The Unifying Force (12 page)

Cybernetic organisms bred by the planet’s early Magisters—overseers and liaisons with Sekot—the Jentari were the carvers and assemblers of Zonama’s once-celebrated living starships.

“Some Ferroans are saying that the southern hemisphere is every bit as traumatized as it was when the Far Outsiders attacked,” Jacen continued.

Saba nodded. “This one haz rarely seen such devastation on an inhabited world.”

Far Outsiders
was the Ferroan term for the Yuuzhan Vong, who had found and engaged Zonama Sekot some fifty years earlier, when first scouting the galaxy they planned to invade.

“The Far Distance is melting,” Jacen said. “The area where Obi-Wan and Anakin landed has broken away from the ice shelf and is adrift in the Northern Sea.” He paused to consider his words. “I guess I should say Southern Sea, since Zonama Sekot is now upside down.”

Mara interrupted the conversation to pass out bowls of stew, sweetened with rogir-boln fruit, which Jacen and Saba devoured ravenously.

“Were you able to learn anything about
Widowmaker?”
Luke asked after Jacen had set his bowl down.

Jacen shook his head sadly. “It’s gone. It didn’t make the jump to hyperspace with Zonama Sekot.”

The sudden silence was broken only by the crackling of the fire.
Jade Shadow
’s, escort since leaving the Remnant, the Imperial frigate had been commanded by Captain Arien Yage, whom the Jedi had come to regard as a close friend rather than a mere comrade in arms.

“There’s more bad news,” Jacen said finally. “Some of the Ferroans are holding us accountable for what happened.”

Mara compressed her lips in anger. “Luke warned Sekot that the Yuuzhan Vong might return.”

Luke shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure the Ferroans are thinking that if it took only three Yuuzhan Vong to reopen wounds fifty years old, nothing less than annihilation can come of Sekot’s pledge to enlist in the war against them.”

“That iz precisely what the Ferroanz are thinking,” Saba said, showing her sharp teeth.

Jacen sighed. “Darak told me that, in the past, visitors could remain on Zonama Sekot for only sixty days, and that our time is up.”

Luke studied his hands and shook his head back and forth. “All those weeks of persuading Sekot and the Ferroans of the rightness of their participation—undone in an instant …” He looked up at Jacen and Saba. “Has anyone seen Jabitha?”

“Not since the day Zonama caught fire,” Saba replied.

Sekot’s humanoid interface with its sentient residents, Jabitha was Zonama’s current Magister, the third in the planet’s history. During her brief appearance following the planet’s emergence from hyperspace, Jabitha had said only that Sekot had desperate need of her elsewhere, and that she would return when she could. Present at the appearance, Luke and the other Jedi had quickly discerned that the Jabitha who spoke to them was merely a thought projection of Sekot. That fact had been borne out later, when Jabitha’s entranced body had been discovered in her dwelling place.

“We’ll just have to go back to the beginning,” Mara said in a determined way.

Luke looked at her. “We won’t know until we speak to Sekot.”

In front of the hearth an apparition appeared, gradually manifesting as a tall, wide-eyed, dark-haired, and faintly blue-skinned woman, wearing a black robe decorated with green medallions that sparkled in the light of the fire.

“Jabitha,” Luke said, coming to his feet.

“Of a sort,” Mara said quietly as she joined him.

“Sekot wishes to reassure you that Zonama will persevere,” the thought-projected Jabitha said without preamble. “Since perseverance will necessitate significant alterations to Zonama’s present orbit and spin, it would be best if everyone remained in the shelters for the time being.”

Luke drew in his breath, only to sense that his relief was premature.

“I am also charged with advising you that Sekot needs time to reassess the possible consequences of returning Zonama to known space. As caretaker of the Living Force—as defined by the Potentium—the continued existence of Zonama Sekot is of utmost importance.”

Luke and Mara traded looks of disappointment. Founded in the pre-Palpatine Republic by would-be Jedi, the order known as the Potentium professed belief in a Force that was not divisible into light and dark. Birthed from Zonama by the founders, and under their tutelage as it evolved from egolessness to full self-awareness, Sekot had come to accept the tenets of the Potentium as fact.

Luke hung his head momentarily.
Back to the beginning
,
just as Mara had said—and perhaps worse. Sekot was turning away from involvement in the war. Sekot preferred the sanctuary provided by a gas giant like Mobus over open space and exposure to whatever harm might find the planet.

