by Greg Keyes
“In high orbit around the planet your signal emanates from. We seem to be undetected.”
“Send a lander for me,” Nom Anor said. “You may follow the villip’s signal.”
“Yes, I have your position,” Choka confirmed. “All you have promised Shimrra is done?” He sounded skeptical.
“Yes, Commander.”
“Nothing seems to have changed. The planet is there, and very much covered in life.”
“Things will change soon,” Nom Anor said, “but I assure you we do not want to be here when they do.”
“I risk much, to send a lander now,” Choka grunted. “I have been informed of the planet’s defensive potential. You promised it would be negated.”
“And it will be,” Nom Anor insisted. “It will not be able to prevent our escape.”
“But it might prevent the landing.”
“By the time the lander arrives,” Nom Anor said, “the planet will be thoroughly preoccupied.” Or so he hoped. But he had been unable to concoct another scheme that would both destroy Zonama Sekot and allow him to escape with his life. The window would be narrow, but it should be there.
“In any event,” he continued, “what is risk to the mighty Ushk Choka? Only a chance to show your bravery.”
The warrior grunted angrily, and Nom Anor knew he had hit the right nerve.
“Of course,” Choka said. “The lander will be there in seven hours.”
“You’re looking at that superconducting cable, aren’t you?” Tahiri asked.
“Yes.” The cable was smooth and just small enough that his hands could fit around it. It looked like it went all the way down, and hung ten centimeters away from the wall.
“I’m game,” Tahiri said.
Corran shook his head. “No. If Anor hears me coming down, he’ll just come back up on a turbolift. You have to be here in case he does that. Harrar doesn’t have any weapons.” And maybe Harrar wouldn’t stop him if he could. The two of them might still be in on this together.
Which meant he could be leaving Tahiri in a bad position. There was nothing he could do about that, though. This was too important.
He took his jacket off. Outside, a steady pounding began as the rain came. Thunder crashed nearby. He reached out and touched the cable experimentally, then wrapped the jacket around it, getting a firm grip. He swung himself over the guardrail and reaffirmed the grip.
“This should be fun,” he said.
“It looks like fun,” Tahiri said. “Be careful. I’d hate to have to explain to Mirax what happened to you.”
“Just watch those lifts,” Corran reminded her.
Then he let his body slide out into the air.
For the first few seconds, he was in true free fall, accelerating toward the bottom of the shaft at the exponential speed of gravity. Then he began to tighten his grip, creating friction against the cable. His rate of fall slowed, but his arms complained, and the jacket warmed quickly. He relaxed again, clamped down again, alternating.
Above him, the top of the shaft had already diminished to a circle so small that Tahiri’s face was barely visible. Below him, the light strips on the walls still met together in a point.
He had a long way to go, and proceeding like this he wasn’t going to make it. His arms would wear out long before he reached the bottom, or more likely the jacket would burn through. He’d known that from the start, but had needed to experiment with the cable for what he was about to do.
He closed his eyes, feeling the air rush past, feeling the living Force around him, the great pulsing life of Sekot, the unseen floor, his own body, all one in the Force—
And relaxed. He kept his hands loosely around the cable, but put no pressure on it. He was really falling now, his body tending horizontal as the atmosphere pushed against it. Fear tried to rise up and take him, but he batted it away. There was nothing to be afraid of—he knew he could do this.
Of course, he’d always had a little trouble with levitation …
He had to get the moment exactly right, and he had to trust the Force to let him know when it was.
It came. He clamped down on the jacket, and his arms felt like they were coming out of their sockets. The smell of scorched synthleather filled his nostrils, and he felt the floor coming up, still too fast. He pushed, pushed in the Force—
—and slammed into the ground. He let his knees buckle, released the jacket, and rolled.
“Ouch,” he murmured.
Nom Anor heard something strike the floor, not too far away, and without even having to look, he knew the Jedi had somehow found a way to come down the shaft after him.
