The Final Prophecy (20 page)

“Nen Yim said she needed a shelter,” Corran explained. “The ship is pretty twisted up and probably won’t be very pleasant when its organic components start to deteriorate, so that means building a hut. These will furnish the frame.”

“You killed living things to build a shelter? We’re to stay in deadlife?”

“Unless you brought the means to grow your own, yes. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to sleep in the rain. Unless you have a better idea.”

“I—Consider,” the priest pleaded. “We came to this place following the legends of a living planet, a planet like
no other. If these legends are true, is it best we begin by killing things? What if the planet is angered?”

“I never thought I would hear a Yuuzhan Vong say anything remotely like that,” Corran said. “You guys started this war by wiping out not just a few saplings but entire ecosystems. Remember Belkadan? Remember Ithor?”

“Yes,” Harrar said, stonily. He seemed to want to say more, but he didn’t.

Corran glanced at the saplings. “Unfortunately,” he confessed, “you’re right, I wasn’t thinking. Which means, I suppose, we need to find some sort of natural shelter. A cave, maybe, or a rock shelter. There might be some in the high ground to the east of here. Would you care to accompany me, Harrar?”

“I would,” the priest said. “And—thank you for considering my words.”

“What about you, Yu’shaa?” Corran asked, hopefully.

“I’m about to go on a collecting expedition,” Nen Yim said. “He will accompany me.”

“That sounds neat,” Tahiri said. “Can I go?”

Aces, kid
, Corran thought.

The shaper shrugged noncommittally.

Tahiri shared a quick mental smile with Corran. He was amazed at how quickly she had turned a misstep into an opportunity, solving their immediate problems rather neatly. He wished she could deal with social situations as conveniently.

Nom Anor watched Nen Yim move among canelike plants, stroking them with her shaper’s hand and occasionally recording cryptic entries in a portable qahsa. The Jedi brat sat on a log some distance away, pretending not to be interested, but she was watching them, nonetheless.

The shaper had been “collecting” for hours, but so far as Nom Anor could see, she hadn’t collected anything. She
had examined trees, shrubs, moss, fungi, and arthropods with singular intensity. She hadn’t shared anything of what she was thinking, though the expressions that flitted across her usually impassive face indicated that she found much to think about.

One thing had come clear, though—Shimrra was right to fear this planet. He had seen the faces of his Yuuzhan Vong companions, knew they felt the same affinity for this world that he did. When he’d made his prophecy, he’d been mining a few scraps of intelligence and some very old—and strongly forbidden—legends. He hadn’t believed it himself, of course. He’d been trying to give his followers a ray of hope in otherwise dark times. Give them something specific to fight for—a homeworld, and redemption.

Now he had to revise all of that. Zonama Sekot was real, and it seemed not at all impossible that it could be the planet of legend.

Of course, in the legends it was taboo. The legends forbade even entering the galaxy where such a planet was found. What did that mean? Had the Yuuzhan Vong battled with Zonama Sekot in the past, and lost? Had Shimrra known about the planet’s presence here even before the invasion began? There had been rumors that Quoreal had balked at invading. Then Quoreal was dead, and Shimrra ascended to the throne. Had the Supreme Overlord gone against prophecy, against the gods themselves?

Or was the legend somehow wrong? Zonama Sekot certainly did not
feel
taboo.

It didn’t matter. This was his moment. With his prophecy proven true, more and more Shamed Ones would flock to him. His army would grow, unstoppable, until Shimrra fell, and Nom Anor rose—

Yes. Rose to govern not the glorious Yuuzhan Vong, but a state of Shamed Ones.

Ah, well. Better than death, and better than nothing.

A gasp from Nen Yim cut short his reverie. He looked and saw her bent over yet another plant, one that consisted of long filamentlike fronds. Or perhaps it wasn’t a plant, for the fronds seemed to be moving of their own accord.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A lim tree,” she murmured. She looked stunned. “Or a very close relative.”

Nom Anor had never heard of a lim tree. Before he could ask what one was, and why she seemed so surprised, she turned to him, her eyes nearly ferocious.

“Do you truly believe this is the planet of your prophecy?”

“Of course,” Nom Anor replied. “Why else would I risk the perils involved in finding it?”

“From whence came this prophecy?” she demanded.

