《The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence》 Exigence Chapters I-III Volume I: Exigence
PART I: TO GALAXY
I: To Have an After This is a day for Roboute Guilliman. In the earliest hours of morning when night still makes argument of its supremacy, he receives petitioners. One could be forgiven for thinking that given the incredible circumstances, such matters of state and governance would be unnecessary or even presumptuous. Their ignorance need be corrected - however ¨C as it was precisely because of these incredible circumstances that such mundanities were now more important than ever. He receives petitioners from the Mechanicum: magi who genuflect and burr the politest of complaints about impossible demand and insufficient flesh resources to meet output. He receives petitioners from the Army: officers who stare fixedly at the ground and stutter through reports of insubordination, lethargy and restive confusion. He receives petitioners from the Navy: proud and battered, who bring him every day yet more requirements he can never meet. He even receives petitioners from the world they orbit: a population that for seven months now has labored under the rule of true civilization, of proper authority and Imperial mandate. These are the most varied of all and they come sometimes in forms not comfortably human. He receives them all; he listens to their concerns and their plights, to the pleas and demands and then he sends them away. This fills an hour, exactly ¨C sixty minutes by Terran reckoning and no more. He has far too much else to do. At the end of the hour his Invictarii shutter the doors to the reception hall and he retires to his own chambers. There, for a span of time until Macragge''s Honour is illuminated by the local primary, he governs. The petitions that he received were pointless. The petitioners wasted their breath and their time. He already knows. It is all here, laid out in endless, sputtering reports. The purpose of the audience is not to learn: it is to be seen. Now the Lord of Ultramar puts mind to solving these problems. The Mechanicum is cracking the planet beneath. They are hungry for ¨C in truth ¨C everything. The grand barque, Touch of the Motive Force, has disgorged a clamoring army of engines and vehicles that nestle and burrow into the flesh of the world below. Even diminished as their stores are, scarred by the losses of entire machine-cadre, the Mechanicum is never daunted. The exhaust of their industry stains the sky. In classic, dour fashion, they were shaken not one iota about being forcibly ripped from the galaxy they understood, instead seeing a pristine, virginal world and a plethora of possibilities and tucking into them with relish. Though it is dishonest to demean it so, for the foundries that grow and the manufactories that sprout soon enough are providing for his own Legion. That is what they come to demand, the Magi of Mars. They are hungry and they are excited and they, like the rest in this lost flotilla, are undermanned. Touch of the Motive Force lost her Magos Dominus in the slaughter over Calth along with many whole clades of tech-adepts. Great divisions of servitors and gene-bulked drafters were mashed and mangled by the hits the barque took. They want the Lord Primarch''s dispensation to recruit from the local populace. He can and will be free with allowance for many of their demands, but this is one he cannot grant. The situation on the surface is too fragile. The petitioners from the locals, the indigenous population, bring fears. Rightly, this world is Imperial. Rightly, he has decried its compliance. Rightly, a Governorship has been established. Rightly, the diktats of the Imperium and Five Hundred Worlds now illuminate these locals. This is the truth of Terra, brought from far away. Eighty-four percent of the population is human, gene-normal. Minimal deviance. A true surprise. The rest are xenos of differing stripes and manner. He elected not to destroy the latter until he had a better grasp on the situation, and now, months later, he judges it too late. It is not to say that the alien taint could not have been removed ¨C more that there is a greater benefit to munificence than there is for the exacting letter of Imperial Law. The locals bring fears about their future. Though only a few millions, Roboute is loathe to simply sweep them aside. Already they have yielded an unimaginable array of information for his theoreticals. Now he knows of the scope of habitation, he knows of the major powers, the worlds that hold primacy. And, as much as it pains him, his forces here are few. They will need replacements. No ship has a full complement: two are running on less than skeleton crews. Reorganizing the Army companies has yielded five full brigades, but of such mixed character and caliber that none could be yet considered battle-ready. These are the issues he considers in this period. He devours the daily outputs of the foundries, he tracks the training of the newborn brigades, he examines the glacial repair of the warships. This is the time when Roboute Guilliman can lose himself in his work, when he can pretend for a moment that the Crusade is ongoing and he is managing the compliance of a new world. Which he is, by technicality, and that conceit is what keeps the rest at bay. When the sunlight breaks over the limb of the world and spears through the armorglass to fill his chamber, he moves to the next span of the day. He calls for Thiel. This is a flexible time, different each new day, as reactive as the Sergeant he has grown familiar with. His son enters his father''s chambers smartly on time, the leather-bound grip of an electromagnetic longsword peeking over one shoulder. He is in full plate, just as ragged and battered as it had been seven months ago. Thiel has refused to have it restored. His son is wearing his scars on the outside. Roboute is wearing them on the inside. They speak for a time. Thiel is of an inventive and uncommon mind and has many theories. They discuss Calth. The deception of the morning is over and as the day climbs high they discuss high treason. Thiel voices things a sane mind should not consider. Roboute does not chastise him. They have been dissecting the entire battle, from the earliest moments, to the very last. They began with the Campanile, months ago, and have just now reached the final stand at the governor''s palace. Would that Ventanus made it offworld ¨C their picture of that conflict is muddy and missing details. They piece it back together as best they can, cross-referencing with other Astartes, with Army, with magi. On some days Gage joins them, or Erriod Paston, or other captains. Thiel is the lowest rank by far, in every meeting, but he never seems uncomfortable. Paston is Roboute''s reference for entrenchment and fortification. In a way, he is a surrogate Dorn. If Rogal were here ¨C His son''s secondment to that honorable Legion is a boon Roboute will not overlook. Today, however, it is only Thiel, and together they pick apart the positions Ventanus, Selaton, Serotid and Sparzi took up around the governor''s palace. A broad table, taken from a rating cafeteria, is their map. Even the Primarch''s chambers had not escaped the fighting that had swept the flagship and much of his furniture is splinters. The ephemeral spoor of the invading xenoforms did not long last the death of the creatures and what remained of their erstwhile brothers was dumped into searing fusion fires for eradication. No more than deserved, but less than Roboute might have wished for as retribution. Charts and datalooms clutter the edges of the table, but they use proxies to represent units and terrain. Thiel takes command of the Word Bearer forces, allegedly under one Maloq Kartho. The measure of this Word Bearer is decades out of date, related by word-of-mouth and recalled campaign tales. None of it is useful now, clearly. Kartho has superheavy assets, many regiments of fanatics and, uncomfortably, several of what they still carefully pronounce as ''daemons''. Roboute claims the position of Ventanus and the handfuls of Army regulars with field pieces. They are not just discussing Calth or dissecting it ¨C Roboute is winning it. He is recreating Calth from the first moment to the last and he is winning every engagement. Thiel punishes him twice. First, when he slaughters his own fanatics at the bridge with an artillery barrage and then a fusillade from Word Bearer berserkers. Then, while Roboute is frowning and trying to pick apart the tactical purpose of halving one''s own command, Thiel murders Ventanus and the rest of the command cadre with a daemon summoned from the blood sacrifice. Roboute is irritated and counters that this function is entirely conjecture. Thiel shrugs and in that the point is well made. The second time is when Roboute-as-Ventanus is leading a counterpunch, savaging the left flank of Kartho''s forces and claiming a baneblade kill. Thiel sends an elite troop of Word Bearers into the palace and slaughters Magos Tawren and thus the last hope for Calth. He entirely ignores Ventanus'' strike force and allows the rest of Kartho''s army to be comprehensively taken apart. Ventanus claims the field, but the planet is lost. A strategic trade. ''They are still Space Marines,'' Thiel observes about the Word Bearers. ''Even if they want to pretend otherwise.'' Another point well made. After midday Thiel makes his respectful departure. He has his own tasks ¨C forming and training a demicompany of Ultramarines from across company and discipline, all who suit Thiel''s temperament. Thiel is recruiting each individually, in person. It is exacting and time consuming work. He is going to need a new rank, one of these days. Guilliman puts it from his mind. In the next arc of the day, as the sun now descends the far side of the sky, the Master of Macragge tackles the problem of the galaxy. Specifically ¨C that this galaxy is not the galaxy. The complications that spin out from that are incalculable. In this place they are becalmed ¨C the warp is calm, freakishly calm, according to the Navigators who survived the insanity Veridia unleashed, but there are no landmarks. There is no sense, no logic, nothing recognizable. Without charts or maps, without the Astronomican, to enter the immaterium would be reckless at best, suicidal at worst. There are issues now that stretch far beyond the world he has claimed and the men and warships he commands. To this he turns his mind, formulating plans and sketching out intentions. They all point back to one result: return. He will not imagine any other possibility. When the sun slips past the far horizon and the stars once more are the only light that touches Macragge''s Honour he leaves his chambers. His own flag is still recovering. The wounds of Calth, both internal and external, run deep. It will be years if not decades until the ship begins to resemble her former splendor. Before the taint is truly gone. Now he needs to be seen. This is his Legion hour. He attends his captains, he meets with apothecaries and techmarines, he even trains from time to time. He has three thousand seven hundred and eighty two Ultramarines with him under new stars. There are twelve hundred aboard Macragge''s Honour. The rest are scattered across Samothrace, Fourth Honor, and Mantallikes with squads assigned to the rest of the warships for security. Three thousand, seven hundred and eighty two. Others survived Calth, he knows. Others fled into the warp as well, all escaping before he finally ordered the group under his direct command to disengage. Yet more lived on in the arcologies, still led, no doubt, by Remus. And yet. Three thousand, seven hundred and eighty two, out of close to two hundred thousand. Roboute Guilliman knows the name of every single son who has escaped with him. When the time he has allotted for his own Legion is expended, he returns to the audience chamber. It is the earliest hours of morning when night still makes argument of its supremacy. He receives petitioners.
II: Chase Waybound did not so much revert from hyperspace as shudder back to sublight speed with a deep-bone vibration that trembled from aft to prow and a visible undulation that rocked the Nebulon-B frigate and drew groans from overstressed metal. On the bridge, filled with the fear-stink of five different species mixed liberally with the scent of stale sweat on skin and fur, Captain Faranni slowly eased his grip on the edges of his seat as the shaking stopped. Pops and bangs throughout the superstructure eased into creaking barely at the edge of hearing. ''We''re not dead,'' he whispered, and louder: ''so that''s something. C''mon. Talk to me, what''s our status?'' Bleary eyes raked over holograms, most angry red and orange. Shaking hands rubbed at dried blood on cheeks or tenderly probed cuts and abrasions. ''Looks like that was the hyperdrive ¨C engineering is saying¡­'' Dorieke, a Chadra-Fan, leaned closer, sniffing, reading the text scrolling across her screen. ''Engineering says it blew out under the strain. We can''t make any more jumps.'' About what Faranni expected: the long chase from Telerath had pared away most of the ragged remains of the flotilla and left them hanging by the wire. This last jump, a random, hazardous one, hopefully would have put them just beyond the invader''s tattooed reach. ''But we''re holding together and still breathing. That''s enough for now. Get damage control teams to the breaches along F and G deck. Who''s still with us out there?'' ''Waybound to fleet, Waybound to fleet: report in. Waybound to fleet, Waybound to fleet, report in.'' Despite the hours and hours without sleep, hammered by stress, Akeyr''s voice was calm and firm, one paw pressed to the headset as he broadcast through local space. The Bothan was the least injured of all of them. He had been lucky in his position on the bridge that most of the shredded transparisteel from the broad viewscreen had missed him when it had blasted inward. Even the briefest touch of the void before the armored shutters slammed down hadn''t seemed to ruffle his fur. He held up a finger, only the slightest of exhaustion shakes quivering it. ''We have ¨C Armiger reporting in, Taxman and Watch Your Back too. Devil''s Dance squadron reporting in, Skyhopper and Waverunner both reporting pilots missing. Armiger is saying¡­Armiger says Equitable went down before they jumped. All hands.'' Faranni sighed, studying the holotank as it slowly resolved what remained of the flotilla. With Equitable gone, their only other frigate, they were well below a quarter strength from when they broke out of the blockade over the besieged world and fled into the deep black. Not to mention another few hundred souls lost. ''Tell them to form up on us and relay damage reports, replenishables and supply.'' Raksim, the pilot, eased forward the throttle and everyone winced at the groans and quakes that ran along Waybound as its ion drives spooled up. Faranni turned to Ellaih, the other human on the bridge, overseeing navigation. ''Where are we, Ell?'' The man shrugged, wincing as it tugged on lacerations. ''Hard to say. Just inside the comet shell of a star system, that''s for sure, and if I''m looking at the stars right, I''d say we''re north of Comkin, probably into the Mid Rim. Give me some time to narrow it down. The whole navicomputer keeps trying to reboot, and I''m kind of afraid if I let it shut down it''s not going to turn back on. ''And no signs of the Vong?'' ''Nothing yet. Scopes are clear.'' ''Akeyr, pass it along: we''re going sunward. Get all our scopes looking in and seeing what''s here. I want to know our options.'' There was a murmur of agreement throughout the bride as his crew redoubled their efforts. Nineteen hours without sleep. More for some. He was damned proud of their dedication, not just to themselves but to each other. To this ship. ''Then maybe we can see about rotating out for some rest. It''s been a long day, folks.'' He got a few weary nods and Ellaih mustered a sardonic ''hooray'' while Raksim punched the air. Waybound slowly burned a trail of ions down-well, toward the dim and distant pale star, the battered shapes of three corvettes trailing close and two dozen starfighters glinting like flitterflies in the dark. ... ? It took only an hour for the damaged sensors and half-fried computers to make out the swarm of contacts clustered around the fourth world of the star. On a macro-scale, they had picked up the major orbitals in only minutes. Two ice giants, then the scarred remains of a long-dead planet. The fourth closest appeared to have an atmosphere, but Waybound was still struggling to pull readings as damaged buffers overflowed and crashed. Then another dead world, a hot giant and a tiny ball of rock skimming close to the corona of the star. The fourth planet, then, with an atmosphere, seemed to have potential. With Waybound, Armiger, Taxman and Watch Your Back barely flight-worthy, it could be worth putting down on the surface if it was life-normal. Then they could maybe think about repairs. That is, until the hazy and scattered projections started resolving contacts in low orbit over the fourth planet. A lot of contacts. A lot of very very big contacts. Some were even out farther from the world and thus closer, where the normal nav buoys marked reversion points. Nav buoys that were reported oddly missing. Several of these ships were burning at alarming speeds out toward them. ''Shit,'' Faranni sighed, looking at the blurry holos. ''What did we stumble into, a pirate''s den?'' ''Look at the mass readings on them though, Cap. They''re fethin'' huge, if you excuse my corellian.'' Ellaih swallowed and pointed with a stylus at the brightest dot. ''Computer can''t make heads or tails of any of them yet, but it''s telling me that one is at least as big as a super star destroyer. I don''t think its pirates.'' ''Could it ¨C could it be Vong?'' ''Can''t be Cap. We''re getting radiation readings from them. They''re using engines that make sense, or at least ones that make a lot more sense than bugs and rocks.'' Faranni mulled it over, looking at the projected intercept timers. At the rate the unknowns were piling on speed, they''d be intercepted just within the orbit of the first ice giant. They were really hauling ass, he mused, looking at the mass readings and the accelerations. Putting Star Destroyers to shame with the speed they were hitting, howling up from in-star. Yet despite the computer''s inability to flag them, they were made of metal and moving like a normal spaceship should. It was as simple as that. ''There''s not much we can do, so we''re going to hope they''re friendly. They''re not Vong, which makes them about a hundred times better than what we left behind. Akeyr, I''m going to record a message. I want it looped and beamed right at them.'' The bothan nodded, tabbing through his interfaces, fingers dancing across haptic keys before he gave the go-ahead. Faranni cleared his throat, and looked around the bridge. They were all watching him, waiting. Big eyes and fear buried under professionalism. Okay. ''I''m Captain Luek Faranni of the New Republic Frigate Waybound. We are fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong and have taken severe damage. We are not a threat and are requesting aid and docking rights. We have casualties on board. I repeat ¨C we are not hostile and are requesting aid.'' He slashed with his hand and Akeyr ended the recording. ''Not bad, Cap.'' Dorieke rubbed her hands along her arms, ruffling the fur. ''Hope they''re honorable.'' ''It''s just bad luck to turn down a call for aid, Dori.'' ''Yeah, well, all we''ve had is bad luck.'' Akeyr couldn''t disagree, but Faranni waved it away. ''Tell me if they try to contact us. Keep listening across bands.'' ... ? The unknowns either did not contact them, or whatever means they had Waybound couldn''t hear. As the minutes crept closer to intercept the scans resolved further and clearer. Six ships inbound were roughly the same length as an Imperial Star Destroyer or Mon Calamari Cruiser. The shapes were all off and didn''t match anything Akeyr or Ellaih could pull from the silhouette database. The rough holograms of them revealed the ships to be long and hard edged, bladed at the front like a knife, with heavy bastions and redoubts rising from the stern. Further details beyond sketches of the shape couldn''t be resolved, not with most of the arrays blown out or turned into mush by coralskipper plasma. The seventh ship seemed a similar design, but tripled in size. All in all, a huge force to send to meet a battered Nebulon-B and three corvettes. With the kilometers fast scrolling down from ''astronomical units'' to simply hundreds of millions of kilometers and falling fast, the lack of communication was starting to prickle the skin at Faranni''s neck. His message continued to play on loop, over and over, sending out the call for aid to fall on apparently deaf ears. ''It''ll be fine,'' he kept saying, ''they''re just being cautious with us.'' The unknowns passed the hundred million kilometer mark with less than an hour to intercept just as new contacts appeared directly aft. Ellaih didn''t need to say anything beyond his stream of profanity: the new contacts appeared in exactly the same place they had, same orientation, same vector. It was obvious even before the holograms started resolving, showing the pitted coral and splashes of color across rocky exteriors. Vong. A capital ship analog and half a dozen cruisers. Overkill, bloody overkill, and the damned Vong started accelerating even as they appeared on sensors. Waybound and its fleet had only limped in-system on half-dead engines and leaking reactors: the invaders arrived in fresh and healthy vessels and the distance between them began to drop precipitously. Wordlessly, Raksim updated the main display, showing the Vong easily overtaking them before the unknowns could arrive. ''Raksim, how much more speed can we put on?'' The Devaronian grimaced, fangs flashing between his lips. ''A bit? It''s not a science, Cap. Engineering says our reactor is doing okay at this speed, but if we stress it we could risk blowing containment.'' ''How big a risk, Dori?'' The Chandra-Fan glanced at Raksim for support. ''A¡­good one? We haven''t catalogued all the damage yet. We could push to combat thrust and be fine, or go ten percent higher and turn into atoms. We just don''t know.'' Faranni looked at the chart, at the red icons advancing from the rear and the yellow from the fore. The Vong would kill them. There was nothing a frigate and three corvettes could do to even a single Vong cruiser on a good day and against six of them and a capital ship? They were dead. But the unknowns¡­ Well. Unknown. ''Crank us up, Raksim. Slow and steady. Akeyr, tell the others to follow suit. Get the squadrons back in the air. We''re going to make it to the unknowns before the Vong catch us.'' ''The reactor-'' ''It''ll hold or it''ll blow. But if the Vong catch us we die, so I think I''ll take the chance that we won''t die today, Mister Raksim. Now crank us up, nice and slow, and Dori - tell engineering to listen with a stethoscope if they have to and let us know when it''s about to go wrongways.'' Despite the white-knuckled grip on the throttle, to his credit the pilot slowly eased it forward. The frigate shuddered and creaked, trembling down its spine. For long minutes as Raksim teased more and more acceleration from the wounded starship they sat, teeth clenched, waiting for the sudden bright annihilation as around them metal and plastics spoke their indignation. But they didn''t turn into a star, the ship didn''t crack in two, and the estimated times to intercept slowly changed. Until the Vong would reach them at the same time as the unknowns. Until the unknown''s intercept overtook the Vong. They could not outrun the Vong, not in a flat race. But they could simply delay being overtaken and it was enough. When the margin of error was satisfactory, at least in his mind, Faranni gave the order to stop. ''We''ll run at this rate from now on. Lock it in, Raksim. And good job.'' Practically drenched in sweat, the Devaronian slumped back in his seat, boneless, and scrubbed his hands across his face. ''Cap, don''t you ever make me do that again.'' ''You''ve got my word. Never again. Akeyr, I want a new message ready to broadcast.'' He cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck, and spoke. ''This is Captain Luek Faranni of the New Republic Frigate Waybound. We are being pursued by hostiles who will not accept surrender and do not understand mercy. This might not be your fight but I am asking, on behalf of my crew, for assistance. I repeat: this enemy will not accept surrender and does not consider mercy. Please, we are requesting assistance.'' Akeyr cut the recording. He hated how desperate he sounded, how close to begging he came. ''Loop it, send it. We have forty minutes to intercept. Go clean up, grab something to eat. Nap if you can. There''s nothing else we can do.'' He remained sitting in the command chair, fingers woven in his lap. None of his bridge crew moved. ''Forty minutes, Cap,'' Ellaih spoke for the rest. ''I think I''ll hang with you guys until then.'' ... ? The chrono ticked just past ten minutes to intercept when they got their first response. Light flickered and flared, a stroboscopic burst illuminating the entire bridge in a sequence of rapid flashes. ''Holy shit!'' Faranni gaped, openmouthed, at the flashing columns of crimson light that blotted out the stars to either side of the rag-tag flotilla. Bloody-tinted hues painted the entire bridge, deeper and richer than the combat lighting, bisected by the armored plate over the missing central panel of the transparisteel. As quick as they appeared the weapons fire ceased, the bridge slumping back into the half-light of flickering panels and diffuse starlight. ''Akeyr,'' he said slowly, clearing his suddenly dry throat. ''What was that?'' ''Weapons fire,'' the Bothan breathed, wide-eyed and staring blankly at scatter of holos around him. ''A lot of it.'' ''From our friends?'' ''From our friends.'' ''The Vong?'' Akeyr shook his head, blinked hard, shook his head again like he was trying to get water out of his ears. ''Gone.'' A pin could''ve been heard striking the floor. ''Try again?'' Dorieke said, half-standing in her chair. ''Gone, sir, gone, they''re damned gravel!'' Akeyr''s voice ramped up, nearly shouting out the last word. ''Dead!'' Faranni was out of his chair, limping over to peer over the Bothan''s shoulder. There was nothing but expanding clouds of debris far behind them. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ''That was from them?'' He gestured at the yellow contacts still more than a million kilometers distant. ''Concentrated laser fire. Blew right through them!'' ''Dorieke, is that possible?'' The Chadra-fan shrugged, nose twitching. ''I have no idea! I''m engineering, I''ve barely even serviced a turbolaser before!'' ''At that range?'' Raksim gaped, craning his neck to try to spot the flecks of light through the forward panes. ''I wouldn''t believe it if it hadn''t just happened in front of my eyes.'' Faranni moved back to his chair, resting forearms on the worn leather back. So these fellas just blew away a squadron of Vong like a ronto swatting dung-fleas with its tail. The upside is that they chose to swat the vong, and not the Waybound and its fellows. That had to count for something. Even if they were playing coy and choosing not to talk, that was about as bald a statement as could possibly be made. ''Well, I guess we''ve got some friends, then.'' Luek blew out a breath, relief at having the vong off their backs well worth the trepidation at whatever-the-hell they were that were still barreling toward them. ''We still shouting, Akeyr?'' ''Still are, Captain. Should I stop?'' ''Hell no. Append a new message. Tell ''em thanks.'' ¡­ ? Faranni was half convinced the contacts were just going to blow past Waybound and its little fleet at the speeds they were going, but only a few minutes ago they started decelerating, hard. Hard enough he winced at the poor bastards on board, doubting even the best inertial dampeners could totally mitigate that kind of force. Akeyr and Dorieke were pouring over the latest pics of the ships, having finally gotten to within a few hundred thousand kilometers, close enough for the intact telescopes to get clear images. ''They''re ugly as sin.'' He wasn''t sure he quite agreed with the assessment, but the six ships were certainly a ¨C ah ¨C particular kind of design. One that, apparently, favored ornamentation. A lot of ornamentation. The prow of the biggest ship, the big whopper that was a hefty four kilometers long, was covered in what looked like relief etchings. Avians spreading their wings, screaming through razor-sharp beaks, talons grabbing zig-zagging lightning bolts and bundles of twigs. The smaller ones (smaller meaning only the size of an Impstar) had what looked like wreaths and lightning bolts around odd, U shaped emblems on their flanks and blunter prows. Big black slots on the smooth prows of each ship seemed to hint at the origins of whatever kind of crazy turbolasers they were packing that spanked the vong. The most striking feature, though, was the damage. All of them looked like they''d been through the wringer. Scorch marks obliterated what was probably a lot more paint and decoration, but it wasn''t just superficial. Huge bites were taken out of some of the ships, exposing rib-like decks to space. Radiation readings were all over for one of the ships, probably indicating a very unhappy reactor, according to Dorieke. ''You think they''ve already encountered the vong,'' Akeyr wondered, pointing a claw at the scorch marks and craters in the armor of the warships. ''Maybe that''s why they were so trigger-happy.'' ''Maybe, but they blew right through the guys on our tails. Makes me wonder if the Vong would trouble them too much.'' ''Maybe it was a lot more of the scarheads.'' ''Maybe,'' Faranni conceded, rubbing at his chin. Two of the smaller ships were launching starfighters from ventral bays, whole wings of the things dumping out into the void. ''Reel in the squadrons, tell them to hug us close, no threatening moves. I don''t want a twitchy jock getting us all killed.'' The Bothan nodded, spinning away from the sensor holotank and tapping into the air patrol bands. Faranni steepled his fingers and tapped against his lips, tense. Two of the contacts kept up the deceleration, soon to be visible to the naked eye. The other four, still slowing, looked like they were planning to continue past. Probably form a cordon, maybe. Or head for the still-expanding debris field that used to be a bunch of angry scarheads. Still no communication. At this point it had to be incompatibility. But they''d heard, right? Why else had they shot the vong but not his rag-tag command? Maybe they could receive but not send. Maybe they were just being assholes and playing it coy. Who knows. Devil''s Dance, Skyhopper and Waverunner pulled in close, the starfighters hugging their motherships while the flights of unknown fighters thundered past, barreling by within a hundred kilometers or so, give or take, arcing around to encircle and settle into a very obvious combat air patrol. Faranni wasn''t keen on throwing a handful of E-wings and old V-wings out into that kind of a meatgrinder if he didn''t have to. ''Any time now,'' he muttered, waiting for Akeyr to tell him that finally someone was talking. Nothing. The two largest craft came to a relative crawl, keeping range off the bows of his flotilla at a range of two hundred kilometers while the other four ranged out, engines flaring and altitude bells blasting adjustment exhaust to orbit at a farther range. ''The hell do they want us to do?'' Faranni had to agree with Raksim. Dorieke nodded as well. ''Wait, I guess. We''re on their turf, so it''s only fair.'' The Devaronian blew a raspberry. ''Fair my ass. I''m gonna have a heart attack from the stress.'' ''We''ll miss you. Akeyr?'' ''Still nothing,'' the Bothan confirmed, his fingers tapping here and there, double and triple checking there wasn''t anything out there. ''Just radiating what you''d expect a big ship to be radiating. I mean ¨C maybe they''ve been trying to talk to us on a band I''ve never heard of, but, well, I can''t help that. Maybe they could just use blinky lights instead.'' ''Might just come to that.'' The unknown fighter squadrons kept up their patrols, neat formations of chunky starfighters criss-crossing in the void around them. The big ship, the one hanging ahead of his little force, cruising backward to keep its guns trained right on them ¨C that one he could see himself. A miniature through the viewscreen, no bigger than his thumb for how far away it was. ''What do you want¡­'' Faranni muttered, rhythmically squeezing the cushion-less arms of his chair. The answer was quite beyond expectations. It began with Akeyr frowning, fiddling with his console. ''That''s strange,'' the Bothan said. ''What?'' No response so Faranni had to repeat himself. ''What?'' ''The big one''s reactor output spiked. Like ¨C hard. It''s a really big bloom.'' Sudden concern swept him, Faranni looking back at the viewscreen. ''Like they''re going to shoot?'' ''No, this is higher than the readings when they blew up the vong. And it''s like ¨C it''s ramping up ¨C what are they doing over there ¨C'' ''Captain¡­'' The hair on the back of his neck stood on end along with on his arms. A strange buzz crept into his head, setting his teeth rattling against each other. Ozone suddenly filled the air, bitter on the tongue. A fizzing, cracking little ball of purple light and snapping tendrils of lightning hung in the middle of the bridge. The bridge of a Nebulon isn''t large, but was at least comfortable. Perfectly in the middle, equidistant from the walls and consoles, all eyes were locked on the phenomenon. ''Akeyr. Are they doing that?'' ''Two plus two equals four. I think so.'' ''¡­shields?'' ''Up, Captain.'' ''Are they¡­trying to talk?'' ''You don''t pay me enough to know the answer to that.'' The little pocket of lightning dimmed for a moment, seeming to pull inward, sucking up the stray ergs and little whips before all hell broke loose. There was a violet and blue flash like lightning and a crack that had his ears ringing. In the center of the bridge, sucking up all the air, red-eyed helmet scraping the overhead, Luek goggled at an enormous war droid, painted a deep oceanic blue and covered in entirely too much gold that caught the lumes and dazzled. One arm sported a massive slab of metal with an ornate U in white while the other fist gripped a huge, blocky gun that pointed not quite at him and not quite away. Lightning crackled along its limbs and grounded off to the floor even while frost formed and melted along blocky limbs in shimmering waves. Akeyr swore as Raksim dove under his console. Dori was simply frozen. Elliah looked fit to pass out. Slowly it raised the muzzle of the cannon until it pointed straight up and swept the bridge with its burning lenses, everyone rigid with shock. Luek''s tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, cold sweat chilling his back. ''Stand down.'' The droid''s voice was grating and grumbling, modulated and harsh and Luek almost laughed crazily at the madness of the command, because no one was even thinking of doing anything violent. Not when something as big as a wampa fething teleported onto your ship. ''I bear peaceful greetings and a warning that you have entered the sovereign realm of the Imperium. Your ships will be guided into orbit. Make no violence and you will not be harmed.''
Brother Sergeant Ascratus clenched his teeth as the whine of the teleportarium peaked, physically and mentally bracing for the shock of translation. Through the flickering arcs of lightning and blurring skin of reality he could see the magi operating the arcane controls beyond the platform, mechandendrites awhirl and skittering. He bore only a bolt pistol, a storm shield and short gladius. Nothing more for this action for the intent was not violence but amazement. A gesture more suited to the VIth than his own, but the theoreticals were relatively sound. If a bit more fanciful. A metallic taste filled his mouth and his bones shook and then his boots hammered to metal decking, vision clearing and the world left suddenly so much quieter. Where he found himself was tiny compared to the vast, vaulted hall of the teleportarium. He thanked the prowess of the magi, taking in the cramped confines, realizing that even the slightest error would have fused him to the bulkheads or worse. A risky calculation, but his Primarch had been¡­irregular¡­of late. Directly before him and in a lone seat that appeared likely the command throne was a human and another human cowered at a small console, but the rest of the tiny strategium was crewed by xenos. A remarkable array as well ¨C one was minute and furred with a squashed, bat-like nose while another bore a disturbingly demonic visage and the last appeared vaguely reminiscent of Martian cyberhounds. Without the augmetics, of course. All were cowering, stricken, and Ascratus saw no weaponry. Not even a pistol at the hip of the captain, and behind his helm he frowned. To be unarmed was unwise and indeed strange for the lord of a ship to not have at least a laspistol or whatever local equivalent there was. If for no other reason than to impress their authority. He remembered the briefing, his orders. ''Stand down,'' he commanded, though knew it was a frivolous command. Even should all by some madness overcome their terror and hurl themselves bodily at him, he would need but one hand to subdue them all. The red-skinned xeno was even hiding beneath their station. ''I bear peaceful greetings and a warning that you have entered the sovereign realm of the Imperium. Your ships will be guided into orbit. Make no violence and you will not be harmed.'' The local tongue sat ill in his mouth, unaccustomed as he was to anything but Gothic. Lord Guilliman had instructed all of the Thirteenth to study the trade speech and so dutifully Ascratus had done so but had not dreamt of needing to use it. The motley collection before him seemed dumb or deaf to his words. He rapped his storm-shield against the decking, ringing adamantium against steel. The captain started while the tiny alien cried in alarm. ''Your names?'' The human''s mouth flapped several times, no sound emerging. It was the xeno that spoke first, the larger furred one. Ascratus suppressed his distaste, for the first time appreciating the patrols that had been enacted on the surface of the world, when he had to learn to stay his hand at the sight of humans and xenos rubbing shoulders. It made it much easier to truly listen to the xeno now. ''Akeyr,'' it said, its tone warbling and tremulous. Likely due to its degenerate biology. It pointed a clawed and furred hand at the human captain. ''Luek.'' Then it pointed to the others and gave their names as well, all strange to Ascratus'' ears. Raksim and Ellaih and Dorieke. At least ¨C he assumed these were names. Perhaps the alien was merely speaking some oddity in its own tongue and not using the local trade language. This was resolved, though, when it pointed back to itself. ''I''m Akeyr.'' Ah. Names indeed. The captain found his tongue. ''You can''t,'' he spluttered. ''You can''t just ¨C uhm, I mean, ah-'' he coughed into his fist. ''I''m Luek Farrani, captain of this ship.'' The man glanced around to his crew, seeming to draw some manner of strength from them. Even the xenos, which Ascratus forced himself to overlook. ''Who are you? What, ah, gives you the right to board my ship without ¨C'' he cleared his throat ''without permission?'' Ascratus raised an eyebrow. For a mortal first meeting an Astartes, he was impressed by his temerity to actually speak back. ''I am Brother Sargeant Ascratus of the Thirteenth Legion. My right is your presence within Imperial Space.'' ''I haven''t ¨C we haven''t ¨C we didn''t come here on purpose. We were chased.'' ''As I am aware. For that reason, you are forgiven trespass. It is understood that no slight was intended.'' He looked around the strategium again and slowly holstered his bolt pistol. They were all unthreatening and he read no malice or hostility nor sufficient terror to cause unwise acts. ''Yet be that as it may, your presence is a concern and must be managed. I am here to facilitate such.'' ''You-'' the xeno who had already spoken made to speak again, but the captain ¨C Faranni ¨C cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. ''I shall guide your squadron to high orbit of Eboracum. Your ships will follow the flight plan. Any threatening actions shall be responded to accordingly. Follow my instructions to the letter and your crew will face no harm.'' The human argued the need for the ships to land due to damage and injuries of the crew, but Ascratus had his orders. After bringing the world into compliance and establishing the outpost, Lord Guilliman had decreed that no communication should enter or leave this system and all traffic to be interdicted. The strange locale they found themselves in, perhaps even another galaxy, was one beyond the knowledge of the Imperium or Mechanicum and thus the utmost necessity was security. These new ships, claiming to be a squadron of the supposed local power, threatened the careful bubble that had been constructed here. If they were to be allowed clearance to land it would not be Ascratus'' decision. His orders were clear. Board and guide the New Republic warships to high orbit. There they would be examined by armsmen of the Navy and by magi of the Mechanicus to determine their threat, if any. The crews would be isolated and likely interrogated. It was not his concern. His concern was simple. To do his duty.
III: Closed Doors After Kalenda had left there''d been a round of discussion about the news brought by the officer ¨C turncoats, traitors, treason and threats. Bogen was dismissive of it all, but then, that was to be expected. In her estimation, there were few things the blond man didn''t smirk at. Perhaps he thought it made him seem in control, but the reality was he revealed himself a fool each time. Viqi Shesh, freshman senator for Kuat and her holdings, fingered through the brief one more time. As useless as Bogen might have been, he did have a minor point about bringing this directly to CSI. The Council for Security and Intelligence did, of course, deserve to be kept in the loop on this Intelligence operation, but an in-person briefing? This Elan and her pet Vergere were an interesting development, but far more critical was the loss of Obroa-Skai and the ramifications of that much intel in the hands of the invaders. ''What are we doing about that, anyway?'' she said aloud, cutting off something Marab was waffling about. It likely didn''t matter. ''Ord Mantell?'' ''No, Obroa-Skai. Bel-dar-nolek might be an odious little man, but he raised a fair point. We have to assume the Vong have the full libraries of the Obroan Institute. That seems to me, though I admit I am new here, to be a rather serious security problem.'' Praget waggled his hand, reclining as he was toward the head of the conference table. ''Not quite as much, Senator Shesh. The Obroans cared more about historical and cultural documentation. Sensitive information, at least as pertains to security concerns, wouldn''t have been in their libraries.'' Marab, surprising Shesh, narrowed his bulbous eyes and cut in. ''I believe I might see the Senator''s point. If we agree that these invaders are indeed from beyond our galaxy ¨C which is still under examination ¨C then even data that we might see as common is still precious to them.'' ''Thank you, Senator,'' Viqi favored the Mon Calamari with a nod. ''I''m not afraid of the vong gaining a schedule of our fleet movements, not at all. Senator Praget is quite right about that. But even just access to a comprehensive map of the galaxy or an index about species and cultures? Well. We all sit on this Council, I don''t believe I need to remind anyone how powerful that sort of information can be in the right actor''s hands.'' There was a moment of silence, considering previous crises and flashpoints that had erupted after the dissolution of the Empire, leaving sectors riven by cultural divides once kept locked down under Imperial authority. Some of those wounds were fresh indeed. ''We''ve read the briefs about Rhommamool and Ossarion, among others, that argued a link with the Yuuzhan Vong,'' Praget admitted, finally nodding along. Miatamia, across from him, leaned back, pensive. ''Perhaps we can assemble an assessment. Work with the Institute-in-exile to look for cracks that Yuuzhan Vong might exploit.'' ''That''s really all I ask, Senators,'' Shesh said with a light smile, shuffling her pile of durasheets and pushing them aside. ''If that is all, though...?'' Another meeting loomed in just under an hour, and after that a planned dinner. ''Actually,'' Praget spoke up. ''Considering Kalenda''s implications about Ord Mantell and Senator Shesh''s concern about Obroa-Skai, perhaps it might be worth moving up this particular tidbit.'' Bogen grimaced. ''Are you keeping things from us again, Krall?'' ''It''s Senator Praget, Senator Bogen. This crossed my desk this morning, from an associate of mine in the Ploo Sector ¨C Senator K''farn. It wasn''t classified, per se, but after viewing it, I acted on my authority as a member of CSI to lock it down.'' This raised eyebrows, or equivalents, around the table. ''Go on then, Senator Praget,'' Viqi said, mentally condemning the man if it was some overreaction. Rescheduling that meeting was going to be disappointing and she''d be damned if she missed the dinner. Krall Praget fiddled with a datacube for a moment before commandeering the local holotank. A classified seal resolved in mid-air as Praget took the opportunity to stand. ''This is a message that was passed up local holocomm lines. Its origin is a system locally called ''Pirva'', rimward of Comkin. You wouldn''t know it. Apparently, it had stopped monthly connections about six to nine months previous, but that wasn''t entirely unusual. No one really lives there. This transmission was the first to bounce up the chain to the local government who immediately sent it on to Coruscant after viewing it once. You''ll understand why.'' Praget manipulated the controls at the conference table and the seal faded away, revealing the interior of some manner of starship. Praget, helpfully, filled in that it was the conference room of a Nebulon-B, looking rather smug about this knowledge as well. What caught all attention and had Viqi straightening in her chair, were the occupants. One man stood center frame, looking pale as a ghost and incredibly nervous. A handful of clean bandages were visible, wrapping around one hand, his upper arm and about his head. Most importantly, he was wearing the uniform of the New Republic Navy along with the tabs of a captain. The others in view... One was a human man, looking particularly weathered and gnarled, in a wildly decorated uniform that dripped gold trinkets and braids from nearly every inch. None of the icons meant anything to Shesh at all, but gold was usually a universal indication of ''important''. The other figure was, well, probably also a human male, save that he towered over both the unnamed Captain and their bedecked companion. At first glance one might be forgiven for assuming him to be a war droid or something like that, as he wore a suit of massive armor that would put even Dark Troopers to shame. But for his bare head, revealing sharp eyes and short-cropped hair along with a neck like a wroshyr trunk, he was entirely encased. Like the other strangely dressed man, this enormous armor was done in blues and golds with a repeating symbol of a sylized U present everywhere. Externally, Viqi Shesh merely raised one manicured eyebrow. Praget pressed play. The New Republic Captain cleared his throat, hands twitching at his sides, and began speaking. ''I''m Captain Luek Faranni, commanding the frigate Waybound of Taskforce Mousetrap. I''m speaking on behalf of the, ah, Imperium.'' He cleared his throat again and then as Viqi looked closer, she saw the motion of his eyes as he clearly read from a prepared statement out of frame. ''The Imperium extends its greetings, having recently found themselves in this region of space. They wish to establish cordial communications with the New Republic in the hopes of fruitful dialogue and discourse. They confirm engagement with a common enemy, the Yuuzhan Vong, and would especially like to discuss the topic of this common threat. A response through the local holocomm network is encouraged before any face-to-face meeting.'' Faranni glanced to the side, muscles bunching in his cheek. ''I''m also allowed a short personal message. Mousetrap Taskforce is almost gone. Waybound, Armiger and Watch Your Back might be all that''s left. We were chased by a vong squadron that had a capship and six cruisers. Whoever is receiving this message ¨C these guys killed a vong capital ship in ten seconds. Just blew it away, along with all the escorts. I don''t know who they are, but for-'' The captain took a deep breath. ''-talk to them. Please. I lost too many friends this past week.'' Faranni half nodded and the holo froze. Silence reigned in Room 030. Praget sat back down, looking pleased, especially at the expression on Bogen''s face. Alright, Shesh considered. This was maybe worth a missed dinner. She steepled her long fingers, fixing Praget with her full attention. The other Senator noticed immediately, turning more serious. ''What else is there?'' ''Attached were verified files from one Waybound, registration number 9981/22, confirmed to be part of Taskforce Mousetrap, a local group responsible for patrol around Telerath and along the Vaathkree. Luek Faranni is definitely one of ours. Those files included-'' Praget produced a handful of datacubes and scattered them across the table carelessly. Shesh snapped her hand down, stopping one, and slid it closer. ''You can read them yourselves and we''ll need to triple verify it, but the sensor records from Waybound back up what our Captain here said. One capital ship, six cruiser analogs. This ''Imperium'' blew them away with a single salvo from four ships. Four ships. No details on them and there''s evidence of tampering there. Someone wanted us to see what they could do, but not what they were.'' Marab turned a datacube around carefully, looking it over. ''This is an incredible claim. The Yuuzhan Vong invader has proven a match for our best vessels.'' ''More than a match,'' Viqi countered. ''Let''s not mince words here. This conflict has been a disaster so far. Our losses are completely disproportionate. To remind us of earlier, that''s why Obroa-Skai was lost. Feyl''ya wasn''t wrong about not being able to spare much more.'' ''But such power?'' Miatamia harrumphed, folding his arms. ''I''m inclined to believe this is a fake. How could a group so powerful have avoided drawing attention to themselves? Didn''t we just discuss how the Yuuzhan Vong could not have been a lost civilization in the Tingel arm, for just these reasons?'' ''We did, Senator, but from the initial checks, the only tampering of the records is the data for the Imperium''s ships. The rest comes clean.'' ''Then perhaps the Imperium ships were not ships at all. A defense array, maybe, or a powerful station. Like Centerpoint!'' Tolik Yar added his own thoughts, joining the conversation, but Shesh held her tongue. What was the angle? She''d just asked that of Elan and Vergere not twenty minutes ago. What did they want? Neither of the two ''Imperium'' representatives spoke during the recording. One nail creased along the edge of her datacube as she gazed at the frozen image. The man to the left of Faranni looked tanned and scarred, as grizzled as any old General. At his waist was a holster on one hip, filled with a chunky firearm of some kind, while on the opposite hip was slung low what looked like the hilt of some blade. A sword, perhaps. The frogging, braiding, trinkets and medals ¨C a martial society, clearly, if this was the sort of thing they showered on their officers. The other man, to the right. Towering over Faranni and the other man at a height of at least seven, maybe eight feet tall in that armor. Was the armor what made the difference, or was the man that big too? He looked human, but humans came in so many varieties across the galaxy. Shesh herself was a hair over six foot, as befit the fine breeding and genes of Kuat. The armor itself spoke to the inclination of this Imperium. Everyone knew the Stormtrooper. White armor, black visors, the symbol of Imperial might across the known galaxy. The contrast couldn''t be clearer, she considered. Stormtroopers were clinical and precise. Their armor was exactly what was necessary to intimidate and protect. This man''s armor ¨C it was covered in gilding and symbols even more stylish than the ''General''. Underneath it though, Shesh eyed plates that looked like starship armor. She was a Senator, but she was also Kuati. War was in her veins as much as politics and she felt it, looking at those two. War wasn''t a profession for either of them. War was a state of being. No one could dress like that and be anything else. Shesh smiled. ''Senator Praget, you were entirely correct to bring this to our little Council.'' Bogen, who''d been talking, trailed off, scowling, but didn''t interrupt her. ''New Republic Intelligence seems to be all-in on their little Elan project. I propose we move forward about this ''Imperium''. Let''s reconvene in say, two days, with a full dossier on our Captain Faranni, Taskforce Mousetrap and with verification on just how accurate the attached data is.'' Nods agreed with her around the table. ''I feel there really might be something at the root of all this, Senators. It''ll be up to us to winnow out just what that is and how it can benefit the New Republic.'' Yes, she concluded, as the meeting broke up and the holotank spun down, fingering the precious little datacube, the durasheet brief from earlier forgotten. Yes, tonight''s schedule was definitely going to be cleared. Exigence Chapters IV-VI PART II: ARRIVALS
IV: In Exile [mark: 31.16.21] Six Months Previous¡­ ¡®Samothrace is pulling alongside,¡¯ Marius Gage exhaled slowly at the words, though it was impossible to miss the bulk of the battle-barge edging closer. Far afield and beyond the backlit shape of Samothrace Gage could see the distinct shape of a battleship, though it was angled oddly and her engines were silent. Another battleship cruised below the plane of Macragge¡¯s Honour, running lights active and looking nearly as pristine as the day she slipped her drydock - made the more striking by the crumpled wreck of her prow, leaking atmosphere into the void. Worse to see were closer: Numinus sported arcing forks of lightning that cracked from ruptured conduits and illuminated enormous, hungry craters along her port side. A destroyer huddled close to the flagship, decks exposed to space and searing, molten scars slashed along its entire length. ¡®The Primarch is coming aboard.¡¯ ¡®Not requesting to, then?¡¯ Gage mused, turning away from the crystalflex window. Acting shipmaster Hommed, forehead wrapped in a bloody bandage, replied instead of the officer of the watch. ¡®I don¡¯t believe so, sir. The Primarch stated his expectation to board within a quarter hour.¡¯ There was some tension on the auxiliary bridge. Everyone seemed to be avoiding each other¡¯s gaze, most of all Marius¡¯s. None could forget the near shouting match less than an hour ago. ¡®Very well. I will meet our Primarch personally. You have all acted in the greatest traditions of Ultramar.¡¯
The lighter: unadorned, utilitarian, had barely begun to extend its ramp when Roboute Guilliman bulled down it, having to duck to avoid striking his head on the hull. The Lord of the XIIIth was a mess; limping, his peerless armor cratered and seared and Gage¡¯s eyes widened to see blood still seeping from a long, vicious slice at his neck. The Primarch was pale, unnaturally so¨Chollowed around the eyes¨Cand it took his centuries of experience not to take a step back at the sheer volatile intensity that raged around his gene-sire. Behind him rushed other figures in battered Mk. IV plate but Marius had eyes only for his father, the world seeming to contract to a knot that Roboute himself was tying. Pulling all of time and space together where he crossed the hangar, commanding authority, commanding respect. Demanding it. A very long time ago Marius stood in the ashes of a ruined city and watched an entire Legion kneel. He wondered what it could have felt like to be struck down in such a way, he dreamt of what sort of turmoil might boil inside the soul of a transhuman to be forced into genuflection. Now he felt with a shiver down his spine, a shred of that power as every part of him screamed to kneel. When Roboute came to a halt, as unbelievable as a mass conveyor stopping on a dime, towering over one of his oldest sons, Marius Gage was still on his feet, saluting, helmet tucked beneath his crippled arm. ¡®My Primarch,¡¯ he said, ¡®welcome back aboard.¡¯ ¡®Marius,¡¯ Roboute said, or perhaps the words themselves merely emerged from the Primarch¡¯s aura itself, piecing together landslip rumbles of sound from the sheer fury etched across his face. ¡®I told you to kill that bastard Kor Phaeron.¡¯ ¡®You did,¡¯ Gage agreed. Muscles bunched and released in Guilliman¡¯s jaw and Marius saw acutely the familial resemblance to Russ and Angron and Perturabo that always seemed so elusive. In this elemental anger, this wrath of a son denied, this nearly incoherent and fulsome rage - righteous rage - Gage knew he was correct. He was right, and his father never punished that. He had nothing to fear. This mantra he repeated to himself. ¡®Practical,¡¯ Gage began. ¡®To hells with practicals! The bastard - the bastards! I wanted him dead, Marius, I wanted his corpse on a spike. Him and my bastard brother! Bastards!¡¯ ¡®Practical,¡¯ Gage continued. Roboute threw back his head and bellowed, stunning the two Astartes in his wake to stumble to a halt and even Gage took a measured stride backwards. Massive ceramite gauntlets flexed, force-emitters crackling to life and thrumming annihilating energy between digits. Rotary cannons woke and growled as they spun, hungry for shells no longer present. ¡®You disobeyed my order!¡¯ ¡®I exercised judgment on a compromised command.¡¯ ¡®You dare?¡¯ Roboute¡¯s eyes were bloodshot and trickles of blood ran down beneath his collar. His short cropped blond hair too was streaked with gore. His father looked a terror and it broke Gage¡¯s hearts. ¡®I dare, sire,¡¯ Gage murmured. ¡®You are not yourself.¡¯ ¡®I am - I am! They are - my brother tried to kill me, Marius! My world is burned and my sons are butchered and you - I -¡¯ Normally so eloquent and measured with his words, Roboute spun away, vibrating, trembling, so much so that decking itself quaked. With another wordless howl of rage he sunk his fists into the skin of a Thunderbolt and hurled the fightercraft across half the bay. The sound was horrendous, deafening: squealing and squalling metal as it sheared and crumpled. Roboute sagged. Marius was at his side in an instant, reaching out to support him. ¡®I am not myself,¡¯ his father muttered in agony-laced tones. ¡®Ah. Marius. Marius. Ah, what happened? What has happened?¡¯ Tentatively, a sergeant with a red-painted helm approached, who Gage recognized. Thiel, who¡¯d gone with the boarding party. The other Ultramarine also bore a helm, red like Thiel¡¯s, but Gage didn¡¯t know him. Roboute fell to his knees, sagging, as three transhumans in oceanic blue surrounded him. ¡®My sons,¡¯ he whispered. ¡®My sons.¡¯
¡®You disobeyed me, Marius,¡¯ Roboute said again as they left the hangar. Clean bandages wrapped about his neck, though slowly they stained crimson. Thiel offered support to both the Primarch and Chapter Master, but was waved off. They made slow going between the acid-shots of pain that still crackled up from his truncated right arm and the irritable fever-heat of his physiology still working to purge the last venoms from his veins. His bones were still creaking and joints still grinding from the monster that blew out the command bridge. The Primarch was injured more in other ways - the wound at his neck obvious, but he walked slower, more carefully. Tentatively. Like he was afraid the wrong step might shatter him to pieces. ¡®Practical,¡¯ Gage began again and this time, Roboute did not interrupt. ¡®Macragge¡¯s Honour might be undamaged in some respects, but her insides are a mess. The¡­daemons¡­ruined systems along the length of her. We have guns, but limited accuracy. We have thrust, but little control. Infidus Imperator was unscathed. Theoretical, sir, is that we lose the flagship. The Word Bearers were ready for this. They prepared for all of this.¡¯ ¡®I wanted - I want him dead, Marius.¡¯ ¡®Then we¡¯ll kill him together, sir. Just not today.¡¯ Guilliman sighed and it was the sigh of an avalanche or a wave devouring the shore. ¡®We¡¯ll kill them all. This I swear.¡¯ Thiel and the other Ultramarine, still unintroduced, nodded. Thiel had removed his helm and there was a light in his eyes. A dangerous one. ¡®Take me to the auxiliary bridge. I want to know where we are and I want to know the disposition of our forces.¡¯ Gage led the way, limping. ¡®Captain Empion is continuing to clear the ship, but we believe there are no remaining daemons. Activating the gellar fields prior to translation appeared to drive the last out.¡¯ ¡®They are creatures of the empyrean,¡¯ Roboute agreed. ¡®It would follow.¡¯ ¡®As best we can tell, none of the XVIIth made it aboard either. The ship is secure. Shipmaster Hommed should have gathered further information on those that made it with us.¡¯ ¡®We¡¯ll need a conference,¡¯ the Primarch mused. ¡®Likely,¡¯ Gage agreed.
They attended the Primarch, either physically or by lithocast. Roboute stood, arms folded, surveying the chamber. His neck still bled a day and a night later. An apothecary stood in the shadows. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, supported by pillars of marble and ouslite, leafed in gold, etched by Ultimas and spiraling reliefs of laurel and creeping vine. No furniture was present - all stained and shattered and spoiled by daemonic spoor. Signs of fighting remained, though dust and rubble had been swept aside. Craters from mass-reactives stitched across friezes. Gouges from chainswords marred polished flagstones, alongside rents that could have only come from claws. Slick and shiny surfaces here and there revealed where acidic blood splashed and pooled, softening stone before it solidified again in treacherous patches. There was Ouon Hommed, looking better rested, more solid, more sure of himself. He wore now the honours of the flagship; his temporary service confirmed. From Sanctity of Saramanth to Macragge¡¯s Honour. A shocking elevation on any other day. Beside him glowered Katryna Vaul, of Mantallikes, unscathed but carrying the pain of her brutalized command. Turetia Altuzer of Samothrace made the trio. Cornelius Regil, the highest ranking naval officer, a Lord Admiral, stood with his own small entourage but had graciously welcomed each arriving shipmaster and mistress in turn. Sestamius Asha of Fourth Honor and the bullish form of Morokai Vudurum Balt, of Numinus, were flickering shadows of themselves, attending by lithocast. Both were injured and recovering on their respective commands. Uranthor Excilius, formerly the first officer of Born of Ashes now stood as its Shipmaster, joining the recently elevated Ebireke Langour of Sorpenton, whose command echelon had been killed to the last. Coron Valerius of Guilliman¡¯s Glory represented the last of the cruisers. Then there was Imbris Caraen to speak for the ragged soldiery. A General of a regiment that no longer existed, he now represented the entirety of disparate and piecemeal groups that managed to escape the madness of the surface. For one with such overwhelming duties, he stood firmly and carefully neutral in mien. Near him was Orichi-Mu, Magos Dominus Primus, Lord Explorator of the barque Touch of the Motive Force. His red robes, heavily cowled, left him in shadows, revealing only polished chrome forearms and hands folded before him, shaped to match those of flesh. No other of the Mechanicum came for none were necessary. Orichi-Mu spoke for them all. Opposite the Magos Dominus, on the far side of the chamber, Princeps Noriomi leant against an ornate pillar. Slight and olive skinned, of panpacific genestock, she wiped occasional beads of blood that trickled from her nose with a kerchief of blue and gold. The last of the mortals stood apart from all, hooded and robed and blinded by a strip of black silk. Keres Likentrix, Navigator for Macragge¡¯s Honour. Few dared step near her invisible aura. Marius Gage was to the left of the Primarch, Aeonid Thiel to the right. Four Invitarii flanked the three, hidden behind golden masks. Klord Empion, Chapter Master of the 9th stood shoulder to shoulder with Erriod Paston, Damastes Argant and Fastus Foltrus. Captains each of the 76th Company, 11th Company and 53rd Company, respectively. Drakus Gorod himself was just outside the chamber, entirely unwilling to be more than fifty paces from his liege but otherwise extraneous to this convocation. Gorod could not be removed from his Tartaros plate by command or trick. He slept in it. They came in stained uniforms, they came with limbs in slings and bandages applied, they came bruised and bloody and coughing. They came with wargear chipped and rent, stained and cracked. They came as one, as humans, as Imperials. As the strength of Ultramar. Unbowed. This was what Roboute looked out upon and he nodded. This was a time for speeches. This was a time for declarations and grand gestures to pull all together and reaffirm loyalties and purpose. This was a time for words that would ring through the millennia and shape the fates of trillions. ¡®We survived Calth,¡¯ is what Roboute said. ¡®We are here now.¡¯ He met the eyes of everyone, even the mortals, even those that had never stood in the presence of a son of the Emperor. ¡®And we will kill the motherless bastards that started this.¡¯ There were no cries of retribution, no cheering, no angered mutters of intent. There were nods. Lips thinned as jaws clenched. Neighbors glanced at one another and saw understanding. There was no need for anything else. It was as the Primarch said. They survived Calth. That was all that mattered. ¡®Now,¡¯ he said. ¡®Tell me of my fleet.¡¯ Each, in turn, stepped forward to do so. ¡®The flagship sustained the worst damage externally where the cruisers of the XVII Legion attempted boarding actions. There is armor damage and some breaches of decks to space, which have been patched over. Internally, the flagship will require years of repair and renovation until all damage wrought by the warpform intruders is erased. Luckily, the spoor of the creatures denatured rapidly upon their deaths and has not provided environmental or cognitive hazards. Macragge¡¯s Honour is prepared to sail at near capacity of weaponry and voids, but will suffer reduced reactivity from damaged internals.¡¯ ¡®Samothrace is nearly unscathed. We believe she was left alone by the XVIIth, likely due to her presence at the critical Zetsun Verid Yard. They could not risk her destruction damaging the data-engines. She sustained little damage from the flight out of Veridia and at the moment is prepared to sortie immediately.¡¯ ¡®Fourth Honor is in most respects operable, save for significant damage to her prow and prow-mounted weaponry. We rammed the XVII cruiser Xarus Xathus during our escape from high anchor and as a result have structural and armor damage along the first fourth of the hull.¡¯ ¡®Mantallikes is crippled. I say so bluntly. Her engines are inoperable and she can only function on a single reactor. Motion is limited to only station-keeping and maneuvering thrusters. Her void projectors are ruin and much of her armament is lost. Her hull remains strong and her keel is undamaged, so with proper time and facilities, Mantallikes could be brought back into service.¡¯ ¡®My grand lady Opolor¡¯s Vow was targeted for capture. Limited boarding actions by cultists and members of the XVIIth caused internal damage including loss of the primary bridge, but otherwise the battleship is intact and at full capacity. I second Turetia¡¯s assessment. Opolor¡¯s Vow is prepared to sortie.¡¯ ¡®Numinus remains capable of motion and combat, but is operating at diminished capacity due to torpedo strikes that have damaged her reactors and rendered several void shields inoperable.¡¯ Of the cruisers, Born of Ashes and Son of Iax were both docked at Zetsun Verid Yard like Samothrace and thus were spared much of the brutality of the assault. Both had superficial damage to their armor and hull but were otherwise at near full operative capacity. Sorpenton recovered none of the fighter and bomber wings she scrambled during the battle and now had no launch capacity. Guilliman¡¯s Glory had lost three engines and several banks of macrocannon, along with one of her torpedo bays. The nine destroyers were all in fine condition, having been mostly ignored once they fled the inner orbits of Calth in favor of punishing the heavier tonnages of the Ultramarines fleet. Lord Admiral Regil was granted overall authority over the flotilla, as befit his rank and experience, with Altuzer as his second. Vaul was to take command of all repair operations, organizing them from her own crippled battleship. Samothrace, along with Numinus, Born of Ashes, Son of Iax and Sorpenton would take up patrol duties, supported by a squadron of six destroyers. Then it was Marius¡¯ turn. Though fever-sweats still swept across his ravaged body, he had thrown himself into action the previous twenty-four hours, painstakingly collating everything he could about the status of all Astartes within the flotilla. It had not been simple work; many were injured, some even on the edge of death, trapped within rubble and collapsed decking sections. Others suffered ruined voxes and wargear, some having not even been able to gird themselves with armor now left behind on destroyed battle barges or even on the surface of Calth at muster points. Thiel and Empion aided Marius, along with the other captains as they shook order out of the bruised fragments of a dozen companies. ¡®My Primarch, I would report the disposition of the XIIIth.¡¯ Roboute waved one massive hand, impassive. Marius drew in a death, glancing to the other four captains present. ¡®We are organizing, sire. It bears little purpose to maintain company divisions here and now. I have ordered all previous assignments dissolved and as we speak, all Astartes are being recalled to Macragge¡¯s Honour for muster. At best count, there are just under four thousand of our brothers across the flotilla.¡¯ Damastes Argant indicated intent to speak and Marius acquiesced with a gesture. ¡®There are as well a number of neophytes among that number, having been aboard during transit to the surface. They number ninety-three, all pre-implantation.¡¯ Argant inclined his head. ¡®Thank, you, Captain,¡¯ Gage said. ¡®The apothecarion is near overwhelmed. As much as a third of our strength are casualties - walking wounded or incapacitated enough to require time to heal.¡¯ Gage held up the stump of his wrist. ¡®As Astartes do not die easily, I project few of our injured brothers will succumb. But until such a time that our casualties are recovered, there will be a significant drain on our medicae resources and manpower. As is also the case with the injured among the Navy and Army.¡¯ ¡®And the Legion assets?¡¯ Roboute prompted. ¡®Samothrace¡¯s holds are empty. She was to be loaded through the Numinus muster. As for the flagship, I fear we are at less than half capacity. Many daemons¡­appeared¡­in critical locations.¡¯ Roboute¡¯s face hardened and he interjected, ¡®My brother would know the places most grievous to strike. It is likely no accident.¡¯ ¡®Agreed. With that said, reorganizing is proceeding apace. Fighting demicompanies are already provisionally formed and prepared for combat. We will not be left wanting or caught unmanned, wherever we are.¡¯ Not again, were the unspoken words. ¡®To that point, then, just where are we?¡¯ asked General Caraen. Shipmaster Hommed stepped forward to answer. ¡®It is¡­uncertain.¡¯ ¡®The astronomican is gone,¡¯ whispered Keres. Murmurs swept the chamber. Guilliman held up a hand, silencing them all. ¡®There is more,¡¯ he intoned and nodded to Hommed. ¡®The stars are incorrect. We have surveyed the sky since returning to realspace and none of what we see matches Crusade records. More to the point, there are no landmarks to recognize. The Eye is not there. To remove the possibility of temporal disjunction, we sought the Maelstrom. It too is not present. There is only one accurate conclusion, as supported by our esteemed colleagues of Mars.¡¯ Orichi-Mu¡¯s cowl dipped, indicating recognition. ¡®This is not our galaxy. The astronomican is not gone. We have left its light.¡¯ Before the implications could truly sink in, the Primarch gestured toward the spindly shape of the Chief Navigator. Her silk-wrapped skull was thin and elongated, a hair past human-norm and sharp collarbones and shoulders poked out at the gauzy material of her robes. Though she was blinded, she gazed to each in turn as she spoke. ¡®None have left the bounds of the Galaxy as we know it. In the depths of our archives, no Navigator would countenance it. The deep dark between the seas of stars is anathema to our sight. The warp is boundless there. There is no sense. There are no ways.¡¯ ¡®Yet we have, mistress,¡¯ the Primarch said gently. ¡®A disjunction,¡¯ she said, her voice hoarse. ¡®We felt it. Veridia screamed. The star wailed agony and the sea of souls heaved. What we saw¡­¡¯ Keres hissed in a long breath, chest expanding and when she let out it her words were a high pitched whine, an edge past painful. ¡®Hollows. Tears. Hunger and hatred, sympathy and sorrow. Clouds gather. Gods shy away. Judgement. Faith becomes fear becomes fealty. Now we are here. We are no longer there.¡¯ Slowly she folded, crumpled like scaffolding, weeping quietly. Two mute serfs bundled her up as if she weighed nothing and helped her from the chamber. Ringing silence stayed in her wake. ¡®It¡¯s impossible,¡¯ Regil declared. ¡®Look outside, Lord,¡¯ Hommed countered. ¡®Practical,¡¯ Roboute interjected. ¡®Our best instruments tell all the same tale. No maps match the stars around us and no landmarks of the Galaxy we know can be sighted. The practical is that no matter how theoretically impossible, we can see with our own eyes that it has happened.¡¯ None dared gainsay the Primarch. ¡®If it can happen once, it can happen again. I will not allow us to remain lost while traitors are loose among my worlds and my father¡¯s empire. We will rest and we will repair and we will return. By my Father we will return. By my word we will return. I will not allow any other result.¡¯ He dared them to disagree. He dared them to despair. Fists clenching, Roboute glared as if the weight of his indignance alone might shape reality. It might. ¡®Princeps Senioris,¡¯ he called out as Noriomi dabbed another spot of blood away. ¡®Tell me of Lacassex.¡¯ Her face twisted in irritation, but not at Guilliman. ¡®By your command my mount was recovered. Mortarch Abandon, primus engine of my Legio. Sanginum Oculi left with me, and our maniple Stallion of Grey and Hongulsa. There was time to evacuate Dawn¡¯s Reave of the Legio Praesagius. Lacassex is two Warlord engines and two Warhound engines.¡¯ ¡®By my command?¡¯ Roboute raised a single eyebrow, slightest hint of mirth manifesting for the first time. Noriomi frowned, eyes flicking between a motionless Orichi-Mu and the Primarch. ¡®Your command, sir. To evacuate what engine strength we could.¡¯ ¡®I had limited contact with Calth, mistress. It was only to Captain Ventanus.¡¯ ¡®You scheming bastard,¡¯ she hissed, fists balling at her sides. Her focus fell on the Magos entirely, formality shattered. ¡®You scheming, slithering creature.¡¯ Trembling, Noriomi turned to Roboute and extended an accusatory finger toward the Martian. ¡®Sir, I would report treasonous usurpation of your authority by Magos Dominus Orichi-Mu. I request you execute him.¡¯ ¡®That is unlikely to occur, mistress. Magos, have you a word in your defense?¡¯ The Martian¡¯s cowl tilted as if they canted their head to the side. ¡®Records will confirm that I falsified the Primarch¡¯s mark of authority, a simple enough subterfuge with command links lost. I informed the Princeps of a manufactured order to withdraw from Komesh to my own Barque.¡¯ The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡®He damns himself. Allow me the pleasure, sir, of erasing this stain of dishonor-¡¯ ¡®Enough, mistress.¡¯ Her hand paused halfway to the volkite at her hip, her lip curled as she stared daggers at the Magos. ¡®Go on, Dominus.¡¯ The Martian spread his chromed hands wide. ¡®The orbital grid was hijacked and the XVII Legion held orbital supremacy. For the moment I could detect them eliminating threats among the XIII Legion fleet, but that would change. The next logical targets would be on the surface of Calth and god-engines would be first. I deemed the minor treason of appropriating your authority worth the greater benefit of securing the survival of loyalist engines.¡¯ Orichi-Mu did not shrug, as a Magos Dominus Explorator did not shrug, but he spoke in rich tones, surprisingly organic in timbre and depth and he sounded not at all contrite. ¡®I could have died with my Legio,¡¯ Noriomi hissed. ¡®Yes, you could have,¡¯ Orichi-Mu agreed. ¡®Enough.¡¯ The hints of amusement were gone from the Primarch¡¯s tone. ¡®Regardless of the theoretical, Magos, Calth proves the necessity of trust in our allies. You have weakened this faith. You have sowed division in our midst, when trust is worn thing. This I cannot allow, and while I cannot censure you publicly, know that I will remember this, Magos, and I will be watching. Mistress Noriomi, though I recognize the fervor of Lacessex, I would remind you that now is not the time to clash with what few allies remain. Do not compound the Magos¡¯ mistake.¡¯ ¡®No, lord,¡¯ she ground out between clenched teeth. ¡®My apologies. I spoke rashly.¡¯ ¡®You did. It is forgotten. We have all been out of character. Tell me of the condition of your engines.¡¯ Clearly more pleased to speak of her charges, the princeps exhaled and ran a hand through short-cropped black hair, oily with sweat and unwashed grime. Even a day and night later, she still trembled with withdrawal from Communion. ¡®Mortarch Abandon is unscathed. The traitors could not touch us. Sanguinum Oculi has lost operation of their Saturnyne lascutter and two layers of voids. Stallion of Grey cannot stride at full speed and has sustained damage to their auspex. Hongulsa suffered a breach to the command decks. Dawn¡¯s Reave no longer bears their left arm. Komesh was¡­¡¯ she swallowed. ¡®Komesh was a trial.¡¯ ¡®Noted, mistress. General Caraen, your report.¡¯
Long hours later the chamber emptied, each occupant returning to their commands. There was a living world in this system. Already gunship flights were overflying the world, interdicting a handful of spacecraft even as they tried to go to ground. Cities were being reconnoitered, landmasses charted, all fed back to the bedraggled ships powering in-system from the Mandeville point. Orichi-Mu had his adepts chewing through transmissions to begin translation packages while on board mass conveyors shell-shocked soldiers were issued new orders, given new purpose. Purpose was necessary. Something had to be done and fortune delivered it. The men and women of the Crusade knew how to enact compliance. They knew how to spread the light of the Imperium. They did not know how to fight brothers and sisters, to stand against daemons, to face the horrors of transhuman slaughter. Roboute issued an immediate communique after the initial meeting drew to a close, designating this collection of disparate vessels as the 4911th Expeditionary Fleet. The planet was tagged as 4911/1 and a compliance order issued. It was a farce. Everyone knew it. But it was something to do, something usual, something that was understood. A purpose. Army units, from a hundred different regiments and cultures were meshed together, to be alloyed together in action. Ultramarines from across a dozen and more chapters formed new companies under a handful of surviving captains. A new name they fought under: Imperium Exsilius. The Imperium in Exile.
V: Quiet World Two Months Previous¡­ The best part of Pirve was that it was a quiet world. Those weren¡¯t too hard to find - the Galaxy was a very big place, after all, but it was situated nicely just to the galactic north of the Vaathkree and to the east of the Hydian, which meant you weren¡¯t too far away from the cosmopolitan. Rhoki always felt like Pirve was part of what she¡¯d call the suburbs of the Galaxy. Pleasantly provincial but never more than a quick hop and a jump from places with more meat on their bones. Comkin was a few days away - just around the corner, really - and then from there you could be pocketing credits in Coruscant¡¯s skyhooks at the end of the week. It¡¯s why she liked laying over here. The Boneyard mechanics knew her and her ship well - Wicked Minnow was a common enough sight among the dozen or so regulars that also liked this sleepy little hole-in-the-wall. A long time ago there was a shipbreaking operation here - long enough ago that no one remembers who ran it, when they ran it, or who they ran it for, but recent enough that downtown around the docks was a tangle of streets made from the bones of old star cruisers with flashy neon attractions beckoning the few arrivals into cantinas and kitschy trinket shops. Now the Boneyard was an expansive and rarely-filled spaceport, the only clear spot surrounded by arching durasteel ribs and long-gutted engine nacelles. A quiet, peaceful place with wide skies, green farms and friendly enough folks. It hurt to see the changes. She shook her head in renewed disbelief as she hurried along one of the main foot arterials, keeping a wary eye out. A lot can happen in a few months. The local constabulary was gone, replaced by knots of sullen-eyed humans in strange uniforms with stranger guns cradled in their arms. She¡¯d¡¯ve called the guns antiques or stubbers, more than a few made of wood of all things, but they put some real neat holes through a bunch of folks a few weeks back, when those good folks got the idea to get rowdy about all these changes. Changes like the smoke always on the western horizon, staining the edge of the sky since a bunch of big, ugly landers came down and started, she heard, chewing up the low mountain range that-aways. Changes like no one got paid in good hard creds anymore, but in these hard metal ducats with a two-headed avioid stamped out on them. Changes like being stopped at random and questioned about what you were up to by flat-voiced translator buttons, speaking from lapels of hard-faced humans. Changes like having to wear an ident-tag at all times clipped to her jacket or around her neck, just like every other non-human on the planet. Changes like oh-yeah-that¡¯s-right, the Boneyard was a smoking hole in the ground, her freighter was half sunk in a bog outside the city, and how could you forget: the whole blasted planet was being run by a bunch of crazies. Humans didn¡¯t get stopped just walking over to a cafe. Humans didn¡¯t get questioned and scowled at about are you really just meeting with friends? On the other hand, half the humans she knew were now shipping out every morning and coming back every night, grimy and exhausted, because they worked out in the farms. These new crazies decided every droid and droid-brained thing needed to be rounded up and stuffed in warehouses next to where-the-Boneyard-used to be. Manual labor only, it seemed. ¡®It¡¯s slavery, I tell you.¡¯ Rhoki grimaced and scrunched up her nose, ears twitching in disgust. Sitting across from her, knocking back another frosted mug of tapcafe ale, Marabe looked exhausted. He¡¯d been one of the mechanics in the Boneyard, saved from the orbital strike because he was sleeping off a bender. The human was middle-aged and used to be paunchy, but now had a lean and wiry look to him that Rhoki wasn¡¯t sure was healthy. ¡®I mean, these ¡®Imperials¡¯ pay us their crappy gold and provide meals, but we all know if we don¡¯t get on the trains, those assholes in blue and white will put a beam in our foreheads.¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know, ¡®Abe,¡¯ Rhoki sighed, glancing across the street at a passing patrol of the outworlders. One of them happened to catch her eye and peeled off, nodding at her compatriots to slowly amble over. ¡®Well, never mind then.¡¯ She flicked an ear toward the street and Marabe looked over, grimacing as he noticed. ¡®Oh, wonderful.¡¯ ¡®Shh, ¡®Abe.¡¯ Rhoki purposely grinned, baring her teeth and he winced at the gap in the front. ¡®Wouldn¡¯t want these Imperials to think we¡¯re up to anything.¡¯ ¡®Oh no, never. Compliant as a nerf, that¡¯s us, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ Rhoki chuckled, wrapping her paw around her own ale and slowly rotating it in the ring of its own condensation on the plastine table. She flicked her tongue around the gap where her incisor had been, the socket healed but still sore enough to the touch. Apparently it had been in poor manners to compare the symbol of the outworlders to the seat of a ¡®fresher and they¡¯d informed her of this very politely with the butt of a rifle to the mouth. Say what you will about the Imperium, but they were succinct fellows. ¡®Ident,¡¯ sang out the new arrival, snapping out her hand toward Rhoki imperiously. ¡®Come off it, Zeka, you know Rhoki.¡¯ ¡®Who I know and don¡¯t know doesn¡¯t matter, citizen,¡¯ Zeka replied, running her left fingers along her newfound badge over her breast pocket. Like the Imperials, she wore the large white U that adorned their own uniforms and craft in copious amounts and she¡¯d shined it so much it caught the string-lumes that encircled the tapcafe¡¯s outdoor seating veranda, each winking different colors in the visible light spectrum. Over her shoulder was slung another of those archaic looking rifles, barrel burnished bright with a long, wicked bayonet already attached. Her uniform wasn¡¯t the same - it was the auxiliary variant, produced by and for the new homegrown constabulary made from, as best Rhoki could tell, assholes and traitors. She smiled at both of them, particularly at Rhoki, a smile that didn¡¯t leave the confines of her lips. ¡®I said, ¡®Ident, citizen¡¯.¡¯ Rhoki held it out between two claws, refusing to rise to the bait. ¡®Everything¡¯s in order, ma¡¯am.¡¯ Zeka made a big show of passing a hand-held contraption of wires and clockwork machinery over Rhoki¡¯s tag. It whirred and clicked and finally a small, harsh green bulb clicked on. Zeka squinted, scrutinizing the ID all the same, as if she had some sort of special understanding of a language she didn¡¯t even speak. Pursing her lips, flipping the ID this way and that, inspecting the backside and then tapping fingernails on the laminate surface, Zeka finally handed it back over. Rhoki clipped it back to her jacket. ¡®Rhoki Sal Huin, Captain, freighter Wicked Minnow. Non-native to Eboracum. Full-time trader.¡¯ The farce was in full swing now, so Rhoke just swallowed her words and played along. ¡®That¡¯s me, ma¡¯am.¡¯ ¡®Just where is your ship now, Captain? Shouldn¡¯t you be making preparations to go?¡¯ Go. Absolutely. Absolutely. If the Imperials weren¡¯t interdicting every single vessel from a skyhopper to an ore-hauler, Rhoki would¡¯ve left ¡®Eboracum¡¯ in her ion trails weeks ago. Zeka knew it, of course - the sith-spawned twit - but she just had to rub it in. ¡®She¡¯s over there,¡¯ Rhoki gestured, carelessly waving a paw toward where the Boneyard used to be. Out of sight from where they were, but the half-melted and charred remains of a half dozen ships were fused together and burned into the brains of every sapient in the city. Docking records were a bit lax and with half the spaceport crew dead and its datacores slagged, no one was the wiser. ¡®Shame, Captain,¡¯ Zeka drawled, dragging out the title to make it an insult. ¡®If you don¡¯t have a ship, it seems like you¡¯re out of a job, huh? Not really contributing, are you¡­¡¯ ¡®Knock if off, Zeka. Seriously.¡¯ She rounded on Marabe, dropping her hand to caress the strap of her rifle. ¡®Watch it, Marabe.¡¯ ¡®Or what? We¡¯ve known each other for ten years. You gonna just do me right here? Just ¡®cause your new friends gave you some toys?¡¯ ¡®I could report you to my Lieutenant. Everyone¡¯s pulling together, you know. You wasting time here with an alien, well, that won¡¯t look good.¡¯ Zeka¡¯s patrol saved them. They were nearing the corner of the avenue and a sharp whistle from down the street had her head snapping away from Rhoki and Marabe. Distant, a figure in the uniform of the offworlders waved and Zeka flushed. ¡®Stay out of trouble,¡¯ she shouted as parting, jogging away. Rhoki and Marabe watched her go, the latter shaking his head. ¡®She was always a hassle, you know. Never thought she¡¯d go this crazy.¡¯ Rhoki had seen more locals than she was comfortable with picking up the emblem of the Imperials and scowling at their own neighbors. Not a lot, but more than she¡¯d expect. The real Empire fell apart twenty years ago. She¡¯d thought this kind of thing was in the past. She¡¯d thought Pirve was removed enough away from the drama of the rest of the galaxy. It ached that she¡¯d been so wrong. They watched the patrol vanish down a side-street, and it was like all the locals going about their business exhaled a long sigh of relief. Could¡¯ve been worse. Could¡¯ve been one of those big armored monsters instead, the ones half the people Rhoki talked to were convinced were droids. Well, aside from how these ¡®Imperials¡¯ didn¡¯t like the idea of droids one bit. Those big lugs gave everyone the creeps and just being in eyesight of one had Rhoki breathing faster. ¡®You know,¡¯ Rhoki mused, as Marabe leaned back, scowling at his empty mug. ¡®Zeka was right about one thing, you know. I am a freighter captain and I really should be moving on.¡¯ The man smirked, readjusting himself in his seat casually. If he happened to pull a small datachip out of one pocket, well, it might¡¯ve been a fidget that had him turning it between his fingers. If he happened to tap the table to call over another mug, then the datachip might have been left behind. If Rhoki, by chance, reached for her napkin and brushed the datachip into her palm, well, who could say? ¡®Best we can source,¡¯ Marabe said. ¡®And it¡¯s all of them?¡¯ ¡®The big ones, at least. The flocks don¡¯t migrate that predictably. There¡¯s some estimates though, where we think they might be. Should help you too.¡¯ ¡®Really helpful, ¡®Abe, thanks.¡¯ They made smalltalk the rest of the evening, until Marabe wanted to turn in. Early day and all the next day, of course. Rhoki was still considering what he¡¯d said as she meandered back to her rented quarters, fists tight in her jacket, pulling it close against the coming chill of night. Her fur rippled in the breeze as she kept her head down, passing another patrol, but they didn¡¯t look twice at her. Not any more than they usually did toward non-humans. Slavery, he called it. They got paid and provided for and Marabe did admit that there were new machines that the Imperials were letting them use. Big dumb machines, nothing as useful as a nice agricombine with a decent harvesting process. Not as much physical labor anymore, he cheered - they could put down the arc-scythes and repulsor baskets - but still a far cry from the handful of people needed to work the local farm production. Pirve had been mostly self-sustained before, trade instead being in local luxury produce and rarities, but this ¡®Imperium¡¯ wanted to expand capacity and fast. Still, though. Not exactly given a choice. If it wasn¡¯t slavery, it was adjacent. As for everyone else, well, like Rhoki, they went about the day-to-day and just waited for the next boot to fall. She smirked to herself, scrunching up her blunt snout. She turned the ¡®chip over in her fingers, hidden in her pocket. Well, just everyone else, now. It was time to give her old Ghtroc a visit. The 720 was stashed out where she used to do slightly illicit runs in her more wild youth, away from prying eyes and even more impolitely intrusive scanners. It was always a hassle, since it would be ruinous if anyone noticed her heading out of the city, but if Marabe really did come through this time¡­ Rhoki craned her neck, peering up at the darkening sky. Overhead was the permanent presence of a ghostly, blocky ship, as small as her shortest claw at arm¡¯s length. Big as a Star Destroyer, at least, and she could see blinking running lights fore and aft. They wanted to be seen. They were the threat to the promise of the local patrols. She smiled up at it, as alien as it looked. ¡®Can¡¯t see everything,¡¯ she whispered, fingering the datachip again, precious as antimatter. ¡®Can¡¯t see everything¡­¡¯
VI: United Front Now¡­ A mortal might need to squint or make use of magnoculars to make out the distant chips of light cordoned off in high orbit, but Aeonid Thiel, Sergeant, Red-Marked, Hero of the Halls, needed none, nor did the other in his company. Beyond the crystalflex panes lay the limb of Eboracum, green and blue and shining. Thiel blinked back afterimages of another world, seen from just the same vantage as it melted into choking swirls of ash and smoke over continental firestorms. For a moment the clear, ozone-tinged air turned sour and cloying, redolent with melted sugar reek and the odor of weird dreams. Calth lingered over them all. ''Master Primus,'' he said, diverting his attention away from the world and the battered vessels of the new arrivals. Marius Gage, still slightly hunched by lingering injuries, clicked open and closed the crude augmetic that replaced his hand, brushed steel digits trembling slightly. ''Aeonid,'' the Master of the First replied. ''The Primarch has requested you represent the Thirteenth, should this New Republic wish to establish lines of communication.'' Gage tapped the pane with one metal digit, harsh clack echoing through the hollow observation space. Near the door a crippled servitor trembled to attention at the unexpected noise, then, without receiving any further input, slumped again. Pinpoints of bright reflected light moved afield, flitting back and forth, ascending from the surface and descending again in brief streaks of flames. Thiel pulled a face, turning his back to the vista and pacing. A young man, by the measure of a transhuman, Thiel had not yet accumulated the full measure of weathering and scarring that those of his breed did ¨C leaving him instead curiously youthful. His face was marked out by only a handful of scars, faint pale lines across cheek and brow. Perhaps he would once have been thought of as handsome, but the change wrought by elevation had thickened and elongated his features, broadened his face and left him indelibly beyond mortal men. Gage, by contrast, wore his service like a cloak. Close-cropped brown hair, greying, drew back from a face more weathered than Terra''s own moon. Above his left eye spread the silver wings of an Imperial Aquila and though Thiel and Gage were shaped of the same clay, stamped from the same mold, there was a divide between them, an ineffable otherness to the gene-sired similarities spawned by their ascension. It was not merely age nor service, scars nor originating world. No ¨C this difference grew instead from what one might, in less secular times, term spiritual. Aeonid Thiel was the new breed, marked by neither fleshcraft nor the rough red wash of his helmet, clamped to his hip, but by that of Calth. Only months ago now, but Thiel had adapted. The younger brothers all had. Unmanned and stormtossed by unimaginable betrayal: they reacted the fastest. They adjusted first. Aeonid Thiel, youthful as he was even with campaigns and decades beneath his ceramite tread, had not quite known the truest glory of the Crusade. Not as Marius had. He had never served when the Emperor, beloved by all, strode the stars with his sons. He never served in the days when mankind seemed poised on the brink, beset on every side, when each campaign was balanced on the knife-point of victory and ghastly defeat. Marius Gage was a man of the Crusade. Aeonid Thiel was a man of the Betrayal. Gage rued the day that the Crusade itself might be forgotten, swept away and replaced by the callous evils that Lorgar had wrought. When the golden promise would be broken, when the honor won by his brothers and his cousins; his father and his uncles; by the Emperor Himself would be left as ash on the tongue. Thiel, pacing, shot a glance at Gage and dared to question why. This, too, set him apart. ''I''ve no diplomatic training, sir. I''ve spent little time on the surface as it is.'' True enough. The Primarch''s fastidious ¨C some might whisper obsessive ¨C examination of Calth had kept Thiel within easy reach, even while the Sergeant pursued other directives from their august father. Only thrice had he set foot on Eboracum, and one of those counted little when it was in the presence of the Primarch, who had struck dumb all who set eyes on him. It was impossible to get the measure of the local populace when they stood transfixed and awestruck, human and alien alike. ''Then you''ll need to make up that time. Who else would suffice?'' Gage raised an eyebrow. ''Foltrus? Empion?'' He scoffed. ''Auguston?'' Thiel could not suppress a quirk of his lips at the thought of the intractable 1st Company Captain. Phratus Auguston''s voice had been loudest in calling for the purge of the xenoforms on the world below when it was yet nameless and compliance had still to be enacted. Placing him in a room with civilians alone was a mean joke, but alien civilians? Their father wanted embassy, not embarrassment. Auguston would incite war in moments. He had the bullishness of the legendary First Captain Abaddon more than the tempered mien of a son of Ultramar. ''Captains Paston and Argant are known for their friendship with the Army. I''ve heard Captain Argant in particular took quickly to the Primarch''s dictates on fraternization.'' Thiel paused in his pacing, exhaling as he continued the thought. ''But Captain Argant is busy.'' ''Quite busy, Sergeant,'' Gage reminded him. ''He has a hundred neophytes to oversee and a world''s population to process. Captain Paston is overseeing the assembly of Fortress Hatriunne.'' With a wry smile, Thiel shook his head. ''Practical: my tasks are the least important.'' Motioning toward Thiel, Gage led the way from the observation blister, back into the adjoining conference chamber which sported flickering hololiths and dataslates neatly stacked on a long, polished aluminum table. One of many slapdash replacements churned out by the Mechanicum to refurbish the flagship, the table was simple and crude, enough to do the job without any embellishment. The hostile xenoforms ¨C daemons ¨C had been comprehensive in their mindless destruction, leaving few compartments unspoilt. Parts of Macragge¡¯s Honour still lingered with neither warmth nor atmosphere. This chamber was set and prepared for Thiel¡¯s private use, one of dozens that usually serviced other officers. Gage trailed his flesh-and-blood fingers along the surface of the table, pacing around to stand opposite Thiel. ''Everything we do is important. There are merely levels of importance.'' Forcing himself to use his augmetic, Gage carefully lifted a dataslate and offered it to the younger Astartes. ''This, among the others, contains a full brief on the ''New Republic''. Study it and commit it to memory. There is little telling how soon we might expect a response.'' Thiel frowned. ''So soon? Our own message was sent only hours ago.'' Used to vagaries of the immaterium and the empathic memes of astropaths, even Gage scarcely believed his words as he spoke. ''It is claimed the ''holonet'' can relay messages across a galactic diameter in merely days, sometimes even instantaneously.'' Thiel turned the dataslate over and over again in his hands, ceramite fingers gentle on the small device. Rarely did Gage ever see Thiel out of his battered plate, though he himself wore a crisp tunic in abyssal blue with a simple white Ultima at the breast. His own armor still pained him to wear overlong. ''And all without using the warp.'' Thiel spat the last word, like the taste of poison unlooked for. ''As far as our Magi can discern.'' Gage rested his palms on the table, peering at the man across from him. ''You will represent the Thirteenth as I know you can. Should you have questions,'' Gage laughed, though the sound was more akin to slate tiles crumbling. ''I daresay I have experience treating with our far less diplomatic cousins to draw on.'' Thiel made the shape of the aquila. ''As the Primarch asks, I do.''
Marius Gage left him alone with his thoughts, which was rarely a state Aeonid Thiel enjoyed. Action was his lifeblood. He thrived on moving, on doing, on keeping his mind busy and hands in motion. His days were filled with theory with his lord father, with interview and review of his own brothers, with hard training as he strained to be worthy of the blade at his back. Thiel knew his service was superlative these past months, more than enough to answer for the red helm at his hip. Yet it was also this very same intensity that had landed him with his crimson-daubed helm and position on the flagship that fateful day. Left to his own devices, was it any surprise where his theoreticals might take him? How ironic, now, that his crime was instead foresight. How cruel indeed. Proven right in his studies as he butchered traitors alongside his Primarch, Thiel had mused that this was payment in full for his censure. Forcing down rumination, Thiel tapped the quiscient dataslate, looking over the provided hololith and display screens all waiting eagerly for interface. Thumbing the activation rune he was first greeted by a sigil he did not recognize, which the gothic tag beneath proclaimed was the ''Starbird, emblem of choice of the ''New Republic''''. Thumbing to scroll, tracts of dense script rolled past, interspersed with images of aliens like might be found below on Eboracum. Many others he¡¯d not seen nor heard of appeared as well. Of course he had known of the sheer variety of xenoforms in this area of space, revealed by interrogation of the natives. It was one thing to know, quite another to see. Images of humans standing alongside aliens of all shape and size had him slowly clenching digits about the dataslate, forcing Thiel to relax. Exhaling, Thiel set about interfacing the slat with the conference chamber. Normally the job for a savant, there were few enough remaining as it was. To task one merely to Thiel would be wasteful at best. While the first dataslate spoke with and reached agreement with the hololith Thiel activated the other four, seeing similar spreads of information within. Making up his mind, Thiel straightened up, leaving aside the dataslates. ''Optarch,'' he murmured, activating his vox. There was a moment of garbled static while the tangled spirits of Macragge''s Honour confirmed his connection before the voice of Sannad Optarch returned. ''Sergeant? Is your audience finished already?'' ''Short and swift, brother. I''ve been waylaid. Gather the others and continue theoreticals from yesterday. Table our pending reviews for now.'' ''Sir.'' He cut his vox. Optarch, a line brother of 5th Chapter, 53rd Company, had become his de-facto second since he''d begun his father''s tasking. Sannad was among the first four Thiel had interviewed and of that group, the only who had met his particular requirements. ''Find me a squad ¨C a demicompany, Thiel. Find me men like you, men who will break my rules and remember the only one that matters.'' The words of his father still sat strangely on him. To be rewarded for disobedience. To be lauded for divergence. To be given command because he''d dared think the unthinkable. But Thiel served. Aeonid Thiel always served. His father said: Information is victory. That virtue he followed to the letter. Information is victory. Unconsciously, Thiel reached back and brushed the scabbard of the longsword at his back with the tips of his fingers. When the hololith chimed a confirmation that all spirits were in accord, Thiel learned about the galaxy. More than he wanted, less than he desired and all that he could.
To his slight surprise, others filtered into the chamber over the next several hours. First to enter with a nervous and nearly silent rap of knuckles against the open hatch was an Army Colonel, fresh in pressed uniform. Thiel glanced up from where he''d been engrossed in notes on the structure of the New Republic Senate, taking occasional notes on exploitable inefficiencies when he''d heard the soft sound. Leaving aside thoughts on the incongruity of ruling a galaxy with an elected body, Thiel cleared his throat. ''Yes?'' he asked, assuming a messenger. Stepping fully into the chamber, she smoothed down the front of her uniform and visibly swallowed. ''Lord, I am Colonel Lurense.'' Thiel waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. ''Good evening Colonel,'' he tried. ''Is there...?'' ''Ah,'' she started. ''Ah, I am. Ah, I was assigned ¨C as representative of the, ah, Army.'' ''Representative of the Army,'' Thiel repeated. She went quite still. ''Y-yes, Lord.'' ''Sergeant, Colonel.'' ''I''m sorry?'' ''I am a Sergeant, not a Lord. Call me Sergeant, or Thiel. I am not my father.'' Neither option looked likely to be taken from where he stood. ''I was told to report-'' ''I gathered.'' Thiel rubbed his chin between armored fingers. ''Take a seat, Colonel. I assume you have not interacted with many Astartes?'' Lurense slowly approached a metal stool as if Thiel might bite, perching on just the edge. ''I have ¨C I have not had the privilege, Lord. Merely from a ¨C a distance. I¡¯m ¨C I¡¯ve a staff position. I was overseeing logistics support and the muster at Devanse. Before my commission, I was a guildmistress.'' ''It will pass, then.'' Thiel looked her over. It was hard to tell with mortals, but he assumed she was middle aged. Colonels usually were. Dark haired, square shouldered and stocky, or at least as he could best estimate. How tall were mortals, usually? It depended on genestock. She certainly wasn''t from Iax or Macragge. At her look of confusion he clarified. ''The fear, Colonel.'' As if jolted by a live conduit Lurense jerked then shook her head firmly. ''I would never fear the Avenging Sons.'' ''Very well, Colonel,'' he said, and reached to hand her a dataslate. When she flinched Thiel raised a brow, seeing red flush across her face. With some amusement he repeated himself. ''As I said, Colonel. It will pass. Welcome to the diplomatic corps.'' The next was a Magos, clicking and stalking, who glanced between Thiel, looming over the table and Lurense, who was marginally less tense, before extending a fleshless arm, palm open expectantly. This one was Corria Nalt, and he spoke as little as possible after stating his name and accepting a dataslate delivered by Lurense. Mechandendrites snaked out and clicked into ports on the hololith as well, the image noticeably clearing of some static. Lurense and Nalt both now sat the far side of the table from Thiel, establishing a divide. Their fourth member swept in as an utter contrast to Lurense and Naut. This woman Thiel knew at least by sight ¨C Katryna Vaul, Shipmistress of Mantallikes, the nearly crippled battleship at anchor beside Macragge''s Honour. Vaul brought with her two ratings, silent and taking constant notes, who managed to remain a step beside and behind her at all times. One produced a complicated rigging from where it was slung over one shoulder, twisting and pulling it until to Thiel''s mild surprise, a sort of hammock chair was produced, supported on telescoping legs, into which Vaul sunk. Imperiously she extended a hand, one rating fetching a slate to deliver to her. ¡®Shipmistress,¡¯ Thiel inclined his head. ¡®Sergeant.¡¯ Fifth and final introduced himself to everyone in the chamber with both hands clasped in warm handshakes including even Corria Nalt, though the magos only clicked his irised ocular implants twice. Sorvenos Tamirit Noskaur, Iterator, at your service. The effective leader of this assemblage, appointed by the Primarch himself (doubly an honour, to be sure, an honour indeed he was not worthy of, not at all!) to be the voice of the Imperium in Exsilium. He most assuredly had the voice for it, Thiel supposed, as Noskaur expounded at length at his joy and honor to serve the Imperium in such a proactive and positive way. He waxed on at his pleasure that he could make up for the dreadful drain he had been while the good men and women of the Army, Navy and Mechanicum had done so much after the aching tragedy of Calth until Vaul cleared her throat. ¡®Oh, and I ramble on, don¡¯t I? We will all be fast friends, I think, and present the perfect front to our counterparts of this New Republic. Grand, grand.¡¯ Astartes, Army, Mechanicum and Navy. Thiel took in the other four and noted the absence. ¡®Lacassex is not interested in sending one of their own?¡¯ Noskaur spread his hands wide and smiled, thought Nalt straightened a little from his hunch at the. ¡®The esteemed mistress was extended an offer but demurred. Our elements of the Legio here with us are quite busy, quite busy indeed and all hands are required on deck. Princeps Noriomi said as much, you see.¡¯ Thiel grunted. Lacassex did what Lacassex did and none could task them. It was quite the point of the tempestuous Legio. Regardless, with Noskaur here, he relaxed. This is what they were for. Let Thiel be what he was made to be and let the speaker never shut up. Exigence Chapter VII VII: Many Meetings Before the grand vista of Coruscant at sunset, Luke Skywalker seemed small: Just a cloaked shape, easily lost before the transparisteel expanse. All around him the cityscape was coming to life, twinkling like the first stars of the night. Deep reds and oranges and purples turned the Jedi master into a silhouette, filling the room with warm light as the sun sank toward the distant horizon. Shattered clouds were stretched gauze in the mauve sky, woven by endless threads of contrails and infinite traffic lanes. Behind him the top floor of the Ministry of Justice building slowly filled, each new arrival blooming in the Force like a star. Kyp Durron was a ball of emotion and intensity, held back by durasteel chains of discipline thicker than a promise. Beside him Wurth Skidder was an energetic tangle of earnest excitement, as stark a difference as could be to the calm breath of Cilghal¡¯s warm presence. As each Jedi entered they glanced at each other, to the cityscape beyond, to Luke. They¡¯d traveled from across half the galaxy and more, yanked away from other duties and responsibilities and dragged all the way to the capital. Luke Skywalker rarely ever issued orders, but all present respected him enough that even a mere request had them moving. Lowering his hood, Wurth sidled up next to Kyp, nudging him with an elbow. ¡°Any idea what Master Skywalker wants to talk to us about?¡± ¡°I heard there was something like an invasion,¡± Kyp observed dryly. Skidder snorted. Some were taking their seats about a circular table, others choosing to remain standing, conversing in low tones. Luke¡¯s presence was contained and minimal, giving little away. In short order twenty Jedi filled the chamber, greeting friends not seen for months. Without turning away from the window, Luke spoke, the chamber falling quiet at once. ¡°The New Republic has two enemy defectors in custody.¡± He turned, lowering his hood, revealing boyish features as he nodded toward his students and friends. ¡°One is a priestess, the other is apparently her mascot or companion. As a result of their supplying military intelligence that was, at least in part, responsible for the recent victory at Ord Mantell, the defectors are being brought to Coruscant for further debriefing.¡± A smattering of surprised murmurs and excitement swept the room, punctuated by Kyp¡¯s comment of ¡°Now we¡¯re getting somewhere.¡± Luke held up a hand and everyone quieted. ¡°That¡¯s not all. The Council for Security and Intelligence received a confidential message a week ago. A previously unknown group is interested in speaking with the New Republic on the matter of the Yuuzhan Vong. According to the Senator¡¯s office, they took down a Vong squadron to save a Republic Taskforce.¡± Already primed by the news of the defector, Jedi around the room looked at each other with amazement. ¡°An alliance? And a whole squadron?¡± Raltharan asked. The Balosar Knight perked up, antennae twitching free of his tousled blond mane. Luke nodded. ¡°It seems so. They took in the survivors of a Task Force that escaped the fall of Obroa-Skai and sent a message to the local capital almost immediately.¡± ¡°This gets better and better.¡± Kyp looked around the room. ¡°When do we get a shot at debriefing the Vong? And I¡¯m guessing they want us to help mediate these negotiations?¡± ¡°Senator Shesh requested a Jedi representative personally. She¡¯ll be overseeing the outreach to this new faction. As for the priestess¡­¡± Luke trailed off. ¡°She¡¯s more complicated.¡± ¡°It has to be subterfuge,¡± Cilghal interjected, spreading her webbed hands on the table. ¡°Doesn¡¯t it? Notwithstanding the alleged military intelligence.¡± Her gaze took in both Kyp and Luke simultaneously. Luke nodded, moving toward the table where he paused to perch himself on the edge, one booted foot extending to the floor to steady himself. ¡°The New Republic is being cautious. If the defectors continue to supply intelligence that holds up, they¡¯ll be given more credence.¡± ¡°So they have offered more,¡± Wurth stated. ¡°that has to be a good sign.¡± ¡°Or it¡¯s just a way to creep further into our good graces,¡± murmured Harlan Ysanna. ¡°There have to be some disaffected among the Vong.¡¯¡¯ Kyp rubbed his chin, pacing back and forth. "It¡¯d be impossible not to." ¡°That is the feeling of NRI,¡± Luke allowed. ¡°The priestess is named Elan and she seems to be a conscientious objector.¡± There were a few mutters of wry amusement at the last, which Luke smiled at. ¡°As unbelievable as it might be. She is willing to work with NRI further.¡± He glanced around the table, feeling the interest and eagerness of all present wash over him. ¡°Conditionally.¡± ¡°Conditionally,¡± echoed Kyp. Harlan leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. ¡°They want to meet with us, don¡¯t they?¡± Luke nodded. Grey-haired Streen laughed, slapping his palm down on the table. ¡°Exactly the sort of thing I expected.¡± Eyeing Luke, Streen raised an eyebrow. ¡°Did they happen to say just why they want to meet with us?¡± ¡°Besides assassinating the people that keep countering them?¡± Kyp shot a look at Wurth, who deflated a little. Luke straightened up from the table, slowly pacing around its circumference, hands clasped behind his back. His robe swirled behind him, skimming just above the floor. The former Bespin miner turned sideways in his chair to keep the Jedi master in sight. ¡°They claim they have information on an illness that Yuuzhan Vong agents introduced, a long time before the first worldships landed on Helska 4.¡± Shocked silence fell over the room as several Knights rocked back in their chairs. ¡°I won¡¯t try to fool any of you,¡± Luke admitted. ¡°With all my heart, I want to believe it¡¯s the illness Mara has been suffering from, but that remains to be seen.¡± There was an eruption of noise, Jedi speaking over one another: ¡°-of course we couldn¡¯t sense it-¡± ¡°-another attack on the Jedi-¡± ¡°-then they know-¡± ¡°-what if it was a test-¡± Luke raised his hand again and in moments the chamber quieted, all eyes fixed on the Master. Cilghal raised a single digit and Luke gestured towards her. ¡°If it is the same,¡± she said, gravelly voice filled with surprise, ¡°dare we surmise the Yuuzhan Vong know that Mara is ill?¡± Luke shook his head, tightening his lips and frowning. ¡°I don¡¯t think we should leap to that conclusion.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Wurth asked. ¡°I mean - of course they know. I bet they¡¯re using Mara to get to us just the same way they got to her!¡± Anakin spoke up for the first time, rocking forward to plant both boots on the floor from where he had been reclining. ¡°You don¡¯t know that. The defectors have been scanned for just that sort of thing and they¡¯ll be scanned again before we meet them.¡± Kyp looked between Luke and his nephew, nonplussed. ¡°These are Vong,¡± he said slowly, as if confused that two and two were adding up to five. ¡°Our best scanners can¡¯t make heads or tails of their biotech.¡± ¡°That may be so,¡± Luke allowed, nodding once. ¡°But it''s a risk we have to take.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯ve already made up your mind to meet with them?¡± Luke returned to the table, once again perching on the edge. ¡°As an accommodation to the New Republic as much as anything else - it¡¯s a way to demonstrate to them that we can work together. Like assisting with Senator Shesh¡¯s diplomatic mission.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll get to that in a minute, Master Skywalker,¡± Ganner Rhysode said. The young human Jedi glanced around the chamber beseechingly. ¡°But if we¡¯re going to do this, let¡¯s do it for Mara and not the New Republic. Personally, I couldn¡¯t care less about accommodating the military or the Senate after what¡¯s happened.¡± There were a few murmurs of agreement that dissolved before Luke¡¯s frown. ¡°It¡¯s not for us to pick and choose, Ganner. We serve the Galaxy even when it¡¯s difficult.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true Master, but-¡± ¡°Luke¡¯s right,¡± Kyp interjected. ¡°It¡¯s for Mara as much as for the New Republic. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve been saying, we can¡¯t stand alone against the Vong.¡± Rare as it was for Durron and Skywalker to agree of late, there were some surprised expressions that turned thoughtful as the Jedi mulled it over. Letting the room settle, Luke spoke again. ¡°I¡¯m going to propose that the defectors meet with Mara and me alone.¡± It was too much for Jacen, who surged to his feet. ¡°Then you do think it¡¯s a trap!¡± Luke turned to his other nephew with a small smile, shaking his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know if it is or it isn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Then let them meet with me or Streen or maybe Kam Solusar,¡± Jacen offered. ¡°Any one of us would be willing to risk our lives to help Mara.¡± ¡°Or me,¡± Kyp offered. ¡°Really, Master Skywalker -" the honorific was not ironic ¡°-if this is a trap, we can¡¯t afford to lose your guidance.¡± Cilghal looked between the two masters, often at odds of late, her broad mouth slightly ajar. ¡°Master Durron and your nephew are correct, Master. If there is risk, then you and Mara are the last ones who should assume it.¡± Nods rippled around the table along with voiced affirmations. ¡°What are you suggesting, that all of us meet with them?¡± ¡°All of us that aren¡¯t accompanying Senator Shesh,¡± Streen clarified.The reminder of the other topic brought a moment of quiet. ¡°There¡¯s that matter too, of course,¡± Kyp said. ¡°As much as I¡¯d like nothing better than a few moments alone with a Yuuzhan Vong¡­¡± ¡°We¡¯ll need representatives to go with the Senator,¡± Jacen finished, frowning. ¡°How do we split this up?¡± ¡°It¡¯s important to know who they are before we make any decisions. They call themselves the Imperium¡­¡± Luke began, as his students and peers listened with rapt attention.
Luke found his wife laying on a couch, feet up on the far armrest, forearm thrown across her eyes. Even with a fever, even looking exhausted and wan, even with her skin blushing bruised under her eyes and at her joints, she was beautiful. Always would be. Careful not to jostle her, Luke toed off his boots and slid in beside her, balancing precariously on the edge of the cushions. ¡°Sorry I missed it,¡± Mara Jade murmured, her words blurry. ¡°It¡¯s probably better you did,¡± Luke said. ¡°You would¡¯ve chewed them out for being so melodramatic.¡± Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°Skywalker,¡± she groaned, elbowing him. ¡°I love melodrama. Let me guess, everyone wanted to volunteer to meet Ms. Priestess.¡± ¡°They care, Mara,¡± Luke said softly. ¡°I know. I know.¡± Mara hoisted herself up on her elbows, letting her husband slip an arm under her shoulders and shimmy closer, resting her against his chest. ¡°I hate this.¡± ¡°This could be our solution.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to get my hopes up.¡± Luke reached out, tentative, not wanting to intrude on Mara. If she caught him trying to feel her through the Force he feared she¡¯d take it personally and pull away. Mara¡¯s presence seemed to sigh and let him in and Luke dove into the sensation of his wife. The nuclear kiln that was her vibrant soul was still there, as ferocious as ever, but like it had been for months, she felt muffled, like skritswool was pulled over her sensation in the Force. A sort of shroud; a dirty pane of transparisteel or a smearing of grease across a lume. That was the worst part of this illness. He could feel Mara fighting, he could feel her health slipping away, but no matter how hard he tried, the disease itself slipped away from him. It was as slick as a kibo seed between his fingertips, squirming and squirting away from any attempt to see it through the Force. He had tried everything, and Mara too. From cautious, holistic approaches that sent tendrils of the Force through her body, climbing up her lymphatic system and riding immune cells in her veins to brute force grabbing at what-just-wasn¡¯t-there. Neither of them ever had results. Even Cilghal apologized over and over that she couldn¡¯t find anything. She¡¯d once saved Mon Mothma by extracting poison one molecule at a time, and this at a time in which she was still fresh to the sense of the Force and to medicine. But the talented Mon Calamari was just as helpless as the best medical droids the New Republic could provide. It was there, it had to be there - all the signs were there. Mara had all the symptoms of a degenerative illness, but there was just nothing to see. Helplessness never sat well with Luke Skywalker, and as he probed Mara¡¯s presence in the Force, his heart ached at how little he could do. ¡°Not my best week,¡± she tried to joke. ¡°Mara¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t, Luke.¡± Instead, he kissed her cheek, feeling how hot her skin was. Better to change the subject, so he brought up the other part of the meeting. ¡°We¡¯ve decided on who to send with Senator Shesh.¡± ¡°I still don¡¯t like her,¡± Mara muttered. ¡°She¡¯s only spoken positively about the Jedi so far. She was the one who reached out to me, not Fey¡¯lya.¡± ¡°Still,¡± Mara said, as stubborn as ever. ¡°Go on, though. Who gets to go be a Jedi?¡± ¡°Kyp volunteered, along with Anakin, Harlan and Mei.¡± ¡°Mei? Mei Taral? The Jensaarai?" She tapped her lower lip, staring at the ceiling. "What¡¯s she like?¡± ¡°Complicated,¡± Luke said. ¡°But this will suit her. This ¡®Imperium¡¯ seems to be a martial culture. Senator Shesh has said she wants to try to appeal to that proclivity.¡± ¡°Tell her to pack her armor.¡± Luke laughed. The Jensaarai woman was the only of the four that left Susevfi and stayed with the Jedi that kept her ritually constructed armor. Mei had chosen a native creature of Susevfi, a brackardian vrak as her totem. She cut an impressive figure in it when she trained, standing out among the jumpsuits and utility tanktops. All Jensaarai assembled their own suit of armor, taking as much care as a Jedi created a lightsaber, designing it after a creature they felt the closest affinity to. It became a part of them, more than just protection. Taral¡¯s armor was lepidopteran, done up in swirls of crimson and blue with bright aposematic splashes of pinks and whites. Somehow it worked, accentuating flexible overlapping plates with a short feathery drape about her shoulders. So many branch traditions in the Force brought their own unique and precious heritage, and Luke took care to embrace them all. Mei had kept her armor and every time she wore it in the Temple it was a reminder that the Sith could never win. The ways of the Jedi, varied as they can be, survived. Luke had encouraged all four to keep their armors, hoping to ease the transition from their sheltered learning to the Jedi ways of Yavin IV after Mei¡¯s own older brother left. Surprisingly Kelbis Nu, Dolk Ush and Mei¡¯s own younger brother, Niko, had been excited to embrace the Jedi ways rather than attempt to syncretize. There had been some friction between the siblings in that, but long before Niko died in Desann¡¯s attack on the Temple the two had reached an understanding. Mei carried her brother''s ''saber now too, along with her own, and seemed all the more determined to keep the tradition of her birth as alive as she wanted to maintain her friendships and connections among the Order. ¡°I don¡¯t think she¡¯s going to forget,¡± Luke stared up at the ceiling, feeling Mara breathing next to him. Tried not to think about the occasional hitch as she inhaled. ¡°I was surprised Anakin volunteered.¡± ¡°Between some Vong holy woman and this Imperium that blew up a whole vong squadron, I¡¯m surprised Kyp wasn¡¯t already out the door.¡± Like Luke, Mara had read over the brief Senator Shesh¡¯s office transmitted to the Order¡¯s Coruscant headquarters. So far this ¡®Imperium¡¯ was actively communicating through a direct holonet connection, even though for some strange reason they insisted on only using prerecorded messages. The two men in the initial recording hadn¡¯t shown up again, instead replaced by who Luke recognized instantly as a career diplomat. His tone was always perfectly modulated and even his expressions seemed designed. Everything about this man, Noskaur, was warm, friendly and affable, while revealing almost nothing. So far, all the Senator¡¯s office had managed to agree on was that the New Republic wasn¡¯t interested in any hostilities, and neither was this Imperium. The Yuuzhan Vong were a common enemy, and Taskforce Mousetrap should be returned to the New Republic. Both sides wanted a meeting, but were smilingly dancing around exactly what shape that would take. The Jedi would be there, that was for sure, but for now, whether it would be in the system the Imperium claimed or on neutral ground was still to be hammered out. There were some standouts, like Noskaur¡¯s offhand comments about ¡°interest in learning more of this region of space". Mara noticed it too. Opinion among those in the know leaned toward this group being some sort of Imperial relic that had been forgotten in the past fifty years, but those few words put a shadow over that. In her years as a Jedi, and sometimes even being seen as ¡®Luke Skywalker¡¯s wife¡¯, some forgot that Mara had been an Imperial agent and then the second to an information broker. ¡°Kyp¡¯s just as worried about Elan as Jacen is, but I think with the rest of the Knights and Masters going there with us, he¡¯s comfortable enough to, well, indulge himself.¡± ¡°And Anakin?¡± Luke frowned, considering. His nephew was complicated, to say the least. ¡°How¡¯s he doing? I wish I had time to talk to him more after Dantooine and Ithor, but¡­¡± Mara trailed off. The weeks after those catastrophes had been some of Mara¡¯s worst. Some days she could barely even get out of bed, and though her health had improved, the specter still hung over them both. They¡¯d kept it, if not quiet, then not exactly advertised. He hadn¡¯t even told Leia just how ill Mara had been and it still chewed at him to not be completely honest with his sister. ¡°Han left with an old friend of his a few days ago. Roa. He almost didn¡¯t say goodbye.¡± He could feel Mara wince. Han didn¡¯t blame Anakin. He didn¡¯t want to blame his son. It wasn¡¯t Anakin¡¯s fault. No one, not even a Jedi, not even all the greatest Jedi to ever live could have stopped Dobido and thrown the moon back into space. And Chewbacca? The wookiee would count giving his life for his best friend¡¯s son as cheap at twice the price. A losing hand of sabacc he just couldn¡¯t help but play. In a normal family, perhaps, as much as Han said he didn¡¯t blame Anakin for Chewie¡¯s death - maybe it would be believed. Maybe Han could convince everyone else as much as he was convincing himself of this one, precious truth. Han¡¯s family were Jedi. All of them. There were times when the Force felt like a weight - never a burden, the Force would never be a burden - but a weight on his shoulders. Times that shook the Galaxy and times that were small, almost petty in the enormity of what had happened to so many people, but times that were intimate and personal. Times like when he knew his nephew felt the blame that radiated off his brother-in-law like desert heat. When Han protested he didn¡¯t blame Anakin, that he couldn¡¯t blame Anakin, that there was no way, that it would insult Chewie ¨C but when he did, all the same. Han was human, as human as anyone else. Even Anakin understood that his father didn¡¯t want to pin the responsibility on him. He still felt it, all the same. That wedge was splitting his family apart. Han blamed Anakin. He blamed Leia, he blamed Luke, he blamed the New Republic, he blamed the Force, Sernpidal, the Vong, the entire Galaxy. His friend, his brother, blamed the very air he breathed. So it wasn¡¯t Anakin¡¯s fault. No one could argue otherwise. Luke¡¯s nephew carried it anyway. ¡°What happened?¡± Mara asked. ¡°Anakin tracked him down. I could feel it. It seemed¡­¡± Luke trailed off, running fingertips along Mara¡¯s warm upper arm. She always felt feverish now. ¡°It seemed alright. No anger. Just a lot of sorrow.¡± Mara buried her face into his shoulder, her voice coming out muffled. ¡°Maybe you were right. Maybe we should have sent him back to Yavin.¡± Luke stared up at the eggshell white swirls of the ceiling for a long time. Long enough that Mara¡¯s breathing slowed and her presence in the Force softened. Not asleep, just dozing. The twins'' and Anakin¡¯s training redefined the idea of ¡®complicated¡¯. If they weren¡¯t being kidnapped by ex-Imperials or swept up in adventures spanning the galaxy, Leia protested them all being away from Coruscant. So they would trade off - Jacen and Jaina at the praxeum, then Anakin, then back again. He knew his sister felt guilty. Guilty that she wasn¡¯t around more, that Jaina and Jacen had grown up almost without her and Anakin knew his nanny droid better than his mother in his early years. All that tied up with guilt over not doing enough for the New Republic. Guilt that she was being selfish in starting a family. That drove her out to do more, take up more positions, head more committees, more missions. Sometimes Luke reflected on the tales of the Order before the Fall and thought about the potential wisdom of preventing Force-sensitive families. When one had no secrets from each other, it was both precious and precarious. ¡°Tahiri has been sending him letters.¡± It took a moment for Mara to reply, but he felt her awareness. ¡°Quaint.¡± ¡°I think Sannah did too.¡± Mara stirred next to him, adjusting on the couch and on him, sighing. ¡°Do you know if he¡¯s writing back?¡± Luke hummed and pulled a face. ¡°I don¡¯t think he is. I think¡­he¡¯s pulling back from them.¡± He felt Mara nod. ¡°Daeshara¡¯cor hurt him. Again. He knows it wasn¡¯t his fault and she told him not to blame himself, but you know how it is.¡± ¡°Another person he couldn¡¯t save.¡± Mara patted his chest. ¡°Takes after his Uncle.¡± An uncle who could barely spare time for him. Ikrit stepped up and guided the young Jedi in ways that Luke wasn¡¯t sure he would¡¯ve been able to. Sometimes it felt like he had never taught a single Jedi, even with the dozens that now filled the Temple and leant hands around the Galaxy. He talked to them, led them, guided them, but had he ever really taught them? How much did Luke even know to pass on? The Force was just part of him, like his own heartbeat. Not even like breathing - a person can hold their breath, they can be aware of inhale and exhale, but the Force was just always there. Always in him, around him, part of him. How could anyone teach that? ¡°I haven¡¯t been the uncle I should¡¯ve been.¡± Mara¡¯s lips brushed his cheek and her breath whispered around his ear. ¡°Don¡¯t, Skywalker. Don¡¯t do that. You don¡¯t get a monopoly on saving-the-galaxy-complexes.¡± Gently she rose up, propped up on her elbow, looking down at him. Her red-gold hair draped like a curtain, cutting off the world around them. ¡°Chewie wasn¡¯t your fault either. I don¡¯t think anyone¡¯s said that to you yet, so there it is.¡± Despite himself he couldn¡¯t help but smile. Mara glowed in the Force and like always, there was nothing but sincerity. She was herself, in and out. No deceptions, no qualifications. Never between them. ¡°Anakin spent time with me and I think it helped. I hope it helped. After these meetings, take him back to Yavin with you. You were going to check in on Kam and Tionne anyway, and the rest of the apprentices. Bring Anakin along. Go train in the jungle. Make him sweat.¡± Luke raised an eyebrow. ¡°You think?¡± ¡°Anakin¡¯s not good when he¡¯s just sitting around. You remember it all. I still can¡¯t figure out how he got into half the stuff he did with Tahiri and they were just kids. He felt the most centered when we were camping, doing simple things.¡± Mara looked comically thoughtful for a moment, screwing up her face in an exaggeration of focus and pursing her lips. ¡°I think I know someone else like that.¡± ¡°After these meetings, then. Elan is supposed to be on Coruscant in a few weeks. I¡¯ll let Anakin know - end of this month.¡± ¡°And he¡¯ll be around his friends again.¡± Luke nodded. ¡°That will help him heal too.¡± Mara dipped down and pecked him on the lips then sat up and stretched. She felt warmer, brighter, less muffled in the Force. ¡°This couch isn¡¯t made for two people,¡± she grumbled as her shoulder popped and back cracked. ¡°I need to hit the ¡®fresher anyway. Stick around, husband mine. We¡¯ll have dinner in.¡± He choked out a laugh as they rose from the couch, feeling Mara¡¯s own amusement ripple around him. Her endearment was calculated, of course, to get that reaction. She¡¯d heard their friend Mirax say as much to Corran Horn once and it had kept her laughing at inappropriate moments for the next week. ¡®Husband mine¡¯ suited that couple perfectly, something so saccharine that it just felt right with Mirax and Corran. Of course, hearing it from Mara was beyond incongruous, so she made it a habit to drop it when he least expected it, aside from the sudden mischievousness he¡¯d feel in the Force. More than once she innocently projected it into his mind while he discussed specifics of the Jedi Headquarters with Fey¡¯lya. He¡¯d had to pay her back in turn later. Still smiling, he set about ordering. He reached out, feeling Anakin still ambling around Leia¡¯s apartments. His nephew felt calmer through the Force. He¡¯d have to ask how things went with Han. Their family would heal. He had no doubts about it. Exigence Chapter VIII PART III: DUALITY OF MAN
VIII: Blade Withheld Two blades whipped at Anakin. One at chest height, one reaching to sweep his ankles. Both his assailants pressed close, cutting off the vista of Coruscant through the far transparisteel windows with their bulking muscles and thick armor. The lower blade he caught on the tip of his lightsaber, cracking sparks into the air as he deflected it away. His swing shifted his weight just enough that the second blade slid right past him, nearly close enough to crease his jumpsuit. Off-balance, that attacker stumbled, trying to pull their strike before it overextended. Anakin wouldn¡¯t give them the chance. Whipping his lightsaber back up, the blade lanced right into the exposed under-arm between overlapping plates of armor. Down they went to the floor with a flat bang that rattled the windows: a marionette with strings cut. One left. Already spinning their blade in response, Anakin¡¯s last enemy circled left, gaining distance from the impediment of their fallen ally. Anakin kept pace, ¡®saber held low in a guard, ready, totally focused on center mass. That was what told the truth, that was what revealed the lie of a feint or the truth of a thrust. He saw it - a momentary shift of weight from heel to toe, the start of a sharp chop and he acted. Sparks flew again as his ¡®saber skimmed across carapace, failing to penetrate, but he connected with all the strength the Force could give him. His foe lurched back, stumbled and Anakin pressed on, closing the gap, knocking aside their two sharp attempts to interpose their blade. He knew this part like the end of a favorite holovid: come low, use the height difference to his advantage instead of as a fault. Spring high, leading with his ¡®saber, right for - Again his lightsaber found the joint of the shoulder and again a body fell, limp. ¡°Phew,¡± he whistled, exhaling and running a hand through his mop of sweaty brown hair, thumbing off his lightsaber. The low-power containment field clicked off with a much more mournful and half-hearted click than he was used to, and he hooked the practice blade back to his belt alongside his actual lightsaber. ¡°Reset,¡± he commanded, and the two droids dutifully came back to their feet. They both stood stock-still as Anakin circled them, rubbing his chin. Both were older duelist droids, shipped to the new HQ from Yavin and then left to collect dust. Most of the Jedi stationed at the Headquarters or passed through it preferred to train against each other, honing their talents against another Force-sensitive. Droids simply couldn¡¯t compare to a peer¡¯s intuition and advice. First order of business was setting the droids up to only record strikes to particular locations. Yuuzhan Vong warriors in their crab armor were proof against a lightsaber - only prolonged contact could start to hack through the biont, which in a duel you just didn¡¯t have. You had to go for joints. Underarm was best, Uncle Luke agreed that it was probably the ¡®gills¡¯ of the creature. It made them extremely unhappy and sometimes seemed to kill the crab even if the warrior was only injured. Dead armor took them out of the fight just as much as a dead warrior would. Other joints worked too, like behind the knee and at the groin. Those were tougher, because you had to get behind a Vong, and they really didn¡¯t like you doing that. Or you had to get right through their guard and avoid skipping your ¡®saber off their armored skirts. Underarm was the best. He rummaged up scraps of stormtrooper armor, vehicle plating, you name it, cutting it to size with his saber and bending it sometimes with a bit of the Force. Then it was all welded in place, turning the droids from the lithe, spinning duelists they used to be into clomping, broad and unfortunately much slower monsters. The droid¡¯s programming couldn¡¯t really account for it though, which kept leading to the result moments ago. Anakin was taking them down without either droid ever landing a single blow. He could still feel the sting of cold rain on slices along his arms and legs. A Yuuzhan Vong warrior snarled down at him, backlit by lightning that crackled through the midnight sky, shining in the rain and seeming as tall as any of Coruscant¡¯s towers. Anakin grimaced, shaking his head, kicking Dantooine away. Fighting a Yuuzhan Vong and making it out without a scratch meant he¡¯d really messed up in his design. He¡¯d have to work on that. ¡°And these just aren¡¯t amphistaves either,¡± he muttered, poking at one of the stun-blades clutched in the droid¡¯s hands. They weren¡¯t smart enough to know how to respond to anything but a command, so they simply didn¡¯t. ¡®A real amphistaff is bendy,¡¯ he mused, considering. They could go from whip to blade in moments, catching a Jedi off guard by switching combat styles on the fly. How to recreate that? ¡°Maybe some kind of whip? No, a collapsible baton? Do people even make those?¡± Worst was that he could sense the droids, of course. Even when he meditated beforehand, sucking in as much of his sense of the Force as possible, trying to keep it all bundled up in what he imagined was a big box shaped like his body, he could still feel them. The Force was almost insulted, like it wanted to whisper to him hints of danger, snippets and afterimages of where the droids would be. You couldn¡¯t sense Vong! He¡¯d been around ysalamiri before, every Jedi had. After how much Thrawn and his Remnant had used them and how much of a pain they¡¯d been to Uncle Luke, the Praxeum kept a few off in the jungle. They lived in a secluded clearing just close enough for Jedi to experience the shock of losing all their senses but far enough away not to bother trainees. Vong didn¡¯t feel like ysalamiri. Ysalamiri left a hollow in the world. You could feel around them and you could know they were there by the very fact of the hollow in the force. Yuuzhan Vong just didn¡¯t exist. They weren¡¯t a hole in the force or a void, they just¡­weren¡¯t there. Ysalamiri kept the Force at bay, but it almost seemed like the Force just ignored Vong. Like it flowed right through them without even noticing. Maybe he could get a ysalamiri or two to block off the Force while training against these droids. He¡¯d have to ask Jacen. Jacen could help. And he had to get the droids right first or else it still wouldn¡¯t matter, Force or no Force, because he would still beat them every time. That wasn¡¯t useful training in that case, that was just venting coolant off. Actually, he could probably ask Jaina. Anakin knew how to make things work, but Jaina could make things. Except she was halfway across the Galaxy with Rogue Squadron. Not really a lot of time to spare on mechanical projects with her little brother. Right. ¡°Guess it¡¯s you and me then,¡± he said to the droids. One of them interpreted this in its narrow sense of inputs and shivered to a readiness stance, cocking its stout head in question. ¡°No no, stand down.¡± It shifted back into a flat stance. ¡®We¡¯re done for today. Go ahead and recharge.¡¯ Both droids ambled away toward docking stations in the corner of the room, lining themselves up and powering down. The Coruscant Headquarters was still relatively new, sitting atop the Ministry of Justice building. It was a pleasant sort of home-away-from-home, somewhere that didn¡¯t have the lingering memories of hooting laughter and growling jokes. Not like the apartments did. Echoes of Chewie¡¯s amused shyriiwook vanished at the sound of the door behind him hissing open. He felt another Jedi¡¯s presence immediately, brushing up against him as she peered inside. ¡°I thought I heard someone in here.¡± Mei Taral leaned on the frame, running her finger around the emitter of one of her lightsabers. ¡°There¡¯s a crowd this morning. Hope you¡¯re warmed up.¡±
The Jedi Headquarters at Coruscant were no cloistered and dusty old archives, keeping close any secrets they might jealously hoard. Sunlight streamed in through transparisteel walls soaring a half dozen stories in height. The whole arboretum at the apex of the Ministry of Justice tower felt as free as the air outside, sweetened by flowers from Yavin, J¡¯t¡¯p¡¯tan, Susevfi and other worlds rich in traditions of the Force. Squat little buildings were scattered around the meandering pathways and planters, built to blend ancestral architectural stylings from across the galaxy. There were training rooms, meditation chambers, conference rooms with full suites of holonet connections and holotanks and, of course, dormitories. Oh, and it was open to the public. Mostly. Roughly a trillion sapients called Coruscant home and most of them didn¡¯t just know about the Jedi - the Jedi to them were legendary. If even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction decided to make the mythical real, then the Jedi of the new Order would be swamped day in and day out. The fact of the Headquarters¡¯ open door policy wasn¡¯t publicized and was politely requested to remain that way. A being had to book a time slot, too, with a limited number ever open. It was drawn by lots, to be as fair as possible. Most visitors merely wandered the gardens and tried meditation, or viewed artifacts from famous Jedi. The real draw, though, was the daily exhibition. Brilliant sapphire crossed rich cobalt with a humming crackle, filling the air with the sharp stink of ozone. Neither Jedi pressed advantage, the moment hanging as their audience, various beings of all stripe and size, watched with bright eyes. Both Knights inclined their heads as they slowly circled each other, keeping their shimmering blades in contact. Anakin had only ever seen Mei spar - he¡¯d never crossed ¡®sabers with the Jensaarai. Usually she paired her own deep blue saber with her brother¡¯s crimson one, adopting a formidable Jar Kai pattern, but today she was limiting herself to one blade. She¡¯d asked if Anakin had a preference. He¡¯d never met a Yuuzhan Vong that used two blades and he said as much to her. She¡¯d just nodded, as if the answer made perfect sense. It did, Anakin thought. Why else would they be training? They split apart, pacing around each other. Mei wore a smile freely, blue eyes bright under her messy fringe of shiny black hair. Anakin, by contrast, kept himself calm and centered, as stoic as could be. Mei was twice his age and had much more experience than he did - she¡¯d fought Master Horn and Uncle Luke when she was barely older than Anakin and while she hadn¡¯t exactly put up much of a fight, it was still impressive to go against two Masters in anger. She spun her ¡®saber, her eyes flicking left and right and Anakin sunk into the Force, feeling the excitement of their audience and the Jensaarai¡¯s eager anticipation. He knew almost before she did when she committed - azure met cobalt again as he deflected one, two, three rapid slices in less than a second. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Gasps filtered from the crowd. They were probably more used to sedate training expos. The Jensaarai woman came at him again and this time Anakin did not stay on defense. Defense, defense, always defense. Take the blows, redirect them. Absorb them or avoid them. The Force was for defense, never attack. He wasn¡¯t much shorter than Mei and Anakin drove her across the arena with his initiative, both ¡®sabers blurred and spitting, faster than the eye could track. Wait for the foe. Wait for the sith. Wait for the vong. Let them make the first attack. Give them the initiative. Anakin only realized he was scowling when his forehead started to ache. Mei leapt over a low slash and then kept on rising, boosting herself upwards with a twist of telekinesis until she was atop one of the many standing stones scattered through the gardens. Anakin leapt after her without a thought, clashing again and drawing back, clashing again and drawing back. Though she sparred in her armor, Mei was quick, the sculpted plate far from an impediment. And she laughed. When she caught the tip of Anakin¡¯s blade and swept it wide, she laughed. When she was forced back hard, heels over the very edge of the standing stone, she laughed. Even though this was for an audience, it seemed a little much. Anakin kept his silence and for the next dozen minutes, the two Knights worked up a sweat as they swept back and forth across the arboretum. The demarcated sandy training ring was only a suggestion, both entirely sure of their own self-control and aware of the beings around them. If there were quiet exclamations from the few dozen watching, it washed past them without note. ¡°You have really good form,¡± Mei panted, hands on her knees. Anakin sunk into a cross legged rest, taking long, deep breaths carefully. ¡°Reminds me of Master Skywalker.¡± He couldn¡¯t help but flush a little at the praise. His Uncle was so far beyond any of them, even some of the best duelists among the Masters like Master Durron. Watching his uncle train, really train, against two, sometimes three, of the other Masters when the opportunity arose was always spellbinding. Luke Skywalker made it effortless. Like art. ¡°Intense, too.¡± Anakin shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s serious.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true,¡± Mei agreed. ¡°I know about Tenel Ka.¡± Everyone did. The young woman still wore her truncated arm with pride, blaming neither Jacen nor the Academy for the accident. Anakin wasn¡¯t quite as sure he¡¯d be so easily accepting if he lost a limb like that. Or that he would deny a replacement like Uncle Luke¡¯s. She misunderstood, though. It wasn¡¯t serious because of the inherent danger of a lightsaber, it was something else entirely. He took a minute, deciding what he wanted to say. ¡°No, it¡¯s - more like, well -¡± ¡°You¡¯re thinking of the Vong.¡± Anakin kicked at the sand of the ring with the toe of his boot. Draw a line, scuff it out. Every time he spoke about it, he heard Kyp and other¡¯s words coming out of his mouth. They were the lightning rods on the skyhood and he agreed, but didn¡¯t agree. Just like he sometimes felt like Uncle Luke was too extreme on his view of the Force (a thought that Anakin didn¡¯t like to prod too much, because did he have the right-?) he knew Kyp and his cohort were too far swung on their side of the problem. ¡°I just think it¡¯s a good idea to be ready.¡± It was a very diplomatic answer and Anakin was proud of phrasing it that way until he caught the smirk on the other Knight¡¯s face. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Be ready? Buddy, you have more experience against the Vong than anyone else.¡± Daeshara¡¯cor managed a faint smile as her eyes turned glassy. A burning moon filled the sky. ¡°I guess.¡± Mei plopped down next to him, resting elbows on her knees and peering at him from beneath the fringe of her hair. The gentle breeze through the arboretum, fed by air cyclers, gently ruffled the soft down of her armor¡¯s mantle. The pale cream fuzz came from some animal of the world the Jensaarai hailed from, just like the etchings in her personalized armor spoke of creatures he¡¯d never seen. ¡°You know how my brother died, right?¡± Anakin glanced away, watching the observers slowly disperse out into the gardens again, a few tentatively waving digits of varied morphology at the two Knights. Mei cheerily waved back, beaming, apparently unfazed by her chosen topic. Anakin hadn¡¯t been at the Academy then - but just a short two years later he was caught up in the end of that chaos, abducted by other elements of the Empire Reborn. While the Solos had been occupied with the Dark Jedi Hethrir, it had been the apprentice, Desann, who¡¯d attacked the Praxeum. More than a few Jedi died then, Mei¡¯s brother among them. ¡°Ten years ago, just last year. You know, I was pissed.¡± Mei laughed, shaking her head. ¡°Not very ¡®Jedi¡¯, but very Jensaarai.¡± And then she listened to the Force, she meditated, and she learned how to forgive and find peace in the ways of the Galaxy. That¡¯s how it always went. He could hear the words already, the same ones he¡¯d heard his whole life. ¡°I¡¯m still pissed sometimes.¡± The Knight shrugged, leaning up on one hip to detach another ¡®saber, flicking it on. With a snap-hiss, a bar of shimmering crimson sprouted from her fist. ¡°I¡¯ll see something that I know Niko would love. Or maybe like today. I just sparred with Anakin freakin¡¯ Solo. The grandson of Anakin Skywalker.¡± Unconsciously, Anakin clenched his teeth until his jaw popped. ¡°Crazy, right? I wish I could¡¯ve talked with him about it.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Not gonna happen. So I get mad. I¡¯m still gonna see him again. Everyone who¡¯s gone before us. They¡¯re all part of the Force. Still sucks that they¡¯re gone.¡± Anakin wiped a tear off his cheek, thinking about Chewie¡¯s survival tool, somewhere out there in his dad¡¯s pocket. Mei squeezed his shoulder and he swallowed hard, bobbing his head in agreement. ¡°Yeah. Yeah. It hurts.¡± ¡°It does. It¡¯ll always hurt, you know. Ten years, I still miss him. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever stop. I hated your Uncle too, you know.¡± ¡°Wait, but he didn¡¯t have anything to do with that.¡± ¡°Not with Desann, no. But he and Master Horn showed up and just the two of them showed us that everything we thought we knew, we¡¯d been wrong about. I wanted to beat them both into the dirt. You imagine? Someone shows up at Yavin and tells you you¡¯ve been doing the Force wrong, and then rubs your nose in it. That sucks too.¡± Mei¡¯s expression was distant, the Knight peering off into memory as she spoke. ¡°I think I¡¯m a pretty good duelist. I held my own with you, right? I guess I could¡¯ve gone off and held onto that and came at Master Skywalker and Master Horn again some other time. I imagined it, you know.¡± Anakin pictured Mei in her armor, anger twisting her features, standing in shadow. Then he thought of her form in their duel, the openings he¡¯d seen, ones that maybe he couldn¡¯t quite exploit, but ones he¡¯d still noticed. ¡°My Uncle wouldn¡¯t even blink.¡± Mei smirked, deactivating her brother¡¯s lightsaber. ¡°Right? Master Skywalker is something else. And what would I have wasted anyway? All that time, all those friends I made here. You Jedi - you¡¯re not Jensaarai, but you¡¯ve got a good thing going. I like it here.¡± She flopped back, spreading her arms and looking up through the distant ceiling above. ¡°And here I am! Coruscant! Crazy! So if I turned down the invite like some of my cousins and stayed stewing on Susevfi, woof, that wouldn¡¯t be good. And if I took Niko¡¯s ¡®saber and decided to go beat up every Imp I could find? Wasn¡¯t gonna bring him back, either.¡± The words were different. She wasn¡¯t preaching like some of the other Jedi, but he was hearing the same underlying meaning. Let it go. Trust in the Force. Move on. He was. He was. Chewie died months ago. How fast was he supposed to do this? Dad still couldn¡¯t even stay in the same room with him. Mei had ten - eleven - years to come to terms with her brother. Uncle Luke had decades now with Obi-wan and¡­his father. They all had so much time. Why couldn¡¯t he have time? He kept quiet. People needed this. They wanted to help. He could feel it. The Force whispered it to him, the sensation of their sorrow and their sympathy. It was more about them than him. It made them feel better to tell their own stories. None of them were about Chewie. They couldn¡¯t be. ¡°But you know, buddy?¡± Mei turned her head, looking up from the sand. Anakin glanced over, catching her eye. ¡°I still watch Master Skywalker. Master Horn too, when he¡¯s around. I got Master Solusar to spar with me like Master Skywalker would one time. Yeah, that¡¯s not something I¡¯m gonna forget. Cause you know what? I still kind of want to beat them. It¡¯s never gonna happen, but you know, I can dream. Well. Maybe Master Horn. I still think that was luck.¡± Anakin cleared his throat, swallowing down the knot that had grown. ¡°Huh.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to let go. You don¡¯t have to put it all away. Just don¡¯t¡­just don¡¯t let it take up everything. Vong don¡¯t use two blades, but Jar¡¯Kai is fun.¡± Mutely, Anakin nodded in agreement. ¡°It¡¯s pretty different, yeah? Took me years to get comfortable with it. There¡¯s always more to learn. Wanna go again?¡± She bounced to her feet, subtly helping herself with the Force. Two silvery handles spun in both hands as she peered down at him. ¡°I think we¡¯ve got enough time before Master Durron and Master Skywalker come by.¡± Anakin accepted a hand, hauled to his feet, just about the same height as the Jensaarai woman. She beamed at him, brushing sand off the thighs of her armor and paced back, shaking out her arms and legs. ¡°The Galaxy is gonna be there after the vong. You gotta want to be there afterward, too.¡± Anakin brushed his thumb across the emitter of his own blade, turning it left and right in his hands. Mei waited patiently, rocking on the balls of her feet. Jaina was off with Rogue Squadron, right on the front. Jacen was¡­wherever Jacen was right now. Dad was off trying to forget Chewie. Mom was lost in some new Senate projects. And he was building vong droids and running routines and filling up every day from the moment he woke up to the moment he collapsed back into bed. Snap-hiss and Anakin gazed into shining blue. Mei readied herself, red and blue in both hands, lips quirked. They danced around the training pit again and beyond, up along the rocks and promontories, along the roofs of the facilities, through the winding paths of the gardens. She was right. Jar¡¯kai was fun. Blue and blue and red, flashy and demonstrative, clashing and humming and whirling wide. For a while, Anakin didn¡¯t feel like a warrior, he felt like a Jedi. When his uncle showed up, Master Durron in tow, they learned that Harlan Ysanna had bowed out of the coming summit, citing an unexpected lead she had to chase down. It would be just the three of them to represent the Jedi with Senator Shesh¡¯s office. After that all was said and done, Uncle Luke suggested Anakin come back with him to the Praxeum for a few weeks while he met with Masters Solusar and Tionne and others. With a warm arm around Anakin¡¯s shoulders, his uncle offered time, one on one, to practice bladework and maybe show him some of the techniques Anakin had picked up against the Yuuzhan Vong. Anakin thought about it. If there was going to be a Galaxy after the Vong indeed, they had to get through the Vong first. Then he thought of the dozen unreplied-to mails from Sannah and Tahiri and suddenly wondered if maybe going to the Praxeum wasn¡¯t the best idea after all. Exigence Chapter IX IX: Pathology
Flake-fish crumbled at the slightest pressure of her fork, splitting soft white flesh apart like an expert fanning a sabacc deck. Crisped and golden skin gave way at just the right amount of resistance to know it was perfectly done. Pungent herbs and cracked spices awoke tastebuds in such a way as to guide the flavors precisely as the chef desired, from savory to salty to slightly sweet before she swallowed the morsel down. The wine, six hundred years old and kept within a half a degree of ideal temperature, matched proper dryness and bouquet to the fish and the charred vegetables swimming in saccharide-glaze. Ten thousand credits, give or take, and in all it was a fairly middling affair, Viqi Shesh considered. Across from her sat the Chief of State of the known Galaxy. ¡°It¡¯s very good,¡± she lied as Borsk Feyl¡¯ya forked a bite of his own, the Bothan glancing up at her as she spoke. A handful of other senators were in attendance too, each wisely engaged in their own conversations and leaving the center of the table to Feyl¡¯ya and Shesh. The rest of the night might well be about SELCORE, but right now there was a single issue the two cared to speak of and it was not relief for refugees. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve never quite acquired the taste,¡¯ Borsk mused as he took another bite. ¡°I¡¯ll take your word for it. There¡¯s appearances to keep.¡± Around them was hubbub and clanking of forks and knives, dozens of sapients all partaking. One of Senator Solo¡¯s - Organa-Solo¡¯s, rather - aides was deep in discussion with another Senator that Viqi didn¡¯t recognize and the two appeared poised to break out datapads to compare notes. Others were speaking on Ord Mantell, now a hotspot for the news, given the retreat of the Yuuzhan Vong from the solar system only a day previous. Actionable intelligence from the secret priestess, finally. If the Vong fleet sent to Ord Mantell seemed understrength for a world of that importance, no one was talking about it. At least, no one was talking about it publicly. Admiral Sovv was proudly proclaiming the virtues of the New Republic Fleet again and word had it Director Scaur was considering the action, if not ironclad proof, at least a strong indication to the sincerity of the defectors. All of it built around the assumption that the Yuuzhan Vong were not a people given to subterfuge. They blew up planets! They killed living worlds with plagues and burned ¡®heretics¡¯ in vast ritual sacrifices, or so said those fleeing on the bow-wave of the invasion. They burned and scarred their devotion into their own bodies - a particularly disgusting practice - so that everyone could see just how much their gods cared. All of it added up to one of the most unsubtle foes the New Republic had ever faced. It beggared belief that the Yuuzhan Vong could have a deceptive bone in their body. She¡¯d read briefs, dozens of pages long, that outlined how lying might be a cultural taboo, in fact, going against their religion. The arrogance to confidently decide what the vong religion did or did not say after a scant few months was, actually, almost comforting. The moment bureaucrats started functioning intelligently and efficiently was the moment you knew there was a plot afoot. Governing was not about getting the right information, it was about getting endlessly contradictory information and being able discern what was fluff, what was lies, and what people were convinced was true. Viqi may be a Senator of the New Republic, but she was still Kuati. ¡°The schedule is finalized, I¡¯ve heard.¡± Shaken from her thoughts, Viqi dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin and nodded. ¡°They¡¯re proving to be very cautious, but we reached an agreement quicker than I had expected, though a little later than I hoped.¡± Borsk raised an eyebrow. ¡°You were hoping before the Elan conspiracy delivered something tangible.¡± ¡°I still think it¡¯s entirely a trap. We¡¯ve read all the same briefs, but it¡¯s just simply too good to be true. And anything too good to be true usually is.¡± ¡°Yet your little pet project isn¡¯t too good to be true?¡± He was leading her along by the nose, but Viqi allowed it. She¡¯d not had the chance to speak, one on one, with the Chief of State on the matter of the ¡®Imperials¡¯ yet, only getting tacit approval from his office to continue her overtures. Not that she needed the approval, as a Senator she had a great degree of autonomy, but it was still beneficial to know that he was, for the moment, at least not against her. Even if he had been, she was a Shesh. A Senator might be able to be prevented, but affairs of her family were well outside the authority of the office of the Chief of State. ¡°Chief Feyl¡¯ya, they¡¯ve decided to annex a free world and they¡¯re calling themselves the Imperium of Man. So far the only positive I¡¯ve found for them is that they reached out to us.¡± Borsk forked a floret, considering it before putting down his fork and reaching for his own wine. ¡°Imperium of Man. Galactic Empire. Second Imperium. It seems a sort of pathology, at this point. Some sort of derangement of the human species.¡± ¡°Aside from the unfortunate similarities, we haven¡¯t found any connection to the Empire or the Remnant. Moff Sarreti was willing to answer a few questions from Bastion, in good faith. Considering Ithor.¡± ¡°Considering Ithor.¡± Borsk nodded. ¡°A tragedy.¡± ¡°Mm,¡± Viqi agreed. Borsk folded his hands together, tapping fingers to his chin as he looked her over. ¡°What are you hoping from this, Senator Shesh? Really?¡± A question she asked herself nightly, staring up at the darkened lumes of her chambers. The thought that poked its head up each time she reviewed the latest response from the ¡®Imperium¡¯ and prepared a return reply. Each time she spoke with Tresk Im¡¯nel, the Bothan diplomat-turned Jedi-turned diplomat again, as they went over talking points. The very same question she¡¯d endured for hours with her great great-aunt, as she threw almost every single favor and bit of leverage she¡¯d accumulated over her comparatively short life at the wizened old bag. ¡°What am I hoping for? I¡¯m hoping for a proxy force to pressure the invaders from rimward. I¡¯m hoping for an actually energetic ally in this war. I¡¯m hoping for an outside context problem for the vong, to give them a taste of what we¡¯re having to endure.¡± If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. And to be a lever to pry open the swirling, self-defeating mess that was the Senate. ¡°I don¡¯t trust these Imperials an inch. If you¡¯re worried about another catastrophe like Senator A¡¯kla, you needn¡¯t. I very much enjoy living.¡± To punctuate the point, Viqi took a long draw on her own flute of wine, making eyes at the Chief of State. It wasn¡¯t a proper meeting with Borsk if Viqi didn¡¯t try to at least get a reaction from him. He didn¡¯t seem impressed. ¡°Elegos¡¯ death was a tragedy, Viqi.¡± ¡°It absolutely was and it was also absolutely a colossal mishandling. I mourn his passing as much as anyone else and I will miss his spirited morality, but even if he was right, it was a job better left to an ethnologist or someone like that. Not a sitting Senator.¡± She knew exactly what Borsk was going to say in response and let it play out. A little dance, if you like, saying the things the other knew but measuring the way it was said, the words chosen, the implications behind the angles. ¡°You¡¯re going personally,¡± Borsk replied, leaning back in his chair. ¡°And that¡¯s different?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not throwing myself on their hospitality, Chief Feyl¡¯ya. I¡¯ll have Master Durron and other Jedi with me, along with the pride of my family. And if there is treachery - well, I hope you¡¯ll be quick to avenge a poor fallen Senator.¡± Borsk didn¡¯t believe there was a great risk. No one did, not even Nylykerka or Sovv or anyone else on CSI. These Imperials in their communiques were polite and forthcoming, giving a significant amount of information on their interests in the New Republic and intentions in reaching out. Borsk was merely going through the motions, making sure to warn her that should the worst happen, he could wash his hands of it and through his mournful eulogizing, make sure the rest of the Senate and public knew that on Viqi¡¯s head be her own death. It had worked with Elegos A¡¯kla and she saw the process already in motion here. ¡°I hope you find whatever you are looking for, Viqi,¡± Borsk said and she smiled at his use of her given name. The little torch she¡¯d once had him was gone, worn away by habituation and working alongside him, but let it not be said Viqi didn¡¯t know her type. ¡°I really do. The New Republic could use allies right now and our list is short.¡± ¡°There¡¯s always Hapes,¡± Viqi said with a grin, looking over the rim of her wineglass. The Bothan contained a wince, but barely. That insular little cluster loved to play the card of their neutrality, coupled with their untouched, albeit outdated, navy. More than once Hapes had been the topic of conversation in the backrooms of the Senate and may the Force help them all if Senator Organa-Solo got it into her head to go chase down that lepus-hole. ¡°Let me clarify, then: please be successful.¡± Borsk huffed an exaggerated sigh, tucking back into his meal as around them the sound of cutlery and glassware muttered under calm tones of the live band. Viqi took another forkful of her flake-fish, savoring the medley of spices and buttery melt of the entr¨¦e. Middling fare it might be, there was no reason not to enjoy it. Viqi Shesh took what life gave her with both hands, whatever it may be.
¡®Approach,¡¯ the Primarch intoned. Flanking walls of doughty ceramite, gilt in gold and trimmed in alabaster, enclosed a narrow track that led to where the Primarch awaited, resplendent in his newly restored plate. Each Ultramarine of the two squads stood shoulder to shoulder, bolters held smartly tight to their plastron, red lenses aglow in frowning Mark IV helms. Aeonid Thiel held his head high and paced down the row, gaze fixed forward. His booted tread thundered on marble polished enough to ripple muddled reflections of himself and the Ultramarines at attention. Tall, arching windows enclosed the gallery, letting in the bright sun of Eboracum¡¯s primary, though the world itself was hidden below Macragge¡¯s Honour. In the centuries of the Gloriana¡¯s service, the gallery had seen balls and ceremonies, promotions and lectures, solemn vigils and the most beloved of all moments: joyful meetings with the lost children of Terra. Today it served Thiel and in curious contrast to his genebulked physique, he felt rather small. His gene-father waited, massive ceramine digits gently holding a bundle of fabric, neatly folded. To his right stood Marius Gage, Chapter Master of the First and Master Primus of the Imperium Exsilius and to the Primarch¡¯s left was Fastus Foltrus, Captain of the 53rd and High Suzerain of Eboracum. Gage held in his hands a quiescent helm, painted with a broad stripe of red flanked by white. A brilliant white and black crest sat transverse, anchored by a brass bracket to the crown of the helm. Foltrus held in his own hands a single pauldron, rimmed in gold and painted with a crisp Ultima on an ultramarine field. Reaching the trio, Thiel knelt gently, careful not to damage the priceless stone, sourced all the way from Macragge and Iax. Bowing his head, Thiel awaited the Primarch, who took a step forward, boots filling Thiel¡¯s vision. ¡®Sergeant Aeonid Thiel of the 135th Company, 13th Chapter. You are known as the ¡®Red-Marked¡¯ among Astartes and mortal alike. You have shown alacrity and initiative in your years of honorable service. The only mark on your record is one of grim irony, now sponged away by exemplary conduct in the darkest hours of our Legion. Sergeant Aeonid Thiel, you are a Sergeant no more. Captain Foltrus.¡¯ To Thiel¡¯s left, Foltrus stepped forward along with a blank-eyed arming servitor. Momentary whines of machinery cut the silence, then the servitor lifted Thiel¡¯s left pauldron away, exposing inner reactive mechanisms of his warplate. Foltrus gently placed the new pauldron in place, one bearing the markings and color befitting Thiel¡¯s new position. Again the servitor¡¯s tools whined and clacked and Thiel felt the minute shifting as his armor accepted the replacement. ¡®By my authority as Primarch of the XIIIth Legiones Astartes, granted to me by my father, the Emperor, Beloved By All, I elevate you to the rank of Lieutenant.¡¯ The Primarch shook out the folded fabric, revealing a deep blue cape, edged by fine white stitching and with a proud aquila spreading its wings across the center in golden thread. Recognizing the signal, Thiel rose to his feet and his genesire swept the cape about his shoulders, fastening it with magnetic clips to his pauldrons. Marius Gage stepped forward, offering the cradled helm in his hands and Thiel took it, peering down at the stern visage and wide crest. Then he set his jaw and met his father¡¯s eyes. Roboute bore the same stern severity he had for months now, but there was a brightness to his eyes as he glanced over Thiel¡¯s otherwise battered and scarred armor, save for the pristine and polished pauldron on his left side. ¡®It¡¯s time to leave Calth behind, my son,¡¯ Guilliman said lowly, quiet enough that even for posthuman hearing only Thiel and the two Captains might have heard it. Louder then, the Primarch gestured wide and spoke to the two squads assembled. They were all those selected by Thiel, by hand, to be part of his growing demicompany. His second, Sannad Optarch, stood at the fore of the right-side squad. ¡®Lieutenant Thiel, your command. Welcome him.¡¯ As one, the assembled squads rang their bolters off their chests and spoke, as one: ¡®Lieutenant Thiel!¡¯ ¡®This is an old tradition, one left behind along with the name War-Born. It is now that it is most important to remember what we had been, and all that we may yet be. The Crusade is changing and so must we. The Ultramarines have ever been the foremost of the Legions of the Emperor, and this will ever be so. Lieutenant Thiel, you shall serve as you have always served, for the glory of mankind, the Emperor, the Imperium, and the Thirteenth. Do you so swear?¡¯ Thiel clapped his fist to his chest in the old salute, then made the sign of the aquila. ¡®I so swear.¡¯ ¡®Then as your first order as Lieutenant: the representatives of this New Republic arrive within the day. Carry my words to them and speak with my voice. You have my trust, Lieutenant Thiel. Now go in the name of the Throne.¡¯ Exigence Chapter X X: Speak Softly
Under the light of Pirve¡¯s star - Eboracum¡¯s, if you asked the current owners - three hardworn warships formed up expectantly, thrusters idling at station keeping where a hyperspace nav buoy once graced the quiet dark. Samothrace led the pack, flanked by Opolor¡¯s Vow and Numinus. The battle barge, washed in deep ocean blue and gilt with gold led the two grand cruisers as seconds ticked down. A new experience, this one, having a set timetable to rely upon, down to the moment. Unheard of in the means of interstellar travel those aboard the warships knew best, but something to acclimate to in this new galaxy. Precisely on time a white and violet arrowhead flickered into existence, seeming as if to decelerate from incredible velocities to gently coast toward the Imperial squadron. Immediately after three more flickers announced the arrival of the much smaller cousins of the centerpiece, each the same white-and-violet as their much older sister. Opolor¡¯s Vow and Numinus were of the Avenger and Vengeance class, respectively, but the flagship that Viqi Shesh claimed overmatched both in both length and bulk as it fell in with the Imperials. The warships of the XIIIth split, allowing Samothrace and the new arrival, Malaghi Shesh, to come abeam of each other as the combined squadrons fell inward to the sun and Eboracum. Malaghi Shesh had begun life as a Mandator Star Dreadnought, sold to the Ixtlar sector similarly to the sale of her sisters to other Core holdings. There she had been bastardized, humbled, the proud dreadnought plastered with advertising, her very name sold off to the highest bidder. Ixtlar Defender became the Serve-O-Droid Defender and then in a fresh humiliation, Arcon Multinode Defender as rights were traded. Vast holograms adorned her flanks and she had become nearly a floating mall as much as a dreadnought. Tourists walked her decks to gawk at gaudy displays and purchase overpriced trinkets. The Mandator had been, in Viqi¡¯s opinion, a fairly neat encapsulation of everything wrong with Kuat. A marvel of design, the result of a thousand thousand and more diligent, hardworking sons and daughters of Kuat dedicating their craft and expertise to its creation, and it had been sold off and forgotten. Ixtlar had little need of it and it languished, moldering away, for generations. In much the same way that Kuat had become the appendage of the Empire, and then of the New Republic after. What was Kuat known for, now? Star Destroyers. Star Destroyers. Forty years of Star Destroyers. Forty years of resting on their laurels, churning out by the hundreds, thousands, the same vessels again and again and again. When the Empire fell, forty thousand Star Destroyers were abroad across the Galaxy. Most remained, reverted to sector and local authorities, handfuls here and there incorporated into New Republic Navy squadrons. KDY was synonymous with the Star Destroyer. But Dac was on the ascendant. Bothawui surprised everyone with the innovation of their Assault Cruisers. Even the guilds of Fondor were making moves to establish cutting-edge designs of their own. What would Kuat do? Make more Star Destroyers. Until the heat death of the universe. Because they were effective. They were known. They were easy. Like Malaghi Shesh, when it had been Ixtal Defender, it was profitable and it was business to sell it off to the highest bidder. Well, her family had bought it back ten years ago at firesale prices. Out had been ripped the corruption, the holograms were snuffed out, the hull ablated and blasted clean, repainted in the elegant whorls and emblems of the Shesh family and a venerable name lettered in on her proud prow. Malaghi Shesh, one of the most famous matriarchs of the family. A better name for a better future. Further work had been done as well, replacing and overhauling much of the aging dreadnought, bringing it up to par with the younger sisters of the Mandator line, effectively bringing Malaghi Shesh on par with the Mandator IIs. Viqi stood on the bridge itself, paneled in dark stained hourl wood from Kuat, each console and station edged in polished brass with slake-marble facings. Prying Malaghi Shesh from the clawed fingers of her great great aunt, the current matriarch of the family, had been humiliating and exhausting, but looking at the grand warships escorting the New Republic cadre, it all proved worth it. Their style wasn¡¯t exactly to her tastes - a modern, sleek aesthetic appealed to her palate. If things had to be done richly, in luxury, it should be streamlined and minimalist, highlighting the finery. Excess meant that you didn¡¯t have the good sense to recognize style. The Imperial ships were piles upon piles of ornamentation and gaudy excess, but all the same, Viqi couldn¡¯t deny the sheer passion they exuded. When someone emblazoned a screaming avian in bas-relief across hundreds of meters of warship, they clearly had something to say. Malaghi Shesh, to Viqi¡¯s sensibilities, proudly murmured greatness to the universe, confident enough to never need raise her voice. These Imperial ships shouted it to the heavens above, yet did not seem to come from insecurity. Rather, maybe a boisterous sort of overabundant energy. One that Kuat could well do to sample. Energy, even giddy, undirected energy, was better than slow senescence. The other escorts alongside Malaghi Shesh were Temerous, Alacrity and Boastful, all Imperial-I Star Destroyers, also of Shesh, on loan to the New Republic in a gracious display of unity in such turbulent times. They would be permanently New Republic ships after this, if Viqi had her way, a gift to the New Republic alongside the results of this summit. Malaghi would remain at Coruscant, symbolizing Kuat¡¯s support of the Senate and the New Republic Navy and as Viqi¡¯s own personal craft, should need arise. Unless she failed utterly here, in which not only would Malagi return to the yards over Kuat, owned by her family, but she would follow soon enough too, no doubt stripped of her Senatorship with one of her other distaff cousins or nieces ready to step in place. Or, perish the thought, a scion of one of the other families. It was not an exaggeration to say that Viqi Shesh had bet her entire hand before the shifter and now waited, fingernails tapping, for the draw of the cards to come. Coming then into orbit over the provisional ¡®capital¡¯ of this Imperium of Man, Samothrace pulled ahead, leading Malaghi Shesh while the three Star Destroyers and two grand cruisers split off, taking up pre-determined stations to retrograde and in a higher orbit. The battle barge and Mandator settled into synchronous orbit over Eboracum, engines cooling down as station-keeping thrusters came alight. Patrols of thick-bodied Imperial starfighters coasted by at respectful distances, each waggling their wings as they passed. There had been debate about where to speak, face to face. Viqi had offered sumptuous suites and conference halls aboard Malaghi, newly refurbished and afforded the finest amenities hundreds of millions of credits could offer. The Imperium seemed loathe to meet aboard any of their own vessels, so soon enough the decision was made to instead stand on the surface of Eboracum, in the open air and sky. Viqi Shesh joined with Tresk Im¡¯nel, Anakin Solo, Mei Taral, Kyp Durron, her own staff chief Victor Pomt and two dozen aides and advisors from her office and selected from the Diplomatic Corps. Two shuttles were paired up in the primary hangar of Malaghi, ready to ferry them all down on the short hop to the planet¡¯s surface. The youngest among them, Anakin Solo, kept looking everywhere at once as the delegation prepared to split up to their shuttles. ¡°Are you nervous, Jedi Solo?¡± Viqi asked, not unkindly. He started, flicking his eyes to meet hers, then down again as he flushed. ¡°No - I was just, um - this is the kind of thing my Uncle does.¡± Master Durron smirked, clapping the Knight on his shoulder. ¡°Being the diplomat? That¡¯s Master Skywalker, alright.¡± ¡°There¡¯s noting to worry about. I¡¯ll be leading, Jedi Solo, and Master Durron I¡¯m sure is ready to speak for the Jedi.¡± ¡°Or not speak,¡± Durron said with a shrug. ¡°It depends on what I¡¯m seeing down there.¡± The only female Jedi there, with Harlan Ysanna having backed out, kept her arms folded. The frown that had worked its way onto the woman¡¯s face shortly before they had departed Coruscant a week previous had not faded any. Done up in her rather barbaric looking armor, Taral was a stark contrast to the robed Solo and Durron. Though Im¡¯nel was a Jedi as well, he was there on behalf of his actual job and wore the same tunic ensembles as the others of the diplomatic corps. There was, of course, another potential reason for the young Solo¡¯s mild embarrassment, Viqi mused, as each party took to their own shuttle. The Jedi would take one, along with a few of her Senatorial aides. Viqi and Tresk would take another, with her three closest staff, then the rest split between the remaining two. Each shuttle was an elegant but simple affair, never meant for more than the briefest hop between ships or worlds, never to travel between stars. She needn¡¯t even take a seat as the shuttles debarked without even a hint of motion. Transparisteel panelling gave a spectacular vista as Malaghi¡¯s warm hangar dropped away, leaving them in the stark, bright light of space. Her reflection caught her eye and Viqi cocked her head, carefully sliding a few stray strands of hair back behind her ear. Where others were dressed as Jedi or in their capacity as Senate staff or officials of the Diplomatic Corps, she had allowed her household to dress her in only the finest a scion of Shesh could claim. For herself, of course, she had spent hours in deliberation in her many closets. A fine-boned corset in cream and satin slimmed her waist, where several broad golden belts draped carefully over her hips. Violet trousers stitched in whorls of gold and black were tightly fit, tucked into high black boots. Over it all she wore a classically Kuati robe of semitransparent silks and gauze, itself embroidered with swirls that matched her trousers. Layered skirts rustled about her legs and long, flowing sleeves ended in gold embroidered cuffs. Jewels in settings of gold and silver wove into her black hair, itself left loose to brush over her shoulders and d¨¦colletage. Viqi was quite aware of the effect she had on men and not a few women, as all weapons were considered in high politics of family and governance. Hopefully the poor Solo boy wasn¡¯t too overwhelmed. The shuttles broke through a layer of wispy cloud and Viqi exhaled a breath of surprise at what was revealed beneath. Pirve had been a quiet, out of the way world, one unknown to everyone but those that lived there or happened to drop by. She was sure that even those at the sector capital would¡¯ve had to look it up. According to briefs, the world had only a few small cities, nearly villages, and a generally sleepy air. Below her now, though, was something quite different. A fortress spread out below. What had been a mountain valley was transformed, massive minarets and towers clawing up into the sky, seeming to reach for the shuttles as they descended. Enormous zones were planed flat and paved, creating tiered landing zones emblazoned with lights and complicated paint markings. Gun turrets that would be at home on a battlecruiser sat atop squat towers and fortifications, peeking from under armored cupolas. Yet despite these Imperials only having claimed ownership of this world months ago, there was no sign of slapdash or rushed efforts. To her critical eye, Viqi could immediately make out the measured grid-structure of the fortification. She could see the gaps where the construction was incomplete and understood what would fill in the voids. There was care in the work too, with buttressed arches and carven pillars, high vaulted windows and the same symbols she had seen on the warships repeated here. The largest landing pad, which the shuttles now cut toward, had a vast twin-headed avian set against the crisp U emblem painted onto the tarmac, hundreds of meters wide. Stolen story; please report. Victor Pomt, her staff chief, stepping next to her, whistled. ¡°These people don¡¯t waste time,¡± he observed. Viqi smiled, peering down at the vast platform as the shuttles descended, watching as shapes of rows upon rows of soldiery came into view, formed up into six square blocks, surrounding a main cleared section. Viqi¡¯s shuttle was the first set down, as befit her position as a Senator - and a Shesh. Tresk Im¡¯nel and Victor Pomt joined her, both standing a step behind as they waited for the go-ahead signal and opening of the ramp. She had not lived under the Empire, at least not as she remembered, being too young for it to have mattered much, but vividly she recalled holos of the pomp and circumstance of Imperial delegations and her pulse quickened. This was how things should be, not the dull rote procedure of the New Republic. Cultures should be celebrated and championed, filled with pride in their worlds and their people. The New Republic should send their representatives in pageantry and splendor to treat with their allies and to shame their foes, not sent wordlessly in drab diplomatic cruisers only to kick their heels in unadorned offices. As Viqi awaited the signal that the other shuttle had set down, she adjusted her skirts and sleeves, checking the drape and layering and gently running a finger along the hem of her corset. There was something to be said for the day-to-day comfort of simple tunics and robes when in her Senate offices, but she felt powerful here and now. Radiant. Only now she realized how little she¡¯d indulged in traditional dress since taking office on Coruscant and resolved to rectify this in the future. ¡®We¡¯re ready, madame,¡¯ Pomt whispered. She flicked her hand and the ramp slid open. Chill mountain air swept into the climate controlled comfort of the shuttle, rustling her skirts and sleeves and she breathed it in, deep, and stepped forward. From the other shuttle came the rest of her staff that she¡¯d brought as well as Master Durron leading the Jedi contingent, all in brown and tan robes save the Jensaarai woman, who was wrapped up in her garish armor. The sight before them was arresting and Viqi nearly slowed in her step. They had all seen the man in the baroque armor in the initial communique from the Imperium - here now were hundreds. All appearing nearly identical, all massive, all utterly and completely still, shoulder to shoulder, arranged in formal parade formation. Red lenses burned from frowning helms and had she not seen the face of a man within that armor, Viqi knew she¡¯d assume them to be wardroids. Flanking the main blocks of these warriors were more recognizable soldiery - humans, both men and women, in ornate uniforms in the same blues, creams and golds, each with long and thin rifles resting on their shoulders. Officers wore peaked caps and bore low-slung swords. Then behind the massive warriors and formations of simpler soldiery sat thick-bodied and brutally designed tanks of various types, Viqi¡¯s trained eye noting varieties of barrel and armaments. Set against the backdrop of the sharp peaked mountains in the far distance and the white-washed fortress in the middle distance all around, it was a ferociously martial sight, one that might have otherwise been intimidating. For Viqi, it was delightful. The effort to draw up all these men and women, to organize them, outfit them, to spit-and-polish their uniforms and weapons and draw out the tanks and armored vehicles, all to assemble this? Oh, how much it told her about the mindset of the Imperium. How much it told her they valued this meeting, how deeply they needed to impress the New Republic. Here is our strength, they were shouting. Here is what we can offer. Viqi, coming to a halt before five individuals of vastly different shape and mien each, was smiling so widely her cheeks had nearly begun to hurt. If this was what all they had to offer, then, well, she would quite gladly take it all. For Anakin Solo, in the shadow of Kyp Durron, the experience couldn¡¯t be more different. He could feel growing unease in Master Durron, the older Jedi¡¯s jaw clenching tighter, muscles bunching and twitching as he looked out over the landing plaza and assembled soldiery. Next to Anakin, Mei was still frowning, almost scowling, but she seemed to keep her reaction in check. Both the Jedi were twice or more Anakin¡¯s age and their tension was unsettling. The Force whispered no hints of danger and he was relieved that he could feel the warmth and life from all of the Imperials here, none of the eerie nothingness of the vong, but everything just felt so off. It felt like a story about the Empire from his dad. Not the Remnant, who had their own problems but were lightyears better than the Empire, but the Empire Empire. The one under Palpatine. The one that - Anakin swallowed. His palm itched for the comforting coolness and weight of his ¡®saber. He looked around, again, feeling like the glowing lenses of the massive soldiers were tracking him, and him alone. Master Durron and Knight Taral had him on edge, but it was the feeling he was getting from Senator Shesh that was making it all the worse. The woman was ecstatic. Like a girl on her lifeday, and the contrast was making his head ache. A voice in his head that sounded far too much like Tahiri asked just what in the Force he¡¯d gotten himself into this time. He really did not have an answer.
Viqi had not met them, but she knew them. Colonel Surezia Lurense, Magos Corria Nalt, Lieutenant Aeonid Thiel, Admiral Katryna Vaul and Iterator Sorvenos Tamirit Noskaur. All had been named in communications as proposed representatives of the Imperium, each to speak for a particular branch of the organization. She was less clear on precisely what that meant, or who they spoke for, but such was the way of diplomacy. That would be hashed out well enough in the time to come, but first it was pleasant to match faces to names and cursory descriptions. Surezia Lurense, who introduced herself with a skittish look on her face like a prey animal ready to bolt, was a plain looking woman, perhaps middle aged, who wore her hair straight and plain beneath a starched cap. Her uniform was similar to that of those soldiers formed up around them, but featuring more decoration whose meaning was alien. By contrast, Katryna Vaul was a woman after Viqi¡¯s own heart. The Admiral nearly sneered down her nose, at least half a head taller than even Viqi, who herself was tall for a human woman, and Vaul¡¯s impressive and rakishly cut uniform was not only perfectly tailored, but flattering and imposing. A woman of intent and ferocity, Viqi could tell, who wouldn¡¯t be out of place in the dagger-edged games of the Ten Families. Sorvenos Noskaur shook her hand with both of his, beaming a bright white smile, exuding good cheer and excitement enough to nearly eclipse his companions. ¡°Such a pleasure, Senator, such a pleasure! And to you, Master Jedi, welcome to Eboracum, be welcome with the warmest greetings of the Imperium of Man.¡± His perfect form of address to a Jedi clearly caught Durron off guard, Viqi noted, the import of both she filed away as Noskaur greeted the Solo boy with the same enthusiasm and sincerity as he greeted everyone else. Corria Nalt kept his - she knew him to be him from briefs - hands tucked up his own robes and only dipped his head a fraction of a degree after hissing his own name and rank from a grilled mask that covered most of his face. And the Lieutenant? Not even a word, just looming over them all, armor thrumming with contained power. ¡°Viqi Shesh,¡± she offered, extending her hand, palm down. ¡°Senator of the Kuat Sector, New Republic. Of the Shesh Family.¡± As expected, this ¡®Lieutenant Thiel¡¯ did not take and kiss her hand (a ridiculous notion, but one she was amused to entertain) and she turned the gesture into a sweep as she bowed her head. For a long moment she feared he would not even reply, leaving her overextended and awkward, but from his stern helmet came harsh words, distorted by transmission. ¡°Lieutenant Aeonid Thiel, Thirteenth Legiones Astartes.¡± ¡°A pleasure,¡± she smirked and turned to her true counterpart, Noskaur. He had just finished complimenting the workmanship of Taral¡¯s armor, leaving the Jensaarai flatfooted, and he seemed to be perfectly in sync with Viqi. ¡°Shall we retire inside? Refreshments are prepared and we shall be much more comfortable.¡± ¡°That would be excellent, Iterator. Your hospitality is both noted and appreciated.¡± Noskaur offered her his arm, like an escort at some ball. Pomt cleared his throat but she accepted, linking her arm with his and together they led the group off of the tarmac, toward broad stairs that swept up toward a building that looked perhaps municipal, if the ornate colonnade that encircled it was any indicator. A walk and talk, for the moment, letting Viqi and the rest take in the sights of the active fortress. A squadron of starfighters roared overhead on thick contrails, likely much lower than they normally would. Behind them, the formations broke up and dispersed with much shouting and ado in a language Viqi did not know, but surely was being recorded and cataloged by sensors on the shuttles. At the request of the Imperium, no protocol droids or even droids of any kind were with them. A peculiar request, but one easily agreed to for the moment. It would come up and she would learn the reasoning soon enough, but in the meantime they had plenty of cutting-edge recording devices both visual and audio and in the electromagnetic besides on loan from the Intelligence Service. Spying on each other was a time-honored tradition of diplomacy and most importantly first-contacts. It was just what one did. Noskaur told her about the fortress as they left the tarmac behind. The ¡®Pharisan Redoubt¡¯, he called it, mentioning that the overseer himself might be inclined to provide a tour, should she voice interest. One ¡®Erriod Paston¡¯, who was the mastermind behind the design. Clearly a formidable mind, to draft the plans for a fortress in such short order, though Viqi suspected a great deal of exaggeration afoot. Noskaur named things that they had seen: Shadowsword and Banesword, Stormlord and Rhino, Landraider and Fire Raptor, Thunderhawk and Stormbird. It was enough to make her head spin - the New Republic, like the Empire before it and Republic before that, had never invested overmuch in an army of sorts. Indeed, the Clone Wars had only demonstrated how much of a mistake that was in some ways. To see such a vast and varied variety of tanks and gunships, armored vehicles and more was impressive. A martial culture indeed and how perfect they appear now, and here, and this time. A wonderfully aggressive and military culture, open and ready to make alliance. Set them amongst the vong, she mused, and the Galaxy could take a breather. Uniformed footmen opened broad double doors for the procession and Noskaur led them into the interior of the building. Inside was airy and high-ceilinged, lit with hissing lumes set into the walls. Carpets were set on smoothly planed stone floors and banners fluttered from walls over carefully arranged and set furniture, but she saw through it all. Not quite a facade, but a forceful arrangement. A thousand Republic credits said that were they to dip inside any of the other, more martial buildings, they would see bare floors, walls, and utilitarian furnishings. Again, they were making the effort. The Imperium was trying to impress. They were making a home-away-from-home, a way to say ¡®See, look at us. We are cultured, we are great, we are worthy. We are equals.¡¯ That they cared at all put a spring in her step. Noskaur led them down a short corridor and into a broad chamber, dominated by a single table, shaped in an arc, made of blond lacquered wood. Seating was arranged along the table and along the walls, each marked by a pinned scrap of parchment, names penned upon them. This entire meeting had been planned to minutia, with Viqi required to pass along names and minor dossiers of each intended attendant, from not only herself but even as far as her aides who handled stenography. Viqi and Noskaur were seated at the very center of the table, with the rest fanning out toward the ends. Little microphones - or at least she assumed they were microphones - projected from the surface, ready to project their words to all present. She saw no emitters around, but figured them likely craftily hidden in the table itself, or some of the decorative desks and statuary scattered around. Strangely, a small flock of hovering drones clustered in one corner, each appearing, at least from a distance, to be shaped like a human skull sprouting machinery. More than a few of the emblems among the Imperials, either worked into gold or painted, were skulls. Macabre, but who was she to judge? Tresk sat next to Viqi, then Master Durron, then Mei Taral, Anakin Solo, Pomt, and then onward down the ranks of less importance. To Noskaur¡¯s side was Admiral Vaul, then Colonel Lurense, then the ¡®Magos¡¯ Nalt. A few other Imperials had joined them, nameless, likely the same sort of archivists and aides as those in Viqi¡¯s party. Lieutenant Thiel did not claim a seat, instead positioning himself within the arc of the table, arms folded across his massive chest. She really did wonder if the man inside the armor was quite so large, or if much of the size was enhanced by the exoskeleton itself. As everyone settled, quiet murmurings and mutterings filling the chamber, white-tunic clad servants entered in from hidden doorways, carrying frosted, thin-necked decanters of what appeared to be water, along with fragile glass goblets that they placed precisely along the table. Then they bowed and fled as throats were cleared, clothes adjusted and wooden feet rasped as chairs shifted. Noskaur stood, straightening his robe and silence finally fell. He began to speak and Viqi let the words wash over her, paying less attention to what was said but rather how. The specifics rarely mattered in speeches such as this, no doubt prepared and agonized over, revised and reviewed to the nth degree. Noskaur spoke about ¡®momentous occasions¡¯ and ¡®unepxected joys¡¯ and ¡®lost cousins¡¯ and all the usual pat phrases expected. He was a handsome man, in a sort of generalized way. She couldn¡¯t read his age, his salt-and-pepper hair and close cropped beard evoking sort of a memory of your father - ageless and merely ¡®older than you¡¯. He gesticulated with purpose, enunciated exactingly and his title of ¡®Iterator¡¯ was well earned indeed. He pointed and swept his hand, singling out and encompassing all, making sure everyone, even the aides against the walls, felt included. A very good orator, all in all, one who might not be out of place- ¡°-thus do we, the Imperium of Man, gladly greet you all in the name of the Emperor, Beloved by All, and the Throne of Terra, which is of course, the homeworld and ancestral origin of all mankind.¡± And Noskaur sat down, beaming his great smile, leaving Viqi to decide that, in fact, sometimes the exact words were important at times like this. Exigence Chapter XI PART IV: TO ORDER ALL SPACE
XI: Seen Stranger
Noskaur called for a recess after the formal introductions - a bit premature, she thought, but he was the host. As he put it, as they chatted while their respective parties rose from the table and began the dance of ice-breaking, long experience in these sorts of careful first-contact situations proved to him that breaking molds of formality and stuffy speeches lent the best results. ¡°You¡¯ve done this before?¡± She asked, sensing a thread to tug along. ¡°Many a time, Senator. The Imperium has been in the business of reuniting a galaxy, you see. Diplomacy is first and foremost in our goals. Our brave sons in the Legiones? Well. There are always times when an open hand is met by a closed fist, and it¡¯s anyone¡¯s right to protect themselves.¡± It sounded laudable, but she could scarce imagine the situations when an entire battlefleet and army was needed for simple ¡®self defense¡¯. ¡°I¡¯m sure the rest of my colleagues will be happy to hear the Imperium prefers peace.¡± Noskaur looked her over as Admiral Vaul, to his right, leaned over and whispered something in his ear. ¡°We prefer safety, Senator.¡± He promised to speak with her again and encouraged her to sample ¡®dishes from the true home of mankind¡¯ before being pulled away by the stern Admiral. White-tunic clad servants in from concealed doors, wheeling tables draped with rich bunting. Most left thereafter, leaving but a handful waiting dutifully to serve. It all seemed terribly rich to Viqi - and the Galaxy¡¯s - sensibilities. Human waitstaff was quite uncommon, given the ubiquity and economy of droids. Refreshments were varied and strange. Viqi had eaten dishes from a dozen cultures and ten times that many worlds, but this was particularly unique. A variety of light wines and champagnes were on offer, with Victor giving it a sample, but she always shied away from any alcohol, no matter how minor, when truly working. Her mind was her sharpest and ablest tool and there was a reason you plied diplomats and politicians with sweet wines easy to sip. Little hors d''oeuvres lay about on silver platters - all bearing that ubiquitous ¡®U¡¯ in some manner, tentatively picked at by the New Republic group and more comfortably enjoyed by the Imperials. Drawing nearer to one of the rigidly erect, poised servants, she realized something else was afoot. Their entire lower face was covered by a carven mask, done in matching skin-tone, covering from just below the eyes to the neckline of their high-collared tunic. Not a mask - the metal edges blended into and under skin, reddened by contact. And their hands - far too many fingers sprouted within silk gloves. The eyes, though. The eyes were human, but blank and staring. Viqi recoiled slightly, bumping into Master Durron. ¡°They¡¯re people,¡± he muttered lowly. ¡°I can sense their life through the Force, but their minds¡­¡± Six similar to the one nearest Viqi were scattered around the room, pouring wine or other refreshments, plating bite-sized offerings to hold out with a particular stiffness. ¡°Unsettling,¡± Viqi decided the best word was. ¡°But it¡¯s their prerogative, I suppose.¡± ¡°To lobotomize people into droids?¡± ¡°Perhaps these people volunteered. Or it¡¯s a temporary thing. That¡¯s sort of the thing with diplomacy, Master Durron, you don¡¯t make assumptions.¡± If the New Republic could tolerate the Hutts, she wasn¡¯t about to be shown up because of unpleasant cultural differences. The Jedi gave her a dark look and turned away, moving back toward an overwhelmed looking Solo and the Jensaarai. She accepted a small plate from the human-droid, eyeing critically what looked like pastry and crisped tips of some sort of meat. Conversation murmured around her as the age-old social lubrication of pleased tastebuds did its universal magic. Noskaur may have had a point. The Imperial Colonel, Lurense, spoke with tight hand gestures to two of Viqi¡¯s staff while Tresk and Noskaur were nodding over long crystal flutes of some amber liquid that both held. Clearly the Iterator had pried himself away from the Admiral, as the latter appeared to have left the chamber entirely. Light dimmed around her and Viqi started to find that the ¡®Lieutenant of the Thirteenth Legiones Astartes¡¯ loomed just beside and behind her. ¡°Ah, Lieutenant Thiel.¡± She smiled up at him, covering her surprise that someone quite so large could be so quiet. Now he was unhelmeted, revealing a surprisingly youthful face, though one that sat just on the uncanny side to her mind. A handful of scars criss-crossed his skin and short cropped hair kept up the rigidly martial appearance. To her surprise, in his massive gauntlets, he also carried a delicate flute with deep red wine. ¡°Senator Shesh. I see you have noticed the servitors.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± He gestured carelessly with hands entirely too large, large enough to hold her whole head, at the man-droid-creature blankly staring at the both of them. Surely Master Durron and she had been subdued in their whispered exchange? He hadn¡¯t been anywhere nearby, she was sure of it. ¡°How astute. Your people¡¯s distaste for droids was clearly conveyed, so forgive us for our curiosity about this¡­equivalent.¡± Thiel sipped at his wine, peering down at her. Though at least a meter separated them, enough that even outstretched her fingertips might not brush his oceanic blue armor, the Astartes loomed dreadfully. No doubt a designed side-effect of the design of their exosuits, to be as intimidating and menacing as possible. Ignoring how the skin of her neck puckered, Viqi stepped closer, posing hipshot, forcing him to look even more directly down toward her and by connection, the rest of her. ¡°They are similar in purpose, though not in design. Droids are unliving intelligence, driven by cold computation. Servitors are vat-grown and driven by the ingenuity of man, Senator.¡± ¡°Vat-grown, you say?¡± ¡°In Ultramar. The good Magos could explain it better.¡± The Astartes kept the same level tone, seeming almost bored. Not rising in the slightest to Viqi¡¯s posturing. She adjusted the fit of her corset. ¡°How strange. I¡¯m sure our ways must seem just as alien.¡± Thiel shrugged, surprisingly smoothly given his massive armor. ¡°I have seen stranger. The universe is wide, Senator.¡± He strode away, leaving the scent of heated metal behind.
