The Unifying Force (18 page)

“Has there been any communication from the
Falcon?”
she asked the crew chief after she had completed a second circle of the starfighter.

The woman unclipped a datapad from her belt and gave the small display screen a perfunctory glance. “Not that I’m aware of, Colonel. But the
Falcon
might have been directed into one of the frigates.”

Jaina forced an exhale. When the crew chief started to move off, Jaina grabbed hold of her arm—forcefully, until she realized what she had done and relaxed her grip.

“Could you check on that?”

The woman frowned and rubbed her bicep.

“Please,” Jaina added.

This time the crew chief spent a long moment studying the data screen of her portable device.

“Sorry, Colonel, no sign of the
Falcon
anywhere.” She smiled sympathetically. “If I hear anything, I’ll find you.”

Starfighters and gunships were still arriving—some on a wing and prayer. Jaina moved to the edge of a balcony that overlooked the docking bay’s magcon field. Gazing out at all the moving lights, the octagonal shipyards, and the distant orbital Fleet Command Annex, she stretched out with her feelings. At the edge of her awareness she could sense that her mother and father were alive, but in grave danger. Her mind made up, she hurried back to the starfighter and clambered up the ladder to the cockpit.

“I’m going back out,” she informed the puzzled crew chief.

“Sir?”

Jaina pulled her helmet on and settled herself in the seat. “If anyone asks, I’m back at the Mon Eron reversion point.”

The young woman grew flustered. “But your ship … your droid!”

Jaina fastened her chin strap as the canopy was lowering. “They’re used to it.”

For all the worldshaping and geologic surgery performed on Coruscant, Westport, north of the former Legislative District, remained a landing area. Its floating platforms, docking bays, and maintenance buildings had been slagged, and in their place stood grashals and other mollusklike housings, scattered across a vast expanse of fused yorik coral tableland, with room enough for more than ten thousand vessels. Though few would recognize it, the aerodrome had fared far better than Eastport, Newport, or West Championne.

Royal coralcraft had transported Shimrra’s retinue from the worldship Citadel—which rose to the east, atop what had once been the Imperial District—to within a kilometer of Westport. Once back on the ground, the Supreme Overlord was conveyed the remaining distance by royal palanquin. The ornate and grotesque litter was held aloft by a pride of dedicated dovin basals, and was both preceded and trailed by an entourage of servants and courtesans, as well as by the most recent additions to Shimrra’s company—the four female seers, and members of the newly enhanced warrior sect known as slayers.

Strewn with flowers trampled to airborne fragrance by the bare feet of attendants, the winding path to the landing field meandered over the rounded summits of crushed edifices and across countless bridges that spanned those artificial canyons the Yuuzhan Vong had been unable to fill or otherwise efface. Choirs of insects honored the gods with their trilling songs, and carrion birds picked at the vestiges of the plague of stink beetles. The sky was a radiant purple, with the rainbow bridge faintly visible, halfway to apogee.

But the flawless sky belied the melancholy nature of the procession, for all who formed it knew of the events that had transpired at Selvaris. The enemy had somehow learned of
the Peace Brigade convoy and had ambushed it, recapturing many of the captives who were slated to be sacrificed at the imminent ceremony. Quick action on the part of a Yuuzhan Vong commander had resulted in the escape of three Peace Brigade freighters, which had communicated the convoy’s distress to Yuuzhan’tar. A band of slayers had been dispatched, and had performed brilliantly, much to the displeasure of many an elite warrior, who regarded the slayers as abominations to the caste system, and who fretted about the augmentative power they provided the Supreme Overlord.

Nom Anor walked several paces behind the skull-adorned palanquin, in a group that included High Priest Jakan, Master Shaper Qelah Kwaad, Warmaster Nas Choka, High Prefect Drathul, and other elites. He had been worried about receiving blame for the Peace Brigade’s failure—the back-stabbing group was essentially his creation—but thus far no one had been inclined to hold him responsible. His defense would have remained unchanged, in any event: that acts of treachery were only as successful as the traitors who perpetrated them.

