one of the interdictors. The other, more massive group began moving away from the shipyards.

  “Steady,” he said. “They’re still a long way away. Let’s see if they do what I’m hoping—hah.”

  The smaller battle group vanished from sight and screen.

  “Microjump, sir,” Cel reported excitedly. “They’re behind us now.”

  “Sure. They’re putting us between the two interdictors so we can’t leave. They’ve got all they need to crush us, and they know it.” He studied the chart. “So we’ll have Pellaeon drop in here in sector six, and Kre’fey in twelve.” He looked it over one more time. Was he missing anything?

  “Control,” he ordered, “send those coordinates to the respective fleets.” He turned to the commander. “Battle stations, but no hurry. We’ll engage the smaller fleet, try to make it look like we’ve bitten off more than we can chew and are trying to take out the interdictor so we can run along home. Our reinforcements will be here long before the second group catches us—they won’t be microjumping with those interdictors going.”

  The voice of control came back. “General, we seem to have a problem.”

  “Yes?”

  “We can’t seem to contact either Beta or Gamma.”

  “Can’t seem to or can’t?” Wedge asked.

  “Can’t, sir.”

  “Contact central control and have them relay the coordinates, then.”

  “Sir, we can’t reach Mon Cal, either. Or anyplace else. It’s like the entire comm network has gone down.”

  Wedge looked back at the shaping battle. If he didn’t call the other commanders, they wouldn’t show up. The battle plan was absolutely clear on that point—better to lose one battle group to some unexpected Vong tactic or invention than three. Without the other two flotillas, this could get pretty nasty, and not for the Yuuzhan Vong.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” he murmured. “I think I’ve just about had it with Bilbringi.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Han Solo gazed unhappily at one of the most beautiful sunsets he had ever seen.

  And he had seen a lot of sunsets on a lot of different worlds, but as Mon Calamari’s primary hit the ocean horizon and threw its shadow across the waves, the sky went as subtle and iridescent as mother-of-pearl.

  Gaudy sunsets were easy to come by, especially on worlds with dense or dusty atmospheres—understated beauty was more difficult, not only because it was rare, but also because it sometimes took a lifetime to learn to appreciate it.

  Which was why it was too bad he couldn’t really enjoy it. The problem wasn’t with the sunset—it was that he was on Mon Calamari to see it.

  “We can’t fight every battle in this war,” Leia pointed out.

  “What?” Han grumped. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. You’ve been brooding ever since Twin Suns pulled out. In fact, since Tahiri left.”

  “We should’ve gone with her,” he opined.

  “Which one? Jaina or Tahiri?”

  “Take your pick.”

  Leia shook her head. “Jaina’s a starfighter pilot. It’s what she wants to be. It’s where she sees her duty. She’s been flying with the Galactic Alliance forces for months now. If we tried to horn our way into the Bilbringi push somehow, she’d—well, she wouldn’t like it, to say the least. And Tahiri—Corran can take care of her. I know he can.” She crossed h
er arms. “But that’s not it, is it?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “You’re bored. Two weeks without someone trying to kill us, and you’re bored out of your mind.”

  “I’m not bored,” Han replied. “I just—there must be something we can be doing besides sitting around looking at sunsets.”

  Leia sighed and settled into one of the divans. She gave him one of those looks. “Nothing’s happened in, oh, days that needs you, Han. Sure, things are happening, but they’re things almost any competent pilot could deal with. But when something comes along only Han Solo can handle—”

  “All right, that’s enough sarcasm for one night,” Han said.

  It was a mistake. A glimmer of hurt appeared in her eyes. “I’m only being slightly sarcastic, Han,” Leia said. “Maybe not at all. In war, sometimes the most important thing—and the hardest—is to just sit still.”

  He made a face. “You really know how to—”

  She reached out and took his hand. “Stop right there,” she said, “and I may show you something else I know how to …” She trailed off suggestively.

  “I dunno,” Han said. “It’s an awfully nice sunset.”

  Leia gestured to the place next to her on the divan and raised her eyebrows.

  Han shrugged. “You’ve seen one sunset, you’ve seen ’em all.”

  Something pinging interrupted his sleep. Han sat up and muzzily looked around for the source, finally identifying it as the comm unit in their room. Easing out of bed, he stumbled toward it and opened the channel.

  “Yeah?” he mumbled. “This has to be good.”

  “I’m not sure good is the right word, Solo,” a distorted voice said.

  Han snorted. He wasn’t falling for that again.

  “Cut it out, Droma, and tell me what’s up. What’s the Ryn network into now?”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean, Solo,” the voice replied. “But something is definitely up.”

  “Look, it’s late—no, it’s early,” Han said, rubbing his eyes with palm of his hand. “What is it?”

  “The Vong have deployed something new,” maybe-Droma said. “They launched them a few days ago. Some kind of unpiloted drones, we think, unless they’ve developed some really small pilots.”