¡°I don¡¯t want to be gauche, Iterator, but we¡¯ve discussed mostly the needs of the Imperium. What you might ask of the New Republic. All very reasonable, of course. Astrocartographical charts, access to libraries and records, nominal amounts of material goods. I¡¯m sure that I needn¡¯t remind you that there are two parties to every agreement.¡± Noskaur nodded, sincerity and attention writ across his face. ¡°Of course, Senator Shesh. The Imperium prides itself on fair dealing. If you will allow me a momentary aside, I think it will be illuminating in what we offer.¡± Viqi waved a hand imperiously, bidding the man continue. ¡°I introduced Terra, the Throneworld, as the ancestral homeworld and origin of all Mankind. I understand that this is trivia to you, but to us, it is as essential to who we are as breathing. We are the inheritors and curators of Man¡¯s destiny. I claimed this not as braggadocio or to impress, but to convey the reality that the Imperium is built upon. We come from Terra. We bring the light of Humanity with us. As such, we, as in the Imperium Exsilius, are willing to open our doors to human refugees. Those fleeing the advance of the most pernicious Yuuzhan Vong, every man, woman and child, are welcome. Eboracum stands ready. We have been preparing. This is but one thing we might offer, but it is no small thing for us.¡± Victor caught Viqi¡¯s eye, raising his eyebrow in interest. SELCORE and its struggles were becoming a veritable albatross around the neck of the Senate and the problems would only exponentially compound the longer the war went on. A refugee crisis was one nearly unprecedented in the Galaxy, at least on this scale. If the Imperium was willing to take a chunk of the refugees - only human ones, unfortunately but expectedly - then that might give at least a little breathing room. She was sure military assistance was also on the table, but the fact that this was the first offer made it the one the Imperium was clearly the most interested in. ¡°How many, Iterator? Any aid to the displaced is gratefully received, but as you know of course, I can¡¯t make any deals directly. SELCORE is not my responsibility and I will need to convey some estimate.¡± ¡°How many?¡± Noskaur raised his chin and for the first time so far, Viqi felt she saw unfiltered, untrained emotion on his face. ¡°Dear Senator, we will take as many as you can send to us. Thousands, millions, billions if need be.¡± For all their training, there was a ripple of murmurs, gasps, exhalations of surprise from Viqi¡¯s entourage. Master Durron¡¯s chair snapped back to all four feet with a thud and she imagined that if she had the touch of the Force, the Jedi¡¯s surprise might have bowled her over. Noskaur did not smile, did not ingratiate, did not adopt the usual mask of charming sincerity. His eyes hard, his lips a firm line, he seemed unsurprised by the reaction. ¡°This is why I spoke of Terra. To open our arms and our doors to the displaced of Mankind, even here, far beyond the bounds of our own galaxy, is not a diplomatic consideration, Senator Shesh. It is an imperative. A moral imperative. We are the Imperium of Man and we do not take that name in vain. Rich or poor, sickly or healthy, brilliant or foolish - give us your downtrodden men and women, send us your hungry children; we receive them all.¡± Viqi listened as if from the bottom of a well. Her smile was quite fixed as she nodded along, as inside she was reeling. Billions. She¡¯d heard Ralltir turned away five thousand refugees. Five thousand. Planets were begging off numbers that would scarce fill a starliner, let alone make a blip in a planet¡¯s population on all manner of grounds. Political, economic, social. Cultural. She¡¯d been torn on the subject - on the one hand, she¡¯d utterly support Kuat denying any camps to be set up on the surface, the precious garden that is was, but as a Senator and as she liked to think of herself, a decent person, these were also people that needed a place to stay. Current estimates out of SELCORE put the displaced peoples at around sixty to seventy million in total, scattered across the entire front of the Yuuzhan Vong advance. But the invaders had been skipping sectors and striking at only critical worlds and junctions, which so far served to minimize the overall footprint of their occupation. There were little doubts in CSI that the Yuuzhan Vong would consolidate their gains and soon. When that happened, the tepid faucet of displaced beings would become a torrent. Ralltir turning down five thousand would become five million banging on the door. And if they couldn¡¯t stymie the vong¡¯s campaign and they broke into the Colonies in force as well as spreading more comprehensively south into the Inner Rim and Expansion Region, billions might not just be a number that defied belief. Even Senator Organa-Solo couldn¡¯t turn down this offer, species chauvinism be damned. As if reading her mind, Noskaur lifted her next thoughts directly. ¡°I may be misled, but I am given to believe humans make up a significant percentage of the population of this galaxy. Even should some choose not to accept our invitation, I believe we may yet make a sizable dent in your ¡®refugee problem¡¯, would we not?¡± Entirely, indisputably true. Humans were not and would never be a majority of the galaxy by any means, but there was no argument that humans had the greatest population of any known, non-hiving being. Taking thirty to forty, perhaps, percent bite out of any group of refugees would not be a dent, it would be a coup. Taking a breath, Viqi ordered her thoughts. ¡°This offer is very generous, Iterator. Very generous. I daresay it will shame many in the Senate.¡± Probably not, not with the species restrictions. She could imagine it already, Borsk¡¯s scoff about ingrained human prejudices among rustling and holier-than-thou posturing of other Senators. It¡¯s not as if she agreed with the Imperium¡¯s position, but could Bothawui or any other planet claim to have thrown open their own doors for their people? Not at all. Viqi smirked and tapped her nails against the desk''s surface. ¡°I do recall you saying that this is ¡®but one¡¯ of the offers the Imperium is willing to make¡­¡± It felt deliciously gluttonous to ask for more, but well, he had offered¡­
Everyone wrote a brief on their thoughts for the day. Victor compiled them all and sent them to her on a datacube for security reasons. Viqi lounged in her private chambers aboard Malaghi Shesh, silken bathrobe belted around her waist, skimming it all on a datapad. Noskaur had offered rooms down in the fortress, but she¡¯d declined. It was a quick skip back up to orbit and far more comfortable environs. Sure, her chambers had a square footage in the thousands, but it wasn¡¯t really that part which mattered. It was more having an entire Mandator wrapped around her, regardless of the politeness of the Imperials, that made her own couches and bed that much more comfortable. Most of the short write-ups aligned with her own observations of the first day. It was useful to get other opinions on the five main Imperial representatives, especially as Viqi had not had the opportunity to speak much with the Colonel, Magos, or Admiral. Tresk reported the Admiral was curt and dismissive. He opined it was likely due to his kind - he¡¯d sensed her disgust when speaking with him. Sensed her disgust toward the comparatively small amount of non-humans in the New Republic cadre. Kyp Durron agreed, reporting to her on behalf of all three Jedi. Though all the Imperials hid it with varying degrees of success, they all could sense a broad range of generally negative emotions toward Tresk and others. Ranging from disquiet to mistrust, then all the way to disgust, it was clear that the Imperium had rather undersold its ¡®focus¡¯ on humans. Of course, this all relied on the accuracy of the Jedi¡¯s senses, but while Skywalker¡¯s Jedi were naive and probably handled far too gently, she wasn¡¯t an idiot as to just discount the Force out of hand. Take it as personal observations, with maybe a little more weight. Everyone is fallible, after all. Victor talked with the Colonel and reported she seemed overwhelmed, but animated when discussing technical topics. He¡¯d managed to get a bit of a read on what the Imperium might be interested in acquiring through trade - mostly simple raw materials that they didn¡¯t have in ready supply on Eboracum, as well as potentially samples of domesticated livestock. That all would be laid out more expressly later, she was sure, but it was good to have forewarning. The Imperials were an interesting lot, all told. She thumbed off her datapad, setting it aside on a low table, tugging her bathrobe a bit tighter and sinking deeper into the thick and soft cushioning of a lounge chair taken straight from the palace she¡¯d spent her childhood in. On the one hand, the name itself wasn¡¯t the only reason to draw immediate parallels to the other human-supremacist Empire in recent memory. They seemed to share a similar rigid hierarchy, built around their military. The same militaristic, sharply stratified culture. The same casual sort of arrogance - to declare they were from the human homeworld! And while knowing they couldn¡¯t even hope to prove it. The same disdain for nonhumans. But there similarities seemed surface level. Viqi was too young to remember the Empire before its twilight years, but from stories she couldn¡¯t imagine Palpatine¡¯s Empire being so gracious a host or so willing to open dialogues with the New Republic as a peer. In fact, that Tresk and the other Jedi reported sensing the Imperial¡¯s feelings toward aliens spoke even more to the difference between Imperium and Empire. They were attempting to curtail or at least hide their feelings. Out of necessity? Courtesy? The reason didn¡¯t matter, the result did, which was that the Imperium was more than willing to meet the New Republic halfway. It said a lot. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Today had been mostly formalities of greetings, and initial, broad discussions about interests. The issue of Task Force Mousetrap¡¯s survivors came up, which Noskaur stated they were being organized to be brought to Malaghi Shesh or whichever vessels Viqi desired. That captain, Faranni, would be one to talk to. He and his crew had been ¡®guests¡¯ here for several weeks. Their impressions would be invaluable. On that thought, in fact, she frowned. The Imperium had been very careful to bring them straight down to the fortress, which was populated with only their own people. So far, no access to anywhere else had been allowed, such as the pre-existing cities. What she¡¯d give to interview someone who¡¯d been native to Pirve and now lived under the, what had Noskaur called it? Under the new ¡®compliance¡¯ of the Imperium Exsilius. Now that would be a far better barometer of these people. If it weren¡¯t for how terribly overprotective these Imperials were, she¡¯d be tempted to sneak a few people down to the surface. She¡¯d ordered Malaghi and the other ships to try raising anyone down below, but the Imperium had locked it all down tight. Not even a whiff of a connection from the settlements. It would be concerning if it wasn¡¯t obvious the people were all still down there, going about their lives, visible with just a simple telescope. The blackened smear in the center of the largest settlement was a concern, one Viqi was holding onto in her back pocket. No matter how polite they¡¯d been, this Imperium Exsilius had still made its first act in the known Galaxy to conquer a peaceful, if independent, planet. Actions always spoke louder than words.
¡°So d¡¯you think they¡¯re full of it?¡± Anakin frowned, eying his datapad and a half-written note to Tahiri. It¡¯s not that he was ignoring her or Sannah. It¡¯s just that when he tried to write, everything came out wrong. Sure he could¡¯ve called on the holocomm but¡­well, they¡¯d written him, so it seemed like the right thing to do was write back, right? It was ridiculous he couldn¡¯t put down what he wanted to say. He could imagine it, say it out loud, but when he tapped it into his datapad and read it over, it felt like someone else wrote it. This was Tahiri! His best friend. He¡¯d seen her only a few months ago - for a short time, sure, during Uncle Luke¡¯s summit at Yavin, but it wasn¡¯t that long ago. He wiped the message and thumbed off the pad. Mei was laying on a couch, fingers interlaced on her chest with her head hanging off the edge, looking over at Kyp Durron from upside down. ¡°Full of what?¡± the Master asked her, eyes still closed in meditation. ¡°You know. Poodoo. Druk. Shit.¡± ¡°About what?¡± ¡°Them being from the ¡®homeworld¡¯ of humans.¡± Kyp sighed, rubbing his eyes between thumb and forefinger. These Imperials seemed particularly proud to share this revelation with them, even though it didn¡¯t really make any sense. Senator Shesh didn¡¯t seem phased and Anakin hadn¡¯t sensed any real surprise or interest from her either. As for his own thoughts - well, what did it matter? Most people, if they ever bothered to think about it at all, figured Coruscant was probably where humans came from. Some Corellians thought it was Corellia and so on, but honestly, it wasn¡¯t anything Anakin had ever considered until just then. ¡°I don¡¯t think it matters, Mei.¡± Kyp said, unfolding his legs to stand, stretching. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter if they¡¯re full of it?¡± ¡°They can¡¯t prove it, even if it was true. You have to think about it like an Imperial.¡± Anakin smiled. ¡°Like an Imperial Imperial, or an imperial Imperial?¡± Kyp shrugged. ¡°Either or. Think about it this way. It doesn¡¯t matter if they¡¯re lying or not or if they can prove it. It¡¯s more of a statement. They¡¯re saying that since they¡¯re from the ¡®homeworld¡¯ of all humans, then all humans belong to them.¡± Mei laughed out loud, rolling over to prop her chin in her hands. ¡°Please. Nobody thinks like that.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not about everyone else, it¡¯s about them.¡± Kyp glanced between the Jensaarai and Anakin. Through the force, his disquiet was palpable, a weight in the air. ¡°They¡¯ve spent all day telling us exactly who they are and I don¡¯t think Viqi Shesh is paying attention.¡±
The New Republic shuttles set into the darkening sky smoothly and quietly. With his enhanced senses, Thiel noted shrouded turrets tracking the two shuttles as they ascended. He watched them go until they ripped past the sound barrier, became points of light in the velvet sky, and then passed beyond even his sight. Unhelmeted, he breathed deep the evening wind, coming down from the high mountains to the west. Crisp and cold, and reminded him of Macragge. Footfalls rang across the tarmac behind him and the growl of another reactor joined his own. The rest of Thiel¡¯s ¡®office¡¯ were already gone, having departed only moments after the ramps of the New Republic shuttles closed. Noskaur mentioned needing to prepare for the morrow, Vaul muttered in irritation about actual responsibilities. An Ultramarine in heavy, augmented plate drew alongside Thiel, momentarily looking up into the sky as well. ¡°Captain Paston,¡± Thiel said. ¡°Lieutenant. Congratulations on your elevation. It was well deserved.¡± ¡°My thanks.¡± Erriod Paston, Master of the Redoubt, folded arms over his chest and peered around his creation. Seconded to Lord Dorn for decades, Paston was lauded for his aptitude at entrenchment and fortification, honed by years among the redoubtable Fists. The Pharisan Redoubt was his keep and his design, planned with expedience at the request of their genefather. ¡°Aliens within my own keep,¡± Paston muttered. ¡°Wonders never cease.¡± ¡°I broke bread with them, Captain,¡± Thiel replied, amused by how irritated the other Ultramarine appeared. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve rather surpassed you.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve an uncommon patience, Aeonid. I am not sure if I pity you or am impressed.¡± Thiel considered. Yes, it was unnerving to see how easily the humans of the New Republic sat side-by-side with aliens. The bite was lessened, having been down on the surface of this world before and seeing it first hand. Still, the Senator held authority over them and it was with her they treated in truth. ¡°It is simple enough. They may be humans, Captain, but this¡­is not our place. We are so very far from Terra and Macragge. It is to there that I look, and where I keep my mind. I see them as a means to an end. A tool, perhaps.¡± Paston nodded. ¡°I can see the logic. It sits ill with me still. Even if Sol does not burn in the sky, did not the Emperor command us that all mankind must be brought into the light of the Imperial Truth?¡± A Space Marine snarled at Thiel. His head was bare, exposing weathered, tanned flesh. Eyes like ebony chips glared from beneath a heavy brow and he struck with the swiftness only transhuman musculature could manage. Thiel felt the thump and rattle of each impact through his gauntlets as he strained, catching each hissing strike on the gleaming edge of an exotic, elecromagnetic longsword. Guilliman was near him, bellowing in anger, gore steaming from his gauntlets. An opening, a fraction of a moment appeared, and Thiel sticks his blade through it. The Space Marine stumbled back, face sliding off, but the hatred, the rage, the contempt remains, even on half his features. Thiel shook away the memory. ¡°And where has the Imperial Truth delivered us? Beyond the shores of the galaxy, beyond the bonds of brotherhood?¡± Thiel could feel Paston¡¯s gaze boring into him, but could not bear to look at the Captain as he spoke. ¡°The universe has proven not to spin at the righteousness of our purpose, Captain.¡± ¡°You¡¯re young, Lieutenant. It never did. Mankind bit and clawed out of Old Night. We are Astartes. You know this. The universe is cold and harsh and it is by our will that we make it otherwise. Never forget that.¡± ¡°I do not. Nor will I forget that others have.¡± Thiel turned, facing Paston finally. The older Astartes, scarred and weathered, bore his perpetual frown. ¡°I do not say the Emperor is wrong, Captain. I¡­¡± He trailed off, unable to grasp nor shape the words that cluttered his mind. The Primarch Lorgar, traitor. The Word Bearers, once the most devoted of the servants of the Throne, turned to cavorting with extradimensional - daemons, his mind substituted - xenos. Aeonid was in Guilliman¡¯s trust. He¡¯d heard the words spoken by Lorgar, before the Primarch became something other. The words that dripped in the blood of loyal brothers and the betrayal of others once beloved. Paston grasped Thiel¡¯s pauldron, the one that bore the still-fresh colors of his new rank. ¡°The Truth is the truth, Aeonid. Never forget that. If we hold true, everything will be as it should be.¡± ¡°I will. Thank you for your candor, Captain Paston.¡± He watched the Master of the Redoubt as he strode away, command cape swirling behind him. Once more, Thiel looked up to the stars. Every world he had set foot on bore alien patterns. He understood the physics of it, the math. Stellar formations broke apart even at the shortest distances of mere lightyears. What constellations and patterns he knew from Macragge, ones he knew by heart, from before the dissociative fog of his ascension through to gazing up at them as a neophyte, a Scout, were seen only from that world. He knew this. The stars he looked upon were alien in ways he had never seen.
Everyone reclaimed their seats the next morning in good order. Noskaur was speaking with Thiel, the larger man this time going without his helmet entirely, though still in his enormous armor. Viqi was starting to wonder if he could even take it off or if the man might not be some sort of strange cyborg. Given the ¡®servitors¡¯ she and Kyp had noticed the previous day and the look of the ¡®Magos¡¯, cybernetics were commonplace for this Imperium. The Magos in particular bothered her sense of propriety, once she realized he was not, in fact, wearing a mask. It appeared that like the servitor, that mask was his face. Just in the same way that the extra arms that occasionally emerged from his red robe must surely be grafted onto his body. Cybernetic limbs and other replacements were common enough, but most had the decency to make them look natural. Synthflesh was easy to match, no matter the type of being you might be. Exposed wiring, metal plating, a sharp green light stitched into an eye socket? Uncouth. You could do all those things but still look presentable. ¡°Good to see you again, Senator,¡± Noskaur offered his hand, Viqi briefly shaking it before they took their central seats. ¡°And you, Iterator. Sleep well?¡± ¡°Beautifully. Filled with dreams of the future.¡± Viqi painted on her best ingratiating smile. ¡°Then let¡¯s begin to make those dreams reality.¡± Today she would lead, alternating from Noskaur¡¯s initiative on the first day. All games of balance, of course. As the host, he had the privilege to initiate the conference, but as the guest and, to be sure, the party with the most to offer, Viqi would never be content to simply let him set the agenda and timetable. The chamber quieted as she skimmed over her notes one final time, tapping off her datapad thereafter and leaning forward slightly to speak into a comm. Like yesterday, one of the little floating skull-drones bobbed out of the corner of the room to the Imperium¡¯s side, facing additional aides and robed officials who, like Viqi¡¯s own staff, were there to provide notes, take minutes and all the other mundane tasks expected. ¡°I would like to again thank the Imperium for offering this space for the day¡­¡±
He cleared his throat, organizing his thoughts and ignoring the thinly veiled sneers coming from not a few of the Imperium¡¯s group. Tresk was no stranger to racial biases, given his background, and a few backwards humans in a corner of the galaxy meant less than nothing. It wasn¡¯t his way before he had spent time among Master Skywalker¡¯s new Order and it especially wasn¡¯t his way afterward. ¡°Let¡¯s get down to duranium tacks, shall we? You¡¯ve asked for aid, you¡¯ve offered aid. Let¡¯s talk about what we can really offer.¡± Tresk glanced at Viqi, who was leaning back in her chair with her trademark little grin. ¡°The first order of business is your interest in maps. We¡¯re curious as to what exactly you mean - given the METOSP, the Message to Spacers, that you filed to warn travelers away from Pirve - apologies, Eboracum - we assumed you would have access to all standard navigational records. Is this incorrect?¡± Noskaur looked to Captain Vaul, then the Magos Nalt. The Iterator leaned over a moment, exchanging some brief whispers in their native language, then straightened up. ¡°You¡¯re quite right, Ambassador. As part of our compliance operations, the former magistrate of Eboracum was forthcoming with sharing access to this data. However, our own needs¡­differ. I believe Shipmistress Vaul-¡± the woman shot a betrayed look at the Iterator - ¡°can explain best.¡± ¡°Thank you, Sorvenos.¡± Katryna Vaul tugged on the front of her uniform, clattering medals. ¡°The navigational maps for your ¡®hyperdrives¡¯ are useful for simple galactic orientation, but our Navigators require maps of the empyrean. We understand the delicate nature of knowledge of the immaterium. It¡¯s likely that knowledge of it is suppressed, for the greater public good. Nevertheless, without at least general maps of the immaterium, our Navigators face challenges in translating our ships. Your interest in military aid is clear, Senator Shesh. If you truly desire it, then you will provide these maps. Chief Navigator Likentrix¡¯s handmaidens can assist in defining their exact needs, if you need that to release privileged information.¡± Tresk found himself momentarily unsure of how to even reply. ¡®Empyrean¡¯ and ¡®immaterium¡¯, he assumed, were best-translation words chosen by the Shipmistress. Of the Imperial delegation, she, Noskaur, and the Magos had the best grasp of Basic, with all three sounding almost conversational. But there had been strange translations before that had to be clarified and this might be another. ¡°I¡¯m sorry Shipmistress, there might be something lost in translation,¡± the Bothan offered. ¡°Can you better explain ¡®empyrean¡¯?¡± The Imperials glanced at one another. ¡°The Warp, Ambassador. The immaterium, empyrean, a dozen other names. It is a dimension beside realspace, deadly and inimical to life. A tremendous danger, but one that allows for supraluminal travel. Surely you know of this?¡± Tresk went to speak, but Viqi Shesh cut him off. ¡°Another dimension? Is that not just hyperspace? I admit I¡¯m not an expert on the matter, but¡­¡± ¡°The Mechanicum has investigated the phenomena termed ¡®hyperspace¡¯. A higher dimension of physics, coterminous with realspace. Hyperspace appears to be of and part of the materium. The Empyrean is not. Shipmistress Vaul misspoke. The Empyrean is a correlative branching universe, placed as a brane within and around the materium. Warp drives function by splitting a traversable rift between the immaterium and materium. This is unknown to the technologists of the New Republic?¡± Magos Nalt¡¯s voice was flat and electronic, leaving out all inflection, but Tresk sensed disbelief from not just the cyborg but rippling across the Imperial delegation as the floating skull-drone translated for the rest. He shook his head, looking to Viqi, then Master Durron, Pomt, and the others. Confusion reigned in contrast to the Imperial¡¯s swell of shock in the Force. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of such a thing. You say this warp is dangerous?¡± Viqi asked, resting her chin on folded hands. Tresk sat back, mind abuzz. Hyperspace was¡­as universal as repulsorlifts. As the wheel. Indeed, no one had even once ventured the possibility the Imperium used any other form of faster-than-light technology. The assumption, given the Imperium¡¯s statements to having ¡®unexpectedly arrived¡¯ or whatever phrasing they used, was that they had traversed a hyperspace wormhole, or some other rare but not unknown phenomenon. ¡°Is that how you came to Pirve?¡± he asked, unable to not voice his thoughts. ¡°It is,¡± Noskaur confirmed. ¡°We had not thought this would be so strange. When our fleet translated into the warp, there was a significant event in the immaterium that cast us adrift. That is how we found ourselves on your shores. This¡­¡± for once, the Iterator looked at a loss for words. He leaned back over to Shipmistress Vaul, the two conversing again in their native tongue, the Magos contributing a few harsh, burring words. Lieutenant Thiel still stood like a rock, inscrutable, but Tresk could see past the facade, feel the same turmoil of thought behind the otherwise stoic face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry we can¡¯t immediately offer anything of use, Iterator, Shipmistress.¡± Tresk caught Viqi¡¯s eye and mouthed nothing? but the Kuati just gave him a slightly panicked look. ¡°I sit on the Council on Security and Intelligence, so there are few things that are beyond my clearance. I will send a priority request to Coruscant today after we recess for any information that can be dug up. Maybe¡­maybe this warp is something that was filed away in a library somewhere, as a curiosity instead of anything useful.¡± Thiel spoke, again in the language of the Imperium. Noskaur looked surprised, but nodded. ¡°I think a short recess now is in order, if you agree, Senator. This¡­is a complication I would like to manage immediately.¡± Viqi agreed and the meeting broke for thirty minutes. ¡°Get me Bel-dar-Nolek,¡± Tresk overheard Viqi hiss to Victor, who nodded vigorously. Those enormous star dreadnoughts in orbit, the army forces the Imperium had drawn up to show off, everything that Shesh clearly was salivating over. Tresk couldn¡¯t help but feel a sort of amusement. All would be completely useless if these Imperials were becalmed in this dead-end star system. What a comedy that would be. Exigence Chapter XII XII: Partycrasher
Every minute that passed, Anakin felt more and more out of place. For the tenth, or maybe hundredth, time he wondered why did I volunteer for this? Sure it was boring - but boring he could probably do with after the past half a year - but really it was that he had no idea what to do. It wasn¡¯t like the other times Anakin had been a bridge between the Jedi and others - figuring out the ways of the Melodies had been something that kind of just happened. He had to do it, so he and Tahiri did. And speaking of Tahiri, like when they went back to her tribe. Cross the desert. Fight a krayt dragon. Anakin always had something to do, something to act on. Here, now, Senator Shesh and Iterator Noskaur talked back and forth with a whole lot of words about a whole lot of nothing. Sometimes other Imperials would ask questions and send the conversation down a whole different path, but aside from sit here and try not to drink so much water he¡¯d have to use the ¡®fresher, Anakin had nothing really to add. Mei either, sitting next to him, as she kept up a quiet humming just under her breath, braiding together some of the feathery strands of her armor¡¯s white mantle. Kyp, to the other side, was sitting up so straight his back had to hurt, eyes constantly flicking around. The Jedi were basically ornaments, to sit in their robes - or armor, in Mei¡¯s case - and look important. Not really his favorite thing to do. After they¡¯d all spoken last night, it was agreed that there was something that didn¡¯t quite smell right about these Imperials. Senator Shesh, Kyp said, was too caught up in how to spin this as a political win to notice or care, so it was on them, the Jedi, to try and puzzle it out. They couldn¡¯t wander far, restricted as they were to just the main meeting chamber and a small suite of rooms adjoining, but while a Jedi¡¯s body might stay in place, their mind didn¡¯t have to. They had talked about it before arriving, with Kyp¡¯s point being that they should take the first day without relying on the Force that much. It made sense to Anakin - like Aunt Mara talked about, if you¡¯re always yelling, it can be hard to hear the quiet whispers. And if you were always using the Force, it could become a crutch. So they would hear out the Imperium in just the same way that Senator Shesh and the other diplomats would at first, then see if what they sensed measured up. Anakin settled his breathing, touching the Force as it responded like an old friend. Eager to surround him, infuse him, buoy him up. Mei and Kyp were flares, bright and shining but controlled. Mei might be humming and fidgeting with her hands, but he sensed her presence alongside his. Amusement hummed from her when he realized this, like a smile in her aura, and Anakin pushed out into the rest of the room, reaching along with the Jensaarai toward the Imperials. After returning from their recess, now there was talk about military aid. He guessed that Senator Shesh was figuring that if these Imperials couldn¡¯t even leave this star system, she might as well learn what they even had to offer before she bothered committing herself any more. Noskaur led the explanation of the Imperium¡¯s purpose, or at least, this fleet, though at times Vaul and even the usually taciturn Lieutenant Thiel contributed. ¡°...imagine, if you would, if at the end of your Clone Wars, instead of reforming into an Empire, this ¡®Old Republic¡¯ instead broke apart into a thousand thousand little polities. And worse - imagine that all maps of the galaxy for your hyperdrives became at best lost or at worst, maliciously incorrect. Then, imagine that a thousand years later, the inheritors of the Old Republic on Coruscant began to reach out once more to try and birth your New Republic.¡± Anakin tried to imagine that. He did. It was a challenge. The Galaxy was just so much the Galaxy. The Old Republic, that he learned about in stories, became the Empire, which collapsed and of course the New Republic replaced it. He wasn¡¯t blind either, his history classes at the Praxeum taught him enough about the way history looked fated in hindsight, and that maybe something worse could have come after the Empire, at least if all those Warlords Uncle Luke and his mom and dad spent years fighting had their say. But to imagine it all just¡­swept away? It made him cold and he felt similar disquiet sweep over more than a few of the other ambassadors around him. It felt like a bad omen, like a vision of what the vong had in store if they had their way. Actually, as the Iterator explained more, about the innumerable lost colonies that the Imperium grieved over and the way that other species had turned on one another, it felt more and more like they were describing in some awful way a bleak future of the Galaxy that they had escaped. Rommamool and Ossarion weren¡¯t an isolated situation. Even with that firebrand Nom Anor gone, the two planets had already gone to nuclear war with each other. Others would, could follow without the moderating touch of the New Republic. And the Jedi were too few to do anything about it. With so much of the Galaxy already in chaos, not even the Order of old, with all ten-thousand Jedi could handle it. He could feel the way Iterator Noskaur felt about it. Emotions roiled just under the older man¡¯s composed exterior. ¡°Our galaxy is a dangerous place, you understand. We sought out our lost cousins, but it was only sensible to be able to defend ourselves. And,¡± the Iterator heaved a sigh, and Anakin caught a flash of disgust directed - toward Tresk. ¡°To be prepared to liberate those worlds that had been preyed upon. The Legiones Astartes are our spear, the Imperialis Armada our shield, and the Army the body behind both.¡± ¡°Astartes such as you, Lieutenant Thiel?¡± Kyp interjected. ¡°Such as I, Master Jedi. The Long Night was deep and dark and the Emperor, in his wisdom, forged us to be his weapons against the terror.¡± ¡°Emperor,¡± Anakin caught the mutter from his left, barely audible under someone¡¯s breath. Empires always had an Emperor - it was sort of in the name - but even still, Anakin couldn¡¯t disagree with how odd it felt to hear such veneration put on the title. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t think I could argue that the vong believe in anything but terror, isn¡¯t that right, Knight Solo?¡± He felt Senator Shesh¡¯s attention shift to him before she called his name, giving a moment of warning. ¡°You¡¯ve faced more of their warriors personally than anyone here, isn¡¯t that right? Could you give us your perspective on their way of war?¡± He caught Master Durron¡¯s eye and the older Jedi gave him an imperceptible nod and he felt Kyp¡¯s approval through the force. ¡°They like to fight up close and personal, if they can.¡± Anakin cleared his throat, feeling Lieutenant Thiel¡¯s sudden laser-like attention. ¡°They - the vong, I mean - are like commanders. They¡¯re the elites. They usually order around a few squads of their slave caste and use them first as fodder. The reptoids aren¡¯t that much to worry about, unless there¡¯s a lot of them, but the vong are¡­deadly.¡± Anakin realized he had one hand on his lightsaber and slowly let go, wedging his untrustworthy hand under his thigh. ¡°Their armor can deflect blasterbolts and even stop lightsabers, at least for a little while.¡± ¡°How well does their armor fare against kinetic ordnance?¡± Anakin paused to consider Thiel¡¯s rumbling question. ¡°I don¡¯t know? Slugthrowers aren¡¯t that common.¡± The Astartes frowned, but said nothing more. ¡°Even Master Skywalker has had trouble with more than one vong warrior. I - we - think they spend their lives training for war.¡± ¡°Thank you, Knight Solo,¡¯ Tresk said and Anakin felt the Bothan Jedi/Diplomat¡¯s approval of his summary. Anakin breathed out, settling back in his chair. Dueling some vong in a lightning storm for some reason felt a lot less tense than talking about it to a whole room filled with strangers. ¡°From military analysts, we concur that the Yuuzhan Vong prefer melee and close-ranged combat, but will engage at range if need be through the use of their biont ¡®vehicles¡¯.¡± Im¡¯nel paused, then with a wry smile, gestured up toward the ceiling. ¡°But most of the war has been in space, as you have already seen. Because of that¡­¡± Anakin settled back into his sense of the Force, letting his nerves bleed off and reaching out again for impressions as the Imperials asked questions about Yuuzhan Vong warships. Jaina was out there, with Rogue Squadron, fighting coralskippers and capital-ship analogues, the very same ones Tresk was showing off in holographic form. He could feel her, distant and at remove, but alive and well. Jaina would be fine, of course. It was flying - she could take the vong in her sleep, probably. Machines talked to Anakin, but starfighters, those only his sister could make sing.
¡°I cannot agree to any commitment of the Thirteenth in particular,¡± Thiel repeated. Even Noskaur seemed vexed, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose. ¡°That authority lies only with the Primarch, and he has not seen fit to delegate it to me.¡± ¡°Perhaps to streamline this, we could speak with the Primarch?¡± ¡°The Primarch is otherwise engaged in matters of state.¡± ¡°I do believe this would be defined as a matter of state-¡± ¡°I will relay that theoretical.¡±
Lunch was a simple affair, served to each already seated at the table by more servitors. Kyp bristled as they approached, the Jedi Master occasionally glaring daggers over toward the oblivious Imperium delegation. Viqi enjoyed the strange fare, simple as it was, merely for the uniqueness of it. ¡°When you accompany us to Coruscant, Iterator, I simply have to introduce you to Kuati dining. I¡¯m sure we can work dinner into the docket.¡±
Kyp Durron glowered next to Mei, who slowly bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. Viqi glanced between the two older Jedi, then to Anakin who looked like he¡¯d rather be anywhere else and back again. ¡°That¡¯s your judgment, as a Jedi?¡± ¡°It¡¯s, well, it¡¯s when Master Im¡¯nel talks that we can really feel it,¡± Anakin said. ¡°They hate him, Senator,¡± Kyp bluntly cut in. ¡°They cover it well but it drips off them.¡± ¡°As the aggrieved party, shouldn¡¯t Ambassador Im¡¯nel be party to this?¡± The Bothan in question was conferring with Victor, the two of them sharing a single datapad. An afternoon break saw them in an adjoining chamber, set aside for ¡®privacy¡¯ of the New Republic delegation to retire to without having to go all the way back to their shuttles. It was probably full of bugs, of course. ¡°He¡¯s already aware, and your use of his position tells me you know why he isn¡¯t. Tresk isn¡¯t here as a Jedi, he¡¯s here with you. We¡¯re the Jedi you asked for and this is the advice you¡¯re getting. The Imperials hate non-humans. Anyone with eyes can see it.¡± Kyp shook his head in disbelief. ¡°What do they really have to offer? A few ships that can¡¯t fly anywhere? I think this is a mynock chase.¡± ¡°Knight Taral?¡± Shesh asked. ¡°It¡¯s like Master Durron said. They sure seem to hate nonhumans. Is it because they want to kill him? I don¡¯t think so. They¡¯re controlling themselves, right? Our Imperials didn¡¯t bother to do that, huh? Maybe it¡¯s like I¡¯m thinking, they just aren¡¯t used to nonhumans that aren¡¯t nasty.¡± Mei shrugged. ¡°It sounded like they came from a pretty bad place.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take that under advisement from both of you.¡±
No maps the Imperium could use. Their Magos dithered and spouted off a thousand excuses about why they couldn¡¯t use hyperdrives. Lieutenant Thiel disavowed allowing the New Republic to provide transportation for the Thirteenth Legion or the Imperial Army to embattled worlds. Shipmistress Vaul looked like the Senator had personally kicked an ewok cub when she had magnanimously offered the full services of the vaunted Kuat Shipyards in repairing the Imperium¡¯s warships. And apparently there was a full fourth branch of the Imperium Exsilius¡¯ military that no one had any authority over and who had just not bothered to show up. She wasn¡¯t positive, but at one point, Lieutenant Thiel may have fallen asleep with both his eyes wide open, standing upright. The only two things realistically on the table were the offer to accept refugees and interest in procuring some raw materials and foodstuffs from the New Republic. And even the latter was strained, because no one knew what ¡®adamantium¡¯ or ¡®promethium¡¯ was, adding up to yet more things to be relayed back to Coruscant. Apparently she needed to have brought along a sithspawned materials physicist to a first contact - who knew? Watching the chronometer tick deeper into the evening and the cessation of the day¡¯s planned sessions, Viqi wanted to crawl over the table and beat someone half to death. Or entirely to death; she was not picky at the moment.
Perfumed air snaked through the hookah and Beqi Shesh sighed. Command of Malaghi Shesh! Working under her cousin, the pride of the Shesh dynasty! Emissaries to a powerful new ally for the New Republic! Boring, boring, boring. Finally given leave to take the dreadnought out of Kuat and here she was, parked in orbit over some backwater world with nothing to do but wear a hole in space. Cousin Viqi got to go and meet these Imperials, she got to dine with them on exotic delicacies, she got to snap her fingers and make everyone jump. Across her chambers, roughly the square footage of an entire shockball court, her telbun levered himself up out of a sumptuous armchair, stretching in front of a floor-to-ceiling transparisteel window in such a way as to outline his entire physique. Beqi threw a sock at him, which made it barely a third of the way. ¡°Go bathe,¡± she glowered and he bowed his way out. She took another drag of the hookah, flopping her head back and following the joins of the wood paneled ceiling two stories above. Yesterday she¡¯d sat on the bridge all day, because decorum demanded a Shesh always be at the helm of Malaghi, but after Cousin Viqi returned in the evening without a single word, summons or decency to let Beqi in on anything at all, she hadn¡¯t bothered rousing herself today. Cousin Tiphane could handle it today. Gawking at the strange and gaudy Imperial ships didn¡¯t even hold her attention for all that long. Yes, yes, they were large, yes they were built along a design theory she found absolutely wild, but really, unlike the rest of her people, she¡¯d not quite inherited that single-minded obsession with all things that plied the stars. No, Beqi cared more about what that industry could provide her and from the looks of the damage and scarring on those Imperial ships, they were one foot in a scrapyard already. Cousin Viqi was howling up the wrong wroyshr, so to speak, and now Beqi was stuck with only the delights she¡¯d packed away in her private chambers. Malaghi was so woefully spartan now, just the way Viqi liked it. She blew a raspberry and rolled onto her elbows, kicking her feet in the air. In the same broad transparisteel window across from her, her slightly-blurry vision caught sudden flecks of movement. Probably another one of the endless snubfighter patrols or some of those heavy lifters she saw shuttling around yesterday, continuing the completely uninteresting traffic of this pothole of a star¡­ Until klaxons began to scream and she launched off her palatial bed, clutching her bathrobe tight to keep her heart from bursting from her chest. Her telbun, Beqrane, burst back into the robe, soaking wet, naked, a holdout blaster in both hands. ¡°Cousin! You¡¯re needed on the bridge right away!¡± Tiphane sounded panicked and all over her twelve standard years just then. Beqi froze - the bridge was at least fifteen minutes away if she ran out right now, which she absolutely could not do, not in this state of undress - Beqrane had to dress her, she had to be presentable, Cousin Viqi left her in charge - she was in charge, yes, she was in command- ¡°Tiphane,¡± she snarled, snatching up her commlink and holding it close to her mouth. ¡°Tell me exactly what it is you can¡¯t handle, right now.¡± ¡°Cousin, there¡¯s - cousin there¡¯s ship. A Star Destroyer! And a squadron with them, they just jumped in, almost on top of us.¡± Ships? A Star Destroyer? The New Republic would never send reinforcements without warning. Pirates? No, no, no pirates could afford to operate a Star Destroyer, especially so close to the Core, not without everyone knowing- ¡°Tiphane, shut up and think. Who are they?¡± ¡°Plooroid Sector Self Defense Force! They¡¯re already broadcasting their idents¡­¡± Beqi immediately sat back down, relief washing over her. Idiot provincials. This wasn¡¯t a problem at all. ¡°Tiphane, tell them to stand down and prepare to be boarded, by the authority of the New Republic Senate. And shut off these blasted alarms, you¡¯re going to drive me mad.¡± ¡°Cousin,¡± Tiphane whispered, voice trembling through the commlink. ¡°The Imperials are breaking formation, there¡¯s energy spikes-¡± The voice Beqi most and least wished to hear cut off the young Tiphane, dominating the comm frequency. ¡°Beqi, you ass, if you aren¡¯t on the bridge of Malaghi in five minutes I¡¯m going to shoot you myself. Get up there, take command from Tiphane and shoot the morons that just showed up.¡± Tiphane¡¯s gasp was tinny and Beqi gawked at the commlink in her hand. ¡°Shoot them?¡± ¡°One ion across the bow, another into their shields. Let them know they mucked up and when you get whatever voidbrain is in command on the line, you pass it to me, you understand? To me, Beqi. You do this right now and you do not delay one second. Repeat it back to me. Let me know you heard me.¡± Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Trembling, Beqi hunched over, holding the commlink to her lips. ¡°One ion across their bow, one into their shields. Then connect you with their commander.¡± ¡°Yes, that¡¯s exactly it. And do it from the bridge, where you should be, idiot. And if the Imperium decides to blow up every single one of those ships? You¡¯re going to sit there and watch. Understand? Malaghi Shesh is not to move an inch. You are not to activate a single weapon aside from that ion cannon. Repeat it back to me, cousin¡­¡±
¡°...and if the Imperium starts shooting those ships, I¡¯m supposed to watch and do nothing. I¡¯m not to activate any weapons other than one ion cannon.¡± Viqi dared not look at anyone else in the room aside from Iterator Noskaur. All around her was a frozen tableau that felt as fragile as a spun-sugar, liable to crumble into madness at the slightest touch or breath. The Iterator was scowling at her, half out of his seat. Shipmistress Vaul¡¯s mouth was a thin white line. Lieutenant Thiel had revealed the half-dozen swords hanging from the wall were not ornamental at all and had one as tall as a man in one fist, the blade humming and cracking with licks of azure lightning. No one had even seen him move to grab it. Outside, they could hear hooting, mournful horns blaring across the fortress. Three bars of plasma hummed behind Viqi: blue, indigo and silver. Tresk, bless him, had not drawn his own lightsaber, though he still carried it as was his right. ¡°Correct, Cousin. Now do what I said, and do it quickly. And forget what I just said about not moving Malaghi.¡± Viqi spared a look at Vaul. ¡°If whatever colossal idiot is in charge over there starts shooting at Imperial ships, you are to put Malaghi in between them. If you need to shoot them yourself to make them stop, do it. Do you hear me, Beqi? Do you hear me? I¡¯m trying to keep us all alive here.¡±
Samothrace surged away from her position at anchor, the battle-barge trembling under the force of her titanic engine-blocks. Turetia Altuzer did not notice the way she was breathing harder, long, deep breaths through her nose as she leaned over a flickering, green-shot hololith. ¡°Are there any others?¡± ¡°Negative, shipmistress. Augurs do not indicate any further signatures.¡± Altuzer whirled away, shouting down to rouse macrocannons and double check integrity of hastily raised voids. Then she stabbed a finger back, glaring at the tech-adept plugged into his station. ¡°Auspex didn¡¯t detect these ships until they were already here!¡± ¡°Apologies, shipmistress. The supraluminal drives of these xenos defy detection.¡± She scowled and flung herself back into her command chair, reassuring herself that Samothrace was already under way. They would not be caught out, not again, not ever. This ¡®New Republic¡¯ could fill the sky with ships and she would burn them all away. They should never have been trusted to come to treat as friends, no civilization that consorted so openly with xenos and abominable intelligences could ever be trustworthy, and now they proved it so baldly¡­
Excillius grinned at his counterparts, floating like ghosts around his throne. Born of Ashes led the squadron as they tipped and fell inward toward Eboracum. Tyber Sogan of Son of Iax looked murderous and Ebireke Langour of Sorpenton wavered slightly as he gently rocked in place, as if to draw a modicum more speed from his command. ¡°They¡¯ve played their hand too early,¡± Sogan declared, voice rendered monotone by transmission. ¡°This must be an uncautious vanguard.¡± ¡°Samothrace alone will wipe them from the sky.¡± Langour groused. The three cruisers were on close picket patrol, circum-orbiting the world at far remove and now were dozens of minutes away from where the New Republic battleship still sat quiet and unmoving. ¡°But even Altuzer won¡¯t take down that other prize so quickly.¡± Part of the Shipmaster vanished from view as he half-stood, but the other two Captains still heard his cries to divert further power from voids to propulsion. ¡°Easy, Eb. This surely isn¡¯t all those savages have sent. We¡¯ll get our pound of flesh, just be patient¡­¡±
Though the little Warhound still bore a terrible scar and its center of gravity was off-balance from the lack of its arm, Dawn¡¯s Reave managed to backpedal swiftly, bringing a forest-crowned hillock between itself and the far larger Warlord. Traces of light on auspex lit up as Sanguinum Oculi still vented ineffectual ¡®fury¡¯ from its carapace lascannon. There was too much earth and stone in the way to overpenetrate to strike the fleeing engine and Noriomi knew it. Princeps Inemmeso did too. As did Mortarch Abandon, the titan beneath and around her shaming such a wasteful display of irritation. Beneath her thoughts, close enough to grasp but unfocused, she felt Tol and Nossem Tolu, twin Moderati, as they guided the great spirit¡¯s tread. Savannah tore and mulched beneath splayed adamantium claws as Mortarch Abandon kept pace with the hunting pack, maintaining a kilometer of distance as the Princeps observed. Tol or Nossem answered and the specificity of speaker mattered not at all. Noriomi peered with red-shifted eyes, squinting hard and Mortarch responded by hammering out a focused scry-pulse. Dawn¡¯s Reave and Sanguinum lit like bonfires, reactors steaming hot and void shields screaming their presence across the auspex, but no other traces or signatures appeared. Noriomi mused. It was a conversation of feeling and images, linked as they were in the Manifold. Dawn¡¯s Reave continued its retreat, loping hard to try to circle to flank the slower, larger Titan. Even missing its left arm, the Warhound still bore a blastgun on its unscathed right arm, enough to strip a layer of voids with a lucky shot. Inemmeso pressed Sanguinum hard, backtracking, pivoting at the waist, but without his lascutter, he was restricted to only shoulder mounted lascannon and his gatling blaster. The latter would make short work of the Warhound, if it could be brought to bear, but Semmochian had been masterful in keeping the much smaller Reave on the opposite side of the Warlord, where the ruined lascutter was instead so much dead weight. The Warhound dashed out of the forest, snapping trees aside like matchsticks, coming clear into the savannah and unleashing a flaring dart of sunfire from its blastcannon. Sanguinum Oculi, still in motion, was able to take a further step and let the screaming plasma instead just barely scrape along its outermost voids. Indicators sprung up in Noriomi¡¯s vision as she watched, declaring void strain and etheric discharge from energetic conversion. A decent attempt, but not enough. She saw the heavy lascannon turrets atop the other Warlord begin to pivot, to track, lighting up hot in the auspex as energy pooled into their capacitors. At this close range, there was no way Reave would be able to dodge. Then the Warhound vanished in a sudden burst of white fog. No doubt surprised, Sanguinum discharged all cannon immediately, six lower-powered lasbeams ¡®stabbing¡¯ out through the fog. But no shock of shattered voids, no screams from an overloaded reactor. This time Noriomi recognized the texture of Nossem¡¯s surprise. Nossem¡¯s clear irritation was the empathic equivalent of a long-suffering sigh. Now Reave emerged again, streamers of smoke trailing behind it and from emptied launchers atop it¡¯s carapace. It fired it¡¯s blastgun again, managing a convincing strike on Sanguinum¡¯s voids. But that final shot was all it would get, as Hongulsa burst out of a nearby lake, water sheeting down glistening adamantium armor as the Warhound immediately opened up with both mega-bolters. Reave immediately bloomed with tags for void shield rupture, then superficial damage, then motive damage, then- she ordered across vox. All Titans came to rest, ceasing movement. Honor pennants waved in the air. Damage and warning signs vanished from auspex. Outside, aside from torn up savannah and broken trees, the world was calm and quiet. was the reply of the Praesagius princeps, now adopted into her own maniple. she commanded. Innemeso returned. Boshvoron intoned. The two other titans slouched away, Warhound loping alongside the longer strides of the Warlord. As a sort of mirror, Dawn¡¯s Reave approached her own towering mount, the little hurt Warhound barely reaching Mortarch¡¯s waist. With a pulse of intent, Noriomi/Mortarch walked and she felt each thudding stride in her own, ghostly feet and calves. Evening was drawing in and Noriomi watched the darkening sky through true color and false color both, overlaid and kaleidoscopic. Reply from Semmochian was long in coming, but Noriomi didn¡¯t mind. She enjoyed any time immersed in the great Manifold, floating with her lesser angels Tol and Nossem as they bent the god-mind of Mortarch to their wills. And Mortarch enjoyed it too, the Titan grown irritable and vexatious in quietude since Calth. Dawn¡¯s Reave hewed away, loping off toward the retreating smudges of Sanguinum Oculi and Hongulsa on the far horizon. Noriomi brought the Warlord to a halt and tipped back, gently manipulating thousands of tons of adamantium, seething fusion, blessed archaeotech and ceramite so that she might peer up at the sky. The first stars were peeking out. Tol Tolu gushed, vocalizing in the manifold more than just his emotions and intent. Noriomi grumbled. Then the vox came to life, data inloading from Samothrace high above and all humor blew away like chaff in the wind. Noriomi widened her/Mortarch¡¯s stance, anchoring in careful position. she communicated to the Ket Deltas, who tamed and maintained the beating heart of the Warlord. The engineseers pulsed back affirmation in their strange, linked way. Mortarch breathed deep, reactor upcycling. Heat flowed into Noriomi¡¯s left arm and she raised it, peering up into the darkening sky, overlaid with targeting screeds and orientation runes. Mortarch¡¯s Belicosa thrummed as it charged. An orbital fire mission. How long it had been since she had been honored so. That it was ships of the people come to parlay barely registered. She and Mortarch had a target. That was all that mattered.
Victor dropped the small holo onto the table, moving slowly, carefully, pale with nerves. It flickered to life, revealing a rugged Fluggrian in a rumpled uniform, whose scowl quickly melted off his face. ¡°Senator Shesh!¡± ¡°You¡¯re surprised. That ship does have my name on it.¡± The Fluggrian blinked rapidly, glancing out of the boundaries of the holo, fidgeting. He hissed something the projector didn¡¯t pick up, then swallowed visibly. ¡°We weren¡¯t - we didn¡¯t realize the New Republic had, uhm - that you were -¡± he said something again, too low for the comm to pick up, and Viqi snapped her fingers, jerking his attention back to her. ¡°You¡¯re talking to me. Name, rank. Now.¡± ¡°Commodore Fthiss Lak. Plooroid Sector Self Defense Force. I didn¡¯t know you would be here!¡± ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter!¡± A woman, square jawed and bald, barged into view, leaning in front of Fthiss and pointed a holographic finger at Viqi. ¡°It¡¯s even better that you¡¯re here! These people conquered a whole planet and they¡¯ve done horrible things to the people! Justice demands that these Imperials give up control immediately!¡± To her credit, despite how furious the Shipmistress looked, Katryna Vaul swept her hand out to the side, half-turning in her seat to glare at the other Imperials as the skull-droid translated the woman¡¯s words. Muttering among the Imperials quieted at Vaul¡¯s unspoken demand and though this was probably the last place Viqi wanted to have this conversation, well, it was all she got. Solo, Taral and Durron all flanked her, ¡®sabers out and hissing, held at guard. She might have felt nearly invincible with three Jedi at her back, but for the entire army camped right outside this building. ¡°Fascinating! I¡¯ll be sure to report to the Senate that a sector police Commodore supersedes the authority of the New Republic Senate. You know, I do believe I remember that being an important addition to the New Republic charter.¡± ¡°The New Republic represents justice, Senator, which is-¡± ¡°Shut up. Shut up before I tell Malaghi to blow you out of space, which I am well within my rights to do.¡± She couldn¡¯t remember that last time she¡¯d been this angry. It wasn¡¯t just the adrenaline that yes, she might¡¯ve died, right here, right now, cutting short the story of Senator Viqi Shesh way too soon - Viqi violently pushed that thought down - it was the audacity. To yell in her face, after kicking in the door and basically pissing on the floor. Kyp Durron held his lightsaber to the side, but leaned closer so that the holo could pick him up as well. When it did, the woman next to Commodore Fthiss looked shocked. ¡°Master Durron!¡± ¡°This is kind of a mess, Rhonabeq,¡± he observed, as dry as ever. ¡°She¡¯s one of yours?¡± Viqi didn¡¯t recognize the woman on sight, but she did know of a Mugaari Knight among the Order. Oh, if this was the Jedi, she would eat her words to the Senate. She¡¯d take them back so fast Coruscant would spin backwards and they would have no idea what kind of an enemy they had made- She could just imagine it. Some bleeding heart Jedi, hearing about some horrible conquerors, going and rallying a few laserbrained local hicks in the sector defense forces. She almost laughed. Of all the things to upend it all, it had to be a pack of provincials taking their responsibilities seriously for once. ¡°Harlan said that you would be here but I didn¡¯t really believe her-¡± ¡°Hold on,¡± Taral spoke up. ¡°Harlan¡¯s with you?¡± The woman, Rhonabeq, looked mortified. ¡°Yes?¡± Kyp shut off his lightsaber and scrubbed a hand over his face. Viqi thought she caught something like ¡°-luke feels like-¡± from the tall Jedi. ¡°Senator, I¡¯d like to apologize on behalf of the Jedi Order.¡± Tresk sighed and slumped back in his seat, staring blankly at the ceiling. Kyp gestured toward the Iterator and the Imperials also. ¡°Actually, make that to all of you. This is all an enormous misunderstanding. I promise we¡¯ll get to the bottom of it. Rhonabeq, is there anyone else coming?¡± ¡°No,¡± she said, voice small. ¡°It¡¯s just us.¡± ¡°Thank the Force. Let Senator Shesh¡¯s flagship take control from here.¡± ¡°That means I¡¯m taking you all into custody, you know,¡± Viqi spoke around a very fake smile. Behind Rhonabeq, the Fluggrian commodore just nodded. ¡°And your ships are all impounded. Just so you know.¡± Still vibrating with nervous energy, Viqi brushed her hair behind her ear, composed herself, and then shut off the holo. She truly hoped Senator Segg, representing the Ploo Sector, was unaware of it all. She¡¯d had little to do with him, but he seemed a decent enough sort and killing the career of another Senator was a lot of effort. ¡°Iterator Noskaur, Shipmistress Vaul, Lieutenant Thiel-¡± ¡°We heard, Senator,¡± Noskaur cut her off. ¡°I want to trust your word. It would be best for you if you left. Return to your shuttle and to your ship. I will need to speak to the Primarch before anything else. Be glad he countermanded any violence before it could occur.¡± Viqi opened her mouth to say more, read the room, and delicately closed it. The Lieutenant was nearly bouncing his crackling sword in his grip and she shivered at the expression on the enormous man¡¯s face. Durron said something, but it was lost in the roaring of her blood in her ears. Dimly, she noticed the glow from Solo and Taral¡¯s lightsaber vanish, Victor gently directing her with a discrete hand to the small of her back. Very quietly, the New Republic delegation gathered themselves and filed out, all the while watched by the Imperium. Flat, blank, dead stares from men and woman both watched them go. Lieutenant Thiel did not lower his blade the entire time, keeping it at a ready guard. ¡°The Imperium will be watching, Senator,¡± he rumbled, as she and the Jedi were the last out of the conference chamber. The trip back up to Malaghi Shesh was a blur. Exigence Chapter XIII XIII: Concordat
In the realms of Ultramar, there were three scales. The mortal scale, that of humankind, that of the teeming masses, the grist of the Imperium and the precious treasure the Crusade safeguarded. This was the first scale and it was the scale of lifetimes. A man could be born, father children, see himself a grandsire, then pass, all in less than forty passages of ancient Terra around Sol. In short years of time an infant grew to a toddler, to a child, through pubescence and into adulthood. There was a reason the galaxy turned on a fulcrum of a flesh: few resources were as renewable as homo sapiens. Yet in thirty thousand and more years, humanity had endured. They had been waylaid, they had dawdled beside altars better left ignored, they had bargained Faustian and suffered, recovered and soared. This first scale, the smallest scale, the scale of lifetimes, was made stronger by its adornment. Recognition of mortality made mortar that welded parent to child, culture to generation, letting mankind march through long and sleepless corridors. This was the first scale and sat in the smallest seat. Humble, but all things begin such ways. The second scale was the transhuman. Homo astartes, one might jest, whose termination was indeterminate. Conflict was their marker, their creator and their winnower, which clipped wings that might spread eternal. Theirs was the scale of scope. If mankind marched through aeons, it was transhumans that pushed the boundaries of the world mankind filled. First in and last out, the answer to Old Night. They spread sideward, lateral, forged not by generation but by brotherhood. The scale of the transhuman was one precipitated and maintained by proliferation of the parallel. An Astartes fathered no children, raised no grandchildren, embraced no concept of hereditary lineage. They were all brothers, the infinite sons of childless fathers. The scale of the transhuman was the middle scale and sat the moderate seat. An intermediate measure, a filler, that defines the upper and lower bound by its mere existence. The last second, the final and third scale, was that of the demigod. An awkward word in an awkward age, but language did not have the nuance to describe a man beyond men in a satisfying way. So a throwback was needed, remembrance to older times, a term pulled from antiquity and unevenly set on as crown. The last scale was a scale of purpose. The demigod hauled on the lead, they raised the hand and they pointed the way. The ship of mankind was all about them, but without the demigod, without their vision, it was wayward and becalmed, adrift in doldrums where endless currents led to no destination at all. The scale of the demigod was the largest scale and sat the greatest seat. Only the sturdiest of legs would not buckle under adamantium responsibility, under the yoke of rule and role that every one of their breed must bear. This is the weft and warp and web of humanity, from the mortal whose threads were the longitudinal, the transhuman who were the transverse, and the demigod who were the knots. Together, only together, did the tapestry become whole, impervious and glorious, stitched with a million billion threads and woven across all time and space. Thusly, did Roboute Guilliman sit in his great throne, brooding, silent, garbed in white toga and green laurel, resting chin on curled fist. Thusly, did Marius Gage and Aeonid Thiel, in their lesser thrones, in battleplate, reactors purring, make facets of the same cut stone. Thusly did Sorvenos Noskaur and Cornelius Regil and Keres Likentrix and Imbris Caraen and Orichi-Mu sit in the meanest thrones, multitudinous and varied, like-as-unalike. ¡®For what it is worth, I believe no malice,¡¯ Noskaur offered. Lord Admiral Regil, always sanguine, nodded his white-maned head. ¡®If for no other reason than the alternative is a misplay of tremendous proportions.¡¯ ¡®It would be at that, Lord Admiral. My read of Shesh is that she is honest. She has her own agenda, as any would expect, but she has not seemed one to so easily lie.¡¯ ¡®That agenda, Iterator, that would see the Thirteenth and good sons of Ultramar bleed for their xeno-impregnated culture.¡¯ Thiel rebut, shaking his head. The Astartes had been vocal in his disagreement with opening dialogues with the New Republic, ever since he had learned more and more of them upon his appointment by the Primarch. It was a testament to the Primarch¡¯s choice that Thiel remained willing to serve in this role at all, knowing what he knew. Most other Astartes would, at the threshold of mutiny, refuse. It was not their way to treat with aliens and abominable intelligences, even for the more cultured sons of Guilliman. ¡®Accords cut both ways, Lieutenant, for our gain and loss. The Primarch knows this, else he would not have personally reigned in the fleet and the Princeps.¡¯ Noskaur sighed and cared little to maintain his Iterator¡¯s aspect here. He did not wear that role in this august company, just an old man who had seen much and done more. ¡®I like this as little as you do. I remember the atrocities the Thirteenth permitted us to record on Forty-nine Eighty-four. I know what was done by the Sajun Coherency in the Hyaenid Stars. Shun the alien, hate the abominable intelligence. The Emperor has not been proven wrong by his Truth, even as we search to disprove it.¡¯ He looked around, forcing each present to meet his gaze, all aside from the Primarch. ¡®And that is what we do, isn¡¯t it? We seek to disprove the Imperial Truth, for only by falsification can a hypothesis be made true. If we try and try and try again and never find a counterargument, we only make stronger our own position.¡¯ ¡®Then, if you stand for the Imperial Truth so clearly, Sorvenos, then you name the Primarch¡¯s decree incorrect. This New Republic should be treated as any other xeno-tainted culture and avoided or confronted.¡¯ Marius Gage spoke mildly but firmly, ¡®and we would have broken compact with the Emperor by simple means of welcoming them here under a flag of peace.¡¯ ¡®No, Chapter Master, not at all. As I have said, we seek to find flaws in the Truth. The New Republic claims that for the entire history of this galaxy, man and xeno have been intertwined. They claim twenty thousand years of history in which integration has not led to pogrom and slaughter.¡¯ ¡®And you believe it?¡¯ Caraen, the perpetually overworked General, asked in disbelief. ¡®Not in the slightest. They lie about themselves as much as we have not told them the full story of our own Crusade. But. But!¡¯ Noskaur nodded toward the Navigatrix. ¡®There is something that I feel must be investigated. Their confusion about the warp.¡¯ Caraen slowly nodded, eyebrows raised. Similarly contemplative looks were shared amongst the rest and the blind, frail woman replied. ¡®I believe them. I look out - eye open, the seas I see, I see heights and shallows, depths and squalls, I see and the sea is seen and I see so far.¡¯ She trembled a little, Admiral Regil reaching out to steady her with a hand on her bony shoulder. ¡®We all see. We all listen. The choirs sing out and we can hear them.¡¯ Likentrix composed herself, taking long, deep breaths, and then her voice was stronger. ¡®It is harder to separate myself. The warp here is alluring. It is so quiet. Navigator Ibelain led her destroyer ten lightyears in ten hours. Without charts, without the ancient knowledge of currents. She looked and saw the star and she led them there.¡¯ ¡®This is most unusual, mamzel,¡¯ Gage murmured. ¡®Yes, Marius. I wonder, I dread, I hope - this galaxy has not touched the warp. Imagine.¡¯ For Likentrix, it was a wonder and terror both. She was who she was, product of millenia, bred to perfection, to be the eye into the empyrean. To find a culture so ignorant of her birthright allured and horrified. They could imagine, though. They could. All too well, they could. For Marius Gage, he felt the ghost of empyreal teeth worry at the stump of his arm, tearing at flesh now sealed to augmetic nerve-fibers. Others imagined the terrors that stalked ships, that came from/became men. They remembered the Word Bearers. ¡®I think, my Primarch, that alone is worth overlooking this insult.¡¯ Noskaur concluded. Guilliman said nothing. ¡®But there will need to be some response, surely?¡¯ Caraen attempted. ¡®Of course, General,¡¯ Noskaur assured, keeping an eye on the Primarch¡¯s form, half in shadow. ¡®It¡¯s all politics. They have offered insult to us and made a mess of things. If anything, we should see this as a boon. Now we have greater leverage over them, where before they may have felt instead a superior bargaining place. They came to us, remember, and they desire our sons of Ultramar and our strength. Mistake or no,¡¯ Noskaur spread his hands among agreeing nods. ¡®The Senator will have to concede more.¡¯ Regil tapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne, tap tap tap and tap again, in sequence. ¡®My captains will be unhappy, but they¡¯ll listen. You have no idea how much our wardogs wanted blood.¡¯ Thiel, unhappy, shook his head. ¡®If the New Republic gets their way, there will be blood aplenty,¡¯ he warned. ¡®There always would be, my son,¡¯ Roboute murmured, all present sitting even straighter. ¡®My heart and my duty despises any distraction, but we can do little here, ignorant in this corner of the Galaxy. Iterator, the Senator offered access to libraries and athenaeums to research the topic of the warp. Focus on this. Lieutenant, I will release, at your determination, no more than a demisquad of Astartes for action of your discretion. I daresay, this is precisely the task for which I set you to gather your cohort. Find accord. Put aside the insult. We will remember it, but our need is greater now. Magos, the Mechanicum must reach a verdict on the technologies you have been hoarding. Sooner, Magos, than later, or I will make the decision for you.¡¯ ¡®Lord, these technologies bear no connection to the treasured STCs. It may be impossible to judge their provenance.¡¯ Orichi-Mu¡¯s mechadendrites squirmed and writhed beneath the rich red brocade of his robes, making the Magos Dominus appear to be hiding several wrestling ratlings. ¡®Sooner rather than later, Magos. Do not make me repeat myself.¡¯ Orichi-Mu¡¯s mechadendrites writhed still, but he genuflected and held his bionic tongue. When the Primarch spoke, there was no dispute. Agreements and affirmations flew and Roboute Guilliman led them all as he rose first from his throne to sandaled feet. Each from seats of different scales, suited best to each form of humanity.
When the Griddek finally finished recounting the whole tale, for a second time, she grabbed for a bulb of water and sucked it down, wiping her snout with the back of a paw. ¡°So I¡¯m not going to be in any trouble, right?¡± Rhoki Sal Huin, independent Captain of a little freighter called Wicked Minnow, formerly registered to Pirve, smiled at a Senator, a Jedi Master and a bunch of Jedi Knights. A long way away from hauling farming equipment for a modest margin or slipping occasional thiksticks through customs. ¡°They really put a bounty on you?¡± Anakin Solo asked - the Anakin Solo, mind you, like, the son of Han Solo and Leia Organa, the nephew of Luke Skywalker. That one. ¡°Oh yeah. ¡®Vagrancy, Breaking of Curfew, Endangerment, uh, Disorderly Conduct, Operation of an Impounded Starship, Unauthorized Emigration - and you¡¯ll love this one - Capital Treason¡¯. A lot of credits too, I think that¡¯s what tipped Rhona off about me. See, she found me at Corsin when I was trying to find anyone who¡¯d listen and-¡± she spun back into the tale, making sure to emphasize here and there just how dangerous it had been, you know, I mean - bounty hunters! Imagine that! The worst run in Rhoki ever had with the law was spending two nights in the tank because of a drunken brawl on Canberon. ¡°Yes, yes, you¡¯ve said.¡± Senator Shesh cut her off with a flap of her hands. ¡°Tell me more about the Imperials, Captain Sal Huin.¡± Rhoki smiled wide, making sure her missing tooth was obvious. ¡°Thought I did ma¡¯am, but if you want to know something more specific¡­¡± ¡°You said they destroyed the starport, right?¡± ¡°Leveled it from orbit without even a warning. At least two hundred dead, I think, once everyone finished picking over the wreckage.¡± It punctured her bluster for a moment. She¡¯d known a lot of the workers there, most of them pretty well over the years. All good, honest folks. None of them deserved that. ¡°I was lucky, I had Wicked Minnow out getting loaded on location. I think it might have been the only ship spared.¡± ¡°Then you were able to get the patrol patterns of the Imperials?¡± ¡°That¡¯s right. I knew some folks who knew some folks, and we got a plan going. Well, you know the Imps don¡¯t have a lot of ships, right? So we figured, if we could track their orbits, we could find a time I could slip out and then go spread the word.¡± They¡¯d used little handheld scanners, crunched numbers with datapads and even just jotted down notes on flimsy, but over the weeks, they¡¯d done it. A whole history of where ships were, how often patrols overflew the settlements, when landers came down to that big fortress in the mountains, the works. All painstakingly assembled, digitized, and then finally passed off to Rhoki. It took Wicked Minnow only a few minutes to crunch it all and plot out a whole simulation for her, at which point the name of the game was terrain flying and then a mynock-out-of-hell sprint to clear the gravity well and hit hyperspace. The bounty on her head that drew several sector¡¯s worth of attention proved that she hadn¡¯t been quite as unnoticed as she hoped. ¡°Wanna see my ¡®alien badge¡¯?¡± Rhoki smirked, holding up the laminate card between two fingers. The way the Jedi grimaced filled her with smug satisfaction, as she poked her tongue into the gap between teeth. They wanted her to tell them about Pirve? Oh, Rhoki had stories to tell. She had hours of stories to tell.
Master Durron requested a private audience. So Viqi sent Victor to go call Bel-dar-Nolek, since they were all still pretending that there was a chance to reach some kind of accord with the Imperials. There had been complete silence since the catastrophe of yesterday evening, outside of a very formal and cold text-only message that Malaghi Shesh and all other ¡®New Republic warships¡¯ were to remain at anchor and any attempts to move without contacting the battleship Opolor¡¯s Vow to file a flight plan, would be met with necessary action to protect the 4911th Expeditionary Fleet. It was wild to think it had only been three days. Three days since she set eyes on the strange and enormous Imperial warships and wondered about the people who made them. Three days since the Imperium welcomed them with a dramatic martial display. Viqi snorted, pressing a button beneath her desk to signal the Jedi could enter. Durron was wearing a jumpsuit, his robes put aside for the moment, and he crashed on one of the overstuffed chairs opposite Viqi¡¯s hourl wood desk. Out of his robes, away from the formality of the conference, she could see the notorious rogue that Durron was purported to be. It slightly boggled the mind to consider the man across from her was possibly, by strict measures, the deadliest being in the galaxy, with the blood on his hands. Oh, the Jedi claimed that Durron had been mentally compromised, but that didn¡¯t exactly make Carida a star instead of a rapidly expanding cloud of plasma, did it? ¡°Alright, Durron, you¡¯ve got five minutes of my time.¡± ¡°Five whole minutes?¡± he asked, brow raised. ¡°Four minutes and change, now,¡± she shot back. ¡°We should leave.¡± ¡°Well, that is concise.¡± ¡°I¡¯m serious, Senator.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t Jedi always? No, Master Durron, we¡¯re not leaving. Not until the Imperium kicks us out or Borsk recalls me. I¡¯m a Shesh, I don¡¯t just turn and run.¡± Acid crept into her tone and she let it. Maybe the Jedi hadn¡¯t intended for their little rogue Knight to go off and do the monumentally stupid things she did, but she had still done it, and now Viqi had to deal with the fallout. It smarted all the more to find out that more Jedi were with that idiot Commodore from the Plooroid Self Defence Force than Viqi brought with her. Rhonabeq, Harlan Ysanna, Harlan¡¯s apprentice, then yet another Jedi and his apprentice. The Ysanna claimed she had been trying to get Rhonabeq to back down and leave it be, telling the Mugaari pirate what she knew about the planned summit that Harlan herself had been going to attend. But Rhonabeq got it in her head, no doubt heavily influenced by the sob stories of that freighter captain, that the best thing to do for Pirve, the New Republic, and the Ploo Sector, was to use the patrol route data and run a smash & grab. ¡®Liberate¡¯ as many people as they could and then flee, leaving the Imperium with vakiir egg on their face and giving the New Republic a casus belli to do, the naive little Jedi figured, whatever was necessary for Justice, Freedom and Peace. Then it turned into an absolute clustersnark as the squabbling governments of the Greater Plooriod and Ploo Sectors got involved, neither able to get over the petty regionalism that had sprung up like weeds when the Empire had arbitrarily drawn the sector lines. Both sides point at each other for letting Pirve fall to - what was it that they had theorized? Radical Imperial hardliners, or even Red Knights of Life. Rhoki¡¯s tales of the Imperium rounding up droids had triggered speculation that these were Vong fifth columnists, maybe the Red Knights of Life. Having seen the Magos encrusted with bionics, Viqi had been hard pressed not to laugh aloud at the idea. Then Rhonabeq had talked a local Commodore into backing her up, who decided to act on his own initiative not to mention under-the-table assurances from the Greater Plooriod. They sent a message up the chain at the same time that they were already underway. Viqi would personally see that that moron Fthiss was drummed out of the Sector Self Defense force in the most ignominious way possible. There was nothing to be done for the internecine antagonism between Ploo and Greater Plooriod, but this at least she could do. At this point it wasn¡¯t personal: a being that stupid staying in a command position was practically encouraging terrorism. ¡°You can call it running if you want.¡± Kyp snorted. ¡°These people make the Hutts look like good neighbors.¡± ¡°The Hutts are good neighbors, remember. They keep their space in order and local trade lets everyone prosper.¡± Durron looked affronted. ¡°That¡¯s all that matters? Keeping the peace and lining pockets?¡± ¡°I¡¯m a Senator. You know that means that when I¡¯m not kissing babies, I¡¯m taking their candy. Isn¡¯t that how the Jedi see us? Chief Feyl¡¯ya and Master Skywalker famously rarely get along. What these Imperials do on their own worlds is their business.¡± ¡°Even if it¡¯s slavery? Xenophobia? Murder?¡± Viqi steepled her fingers, tapping against her lower lip. He couldn¡¯t be this naive, could he? It was only months ago the Imperial Remnant showed up to help defend Ithor. The Imperial Remnant! The Hutts still practiced slavery, and Durron had just mentioned them. The Hapans were a matriarchal monarchy. Her own Kuat, her personal feelings aside, enforced a caste system. The New Republic wasn¡¯t in the business of telling people how to govern themselves. ¡°The New Republic isn¡¯t in the business of telling people how to govern themselves. We¡¯re here to keep the peace and keep the Galaxy stable.¡± ¡°Fine, if I accept that - which I don¡¯t, otherwise Master Skywalker fought for nothing - can we discuss the Imperium?¡± Viqi threw up her hands in frustration. ¡°What¡¯s there to discuss? That they¡¯re a bunch of authoritarian imperialists? That they rule through military power? That in just half a year they¡¯ve transplanted their own culture onto Pirve? I know, Master Durron. I didn¡¯t like what I heard from that Captain Sal Huin any more than you did. I believe in merit, Kyp. It doesn¡¯t matter who or what you are, if you earn it. The Empire was stupid to exclude most of the Galaxy, on some ridiculous notion that ¡®humans are better¡¯. Do you really think I¡¯d agree with the Imperium?¡± ¡°There¡¯s disagreeing and there¡¯s trying to make deals with them. We don¡¯t need the Imperium. Even if their dreadnoughts are, I don¡¯t know, as valuable as this ship, each, it¡¯s not going to make that much of a difference. We don¡¯t even know if they are. I saw that same recording you did, and they destroyed capital ship analogues that didn¡¯t have their voids ready. A Mandator like Malaghi could do that too. What else do they have, a few thousand soldiers?¡± Kyp shook his head and unhooked his lightsaber, slapping it down on Viqi¡¯s desk. She eyed it, realizing she¡¯d never actually seen a lightsaber this close before. ¡°The lightsaber is the symbol of the Jedi, but it¡¯s not because we kill people with it. It¡¯s because it¡¯s a symbol. A Jedi could use a blaster like anyone else, but a lightsaber means something. It means we put ourselves in greater danger to make sure that when we have to fight, it¡¯s only against the people who deserve it. Jedi aren¡¯t going to win the war because this isn¡¯t like the Empire. There¡¯s no Emperor for Master Skywalker to defeat to bring the house of pazaak cards tumbling down.¡± He was in his element now and Viqi let him go. Durron had been more reserved and acting like an observer, but now she was seeing the firebrand people made him out to be. It was a fresh perspective and she shifted her mental model of the Jedi Master. ¡°Jedi are about inspiring others. About being a role model. My Dozen and Two wouldn¡¯t ever take down every smuggler and pirate in the Galaxy, but we could encourage others to try. Master Skywalker didn¡¯t need to kill every stormtrooper in the Empire, but all he had to show was that it could be done.¡± Durron exhaled, seemingly spent and picked his lightsaber back up, hooking it to his belt once more. ¡°Thank you for the philosophy lesson, but while it was very pretty, I don¡¯t see the point.¡± ¡°The point is that I¡¯m afraid of what symbol the Imperium could become, if we prop them up.¡± She knew some concern like this would surface. It was only expected for the Jedi. Viqi reached out, activating a single holo. A full-color image of the galaxy shimmered to life over her desk, faded with orange and crimson in a blotchy swathe from the galactic north, spearing towards the core and spreading like a cancer. ¡°It¡¯s been seven months, Master Durron,¡± she said softly. ¡°Seven. They¡¯re already almost to the Colonies. If there¡¯s a New Republic after all this, then I¡¯ll consider us blessed to be concerned about what means we used to get there. Now, we can just be glad that we were able to learn a lot more about the Imperium before we hopped into bed with them.¡±
Now the fat was pared away. No more clerks, no more scribes, no more staff. Now the chamber was grim and empty, set with two tables faced opposing, echoing in its antagonism. On the one side: Viqi Shesh, immaculate in corseted dress, long gossamer sleeves flowing. Kyp Durron, dark eyes suspicious and black robes dour. Tresk Im¡¯nel, impervious to glares and scowls, red-sashed tunic contrasting dark fur. Opposing: Sorvenos Noskaur, white-haired, lips pursed, venous hands folded. Aeonid Thiel, battleplate humming, nakedly bearing a long blade across his back. Katryna Vaul, bedecked in gilt, picking at her nails, espousing aloofness. Six men and women. Or rather: five men and women and one posthuman.
You could hear a pin drop. Viqi made a show of leaning over, whispering pointlessly to Tresk, the Bothan nodding along. She scrolled through her datapad, leisurely flicking a manicured nail along the surface, raising one delicate eyebrow as if fascinated by the contents. A message had been sent that morning, requesting only the three of them to come down and re-open negotiations. No apologies were made, no acknowledgements of the wild overreaction that nearly saw open conflict. Was it stupid to go down again into the nexu¡¯s den? Maybe it was, but she¡¯d gotten assurances. Malaghi Shesh and her escorts were shadowed by Samothrace only - all other Imperial vessels had withdrawn at least to lunar orbit, though their engines stayed lit and active. The motley assemblage of the Plooriod task force huddled beneath Malaghi, shamefaced and chastened. The old Mandator sat with her shields up, turbolasers unmasked. If the Imperium wanted to play aggressive, she would play right back. And she¡¯d win. Besides, danger or no, returning to Coruscant on such an anticlimactic conclusion would be a professional embarrassment. That held a greater peril than death, of course. She put her datapad aside and slid her hands into opposing, voluminous sleeves. Noskaur shifted in his chair, while Shipmistress Vaul continued inspecting her nails. Thiel, looming behind the two, had muscles bunching in his jaw; clench and relax. Durron said nothing. Im¡¯nel said nothing. The chrono ticked over. ¡°Really?¡± Viqi said. ¡°I thought it best to allow you to answer for your¡­error,¡± Noskaur offered. Vaul scoffed. Gloves off, teeth bared, no holds barred. Just the way a Kuati should like it. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t know what error you¡¯re talking about, Iterator. Is it the error of threatening violence under diplomatic banner? Is it drawing weapons on your guests? I don¡¯t remember doing anything quite like that. Master Durron? Do you know what he¡¯s talking about?¡± Bless the Jedi, but he could play along. ¡°I¡¯m confused too, Senator,¡± he muttered. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°Because sitting here, the last thing I remember was the Lieutenant drawing on us without provocation.¡± She stared into the enormous man¡¯s eyes, daring him. ¡°The provocation was your treachery,¡± Thiel growled, almost as subsonic as the thrum of his armor. ¡°You are more intelligent than this, Senator. Dispense with the games.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t see why I should. Do you, Ambassador?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t either, Senator,¡± Tresk confirmed, stroking his chin. ¡°The way I see it, the Imperium owes us an apology.¡± Finally something more interesting than her own manicure had Vaul slamming a fist down, almost rising from her chair. ¡°An apology-¡± Noskaur caught her arm, the woman starting, but deferring to the Iterator. She eased back down but now her disinterest was gone, glaring vibroblades at Viqi. ¡°Peace, Shipmistress. Senator, this goading gets us nowhere.¡± ¡°On the contrary, it gives me a great deal of satisfaction.¡± ¡°Is this why you accepted the invitation? To mock us to our faces?¡± Vaul seethed. She¡¯d had fun enough. Viqi let the smile slide from her face, cracking the mirthful facade and staring down her nose at the Imperials. ¡°To get your measure. Did you really think the New Republic would be in the dark forever? Did you really think we wouldn¡¯t learn of the bounty you put on an innocent spacer? Did you really think we wouldn¡¯t learn how you have treated the non-humans on this world?¡± ¡°Senator Shesh, we have not misled you in any way. The issue at hand is the unauthorized arrival of warships within our territory-¡± ¡°Iterator, stop. Your territory? According to who? Some piece of flimsy you forced the governor to sign? You are a pack of warlords scrabbling for a single world. There is one authority in this galaxy, and it¡¯s the New Republic. Your territory exists if we decide it does. If the Senate decides you¡¯re another recalcitrant supremacist group?¡± Viqi shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare think the hand we reached out was anything but altruistic.¡± Noskaur had his hand permanently on Vaul¡¯s wrist. ¡°Senator, once again, you must recognize the threat posed-¡± ¡°I recognize that a single Star Destroyer and a few escorts is terrifying to you, sure. I also recognize that you need us more than we need you. In fact, Iterator, Shipmistress, Lieutenant - we don¡¯t need you at all. Would the New Republic appreciate peaceful dialogue? It¡¯s always our goal. But if your Imperium is going to be as unpredictable, trigger-happy and paranoid as you¡¯ve shown, I daresay we have far more reliable friends. Even Hapes would cast you in their shadow. You acted like we would come to shoot your ships down, but all the New Republic needs to do is close its doors. What will you do, when your ships can¡¯t leave this star system? What will you do when we cut off holonet connections? Sit out here and stew in your own bitterness?¡± Viqi humphed, feeling Durron¡¯s shocked stare. Noskaur took a long, deep breath, blew it out through his nose and repeated it. It gave her no small amount of pleasure to have clearly caused the eternally pleasant man irritation. Good, now he felt a micron of her own frustration. Vaul folded her arms over her medal-adorned chest, head turned to the side, lips pursed. Thiel glowered, though that was nothing new. ¡°Look, Iterator. Shipmistess. Lieutenant. I¡¯ll apologize for the rashness of Commodore Fthiss and I¡¯m sure Master Durron would apologize for the unilateral actions of Jedi Rhonabeq. But I won¡¯t be blamed for them either. I won¡¯t have you paint us the guilty party. You knew when you invited us the way the Galaxy is ordered.¡± Noskaur, damn him, seemed amused. ¡°Chaotic, decentralized and disorderly?¡± ¡°Quite.¡± The Iterator leaned back, smoothing palms along the table before him. ¡°Perhaps I can accept that explanation, Senator. Perhaps I can. I try to understand other cultures. I try to find bridges across the gulfs of difference. That was my job, before the Primarch appointed me here. I¡¯m not a diplomat. I¡¯m a teacher. An orator, if I¡¯m feeling bold.¡± ¡°The way you say that indicates your friends don¡¯t.¡± ¡°The Lieutenant is Astartes. He doesn¡¯t need to understand. Madam Shipmistress is a commander of voidwar. Nor does she. I was a teacher. Let me be a teacher again. You are not treating with us at our best.¡± Thiel started, his first real movement since Viqi and the others entered the chamber, the big man peering down at the old Iterator in clear shock. ¡°Iterator-¡± ¡°Hush, Lieutenant. I have this.¡± Conflicting emotions warred across the Astartes¡¯ face, but he slowly eased back to merely looming over the proceedings. ¡°You¡¯ve seen our warships, no doubt. Did you notice anything?¡± Intrigued, Viqi slid her hands from her sleeves, taking up her datapad, flicking it on. It took only a moment to bring up holos of the Imperial warships above and she gestured at the shimmering images in the air. Unnecessary, as she remembered the cold, hard lines of the baroque vessels perfectly, but it was illustrative to have the holos before her. ¡°Damage,¡± she said succinctly. ¡°Damage,¡± Noskaur agreed. ¡°Tremendous and terrible damage. It was inflicted on us in a moment of true infamy and betrayal.¡± ¡°Iterator!¡± Thiel barked. ¡°That¡¯s enough!¡± ¡°You may silence me if you wish, Lieutenant, but it will need to be done physically. The Primarch appointed us to reach accord here, and I intend to follow his command.¡± He ignored Vaul as well, how the woman looked at him almost the same way she did at Im¡¯nel. ¡°Do you understand me, Senator? Master Jedi? Ambassador? We were betrayed. Many, many died. Beloved brothers and sisters, comrades in arms. They died right before us to a foe we never expected. A foe we met under the banner of diplomacy. When we translated to the warp, it was to escape-¡± ¡°Sorvenos¡­¡± ¡°-to escape the destruction of a star, Senator. A star,¡± he said firmly. ¡°That held a world the Primarch loved. That we all loved. Do you see?¡± His hands were trembling. Clear as day, Viqi could see the tremors that quaked his fingers. As if he noticed when she did, Noskaur balled up a fist and drummed the fingers of his other hand against the table instead. Vaul looked furious. Viqi knew the look. It was anger driven by fear. And the Lieutenant - he looked resigned. Like he¡¯d hoped it wouldn¡¯t come to this. Things clicked together. How cautious the Imperium had acted. The way they shut down Pirve like a smuggler¡¯s prized stim-stash. How they blasted an alert across METOSP to stay away. Even sending bounty hunters to catch Captain Sal Huin made a sort of sense. The Griddek was a threat to them. Other things, the way the Imperium had insisted on exacting minutia about this summit. What ships could come, when they could arrive, where. Who would be allowed to the planet, who could speak, who could set foot within the Redoubt. Betrayed by an ally. Backstabbed in what they thought was their safest place. And if Noskaur wasn¡¯t exaggerating, if it had led to the death of a star¡­ They still overreacted. But she could see why. More than that, she could see the desperation. They were alone and paranoid and wouldn¡¯t trust easily, but she could feel it. They wanted to trust. They wanted an ally. They wanted to wash away the betrayal with fidelity. Of course it had to hurt when they thought the New Republic and she, when they¡¯d been gracious and understanding, appeared to be the same as the ilk they had fled from. Viqi softened, giving Noskaur a sympathetic smile. ¡°I do understand. In light of that, I really do apologize for how the Plooriod Self Defense Force acted. Rest assured, there will be an inquiry into the Commodore and the Greater Plooriod Sector¡¯s government as well. It was a misunderstanding, all of it. I certainly don¡¯t condone it.¡± ¡°And our own reaction was overmuch. The Primarch was right to call off the ships, the Titans. We could all see your surprise with our own eyes. I apologize for the threat implicit, Senator, it does not reflect well upon us.¡± ¡°Accepted, Iterator. These negotiations can be so tense, can they not?¡± ¡°As you say. I must argue on one point, if you¡¯ll allow. Nothing the Imperium has done, though you may place blame, is against the norms of your New Republic. It was a legal action to place a bounty on the rogue Captain. Our treatment of non-humans, though you may not agree, has not been excessive nor unreasonable. I would not have you condemn the Imperium for the very same that others do within the umbrella of your New Republic. Not all are created nor treated equally, isn¡¯t that right, Viqi of the Shesh family?¡± A well aimed point, though she wondered if Noskaur had the slightest inkling of her own personal feelings on the matter. The jab at Kuat was entirely correct, though not quite the jab he imagined it was to her. ¡°That may be so, but the fact remains that you hid all this from us. To me, at least, hiding one¡¯s actions is a sign of some form of guilt. Does the Imperium regret the actions taken? Would you do things differently?¡± Noskaur opened his mouth, but Thiel beat him to it. ¡°No. Iterator, if you would allow me.¡± The Astartes slowly drew his long blade from where it lay across his back, motion slow enough that though Durron, beside Viqi, tensed, he did not reach for his ¡®saber. Thiel held the blade gently, leaving it inactive and laying across both palms, as if in offering. ¡°Iterator Noskaur was kind enough to speak of the infamy that preceded our arrival in your galaxy. Let me speak of the infamy that nearly killed our kind.¡± Without realizing it, Viqi wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, leaning forward. The way the Astartes spoke, the distant look in his eyes. Oh, she had wanted to know more of this Imperium-in-Exile and now it appeared she would get her wish, with none of the simplistic allegory or carefully dressed propagandizing. ¡°In our space, mankind held the galaxy in our grip. A golden age for our people, which reached heights unimaginable to you or I. The relics of that lost time are often beyond the understanding of even the most learned and ancient of Magos. It was peaceful, Senator. Mankind built wonders and paradises and yes, it is said we lived side-by-side with the xeno.¡± Meaningfully, the Astartes looked over at Im¡¯nel. The Bothan appeared entirely interested and entirely unconcerned about the undercurrent of hostility. ¡°Then came Old Night. Iterator Noskaur already hinted at it. He was polite and he was circumspect. I am Astartes. I will not be. Humanity was butchered. There is not a word for the number of men and women who died as the galaxy fell into silence and darkness. We have seen the history of your galaxy and the horrors that capture your minds. Old Night was ten thousand Alderaans. It was ten thousand Caridas. You mourn over the loss of one single planet and revere it to this day. Old Night drowned millions of worlds.¡± The Astartes proved a remarkably good orator, she considered. For having spoken little enough in the previous few days, his voice was rich and varied and he injected emotion and feeling into his words. The choice of them, of course, was dramatized and florid. ¡®Millions of worlds¡¯ indeed. But she pieced together further parts of the puzzle of the Imperium, revealing more and more of the tapestry of their personality, of how they viewed themselves. Victims, she considered. ¡°Those very xenos that were content to live alongside man, when life was easy, turned on us. You wish proof? I am the proof. My brothers are the proof. From the very cradle of mankind, the doorstep of the homeworld, the mutant and the alien infested what had been ours. The horrors uncovered within the light of the very same star as Terra would shock you to your core, Senator. Have you ever seen infants butchered as a delicacy? Have you ever seen men and women, minds devoured by parasites, shackled to engines that sap their vitality simply for the pleasure of their overlords? Have you ever seen whole worlds, entire cultures, swept away into dust by slavers and torturers, whose lives require torment?¡± Thiel looked along the length of his blade, from quillons to tip. ¡°I have fought on a thousand worlds under a hundred suns, and I am young compared to many of my brothers. I have killed more beings than you have ever met in your life and I will kill many times more than that before I die. And I will die in battle, Senator. I will not retire. I will not hang up this blade and grow old and grey. I am Astartes. I am no longer human. I am a weapon that was made because the candle of mankind was guttering out. So we would do the same. We will continue to do the same. And I wish for you to understand this: we could do more. But you understand the logic of science as well as we. Your New Republic is not ignorant of the principles of empiricism. We tested the aliens that we found on this world that was called Pirve. We tested them, for we had a thousand years and more of evidence of butchery and cruelty. But the Emperor, beloved by all, teaches us to seek clarity and truth.¡± Thiel took the blade by the hilt, swinging to point tip-downward, and pointed with his free hand at Im¡¯nel. ¡°We have found these aliens to be permissible. I will never, ever, trust one. Know that and accept it. Aliens are not human. There can never be understanding. But there can be allowance. This is the Primarch¡¯s will, and by his will we serve.¡± ¡°Well said, Lieutenant,¡± Vaul exclaimed, applauding. ¡°Well said indeed.¡± Noskaur appeared pained. ¡°It would be pointless for me to observe that this galaxy is not yours, then?¡± Viqi noted mildly. ¡°It would. We are aware. That we sit in open discussion with you is proof enough.¡± Thiel slid his blade back into the sheathe at his back, inclining his head and she knew he had said his piece. And what a piece it was. Noskaur had indeed been careful when speaking of ¡®reuniting lost cousins¡¯. Assuming she could take the Lieutenant at his word - and at this point, the Imperium had not proven itself entirely forthcoming - then these were a traumatized, hostile and likely combative people. There was no doubt grand exaggerations had been thrown about, as much like everything else they did, she was sure that in speech the Imperium was just as grandiose, but should a fraction still be true, then these humans had seen devastation and loss of a scale not imagined since the tales of the old Sith wars. Take an apocalyptic collapse of a galactic culture, add in betrayal by other non-human cultures (and she saw no reason to disbelieve this part, as any grand catastrophe that would sweep a galaxy would, of course, make every nation look inwards to the wellbeing of their own people first) in that time, and then whatever befell this fleet before arrival at Pirve and truthfully, she felt a great deal of sympathy for these Imperials. Whatever their way of life was, it was stripped away, turned upside down, and now they were trying to convince themselves they were strong, so that they could distance themselves from that dark past. She¡¯d seen it plenty of times in her own short career, watching other Families rationalize their fading grace after the collapse of the Empire, or even as a Senator, among the squabbling of sectors still uncertain of what the future held. The grand benefit though, she considered, was the Imperium held a great mistrust for non-humans. Unpleasant though that may be for the plurality of the New Republic, it boded very well for the future. The Yuuzhan Vong had come to Prive/Eboracum once and she was sure they would do it again. The Imperium clearly took self-defense as a near-sacred obligation, ready to go to war with the entire New Republic over a silly misunderstanding. Aiming them at the invasion corridor and dropping their leash should be simplicity itself. As long as she could get them to trust the New Republic. They acted like a nek, beaten and starved, and snapping at a gently hand reaching out. Viqi traced her lip with her fingertip, deep in thought. Noskaur and Vaul had their heads together, murmuring, while Im¡¯nel beside her refilled his and her own glasses of water. A measured hand. Play into their need to feel superior. Stroke their ego. If they wanted assurances about Eboracum, why not? Pirve had been a staid little backwater anyway. The Ploo and Greater Plooriod could deal with it. If the Imperium wanted a little bit of a buffer? Well, if they proved worth the hassle, they could have it too. The Yuuzhan Vong advance was so close that it might end up that no one wanted to stay around here anyway. ¡°Thank you, Lieutenant Thiel,¡± she purred. ¡°I think I understand much better now. I wish we could have been open with each other from the start, but I don¡¯t blame your caution. Our galaxy is still recovering from the memories of the Civil War, though I fear it must seem almost a trifle to you and your people. Let¡¯s begin anew, with this better honesty we¡¯ve found, shall we?¡± Reluctantly, the Astartes nodded. Shipmistress Vaul exhaled a sigh. ¡°The Navy will listen.¡± Noskaur smiled thinly, looking older than his age. ¡°We had not wished to burden you, Senator,¡± he said. ¡°But the Imperium prides itself on always hewing to the truth. It did not sit well with me to smile and pretend all was aright. We begin again, I agree. Call in your compatriots and let this day be a better one than last we met face-to-face.¡±
Seated again next to young Anakin and Master Durron, Mei hummed a tune from her homeworld. Again she was in her armor - far more comfortable than being in robes alone like the other Jedi - and this time she noticed the Astartes eying it from across the chamber while the boring routines of diplomacy ran on around them. She tried to catch his eye more than once, smirking a little, but he was insufferably hard to pin down. Maybe since everyone had stopped being loud and unfriendly she¡¯d get a chance to talk with Thiel or one of those other Astartes and ask them a couple questions about that starship plate they always had on. Jensaarai prided themselves on their master-crafted suits, but she¡¯d never shy away from picking up a couple notes here and there. Young Anakin still looked antsy and Master Durron looked ready to go for his lightsaber at any minute and both of them really needed to pay more attention to being a Jedi. Not that Mei was particularly a fantastic Jedi, that is. But that was their thing, wasn¡¯t it? The proper Jedi path, mastering emotions, finding their center and riding the balance. She was Jensaarai, the beautiful blend as handed down by the Saarai-kaar from Tyris. The Jedi had a lot to admire and a lot she had no problem adopting in her time among them. It just tickled her that one of the things she¡¯d found the most compelling was sanguine acceptance of the ways of the world. So this Imperium was a bunch of warmongering alien chauvinists. Ah, well. That was life, wasn¡¯t it? At least they were sitting right there across from Senator Shesh and Victor Pomt and Ambassador Im¡¯nel and talking over iced water, rather than burning people alive on pyres. That was more of the Yuuzhan Vong way. It¡¯s not like she hadn¡¯t been wrong before. Not like the Jensaarai hadn¡¯t been wrong, wrong, wrong. Thinking about having their own past thrown in their faces by smug Master Horn and pleading Master Skywalker could still get her to feel a shadow of that indignant, righteous rage. A pale, pale shadow, like looking at an old holo and feeling nostalgia, but it was there. She wouldn¡¯t forget. You don¡¯t forget that. But do you just ignore it? When you¡¯re beaten down and in the dust and the truth is kicking you in the face or has a saber to your throat, what do you do? Cry? Rage? Die? No. You listen and you live and you do better. Now into her thirties, Mei thought of young Mei and laughed inside. The whole world makes so much sense at eighteen. It was so easy to be so sure of herself. Now, she knew she didn¡¯t know anything at all. Still didn¡¯t really, actually, but it was knowing you didn¡¯t really know anything that made the difference. So she spoke with a strange accent around her peers, having learned Basic later, more comfortable in the creole of old Sith and Susevfite dialect she¡¯d been born to. She wore armor instead of robes and she looked for fights, when a Jedi should sit quietly and listen to the Force. Well, the Force made all of them, so she figured that meant that the Jedi meant to sit quietly and listen to the Force were there so they could do that, and she was here so that she could do this. And if she lost half her spars because she liked improvising novel and not always useful techniques, so be it. Variety kept life alive. Trying and failing made a blade sharper. Master Skywalker always said ¡®Do or do not, there is no try¡¯ and she took that to heart, among other teachings. She did fight the greatest blademaster in generations when she was barely a woman. She lost and almost died, but she did it. She did leave her homeworld and her people behind and learn among the Order that she had been taught from birth were the greatest enemy. It was awkward and her brother died for it - through no fault of the Jedi, of course, and by the hand of a Sith, so that was irony - but she did it. She did take up her brother¡¯s saber and learn a whole new form so that she could honor him along with the Jensaarai and it was like learning to walk all over again, but she did it. Do or do not, there is no try. Words to live by. And when the greatest meaning in your life had already been fought over by the time you were twenty, it made everything else seem simpler in comparison. Sometimes she wondered if Master Skywalker felt the same way, having defeated his father and Palpatine at so young an age, then she would laugh and feel a little silly at comparing herself to him. Still. Anakin was tense and uncertain and following every single word said. She could still see and feel the guilt and emotions churning right under the surface, the kid wearing the death of Chewbacca like a badge. She¡¯d had her life-changing conflict years ago. The Yuuzhan Vong were dangerous and a threat to the galaxy, but they were sort of just that: a dangerous foe. Master Skywalker and others worried about what it meant that they couldn¡¯t be felt in the Force but for Mei, it was just another quirk in the grand, endless tapestry of life the Force wove. Korriban hells, but maybe the Yuuzhan Vong could feel the Force in their own way, and were horrified that no one in the Galaxy had the Force! Maybe that explained their religious zeal and the atrocities they did. Or maybe they just weren¡¯t part of the Force at all. It didn¡¯t seem to change much, not to her. Not when you once sat in the dust with Master Skywalker¡¯s blade at your throat and learned everything you held dear was a lie. That sets perspective. Finally managing to meet Thiel¡¯s eyes, Mei smiled and waggled her eyebrows. The Astartes was as unreadable as ever, searching over her face for a moment before continuing his endless and steady surveillance of everyone and everything. But she did catch a whiff of locked-tight emotion from him and it smelled like momentary confusion. Well. She¡¯d take it. Wondered if that great big lightning sword of his could cross with a lightsaber, though, and feared she¡¯d never get to find out. She stole a glance at Master Durron again, seeing the older Jedi still on-edge and gently she sent directionless waves of her own calm amusement out, washing against the sharp-edged focus of the other Jedi in subtle lapping tides. Not overt, not obvious, but she hoped, maybe enough to calm them down a little. Really, she sniggered. They should act more like Jedi.
They got an agreement to recall the bounty on Captain Sal Huin. The Griddek woman would be allowed to stay in New Republic custody, which really meant, she was free to go. She¡¯d be required to swear to keep under wraps everything going on at Eboracum, but now the NRI would have a vested interest in that too. Viqi Shesh insisted on New Republic observers being allowed to visit the civilian centers of Eboracum before agreeing to any refugee deals on behalf of SELCORE. That had some of the Imperials arguing about sovereignty and not being a part of the New Republic, and though everyone on the New Republic side knew that Viqi was lying through her teeth and that SELCORE routinely did far less vetting, it was a very useful excuse to get NRI eyes on the ground. So Senator Shesh argued that SELCORE wouldn¡¯t be comfortable releasing refugees to Eboracum without inspecting facilities and filling out a checklist to make sure the poor wretches would be safe and secure there. The Imperium¡¯s hunger for warm bodies was obvious and Noskaur reluctantly agreed, stipulating that the ¡®SELCORE¡¯ observers would be escorted by Imperial officials, for their own safety and assistance, of course! Spies spying over the shoulders of spies, more like, but that was how deals went. As for the non-human populace of Eboracum? The Imperium was open to allowing expatriation. Viqi smiled around gritted teeth as Noskaur noted that there was likely to be a great deal of interest, as of course there would be interest given the Imperium had gone out of their way to make it very clear none of them were welcome. But, if the SELCORE deal passed, the New Republic would be trading indefinite numbers of human refugees for a few hundred thousand non-humans, quite a few of whom were already part-time spacers. Many also had families or other contacts offworld, giving them somewhere to go to without needing to exacerbate the very problem of refugees they were trying to solve. They would all need to be briefed to stay quiet about the particulars of the regime change out at ¡®Pirve¡¯, at least until the Imperium and New Republic were ready to act openly. And so on and so forth. Now the tension was out in the open. The Imperials were less veiled with their insistences on independence and sovereignty, more overt about their biases. In a way, it was better. It made it a simpler environment to navigate in. And for Viqi? She could lean harder on certain points, now having a more complete image of the Imperium in her head. Now that she knew their faults and their flaws, their history, their fears, she knew she could wield them. How long ago did they say their ¡®Old Night¡¯ ended? Two hundred years? The Republic had been playing its games for ten times that and Kuat itself for even longer. Compared to the newborn Imperium, the New Republic stood on ancient and inviolate roots. The real sticking point was just what to¡­do. Viqi wanted to point the Imperium at the Yuuzhan Vong and let them have at it. She was no tactician, of course, and knew it would be up to liaising with the New Republic Navy. The Imperium didn¡¯t want to commit any forces beyond the absolute necessary, which even she understood why, was still frustrating. They were very much alone here and with no backup they could imagine, each and every soldier, tank and ship was nigh irreplaceable. When Vaul again made aspersions about it ¡®not being their war¡¯, Viqi finally had enough. ¡°Shipmistress, the vong already showed up on your doorstep. You won then on your own, but they weren¡¯t here for you. What happens when the vong send a whole fleet here? Don¡¯t think they¡¯ll take your explanation of ¡®we¡¯re not around here¡¯ and give heartfelt apologies and pass you by. They mean to claim this whole Galaxy and everyone in it. You may dislike droids as much as they do, but I daresay the vong won¡¯t like the Magos over there.¡± It was a point well delivered and Vaul had quieted, looking contemplative. Their mindset was dogged and it was entrenched and Viqi knew she had to break it. They kept thinking of themselves as ¡®other¡¯. From some ¡®other¡¯ galaxy. Some ¡®other¡¯ homeworld. Some ¡®other¡¯ humanity. Well, they were here and that wasn¡¯t changing. If they wanted to barter to dig through dusty archives in search of their strange ¡®Warp¡¯ they could have their fun, but the Yuuzhan Vong wouldn¡¯t care. They were part of this Galaxy and all its problems. More than once, she thought about a few of the things Victor had whispered to her in the past weeks. Names, contacts, dates. The Yuuzhan Vong were spreading nets out, subtle ones, looking for intelligence and turncoats. It wouldn¡¯t be the hardest thing for a set of coordinates and a certain recording to end up in the ¡®wrong¡¯ hands. Maybe a fleet like that one at Ithor showing up would wake the Imperium up. Viqi put it from her mind. It was a little enticing, if for no other reason than to see them shaken out of their stupor, but having the surprise factor of the Imperium counted for more than that. No, when their star dreadnoughts showed themselves, it would be to the best benefit of the New Republic. ¡°It¡¯s trust,¡± Master Durron announced. ¡°We still don¡¯t trust each other. You lied to us, and we¡­made mistakes. Before we can hope to work together, we need to forge trust between the New Republic and the Imperium Exsilius.¡± Viqi clapped twice, but not mockingly. It was something Master Skywalker might have said and it dovetailed with hew brewing thoughts. ¡°Well spoken, Master Durron. Let¡¯s consider the matter of SELCORE settled, provisionally, and before we count our gizka before they hatch, perhaps a¡­minor joint venture will help build that trust. Shipmistress Vaul, Magos Nalt, you both professed interest in finding records of the, ah-¡± ¡°Empyrean,¡± Im¡¯nel supplied, glancing at his notes. ¡°Yes, empyrean, or warp. Immaterium too, I think you called it?¡± The Imperials nodded. ¡°Well, luckily for us all, I spoke with Director Bel-dar-Nolek last night, after the unfortunate and fortunately behind us events of that afternoon. You may have heard of the Obroan Institute? No? Well, it¡¯s merely one of the largest repositories of knowledge and history this side of the Galaxy, and it happens to be practically on your doorstep.¡± Almost comically, the Imperials perked up, some leaning forward. ¡°Unfortunately,¡± Viqi sighed, closing her eyes a moment in sorrow, ¡°the Yuuzhan Vong captured it only weeks ago.¡± ¡°You mean to reclaim it,¡± Thiel spoke. ¡°As much as the Director is petitioning us to, no. Obroa Skai is just not a priority target at the moment, despite its treasure troves of lore. No, I was thinking, well, Master Durron, perhaps you could offer some perspective as well. Do you think it might be possible to send, say, a small infiltration team to Obroa Skai, so that the Imperium might have a chance to recover some of the data before it¡¯s lost? The Jedi always seem to have a knack for being just where the enemy doesn¡¯t want them to be, don¡¯t they?¡± A muscle in Kyp Durron¡¯s jaw bunched and she knew he was thinking of poor deceased Miko Reglia, his last apprentice. ¡°The Jedi go where we¡¯re needed, Senator.¡± ¡°Like Obroa Skai?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t speak for Master Skywalker.¡± ¡°Well, neither did Knight Rhonabeq, and see how much she accomplished!¡± Viqi smiled at how several people blanched, but making light of the misstep was, she considered, the best tactic. ¡°Maybe,¡± Durron allowed. ¡°I would volunteer.¡± Thiel, following the exchange, slowly nodded. ¡°This¡­this would be acceptable. I have Astartes under my command that my Primarch has bade me make use of, should the opportunity arise. This would be just that.¡± ¡°A joint mission, then? Well, I¡¯m only a Senator, after all, so we¡¯ll need to coordinate with New Republic Intelligence and probably the Fleet, but I can¡¯t imagine anyone would argue against saving some of Obroa Skai¡¯s precious history.¡± Anakin Solo, long quiet, spoke up suddenly. ¡°I would volunteer too. I¡¯ve fought the vong the most out of anyone. I mean, I¡¯m not bragging, but it¡¯s true and - I can give advice.¡± ¡°How old are you, Knight Solo?¡± Thiel rumbled. ¡°Sixteen?¡± ¡°You are uncertain.¡± Anakin cleared his throat. ¡°Sixteen.¡± Thiel studied him for a long moment. ¡°Acceptable.¡± Viqi clapped her hands together, beaming. ¡°Director Bel-dar-Nolek will finally stop calling me every other day.¡± Im¡¯nel snorted and a few amused chuckles resounded from her aides, though the Imperials looked nonplussed. ¡°Then we have a path forward,¡± she continued. ¡°One I hope will continue to bear fruit.¡± Noskaur nodded. ¡°I hope so, Senator. The Primarch wished us to make accord this day, and accord, I think, we have. It is unfortunate it took the events two days previous to help us along, but perhaps we both needed to have our eyes opened, to see another perspective.¡± ¡°Treat it for the best, Iterator, and our mistakes become strengths.¡± Exigence Chapter XIV XIV: Be At Ease
When breaking for refreshments, Pomt pulled Senator Shesh aside, both ducking out of the main chamber for an adjoining one. Aides on both sides were mingling and chatting, framing out the structure of a tentative, cordial agreement. Anakin leaned forward, chin resting on his palm, already thinking ahead. A mission to Obroa Skai. He offered without even thinking about it, something telling him it was the thing to do. The Force, maybe? He¡¯d been passive, letting it flow around and through him, just like Aunt Mara and talked to him about. Maybe he was starting to hear its quiet voice. He still wasn¡¯t sure what that meant. She talked about shouting out the Force, overriding it, stifling it, but he couldn¡¯t imagine what that would feel like. The Force was with him, around him, always. A blanket he couldn¡¯t see, wrapped around him at all times. He breathed and it was in his lungs, he slept and it was in his heart. Maybe Aunt Mara had another perspective, from her own teaching under the Empire. It didn¡¯t make her advice bad though, just different. Obroa-skai! Part of him was excited. It was something to do, something he could get into and feel like he was helping again. Dantooine - he shivered, taking a deep breath - Dantooine had been horrible but at least they had been able to help the refugees. Ithor had been worse. He was sick of fighting on the back foot. He was sick of waiting for the vong to come to them. Uncle Luke talked about how the Jedi were defenders, that they should never attack, that to go on the offensive was wrong and Anakin knew he was right, he knew that was what Obi-wan Kenobi taught and Master Yoda taught but¡­ Daeshara¡¯cor died. Miko Reglia died. Chewbacca died. Sernpidal died and Ithor died and they were always on the defensive. Anakin didn¡¯t want to be aggressive, he didn¡¯t want to tempt the Dark side but all he could think about at Ithor was the herdship they fought on. It was someone¡¯s home. It was a work of art and the love the Ithorians had for their planet was poured into it. And it was destroyed, all around them as they fought. If you wait to fight until you have to defend, then innocents get caught in it. Uncle Luke had to understand that, so Anakin knew there had to be some reason to make it work but he just couldn¡¯t find it. Going to Obroa-skai, though. Then he would fight were the vong were. If he hurt anyone, it would be them. They could free people too, help them escape. It would be good. It had to be good. It - Anakin coughed, choking and sputtering on a mouthful of water. ¡°Whoa,¡± Mei said, ¡°you okay?¡± He covered his mouth, wheezing around half a lungful of water as his eyes watered. He wanted to say yes, he was fine, just a mistake but why had he choked on it, why had he, why had- Aunt Mara! He felt Uncle Luke like he was right next to him, he felt it all at once, shock and surprise and horror and hope and joy and love and Aunt Mara was shining too, intertwined with his Uncle, both of them like flaring stars in the Force from halfway across the Galaxy and Aunt Mara felt better. Everyone could sense her sickness, even at a distance. Everyone could feel the pall drawn around her, that pulled her downwards, that exhausted her, drained her. Master Cilghal was metaphorically pulling her hair out, at her wit¡¯s end about the mysterious illness. But Aunt Mara, at that moment, gleamed like polished durasteel. Vibrant, bright, beaming and he felt her shock too, her joy, her wonder and Anakin laughed around his choking and Mei frowned and then her jaw dropped in surprise as she sensed it, funneled through Anakin. ¡°Kyp!¡± she cried, but Anakin could only think about his Aunt and Uncle. Aunt Mara was going to be okay! She was going to be alright!
Still nearly bouncing in his seat, Anakin watched and tried to listen as the final accommodations of the day were put into place. Originally, the allowance was made for five days of negotiations. Two days had been spent, with the unfortunate arrival of Rhonabeq, Harlan Ysanna and the Plooriod squadron cutting short the second day. Then the third day passed, quiet and tense, until the next morning the Imperium reached out again. That made today the fourth day, with one more allowed for, but Senator Shesh was eager to get matters underway. It seemed that despite how close the Imperium came to attacking them, they too were anxious to get past it as well, and didn¡¯t argue when Senator Shesh recommended she return to Coruscant for final approval from the Senate and Chief of State. Iterator Noskaur, along with the skittish Colonel Lurense, would tag along on Malaghi Shesh, with a small group of Imperial Armsmen and their staff. According to the Iterator, it was what he did best, and was his original job, after all. Talking to and educating others on the Imperium was his life¡¯s work and the chance to do it for an entire Galaxy, all at once, must have been tempting. Uncle Luke and the other Jedi would want to have a say in who went on this planned mission to Obroa Skai, and Anakin momentarily felt a stab of worry that Uncle Luke might not let him go. Which wouldn¡¯t make any sense, since Jaina was flying with Rogue Squadron. She was in a lot more danger then he would be, and he fought at Ithor, too. Still feeling his Uncle¡¯s joy and wonder washing through the Force, he hoped some of the less savory things they¡¯d learned about the Imperium wouldn¡¯t put too much of a shadow over the good news, whatever it was, with Aunt Mara. They both needed the win so much. Everyone did. He hoped Mom knew, and Dad, wherever he was. And he hoped that it was better than he guessed. That Mara was healed, finally, and that whatever was - whatever she was sick with was finally, permanently, gone. Still thinking about his Aunt, Anakin almost missed Noskaur¡¯s nonchalant announcement. ¡°The Primarch wishes to meet with you, Senator, before you depart. He has newly found time in his schedule, and feels it important to deliver his own regards to the representative of the New Republic.¡± Anakin¡¯s eyes widened, noticing how Lieutenant Thiel, if it were possible, seemed to draw himself even taller, more perfectly erect. All of the Imperials did, each one of them tugging on uniforms and brushing off invisible lint. Like the Primarch¡¯s title was enough to suddenly refocus every single one and he felt - Anakin reached out and felt the sheer loyalty that radiated off of them all like the baking heat of a desert. A complex emotion, filled with love and wonder and pride and fear and all of them, even Lieutenant Thiel, felt it as one. Senator Shesh seemed delighted. She had complained, Anakin heard, about how this ¡®Primarch¡¯ was only ever talked about and that he seemed like the most reasonable one around and how if only they could just talk with him directly, there¡¯d be a lot less of a hassle here and other things like that. To Anakin, the Primarch sounded kind of like a figurehead. He was too busy with ¡®affairs of state¡¯ and ¡®critical logistics¡¯ to spare a moment to meet with a Senator? After the Chief of State, Senators were the most important people in the New Republic. He¡¯d know, his mom had been both. ¡°Of course, I would be honored to make the Primarch¡¯s acquaintance. I¡¯m sure in the future Chief of State Feyl¡¯ya would look forward to meeting him as well.¡± Given how the Imperials felt about nonhumans, Anakin felt the Senator was probably making a point there, but the Iterator didn¡¯t seem to care. ¡°It would be the logical result, certainly,¡± the man allowed. ¡°Shall we meet privately?¡± Senator Shesh asked. ¡°No, the Primarch wishes to meet all who speak for the New Republic.¡± ¡°I¡¯d like to meet the man too,¡± Durron chimed in. ¡°You¡¯ve all spoken so much about him, after all.¡± Anakin felt Kyp¡¯s curiosity, burning under the surface. The Imperials several times had made allusions to how the Primarch was the one that wanted them to find a way to come to agreement today, that he had been the one to order the overreacting military to stand down. He had to be quite the man indeed to command that kind of instant and unquestioning loyalty. Harlan said last night that after a single broadcast from the inner system, every Imperial ship slammed on the brakes immediately. Whoever the Primarch was, when he spoke, everyone listened. ¡°He will be here shortly,¡± Thiel confirmed, peering at something embedded in the broad collar of his armor. ¡°The Primarch was planetside to handle matters in the Redoubt.¡± Again, Anakin was struck by how the Imperials reacted. All of them were sitting ramrod straight, taking deep breaths. He saw one of their stenographers surreptitiously wipe her brow with her robe¡¯s sleeve. Anakin felt Kyp¡¯s presence in the Force whisper past him, expanding through and out of the room and then Kyp frowned, narrowed his eyes, and Anakin sensed even more clearly the older Jedi¡¯s focus in the Force. Mei was leaning back in her chair, legs crossed at the ankle, fingers woven in her lap. Catching Anakin¡¯s eye, she winked. Noskaur cleared his throat as white-robed servants hurried to the wide double doors of the chamber, securely shuttered. Anakin was sorely tempted to extend a tendril of the Force beyond, to get a sense of the man, but held back. Listen to the Force, don¡¯t shove it around. ¡°I would advise focusing on his feet,¡± he said. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡°Excuse me?¡± Senator Shesh asked, confusion in her voice. Anakin frowned at the non-sequitor. ¡°The Primarch,¡± he clarified. ¡°Try to focus on his feet. It¡¯ll help.¡± ¡°What are you-¡± The broad double doors, plain and polished metal, swung inward on silent hinges, each hauled by a servant that Anakin realized, for a split second, were weeping.
Noskaur bows his head, more familiar than most of the others, taking a moment to gather his thoughts that scatter immediately like terrified doves as they always do at first sight. Beside him, he envies how steadily Katryna Vaul remains outwardly relaxed and composed. But he still notes her white knuckles and the way color flees her face. Even the Shipmistress, hardened by the void and some exposure to the Primarch, is only human. Thiel sinks to one knee. Magos Nalt¡¯s mechadendrites are curled in entirely, spooled tight to his back and his augmetic eye clicks rapidly as it refreshes. Colonel Lurense is slackjawed. Half the adepts have wet cheeks and trembling lips. All have been in the Primarch¡¯s presence at least once. For those without a sense of the Force, what lay behind the doors was as if an airlock wrenched open, sucking out all air at once, leaving lungs frozen, minds blank, mouths agape. There is a feeling like heat, like the sun on a cloudless day that prickles skin and ruffles fur. Bowels twinge. Bladders tremble. Hindbrains in human and nonhuman alike scream wordless, clambering up the brainstem to pummel the hippocampus. Tears burn from eyes, unnoticed. For Victor Pomt, he thinks of pulsars. So much wrapped into so tiny of a star, churning with explosive power, held on the brink of unimaginable havoc. He thinks of the blinding jets that blast from the poles, giving a hint of the chained potential. They can be seen from across galaxies, from across hyperclusters, from across the universe. He is staring down a polar radio pulse now and he is spellbound. Tresk Im¡¯nel is struck by a migraine like he has never had before. Auras dance in his vision. Half of his sight goes static and grey, vertigo sweeping him and he swallows down his lunch. The Force is - he has no words for it. He wants to say it is raging, he wants to say it is a storm, but it is none, and all. The Force is bent out of shape, it is twisting so that one and one equals three, so that rain falls up and suns shine darkness. It is inversed, polarity swapped, yellow-becomes blue, green-sears-into-red and he is in awe that this thing could be so close and none of them even notice. Mei claps a hand over her mouth, spittle and stomach acid squeezing between her fingers. She does not notice. She sees a man, or the shape of a human, rippling and warping whose head is that of an animal, sleek and furred and then stern and feathered, then horned and braying. Behind it she can almost make out the more mundane shape of a broad, tall man, beyond hope of scale, but the doubling of her vision sends her eyes out of focus, pressure building behind her temples. Kyp Durron¡¯s fingers are so tight about his lightsaber that the metal cuts him. Blood beads on silvered metal. In moments before, his sense was rebuffed, sliding around like a zurl seed in his fingers. But with the doors flung open: in front of him is the single Darkest thing he has ever witnessed. He smells cooking flesh, he tastes gamma radiation, he chokes on the fist of Exar Kun around his throat. The Force bends and falls past an event horizon, choked out, suffocated, annihilated, devoured. He realizes it was not his inability to sense this man before. It was because the Force refuses to have anything to do with this abomination. He will kill this thing, this monster, this, this¡­this¡­ Viqi Shesh sees God. She is an obligate atheist. Belief in greater powers was never even a consideration. Some hold with the Force in this new age. Other places follow their own faiths. She never cared or noticed. Higher powers like such meant places unattainable for her and were discarded. Viqi Shesh believes in herself and she believes in power. Heat fills her chest, pushing through every limb, trembling nerves and twitching fingers. She looks on the face of God and there is Rapture. Enthneogenic ecstasy. Anakin Solo watches the Force crystallize. He sees the invisible become visible, threads in the air, dust motes dancing in light, tangles and streams and wafting clouds. He could reach his fingers out and run them through this newfound sight, if he could imagine commanding his limbs. At the center of this, this lens that shocks his sense, he sees a man. A tall man, a stern man, handsome like a king on an old coin. A man in simple robes of white, robes of state, with a laurel at his brow. He looks at this man and sees Thiel¡¯s father, then sees the father each of the handful Astartes they had met. It is so obvious. How had anyone missed it? The familial connection is like fetters, linking the man and his son. Like Thiel is the man, too, in some pinched off, smaller form. Anakin cannot blink, because if he blinks, he will lose this sight, the sight of the Force, physical, tangible, breathing, all around him. For just a moment, he has seen beyond the rainbow, past violet, below red, and glimpsed all wave-patterns. In later, mundane moments, he tries to explain it as beautiful, but no spoken word can capture the rippling, infinite ocean of the Force that expands around him, as deep as the seas of Dac and as wondrous as the storm-bands of Yavin. Roboute Guilliman clears his throat, taking in the room, half-filled with rigid, rapturous, shell-shocked diplomats and ambassadors who are the pinnacle of their craft. He adopts a chagrined expression, raising one hand gently, sleeve of his toga sliding over his massive forearm. ¡°Be at ease,¡± he murmurs, voice ringing in every corner of the chamber.
Malaghi Shesh was underway. Following like a chastened child, held tight to their mother, was the Plooriod Self Defense Force Star Destroyer Glgthurn. Commodore Fthiss languished under arrest in his own quarters, the XO left in command under stern observation of Family Shesh armsmen. Beqi Shesh, radiant in a complex drapery of violet, white, green and yellow stood beside her older cousin, the lesser partner of a binary star system sidling up to its primary. Viqi Shesh, by contrast, wore pressed pants and a simple pale purple tunic, though her fingers and ears dripped with gold and gemstones. Beyond the transparisteel viewport of the bridge was the white-violet dagger of Temerity, keeping pace with her grander sibling. Samothrace soared to port, a bar of glinting gold and oceanic blue, itself flanked by two naked blades of Imperial destroyer-escorts. They cruised past Mantallikes and Viqi Shesh winced at the horrific damage slashed across the massive star dreadnought. Sparking light caught the eye, bursting and vanishing across the beam of the warship as crews scour the surface, feverishly effecting repairs. Idly, she imagined towing such a vessel into the grand ring over Kuat. It would take months to even begin work on so alien a vessel, but she knew Shesh engineers and savants were up to it. Ebcoracum rolls away beneath them as the Mandator cruises out of its mass shadow. Hyperspace awaits, an agonizingly long trip bouncing back and forth until reaching the greater paved ways of the spacelanes, then on to Coruscant. Down in the depths of Malaghi Mei Taral and young Anakin Solo are helping Sorvenos Noskaur and his retinue settle into the sumptuous rooms set aside for them. Kyp Durron sequestered himself away in the Jedi¡¯s own quarters, refusing to speak with Viqi or anyone else. And the why¡­ She tried everything she could, every mnemonic and trick she had picked up, either taught or discovered. Try as she might, Viqi could not recall the specific words the Primarch spoke. Just thinking the title sent a frisson of electricity up her spine and she shivered in the perfectly maintained air. Roboute Guilliman. She remembered his name, the way the syllables rolled like thunder from his chest, filling the air, filling her head, almost physical, tangible, like she held the words in her hands even as they took up her world. There had to be something going on. He was Force-sensitive. He had to be. She saw the reactions. Later, after he said a few words and departed, when Viqi could string her thoughts together gain. When her heart stopped racing. When her skin stopped tingling. She saw how the Jedi reacted, like no one else. Tresk immediately excused himself to find a medical droid, claiming a migraine. Taral looked humiliated, stinking of bile and ducking her head. Kyp Durron was even bleeding, his fist bunched in his robe. None of them would talk about what happened. What they felt. What they saw. Everything wrapped up as if in a daze. Even the Imperials were slightly out of it. One moment Viqi was emptily shaking hands, then next she was walking through the corridors, out onto the tarmac of the Redoubt, then she was in the shuttle, then she was staring through the environment shields of Malaghi Shesh¡¯s hangar. A blur. She remembered Noskaur quietly apologizing. Saying something about how all the Primarchs had this effect, the first time. That it was normal, and that he should¡¯ve warned them more. That he hoped it did not sour relations. Sour relations. Viqi Shesh wanted to be angry. This Primarch, this Roboute Guilliman, had done something to her head, to her mind. The feeling - but she could not stay irritated. When she recalled the doors swinging open, she couldn¡¯t find the space to be affronted. How could she? He had to be Force-sensitive, that was it. Viqi wasn¡¯t, of course, but everyone knew Jedi could make people feel certain ways. They could link minds and share emotions and Viqi had seen it first hand, when Solo learned something about his Aunt. That¡¯s what it had to be. Pomt agreed when they spoke on it. Victor was more disquieted, but he too agreed that he hadn¡¯t felt anything wrong in that moment. If anything, Victor considered, it felt like his first memory of looking up in the night sky and seeing the arc of the great Shipyards around Kuat and being old enough to understood exactly what it meant. The awe, the wonder, the shock of it. To Viqi, it reminded her of the first time she stood in the Senate chamber. It was nothing like the austere, imposing structure of the Old Republic, but it was enormous and it was drenched in meaning. She had come early to her first session, very early, and no one else was present aside from a handful of security. The place was ringing silent and she padded out in soft-soled shoes, craning her neck up and looking around. Wonder. Joy. But it paled, it paled to how she felt when the doors opened. When Roboute Guilliman spoke. She set her teeth, exhaling hard through her nose and forcibly taking hold of the thoughts with both hands, shoving them aside. She owned nothing but herself and power. The Galaxy turned on the fulcrum of merit. Viqi worshiped nothing but potential. She¡¯d talk to the Jedi, even if they didn¡¯t want to, and she¡¯d be ready for next time. Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, whatever that meant, was another man in a Galaxy that made men small. Kuat knew what to do with small men. She knew. She cracked her neck, smiling over at Beqi, who gave the order. Stars leapt. Hyperspace crackled around them. She would wield this Imperium in Exile and the Galaxy would know her name.
Anakin, after showing the old Iterator to his quarters, return to the ones set aside for the Jedi. He unclipped his lightsaber, hanging it from a hook beside the door. He toed off his boots, neatly placing them side by side and then shrugged off his outer robes. Taking a moment to decide, he changed entirely into a lightweight jumpsuit, laying down on his bed. Not a bunk, not here, not on Malaghi Shesh, where each Jedi had a room to themselves. He gazed up the ceiling, lit by flickering blue from the whorl of hyperspace outside his datapad-sized porthole. Anakin lifted his arm, his hand tinted the same rippling blues as the white-washed durasteel above, and let his eyes unfocus. He imagined the way the Force was. He imagined the way it wove and rippled and swirled around him, around Kyp, around Mei and Tresk and knotted and tied and tangled, how it filled the room, luminous, how it breathed and swelled and swayed. He lay in bed for hours, imagining it, reaching for it, trying to find it again, to see it again. He dreamt and he imagined and he pushed, he pressed, he bent every fiber of his young being to seeing, just for a moment, a second, that beautiful infinity again. Many hundreds of parsecs away, a tangled bundle of blonde hair was caught by pale fingers and swept away from green eyes, muzzy with sleep. ¡°Anakin?¡± Tahiri whispered into the dark of Yavin¡¯s true night, gooseflesh prickling. Exigence Chapter XV PART V: THREE IS COMPANY
XV: Celebrity
Like the rest of Ralroost, the turbolifts sparkled. Every surface was buffed and polished, every transparisteel display free of digitprints and general accumulations of wear and tear that every haptic surface accumulated. Even though the form of the warship was utilitarian-strikingly so compared to the gentle curves and off-tone colors he knew best from Mon Calamari designs- the Bothan assault cruiser was proud of its austerity. It was a new generation sort of thing; the more of these assault cruisers came out of Bothawui, the more they became the norm. A shift in the character of the Navy he once knew, perhaps. Now Rogue Squadron called one home, instead of the MC-series they had almost always operated out of. It was good to see, Wedge Antilles considered, eying a few of the crew as they entered and exited the lift as it descended from command toward the hangar. Everyone was young and fresh and their heads were in it. When he¡¯d retired, it had been because he¡¯d hoped the New Republic was ready to move along with the new generation. It seemed he hadn¡¯t been mistaken. The doors slid open, as quiet as could be and he¡¯d barely stepped out when a loud gasp rang through the corridor, shortly followed by a breathless ¡°General Antilles?!¡± Briefly closing his eyes, Wedge took a bracing breath and turned in time to see a¡­middle aged man, well-muscled and with a neatly trimmed goatee and shaved head nearly running down the corridor toward him, dodging past perplexed techs. Unfortunately, even as the thought occurred to him, he saw the turbolift had already departed. It was worth pressing the call button. Pressing it twice. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it! I heard you were on board - I never imagined that I would get to meet you -¡± The man skidded to a halt, thrusting out a datapad and blinking rapidly, as if to hold back tears from entirely dry eyes. ¡°Face.¡± Wedge acknowledged. The commander of Wraith Squadron, once part of the starfighter corps, now long since an intelligence apparatus, beamed at Wedge even as he sucked in a dramatic gasp. ¡°You know my name? Oh, my wife won¡¯t believe it, if only she could¡¯ve been here too, you¡¯ll sign this won¡¯t you? Just so I can prove to her I met the legendary-¡± It was precisely because Wedge knew the Colonel invading his personal space that he sighed, taking the datapad and quickly scrawling his signature down, because otherwise the other man wouldn¡¯t let up and the stares they were attracting were quite enough. Garik Loran, former holovid child-star and veteran intelligence operative took the datapad back, pressing it to his chest with an exaggerated wonder across his eponymous face. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it, Wedge Antilles himself, the Hero of the Rebellion, Wedge-¡± ¡°Face.¡± ¡°Right in front of me-¡± ¡°Face.¡± Loran¡¯s joy melted off his face and he threw up his hands. ¡°Can you blame me? You never call-¡± ¡°We spoke two weeks ago.¡± ¡°-you never write-¡± ¡°You want e-mails?¡± ¡°-I thought we were friends-¡± ¡°You¡¯re definitely pushing that one right now.¡± ¡°Why did you go to Gavin first?¡± This time Loran was quieter, more subdued, oddly vulnerable. Wedge frowned; along with Tycho he¡¯d reactivated his commission and from there had been working closely with Traest and Gavin in trying to counter the invaders. High Command wanted to get Wedge into his own command, but with the chaos of the nonstop offensives as well as Wedge¡¯s own maneuverings, he¡¯d managed to stay attached to Ralroost the whole time. Why Garik Loran would be bothered that he didn¡¯t approach the Wraiths was beyond him, the Wraiths hadn¡¯t been part of the starfighter corps in- ¡°Because Gavin isn¡¯t you.¡± He replied and Face laughed, dropping the facade and growing more serious. ¡°Yeah, his loss. Anyway, speaking of the kid, how¡¯s he been handling things? They¡¯ve been on the front from the start.¡± ¡®Kid¡¯. That kid was married with kids and running the squadron that he¡¯d joined as a fresh faced boy of sixteen. He was closer to forty than thirty now, that ¡®kid¡¯, and Wedge felt every parsec of his life. ¡°The Rogues are better than they¡¯ve been in years. He¡¯s got a good group together.¡± ¡°Including little Jaina.¡± She took to the role with the kind of skill and fixed dedication he¡¯d expected. She flew better than pilots with hundreds if not thousands of hours on her. It was unfair to mix Solo and Skywalker that way, Wedge thought. ¡°That was¡­well, it was Gavin¡¯s call to let her on board. She¡¯s proven herself over and over again, just as good as her father.¡± ¡°And her uncle,¡± Face observed, mirroring Wedge¡¯s own thoughts. ¡°And her uncle.¡± Wedge agreed. For a moment they were both quiet, making their way down toward the Ralroost¡¯s hangars. Though Ralroost was off the line, as safe as could be imagined now that they¡¯d entered the Coruscant system a few hours previous, the same air of action still permeated the decks. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Face grimaced and shook his head. ¡°You¡¯d think we¡¯d be past signing kids up to fight.¡± Wedge shrugged. He¡¯d been through this soul-searching already, him and Tycho and Gavin together, when Jaina Solo had demanded a slot in Rogue Squadron. Tycho was the only one that had any leg to stand on with maybe denying the young Jedi Knight - at least he¡¯d enlisted as an adult. Wedge and Gavin? Both were flying sorties before they¡¯d even been out of puberty. With a record like that, it felt a little hypocritical to deny the young woman what her scores and her talent screamed she deserved. If Wedge wondered why Jaina had chosen Rogue Squadron over her role as a Jedi, well, Luke had taken his own stint in the cockpit and the Rebellion had been the better for it. ¡°Jaina¡¯s no kid. She¡¯s a Jedi Knight, even if we all remember her still learning to walk.¡± ¡°You do, maybe. Even holostars can¡¯t be best friends with the heroes of our generation.¡± Wedge cleared his throat, looking askance at the Colonel. ¡°I thought I was a Hero of the Rebellion? You know, the famous Wedge Antilles-¡± ¡°No, you¡¯re just old,¡± Face assured him. ¡°Besides, the luster wears off when I have to put up with you as my boss.¡± ¡°I thought you had begged me to stay in command of Wraith squadron.¡± Face waved off the comment, shaking his head as they parted to either side of the hallway, letting two techs carrying a dead astromech squeeze past. ¡°That was old me. Well. Young me, now I¡¯m old me.¡± Bantering, catching up, discussing the war, they finally made it to Ralroost¡¯s main hangar. Wedge paused a moment, taking in the scents and sights of active recovery, letting memories stir like silt in a stream as it washed over him. A flight of snubfighters was returning, each transiting the atmospheric barrier with dull pops, buoyed on repulsorlifts. Everywhere were carts racing about, alert lights flashing as droids dashed back and forth, astromechs whistled and warbled and pilots shouted across the bay to each other as canopies popped and engines steamed. His hands itched, feeling the well-worn molded plastic of an X-Wing¡¯s stick between his fingers, the way it would kick and fight him as he spun maneuvers severe enough to make the snubfighter¡¯s frame creak. He could hear Gate dispassionately beeping at him, synched up with a blaring target lock. Face smothered a grin at Wedge¡¯s expression, but he didn¡¯t care. Flying was still in his blood, in his bones, even if it had been years since he jockeyed anything but a desk. ¡°I could still wipe the floor with you, Colonel Loran.¡± ¡°Sir, yes sir, of course sir,¡± Face laughed. ¡°Maybe next time. I¡¯m heading off too.¡± ¡°Actually, just what were you doing here on Ralroost? Last I heard, you and the Wraiths were still slamming your heads against the wall along the Perlemian.¡± Ralroost had been recalled, along with several other elements of the First Fleet, to Coruscant for R&R. Wedge had a sinking feeling he was about to finally get the command he¡¯d been threatened with for the past several months, but he was glad to see that the Navy was seeing to rotations and respite for the men and women aboard. They had all been serving without complaint, but with the attrition rate of fighting the Yuuzhan Vong, everyone had their limits. Also, it meant that Jaina could see her parents while on leave and Wedge could be a little bit more sure that Han wasn¡¯t going to kill him. ¡°Oh, just tagging along for the ride. NRI wants me back on Coruscant along with Veers and Drayson. I meant to see Gavin too, but since I ran into you, that solved that problem.¡± They wove through the crowd, navigating the orderly chaos with the reflexes and habit that only decades of service could instill. Markings on the returning flight picked them out as White Squadron, commanded by Serance Fviln. A solid officer, average pilot. ¡°You were looking for Gavin? Need me to pass along a message?¡± ¡°No no, like I said, problem solved now.¡± Wedge shrugged, craning his neck to look around the packed hangar, picking out where the X-Wing he¡¯d be taking down to the capital was being checked over. Traest had booked him a shuttle, but Wedge found a snubfighter that was due an overhaul of its hyperdrive and bumped the pilot running it down. If his fears were right, and he knew in his gut they were, he¡¯d be in the chair of a task force before the end of the week and at least for the short hop down to the surface, he could pretend he could just boost off into hyperspace and tell High Command where to shove it. He¡¯d retired for a reason. Then he ran Face¡¯s words through his head again and frowned. ¡°What do you mean, problem solved?¡± Face shrugged, looking as innocent as could be. ¡°Well, it usually means that a person fixed whatever issue they had. Basic. I could call over a protocol droid. Hey, have you heard about ¡®Imperials¡¯?¡± ¡°Imperials? Like a Galactic Empire? No, never heard of something like that,¡± Wedge paced along the side of the snubfighter, taking his own visual inspection of the craft. Carbon scoring along its flanks, melted durasteel splotches in the engine casings. A big crater where the astromech socket was and it looked like the foils wouldn¡¯t be able to separate. Definite ¡®skipper damage and it was obvious why the hyperdrive was out. Probably lost shields too, with where the scars were. Face leaned against the side of the snubfighter, folding his arms over his chest as Wedge knelt to check underneath. Repulsorlifts looked fine enough, all the damage was to the dorsal surfaces. Iella probably wouldn¡¯t appreciate it if Wedge arrowed into the cityscape at supersonic speeds. He wouldn¡¯t really either, even with the thought of being stuck in the command chair of a Star Destroyer again had the idea looking a bit more rosy. ¡°No, not Imperials, Imperials. Not the Empire, the Imperium.¡± Wedge pulled himself back to his feet, steadfastly ignoring the way his left knee creaked. ¡°Unless you mean Second or Ssi-ruuvi, I haven¡¯t.¡± He pointedly stared at the datapad held loose in Face¡¯s hand, powered off. ¡°What did I sign?¡± ¡°A gift for my wife,¡± Face said offhand. ¡°I¡¯m surprised you haven¡¯t heard, then. I can¡¯t say anything else then, if you¡¯re not read-in. I was going to get your opinion, but oh well. NRI, right?¡± ¡°You are NRI. And Face, what did you have me sign?¡± Face threw up his hands, shoving off from the snubfighter. ¡°It was a requisition form! A couple of X-wings, that¡¯s all, nothing to worry about.¡± Faster, and under his breath, as he peered around the hangar and everywhere not toward Wedge, Face continued: ¡°And a transfer order to put most of Wraith Squadron under Gavin¡¯s command that¡¯s all.¡± Wedge pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°Try not to get yourself killed with whatever you¡¯re about to go do. Wes and I still have dibs on that.¡± The Colonel¡¯s smile was as winning and fake as the holovid persona he grew up as. Exigence Chapter XVI XVI: Practical Prudence
Even with feet of duracrete, durasteel rebar and half a formerly-furnished house between them and the open road, the chug chug chug of an autocannon did not cease. Dust and grit whipped into the air, matching each crack and thud of a shell striking and detonating. Zalthis raised an eyebrow to his partner who did his level best to shrug in half-plate. ¡®It must be a droid,¡¯ Solidian argued. ¡®Any fool with eyes could see they will run dry long before punching through these walls.¡¯ ¡®Are not the thinking machines supposed to be intelligent?¡¯ Zalthis countered, leaning to the side to peer back through a torn gash in the hab¡¯s wall. Inside, in the light filtering through dozens of gaps in the wartorn ceiling, he could see broken remnants of plastek furniture, rags that had once been cushions and sundry implements of a normal life covered in dirt and debris. The middle wall of the hab bore small holes, each shining with shafts of light in the drifting dust and as he watched another appeared as still more shells smacked into the residence. Zalthis settled back next to Solidian, hefting his boltpistol in one hand. ¡®Intelligence does not mean competence in tactics, I think. They are not even suppressing us here.¡¯ Solidian slowly nodded in agreement. ¡®Brakeran¡¯s team is north and circling closer. All they¡¯re doing is helping him find them.¡¯ ¡®So, droids,¡¯ Zalthis repeated. ¡®Droids, yes,¡¯ Solidian confirmed. ¡®Bolts, then.¡¯ The other neophyte stowed the still unfamiliar rifle at his side, drawing his own boltpistol to match Zalthis¡¯. Zalthis held up a hand, five fingers extended, slowly dropping them one by one. As each digit curled, he felt hormones flood his system, felt heat spread through his still-aching muscles. At one, both neophytes surged to their feet, launching out to either side of the hab. Sprinting, ceramite tread crunching fragments of glass and wood beneath them, Zalthis cleared the side of the hab in only moments. In the air, crossing the avenue, he could see an autocannon round, delicately whirling, moving swiftly enough but he marveled he could see it at all, rather than just a flat streak of motion. Across the avenue climbed a four-story mercantile building. An exterior assemblage of a kind once spread happily about the waist of it, but now the gaily colored umbrellas and awnings were torn and stained, tables upended, wrought-metal fencing twisted and snarled. Muzzle flash came from the third story, fourth window from the left. Zalthis set his sights over the window, accounting for the probable length of the autocannon barrel and delicately depressed the trigger. For a moment he thought his pistol coughed twice - the distinctive bark of a mass-reactive firing was doubled and he realized Solidian had matched him near-exactly. Overpressure and shrapnel blew out the lintels of the window and the autocannon silenced. Shards of metal rained down as well and Solidian snatched one from the air, smirking and then tossing it to Zalthis. The curved shape, scorched at the edges, still held a bronze sheen. ¡®Droids it was,¡¯ Solidian laughed.
The two neophytes picked along a narrow alley. In the future, such confines might constrict them to move single-file, but for the moment, in their stripped down scout¡¯s harness, both youths jogged side-by-side. Solidian was Prandian, with dark eyes, dark hair and a tanned complexion barely touched by the geneseed. Prandium never contributed many to the ranks of the Legiones, never able to match the far larger populations of anchor worlds like Iax, Konor, Calth, Occluda, Saramanth or, of course, Macragge. Still, sons of that garden world still passed through the trials of Parmenio along with all the rest and Solidian was proof that the Legiones were the Five Hundred Worlds as much as the Five Hundred Worlds were the Legiones. Zalthis once had curly hair as dark as Solidian¡¯s, long since reduced to the barest fuzz on his scalp, but aside from that, he was clearly a son of Macragge, no different to their august father. Blue eyes, pale skin and with the same aquiline nose now enlarged along with all of his other features, swollen out of proportion by the gene-science of Mars and Terra. But they wore the Ultima, the same rich blue of the Legion. So many other of the Legiones Astartes pulled from but one world, one culture and Zalthis knew, as he had been taught, that it was to their detriment. Zalthis came from Macragge and Solidian from Prandium, but both leant perspective the other had not considered, outside as it was to their upbringing. Solidian, used to broad expanses of vineyards and olive groves, had none of the context for dense urban navigation that Zalthis did, as he had spent his but recently departed youth in the ancient mazes of southern Magna Macragge Civitas, where the dense warrens sprawled out to the shining gulf and dockyards besides. In return, Solidian had a greater sense for vagaries of weather and soil, laughing once at their training cadre¡¯s struggle with a Rhino fouled by knee-deep mud, until he¡¯d used the Sergeant¡¯s chainsword to bring down a young tree, wedging it beneath the tracks. Hypnomat conveyed many things: Zalthis knew precisely where to shoot an ork to sever its redundant nerve-clusters, but it seemed something so simple as forging through quagmires was deemed unimportant. He¡¯d said as much to the Sergeant, who had struck the back of his head gently - it only made him stumble forward a pace - and told him that was what training was for. It was like Qario, who was from Konor, who everyone called the Little Magos, for how well he could field-strip any weapon, any tool they forced on him. They all brought their strengths from across the Five Hundred Worlds and then on Parmenio forged them all into the alloyed adamantium of the Legion. Parmenio, which was far and farther away, as distant as Macragge and everything Zalthis and Solidian and Qario and all the others knew. Zalthis caught movement across the alley, too slow to be posthuman, too fluid to be droid, and brought up his secondary armament, firing off an azure crack of energy without thinking. The figure slumped into a heels-over-head slide, boneless, out of sight. Solidian darted forward, hauling Zalthis¡¯ target out of a doorway and rolling them over. ¡®Ouch,¡¯ the neophyte observed neutrally, peering down at blood leaking from a mashed and clearly broken nose. Zalthis took a knee, rifling through pockets of the unconscious man¡¯s uniform. A handful of power cells, matching the rifle on a sling around the man¡¯s shoulder. A datapad, deactivated, some papers. Nothing important or useful, but Zalthis did slip the power cells into a pouch, along with ejecting the one from the rifle and taking that too. The man would be unconscious for hours and unlikely to be found until the exercise was over, but leaving an armed combatant was anathema to their training. Leaving a living combatant had been as well, once upon a time. ¡®Bind him?¡¯ Solidian asked. Zalthis considered it. ¡®Too much time.¡¯ He stood, considered, then pumped another shot into the man, making his body seize momentarily. They¡¯d been instructed on the operation of the local weaponry, these ¡®stun¡¯ blasters. A human could withstand several without permanent damage, at least that is what the Magos believed. Now Zalthis and his compatriots carried two pistols: one bolt and one stun. The bolt was for droids, the word this world draped over abominable intelligences, and the stun was for biologicals. Humans. Xenos. He wasn¡¯t sure he would be able to make the choice when it came to it. For these men and woman though, here and now, they could make no mistake. This exercise was not just to instruct the neophytes of the XIIIth - it was to introduce the nascent 1st Eboracum Auxilia to the ways of war of the Imperium and the Legiones Astartes. These men and women were those that volunteered to leave their old lives behind, to serve the future of Mankind, in the name of the Emperor, and Zalthis had only the deepest respect for each of them, opposing force foes in this moment or not. Before the neophytes departed, he made sure to elevate the man¡¯s head, so that the trickle of blood from his nose might not choke him in his slumber. Then Zalthis and Solidian continued on, toward the heart of the settlement.
The 1st Eboracum Auxilia wanted to keep their own weapons. From what Zalthis heard, when presented with proper Illuminator-VI rifles, hot pressed and the last from the forges of Veridia, the auxilia soldiers had turned up their noses, much to the insult of the magi and Army. They argued that ¡®blasters¡¯ were better and that besides, it was what they knew anyway. Why spend time adapting to new weapons when they had rifles whose parts and ammunition could be found at any decently sized settlement in the known galaxy. General Caraen allowed for the 1St Eboracum to use both in this exercise and Zalthis grimaced at the dynamism of incoming fire. Hot snaps of light, like bars bright enough to see even under midday sun, slapped him in the chest and shoulders, spalling ceramite and filling his nose with the scent of burnt metal. Conversely, slower blasts punched small craters here and there, but imparted kinetic force in a way lasguns did not. More than once, used to the ablative nature of his armor, the thermal properties of las, Zalthis found his aim thrown astray as blasters punched into his shoulder and arm, sending shocks up his limb and checking his momentum. Solidian, in position with a purloined autocannon, opened up from behind Zalthis, stitching fist-sized explosions along the distant barricade and forcing down the shapes of men and women in thick flak armor. Against mortals, an autocannon spelled as gruesome a death as mass reactives, designed to throw indiscriminate carnage across a wide area, but in the hands of a Space Marine, Solidian was careful to keep it depressed, cratering out the duracrate of the improvised barricade, never creeping high enough to risk serious injury. Hopefully the Sergeant would not disprove. Zalthis palmed a flash grenade, rolling it in his palm as he judged trajectories, and then snapped his arm like a cannon. High it arced, soaring a hundred meters on a parabolic trajectory. He squinted, waiting one, two - candlepower screamed and with it men and women. But that checked only part of the defensive line and a shriek had Zalthis roll aside, krak round detonating where he¡¯d just lain, clattering masonry and brick off his scout carapace. He was fighting with both hands tied behind his back, scowling as he picked out the missile launcher drop back out of sight, no doubt reloading. A direct hit from a krak missile would kill him or any neophyte, but that was the price to be paid for being such a fool as to be struck by one. A near detonation might maim, but that too was the price of learning. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Zalthis would be far more sanguine if he could impart similar violence on his foes. Solidian hefted his autocannon, rising from his defilade perch, bracing the cannon on his hip and continuing to fire. Immediately, las beams and blasters sought him out, sparking from ceramite and burning into fiberwoven bodysuit. But the focus on his partner freed Zalthis and he would waste not a moment. Surging to his feet, blaster in one fist, boltpistol in the other, he sprinted for a series of craters carved out by artillery all around the central flagpole. A dozen, two dozen meters to cross. A hiss and Zalthis dodged leftward, contrail of a missile whipping under his arm. Sighting the one responsible, he picked out wide eyes, sweat, skin, and fired his blaster. Blue light crackled and down they went, launcher tumbling from nerveless hands. A hitching metallic shape appeared, reaching for it and this time Zalthis¡¯ lips curled in violent pleasure. A bolt found the droid, puffing out its chest before flame curled and it crumpled, limbs loose. Mixing droids and soldiery together made him doubt every shot, made him second-guess every pull of the trigger. He missed the clarity of training on Parmenio, against only other neophytes, where he could flex his transhuman abilities without fear, without censure. Skidding and sliding down onto one thigh, like a strikeball player scoring a point, Zalthis tumbled down into a shell crater, las and blasts whipping overhead. Solidian wasn¡¯t the only one covering him - five other teams of neophytes had arrived as they scouted the plaza. Qario had made it, though his partner was lost, overwhelmed by massed stunners and as the Konorite said, ¡®quite insensate¡¯. Zalthis had always been the fastest and they¡¯d not bothered to drawn lots for this task: the only practical was his speed. Altraedar, bearing a unique sniper variant of the local blasters, overwatched from a sixth story balcony. Lyros, like Solidian, laid down suppressive fire, this time from a rotary-barreled blaster, six barrels of lightning-crackling stunners flung downrange. He¡¯d claimed half a platoon of the 1st Eboracum when he first opened up, raking along the barricade and catching them unawares. Petran, Sydaris and Evidur took opportunistic shots, darting from storefront to storefront, alternating bolts and stun blasts when they could. Tolon and Isidran were out of communication, working their way around the perimeter, hoping to encircle and strike the 1st Eboracum position from the rear. Zalthis checked his chrono, eyes narrowing. The latter two should have begun their flanking assault forty seconds ago. Daring to chance, he poked his head above the rim of the crater, ducking back in moments as las clipped pavement. There had to be at least another two platoons in there, not just behind the primary barricade but woven up and into the buildings nearby. A few krak charges, a melta bomb, perhaps a heavy flamer and such a position would be left as steaming corpses. Zalthis grit his teeth. Theoretical, the usage of nonlethal force encouraged sophisticated planning, quick reaction decision making and trained prudence. Practical: it was infuriating. ¡®Sol,¡¯ he voxed, leaning his head closer to the cowl of his scout carapace. ¡®Zalthis,¡¯ his friend replied cheerfully, backdropped by the nonstop chug of his autocannon. ¡®Flanking failed,¡¯ Zalthis groused. ¡®It seems that way,¡¯ Solidian agreed. ¡®Frontal it is, then. Paint my armor white and call me a son of Angron, I¡¯ll buy you your moment! Lyros, with me. The rest - if I¡¯ve claimed more than you, I¡¯ll strangle you in your sleep. For Macragge!¡¯ ¡®For Macragge!¡¯ Zalthis echoed, the cry taken up around the square. The other neophytes broke cover, surging into the plaza, drawing attention to themselves as they raked fire along barricade and tattered wall. Glass, what little remained, burst and shattered from already jagged frames. Solidian surged past Zalthis¡¯ crater and he looked up at his friend in surprise. The other neophyte held a door in front of him, braced to his shoulder and took withering fire on it like a breacher¡¯s adamantium shield. His boltpistol was clamped to his thigh and instead he fired off stun blasts without pause, ejecting power cells and reloading one-handed. Zalthis whipped cloth from his pouch, leaping out of the crater as Solidian interposed between the 1st Eboracum¡¯s position and the flagpole. Another krak missile whirled past and then another flash of light and ear-ringing bang heralded a second flash grenade delivered behind the barricade. ¡®Run it up!¡¯ Solidian hissed, grimacing as las punched through weakened steel and dug into his hip and thigh. It took only seconds to clip into the flagpole¡¯s twisted metal line and then Zalthis was hauling, hauling like a fisher on the Gulf of Lycum, hauling until the line jerked and burned his palms through his bodyglove, when the flag struck the apex and the great white Ultima rippled over shouts and screams and gunfire. ¡®Terminus!¡¯ ¡®Terminus!¡¯ ¡®Terminus!¡¯ Gunfire slackened off and Zalthis peered owlishly around as Solidian exhaled and let his ruined ¡®shield¡¯ slide to the ground with a clatter. It cracked in half as it landed, eroded through almost completely. He offered his hand and Zalthis took it, the two embracing, forearm to forearm, and he clapped Solidian¡¯s back. ¡®Thanks, Sol.¡¯ The other neophyte was scorched and battered but his smile was wild and open. ¡®I had to find a way to stay awake,¡¯ the Prandian observed. He stuck a finger into a blackened hole in his carapace plate, deep as the second knuckle and grimaced. ¡®Stings a little.¡¯ Zalthis watched Lyros jog over to the 1st Eboracum, rotary cannon discarded, pulling medicae supply from his own packs. His preliminary apothecary training came now to the fore, as a neophyte¡¯s training was never done. The Sergeant stumped into the square, emerging from wherever he had been hidden, watching it all. Zalthis shook his head - even in full battleplate, crisply painted and gilt, none of them had once seen the Sergeant, but he had no doubt the never-sleeping eyes of the Sergeant had seen every single one of them and each of their actions. ¡®Neophyte Zalthis, Neophyte Solidian.¡¯ ¡®Sergeant,¡¯ he replied, coming to attention and making the sign of the aquila. ¡®Sergeant Ascratus,¡¯ Solidian echoed. Burning lenses bored into the both of them for a long moment of quiet. ¡®Well fought,¡¯ Ascratus spoke with the buzz-burr of vox, but the Sergeant¡¯s praise was warm. Solidian seemed to stand even straighter, shedding discomfort from his myriad burns. Zalthis¡¯ chest tightened at the praise and unconsciously he ran his fingers over the Ultima painted on his chest. ¡®Qario, Lyros, Altraedar, Petran, Sydaris and Evidur are counted as battle-capable, as are you both. Neophytes Tolon and Isidiran are casualties.¡¯ Solidian hissed through his teeth, shaking his head. ¡®They were caught, sir?¡¯ ¡®The ambushers ambushed,¡¯ Sergeant Ascratus confirmed. ¡®Practical?¡¯ Zalthis considered it as Solidian frowned. ¡®None of us are trained in covert operations, sir. Tolon and Isidiran were chosen by lot, as we considered all our skills equal. Against a hostile with better knowledge of the locale, they were at a disadvantage.¡¯ Solidian nodded, adding his own thoughts after Zalthis finished his summary. ¡®The 1st Eboracum¡¯s numbers were unknown as well. We estimated four platoons at initial contact, but it may have been more. We sent two of our number without sufficient intelligence.¡¯ Ascratus studied them both, arms folded across his broad plaston. ¡®Correct. I would also append that in operation with a handicap, such as without armor support or heavy weaponry, the impact Neophytes Tolon and Isidiran could have had was minimal. Given your performance here, an additional two Marines would have allowed you to push to objective with less injury-¡¯ Ascratus nodded toward Solidian, who winced as he slowly rotated his left shoulder. ¡®-and in less time. The theoretical was sound, but incomplete. Your skills in covert operation as well are not equal. Your task, Neophyte Zalthis and Neophyte Solidian, is to prepare draft on all applicable skills and experience among those present today. You will describe and examine which are most suited to flanking and stealth operations. I expect it by midday tomorrow.¡¯ Ascratus looked over the battered plaza one more time, pausing to look over at the grumbling auxilia as they helped fellows up and broke out rations of water to pass around. ¡®There will be a debrief with the commanding Lieutenant of the Auxilia in three hours. Neophyte Solidian, find an apothecary. Zalthis, as you had assumed momentary command, you will speak for the XIIIth. Dismissed.¡¯ Ascratus spun on armored heel and strode away, cape rippling behind him. It was hard not to watch the Sergeant stride away, the most perfect icon of everything Zalthis wished to be. Though already as tall as his father and broader, stronger still, he knew he still looked half-made. The Sergeant, in his wargear, stood a head and more above him and Zalthis ached to wear the humming, purring Maximus plate. Glancing down at his own scarred and seared half-plate it seemed to small and insignificant, so fragile. Without his black carapace, no matter how he aped the heroes of the XIIIth, he was no Space Marine. Clapping Solidian on the shoulder, chuckling as his friend winced, Zalthis took one last look at the departing Astartes. That will be me, he swore. Yet none of the neophytes that survived Calth had yet been implanted with their carapace, none had been granted the last and final ascension. What more was there to prove? Biting back a feeling of inadequacy, buffing it away as he looked up at the proud banner of Ultramar flying above, where he had delivered it, Zalthis savored the moment for just a bit longer. Still running his fingertips across his plastron, he imagined a cloak of command just like the Sergeant¡¯s billowing out behind him, stitched in gold thread like the banner above. Battle Brother Zalthis of the XIIIth, he mouthed. ¡®Come on then,¡¯ Solidian called back. ¡®I¡¯ll need someone to cut me out of this damned armor. Shot to bits, it is.¡¯ ¡®Practical,¡¯ Zalthis loped to catch up to his friend, counting craters in the other neophyte¡¯s wargear. ¡®Don¡¯t get shot.¡¯ ¡®Theoretical: stop your gloryhounding.¡¯ They traded lighthearted barbs as Thunderhawks growled overhead, coming to pick them all up from the ruined town. Depopulated by order of the Primarch, with residents relocated to larger centers on Eboracum, its proximity to the Pharisan Redoubt led Captain Argant to claim it for training, bringing in local munitions, vehicles and even droids, under the watchful eyes of Mechanicum magi to instruct the neophytes on this new galaxy. There were thirty-six, all told, and Zalthis still worried for those left behind on Calth, those who had escaped aboard other warships in other ragged flotilla. He, along with so many others, had been meant to earn their carapace in the campaign against the ork. The Ghaslakh xenohold, what a lie that was. He could not help but think of what it might mean to earn his carapace here, in ways that no other in the XIIIth ever had. To be the first Astartes welcomed into the ranks by service against strange new xenoforms, far from the light of the Astronomican and the reach of Terra and Ultramar. Perhaps there was still glory to be claimed, even here. And when they returned to Ultramar, as the Primarch promised, what stories they could tell their comrades. Exigence Chapter XVII XVII: Martyrdom
The difference only a few weeks could make was unbelievable. His aunt looked like Aunt Mara again and Anakin blinked back tears as he hugged her tight. His chin rested on her shoulder and in a moment of stranger vertigo, he realized he was almost as tall as she was. Mara always seemed so tall, so much larger than life. He imagined actually looking down at her and the complex mix of emotions that unleashed he couldn¡¯t quite name. Strange nostalgia that without really realizing, his childhood - what there was - was almost gone. A kind of pride, to be tall and the man he¡¯d imagined, the kind of man that, well, his grandfather could¡¯ve been. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re ok,¡± he mumbled into her shoulder. He¡¯d felt in the Force his aunt and uncle¡¯s surprise and joy but he almost didn¡¯t dare let himself hope. He kept seeing the way she looked on Dantooine, drawn and tired and like she was putting on an act, putting on the mask of intensity and energy he always knew his aunt to have. Now there didn¡¯t seem to be any exhaustion or pain behind her smile as she held the young Jedi at arm¡¯s length, exaggeratedly looking him up and down. ¡°You got taller again,¡± she grumbled. Next to the happy reunion, Master Skywalker took in all the Jedi present, contentment and pride writ across his face. Much like the moment half a month ago, Knights and Masters filled in the airy chamber, such a motley, vibrant collection of individuals, every one of them unique and precious. Mei leaned against the wall in her armor, thumbs hooked into her low-slung utility belt. Kyp sat at the conference table in his dark robes, all intensity and serious focus, looking older than he should. Jacen, in a jumpsuit, had his legs crossed, one foot jumping in energized anticipation. Harlan Ysanna, sleeveless in a vest and cargo pants, chatted with Tresk, back in Jedi robes for the first time in a while. A few others with hoods up, lingering in a knot as they whispered. Anakin smiled so wide his face might crack, constantly glancing back at Mara, who winked at her nephew and then gave him a shove toward the conference table. None needed the force to feel the endless relief rolling off the youngest Solo. ¡°The first order of business,¡± Luke began, ¡°is the Priestess Elan.¡± A collective groan swept the chamber as several Jedi grimaced. Jacen, foot dropping to the floor with a loud thud punched his fist into his palm. ¡°I knew it was a trap!¡± Mei snorted and several other Jedi shifted in their seats. ¡°It was,¡± Luke agreed. Bitter, the memory twisted his lips and the Jedi Master knew regret. He wanted to trust the story. He wanted to extend good faith. He wanted there to be good in the Yuuzhan Vong, as there was in all beings. The potential, at least. The capacity. Merely because the Force ignored them couldn¡¯t mean they were, as one, evil. Or incapable of morality, or-or even unable to even comprehend it. A conscientious objector to the war, a Yuuzhan Vong of their very religion decrying the senseless brutality of the invasion? It made him pause to wonder just how manipulable he might be. Because he had to meet with Elan. He had to sit down across from her and hear her words. He had to look into her eyes and get to know the person that had to be there. Instead, when the young Priestess stepped into the room¡­ ¡°We all owe Master Cilghal our lives.¡± Mara looked pained, having grown close to the healer over the course of her sickness. Many hours they spent, one on one, even though Mara hated to be handled with kid gloves, trying to determine the symptoms, the effects, the reach of the ever-elusive, ever-evasive, and now tentatively in-remission disease. ¡°How is she?¡± ¡°Tionne said she was awake today for a few hours. Returning to Yavin IV is agreeing with her; Cilghal says that the life of the jungles helps.¡± Luke closed his eyes, seeing again the way the Priestess folded her hands together, so bizarre in her nondescript jumpsuit. Introduced by an NRI adjutant, Elan¡¯s eyes sparkled with delight as a smile spread across her thin lips. ¡°Jeedai,¡± the Yuuzhan Vong murmured. ¡°I am so honored¡­¡± Her last word was sighed, hissing out of her throat and for a moment Luke paused, about to bow and then offer a hand in greeting. Something stopped him. Elan kept sighing. Breath rushed for too long from her mouth, until she was exhaling hard, a rattle in her throat. Time moved like thick oil. Something was wrong. Something was off. The Force was silent. It was that jarring dissonance that wrapped nerfwool around Luke¡¯s thoughts. Elan was doing something, her familiar, the bird-like Vergere recoiling away from the Priestess. But the Force was silent. Silent. The other Jedi present, arrayed in soft and sumptuous couches and chairs, were just as uncertain as he. Opting for an informal, peaceful environment, the chamber was situated as a sitting area and lounge. No stark and impersonal conference tables and uncomfortable chairs. Luke hoped for spirited conversation and easing tensions, sanding off culture shock. Which left most of the Jedi scattered around the lounge, flatfooted, confused and blind as to Elan¡¯s intent. All save one. Cilghal leapt from where she sat, moving faster than Luke had ever seen the Mon Calamari move. Wind rippled behind her and now the Force roared, shocking him at how much she pulled to herself. Webbed hands outstretched, Cilghal planted herself between the still-exhaling Elan and the rest of the room. The NRI adjutant, escorting the Yuuzhan Vong, was already on his knees. His face was blackened, purple veining around red-shot eyes as he hiccuped thick liquid from the corners of his mouth. Luke felt him die. As Elan exhaled, Cilghal inhaled. Her broad nostrils flared and her flat mouth yawned wide and a hurricane erupted at the pinnacle of a Coruscant skyhook. ¡°I think we should be flattered.¡± Mei observed, shrugging her shoulders. At several aghast expressions, the Jensaarai rolled her eyes. ¡°Not that Master Cilghal almost died, but that the vong sent a priestess to try to assassinate us. What? It means we¡¯re doing something right. They haven¡¯t even tried to assassinate Chief Feyl¡¯ya or the Senate.¡± Shaken from the memory, Luke frowned but the logic was there. As far as anyone knew, this was the first time the Yuuzhan Vong tried to infiltrate an assassin. It was so contrasting to their usual brutish, direct manner of war that NRI was beside itself, desperately re-evaluating all of their psychological and cultural profiles to accommodate the new factors. There had been infiltrators to be sure - Danni Quee could attest to that - but those had been more like blunt implements. A covert agent to suddenly enact murder as the vanguard of an invasion. The Elan plot was as different to that as a krayt dragon was to an eopie. The feint at Ord Mantell, the ¡®assassination¡¯ attempt at Wayland, now the invaders were willing to invest not just the agent but also fleet assets like capital ships to sell the facade. Luke shivered, knowing that without Cilghal, he and many of his Jedi would be dead. Trying to imagine Elan¡¯s breath weapon in a place like the Senate was a nightmare. Hundreds would die or more and the chaos would¡¯ve been incalculable. ¡°Mei is right. Of all the targets the Yuuzhan Vong could¡¯ve chosen, we were the best prepared to survive it. May the Force guide Cilghal back to good health, but if it had been in the Senate the New Republic itself might have fallen.¡± Corran Horn, wearing his flight suit unzipped to midchest, only recently arrived from Corellia and his self-imposted exile, bore a look of such mournful severity one could be forgiven thinking that he had been the one to deliver the infiltrator. ¡°When Deign Lian destroyed Ithor, I thought that was the worst thing one of these vong could do. We all heard the excuse, that in their culture a fallen champion had to be treated in a certain way, that¡¯s how they explained killing a whole world. But this Elan ¨C she didn¡¯t even try to justify herself.¡± The ex-pilot shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s a fanatic. Whatever that plague was, it would¡¯ve killed her if Cilghal venting the room didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve known the Yuuzhan Vong hold martyrdom in high esteem,¡± Kyp held up a hand, cutting off anything Corran might have said. ¡°I¡¯m not saying that we should¡¯ve seen it coming. NRI checked Elan over and over again and Han said she never slipped up. But willingness to die for the cause, that¡¯s pretty patent Yuuzhan Vong.¡± ¡°Die for the cause maybe, but she had to know that the chances of hurting us, really hurting us, were slim. That psychological profile indicates some kind of desperation.¡± ¡°Does it?¡± Luke paced about, hands folded in his sleeves. ¡°She caught us all off guard. With how fast the plague killed, if any one of us caught even a single breath of it¡­and they couldn¡¯t predict Cilghal. I don¡¯t think any Jedi could do what she did and survive it.¡± ¡°But to sacrifice ships at Ord Mantell? And to spend Elan on just trying to kill Jedi? You just said so, Master Skywalker, and no offense to us, but if Elan played her cards right, she could¡¯ve killed a whole lot more than a dozen Jedi. The Yuuzhan Vong are afraid of us and that puts a target on our backs.¡± ¡°The Jedi have always been feared by evil,¡± Kyp snorted, ¡°this isn¡¯t anything new.¡± ¡°No, what¡¯s new are the depths they¡¯re willing to go to take us down,¡± Corran spread his hands wide, looking around. ¡°They killed a planet, a whole planet, just to try to kill me.¡± ¡°Well, there were the boforr trees too,¡± Jacen muttered. ¡°We¡¯re getting away from the point.¡± Anakin reddened slightly as everyone looked over to him. ¡°Elan failed, right? Master Cilghal stopped her and now we¡¯re ready for the next time, if there is one. I mean ¨C it¡¯s scary the vong would try this, but we¡¯re not the only ones they¡¯re trying to kill.¡± ¡°Kid¡¯s got a point. Thank the Force we rode this one out but what else can we do?¡± Mei shoved off from where she leaned against a wall, claiming a seat, spinning it and straddling it, leaning on the back. ¡°What?¡± ¡°That¡¯s¡­true.¡± Luke allowed. ¡°The takeaway is that we all need to be very careful. Keep an eye out for infiltrators in masquers. Stay on your guard. I don¡¯t want to lose anyone.¡± Unspoken was the ¡®else¡¯, thoughts in the chamber already turning to those that had fallen already. ¡°And Mara?¡± Kyp asked. He perked up a little, banishing a degree of his frown and intensity as he looked over to the readhead. ¡°It¡¯s a surprise to see you doing so well ¨C a great surprise. What happened?¡± ¡°Strangely enough, we have Elan to thank for it.¡± Mara ran fingers through the fringe of her hair, lips quirking slowly into a smile. ¡°She had a familiar with her ¨C Vergere ¨C who wasn¡¯t Yuuzhan Vong. She must¡¯ve been a species from the Outer Rim, but when Cilghal stopped Elan, during the chaos Vergere escaped out of the chamber as the blast doors were closing. Han chased her, he was waiting outside, but she made it to an escape pod on the skyhook. Right before it launched, she gave him a phial of what she said were her tears.¡± Mara chewed on her lip for a moment. ¡°She said they were for me. We ran them through every single test you could imagine, but at some point you have to trust the Force and I¡­tasted them.¡± Kyp¡¯s eyebrows skyrocketed, as Mei rocked back in her chair and Anakin¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°Aunt Mara! But if she was with Elan and ¨C¡° ¡°They worked.¡± Mara shrugged, daring anyone to disagree. ¡°I haven¡¯t felt this good since¡­well, since before it all started. Oolos says as far as he can tell, my disease is in remission.¡± A murmur of smiles and congratulations rippled around the chamber again, even as the returning three Jedi still rode the shock of the reveal. Anakin tried to imagine trusting anything related to the Yuuzhan Vong. If one of them offered him a corusca gem, he¡¯d probably throw it away just because it was sure to have something horrible like a dovin basal inside it, or something. Even if Vergere wasn¡¯t a yuuzhan vong, even though Uncle Luke said that she had a presence in the Force, he couldn¡¯t believe Aunt Mara would take that risk. He was beyond ecstatic to see the effects, but still, to trust something from the familiar of a priestess that just tried to kill her own husband¡­ Kyp rapped his knuckles on the table, catching everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°Then it has to be proof. Mara, whatever you have, it¡¯s from the Yuuzhan Vong. It can¡¯t be a coincidence that the partner of a vong Priestess just so happens to know exactly how to, well, at least treat you. Maybe even cure you.¡± ¡°My thought too,¡± she agreed. ¡°Everything is personal with the vong now.¡± ¡°But we have to be better than that,¡± Luke admonished, taking time to meet each and every assembled Jedi¡¯s eyes. ¡°They hurt us. They¡¯ve tried to assassinate us. They¡¯ve hurt and they¡¯ve killed our friends and family. They want to drag us down to the violence that they worship. We are Jedi. We¡¯re more than that.¡± ¡°I hope we can keep that luxury, Master Skywalker,¡± Kyp murmured.