“Sekot has some idea where we are,” Jabitha was saying. “It’s possible that Zonama Sekot passed close to this star system during the Crossings from known space.”

Luke motioned across the room to R2-D2, who was standing silently against the wall. “Tell Sekot that Artoo can help compute the location—as soon as we can see the stars.”

The astromech droid tootled in reinforcement.

“I will tell Sekot,” Jabitha said, dematerializing.

Mara sat down next to Luke. “That was Jabitha’s voice, but I think we just heard directly from Sekot.”

“It’s possible.”

The five Jedi had yet to emerge from reflection when someone hurried out of the storm into the dwelling’s anteroom.

“Danni,” Luke said, even as he was turning toward her.

Danni Quee’s blond hair hung loosely around her face, but her green eyes shone with excitement.

“Tekli and Tahiri …” she said in a rush.

Mara shot to her feet. “What’s happened?”

Danni motioned behind her, as if to something just outside the entrance. “They’re with him now, the Yuuzhan Vong Priest—Harrar.” She blinked and stared at Mara and the others. “He’s
alive.”

Giving in to what had become a routine of self-loathing, Malik Carr thought back to his arrival at Obroa-skai in the early days of the invasion. There he had met with Commander Tla, the priest Harrar, tactician Raff, and Nom Anor. Ever faithful to Yun-Harla, the Trickster goddess, Harrar and Nom Anor had hatched a plot to surrender a female member of a deception sect to the New Republic government as a means of infiltrating the Jedi, and assassinating as many of them as possible. Carr had had grave misgivings about the plan, but had given his blessing nevertheless, in part because of something Eminence Harrar had said to him.

The success of our plan will result in your being escalated to the rank of Supreme Commander, with a space vessel of your own to wield against our newfound enemy. From this, too, I will be permitted to sit at the right hand of Supreme Overlord Shimrra, on re-created Yuuzhan ’tar …

That was before Elan had been killed and Harrar had been recalled to the Outer Rim, and what was to have been a surprise attack on the enemy shipyards at Fondor had ended in failure—another of Nom Anor’s plots, but for which Nas Choka and Malik Carr had been forced to shoulder the blame. And yet since then, Nas Choka had been escalated to warmaster, Harrar to high priest, and Nom Anor—against all odds and the better judgment of many—to
prefect
of Yuuzhan’tar.

As for Malik Carr?

A custodian of enemy captives, stripped of his rank, a mere passenger in a vessel commanded by a warrior to whom he was once superior!

“I want one thing understood, Malik Carr,” Commander
Bhu Fath was lecturing him from the high seat of the war vessel
Sacred Pyre
. “The prisoners are our first priority. Supreme Overlord Shimrra holds them in even greater regard than any of the relics and idols our convoy bears to Yuuzhan’tar.”

Standing stiffly in the murky green light of the command chamber, Carr managed to remain abject and straight-faced, despite the fact that only days earlier more than fifty of the prisoners in his charge had suffocated in Selvaris’s immolation pit.

Carr snapped his fists to his shoulders in salute. “I understand, Commander. The prisoners first and foremost.”

The convoy was made up of thirteen ships, most of them property of the Peace Brigade, but under the escort of five Yuuzhan Vong war vessels, the largest of them carrying two broods of coralskippers apiece. A circumstance that would have been unthinkable at the start of the war, the convoy was not accompanied by a yammosk. Worse, Fath’s vessel was tethered to a Brigader ship by an oqa membrane, to facilitate the transfer of prisoners collected from Selvaris to
Sacred Pyre
. Some of the captives transported from internment camps distant from Selvaris would remain aboard Peace Brigade ships until the convoy reached Yuuzhan’tar.

“Commander,” Carr said as he prepared to take his leave, “are you satisfied that the Peace Brigaders have a similar grasp of the priorities? Having met with some of them, I would suggest that their only allegiance is to the spice they smuggle from Ylesia and dose themselves with.”

Fath grunted. He was exceedingly tall and corded with muscle, but was seldom granted the fealty such size would have guaranteed another.