The Peace Brigade freighters had not been allowed to land on Yuuzhan’tar, but their non-Yuuzhan Vong commanders and crews had been shuttled to the surface by yorik-trema. With them had arrived the Alliance captives, along with the commanders and crews of the Yuuzhan Vong escort vessels. The latter groups were kneeling in ranks in an area of the landing field reserved for the naming, blessing, and tattooing of war vessels. Herded off to one side and immobilized by blorash jelly were the Alliance captives, and in the center of the field, flung down on their faces, lay the Peace Brigaders.

Nom Anor considered that Shimrra might order the procession to trample the prostrate Brigaders, but instead the Supreme Overlord called a halt to the entourage when his palanquin had reached the center of the field. The mixed-species lot of already battered turncoats knew enough to remain facedown on the rough ground, while High Priest Jakan’s acolytes, joined by Onimi, circulated among them, anointing them with paaloc incense and venogel.

Then Jakan placed himself among their midst, his hooded
eyes surveying the lumps and welts that slayers had administered to the Brigaders before they had been shuttled down to Yuuzhan’tar.

The high priest moved on to the Yuuzhan Vong warriors and summoned their commander, Bhu Fath. A towering warrior with inadequate skill for command, his escalation had come about only as a result of persistent petitioning by members of Domain Fath, which included several important consuls.

“How many captives did you deliver, Commander?” Jakan asked.

Bhu Fath pivoted slightly to salute Warmaster Nas Choka. “Six packets—nearly five hundred.”

Jakan shook his head in disappointment and glanced up at Shimrra. “Less than half the minimal amount required for a ceremony of such magnitude.”

Shimrra gazed stonily from the hard bed of his palanquin, but said nothing, even when the seers began to consult their divination biots and moan in distress.

Nas Choka separated himself from the procession and gestured to Bhu Fath and his subalterns.

“Our warriors acquitted themselves well by destroying many enemy fighters and reclaiming two of the ships that might have escaped with the rest. One warrior in particular is noted for having saved our own escort vessels from destruction, in addition to other acts of bravery.”

“Bring this one forward,” Shimrra said, “so I might cast my benevolent gaze on him.”

“Commander Malik Carr,” Nas Choka called.

Nom Anor couldn’t believe his ears. After the calamity at Fondor, Malik Carr had been demoted and removed from battle. Now here he was, standing in Shimrra’s gaze, a hero! Would everything reverse itself in due time?

Carr genuflected to Shimrra, then Nas Choka, and remained on one knee. At a motion from the warmaster, a subaltern hurried forward with a command cloak, which Nas Choka draped over the horns implanted in Carr’s shoulders.

“Rise as Supreme Commander Malik Carr,” Nas Choka intoned, “reinstated because of his courageous actions at
Selvaris. We will soon assign him to a command more worthy of his station.”

Malik Carr snapped his fists in salute and returned to the ranks.

“Dread Lord,” Jakan said a moment later, “occurring as they did in an arena of battle, the death of many infidels at Selvaris counts for something. But as I say, the captives on hand number too few to constitute an appropriate appeal to the gods. We must offer more than this paltry lot.”

Commander Blu Fath risked a forward step. “My Lord, could we not let these virulent Peace Brigaders substitute for those they surrendered?”

Fath’s proposal met with a few shouts of approval, though mostly from members of his domain.

“Such acts of replacement are not without precedent—” Jakan started to say, when Shimrra silenced him with a look.

“They are not worthy of honorable deaths,” Shimrra said. “Not only did they allow their league to be infiltrated by enemy spies, but several of their ships also abandoned the arena at the first sign of engagement, taking with them supplies and a number of sacred objects that were en route from Obroa-skai.”

Shimrra stepped down from the litter, causing a stir among warriors and priests alike, a group of whom unfurled a living carpet in advance of Shimrra’s steps. Onimi followed, capering as he trailed his master.

“On which worlds are we currently engaged in surface contest?” Shimrra asked Nas Choka.

The warmaster thought before speaking. “I could name twenty, Great Lord. Fifty.”

Shimrra grew angry. “Name one, Warmaster.”

“Corulag, then.”

Shimrra nodded. “Corulag it shall be. See to it that the Peace Brigaders are implanted with surge-coral and sent to the front to join the ranks of our human thrall. In battle, perhaps they will redeem themselves.”

Nas Choka saluted. “Your will be done.”

Shimrra turned then, and beckoned to Drathul and Nom Anor.