With the discussions of Elan out of the way, and Mara¡¯s remission, focus finally shifted to the true purpose of the meeting. A hologram of Eboracum shimmered in the center of the conference table, surrounded by smaller holos that depicted Imperial warships, the Redoubt on the planet, Astartes in their armor and more. A handful of datacubes had been passed around beforehand, each containing an official Senate and NRI brief on the ¡®Imperium Exsilius¡¯, letting everyone be prepared and saving explanations. Implicit was the understanding that discussion of this didn¡¯t leave the room, all of it classified until the Senate decided otherwise. ¡°We¡¯ve all read the brief, but I want to hear your take.¡± Luke led the discussion, finally picking a seat at random, settling himself between Harlan and Tresk. Kyp, Mei and Anakin exchanged glances, before Kyp cleared his throat to begin. ¡°I¡¯ll be blunt. I don¡¯t think we should have anything to do with this Imperium.¡± Surprise washed through the room until Luke held up a hand, calm, and raised an eyebrow. ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s see-¡° Kyp started ticking off on his fingers. ¡°They hate non-humans at least as much as the Empire and probably quite a bit more. They¡¯re completely paranoid about everything. They admit that they¡¯ve spent decades conquering their own galaxy, if we can trust that. They hate droids as much as a vong does and for about as little reason. I think they probably worship death too, if you notice the amount of skulls they have around. Real ones, too. Master Skywalker, I¡¯m not exaggerating when I say I think they¡¯re evil. Dark in a way I don¡¯t know the Yuuzhan Vong are. Their Iterator was polite but do you know what he reminded me of? COMPNOR. That kind of smiling, oily pleasantness when he really just wanted to see us dead.¡± The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Impassive, Luke nodded even as Kyp¡¯s words sunk home in other Jedi. ¡°Mei, Anakin, what do you think?¡± ¡°I think they¡¯re really intense and they have a lot of problems.¡± Mei fiddled with the feathery cowl of her armor, before smoothing it down and crossing her legs. ¡°Are they as bad as the Empire? I don¡¯t know. Maybe? We just worked with the Remnant at Ithor, so I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a very good point anyway. I didn¡¯t sense any real lies during the conference and even though Rhona almost messed everything up, they didn¡¯t come across as malicious. More¡­scared? I think.¡± Luke nodded, then looked toward his nephew. Anakin adjusted himself, tugging on his tunic and fidgeting. ¡°I think¡­I think Mei is right. I felt a kind of fear too. Not like they¡¯re afraid of us, but like¡­they¡¯re afraid¡­for something. They said they left a lot of things unfinished where they came from and I think that¡¯s what they¡¯re thinking about. Not really about the New Republic or even the vong.¡± Tresk, next to Luke pointed a furred finger at the holos gently revolving in the air. Several of the Imperium warships shown had highlighted areas of severe damage and battle scars. ¡°That¡¯s my read as well. You can see how damaged their fleet is. They fled what had to be a catastrophic battle. Right now, the Imperium is looking for allies and Senator Shesh is right that the New Republic is in the perfect place to offer support.¡± ¡°That¡¯s all fine but I know what I felt. Didn¡¯t you? That¡­their primarch, whatever he or even it is, we can¡¯t work with something that wrong. The Force was repulsed by him.¡± ¡°You know that¡¯s not what I sensed,¡± Mei countered. ¡°Or Anakin, or Master Im¡¯nel.¡± ¡°Fine, we all felt something different, but I know what I felt. I know. Luke, their leader is a monster.¡± Luke remained silent even as discussion scattered around the table, Mara leaning over to ask Mei something, as Tresk and Kyp argued, as Corran sunk deeper into his own seat, looking deeply conflicted. Jacen prodded Anakin and interrogated him about his own sense of the Imperium¡¯s leader, as Anakin tried to explain in words what could never be captured by mundane language. ¡°Jacen, it wasn¡¯t like anything I ever sensed before. It was like I could, like I could actually see the Force. Not like visualizing it or imagining it, but like it was just there.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not possible,¡± his brother said and Anakin vehemently nodded. ¡°It shouldn¡¯t be! I want to talk to Master Ikrit about it; even the Golden Globe didn¡¯t feel anything even like this.¡± Ganner Rhysode, another Knight, argued with Tresk about Kyp¡¯s meaning, even while the latter looked on in silence. Harlan apologized again to Tresk for not only bailing on the conference, but also for failing to reign in Rhonabeq. The Bothan waved off her apologies, remarking dryly that the only one who could change the Muugari pirate¡¯s mind was Rhonabeq herself. Luke cleared his throat, conversation rapidly dying out. ¡°Kyp, that¡¯s a heavy accusation.¡± ¡°I know the Dark side, Master Skywalker.¡± Durron spoke quietly, but the pain in his voice leant an edge to the simple words. ¡°I know you do. We all do, in our own ways. You all had such different experiences that jumping to a conclusion immediately is something we cannot do. Senator Shesh is eager to work with the Imperium and she wants Jedi to continue to liaise with them. We can¡¯t sit out something that could be important to both the New Republic and the war.¡± ¡°We have to,¡± Kyp clenched his fists. ¡°Master Skywalker, the Imperium is wrong. Even if ¨C even if what I sensed was wrong, or a trick, it doesn¡¯t change anything else.¡± ¡°Kyp¡¯s right.¡± Meeting wide eyes and generally surprised faces, Corran chuckled. ¡°I can agree with Kyp sometimes. He¡¯s right. Mei, the Remnant isn¡¯t the Empire, even if they kept the uniforms. If Palpatine showed up tomorrow with a dozen Death Stars and promised to help us defeat the Yuuzhan Vong in return for letting him have a nice retirement, it wouldn¡¯t be worth it. Palpatine was pure evil. The Empire was evil, and you can¡¯t work with evil. We all read the brief. Forcing all non-humans to carry special ID? I spent time in Invisec. It¡¯s never just ¡®an ID¡¯.¡± Surprised by the support, Kyp nodded to Corran. ¡°They¡¯re conscripting the locals on Pirve too.¡± He emphasized the pre-¡®Compliance¡¯ name hard, as if daring anyone to correct him. ¡°Is this really the kind of people we want to associate with?¡± ¡°They treated Master Im¡¯nel no differently from Senator Shesh!¡± Anakin had sensed the Imperial¡¯s reticence about the Bothan, no denying that, but they had proved themselves able to rise above that, acting perfectly cordial. Some of the Senator¡¯s staff were non-humans too, taking notes during the conference, and the Imperials seemed to barely notice them. The story the freight captain Rhoki told certainly wasn¡¯t the most pleasant thing, but even she admitted that as far as she was aware, the Imperium hadn¡¯t started any pogroms against non-humans or, aside from destroying the starport, gone out of their way to kill anyone. For people as obviously warlike as the Imperium, Anakin had to admit that it came across as level-headed. Even the big Astartes, Thiel, who seemed always on alert and tense, was never impolite or speciesist. ¡°Anakin, just because they¡¯re polite to your face just means they¡¯re smarter than a Hutt,¡± Corran chided. Anakin swallowed down a flash of irritation at the condescension ¨C of course he knew that. But he was a Jedi and it was hard to hide your feelings from a Jedi, especially the Imperials, who probably didn¡¯t even know what a Jedi was. Certainly, they didn¡¯t like Im¡¯nel being there, but he didn¡¯t sense outright hatred. Given what they had implied about where they came from and the hardships their Imperium claimed to have faced, Anakin wasn¡¯t sure that, if what the Imperials were saying was true, their distrust was unwarranted. After all, while the Diversity Alliance had horrible intentions, the anger and resentment that led to its formation was very real. It didn¡¯t make all humans evil for what the Empire did, but it was hard to condemn the way non-humans felt after the Empire. ¡°For some of us, the Empire isn¡¯t just a story,¡± Corran continued. ¡°Ask any of my friends what it was like living under the Empire as anything but a human. We don¡¯t need any more of that in the galaxy, not even if they have big ships and big soldiers.¡± Finally, Luke spoke up, looking pensive, thoughtful. ¡°All the same, Corran, the Empire became the Remnant. Many of your friends also used to be part of the Empire. You¡¯d trust Tycho with your life, and so would I.¡± He smiled, laughed a little. ¡°I dreamed of joining the Imperial Academy at one time. It sounds like, from what Master Im¡¯nel, Mei and Anakin have said, along with Senator Shesh¡¯s brief, that the Imperium is trying to overcome their biases. They had to know that the New Republic embraces all life, human or otherwise.¡± Kyp shoved back from the conference table, rising to his feet. ¡°This is a mistake, Master Skywalker. I won¡¯t have anything to do with this Imperium. The Empire was my enemy, and they¡¯ll be my enemy too. I won¡¯t¡­¡± he shook his head, taking a deep breath. ¡°It¡¯s not worth it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s your decision to make, Kyp. I can¡¯t condemn people I haven¡¯t met, not when they¡¯re making an effort to bridge a divide.¡± Luke gestured toward Mei. ¡°We would be missing friends if I did.¡± Kyp inclined his head to Luke, saying nothing more, and swept from the chamber. Anakin felt roiling tension and irritation ripple in Kyp¡¯s wake as he left, the Jedi Master a knot of turmoil in the Force. Corran rose too. ¡°I¡¯m with Kyp. I made one mistake already, and it cost more than I could have feared. I can¡¯t make another. I¡¯m sorry Master Skywalker.¡± Luke nodded toward the other Master, who followed in Kyp¡¯s footsteps. Uneasily, Anakin looked around the other assembled Jedi, focusing especially on Jacen. His brother rubbed at his chin, deep in thought, but didn¡¯t speak or follow the two masters. He felt oddly relieved, expecting Jacen to object on moral grounds too. ¡°I won¡¯t ask anything of any of you that you aren¡¯t prepared to give.¡± Luke spread his hands flat on the polished surface, exuding peacefulness. Even with Kyp and Corran¡¯s dissension, Anakin¡¯s uncle was centered, calm. Unfazed. It was Kyp and Corran¡¯s decision, after all, and nothing they said was wrong, or out of line. ¡°Well, I kind of like them,¡± Mei remarked. ¡°They¡¯ve got problems, but we can straighten them out.¡± Her humor cracked the forming ice and there were a few laughs around the table. ¡°¡¯Do or do not¡¯,¡± Luke quoted. ¡°I¡¯d like to meet their Primarch myself. I trust all of you, but I¡¯d like to see this effect he has. The Force is full of mysteries ¨C more than a few I¡¯ve seen. You all felt something very different and if this Primarch is the ultimate authority of the Imperium, then it¡¯s important we understand him. I¡¯m not saying Kyp is right, but if their leader is Dark, or can¡¯t be trusted, then Senator Shesh needs to know. Moving on, then, is the topic of the Senator¡¯s deal with the Imperium. Face, if you would?¡± Swearing came from a figure in Jedi robes, their hood drawn up and over their head, lingering off in a corner of the room. Anakin stifled a smile as Garik Loran tugged his hood down, revealing himself. ¡°We¡¯ve been infiltrated,¡± Tresk said with the intensity of observing the weather, taking a sip of water. ¡°Everyone, this is Colonel Garik Loran, commander of Wraith Squadron. The other two are Bhindi Drayson and Zev Veers.¡± ¡°Shit,¡± another of the hooded ¡®Jedi¡¯ observed, pulling down his own hood. ¡°Cover¡¯s blown, boss.¡± ¡°Where did you even get those robes?¡± Harlan asked. Mei raised her hand, her other gesturing at her Jensaarai armor. ¡°I mean, I wasn¡¯t using mine.¡± Sure enough, Face¡¯s own tunic barely reached his ankles and Veers, another taller man, with a broad build, was straining the seams. Only Drayson, a slight woman like the Jensaarai, seemed entirely comfortable. Face tugged his own tunic off, revealing an unadorned NRI uniform, meandering over to the conference table and dropping the wadded up tunic in Mei¡¯s lap. ¡°Great,¡± she muttered. ¡°Face is here to give us a briefing on an upcoming mission the Imperium has requested Jedi support on.¡± The mentioned pilot tossed a lazy salute to Luke, sinking into a chair and kicking his heels up on the conference table. He aimed a remote at the hologram of Eboracum and clicked, replacing it with another world- ¡°Obroa Skai,¡± Jacen recognized immediately. ¡°We¡¯re retaking it?¡± ¡°Oh of course not, we can¡¯t even hold territory right now.¡± Face clicked again and the hologram zoomed toward the surface, revealing a sprawling city with a massive complex that seemed to devour the majority of it. ¡°It¡¯s a retrieval mission. The Imperium wants information on something they call ¡®the Warp¡¯ and if you want to look for obscure knowledge, the Institute is the place to go.¡± The Imperials had seemed so nonplussed when Shesh admitted that what they described as the ¡®Immaterium¡¯ was utterly unknown. They acted like a Jedi confronted by someone who¡¯d never heard of the Force, like it was such an expected and ordinary part of the world to know about. It was yet another indication of a degree of truth about their claim of extra-galactic origin, Anakin thought, since if they had never heard of hyperspace, and no one in the galaxy had ever heard of the ¡®warp¡¯¡­ ¡°We¡¯re going, of course,¡± Face continued, pointing at Veers and Drayson, the latter of which waved. ¡°Wraith Squadron has been trying to penetrate the vong lines for the past three months and the scarheads are annoyingly good at keeping us out. If the Imperium wants to sponsor an express ticket to a captured world, we¡¯re going to be right there with them. They say they have a way in from orbit without the vong noticing us. All we needed then was a ride to orbit, which as Master Skywalker has assured us, is going to be very generously provided by one Rhonabeq.¡± Jacen went wide-eyed. ¡°Rhonabeq? The Penitent Queen? Isn¡¯t that a suicide mission?¡± ¡°Rhonabeq offered her ship and her expertise as a way of atoning for her mistake,¡± Luke¡¯s words were firm and flat, Anakin looking at his uncle anew at the way he suddenly seemed far older, both warier and wearier. ¡°She could have caused the deaths of the Senator, all the crew of Malaghi Shesh, Master Durron, Master Im¡¯nel, Mei and your own brother.¡± ¡°But a suicide mission? Uncle Luke, that¡¯s horrible.¡± ¡°Rhonabeq is a Jedi. The Force will guide her.¡± Rarely did Anakin ever see the Skywalker that faced down the Emperor, twice, that pulled himself back from the brink of the Dark, who fought his own mad clone, struck down Dark Jedi and Sith aspirants and broke the Galactic Empire. He sat across from that man now, taken aback, wondering just where the gentle, smiling uncle he knew was, knowing still that that uncle was there too. Iron and velvet, when needed. The son of the other Anakin, he shivered. Mara appeared just as uncompromising. Troubled, Jacen crossed his arms, frowning. ¡°Her ship¡¯s been retrofit with ablative panels and camouflage. If everything goes well and as Master Skywalker-¡° ¡°Luke, Face.¡± ¡°as Luke says, the Force guides us, the vong will think Penitent Queen is just another piece of orbital trash coming down and Jedi Rhonabeq will escape without notice after dropping us off. As for the dropping off, the Imperium claims they¡¯ll handle that part of the mission. We¡¯ll learn more when we rendezvous with them on their battleship, Samothrace.¡± ¡°Which leaves the final question ¨C who will go?¡± Mei¡¯s hand shot up. ¡°Is it really a question, Master Skywalker? Anakin and I have already met the Imperials. Master Durron won¡¯t go and Master Im¡¯nel has other responsibilities.¡± ¡°What? Anakin, you can¡¯t!¡± ¡°It¡¯ll be safer than Ithor, Jacen. Besides, if you¡¯re worried about trusting them, it¡¯s like Uncle Luke said. When Rhonabeq scared them, they could¡¯ve attacked us, but they held back.¡± ¡°There¡¯s a big difference between a diplomatic meeting and actually going with them to a captured planet. Should we even be helping them? Until we know for sure that we can trust them?¡± ¡°The New Republic has already signed agreements and their Iterator is on Coruscant to address the Senate.¡± Mei observed. ¡°But¡­¡± ¡°What a world,¡± Harlan laughed, ¡°when Master Durron and Jacen are in agreement.¡± Jacen flushed. ¡°You¡¯re right. It¡¯s a commitment from the Jedi to participate. It¡¯s also a good way to learn about these Imperials in a less formal environment. A natural one. Soldiers talk and are a lot more honest than politicians.¡± Bhindi Drayson, daughter of famed Admiral Drayson, seconded Luke¡¯s opinion. ¡°It¡¯s why NRI wants the Wraiths there.¡± ¡°Because you make friends with everybody?¡± Face looked wounded at Mara, clutching his heart. ¡°Oh, that cuts. But Luke¡¯s right. We¡¯re going just as much to spy on the Imperials as to spy on the vong. With Jedi along for the ride, we can spy a lot better.¡± ¡°The Force isn¡¯t for spying,¡± Jacen spat. ¡°Alright,¡± Face acceded. ¡°With Jedi along for the ride, we can uh, understand a lot better. Not to mention, they need us to interface with whatever is left on Obroa Skai. Assuming the scarheads haven¡¯t smashed every last circuitboard.¡± ¡°By us,¡± Drayson interjected, ¡°he means me.¡± ¡°I can turn on and off a datapad, Lieutenant, which makes me qualified as well. Look, even if it wasn¡¯t coming from Shesh¡¯s office and my superiors at NRI, I¡¯d ask for Jedi anyway. You all have the most experience against the vong, at least on the ground. I¡¯m not stupid enough to leave that kind of asset on the table.¡± ¡°So then, like I said, I¡¯m going.¡± ¡°If you¡¯re volunteering, Mei, you have my support. Anakin, I promised you time on Yavin. It¡¯s been too long since we had a chance to train together. Can I make it up to you by coming along?¡± A chance to go on a mission with his Uncle? Like Jacen had on Belkadan? Anakin stammered out an affirmation: ¡°I mean, you don¡¯t even have to ask-¡° His chest felt tight, warmth filling the young Jedi as Colonel Loran continue to discuss the planned mission, Drayson filling in a few technical details, as his aunt watched him from the corner of her eye. A very quiet thought, tucked in the back of his mind, barely heard, whispered he still trusts me. For a moment, Anakin thought of his father, before taking a deep breath and redoubling his focus on what Face was saying. Exigence Chapter XVIII XVIII: Unfettered
The Imperial battlebarge Samothrace hung in space like an ancient cathedral, running lights winking in the dark, distant sunlight glinting along gilt ornamentation and rippling over bulky cobalt armor plates. The Imperium requested a rendezvous in a neighboring star system to Eboracum, a move that had the Wraiths talking about how it was a statement that the Imperium wasn¡¯t bound to just one star, even if they were asking for help in navigation. Leverage, Luke observed, showing that while the Imperium might need the New Republic, they didn¡¯t need the New Republic. That or it was just the hallmark paranoia of the Imperials to not want other ships over their world, not after last time. Coasting into a massive hangar, filled with bulky snubfighters and gunships and one large and much more recognizable cruiser ¨C Penitent Queen, now appearing a total mess with slapdash armor plates, space junk and empty tanks welded all over it. Waiting for the Wraiths and Jedi was a welcoming party just as martial as anything else the Imperium proudly displayed ¨C Lieutenant Thiel awaited them as they debarked the sloop borrowed from the Order¡¯s small fleet, helmet tucked under one arm and as sternly implacable as Anakin and Mei remembered. Three other Astartes stood behind him in an inverted chevron, while two platoons of humans in complicated and extremely ornate uniforms formed an honor guard. Flamboyant shakos with the Imperium¡¯s ubiquitous U shaped emblem sat on their heads and the soldiery held long rifles made of silvered metal and polished wood at attention. All of them snapped to attention with a ring of heels on durasteel decking. ¡°Welcome aboard Samothrace,¡± Thiel rumbled. Luke gave a short bow, followed by Mei and Anakin. Face, Drayson and Veers offered salutes. ¡°It¡¯s an honor, Lieutenant Thiel.¡± The Astartes gestured to the three behind him. One was of height with Thiel, in similar armor, with a rugged and scarred face, appearing older than the Lieutenant. The other two were unlike Astartes Anakin or Mei had seen ¨C both appeared far more youthful, smooth faced, shorter, and their armor was more piecemeal, exposing fatigues beneath. Still they were nearly as tall and broad as the Lieutenant and the other. ¡°This is Sergeant Ascratus, and neophytes Zalthis and Solidian. They will be accompanying you to Obroa Skai.¡± ¡°Colonel Garik Loran and Lieutenants Bhindi Drayson and Zev Veers,¡± Luke said. ¡°And you are Luke Skywalker, Master of the Jedi Order, and uncle to Jedi Solo.¡± ¡°A Jedi Master, Lieutenant. Not Master of the Jedi Order.¡± ¡°Then you are not in command?¡± As he spoke, Thiel motioned and turned, leading the New Republic group down the corridor made from soldiers sharply at attention. Walking beside the Astartes, Luke brushed off the question. ¡°Not in the way you think. I am a Jedi Master, among Masters.¡± ¡°Then who is the master of the Order?¡± ¡°No one. I teach and I guide, but the path of a Jedi is one that the Force directs.¡± Thiel grunted and asked no more. Samothrace was a maze and an art museum. If the exterior looked drippingly baroque, the interior matched. Nothing was purely utilitarian, as far as Luke could see. Thiel led them down the hangar, past the Penitent Queen, as the soldiers arranged for honor guard fell out and dispersed. Wheeled carts, no doubt for ferrying ammunition or fuel to the starfighters bore decoration, hatches they passed had lintels emblazoned with symbols. Guard railings were twisted and woven metal, rather than simplistic lengths. Of course, the most obvious example was Thiel himself. The Lieutenant¡¯s armor bore a golden U on the chest, flanked by spread wings, every single feather detailed. His helmet, tucked under one arm, had similar wings across the faceplate and a nodding crest of hair, white and black. Gold rimmed huge pauldrons and a cloak with intricate stitching billowed at his back. They might call themselves an Imperium, but nothing Luke saw reminded him of the stark and clinical severity of the Empire. What he saw was age. Not in the sense of being worn out, but age in existence. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years packed into the symbology and decoration. It put him into mind of the Old Republic, the spaces left untouched by the passage of Palpatine¡¯s Empire, where Luke could feel the thousand years of peace that had come before. ¡°-then with these drop-pods installed on Penitent Queen, we¡¯ll be able to detach ourselves? Or will Rhonabeq be in control of firing us off.¡± ¡°Controls will be linked into the Sergeant¡¯s wargear. He will have control of all the drop-pods, decoy and actual.¡± Thiel pointed forward as he answered Face, indicating an array of teardrop shaped capsules clustered together around the mentioned cruiser. As to be expected, all were painted the same oceanic blue as most of the vehicles, striped with hazard colors around what looked like large, hinged hatches. ¡°A concern is survivability, Colonel.¡± Thiel beckoned them closer and what Luke recognized from the brief as a ¡®Magos¡¯ activated a pod, hatches hissing and sighing outward, thudding down to the decking to form makeshift ramps into the interior. The magos bowed to the Astartes Lieutenant, mechanical tentacles making complex shapes in the air as he, she, or it, Luke wasn¡¯t sure, retreated. ¡°Survivability?¡± Face stepped up onto the ramp of the pod, peering into the darkened interior. ¡°These pods are intended for Astartes use. The deceleration shock is considerable. It will very likely kill an unaugmented human.¡± ¡°Ah, right, that. We brought along an inertial dampener.¡± Drayson jabbed a thumb back toward the sloop, hundreds of meters down the enormous hangar. ¡°I can work with one of your ¡®magos¡¯ to install it, that should cut down all g-forces to safe levels.¡± Thiel turned toward the technical specialist, the woman wilting slightly under his intensity. ¡°What is the provenance of this ¡®inertial dampener?¡± ¡°I ¨C I don¡¯t follow.¡± ¡°Where was it constructed?¡± ¡°¡­I have no idea?¡± ¡°The magos will not accept it. Find another way.¡± ¡°Hold on-¡° Letting the Wraith and the Astartes argue, Luke joined Face, looking into the ¡®drop pod¡¯. The interior was dark, illuminated only by the lights in the hangar. Arrayed in a circle were twelve large physical harnesses, rotated up and awaiting passengers. Everything was brutally bulky and utilitarian, sharp contrast to the decoration of Samothrace. It looked like a vessel intended for a one way trip, and with how the Lieutenant described it, Luke likely had the right thought. Peering around the interior, then at the harnesses, Luke stepped back down. ¡°I have another solution,¡± he said, cutting into the back-and-forth between Thiel and Drayson. ¡°We can use the Force to soften the landing.¡± A strange look passed over Thiel¡¯s face. ¡°This¡­Force¡­is implied to be some form of mental power, as I understand it?¡± ¡°You could call it that. The Force is an energy field that binds all life, all beings together. Jedi, and those sensitive to the Force, can feel it, and shape it.¡± Gently, Luke called his lightsaber from his belt, gently rotating it in midair before him, before replacing it. Thiel¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Witchery.¡± Luke smiled. ¡°I¡¯ve met witches. Some of them are good friends.¡±
With the matter of surviving the landing on Obroa Skai settled, Thiel led them from the hangar, allowing the magos and other workers to begin installing the drop pods onto Penitent Queen. Luke knew intimately how to use the Force to handle pulling heavy gs, a technique he used almost unconsciously when piloting, and Anakin had learned from Jaina. Mei understood the principle and he was sure with some pointers and a little training, she could pick up the technique too. If not ¨C he could certainly handle all three Wraiths and both Jedi too. ¡°I¡¯d like to meet the Primarch, Roboute Guilliman,¡± Luke ventured, as Thiel escorted the party to what he called an ¡®arming chamber¡¯, where they could plan what equipment was necessary for the undertaking and familiarize each other with unfamiliar technology. The Astartes did not even pause in his stride, nor look down at Luke before replying simply: ¡°No.¡± Unfortunate, but expected. Clearing his throat, Luke halted, Anakin almost bumping into him. Reluctantly, Thiel took another two strides before coming to a halt as well. The neophytes looked between the Lieutenant and Luke, while the Sergeant appeared uncaring, glancing off down the emptied corridor. ¡°You misunderstand me. Lieutenant Thiel, I would like to speak with the Primarch.¡± The press of Force behind his words was no attempt to impose or alter will, but enough that though Luke did not raise his voice, his words felt like they echoed down the passage. Thiel peered at him for a long moment, then looked to Anakin, Mei, then the Wraiths. ¡°The Primarch is busy.¡± Busy, but Thiel didn¡¯t say not here. Samothrace was no longer in the Eboracum system, but Luke had felt something strange on approach. Something he couldn¡¯t place his finger on, that eluded him, but something there nevertheless. ¡°I don¡¯t need long.¡± ¡°I do not speak for the Primarch.¡± ¡°But you advise him,¡± Luke stressed the word. ¡°An audience is all I ask. I¡¯d like to meet the leader of the Imperium and I think he would like to meet me.¡± ¡°The Emperor is the master of the Imperium,¡± Thiel remarked, purposely obtuse. ¡°I will pass along your request.¡± Stonewalled, but not insurmountable. As was described by the brief, and holos taken, Thiel wore the same massive sword on his back. Luke fingered his lightsaber at his side. ¡°How about a wager, Lieutenant?¡± ¡°I prefer not to gamble. The universe has seen fit to demonstrate ill luck.¡± Continuing as if Thiel hadn¡¯t spoken, Luke held up the quiescent ¡®saber. ¡°A duel. A friendly duel, and if I win, you¡¯ll get me an audience.¡± One of the neophytes actually laughed, receiving an elbow to the ribs that clacked against armored chestguard. ¡°If you win, I¡¯ll let it go.¡± ¡°A poor wager,¡± Thiel mused. ¡°If I should win, I¡¯ll claim your blade for the Primarch. He collects unique weapons, you see.¡± Anakin¡¯s mouth fell open and Luke felt his nephew¡¯s shock, indignation, and anger and gently he reached out in the Force, equivalent of roughing the boy¡¯s hair and Anakin bit back whatever he wanted to say. ¡°Deal,¡± Luke said, bouncing on his feet. Ignoring shock on the Wraiths and an almost¡­hungry one on Mei, Luke gestured forward. ¡°Lead on.¡±
Thiel lightly slid aside the Jedi¡¯s probing lightsaber. Arcs of electricity spat and plumed. The two sized each other up, both stripped to trousers and boots, chests bare in classic form. Where Skywalker was wiry, muscled in an athletic way, Thiel loomed massive. Sockets glinted from limbs and chest where his armor, safely aside in an arming rack, interfaced. Discoloration tinted his torso, black carapace fusing his ribs into a single plate. ¡°Consider this theoretical,¡± Thiel began, carefully side-stepping, point of his electromagnetic longsword eerily still as he held it interposed. Skywalker brought his blade back to guard, matching Thiel¡¯s motion as an opposite orbit. ¡°The Empire¡¯s Death Star has appeared in the Yavin system. Evacuations are only just beginning from the fourth moon. You and your squadron launch to content with the battlestation, but upon rising from the moon, you find yourself far afield among distant and uncharted stars. You know that out there, that battlestation moves ever closer to all you treasured and defended.¡± Mei, watching along with all the others, couldn¡¯t hide her incredulity. ¡°They¡¯re having a conversation?¡± Metal blurred and met plasma once, twice, thrice, was still again. All in under a second, both duelists returning to guard before the echo of their clash even rebounded. ¡°Would you not spend every moment bent on returning to your responsibility?¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Skywalker sprung forward with a pull on the Force, propelling him beyond the speeds a mortal could achieve, lightsaber held two-handed and searching. Aeonid twisted, with greater reacher and distance afforded by the man-sized blade caught and slid the glowing blade along his longsword¡¯s magnetic field. Fields of hidden force screamed and whined and then the Jedi Master was behind the Astartes, already pivoting, ¡®sabre darting for his shins. Thiel did not move to avoid, catching again the smaller mortal¡¯s blade in a gentle redirect that skimmed the very tip of the green ¡®sabre past his trouser clad ankles. Then they were circling again, at guard, positions reversed. Thiel placed his longsword through the Jedi¡¯s body, but the Jedi was no longer in that space and Thiel met only air. Bent like a reed, Skywalker kicked into a curling somersault, smoothed by the Force, landing feet firm and braced. Aeonid grimaced. It was like fighting an Eldar. ¡°I understand,¡± the Master said, nodding. ¡°I¡¯ve known the feeling. Leaving something half-finished¡­or not even started at all. The choice between doing what is in front of you and leaving it all for what you know is more important.¡± Only an Astartes¡¯ reflexes could follow Skywalker¡¯s quick slashes, none meant to connect, instead to corral and place Thiel on the back foot. They were conservative, quick, never leaving much of a space in the Jedi¡¯s guard, but Aeonid had dueled monsters and men alike and ¡®little space¡¯ was not the same as ¡®none¡¯. Skywalker¡¯s initiative was blunted as he ducked a hissing span of metal, broad as two hands put together. ¡°But you can¡¯t split your focus. I learned that lesson too many times. You¡¯re here now, Lieutenant Thiel. You can¡¯t go back.¡± ¡°It is not yet certain,¡± the Astartes disagreed, a mountain of stubborn intent in the shape of a human. ¡°The impossibility remains to be seen.¡± ¡°Then consider this instead. What if we helped you?¡± The Jedi¡¯s words, not his blade, gave the Astartes pause. He gave a foot of distance as he looked over the much shorter man. ¡°You would offer aid in matters you still do not know?¡± Skywalker shrugged in the lull of their duel. ¡°If you help the New Republic in this war, it¡¯s only fair the New Republic would do the same. Isn¡¯t that what allies - friends - do? I haven¡¯t known you long, Lieutenant, but you¡¯re shining in the Force. I don¡¯t sense bad intent from you. Or evil.¡± The Jedi span his blade, shaping a complicated pattern, dropping into a wide stance, blade held back, canted forward, two fingers pointing outward from extended arm. Again they rejoined, blades dancing, clashing, sparking, before withdrawing. Feeling strangely moved, Thiel inclined his head, bringing his sword up to guard before his face. ¡°You honor us. Should you succeed here; the Primarch would be most interested.¡± ¡°Do or do not, Lieutenant,¡± the Jedi said, laughter in his voice. ¡°There is no try.¡± And then Thiel was on the backfoot, reeling, before a whirling hurricane of light. He thought he had a gauge on the Jedi Master¡¯s technique before, in their probing exchanges. The mortal human was swift, canny and agile, but Thiel had not needed to draw on the true depths of his training, nor the benefit of his form. In truth, he had been more interested in feeling out the Jedi than concluding the duel immediately, so he had humored Skywalker in more conservative exchanges. Thiel threw everything he assumed aside, adrenaline surging through veins, chemicals spiking from his endocrine system, flooding his corded muscles and stimulating his second heart. Where before Skywalker had been cautious and quick, acting as hypo-training had taught him the alien Aeldari did, now the mortal reminded him more of- Thiel backstepped, swayed aside, caught the lightsaber on his blade and wrestled with it, shock filling him as Skywalker wrestled right back. Locking blades was catastrophic in a duel, yet Thiel had expected that with his already prodigious physiology to batter aside the Jedi. Across the short span of space between them, and down, for the Jedi reached barely his gorget, Thiel saw that Jedi Master Luke Skywalker was grinning. Grinning wildly, eyes alight. The mortal reminded him of another Astartes. At times it felt almost impossible to do anything but defend and the Jedi seemed to shift effortlessly between almost diametrically opposing forms. He might press Thiel with rapid, sharp strikes that the Astartes could only catch aside with the tip of his blade, then launch into strange aerial acrobatics, suited more for show than practicality, but for how the Jedi¡¯s lightsaber always managed to interpose when Thiel made to take advantage. All his attention narrows to the mortal before him. Sounds of shouts and cheers from the sidelines faded away, the world around greying and narrowing. The only thing that held color was Luke Skywalker and his gleaming green blade. He had not felt this focus, this moment of flow and form since the terrors of the halls of Macragge¡¯s Honour. Then, it was misshapen forms of flesh and hair and salt and gore that assailed him, coming from every angle, their every ravening strike shaped by insensate fury and depthless hunger. Thiel sunk into the moment, feeling his gifted electromagnetic longsword like it was an extension of his body, sensing every jarring strike like a kick in the shins. The Jedi was strong, ferociously strong, strong enough to give an Astartes pause. In other times, Thiel might have curled his lip at the witchery of the Force, no doubt at fault, but all conscious thought had fled him. There was only now. Now and a blade. Forever and an edge. Green cracked and magnetic lightning thrummed. Air sizzled. Sweat ran in runnels. Aeonid Thiel never considered himself any great artist with the blade. That was for champions, for Tetrarchs. He was competent, better than competent, but he had no mastery of it. Until he took up his Primarch¡¯s sword, he¡¯d only ever used a chainblade. Simpler, more brutal, more direct. When the Jedi challenged him, Thiel was amused by the hubris. Now, he wondered at how he could have missed the consummate skill packed into the mortal. Time trickled like thick oil, slowed down as his body steamed and forced himself to his peak and beyond. His teeth ground together, jaw clenched tight, every tendon, every fiber, every ounce of him bent toward one goal. To not be bested by a mortal. An unaugmented human, a man younger than him. Hissing plasma struck close enough to his face to warm his skin. Blackened scorch marks tattered his loose trousers, cleaving close enough to sear the fabric, only moments and one mistake from his own skin. Thiel did not know how long they remained like this. After, he remembered little of the duel. He remembered no particular moves, no strikes, no practical. He remembered only one slowly growing feeling as Skywalker¡¯s face burned itself into his retinas. The Jedi looked joyful, carefree, utterly intent and completely at peace. Contrasts and contradictions. Thiel would remember only the feeling that he would not win. The Jedi was water, he was air, he was everywhere but where Thiel expected. His lightsaber was not swung, it merely appeared where it needed to be to catch the Astartes¡¯ blows. The Jedi was everywhere at once and nowhere at all, superpositioned, a ringing paradox made of flesh and blood and what Thiel knew in his hearts to be skill he had barely seen before. Limbs burning, muscles hot, Thiel was amazed. He wondered if even the Tetrarch Lamiad could match this, then denied the thought as soon as it came. Skywalker still had not landed a convincing blow yet. Knowing the danger of using live weapons, though the Jedi had explained the Jedi trained regularly with each other with their lightsabers, each weapon capable of catastrophic physical damage at any mistake, it was agreed that a sufficiently near-blow, unchecked, counted as landing a hit. Skywalker was unerring and unstoppable, but he hadn¡¯t overcome Thiel yet, and he was not nearly arrogant enough to believe his own skill met or surpassed a Tetrarchs. With this, he consoled himself as he sought any window, any chink, and break in the Jedi¡¯s predictably unpredictable style. Skywalker was better than he, perhaps, but as Thiel recognized ¨C he was no master duelist. Then the storm was gone. Thiel panted heavily, sucking in triple lungfuls of rich air, drenched in sweat, fingers so tight about the hilt of his blade that his knuckles ached. Skywalker faced him, two meters away, lightsaber humming at his side. The Jedi¡¯s hair was plastered down to his scalp, chest heaving like bellows too. Wary, waiting for a resumption of the hurricane of light that Skywalker could transform into, the world slowly returned around Thiel, color slinking back into place, his vision widening until the arming chamber returned to his senses, the scent of lapping powder, hotel metal, chalk and sweat. Sergeant Ascratus leaned on the railing that encircled the sparring square, gauntleted fists so tight it deformed. Beside him, both neophytes were wide-eyed, struck silent. A lightsaber¡¯s buzzing hum vanished and snapped Thiel¡¯s attention back. Skywalker held his deactivated blade, then bowed deep. ¡°That was excellent, Lieutenant, thank you.¡± Thiel found his tongue thick and took a moment to order his thoughts to speak. ¡°Neither of us laid a blow.¡± His breathing evening out already, even as Thiel sucked in more lungfuls, the Jedi inclined his head. ¡°No. But there¡¯s no need, is there?¡± Thiel swallowed back a retort, fighting rising anger at the implication. He accepted the realization that he had no theoretical to best the Jedi, but for Skywalker to wave it in his face- ¡°For a Jedi, it¡¯s never about winning. It¡¯s about learning. I¡¯ve never faced anyone quite like you. Call it a draw?¡± Again, no different than with his blade, the Jedi surprised Thiel. A draw? A draw? Knowing the others to be out of earshot, Thiel lowered his tone, stepping closer. ¡°My honor does not need a salve,¡± he bit out. ¡°A salve? Lieutenant ¨C Aeonid - when I said I¡¯ve never fought anyone like you, I meant it. I don¡¯t want to go farther. I¡¯m afraid what could happen to either of us.¡± ¡°You would best me.¡± The admission stung, but he was Ultramarine. Information was victory. Thiel could never lie to himself and loathed speaking falsely to anyone, even an ally he hadn¡¯t wished for. ¡°Maybe.¡± Skywalker shrugged his shoulders, hooking his lightsaber to his belt and then slowly beginning a few brief calisthenics, stretching arms and cracking his back. ¡°We¡¯re not enemies, Aeonid. I wouldn¡¯t want to hurt you. Or be hurt by you,¡± he added. ¡°My wife would kill me.¡± Rolling his shoulders, shaking out his legs and arms, Skywalker offered a hand in the space between them. ¡°A draw. And a memorable duel.¡± Slowly, Thiel encased the Jedi¡¯s hand in his own, far more massive palm. ¡°I¡­will speak with the Primarch.¡± Thiel pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. ¡°He accompanied Samothrace without explanation. I daresay he anticipated this. A lesson then, Master Jedi. Never underestimate the Primarch. He will no doubt calculate that into his plans as well.¡± Skywalker cocked an eyebrow, accepting a towel offered by the armored Jedi, Mei Taral. He wiped down his face, his chest. Thiel observed Taral eying the Master, likely checking for injuries on her superior. ¡°And Aeonid, one more thing.¡± Excitement colored Skywalker¡¯s voice and he looked over Thiel, from boots to crown. ¡°You¡¯re strong in the Force.¡± On the other side of the dividing rail, Taral gasped and young Solo¡¯s eyes grew wide. The three other humans, agents of the New Republic¡¯s intelligence service, reacted similarly with surprise and open wonder. Likely some manner of as-yet unexplored cultural implication, Aeonid had no idea how to reply. Opting for the most likely meaning, a praise of his skill in their duel, Thiel awkwardly offered the same in return. ¡°As are you?¡± Skywalker¡¯s surprise and delight proved his assessment wrong immediately. ¡°You sensed it as well?¡± ¡°I...¡± Thiel spared a glance at Ascratus, who gave nothing away. No ally there, damn him. ¡°I apologize, I misunderstood the meaning.¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s my fault. Of course, it wouldn¡¯t make sense. Aeonid, remember what I spoke of earlier about the Force. The Force is in all living things. You, me, Mei, Face, all of us. Even in the smallest and simplest plants and bacteria. To be strong in the Force¡­it means that you can touch it, Aeonid. You are Force sensitive, just like any Jedi. I felt it, in our duel. Didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°The Force is for your Jedi. For your New Republic. What you claim is impossible. Isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Are you alive, Lieutenant? Then the Force is yours as well. The Force doesn¡¯t belong to anyone, the Force is. Aeonid, have you ever had moments when the world made sense? Have you ever had moments when the impossible was possible, for just a moment? When you tried hard enough that it just worked, when maybe it shouldn¡¯t have? I felt it just now. The Force was with you, even if you didn¡¯t know it and couldn¡¯t command it.¡± ¡°¡­¡± Three warriors obstruct Aeonid Thiel. One is Sorot Tchure. Tchure blocks every strike and thrust Thiel makes, as surely as a practice cage set on maximum extremity level. Sorot Tchure hears the noise his master makes. He is focused on his combat with the Ultramarines raiders, but he cannot help but turn his eyes for a second. Less than a second. A microsecond. Thiel sees his opening. His practical. It is infinitesimal, a tiny chink in the Word Bearer¡¯s guard. It lasts a microsecond, and it will not be repeated. He puts his sword through it. The longsword shears the right side of Tchure¡¯s helm away. Cheek, ear and part of the skull separate with it. Tchure stumbles, bewildered by the pain, the shock, the disorientation. Jolted from the memory, put aside months ago, Thiel found himself speechless. ¡°You have,¡± Luke breathed. ¡°This is ridiculous,¡± Thiel insisted. ¡°I am no witch.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve said that before. I don¡¯t know what it means, but the truth is what it is. You are strong in the Force, Aeonid, very strong.¡± Unerringly, unsettlingly, the Jedi¡¯s bright blue eyes would not leave his own. ¡°I can teach you.¡± Scoffing, Thiel strode away, seeking his own towel and sponging off his torso. Skywalker followed as the other Jedi and Wraiths fell into excited conversation. ¡°Even if what you claim is true ¨C which is not possible ¨C what purpose would there be? I am Astartes, not Jedi. You cannot make me one of yours, my oath and my loyalty is to my Emperor, my Primarch, and my Legion. In that order.¡± Resting his towel over his shoulder, Skywalker leaned against the railing. ¡°I¡¯m a husband too. And an uncle, a retired general, a starfighter ace and a teacher. And I am a Jedi.¡± The Jedi looked over to Thiel¡¯s arming rack, where his armor waited, quiescent and empty. ¡°Just consider it. Please. If you don¡¯t believe me, seek it out yourself.¡± ¡°Shall I ask the Force to give me a sign? I have spent my life removing false religion, Master Jedi. I will not seek one out.¡± Acting as though he had not heard him, Skywalker spoke on. ¡°Take the time to meditate. Focus yourself. Empty your mind and calm your thoughts. Reach deep inside yourself and in time, the Force will answer you. My offer will always be there, Aeonid. It would be my honor to guide you.¡± Thiel tossed his towel aside, where a servitor ambled over and collected it. The Jedi handed his off to its proffered hook-hand, murmuring thanks to the mindless automaton. Skywalker was mistaken. There was no other option. No other practical. Theoretical? What might drive him to make such a claim? Impossible to determine. He would tell his Primarch and it would no longer be his concern. Thiel was Astartes, he was of Ultramar, he was a Legionnaire. The Force, whatever it might be, for he did not deny the powers shown by Skywalker and the other Jedi, not after all that Thiel had seen in the universe, had no purchase on him. He knew who he was, and no matter how well-meaning Skywalker might seem, he was a human from a deviant culture. Tremendously skilled, well-spoken and allegedly wise, but a man from a culture that did not know the secular truth. ¡°My thanks for the challenge,¡± Thiel offered, shifting the subject. ¡°If Jedi are of similar caliber to you, then perhaps in the future we may find more to learn from each other.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure Mei and Anakin would love a chance. Those neophytes, they might be a good match for skill.¡± Skywalker hummed a moment. ¡°Without live blades, I think.¡± Eyeing the two neophytes, barely out of training, barely eligible for their carapace, Thiel had to agree. ¡°Without live blades,¡± he echoed. ¡°I¡¯ll speak with the Primarch. Before you take leave for Obroa Skai, he will see you. You have my word, as Astartes.¡± He offered his arm and intuitively, Skywalker clasped it, hand to elbow. ¡°You have my word, as a Jedi, that I¡¯ll protect your men as if they were my own Jedi.¡± Thiel barked a laugh, drawing attention from across the arming chamber. He¡¯d never had a mortal promise the safety of an Astartes before. Today was most certainly a day of firsts. Exigence Chapter XIX XIX: The Monsters in Charge
The night sky of Obroa Skai has not been calm. In other days, traces of light came and went in orderly patterns, weaving grids of commerce and community above the archival world, hinting at comers and goers and students and teachers. Satellites winked and blinked in their prescribed orbits, gentle ghostly shapes of liners made scuttle-bug silhouettes beyond the atmosphere. A thousand years Obroa Skai has been a library, open to the Galaxy, a collector and a sorter, a preserver and a remembrancer. Now the sky falls at all hours and the ordered traffic is gone, done away with and swept aside and what lines crease the blue above are straight and unerring, strobing sometimes, shattering into sprays other times, falling and falling and falling until the horizon sweeps them away. Sometimes they end before the horizon and the ground-thump is near enough to tremble knees. Obroa Skai has fallen weeks ago, but the sky has not yet heard this news. The sky is falling, and will remain falling, for months to come. Vomar rests in a squat, thighs to his heels, peering up through gritty eyes. His robe, which used to mark him as an archivist, hangs in rags from his shoulders. His weight, which he used to wear about his gut like an old tire, is dropping away. His fur is matted, unkempt and unclean, and still he smells blood on his arms. Not his blood. Vomar rests and looks at the sky and imagines being anywhere but here. At night the invaders have little care about the doings of their slaves - a knob of coral poking from Vomar¡¯s temple is care enough. He imagines he can feel it, weaving and prying through his brain and his spine, sinking kai-nettle thorns into synapses and nerve bundles. Another slave, a Twi¡¯lek, whose name escaped Vomar, tried to remove his two nights ago. He took a shard of duracrete and smashed the nodule on his head, turning the coral into dust. Then he went into a grand mal seizure, biting off his tongue before his exhausted and shocked friends could help him. The Twi¡¯lek died drooling blood and twitching, brain matter leaking out of his nose. No one here was dumb. One single data point was enough. No one else tried. So they worked. The invaders put them to task clearing debris, reopening access to underground repositories and clearing towering libraries and promenades of choking ruins. The Yuuzhan Vong, for all the violence and shock of their invasion, want the only real treasure Obroa Skai possessed. They want the world¡¯s knowledge and they will suck its ephemeral brain dry to swell fat on the collected wisdom and learnings of a hundred generations. All Vomar can do is help. He is just a small Bimm, on in his years, a nobody, a clerk and archivist, a man who dedicated his life to preserving knowledge. Named after a great-uncle who¡¯d once been an astronomer, who¡¯d gone missing on some adventure, he¡¯d always been happy here. Taking lunches in sunny cafes, rubbing shoulders with uncountable beings from across the breadth of the Galaxy, getting to see eyes light up in wonder as he taught on his off-days. The simple pleasure of the hunt, coordinating with a doctoral student who needed a complex cross-section of reference material, dating across several centuries and three different cultures. He scrubs his hands over his face, wincing as he irritates partially healed cuts and scrapes. He should be asleep. Tomorrow the coral will wake them all up painfully early and then another day awaits, full of drudge and toil and biting his tongue every time a halt is called and one of the hulking, bestial vong ccomes over, snarling and hissing. Understanding their master¡¯s words is a privilege not given to slaves, so deriving meaning from gesture and tone is the game, the reward being more labour or hating himself as he surrendered recovered datacubes or even carefully preserved tomes of flimsy. The punishment is pain from the coral, pain from the lash, pain from backhanded slaps. The Yuuzhan Vong speak in pain, Vomar is learning, and it is a language that doesn''t need words. A flicker of light catches his eye and he pauses, rising, to watch as a new line creases the velvet dark above, this one larger than most, much higher and slower. Some remnant of a vessel, this time, not the satellites that usually came down at all hours. Maybe even part of one of the New Republic¡¯s defending fleet. Some aft of an MC series cruiser, or the snapped off prow of a Nebulon series. Wanting to sleep but dragging out leaving the clearer air of the outside, dreading returning to the animal-reek of the damuteks where the slaves were dumped each evening, he keeps an eye on the trail of fire above as he picks around rubble and shattered columns. It holds together longer than most, crossing half the sky before the single line splits and becomes many, a sudden spread of fingers and new trajectories. Some are chasing the original interloper, thinner and dimmer lines keeping pace above and below. Others appear shorter, slower, but Vomar knows those are ones falling at steeper angles, more directly downward, blasted free by atmospheric heating, uneven, that started releasing shocks of vaporizing energy. He watches as the main cluster of debris continues on and on, sinking down toward the horizon even as it leaves at least a dozen, maybe two dozen, trails behind it. To his surprise, a handful of other comets arc up towards it on mobile and shifting parabolas to intercept. Coralskippers, rocketing up from the surface, themselves going so fast that they heat and glow. It must have been a large part of a ship indeed, maybe even a whole wreck, and the vong don¡¯t want it to cause any more damage to the wounded archives. Vomar wishes the hulk luck, hoping it will land flat on the head of whatever monster is in charge down here.
Rhonabeq lost communication to them just after Penitent Queen struck the edge of Obroa Skai¡¯s atmosphere. Each of the six drop pods were attached through physical clamps to the slim frigate¡¯s hull, but the hardline connection between Imperial vox and Galactic comms was always tenuous. ¡°It¡¯s to be expected,¡± Solidian opined in the dark. Only red lights, dull, are lit inside the pod. For the Astartes, they can see well enough. For their human companions, everything is reduced to outlines and shades of darkness overlaid. ¡°The pilot has her task and we have ours. There¡¯s no need to distract each other. Sergeant Ascratus has all he needs to handle the drop himself.¡± Luke can sense the mind of the young neophyte, buckled on the opposite side away from Luke. Each harness was made for the size and scale of the Astartes in their armor, so it had taken some modification to scale down strapping for the variable size of the Jedi and Wraiths. Testing again the webbing across his chest, legs and arms, he had to admit the nameless Imperial Magos assisting had done an admirable job on short notice. He could barely move at all, even his head was kept in place by gel cushioning wrapping partly around his neck. Solidian continued speaking, clearly boasting, relaying his knowledge about how these machines worked and the talents of Sergeant Ascratus and Luke smiled at the excitement of the youth. Both of the neophytes were nearly brimming with eager anticipation in the Force, a contrast to their carefully neutral expressions and stoic words before entering into the pod. They had been taking cues from their Sergeant, putting on an Astartes Face in front of the ¡®locals¡¯, but here in the dark, the combination of their youth and the promise of their ¡®proving¡¯ had both Solidian and Zalthis losing their facade. It showed how young both of them truly were, even if Luke didn¡¯t know their equivalent ages. The only other in the pod with the same flavor of emotion was his own nephew, who shouldn¡¯t have needed to be here. Anakin should be on Yavin, with Tahiri and Sannah and his friends, safe and training and growing up, not dropping feet-first into occupied territory at barely sixteen. It was a familiar wish, one that never really left him, one that he brought up to Mara not infrequently, a regret for his niece and both his nephews that the Galaxy he¡¯d help bring about had never been one of real peace. That they¡¯d all three had to step up long before they ever should have had to. Another failing, among many. The other, older occupants were focused. He felt Face¡¯s severity lying just underneath his levity. He had two of his own with him. His life didn¡¯t really matter to him at this moment, in his focus, theirs did. Because they were his, his responsibility and his soldiers. He felt Bhindi Drayson¡¯s anxious energy - not anxiety or fear, but an energy to get going, to get things done, to get her boots on the ground and do. Zev Veers and his subtle fear of the dark, kept so powerfully in check the man likely didn¡¯t even notice the way it tinted his emotions. Mei, who was always an open book, because she spent every hour trying to be one, whose only concern as the pod rumbled and shook was a fear of letting down Master Skywalker. As if any of the Jedi could truly let him down. Even Rhonabeq, despite the incredible enormity of her blunder and just how much she almost cost the New Republic - what she almost cost Luke - was still deserving of his regard and his faith. When they¡¯d spoken, when she really, truly realized what had almost come to pass on Eboracum, the Muugari had been speechless and paled even more pallid than her grey complexion normally was. ¡°Master Skywalker, I am so, so sorry-¡± Some thought his request for her to fly the Penitent Queen on this mission was too harsh. If the Yuuzhan Vong were wise to the deception, she was alone on a frigate meant to be operated by a half-dozen at minimum. There was always a price for failure. He¡¯d learned it, hard and bitter, and as much as he loved his - as much as he loved the Order and the Jedi that he taught, they had to learn it too. To be a Jedi wasn¡¯t just to listen to the Force and Do What You Think Is Right. To be a Jedi is to be a servant of the Force, not yourself. To serve is to be wise, to listen to others, to put away your own desires when the time came. He couldn¡¯t claim to be a perfect Jedi and so many times Luke had failed on these premises alone. Everyone would, and everyone does. The trick is to never stop trying. At Eboracum, the New Republic could have lost an extremely popular junior Senator for one of the key shipyards of the Galaxy. The loss of Malaghi Shesh would¡¯ve shamed and alienated the Shesh family. Tens of thousands would have died. The Jedi would have lost one of their most vocal allies - Luke¡¯s own reservations of the woman aside - and the war would have lost a strident supporter of beating back the Yuuzhan Vong. The Order would have lost a Master, a Knight and - And Luke would have lost his nephew. All because one Jedi thought they knew what was right and did not listen to others, did not question themselves. A hundred meters away, Luke could feel Rhonabeq¡¯s acid self-recrimination. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Would you have allowed it?¡± Luke asked, finally, during a lull in their conversation. Roboute considered for a quiet moment, part of the theatre of the man that Luke had picked up on. The Primarch always had an answer ready, always had something to say, but he inserted false pauses and moments of contemplation to seem more human. To seem more thoughtful. ¡°No,¡± Roboute said gently, and a worry Luke hadn¡¯t quite realized he bore relaxed. ¡°Your envoy was never a threat to my fleet, nor were the unexpected arrivals. Perhaps absolute prudence would have demanded it, but I am not a machine. No, they were never in danger, save for if my orders were ignored.¡± If there was anything to trust of the Imperium, Luke knew, it was to trust in their devotion to the Primarch, making the last caveat unnecessary. Shaking aside the memory, Luke focused last on Ascratus, who, like his Primarch ¡®father¡¯, was impenetrable. Not because of the uniquely singular presence of the Primarch, but instead because Ascratus simply was uncomplicated. His mind was not barred or walled off with defenses like some strong in the Force could muster, Ascratus was just of one mind. Right now, he was watching on his wrist-mounted sensors - Auspex, the word was, Luke thought - the path of the Penitent Queen and their planned insertion site. And that¡¯s all he was doing. The Astartes was so utterly absorbed in one singular task that nothing else even crossed his mind, troubled his emotions. He held the entirety of the task in his mind, picturing the frigate, the positioning of their pod and the five decoys, picturing the world below, picturing even wind currents and jetstreams as he watched timers tick down and wireframe paths refresh. It was like peering into the mind of a droid. It seemed that every Astartes Luke met would be an entirely different experience from the next.
As it turned out, though Aeonid Thiel called himself an advisor to his Primarch, Luke may have overestimated his true influence. True to his word, the man had vanished for a time while the Wraiths and the Imperials compared notes and set up a proper plan of attack. When he¡¯d come back, beckoning to Luke, they¡¯d left behind the three Astartes, the Wraiths, and the two Jedi working over a large, printed map of Obroa Skai¡¯s capital city and the Institute contained within. Then it was through a maze of halls, corridors and rumbling trams before the first obstacle. That being a grizzled, elderly Astartes who introduced himself as Marius Gage, offering a salute formed by interlocking his fingers over his chest. Luke felt Thiel slip away without a word, felt the turmoil and storm in his mind, felt the draw toward a distant and private arming chamber that held the Astartes¡¯ attention. He wished Thiel luck, and asked the Force to guide his troubled soul. Marius Gage, as it turned out, was the ¡®Master Primus¡¯ of the 4911th, also known as the Equerry to the Primarch, also known as the Chapter Master of the First, also known as¡­ And he interrogated Luke for his interest in meeting said Primarch. They walked, slower this time, along a long gallery in the spine of the Imperial warship, Samothrace. Between the arching eaves above was space, visible through transparisteel windows. Starlight is what lit the hall, which was filled with statues. Cold light drew hard shadows. Each one an Astartes, each one larger than life, each one in white marble. Marius Gage was pleasant and conversational, far more personable than Thiel, Ascratus or the two young ones. Still, there was the same sense of pure danger around him, the same that permeated the air around every Astartes Luke had met. Not threat, just danger. The Force vibrated at some strange frequency that prickled the hairs on his neck, not unlike standing near a predator. It reminded him, minus the Force-sense, of vornskrs. A constant, permanent attention that couldn¡¯t be escaped from. Deeper in, his sense of Gage was that of hurt. Not an physical injury, despite the man¡¯s clicking, robotic hand or the slight limp that was nearly invisible. There was a hurt in Marius Gage that cut to his very core, a hurt that bled into the Force that Luke could feel. As they walked and spoke, which was an unsubtle way to ¡®test¡¯ Luke, he was more interested in the metaphysical injury that lingered around the Astartes. Paying half attention to the conversation, Luke reached out, gentle as he could, poking and teasing at the sensation. Luke wasn¡¯t old, but he wasn¡¯t young either. From the jungles of Dathomir, to the sands of Korriban, the rains of Vjun and the dark underbelly of Coruscant, he had been across the Galaxy again and again. Holocrons of Jedi, Sith, teachings from Force-sects long lost to the world for thousands of years, relics left from forgotten times, cutting-edge alchemies invented by only one mind ever deranged enough to imagine them - Luke had seen them all. Learned from them. He knew the feel of a vornskr at hunt, the cold touch of a ysalamiri, the malevolent glee of Exar Kun bleeding from a relic. He had stood in the Valley of the Jedi and felt the echoes of the horrors there. He had reached into the Dark that Cronal worshiped and brought Light. He knew the peace of ancient trees and elemental fury of storms, the honest rawness of nature and the perversion of malice that could be placed on it. What he felt, probing the wound in Marius Gage, was nothing like any of it yet curiously similar. He sensed intention, but not what. He felt emotion, but couldn¡¯t name it. Gently he withdrew, leaving Gage none the wiser, but feeling like he knew less than when he began. As for Gage, he seemed pleased with what he found in Luke and left him at doubled doors, which were drawn open under their own power. Inside was another Astartes - no, three. Two were wearing a form of armor like Thiel had, but much more ornate with golden-winged helmets, gold-clad pauldrons, gold on their chests and knees and everywhere. So much gold the Ultramarine¡¯s ubiquitous blue was almost invisible. The third Astartes, though, towered over both. Unlike the others he didn¡¯t wear a helmet and his exposed face glared down at Luke. His fists alone were enormous and his legs were like pillars. Luke smiled up at the Ultramarine and offered a shallow bow. ¡°Luke Skywalker,¡± he said, trying to hide his amusement. ¡°Jedi Master.¡± The massive Ultramarine scowled down at him, but from the pounding waves of derision, incredulity, anger and raw, naked distrust that rippled off the man like mirages on desert sand, Luke felt the expression was one that never left his face. ¡°I am Drakus Gorod.¡± The Ultramarine didn¡¯t speak, he rumbled, voice growling out of his chest and reverberating off the walls of the chamber. ¡°I¡¯m pleased to make your acquaintance, Drakus Gorod.¡± The two flanking Astartes made no motion, but Luke felt mild amusement from the leftward one. ¡°I am not pleased to make yours, ¡®Jedi Master¡¯. I am sworn to the life of my Primarch. Why should I grant you passage, when your threat is clear?¡± Mistrust, anger, fear - everything Senator Shesh had noted in her report. He had asked the question of Thiel, at the start of their spar - why was he so dismissive? They had told Viqi about the circumstances of their arrival in the Galaxy, that it had been fleeing some manner of attack and betrayal. Thiel¡¯s answer was clear enough: their focus wasn¡¯t here. They were only speaking with the New Republic because they had run out of options on their own. They only wanted to leave. That was the gist of the feeling that Luke had from everyone. From the Astartes, from the humans they saw but weren¡¯t allowed to speak to, even if they could find a translator. Even from the cyborg ¡®magi¡¯. He felt it from all of them, a quiet undertone of longing, a desire for home. To leave. They didn¡¯t want to be here, and this Galaxy wasn¡¯t theirs. He couldn¡¯t blame them for that, but he could, as time went on, start to question their sense if they couldn¡¯t face reality. ¡°You will because you were ordered to. You have my respect for your loyalty and my word that I would only raise my lightsaber in defense. You will let me pass because this is the world you are in now, and things change.¡± Drakus Gorod, looming, clenched and unclenched his jaw, muscles jumping. His armor thrummed. His armored fingers twitched and ground against each other. He raised one arm with a slowness of intent that put Luke into the mind of an elevating turret. ¡°Through there. Remember: we are just outside.¡± It was not the door that the three stood before, but rather a smaller one to the left, like an afterthought. Misdirection. Mistrust. ¡°Thank you, Drakus Gorod.¡± He used the Ultramarine¡¯s name and watched the complex interplay of expression and emotion as he did so. Then Luke strode to the door, took the handle, and pulled it open. Roboute Guilliman waited inside. The Primarch, for he could have been no one else, stood in front of an enormous painting that had to be at least ten meters in length. Unlike the other Ultramarines, he was unarmored. His hands were clasped behind his back as he peered at the painting intently, shoulders up, back straight. A laurel sat on short blond hair and a deep blue velvet toga wound around his enormous form. Luke paused in the doorframe. He had listened to Anakin and Mei and Kyp¡¯s account. He spoke with Tresk. He read the especially classified retelling from one Chief of Staff Victor Pomt and a Senator Viqi Shesh. He paused in the doorframe and slowly cocked his head this way, then that. Gently he let the door swing closed, lock clicking, which drew Roboute¡¯s attention. ¡°Master Jedi,¡± the giant man said. ¡°Lord Primarch,¡± Luke replied, having asked Thiel for what the proper form of address was, flattered that the Imperium had gone out of their way to do the same for Jedi. ¡°Call me Roboute,¡± the Primarch said, turning his head and raising a hand to gesture Luke closer. ¡°Then call me Luke,¡± the Jedi said, carefully walking over to join the Primarch. The painting he had been studying was a masterpiece, for all that Luke knew of art. He couldn¡¯t imagine how long it had taken to do, or how many might have worked on it, for the size of it alone would¡¯ve made it a lifetime for an artist. It was a martial piece, in bold colors and tones, filled with light and shadow and rich oils and it depicted exactly what the Imperium claimed to be. A tide of human beings in pristine uniforms, supplemented here and there by the unmistakable shapes of Ultramarines, like adults among children. And opposite, some kind of horrible swarm of beasts that appeared to be made entirely of teeth and claws and empty eyes. There was blood, there was smoke and fires and death and the piece was very obvious with how it translated from darkness on the left, over the alien horde, to shining sun breaking through the clouds over the human army. ¡°This is a piece completed ninety-five years ago,¡± Roboute said, as if instructing a class, ¡°by a very talented artist named Vann Eckryd. My Father created the Order of Remembrancers in the waning years of the Great Crusade, but from Ultramar, we had always carried chroniclers with us.¡± ¡°It¡¯s beautiful,¡± Luke said, truthfully enough. The subject was obvious and the meaning was unsubtle, but closer he could pick out individual expressions on every face. Whoever this Vann Eckryd was, ¡®very talented¡¯ was an understatement. ¡°It¡¯s simplistic.¡± The Primarch shifted, looking down as Luke looked up. Roboute Guilliman looked¡­young. Surprisingly so. Not youthful, like a child, not like he was immature, but Luke was surprised by how unmarked his face was, without wrinkles, without scars. ¡°You¡¯re having a far better reaction than your compatriots. I¡¯m sorry I affected them so.¡± ¡°I accept your apology, but you didn¡¯t need to apologize. No one should have to apologize for what they are.¡± Roboute turned back to the painting. ¡°And what am I, Luke Skywalker?¡± Exigence Interlude I Old Bones, New Flesh
Let it never be said that the sons of Guilliman acted by halves. At first there were tent cities - painstakingly organized in rows with latrines, mess pavilions and motorpools carefully scattered throughout - but by the end of the month, at least a month by far-gone Macraggian reckoning, those tent cities were replaced by pressed cellulose barracks, white-washed, aligned to a massive grid. On and on they ran, in rows as straight as las, so that to step out from one and peer down a lane would be dizzying, lines of duplicated buildings going until they reached a vanishing point. Each barrack was small, fit for twelve, and so were squads organized. Thus it was that the Imperium came to Eboracum. He did not know any of his newfound housemates going about their business within the whitewashed walls today. None of them knew each other. Two men shared a common touchstone, both being from the Neride, on Calth, but until pressed cheek-to-jowl in a shaking Thunderhawk, they''d never crossed paths. One man was from Iax. Another from Konor. Five were from Macragge, from all across that august world. All of them were sole survivors, at least as far as they knew, of entire regiments. In his bunk he reclined, one arm thrown behind his head as a pillow, peering at ident tags as he flipped them carefully between thumb and forefinger. Rad exposure from Veridia gave them a pearlescent sheen. He closed his eyes, remembering that baleful, bloated eye above, pulsing, seething with tangible agony. When Veridia started to die, when he''d truly grasped the depths of the plans of the Word Bearers, he''d cast aside his lasgun and his webbing and ran. Desertion? Maybe. By technicality, almost everyone was guilty of it. It was how they were here, on Eboracum, under strange stars, and not fleshless skeletons leering at a dead sky. There was no command that day, the officers were dead, the sky was falling and a man had to make hard decisions. He joined the panicked masses of human flesh, breathed the sweat-reek of fear and stress and no, not fear, of terror. It slicked his throat, filled his nose and even now, reclining on starched linen sheets, peering up at the slatted ceiling above, he could still taste it. Fear was a power all its own, as men and women died then, not to bolt or beam but to crush and feet. He remembered stepping on a woman''s lifeless face, just visible above churned, calf-deep mud. It was impossible to tell the cause of death, but for her sake, perhaps it wasn''t from suffocation. As the star died and the sounds of war and treachery crept closer, the horizon alight with a pulsing, bruised glow, he began to fear he would not make it to the dozens of civilian lifters. Already they were clearly overfull but more were packed on, as if with shoehorns, jamming trembling, shellshocked soldiers into every hatch they could pry open. Then the lifters would belch and hurtle for the sky, pell-mell, shrieking up into the wind and lashing rain and on to¡­where? Where was safety? The Word Bearers came to kill the world, to kill the XIIIth, to kill Ultramar. Where was safe? Above was the orbital grid, which was killing the star, and the warships of the XVIIth, which were kill the the XIIIth. He wondered how many lifters made it out of atmosphere. He wondered how many did, but died anyway, drifting and cold, without the legs to flee into the warp. But then he was aboard and he was crushed into a mass of sweating flesh as the lifter banged and rattled and rumbled and any moment, any moment, he waited for the flash of heat and light and nothing - until there was sound from outside and the hatches opened and everyone spilled out, groaning and retching and they were in a bulk transport, large as any battleship. And he lived. Tucking dogtags back into his collar, he left his barrack behind, nodding here and there to those he''d begun to know as he strolled down the ways and avenues of a brand new, weeks old township. A township of soldiers, a township of scars. Rail lines snaked out and away, leading to local settlements and to new-sprung farmlands, even up toward the grand and growling Redoubt, looming between the snowcapped peaks to the western horizon. With his tags he was able to claim a spot aboard, no questions asked, such was the luxury of being a man of the Imperium on this heathen world. Not a few in his compartment were locals, in their strange garb and hooded suspicion. He smiled, trying to be friendly, and they goggled back at him. They would come around, in time. Well, aside from the xenos. He could barely suppress his urge to openly gawk at the only one in the car, a beetle-like creature with compound eyes and waving antennae, which had the audacity to wear clothes like a sapient being. But the Primarch''s decree was absolute, and he could see, even across the train car, the laminate card pinned to the xenos'' breast. Farmlands whipped by, already knee-high, benefitting from the generously opened vaults of the Explorator Dominus. Rapid growth grains and legumes vied for the sky and he wondered if he took an hour, if he might even be able to see them grow. One thing was for certain, for all else might be in flux. The XIIIth was here to stay. The Redoubt, the farmlands, the local Compliance. Word was scarce and scattered, down in the ranks, but everyone knew they were far, far from Ultramar. Cast widely adrift by the currents of the Warp, but to where? Need to know. That was fine. He had the means to find out.
His friends were waiting for him. He gently ran fingertips over each forehead, whispering to them as they slept and he smiled fondly at each slumbering man and woman. They were pale and wan and drawn, marked by livid ligature marks at wrist and ankle and neck, all of them naked. None were restrained, not anymore. The kiss of his knife was restraint enough. Eight and eight. A measly offering, a mean offering, one that he knew his majir would scoff at, maybe even have him added to pad out the flesh. But his majir was dead and gone, burst by mass-reactives and every other one of his kind, his blood-kin, his marked, were gone too. Maybe he wasn''t the only one who knew the Truth. Maybe others had escaped Calth. Maybe others did like he did, draping themselves in the lies of Ultramar and the Imperium and making the sign of the aquila and scowling, spitting every time those damned Word Bearers were mentioned. Didn''t matter. What mattered was he lived, and he knew the Truth, and he could bring the wrath and the retribution of the Most Beloved Angels here. The Truth was the Truth, and being here instead of there didn''t change it. The Truth was universal. Eternal. It would hound the bastard children of the false-god on Terra wherever they went. Roboute Guilliman thought he''d escaped. He thought he''d found refuge and succor, but the reach of Blessed Lorgar was infinite. The Truth in the Blood, the great quartet, they were infinite. Tezen, Naugesh, Slu''an, Khamarn. Tzeentch, Nurgle, Slaanesh, Khorne. The names mattered, but all names mattered. He knew what he knew by how he was raised. He knew as his majir taught. His majir, from whose dead hands he''d claimed his knife. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ''You''re honored,'' he whispered to his slumbering friends. ''You''re blessed.'' He ran the edge of his athame along a woman''s neck, soft as a lover''s touch and her flesh parted like lips for a lover. Blood ran. Dark, dark enough to be almost purple, rich in blood, rich in life. His athame ¨C his majir''s athame ¨C was flint and leather and crude. It didn''t whisper like the chips of night that the Most Beloved Angels carried. It didn''t gabble byblow words like those blades of the elevated. But it was a knife and it was sharp and it knew death and that was enough. He didn''t know much, but that much he knew. His majir taught well. Another throat sighed out lifeblood. He let it run, messy and loose. Runnels tracked into carven paths. He kissed the dead man''s forehead and slicked his smallest finger in blood, tasting the salt-iron sacrament. ''You''re honored,'' he murmured. ''You''re blessed. Tezen, hear me.'' Another throat. Another taste. Another blessing. ''Naugesh, hear me.'' On the eighth, he shivered. Now when he opened arteries, blood flowed sluggish. Frost rippled and melted across shivering sigils, etched into the duracrete, slick with vitae. Ozone stung his nose. He felt the glide of his knife, already as sharp as treason, move as if through silk. They were watching. They were watching. Gooseflesh prickled on his neck. Fingers ran through his hair. ''Slu''an, hear me.'' His hands were tacky and when he flexed his fist, crusts of slush dropped from his palms. His head spun. The air felt thick, chewy, dense on the palate. He''d feared eight and eight was not enough. He feared every time he lured away another, every time he courted discovery, every time he dared journey out here, to this forgotten homestead. He feared that his majir was right, that he was meat in the grinder for the Truth in the Blood, that he''d never mean anything to the Great Quartet, that he would die and his soul would be only feed. But they were listening. Two throats remained. Two offerings. If need be: three. Now he kissed lips and forehead of his offering and drew the blade, breathing deep, frigid air sending spikes into his temples but still he caught the iron-hot odor, the hot-iron reek, the symbol of salvation. ''Khamarn, hear me.'' His majir taught the last offering was the capstone. The ritual exclamation point. It was the shout to the angels beyond, the lamp hung at the door to draw them in. It had to be special. It had to have meaning. Grenadier Third Class Jarnum had been his friend. They''d squeezed into the Thunderhawk together, at Calth. They''d shared minimal rations. They''d traded stories of their lives. Jarnum sponsored him, speaking on his behalf to Jarnum''s Sergeant, who agreed to fold this ragged newcomer into his ragged platoon. Jarnum was a good man, a good soul, a real Imperial''s Imperial. He cut Jarnum''s throat to the bone and kept going, until the young man''s head dropped free and he hefted it up, fingers tangled in hair, peering at glassy eyes. ''You''re blessed,'' he whispered, and kissed Jarnum''s cold lips. Then he threw the head into the center of the ritual octed. It did not strike the duracrete floor. Blood pinwheeled and froze in the air. Crystals of crimson, scintillant, glinting like diamonds, described arcs of the golden mean. Jarnum''s skull unfolded. Flesh rolled away from bone like dough under the ministrations of a skilled baker. Teeth scattered. Hair knotted and thickened and writhed, then slapped flat to scalp and slid down to meet elongating spine, bursting from clean-cut stump like a flatworm from mud. A thing in the shape of a man pressed out from Jarnum''s sawn off neck, feet and calves and hips and then long fingers, reaching and grasping onto Jarnum''s jaw and digging claws into cheeks to help haul itself free. Weeping, eyes hot, he fell to the ground and clasped his knife to his chest. An angel. An angel. Its feet did not brush the soiled floor. It drifted, toes pointed, hands slowly rising to spread arms out as if in benediction. It faced away from him and he trembled to imagine the hidden visage. From behind he saw it was the form of a man, a human man, rippling with lithe muscle, perfect in form, like a marble statue, like something the Phoenician might find favor in. Black cracks webbed across it and no, it was not perfect. Its arms were too long by an inch. Its legs too short. Its torso too stretched, its ¨C its arms too short. Its legs too long. He wanted to abase himself. He wanted to look away. But he had never seen an angel. Slowly it revolved in midair and as it turned the corpse-offerings eroded and decayed and blew away into crimson dust. ''Angel, I called thee from the Blood. Angel, I bind thee by the blood. Angel, I give thee gift of blood. Angel, I claim from thee two boons. Angel, by gift of blood and gift of form, I claim two boons.'' His majir bragged about calling and binding angels. Oh, his majir never did it around others, he never did it where any could see, but his majir said it was it because an angel would treat any other as yet another gift. Another offering. He pieced together the words over years, from little comments here, tidbits of lore there. His majir never knew how close one of his lowly cadre had come to the secrets. The angel turned to face him. He saw eyes, four of each, on either hand. Black eyes, nictitating, that looked to cardinal points. In its chest between masculine pectorals burned a blackened wheel, spoked and smoking; a tattoo shaped of infamy. It had no face. Only a mirror, silver, flawless, in which he saw the eroding corpses of Jarnum and the other sacrifices. He saw the room, painted in old, cracked yellow and newly in red. He saw his webbing, his gear, left by the door. He saw the floor, carved in the octed. He did not see himself. The angel finished its rotation. All bodies were gone, left as only stains on duracrete. The room was empty. The farmhouse was empty. The angel slowly cocked its polished mirror-face. For now, the hunger was sated. The betrayal was sweet. The offering accepted. The universe, howling with horror at the angel''s imposition, pressed with causal fingers at the wound torn in its flesh. The angel had finished here. It let the tide wash it away, curling back into the bloodied, decapitated head of a young man. The head thumped to the floor, rolled once, and stopped. Exigence Chapter XX XX: Getting to Know You
The red lights in the drop pod brightened suddenly, drawing a gasp from Mei as the interior was thrown into hard edged relief. ¡°Time!¡± Ascratus bellowed, deafening in the enclosed space. ¡°Ten seconds! Prepare!¡± The Force swelled around the three Jedi and Luke reached out for Face, then Bhindi, then Zev. Before boarding, they agreed on a division: Anakin, between Solidian and Zev, would handle himself and Zev. Mei, between Zev and Bhindi, would handle the latter. Luke, between Bhindi and Face, would handle Face. But Luke could fly the entire drop pod around at will if he wanted, so bleeding off inertia from three people was nothing. He trusted Anakin and Mei completely. It also wasn¡¯t a bad idea to have insurance, as he gently reached for the other two Jedi, and then the three Astartes as well. ¡°Time!¡± Ascratus bellowed again. This time, the neophytes shouted ¡°Five seconds!¡± along with him. ¡°We march for Macragge!¡± Zalthis added. ¡°Not marching!¡± Solidian laughed and then everyone¡¯s breath rushed out of them as a Star Destroyer landed on their chests.
Luke considered the question. The door opened and Roboute was revealed. It was exactly as Mei, Anakin, Kyp and Tresk reported. Despite him being right there, it wasn¡¯t until he laid eyes on the Primarch that it was like his senses truly opened up. All the time aboard Samothrace today and he felt something like an itch on his scalp or water in his ear. Some kind of something here and there and everywhere. Slippery and elusive, impossible to pin down, until a humble door swung wide and a man too tall to be a man was there. Luke was not an old man, but he was not a young man either. From the jungles of Dathomir, to the sands of Korriban, the rains of Vjun and the dark underbelly of Coruscant, he had been across the Galaxy again and again. Holocrons of Jedi, Sith, teachings from Force-sects long lost to the world for thousands of years, relics left from forgotten times, cutting-edge alchemies invented by only one mind ever deranged enough to imagine them - Luke had seen them all. What he saw now was none of that. Anakin described seeing the Force become physical, real, as real to touch as anything else. Mei said she saw flashes of beast-headed men overlaid, Kyp declared the Primarch the Darkest thing he¡¯d ever witnessed and said nothing else. Tresk said he could barely even focus on him. Luke could admit that for a moment, it took his breath away. Not even Palpatine, at Byss, had such a presence. Even all the Fallanassi, together, he knew couldn¡¯t compare. The reason he couldn¡¯t sense the Primarch properly, why the Jedi on Eboracum couldn¡¯t, he saw immediately. Whatever interplay of the Force that surrounded, that filled the being that called itself Roboute Guilliman was, it was nothing he had ever seen. Until he laid eyes on him, until Luke could see the originator, the origin and end, it was like trying to describe color to the blind, or count to infinity. The mind didn¡¯t know it. But then, when he could see- The first thing he thought of were shatterpoints. Sometimes Mindoir felt like a lifetime ago, sometimes it felt like yesterday. Touching the jagged and knotted flows of the Force around the Primarch brought him back as if he still was down there in the dark, alone with Kar Vastor. What had he said then? There were no walls to the Force. If there were no walls, perhaps there could be lenses. He¡¯d seen that too, the way the Force could be prismatised, winnowed out or separated, like oil and water. He didn¡¯t see the creature-headed man. He didn¡¯t see the Force become real, he didn¡¯t feel Palpatine or Exar Kun or Cronal or Jerec or all the Sith and Sith-adjacent he had faced. He didn¡¯t even feel a twinge of headache. In front of a painting stood a man, a very tall, large, muscular man in a complex draping blue robe. He wore laurels on his brow and sandals on his feet. He had no weapons. Because he was a weapon. The Force was alight around him. It wasn¡¯t part of him - no, that wasn¡¯t right. It was, because the Force was in all things (all things but the Yuuzhan Vong, said the whisper), but it wasn¡¯t of him. He didn¡¯t control it. He didn¡¯t command it. Luke felt that immediately, instantly. The way the tides of the Force knotted and wove around Roboute was unconscious, more than unconscious, it merely was, in the way that a stone placed in a river will create an eddy, but you can¡¯t finger the rock to be at fault. In the same way that a mountain blocks the wind, but the mountain doesn¡¯t command the wind to split. It exists and by existence the action is done. And the raw power that was there. He could imagine the effect it would have. He didn¡¯t have to imagine, it had that effect on him. It should have. He could feel the way the Force brewed into a storm, how the light that always shone fractured into rays of green and red and violet, gamma and infrared and ultraviolet, the way the Force arced close to the Primarch, close enough to touch, span around the event horizon that the Primarch was and was attenuated, accelerated, flung back at the world in washing waves. Washing waves, unending, and Luke did not endure the waves, he did not fight the waves, he did not see the waves. He was the waves, he was the troughs and crests, he was the water in the sea, and they passed by him even as he knew their passage. He could imagine the headache Tresk described, the sight Anakin still thought of when his mind wandered, the visions Mei had seen. He could even imagine how, in other times in his life, Luke might have been overwhelmed by the Dark, as Kyp was. A man in the shape of a shatterpoint, by whose simple act of peering at a painting had Luke blinking away tantalizing hints of a thousand futures offered up in ways he had never felt the Force volunteer. ¡°I think you¡¯re Roboute Guilliman,¡± Luke decided. ¡°You¡¯re someone I haven¡¯t met before and I¡¯d like to get to know you.¡±
Even braced and ready for it, Zalthis was surprised by the force of the launch. No impellers like a proper drop, but the magi had installed chemical rockets to the outside which gave nearly the same kick. Ascratus was counting aloud, for the benefit of the Republicans, but Zalthis watched the chronograph scroll down in his helm. Thirty seconds. A very low launch, at incredible speeds, right into the jetstream. Solidian whooped beside him. ¡°We plunge for Macragge!¡± Zalthis would have struck him, but for the harness keeping his limbs locked in place. Master Skywalker¡¯s voice joined the Sergeants, surprisingly strong and steady for a baseline human. ¡°Mei, Anakin! Get ready!¡± Zalthis prepared for the second kick, moments away. Taking a deep breath, filling his blood with oxygen, he clenched his thighs as they had been trained, forcing blood into his torso, into his brain, ready for the shock- He heard the retrojets fire, felt the pod rumble and roar, but he didn¡¯t even grey out. Completely aware and feeling no more pressure than riding a Thunderhawk, he tried to speak to warn the Sergeant that the retros must have failed, that they were about to land at far too great a speed, that- The pod jolted and was still. The doors fell open and Zalthis, open mouthed behind his helmet, saw trees, bushes, planting areas. Buildings. A night sky above, filled with stars. They were on the ground. Harnesses snapped up, webbing relaxed and unclipped and his training took over, even while he reeled in surprise. From the rack behind him, Zalthis grabbed up his assigned gear, clamping it to magnetic locks. He followed the Sergeant, Solidian at his elbow, bolt pistols up and tracking. Heat signatures indicated the Republicans evacuating the pod as well. Their descent couldn¡¯t be missed, and for all the hope they had that it would be ignored as debris, it couldn¡¯t be ruled out that an investigation could still be sent. They had to get clear, fire the melta charges, wipe out any evidence. ¡°Solidian! Commercia, left, clear it. Zalthis! Treeline, right. Clear it!¡± His brother split left, Zalthis right, and in moments he vaulted over a duracrete retaining wall, crashing into bushes and thorny vines, snapping them against his plate. Movement behind him registered, then a Republican, a man named Veers, joined him as well, ¡®macrobinoculars¡¯ hanging from his neck, a shrouded datapad out. ¡°We¡¯re seven miles south of our target,¡± Veers spoke over vox, voice distorted. The magi managed to link vox to commlinks, but they claimed temperamental codecs resisted true joining. ¡°Noted. Solidian?¡± ¡°Commercia clear. No thermal, no visual.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t sense anyone,¡± Master Skywalker added. ¡°Mei, Anakin?¡± The other Jedi confirmed the Master¡¯s assessment and Zalthis ignored the way his gut clenched at their casual employ of witch magics. So the Primarch commanded, so he did. Solidian had argued briefly against it, when they had privacy, in hushed tones. ¡°I don¡¯t care if it isn¡¯t the Warp, Zal,¡± his brother whispered, barely audible. ¡°The Primarch has ordained it.¡± Glancing side to side, making sure they were alone in the arming chamber, Solidian leaned closer. ¡°You know me, Zal, this is not - I don¡¯t really mean this. But if the rumors are true, about the other Legions¡­¡± ¡°Say what you think, Sol.¡± He hadn¡¯t meant to speak as sharply as he did, but from Solidian¡¯s hurt expression it hadn¡¯t mattered. ¡°Lorgar commanded his Legion to work with those¡­those daemons.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not the same!¡± ¡°Not yet!¡± Solidian protested. ¡°But we still don¡¯t know how it started. Do we?¡± They formed up in the woods, looking a motley group. Ascratus, in his battleplate, far less adorned, without cape or crest. Several large cases were locked to his back, tucked between reactor and armor. Solidian, like Zalthis, in half-plate Scout armor, over blackened fatigues, carrying bolt pistol, rations, ammunition. The ¡®Wraiths¡¯, the intelligence officers, in all black body suits with stiffened panels serving as armor across limbs and chest. Webbing on their chests and waists held blaster cells and canteens, map cases and supplies. Master Skywalker and Knight Solo, in the same. Knight Taral, in her own armor, with pale fur decoration darkened by soot. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. They came lightly armed - should open combat break out, their mission had failed already. Each Ultramarine bore a pistol and several pouches of ammo. Enough to eliminate a patrol or two in extremis, though the report of bolt-weapons would be dangerous. A combat blade each rested at their hips, the long, monomolecular knives far more ideal for quiet eliminations. All took a knee, reducing silhouette, clustered close. Ascratus had the auspex and no better warning could they have for interlopers. He¡¯d trust Martian ingenuity over the local ¡®Force¡¯. Colonel Loran, whom the Republicans called ¡®Face¡¯ for some unexplained reason, was the nominal commander here, so Zalthis listened as he spoke. ¡°Alright. We¡¯re down and not dead, so step one is already an unqualified success.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± Skywalker said, smiling. ¡°I know it¡¯s only because Wedge isn¡¯t rich enough to bribe you.¡± ¡°No, he is, he just didn¡¯t think of it.¡± Zalthis watched the interchange, baffled. ¡°Anyway, we¡¯re here-¡± Loran unfolded a trifold paper map, pressing it down flat onto the grass. He poked a finger down and Zalthis leaned forward slightly, committing the position to memory. ¡°-so we¡¯re short of our planned landing site. There are branch offices all over, but we want to go straight for the Institute itself. The Celebratus is a lot farther away, but according to the friendliest Director the Institute is a lot more likely to have what we¡¯re looking for.¡± Ascratus nodded, peering down at the map. ¡°There is higher elevation along this corridor,¡± he said, tracing with one armored finger, massive against the map. ¡°It appears to be some form of arboretum or greenway, such as there are in Magna Macragge Civitas. Our cover will be better than in the city streets.¡± ¡°Being surrounded by life could confuse any vong bionts too.¡± ¡°There is not enough theoretical on their capabilities for a practical, Knight Solo.¡± Whatever Solo was going to say was cut off as supersonic booms clapped overhead. Zalthis whipped his head up to peer through the canopy. Ascratus checked his auspex. ¡°Not enough range,¡± he growled. ¡°That¡¯s coralskippers,¡± Veers sighed. ¡°Shit, Colonel, they¡¯re going to be investigating.¡± Face swept up the map, tucking it away into an armored case. ¡°We planned for that too. Sergeant? I think that¡¯s your cue.¡± Nodding, Ascratus depressed a rune on his auspex and in a shallow crater, fifty meters away, the drop pod exploded. The Republicans all winced as one. ¡°Let¡¯s move, people.¡± Face ordered. They vanished into the dark forest, as smoke climbed toward the cloudless sky.
Where the hall of statues that Gage had led Luke along was as straight as a laser beam and open to stars above, where Luke and Roboute wandered was winding and cozy. Paintings hung on walls, sculptures sat on plinths, weapons of every kind and more sat on racks or against polished plaques. There were even photographs and holograms, though the latter were blurry and shaky compared to what Luke knew. He saw faces no one in this Galaxy ever had: men, women, children. All human, of every shape and size. There was a crowd filling every corner and every street, packed shoulder to shoulder, screaming out their joy. Here was a platoon of hard eyed men, rifles leaning against their legs, a massive flag held between them. A force of will kept the Primarch appearing merely as a man. At the corners of his mind Luke could feel the constant pressure of the Force as it churned around the Primarch, pressing in like the deep ocean waters of Dac. Each moment was a form of meditation, flowing with the Force, breathing it in and exhaling. ¡°I am told you possess particular powers, Luke Skywalker.¡± Though he¡¯d tried, the Primarch insisted on using his full name. Although he spoke easily and candidly, he kept an aura of certain formality draped about him like his robes. ¡°The Force, yes. You¡¯ve surprised me with how much you know about our Galaxy - what do you think of it? Or know of the Force?¡± Roboute paused as they meandered, measuring up a strange bejeweled gauntlet, held within a stasis case. It was golden, made like a series of rings that slid over fingers, joined by delicate chains. A single topaz stone filled a setting on the palm. ¡°I am told it is a power of the mind, not unlike a psychic sense. I profess to know little of the ways of the psyker - that is, was, the realm of other brothers.¡± ¡°That¡¯s accurate enough. The Force is an energy that is in all living things, without a beginning or an end. As a teacher of mine described it, it binds us and surrounds us. Some can sense it and touch it, like myself and other Jedi.¡± ¡°And your Jedi - they are not the only practitioners in the arts of this ¡®Force¡¯?¡± Luke thought of all the hidden traditions and lost practices, spread across the stars, and all the years he had spent tracking them down. To sum up the complex tapestry as simply as ¡®Jedi are not the only practitioners¡¯ brought a smile to his face and he shook his head in amusement. ¡°We¡¯re one of many. The most well known, that¡¯s true, but not the only ones.¡± Roboute gestured toward another gallery, Luke taking longer strides, though the Primarch made sure to walk in shallow steps. Idly, he wondered what it was like for Imperials to speak with their leader - from what he had seen of all the humans among the Imperium, only the Ultramarines began to match the Primarch in height and size. For Luke, peering up at a conversational partner was a frequent enough occurrence. So many beings in the Galaxy, of so many sizes and shapes - and Luke wasn¡¯t a particular tall man to begin with. He thought of Doctor Oolos, imagining the Ho¡¯Din standing beside the Primarch, easily matching the Imperial in height, if not mass, and suppressed a snort at the mental image. Ism tried to have their meetings about Mara¡¯s illness seated, the Ho¡¯Din a little self conscious of his towering height, but Luke never minded. ¡°This I have heard. There was an Empire before your Republic, and it is said it was ruled by a wielder of a ¡®Dark side¡¯ of your Force.¡± ¡°Not my Force, the Force. And¡­yes. Emperor Palpatine. He was a Sith.¡± ¡°Sith, yes, that was the word. Many claims are made of him, many of which stretch belief.¡± Curious about this particular angle, as they had only spoken so far in polite and careful framing about the New Republic and the Imperium¡¯s nascent alliance. Speaking of the Emperor always brought his mood down, but in a way, it was heartening to think that the Empire and Palpatine¡¯s predations ended at the edge of the Galaxy. To know that beyond, the shadow of his evil never darkened a doorstep. ¡°I¡¯m afraid they¡¯re probably true. He did manage to come back to life - a sort of life, at any rate. He wanted to live forever, no matter the price. Sith are afraid at their core. They fear death, just like they fear pain. Jedi - we accept both. It¡¯s all a part of life, as much as it hurts. Palpatine was terrified to die and he was willing to burn the whole Galaxy to avoid it.¡± The next gallery was darker, lights muted and atmosphere gloomy. Great tomes were held inside transparisteel boxes and peculiar artifacts and trinkets were kept behind lock and key in reinforced displays. ¡°All mortals have a fear of death,¡± Roboute said, leading Luke closer to a particular array of what looked like daggers, of all shapes and sizes. Closer, though his sense of the Force was strained by the presence of the Primarch, he felt a curious sensation of slowing, as if time itself - as if that exactly. Time itself slowed to a crawl, within the cabinet. ¡°These are held within stasis,¡± the Primarch said, gesturing carelessly with one massive hand. ¡°In this gallery is collected a great deal of curios from my own galaxy. Tell me more of this Dark side, that the Sith command.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not just the Sith.¡± Luke looked away from the strange lighting in the case, warped and colorless as it was by the stasis field. He weighed what to tell the Primarch, how to phrase it, before jettisoning his concern. Lieutenant Thiel was Force-sensitive and there was no telling how many other Imperials might be. The Lieutenant could be an anomaly and the only one, or it might be revealed the Imperials were like the Ysanna and all latently sensitive. As their ultimate leader, the Primarch had to know the dangers. ¡°The Dark side is, well, complicated. You¡¯re heard of the purge of the Jedi, by the Emperor?¡± ¡°It was one of many things learned from your holonet,¡± the Primarch allowed. ¡°So much was lost and I¡¯ve spent my life putting it back together. There are as many theories about the Dark side of the Force as you could imagine. My own masters, Yoda and Obi-wan, taught that the Dark side was a corruption of the Force, some sort of perversion of its will. I¡¯ve met others that believe in a Dark and Light side of the Force. Some say there is no Dark or Light, that the Force just is, and it¡¯s on the wielder what they make of it.¡± ¡°Many theoreticals, Luke Skywalker, but it is also no secret that once you stood by the side of this Emperor. Tell me, what do you believe the Dark side of your Force is?¡± ¡°Just the Force, Primarch Guilliman. Not mine.¡± Marshaling his thoughts, Luke left the Primarch looming by the display of daggers, eyeing other displays and trophies. Most were locked in a form of stasis just like the blades, sealed away in time. All seemed mundane - circlets and crowns, bladed weapons, books, a bloodstained cuirass. But the Force whispered a strange undercurrent here, in this gallery, that it hadn¡¯t elsewhere. ¡°The Dark side is temptation,¡± he replied at last. ¡°It¡¯s the easy way. Anger is easy, hatred is simple. It¡¯s giving into your fear and your anger and your hatred and letting it rule you. I don¡¯t know if there really is a Dark side or if it¡¯s all just within us, but I know what the dark is, regardless.¡± ¡°You frame it as though it is a choice, then. That it must be chosen by those who fall under its sway.¡± He stood over his father, feeling stronger than he ever had, feeling more righteous than he ever had, swinging his ¡®saber down again and again and again, beating the red blade aside, hammering Vader into the decking - Luke pulled a long breath and let it out, letting the memory go. ¡°Always. The dark side is seductive and compelling and full of tricks and guile, but it¡¯s always a choice. Isn¡¯t everything? We can convince ourselves of any truth, if we really want to.¡± The Primarch stared off into the distance for a moment, eyes unfocused, and a strange expression stole across his patrician features. ¡°A painful truth,¡± he murmured. ¡°Another of your Jedi is known to have fallen to this Dark side as well and caused an unimaginable catastrophe.¡± ¡°Kyp,¡± Luke named the other Master, knowing it was pointless to dissemble. Kyp¡¯s past was no secret, no secret at all, for all that the influence of Exar Kun made extenuating circumstances. ¡°You mean Kyp Durron.¡± ¡°A man who, by his own hand, slew a star system.¡± The Primarch placed a hand on the display of daggers, turning to face Luke completely, the maelstrom of his presence suddenly intensifying and Luke had to take a moment to stabilize, to center himself in the face of it. The man was a living, breathing knot of causality and sometimes it nearly overwhelmed the Jedi. It was potential, limitless potential, held right on the brink of being unleashed. ¡°In the Imperium, he would have been dead long ago.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t your Imperium,¡± Luke shot back, more harshly than he¡¯d expected. Kyp had made mistakes, which some considered an understatement, but although Luke had said that embracing the dark was always a choice, what was done afterward was¡­not entirely. Exar Kun had acted through Kyp, driving his actions, clouding his judgment. It was Kyp¡¯s decision to let in the influence of the ancient Sith, and that was his failure, but the destruction of Carida fell on the shoulders of the banished, ancient Lord. ¡°It is not. This is why I ask this of you in peace and in the interest of learning, Luke Skywalker. In my Imperium, you would have been executed for your parentage as well.¡± ¡°The sins of the father, then?¡± ¡°The sins of the father.¡± Roboute agreed without a hint of chagrin, like it was the most reasonable thing among the stars to condemn a child for the action of their parents. ¡°One life against many is not a price the Imperium finds miserly. You think it cruel - I see it on your face. You think it inhumane. I do not disagree, but the world I am from does not have the privilege to be sentimental.¡± ¡°If you had your way and I had been killed for my father¡¯s - for Darth Vader¡¯s - acts, then the Empire would still rule the Galaxy and so many more would be dead. Palpatine may have even achieved his goals, from what I could decipher of them, and the Galaxy could even be long dead by now or turned into something horrible. It¡¯s shortsighted and you asked me what the Dark side was - you have your answer.¡± Roboute drummed fingers on the stasis case thoughtfully. ¡°The benefit of hindsight. You know now what your life has led to, but it could not have been known before. You stood by the side of this Palpatine once - what might have happened had you done so in truth, or in perpetuity?¡± If the Primarch thought it would be successful as a point, he was mistaken. Luke had faced those demons before, he faced them still, and he always would. He thought of Mara, of Kyp, of Kam. He remembered shutting off his lightsaber and casting it aside. He could still feel the sweat sticking his tunic to his back, smell the cold air and ozone of the Death Star¡¯s throne room. So much younger, so much more innocent, so untrained and untested and uncertain. ¡°I would have taken my father¡¯s place or stood at his side as a servant of the Emperor. We would have done terrible things. But I didn¡¯t, Primarch Guilliman. I rejected the Dark side then, I rejected it again, and I will reject it until the day I return to the Force. You say it¡¯s the benefit of hindsight, I say that it¡¯s the will of the Force.¡± Exigence Chapter XXI XXI: Repayment
For as heavy as their armor seemed, the Ultramarines were deadly quiet. They loped alongside the Wraiths and the Jedi as they jogged through the quiet nighttime forest, somehow managing to be barely louder than the jumpsuit-clad agents and Jedi. Anakin was on alert, open to the Force, feeling the life all around them in the foliage, in the skittering creatures that froze and peered at the nocturnal interlopers. Uncle Luke had reminded them - mostly Mei, who had yet to face the Yuuzhan Vong - that while the aliens couldn¡¯t be felt in the Force, everything else could. A Yuuzhan Vong patrol would disturb the local wildlife, and by feeling the alarm in the animals could be a useful enough sense on its own. The Ultramarines Sergeant, Ascratus, had what he called an auspex, but no one knew exactly how capable it was. The Force was always the ally of a Jedi and Anakin leaned into that. ¡°Uncle Luke,¡± Anakin whispered. ¡°Do you sense any survivors?¡± His uncle took a moment to reply, frowning a little as he focused. ¡°In the city. Good point, Anakin. Face, the mission called for avoiding all contact, but what if we could contact survivors on the ground?¡± The Wraith held up a hand and everyone slowed. He pushed up night-vision goggles to his forehead, rubbing his chin and tweaking at his goatee in thought. ¡°Maybe. Intel reports that the vong put some kind of living restraining bolt into their slaves, though. We still don¡¯t know exactly what that does.¡± His uncle grimaced and Anakin shivered. Jacen¡¯s story about the coral seed implanted into his cheek had Anakin¡¯s stomach turn and he thanked the Force that Uncle Luke had been there in time to remove it before it could sprout. There was no telling what might have happened to his brother if it had. ¡°If any survivors worked at the Institute, they could give us better directions. The Director¡¯s maps are probably out of date with the damage the city took and I wouldn¡¯t bet on being able to download any local guides.¡± Bhindi Drayson unslung a canteen from her shoulder, taking a quick drink, wiping her mouth before continuing. ¡°It¡¯s a risk but if we just had one of the Jedi do the meet-up, you guys can sense danger, right?¡± ¡°From the slave, yes. Not any vong hiding in wait.¡± ¡°Yeah, but if the slave knows it''s a trap¡­¡± Luke pursed his lips, but nodded. ¡°Then we would know.¡± Ascratus rested his right hand on the massive stock of his rifle, magnetically clamped to his hip. ¡°Theoretical is that a survivor could offer assistance or guidance. The practical is that this world fell weeks ago, and any survivor is likely to be delirious and untrustworthy. We continue as planned.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not wrong, Sergeant, but the LT makes a good point. We¡¯ve got a general idea of where the Director said the Institute archives astrographic data, but we might need to hit a backup server or an offsite dump. Bhindi can¡¯t slice into databanks that are a crater in the ground.¡± ¡°I mean, I could try sir¡­¡± Face clapped her on her shoulder. ¡°A true Wraith, never turning down the impossible. Luke, Anakin, Mei - what if you kept an eye - no, wait, what would you call it-¡± ¡°Mind¡¯s eye, I suppose,¡± Luke said. ¡°Right, mind¡¯s eye, keep a mind¡¯s eye out for any survivors you sense away from others. Probably less of a chance they¡¯d be a slave or implanted and could just be hiding out.¡± ¡°We can do that.¡± ¡°I submit this is ill-advised, but I am to follow your lead,¡± Ascratus ground out, helmet failing to filter out his disapproval. ¡°Right, we try to make contact with the locals. Jedi, Jedis, Jedises?¡± ¡°It¡¯s Jedi. You had one in the Wraithen, Face, how did you not learn all this?¡± ¡°Wraithen? And Tyria had - ah. Oh. Haha, ha. Ha.¡± Zev snorted and Bhindi looked between Face and Luke and back again. ¡°Wait, Colonel, you didn¡¯t tell me you knew Master Skywalker-¡± ¡°We just met on Coruscant before the meeting,¡± Luke said with a shrug. ¡°Actually, we ran into each other a while ago. You probably don¡¯t remember.¡± Anakin felt his Uncle¡¯s surprise, then confusion. ¡°We did? When was -¡± ¡°Oh, look at that. We¡¯re burning moonlight. Time to go!¡±
One dagger sat alone in the gallery, in its own transparisteel case. Its plinth was positioned away from all the others, lonely and ominous in its singularity. Roboute led Luke towards it, crouching and gently depressing several buttons hidden beneath the plinth with surprising dexterity. The case hissed and popped, lid hinging open and with a gentleness that belied his size, the Primarch reached in and lifted out the blade without touching it, gingerly extracting the thin wire rack it rested on. Then he placed the lid back down, setting the rack atop it and gestured Luke closer. The dagger was crude, looking like something from a museum rather than a real weapon. Its blade was short and made of chipped stone, hilt wrapped in wire and leather. Raising an eyebrow, Luke looked between it and the Primarch. ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°I would ask your impression first. What does your Force say of it?¡± He took a breath and wrested his attention away from the Primarch, physically stepping so that he couldn¡¯t see the man. It seemed to help, somehow. Reaching out, he examined the dagger, drawing closer to it and looking it over. It didn¡¯t look like much, but the way it was sealed away in stasis, like the other trophies in the gallery, spoke of deeper danger. It didn¡¯t pass him by how Roboute pointedly didn¡¯t touch it with his bare skin. That kind of precaution Luke had only ever seen with Sith artifacts. There was no real sense of the Dark side at first, as he extended his sense, gently probing and prodding. He felt a similar strangeness about it, like he felt from Roboute, a sort of otherness that he couldn¡¯t name, a flavor that his tastebuds couldn¡¯t make heads or tails of. Feeling little exuding from the dagger, Luke pressed deeper, reaching out toward the material of the blade itself, eyes sliding shut as he focused, the Force glowing within him, reaching out - He inhaled hard, taking a step back and swallowed acid in the back of his throat. A sudden, shocking, looming scream of danger had gooseflesh rippling up his neck and arms and he nearly reached for his lightsaber, turning to see Roboute looming just behind him, eyes narrowed, emotionless. ¡°What did you sense?¡± Threat laced the Primarch¡¯s tone. ¡°Step back,¡± Luke said. The Primarch¡¯s eyes widened a fraction. ¡°Step back,¡± Luke said again, setting his chin. Roboute Guilliman stepped back. Luke looked back to the blade, his ephemeral sense of the Force ringing. Whatever was in that blade, it bit. It was utterly unlike the Dark side, unlike the alchemical inventions of the Sith he had found and destroyed. Those had intention and emotion locked in them, a tide held at bay, malicious and focused, but this - it was hostility, complete and utter hostility, so stark and so fierce it felt like a rancor snapping at his fingers. Mindless and thoughtless, pure viciousness. ¡°That,¡± Luke said slowly, ¡°needs to be destroyed.¡± ¡°And it will be, now. I would like an answer, Luke Skywalker. What did your Force tell you of it?¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t the Dark side.¡± Carefully, Luke reached out a hand, close to the dagger, sensing Roboute tense behind him, feeling the threat of danger swell again, but he didn¡¯t touch it, merely kept his palm a finger width above the hilt. He felt nothing, only the slightest of strange pressure, now that he was not reaching into it. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what this is. I think others might see it as Dark, but I don¡¯t sense the Force was part of whatever made this knife. What is it? You wouldn¡¯t have asked me if you didn¡¯t already know.¡± ¡°This is a ritual blade, called an athame.¡± Roboute rubbed at his throat and Luke caught a glimpse of a white creased line, running horizontally across his neck. ¡°It was found on Eboracum, several weeks ago, abandoned in an empty hab. I have seen its like in my own galaxy and it is a tool of the Warp.¡± ¡°The Warp,¡± Luke echoed. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. ¡°The Warp.¡± Roboute gestured, encompassing the entire gallery. ¡°All of these are tools of those who we call psykers. Witches and witchminds, sorcerers, magicians; whatever word their culture uses. A psyker is a channel to the Warp itself, a realm beyond reality that is hostile to life. It was mentioned to your Senator Shesh.¡± ¡°I read the report.¡± ¡°Psykers drove humanity to the edge of extinction. Their corruption on Terra brought the homeworld to its knees in an ocean of blood. My Father warned my brothers and I of its corrosive influence. Your Galaxy claims no knowledge of the warp, but this athame was found on the planet below.¡± Reaching out with the Force, Luke levitated the rack, dagger still in place, and opened the casket, lowering it back within. ¡°The Force is not your Warp, Primarch Guilliman.¡± ¡°That remains to be seen,¡± said the Primarch, keying the stasis active again, sealing away the cursed athame once more.
They all felt it, just as the horizon was beginning to lighten. Mei stumbled, gasped, and Bhindi went to help the Jedi, looking around for hidden roots. Anakin grit his teeth and shut his eyes, coming to a stop and planting his hand on the trunk of a tree. Luke looked up into the sky, his age showing on his face and closed his eyes. Rhonabeq¡¯s panic bled through the Force, suddenly squashed by forceful calm, the distant Jedi¡¯s mind gleaming like a beacon. She was scared, she was angry, she was indignant. It wasn¡¯t supposed to end this way. It wasn¡¯t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be there, waiting for them. She was supposed to redeem her honor. She was supposed to make Master Skywalker proud. ¡°There is nothing to redeem, Rhonabeq the Younger. I will always be proud of you.¡± his uncle murmured to the wind. The Muugari Jedi¡¯s emotions surged, swelling with a strange peace, and then the light went out. ¡°May the Force be with you,¡± Luke whispered. Anakin blinked back tears. Mei swore. Face winced, realizing what it meant. ¡°The vong got to her.¡± Mute, Anakin nodded. ¡°Well, shit. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± Bhindi and Zev echoed his sentiments, while the Imperials traded uncertain looks. ¡°What is this?¡± Ascratus questioned. ¡°Rhonabeq,¡± Mei spat, kicking at the dirt. ¡°Paarswuai vong killed her.¡± The Sergeant doffed his helmet, revealing his weathered face. His perpetual frown only deepened his scars and creases. ¡°This is certain?¡± ¡°We felt it in the Force, Sergeant. There¡¯s no mistaking it.¡± Luke heaved a sigh. ¡°We knew this could happen and she did her best.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll need another exfiltration option. Looks like we¡¯ll have to check the starport after all.¡± Bhindi patted Mei on the shoulder one more time. The Jensaarai nodded to the Wraith. Anakin found a stump and dropped onto it, cradling his head in his hands. Rhonabeq¡¯s last moments filled his mind, the peacefulness that burned in her right before she winked out, like a star in the sky. Another life gone, snuffed out by the vong. Another Jedi dead. Just like Daeshara¡¯cor, just like Miko, just like- Vaguely, he heard everyone else discussing their options. Things like investigating the starport were thrown out, setting up a beacon for the New Republic, the Imperials claiming they had plans for this eventuality. Anakin tuned it out. He still hadn¡¯t replied to Tahiri and Sannah¡¯s emails. He had a draft, saved, unsent, but he never pressed the key. Why wasn¡¯t he talking to them? Why was it so hard to just connect to the Praxeum? Master Solusar or Tionne would have Tahiri there in an instant. He could talk to her, even from across the galaxy. See his best friend¡¯s face. Hear her voice, as she lit into him for ignoring her. Why didn¡¯t he? Mei dropped into a squat next to him, patting him on the leg. ¡°Hey,¡± she said. ¡°Hey,¡± Anakin mumbled. ¡°Paarswuai vong,¡± she swore again. He¡¯d never heard the profanity, which was saying something given he knew far more spacers and fringers than a normal sixteen year old should. Probably from her homeworld, he guessed. ¡°Yeah,¡± he agreed. ¡°Kinda makes me hope our cover gets blown. I could do with some violence right about now.¡± Startled, Anakin looked over to his uncle, who was still deep in discussion with Face and the Ultramarines Sergeant. ¡°Mei, we shouldn¡¯t look for a fight-¡± the words felt rote, even as he said them and Anakin trailed off, feeling the weight of Mei¡¯s sardonic amusement in the Force. ¡°Alright, fine.¡± ¡°Fine, what?¡± ¡°Fine,¡± Anakin admitted. ¡°I - I - No, Mei, no.¡± He shoved off the stump, needing to be moving, needing to be in motion, but the Jensaarai followed him. ¡°I get it. Not the Jedi way. Kid, c¡¯mon. Anakin.¡± ¡°What? Should I say I want to kill vong too? I wasn¡¯t trained on Sith teachings, Mei.¡± Her eyes narrowed and red touched her cheeks, but Anakin flinched, horrified at what slipped out. ¡°Wait, that¡¯s not what I meant. I¡¯m sorry-¡± Oddly, she smiled. ¡°It was though. Anakin, listen to what I said. I said it kinda makes me hope our cover is blown. I don¡¯t actually. We have a mission and if we¡¯re found out, well, that¡¯s dangerous for everyone. I¡¯m not that stupid.¡± Still a little red in the face, Mei picked at her chin. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to say that you want to kill vong, like you have to or something. It¡¯s just - you do, though. Rhonabeq died and it sucks and yeah, who wouldn¡¯t want vengeance?¡± ¡°But that¡¯s just it, I don¡¯t want vengeance. I can¡¯t want it. Everything Uncle Luke teaches us - everything Master Yoda - what Master Ikrit says too-¡± ¡°No, they¡¯re all right.¡± They wandered away from the others, still in eyesight, but far enough away that they could talk in privacy. When Rhonabeq¡¯s life went out, he felt like he had when Daeshara¡¯cor died. Or - he swallowed hard - or when Chewie died. Like he wanted to kill every last vong in the galaxy. But it wasn¡¯t right, it wasn¡¯t what the Jedi did. It wasn¡¯t anything Uncle Luke would do, or Master Ikrit, or Master Yoday, or Obi-wan. How could Mei just say it like that? Then again, Master Durron was the same way and so were those who followed him. Ganner, Wurth, all of them. Aggressive like they¡¯d never heard that the Force should be only used for defense, never attack. Spoiling for fights, calling themselves the Dozen and Two ¡®Avengers¡¯. ¡°They¡¯re right,¡± Mei repeated. ¡°A Jedi doesn¡¯t do vengeance. Anakin, kid, I¡¯m not saying you have to go out and pick a fight. I¡¯m saying that it''s okay to say that you want to.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t that the same thing?¡± Mei screwed up her face, thinking, cracking her knuckles on her left, then right hand. ¡°Nah. Uhm, if I said I wanted to buy the latest SoroSuub T4200 speederbike, does that mean I¡¯m going to do it? Even if I don¡¯t have the money, or a place to park it, or even a license to fly it?¡± ¡°Not really, then?¡± ¡°Exactly. Remember when we talked, back on Coruscant? After our spar?¡± Anakin shrugged, not sure where she was going with this. ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°I said I wanted to fight Master Skywalker and Master Horn, right?¡± Anakin huffed a laugh, remembering how she¡¯d admitted right after that she knew she wouldn¡¯t stand a chance. That was Mei, he was learning over the past few weeks. Frank and to the point. ¡°You did.¡± ¡°But I¡¯m not going to. I kind of want to, still, but I wouldn¡¯t for so many reasons. That¡¯s what I mean. It¡¯s fine - nah, it¡¯s probably healthy to admit you want to do something for bad reasons. As long as you don¡¯t do it.¡± It made sense, in a fairly obvious sort of way. Sure, people said they¡¯d do all sorts of things and then never did. Good and bad. What that had to do with swearing vengeance as a Jedi didn¡¯t quite click. It meshed with how she talked about her brother, how she told him that the pain wouldn¡¯t go away and that it was okay that he couldn¡¯t just accept that Chewie was gone yet. ¡°Okay. But buying a racing speeder isn¡¯t like killing another being. I, uhm-¡¯ Anakin rubbed his neck, surprised he was about to admit it. ¡°I guess it¡¯s like how I keep telling myself I¡¯m going to reply to Tahiri¡¯s emails, but I don¡¯t.¡± He blushed, looking away, but Mei nodded. ¡°Not a very Jedi thing to avoid, huh. Alright, I¡¯m bad at this. Let¡¯s try this.¡± Mei gestured toward a fallen log and they both sat, Anakin leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Mei leaned back, propping herself on her hands and watching the sky brighten. ¡°I wanna kill some vong right now, because I feel helpless and angry. I liked Rhonabeq and we worked together a few times. Kind of a friend, I guess? Anyway, she was a Jedi and I¡¯m a kind of Jedi so that makes her family and you know what matters the most to us Jensaarai? Family. So she¡¯s dead and the vong killed her and I want them to feel helpless and angry like I am right now.¡± Anakin opened his mouth but Mei shushed him. ¡°Shhh, let me finish. Right. So I want them to hurt like I am right now, yeah? Okay, now I know why I want to beat up a vong. What I mean - what I¡¯m saying - look, there¡¯s a reason I never had an apprentice, okay - I say these things out loud because it helps me figure out why I feel that way. And if I know why I want to do something, especially if that thing is pretty bad, then it''s that much easier to well, not do it.¡± ¡°Huh,¡± Anakin said. ¡°So that¡¯s why I¡¯m saying I want to hunt some vong. It¡¯s like cleaning out a wound, right? Here, try this. Anakin, why aren¡¯t you talking to Tahiri?¡± He bristled and bit down anger. They barely knew each other - Mei and him. What¡¯d she know about Tahiri anyway? About their friendship? How could she judge him about- ¡°Easy,¡± she said. ¡°I think I get it.¡± Anakin flexed his fingers, digging his nails into his jumpsuit. ¡°I haven¡¯t talked to Tahiri because¡­¡± She never asked why he hadn¡¯t sent an email back. Each one she sent was bright and happy and full of stories about the Praxeum and the stupid things Valin got up to and what Tionne and Kam Solusar had them doing. What she and Sannah saw in the jungle that week. She asked about the war, how Jacen and Jaina were doing, how he was. She just seemed so hopeful, so happy, and he- Oh, no. He tried to pull in his presence in the Force, but Mei¡¯s face fell and she rocked forward, reaching over to put an arm around his shoulders. ¡°I don¡¯t want her to miss me,¡± Anakin said, chest tight. ¡°When I die.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± Mei said, then under her voice, thinking he couldn¡¯t hear her: ¡°That wasn¡¯t what I thought at all.¡± Exigence Interlude II A Will Without Strife
After Commander Tla, Executor Nom Anor and Tactician Raff had been dismissed, Malik Carr remained for a time studying the quiescient villips. Harrar steepled his fingers, content to wait, though curious as to why the Commander had spoken on his behalf. The three large flesh-communicators slumbered now, where they had just displayed the noble visages of Supreme Commander Nas Choka, Jakan of the Deception Sect and Prefect Drathul. Tla was in disgrace, having cosigned Priestess Elan''s plan. Harrar had supported it as well, yet when the order from Nas Choka came to recall Tla and Harrar both to the Outer Rim, Malik Carr had stayed his superior''s hand. "They came close, did they not?" Malik Carr asked, rising from his throne, leaving the softy pulsing, leathery tongue to curl back up on itself. Harrar followed the tall Commander with only his eyes, as the warrior peered down at storm-wracked Obroa Skai below. Secure in Harrar''s personal vessel, a geometric, faceted crystal of some size, the world was displayed as a tortured, wounded sacrifice in the void. Chips of stone like dust in the wind scattered all about them; the vanguard of Malik Carr''s armada. "It is as Nom Anor claims," Harrar agreed. "I see no evidence to dispute. Elan and Vergere were conveyed the Coruscant without issue. There they met with the jeedai on a so-called ''skyhook''. What came next, we cannot say for certain, only that the Priestess failed in her tasking." To himself, Harrar kept the rumors that Elan''s mascot Vergere might have survived the debacle. Reports were conflicting, though sympathisers of the Peace Brigade claimed that there had been considerable chaos aboard the skyhook before many escape pods had been launched, allegedly by fault or mistake. Vergere might have been aboard one, though they scattered far and wide across the surface of the wretched city-world and from there were lost. "Then the fault lies not with you, nor Nom Anor, though Yun''Yammka may claim my tongue to speak well of the meddling Executor." Malik Carr, as tall as any of the caste sacred to the Slayer, bore his marks of elevation and service proudly, upper torso bared to reveal brands, whorled scars and knotted tissue. A long, twitching cloak hung from claws anchored to his collarbone, its train caressing and stroking across the yorik-coral underfoot. His eyes were sharp and dark, pools of ink over elegantly blued and sagging sacs worked with tight red tattooing. His black hair was woven with living fabric, tasseled from a tight wrap about his elongated scalp and his tresses fell to the small of his muscled back. "In all other ways, the design was flawless," Harrar mused. "Once again, the jeedai prove their ungracious good fortune." "Not a single was slain?" "It appears not. In time, our agents will glean more of the confrontation, but I am in agreement with the Executor''s assessment. There are few enough jeedai, any death would be known." "I admit," Malik Carr huffed a sigh, his broad chest compacting as he blew out a lungful of the sweetened, incensed air of the chamber. "I do not understand Nom Anor''s obsession with the jeedai. It reeks of ego. It smacks of personal affrontery." "Nom Anor has been chastened by the jeedai before, this is true. But I placed my own stamp upon this, Commander. I am gracious to your intercession, but I will not hide that I supported Elan''s proposal." "As I have no stomach to listen to Nom Anor, tell me again your reasons, Priest." Harrar gathered his thoughts, remembering the H''kig priest, the other sacrifices who, in the face of immolation, were firm enough in their beliefs to muster a strength of fibre Harrar thought impossible in this decadent galaxy. Jeedai, jeedai, jeedai they claimed. It seemed everywhere one turned, there was spoken reverence of the jeedai. Leaving aside the shaming of Shedao Shai and humiliation of many warriors on worlds like Dantooine, that depth of belief would have been enough for Harrar. "We wage a war of faith as much as a war of warriors," Harrar considered. "This galaxy is promised to us, by the sacred word of the Rainbow Eyed, but we do not need to put to the amphistaff every being within it. We have found fertile ground already for our teachings in some worlds. This is an atheistic and material galaxy. It is that weakness of the soul that allowed in abominations of metal and lifeless construct. The only great binding belief across the stars, as I see it, is faith in this ''Force'' and the jeedai. If we break that, we shatter a keystone of their culture." Malik Carr considered this, pursing his fringed lips and drawing close spike-pierced brows. "I understand. In a sense, at least. I prefer the truth the Slayer offers, Priest. You may concern yourself with the soul of a people, but I must concern myself with the flesh-and-bone that wage war against us." Harrar bowed his head. "To each of us our duty, as the Gods intend." Carr barked a harsh laugh. "Spoke truly, Priest. I am enlightened." He touched fingers to his lips and brow in mock deference, then returned beside Harrar, stroking the trigger-pad of his throne. Sighing, the tongue-chair unfurled and adjusted as Carr demanded. The Commander perched instead on the edge, folding his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. Even seated so, leaning heavily, Malik Carr was of a height with Harrar who sat more erect. "I would have you accompany me, Priest, as we do the work of the Supreme Commander. I think I will value your perspective. I am a pious man, but I am oft preoccupied with my purpose. I would have you as my advisor on matters of the spirit." He would not judge the talons of a gifted quednak. Though it would not be impossible to call upon favors he had accrued to return to prominence and to the front where the most glory and influence was to be harvested, Harrar had not climbed to his place among his caste by being wasteful. If Malik Carr desired a spiritual advisor, he was all too happy to remain here, where he could serve the Gods best. "I am honored, Commander. If not amused one such as yourself would entertain a disciple of Yun''Harla." Malik Carr bared sharpened incisors in a warrior''s snarl. "Warfare is nothing without a little misdirection. We play games with our foes, we make feints and diversions and we call it otherwise, but a masque of falsehood always lurks close by." "How dishonorable," Harrar observed. "Terribly. Leave Domain Shai to scream their plans across the stars and beat their chest bloody before dying on the blades of their enemies. I would have victory for the gods, not idle aggrandizement." Harrar dipped his head in agreement, his new charge already rising in his estimation. Tla had been staid and plodding, competent enough but without any true spark of inspiration or intelligence behind those dim eyes and pale sacs below them. Malik Carr was on a trajectory for greatness with the ear of Nas Choka. Though Harrar already had the honor of the Warmaster''s eye, it was always pragmatic to cultivate his flock. "You make the True Gods pleased," Harrar assured him. "With Commander Tla gone, what is the status of our -your- warriors?" Malik Carr grimaced. "It is as was said. The Elan plot wasted good lives and warships. Yorik-akaga and -kamoc only, with the feint at Ord Mantell, but we are not yet replete with reserves. Combined with the presumed loss of Subcommander Yimarg Shai''s squadron after our conquest of Telerath, we must be discerning with targets. The Supreme Commander brings many new warships with him, but it will be some time before his arrival." "Thus, the overtures to the Hutts." "Odious creatures, I have heard, but mercenary in their dealings. Nom Anor assures - assures - that they will be amenable. If we might establish a shipwomb there, nearer to the front, much of my concerns will be alleviated." "And Subcommander Yimarg''s squadron is lost, for certain?" Malik Carr nodded, his long, glossy braids sweeping over his shoulders. "It has been weeks. The fool no doubt pursued his prey into some nest of the New Republic. A further loss of cruiser hulls," the Commander groused. "But enough of this. We will depart soon for Nal Hutta. I would have a tale from you. A sermon, Eminence, if you can manage. To forget the troubles spun by Intendants and jeedai." "Very well," Harrar agreed, reclining into the soft, warm leather of his tongue-throne. Taking a sip of broth from a squirming bulb, he began.
"In the days before Yuuzhan''tar, when the sky was flat and the rainbow of heaven kept promise above all the People, there were of course many warriors who plied their trade across all lands. They would swear to masters and overlords, promising service in return for glory and a little food, for their soul would feast on the former but their bodies required the latter. These warriors would train body and mind and that was their sole devotion. The greatest of these warriors, the warlords, were polymath. They practised with the amphistaff, trained in the subtle art of the coufee, cast bug and jelly and were learned in the tactics of beast and biont. Great wars were sometimes fought and lost without ever the spilling of blood, for their advancement in the sacred art of war meant that warlords would pit against one another as puzzles to be undone. One warrior grew tired of these lofty elevations and saw how effete and decadent the warlords were becoming. Now they were their own overlords and their own masters, instead of plying the honest trade of amphistaff, of blood and bone. He beheld the world grow grey and dull, full of games and boasting and less of the martial art. This warrior was named Yu''ka, and he set out to train to become, merely, the best. He did not devote himself to the pursuit of tactics, he did not take up the bug or jelly, he cared not at all for ideas of logistics or theory. Yu''ka took up his amphistaff, and every day he made one hundred cuts. He never swung his amphistaff without drawing blood, for only in the drawing of blood, he knew, was a stroke shown true. Each day he made one hundred cuts and each cut he learned from, sparing and careful before each strike, so that it would not be wasted. Other warriors saw Yu''ka in his training and they laughed and scorned him, telling him he practiced as a barbarian, that he was blinkered by times long past. Yu''ka did not answer them in words, but in selecting them for the next day''s cuts. In time Yu''ka grew strong and swift and his renown as a deadly bladesman spread. Yu''ka the Quiet, he was named, for he spoke as least as he could. But he was one among billions and though his name held some currency, he was a speck before the greatest warlords. Yu''ka trained. He cut a hundred times a day, until every stroke was perfect, and then he cut two hundred times. He fed only on the blood of what he slew, because it was his, and if he could not eat, it would be because he failed. Yu''ka grew stronger still, until his amphistaff was said to cleave the very air as it sang. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! He was still not satisfied. There was a Warlord, named Korshu Ann, who commanded a thousand million warriors, and Korshu Ann had been at war with his great rival, the Red Salt, for a hundred years. These two Warlords soaked the lands between their keeps with blood perennially, until trees grew of corpses and great fields of fingers sprouted and waved in the wind. They were perfectly matched, for every trick Korshu Ann knew, so too did the Red Salt, and every tactic was taught in practise so that the other learned it well. Korshu Ann and the Red Salt waged glorious war, until Yu''ka offered his arm to Korshu Ann. The warrior came into the keep of Korshu Ann and stood before his tentacled throne, holding out his amphistaff in one hand. Retainers of the great Ann mocked and jeered at the lone warrior, who claimed that he could end the Red Salt, and finish this endless feud. Korshu Ann saw little to lose, and knew that in their great balance, the smallest shift might tip the scales, and wise Korshu Ann saw in Yu''ka a greater strength than his retainers. With the blessing of the great Ann, Yu''ka went out in the fingerfields and sat cross-legged to wait. Of course, the Red Salt had all passages watched with a thousand spying eyes, and word of the lone warrior was passed on and up until the Red Salt himself learned, and sent ten warriors to punish Korshu Ann for this insult and trespass. Yu''ka made ten cuts, and sent the warriors back in pieces. The Red Salt sent a hundred warriors. Yu''ka made one hundred cuts, and sent the warriors back in pieces. Angered now, the Red Salt commanded his best cadre, They Who Drink Wells, to destroy this single warrior and swore that if any failed, the Red Salt would slay them himself. A thousand of the Well-Drinkers came out into the fingerfields to surround Yu''ka, and they bade him throw down his amphistaff and die with honor. Yu''ka had not yet trained to make a thousand cuts in a day, so instead, Yu''ka fought for three days, and made three hundred and thirty-three cuts between sunrise and sunset. At midnight of the third day, he struck the head from the Crouching Lord of the Well-Drinkers before the keep of the Red Salt. Then he left, because he knew enough. Korshu Ann exploited the deaths of They Who Drink Wells to gain minor advantage for the next four years, until the Red Salt personally took the field to slaughter Korshu Ann''s vaunted Cavaliers. But Yu''ka had moved on, because he understood limits. He could cut only so many times per day, and thus knew his mastery of the amphistaff was unfinished. Instead, he pursued a greater mystery, and Yu''ka vanished from tellings for half an age. By this time, Korshu Ann and the Red Salt had been overthrown by other warlords and their names were forgotten, replaced by new names and new keeps, who still watered the fingerfields and corpsetrees with the blood of warriors. So the time turns, so it stays the same. His legend remained, and an inheritor warlord, called Sarus the Tooth, wished to call on the ancient warrior in his own bid to cast down a rival. Sarus the Tooth had less wisdom than long-dead Korshu Ann, and brought his army to seek out the warrior Yu''ka. They found him meditating in a glade, amphistaff draped about his neck, naked to the waist. Sarus the Tooth demanded the services of the warrior, offering a pathetic bounty, and his army drew up around him. Sarus the Tooth was a fearful lord, devoured from within by suspicions and jealousy, and he feared to see Yu''ka in the flesh. "Serve me," he declared, "or you have no use in the world." Yu''ka stood and his amphistaff slithered into his grip. All the army of Sarus the Tooth bristled, ready for the command. Yu''ka made a single cut. The army of Sarus the Tooth died, leaving the warlord alone. He threw himself on his face and wept, unmanned, and Yu''ka did not notice. Yu''ka left his glade behind, because he understood the truth at last, and in practise had named it, and went back out into the world to make war in the truest way, in the way that none could match. He who cuts but once may slay but once, but he who cuts two ways slays twice. Yu''ka learned this and more, until he mastered his art, which he called the Ten Ten Thousand Cuts. He made it so that when he cut, there was no space where his blade did not cleave. But the mortal warlords of the world could not compare to him, so Yu''ka looked elsewhere. He looked at the rainbow bridge above and with the cunning of his blade, he slit the air so that there and here were one and the same and he stepped through into the domain of the gods high above. To each of the teeming, multitudinous gods he went and of each he asked a single boon. His ambitions were great, but Yu''ka learned humility through the art of his blade. To become slaughter, to become one with the idea of death, one must cut away all that was not of purpose, and to cut away all that was not, one needed to know all that one was. As each god would answer, by stroke of his amphistaff, he would cleave their words into a new shape and sound, which was a shape that he determined, so that no matter the intent of their speech, what they revealed was only to the benefit of Yu''ka. From Qarleth he stole the secret of Fire, from Shungrath he claimed the secret of Sight, and on and through the rainbow heavens he conquered not blood and bone, but greater treasures of godly power. Until at last he came to the meanest of the gods, who swung their feet from the rainbow bridge and smiled down at the world below and did not respond to Yu''ka''s demands. This god was nameless: a forgotten, emaciated little god, barely more than a spirit and Yu''ka grew frustrated. His arts were such that he could bend all meaning and things to his desire, cleaving life from the mortal and holy from the immortal, but at the end of it all Yu''ka found he could not war against nothing. He could not cut that which did not exist. This god did not reply, did not react, did not see Yu''ka at all, so fixated was this god on the world below and his own mirth. Without words spoken, Yu''ka could not cut their meanings; without strife, Yu''ka could not impose his will. Finally, in a rage, Yu''ka struck the foot from the god and it tumbled from heaven with a trail of shining ichor. Then he struck off their right hand, and it leapt to fingertips and scuttled away. Yu''ka struck off the god''s other foot, and left hand, and then both arms at the elbow. The left hand sunk deep roots into the heavenly bridge. There on the edge of the rainbow bridge Yu''ka butchered the nameless god, cleaving every joint and with each cut the god was not diminished, but spread apart. With his final blow, Yu''ka made the art of Ten Ten Thousand Cuts, so that this god might be wiped away, and as the head of the god burst into a million glittering pieces, his last breath whispered from his lips. Then Yu''ka knew he had been undone, for this nameless god was Yun''Yuuzhan, and the galaxies and worlds were birthed from the destruction of his body. Yu''ka had claimed all mysteries of the gods, he had cleaved Death from Life in the realm of the mortal, so in his hands he held all Signs of creation. And with those hands, that knew the secret truth of murder, those hands that had scarred the world, Yu''ka had broken the godly-body, so that those secrets and signs worked with the flesh of Yun''Yuuzhan. So then that it was that all things came to be and the world was bent and made finite, and the True Gods born, to guide their Chosen."
Harrar drained his bulb, tearing into its flesh with his teeth, relishing its shuddering agony as the little biot died. Brakish and sour, he chewed thoughtfully while observing Malik Carr. Through the tale, the Commander listened attentively and carefully, absentmindedly tracing the outlines of tattoos on his chest with one long talon, occasionally pressing deep enough to bring brief beads of black blood to the surface. "I have not heard this legend," Carr murmured. "A strange one, for one such as yourself to speak of, Eminence. A very martial tale." "Is it?" Harrar adjusted his robes. "Yu''ka is a trifle of apocrypha, remembered only by those who follow my Goddess. In fact, the Lesson of Yu''ka is a favorite among young initiates. Consider it, Commander. What does Yu''ka teach?" Malik Carr''s answer was immediate, simple, rote, and Harrar could have spoken the words along with the warrior. "That strength in warfare is the greatest above all, that only through sacrifice and struggle may we honor the gods." Something Tla might have said, but Harrar was not disappointed. "When he broke the legions of the Red Salt, that much is true. But were not the other warriors and warlords honoring the gods in their own ways, as they made great wars? Yu''ka might have been grander than them all, but what made him different?" "He ascended to the realms of the Gods themselves." Malik Carr narrowed his eyes. "That seems blasphemy," he mused. "On the surface. The Lesson of Yu''ka, and why it is so enjoyed by my order, is what Yu''ka could not do. No matter his strength of arms, Yu''ka could not overcome the last godling, who was Yun''Yuuzhan." "This sits strangely with me. Yun-Yuuzhan sacrificed himself so that the universe might be. For another to do such¡­" "But did Yu''ka act on his own accord? Think harder, Commander, for this is a lesson I think you would be well served to learn." Scowling, no doubt irritated to be chastened, even lightly, Malik Carr reached for a bulb of his own broth. Harrar did not wish to spell it out, for what was the point of a sermon if every nuance needed to be outline and the listener led by the nose to enlightenment? He nibbled at the corpse of his bulb while Malik Carr pondered, finishing off the snack just as the Commander began to slowly nod. "Yu''ka was used," he said slowly. "Yun''Yuuzhan orchestrated it all." He nodded, more firmly. "Of course. Yun''Yuuzhan intends all things and surely knew of Yu''ka''s desires. By being the last for Yu''ka to see-" "-the Great Father ensured that when Yu''ka slew him, that Yu''ka held all the powers of all facets of Yun''Yuuzhan in hand. It was sacrifice by the hand of another. Yu''ka believed himself to be in command of his own fate, even as he struck the head from Yun''Yuuzhan. But in reality, he had always been dancing to the strings of the Great Father, whose design is deep and broad." "And so Yu''ka was deceived," Malik Carr said, wryly, a smirk tugging on scarred cheeks. "I see your meaning." "You spoke of deception in warfare, Commander. The greatest tactic is one in which your foe believes themselves master of the design, that you are the one dancing to their own tune. But in truth, it is a web of your own making, and they instead are the quisak feeling blindly in the dark. Make every one of their victories secretly a loss, and every one of your losses secretly a victory, and by the time your coufee is at their throat, their lips will be wet with celebration wine." Exigence Chapter XXII PART VI: BOOTS ON THE GROUND
XXII: Our Fathers
Later, situated in a receiving chamber, lush with decoration, Luke steepled his fingers and asked the question he had been wondering about for a while. ¡°Tell me about your father,¡± he asked, eying the Primarch on his far grander lounge. Roboute¡¯s eyes took on a faraway cast as he peered off through bulkhead and armor plate and stars. He took a moment before he spoke, as Luke studied him. In his moments of reflection, Roboute became statuesque, still and considering, contrasted to the worried knot of the Force that lingered always, just within Luke¡¯s senses. ¡°The Emperor is singular,¡± Primarch Roboute said with certainty, like he was pronouncing something he¡¯d thought but rarely said. ¡°Numinous, I should define Him. As alike as I am to a mortal man, He is to all his sons.¡± ¡°Emperors,¡± Luke observed, ¡°generally are.¡± ¡°You misunderstand. He is what he is by his nature, not his title. I am Primarch because I was made to be so, by His hands. This is nothing secret - ask any of my sons or citizen of Ultramar and they will tell you this too. Every Primarch was made by the Emperor to remake the galaxy and He made us fit for purpose. But Him? He was before everything and He will be the same after all of us.¡± Luke fiddled with the stem of the slender flute Roboute had offered, with a dark, sticky wine he¡¯d called Prandian. The Primarch shared an outsized version, more akin to a bucket of sculpted crystal, made normal in his own hands. Servitors, like those noted by Senator Shesh¡¯s report and Kyp¡¯s own disgust served them both, their blank eyes and empty minds unsettling but far from the worst affectation Luke had encountered. Compared to the accoutrements of a Hutt, they were distasteful at worst. ¡°It sounds almost deific.¡± Roboute¡¯s eyes, blue as Luke¡¯s own, narrowed and his lips tightened. ¡°Ironic that you would say as much. He has been¡­spoken of¡­in such terms. He denies them all. No, the Emperor is a Man, but a Man unlike others. He reveals little, but what He reveals speaks of the ages he walked in secret among our kind, through the long history of Mankind.¡± ¡°Humans usually don¡¯t live that long, you know.¡± ¡°Are you only human, Luke Skywalker? With your sense and your Force - your body was born of a woman, but you are not merely a human in mind or in ability. The Emperor is much the same, as am I, as are my own sons.¡± ¡°I am as human as anyone else.¡± To think yourself better than others, to imagine that being able to touch the Force made one better, greater, more worthy than others was a long, slow slide to the darkness. Sith thought themselves greater. Palpatine thought himself a god, of a kind. In his own readings, there were even some Jedi that suffered this unconscious bias, thinking themselves superior. A patronizing sort of superiority, dismissing those who couldn¡¯t feel a hint of the Force as simpler beings, to be pitied and guided instead. Luke had, shamefully, heard this sentiment hinted at among some in his very Order, despite all his efforts. ¡°Are you,¡± Roboute murmured. ¡°Are you indeed.¡± ¡°I am. Everyone is different. My niece is a better pilot than I am. My nephew connects with nature in ways I can¡¯t understand. Anakin - my nephew here with me - will be better than I am with a lightsaber, I can see it already. Are they better than me? More than human, in some kind of way? I don¡¯t think so, Primarch Guilliman.¡± Luke tapped his temple. ¡°A genius isn¡¯t more or less human than anyone else.¡± ¡°Perhaps I misspoke. I am still learning your tongue. My apologies if I offer offense.¡± Luke shook his head. ¡°No offense taken at all. Actually, I think I misspoke too. I was interested to hear about your father, not the Emperor.¡± Roboute took a long sip from his own wine, peering at Luke over the rim of the flute. Something like amusement glittered in his eyes. ¡°Who did you speak to?¡± The Jedi smiled. ¡°You. You haven¡¯t talked about the Emperor with any warmth. Respect, maybe, or admiration. Remember, my father was Anakin Skywalker, but I wasn¡¯t raised by him.¡± Roboute placed his wine aside, tugging at the breast of his robe. He smoothed hands across his tree-trunk thighs, shifted in his lounge, all while never ceasing his study of the much shorter Jedi. ¡°He was Konor, the last Consul of Macragge.¡±
Watching the way vapor huffed and formed little clouds of fog over the vong¡¯s auxiliary chazrach slaves, Anakin thanked the stars for the thick and warmth-trapping bodysuit he was wearing. Obroa-skai might be warmer from the energy injected by plasma cannon and magma missiles, lighting fires across continents and turning ¡®unimportant¡¯ cities into cinders, but it was still a chilly enough world. At least the gusts of breath from the reptilian aliens made it easy to spot them as they patrolled around the ruined starport. The port itself was a grand structure, sprawling across many kilometers with half-moon shaped bays set into the outer perimeters. Most of them held only the shells of burnt out craft, while others sat empty. Anakin hoped those meant the owners managed to escape the fall of the world, maybe with refugees aboard. ¡°This isn¡¯t the only port,¡± Face whispered, eyes dancing across the map unrolled between the three of them. ¡°It¡¯s the largest, though.¡± Anakin pointed out others, kilometers farther away, corresponding to thin streaks of smoke on the horizon. ¡°There¡¯s gotta be something left here.¡± Zalthis, the third of their party, lay on his belly, propped up on elbows as he focused a clicking pair of macrobinoculars. As the sun had swung into the sky and Rhonabeq¡¯s death still lingered in their minds, they¡¯d split into three groups to pursue different goals. Anakin was to locate a functional transport off-world, even if the ship might not be in the best condition. There wasn¡¯t much that Anakin couldn¡¯t fix, given enough time, and even if they found a freighter half-slagged, as long as it had mostly the right bits intact, he could have it ready to fly. Colonel Loran had authority in their little group, with Zalthis along as their Imperial observer. Uncle Luke, Zev Veers and Solidian were off trying to locate and make contact with the local survivors, slave or otherwise, while Mei, Sergeant Ascratus and Bhindi Drayson were continuing on toward the ruins of the Institute. Triple the ground covered, triple the objectives. It made sense, though Anakin couldn¡¯t help but feel strangely vulnerable without the other two Jedi. Rhonabeq had him on edge, he figured, that was all. Just a friendly reminder of his own mortality at the worst possible time. ¡°We won¡¯t need much.¡± Face, and it was Face because the NRI colonel scowled every time Anakin called him colonel, tapped Zalthis on his armored shoulder. ¡°See anything?¡± ¡°A great deal,¡± the neophyte replied. ¡°Chazrach patrols are frequent and regular. I see vong overseers guiding them. There are not enough to cover all approaches, however. We can pass unseen.¡± ¡°And ships?¡± Zalthis pushed himself up, offering the macrobinoculars to Anakin. ¡°Look there,¡± the Ultramarine said, leaning close to Anakin and pointing. ¡°Past that hab block and leftward. In the space between the towers.¡± Putting the macrobinoculars to his face, Anakin spun dials and clicked in focus, frowning as he tried to find where Zalthis was pointing. A stretch of buildings, mostly collapsed, a few tall towers - there. One of the starport¡¯s bays, half visible from their vantage point. Sunlight caught on dura- and transparisteel, winking and glinting. ¡°That¡¯s a YT series of some kind, or I¡¯m a bantha.¡± ¡°Oh, that¡¯ll do just fine. Anakin, sense any slaves?¡± Again he reached out, letting the macrobinoculars dangle from his fingers, eyes half-closed. Spots of life spread out, but all had the same simplistic edge, fuzzy and open. None of the anguished pain or dejected fatalism he¡¯d felt before from those who were on the wrong side of the front lines. ¡°Just the chazrach,¡± Anakin confirmed. ¡°Maybe a hundred of them? Zalthis, how many of them to each vong?¡± ¡°I observed patrols in what I would theorize are squad formations. Ten reptoids to a single master.¡± ¡°That¡¯s ten vong,¡± Face rolled up his map again, tucking it away. ¡°Barely an inconvenience, but they won¡¯t know we¡¯re here anyway. And you¡¯re sure you can get a ship running?¡± Anakin rolled his eyes and Face grinned. ¡°Just checking. Zalthis, you take point. Anakin, shout if you sense anyone getting too close. Zalthis, you too if you hear or see anything.¡± The neophyte checked his pistol at his hip, then his long knife. Both looked simple but wickedly effective, judging by the bore on the former. ¡°A poor practical; shouting would compromise our mission.¡± ¡°Shout quietly then.¡± They picked carefully down from the patch of evergreens, toward rubble strewn boulevards. Ascratus had been right - following the forested parks helped deliver the infiltration team nearly to their destinations, keeping them off the streets until the last possible moment. Right by the starport it swelled into what had been a curated arboretum, though short-lived forest fires had left one in five trees a charred husk and turned the undergrowth crispy and brown. Here and there were benches, covered with ash, perched off of chipped tone paths. People enjoyed peace and nature here and Anakin could imagine scribes and students in their off hours wandering through the trees, chatting animatedly. For a moment the Force pulled taut around him and the forest wasn¡¯t needle-clad trees and hearty ferns, but tall purple-barked trees and blue-leaved shrubs, blackened and scorched. It wasn¡¯t students and archivists wandering around, arm in arm, but beings in robes and jumpsuits. No. Not Yavin. Never Yavin. Anakin pushed the mirage away, shaking his head clear. He had a mission to do; Uncle Luke was counting on him. Mei too. Daydreaming could be deadly and wouldn¡¯t that just be the worst way to go, caught by a vong because he couldn¡¯t keep his head out of the clouds. That he caught a glimpse of blonde hair among the massassi trees he pointedly did not think of. It was simple enough to focus his mind, following Zalthis and Face. He never stopped being surprised all over again at how quietly the Ultramarine moved, easily matching the Wraith¡¯s practiced, fluid movements. The Colonel more than lived up to the squadron¡¯s name and Anakin found himself calling on the Force to muffle his footsteps and deaden the air. Chazrach patrols passed them none the wiser, the little reptoids loud and clumsy enough to hear coming from many, many meters. Several times Zalthis held up a fist, halting the trio, while Anakin reached out and nodded confirmation as he sensed the chazrach. Between the Ultramarine¡¯s natively enhanced senses - Anakin couldn¡¯t quite tell how capable they were, as several times Zalthis heard a patrol that Anakin would later sense close to a fifty or more meters away - and Anakin¡¯s command of the Force, Face groused now and then that he felt like baggage. ¡°Well, you¡¯ll fly the freighter,¡± Anakin said. The Wraith raised an eyebrow, the three of them picking down a back alley. ¡°Han¡¯s kid is really going to have me fly?¡± ¡°Jaina is the pilot. I¡¯m okay, but I¡¯m more for fixing the ship, not flying it.¡± Zalthis paused a moment, cocking his head, eyes unfocused before he waved off Face¡¯s questioning look. ¡°Nothing.¡± The Ultramarine waved them along, starport growing ever closer. ¡°Your father is a pilot?¡± ¡°A pilot? He¡¯s at least the third best in the galaxy. Behind Wedge and myself, that is,¡± Face answered for him. Anakin smiled before he realized it, then smiled wider when he thought of his father in the Falcon, making the ship dance even while barely paying attention, telling some story or another to Anakin as he sat, wide-eyed, in the copilot¡¯s seat. For once, his chest didn¡¯t feel tight when he thought of his father. ¡°What about Baron Fel? Dad said he figured he could outfly him, but I know he respected his skills too. And Jaina was telling me about Jag and some of the maneuvers he can pull off.¡± ¡°Fel? Nah, he¡¯s an Imperial. Doesn¡¯t count.¡± Anakin could feel Zalthis trying to follow the back and forth, utterly puzzled. ¡°So was your dad, you know.¡± ¡°My pardon, but your father was part of the former Empire? I have read the brief as the Primarch instructed, but it was general.¡± Zalthis¡¯ surprise was evident even without the Force, the young man sounding positively floored at the idea. ¡°He was a traitor?¡± Face shrugged. ¡°I kind of am too, if you count propaganda figures.¡± Most of the New Republic were ¡®traitors¡¯ when it came right down to it. What did it matter? The Empire ruled the Galaxy, the whole Galaxy. It was hard to not be an Imperial, just by default. It was sort of in the name of the Rebel Alliance, wasn¡¯t it? Rebel. You had to be part of something to rebel against it, otherwise it was just a war. He said so. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°Everyone is kind of a traitor if you think of it that way. My mom was a senator too, in the Empire.¡± Zalthis actually stopped short, Anakin and Face turning to look back at him. The Ultramarine was aghast, nearly radiating shock, hands open and empty at his sides and eyes wide. ¡°I was aware the New Republic warred on this Empire, but it was a civil war?¡± ¡°Uh, yeah? Emperor Palpatine turned the Republic into the Empire, so the Rebel Alliance fought to bring the old Republic back again. It¡¯s pretty basic history.¡± ¡°But they broke their oaths!¡± Something was awry here, something Anakin couldn¡¯t figure out. The way Zalthis looked, the disgust starting to creep into his voice had alarm klaxons ringing in his head. ¡°The Empire wanted them to do evil things. Oaths or not, if your orders are wrong, it¡¯s your duty to deny them.¡± Face scratched at his cheek. ¡°This isn¡¯t really the place for it, but look - Zalthis - there¡¯s moral authority and there¡¯s governmental authority. Take Anakin¡¯s father, Han. If I get this wrong, correct me kid, but - it was something like this. He was an Imperial officer and part of his job was to be the boot on the necks of a lot of slaves. The authority of the Empire told him this was right and to do his job, because that was the law. The moral authority? That was Han¡¯s own heart, and it said ¡®to the Sith hells with that¡¯. He turned ¡®traitor¡¯ by saving a bunch of slaves, including Chewbacca. Not really treason to me, you know.¡± It still hurt to hear Chewie¡¯s name, but it wasn¡¯t quite the same black hole around his heart that it had been. Whether that was good or bad, he wasn¡¯t sure, but Anakin would take it for now. ¡°But that¡¯s treason.¡± Zalthis said stubbornly. ¡°What if your Sergeant told you to kill your friend Solidian? Would you do it?¡± Face raised his hands at Zalthis¡¯ darkening expression, cutting off the Ultramarine¡¯s angry retort from boiling up. ¡°No, not saying he would. Just imagine it. Would you do it?¡± ¡°There would¡­the Sergeant would have a reason.¡± ¡°If he didn¡¯t?¡± ¡°He would.¡± Face shrugged and unfolded his map again, letting the matter go. Anakin couldn¡¯t. ¡°What if he did? That¡¯s what Palpatine did. He made people kill their own families. Their own children. My grandfather - he would¡¯ve killed my mom and my uncle. His own children, all because the Emperor told him to. Palpatine had reasons too.¡± Anakin scowled. ¡°Everyone always has reasons. The vong have reasons too. Doesn¡¯t mean we shouldn¡¯t fight them.¡± ¡°But it¡¯s treason,¡± Zalthis tried again, tone almost plaintive. ¡°Sure it is.¡± Face rolled his map back up. ¡°Almost there. Moral lessons later, kids.¡± The rest of the way to the starport and the waiting freighter - an old YT-1220 pockmarked with plasma scars and dents from falling debris - the Ultramarine was silent.
Servitors returned to ply more wine, though Luke had barely touched his. Alcohol wasn¡¯t one of his vices and the Ultramarian vintage, though performatively watered, was tangy and dry. Roboute spoke at length, taking on a distant expression as he spoke of senates and intrigue, of Consuls and treachery and careful lessons in governorship. He learned names: Gallan and Konor, Tarasha and more. For all the Primarch held himself larger than life and for all Luke felt his careful wording even behind the veneer of offhanded candour, there was no hiding the spark that lit his otherwise stern and patrician face. Love? Nostalgia? Both? ¡°I had the greatest respect for Konor. I owe him a great deal, as I do Mamzel Euten.¡± Roboute placed his wine glass aside, peering at Luke with newfound interest. ¡°I have no spoken of him in some time, not since I favored a remembrancer with an recounting. You are peculiarly easy to speak with, Luke Skywalker.¡± ¡°Then I thank you for honoring me with your stories, Primarch Guilliman. Your father sounds like he was quite a figure.¡± ¡°He was - the last Battle King. Konor was not like the Emperor, but I would not judge one above the other. They each have their own virtues and vices.¡± ¡°What vices might there be for your Emperor?¡± Roboute studied his hands, running thumb along his forefinger a long moment. The way the Imperials - the Astartes, at least - spoke of their Emperor, with near reverence, matched with tales relayed by some of Senator Shesh¡¯s aides who had mingled with their counterparts to a mildly informal degree in those brief few days. With how the Primarch had described him: undying and beyond the concerns of ¡®mortal man¡¯, just mentioning vices alongside virtues was surprising. ¡°He is distant,¡± Roboute admitted. ¡°My father, the Emperor. He is a man with infinite responsibilities and a galaxy to bring to heel. There is only so much time anyone can spare and His is so thoroughly allotted.¡± ¡°I see. And what would He think of us, then? The New Republic, the Jedi? I can¡¯t fault your hospitality, Primarch Guilliman, but I¡¯m curious.¡± Surprisingly, the Primarch laughed. It emerged as more of a huff of air, from enormous lungs with a rumble of amusement, but a laugh, nevertheless. Luke couldn¡¯t help but smile in return. ¡°I know your Republic has read the Articles of Compliance, enacted on Eboracum. There is your answer.¡± ¡°Banning of all religions and religious orders, education about Terra and the ¡®history of mankind and the Imperium¡¯, restrictions on any and all droids and even some kinds of computers, curtailing of some civil liberties and the real sticking point - all non-humans as second-class citizens.¡± Luke listed off, raising a finger for each point. ¡°Hard commands. I stand against most of them, you know.¡± ¡°I am aware.¡± There was no threat in his tone, as best as Luke could tell. The warping pane of the Force left the Primarch¡¯s actual feelings obscured, forcing the Master to rely on the basics of body language and expression, but after years of feeling the emotions of beings mundane and exotic, pairing those unconsciously with their gestures and motions left him with, he considered, a robust understanding of people. If only he could speak with a Yuuzhan Vong, speak with one, like he did now with the Imperial Primarch. Sit across from one in, if not friendship, then at least peaceable dialogue. See their faces, listen to their words. He put the wish aside. Elan made that an impossibility, the New Republic wouldn¡¯t trust any Yuuzhan Vong captive or defector again. The Jedi wouldn¡¯t. Couldn¡¯t. ¡°Then what would your Emperor think?¡± ¡°What answer do you wish? Do you wish me to say that I break faith with my father¡¯s commands by treating with you? Do you wish me to say that I am given great lenience and leeway to deal with circumstances as I see fit? That I and the 4711th are simply biding our time before seeking to impose our ¡®barbaric ways¡¯ on your galaxy?¡± ¡°I¡¯m hoping for the truth,¡± Luke offered. ¡°The truth. Ironic - I am a servant of the truth as well. The Imperial truth. Have you heard it?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve heard it mentioned.¡± ¡°It is an embrace of reason and rationality. A rejection of superstition, faith and idolatry. It is born of hard lessons, Luke Skywalker. A hard lesson you have learned, I think. Your Sith and your Jedi - I have read of them. Competing ideologies on your Force, turned into thousands of years of rivalry.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a simplification, but close enough. So your Imperial truth would say that Palpatine¡¯s Empire was evil, since it was led by a Sith?¡± ¡°Because it was founded on ideology, not reason. The Imperium stands for illumination of truth through the practice of science and rationality. That is my father¡¯s dream. The Emperor¡¯s dream, and it is mine as well.¡± Things continued to make more and more sense. The wounded animal sensitivities of the Imperials, the way they reacted so drastically to Rhonabeq¡¯s interruption, their distaste for aliens and droids. Even Thiel¡¯s own vehement rejection of the Force, only hours ago. He wove an image in his mind as Roboute spoke on about the ¡®empirical clarities¡¯ the Imperium looked for. He thought of Ruusan, the calamities that befell the Galaxy when the Sith tried and tried and tried again to claw out their dominance. He could imagine, in a different situation, the way the Republic, shell-shocked and lashing out in agony after things done by, say, Exar Kun, might want to distance themselves completely from all thought of the Force. Not that it would be right, since the Force was the Force and denying it didn¡¯t change its flow, but he could see where the Imperium came from. The dark age alluded to and how it ravaged their galaxy and toppled whatever empire or nation came before the Imperium, if it had been led by zealots - no wonder the Imperials seemed to sneer at the idea of the Force and the way Luke spoke about it. ¡°You¡¯ve talked about reason and avoiding faith, especially in gods, but the Force isn¡¯t a god, and you don¡¯t require faith in it.¡± To demonstrate, Luke gently reached out with a feather of his mind, lifting a silver decanter and pouring out wine into Roboute¡¯s chalice. The Primarch managed not to frown at the display, but Luke could see the way his eyes narrowed. ¡°Extrasensory abilities are not unknown to the Imperium. We spoke already of the Warp.¡± ¡°Then tell me your concerns about me and the Jedi Order. Lieutenant Thiel rebelled against the very idea that he might have an aptitude for the Force. You¡¯ve quizzed me for half this conversation about the Force.¡± Luke spread his hands. ¡°Let me put your mind at ease. You¡¯re worried about something, I don¡¯t have to be a Jedi to sense that.¡± Eyeing his chalice, but leaving it untouched, as if the wine was dirtied by Luke¡¯s display, Roboute exhaled long. Very long, almost absurdly, like he was blowing all his doubts out through his lungs and given the size of the man, he must have been packed with doubts indeed. ¡°Your naivete. You claim that you serve your Force and oppose this ¡®dark¡¯ side. Yet your own Jedi have fallen beneath its sway. You spit at the memory of your Galaxy¡¯s Empire and the Sith Emperor who ruled it. He wielded this Force, no different than you. Your Jedi, Kyp Durron, destroyed a star and you forgave him. Your father was a zealot who crushed worlds beneath his heel, but he too was a ¡®Jedi¡¯ once.¡± Roboute lifted himself from his lounge, rising to his full height and pacing away to gesture toward bookshelves that lined the walls. ¡°Each one of these is a history. Each one of these is a world lost to superstition and violence, predations of aliens and the plague of the thinking machine.¡± Luke looked anew at the shelves he¡¯d ignored. They ran the diameter of the room, from floor to ceiling, lined neatly with gilt spines that caught the light. There had to be thousands. ¡°The former shipmaster of Samothrace made it a habit to collect accounts from as many expeditionary fleets as he could throughout the Great Crusade. They are all lessons, he was recounted as saying. A living history.¡± ¡°The Jedi should fade away, then? Let the practice of the Force die out and be forgotten, because of what a few evil men did?¡± Roboute turned and stared down the Jedi Master. ¡°Yes,¡± the Primarch pronounced. ¡°It should. You play with fire. It will burn you before the end.¡± Luke nodded. It wasn¡¯t what he hoped to hear, but it was what he had been growing more and more sure he would. The Imperials were frighteningly secular. Han once jokingly called the ways of the Jedi an ancient religion, and in some ways it was true, but in many, many ways it was not. Perhaps in the old Order it was closer, but in this new Order, he made sure to avoid hidebound orthodoxy. Mei was a shining example of this, as was Harlan and the Iron Knights, and Tenel Ka. No one tradition could ¡®own¡¯ the Force, they all followed it and learned from it in their own ways. The Jedi was the path he felt was the most correct, the truest, but how could he deny what the Fallanassi felt or the Ysanna knew? How could he, when they taught him so much? Some in the Senate felt this way too, like Luke was a relic of a bygone time. He had done his job in dispatching Darth Vader and the Emperor and it was time for the Jedi to be left behind like many other trappings of the Republic. Let the New be the New, and let the old stay the old. Thankfully it was a small minority, but they were there and they weren¡¯t quiet. ¡°I appreciate your honesty, Primarch Guilliman. And your willingness to speak with me. But if you think my Jedi are a product of my naivete, I think your caution comes from fear, not the rationality you want.¡± Roboute perused the shelves, running fingers along spines, tapping at tomes here and there. When he spoke, his voice was measured and level, but Luke heard the undertones. Anger. ¡°Fear? There is nothing to fear from the truth. That is the perfection of it.¡± ¡°The truth? The truth that the old Republic lasted for twenty-five thousand years with non-humans and droids and the Jedi standing as protectors? The truth that the Sith, in every form, have always been defeated? The truth that when the Republic finally fell after all those millenia, the Empire that replaced it didn¡¯t even last half a century? That truth?¡± Luke joined Roboute, reaching pointedly with the Force to pluck a book, delivering it into his hands and he tapped the cover. ¡°I can¡¯t know what your galaxy went through. Maybe one day we can translate some of these and I can learn. That¡¯s rationality, isn¡¯t it? Learning? Taking new information, new experiences? This isn¡¯t your galaxy, Primarch Guilliman. It¡¯s mine. It¡¯s ours. And we¡¯ve strayed away from the point.¡± Luke slid the book back and Roboute peered down at him, unreadable. ¡°Your Emperor. What would he do?¡± ¡°A crusade.¡± The words came instantly, without hesitation and Luke¡¯s spine prickled. ¡°Extermination of all ¡®droids¡¯ and the expulsion or liquidation of the xeno. These were his commandments and they have not led the Imperium astray, not once.¡± ¡°I see. And your father? Konor?¡± Roboute Guilliman recoiled. Luke almost staggered, cutting his eyes away from the Primarch, almost overwhelmed by the shift in the enormous man. The shatterpoint feeling, the tidal knot of the Force trembled and clenched, fractured new branchlines and that feeling of supreme danger swamped his senses again. This time he set his shoulders and pushed through the waves, splitting them instead of riding them, exerting control instead of letting the Force wash around him. Tangles and snatches of images tugged at Luke as he peered at the Primarch, not with his eyes, but with the Force. It was like stepping out into a storm, a hurricane, battered left and right with hailstones made of emotion, myriad and bright and felt so deeply they were nuclear, kilned by the heat of a star, swamped by driving sheets of torrential rain that were memories, beyond vivid, beyond clarity, as perfect as a holo, as perfect as the now, memories that his mind couldn¡¯t process, that he couldn¡¯t even read, just snippets and scraps. He rode it, he forged it, he plowed on ahead. Because he had to know. Luke had rarely received visions but they assailed him now, possible futures ripping away in zagging lines that branched and branched and cracked, moments where Roboute, hands bloody, stalked from this chamber, where Luke was blinded and overcome by radiant light as his lightsaber split flesh, where things happened and places spun past he couldn¡¯t imagine. A brown and grey world, dry and tired, burning forever. A marbled world, blue and white and green, gasping for hope. Men twisted with horns and cloven feet, men in faceless, endless lines, men and women twisted into parodies, with three eyes and lolling tongues. He grasped none and let them all pass him by, too riotous, too confusing. There was no light in Roboute Guilliman. But there was no dark, either. Luke burst free with a gasp, staggering back but the Primarch barely seemed to notice. His jaw tensed and muscle bunched as he frowned in thought, but only moments had passed. Hours in an instant. Breathing exercises kept Luke from panting, mind aspun, but he clung onto the briefest glimpse, the tiniest nugget buried beneath the webbed shatterpoints and twisting knots of confusing causality. The sense of the man among it all. ¡°You don¡¯t have to answer,¡± Luke managed to say. ¡°Just think about it.¡± Roboute entertained him for barely a quarter hour after that. The Primarch seemed distracted, distant, and went through the motions of relaying his wishes for a smooth and successful mission. Luke thanked him for his hospitality and willingness to talk, which Roboute countered that dialogue and debate was a classic tradition of Macragge. He tried to make a joke about how the two of them should make it a regular habit, but the Primarch seemed oblivious. Marius Gage returned to escort Luke back to the arming chambers, the older Astartes still as polite as ever. Drakus Gorod, of course, glared daggers at Luke as they passed, even as Luke offered a shallow bow and his compliments at the Ultramarine¡¯s diligence. It never hurt, after all, to be polite. Exigence Chapter XXIII XXIII: Not Happenstance
Bhindi was doing magic. She was crouched over a battered terminal, which she had actually had to plug back in, and was jamming all manner of random tools into various ports. The woman¡¯s mind was going a thousand kilometers a minute and she never seemed to second guess herself. Typing away at the terminal, cracking open a side-panel to rummage through wiring, slotting another wafer into a reader, hooking another torture device into a socket - Bhindi¡¯s hands moved faster than Mei could see. The Jensaarai could move things with her mind, but slicing - that was real magic. Ascratus, the big silent Astartes, didn¡¯t care to watch, because he didn¡¯t have a single inquisitive bone in his body. How could it not be fascinating? Instead, he was at the atrium of the library, glued to his ¡®auspex¡¯ and as still as a statue. Whatever. It let her crouch next to the Wraith and try to hand off tools that she¡¯d never once seen before. ¡°Spike,¡± Drayson ordered. Ah, a spike. Those she knew by now. Mei grabbed three out of a hard plastek pouch. When Bhindi asked for one, she really meant at least two. She handed them over and the Wraith jammed them with some force into a socket, electric arcs crackling for a second as she swore nonstop under her breath. ¡°Good sign?¡± ¡°Shoo. I don¡¯t need you anymore and now you¡¯re distracting me.¡± Mei clapped her hands on her thighs and rose from her crouch. ¡°Mmokay. I¡¯ll be over with the Sarge, if you need me.¡± ¡°Shoo,¡± Bhindi said again. It wasn¡¯t anything personal - Drayson had been quiet but polite before and Mei knew what it was like to get into the zone. If someone interrupted her in the middle of going through forms, or when she was working on her armor? They¡¯d be lucky to escape with all their limbs intact. Joining Ascratus, Mei shut her eyes a moment, feeling for any of the chazrach aliens. Faint presences, but far away, far enough she couldn¡¯t be sure they weren¡¯t some of the mind-shackled slaves. Just thinking of them had her shudder. Being a captive would be bad enough, with hosts like the vong, but to be a captive within your own body? Not able to act without permission? Driven like a droid, restraining bolt and all? No thank you - kill her now, Mei would pass into the Force with a smile on her face before that fate. She¡¯d been manipulated once already and that was enough fun for a lifetime. ¡°Jedi,¡± the Sergeant grunted, without moving. ¡°Jensaarai, really,¡± she said idly, leaning against the doorframe. The previously occupying door was halfway down the steps outside, hinges ruined. ¡°But I won¡¯t argue.¡± ¡°Good.¡± They observed the ruins of Obroa-skai in silence for a while, the wrecked skyline, toppled ziggurats and thin, smoky haze that hung in the sky. Every now and then, a line of light creased the blue skies above, crossing the bloated presence of Obroa overhead. The gas giant looked nothing like Yavin, the only other Mei had really seen from a moon. Blue-grey instead of rich in oranges and reds, it was like a ball of snow to further chill the library world. ¡°Why do the other Jedi not wear similar armor?¡± Mei jumped, startled. Her cheeks warmed at being caught off guard - excellent job there, Jedi Knight - and craned her neck to look up at the stern snouted helmet a meter above her head. She rapped knuckles off her breastplate. ¡°This thing? It¡¯s ¡®cause I¡¯m Jensaarai, like I said. Jedi prefer robes, Jensaarai live by our armor.¡± ¡°It is¡­an interesting design.¡± ¡°You think? Thanks. I made it myself.¡± That actually earned the Sergeant¡¯s full attention, glowing eye lenses peering down at her. She could sense him looking her over, head to toe. ¡°Did you? I am impressed, Jensaarai. Among Astartes, proper care of our wargear is a source of pride.¡± ¡°Did you make yours?¡± ¡°I did not. It is Maximus pattern, produced by the Mechanicum.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t even modify it?¡± ¡°I am not an Iron Hands.¡± Well, that meant less than nothing, but she¡¯d managed to draw more than one sentence out of the Ultramarine, so it had to count as a success. ¡°What¡¯s it made of?¡± ¡°Ceramite and adamantium.¡± ¡°Do you mind?¡± She reached out a fist, knuckle poking out, pausing just over his plastron. Mei could imagine the Sergeant¡¯s flat stare, something they¡¯d all been subject to several times aboard Samothrace. ¡°Fine.¡± She rapped her knuckle against his plate, that ¡®Maximus¡¯ armor. Interesting. She did it again, this time feeling the material through the Force, like she would her own armor. She didn¡¯t risk a third time, but she felt enough. Orderly, extremely orderly, almost ridiculously so. Crystalline beyond crystalline, nearly perfect structure in parts of it. Other parts and she frowned - some kind of ceramic, felt like a heat resistance that actually made her want to light her ¡®sabre and press it against it. Like how all Jedi knew their lightsabers intimately, understanding every part, every component, as they brought the iconic blades to life, every Jensaarai understood their armor. Personally, innately. ¡°Never heard of either,¡± she said. ¡°Can I get some?¡± Slowly, Ascratus turned his head to look back outside. ¡°Fine,¡± Mei sighed. So this mission wouldn¡¯t be a perfect success. ¡°Whoa!¡± Bhindi exclaimed from behind them, the Wraith¡¯s voice echoing painfully in the empty library. ¡°Sorry! It¡¯s good, don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m in.¡± Mei patted Ascratus on the arm, because everything else was too high, and jogged back to the Wraith. ¡°You¡¯re in?¡± ¡°I¡¯m in. I think -¡± Drayson tapped on a cabled keypad, glancing between a datapad in her lap, one propped up next to her, the terminal itself, and the clunky, chunky skull-stamped ¡®datadrive¡¯ the Imperials had brought. ¡°-oh, wow, okay, I have full access here. This library must have been a primary point for the Institute. Damn, that¡¯s ten creds to Zev, he was right that the Director wouldn¡¯t clump this up.¡± Mei peered at rapidly scrolling lines of text across three datapads. ¡°So we¡¯re good?¡± Bhindi craned her head back to look up at the Jedi, beaming. The Wraith could really stand to smile like that more often, Mei thought. ¡°Oh, we¡¯re so in. I¡¯ll set up a scrape and then we¡¯re golden.¡± ¡°I could hug you, Bhindi. Let me tell Face and Master Skywalker the good news. If Anakin found us transport, we could be off this rock by dinner.¡± The Wraith nodded vigorously, going back to poking and prodding and doing her dark sciences again. Just like that, Bhindi was lost again in code and data and the endless trove of Obroa-skai. Mei tapped her comm. Good news, still out of the vong¡¯s eyes, and it was barely local noon.
Solidian did not understand the core concept of their mission. Zev tried to explain it to the Ultramarine, but gave up shortly thereafter. Luke could feel the youth¡¯s confusion and irritation at being split off from his Sergeant and his fellow neophyte. It was too bad, and he would need to learn. The Imperium thought lives cheap, one of their many, many flaws, though Luke understood at least where it probably came from. This wasn¡¯t the Imperium¡¯s command and Face agreed with Luke¡¯s intent to make contact with the locals. It was a good idea in theory - not as great in practice. They couldn¡¯t find any locals. At one point, they found a secluded boutique and both Zev and Solidian stood guard while Luke sunk deeper into the Force, kneeling, spreading his sense across the entire city. He hoped to find pockets of survivors, areas out of the control of the invaders, but somehow, there were none. All the minds were clumped up, reeking of sorrow and pain and hopelessness. Here and there he caught snatches of what might have been solitary individuals or perhaps pairs, but the senses were fleeting and he couldn¡¯t be sure they were real in the first place. Unwilling to give up so easily, he led Zev and Solidian toward the closest mass of despairing beings. Captives all, he was sure, but there was a chance they might only be corralled up, not yet implanted. Using Zev¡¯s macrobinoculars, Luke sighed as his last hope was dashed. Every single of one of the thin, battered slaves working in long chain gangs to clear streets and excavate collapsed buildings bore a gnarled burr at their temple. Coral implants. All of them. Refusing to believe it, Luke squinted at every single being and then again. Twi¡¯leck, Bothan, Human, Duro - many and more, and all ensnared by the biots of the vong. Lowering and handing the macrobinoculars back to Zev, the Wraith read Luke¡¯s face and his own fell. ¡°All of them?¡± ¡°All of them,¡± Luke confirmed with a sigh. This close, their anguish was like a physical blow, rippling up from the work site. Yuuzhan Vong overseers stood around in their sleek armor, amphistaves curled around their waists. ¡°Bastards. As if it wasn¡¯t enough to sacrifice our people or work them to death, they have to steal their minds too¡­¡± Luke reached out, grasping the Wraith¡¯s shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ll find a solution to them. It¡¯ll take time, but we can free them, I¡¯m sure of it.¡± ¡°Not them,¡± Zev said, gesturing down toward the workers. ¡°They won¡¯t last that long.¡± Luke felt Solidian¡¯s contempt before he spoke. ¡°They should have fought to the death, then.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t ask that of people.¡± Solidian scoffed, but said no more as they crept back into cover, breaking line of sight with the worksite. ¡°So what now?¡± Zev asked. Luke worried his lower lip with his teeth. It went against everything to just walk away, but he had admonished Jacen about the same before, on Belkadan. It would be hypocrisy to go back on that now, but something told him to try anyway. Even if they were all seeded with the coral, the vong couldn¡¯t possibly have such tight control on them anymore? NRI said that the old slave-seeds used at the start of the invasion were phased out, since they killed the hosts too fast. These new ones might be simpler and less invasive. Maybe there could still be some free will. But then - to what end? This wasn¡¯t a prison break or a rescue mission. Depending on the ship Anakin found, they could evacuate a dozen, perhaps two dozen. How to choose? Younglings first? Did the vong even spare children? The feeling didn¡¯t fade. Try anyway. Do anyway. Indecision held Luke still until his choice was stolen away by all three of their commlinks activating, Mei¡¯s voice coming through quiet and tuned low. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Bhindi says she¡¯s in and downloading now. She says - yeah, I know - she says she has total access to the Institute archives. No? Oh, to the astrographical archives. That¡¯s what we wanted, right? Phenomena?¡± ¡°Astrography and anomalous phenomena, yes. Anything else is bonus. Literally - the Director said he¡¯d pay a bounty.¡± Face joined in, cutting through Mei¡¯s rambling. ¡°Is the datathief functioning?¡± ¡°Bhindi says yes, your thing is working fine.¡± Luke keyed his own comm, joining in. ¡°We couldn¡¯t locate any survivors that haven¡¯t been rounded up already. We can move to rendezvous.¡± His feet didn¡¯t want to move. Try anyway, they said. ¡°Face, what about transportation?¡± ¡°Anakin, you tell him.¡± ¡°Got an old YT. It¡¯s melty and the ignition systems are down but I think I can cobble something together. Won¡¯t have shields or weapons, but it¡¯ll fly. Probably.¡± ¡°Make that probably a definitely, Anakin. Do or do not-¡± ¡°There is no try, I know. I¡¯ll make it work.¡± ¡°Anyone have trouble with the vong?¡± A chorus of negatives met Luke and he nodded. That was good at least. If they could extract from Obroa-skai without the Yuuzhan Vong any wiser, all the better. Rhonabeq¡¯s sacrifice would be made whole - tricking the Yuuzhan Vong into thinking she was the only interloper. It didn¡¯t make up for the pirate princess¡¯ death, but Luke knew she would be proud. Like he was. Casting one last look back toward the worksite, Luke forced himself to walk away. You can¡¯t save everyone. Sometimes, you can¡¯t save anyone. All that could be done was to make sure it never happened again.
Bhindi was already packed up by the time Luke and his trio reunited with the Institute team. The Wraith was positively bouncy, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, spilling over with enthusiasm. Mei welcomed him with a lazy wave, while the two Ultramarines simply nodded to each other. Zev high-fived Bhindi, shouldering some of her bundled toolkits. ¡°Spaceport, then?¡± ¡°Spaceport,¡± Luke agreed and Mei clapped. ¡°Called it, gone by dinner.¡± ¡°Auspex remains clear,¡± Ascratus intoned. ¡°But I would warn you, within the confines of the city, there is greater dissonance.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t sense any chazrach nearby,¡± Mei offered. ¡°And Face said that the patrols they saw by the spaceport were always chazrach and vong. Small blessings, really, and pretty polite of the scarheads. Can¡¯t sense them? Pair them up with the little guys we can.¡± Ascratus took point, leading them down the esplanade from the library, alongside a frozen river. Here and there the icy surface was spotted with meltholes, left over from superheated debris. Other patches had refrozen around slips of scree from buildings alongside. Eerily quiet, the group made for the spaceport, Zev and Bhindi conversing in low tones. Mei was humming again, occasionally glancing at the Ultramarines Sergeant. Something still drew him back to the worksite and the captives. Maybe this is what Jacen felt, on Belkadan, before his ill-informed attempt at a rescue. Was it this urge that led his nephew into getting captured. It didn¡¯t make rational sense, or even make sense emotionally. It burned to leave slaves behind like that, knowing their fate. Worked to death, killed for sport, sacrificed to bloodthirsty ¡®gods¡¯. A Jedi should stand against it, of course, but that wasn¡¯t what Luke felt. He felt sorrow for their suffering, sympathy for their pain, but he didn¡¯t feel the urge to mete out judgement, or even free them. Try again, the feeling said. Talk to them. He shook it off. The mission was over, now. Every minute on Obroa-skai didn¡¯t just risk their lives, it also risked failure of the mission and failure of the mission risked consequences with the Imperium. The New Republic and Imperium had a lot riding on this proof-of-concept action. The Senate didn¡¯t need more ammunition, correct or not, against the Jedi. Defenders like Viqi Shesh were few and far between, these days. He turned to ask Bhindi about how much information she was able to scrape. Zev was beside her, facing toward Luke, with Mei behind, Solidian taking the rear while Ascratus was on point at the fore. Luke heard a quiet whip of air as Zev opened his mouth to say something, then his expression slackened and he sighed. The Wraith¡¯s life snuffed out; a hole in the Force. Mei¡¯s ¡®sabres lit with doubled snap-hiss while Luke felt like he was in slow motion. Zev slowly toppled forward, toward a surprised Bhindi. Solidian wrenched his pistol from his thigh, snapping it up to ready so fast the air cracked. Still Luke watched Zev fall. Bhindi tried to catch him but she was caught off guard and surprised, only managing to stumble sideways, sudden blood drenching her as Zev twisted in her grasp. The back of his head was a mass of gore and crumpled bone. Wings flickered within. A bug the size of Luke¡¯s fist backed out, covered in brain matter and flicked razor-sharp wings. Then Luke had his ¡®sabre in his hands, coming up to catch - zhizz zhiss - two more razorbugs in the plasma, vaporizing both into wisps of foul odor and ash. Mei span her blades, catching more bugs, the only hint of them ripples in the air from their passage. Bhindi threw herself flat, training taking over even as she screamed Zev¡¯s name. Yuuzhan Vong spilled onto the boardwalk from behind the broad edifice of the library. Amphistaves, already stiffened and clutched in hands, spat and hissed. Another hail of bugs preceded them. Anakin! Luke called. This wasn¡¯t happenstance. They knew they were here.
Anakin! His uncle¡¯s voice, as clear as if he shouted in his ear, made Anakin jump so hard he jammed a soldering iron into his thumb. Swearing words he didn¡¯t precisely know the translation of, he sucked his digit for a moment and then - no, it couldn¡¯t be. His uncle¡¯s warning hit like a ton of duracrete, staggering the teen. ¡°Whoa,¡± Face exclaimed, catching Anakin¡¯s elbow and propping him up. They were both in the cockpit, Face assisting with his own knowledge of starships while Zalthis kept watch from atop the freighter itself. The ship wasn¡¯t in the worst shape, not like some of the burnt wrecks in other bays, but it had definitely had an amphistaff or the shorter coufee blades shoved here and there. At least the vong¡¯s total hatred of all things technological had the saving grace that they really didn¡¯t know how anything worked or the best ways to wreck it. It was all coming together, maybe another ten minutes before they could try an initial powerup when his Uncle shouted into his mind. Face hauled him upright, grabbing at his hand, seeing the burn. ¡°No - that¡¯s not - it¡¯s an ambush!¡± ¡°Confirmed,¡± Zalthis spoke through the commlink. ¡°Biots approaching.¡± Biots. Anakin swallowed and peered through the canopy. Face leaned in next to him. A hunchbacked reptilian monster glared back at them, peering around the starport¡¯s retaining wall. Just its head alone was massive, the size of an aircar, and worse, Anakin knew it. ¡°Rakamat,¡± he breathed.
There were twenty Yuuzhan Vong warriors. Three were already dead, put down by precise headshots from Solidian, the Ultramarine braced with feet shoulder-width apart. Bugs splattered on his armor plate, some slashing his fatigues and drawing lines of blood but the neophyte weathered it. Mei whirled like a dervish, her indigo blade contrasting with the blood-red of her brother¡¯s. Two warriors danced with her, their armors pink and green, pearlescent. Luke ripped a chunk of duracrete up, slamming it into the back of a warrior¡¯s head, knocking him off balance and into Luke¡¯s lightsaber. Vonduun crab resisted for a moment, guiding the tip up to the crab¡¯s vulnerable neck seam and the warrior died, charred hole in his throat. Another down. He chanced a look to Ascratus, seeing the Sergeant slip past an amphistaff and punch a warrior in the chest. The armor held, mostly, carapace crumpling in a crater with a sound like ice cracking and he stumbled back, loose limbed, blood drooling from under his helmet. The Yuuzhan Vong tried a step, two steps, then went to his knees, then his face. Five down. ¡°Rakamat! At the space port, we are gone!¡± Luke¡¯s blood chilled and he reached out for his nephew, feeling his fear, his anger, his mild panic but - Luke sidestepped, deflected an amphistaff, ducked a spray of venom - nothing worse. ¡°The starship?¡± Ascratus¡¯ voice was flat and unbothered by any exertion, even as he waded into a near storm of bugs, razor bugs scree-ing along his plate and thudbugs splatting without leaving a mark. The Ultramarine met an amphistaff with his long combat blade, surprising Luke as it managed to survive the edge of the alien bio-weapon. ¡°About to be a puddle of molten metal. Zalthis, stop shooting the blasted thing!¡±
Scowling, the neophyte clamped his pistol back to his thigh and darted after Face, the bulk of the YT freighter between them and the biot. Hot air whipped at Anakin¡¯s back and they could hear the massive biot hauling itself into the bay, claws screaming on duracrete and yorick coral grinding it to powder. The bay the freighter sat in was arranged like a half circle, the open section left for take-offs and landings and currently occupied by an AT-AT sized vong monster. The curving back wall of the bay had access to the starport itself, sealed off by blast doors and Anakin swore, yanking his lightsaber from his belt and igniting it, knowing they would need to cut through, which would take time, and the rakamat was probably about to turn the freighter into slag and then them - Zalthis dashed past Face and Anakin both, set his shoulder and launched himself into the nearest blast door, legs pistoning hard to cannon him forward almost horizontal. He rebounded with a boom but the door was visibly dented. Zalthis battered it again and the door crashed inward. ¡°Kell would love you,¡± Face called as they followed the neophyte. Anakin paused at the threshold, feeling more heat behind him, seeing his shadow cast before him and he spun around. The freighter was haloed in golden light, almost painful to look at- ¡°Get inside!¡± Face grabbed him by the collar of his jumpsuit and hauled, just as superheated air kicked them both in the chest, knocking them bodily backwards several meters into waiting hands. Zalthis propped them both up. ¡°Theoretical is as gone as our ship,¡± he said. ¡°Practical is we run.¡± The heat coming from the door into the bay was almost physical, enough to shimmer the air. The rakamat bellowed, loud enough to tremble dust from the floor and shake it from the ceiling. ¡°To Uncle Luke,¡± Anakin added. ¡°And Bhindi and Zev.¡± ¡°What else could I possibly mean?¡± Zalthis asked. The rakamat continued smashing the bay behind them, roaring and stomping. The inside of the spaceport was dark, light only coming down in splashes from holes in the roof or gashes in the walls, but it was more than enough. Anakin was a Jedi - he¡¯d braved the caves under the Praxeum where the darkness was almost physical. Adrenaline helped keep him moving, just as much as the way the Force sung in his blood.
What could stop a Jedi? What could stop a trio of Ultramarines? Two veteran intelligence operatives? Zalthis put chazrach down with each pull of the trigger, his slugthrower booming out each kill like an announcement. Solidian used a long knife, close to the length of a vibroblade, and caught coufees on its edge. Over his shoulder he carried Zev¡¯s body, his head bound by stained cloth. Bhindi refused to leave him behind. Mei was a whirl of indigo and red, her two sabres keeping the reptoids at bay. Bhindi Drayson, staying back with Face along with Solidian, joined the Colonel in providing pinpoint shots from their own carbines. Tears dried on her cheeks and now she pulled the trigger with a look of pure hatred. Ascratus didn¡¯t even bother with anything but plowing forward through the chazrach that swarmed him, ignoring shrieking scrapes of coufees and splatted bugs on his armor. And his Uncle? Luke led the group, wading into dozens of the diminutive footsoldiers with his green blade spitting. Chazrach bloomed in the Force and Anakin felt almost bad at how easily they pushed through them. How many now? A dozen? Two? Just by his own ¡®sabre? A Jedi was supposed to care about those things, a Jedi was supposed to know - he couldn¡¯t keep track. The reptoids may have individually been as threatening as a wokling, but they didn¡¯t come one at a time. They came in mobs and swarms. They came in packs that surged out of hideyholes and down rubble-choked sidestreets. Anakin could feel, behind their minds, like faint threads in the air, the vast and alien presence of the yammosk. It knew they were here, it knew they were coming, and it wanted them dead. So Anakin didn¡¯t keep track, he didn¡¯t try to count. He killed chazrach like they were droids and he thought of Rhonabeq and Daeshara¡¯cor and Miko and Chewbacca and Zev. Another name on a list that wouldn¡¯t end. Anakin twitched his head to the side, hooked coufee sliding past his cheek and he removed the arm of the reptoid responsible. It didn¡¯t even flinch - through the Force he felt it¡¯s muted pain but it slashed at him with claws on its remaining hand and Anakin removed that arm too and then it lunged, stumps smoking, fangs bared and Anakin¡¯s blue blade swept across its chest. It died, life draining out into the Force, weakly trying to snap at his boots. Did it even count as killing when they didn¡¯t care about living? He felt his uncle¡¯s attention and snapped his head around. Very carefully, Luke nodded. Anakin swallowed and nodded back. Of course it did. Life was life. But it didn¡¯t mean they stopped. Exigence Chapter XXIV XXIV: Who We Are
After the first ambush was dispatched, the Yuuzhan Vong sent chazrach. No more warriors, just their proxies. On the one hand, it was easier to avoid them, on the other hand, they could send so many. Not even Ithor had been like this and Anakin felt uneasy at the thought - was this what it would be like trying to free worlds from the vong? Would every world have this many of the invaders to defend it? The loss of life he couldn¡¯t even wrap his head around, if the New Republic had to fight numbers like this for every lost planet. Anakin, Zalthis and Face lost the rakamat easily, the massive biot unable to track them as they fled through the starport, emerging on the far side right into a patrol. That time, it seemed they had surprised the vong as much as the vong surprised them and in a matter of moments it was over. Zalthis¡¯ big slugthrower made a mess of the Yuuzhan Vong officer while Anakin tore into the chazrach. That was hours ago. Linked up again with his uncle and the rest, there hadn¡¯t been time to plan or figure a new course. All three Jedi could sense the chazrach converging on them. Hundreds, maybe even thousands. Like the city was alive and pumping them all down boulevards like arteries, pumping them like white blood cells to excise the foreign intruders. It was a game of keep away. Staying ahead of the mobs of reptoids, using auspex and Force and instinct to choose which roads to take, which buildings to cut through. Somehow, it seemed like the vong always knew where they were. Chazrach mobs they passed would suddenly divert and come towards them from another angle. Anakin and Mei and Uncle Luke had the Force to draw on, the Ultramarines were something else entirely, but Face and Bhindi were only human. Night was coming, and soon they all would have been awake for a full day. ¡°They¡¯re tracking us,¡± Bhindi spoke the words from his thoughts. ¡°I am forced to agree,¡± Ascratus growled through his vox. ¡°Auspex detects no signals or emanations from us.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t sense anything either,¡± Luke said. Chazrach minds were distant and while they all kept their ¡®sabres out and on their guard, in case of hidden warriors like before, it was a moment to take a break. Solidian gently put down Zev¡¯s body, Bhindi pointedly looking anywhere but at the fallen Wraith. Water flasks were broken out and Anakin drained his entirely in moments, dropping onto a nearby bench. Sweat matted his hair down and he swept it from his eyes, taking long, deep breaths. ¡°Even if they aren¡¯t tracking us, it doesn¡¯t matter. We don¡¯t have a way out, not unless we check another spaceport. I¡¯m sorry, Uncle Luke. I should¡¯ve been faster.¡± Ten minutes. Ten minutes. He was so close, there was just a few more connections to firm up and maybe a capacitor to replace. If he¡¯d been faster, the rakamat wouldn¡¯t have caught them. If he¡¯d been faster, they could¡¯ve flown to the library and Zev- ¡°No,¡± his uncle cut off his spiraling thoughts. ¡°The timing wasn¡¯t a coincidence. They waited until we were done at the library.¡± Zalthis stilled from where he was replacing massive shells in a magazine. ¡°Sergeant, a theoretical. The Yuuzhan Vong knew why we were coming, but don¡¯t know why.¡± The other neophyte, looking down thoughtfully at Zev¡¯s body, nodded. ¡°So they let us achieve our goal, and kill or capture us afterward to reclaim our prize.¡± ¡°And then they know,¡± Anakin finished. ¡°Sithspawn, we led them to it.¡± ¡°I think it¡¯s worse than that. Only a handful of people knew about this operation. If the vong know, it means we have a leak very high up. Heads are going to roll over this.¡± His uncle grimaced, but didn¡¯t counter Face¡¯s point. ¡°We can deal with that when we get out of here alive. Sergeant Ascratus, you told us the Imperium had a potential way off this planet. Now is a good time to let us know.¡± The big Ultramarine patted at one of several large cases magnetically locked to his back. ¡°It was intended for use only in extremis.¡± Solidian coughed in a particularly pointed manner. Anakin looked over at Zev¡¯s body again and took a deep breath. ¡°Samothrace is on station within the envelope of Obroa¡¯s atmosphere and magnetic field. I have a teleport homer. Should we locate a suitable location¡­the battlebarge can extract us all.¡± Silence met the Sergeant¡¯s admission. A teleport homer? The captain of the task force that found the Imperials reported that an Ultramarine had teleported aboard, but Anakin hadn¡¯t really thought much of it when Kyp, Mei and him read the Senator¡¯s datapack. Teleportation? That kind of technology was fanciful and almost ridiculous, except that as far as Anakin had known them, Astartes never joked. Could be sarcastic, maybe, but never like this. It would be a joke in horrible taste as well, to offer something as a way out of this mess then take it back. ¡°This wasn¡¯t an option before?¡± Face¡¯s voice was level and calm but his anger poured through the Force. ¡°Teleportation is hazardous. It can be deadly. Properly attuned, the dangers are mitigated, but only under the most ideal of circumstances. This is¡­not.¡± ¡°So we could die just by escaping.¡± ¡°Correct, Jensaarai Taral.¡± Mei rubbed her forehead. ¡°Just Mei.¡± ¡°It appears we have little choice. We will be caught and undoubtedly overrun. The dangers of teleportation are many, but they are less than certain death and worse: failure.¡± Face cast a long look at his fallen squadron-mate. ¡°Those dangers better be very, very real.¡± He said at length. ¡°Luke?¡± His uncle¡¯s reticence was clear, but pointless. Like Ascratus said - they would be caught. Anakin could sense chazrach bands already getting closer to them. In another ten minutes they¡¯d have to move on again. The Force filled him, but he could feel grit in his eyes, a tremble in his legs. Maybe the Imperials could go on forever, but everyone else was only human. ¡°Find us a ¡®suitable location¡¯, Sergeant. We need to leave.¡± Ascratus saluted, hands spread on his chest and thumbs interlinked. Solidian gently lifted up Zev¡¯s body. Anakin closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up, expecting to see Mei. His uncle looked down at him, face soft. ¡°Time to go,¡± he said, and offered a hand. Anakin took it and his uncle, barely taller than he, pulled himself effortlessly to his feet. Luke took him by his shoulders, leaning forward to rest his forehead to Anakin¡¯s. ¡°The Force is our ally, Anakin. Always.¡± Anakin swallowed hard and nodded. His uncle stepped away, reigniting his lightsaber. The comforting snap-hiss echoed in the street, adding another hum to Mei¡¯s own active blades. Anakin unclipped his own, studying the hilt for a moment. Made by his own hands, as much a part of him as anything. Gentle pressure produced a shimmering blue bar of light and Anakin spun his blade once, twice. Took a deep breath, centered himself, blew it out. He trotted after his Uncle, letting Mei take up the rear this time, Ascratus once more on point. Time to go.