He cursed under his breath and ran for the lift. They couldn’t catch him now—he would either have to help them reverse his sabotage or die along with them, neither of which figured very prominently in his plans. He was still unarmed, except for the plaeryin bol.
The lift came in sight, but he heard running footfalls behind him. He lurched to a stop in front of the car, pushed out the crate that was blocking it, and punched at the ascent control.
Only then did he look up to see how close his pursuer was. Corran Horn was just rounding a bank of equipment, his lightsaber blazing. He was coming fast, but not fast enough.
“Nom Anor!” he shouted. “Fight me!”
Nom Anor actually laughed at that. “I wouldn’t fight the Solo brat at Yag’Dhul,” he shouted, as the door closed. “Why in the galaxy would I fight you?”
The lift started up.
Now he had a few seconds to think. Horn would unjam a lift and follow him, but he hadn’t seen Tahiri. She was probably still at the top, waiting for the lift door to open. Maybe Harrar was with her. Could he take them both?
He had to, obviously, or all of this would be for naught.
They already knew his identity. The shaper must not have been as dead as he thought she was.
He spent the next few seconds marshaling his strength, knowing this would either be his moment of triumph, or another failure.
The door opened.
THIRTY
Thunder seemed to rumble through Mon Mothma as the ship turned ponderously broadside to bring her guns to bear on the lead Yuuzhan Vong destroyer analog. The destroyer, already in a position to fire, held its ground and unloaded, pounding the deflectors mercilessly. Wedge could almost hear the Yuuzhan Vong commander’s triumphant gloat—by the time the Mothma’s main batteries were in position to strike at him, its shields would have failed.
Which was why it was good that that was not really what Wedge had in mind, after all.
“Now,” he said quietly. “Engage the tractor beam.”
The entire ship jolted and hummed as its structure tried to compensate for suddenly being attached to another mass of even greater size. Both ships suddenly began to pivot in ponderous slow motion.
“They’ve broken the lock, sir,” Cel informed him.
“That was plenty,” Wedge replied, repressing a grin. They had managed to roll the destroyer right into the path of a Yuuzhan Vong Dreadnaught, effectively blocking fire from it to either the Mothma or the heavy Mon Cal cruiser Vortex Wind that was coming up behind. The Yuuzhan Vong ship not only was serving as a shield for them, but was now exposed to fire from both Alliance ships, as well. Wedge watched in satisfaction as huge chunks of the vessel went white, fading through blue to red, then black. A seam of internal explosions ran down the spiny length of the destroyer, ripping it apart.
Cheers went up from the bridge crew.
That put them ahead of the game, in terms of numbers.
“Continue as planned,” Wedge said.
The Vortex Wind nosed over the dying hulk of the destroyer, swinging broadside as she did so, and caught the next ship hard with its batteries as it came from behind the eclipse. Wedge took Mon Mothma to starboard and down, relative to the Vortex Wind, joining Memory of Ithor in a bombardment of a smaller frigate-sized ship. He’d been working his way through the Yuuzhan Vong formation with a series of
these bait-and-switches, using one ship to draw the attackers into the line of another. It was almost too easy, but they had clearly expected him to make a hard, straight push for the interdictor. Instead, he was plowing around the flank farthest from the huge dovin basal vessel, shredding it pretty effectively. They’d finally analyzed his plan and were bringing around the largest ship in the center, but they were slow, and he’d already managed to take out three of their capital ships without losing any of his own, though the Ranger was in pretty bad shape.
The starboard flank was theirs, now. He had the ships form a line and began laying down a corridor of fire that opened a lane to the approaching Dreadnaught, a monstrous kilometer-long cone of bone-white yorik coral. Maybe a hundred coralskippers flared out in the first few furious seconds, and Alliance starfighters rushed in to fill the gap, pouring toward the hulking Yuuzhan Vong vessels.
“Come and get us,” Wedge said. “Come on, be the Vong I know and love.”
Because now what remained of the Yuuzhan Vong flotilla was at a pronounced disadvantage. To continue the fight, they would have to fly straight into the combined firepower of six Alliance capital vessels.