“Momentous plans require momentous ritual. Therefore,
the sacrifice can neither be delayed nor interfered with. Make certain that the consuls and executors in your charge be advised that I will brook no further upsets. Should anything untoward occur, I will look upon you and your charges as I would any who seek to meddle in our holy venture.”

“Understood,” Drathul and Nom Anor responded in unison.

Nas Choka waited patiently for Shimrra to settle himself on the palanquin before saying, “A suggestion, Great Lord.”

Shimrra granted him a gaze. “Proceed, Warmaster.”

“We are presently engaged in a campaign to occupy a world known as Caluula. If you would permit our efforts to be doubled there, the planet will fall and many captives will be available to enrich our supply. Why not let the brave defenders of the orbital complex serve to compensate for our dearth of illustrious sacrifices?”

“Caluula, you say.”

“Distant from Yuuzhan’tar, Great Lord, but vital to our ultimate designs.”

Shimrra looked to Jakan, then the seers, who nodded.

“Let it be done.”

“The damage looks much worse from out here,” C-3PO said, staring up at the belly of
Millennium Falcon
from the foot of the landing ramp.

Han glared at him from under the ship, where he, Leia, and a Caluula Station mechanic were compiling a list of needed repairs. “Who asked you, Threepio?”

The protocol droid adopted a posture of inquisitiveness. “No one, Captain Solo. I was only remarking—”

“Threepio,” Leia cut him off. “That’s enough for now.”

“Of course, Princess Leia. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“That’ll be the day,” Han said.

Cracken, Page, and the rest of the rescued officers were standing off to one side, fielding questions from several other Caluula mechanics, who had dropped what they were doing to surround the
Falcon
the moment she had settled on her landing disks.

The ship was blistered, dented, and punctured.

“She’s a storyboard for the whole war,” the mechanic said.

Han nodded. “You got that right.”

The mechanic wedged his forefinger into a hole in the underside of the outrigger cockpit. “I’ll bet this one’s not half a meter from the pilot’s chair.”

Han swallowed audibly. “I’ve had closer calls.”

Leia glanced at the mechanic. “You might have heard, he’s a regular moving target.”

The mechanic grinned and clapped grit from his hands. “Well, she’s taken a bruising, but I figure she’ll live. It’s just a matter of pulling together replacement parts.”

Han looked relieved. He had his mouth open to thank the
mechanic when a tall, purple-complected humanoid wearing military utilities approached him.

“Welcome aboard Caluula Station, Captain Solo.”

Before Han could reply, a silver-haired human officer stepped in and saluted him.

“Captain Solo, sir. I was with you at Endor.”

Han thought for a moment. “Uh, Denev, right?”

The man beamed. “I’m proud that you remember me, sir.”

“Likewise, Captain.”

Leia folded her arms across her chest and stared at Han. “That’s the tenth person who’s recognized you. What is this, a gathering of your fan club?”

Han frowned at her. “Very funny.”

“No, really, Han. Maybe you should have become an actor instead of a war hero. Just think of the following you’d have.”

Han grabbed hold of his own chin. “You’d pay good credits to see
this
face blown up a hundred times normal size?”

Leia pretended to think about it. “When you put it that way …”

“Captain Solo,” someone said.

Walking briskly toward the
Falcon
was a portly but energetic human major general.

“Base Commander Garray,” the man said, extending his hand to Han.

Han shook hands and gestured to C-3PO and Leia. “Our droid, and my wife, Leia Organa Solo.”

Leia elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Thanks for second billing,
darling,”
she said through a clench-jawed smile.

Han caressed his ribs and eyed Leia. “The droid’s generally well behaved.” He indicated Page, Cracken, and some of the others, introducing them by name.

Garray nodded his head several times. “Glad to meet all of you.” His gray eyes returned to Han. “Captain Solo, please tell me Mon Cal command sent you.”

Han compressed his lips. “Wish I could, Commander. The truth is, we got hit hard during a rescue mission at Selvaris, and Caluula was the only place the
Falcon
could go.”

Garray’s obvious disappointment was fleeting. “We’re proud
to have you on board, regardless—all of you.” He turned to his even more portly adjutant. “Chief, see that Captain Solo’s passengers are treated for injuries and well fed.”