The city lashed out again and again like a gestalt colony, like ants boiling from a kicked over nest. The smallest xenos, those used as fodder, would be almost pitiable but for their dogged determination and weight of numbers. Zalthis harvested them, just like Ascratus, with a quiet dispassion that didn¡¯t betray his growing uneasiness. Small cuts adorned his limbs - minor things, trifling things, quick lines of crimson that scabbed over immediately. The blades of the little xeno were unlike those of the Vong xenoform. Those masters had staff-like, writhing serpents that Ascratus learned the hard way cared little for doughty Ulramarian plate. A single amphistaff had pared a crescent, like a clipped nail, from the rim of the Sergeant¡¯s pauldron. It did it without even seeming to slow. ¡®Monomolecular edges,¡¯ the Republican they called Face warned. ¡®They¡¯re like lightsabers, except with venom.¡¯ Whatever devolved variant the vong xenoform blessed their auxiliaries with, it wasn¡¯t up to par. The daggers chipped and gouged at ceramite, that was sure, but Zalthis weathered them no different than the blunted training blades of his fellows. The chazrach were too slow to make meaningful connection. And in return¡­ The reptoids were perhaps a meter in height. Small enough, in fact, the Sergeant had grown quite accustomed to kicking them away, like vermin. They were fragile, falling to Zalthis¡¯ fists as well as his knife, to Solidian¡¯s bolts, though he used them sparingly, and to the simple plasma weapons the Republicans carried. A squad, Zalthis thought, plucking an alien dagger from a taloned fist, breaking several fingers, and then ramming it back through its owner¡¯s eye socket. The reptoid fell, dagger wagging in its skull. A squad of Ultramarines and they could take the city. Wasn¡¯t that the calculus? A squad for a city, a company for a nation, a Chapter for a world? A Legion for a culture? They did not have a squad. They barely even had one Ultramarine, the Sergeant having to nursemaid the Republicans so. The Jedi, like Anakin Solo, who Zalthis watched backhand a reptoid with his glimmering lightsaber, sending the beast aside in halves; they were worthwhile fighters. None of the three bore a single scratch, something he had to admit Solidian and himself could not claim. The other two, though, were not made for this. He could see it in their fatigue, he could see it in the whites of their eyes. Intelligence operatives, not warriors. This was a warrior¡¯s battle, hand-to-hand, fist-to-face, coated in sprays of blood and beckoning more. ¡®Sergeant,¡¯ Solidian called over vox, sounding irritable. ¡®How far must I carry this luggage?¡¯ They spoke in High Gothic, for Low had been translated and made available for the Republicans. ¡®As far as Master Skywalker and Colonel Loran demand. They are in command, not I.¡¯ ¡®I¡¯m half as effective,¡¯ Solidian sighed, stooping to pick up a rock before cannoning it into a chazrach¡¯s skull with enough force it left its feet, flopping backwards into two of its fellows. ¡®You are an Ultramarine, you will adapt.¡¯ The Sergeant¡¯s tone brooked no further argument and Zalthis heard Solidian grumble under his breath, leaving his vox inactive. ¡®We¡¯re almost there, Sol.¡¯ The last of the latest pack of chazrach expired with a sigh, sliding from the Sergeant¡¯s notched blade. An amphistaff had taken a chunk out of it some time ago, the dense adamantium blade offering a bit more resistance. ¡®Then what?¡¯ his brother asked, adjusting Zev¡¯s corpse on his shoulder. ¡®We cannot take their friend back through teleport. It¡¯s enough of a risk as it is for all of us save the Sergeant. A dead body? We¡¯d be lucky if it didn¡¯t end up half inside one of us.¡¯ ¡®They¡¯re unaccustomed to death.¡¯ Zalthis watched the three Jedi as they deactivated their blades, feeling an odd envy at such a potent and portable weapon. Where Solidian ached to divest himself of the slain Wraith and tear through their enemy at abandon, the Jedi always looked almost regretful. Especially their leader. ¡®It¡¯s harder for them.¡¯ ¡®Then let them carry this.¡¯ Zalthis took a moment to count to five before grabbing Solidian¡¯s shoulder and leaning close. ¡®Sol, let it be. He was part of our squad.¡¯ ¡®He¡¯s not even Imperial-¡¯ ¡®He was sworn to the same mission as us and in his own way he oathed his life. And he died in duty. Don¡¯t dishonor him or yourself.¡¯ For a moment, Zalthis feared his friend would argue, screwing up his face in indignation before Solidian let out a breath, relaxing. ¡®You¡¯re right, Zal. I just - we¡¯re here with the Sergeant. I fear disappointing him.¡¯ Zalthis laughed, shoving Solidian hard away, making the other neophyte scowl and stumble. ¡®Aren¡¯t I supposed to be the one worrying?¡¯ ¡®Enough,¡¯ Ascratus growled over vox. Chastened, Zalthis cleared his throat, nodding to the Sergeant¡¯s back. ¡®You named a tracker, Jedi. ¡®Yammosk¡¯, I believe.¡¯ ¡®I did.¡¯ Luke Skywalker glanced around at the latest crop of slain xenos, shaking his head minutely. ¡®Also called a ¡®war coordinator¡¯. We don¡¯t know much about them, but according to Danni Quee, they¡¯re telepathic and can communicate across long distances. It¡¯s how the Yuuzhan Vong manage their troops.¡¯ The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Zalthis¡¯ lip curled, imagining some hulking alien abomination trying to reach into his mind. No doubt the Emperor, in His wisdom, expected such things and wove fearsome defenses into the conditioning he and his training cadre had gone through. How would he know? Would he feel the ¡®war coordinator¡¯ rebuffed? A shadow of inhuman rage, battering at his thoughts? Or would he not notice at all as it squirmed amongst his memories, taking whatever it wished - No, no alien could overcome an Ultramarine. That the Primarch would never allow. Ascratus consulted his auspex again, taking a moment to parse the information. The big sergeant gestured forward, pointing unerringly farther into the city. ¡®We continue ahead. Perhaps two, three kilometers and the conditions may be best.¡¯ Nods and confirmations rippled through the group. Teleportation was an imprecise science and many of its mysteries held in trust by the Mechanicum. Few ever had the dubious privilege of its manner of transport and Zalthis did not look forward to joining that number. Tales and rumors of disjunctions and misalignments painted grim pictures of what a failed teleport could cause, though Ascratus himself had leapt across a million kilometers of space only weeks ago, when the Republican squadron found Eboracum. To that, Zalthis held his faith, hoping the savants and magi of Samothrace could display the same prowess again. ¡®Anakin and Mei and I are limiting our senses,¡¯ the Jedi Master continued, as the motley squad fell in line again, leaving their latest battlefield. ¡®No one knows the extent a yammosk can reach, and if it can sense Force users¡­¡¯ ¡®This will limit your precognition?¡¯ ¡®Not precognition, Sergeant. We don¡¯t see things before they happen: we can sense the chazrach while they prepare an ambush. And yes, it will. But if it¡¯s how they¡¯re tracking us so easily-¡¯ ¡®Then it is a worthy trade.¡¯ Mystic matters of mind and thoughts - that was why the Emperor made the Edict. Years ago now. For himself, Zalthis was generally ambivalent on the removal of the Librarius. The topic came up at times, as debate, amongst the neophytes. Some wondered if they might have had the aptitude, in other times of the Crusade, while others scoffed that it was allowed to run on so long, unchecked. ¡®No Astartes needs anything but a bolt and blade,¡¯ Solidian once boasted during one debate, late at night. Others felt the same. Zalthis couldn¡¯t help but think, sometimes, if perhaps laying aside a potent weapon for fear of its dangers went against the tenets of the Imperial Truth. Maybe, by understanding the Warp, the Ultramarines might have been better prepared when the crimson bastards of the never-spoken-of XVIIth turned their coats. Then he remembered it was the Emperor, Beloved by All, who made this determination, and if He did not know best the Imperial Truth, who did? It was hard to argue the Jedi hadn¡¯t been useful, all the same. Though the chazrach were pitiful combatants, they came in numbers and numbers were a quality all its own. Even seconds of warning made all the difference in war and the Jedi¡¯s Force often provided whole minutes to avoid or prepare for the next mob. ¡®So, what d¡¯you mean by ¡®conditions¡¯, anyway? Can¡¯t we just use your teleport from anywhere?¡¯ ¡®Neophyte Zalthis, enlighten Jedi Mei.¡¯ He cleared his throat, recalling hypnoconditioned information in an instant. ¡®Teleportation, that is to say, aetherophasic transmigration, allows for point-to-point relocation of an individual or payload through the medium of the warp.¡¯ ¡®Textbook,¡¯ the Sergeant grunted. ¡®Detail the hazards.¡¯ ¡®Teleportation, since it relies on the warp, is subject to the vagaries innate to the medium. The warp defies classic physics and predictability, so conditions for ideal teleportation may change without warning and without logic.¡¯ Zalthis glanced at Solidian again, and the corpse over his shoulder. ¡®Poor conditions or poor signal locking can have¡­unhealthy results.¡¯ The Jedi, Mei, who looked most warlike in her armor, cocked her head, walking backwards to look at Zalthis and Ascratus both. ¡®Unhealthy?¡¯ ¡®Deadly. Disjunction, inversion, avulsion and recombination are the most likely outcomes-¡¯ The Jedi blanched and twisted up her face in disgust. ¡®Alright! I don¡¯t want to know, actually. Three more kilometers, wow, that¡¯s easy, let¡¯s keep walking.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s why it¡¯s a last resort,¡¯ Colonel Loran added. ¡®It is,¡¯ Ascratus confirmed. ¡®Even Astartes rarely use teleportation in any but the most vital and controlled circumstances.¡¯ ¡®Certain death versus possible death.¡¯ The Republican shook his head. ¡®Not a great deal, but it¡¯s what we¡¯ve got.¡¯ ¡®The magi of Samothrace are well trained and the vessel will attempt the closest possible approach upon my signal.¡¯ ¡®You¡¯ve done this before?¡¯ ¡®Five times, correct, sergeant?¡¯ Zalthis couldn¡¯t help but boast. Ascratus nodded. ¡®Five. Four times into combat, once aboard your Republic starship.¡¯ Mei made a point of looking the Ultramarine up and down. ¡®And you¡¯re still all in one piece. Well, may the Force be with us then.¡¯ The other two Jedi echoed the sentiment.
There was a pedestrian bridge here once. A lovely, two storied flying bridge; it linked two sprawling complexes, arching up above a boulevard for vehicle traffic, giving students and faculty pleasant, climate controlled access between parts of the branch university. Something had taken it off at one end and with structural integrity lost, the bridge came down like a falling rope: the broken end first, then unrolling itself across the boulevard, both floors compacting and blowing out floor-to-ceiling glass windows in blizzarding shards. More than a few landspeeders and groundcars were caught underneath. Now it was a humped ridge, bisecting the boulevard, piled with speeders that tried to ford over it before being perforated by bugs or slagged by coralskipper plasma. One of the complexes it attached to had given up and sighed into a mountain of rubble, about two stories worth, climbing into the sky like a low hillock. There, among wrecked landspeeders and in the lee of the tumbled bridge, Ascratus called a halt. Like his uncle had said, Anakin kept the Force close, picking up only muted impressions from around them. Whatever let the yammosk track them, it might have been waning. They¡¯d managed the last distance without seeing a single scale or tail of the reptoid thralls. Eerily quiet, actually, given how unceasing the past several hours had been. Anakin looked up at the sky, now growing dark again, Obroa looming huge and blue on the horizon. At least they never ran into a rakamat again. He shuddered to imagine one of those enormous biots chasing them out in the open like this, where it could really use its plasma. Movement caught Anakin¡¯s attention. Consulting his auspex again, then unclasping a large case from his back, the Sergeant paced back and forth, looking between his heldheld scanner and the sky above. Then he pronounced the place perfect. ¡°There is clearance above and the homer indicates favorable thinning of the empyrean. Minimal, but likely enough to be a factor. The conjunction of magnetic fields between this world and its primary will ease our way. I will need to assemble it. Solidian, to me.¡± Wordlessly, the neophyte laid down the slain Wraith with care that surprised Anakin, trotting to the older Ultramarine and helping retrieve another few cases and pouches from the sergeant¡¯s back. For all the Imperial¡¯s protestations about Truth and Science, the way the Sergeant talked about this ¡®teleport homer¡¯ almost sounded like a ritual. Mei caught his eye and the Jensaarai shrugged. She lowered herself to the ground, stretching out one leg and sighing. Well, if they had a minute¡­ ¡°What do we need to do?¡± Ascratus continued his work as Anakin¡¯s uncle peered over a complicated arrangement of wiring and boxy, anodized blocks stamped with a skull and cog motif. ¡°It will take minutes for the homer to draw enough power once prepared. Then I will signal Samothrace, and when teleport is ready, we will stand within range of the homer. As close as possible is as safe as possible.¡± Watching from where Anakin was sitting, the sergeant¡¯s fingers were deft as he and Solidian fed leads together and clipped antennae into position. It reminded him a little of a moisture evaporator, shrunken down in size and painted black. Part of him itched to get closer, see what was going on, but he let the desire come, go. He¡¯d have to get his hands on it to really start to understand how it worked and he was pretty sure the Ultramarines would have something choice to say about that. ¡°We will not be able to take a body with us,¡± Ascratus warned. ¡°Make preparations for him now, if you wish.¡± ¡°Bullshit,¡± Bhindi hissed. ¡°Why not?¡± The Wraith¡¯s eyes were red, her expression exhausted and Anakin winced. Chewie didn¡¯t have a body to recover, the moon made certain of that. ¡°The fewer the variables, the safer the teleport. The biological material of a corpse will be registered by the teleportarium and it will be taken along with the living, but what emerges may not be what was taken.¡± ¡®What the hell does that mean? Is that a riddle? Zev died for this mission-¡± Face gently took Bhindi by the shoulders, leading her away from the Ultramarines sergeant, who promptly returned to assembling the homer, not a care in the world. ¡°Bhindi, Zev wouldn¡¯t want us to risk it.¡± ¡°We can¡¯t leave him, Face!¡± ¡°We¡¯ll bury him. And we¡¯ll take down the coordinates. Maybe when the war is over¡­¡± Bhindi spun away, arms folded, anguish echoing in the Force. Miko¡¯s body was lost on Helska when Jacen escaped with Danni. When the planet was destroyed, his burial was in the stars. Sernpidal¡­Sernpidal didn¡¯t have much left. What mattered was the person, he supposed. When they became one with the Force again, the body didn¡¯t matter as much. At least, that¡¯s what Anakin tried to convince himself. The Wraiths took Zev with them, denying an awkward offer from Zalthis to assist. While they built a cairn of rubble over their comrade, Anakin hauled himself to his feet, joining his uncle in watching the Ultramarines work. ¡°Hello, Anakin,¡± his uncle sighed. Anakin flushed a little when Luke laid an arm around his shoulders. ¡°I¡¯m so proud of you.¡± He tried to shrug off the compliment. ¡°No, Anakin, I mean it. Today you¡¯ve been as good a Jedi as I could ever hope for.¡± ¡°Well, thanks, but - isn¡¯t it -¡± Anakin fidgeted, tapping the hilt of his lightsaber at his side. He took a breath, ordering his thoughts. ¡°I think I¡¯ve - I¡¯ve killed more people today than ever before, Uncle Luke. They just kept coming and all we could do was kill them. Isn¡¯t that wrong?¡± Out of the corner of his eye, Anakin caught his uncle¡¯s expression slip, something old and exhausted flashing across his boyish features before it was gone and it was just Uncle Luke again, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eyes as intense and full of love as ever. ¡°Taking a life is always a balance, like how the Force is a balance. Defending your own life is never wrong - don¡¯t mistake me. Defense of yourself and those you love is as natural as breathing. The chazrach wanted to hurt us, Anakin. Kill us or capture us, I don¡¯t know, but it was their violence that we had to answer to.¡± ¡°Like fighting the Empire.¡± ¡°Like fighting the Empire. The Force doesn¡¯t ask us to wait for a knife in the back, but we shouldn¡¯t seek violence. That¡¯s why I¡¯m so proud of you. Today has been more of challenge than even Dantooine was and through it all, you never rejoiced in what you had to do.¡± ¡°But I didn¡¯t feel bad, I mean, I think about them and, I don¡¯t know, I just feel¡­fine.¡± Luke led them both away from the Ultramarines, out toward the more open stretches of the boulevard. Anakin let him lead, hands in his pockets, head dipped. The Wraiths piled a cairn over Zev while Mei ran through a variety of stretches. He felt his uncle reach out to Bhindi, his touch gentle and featherlight and the woman¡¯s tangles of grief and bitter recrimination eased a little as she worked. ¡°What is the first tenet of the Jedi Code?¡± Even before saying it, Anakin knew what his uncle meant. ¡°There is no emotion; there is peace,¡± he quoted. ¡°Peace. Serenity. Taking a life is a grave thing, but as Jedi, sometimes we¡¯re called to do so. A long time ago, I had to take a lot of lives. You know about Shadowspawn.¡± Anakin nodded, it had come up in history classes with Master Tionne. ¡°His shadowtroopers were bound to his power and when I destroyed Shadowspawn, I knew they would all die. I felt each one of them go but there was nothing else that I could do. I regret the loss of life but they could never be freed. In a way, death was a form of freedom from how their minds had all been enslaved by Shadowspawn.¡± Melancholy rolled off his uncle, sadness and regret, but no blame. ¡°You wondered if it mattered if a being wanted to die.¡± He shifted his weight, a little uncomfortable that his uncle could read him so well. ¡°It¡¯s alright. It¡¯s a hard question.¡± Obroa continued to rise in the sky, the gas giant emerging more and more from behind the limb of the world. A mirror opposite to Yavin - blues and icy whites compared to warm oranges and reds. ¡°The Yuuzhan Vong worship death, so dying isn¡¯t seen as a bad thing to them. Does that mean we can take their lives without thinking?¡± Luke shook his head. ¡°No. Belief in something doesn¡¯t make it right. The Yuuzhan Vong¡¯s faith is troubling and so is their fanaticism, but that¡¯s their faith. We don¡¯t judge ourselves by the values of another, we judge ourselves by the standard the Force sets. Life is precious. All life, even the Yuuzhan Vong, even the chazrach. Even if they want to throw it away, they can¡¯t use us to make it happen.¡± It made sense, in a hypothetical kind of way, but the chazrach still threw themselves almost bodily onto his lightsaber and at the bolts and blasters of the Ultramarines and Wraiths. It made sense, but wasn¡¯t it the same end result? ¡°Isn¡¯t that kind of the same?¡± Anakin asked. His uncle was quiet a moment and the two of them stood in the deepening shadows of evening. ¡°If the chazrach tried to surrender, what would we do?¡± ¡°Accept, of course.¡± ¡°If the Yuuzhan Vong sent an envoy to Coruscant to negotiate peace and request worlds of their own, what would we have done?¡± ¡°Talked to them, I guess.¡± He didn¡¯t say ¡®agree¡¯, because he knew very well how argumentative the Senate could be. ¡°And if a Yuuzhan Vong tomorrow asked to be your friend, what would you do?¡± He thought of Chewie and Miko and Daeshara¡¯cor and Jaina¡¯s friend Annie and Zev and all the rest. He thought of what Chewie would say in his rumbling, rolling voice. ¡°I¡¯d hear him out,¡± he said at last, for some reason feeling lighter for saying so. ¡°That¡¯s why it isn¡¯t the same. We fight only exactly as much as we have to - they fight as much as they can.¡± ¡°If some of the chazrach tried to run away¡­¡± Anakin trailed off, seeing the truth of it. They would have let them flee. It wouldn¡¯t have mattered if they ¡®gave away¡¯ their position, since the Yuuzhan Vong seemed to already know exactly where they were. Like the ones he had first injured, then crippled, then maimed, if at any point they had given up, Anakin wouldn¡¯t have escalated until the reptoid was dead. It was a measure of restraint, that¡¯s what it was, and he knew his uncle was right. A Jedi fights because they have to, not because they want to. That¡¯s what Kyp was missing. Luke wasn¡¯t saying not to fight the Yuuzhan Vong, he was making sure that you understood your intentions first. That you fought them to stop their violence and to protect others, not because you wanted to fight them, wanted to kill them. ¡°Thanks, Uncle Luke,¡± he muttered. ¡°Thank you,¡± his uncle replied and folded his nephew into a quick hug. ¡°Go drink some water and take a minute to rest. I need to have a word with the sergeant.¡± Exigence Chapter XXV XXV: Slaves to Darkness
Anakin caught a ration bar out of the air, peeling back the foil and taking a bite. Mei passed out the others, even the neophytes accepting two each. Face and Bhindi studiously kept their backs to the mounded rubble that hadn¡¯t been there when they arrived as they chewed on their own. The ration bar wasn¡¯t the best, but as hungry as he was it was as delicious as the home-cooked dinners back at the Praxeum. The sergeant of course turned down the offering, since it would mean taking off his helmet, and the Astartes seemed to have it welded in place. At least the two neophytes wore helmets with open faces, so they could down some quick calories. Solidian counted out his last rounds, juggling three ¡®bolts¡¯ in one hand before slotting them back into a magazine and slapping it into his pistol. ¡°How many blaster packs?¡± his uncle asked around a mouthful of dry granola. Face patted the pouches at his waist. ¡°Six, I think. They¡¯ll last longer if we¡¯re stunning, but that doesn¡¯t work great on the vong.¡± Bhindi nodded. ¡°Hard to stun things that love pain. They probably have ridiculously resilient nervous systems.¡± Anakin thought of Ithor, added his own recollection. ¡°Their armor scatters blaster bolts really well too.¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve noticed,¡± Face said sourly. Quiet again fell as they ate and fell into their own thoughts. In some ways, it felt like they¡¯d been on Obroa-skai for weeks, in other ways, like it had been no time at all. Nonstop adrenaline did weird things to perceptions of time. Like that one time he and Tahiri got lost trying to find one of the ¡®lost temples¡¯ and thought they were gone for only two hours, only to realize they missed breakfast and lunch. And boy, Kam Solusar had not been happy. He was sort of looking forward to getting back aboard Samothrace. They had only been onboard for a short time while Penitent Queen was loaded up with the droppods - and that felt like ages ago, now - but the trip back to Eboracum should be a few days, at least based on how the Imperials talked about their own strange hyperdrive. Maybe they¡¯d get to see more of the ship, something he could tell Jaina about. ¡°Long day,¡± Mei said, meandering over, chewing on her own bar. ¡°You said it.¡± ¡°Kinda pretty here, though. After the war, it seems like a nice place to visit.¡± ¡°You think so?¡± He tried to imagine the city intact. Squinted and pictured landspeeders cruising down the boulevard, the skyline alight with warm electric light, not smouldering fires. Tried to imagine the ziggurats repaired and elegant towers restored. It wasn¡¯t easy. ¡°Maybe if the vong leave anything standing.¡± ¡°Maybe,¡± Mei allowed. ¡°Ah, it¡¯s killing me staying bottled up like this. Could be a hundred of those little bastards sneaking up on us and we wouldn¡¯t know until-¡± she waved generally. ¡°We¡¯re pretty safe here.¡± Anakin pointed at the collapsed bridge, how it cut across the boulevard in a four meter high snarl of wreckage. ¡°If they came down the road, we¡¯d see them coming. And if they came over that whole mess-¡± he turned, gesturing up at the great heap of masonry that rose up far above them. ¡°Oh.¡± He was pointing right at a figure silhouetted against the setting sun. Mei followed his finger and her jaw set. ¡°Master Skywalker,¡± she called. As one, the Jedi all opened back up to the Force. They were surrounded. From all sides save down the boulevard itself, and it wasn¡¯t the muted, fuzzy presence of the chazrach but vibrant, full of life, just as Anakin had felt all his life to the point that he barely noticed. That meant one thing: captives. ¡°Sithspawn,¡± Face swore.
Chazrach hissed and brandished their coufee daggers. Slaves moaned and groaned, leaning on each other, eyes empty of anything but resignation. Yuuzhan Vong warriors, tall and lean, stood like statues equidistant through the throng, peering down at their cornered prey. They lined the top of the collapsed building, they came out of the abandoned university complex across the way. He counted a dozen, two dozen warriors. At least a hundred reptoids. More slaves than he wanted to consider. The pile of rubble was steep, but navigable. A thirty degree angle and treacherous, but the Yuuzhan Vong never cared about their slaves and their warriors would sooner touch a droid than admit any fear or hesitation. From the throng, a single Yuuzhan Vong pushed through and Anakin squinted up at him. This one vong was like the others of his kind, he was tall, taller than most humans, wearing the same ubiquitous vonduun crab armor with a massive amphistaff curled around his waist. Where he diverged was in a long, rippling cloak hanging from both shoulders and in his lack of a helmet. Braided hair fell in tresses, catching the wind, woven with tassels from a brightly dyed scarf wrapped around his elongated scalp. Clearly someone important. The total silence in the Force from him made Anakin¡¯s skin crawl as the Yuuzhan Vong stared down his nose, one eyebrow gently rising. Such a normal expression, but without anything behind it. ¡°Hrm. Jeedai. Welcome to Obroa-skai.¡± He raised his arms, palms up, and Anakin jumped as every other warrior stamped one foot down in unison, barking something at the sky. ¡°I am Commander Malik Carr and I have been a poor host. I must speak in deefense: you come as thieves into my fastness, so there could be no true greeting. You shame me, you make me give insult where I would wish nohn.¡± He could feel Mei¡¯s anger but his Uncle - from Luke he felt only intense focus, shorn of almost all emotion. Anakin held his tongue; it wasn¡¯t his place. ¡°I will be geenerous and overlook. I say: Welcome to Obroa Skai!¡± Again the Yuuzhan Vong chanted and stamped their feet. ¡°Command Malik Carr, I am Jedi Master Luke Skywalker.¡± His uncle inclined his head and even that much respect to a murderer like that vong seemed wrong. ¡°Will you let us pass?¡± Ascratus hadn¡¯t stopped in setting up his teleport homer. As if oblivious to the drama, the Ultramarine still worked away at the machine. Zalthis stood ready with a blade, Solidian with both hands wrapped around his big pistol. The Imperials were ready, at least. The vong would attack, sure as the seasons changed. His uncle could buy time, but those killers didn¡¯t understand diplomacy. Anakin glanced to the two Wraiths, both looking grim and holding their carbines tight. Everyone was low on ammunition. Against the number of chazrach and vong filling the lip of the depression? And not counting the slaves? Anakin¡¯s heart pounded against his ribs, just thinking of it. They were slaves. There were children. Men and women with coral growths on their heads, leaning on each other, but every one of them carried something deadly. A club made of duracrete, stuck to rebar. A shovel-shaped biot. Even just simple rocks clutched in fists. Jacen said the Yuuzhan Vong could control people, but like this? Like this? They were innocents! Just like the massassi children, damned by their circumstance but none of them deserved death. He could feel their horror and the constant pain that drove them on. It made his gut turn and sweat beaded along his hairline, freezing in the chill wind. ¡°I must disappoint, jeedai. You cannot pass. You may lay down your blades and you may surrender and I will¡­be just in your captivity. All my warriors stand against you and your made-ships are broken. The stars are beyond you. Lay down your blades.¡± Malik Carr slowly lowered his arms down to his sides, running fingers over his slumbering amphistaff. ¡°We will not,¡± his uncle said clearly. Anakin envied how sure he sounded. ¡°A good death is equal in the eyes of the gods,¡± Malik Carr agreed. ¡°If there can be no accord?¡± ¡°Solidian,¡± Ascratus called. ¡°Kill the thing.¡± The neophyte was firing even before the Ultramarine finished speaking. Three booming gunshots and- Malik Carr¡¯s lips thinned and he shook his head. Solidian¡¯s shock rang through the Force, but Anakin could see where the thin trails of smoke vanished just before the vong commander. A dovin basal, it had to be, sucking down the shots just like they eagerly gobbled up lasers. Solidian slowly lowered his pistol, finger off the trigger. ¡°Out,¡± he muttered. Then the slaves came down. They rode a bow-wave of suffering that almost doubled Anakin over. Their empty eyes and thousand yard stares were replaced by frantic tears and cries for help. Cries for help. Even as they stumbled and ran and hauled themselves down the loose scree toward them. ¡°Master Skywalker-¡± Mei gasped. ¡°I feel it,¡± his Uncle said through gritted teeth. ¡°¡±I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m so sorry-¡± ¡°Help me, help, please, help-¡± ¡°I have to, I have to-¡± Repeated refrains, over and over, from split lips and dried tongues. The yammosk drove them with whips of pain, injected right into their brains. Anakin felt it like ripples of heat, swelling up from nowhere and jamming into arms and legs, spasming muscles tight to keep fists clenched around makeshift weapons. Poking acid stings into backsides and calves to drive beings onward. Face to face with a sobbing Duro, Anakin barely had to step aside as he weakly swung a broken pipe. He was wearing a ragged tunic, torn at the knees and tattered at the hems, but the young Jedi could see the markings of the Obroan Institute. The Duro, on shaking legs, heaved the pipe around and his arms trembled as he lifted it back in the air. His limbs were like twigs. Anakin¡¯s lightsaber hummed at his side, forgotten. It took no effort to soothe the Duro¡¯s pain. He reached out with the Force and smoothed over scalded neurons, he let the soft touch of the Force wash over the Duro¡¯s mind, calming down his fear, his frustration, his helplessness. The being¡¯s red eyes cleared and tears rolled down weathered cheeks. Jacen had taught him how to do this. His brother could calm any animal, soothe any pain, and it worked just as well- As soon as Anakin¡¯s focus shifted, the yammosk returned. Screaming and with fresh energy the Duro lunged at Anakin, babbling something, pipe coming around and Anakin reacted. He reacted like he was trained to, he reacted like a boy of sixteen reacts when an adult levels a length of metal weighing several kilograms at his face. The Duro¡¯s arm dropped, steaming at the elbow. Cloven by a lightsaber, enough pain to overwhelm the yammosk for just a second, the Duro fell to his knees, choking out words. ¡°Kill me, kill me please,¡± he gasped. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt you Jedi, please, don¡¯t let them control me-¡± His head snapped back in a flash of silver and blood spumed and Zalthis stood next to Anakin. He felt the Duro¡¯s life wink out. Zalthis killed the Duro. The Duro¡¯s blood stained the Ultramarine¡¯s blade. And he didn¡¯t care at all. ¡°Kill or be killed, Jedi Solo. Their lives are already spent. Ours are not.¡± Slaves stumbled down the slope. Luke put a half dozen down with a firm shove of telekinesis, trapping them under rubble or pinning their limbs. Stun blasts from Face and Bhindi had others falling flat on their faces. There were other ways. There were other ways. Zalthis didn¡¯t, he didn¡¯t- Anakin looked down at the Duro. The Force sang in his blood. Zalthis stumbled back. The rest of the world dimmed. The Ultramarine said something but Anakin wasn¡¯t listening. He shoved again and the neophyte went to one knee, muscles on his neck standing out as he fought to keep his head up. ¡°Jedi Solo,¡± the neophyte ground out through clenched teeth. ¡°Cease this. I am not - ngh - your enemy.¡± Anakin let go of the Force, wide-eyed and Zalthis pulled himself back up. Anger warred with humiliation, pulling him in two, wanting to scream at the Ultramarine for his callousness toward life, wanting to apologize for attacking him - ¡°Don¡¯t kill them,¡± Anakin spat. ¡°It¡¯s not their fault.¡± ¡°They will die regardless. But, as you will.¡± The slaves were coming slowly, in ones and twos and small groups while that monster Malik Carr just watched, arms folded over pearlescent armor. But there were hundreds and with caution lost, Anakin opened himself fully to the force and gasped. Maybe thousands still coming. They didn¡¯t need the warriors. Enough slaves could bury them under the weight of unwilling but obedient bodies. Ascratus still hadn¡¯t said they were ready. ¡°Uncle Luke¡­¡± he called. He felt both other Jedi in the Force, both having done away with keeping a low profile. ¡°I feel them,¡± his uncle deactivated his lightsaber with a snap. ¡°Sergeant? How long?¡± ¡°Minutes until full charge. Then until Samothrace is in position. A quarter hour at most.¡± Luke nodded, like he was agreeing with something only he could hear. ¡°Mei, watch out for Anakin for me.¡± The Jedi Master sunk down into a cross-legged pose, completely incongruous as more slaves wailed and gave in to the mounting pressure of the yammosk. ¡°Master Skywalker-!¡± Mei cried. ¡°Uncle Luke!¡± ¡°Trust in me and trust in the Force, Anakin. Mei.¡± His uncle¡¯s eyes fell shut and his presence in the Force suddenly diminished, sinking away and broader, expansive, swelling and thinning out and Anakin grabbed hold, following his Uncle¡¯s focus as he reached out to one slave, two slaves, three and six and twelve and twenty-four and more until Anakin felt dizzy and let go. He felt Luke¡¯s intention at the last moment. He felt the way his uncle reached out for the tangled surge coral threads that wove into each slave¡¯s nervous system. He reached for the spikes of pain and the urging commands. His uncle was hunting the war coordinator. ¡°He¡¯s going for the yammosk!¡± Anakin shouted. Zalthis struck a slave away with a backhand that left her dazed and on the ground. ¡°Is that possible?¡± ¡°It better be.¡± Mei shoved a human into a Bothan, the two falling in a tangle of limbs. Then more slaves came at them, begging and sobbing and shouting with anger. Like his uncle had, Anakin looked to the environment, wrenching metal into shackles around feet or sliding burnt out landspeeders to block off avenues of approach. Zalthis kept to his promise, measured in the violence he answered with, but when Solidian joined in the other neophyte cracked skulls and killed without remorse. It was bad enough he had to feel each slave die, but the ones that felt almost grateful left his stomach twisted in knots. Mei stomped her foot hard, enough to make everyone nearby stumble and a cloud of stones and pellets of duracrete launched up, hanging around her like a planetary ring. She raised one hand, pointed at a Gotal and one stone blurred out of orbit, streaking out to crack into the Gotal¡¯s forehead and the slave went down, unconscious before he hit the ground. She pointed again and again, stones flying and slaves dropping. For now, it was enough. It wouldn¡¯t stay that way.
Inside each and every being Luke sensed a cancerous knot of silence. It trailed tendrils and fronds through brain and spine and he could trace their emptiness upwards, converging to single points squatting at the temple. He could outline the surge coral, but he couldn¡¯t quite see it. The same problem of all vong biotechnology, repeated over and over in hundreds if not thousands of innocent Obroans. Through the coral the yammosk could induce pain and physical sensations, giving feedback and punishment as it wished, but it wasn¡¯t enough. No, Miko told Danni that the yammosk had spoken directly into his mind and the young Jedi never had coral implanted in him. Whatever means the war coordinator used for its telepathy, it wasn¡¯t the Force. Luke¡¯s best hope was that since one had entered Miko Reglia¡¯s mind, that he could perhaps do the same, in reverse. Reach out and touch the biot, distract it or disable it and set free the slaves. Pain couldn¡¯t be the only thing the yammosk gave. It had to be able to give more detailed instructions. It had to be able to speak to the slaves, somehow. This he pinned his hopes on, probing minds and searching, searching. Here a Herglic lamented his poor luck at stopping over on Obroa-skai for too long as he was rocked with seizure-like spasms, driving him onward. There a Zabrak clutched at her head, blood trickling from her nose as she fought and fought as the skin of her feet melted and bubbled, crackling with white-hot agony even though she reassured herself again and again, with wide eyes, that no such damage was there. He dug deeper, past the surface, past conscious thought, pushing out, reaching out, grasping blind in the darkness with his hands open and palms up. A beggar in the streets, a prayer in the night, casting nets in darkened seas with only stars to guide him. Luke had confronted far stranger things than telepathic brains and he would be damned to Corellian hells if he let this be the end of his nephew. Below conscious cognition he bathed in impulse and reflex, feeling how the Herglic reached for a razor-sharp shard of durasteel without knowing why. He watched the Zabrak stifle the urge to get to her feet again and again, felt her ignore the nagging voice in her thoughts telling her it would all be over, it would all be well if she would just stand. Like a single loose thread, tickling, itching, ephemeral and evading reach, the yammosk slipped and slithered around Luke¡¯s mental grasp. He couldn¡¯t sense it - yet, it was there, a shadow cast, enough that he squinted and almost saw what formed it, it denied the Force but it whispered sideward promises and he chased it from mind to mind, being to being, flitting across the ruins until he realized he was going about it all wrong. In the minds and bodies of the surge coral slaves, the yammosk was alien and external. They were learning from the degenerate, mind-broken monsters seen earlier in the war. Now it laid a careful hand on the rudder to steer and in doing so, any time Luke reached for it he snapped glisterweb-fragile tendrils with his clumsy hands. Luke looked into a chazrach and did not know a smile crossed his face. He could almost see the yammosk, seething and yowling, nestled in a chamber of the reptoid¡¯s mind. Unlike the Yuuzhan Vong, they had a presence in the Force and they were so intertwined with the war coordinators that the yammosk couldn¡¯t avoid him even if it wanted to. Luke grasped the mind of the yammosk and hello jedi ................................................... strange meetings .................................... bold .......................................................................... curious Sunlight slanted in buttery bars through tall windows, bringing warm glow to the Grand Audience Chamber. Just beyond the vast hall Luke could hear excitable chatter as young Jedi trained. If he focused, he might hear the stern tones of Kam Solusar as he walked younglings through lightsaber forms. Flocks of birds rippled shadows as they crossed Yavin¡¯s light and the vibrant life of the moon filled him. It was good to be back. Almost as good as it was to see his very good friend, who had come all this way to tour the Praxeum. Luke turned on his heel and went to one knee, bowing his head. It was only right; his friend didn¡¯t need to come here after all and he was doing such a service to Luke by taking the time out of his very, very busy life to grace Yavin IV with his attention. Tentacles coiled and curled and unblinking golden eyes gave the Jedi Master their full attention. His friend really was beautiful, a perfect blend of ferocious intellect and careful ferocity. Others might judge his fleshy body as weak, but Luke knew the secret power that lurked behind those understanding eyes. Really, it was such an honor that his friend came all this way and Luke opened his mouth to say so. He frowned. Closed his mouth. Opened his mouth again. The words stuck in his throat. Something wasn¡¯t right. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Was there danger? A threat? He - they returned to Yavin after Obroa-skai. The mission to Obroa-skai, with the Imperium. That¡¯s all it was, he still had the leftover nerves from that dangerous infiltration. It had been so close, at the end. Hair-thin. How had they escaped? How had they escaped? He knew they did, because he was here with his friend and he couldn¡¯t have been on Yavin if he hadn¡¯t escaped Obroa-skai. So what had happened? The Ultramarines - the Legiones Astartes Ultramarines - had a teleport homer. A teleporter? Was that how they escaped? That¡¯s right. They teleported. With Imperial - from the Imperium - technology. And he brought his friend with him here, to show him the Praxeum. It was hard to overstate how proud Luke was of his Praxeum and all the Jedi that filled the halls. All the other Masters, like Kam Solusar and Tionne and Streen and Kyp Durron, who led the Dozen and Two Avengers, and- Why was he thinking of Kyp? He was going to greet his friend. He had to welcome him to Yavin. Yavin! So many Jedi here to introduce to his friend, who came all this way to Yavin. So far. How far was it? The other side of the galaxy? Where? Relative to Obroa-skai? But what did that matter? His friend was here, now, and he had to welcome him. It didn¡¯t matter how far his friend traveled, only that he was here. It really would be good to know how far Yavin was, though. So many Jedi. Like Mei. And Anakin. Who had been on Obroa-skai too. Anakin, who called out his name when he - Luke slowly rose to his feet. His friend watched him, full of mirth and good cheer. A true friend. Tentacles curled and waves. Nutrient gel slopped. Golden eyes stared. Luke stepped closer and reached out. Touch didn¡¯t bother his friend. Luke laid two fingers over a thick blue vein that ran between golden, beautiful eyes. The Praxeum was gone. The Grand Audience Chamber: gone. A yammosk hung in darkness, dripping crimson fluid. It flexed and breathed and shuddered, tentacles waving. A single tooth gnashed and writhed, unsettlingly fluid in its jawless maw. Luke stepped back. your mind or mine you will not enter mine, infidel that¡¯s hardly fair spit on fair and be damned jedi you break you curse you wrong wrong WRONG let go let go go go let go The yammosk trembled, fleshy body quivering and quaking. I have a simple request go go go go let go let go i will feed you to my children my children i will feed you to them let GO Luke bared his teeth and wrapped hands around the yammosk. you first
One moment, Anakin was pressed from all sides by slaves, desperately ignoring their cries. An old Bimm, old enough to be his grandfather, came at him with an organic looking shovel. A tool it might have been, but the blade of the shovel looked deadly sharp. He was just resigning himself to taking the old Bimm¡¯s arm when like puppets with their strings cut, every single slave reeled and fell to their knees or even on their faces, digging fingers into the dust or groaning and clutching at their heads. Silence fell, broken only by muffled sobbing, three lightsabers humming and the guttural noises that only many, many beings in shock could muster. Somewhat dazed, Anakin turned and saw his uncle still crosslegged, deep in meditation, brow creased in a deep frown. ¡°Mei?¡± ¡°Beats me, kid. I think Master Skywalker did it.¡± Gently, Anakin took a knee and held out a hand for the Bimm. He helped him up, keeping an eye on the distant Malik Carr and the Yuuzhan Vong warriors and chazrach. The Commander looked apoplectic, barking at a tiny villip at his shoulder. No movement, though, yet. Perhaps the vong were too surprised to act just yet. ¡°Bless you, Jedi. Thank you. Thank you.¡± the Bimm murmured, voice hoarse. He felt so light, even to Anakin¡¯s fatigued muscles. ¡°It - it was my uncle.¡± The Bimm looked past Anakin to the crosslegged Jedi Master and gasped. ¡°Your uncle? Luke Skywalker? I asked the Force to save us, but I never expected Luke Skywalker himself.¡± Anakin bit his lip. ¡°What is this?¡± Ascratus¡¯ voice boomed from his helmet and the Bimm jumped. ¡°Not a droid¡­¡± ¡°Do you feel the yammosk anymore?¡± Anakin tried his best to calm inflamed nerves in the Bimm, like Jacen taught him. ¡°No. The pain is gone, the voice, the urges. Is it dead? Did you kill the bastard?¡± Anakin shook his head. ¡°No. No, or at least, I don¡¯t think so. Sergeant, Uncle Luke is doing something to the yammosk, the slaves aren¡¯t under its control.¡± The Ultramarine had something approaching surprise in his voice, pushing past moaning beings to draw up to Anakin and the Bimm. ¡°Truly? I had not expected such a result. The homer is at capacity. I have signaled Samothrace.¡± For the first time in hours, the end was truly in sight. With the slaves freed, the homer charged, how much longer did they have? ¡°Shipmistress Altuzer reports ten minutes.¡± And that hope took the latest shuttle to the Outer Rim. ¡°Ten minutes!?¡± ¡°Ten minutes. The battlebarge is on the opposite side of the gas giant.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have ten minutes! If the vong attack us now-¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ll fight them.¡± the Bimm said. He held out a furred hand, missing tufts here and there, crusted with dried blood. Several fingernails were missing. Swallowing hard, Anakin took it and the Bimm shook his hand. ¡°I¡¯m Vomar. I was an archivist. We¡¯ll fight them, Jedi Solo.¡± ¡°You know me?¡± ¡°You said Luke Skywalker was your uncle. It¡¯s not that hard.¡± ¡°But if you fight, you¡¯ll die!¡± It was a stupid thing to say, looking at the emaciated Bimm. He was covered in lash-marks that stripped off his fur, one eye swollen in a brutal bruise, teeth missing. Other slaves picking themselves up looked little better. A Twi¡¯lek trembled, clutching at the stump of a truncated lekku, still oozing blood and pus. And the coral hunched on each and every one of their foreheads, taunting Anakin. Yammosk or not, they weren¡¯t free. Vomar must have noticed, understood what Anakin saw. ¡°My life is already over. The vong killed me the day they invaded. It¡¯s just¡­taken a while for my body to catch up.¡± Anakin¡¯s vision swam and he blinked down tears, swallowing hard. It was so pointless, so pointless, such a waste! So evil, so stupid, such stupid, blind evil. A dozen droids could do what all these slaves could without any pain, without any suffering. They could dig up all the ruins and find whatever the vong wanted and not a single person had to suffer. Vomar smiled as best he could, showing missing teeth. He hefted his organic shovel. Where there had been a miasma of terror and pain, now a cold fatalism chilled the minds of the former slaves. Many overheard what the Bimm had said. They called out similarly, anger overcoming fear, thoughts turning to their tormentors, their captors. Realizing the weapons they had in hand. ¡°It¡¯s alright. Everyone dies someday, Anakin Solo. Even the stars.¡± He didn¡¯t try to speak, to thank the Bimm. He would¡¯ve sobbed. Instead he knuckled away tears, nodded once, firm, like his uncle would. ¡°We¡¯ll buy you time.¡± Vomar promised. ¡°It¡¯s time Obroa-skai welcomed the Yuuzhan Vong. Isn¡¯t that right?¡± he called, louder. Other slaves nodded. ¡°Damn right, old man. I¡¯d rather an amphistaff than another day in the digs.¡± ¡°Frag the vong,¡± another swore. ¡°I¡¯ll take ten before I go.¡± ¡°May the Force be with all of us.¡± ¡°May the Force be with us.¡± Others took up the call, until all Anakin could hear were beings from a hundred worlds and a hundred species calling on the Force. From behind him, he heard Zalthis say something quietly in the Imperial language. Anakin. ¡°What?¡± He looked over to Mei, who raised an eyebrow. ¡®What, what?¡± Anakin. ¡°Did you say my name?¡± ¡°No?¡± Anakin. He looked over to his uncle. Still crosslegged, grimacing, silent. Anakin. Anakin. Realization struck him as a thunderbolt and Anakin reached out and then Luke was there, and A yammosk hung in the darkness. Tentacles writhed, whirled, curled, twitched and flexed. Golden eyes glared. Veins pulsed ichor. A single tooth, long and thick like a sabre, waggled and wobbled as a jawless mouth worked soundlessly. Anakin Uncle Luke? Rugose flesh pressed up against him. Pressure mounted on his limbs. He was lifted into the air, drawn cruciform, joints popping, tendons stretching. He tried to shout but his mouth filled with ichor and he spat black ink until it dribbled down his tunic and golden eyes glared, veins pulsed, a single tooth, long and thick like a sabre waggled and wobbled as a jawless mouth worked soundlessly. .....................Uncle Luke! Anakin........................................................I have ........................Yammosk.....................................................held ..............................................Lend ...............Hand ..........................Uncle Luke! Tentacles as thick as fuel hawsers wound and twisted and their skin was like grindpaper Anakin grit his teeth as he felt skin tear and blood run and twist and grasp and a tooth, long and thick like a sabre waggled and wobbled as a jawless mouth worked soundless as golden eyes glared and veins pulsed ichor and he spat pitch-dark ink and his uncle called and Mei turned away and Jaina cried out as light flashed and dark shapes scuttled in ruins and he calls to Jacen but Jacen doesn¡¯t hear and turns aside and a lightsaber is not caught and the galaxy turns and his uncle calls as tentacles tighten and skin parts and muscle abrades and Anakin screams in the dark as golden eyes glare and his uncle calls and veins pulse and a tooth long and sharp and thick like a sabre waggles and wobbles and tahiri screams at mei and sannah cries and zalthis wrestles a yuuzhan vong to the ground as comets fall across the sky of a city without end and his uncle calls and anakin screams in the dark as tentacles tighten and golden eyes glare and anakin is a jedi and a single tooth waggles and wobbles in a jawless maw and anakin is a jedi as his uncle calls and anakin is a jedi is a jedi is a Jedi like his Uncle and Grandfather and Brother and Sister and Anakin is a Jedi and darkness is just an absence of light and Anakin is a Jedi so there is light and there is light and there is Light and there is Light and his uncle calls and there is Light and LIGHT and LIGHT and his eyes burn, his eyes burn, his eyes burn in the LIGHT THERE IS LIGHT THERE IS LIGHT THERE IS LIGHT And then Anakin coughed and retched and spittle splashed on dusty duracrete between his knees. Steam rose from him. He looked up at Vomar, the Bimm exuding concern and worry. ¡°Jedi Solo? Are you alright? You collapsed!¡± His legs shook and felt like water and a headache pounded between his eyes, a taste like thunderstorms in his mouth. A massive blue gauntlet came into sight and he looked up at Ascratus, the Ultramarine towering over him. ¡°On your feet, Anakin Solo.¡± He saw Mei helping his uncle up, Luke stumbling once while the Jensaarai caught him under the arm, keeping him upright. Two pairs of blue eyes met and Anakin felt his uncle¡¯s exhaustion as well as his pride. Pride in him. In Anakin. It was enough to put durasteel in his spine and he stood up straight. Malik Carr glowered down at them, amphistaff now in his hands, darkened sacs under his eyes seeming to fill his face with shadow. He knows what we did, Anakin thought. He knows we killed the yammosk. ¡°Oh,¡± Anakin said. ¡°This isn¡¯t going to be good.¡± Malik Carr raised his amphistaff high. ¡°Duwin tur chazrach! Do-ro¡¯ik vong pratte!¡± As one the warriors bellowed the same and as one the chazrach charged, Yuuzhan Vong hot on their heels. ¡°Remember us,¡± Vomar murmured, as the first slaves threw themselves at the reptoids and the screaming started. The Bimm hefted his shovel, giving it an experimental swing. ¡°Forever,¡± Anakin promised, and it was no mean thing.
The warrior, encased in pearlescent vonduun armor, barked out hard-edged words and slashed again, again, again. ¡®Sabre caught amphistaff, edges trembling and Anakin pushed at Obroa-skai, shoving down as the world shoved back. Equal and opposite and with leverage he broke the bind, shoving the vong back. Eyes widened inside the alien¡¯s helmet, surprised by the power behind the slighter human. They always were surprised, Anakin thought, ducking another cut and stroking the tip of his lightsaber across the warrior¡¯s armpit. The vong¡¯s snarls turned into a cry of pain as smoke curled and his arm went limp - not severed, but crippled. Quick as thought, almost faster than Anakin could follow, the amphistaff went limp and coiled around the vong¡¯s useless arm before leaping out, like a crystal snake darting between branches. The warrior caught the living weapon in his good hand - but too late. Almost headless, the warrior collapsed, neck smoking. His uncle faced two more warriors while a third battled Solidian, amphistaff and combat knife blurred. The neophyte had learned from experience and did not catch the edge of the biot, instead slapping it aside or dancing away. Ascratus flung a warrior with both hands, bodily hurling it a dozen meters to slam into a duracrete wall, the vong slumping boneless. Zalthis, defending the homer, struck out with measured force at chazrach that broke through, sending them down dead from precise applications of his own blade. Bhindi and Face couldn¡¯t face Yuuzhan Vong warriors, so Mei watched over them, guarding the two as they took potshots at vong warriors from behind a flipped aircar. The Jensaarai¡¯s presence in the Force seared in such a contrast to how he¡¯d known her. Focused, wrapped tight around a ball of anger - anger at the waste of life, anger at the danger to the Wraiths, who were ¡®hers¡¯. Anger that she had to take life. Anger at each slave that died. Anger led to hate, and hate led to, well, everyone knew that, but in the Jensaarai Anakin felt shades of anger he hadn¡¯t realized before. Righteous anger, anger like the clean anger of a bull runyip threatening him and Tahiri for getting too close to his herd. Anger of a protector, those who¡¯d dare hurt the innocent. Anger driven by being right. It was the purest chaos. Slaves buried warriors under the weight of so many bodies, screaming wordlessly and frantically, hacking and chopping with debris and tool-biot both. Sometimes they killed the warrior and then there was blood flying and bits of body as they worked out their fury. Other times the warrior ripped free in welters of gore, amphistaff whirling and then even more slaves piled on. They died in masses, so many that death reeked in the Force around him. Ascratus said he would alert them when Samothrace was a minute away from range so that they could fall back to the homer¡¯s radius. Every second Anakin waited to hear the Ultramarine¡¯s harsh voice, modulated through his helmet, and every second he was disappointed. Then he felt surprise from Mei, a bucket of ice-water, surprise and pain and Anakin spun on his heel, knocking a warrior back from him with a telekinetically hurled spray of gravel that had the vong spitting and swearing. His breath froze in his lungs. A jet of blood squirted through the air, spattering against a landspeeder meters away. Mei slumped to the right, mouth open and eyes - eye - wide. Her left arm and far, far too much of her shoulder and upper chest went the other way. The Yuuzhan Vong she¡¯d been fighting, triumphant, raised a strangely limp amphistaff in both hands, hooting out a cry of victory. Anakin reached out his hand and squeezed. The vong burst. He imploded like a cheap metal can under pressure, bones and armor cracking loud enough to cut through the din. Air popped as it rushed into the void and Anakin let the warrior¡¯s corpse splatter to the ground, already moving. He leapt over battling chazrach and slaves, the Force lending its aid. Not Mei, not Mei too. Please. Not another. A chazrach hooked at his ankles and Anakin flatted it into the pavement. Cracks spidered widely from the carter. Another warrior interposed, blocking his sight of Mei and Anakin reached for the Force again, grabbing the very air itself, the warrior stumbling, suddenly choking. A red lightsaber burst through the warrior¡¯s neck and ripped sideways. Mei staggered over its cooling corpse. In her right fist blossomed the argent blue of her own ¡®sabre, while her brother¡¯s red blade floated in the air right where her left hand should have been. Should have been. Her remaining eye was wild, pupil a pinpoint and so, so wide. The Jensaarai was normally pale, but now she was grey, sweat pouring down her face. And her side- Somehow, she wasn¡¯t bleeding. Somehow, despite the bite taken from her side, her missing shoulder, the way half her face flapped in the air, Mei stood. He felt her iron grip on the Force and it clicked. She was holding her entire side closed. Her armor was crackled and bent, warped and jagged where it should have been cleanly cut by the impossible sharpness of the vong biot. She had taken hold of her own body in a fist of telekinesis and squeezed. ¡°Amakin,¡± she spluttered through blood, jaw and teeth visible, her left cheek peeled away. ¡°Fey want blood. They can have blood.¡± Fury boiled off her. ¡°Mei, no. No! Uncle Luke, Uncle Luke!¡± The Jensaarai lurched away, stumbling into a Jar¡¯kai stance, red lightsaber held in place by telekinesis as if she still had a hand, an arm, a shoulder. She blurred into a chazrach, slashing it into steaming pieces before whirling on another, impaling it with both ¡®sabres and then ripping them free in opposing directions. ¡°Yew h¡¯want blood? Have it!¡± ¡°Uncle Luke! Uncle Luke!¡± His uncle was on the far side of the homer, weighed down by a fifth warrior now joining the fray. His blade was a fan of green lightning as it rippled and struck and vonduun crab armor steamed but with chazrach stabbing and bugs flying he saw it was hopeless. His uncle was fighting for his life. Blaster bolts seared past from Bhindi and Face, shooting down chazrach trying to climb over wrecked landspeeders to reach them and now Mei was gone, spitting profanities and wordless screams as she left a trail of death and left the Wraiths unguarded. She was going to die. She was already unsteady, barely on her feet, held together by telekinesis and adrenaline and anger and it couldn¡¯t, wouldn¡¯t last long. If Anakin left, the vong could get to the Wraiths. And they would die. But if he stayed, Mei would die. Zalthis skidded to a halt beside him, shoving the young jedi. ¡°Go! Go to her! I will stay here.¡± As proof of his words, Zalthis backhanded a reptoid, scattering fangs and then stabbed down through its cranium. ¡°Go! Sergeant, Jedi Taral is wounded!¡± Through the vox-connected commlink, Anakin heard Ascratus¡¯ reply. ¡°How badly?¡± ¡°She lost her arm!¡± ¡°I will handle this.¡± From his post near the homer, Ascratus tossed his combat knife to Solidian, who brandished both his own and his sergeants. Mei waded further into the press of flailing chazrach, slaves and warriors, cutting a ruinous path. Anakin followed. Telekinetic shoves stumbled reptoids and he darted around looming warriors, letting slaves bowl them over or tangle them up. He caught a glimpse of Vomar in the press, the old Bimm bloody but grinning broken teeth, swinging blood-stained shovel at arm¡¯s length until it hissed in the air. Ascratus reached Mei first. The Astartes shoulder-checked a Yuuzhan Vong, sending the warrior stumbling, arms pinwheeling, before he punched its head clean off. He interposed between Mei and a throng of chazrach, tearing into them with bare gauntlets. Mei, bereft of targets, wavered on her feet. ¡°Mei!¡± She spun at his voice, eye unfocused, ¡®sabres coming to guard. This time, he called directly into her mind. Mei! She blinked hard with her right eye, looked at him. He saw, felt recognition. ¡°Amakin¡±, she slurred. ¡°I ''fink I¡¯m dying.¡± She pitched forward, both lightsabres cutting off. ¡°No, no, no, no, not yet, no Mei, you¡¯re not dying. Come on.¡± He got his shoulder under right arm, hand low to avoid her entire left side. Stumbling, limping, he dragged her back toward the tiny, tiny pocket of calm by the homer, held by Luke and Solidian and Zalthis and careful shots from Face and Bhindi and a growing barricade of dead bodies. Ascratus took up the rear, strongly discouraging any chazrach or warrior that could pry themselves away from raging slaves. Anakin lowered Mei to the ground. She hiccuped, blood staining her teeth and he took her hand, guiding it to hold - Anakin swallowed - to hold half her face in place. ¡°Hey,¡± she said drunkenly. ¡°Hey,¡± ¡°Hi,¡± Anakin replied. The Sergeant knelt down beside them. ¡°What do we do? What - what can we do?¡± The amphistaff had laid her open from mid-rib up through her clavicle. It was wonder it hadn¡¯t split her heart in two. Blood dribbled and pooled under her. He felt her fading, fading fast, her command of the Force waning and the constant grip she had on her own side failing. Ascratus produced a small pouch from his belt, rifled through it, extracted a single syringe. ¡°She will die in moments. There is not enough time to wait for Samothrace.¡± Anakin¡¯s breath caught. Ascratus shucked a gauntlet, tossing it aside. He clenched a fist, and then jabbed the needle of the syringe through his bodyglove, drawing out thick, rich, almost black blood. ¡°This may work. This may kill her.¡± Ascratus cocked his helmet and Anakin would later swear that Ultramarine smiled, though he would never know. ¡°That appears to be the theme of the day.¡± Then he jabbed the syringe into Mei¡¯s neck and depressed the plunger. ¡°We have only minutes now. Colonel Loran, prepare to move. Zalthis, secure the Wraiths. Solidian, I would appreciate-¡± Ascratus jerked to his feet. Anakin looked up. A thin blade poked through the front of the Ultramarine¡¯s plastron. Another appeared beside it. Then another. Strangely, Anakin felt almost no pain from the sergeant, compared to the wildfire burning through the Jensaarai. ¡°Neophyte Solidian.¡± Ascratus held out a hand. ¡°My blade.¡± ¡°Sergeant-¡± ¡°My blade.¡± Anakin pried Mei¡¯s lightsaber out of her hand, whirling to his feet with both his and hers ignited. He¡¯d never used two blades before, but how hard could it be? Two blades, two ¡®sabres, twice as much to take down the vong with- ¡°Jedi Solo,¡± Ascratus said quietly. ¡°Remain here.¡± ¡°Sergeant-!¡± Zalthis¡¯ cut himself off before he said any more. Ascratus turned and plunged back into the mob. The three vong warriors that had flung their amphistaffs waded toward him, more behind. They left a bloody path through the warring slaves and chazrach. The first Ascratus put down with a single thrust of his blade, straight through the thickest part of their vonduun armor. The second he grabbed by the arm and head and bodily pulled apart. The third produced another amphistaff and clove off Ascratus¡¯ right pauldron. Sparks flew. A dozen warriors converged on Ascratus, the only one between them and the rest of the group. ¡°One minute!¡± The Sergeant still sounded as level and calm as he ever did. Bhindi and Face, following Zalthis¡¯ bulk, staggered up to Anakin. His uncle, lightsaber ready, stepped backward, closer, hair matted down with sweat. All around them slaves and chazrach clashed and raged and warriors hooted battle cries. Landspeeder wrecks formed barricades and barriers, cutting off the homer from easy approach. Bugs splattered as his uncle held out a hand, putting up a solid wall of telekinesis. Ascratus died by cuts. He killed another two warriors before one got close enough to take hold of one of the three amphistaves in the Astartes¡¯ chest. The warrior managed to cut it sideways, freeing it by hauling it out of the Ultramarine¡¯s torso sideways. Ascratus killed that one by knocking him prone and then stomping on his chest. Another thrown amphistaff pierced through Ascratus¡¯ calf and he staggered to one knee before rising again, reaching down to pull the alien biot out and hurl it aside. Then he killed the two still waggling in his chest by crushing their heads in his gauntlets. The biots slumped, suddenly ropes instead of spears. ¡°Look!¡± Zalthis cried, pointing up in the sky. A comet bloomed on the horizon. A ball of flame that grew and grew until shadows formed and lengthened, until evening brightened. ¡°Samothrace,¡± Solidian breathed. ¡°Quickly! Secure Jedi Taral. Everyone, as close to the homer as you can. Clear your minds. Clear your minds! Breathe slowly and shut your eyes when I say.¡± Anakin knelt down, clipping Mei¡¯s brother¡¯s ¡®saber to his belt, trying not to look at her gaping wound. She was half conscious, still holding her face together, but strangely though he no longer felt her exerting pressure through the Force, her wound barely bled. Strange knotted and purplish-crimson clots grew before his eyes, spreading across her severed shoulder. Clear your minds, Solidian said. While his uncle kept up his telekinetic wall, stopping razor bugs flat, he and Anakin propped up Mei, leaning her against Anakin as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Her head lolled onto his shoulder, her one eye glazed over. ¡°Thirty seconds!¡± Ascratus kept moving, climbing up the scree, unerring toward Malik Carr. The Commander stood his ground, scowling down as more and more warriors came over the rise. A dozen, at least, lay dead behind the Sergeant. His left arm ended at the stump of his wrist. Blood slicked his armor and amphistaffs waved in the air from where warriors had left them piercing his flesh, each dying just to land a blow. ¡°Ten seconds!¡± The world was noontime and the fireball that was Samothrace parted clouds. Electric whips sprung to life, snapping around them. Purple light glowed from everywhere and nowhere. Ascratus went to his knees. ¡°Neophytes!¡± he voxed, modulated voice strained and thin. ¡°I would have a theoretical on the proper defense of a teleport homer against three sides!¡± Solidian laughed, the sound full of grief. ¡°Now! Eyes!¡± Anakin¡¯s teeth buzzed and rattled and the last thing he saw was a sudden bright bloom of fire where Ascratus was, blinding, and then
He presses hands against shimmering energy and around his fingers it parts. Everything is sand, shimmering in mirage and morning haze. Fingers touch fingers as they fall and green eyes sparkle. Early rising birds soar the skies, cawing long and loud at unfamiliar creatures stalking in humid heat. Embers brush from skin, falling in curtains, rising in waves; tidal surge, flames that melt away. Decay, decay stings the nose as voices wail, voices all the same, voices and hands that reach and reach and fear to be alone. She takes three steps, each to match the scars. Exigence Chapter XXVI XXVI: Take a Breath
Processed, chemical air stung his nostrils and Anakin sucked in lungfuls of it, never so happy to smell the tangy interior of a starship. His ears rang and spots danced before his eyes, violet and sparkling silver and red and he blinked them away, blinked hard. Mei shuddered against him and his uncle was there, placing his hand on the Jensaarai¡¯s forehead, the Force thundering in the Jedi Master. Face stumbled away, swearing, clutching at his head. Bhindi wiped blood from her lip, tilting her head back as bruises formed on her face. ¡°Teleportation complete,¡± a flat and toneless voice announced. One of the Imperial magi, as much machine as man, worked levers and switches on a massive bank that hummed and clicked. At the edge of hearing, rumbling whining spun down slowly. White tunic clad medics were among them immediately, all humans, speaking that Imperial language that Anakin didn¡¯t understand but they reached for Mei as they produced bandages and shining pads of adhesive. ¡°Let her go with them, Anakin,¡± Luke said gently and he realized he was still clutching at the Jensaarai. Anakin carefully transferred Mei into the medic¡¯s waiting hands and then she was up and off on a wheeled gurney, sped out of the chamber. Zalthis found Anakin and slumped to sit down beside the young Jedi on the teleportation platform. ¡°Clear the pad,¡± the magi burred. Everyone ignored him. ¡°Jedi Solo,¡± Zalthis said by way of greeting. ¡°Zalthis.¡± ¡°My best wishes for Jedi Taral.¡± Numbly, Anakin nodded. ¡°Thank you. I¡¯m sorry about Sergeant Ascratus.¡± Just as woodenly Zalthis accepted the condolences. ¡°He was a fine Astartes. I only regret - never mind. The melta he carried surely slew the Commander.¡± The neophyte sighed. ¡°Incredible odds. A clean teleportation. He would be proud.¡± ¡°He is proud,¡± Luke admonished. ¡°He is dead.¡± ¡°And he is proud.¡± Luke rose. ¡°Anakin, I¡¯m sorry to go, but I need to go with Mei. They have very different medical treatments and I should be there.¡± He crouched down, forcing Anakin to look at him. ¡°Will you be alright?¡± Would he. Mei was maimed, dying, probably going to die. Sergeant Ascratus was dead, sacrificed in the last seconds before he could have escaped. Zev was dead too. Three out of nine. Thirty percent. They had the data and Anakin and Luke had - he was pretty sure - killed a yammosk. It wasn¡¯t entirely clear what had happened then, just a blur of sensation and images and emotions, but at the end, the very end of it, he could still feel the visceral fear of the yammosk. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Was that okay? Was that alright? ¡°I think so,¡± he decided. He didn¡¯t feel as empty as after Dantooine or as hollow as after Sernpidal. Now he just felt tired. Was that bad? Should he be feeling something more? ¡°I¡¯ll be back. I promise. Face, look after my nephew.¡± The Colonel nodded, face screwed up and hand pressed to one ear. Other medics, now that the most critical patient was gone, plied Bhindi and Face both while another stood a respectful distance from Anakin, Zalthis and Luke. His uncle looked none the worse for wear and taking a moment, frowning, Anakin realized he felt fine as well. Relatively fine, as fine as he could feel after running and fighting for most of an entire day. Zalthis and Anakin watched Luke leave the chamber. ¡°Clear the pad,¡± the magi repeated. Medics led Face and Bhindi aside, looking in noses and mouths and ears as the two Wraiths winced. ¡°Is that normal?¡± Anakin asked finally, breaking the quiet. Zalthis started. ¡°For an unprotected baseline human, I believe so.¡± Anakin pointed to Solidian, who, alone, sat against the far wall of the teleportation chamber, head hanging. ¡°And that?¡± Zalthis grimaced. ¡°I¡¯ll talk to him.¡± The neophyte wandered off and Anakin suddenly had nothing to do. He checked the three lightsabers clattering at his belt. His, Mei¡¯s, her brother¡¯s. One felt sticky. He looked down. Blood covered Mei¡¯s brother¡¯s lightsaber hilt. And his hands. And his side, actually. He could feel the warmth where the blood soaked into the outer layers of his jumpsuit. All up his side. Mei¡¯s blood. He checked his pockets, then his pouches. No cloths, no rags. Nothing to wipe it off with. He looked around. Nothing he could see either. Maybe Face had something. Or Bhindi. He needed to clean off the lightsaber and clean off his hands. They had Mei¡¯s blood all over them. ¡°Wow,¡± he whispered. ¡°I think I¡¯m panicking.¡± He found a quiet corner and lowered himself down. It took a minute to get situated, but he crossed his legs like he¡¯d been taught, took deep breaths and reached out for the Force. It filled him, warm and bright as always, as unchanging as the stars. He breathed in, out, thinking of the grotto on Yavin, the warm waters. The darkness all around, the darkness that wasn¡¯t suffocating but was freeing, embracing. He breathed in and out, in and out, pulling the Force to him on each inhale and letting it ebb away on each exhale. Carefully, he lifted the blood from his hands, drying it and crumbling it away until it was dust he could brush aside. Mei was hurt, but she was being treated. Uncle Luke was with her. Ascratus had died so that they could live, and to try to kill the Commander too. Vomar¡¯s face bloomed in his mind, faded. They chose their end. The vong were starving them, killing them slowly. He and Uncle Luke set them free to choose. It was all that could be done. In, and out. Breathe, and exhale. Feel the Force. Feel Face¡¯s grief, his relief. Bhindi¡¯s sorrow, her bittersweet cheer. Zalthis¡¯ quiet solemnity. Solidian¡¯s hard-edged anger. Despite it all, they went on. Face and Bhindi discussed the data they claimed, all business, as medics taped their bruises and wiped blood from leaking ears and noses. Solidian and Zalthis quietly conferred on what they had learned, from hands-on experience with the Yuuzhan Vong. There was emotion, but a kind of peace, too. A thought occurred to him. Carefully, Anakin pulled out his datapad, which he hadn¡¯t needed on Obroa-skai. Just another bit of equipment for redundancies, just in case. He opened up a text editor and stared at the cursor a moment. Hi, Tahiri¡­ Exigence Chapter XXVII XXVII: Price of Success
They ate, they patched up bruises and cuts and scrapes, they changed into clothes provided by the Imperials, and then they all passed out. Anakin awoke in the dark, stared up at the ceiling and wondered just where in the Corellian hells he was. He felt faintly the subsonic rumbling of a starship in motion, so not on Yavin or Coruscant or elsewhere. His dreams, formless and meaningless and fading, clung to him and he knuckled them away until he remembered Samothrace and Obroa-skai and right, he was in the private quarters given over to the Republic team. Blearily, he rolled over, untangling himself from unexpectedly cool and silken sheets, squinting at where he¡¯d left his datapad, propped up with the clock left active. Sithspawn, fourteen hours! He hadn¡¯t been that tired, had he? Sitting up, his back and legs and shoulders screamed at him and yes, yes he had been that tired and wow, that hurt. Taking slow breaths he eased into meditation, sitting up, cross-legged, sheets mussed around him. He drew on the Force, gently and wholly, soothing away muscles sore from hours and hours of running and fighting without pause. First he rolled his right shoulder, digging fingers into his deltoid as knots eased. Then his left, joint popping. Interlacing his fingers he stretched, yawning, and let the Force go, feeling more awake. Outside his quarters, as the Imperials gave them a suite with enough rooms for everyone to have one to themselves, he found his uncle hunched over a datapad, brows drawn, plate of something left forgotten at his elbow. Several platters, covered, took up the center of a round table, ringed with comfortable cushioned stools. ¡°Anakin!¡± Luke¡¯s expression melted away to happiness and he waved his nephew over. ¡°They brought breakfast for us an hour or so ago. Hungry?¡± Anakin¡¯s stomach informed the room and possibly half the ship the answer was a strong yes. ¡°I think so.¡± He helped himself, peeking under each lid. There were rolls, fried strips of meat, seasoned rices, smoked fish, cereals, nuts, fruits. He took a little of each onto a plate, sliding onto a stool across from his uncle. After downing a roll, surprised at how warm and fluffy it still was, he couldn¡¯t wait any longer. ¡°Is Mei okay?¡± The problem with being a Jedi is that it was hard to lie. Anakin felt his uncle¡¯s sorrow and concern, even before he spoke. ¡°She¡¯s a fighter, Anakin.¡± He reached for a pitcher of water, mouth suddenly dry as he saw Mei¡¯s arm fly through the arm once, twice, thrice. ¡°The Force is with her. Captain Altuzer told me personally that their best surgeons are working on Mei. She¡¯ll pull through.¡± Anakin nodded, not sure of what else to say. He wished he was a healer, like Cilghal, so that he could do something instead of just hope. Luke pushed aside his datapad, shutting it off, giving Anakin his full attention. ¡°Face and I were able to contact NRI with Samothrace¡¯s new holocomm. The Navy is sending a cruiser to pick us up as soon as we¡¯re out of occupied space. Doctors are standing by on Coruscant, when we get there. How are you feeling?¡± ¡°Sore, mostly. I can¡¯t believe I slept that long.¡± ¡°It was a long day, Anakin. I¡¯m so proud of you - and I¡¯m sorry.¡± Anakin sat back, frowning. Idly, he toyed with his fork, running it through leftover sauces on his plate. ¡°Sorry? Why?¡± His uncle grimaced and ran a hand over his face. ¡°This wasn¡¯t supposed to be - everything that happened. NRI swore up and down that the Yuuzhan Vong would have no idea we were coming. I had hoped¡­I wanted something simple. You¡¯ve been through so much in the past few months, Anakin.¡± ¡°You have too, Uncle Luke. I guess I accept your apology but it¡¯s not like these kinds of things have gone all that well so far, right?¡± First, Jacen¡¯s attempt to rescue Danni and Miko, when Miko Reglia had died. Then there was Jacen and Luke¡¯s investigation of Belkadan, when Jacen was captured. Then Master Horn¡¯s mission to Bimmiel, and the whole thing with Dantooine, and then Garqi. Pretty much every time the Jedi tangled with the vong, something went bad. It was predictable at this point. ¡°I can¡¯t argue that. After this - we¡¯re going back to Yavin. I made that promise and I want to keep it. I need to check on Cilghal and meet with Kam and it¡¯ll be good for you to see your friends again.¡± ¡°Last week I probably would¡¯ve been disappointed.¡± Anakin shrugged, putting his fork aside. ¡°Disappointed to step away from the war, I mean!¡± His uncle smiled and waved off his clarification. ¡°I understand, no offense taken. Not too disappointed now, though?¡± I¡¯m writing from an Imperial battleship. We just left Obroa-skai. It wasn¡¯t good. Mei is hurt and one of the Wraiths died. Rhonabeq too. One of the Imperials sacrificed himself for us. His hands wrote what his heart didn¡¯t want to say. Every time he¡¯d start a letter back to Tahiri, he¡¯d read over what he¡¯d written and delete it in immediate disgust. She didn¡¯t need to hear about the war, she didn¡¯t need to hear about all the people dying and his problems. He couldn¡¯t put that on her, not on Tahiri. So he kept trying and deleting and trying again, all while she kept sending him bright and sunny new messages, chatting about this and that and each time he read her words he could hear her breathless voice and he just couldn¡¯t write back. Not when he had nothing good to say. I miss you Tahiri. I miss our adventures. I miss when people didn¡¯t die. ¡°I think a break would be nice,¡± he said neutrally. Uncle Luke opened his mouth to say something, but one of the other doors swung open, Face wandering out with a jaw-cracking yawn. ¡°Morning¡¯,¡± the Colonel groaned, and sniffed. ¡°Dead sith, do I smell food?¡± Anakin gestured to all the covered platters and the pilot dove in, piling food onto a plate with gusto. ¡°I¡¯m eating for Zev, here,¡± Face announced, tucking in. ¡°Any time we could manage catering on NRI¡¯s dime, he went for it. You have no idea how good I got at rephrasing reimbursement requests. If you¡¯ve never seen him, he doesn¡¯t eat, he feeds.¡± ¡°Did he still try to get Allegiance painted on his x-wing?¡± Face put down his utensils, holding his head in his hands a moment. ¡°Every single time,¡± he said, muffled. ¡°Every single time. The worst part is, I could never really think of a good reason to deny it. Blow up one super star destroyer and it¡¯s like you saved the whole New Republic.¡± ¡°Lando said he gave him permission to paint it on the side of his console¡± his uncle laughed. ¡°I kicked Wedge out of Wraith Squadron so that no one could outshine me,¡± Face groused, tearing a roll in half and soaking up sauce. ¡°You try flying next to a guy who gets to paint Death Stars under his canopy.¡± ¡°I couldn¡¯t imagine,¡± Luke said around a smile. ¡°Ha ha.¡± Face turned serious, looking between Anakin and Luke both. ¡°Good news from Bhindi. She stayed up way too long doing some indexing, but it looks like we got a haul out of the archives.¡± Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Not a waste, then. Anakin let out a breath, shaking his head, reaching for another buttered roll. ¡°I¡¯m sure it''s too soon to tell if it has what the Imperials were hoping for.¡± Face aimed a finger at Luke. ¡°Right in one. Bhindi did a raw dump, so it¡¯s going to take droids a lot of processing to get it all organized. She says it looks like she got at least a third of the astroarcheological database, at least from what the Director indicated. Even if it doesn¡¯t have what we were after, we still saved irreplaceable records.¡± ¡°At a high cost,¡± Luke sighed. ¡°Always too high.¡± Face was quiet a moment, eyes hard when he looked back at the two jedi. ¡°You killed that monster though, right? I heard you tell the Sergeant.¡± ¡°The yammosk?¡± Anakin felt his uncle¡¯s discomfort. What had happened, in the end, with the yammosk he couldn¡¯t put a finger on. He remembered hearing Uncle Luke¡¯s voice, calling for him. He remembered reaching out through the Force, feeling like he was pulled down, into¡­something. And then it was flashes, more like feelings, emotions. Nothing concrete, nothing he could pin down with words or metaphor. Familiar, like the lyrics of a song you know the tune to, but not the words. You can hum along, but the refrain is just at the tip of your tongue. ¡°We did. I held it in place and Anakin - Anakin was able to finish it.¡± That rocked him. He thought Luke had. He remembered light, a golden Light that filled up everything right before he was thrown back into himself and he just assumed, naturally, that it had been his uncle. ¡°Me?¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t know?¡± ¡°It was really confusing. I thought that it was you.¡± His uncle shook his head. ¡°The yammosk pulled me into some kind of mental construction. I broke out of it, but it was all I could do to keep it focused on just me and unable to command the slaves. That¡¯s why I needed you.¡± ¡°But I didn¡¯t do anything? I¡­I felt the yammosk and it was like it was attacking me, so I pushed back. I think I pushed back.¡± Anakin hunched down on his stool, trying and failing to find words to describe the feeling. He had felt the war coordinator¡¯s mental pressure almost like a physical one, like it was attacking his body, which of course wasn¡¯t right, so it had to mean something else but he couldn¡¯t imagine what it was. It definitely didn¡¯t feel like any kind of communication he¡¯d had in the Force. When he and Jacen and Jaina melded in Lando¡¯s Folly to run the asteroids, it was like they shared bodies. Saw out of each other¡¯s eyes, heard out of each other¡¯s ears. With Tahiri, it was almost like just talking to each other. Like finishing sentences with jokes so old you didn¡¯t have to think of them. Uncle Luke studied him, eyes flicking back and forth across Anakin¡¯s face, like he was really seeing his nephew for the first time. ¡°I saw you like a lightning bolt,¡± the Jedi Master said. ¡°I could see the yammosk in my mind¡¯s eye and it was straining against me. We were in the darkness, cut off from whatever telepathic sense it used so that it couldn¡¯t command anyone. When I called you, I wasn¡¯t sure you would hear me. Then there was a lightning bolt, but gold instead of blue, and the yammosk faded away.¡± ¡°It felt like hours. It felt like it got me, until the end.¡± Face looked between the two Jedi. ¡°But it¡¯s dead?¡± ¡°Absolutely,¡± Luke confirmed and Anakin mutely nodded, trying to process what he heard, what his uncle saw. On his end, he wished it was that decisive. It was only watching Vomar and the other slaves turn on the warriors and chazrach that he even could guess at what happened. Whatever he did, when he just pushed back at the yammosk worked, but if he hadn¡¯t even the slightest clue what that was, how could he do it again? ¡°NRI will love to hear that. We¡¯ve been trying to kill war coordinators when we can figure out when they show up, but so far, I¡¯m pretty sure Helska is the only confirmed time. Hopefully, the vong don¡¯t have a lot. This might end up being worth more than all the data Bhindi could¡¯ve pulled out of the archives.¡± ¡°But I don¡¯t know what I did?¡± Anakin hated how he sounded almost whiny and blushed. ¡°I barely know how I managed to reach the yammosk¡¯s mind. Everything about the yuuzhan vong strains belief. Whatever telepathic sense they have - the yammosks, I mean - it isn¡¯t the Force. I¡¯m pretty sure about that, but at the same time, you and I both could reach it through the Force. What that means, I don¡¯t know yet. We¡¯ll investigate it together.¡± ¡°And let us know if you figure out ways to blow up their squidbrains with mind bullets,¡± Face added, shrugging and back to his breakfast.
Much to his surprise, in contrast to the explosions of baroque ornamentation elsewhere, the inside of the Imperial medbay - apothecarion - was clinical, stark, and functional. The machines looked abstruse and unrecognizable and he couldn¡¯t understand anything the surgeons and doctors were saying as they worked, but Luke had been in far, far too many medbays in his life. Mei was in good hands. Or the next best thing, considering the Imperial magos that was working on her. Her robes were crisp and red, trimmed in white, and she bent over the comatose Jensaarai as six hands worked so quickly they were a metallic blur. Luke watched from an observation room. Samothrace was still a day out from rendezvous, but time was up. Zalthis translated for the surgeon, who regretfully informed the Jedi Master that while they had done all they could, the injuries were so traumatic and severe that they could not continue to support Mei. She would die, and soon, unless she was properly treated. In short - she needed extensive cybernetic rebuild on that side of her torso, before scarring ruined nerves, blood vessels and bone. He¡¯d hoped they could get Mei to the state-of-the-art hospital waiting on Coruscant. Idly, reflexively, he flexed the fingers of his right hand. Sometimes weeks, or even months would go by before he remembered it was a facsimile. On Coruscant, with the right doctors, the right treatment, the right prosthetics, Mei might make a full recovery. The Imperials claimed their medical expertise was far greater than the New Republic, but Luke saw that as the boastful arrogance it was. He didn¡¯t even know what Mei¡¯s opinion would be. Prosthetics? Cybernetics? Nothing? Tenel Ka was proud of her truncated arm, turning down even the simplest of replacements. All he could do was act as he saw best, as ever. So he gave his approval, and in the magos went. She worked fast. Tentacled tools whirred and buzzed and below her orchard of telescopic lenses that encrusted her entire upper face, the magos¡¯ bloodless lips were pursed in focus. Leads were punctured into Mei¡¯s chest and neck, grim-looking metal woven into the ragged edges of her flesh. Whatever Sergeant Ascratus¡¯ blood had done, it lingered, very little leaking even as the magos worked to debride and clip back scabs and dead flesh. Luke couldn¡¯t see much and was glad for it. He kept close focus on Mei¡¯s presence in the Force. Muted, as she was in a coma, but still bright and alive. She was a candle behind a screen, not one guttering out. He wouldn¡¯t lose another. Like a timelapse, a chunky, blocky facsimile of a human¡¯s shoulder joint and clavicle came together and Mei¡¯s presence grew firmer, clearer. Lifesign readouts calmed and smoothed. Anakin would be over the moon. His nephew and the Jensaarai had found a surprising rapport, since the conference. Considering it, Luke wondered why he hadn¡¯t thought of it before. Mei came from a background tainted by the Sith. She dealt with the weight of expectations of family and bloodline daily. She¡¯d had loss, personal loss, in just as unexpected and shocking a way as Anakin. Luke tried to reach his nephew, knowing how much his name weighed on him, but like with his sister, he always found himself on the edge of an insurmountable gulf. When Anakin Skywalker was spoken of, Luke thought ¡°father¡±. Everyone else thought ¡°Darth Vader¡±. Leia wanted nothing to do with even the ghost of the memory of the man. Anakin struggled under the sins of the name, never having known his grandfather as anything but a specter of the past. How strange it was, when for so short a time, and across such few moments, that Darth Vader had morphed into something else. As if yesterday, he could smell the aromatic sap and earthy ferns of Endor, mixed with the sharp ozone tinge of active repulsorlifts and the staleness of recycled air. He could still feel the pressure of the cuffs around his wrists. Still feel the domineering, stifling presence of his father, at his side. Strange to think he hadn¡¯t feared the man that killed his teacher, that maimed him. Anakin feared Anakin. In his younger years and explorations with Tahiri, his nephew had made some manner of peace, but as Luke knew best, peace never lasted. It painted over the world and it tamped down the hardest edges, but turmoil still strained the weave until one day, the fabric of peace split. The job was to stitch it back together, not lament at its ruin. So Mei and Anakin had common ground and he rejoiced to see his nephew speaking more, emerging a bit by bit from the shell that had only been reinforced by the nonstop hits of the invasion. Red in the face, Anakin even admitted that he had finally sent mail back to Tahiri. Even if it pained him that it hadn¡¯t been him that had helped his nephew, he was grateful that Anakin had found someone to talk to. Chalco was another, that strange smuggler who¡¯d helped Anakin track down the rogue Daeshara¡¯cor. Luke didn¡¯t miss how now Anakin kept training and spending time with the Ultramarine Zalthis and smiled. For a kid who Han had joked ¡®needed a gravity tug to draw two words out of¡¯, Anakin never realized how easily he could make friends, if he let himself. Luke was tugged from his thoughts by a gentle rapping. Startled, he saw the magos standing right before the window of the observation room, one long, tentacle-like arm extended. She gestured toward Mei, fully covered again by a clean white sheet and Luke extended his sense. The Jensaarai felt centered, no longer ebbing. She even looked healthier, her face regaining a little color from how grey and drawn she had been. The Imperial bowed at the waist and trundled away on triple-jointed legs. Full of relief, Luke slumped back. He wouldn¡¯t be adding another name to memory today. Exigence Interlude III Dead Reckoning
Before the Obroa-skai Strike... Becalmed. An archaic word, the use of which made little sense. In the lost millenia of Mankind''s past, to times that seemed more mythical than real, the word descended from when Man did not command, but rather strove instead to harness the simplest, meanest forces of nature. Wind. Seen again and again and again across a hundred worlds¡ªa thousand, truly¡ªwhose regression during the heart-breaking time of Old Night, Man on ancient Terra¡ªcalled Earth, then, for the memories of the Nobilite were long¡ªhad not the might of smelted helium, the hum-tick regularity of uranium, the passive exultation of the sun nor even the crude apparati of heated water. They had but the strength of their own arms and the means to move, in synchronic surrender, with the whims of Terra. They followed the flow of the waters and they caught the breath of the sky and let it bear them where it willed, for they had little say in those matters then. Becalmed. It meant the times when the winds failed and the seas grew still and the old boats of wood and cloth could only sit and wait. Maybe then the crew would pray to their long-lost gods and beg for mercy or a little help. They must have. Man was not the master then, just the victim to capricious and uncaring nature. Then greater secrets came and Man laughed at the wind, Man jeered at the current, Man crossed oceans at will and beat the skies into submission and then looked past them all and forced gravity to heel, until Man made the laws and Man shaped the world, and that shape served Man. So and on and up Man climbed, until one final Law remained inviolate. Man boxed in the wind, Man trammeled the seas, Man harnessed the Stars, browbeat Gravity¡ªbut one final stair remained untrod. The Law of Light. There: Man fell grasping, short; denied. Homo Sapiens failed. Homo navigo did not. The final Law was bent and put away, to give Mankind mastery of all the universe, should they be willing to grasp it. Now, nothing lay beyond Man''s reach. No worlds were too far. No stars too remote. And by laughing cosmic irony, as Mankind ascended past that final plateau¡ªfrom Man''s own murky, forgotten past, came that word as fierce reminder: becalmed. How strange, how poetic, how terribly and truly unbelievable to stand at the peak of human evolution¡ªhuman technology¡ªhuman will¡ªand yet, at the core of it all, bear the same perils and pitfalls of rickety wooden vessels, trembling before the storm. For the 4711th was becalmed. Thirty-thousand years of technology and knowledge and perilous advancement and Likentrix twiddled her thumbs and peered out at squalls and reefs and black, unknown waters with the same trepidatious curiosity as a feral-world tribal in a canoe. It was¡­enervating. Her eyes were closed; her eye was open. The Warp spread out in all direction, more directions than cardinal, in the myriad angles that her kind could intuit. Up, down. Left, right. Forward, back. Within, without. Eboracum sat at the center of an eddy. The Warp circled, a stream caught in a switch-back bend, making cotton-soft whirls of gentle ripples. She believed this eddy was the fault of the 4711th. If the Republic spoke truth and the Empyrean was unknown to the greater galaxy¡ªand she was liable to believe it¡ªthen the immaterial winds were unused to such a nexus of supracognitive beings. Though many of her handmaidens perished in the yowl of Veridia and many of the Astropathic choirs burnt from within as Warp by-blows scampered the halls of Macragge''s Honour, the 4711th remained perhaps the greatest conjunction of psykery this galaxy had yet seen. The boy, Rubio, agreed. The Librarium, what few remained, leant their differing expertise to unraveling the mysteries of the Empyrean. In her centuries, Keres Likentrix had guided warships across the known galaxy and back again. From Terra to Ultramar, to Ullanor and Baal. There were two truths to the life of a Navigator. The Astronomican was their North Star. The Warp, ever, was hostile. Ancient maps were priceless, yet could be made worthless in an instant. Stable routes as sure as the rising sun would collapse in a blink. Horrific, blinding storms would collapse into gentle passages, only to explode into Gellar-shattering fury at the most inopportune time. The Warp loathed the passage of Man''s ships. It heaved and groaned and begrudged every second its realm was penetrated. This was the certainty of the Navis Nobilite. This was what Keres was schooled in, from her earliest memories. Her unblinking third eye peered out and marveled, marveled at the unpredictable predictability of the gentle Empyrean that ebbed and flowed in the infinite distance and just beneath her skin. In her long centuries, Keres had not faced a challenge like those of her ancient forebears who first plied the ways from Sol.
That boy, Rubio, must have warned the Jedi child. Keres smiled to see the slender girl wearing a thick and long coat, wooly and dyed blue. Borrowed, no doubt, from one of the Excertus. Ushered in by footmen sworn to House Likentrix, Eryl Besa appeared a blend of excitement and trepidation. She swam in her loaned greatcoat, freckled face popping out of the thick cowl. Her hands did not even escape the voluminous sleeves. Keres smiled through a pang of mild envy, eying the girl. Her hair was short, cut close to the scalp at the sides and tousled atop, flaming and red, starkly contrasting her milk-pale skin and emerald eyes. Once, so long ago she barely remembered it, Keres had locks as vibrant as the girl''s. There was little point receiving the girl in her scarcely-used personal chambers, but Keres could not countenance allowing an outsider into the oubliette proper. A happy medium was struck, selecting one of the minor antechambers arrayed around the central oubliette. Pleasantly, this antechamber featured a gravity couch, sufficient to rest her brittle bones. The Jedi girl cleared her throat and clumsily bowed. ''Mamzel, I''m Eryl Besa, Jedi Knight.'' Keres tutted, amused. ''Our pleasure, Jedi Besa.'' In the spirit offered, Keres held out her hand - as pale as the girl, but with veins bulging blue and visible. Eryl Besa knelt, brushing lips against the Likentrix signet ring. ''We greet you in the name of the House Likentrix.'' Eryl Besa did not enjoy the pleasures of a microgravity couch, instead being offered a firm mat of the sort the youngest and rawest Navigators learned well from. The Jedi arranged herself crosslegged, almost lost in the depths of her coat. Keres studied the girl as they exchanged words. Jedi Besa, as properly titled, spilled over with enthusiasm and clear-eyed interest. Young Rubio, who had watched these ''Jedi'' from afar through the summit, declared them to be evidently untouched by the Warp. They were not psykers, by the Codicier''s learned estimation, but something other that he had no name for. Keres¡­ was less certain. Though a Navigator, and thusly were her gifts narrow in scope, she learned many tricks over her long, long years of service. Foremost of her House, raised in adoration and sculpted to the honored task of guiding the Emperor''s most profligate of endeavours¡ªsuch towering arrogance the Nobilite had never seen, but matched by incomparable vision¡ªshe had been trained on all manners empyreal and material. Jedi Besa, demonstrating her command of the ''Force'', elevated herself a few handspans above her woven mat, returning to rest with what seemed to be the most minimal of exertion. Honed by experience, sensitive to a fault, Likentrix''s old bones felt not a twinge of warp-chill. For a psyker to match even that parlour-trick would feather the boundary. At the same time, when she requested the Jedi girl repeat the feat, which she did with gusto, Keres noticed¡­something else. Not the tugging of immaterial energies such as with a psyker, but rather persistent tickling. The word failed to encompass the feeling, for it was neither physical nor truly mental. Jedi Besa, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, bombarded Keres with endless questions about the functionality of not just Navigation, but the enterprise of warp-travel entire. She was no Magos or Engineseer, and had to admit only cursory understanding of the arcane tech-science that breached the empyreal boundary proper. As she explained the principles of Navigation, she examined that tickle. She was contrasting the utility of chartist ships opposed to those guided by the Nobilite when she pounced on the feeling. ''Excuse my digression, but would you demonstrate your Force one further time?'' ''Oh¡ªsure! Here, let me try this," the girl instead furrowed her brow, staying resolutely placed on the mat and Keres glanced about the room from beneath her long, silver lashes. No other device nor ornament shifted without cause¡ª Her arthritic aches, so present, so ingrained into her very being Keres scarcely considered them at all, throbbed once painfully and then settled. Not gone but lessened, like a dose of a Biologis'' finest concoction injected into each and every joint. Those particular treatments had ceased effect decades ago. ''My word,'' she marveled. ''What is this, girl?'' Besa hastened to explain, assuring her that it wasn''t anything intrusive, just some alleviation of symptoms, that she only wanted to show the Force wasn''t just for parlor tricks, that she only had a little knowledge in the arts of healing, that¡­ Biomancy, telekinesis, some manner of Navigational sense. Telepathy was known to be a talent of the Jedi, and here was proof that in them manifested not merely one domain of this ''Force'', but perhaps all of them. A psyker would be well-pressed to match this omnibus talent, and the girl Besa was still young and newly Knighted. She bade the Jedi demonstrate her powers again, in different ways, and the strange tickle grew more and more distinct. Keres closed her eyes, allowing her warp-sense to unfold the clearer, though her third eye remained shuttered. She inhaled sharply. Besa asked if anything was amiss. Like some detritus floating in the aqueous humor, some particle that could not be ignored, Eryl Besa was¡­there¡­in the warp. All beings were, save those gold-clad null-maidens of the Emperor, but something about Besa''s presence stood outside easy classification. ''Continue, if you please.'' ''Well, okay. Should I - uhm, what do you want me to do?'' ''The footman beyond the door. Tell me his thoughts.'' Jedi Besa hummed under her breath, concentrating¡ªthere! The energies of the empyrean shifted. Keres was not quite sure how. Ethereal gauzes and wisps that permeated the other-plane of the immaterium slithered and swirled, yet did not pass into nor through Besa, not to Keres'' sight. And her soulstuff, the beacon of being the girl gave off as a flame, continued to confound. ''He''s tired. I''m not that great at this, but I think he''s wondering how much longer we''ll be?'' ''Very good, girl. You may stop.'' Keres opened her eyes again, the world returning through the thin and blurry film of cataracts. ''We will disappoint him, I think.''
After Jedi Besa demonstrated her powers, confirming at the least her training as a Jedi, there was little else to do but to prove the validity of her claim. A day then, to rest and recover and make final preparations. Macragge''s Honour would not do as a means to test the Jedi''s mettle, for the Primarch had greater needs and the flagship greater purpose than playing in the empyrean. Samothrace was assigned the duty to shadow the coming infiltration of the Republic world ''Obroa-skai'', and thus would be best suited to this experiment. They rode to the battle-barge in the comfort of a House Likentrix lighter, far smoother and palatable than the utilitarian Thunderhawks of the Legio. It would be a several hour trip, out from Eboracum to where Samothrace ran her patrol of the deeper system. Young Eryl, whose gamely good cheer continued to grow on Keres, paced around the lighter for the short trip, face screwed up in thought and lips pursed. ''But I don''t understand. If the warp is always changing, then how did your family ever make maps in the first place? Wouldn''t they be wrong in just a few days?'' ''The shape of the Immaterium shifts, it is true, but it follows patterns of pathos that can be signposts. By nature, there is order to the disorder. It may sound contradictory, but contradictions are what we Navigators rely upon. We may mark a path through reefs and through valleys, and those reefs may change in their temperament and sharpness, the valley may diminish or become a mountain-range, but the path retains its character. This is the map we make, not one of simple marks but one that is built of mythic cycles. Stories are told in the Warp, and we plot the curve of the narrative, such that our starships may slide along them.'' ''So if I can tell you like, where point A is, and point B, then you can¡­find the story between them?'' Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ''That is it precisely, my girl. In days before my kind, to map the warp was to stumble through an unlit labyrinth, and by barked shins and bruised nose guess where one was. In this new galaxy, while we have the Sight, the Sight shows only the Empyrean. We would be as a chartist captain, requiring continual return to the materium to mark where paths take us. It would be a task of centuries, if not millenia, for how few of my kind are here.'' Content with the explanation, Besa ceased her pacing, appearing the more sure. ''I hope my sense still works in the Warp. It does in hyperspace, but¡­it''s different.'' ''Thus do we test,'' Likentrix assured. ''There will be no blame should it not. Progress is not made by only those things we achieve, but also what we fall short of.'' Later, Samothrace welcomed them aboard, the lighter approved to dock just below the Navigator''s Spire, where a proper and honorable welcome awaited them both. The girl Eryl''s blush and shyness at the attention was endearing, though the assemblage of fifty footmen and Samothrace''s chief Navigator, a spindly man of her house named Ulthes, was the barest minimum honor that Keres deserved.
Ulthes, of Likentrix, carried the role of Primary for this sail. He ensconced himself into his primary oubliette, attended by his own consorts. Keres claimed a lesser chamber, one meant more for meditation and reflection, so that she might unveil her Eye without harm. Eryl was stationed just beyond, with an open, two-way vox to Keres within. ''This may become strange to you,'' Keres warned. ''The Empyrean in this galaxy is a different creature to that which we know, but it remains the Empyrean. It relinquishes secrets fitfully and is ever hostile to those who peer into its depths. Inform me the moment there is anything amiss.'' Escorted by a single destroyer, the battle-barge came about, Shipmistress Altuzer an able hand at the helm. The immaterium opened more easily to the arcane engines of the warship, sighing apart the skin of reality to allow access. Mandeville points, Keres had found, were more plentiful, and deeper into the realm of a star''s gravity than she knew. Samothrace nosed into the rift, destroyer following, and Keres felt the old pull of the warp in her¡ªwell, soul. A word disused, but one she could not put aside. She sighed in relief and pleasure, drifting in null gravity, and unbound her silken blindfold from her forehead. The girl outside was saying something, vox crackling away. Keres would answer in a moment. Without the Astronomican, the warp felt alien. Keres, as befit her greater breeding, age, and experience, was not unmanned when the 4711th decanted over Eboracum. Some of her handmaidens had wailed and wept, clawing bloody tracks from their cheeks and scouring their bodies at the sudden loss of the golden light they''d known their whole lives. Keres was older. She still remembered the great lighting of the Astronomican. Seeing the unlit tracts of the warp here brought back old, old memories, nostalgic as they were bitter. Filling her sight was the abject madness of the warp. It ached to look on it, it ached like pleasure, it burned like passion, it stung like love. No sane being would ever wish to see such sights, but she was not sane. Keres was a Navigator, and this was what she lived for. Each of her kindred saw the warp in their own unique way. Every metaphor held truth, and none were incorrect. There was a challenge in language to bridge experiential divide and forge common terms. A lexicon shaped by ancient mariners was most common: reefs, shoals, sounds and currents, eddies and whirlpools and maelstroms. That lexicon was most convenient to share with those without Sight. All could understand, even if they had not seen, an ocean. Some of her kind even saw the warp in such ways. Ulthes was one. He spoke in colorful ways, painting images of benthic depths and leviathan shapes, of shelves shaped of mud and towering corals that scraped at the very boundaries of sanity. It sounded wondrous. To Keres'' eye, the warp was light. All colors of light, prismatic, mixing and blending and glaring. Kaleidoscopic, revolving, blending and mixing and eye-searingly beautiful. Rich indigos swelled into blossoming petals, veined through with shocking emerald. Fuschia rained in zagging lines, entwining into deep incarnadines. Keres allowed herself to sink into the view, the spectacle, the wonder for several minutes. Samothrace held motionless, impellers quiet and at standby. Adrift, as best termed. She pulled her focus back into her fleshy, fallible, mortal body. The rainbow of the warp still surrounded her, but she felt the chill of her oubliette, pucking goosflesh along her silk-swaddled limbs. ''-mamzel? Can you hear me? Are you okay?'' ''Calm yourself, girl. We are observing the warp.'' ''Oh, whew. I was worried. They said it was normal¡­I didn''t want to try and sense you. With the Force, I mean.'' Alarm rang through Keres. ''You must not!'' She''d not considered such a thing. What might be the fate of a telepath who saw, or felt, even by step removed, the raw warp? Surely it would burn them from within. The girl did not deserve that fate. ''Oh, I won''t, don''t worry.'' In her oubliette, her breath of relief was a mist of ice crystals. ''Tell me¡ªdo you feel our location?'' ''That''s what I was trying to tell you! I can! We''re still near Eboracum. I mean. Of course we are, but¡ªI can feel it!'' ''Then your ability functions even within the warp. We are fortunate indeed.'' ''So what''s next?'' An Eye though it was named, but unlike a mortal eye, a flesh-eye, Keres could see all about her, both before and beside, through the fragile meat of her skull. All angles, all dimensions - another facet of Sight that no mortal being could apprehend. There was the Jedi girl. In fact, she had been visible from the moment Keres unveiled her Eye. How had this passed her notice? All the warp was color, riotous and infinite, and Eryl Besa¡­stood out. She was no color at all, while containing all of them. A spot of white, against an infinite field of black. A dot of the deepest black, in an endless blizzard of white. Tiny, minute, infinitesimal in the scale and scope of all the Warp, but once Keres saw her¡ªshe could never forget. Something in her gut told Keres that no matter where in the galaxy Eryl went, or Keres sailed, that the oddity of the Jedi''s presence would remain. A speck in the eye, a fragment of a splinter in skin, not uncomfortable but felt, an itch at the small of the back. How wonderfully, fantastically, impossibly strange. Yet, unimportant. The greater task demanded. ''Now, Shipmistress Altuzer shall sail us. You will narrate. I will direct, in conjunction with Navigator Ulthes. Be precise, girl, and quick to relay.'' ''I will, I promise.'' Samothrace''s impellers came to bear, enacting the great comedy of warp-travel. In the realm of dreams, the most fundamental and material of methods still compelled the grand battle-barge to sail. Fusion engines consumed and spat out exhaust. Fire, the oldest tool of man, yoked as oars in the sea-storm empyrean. ''Oh. Oh wow. That''s so strange. We''re moving! But we''re - it''s not straight. Oh, that''s so weird!'' The girl''s voice was delighted. Amazed, even. ''I can feel it! We left Eboracum behind but then we kind of went¡ªsideways? Sideways, I think. How are we doing that!'' ''The winds of the warp catch sails in angles unexpected, girl.'' Keres chided, reminding the Jedi or the lessons imparted not long ago. ''I get why it''s so hard to map things out,'' Besa hummed under her breath. ''Okay, so¡ªare we going straight? I mean, to you, does it¡ª'' ''To mine eyes, we travel as an arrow.'' ''So weird!'' Indeed, Samothrace soared along a ribbon if twisting violet, shot through with humming bolts of sunshine-yellow. Their attending destroyer nosed along Samothrace''s flank, separated by kilometers and aeons. As best Keres could see, there was no deviation of angle. They sailed true. ''Should I try and take us to Corsin? Or Comkin?'' Such confidence! ''If you believe you are able, lead us.'' ''I¡­I think so. Okay. Okay. Let''s do this. We''re drifting coreward. Can you have us turn¡­starboard?'' Raised on a starship indeed, Keres smiled at the proper terminology. Could she turn the ship? Keres was a Navigator. Eryl Besa asked if she could breathe. ''Shipmistress,'' Keres said, ''I have the helm.'' ''Honored for you to guide us, Chief Navigatrix.'' Psi-reactive circuits within her oubliette lit, impinging on her focus. She allowed mneumonics to unspool, psychically-implanted engrams that reached out, biting into the control-wafers and and tying connections between her unconscious mind and the ship itself. The girl wished to ''turn to starboard''. By Keres'' will, the battle-barge, all the heavy, adamantine-clad kilometers of it, eased into a gentle, arcing turn. The Geller field did not so much as flicker. ''There we go. Huh. That''s the wrong way. But it should be right¡­'' The girl groaned an endearing snarl of irritation. ''Warp stuff! Can you take us the other way?'' Keres had never directed so attentive a ship, or through such forgiving medium. Samothrace acted almost before her wishes were made conscious. ''How is that wrong too!'' ''Allow me an experiment-'' Rather than follow Besa''s test-cases, Keres instead judged the swirl of incandescent color around her. The ribbon of violet bend and curled, twisting inward to deeper dimensions - Keres followed it. ''That''s it! We''re going - wait, what did you do?'' ''The warp does not have directions, not as you understand them. Perhaps it is best I guide, and you adjust, than the opposite.'' Keres could imagine other Navigators - greater fools - finding umbrage to heed the advice of so callow, so untested a youth. An unreformed youth too, though human, who stood outside the Imperium. To share secrets, too! This Eryl Besa was a greater gift, a greater treasure than any STC the Men of Mars lusted for. She was a prize that entire noble Houses would slaughter for, would crawl over the corpses of their most prized Patriarch to claim. The girl could have been a xenos and a witch-mind and it would have made no difference. For the first time in her long, long life, Keres Likentrix found need to steadfastly enforce her mental stability, to remain calm. The Jedi''s running commentary as Samothrace circled and plunged and tore out of trackless pools of sienna and danced down sun-beam rays of false gold threatened to compromise Keres'' focus in ways truly dangerous. Her years, decades, centuries dropped away in those moments. She felt as a child again, in her first, careful lessons, at the right hand of her father. No Navigator ever experienced this. Keres Likentrix was the first, perhaps the only. To sail the ways of the Empyrean with land in sight. Her sails were full, her hand on the rudder and the sky clearest blue. ''Definitely going the right way¡ªpulling a little bit to spinward, but that''s¡ªoh, you corrected, okay¡ª'' For that blessed time, which to Keres passed timeless, she guided Samothrace as no other being had ever traversed the warp before, in two galaxies.
Corsin''s star was dim and so very distant. Samothrace and her escort emerged from the warp well beyond the comet shell, so far out that no sensor-nets might sniff them and any light-echoes would be faint, grainy and degraded when they reached peering eyes days later. Shipmistress Altuzer was wary of emergence, yet understood the necessity. Without returning to realspace to compare star-patterns to Republican charts, there was no certainty to the purported skill of Jedi Besa. To neither the girl nor Keres'' surprise, Shipmistress Altuzer''s near breathless confirmation of their arrival beyond the solar boundary of Corsin arrived shortly after quitting the warp. ''I knew it! My gut''s never wrong, that''s what dad always said.'' On a scale galactic, from Eboracum to Corsin was minute. Parsecs, which the ''hyperdrive'' capable Republic ships could cross in minutes. Samothrace sailed the distance in just under an hour. Straight. Through hitherto unmapped warp. She wished the wealth of her family was at hand. She would rain riches on Eryl Besa, she would garb the girl in robes of Terran silk, she would elevate her to heights unimaginable in this galaxy. Her father, the great and wizened Patriarch would not gainsay this. Had Eryl Besa a partner? A marriage was simple. Her great grand-nephew was fair for one of the Navis, and only treble the girl''s age. She could introduce them, once they returned to Eboracum. Whatever it took, whatever- ''What next?'' Keres peered back along the path they had taken. It stayed in her mind, caught tight in the lock-trap of her gene-bred eidetics. Ulthis too had watched, making his own memorization, dictating to scribbling chart-masters. A route laid now, from Eboracum to Corsin. Other ships would ply it, of course: perhaps their escorting destroyer. At least a dozen passages to confirm the stability of the path. ''Now we seek Obroa-skai,'' Keres replied. ''And from thence: ever onward.'' Exigence Chapter XXVIII XXVIII: We Know You Not
Strangely, though the Imperial battleship Samothrace managed to keep pace with Rhonabeq¡¯s Penitent Queen on the flight to Obroa-skai, it would be close to a week before they would clear occupied space for the rendezvous. Anakin couldn¡¯t fault the quarters they were set up in, close by to the hangars - or embarkation decks, as the Imperials called them - and fairly well furnished. They did feel a little like sleeping in a museum, though, or in some parts of what had been the Imperial Palace, back on Coruscant. All full of statues and busts and ornate frescoes painted on the walls. Meals were provided by quiet Imperials who didn¡¯t speak any Basic and time passed glacially. The food was good, alien in the same kind of way that most spacer fare was in cantinas around the Galaxy. Mei was still in the medbay - apothecarion, apparently - in an induced coma while Imperial surgeons did their best to keep her alive each day. Zalthis, when he stopped by their suite, swore up and down that the skill of Ultramarian ''chirurgeons¡¯ was incomparable. Anakin had seen her wound, though. He¡¯d seen the ends of her ribs, yellowy-white and spine-tingling cross-sectioned. Sitting around made him antsy and there wasn¡¯t much to do in their suite of rooms, so Anakin sought out Zalthis when he could. The two neophytes bounced back as if Obroa-skai had been routine, looking the very next day as bursting with energy as they were in the drop-pod before the mission. Meanwhile, Anakin had slept for close to fourteen hours, bundled up and lost to the world in silk Ultramarian sheets. At least Samothrac¡¯s holocomm, let him send his letter off to Tahiri before he could second-guess yet again, as well as letting Colonel Loran keep up with New Republic Intelligence. Uncle Luke spent a lot of time with Mei, giving what assistance he could to bolster her own strength in the Force. After losing Rhonabeq, Anakin could feel his uncle¡¯s resolve not to lose another Jedi on this mission. Not so close to the end. So Anakin tried sparring with Zalthis, which didn¡¯t go the best. He couldn¡¯t use his lightsaber nor Zalthis a powerblade, so he and the Ultramarine used blunted, lightweight wooden training blades. Which, of course, threw him off completely because they actually had weight to them and a whole different center of mass and the first time he¡¯d joined Zalthis in a sparring ring it had been so embarrassing Anakin still flushed thinking about it. Zalthis hadn¡¯t boasted about the easy win, at least. ¡°It¡¯s good to know many weapons,¡± the Ultramarine observed after, when Anakin looked at the practice sword like he wanted to snap it in two. ¡°Your lightsabers are potent, but what if you lost yours?¡± Just thinking about losing his ¡®sabre put a hollow in his stomach. It wasn¡¯t just a weapon, it was part of him. He made it, every part of it. It was as familiar as a limb and sure, Jedi lost theirs sometimes, like how Uncle Luke lost his for a while - along with his hand, of course - but there was just something so personal about not having his lightsaber anymore that while Zalthis had a point, Anakin reflexively wanted to push away the logic. Zalthis showed him all kinds of weapons after their first spar, taking each and demonstrating its use, even being able to tell what ¡®forge-world¡¯ had designed the ¡®pattern¡¯. The way Zalthis eagerly showed off the revving teeth of a ¡®chainsword¡¯ perversely reminded Anakin of Jacen¡¯s collection, back at the Praxeum. The way his brother doted on each and every one of his menagerie was mirrored by the neophyte¡¯s pure enthusiasm for killing devices. Zalthis asked what was amusing, but Anakin managed to distract him by pointing at a gigantic fist. It was called a ¡®powerfist¡¯, and it could punch holes in tanks. The Imperials had strange ideas. Solidian never joined them - not the first day nor the second, nor going into the third. It became a kind of routine - they would meet after breakfast and take over one of the many training halls. It was always just Zalthis and Anakin, even though he knew there were other Ultramarines on the vessel. They kept to themselves, he guessed, either under orders not to bother their guests or just uncaring. Zalthis said he hadn¡¯t received any orders or commands not to fraternize. ¡°You look like a proper citizen of Ultramar,¡± Zalthis observed, amused, and Anakin plucked at his tunic. All their changes of clothes were aboard Penitent Queen and, well¡­they wouldn¡¯t be getting those back. His burned and tattered and sliced up jumpsuit wasn¡¯t fit to wear, so along with quarters and food, the Imperials offered the Jedi and Wraiths changes of clothes, sourced from who-knows-where. Tunics, trousers, heeled boots and even some kind of off-the-shoulder robes, Anakin felt strange with the white symbol of the Imperials on his chest, but he couldn¡¯t exactly go around naked or in his underclothes. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll have to get you a jumpsuit like I used to wear, see how you¡¯d like that.¡± ¡°If you can find one that I might fit, I would be honored.¡± Anakin snorted. Today Zalthis professed interest in seeing some lightsaber forms, which Anakin couldn¡¯t really pull off with a weighted training blade. ¡°My Uncle could demonstrate all of them.¡± Anakin stepped into the center of the padded ring, Zalthis leaning on the railing that ran around the edge. ¡°The forms, I mean. I know about them, but I haven¡¯t trained in all of them, not even close.¡± He lit his ¡®saber, taking a deep breath as azure light cast new shadows. Idly, he tapped Mei¡¯s brother¡¯s lightsaber, which he still carried on his belt, almost unconsciously, after grabbing it for her in the madness and chaos of that final stand. His uncle told him that her armor was ruined almost completely by both the amphistaff and then the Imperial¡¯s removal of it and not for the first time he was glad he thought to recover the blade. When, not if, when she recovered, she would be devastated by the loss of her armor but at least she would still have her own lightsaber and her brother¡¯s. ¡°There are seven forms, you have said?¡± ¡°Well, seven main ones. Shii-Cho, Makashi, Soresu, Ataru, Shien, Niman and Juyo. There¡¯s a lot of other styles, but those seven were the forms of the old Jedi Order. We can learn those, but a lot of the time we kind of go with what works for us, which ends up a blend. Niman is closest to my style, but it¡¯s not exact.¡± Zalthis watched as Anakin started into simple motions, warming up, his eyes following closely the lightsaber. The Jedi brought his blade up to a basic guard, then shifted to an angled defense, then to another, another. ¡°¡®What wins the fight is what wins the fight¡¯,¡± Zalthis said, with the cadence of a quote. ¡°It strikes me as strange to not have an ordered pattern of training, yet I cannot deny the skill with which I have seen Jedi fight.¡± ¡°According to Tionne, the old Order was really focused on the Forms. Some people take to them, but it¡¯s left up to us. Master Katarn favors Djem So, but I guess an example is my uncle. He¡¯s mastered all the forms, I think, but he never focuses on any one. It¡¯s whatever he needs at the time.¡± ¡°A potent tool, then. Impossible for a foe to predict.¡± ¡°Yeah, maybe. I don¡¯t really think that way.¡± Anakin slid into beginning stances, smoothly flowing from one preparatory pose to the next. ¡°It¡¯s funny, a lightsaber is a weapon, but it doesn¡¯t feel like it when we train.¡± ¡°Curious. What do you mean?¡± Zalthis draped his arms over the railing, leaning his broad chest against the mesh divider. Anakin still wasn¡¯t sure what to make of not only the Ultramarines, but especially the two ¡®neophytes¡¯. He figured they were apprentices, kind of like, since the deceased Sergeant was their instructor. But that didn¡¯t seem to fit right, given how very uncaring about killing both of them, especially Solidian, proved to be. They looked older than Anakin, but still pretty young, so then he assumed maybe Ultramarines picked from soldiers out of some kind of training or boot-camp, and this was like¡­a weird kind of officer school? His dad didn¡¯t ever talk much about that brief time he was in the Empire¡¯s Navy, but there was no shortage of people Anakin knew who had served, were serving, or were planning to serve in the military. He stepped through a couple of simple stances, smoothly shifting from one to the next, letting his ¡®saber¡¯s reverb-hum fill the air. ¡°It¡¯s kind of peaceful. Like a puzzle.¡± He imagined Jaina counter to him, brought his blade up in blocks and ripostes to counter his mental image of his sister and her own violet lightsaber. ¡°Mei reminded me of that, right before we left for the, uhm, conference.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m still not understanding. It might be translational,¡± Zalthis allowed. ¡°Well, to be a Jedi is to serve peace.¡± ¡°This I have heard.¡± ¡°Which doesn¡¯t mean avoiding violence,¡± ¡°I should imagine not.¡± ¡°-but I don¡¯t know, there¡¯s kind of an art to it? It was fun to duel Mei with both her lightsabers.¡± ¡°A challenge.¡± ¡°Something like that. I wanted to win, but it was also fun just to chase her around and try to figure out what she was going to do next. Not a lot of Jedi use two ¡®sabers. I usually only ever sparred with Master Solusar and a few others. My brother and sister too.¡± ¡°You sound like what I¡¯ve heard of Emperor¡¯s Children,¡± Zalthis said, snorting a laugh. ¡°Who are they?¡± ¡°Another Legion of Astartes. Very preoccupied in the artistry of war.¡± the Neophyte dipped his head, smirking. ¡°Some say too much so.¡± ¡°There¡¯s other Legions of you guys?¡± ¡°Eight-eighteen.¡± Zalthis confirmed, though for a moment Anakin felt a tug of complex emotion from the man as he stuttered. Anger and sorrow and regret all in one. ¡°Wow. That¡¯s a lot.¡± ¡°You were at the conference, it is no great secret. We conquered the galaxy with the Legiones.¡± Anakin relaxed from a low block, drawing back upright. Considering what he¡¯d seen down on Obroa-skai, he could believe the boast. And it was a boast - Zalthis nearly glowed with pride when he said it. ¡°If those ¡®Emperor¡¯s Children¡¯¡± and Anakin suppressed a frown at the very unfortunate name ¡°are all about artistry, what are Ultramarines about?¡± Zalthis opened his mouth, narrowed his eyes and considered, shutting his mouth again with a click of his teeth and pursing his lips. ¡°Hm,¡± he hummed. ¡°I think - we are about readiness.¡± Anakin resumed stepping through forms. ¡°Readiness, huh?¡± ¡°Any Astartes you ask will have a different opinion. Sol, I think, would say the XIIIth is about order. Structure, maybe. He jokes and is irreverent, but he loves the clarity that service gives. There¡¯s never a question of your place, in the XIIIth.¡± ¡°Neophyte, Sergeant, Lieutenant, Primarch?¡± Anakin rattled off the few ranks the New Republic had learned or met in person. Zalthis nodded in agreement. ¡°Like that. Other Legions, like the Space Wolves, seem to pride themselves on their chaos.¡± ¡°Space Wolves?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve heard they don¡¯t like to be called that. Or the White Scars, who by reputation are quite apathetic toward authority.¡± ¡°That¡¯s four,¡± Anakin observed, keeping count. He nudged aside ¡®Jacen¡¯s¡¯ low slash, moving in slow motion. He imagined his brother¡¯s more reserved form, matched it. ¡°We would be here until the end of the day if I were to describe them all. But you asked of the Ultramarines. I think it''s readiness. We aren¡¯t the best at siegecraft - that is the Iron Warriors. We aren¡¯t the best at fortification and defense - that is the Imperial Fists.¡± He paused, watching with rapt attention as Anakin leapt up, somersaulting, landing exactly and continuing, ¡®saber always in motion. ¡°Impressive. We counter by being prepared. I think that is our strength, even if it is less¡­exciting. Before arriving here, there was a campaign we were preparing for. Another Legion, I think, might have simply charged ahead. My Primarch ordered a grand muster, to pull our strength together, reforge bonds between companies and Chapters and ensure the Legion was utterly ready. Then we could smash the greenskins utterly.¡± ¡°Look before you leap.¡± ¡°Like so. Not unlike, if I am understanding correctly, your Jedi.¡± ¡°Some of us,¡± Anakin said, thinking of Kyp and Ganner and others. ¡°What do you think?¡± He waved his ¡®saber, the neophyte tracking the blade with his eyes. ¡°Very agile. I am not sure I could match. I wish we could spar with proper blades.¡± Anakin shut off his lightsaber, returning it to his belt. Not even breathing any heavier, as he¡¯d been demonstrating, not really practicing, he joined Zalthis at the rail. The sparring pit was elevated, such that with Zalthis leaning and Anakin standing tall, they were just about face-to-face. ¡°It¡¯s dangerous. Even Uncle Luke didn¡¯t want to go any farther with your Lieutenant.¡± A faraway look stole over Zalthis face. ¡°Ah, that was inspirational.¡± he breathed. ¡°That is what I wish to be, one day.¡± ¡°Lieutenant Thiel?¡± ¡°A champion, like him. Do you not want to outpace your uncle? Show your own prowess?¡± Anakin shrugged. Maybe it would be normal for a teenager to want to outdo their famous uncle. Or their famous father. Or famous mother. What was the thing - growing up in a shadow? Luke Skywalker surely would cast an enormous shadow over any of them. Jacen, Jaina, or himself. Heir to the Jedi Order, the last Jedi standing, the man who took down the Sith themselves. Killed the Emperor, saved his father, saved the galaxy how many times? Maybe it would be normal to be envious of that kind of fame. Anakin wanted to be famous. He wanted to be powerful and respected and a great Jedi. And then Anakin fell to the dark side and killed his mentor and friend and tried to kill his own children, blew up a planet and became the thing that went bump in the night. Anakin Skywalker had enough ambition for the name ten times over. ¡°I¡¯m okay with being me.¡± Anakin shook his head. ¡°As long as I can help people.¡± Zalthis bobbed his head, not quite agreeing, but recognizing Anakin¡¯s words. ¡°What¡¯s a champion mean to you, anyway?¡± ¡°It¡­would mean I excel at my role. That I would be an inspiration to other Astartes, as they¡¯ve been to me.¡± ¡°Sure. That sounds pretty good.¡± ¡°Better than ¡®good¡¯. A real champion of the XIIIth is respected by all; their honor and fidelity unquestionable.¡± That struck a strange note. ¡°People have questioned your honor?¡± Zalthis looked as if he¡¯d been struck. ¡°What? Never!¡± ¡°Why would you need to prove it, then?¡± The neophyte¡¯s mouth worked like he chewed on syllables, face contorting. ¡°Because! Never mind, you - forget what I said.¡± Anakin held up his hands, placating. He might not have always been the best with people, but a sore spot was obvious. ¡°Hey, I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean anything by it.¡± ¡°No, no. Of course not. You don¡¯t know our ways.¡± You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Anakin leaned on the other side of the railing, the mesh fence running between them, between Jedi Knight and Astartes Neophyte. A thin, flexible mesh of metal, woven together, meant only to corral errant trainees and contain overzealous exercises. Here he was, worrying about Mei, still coming to terms with the gaping wound that was where Chewbacca should have been - Zalthis and Solidian had watched their teacher and mentor die and it was like nothing happened. Not knowing their ways was an understatement on the scale of saying that the Suncrusher was a little dangerous. He¡¯d given his condolences to Zalthis the first day back aboard Samothrace, before their spar, and Zalthis had just nodded gravely, thanked him for his words, but said that he didn¡¯t mourn Sergeant Ascratus. ¡°I will miss his lessons, but he died in duty, as any Astartes could ever hope for. I should only be so lucky.¡± Solidian, Zalthis said, kept Ascratus¡¯ pistol and made it his own, which was about the closest either of the two came to appearing in any way affected. Anakin didn¡¯t have to try to imagine what it would be like if that happened to him, because it had. Ascratus turned and ran from the teleport homer, dying by cuts, buying time for his charges to escape. Chewie threw Anakin aboard the Falcon, roaring at Dobido as the moon came down. He couldn¡¯t imagine just shrugging off Chewie¡¯s death the way these two did. It wasn¡¯t the same, of course, a Sergeant compared to a member of the family, but they didn¡¯t even seem to blink outside of swearing to repay the Yuuzhan Vong in full. That, at the least, he could commiserate with. Zalthis cleared his throat, extricating himself from his lean against the railing, bouncing his palm off the hilt of his combat knife. ¡°Shall I demonstrate as well?¡± he asked. ¡°I imagine we have very different practicals.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± Zalthis neatly heaved himself over the divider, Anakin edging further away to give him more space. The Ultramarine drew out his ¡®knife¡¯, the length of a shoto blade, twirling it easily, wristing snapping around. The shining steel cut the air with a whistle. Already in his first, quick motions, Anakin could see what he¡¯d already faced before in their friendly sparring. Everything about Zalthis¡¯ style was direct, to the point, and optimized to kill. No wasted deflecting, no wasted dodging, no moves to disarm or delay. Just rapid, pugilistic, eviscerating strikes. A little like what Juyo Anakin had seen in action, when his Uncle trained, but so much more brutally honest. A killer¡¯s motion. He thought of the chazrach, mobbing in throngs, the warriors with their lean aggression. Finesse was good, but like Zalthis said: ¡°what wins the fight is what wins the fight.¡± He watched the neophyte move, imagining incorporating the style the Astartes showed with his own, personal form. Next time, he could be faster. Next time, there wouldn¡¯t be another Mei.
His arming chamber was draped in stygian darkness. Nude, Aeonid Thiel sat cross-legged, fresh from ablutions, short-cropped hair still damp. Laid out on his bunk were a tunic, trousers, boots. A thin mat separated him from hard decking. He kept his eyes open, seeing nothing at all in the utter darkness. Not a photon of light bounced around his sealed chamber. In the darkness he could feel where everything stood, ordered over months aboard Macragge¡¯s Honour. His armor, polished and waiting on its rack. A small desk, tucked to the side, piled with dataslates and ring-bound sheaves of vellum. His bunk, just large enough for an Astartes¡¯ stature, made up precisely and neatly. He felt a fool, taking slow breaths in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. What was it Skywalker had said? Meditate. He was no Thousand Son with ink-stained fingers chasing ¡®enumerations¡¯. He understood the word, not the concept. Thiel imagined the feel of a burnishing pad in his fingers, rotely following circular motions as he polished his wargear. He could lose himself in that, finding time had slipped past even the enhanced senses he was blessed with. Was that meditation? It seemed to fit the definition, but Skywalker had stressed calm and stillness. He imagined that doing something violated those tenets. Stop thinking. His brain chased thoughts and concepts, peeling apart the idea of what he was doing, analyzing if it was going correctly - Aeonid adjusted himself, scowling in the dark. Stop thinking! Air flowed in through his nostrils, cool, creating mild pressure through his sinuses as his lungs filled. His lips felt the wind of his exhale, diaphragm tightening to compress his lungs - Another angle. Still feeling ridiculous, he pictured the Jedi Master as he was, shirtless and smiling, lightsaber at the ready. He felt the same incredulity that this mortal thought to cross blades with him, an Astartes. He felt the heft of his electromagnetic longsword in his hand, felt hairs along his forearms tingle in the aura of the power field. Luke Skywalker smeared into a streak of light and Thiel reacted. He did not remember their duel, but he imagined it. He imagined the smaller human duck past and through Thiel¡¯s defenses, forcing him to the backfoot. He felt ghosts of shock reverberate up his bare arms, from wrists that protested as his longsword trembled and rang at each meeting of plasma and power. Luke Skywalker was there, there, everywhere. Behind him and in front of him, beside him and around him, ducking and leaping and dashing and in the serenity of his mind Aeonid let frustration slide away. He eyed his embarrassment at being bested and blew it away with a breath. He tasted sweat on his lips, felt it burn in his eyes and accepted it. He could not face the Jedi Master one-on-one. Luke Skywalker was too quick, too insightful, too skilled. Aeonid would have to match. Skill could be countered by strength. Speed could be countered by reflex. Insight - insight. Luke Skywalker knew what Aeonid would do before Aeonid did. He was already blocking a blow before Aeonid thought to begin it. Insight had to be matched by insight. He imagined the Jedi Master and in his mind¡¯s eye he extended a hand toward the smaller man. Luke Skywalker, grinning in a way that shed years from his face, reached out his much smaller hand. Aeonid opened his eyes. Macragge¡¯s Honour was alive. In the darkness of his chambers Aeonid saw through kilometers of armor and decking, through bodies and beings who burned with life and vigor, until stars rolled overhead and nebulae spun, until Eboracum, white and green and blue and brown swelled before him and a huddling tunneler trembled in its burrow, feeling the claws of a patient predator dig, dig, dig away. Men laughed and sang as they tilled soil, children chased each other and then there was more, and more, a universe of stars, glimmering, glinting, diamonds in coal, filling Aeonid to bursting. He gasped and it was gone, slipping away in moments until he was alone in the dark in his chambers, breathing heavily, head spinning. His heart - hearts - pounded against his fused ribs. ¡°Throne alive,¡± he murmured.
Two squads of Ultramarian soldiers waited, flanking a sealed docking hatch. They stood at attention, weapons resting against shoulders. Zalthis and Solidian both stood by, in fresh armor, Solidian with Ascratus¡¯ pistol at his hip. Shipmistress Altuzer, crisp in her dress uniform, stood off to the side. This was not her operation, but it was her ship. ¡°Attention!¡± Zalthis barked, and as one, the soldiers shifted rifles to opposite shoulders, boots rapping heels together. ¡°Delegation departing.¡± Face guided a gently hovering gurney bearing Mei, still in an induced coma though rapidly regaining healthy color. Bhindi had a rucksack slung over her back, bearing dense and heavy databanks, loaded down with plundered records. Anakin and Luke led the small group, both in simple spun robes that bore a passing resemblance to Jedi robes. A gift from Shipmistress Altuzer, so that her guests might feel more comfortable. Zalthis stepped out of formation, linking thumbs and spreading fingers across his chest in salute. ¡°Master Skywalker, Jedi Solo. Colonel Loran, Lieutenant Drayson. I am honored to send you on your way, on behalf of Ultramar and the Imperium.¡± ¡°It¡¯s my honor,¡± Luke replied, inclining his head. ¡°I hope our peoples can continue to work together.¡± ¡°It is not my decision, but if it were, I would be proud.¡± A moment later Solidian spoke. ¡°As would I. Sergeant Ascratus believed in our mission and I see he was correct. We struck a blow against the Yuuzhan Vong xenoform.¡± The neophyte made the same sign over his chest, bowing slightly at the waist. Face and Bhindi both offered salutes while Anakin dipped his head as well. Altuzer cleared her throat and Zalthis turned to her. She held out a small pistol to the neophyte, who took it with a nod. ¡°Jedi, Republicans. I trust you enjoyed your stay aboard my ship.¡± ¡°We¡¯re in your debt, Shipmistress. Thank you for coming to save us.¡± ¡°Seconded.¡± Face echoed Luke. ¡°The Wraiths won¡¯t forget it.¡± Zalthis stepped closer, turning the pistol so that its grip was extended, offering it to Face. ¡°Colonel Loran. A gift, from the XIIIth and 4711th Expeditionary.¡± Tentatively, Face accepted the sidearm, turning it over, holding it carefully. Zalthis retreated with Solidian back to the end of the line, nearest the airlock. ¡°I¡¯m honored,¡± the Wraith said. ¡°Ah, what is it?¡± Altuzer smirked. ¡°Agemmon-pattern Hotshot Laspistol. I was told of how resilient vong armor is to your blasters. I trust this will serve you well. Word of warning: don¡¯t look directly at it. There is a datawafer for proper maintenance and how to recharge the battery.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll use it well.¡± ¡°Good. Jedi, Wraiths, I grant you leave of my ship. Go with the Throne¡¯s peace.¡± The hatch irised open, revealing a flexible docking umbilical, leading over to Runaway Artist. The slender Corona class had mated successfully with a universal clamp over the Imperial airlock, so that Mei would be out of care for as short a time as possible. Luke led the way, past stock-still soldiers, pausing as Anakin did when they drew up to the neophytes. ¡°Zal,¡± his nephew said. ¡°Jedi Solo.¡± The Ultramarine offered his arm and Anakin took it, wrist to elbow. ¡°You are a fine warrior. I hope to fight alongside you again.¡± ¡°I hope not,¡± Anakin said. Zalthis frowned and his nephew smiled. ¡°If we never had to fight again, it would mean the war was over.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Zalthis brightened, though Solidian raised an eyebrow. ¡°I understand. Throne guide you, Jedi.¡± ¡°May the Force be with you, Zalthis. Solidian.¡± Then they were past and through, into the airlock and on and behind him, Mei¡¯s repulsor gurney thrummed as they picked down the lightly jostling umbilical. Clear panels of plastek here and there gave them breathtaking views of Samothrace spreading out on all sides behind them, like a gigantic wall in space. Runaway Artist, at the other end, looked so tiny in comparison. ¡°Good folks,¡± Face said, as they neared the far airlock. It cycled open, revealing a medical team that rushed in, relieving the Wraith of Mei¡¯s gurney, swiftly bearing her out ahead of the rest of the team. ¡°Strange, but good.¡± His conversation with Roboute flitted through his memory. Absolute authoritarians, virulently xenophobic, paranoid - and yet, Face wasn¡¯t quite wrong. They seemed to wear their staunch ideals as a virtue, rather than trying to hide or obfuscate them. The Empire often liked to dress itself up in pretty justifications or hide behind thin reasonings, with few being so overt and outright about their real feelings. If Luke couldn¡¯t respect the society they built, he could acknowledge that they at least embraced the truth of who and what they were and didn¡¯t try to misdirect. ¡®Strange, but good¡¯ was too positive, given the implications of Roboute¡¯s judgment of the New Republic, the Jedi, and himself, yet they¡¯d reigned it all in to work, in truth, very comfortably and seamlessly on Obroa-skai. He tried to imagine taking along three Imperials of the old Empire on a similar mission and could only imagine the absolute headaches of arguments over chain of command, decision-making and who had the ultimate authority. In fact, he didn¡¯t have to imagine. Ithor was just yesterday and getting Pellaeon and the Moff Council to work with the New Republic had been like pulling teeth. And then there was Jagged Fel, and the Chiss contingent¡­ Maybe not ¡®strange, but good¡¯ so much as ¡®brutal, but honest¡¯. That honesty, that willingness to be open and to reach a middle ground, even if they might not like it, is what gave Luke hope. A middle ground meant there was always a chance for change. Anakin asked if he could follow Mei, as the medics planned to ease her awake. He waved his nephew on, knowing the Jensaarai was out of the woods. Turning to Face and Bhindi, before they could wander off to their own assigned quarters, Luke cleared his throat. ¡°I just wanted to say again - you have my condolences. Wedge always spoke highly of Zev and the times I met him, he seemed like a man of incredible character.¡± Face Loran looked his age, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, ruining the picture-perfect image of a holovid star. ¡°Thanks, Luke. That would mean a lot to him, coming from you.¡± ¡°If there¡¯s anything the Jedi can do, don¡¯t hesitate to ask.¡± Bhindi laughed, a dry, sad laugh, devoid of much humor at all. ¡°Don¡¯t promise the Colonel that,¡± she warned. ¡°Not unless you know what you¡¯re getting into.¡± ¡°Just promising a friend,¡± Luke answered. Face and Bhindi made their farewells, off to find their new quarters. The latter had said something about getting a jump-start on indexing the databanks, now that they were back aboard a Navy cruiser with droids to requisition. Luke could feel her determination to find something of use, something that made Zev¡¯s death meaningful. With Anakin following Mei to the medbay and Face and Bhindi off, Luke wandered the corridors of Runaway Artist, nodding now and then to sailors that stopped to salute. He wasn¡¯t in uniform, so it didn¡¯t really count, but - well. He could feel their surprise and enthusiasm when they recognized him. A yammosk slain. A yuuzhan vong commander, possibly dead. Altuzer said that Samothrace got a good look at the boulevard as it swept overhead and reported large fires left over from Ascratus¡¯ meltabomb. She did not have permission to fire on the planet herself, something that would have been a political knot to untangle considering Obroa-skai¡¯s technical position as a New Republic world, merely occupied, and that the Imperium hadn¡¯t yet signed a final, formal agreement of any kind. By any metric, it was a success. Like Face had said, the yammosk alone was a coup. Each war coordinator exponentially strengthened the enemy. Maybe yammosks were quick and easy to replace. Something told him they weren¡¯t, and that this loss was one that would hurt for a while to come. If they were lucky and Malik Carr died as well, that could be a double-punch that might actually stall out the entire advance of the front. With that in mind, the archives downloaded was more of icing on a ryshcate than anything else. He had a Jedi crippled, nearly dead. Another Jedi lost, returned to the Force. Zevulon Veers, a long-time veteran Wraith, also slain. The Imperials lost a Sergeant. He found himself in an observation blister and watched as Samothrace shrank rapidly, Runaway Artist angling to jump to lightspeed. Out here in the far reaches of an empty solar system, there were no mass shadows to avoid. Sure enough - the stars lengthened, smeared, and were replaced by the whirling, indigo funnel of hyperspace. Luke exhaled, watching the familiar kaleidoscopic lights. So many hours of his life were filled with that vista. Days and days, weeks maybe, counted all together. It¡¯s not the years, it¡¯s the parsecs. Han¡¯s voice echoed in his ear. Wherever his brother was, Luke wished him well. Kyp said he was going to chase him down and he hoped he¡¯d been successful. Kyp and Han had a unique friendship, one that held up down through the years. If anyone could reach Han through his renewed grief and guilt over nearly getting Luke, Mara, and many other Jedi killed because he hadn¡¯t seen through Elan¡¯s lie, it would be Kyp. May the Force be with you Han, wherever you are.
Malik Carr radiated fury. Harrar steepled his fingers, resting them against his fringed lips, listening quietly while the Commander ripped a particular Indendant to shreds, and then fed those shreds to a starving stuvak. It was deserved. Oh, Nom Anor, Nom Anor, meddling Nom Anor. Nom Anor, who claimed to know all secrets. Nom Anor, whose infiltration of the New Republic and this toxic galaxy was so complete he promised to lay bear every hidden strength before the Chosen people. Nom Anor, who utterly missed these Impeerials. Carr¡¯s burns were still peeling as they healed, his left arm truncated at the elbow, awaiting a blessed grafting. His long tresses, a point of pride for the commander, were just a dusting of new growth at his scalp. A diminutive nol dovin basal could only bear so great a void. The biot spared the Commander¡¯s death, at least. The pain of his burns and injuries only clarified and focused the Commander¡¯s mind, to Harrar¡¯s pleasure, like a coufee paring away sick flesh to leave him whip-strong and filled with righteous fury. ¡°First their mutant men shame my warriors and slaughter them with ease, then they slip a grand cruiser past our very wards! Not a single dovin basal sensed the craft until it bore down upon us! Had the infidels a stronger stomach, they could have laid waste to all of Obroa-skai and crippled this front. I finger you as responsible, Intendent. Speak! Fill my ears with your pretty lies and poison my tongue with the flavor of your incompetence. Speak!¡± Nom Anor fumbled and Nom Anor made excused and Harrar had heard them all. Malik Carr paced and bellowed, villip choir flexing to follow him. ¡°They slew a yammosk in its den! It spoke to me its last words, to warn me of these Impeerials of this Impeerium.¡± ¡°I know only of a Ssi-ruuvi Imperium, much honored Commander! This I swear, this is a new trick of the jeedai, or perhaps some secret nation come revealed in fear of our righteous conquest-¡± ¡°I choke on your platitudes!¡± With the Warmaster¡¯s ear, Harrar knew that word had reached the highest of levels. To slay a yammosk in its den, leaving the body intact and untouched, sent a thrill of uncertainty through the Priest. Yammosk were the holy vessel of Yun-Yammka, closest to the Slayer himself. Whatever weapon these Impeerials wielded, it was potent indeed and a dreadful one. Rumor had it shapers already beseeched Yun-ne¡¯Shel to reveal secrets and even the Supreme Overlord might be moved to intercede to Yun-Yuuzhan himself. Harrar felt more circumspect. These infidels were unworthy, corrupt and craven, of course, but they had proven the capacity for great mettle already. A weapon that could slay a war coordinator was one they would not hesitate to unleash. Why now, and why in such an inconsequential way? The loss of the yammosk¡¯s memories and talents was a burden, but another would arrive in time. Perhaps if the New Republic had sent a fleet to assail Obroa-skai, then the slaying would reveal a logic. Thrown into disarray and disunity without the yammosk to command them, the orbital defenses would have been laid bare. The infidels might have claimed a great victory indeed. This told Harrar that whatever was done to slay the yammosk, it was not done by intention. The creeping infiltrators had not planned on assassination, only theft of data. It could mean that this weapon could not be recreated. It was unseemly to imagine wasting a weapon to save a pitiful few jeedai and others, but the infidels did value life overmuch. Could they waste the killing of a yammosk to protect four, five lives? Of course they would - this was why the Chosen people were fated to victory. ¡°Esteemed Commander,¡± Harrar interrupted. Malik Carr spun, seething, chest heaving and sweat slicking his limbs from both agony and exertion. The sensation of raw burns across so much of his body must be exquisite, the priest considered. Electrifying. He wondered what truths Carr might glimpse in so elevated a state. ¡°Speak,¡± Carr spat. ¡°The Gods have blessed us,¡± he began, pausing as Carr rasped laughter. ¡°By guiding the infidels to unsheathe their amphistaff too soon. Though the insult to your person is grievous and the loss of the war coordinator troubles the Warmaster, we must consider this to be a boon.¡± Nom Anor, cursed be his name, was too intelligent for his own sake. ¡°You mirror my thoughts, Eminence. I admit that my sources did not reveal this Impeerium to me, but now that it is in the open, I can redouble my efforts.¡± ¡°You would do so regardless.¡± ¡°Before the Intendent so interrupted me-¡± Nom Anor¡¯s visage on the villip, meaty and slightly warped, looked suitably chastened. ¡°I was speaking of a boon. Already the shapers plumb the cortices for answers to ward our yammosks in the future. I will make sacrifices that Yun-Harla will find delight in the New Republic¡¯s utter failure at deception, and grant us her favor to better instruct them on secrecy. So girded, when next revealed, this Impeerium will crumble as the Outer Rim already has, and glory will be yours, Commander.¡± Exigence Epilogue Epilogue
The grottos beneath the Praxeum were warm, dark and humid. Away from the sprawling jungles above, the moon grew quieter and closer, full of seeping stalactites, crystal pools and infinite winding passages that snaked deeper and deeper and deeper still. Entire ecosystems of species made their lives down in those depths, breeding cave-fish without eyes and colonial insects feeding from nocturnal mammal droppings. Down in the darkness of the grottos was no great fear, for life pressed all around as vibrant in the Force as a lume and as welcome as the depths of her homeworld. Cilghal lazed in one of the many, many pools, taking long, deep breaths of the cooling waters, contrasting to the warmth of the air. It helped soothe the aching in her lungs and throat. Each breath she pulled on the Force, let it flow through her like the oxygenated waters and on each exhale she washed out a little bit more of her fevers. Shriveled cells full of degenerated organelles autoclaved, feeding scrap nutrients to their neighbors. Withered lamella surged with fresh blood and renewed. Shriveled alveoli plumped out. It was a work of weeks, slow and steady, and fatigue drew on the Mon Calamari again. She could only manage a quarter hour, perhaps half. At least an improvement from needing full submergence in bacta, tended to around the clock by medi-droids even while she bent every fibre of her being toward clinging to life. She didn¡¯t fear death, but she still had so, so much more to do. Sometimes Sannah joined Cilghal, keeping her company, the young Melodie a delight as she powered through the waters. Even as a child and not in her mature form, Sannah was as powerful as swimmer as any Mon Calamari. Tionne¡¯s gentle presence tickled Cilghal¡¯s senses and she craned her neck, peering back toward the turbolifts that led to the upper grottos. The silver-haired woman, in black-and-silver robes, raised a hand in greeting and beamed. ¡°Good morning Cilghal,¡± she whispered, as if afraid to break the serenity of the pool. ¡°How are you feeling?¡± Tionne drew up to the side of the pool, barefoot, and eased down to sit at the very edge, trailing toes in the cool water. ¡°Better every day.¡± Cilghal slowly swept her webbed fingers through the water, enjoying the flow over her digits. ¡°I had the strangest dream while I slept.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Tionne asked. ¡°I dreamed I was back in the creche.¡± Her dream was so vivid, so lifelike, that for a moment after waking she struggled to remember where she was, pulling herself up through cloying layers of blurring reality. Part of her demanded she fall back asleep, chasing the dreamscape, nostalgic and eager to return to that stranger, realer world until full wakefulness took hold. ¡°It was a science lesson and we were learning about¡­I¡¯m not sure what. I don¡¯t think it is any animal native to Dac that I know. We were all so full of energy and I didn¡¯t want to wait for the lesson, I wanted to go swimming.¡± In that matter-of-fact, dreamlike way, she just knew that her friends were out exploring the reef without her. She didn¡¯t want to learn about boring old fish, she wanted to see them! ¡°But something was so important that I had to stay and listen.¡± Tionne hummed interest, not interrupting. ¡°It¡¯s the most vivid part. She was teaching us about a kind of cephalopoid that lived in the deep reefs. It had the strangest kind of life cycle. It was a hermaphroditic organism and it self-fertilized. My teacher was telling us about how strange its reproductive cycle was, I think as an example of the complexity of life. It¡¯s something that¡¯s important on Dac. This creature, when it was female, it would give birth to its young, which were these tiny, tiny perfect copies of its adult form. But what made it unique is that they wouldn¡¯t detach from their umbilical cords. Instead, they stayed connected to the mother and wandered just around where the mother was anchored. The adult forms fused themselves to limestone, like an anemone. It¡¯s so strange, I can still see the holograms if I close my eyes.¡± Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°There¡¯s nothing like that on Dac?¡± ¡°Not that I know of. Well, I can¡¯t pretend to know every species, but it seemed so strange that I¡¯m sure I would have heard of it.¡± ¡°We could look it up?¡± ¡°Maybe.¡± ¡°Continue, I¡¯m interested.¡± Cilghal submerged her mouth again, cooling her throat and vocal chords a moment. ¡°The young would feed and explore while still attached to the mother, and the umbilical started to work both ways. The mother would pass nutrients to the babies and the babies would pass excess back to the mother. It was helpful for the mother, since once this species anchored itself, their tentacles shrunk, so the young could wander much farther than the mother could reach.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a very symbiotic relationship.¡± ¡°It would be, except that there was more. While the young were growing, the parent would undergo metamorphosis and shift to male.¡± Cilghal shivered, remembering the vivid holograms showing what came next, the way her teacher delved into detail, more than was necessary. She could feel the pit in her stomach, as her child dream-self trembled and listened well. ¡°The parent would reel in the young by their umbilicals, using his vestigial tentacles. They showed us how the young would struggle and struggle, trying to get free. Some managed to snap their umbilicals and flee, bleeding into the water around them, but those that didn¡¯t - the parent, now the father, would eat.¡± Awake now, remembering her dream, she wondered why it had been such an unsettling concept to her dream-self. Nature was inventive and nature was amoral. Animals did whatever they had to to proliferate and continue the species. A stintaril eating a whisper bird didn¡¯t hate the poor bird, it just needed the food. Nature couldn¡¯t be evil or cruel, not really. That was for sapients, the struggle that consciousness had to overcome. ¡°The lesson was about how that struggle was necessary to pinch off the arteries and veins in the umbilical cord and to strengthen the gills of the young. Without the struggle, they couldn¡¯t live on their own. For the parent, eating those that couldn¡¯t get away returned nutrients for the next generation and pruned the weaker offspring that might not survive in the wild. Such a strange kind of thing: she breeds, he feeds. I don¡¯t know why it stuck with me.¡± ¡°Dreams can mean many things.¡± Tionne drew her feet up from the pool, tucking them beneath her as she sat leaning on one arm. ¡°Especially for those like us. Do you think it was a metaphor?¡± Cilghal shrugged, ripples chasing each other away from her, across the glassy surface of the pool. ¡°If it did, I can¡¯t find it. Just a strange dream.¡± They sat in silence for a while, a comfortable one, of friends who had no reason to fill the air. Since returning to Yavin after Priestess Elan¡¯s assassination attempt, Cilghal had spent more time with Tionne than she had in years and remembered how well they got along. The silver-haired Jedi Master had asked only what she could do to make Cilghal¡¯s recuperation easier, keeping Cilghal company during many long nights when the lingering, rapacious infection of the yuuzhan vong parasite burned hardest. Tionne was no healer, but she lent a shoulder and a measure of her own strength to Cilghal. Ism Oolos, Mara¡¯s own specialist doctor, had suggested Dac might help Cilghal the most, embracing the life-web of her homeworld, but she thanked the stars each day she¡¯d chosen Yavin. The moon just spoke to them all, all the Jedi, in ways none could really describe. Home in a way that her water-shrouded homeworld just wasn¡¯t, peaceful in a way that a jungle just shouldn¡¯t. And the children, all of them, so active and energetic, lent a powerful balm all its own. Strange dreams, but she was a healer. Wild thoughts and imaginings borne from fever and illness were a condition she knew well, and she put it from her head. Already her eyelids drooped, feeling heavier and heavier, her small-but-growing pool of energy drained from even a brief conversation. Her dream teacher¡¯s words came back to her as she drifted off into welcoming slumber, running through her mind on loop. She breeds, he feeds. A many-tentacled cephalopoid hauled in its young, puncturing them with one, long, sword-like tooth, held in a jawless maw. Cilghal thought nothing more, taken by dreamless, restful sleep. Interstitials: Noskaur Interstitial: Noskaur
Like most of his kin, he''d been born in the high towers of Terra. After Unification, thank you, his was the grey of distinguished age, not the feathery white of infirmity. From the lands that had been the Ethnarchy, in those less-enlightened times. The Astartes strode the stars when he''d come into the world, squalling and irreverent and unknowing of the role that would come onto his shoulders. Primarchs had been found - though not all - and worlds flocked to the banner of the Imperium. It was the latter that captivated him in his youth, voraciously devouring everything he could of grand tales of adventure that filtered back to the old, tired mother of the Throneworld. His parents, mid-rate longshoremen who worked long hours driving grand cranes to load endless, fat bulk haulers, doted on his obsession. Often were the times his father, eyes tired and shoulders rounded, found a warm smile breaking through his fatigue as he knelt to offer another precious datawafer to his son. He''d take it in his little hands and bound out of the cramped foyer of their three-room apartment - luxurious, really - and feed it with endless patience into the rattling vidcaster. There, on white-plaster wall, he''d watch images from other worlds, far across the stars, listening to tinny voices declare their beauty and bounty. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the smooth, cool, bumpy texture of the plaster. He''d touch his fingers to it, as if to get just a taste of the grand galaxy beyond. There were martial ''wafers on offer, that showed in the most flattering ways blue-and-gold plated supermen, valiantly slaying the fiercest of alien monsters. Angels in red and black and gold descending on flaring jump-packs, packs of loping men clad in abyssal black and lunar white. He never cared much for those, for all that his friends in the schola gushed so. No, he loved the rarer ''wafers, the ones decried as boring, the ones where no ''Space Marines'' appeared. He loved the ones that showed festivals and cheering crowds and garlands of flowers cast into the air. He loved the worlds that embraced the Imperium and exulted in reunion. It put his mind aspun to imagine. Imagine what it must be like, to be so lonely and so scared, out in the dark. To hear rumor of some great fleet approaching and reach out to loved ones, quaking in terror. Knowing the dark had come at last and the final midnight was soon to strike. He could feel the palest shadow of the wonder he knew they must surely have felt when hulking Stormbirds and lighters fell from the clouds and out came not monster or beast but men, good men, strong men, brave men, with smiles on their faces and hands outstretched. Little Sorvenos dreamt to be one of those men, one day, to lift up a brother or a sister from the dirt and the ashes of their world and pat them on the shoulder and embrace them as equals and say to them: ''I am from Terra. We have missed you so dearly.'' That drive saw him preach on corners, standing on press-plastek crates. Extolling the virtues of a Crusade he was far too young to take part in. Speaking from the heart about the vital energy of Mankind and the responsibility everyone - everyone! must surely feel. He preached and he paced and poked pontificating finger in the air and behind him his rattling vidcaster played washed-out vids on the bare cement side of a shop, white plaster mostly obscuring looping gang-symbols and inked graffitos. On a world that held teeming billions, where the numbers of births and deaths per day alone met the population of lesser planets, one child, eager and insightful, meant nothing. His best scores and studious dedication to learning, even less. He would be a mid-rate longshoreman like his parents, loading endless trains of macro-containers onto fat bulk-haulers, coming home to greet his own son after each day. Life was not the vidcast stories, wound up on a datawafer, waiting to be played to a climax. So Little Sorvenos grew and grew and when he came of age he walked away from the life of a longshoreman and the endless trains of macro-containers and he took up a lasgun and combat webbing, he took up his cap and his coat and spit-polished boots and he joined the great enlistment. He joined the great enlistment so he could see the stars and send pay back to his folks, pay that was a throne and a half more than that of a mid-rate longshoreman, who piled high macro-containers on big, fat bulk-haulers. And that was to start. ''Iterator?'' He smiled at a woman''s hushed voice, blinking, and Danni Quee leaned back to her own seat. ''Apologies, Doctor Quee, I was lightyears away.'' ''That''s quite alright, you''ve had a long week.'' ''Among my busiest,'' he agreed, swallowing down a yawn, as that would simply not do for his image. ''Though the company has been appreciated.'' ''Any time,'' the astrophysicist said easily. ''It''s my pleasure. I''m sure I sound like a droid on loop, but getting to talk to people from beyond the galaxy.'' She whistled, miming drawing a hand across her forehead. ''Amazing!'' ''As you say indeed, Doctor. I confess myself that while I figured myself well prepared for the demands of the Crusade, I daresay this circumstance stresses even my own beliefs. Though, it does remind me of the reason why I, long ago, started down this path.'' Hands clased in her lap, green eyes shining with rapt attention, Noskaur had a suspicious he could say anything at all, even complete nonsense, and Danni Quee would still eat it up. It was his mere act of speaking that had at least half of her fascination. The woman had built a life around searching for extra-galactic life, and now she shared an aircar with a human from beyond the edge of known space. He was being a little generous, all told. As he had had reaffirmed in his many years among the Expeditionary Fleets, Mankind was a stubborn and surprisingly prolific bunch. In truth, stumbling across humans on Eboracum, in Throne-knows-where, barely registered. It just simply made sense. ''I wanted to see the Galaxy, you see,'' he elaborated and Quee nodded sagely. ''Me too. Then I got older, and I realized everyone had already seen the galaxy.'' ''Come to the Imperium, Doctor Quee, and I promise that there will be no end of new stars and new beings to discover.'' She actually looked interested, bless her. ''That''s just it! Do you know - really know - how big the universe is?'' She held up her hands, thumb and forefinger extended on both, creating a square. ''A hologram this big at arm''s length, taken of the night sky from any world, any world, at night, and in that volume can be a trillion galaxies! Even more! And then if each one follows an average trend, that''s-'' Gently, Noskaur cut in, knowing that when the woman got started, she''d well ramble until she flushed with embarrassment. ''I''m no expert, but I have been told.'' Danni shifted in her seat, the airspeeder tilting slightly as it descended. ''It''s a terrible shame your hyperspace seems to have trouble piercing into the darkness between galaxies. With such incredible speeds, those nearby might well be within your grasp.'' He tried to imagine Crusade Fleets exiting the galaxy, reaching out for the many dwarf galaxies that spun around it, or even farther to the largest sister, the galaxy Antromedia. Still parts of the galaxy remained dark and unilluminated and the Astronomican shone only so far. If what that traitor Lorgar claimed was even half true - Noskaur feared that his own galaxy, his own home, might never have the luxury to wonder at the rest of the universe. ''If there wasn''t so much going on, I''d wonder if your own ships could be used. Maybe one could carry one of ours past the turbulence and let it loose.'' She sighed, shaking her head. ''But there''s so much else to worry about now. The rest of the universe came to us, in a way.'' ''I hope that we of the Imperium are more satisfying than the yuuzhan vong.'' ''Oh, so much so. Don''t worry about that.'' Quee suppressed a shiver, undoubtedly recalling her brief, but altogether unpleasant, captivity at the hands of the invader. Metal clunked dully on metal as the airspeeder came to a clean landing. A synthesized voice alerted that they had arrived, and beside Noskaur the gull-wing door cracked a seam, letting in bright light and a sudden flush of sound. ''Ah,'' he said, grasping the handle and tossing the door up. ''Allow me.'' Quee took his offered hand, smiling, and he helped her out from the airspeeder, taking a moment to brace himself as he secured the hatch behind her. Behind him he felt the vast, vast expanse of the plaza and the sound of texture of a million voices rustled past him. Danni Quee was safely and comfortably human, peering up at him; green eyes, blonde hair, comfortable proportions. Human, baseline human, not even like some offshoots he had encountered. She could be Terran, in fact, Albion perhaps, or jermani? Not wishing her to take the wrong impression - Quee was certainly an attractive woman, albeit a fraction of his age - Noskaur chewed the metaphorical lasbolt and allowed himself to look around. Monument Plaza spread out before them. Xenos of every shape, size and form crowded around. He saw ones with¡­spawn¡­held by appendages of every shape and size. They pointed and gabbled and meandered around, bustling hither and thither. Statues and banners lined the approach and he barely heard or registered the airspeeder hum into the air behind them and depart. Cold sweat erupted along his spine. Beside him, Quee said something, pointing and babbling away but suddenly ''Basic'' was as alien as the sights. He had a working command of the local tongue, polyglot training and implantation critical for his purpose, but all failed him in this moment. Throne alive, he had spoken with xenos more than once, treated with them as an Iterator of the Crusade even before coming to these new shores. Some emissaries of non-human strain even found their way as far as Terra, rare as it was. The alien was nothing new, but the sight was. Endless statuary in marching lines. Humans and aliens side by side. Talking. Pointing. Gawking and gossiping. He saw humans walking hand-in-appendage with aliens and shivered at the implication. Noskaur steeled himself, glancing again at Quee, who had trailed off an looked up at him, a question on her face. ''Breathtaking,'' he managed, and it was not a lie. She brightened. ''You think so? I mean - I do too, but not because of what it is - it''s what I imagine. Look at everyone! A whole Galaxy, right here in a microcosm. If only I could walk the Monument Plaza of some other galaxy! I feel like you could learn everything you need to know just sitting at a cafe and people-watching.'' Numbly, he let her lead, the scientist veritably hauling him along as Noskaur''s feet felt sluggish. A human pecked a red-skinned alien with horns on the lips. Publicly. No one batted an eye. His stomach turned. Plastering on his tailored, perfected look of amused and paternal interest, he let Quee''s breathless enthusiasm roll over him. She was not wrong. Much could be learned here, at Monument Plaza, that Eboracum could not reveal nor the trawled results of the Mechanicum''s investigations of the holonet. Here was the public in its rawest form, cosmopolitan, at the heart of the capital. Just as he thought of Terra, Quee seemed to read his mind. ''-anyway, tell me about Terra! I wish I could see it¡­'' He peered around at the flanking skyscrapers, soaring above and fencing in the Plaza, gilt in glass and steel, shining and catching distant sunlight in rippling shimmers. Those nearest the Plaza were in a particularly different style, one that spoke more to his own sensibilities, festooned with buttresses and peaked windows, outlined by florid designs and rich stonework. Compared to the much more sterile and austere towers marching off to the hazy horizon, these had a touch of age and history to them that Noskaur found strangely absent otherwise. Compared to Terra, he mused- ''I believe the best adjective to describe the homeworld is ''old''.'' Airspeeder lanes filled the sky overhead, orderly in grids, and Noskaur shook his head at the improbability of it. Not even the densest Hive sported such frivolous transport. Trams and rail were much more efficient. ''As the birthplace of mankind, Terra is proud of her age and history. Cities and nations bear the badge like an honor. I have seen in Hy Brasil and Merica, in the Panpacific States and ruins of Ursh, the way, like strata, the millenia pile on each other. Anywhere on Terra, dig deep enough, and you are sure to find habitation and ruins from the dawn of mankind, sometimes even still maintained and occupied. Quee''s brows rose. ''How old are some of them?'' ''Ancient, I should imagine. Thousands of years for those of Old Night, during the times of the warlords. But beneath that? Tens of thousands at the least. I spoke with an associate who travelled with the Thousand Sons. You, I think, would enjoy their company. I''ve been told they prize fine wine and a good old book over swordplay and conquest. He tells me, that in Gyptus, they once uncovered ruins beyond fifty-thousand years. The Sigilite, I am told, holds in grand archives the eldest ancestors of mankind, from when we were still animals not yet able to understand fire.'' Now entering the Plaza proper, from the entry esplanade, Noskaur saw distant gardens and green spaces, thronging crowds pulled taut around one attraction or another. At Quee''s silence, he looked to the young astrophysicist, only to see a frown creasing her forehead. ''Fossils? There are fossils on Terra, of humans?'' ''Many, I''ve heard. Forgive me, Doctor Quee, but ancient history and especially paleontology, are not my forte. I could request reference materials, if you like. But yes, I am given to understand that especially in some of the athaeneums that survived Old Night, there still remain our ancient progenitors. The Emperor, beloved by all, is said to adore them. They are proof positive, you see, that the Imperial Truth is the Imperial Truth. When confronted by superstition and cloudy religious propaganda, telling all the world that humankind were made by shiftless gods or primordial powers, it is to the great records of Terra we can point to, even as diminished as they are by age and strife, to say: ''See now the bones of your forebears, and see there is no fingerprint.'''' ''But there''s a record? You have common ancestors, you have phylogenic trees? Genetic cousins?'' ''Well, of course! Most are extinct now, along with much of Terra''s fauna, but records remain, as well as specimens. Of some note was finding examples of Terran genestock off-world, preserved through the millenia by colonial worlds. I''m told at least three species, previously unknown, were matched to record, though I may be misremembering. Iterator, you see.'' ''Right, right¡­'' She kept pace with Noskaur by rote, eyes taking on a distant mien, hands tucked into small pockets of her low trousers, thumbs left exposed. Her lips moved, slightly, shaping words known only to her mind as she puzzled it out. It was gratifying. As an Iterator, to be ignored or worse, thought a liar, stuck in his craw. He''d made his entire life one of truth, the Truth, the only Truth, and while he could find it in him to understand Senator Shesh and the other''s lack of care or dismissal of Imperial claims, he would not forgive it. For Shesh, she was a political animal through and through, and revelations of ancestry meant little save where it could be trimmed into a tool for her use. The others, the Jedi? Others might dismiss them as mere witches or mutants, but Noskaur felt otherwise. They had an air of the scholar around them - though in sureness, as the Thousand Sons proved, scholars could well also be sorcerors. An ugly term, from unenlightened times, but Noskaur enjoyed the rusticness of it. Quee mustered herself, head coming up and smiling again. ''Well, without primary source confirmation, it''s hard to believe but I would love to read anything you can pass along. I have some other associates too who would drool at the chance. You know, there''s a few planets that claim to be where humans come from, but they''ve never been able to fully back that up with a fossil record.'' ''Your skepticism is expected, Doctor Quee. We recognize the improbability of our claims, and our singular lack of easy evidentiary proof.'' He spread his hands, adopting a touch of chagrin and bemusement. ''We have never imagined needing to argue the Truth so far afield. You can trust the Primarch will have prepared a proper theoretical to address this, should such circumstances arise again.'' She laughed, with her chest and her shoulders, given over with a refreshing sort of freedom to expression. ''You''re planning to jump across the universe again? Take me with you!'' ''Planning is rather the Primarch''s forte,'' he chided. ''But you asked about Terra.'' ''Right, of course. Where are you from?'' ''A region that used to be the Ethnarchy, between Europa and the Caucasus Wastes. North of Beoetia, an unremarkable and overlooked patch of land.'' He thought of his mother and father, long deceased, whose ashes he hoped were still in their silent urns, back on Macragge. The grand towers, skeletal, piercing the sky to loom over bulk-conveyors. Their great webs of hawsers and mag-grapnel lines. ''Beautiful, in its own ways.'' If anything might describe the look on Quee''s face, it would be pleading. Well, an Iterator would never turn down so demanding an audience. ''You see, Terra is old. Every scrap of land has been lived on before, even if still some tracts go to seed or lie barren. The oceans have retreated, far from their original shores, until they are less than seas spotting ancient beds. In older times, Terra was green and blue, but now she is brown and gold and indigo. Our own blame, of course, for misusing the world, but the reality is as it is. The brown is the deserts and rad-wastes, from centuries and longer of warfare that only now has been put to past. The gold is cities, ringed with light, whose glow from the stars rivals this world.'' Noskaur gestured toward the encircling towers. ''You told me of this Plaza, how it was constructed on the tallest peaks of Coruscant. Well, on Terra, the seat of the Emperor is carven into the heights of Hymalazia, the roof of the world. The greatest peaks, like Chon-malyung, were planed flat to infill valleys and raise foundations. From what I am told, those peaks would consume Umate whole.'' Noskaur gestured across the Plaza, toward one of the largest congregations of tourists, where he knew the last bare land of Coruscant could be glimpsed. The very peak of the highest mountain in the Manarai range, enshrined in an amphitheatre like captured royalty. A quaint kind of ritual, speaking of a degree of precious sentimentality that he would be hard pressed to imagine Rogal Dorn espousing in his grand reworking of the Palace. ''On Terra, our Hives are built up, not out. They grow until they crack the atmosphere itself, like Lion''s Gate Spaceport in the outer precincts of the Palace.'' ''Instead of the shell of a city wrapping around the world, you concentrate construction.'' She tilted her head this way, that, mulling it over. ''I could see the benefits, but also the downsides.'' ''What would you say they are?'' ''Well, like you mentioned with Umate, Coruscant doesn''t have any open spaces anymore. It''s a tragedy that any indigenous life has gone extinct and that all our trees are in parks-'' she pointed toward a smear of green, a canopy that stretched for kilometers. ''Or in arboretums. On the other hand, I think there would be less space in your ''Hives'' compared to here on Coruscant. If you concentrate people like that.'' He thought of the scant, barely thirty meter apartment that was the home of his youth and was pleased by her deduction. His family had been quite fortunate indeed, as well, given that the space was ancestral, passed down from his father''s great-great-great grandfather through the generations. Others had less space, with more bodies. ''True indeed. No census would dare claim accurate reporting of civilians on Terra, but most agreed upon estimates reckon in the trillions.'' Quee hummed, looking around. ''Similar to Coruscant.'' ''I had noticed as well. Though, there is much more land yet untapped on Terra. For the age of your capital, its encasement is understandable. To imagine Terra in ten thousand years, prosperous under the Imperium and the Emperor''s guidance, I could well envision the world beneath lost, just as here, in shell after shell of dense habitation. Quadrillions, I should say with some wonder.'' He thought of the spaces he had known, filled with weedy and wiry but hearty grasses, trees, blade-leafed bushes. Life in the cracks, but elsewhere nature still clung on. In Albyon and Nordyc, and Hy Brasil, there were still forests, jungles even. The industry of Mankind was not one of sentimentality, but sometimes he wondered if it might be better if it was. ''You mentioned a Palace?'' Quee pointed off to the west, toward a looming structure that was a smear on the horizon. ''Like the old Imperial Palace?'' ''A very amusing coincidence. Yes, the Palace. Though that there,'' Noskaur pointed as well, ''would be a single small precinct. The Palace is a city and a landmass all its own. Ah, Doctor Quee, for someone such as yourself, so drawn to new stars and new wonders, I wish I could lead you down the Halls of Parth, or show you the grand galleries of the Imperialis Concerta. We could spend months alone in the Artes Universalis. The wonders of a galaxy are placed in reverence in the Palace, through a thousand museums and archives, to be wondered at and cherished as the shared heritage of us all. You could meet the most learned of men and women there, in those ancient places. Quee heaved a long sigh, shaking her head. ''This is torture,'' she muttered. ''Now consider how it must be for those of us who fear we will never lay eyes on the homeworld again.'' Though Quee winced and glanced away, looking off toward the former ''Imperial'' Palace again, Noskaur did not regret his words. Her interest was infectious, but it was important she, and by connection the New Republic, remembered the great price paid by the Imperium Exsilius. Remember that the New Republic had their worlds to fight for, while the 4711th did not. It behooved them to consider that, when demanding the blood of Mankind be spilled in their wars. ''I hope the Force guides you home, Iterator Noskaur. I really do. Especially if,'' she chanced a playful grin, ''you keep your promise to show me the Palace.'' ''Doctor Quee, I would petition the Emperor personally should the possibility arise.'' Mood salvaged, they continued to speak as she led Noskaur along the plaza, pointing out this and that, describing what a statue meant, or what pennant meant what world. He eased slowly, tension unwinding from his spine and no longer did he glance askance at each passing alien. The ubiquity of them was still unnerving, for all he had been primed for this reality on Eboracum and then in his studies of the New Republic. But intellectual understanding was quite something else from seeing a giggling human child walking hand in hand with two lumpen, grotesque creatures. When tomorrow''s address to the closed Senate came, he would be glad for this exposure. It would not do to show any hint of his displeasure before that body, regardless of how absolutely ludicrous the concept was. The Emperor, in His wisdom, might not wish for the Imperium to remain governed by soldiers and warriors, which was an inarguable point, but He would never be so foolish as to construct something so combative, so self-destructive, so open to corruption and self-serving avarice as this Senate. Yet this Senate held the keys to the Galaxy and much more besides. ''So, how did your ship make it to Obroa-skai, anyway? Everyone I''ve talked to is in the dark as well.'' Quee, again, broke him from his musings. The news had come but yesterday, relayed by the suspicious wonder of the holocomm, confirming the successful mission and extraction of the Obroa-skai team. Word had come too of casualties - two Republicans and an Ultramarine. Grim new, for an Astartes to have fallen, but that was their lot in life. ''I''m afraid I am not aware either, Doctor. I suspect we will all learn soon enough, especially given Miss Besa will be departing quite soon.'' ''Eryl! I heard she volunteered to work with you on your travel problem. Will you really need her, given what Samothrace pulled off?'' ''I''m told her insight may be essential, in fact. Mamzel Likentrix was most insistent upon learning of her.'' Danni grumbled, straightening her arms and hunching her shoulders. ''I asked if I could escort Eryl. Master Skywalker turned me down.'' ''You have your own tasks and talents, Doctor Quee. Nursemaiding a young Jedi is not one of them.'' ''I am a young Jedi! Mostly.'' ''I assure you, Miss Besa will be in the very best hands. On the honor of the XIIIth, and my own.'' ''I''m not worried about her, I want to see your ships!'' Noskaur recalled the hunger in Senator Shesh''s eyes as she looked over the little review concocted to pay some honor to the arriving Republicans. A handful of Ultramarines, a few tanks, a few companies drawn in from drills. Compared to the musters of Calth and older times, it would have been a slap in the face, had Shesh known. But she had hungered all the same, and turned her gaze to the skies above more than once. Quee was in quite the company, though she knew it not. ''In time, I would reckon. For now, for both your Republic, and my Imperium, your expertise and experience with the Yuuzhan Vong xenoform is the best contribution you can make. Lives may be saved, Danni Quee.'' He put on his best admonishing patriarch tone, chiding her with a wagged finger, unable to forget she was barely into her twenties. They were the right words and the wind vanished from her sails as she bled out her teasing humor, turning serious. ''You''re right. Still, watch out for Eryl. She''s a kid.'' Scarcely younger than Quee herself, though experience did forge a gulf. Noskaur inclined his head, making the sign of the aquila, though she would not quite grasp the import. Eryl Besa would be handled with the greatest of respect, as the young Jedi possessed a witch-power that had the Navigatrix salivating. It was said she could precisely and accurately pinpoint her position in the Galaxy - at any time. In hyperspace as well, from her testimony and that of her associates, which most certainly perked up ears when it was mentioned, off-hand. Quee herself had named the Jedi, during a discussion with Magos Nalt on the subject of the Empyrean - a topic that Quee found equal parts bizarre and fascinating. A few clarifications later, an official inquiry filed with the Jedi Order, and one thing led to another, and Eryl had quite proudly offered her talents. Likentrix, Noskaur heard, had been nearly beside herself. Should the Jedi''s esoteric abilities bear fruit in the depths of the warp, maps might yet be made, with exactitude, in ways that Navigator Houses had never once managed. All of these facts of course, would never be even whispered near a Republican''s ears. No, Eryl would be a consultant at best, thanked for her advice and returned, with none the wiser as to the true and fitful nature of warp-navigation. The Republicans could not know that the means of their navigation, their hyperspace, might just be a treasure heretofore inconceivable to the Imperium. The politician in Noskaur, one he pretended did not exist beneath the mantle of Iterator and teacher, shuddered at the very idea. ''Enough of the future - I am a man from another galaxy, Doctor Quee! Regale me with the wonders of your capital. Awe me with your achievements. Do that, and I will tell you of the Ring of Iron, the Phalanx, of the orbital plates of Terra and Macragge, the joyous concerts of Kynska and the heartrending dramaturges long past. Let us be students of each other and put aside dreary politics and fears of war.'' He spread his arms wide, pivoting in place. ''I am the teacher, now make me a student!'' At random, he jabbed a finger at some cluster of obelisks. ''Lead on then, before the day dies.'' Re-energized, Danni Quee launched into an explanation of siblings named ''Gav and Jori Daragon'', whose footsteps still marked the galaxy today, whose trailblazing brought worlds together and wars to tinder, but pioneered the heady, adventurous spirit that infected the Galaxy millenia later. That even still infected the young astrophysicist who dreamt of far flung galaxies and never-before seen stars.