Which, predictably, they began to do.
This was where the heavy slugging would begin.
“Sir, we report some activity from the Golan Two. It opened fire on the skips pursuing Twin Suns.”
“Really?” That was good news. He hadn’t really expected the battle platform to be functional after all this time. How had Jaina commandeered it so quickly?
“Yes, sir.”
“See if you can raise Colonel Solo.”
The Dreadnaughts were closing, and beginning to fire at extreme range. Wedge could already see them taking hits from the starfighters.
“Target dovin basals until they’re in deep range,” he said. “Lasers only, at your pleasure.”
The Mothma and its sisters commenced firing.
“Sir?” Cel sounded distressed.
“Yes?” he asked mildly.
“We can’t raise Colonel Solo. And there’s something else.”
“Well?”
“The Golan Two has disappeared.”
“Disappeared? Destroyed?”
“It’s hard to say at this range, sir, with this much interference, but there’s no obvious sign of explosion or debris. It’s more like it just dropped out of existence.”
Gone, then here, then gone …
“Thrawn,” he murmured. “Did you leave us a present?”
“Sir?”
“It’s cloaked, Lieutenant. Keep an eye on that sector, and let me know the instant anyone hears anything from Colonel Solo.”
He turned his attention back to the immediate battle. The Golan was still very much a wild card—he would have to work with what he had.
The lead Dreadnaught was taking terrific damage, but it must have been mostly hull in the forward sections, because it was still coming. Wedge paced up to the viewport.
“Die, you ugly brute,” he muttered.
But on it came, aimed at Spritespray, a medium cruiser. At this point, even if they managed to kill the dovin basal drive the ship would keep coming with enough momentum to wreck the cruiser and open a hole in his line. If the Dreadnaught retained any firepower, it would then be behind his line, forcing him to a two-front battle.
“Spritespray, let her through. Vortex Wind, Justice—execute rumble.”
The three ships acknowledged. Wedge watched the Dreadnaught roar past, with far too much momentum to stop as Spritespray scooted aside and the Vortex Wind and Justice rolled above and below the gap. As the Dreadnaught went through the hole, they let the ship have it from both sides.
The Dreadnaught passed through the line with no drive and massive damage in all areas. Without power it continued on its last vector, out toward the system’s rim.
Other ships were making for the gap, though. Wedge shifted his line to break and form on either side of the already damaged vessels.
“Sir!”
From Cel’s frantic tone, he knew it would be bad.
Ships were decanting near the interdictor—Yuuzhan Vong ships. A thin chill lifted the hair of his neck.
“They’ve figured out we weren’t a feint,” Wedge said. “They’re back.”
That meant he had a whole new battle on his hands.
THIRTY-ONE
The door opened, and Nom Anor stepped out, smiling, his hands extended with open palms.
“Stop right there,” Tahiri commanded.
“If I don’t, will you cut me down?” Nom Anor asked. “I have no weapons.”
“You wouldn’t use them if you had them,” Tahiri snapped. “Coward. You wouldn’t fight Anakin at Yag’Dhul.”
Nom Anor shrugged. “True enough. How is the young Solo brat? No—didn’t I hear he died? Yes, that’s right, he did. And you two were close, were you not? What a pity.”
“Shut up,” Tahiri said. The hatred was welling up in her, urging her to do exactly as he had suggested, cut him down and slash that murderous smug leer from his face.
“You’re angry,” Nom Anor said. “I thought you Jedi weren’t supposed to get angry.”
“I make an exception for you,” Tahiri said.
“How flattering,” the executor purred. “You would turn to the dark side just for me?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tahiri said.
“Wrong,” Nom Anor replied, taking a step out of the turbolift. “I have studied your ways, Jedi. I know that if you strike me down in anger you will have committed the most terrible sin your kind can commit.”
“You won’t care about that,” Tahiri said. “You’ll be dead.”
“Will I?” He took another step.
“Stop,” Tahiri commanded.