“From a vision I had—of this world, shining like a beacon, like a new star in the skies of Yuuzhan’tar.”

“In the skies of Yuuzhan’tar?”

“That was my vision,” he said. “But prophecy is not always literal. We are in the sky of Yuuzhan’tar, though at such a vast distance that even the star this planet orbits is probably unseen. I believe it meant that Zonama Sekot was here, in the stars, waiting only for us to find it and be worthy of it. And so we have.”

“And you believe it will redeem the Shamed Ones?”

“Yes. But not just the Shamed Ones. Once they are redeemed, all of us are.”

“But this vision,” she persisted. “Where did it
come
from?”

“I do not know the true source of my visions,” Nom Anor said carefully. “Only that they are always true. Perhaps the gods send them. Perhaps this planet itself sent them. What does it matter?”

“Because that is a lim tree,” she said.

“I do not understand you.”

“The lim tree was a plant of the homeworld. It has long
been extinct except as a code in the Qang qahsa. I grew one for myself, to adorn my apartment at Shimrra’s court.”

“And now you find one here. Curious.”

“No, not curious, impossible.”

He waited for her to explain further.

“These other things,” she said, “these plants and creatures around us, they share much with our own biota at the cellular and molecular level. That is one thing I came here to confirm—the Sekotan ship might have been a fluke, a false similarity that arose from similar engineering. But this life you see all around us evolved naturally, or at least most of it did. It does not bear the mark of shaping. And though, as I said, there is reason to believe we are biologically related to all of this—no other species I have seen here corresponds on any one-to-one basis with the extinct life-forms of the homeworld.”

“And yet this lim tree is one of our species.”

“Yes. The differences between this tree and a lim are small enough that they must have shared a common ancestor only a few millennia ago.”

“I still don’t understand the significance.”

She gave him an exasperated stare. “Relationship at the molecular level could be explained by a common ancestor millions or even billions of years ago. In all that time, it is not so far-fetched to believe that somehow life from our home galaxy was brought here—by a long-extinct spacefaring race, or merely as spores, riding the faint push of light and currents of gravity. But something as complex and specific as a lim tree cannot be explained in that way. It indicates more recent contact between this world and our own.”

“Perhaps Commander Val left one behind.”

“When I accessed the Qang qahsa for my lim tree’s genetic code, it had not been accessed in a thousand years. The plant is of no use to a spacefaring race.”

“How do you explain it, then?”

“I can’t. Perhaps there was an earlier ship—a worldship that left our galaxy long before the main fleet. Perhaps they came here—” She stopped. “No, that can only be conjecture. I need more data before I begin to talk like this.”

Nom Anor smiled. “But I must say it is enjoyable to hear you talk like this. Your passion is obvious. You are a credit to our people, Nen Yim. You will find the right path for us.”

That got a smile from her. “I thought that was your job.”

“I had the vision, but you are the one realizing it. I am little more than a passenger on this trip.”

“Your insight has been interesting, however.”

“I wish I understood enough about your work to be of real aid.”

“You can be, if you’re willing to learn.”

“I’m eager to,” he said.

“Good. You carry the qahsa and record what I tell you. I’m going to collect a few live specimens of the arthropods living in that rotten log over there.”

And with that, she placed a world of information into Nom Anor’s hand. He stared at it, feeling he had won a victory, not quite sure what to do with it.

“Ah,” Harrar said. “Success at last.”

“Looks like it,” Corran said. “So long as somebody doesn’t already call it home.”

They were facing up a long, rocky ridge that showed a number of pronounced overhangs. Corran tried to hide his disappointment—their search had carried them less than a kilometer from the downed ship, during which time he’d seen no signs whatsoever of civilization. Of course, it was hard to search thoroughly when you refused to take your eyes off your search partner. He was a very long way from trusting Harrar. Or any of the Yuuzhan Vong, for that matter, but especially a priest. A priestess of the deception sect had very nearly succeeded in wiping out a good portion of the Jedi.

He started up the slope, keenly aware of the man beside him, fighting reflexes that told him to draw his lightsaber
now
.

“Is your home like this?” Harrar asked.

“My home?”

“Your planet of origin.”

“Oh. Not really. I mean, it’s got forests and fields, but for the most part it’s pretty civilized.” He frowned.

“It is covered in cities?” Harrar asked.