He shuffled his notes - a prop, more than anything - cleared his throat, looked about, and spoke. Beside him, still as a statue, Magos Nalt''s augmetics hummed just at the edge of hearing. Colonel Lurense shifted minutely, intensely uncomfortable at the attention. ''Gentlebeings, if I might have your attention. I am Sorvenos Tamirit Noskaur, remembrancer, iterator, child of Terra, citizen of Macragge, representative of the Imperium Exsilius and the 4711th Expeditionary Fleet. I greet this august body on behalf of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman, who speaks for the Emperor on Terra.'' He paid little attention to his own words. This was nothing he had not spoken a dozen times and more on a dozen worlds. The audience might be different, but the words were the same. They had all received Senator Shesh''s brief, edited and redacted as necessary. He sunk into the routine of it, instead studying the Republican Senate chamber that soared up and around him. It was a vast amphitheatre, full of sunlight, cramped with so many beings it assaulted the senses. He had done his research, learned the proper forms of address. ''Gentlebeings'' was appropriate, even if the slightest of twitches rippled through Nalt''s mechadendrites when Noskaur spoke the word. And beings they were, of all stripes, sizes and colors. Humans appeared if not a majority, then a plurality, placing pleasantly familiar visages through the grand riot of hide, hair and scale. He could spot Senator Shesh, prim in an ornate tunic, corset and drifting clouds of semi-transparent silks, a smirk quirking red lips. The design of the chamber was chaotic and slapdash, a veritable assault on the senses, full of misaligned platforms and balconies, criss-crossed with narrow walkways and steep stairs, looking for all the world like some political spacehulk, full of clashing sensibilities that jammed riotously contradictory architectural styles together. It was a truly apt metaphor for this Republic, Noskaur considered. A mismatched tangle of cultures welded crudely together, held by a sort of inertia and social gravity. Doctor Quee''s talk of the history of the galaxy, in their time together, painted a clearer picture of the galaxy and the Republic than Noskaur had gleaned from interviews of Eboracum natives and briefs compiled from thieved holonet information. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. The New Republic was precisely its name, an aping of a dead government whose time had already passed. They clung to the power of names and titles, unceremoniously exhumed from the grave, to lend credence to the shambolic inheritor he now addressed. And yet, address them he did. Though many were muttering and gossiping to one another, a far cry from the decorum of Macraggian civics, he could not forget that this body, for better or worse, still commanded the grander share of this galaxy. Stumbling, reanimated corpse or not, the Republic was not to be ignored. No, not to be ignored indeed. Concluding his address, Noskaur formed the sign of the aquila, inclining his head. He shuffled his notes again, printed out on simple paper, tapping edges aligned. The Bothan Chief of State, Fey''lya, lounged in his seat on the advisory council dias, near to the stiffly erect figure of the Senate''s Sergeant at Arms, the gryphonic ''Mif Kumas''. Noskaur gave the Chief of State a nod, the Bothan still studying him through half-lidded eyes. Senator Shesh''s likeness flickered to life in the central hololithic well, just as she stood in her own senatorial box, gathering her skirts and voluminous sleeves. Grudgingly, Noskaur had to admit the design was thoughtful: for the vastness of the chamber, it allowed any speaker at any remove to still occupy the focal point of attention via projected image. Though Shesh sat now with the Advisory Council, near to the Chief of State, rather than in her traditional place as a Kuati, the twenty-foot holilith meant those in the farthest back could see her face. Mentally he took note, though he was sure Nalt was recording everything in maximal definition. ''I''m pleased to see you again, Iterator Noskaur. Per my published findings to the Senate, the Imperium Exsilius has Kuat''s interest and my own.'' Smiling widely, the Kuati sat back down, hololith flickering off, enjoying the eruption of noise throughout the chamber. Voices clamored over one another, questions were hurled to and fro - all an occurrence that Noskaur heard second-hand was quite common. ''I fail to see what relevance this ''Imperium'' has on the galactic stage!'' These words cut over the general din, spoken instead into the Senator''s vox-thief rather than shouted unaided. Noskaur glanced at the dataslate Nalt had provided. The Magos maintained a noospheric connection, feeding directly relevant information at the processing speed only one of the Martian tech-hood could manage. This Senator was one Thuv Shinev, of the Tion Hegemony, representing a paltry handful of middling worlds. ''They claim to be ignorant of our ways and hold only a single world to boot!'' The Senator''s question could not have been a better one to field first. ''Senator Shinev, a mere two hundred years ago, the Imperium held but a single world: Terra. Now, the Imperium spans the entirety of our galaxy at the end of our grand unification, launched with the resources of only a single world.'' A minor exaggeration, considering Mars, but they knew none the better. ''A conquest that by your own admission, proved deadly to all non-humans you encountered! We don''t need another outsider bringing their racism to our stars! The vong are enough!'' More shouting - while Kumas bellowed over it all, attempting to wrangle control. Noskaur cleared his throat, pitching his voice the way he had been trained so many years ago, so that the vox-thief before him and his own natural baritone sliced through the din. ''We admit this freely, as the aliens encountered in our own stars did not have the same concept of diplomacy that the gentlebeings in this chamber do.'' He almost smiled at the irony. ''The Imperium acts as it is required to act, no more. Imagine our galaxy as filled with creatures that would make the Yuuzhan Vong appear reasonable.'' ''This topic has been broached and addressed,'' Shesh added, idling flipping her hand in the air as if to wave away the objection. ''It speaks to the Imperium''s trustworthiness that they revealed this information at all, knowing, of course, how important egalitarian ideals are to the New Republic.'' ''Their offer is insulting! To take only humans, I personally cannot believe SELCORE would countenance this blatant chauvinism!'' The speaking Senator in question, sweating and gesticulating, was one expected. Noskaur nodded toward him, situated low down in the tiers. Though location in the tiered amphitheatre was meant to be random, he had heard that the common assumption was those closest to the dias were those most favored and represented sectors most powerful. ''Ah, Senator Krof. You need not worry, though there may be less humans, I am sure there will be sufficient hands for your¡­farming¡­projects. Willing, or otherwise.'' The latest scion of House Praji of Kaikielius, flushed red and snapped his mouth shut so quickly Noskaur was sure he could hear teeth click, even from across the chamber. More than a few sneers ended up thrown his way, the man bought and paid for by agricultural consortiums and his own family''s avarice. Rumors circulated about the produce conglomerate Salliche Ag''s dogged pursuit of refugees and the fruitful coincidence of their latest advertising campaign: ''Hand-picked fresh''. ''Oh please, Senators, as if we weren''t perfectly happy to accept Pellaeon''s Star Destroyers over Ithor.'' Krall Praget, member of the Council on Security and Intelligence, injected into the turmoil. Senator Shesh had spoken of the Edathan male, who''d first brought knowledge of the fate of the Republican squadron ''Mousetrap'' that redoubtable Numinus and her escorts encountered and subsequently saved. ''At least whatever these Imperials got up to, they did it in their own galaxy. So far, I don''t have any objections to Senator Shesh''s findings.'' ''Their first act on arriving in our space was to conquer a peaceful world!'' Praget shrugged to his counterpart, Gron Marab, from Dac, whose ichthyoid and bulbous head shone with moisture. Noskaur watched the byplays, between human and alien with a sort of disconnected fascination. It was almost an out-of-body experience, standing at the petitioner''s podium, listening to mortal men and xenos debate the character of the Imperium. Ah, father, mother, what shores your son has found. Throne protect me, Noskaur mused. Throne protect them all, in this madness. Sounding entirely bored, Senator Shesh requested priority again, earning approval from Kumas, and her image again appeared in the hololithic well. Silencer fields clamped off rowdy dialogue, plunging the amphitheatre again into quiet. ''Pirve was unaligned, as the Senators for both Plooriod and Greater Plooriod are well aware.'' Her sharp eyes narrowed, glaring up toward the two named. The former Senator had barely survived the scandal of Jedi Rhonabeq single-handedly commandeering several self-defense force capital ships. Noskaur suspected they were indebted to the Kuati Senator, who most assuredly secured allegiances and favors in return for softening the blow of her indictments before the Senate. ''I personally might not entirely agree with the Imperium''s choice of action at Pirve, but it cannot be said to be illegal. Really, it''s neither here nor there. Are you going to split hairs over a single world changing hands - peacefully - while the Yuuzhan Vong burn dozens?'' Another Senator requested to speak and their hololith joined Shesh''s. A massive figure, as large as some orks, hirsute and shaggy, Noskaur recognized a ''Wookiee''. They were a simioid xenoform, with a small population but an outsized political influence due to over-representation in founding mythos of the Republic. Senator ''Triebakk'', his slate declared, translated as best as possible into High Gothic runes. Noskaur suppressed a wince at the creature''s dissonant howling and barking, reading off its translated words from Nalt''s dataslate. Murmurs of agreement filled large parts of the balconies and boxes of the chamber, following Triebakk''s pronouncement. ''It is telling¡­'' Marab conceded, the Mon Calamari''s rubbery lips pursed in a grotesque mimicry of human expression. ''Master Skywalker was even invited to speak directly with their leader. Senator Shesh, you yourself met him for a short time. What was your impression?'' ''Primarch Guilliman was eloquent and fair, and I''ve been told it was his command that allowed us to negotiate the unfortunate actions of Jedi Rhonabeq and Commodore Fthliss. That speaks well of his temperament, I think.'' ''But why is he not here?'' The name, sector of this Senator mattered little, though he would review it as a matter of course later. No, Noskaur could feel the shift. With Triebakk''s mention of the Jedi, and Skywalker especially, mood had shifted. No matter claims of the Jedi''s lessened favor in the Senate, they were still a potent invocation. It was not dissimilar to naming the Primarch, or even a Tetrach in the Five Hundred Worlds. Once again, he thanked the Primarch''s foresight in focusing so specifically on courting the Jedi, both during the summit and further on Obroa-skai. They could well prove the key to great leverage, if even now, as diminished and blamed as they seemed to be, opposition could be shamed into silence. ''Shouldn''t your Primarch present the Imperium''s case himself?'' Noskaur leaned closer to the voxthief. ''Of course not. That is what delegation is for. Did Chief of State Fey''lya come to Eboracum? Primarch Guilliman is occupied by impossibly complicated preparations to welcome many millions of refugees, as well as ensuring the defense of the system.'' And the better for it. He was sure the Primarch would prove the masterful politician he was, but something told Noskaur that the grand aura of the Primarch, his evident brilliance and charisma, would not be well received by this crowd. Last he had heard, relayed by Master Primus Gage, was that the Primarch was engrossed in the urban planning of Eboracum Civitas alongside Explorator Orichi-mu. He was in his element and the seamless integration of this galaxy''s dispossessed was of far, far greater importance. ''Well said, Iterator. Can you outline for us what the Imperium might further offer the New Republic, aside from refugee support?'' Humanity had long left fates and gods behind, but Noskaur was sorely tempted to thanks someone for the provenance of Viqi Shesh electing herself as negotiator and interpreter. ''Thank you, Senator Shesh. As the recent strike on Obroa-skai has demonstrated, the 4711th Expeditionary Fleet possess a number of technologies and capabilities on the ground and in the void that the New Republic lacks. We may be few in number, on a galactic scale, but in much the same manner that the Yuuzhan Vong xenoform has upended conventional warfare for the New Republic, we might do the same for them.'' ''So - contribution of ships, technologies, strike teams?'' ''These are all the table, Senator Shesh. Obroa-skai was a proving operation, which the Imperium judged a ringing success.'' ''Two Jedi died, as did a valued operative of New Republic Intelligence and one of your own ''Astartes''. This is a ringing success?'' ''Of course, Senator Omas. Loss is always regrettable, but all objectives were soundly achieved, with additional, unlooked for victories claimed. More, we have now drawn the measure of the vong in the void and in the mud, and the Imperium finds them wanting. You must know of the accounting? Three Astartes, with two mere neophytes, or ''trainees'' in your tongue, claimed more than a hundred of the warrior-caste alone, leaving aside the auxiliaries.'' Cal Omas, Senator of the Alderaanian Sector and member of the Advisory Council, looked pensive, frowning in thought. ''Impressive, especially considering Master Skywalker fought alongside them.'' Noskaur spread his hands. ''Jedi are warriors of rare skill. Astartes, Senators, are soldiers. Warriors duel champions, soldiers kill the enemy.'' He met Chief Fey''lya''s gaze and smiled wide. ''I believe you could do with soldiers, in this war.''
Viqi Shesh ushered them into her personal office. For the Senator to do it herself, without sending an aide or a droid, spoke to her investment. Still she ingratiates herself, he mused. The office was spacious and airy, decorated in similar fashion to the battleship Malaghi Shesh that had conveyed them all to the capital of the galaxy. Pastel purples, greens, golds and pinks managed to find convincing harmony, embellishing antique wood matches to cutting edge gel-packed seating and responsive bioreader lounges. A droid waiting in the wings, polished silver with a grille for a mouth and lambent lenses, but to Noskaur''s relief it did not move or speak. Still, its gaze felt like the heat of an oven, uncomfortable on his skin. He couldn''t imagine how Nalt felt to share the space - the Magos had been nearly apoplectic at having to suffer the machines aboard Malaghi Shesh and had since become nearly nonverbal during their stay planetside. Most of the time, the Martian hissed in binary, barely audible. Lurense patted her forehead with a kerchief, gratefully accepting Shesh''s direction to sit and reaching already for refreshments. The poor Colonel had never even been off Calth before all this, and now here she was. There was no denying she was a savant at numbers and logistics; already General Caraean was lamenting being without her for so long as reorganizing and rebuilding continued in the mortal regiments. She''d spoken not a word in the Senate, appearing near enough to fainting. Yet she persevered and Noskaur had to admire her tenacity. Nalt settled down, joints hissing and creaking as his hidden mechanical limbs bled off pressure. Noskaur joined Lurense on the couch, Shesh swirling into a shapeless chair opposite, which, before his very eyes, shifted and confirmed to her body, sprouting armrests and subtly pivoting to best support her. He knew more than a few who would pay a great deal for something that luxurious. ''Admiral Brand will be here shortly and we can begin. How are you finding your stay, so far?'' Noskaur draped his arm along the back of the couch, crossing his legs, exuding calm and friendly openness. He had to match the Kuati''s own offered front, of course, not to mention counterbalance his compatriots. ''I would say very hospitable. Doctor Quee was a superlative guide and while I am still unsure what ''heterogeneous and anisotropic'' means, her insights have been without exception fascinating.'' Shesh nodded, rippling her ink-dark hair, left loose and silken over her shoulders. ''And Coruscant? Our jewel of a capital?'' ''One of a kind. Dazzling.'' Framing her jaw with thumb and forefinger, Shesh leaned on her arm and looked to Lurense. Beside him, the Colonel stiffened. ''And you?'' Lurense cleared her throat, coughing in her fist. ''Dazzling. Yes. Very, uhm, impressive?'' ''Suretia misses seeing greenery, I suspect. Terra primed me for worlds given over to habitation, but dear Suretia grew up with the benefits of untamed wilderness.'' ''It does seem, ah - lifeless?'' Shesh smiled her perfected smiles, the kind that shaped lips and cheeks and did little for the eyes. ''We Kuati would agree. It''s why our own home is a precious garden and industry is relegated to space, where it belongs.'' ''In a ring, I''ve been told. Magos Nalt, that''s quite like to the Ring of Iron, around Mars?'' The Magos blurred something in quiet, tremulous digital tones. When he spoke, his voice was flatter than a droid, clipped and chipped with artifacting. ''No.'' Shesh''s grin grew wider. ''Ah, well. Forgive my associates.'' ''Of course, Tamirit. May I call you Tamirit?'' ''I would be honored.'' Shesh adjusted herself, tugging the edge of her corset, recrossing her long legs, leaving one foot hanging and gently tapping from side to side. ''Then call me Viqi, and I''ll be charmed. This is all thanks to you, you know.'' She waved her hand, encompassing the office, the vista, the setting sun haloing her in glow. ''An Advisory Council seat was always in my future, but I will admit this is sooner than anticipated.'' Noskaur dipped his head, feigning surprise. The woman was a weapon, through and through, her sights no doubt set on the furred Chief of State who now might even be within her reach. When that time came, it would remain to be seen if she remembered just how she had arrived there. ''Congratulations, then. A well deserved elevation.'' ''I thought so too, but I''m glad you agree.'' From her desk a light tone played, airy and musical. ''Four eff, get that.'' ''Yes, mistress.'' Noskaur could feel Nalt follow every motion of the droid as it clattered to the office''s door, depressing a haptic key and revealing Admiral Turk Brand and, surprisingly, Lieutenant Colonel Belindi Kalenda. The former was a thin, not slender man, with severely cropped hair and a long face, in spotless dress uniform. The agent, looking positively diminutive beside the admiral, had off-puttingly wide-set eyes and a vaguely distant look about her, though Noskaur knew her reputation and the position she had only recently been demoted from. Deputy Director of a galactic intelligence agency was no mean feat, regardless of his thoughts on the rest of the Republic. ''Admiral, just in time.'' ''I hope we didn''t keep you waiting. Colonel Kalenda was a last minute addition.'' ''Not at all,'' the Senator purred, though she didn''t rise to greet either. ''Iterator. Colonel. Magos.'' Brand nodded to each, settling into an armchair comfortably and doffing his uniform cap. ''Admiral,'' Noskaur acknowledged. ''A few things,'' Brand began, interlacing his fingers. ''Nothing leaves this room. The number of people read into these plans is less than a dozen. I hope you can appreciate the level of trust we''re extending, Iterator.'' ''The Imperium is honored, of course.'' Not that there was any danger of an Imperial betraying information. To whom would they turn? The vong? Laughable. Noskaur looked to Shesh, but her green eyes gave nothing away. ''What do you know about center point?'' The question was almost a non-sequitur. Noskaur kept a frown from his face, humming instead as he rifled wildly through memories, falling back on mnemonics to parse through reams and reams he had consumed since the founding of Eboracum months ago. No, not center point. Centerpoint. Some form of ancient structure, part of some political turmoil, little else. ''I''m afraid you have me wrongfooted, Admiral. Centerpoint is a relic, is it not?'' Shesh nearly giggled. ''You could say that,'' Brand allowed, ''but it''s also very operational. Or - it had been. Centerpoint is a repulsor field generator. The prevailing theory is that it was used to build the Corellia system at some point in the far distant past. Tens of millions of years, or something, but that isn''t important.'' ''I would imagine not. How does this concern the Imperium? I mean no offense, Admiral, but a historical curiosity seems strange to mention.'' ''Centerpoint, being a repulsor generator, can create an interdiction field the size of a star system.'' Nalt, for the first time, stilled, no longer minutely shifting or clicking. Noskaur sharpened his focus, leaning forward. ''I''m - we''re -'' he gestured to Colonel Kalenda ''-not positive how much the Imperium has learned of how hyperdrives work, but within an interdiction field, it doesn''t. The Corellian government used this years ago during their short-lived attempt to claim independence.'' Now he understood Nalt''s attention. The Republican hyperspace was their single greatest tactical and strategic strength, one that even Noskaur knew had the Navy fuming. Mandeville points were, almost to the last, situated in the far edges of a solar system, requiring sometimes great travel time to the inner system from reversion. Seeing the Republican ships simply appear, as if from nowhere, right into the orbit of Eboracum, was sobering. It was a trick like the elusive Eldar might be able to conjure, with their mysterious masteries of technology, but he found himself infinitely grateful that whatever phenomenon powered hyperspace travel was unknown or not present in his own galaxy. He imagined ork hordes appearing at whim over worlds and his chest clenched at the terror it would bring. ''I served only a short time in the Army, but even I can follow your meaning. The vong xenoform use hyperspace too. You mean to form a trap.'' Brand smiled, the expression like an unwanted squatter on his features. ''Exactly. Senator Shesh has been read in on this plan already. Corellia can, and must be a trap to draw in the vong''s fleets so that we have them exactly where we want them. So far, we''ve failed at predicting their movements. But they''re running out of targets, fast, and just a few prizes are left before they break into the Core.'' ''We''re going to over-fortify Bothawui,'' Shesh clarified. ''It''s the only other target. The vong are on the move, and sources indicate that it''s Bothawui or Corellia.'' ''The Chief of State is a Bothan, as is one of your premiere Admirals.'' A vicious sort of sense, the kind of logic expected from aliens. Sacrifice worlds to save your own, no matter the cost in life. Corellians, he was led to believe, were human and the idea of leaving the system bare and enticing while barricading some alien homeworld in steel sat ill, even if the Corellians likely would care little about the Imperium or their innate right as inheritors of humanity. ''You get it,'' Kalenda affirmed. ''It''ll look like political favoritism, which Borsk is already being blamed for, including by those on the Advisory Council'' He looked to Nalt, to Lurense, then back to the Republicans. ''Where does the 4711th enter this plan?'' Brand grimaced. ''The vong have pushed us hard. We can''t be sure that whoever is in command will commit their entire fleet to this attack. That means we can''t pull reserves away, leaving us with only the Third, Fifth, and First Battle Groups to put into play here. It might be enough, but we''ve needed overwhelming force to manage victories against the vong. We can''t afford for this one to be pyrrhic.'' Shesh was quick to add onto Brand''s words. ''Which means we need an unexpected variable. The Remnant can''t and won''t send ships again, not with the vong looking their way. The Hutts sued for a treaty and even if they changed their minds tomorrow, they don''t have a fleet. Realistically, this leaves two choices. The Hapans¡­'' ''Or the 4711th.'' Noskaur finished. ''I understand.'' ''It''s quite an ask, I admit, Iterator,'' Shesh demurred, ''but I''m asking it.'' He pursed his lips. Empowered by the Primarch, he had great latitude in decision making on his own, at least in preliminary matters, before final ratification by the Primarch and his nascent council. If needs must, there was also the miracle of the holonet to seek immediate advice. What the Kuati Senator asked, what the Admiral wanted, was total commitment. The Primarch would never send the all active battleships of the fleet, of course, but even dispatching, say, Numinus along with escorts would slash the garrison of Eboracum by a third. This was the peril pondered on every single day. An Expeditionary fleet, a proper Expeditionary fleet, which despite the name the 4711th was not, was not meant to hold and defend territory. That was the role of the Imperialis Armada and locally grown PDFs. Expeditionary fleets were the tip of the spear, seeking out new worlds to claim before moving on. The grandest of Gloriana could not be in two places at once. With Mantallikes still stricken and inoperable, with Fourth Honor still undergoing drastic repairs of its prow weaponry, the 4711th couldn''t even call on all of its hulls. A clash of this size, the size the Republicans desired to blunt the vong xenoform advance, meant more than a few cruisers. It meant at the least, a grand cruiser with escorts or more. It meant the Imperium had to join the war in totality. ''Another material concern is that an interdiction field is, well, an interdiction field. Our own hyperdrives won''t work in it. We have some technologies that can sustain a hyperspace bubble longer, but it''s harsh on the ship and very few are outfitted with it. This means we''ll only be able to hit the vong from one angle. If we went to the Hapans, this wouldn''t change, but a possibility does present itself¡­'' Brand nodded to Kalenda, who produced a small cube, activating a hologram the size of her head. Points of light on circular tracks spun around a central glowing point - a star system, no doubt. She manipulated a few controls and a slashed-orange field appeared, encompassing most of the system. ''We would have the vong''s backs to the wall, but what if that wall wasn''t totally a wall? What if it could be a doorway? An interdiction field shuts down hyperspace travel, but your ships don''t use hyperspace.'' A melange of red and green dots appeared, riding the interdiction zone, before golden dots appeared within the zone, sprouting animated arrows that took the red dots from behind. ''A flanking attack.'' ''Yes, yes, exactly. We want to know if it''s possible for your ships to do that. That would let far less tonnage hit a lot higher than its weight.'' It made a logical sense, but it was not his sphere of expertise. ''Magos Nalt, I''m afraid I must pass this to you.'' The Martian blurted static. ''I will not speak while the abominable intelligence is present.'' Brand looked nonplussed. Shesh rolled her eyes quite gracefully. ''Four eff, leave,'' she called, sharp, and the droid shakily tilted its torso in a mockery of a bow. ''Yes, mistress.'' Nalt watched it go, red lens over his left eye furious and crimson. When the office door clicked shut, the Magos slowly rose from his hunch to his full height. ''The empyreal translocative circumscription engine intersects realspace in a manner that gravitational masses may intrude on emergence events.'' ''Nalt,'' Noskaur sighed. The Magos coughed static. ''Warp drives do not like gravity wells.'' Brand, too, sighed. ''Interdiction fields are artificial mass shadows. They might have the same effect.'' Nalt cocked his head. ''Clarify artificial mass shadow.'' ''Kalenda?'' The former Deputy Director of New Republic Intelligence shut off her holocube, returning it to her pocket. ''It''s a gravity well, really. An interdiction field creates a low-mass gravitational field where you want it, which casts a shadow into hyperspace and forces a ship out. Does that help?'' ''Clarify low-mass gravitational field. Is there an upper limit?'' Kalenda frowned, trading a look with Brand. ''I''m¡­not sure? That Interdictor at Ithor was able to increase the planet''s mass. So if there''s a limit, it would be pretty high, I think.'' Two spidery, silver hands emerged from Nalt''s voluminous red robes. Both sets of fingers were gnarled and spidery, clenched up and twisted. ''Calculations would be immense. Imagine Corellian system gravitational signature as this.'' He bobbled his hands once. Then he straightened his fingers, the chrome digits sliding into place to form a perfect, flat plane. ''Artificial mass fills holes, lowers peaks. The system becomes one of infinite penetrative potential.'' Noskaur''s brows threatened to vanish into his hairline, though the Republicans merely looked confused. ''The Magos is implying your interdiction field could be fashioned so that not only will it entrap the vong, but it will also allow our own vessels to enter and exit the warp at any place we wish. This is¡­an unprecedented capability,'' Noskaur admitted. ''Anywhere at all?'' Brand asked, eyes lighting with something shy of avarice. Nalt''s hooded head twitched from side to side. ''Not inconceivable.'' The Admiral shook his head, first slowly, then with more vigor. ''Alright. Alright. This is doable. Iterator, this is our chance - and your chance - to hit the vong with a blow they might never recover from. I don''t expect you have the authority, so let''s start the dialogue here and now. Senator, will you continue to liaise?'' Shesh raked her eyes over Noskaur and he felt oddly exposed. ''Gladly.'' ''Remember, not a word. And Senator, the Colonel will stay after this meeting to discuss the other¡­topic.'' Kalenda winced. Shesh gave nothing away herself, leaving Noskaur to wonder. Some internal matter for the Republic, of course, though it too would join his report to be put before the Primarch. Perhaps that post-human mind could winnow out strange connections unimagined, but it was not his job. ''I will pass along this request, Admiral, Senator. Whether the Primarch will agree, I cannot say, but the more solid this plan of action is, the more I am sure he will find value.'' ''Then let''s put our heads together and see if two galaxies can''t take down another.'' Contingence Prologue Volume II: Contingence
Prologue?
The communique released by the Senate Select Committee for Refugees - SELCORE, as it was known for better or worse - is simple and direct. A new world has opened its borders for the displaced fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong advance, with stipulations. Only humans need bother apply. Naturalization into citizenship is expected. New Republic law has no purchase. Housing, food and work will be provided. Et cetera. Suppose that such requirements already remove a majority of refugees from the pool. Humans only need apply, after all. Suppose at the start, a generous sixty-five percent of viable applicants are set aside immediately by fault of their species. Suppose then that the requirements of the ''Imperium Exsilius'' seem foreign and strange and unpalatable. Suppose that the very idea of losing New Republic citizenship alone is enough to balk many desperate asylum seekers. Suppose this, then, slashes another conservative fifty percent from the estimates of potential applicants. In likelihood, it is more. It is likely a great deal more. Consider then that the rigorous stipulations laid out weed further swathes of the population. Droids are banned. The world is a colonial world, and work is expected to be in construction, agriculture, urban development. The Imperium Exsilius prides itself on working hands and supports those that support themselves. Suppose this, then, sticks in the craw of those who recall the scandalous reports from Salliche Ag worlds and others who exploited the misfortunate to the tune of near-slavery. Consider then another decent percentage cloven away. What remains then is a single digit percentage, at most, of refugees fleeing ahead of the extra-galactic invader''s advance. Six percent, perhaps four. Maybe three. Even less. These are those willing to accept SELCORE''s offer of resettlement, willing to overlook that for once, SELCORE was asking, not assigning. Willing to overlook the oddities of the orientation package provided. Willing to be brave enough, or desperate enough, to throw themselves at a world of the Mid-rim, a world never heard of before, because they have no other choice. A single digit. This is a generous estimate. It might even be fractional. There are already hundreds of billions fleeing the invaders. A single percent of that is still billions. A fraction of a percent of that is still tens of millions. Eboracum local space lives like it has never lived before. Mantallikes, whose engines may never light again, sits like a mothering hen amongst her brood. Her voids may be dead, half her reactors quiet, but her guns still live. Mass conveyors, little more than assemblages of cavernous chambers welded into chains kilometers long, married to warp engines and a tiny blister of a command deck, face their warden in a starburst formation. Once they held men and material, saved from the dying surface of Calth. Now that is all gone, long since sequestered on the cloudy world below, leaving their barracks decks echoing. One arrives, coasting slowly on altitude thrusters, nosing into its position in the many-rayed star of silent starships, attended by shuttles and wary starfighters. Within its belly are tens of thousands more human beings - men, women, children - of all ages, of all walks of life and profession. They will leave this mass conveyor when it docks with Eboracum Orbital. The name is generous. Eboracum Orbital is a hodgepodge of skeletal frameworks, joined together to create berths and slipways, centered around a disc-shaped core. Months of round-the-clock construction by Mechanicum savants and remote servitor-drones assembled the nexus of the Orbital and picked clean the bones of surrendered mass conveyors. Touch of the Motive Force, enormous barque that it is, looms close at hand, ever active, ever productive. Now Mantallikes and Fourth Honor and the cruisers and destroyers bear decking, plating, more and sundry from these cannibalized haulers. Eboracum Orbital bears cavernous hangars, filled with lighters and shuttles, both Republican design and Imperial, who fly endless loops between the Orbital and the world. Incoming refugees are processed through in rapid order, scanned for weaponry or hazardous materials before being packed aboard shuttles and sent onward. Each day, Eboracum Orbital cycles forty thousand men and women. A week ago it could handle fifteen thousand. A month ago - a thousand. It grows, visibly. The core expands in fits and starts, heralded by actinic blooms of void-rated cutting and welding arrays. New expansions come online daily, flickering to life as the stolen reactors of six long-haul troop transports feed them energy. From the Orbital refugees set first foot on Imperial soil on the outskirts of Eboracum Civitas. The city is a grey line on the horizon, a wizard''s mirage, blue sky shimmering between horizon and growing towers. Heat steams from a vast and infinite tarmac, kilometers and kilometers on a side. A grey patch, uniform, laser-flat (but for curvature of the world) and covering hundreds of kilometers square. It is so wide that it reaches the horizon. Some mass conveyors, filled with pre-cleared arrivals, land directly, and the thunder and roar of their engines as they struggle to overcome the universal punishment of gravity stifles all thought and leaves ears ringing for days. It is orderly. The tarmac is divided cleanly into thousands and thousands of segments, painted out in clear and reflective yellow lines, crosshatches and hazard markings. Here is where the grand troopships, repurposed, may settle down, away from debarking zones and the largest crowds. Here is where local cruisers, on quiet repulsorlifts, are allowed to make landfall. Here is where those disembarking are formed into queues and shepherded along. Here are the checkpoints, there are the medical facilities for screenings, over there are cafeteria. Rail trains run from the edges of the grand embarkation plain to the city proper. Thousands flow along those arteries every hour. The Primarch Guilliman has bent his mind to the task of building a world in a way the Imperium rarely, if ever, had. Immigration, naturalization - these were not the ways of the Great Crusade. The Imperium did not need to settle new worlds, not when there were a million and more fallen from the purse of humanity waiting to be brought back into the fold. Indeed, it was in the heady expansion of Ultramar, singular in the galaxy, that such concepts were able to be commonly entertained. Guilliman remembers Calth and Saramanth and Sotha, the empire-that-is-not-an-empire-building. Yet for the similarities, glaring differences rear their heads and snarl. Within Ultramar, it was merely relocation. Imperial citizens to Imperial worlds. So he attends this new practical with a gusto. That the refugees seeking safety at Eboracum must become Imperial citizens is a foregone conclusion. There is no argument able to be countenanced against it. To live on an Imperial world is to be Imperial. The Throne of Terra supersedes all. There is no question. He must take humans from a million different cultures and a million different worlds with a million different histories, and he must make them Imperial. Normally, an Expeditionary Fleet only had to manage a single culture, a handful of worlds. Unified in their mien. Homogenous in their history. Standardized in their culture. Guilliman studies reports daily, tabulated and processed and reflecting the constant ongoing naturalization of seventeen million human beings. At current rates, he expects by the close of the new month, for the population of Eboracum to triple. He is balancing knives on each finger - power-blades, in fact, humming and edgeless and poised to cut. Too many at once and the myriad cultures of the Republic will bury the Imperial truth under their weight. The soldiers and sailors of the 4711th were the minority already, the moment Pirve became Eboracum. Now they are a vanishingly tiny fraction of the population. Yet, too few, and Eboracum will stagnate and his goals, his plans, will gather dust. Assignments into the new-built blocks of Eboracum Civitas are carefully randomized. Groups from the same planets are shattered apart, placed among neighbors calculated to be as alien and different as possible. Instructive Courses are diverse, ensuring that the central touchstone of these new neighbors is that of the Imperium. A man from Comkin sits beside a woman from Irrasos. They speak Basic, and that is the extent of their familiarity. His customs are stiffy and strange. Her accent is harsh and hard to follow. Together they learn of their heritage and a world called Terra, they learn of the righteous conquest of a galaxy far, far away. They learn of the destiny of Mankind, taught by the Emperor, who is above all. They learn words and grammar and phrases in Low Gothic, the tongue strange but in some ways nostalgic. When they share lunch together - provided, of course, as part of the Instructive Course curriculum, free of charge - there is little to speak about but the content of their morning lessons. When they depart in the afternoon to assigned labor, he goes to the waving green fields beyond Eboracum Civitas, where he guides a strange harvester, driven by manual hand and plastek tablets slotted with crystal, which each may run a single task. She goes to the civic offices and works to assign new positions to new arrivals. And in the morning, when they share breakfast - simple and filling, provided, again, free of charge, but with allowances to purchase luxuries of fruit and sweetened bread with the new Imperial scrip they earn - what else might they speak of, but the work they do now, on this world? And in time, when familiarity becomes comraderie becomes friendship becomes courtship, when the two from far-flung and disparate worlds lie together in a small, but clean and orderly apartment, assigned to them, with food on the table and the winking stars of mighty, mighty battleships far above, who might they thank for the chance to meet one another, to relieve them of the fear and stress and uncertainty of long weeks in crowded tramp haulers, sent hither and thither at the whim of the far distant and impersonal Senate on never-before-seen Coruscant? The Imperium, of course. This Guilliman judges as a microcosm of his intention. To build a culture anew, one demands particular factors. The fuel of culture is the citizen. The spark is purpose. The bellows that stoke the fire to new and searing heights, that illuminate the dark around, that toss back the shadows and brings forth the light - the bellows is the work, the labor, the shared and unified act, together, in birthing this dream into being. His Father made this so on Terra. He took the warlords and mutants and rebels, he took the barbarians and the rad-waste bandits, he took the techno-feudal clans and he pointed them at the stars and he whispered the words that became the spark and he breathed the air that was the dream of the Crusade and in two centuries Mankind reclaimed their empire. Roboute Guilliman is, as ever, his Father''s son.
It speaks to the sheer amount of beings passing through that the Imperial Exile clerk at the checkpoint barely gives her a second glance. There was always a possibility of discovery at this crucial point, which she argued was worth it to her partner, but it seemed their caution was misplaced. "Ms. Xulum and Mr. Ken, out of Belderone." Clearly bored, clearly disinterested, the clerk, young enough to still be bare-faced, scratched at his nose and looked over his datapad. "Partners?" Next to her, Ken squeezed her hand, tactile sensors funneling the sensation. "Recently, yes." The air stank of ozone and heated metal, filled with the ceaseless susurrus of ten thousand voices. The sun beat down from above, reflecting from the hard tarmac, rising heat shimmers and pounding sweat from brows. A blessed wind kept up, hot from thrusters and idling engines, but enough to cut the edge of the chewy animal reek of too many bodies cramped into too little space for too much time. Leaving the battered old YT freighter behind and stepping out into the din felt like escaping hell into heaven. A week pressed cheek-to-jowl was enough to put anyone''s teeth on edge, let alone someone with a perfect kinesthetic sense of every micron of their body. "Ms. Xulum, you were pre-certified as a mechanical engineer. Specializing in¡­" he squinted at the unfamiliar words and she felt his abstract confusion. Lack of understanding, coupled with a lack of desire to care. "...repulsorlifts. Alright. Mr. Ken, you were pre-certified as a data analyst." "That''s right," she said for the both of them, squeezing Ken''s hand back with carefully measured pressure. Just right to look like two newlyweds. "We worked at the same company. It''s how we met." "Right. Congratulations." The clerk tugged out the datawafer they''d been assigned, handing it back. She let Ken take it and tuck it into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit. Like her, he wore a stained, slightly too-small tan jumpsuit, salt-ringed at the underarm, likely on the noticeable end of the spectrum of aromatic. No different from the throngs around them, lined up in muttering, shifting and seemingly infinite lines. "Everything checks out. Step through, please." The clerk motioned toward a chunky archway, ribbed with thick cables and wire-wrapped lights. The moment of truth - she reached out to the clerk''s mind, feeling his boredom, his daydreaming about dinner and the end of his shift, his thoughts of his girlfriend. She stepped through. Ken followed. No alerts, no sirens, nothing. The clerk nodded absently, tapping at his datapad. "No contraband. Do you have any droids to report in your baggage? Any logic processor above, uh-" his voice went flat as he read off the words. "''Vn-2 equivalent'' must be reported. If you signified that you aren''t in the possession of any on your intake forms and you are later found to be in possession of a logic processor of illegal capacity, you will face consequences of reconstructive labor and reduction of ration allotments. If you are found to possess logic processors of illegal capacity with the intent to distribute, you may face capital charges." The clerk sighed, glancing over toward a knot of red-robed figures, some meters away. They stood spindly and tall on telescopic legs, leaning rifles two meters in length against their shoulders. Green-glass lenses swept the crowd over grilled faceplates. She could see the barest hints of wasted and pale flesh around the edges of their facial machinery. "If you signified that you aren''t in possession of proscribed material but you suddenly remember that you are after this point, until you arrive in Eboracum Civitas, you can inform any uniformed member of the Ministorum Imigratus without penalty." The clerk, whose name was stenciled on his uniform in characters she''d never seen, and who had never offered a name, held out two wristbands, bright blue. "Make sure to wear these. Welcome to Eboracum and the Imperium of Man. Follow the markings on the tarmac. Next!" And just like that, they were through. Keeping her fingers entwined in Ken''s, if for no other reason than to prevent being separated in the thronging crowd, all now marked by the same blue wristbands, she kept her head on the swivel and eyes flicking everywhere. Old GR-75s set alongside iconic YTs and chunky Action-series freighters, making a familiar foreground against the monolithic shapes of far larger craft on the horizon. Those were fundamentally shocking to look at and she found her attention constantly shifting back to them. None were on approach, the skies clear and blue aside from the nonstop descent and ascent of familiar transports, but those monsters still had to land in the first place. The nearest, like a wall of durasteel, she could measure as three kilometers in length. And just sitting on a planet. She couldn''t decide if it was wasteful or impressive. For all the constant traffic, she was grudgingly impressed by how orderly it all ran. Clear aurebesh markings directed them toward "INTAKE" and away from "PROCESSING", helpful markers pointing toward "REFRESHERS" and "MEDICAL". Uniformed locals patrolled along, wood-and-metal rifles slung over their shoulders, stopping now and then to cup a hand around an ear and then offer a pointed finger and directions. It was a sight better than any SELCORE-managed facility she''d been to. And Luxum, Iron Knight of the restored Jedi Order, had seen more than her share. "Where to first?" her erstwhile partner asked, glancing to her, perpetual frown twisting otherwise handsome, if unremarkable features. She chewed her lip, rubbery synthflesh worried between too-perfect teeth. "Part of me says go straight to this ''Civitas'', but I want to see whatever is going on over at ''Medical''." Ken grimaced. "I don''t think they''d be that overt." "They''re blood supremacists. You really think they wouldn''t weed out the undesirables before they could pollute their precious city?" He looked away, but she felt his irritation and his turmoil. It was an old topic between them, since he''d sought out her assistance. When Luxum had heard news of Master Skywalker''s newfound allies, she''d made sure to read the communique blasted out from the Jedi Headquarters. She made it a third of the way through before deleting it in disgust and hadn''t given it a second thought. Not until Ken knocked on her door and asked for advice. She was far better at blending in than he was. A little bit of help from one Mirax Horn to spoof SELCORE records - relayed through Master Horn, who Ken had already met with - and here they were. In the nexu''s den. Perhaps it was absolute insanity to walk into the ''Imperium'' riding the body of a humanoid synthdroid, but she didn''t exactly have a choice. Nor was she going to give up this form. Never would she twine with a droid with a mind, not again. Not now that she couldn''t ignore the consequences. Poor J-C941 would never be the same, even if he would love her until the end of time. Besides, she scoffed, glancing back over her shoulder toward the checkpoint as a large family waited anxiously to be processed. These Imperial''s own biases toward droids left them unable to imagine anything but things as clunky and obvious as a ''gonk. "I just don''t think it''s the best idea to bring you anywhere near medical scanners. Given¡­ah. You know." Luxum pursed her lips, finding it hard to argue with that. Though whatever scanner they''d passed through hadn''t picked up on her entirely synthetic body, she couldn''t just assume that things would stay that way. Better not to tempt fate. A true HRD - human replica droid - might pull it off with cloned flesh and bio-organics, but that was not her. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "Fine, to the city then." They joined the flow of humanity, sandwiched between a throng of young men, probably draft-dodgers from some Outer Rim world and a group of robed monks with shaven heads, all carrying, oddly, compact shovels along with rucksacks on their backs. She let the wash of conversations in and through, focusing on nothing, only filling her memory banks. She''d check it all out later, but for now, she wanted the Force to guide her. She felt fear, she felt hunger. She felt anger - wrath, even - she felt aching depths of depression and gut-wrenching loss. She felt hope and curiosity, she felt relief and wonder and the slow-steadying of hearts that now learned how to beat sedately. She felt nothing untoward, at least from her fellow ''refugees'', and instead reached toward those Imperials. They were an interesting bag of sensation. Passing by an older woman, who Luxum noted bore scars across half her face, curling her lips and pinching half-shut an eye, she felt the woman''s maternal good cheer as she spoke to a young boy who hugged his father''s leg. She felt the woman''s surety and bursting pride as she assured the boy that the bad aliens wouldn''t find them here, spoken in halting and accented Basic. That the Primarch and his Astartes would protect them all. She watched the woman reach into a pouch on her uniform and produce a foil-wrapped treat, passing it to the boy who smiled shyly, before shaking the hand of his father in a firm, sure grip. There an Imperial swallowed irritation at yet another provincial unable to follow instructions. Sure, sure, ask me what to do, it''s not like you were told, it''s not like it was clear and obvious. Follow the markings on the ground, whatever that heathen language said. Just do as you''re told and everything is simple. Why can''t people do as they''re told? Here another Imperial, bored out of his skull, repeated the same instructions on how to reach the trains as he had for the past five hours. His thoughts were elsewhere, lingering on cool sheets and a ration of amasec waiting for him. Then Luxum reached for the minds behind the metal masks, the beings wrapped in red robes who stood in knots scattered across the tarmac and she nearly tripped over her own feet. Ken caught her by the arm, subtle flex of telekinesis keeping her upright and not dragging him down with her from the mass of her body. If she had to imagine the mind of a vong, it would be like those in red. Low levels of acid pain ate at the edges of their awareness, constantly. Permanently. A baseline of raw, nerve-tingling, nail-bed prodding aching that wrapped their cognition so tightly and so pervasively she truly did not think them aware of it. Emotions were muted and almost nonexistent, feeling almost hollow in the Force. What there was was inflexible purpose, pride and laser-bright focus. They were here to serve a great and just role, one sacred, one precious, and their lambent green eye-lenses swept the crowds, watching in thermal and ultraviolet and infrared as they enacted that task. What task? She prodded a mind, gentle, a caress. What task? ORDER PRIMARY: INTERDICTION OF ABOMINABLE INTELLIGENCE. If she could have bled, her nose would drip crimson. Binary shouted into her skull, the Force almost trembling under the silent, mental shout from the¡­the creature. Again, Ken braced her, wrapping fingers around her bare upper bicep, hard enough to dimple her dark-complected synthflesh. "Lux- Xulum, not now. Don''t make a scene, alright? We don''t need to be hauled off for a checkup because they think you passed out-" She ignored him. And where do you take the abominable intelligences? The man-creature told her, in another mental scream of binary. Coordinates.
Luxum was a beautiful woman. Ken had told her so, not in any way flirting, but as a sort of matter-of-fact statement, more touching on how she might stand out among the more destitute and desperate of the galaxy. It wasn''t her fault that most synthdroids were for more¡­basic uses, after all. Her skin was dark, shining as if burnished, darker than natives of Haruun Kal. Her hair, doll-like and the least realistic looking, seemed more a wig than anything else, perched atop her head. Synthskin was one thing, but it was still hard to mimic living follicles. Her eyes caught attention the most, leading to her not infrequently opting for contact lenses when trying to avoid attention - at least, more attention than this body would draw. They were as blue as her lightsaber, bright and clear and a startling contrast to her skin. Her eyes, she often thought, were the feature she adored the most in this body. Eyes were the windows to the soul, it was said. A common quote from dozens of worlds, and dozens of species. Eyes were how a being interacted with the world. Well, not every being. Some used electromagnetic senses, some used soundwaves. Others sensed gravitational distortions. But most looked out through eyes and beheld creation. Though the wavelengths might differ, though some saw into ultraviolet and others below the spectrum of color, eyes told stories. Eyes held emotion, they held the feelings of the being behind them. If there was one thing Luxum regretted about her birth, it was that she never had eyes. She wondered what it would be like to look at her own core, her own crystal, with eyes. With living eyes. To see the light that played across the crystalline lattice of her being, of her ''brain'', with every thought and feeling. Her eyes, blue as the sky, flicked back and forth. She''d had to train herself to blink, when she first implanted herself into this new chassis. Before, when she and J-C941 had been one, she saw the world through the permanence of the Juggernaut chassis'' ocular sensors. In this body, she had to blink - beings with eyes blinked and it unnerved them if someone didn''t. So she learned to blink, rather than set up a subroutine in the body to automate it. Luxum did not blink. Her bright blue eyes roved back and forth and she did not blink, because to blink was to, even for a nanosecond, look away. Emotions came from the eyes too. It was an old trick for gamblers - watch the eyes. The mouth lies in smiles and frowns and smirks and licked lips. Hands trick with fidgets and twitches and scratches at wrists. But the eyes - emotions live in the eyes. That''s where you see the bitter disappointment in a shifter gone wrong, a bad hand drawn. That''s where you see the buried and sweet joy in a straight sabacc, waiting to be slapped down. Eyes wept. Eyes welled with tears of happiness or sadness, frustration or anger. It didn''t matter the species - even Mon Calamari, Quarren, adapted to live in water, still could shed tears. Luxum''s body could not. She had the shape of tearducts, at the corner of her eye, where the nasolacrimal duct should empty. She had eyelashes too, but her eyes were transparisteel and circuitry and they needed no lubrication. It was cosmetic, to look more alive, to look more real, to make sure the buyer did not fall into the uncanniest of valleys at the most inopportune of times. Her bright blue eyes, the color of her lightsaber, could not weep. Her eyes moved but her face did not. It was a mask, as false as the synthskin and fine-tuned musculature beneath. Her mouth was dry, because she did not and would never eat. Her heart did not beat, because she did not have a heart. She had lived a hundred years - a thousand - or more. She had lived only a short time with her companions. Companions, she called them. Hosts, others call them, others partners, or friends. She lived in the minds and souls of a dozen droids and more, selflessly offered to allow her access to the galaxy. She always asked permission first. The moment of melding was precious and each time it was unique. The flood of memories from her companion, the unique tenor of their mind - what she called their soul, reaching out to greet her. A binary handshake, a confirmation, a welcome-how-do-you-do. She shared their all in a microsecond. They offered it without a shadow of doubt or a moment of hesitation or an ounce of arrogance. They welcomed her in and let her be in their body and live in their lives. She felt more than a few companions die and she rode down with them into the dark. She was the last of them, removed from the chassis and placed into a new, bonded again, but she held their memories inside her, forever. She held their last moments. What could any organic understand of droids, until they had died with them? That pain, all of it, she carried inside, every day. The Force soothed it, gave it reason, but it never lingered. Luxum was Shard, which meant that memory never faded. She heard friends talk about how it got better, how memories would change and the bitter became bittersweet, but she never understood it. Luxum''s life was always in the now. The now that her eyes took in. That sense of now, the clarity of memory she carried, could be startling. Even as long-lived as she was - though she did not feel such, but that was how organics saw her - she had never felt quite this way before. She investigated the feeling. Almost clinically, distantly, turning it over in ephemeral hands like a puzzle-box. Trying to determine how to get in, to define it, to crack the case and prize out the nugget within. She thought she knew what betrayal felt like. It was a stringing ripple, starting somewhere inside. It swelled and blossomed and washed away anger, it made her run cold. She felt betrayal when her safehouse''s location was leaked by those she thought friends. She fled Stormtroopers and too many friends didn''t make it. She tasted backstabbing when she served with Master Skywalker''s Jedi through the clashes of the Reborn Empire and the Second Imperium. When friends turned their backs and allies chased power. And in the past year, she had felt the most bitter sting of faithlessness when she watched world after world bend the knee to the invader. She''d never imagined her life would be saving shipfuls of droids from bonfires and feverish outbreaks of orgiastic violence. Droids that served their masters unflinchingly and faultlessly from the moments they rolled out of factory lines. All to buy a moment more time before the vong came calling. All to placate monsters who cut their flesh to blood-drenched superstition and flung living beings into stars. Luxum had seen this over and over. She fought the Red Knights of Life on Osarion with her mother and Master. She clashed with Denizens of the Galaxy, she hunted down terrorists sworn to the Peace Brigade and broke open warehouses full of skittish protocol droids and terrorized astromechs. She thought she was inured to the feeling. Her eyes, her bright blue eyes, the color of her lightsaber, saw in the visual spectrum and beyond. Thermal blooms of superheated metal painted broad strokes on the canvas. Scorched and blackened char formed the base. Highlights of color - shining silver of ripped metal, markings of arterial red, deep blue, forest green - provided interest. She had seen burnpits before. It shouldn''t have been anything new. Two of the spindly machine-men approached the pit from the far side, hauling a supine protocol droid. Its shell was silver, catching the sunlight. An ugly restraining bolt sat in the center of its chest. Together they heaved it in, sending it down to crash atop a pile of mutilated, shattered husks. One of the machine men lowered his long, long rifle. A single shot rang out, a crack of electricity and she tasted ozone and the head of the protocol droid vanished in a clatter of debris. She had seen this all before, too many times to count, though she remembered every single one. She had never seen this with the sanction of the Jedi. Master Skywalker spoke highly of the Imperium. Master Skywalker willingly met with their leader. Master Skywalker entrusted the safety and life of his nephew to the Imperium. Master Skywalker vouched for them before the Senate. "Luxum," Ken whispered, next to her, his use of her name startling her out of her reverie. "We gotta go." He had a hand on her shoulder and for a moment the touch, relayed through dense tactile-underweave, made her want to scream. Made her want to draw her ''saber and cleave his hand from his wrist. Part of her recognized she was breaking down and part of her did not care. Understanding an urge did not take away its power and for a moment she saw herself cutting down the fool trying to pull her away from this - not injustice, that was too simple, too clean - this infamy and leaping across the pit to rend heads from bodies before turning outward. She would find each one of the red-robed machine-men and she would cut them down and silence their mockery of life. The hand on her shoulder jostled her again and she felt Ken''s urgency and- She bit down on her fury, she banked the fires and breathed out. False lungs gushed out unnecessary air through hollow mouth and the sensation, mimic though it was, centered her on her body. It wasn''t his fault. He was Ken - just Ken, never gave her a surname. Perhaps he had one and abandoned it, or just never had one at all - no one seemed to know. He came and went from the Praxeum and he and Master Skywalker had a history never spoken of. Luxum tore her eyes from the pit and looked up at the man, at his face, at the haunted echo of her own feelings deep within his grey eyes. She felt little of his emotions through the Force, but what leaked out - maybe he''d left his surname behind, it suggested. Maybe she wasn''t the only one with a past that rang through her every day. "We need to go," he said again and this time she let him guide her. Let him, because in this body, with the Force, she could rip a hovertank apart with her bare hands. She let him guide her back, ignoring the markings in aurebesh that pointed toward the pit, the markings that read ''DISPOSAL''. The Imperium and the New Republic signed their treaty a month ago on Coruscant. SELCORE began sending refugees this way only days later. A month ago. Luxum saw the crowds, filling the tarmac beyond sight. She knew the numbers, from Mirax. Master Skywalker sanctioned this. He had to know. How could he not? Ken was talking, muttering, not quite to her but not quite not, either. "This can''t stand," he said over and over. Then something about microchips. They rejoined the main thoroughfares and Luxum moved by rote. Her feet fell one in front of the next and she and Ken filtered through queues and lines. Ken was passed bottles of water by a smiling Imperial and Luxum nearly crushed the woman''s throat then and there. They were handed stamped flimsy flyers that extolled the ''Civitas'' in bright phrases and full-color photographs. They passed by preachers standing at podiums who gestured and pontificated and exhorted everyone nearby to listen to the Imperial Truth. They boarded a train and sat on thin cushioned seats, shoulder to shoulder. The landing tarmac fell away behind them as it accelerated, rumbling and jostling and Luxum looked at the empty optics of J-C941 across from her, the weighty Juggernaut carefully folded into the seat opposite, judging her silently. Silent as the droid always was, after they split, silent but never beyond her shadow. Loyal till death. Till a death the Imperium would celebrate. She blinked, false lids over false eyes and J-C941 was gone and the thin-faced young man opposite her glanced away suddenly, cheeks flushing. The train ran past endless fields of tall, waving grain attended to by swept-wing rolling harvesters, gnashing blades threshing and cleaving. It sped past orderly roads, already paved, with vacant lots sitting empty but for intention. It hissed to a halt in a massive station, airy, with vaulted ceilings, marked all over with twin-headed avioids and repeated ornate U emblems. The train emptied as orderly as it filled, each car unlocked and opened by a uniformed footman, so that there was no great crush. Luxum rose and followed Ken as they stepped down metal-grate stairs to hop a short distance to smooth duracrete. Their car had been the last to empty, she noticed. She hadn''t been paying attention. Uniformed Exiles - a lot of uniformed Exiles - were corralling the rest of the crowds away from their car. She felt it then, just as Ken did, as he reacted just as she did. She pulled the Force to herself as three enormous figures emerged from the crowd, unerringly walking toward Luxum and Ken and the three dozen other passengers from their car. Imperial Astartes, she knew, after Ken made her read the rest of the communique. The same beings that slaughtered Yuuzhan Vong and had apparently saved the life of Mei Taral. She felt their presence, the space they occupied in the world. She felt the blade-sharp clarity of their thoughts. She felt their focused attention, the target-lock of a proton torpedo. "Disperse the rest," the lead Astartes ordered. The other two raised, incredibly, blasters. "You have falsified records and entered Eboracum Civitas illegally. Surrender, and no harm will come to either of you." Luxum saw the burn pits. Ken did too. The two Jedi exchanged a look. Neither had a lightsaber - too risky to carry, too obvious. But they had the Force, and around them it sang. "I repeat: you will not be harmed. You will be detained until you can be discharged to Republican custody. Stand down, in the name of Terra and the Primarch. I will not ask again." Wide-eyed faces watched, a theatre audience, captive, held back in a semicircle by stern Imperials with stern faces and shouldered rifles. A crowd of humanity, rapt and silent. But Luxum saw the burnpits and knew their words as lies. "They won''t take you," Ken murmured. "Or you," she affirmed. The lead Astartes, the one who had spoken, shifted and she saw what he held in one hand, tiny and dwarfed by his fist. A restraining bolt. Luxum reached out a hand, grabbed the Force by the throat, and everything went to hell.? Contingence Chapter I PART I: THE FIRST MOVEMENT
I: Silent Futures Now... This is a day for Luke Skywalker. In the earliest hours of his day, when he wakes in a bed, unfortunately quiet and empty, he stretches and steps through a cycle of calisthenics. His wife - who is not in his bed, but on Coruscant, continuing to confound the greatest medical minds of the galaxy with her sudden and unexpected remission - is who turned him onto this habit. He has never been lax in maintaining his physical training, alongside the spiritual, but Mara is a woman of action and motion and habits ingrained through a lifetime cannot be shaken. He rises on one foot, palms pressed together, as stable and solid as the ancient massassi stone around him. From his bare feet, he is anchored through meters and meters of ziggurat to the firm foundations of the moon - then deeper. Deeper and deeper still, plunging through caverns that have never seen light artificial or natural, through trackless, inky depths of aquifers and deeper still. Deeper into the thickly shifting magmatic layers of the mantle, where the gravity of mighty Yavin tugs and plays. Deeper still to the hot iron core, rotating and thrumming out magnetic bands that keep the sleeting radiation of the gas giant at bay. He ascends through the clouds as he brings his hands out and away, palms braced in the air, stretching pectoralis majoris and minoris, deltoid and infraspinus. Above him many tonnes of temple are as tissue paper - less - and the stars stretch infinite. Yavin is in ascendence, high and bloated and days are brief as the sun peeks between horizon and the gas giant''s limb. Life whirls and drifts in those clouds, those layer-cake bands of sweet nitrogen and chilled hydrogen, down to where oxygen turns metallic and sheets of noble gasses crackle under the grasp of the world. Life thrives maximal and minimal from complex and curious to monocellular with loose chains of ribonuclease drifting in cytocellular goo. Life, all life. Other moons whirl in Yavin''s complex and ordained dance, moons of savannah and ocean, forest and valley, moons no different than the fourth, moons that count out to eight and thirteen and into the twenties. Melodies swim in bays and through lagoons, slith slip through warren-homes and gerb mark zodiac symbols in clay. He is an axis, a fulcrum, a spindle of light that spears through the moon, through the stars, through sky and sea and soil. He breathes out as he settles back to his feet. He is merely Luke Skywalker, and he dresses for the day. Breakfast is made by myriad hands. Sometimes Tionne, sometimes Kam, sometimes older children or apprentices. Sometimes, Luke makes dustcrepes and nausage. There is always boxed meals and cereals and fresh fruits for those on the move, who rise at other times. The children are always energetic, bouncing around with the sort of boundless capacity that only the youthful can manage. He smiles at them, offers good mornings and sleep wells? and listens to them chatter about what they did yesterday, what they want to do today. He is merely Luke Skywalker, and any grownup willing to listen to younglings is their greatest friend. Anakin has not been eating with the rest in the mornings - Sannah and Tahiri take a share to his nephew and he knows they break their fast together outside. He asked Anakin why, and his nephew shrugged. But the younglings were younglings and they liked to ask him about his exploits and Luke needed no other explanation. After breakfast, while Yavin the star still shines between Yavin the planet and Yavin the moon, for a few hours the jungle comes alive with activity. He meets with his nephew and they go out to outlying temples. Most were indexed and at least cursorily explored, if not by Anakin than no doubt by other apprentices that passed through the Praxeum. But the Jedi are still few and the ruins are many and the jungle is vast, so there is always something new to find. He takes Anakin and together they wander through old paths and peer into darkened grottos and eat lunches atop weathered old pillars and crumbling walls and temples. They don''t speak much, but it''s a comfortable silence. When his nephew is older, he''ll find peace in quiet meditation, as Luke has, but he remembers what it was like to be sixteen and he doesn''t press for long days in contemplation. Anakin meditates in motion and Luke can commiserate. He and Anakin return in the evening, when the sun returns from hiding behind the world above. Atmospheric refraction washes the world in reds and oranges for a strange few minutes each time the sun slides behind the disk of the gas giant, filtering its light through the prism of thousands of kilometers of cloud and atmosphere. Messages are always waiting. From Coruscant and the headquarters there, from friends and contacts across the galaxy, from forwarding chains. He takes more time than he''d like to read them, keeping abreast, chewing his lip as he sees the continued progress of the invaders. Out of courtesy, he''s read in on higher classification details, since Jedi might end up requested for actions. He gets regular updates, clinical and short, about the whereabouts of Ralroost and her escorts. He considers the millions of families of others who serve in the Navy across the front and he is blessed that though he might not know exactly what his niece is up to, he at least knows where she is. And if he needs to, he can reach out to the spark of vibrancy that she is, out among the stars. Today he clenches his teeth, one mail flagged priority. As he reads further his brow furrows and his mood slides and he sighs. The two aren''t dead, which he is grateful for. Luxum, he imagines, is spitting with rage. Ken - that is complicated. He knows this isn''t the first time the Imperium has, politely, reached out to other polities to request that they ''please come claim your people''. A regional power like this doesn''t crop up overnight without catching attention. Especially when the Senate itself sat in closed session over them, especially when SELCORE starts favoring them, especially when it''s not exactly secret that Jedi were seen abroad to treat with them. So far, he''s aware that Bothawui has received similar messages, along with NRI (more than once) and rumors are the Remnant has as well, though that''s less certain. He''s sure that various other intelligence apparati and probably corporations have also tried to stick their fingers into that little world and if Karrde doesn''t have at least two people already there, well, Luke would eat a bantha. It has been the height of politeness for NRI and the Bothan Spynet, but he imagines that those for extra-governmental organizations likely merely¡­disappeared into that world. Now, for the first time, Luke is on the receiving end of a ''come and fetch'' request. For his own Jedi. His first thought is Ilum, to bring her wayward daughter to heel. But that would be further insult, given the Imperium''s proclivities. He hates politics and politicking. His sister is blessed with all the genes for it. Both Ken and Luxum are, reportedly, fine, despite making ''a scene''. The latter it seems took damage to her chassis, but the Shard herself is undamaged. He rests in his head in his hands, wondering just what they were thinking, but knowing exactly what they were thinking. This was his fault. He makes arrangements for Kenth Hamner to handle the transfer. As a Jedi and a Colonel, Hamner is the bridge between the New Republic military and the Order. The Corellian is calm and practical, pragmatic and disciplined. It''s why Luke leaves him in charge of the Headquarters on Coruscant. Kenth can bring the two wayward Knights back and book them passage to Yavin. Luke will need a long talk with them both. He meditates again, when he is done keeping track of his passionate, tempestuous Order and the galaxy at large. He centers himself, in the world and in his family all around him, filling the great Temple. Then he climbs into bed and waits for the next day. The next morning, he rises with the sun. His bed is still empty and diminished, but he stretches and steps through calisthenics. Perhaps this morning, he will prepare breakfast.?
One Month Ago... The way stories go is that a boy meets a girl. The girl is shy and the boy is adventurous. The girl is sensitive and the boy is cold. They challenge each other and learn from each other, until the girl learns to come out of her shell and the boy learns the value of quiet times. The girl learns to stand up for herself and the boy learns to be caring. They fall in love and get married and do dumb things like have kids and get a house and settle down and get boring. That''s all silly, and also dumb, and it''s not how things worked. Tahiri didn''t need to learn anything from Anakin, and he definitely didn''t need to learn anything from her except that shoes were Sith inventions and maybe how to send an email every now and then because they both were already great. They were Jedi! And heroes! And adventurers! Master Tionne really liked telling stories but since Tahiri''s life was way more interesting than a story, it got a little boring. Well, it had been way more interesting than a story until her best friend decided to leave. And then never write. Or visit. She liked Sannah a lot and they got along just fine. Valin was fun and Chitter could be hilarious and Turi was sweet. But they were kids! Anakin went off to play hero and left her to take care of kids! Well, Tionne and Kam Solusar actually did the taking care of, but as the next oldest after Anakin (and because of her adventures, of course) they all turned to Tahiri instead. Tahiri, take us to the Palace of the Woolamander, Tahiri let''s go to the Low River Temple, Tahiri show us your lightsaber, Tahiri, Tahiri, Tahiri! Sannah got it at least. She thanked the stars Sannah was around, when they escaped out of the Praxeum to go swimming in the river or talk out in the training clearings in the jungle. Sannah wasn''t really supposed to go out without one of the Knights or an adult, but Tahiri was basically an adult so it was fine. Tionne hadn''t told her not to, after all. That''s where they wrote emails to that other dummy. Did he know how hard it was to come up with constantly nice things to say? She was bored out of her mind. Out of her mind! Sannah turned it into a game, coming up with the silliest ways to talk up something like, oh, practicing telekinesis (not like Tahiri couldn''t throw a ronto if she wanted to) or meditating for the millionth time or sitting through history class or science class. At first Sannah thought that Anakin wasn''t getting them, since he never wrote back, but Tahiri laughed it off. It was Anakin. Half the fun of sending him mail was imagining the look on his face as he tried to figure out what to say back. He might have been her best friend, but that only made poking him better. If she also found it really hard to write out her thoughts and also that reading back her letters made her squirm in embarrassment, well, no one had to know that part. Anakin was the one bad at communication, not her. Not in a million years. So Anakin went off and left her alone to be bored out of her skull while he got to have amazing adventures - she pointedly put aside how much it hurt her that he had to be hurting over Chewie and she couldn''t be there for him - for months and months and then only said hi to her for a minute when Master Luke called the convocation after the Praetorite Vong were defeated before he jetted off again. Two years. Just two years. Two and a half actually but it didn''t make that much of a difference and besides, everyone knew that girls matured faster than boys. So she was basically as old as Anakin was. And then the worst part: when he finally sends an email back, what it says - Crying wasn''t anything bad, but it sucked and it made her feel terrible, and that was something she was going to hold over him too. And then he showed back up like it''s nothing! Not even a warning! He finally emailed her and Sannah back and didn''t even bother to say ''oh and I''ll see you in a week''. The dummy just had to show up with Master Luke. She sensed him, obviously, the second the shuttle came out of hyperspace in orbit. Tahiri jolted bolt upright from where she had been laying propped on her elbows, flipping through a holocube. Sannah was laying on her back, a series of balls painted like the moons of Yavin circling above her. "Really!?" Sannah started at Tahiri''s exclamation and the balls fell right onto her stomach, making the Melodie huff out a gasp. Rubbing her stomach Sannah sat up, glaring vibroblades at Tahiri. "Sithspawn! What was that, Tahiri?" Sannah swearing was absolutely not Tahiri''s fault. It was probably Streen''s. "It''s Anakin!" Sannah''s grumpy irritation vanished like an ice sculpture in the Jundland Wastes. "Here?" "Where else!" The reason Tahiri beat Sannah to the hangar was because Sannah wore shoes, which slowed her down. They all took physics class together, it''s like no one paid attention. Bare feet just had better traction. It was science! Other Jedi were there, like Kam Solusar, since Tionne had a class. Streen too, speaking of, but Tahiri only had eyes for the gull-winged shuttle coming in for a landing. Master Luke''s presence was warm and deep and familiar, but it was Anakin that dominated her sense of the Force. It was weird, like she''d forgotten what one of the colors was and now all of a sudden she could see it again. Like the world was still fine without it, but then when it showed back up again she wondered just how in space things made sense before. She reached out, a friendly poke. And met a durasteel wall. A durasteel wall made of Anakin, but one that her friendly poke flatted against. Wow. Ouch. Okay. Sannah didn''t notice at all, bouncing on the balls of her feet. The shuttle touched down, repulsors cooling off with gusts of vapor. The side hatch opened, a ramp extended. Master Luke led the way down, before the shape of another person moved and Tahiri decided now was about a good time. She bolted past Master Luke, who leaned to the side and it was actually a little impressive that Anakin managed to stay upright. Bright, ice-blue eyes widened, only centimeters away. His hair was a little longer but he still had that curling bang that dropped over his forehead. Eyes dancing over his face, she noticed a few almost imperceptible new scars here and there, just a little lighter than his skin. So what if she knew his face about as well as her own? He had to suck in a breath, since she knocked the wind out of him, before he could talk. "Uh, hi Tahiri." Yep, that was Anakin. Just ''Hi''. "Oh, yeah, ''hi'' yourself, great big hero-from-space who doesn''t have time to keep in touch with his friend." She had his arms trapped at his sides as she hugged him, but he managed just enough to pat her on the back. It was a really bad hug, but that was fine. "I''ve, uhm-" "Been busy, yeah, yeah. What, you think I didn''t know all about it? Well, almost all about it, because we get the news late here, which is too bad that someone couldn''t just tell me themselves-" she let him go, because Anakin got antsy if you touched him for too long, and stepped back. "I heard all about Ithor and Dantooine and those crazy Exiles and-" Anakin still hadn''t said anything and something about his expression fuzzed her train of thought. He was just looking at her, like he wasn''t quite sure who he was looking at. "What?" Anakin twitched, blinking. "What?" "What are you looking at?" His cheeks reddened, because it was pretty much just that easy. "You - look different." So did he! That kind of thing happens when you don''t see your best friend for six months. Seriously, it''s like he didn''t pay attention to anything at all. "Like I''m older? Because wow, I am. Fourteen, like last week." Anakin looked down at the ramp, making Tahiri realize that, oh, right, she ambushed him before he could even fully get out of the shuttle. "Well, come on," she gestured, skipping down the ramp as Anakin slunk after her. "Happy¡­birthday?" He tried. She held up her fingers, slightly apart. "A little late for that. But thanks!" "I - oh, Sannah!" The Melodie girl had crept up, still bouncing on her toes, smiling as bright as Tahiri ever saw. "Anakin!" She jumped forward, giving him a hug too, which was nowhere near as impressive. "So what''re you here for?" Tahiri asked, as Sannah let go of her best friend, smiling a little more shyly, brushing hair back behind her ear. "I know it''s not to see me." He came here with Master Skywalker, so he probably had some super important, galaxy-saving mission to go on again, where he''d meet up with some kind of supersoldiers from another dimension because that''s what he''s been up to. Probably were just here to check up on something and then leave again, leaving her here, again, with all the kids - "Well¡­kind of." Anakin looked unsure, shifting a little. Tahiri''s thoughts hit a wall and stopped. Which was not easily done, mind. She looked him over and even though he still felt oddly closed off, muted in the Force from what she knew, Anakin could never, ever lie to her. He might be taller, he might be well, bigger, but - really? He''d actually come back to Yavin to see her? Tahiri didn''t blush. It was warm in the hangar, with all the jungle air coming in. "Oh. Okay then. Well, you could''ve warned me, dummy." She punched his arm. A lopsided grin slowly grew, one that Tahiri knew so well, pushing away the stupid amount of seriousness that didn''t belong on her best friend''s face. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. "Surprise?" Tahiri considered it, screwed up her face, weighing the pros and cons. "Alright, fine. It''s a pretty good surprise." "I hoped so. Uhm, show me around? Anything new?" She rolled her eyes. "It''s the Temple, Anakin. Nothing ever changes here. Seriously. Nothing ever changes." But she still grabbed his hand, yanking him along, past Master Luke, who smiled and nodded to her. Anakin gamely followed, as perfectly in-synch as they always were. Steps the same distance, matching up exactly. Sannah bounced along behind them, already babbling. The Praxeum definitely was always the same, but if showing Anakin all the stuff he already knew as well as she did meant she got to drag her best friend around, then that was completely fine with her. Besides, with how much was changing already, it was nice that there was something in the galaxy that was certain. Like the sun rising, the Great Temple just was. Older than dirt, and full of a lot of empty chambers, but it was home. Home shouldn''t change anyway, it had to be there to come back to. She was glad Anakin was back. He looked like he needed it. Only Anakin, though. ?
Now... A nudge of the Force was all it took to depress the turbolift''s button. The door slid closed and it ascended. He could feel the young Master''s imbalance from across the Temple. Just as he could feel the young Knight''s guarded cheer at being around his friends again. Some were simply easy to get a feel for. News spread quickly at the Praxeum and everyone knew about Ken and Luxum. It''d been a topic of some debate over dinner a few nights, re-litigating the old debate. Intervention versus passivity. Defense versus attack. The role of a Jedi, as warrior or defender. He could hear the echoes of Master Durron in the words, though the young Master himself stayed quiet. He had made his own position clear, and it was enough. Ikrit had no answer. Once, he would have said that a Jedi should never become so militarized as to even hold rank within an army. It would have been unthinkable, and he would have made his arguments be those that his own Master would have made, or the Jedi he had known long ago. That was before he had learned that his own Master, the Order of his time, had accepted the ranks of Commander and General and led armies greater than Ikrit could''ve ever feared. Things not seen since the great wars with the Sith and Mandalorians. The dreadful revelation of the Clone Wars and the fate of the Order he knew and loved had shaken him and he spent many long days in introspection and meditation at the old Palace of the Woolamander. To learn that his own Master, Yoda, had even embraced the role¡­ Now, Ikrit was not so sure what his answer might be. Every instinct screamed at him that what the young Knight did - what Anakin did - was against the tenets of the Jedi. Those same instincts also screamed at him that what the Yuuzhan Vong did was an abomination, darker than Dark, and his ears dragged when he realized that within him lived the same divide that threatened to split this new Order in twain. Anakin had more blood on his hands than any Jedi Ikrit ever knew. So many lives taken by the young boy''s blade, so many to the point that he admitted, quietly, to Ikrit that he wasn''t sure he even felt anything about it anymore. The Kushiban''s heart ached to hear it. So young, too young, for such weight. The young Master was up near the apex of the ziggurat, alone, and it took a moment for the turbolift to ascend as high as it could. The doors whisked open quietly and Ikrit stepped carefully out. The world was so very large for a Kushiban - the world built for the average being. Even on worlds like Coruscant - much the same, he heard, despite the gulf of years between his firsthand experience and now - that melted together all beings into a whole, he was quite out of place. Master Yoda and he had talked about this, his Master indicating it was yet another lesson on their place in the galaxy and in the Force. How nothing is perfect, and everything is a compromise. How the Force cares not, and fills all beings, large or small. Human or Kushiban, Rodian or Hutt. Ikrit wondered what it might have been had other Jedi the ability to experience the world as he did. If that humbling might have placed them on different paths. If Anakin''s namesake had felt the humbling experience of a world that cared little for you. Ikrit pushed it out of his mind. It was no being''s fault that the world was made that way. The ease of pressing a key in a turbolift would not turn them from the Dark Side. It was a silly notion, for an old Kushiban. The young Master knew he was coming, of course. Ikrit made no attempt to conceal himself in the Force. Master Skywalker peered over his shoulder from where he leaned, elbows braced, against an outer wall of the Temple. The jungle spread verdant and emerald into the hazy distance beyond them. "Master Ikrit," he said, as greeting. "Young Skywalker," Ikrit nodded. One quick bound and he sat on the wall beside the young Master. He curled his tail about himself, flicking long ears back. Gently, he tapped stubby claws on the ancient massassi stone. "I heard of Luxum and Ken." Skywalker''s lips thinned and his hands flexed. "They aren''t wrong," he said. Ikrit dipped his head. "I did not say they were." "I knew what we were agreeing to. The Imperium isn''t good. I respected Sergeant Ascratus for his sense of duty and I respect the conviction of their way of life. I don''t agree with it and I never will. But they weren''t wrong." Skywalker fidgeted, physically reflecting the inner uncertainty that bled from him. In truth, there was little way to proclaim Luke Skywalker a Jedi Master. Who could? Who had the authority? The atrocity of the Jedi Purge left vanishingly few Masters who could claim authority to elevate the young Jedi. In some ways, Ikrit supposed he could - as a Master of the old Order, of course - but it didn''t feel right. It wasn''t his place to proclaim any such thing. His time was past and gone. His role was complete. The Massassi children were freed and he was centuries out of time. There was little way to proclaim Luke Skywalker a Jedi Master in the ways of old, but it was moments like that that proved his title. The young Master never shied away from questioning himself. He pondered his decisions. He weighed right and wrong. He trusted the Force, as any Jedi should, but he questioned his own interpretation. Compared to Masters Ikrit had known, young Skywalker surpassed them all. "They did only as they thought was correct," Ikrit offered. "Which is what I taught them." "You did." Skywalker gave his full attention to the Kushiban Jedi, resting his hip against the low wall. "What would the Order have done?" Ah, as he expected. It was not the first time Skywalker asked Ikrit of the old Order and wouldn''t be the last. Ikrit had been free with stories about Master Yoda, touched that across time and space, he met another of the great Jedi''s students. Something that the two of them could share. Yet, those stories he kept circumspect, speaking more about what was done, less of Master Yoda''s teachings. Something felt wrong to instruct Skywalker on the ways of the old Order. If Ikrit wanted, he could fill an entire holocron with recountings of the ways of the Order under the Republic. He had spent decades as a Jedi, after all, traveling across the galaxy, walking the halls of the lost Temple on Coruscant. He could feed Skywalker everything he recalled and work to rebirth the old Order anew, here on Yavin, but when the thought came he recoiled. The old Order had its time, and it had passed. Ikrit was a relic. A memory. It was why young Anakin called Ikrit Master, but Anakin was not his apprentice. It was not his place. Ikrit could guide the youth, direct him, care for him, but he could not teach him. Ikrit''s ways were not the ways of now. They were not the teachings Anakin, or any of the Jedi, needed. The Force guided the young Master to this refounding and the Force would guide the Jedi of this new Order. As but a mere servant of the Force, Ikrit could - should - only let it happen. Ikrit hummed, considering his response. "What would the old Order have done with the Imperium? Or with your wayward Knights?" Smiling a little at how Ikrit guessed both questions, Skywalker nodded. "For the first - you know the answer. The Order did not involve itself in politics. For the second-" Ikrit paused. The next words would sting, though they ought not. "-it would not have happened." He felt it, a spike of guilt as the young Master surely internalized it as blame. An indictment of his teachings, that he had not lived up to the measure of the Jedi. "What I say, young Skywalker, is that in the Order I knew, the chance of such a thing happening would be so rare as to not be a matter to consider at all. Two Knights, acting on their own conviction? Contrary to the known wishes of their Master? It simply would not happen." That feeling of disappointment grew, so Ikrit spoke the rest. "But consider. I say it would not happen. Is this a flaw in you - or in us? You say that Luxum and Ken were not wrong in their worry." Luke shook his head firmly. "The Imperium is restraining itself. That much was made very, very clear to me when I spoke with their Primarch. The amount that they fear - or even hate - non-humans is dangerous. The way they treat droids is a bad sign." "A droid is a droid," Ikrit said with a Kushiban shrug, rolling both his shoulders. "The Force knows them, as it does all things, but in no greater way than in a starship or holocube." "Not to hear Ilum talk about it. Artoo - is Artoo. And Threepio. Are they the exception? The rule?" "In my experience, neither," Ikrit said firmly. The invader''s hatred of droids, and now that of this new ''Imperium'' sat strangely with Ikrit, as did some of the passionate reactions of denizens of the galaxy. A droid was a droid - they were not alive, not luminous in the Force. But - he was centuries removed from his time. It was not his place to judge. "But that is my feeling. I admit that I do not have the perspective of Master Ilum. Indeed, it was my Order that cast her and her children out. Having met them, I cannot say I agree, so you see that in my time, we were not faultless." Luke rubbed at his chin. "What worries me is what it means. The hatred in their hearts for something as simple as a droid. The last thing the galaxy needs is a repeat of the vong." "It strikes me that the two share many similarities." Ikrit noted. He cocked his head, stroking one long ear, straightening and smoothing his white fur. "And many differences. The Yuuzhan Vong reject diplomacy. Master Horn''s own friend paid that price. The Imperium is willing to treat with us." "That''s what I hold onto." The two Masters fell into companionable silence for a time. A flock of insect-birds burst from the canopy, shrieking and hissing and winging off into the distance. "If the concern of these young Knights was not wrong¡­what troubles you so, Master Skywalker?" His answer was immediate. "They could have gotten themselves killed." "This is a danger for all Jedi." "A danger doesn''t mean an inevitability. A Jedi shouldn''t throw their life away. Luxum took an incredible risk - a pointless risk. She was too confident in her abilities to spoof sensors. She was too used to vanishing in the crowd in a galaxy she understood. And Ken -" Luke trailed off. "I''m worried that we''ve grown too complacent. We feel too safe. It''s costing us lives." Ikrit had mixed feelings on the human Knight, Ken. Unlike most, Ikrit knew of his true origins. Offspring of a catspaw of Palpatine, the last Sith. Child of a Sith-spawned abomination (in his estimation, at least, though Ikrit had never met Triclops), Ken was hounded by his parentage. Almost zealous in his morality, absolute in his views, Ken, Ikrit considered, might have fit in better in the times Ikrit remembered. But in young Skywalker''s Order? There were reasons why Ken rarely ever graced the halls of the Praxeum. Arguments could be made about the way the young Master shaped his rebirthed Jedi, but it would be a hard argument indeed to say that many in Ikrit''s time would recognize it. He couldn''t speak to if this was a terrible flaw, or the greatest strength of Skywalker''s Order, but he was who the Force had chosen. For good, or ill. Skywalker embraced Dark Jedi, he took in those wounded and blinded by hate. He let those strong in the Force come and go freely. He took teachings from unorthodox sects, he felt the guiding hand of the ancient tradition of Jedi on his back, but he did not let it dominate him. By the Force, he even welcomed those who had been directly denounced in times past! See where it led him: young Jedi Taral was willing to lay down her life alongside Jedi, though only a few years past, she fought them. In the end, it was why Ikrit spoke little of the old Order to the young Master or to others. He was selfish, in a way. He truly wished to see where this path led. "I wish they had talked to me," Skywalker said finally, a weight taken from him as he admitted it. "Would you have prevented them?" "I''ve thought about it. I think we could have reached an agreement to allow Jedi access to Eboracum, like how SELCORE is allowed observers. I could have appointed both of them." "It was not being denied access that unsettled Jedi Luxum and Jedi Ken so. Perhaps, by being present in an official role, they might have had a worse reaction. Perhaps Jedi Luxum would have acted to stop what she saw as atrocity. Perhaps she may have died." "Perhaps, perhaps¡­" Luke murmured. "Master Yoda always warned about the future and the dangers of trying to prevent events from coming to pass. You''re right. If I had seen this coming, and tried to stop them¡­Ken and Luxum would have found a way around me. And it could have been worse." Ikrit nodded, pleased the young Master followed his meaning. "You have taught your Jedi to act. Is it any wonder that they do? Now they have acted, you may act too." A small smirk brightened Skywalker''s face. He cocked his head at Ikrit. "What would the old Order have acted to do?" "Training, perhaps, under their last Master. Or seclusion and reflection. I can think of many ways of correction." Ikrit rose to all four feet and stretched, shaking out his hind legs. His tail twitched and fluffed. "Trust in the Force, as you ever have. It has not guided you wrong yet." Young Master Skywalker turned back to the jungle, crossing his arms to grip opposite elbows, leaning on the low wall. He felt calmer, more sure, less unbalanced than before. Ikrit judged it a job well done. He needn''t teach or lead, he needn''t try to revive the old Order. All he needed to be was word of advice, now and then. Someone to speak to. A peer. He could be a peer. He could, in fact, be honored to be a peer of Master Skywalker. Yet, though he was pleased to have relieved at least some of the young Master''s concerns, there was one final subject to broach. One he hesitated to, but one for which the door had been opened already in this conversation. Skywalker''s mention of the future, of Master Yoda''s warnings. "There is¡­something else." Skywalker raised a brow, letting Ikrit continue. "I have meditated on the past, and the future. I am no seer, as you know, but the Force sometimes gives hints. In the past, I could see murmurs. Textures, if not meaning." Skywalker''s raised brow sunk, dragging the other with it into a frown. He felt the young human''s growing unease. "Have you done similar?" Skywalker''s reply was a long time coming, but Ikrit gave him the space to find it. "I''ve¡­seen futures. Vagues shapes of some, anyway. I - I almost don''t want to talk about them. Any words cause ripples." Ikrit understood, but some words had to be said, regardless. "I have seen shapes myself. They told me that when this war ends, it will not be by your hand." "No," Luke affirmed. "It won''t." "But the futures have been silent," Ikrit continued. "The Force is silent to me now. It whispers nothing at all." Skywalker swallowed. His jaw muscles bunched, relaxed. "The same," he agreed. "For how long, young Skywalker?" Ikrit knew the answer. He had to hear it anyway. "A month or so." The two Masters were quiet, letting them both process. A few weeks indeed. Perhaps Skywalker''s vague timeframe was true, that he had not tried to ply the future in some time, so he couldn''t be sure. Ikrit could. He spent most days in meditation, and frequently cast his mind to the shape of things to come. It was not ''a month or so.'' It was when the Jedi and the Exiles fought on Obroa-skai. Ikrit knew little of the events there, merely that it had happened. He would ask Skywalker and young Anakin later. For now, he had his confirmation. Ikrit chirruped, a Kushiban throat-clear, startling the other Master. "Enough of gloom! Where is my student? You have been taking up all his time and I have a mind to take you to task." Though he couldn''t smile, he knew Skywalker felt his mirth. It was enough to shake darker thoughts again. Ikrit let the children and family have their time to reconnect in this moment of cherished peace. He was only an old Master, after all, and it was to the younglings that the future belonged. Let them have their fun and their reunions and reforge their bonds. Ikrit had long experience in waiting for the right time. Contingence Chapter II II: Learning
The ascension grotto claimed by Qesud Qesh nestled deep in the darkest guts of Blood Spat in Wrath. It smelt of brine and iodine, burnt amniotic fluid and strange incense. Its walls were craggy, bare coral, unadorned, covered over here and there by astringent herbs and mosses, medicinal all, spreading in strange webbing to and fro. Adolescent and feral blazebugs made nests in the vaulted ceiling, flickering and shimmering like constellations as they wove hives of spit and feces. Dark fluid lapped in an encircling trench, a stride wide and following the uneven shape of the room. Little things left swirls in the thick, syrupy suspension, suggesting scaled backs and delicate frond-feeders when they broke the surface. Malik Carr reclined on a bare slab, indented just enough to suggest placement of limbs and trunk, a slight cup to nestle his head. Naked in the humid air, he was attended by only two - Harrar, his most trusted advisor on the faith and the Master Shaper Qesh herself. Though idly he recognized Qesh''s appealing features - he had never seen a woman with such richly hued sacs beneath her eyes, joining into blackened tattooing and burns that ringed her lambent and slightly overlarge eyes - she was exactly as her sacred caste demanded in this most sacred of duties. Proper, focused, humble before Yun-Ne''Shel. She took in his body with those overlarge eyes, peering over him in the twilight of the grotto and Malik Carr lay comfortably beneath her scrutiny. His body was one to be proud of, even with the markings the infidels had inflicted. He had feared censure, condemnation, after Obroa-skai. He feared the fate of Commander Tla, banished from the glory of the front to the drudgery of rear-guard actions in conquered space. Worse - he feared the Gods themselves would reject him. He imagined illusory tremors and fevers as his blessed implants failed, as his scars reopened and bled pus. He feared he would be Shamed. Instead, Supreme Commander Choka gifted him Blood Spat in Wrath and commended him on his initiative. The jeedai were a nuisance none of the servants of Yun-Yammka had solved and the Supreme Commander did not fault Carr for failing where all others had as well. The jeedai were a puzzle to unwork and it would not be done idly nor instantly. Instead, Choka, with some degree of amusement, revealed that in allowing the jeedai and their allies access to the databanks of the world and by engaging the ''Aistarteez'' in combat, Carr and had already gained more knowledge of this mysterious band than all the infiltrators of Nom Anor''s vaunted efforts. Villip recollections, chazrach memory-seeds, all were delivered with the utmost honor to the Supreme Commander so that more cunning minds than Carr''s could be bent to the task of unraveling the ''Aystarteez''. Scraps of dried, clotted blood and bits of meat teased from the jaws of amphistaves had Shapers thirsty for more, already dazzled by scraps of degenerated secrets in the partially revivified samples. In return, in recognition for his actions in securing his sector of the front, for the slaying of a jeedai and aistarteez, for proving himself, Carr found himself elevated. A Grand Cruiser of his own to bear his flag. Reinforcements, fresh from the shipwombs of Sernpidal. Taskings to continue his advance under his own authority and initiative. And now - implantation. His lower left arm itched and muscles spasmed. The disobedience of his body infuriated him, made all the worse that the muscles did not exist. Qesh debrided the stump just below his elbow, reopening flesh and peeling back scar tissue with nail-blades so sharp he felt nothing at all. His fingers ached. His palm tingled. They did not exist. They had not, since the cursed aistarteez had martyred himself and taken dozens of Carr''s finest warriors and mindbent with him. His burns had healed well, knotting and gnarling his chest from groin to pectoral, making half his torso rugose and webbed, an attractive and distinguishing pattern. It spoke to the favor the Gods showed him, to grace him survival when others died. His loyal nol basal served well, though it exhausted itself before the fury of the infidel bomb even as it devoured much of the ferocious heat and diverted hardened air around Carr. Enough to safeguard his life, but not spare his flesh. When he trained and recovered his form, the ache of taut flesh pulling across his chest enervated his every move. Qesh offered him venoms that would loosen his scars, but he eschewed them all. He was not impeded by the pain; it made him stronger. Surer. She came on recommendation from one of the Warmaster''s own favored. Mezhan Kwaad, a Master among Master Shapers, spoke highly of Qesh''s alacrity and cunning in fleshworks. Carr would gladly kawt''tou before the Warmaster''s wisdom and accepted the Shaper without question, welcoming her personally to his new command and offering her the sweetest prizes of his conquests. It always paid great returns to reward allies richly, with both hands. He bled freely as Qesh teased nerve bundles free, clipping away flesh with clicks of her crustacean fingers. Still, there was little pain, only jolts and electric discomfort as the Shaper unthreaded nearly invisible, pale white nerve tendrils from the meat of his amputated limb. She had not questioned his request for a replacement, only asking the most essential of questions: time of death, length of preservation. It was to Harrar that Carr went to beg the Gods for their favor. Qesh did not say it, but there were mutters from her assistants. To graft the great fang of a yammosk was unprecedented. Harrar admitted no great knowledge of the Shaping arts and ways, but he spoke from his own contacts and said that it may yet strain the holy protocols. Yet, Qesh made no protest, no argument, leaving Carr to assume that from her elevation into the greater mysteries, she would know best if the ancient protocols allowed such a shaping. She delved in the secrets of the higher Cortices, where without question the blessed Yun-ne''Shel sequestered many wonders. The war-coordinator had been his ally. Between a Commander and a Yammosk there is an understanding, a personal connection. Malik Carr knew the creature''s thoughts as well as his own, knew its urges and emotions. He had felt its quaking terror in the final moments of its life, before the cursed jeedai slew it without a mark. He wished to honor his martyred friend in the only way he knew how, as a warrior. From the yammosk''s own corpse Carr clove out its fang by his own hand, using sanctified coufee alone. The ritual knife scored muscle and flesh with ease while Carr prayed for his friend, that the Slayer would take his devoted child and elevate him most high. Qesh bore the tooth with reverence from where it sat aside, bathed in sacred unguents and preserving oils. It was long and bone-pale, stained just slightly yellow, serrations visible only at close regard. Bladelike, it once was anchored in the wise mouth of his yammosk by a ring of dextrous muscle, which now trailed from the root of the fang as bloodless ribbons, braided and interwoven and ready. She placed it beside him and he saw it reach to his knee. A mighty, ferocious tool; a great ascension. Qesh did not speak as she worked. Harrar chanted quietly, gently swinging a thurible from side to side, which gently burped eye-watering smoke most pleasing to the palettes of the Gods. The old priest''s fingers were stained red and black with blood and ichor, remnants of the anointing marks left on Malik Carr''s body at forehead, lip, abdomen, bicep and feet. Qesh wove the flesh of the yammosk to the flesh of Malik Carr and he let his eyes slide shut, focusing on the feeling of fingers probing beneath his skin, digging through muscle, sculpting bone. It was a delicious, cleansing sort of agony and he twitched not once. Harrar looked on in pride, incised lips never ceasing to spill invocations. Qesh worked and Carr dreamt of what heights he would climb to. The Bloody Slayer would see only his bravery and how he honored the flesh of his God in this moment. And if he did not - Carr had a thousand slaves set aside, purified by sound and oil, who would die by amphistaff before the night fell, regardless. The Slayer would have Carr''s entreaty and would sup well on it.
The Yuuzhan Vong ships fell from hyperspace like a sideways hail. Like meteors, the rocky warships shuddered to a halt with a flicker of psuedomotion, staying still for just a moment, as if they had always been there, a fixture in the firmament. Then they came to life, flinging coralskippers from launching arms and erupting along their lateral sections entire firefly clouds of magma missiles. One miid ro''ik - a cruiser equivalent, nearly equal in tonnage to the fearsome Star Destroyer, alone with escorts of frigate-analogs, gunship-analogs and several ''battlecruiser'' analogs. Smaller than a miid ro''ik, but without coralskippers and with fiercer broadsides. Answering them was an old Victory Star Destroyer whimsically named ''Pure Pazaak'' and a veritably ancient Venator cruiser, held together more by rust and hope than anything else. V-wings and E-wings dumped into space from a small space station, whose half-dozen turbolasers powered up in a vain hope to assist the local defense force fleet. "Alright Rogues, they took the bait," Colonel Gavin Darklighter said, voice thin and modulated across Jaina Solo''s comm. The thrill had faded after too many midnight scrambles and too much death, too little sleep, but a little part of Jaina still glimmered with pride when ''Rogues'' also meant her. Dutifully, she clicked affirmative along with the rest of the squadron. "Bola will lead us in, prepare for hyperspace in thirty." She stole a glance to her left, at the spread of still-strange starfighters hanging in the void alongside the classic lines of X-Wings, A-Wings, B-Wings and even Y-Wings. Months hadn''t taken the unique edge off of Chiss Clawcraft, the way they looked just familiar enough to be startling, with their Sienar cockpits, but alien enough to be dissonant with their peculiar curving ''claw'' wings that clutched at the spherical cockpit. They were a menace either way, familiar or alien, as had been proven over and over again. Though all the clawcraft were painted the same dull, blue-grey finish, Jaina knew exactly in which starfighter one particular pilot waited with the same baited breath as she. He''d never admit it of course, always as outwardly cool as the homeworld he came from, but she''d felt the cracks in his facade when they clashed in the sims and when he''d nail an especially canny ''skip. Jagged Fel pretended to be as severe as Hoth and twice as grim, but Jaina knew better. No one could fly like that and not run a little hot. "Ten seconds," Darklighter called and Jaina tensed a finger over her hyperdrive switch. "Hey, Colonel," she called over the comm, "Bet I''ll bag more skips than you." All Colonel Fel replied with was a single comm click, but that alone spoke wonders. "Settle down, Sticks," Colonel Darklighter admonished, but without any real force behind his words. In the Rogues, if you could hack it, you could hack it, and Darklighter kept a light but guiding hand on them all. "Three. Two. One-" She flipped the lever and the starfield around had just enough time to elongate - and snap back into pinpoints as brand new stars bloomed all around her. Stars, comets, and all of them were warships spitting plasma and magma and a whole lot of turbolasers. "Break by flights, clean up the skips so our friends can make their run." Ahead of Jaina, Major Varth''s X-Wing rolled and dove out of formation, dragging along Varth''s wingman in her wake as Jaina hauled on her yoke and kept pace. The furball was evolving into a full on gorax as the New Republic reinforcements dove into the thick of it, Rogue Squadron leading as usual. Bola, slim shape marred by four enormous gravity well generators, hung back, the Interdictor cruiser screened by Champion, a Bothan Assault Cruiser and a squadron of the new Ranger gunships. It had one duty, and that was keep the vong in play and unable to run. Privately, she thought the idea of Yuuzhan Vong willingly retreating to be laughable. Jaina''s board lit with contacts, swaths and swaths of red. Target rich environment, she didn''t have to get picky. That also went the same way for the vong. Coralskippers burst out of the free-for-all, plasma spitting, and without thinking, Jaina split left, Rogue Twelve sticking to her like slime on a Hutt, Major Varth and Rogue Ten cutting right. Ferocious green lasers spat in almost continuous lines and one-two went Colonel Fel and Major Nuruodo, plasma splashing over their clawcraft''s shields. Like a pair of scissors, the pairs of Rogues cut back in. Jaina settled her crosshair over a coralskipper, the lumpen, ugly starfighter already visibly slowing as pin-point black holes bloomed to suck up the endless hail of low-powered lasers spit out by the Chiss craft. One squeeze of the trigger and a quartet of blood-red laser blasts pinned the coralskipper, blasting through hastily raised and much weaker voids. The rocky ship came apart in a spray of gravel, glowing hot. That was the real trick - tease the dovin basals with low-powered but numerous shots until they overextended themselves, then punch a full powered blast through. "Tickle the teeth, then ram a fist down their throat", or so the saying went. Now a secondary trigger sat beneath the primary on all starfighters, ready to spit out impressive but impotent sprays of lasers. "Eleven, split left!" Her pulse spiked even as she hauled her X-Wing to the side, reacting before Rogue Seven finished speaking. Plasma wicked past, bright and orange, lighting up the inside of her cockpit and hissing at the edges of her shield. She felt, more than saw, the ''skip slice past, an A-Wing hot on its tail and then it was out of sight, out of mind. Knowing what to focus on, what to discard - she''d seen the ''Mission Failed'' screen too many times in the sims before that lesson truly sunk in. Whoever was after that scarhead, it was their deal. Right now, she had another ''skip dead ahead, harrying a flight of Y-Wings trying to line up a torpedo run and he had no idea she saw him. "Sparky, shields at thirteen meters." Her astromech woo''d and just in time - from nose to tail the starfighter trembled, but though the screen flicked and refreshed with interference - Jaina grinned at the digits reading 100. "Try and suck my shields again, I dare you¡­" she muttered. The coralskipper seemed to stutter, dovin basals left surprised. We keep matching their tactics, she thought, spraying splinters of crimson light that bracketed the rocky starfighter. Can''t grab our shields if the inertial dampener covers them, but they just keep coming anyway! She sent a full powered burst, gritting her teeth as the bolts bent, yanked off course by a sudden, full-power void. Sithspawn, they''re learning too. One bolt bent and arced away, passing aft of the ''skip. One bolt lanced right into the void and vanished, as eerie after months as it was the first time. The other two bolts were yanked down and right into the coralskipper''s cockpit, igniting everything inside in a greasy flash of light. Of course, they can''t expect that. She''d aimed high and the void hauled her shots right where she wanted them. That''s two, Colonel. Bursting out the other side of the starfighter ball, Jaina chanced a glance around at the capital ship clash. Champion was holding its own, screened from coralskippers and magma missiles by the Ranger gunships. Bola still had her gravity well online, trapping the Yuuzhan Vong against the nearby moon. The original Vicstar and Venator were holed and bleeding atmosphere, but still in the fight. With Ralroost wading in as well, the vong were outnumbered - meaning it was as close to an even fight as they''d had in a while. Two Bothan Assault Cruisers to match one single miid ro''ik. An awful calculus, but Ithor had proven that the stutterfire that worked so well for starfighters failed utterly against the big basals of the vong capital ships. All that worked was beating them down in ugly, desperate brawls. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the last ship in - a single Nebulon-B, hanging back, well out of the fight. Alright Anakin, she thought, yawing hard and chasing after another ''skip, listening to chatter on comms. Let''s see what those ''Imperials'' are about.
He ran his gauntlet over the smooth oceanic blue finish of his chestplate one more time. Ceramite on ceramite rasped a little, but the gloss finish let his digits glide easily. He tapped his fingers in a rapid tattoo, clacking loudly in the confined space and beside him Solidian cocked his helmet. Zalthis flushed behind his own helmet, squeezing his hand to a fist about his restraint harness. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. It was hard not to revel in the feeling. His joints still felt hot and a little tender and the half-remembered feeling of tight skin after a sunburn spread across his chest. Underneath the dense mass of his Mark IV plate, beneath the thick, reactive bodysuit that clad him head to toe, he kept picturing the look he saw in the mirror. His chest, broad, muscled, and off-color. Tinted a faint bluish-black, like a deep bruise, from groin to collarbone. The angry red lines that traced implantation incisions. His Black Carapace, just like the one Solidian now bore with pride. The very act of moving his hand was a reminder - only weeks ago, he could never wear full Astartes plate, not without the intricate workings of the carapace to interface. Now he looked as Sergeant Ascratus did, as invincible and impervious as the ideals of the Imperium. As inviolate as adamantium. An Astartes. An Ultramarine. Nodding to Sol, who inclined his own head in return, Zalthis looked up and down the darkened hold of the Stormbird. Sergeant Optarch was locked in closest to the aft hatch, across from one Magos Thul Hybos, whose stooped and spindly form was inelegantly stuffed into an Astartes-scaled seat. Along the left side of the Stormbird, ranged down from the Magos, were twelve unblinking, unmoving, unnerving skitarii, feet mag-clamped to the deck as they managed to admirably fill out the transhuman-scaled seating. Short-barreled radium shotguns kept Zalthis'' helmet ticking ominously in warning, red idents and alerts constantly highlighting the softly glowing weapons. Solidian was locked in closest to the Sergeant, then Zalthis, then Brothers Tercinax and Varian. Then - and what settled the strangest for Zalthis - were Qario, Lyros, Altraedar, Tolon and Petran. Neophytes. His brothers, his brothers, who only a single month ago had been his equal. Now he looked at them in their half-plate, the void-sealed bodysuits with armorweave fatigues overtop and their full-mask breather helms and felt strange that he ever wore such a thing. There was a gulf now, between them. He felt it immediately after Obroa-skai. Their training cadre welcomed them back but the mood was different. Qario joked less and looked more in awe. Isidiran asked them questions that sounded more like the ones Zalthis remembered him once asking Sergeant Ascratus. Then, when Lieutenant Thiel himself came to inform them they had earned their Carapace - a shock to Zalthis and Solidian both, as it had to be months - years! - too soon - the gulf stretched into a chasm. The cadre had cheered them both as they left, but Zalthis felt he was leaving a part of himself behind, a strange melancholic bent when he should have been full of pride. "You''ll be part of my Company," the Lieutenant informed them as he led them to the apothecarion, crested helmet tucked beneath one arm. "The Primarch has commanded me to gather those I see particular potential in. That''s you. Your orders will be with Sergeant Optarch, brothers, whose squad is your new assignment." It was already humbling enough for the Red-Marked himself to escort them to their ascension - scarcely more honored could Zalthis have been, save if Master Gage had, or, Throne forbid, the Primarch - but his words shook Zalthis to his core. To be hand-selected by the Hero of the Halls. The man who had the ear of the Primarch, whose fortune turned from censure to laurels in one day of stunning, incomparable bravery and true fortitude. Zalthis shook himself from his memory, as clear now as it was in the moment, forever preserved by the miracle of his making, looking again at the neophytes, his once-brothers. Sergeant Ascratus trained them all well. They would rise to the occasion and transcend it. And if they needed aid - that was what he was here for. Sol too. They''d not leave their brothers behind. This galaxy needed every Astartes.
Ralroost nosed alongside the embattled miid ro''ik cruiser, lashing out with ion cannons and turbolasers. Plasma splashed over the Assault Cruiser''s shields but Jaina was pleased to see them holding. "Rogues, we''re going to be generous and let the Tiervan Aces and the locals clean up the rest of the ''skips. Admiral Kre''fey wants us defanging that cruiser." "Listen here, kid, you can admit the Aces have to pick up your slack ''cause you need a break." Jaina snorted, vectoring in behind Major Varth again, glancing to the slightly-singed form of Rogue Twelve tucking in beside her. Her hair was lank and soaked with sweat, strands pulled free from her tight bun to stick across her forehead, irritating behind her sealed visor. Her legs burned from pulling g''s the inertial dampener just couldn''t quite keep up with, fighting her own body weight to work the etheretic rudder in that perfect, endless dance of a starfighter duel. Salt-sweat flavored her lips as she wet them and Jaina lived for this. Six ''skips knocked down and she still had all but one proton torpedo. Sparky, behind her, tootled a happy note as Colonel Darklighter led them closer to the blitzing battle between Ralroost and the vong flagship. Champ had pulled away from Bola, the vulnerable Interdictor quite out of danger with the vong cruiser-analog engaged and the scarhead''s escorting squadron being picked apart. Frigate-analogs looked like asteroid fields where they''d been shattered by the Vicstar''s old but brutally powerful concussion missile swarms. That lingering Nebulon-B crept closer, now just out of the main battle and a new contact on sensors appeared. It flagged gold compared to the green icons of her wingmates and the dwindling red dots of the vong. A little tag appeared, appended: Stormbird 1098. She shook her head at the audacity of the request. Jaina tried to imagine what the scene had looked like when Kre''fey met with the Exiles - Imperials, they called themselves, but there already were Imperials - and announced their intentions. Oh yes, let''s board a yuuzhan vong capital ship in the middle of a pitched battle. It sounded like something insane Kyp might try and her Uncle would frown at. Her job, at least, was much simpler. "Rogues, you have your priority targets. ''Roost is keeping them occupied, so we should be clear to pull teeth. Watch your sixes, there''s still ''skips, and this is a capship. If you get singed, get out. Don''t risk it." A target package downloaded rapidly, Sparky whistling as he unpacked it and the wireframe of the miid ro''ik lit with markers for expected dovin basal pits and known plasma projectors. Jaina still had seven proton torpedoes and the Exiles had been ambivalent about if they boarded a ship with atmosphere¡­or none at all. Checking again for any ''skips running to defense, she heard Colonel Darklighter give the clear for weapons free. Vong ships like this had spindly, coral-like fans that grew out of their midline, where coralskippers nested like parasites. It seemed fitting to hit those first, so Jaina slid her reticle over the nearest, coasting toward the capital ship at a leisurely pace for a starfighter, until the torpedo lock toned and flicked to red. One, two proton torpedoes leapt out, burning hard, joining the sudden spears of others launched from Rogues coming in from all angles. Holding down the secondary trigger, Jaina hosed the ship with low-power fire, half-hearted dovin basals popping up here and there and evaporating even under the reduced bolts. They were nearly exhausted, sucking up the punishment Ralroost dumped in buckets on the ship''s port side and both her torpedoes struck home. Almost elegantly, a hundred meters of spindly yorick coral arms splintered and span away. Nowhere to come home to, she gloated, looking for another target. "Varth, what''s left of the ''skips have reformed and are making a run on Pure Pazaak. The Vicstar''s shields are down and the Aces need a hand. We''ll wrap this here. Take your flight over there." "Yessir," Alinn Varth replied and Jaina sighed, letting her targeting lock fade out, flipping away from the embattled vong cruiser. Blue-grey metal loomed up next to her and she started, craning her neck to see the slight silhouette of a TIE pilot''s helmet through the thick, anodized tansparisteel of the clawcraft''s cockpit. "Spike''s with you, Major." It was the first time Colonel Fel spoke the entire battle and Jaina scowled at how conversational he sounded. "Thanks, Colonel. Ten, Eleven, Twelve, let''s go." The last thing Jaina saw before following her flight commander toward the besieged Pure Pazaak was the little icon for Stormbird 1098 starting to creep forward.
A drop-pod insertion, a teleportation extraction and now a boarding action. Solidian had joked that in no time at all, they had managed to run the gauntlet of danger only Astartes could measure up to. His brother had laughed about it, making it a joke, but Zalthis mused over it. Just a short time ago they had been on quiet Calth. Now they were battle-brothers in truth, doing things that veterans twice their age still had not. How quickly fortune changes. The Stormbird rumbled as its retrojets fired and a solid thud reverberated through the reinforced adamantium frame, transmitted by clawed landing gear. Sergeant Optarch pounded a fist against the aft ramp, vibrations transmitted easily through the transport where the sound could not in the airless hold. His words came through the vox, clear and only slightly static-laced. Zalthis felt a moment of odd vertigo to hear Optarch''s lighter tone and refined accent, compared to Ascratus'' rougher brogue and gravelly inflection. He saw Sol rest his palm against the butt of the bolt pistol at his hip, unassuming and plain, but for the small etched marking of the name ''Ascratus'' on the grip. The aft ramp winched downward, leaking in flashed of actinic light and revealing a craggy, stony field stretching away to a disturbingly close-by horizon. Two skitarii bounded out first, hauling a massive melta charge between them and the restraints snapped up and away. Sergeant Optarch pounded down the ramp after them, reaction thrusters on his void-harness hissing to keep him in contact with the warship''s hull. Zalthis shared one last look with Sol, unreadable behind the flat, stern mask of a Maximus helm, before they followed their sergeant into the void.
The problem with vong wasn''t that they didn''t know when they were beaten, it was that they did. Jaina sensed it - not through the Force, but from skills honed across the Mid Rim - when something changed. The last of the swarm of ''skips had reformed, harrying the stricken Victory Star Destroyer ''Pure Pazaak'', peppering its unshielded hull with plasma until it looked as pockmarked and cratered as Utapau. The Aces, along with Jag''s flight of Clawcraft and the other Rogues of Major Varth''s flight chased them, almost uncontested. The scarhead pilots were completely fixated on getting the kill on the foundering Star Destroyer. It felt almost unfair as she sent ''skip after ''skip flaming out, almost doubling her full total in the battle, wondering idly how many Jag had claimed - when the shift came. She was just settling in behind another skip, repeating the process of withering its voids with splinterfire when suddenly the weak bolts started chipping little sprays of coral from the aft of the starfighter. It surprised Jaina enough that she actually eased off the trigger. At first she thought its dovin basals had somehow been overwhelmed, until the ''skip rocketed away at almost double its speed. Straight at Pure Pazaak. Swearing something her father had once said in a language she''d never heard of and that he refused to translate, Jaina slammed her throttle forward, firing early, full-charge bolts bracketing the ''skip. "Major, they''re going suicidal!" "I see it Sticks, I see it-" Voices overlapped, all shouting, all warning, including cries for support from Pure Pazaak as at once, the remaining coralskippers yanked themselves onto crash courses with the Vicstar. Jaina''s second shot blasted the skip into thirds but Pure Pazaak was growing fast - too fast. With senses only a Jedi could claim, she actually saw a ''skip plow into the Star Destroyer''s port side, so fast that the durasteel seemed to ripple. An entire turbolaser turret peeled away. Others came in like sudden darts, Republic starfighters scrambling to react and chase after them. Another careened into the rear of the ship''s bridge, like a punch to the back of the head and fire burst from the fore of the bridge tower, voices suddenly cutting off mid-sentence on comms. "Sithspawn, break, break, everyone break-" She heard Major Varth, but at her angle and speed, there was no time to turn away. Another coralskipper, time seeming to slow and stretch out like rubber, punched through the nose of the Vicstar, shredding entire sheaves of armor off. "Eleven!" Hutt slime, she thought. There was no other way about it. The only way out was through. Wincing, Jaina pushed her throttle to the maximum, Sparky screaming behind her. More coralskippers came in with her, like perverse escorts. Pure Pazaak whipped past, just below her. A little further, a little further- Something touched off behind her. She felt it like hair bristling on the back of her neck, moments before an overwhelming sense of DANGER screamed to her through the Force. Jaina sank into the Force for the first real time in the skirmish. Jacen''s sense felt startled, then worried, then alarmed. From Anakin, she felt the same shock, swiftly tamped down by sudden and surprising steel. More than she''d expected from her little brother. A little help, guys¡­ Her world swelled and she felt Pure Pazaak die. Some thirty-seven concussion missiles, capital ship killers all, still waited in the Vicstar''s magazines. The Star Destroyer was behind her, dwindling away, but the radiation flash as every single missile went up and hard dumped the hypermatter reactor made the world feel like an x-ray went off in her head. There were moments left. Jaina hauled on the yoke, nosing down, bringing the belly of her X-Wing to face the detonation, imposing as much armor and hull between her and the incandescent globe that had been two thousand lives just in time for it -
On Coruscant, Jacen sat bolt upright. Leia jumped, caught off guard, fork clattering to her plate. The apartment was otherwise empty, the two sharing a very rare dinner together. SELCORE matters on Duro had seen Leia return to the capital to beg, borrow or steal more supplies and make some private inquiries about Cor-Duro. "Jaina!" he gasped as his mother''s face went white. Grabbing the edge of the table, she managed to ask the only words that mattered: "Is she alive?" Jacen winced, flinching, rubbing at his eyes and considered a moment. "Yeah," he said, taking a deep breath. "But she''s really, really mad."
It was a little different looking at a Clawcraft like this. She could make out Jag''s silhouette in the cockpit, barely ten meters from her. And upside down. He did that on purpose. Her X-wing was mostly atoms and twisted, molten wreckage spreading across several kilometers of local space. The last intact piece was strapped to her - the ejection seat. Sorry, Sparky. "Keep talking, Lieutenant," he encouraged. "I am talking," she muttered, fisting her hands in her flightsuit hard enough her knuckles ached. "And keep looking at me," he continued. That part was the easiest, because looking at the looming Clawcraft meant she wasn''t looking at her leg, or the really, really, really large piece of durasteel in it. Not looking there at all. It didn''t even hurt, but then, that was the Force at work. All her nerves from the hip on down she deadened, leaving her leg to feel like a lump of meat stabled to her. Awful, unsettling, but with how deep that - her stomach churned and Jaina squeezed her eyes shut. "Rescue is coming. You know, Lieutenant Solo, Major Nuruodo tells me that I downed thirteen ''skips today. Did you?" Even though she didn''t grace him with an answer, she just knew the bastard could tell from her Shyriiwook profanity that the answer was no, no she had not. Contingence Chapter III III: Potential
The efficiency of the Mechanicum always took the breath away, as Magos Hybos secured a thin, rubberized umbilical around the cherry-red breach in the xenos vessel in moments. His skitarii assisted wordlessly, watched over by Astartes standing crisply at the ready. The melta charge had revealed what was likely an interstitial space, criss-crossed by thick support frames like the marrow of a bone, empty of any foes. Everything was too bright and too stark, harsh chiaroscuro in the bald, unfiltered light of the local primary. Zalthis kept flicking his eyes toward long, ink-dark shadows cast by roughened bands of obsidian coral humped up on the hull, imagining motion and shapes cohering into snarling vong warriors. Ralroost was close, the Republican battlecruiser the size of Zalthis'' thumb at arm''s distance, bright and reflective, pulsing out violent blue hyphens with precision, snapping ion blasts at the nose and tail of the miid ro''ik, leaving electrostatic discharge to crackle and snarl across the living vessel. He remembered the ''blasters'' they were made to use, set to stun, and imagined the battlecruiser as one far outsized, stunning the living warship again and again with ionic punishment. Zalthis imagined he could feel spasmodic trembles of muscle beneath his heavy tread, lip curling at the thought of an entire living vessel. He, Solidian, Tercinax and Varian anchored the points of the compass around the working Magos, the five neophytes a step back and behind. There was little chance of any counter-boarding action, but the vong xenoform was still mostly unknown. Better to act in anticipation, than be caught unawares. Still near the Stormbird, Sergeant Optarch''s stood with helmet canted to the side and he was silent, though his vox-link burned an active rune before Zalthis'' eyes. Informing the Republicans of their breach, no doubt. ''Secured,'' Hybos burred. ''Connection: nominal.'' Optarch''s helm rose and his red lenses looked to the Magos for a moment. ''Then we may begin.'' The umbilical ran from the nearby dropship, which locked to the rocky surface of the warship by magnetic claws, both digging into the coarse coral like talons and binding to the high ferric content of the ablative hull armor. A collapsible hatch frame allowed access to the umbilical and the skitarii filed through first, then the neophytes, dropping down into the darkened interior one at a time. Optarch was last, clapping Zalthis'' pauldron to urge him in first. Inside the vong warship the glare of the local star illuminated only a scrap of coral, soon cut off when Sergeant Optarch sealed the umbilical behind them, plunging the chamber into total blackness. Helmet lights clicked on, piercing the stygian gloom with harsh white light and crawling shadows. Skitarii lit harsh sodium lamps, dangling at their belts. ''Tercinax, breach. Zalthis, Solidian, support. The rest - breaching formation. Magos, if you would remain behind us.'' ''Optimal,'' Hybos agreed. Together they clambered over joists and around pillared growths of knobbled bone until they reached where the floor of the chamber sloped up into a rounded wall - more of a convergence of ceiling and floor. Auspex clicked and pinged, sketching hazy estimations of nearby chambers, appearing as ghostly green voids superimposed onto Zalthis'' sight. He could summon and dismiss them with a blink, he could refine them by temperature gradient, he could send active scry-pulses in whichever direction he wished. Compared to his old scout helm, with its limited datalinks that relied on handheld auspex, connections to nearby Astartes plate or simple sonagraphic detectors, Zalthis again wondered how he ever managed with such limitations. All the better to train with, he supposed, to force initiates to rely on their own cunning and assessments and not that handed to them. Shrewd, and no doubt the design of the Primarch. Tercinax unhooked a melta charge from his belt, one of three, placing it against the chamber wall. ''Shields,'' Optarch ordered. Tercinax rejoined the rest and five ceramite and plasteel shields came together in an impregnable phalanx. Bolt pistols aimed over pauldrons. Radium rifles were leveled, eerie faerie-light flickering in the gloom. ''Breach,'' Tercinax said. There was no noise, only thunder through Zalthis'' boots and then the sudden roar of atmosphere that rushed in, repressuring the chamber. No bellowed challenges, no storm of hurled and buzzing bugs. Just another outer chamber, filled with the same cross-bracing spars of bone and rock. ''Forward,'' the Sergeant intoned and ten sets of Ultramar-forged ceramite boots thudded against onyx coral.
They breached two more of the outer chambers before the first vong was sighted. Varian opined the chambers were likely a sort of dampening construction, to absorb shock against the hull and to act as compressive zones before the more delicate interior vitals were threatened. A sound, if pointless theoretical, though it explained the lack of contact. Optarch chose to breach through the floor, punching down into what auspex hinted was a narrow hallway, and the first vong seen was a smear of ash on the wall. Tercinax grunted, gesturing at the greasy leftovers with the edge of his shield. ''Does that count?'' he asked. ''Barely,'' Varian denied. ''You''ll have to try harder to match our little brothers here.'' The larger Astartes grunted and Zalthis grinned, glad for his helmet to hide his pride. Their little brothers. Little brothers who had fought this new xenoform and claimed a tally that had their older brothers envious. Sol bumped his pauldron against Zalthis'', no doubt having the same thought. Shields up, they advanced down the narrow corridor, neophytes and skitarii behind. The vong vessel was rather unlike anything Zalthis had experienced before. Though, as a neophyte, he had only trained on Parmenio and accompanied his Sergeant on short rangings within the bounds of Ultramar, hypnoconditioning gave him memories he''d never formed and experiences he''d never had. In some ways, he saw hints of ork roks in the craggy ceilings, made of exposed coral rough and sharp enough to cut flesh. The way no passage was truly straight, always wending a little, meandering left and right in unnervingly organic ways. The brutal simplicity of the ork rok ruined the comparison, as Zalthis'' boots stomped on threadbare yet surprisingly intricate and colorful rugs underfoot. Twitching banners marked with unknown symbols dangled from walls that themselves bore pigment, even if it was faded and scratched. Clusters of glowing crystals and luminescent fungi shed sufficient light that even these corridors, close to the outer hull and clearly aged, were no dark and shadowed warren. A few small chambers they passed, peering inside, had nest-like corners that likely were some form of bedding, alongside clam-like shells embedded in the walls. Neophyte Altraedar broke one open with a swift blow of his fist, surprising them all as what seemed to be tunics spilled out. Living storage. Off-puttingly mundane. The ship quaked and trembled, still hammered by ion bolts to keep it stricken and helpless and Zalthis was surprised there was no alarum raised, no sirens, no alerts. Had an Imperial vessel been breached and boarded, armsmen would already be swarming the breach point to buy time with their lives until the enemy was repulsed or the Ultramarines arrived to throw back the interlopers. Was it a byproduct of the living nature of the vessel? Were no alarms necessary, as the vessel felt the pain of intrusion and spoke in unknown ways to the masters of the vessel? That could be a strength - to lull the invader into complacency, thinking themselves undetected, while forces massed carefully to ambush. Yet as the corridor met another, larger one, and still no foes were sighted, Zalthis doubted that theoretical. Multiple viable points for ambush had been passed. Allowing an enemy to penetrate this deeply held no tactical value. The vong had no inkling that the object of this intrusion was plunder, rather than destruction. Had they borne a cyclonic warhead, they could already be back aboard the Stormbird and detonation would be moments away. No, perhaps instead the living nature of the vessel worked against it. Perhaps the outer hull bore no nerves, serving like scutes or a keratinous carapace, leaving the vessel deadened to sensation, and the Yuuzhan Vong had, in their arrogance and lofty imaginings of their own superiority, never considered a foe would be so bold as to dare set foot aboard their warships. Whichever theoretical proved true, Zalthis felt a measure of disappointment as they paused again for Magos Hybos to take scrapings and a few las-cut samples of a fleshy orifice that served as a hatchway. Sol and he had agreed it would be good to face the vong again as full Astartes, to take their measure now that they were no longer neophytes and make practical the theoreticals they had gamed out since Obroa-skai. Sergeant Optarch had even asked their thoughts and their opinions, quizzing them about the nature of the vong and their weaponry. It was why along with their breacher shields, each Astartes, even the neophytes, bore a power sword, a gladius from the stores of Macragge''s Honour. An honour indeed - barely through their ascension and already granted a blade from the vaults of the Primarch''s own flagship. Though the reasoning was sound, as an amphistaff would cleave to ruin any chainblade, just the feel of the wire-wrapped hilt and the ozone-crackle of the active disruptor field saw Zalthis'' hearts beat faster. All five Astartes had them unsheathed now, held low and ready. ''Next chamber,'' Sergeant Optarch gestured toward the next hatch-orifice, sealed tight like puckered lips. He broke from the line, shield still held at the ready, and plunged his crackling gladius into the flexible, opaque flesh. Like the others, as the blade whispered without resistance through tendon and cartilage it sighed open, relaxing as it was ''slain''. Unlike the others, however, a veritable swarm of bugs met the Sergeant as the hatch-orifice gaped open. The Republicans called them thudbugs and razorbugs. Uninspired but accurate, as both Zalthis and Sol could attest to from Obroa-skai. Thudbugs thudded. They were weighty little creatures, large enough to fill the palm of a mortal man''s hand, and before they struck a foe they tucked tight wings to impact with bone-cracking force. They could even be recalled to be thrown again. Razorbugs appeared of the same clade, but where the thudbug had dense and durable chitin, razorbugs'' carapace thinned to a vicious edge all around the insect, sharp enough to slice through armorweave underlayer like the neophytes wore. To a mortal, they could claim limbs and clip bone. Against plasteel and ceramite shields, they made a mess of cracked chitin and oozing ichor, staining the noble Ultima but leaving only cosmetic scratches. Qario, right behind Zalthis, cracked off shots past Zalthis'' head with his boltpistol, sending vong warriors scrambling for cover. The other neophytes added their own bolts to the barrage, then the skitarii opened up with their radium shotguns. The firefight was brief but telling. Magos Hybos chittered to himself, metallic fingers weaving through a dead vong''s spilled viscera while Sergeant Optarch wiped ichor from the lenses of his helm. Not a single injury, even among the less armored and more vulnerable skitarii. Nineteen dead yuuzhan vong warriors and it was all over in less than ten seconds. Overkill, total overkill. Most were in pieces. Just like Obroa-skai. The vong could not contend at range. Against even simple weaponry, they could be stymied. It was in the range of melee that they became truly dangerous, skilled and swift enough to press Jedi and even threaten Astartes, given sufficient numbers. ''Take your fill, Magos,'' Optarch ordered. ''Varien, make sure all those snakes are dead.'' ''Destruction: inefficient,'' the Magos snapped, wrist-deep beneath the ribcage of a vong. Its living armor was shattered open, burst from within by a mass reactive. ''Venom: preserve. Purpose: antidote. Samples: essential.'' Sol looked up, a writhing amphistaff in one fist, the biot wriggling and lashing. He squeezed, once, and it hung limp. ''As ordered, Magos.''
Tgeln Ulk loped past chittering chazrach. One wobbled too close, in danger of impeding his path. His amphistaff lashed out, claiming a hand and the reptoid reeled away, clutching at its spurting stump. His cadre was with him, elbowing and shoving through the press, barking harsh commands that had the little slaves genuflecting and scuttling away. Harsh reports echoed strange in the tight confines of the warship, making it hard to determine from which direction they originated, but the villip at Tgeln''s shoulder led him true. ''Aft-wise, Subaltern. The infidels fight fiercely, the strength of your arms is needed.'' ''I hear and obey, Subcommander.'' That heathen feet trod the gods-blessed halls of Redshriek filled his mouth with venom and he spat to clear his palate. Others in his cadre made their fury known, claiming oaths to the Slayer and wringing hands about amphistaff. Even the living blades writhed with uncommon eagerness, fangs glinting as they yawned. Across his broad chest Tgeln wore a hiving belt, nestled with a dozen tsai hul. He brushed fingers across them, savoring the tug at his fingertips as their razored edges caught. Not now, he thought. Slumber and accept this offering. Other subalterns confirmed - nang hul and tsai hul proved impotent to the dead metal of the infidel boarders. He would not shame these creatures by wasting them. Reverberating bangs grew louder, now intermixed with hissing pops and throaty war-cries. ''We close,'' Tgeln called, his cadre tightening closer. A snap of his wrist saw his amphistaff stiffen and flatten, ready to claim limbs and lives. ''As the pincer of the radank, Eschu and your lance, to the right. My warriors, we occupy and distract. Doro-ik vong pratte!'' No sooner had the words left his fringed lips then Tgeln leapt through a half-closed hatch sphincter, the organ hanging slack and leaking lymph. The infidels were passing through a chazrach slumber grotto. Like a terrestrial cavern it was broad, low ceilinged and expansive. Wending passages opened into the grotto from every direction, giving warriors ample directions to strike in against the embattled infidels. A kill-zone and a coliseum all at once. Tgeln, in moments, saw a warrior fall, gutshot, his insides erupting strangely as his vonduun crab burst. Another warrior stumbled, skin sloughing away from his skull. Chazrach formed little humped piles of corpses here and there, macabre obstacles that Tgeln used to dart this way and that, gaining ground on the encircled infidels. His heart thundered in his chest - he could see them. He could see those that dared to soil Redshriek - their blood would not be enough to purify the vessel. Slaves and sacrifices, yes, those would be needed too, to appease the mighty warship and seek forgiveness for their failure. Glowing red eyes glared from flat-faced helms, light-from-machine and Tgeln''s rancour grew. Machine things, built things, unlife, daring to be here - here! - in the heart of a sanctified miid ro''ik. Then he laid eyes on the other invaders and sense fled him. They had flesh exposed, as best he could see, pale and withered and wasting, so they were not made-things like the red-eyed devils, but - Masks hid faces. Dead metal limbs propelled them. Sutures and wires and - Tgeln''s sanity slipped a little - thinking machines sprouted like tumors. They fired glowing carbines that made the hair on Tgeln''s neck rise and he forgot his promise made moments ago, ripping tsai hul from his bandolier and hurling the bugs, howling meaningless sounds. They had to be destroyed, they had to be purged, the galaxy itself groaned at the existence of these devils- Tsai hul splattered on flat metal shields brought about too quickly, too swiftly, too fast, faster than Tgeln could see and then one of the machine-men, the spindliest and strangest, hunched with whipping tendrils of dead metal - mockery of the yammosk, his teeth rent his own lips and he tasted salt and iron - raised a short-barreled carbine and then Tgeln was no more, just wisps of dust and glowing ash. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
Magos Hybos cocked his head, peering at the volkite serpenta in his third hand. ''Efficiency: high,'' his flat voice confirmed.
The warship became a killing ground. A labyrinth of death. Corridors were long and winding, switch-back and convoluted, as if they followed veins in the rock instead of the designs of thinking beings. Astartes jogged down well-trod ways, shields up, skitarii scuttling along behind. A hatch-orifice: gladius flashed, membrane sagged, krak grenade thrown through. Shrieks of rage, surprise - a flash, bodies thudded to the floor. Sometimes, a neophyte would lean through and finish off the fallen with a bolt or two from their pistol. Chazrach came from apertures in the ceiling, in the rounded join of wall and deck. Varien opined these passages might be some form of ventilation system, which Optarch considered and agreed with. Magos Hybos ordered skitarii to empty a few clips into the next holes the Imperials came across, sowing searingly radioactive coral dust and chips into the system. Now Zalthis'' rad-counter clicked ominously each time they passed one of the vents. Sergeant Optarch led them deeper into the vessel, their track behind them unspooling as a wireframe of green lines in Zalthis'' hololithic visual display, winding all the way back to where the Stormbird waited. There was no goal nor direction in mind - merely the prosecution of death and the collection of the Magos'' most desired prizes. Zalthis struck down a warrior with a clean cut, gladius separating head from body. The warrior''s head, still within his helm, had not yet come to rest on the deck when a skitarii scooped it up, handing it off to the Magos who turned it this way and that. Another skitarii joined the Magos, radium shotgun up and ready. This one bore a frost-rimed case bolted to his back, encrusted with piping and flexible tubing that hissed and gouted plumes of steaming nitrogen. Hybos placed the decapitated head reverently in the case, yet another gruesome trophy tucked away. Sometimes warriors came in ones and twos, sometimes as a squad of ten or more. ''They are not so impressive,'' Varien called, backhanding away a warrior that grabbed for his shield, the creature pirouetting twice before falling boneless, head spun about one hundred and eighty degrees ''Eleven,'' Tercinax muttered, standing over the bloodied body of a vong, then stepped forward to meet a second frothing warrior with the edge of his shield. Void-hardened plasteel met mouth and neatly bisected the creature''s skull. ''Twelve.'' ''Perhaps not, though their frenzy does them disservice.'' Optarch replied. More warriors came from ahead, proving the sergeant''s words true. A dozen, with chazrach trailing, yet instead of acting in unison, they hooted war cries and leapt into motion, becoming a thronging mob more than trained warriors. Neophyte Altraedar took one with a bolt to the shoulder, blowing off its arm and slapping the vong down to the deck. Qario put two cracking shots into the chest of another, the first rupturing living armor and misting blood, the second coring the alien''s body. White-hot hyphens flickered the corridor in eerie green. Where bolts, aimed well, could puncture the vonduun armor of the vong, the radium slugs proved less capable. Instead the smearing green bolts splattered and flattened against vonduun armor, each shot past Zalthis ticking loud alarms within his helm. The effects were swift, and savage. In short order warriors started to stumble, confused, retching tissue-flecked blood that dribbled from beneath helmets to run black and shining down their fronts. Some tore off their helmets, bruising mottling their faces and eyes clouding. Rad-counters clicked loudly from the Astartes warplate. Hybos'' serpenta flared again and again, searing chazrach and vong alike into ashen statues that crumbled apart. Bolts cracked and punctured carcinate armor. Gladii lashed, claimed limbs, heads, clove hearts, brains. The inefficiency of the defender''s response sickened Zalthis. A ship of this size no doubt held thousands, yet they came in fits and starts. On Obroa-skai, the vong warlord Malik Carr had been cunning and careful with doling out assaults. He harried them with diversionary ambushes, he sent in chazrach in hordes to attrit ammunition and weary limbs. Then he would send kill-squads of warriors to attempt to overwhelm and if they did not - they slowed down the infiltrators to allow for new ambushes and assaults to be readied. And on Obroa-skai, the final ambush had nearly succeeded. The warlord learned about his foe and, Zalthis had to admit, seemed to understand their measure. He knew an Astartes was worth a hundred of these vong warriors, so he did not spend them frivolously. He knew that Jedi were superlative foes, but ultimately mortal, so Malik Carr waited to tire them. Whomsoever commanded this warship was a fool, and a wasteful one. If their commander wished to waste the lives of heathen, fane-worshiping xenos, then by all means - let them. Though the tactical inefficiency still nibbled at him.
Black blood sizzling on his gladius, Optarch finally called a halt. ''There''s little point in continuing. Magos, I cannot make sense of anything I have seen or the auspex results. Can you provide any insight?'' Hybos'' fourth hand fiddled away at the Magos'' serpenta, held in his third hand, while his second hand gestured in the air. ''Gravitic readings: all-encompassing. Energetic discharge: non-centralized. Radiative emissions: minimal. Data for conclusion: minimal.'' Optarch nodded. ''My conclusion as well. I can detect no equivalent to a reactor or drive core, as what might be found on other, more conventional warships. This maze has given us little insight to the layout of this vessel. Moreover, we are deep and far from entry. Ultramarines, we return.'' ''Sergeant,'' Zalthis intoned. ''Sergeant,'' Varien, Tercinas and Sol said. ''Sir,'' the neophytes chorused. ''Collection: satisfactory. Decision: approved.'' ''I believe it''s time for this, then.'' The sergeant unlocked his shield from his forearm, handing it off to Neophyte Tolon. From its strap over his shoulder, Optarch hefted a flamer with both hands. Its pilot light clicked on and the faintest scent of prometheum managed to infiltrate Zalthis'' helm. With Optarch in the rear, squeezing off jets of searing flame into each chamber they passed, the Ultramarines retraced their steps.
Their withdrawal was not unopposed. Though backtracking, past those they had slain, now they clashed against the vong that had been in pursuit. Warriors hooted and howled as they spent their lives freely, flinging now explosive jellies that burned and clung like tar. Few bugs were tried, either expended or lessons learned. Other biots now came to play, like the flaming jellies or even some meter-long insectoid creatures who soared on flickering wings. Zalthis braced his shield, letting the creature slam into it, hearing its clawed feet scrabble for purchase. More emerged from ahead, skittering along the walls and ceiling. Compound eyes caught helmet-lamps and became dazzles of gemstones, cold and emotionless. Mandibles twitched and trembled. ''Zal!'' Sol shouted, surging forward to smash his shield into Zalthis'' own, bursting the clinging insect before Zalthis could bring his sword to bear. He stumbled from the impact, frowning. ''Throne alive, Sol, what was-'' ''Look, Zal,'' the other Astartes pointed. Peering past the lip of his shield, he saw not just the mashed body of the insect slowly peeling away, but glutinous, stringing saliva that hissed and popped. Before his eyes, the plasteel pitted and bubbled. Cursing, he ran the edge of his gladius along the pane of the shield, disruption field hissing and crackling, disintegrating the saliva into a noxious, smoky plume. ''Grutchin,'' Optarch cursed, seeing what Zalthis and Solidian did. Softened plasteel and ceramite had become a liquid slurry, dribbling down the shield, revealing at least a fingerwidth melted away in gouged craters just the size of the insect''s jaws. The rest of the beasts were culled swiftly as the skitarii joined in, radium rounds popping bodies crisply, spraying legs and disjointed wings about. Magos Hybos collected one entire creature, keeping his many hands far from its still-dripping mandibles, handing it off to a skitarii that seemed entirely uncaring about the virulent acid so near. ''Anti-starfighter biots,'' Optarch said, turning one over with his boot, then stamping down on its thorax. It popped wetly. ''An unpleasant use, but a smart one.'' The nearer they came to their entry, and thus, exfiltration, the more the vong seemed to open their stores. Hybos disintegrated half of a lumbering, six-legged creature the size of a grox before it could do much else than low pitifully, but the thermal readings coming from within the beast and the congealing, molten rock that oozed from its charred corpse portended far worse. Most strange was a kind of viscous gel that spread of its own accord, lashing out pseudopodia and tendrils that proved remarkably durable and perilously clinging. Neophyte Petran, cursing in Low Gothic, hacked at it with his humming gladius, but it merely divided along each cut and redoubled its efforts to encase his boots and greaves, anchoring the Neophyte to the deck. ''Sergeant!'' he cried, in surprise and some concern. ''I can''t pull free, this jelly, it''s-'' Petran reached down to pluck it from his boots, serving only to adhere his gauntlet to his foot. ''Stand aside,'' Optarch ordered. The Ultramarines instantly did as ordered, while Hybos stalked closer in contravention. ''Biot variant: impediment. Significant resilience. Sample.'' Optarch paused, flamer half-raised. ''Go on, then.'' Petran glowered as one skitarii reached out, digging metal fingers into the jelly and coming away with a clinging handful. Servos creaked and ground as the cyborg tried to open its fist, failing utterly to do so. Hybos clove the appendage away with an arcing flash of a welder, the skitarii taking the sudden amputation without hesitation. A single burp of prometheum scorched clean Petran''s ceramite boots, the neophyte hissing in pain. ''Apologies, Petran.'' The jelly crumbled to ash as the neophyte shook carbonized chunks from his boots, armorweave fatigue trousers scorched black, but intact from the brief exposure. ''I am Astartes, Sergeant. I''ll endure.'' ''Too right you will, Petran.'' Sol clapped the neophyte on the shoulder and where they had been the same but weeks ago, Zalthis saw Petran nod solemnly, banishing his grimace of pain and standing straighter in front of Solidian. Had I been just like that? He thought of Ascratus, in his cape and with his plumed helmet under one arm, the way he dreamt of himself in those boots. He had been. He still was. ''Come along,'' he ordered, gesturing to the other neophytes, leading them away from the remnants of the jelly as Optarch purified the rest.
Hybos disconnected the umbilical from the stormbird, the hatch irising shut and then everything was dark and red-lit and quiet again. Almost numb, Zalthis eased back into his seat, hearing the whine of the Stormbird''s reactor come to full draw, the quiet words exchanged between pilots. Skitarii clipped themselves back in smartly, Hybos anchoring himself with mechadendrites. It was as if nothing had happened. Were it not for bloodless slashes on some of skitarii, a few mangled limbs, sparking here and there, and gouges that marred battleplate, he''d daresay that it had all been a vivid, vivid dream. How was this possible? Obroa-skai had been an ordeal, a true test of skill, blood-soaked and desperate at the end. Ascratus had died there. A veteran sergeant. One of the Jedi fell crippled. Even at the end, he and Sol had been exhausted, despite their enhancements. Did that final step make all the difference? He peered at his hands, behind thick, ultramarine gauntlets. He imagined his fingers through the ceramite, superimposed. Slowly he made fists, relaxed, made fists again. He didn''t even feel particularly strained. In fact, if put to question, he would swear that the five of them, just the five without the neophytes, without the skitarii, could take on the entire ship. And another. Was this what it meant to be Astartes? Truly Astartes? Is this how Ascratus felt, even at the end, when he made his sacrifice? Did he feel as if he could still take on the entire library world, and made the attempt to do so? It was not his place to doubt, but the disparity sat so strangely. No losses. No deaths. Some skitarii were injured, surely, but they were as much machine as man. They could be repaired more than healed. Petran had surface burns on his shins, but that would fade within the day. ''Sergeant,'' he ventured. Optarch''s helmet turned, fixing red lenses on Zalthis. ''Brother Zalthis?'' The Stormbird trembled as its landing claws retracted, engines rumbling louder. ''I don''t wish to sound -'' he sought the right word ''-petulant, but was this not¡­too simple?'' Tercinax huffed a laugh that was more a snarling growl. ''Youth,'' he grumbled. ''Not every fight has to be life or death.'' Zalthis glanced around the hold, to the neophytes, to his brothers. ''We are Astartes,'' he tried. ''We are. When the worst comes, we meet it. Today was not the worst.'' Tercinax shook his head, then reached up and unlatched his helm. Beneath, the old Astartes'' face was weathered and craggy, tanned by countless suns and creased by scars. Two service studs glinted at his brow. ''Brother Tercinax is terse, but correct. Do not feel slighted - you have all performed admirably. Neophytes, I will support your elevation.'' Optarch also removed his helm, revealing short, curly blond hair and patrician features - a classic Ultramarine. ''They did not plan for us coming, Zalthis. This is not like Obroa-skai. Today we struck the vong when they did not expect it and could not counter us. This will not happen again.'' Blue eyes speared into each of the Astartes present, even Tercinax bowing his head to the much younger sergeant. ''You have all been selected by our Lieutenant. He sees in you potential, which means the Primarch does too. Zalthis, you question our victory. Continue to do so. Tercinax, you spoke of the worst. That is what we are for, more than any of our brothers. We are to expect the worst, and plan for the worst. The Lieutenant earned his mark by daring to imagine the unimaginable and speak what others proscribed, and he saved the life of our father because of it.'' Zalthis looked down at his shield, mag-clamped to the weapon rack that ran the center of the bay. Pits and gouges caught his eye, red lighting slithering blood-like across the surface. He imagined those grutchin, unleashed in hordes or lurking in the pitch-darkness of the interstitial spaces below the outer hull. He imagined them, instead, bursting out of the vents instead of ineffectual chazrach. He thought of those feckless ''razorbugs'', then imagined them as keen as the edge of the amphistaff. His mouth dry, he sat back, reaching up for his own helmet clasps. The moment had passed, neophytes quietly but eagerly speaking amongst themselves at the news. Varien made a comment to Solidian, who smirked and moved his hands to describe some clash. Tercinax had his eyes shut, head back against the cowl of his armor. Zalthis looked toward Optarch, finding the sergeant had been watching him. ''Potential, Zalthis,'' Sannad Optarch said again. Contingence Chapter IV PART II: ALLEGRO
IV: Apt Metaphors
Sharing dinner from across the galaxy wasn''t exactly the definition of a romantic evening but with Mara on Coruscant, Luke didn''t have much of a choice. For her it was also more of a brunch, but it warmed his heart that she took the time to sit down. When he said so, she''d fixed him with a flat stare, almost tangible despite the flickering hologram. "Really, Skywalker? Thanking me for getting to have a conversation with my husband that I haven''t touched in weeks? Okay, sure." He winced - not at her words, but at the thought of the reasons behind it. "Is Doctor Oolos any more hopeful?" Mara sighed, shaking her head and rippling her hair - aquamarine instead of red-gold, washed out by the hologram and tinted by the stable light. "He''s taken half my blood and still hasn''t been able to make anything of why I''m suddenly better. No luck synthesizing what''s left of Vergere''s tears, either." Neither of them said what they were both thinking, but both knew each other well enough that the words hung in the air, unsaid, between them. Luke took a careful bite of Kam''s cooking, not tasting the nerf-steak at all, thinking only of the unspoken for now after ''I''m suddenly better''. If Vergere''s tears had a timed effect, if the disease was only in remission and even now fighting to overcome them - Doctor Oolos had chastised Mara for taking the tears immediately, speaking of how some pathogens and viral infections came back all the stronger if they weren''t eradicated, and since no one had even been able to find what Mara was sick with¡­there was no way to tell if it was merely a ticking clock. Luke thought of her worst days, after the first battle of Obroa-skai, after Ithor, and felt gooseflesh prickle his arms. If it came back, but worse - "Anyway," Mara continued, dragging out the syllables, gesturing with a mug of recaf. "Senator Shesh is, unfortunately, completely right." "You really don''t like her, do you?" Mara pulled a face. "She''s faker than a three credit chit, but I can never actually catch her out on a lie. It gets under my skin. But she''s right - there''s a leak in her office." Luke paused, glass of water halfway to his lips. Carefully he lowered it back down to the table. "So that''s how they knew to wait for us on Obroa-skai." "Afraid so. Shesh wasn''t just paranoid." Sitting back, meal momentarily forgotten, Luke crossed his arms, frowning deeply. A Senator''s office was no mean feat for the Vong - or Peace Brigade - to infiltrate. If Mara was right, and Luke would bet the world on his wife''s word - then the number of possible leaks had to be below a dozen. Obroa-skai was classified at some of the highest levels. Viqi Shesh, Victor Pomt, their aides, the Wraiths, Director Scaur of NRI - not even Fey''lya had known until it was all over. Mara was sure it was in Shesh''s office, which cut out NRI, winnowing the candidates further. Given Mara''s mistrust of the Senator, he had to ask: "And it''s not Viqi?" "Triple checked. She brought me on to root out this mole, remember? She''s one of the best actresses I''ve seen, but she''s not that good." "And no masquers?" "None. Every single person in her office is bright and clear in the Force. Of course, most of them are also almost impenetrable to anything but picking up half-heard surface thoughts, but of course Viqi would hire only the most mentally disciplined staffers. It''s like she doesn''t trust Jedi or something." Shaking his head and forking another bite, Luke smiled as he chewed. "Well," he said, out of the corner of his mouth. "You are trying to read their minds." Mara threw up her hands. "It''s my job! It''s not like I''m begging to hear what kind of dry, flaccid thoughts those drones have. Now I''m stuck on doing it the old-fashioned way." She thought for a moment, idling twirling her fork in sauce-soaked scrambled protein. "It''s actually a little nostalgic. I even called Karrde." "Any luck there?" "Aside from catching up?" Somewhere along the line months turned into years as the elusive intelligence broker stayed out on the fringes, pursuing his work. When was the last time Karrde had poked his head above ground? Or rather - out from the increasing snarl that Karrde''s organization had become as he divested of the ''less than legitimate'' enterprises he''d once been known for. Probably that whole Outbound Flight debacle. Three years ago, now. Luke shook his head of memories as Mara continued. "He''s been butting heads with Peace Brigade in the Outer and Mid Rim, trying to stamp out their influence, but he''s had nothing from Coruscant. So no, no luck." Mara sat back, grinning, and folded her arms under her breasts. "Guess what else he''s been keeping an eye out for?" Her amusement was palpable, as was the refreshing undercurrent of how deeply touched Mara felt. Luke had an idea, but humored her. "What else?" "Oh, strange diseases, the kind without known sources that can''t be treated¡­" The old smuggler pretended, he really did, but the man still cared about everyone who''d ever worked for him. Even after they went and became a Jedi, got married, and never looked back. Woe betide anyone who crossed his ''people'', and Talon had long memory for who those people were. It was why Talon Karrde, who''d once helped capture Luke to sell to the Empire, was one of the few who had full permission and access to the Praxeum outside of the Order. "We''ve had good luck with smugglers," Luke said. "The best, apparently." Mara took back up her mug of recaf, sipping quietly while Luke continued his dinner. "You know, with Jaina ground for the time being, I was thinking of asking for her help." His niece''s injury had worried him, but the call she''d made, linked to Coruscant so that Jacen and Leia could join in, had banished those fears. She had been so righteously irritated, more upset about how she had been spaced, rather than being spaced at all. Being taken out not by some canny and respectable Vong hotshot pilot, but by the impersonal explosion of the Star Destroyer. Underneath her irritation, as she hauled her leg, wrapped in a flexible cast, into view to complain, he sensed what really lay beneath it all. If she had gone down to another pilot, it felt almost right. Like losing a ''saber duel, knowing that if you had been better, you could have won. Learning the lesson and taking it to heart, so that the next time, you would be. Being spaced like this - he could imagine how she felt, because he had felt the same before. It was the moment of realization of the real size of the universe. The impersonal, infinite scale of it. The truth that life was not a story, life was life, complex and unplanned and unplotted. There was no path ahead of you, there was no chapter break. You could be the greatest Jedi to ever live, but a hypermatter explosion too close and you were as dead as mynock would be. He knew Anakin had faced that ugly truth and suspected it was on Dantooine. His nephew hadn''t spoken of it, but it was more in the way he carried himself now. Careful, attentive. The childish freedom was wiped from him and Luke ached to see it. Mara''s idea was a good one. He told her so. Jaina would need something to do, to sink her teeth into, to help her right her ship. The universe was vast and uncaring and cold, yes. But the Force, the Force was always there. She would recover and remember that no matter what, she would never, ever be alone. Not with her family around. Especially not with her brothers.?
Malik Carr smelt the nostril-searing tang of combustibles, felt tackiness of drying blood beneath clawed toes, the sharp stink of apocrine sweat on his long and forked tongue. In both hands he bore coufee, cousin to the amphistaff, though simpler, duller and shorter. Already the bladed biots were stiffened and hooked into their classic form, ready to catch limbs or gouge eyes and Malik Carr''s heart pounded in anticipation. Prickles of guidance flickered through his spine, soothing and familiar, so easy to surrender to. The great rikyam mind of the ship guided him through its labyrinthine ways, outraged at the interlopers and reacting like a body to infection. Malik Carr and his fellows were the white blood cells, the immune response, surging through capillaries of wending corridors to root those who did not belong. It was a satisfying metaphor that he indulged, imagining, as he let his body move of its own accord, that the coufee in his hands were the spike protein, ready to rupture hostile cells, to burst lymph and flush out the wound with cleansing pus. The taller warriors that shepherded Malik Carr and the others like him, they were the hunter cells, the advanced lymphocytes in the response ready to denature protein and snap membranes between their teeth. His time with Shaper Qesh taught him more of the body, the microbiological biome and its interactions. His grafting progressed well, but such a rare implantation required tending and tending she gave happily. Engrossed in her work, she would ramble. It would irritate him, but for the clear mastery she demonstrated with every stroke of her long and mutated fingers, soothing in an instant spasms and nerve twitches, cajoling disparate flesh to more beneficially marry. But that was not for now - now was to join in battle. Now was to shriek past his sharp cage of teeth, howling in anticipation, leaping through a widening hatch-sphincter to see many figures- The chazrach''s life ended without it ever seeing what struck the blow and Malik Carr sat in silence and darkness a moment, dysphoric confusion rippling his limbs as he was, once more, of the Chosen People, and no longer riding the sense-form of the diminutive slave-caste. Wet-ice tingled the nape of his neck, rippling up his skull and across his scalp and he reached up with one hand, gently lifting the encompassing, squirming masque that covered his face. Lambent light banished the darkness and Subaltern Harmae stood by at the ready to receive the cognition hood. Much like the hoods that allowed the pilots of the yorik-et to command their starfighters, this relative accessed memory qahsa and replayed sense-echoes for elucidation. Often a training tool, during the great diaspora, when fuel and supply was sharply rationed, they fell out of favor once the worlds of this galaxy were thrown open to feed the Yuuzhan Vong war machine. It was a dishonor to play at false war through the cognition hoods; better to hone craft in plays of true danger and death, when a false move would prune the weak from the ranks. The great shipwomb of Sernpidal and the yorik-et fields of Belkadan and other worlds made the fleet replete with replaceable hulls. Now the hood let him step into the mind of one aboard Redshriek, lost but days ago. Tricked and trapped by the Republic, in a rare display of mettle by the infidels, the ship had not died easily but slowly, doomed to ignominity by paralyzing ions and then boarded to complete the insult. Subaltern Harmae passed off the cognition hood to a waiting Shaper Adept, who would tend the device and refresh it. None others were present, giving the Commander time to brood on what he had seen. Aistarteez, again. Not content with befouling his works on Obroa-skai, now they stole from him a squadron and worse. The chazrach''s memories agreed with the villip-calls from the doomed ship. Shipmaster Anchul declared the boarders few in number but acting strangely. Communion had been live - Subaltern Harmae himself had roused Carr from his chambers with news of the urgent villip-call. Now the Subaltern was one of the few inducted into the knowledge of the aistarteez and their ilk. Such was the reason Carr bade him attend while he perused these memories. The Shaper Adept was one of Mistress Qesh''s get and would hew to the command of the Master Shaper, and thus was of no concern. "Aistarteez indeed," Carr murmured, the tip of his arm-tooth gently gouging a line through the yorik coral decking. The long, bony fang married to his left elbow through a constructed wrist joint, so that it might be tucked back like the long, grasping claws of the kitaak slasher. As the graft settled and with each passing day it did moreso - he had better and finer control over the new limb, the kinesthetic sense more akin to that of a hand without fingers than a clumsy arm. Such was the mastery of Qesud Qesh''s art. "They dared?" Harmae''s words were quiet but incensed, heat in the young warrior''s tone. Good, but it should not master him. "They dared and they succeeded." Carr snapped, his Subaltern bowing his head. "To dare is righteous, to succeed is holy. Even the infidel may grasp at glory, though it will ever elude their fingers. Do not underestimate our foe, or you weaken the hinges of our own keep." "I hear and obey, Commander." Carr rose, raising both arms and Harmae hung his command cloak once more from the Commander''s shoulders, the living drape gently writhing as it settled against its master''s back. As per his preference, he went with his torso bared, exposing gnarled scars and knotted burns, smearing across his pectoral like reshaped wax. A broad belt in greens and golds and reds wound about his waist, emphasizing his musculature. Without his long tresses, burnt away on Obroa-skai, instead he favored a tasseled skullcap, which he slid back on, feeling the tiny hooks anchor to his scalp and tickle his fuzzed regrowth. "Follow," he ordered. "Shaper, have the qahsa devoured. There is no further need for it." Harmae fell in step beside and just behind Carr, hands clasped together before him, hidden in the sleeves of his voluminous robes. "With the villip-calls and memories of the chazrach, the waters clear to reveal the depths. Just as we seek knowledge of them, they too seek it of us." From snippets of other chazrach''s memories, relayed by the doomed ship''s rikyam shortly before annihilation, Carr saw the actions of those the aistarteez escorted. Stomach-churning machine-men, they gathered trinkets and trophies from the honored dead, despoiling warriors and insulting Redshriek. But Carr mastered his anger and saw the truth: these trophies were specimens, collected like a Shaper might peruse a new world. "They will learn nothing," Harmae declared, zealous in tone. "The Gods will not allow it." "''The Gods will test us in all things''," Malik Carr quoted. "''To be Chosen is to be Blessed, but to be Blessed is to understand trial. Pain is the lash of learning and the Gods wield it well.'' You may beseech the Gods that they give grace to our fallen and punish the infidel, but if they did so themselves: what need they of their Children? No, Subaltern, I am sure the Gods will allow it, for it was by our mistake that this came to pass. We do not beg the Gods to solve our problems for us. That way lies only bitter and rightful laughter." Little was recovered from Obroa-skai in truth. The immolating bomb the last aistarteez triggered wiped clean the final battlefield. Yet the physical was not all there was to study. Warriors that fought and survived recounted tales. Memories of chazrach were delved, though it left Malik Carr feeling unclean. Twice he sacrificed a slave to banish the unpalatable weakness of the chazrach more thoroughly from his senses. Contrary to the claims of Shipmaster Anchul of Redshriek, aistarteez were no abominable intelligences. They were men, of some sort, who bled and who died. In some unsettling fashion, they reminded Malik Carr of his own warriors. They were faster than the humans of this galaxy, taller, stronger and far more doughty. Their armor was thick and their weapons keen and he wondered, not for the first time, if they were the ''Republic''s'' attempt to level the battlefield. Nearing a year since the bumbling of the Praetorite Vong at Helska and Sernpidal, there would have been time sufficient to create these warriors. It answered cleanly why that fool executor Nom Anor had never spoken of them nor why in the annals of history they appeared not once. A martial kind such as them would leave a mark, even in this degenerate, effete galaxy. No, Malik Carr was sure they were a new invention of the Republic and one that need be stamped out as soon as possible. The Supreme Commander would arrive soon, no longer required to pass along command by villip-choir, and Malik Carr wished to have a plan of battle drawn up to find and destroy these aistarteez by then. It would heap much glory on him and his Domain and only further secure his ascension to, dare he dream it, Supreme Commander himself. His left hand - claw - flexed as he imagined it: elevated by the grim Warmaster himself. Qesud Qesh would have yet more implantation for him, unlocked by his standing and suitable to his glory.?
?It started life as an optimistic business enterprise when Lando Calrissian, known for his daring endeavours, bought up a kilometer wide bubble of the Coruscanti undercity. Refurbished and rebuilt, turned into an airy, dome-shaped community, the idea was the attract hundreds of thousands of disillusioned citizens from the cramped and frenetic activity of the surface, enticing them down to a secluded paradise with open boulevards and a shocking amount of elbow room. Of course, the expected diaspora never materialized and so-called ''Dometown'' languished until creditors and lenders repossessed the neighborhood. Quietly purchased for a song from sellers eager to discharge the money pit from their books, now the New Republic military called Dometown home as a hardened, centralized nerve-center deep beneath the crust of the world-city. "With Gyndine, Randon and Daalang fallen, along with most recently Tynna, there''s serious concerns the Navy can do anything to halt the yuuzhan vong advance." The silence that followed Admiral Etahn A''baht''s words was pronounced, beings grimacing and casting accusatory glares left and right. High in one of Dometowns many central ''skyscrapers'', the chamber was sealed and hardened against all imaginable surveillance, swept regularly for bugs both cybernetic and organic. It meant those present could speak their minds, though whether or not that was a true positive remained to be seen. "Tynna does prove the Hutt''s intelligence is reliable." Admiral Brand countered. "And that makes it an acceptable loss? The world''s oceans have been poisoned before the very eyes of the tynnans and we didn''t lift a finger to prevent it." the Dornean countered, looking up and down the table. "You''ve heard my arguments enough times. Every time we surrender a world, we strike a blow at the faith our people have that we care about anything but the Core." Admiral Sien Sovv, his dark eyes shining, opened his mouth to rebut but Brand beat the Sullustan to the punch. "If we lose the Core, we lose the war," the dour Human admiral said, as blunt as his reputation. "I''d rather defend Bilbringi, Kuat and Fondor. We lose the shipyards and we might as well surrender to the vong now." "If we surrender the rest of the Galaxy, we deserve to. Isn''t it disturbing to anyone else? Threatened worlds are starting to surrender without a fight. They know we can''t protect them. Isn''t that what the New Republic was founded on? The agreement of support in return for defense? How can we expect anyone to listen to Coruscant when we tell them their world doesn''t matter as much as others?" A''baht narrowed his eyes, daring anyone to contradict him. "Even a cursory look at the situation reveals the populations who, at our urging to mount a defense, have seen their worlds devastated or poisoned or worse, while those that, like the Hutts, struck a deal with the Yuuzhan Vong have escaped bloodshed entirely." "The Hutts, a shining example of moral authority," Brand hissed. "You shame us all by bringing them into this. Who would have ever doubted they would show their bellies at the first Vong to come snarling?" Director of Fleet Intelligence Ayddar Nylykerka waggled a hand, puffing up his air sacs. "I don''t entirely agree, Admiral. The Hutts, while cowardly, have proven willing to fight before. Or did anyone forget the fate of the Tionese? No, I think the Hutts are a bellwether. Mercenary and practical to the end and look at what it''s bought them: Nal Hutta is untouched and the Vong even allow them to continue the spice trade." "We can''t allow our fear of losing a grip on those less loyal to the New Republic dictate defense policy. Tragic as Tynna, Gyndine and others are, they were the right choice." The third admiral present, the Sollustan Sien Sovv nodded his jowled head. "Admiral Brand is correct. Deploying a fleet to Gyndine wouldn''t have halted the Yuuzhan Vong at all, and only lost more worlds besides." A''baht rubbed his fleshy mustachio, looking ill-pleased to agree but slowly nodded. "It''s true that Gyndine is proof of the change in the invader''s plans. Clearly, they are probing weaknesses, perhaps even looking for routes into the Core. The Northern Line keeps the Vong held at bay on that front, but through Hutt space, they can threaten much of the Mid Rim and even as far as the Colonies. At the same time, there''s been detected a marked increase in their mining of select hyperspace routes which has narrowed our access to outlying sectors." "In other words," Brand supplied, "they''re boxing us in." Sien Sovv rose, gesturing to the holotank in the center of the table, attracting all attention as he keyed a remote. The room darkened slightly, windows shifted tinted, and a glowing representation of the galaxy shimmered to life. "This is what we have been able to piece together from direct reports, in addition to stasis probe reconnaissance." The Sullustan clicked his remote again, activating new lines and icons to sprout in a swathe through the Mid Rim and Expansion Region. "With Tynna fallen and Kalarba under attack, we can see how the Yuuzhan Vong mean to encircle the Core. Right now, the majority of their fleets are centered between Ord Mantell and Obroa-skai, under, we believe, the command of one ''Malik Carr'', who the Jedi encountered during their ill-fated mission. New fleets are sighted between Nal Hutta and Gyndine, securing the gains there. Should these fleets move Coreward from Obroa-skai, they can threaten Bilbringi, Borleias, Venjagga and Ord Mirit. From Gyndine, Commenor, Kuat and Corellia are vulnerable." "Gyndine gives them the springboard for a two-pronged attack. And this is meant to argue that not protecting the world was the right choice?" A''baht shook his head. "When - not if - Kalarba is lost, Gyndine won''t matter anyway." Brand pointed into the hologram and Sovv highlighted the world for the other Admiral''s benefit. Druckenwell, and then Kalarba, and they can threaten Fondor, Yag''dhul, Bestine¡­most of the galactic south." "That is my estimation as well," Sovv added, inclining his head to his human counterpart. Nylykerka huffed a breath, emptying his air sacs and eying the display. The Tammarian rose to his feet, arms folded, joining Sovv before gesturing widely at the glowing representation of all known space. "I''m concerned we may be looking for a strategy when there is none. The Yuuzhan Vong are waging a psychological war as much as a practical one. They''ve made a pointed effort to destroy libraries, centers of learning, natural wonders. The way they pursue refugees who mean no harm and pose no threat - such tactics are meant to confuse and dishearten us. They are not declaring war just for territory, but to make a point that the civilization we built means less than nothing to them." Brand rolled his eyes. "Pretty rhetoric, but if we assume the Yuuzhan Vong are crazed zealots, we could make just as great a mistake as thinking they are three steps ahead of us. We have to take what comes and make sense of it first, then act." "Which is why we''re all here," Sovv cut in. "Arguing only serves the Yuuzhan Vong. This is nothing that hasn''t already been discussed. Are we still in agreement on the next targets, even with the new developments of Tynna and Kalarba?" A''baht shifted in his seat. "I still believe Bothawui and Kothlis are the most likely targets, but¡­I admit that with the warning the Hutts were able to supply about Tynna, my concerns are¡­less." "Then Corellia still remains the priority target. Chief Feyl''ya will never allow any defenses to be pulled away from Bothawui. With the Senator''s help, the vote already passed handily. Bothawui will be reinforced, along with Bilbringi and Borleias. Kalarba has sped up our plans, as we can be certain that when that world falls, the Yuuzhan Vong will be ready for their next target." Brand looked to Nylykerka. "And Centerpoint?" "Nearing functionality. We''ve reached out to Anakin Solo. With his assistance, our scientists expect it can be brought online far sooner." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "Using Centerpoint still unsettles me," A''baht confessed. "There was a reason we forbid attempts to restore the station." Much larger than a Death Star and unimaginably more dangerous, the ancient relic in the center of the Corellian system had woken only once in living history, when the radical Thracken Sal-Solo commandeered it to pursue Corellian independence. The hyperspace repulsor platform, beyond the imagining of any hare-brained technologist, wielded unparalleled power. It could shatter stars with concentrated gravity bursts or wipe out entire fleets with blasts of repulsor energy. It was even theorized, according to information gleaned from its computers and the story of Anakin Solo, to have been the tool used to build the uncommon system of Corellia, with its five habitable worlds. And the last was the final hurdle in the Corellian Plan. Anakin Solo. Only a child, he and his siblings had fallen into Sal-Solo''s hands as a bargaining chip, but the precocious Jedi youngster had, either through his relationship to the Force or the mysterious workings of the ancient spacestation, imprinted himself on the entire Corellian network of ancient relics. Centerpoint, the planetary repulsors, all of them spoke to an accepted the youngest Solo as a bonafide operator. The damage done by misuse during the Corellian Crisis was mostly repaired and undone, but to actually activate the station? It could be none other than Anakin, unless the Admirals were willing to gamble that a makeshift interface would suffice while the fate of half the New Republic fleet hung in the balance. "Desperate times, General," Brand muttered. "Besides, the only use of Centerpoint will be to interdict the Vong fleet. As agreed, there will be no release for using the repulsor, if it even could work." "Correct, Admiral." Nylykerka gestured to Sovv, who shifted the hologram display from the Galaxy to an intricate wireframe of the discussed station. "Our technicians are guaranteeing that an interdiction field can be managed. They''re much less certain about the repulsor emitter. Glowpoint is, after all, famously unpredictable." All around the table mulled the concept in silence, opinions as varied as their species. It was hard to deny that Centerpoint, if truly weaponized and reactivated, could be a complete game-changer for the war. Putting aside all other concerns, the ability to reach across the Galaxy and snuff out a star could immediately force the Yuuzhan Vong to the table to negotiate, or even pause their invasion altogether. The problem, of course, lie in what came next. Brand considered the answer obvious: lock down Centerpoint and keep it under strict New Republic control with heavily vetted access. A''baht, if the unthinkable happened and it was weaponized, imagined secret sabotage, leaving the station defanged but discretely, so that it could remain a sword, but one without an edge. Such superweapons, such power, was the domain of the Emperor, of Palpatine. Even if it could end the war, could the cost be borne? Could the New Republic survive it? The Death Stars, the Galaxy Gun, the World Devastators¡­Centerpoint couldn''t become the first of the New Republic''s own horror-weapons. That, at least, all present agreed on. "Which leaves us with the last component of this plan." Sovv wiped the holo display and returned to his own seat, lights brightening again, windows turning transparent to reveal the mostly empty, expansive avenues outside. "The Imperium. The ''Exiles''. Admiral Brand?" "On that front, we have¡­mixed news."?
Sannad Optarch, Sergeant, found him in the training cages. He was bare to the waist, wearing fatigue trousers and steel-capped boots, laced tightly. His hair, grown longer, was held back by a leather thong in a tight knot, kept clear of his face. Optarch waited patiently, watching his superior dismantle blade-servitors. The cage rattled with each blow, electricity humming in the air on wings of ozone, like a threatening thunderstorm. His longsword, shimmering, slender, darted and span in sure grip, matching cudgel and glaive and lashing barb-whip that strained for the Astartes'' flesh. Light perspiration shone from flexing deltoids and pectorals, providing evidence along with the heat-shimmer above the cage that spoke to the length Optarch''s superior trained. Aeonid Thiel paused just after cleaving clear the armored limb of a servitor, tossing aside a sparking electro-mace. Optarch tensed, watching the downward arc of buzzing chainblade, stroking straight for the Lieutenant''s exposed back. Yet Thiel froze, stock-still. The words formed on Optarch''s lips, to call cessation, knowing that at the level of extremis his Lieutenant preferred to trained on could make such a blow a crippling one. Thiel snarled, whirling on his heel at the last possible moment, gnawing teeth microns from his flesh and the edge of his longsword sprayed hardened ceramite teeth as it bit into the chainblade. ''Cancel,'' Thiel growled, and the servitors arrayed around him, built into the frame of the cage, froze before the syllables could even echo in the large chamber. Optarch waited patiently, hands clasped before him, as Thiel extracted himself from the cage. From a bench nearby, the Ultramarine snagged a sleek cloth, running it along his now quiescent blade, wicking away oil and hydraulic fluids. Another cloth he used to sponge away perspiration before tossing it aside, running fingers through blond hair. ''Sergeant,'' Thiel greeted, slipping his longsword back into a simple, utilitarian leather sheathe. ''Lieutenant.'' Thiel jerked his head, beckoning Optarch along. ''Ill progress?'' ''Progress implies a degree of success.'' Thiel''s lip curled. ''I have found none. Whatever commands this ''Force'' answers to, the Librarius does not know it. I have tried their mnemonics, I have memorized their cantrips, but the sense eludes me.'' ''Thus the danger,'' Optarch observed. ''Quite.'' They continued in silence from the training hall, past two bowing crew who bore between them a large hamper and toolkit. Optarch knew not this ''Force'' firsthand, though he had met in brief the Jedi Eryl Besa who even now spoke in confidence with Navigatrix Likentrix on the vagaries of the Warp. Direct experience or not, all Ultramarines knew of the extra-worldly apparatus and its known capabilities, given shockingly freely by the Jedi Order and their leader, Luke Skywalker. His Lieutenant had, with some discomfort, requested materials on the Force and the training of a ''Jedi'' through the Republican holocom, receiving only minutes later a wealth of guides and pamphlets. According to Skywalker - this was commonly given to those sensitive to the Force who professed interest in joining his Order. Some Jedi even pursued their own training remotely, receiving lessons in holographic and textual form. In Optarch''s own squad, he had two whose minds he had picked to learn of the Jedi and their Force. Zalthis and Solidian, though newly elevated, betrayed a wisdom and thoughtfulness that spoke well of old Ascratus. He had been Optarch''s own sergeant, decades ago, and it seemed that Ultramarine had lost none of his pedagogical touch. A great loss, and one Optarch still mourned. The two, however, had been forthcoming and comprehensive. Their testaments dovetailed cleanly with clear vidthief recordings taken from their wargear, matching theoretical analysis with practical evidence. What disturbed Optarch the most, and he suspected Lieutenant Thiel as well, was the simple inoffensive and unobtrusive presence of the Force. When the young Jedi Solo made a gesture with his hand, eyes blazing with emotion, and Zalthis was forced to his knees, there was no other sign. No crackle of uncolor, no sudden frost that rimed the duracrete underfoot. Jedi Solo''s veins did not blacken, his fingers did not twist and crack. Brother Zalthis spoke only of an immense weight and pressure that drove him to the ground, but none of the oil-slick touch of the Warp. Perhaps a year ago the young Ultramarine could be speaking from ignorance, but after Calth, all knew the cruel and cold touch of the Warp. Optarch observed Jedi Taral hurl stones with the alacrity of bolts, knocking reptoid aliens from their feet and dazzling Yuuzhan Vong warriors. Again, there was no mark of unearthly powers. The rubble merely gave up, meekly, giving the Jedi warrioress her ammunition, which she flung with unerring precision by only pointing a single accusatory finger. The Jedi and their Force would have been reason enough for the Primarch to enact his License. That the knowledge of the sect came after the mysterious circumstances on Eboracum that delivered an athame, of all things, to the Ultramarines, merely served to further prop up the Primarch''s theoretical. Only a handful of the Librarius escaped with the 4711th - nine in total, eight of the Lexicanium rank and one of the Codicier. Under sufferance of the Primarch and strict guidelines, all were elevated again, given psychic hoods from under lock and key aboard Macragge''s Honour and bade investigate the spoor remaining from whatever unclean ritual had taken place in the wilderness of Eboracum. Nothing had turned up as weeks became months. Missing soldiers were catalogued, cross-referenced and a rough estimate of missing victims compiled, indicating between ten and twenty sacrificed in that farmhouse. Where their bodies went few wished to speculate aside from dark mutterings. Surveillance continued and the nine psykers, along with the Navigatrix, her cadre, and the Astropathic choir, kept the Primarch informed of any disturbance in the local immaterium. So far, as far as Optarch knew, there had not been another incident. After Calth, even a single hint of corruption could not be ignored and would not be ignored. Their watch would continue until the culprit found or the universe burned out. There would never be another Calth. His Lieutenant plied the Codicier, named Tylos Rubio, with questions. Rubio admitted to having never trained a Librarium, but of course could remember perfectly his own elevation and training many years ago and patiently passed on what he knew to Thiel. Which, regrettably, proved entirely ineffective. ''And what of Master Skywalker''s teachings? Do those bear better fruit?'' Both dressed down, Thiel still stood half a head taller than Optarch, tall for an Astartes. Though no giant like Drakus Gorod, the Lieutenant would loom in Terminator plate. Contrasting Thiel''s trousers and boots, Optarch wore a simple tunic, blue trimmed in white, over his bodyglove. The thought that his wargear was always but a brief stint in the armourium away was a measure of comfort, even in the halls of Macragge''s Honour, safest in the galaxy. Thiel''s teeth set and he breathed out between them in a hiss. ''It''s ironic, in a way.'' ''Quite,'' Optarch agreed, touch drily. Thiel barked a laugh. ''Let me speak, brother. I gained this plume and this cape for my willingness to propose the unconventional and break protocol. From Red-marked to Lieutenant, but I feel to take the teachings of a foreign witch to heart and act on them is perhaps a step too far.'' ''Brothers Solidian and Zalthis vouch for the honor of Skywalker. As does, I believe, our father.'' Thiel grunted. ''Sarcasm doesn''t suit you, Sannad. Leave it to Solidian. Damnably right, though. If Guilliman can trust the Jedi, why can''t I?'' Optarch considered carefully his words - not that his superior would take offense, as Thiel encouraged all in his nascent company to speak mindfully but freely - but rather to weigh, theoretically, the correct nudge needed. What was the purpose of a Sergeant, after all, if not to ably guide their officer true? Captain or Lieutenant, it made no difference. ''Speaking of our Primarch, if you show no progress in learning the Force, he had threatened to send you to the Jedi''s own scholam, did he not?'' Thiel actually recoiled, appearing entirely betrayed. ''I imagine it might be beneficial, to be surrounded by foreign witches and xeno practitioners. Theoretical: from a myriad of techniques, you might find one that suits best.'' Optarch observed, mild. ''I¡­'' Thiel exhaled, clenching his fists. ''I will take another look. The Primarch''s orders.'' Optarch nodded, sagely, as if the Lieutenant had made the decision all on his own. ''A fine practical, sir. Rubio might have insights of his own, if he examined the materials as well.'' Optarch left Thiel at the ablutorium, having finally passed along his true reason for searching out the Lieutenant. The Primarch requested his presence to discuss the Republican operational plan several hours hence. Muttering under his breath, Thiel retired to cleanse himself of the grime of sparring, while Optarch sought out his squad. They were running theoreticals on the vong bioforms newly encountered and the Magos Dominus had promised autopsy results by the late evening. Perhaps they had been delivered early.?