“In times like these, we are forced to ally with scoundrels and villains,” he said in a tired voice. “And by Supreme Overlord Shimrra’s decree do our vessels fraternize. But this won’t long be so. Another year, perhaps two, and we will be sufficiently reprovisioned with warriors and vessels to dispense with the need for Peace Brigaders or other would-be allies. Warmaster Nas Choka has given me his personal assurance.”

Carr fought to keep from betraying the anger that consumed
him.
He
was the one who had welcomed Nas Choka to the war, and had allowed an escalation ceremony to take place aboard the vessel in his command. He wondered if Nas Choka would so much as deign to gaze on him now—especially should the warmaster learn of the escape of a Selvaris prisoner. The mere possibility of that made the present assignment all the more important, for any untoward incident would surely doom Carr to further demotion.

But, no, he told himself. He would sooner drape a tkun around his neck than suffer additional shame.

He shook off his concern. Even though still visible through a transparency in the command chamber, Selvaris was behind him. Soon the convoy would accrue adequate acceleration for the transition to darkspace, and the next stop would be Yuuzhan’tar.

Saluting Fath a final time, Carr began to back out of the chamber. He had just reached the membrane hatch when Fath’s communications subaltern swung away from the villip choir he supervised.

“Commander, enemy vessels detected! On the approach.”

Fath rose halfway out of his chair. “What?”

“Warships and starfighter squadrons,” the subaltern elaborated.

Carr turned to the transparency. A score of ships were streaming out from behind Selvaris’s small moon. In advance of the convoy, others had emerged from what the enemy called hyperspace. He could almost hear the war cries of the starfighter pilots.

“An ambush!” Fath said in confused disbelief.

A stout Peace Brigader burst into the command chamber. “We were told this route was secure! How did the Alliance learn of our plans?”

Fath gaped at the human. “This—this can’t be!”

The man snorted in scorn and pointed out the transparency. “Take a look, Commander. Unless you do something fast, we’re as good as space dust!”

Fath shot to his feet and hurried to the chamber’s tactical niche, where a host of hovering blaze bugs were arranging themselves into a battle display. Lacking a yammosk to chaperone them, the best they could manage was a representation
of the disposition of the vessels and warships, without providing information on weapons capacity or attack vectors. Carr, meanwhile, took a moment to steady himself, for he knew exactly what had happened.

The escaped prisoner, the mathematical equation spewed by the captive, what he guessed had been code …

“Commander Fath,” he said without thinking, “charge the villips to spread word of our plight. Deploy dovin basals to protect our vessels. Order the Peace Brigade ships into defensive formation while we launch coralskippers.”

Fath’s subaltern looked to his commander for authorization.

Fath swallowed hard. “Yes, yes, do as he says—quickly.”

The human narrowed his eyes in favor. “Thank the gods someone is doing the thinking around here.”

Carr glared at him. “It’s a rescue operation. Stop your muttering and see to it that the rest of my prisoners are transferred to
Sacred Pyre
. Once the oqa membrane is retracted, order your people to go to weapons.”

Still grinning, the Peace Brigader tapped his forehead with the edge of his extended fingers. “On my way—
Commander.”

Carr reveled in the sound of the honorific, but only for a moment; then he turned back to Fath. “Are you confident you can tackle this?”

Fath lowered his gaze in uncertainty. “I am here by dint of accident, Supreme Commander. You
belong
here.”

Carr approached him in fury. “Blu Fath! The honorific belongs to you unless you do something foolish to forfeit it!”

Fath raised his eyes and nodded.

“Command the prisoner ships to go to darkspace immediately,” Carr said. “We can’t afford to have them remain in the arena and engage.”

Fath’s eyes opened wide. “Flee in dishonor?”

Carr took hold of Fath’s command cloak.
“Priorities
, Commander. Supreme Overlord Shimrra will honor you more for safeguarding his captives than for your enthusiasm to do battle.” He let go of the cloak. “Experience teaches one to distinguish between wisdom and eagerness.”

Fath swung to his subalterns and conveyed the order.

“Now launch the coralskippers,” Carr instructed.

The subalterns didn’t bother to wait for authorization.

Fath’s proudly scarred face was ashen. “But without a yammosk—”

Carr cut him off with a wave of his hand. “If the pilots under the cognition hoods of the coralskippers don’t know how to engage the enemy by now, they will never know! And they’ll pay for their ignorance with dishonorable death.” He motioned Fath to the villip choir. “Tell them so. Stir their hearts. Inflame them!”