“If you’re thinking about Coruscant when you say that, no.”

Harrar made a peculiar face. “For us,” he said, “the world
you called Coruscant represented the ultimate abomination. A world entirely covered in machines. It is because it represented everything we despise that we chose it for our capital, to remake it in the image of our lost homeworld.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Corran said curtly. “If you have a point to make, make it.”

Harrar’s eyes seemed to harden a bit. “I am searching for a point, I think,” he said. “I have had little opportunity to speak with infidels when they weren’t being sacrificed or tortured.”

“You’re not scoring big with me right now, Harrar,” Corran pointed out. He let his hand drift toward his lightsaber.

Harrar cocked his head, and a grim smile played across his scarred features. “Do not think I fear you,
Jeedai
. I do not doubt that you—the slayer of Shedao Shai—could best me in combat. But you would remember the fight.”

“Is that what you want?” Corran asked. “To fight me?”

“Of course not.”

“Fine. Then we won’t.”

They had reached the rock shelter now. It looked good—dry, protected, no caves leading off to the lair of who-knew-what.

“But I would like to ask you something,” the priest said, settling cross-legged upon a stone.

“Ask, then,” Corran said.

“I mentioned Shedao Shai. When you dueled him, you risked your life for the planet Ithor, correct? Those were the only stakes?”

“Yes,” Corran said. “The Yuuzhan Vong were going to poison the planet. Shedao Shai agreed that if I won the duel, it wouldn’t happen. If he won, he got the bones of his ancestor back.”

“And yet, from what I have been able to determine, Ithor
had no real strategic value, no valuable minerals for your machines. So why did you do it?”

Corran frowned, wondering where Harrar could possibly be going with this. “Three reasons,” he said. “The first was that I couldn’t stand aside and let Ithor be destroyed if there was something I could do about it. And there was—Shai had a vendetta against me. I was the only one around who could tempt him with such a duel with such stakes. The second reason was that I had something of a vendetta against him, as well—he murdered my friend Elegos when he tried to make peace with your people.”

“That last I can understand,” Harrar said. “Revenge is desirable.”

“Not for a Jedi,” Corran said. “It was foolish and dangerous of me to fight Shai with those feelings in my heart. If I had been fighting primarily for revenge, rather than for Ithor, it would have been wrong.”

“I have heard it said that
Jeedai
avoid the strong emotions. I have never understood it. Perhaps another time you can explain it to me.”

“I can try.”

“Good. But for present, I don’t want to lose the scent of this hunt. I still don’t understand your motives. And not just yours—many of your people died defending Ithor. You fought for it from the start. Were you protecting the secret of the pollen that destroyed our troops? Surely you could have replicated it elsewhere.”

“We were never actually able to replicate it,” Corran said. “But no, we fought for Ithor because it was one of the most beautiful planets in the galaxy, and because the Ithorians are a peaceful people who never harmed anyone.” He crossed his arms. “And because it was one of
our
planets.”

“And yet you personally suffered disgrace for defending it.”

Corran stiffened. “You know a lot about me,” he said.

“It is a famous story,” Harrar said. “Shimrra was delighted at your treatment. It was then that he began to understand that the best way to destroy the
Jeedai
was merely to turn your own people against you, something that was remarkably easy to do.”

“Yes, wasn’t it,” Corran said. “All Tsavong Lah had to do was promise not to wipe out any more entire planets if we were handed to him for sacrifice. Some people were frightened enough to do it.”

“There must be more to it than that,” Harrar said. “Perhaps some are jealous of you and resent your powers. Perhaps because some
Jeedai
may abuse that power?”

Tricky
, Corran thought.
He’s trying to pump me for information on our weaknesses
.

“Think what you want. The reason for my disgrace after Ithor was because a lot of people hadn’t quite figured
you
guys out. They didn’t realize that you weren’t planning to stop until every last one of us was dead or enslaved. They couldn’t imagine why anyone would poison an entire planet—a planet that, as you say, had no military or commercial value—just because they could. They thought it must have been because the Jedi put up a fight and angered you. A lot of people figured that Ithor was destroyed
because
I killed Shai rather than in spite of it.” He realized, suddenly, that his voice had been rising, and that he had just delivered a genuine diatribe. He hadn’t realized how much bitterness lingered in him.