By the peculiarities of foreshortening, Cornelius Regil appeared almost the height of the seated Primarch. Cleansed, refreshed and clad in his repaired and polished plate, Aeonid waited with his helm under one arm at the far end of the long, monolithic waxwood table. A rare survivor of the daemonic incursions, the Shipmaster Hommed had it removed from the tertiary officer''s mess and gifted to the Primarch to restore his audience chamber. Inlaid with bleeding edge hololiths, courtesy of the Magos Dominus, the table now rested on a plinth, with elevated chairs for mortals along one side. Admiral Regil reclined in one, gesturing at the ghostly shapes of ships filling the air above the table, with Shipmistress Altuzer of Samothrace at his left hand and Shipmaster Tyber Sogan of Son of Iax, Commodore of the cruiser wing, at his right. Meters away, Roboute Guilliman sat easily, hands in his lap, velvet toga draped over his superhuman frame. Green laurels sat at his brow, curled blond hair seeming to clutch at the leaves, and his blue eyes flicked back and forth as the Admiral and Shipmasters spoke. ''Mantallikes is a write-off, though Vaul refuses to accept it. Without slipways, the battleship will never sail again. Her armament is strong, which puts the wrath of a Retribution directly over Eboracum Civitas. Vaul will scream and bite about being relegated to an orbital platform, but the old battleship can serve that role well.'' The Primarch nodded slowly. ''Expected. Samothrace must remain at Eboracum, as our only battle-barge.'' ''Just so, my Primarch.'' Regil cleared his throat, then pointed to another ghostly wireframe. ''Numinus'' voids are operable again, but the engineseer warns they are temperamental and flighty.'' He pointed to another. ''As an Ironclad, Fourth Honour bore her ramming well, but there remains structural damage that the magi continue to find.'' ''As before, then, the reliably operable warships remain: Samothrace, Macragge''s Honour and Opolor''s Vow.'' ''Quite so.'' Regil nodded to Guilliman. ''If Samothrace must remain, as, I would assume, Macragge''s Honour, then it falls to Opolor''s Vow along with an escort squadron to fulfil this task.'' A slight smile quirked the Primarch''s lips. ''Your own command, Cornelius? Surely you would delegate.'' Regil harrumphed, age and experience making sharing a jest with a Primarch easy. ''Delegation is cowardice. I''m already on death''s door, my lord. Keep me away from battle and I''m liable to turn to dust.'' Beside Regil, Shipmaster Sogan cleared his throat. ''If an escort is required, I can vouch for all cruisers save, ehm, Guilliman''s Glory.'' The man flushed slightly, reciting the name to the namesake. Seeing the Commodore''s discomfort, the Primarch waved a hand. ''Not a name I would have chosen, but the magi of Konor are allowed their quirks. Continue.'' In contrast to Regil, Tyber Sogan had been merely a line captain for his service and his inexperience among the transcendent showed. Sweat stained the pits of his naval jacket, beading along his close-cropped hairline. Gooseflesh pebbled his neck and Sogan steadfastly kept his gaze fixed forward, across the broad waxwood table, never daring to even glance toward Guilliman. ''Born of Ashes, Sorpenton and my own Son of Iax stand ready to sortie. Sorpenton''s bays have been refilled from Mantillikes aeronautic wing.'' ''I''d take Vow along with Ashes and Iax, my Primarch,'' Regil said freely. ''Perhaps a few destroyers for a screen. Any more is overkill.'' Roboute peered down the length of the table, Thiel stiffening slightly as he met his father''s eyes. Though they still spent quite some time together - less so, then they had shortly after Calth and after arrival here - the lightning intensity of the Lord of Ultramar''s azure eyes never failed to send a prickle of transhuman dread up his spine. ''Thoughts, Lieutenant?'' He considered the wireframe displays, the Yuuzhan Vong warriors and slave-warriors, along with the accounts of Optarch''s squad. Gently, he placed his plumed helm on the table with a clak, careful not to mar the finely polished surface. ''I am no master of naval warfare and it is a weak theoretical, but should the naval strength of the vong xenoform match that of their warriors, then we might expect similar proportionality. One Astartes is worth a hundred of their warriors. One battleship, then, would be worth a hundred of their own. But it is a weak theoretical, and full of holes.'' Guilliman unfolded his hands, sitting more erect, brushing fingertips across the wooden surface before him. ''Numinus swept aside the warships that intruded on Eboracum. The Magos Dominus has spent time in review and assured me that such performance is replicable, even with the alleged ''voids'' of the living ships active. Less efficacy, but from study of the Republican warships of ''Taskforce Mousetrap'', comparisons could be drawn between lance battery and ''turbolaser''. Your analysis is more secure than you believe, Lieutenant.'' Regil, who had been nodding along, added his own thoughts. ''The Republican ships are matchsticks,'' he declared, without arrogance. ''Their armor plating is thin, their engines underpowered and their gunnery is unimpressive. If breaking doctrine didn''t stick in my craw, I''d take Vow alone.'' Speaking up for the first time, Altuzer laid a hand on Regil''s forearm, the much younger woman, who some whispered was as a daughter to the grey old Admiral, spoke up. ''We should balance risk with reward. Sending Vow alone is a strong message to the Republicans and the Vong, but maybe too strong. And if things go awry? It would be sore to lose you, old man.'' ''A balance of showmanship and practicality. Take Sorpenton as well, but leave the destroyers. An Avenger and three Murders will be sufficient. I would not risk the lighter voids and frames of our destroyer squadron until the mettle of the vong has been tested.'' The Primarch''s words were mild, but they had the weight of authority and command behind them. No argument was imagined. All fell quiet, imagining the battle to come. Too long the 4711th had waited, hiding in the shadows, warships wearing tracks in orbit above. The Imperialis Armada was not made to languish indefinitely and Thiel could see Regil''s building excitement. A new foe and a new battlefield. He imagined the sensation for the Admiral was something akin to suiting into his own plate before battle, save that the admiral''s wargear weighed a billion tonnes. ''One final theoretical, sire,'' Thiel ventured, the thought of armor ringing discordant. Guilliman waved one hand and Aeonid continued. ''What if the vong are able to make landfall on Corellia or worse - Centerpoint station? As I understand it, the archaeotech device is the key to holding their fleet in the trap. If it is boarded, it could be lost. Not turned against us, as I imagine the vong would rather die than use technology, but if it is brought offline at the wrong time¡­'' Thiel shrugged his broad shoulders, pauldrons shifting. ''I would volunteer my company to travel aboard Vow, as insurance.'' ''Granted. Sergeant Optarch has proven an able second.'' He frowned at his father''s words. ''I had imagined-'' ''You have another task, my son. While the vong are broken at Corellia, I bid you to visit the Jedi Praxeum.'' His stomach filled with ice, Optarch''s words only hours ago thrown back at him, now mocking. Mouth dry, Aeonid took a moment to master himself. ''My lord, I am attempting to follow your command. Codicier Rubio has given me many insights, and together I am sure we can unlock the secrets in the materials sent-'' ''''My lord'' now, is it Thiel? This isn''t punishment, this is my trust in you. Optarch can handle your company until you return. You are not just to learn of the Force, you are to take a measure of the Jedi in their own home.'' Mutely, Thiel bowed his head, making the sign of the aquila, his tongue untrustworthy. Guilliman returned his attention to Admiral Regil, discussing the fruits of the Chief Navigatrix''s liaison with the talented Jedi Eryl Besa. He tried to follow the words said, something about the Navigatrix managing to, with the aid of the Jedi, determine anchor-worlds like Bothawui and Coruscant, among others, feeling out the texture of the far calmer immaterium, but blood thrummed in his ears. He fought Skywalker but once, in a friendly spar. The Jedi Master, he knew with absolute conviction, could kill Thiel without a single injury. If other Jedi compared, even partially, to the prowess of the deceptively unassuming man, the Jedi Praxeum was perhaps the most dangerous place in the entire galaxy. Aeonid Thiel did not fear death. He feared failure. The Primarch''s command to pursue the Force, after Thiel''s admission of that single, brief, shocking moment of connection he felt in deep meditation, worried at his gut. He could assemble a thousand theoreticals. He could run simulation on the ork, he could speak lectures of the eldar and the hrud, he could describe the nephalem and, even, speak on the proscribed rangda. In battle he trusted absolutely his skill - though middling - with a blade, his aim with a bolter. The Force was none of those. It was not even the dangerous minefield of the Warp, filtered through the careful lens of the Librarius. Tylos Rubio wielded the power of the immaterium dispassionately, with calculae and rubrics, exacting cantrips and the clarity the Imperial Truth provided. There was no mysticism of meditation or ''searching the soul'', at no point did Rubio mention spiritual dross. Thiel had flipped through the guidance Skywalker had sent. It dripped with it. If Skywalker had told him that day that he felt the touch of the Warp on his soul, Aeonid could have borne it. He would have reeled in disgust, hating that he was connected to the hostile plane that the Word Bearers, in their madness, unleashed. But he could learn it, master it, under the careful tutelage of Rubio and the others, who in turn had been led along the path by the masterful guidance of such infallible figures as Sanguinius and Jaghatai and Magnus, sons of the Emperor, from whose empirical wisdom their own techniques stemmed. To learn this Force, Aeonid would have to do as he was instructed, as all other means had failed. Theoretical: the Force does not respond to any experiments he has yet tried. Practical: it is to the Jedi that he must turn. To witches and aliens, to faith and belief and backward spiritual incantations. The Primarch so ordered and so he must do. Information is victory. To do otherwise would be to fail, and the very thought of it - he glanced to his father, at the moment leaning to the side, waving a hand as he spoke, and imagined his patrician features hardening. His brows drawn together, lips thinning, shadows stealing across his sculptural features. Disappointment. Disdain. Repugnance. At Calth, waiting for censure, he was ready to bear all that and more. His theoreticals were sound, his practicals valid. He was ready to argue his case even to a son of the Emperor. He was sure Guilliman would agree, when his own works were quoted back. He could bear the momentary disappointment, for he knew it would fade to understanding. Aeonid imagined returning, the invisible power of the Force in both hands and his father turning away. He could not fail, but neither could he imagine success. He cursed Luke Skywalker and his open, excited good nature. The damning words that, once spoken, could never be put back. Begging dismissal, claiming need to prepare, Aeonid nearly fled the chamber.? Contingence Chapter V V: Simple Tasks
From hyperspace emerged a spindle of stone, as long on its axis as the greatest triangle ships of the infidels. Its surface was a spiral, twisted longitudinally from prow to aft, it seemed, from liquid rock, until it was a rippling surface of grooves that caught and drew the eye. Glossy, obsidian black veins flecked alongside bold crimson and azure coral that sprouted seemingly at random. These fronds of coral seemed delicate, lace-like, until scale was realized and their thready filaments revealed themselves to be festooned with yorik-et and yorik-trema in their thousands. She was Yammka, chariot of the Supreme Commander, and she came from the edge of this heathen galaxy to greet Malik Carr. Ritual drums thundered and wailing lungs filled the air with a heptatone, rousing chorus. Biots were squeezed or prodded, induced by whip and talon and their cries were rich and supplicative to the gods who ordained their creation. As was right - all from the hand of Yun-Yuuzhan, back to the hand of Yun-Yuuzhan. Menageries of avians and insects and trumpetters whistled and droned and barked and Malik Carr held his shoulders back and spine straight, commanding his claw to stay still and quiescent for once. Villip-choirs slaved to illuminant lichen created a star-studded sweep across one bulkhead of Blood Spat in Wrath''s primary receiving grotto. Revealed was the distant Hutt world ''Runaway Prince'', seeded now for the sowing of yorik coral, the fruiting of villip shrubs, the yields of amphistaff groves. A field of artificial asteroids stretched beyond mortal sight, each with its own aspect: smooth or grooved, painted or barren, faceted or encrusted. Starlight slithered along coral arms and glinted from mica-canopies. Yammka loomed close, the sister flagship bonded to Blood''s own dovin basals, holding both grand cruisers in a gravitic embrace. Even a single, lapidary orb was visible, from which spiraled a dozen arms in mimicry of the galaxy the Chosen People were destined to conquer. Domain Choka, a worldship, vanguard of so many more. Supreme Commander Nas Choka and his closest commanders, foremost subalterns, most pious of priesthoods and most cunning of shapers, were conveyed by dovin basal cushions ranked in tiers above the deck. Before them came serried ranks of flutters: each living creature that resembled trailing banners of patterned cloth. To either side of the arriving Hand of the Warmaster were arrayed five thousand warriors, dressed in fine battle tunics and bearing amphistaves and coufee wrapped about bicep and forearm. The only ugly accompaniment was a small space set aside for two hundred prisoners from Gyndine, Tynna and Kalarba. Though wretched, they were the pick of the harvest, already purified by incense, cleansed by sound and implanted with bony growths at voice box and jaw so that they might not pollute the moment. Behind Choka''s precession marched his own command, lockstep footfalls crushing an ankle-deep carpet of velvet and perfumed flowers, whose petals gave up sweet aromas and lured in fluttering insects whose wings wafted further the scents. "My absence will be noted." Malik Carr''s jaw tightened but he gave no other outward sign of his displeasure. Nom Anor, Executor Nom Anor, beside and behind him, spoke so modulated that only Carr was sure to have heard him. If he had had his way, the meddling Executor would still lurk in whatever hole he had been drug from, but these moments had an order and a ritual that was demanded. His Eminence Harrar, his turban tall, stood at Malik Carr''s right. Master Shaper Qesud Qesh, in her twitching, living robe and tendrils headdress, to his left. Behind him were his own subalterns and attendants and Harrar''s priesthood coven; Qesh''s acolytes and a handful of Nom Anor''s Intendants. All were revealed in their modified, tattooed, scarified glory. Falling to his knees as Nas Choka arrived, the Supreme Commander stepping lightly from cushion to dais, Malik Carr and his command cadre pressed forehead to coral deck. He twitched his head as he did so, to better bare the nape of his neck to his superior, tassels of his skullcap sliding aside. The drumming, hissing and shrieking trailed off, solemn, mournful, into the silence of baited breath. On the broader deck, every warrior took to one knee, head bowed in respect. Face still pressed to coral, Malik Carr spoke loudly, voice echoing from repeating tympanic membranes that lined the vaulted ceiling. "Be welcome, Supreme Commander Choka. Blood Spat in Wrath and all here are yours to command. Our lives are yours." The insects spoke as one: five heroic bursts of noise that quietened, taken up by another cluster of insects, again and again. Nas Choka raised his baton of command and they fell to a background hum, anticipation curling in Malik Carr''s gut. "I bring salutations from Warmaster Tsavong Lah, in whose hands my life is held. He commends you on the work you have done in preparing the way, and he looks forward with joy to the time he may join you in battle." Nas Choka lowered himself into provided throne, hewn of carved and polished coral, where black-and-grey feathered avians perched, wafting scented air with broad wings. His coterie surrounded him, all standing. "Rise." As one with his own subordinates, Malik Carr rocked up to his knees, then his feet. Nas Choka''s stature was modest, but welled nevertheless with power and authority. Muscular legs braced him and he sat rigidly erect on the throne as if a statue himself. Facial tattoos, a flattened nose, decurved eyes above large, blued sacs, marked him out with regal demeanour. A bloodred command cloak fell from the tops of his shoulders and innumerable golden rings grew from fingers and banded his wrists, his forearms, his biceps. Black throughout, his long, fine hair was braided and combed back from sloped forehead to fall to his waist. "And to you, I offer my own congratulations on your successful harvest. Gyndine, Tynna, Obroa-skai, Kalarba, Druckenwell: these worlds are well timed. Their captives will bloody your nomination. But before we attend sacrifice or learn from Commander Malik Carr the status of our crusade, we will reward some of you for the measure of your commitment." Nas Choka waved forward his high priest, who spoke with a high-pitched and atonal voice. "We thank the Gods for delivering us to this promised domain. May the blood you shed purify and cleanse these worlds for the coming of Supreme Overlord Shimrra. We honor the gods with the nurturing sap whose font is in ourselves, that they might thrive and grant that we might continue to caretake in their creations. All we do, we do in emulation and veneration of them." Shrouded cushions that followed Nas Choka were now maneuvered to the fore, and the flutters that hid them lifted away. Five meter-high statues were exposed, many within the hold closing eyes briefly in humility. There was Yun-Yuuzhan, the Cosmic Lord, King of Sacrifice, made marred and lessened by those parts he had cloven away to make all Gods and the Yuuzhan Vong themselves. Here was Yun-Yammka, the Slayer, the Prince of Blood, whose tentacles held every implement of war the Yuuzhan Vong knew and more besides. Beside him was his twin Yun-Harla, the Trickster, Maiden of Betrayal, veiled and suggestive in hip and pose, giving little but alluring promises and certain treachery. The fourth, and most grotesque, was Yun-Shuno, the Pardoner, Caring Mother, covered in unlidded eyes and twisted scarifications, who bore witness to the Shamed. The fifth and final, but no less important, was Yun-ne''Shel, the Modeler, She Who Shapes, bearing a child in her lesser arms. "For Master Shaper Qesh: a qahsa of ripe secrets, delivered from Domain Choka. For Eminence Harrar: dosain from the gardens of Jamaane, in whose bellies ferment the most sacred incense." Attendants with bowed heads bustled forward to deliver sealed clamshell containers, placed at the feet of those honored. "Belek tiu, Supreme Commander. You honor my subordinates, and so honor me." "I do. What gift have you in return?" Malik Carr bared his teeth, letting his long claw tik-tak on the deck. "Supreme Commander, I offer all the spans of this galaxy beneath our sway, I offer worlds beyond count who already bow their necks. I offer sacrifices beyond measure and I offer lastly the way to the Core." Nas Choka smiled, lipless and thin, hiding his teeth, and Malik Carr knew he had done well. "A kingly gift indeed, Commander. Subaltern Doshao, come forward. Subaltern Sata''ak, Subaltern Harmae, Subaltern Tugorn." The four stepped past Malik Carr, lesser-grade officers trembling before the regard of Nas Choka. Implanters scuttled from recesses in the throne, five in total. At first Malik Carr was confused, but the fifth crept unerringly toward him. "For your actions on the world called Dantooine; Subaltern Doshao, be elevated. For your actions on the world called Ithor; Subaltern Sata''ak, be elevated. For your actions on the world called Obroa-skai; Subaltern Harmae, be elevated. For your actions on the world called Gyndine, and the sowing of Belkadan; Subaltern Tugorn, be elevated." Nas Choka''s gimlet gaze pierced Malik Carr lastly. "For his actions against the infidel and his subversion of the Hutts; Commander Malik Carr, be elevated." The implanters climbed their bodies with glacial slowness. Hooked claws prickled flesh and the six-limbed organisms perched about the upper back and neck of each officer. Malik Carr, who had known the caress of the Implanter before, felt the feather-touch of its long, bladed forelimbs the moment before they struck deep. Cleaving clear to the bone, rasping against the very joint of his shoulder, his blood ran free and thick and he did not even blink. Before him, his Subalterns sweated and trembled but made no sound. Perspiration ran in tracks as the Implanters spread wide the incisions, clipping off lengths of horny growth from their own bodies, tucking it into the wound. Resinous exudate welded it to the bone. Where his subalterns received their first, Malik Carr received a modification: longer, thicker, not replacing the existing hooks at his shoulders for the command cape that even now darkened with his vitae, but rather anchors for trailing pennants. Sluglike ngdin wound about their feet, sopping up the blood offered while hooded acolytes attended with shallow bowls to catch the fluids. Harrar himself caught Malik Carr''s sanguine offering, the old priest''s eyes bright with shared humor. Their star continued to rise, ever upwards. Pleased with their sangfroid, Nas Choka gestured and four neatly folded and differently colored cloaks were produced. The Supreme Commander gestured to Malik Carr, who attended him at his throne, kneeling. The blood-filled bowls were conveyed to the statues, Harrar handing off Malik Carr''s, where the High Priest then drizzled the offering over the dark-stained idols. Cloaks were shaken out and hung from newly-sprouted shoulder-spikes. "You are each escalated and remade. Now that you wear the cloak of command, you will be given ships, made sector chiefs, and tasked with overseeing and reeducating the populace of those worlds that make up your domain. Malik Carr, you are Commander no longer." Choka accepted a tightly wound roll of squirming silk and held it aloft. In one swift motion, he spiked the loose end of it upon Malik Carr''s new right shoulder-spike, letting the biot unspool and flutter in the avian breeze. "To your feet, Warleader Malik Carr. Your honor is known; your campaign praised." "For the glory of the Gods!" shouted ten-thousand throats. "One final matter. Executor Nom Anor." With some surprise, the flamboyantly dressed Intendent joined Malik Carr before Nas Choka. He only inclined his head in respect: though of low rank within his caste, he was not obligated to offer true genuflection to the Supreme Commander save in ceremony. "I am not entitled to escalate you. Nor would I, if given the chance. Know this, Executor: I would instead be inclined to demote you." With some pleasure, Malik Carr watched the other Yuuzhan Vong''s mouth work several times. He prayed that Nom Anor would speak foolishly or out of turn, dreaming to be able to strike him down, but the canny spy had not made it this far by being a true fool. "Your actions, Executor, have been monitored and discussed, even so far as Shimrra - glory to Him - and his court. It is the opinion of many that you have strayed from your course. First you ally with the Praetorite Vong, who believed against portents that they could establish a pioneering invasion without suffering tragic consequences." "It was not of my invention," Nom Anor offered, as Nas Choka paused. "My assignment was to destabilize the New Republic as I saw fit. Like the Imperial Moffs or the worlds that I undermined - dozens of them - the Praetorite Vong were a tool." "Yet they were able to obtain a yammosk, albeit an imperfect one." Nom Anor paled, throat working as he swallowed. Malik Carr mused that while his ascension was sweet, this might indeed be yet sweeter. "I may have mentioned-" "You facilitated it." "-from a certain point of view-" "I do not care for your doublespeak, Executor. You have made distance from Prefect Da''Gara''s catastrophe and in so doing escaped the price they paid, but it has not been your only ''miscalculation''. High Priest Jakan''s daughter, Elan, and her death, is on your head. I will add he is quite displeased with you, and far from an ally." "Elan''s death was her own doing, if it even happened. We have no tell of the fate of her or her mascot Vergere. I cannot be accountable for what may have been." "You deny spinning the plot?" "I deny masterminding. I offered assistance, nothing more. Elan''s plot was her own." "Is it true that Elan was to assassinate many Jeedai knights?" "It is." Nas Choka''s voice filled with false curiosity. "How strange this fascination with the Jeedai. I am not convinced they pose a serious threat to our conquest. Warleader Carr, did you not entrap and slay a Jeedai who thought to act on Obroa-skai?" Though grateful to the Supreme Commander for downplaying the shocking death toll, they both knew that two other Jeedai escaped unharmed. For each that Yuuzhan Vong slew, yet more eluded their grasp. "I did." "It is not a threat that the Jedi pose, but rather the Force they worship. A mystical power, it is said-" "And is this power greater than the Gods?" Nom Anor chewed his lip. "No, Supreme Commander." "Then it will be extinguished as we bring a better way and a better idea to this galaxy. I will hear no more of the Jeedai. I am more concerned with this subversion of the Hutts and the plans I hear you have spun to salvage your reputation. Warleader Malik Carr, you shall have business elsewhere. To you, I task the discovery and destruction of the faction known as ''Imperials'' and the Aistarteez they command. Though a minor concern, I will brook no distractions or unexpected factors before the Warmaster''s arrival. All must be in order." Eager to finally divest himself of the meddling Executor, Malik Carr saluted, stepping back from the dais where Nom Anor still remained in the Supreme Commander''s full attention. Harrar came beside him, voice tempered low, while the Executor was interrogated again. The priests Nas Choka brought began to make way down to the captives. The sacrifice would commence shortly, then all would disperse and more private deliberations had. "You are ordered to do as your heart desires, Warleader," Harrar murmured. "To chase the aistarteez, who have insulted you." Tik-tak, went Malik Carr''s claw, gouging coral. "They will be as nothing," he dismissed. "Few in number, simple in tactic, weakened by reliance on dead machines. When the Warmaster comes, we will have a number of unique sacrifices in his name, little more."?
Giggling up a storm, Sannah stayed two steps ahead of Anakin; the Melodie girl bounced nimbly back and forth. Pausing a moment, she stuck out her tongue, poised on the balls of one foot. "Come on, hero, cantcha catch a girl?" Anakin wobbled left, right, left again. The Force was right there, just begging to answer - he threw a lopsided smirk to Tahiri, circling behind Sannah. The blonde Jedi bit her lower lip and nodded. He lunged right, landing on one narrow wooden platform and Sannah, just as he expected, darted back and away from him. Right into Tahiri. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. "Hutt-" A resounding splash cut off the rest of Sannah''s exclamation, the girl vanishing into the calm waters of the oxbow lake before she burst back to the surface, spluttering and glaring vibroblades. Her webbed fingers made treading water easy and she spat a spout of water up, falling far short of Anakin. "Come on Sannah, don''t be a sore loser. This is your game, after all." "Please, you two cheated. No Force!" Tahiri crouched down like a Balmorran hedge frog, grabbing onto the edge of the wooden pole she perched on. She peered down at Sannah, treading water a meter below and made finger-blasters. "Didn''t need it, did we Anakin?" He shrugged. "Not really. Gotta watch your six, Sannah." The Melodie blew a lumberry before vaulting cleanly out of the lake, buoyed by the Force to perch on another post. It had been Sannah''s idea, but Tahiri is who convinced Anakin to go along with it. The Melodie had an idea for a fun way of training (and making up games besides), based on traditions from her homeworld. The idea was to take a dozen or two wooden posts, of different sizes, and drive them vertically into the lakebed. Each one at a slightly different height, each one with a different circumference, some at slight angles - Sannah said that it was a way for young Melodies to hone their agility and reflexes, as defense against the vicious predators of Yavin 8. It was also fun, so there was that. They worked together to make it happen - Anakin had his lightsaber to take down old snags and prune away branches. Sannah judged where to put the poles and how to arrange them, and then, well¡­it was just like how Anakin remembered it. The young Melodie didn''t have the talent or the strength to help with the massive Massassi logs, but with Tahiri, he didn''t even break a sweat. Anakin reduced the weight of a log, and Tahiri lifted it from the ground. Anakin rotated the log, while Tahiri maintained its weightlessness. Then Tahiri aimed it into the lakebed, while Anakin tripled its weight to pound the pointed end deep into the muck. Seamless. Thoughtless. Instinctual. The way they had in the past, from the silliest things like lifting each other up to sneak out of their bedrooms at night to surviving fatal drops in his grandfather''s own castle. They didn''t even need words. Sannah wrung out her hair, still scowling, but she was fighting a smile. Tahiri and Sannah chattered back and forth, taking a break in the midday sun. Anakin lowered himself down to the water, the cool lake banishing the humidity of the jungle. Not far from the Temple, this lake was one of many, carved out millenia ago by the shifting rivers. All three of them knew it well - it was a favorite swimming spot for the Jedi youths. Jacen and Jaina and their friends, when they were still on Yavin, made it a habit and Anakin was happy to see the younger generations following suit. There were fish in the lake, but small ones, nothing dangerous like the toothy lurkers in the larger lakes and seas of the moon and besides - a Jedi had little to worry about from a nibble or two. Listening to his two friends laughing and joking while their arms windmilled and they danced from foot to foot, playing at balancing¡­ Cupping his fist, he shot a handful of water at Tahiri, who didn''t even look his way, just leaning to the side to avoid it. Was it so long ago that this was the kind of thing that really was what they got up to, day to day? Sannah hadn''t been around as much, but after Anakin left, she and Tahiri grew closer in the months he was gone. Things were simpler. All they did back then was, you know, save the lost souls of Massassi children, infiltrate his grandfather''s old castle, fight giant Purella spiders and krayt dragons and run off across the Galaxy alone. So much simpler! Saving Lyric and chasing Uldir - storybook adventures. The kind of things that his Uncle would tell him when he was a kid. Simple and clean, even if at the time, it certainly didn''t feel that way. It didn''t feel like it was only three years ago. Sometimes it felt like Sernpidal alone was a lifetime ago. "Stop being gloomy," Tahiri groused. "I''m not being gloomy!" "I saw rainclouds," Sannah said solemnly. "I was just thinking, that''s all." "You do that too much." "Yeah, you should stop." The positive to all the things he''d done, since the war with the Yuuzhan Vong began, was that it took nothing at all to send both his ''friends'' splashing into the lake with a veritable tidal wave.?
Later, they lay out in the sun on the shore, basking in the sinking sun and drying off. Sharp barks of runyips foraging echoed across the lake and flocks of gackle bats started to gather in the eaves. Kitehawks shree-d from perches deep in the Massassi canopy. Sannah was dozing, arm thrown across her eyes, mumbling now and then. Movement caught his eye, and Anakin rolled his head to the side to see Tahiri looking at him. Her hair was a tangled mess, still half damp and sticking to her forehead. Something held his tongue and he just watched her. There was something strange about Tahiri, something he hadn''t been able to put his finger on in the few weeks he''d been back to Yavin, when he had time to think about it. It wasn''t often - Master Ikrit often wanted to talk and Uncle Luke had him running all over the place helping with repairs in the Temple and working on the starship pool with him. Working with Artoo and Uncle Luke on some of the old mothballed starfighters was some of the best meditation he''d ever had. Then he spent time with Master Katarn, when he was around, refining his lightsaber forms and sharing what he''d learned about fighting the Vong. Cilghal was holding lessons now, since she didn''t have to spend all her time recovering and could actually get around with a little help or with a cane, and considering it was about purging venoms and poisons, Anakin couldn''t miss those. It wasn''t just Aunt Mara he was thinking of, but the nasty venom the Vong amphistaves spit. Then the kids always wanted some of his time too, like Valin, saying they wanted stories but he really knew it was reassurance. Especially for Valin: his father was still in seclusion, hiding away after Ithor, and the young Jedi was on shaky ground. Sometimes, though, when he and Tahiri were talking, or doing their Force tricks, or just enjoying each other''s company, it came back to him. She looked different, somehow - even though she was still the Tahiri he''d always known. It was like there was something beneath the face of the girl he''d known, like mountains rising, driven by the internal heat of a planet. Something you couldn''t stop, even if you wanted to. He couldn''t put his finger on it, but Anakin kept finding he''d been staring at Tahiri, when she''d smile and punch his shoulder. "Do you really have to go?" she whispered, quiet enough not to disturb Sannah. "I''m the only one who can talk to Centerpoint," Anakin sighed. "It''s not really a choice. Admiral Brand is sure about this trap and without Centerpoint, it all falls apart." Tahiri stuck out her tongue and readjusted herself, looking back up at the sky. "I thought you said they had all kinds of scientists and technicians." "They do, but¡­they said it could take years. We don''t have years, Tahiri." Yavin was just peeking over the far canopy of trees, red-orange orb bloating and eating into the sky. Obroa was just as big, though a totally different color. Chilly, to Yavin''s warmth. The big gas world was a constant companion, like a big older brother that always watched over the moon and the Praxeum. "Yeah," she agreed. "It feels like we did until all of a sudden we just didn''t anymore. When you left with Mara¡­" It wasn''t what he meant, but Anakin didn''t correct her. "You didn''t even say goodbye." "I didn''t know I''d be gone that long." "Does that matter?" Anakin chewed his lip. Trust Tahiri to know exactly what to say, in a way that just couldn''t deny. He should''ve said goodbye. Just a wave and a hug - because Tahiri liked hugs - and a ''see you later'' because he didn''t think that the weeks would become months and that''s what friends were supposed to do. The problem was that Tahiri was pretty much the only friend Anakin had, because Jacen and Jaina didn''t count. It made it a little hard sometimes, to know what to do. What was right to do. Sneaking a glance at her, he felt an uncomfortable knot in his stomach. Jacen and Jaina would always be there for him, even with their own lives like Jaina in Rogue Squadron. Tahiri though? She''d found him; that first day at the Praxeum. She didn''t have to stick around. She was his best friend, and he hadn''t really treated her that well, had he? "No, it doesn''t. I''m sorry, Tahiri, I should''ve - yeah." "We sent all those emails, Anakin." Her voice was a little louder, but Sannah still lightly snored on her own towel. "Sannah didn''t think anything of it but-" Tahiri propped herself up on her elbows, looking over at Anakin. "You never even reached out in the Force. Was - did you forget about us? Me?" "No, I - I missed you too. Of course I did. No one knows me the way you-" Anakin cut himself off. "Right," Tahiri agreed. "No one knows you like I do, and you don''t want anyone to. You keep all of that stuff tied up inside you, where no one can touch it. Like Chewbacca - last time you were here, you wouldn''t even talk about him! Now you''re acting like you''re past it and you won''t even talk about the other things-" Sannah grumbled and they both froze, but the Melodie''s presence in the Force was still muddy and sleepy. "You''re right," Anakin whispered. "I don''t really want to talk about that." "Why?" She rolled onto her side, chartreuse eyes searching over his face. "Why," she asked again. "Aren''t we friends? Best friends? What are we, Anakin? A year ago, we didn''t have any secrets." "It''s not secrets, it''s - we''re still best friends." Uncharacteristically, Tahiri didn''t have anything to say. He''d always been bad at words, at talking, except to Tahiri. Or, hadn''t been except with Tahiri. So he didn''t talk. He just reached out to her and her fingertips in the Force found his. That familiar feeling sunk into him, a kind of rhythm, fast-paced, wordless, like a heart skipping beats as if there was simply too much energy to bother coming up with words. He couldn''t help the corner of his mouth quirking up. There was more - and she showed him. That heartbeat went erratic, moody, confused, stuttering away without any counterpart, even though it kept reaching out, kept reaching out, kept hoping - never hearing the echo, never feeling the reflected warmth. He felt the lonely days, trying to pretend interest in lessons. The lonely nights, when she turned in early with no one to talk to. Researching how to make a lightsaber, all on her own, the ugly feeling of wrongness that she wasn''t doing it with him. The hope, bundled into each email, sent with a jolt in the stomach, a spark of excitement that guttered out as hours turned to days and then weeks until she tried again. She never kept anything from him. She never hid anything, she always let him in. What are we, Anakin? So he shared back. He let her feel the dark hours before morning, with his head in his hands and unable to sleep, remembering Chewie and the fireball and the way his Dad looked at him. He let her feel Daeshara''cor''s hands in his as she faded away. The way his mouth dried and stomach dropped and the world went cold the first time he had to fight a Yuuzhan Vong warrior half again as tall as he was. How even after fighting hundreds of them - killing hundreds of them - he still was so afraid every time. Everything he wanted to keep away from her, he let out. Because it was Tahiri and she asked. A tear leaked down her cheek but she smiled. "It''s not that bad, hero boy. We almost got eaten by a krayt dragon, remember?" He had to bite down on a knuckle to keep from laughing, the crazy urge bubbling up in a mix of release and shock and the utter incongruity that after he let her feel all that, the first thing Tahiri thinks of is that in the grand scheme of things, a big Tatooine lizard was probably worse. "Yeah, we almost did." "And then there were the Reels," "-as if I could forget those-" "I don''t think we really knew at the time, but that was all really, really dangerous." Anakin frowned. "The Tusken Raiders did say they were going to kill your dad if we failed. That was pretty serious." She rolled her eyes. He was pretty sure if he was asked to, he could animate a holo of that exact look, he''d seen it so many times. "Of course, but we were kids-" "We''re still ''kids'', you know-" "-we were kids and everything always just worked out. But Anakin, since you brought them up, I was raised by Tusken Raiders. I saw people die before I could even really remember it. You don''t have to be afraid to share with me because you think it''ll¡­it''ll hurt me, or scare me, or, or make me not care about you." She sent a warm glow back at him, through their bond, indescribable but full of the kind of feelings memories bring when you catch a certain smell, or hear a song. "Sorry for being dumb," he murmured. "Sorry you had to be alone," she whispered back. "I''m not blaming you, dummy. I just want my best friend to be okay." A breeze rustled from over the lake, chilly enough that Tahiri shivered. The sun was definitely sneaking even lower, heading toward Yavin as it came up. It would be dark enough soon, and Anakin considered their lightweight clothes, still damp. "Probably should head back before we catch a cold, or something." "Or get eaten by gackle bats." They roused Sannah, who steadfastly refused to go anywhere until Anakin hoisted her onto his back, Wokling style, at which point she promptly started to doze again. Tahiri snickered, gathering up their towels. "Geez," Anakin complained, "Sannah, you''re way too old for this." "Shdup," she said, muffled into his shoulder. "Don''t care. ''M pooped." Dinner was already on the tables when they got back, which woke Sannah up enough for the Melodie to dig in, though still half asleep and propped up on one hand. Anakin and Tahiri ate mostly in silence, lost in thoughts from before. Centerpoint kept rising to the forefront for Anakin: Jacen had said he would meet Anakin there and his Uncle still wanted to talk to him about it before he left. Admiral Brand said it would be a short responsibility. All he had to do was initialize the station, let the scientists and technicians get their readings, maybe do a few diagnostics to help them, then he could come back to Yavin again. After the fall of Kalarba and Tynna, it seemed like the Yuuzhan Vong were taking a pause, especially in the northern range of the Galaxy. Consolidating their fleets, biding their time, planning a new offensive - who knew, really, but clearly he and Tahiri still had a lot to work out. He resolved to be a better friend and stop acting like he had to protect her. She''d punch him anyway, if he said so, since she was going to be a Jedi Knight like he was, and it wasn''t rational anyway. He couldn''t keep her away from the Yuuzhan Vong forever, they got their tattooed fingers into everything. And it wasn''t fair to pretend like the war wasn''t going on, not when her own homeworld was threatened now too. Tatooine wasn''t far from the front and she still had her adoptive father, Sliven, living there. Before they both turned in for the night, they stopped before Anakin''s quarters. Tahiri had her own just down the hall, moved from when she was younger. "Centerpoint, then I''ll be back. Okay?" "I''ll steal Qorl''s old TIE and hunt you down if you don''t," Tahiri promised. "Or just get myself into the worst kind of trouble so you have to come back anyway." She dipped a shrug. "I''ve got options."? Contingence Chapter VI VI: Myopic Gods
In glorious repose - imperious, regal - Borga Besadii Diori gazed down through half-lidded eyes at her genuflecting guest. Pedric Cuf, of the Peace Brigade, knelt and bowed his bald head low, eyes downcast in just the right amount of humility and respect. The human wore his usual costume: low, black leather boots, a stiff-collared jacket and pegged trousers. It pleased Borga greatly when Pedric Cuf would intercede instead, between the Cartels and the Yuuzhan Vong, as the man knew his place well and appreciated the finer points of diplomacy and culture. The rude and visually offensive invaders offended every sense Borga possessed. As the reigning Diori, Borga had a taste immaculate and unparalleled in the Galaxy, and even she couldn''t find a single redeeming aesthetic quality in the lumpen, scarred, mutilated bodies of the Yuuzhan Vong. A shame, really, as treasures were always a pleasure to be added to collections. Pedric Cuf rose carefully, daring to look up at Borga, where she lounged high above on her grav-throne. The man''s little acts of daring was a delicious spice and she congratulated herself on her munificence in not demanding the Peace Brigader be whipped for his impertinence. "We welcome you back to Nal Hutta, in the name of our mutual¡­associates." The human''s thin lips curved into something that might approximate a smile, though it remained as dead as his dark eyes. "I am ever at your service, and the service of the Supreme Commander." Borga sniffed, burying her indignant anger that said Supreme Commander hadn''t deigned to honor her by coming himself by selecting a choice carnala from a tank by her hand. The docile creature went down as easy as the first time she sampled them, borne by Pedric Cuf himself along with the Yuuzhan Vong commander Malik Carr. It soothed her rustled pride, reminding of the benefits of aligning with the newcomers. "Yes, this Nas Choka. We are disappointed to not properly greet his fearsome and noble person and provide for him the pleasures of Nal Hutta." Cuf bowed again. "The Supreme Commander sends his regards and his regrets. He is most busy with matters of war and strategy and, of course, the first casualty of duty is leisure." "Noble, as expected," Borga agreed, though personally, the point of being in charge was to be able to enjoy the fruits of other''s labor, but the Vong''s rejection of that obvious truth wasn''t unique. Not many beings in the Galaxy understood what she, and many other Hutts, took as gospel. "We wish the Supreme Commander well, then, in his campaigns, and we are sure that our humble stars are far from his plans." "You pre-empt my purpose, your Most Potent Excellency." Cuf began to pace, back and forth, Borga''s majordomo, a Rodian named Leenik, keeping close watch. The Peace Brigader was no stranger, but Borga demanded only the height of watchfulness in her closest confidants. Should the man prove false, or worse, an assassin, a thousand blaster bolts were ready to flense him to his very bones. After all, the Peace Brigade were a collection of brigands and pirates, turncoats and cowards. They threw in with the Yuuzhan Vong like a Gammorean prostrating on its belly, clutching at the invader''s skirts in the hopes of some scraps, some morsels of power. It made them dangerous and ill-advisable to trust. Not like the Hutt Cartels, of course, who were loyal always to one thing and one thing only: family, and then business. That predictability, Borga thought with smug satisfaction, meant that any interlocutor always knew where they stood with a Hutt. "The Supreme Commander has assessed the front lines and has made¡­certain decisions. As regards your offer of transportation of captives and workers, in exchange for information on imperiled star systems, the Supreme Commander has declared that service extraneous. However, as a token of goodwill, from time to time, he has allowed that advance notice of activities will be furnished, as long as the Hutts remain a neutral party." Cuf smiled, dark-stained teeth oddly sharp. He picked at invisible flecks of lint on his jacket, tugging the edge to straight it yet further before continuing. "For example, delivery of spice to the Bothawui system can be resmed without fear of¡­entanglements." Borga licked her generous lips, leaning forward slightly. Her grav-couch rocked a little, alarming Leenik. "We thank you for this - and we are sure the Bothans will do likewise." Cuf, a picture of innocence, cocked his head to the side. "Just for the spice, of course?" Borga harrumphed, fishing out another carnala, this time rolling it about her cavernous mouth with her tongue, enjoying the panicked flailing of vestigial limbs before swallowing it whole. "Precisely. For the spice." Cuf''s smile grew yet wider. "Of course, Almighty One." Tapping at her near-nonexistant chin with one smallish hand, Borga pulled a thoughtful look, pretending to have the thought suddenly appear. "Bothawui is one of our most profitable locales, as you well know. As is Corellia. A Corellian without spice! The stars would grow cold, first. We have suspended deliveries there as well, and the poor people cry out for relief." Cuf said nothing. If he would make her say it, then so be it. Borga had no fear in her own palace, least of all to a turncoat human made pet of extragalactic fanatics. "Might our shipments to Corellia be resumed as well? We mourn the deprivation those fine people endure in our absence." "The Supreme Commander is ambivalent to the plight of addicts among the Five Worlds¡­but if you asked me, perhaps they should take this chance to get clean, so to speak." Borga absorbed this. So Corellia it was. Just as the New Republic suspected - Bothawui or Corellia. That bigoted Chief of State wrangled so many defending ships to protect his own homeworld that he left Corellia practically wide open. Only a fool would give up such a tempting target. From Corellia, the Vong would have a door to the Core, and Coruscant. Though, from what had been filtered from Hutt agents within the crumbling galactic government, there were signs the New Republic wanted Corellia to be attacked. After feeding NRI intelligence about the Yuuzhan Vong attack on Tynna, Borga had been personally thanked for aiding the war effort and reminded that the Galaxy lived or died together. A saccharine notion, as worthless as a canister of spice jettisoned in deep space, but it did make her curious. If the New Republic desired Corellia to be the Yuuzhan Vong target, they couldn''t have made it more obvious. Such a lynchpin world left wide open, only a fool would believe it wasn''t on purpose. Yet, Nas Choka seemed to be taking the bait. Elsewise, he put the Hutts shipments to Bothawui in peril, which would be most treacherous and, the Vong had to know, ultimately a great wedge in the otherwise profitable relationship between the Vong and Hutts. With the reinforcements to the Bothan homeworld, even if Nas Choka orchestrated a trick, the Vong could well take a severe beating nevertheless. Perhaps it would be worth tipping her hand to the New Republic, so that they knew that she knew that Nas Choka, perhaps, knew. A great web of intrigue, one that delighted Borga. Backstabbing, betrayal and schemes, the finest wine to a Hutt''s palette. "We are sorry to hear this. Perhaps another day, Corellia''s pleas for spice will be answered, but-" Borga heaved a theatrical sigh "-not today."
Safely back aboard the Peace Brigade frigate that had conveyed him to Nal Hutta, ''Pedric Cuf'' was quick to sequester himself away in his private chambers, standing orders to never be disturbed except in cases of imminent immolation. Exhaling hard through his nose and coughing several times, trying to clear the chewy reek of the Hutt''s odour, ''Pedric Cuf'' snarled and flexed his fists. Jabbing a fingernail in the crease of his nose, Nom Anor winced and hissed as the obscuring ooglith masquer withdrew slowly. The biot was designed, like everything, to be exquisitely painful, though non-debilitating. Its horrible little tendrils released from each of his pores, beading tiny pricks of blood each time. Nom Anor twitched and grimaced and quietly seethed as it rolled back from his face, down his neck, and then under his dead clothes. He kicked it away with slightly more viciousness than necessary when it reached his ankles, the fleshy pile impacting a small desk with a meaty slap. Rubbing all over his exposed skin, massaging his face, he made the same promise he''d made a thousand times since coming to this accursed Galaxy. Not again. Not one more time. He''d go insane if he had to clothe in a masquer again, he just knew it. At least in private, he didn''t have to hide his discomfort or pretend twitching, religious rapture as the biot anchored into his pores. The gods - if the self-defeating, myopic fools existed - didn''t care one iota whether one lowly Intendent engaged in orgiastic delirium over a little bloodletting. There were much more healthy ways to indulge in endorphins. That much, the infidels had right. The rest - he eyed the cold, dead metal and soulless machinery of his private quarters and exhaled. The rest, well, gods or not, was unnatural and unsettling. One didn''t need the word of the gods to see the biomancy of the Yuuzhan Vong was far superior to the drab, coarse garments of the Galaxy or the ghoulish, twitching ''droids''. Even the air, processed by rattling recyclers, was tasteless and dead. Let others sacrifice limbs for the ''glory'' of the gods, Nom Anor''s true sacrifice was having to live among these people. Muttering oaths beneath his breath, and finding a shred of amusement in selecting the most pious, he perched on an uncomfortable stool and retrieved his bound-villip. The Supreme Commander wanted to know at the earliest opportunity that the message had been delivered. Nom Anor stroked the biot, watching the fruit-like communicator evert and morph into a blurry facsimile of one of many subalterns, and he composed his thoughts. The Hutts would be redoubling shipments to Bothawui. Corellia would remain untrafficked. The New Republic fleets were shifting around, slyly slinking into position. It was, and remained, precisely as the Supreme Commander foresaw.
Coruscant: gleaming, glittering, glistening Coruscant, heart of the Galaxy, seat of civilization, trophy of ages, was smoldering. Not from fires, from conflict, from invasion or unrest. Golan Defense platforms still loomed in low orbits, green-grey and menacing; hard-edged and bristling with turbolasers, pockmarked with torpedo slots. Malaghi Shesh, anchored, made a blue-hazed triangle in the sky over the capital sprawl. Defense fleet assets stacked into the highest orbits, interwoven with braided minefields. Coruscant was still at peace, but what simmered heat-shimmers from the orb itself was fear. It was at peace, but none believed it would last. The news hammered at the world like constant cannon shells. Holonet talkshows ran long in heated debates over which world would fall next. Tickers that tracked market swings and stock prices now tolled lists of the fallen. Everyone had an opinion. Systems and sectors never heard of before became the talk of the office. Each loss was a flashpoint: another brick removed from the dam of public opinion. Another wave lapped on the sandy foundation of sanity. Now demonstrators marched at Monument Plaza, bearing placards and holoprojectors emblazoned with sharp slogans and caustic rhetoric. The Triad Was Right! and Feyl''ya Fails Us! were most common and prominent among the signs, carried by Humans and Drall and Selonians who wore emblems of a circle encompassing five stars proudly at their breast. Jacen watched it all from the high window of his childhood home, fighting memories resurgent. The much publicized redeployment of Second Battle Group to Bothawui along with shuffling Fifth Battle Group out to Fondor had finally tipped the volatile balance of the Senate into full furor. Borsk Feyl''ya was being named everything from incompetent to a traitor, calls were being made daily for votes of no-confidence on both the Chief of State and the Admiral Sien Sovv. Only Senator Viqi Shesh''s unexpected but steadfast support of the Bothan kept enough from rallying to enact the vote, but the junior Senator''s influence was waning and wouldn''t last long. The real upheaval came from Corellia. Left totally and visibly exposed, the five worlds were on the verge of a very real revolution. It pained Jacen every time he thought of it - the Senate-selected Governess was a friend of his. He''d heard Governor-General Marcha, Duchess of Mastigophorous, was doing everything she could, but with riots erupting in Coronet, Meccha, L''pwacc Den-Port and other major cities across the Five Brothers, there wasn''t much the Drall could do. If only they knew, Jacen thought again, watching the tiny, toy-like figures chant and wave banners. If only we could tell them. The Corellian nationalists, born from the banked embers of the old Saccorian Triad, would be singing a different tune indeed if they knew the lengths the New Republic Defense Force was going to re-activate Centerpoint. Between that station and all five planetary repulsors, the Corellian system was about to become the single most defended system in all of known space¡­but also the site of what could also be the single largest battle since the collapse of the Empire. Turning away from the vista, Jacen frowned. Maybe they''d still be mad, he considered, given everything. Centerpoint or not, the coming battle could leave hundreds of thousands dead and the Yuuzhan Vong survivors loose in the system. Then, with the power of the ancient station revealed, that also painted a truly enormous target on their backs. The Yuuzhan Vong had shown powers no one imagined possible - yanking down moons like it wasn''t even a challenge - and Jacen privately feared what other inventions they might have secreted away. That''s what Kyp and the others didn''t understand. What Anakin didn''t understand. Jacen wasn''t afraid of fighting. It was easy to fight. You just turned on your lightsaber and swung it. Or aimed a blaster and pulled the trigger. Jacen had fought plenty in his young life - killed too. He was afraid of what came next. A Jedi finds a Sith warlord, ruling a world with an iron fist. They draw their ''sabers. They clash. Like his Uncle and his grandfather. The Jedi wins, the Sith is slain. The apprentice of the Sith nurses his anger and his bitterness and plans for revenge. The Sith apprentice kills the apprentice of the Jedi, along with a dozen innocents. Did that make the Jedi wrong to overthrow the Sith? Those innocents, their own apprentice, would still be alive, otherwise. But those on the world the Sith ruled - their lives might be worse. Or better. Perhaps the Sith''s apprentice goes farther. Delves into forbidden alchemies and creates a device that gobbles up all the souls of the people on the planet their Sith Master ruled, to empower him to conquer the Jedi. And where would that leave the Jedi? To ally with the New Republic, or other enemies of the Sith, to band together to prevent this catastrophe. Worlds would die. Lives ravaged. It was not a thought experiment. It happened, again and again. The problem wasn''t as if the Sith were good or the Jedi were wrong - the problem was where it ended. The Empire had to go - no one would seriously argue otherwise. Jacen believed even the most hardline of Imperials in the Remnant would, in private, agree. Palpatine was evil, in every sense of the word, in ways no one but Jacen''s Uncle could ever understand. The New Republic was, mostly, better. But the things that happened after the fall of the Empire? All the warlords like Zsinj or Teradoc, the depredations of the Yvetha, the cults, the wars, the rebellions, betrayals - could anyone truly know that those were the better options? Or maybe they could have been averted if the Rebel Alliance had done things a little differently. Everything looked like fate in reverse, but that couldn''t - it couldn''t - just mean blindly trusting that things will turn out alright. That''s how you had moons fall on Sernpidal and- Right here, right now: the New Republic was making Centerpoint work again. Anakin was going there to help. His little brother was the key, and the New Republic wouldn''t blink about turning it in the lock. What came after Corellia? If the Yuuzhan Vong were suckered in and the Fleet got the fight they wanted - what then? Anakin swore up and down over the holocomm that he would only help them turn on the interdiction fields. The Defense Force also promised there were no plans to weaponize the station again, not in the way the Sacorrian Triad had back during their ill-fated attempt at Corellian independence. They said they weren''t even sure it could be done again. It wasn''t that Jacen disbelieved his brother, or Admiral Brand, or even Senator Shesh. He was sure they all really felt that way. He was sure that was the plan. The problem was that Anakin wouldn''t always be on Centerpoint, Turk Brand wouldn''t always be an Admiral, and Senator Shesh wouldn''t always be a Senator. The Yuuzhan Vong lose, and lose hard, at Corellia. Centerpoint means that system is safe. The Yuuzhan Vong start dropping more moons, using that virus they unleashed on Ithor. The New Republic, facing cataclysm, is forced to re-enable Centerpoint. Repulsor beams blow up stars the Yuuzhan Vong hold. The Yuuzhan Vong use dovin basals and new biots to drop black holes into stars of New Republic strongholds. The Galaxy dies. Maybe he was catastrophizing. Jacen was aware enough to allow for that. Except, the Empire built a Death Star, planning to use it on recalcitrant worlds. Then they build another. Then they built the sun-crusher. World Devastators. The Galaxy Gun. Maybe he was catastrophizing, but given recent history, it wasn''t that far-fetched. The answer to violence couldn''t always just be more violence. The answer to guns couldn''t just be more guns. He refused to use the Force as a cudgel for what he thought was right. Jacen felt a presence brush against him, poking his stunted and withdrawn sense of the Force. Jaina. He went for the door.
The woman that leaned against the jam, just on the other side, wasn''t the girl who''d left to fly with Rogue Squadron. Her hair, as brown as his, was short, falling just to her shoulders, with a patch shaved clean just over her left ear. Metal glinted there, amidst stubble. Her uniform, with the tunic partially unzipped to expose a bland undershirt, was one he knew well - just not on her. A Starfighter Corps duty uniform, with the pips of a Lieutenant and the starburst design of the most famous unit patch of them all: Rogue Squadron. A small, drab and shapeless bag rested at her feet, leaning against- Jacen swallowed at the bulky, metal shape strapped to Jaina''s thigh, blinking with status lights and emitting a constant, dull hum. A brace locked around her knee, down to a boot and his sister caught his eye. "No hug?" Gently, Jacen reached for her shoulders - was she thinner, because of her injury, or had he gotten even taller- Jaina growled and shoved into him, locking her arms around his back in an iron embrace, enough that Jacen coughed out a breath. "I''m not made of glass, Jace. Just got spaced and banged up, that''s all." There was the Jaina he knew. "I''m glad you''re ok." She snorted into his shoulder. "Whoa, coincidence, me too! Now c''mon, let''s go inside. We''re making a scene here." Jacen scooped up her duty bag, ignoring her protests, and led his twin into the apartment. He fetched her a drink, himself one as well, passing Jaina''s glass over the kitchen island. She slid onto a stool, breathing out a sigh as she straightened out her injured leg. Either knowing him well enough, or sensing his worry, Jaina beat him to the punch. "It doesn''t hurt. They''ve got some nerve staples in there. My calf just cramps up ''cause I can''t feel it that well, so all of a sudden - bam. Feels really weird, without the pain." Seeing her walking around under her own power - albeit with a limp - was a relief, but Starfighter Command had been circumspect. Confidentiality, and all that, and then Jaina had been out of communication while she was bounced around between transports back from the front. "How¡­bad is it? Was it?" She shrugged. He wanted to reach out, through their bond, to see how she truly felt, to give her his strength - but he''d made his promise. He would not use the Force. Not until he was sure. "It wasn''t too bad. The shrapnel missed all the major stuff in there. Just messed up the muscle and chipped my femur." Jacen winced. "I mean, the fact they didn''t stick me in bacta is a good sign, really. It wasn''t serious enough for a dip and there''s a backlog. Just this-" she rapped knuckles off the boxy device strapped to her leg "-to help regrow muscle and stuff. And the brace so I don''t put too much strain on the bone for now. There''s all kinds of regrowth hormones they''re pumping in there. It''ll be fine, doctors say it''ll be a full recovery." Jacen gestured at the area over his ear, mirror to Jaina. "What about that?" "Oh, ah, that''s-" their father''s smirk found its way onto her face. "I sort of got a dose of radiation when I went EVA. Vicstar blew up behind me." She held her hands out as Jacen felt his stomach drop. "It wasn''t that bad! If I''d been facing it I might''ve been blinded, but I got my X-Wing between me and the explosion. Still, doctors wanted to be sure, so¡­" she brushed fingertips across stubble, rubbing against two metallic caps that protruded slightly. "Just some time-release oncocidals and a couple other things to be sure. Really, Jacen, I''m fine." He let out a breath he didn''t remember sucking in, shaking his head. "Between you and Anakin, you''re going to make mom and-and dad go grey." His twin drummed her fingers on the countertop a moment, idly tracing through condensation rings left by her glass of water. "So what happened?" he asked, trying another angle. "I was chasing ''skips," Jaina sighed. "They were going suicide on a Victory, Pure Pazaak. We couldn''t stop them. I got¡­I got too close." Jacen wasn''t a pilot himself, but he''d grown up surrounded by them. Going EVA did terrible things to a pilot, especially if it happened so suddenly. It stripped away that story of invincibility, of a pilot owning their own fate. He peered at his sister, at the frown on her face as she recounted that moment. "It was dumb. Pure Pazaak was already going down and there was no way we could''ve saved it. I just wanted those ''skips, Jacen. I should''ve pulled out earlier. Now I''m here kicking my heels when I could be out there still vaping rocks." "You''ll be back out in the cockpit again," he tried. "Yeah? And until I am, what am I going to do? Kick my feet up while my friends are fighting? I''m good at it, Jacen, and they''re kicking our asses from here to the Outer Rim. We need every-" Jaina snapped her mouth shut, jaw tightening. We need everyone, he finished for her. She didn''t mean it, he was sure, but it still stung. If even his twin couldn''t understand him¡­ "Anyway. You know what I can''t stop thinking about? I lost Sparky. All these people are dying, and I''m hung up on a stupid droid." "You had him for a while." "That''s just it. I know they''re machines, but I depended on him. He was¡­he was great. You know, I think that droid saved my life a few times. Does it count when I told him what to do?" "Of course it does," Jacen circled the island, taking a stool next to Jaina and putting an arm around her shoulders. "Uncle Luke relies on Artoo as much as any other Jedi. Threepio is family." "But it almost hit me more than when Anni died. And Anni was a person, was my wingmate!" "We can''t be sure how things affect us. We just have to experience it and figure it out." "What if we can''t?" Jaina shivered, minutely, grabbing onto the edge of the counter until her knuckles went white. "Jacen - what if when my leg is better, what if when I go back out - what if I lost it?" "Lost what?" To his surprise, her voice sank. "Lost it. I don''t want to punk out when I sit in an X-wing again. I think about Annie dying and I''m - I know I''m a better pilot than her, so it doesn''t scare me. Jacen, do you know how big the fight at Corellia is going to be? It''s going to make everything since the Clone Wars look like a bar fight. Do you know how many ways a fighter jock can die in a furball like that?" He nodded, scooting his stool a little closer. Jaina leaned forward, resting her head in her hands. "That''s where you should be too," she muttered. "Corellia? That''s where I''m going." "No, fighting. What''s this I hear about you not using the Force? You seemed fine giving me a hand when-" she gestured to her leg. "-all this happened. This new?" It was going to come up sooner or later and it was probably for the best it was now, when Aunt Mara and their mom weren''t present. Jaina clearly wanted to change the topic, so he acquiesced. "Sort of. I''ve been watching you and Anakin and you both are so sure of yourselves. You wanted to be a pilot in Rogue Squadron and there you are. Anakin wants to, well, he wants to be a hero and you''ve probably seen the pocket holos of the kid that people have." He knew it wasn''t that simple, at least for Anakin. His little brother had almost as many doubts as Jacen did, but the younger teen buried them deep, or at least appeared to. It didn''t stop him from doing everything he needed to do. Anakin protected Aunt Mara on Dantooine, fought on Ithor, went to Obroa-skai - he threw himself into every task that came his way with the same steely-eyed heroism that Jacen knew mirrored Uncle Luke in his youth. The problem was that as much as Jacen respected Anakin for how selfless he was and even envied his surety a little, his little brother acted too quickly. Corran Horn hadn''t meant for Ithor to be wiped out and neither had Anakin or any of the other Jedi that tried to defend the world. Neither had the Remnant or the New Republic, or, of course, the Ithorians themselves. Jacen didn''t blame Master Horn, like the older Jedi blamed himself, but the events of Ithor only highlighted Jacen''s uncertainty. Master Horn''s friend, Elegos A''kla, tried to negotiate with the Yuuzhan Vong and was butchered for it. Because of it, and because of a convoluted drama around ancestor''s bones and blood oaths, the Yuuzhan Vong commander, Shedao Shai, made it personal with Master Horn. Did that lead to the poisoning of Ithor? Was Ithor always doomed? The pollen of the baforr trees could have been deemed too dangerous, since it killed vonduun armor, so perhaps it never mattered if Master Horn and Commander Shai had turned the battle into a grudge match. But there is no way to be sure. With the Yuuzhan Vong silent in the Force, there was nothing to trust or call on. Only flawed intuitions tainted by personal bias. "I don''t know what I want to be, or do, Jaina. I could be a great healer, but is that all I should do? I know I could be a warrior like Anakin, or maybe a pilot like you, but is that enough? I''m afraid that the more I use the Force, the more I just¡­get stuck in the rut of being a Jedi." This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Jaina scoffed. "And it''s bad to be a Jedi?" "No! Of course not. It''s just that it''s been expected of us since we were born. Since before we were born. It worked for Anakin but look at you, Jaina. Flying with Rogue Squadron; you don''t have to be a Jedi for that." The twins sat in their own thoughts for a time, quiet, only noises in the apartment coming from air circulation and muted air traffic outside. They were quite the trio, Jacen considered. Anakin, always haunted by his name and his drive to be the perfect Jedi. Jaina, the perfect pilot, genius mechanic, terrified to lose what made her stand out from her brothers. And Jacen, who just didn''t even know what to do. "It was a long flight," Jaina finally said, breaking the silence. "I''m going to go hit the rack. I know, I know, you''re not using the Force, but I want a healing trance and I can''t go as deep unless you give me a push. Mind?" For a moment, Jacen was ashamed that he really did hesitate. This was Jaina, his sister, his twin, his other half. A little nudge to help her heal herself didn''t violate any of his principles. "I don''t mind at all," he replied, standing up and offering a hand as Jaina maneuvered her stiff leg. She ignored it, of course, stretching and yawning so wide her jaw popped. "If mom gets back and I''m still down, tell her I said hi, and also sorry. Oh, and don''t leave for Corellia before I wake back up, or I''ll come after you." Their rooms were just like how they left them, years ago. Frozen in stasis, really, with the twins and Anakin off at the Praxeum. Jaina kicked off her boots, yanking the sheets back and collapsing, still in uniform, face-first onto the mattress. "You''re going to be sore if you go into a trance like that." Jaina grumbled, rolled over, lacing fingers together over her belly. "Alright," she said. "Give me a shove. And good night." "It''s mid-afternoon," Jacen observed, lending his strength, but Jaina was out before she could reply. Her chest barely rose and fell, each breath taking minutes to cycle. Biting his lip, Jacen allowed a tendril of the Force to come to his command, reaching out for his twin. He could feel her body running overdrive, intense effort focused around her femur and thigh muscles, behind her eyes, in her spine and lymphatic system. Nothing seemed lingering, scarring was minimal and Jacen sighed in relief as he saw how cleanly and quickly Jaina was healing.
Opolor''s Vow, with all the stately grace of a dowager queen, pulled free of the anchorage line. Flaring engines burned efflux into the void, pillars of energy swinging trillions of tons of baroque crenellations and macrobattery into higher orbit. Behind her came her handmaidens, her attendants of the ball: Guilliman''s Glory, Sorpenton and Son of Iax. The three Murder cruisers chased their elder sister at each corner of a perfect, equilateral triangle. Thunderbolt and Xiphon interceptor flights waggled wings and flashed by on combat air patrol and a display of dazzling, low power las-light rippled from the flanks of Mantallikes as the four ships rose past the stricken battleship. No doubt Katryna was seething on being left behind, but Lord Admiral Cornelius Regil, Terran born, sworn son of Macragge, was sanguine. From his throne aboard Opolor''s Vow, the grand strategium fell away in terraced steps. Armaglass panels created a vast dome that let in unfiltered starlight, six stories in height, feeling as if Regil sat on the naked armor of his grand lady and rode her as a knight atop a mechna-destrier. Savants and officers attended to their stations, each gleaming, clean metal and bright hololiths, the best the Mechanicum could produce. Though Vow''s bones were old, the docks above Konor were an old friend and many favors and boons were traded with the magi there, who Regil knew well. She bore the shape of an Avenger, but Regil had painstakingly kept the doughty battleship at the bleeding edge of the Mechanicum''s knowledge and capability. It was only fair, he thought, patting the arm of his command throne affectionately, to care for the grand lady''s spirit just as she cared for him. The three cruisers formed into a standard escort formation, Son of Iax visible directly above Vow at remove of a short hundred kilometers. There had been some arguments to take a few destroyers as well, but they were better left here on garrison. He eyed Macragge''s Honour as Vow continued her ascent, the massive Gloriana dwarfing the battleship as they cruiser past. Eboracum was important, too important to strip too many ships from. Each day brought Fourth Honor closer to battle-ready status, her prow finally resembling the front of a ship and not a tangle of snarled adamantium, but while the old Ironclad was mighty with her meters-thick armor plating, her lack of voids left her at a distinct disadvantage against the vong xenoform and their corrosive plasma. No, better to bring merely the Vow and her escorting cruisers. Sufficient tonnage to weather any assault, strike capability to cripple any ship, and speed to disengage and retreat, should the trap spun by the New Republic turn ill. Another craft joined Vow and Regil watched its distant silhouette flare with altitude thrusters as large as city blocks. Touch of the Motive Force, at last minute. The Magos Dominus, capricious as all of the Martian breed, had decided he wished to see this ''Centerpoint'' firsthand. Something of the gravity well generation relayed by Magos Nalt and Iterator Noskaur peaked the old magus'' interest. Why he intended to bring his own chariot, rather than beg a ride on Opolor''s Vow Regil knew not, but chalked it up to Martian intractability. The Primarch had extracted a promise from the Magos Dominus that the Mechanicum barge would participate in no combat, instead remaining behind at the muster world of Fondor until the Corellian system was clear of hostiles. According to rumor, Orichi-Mu had instantly agreed, the Magos having no wish either to bring his precious barge into danger. Strange as the request was, Regil was never one to deny aid. A Mechanicum barge in theatre would greatly expedite any repairs, recovery or restoration of his command after the battle. Considering the vagaries of the ''new'' warp in this galaxy, it could be some time until they were able to make way for Eboracum again. According to the Chief Navigatrix, the key lie in the Force-sensitive Jedi. The specifics were unclear and veiled in metaphor and impenetrable memes, but the implication was that the Navigators could, somehow, lock onto the Jedi from a great distance. Likentrix stressed it was not like the Astronomican, but rather almost akin to a seeing a single spot of one color in a vast expanse of another. Like picking out a red flower in a field of green grass. The flower is tiny, unimpressive, but the mere contrast of its shade picks it out. For the translation to Fondor and the staging there, however, the Jedi Knight Eryl Besa would guide them. The woman''s insight had been invaluable indeed. She possessed a rather singular sense: her exact location in the galaxy at any time, any place, even in hyperspace or the warp. According to the young Jedi, she had been born in hyperspace and grew up flitting from one end of the galaxy to the other, the sixth-sense growing unnoticed but strong all the while. In meditation, Jedi Besa and Madam Likentrix had managed a myriad of long and short distance warp-translations from Eboracum in all directions, building out a rough map of warp eddies, currents and local stars over the past month or so. This would be the greatest test of Jedi Besa''s powers, guiding them halfway across the galaxy to arrive at Fondor. Perhaps a gamble, but Likentrix assured Regil and the Primarch both that should Besa fail unexpectedly, while the battlegroup may not be able to reach Fondor, that a return to Eboracum was assured. The texture of the warp, as the rail-thin Navigatrix described, was predictable, at least mostly. She knew now, by feel and experience and landmark, where Eboracum was situated. On her honor and the honor of her great House, Likentrix swore that she could guide all four ships back to home and anchor. Reaching now geosynchronous orbit and flying higher, past the highest anchorages and traffic lanes of refugee ships still pouring in, Regil ran a hand through his wispy, soft silver hair. It would be several days to the Mandeville point, then an unknowable time within the Warp to Fondor. The trap was not yet entirely set, for Centerpoint was still to be declared operational with the key Solo child en route, but the vagaries of warp travel insisted that Regil take his detachment immediately. Better to arrive early and impose on the Republican''s hospitality than arrive too late and botch the operation. There would be briefings and tacticae analyses and not a small number of war-games before arrival. He would need to speak with Brevet Lieutenant Optarch and ensure the detachment of Ultramarines was prepared. Their dozen Thunderhawks sat ready in Vow''s hangars, along with a selection of armor and sundry support equipment. They may not be needed, or they could well be the lynchpin of the entire battle. The Yuuzhan Vong were not known to engage in boarding actions, but with a station the size of Centerpoint, now was as good a time as any for them to demonstrate unique thinking. A squad would still remain, no matter what, aboard Vow to command armsmen in the unimaginable circumstance the vong did attempt to gain access to the battleship. The rest of the demicompany was to be dispatched at Optarch''s discretion. Opolor''s Vow trembled as her engines were brought to full extension drive. Regil smiled and snuggled more comfortably into his throne. Eboracum''s moon visibly began to roll past. The Murders kept pace, exhaust plumes lengthening and lengthening until they matched the length of the cruisers, then double and more. He did so love letting his lady slip her leash and truly stretch her legs.
Aoenid Thiel''s first sight of the Praxeum of Yavin IV was the very tip of the ziggurat peaking through early-morning fog. Suggestions of treetops made blurred shadows in the haze, like silhouettes of oceanic mammals and other temples poked stony crowns up into the sunrise. The Praxeum, the Great Temple, stood above them all, fog only reaching halfway up the stepped pyramid, the edifice in time-worn and weather-stained tan stone a grudgingly impressive sight. He had studied well and knew the history of the temple and indeed the complex about it. Thousands of years old, abandoned to the elements and weathering multiple wars, it took a strength of construction and a cunning engineering mind to craft something to last so immutably. The Thunderhawk''s implanted servitor-pilot banked the gunship gently at Thiel''s quiet prompting, allowing the Ultramarine to take in all aspects of the Temple as they circled. Roosted flocks of avians lifted into the dawn sky, troubled by howling turbofans and jet turbines. Steam rose as the sun heated morning dew, tinting reddish in the reflected light of the gas giant filling the sky above. Part of the rationale of the Temple''s location, aside from being well off of traveled lanes, was the vibrancy of the life of the jungle, forging a complex web in the Force that the Jedi treasured. Aeonid sought that extra sense within himself as the servitor brought the gunship in to land on the designated tarmac, lit by hazard lights. He grasped and grappled with nothing and the only senses he judged the circling avians by was sight and sound. Grimacing, Thiel left the cockpit, entrusting landing to the lobotomized pilot. A testbed craft, the Thunderhawk was stripped of all but the absolute necessities. Cradles of empty of guns were like hollow sockets and the interior features only bare brackets. A hyperdrive from a Republican freighter had been inelegantly bonded to the frame, tied in by careful Magos and much pleading with the spirit of the Thunderhawk, until test flights were initiated. Clearly, the magi had succeeded, as the Primarch had allowed Thiel to use the converted gunship as his own personal vehicle to reach Yavin IV. Others were being retrofit, based on the lessons learned on this gunship, but it mattered little and less to Thiel. What mattered was the hyperdrive worked, the Thunderhawk flew, and in time so short he couldn''t believe it, he was here. Stepping down from the ramp to the landing pad, across the galaxy. A trip of months, if not years, in the warp. Done in days. A reconsideration, then. Thiel did care. He imagined inserting squads of his - and a strange form of possessive that was - Ultramarines anywhere in the galaxy in days aboard gunships just like this one. The tactical flexibility was unimaginable. At the base of the ramp, below the cockpit and in the shadow still of the Thunderhawk, Thiel stopped and offered the sign of the aquila. His greeting party replied in their own way. Master Skywalker bowed slightly and a silver-haired woman, slender and in a gold-stitched tunic inclined her head. ''Master Skywalker,'' Thiel intoned. ''Lieutenant Thiel,'' the Jedi Master said. ''Welcome to Yavin IV.'' ''It''s Brevet Captain now,'' Thiel said, not unkindly. ''Ah,'' Skywalker said, smiling. ''Congratulations. That was a quick promotion.'' ''Much is in flux.'' Thiel shrugged his shoulders, feeling exposed and strange in fatigues and a mail skirt. Though he had been allowed to bring his plate, he remembered his father''s advice. He was here as a supplicant, and should consider the political and social implications of actions he took. Roboute Guilliman expected much of his sons. ''I can sympathize.'' Skywalker peered up at the Thunderhawk with a trained eye, taking in the shape of the gunship, the form of its broad wings and lingering on the empty mounts for lascannon and heavy bolters. From one soldier to another, Thiel recognized the professional interest of one who knew, intimately, machines of war. Skywalker had been a pilot, he recalled, and not just any. A savant, if tales were to be believed. For a moment, Thiel wondered how the Jedi Master might handle a Xiphon. ''Captain Thiel,'' the Jedi continued. ''This is Master Tionne Solusar, our Librarian and lead instructor at the Praxeum.'' ''A pleasure to meet you, Captain,'' the woman said, voice high and melodious. Her age was indeterminate, perhaps youthful, perhaps middle aged, but Thiel professed to be no great judge of baseline humans. To him, they fell within the categories of ''child, adult, and too old''. Her voice reminded of remembrancers he''d met, poets and lyricists, and he wondered if the Jedi merely had a voice for song, or if she had trained it. Thiel offered a dip of his head and a fist to his chest to the other Master. ''Master Tionne. I look forward to learning lore from you.'' The silver-haired woman appeared delighted, peering from Skywalker to Thiel and back again. ''It would truly be my pleasure, Captain.'' Be diplomatic, he reminded himself. The words sounded like his father. ''Please, Masters, I would be honored if you called me Aeonid.'' ''Of course, Aeonid. And call me Luke.'' ''And me Tionne,'' the other Jedi, still beaming, nodded in concurrence. ''How about a tour?'' Luke offered, hand waving out to encompass the mist-shrouded temple looming above them.
The predominant feeling of the Praxeum Temple was one of quiet intent. It contained vast and empty spaces, though few felt abandoned. The ground level was one of a hangar, scattered with various craft Thiel did not recognize. Some appeared to be individual craft - starfighters, but the nomenclature of the Republic. Others were squat and bulky, clearly civilian lifters or freighters of some stripe. Pallets of sealed crates lay hither and tither, some stamped with emblems he did not know, others proudly bearing one Thiel had begun to know well - that of the New Republic. Master Skywalker - Luke - and Tionne chattered back and forth as they wandered, Thiel taking shorter strides to match the much shorter mortals. Luke spoke with a weight of memory, describing the first time he''d seen the Temple, a quarter century ago. A much younger man, full of idealism and fire, Skywalker waxed long about the short time the Rebel Alliance claimed the moon and how he''d found his first brothers-in-arms there, those who would go on to found the galactic-famous ''Rogue Squadron''. To hear Skywalker speak of it, that time was among the first he truly felt what he called the ''will'' of the Force, as he fired the torpedoes that would shatter the Empire''s Death Star. The battlestation was another fact Thiel knew well, as it had caught his Primarch''s attention. The idea bore merit - after all, the ability to raze a world was invaluable in particular instances - but the size of the station and the clumsiness of its design led to it being dismissed as yet another frivolity of the Galactic Empire. Cyclonic torpedoes were both cheaper to produce and simpler to employ, after all. Worse, a shattered world like a Death Star created would likely only serve to disperse that which an exterminatus order might seek to destroy. Ork spores, for example, would find rich and fertile ground among the resultant debris field and be spread far and wide. Skywalker spoke of his tie to the world, back to that battle, and the voice of his mentor that had guided him. Turbolifts took them into the heart of the Temple proper, depositing them into winding, stone corridors rigged with modern lumes and atmospheric piping. He heard voices, distant but excitable and echoing. ''There''s a lot of room to expand,'' Skywalker explained, pointing to shuttered doors with dark tape across them. ''The Rebel Alliance used most of the Temple, but we''ve filled in a fraction.'' The Jedi Master paused, Tionne at his side and Thiel halted as well. ''It''s a good feeling. I like to imagine it being full of Jedi some day. Every room with trainees and Knights, a Library to rival Obroa-skai¡­it''s a dream, Aeonid, for the future. I hope you can be a part of it.'' At the mention of a Library, Tionne Solusar expounded further on the wealth of salvaged lore that the Temple accumulated. Devices called ''holocrons'' were some manner of archeotech unique to those who wielded the Force, which captured some manner of the creator''s ''spirit'' within their digital confines. It trod worryingly close to proscribed technologies of the psyker. This was not the Imperium. Thiel wrestled down his unease. The acts of the Sith to expunge the Jedi were thorough and nearly complete, but space is unfathomably vast and Thiel could have reckoned that it would never be total. Indeed it was not, and Skywalker, even in his earliest years training as a Jedi, uncovered lost archives and hidden Masters. Under his tutelage, as his Order grew and more Jedi were inducted, the quest for relics of their heritage often became a driving force. Solusar spoke freely of it all. She offered to guide him in the Library. She mentioned records that might appeal to him, and his more martial bent. All of it, completely and freely given. Erriod Paston, whom Thiel had only met after the flight from Calth, was once seconded to the Imperial Fists. The Captain served among them for forty years, learning their siegecraft, forging bonds of brotherhood to transcend life and death, and returned nearly as much a son of Dorn as one of Guilliman. It showed in the Pharisan Fortress, erected in record time on Eboracum. The doughty Imperial Fist himself would likely find few faults. Yet for all the time, Paston had spoken that the deepest vaults of Phalanx were never opened to him. There remained ways and traditions of the Fists that he stood apart from. In times he consulted with the Codicier Rubio, Thiel had learned that while Rubio had conferenced with Sects of the Thousand Sons and Stormseers of the White Scars, many secrets were still kept in jealous confidence. Librarians all, with their father Primarchs aligned by goal and meaning, yet one of say, the Corvidae Cult would never speak of the sublime ways of their own sorcery. He tried to imagine the Space Wolves inviting brother Legionnaires into their Fang, and nearly laughed aloud. Skywalker peered up at him, trailing off. ''Aeonid?'' ''Apologies, it''s nothing of import. Just an impertinent thought about another Legion. Continue, Master Skywalker.'' ''Again, Luke is fine.'' He guided Thiel down a broader corridor, clearly a major artery, that had crudely sketched images on paper fastened along the wall at knee-height for a baseline human. Following Thiel''s attention, Tionne smiled beatifically. ''The children like to draw sometimes. I let them hang their creations here.'' With a raised eyebrow, he strode closer to one of the canvases and knelt. The colors were garish and the texture confusing, with no sense of proportion or perspective. Figures in it appeared to be mangled and abstract representations with jointless limbs and overlarge, bobbled heads. He could not decipher the meaning. ''I see,'' he murmured, though he did not. ''There are quite a few younglings in training,'' Luke clarified as they continued. ''We''ve been considering evacuating them elsewhere, but Yavin is relatively unknown still. It''s a remnant from when the Empire wiped the Ministry of its location.'' He glanced to Solusar beside him. ''They''ll be excited, but I''ll make sure they know not to bother you. Be gentle with them regardless, Aoenid - children are always interested in the new and unexpected.'' The request was utterly unnecessary. Thiel had no concept of how to interact with a human child, let along a xeno one. The only viable practical would be to allow them to exhaust their energy and then extricate himself from the situation. ''Of course,'' he intoned instead, which was enough for the Master. ''Even though you''re starting from scratch, I don''t think putting you with the trainees would do much besides make everyone awkward. It''s been a little while since we had an adult Force-sensitive, but in a way, it''ll be like old times. It was how the Order started, you know. Kam and others, more than a few of them were older than me!'' Skywalker shook his head, mirth in his tone. ''If you agree, I would have you pair off with a few of the Masters here for one-on-one lessons.'' ''I would love to tell you about the history of the Jedi,'' Tionne cut in. ''Understanding the past is one of the greatest ways to prepare for the future.'' Now that; that was a sentiment Thiel strongly could agree with. ''Master Katarn is back for a short while with his latest mission finished. He''s our blademaster and leads lightsaber training and I''m sure he would have insights you''d find valuable. Master Cilghal is unparalleled for her ability to understand life, which is critical for a Jedi. I know your feeling toward non-humans, but if you truly are interested in understanding the purpose of the Jedi, it''s something you will have to put aside.'' The Jedi had been nothing but honest with him, so he felt he had no recourse but to honor them in return. ''I am unsure I ever could,'' he admitted. ''Perhaps if I was mortal¡­but I am Astartes. You know what this means. What I am was made for war against mankind''s foes.'' They reached a large and wide hall. Thiel''s eyes widened at the activity within. A dozen or so beings raucously consumed a meal at scattered and comfortable tables. There were human children, aliens that ranged from eerily humanoid to fundamentally inhuman like the spindly arachnid that nudged their plate to a chattering being to their left. A human male, likely middle aged, portioned out to the meal to the youngest while those Thiel presumed to be older - by body mass, if nothing else - aided. ''And yet, here you are,'' Skywalker said, quiet, nearly beneath his breath. Thiel was unsure if Solusar heard, though she was quite near. ''You''re in time for breakfast,'' he announced then, louder. Thiel cursed silently, hearing the humor in the Master''s voice. ''It''s a good time to meet everyone. There''s not many of us, so I''m sure you''ll be able to remember names.'' A small hand worked into his, so small that when he peered down, Tionne Solusar was only able to grip three of his fingers. Utterly and completely nonplussed, Thiel had no practical to counter the woman''s gentle leading as he was escorted into the dining chamber. Sudden, alert attention from all beings present seemed as deadly as the crosshairs of an Eldar shuriken cannon. Never had there been a theoretical that a dozen youths could cause his secondary heartrate to elevate. He''d not expected his trials to begin so soon, but it seemed the ''Force'' had other plans. Throne alive, he swore. Perhaps Sannad would have better luck at Corellia. His second had the far easier task, by lightyears. As the Jedi younglings burst to their feet, led by a human girl with a mane of blonde hair, Thiel braced himself as if for an ork charge. ''Sheesh,'' the girl said, stopping just before him and craning her neck so much that it had to be painful. ''Anakin wasn''t kidding. You''re huge.'' The other trainees hung back, clearly much less bold than the girl. Their Master and their teacher weren''t enough, it seemed, to overcome whatever shyness burst out to counteract their excitement. ''I am Astartes,'' Thiel spoke down to her. ''I am of average height for my kind.'' ''Nice to meet you, ''Astartes''. I''m Tahiri. Anakin probably didn''t mention me.'' Thiel glanced to Skywalker, who appeared serene. ''He did not. What I am is Astartes, my name is Aeonid.'' ''I''m Tahiri. That''s Sannah hiding over there behind Master Solusar. That''s Seff and that''s Jysella and that''s Chitter and that''s Zzivizu and-'' The girl unleashed a deluge of foreign names, stabbing a finger rapidfire at each trainee. A part of Thiel''s mind locked away the information, for all the use it would prove. Faces matched to names as Tahiri rattled them off. There were avioid beings, insectile ones with compound eyes, human-looking ones that were the more unnatural for their facsimile of terran form marred by horns or fur. Humans appeared the plurality, if not majority, reflecting the population dynamics of the greater Galaxy. Breathless, the blonde girl inhaled deeply, so much so her tiny body seemed to tremble with the force of it. ''Thank you, Tahiri,'' Tionne released Thiel''s fingers and swept past, an arm around the girl''s shoulders. ''Everyone, this is Aeonid Thiel. He''s an Ultramarine and he''s here to learn about the Force.'' ''Hello, Aeonid,'' they all chorused. Thiel''s general sense of unreality deepened. He suspected it was not dissimilar to how Rubio described interacting with the Warp. ''Let''s all get back to breakfast and let Aeonid get his own, okay?'' Tionne''s demeanour shifted entirely as she herded the youths away. Some buried memory of Thiel''s stirred images of a woman''s face and words spoken in warmth he could not quite recall. From before his genetic ascension, as all memories after bore the same crystal clarity that his enhancements provided. A moment of weakness, that was all it took, as he chased the fleeting feeling. Thiel felt - the sunny bite of curiosity, gut-chill uncertainty and lip-biting hesitation, cheek-warming embarrassment and enervating excitement. The taste of buttery protein dissolving on tastebuds and the simple pleasure it brought. Paternal pride at watching his charges - his charges? - and a curiously alien but so nearly understandable sensation that felt like the former, but tilted in ways he could not comprehend. Adamantine walls slammed back down again and he blinked, all passing in a moment of a moment. ''Let''s take ours outside,'' Luke accepted two trays from the male Solusar, gesturing carefully with one back out of the hall. ''There''s a lot to discuss.''? Contingence Chapter VII PART III: A DANCE, MACABRE
VII: Tool of Law
If the demonstrators on Coruscant were heated with their rhetoric, then the several thousand arrayed in a milling, jeering mass just beyond the gates were incendiary. Jacen frowned, adjusting the focal distance of a pair of electrobinoculars, panning left and right as he picked out more and more slogans. Credit where it was due, they were inventive. The grounds had once been a tranquil enclave, home to the Duchess of Mastigophorous, now Governor-General, and her sprawling, prized nannarium gardens, but now they were just another flashpoint in a system fit to overflow. ""Jedi Warmongers"," Jacen read aloud to his brother, the younger teen sitting with his arms folded, back to expansive bay windows. ""Servants of the dark side", "Corellia will stand to see Coruscant fall", "Feyl''ya''s Pawns" - oh, Dad''ll love this one - "Solos go home"." Both brothers traveled directly to the estate on Drall, where Governor-General Marcha had secluded herself away. The aging female Drall perhaps hoped that by removing herself from the limelight, tensions would ease with a less obvious symbol of Senate meddling, but it seemed the opposite had happened. Chased to her estate, now a prevailing sentiment was that she was hiding. Unfortunately, Jacen thought, feeling terrible for blaming the Drall woman who''d only ever been a friend to the Solo clan, they were mostly right. There was a difference between the position of Duchess for a clan and the Senate-mandated seat of Governor-General of all five worlds. Marcha''s initiatives to rebuild positive relations between the Five Brothers and the Senate were laudable, but the memories of Corellians were long and their grudges longer. Maybe Anakin didn''t remember much of the Sacorrian Triad''s attempt to secede close to a decade before, but Jacen reckoned it would be a century before people here began to forget. The shuttle that delivered Jacen sat alongside Anakin''s own X-Wing on a small, shrub-enclosed permacrete pad that managed to look like it belonged in the riotous gardens that flanked it. Droids bustled along crushed gravel paths, pruning here and there. He''d said his goodbyes to his mother and Aunt Mara and Jaina, after she''d woken from her trance. Aunt Mara claimed to have a job for both him and Jaina, if they were interested, and one that she noted didn''t require the Force or fighting. Few knew Coruscant quite as well as the twins, who''d had their fair share of adventures throughout the labyrinthine layers of the city-crust of the world and Aunt Mara intended to capitalize on that. The thought appealed: chasing down what seemed to be a traitor was pretty close to entirely an act of defense and protection, Jacen figured. For Anakin; his younger brother was looking a great deal less tense than the last Jacen saw of him in the aftermath of Ithor. "They really think you could have stopped the New Republic from commandeering Centerpoint¡­" Anakin accepted a slice of dark-brown, homemade ryshcate from Marcha, glaring down at the spice-cake as if it were the source of all ills. To Jacen and to Marcha''s nephew Ebrihim went two more slices, then the Governor-General settled herself into an overstuffed armchair with the remaining piece. Like all Drall, Marcha and Ebrihim were diminutive, if slightly plump, furred humanoids, with inquisitive snouts and small, alert ears. The two differed in patterning of their fur and in dress: Ebrihim preferred a sash and belt, while Marcha usually bothered with only a small tiara and vest. Nibbling at her own cake, Marcha studiously avoided even the slightest glance toward the bay windows, though the crowds at this remove were just a vague mass beyond wrought-iron fencing. "They know my place as a political appointee. I lost half my office when I didn''t take a firmer stance - yet even if I had, Borsk Feyl''ya would''ve simply removed me and replaced me with someone who would hold their tongue." "So they know there was nothing you could do!" Ebrihim, ever the tutor, rubbed paws against his knees and set the youngest Solo with a fatherly stare. "That only stokes their indignation higher, Anakin. Now, not only does Marcha not stand for Corellian interests, they''re only reminded that the position of Governor-General is one that exists at the sufferance of the Senate and Chief of State. It''s a double insult, you see." "It''s stupid, is what it is. If they''re angry, they should be angry at Chief Feyl''ya. As far as they know, it was his vote anyway that redeployed the fleets to Bothawui." "They know that too," Ebrihim assured. Jacen tucked his electrobinoculars aside, needing to see no more and besides, the smell of his own ryshcate was too tempting. The vweilu nuts baked into the crumbling pastry melted on his tongue, blending with the dark, smoky flavor of the Whyren''s Reserve whiskey that was the cake''s other signature ingredient. Around a mouthful, he spoke up. "See how you end up with unintended consequences?" Anakin rolled his eyes. "Here we go¡­" "I''m just pointing out that even though Admiral Brand''s plan was made with the best intentions¡­" "Jacen, if you don''t support this, why are you even here? You could have stayed on Coruscant with Jaina." "Boys," Marcha exclaimed, putting her snack to the side, surprise writ across her face. "I''d heard the rumors, but what is this? You two never used to argue!" Chastened, Jacen turned his fork over and over but Anakin shrugged, unconcerned. "We grew up," the young Solo said, as if it explained it all. "Jacen can tell you all about how Centerpoint is a great big lightsaber that the Chief of State wants to use to beat the Vong over the head." "It can be - where am I wrong?" "Where Admiral Brand didn''t authorize even reactivating the star-killer. Jacen, there''s rumors that no one can figure out how the Triad managed it in the first place without ripping the station to pieces." "Boys, stop this. I can tell this is a conversation that didn''t begin today." Marcha fixed both with the sort of glare Ebrihim knew well, the sort that dredged up every scrap of shame you had because you made her disappointed. Anakin pressed his lips together, jaw tight. "Tell me your worries, Jacen. Anakin, you will have a chance as well." The words burst from the young Jedi, like he''d been holding them back by threads. "The Force is all about balance. How can turning on the biggest superweapon since the Galaxy Gun supposed to help that! I can''t believe Uncle Luke doesn''t see anything to be worried about-" "-he does, if you''d asked him-" Marcha cut her eyes to the youngest brother, who held up his hands in defeat. "-anything to be worried about putting this much power just out there!" "You think the Senate isn''t responsible?" Ebrihim''s tone was neutral, neither agreeing or disagreeing, merely proposing the idea. Jacen chewed on his lip. "I didn''t say that." "You implied it." Anakin dug fingertips into the armrest of his chair, knuckles whitening. "Jacen, you''re talking about power but what kind of power do I have if I just tell them no? If I make myself into the keeper of Centerpoint? Is that what you want?" "No, but-" "I don''t want this responsibility. I never did, I never will; Jacen, I remember when it sounded like when the repulsor on Drall talked to me. I can still remember it. It was too big for me, for anyone." "That''s all the more reason to let Centerpoint stay inactive." "If I turn on only the interdiction field, then it''s on the Senate to decide when to turn it on and off. It won''t be me anymore." "You''re passing off the responsibility," Jacen accused. "Yeah," Anakin admitted. "But at least I''d be making a choice."
Like it was placed in the firmament by a God''s hand - and perhaps it was - the ancient station of Centerpoint hung precisely between the Twin Worlds, Talus and Tralus. Once, the station''s long-axis had been arranged such that it was aimed toward each world. In the hands of the Sacorrian Triad, when the station was enabled and used to fire immense packets of repulsor energy across stellar distances, the station had been re-oriented, away from its aeons-long repose, spun up to simulate gravity about its axis. Larger than the Death Star in both mass and size, the grey-white relic bore two thick polar cylinders that acted as guidance vanes for the incredible power the station could harness. Its bulbous, spherical central mass, studded with a proliferation of confusing and arcane pipings, antennae, cables and conduits held the greatest wonder of Centerpoint: Glowpoint. Theories abounded about its nature with a handful of likely contenders: a tesseracted transdimensional ''pilot light'', an artificial sun maintained by the magnetic field lines of the station, a quasiphotonic recombinant wave-form reaction¡­all were merely ways to describe its function. Glowpoint, hot as a main-sequence star and just as bright, acted as the heart and soul of Centerpoint. It seeming to contain and release the incalculable amounts of energy the station siphoned from the gravitic play of Talus, Tralus, and the rest of the complicated Corellian system. Whomsoever built the solar system, who captured the worlds from unknown sources in ages long forgotten, had done so with a calculating and careful plan. Centerpoint, though named for its position between the twinned worlds, was more aptly named than many originally knew. It was the center of the entire Corellian system, a lens for a gravity and matter manipulation engine astronomical units in diameter. So, it was fitting that the pre-eminent political party pushing once more for independence and rallying support from Selonians, Drall and Humans across the Five Brothers chose the name ''Centerpoint Party''. "Although, really, I don''t think the Centerpoint Party has really thought their position through," Jeneca Sonsen declared with some authority, arms folded over her chest. "I mean, I suppose there''s a complicated kind of legal case that since each one of the Five Worlds came from different stars, they should each have a representative - but if that''s the ruling, Centerpoint itself should get a seat as well since it wasn''t native either." Once the administrator of Hollowtown, the small settlement that encrusted the interior walls of Centerpoint, lit by the permanent shine of Glowpoint, Sonsen had been key in the resolution of the Centerpoint Crisis years ago. She had helped Anakin and Jacen''s uncle along with his allies in boarding and navigating the station. A slender, serious woman with a long face and a carelessly loose bun of dark hair, Sonsen had eight years of experience as an intermediary between the interests of the Senate, the archeological community, and the rabid nationalists of the Corellian system. Sonsen, along with the two Solo boys, Ebrihim and his droid, Q9, filled out the turbolift that sped through the interior of the station. The smell of fresh paint was lingering. Wall panels were new and polished, pile carpet underfoot springy and unstained. Through transparisteel panes, the group watched the sights and marvels of Centerpoint roll past. Hollowtown filled the central spherical space of the station, years ago, as settlers over centuries set up little homesteads, using shadow-shields that could be tuned to block out Glowpoint''s constant light. It was a peaceful little tourist attraction; beings living in the ruins of a civilization beyond comprehension and it was a popular stop for those visiting the Corellian system. Hollowtown was gone now, burned to ash by the activations during the Corellian Crisis, when Glowpoint seared scorching. All that remained inside the ''firing chamber'' of the station were shadow-shields still set up around a handful of prefab science outposts. At either end of the sixty-kilometer wide spherical chamber sprouted the Conical Mountains - North and South - that were a cluster of smooth-sided, monolithic focusing structures. One single cone, the largest, was ringed by six smaller, equidistant, all pointing toward Glowpoint. There had been comparisons between those structures and some of the oldest repulsor designs, yet another mystery and clue about Centerpoint. Sonsen pointed out a few sites, apertures here and there for access, where the cartography team she led found entry to the endless, winding halls of the rest of the station. "Did the archeologists work with your team before they were deported?" Sonsen rolled her head, neither agreeing or disagreeing. "They weren''t quite deported, Jacen, more like relocated for their safety. But we did work together for a bit and they had some priceless insights into the functions of the station. And a few maps we''ve been able to add to our own." The process of mapping out the entire interior had become Jeneca Sonsen''s life goal, though she knew that there were like to be millions of kilometers of bundled up, labyrinthine ways that would take centuries to fully plot out. Every bit she and her cartography team contributed helped to understand the station that much more and helped to prevent another tragedy like the loss of Hollowtown. It had happened under her tenure as administrator and though none blamed her for events out of her control, the thousands carbonized in an instant never ceased to weigh on her. "It''s really why I think Centerpoint should stay in the New Republic''s hands for the foreseeable future. The Centerpoint Party, well, I think they''re short sighted. Like I said before - if Drall and Selonia and Corellia and the Twins all get their own votes, then Centerpoint does too, and all of us here would want to stay independent and with the New Republic." She spread her hands, shrugging. "There''s just so much more experience we can draw from under the New Republic." "And you want to solve Centerpoint," Anakin said. "I wouldn''t mind it." Sonsen smiled. "Everyone sees Centerpoint as a weapon, but we all think it is a tool. It built a star system! Imagine what could be done if we understood it." Jacen shivered. "I don''t need to imagine," he muttered. Two thousand levels of decks passed quickly, the turbolift sliding to a careful halt. Sonsen ushered everyone out, gesturing up at the pale-pink tunnel the lift was built into. "Take this, for example. This whole tunnel runs through the station and we have no idea why! Was it just a structural feature? Does it have some other purpose? Who knows!" The administrator-scientist meant it to be fascinating. Q9 had other thoughts. "The lesson of Hollowtown indicates that casual use of Centerpoint architecture could be deadly," the droid declared, always desiring to be of use, even if it meant filling the air. "That''s¡­mostly true, yes. But don''t worry, even during the firings, nothing was detected in this tunnel, not even the slightest radiation." She pointed up ahead, toward what looked like a nondescript alcove in the reddish walls. It stood out, only by dint of two armed New Republic guards outside, blasters slung over their shoulders. What many considered the ''control room'' of the entire station evaded discovery for the entire span of inhabitation, until a group of Mrlissi colonists looking for a fine place to plant a life-support monitor stumbled across it. They hadn''t a clue about the provenance of the instrument-filled chamber, merely marking it down as just another room filled with technology no one understood in a place already overflowing with it. It had taken the scientists of the Triad to truly grasp the meaning of the out-of-the-way room. There was no door - because after the Mrlissi opened it, no one figured out how to close it. Sonsen simply led them inside where for a moment bustling activity halted. Several Humans, a Duro, two Verpine, Selonians and even Drall were packed into the cramped, instrument-tangled chamber, but the abrupt appearance of two Jedi in robes, another Drall, a tall human woman and a bullet-headed droid, was notable enough to bring pause. That pause allowed one of the few humans in the control room to take the limelight for himself - just as Jacen and Anakin would''ve expected. "Nice to see you again, Anakin, Jacen. I hope you remember me." Standing with his hands on his hips, the man looked oddly like their father, seen through a fogged mirror. A little taller, sturdier, stouter, with rounder cheeks, but enough to be startling. "Thracken Sal-Solo," Jacen sighed. "See Anakin? I told you they wouldn''t tell you everything." Sal-Solo looked hurt. "You weren''t expecting me? Not a happy reunion for cousins, then." "You imprisoned Master Ebrihim and Masters Solo on Drall," Q9 accused. "And you made dad fight a Selonian just for fun," Jacen added. Sonsen shifted uncomfortably. "I would''ve said something¡­" "But you didn''t, Jeneca, and now I have to deal with it. It''s fine, don''t worry about it. I know what I did was wrong. Misguided right?" The other technicians lost interest, back to muttering back and forth, twiddling with dials and computers and datapads. "I know it''s hard for you Jedi, who aren''t plagued by banal emotions like normal people. Anger, hatred, desire for retribution, revenge¡­guilt, uncertainty. Us lessers have to deal with that, but a good eight years in Dorthus Tal prison helped me see the error of my ways. Part of my rehabilitation and newly attained self-awareness is pitching in where I can. Offering my technical expertise in service to the cause, you see. Shoulder to shoulder with the New Republic against the Yuuzhan Vong." "And that''s all," Anakin scoffed. "You''re just doing your civic duty." Sal-Solo stuck hands in his pockets, hunching shoulders. "You Jedi are supposed to be about forgiveness, right? Why, even the Yuuzhan Vong must have simply just failed to see the error of their ways and well, give them a chance and they''ll be on the side of the Force. Am I right? I have to be, otherwise you''d both be right there in the trenches with us, ready to fight to the last drop of whatever Corellian blood is left in those veins." "Enough, Thracken. This solves nothing." Ebrihim cut in, sharp. "We''re here to help," Anakin stressed the last word, daring Jacen to contradict him. "Are you? How ironic it takes a galactic war to reunite the old gang-" Sal-Solo gestured toward a Selonian, a Drall, a Human- "and to bring you back to the station you helped shut off. Back to the home I know old Han loves to still claim. I gotta know, though," Sal-Solo pointed a finger at Anakin, eerily like how their own father would gesture. "You personally banished my illusions for a free and independent Corellia. Still think it was wrong to make a try for freedom?" Jacen answered before Anakin could. "Your methods, that was wrong." "Maybe. Methods. You know, we''ve been abandoned since the crisis. Now they want to use us as a battleground. Did we even get a vote? Don''t bother answering, I watched the news. Well done, on tricking the Chief of State into your little plan." "It''s not my-" "Funny that you know you can''t even trust him, and-" "I said, Cousin Thracken, it wasn''t my plan." Anakin spoke louder and Jacen started. For a moment, Han''s loud baritone came from his brother''s throat. "We''re not here to listen to you complain. You blew up two stars and you lost and no one is going to cry over it no matter how much bantha crap you blow out your airlock." One didn''t need to be a Jedi to sense the older man''s surprise, blended well with irritation at being cut off in the middle of his grandstanding. "You want to talk about fighting the Vong? Sure. After we get Centerpoint online, I''d be happy to hear the finer points of treating razer bug injuries and how to survive amphistaff venom." "Anakin-" "Not the time, Jacen." The younger solo brushed past Sal-Solo, eyes hard and cool as ice, looking over the other workers who had started to eavesdrop. "Who''s in charge here? It can''t be-" he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder "that guy." One hand was slowly raised across the chamber, while behind Anakin and still nervously fidgeting by the doorway, Sonsen managed a quiet "well, I kind of am¡­" "Antone Baris," said the owner of the raised hand. Antone walked them through what was known, what was guessed, and what was pure speculation. He''d been on-station during the Crisis, like most others, though he''d not been involved in the Triad or the firings. Instead, Antone had been an electrical engineer working in Hollowtown to tie colony systems into the native grid of Centerpoint, which appeared to have nearly limitless energy, courtesy of reactors that were still being located. He''d had a front-row seat to Centerpoint''s power and his knowledge of at least some of the station''s electricals made him a clear choice to head the team. That, and his family lived on Bovo Yagen, one of the stars on the Triad''s list. Had it not been for Anakin''s actions in shutting down Centerpoint back then, Antone''s whole family tree would be free-floating space dust. "Centerpoint can indeed induce stars to go nova," he explained. "The Triad caused EM-1271 and Thanta Zilbra to blow, but those results can''t be duplicated." Anakin could feel Jacen''s relief. "You''re saying Centerpoint can''t be used as a weapon?" Antone ran fingers over one of the smooth-silver consoles in the chamber. "Frankly, we''re not sure. In order to loose a burst of power from the South Pole, the station has to do so many things perfectly. It has to reorient its spin axis, go through a rapid and complex series of sympathetic power surges, transient events and radiation releases all in advance of actually firing. And as you know, destroying EM-1271 made Glowpoint burn out the entire interior of Hollowtown." "No one wants a repeat of that, of course," Sal-Solo added from where he was lingering nearby. Anakin scratched at his cheek, frowning at the technician''s explanation. "I remember that the Triad was able to put up the jamming and interdiction fields pretty easily. What''s changed that I have to be here?" "Put simply, nothing is working like it used to. Since the station was shut down, all the commands and protocols we''d made aren''t working anymore." Sal-Solo laughed. "Don''t worry, we know you have precious Jedi business. You''re not here for a lark." "It''s the barycenter. The station is no longer stable." Antone waved at a hologram, a wireframe of the station and the two worlds that flanked it. "Something happened during the shutdown years ago and now Centerpoint isn''t keeping itself stable like it used to. And that seems like it''s locked us out of everything." Antone pointed at the console just before Anakin. He recognized it, of course, from memories on Drall. He''d been young then and most of the events had blurred away due to time and his extreme youth, but everything about the repulsor seemed to shine in Anakin''s mind. The console itself looked unimpressive, not really any different from any of the others in the room. Dials, knobs, switches - everything a person would expect, littered across a silver-steel surface. "I''ve been proposing it for years, ever since then, that it''s you. Your fingerprints, maybe DNA, maybe brain pattern, but Centerpoint is imprinted on you. You got the repulsor to do things no one ever knew it could do. With everything we keep butting up against here, the only way to describe it is that we just don''t have admin access anymore." Half listening to the tech, Anakin slowly moved his hands over the console, a fingerwidth above it. Not touching, just feeling. He could see all the buttons and dials, but there was more. There were other levers and switches - linkages too, that wavered like holograms. Not blue, but a sort of silver-green, and something deep in Anakin''s gut told him only he could see them. "I think you might be right," he said absently, too occupied by the strange shifting of the virtual controls to say much else. There was a pattern there, a familiar one. He just had to see where it all led. "Take the controls then, Anakin," Sal-Solo demanded. "Take them, let''s see where it goes and if we''ve all been wasting our time." Jacen rested a hand on his brother''s shoulder. "Be sure," he whispered. There was nothing Anakin was ever more sure of, reaching out- A plane of flat, polished metal twisted up and shimmered. It swelled, rippling like quicksilver, like ferromagnetic fluid under an electromagnet. A handle like a joystick settled itself into Anakin''s palm. Everyone in the room - Jacen included - gasped. Vernier control tingled in his feet and hands. His stomach growled, demanding he increase capacitance by a significant percentage. The clustered dials and levers across the panel melted away as quickly as the joystick formed. His other hand, palm flat, rested on the blank surface. He didn''t remember placing it there. Centerpoint wanted him to. Thrust balancing calculations burned through his mind. Shielding constraints made his arms itch. Geogravitic energy transfer spiked adrenaline and raised gooseflesh on his neck. Above the console a wireframe appeared. One moment there was nothing: the next, it was there. No flash of light, no shimmer, no warning. It looked nothing like a hologram - it looked real. Like Anakin could reach out and feel the projection. There was a cube made of smaller, semi-transparent cubes, each separated by a hairsbreadth. Five deep, five across, five tall. Breathing out, Anakin exhaled fermion poisoning. One cube lit, shining green. He blinked, narrowing his eyes. His pupils contracted along with five hundred meter wide solar collectors. Another cube lit, green. The others shifted toward indigo-purple, dull and lifeless. Sal-Solo alone found his voice. "You''ve done it boy," he breathed, sounding eight years younger. "You''ve done it." Centerpoint grumbled. The station trembled. Anakin cocked his head, twitching joystick to the left a degree. Three cubes lit. Glowpoint blazed cold fury, luminance tripled in a microsecond. It bled no heat. Lightning struck staccato from the searing white speck, grounding out to the South Conical Mountains. Shadow-shields auto-tinted to maximum. Fingertips gently stroked smooth, featureless metal. Six more cubes lit. Teeth vibrated as subsonic whining rippled across three hundred kilometers of station. "It''s re-orienting! We''re reorienting!" a Selonian shouted. Antone, deathly pale but eyes alight, held his datapad in trembling hands. "It''s armed," he whispered. "We''re capable of firing." Centerpoint, off-white, ancient, older than suns, stepped sideward. New Republic fleet escorts, station-keeping at four hundred kilometers, found the station one thousand, four hundred and seventy three kilometers away. An eyeblink. Centerpoint stepped sideways. Open mouth shock slowed reactions. The station rotated, smoothly, visibly this time, bringing polar columns in line with Talus and Tralus. Directly below, on both worlds, clouds parted. Magnetic fields screamed and snapped. Sunspots burst on Corell. Anakin turned his head and looked up at his brother. "I was so sure," the youngest Solo said, voice doubled, tripled, echoed and reflected. Aboard Yald, the news hit like punches: one-two. Centerpoint was online. Online. The Yuuzhan Vong fleet elements, monitored carefully, were on the move. Thirty-six hours, at best speeds, and they would be decanting in the Corellian system. Admiral Brand immediately ordered all staff to the tactical information center. Real-time holograms sprung to life, resolving into captains and commanders of Third and First fleet. Now there was no time to waste. HIMS needed to be run through final checks. The hyperwave sustainer devices were the last part of the trap, as essential as Centerpoint and the Exile warships now hopefully soon to arrive. Each HIMS device activated when a hyperdrive was cut off by interdiction field or gravitational shadow. They did one thing and did it well: they created short-lived static hyperspace bubbles, keeping the ship in hyperspace. While the hyperdrive itself might be shut off, removing forward impulse, the HIMS would keep the ship ''skipping'' through hyperspace, relying on remaining existing momentum. They weren''t pretty or clean and it would be hell to keep a fleet in formation during HIMS-enabled skips, but they would allow the New Republic fleet to penetrate deeper into the Centerpoint-spun interdiction fields. Then the Exile warships, with their peculiar ''warp'' drives, would dart about with theorized impunity, striking and dismantling the trapped Yuuzhan Vong whenever they tried to rally. Conferencing with the other battle groups, Brand allowed a moment''s thought toward the four warships en-route to where Yald and Brand''s own command waited. Fondor would be the receiving point, close to Corellia for deployment and final preparations. Word from Eboracum and Legion Command was the squadron should be arriving within the day. There were warnings that warp drives did not allow for exact timetables, but even at the least generous timetable, Brand estimated it would fit. It would work. It had to.
"What are you saying, Anakin?" Jacen''s little brother''s eyes were the same blue they''d always been - but burning now with Cherenkov radiation, hard to look at. "It''s all or nothing." "What does that mean?" Anakin growled in frustration, undertones and reverberation sounding almost mechanical. "I''m trying to explain. I can''t just turn on part of Centerpoint. It wants to all turn on. It wants to be alive. I can''t - I can''t tell it not to." "Then turn it off." Jacen''s words, but spoken by Ebrihim. "Turn it off, my boy. No one knows what it''s doing to you." "It''s not doing anything. This is - this is the interface. I can see it all. I can feel it all, it''s so complicated but it wants me to understand. It''s translating." "But it can fire?" Hunger dripped from Sal-Solo''s tone and he shoved Antone aside. Reflexively, Jacen felt cool metal under his fingers. It took a force of will to pull his hand from his ''saber. "We can shoot?" Anakin''s eyebrows beetled close. "It''s not shooting. I see. That''s why. The stars - that was a hack. I don''t like it. It''s ugly. They began a stellar repositioning, but then crashed it out." Anakin''s mouth twisted. "It hurt. It doesn''t work that way." "But it can be done?" Thracken Sal-Solo repeated, reaching for Anakin. Jacen interposed, bodily.
Turk Brand fought down a smile. Centerpoint wasn''t just ready to interdict, it was fully reactivated. This was beyond anyone''s wildest expectations and though he knew there was going to be endless inquest and debate over what to do, he let out a sigh of relief. He''d been right. It could be done. Corellia was ready. The trap, baited, set. The other Battle Groups reported full readiness. Excitement, even. Eagerness. No one had illusions that this wasn''t going to be ugly, but this was it. The New Republic Navy was finally on the offensive. They were done reacting. It was time to act. It was time to bring the hammer down. Yald, Brand''s command, a stately Nebula Star Destroyer, buzzed with activity. He left tactical, headed back for the flag bridge. He shared a turbolift with two runners and an ensign. "This is it, sir?" the ensign asked. Brand nodded. "This is it," he confirmed. Through the transparisteel viewports, Brand had a breathtaking vista before him. His battlegroup, a large chunk of Fifth Fleet, at anchor. The shipyards beyond, sprightly and flickering as work progressed. Fondor, looming up underneath them all, watching over the preparations. He checked his chron. Any time now, he thought. The Exiles should be here any time now. He wondered what Admiral Regil would be like. He was anxious to meet the man. The Yuuzhan Vong were moving earlier, beyond planned timetables, but the New Republic was born from the Rebellion. They lived to adapt. Turk Brand glanced one final time across nearspace. His eyes narrowed as a new constellation appeared.
Sweat mattered down her fur, ears flattened back. Her uniform was rumpled and Jacen felt her horror. "Colonel Tel''isk?" Antone questioned, raising an eyebrow at the Bothan, who stood panting in the doorway of the control room. "It''s not Corellia," she gasped. "It''s Fondor." Q9 found he had a moment to be useful. Tapping into real-time HoloNet feeds, the droid projected a blue-grey hologram into the air. The footage was shaky, it was grainy, but it was unmistakable. Yuuzhan Vong capital ships, looming out of the dark. Coralskippers, pell-mell. Blackened starships, drifting. One was distinct, the triangular shape unmistakeable. There was a groan and Ebrihim held his head in his hands. "That''s Anlage," he mourned. "That''s Fondor."
Klaxons blare. Cool light sours to bloodred. "Call the fleets," Admiral Brand says through ash in his mouth. Chaos ripples through Centerpoint. Mrlissi, who had been such key members of science teams due to their diminutive and avioid biology, are in a panic. Their homeworld borders Fondor in the Tapani sector. Others are at a loss. It''s a joke. It''s a poorly delivered joke. Centerpoint is all dressed up with nowhere to go. The impossible was realized. The station is more alive, more active then it has been since the Brothers were harnessed. Jacen relaxes. Relief. Disgust that he feels relief. Anakin won''t have to make this decision, but the cost is Fondor. Ebrihim knows the cost that will be paid and cannot decide if he is glad the station will not be used this day. Thracken Sal-Solo is more inventive. "This is ridiculous," he barks. "There is something we can do. We have the space-time coordinates of the Yuuzhan Vong fleet right here, right now." He hurries to a console and brings up a star chart. "Look. They''re Rimward of Fondor''s fifth and sixth moons. Colonel Tel''isk, you can use your authority to get us real-time updates, can''t you?" The Bothan nods, eager. Sal-Solo claps his hands together. "Then we can target them by focusing Centerpoint''s repulsor beam." A dozen voices shout over each other, one managing to raise higher. "We have no authority to take such actions!" Aghast, Jacen must speak up too. "We could miss, or even hit Fondor - or it''s primary!" Conversations, arguments, shouting: "Mrlsst is next!" "Admiral Brand surely-" "We must assume the risk-" "No one else can-" "You ass-" "-I won''t be part-" Only Anakin says nothing at all, electric blue irises fixed on Jacen. "I can''t promise we''ll hit the target," Sal-Solo is saying - arguing - "but space is so empty-" Jacen wants to say something, anything, but words vanish from him. A sudden memory takes him, one with Anakin, from before the war. They''re training in the hold of the Falcon, honing lightsaber techniques. They''re en route to Dubrillion and Destrillion where everyone''s lives will change. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. "You keep thinking of it as a tool, a weapon in your war against everything you see as bad," Jacen was saying - griping, he has the awareness to admit. "It is an instrument, Jacen. It''s a tool of law." Anakin maintained that view the whole time. "The Force isn''t about waging war. It''s about finding peace and your place in the galaxy." Anakin is watching him now. His eyes are lit from within. His pupils are white holes. "We can''t be part of this," Jacen announces. Sal-Solo looks at them both like they''ve gone insane. "Fifth Fleet is being decimated, Anakin. The task forces from Bothawui and the other staging worlds can''t possibly arrive in time." "The Tapani Sector is our home," a Mrlssi cries, feathers ruffling in panic. "You must take the risk, the Jedi must take the risk, for our people!" "For the New Republic," another demanded. "For Tynna and all the others." "Take the shot." "Take it." "This is our only chance to score a decisive victory," Colonel Tel''isk insists. "It bears your imprint, Anakin. It answers to you and no one else." Anakin''s starfire eyes flick to the Colonel, to Sal-Solo, to the rest of the technicians, now bunched around him. His hands have not moved. He holds the joystick in one relaxed grip, the other hand flat. "Anakin, you can''t," Jacen begs, wide-eyed. "Step away from it. Please." Anakin looks through Jacen. He sees across space and time. He sees Fondor, appended by a name he can never pronounce, a designation that makes no sense. But he sees it. Centerpoint shows him. He sees the cloud of asteroids that move of their own will. He sees them approaching. Everything is there. He is as wedded to the ancient repulsor as he is to his lightsaber and he knows with the certainty of a warrior born and champion trained just the angle of thrust to lay open the armor. He knows the action, as clear as the cant of his ''saber to take a Yuuzhan Vong in their vulnerable armpit joint. Centerpoint holds him and he holds the station. "Take the shot," Thracken hisses through clenched teeth. "Take it!" "My boy, no," Ebrihim begs. There are tears in Jacen''s eyes, unshed. Anakin looks to his hands. He holds the joystick gently. His palm is flat. There is a tone like music: one two three. Black gloves cover his hands, his forearms. A cloak drapes from his shoulders. Anakin hears his breath, hard and atonal. Sucking inhale. Modulated exhale. He can do this. He can reach out and he can end every single Yuuzhan Vong warship that has entered local space over Fondor. It won''t even be hard. Centerpoint shows him more. He can see the ruins of Sernpidal. The cracked world, devoured bit by bit to furnish new hulls. He can destroy that world too. He can burn that sprawling shipyard like Chewbacca was burned down to ashes. There they breed, and he can feed them their undoing. Why stop there? He can end the Yuuzhan Vong tonight. Today. Here. Now. Centerpoint will help him. It wants to help. It wants to be used. It is a machine, it is a tool, and it yearns to fulfill its purpose. Anakin only has to provide the will. "No," he says, and lets go. "I''ll take the shot," Thracken shouts, shoving past Jacen, reaching for the trigger. His hand knocks Anakin''s aside: Anakin lets him. Thracken hunches over the console, awkward, jamming elbow into Anakin''s stomach. The chamber is silent. Everyone can hear the dull klack klack klack klack of the trigger, pulled again and again and again. "I said," Anakin pushes his chair back, coming to his feet. Sal-Solo is slackjawed, unbelieving. "No." Centerpoint goes dark.
Fondor. To the New Republic, it is a symbol of everything wrong with the Empire. It is the birthplace of Executor; a smog-shrouded industrial hellscape devoted to the production of the Imperial war machine. To the Yuuzhan Vong, it is an emblem of the sins of this decadent galaxy. A world slaughtered, choked to death on the emissions of debauched technology; its flesh ripped and resources raped. To the Imperials, Fondor is familiar. The first impressions of Magos Orichi-Mu upon setting foot on the surface is that the Motive Force feels stronger here than he has felt so far in this strange galaxy. To Brevet Lieutenant Sannad Optarch, assigned as consultant to the defending forces, it is no different from a dozen other industrialized worlds of the Imperium. For all of these reasons: Fondor is a target. For all of these reasons: Fondor is embattled. The initial engagement begins with the upper hand held by the scarred invaders ¨C the Yuuzhan Vong arrive in force, decanting just outside the gravity well en-masse, in numbers yet unseen in a single theatre thus far. Grand cruisers, vast battleships, swarms of coralskippers ¨C a veritable asteroid field appears without warning, yammosks already waking and crying out to one another as dovin basals flex and stretch. The Republic fleet is outnumbered, out matched. Star Destroyers rub shoulders with MC-series cruisers, escorted by squadrons of frigates and light cruisers but against a Vong fleet twice their size there is no hope of parity. The new tactics of splinterfire, of reinforcing shields against energy-hungry basals ¨C these serve to begin to tip the scales back toward equality, but there is yet still far to go. Fifth Fleet is strong, but it has been whittled. Reinforcements have been slow. Crews have been worked to the bone, supply cut to the quick. This stay at Fondor, resting before the promise of Corellia to come, is the first real breather the Fleet has had. They have suckled at the teat of the industrial world, they have taken the time to exhale. They are caught before they can begin to breath in again. The Republic has not been idle. From locations Rimward three more Battle Groups enter hyperspace, careening toward the threatened world to catch the invaders on their flanks. A pincer movement, carefully planned and executed under what was deemed the utmost of secrecy. Weeks of planning, of shuffling and adjusting of patrol schedules and under-the-table negotiation with the triple-dealing Hutts. Of manipulation at the very highest levels of the Republic. All meant to corral the invaders in the perfect trap of Corellia. Now leaping to answer the unexpected strike at Fondor. Beings, apocrine sweat beading and zwitterionic chemicals flushing through bodies, jab digits at holograms and bicker over real-time infeed data. This is not catastrophic. It is not. It is manageable, it is salvageable - Corellia was ideal, Corellia was the plan, but plans can change. They assure themselves of this, they place manipulators on shoulders and hunch-back analogues. We''ll get them, they say, we''ll get them at Fondor instead. It''s just a change of plans. Supreme Commander Nas Choka is not to be taken in. Dovin basal mines seeded across a dozen major routes force emergency reversion after emergency reversion for the harried Third, Fourth and First Battle Groups. Starships are devoured by the deadly point-masses, ripped apart under gravitational stresses and thousands of sailors lose their lives in the deep black between stars. Voices are stolen from screaming throats as the chill of the void wrings silent crystal-fume shouts of dismay. Clouded eyes peer at pinprick-stars that will never warm them, amidst the ruin of the Navy''s Finest. The fleets meant to strike against the rear of the Yuuzhan Vong force never appear. The sum total of Republic forces remain the handful of Star Destroyers and Mon Calamari cruisers with supporting squadrons arrayed in low orbit, shields squealing against the thin upper reaches of the atmosphere. Thus does Nas Choka, receiving villip-relayed notification of the three Battle Groups removed from the field of play, advance his fleet deeper into the well of Fondor, sailing past the handful of moons. Abreast of the largest, a salvo of world-shaping seeds is flung carelessly against Nallastia, the garden moon that hangs in stark contrast to the ecumenopolis beyond. The Supreme Commander, confident in his thwarting of the machine-lover''s plotting, foresees no hindrance to the conquest of this critical world. Here he will crush one of their largest shipyards and go on to honor the gods by sweeping the planet clean of its infestation, so that it might be, as all things, reborn in their image. Fondor is a world touched by machine and droid, a world cursed by heathen technology but it is a world who has been miserly in her gifts. Beneath the caress of the Chosen, it will offer up her gifts in both hands until yorik-et grow in fair fields and rakamat low at the morning sky. Nas Choka is confident, as well he should be. In all ways he can conceive of, he has outmaneuvered and outplanned the Republic. In all theatres he knows of they are embattled, pinned down, unable to answer the likely frantic calls broadcast by the inferior fleet that even now huddles before him. All known routes to Fondor are seeded with deadly mines, impassable to any creations of steel and unliving minds. His confidence is justified, his planning impeccable. In all ways he can, Nas Choka has calculated this next phase of the war to the utmost of his abilities. Unfortunately for Nas Choka, Supreme Commander, there are, at that very moment, several factors far outside of not only his knowledge, but his frame-of-reference. Deals have been made, meetings held, accords reached. Tongues held and minds still suspicious yes, but common ground forged. At the moment his fleet bears down on Fondor, these factors are thundering through a nether-realm of souls, screaming along at speeds that cannot be charted by logic, navigating reefs of passion, hatred and antipathy. A woman, young, bright, glut on the freedom of this galaxy and the peace of her mentors, whispers worlds in mind and meaning to soul-bound creatures of curated genetic legacy and millenia of training. Together, they reef the sails, they tend the rudder, they spy the shoals and by their hands and their minds and their eyes, which see beyond sight, they light the way. Turk Brand gives the order. Stay Awhile and Listen spools up her four mass shadow projectors. The Interdictor does not attune them to the necessary levels to inhibit hyperspace translation. The Admiral knows the enemy will be confused. Let them be. Instead, the Interdictor projects a wide cone, far past Fondor''s moons, wider and broader than usual, adjusted by the gravitational values of each of the satellites and the world they spun about. Jedi Eryl Besa, brow furrowed in concentration, hunched over and shivering as frost rimes her boots and crackles on her tunic, speaks around chattering teeth. There is a moment. Gellar operations confirms. Navigation confirms. The Mandeville slides. Nas Choka learns of this new paradigm when the blazebugs of his strategium hum a discordant note, buzzing in confusion as every yammosk writhes in sudden, expected unease. Vestigial senses, barely understood, lurking remnants tingle and tremble in the complex biocomputers, sending shivers of uncertainty through their tentacles. Glutinous nutrient baths heave and swirl. Sabre''d teeth gnash. Invisible to most eyes of the Chosen Ones, locked away inside yorik-coral fortresses, a vast slash in the flesh of reality reels wide, crackling lips curling back in a snarl that stings eyes and jolts nausea from all who laid eyes on the phenomenon. Sudden ill dreams sweep the nightside of Fondor. Erupting from the writhing wound in space come four warships. In another time in this galaxy, they might have been seen as cousins of a sort. Each is a naked blade, an ingot of steel hammer-forged, bristling from prow to stern with an endless array of weaponry. Baroque architecture rises into buttressed fortresses along the spine, descends into gothic spires from the ventral surfaces. Blade-edged prows, sharp as swords, encrusted with designs of eagles and laurel, picked with bolts of lightning around blackened barrels of spinal-mounted cannons pierce through the veil between this world and the other, spraying ectoplasmic matter in streams a hundred kilometers long. Short lived seraphim spirits and dancing, simple-minded intelligences careen and lope alongside the ships as they burst free, each fading into scraps of light and prismatic color before being sucked back into the rift of uncolor. They are the Grand Cruiser Opolor''s Vow, three hundred and ninety-six years old. The Cruisers Guilliman''s Glory: a young ship, merely six decades of age, but with the scars of a dozen wars etched along her flanks; Son of Iax: whose exuberant markings of cobalt blue and gold were scorched and blackened; and Sorpenton: whose keel had once been Shepherd''s Due. Blaze-bugs arrange themselves as best they could, faced with new vessels of unknown allegiance and incomprehensible provenance. In the holotanks of the arrayed Republic fleet, the four vessels are marked with a simple yellow. Friendly, but not under command. Admiral Brand, aboard Yald, presses his fist to his lips and leans forward, tense. Surprised, but with a sudden flare of what he dares believe might be hope. The closing Yuuzhan Vong fleet and the newly arrived squadron of Imperial warships together form a rapidly shrinking triangle, with the station-keeping Republic First Fleet and the sprawling shipyards of Fondor forming the anchoring third vertex. Nas Choka has two choices. Continue his assault or ease the basal''s attraction, slowing his advance to take time to investigate this new variable in an equation he has thought balanced. He elects to push forward. Honor to Yun''Yammka. The drives of the Republic ships, previously holding them in stationary orbit, light with coughs of azure ion, boosting them up from the edges of the ionosphere, shrinking the triangle yet faster. Timetables scroll, countdowns indicating time to engagement. Spheres of pale blue and red and yellow ignite in the holotanks, showing the estimated engagement ranges of each force. Some do not believe the scale of the yellow sphere. They are promptly educated. From beyond the orbit of Fondor''s largest moon, more than a million miles away from the low orbits of Fondor and the encroaching Yuuzhan Vong fleet, Opolor''s Vow speaks her first argument and the old lady is concise. Her handmaidens add their own denouncement, spoken slivers of a second later: their mistress is always to be allowed to first word. Massive lance arrays in the prow and battlements give voice to harsh light. At lightspeed, collimated beams of energy cross the vast expanse of space in but moments. Bloodied and Unbowed, alerted by a crackling fore-shock of radiation, tasted by ever-vigilant yammosk coordinators, aligns its voids. The Yuuzhan Vong battleship, two kilometers long, bulky and massive, has micro-seconds to shift point-mass singularities to absorb the screaming energy. Time it does not have. One void manages to choke down a single lance strike with the dovin basal exhausted and falling into slumber immediately after. Other dovin basals - peerless biots all, the apex of the Shaper''s craft, are merely flesh and blood, and cannot react in the span of time allotted. Spears of light pin Bloodied and Unbowed through. Yorik coral vaporizes, erupting into vast plumes of superheated plasma as the entire warship kicks sideways by the explosive vaporization of a significant portion of its mass. It is dead in seconds, more than a third of the ship molten and blown apart. The remains spin out of formation, smearing a spray of rubble across nearspace like a fan of gravel flung from a bucket. Opolor''s Vow and her attendants begin to recharge their capacitor banks. The blaze-bugs that had been Bloodied and Unbowed return to their niches as Nas Choka leans forward, one sharp fingernail running along his lower lip. For he is Supreme Commander and even the sudden and unexpected loss of a miid-roic in a single volley does not unnerve him. The weapons of the new arrivals are powerful, that is clear. The speed in which they cross space: that too is remarkable. But they are four vessels and even with the loss of a miid-roic his fleet still greatly outnumbers both forces. It does not escape his notice that the largest of these strange ships was the one that slew Bloodied and Unbowed. The smaller vessels added their fury, which means it is but a concentration of their potency that has struck this blow. His own flagship can do much the same to one of the infidel''s triangle ships in a single great volley, of course. Already, the yammosks would be adjusting, preparing for all dovin basals to combine strengths to attempt to repel the next assault. The battle might simply be more costly, that is all. Four ships cannot prevent the fall of Fondor and the breaking of the New Republic here. Nas Choka indicates to a tactician, ordering a deepening of the basal connection on Fondor. As one the fleet accelerates, eager to come to grips all the sooner with the Republic fleet. At estimation, glancing over the blazebugs, he can be within close-range engagement with the heretics in a handful of minutes at which point the new arrivals, still many minutes away, will need to pick their targets much more carefully. He will use the weaknesses of this galaxy against them. They will not risk the deaths of their allies; such is their obsession with life. A tougher fight. He nods. In a way, it is better. It will be more satisfying. Minutes tick down. Long-distance fire begins to crackle between the Yuuzhan Vong and Republic. Turbolasers, less effective at range, sleet upwell, absorbed easily by voids. Of course, for every shot consumed, the ship assaulted slows. The time to close-engagement lengthens. Ripples of magma missiles erupt from the massed fleet, targeted against both the onrushing warships and the fixed emplacement battlestations. Golan Is and IIs and a handful of IIIs throw their own munitions into the fray, adding a capital ship''s worth of firepower at the expense of maneuverability. The Grand Cruiser Opolor''s Vow speaks five more times, each lance strike eviscerating a Yuuzhan Vong warship even through its dovin basal voids. Her escorting cruisers, measure of the enemy taken, now link their own lance volleys together. Commodore Sogan, aboard Iax, calls the targets. Admiral Regil is enjoying picking off small-fry, but Sogan has higher sights. Together, Son of Iax, Sorpenton and Guillimans''s Glory hold charge until their lances are trembling, seething, screaming for release, and that release he commands. Ascendancy in the Eyes of the Sacred takes lance volleys along her flank. Voids flare, devour, burst. Sogan is adamant: continue fire. Beams pierce through the point-mass interdictors. Yorik coral ripples and plumes. Chunks of warship the size of city blocks are ejected, spiraling on trails of glittering atmosphere and plasmic tendrils. Ascendancy slows. Her basals are redirected entirely. A yammosk has turned its full attention to the stricken warship. Absorb the hits. Cease locomotion. Make as a fortress and shutter the gates. The yammosk is insistent, the basals wail in agony. More lances, firing at a rapidity that concerns the shipmaster of Ascendency, continue to pick and peel the flesh of the vessel. Opolor''s Vow deigns to accede to the aspirations of her lessers. Her bow twitches in her headlong rush, a minute adjustment of targeting. The next volley of lance fire is bolstered by Candelum Romanii Pattern firepower as the finest energy projectors devised by the Magi of Konor discharge. Ascendancy in the Eyes of the Sacred flinches. Autocogitator targeting and expert experience honed in the fires of the Great Crusade deliver four line warship''s worth of firepower on a point roughly the diameter of a main battle tank. A textbook killing blow, straight from the training manuals of the Imperialis Armada. A flare of light illuminates the ink-dark coral from within before the length of the ship caught flame and immolated. Volatile compounds, destabilized plasmic containment and exotic materia combust, lose coherency, rage and riot through the superstructure. Squirts of strange color vent like fumeroles. Magnesium white, copper green, caesium blue. Nas Choka straightens. Ascendancy is one of his three Grand Cruisers, the smallest. He is in one of the remaining two. He notes the potency of the prow batteries and traces each path of hateful photonic fury. Only a few degrees of allowance. He waves to a tactician, ensuring that the yammosks are aware. These new warships are formidable. But thus far he hypothesizes it is their frontal weaponry that is wreaking the most damage. Now their distant reversion and range from the battle proper becomes clearer. ''When we fight them again,'' he considers, ''we shall not allow ourselves to be caught at range.'' Already he imagines the viability of pinpoint hyperspace reversions to flank these newcomers in future conflicts. Reserve forces to be held at bay and tasked to close and engage. But for all his theorizing, he notes they are not slowing. The battle descends into melee and chaos. For the Republic, hampered by mortal minds and arguments and the necessity of explanation, chaos is a weakness. For the Yuuzhan Vong, impelled by the commands of the yammosk, chaos does not exist. Every warrior is a part of the whole and the whole is unquestioned. Even the Supreme Commander, to a degree, is subordinate to the greater motion. From his strategium where he oversees the clash, issuing orders, he trusts in the yammosks to interpret and enact each command. The War Coordinators have never failed. They are the children of the Slayer, the boon the Warrior Caste treasures most. When the Imperial squadron arrives, minutes after the melee begins in earnest; they have only just begun to slow. Tendrils of golden plasma reach out to embrace the latecomers alongside clouds of coralskippers and a rain of magma missiles. Son of Iax unleashes salvo after salvo of macrobattery and its own plasma, the warship veritably erupting with a shudder of solid shot and pitch-metal bangs of magnetic containment impellers, recoiling enough to momentarily neutralize the forward impulse of its engines. It pummels and hammers a miid-roic of roughly half its size. The Yuuzhan Vong warship rolls, dovin basals projecting voids that devour some of the incoming fire before being brushed aside. Others try to take up the slack, but the weight of fire is immense. Explosions crackle and rip across the thick coral plating, pluming up sprays of gravel and molten debris. Return plasma smears and splashes across flickering violet barriers, vanishing almost as soon as it impacts. Magma missiles spiral and detonate on the hull proper, but each spray of jellied plasma is brushed past as Son of Iax accelerates. For any other navy in this galaxy, there would have been confusion. Uncertainty. Perhaps: disbelief. But it is almost as if the Yuuzhan Vong understood the language of this new foe. The captain of the embattled miid-roic, a prefect of some skill, recognizes immediately an attempt to ram. Dovin basals struggle to slew the craft around but the Imperial ship is too close, too fast and they are too weakened from acting as insufficient barriers. The prefect''s last thought is of how odd it was to sacrifice a warship that seemed, so far, mostly undamaged. The armored prow of Iax sinks home into the cruiser, bodily slamming it aside and ripping into the guts. Rapid decompression blows out entire segments of the warship as overpressure and hydrostatic shock of the impact compresses the warship. Engines flaring, Son of Iax pushes straight through, plasma batteries punching into the tumbling halves of the Vong ship as it splits in half. Chewing apart the remnants, killing that which was already dead, Iax searches for new prey. Impacts of debris strikes along the four kilometer length of the light cruiser, rattling and banging off of the slabbed armor plating. In other quarters, the battle proceeds less well for the defenders. Quiet Tides, shields stripped by the concerted efforts of three frigates, wallowes under repeated impacts. Holed, punctured, bleeding plasma and molten metal, the Mon Calamari craft dies by cuts. A Golan platform suffers critical containment failure in its primary fusion reactor: a plume of sun-hot efflux spitting like a blowtorch in the night a hundred kilometers long. Rapid surges of thermal radiation overloads the shields of any warships nearby and sears the surfaces of Vong craft black before full containment fails and the platform vanishes in a globe of light and radiation. The Star Destroyer Interregnum loses its port-side weaponry after a staggering one-two punch of plasma and magma barrage, forcing her captain to order disengagement. Two Nebulon-B frigates, flying escort for the cruiser Tuwara are laid upon by squadrons of coralskippers before being immolated by a contemptuous broadside from the Grand Cruiser Screams of the Heretic. Warships run rampant through the shipyards, braving fierce fire from Golans and harrying snubfighters alike. Anlage, nearly finished, takes several coralskippers amidships at high speed. The triangular capital ship breaks apart, spraying debris into nearby slipways. Amerce, another Star Destroyer, ceases to exist in a stroboscopic flare of light. Its engine segment, near to completion, spins out of the firestorm, crumpling Yard 1321 and -47. One Star Destroyer, atmosphere gouting from ruptures along its flanks, hews hard in its slipway, slamming into fragile workings and scaffolding, wrecking them before becoming entangled with its sister in the neighboring dock. The two die as one as coralskippers plow into their silent engines, sparking off the half-status reactors and painting local space with light. Hypermatter spill illuminates the skies of Fondor. There are spans of container fields, set aside for eventual shipment. Each container is enormous, equivalent in size, in some forms, to frigates or even cruisers. They are bright in primary colors and shaped polyhedral. Red prisms and blue dodecahedrons; they are designed to be mated to freighters through magnetic plating. They are filled with war mat¨¦riel meant for the fronts. They are full of ordnance, they are packed with medical supplies, they are topped to the gunwales with replaceable parts. The Yuuzhan Vong do not know which is what. They do not care. Frigate analogues laze down the vast container fields. It is punishment detail, far from the glory to be grasped in daring combat against the infidel. It is punishment detail and they vaporize months of production, an act that will with cold certainty stress the supply chain of the New Republic to snapping. Yuuzhan Vong carriers fling coralskippers on ballistic paths. Like slingshot stones they kill quiescent starships hanging at rest, they puncture docks, they careen through unshielded bays. Many survive, with dovin basals roused and ready. The vast yards unbind like a necklace pulled too tight, spraying arcs of debris and machined components in broad fans hundreds of kilometers wide. There is little fire ¨C the simple mathematics of kinetics is enough to kill these fragile stations. Bursts and squirts of light signify significant matter-to-energy conversion. Sunlight reflects and shatters across a growing field of riven metal. In lower orbits, shipyards tangle and collide, spiraling lower, erupting into long-lived streamers of smoke and flame as the atmosphere consumes them. Larger segments, solid and massive enough to survive re-entry, strike like bombs across the industrial surface. Factories catch fire, droids running amok in panic and confusion. A Yuuzhan Vong carrier, finished with its attack run, accelerates to escape the massacre of the shipyards. A succession of ion bolts spatter along its midline as the basals lock onto Fondor. Skittering lightning crackles along coral, seizing muscle and disorienting biots. A flurry of proton torpedos thunder into its flesh, leaving the carcass dead. And still locked onto Fondor. Clouds part around the artificial meteor. It punched home like lightning, a flash from the heavens, crust rippling for a hundred kilometers around, heat blast igniting a huge swathe of smog-choked sprawl. Billions, trillions of tons of matter is vaporized and ejected upward, a pyroclastic blast that reaches the upper reaches of the atmosphere where it flattens like an anvil. The entire local plate grumbles, shocking earthquakes across a third of the surface. Ten minutes later, the planetary shields come online, only to flicker off shortly thereafter as the continued aftershocks destabilize the projectors. But where the Imperial ships fly, the line of battle stabilizes and tips for the defenders. Commodore Sogan is sweating as he bellows. His officer corps do not take it personally. Tyber Sogan is a man of some vitality and in battle he surrendered to his passions. They did not rule him and his exuberance, in many instances, bled to that of his crew. ''Bring us about! Full burn! Batteries echo through terra, port, hold fire. Roll us! Roll us, dammit all! Throne alive, I can touch them, I can touch them! XO, why isn''t that damned frigate dead? Kill it!'' Son of Iax wheels and spins and four kilometers of Murder cruiser dances under the ministrations of Sogan''s handpicked piloting cadre. Plasma ripples in sequences from port and starboard. Salvos are timed to lure voids, then slap them aside. Macrobattery banks to supplement are as chisels to the lumpen stone of the grown warships. Space about Son of Iax appears not dissimilar to an accretion disk, with the cruiser as the forging planetoid. Opolor''s Vow is untouchable, stately sliding through the melee. Sleeting broadsides overwhelm basals and batter aside Vong craft. Macrocannon and banks of las and Martian plasma prove more than a match for biot-forged plasma and magma missile. Its void shields, enigmatic to the senses of the yammosks, crackle constantly under high energy impacts of plasma. Banks of interception cannon swat coralskippers from the sky and detonate missiles before they can dare touch her armor. Flights of brutally armored Thunderbolt fighters run combat patrols, keeping coralskippers at bay, layered ceramite proving efficient at absorbing more than their fair share of plasma. For more than thirty minutes the melee rages. Sorpenton, as per her unlucky reputation, takes a dozen magma missiles to the midsection, knocking out a half dozen batteries and venting thirteen decks to space. Opolor''s Vow and the remaining Vong Grand Cruisers, Screams of the Heretic and Yammka, engage in close proximity. Space between the three becomes inimical to life, a harrowed expanse where macrocannon shell and plasmic discharge seem to saturate every square meter. Dovin basals tug and haul at the eight-kilometer length of the Vow, adamantium keel groaning under the conflicting gravitational pulses. Plasma coats her voids so thoroughly the ship is barely visible save for the rippling salvos of macrocannon that slash outward. At such proximity, Screams of the Heretic and Yammka alloy their dovin basals as one, projecting massive voids that manage to consume several lance blasts as the prow of Vow tracks across Heretic. Three lance strikes connect, carving out craters and calving off a frigate sized piece of coral from the warship. Spumes of crystalline air and tumbling bodies pour from the breach before eroding in the hostility and heat of local space. As these monsters clash, the rest of the fleets give a wide berth, unable and unwilling to contend with such continent-searing firepower. Yald, a strapping new Nebula Star Destroyer, blares with klaxon. Admiral Brand is pacing and has been pacing. He rarely looks to the expansive transparisteel of the bridge, caring not to see the flickering vista laid out before him. Fondor''s legacy is dying around him and he can do nothing at all. He has no command of the Exiles who have arrived, just ahead of schedule. He has no answer to the Yuuzhan Vong, who have seen through all his plans like so much flimsy. He has Yald, he has a dozen other Star Destroyers and MC series cruisers, none of which is hale. All are venting atmosphere, all are pockmarked and scorched. He is relegated to ensuring that none of the invaders are able to mount a coordinated assault on the Exile''s ships. They are the only thing keeping Fondor from becoming a total rout. Brand can see the truth in the holotanks around him. He watches Opolor''s Vow, though it steals his breath. It fights like a demon out of some Sith hell, it fights like the myth of Executor. He can''t fathom any class of starship he knows weathering not one but two of the Vong capital ships in such a way. One of them is fifteen kilometers, a real monster, and the second just larger than the Exile ship. The plasma and magma missiles, not to mention the way Yald''s sensors scream as the duo of capital ships flex their basals - Yald would''ve been erased in a minute. He thinks even Lusankya or Guardian would be lost, with maybe Harbinger or Viscount able to bear it a while longer under their latest shields and next-gen armor. But Brand can see the truth in the holotanks around him. Opolor''s Vow fights two Grand Cruisers to a standstill. Son of Iax chases down a miid-roic and murders it. Sorpenton is beset by wings upon wings of coralskippers, becoming the anchor to a starfighter brawl of legendary proportions. Guilliman''s Glory sails to the side of her embattled sister, but Brand sees it. Each, they are unmatched. Unparalleled. It''s not enough. Should the Yuuzhan Vong fold back in, collapse back the tendrils of their fleet - the Exile''s ships will burn. So Brand does what he can and he risks every ship of his command to draw the ire of the invaders. He stokes their warrior fury. He lures their battle-lust. He keeps them from looking, truly looking, at the scope of the clash. The Exiles can save Fondor, and maybe the Fifth Fleet, but only if the Fifth Fleet can save the Exiles. He watched Bad Moon die, the Star Destroyer listing, keel straining, hull going dark. Escape pods bloom like bursting seeds. Finally, the order comes. As one, the Yuuzhan Vong fleet retracts, peeling back and away, piling on distance. Screens of coralskippers cover their flanks. Screams of the Heretic and Yammka heel over and pull away from the Vow, both scarred and battered but intact. The first Battle of Fondor is concluded. Both sides are disappointed. Nas Choka, moving beyond the horizon line, chews over the loss. Fondor was supposed to be a simple campaign, breaking the Republic''s shipyard and securing a critical world near to the Core. Lord Admiral Cornelius Regil frets at the Yuuzhan Vong''s stubborn resistance. Ignoring that his flagship has taken on two of their largest warships to date and emerged nearly unscarred, he nonetheless stews over the fact he has not simply killed them both. Admiral Brand seethes. The planned trap at Corellia has failed. All of the careful planning, plotting, the deception and desperate gambles for this chance ¨C wasted. The ability of the Exiles with their unknown warp drives to have full impunity of movement within the interdiction field - wasted. Worse yet, the Republic has been forced to show their hand too soon, revealing the careful alliance with the strange newcomers before they had wanted. Worse ¨C the shipyards are lost and thirty nearly finished capital ships along with them. Not to mention the incredible damage done to the world. Placing the world between them and the Republican fleet, reinforced now by the Exiles, Nas Choka orders what he must but fears may be disastrous. Landers, yorik-trema and -troka and -triket, peel away from the Yuuzhan Vong fleet, nosing down toward the increasingly storm-choked world. Neither fleet is anxious to force a second encounter. Neither is certain of victory. Fondor remains, tarnished jewel, polluted by industry, grievously injured by accident - but still a prize. The combatants lurk, like spurned lovers, on opposite sides of the world. There is unspoken understanding. To poke above the horizon is to invite assault, is to reignite the suspended fleet action. The Yuuzhan Vong forces make landfall in the northern hemisphere, coming down and using the continental electrical storms and ash clouds thrown up by the impact of their carrier to mask their landfall. They ride the turbulence down, blasting their own craters with the force of their landfall. Cadres of tall, lithe Yuuzhan Vong stalk beneath the iron sky, directing hordes of reptilian chazrach. Lowing biots snuffle and snort at the air, waving vast spines and crests in threat displays. Vast, leviathan shapes in the gloom shake the earth with each plodding footstep. With such a large section of Fondor gone dark, ruined by ashfall, quakes and scorched by sweeping firestorms, enacting a full cordon is impossible. In much the same fashion, there is no way for the Vong to assault across the entire stretch of devastation. Nas Choka has a timetable and while there was an expected ground invasion of Fondor, it was one planned with expectation of orbital supremacy, not this tense standoff. Instead, as the planetary shields finally crackle back online, tremulous, fragile, the goal of the invaders is clear. They have to reach the projectors and reactors in the capital and shut them down for good. Otherwise, Oridin City may stand inviolate, defended by surface-to-orbit laser cannons, missile tubes and wings of starfighters. The capital must be taken, the capital must fall, for the Chosen of the Gods to begin to midwife the rebirth of the world. Brevet Lieutenant Optarch tasks his entire demicompany to embark. There is no reason to maintain garrison aboard Opolor''s Vow. The Yuuzhan Vong xenoform is not given to boarding actions. The void battle is concluded. Aboard Vow, his squads, his Astartes, his Ultramarines, are wasted. There is need for Astartesian mettle below. His remit from the Primarch, cosigned by his Captain (who had been but a Sergeant like Optarch only months ago, for how swiftly do things change), is broad and flexible. It is open to much interpretation. Optarch considers the holocom mount aboard Vow, which is keyed to a partner across the galaxy. He does not activate it. He was chosen for his inventive nature, his willingness to follow instincts. For his adherence to the teachings of the Primarch in spirit, if not in exacting word. He replaces his plumed helm, he nods to the Lord Admiral, who is preoccupied, and he departs the strategium. The orbital battle is over but the planetary one is just beginning.
The Supreme Commander''s visage smoothes away into fleshy uniformity, villip beginning to close itself. Nas Choka''s words echo in Malik Carr''s ears. Tak tak tak goes his claw on the coral deck underfoot. Nom Anor''s villip, still everted, still bearing the face of the spy, radiates smug amusement. "Did I not deliver on all my promises?" Malik Carr narrows dark eyes. "They have not been subtle in their actions. A blind quednak could have found them." The intendent is silent for a moment. "As ever, Warleader, I live to serve." Without requesting dismissal, Nom Anor''s villip stills and reverts. Let him slink away, Malik Carr cares little. He has his orders and he has what he needs. Nas Choka was unambiguous. "Four great battleships of unknown mettle have taken the field. I leave to you the honor of choosing the moment, Warleader. Do not disappoint." Commander Harmae, Subaltern no longer, chose to remain with Malik Carr aboard Wrath with his Warleader after his elevation. Carr nods to his trusted subordinate. Harmae inclines his head, crossing arms across his chest in salute. "Make translight," Malik Carr commands. In the command grotto, there is a sizzle of bloodlust, a tangible eagerness to cross blades. Tak tak tak, scratches his claw. "There is to be a reckoning with these Aistarteez." Contingence Interlude I Fondor Shipyards Lost!

Navy Insists Situation is Stable - Senate Floats Inquest

Corellian Governor-General in Row with Sal-Solo ORIDIN CITY, FONDOR, TAPANI SECTOR - Sirens continue to wail, hours after a Yuuzhan Vong carrier-analogue fell in the Carwik-Malfan Manufactory District west of the capital sprawl. Groundquakes caused by the meteoric impact have been unceasing, but according to local geological reports, their severity is diminishing. Blackouts and grid failures are a constant problem, tackled by droid repair teams struggling to keep ahead of demand. As of this article''s publication, it has been twenty-four hours since the battle in space paused. Damage and casualty numbers are still being tallied and it is suspected that official counts may not be available for months. "Fifth Fleet remains capable of maneuvers and combat," Admiral Turk Brand clarified, speaking late last night for the first time publicly since the invader''s arrival. "Losses were heavy, but thanks to the timely intervention of our allies, I am confident we can continue to contest orbital superiority over Fondor." Notable is Admiral Brand''s inability to declare intention to drive the invading Yuuzhan Vong from Fondor''s solar sphere. As of publication, the hostile fleet remains counter-orbiting the world, opposite Fifth Fleet''s survivors. Concerns have been raised by Guildmasters about if Fifth Fleet can contest Yuuzhan Vong attempts at initiating orbital bombardments, but the office of the Admiral has been silent on that subject. Fondor''s own planetary shields remain active, providing some peace of mind, but the death of Ithor remains fresh on the minds of the locals. The invader''s ground forces, landed before the shield could be reactivated following the carrier''s impact, have arrayed themselves some eight hundred kilometers from Oridin City. The Guilds have mustered conscript levies to counter the invaders, but what this reporter has been able to glean of the ongoing combat, the Yuuzhan Vong have not been measurably impeded. Rumors circulate about non-Republic consultants taking command of the defense, linking these contractors to the mysterious squadron that turned the tide of the battle in orbit. [Brand''s New Allies]

Brand''s New Allies In an Advisory Council resolution that passed by a slim majority, the Navy''s Second Fleet was redeployed to Bothawui (Bothan Sector) following recently revealed, exclusive intelligence that New Republic Intelligence fingered either the Bothan homeworld or Corellia for imminent attack. A contested decision and one that has sparked demonstrations and outcry from Corellians both at home and abroad, Chief Feyl''ya was on record as stating that "Corellia''s Strident Star Defenders provide a valuable native bulwark against invasion." At this time, three of the CEC warships are on station in the valuable Core system, along with CorSec assets. Notably, Fondor is rumored to have never been discussed as an expected target for the Yuuzhan Vong, appearing absent in documents obtained by Information Transparency Act request. Asked about this apparent oversight, Senator Viqi Shesh (Kuat) had this to say: "Every world is, as far as our understanding of the motives of the Yuuzhan Vong, a potential target. Corellia and Bothawui were most likely given the best intelligence that our brave operatives could obtain, but in war, I daresay nothing is certain." A frequent rival to Senator Shesh, Senator Kvarm Jia (Tapani), spoke out in contrast to Shesh''s statement. "Shesh is talking from behind the privilege of Kuat. Everyone knows the Navy will fight to the last to protect KDY. I can''t believe she would be so flippant about how ''nothing is certain'' if her family''s holdings were burning instead." Questions continue to circulate over the unexpected arrival of three battlecruisers and a star dreadnaught of unknown make and model. First-hand accounts report nearly unbelievable losses inflicted on the Yuuzhan Vong armada by these warships, including holos this reporter has received demonstrating the star dreadnought exchanging fire with two Yuuzhan Vong ''grand cruisers''. Classified by the Anaxes War College System as star dreadnaughts themselves, sources familiar with the subject indicate that these Yuuzhan Vong warships are primarily command vessels, likely bearing the flag officer of the invading force. Civil starflight crews witness to the battle had much to say about the four unknown vessels, such as Captain Barkee of the Yag''Dhul registered freighter Yagadn: "[They] vaped one of the bricks - I watched it myself, right there on the scopes. Pulled up next to it and boom, melted it to sludge. Like chucking it in a dispersal canister!" Other interviews report unexpected range on the newcomer ships that allowed them to engage the Yuuzhan Vong at their discretion. Unverified eyewitness accounts claim that one of the battlecruisers engaged in ramming actions. Theories circulate from the possible: the warships being experimental testbed designs by the Navy or a Chiss Ascendancy squadron; to the outlandish: that they are sworn enemies of the Yuuzhan Vong who tracked them to our Galaxy, or that they are representatives of a previously unknown star empire in the Unknown Regions. The opinion of many relates Brand''s new allies to the closed Senate session reported on by this outlet last month, which is known to have been regarding diplomatic overtures to a new polity, referred to only in public statements as ''The Imperium Exsilius''. Little else is known, marking this battle as likely the first public involvement of this ''Imperium Exsilius'' with the New Republic, should these assumptions prove correct. Praise from the Guild of Shipwrights lauds Admiral Brand in securing this aid, tempering potentially sour opinions on the New Republic''s own defense. [Official Statement by Guildmistriss Eeshu Naa]

Battlegroups Interdicted Along Rimma Trade Route Departures at Bothawui coinciding with the attack on the shipyards proves the Navy endeavored to reinforce Fifth Fleet. Third and First Battle Groups suffered losses from dovin basal [See: Yuuzhan Vong and You, Public Release 1.19] mines scattered along most major hyperspace routes, forcing reversions and attempts to circumnavigate the hazards. At least two Star Destroyers were lost to collision, according to sources. Retired Admiral Yarin had this to say on the subject of interdiction mines, when called on at her retirement home on Chandrila. "It''s something that should have been expected. Vong biotechnology allows for miniaturization of devices that conventional thinking would consider too expensive or too large. They already use black holes for things as simple as shields. Why not as interdictor mines?" When asked if she viewed this as negligence on the part of the Navy, Yarin declined to comment. According to astronagivation consultants, the reformed Battle Groups will need to travel via Eriadu or Sullust, after shooting the Outer Rim. The delay is expected to be at minimum a week, assuming no further Yuuzhan Vong interference. [Interactive Holomap of the Rimma Trade Route]

Invaders Push For Oridin City The stalemate in orbit has resolved into a protracted engagement on the ground. Before Fondor''s planetary shields were restored, military intelligence indicates the Yuuzhan Vong were able to land in force, using the destruction in Carwik-Malfan to establish a beachhead unopposed. Mustered riot-control forces and police by the Guilds have taken severe losses against the invaders in attempts to slow their advance, bolstered by mothballed stockpiles of munitions dating back to the Galactic Civil War or to the Clone Wars. HAVw A6 Juggernaut tanks have been sighted assembling at motorpools along with several aging All Terrain Armored Transport walkers, indicating the Guilds are taking seriously the threat posed to Oridin City. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Said Security Chief Semblum: "Fondor is our home and it''s the civic duty of every Fondorian to do everything they can to resist the invaders. The alternative is unthinkable." Conscriptions have swept Oridin City and surrounding suburbs as large portions of outlying factories and habitation complexes are even now being pulled down and reworked into berms and trenchworks by construction droids. [Visitor''s Guide to Oridin City]

Command Shake-ups in Fondor''s Ground Defense Conscript defense forces are being funneled toward the embattled region between the Carwik-Malfan and Oridin City, joined by, it appears, reinforcements from the newly arrived ''Exsilius'' warships. Large gunships have been reported moving on fire missions over Yuuzhan Vong-held territory as well as delivering armored vehicles and static emplacement artillery. Security Chief Semblem''s office has not commented yet on where these ''Exsilius'' units fall under New Republic or Fondorian command, but they have clearly been given full access to Fondor''s surface and the defense operation itself. Several elite units, likely some pattern of war droid, have been seen acting as rapid reaction forces to stymie attempts by the invaders to cause breakthroughs. [Embedded holovid] Reporters are working to embed themselves with these units to provide to our readers the fastest and most accurate on-the-ground reporting as the situation develops. [Related: Tapani''s Martial Legacy, from the Twelve Kingdoms to the New Republic]

Senate Inquest Begun; Advisory Council Split SENATE ROTUNDA, CORUSCANT - Furor erupted among with outcries of condemnation, protest and support as Senator Ta''laam Ranth (Antar 4), head of the Senate Justice Council, announced the Council''s investigation into the actions of Admiral Brand and Admiral Sovv in the leadup to the assault on Fondor. Named in Ranth''s announcement was the role of the Advisory Council in determination of naval deployments and potential manipulation on the part of the Navy to achieve goals withheld from the Senate. "This is not a failure of military intelligence," Ranth stressed as his bodyguards kept reporters and journalists at arm''s length. "This has the hallmarks of purposeful misdirection by the Navy. The Justice Council has already received whistleblower reports and confidential communiques pointing to a concerted effort by Admiral Brand and Admiral Sovv to withhold vital tactical information from the Advisory Council during their latest briefing." The Office of the Chief of State declined to comment officially thus far, while the office of Senator Viqi Shesh (Kuat) released a short statement of support to Brand, Sovv, and the Navy. Fyor Rodan (Commenor) spoke on his perception of the briefing in question, from his office on Commenor. "There was an unwillingness to discuss any system besides Corellia and Bothawui. Fondor was never floated as a consideration the Navy held and their fixation on those two systems concerns me." Cal Omas (Alderaan) took a more mediated approach, placing his support behind Ranth and the Justice Council, saying: "This is the point of the SJC. I''ve known Admiral Brand since his bold actions during the Black Fleet Crisis and I have full confidence that what was shared to the Advisory Council was the best estimates the Navy could present. I have faith Senator Ranth''s lawful inquest will clear both Admirals of any wrongdoing and, indeed, bolster faith in the transparency of our institutions. As of publication, Senators Chelch Dravvad (Corellia), Niuk Niuv (Sullust), Navik (Rodia), Pwoe (Mon Calamari) and Triebakk (Kashyyk) have not made a statement. [Watch: Senator Ranth''s Speech]

Thrackan Sal-Solo, Former Human League Firebrand, Blames Jedi CORONET CITY, CORELLIA - Protestors who had previously enjoyed monopoly outside the Governor-General''s Palace have clashed recently with new and opposing groups. Signs can still be seen condemning the New Republic, the Chief of State and the Jedi specifically, but new counter-demonstrators have brought holobillboards and flags declaring support for the New Republic Navy and the Jedi, the famous Solo clan in particular. When asked why they bore a placard that read "Jedi sent them scared!", a dockworker named Datmus credited the very visible and controversial claiming of Centerpoint station by the New Republic as why the Yuuzhan Vong moved against Fondor, on the opposite side of the Core. "Everyone remembers what Centerpoint was capable of, so if the New Republic is so eager to garrison it and fly out the Jedi responsible for ending the crisis - seriously, am I the only one who remembers that? - to help, they must have it running again." This perception that Centerpoint proved a bluff against the Yuuzhan Vong has appeared to have caught on strongly, giving pushback to those Corellian nationalists who view the wresting of the artifact away from local control to be a bridge too far. "Centerpoint is as Corellian as the Rebellion was! Coruscant doesn''t need a new toy, we deserve to have control over our ancestral history." Easily summing up the views of many, former data statistician Ana Antilles held up her own pasteboard sign, demanding ''Feyl''ya, Eat [Expletive Removed]!'' In a microcosm, the demonstrations and counterprotests mirror the latest turmoil in Corellia, as Governor-General Marcha, Duchess of Mastigophorous, returned to Coronet late yesterday. As footage circulated of Centerpoint station relocating itself in the skies above Talus and Tralus, Thrackan Sal-Solo, remembered as an untrustworthy firebrand at the same time as a true-blooded Corellian revolutionary, spoke on behalf of the Centerpoint Party within hours of the Yuuzhan Vong assault on Fondor. Sal-Solo claims that the Jedi Knight Anakin Solo had the opportunity to utilize Centerpoint''s starbuster weapon to destroy the Yuuzhan Vong fleet preemptively, but chose not to act. Sal-Solo and the Centerpoint Party have made official demands to the Governor-General to petition Chelch Dravvad to call on the Contemplanys Hermi, a concept done away with under Emperor Palpatine''s control of the Imperial Senate. The Jedi Praxeum proved unreachable, as did the Jedi Headquarters on Coruscant, our reporters unable to reach a representative for their response. Governor-General Marcha decried Sal-Solo''s demands as well as his recollection of the events, backed by her chief aide Ebirihim, who had also been present on Centerpoint at the time in question. According to Ebrihim and supported by Jenica Sonsen, former administrator of Hollowtown and current Chief of Centerpoint Research for the New Republic, the exact order of events places blame squarely on the shoulders of Sal-Solo. Knight Solo is confirmed to have activated the station, until Sal-Solo had attempted to wrest control away, directly. Analysis of publications about the nature of Centerpoint station and the Planetary Repulsor Network of the Corell system reveals likely reasons behind the choice of inviting Knight Solo on the part of the research teams. Antone Baris, PhD Theoretical Engineering, proposed in his doctoral thesis in 23 ABY that the entire system had imprinted on then Trainee Solo, explaining failures in interfacing that have plagued efforts to understand the machines since their activations by the Triad in 18 ABY. Sal-Solo''s influence has taken a significant hit following the statements from the Governor-General''s office, with opinions now mixed on the Centerpoint Party but trending negative toward Sal-Solo as many blame his apparent rash actions in causing the station to shut down in self-defense. In related news, due to Sal-Solo''s public release of protected information, New Republic Intelligence has censured the former Dorthus Tal inmate for breach of Non-Disclosure and requested CorSec detain him for questioning. As of publication, no arrest warrants or detainment orders have been issued. [A Retrospective: The Triad on Trial] Contingence Chapter VIII VIII: Ugly Ways
Who was his first student? Dev, maybe, in that brief time? Kiro, he''d never forget. More and more then, as the years went on. Kam, Streen, Gantoris, Corran, Dorsk¡­ Every one of his students needed a personal touch. Something that he could connect to them with. Each new student was like learning to teach all over again, having to discard what he thought worked and try anew to find common ground and understanding. Some made it easy, like Tionne. Others made life interesting, like Corran. Part of the wonder of building his Order was in experiencing all the ways the Force manifested through those who could touch it. No two Jedi were ever alike. No two ever felt quite the same, believed the same. Cross-legged, Luke sat across from one of his most challenging puzzles. Aeonid Thiel''s eyes were closed, but minute muscles constantly twitched across his broad face. In the millions of lightyears Luke had crossed, he''d seen all manner of beings and every stripe and size humans came in, but the Astartes were and remained arresting. Not the tallest or even biggest beings in the galaxy - a bull herglic could well match Aeonid in both height and bulk, possibly strength, but in motion the Astartes had a most peculiar dynamism that none other of the human line could claim. After all, they were weapons. Some of his students had come to him in grim straights: driven by grief or rage, hatred or sorrow, fear or desire. He''d drawn Kam out of the darkness of his life and nudged Corran Horn away from blind retribution. It was simple because they were all people. Just men and women, no matter where they came from. Increasingly difficult was seeing Aeonid as anything but a weapon. The Astartes was trying to meditate and clear his thoughts, following the patterns Luke had laid out for him, but his mind was almost violently loud. If Luke could touch Artoo''s droid brain, he suspected the sensation might be similar. Aeonid paid attention to everything. Each time Luke exhaled, Aeonid cataloged the tenor of the sound and instinctively determined how far away Luke sat. The warm breeze of Yavin over them both - he felt Aeonid pick apart the varied scents in the air, organizing them into known and unknown, potential hazard or benign. The sound of stintarils barking in the jungle. Even the subtle flap of wings. Aeonid heard it all, smelled it all, thought of it all. Like a droid or some battle-computer. Even the most tumultuous of his students, broiling in their own unprocessed emotions and impulses, did not approach the chaotic order of Aeonid Thiel''s mind. Meditation was, quite as the Astartes said, not the answer. Luke opened his eyes. Thiel did so at the same time, only further proving the live-wire focus the Ultramarine held to. "I''m wondering - why are you here?" Thiel''s confusion blossomed. "I am here to learn of the Force." Luke sighed, relaxing from his position to stretch his legs out. He gestured to Thiel, who did similarly. Long ago, this particular ruin was once a temple similar to many others in the complex, though nowhere near the size of the Great Temple. All that remained now were the cyclopean slabs that were once the foundation, swept clean by unknown cataclysm - or perhaps by planned deconstruction. A popular enough place for rest and reflection, left empty today for Master Skywalker''s lesson. They''d brought food as well, a packed lunch of sorts with an intention to spend the entire day in lessons. Aeonid was, despite his constant tension and permanently raised guard, very willing to go along with Luke''s instruction. Pulling out a ration bar, Luke removed the foil. "The Force is energy that fills and binds all living beings. We are luminous in the Force, all bound together in life and in death." He took a bite, considered it good, and nodded definitively. "That''s the Force, Aeonid. You''ve learned of it. Now, what else?" "I am to learn to command it." "As you would master the blade or blaster." Thiel nodded. "Just so. My Primarch wishes to understand this power." Stones rose about them. Luke chewed and they revolved about the pair. Interweaving, they became a ballet. Orbiting and twirling, spinning about each axis and coming so close it seemed impossible they did not collide. Now larger bricks lofted up as well, slotting into the play of finer gravel. Aeonid watched it all, rapt, expression blank. A menhir tore free, twice the height of the Astartes. It did not waver a micron as it too joined the telekinetic display. Still Luke slowly worked his way through his ration bar, never looking away from Aeonid. "I can help you understand." Thiel''s expression was hungry. "But you''ll need to unlearn everything you''ve learned." That hunger became guarded wariness. Warning of danger radiated from the man in a moment. As was to be expected. "I will not be made to abandon who I am. What I am, Master Skywalker. Even my father cannot order me to." "That isn''t what I said. I accept that you''re Astartes. Just as I have, before, accepted the pasts of beings who came to this Praxeum wishing for more. Just as I can''t stop being Luke Skywalker, you can''t stop being Aeonid Thiel." Each stone paused in their flight. Only the barest rustle could be heard as they all settled back to the ground, returning each to where they had come from, until all was still again. "I''ll ask again. Why are you here?" "I have said already-" "I know. You''re ordered to learn about and command the Force." In an outsized, homespun tunic, Thiel might look the part of a Jedi, but the rigid tension across his body belied his garb. "If I told you that the Force couldn''t be commanded, what would you say?" Aeonid, to his credit, did not immediately speak. Opened fully to the Force in the moment, Luke shied from attempting to glean the Astartes'' thoughts, instead observing the process of his consideration. The way Aeonid''s Force presence shuttered like iron when his mind was made, right before he replied. "I would disagree. Mastery is the way of the universe. You yourself claim the title of ''Master'', do you not? An interesting etymological choice, for the claim the Force is not to be commanded." Aeonid waved a hand, gesturing at the ruins around. "Your display only argues against you. I have served with psykers and even those of high talent would be hard-pressed to demonstrate so fine a touch at telekinesis. I daresay, even some practitioners of the Thousand Sons would be impressed." "Then I have command of the Force." "It''s self-evident. I have reviewed the records of Obroa-skai and I have seen the prowess of your nephew and Knight Taral, along with your own. Jedi prove to be adroit and great warriors, which I must only attribute to the Force." Aeonid''s voice grew softer. "And from personal experience, I have never faced an opponent such as yourself." "War does not make someone great," Luke admonished, then bit down melancholic amusement. "This is exactly what I mean. You''ve lived your life with only one goal, but now you''re trapped." Aeonid held up both hands. "I see no chains." "I do. You''re suffocating in them. Aeonid, what do you intend to do when this war is over?" Blue eyes narrowed. "Whatever my Primarch commands." "What would you prefer?" "To return to my galaxy." "And?" "And continue the Great Crusade." "Why?" "Clarify." Luke rose to his feet, height such that even seated, Aeonid''s head was still level with his chest. "I''m asking: why? Why do you want to continue your Crusade? What drives you?" Aeonid opened his mouth, but a raised hand stayed his tongue a moment more. "I know it''s the order of your Emperor and your Primarch, but I''m asking you to look past that. What drives Aeonid Thiel?" The Astartes answered with a swiftness that pained Luke''s heart. "Duty." "Duty. So - to do as you are told." Aeonid rubbed fingers across the stubble at his jaw. "I am not uneducated, Master Skywalker. The concepts of philosophical debate are not new to Ultramar. In our spare moments, the Primarch encourages a breadth of study. I understand the concept of the social contract. I was elevated to this body by the faith and trust the Emperor and my Primarch had in me. They gave me this, and in return, I serve. And I understand tautology. I do not hold to duty because it is commanded. I do because I have not been convinced it is wrong. If that is your aim, then this is the end of our lessons." "It isn''t." Hunching slightly, bracing elbows on knees, Aeonid watched Luke as he paced back and forth. "Then I am still listening." When the thought arrived, Luke hesitated. He trusted Aeonid, mostly, and the Imperials. They were violent and steeped in principle, but they had shown particular principles of honor and a tremendous distaste for anything that could even obliquely be considered betrayal. "Do you care about human life?" Few beings in two galaxies could claim to have rendered an Astartes speechless, and now Luke Skywalker could claim that honor along with the altogether more singular of doing similar to a Primarch. Abject confusion, tainted liberally with building anger, carefully marshaled, bled from the Ultramarine. "I don''t mean that you don''t care about humans - I''m asking if you care about human life." A frown etched across Thiel''s face, tugging at old, thin scars. "Explain the difference." Luke held out his hand. Aeonid eyed it, wary, eyes flicking between the offered appendage and Luke. "Instead of explaining, let me show you." The Astartes'' fist engulfed Luke''s hand. Like second nature, he reached for Aeonid in mind and soul. The Ultramarine burned bright in the Force, bright enough Luke could have laughed that he never suspected until their duel. For all his luminance, Aeonid sheltered behind durasteel walls a thousand meters high and just as thick. That light glimmered out through only a handful of tiny cracks and seams. Come and see, Luke shared. Aeonid, wordless, could only follow, tugged along. Minds assaulted them immediately. Loud minds but orderly ones, trained ones, ones that despite their youth bore an underpinning of structure instead of a cacophonous riot. The trainees, the younglings as they went about their lessons. Come and see. There was a history lesson. Tionne sang as she plucked her double viol, fingers moving along paths of habit. In lounges and on cushions and on thick mats, young beings swayed to the music, back and forth, back and forth. Eyes, paired and clustered, watched slender fingers dance over strings and shone with watery emotion. Hearts beat quicker. Come and see. Chitter, a Vor, swallowed on a warm heat in her throat. She loved the Praxeum, she really did, and her friends, but she''d been homesick lately. It came and went, but last night she had a vivid dream of her parents and woke up crying. She was too old to be homesick, so she didn''t tell anyone, but now Master Tionne was singing and it reminded her so much of home that it made her want to laugh and cry. Associative synesthesia sprung scents of warm cooking, of soft coverlets and the sharp smell of grass on the breeze. Come and see. Tionne pitched her voice subtly higher, matching closer Chitter''s mother, shifting key to play along a more traditional Vortex key and Chitter''s emotions spiked, silent tears welling in her deep-set eyes. Catharsis - a boil lanced, pressure released, Chitter''s chest eased and though her eyes were hot and she swallowed hard, the little Vor settled more comfortably on her cushion and her thin lips turned upward on her triangular face. Come and see. Sannah and Tahiri whispered with some urgency, cautious eyes on the move, making sure no one was around. The content of their hushed conversation went unheard, but Tahiri''s excitement bled clean and washed over the young Melodie, redoubling and rebounding like a constructive wave-form, until Tahiri was bouncing in place. Under the excitement was longing, deep and heartfelt, a longing for another half, for the part that completed her that she did not yet understand. Come and see. Kam knelt in front of Izzuviz, carefully applying antiseptic to one scratched joint. The Brizzit youth could not weep like a mammaloid, but his antennae drooped and his multiple other limbs twitched as the stinging ointment was applied. "Be more careful," Solusar admonished, peeling an adhesive bandage from a swatch and gently pressing it on. Izzuviz ducked his overlarge head, chagrined. "I know you and Zzivizu like to race, but how would you feel if Zuzu had tripped?" The Brizzit''s thorax ached. He imagined his hatch-brother here instead and wanted to curl up. See. Luke released Aeonid''s hand.
?Luke. A voice whispered in Luke''s ear. Feminine, masculine, familiar as Mara, as alien as Yuuzhan Vong. The temple foundation - gone. Aeonid - gone. Yavin - gone. Darkness swirled about him, physical, manifest. From beneath his feet came first glimmers of light, so faint his eyes had to be deceiving him, then growing stronger. A vortex, full of spinning motes, blooming beneath him, unfolding and flattening. Each mote burned white and yellow, blue and orange, red, pinpricks on darkness and between them filled in gauzy clouds and the vortex spun out arms and trailing threads and the Galaxy glowed beneath Luke''s feet. Ah, he thought. It had been a while. Deep breaths cleared his mind, ready to accept whatever the Force had to offer him. Luke. Breath tickled the back of his neck, raising hairs. He didn''t turn. Luke. It echoed, from everywhere and nowhere, all about him. From the darkness, into the light of the galaxy, came a clawed foot. Straightening from the gloom, a powerfully built form held out one thickly muscled arm. Sinuous lethality wove about it, squirming between clenched fingers and straightening into a great spear that extended above and below, far out of sight. The Yuuzhan Vong, for it could be no other creature, was etched night, carved ebon, chiseled from obsidian. Its armor was polished and glimmering as if wet, its flesh devouring all light. Silver scars glowed with dark light Suggestions of hooks and long, slender spikes sprouted from shoulder and chest, knee and elbow. A great crown of thorned horns rose from a full-faced mask, a mask without holes for eyes. Stygian shadow rippled from its shoulders, a cloak of midnight, flecked with singularity shine. His lightsaber was in his hand. Instead of green, it hissed silver and white. Luke. Without looking, he knew where his feet were planted. Both by the Core. Left foot by Coruscant, right by Fondor. He bent his knees, bringing his ''sabre to a ready stance, high near his right shoulder, angled inward. The Yuuzhan Vong took another step, slithering darkness squirming into the disc of the galaxy where its clawed toes punctured. From beneath its armored skirts, new figures appeared. Each was a mimicry of the greater Yuuzhan Vong; simpler in shape, diminutive in size, but they came in multitude, spilling out into view. Each the height of the Yuuzhan Vong''s knee, they were a dozen, a hundred, a thousand, tumbling over one another and grasping at the light of the Galaxy beneath them. Bladed fingers sunk deep into the disc of stars. Razor-toothed mouths beneath sightless helms bit and tugged at starflesh. Luke. They spread across the Outer Rim, the Mid Rim. The Colonies. Beneath his feet, the disc tilted. Canted. He stumbled, suddenly off balance. More Yuuzhan Vong spilled from beneath the greatest one. The galaxy tipped more. The shadows bred and multiplied. On the light they fed, until the disc was worn away, etched by ichorous acid, punctured and pockmarked by talon and claw. Stars began to slide down the plane of the galaxy, tinkling like chimes as they fell to the dark. The bounced from one another, they plinked and plunked, musical like a dirge for the end of the world. The beat was tritonic, rising in timbre until it matched the hissing and gabbling from the hordes of invaders. From near the Core, Luke felt a sudden new presence, mind and soul, one he knew. Among the stars flared a new light, a hard one, blue-violet, limned in black, like negative color. He shivered. Luke, spoke the voice of his father.
?His fingertips left Aeonid''s and Luke sucked in the jungle''s humid air. The vision fled, as suddenly and quickly as it arrived. The Ultramarine peered up at him, nonplussed. "I - what was this?" His father''s voice echoed in his ears and Luke marshaled his thoughts. He could consider what he''d seen later, right now, his responsibility remained with his student. "A life-" Luke coughed, cleared his throat, voice suddenly hoarse. "A life isn''t about just ''being alive''. A life is about living. Friendships, companionship. Experiences, Aeonid. Feeling love and hurt, fear and wonder, joy and sadness. What I''m asking you is: do you care about human life? What it means to be a being among beings?" Aeonid opened his mouth, paused, thought the better of it. "You need to answer that question first, not to me, but to yourself. After that, you can ask the most important question. Does life need to be human for it to be worthy?" He left the big Astartes chewing on that, driven by the need to see and speak with the other Masters. After so long with the Force utterly silent, so tangible, so clear a vision had him worried.
A bulky starship rippled fire from its flanks - and froze. In the hologram, blurred streaks could be seen of enormous, physical shells just then escaping plumes of combustible propellant. One manicured nail, buffed to a silken shine, flicked through the hologram. It ran backward, tongues of flame sucking back inward to broad-snouted barrels, then the recording played again, this time at a quarter speed. Attitude thrusters spumed silvery ion-exhaust as the battleship rolled about its long axis, taking splatters of hungry plasma across black-violet crackles of energy. Pinch, then spread fingertips and the hologram zoomed out, focused ship shrinking down to reveal its dance partner, a lumpen, ugly Yuuzhan Vong cruiser analogue. Those very same shells spat out of the battleships'' fixed broadside guns smacked into the asteroid exterior and she nodded as the miid-roic crackled apart beneath the barrage. Angry hyphens of plasma help speed along the death of the stricken living warship, turning coral into streaky whorls of magma. Her office was darkened, windows tinted enough to make it evening instead of high noon. Blue light from a dozen holos painted her pale skin in strange tones, but Viqi Shesh noticed none of it. Enraptured, she scrolled through spy-satellite recordings, top-secret clearance snubfighter gun camera footage, shaky first-hand civilian vid-captures through cockpit screens of freighters. There was Opolor''s Vow, frozen just as its ''lances'' cracked out toward a vong dreadnought. There was Sorpenton, nucleonic blooms of magma missiles harrying the doughty battlecruiser, venting atmosphere but still beating down several frigate-analogues. Here was Son of Iax, plunging prow-first through a miid-roic. One hologram stood out in contrast - a scrolling list rather than visuals. She glanced at it, occasionally, and a part of her recognized that she should probably feel some manner of emotional distress to read the dirge of the dead. Anlage, Amerce, Commendable - the rest of the lost ships, destroyed before they could even be formally christened was considered a catastrophic loss. Not to mention more than a third of Fifth Fleet that had been either destroyed or crippled. She really should feel bad about that, but she kept replaying the way Opolor''s Vow trembled along its entire length with each world-shattering broadside. Oh, all the souls lost were a tragedy, of course. May the Force guide them, things like that. The ships, though¡­ The feeling that had lasted all morning and still kept a mischievous grin etched across her face was not entirely unlike the aftermath of an athletic night. None of Fifth Fleet made it out unscathed, but according to initial reports, only the ships the Exiles called ''cruisers'' suffered any notable damage. Their flagship was alleged to have made it through entirely unscathed. Star Destroyer this, Star Destroyer that¡­Viqi dragged over an image of Yald, carbon-scored across her formerly grey-white hull, scorching out Republican Red markings and adjusted herself in her gel-pack chair. "Victor," she called, depressing the intercom key. "Madam?" Her second replied immediately, as expected. "Arrange a link with my honored Auntie. For-" she glanced at the chron. "-for forty-five minutes from now. Tell her that I expect her schedule to be open." "Madam¡­" She could hear the caution in her Chief of Staff''s voice, though he''d never gainsay her. "Do it, Victor." She cut the intercom, flicking fingertips to call up House Shesh audits. Among the smallest of the Ten Families of Kuat, Shesh held in perpetuity only a portion of the famous shipyard ring and outlying facilities in the system. Lists of current orders offered themselves up, all due to her standing within the family, only a few blacked out and redacted. Her Aunt would have the authority to reveal those, an authority that would be Viqi''s by the end of the day. The old hawkbat''s clutching fingers were tight about the Family, clenched hard over all one hundred and nineteen years of her life. Just thinking of how much she had to kowtow and beg to pry Malaghi Shesh away reddened her cheeks and had her teeth grinding. At the creaking age of her aunt there were few joys left in her dusty life besides humiliating others of the family. That was just fine. Viqi Shesh had been the woman to reach a hand out to the Imperium-in-Exile, the Imperium-in-Exile who had just, in front of the entire galaxy, stood up to the Yuuzhan Vong and put a thumb in their eye. Oh, to imagine if she''d let it all pass on to Ministry instead of securing it under CSI. She''d have to get Praget something nice for that. Maybe a seat on the Advisory Council; that would be fitting. Viqi daydreamed. Her aunt would come on knees with bowed head before her, now. Waving her hand, every hologram cut off, banishing the ultramarine glow and leaving her office in shadows. Languid, leonine, Viqi interlaced fingers above her head and sighed in satisfaction. Whatever Shesh had, she''d use. It didn''t matter if it meant promising slipways, treasure chests full of corusca gems or even her hand, the Exiles would come to her Family, and hers first and only.
Sherin prayed under this breath with a fervency he''d never known he had. What he prayed to, he really was not quite sure - the Force, maybe, but he was pretty sure the Jedi said it didn''t work that way. Whatever was out there, as long as it - or he, or she, or however it was supposed to be that gods worked, he had no idea - was keeping an eye on him, that would be enough. Sherin never considered himself a religious man, but when the Vong showed up and rang Fondor''s bell hard enough it was still ringing hours later - that changed a fellow. Teach an old nek new tricks, Sherin supposed, though after thirty years of knocking the heads of vagrant addicts, retirement would''ve been preferable to conscription and finding some kind of higher power. Going from being night patrol for the local Guild warehouse to being tossed an old DC-15 and a few plasma grenades and told to ''kill anything with scars'' had him scratching his head and wondering about that hazard pay everyone talked about. Because - and Sherin swore a ripely foul invective in Huttese as prang prang went two bugs into the makeshift barricade he huddled behind - because even though he was probably going to die today, he''d much rather die knowing he''d become a rich man. Sherin tugged at his mask, adjusting the ill-fitting filter over his mouth and nose again. Ventif, eyes so wide Sherin could see the boy''s entire irises, was locked up tense and tight. Rings of pale skin showed around his eyes, where the dirt and ash hadn''t caked. Claw-fingered hands clutched at his own deece so hard his knuckles popped. Dusty blond hair, freckles, and the kind of complexion only someone in their late teens could claim, Ventif''d shut down an hour ago, last time the scarred bastards tried the wall. "Venty, wake up, wake up, don''t wanna die on sitting your ass," Sherin shoved the kid gently - Ventif only almost tipped over. "If you''ve still got charge left in that blaster when I die, I swear I''ll haunt you." Ventif sort of looked through him, but the way he mechanically clambered back to his feet meant that someone was at least sort of home. "Good enough." Sherin peeked over the barricade, wincing. Every time, he just knew he''d eat a bug like that poor bugger yesterday. Kolmec? Kollek? Something like that. He was still there, under a sheet, missing most of his face. The Sullustan had gone quick, small blessings. Nothing he could see. Given that the air was choked with ashfall, that didn''t mean all that much. Mix the ash from the continent-sized fire from that ship that came down with all the chemical fumes Fondor put out already, mix in smoke from burning blocks and factories and visibility was like trying to peer through gasleen-sludge. Oily and thick, twenty meters at best, and it was mostly just shapes and outlines. Had to be a little jealous of the bugs the scarheads had, since grenades didn''t have a mind of their own. Have to just lob and hope. Well, they''d sent some bugs his way, which was a statement, and Sherin never liked to leave a conversation unfinished. He propped his deece up, squeezed off a few shrieking shots of blasterfire into the murk, then dropped back down a step. Ventif was panting, facing the barricade, head down and chin tucked to his chest. "Fraggin'' Clone Wars vintage," Sherin muttered, "old as I am." "Don''t wanna die, don''t wanna die, don''t wanna die," Ventif whispered. "Didn''t you hear? Just have to hold on till the Guilds release the war droids. Heard there''s even old mothballed armor they''re digging up. Can''t imagine the kinds of things they''ve got stashed away." "Don''t wanna die." Sherin glanced up at the black murk above, hiding the sky, the stars. Fondor''s capital, Oridin City, used to glow from over the horizon, ablaze with the tops of its starscraper towers visible at the right times. Now it was all lost, choked away in swirling murk. "Me either," he admitted.
Centerpoint receded behind them. Like their arrival, Ebrihim ferried the Solo brothers in his quaint little yacht, taking them back to Drall and the waiting Governor-General. The ancient station seemed diminished as the yacht left it, as if something vital had been stolen away. A handful of New Republic Navy ships lingered around it, orbiting at a respectable distance after the station''s unexpected actions. None spoke until the Double Worlds themselves were small, shrinking ever more until they were ruddy discs the size of a fist. "You did the right thing," Jacen assured. "I didn''t do it for you," Anakin''s focus was elsewhere, unwilling to meet his brother''s gaze. His rapt attention stayed focused on the starfield beyond the yacht''s transparisteel bubble-cockpit, bisected by the plume of the galaxy and bright glow of the Core that painted across part of the sky. "But yeah, I know." "It would have ended in an ugly way," Ebrihim tried. "What did you do?" Anakin sighed. "I turned it off." Jacen felt his brother''s lie.
The ride from Opolor''s Vow aboard the Thunderhawk was brief. Regil had commanded the grand cruiser to high anchor, only a dozen kilometers from the assembled and beleaguered Republic fleet. Near half of the capital ships present were lost; either destroyed or too damaged to be repaired. Those that remained bore some manner of wounds, from superficial carbon scoring on the flagship to enormous holes punched deep through armor and interiors on others. They held onto life, surviving dockyard technicians and specialists already swarming across the hulls. Optarch peered through the crystalflex canopy at the growing field of dead ships held at a distance, sparks of light waiting to be cannibalized for armor sheeting, hardware, whatever could be scavenged. The Republican ''Star Destroyer'' was looming close, the triangular expanse of grey metal trimmed in red blocking out part of the sky. He patted the pilot on the shoulder, ceramite palm to glazed blue pauldron, and stepped back into the troop bay. Cornelius Regil nodded to him, securely buckled into place along with three aides. ''Nearly there, Lieutenant?'' Optarch nodded. The rank still felt peculiar, though his tenure as a sergeant had been long and faultless. ''Nearly. We will be docking in moments.'' The demi-squad also locked in place checked weapons, tapped the hilts of holstered gladii. Six marines, a small honor guard. The two youths who had caught his eye were among them: Zalthis and Solidian. He''d thought to bring more, but Regil was unconcerned. ''I admit: I would like to see one of their vessels up close.'' Optarch nodded again. ''It''s a point of pride, you know. I''ve served aboard every class of starship to leave Terra. Well. All those that are in the Navy. I confess these Republic warships are not much to look at, but they seem to do well enough.'' ''They took more than fifty percent casualties, Admiral.'' He brushed it off with a wave of his hand. ''I didn''t say they were impressive, Captain. Just that they seemed to do well enough.'' ''I suppose. I am unsure of the expected outcome now. We had been dispatched to be the hammer upon the Republic''s anvil. Now, we were hammer and anvil both.'' ''A fanciful way of saying ''We saved them'', lord Astartes.'' ''A roundabout way of saying that we are committed now. With the original plan, the victory would have been shared. Instead, this¡­I would not call it victory, but this stalemate was a product entirely of our intercession.'' Regil tapped his lip, as from outside the Thunderhawk they heard the telltale sign of atmosphere ¨C noise returning, knocks and bumps and clanks as the claws extended, as the landing sequence ran through. ''It gives us a position of strength. I see no concern here.'' Optarch shifted. ''My concern is what follows. The Republic will not question our desires now: this surely was a demonstration to secure it, beyond others, but¡­while I have no qualms about greater involvement, my Primarch¡­'' He trailed off. The Lord Admiral raised a grey eyebrow, slashed through with an old scar. ''You believe he will restrict our deployment to the world?'' ''I cannot say. It would pain me to leave unfinished business. I am sure you agree.'' Regil adjusted the cuff of his greatcoat, glancing to his aides. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ''I would like another piece of those rocks hiding from me.''