“Very well. I will do as you ask.” He stopped, less than a meter away, staring at her. She felt her hands shaking—not with fear, but with the effort to control her passions.
“Kill him,” Harrar said.
“He’s not armed,” Tahiri said. “I won’t murder him.”
“No!” Harrar said, leaping forward.
It distracted Tahiri for an instant and she looked away, noticing even as she did that one of Anor’s pupils was growing—
Memory clicked—something Leia had said about that eye.
She leapt aside as the glob of venom spurted toward her, but she hadn’t taken the guardrail into account. She hit it with her hip and agonizing pain jolted up her side. She tried to turn and managed to just in time to see Nom Anor sidestep the priest and kick viciously at her. The kick connected, flipping her back. She dropped her lightsaber, grabbing wildly for the railing.
She missed and then she was falling.
Part of Nom Anor was amazed it had been so easy to deal with Tahiri. He turned on Harrar, and found the priest coming for him again, a snarl on his face.
Nom Anor hit him with a q’urh kick, then spun and snapped his fist against the back of the priest’s head. Harrar faded with the blow, however, dropping and sweeping. He caught one of Nom Anor’s feet, putting him off balance long enough to launch a powerful thrusting punch.
More by luck than from any design on Nom Anor’s part, the punch missed. Nom Anor brought his fist up under Harrar’s jaw with such force that the priest left the ground. Bits of shattered teeth sprinkled the floor as Harrar thudded to it, slid up to the wall, and lay still.
Nom Anor took quick stock of his situation and saw that his day was getting even better. The Jedi had dropped her weapon. Quickly he picked it up. He had experimented with them before, and so found it easy to ignite. Then, remembering Horn, he severed the power conduits to the lifts, starting with the one in motion. He heard it drag to a stop someplace not far below.
Knowing that this might not be good enough—for all he knew Horn might cut hole in the wall and fly up—he left the building and struck off through the driving sheets of rain toward a high, flat spot he’d picked out some time before, shovin
g the now quiescent weapon under his sash.
Tahiri flailed in space, reaching desperately to grab something, anything, but nothing was in reach. From the corner of her vision she caught sight of the cable Corran had slid down, less than a meter away—which was still half a meter too far.
The Force, idiot, she thought. She reached out, tugging at the cable with the Force, changing her vector so she angled toward it.
She wrapped her bare palms around it, gasping as her hands burned. Her fingers tried to open reflexively, but she couldn’t let them, or she would fall. Nom Anor would escape, Sekot would die—and she would let Corran down.
If the older Jedi was still alive.
She embraced the pain and focused beyond it, using the Force to further slow her descent. Finally, every muscle in her body shrieking in chorus with her palms, she came to a stop.
She looked up, and discovered she had fallen almost a hundred meters.
The anger was back, but now she needed it—not to fight, but to wrap her legs around the cable and pull herself up, though every centimeter gained brought a world of agony. She felt blisters rupturing on her hands.
At least it makes them stickier, she reflected. Her hands conformed to the cable now, as if they were made of tal gum.
Nom Anor went carefully up the narrow path, choosing his steps in the freeze-frame moments that the lightning created as it limned the world white and blue, then left it again in darkness. The rain was a steady drum, and the wind gusted like the laughter of an insane god. His route was a broken spine of stone with yawning pits of darkness on either side. He came to particularly narrow footing and stopped for a moment, realizing that he was actually afraid. It was as if the planet itself was trying to do what the Jedi had been unable to.
As perhaps it was. If Nen Yim was correct, and the planet was sentient, perhaps it had witnessed his act of sabotage. Perhaps it sought revenge.
“Do your worst,” he snarled into the wind. “I am Nom Anor. Know my name, for I have killed you.”
As he said it, he finally knew with absolute conviction that he had done the right thing. Zonama Sekot was like a tonqu flower—attracting insects with its sweet scent, tempting them to alight upon it—where they found themselves cloyed, watching the long petal roll up. Part living, part machine, and somehow part Jedi, it was an abomination—more so than Coruscant, more so than anything in the galaxy of abominations.