For convenience, Admiral Brand had ordered assembled comfortable arrangements in a bay just off the primary hangar. Optarch was grateful he would not need to spend time ducking and dodging through hatchways and corridors unsuited to his stature and was sure his attendant honor squad felt the same. Instead, a smartly uniformed Republic Navy officer greeted them at the foot of the Thunderhawk ramp, imploring them to follow. She led them past ranks of fragile-looking strikecraft toward what appeared to be formerly a machine shop, set into the port side of the broad hangar floor. Inside was their host, Admiral Brand, a tall man, turning grey, firm and serious, along with a dozen aides and officers. Greetings were exchanged and renewed, for it was merely the first time all had met in the physical. Optarch noted more than a few glances askance at Lord Regil as he settled comfortably into an offered chair, likely at the glaring red bionic of his eye and clicking silver and clockwork augmetic that replaced his left hand. The people of this galaxy seemed, at times, to be displeased with outward and obvious augmetics ¨C strange, considering their twisted obsession with abominable intelligences. None were present, thankfully: the ubiquity of the machines pleasantly but notably absent. Assessing the seating on offer, Optarch elected to stand, hands clasped behind his back, a short distance from the broad conference table. Refreshments were offered, mostly declined save for chilled water for the Lord Admiral, who sipped with relish. Then the final member of the Republic''s entourage arrived ¨C shimmering to life as if seated in a chair, though transparent and shaded indigo: Senator Shesh. She had been, apparently, instrumental in securing the New Republic''s focus to fall on the distant xeno world of Bothawui, rather than the intended Corellia. Optarch knew little of her, merely what had been included in briefings and from his own Lieutenant - Captain''s - recounting of the summit. According to Noskaur, who had spoken with her most of all, she was the representative for the New Republic''s government. And ''was a very odd woman, all told''. What that meant the Iterator had not clarified, merely raising bushy eyebrows in an expression the Astartes could not read. Optarch eyed the tall woman, recalling the organizational structure of this Republic. Alike in some respects to some pre-Unity Macraggian dynasties, with elected officials and heads of state to lead a representative senate. Some of the old traditions remained, in parts, throughout the Five Hundred worlds and he reckoned her role easily enough. Regardless of what Noskaur had said, she was the interface between this New Republic and the Imperium. A fine proponent too, by the Iterator''s reckoning. To her, he granted a short bow, little more than a dip of his head and a brief sign of the Aquila. Ultramarian respect for governance died hard. This the Senator noticed, a slow smile spreading across her face as she inclined her head in return. There was representation for the local authorities ¨C Guildmaster Eeshu Naa and Security Chief Semblum. Both were human, appearing terribly gaunt doubtlessly from lack of sleep, rounding out the group in a pleasing manner to the Lieutenant. The former was a straightbacked and severe looking woman and the latter a man of indeterminate age, remarkably nondescript. ''Admiral.'' ''Admiral.'' ''Guildmaster.'' ''Lieutenant.'' ''Chief.'' ''Senator.'' ''Admiral.'' ''Lieutenant.'' Regil cleared his throat, tapped his dataslate and glanced around the conference table. ''I''m pleased we can all meet again, alive and well.'' Brand sighed, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his chin and glancing at Shesh. ''It came close, Admiral.'' Semblum glanced around the table, incredulous. ''Close?'' He repeated. ''We can see the damned vong from Oridin. It was a bantha-hair from tipping completely in orbit. Half the planet is dark.'' ''Contain yourself, Chief.'' Naa interlaced her fingers, leaning forward. ''I would like to open by formally submitting the gratitude of the Guild of Starshipwrights to the, I believe I am correct here, ''the Thirteenth Legiones Astartes Ultramarines and His Armada Imperialis'' for their intervention and aid in defending our world.'' Optarch grunted, impressed. Her sources were good ¨C very good. The senator, Shesh, buried a smirk. Regil bowed his head, accepting the thanks. The Ultramarine was unmoved. ''You are most welcome, Guildmistress. When we stand together, we are ever stronger than alone.'' He wondered if the Admiral would be so generous if there were any xenoform present. Likely, in truth, for what he knew of Cornelius the man preferred to put his best face forward at all times. ''If Fondor can provide any aid, you let us know. It would be our pleasure and, I think I can speak for everyone down there, our honor to render assistance. Few of our yards remain, but we know at least one warship, Sorpenton, received damage¨C'' Optarch cleared his throat, speaking up for the first time and cutting in. ''That remains to be seen. Captain Langour has yet to submit a final assessment.'' ''In any case, Fondor owes the Imperium a debt. If we survive the next week, call on us. We repay what we owe.'' ''A lovely sentiment, I''m sure.'' Senator Shesh eased in, flickering, adjusting her robes and looking at all gathered around the table. ''But the fact remains that Fondor is under siege. I''ve seen the initial reports, and I know the Vong landing was focused, but they''re still on the ground. The moon Nallastia is now a strategic threat that will need to be handled and production capabilities have been slashed in half. The vong might have been driven back in space by the assistance of the good Lieutenant and Admiral here, but the damage was done.'' ''We have weathered worse,'' Naa shot back, eyes narrowed at the other woman. ''Of course.'' Shesh''s lips quirked and Paston read some manner of deeper enmity there, though he knew not the source. ''My point, however, is that Fondor isn''t out of the woods yet.'' Optarch shifted, considering his words on the Thunderhawk over. ''I am empowered by the Primarch to act as I see fit. I have fifty Ultramarines and three companies of Imperial Army - Eboracum 1st and Iax Tertius 57th.'' ''Why, Lieutenant Optarch, you read my mind.'' Shesh''s hologram beamed a great smile, at odds with the gloom of Brand and the hangdog expressions of the Fondorians. ''It''s outside of what we agreed on, but, well, it seems it would be a tremendous waste for you to have flown all this way¡­'' The Guildmistress found her voice again, refusing to allow the Kuati to claim the spotlight. ''The Guild will back whatever you require, Lieutenant, Admiral.'' Regil craned his neck, peering over his shoulder at Optarch. The old Admiral spoke in High Gothic then, the tongue that remained, still, sacrosanct. ''Better to beg for forgiveness¡­'' Optarch concurred. The Primarch''s remit was flexible. ''I will, of course, assume theatre command.'' Naa seemed almost taken aback that it had to be said. ''Of course,'' the Guildmistress demurred and Chief Semblum nodded so fiercely his neck might have suffered trauma.
First Sherin thought the building roar was some new scarhead monstrosity. One of those big sail-finned lizard monsters had shambled through earlier in the day, luckily on a mission to be elsewhere, so everyone had mutually agreed to make like lumps and not even look its way. But then the roar took on the throaty whine of technology, something Sherin knew better than the face of his own mother, being a true Fondorian born and raised, so then he got his hopes up about it being reinforcements. Impossible to say where it was from and if it was coming or going, what with the smog and ash and all, but it seemed to be getting louder. "Venty, I think we just might be saved." The kid had passed through blind panic and into resigned exhaustion, dead eyes hollow over his breather mask. He didn''t react to Sherin''s words. Sadly, the deities Sherin had decided to pray to might have been friendly with the scarheads, because it turned out that if Sherin could hear that whatever-it-was, so could they. And they decided that if reinforcements showed up, well, Sherin wouldn''t be there to greet them. First came bugs - as usual - smacking and spanging into the barricade. It was just sheets of durasteel, hauled off the local lines and quick-welded together. Some corrugated sheets for a step-up to peer over and I-frame bracers to keep it all from tipping over. Kept the bugs at bay, but then came the plasma. Hadn''t heard anything about no scarhead plasma like that, not on the ground. Their rocky ships had it, he''d seen the news, but when balls of the stuff started whizzing past overhead, hot enough Sherin felt his hair singe, that was going to be the end of it all. "Stang," he swore, watching as part of the barricade went cherry-red. "Hey Chief, I think we''re spaced here. Chief?" He looked up the line, squinting through the choking atmosphere, but the big shape of the Chief didn''t seem to be there. The Herglic overseer - the son of a ronto had probably done a runner. More spots on the barricade started to take on that glow, the kind that meant temperatures that could make a star blush, and Sherin was seriously considering grabbing Venty by the scruff and chasing the Chief when whatever was making that damned roar showed up. Spotlights stabbed out of the gloom, so bright Sherin cringed and flinched away. After a day in the choke, it was like Fondor''s primary itself came down to stab him in the eyes. Watering, and not just from the stinging air, Sherin shrouded with a hand to the forehead, squinting and peering up. There was a shape, proper huge, just hovering there. Downdraft tugged at his cap, tried to snatch his mask. Then it started shooting. Chug-chug-chug went rotary cannons, and sudden flowers of fire erupted all along where the scarheads were. Sherin whooped, whipping off his cap and hurling it in the air. He never did find it again. Bars of hot red light blinked out again and again, ion tingling his teeth. Even Venty snapped out of it, gawping up at the gunship with his arms hanging at his side, deece dragging on the permacrete. Rocket went out, then another, and the double-concussion snap-boom was the best damn feeling Sherin''d ever known. The gunship came down, whine decreasing, jets powerful enough it blasted away the permanent ashfall and let him see it more clearly. It was a big monster indeed, painted a dark blue with white trim. Four big engines sat on its back, along with downswept wings sticking from the rear of a thick-bodied fuselage. It settled gently onto gear, hatches already swinging open at the sides, ramp dropping from beneath the nose. Sherin''s jaw dropped as a brick on treads rattled out of the brightly lit interior, flanked by crisply jogging soldiers in full-face helmets. "Holy stars, Venty." Another big vehicle, a treaded tank of some kind, followed the first. A fat barreled turret already panned back and forth as it came off the ramp, joining its partner. The soldiers themselves double-timed toward Sherin and, as he glanced left, and right, the mostly abandoned barricade. No sign of the Chief at all, not even with the ash blown away from the moment. "Are you in command?" Sherin jumped, faced by a tall man in chunky body armor, a long rifle held at the ready. Of all things, a blasted skull floated next to him with glowing red eyes and that''s where the words came from. "Come - come again?" he stuttered. The man said something muffled, definitely not Basic, then the skull spoke again. "I asked: are you in command?" Sherin adjusted his breather mask, looked around again. No Herglic. Damn. "Uh, I suspect I just might." The man nodded, saying something again. The skull translated. "Major Laev Torenius, Iax Tertius 57th, Second Company. Commendations for holding this position. I am taking command." Sherin doubled over laughing, almost wheezing, slapping his knees. "Oh, don''t let me stop you, Major. Don''t even know what the hell a Tertius 57th is, but that there looks like two tanks, which is two more tanks than we had ten minutes ago. I''m not getting in your way." "You will be folded in as an auxiliary. Name and rank." He wasn''t sure if the man was that humorless, or if being translated through a slagging skull stripped out all nuance. "Sherin, night patrol. Payband CC4." There was a long, long pause. "Very well, Sherin, night patrol." Soldiers rushed past, hefting filled canvas bags over each shoulder, dropping them at the barricade. There was shouting, all in a language Sherin''d never heard (and being on Fondor, he''d heard a lot), a lot of rushing back and forth. He peered closer at the rifle the ''Major Laev Torenius'' held. Never seen the like: polished metal barrel, chunky, black anodized receiver, polished wood stock. Rails ran along the top and underneath the barrel, a long sight screwed up top. Looked damned new and nicer than an old deece and Sherin gestured at it. "If I''m getting conscripted, again, mind if I get one of them?" Major Torenius glanced down at his weapon. "Mu Pattern Lasrifles will be made available." Behind his breather mask, Sherin grinned fit to split his cheeks. The day was looking up.
Luckily, Tahiri didn''t bowl him over this time, instead contenting herself with a single, quick spine-creaking hug. He had to be gone for more than a week to risk bodily harm. "Okay, you kept your promise. That''s a point in your favor." "Just one point?" "Well, I''m not sure what the points are actually worth, so we''ll stick with one." "Mm. Hello, Sannah." "Hi Anakin!" The Melodie joined the two as they left the hangar, Fiver handling powering down Anakin''s X-Wing, the astromech tootling quietly to itself. There wasn''t any fanfare, just his two friends waiting. Considering what he left behind, Anakin wasn''t feeling overly triumphant. "You know, we met one of those big guys you fought with." His mind cast around, trying to figure out just what Sannah meant, because the only thing he could think of made no sense. "An Ultramarine?" "Yeah! One of them. He''s here to train to be a Jedi." "That''s¡­not the strangest thing I''ve heard this week, but it''s close. Tahiri, tell me you didn''t annoy him." "Annoy him?" The blond girl pinned him with an arch look. "I''m never annoying, Anakin Solo. That''s the worst thing to say." "Yeah, never," Sannah said, entirely without conviction. "Traitor," Tahiri sniffed. "Was it Aeonid Thiel?" The Ultramarine Lieutenant''s duel with his Uncle had been mind-bending. He''d never seen Uncle Luke move like that. More than just his Uncle''s prowess with his lightsaber, Anakin had been almost intimidated by how much Uncle Luke had burned in the Force. He knew his Uncle was powerful, but to see it like that - it lit a fire in him, deep in his stomach, that he''d one day match. Then the reveal that the Ultramarine was Force-sensitive - Anakin knew it couldn''t be anyone else. "Yeah, Aeonid. Funny name. He was really stiff, but I think he might not have liked all the kids." The image alone wrung a laugh from Anakin. The two ''neophytes'', Zal and Sol, who might have even been younger than Anakin - he''d never asked - were so steadfastly serious and straight-up-and-down that putting the Lieutenant in the same room as the energetic trainees was like something straight from a holocomedy. "I wonder if I''ll get a chance to talk to him." Tahiri shrugged. "He''s been spending almost all his time with Master Skywalker. But, uh, I think we''ll be a little busy." Sannah, suddenly, found the stone floor of the Praxeum fascinating. Tahiri''s broad grin was as guilty as all the times he''d seen it. "Tahiri," he started. "No, okay, it wasn''t my fault. I didn''t ask to almost get eaten." The two girls carried on a few steps further, realizing belatedly they''d left Anakin behind. "Eaten!" Shouting wasn''t the plan, but they had sworn to leave that behind with the krayt dragons! "Almost! And it was a big almost too, really big, like, Wookiee-big almost. Besides, you got to have an adventure, so I had one, so we''re even." "Tahiri, did you tell anyone about - vaping moffs, Tahiri, what did almost eat you?" She aimed a finger at him like a blaster. "That''s the mystery, hero. I have no idea! Isn''t that exciting? Oh yeah, and what happened with Centerpoint? We saw the news about Fondor." "Oh no, don''t change the subject. I need to see Master Ikrit, but that can wait until you tell me what almost ate you." Tahiri made a show of checking her chron. Sannah giggled. "Well, it''s almost dinner. So - dinner?" "Dinner. And talking." Tahiri stumbled, grabbing at his arm and dramatically swooning. "Anakin Solo wants to talk. What happened to you?"
In the years since the Rebel Alliance made their home in the Great Temple of Yavin IV, the lowest level aboveground which had been a hangar, had been mostly disused. Enough space existed for squadrons of starfighters to comfortably fit, yet with only about a hundred Jedi in total there were never more than a handful of craft occupying the vast open space. Long term storage sat in the basement level, where tall ceilings allowed freighters to comfortably rest until needed. Doors had been installed to allow the hangar to be sealed off, along with the rest of the Temple, back when the threat of the Empire was around the corner. Most of the shutters were gone now, especially in the upper stories. The Praxeum was a place of learning, not a fortress. In some areas, flora had crept in with all the steadfast determination that plants were known for. Creepers and small flowering vines, a few hardy ferns and orchids sprouting from seams and cracks. No one bothered to remove them as they hurt no one and life was life. Anakin left the Praxeum behind, walking out into Yavin''s night, cool air bracing on his skin. Tahiri was in bed, Sannah too, but he couldn''t sleep. Nocturnal orchids bloomed and offered sweet aromas, the jungle murmuring beyond the hangar entrance. Anakin glanced back to his X-Wing and Fiver''s inactive form off on a charging station. He''d left a note on his door, but no one really controlled when he came or went, not anymore. He wasn''t Anakin Solo, Jedi Trainee anymore. The days of sneaking out with Tahiri to investigate strange canoes were past. He tried to imagine being afraid of a simple rainstorm and it made him want to laugh. Then it almost brought tears to his eyes. His feet led him. Yips and hooting calls drifted through the canopies, but he was a Jedi and the Force his ally. Hunting packs decided to try their luck elsewhere. Dozing herds had no concern for the interloper in their midst. The hunched, cracked shape of the Palace of the Woolamander wasn''t even a surprise when Anakin raised his head, finally looking up from the path before him. Its trio of beckoning gateways soared above his head, rectangular with a slot cut out at the center of the lintel. Everything led back here, eventually. The outside was cleaner now, added to groundskeeping duties and it had been mapped by archaeologists on invite by his Uncle. Its mysteries were stripped away and the old Palace was just another echoing monument. Down in its heart, Anakin found Master Ikrit. The Kushiban Jedi lay just as he had years ago, though the Golden Globe was long gone. Now the chamber was a little garden, tended to by the old Master, in honor of the children''s souls long-gone. He wasn''t sleeping and his long white ears perked as Anakin sank down to rest against the wall. Ikrit grew feather ferns and nebula orchids, wender-saplings and snapsprite bushes. It was good to see the garden here, where there''d been naked stone and the eerie Sith relic. "Hello, Anakin." Ikrit readjusted himself, resting his head on his paws. His pale green eyes were searching. "Hello, Master." "It''s quite late." "I think it''s actually early, now." Anakin folded his fingers in his lap, tipping his head back until his scalp met cold Massassi stone. Above, a shaft had been bored all the way up to the sky, letting in a thin bar of starlight and fresh air. Little night insects flitted on soft wings around the pale column of luminance. Small paws nudged Anakin''s leg and he looked down. Ikrit hopped into his lap, the Kushiban curling up and tucking his forepaws beneath his chin. A knot clenched in Anakin''s throat. They hadn''t sat like this since - since he was younger. "Talk to me, young Jedi. What bothers you?" "I don''t know what to say," he said, voice rough. "There is nothing wrong to say - only silence can hurt." Reflexively, Anakin reached out to run his fingers through the thick fur ruff at Ikrit''s neck. When he was younger, after he learned who Ikrit really was, he''d been so embarrassed for treating the old Jedi Master more like a pet, until Ikrit had chided him and gently educated him about Kushiban. His kind were a tactile race, always grooming each other and often resting in great piles of fluff. If anything, he found the way many beings shied away from casual interaction to be isolating. "I was at Centerpoint," he began, although everyone already knew this. Ikrit kept his peace, knowing his charge well. "There was a moment." Anakin lifted his hands, turning them over, peering at his palms, the lines of his hands. "We found out about Fondor." "A great tragedy," Ikrit nudged Anakin''s hand with his forehead. "Though no fault of your own, nor that of the New Republic." "I know. But I had just reactivated Centerpoint." The Kushiban''s attention sharpened. Very few knew anything further than Centerpoint had, briefly, come active. It was impossible to hide a space station larger than the second Death Star teleporting itself across space, but what went on in the control room was kept at the highest levels of classification under threat of treason charges. Thrackan had been fuming when Anakin left. For many reasons. "You succeeded, then." "I did, Master. The station - it knew me. It remembered me." "Go on." "All I had to do was touch it and it just - turned on. Everything. It''s like it was waiting for me to come back." Gentle support flowed from the old Jedi, bolstering Anakin and he took a deep breath. "It''s - I can''t put it into words. But when that time came, I - I could have done it." Anakin choked on the words, swallowing hard. "Done what, young Solo?" "I could have fired Centerpoint." Speaking the words snapped pressure in his chest and Anakin gasped. To say it out loud, to admit it, was like a bantha had stepped off of him. He''d told no one. Not a single soul, not even Jacen. Everyone suspected, of course, but he hadn''t confirmed it. "I could have fired it. I could see it all in my head and Centerpoint¡­Centerpoint wanted to. The way the Triad used it, it was wrong and it damaged the station but Centerpoint didn''t mind being hurt, it just wanted to do what I wanted and when we heard the Vong were at Fondor, it, it showed me." He hauled in a stuttering breath. "It showed me aiming solutions and power requirements and how to minimize damage to the station to manage a starbuster shot. I had it all, right in my head. I could''ve blown up the whole vong fleet, Master." Feeling breathless, like there was too little air, too thin of oxygen, Anakin sucked in short breaths until he felt Ikrit''s paws on his chest. The Kushiban''s green eyes were inches from his, a surprisingly stern look on the Jedi''s furred face. "Please breathe carefully, young Solo." Long and deep, fists clenched and squeezed. Long and deep breaths, smelling the nebula orchids and snapsprite flowers. His thundering heart slowed. Ikrit nodded, returning to his curled up position. "But you did not." "How could I? How could anyone?" "Very easily," Ikrit observed. "Anakin, you must understand: there are more beings than you could imagine who would have pulled that trigger." "That''s what I thought of." Still the cold quicksilver feel of the joystick lingered in his palm. The way the trigger was so easy under his fingertip, so eager to flick with just the least amount of pressure. The vong were attacking, anyway. They were invading a world and it was a fleet of warships. They were all warriors. How could it be wrong? "It made me think of the Exiles." "Like our new guest?" "Yeah. Them. I got to know one of them after Obroa-skai. I fought with him and Master Ikrit, I might''ve died with him there. It was so close at the end, but then his Sergeant died for all of us and then we had time to just talk afterward. And train some too, but the more I talked to him - to Zalthis, I mean - the more I just, I don''t know. I know Jacen is afraid of doing the wrong thing or causing consequences he doesn''t intend - like on Belkadan, with the slaves - but-" "You learned from Zalthis." "I think he was trying to convince me their way was right. Zalthis would''ve destroyed the whole vong fleet and then blown up every vong world he could find." Ikrit hummed, more of a purr that rumbled in his small frame. "I am not sure of the friend you made, young Solo." Anakin felt the Master''s wink in the Force, tempering the accusation implied. "That''s just it. I knew Zal was a good man too. When we were on Obroa-skai, I told you about this, with the slaves - when I asked him not to kill them, he listened. The whole time I had my hand on the trigger, Jacen and Ebirihim were begging me not to do it while everyone else wanted me to." "Was it them, that tipped your decision?" Anakin''s teeth worried his lip. "Not like Jacen thinks. I didn''t take the shot, Master. I did a lot more than that." Ikrit lifted his head from his paws. Green eyes to blue eyes, Master to student. "I ended Centerpoint." The admission was a whisper. "I had everything. I told Centerpoint to reset itself. To the very first settings ever input, when it was built. Then I told Centerpoint to revoke all administrative access and disable imprint pairing." Anakin swallowed hard, throat bobbing. "I turned it into a paperweight. It''ll only ever turn on again for whoever made it and they''re long gone. The reactors will keep working for lights and environmental control but the rest¡­" The Kushiban''s green eyes gave nothing away, the Master withholding himself in the Force. Anakin found himself with tears tracking down his cheeks and brushed them away angrily. He didn''t even feel any regret over it, why was he even crying? "Anakin," Ikrit spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with precision. "I did not think I could be more proud of you after you freed the Massassi children. I was wrong." Ikrit''s long ear tickled his nose, but Anakin didn''t notice, hugging the Kushiban tight. "I was so worried when you left, Anakin. I was afraid of what they might make you do. You did what was right. No Jedi would ever gainsay this." In the moonlit chamber, Anakin whispered, for to be too loud would be to shatter like glass. "I did the right thing?" Ikrit nuzzled Anakin''s shoulder. "You already know the answer. It''s why you did what you did. I feel it from you, young Solo. I feel the depth of your certainty. The station was too potent and too dangerous a tool to be left." "But I could have just, maybe I could have keyed it to work for someone else. Admiral Brand, maybe." "Anakin, to take the responsibility and the consequences both on your shoulders is not just the mark of a true Jedi, but the burden of a hero. You knew the terrible, terrible burden of the responsibility of Centerpoint and you refused to yoke another being with that. That was well done, my student." Sniffling, wiping his eyes again, Anakin braced himself with a deep breath and let go of his Master. Ikrit hopped up to his shoulder. "Every day, I am amazed by the leadership of young Luke. You are a tribute to his teachings and to your own strength. Tell me, Anakin, when you came to see me, did you have doubts?" Thrackan pulled the trigger: klack klack klack klack. The look of pure hunger on his cousin''s face as he imagined, for just a moment, the power, the prestige, the glory that would be his. Bought on lives he didn''t even consider. Jacen''s bursting pride and relief when Anakin stepped away from it all. Ebrihim praising him for making the choice. The way Anakin secretly burned in anger that both of them, both of them, doubted him. Each night since then, Anakin went to sleep hearing Jacen''s pleading in his ears. How terrified his own brother was of him. How Jacen was able to truly imagine a world where Anakin would do that. Zalthis would have. Any Exile would. They''d think it was right, too. Worse than Thrackan, who just saw it as a means to an end, that being his political ascendency, Anakin knew with utter certainty that an Ultramarine like Lieutenant Thiel would pull the trigger and think it noble, with the means and the ends all the same. For all his mocking, Thrackan had been right. The Navy had tricked and deceived the very Chief of State of the entire New Republic. There was no trust. Jacen didn''t even trust him. It was all on Anakin. "I didn''t." "All the better. Doubt breeds fear, and anger feeds on fear. Anger corrupts into hate, and hate to suffering." Ikrit bumped the side of Anakin''s head with his forehead. "Now, as you said, it is early. You have a bed to return to." Rising to slightly shaky legs, Anakin stretched out his arms and yawned wide. Around him, nocturnal flowers faced the thin moonlight. Moths whupped on soft wings. He should tell Tahiri, too. She never doubted him, either. Contingence Interlude II Susevfi Welcomes
The Temple of Cast Shadows was a cousin, perhaps, to the Praxeum, if it were a cousin long estranged and aloof of the family, who rarely bothered to heed reunions and had their own particular ideas about the way of things. The Praxeum was monolithic and towering, filled with unused chambers and great, vaulted halls. The Temple was reserved and purposeful, eschewing grandeur, built with specificity and a utilitarian bent. The Praxeum opened up to the sprawling, riotous jungle, full of noise and life and movement. The grounds about it were broad, lawns curated by some droids, the nearby river a strip of glittering silver. The Temple crouched at the end of a switch-back ravine, cutting deep into a table mount. The entrance was unassuming and simple - two sandstone statues, thrice the height of a man, inset into alcoves, hands folded behind their backs. A quite utilitarian and very modern door in between with very real and very nasty turrets nestled in their niches. Though the rest of the Temple, despite its name, was more similar to the internals of an old Empire outpost (and well it should, since quite a bit of it was made of appropriated materials), there were still concessions here and there to the gravitas and grace their tradition demanded. One such place was the Candle Grotto, where from stories, the first three Jensaarai had made their pact after fleeing the Jedi Order. It was what drew the Saarai-kaar back to this place, after Grenf?tre Tyros had been slain along with most of his acolytes. That ruin, the first Temple of the Jensaarai, was never to be returned to. Too many old ghosts. A thousand candles guttered among stalagmites and rounded flowstone, flickering slithering shadows across drapery and columns that soared into the gloom above. Only one being waited for Mei in the Grotto, palms pressed together and thumbs intertwined before her. Mei sunk to one knee, pressing her fist to her chest, head bowed. "Grenm?tre." She felt eyes on her, hard eyes even through the thin mask the much older woman wore. It was no full helm but a proper masque, shaped serpentine, bound in place by leather thong to let long, silver-grey hair fall in waves over shoulders. "Rise, child." Mei stood and the Saarai-kaar paced around her, expression inscrutable and lost behind her mask. The woman, more than twice Mei''s age and in truth her aunt, held her presence in the Force tight and close, shuttered up and leaking only the slightest lapping waves of stern judgment. She fought to stay still and not twitch. "You have not replaced your limb?" "The socket is of unfamiliar make - the surgeons of Coruscant were dismayed. They told me they would need to remake it. I denied them." Both Jensaarai spoke in pidgin Susevfite and Sith, the creole tongue Grenf?tre Tyros laid down, as cipher and as sect-binding secret. Mei felt her aunt''s casual dismissal. "No matter. In our foundry, you will have all you need." Mei dipped her head in acknowledgement, expecting the command. To be Jensaarai was to stand on your own feet. Her arm was her responsibility to overcome, either through compensation or replacement - as long as it was Mei that did so. "Your eye - Imperial as well?" "It is." The Saarai-kaar paced back into view, head cocked, glass lenses dark. "It looks well-made." "It is," Mei confirmed. She barely felt it and the difference in visual acuity was minimal. The lens was even tinted blue, like her surviving eye, though the clockwork gearing and glassy silicate glass ''sclera'' made it obvious at a glance to be false. The Saarai-kaar circled Mei again, one final time. "The Jedi took much from you." Mei swallowed, both words and memories. "I gave much." Her aunt''s judgment swelled, neither affirmative or negative, just a pressing wave of focus. A feeling of being cut and measured and found wanting, of her every secret laid bare. Candles flickered. The grotto darkened. In her youth, her knees might have knocked, but now Mei stood as a rock before the wave. "I brought a gift." The Saarai-kaar, hidden in shadow and candlelight, seemed more a statue than being. Even the fine, soft strands of her grey hair did not twitch in the subtle airs of the chamber. Still the woman''s presence bore down on Mei. She did not respond; she held her sense of the Force tight and close, metaphysically baring her throat. Accepting judgment. "You brought back half a woman and little else." Mei clicked her molars together and spat into her palm. A single tooth shone against her skin, slick with saliva, greyish-white and utterly pristine. "Ceramite," Mei said. "They replaced my teeth with it." The Saarai-kaar''s regard shifted, peeling away from Mei and she almost sagged in relief. Instead, the old Jensaarai''s gaze fell to the tooth. "I sense it. A complex material. Unique. This is unknown to the Galaxy?" "It is. It is not my gift." Mei replaced the tooth with a jaw-tickling click, setting her shoulders - shoulder, and blocky facsimile thereof. "My gift is knowledge. An amphistaff took my arm and my eye. It cut my armor as cleanly as it cut any other-" Her aunt grunted. "-at first." Judgment, again. Mei''s lungs stuttered as the Saarai-kaar took one step closer. All know of the invaders and their weapons. All had heard of the Jedi who fell to them and how they could match with the ancient weapons of the Jedi and Sith. They heard how the invader''s serpentine blades proved as keen as contained plasma. She imagined naked avarice behind the lenses of the Saarai-kaar''s mask. She felt her aunt''s need in her stifling aura, billowing to snuff out all other senses. Mei traced the jagged keloid scar up her face. "I did not see in the moment, but one of the Astartes-" she spoke the unfamiliar word, breathing shallow as the Saarai-kaar stepped closer. "-saw fit to share with the New Republic their own recording of the moment. I saw it, Grenm?tre. It clove my armor like it cut durasteel, but then it fell unstrung. What struck my face was not the cutting smile but a jagged and ill-formed bludgeon. And after, the biot hung limp." Her aunt, now close enough that her serpent-mask filled Mei''s vision, ran gloved fingers along the metal stump of her niece''s shoulder. "Cortosis¡­" Mei nodded, the air thick enough she did not risk speaking. Her aunt retreated. Her aura lessened, turned welcoming and supportive. Familial. Cortosis. That fragile, worthless metal, so difficult to work, so temperamental to weave. That which ran threads though every Jensaarai''s armor, in the hilts of their ''sabres, in the cloth of their tunics. Worthless, crumbly, useless metal. That stunned a living blade. "Remake yourself," the Saarai-Kaar commanded. "The Jedi returned you crippled. Rebuild your body and remake your connection. Be Jensaarai again, daughter of my brother." She spun away, pulling her presence in the Force in with her, like the accretion of a black hole. "I have two shoulders," Mei called after her. "If the Jedi are weak, I will bear their burden on my right. Let the strength of my left bear that of the Jensaarai." Her aunt did not reply. "I''ll honor both, grandmother," she murmured in Basic.
It had taken a while to work up the courage to finally look herself in the eye in the mirror. It was one thing to know, by touch, by feel, by brief glimpses while dressing, how much she had suffered. Now in her old chambers, thick with dust, she stood naked in the ''fresher and did not look away. She grit her teeth and wiped away the steam - she swallowed down the acid knot in her throat, ignored the hot-liquid burn behind her right eye. A sharp white keloid ripped from hairline to jaw, cleaving through her eyebrow, through her clicking eye, across her cheek and lips. Beneath, she knew what lay there. The Imperials saved her, but they didn''t do much more. The doctors on Coruscant told her enough. Mei touched the synthflesh that bound to her own living skin, sensation strange as her fingertips felt the convincing texture but those parts of her face felt nothing at all. Half her jaw was ceramite now. Six teeth replaced ones torn out and left on Obroa-skai. Her ocular orbit, a chunk of her forehead: a silvery, surgical metal similar to duranium. The Imperials hadn''t bothered to replace the part of her lips torn away, the ripped meat of her cheek, her forehead. The doctor on Coruscant did and they told her she didn''t need to see the holos, but she had to know, she had to see¡­Mei trembled then, running fingers over her scar, thanking the Force she never had to see it in person, staring back at her. A glance, but now the image of the grinning, steel skull seeming to push its way clear of her face danced behind her eyelids. And below her neck¡­ There the Imperium and the New Republic surgeons had agreed. Until she decided on the state of her arm, there was little point in aesthetic rebuild. Mei could list what was done. A replacement lung, that each time she breathed, she tasted metal. Metal ribs. Her sternum pulled apart and rebuilt to better handle the replacements; a tangle of bone and wiring and plates. Emptiness where her breast had been. A rebuilt scapula. Phantom pain that curled her missing left hand into a claw. Ports and staples that bonded stretched and red-raw skin to bionics. It itched, always. Constantly. She had regenerative gels that she had to apply along the seam thrice a day, or else rot would set in. It looked like a machine tumor. An eruption of inhumanity, ripping out of her body. From the third rib all the way up to her truncated and shriveled trapezius: dark metals and ribbed cabling. Naked and empty ball-socket. Clavicle wagging in the air. Without the dark wrap she kept around it, during the flight from Coruscant, the naked rawness of her¡­stump¡­caught her breath. Mei shuddered. Her whole body was unbalanced. She pulled to the left, even without the arm. The metal was lightweight, but not enough. It would be worse once she - if she - replaced the arm. And with what? A fake? Like Master Skywalker? A facsimile, that looked pleasant to the world but lied about what lay beneath? Death danced microns from her. A little closer to the midline, a sharper angle, and her heart would have been torn open. As it was, the doctors told her only the hyperoxygenated serum the Astartes injected into her kept her among the living. And that had done its own damage. She still had a cough that ached, needing to inhale a regenerative bacta infusion each morning to promote regrowth in her remaining lung''s alveoli. That serum, and she would continue to consider it serum, had ripped into her respiratory system. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. One doctor had said that if he had to use a metaphor, it had acted like a panicked secretary, making an absolute mess of the office all to find the document they were looking for. Drawers yanked out, desks upended, binders strewn about and datacubes all over, but the ''secretary'' had succeeded in finding what it needed. Oxygen, at the cost of ravaging her one lung in its mindless hunger for the life-giving molecule. That wasn''t all. She still had cramps that doubled her over at times, through her guts and leaving knots in her muscles that sometimes took hours to loosen. Since she woke up, Mei kept a passive draw on the Force at all times, relying on it to infuse her body and moderate the worst side-effects. Sometimes her physiology almost felt hungry for the life-giving Force, like an addict that had a taste of the finest spice and now was wracked by the trembles. Whatever that serum had been made of, whatever biology the Astartes had, it wasn''t for a normal human to sample. Mei closed her eyes, blocking off the pale body in the mirror. She reached for a robe, pulling it on and closing it off at her waist with a broad, soft sash. Then she allowed herself to open her eyes again, looking back at the woman with dark rings beneath blue eyes, wet hair falling lank and sticking to neck and pale, half-bare shoulder. She raked fingers through it, gathering her locks back and tying it off in a short tail, squeezing out a bit more water. She''d pay for treating it this way later, but right now she just had no energy at all to worry about her usual routines. Right now, she had other things on her mind. Her arm could be for another day. The Saarai-kaar instructed her to rebuild herself, but she''d not ordered a timetable nor an order of operations. In her quarters, leaving the refresher behind, Mei tugged the top off a dull, gunmetal crate. A double headed avian glared at her and she glared right back, tossing it aside. The Imperium had packed this along with her and inside was revealed - Mei swallowed hard - the battered scraps of her armor. Crouching down to a squat, she reached in, running fingers through the gun-smoke and blood stained white fluff of her mantle. The only piece that survived first the killing stroke and then the cutting saws of the Imperial surgeons, she lifted out her short cape and buried her face in it. "Okay," she said, muffled and speaking Basic. "Mei version 3." She''d rebuilt herself after Master Horn smacked her down into the dust among the rest of the Jensaarai. She''d rebuilt herself after she found Niko''s body, already cold. Really, this wasn''t the worst to come back from. Mei, v3. v2 had been nice, and lasted a while, but the galaxy was calling for an update. She ran a tongue along the backs of six teeth, each a few degrees cooler than the rest of her mouth. Mei could feel them, each one of them, with their complicated, monocrystalline whiskers and fascinating molecular planar-crystallite structure. That - that would be a good way to focus. Telekinesis found her footlocker, pulling out clothes and tossing them onto her bed. She closed the crate, placing her mantle gently on top, covering the Imperial Aquila.
The Temple of Cast Shadows didn''t have anything as prosaic as a ''forge''. Instead, two of the lower levels were set aside for fabrication and materials study. The rooms were clean, clinical and organized. Rubberized mats were soft underfoot but gave excellent traction. There were chemical stations, datastacks, lathes and droid-brained automat shops. Most was appropriated from former Imperial motorpools on Susevfi, few though they were, and others purchased through business fronts in Yumfla that contracted with offworld shipping. Some were from the days of Leonia Tavira, the warlord giving them like gifts. Mei attracted glances, always at her empty sleeve, but she paid them no mind. Everyone knew how she''d been hurt and half of them had already asked if she needed anything. Her family didn''t mean anything. If the position had been flipped, if maybe Kelbis had lost an arm or perhaps Naimos had lost a leg, Mei would find it hard not to look too. "If you need anything," her nephew, Cyree, had offered. Mei just smiled. Sukarr, too, had held her close and rocked back and forth, her brother''s storm of emotion tangible. She''d had to nearly argue with him that it wasn''t his fault; that his leaving the Praxeum wasn''t the pebble that started the chain of events that led to now. They gave her space, now, as she started work. The nice thing about family is that, for better or worse, they knew you. They understood. Everything stayed on a single datacube that she kept both on hand and tied to her own gene-print. And to her particular touch of the Force. Absent-mindedly prodding at the empty socket with the tip of her tongue, Mei leaned closer to a mass-spectrometer, frowning as it played scanning beams across her molar. Mei hadn''t been joking when she told her aunt that her gift to the Jensaarai wasn''t ceramite. Maybe she''d share it, maybe she wouldn''t. The way the Jedi acted like a commune was sweet and very endearing, but Mei was Jensaarai. A bit of jealousy was healthy. She adjusted the scanning resolution, chewing on her lip as the hologram refreshed. The properties of ceramite were all over the place. She wanted to call it a boride, but both her sense of the tooth through the Force and what the spectrometer was telling her was there wasn''t even a whiff of boron in any of it. The formation of it was staggeringly regular, even with the impregnated monocrystals, but with the tests she''d done in the thermal kiln she couldn''t fathom how they sintered the damn thing. Unless it was deposited¡­Mei scribbled down another note on her datapad. That Sergeant''s armor parted around an amphistaff just as easily as did durasteel or any other armor Mei could think of - minus one - but that wasn''t what ran through her thoughts as she frowned at the final readout of the spectrometer. Hafnium? A trinaric carbonitride? Muttering under her breath about how that''s not how that worked, Mei scribbled more notes and transferred the readout to her datacube. All it took was a few commands input and all cached data was wiped from the machine. She wasn''t the first to demand privacy around the construction of her armor and she''d certainly not be the last either. What had her hungry for the Sergeant''s plate was watching the bugs hit it. Thudbugs just flattened and their carapace was carbon-woven. Razorbugs shrieked off it and seemed to just scrape off paint. It didn''t flake, it didn''t chip. And it was ceramic. That she felt from the first time she''d patted his plastron. The thermal kiln only proved what the Force whispered to her. Her molar didn''t even care when she cranked the temperatures well past what should''ve turned other ceramics into a sludge. She pushed the kiln to the maximum; any higher and it would start melting itself. She could take the tooth out by bare hand afterward. In the other lab, what everyone mostly called the ''loom'', she had several spools of cortosis threading up. With the molecular structure revealed by the spectrograph - confirming her sense of the crystalline whiskers layered through out it - Mei entertained thoughts of trying to replace them with cortosis straws. Bind it right into the matrix of the ceramic. She sat back, rattling the loose tooth around the inside of her cupped hand. She''d sideline that thought until after she was able to figure out exactly how in the stars the Imperium fabricated ceramite. Figure that out, and then she could see about improving it or at the very least tooling around with it. Jensaarai always favored lightweight, flexible armors. It was the cortosis woven into it that provided the real defense, as the foes of the Jensaarai were assumed to bear lightsabers. Now they knew the Jedi weren''t their fated foes but still her family kept to tradition. Obroa-skai opened her eyes wide. Amphistaves could be stunned by cortosis, it seemed, but as her light armor proved, even insensible, an amphistaff still had an edge. They needed tougher material, they needed heavier armor. You can''t dodge bugs all day when in a duel. And if the vong started using man-portable plasma, as nasty as the stuff their ships spit? She tasked the droid-computer to run cycles on the molecular structure of ceramite to see if it could come up with viable fabrication techniques. While it hummed away, she pulled out sheaves of flimsy, a meter long, laying them out flat on a clean table. Charcoals, ink-stylus she scattered and got to work. Brackardian vraks, her chosen totem, had an interesting behavior. She sketched, humming under her breath. Young vraks were wiry and spindly looking. They were the meanest of their species, always spoiling for fights. Just passing by their webbed bowers was enough to incite a young vraks to fury. But what brackardian vraks did with their sticky, calcium-rich webs was fascinating. They spun up tangles in their bowers that entrapped limbs of prey or interlopers, but they also spun it onto their own bodies. Vraks silk dessicated over time, becoming hard and stiff, which is why vraks'' bowers grew larger and larger, always needing more web added as the old cured and turned stiff. In the same way, the webs woven over their limbs and abdomen hardened, turning into thicker and thicker armor as the years wore on. A particularly old brackardian vraks would look almost entirely unlike a young one, encased as it was in thick, dense and heavy armor plating. Only their lepidoteran wings they ever left free; a beautiful contrast that led Mei to choosing them as her totem in the first place. A great old vraks, that Susevfites often called a dorogen, was like a lump of lace-textured armor sprouting broad, multihued wings and vicious claws. They were calm and incredibly unthreatening, even letting beings walk right up to them without so much as a twitch. They knew their invincibility against all other predators on Susevfi and they knew the keen edge of their claws. Mei drew and sketched, blended with charcoals and smudged with fingertips, never noticing the fingerprints on her forehead and cheek and chin as she pondered and considered and sometimes spent minutes stock-still, head in her hand, only her eyes darting here and there. On the flimsy grew a schematic and work of art both, a suit of armor slender and strong, worked with lace-web designs across sculpted breastplate and sloping, segmented pauldron. High greaves rose over knees and joined to encasing cuisses. About the shoulders was arranged her original mantle, soft and feathery. If she squinted, she could see the bulk of Ultramarine plate in the added mass of the breastplate and cuisses. Something of the Jedi in spun robes to be worn over the naked plate. A full-mask helm''s internals, splayed open and diagrammed out, called for comlink and scanners. She''d never liked wearing a full mask, after she''d gone to study with the Jedi. Her only hand rose, unbidden, and she traced fingers along the cold and nerveless scar down her face. When she blinked, she was used to the clicking such that it did not register anymore. A soft beeping alert jolted Mei from her thoughts. The droid was done. Three fabrication options were laid out, along with theory for two others. A slow smile grew as she skimmed them, feeling the tug of the Force deep within her as she read. Catalyzed cold-solute drag creep. It was just so impossible, so tremendously improbable that it sang to her. It was only step one and she''d have to try Force-knows how many catalyzers as well as substrate wafers, but it was a start. She had faith in the Force. It wouldn''t be worth doing if it was easy. Mei went back to sketching, hand dancing across flimsy as she rebuilt the garb of a Jensaarai. Contingence Chapter IX IX: One Purpose
Between them, projected from a finely carved table of wroshyr wood, displayed in miniature, centered around the edifice of the Great Temple, was the entire Massassi Site. One of Lowbacca''s cousins was a celebrated woodcrafter and the table had been a gift honoring the Wookiee''s achieving knighthood. Of course, despite the beautiful finish and cunning, fastener-free construction, the table had seen its fair share of use. There was still a discolored, darkened stain from a time Lowie had brought a swoopbike''s engine up to work on with Jaina. The hologram spread across most of the table, emitters hidden in the polished surface. Tiny ribbons of rivers and creeks, in pale blue, wend and wove through the jungle, around temples and obelisks and monument plazas, overgrown and ancient. There was the Palace of the Woolamander, there was the Temple of the Blueleaf Cluster. Then further temples, many with no official name, tumbled down or decapitated, still buried in vegetation. All over the plateau of the Ersham Ridge hid plenty of as-yet undelved and unmapped ruins. Naga Sadow and Exar Kun were industrious in their time. Tahiri, smiling, continued to point out one single ruin, nearly covered over by Massassi trees and half-consumed by some ancient landslip from a nearby cliff. Over fifty kilometers away, it was toward the edge of the Site as defined by subsurface scans conducted back in 11 ABY. "Tahiri, what were you doing that far away?" "Training." "Training." Anakin echoed. She tossed a curl of blonde hair over her shoulder. "Why not? Kam Solusar even knew where I was and I had a comlink. Really, Anakin, it was a lot more responsible than when we went off on our adventures." Anakin wanted to argue; couldn''t. Flashbacks of stern talking-tos from his Uncle, from Tionne, from Kam, from Master Katarn, from Master Ikrit, from-he cleared his throat. "So, what happened?" Sannah perked up from where she was reclining on the sofa, knees hooked over the arm as she kicked her heels, hair splayed out like a halo around her head. "Oh, finally. Tahiri wouldn''t tell me, I''m dying here." They''d commandeered one of the common rooms in the Temple, filled with comfortable sofas; soft, shapeless squish-chairs and a few repulsor-lounges. Usually, the holotable was used for dejarik or pazaak, other games and entertainment for the trainees, but Tionne encouraged the students to use it to review lessons or even recordings from Holocrons. Little touches made the common room as homely as Anakin remembered. A few misshapen clay pitches and pots, painted roughly on end-tables. An enormous, framed painting of the Great Temple in the morning, found and purchased by Mirax Terrik. A few holocubes of local creatures or snapshots of Jedi training, meditating, just living their lives. Not all of the faces smiling out of the holos were counted among the living. "I went exploring, of course. I borrowed one of the speederbikes from the garage - Master Solusar gave me the key, of course - and I was just going to practice my flying." She was decent enough, that was a true, Anakin thought. Usually, she just relied on him when they needed to go anywhere, letting him take a landspeeder out of the garage and, well, Anakin hadn''t been around in months. Of course she would want to brush up those skills. "Okay, that makes sense." "Duh," Tahiri idly added, continuing with her tale. From the Praxeum, she''d done a simple loop. The speederbike she took out was no SoroSuub racer, just a plucky little scooter, so after an hour or so of doing laps, she''d decided to go out into rougher terrain. More of a challenge of both piloting skill and the Force, as trees, bushes and thick vine coverage made the jungle more and more treacherous the farther you got from the Great Temple. That was when Tahiri remembered looking at the map with Sannah days before, talking about exploring, and decided to go check out one of the farthest temples. "I''m not really sure why," she admitted. "I just kind of wanted to." She actually passed by it twice before she realized her mistake - it was so buried after millenia of abandonment that bushes and trees grew right over top of it. Only if she looked carefully did Tahiri finally spot the ancient Massassi stone peeking out from between fronds and ferns. She''d parked her ''bike and gone on foot, not sensing anything more dangerous than a crystal-snake. "I think it was sleeping or something." Sannah rolled her eyes. "Angry ancestors, Tahiri, this isn''t some play. What was it!" "I was getting to that!" "Get there faster!" What ''it'' was, Tahiri described, was some kind of enormous flying, well, monster. When she''d gotten closer to the old temple, close enough to run her fingers over the algae-stained stones, the ground itself rumbled and if the Force had been quiet about threat before, now it shouted in her ear. The thing that burst out of the ruin, throwing ancient stones around like toys was the size of a speedertruck, maybe even bigger. A huge head with a giant, round mouth, a delta shaped body with a wingspan that darkened the jungle. "I mean, it''s not the first time we annoyed something in its territory, so I knew I should just get going and maybe it would calm down." The Krayt dragon they ran into as kids did not, in fact, calm down, but Jacen would''ve agreed with Tahiri''s decision so Anakin wasn''t going to argue. "I think it was sleepy or something, because while it seemed really angry - real angry - I could kind of feel it in the Force and it seemed more confused and tired than anything else. Still tried to eat me, so, points off for that." "Huh," Anakin exhaled, pacing back and forth. "What else did it look like? That doesn''t sound anything like stuff from our lessons." "It had tentacles, like, a lot of them. It tried to grab me with them and grab the ''bike, but like I said, it was clumsy and tired so it mostly grabbed some trees. And kind of yanked them down too, which was, wow, that was a little scary." Sannah shrugged. "Doesn''t sound like anything on Yavin 8 either." Some kind of giant creature, slumbering away in a forgotten Sith Temple, immediately hostile, didn''t sound similar to any other life on Yavin 4¡­ Tahiri raised and eyebrow as Anakin met her eyes. Green and blue held understanding, each knowing exactly what the other was thinking. "Probably sithspawn," Anakin sighed, Tahiri echoing the words. The blonde grinned, toothy and wide. "Back on the same wavelength!" She aimed finger-blasters at him and Sannah giggled. "So we''re gonna go kill this thing, right?" Sucking a deep breath, exhaling it, setting his shoulders, Anakin pulled on the guise he''d been wearing for some time now. Tahiri felt it and her cheer evaporated. "Oh come on-" "This sounds dangerous, so I think we''d better just go to my Uncle-" "What made you so boring, oh my-" "-and tell him we''re going to go check it out." His father''s grin shone out from Anakin''s face, and he aimed finger-blasters right back at Tahiri. Sannah pounced on the other girl''s back, wrapping skinny legs and arms around her. "And I''m coming too!" Tahiri oofed and staggered. "Corellian hells Sannah, you are seriously too big for that-" Anakin shrugged. "Sure." Two girls stared at him like he''d gone insane. "Oh no, Sannah. Anakin''s gone mad. Centerpoint broke his mind." "He''s not telling us it''s too dangerous?" He could''ve killed a billion vong the other day. He had killed hundreds. He was sixteen and he''d watched friends die. He''d watched a beloved Uncle burn for him. Anakin stuck his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit. "Sure it is. Sannah, you grew up on a world where giant snakes and spiders hunted you. Tahiri, we were fighting Sith magic before we hit double digits. The universe is dangerous. I guess¡­we might as well face it head on." They told Uncle Luke. Surprisingly, his Uncle just looked at the three of them, the lightsabers on Anakin and Tahiri''s belt, at the diminutive Melodie girl. The Jedi''s expression was impassive, but Anakin felt his regard in the Force. Assessing, gently brushing over the three of them, touching over their focus. Whatever his Uncle was looking for, he must have found it. "If you think you can handle it," Master Skywalker said. Anakin looked to his two friends. In Tahiri''s bright green eyes there was brimming excitement, but he felt the iron-core behind it: serious and solid. Sannah bounced from foot to foot, the thirteen year old nearly vibrating with excitement to go on a bonafide Anakin & Tahiri Adventure, but beneath her buoyant cheer Anakin felt the same steady roots. That was what he''d realized, at Centerpoint. Jacen begging him, Ebrihim scared witless, Thrackan shouting and demanding. Everyone looking at him like a kid. Jacen still thinking he, himself, was a kid. Anakin had been believing it so hard too that he''d tricked himself for a while. He smiled at his uncle and nodded. None of them were kids. They never had been. The galaxy hadn''t been kind enough to allow it. It was time to stop pretending. Shutting down Centerpoint had been the first act of stripping away that lie. Instead of waiting for the adults to tell him what to do, instead of pretending to be a child, Anakin accepted what he was. A warrior, a Jedi - a killer. It was like Centerpoint understood what he wanted, before he even reached for the mental levers. The station started shutting down before Anakin could visualize the controls. A Jedi Knight wouldn''t pass the decision off. A Jedi Knight would bear the responsibility so that others didn''t have to. Sannah ran off, Tahiri chasing after her, bare feet flying, and Anakin gave his uncle an apologetic smile, then sprinted after them in turn. Maybe they''d never been kids. Lighter than he''d felt in months, Anakin followed the sounds of laughter down the halls and turbolifts of the Temple, toward the garage. But that didn''t also mean they couldn''t find some kind of happiness.
Beyond broad crystalflex panels, ten meters in height and so polished as to appear nigh-on invisible, the clear shapes of five Suzerain stood as still as carven stone, one fist clamped about the hilt of sheathed gladius, the other hovering over bulky, stub-snouted volkite serpentas holstered at their other hip. They rotated every four hours exactly and until their replacements stood precisely before them, not one would budge even an inch. Drakus Gorod was nothing if not fastidious. The Master of the Invictarii Suzerain could not always hide how he glanced at the white-roped scar about Guilliman''s neck, courtesy of the bastard Kor Phaeron. A personal insult, Gorod considered it, though it had been no fault but his own, the Primarch considered. Roboute Guilliman returned his attention and gaze to another of his sons, rendered in azure and flickering form, tracked occasionally by lines of degaussing interference. Sannad Optarch, Brevet Lieutenant, appeared from the waist up with his plumed helm tucked smartly beneath one arm. Bareheaded, the blond Astartes wore his curly hair short to the scalp, just long enough to begin the trademark tight ringlets of his western Traccian heritage. Ever since Calth, Guilliman had endeavored to learn more about each and every one of his sons. There were none whose name he did not know, but they were more than that, more than just their service. Now he knew the heritage of each, from which world they hailed, the time of their ascension. He had heard his brother Sanguinius knew each of his own sons as closely and intimately as a mortal father and he believed it utterly. The Angel had a gift for personability and the charisma to make it simplicity itself. ''Continue, Lieutenant,'' Guilliman said, still idly marveling at the true technological wonder before him. Treated like nothing more special than a simple vox, the holonet of this Galaxy he considered to be an unmatched wonder. His Father had dreams and goals beyond the comprehension of even his Primarch sons, but Guilliman wondered if the Emperor had ever dared imagine the possibility of such a comprehensive network of real-time communication. Not for the first time did he reflect on his years in the Crusade and the immeasurable boon that instantaneous, trans-galactic vox could be. Many Crusade Fleets might have been saved, many worlds spared retributive devastation by rogue xenos powers, countless orkish hordes headed off in their infancy. Alongside his planning of the extant city of Eboracum Civitas and the planned ones of Eboracum Secundus and Nova Numinus, Guilliman already worked to codify principles of warfare under the practicalities that this Galaxy offered. Their hyperdrives, their holonet, their shields, their differing but universal weapon systems. He also had notations on the implementation of such within the Five Hundred Worlds. An idle dream, for now, but he daresay it was a balm. ''The Vong armada has not moved from the position they retreated to. They appear content to allow events upon the surface to dictate the fate of Fondor.'' ''A fate which you have bound the 4711th to.'' Optarch dipped his head. ''Just so, sire. Time was of the essence and I acted, I believe, on a well-informed practical.'' ''Continue, Lieutenant.'' ''The practical is that Fondor, while wounded; crippled, perhaps, still remains a critical junction into the so-called ''Core''. Even should we assume the manufactorums of the surface are in some way entirely lost, the placement of this world alone ensures that even a burnt cinder is still of prime strategic importance.'' ''I would concur.'' Optarch ever so subtly swelled with clear pride. ''That does not, however, fully explain deploying your demicompany alongside the Iax Tertius and Eboracum Auxilia.'' ''Allow me to continue, my lord.'' Guilliman gently waved one outsized hand. ''My consideration is twofold. In the first, the void battle for Fondor was our achievement. Without Regil''s squadron, the Republican Fifth fleet battle group would likely have been slaughtered to the last. The admiral reckons the Republicans served to divert attention away from our own warships as well as providing valuable additional weight of fire, but it was our influence that was the clear deciding factor. I believe this will not be the case upon the surface.'' Guilliman suspected the angle of the Lieutenant''s scheme, but allowed him to describe it instead. ''In taking action upon the surface, though the Guildmistress has named me as theatre command, the 4711th may prove a role as an able partner, rather than an overwhelming superior. We have saved them in orbit, now by fighting together on the surface, the Republicans might borrow a little gloss from our reputation.'' ''And thusly be doubly indebted. I applaud the practical, Sannad. We''ll make a politician of you yet.'' ''As you say, sire.'' Guilliman recognized his dreams of an enlightened empire with Astartes as philosopher-kings was not entirely anticipated by his more warlike sons, yet there was still time enough for minds to change. ''The second?'' ''Much like Obroa-skai and my own boarding operation. Iax Tertius is the best of our reformed regiments. The Auxilia are untested. Bonds formed in training may be strong, but they require the crucible of war to become forged.'' ''A simple practical, but inarguable.'' ''A third thought occurred to me as well, sire. I have not spoken it aloud among the Republicans, but I am comfortable in voicing it to you. I believe Fondor is a valuable training ground for what is sure to come: an invasion of the Republican capital, Coruscant. It lacks the depth of the world-city, but Fondor bears many similarities in its ecumenopoli and urban strata.'' The vulnerability of the ecumenopolis world had not passed Guilliman by. Indeed, in downtime, he had examined several theoretical invasion scenarios. The Yuuzhan Vong could not bypass the capital nor ignore it, and not merely for military concerns. Coruscant was, as Guilliman had read, just as much a potent symbol of civilization itself as it was the functioning - a term he decided on only after much deliberation - heart of the government itself. The Vong were anxiously waging a war of cultural annihilation and to tear down the millenia-old symbol of Coruscant was something only a fool would overlook. What drew his brow together in a frown was not that Optarch was correct, but the implication therein. Of his idle play at besieging the capital, he had only ever selected the armies of the Republic and the Vong. Not once had he sown the 4711th into the scenario. Should the invaders reach the Republican capital, all his theoreticals pointed toward an utter collapse of the galactic nation. It would explode at the seams. The fleets would scatter, the self-serving politicians would run and hide upon their homeworlds. It would be the end, in his mind, of any organized, centralized resistance. Thus, he had never considered spending the lives and materiel of the 4711th on what would be not a turning point of this war, but rather the capstone. The blood exclamation point that ended it. Coruscant besieged, Guilliman calculated, was the endgame. Yet here his son spoke on it as if he thought it inevitable and potentially winnable. ''Should the war reach Coruscant, the 4711th will not stand there. I find your former reasoning well-argued, however, and I will approve continued action on Fondor. Be warned, Lieutenant. The 4711th stands at high alert. There have been whispers of contacts within the outer system. Until we are certain what they portend, I cannot send reinforcements.'' ''Heard and understood, my lord.'' Optarch saluted, thumbs interlinked. Roboute inclined his head, reaching out and cutting connection with the stroke of a single rune. The holotank cleared, returning to an idle, gently breathing aura of indigo. Guilliman felt poised atop a knife. Review of documents and data recovered from Obroa-skai was ongoing, but the prognosis was poor. While rife with trivia, not a single entry had done more than briefly elicit attention before being discarded. Over and over, no sign of the immaterial appeared. Phenomena was explicable within material means. That, or by hyperspacial definition. So-called hyperspace ''wormholes'' were uncommon, even rare, but not unheard of. They were also clearly not of Empyrean origin. His relaxation, then rescinding of the Edict of Nikaea never left his thoughts. It had been prudent, logical even, to enact. Only nine of the Librarius were counted among the survivors of the 4711th and of them, only Codicier Rubio was of more elevated rank and experience. After Calth, in his blackest moods, Roboute feared the Edict had been a manipulation all along to deprive the Legiones of the weapon most potent against Lorgar''s byblow allies. In consultation with Codicier Rubio, the psyker-warrior confirmed Guilliman''s suspicions. With latitude to act, the psykana of the Librarius may not have been enough to counter the workings of the clearly far more experienced Word Bearers, but may have blunted or deflected many attacks. The trick played by his bastard brother that cost the lives of the entire command bridge and almost his own - might have been detected before it was too late. Doubt was not something Guilliman countenanced, but its bitter teeth worried at the edges of his plans. How could his own Father be deceived by trickery? There had to be a logic to the Edict, and indeed there had been. Roboute had no great argument when it had been passed down. If it had been a ploy by Lorgar and, if Guilliman dared believe, Horus, then he had to accept that the Emperor was not just fallible, but that he was manipulable. Roboute was not sure which was worse. The former was understandable. As his Father would have taught, no mortal was perfect and faultless. If the Emperor was fallible in his vision, it would be a grave danger in its potential to tremble the foundations of faith in the Imperial Truth - an ironic turn of phrase. Guilliman could weather this; he never truly expected the Emperor to be faultless. Indeed, he had opinions on some ways his Father ran the Imperium, though it was never his place to comment. But the latter - to be manipulable. The Emperor portrayed himself as above all such earthly concerns. No god in human form, but rather man made whole. A man who had no desires, and thus could not be tempted. A man with only one allegiance - the truth - so that he could not be swayed. A man with no attachments, so he could not be threatened. Some of his other brothers, those that Guilliman pitied by degrees, had fraught relationships with their Father. Guilliman was content in his. His Father''s genius was unmatched, his wisdom immense, and he was willing to impart it. That was enough. The Emperor could never be a true Father and Guilliman understood this all too well now. He had thought to model himself after the Emperor and knew his realm of Ultramar was an expression. The office of Emperor held no appeal, but the idea of a builder, a statesman, a leader and a shepherd of civilization? This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. That appealed; it appealed deeply. Calth demonstrated the depth to which Guilliman could never aspire to be his Father. The lesson taunted him when he stared into his bastard brother''s eyes and promised only death. The lessons teased him when he, lost to his fury, forgot his sons and rampaged across the exterior of his flagship. The lessons needled him when he took risks, when he demanded Marius pursue Kor Phaeron, when he beat Word Bearers into messy paste. Roboute Guilliman could never be detached. He could never achieve so numinous a state that he became as impeachable as he believed his Father was. The deaths of his sons sliced at his soul. The burning of his world consumed his thoughts. The deaths of his citizens polluted his temperament. Luke Skywalker asked him: what would your father do? The Emperor, in this place, would begin the Crusade anew. He was certain of it. There was no other conceivable outcome. Even with the limited resources of the 4711th, the Emperor still retained his singular goal for the human race. Utter and complete dominance of the galaxy and safety against extinction. Mastery of the material and eradication of the spiritual. Roboute Guilliman could not; would not, and as he peered at the silent holoprojector, he knew why. His heart burned in his breast. It yearned for Macragge. In any spare moment, his thoughts turned to his sons, his Legion, wherever they were. Gently, Guilliman set aside his stylus, rising from his seat and pinching at the bridge of his nose. Codicier Rubio led his eight compatriots in plumbing the local Warp. Astropaths were tasked to call far and dream farther. Navigators peered with their mutant eye, searching the metaphorical skies. Even Aeonid, dispatched to the Jedi Praxeum, carried ulterior orders. Optarch fought well at Fondor, but he did not understand that everything the 4711th did, every action, every deal, every agreement, was directed toward one, ultimate purpose. Guilliman stepped into his private chambers, forbidden to all but those he admitted. One wall was covered in notation. HIs eyes traced connections. Each datapoint had been placed by his hands, and his alone. None could know this¡­obsession. The 4711th needed to believe that Roboute believed in what he spoke. Helplessness gnawed at him. The center of the nexus, the sprawl of accounts from Navigator and Astropath, Librarius and Magi, soldier and Astartes, civilian and Remembrancer, was a single string of digits. Calth Mark 31.15.12. The moment that all the clocks stopped. The infinite, endless moment when the warp was breached and Veridia vanished. The very same moment, after an eternity, that the local primary of Eboracum bloomed bright. A warp translation of an instant forever. There, to here. There was one purpose. Guilliman would return to Ultramar, he would find Lorgar and whoever was responsible for marooning him here, and he would kill them. Indeed, he could never be like his Father.
Cackling and hooting, diminutive chazrach boiled over abandoned airspeeders. Their crude, hooked blades waved in the air, fervor lighting their reptoid eyes, slitted pupils blown wide by the joy of the hunt. Their masters kept pace, two in total, jogging with long legs to ably pace their meter-tall charges. Two tall, scarred Yuuzhan Vong warriors in their clamshell living armor, amphistaves curled about thickly muscled forearms. Taloned claws pointed, picking out retreating backs of routed Republican soldiers. There were Humans, Herglic too, and a few Duro. Their clothing was shabby, their body armor ill-fitting. Strange rifles were slung over shoulders, save for one thickset Herglic who hefted a repeating cannon in both trunklike arms. His thick, rubbery skin was sliced in many places, bleeding only a little as the thick layer of blubber prevented more than glancing strikes from whizzing razor bugs. That repeating cannon spun up again with a whine, barrel accelerating to a blur before it erupted hot, blue-white hyphens of blasterfire toward the pell-mell charge of chazrach. Reptoids crumpled, smoking. A few shots glanced from rich, viridian and mother-of-pearl vonduun armor, leaving smoking smears and hissed epithets. The infidels were enticing, but it was the presence of a dozen others that truly focused the ire of the invaders. They were spindly and tall, close to two meters, with a body plan more akin to a hominid skeleton. Their faces were long, with downward antennae sprouting from the rear of their thin head. They were neither swift nor agile, becoming outpaced by the rapidly retreating Republicans. Thud bugs sang and one of the automata collapsed in a heap, sparking. Another wobbled, one arm severed, the other still clinging onto its rifle, trigger depressed, punching blasterbolts into the duracrete underfoot. Chips flew. Dust plumed. The alley the Republicans fled down ran long, splitting away from a primary thoroughfare. The last of the chazrach piled in along with another two Vong handlers. Four Warriors to forty chazrach. A classic formation, one officer and ten levy. That was enough. Krak charges blew on either side of the alley. Whizzing chunks of facing and transparisteel blitzed like shrapnel bombs, sending chazrach reeling in puffs of crimson. Warriors had just enough time to process their change of fortune before a quadruple thunderclap rent the air, harsh on the ears as it banged and reverberated against the high alley wells. All four warriors dropped, headless, villips at their shoulder pulped. It was as yet unknown if the chazrach could use the communication biots of their masters, but no risk was taken. ''Blades,'' Zalthis ordered. Five broad forms, two of more singular size, pushed through shattered walls at the mouth of the alley. On cue, the Republicans spun, ceasing their flight, taking knees and bringing up rifles. What followed was the same as the other dozen times. Zalthis carefully wiped his long knife clean of blood with a stained cloth. Solidian crouched down to do the same, but on the garb of one of the reptoids. Qario, Lyros and Petran, faces visible beneath their open, half-helms looked to him. To Zalthis. The Herglic with the rotary cannon ambled over, kicking through corpses. He took a moment to aim a particularly vicious blow to one of the toppled warriors, headless corpse squelching unpleasantly. ''Scarheaded freaks,'' the alien grumbled out of both sides of its wide mouth. Mist fogged over his head. Humid air exhaled from the dorsal blowhole on its broad forehead condensed rapidly in the chill air. Fondor had not usually been this cold, but the thin sunlight that filtered through the veil of upcast ash and smoke bore no warmth for the embattled world. ''You know, I thought I''d hate being bait, but it means I get to see their surprise every time. It''s a little addicting.'' The three neophytes did not even deign to spare a glance to the alien. They were ever aspiring to portray the Astartesian ideal and that surely meant little patience for a xenoform. Zalthis had no such qualms, meeting the Herglic halfway and extending a hand. The massive alien took it in a warrior''s grip. Each time, the strength and size of the being surprised Zalthis. ''You honor us with your trust again, Conscript S''hmu.'' Black-skinned, wide sloping shoulders rolled in a vague approximation of a shrug. ''Kills vong, don''t it?'' ''It,'' Zalthis confirmed, ''in fact, does.'' ''Then as long as you Blue Boys keep up your end, my boy''s''re up for a good run. Stretches the legs, right boys?'' The last words the Herglic shouted, rumbling bass voice full of good cheer, met instead by profanity and crude gestures. Zalthis did not know the meaning of most. He was learning. ''And I like this gun,'' S''hmu continued. Where the others carried Mu Pattern Lasrifles, fresh from the manufactorums of Eboracum, the weighty rotary cannon the Herglic clung to was claimed to be of ''Clone Wars'' vintage. A relic, they called it, though privately Solidian had made a joke of the concept. A relic fifty years old. Ascratus'', now Solidian''s, bolt pistol was Martian-make. It was as old as the Crusade itself. Two hundred years. ''It''s effective.'' Zalthis peered down at the corpse of one of the Yuuzhan Vong warriors, whose head was burst like a ripe melon, spraying mulched brain matter in a grisly arc. Deftly, Zalthis doffed his helmet, crouching down. S''hmu made a sound like a tyre rupturing, lurching away on stumpy legs. The Herglic misliked this part, a sentiment Zalthis shared. He ran fingers through the glutinous mass of the Vong''s grey matter, managing to gather fragments. As always, the taste was bitter and curled his lip. ''Sol,'' he called. His brother''s helm jerked up and he quickly stomped down on a still-living amphistaff that he''d be studying beneath one massive tread. ''Brother?'' ''We are still unnoticed. More - the commander of this sector is named Tshek Ulm.'' ''A name to a face, then.'' Zalthis bobbed his head in affirmation, rising back to his feet. Each time he tasted the minds of the invaders, he was careful. Not only had he never employed the more grim functions of the omophagea before, but the memories and mentality of the vong warriors was almost acidic. The utter devotional zealotry they had was like a physical flavor. He sampled carefully, chasing surface memories and impressions. Lieutenant Optarch deployed squads of five as rapid-reaction forces, using Ultramarian muscle to shore up the overwhelmed locals. A fine practical, but Zalthis was thinking of Obroa-skai. The killing of the yammosk threw the vong''s slaves and even their chazrach into disarray. It was no feat he could replicate, but the idea of a similar strike appealed and Solidian concurred. If they could locate the local commander, they could do as the famous Sons of Horus did: go for the throat. Each ambush revealed a little more. Zalthis had a blurry image of a tall, rangy Yuuzhan Vong male in his mind, impressions of a glowing topographical map. Vague orders in a tongue he almost understood. Qario cleared his throat. ''Sir?'' ''Speak, neophyte.'' ''If I might say on behalf of the conscripts, the day is ending. A return to the lines may be advisable.'' Zalthis studied the neophyte, just the same age as he. Of the same cadre, even. A head shorter than Zalthis stood, wearing the half-plate of a Scout. And tired. Mortal, still, despite the beginnings of augmentations. They were not Ultramarines like he and Solidian. Not yet. ''S''hmu!'' Zalthis called. Solidian grimaced. He never liked using the given names of any of the alien soldiers. ''Whatsit, sir?'' the Herglic replied. Informal, but the being did at least understand command. ''Your men will be weary. We make for the lines.'' Zalthis eyed the still forms of the automata - B1, their classification was given as. ''The automata remain here. They will draw any attention.'' S''hmu nudged one with the butt of his cannon. ''Good luck, wobbly.'' ''They aren''t living,'' Solidian snarled, vox turning his voice harsher. ''Don''t humor it.''
Where there had been crude barricades of durasteel, now there were spiderwebs of sandbagged defensive bulkwarks, set at optimal angles to allow for cross-fire and support. Where there had been crude casemates made of repurposed duracrete street barriers, now there were prefab plasteel bunkers that sprouted the long snouts of wheeled lascannon turrets. Mortar trio set into triangular formations covered every approach. Rumbling Leman Russ panned blunt-snouted turrets left and right. At the center of the wide front the vong opened, angling to push to Oridin City and the priceless shield generators there, Kadyin Memorial Distribution Center now bore the most robust and comprehensive of defenses. A huge campus of warehouses, habitation blocks, loading cranes and small landing pads, the Distribution Center sat at a nexus of hover-rail lines and broad highways used for speeder traffic. All avenues the invaders could use just as easily as the usual industrial traffic to rapidly approach the Capital. "We''re pretty exposed here," sighed the Sarge, his booted feet and lower body visible as he leaned out of the open hatch up above. "We''re defilade, yeah?" Elsali tried out the new word for size. It meant their tank was covered up to the turret: they could shoot; couldn''t be hit. In theory. A theoretical, as her instructors had hammered into her. "That''s not everything, Private," Sarge bitched. Sarge bitched a lot. That was another word Elsali picked up, since their driver, Private Sula, liked to sprinkle it in two to three times per sentence. After explaining the meaning, as best Elsali could understand, it definitely fit Sarge. Learning how to operate a tank in the First Auxilia was an exercise in learning several languages at once. First - the language of war. Elsali had been in air & atmospherics. Filter systems, heating and cooling. Not a lot of crossover between that and putting rounds as big as her thigh downrange. So that was the first language, the language of defilade and advance and elevation and depression and leading and everything you had to know. Turned out - Elsali was good at all that. She''d had an eye for detail before and when she''d taken the controls for the first time, depressing the pin and sending a dummy shell downrange, she''d hit within five meters of the target. Better than anyone else. The second language was Gothic. That was the one she still was working on. Sula didn''t speak a lick of Basic, but their last driver, Kenkar, who''d been from, she thought, maybe Corsin? Had been whipped and then discharged for getting caught drunk on duty. Sula came in from one of the non-Auxilia regiments and he bitched about it every day. The third language was the whole damn Imperium. The language, mostly unspoken, of understanding just what the hell they were all about. Why you got out of the way, real-quick like, of those big Astartes in their armor and always bowed your head. Why you were supposed to spit and turn your head if someone mentioned droids. Why you crossed your hands on your chest when someone mentioned Terra. At least Elsali wasn''t alone. She bumped elbows with Tonil, on the right-side sponson. They bumped elbows a lot, and hips, and sometimes heads, but this time it was on purpose. Tonil, under her helmet, sniggered. "What''s the problem, Sarge?" Elsali asked, innocent as could be. She winked back at Tonil. When you got Sarge going, the man would go. "No air cover, for one. Give me damned anything, but something should be keeping an eye in the clouds for us. Makes me feel bloody naked like this. Hate it." "A-i-r, c-o-v-e-r," Elsali said slowly, dragging out the syllables, as if taking notes. Tonil giggled. "Air cover! Fug and damn, but those ugly ''skips could be in and out and then where''d we be? Can''t put the battle cannon on aviation. Well, you can, if it''s low and slow. Did I ever tell you about that time on Eighty-seven Forty-nine? I don''t think I did." And there he went. Sula was dozing, down past their feet, cap pulled down over his eyes. Handling the other sponson was Caraget, who looked jumpy. Probably about to ask Sarge if she could get out for a smoke. The lhosticks were gross and smelled something awful, but the sponsor gunner had gotten addicted. Beside and below her, Obsie sat her fat ass on several hundred kilograms of high explosive, humming under her breath. Before Kenkar had been kicked out, they''d been an all-female crew, aside from the Sarge. Sula messed that up, but he''d not even waggled his eyebrows at sharing the cramped, in-each-others-laps interior of the tank with four women. The man mostly hated everything, except making the tank move. If he couldn''t do that, he''d sleep. If he could do that, he''d been an endless steam of profanity that was actually helping Elsali learn Gothic, in a weird way. Most of the crew of the First Auxilia tank squadron were women. Turned out, fitting ladies into the Russ tanks was easier than trying to jam in six men, and Pirve - Eboracum - wasn''t exactly overflowing with options for recruits when the First was founded anyway. Elsali didn''t mind it in the slightest. Looking out through her viewfinder and seeing the poor bastards humping it in the shit made the reeking interior of the tank absolutely comfy. Also, her rifle was one hundred and twenty millimeters and could kill a starship. And her flak jacket was fifteen centimeters of cast plasteel and the finest ferro-steel from somewhere called ''Konor''. The oil-stink that never quite washed off was a pretty fair tradeoff. "...and dead if those scarheads bring up artillery too, because we don''t have any indirect fire here, fug and bale-" Sarge''s bitching rolled over her like water on a Pirven - Eboracan - wattle-duck''s back. Leaning forward, Elsali peered again through her viewfinder, and- "Shit! Contact, ten o''clock, seven hundred meters!" The hatch banged as Sarge dropped down. The engine roared to load. Obsie was offer her fat ass, already grabbing for a shell. Sarge got his periscope up, peering around - "Throne alive, that''s enemy armor!" "AP!" Elsali shouted. Wasn''t her place, but Sarge was on the comm - vox - to the other tanks in the platoon. Obsie had one up and moving, ramming into the breech - clang - "Loaded!" and she panned, checking the sensors - auspex - next to the viewfinder. She swept crosshairs over shapes of Yuuzhan Vong warriors darting between buildings, past those little scrambling reptoid slaves of theirs. There! Movement, big, just a shadow - -into view again. "Sithspawn!" she cursed. Rakamat. Next to her, Tonil rattled a banged up ration can. Elsali knew it by sound alone and could picture it. Tape haphazardly wrapped around it, the words ''worship jar'' in sprawling hand. Elsali tracked the massive biot as it passed behind habitation blocks, catching glimpses of its nodding dorsal sail, the tip of its tail. "For the last time, Toni, sithspawn has nothing to do with faith!" The biot came into view. Huge, too huge, even at range. Big as one of those Juggernaut tanks, held up on thick legs with a grand, arching dorsal sail. Horns at its shoulders pivoted, aimed. "Shoot!" she cried, at the same time as she pressed the pin. The tank lurched back, hard, rubber eye-cup bopping into her cheek. The shell was a blur - gone. "Vaping voids," she swore. "Tonil, Caraget, tickle the bastard." At the Sarge''s words, both sponson gunners opened up with their lascannon. Beams of red energy barked out, flaring hard and Elsali grimaced and squinted at the flash in her viewfinder. More voids, eating up the las blasts. "HE!" Sarge shouted. Obsie moved, breach hammered shut. Crosshairs over its ugly head - "Shoot!" Another void. "Aim at its feet! HE!" Crosshairs lower. "Shoot!" This time fire bloomed hard, suddenly swirling. A shell from one of the other two tanks in their platoon cracked in, vanished. "AP!" Clang. Crosshairs up. Ugly face appeared out of the fire, void sucking in the fire, las beams - but now green hyphens stabbed in, hard, another void appeared, she saw one green bar slice through, chip into it''s back- "Shoot!" Tank jumped again. Elsali shouted, wordless, as the rakamat staggered. Staggered hard, fell right onto its flank with a sudden burst of blood and coral - "AP!" Clang. More las blasts joined in, from heavy turrets along the line. Green laser beams kept coming down from a high angle. The rakamat struggled to rise to its feet. "Oh no you don''t," she snarled, pressed the pin. This time, its head exploded and it fell, boneless. "HE! ''El, thin the troops!" Sarge hit the vox again, shouting over the hum-bang of the sponson lascannon. "Get that AT-AT moving! It''s a fat target and I don''t want it falling on our damned heads-" Explosions leapt up among the Yuuzhan Vong. Elsali put her round into a warehouse, watching as the building buffed, blew out like a cloth training target. Scarheads pinwheeled, little slave warriors ran in flames. Sarge kept on the vox, telling the overeager AT-AT driver to back the fug up. Green laser beams chased retreating Vong infantry. No other rakamat showed itself. "Throne alive," Elsali breathed, the foreign exclamation just feeling right. Heavy bolter fire stitched out into the distance, popping tiny detonations. Sula let the engine wind down, back to idle. A few other tanks in the platoon threw a desultory shell after the retreating vong, but she didn''t bother. Didn''t want to waste them, not now she''d seen - really seen - one of those big biots. And killed it. Sarge''s hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped. "Fine shooting, Private. First armor kill to us." Elsali, who''d been replacing heating coils and troubleshooting fitful apartment climate controls less than a year ago, beamed. Contingence Chapter X PART IV: UNLIMBERED
X: To Sleep No More
Anakin slung a canvas pack into the rear seats of the landspeeder, leaning into the vehicle to situate it snugly and strap it down. Ropes, carabiners, handheld lumes, pitons, ascenders. Emergency foil blankets, two liters of water. Ration bars. A pair of boots, sized for a teenaged girl. And socks. Tahiri would find about the last two later. Artoo whistled and dootled, jacked into the landspeeder. The astromech insisted on running a diagnostic before they set out, saying that the speeder hadn''t been used in months and could, quote, ''be restless''. Fiver couldn''t done it too, but this was just Artoo''s way of looking out for him. He pat the droid''s domed head as he waved for Sannah and Tahiri. "Well, I don''t have a lightsaber. So I should have a blaster." Anakin rolled his eyes. "Sannah, even if it''s some sithspawn, Tahiri said it was nesting. We can probably just scare it off." "What if it doesn''t want to be scared off, huh? Then what, I just get eaten?" The Melodie girl planted fists on her hips, glaring up at him. She looked so much like Tahiri in that moment that deja vu swept him. "I''m sure it wouldn''t like how you taste," he reached out and ruffled her hair. Sannah squawked, swatting at his hand and dancing away. Tahiri, shrugging on a vest over her jumpsuit, laughed. "But why not," Sannah whined. "Have you ever shot a blaster?" Tahiri, as ever, went barefoot. She had a blaster, naturally, as did Anakin, both taking two small holdouts just in case. The jungle was dangerous, even for Jedi, and lost temples doubly so. Huffing a massive sigh, muttering under her breath about ''no fun'' and ''disappointing'', Sannah hauled herself up into the passenger side of the speeder, plopping down into the seat and folding her arms. "That''s my seat, you know," Tahiri observed. "Oh no it''s not. Dibs." He left them to squabble over it, unplugging the charging cable for the speeder and spooling it up aside. Tahiri said the jungle was thick out toward that temple, so the landspeeder he''d chosen was sleek, slim and with a pointed nose, better to weave through the old growth trees. It had a rating of a hundred meters clearance, so if worse came to worst, they could always just juice the repulsorlifts and cruise over the canopy, though it would make it hard to spot the temple from the air. Another presence entered his senses, coming out of the turbolift into the motor pool. Valin Horn, Master Horn''s twelve year old son. Anakin waved idly, doing last checks around the outside of the speeder. Artoo twiddled a little tune, telling Anakin that everything was good to go. "Thanks, Artoo." The astromech warbled then trundled away, past Valin. The kid was marching over, the most serious expression Anakin''d ever seen on his young face. "I''m coming along too," he said. "No." It was certainly unfair. Sannah was only a year older than Valin and he and Tahiri had been about that age when they had gotten up to their own adventures, but age wasn''t what mattered. Experience did. Valin Horn was a good kid - from what Anakin had seen and in the few times they''d been around each other, he was a studious learner and took Jedi training seriously. Probably looking up to his father, Master Horn. But Valin was sheltered. He''d been born on Corellia, lived on his grandfather''s own Star Destroyer, then lived in the Praxeum. Anakin had been kidnapped at least a half dozen times by the time he was Valin''s age, and Tahiri had survived the wastes of Tatooine. "Sorry, kid," he said, crouching down a little to look Valin in the eyes. "Your dad would kill me." "He''s not here!" "No, but I am, and Master Skywalker only gave Sannah, Tahiri and me permission." Valin screwed up his face, puting. "I''m only a year younger than Sannah!" "I know. But you can''t come along, okay?" Jacen could''ve handled this way better, he thought, watching as Valin flushed. He''d know the right thing to say, to make Valin feel better. "Fine!" He stomped away, back toward the turbolift, emotion like a stormcloud around him in the Force. Exhaling, Anakin shook his head. He really, really wasn''t good at this. Tahiri, from where she''d wrestled Sannah in to the backseat, caught his eye, then nodded toward Valin''s retreating back. "He wanted to come along?" Sannah stuck out her tongue. "Ew." "No, not ''ew''. He just wanted to help." Anakin vaulted into the landspeeder, shifting to get comfortable, slotting in the key. Engines hummed to life, repulsorlifts thrumming and they bobbled up, rocking as it stabilized. It was funny - he''d been in Valin''s place a dozen times. Jacen and Jaina, off to do their thing with their friends and little Anakin watching them go. When he''d been allowed to go to the Praxeum himself, he imagined what he''d do, just like his big brother and sister. None of it ended up like he imagined, but it worked out in the end. And it all turned out that they''d been right: his siblings, his parents, his Uncle. Never be in a hurry to grow up. It was just the worst when you realized the adults were right all along.
Tahiri beamed, framing the slumped ruin of the temple with her arms, like a holo-ad presenter showing off the latest swoopbike. Anakin thought it might be hard to spot, until the fallen trees started. She hadn''t been kidding - there was a trail of pulled down, young massassi trees that ran for about a hundred meters. Ten, maybe fifteen trees total, trunks as wide as Anakin, yanked down and smashed flat into the underbrush. The canopy itself was pulled open because of it, letting in bright sunlight down to dapple the jungle floor. "See! Ta-da!" Tahiri sang out. Sannah eyed the dark, gaping hole in the half-buried temple suspiciously. Where plantlife had once choked out the old stone, it was peeled back like a lid, vines ripped up and bushes shredded, tossed around like bundles along with a spray of chiseled stone blocks. "It looks like the kinda place a purella would live," the Melodie announced, speaking of the enormous predatory spiders of her homeworld. "Nah, just some sithspawn." Tahiri leapt up onto one of the fallen stones, as long as she was tall. "Look how huge these things are! That thing just threw them around, you should''ve seen it." In his mind''s eye, he could. A monster bursting out of the temple, tentacles waving - but Tahiri was fine. She was right there, and she was fine. The thing hadn''t gotten her, even if she might have underplayed how huge it must have been. The size of the stone blocks meant they were a ton, maybe two at least. This wasn''t ''monster'' level, this was monster. Like, Krayt dragon on steroids, monster. "Do you sense it at all?" Sannah asked. "Not yet. Wanna help?" Tahiri smiled to him and Anakin couldn''t help but grin back. They reached for each other - not with hands - and the jungle bloomed up around them. Anakin defined the range, Tahiri provided the focus. Anakin gave the strength, Tahiri the precision. His awareness flooded outward, a tidal wave, cresting through the jungle and he sensed every creature. Runyips wallowing in a muddy pool, stintarils slinking through trees, crystal snakes sunning in the heat. Nothing felt out of place. Tahiri, he knew, felt the same thing he did, but he said it aloud for Sannah''s sake. "Nothing yet." Anakin pushed the envelope of their melded senses, while Tahiri yielded focus to give him strength. From a range of a hundred, two hundred meters, they probed out farther, animals now just blurry implications of life, nothing so clear as to species or number. Tahiri had felt the beast once, she''d know it''s imprint again. He hummed in surprise. "Still nothing." Sannah scratched at her arm. "Maybe it left?" Jacen would say there''s no way an animal would abandon its lair unless it was forced to. Given how defensive it was of its territory when Tahiri found it, he figured nothing less than a rival and a fight would make it give up its nest. The yawning hole in the side of the half-buried temple drew his attention. Well, he had packed for it. "It might have just gone back to sleep." Tahiri, who''d been irritably running a finger around the neck of her left boot, brightened. "We''re going spelunking?" Her smile split her face. "Let''s go!''
The Jedi Praxeum held little familiarity for Aeonid, in experience or retelling. Tylos Rubio relayed his experiences in the Librarium when Aeonid requested pointers on accessing this ''Force''. The Codicier described grueling periods of exposure to the Warp, guided by Epistolaries who taught the iron-will and discipline to shape the etheric winds. Weeks of contemplation and study of mental cantrips serving as trigger-points and release valves for the boiling, hostile rawness of the channeled empyrean. Rubio spoke of the soul-binding too, in brief, that girt the soul against the predations of the hostile life-forms many now simply called ''daemon''. This galaxy was soft and by all measures the Force and the Immaterium bore little in common, save their existence as ineffable powers, but Aeonid still expected, at least, training. Some manner of rigorous structure, some curricula to follow. There were classes. Most were aimed toward the youthful initiates, who needed practical life-skills and knowledge beyond that of the Force. Aeonid did not attend those, but he had sat in on lessons of history with Master Solusar and demonstrations of saberform by the other Master Solusar. Skywalker seemed to serve as an itinerant professor, hosting irregular classes that modified and expounded upon simpler topics, and while there was some academic interest, each passing day found Aeonid more and more untethered. He sat private lessons with Skywalker and both Solusars and even bore the unreal experience of Master Cilghal, but none of them could discern what stoppered the Ultramarine''s ability to touch the Force. When guided by another, as if led by the hand, he had moments of clarity and profound sensation that faded all too swiftly. To access it on his own remained elusive, to date still only that original moment aboard Macragge''s Honour that revealed the truth of Skywalker''s declaration remained Aeonid''s only success. Stranger still, there was a shrugging, sanguine acceptance of his shortcomings. Rubio told him that an aspirant inducted into the Librarium without sufficient skill or control would be cast back out again, reduced to ranks or in more unpleasant circumstances, eliminated for the hazard they could pose. None of the Masters at the Praxeum seemed perturbed by Aeonid''s failure to progress. When voiced during a session with Skywalker, the Jedi had dismissed his concerns. There was, as Skywalker put it, no rush to becoming a Jedi. It was a process that was as long as life itself and that each step in that process was as important as the next. That, contrary to popular belief, being a Jedi was not just learning how to make rocks float or spin lightsabers. To be a Jedi was to be a student, forever, of the Force. In fact, Skywalker supposed, it was good that Aeonid was experiencing this now. It could bode well for his future understanding of the Force, like taking sips instead of drinking so deep as to become inebriated. Aeonid Thiel had never been inebriated, but he understood the metaphor. Most bothersome was the lack of material. The damage done by the Purge and the Galactic Empire meant that aside from oral tradition, so much was lost after the actions of the Skywalker patriarch. Recovered ''holocrons'' filled in gaps, as did caches of knowledge from more distant times, but all knew that Skywalker''s Order bore only familiar trappings to the Order of old, not an unbroken lineage. The Kushiban Jedi Master, Ikrit, held in trust experiences he had, it appeared, never elected to share. When confronted by Aeonid, the furred being, small enough to sit in Thiel''s hand, had shaken his head in a peculiarly human expression of regret and informed the Ultramarine that he had nothing to offer. In his questioning, none understood what Aeonid was truly after nor the source of his actual frustration. He was not looking for ancient tomes or decades to centuries old pedagogical practices. No, he was looking for that which stood right before him, day-in and day-out. Luke Skywalker, directly or indirectly, had trained over a hundred Jedi. Yet so few notes had been taken. So few records written or practices formally catalogued. If only he could peruse such things, things proven to work, and work well! There he might find some angle that suited his nature best. Something that befit a son of Ultramar, not some insect-eyed xeno from some lightless scrap of rock. Watching such a being carefully stack brightly painted wooden cubes atop one another with nothing but rapt and unblinking attention, however, proved that these ill-fitting instructions did, in some cases, bear provable and weighty results. ''Describe what you sense,'' Aeonid stated. Multifaceted eyes flicked from block to stoic, posthuman face and back again. ''Its kinda warm,'' the creature chirruped in its clicky, singsong tones. ''Gooey! I take the gooey from my belly and then it goes out and the block moves!'' Stylus tracked across Aeonid''s dataslate, his eyes narrowed as he watched the blocks shift. His notes were ordered and categorized, shorthand unnecessary with how slowly mortals took to compose their thoughts. The being continued, nattering away as Aeonid maintained half-focus on what it spoke. At some point, its ephemeral grasp on the wooden block failed and it clattered to the floor. Distracted, it ceased caring to speak to Aeonid and instead reshuffled its multiple limbs before focusing again. Aeonid retook his seat, a reinforced bench that suited his size. Each of the trainees in today''s lesson expressed unique qualia when interrogated about their manipulation of the Force. Unfortunately, there was a confusing web of similarities and disparities that precluded easy codification. Master Solusar, who was overseeing this lesson, smiled at Aeonid and laughed her silvery laugh. ''Of course that''s how it is, Aeonid. Every being has a personal relationship with the Force.'' Unhelpful - on the surface. Though, cross-referencing with Rubio''s experience: there he found it. Commonalities were significant and weighted across psykers within the Librarium. There was little nuance to some qualia: a warp-predator expressed visually differently to each observer, but the emotional response prompted remained the same. That matched his own experience battling the halls. He remembered making some grim joke about a daemon they had just dispatched to Heutonicus, only for the Captain to appear confused. It was revealed that he had been seeing the daemons differently. Where in this instance, Aeonid had seen a tangle of razored wires, wrapped about innumerable eyes, Heutonicus had seen a fractured ball of sharp-edged glass razors, appearing crystalline and mirrored. The brutality of the daemon was the same: it had torn through two brothers in moments, leaving sectioned chunks of body and Mark IV plate scattered about. What differed was in the expression of that violence, and it was something to consider. Deeply interesting. Aeonid thanked Solusar for allowing his attendance and rose to leave. ''Are you coming back tomorrow, Master Ultramarine?'' asked a tiny voice, dragging his attention down past his knees. ''I am a Captain, not a Master,'' Aeonid replied, nonplussed. ''And¡­perhaps.''
If it had been just the two of them, Anakin and Tahiri might have just jumped into the cavernous pit revealed inside the temple. From the broken open wall, they found an expansive central chamber, likely the main ritual location. It was the size of a shockball court, ringed with old Sith statues and not much else. Broad steps led up to a pile of broken masonry and mud - where the landslide had crunched into the temple. The opening of the pit itself sat in the center of the chamber and Anakin figured that before the landslide closed off the entrance, the beast probably entered and exited that way, only having to break its way out after finding its lair so radically altered. That only further confirmed his suspicions that this had to be some kind of sithspawn creature. That landslide that buried half the temple was so long ago there were full-sized trees growing up on it. That meant the creature had been sleeping for decades, maybe even centuries. There were no animals on Yavin that did that. The three of them peered down into the dark, down past where the sun ceased reaching damp and moss-slicked crumbling stone blocks. Roots punched through here and there, like grasping tendrils. With their falling trick, the two of them could reach the bottom in no time at all, but Anakin wasn''t about to leave Sannah here or risk trying to buoy her along with them. Their falling trick worked because it was just the two of them. He tossed a coil of rope in and they watched it unbind as it tumbled down, down into the dark. "Does that look like a mouth to anyone else?" Sannah asked, as innocent as could be. Cocking his head, if he looked at the roots and hanging vines just right - why yes, yes it did look something like a sarlacc. "Thanks, Sannah." "Sure thing." He handed out ascenders, clipping his onto the rope first. "I''ll go first. I can catch anyone who slips." He sat on the edge of the pit, peering down. It breathed, a slight waft of humidity and breeze up and out, only highlighting the similarity with some gullet. "Give me ten seconds, then Sannah can follow, Tahiri, you take up the rear." He took a breath, pulled the Force to himself like a cloak, and pushed off. Neither of the girls argued and he felt their focus. The width of the pit was double his outstretched arms, plenty of space for easy descent. He kicked off, ascender burring as it worked down the sturdy line. Every now and then a shower of dirt and pebbles tumbled down from when he kicked against the side, but nothing felt loose. Sannah, above him, let out a whoop that echoed as she followed. It wasn''t as deep as he feared - by the time the lume hanging from his belt lit up uneven rock below him, the opening of the pit up above had shrunk to about the size of his fist. "I''m down!" he called up, landing smooth and unhitching his ascender. Two silhouettes came down at him and unconsciously he reached up, smoothing both of their descents with a nudge of the Force. Sannah stumbled a little but didn''t notice at all, nearly bouncing up and down. Tahiri''s booted feet thumped down next and she linked her fingers and stretched. Their handheld lumes reflected from wet stone and the gurgle and patter of water echoed from all around them. "I''m not kidding, if there''s a purella I''m going to scream." "It''s just some ancient Sith monster Sannah, you''ll be fine. It didn''t even have legs!" The Melodie shuddered. "I hate spiders," she muttered. On the positive side, there was only one way to go. Straight. Judging by the scratches and gouges in the stone, Anakin was growing more and more positive that whatever this creature was, it had been entombed down here until it burrowed it''s way up and then out into the temple chamber. They were down into the bedrock now, not even underground temple levels like the Great Temple had. Well, Sith did like to do their experiments in the spookiest possible places, so a dank cave deep under the plateau was pretty much in character for them. Anakin led, lume held high, with Sannah again in the middle and Tahiri at the back. Though trickles of groundwater leaked here and there, slicking stone, the uneven floor of the passage was rough enough it couldn''t become slick and treacherous. With the Force as his ally, he knew he wouldn''t fall anyway. It fell at a wending angle, a sort of spiral down into the moon until glowing lichens and fuzzy mosses encrusted the walls along with strange, pale fungi that grew in corkscrews. "Man," Anakin muttered, brushing his gloved finger through gentle tendrils that dangled below a patch of moss. "Jacen would love this." "Take a holo," Tahiri laughed. "For a lifeday present." He kept his sense out, still gently paired with Tahiri, both of them feeling for any signs of life, slumbering, hibernating or ragingly active. Nothing. Only little burrowing creatures and sightless fishes in aquifers below them that had never known the light of the sun. Anakin was growing sure the creature really had fled and he felt Tahiri''s disappointment as she arrived at the same conclusion when the tunnel ceased descending, flattening and then taking a sharp leftways turn. His danger sense prickled hairs at the back of his neck. "You felt that too?" Tahiri whispered. "I did," he confirmed, whispering also. It seemed the thing to do. "Like feeling a raith''s stinking breath on your neck," Sannah added. His hand on the hilt of his ''saber, Anakin crept forward, taking gentle, measured steps, quiet as he could. Sannah moved like a shadow, quieter than a thought. The Melodie''s youth on Yavin 8 near the bottom of the food chain made Anakin''s best attempts at stealth sound like a blundering Gammorean. Tahiri was nearly as good as Sannah, stepping into her own leading footsteps, like the Sand People would. Holding his breath, Anakin crept to the sharp, switchback turn and peered around it. It didn''t look like much more than an enormous leathery lump, but he felt Tahiri''s surprise swiftly followed by buried fear. She didn''t need to say anything - this was it. It''s sleeping, she murmured into his mind. Not words per se, but a feeling of drowsiness, flashes of a bed and comfortable blankets. Yes, he sent back, the warm feeling when someone agrees with you. Sannah, left out, chewed her lip and he saw her eye his holdout blaster. Wagging a finger, he gestured both of them close, until three heads were together, faces inches from each other. "Alright," he started, barely audible. "It''s asleep, so we can plan." "Can''t you just go up and stab it in the head?" Tahiri reached up and knocked a knuckle off the crown of Sannah''s head. "Not very Jedi," she warned. "Ow, fine. So then what, we just shout at it?" Anakin hummed. "Not exactly shout at it. Tahiri, if we work together, I think we might be able to convince it that this nest is a bad one." "A mindtrick?" "It could work." Sannah''s gaze flicked between the two of them. "What if it decides it''s a bad nest because we''re here?" Anakin dipped his shoulders in a shrug. "Then like you said. Lightsaber, head. A Jedi tries to avoid violence, but a Jedi also knows to protect himself." The three of them crept into the creature''s sleeping chamber, almost as large as the Grand Audience Chamber in the Praxeum. Dimly lit by the same luminescent fungi and lichens, they could see the shape of the enormous beast and the way its lumped up form gently rose and fell as it breathed. Blasterbolts, but it was enormous! Anakin would bet it was the size of the Millenium Falcon once it uncurled itself! No wonder it had torn down those trees and managed to rip open the Temple. He bet it had to really shimmy to get up that shaft. Once they were out of the way of the tunnel, in case the plan worked and the monster suddenly decided to relocate at high speeds, they wouldn''t be run over, Anakin motioned Sannah to hide herself in a shallow alcove. He and Tahiri sunk down, crosslegged, against the wall. His danger sense still tickled at him, but the beast''s slow, rhythmic breathing clearly showed it was dead asleep. Next to him, Tahiri took in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, then held out her hand. It felt a lot smaller in his own than it used to. Together, they reached for the creature. It felt like oil, slipping and sliding away from their attempts to touch its mind, like a zurl seed clenched between fingers. Other animals weren''t nearly this hard - but if it was a Sith creation, he supposed it wouldn''t be as easy as soothing an eopie. So they shifted strategies. Anakin acted like the net, casting wide, hemming in the beast so that it couldn''t slide away. Tahiri, like a Mon Calamari spear-fisher, narrowed her own focus and pierced through Anakin''s ''net''. The beast''s mind tried to slip away but Anakin tightened his cordons and it quivered, perturbed, until Tahiri''s mental needle slipped right in. He followed in her wake, pulled along by her and and her soul, until they were into the- Sweat prickled on Anakin''s forehead. His mouth went dry and just as quickly as they''d cornered the beast''s mind, he was back in his own body, eyes wide. Tahiri gasped, impossibly loud in the silent chamber. It was definitely not a Sithspawn, but it definitely was stranger than any creature Anakin had ever encountered and he''d encountered a lot. It also was a lot smarter than either of them expected and as it unfurled it''s massive wingspan, hissing like an overheated capacitor, it really didn''t like being woken up.
On the sixth day, Zalthis finally had enough fragmented memories. Wiping his mouth, he stood from the last vong, grimacing around the bitter flavor. S''hmu grumbled nearby, krak missile launcher slung over one shoulder. The Herglic now sported piecemeal carapace armor, riveted plates from several human-sized sets bulking out his previous overalls. Of his conscript ''squad'' of a dozen, some died, some were replaced, the numbers swelled, shrank, swelled again. Solidian scoffed at Zalthis taking the time to learn names, but these beings were trusting to Ultramarines for the defense of their world. Xeno or not, unreformed or not, that deserved at least some honor. Solidian read the expression on Zalthis'' face and the other Astartes doffed his helmet, grinning darkly. ''You have it?'' Zalthis spat to the side, acid clearing his mouth of lingering flavour. ''A structure called a minshal, twenty-six kilometers northwest.'' He keyed his vox, speaking into its pickups in his gorget. ''I believe it is Grid 9F AV 92 02..'' S''hmu''s squad milled about them, picking over chazrach bodies and pointedly keeping space from Zal''s squad. Qario policed bolt-casings, as per Lieutenant Optarch''s orders to minimize evidence of Astartesian actions. The bloody aftermath of mass-reactives was impossible to hide, but the theoretical was to maintain uncertainty among the vong as to the capabilities of Ultramarines in open warfare. One factor was ammunition expenditure. Petran exchanged words with a Fondorian local - Ranko, his memory supplied - the neophyte opening up more each day. Zalthis considered it to be his influence, and was proud. The last of the squad, Lyros, who was like to end up in the Apothcarion, wrapped tight bandages about the torso of a wide-eyed Duro. ''Confirmation, Brother Zalthis. Auspex indicates multiple vongform structures present in provided grid. Intel conveyed to Lieutenant Optarch. Addendum: vongform armor-sign within 9F AV 92. Rakamat-class. Fire Raptor support limited.'' The voice was harsh, modulated, genderless. Each word was clipped, bit out, as if through clenched teeth. Gratitude, Mors Vigilia. Are there numbers?'' ''Rakamat-class sighted commonly in trio formations. Sign indicates passage of two packs.'' Nodding, Zalthis turned to Sol. His brother shrugged broad, ocean-blue pauldrons. ''They''re hardly subtle,'' Sol declared. S''hmu''s mouth twisted, a sign of what Zal learned meant discomfort in his kind. ''We can move more swiftly and with greater stealth than some xeno bio-titan.'' ''That is true.'' Zalthis gestured to the Herglic, the Fondorian conscripts. ''They cannot.'' ''Then we leave them, of course,'' Solidian''s brows drew together, confusion clear. ''Like hell!'' S''hmu snorted a broad gout of steam from his dorsal nostrils. ''We''ve been here every bleeding step.'' ''You are not Astartes. You''ll die and ruin the mission.'' ''My boys''ve died everyday, you stomping marionette.'' Solidian raised a brow, sardonic. ''Yes, that''s rather what I meant.'' ''Enough,'' Zalthis raised his voice, just slightly, but it echoed down the street. S''hmu harrumphed and crossed his thick arms, Solidian idly rotating his helm in both plate-armored hands. ''You know the practical, Zal.'' ''I know many practicals, Sol. The Lieutenant stressed cooperation.'' The neophytes, drawn by Zalthis'' raised tones, gathered in a loose semi-circle. Behind and close to S''hmu formed the other Fondorians, twelve in all. Another half-dozen B1 automata ambled about in a loose perimeter. The droids were unpleasant; Zalthis surmised that they had the capacity for higher thought, but at least those turned out of old warehouses bore ''restraining bolts'' and simplified tasking wafers. They reminded of Martian cybernetica more than the unsettlingly conversational droids others in this galaxy favored. Fragile though, and better suited as fodder. A worthy fate for a machine-mind, he considered. ''It''s decided.'' ''You don''t outrank me,'' Solidian spoke lowly, in High Gothic. ''I do not,'' Zalthis agreed. ''But the Lieutenant placed me in command of this squad.'' The other Ultramarine studied Zalthis for a long, quiet moment. The Fondorians, sensing something, shifted and glanced about. The neophytes were silent. ''Just so,'' Solidian murmured and hid his face away behind his helm again.
Mors Vigilia continued to provide overwatch as Zalthis led his motley command on foot. They left the lines well behind, picking through expansive supply yards and depot-grounds laced with debris and cloaked in thick blankets of ash. S''hmu and his conscripts wore breather-masks to keep the choking fume out. The neophytes went barefaced, trusting in their nascent constitutions to bear the microparticulates, a sign of the doughty durability of Astartes, even at their state. Encased within their plate, Zalthis'' only ongoing irritation was the accumulation at the edges of his lenses. Auspex resolution was poor, as no orbital over-flights were allowed. The cautious orbital truce continued to hold, neither flotilla risking even sending observation craft out over the front. Mors Vigilia did its best to provide the most up-to-date estimates of rakamat bio-titan location, but it stressed that it could not be certain. It placed degree of uncertainty between twelve and twenty-seven percent. Twice, the subsonic rumble of the massive biots'' tread forced a halt as a pack ambled past, once within only two hundred meters. To their credit, the Fondorians, though pale and trembling, did not crack. S''hmu hugged his rotary cannon close, krak missile launcher webbed to his back. This was a world at war. The thunder in his bones from distant artillery, the ash that dusted his wargear, the echoing barks of distant gunfire. Flashes on the horizon that joined the bruised-red glow of consuming conflagrations, devouring acres and acres of depots and manufactories. Contrails that cut overhead as vong coralskippers clashed with E-Wings and local aerospace gunships. This was war. His first war, wrought and raged on an alien world that would never taste compliance. War fought alongside xenos and humans not of the Imperium. How strange that his first taste of it should be thus. It stood so far aside from his dreams as a neophyte, still so very recent. He would learn from a new sergeant, alongside brothers veteran and fresh. They would bring the light of empirical truths to human civilizations, who would laud them and chant the name of the Emperor. He would, in sorrow, make war on those who refused or those who turned to heathen religion and idolatry. He would be Ultramarine and the Crusade would be carried on his shoulders. Now he was Ultramarine and he gestured to cetacean aliens to use borrowed handheld auspex to scan for hostile activity ahead. He commanded neophytes of his very own cadre, who looked to him as the veteran. He gave orders to his closest brother, who took them with narrowed eyes. S''hmu shook his head in negation, gesturing toward a sprawling loading complex. The Herglic wiped ash from his auspex, squinting and peering again at the green-lit screen. ''No contacts,'' he rumbled. ''Petran, Lyros, lead.'' They made swift time. In this span of the front, the concept of a ''line'' was nebulous. Unlike near the center, where ongoing armor clashes and bunker-lines held the enemy at bay, on the flanks there was a porosity to both sides that heightened danger, but held opportunity. Ascratus would speak of leading regiment upon regiment of Army, with rumbling columns of armor support, enough to tread over a continent, but no such luxury presented itself here. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. At least the practical was that the vong could not claim such either. Republican, Imperial or Vong, the forces upon Fondor were what was able to be passed through the planetary shield before it was restored. The generators were temperamental, Lieutenant Optarch reported, such that though the model of defensive barrier Fondor sported was of a pattern that could deactivate sectors, there was uncertainty if such precision manipulation would be possible without the entire projection flickering out. The presence of vong biots and soldiery in force held strong indications that there would be no employment of the life-eater as at the Republic world of Ithor. All the same, a shield deactivation was clearly the goal of the vong push toward Oridin City. Claim the generators, claim the orbital defense guns and the world would be ripe for endless invasion. They were constrained beneath a dome, both armies, that protected them as much as it hamstrung them. Magos Dominus Mu worked with the savants of Fondor to calm the spirits of the shield generators, but it was unfamiliar and alien technology. Even a Magos of Mars might find trouble. ''No patrols,'' Solidian observed over vox. ''We must be close, but this is lax, even for an alien.'' Zalthis gestured broadly, disturbing drifting flakes of ash. ''This ''Tshek Ulm'' might be confident the Republicans would not brave this weather.'' ''Then the rakamats?'' ''To deny a concerted assault, perhaps.'' They left a trail of footprints in ash and dust, picking between looming, cyclopean assembly arrays and past thousands of kilometers of tangled conveyor belts. The state of Fondor was of a snapshot in time. Before evacuation sirens sounded, already the biological overseers and workers were fleeing, fleeing as far and as fast as they could. As generatoriums powered off and sprawling networks of power grids fell dark, the droids that made up most of the population stood around waiting for commands until each, in turn, powered off. It made for eerie environs, with droids large and small simply frozen, like some ancient Grekan tales of curse-bearing gorgons. S''hmu, shuffling past a dark-eyed droid, brushed too closely with the butt of his rotary cannon. It tipped, toppled, falling with stiff limbs in an almighty crash that froze everyone. Zalthis glared at the Herglic, fruitless behind his helm, attention riveted to his auspex scan. Breathless seconds, minutes - nothing. They continued. Something chewed at Zalthis thoughts as they existed another factorum, pausing to regroup and consult the local grid. Mors Vigilia reported little indication of any hostile activity and, in fact, rakamat packs appearing to be shifting southward. Checking against a holographic map of the region, supplied helpfully by one of the Fondorians - Veret - it clicked into place. Everything was, aside from incidental damages, untouched. Republic intelligence of the vong spoke of incensed, homicidal rages incited by even the sight of a single droid. A world such as Fondor, encrusted in unliving construction and populated by abominable intelligences? Zalthis would have expected to see signs of ritualistic violence perpetuated everywhere. There should not be these frozen, depowered droids. They should be piles of scrap and wiring, at the very least. Nodding to Veret, a human, who shut off the holocube and tucked it away, Zalthis squinted and peered about. No patrols, only a handful of wandering biotitans, droids and machinery left unscathed¡­ He was sure Tshek Ulm was the local commander. He was also sure that, as of the last time the vong he had harvested the memories from spoke with Ulm, that the Subaltern was commanding from an assemblage of minshals in this very area. It had been hours, minimum. Practical: the vong had not indulged in their mindless hatred of technology. Theoretical: this Ulm carried a strict control over his cadre and recognized the hazards of unchecked and unprofessional pillaging. That indicated a thoughtful commander, but that did not pair well with a total absence of any outriding patrols, even chazrach. If this Ulm was thoughtful enough to keep his warriors leashed, it should also occur to him the danger of infiltration units. Something was not right. The feeling deepened further when they sighted the minshals. Shaped like low domes, they formed a cluster in a transit yard. Crates and containers lay smashed and shoved aside, clearing out bare duracrete for the vong to construct their command post. Each minshal, to Zalthis'' eye, was large enough a hundred vong might fit comfortably inside. S''hmu observed through magnoculars, but Zalthis'' helm handled magnification easily. The minshal appeared lustrous, like a nail or a scute, and if they were grown in situ or delivered by some biot he did know. He saw no apertures, but it could be the angle or they had some way to shutter them. Each was dusted with ash, like cottages in snow, but like before he spotted no life. No activity. S''hmu lay beside him, propped on elbows, and to his right Solidian surveyed the transit yard similarly. This humpbacked scree of a slumped building gave elevation, cover, and the neophytes and Fondorians waited lower down, catching breath and checking weapons. What drew this ''Tshek Ulm'' to prepare his command center here, it was hard to say. Fondor was a patchwork quilt of cities ringed by endless sprawl of factories and distribution facilities nigh-identical to this one. If Zalthis was pressed to choose a locale, he would look for utility. A connection to the local power grid, perhaps, or a particularly defensible arrangement of existing buildings. Elevation would be a positive as well, as would access to cleared space for a motorpool and for aviation. This place had none of that. It was the usual span of a dozen square kilometers, set aside as a place for hovertrucks to load and receive shipments. Toward the end opposite their arrival, there was a span of darkness, where a subsurface level appeared to open to the surface. Zalthis frowned. ''Conscript S''hmu, what is that?'' The Herglic looked to Zalthis, then his extended finger. ''Oh, that''s the rail-line.'' Zalthis had seen rail-lines already, usually elevated monorail tracks for electromagnetic cars to pass along. He''d been told those were used for commute. The usual air traffic lanes were set aside for industrial traffic, rather than civil. Coruscant had its bands of traffic for speeders, but Fondor was of a more practical bent. ''Underground rail?'' The two words settled in his stomach as he spoke them. Beside him, Solidian shifted. ''Sure. Runs all through the area. There''s a big link-up over by Kadyin Memorial.'' ''S''hmu,'' Zalthis spoke slowly, stressing the Herglic''s given name. ''Are you telling me there are significant subsurface rail tunnels all over this region?'' Though the cetaceoid being did not possess eyebrows, it had a remarkably mobile face and approximated raising a brow. ''Yeh?'' ''Mors Vigilia, Mors Vigilia, be advised: vong have access to potential arcology entrances.'' Static hummed from his vox. Zalthis blink-commanded the link again. ''Mors Vigilia?'' Nothing. He switched bands. ''Kadyin Control?'' Nothing. Switched again. ''Lieutenant Optarch? Sir?'' Nothing. He grabbed the Herglic by the shoulder, squeezing tightly enough the being groaned. ''Is this common knowledge?'' ''Th-the rail? It''s how most of everything gets around! From the refineries to casting, to the fabrication plants!'' He released S''hmu, shoving away from the ridgeline of debris, sliding rapidly down toward where the three neophytes glanced up in surprise. Solidian followed in his wake. ''Sir?'' ''Lyros, Petran, Qario. You are to take half the conscripts and return to the lines. Warn the Lieutenant and Mors Vigilia about subterranean rails. The vong are using them.'' S''hmu, stumbling down the scree after Zalthis, waved his hands in placation. ''Without power, they''re just tunnels! Most of them collapsed anyway from the groundquakes, that''s probably why-'' Solidian whirled, shoving the Herglic back with one broad palm to the being''s chest. ''You do not make assumptions! Do you think the vong will look at an unpowered mag-train and think to themselves ''oh what a shame''? They have beasts and biots that can carry them!'' ''Peace, Sol, it wasn''t the conscript''s duty. This should have been told to us by the Guild.'' Zalthis pointed a ceramite-clad digit back the way they came. ''Go, Neophytes. Deliver the warning. We will investigate if this ''Tshek Ulm'' remains, or if he has already descended into the tunnels. We may be able to give chase, at any rate.'' The three dipped their heads, made signs of the aquila, then rounded up half of the Fondorians. Zalthis did not miss that those departing did so with a look of some relief. S''hmu and the remainder waited uneasily as Solidian fixed his gleaming red lenses at them. His brother was choleric, excessively so. He opened vox. ''Sol, what is it?'' ''What is what, Zal?'' ''Your humours are unbalanced.'' ''We are babysitting xenos and wayward humans. This isn''t why Ascratus died, Zal. We shouldn''t be wasting our time on this husk of a world.'' Behind his mask, Zalthis closed his eyes a moment, willing away irritation with his brother. This was not the first time this argument happened. ''The Primarch-'' ''The Primarch sent us to protect the Centerpoint weapon. Not¡­fight and waste time on this dead world. This is Lieutenant Optarch''s command.'' ''And you believed Lord Guilliman would allow him to go astray? Do you think the Primarch blind, Sol?'' Zal said, flatly. S''hmu and the others, clueless to their exchange, watched the retreating backs of the neophytes and the other conscripts. Zalthis snapped his fingers, getting S''hmu''s attention, then pointed to the Fondorians and the peak of the rubble. The Herglic nodded, unlimbering his rotary cannon, barking out orders to take posts and keep an eye out. ''Of course not!'' Sol sounded defensive, offended even, though the logical progression of his meaning was evident. ''This is just¡­Zal, you humor them. We should not even be with these natives, we should be with the First Auxilia or Iax Tertius. This is an insult, to have us nursemaid xenos and-'' ''Sol!'' ''Look at them, Zal! They are everything we were made to fight! Sons, proud sons of Ultramar bleed for this world. Are we to just bow and leave when we''re done?'' ''If that is the will of the Primarch, yes.'' ''Like Obroa-skai?'' Solidian accused. Temper finally worn thin, Zalthis snapped back, whirling in a clatter of ceramite. ''Enough, Sol! We are here now, and the practical is to survive. What theoretical can there be for that? To make war alongside the Republicans.'' ''Until they bleed us white for their cause,'' Sol muttered, mulishly still over the vox. Zalthis cut the private channel, stomping back up the scree toward where S''hmu and the others lay flat, lasrifles out and overwatching. Elbowing up beside the Herglic, avoiding silhouetting himself, Zalthis looked back down at the distribution yard and the quiet minshals. If Tshek Ulm had, indeed, descended into those tunnels, it may be a precursor to an assault, or a lightning raid of some sort. Or, the vong commander could be set up inside one of the sealed organic buildings, safely out of the smogged air and ashfall. There was but one way to know. ''S''hmu, you and yours remain here. Provide overwatch and warning should you sight any vong. Brother Solidian and I will clear the minshals. If any targets attempt to flee, kill them.'' S''hmu looked him up and down, then glared past Zalthis at Solidian. ''Alright, Blue Boy. We''ll try not to zap your behinds.'' Zalthis gestured to Solidian and they eased over the ridge, half-sliding, half-clambering down the other side of the slumped rubble pile. They were just at the base, picking past lumps of duracrete and splintered furniture when the ground began to tremble.
Along a ravaged residential sector, at the other end of the front, a sweeping Yuuzhan Vong push saw fierce building-to-building, room-to-room fighting. Bloody attritional skirmishes left thousands of chazrach dead and bled the native forces in the area dry. A breach seemed imminent before a squadron of old Juggernauts hammered into the enemy lines, the armored vehicles rippling salvos of missile into hordes of the reptilians, crushing others beneath tires. The rallying Fondorian forces solidified their position, the counterstrike of armor punching into Yuuzhan Vong lines. Rakamats dueled with Juggernauts, the venerable vehicles handily able to keep up with the durable biots. Plasma and magma missile clashed with laser cannon and missile launcher. Local guild lawkeepers stood shoulder to shoulder with conscripted workers and followed the barked orders of hard-faced humans in peaked caps and round-eyes rebreathers. Battalions of simple-minded B1 droids were poured into the area. They died in droves, programmed with only simplistic tactics and maneuvers, but the amount of blasterfire they brought pulled weight away from the locals. Old SPHA/m artillery shelled the invaders from range. The last gasp of the Clone Wars lashed out a shadow of its fury in ironic combination. Guildmasters smugly congratulated each other on squirreling away the material, pretending that it had been planned all along and not a matter of cheap convenience. The line held. It held. Juggernaut TTV-3 slewed around a corner, remarkably agile for a vehicle of its size, tires screaming and steaming on the duracrete. As long as an AT-AT stood tall, the tank was a relic, pulled out of mothballed storage and, literally, dusted off. Inside, the old vestiges of Tapani martial culture lived on. Tinny, a datapad blasted triumphant music as gunners peered out through targeting consoles. In the tiny dorsal cupola, the current spotter swore under his breath, clutching his coat tighter against the wind. The crew of TTV-3, a hodge-podge of speedertruck drivers, cargo loaders and steersmen, racked up two kills today. A gunship analogue, like a flying wing that spat plasma, and a beetle-like troop transport that spilled out dying chazrach. Good kills, kills for their home, and their blood was up. Barreling down a ravaged street, flanked on either side by heaped ruins; it never detected its killer. The ground erupted, debris flung hundreds of meters as a vast shape tore free. TTV-3''s pilot, alarms blaring about her, tried to gun the engine, to outpace whatever danger had shown itself. The spotter gaped in paralyzed awe. Instead, the tank slammed to halt, sudden deceleration enough to kill one unlucky Duro as he was climbing a ladder between decks. Spine severed, he tumbled hard. Durasteel screamed as it was compressed and punctured. Enormous, jagged teeth sunk home in armor, tires smoking as they spun ineffectually. A monster rose. One hundred meters of muscle, carapace and coral hauled itself out of the ground, erupting out of a railway tunnel. Rockets slashed up from the stricken Juggernaut, but the biot did not even bother aligning voids. Explosions rippled across its hide, leaving only cosmetic scarring. Stubby forearms gripped the fore and rear of the tank and the creature feasted, crunching through armor like paper, ignoring bursts of flame as it ripped asunder engines and magazines of ammunition. TTV-3 was torn to shreds before the creature pulled away, coming to its full height, supported on two columnar, massive legs. Its body was hunched, counterbalanced by a long and meaty tail that gently waved in the air. Nodding, serrated plates marched from head to tail-tip, swelling into a tall ridge along its back, reminiscent of rakamats. Still clenching the rear of the Juggernaut in one enormous paw it threw back its head, unleashing a ululating bellow. Another bellow answered as a second shook itself free of its concealment. Against two there was no chance. The rare and devastating biots had been seen only a handful of times before and each time had either been utterly unopposed or required capital ship fire from orbit to put them down. Republicans who''d faced them named them Worldeaters. The remaining Juggernauts turned to flee, their breakout turned into a sudden rout. Plasma spewed from nodules along each worldeater''s back. Urang-hul erupted from gestation sacs along its limbs with meaty bursts, each man-sized insect arcing high before acquiring a target and slamming back down with enough force to flip hovertanks. Relative to thudbugs, these were a breed designed not to stagger a man, but to kill vehicles. Nas Choka had been granted these great beasts, these Yam''Qarthak, whose brethren were earmarked for the coming invasion of the infidel''s capital. Each was an army in their own right, uncontested by any land-going craft of the Republic. They rampaged through Republic lines and the front crumbled. Pierced through, anchored on the massive, plodding biots, the Yuuzhan Vong spearheaded an offensive that cut dozens of kilometers out toward the capital. War droids mustered en-masse: SB series, local permutations and more turned out in the hundreds. Coralskippers and tsik-vai sortied out, delivering precision strikes from the air even as the gargantua kept up an unrelenting hail of plasma and urang-hul. Sannad Optarch harried the creatures with Thunderhawk strikes, but even those gunships were turned aside. The Iax Tertius 57th pulled Leman Russ back, giving ground, avoiding any armor engagement entirely. Each a biological furnace, the leviathans only paused to occasionally gorge themselves, shoveling battered skeletons of war droids, organic defenders and vehicles into their maws. All would be rendered down in their guts, churning new plasmic ammunition into existence and growing new, overlapping slabs of armor. As they ate, they grew, and as they grew, each Worldeater diverged. No two were ever completely alike. The march to Oridin City had begun.
At Kadyin Memorial, near the center of the front, Lieutenant Optarch received the news with calm acceptance. Live-feed holos showed the two rampaging Worldeaters to the south while another provided an aerial view of a third only a hundred kilometers north. The nerve-center of Fondorian defense was near the top of a sky-scraping Guild tower, one that used to provide plush comfort and living spaces to overseers and executives. Myriad conference rooms and amphitheatre-shaped lecture suites provided all the necessary uplink capacity and living space for the staff needed to coordinate eight hundred kilometers of active warzone. Optarch brought only a few staff with him, a youthful faced duplicate of himself in stripped down armor and a handful of dour humans in greatcoats and frogging. None of the ''Magi'' of the Exiles, that word had were in the capital city, assisting in repair and reinforcement of the planetary shields. "Worldeaters," the Ultramarine repeated, leaning closer to the holos. Once a lecture hall and design theatre, where priceless starship schematics were argued over and finalized before submission to the plants, now in its stacked tiers were Guild officials and communications handlers maintaining a steady background hum of noise as they received and dispersed orders and operations updates. "That''s what stuck," Amerst Ullos confirmed. The human General, Republic Navy Marines, bore an expression as grim as the mood in the command post. At first he''d chafed at being forced to play second-fiddle to a ''Lieutenant'', but in the six days of fighting on the ground, Ullos was surprised that Sannad Optarch only held the rank of Lieutenant. Clearly, the ''Legionnes Astartes'' operated differently. Optarch straightened, turning broad back to the holos to peer round at Fondorian natives and New Republic soldiery. He was usually even-keeled and not given to extremes of emotion, but even the Ultramarine had to understand that the battle was lost. There was no sign of it, as though word that three capital-ships-on-legs laying into their soldiers was as remarkable as the menu for the day''s lunch. Infuriatingly, in fact, a small smirk curled Optarch''s lips. "Amusing," the Ultramarine said, loud enough for all present to hear. "Worldeaters." Ullos stabbed a finger at the holo. "You think that''s funny?" "The title, general. Worldeater. You see, the Twelfth Legion goes under that cognomen, just as we in the Thirteenth are Ultramarines. They are ''World Eaters''." It had to be some manner of strange Exile humor. Ullos saw he wasn''t alone in looking to the Lieutenant in disbelief. "We will need orderly withdrawal. Do not contest the pushes led by these ''Worldeaters'', but redouble where they are not. Each can be isolated in due course and dealt with." No one moved. It was a sick joke - Optarch, standing tall and mild, with holos right behind him showing a stomping Worldeater spraying plasma from a dozen horned projectors along its huge body. "Did I misspeak?" "This fight is over, Lieutenant." Ullos declared. "Because of these creatures? Surely not, General." "The last time they were spotted during the fall of Taris, it took orbital fire to beat it back. You know we can''t do that here." Ullos exhaled hard, already fearing the report he''d have to give. He thought they had it, he really did. The Fondorians reacted fast, faster than he would''ve expected. The Exiles, with their soldiers and their tanks and these Ultramarine supersoldiers; Ullos had truly thought they could beat the Yuuzhan Vong here. "Guild Coordinator Dursem," Optarch said. The called-out Duro started, blinking rapidly. "If I remember from inventory reports, there are SPHA/t remaining in storage?" The Duro, Dursem, nodded his trembling head. Not everyone was comfortable yet with the Ultramarine. Even Ullos still felt unsettled by just how big the man was and how smoothly he moved. It wasn''t the size, he told himself, it was the grace. Unnatural. "Then we isolate each Worldeater and bring turbolaser artillery to bear. Coupled with Thunderhawk strikes, they may be brought down." Optarch raised a brow. "We do not give up because a situation has become more dangerous. We only need adjust our practical and see it through." Ullos stopped, considered. SPHA/t was rated for antiship use. It wasn''t as common, as trying to train artillery on something as small as a corvette was an exercise in futility, but - he glanced to the holo - Worldeaters were slow. They looked fast, for their size, but they were big, waddling targets. He could imagine drawing a bead on them with a turbolaser. The only problem was that the ''waddling target'' appellation also applied to SPHA chassis. "We do not agree, Lieutenant." That voice came from what the Exiles called Vigilia, some kind of battlespace droid computer. That was Ullos'' assumption, at least, as Mors Vigilia had never been properly introduced as anything but a tactical consultant. It spoke rarely, usually conveying calculations about likely vong movements. It was also, helpfully, usually accurate. It never seemed to have much of an opinion, more of a voracious and particularly focused interest in following the ebb and flow of battle. "Speak then, Mors Vigilia." "SPHA/t will be unable to counter Worldeater bio-titans. Armor-sign demonstrates Rakamat packs supporting. Additional: Yuuzhan Vong anti-armor munitions capable of non-line-of-sight suppression." "Valid points," Optarch mused. "We could assign anti-air coverage," Ullos offered. "If Vigilia-" "Mors Vigilia," Optarch corrected. "If Mors Vigilia is speaking about grutchins and smash bugs, they can be intercepted before they can reach the artillery." "Rate of fire of SPHA/t cannonry additional concern. Yuuzhan Vong basal voids require weight of fire to suppress. SPHA/t capacitor charging rates are insufficient." "Then it is over." "No, General, Mors Vigilia would have a solution, else they would not have spoken." "Correct, Lieutenant. Ascertain the total number of Worldeaters. Lure them together. Then, allow Me to end them." "With what, pray tell? A bomb? Some kind of weapon you Exiles brought here?" Hope and despair warred together. This Mors Vigilia sounded utterly certain of itself and Lieutenant Optarch even appeared thoughtful. So far, the Exiles hadn''t failed to deliver on promises, even ones they hadn''t made. These were worldeaters, though. The largest single biots the Yuuzhan Vong had, outside of their starships. Real monsters. "We prepare for both eventualities, then. General, I will have my aides consult with yours for transport of the SPHA/t to a staging position. Mors Vigilia, we will speak in private." "Affirmative." Orders went out, musters planned. The Iax Tertius and Eboracum Auxilia would harry the vong bio-titans with long ranged artillery fire, hopefully slowing their advance for Fondorian conscripts to adopt ordered retreats. Routs now could be devastating. The holomap updated, icons sprouting for each Worldeater, along with their rate of travel and the distance to the outskirts of Oridin City. Ullos eyed the estimates, lips pursed. If the SPHA/t or whatever ''Mors Vigilia'' had planned couldn''t stop them , they would be in range of the capital''s outer defenses in a week. Ullos rubbed at his chin. Was it all worth fighting for anyway? Artificial winter would hit soon, the world cooling over the next decade or more. Long dormant volcanoes had been rewoken by the impact of the carrier and now belched their own contributions to the ruin of this continent. Thermal imaging of the scar showed it as an ugly wound visible from orbit. Even if they won; with the shipyards gone and the surface stricken, what use did Fondor have left?
Profanity filled the air just the same as the stink of fycelene, Sula hauling hard on the controls. Elsali yelped, barking her head against the side of the turret. Obsie, white knuckled and wide-eyed, peered up from the ammunition well. To either side, both gunners sat with teeth clenched and fingers tight on triggers. Lascannons screamed over and over, capacitors running so hot the interior of the Russ was sweltering, sweat slicking each member of the crew. Sula was down to his undershirt, plastered to his broad chest, and Elsali had her jacket shrugged off around her waist. Sarge hadn''t stopped shouting over the vox, eye glued to his scope. Sula drove the sixty tonne tank like a premium speeder, slewing hard around corners as he spun tracks opposite, whirling ninety degrees at times with enough force that Elsali worried her slapdash breakfast would come back up. Anything, anything at all to keep duracrete and durasteel and as many meters of warehouse between them and the Worldeater as possible. A fourth one, erupted right at Kadyin Memorial, burst right out of the throne-damned ground. Those monster bugs it launched knocked one of the Russ in their platoon around before a jet of superheated plasma slagged the tank''s turret. ''AP!'' Sarge shouted. Obsie rammed one home. Elsali elevated, saw the Worldeater, two kilometers distant, side-on, walk right through a residential block as if it was made of flimsy. She pressed the pin, the tank lurched, a void devoured her shell. The bio-titan didn''t even notice, continuing to stomp flat the block of apartments as if they had offended it personally. Rakamats trudged in its wake, but while Elsali knew they could kill one - and there were two now, painted on the turret of their tank - the fuggin bitch Worldeater kept everyone on the move so they couldn''t get a chance to focus fire. Plasma seared at them, hot. Elsali cried out, lurching away from the eyepiece of her scopes, but Sula was already slamming down the accelerator. The Russ lurched hard, trembling and Elsali heard masonry clatter and spang off the armor. Nothing they threw at that monster did anything. Two Thunderhawks tried to light it up with their dorsal lascannon, but it just hurled bugs and jets of plasma at them both. There seemed to be no end to their voids, not like the rakamats. Pale, trembling, sweat beading on her forehead, Elsali hoped that the her new fellows were right and there really was an Emperor out there watching out for them.
The ''world-eater'' bio-titans intrigued him. Superficially, they resembled some of the beasts that the more feral Eldar commanded. Those reptilian mounts of theirs harkened back to Terran prehistory, what little was preserved by the actions of his Father and Malcador. Roboute remembered ancient fossils, painstakingly preserved and recovered in some of the athenaeum halls of the Palace, in the brief visits he had. The Eldar creatures were as animals, however, akin to cybercanines or even grox. The biots of the Yuuzhan Vong were tailor made, crafted, it was believed, from the genetic level up to perfectly perform the tasks required of them. From data inload provided by Optarch at Fondor, these ''Worldeater'' bio-titans were formidable indeed. Republic intelligence spoke of armor plating as thick and as doughty as a cruiser-analogue warship, with dovin basals just as strong. They bore gestation blisters for insects of both the grutchin type, with their acid saliva, and of a much greater strain of ''thud bug''. The toll the three, then four Worldeaters reaped spoke to their efficacy and the Republic''s inability to match superheavy assets on the ground. Their war-walkers were flimsy and underarmored, slow and lacking any defensive shields. Anti-titan weaponry, such as that of a Shadowsword, Roboute judged, would be enough. Would that Optarch had, of course, taken any of such superheavy tanks. He put aside Fondor, trusting to Optarch, Orichi-Mu and ''Mors Vigilia''. The latter surprised him to be active, but he did suppose it was their prerogative, given that Orichi-Mu was present. The divide between Terra and Mars remained still and he was loathe to too deeply interfere in affairs of the Red Planet, even so far from the bounds of the Imperium. It would not have been his choice, but Guilliman saw the potential there. Still inscribing with his stylus onto mnemoplate, Roboute found his attention diverted by motion beyond the broad crystal viewport in his chambers. Macragge''s Honour remained still in orbit of the hot giant of the Eboracum system, lurking in its dense radiation bands to remain hidden on sensors. Not only was the flagship the greatest strength the 4711th had, but with no way yet to return to Ultramar, the precious apothecarion and related gene-laboratories were the singular avenue to replenish, in theory, the ranks of Ultramarines. What struck the wrong note was that no traffic was expected. Guilliman was to his feet before the first magma missiles erupted from five miid-roic cruisers, all within visual range. By the time he reached the strategium, the Yuuzhan Vong warships were gone. ''I''m sorry, sire. They exited hyperspace on top of us, fired a salvo, and then translated out again.'' Marius Gage dared to look abashed until Guilliman glared at his son. Clearing his throat, Marius offered a dataslate. ''There were simultaneous strikes at Eboracum and against Numinus on her patrol.'' The Primarch''s grip on the slate tightened until its casing creaked ominously. ''Damage, Marius?'' ''Minimal. It was just as it was here: a squadron exited hyperspace, discharged a full salvo, accelerated and entered hyperspace again. Fourth Honor sustained slight cosmetic damage, but otherwise all voids held. Missiles launched at Eboracum Orbital were all intercepted.'' They knew where the Imperium was. That was bound to happen; there had been no real attempts after the summit with Senator Shesh to continue to hide. With the gates thrown open and millions upon millions flooding in-system, the invaders were sure to locate them. No public statement had yet been released by the Republican Senate, though Senator Shesh was already leaning heavily on doing so after the action at Fondor, but the ''Exiles'' were all but public knowledge now. Cornelius'' feats over the embattled shipyard-world flooded the holonet from Rim to Core. Guilliman had even expected the use of hyperspatial faster-than-light in this manner. Hit and run attacks, using the greater flexibility to enter and exit transluminal travel from the very edges of gravity wells. It was a problem that vexed the locals of this galaxy since time immemorial and they had their various counters to it. Mass shadow generators, like those used ably at Fondor to allow Cornelius'' squadron a most efficacious reversion, could cut off the avenue of hyperspace at will. The Magi had theories as to their operation, but no answers yet. Time was now up. ''Send word to all ships. They are to instruct their gunnery crews to be on-station around the clock and to fire at will, without requesting clearance. If even a single macrobattery has a shot on the bastards, I want them to take it.'' Marius dipped his head in agreement. ''And take us from orbit. Shipmaster, we are required at Eboracum.'' Ouon Hommed saluted, barking orders already to navigation and enginarium cadres. Macragge''s Honour stirred to life, elevating her blunt prow toward the chip of light that was Eboracum. In her engines spaces, ratings brought reactors to bear, plasma-fusion annihilators pumping unimaginable energies into her blood until the Gloriana lofted out of her stately orbit. Guilliman remained in the strategium for the entire cruise, tense and restive. Waiting for the worst to call. Wishing Macragge''s Honour bore the same miraculous engines that would deliver them to Eboracum''s orbit in moments, rather than long hours. Marius Gage stood vigil with him, listening as the vong prosecuted the same hit-and-fade strikes for the rest of the solar day. No losses, no damage - but Guilliman knew that was not the intent. They were not attacking and hoping for shipkills. No, they were gauging the 4711th''s response, building a practical to an untested theoretical. Concerningly: it was exactly as Guilliman would have done in their situation. Contingence Chapter XI XI: A Soldier, Alright
A knock at his door drew Aeonid''s attention. He''d heard the footfalls long beforehand, of course, but the Praxeum, despite his misgivings on some aspects of the Jedi, was not a place of danger, and thus he had let the awareness pass him by. The man at his chamber, leaning on the doorjamb with a hand in one trouser pocket was one Aeonid had not yet met. Brown hair, worn short, paired with a cleanly maintained fringe of facial hair. Tan tunic, brown trousers, a light jacket over shoulders, with sleeves empty. A satchel of sorts was slung over one shoulder. Aeonid rose, shutting off his dataslate. He had been reviewing notes and organizing the day''s thoughts, a task that could be resumed after. He offered a hand, in common fashion to this galaxy. The other man took it. "Kyle Katarn," he said. "Aeonid Thiel." "So I''ve heard." Aeonid looked him up and down, from boots to crown of the head. This man was the blademaster of the Praxeum, who taught lightsaber form to youthful Jedi. Undoubtedly less of a swordsman than Skywalker, but just as undoubtedly a great talent. Aeonid remembered his duel and looked on Katarn in a new light. Perhaps he could match his longsword against this Jedi and see the difference. "Just got in this afternoon - thought I''d swing by and introduce myself. You''re making waves around here." "It was not my intention," Aeonid offered. "Not a bad thing, just an observation. I also hear that you''ve hit some walls." The Ultramarine gestured, offering Katarn entrance to his chambers, as was only polite. A conversation should not be held on the threshold, after all. He returned to his outsized chair, interlacing his fingers in his lap as Katarn perched on the edge of Thiel''s similarly outsized bed. He suspected the scale of the mattress was due to varied breeds of xeno that passed through the Praxeum. The realization was not a pleasant one. "I have found your Force to be¡­trying." he admitted. "Master Skywalker has done his best, as have the Masters Solusar, but manipulation of the Force eludes me." Katarn brushed palms over his knees, peering around Thiel''s spartan chamber. "You''ve been here for what, a week? Two?" "Thirteen days," Aeonid clarified. "Sure. You can''t expect to be slinging TK and jumping skyhooks that fast." "I do not expect to. I expected to, at minimum, be able to consistently touch this Force." Katarn grunted in understanding, absentmindedly patting at his satchel, laying beside him. "I might have some thoughts on that," he said, flipping open the satchel''s flap and producing a dark bottle, sealed with golden foil. "Shk''ano''s Blood. Interested in a drink?" Aeonid rose, Katarn with him, and he motioned for the Jedi Master to lead on. "After you, Master Katarn."
Katarn led him up to the middle tier of the temple, out on to an open tier beneath the stars. No railing nor lip encircled this tier of the ziggurat and to Aeonid''s eye, the aperture to access was likely a window rather than a door. Regardless, the view was fair and Katarn led him to the very edge, dropping to dangle his legs out over the steep slope of the ziggurat''s side. Aeonid lowered himself down, crosslegged, beside the Master. "I don''t have any cups," Katarn said, offhand, peeling off the foil seal about the stem of the bottle. Katarn frowned lightly at the embedded cork, which promptly launched itself out over the jungle with a quiet whoompf. The Jedi took a pull, handed it to Aeonid who accepted it gently. It hit his palate with a surprising wash of flavor and alcoholic bitterness. Woody, smokey, hints of iron and dates. Aeonid held no great interest in wines or other spirits, unlike quite a few others of his brothers, but, as he passed the bottle back to Katarn, decided this ''Shk''ano''s Blood'' was quite agreeable. "The thing with Luke is that he''s not like people like us. He sees the world differently. Way he describes it sometimes, I''m jealous. It sounds beautiful." Katarn trailed off, shaking his head. He took another quick pull from the bottle, letting it dangle between his fingers, perilously loose over the edge of the temple. "I love the man and I''d follow him to the ends of the universe, but in the same way he''s the best of us, he''s kind of apart from us." Singular - now that was a concept Aeonid understood well. It was said of each Primarch, but also of Primarchs among their own brothers. None other was a Guilliman, but so too was none a Sanguinius. "His lessons hold merit. I understand the purpose behind them, though a part of me recoils from the concept of the ''spiritual''." "I''ve heard that about you Exiles. Not big fans of religion, are you?" "It is proscribed. It has never served to benefit mankind." "Good thing the Force isn''t a religion." "So you claim." "You can''t argue the Force isn''t real." "I would be fool to. My concern, Master Katarn, is that the empirical truth of phenomena does not make the fanciful trappings of moral sophistry constructed around them to also be true. The warp is the cruelest example of this." Katarn rolled his head, neither nodding nor shaking. He offered the bottle back and Aeonid took a mouthful. The alcohol burned his tongue, but faded swiftly even before it reached his stomach. Rubio had much to speak on as regards phenomena of the warp. He waxed at length about the way the Thousand Sons wrapped themselves in mysticism and abstruse methodology, all to accomplish the same ends that Librariums in other Legions did in a far more secular, empirical way. "The Force isn''t the Warp. Call it sophistry if you want, but you already agree with the core ideals, here." Aeonid narrowed his eyes, reviewing his notations on Skywalker''s teachings and the Order''s moral commandments. "Expound." "I know what you''re going to say, but you Astartes do care about life and preserving it." Katarn held out his hand and Aeonid passed the bottle back. "If you didn''t, then you wouldn''t be a warrior but a murderer. A warrior, a soldier, they fight for a reason." "Human life is my concern, Master Katarn. The Jedi preach care about all forms of life. This is¡­difficult for me." Katarn shrugged. "It''s a start, in my opinion. Once you realize you do care about people living, all it takes is a little longer to realize that ''people'' can mean more than what you thought at first." Katarn set the bottle between them, leaning forward to rest elbows on his knees and peer out over the night-time jungle. Nocturnal creatures made their calls. "Ever heard of stormtroopers?" An easy answer: "Elite soldiery of the former Galactic Empire," Aeonid rattled off, drawn from briefings on the Imperial Remnant. "Subject to a range of rumors from indoctrination as infants to cloning." Katarn barked a laugh, shaking his head. "They come up with something new every year. They''re probably all right to some degree, you know. It''s a big galaxy and there were a lot of us. Stormtroopers." Aeonid raised an eyebrow, looking over the middle-aged Jedi with new eyes. "You served the Empire?" "Most of us did, at some point or another. I was just deeper in. I think there''s some similarities between being a Stormtrooper and being Astartes." Likely not at all, Aeonid mused. Stormtroopers, regardless of rumor, were all, to the last, purely mortal, baseline humans. Their armor was sufficient, though unremarkable, and their role was as elite soldiery and policing forces both. More to the point, Stormtroopers of the Galactic Empire were homogenous and lacking nuance. The Legiones might clash heads from time to time and rivalries could become legendary, but each Legion was elevated by its own unique culture and aspect. The wisdom of the Emperor, as described by Guilliman, was clear. "Being a stormtrooper was simple. We were loyal to the Empire, we followed orders, we did our jobs. There wasn''t a lot to think about - thinking was above our paygrade." Katarn laughed. "And life was cheap. Most stormies were lifers. You''d live and die in that white armor and a lot of us thought it was a good deal. I think you know what I mean when I say that having a definite purpose gives some real peace of mind." Would that Katarn knew just how true his words were. Aeonid saw it clearly, each time he evaluated another Ultramarine for his nascent company. His requirements were exacting: he sought those who, despite circumstances of a foreign galaxy, were adaptive and possessed of thoughtful alacrity. Thus it was that of the four thousand Astartes in the 4711th, Aeonid had thusly only been successful at recruiting less than a hundred. Too many of his brothers smoldered beneath their careful exteriors. Too many burned with the most dangerous of all afflictions to an Astartes: uncertainty. One need only look to the Word Bearers to see the poisonous result of Astartesian uncertainty. "''Duty is its own reward''," Aeonid quoted, though he could not recall the originator. "Is this your assumption? My role as Ultramarine is inflexible, and thus the Force eludes me?" "Not exactly. I was a stormtrooper, now I''m a Jedi Master. It''s not insurmountable, but¡­" Katarn trailed off, taking the bottle of Sh''kano''s Blood. He paused, halfway to his mouth and lowered it. "It''s going to take longer for you, I think. It did for me." "Any theoretical is welcome, Master Katarn." "Call me Kyle," the Jedi insisted. "I can tell you what worked for me, and maybe it''ll work for you. I didn''t use the Force to protect people or preserve life. Terrible Jedi, sure. It just didn''t matter that much to me back then. What did matter - the mission. It didn''t lead me to the best places, but that kind of focus, that kind of mentality, that clicked for me. The Force wants to be your ally, you just need to find out how to bridge that gap." "This appears contrary to the teachings of Master Skywalker and others. You are implying that I reject the moral grounding of the Jedi to turn the Force to my own ends." Katarn finally took another mouthful of Blood, holding out the bottle and waggling it until Aeonid accepted it. "Yes and no. If you really turn the Force to your will only - that''s a short trip to the Dark Side." Katarn shivered. "Trust me on that. I''m not saying to bend the Force to your will, what I mean is that you need to find a way for the Force to work alongside what you believe in." Katarn stroked his beard a moment, brows drawn. "Have you head of the Matukai?" A moment of reflection and Aeonid shook his head. "I have not." "I''ll have to introduce you to Sel Sang next time he''s around, if you''re still here. The Matukai are another sect of Force-users, like Jensaarai, but their focus is more on the physical and the body, at least if you listen to Sang. All their meditation techniques are built around some kind of martial arts or meditative but physical activity. That sound more your speed?" Considering his first ''touch'' of the Force was in the midst of his duel with Master Skywalker, Aeonid could but nod in agreement. His second success was in reliving that moment. "I think it''s exciting. For Luke, you know. He''s so excited to share what he can see that he forgets that even for him it wasn''t instant." Katarn smiled, eyes crinkling. "Reminds me of a kid with a new hoverbike. Let me give you some advice, Aeonid. Remember what Luke tells you, but interpret it. He''s right, but the path to righteousness isn''t a quick one and some of us are - well, we''re not exactly as far down it at the start that he was." Aeonid made a noise of assent. "''Remark 101.x: What wins the fight is what wins the fight. Ultimately, nothing should be excluded if that exclusion leads to defeat.''" "I''ll take that for the spirit, not quite the literal meaning." "Then, Master Katarn - Kyle - if I am understanding your meaning, I should attempt to suit the ''Force'' to my purpose as Ultramarine, rather than suit my purpose as Ultramarine to the Force." Katarn saluted, still holding the bottle. "That''s it exactly. It worked for me. I started out thinking of the Force just as a tool, like anything else in my kit. It helped me get the job done and I did good work with it. But then, the more I used it, the more I started to understand the Force better. Now, here I am." "You allowed it to shape you." "Manner of speaking, certainly. What doesn''t shape you? Just living life changes a person." The thought of this Force changing him was repulsive. It twisted his gut, bringing to mind the warped abominations of daemons aboard Macragge''s Honour and the gaunt, horned visages of Word Bearers baying like animals. He was Ultramarine, Astartes, made by the Emperor and perfected by His wisdom. Some supernatural power wielded by xenos and unreformed humans - changing what He on Terra designed? "Learn from the Jedi, my son," his father had said. If Katarn spoke the truth and the solution to his blockage was so simple - he could make great strides, strides that placed him on the path to returning to Eboracum and the 4711th and the war. "My task," Aeonid said aloud. "Is to learn of the Force to aid my Primarch and my Legion in this new war." "That''s helpfully straight-forward. Don''t worry about the webs of life or luminous beings. The Force is a tool, Aeonid. It''s like your bolter or your armor. Say, another Ultramarine is about to be killed by a squad of vong. Only you can save him, Aeonid. Do you think about pulling your gun or drawing your sword, or do you just do it?" Just the thought put the tactile feel of his longsword''s wire grip in his palm, the satisfying weight of a bolter against his shoulder. "Hey," Katarn said. "Catch." He threw the half-full bottle of Shk''ano''s Blood, out and arcing away from the Temple. Four meters away it stopped, frozen in midair. Aeonid glanced down, realizing his right arm was extended, fingers curled into a loose grip. He¡­pulled the bottle back. No different than the rote swap of a bolter''s magazine. Thoughtless. Reflexive. He reached out and plucked it by the stem, feeling an uncommon sense of what might just be awe. "You used the Force to save the booze," Katarn said around a laugh. "You''re a soldier alright."
The monster, uncurled from its sleep, was huge. On the one hand, this meant that it filled almost its entire lair with snarling, tentacle-lashing anger. On the other hand, this meant that it filled its lair. Anakin ducked beneath a whirling tentacle, as thick as his thigh. It was angry, it was confused, and it was finding it extremely hard to maneuver. Something that he and Tahiri had a much, much better time of. Plasma cracked and spat and Tahiri, blonde hair tinged green by her lightsaber''s glow, shouted. The creature howled, deafening in the rocky chamber, recoiling as best it could with a seared slash through one of its flailing tentacles. It had at least a dozen of them, sprouting from both sides of its enormous, disc-shaped body. It propped itself up on folded wings, like some kind of overgrown hawk-bat, using smaller, secondary tentacles like limbs to keep its bulk above the ground. Its head was almost flush with its body, little to no neck, and it snapped and roared with a gaping, fish-like maw filled with way too many teeth. Anakin was still pretty sure it was some kind of sithspawn, because he''d never seen anything that ugly before. It had to writhe about almost on its belly to move and between the lume wagging on Anakin''s belt, Tahiri''s lit ''saber and the glow from where Sannah was, all they could make out was impressions and shapes as the creature moved. "It''s going to bring down the whole cavern!" Tahiri cried, diverting a tumbling cascade of loose rock with a burst of telekinesis, co-opting it to hurl back at the beast. Anakin grabbed her hand, pulling her along as they ducked and wove beneath flailing tentacles, darting around behind the creature as it bellowed and struggled to shift its bulk around. It reeked - like decaying, wet grass and rancid meat. Another tentacle lashed out, too slow to catch them. The impact of the muscled appendage was enough to tumble another section of the cavern wall, boulders the size of Anakin''s head bouncing and rolling. "I''m seeing that! We need to get out - draw it up to the surface, then we can drive it off." "Or kill it-" Tahiri gasped, releasing Anakin''s hand and knocking him flat with a shove of the Force. His hair ruffled with the wind of a tentacle''s passage. "Because this thing really, really hates us-" Hates. Whatever the beast was, its presence was powerful and loud. It wasn''t radiating the justifiable anger of a cornered animal or a territorial predator confronted with interlopers. No, all Anakin felt was a bitter and consuming hatred of these tiny irritants. It longed to crush them, to kill them. Not to eat them or to secure its lair, but because it wished to. It wasn''t sapient, that was for sure, but even its primitive mind appeared capable of impassioned fury. He caught a glimpse of Sannah''s pale face, worried, peering at them from across the chamber, just around the bend of the tunnel that led back to the temple and the surface of the moon. "Here-" Anakin rolled to his feet, keeping his lightsaber at hand but unlit, unlike Tahiri. "Get it to turn away from the tunnel. Then we can run under it." "Under it!" Tahiri laughed, half panic and half exhilarated adrenaline. "Anakin Solo, I love how crazy you are." His stomach did something strange that he didn''t have time to consider right now, not when a sithspawn the size of the Falcon was doing its very best to crush him into a smear of Jedi paste. Like they shared a mind, Tahiri and Anakin moved as one. Tahiri span her lightsaber, turning it into a bright green fan that dazzled the creature, reflecting in its huge, glassy red eyes. Anakin launched rocks, pelting it with ineffectual but infuriating impacts, managing to even sink one right down its yawning throat. It noticed not at all the impromptu snack, fixated only on the interlopers that taunted it. Propelled on too many tentacles and with its muscled, wing-clad limbs, its maw yawned wide with an ear-splitting bellow and it dove for them. "Over!" Anakin bit the word and he and Tahiri leapt, the Force swelling around them and then their boots were on its back and they ran, over knobbled and leathery flesh. Stalactites cracked loose in showers of rock-dust and pebbles, thudding down behind them, before them, beside them, only enraging the creature further. It tried to crush them, surging up to smash its back against the stony roof above - too slow. Anakin and Tahiri leapt off the beast''s back, and left it, still flopping, hauling itself back around. Its excavated tunnel, the only way in or out was just in front of them and they dashed for it, fast as thought. Sannah was with them then, the Melodie sprinting hard too, eyes wide and a combination of delight and adrenaline rolling from her. "It''s so mad!" She shouted, high to be heard over the world-ending howls behind them. Absolutely an understatement. After months against the Yuuzhan Vong and their eerie silences, it was a relief and a distraction to sense the creature behind them. It almost threw him off, how very obvious its spasmodic lashing out was. Anakin didn''t have to try to read body language and react in split-seconds to subtle shifts of weight and tenses of muscle - the Force just told him where and when and how and, even hearing the thing tear its way out of its lair, trembling the stony floor of the tunnel, he didn''t feel the slightest bit in danger. Surprised, yes, a little uncertain with how violent a reaction it was, but in danger? Tahiri and Sannah both were almost drowning in adrenaline but he felt strangely calm. The trio skidded to a halt, all peering up at the circle of light far above. The rope hung ready and waiting and Sannah was the first to grab onto an ascender. "Wait," Tahiri held out a hand. "Anakin, how fast-" He looked behind them. Down in the dark, out of the reach of their lumes, a mass moved and strained and bellowed. "Not nearly fast enough. Okay. Sannah, come here." He hoisted her onto his back and was grateful for how much smaller Melodie were than humans. She locked her ankles around his waist, Tahiri killing her lightsaber and hooking it back to her belt. "Straight up, then?" She said, wild grin bright. "Straight up," he agreed. She grabbed him/he grabbed her, the Force moved and Yavin was their launchpad. It was the opposite of the falling trick they''d perfected and Anakin leaned into it, into the meld, the link, the feeling of Tahiri''s presence as she focused on him. They shot upward, like corks out of a bottle, blurring past the hanging rope. A ten meter, twenty meter leap: effortless. She lifted him and he lifted her and like all those physics thought problems, they laughed at the boring laws of the universe. Tahiri pushed at him and he pushed back and they both angled into the rough walls of the pit, kicking off again, right toward each other. He saw only a flash of Tahiri''s face as she whipped past him, close enough to touch, spun around their fulcrum in the force. Brows drawn, green eyes bright, blonde hair whipping - and then they kicked off opposite walls and continued their dance. Their orbit. Wind rushed past, biting at his cheek and Anakin wondered - could they fly, like this? and then the roof of the temple chamber was rushing at him and he thrust out his hands. The Force formed a cushion, soft as summer dream and he slowed. He felt a pull at his body and Tahiri guided him to land, light on his boots, just beside the pit. Sannah slid off his back, stumbling on wobbling legs for a moment. She looked up at both of them from under wild, windswept brown hair, mouth agape. "It''s not over yet," Anakin said, pre-empting both girls. As if to underline his words, another shaking roar echoed up from the hole, growing louder. He glanced back down the pit. The beast wasn''t up the tunnel yet - they had a minute, maybe two. "See, this is why I needed a blaster," Sannah said, feelingly. "Why''s that," Anakin asked offhand, barely paying attention. It was fast, its size was going to be a problem, and it could fly. They''d have to find some way to bring it down to the ground, since - "Oh, right." Tahiri joined him, peeking down into the dark as well. Her hand moved and then a lume fell, bouncing once off the wall before clattering to the bottom. It glowed a second, bright, and then something blocked it out. "Here it comes," she exhaled. "Hey, why don''t we just deal with it here?" The temple trembled around them as the creature started up the shaft, squeezing its enormous body into the thin passageway. Anakin lit his lightsaber, sharp snap-hiss joined a moment later by Tahiri''s. Blue and green, side by side. "That''s really not a bad idea." It was stuck in there, couldn''t move, couldn''t dodge - one good strike and it''d die. Right between the eyes, probably. The thought should''ve bothered Anakin more, considering the best way to kill - execute, really - some animal, but the way it''s anger broiled up the shafter before it hit wrong notes. If it was some kind of natural creature, there was something wrong with it now. It might even be a mercy. Anakin paced away from Tahiri, giving them both space and Sannah drew back, back against the far wall of the temple''s main chamber. Sunlight spilled through the gaping hole in the side of the temple. The jungle outside was silent. "We''re really gonna do this," Tahiri looked to him, her question more of a statement. Bracing herself. "Yeah. I don''t run anymore." "Raithe, Purella, Reels, Krayt Dragons - we kinda had good reason to." He nodded toward her lightsaber. "That was before we were Jedi." His friend blushed and he felt her pride swell. "Right. Jedi." Louder, Tahiri called to Sannah. "Hey, Sannah! Throw things if you need to, keep it confused." The Melodie offered two thumbs up and then a few smooth stones hefted up from the clutter of the temple chamber. He felt the creature''s anger, boiling, cresting - and then there it was, close enough that the light from their lumes, hanging on their belts, fell across it. Close enough the sunlight, leaking in through the gash in the temple wall, caught on the tips of its tentacles that lashed out before it, hauling it up. Green, leathery skin, darkened to deep olive on its back and lightened to a pale, sickly color on its belly. Enormous red eyes, as big as a man''s head, glared up at them without lids or pupils. Tahiri blew out a deep breath, stance firming up. "Now!" Anakin cried, leaping forward, as tentacles slapped over the lip of the pit, as its head, big as a landspeeder, came level with them.
Tentacles lashed, as fast as Anakin and Tahiri could strike. Green and blue lightsabers seared slashes along whirling limbs, severing thinner ones and gouging deep into thicker tentacles. The creature howled, wiggling and managing to pull one wing-limb free, planting it on the edge of the pit. Go for the head, Anakin thought, ruefully. Sure, it''s that easy. Tahiri slashed a long line through the membrane of its freed wing, drawing its attention. Anakin pointed his ''saber, jabbed - and another tentacles interposed, punctured through but blocking him from the beast''s broad, flat forehead. Baleful red eyes seemed to watch them both, pupil-less and like pools of blood. Sannah slung stones, mostly useless but anything that could draw its attention was worth it. "Vaping moffs," Tahiri swore. "I can''t get close!" Anakin leapt backwards as the second wing-limb slammed down, the creature wiggling and twisting, like a cork on a tight bottle. It was almost free and time was running out. "Tahiri!" he shouted. Without asking, she threw her lightsaber. It arced, high, and he imagined the beast''s bottomless eyes fixated on it. Anakin caught it, hefting both blades, suddenly thinking of Mei. Jar''kai, he thought with a grin. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. The next tentacle that lashed for him he caught like a scissor, both ''sabers snipping cleanly through the undulating muscle. Four meters of tentacle dropped, end steaming and charred black. For the first time the creature howled not in anger, but in surprise and pain. A Massassi stone block almost the size of the thing''s head struck it hard in its flank and Anakin saw Tahiri and Sannah both posed, sweating, arms outstretched. Wow. Sannah had a lot more in her than he expected. It redoubled its efforts to pull itself free, this time with an edge of what Anakin imagined was panic, wing-limbs slamming down. Enormous, razor-sharp claws struck down, right where Anakin had been just as he threw himself backwards, deactivating both lightsabers. He rolled, coming back to his feet, igniting them both again with a doubled snap-hiss - but the beast was totally free, slumping out onto its belly, drool dripping and frothing from its maw. At least five tentacles were stumps now, just as many scarred with cuts and slices. All its focus was on Anakin - Tahiri and Sannah were behind it and he realized with a particular sinking feeling, that he was between the beast and the hole in the temple. And now its overriding impulse was not fury, but retreat. "Oh, blast," he gasped and threw himself flat. The wind of the creature''s flight almost pulled him up into the air as the two girls shouted his name - then it was gone, out of the temple chamber, out into the jungle. They''d failed to kill it, but maybe the original goal of driving it away was a success - Tahiri offered her hand, looking down at him, haloed by her blonde mane. "Thanks." Though a head shorter, she pulled him to his feet and the three scrambled up the debris pile, out into the sunlight. Anakin shaded his eyes, peering up, following his sense of the creature''s mind. Already it was the size of his outstretched thumb, flapping hard and gaining altitude. "That was a little anticlimactic," Sannah said. "Where do you think it''s going?" Anakin frowned, squinting. The beast shrank further, barely moving in the sky, as if it was climbing straight up. "...I have no idea." Sannah dashed away, back to the parked landspeeder, digging out a pair of macrobinoculars. They were cartoonishly large compared to her hands and face and she trained them up, up into the sky. "It''s going straight up," she called. "Looks like," Tahiri agreed. "So what, it''s going to space?" the Melodie shouted back, incredulity thick in her voice. Anakin exhaled, calming himself, reaching for the creature''s rapidly diminishing mind. He caught flashes - fury, some degree of confusion. Pain. An overwhelming desire to seclude itself and heal. More than that: flashes of - he gasped. "Sithspawn. It is going to space. It''s not from Yavin 4, it came here from another moon. It''s remembering snowy tundra and a range of mountains right around the equator-" Sannah''s sudden shock and fear was tangible. "That''s home!" she cried. Yavin 8. Cold and snowy, frozen to Yavin 4''s humid jungles. Home to Sannah''s people, the Melodies, along with Anakin and Tahiri''s friend Lyric. If he squinted hard, he could just make out the little star that was the moon, a million kilometers away. They had driven the beast away, that was for sure - but now it was heading straight for the defenseless Melodies.
Three things he loved above all else: discovery, the beauty of body, and the Omnissiah. The order was interchangeable and day-to-day these loves shifted in priority. This was good: stagnation was anathema to the pulse of life and life itself fed all three fixations. His love of discovery is the drive that infused his mortal, flesh-body that pushed him to stand head and shoulders above his peers. This love was the love that teased and encouraged, that ran flighty before him and in alluring whisper dared him to give chase, chase even unto the ends of all space and beyond, beyond sense, beyond logic, beyond reason itself. This was the love that was the tempest, the whirlwind itself, on whose anvil his body would break. The beauty of body is the love that tempered him. When he dreamed of the impossibilities of the ancients, the temporalities of his fragile form anchored him to the flesh. As he pared away that flesh, he learned of its weaknesses and its flaws, the flaws that were anchors to him, the weaknesses that were challenges. Unlike others of his kind, he did not shy from the flesh, because the flesh was the origin, it was the beginning, and while he peered onward to the end, he could not forget the path he came from. If his loves had been of flesh and discovery, he was reflective enough to know his end would have been bought by polonium slug in the depths of night. He had witnessed peers burn out in such ways, as they carved obsession into virtue and chased that fitful mistress into the darkest pits. His third love, his love for the god-of-machine, the flesh-in-fusion, the machine-made-man, this was the love that smiled on him and bound his hands in manacles of tempered restraint. Discovery alone would have made him aimless, yanked and dragged by every whim. The flesh trammeled him, hemmed him, taught him patience. The Omnissiah placed hand before his eyes and warned of the stygian depths, where none but He made dive. Orichi-Mu ran hymnal on progressive recursion, broadcast lowly from auxiliary voxcaster. This hymnal was one of his own creation, one that evolved with each repeat, played forward and backward, seeking the perfect palindrome in meaning, rhythm and rhyme. His lone flesh-ear, which he kept for just the purpose of sampling the imperfect tones, caught each subtle shift in meaning as the loop adjusted. His cadre, attendant to him, assumed the hymnal was one of blessing, to beg forgiveness of the Machine God for dirtying his hands on such unclean technology. Their assumption was one he would not deny, as it served purpose well. Orichi-Mu merely enjoyed the puzzle of the hymn and found that when devoting a branched subroutine of attention to it, his primary attention attained an appreciable benefit in problem-solving and lateral thinking. This was most beneficial, as he attempted to enact repairs, comprehend, and improve on an active machine whose smooth functioning provided safeguard for several billion beings and, most importantly, himself and loyal servants of the Omnissiah. What a challenge it was, the planetary shield projector of Fondor. A most potent technology, complex in the extreme, built upon a school of theory that Orichi-Mu had only begun to plumb. Shielding, delivered unto his many hands on the Compliance of Eboracum, sat low on his hierarchy of attention. Though the variants of ray and particle intrigued with their bias along with the relative lightweight scale of the projectors, Orichi-Mu had greater interests and demands on his time. Hyperdrive, for one, by command of the Primarch, was utmost in the minds of all his Magi and himself. The ''droids'', the abominable intelligences that infested this galaxy, became a close second. Thus it was that the more mundane operations of technologies of this galaxy fell to examinations of his savants and not his own hand. Those Magi that attended him now bore the greatest experience, and from their minds he plucked and borrowed, but given the situation, no touch but his own could be entrusted to this task. He muttered gracious thanks to Lord Admiral Regil, whose majestic demonstration of the power of Mars and Terra allowed him such unfettered access to the most sensitive systems of Fondor. The Guilds practically fell over themselves to give Orichi-Mu the most detailed tour of the shield generatorium. A brush with calamity proved to be excellent social and political lubrication, on par with the most sublime of graphia-sulphidite. Such a challenge it was. The principles revealed themselves easily enough, such that Orichi-Mu within hours became confident of replicating, at least on prototypical scale, the theory behind the grand generatorium. The greater task was stabilizing the fitful, restive spirits of the array. Electrical conduits across the continent were ruptured and compromised. The beautiful Motive Force leaked away, useless, grounding out from insulation-stripped hypercondua and starving the generatorium of precious sustenance. From his own stores, Orichi-Mu called down compact seed-fusion reactors to bolster the hungry projectors, but they were a mere stopgap. The required draw of the generatoria was impressive, though considering the aegis it projected covered an entire world: reasonable. Further complications were the demands of the Guilds and Lieutenant Optarch himself. Unlike a void shield, these Republican ''shields'' could be deactivated in sectors, rather than as a whole. A most efficacious refinement of the concept of phasic wardings, one that otherwise would be replicated in function by an array of voids, overlapping. Given the fevered thanks of the Guilds, Orichi-Mu held confidence that full template schematics of this planetary shield could be acquired and prove most beneficial to Eboracum. Future plans aside, to restore sector de/activation functionality was of prime importance. Such would allow the Republican fleet in orbit along with Admiral Regil to contribute further supporting craft to the planetary conflict without allowing the Yuuzhan Vong to do so as well. As it stood, the spirits cried out in offended restiveness and would not allow such precision operations. Lowering the shields entire was out of the question, and thus did Orichi-Mu find his hours, his days, occupied in his most favored of activities of late: Discovery.
The rotary cannon hung slack in S''hmu''s grip, the Herglic gawking and slack-limbed. The other Fondorian conscripts huddled together, grabbing each other for some measure of comfort. Their eyes were hollow, faces blank and trembles twitched limbs. It was no mean thing to see a Titan. Zalthis, for his own part, glared at the retreating back of the hulking beast. Each footfall rumbled ground underfoot for kilometers. Debris and dust still spilled from its rugged scales, left from its eruption out of the subterranean tunnels. Jagged plates waggled atop its broad back. His analytic eye assessed those as heat-dispersion and catalogued a potential weak-point. The greater part of him worried for the three neophytes, whose path of return to the Republican lines matched exactly the route the bio-titan had chosen after emergence. The vox remained nothing but static and interference; Mors Vigilia, Lieutenant Optarch and all others unreachable. Solidian, as if sensing his concern, clapping Zalthis on his pauldron. ''Qario isn''t a fool. They''ll go to ground, let it pass. It didn''t notice us.'' He had to trust in the training of his brothers. No Astartes, not even the finest Tetrarch, would dare challenge a Titan alone. Sol had to be right. The three would stand aside, let it pass, find another route for return. If the conscripts with them reacted as S''hmu and his cohorts did, there''d be even less choice. ''You! Have you knowledge of what that - " Sol jabbed an accusing finger of ceramite "- thing is?" The Herglic did not appear to hear the Ultramarine. Zalthis gently settled his broad palm on S''hmu''s back, jolting the being from his shocked reverie. ''We''re dead,'' he muttered. ''Aren''t we?'' It was hard to gauge the expression of one so far from the human form as S''hmu, but over the past week Zalthis had picked up cues. He saw now the whites of the Herglic''s usually uniformly dark eyes. His thick, black blubbery skin looked almost grey under coating of dirt and dust and ash. ''We are not yet, Conscript S''hmu.'' ''We can''t fight that. Nothing can. Nothing can!'' ''Calm yourself. Of course, we cannot. There is no viable theoretical for infantry to engage superheavy armor. That will be the tasking of artillery and other platforms.'' S''hmu blinked, seemed to steady himself. ''Artillery?'' Perhaps the former longshoreman did not understand the word. ''Cannonry,'' Zalthis clarified. ''Large bore, high yield. Either local or Imperial make.'' ''I think the First brought Basilisks. Primarch''s orders - no armor deployment is to be without indirect fire support.'' Solidian supplied. ''Thank you, Sol. Basilisks then. I am sure they can knock the beast down.'' The biot in question shoved through a chemical factory half again as tall as it, pushing into and through the building as if it were made of simple paper. Explosions rippled around its ankles and fire flashed hard as volatiles were set off. Oddly, no Yuuzhan Vong followed in its wake. It had torn itself up and out, bellowing all the while, but neither Zalthis nor Solidian noted other biots or infantry in support. Maniples of the Collegia always preferred to walk with at least Knight escorts or at the van of an army, so as to keep at bay lighter hostiles and allow the Titans to focus on their counterparts. While there was no theoretical for a lone soldier or even platoon to engage a Titan, it was known that massed light forces could, feasibly, mire the God-machines enough to overwhelm them not in quality but quantity. He said as much to Solidian, who had removed his helm, scraping out accumulated ash from the edges of darkened lenses and vox-slits. ''Perhaps they''re inside of it, like the Taghmata are wont to do.'' He shrugged, pulling microfibre cloth from a pouch at his belt and polishing lenses. ''Or the beast is uncontrollable and would eat them instead. Who knows the mind of an alien?'' Zalthis hummed, deep in his throat, considering. ''Forget all that. What do we do? We can''t stay here. What if it comes back, or what if those vong are all hiding in the tunnels anyway?'' S''hmu jabbed a meaty thumb toward the half-dozen Fondorians that had remained. ''And my boy''s''re fit to break,'' he continued, lower, pitched so that only Zalthis, beside him, could hear. ''Desertion is treason,'' Solidian observed, inspecting his helm one final time before replacing it. Red lenses glared again. ''The penalty for treason is death.'' Choosing to ignore his belligerent brother, Zalthis gestured widely, taking in the general area. ''We allow the beast to distance itself from us. Vox is still down and perhaps it is the cause. Should that prove the case, we can call for extraction later. If not¡­I understand you are mortal, S''hmu. But do not lean on that. Even mortals can find themselves stronger than they think.'' As the Jedi were, on Obroa-skai. Anakin Solo, a youth just like Zalthis, just like Sol, putting Astartes to shame with his martial prowess. ''I¡­I do not want to spend lives freely, Conscript S''hmu. That is not the way of my Primarch or my Legion. Remain strong and hold our purpose to your heart.'' ''And what''s that purpose, Blue Boy?'' The enormous biot receded further, only its dorsal fins visible above urban construction. Zalthis ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth, taste-memory of bitter, saline flesh flaring. Tshek Ulm, commander of these warrior cadres. He looked to the blank faces of the Fondorians and their wide, empty eyes. Mortals could be strong, but they needed purpose. Guilliman said so himself, as he tasked the Legiones to oversee the Compliance of Eboracum. Task them and give them purpose to build and they can shape wonders, the Primarch said. ''We came out here to kill a commander, did we not?'' Zalthis waved a hand toward the biot, whose distant roars were rumbling echoes. ''It seems to me that he has sent off his greatest asset.'' If Tshek Ulm was in the rail tunnels, they could find him, kill him, and perhaps sever whatever command directed the bio-titan. Sparing that, they could at least remove a vong officer of some standing, a worthy goal at any time. ''On your feet,'' Zalthis ordered, peering down at the Fondorians. They looked up at him, blank. S''hmu cleared his throat. ''Come on, boys. The big scary monster left, it''s back to work.'' ''Today''s the worst,'' one of them groaned, clambering back to his feet. ''Today?'' another rebut. ''Every day on Fondor is the worst.''
Orichi-Mu beckoned to one of the Republican ''droids'', motioning for the blocky automaton to toddle after him. His own seed-fusion reactors were beneficial for macro-support, supplementing the incredible power draw demanded by the generatoria, but there were incompatibilities in their output of energy that required converters to properly interface with Republican grids. For simpler uses, here and there, Orichi-Mu fell back on Republican technology so as to not cumber himself with clumsy interfaces. ''Come along,'' he ordered in binharic, the droid stumping along behind him on clumsy feet. The Republican droid''s capacity to understand binharic was pleasing to him, that they at least could speak the lingua-technica. Curious inventions, all of them, coming in myriad and diverse form with no two pattern exactly the same. Their minds were simplistic and easy to follow - more in common, in his learned opinion, with the orderly minds of Cybernetica machines. Many of his fellows decried this, of course, declaring all droids to be abominable intelligences but most of them were young. Orichi-Mu, as befit his august position, held ten-thousand subjective years to his thousand sidereal ones. In those times, he had wealth of experience with silica animus and those noxious intellects all, to the last, held a pervasive and corruptive hostility that made them inimical to all life. Not just sophontic life, but life itself. He had touched those minds, as he destroyed them, as understanding the nature of the enemy was essential to future victories. In that, he found the philosophy of the Omnissiah''s thirteenth son most agreeable. The droids he had disassembled did not bear that stifling blackness that he swore was the font of all silicon animus. They were innovative, inventive, complex - but so too were Cybernetica machines. And, like robots of the Legio, droids required consistent resetting and wiping of memory and protocols to ensure proper functionality. This all to Orichi-Mu spoke of respectable capacity in automated action, but fell far short of true intelligence. Thus did he point a five-jointed finger at a socket on the wall, watching with clicking optics as the ''GNK'' mobile power automaton shuffled over, interfacing itself. He directed two Magi to supporting consoles, their red robes sweeping behind them. One sneered toward the GNK, distaste evident in her noospheric halo. Orichi-Mu chuckled in his flesh-voice, then blurted a chastisement to diminish emotional protocols and focus on the task at hand. Her noospheric halo flared with contrition signifiers. ''Gonk,'' said the droid, signalling successful connection. Beautiful power flowed, reactivating local consoles. From this node, there was alleged access to secondary subroutines that would allow him to refine the crude Fondorian code that governed capacitance for individual shield projection vanes. ''Delightful,'' Orichi-Mu observed.
Every few seconds the strategium trembled, just slightly. Optarch scowled at the broad hololith, swathed in greens and reds and innumerable icons. Four held his attention the most: Worldeaters. Two lingered just over the horizon, almost close enough to touch, kept at bay only by constant and unceasing shelling from SPHA/m artillery brought up from storage. Eight of the massive walkers squatted in a W formation, filling a vehicle pool near the center of Kadyin Memorial. Nonstop speeders delivered more and more shells from factories, keeping the artillery firing. When the first Worldeater had pressed close to Kadyin, chasing retreating Fondorians and Exiles alike, General Ullos had been as good as his word. Eight SPHA/m and four SPHA/t waited, rushed into position in impressively short order. First the mass-drivers fired, arcing high-explosive shells up above the cityscape. Explosions burst around the enormous biot, blooming against its armor. It had not deigned to even project voids. AT-ATs waited in the wings, hidden behind high-rises and looming refinery stacks. All seemed to be in order and Optarch allowed Ullos to give the command to execute. Demolition charges blew, collapsing spans of buildings and giving clear shot on the Worldeater. Leman Russ of the First Auxilia and Iax Tertius thundered first, followed momentarily by AT-ATs punching out verdant green lasers from chin-mounted cannon. Now the Worldeater did rouse its dovin basals, greedily sucking up shells and lasters alike. Then the SPHA/t fired. Turbolasers, like those aboard capital ships, threw stark shadows and speared at the biot. The Worldeater recoiled - recoiled - to the cheers of all in the strategium, tuned into a hardline feed. Vox and comlink had been out, cut, Optarch assumed, by some manner of interference from the bio-titans. Yet when the smoke and dust and explosions cleared, the Worldeater was retreating. Some blackened scars dug channels into its armor and the creature looked furious, but it was otherwise unscathed. The other Worldeater that joined it had not tried to press Kadyin Memorial and the center of the defensive line, instead joining its compatriot and lingering beyond visual range. On the flanks, the other two to north and south went unopposed, languid in their pace but unstoppable in their momentum. There had been no word from Brother Zalthis and his squad, something that stuck in Optarch''s mind. The young Astartes had great promise and with the emergence of a Worldeater in that sector, he feared the worst. Mors Vigilia whispered endlessly, reporting rakamat packs and Worldeater movements, Yuuzhan Vong infantry strikes and where flyers and coralskippers wandered. Ullos leaned forward, supporting himself on his palms as he too examined the battlefront. ''It''ll fall to Mors Vigilia, then,'' Ullos mused. ''Whatever they are.'' ''We proved the bio-titans may be challenged by conventional weaponry. These SPHA/t are potent.'' ''But limited.'' Ullos said. ''But limited.'' The weapon carriage was far too slow, leaving the artillery pieces more as a static emplacement than anything else, requiring a heavy lifter to reposition in any reasonable time. For defense of a position, Optarch would mark them highly, but against mobile targets or as part of a counteroffensive, they would likely be useless. ''Magos Dominus Orichi-Mu reports positive results with the shield generatoria.'' ''Fingers crossed, then.'' Ullos stepped away, calling over an aide to discuss maneuvers of Fondorian armor to the south. Optarch studied the hololith again, remembering Mors Vigilia''s demand: to draw all four Worldeaters together. A difficult tasking, but given how impregnable Kadyin Memorial remained with the SPHA/t and /m defending, Optarch wondered if they would not be able to further reinforce the center, enticing the Yuuzhan Vong leader to attempt a climactic engagement that would cripple the defenders in one single clash. If the psychological profiles of the invaders bore true, they would be unable to resist the potential for glorious battle, over slow, marching attrition to the north and south. He waited for General Ullos to finish his own conference, before waving the Republican over and voicing his theoretical. At first, the mortal seemed uncertain, until as they discussed and sketched out plans in the hololith and the theoretical was refined cleaner and clearer. Mors Vigilia joined in at the end, adding their own agreement and warning that the time was night that they would need to disengage as observer and begin awakening procedures.
Mantallikes, darkened and quiet, kept station a hundred kilometers from Eboracum Orbital. Her embarkation decks serviced combat air patrols that swept local space. Her sensorium, almost entirely replaced through extensive efforts of Orichi-Mu''s magi, tracked all motion out to Eboracum''s furthest moon. The redoubtable Retribution battleship held moodily to her forced retirement. Engineseers spoke of recalcitrant systems. Sometimes hatches would refuse to open to valid credentials until the third, or fourth try. Diagnostic protocols dragged their feet, revealing clean functioning but only after protracted and non-standard delays. Two local days previous, Yuuzhan Vong capital ship analogues appeared in the eerie, pseudomotion way of local faster-than-light. They blossomed with plasma fire and antimatter missile before darting away. Untouched. Mantallikes weathered a few splashes of plasma on her weakened voids. Spiralling magma missiles were splashed by strikecraft and the battleship''s interception batteries. The crippled lady had barely needed to stir to deny the probing barrage. Word came from elsewhere in-system. Macragge''s Honour, the empress of the little fleet, had been poked at as well. Numinous, in her patrol, experienced similar. The Yuuzhan Vong had come, but they came with uncharacteristic care. Today, local traffic held to strict and particular lanes. These passed below Mantallikes and were warded by Fourth Honor. The ancient Ironclad bore no voids but rather meters upon meters of slabbed adamantium plate. That battleship, at least, retained normal function, maintaining a circuit around Eboracum Orbital and warding the set hyperspace beacons that traffic was required to revert at. Numinous and her patrol kept the outer reaches of the system under watchful eye, remembering the arrival of Mousetrap those months ago. Today, the Yuuzhan Vong probed again. Two miid-roic, comparatively tiny next to an Ironclad and Retribution flickered into being. As before, weapon pits scattered across the glossy, rocky warships vomited plasma and missiles into space. Dovin basals groaned and tugged at space-time, both warships beginning to accelerate into a hyperspace vector. They emerged high, five hundred kilometers up-well from Eboracum Orbital and Mantallikes'' lonely vigil. Plotting in the battleship''s strategium showed ghostly impressions of the world''s mass-shadow: where it limited hyperspace travel and forced reversions. Both warships of the invaders comfortably avoided the deeper reaches. They would be gone in moments, just as the last time. Mantallikes, however, was a battleship crippled. She was rendered conventionally helpless: her engines cold and unlit, attitude thrusters all she could manage to keep herself in stable orbit. She was a sitting target, the very thing every Captain feared. Mantallikes, therefore, bore months of stress. Unspoken but felt, unsettling and undefinable. An itch that couldn''t be scratched, a restive and anxious energy that built and built and built. Her two surviving lance turrets, sitting proud along her dorsal midline, moved smoother than they ever had. Hydraulics as large as superheavy tanks worked as smoothly as they had, fresh from the Forges that made them. Capacitors overfilled with energy at a rate just shy of physically illegal. Mantallikes was angry and her directionless fury had now, finally, found a target upon which to vent. The lead miid-roic elongated and was gone. The second, soon to follow suit. They would have been in local space for no more than forty-three seconds. Mantallikes'' turrets had a registered maximum traversal rate of one and a half degrees per second and an elevation rate of four and a half. Dovin basals latched onto one of the Eboracum system''s far planetoids, six hundred million kilometers away. The miid-roic slowed for just a moment, the biots catching their metaphorical breath before the plunge. Two steaming bars of visible light cracked into the stern of the warship. Focused as they were, not a single void was offered. Yorik coral vanished under countless ergs. In a parody of hyperspace translation, the miid-roic kicked forward at the same time that its surviving dovin basals seized in paralyzed shock. All inertial dampening failed. More than two thirds of the warship remained, but every single being aboard was pulped and dead, slain by the cold physics of sudden, high-G acceleration. Mantallikes scowlingly retrained her turrets to the fore again. Darkened and quiet, she continued her endless vigil over the traffic lanes to Eboracum Orbital. Contingence Chapter XII XII: Effigy
Each minshal had been carefully cleared: Zalthis found he had been correct in the domiciles bearing subtle entrances that were hard to distinguish from afar. The minshal resembled the domed shell of a creature and they found that the means of egress was a mobile scute, half again the height of an Astartes, that could be hinged away on tough and flexible tendons. Each was empty, bereft of all but some nest-like piles of detritus in some, scallop-shelled storage containers in others. All that remained was to descend underground and discover what awaited them. Broad stairs swept downward, running to either side of a duracrete ramp painted in bold hazard striping. Zalthis'' boots clacked and crackled detritus underfoot, sharp and sudden noise against the distant backdrop of rolling artillery thunder. Auspex revealed no signs of life aside from the motion-tracks of the Fondorians and Solidian, but he kept his bolter up and trained, sweeping carefully as they descended into the gloom of the rail terminal. Lume-panels were blown out, leaving sparkling fields of glass and plastek that glinted and glimmered as the strike team panned gun-mounted torches about. In the rail tunnel, one hovertrain had been waiting at the terminal when the sky fell in. Without power, it never left. It was left torn apart, metal left runny and puddled in still-warm pools. Plasma and acid, it seemed, had cleared a path for the vong to enter into the pitch-dark tunnels. Zalthis led, panning a bright, hot white cone of illumination left and right. S''hmu kept close at his right hand, rotary cannon readied, then the Fondorians followed in a chain that terminated with Solidian. His brother had not groused at taking the rearguard. Auspex showed ghosts and phantasmal contacts, fouled up by the atmospheric storms above and fitful electrical conduits that sparked at random, shocking blue-white showers of sparks that skittered and bounced off his armor. Fondorians swore now and then when unlucky cinders met skin. ''More sign,'' Solidian reported, the other Astartes'' torch playing over a ruined maintenance alcove. Clean, sharp cuts belied the manner of destruction: amphistaff with wanton abandon. Several other stations such as these had been thoroughly worked over, though if it was a tactic to ensure transportation remained disabled or merely acted as catharsis, Zalthis knew not. He could only hope that as the invaders wasted energy in destroying unpowered electronics, they left their limbs leaden and reserves depleted. ''Then they''re down here for sure,'' S''hmu rumbled. ''The question remains: why do they not follow the Titan?'' ''A distraction, mayhaps,'' Solidian offered. ''The Titan draws attention while they pass beneath notice.'' The Herglic swore colorfully. ''With comlink and your ''vox'' down, we''re the only ones that know.'' Zalthis turned, illuminating S''hmu with his torch. The other Fondorians shifted their weight, eyes shifty and downcast. Fingers tapped on lasrifle grips and boots scuffed against duracrete. ''We should''ve gone with the others,'' spoke one of the natives. ''We''ll die-'' Solidian, meaningfully, hefted his bolter. ''Consider your lives spent already.'' Zalthis waved a broad hand down, further into the dark of the tunnel. ''That way, you save lives. Have you families? Friends? Imagine who you fight for. Conscript S''hmu is right. We may be the only ones who know that this Tshek Ulm leads a force to undermine the lines. Your family, your friends: their lives hang in the balance. Yours are already spent. Ask: what do you wish to buy? A moment''s respite or their safety?'' None looked particularly inspired. Zalthis shook his head. ''The other consideration is that Brother Solidian and I will not retreat. You will go alone.'' Faces paled, even those non-human. S''hmu spoke for the rest. ''We''ll, ah, stick with you Blue Boys. Duty, and all, right?'' Solidian laughed into Zalthis'' ear, over squad vox. ''Well spoken, Brother. Sergeant Ascratus'' oratory rubbed off on you.'' The deceased Ultramarine''s taciturn and practical mien was the butt of many jokes among the neophytes. Had Zalthis been without helm, his glare would have pinned Solidian through. Seven hundred meters farther along the rail-line, Zalthis called the first halt. He raised one fist, killing his torch and listened with some vexation as the Fondorians shuffled along several more steps before, one by one, shutting off their own lights until blackness overtook them all. Zalthis held out his gently winking auspex, enough so that those behind could see. The resolution was washed and grainy, marked with interference, but occasional smears of red along the very edges hinted at contacts. ''Motion,'' Zalthis hissed, paired over vox and comlink. ''Distant, but we are gaining. Solidian, you and I have our helms. The rest of you - your lasrifles feature thermal though the scopes. You''ve been shown how it functions. Activate it now.'' ''They will be half blind,'' Solidian whispered through helmet-to-helmet vox. ''We will be their senses.'' ''Got ''em on,'' S''hmu murmured, his basso tones rumbling even as he tried to whisper. ''Hard to see anything.'' ''We will move slowly and I will call out impediments.'' In contrast to transit lines that ran on actual tracks, the subterranean network on Fondor anticipated use by repulsor technology. Thus, the way was clear save for thin and shallow indentations that appeared to be some manner of dormant lighting, perhaps guidance for the trains that floated above the smooth duracrete surface. Footprints were more evident in thin dust as Zalthis cycled through scanning filters and there were many, many of them. A great deal of beings passed this way only shortly ago, only further confirming his anticipation of Tshek Ulm''s movements. A thin wireframe, floating in the upper left of his vision, tracked their position relative to known topography above. They were heading back toward Oridin, at an angle to the path of the bio-titan''s last known course. The theoretical held. Zalthis led them at a decent clip, ignoring occasional grunts and muffled exclamations as Fondorians stumbled in the pitch-dark, trusting S''hmu to keep them together. Too slow, too careful, and the Yuuzhan Vong raiding party would outpace them. He would risk losing the element of surprise, so long as they caught up. Slumps of crumbled duracrete loomed suddenly out of the darkness occasionally, marking where something above had tumbled down and the shock of it had caused secondary collapses, delaminating the ceiling and buckling walls. Zalthis directed wide berths around these slopes of debris and exposed rebar, knowing how easily the Fondorians could trip or injure themselves. None of the collapses yet blocked the whole tunnel, but he began to see why S''hmu had considered them a lost cause. He paused a second time with whispered command as they rounded a particularly broad spill. It looked as if some high-rise tower had fallen straight down, punching through its foundations and into the tunnel proper, bringing down entire spans of the ceiling and support buttresses with it. Only a narrow path led along the far side of the tunnel and it did not look natural - it looked cleared. ''Sign,'' he called and Solidian confirmed. ''We are still on their - ah.'' Movement lit his auspex, suddenly, and the silhouette of a low-slung body clambered into view. Zalthis could see it clearly as it waved antenna, carefully poking long, triple jointed legs out to find stable places to step. Its body was slender and long, just over a meter, its head flush with thorax. Another poked up above the collapse, following its fellow. Then a third. Wings with a span as wide as Astartes were tall flicked gently, as thin as fine paper. ''Grutchin,'' Solidian warned. ''There''s something different about them.'' Zalthis blink-magnified, focusing on one of the insectile biot''s heads. There were the large, compound eyes and mandibles that dripped caustic acids¡­and there was a strange, webbed nodule, like coral, that sprouted from the center of its skull like a horn. The ones encountered during the boarding action looked almost the same, save a bit smaller and without the coral growth. Uneasily, it recalled the sproutings on the skulls of the Obroan slaves. ''We were told they were uncontrollable.'' ''That was the claim,'' Solidian confirmed. S''hmu edged closer, eyes glued to the scope of his rotary cannon. ''Big things,'' the Herglic dismissed. ''Probably won''t like blasterfire much.'' ''They are bred to eat starfighters, Conscript. They are hardier than they appear.'' The three grutchin poked about, nibbling at exposed rebar here and there, crunching at duracrete. They appeared not to have noticed the squad''s presence yet. ''We cannot bypass them.'' Zalthis lifted his bolter. ''Conscripts, focus fire. Kill them swiftly, then re-ignite torches. Gunfire will travel far in these tunnels and our best option then is speed. On my mark.'' He slid crosshairs over the thorax of the lead biot. His helm showed him that Solidian selected another. ''The leftmost one,'' he ordered to the Fondorians. ''Three. Two. One-'' Three bugs burst, spraying chitin and legs and then spotlights banished the dark. ''Now, with haste-'' There were not just three grutchin.
Malik Carr received the news with a solemn nod, turning back to regard the bonfire of blazebugs that filled the strategic grotto. Enough of the incandescent insects hummed and hovered that the air was sweltering but adepts and tacticians bore the sweat streaming down their features with stoicism that made Malik Carr proud. The heat bothered him little and he found he did not perspire and wondered about the searing touch of the bomb on Obroa-skai. He had passed the crucible of fire and now he doubted it could easily find purchase in him. "Another lost to little gain," Commander Harmae voiced his opinion with little enough humility that a lesser Warleader would have taken at least his tongue, if not his head in recompense. Malik Carr merely growled deep in his throat and Harmae sunk to one knee, bowing his head deep. "Apologies, Warleader. I speak out of turn." "You do, Commander. Rise, and chasten your tongue." The blazebug formation displayed several great orbs: the world of the infidels named ''Eboracum'' and its three moons. Little aggregations of the insects clustered around the grandest sphere, representing the grand cruisers of the ''Impeerium''. One knot in particular drew Malik Carr''s focus, his trained ear picking out the subtle tones of the blaze-bugs wingbeats and the pulse of light in their bodies. The language of the blazebugs required many years of training under a most demanding lash, as incorrect interpretation of tone, color, luminescence and frequency could lead to catastrophe. The bugs wove a tapestry of meaning, able to declare the tonnage of a warship, its velocity, its bearing, weaponry, damage status and more. For his own vessels, they even spoke of crew morale and levels of supply. Commander Harmae attended to better hone his understanding of the bugs. The newly elevated Commander wore his cloak of office like a shield, turning more braggadocious than Malik Carr would like and beginning to chafe under serving him directly. The others elevated by Nas Choka now commanded their own squadrons and Harmae, Carr feared, fostered some jealousy that he was not given similar. The warrior had great promise as a tactician and leader - a Warleader one day - but not if he was unable to see Malik Carr''s intention to hone him into a successor. "Your words are not without merit, though lacking in deference." He waved at the blazebugs and a cluster detached from the ceiling where they rested and fed, descending on thrumming wings to hover above Malik Carr''s outstretched palm. They forged together this time not a choir-icon, but the rough shape of an infidel warship, scaled beyond all others and large enough to even match the smallest koros-strohna. It was long and boxy, as unsubtle and brutish as all ships shaped of technology would be. The bugs could not form all details, but Malik Carr imagined the gold and blue hues of it and the dense iconography that festooned its armor plating. Harmae wrinkled his nose at the blazebugs as he read their meaning. "A monument to sin," the Commander snarled. "And a trophy to be claimed." Carr kept his features schooled, even as his blood boiled at the thought. He imagined the enormous warship filled with aistarteez, overflowing with the blasphemous creatures. First magma missiles would breach the strange barriers the ''Exiles'' shrouded their warships in. Annihilating fire would overwhelm them, baring armor to be hungrily devoured by plasma unending, belched by the pure throats of yaret-kor. The Aistarteez would peer about in confusion and then fear, and then finally despairing realization as purifying flame would burst and roll down corridors and mustering chambers. Yun-Yammka would feast on their unworthy souls and the cold silence of the void would stopper their screams. From its ruin he would claim the warship''s grand sigil. He would deface the stark white and curving rune with the rich blood of the Exiles and he would mount it on the prow of Blood Spat in Wrath for all to see. And they would flee before him and fall upon their faces and tear at their breast, for they would know he was Malik Carr, who slew aistarteez and threw down their nascent ambitions. Iron tingled on his tongue and he swallowed thickly, snapping fingers and waving away the blazebugs. "A trophy we must have patience for. Your Eminence, attend me." Harrar, with hands clasped together within the voluminous sleeves of his robes, strode to Malik Carr''s side and bowed just enough to indicate respect to a peer, not a subordinate to a superior. "Speak to me, my brother, and tell me the gods smile on this course." The priest ran his thin tongue around fringed lips, wetting them and composing his thoughts. "The portents are good. In cracked bone, the Slayer shows sign of His favor. My mistress is inscrutable, for there is little to draw her gaze, but this is no hurdle. Yun-Shuno will be most pleased by the glory heaped upon her creations. The Gods smile on you, Warleader, and anticipate your designs." Malik Carr hummed deep in his throat, more a rumbling growl. Tak tak tak clicked his claw on the coral underfoot. His probing strikes had confirmed Supreme Commander Nas Choka''s word from Fondor: these Exiles boasted most potent warships. A miid-roic and three yorik-akaga lost to no tangible gain. His fleet bore the losses with ease, but such a toll that would be reaped by a frontal naval clash would be unbearable. Nas Choka faced but four of the Exile warships at Fondor and found himself stymied - Blood Spat in Wrath was the only grand cruiser Malik Carr commanded, compared to Nas Choka''s three. If the Gods approved of his design, then he would be cautious no longer. Delay was anathema to his mood and each day spent acting like the cautious, death-fearing infidels chafed against his resolve. "Commander Harmae, you shall lead the implantation. As we have plotted, so shall be done. Fail me not, Commander, and greater heights await you as my second." Harmae clapped fists together. "Belek tiu, Warleader. Your will be done." Malik Carr peered up at the luminous orbs of Eboracum and her three moons. The blazebugs hummed and shimmered and the largest moon hung bold and prominent over the living world. "Bruk tukken nom cambin-tu," he muttered.
Trembling fingers accepted a short, rolled lhostick. Caraget clicked a lighter once, twice, thrice before wavering flame erupted. Sheltered by cupped hands, Elsali leaned forward and lit the end of the ''stick dangling from her lips. All around the square, just a little open area between habitation blocks, several hundred others were repeating similar rituals. Three other tanks rumbled down to silence. Platoons, what was left of them, claimed sections to collapse on, to prop rifles up against drab duracrete walls and pat hips for canteens. Fondorian conscripts and Eboracum First alike, distinguished only by their gear but united by empty expressions and deep-hollowed eyes. She hacked a cough, smoke gusting out of her mouth and Caraget slapped her on the back. It tasted like compactor waste and the smoke burned her lungs, but it gave her something else to focus on. Something other than shaking hands, stale sweat sticking her tanktop to her skin and a pounding headache like hammers on the inside of her head. "It''s funny, right?" Caraget said, poking at Elsali''s rebreather, dangling loose around her neck. "They don''t want us breathing in the-" the other tanker waved, a few drifting clots of ash sticking to her arm "-crap in the air. And here we are." Cara was on her second pack of lhosticks, the last a stomped flat pile of waxpaper on the deck grating inside the tank. "Ironic," Elsali said around a trembling laugh. "This stuff is awful." "The worst," Cara agreed. "Hey, Sula, want some?" The driver rudely gestured toward them both from where he lay underneath the Russ, sheltered from the light ashfall and basking in the warmth radiating from the engine block. Cara responded in kind, with one finger on both hands. The tank itself sat quiet, engine off and cooling down. Ammunition was bingo, as Sarge put it, and they were waiting on resupply. Of their initial platoon of three, only they made it out from the Worldeater. Behind her eyelids, she could see the plume of fire through her rangefinder, like a welding torch spitting out of the empty turret-ring of a Russ as they left it behind. First time she climbed into one, she felt invincible. The rounds they threw around were made to kill other armor like this, and she saw how hard they hit. If it took that much to knock out a Russ, well, wasn''t much in the galaxy outside a starfighter that could dent it. Sweet deal, compared to strapping on the carapace armor of infantry and lugging around a lasrifle. Rakamats made her wary, since they laughed at those big shells she punched downrange, but they''d learned how to work around that. Get Cara and Tonil to tickle them with the lascannons, coordinate with the other tanks in the platoon, and then the biots''d eat an armor-piercing right down the throat. Then the Worldeater showed up and smashed up everything. Russ went down like paper targets to balls of plasma as big as a landspeeder. Bugs - bugs - thumped in and knocked the sixty tonne tank around like a Rancor with a toy. Nothing touched that titan. Tonil hopped down, joining the both of them where they leaned against the tank''s tread, coughing and waving at the haze of lhosmoke slowly forming a cloud. "Aw, not you too, ''Sali." "You''re not my boss," she replied, mulish, taking another stomach turning drag on her lho. "Sarge''s saying we''re gonna hold here for awhile. The Lieutenant up at Kadyin has a plan, but he''s gotta get everything in a row first." Tonil dropped down to sit, crosslegged. "The Lieutenant? If the Ultramarines''ve got a plan, guess we''re gonna be alright." Elsali raised an eyebrow. "That sarcasm, Cara?" "What? No, of course not. Just wondering if that plan needed K''le and Ravik''s tanks to get eaten. I''m no transhuman, maybe I don''t understand." Elsali plucked her lho from her lips, turning it around in her fingers. The mention of the other crews had her sweating again, even in the chilly air. She hadn''t known them quite as well as Cara - she wasn''t as outgoing as the middle-aged gunner - but they were good people too and part of the platoon since Founding. Three months didn''t seem like a long time, but tankers had to have each other''s backs. There''d been more than a few nights of drinking in the Civitas, burning the Imperium scrip they were paid and wondering aloud about their new lives. Now ten men and women were vong-fodder, burnt up and probably eaten by the giant bio-titans. They''d come this close - this close - to the same fate, if Sula had been a little slower, if they''d been out of position, if that one smash bug hadn''t missed and splattered on the road but had spun them out instead, if - A warm arm looped over her narrow shoulders, tugging her back to the present. Cara, taller than her, looked down with sympathy. "Sorry, ''Sali. I''m just - egh." The gunner choked out a noise of frustration, tossing the stub of her own lho aside and trying to shake another out, one-handed. The three lapsed into silence, retreating into their own thoughts. Elsali burned through one lhostick, claimed another, found her hands shook less. Motion caught her eye from among the knots of infantry that also populated the square. One woman, an officer by her cap and flash, strode along with two at her back, lasrifles unlimbered. Ahead of them they drove seven more, down to their undershirts and bare feet, wrists secured behind their back. The three chivvied them along, out into an open area. Each bundle of exhausted soldiers this group passed fell quiet, still and staring. Just about in the middle of the square, the officer gestured and her two escorts started kicking out legs, dropping each one of the cuffed humans to their knees. "Hey," Elsali said, pointing. "What''s going on over there?" Something in her tone caught Sula''s attention and the driver poked his head from under the tank, peered over. "Deserters," he said, succinct, and tucked back under. A wave of sudden heat and cold swept her from head to toe. "What''re they gonna do-" she asked, knowing the answer. Rebreather masks were yanked off the kneeling figures and the two soldiers with the officer brought up their rifles. No - no, no way, that was not happening, no one was gonna die here, no one who made it out of that all that shit - "The hell is this?" someone cried - no, it was her, she asked that and she was halfway over, jamming her cap back down on her head. The officer glanced her way - as young as Elsali was with a shiny scar across half her face, claiming an eyebrow and blurring the definition of her lips. "Not your business, Private," she stressed and Elsali saw the tabs of a second lieutenant. There was the striking of booted feet on duracrete behind them, but Elsali just saw the flaming ruins of K''le and Ravik''s tanks. Who wouldn''t run away from those kriffing bio-titans, who wouldn''t be afraid- "What''d they do, then?" "Again," the lieutenant said in heavily accented Basic. "Not your business, Private. Back to your crew, now." A heavy hand fell on her shoulder and Elsali jumped, craning her neck to see Sarge towering over her. His eyes were hard, hard and uncompromising as space and with pressure on her shoulder gently pulled her back. The LT''s two goons had their lasrifles up, not quite aiming, not quite not. "Easy there, ''Sali. I got this. Go on back." "Sarge-" "I said go back. Go get me my vox." It took an effort to pull herself away, to turn her back on the LT and the rifles and march back. Each stomp of her boots jolted her hip and up her spine and she grit her teeth to keep from screaming. Cara and Tonil were watching her, wide-eyed. "Fry me alive, ''Sali, you almost got shot-" "Sarge needs the vox," she spat, ignoring Tonil, grabbing onto the side of the tank, boots catching on the bogie wheels to give her a leg up. "I''m gonna-" Crack. Crackcrackcrackcrackcrack. Crack. Her fingers went numb and she slid, undershirt tugging as it caught on rivets. Caraget caught her arm. "Don''t turn around," the older woman warned. "Just climb up. Get Sarge his vox." She didn''t know how she managed to clamber up the side, into the turret, or who took the portable vox when she handed it out. Elsali slid down, surrounded by metal and armor, legs bunched up in the cramped interior. It reeked like lhosmoke and promethium and fycelene, like sweat and maybe a little bit of urine. Tears cleaned streaks of soot and ash from her cheeks as they fell. Someone was talking outside, shouting out pointed words to a silent audience but inside the tank, it was just noise. Muffled noise and it didn''t mean anything at all.
Ullos was cautious. Optarch was emphatic. SPHA/t, AT-ATs, even E-Wings had proven ineffective against the Worldeaters, their lasers and rockets and even one proton torpedo proved unable to batter down the voids protecting the enormous biots. Sortieing a squadron of Juggernauts and mustering a full march of all nineteen reserve AT-ATs could stress the Yuuzhan Vong center. The Iax Tertius and First Eboracum would support with Russ and Basilisks. SPHA/t and /m could provide long-ranged support and a density of artillery suppression to make a difference. It would also summon every Worldeater from across the front. Thus far both sides had avoided bringing the full force of their heavy assets to bear in any particular theatre for fear of allowing their foe the chance to strike at flanks. That theoretical evaporated when the Worldeaters rose, the northern and southern ones crunching into Fondorian lines with slow but inexorable pressure. Yet to withdraw forces from the wings, to fold all into the middle: it was betting all the chips on a single hand of sabacc, not knowing what the shifter would bring. Optarch agreed with the metaphor, not knowing the particular card game but familiar enough with games of chance and strategy. ''It is essential we force the Vong''s hand,'' Optarch repeated, pacing in front of a holotank in which a slowly revolving image of the dreaded biot took up most of the real estate. Estimates of weapon growths and suspected dovin basal pits were highlighted, but all were conjecture thus far, drawn from visual reporting. ''We do not have the ground forces to continue to hold this line. Sooner or later, we must retreat again. Each line buys us time, but costs us distance. Another two retreats and your city will be within range of hostile artillery. They can begin bombardment of its shielding.'' ''If we don''t have the manpower to hold the front, then concentrating the Vong strength into a single point is sure to result in an unwinnable battle.'' Ullos leaned forward, planting palms on the holotable, worrying his lip with his teeth. ''The plan to flood the flanks with wardroids after the worldeaters are committed could work¡­but it also brings all four of them right here, to Kadyin.'' ''Where Mors Vigilia may strike.'' Optarch finished; glad he was of Lord Guilliman''s line and not one of a less patient genetor. Ullos'' concerns were valid, but he worried overmuch. ''I have done this on many worlds, General Ullos. I have fought and broken sieges since before you were born.'' This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ''In your galaxy, Lieutenant. This one is different.'' The Ultramarine turned to the broad transparisteel windows of the amphitheatre command center. Forty stories above street level, with clear and unimpeded sight to the distant defensive line. Tiny flashes indicated the nonstop plasma barrages and frequent blinks of blue light picked out still active Republic artillery. Though the paint was different, the brushstrokes were the same. It was war, simple and straightforward, and war was his home. No matter the galaxy, no matter the troops in his hands, Optarch understood the canvas. ''Yes, General, in my galaxy. The wars I have fought in would make this one appear a border dispute. Trust in my experience. The worldeaters will be dealt with. One way, or another. Of that you may be assured. The flanks will fall and the Yuuzhan Vong will be primed for a final thrust.'' Ullos cycled the holodisplay, revealing the entire local sector, a thousand kilometers on a side. Two icons marked out the local worldeaters, separated by perhaps two dozen kilometers. To the north, one roamed some two hundred kilometers away, moving farther every moment. To the south, the fourth ranged one hundred and sixty kilometers from Kadyin. At the pace they moved, each covered forty kilometers in an hour, but the analysis was that this was more careful pace, as the worldeaters were making a point to amble about, destroying infrastructure and indulging in their apparent hunger. It might well be that at need, the biots could hit far higher speeds in protracted motion. Projections ranged as high as a hundred kilometers an hour, perhaps more - the gravity nullifying abilities of dovin basals made the square-cube law a mere suggestion. ''I know that Magos Mu is working on the shields. If Mors Vigilia is aboard one of your starships, I fear the Yuuzhan Vong will retaliate with their own armada.'' ''They are not, General. Lord Admiral Regil has acceded to Admiral Brand''s requirements that his squadron remain at anchor along with the Fifth Fleet.'' ''Hard to work around factors I don''t know, Lieutenant.'' ''Nevertheless, General, you must. Part of the bargain is the utmost of secrecy, even now. The Magos and Mors Vigilia required it. We yet have no certainty about operational security, as you are well aware. The Vong xenoform have proved most adept at infiltration and subversion.'' Optarch patted at his gladius. ''If it settles your mind, I will not be sitting idle. A son of Ultramar leads from the front. My life will be on the line, just as anyone else''s.'' Beyond the transparisteel, Fondor appeared grim. Its omnipresent polluted atmosphere mingled with the stale ash that still drifted from the grey skies like a sorrowful snowfall. These people saw this world as ruined. Such catastrophic devastation, they whispered, looking at the orbital pictures of the vast scar across the northern hemisphere. Artificial winter would cool the world several degrees over the next few years as ash blotted out the sun. It would rain and rain across most of the world: only centimeters in some areas, piling up in drifts meters deep in others. They saw this world as already lost. Nonsense. Its industry ran on the detestable ''droids'' so favored in this galaxy. They did not need clean air to breathe or sunlight. They could work at full capacity in the blackest of night, or in the utter lack of oxygen. The living beings that remained would learn to stay indoors, to erect atmospheric shields over their remaining enclaves. This world was hurt, but it was so very far from lost. Not like Calth. Not like Calth. He pushed the thoughts aside, unwilling to touch that still-suppurating wound. Many even refused to speak of it. There was an unreality to it, one compounded by the bizarre nature of their arrival in this galaxy. In many ways, the day-to-day difficulties of adjusting to a whole new universe, one filled with humans both contemptible and admirable, made it easier. Calth could be pushed to the back of the mind, the reeling reality of the Imperium itself built on a foundation of sand shelved. For the greatest fear, the one none spoke of, was that in their absence, all might be lost. That as they spent months here, in this galaxy, their own home burned. That Macragge itself might have fallen, for their absence. Optarch felt the weight like a yoke about his own neck, occasionally adjusted to, but never relinquished. He feared how heavily it might sit upon his Primarch. ''Alright.'' Ullos said, coming to stand next to him. Optarch looked down at the man, who reached only mid-chest. ''Alright, Lieutenant. Let''s pass the orders. You''re right - we can''t stop the worldeaters anyway, not in time. Oridin is too vulnerable and we might as well bet it all. Let''s see if we can bait in the monsters.''
He counted sixty-seven grutchin. Thirty-six were killed as they surged after the first three, punctured by bolts and blew apart. The insects were fragile, too slender to weather even a single mass-reactive without catastrophic damage. Zalthis and Solidian reaped their toll until both bolters ran dry. They had drilled for years to affect perfect reloading, under the most severe of duress. Sergeant Ascratus forced them to do so blindfolded, while sprinting, with low-power lasfire snipping at their heels. To eject a magazine, select a new, snap it into position and cycle the chamber took just over a second. That was enough time for the rest of the grutchin to spill over. Zalthis took a potshot, clipping the wings of one leaping through the air. S''hmu bellowed and held down the trigger to his rotary cannon. Blue hyphens of blasterfire leapt out, bracketing and then shredding a biot in mid-flight. Sharp cracks of lasrifle discharge poked at others with threads of ruby-red light, momentarily connecting target to barrel. Another few grutchin tumbled, missing limbs, wings. They moved in a mass, coordinated, boiling toward the squad. ''Back,'' Zalthis shouted. ''Back! Firing retreat!'' He shot again and this time the bolt only punctured a grutchin''s lacy wing, the membrane too thin to trigger the detonator. It exploded in the duracrete ceiling behind and while the biot wobbled, wings catching less air, it finished its jump by landing on a Duro. The alien''s shocked cry turned into a warble of bubbling agony as the biot sank acid-slavering mandibles into his throat. One red beam jolted the grutchin, a second sent it reeling back, waving its legs in anger and a third punched through a compound eye. More came. Fondorians scattered, shouting wordless, aimless terror, firing with triggers held down. Las sprayed, unaimed, as much a danger as the swarming biots. Auspex chimed and Zalthis span on his heel, striking a grutchin with the butt of his bolter. Its head and thorax exploded in ichor, chitin and acid, steaming on the casing of his rifle. Before his very eyes the thick construction of the bolter withered, pockmarked, dripping into slurry that crept down toward the magazine. He hurled it away just as the bolts went off in sequence like a krak grenade, shredding half a dozen grutchin with diamantite shrapnel. Another fluttered in and he gutted it with his blade, yanked from his hip holster. Solidian''s bolter barked, knocking two in rapid succession from the air. The biots were all around them, meter-long bodies and whickering wings blocking vision, confusing auspex - he saw a human go down, get dragged, screaming, into the waiting jaws of two insects. Another howled, backed against the wall, keeping grutchin at bay with rapid beams of las. Four left alive - or was it three? Zalthis'' words before felt hollow; this was no worthy death. He owed them better. From lifeless hands he scooped up a lasrifle, pinching off the trigger guard between ceramite-clad fingers. One, two grutchin, right through the eyes, dropped by red las. Solidian hurled a krak grenade, sending another cluster flailing and twitching. S''hmu, stalwart, was an eye of calm as he spun, spraying blasterfire. Smoking grutchin spoke to the benefit of volume over accuracy. ''Zal!'' Solidian shouted. The other ultramarine, caught off guard after hurling his grenade, lost his bolter to a darting grutchin that plucked it from his fist. Two impacted him on the plastron, staggering the Astartes back. From twenty meters away, Zalthis heard the sizzle of ceramite melting. ''Sol!'' A lasrifle was no danger to Mark IV plate and Zalthis hosed his brother down, blowing away one grutchin but just as quickly another and another took its place. As if by some signal, every remaining biot launched away from where they were, arrowing for the embattled Ultramarine. His brother vanished under a sudden pile of swarming wings and clicking jaws. The lasrifle in Zal''s fist clicked dry. Blue blasterfire burst over the pile of grutchin, ripping fist-sized holes into abdomens and popping multifaceted eyes. S''hmu barged in, hooting a long bellow through his dorsal nostrils. A grutchin leapt on the rotary cannon and the Herglic hurled the entire thing aside, crunching the biot between weighty weapon and duracrete tunnel wall. Then he was ripping the grutchin from Solidian with his bare hands, slinging them around and stomping them into mush. Zalthis leapt into action, lending his own superhuman strength, obliterating one biot with a backswing and then grabbing hold of the abdomen of one S''hmu held in both fists and tugging, ripping the creature in half messily. Solidian''s flailing arms came visible as they pulverized the single-minded vong weapon-creatures, unearthing the fallen Ultramarine from under a carpet of overgrown locusts. Rents were torn in oceanic blue plate, deep enough that crimson leaked from a few. His helmet was half-melted, revealing a crazed expression. Zalthis caught Sol''s hand and yanked his brother back to his feet, slapping aside a bug and stomping it flat. Then there were none left, none at all, the whisper of wings gone and chitter of insectile legs silenced. He gave Solidian space, breathing hard. His brother looked like he had been set upon by a carnodon, but waved a hand in placation. ''I''m-'' he gasped in air, ''fine, brother. I-'' S''hmu groaned, sinking to his knees instead. Solidian caught the Herglic, easing him away from a puddle of steaming grutchin spit. A stone sank in Zalthis gut as he saw the being''s injuries. Of his left hand, little remained but red-slicked nubs of bone. Slashes cut deep in thick black and white blubber. He carried aid - Zalthis was no medicae, but he had training in its application. He had stimulants and staples, enough to seal injuries long enough to¡­his thoughts faltered. Long enough for transhuman biology to take effect. He knew how to treat another Astartes. It was Lyros that had the training on mortals - on human biology at least. Solidian was asking the same question, over and over. ''Why did you do it?'' he demanded, roughly, face inches from S''hmu''s. ''Why? Why did you do it?'' S''hmu tucked his mauled hand in close, wincing, jamming it under his other arm. Blood drooled from his wide lips, staining thick and peglike teeth. ''S''m'' home,'' he slurred. ''Nev- never liked Fondor but s''m'' home. S-since I was'' calf. Didn'' want you t'' die for m'' home.'' Zalthis knelt down, pulling Solidian back. His brother yanked off the remains of his helm and hurled it aside. Blood trickled down his dark face from slashes where his scalp had been ripped back, exposing bone. Bloody, but nothing life-threatening. Already scabbing over. S''hmu trembled, gasping. Bloody mist gusted from his dorsal nostrils. ''Kriffin''...acid. Think I¡­got s''m in m''-'' he coughed again, doubling over and Zalthis supported his shoulders. ''-kriffin'' lungs.'' ''Breathe slowly,'' Zalthis ordered before snapping fingers at one of the surviving Fondorians. ''You! Bring a medkit. Something!'' ''I - I don''t have anything, sir.'' ''Then what use are you!'' Zalthis pulled a stimulant ampoule from his belt, ripped away the needle-guard. Solidian caught his wrist. ''Sol, he''ll die-'' S''hmu shuddered, breath growing shallow. ''You will kill him with that, Zal.'' The stim rolled in his ceramite palm, mocking. He clenched his fist tight, ceramite creaking louder than the tinny sound of shattering glass. Once, twice, he pounded his fist into duracrete beside the dying Herglic. ''Sorry, blue boys,'' S''hmu slurred. ''Take m'', take m'' gun. It''s a good gun.'' Solidian, face stained with clotted blood, looked between the stricken alien and the smashed bits of grutchin scattered about. Fingers ran over melted divots and bites in his thick plate. ''I will, S''hmu.'' Deep brown eyes rolled and stared blankly up, past Zalthis, past Solidian. ''''Fraid¡­'' he said in a small voice. S''hmu''s undamaged hand was as large as Zalthis was, even in his plate. He clasped the Herglic''s arm, palm to wrist, leaning close. He knew not what to say, in times like this. For his Sergeant, there was only pride. Sorrow that he would not learn more, that the Ultramarines lost a great champion, but to be Astartes was to die - all knew that. Mortals yearned to live. It burned in them: in Knight Taral''s remaining eye, when she held her body together by will and bloody determination. Here, now, in the surprisingly human ones that peered up at Zalthis'' harsh red lenses. They craved meaning. They needed peace. The words came then, with clarity. With his free hand, he doffed his helmet. S''hmu''s mouth worked, soundless. ''May your Force be with you,'' Zalthis said. S''hmu stilled and breathed no more.
They rolled out at dawn. Thirty-two Juggernauts, bounding over the broken terrain in a long column, racing ahead of plodding walkers. SB series war droids in their thousands marched alongside the walkers, smartly sweeping their heavy lasers left and right. The mood was grim ¨C this much armor against one worldeater might be able to eke out a win, but everyone knew there were three others that would all respond in time. Most saw the foray as a suicide mission. Many were even volunteers, Fondor natives who jumped at the chance to strike back at the bastards that had hurt their home. The Tapani martial culture was still alive and well and some aboard the juggernauts hummed old songs or clenched tight in their hands pictures of loved ones. They went to war expecting to die and Optarch was proud. There was much weakness in this galaxy, he had seen, but still there was ever steel in the spine of humanity, as divergent as they might be. In his own turn, then, he would do all he could to ensure that their swift expectation of death did not come to pass. That a decent percentage of those going to war were alien he chose to overlook. The Yuuzhan Vong, alerted instantly by tremorsensors and a wakeful yammosk, reacted swiftly. Rakamats stirred from slumber, yawning and shaking sail-like spines. Warriors barked out orders to regiments of chazrach. The vast worldeaters lowed, long and loud, primitive sapience hungry for battle. Coralskipper squadrons hurriedly refueled, devouring rock and processed minerals. Tsik-vai and gunship analogues prepared to take to the skies. If the infidels wanted a fight, they were more than welcome to come. Marshal Baur''ak was pleased. If they forced a climactic confrontation, it would be that much easier to break their backs and push on to his objective. This dismal world had killed his taste for a longer war and now he was eager to be done and gone. There was little glory here, he felt, in the grinding attrition of line breaking and the follow-up urban skirmishes until the next defensive lines. Better to finish and leave this world of abominable dead-things to the Shapers to rebirth and chase greater glories. As the yammosk fed him more and more intel, indicating with greater certainty the strength of the infidel strike, Baur''ak grew more and more convinced this was a last-gasp effort to break out. They were on the brink of defeat, so close to their precious capital and the critical shield generators. Desperation drove them. He issued the command. Fold in the worldeaters. No longer needed as heavy assets across the front, he could alloy them here and shatter the infidels in a single stroke. Operation Last Hand raged out before Kadyin Memorial. Juggernauts rippled off salvos of rockets in unison, battering down rakamat voids to allow walkers to finish them with one-two strikes of chin-mounted blasters. Snubfighters dueled with coralskippers above, aerial superiority hotly contested. SB droids absorbed endless hails of bugs, carapaces dented and smeared with ichor as they poured blaster fire into the Yuuzhan Vong entrenchments. Even the first worldeater was embattled. Juggernauts dashed around it, keeping constantly on the move, deceptively speedy for such size. Walkers dueled it directly, exchanging fire, seeking to hammer through dovin basal choirs. Leman Russ, kept at range, threw shell after fat shell, armor piercing and high explosive. Basilisk launchers thumped out cluster munitions. SPHA/m artillery slung baradium-enhanced rounds high. For all its land-bound nature, though, the worldeater was built like a cruiser. Yorik coral plates as thick as any spacecraft protected its flanks and back while dovin basals as large as that of a corvette hungrily sucked up rocket and blasterbolt and shell alike. Occasional lucky shots snuck through, pitting and scarring its thick hide here and there, but it only drove the beast to new heights of savagery. Urang-hul breeding pods exploded along its back, hammering at walkers and juggernauts and war droids alike, slamming flat the latter and punching holes clean through the durasteel of the others. Horn-like nozzles spewed plasma without end. The Republican armor held its own. The speed of the juggernauts and their low-slung bodies allowed canny drivers to exploit factories and warehouses, letting the worldeater''s return fire shatter and hole those abandoned buildings instead. Walkers fared worse, too tall and too slow to easily evade, but with the benefit of tougher plating. Minutes passed first, then a quarter hour, more. The Republicans, bolstered by Exiles, held strong. Spirits rose. A sense of anticipation roiled across the front, infecting all with anxious energy. It seemed the worldeater might founder. Snubfighters, briefly freed from aerial duels made strafing runs, employing the same stutter-fire techniques that had proven effective against coralskippers. Lasers creased armor, clipping the tip off the largest of the biot''s vast plates soaring from its spine. Massed rocket fire finally battered down a void, rippling crimson explosions along the entirety of the beast''s left side. It stumbled, momentarily knocked off-kilter, bellowing in anger. Two proton torpedoes, loosed as soon as the dovin basals were soon to be exhausted, slammed down in a paired detonation that overloaded the senses of all those within a kilometer. The worldeater stumped out of the explosion, scorched, steam and smoke pouring from it, but still standing strong. It raised its head to the sky, paws balled into fists, and howled. Howls answered it. The other worldeaters had arrived. Singly they strode toward the battlefield from all directions, coming to the aid of their embattled kin. Ullos, watching from his command center, knuckles white where he clenched hard the rim of the holoprojector, waited for Optarch''s promised deliverance. As called for in the battle plan, the juggernauts broke off, speeding back toward Republican lines. The walkers, slower, more ponderous, backed away, keeping up an unending stream of blasterfire. In contrast, the SB droids pushed harder, throwing themselves at the Yuuzhan Vong even as rakamats rallied and lesser biots sensed blood. The droids were expendable ¨C Fondor''s vast manufactories churned out thousands every day. First Eboracum tanks repositioned. The worldeaters must be drawn in totally. Ullos could not guess what Optarch''s plan was. There were no capital ships above that could offer fire, even if the shields could be lowered. The Yuuzhan Vong would be unable to miss such a deployment and would never commit their forces with such a danger above. Admiral Brand''s fleet remained clustered more than a thousand kilometers away, remaining anchored and out of range just like the Yuuzhan Vong fleet, each hiding behind the horizon line. Optarch looked up at the clouded sky. Beyond, at the edge of the atmosphere, was the invisible barrier of the Republic''s shields. These, he admitted, were impressive. Voids could cover vast stretches of a world, but to date no void shield had yet been constructed that could encapsulate an entire world at once. Always voids had to be layered and overlapped. Though their efficacy was lesser, Optarch admitted an interest in these barriers. What difference might they have made at Calth, he wondered. Technicians in Oridin had been working overtime, sometimes going without sleep for days at a time, reinforcing and running endless tests on the generators. Magos Orichi-Mu, drawn by temptation of technology and professional rivalry, tucked into the challenge with relish. The fruit of their efforts was finally to be plucked. Much rode on this moment: like Ullos had said, Optarch was preparing to gamble an entire world. Distantly he wondered if he would be so flippant with a world of the Imperium. If his willingness to try the unorthodox and dangerous came from his lack of connection to Fondor. It did not matter. Optarch tapped his wrist, activating the noospheric link to Orichi-Mu. ''Now or never, Magos,'' he said. As was the cantankerous savant''s want, the Martian did not deign to reply. Instead, just above Kadyin, a five hundred square kilometer segment of Fondor''s shields cut off. Ullos nodded in satisfaction, expecting this development. Reflexively, he looked up at the ceiling of the strategic center. On board Yammka, Nas Choka''s lips thinned. At first nothing was different. The juggernauts continued their fighting withdrawal. More walkers were swatted down, legs cut from under them, control cockpits blown off. SB droids died in swathes as the arriving worldeater sprayed plasma across the field. Underground storage and fuel depots erupted in explosions, blowtorch sprays of flaming fuel spraying hundreds of meters into the sky. Artillery fire slashed down from the New Republic lines, but it seemed ineffectual in the weight of the Vong advance. The clouds above, still slowly lightening as the shrouded sun rose, blushed red. From them burst free a massive, flame-shrouded shape, howling toward the surface at terminal velocity. Reentry heat blushed the carapace a deep crimson, an enormous plume of smoke tracking its descent. Coralskippers reoriented ¨C the yammosk did not know what this was, simply that it was a foe. Plasma hammered out, encountering active void shields. Magma missiles spiraled in, crumpling against thick adamantium armor. Retrojets fired, each blowing out a plume of exhaust as wide as a rakamat, kicking up curls of grit and dust. The lander struck the surface with enough force to knock flat chazrach and topple entire blocks. Four worldeaters circled the cloud of kicked up ejecta warily, each keeping well at range. The battlefield calmed, both sides uncertain of what was to come. Grinding metal and screaming motors rent the air, thudding booms the only clue to what went on within the settling cloud of smoke and dust. Lights ignited within, red and crackling blue. Harsh searchlights strobed and swept, weirdly distorted by the swirling curtains. One worldeater stopped, sucking in a deep breath, body quaking with the intensity of its irrepressible energy and urge for violence, fists balling. Its roar was deafening, an animalistic declaration of violence. From within the cloud of dust came its answer. Windows exploded for kilometers around. The swirling dust and smoke was visibly blasted away, suddenly clearing to reveal a single, towering bipedal figure. An effigy in iron. The barrage of noise continued: a long, mournful, visceral scream that tapered off into a lingering rumble at the edge of hearing. Its true name was long and convoluted, a string of binaric and ritual hexadecimal that ran on in fractal tangles of equations praising the Motive Force. To the world, its name was Mortarch Abandon. The primus Titan of the Legio Lacassex, veteran of Ancient Mars, survivor of the scouring rad-storms of Calth and the engine murder of Komesh. The Lord of the Maniple Katabatic. The Death Watcher became the Lord of Death again. Optarch had overseen the insertion of the coffin-ship into the orbital churn of debris, poised precisely over the battlefield he had chosen for the day. Aboard the single-engine coffinship the princeps and crew of Mortarch slumbered in drugged stupor, all systems drawing the barest minimum of power. In her cradle Noriomi dreamt of fire and war and clear skies baking with sunlight. She dreamt with the soul of Mortarch, conjoining together in their aspect of Mors Vigilia. The Watcher. The careful carnodon, the poised hunter. Watching, waiting. Guiding until their battlefield was ripe. Her moderati slept restless, phantoms of their mistress and the god-soul of the Titan unwilling to settle. Days passed. If Orichi had not been fruitful in his labors, the worldeaters would have overrun Kadyin Memorial line. The Republicans would have broken. Iax Tertius and First Eboracum would have faced catastrophic losses. Oridin City would topple, days later, and then the shields, the entire world''s shields, with it, opening to endless landings from the Yuuzhan Vong armada. The Omnissiah ever provided. Finally set free after the doldrums of waiting and months beforehand of tedium, Noriomi stretched muscles tense with inaction, the action repeated by the slabbed shoulders of the thirty-meter engine of war. Its warhorn howled again, challenge bald-faced and arrogant. The great titan rocked its shoulders, rippling the vast cloth of its half-cape, arid and ashen and toxin-laced air snapping and catching at the weighted edges. Holographs skittered along the woven adamantium thread and gold weave, an oceanic ripple of the gloried history of the ancient machine. Digits uncurled from a hand larger than a main battle tank, brushing the fabric with a beguiling gentleness. Noriomi scoffed, the tenor of her disdain clear through the Mind Impulse Link, the sacred tether that unified them all. She saw through Mortarch''s eyes, felt the acidic winds against her adamantium skin. The thrum and pulse of the chained star in the Titan''s belly was the heat of her own heart. offered a moderati, though in the blend of the joining it was unclear whom. Tol Tolu, by the flavor of excitement in the tone. Mortarch Abandon took a long stride, the impact of the splayed claw on the hardpan jolting Noriomi''s hip. Her foot/its talons sunk only a meter into the dense ferrocrete. Another scry-pulse slammed from Mortarch, scouring the battlefield and building a tactical map of several hundred square kilometers. Two of the four worldeater began to lope to the side, aiming to outflank the Warlord. Shoulder-mounted las-blasters tracked, smoothly oiled and sanctified gearing mechanisms rotating the train-sized weapons with ease. The other two stood their ground, one hunching lower to the ground, waggling massive spinal plates in some manner of bestial threat display. Kilometers away in Oridin, Orichi-Mu continued his quiet hymnal to the Machine God on a secondary vox-band. Contingence Chapter XIII PART V: FORCED HAND
XIII: A Knight, Alone
Anakin slid the landspeeder smoothly back into its spot in the motorpool, letting it settle to the tarmac as repulsorlifts shut down and the engine trembled off with a low whine. After the monster took off, winging away and out of the atmosphere, their sense of budding triumph vanished like a smuggler when the Stormtroopers came knocking. Sure, they had banished the creature from the plateau and where it might threaten the Praxeum, but now it was heading for a place far, far less defended. Yavin 8, home of Sannah''s people, the aquatic and amphibious Melodies, was a place Anakin and Tahiri knew well. Snakes, spiders, rats - the worst kinds of critters called that moon home, and all of them were way too big and way too hungry for Melodies. They''d met Sannah there, years ago, when escorting Lyric back home for her Changing. What started as a homecoming for Lyric turned into a nonstop fight for survival. But that was then, when the Melodies were still reclusive and hidden, and now their Changing pools and egg-caverns had electrified fencing surrounding them and early alert sirens. Purellas dragging away adolescent Melodies to string up in their webs and suck dry was a thing of the past, just like Reels crushing helpless Changeling Melodies or Raithes making off with dozens of unhatched eggs. Just a touch of modern technology and the wilderness of Yavin 8 was kept at bay and all the better for it. Electrified fences and some sirens wouldn''t keep that sithspawn away. Not when it could rip open ancient Massassi stone and tunnel through solid bedrock. All three teenagers sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the gentle metallic pinging of the landspeeder as it cooled down. Each was lost in their own thoughts, just loud enough the others could catch bare surface meanings. Tahiri wondered if it might not have been better if she hadn''t woken the stupid thing up. Anakin chewed his lip, thinking about ways they could''ve sealed it into the cave under the temple, or maybe crushed it instead. Sannah, quietest, had said nothing at all since the monster fled. She, out of all them, knew how vulnerable her people were. They weren''t fighters, not natural ones anyway. Anakin felt a deeper undercurrent to Sannah''s mood. She was afraid for her people, that was for sure, but he sensed something else. Something even she wanted to pretend wasn''t there. He sighed, hoisting himself up and hopping out of the driver''s seat. The girls started, jerked from their own thoughts by his sudden motion. Tahiri yawned, wide enough to pop her jaw and she winced, rubbing at her cheek. "Ow. So¡­what do we do now?" Anakin held out a hand, letting Sannah use it as leverage as the much shorter girl climbed out of the backseat of the landspeeder and hopped down to the ground. She didn''t look at Anakin, keeping her eyes downcast. "You alright, Sannah?" She mumbled something, rubbing at her elbow. He felt another flash of that buried-deep feeling. Tahiri, also catching on, paused in removing her boots. Her brown hair, frazzled and tangled from their descent, fight, and flight, fell over her face. Gently, Anakin brushed it aside, crouching down. There were tears in the corners of her eyes. "Hey," Anakin said gently, taking both of Sannah''s hands. "We''ll stop it." "I thought I could protect my people," Sannah sniffed. "If I was a Jedi, like Lyric¡­" "You are a Jedi." Tahiri abandoned removing her boots, leaving both sets of laces trailing. She came around, wrapping up Sannah in a hug from behind. "That thing ran away from us, it doesn''t stand a chance. We''ll chase it back to your home and show it that you can''t run from Jedi." Again, Anakin felt that buried emotion from Sannah, but this time put name to it. Shame. Holding back tears, Sannah wildly shook her head. "I don''t want to go home," she sputtered, furiously wiping away a tear that slipped free, almost angry that it dared to fall. "Atargatis is horrible." Above Sannah''s head, Tahiri frowned, mouthing the unfamiliar name. It took a moment, but it was thinking of Lyric that reminded Anakin. Yavin 8 wasn''t ''Yavin 8'' to the Melodies, of course. Atargatis wass what they called their home, it meant something like ''the life-waters''. Tahiri felt his recognition and winced. "I thought I would go and train and be like Lyric and go back home but then I was here and there was so much to do and then I learned about the whole galaxy and Anakin, Anakin I don''t wanna go home." "It''s not forever!" Sannah being afraid of the sithspawn, that Anakin could understand. Sannah being afraid for her people, that too. Sannah¡­having some kind of crisis about growing up, right now? Not as much. "You don''t even have to come with us, Tahiri and I-" "No!" Sannah shouted, yanking free of Tahiri''s arms and jabbing a finger at Anakin''s chest. "Don''t you - don''t leave me behind." "But-" "Lyric only went back because she had to Change. That''s years away, Sannah." Tahiri reminded the Melodie. Help, she sent to Anakin. As if he had any better idea. Worse, Tahiri''s words only soured Sannah''s mood further. "I don''t want to think about it. But now I have to think about it, and - augh!" Sannah rubbed at her eyes, banishing the last threatening moisture. "I''m acting like a dumb girl," she moaned. "Uhm." Anakin managed. Tahiri arched a brow at his eloquence, finally kicking off her loosened boots. "Hey, Sannah, I told you about when Anakin and I had to go back to Tatooine, right?" Sannah huffed a sigh. "Yeah." "Well, I''m gonna tell you about it again. Because I know how you feel. I think I do. No, I do. I was afraid to go back home too. Here I was, at the Jedi Academy! I got to be Tahiri, and figure out who that was. And then I had Anakin too, and our friends, and then all of a sudden¡­" Tahiri led Sannah along, chattering away, recounting their adventures of just a few years ago. They had to go see Uncle Luke, tell him what went on¡­and then figure out just how to comfort Sannah. Anakin rubbed his forehead. What a day so far.
Mortarch Abandon strode past straggling AT-ATs, the walkers still beating a hasty retreat. One limped past the Imperial Warlord, rear leg dragging on seized gearing. Juggernauts rolled past, each as long as the Warlord was tall, but Noriomi looked down on them from a position of high disdain. A single one of Mortarch''s blessed armaments was as long and as heavy as the flimsy quadrupedal walkers. She watched incredulously as one slunk past, wondering at how it managed to stay upright on such spindly limbs. Mortarch''s bulky mask craned to watch the vehicle amble by before the princeps hauled her attention and that of the great machine''s spirit back to their foes. It vied with her, arrogant and haughty, a Lord who only cared to listen to those it''s equal. At the moment it was more insulted by the pitiful facsimiles that passed it by than the enormous beasts far distant. Another worldeater bellowed, shaking spines and hooting a challenge. The last two, now arriving, took up the call, continuing their ponderous encirclement. Noriomi strode gladly into the ''trap'', already flexing the Arioch gauntlet that made up the Mortarch''s strong right hand. Mortarch''s spirit snarled, straining under her control, hungry to engage. She could feel it trying to divert power to the gauntlet, just as anxious as she to come to grips. A rarity for a Titan vehicle; the Arioch was the far distant cousin of the Astarte''s powerfists, magnified into proportions that beggared belief. Legio Lacassex''s humour was bellicose and daring, every princeps eager to engage the enemy close enough to exult in the heat of reactor-death and feel the clatter of wreckage against glacis. Cracks of lightning coiled about enormous digits and the on-board megabolters hummed with eagerness. Noriomi/Mortarch unconsciously clenched and unclenched her/its fist, eager to sink fingers home in their foe and taste the ferocity of their death. With each stride the Titan covered a dozen meters, building into a lope, incongruously graceful and swift in comparison to the plodding walkers left behind. Intricately woven banners flickering with hololiths and circuitry sewn into the fabrics flapped at groin and shoulder, proudly bearing the colors of Ultramar and Lacassex to battle in a galaxy yet innocent in the manner of Titan war. Lacassex''s bold colors in the ice-blue of Choleris Prime''s oceans and silver-white of the world''s frigid snows stood vibrant contrast to the muddy, dark-grey architecture around. Her cape rippled and she felt her own pride mingle with that of the titan. She could feel the smug superiority of Mortarch''s soul, eager to demonstrate the power of the Machine God. For now she kept the reins tight, saturating the Titan with her will. The two worldeater before the Titan lobbed corkscrewing magma-missiles skyward, a dozen of the flaming projectiles arching high before plunging sharply. Carapace las-batteries fired upwards, but few were swatted from the air. Rippling blinding-bright detonations flared across the voids of Mortarch Abandon and it seemed the worldeater all paused to witness the efficacy of their strike. Mortarch bulled out of the fire without a hitch in its stride. Its horn hooted in raucous, derisive amusement as Noriomi probed at the strength of her voids. Though she did not feel her flesh-body, a smile spread across her face. The gap closed to hundreds of meters. Noriomi itched to come to grips with one of the monsters, but logic tempered her battle-lust. Mortarch sullenly acceded to her reason. With pulses of thought and feeling, she promised the spirit victory. The Titan trusted her. Together they had strode a hundred worlds, laying low innumerable foes. Together they were an unstoppable force. Mortarch/Noriomi watched the two flanking worldeater begin to pull in, closing from the left and right. Another spew of magma missiles filled the sky, this time erupting from all four of the biots. She chose her target at a whim ¨C either before her was viable. Whimsy decided on the leftward creature. She could pepper the creature with weaker shots, test and try its strength, but brushed aside the idea. Her left hand reached out and fist clenched and the liquid fury of a star erupted from her palm. A Belicosa Volcano cannon is a las weapon of the scale normally borne by starships. Its normal function was as capital-class discouragement and defense. Beam attenuation was measured in the thousands of kilometers. The curvature of a world its only impediment. Light blasted the battlefield. Shadows flared into ink-dark pools. Dovin basals, just waiting for this moment, yawned voids wide in the moments before firing. Countless ergs drained into nothing, devoured by the hungry creatures, shunted into nothingness by short-lived point-masses. Microseconds passed. Still the torrent of ardent, visible radiation hammered in. Overpressure from superheated air rippled outward from the blast. One dovin basal expired, murdered from the inside out by sympathetic aftershocks that stippled a thousand tiny holes throughout its body from misfiring voids. Another died. Another fell silent. A worldeater sported more than a dozen dovin basals, a full choir like might be found on a Yuuzhan Vong corvette of the line. A fourth was knocked senseless. The void projected stuttered, failed. A fraction of a second had passed. Several tens of thousands of tons of yorik coral, muscle and worldeater was knocked bodily sideways by the impact, armor and flesh instantly vaporizing and exploding, ablating underneath the judgement of the Warlord. The beast staggered sideways, thrown off balance, columnar legs struggling to stay beneath its centre mass. This time its bellow was one of agony and shock. A vast slash tore down its side ¨C not a mortal blow but a savage one, searing away a dozen weapon implants. Gellied urang-hul bugs drooled from ruptured gestation sacs. Burst capillaries of magma-fuel leaked steaming, clotted plasma from a dozen points. Flesh was laid down to the bone in some places, ribs as thick as a man is tall cracked and scorched. Magma missiles hammered once more into the voids of Mortarch Abandon, Noriomi feeling every explosion on the greasy fields like the thumps against her back. Blue and yellow light flared, bruise-like, crackling in haloes of disruption as neutrino bursts and gamma radiation was shunted sideways out of the universe. Violet and black lightning earthed from the barrier to the projectors noduled along her spine. At this point, in a true engine battle, she would normally be down a void or two, perhaps even three if so outnumbered by enemy Titans. These creatures were massive, but they did not have the bite Mortarch was born to withstand. Coolant systems complained the great las weapon was still overwarm but Noriomi overrode them, a lifetime of intimacy with the engine imparting reflexive understanding of its utmost limits. Mortarch wanted this kill as much as she. The heatsinks were barely a dull red. Any complaint was half-hearted. She thrust out her palm once more and once more the Belicosa spoke, this time paired with the linked blast from the six barrels of the shoulder-mounted carapace turrets. The wounded biot had only just found its footing again when it was struck again. Overtaxed and exhausted dovin basals stood no chance. Beams struck and cored into the chest of the beast, peeling back its flesh and blasting superheated fragments of muscle and meat high into the air. It gave an agonized howl and collapsed, the impact of its fall shuddering through the legs of Mortarch. Most of the front of its chest was vaporized, nearly severing both arms. gloated the machine spirit, howling the announcement with the thunder of battle horns. It was not, strictly speaking, an engine, Noriomi thought, but did not begrudge her mount''s enthusiasm.
Far, far away, watching on holotanks and from direct feeds from the front, Ullos turned to Lieutenant Optarch, incredulity writ clear on his face. ''What is that?'' ''A Warlord Titan, General. Mortarch Abandon.'' On the holotank the striding, humanoid construct continued its unerring march, buffeted by swarms of detonations from magma missiles and the splashing of plasma. Its majestic warhorn, one that Paston knew from long experience could vibrate a man''s teeth from his skull was reduced to a tinny, static-laded shrill. In the winds of the rippling storms of wounded Fondor, the incongruous and rakish shoulder-cape of the titan rippled and snapped like a vast sail-canvas along with its victory pennants. ''Do you have more?'' The Ultramarine was amused by the sentiment: awe immediately replaced by desire. ''Not in this theatre.'' Optarch leaned closer, nodding in satisfaction as flames parted around still-present voids, Mortarch as yet untouched. ''Princeps Noriomi would not have it. She wanted to hunt alone.'' ''That''s not her decision to make, this ''princeps''.'' Optarch forgave him his ignorance and merely shook his head. ''I may not command a Titan Legio, General. Very few can. We can only request. For even one to walk here is an unexpected boon.'' Noriomi had been a last-minute addition. Orichi-Mu did not wish her to accompany to Corellia, wondering what use a Titan would be in what should be only a void battle, but the Princeps insisted. Even the Dominus wouldn''t gainsay the Chief of Lacassex, and now her mount proved a potent last-resort. On the holo Mortarch spoke again, sheets of interference from a massive radiation bloom momentarily blurring out all feeds within the area. Zagging lines resolved back into the Warlord titan, seen from many hundreds of meters away, at ground level. It was fully engaged with two worldeater, trading point-blank fire from las-cannon and massive megabolters in the shoulders. ''But the power they bring is worth compromising for, is it not?'' Ullos nodded, watching as a worldeater staggered back, retreating behind its fellow with voids exhausted and a dozen searing wounds along its flank. ''Surely it will be overwhelmed? I can order the remaining juggernauts assets back into the fight ¨C'' Optarch waved it away. ''Noriomi would begrudge it. Mortarch Abandon hunts alone. Let her be.''
Another wave of plasma hammered into her skin, a solid gut-punch that brought down a layer of voids in a concussive bang of displaced air and violet sparks that visibly rocked the nearest Vong biot. Noriomi grimaced, her massive power claw flexing in sympathetic motion to her irritation. Still she retained her final void shield, but had been unable to secure a second kill. The worldeater, for all their mass, were swifter than they seemed. She suspected some result of the gravitic manipulation powers of their symbiotes, lowering their weight enough for one to shy away from a linked blast of all six las-cannon. It was not wasted, however, as the battle-cannon tore scars a kilometer long in the distant alien fortifications. Mortarch howled in irritation, Noriomi backpedaling to swing around, keeping two biots in her frontal arc. The third remained in her blind spot, directly behind the Warlord, content to pump out insects and plasma to hammer against her voids. The two biots before her were wary ¨C one scarred deeply by a glancing hit of her volcano cannon, but not out of the fight. It favored its left leg, limping and staying farther back. The nearest was the more canny ¨C still untouched after minutes of exchanged fire. Her Belicosa was hot and steaming, yet unable to come to bear with a meaningful strike again. Noriomi could see the tiny figures of the aliens milling around far distant. It would not be long before they gathered their nerve and came to the aid of their creature-titans. Already Mortarch''s megabolters reached half capacity of ammunition, a feeling like a pang of hunger in the pit of her stomach. With no Knight maniples to keep her feet clear, it was not a potential she enjoyed. She would never lower herself to accept aid from the spindly war-walkers of the Republicans, even if it were to just keep her feet clear of boarders. This clash needed to be ended now. She felt her moderati like glowing presences below her, as if they buoyed her up. Their mind-impulses, thoughts, words ¨C all flowed together into streams of consciousness. In the Legio Lacassex cooperation was not expected: utter unity was demanded. The princeps the driving personality, moderati like angels atop the shoulder, offering advice and assistance, but always lesser. And beneath them all the churning storm of the Titan itself, a vast entity unto itself, volatile and godlike, tempered only by the tenuous chains held by its experienced crew. One day each of her moderati would know what it was to master a God machine, Noriomi thought, as the Motive Force filled the fibre-bundled limbs of her oldest friend. The charge of her volcano cannon ebbed, left hand growing cool and stiff, but ever did she trust in her strong right hand. They too would one day know what it was like to stride the battlefield an impervious avatar of divinity. The nearest worldeater, the canny one, would not be an easy kill. She set her sights instead on its injured fellow. Mortarch tipped forward, as if to fall, yet its massive legs found purchase and the Titan, incredibly, began to jog. Rarely did she attempt such a risky motion, for a Titan fallen was often doomed. Gyroscopes and compensators screamed within her chassis, a feeling like bone-deep nausea clenching at her gut. But she grinned. A Warlord could never outpace a Warhound, the smaller scout Titan much more gracile and swift, but there was nothing as heart-stoppingly terrifying as an icon of the Machine God bearing down upon a foe with such fixed fury. Lacassex did strange things to their Titans, other, lesser Legios whispered. The sly worldeater slid aside, lowing in surprise, scattered plasma fired in haste splashing against voids. The damaged biot had no chance, stolen by its crippling injury. Noriomi struck out, Arioch gauntlet grasping forward, knowing to end a charge without contact with a foe could well tip Mortarch beyond the capabilities of its engineering to compensate for. She judged rightly. As always. Digits longer than an Astartes Dreadnought was tall sank home in the slabbed armor plating of the beast, daggering into its throat. Disruption fields screamed and reduced yorik coral to constituent atoms, hissing plumes of vaporized dust and carbonized gore spuming into the air. The worldeater''s roar became a strangled shriek as the Warlord bodily collided with it, forcing the beast sideways and back. It was taller than her, more than twice as long as the Warlord was tall, yet still the impetus of her engine rocked it back. Inside Mortarch the impact was severe, thumping Noriomi hard enough to bleed through her elevated state and she distantly hoped the engineseer and magos had braced. But the worldeater was caught. Its massive head glared down in pained shock, eyes peculiarly emotive at so close a range. Good. She craned to look up into them, to see the animal''s primitive intelligence recognize the moment of its death. Mortarch Abandon hauled it closer, claws fisted deep in the meat of the beast. Scrabbling paws thudded hard against the Titan''s carapace, screeching hard claws down her glacis, leaving shining tracks of exposed, raw adamantium. One enormous talon managed to hook over Mortarch''s chest plate, tugged hard enough Noriomi winced at the feeling, like a yanked rib. she blurted, one syllable translated into a mechanical growl, squeezing down ever harder. The beast''s jaws fell open, and down in its gullet she saw her own talons, sunk through, soaked in gore, but beyond was a feeble orange glow, deep down in its throat that guttered and died even as it shone past her clenching fist. A herculean shove pushed the biot away as Mortarch took two long strides back, letting it slump to the soil in ruin. The ruined remains of its throat remained in her grasp, crunching and crackling into dust. For good measure, her shoulder cannon pulsed six bars of searing light into its ruptured throat. The fallen corpse wetly detonated, vast amounts of softer innards and water turned to superheated steam in microsecond, rendering the forward third into a churn of meat. Mortarch''s spirit crowed for the second time, the churning heart of the Titan running hot and passionate. Where other Titans might grow more unwieldy and difficult to control the longer a battle waged, Noriomi''s bond with Mortarch was the opposite. With each kill their meld only heightened as she proved again and again to be a worthy mistress. Like dancers they found their footing, they anticipated each other''s moves, they trusted in the motion. Noriomi had loved before, but never as deeply as she loved her Titan. Noriomi turned to face the final two beasts. < Et Lacesso Mortem! Yet we challenge death!> The giddy excitement of her moderati infused her. The Titan raised its gauntlet, blood still streaming down fingers and extended one single finger, beckoning. Her cape waved in the wind, the hot glare of the cockpit windows burning.
Optarch snorted at the display, crossing his arms over the Ultima set in the chest of his warplate. Such showmanship was well known for Lacassex, their incautious gloryhounding setting them apart from the practical Ultramarian mindset. Still, he mused, at least their arrogance was well earned. Rarely had Lacassex ever been bested. Now would not be one of those times. Only two Yuuzhan Vong bio-titans remained and he suspected Mortarch would soon be restoring a second void shield. Preparations needed to be made for a further offensive, to follow up support to the Titan once the field was cleared of the superheavy assets. Then would be the time to break the alien entirely (though mentally he grimaced at the inaccuracy of referring to the Vong in such a way, considering that no small portion of the forces at his disposal were, indeed, xenoforms). With luck, Fondor could be secured by the end of the week.
Noriomi twitched as her second void shield re-engaged, the static crackle sensation skittering up the nerves of her back. One worldeater still lurked to her flank while the other, surprised by the brutal execution of its fellow, eyed her from a distance. There was a lull, a moment to breathe. With two voids restored, she was confident the battle was all but ended. The two bio-titans were unhurt aside from minor, cosmetic wounds, but Mortarch was hot and blooded. She judged her next move ¨C at half ammunition, she could turn her megabolters on one of the beasts, overwhelm its voids, strip its agility and pin it through. She could feel the building pressure in her left hand, but kept her focus larger, beyond the minutiae of plasma-pressure and capacitor banks. Excellent. She would kill the nearest next, then finally render judgment on the cowardly beast that had been hiding in her shadow. Mortarch took two heavy strides backwards, pivoting at the waist, moving back from the obstruction of the latest worldeater corpse. Even fallen and half-destroyed, its humped back reached waist-high on the Warlord, the massive spinal sails climbing even higher. Noriomi twitched her shoulders, bringing both carapace las-cannon turrets to bear on the nearest biot, watching as it drew itself up, standing almost upright, tail swinging low to brush the ground. An odd stance, she mused: not entirely combat-viable, but perhaps a primitive form of intimidation, which she felt Mortarch pulse deep amusement at. In the swirling drifts of ash and dust that swept through this sector, she caught glimmers of slithering, liquid light reflecting from windborne particulates. Harsh and blue, it crackled to life at the tip of the worldeater''s long tail, a spreading wildfire of sudden chemical luminance rippling up its tail toward the vast sails of its back. Mortarch tensed, bracing, and Noriomi swung her left hand around, bringing the Belicosa in line. Whatever this worldeater intended, it had merely made itself a perfect, stationary target. Blue light crackled in veins along each of the spinal plates, reaching up to its broad, armored skull. Its dark eyes, no different to the ones she had just seen grow glassy and empty of life in its brother, lit with Cherenkov blue. The worldeater shuddered, convulsing along the entire length of its body. It snapped wide jaws forward and screamed. A stream of wild particles in a cocktail of plasma and exotic radiation, tinged white-hot and pale-blue, shrieked across the short span between the beast and the Warlord, slamming into her voids like a kick to the chest. Alarms immediately howled in the cockpit, Mortarch juddering in shock at the impact. The newly returned void blew out with a thundercrack, lifting dust and debris into the air for half a thousand meters around. The white-hot glare drowned out the world, the flare of it strong enough through the windows in the cockpit that Noriomi felt sweat pour down her flesh-body as the internal temperatures sky-rocketed. she felt the panicked shout of one of her moderati, again, unknown in the complex blend of the MIU link, but she rushed to tamp down their mistake. The entire titan rocked sideways, joints and muscle fibers screaming. Something had struck them, blindsiding Noriomi through the distraction of the flaring plasma. She struggled to stay upright, staggering sideways, claws sinking into the crumbled duracrete and gouging out deep trenches as she vied against their unknown attacker. The flanking worldeater, she thought grimly, no longer a coward. The final void shield collapsed in a thunder of violet sparks. Plasma washed over Mortarch and Noriomi was amazed that it was still coming. She threw up her right hand, palm-flat, into the glare and thunder of plasma, desperate to shield her face, her head, her body from the ceaseless torrent. The disruption fields in the Arioch worked, slightly, to destabilize the energetic, superheated matter, but only just. Servos slagged and digits softened; feeling through the sympathetic link like the skin of her fingers crisping and peeling back over raw tendons. The edges of her glory cape caught alight, the adamantium threads heated white-hot, like a lattice of las. Noriomi screamed with her mount, Mortarch stumbling drunkenly, bellowing its distress through warhorns. She felt immense pressure in her left arm and craned her neck to see. Face-to-face she glared at the worldeater, its reptilian eyes gone white beneath nictitating membranes barely meters from the cockpit of the Warlord. It snuggled closer, arms grasping at the carapace of the Titan, biting and crunching deeper at her left arm. Teeth shattered ¨C the thick bone and coral of the biot proving incapable of punishing adamantium. But it kept on squeezing. Bands of muscle that wrapped about its thick skull bore down. The adamantium and ceramite armor protecting her limb warped. Strained. Bent. It could not pierce it but the beast did not care. It would crush her instead. And still the second worldeater screamed plasma at her, wailing an unearthly howl that shook her bones. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. she said calmly, speaking both in flesh-voice and through the noosphere. Noriomi took another clumsy half-step sideways, the weight of the creature dragging on her left arm. She could not see her gauntlet through the blinding flare of the plasma, but she could not feel her right hand either. Even her arm felt distant, now. She said. There was the briefest of pauses, drawn out to aeons in her compartmentalized, elevated mental state. Noriomi screamed, back arching, vision whiting out and losing all sense of the battle.
The vong struck again and again, like gnats, nipping at the flanks of a grox. Mantallikes claimed one and Numinus two others, but the invaders learned rapidly. From the strategium of Macragge''s Honour, now in orbit of Eboracum, Roboute watched grimly as the boundaries and capabilities of his warships were learned. Now, vong warships lurked here and there beyond the orbit of Eboracum''s largest moon, evident and obvious and daring the 4711th to respond. He knew it would be fruitless. Though Imperial warships boasted significant realspace acceleration, it mattered little in the face of hyperspace. Well before the guns of battleships would come in range of the vong ships they would surely dart away, repositioning by bouncing out and away from Eboracum''s gravity well, reorienting, and then appearing elsewhere. Marius Gage tapped augmetic fingers, rap-tap-tap on ceramite as he stood beside the Primarch, arms folded, Mark IV plate polished and parade-ready. ''I''m surprised by their recalcitrance,'' Gage noted. ''Our theoreticals on the vong need to be reassessed.'' Guilliman''s eyes worked over the tactical hololith, as if by mere study he might discern the way out of this staring contest. ''I put little stock in the Republican assessment. It is easy to claim an enemy is rabid and without reason, but more often than not, that is a cover for personal failings to prepare for the unexpected. No force can take a fourth of a galaxy if they do not have discipline, reason and talent for strategy.'' The Yuuzhan Vong were zealots, the Republic cried. They were madmen, driven by whim and deranged obsession. They worshiped pain and rejected reason, they spat on common decency and delighted in atrocity. It painted a pretty picture, one that absolved the Republican Senate of responsibility. It painted over the failures of the first clashes with the invaders, that saw losses deserving of courts martial. How could we know, the Republicans cried? How could we have planned for this? It was a naivete that was surprising, for all of the history of this galaxy that Roboute had plumbed. How quickly did they forget the lesson of the Empire they overthrew, that only decades before had sought to snuff out worlds entire. When Ithor burned, and the Jedi Master Corran Horn took the blame, the Republicans wailed that ''who could have known?'' The burning of Ithor was eminently sound. The excuses made - that it was some ritual to honor the fallen vong Commander rang hollow. The trees of that world exuded a pollen that slew the vonduun armor creature that made the vong''s footsoldiers so fearsome. If Guilliman knew of a world that had a natural way of disabling Astartesian plate, the question would not be if the planet burned, but rather if necessity called for declaring the entire system terminatus, and expunging every last planetoid from existence and memory. In fact, the soundest practical for the vong would have been to hunt down the Ithorian herdships to the last and destroy them too. No, the Yuuzhan Vong were no fools, which meant these probing actions, the handful of lost capital ships - they meant something. There was a strategy within these seemingly feckless diversions, and Guilliman picked back up his dataslate. Beside him, Gage noted with amusement the blur of motion as his Primarch scrolled through sensorium data at a rate that appeared more a blurred waterfall rather than pages of text and diagram. ''Maximal range from Fondor¡­'' Guilliman muttered, just audible. ''Accounts for lance arrays - Mantallikes reveals traversal¡­'' Gage watched his father work. Centuries of campaigning, many decades now with the Primarch, and yet it remained a true pleasure to watch his sire in his element. His back-trace of the Campanile at Calth was a work of true genius, but tempered by the atrocity of the moment. There was none of that rawness now, just the purity of analysis and consideration. ''Project all vong movements since their arrival, with tracks colored by age.'' ''Complying,'' droned an implanted servitor and the grand hololith refreshed, sprouting a complicated web of short threads across nearspace, shading from dull red to vibrant violet. They looked haphazard, aimless, yet¡­ Gage noticed Guilliman eyeing him. ''Do you see it, Marius?'' There was a twinkle in the Primarch''s eye, the barest hint of curled lip on his patrician face. The red tracks, showing the first places the vong appeared, were closest into the gravity well and the anchored ships of the 4711th. The violet tracks, those of the past hour, drew farther away, up and out from Eboracum. ''They''re trying to draw us out.'' ''Attempting to. By my order, no ship has leave to give chase. You can see, there, there and there. They are growing impatient. The battleship-analogue killed by Mantallikes appears an anomaly, but in the greater context: it was bait.'' ''A pound of flesh to encourage us to respond.'' ''Which we did not take. Now they withdraw to the opposite orbit of Eboracum''s largest satellite - Yadraig.'' The means of hyperspace travel necessitated distance from gravity wells, either artificial or natural. Yadraig was likely large enough to project its mass shadow. Eboracum''s other moons were much smaller, scarcely worth the name at all. ''The question remains: if the vong wish us to follow them from Eboracum orbit, what purpose do they imagine? They cannot best us in fleet action. Cornelius has proven that already. They cannot attempt landing. The Pharisen Redoubt and Lacassex would slaughter their landers.'' ''Life-eater?'' Gage was loathe to even say the words aloud, but the Yuuzhan Vong had used an equivalent already. ''Unlikely. They could have unleashed it already, if that had been their aim. We cannot interdict the entire planet at this juncture.'' About them, the strategium remained quietly humming with activity, only the occasional glances sent toward the Master of the First and the Lord Primarch as the two deliberated in quiet tones. Until Guilliman reached a decision, the 4711th was to simply remain at alert, engage targets of opportunity, but otherwise refuse to rise to the bait of the vong. It chafed on the captains of the other vessels, to sit idle and watch aliens intrude on Imperial space, such as it was. Their ire grew, banked, building for the right time to be unleashed.
Lightning jagged down every nerve, seizing her muscles and Mortarch''s both. She howled, it howled, they howled together. Void shield capacitors erupted in sequence down her spine, detonating in sprays of unnatural light and ball-lightning. The grasping Vong beast was struck dumb, so close to the reality-twisting distortions. Mortarch groaned, the vast spirit pulling away from connection, shocked and numb. Noriomi chased it. She dove into the Warlord, fingers outstretched, clinging onto the god-machine. Mortarch was dazed, shocked, its intelligence muddy and fragmented. I am hurt, it whispered to her, amazed. Yes, she said. We are. I am never hurt, it accused, hissing at her, her tenuous grasp on the spirit growing painful at its rejection. In the flesh-sphere the MIU link burned at the base of her spine. Cooked flesh scented the air of the cockpit. No, Noriomi snarled, grasping the spirit with her mind. We are never hurt. It struggled, wordless, pummeling her instead with emotions, hot and vivid and singular. Hate, wielded like a club. Fear, slicing like a blade. Noriomi took them all, letting the rage sink into her being, find purchase in the mirrored feelings in her own mind. We are never hurt, she said again and Mortarch growled. We are never hurt, because we are death. We are death and death can never feel pain. Mortarch ceased its plummet and they hung there, for a moment: a matchstick against a dwarf star. Lo, she whispered. Behold the Mortarch. The star burned and burned, self-sustaining, eternal, but dull. Lost. She was the spark. She was the nucleonic reaction, the exotic isotope in the catalyst. Noriomi fell further, the sensation of the MIU scorching at skin and nerve fading away, the sound of her moderati lost. Who comes with fury and abandon. Mortarch loomed enormous, blotting out all thought, all reason. The spark that was all that remained of Princeps Noriomi, Legio Lacassex, eroded and refined by the ego-devouring landscape of the interface, sunk into Mortarch.
She slammed back into her head with force, shocking back to her flesh-body, back to reality, with a jolt of dissociation that felt momentarily as if she was thrown too far, overshooting her brain before snapping back. Mortarch was there with her, angry and loud, pained and arrogant, willful. Willing. Harnessed. The barest of moments had passed. The loss of her void array still flayed at the nerves of her back. The crushing gnaw of the worldeater at her arm still ached and strained at her bones. Numbness and heat still spread up her right arm. None of it mattered. It all fell away. Noriomi/Mortarch wrenched sideways, taking the stream of plasma on their shoulder, sacrificing the defensor batteries, cape and las-cannon to weather it on the thick, hulking armor. Overheated and half-seized gearing and joints wailed as they slammed the molten, slagged mess of the Arioch around, cleanly into the snout of the second worldeater. The beast huffed, snarling, unwilling to release. Again and again they rammed the lump of superheated metal into the biot, cracking the armor of its face, peeling back the flesh, the muscle, until bone chipped and flew. Still it did not release. Mortarch/Noriomi commanded the remaining las-cannon to decline, barely able to bring the triple-barrels in-line with the worldeater. Red light flared out, over and over, searing channels into the neck of the beast, chipping off armor. Eyes rolled back, glazing over, but still it held on. The molten remains of their right hand joined the barrage, chopping down at the back of the skull, crunching through vertebrae a meter thick. An almighty wrench decapitated the creature, leaving its brutalized head still clinging tight to their arm. The spray of plasma finally ceased, the last worldeater gasping, exhaling plumes of steam from mouth and waggling spines that almost hid it from view. She could see it was exhausted, its chest heaving and limbs slack. It did not react to being the last worldeater left. Unsteady, Noriomi/Mortarch elevated the Belicosa. The weapon was misaligned, knocked askew by the worldeater''s gnawing and flailing paws. Sparks flew along the length of it. She heard moderati cry out about power-draw, about coolant levels, about capacitor overload. She asked Mortarch instead. Mortarch she trusted. To whom war is brother¡­ She fired.
Optarch winced as the holographic display again filled with a blizzard of disruption and distortion. All conversation in the command centre had died when the Mortarch had become embattled, suddenly fighting for its life. Scan-lines rippled across the display, restoring clarity and cleaning up decayed data. They all saw the last worldeater stagger sideways, cored through the chest. From the vantage point of the recorder, the tumultuous sky of Fondor could be seen clear through its body. They all watched Mortarch Abandon stumble backwards, sway, steady, sway again, hold its balance. It broadened its stance, anchoring its weight, and blared warhorns in triumph. Then again, stronger, louder.
She could feel Mortarch''s lethargy. It wanted to sleep. She agreed. Sympathetic pain racked her body, matching very real injuries from overloaded panels in the cockpit and spalled off debris. Disengaging from the combat-meld back to herself was always painful and slow. One day she never would again. One day she would remain lost in the MIU and her withering body would be interred in a floatation tank. There she would command Mortarch until the Titan, like it did all things, finally consumed her. That would not be today. Noriomi took in the battered cockpit with her own eyes, gritty and aching, wincing at the blossoming purple and black bruises that were beginning to appear on exposed skin. She felt grimy, sweaty and depressingly mortal. This was the moment she hated ¨C the return to the flesh. Both her moderati lived ¨C Tol Tolu sat forward, pulling his MIU link to maximum, hanging his head. Nossem Tolu to her left was sprawled in her couch, breathing heavy, nursing a twitching arm. Wearily Noriomi signaled to the magi and her moderati. Auspex still showed heavy concentrations of vong xenoform infantry and bioarmor, but with the worldeater slain, a wide line of the lesser walkers emerged from where they had retreated. She cradled her head in her palms, leaning uncomfortably forward to where the MIU tugged at the root of her spine, elbows planted wearily on the sweat-stained armrests. A trickling tickle of blood wended down from one nostril, filling her mouth with the taste of copper. But she watched. The chin mounted las on the native walkers hounded and harassed the retreating aliens, punching plumes of dirt and smoke with each impact. She watched as the alien retreat slowly became a rout as the phalanx of walkers, many pitted and smouldering from plasma and bug impacts came in line with Mortarch and continued past. One took a moment to nod its fragile, houndlike head to the battered Imperial Titan as it drew alongside. Though disconnected from direct submersion, she felt the nuclear thrum of the Titan''s satisfaction. ¡­and Omnissiah Father¡­
With eyes on the Yuuzhan Vong grand cruiser and her attendants, distracted by darting cruisers and daring frigates, a single, small corvette coasting in for a landing on gentle pulses of dovin basal gravity went unnoticed. Though small, Yadraig was just large enough to maintain a thin and turbulent atmosphere, mostly made up of dense hydrocarbons in a near-liquid state. They concealed the little warship in their swirling clouds, hiding from eyes on Eboracum and in orbit as the corvette settled to the gritty pan of the moon. No longer needing to do more than support the weight of the craft, the corvette''s dovin basal choir sung a new chord, opening a singularity below the vessel. Rock and dust swirled and vanished, hungrily devoured as a first a divot, then a depression, then a crater was eaten into the moon''s surface. The corvette sank down, burrowing into the crust of the moon. Down it plunged, basal voids excavating easily a tunnel for the narrow, spindle-shaped starship to navigate. The strain was significant. Dovin basals were not meant for such purposes, and few of the choir would long survive the constant demand. They would each die, in turn, until the corvette could not fly under its own power, leaving it locked in a depthless tomb beneath the moon''s surface. That was quite acceptable, but only so long as the dovin basals lasted long enough. In the cramped command grotto of the corvette, Commander Harmae listened to the moaning and creaking of the corvette, the clatter of loose bedrock knocking off of yorik coral. Warleader Malik Carr, though holding Harmae''s leash tight, had given him this duty. Implantation. One single coralskipper awaited, mated to the rear of the corvette. Commander Harmae had a greater destiny, and the crew of this corvette would remain behind to see their purpose fulfilled. Ambient heat grew rapidly, until one by one, the sensory biots bonded to the outside of the corvette withered and died. Until sacred paint blistered, scorched, peeled away, leaving yorik coral bare and raw, until even that, too, started to sear. Until the corvette reached the semi-molten mantle of the moon and rested, hull down, glowing cherry-red. A shaper, nameless, one of Qesud Qesh''s get, bowed deeply, perspiring in the rapidly rising heat. "Commander, Yun-Shuno smiles on us this day. The khot-bru''basal is eager and anointed.'' "Exalted are the martyrs," Harmae declared, bowing low and deep before the shaper. He piloted his coralskipper back up the excavated tunnel, collapsing it behind him as he went, until he burst out into the thick and viscous clouds of Yadraig. Above him, the infidel world shone healthy and whole. Deep beneath the surface, at the edge of mantle and crust, a shaper knelt before a heart-shaped organ of intimidating size, colored as dark and rich as fresh-shed blood. Tendrils wove out from it, anchoring into the meat and heart of the corvette. "Show them Yo''gand," the shaper beseeched. The dovin basal woke with a cry that churned realms below and beside reality. As it''s void-shaping song thrummed outward, it grasped fingers on the bunched-membrane of space-time and prickle-sharp talons punched through. The shaper, insensate to these greater mysteries, continued his communion. The moon trembled.
Tylos Rubio, Codicier, once of the Librarium, then proscribed, then a pupil of the Empyrean once more, sat in solemn meditation. Removed from his physical body, his inner sight roved the crests and waves of the ocean of the warp. Eddies and currents snarled and swirled as mountains surged upward and valleys clove deep, filling in with oceans of emotion before drying into deserts of indifference. He could not See as a scion of the Navis Nobilite could, but even those ancient Houses did not have some of the deeper lore of the Astartes Librariums. The Great Angel, Sanguinius, encouraged exploration of the empyrean. The Noble Khan too championed the pursuit, along with the Red Cyclops. Rubio might frown on the fanciful trappings of the Thousand Sons, but what lessons they allowed out to other Legions proved fascinating and invaluable basis for further refinement of soul-warding and psykana. Today, like many other days, Tylos Rubio attempted to touch the cosmic oddity the locals called the ''Force''. A mundane name for a profoundly curious phenomena. Lieutenant - no, Brevet Captain - Thiel was attuned to the power and in their meetings, when Thiel tried to understand the Warp as a means to master the Force, Rubio took it upon himself to peer at the Ultramarine Captain through his witch-sight. What he saw was difficult to put to words. Thiel, like all humans that did not bear the pariah gene, had a presence in the Warp. His emotions and thoughts left an imprint, as did all intelligent life. The Ultramarine''s ''soul'', to use an outmoded and retired concept, though an evocative one, was evident just as any other''s would be. The strangeness began when Rubio attempted to worm his way into Thiel''s mind. Aeonid had no psyker training, no mental wards, no caustic mnemonics to draw upon. He, in fact, was never even aware of Rubio''s transgression. Despite that, Rubio''s careful and precise needles of focus found little purchase in his brother''s mind. Thiel did not deflect him, so much as there was a sensation not dissimilar to water and oil and Thiel''s psyche remained resolute. Rubio was not lax in reporting this to the Primarch, as it had been on Guilliman''s orders that he had attempted such an invasion of another Astartes'' mind. Yet Thiel was a sample of one, and Rubio found his opportunity when the Jedi Eryl Besa arrived to consult with the Chief Navigatrix. From afar, he attempted, again, a similar action. Much like Aeonid, his probing was rebuffed and apparently without conscious effort. The young woman''s mind slipped and slid away, though he could see her clearly in the Warp, though he could feel her existence, though he could see the imprint she left in the local immaterium. Like Thiel, it was as if she was there and not there, simultaneously. Thus, Thiel was tasked to learn of the Force from the Jedi themselves, while Rubio was to pursue his own experiments. Fruitlessly. He consoled himself that, unlike his brothers, his rank and experience elevated him from the hard and unrewarding duty the reinstated Lexicanums were tasked with. Along with select Navigators and Astropaths, they continued to plumb the Empyrean for any hint, any vestige of the translation event that delivered the 4711th here. It had been months. Their task had not yet fruited. Nor had his own. Exhaling, cycling through a modified variant of the Thousand Sons'' Enumerations, Rubio began to relax his hold on the Empyrean, gently hauling on the line that led back to his body. Something stirred. Prairies of ecstasy went up in flames. Whirlpools burst into streams, diverting placid flows. The Empyrean, locally, groaned. Something near, so near it was upon him, uncurled and made space. The realspace boundary...twitched. Unbeknownst to Rubio, his wards flared ice-cold and white-hot, sudden frost riming his psychic hood. He gripped his mortal tether with both hands, soaring past a small, dark star that devoured and calmed the immediate empyrean with alien song. His impression of it was a glimpse, thundering back into his physical body to meet a surging migraine and fast-clotting blood tickling from his nostrils. The presence remained, like a splinter in his eye, like debris in the aqueous humour, daringly and tauntingly there. One hand pinched his nose and with numb fingers he fumbled with his armor''s vox-link in his gorget. He needed to warn the Primarch.
Tahiri ended up taking Sannah to go get dinner, figuring the girl could use a good meal and a chance to cool off. That left Anakin to report back to his Uncle, and, oddly, he found him in his quarters. Packing. Not much, but a travel bag, half-full, was out on his bed along with a crate of datacubes, top unlatched and open. Anakin rapped his knuckles against the frame of the open door. Just a polite formality - he''d already touched his Uncle''s mind when they arrived back at the Temple, just to say ''hello'' and assure Uncle Luke they were fine. In contrast to Sannah''s sudden drop in mood, he found his Uncle almost bouncing with energy. Tossing aside a pair of flight gloves, Uncle Luke beamed at his nephew. "Anakin! How did the monster hunt go?" Blinking at his Uncle''s broad smile - something that had become more and more rare this past year, Anakin collected his thoughts. "Well, it''s not a problem here anymore." Uncle Luke cocked an eyebrow. "That''s a careful way to word it." "We scared it off, but it, well, it kind of flew away¡­to Yavin 8." That stifled some of his Uncle''s cheer and Anakin''s heart hurt to cause it, even a little. There had been so little happiness. "You''re sure?" "Pretty sure. Tahiri and I could sense its thoughts, and it was thinking of that moon. And then it just - went straight up." Uncle Luke rubbed at his ear, brows furrowed. His Uncle''s enthusiasm waned some, still bright, but Anakin sensed sudden recognition. "That sounds familiar. I can''t put my finger on it - what did it look like again?" Anakin took his time describing it, both how it physically appeared, and what its mind felt like. Its green hide, glaring, blank red eyes. All the tentacles that sprouted from it, its enormous wings. The kind of strength it had, and then how hard it was to get a grip on its mind, even with Tahiri''s help. He felt Uncle Luke''s focus, but when Anakin described how it defied gravity and powered up toward space, the Jedi Master shook his head in disappointment. "It''s still familiar, but I can''t think of where I''ve heard of something like that. I''ll ask Mara, I''m sure Karrde might be able to dig up some information." "Aunt Mara?" Anakin gestured toward the travel bag and small crate of datacubes. "You''re going back to Coruscant?" Just like that, his Uncle''s smile was back, bursting back onto his boyish features with irrepressible strength. His Uncle actually blushed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "Something came up-" He must have felt Anakin''s sudden surge of concern. "-nothing bad! Aunt Mara is just fine. She''s actually - she''s doing great." Anakin was sixteen, soon to be seventeen. Not that long ago, he''d been what he would call a kid. He treated an ancient Jedi Master like a pet, he snuck out to risk his life with Tahiri - risk her life too - and about all he knew about making friends was to wait for them to show up. Some would still call him a kid, and technically it would be true, but his Uncle hadn''t been much older when he blew up the Death Star, and Jaina''s boss Gavin Darklighter was just about Anakin''s age when he helped capture Coruscant. He could admit, sometimes, that he was kind of dense when it came to people. Tahiri had drawn him out of his shell and browbeat him into learning how to talk, but it was an ongoing process. That said, he wasn''t an idiot. When they left this morning, Uncle Luke had been solemn and serious, giving his blessing to go after Tahiri''s monster. Not even a hint that he was planning to go all the way back to Coruscant. Which meant something came up, something with Aunt Mara, and - "Vaping moffs," Anakin swore. "You''re going to have a baby?" Luke Skywalker laughed, loud and clear and unburdened. "Aunt Mara is, actually. I should''ve known we couldn''t keep it from you. She just found out today." "Wow," was the only word that could come out. He really didn''t want to think of his Aunt and Uncle that way, but also - wow. A cousin. A cousin. Uncle Luke''s kid. "Wow." "''Wow.''" Uncle Luke shook his head. "That''s about what I said too." A cousin. Aunt Mara was going to have a baby. Wait - if they were going to keep it from him - "Does mom know?" "Not yet. We''re - it''s early. And with Mara''s illness¡­that''s why I''m going back to Coruscant. Cilghal is well enough to come with me too. That''s why Kyle arrived today." "Master Katarn is back?" "Just to fetch me. He had some things that he wanted to hand deliver. Anakin, I never want to ask you to keep secrets from anyone, for anyone, but Mara and I-" Anakin nodded, fierce. Aunt Mara took him under her wing after Chewie died, and now Uncle Luke helped him out of his funk after Obroa-skai and then Centerpoint. Keep his lips sealed about Aunt Mara being pregnant for a little while, while they got everything settled? "That''s what family is for, right?" His Uncle crossed the room, wrapping his nephew in a hug. A little to Anakin''s consternation, he noticed yet again that he was taller that Uncle Luke now. "Believe me, I can''t wait to tell Leia and Han, and Talon and -" Luke held Anakin at arm''s length, hands on the teen''s shoulders. "We just want to be sure. But that''s enough about that! You said your monster went to Yavin 8? Sannah can''t be happy about that." Anakin shifted, grimacing. He could feel Tahiri in the corner of his mind, like a comlink just out of tune, kind of a staticky conversation he could catch the tone of, but not words. She was definitely working to distract Sannah at dinner. "She''s worried." Uncle Luke clapped Anakin''s shoulders one last time, then turned back to his small pile of odds and ends he was packing away. "Peckhum should be back early tomorrow morning, and you three can take Thunderbolt out to Yavin 8." The old freighter pilot ran supply to the Praxeum and Yavin 8, counted among those trusted with the Temple''s location. He was a good man, trustworthy, kind, if a little rough, and Thunderbolt was a fine ship. But tomorrow morning? Tomorrow morning, all the Melodies could be dead, the thing could be in the sanctuaries and- "Anakin, even if this thing can fly through space, Yavin 8 is a million miles away. If you leave tomorrow morning, you''ll still almost certainly beat it there." "Yes, but-" "And you all had a long day." "Obroa-skai was longer," he said, mulish. "And Sannah is thirteen," Uncle Luke finished. "Get dinner, get some sleep, and then Peckhum will take you over. You could even try to see if you can find it before it lands. Thunderbolt only has one laser cannon, but that might be enough." "It was hard enough to sense it when we knew where it was." Anakin had thought of that, when they were leaving the vehicle pool. He could hop in his X-Wing and chase it down. He was sure it wouldn''t stand a chance to quad-linked laser cannon fire, or maybe a nice proton torpedo. The problem was, it was a tiny, tiny creature compared to the orbit of Yavin and he was pretty sure his sensors wouldn''t be able to find it. Leaving only the Force, and, well, that probably wasn''t possible. "We''re leaving tomorrow morning too," Uncle Luke flipped the lid of his datacube crate shut with a snap, sliding it into his travel bag. "Just in case you three need anything." "Thanks, Uncle Luke." Anakin turned, stomach growling, wondering what was for dinner. "Of course, Anakin. Any time, you know that." Contingence Chapter XIV XIV: Changing
Eboracum''s moon was falling. Yadraig, as named by the locals and unchanged by the coming of the Imperium, wobbled in its track. Once, it had circled as the closest of the trio of moons, accompanying the parent world through hundreds of millions of years. Each year took it a micron further away, at such timescales that only in aeons to come would they be parted. Now a perverse homecoming, a recombination and recreation of the primordial collision in ancient times that spawned all the moonlets, Yadraig danced closer and closer to the planet. Eight hundred and twelve kilometers in diameter. Large enough to compact under its own mass, too small to pull overmuch on its much larger companion. The other moons of Eboracum were even smaller: irregular and ovoid. Little more than glorified asteroids; remnant chunks of mantle and crust congealed in the chill of space and forever severed from the world that birthed them. Yadraig, already a swift riser in the sky, sped faster. Spacetime flattened behind it and bunched before it. Like a carpet, caught underfoot. Gravimetric sensors across the 4711th chimed alarms. At apoapsis, the moon shuddered, slowing more. The nadir of its orbit crept lower, lower, edging closer to the final point of no return when the strain of conflicting gravity would overcome the adhesion of the moonlet and smear it across the sky. Tech-adepts calculated no more than six days'' time until Yadraig swung low enough to shatter and spread its ruinous rain across much of Eboracum''s surface. For twelve minutes since the first spike of gravitational energy from the moonlet, the Primarch stood motionless before the crystalflex windows of Macragge''s Honour''s grand strategium. He ignored the elevating noise and activity that rippled and burst through the hundreds of adepts, officers and magi. He ignored the flits and flashes of brief raiding combat around and across Eboracum''s orbit as the Yuuzhan Vong continued their conservative feints. He stood, hands linked behind his broad back, shoulders taut, head elevated, unblinking and peering at the moon as it visibly slid across the sky, down toward the horizon. Tylos Rubio, Codicier, burst into the strategium only minutes after the first warning signs, dark stains at his ear and nose, demanding to speak to the Primarch. Chapter Master Marius Gage intercepted, recognizing his father''s focus and doing his duty as seneschal. The psyker was unsettled and spoke of excitations in the local warp, occurring only moments ago, that he had not seen nor sensed before. Aliens sensations, similar to but not the same as a hostile psyker of some proficiency enacting a great working. ''Moments ago? Codicier, be specific. Precisely how many moments ago?'' By the chronograph of his seclusion cell, Rubio confirmed the groaning presence in the warp began at the exact moment Gage feared. The same moment Yadraig wobbled in its orbit. Marius sent word to petition the astropathic choir and the Navigators to determine if they, too, had sensed this disturbance. Rubio suspected not; he had been actively employing his sense and peering into the empyrean with intention. Though, he allowed, the presence remained still could likely be divined by the mutants. ''And you feel no greater threat?'' Tylos Rubio pointed to the moon, slipping past the limb of Eboracum. ''I feel no malice at all, only intention.'' Auspex scans of the moon, which even now was chased by Thunderhawk with destroyers gaining rapidly provided no inkling as to where or what means the Yuuzhan Vong employed to alter its orbit. Gage expected - hoped, perhaps - for some ship nestled to the surface, or a biotic growth that might be targeted and destroyed. Something rational to counter. All that had been revealed were swirling hydrocarbon clouds and gravimetric pulses throughout the core of the moon. Time was ticking and Eboracum''s fate lay measured in tens of thousands of kilometers and days and remaining orbits.
Two of the Fondorians lived. Derec, a Human, and Vili, a Duro. Both were pale, or as pale as dark-skinned human and grey-skinned alien could be, breathing fast and short. Solidian stood over S''hmu''s corpse, holding the Herglic''s rotary blaster loose. Grutchin ichor slicked the casing of the weapon, but it remained whole and hale. ''Understand,'' Zalthis began. ''I will see to it that every soldier who died this day is given the stipend afforded to those in the Ultramar Auxilia. I swear this on my honor as Astartes.'' Solidian cut his eyes toward Zalthis, but did not gainsay his brother. ''Now we continue, or their deaths meant nothing.'' Solidian, helmetless, bore clotted blood like a helmet across half his scalp. His armor was pockmarked and pitted. Zalthis now carried his brother''s bolter, traded for the fallen Herglic''s cannon. The two Fondorians were bruised and scuffed, trembling fists clenched about lasrifles. They were a pitiful group. Another horde of grutchin and Zalthis held little doubt they would not all die. Tshek Ulm still lived. Their mission was not complete. ''Sol? Are you with me, brother?'' Dark blood stained the other Ultramarine''s brown-bronze skin. His scalp stuck up in odd, bunched angles of stiff flesh. The Fondorians would not look his way. Sol''s eyes were dark, darker than usual, and they flicked down toward S''hmu, to the cannon in his hands, then finally to Zalthis'' face. ''Always, brother,'' Sol intoned, shifting the weight of the rotary cannon to his left hand and offering his right. They clasped, wrist to elbow. ''You know that. Tshek Ulm dies today.'' One last look at the fallen Fondorians, at S''hmu, and Zalthis turned his back. They were dead, under his command. If he had not sent the Neophytes back, how many might have fallen to the grutchin''s acid here? Qario''s youthful face replaced that of one of the dead Fondorians. Petran became the one who had been borne down under the biots and torn to shreds. Lives depended on him. On his decisions. Zalthis was unsure he had made the correct ones. Yet doubt fit poorly on the shoulders of an Astartes. They were made to be more than that. They were here, their foes were before them, it was enough. The corpses of the grutchin carpeted the tunnel before the blockage, steaming and hissing as their salivary glands emptied past slack mandibles. The four picked their way carefully around the biots, then up the slumped scree of the partial ceiling collapse. Solidian, shoulding S''hmu''s rotary cannon, hefted the human, Derec, over a particularly unstable portion. On the far side, evidence abounded of the grutchin ''nesting''. Piles of debris had been clustered into little piles, gnawed upon, scattered about. His vox crackled. After silence since the gargantuan vong Titan showed itself, its sudden static pop brought four guns up to attention, nerves jangling. Wordless noise hummed and popped from his and Solidian''s gorgets. ''Brother Zalthis: I am receiving. This is Zalthis, receiving.'' Syllabic sounds warbled, but he could make neither heads nor tails of them. The jamming was lessening, but it was present still. Perhaps the vong Titan, which seemed to emanate the interference, had passed far enough away. ''Lieutenant Optarch, Brother Solidian and I are pursuing Yuuzhan Vong through transportation rail-tunnels beneath the surface.'' More static and metallic whining. ''Contact Neophyte Qario, he has further information.'' Nothing. ''Solidian, monitor vox.'' His brother dipped his head in agreement and Zalthis killed his own external output.
A quarter hour slid past in darkness and silence before the final, true sign of the invader presented itself. Vox improved over that time, until they could make out individual words, but while it appeared their ability to receive was returning, none of the broken transmissions seemed to be in response to Sol''s occasional requests for contact. Zalthis heard stamping footfalls first, raising his fist and slowing his pace. Derec and Vili sucked in deep breaths behind him and he heard safeties click off. ''Ahead,'' Zal murmured. ''Past the curtain.'' The transit line was sealed off: durasteel shutters extended from either side of the tunnel to meet in the middle. To either side were smaller, man-sized portals, clearly for access of workers or perhaps guild operators of trams. They yawned wide and open, doors pried open and torn away. Solidian beckoned to Vili and made for the leftward portal, while Zalthis and Derec crept to the rightward. Flickering flashes of light leaked out of the opening, scattering strange patterns across ceiling and wall. He peered through. The portals were large enough for several men to pass through alongside each other and tall enough an Ultramarine would not need to duck. Perhaps they were in fact designed for smaller hovercraft, if the main line was shut. Derec, beside him, swore colorfully under his breath. A few profanities Zalthis remembered from before induction and others he learned from his brothers came to mind. The Yuuzhan Vong force was far ahead - several hundred meters at least - but at a glance he counted more than a hundred warriors and treble that number of their chazrach servants. They marched en masse, holding bright points of gold light aloft on staves to illuminate their way. Harsh language and commanding tones echoed strangely back to Zalthis and he found he understood much of it. Courtesy of his omophagea, no doubt. ''Our suspicions are proven,'' Zalthis shared. ''They hope to emerge near the shield generators.'' ''We can''t do shit about it,'' Derec hissed back. ''Sithspawn, look how many there are! We need, we need Jedi or walkers or, or-'' ''We can draw their attention.'' He clutched Solidian''s bolter closer, tapping his thumb against its receiver. With his own remaining sickle-shaped magazines and those Solidian handed over, he had close to a hundred bolts. Obroa-skai proved bolts could overmatch the living armor of the Yuuzhan Vong, but not reliably. A sure shot at center mass penetrated, but the sloping and organic shapes of the armor sometimes deflected or predetonated shells. S''hmu''s rotary cannon broke through the resilience of the living armor through weight of fire, not precisely quality. It would serve better thinning the ranks of the chazrach. Derec and Vili''s lasrifles still had hundreds of shots. Zalthis squinted and his helm helpfully relayed distance information. Three hundred meters and increasing. The tunnel was straight. Las had no drop over distance. It was¡­doable. The Vong would need to turn and charge, and though faster than baseline humanity, it was a mighty distance to sprint under fire. ''Sol,'' he called over squad-vox. ''Zal,'' his brother called back, laced with static. ''''Defense of a chokepoint against infantry'','' he quoted. ''Elevation preferred, if terrain is unsuitable, minimize access to flanks and maximize time-to-contact. They are penned in a tunnel, brother. Sergeant Ascratus could scarcely devise a more beneficial position for us.'' ''I will ignore the chazrach. They''re for you and the Fondorians.'' Derec, hearing the Ultramarine''s planning, shut his eyes and slid down against the frame of the portal, mouthing words without noise. ''Understood. This cannon has terrible dispersion; I''ll not be able to fire until under a hundred meters.'' Zal glanced down at the Human doing his level best to avoid panicking. ''On your feet, soldier. You''ll make the vong remember this day bitterly.'' Derec hauled himself up, leaning shoulder against doorframe. ''You''re not even a little afraid?'' ''Astartes know no fear,'' Zalthis said, automatically. ''We cannot.'' ''Lucky you¡­'' Zalthis glanced across the tunnel to his brother and the Duro, twenty-meters opposite. His helm picked them out easily in thermal images. Solidian stood tall and braced wide, rotary cannon loose and ready. The Duro knelt, lasrifle braced by elbow on his knee. ''Prepare to fire in three,'' Zalthis tucked his bolter''s stock to his pauldron, reticle ghosting in his vision. He picked out the nearest Vong warriors, magnifying enough to make out the colors of their armor. ''Two.'' Derec exhaled hard, rolling his shoulders. ''One.'' ''Engage.''
Sannah spooned cereal into her mouth with the sort of moody intensity that only a teenager could. They were early down to the dining hall, before most of the kids woke up. The two girls chose a small table, off to the side of the hall. Anakin sunk down into a seat next to Tahiri, who leaned over to give him a one-armed hug. "Morning, Anakin!" "Sleep okay?" "Just great," Tahiri drug out the syllable, cheerfully ladling syrup over dustcrepes. "Ready and raring to go kill a monster." Surprisingly, he''d slept pretty well too. He expected to be up all night, replaying their clash with the monster and wondering what he could''ve done differently, if they could have stopped it then, but when his head hit his pillow, the next thing he knew sun was streaming through his room''s windows. Only a fading impression of dreams that crumbled away as he changed into fresh clothes. The three of them did everything they could have. Uncle Luke was right, the creature had hundreds of thousands of kilometers to cover to reach the other moon. "Pekhum should be here by lunch." He stretched, yawning. "I was thinking, I might take my X-Wing too. You two can ride with Peckhum in Lightning Rod but if the thing tries to fly away again, I can have Fiver shoot it down." "You could just have Fiver fly your X-Wing over and ride with us?" Tahiri offered, hopeful. Astromechs were able to fly a starfighter around, though they were nothing close to a living pilot. It wasn''t like he was expecting to need to dogfight anything though, so she did have a point. "Fiver it is then," Anakin decided. Sannah stayed subdued, though his sense of her in the Force revealed more quiet thoughtfulness than the deep-buried guilt and sudden panic last night. Whatever she and Tahiri talked about last night, or maybe this morning too, seemed to have done the trick. Anakin wasn''t feeling terribly hungry, figuring to have a snack later or take something with them, so he just kept the two girls company, discussing with Tahiri about their plan of attack. First, and most obvious, was to make contact with the Melodies. Suz Tanwa got a holocom call last night from Uncle Luke, warning her about the creature and asking her to keep an eye out. The Rodian xenoarcheologist set up shop years ago, the first to befriend the Melodies and the first to earn their trust, filling notebooks with cultural practices and tales about the moon''s history and that of its inhabitants. After Anakin and Tahiri and Lyric''s actions convinced the Melodies to open up to the Jedi too, the moon gained the benefits of modern technology. The enormous snakes, Reels, were kept at bay by razorwire fences that loops around Melodie caverns. Lurking Raithes, giant rodents with a taste for Melodie eggs (and children) tripped motion-sensors that activated sting-turrets. Just a few years, but the Melodies didn''t need to face what Lyric did during their adventure. It¡­had its detractors. According to Tanwa, some of the Elders derided relying on techonology, fearing it would make their children weak. Some of the children and those close to Changing felt like it insulted the sacrifices of their friends, in years and times before. Lyric was the loudest proponent of the changes, and she pushed for even more. Melodies still lived in simple, pre-industrial ways, as both adolescent and Elder, but aquatic technologies were as old as the Republic itself. Mon Calamari could help teach them to build cities - only if the Melodies wanted it. That was a question for another day and one Anakin was sure wouldn''t be decided for generations. Regardless, Tanwa was there, with her ship and the protections the Praxeum helped set up with Talon Karrde''s funding. It wouldn''t stop that monster, that was for sure, but Tanwa hadn''t communicated during the night. A moon was a big place, after all. The Melodies only lived in and around Sistra Mountain. That sithspawn had millions of square kilometers to choose from. "You know, Sannah - you can stay on Lightning Rod while we talk to Tanwa. We''ll probably have to scan the planet from orbit anyway to find the thing, if no one saw it." "It''s fine," the Melodie girl brushed off his concern, sounding more sure of herself. "Tahiri was right. I was being dumb." "Tahiri!" "What? She was!" "You weren''t being dumb, Sannah-" "My Changing isn''t for seven more years. That''s basically forever! And¡­and I shouldn''t be afraid of something like that, Anakin. Fear is, fear-" "Leads to anger, which leads to hate." All three jumped at the deep, rumbling voice. Aeonid Thiel, looming far above them, glanced once at nearby chairs, raised an eyebrow and elected to stand. Anakin shifted, looking up at the Ultramarine. This was the first he''d encountered Thiel at the Praxeum. He wasn''t avoiding Aeonid and he didn''t figure Aeonid was avoiding him either, but the Ultramarine was known to keep to himself and Anakin spent most of his time outside the walls of the Temple. He forgot just how huge Astartes were. Thiel wore a homespun robe like any other Jedi, though one with enough material in it to make four normal-sized tunics. Zalthis was the only other Astartes Anakin had seen out of the armor that they seemed to live in. The youth, when they sparred and conversed, favored fatigue trousers and a lightweight singlet. It suited the soldier. Jedi robes¡­didn''t seem to fit Aeonid. Not in the physical sense, but in a way Anakin couldn''t describe. Though loose and fitted to him, the Astartes still exuded a sense of physicality and threat. A jedi''s robes were supposed to be an expression of a jedi''s calm mindset and a statement about their act of service. When his Uncle wore his robes, Anakin felt serenity and calm authority and above all else: safety. The perfect holo of what a Jedi should be. Aeonid''s robes were like putting a blanket over a starfighter. You couldn''t see it, but the shape of it was there, the outline of the laser cannons. Just a quick pulse of repulsorlifts would blow the blanket away and reveal the war machine underneath. "Hi, Aeonid!" Tahiri actually flicked her hand in a wave. "Trainee Veila," the Ultramarine nodded to her. "Trainee Sannah. Jedi Solo." "Did you want breakfast? There''s still dustcrepes." "I have already eaten, but your offer is appreciated." Thiel apparently made a decision; rather than looming over the three of them, he carefully knelt down beside the table. "If you would like, I will provide my Thunderhawk as transport. The three of you require passage to another moon?" "Yavin 8," Anakin replied, automatically. "We were waiting on Peckhum¡­" "My Thunderhawk is swifter than a freighter." Tahiri stuffed half a dustcrepe into her mouth, clearing her plate and trying to talk past her breakfast simultaneously. "Ew, Tahiri," Sannah wrinkled her nose. "Well - I guess we could? I''d have to tell my Uncle-" "I offered my services to Master Skywalker already. He agreed, conditional on your own agreement." Right, Astartes. Of course Aeonid would already have everything done properly and in order. "Why?" Tahiri blurted out. "Why? Jedi Solo and Master Skywalker, along with Jedi Taral chose to fight with my brothers on Obroa-skai, to their own great personal danger. You could consider this a repayment, if you wish." Anakin fidgeted. Obroa-skai was a mission. He didn''t want the Imperials feeling like they owed him or the Jedi a debt just for doing what they had to do. If anything, the Wraiths were the ones who lost someone down on the library world. Or Rhonabeq - she was the one who died for all of them to land safely. "Alternatively," Thiel continued. "This is also the purpose of a Jedi. As I am here to learn what being a Jedi means, by theory I should go on - what have I heard it called? Some sort of adventure." Sannah brightened, banishing the last of her leftover mood from the previous day. "That''s what I said! It''s an Anakin and Tahiri adventure. They had so many of those-" "So I have heard." "Sannah, it''s nothing like-" "Well, it kind of is-" "We actually had permission-" "Kind of, but I sort of bent the rules when I went out flying-" Thiel raised both hands, clearing his throat and cutting through the three teenager''s bickering. "Then it''s accepted?" Anakin nodded. A gunship over Peckhum''s freighter plus a supersoldier? He''d have to be crazy to turn it down.
Bolts clipped Vong warriors and sent them sprawling. Las snapped clean, bright lines out, flashing brilliance through the darkened transit tunnel. Zalthis'' teeth clenched so tight they hurt, because for once, the Yuuzhan Vong were not charging. They were fleeing. His first shots killed three warriors. He saw chazrach fall to Derec and Vili''s las shots. The Vong would turn. They would hurl bugs. They would roar war cries. Then they would charge. They did the opposite. Zalthis, though his muddled comprehension of their tongue, heard vong warriors shout orders to ignore the infidels, to press on, that their mission was given by the gods. Other warriors cried out about dishonor, but they were barked down. And the massed force fled. Zalthis plans turned to so much smoke. The Vong did not run. They didn''t turn down a challenge. They did not pass the opportunity to fight. That was the theoretical. It was sound. It had been tested with each guerilla clash he and Sol had led thus far. Upended. Sol, less reserved, bellowed imprecations and epithets after the fleeing aliens. ''Do we pursue? Zal, do we pursue?'' If they did, they left their cover behind. It might all be a ploy to draw them out into the open where a massed volley of bugs would overwhelm them. Derec and Vili would be left behind, unable to match the stride of geneforged muscles. It was his decision. His command. Mistake, mistake, mistake. He couldn''t make another. ''Derec, Vili, remain here. Continue to fire. Cover our approach. Sol-'' ''We march for Macragge, Zal.'' ''We do. Courage and honor!'' ''Courage and honor!'' He expected the trap he predicted. Zalthis covered ten meters in the blink of an eye, firing as he moved. In his heightened state of both adrenaline and perfected reflexes, he saw a warrior take a bolt to the back of his helmet, skull popping wetly. Las snapped past Zalthis, close enough to singe his armor, cracking after chazrach and warriors alike, the mob too far for Derec to aim in the darkness. It was foolish. It was suicidal. He had no plan when they reached the horde of invaders. Sergeant Ascratus was worth ten of Zalthis and he had fallen to the keen edges of amphistaves. None knew about this secret assault. Right or wrong, correct or incorrect, Zalthis could only act. ''-this, resp- -repare- -tly.'' His vox woke again. This time, he caught edges, shapes of words. The interference was clearing. Desperate, he keyed connection, shouting back. ''This is Brother Zalthis! I am at grid coordinate 9F AV 93 11! Hostile presence, approximately four hundred, heading east! We are within the transport tunnels, repeat, the transport tunnels!'' Solidian joined in as well, aping Zalthis'' call. Voices replied, broken, scattered, fragmented. Not enough to make out meaning, only that someone was out there. They were listening. They might yet be heard. Now bugs began to arc toward them. Not many, only handfuls cast backwards without a second glance. Thud bugs platted against his chestplate. Solidian hissed in irritation as a razor bug managed to catch a gap in his armor, reopening a slash in his flank. Zalthis'' bolter clicked dry and he ejected the magazine, letting it drop, slapping his last in place. Bang, bang, bang. Another warrior fell and the mass reactive detonation knocked flat chazrach nearby. The ground leapt, knocking Zalthis sprawling, skidding and sliding on his chest. Light flooded the tunnel, so bright and sudden it was shocking, making his occulobe ache as it instantly reacted. A wall of dust rolled down the tunnel, engulfing the vong battalion, sweeping toward Zalthis and Solidian as they picked themselves up. Strobing light in harsh vermillion and rich emerald pulsed in the cloud. Vong shouts turned into screams. He heard bodies strike duracrete. ''-peat, droid battalions are deployed! Brother Zalthis, if you receive this, your warning has been heard. Droid battalions are deployed, repeat, droid battalions are deployed!'' The voice was unfamiliar, not one of the handful of Astartes. Auxilia perhaps. Relief flooded his body, as potent as adrenaline. They had been heard. Fondor responded. He had not failed. Solidian groaned as he picked himself up. Wryly smiling, he offered his right hand to Zalthis. They clasped wrists, then embraced in a clatter of warplate. ''I never doubted you, brother!'' Solidian declared, shouting over the din of blasterfire, stomping machine feet, howling Yuuzhan Vong and shrieking chazrach. ''It must have been Qario!'' Zalthis returned. To send these droids here so quickly, Qario must have succeeded in returning, raising the alarm. He''d see the Neophytes all elevated for this campaign, even if he needed to petition the Primarch himself. ''I''ve still fight left in me,'' Solidian hefted the rotary cannon. ''This aches for revenge.'' False-color and thermal imaging easily saw through the roiling clouds of dust. Hundreds of droids spilled down the slope of collapsed ceiling, pouring blasterfire into the outnumbered vong. Among them, to Zalthis'' surprise, he noted skitarii with shouldered radium muskets. Mechanicum taghmata alongside droids - almost absurd, but with second thought he saw the reasoning. Who better to watch over and keep under tight leash thinking machines than the Mechanicum? He could imagine the Magos Dominus insisting on such precautions, in fact. Solidian was right. He had bolts left and a fire in his belly. ''Of martyr, we! For Honored Ulm, die and distract! We weaken, the Trickster laughs!'' Zalthis stumbled. His command of the vong language was weak and to his ear it came across dissonant and confusing in organization. Warriors took up the call. Martyrdom. Distraction. For Honored Ulm. ''Sol, hold!'' His brother skidded to a halt, whipping around. ''I don''t think the commander is here. I can understand them - they call to distract us. Delay us.'' More vong fell, reaping a toll on the droids but the machines seemed unending. Zalthis span on his heel, scrutinizing the sides of the transit tunnel. When they first entered, he''d noted alcoves spaced periodically along the transit line. Maintenance perhaps, or surface access. After a while they ceased to be important and he put them from his mind. There. An alcove, much like the others, tucked aside. Heat splashes showed around a breached, armored hatch. He did not need to consider if a vong commander would abandon his warriors to slip away. The vong today had performed entirely out of character. If anything, this slotted together every oddity. Tshek Ulm expected pursuit. The grutchin were the first evidence of it. A clear ambush set up intended to delay or exterminate any pursuers. Then the vong strike force itself, refusing to turn and attack. They had to draw pursuers onward, away from where Ulm had split away. On Ascratus'' memory, Zalthis swore to never underestimate the vong again. He pointed at the alcove, Solidian following his gesture. His brother''s face tensed, darkened. ''Let the automata have this massacre. This is between us, and him.'' Solidian spat. He had nothing to add. Solidian said all that needed to be said.
From space, Yavin 8 couldn''t be more different from the moon they just left behind. Yavin 4 just looked humid. Emerald green, constantly wrapped up in white bands of clouds, only the tiniest hint of snow and ice at the poles, Yavin 4 looking warm and welcoming and sunny. Yavin 8 chilled just at a glance. It wasn''t a Hoth, where the air was so cold it froze, but something about Yavin 8 made it more forebodingly chilly than the famous ice world. It might have been because Anakin knew, intimately, the endless physical dangers down on that world. Dangerous life-forms filled the galaxy but the ones on Yavin 8 felt hostile in a way he didn''t often encounter. That Krayt dragon on Tatooine, it had been angry and territorial, but he didn''t feel the same kind of perverse pleasure the predators on Yavin 8 seemed to exude. The purella that made off with them wasn''t just happy to have found prey, it felt like it was hungry for their death too. Normal predators didn''t think like that, they just thought about food and hunger and the next meal. Tahiri, next to Anakin, shivered as if she''d heard his thoughts. She might have, and Anakin wrenched them away from grim memories of spiderwebs and deep, dark tunnels. Thiel''s Thunderhawk was a big gunship, with tons of room inside and in the cockpit. The Ultramarine piloted it himself, saying that every Astartes had training to use each vehicle in a Legion''s motorpool, which was actually pretty impressive. Jaina was like that, she could fly anything she touched. Anakin knew his X-Wing, the Falcon (mostly) and he could probably figure out other starfighters, but to just sit in the cockpit and make it dance? No, that was his sister through-and-through. He wondered how well she would get on with the Astartes. She had to be going crazy on Coruscant with Jacen and Aunt Mara while her leg healed. He hadn''t reached out to her much, sensing the twins'' focus on whatever mission their Aunt had them on, but he hoped Jaina was doing ok. Getting spaced was supposed to be awful. The moon before them swelled until it took up the entire canopy. Thiel gestured toward a very obvious addition to the cockpit instruments: a basic but sturdy holocom. A few moments later, Suz Tanwa appeared in miniature, just a few inches tall. "Oh, hi Anakin! Is Tahiri with you?" "Right here," his friend said and Sannah chimed in with her own greeting. "You three are here early. A little impatient?" "Aeonid Thiel offered to fly us over in his gunship," Anakin replied, as explanation. The Ultramarine kept his own peace, focused on bringing the gunship down into the upper atmosphere. "Nice of him. So, you want to know if I saw your beastie?" "That would be great, Ms. Tanwa." "Oh, call me Suz. Come on down, the landing pad is clear. We can talk about your beastie when you land." Just as he remembered. Suz was very nice and very intelligent and also very given to long-winded explanations of things and dissecting every little bit of information she had. It made her an amazing xenoarcheologist and it also made her a headache to hold a conversation with. "Did you see it?" "Yes and no. It''s not threatening the Melodies, so you can let out that breath." Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where is it?" "That''s the fascinating part! Come down and I''ll show you. Suz out!" Her hologram vanished, leaving the holocom dark. No one spoke for several long seconds. "The Force has degrees of telepathy." Aeonid said with some certainty. "It does?" "Mm," the Astartes hummed, wordlessly, as he angled the gunship down toward a particular mountain chain. It took Anakin a minute to gather his meaning. "We can''t just mindread Suz!"
Anakin jogged down the ramp of the Thunderhawk, waving to the Rodian researcher bundled up a fluffy, fur-lined coat. Sannah elected to stay behind, perched on a massive bucket seat that swallowed up the little Melodie. Tahiri wandered off, saying she wanted to see if Lyric was around. That was fine for both of them, if Suz was telling the truth about the sithspawn not coming near Mount Sistra then there was no danger and on top of that, no real need to rush. It would kind of be nice to see Lyric again, now that Tahiri brought it up. Maybe after finding out what Suz knew. "Right over here, Anakin!" She guided him into a prefab hut whose roof was absolutely bedecked in all variety of antennae and spinning weather instruments. Out of the chilly wind and with a box heater filling the hut with pleasantly toasty air, Anakin rubbed his hands together as Suz busied herself with a holotable that took up much of the interior. Racks and shelves lined the walls of the hut, covered with everything imaginable. Datacubes, datapads, physical books, binders stacked ten high, rolls of leather and what looked like parchment scrolls. Odd carvings, charcoal rubbings, clay idols and pots. "So I''ve been mapping Atargatis," Suz began. Atargatis - the Melodie name for their home. First Sannah, now Suz. Maybe he should start calling it that. It was only fair. Did Yavin 4 have a name the Massassi called it? "There''s ruin sites all over the moon, did you know that? The Melodies know about sunken ruins under the mountain - flooded, I think, is a better word for it - and there''s more in the seas. They''re Melodie ruins, which indicates they had some greater civilization at some period. Isn''t that strange? The Elders don''t like to talk much about their past, but I know they keep an oral tradition. I''ve been working on Lyric. She''s coming around, I''m sure of it. Anyway, there''s the Melodie ruins in the lakes and seas and I''m speculating that there might be subterranean tunnels that link all the bodies of water together. Isn''t that convenient?" Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. "Suz," Anakin said. "So you can see all the Melodie ruins plotted out here-" the Rodian clicked a remote she held and blue points lit up across the topographic hologram of Yavin 8. "-and there isn''t a lot of a pattern to it. At least, not one that I can find. Most of them are centered in the equatorial mountain ranges of course, but I''ve managed to do some orbital mapping and found others in the seas toward the poles. It''s that strange?" "Suz-" "That had me thinking. Why did the Melodie have ruins around the moon, if they always lived here in the mountains? It''s all at the equator. I can''t ask them, of course, because the Elders don''t like to talk about the past, but that got me thinking. I invested in ground-penetrating scans - well, I didn''t invest, I got a grant - and then I went up and took another look-" "Suz," Anakin spoke more forcefully, cutting through the archaeologist''s ramblings with an added spike of the Force, giving his voice just a little flavor. "The monster?" "I was just getting there! Give me a little bit longer, Anakin, I promise this all makes sense." He supposed he could understand how lonely it would get here, surrounded by Melodie who politely but pointedly did not want to talk about her single favorite thing in the universe. Anakin exhaled. "Okay." "So I took another look, and you''re not going to believe what I found. I was going to tell Master Skywalker, of course, but only when I finished my analysis and summary. It''s not long, it''s just a few hundred pages and most of that is diagrams. Do you know what else I found?" "What did you find?" he asked, dutifully. "Sith ruins," the Rodian said. The amount of triumph bleeding off of her suited someone who had just won a Nar Shadaa lottery, not someone who found sith temples. Sith ruins. Sith temples. Suz clicked her remote again and now red icons popped up on the hologram, forming clusters and blobs around the moon. Dozens of them at least. Okay, Anakin. He held his calm. Sith Temples didn''t necessarily mean anything immediately bad. These would be as old as the ones on Yavin 4. And those just had the Golden Globe and the soul of Exar Kun in them. That''s all. The Melodies weren''t corrupted and they hadn''t said anything about¡­strange things. "Sith ruins," he said, slowly, trying out the taste of the words. They could tell Uncle Luke and he would handle it. It was all probably fine anyway. Temples as old as these, at worst there would be holocrons, maybe some minor artifacts. "And that''s where your creature went!" Oh, sithspawn.
They didn''t get it. They didn''t get it. Suz Tanwa and her camp was set up near the mouth of one of the many entrances into the honeycomb of Mount Sistra, near a river that flowed down into the oases and lakes beneath the mount. A couple Melodie, about as old as Sannah, were out doing their chores. Gathering up mosses and lichens, setting out clothing to dry. The kinds of things Sannah used to do. A few noticed her lurking in the gigantic gunship and shyly waved. Sannah didn''t wave back. They didn''t get it. The Elders were stupid. Maybe when they lost their legs and got their gills they forgot how terrifying it was to be cornered by a pack of Raithe. Maybe memories of being stalked through pitch-dark tunnels by a Purella and hearing the tap-tap-tap of its horrible, too many legs faded like a bad dream. Maybe they forgot what it felt like to have the life squeezed out of you by a Reel before your desperate friends hacked its coils to pieces. The best thing to ever happen to her people was Suz Tanwa and Lyric and the Jedi Praxeum. Look at them. The Melodies out here, gossiping and picking moss like they don''t have a care in the world. They don''t! She can see the fences in the distance, silvery against the drab tundra. Suz had two big shock-turrets set up. They weren''t strong, but the stinger bolts they shot made any Avril think twice before swooping down. When Anakin and Tahiri came here with Lyric, they had to use trico filters to swim down to the Elders. They had to breathe through stuffy algae! Sannah had the holonet. She''d seen what was out in the galaxy. Rebreathers that fit in a person''s pocket and would let them breathe easily underwater for days. She saw holos of the planet called Dac, when she spent time with Master Cilghal. The cities! The cities! They were so beautiful and delicate and elegant and they glowed underwater. Her people could live like kings - or like normal people did. Master Cilghal claimed that Mon Calamari build the best starships because they had honed their craft for a thousand years under the waves. What could the Melodie do, if everyone stopped being stupid? That''s what Anakin and Tahiri just didn''t get. They were going to get to grow up. They''d probably end up being gross and liking each other and then get married or something and be Jedi together. They could go on adventures forever just like Valin and Chitter and Izzuviz and Zuzu and everyone else. Sannah was going to end up with a stupid tail and stupid gills and have to live in the stupid water forever. She was going to have to go live with the Elders and be boring forever. So caught up, forgetting everything she and Tahiri talked about last night, Sannah didn''t notice she had company until a truly gigantic hand rested on her shoulder. On her shoulder, upper back, and other shoulder. "Trainee Sannah," Aeonid Thiel said and her heart hammered in her chest. So hard she almost wobbled in place. Blaster bolts! How could someone so big be so quiet! "I frightened you. I apologize." "It''s okay!" she squeaked out, mortified by how high pitched her voice came out. "This is your homeworld?" His hand was very warm. Sannah nodded. "It seems¡­pleasant?" Oh no, he was trying to be polite. Sannah was still just a trainee, but three years of training was a lot in the Force. She could sense the huge man''s awkwardness. "It''s not," she managed to say. To admit. "It''s really not." "I¡­" She kept looking at the Melodie doing their chores. From behind her, his breathing was as loud as a whole pack of Raithe. "...sensed your mood. This is new to me. This Force. You''re upset." "Do you know what I am?" Sannah asked. She didn''t know why she was even talking to the Ultramarine. Weren''t they supposed to really not like non-humans, or something? That''s what she heard. Master Durron was really loud about it and a lot of other Jedi felt the same way. "A Melodie, native to Yavin 8. Humanoid in many ways, undergoes maturation mutation into an adult morph." The way he said it, like he was reading a holo article, sort of made Sannah want to throw up. Mutation. "My home is awful." she mumbled. "Everything wants to kill us and eat us here." "We call that a ''death world''." Death world. In a mean, vicious kind of way, the two words actually made Sannah feel a little better. A Death World. Her Changing, each year, felt a little more like dying. She started counting her years until she turned twenty in the same way a terminal patient counted years to live. "I don''t think there''s any animal that doesn''t want to eat us." "Yet, here you are." "Because Anakin and Tahiri saved me." "Not just ''you'', but your people." No. Nuh-uh. He wasn''t going to make her think her people weren''t all stupid. Lyric wanted to Change. She couldn''t imagine it. "Where I am from, humanity inhabits a million worlds. Many are ''Death Worlds'' like this one. Do you know what I am?" Sannah shrugged her narrow shoulders, as little as she could with his gigantic hand still gently bracing her. It was¡­sort of nice. "It''s no great secret. Astartes are made from boys. Young men who decide to give their lives in service to the Imperium. My family was honored that I was chosen." "I can''t imagine you being a boy," Sannah giggled a little, despite herself. She pictured Valin, but gigantic, but still looking like Valin. It was ridiculous. "I was as small as you were. When the time comes a boy is made into Astartes. We aren''t human after that. We do not age and we will die in battle." She felt his pride when he talked about it. "Why?" "Why do we become Astartes?" "If you were a little boy, how did you know it was what you wanted?" She left her home and everything made sense. She wanted to be like Lyric. She wanted to go and learn about the Force and come back home. She wanted to be like the valiant Anakin Solo and Tahiri Veila who came from the stars and protected her people. She knew exactly what she wanted when she was nine. Now she had no idea what she wanted. To her surprise, she felt Aeonid pull his hand back, suddenly leaving her chilly. Sannah shivered in the breeze that crept into the gunship. "I suppose that I didn''t." He sounded distant and she finally turned around, peering up at the man''s face. He had a faraway look. "I had¡­faith." "But then why? Weren''t you afraid?" "I don''t remember what fear is like," the Astartes admitted. "I understand it, but those like me - we cannot feel it anymore. I suspect I was afraid. It would have only been reasonable." She held onto what he said before, about being a boy, but then becoming an Astartes. He said they weren''t human anymore, but he had been human? It didn''t make sense. "But why? Why does the Imperium need to make you Astartes?" From Aeonid she felt darker emotions, edges of hatred, but not directed toward her. "Imagine the greatest predators of this world-" "Reel," Sannah cut in, immediately. "They''re giant snakes. They can eat a dozen Melodie in an instant." "Reel, then. Imagine a Reel ten times as large and with scales as hard as adamantium - as durasteel. Imagine its venom can melt stone." Reel were bad enough as it was. The nightmares of the one squeezing Tahiri to death before Anakin stopped it woke her up for months after. She didn''t want to even dare to think about what Aeonid was saying, just in case it somehow made it happen. "That is what humanity faces where I am from. Astartes are made so that mortal humans might be safe." "But you said you weren''t human anymore?" "Yet I still was human. Do you understand duty, Trainee Sannah?" She rolled her eyes. "Duh. Of course." "Service?" "Sure." "Duty and service. They are selfless concepts, correct?" She guessed so. She said so aloud. "Then you have your answer. It is the duty of Astartes to protect mankind. Because were were born of mankind and it was mankind that created us." "But you retire, right?" "No." The total certainty in that one syllable made Sannah shiver again. The Astartes, mistaking it for a chill, reached out and to her surprise, slid her along the enormous bench seat until she was pressed to his side. By the Force, he was warm! "Apologies, I forget the weather. I should shut the ramp." "Anakin and Tahiri will be back soon." Sannah didn''t know what to say next and the silence hung, becoming thick and stifling. She could sense Tahiri''s bright presence down in the tunnel along with several other Melodie. From Anakin she caught a sense of sudden concern, smothered quickly. That probably meant Suz told him where the monster went. "What was it like, changing into - into what you are now?" Aeonid didn''t speak for so long that Sannah''s cheeks burned red. She offended him. No one talked about the finer points of their Changing. It was personal and intimate. Who knows what it was like for - for Astartes. "It was painful and prolonged." Her stomach dropped. "I cannot say much more, as that is privileged information, but to become Astartes, there are surgeries. Many such. And then there is learning to live with one''s new body." She felt him, for the first time, actually brush up against her in the Force. Compared even to the other trainees, Aeonid''s command of the Force was clunky and clumsy and childish. "Can you be a human again?" The question was finally asked. Sitting on the tip of her tongue from the start, daring her to release it. "No. And I would not." She hugged her arms around her midsection. There''s never any going back. "I left the life of a human behind. I am Astartes now and what I lost I gained in a noble father, honorable brothers and a duty that is the purest in the universe." A bit of humor entered his voice. "You ask incisive questions, Trainee Sannah." "Sorry." "Don''t be. Questioning everything is the cornerstone of enlightenment. I fear I forgot that, of late. Master Katarn helped me to remember this." He shifted his weight, leaning forward to rest elbows on his knees, hands folded. He met Sannah''s eyes over his shoulder. His were very blue, like Anakin''s, but a truer blue, without Anakin''s ice. "Be glad, Sannah. You have a homeworld you can return to and a people to fight for. Many others do not." She didn''t feel very blessed by that.
With Suz''s holotopographic map and a re-entry track recorded by her ship''s sensors, it was a cinch to pinpoint where the creature came down. Tahiri hadn''t had luck meeting with Lyric, who was many days away in another part of the mountain. Still, a few Melodie she remembered were excited to greet the blonde, talking her ear off. Whatever Sannah had been up to she seemed to be thinking something heavy over, her presence in the Force closed off and face pensive. "A half an hour, perhaps a quarter," Aeonid confirmed, leaning slightly closer to Suz''s holotable. A blinking marker picked out their target location, deep in a glacier field that swept down from the north pole. Concerning to Anakin was that Suz also recorded likely Sith ruins beneath that very same glacier. The pendulum was swinging back toward ''definitely a sithspawn'', unfortunately. "Suz, can you call back to the Praxeum and let Kam Solusar know where we''re going? I think my Uncle and Master Katarn left already for Coruscant." "Sure, Anakin. You four sure you don''t need me too?" "It''s a Sith temple and a giant monster. We''ll let you know if it''s safe after." To her credit, the Rodian accepted his reasoning with easy agreement. No one took risks with Sith. No one sane, anyway. "Go on then, go on. The sooner you four heroes finish up, the sooner I can get my hands on - I mean, I can start to study the area." Rodian habits died hard, even for a xenoarcheologist. Anakin laughed, shaking his head, and then they were gone again. Aeonid handled the Thunderhawk expertly, dipping just high enough to leave the atmosphere and accelerate far past hypersonic speeds, tundras below them sliding past. Tahiri filled Anakin in about the goings-ons of the Melodie and some things Lyric had been up to: she''d found a mate, it sounded like, and was very happy. Sannah half-listened in, sitting in an overlarge co-pilot seat with her chin on her fist, staring sightless at the moon passing beneath them. In turn, Anakin revealed the Sith presence on Yavin 8, carefully watching the younger girl. While Tahiri was unsurprised, Sannah had almost no reaction besides a flick of her eyes toward Anakin, then back out of the canopy again. He''d have to ask her what was going on later. Returning to Yavin 8 had really unsettled his young friend. He and Tahiri could sit down with her. Tahiri, alone, could sometimes be a little¡­energetic. It''s why the two worked so well. Complementary. The glacier field shone harsh and bright white, tinged with blue as they approached, dropping closer. Aeonid memorized the coordinates from Suz''s map, but as the Thunderhawk swept low and closer, they didn''t need to guess where to get started. Much like on Yavin 4, there was a huge, gaping hole surrounded by sprays of powdered ice and snow. Exactly as if something huge and angry burrowed down. Aeonid circled once, letting them see down into the icy passage. "We''ll go in after it." Anakin studied the hole in the glacier. Aeonid shifted the Thunderhawk, keeping it hovering, and it was clear that, luckily, this time the creature dug in at a sharp but navigable angle instead of straight down. "It might be better if you stay on the surface with the Thunderhawk, in case it tries to run again." Aeonid frowned for a moment, then his brow eased. "The three of you did face it once already. This Thunderhawk only has lascannon sponsons, but it will be enough. Very well, Jedi Solo. This is your mission." "Set us down." Tahiri smirked at how seriously Anakin gave the order. He poked her through the Force, right under her ribs. She squawked.
Ice gave way to eerily familiar stone. Massassi stone. Of course, the creature tore right through that like it had the glacier. When it came to serious environmental damage, this thing was unmatched. Anakin ran his hand over the old stone then frowned. He ran his hand over it again. "Tahiri, look at this." Sannah followed Tahiri over, the three of them examining the outer stones of the long-buried temple. Both girls also touched the gouges and scarring on the stones. Sannah beat Tahiri to it. "They''re smooth!" "This is old. It dug through the glacier, but it didn''t do this. At least, not today." Aside from the hazard of slippery ice, the greatest danger for the three as they climbed down the glacier was razor-sharp shards of ice left behind by the tunneling tentacles and claws of the beast. Meltwater still dripped into little pools here and there, showing just how recently the sithspawn came through. According to Suz''s logs, it made landfall only a few hours before they got to Yavin 8. The stone of the temple was ripped and torn and gouged, but under his fingertips it was smoothed out. Scars were round-edged and weathered, not sharp and clean. "I think it was torn open and then buried under the glacier." Anakin knelt down, picking up a loose fragment of stone and tossing it from hand to hand. Rounded edges. "So this guy knows where this temple is, it comes all the way here from Yavin 4, it digs down to it¡­" Tahiri said, slowly. The conclusion was obvious. "This was where it came from." Sannah swallowed. "Do you think there''s more? Here?" "Your people don''t have any legends about something like this thing, do they?" "Just the horrible animals you already met." The ragged entrance to the buried temple yawned wide and dark. Anakin directed his lume in, washing white light over other fallen stone slabs and a cracked, intricately etched tiled floor. Unlike the last temple, this one must have been massive, maybe even the size of the Great Temple. The ceiling soared far, far above them and as Anakin panned his lume around he saw huge arched passages leading off the chamber at each cardinal direction. Each was easily big enough for the monster to move through. "This is serious deja vu," Tahiri said as they climbed down, Anakin leading. Like the temple the creature nested in back on Yavin 4, they found themselves inside what was probably the main hall, like the Praxeum had. Most temples followed the same plans. There was an entrance chamber, likely for receiving slaves or petitioners, and then an attached, grander hall. This was where the Sith ruled from publicly and the decoration suited. There were always frescoes and intricate carvings that drove archaeologists wild. The real meat of the Temples was in areas harder to access to anyone but their masters. This meant deep catacombs or lofty tiers. "Let''s see if we can find where it is." Anakin reached out for Tahiri''s hand and she tucked her smaller hand into his own. Cold fingers, he thought with a smile. Like before, Anakin gave the power, Tahiri the precision. Remembering how it felt to seek out the beast''s slumbering psyche, they tuned their mental net for the remembered sensation. Unlike on Yavin 4, out here in the middle of the barren wastes, there was barely any life to distract them. They felt mute, senseless auras of extremophile colonies and some exotic, lethargic fish species that were filled with more antifreeze than blood. And, of course, the monster itself. Slumbering again and right below them. Anakin opened eyes he didn''t remember closing. "Wow, that''s easy." "Where is it?" Tahiri jabbed a finger straight down. Two lightsabers left belts. Sannah interlaced her fingers, cracking her knuckles. Then she drew the blaster she insisted on taking this time. Smugly smiling, she made a show of checking its charge. It was a little thing, a basic holdout blaster, but Anakin couldn''t argue the logic this time. Anakin pulled out his comlink. "Aeonid?" "Jedi Solo?" "We found it. It''s sleeping again, so we might be able to get it before it wakes up." "Understood. Keep me apprised." He hooked his comlink back to his belt.
Deja vu. Tahiri couldn''t be more right. The place was different - another chamber of the temple instead of a burrowed cave, but there the sithspawn was, curled up again and sound asleep. Like before, Tahiri and he crept closer, carefully watching its mind through the Force as it slumbered. He wondered if sithspawn dreamt, and if they did, what about. It hadn''t noticed them. Its mind stayed muffled and distant, like a warm blanket draped over it. ''Sabers to the head. Anakin felt Tahiri''s agreement. No chances this time. Quick and clean. Its breath was rank, gusting out and smelling sour-sweet, like rotting greens and old meat. Burning suns, it was huge. Its head was the size of a landspeeder with a broad, flat forehead between its bulbous, albeit closed, eyes. Eyes? Tahiri sent an image of blazing lightsabers and blood red eyes. Anakin shook his head. It might blind it, but with a head that big, it might not hit the brain. They had to do it quick and instant. Right through the skull. Not even a sithspawn could resist a lightsaber. Sannah, tense behind them, sent waves of reassurance and good luck. Anakin positioned himself before the creature''s right eye, Tahiri before its left. Gently, both teenagers raised quiet lightsabers, emitters facing downward. He sent Tahiri an image of a hand with three fingers up. Two. One. S-snap h-hiss. Two brilliant blades lit, erupting, throwing shadows in the darkened chamber. Anakin''s hands jolted and his lightsaber skipped. Beside him, Tahiri cried out in surprise. Fury, physical, slammed into both of them, bodily staggering them both backward. Searing incarnadine eyes snapped open. Two steaming tracks slashed deep into its skull, exposing bone. Something in that bone had resisted his lightsaber. The creature rose up on tentacles and folded wings, mouth dropping open, wide enough to swallow the world and all light. A wall of telekinetic Force slammed into the creature, staggering it back. Sannah opened fire, spanging bright lasers off of its thick hide. Tahiri opened herself entirely to Anakin, pouring her strength to him and he shoved the creature again, trying to buy distance. The air shimmered, the chamber rang like a gong. The beast slid backward another meter or two. It felt like trying to move a Star Destroyer. Tentacles snapped out, lashing for them both. He ducked one, leapt another, met a third with his blazing lightsaber. This time, it cut clean through like before on Yavin 4. A length of fleshy tentacle thudded down and the sithspawn howled. Tahiri cried out, reeling back and he felt her surprise as his own ears rang. That was all the creature needed. One tentacle lashed out, showing unexpected intelligence, slapping Tahiri''s ''sabre from her hand. Another snapped around her waist, yanking her up into the air. A third encircled her shoulders. Anakin screamed as he felt his bones grind - Tahiri''s bones. He thrust his hand out, reaching not for Tahiri, not for his best friend, but for the sithspawn. So unlike Yuuzhan Vong, it was there in the Force. He could feel it. He opened his mind and felt all of it. It was a living thing, ichor-blood pumping, muscles tensing, nerves firing. A few strange, hollow voids within its body did not distract him. It had a heart. Two hearts. Three. Enormous masses of thumping muscle. Tahiri didn''t scream. She didn''t even cry out. The air left her lungs in a rattling wheeze and Anakin wrapped his hand around those three hearts and squeezed. Squeezed a thousand times harder than the monster did his friend. Squeezed like he was forming diamond from carbon, like his fist was a neutron star. Its life winked out. The beast flopped, boneless, to the ground. Tahiri unrolled from its tentacles, writhing. Sannah screamed. Anakin was at her side, rolling her onto her back. He planted his palm on her sternum, flooding her with the Force. No broken bones - stressed, but not broken. He had been fast enough. But she couldn''t breathe. Her mouth worked, eyes bulging, cheeks purpling. Just as he could feel every part of the monster, he felt Tahiri. Her lungs were collapsed, diaphragm spasming and shocked. "Breathe!" he shouted, forcibly pushing air down into her lungs. Tahiri arched off the ground, gasping and Anakin fell back on his rear, tears sudden and hot in his eyes. Eyes pinched shut, Tahiri propped herself up, leaning heavy on one arm, wheezing and clutching her stomach. She was vibrant in the Force. Aching, but alive. She whined, ramping up into a quiet: "Owwwwww-" Then Sannah arrived like a small missile, sliding on her knees and thudding into Tahiri''s back and nearly strangling the girl again with a back-breaking hug. Peering over Tahiri''s shoulder, Sannah was wide-eyed, goggling at him. "Is that what you did to the Reel?" she asked, breathless. Anakin frowned, but Tahiri, around deep breaths, chimed in. "It was just like the Reel," she said, breathless, panting. There was the Purella, the one that strung both him and Tahiri up in its web. There were the Raithe that attacked them too. And the Avril that made off with Lyric. A Reel was the one thing that hadn''t made an attempt- "Just like it," Sannah continued. "It even went after Tahiri too. Boy, you have really bad luck." "What are you talking about?" Both girls looked at him like he''d declared for the Empire. "The Reel? The one that grabbed me?" Tahiri coughed, cleared her throat. "At the Changing cove. Remember? It was suffocating me and then you killed it with a glare." Half-meter wide purple coils swept around Tahiri, the girl vanishing from sight aside from a few locks of her blonde hair. Muffled, she cried out for him. Sannah and the other Melodie watched in horror. Lyric, with the other Changelings, drifted peacefully in the pool, oblivious to the life-or-death struggle just outside their waters. It had Tahiri. His best friend. His only friend. Something cold filled him, from his toes to his scalp and the world turned crystal clear. The Reel, hissing, turned transparent to his mind. He could see its muscles contracting, trying to crush the life out of Tahiri, his best friend. He could see its cold blood pumping through veins and arteries. Its heart thumped: bump, bump. He could sink mental fingers into its coils and yank its grip apart. He could bash its head into the ground until the creature was dazed and the Melodies finished it off with their stone spears. It was trying to kill Tahiri. It wanted to eat Tahiri. Anakin reached out with his hand. The Reel''s heart beat: bump bump. He squeezed. Through the Force, he told its heart to stop. It did. The Reel slumped over, coils loose, dead. He''d done this before. He killed something with the Force. Directly with the Force. Somehow, he''d forgotten. Blocked it out. Stuffed it away, deep down and moved on. "I did¡­" "I mean I''m not complaining, but next time if you could do it before it cracks my ribs, I''d really appreciate it." Still shocked, Anakin mutely nodded. Neither girl seemed to realize exactly what he''d done, or if they did, it didn''t matter to them. It was defense, wasn''t it? He didn''t kill the Reel or the creature until it was about to kill one of his friends. He didn''t just snuff its life out without reason. It wasn''t an attack. It was defense. Unbidden, the memory of Centerpoint''s eagerness came to the fore and Anakin shuddered. In that moment, he was more sure than ever he made the right choice.
Sannah crouched down in front of the sithspawn, poking at one of its fangs with her middle finger. Tahiri winced now and then, holding her bruised ribs, but kept meeting Anakin''s anxious gaze with a smile. The cuts their lightsabers made in its head drew his attention. Few things were known to resist lightsabers. Cortosis overloaded a ''saber''s containment and shut it off. Phrik, in contrast, was resistant, with an unbelievably high capacity to soak up heat and disperse electricity. Those weren''t what Anakin was thinking of. Now that he had a chance to think, he definitely did not want to think of another possibility. There was no reason to speculate. None at all. He just had to examine the beast. Both slashes were cauterized. Several inches of blubbery, thick flesh was blackened and crackled and beneath he could see scorched bone. He rapped a fingernail off the exposed bone. Sure sounded like bone. He lit his lightsaber, carefully placing the tip against the thing''s skull and applying pressure. It hissed, spat, crackled, but slowly it gave way. It was an odd feeling, something a lightsaber should never feel like. Having true resistance. It reminded him of one other thing. Vonduun armor. Vong body armor deflected lightsabers as easily as this thing''s skull did. Once, Anakin had even knocked a vong off his feet with the strength behind his blow. As if his lightsaber was a club instead of an edgeless blade. Continued contact could and would cut through vonduun armor, just as he was feeling with this creature. But it couldn''t be. He could sense it. He and Tahiri had felt its mind. It couldn''t be a Yuuzhan Vong thing. There were the strange hollows he sensed. One was near the surface of its back. Ignoring Tahiri''s confusion, Anakin leapt atop the corpse with a brief shove of telekinesis. There was the hollow. Like a gap, or a space in its body. An abscess. Gently, he cut down with his lightsaber, through flesh and muscle. Something shifted. Anakin leapt back, feeling Tahiri and Sannah tense at his alarm. Flesh bulged, swelling, bulging - and out popped a fleshy black orb. It trembled, little tendrils sticking off of its central mass. Greyness spread across its shiny flesh, like a calcification, before Anakin''s eyes. "Anakin?" Tahiri coughed, clearing her throat, voice hoarse. "Anakin? What is it? Anakin? Anakin?" He was bleeding horror. He knew it. He knew what he was looking at. He knew exactly what this was. A dovin basal. The Yuuzhan Vong had been on Yavin 4 all along. His fingers shook so much he tried three times to activate his comlink. "Aeonid?" "Jedi Solo? I sensed-" "Contact the Praxeum. It''s vong. It''s vong." "Repeat. Anakin, are you saying the creature is Yuuzhan Vong?" Aeonid used his given name. He felt the Astartes'' sudden alertness. "Yes. It had a dovin basal in it. It''s vong. They''ve been here all along. On Yavin 8. And 4. Tell the Praxeum." "Return to the Thunderhawk and we will inform the Praxeum together." Sannah was white as a sheet. Tahiri swayed in place, mouth open. "No," Anakin sighed. "If they''ve been here all along, we need to know what else is down here." A stone sat in his gut. Sannah had tears in her eyes. Tahiri scrubbed hands over her face. Every shadow cast by his humming lightsaber seemed sinister. Anakin just felt¡­tired. Weary. Yavin was supposed to be safe. The war was so far away. He just wanted - He had a job to do. Shutting off his lightsaber, he leapt off the top of the dead vong biot, landing light beside Tahiri and Sannah. He put a hand on both their shoulders, burying his disquiet, his frustration, his anger, his fear deep and pushing only calm surety to them through the Force. Maybe his smile was weak, maybe it was fragile, but he was Anakin Solo. A lopsided grin, a lightsaber, and the devil''s luck. Vape the vong. This one was dead. If there was anything else down here, he''d kill that too. Contingence Interlude III This, She Notes
The Exiles provided everything. When her shuttle landed, there was a wheeled vehicle waiting with a uniformed chauffeur. He saluted, offered his name and rank. He got the passenger side for her, handled her luggage into the trunk and then asked for her desired destination. When quizzed where she could go, he provided a half dozen options, with the last being ''by your guidance, ma''am.'' The young man''s hair was cropped tight to his scalp, visible as fuzz below the band of his peaked cap. He kept both hands on the broad wheel, eyes on the road, lower lip protruding a little as he focused. Everything about the vehicle appeared new, from its chunky, rubberized wheels to the boxy bulk of its frame and body. The seats were dense woven fiber, comfortable enough. "I''m sorry about the truck, ma''am." he said. "Pardon?" "It''s surplus military. Tauros frame, modified. Nothing fancy, I know. Sorry about that." "Oh," she said, understanding. Her stylus moved, shorthand notation capturing that factoid away on her datapad, set in her lap. "That''s just fine. Call me Brenaz." They merged onto a larger arterial, joining large and rumbling, multi-wheeled vehicles. A small divider of permacrete split apart two directions of traffic. "Yes ma''am. There''s restrictions on landspeeders, you understand." He gestured up, vaguely, toward the roof and the sky beyond. "They''ve been reclassified as aircraft. The Legion doesn''t like aircraft around the landing fields. It has to be ground effect." "It''s really no problem." Behind, the landing fields still spanned the horizon and they passed new spans of tarmac in construction. The smell of hot tar permeated the cab as they rolled past smoke-stacked crawlers, whose rears extruded the material. Red-robed figures stood along the perimeter, gesturing with limbs that caught the sun. "They''re building more fields," she observed. Her driver nodded. "Yes ma''am. More every day, there''s always more immigrants to process." "Immigrants, Private?" Red touched his cheeks. "Refugees. It''s policy to call them immigrants." "Why''s that?" "''Promotes a positive air of camaraderie and acceptance'', ma''am. ''Refugee'' was determined to have too negative a meaning to people. Immigrants implies they''re here to stay, you know. Be a part of all this." She noted this down on her datapad. "And you were an immigrant, Private Satch?" One hand came off the wheel to rub at his neck. "Agamar, ma''am. Me and my family, well, most of them." This too she noted. Through the windscreen, the arterial ran laser straight. Black tarmac, white paint lines, signs in a language she knew from her documents. Gothic. Never in Basic. It ran straight toward the looming city on the horizon. "I thought I recognized your accent." A swipe of her stylus, and his dossier populated her datapad''s screen. Alteen Satch, twenty standard years old. Human, to mother and father Wara and Tane Satch, forty-two and forty-seven. Four siblings, all alive: two brothers and two sisters. Their uncle owned and operated a refueling depot in one of Agamar''s smaller cities and through that business had access to a YT-series freighter. The Satch clan, some thirty-five of them, entered SELCORE''s database after fleeing Agamar in 60:8, shortly before the invasion. None of the family were spacers and as the Outer Rim fell they tried to stay ahead of the surge. They filed applications as SELCORE outlined, once a week, rapidly burning through savings to keep fuel in their ship and food on the table. Their break came three months later, when Eboracum was added to SELCORE''s roster of host planets. The Satchs were approved for settlement on the planet. There was short discussion among the elders of the clan about the requirements of their new host, but sentiment was poor about the New Republic. The Core had, in their opinion, abandoned Agamar in favor of Ithor. There was little loyalty. Among the first through Eboracum Orbital, the Satchs are a shining example of the success of integration onto Eboracum. Private Alteen Satch, twenty, with his hair clipped to his scalp and ruddy starburn on his cheeks and forearms, guides them with glances at signs, in Gothic. The choice of chauffeur was no accident. This, she notes.
Energy and expectation draped about Eboracum Civitas like a warm cloak. Each thoroughfare was clean and sharply marked, so crisp and so new she half-expected to still smell the fresh paint. Everything was white-washed, from soaring habitation blocks to sprawling medical facilities and stout, two-story schools. People walked and there were collapsible, twin-wheeled vehicles that she saw racked on bright and burnished metal stands. Few vehicles vied for space on the lanes. Private Satch drove them down, keeping a steady but sedate pace that allowed her easy observation through her rolled-down window. The air was pleasant. Neither too warm nor too cool and the smell of industry was light and present, enervating without being oppressive. The smell of worked metal, drying paint, starched cloth. This, she notes. Citizens looked¡­content. Here, a family shepherded along a gaggle of children. There, two young adults walked hand in hand. Uniformed footmen moved at purposeful clip, carrying satchels on their back with clean labels in a script she did not know. But if there were citizens about - they were matched in number by those in uniform. Everywhere she looked there were soldiers. Their uniforms were blue and utilitarian, matched to spit-shined boots and soft-bodied, billed caps. They moved in knots and clumps, in orderly marching formations and in open-air trucks just like this ''Tauros'' she sat in. This she did not need to note. It was well-known that Eboracum and the Imperium Exsilius was a military empire. It was, after all, founded by what was admitted to be a pacification fleet whose purpose was to conquer worlds and deliver them into the grasp of their far-distant Imperium. Much ado had been made about that, of course. An expansionist autocratic empire plucking a non-member world right outside the Colonies? It was certainly concerning and would have raised greater flags had the Imperium Exsilius not come to the table with clear statements that they: A: had no blasted idea where they were B: did not wish to enter in hostilities at all with the New Republic It was hard to view the 4711th Expeditionary Fleet (and that name explained much) as anything but a strictly local, not even regional, concern. Their ships were big, their people were serious and their organization seemed robust, but on a grander scale? In SELCORE''s offices, no one was willing to look a gifted starship right in the hyperdrive. If they wanted to take thousands - millions - of humans in and give them citizenship, food, medicine, you name it, then they could have been the Galactic Empire itself and SELCORE might not have batted an eye. It was hard to undersell just how awful circumstances were becoming for the masses fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong invasion corridor. Some racist humans were far from the worst place to drop refugees. Their first stop was what the Exiles called a Schola Imperialis. It was a campus more than a single building. White-columned architecture struck a note of some grandeur, as did marble statues of serious looking men and women in greatcoats and bearing sabers, blasters and other tools of war. The grounds were green and everywhere she saw freshly sown grasses and young trees, transplanted, that would one day form bowers around the imposing statuary. Seven large halls surrounded the central green and hundreds of humans moved along crushed gravel paths. She saw people carrying physical books alongside chunky datapads, talking and gesturing. Private Satch opened her door and she stepped out, stretching after the long drive from the starport. A man - of sorts - awaited her at the curb, wearing a long tunic with red sash about the waist. He offered one of two right hands, smiling metallic teeth between normal, fleshy lips. His skull was shaved smooth and elongated, blinking with a series of lights that ran from his temples back to the nape of his neck. "Good afternoon, ma''am. Inspector Sheen Brenaz, is it?" "I am," she agreed, shaking his offered and mechanical hand. His flesh and blood one remained gently holding the edge of his tunic. "Historitor Kechane," he inclined his head. "I''m a professor at the Schola, though I have no classes for the day. May I?" He gestured with his left hand, toward the central green. "Lead on. I''ve heard a great deal of your Schola." He explained the functioning as he led her along paths, pointing out heroes and notables captured in stone. As SELCORE already knew, the ''Schola Imperialis'' was not just this campus but many, scattered throughout the ever-growing Civitas. Each was a place for not only the young to be educated by the older too. By edict of Fastus Foltrus, High Suzerain of Eboracum, all newly naturalized citizens were to be taught of the Imperium, Terra, and the nature of life as a ''member of humanity''. "We teach history here, of course," the Historitor stated, rather obviously. "Both long distant history and recent. My speciality is the history of the Crusade, since its launching from Terra and Mars. It''s the most important event in human history, after all. The reclaiming of our birthright among the stars. Very captivating stuff, I think. I''ve heard my class is popular." Other classes spoke on social expectations, taught the language of ''Low Gothic'' and further delved deeper into the particular strain of ''Imperial'' culture that the 4711th brought with them: that of Ultramar, a realm within the greater Imperium. Sheen Brenaz kept track of little mentions Kechane let slip, about other realms within the greater ''Imperium''. A picture grew in her mind of not a single monolith culture but an assemblage of unique and subservient ''client'' states, something that made a great deal more sense if the Exiles were to be believed about ruling over an entire other galaxy. No one could seriously hope to enforce a centralized culture that way, even though Palpatine certainly gave it a good try. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. They were exiting one of the halls, this one set aside from language and literature when she passed an Arkanian. Brenaz did a double-take, slowing, watching the pale-skinned alien walk away. Kechane noted and paused as well. "That''s an Arkanian," she said, confused. The Exiles had been explicit and emphatic on their refusal to accept any refugees beyond human. For some, a major sticking point, for others, an unfortunate and unsurprising requirement. Brenaz, who grew up under the Empire, had taken the news in stride, though privately disappointed. "Ah." Kechane rubbed his hands together - very strange in motion, given he had three. "The ''Arkanian'' designate substrain. It''s curious that your Republic classifies them as ''near'' human, when they are, by all metrics, human." Feeling rather off balance, she instead just sort of waved a hand toward the Arkanian''s back and raised an eyebrow. "Pigmentation variations are exceedingly common among branches of the tree of homo sapiens. Exposure to extraterrestrial pressures can often result in genetic drift to better suit new environments. It''s a mark of how robust humanity is, you see, that we are able to both shape new worlds to ourselves and shape ourselves to fit new worlds. There are unacceptable degrees of deviation, of course - what we would term ''mutant'', but the Arkanian branch passes all scrutiny with ease. Pigmentation variance, slight expansion of visual light spectrum, the loss of a single digit? Well within acceptable." "So¡­Eboracum will accept Arkanians?" "We accept humans," Kechane stressed. "It''s not our fault that you miscategorize your own species." Brenaz looked about, scanning the crowd, looking with new eyes for - ah, another. "Zeltrons?" "Zeltros-substrain also within normal variation." Now that she had noticed, it was like she was noticing them everywhere. She saw a few more Zeltrons, another Arkanian, a few Pantoran and a Mirialan. "The mistake your Republic makes is one of cultural obsession, rather than genetic precedence. Many of what you term ''near-human'', we have found to be purely human, merely with mildly divergent traits. You look at an Arkanian and see ''an Arkanian'', not a human with arkanian features. Reproductive capability and the production of viable and fertile offspring further proves this fact." Kechane beamed a great smile. "This is the beauty of what the Imperium brings to teach. That all these people, who thought themselves apart and different, are instead but branches on the vast and mighty tree that is humanity. It is an honor to be able to open their eyes."
With the Schola behind and Kechane''s declarations bouncing around her mind, Brenaz was led through entirely less interesting but far more important tours. Private Satch delivered her to a bustling and noisy manufactorum, where sweaty-faced men and women worked at long and winding assembly lines to produce piles upon piles of well-machined blasters. "Lasrifles," barked the manufactorum''s overseer in correction, a red-robed melange of meat and metal that called itself ''Cybersmith Tlakos''. That this thing was considered ''human'' made Kechane''s considerations on what defined a human make a little more sense. She took the time to speak with some of the workers, those on break and those coming into their shift. The former were tired but appeared content, telling her that the work was demanding and the ''Cybersmith'' had high standards to follow, but the pay was fair and the hours manageable. Everyone was paid in ''Thrones'', a local currency that was accepted by all trade and merchants in the Civitas. Credits, it seemed, were quite out of favor on Eboracum. Brenaz pressed on treatment of workers and learned that during education at the Schola, newly arrived refugees were given aptitude testing to find where best they could serve the Imperium, and then offered a short list of jobs to accept once their ''education'' was complete. Re-education, really, and Brenaz heard a lot speaking Basic still, alongside their clumsier Low Gothic knowledge. She picked another factory nearby, one that had not been on the planned itinerary and to her surprise and some pleasure, Private Satch was allowed to drop her off there as well. This one did not have a member of the ''Martian Mechanicum'' overseeing it directly, but rather, to the Exile''s credit, an original citizen of Pirve, who had worked their way up the ranks. She was a stern and serious woman, but was willing to walk Brenaz through her factory and demonstrate a few things here and there. Instead of lasrifles, this one produced the packs that carried the charge for the weapons, and as such dealt with much more hazardous materials. Workers here wore thickened overalls, rubberized gloves and filtration masks. Again, a good sign. Hard work, but none of it like the rumors from SallicheAg.
The next, and second to last stop, would be the Civitas'' Arbites precinct. Then after that, a fifteen minute audience with the High Suzerain himself, which Brenaz was very much looking forward to. She''d heard a lot about these ''Ultramarines'' and while a few had been visible at the starport, it was always from a distance. Traffic was thicker toward the center of the Civitas, though never standstill. It still didn''t make sense why they didn''t use airspeeders and stacked traffic lanes, but at least the groundcar never ended up stuck and waiting. Whoever designed the layout of the Civitas'' traffic grid had done so with room enough for the imagined growth of the city. "Just how many people do live here, anyway," she mumbled, not expecting an answer. "I think it''s just over five million, now." She goggled at Satch, the Private still focused on traffic. "Five? Pirve had a population of just barely that!" "Every day brings more!" Satch''s voice was filled with pride. "I''ve heard that in another year, it should be ten, maybe fifteen!" Muttering an oath, Brenaz shook her head. A local power now, but at this kind of expansion, maybe discounting them as a regional power wasn''t quite right¡­ And SELCORE was feeding it with every approved refugee liner. She worried her lip with her teeth, glancing down at her datapad and scrolling back through her notes. Nothing but positive impressions so far. She was looking for problems and so far, Eboracum was irritatingly accommodating. And why shouldn''t they be, Brenaz couldn''t help but think. It behooved them to keep the flow of immigrants coming. If they weren''t now fighting the Yuuzhan Vong at Fondor and now in-system - the news had been flowing in for the past several days - she''d almost be wary about how perfectly timed the Exile''s appearance was to capitalize on the burgeoning refugee crisis. A strong military, a clearly capable industrial base, all just waiting for the people to make it work? Very convenient for them. Very convenient. Her thoughts were cut short by a low, rolling wail that ramped up, up and up and louder until it made her chest vibrate and teeth rattle. "What in the stars is that?" she shouted, barely audible. The klaxon wail rolled off, trailing into near-silence before beginning again. Satch slowed the truck, rolling to a halt against the curb. His face was white, bloodless under his cropped hair. "Those are the sirens-" he cried. "They do a test at the end of every week, but this isn''t-" Brenaz swung her door wide, hopping out, craning her neck and peering up. The ghostly-blue/grey disc of Eboracum Orbital hung straight above, large as her thumb held out at arm''s length. Shapes moves around it, traffic coming and going - and then there were tiny threads like silver, blinking and flickering. Lights, like morning stars lit and bloomed and Brenaz had seen this all before. "They''re fighting in orbit," she breathed, the words stolen and lost under the siren''s wail. Private Satch slid over the hood, grabbing hold of her elbows and tugging her off the street, toward a nearby, column-faced building. "We need to get into the bunkers! Come on!" She had to see. There was a shape up there, details barely visible, that she knew was the dreadnought Mantallikes. She could see it firing, endless streamers of bright points that reached out toward darker, smaller shapes that, even as she watched, stretched and vanished into hyperspace. Satch tugged at her, tugged hard, but she shook him off and even he paused, gape-mouthed, watching too. Explosions bloomed like tiny, tiny shining flowers around Eboracum Orbital. A needle-like shape of one of the incoming barges puffed and became a cloud of fire, shadows growing sharper around her. She felt the brightness of day increase for a moment. Sirens wailed. Citizens hurried, in surprising order, toward the closest buildings, entering through doors flung wide by the occupants. Soldiers dashed around, shouting and barking orders and then lightning flashed hard on the horizon, out toward the low range of mountains that were a smear of dark color. Flashed again, and again, in straight lines that pierced up and up, vertical lightning that struck from ground to sky in reversal of nature. Orbital cannons, she thought numbly. "This isn''t like before!" Satch shouted into her ear. "We need to go!" One thing caught her eye. Eboracum''s largest moon, a pale disc twice the size of Eboracum Orbital, wrapped in thin cloud and electrical storms. It had emerged over the horizon around midday, pale and washed out. Brenaz, ears ringing and teeth vibrating in her skull, half deafened by the sirens, narrowed her eyes at the celestial body. "Private," she shouted, but he couldn''t hear her. She looped an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close, mouth to his ear. "Private Satch, what''s wrong with the moon?" Cloud patterns boiled suddenly on its face. Even so far away, ripples of light from what had to be continent-spanning sheets of lightning illuminated rapidly growing smudges of hurricanes. He shouted back four words and Brenaz felt gooseflesh ripple up her neck and arms. "Is it getting bigger?" Contingence Chapter XV XV: Under Ice
The Great Temple and surrounding edifices of the complex in the Massassi Site shared similarities in design and structure. There was a clear architectural through-line that held, even in Exar Kun''s grim, black-stone temple. Monolithic blocks made up the substrate of the enormous ziggurats, but they remained clean and almost sterile in their stately simplicity. Smooth, flat-sided, but rarely cluttered with carvings or ornamentation. There was a quiet austerity in the designs of the Great Temple and the others. Even the Temple of the Blueleaf Cluster, with its etchings that gave it the name, barely bucked this trend. The blueleaf motifs carved into the outer sides of that temple were simplified, like they were stripped down to the least necessary to convey the image of the fern. Anakin wasn''t sure if it meant that this particular temple was raised before or after that period on Yavin 4, because the further the trio delved into the dark, the more and more it diverged from what he knew best. The chamber that the vong beast - not a sithspawn - chose as a lair revealed itself to bear dense carvings on all the walls, with the ceiling made to mimic the constellations that could be seen in the night skies. Anakin panned his lume across the repeating scrollwork that encrusted the walls, recognizing none of the designs. Tahiri pointed out enormous, darkly colored metal chains that littered the floor, anchored into eye-bolts of staggering size. Clearly, these once held the vong biot in place. Just as clearly, it was where it had broken free from, if the shattered links were any indication. They were as thick around as Anakin''s thigh and the sight of them bent and wrenched open was sobering. They got off easy with that monster. On the one hand, that was a good sign that there might not be any more creatures afoot, if this one had been an unwilling captive. It even hinted that the ancient Sith brought it here from elsewhere and the vong would miss its death. On the other hand, if this temple was as old or older than the temple complex of Yavin 4¡­a Yuuzhan Vong creature chained up here for millenia had some implications Anakin didn''t quite want to unpack yet. Aeonid Thiel did not like Anakin''s plan to delve deeper into this new temple: the Astartes'' uncertainty bled clear in the Force. He''d called the Praxeum, warning of the new discovery, then relayed down to Anakin that Kam Solusar would reach out to Uncle Luke, though he might not be able to get a connection until the Jedi Master was out of hyperspace again. Another difference to the Great Temple he knew best, this temple seemed to be arranged like a cylindrical stack. The first chamber, which they came in through and the beast used as an entrance, acted like the topmost of the stack and was half again as large as the chamber beneath, where the beast slept. Wrapping around this stack of round chambers was a gently declining corridor that spiraled down as a shallow ramp. The overall shape was like a screw, with the outer corridor acting as the thread twisted around the stacked chambers of the center. They poked around the chamber that the biot had once been contained in, but aside from the mighty broken chains and some glittering shards of glass - too rounded to be anything but containers or flasks of some kind - there wasn''t much to see. The carvings on the walls were a language Anakin hadn''t seen, likely some ancient Sith dialect. Sannah pointed out a few designs that ended up being topographical maps of Yavin 8, as seen from space. She knew the world better than Anakin or Tahiri, of course, it being her home, but why the builders felt the need to etch in those maps was anyone''s guess. They took the encircling corridor, leaving the monster''s dead body cooling behind them. A full circuit delivered them to a sealed stone door, like a slab, that was twice Anakin''s height. There weren''t any visible switches or controls and probing around with the Force didn''t reveal any special mechanisms that answered only to a Force sensitive, like could be found at places like the Blueleaf Temple. They left that one alone, descending again down the spiral to the ''fourth'' floor. Tahiri rapped her knuckles against the solid stone of the fourth floor''s cyclopean door, a mirror to the one they''d just seen, closing her eyes and sending Anakin a questioning brush. He leant her a hand and she borrowed some of his strength, rapping the door again. This time, she struck with the Force too, a solid thud of transmitted telekinesis. She pursed her lips, knocking again, again, leaning her ear close. "Sounds like it''s solid in there. Ice got in, maybe." Knowing the difference between wind-packed sand and treacherous, fine-grained and shifting tracts of desert could be life or death for the Sand People, and in her youth before she was found by Tionne, Tahiri had a preternatural feel for the density and solidity of terrain. She knocked one last time, shaking her head. "Yep. Definitely not worth trying to cut our way in." Anakin hummed, looking up at the four-meter tall span of the cracked door. Some kind of figure dominated the center of it, with a few too many arms and strange looking fleshy-bulbs sprouting here and there. "Wasn''t thinking of it. We''re looking for stuff that got out already, not looking to let out something new." "So keep going?" Anakin flashed his lume around. "The temple does, so, that''s a yes." The fifth level didn''t seem to have a door, so it meant either they were into a new part of the temple''s depths, or that maybe the next chamber down was taller. Truly, Anakin wasn''t trying to make sense of the architectural inclinations of some long-dead sith. They would follow this looping corridor down until they found an open door or it ended. If it ended without anything else, all the better. He could chalk up the beast''s return here to just be it fleeing to an old haunt and nothing more worrying. For all he knew, whatever precepts the vong implanted into the thing''s brain made it dig out warrens on every possible moon of Yavin and it wasn''t anything to be concerned about. Or there would be some ancient vong base down here, like Master Horn found on what-was-that-world again, Bimmiel? The idea of vong secretly holding out, spying not only on the Melodies but the Praxeum made him uneasy, though each time he reached out, feeling for life or any particular voids in the Force, there was nothing but old stone and vague shadows of intent.
Sannah peered up, open-mouthed, at the spitting image of a Melodie. It was an adult female, posed like she was swimming against a strong current. In the light of three hand-held lumes, the statue seemed nearly alive, shadows slithering and moving oddly across it in the cross-wise illumination, catching and bending around finely detailed fins on the Melodie''s tail and in the curly and dense plume of her hair, whipping around in a spray of immaculate stone. The Melodie''s upper body, the ''human'' part, was pale and veined: marble, and polished to a sheen. Not even dust settled on it and the finish of the statue almost mimicked skin, the way light made it glow. ''Her'' tail, with every single scale picked out, was from some dark green and black stone. The membranes of each fin were so thin that as Tahiri circled around to the far side, Sannah could see her lume actually shining through the wafer-thin stone. The effect was beyond eerie and it prickled hairs on her neck. The pale marble and the dark green stone highlighted how inhuman the Melodie''s lower-half was, appearing more like some devouring aquatic monster halfway through the process of devouring a beautiful young woman. They''d followed the spiraling corridor to its end, which was about at the ''seventh'' level of the temple, past another two sealed shut doors. The hall sloped into a wide frame, without any doors closed or otherwise, that opened into a long, rectangular hall. Anakin cranked his lume up, white light reaching out to reveal¡­the statues. The Melodie one was hard to pull her eyes away from. Sannah kept seeing Lyric in its stone face. The other statues were far stranger. Across from the Melodie was one of a man, arms folded across his broad and muscled chest. Where the Melodie''s torso ran into the fish-like tail, the man''s lower body was similarly scaled, but far, far longer and more evocative of a giant snake, curled up and up and up on itself. Like the Melodie, the human-half was done in that same pale marble, the lower, snake-like part in the green-black soapstone. Where the Melodie looked to be swimming, the snake-man was carved in a meditative pose, with his head tilted back and eyes closed. Then there was another: a woman like the Melodie, but her lower half was that of a spider with eight legs, whose knobbled knee-joints reached up over her head. Unlike the snake-man and the Melodie, this spider-woman didn''t have a perfectly human upper body. Her face somehow fit another pair of eyes, slitted and smaller and where eyebrows should be. Anakin panned his lume over her marble face and Sannah winced at a hint of long, needle-like teeth between parted stone lips. A man with digitigrade legs raised clawed and four-fingered hands aloft as if praying. Green-black soapstone was carved to look like sleek fur along his legs and ruffling the backs of his arms to the shoulder. A woman''s arms blended into a huge wingspan of green-black feathers, each finger tipped with a ferocious talon. A man bore a rack of antlers and legs that ended in thick hooves. A woman with hands clasped before her had long, wild hair that was more like a mane, green-black and thick and running down her back where it met a canid tail that hung low. The hall was filled with these hybrid statues, marching in eerie rows on either side like some kind of honor guard. Sannah knelt down next to one of the statue''s plinths, her lume catching and reflecting dully off of something tucked right against the stone. It was a little chisel, the kind Melodies used to leave marks in the caves. Wire-wrapped handle with a spade-shaped iron tip maybe an inch long. It fit comfortably in her hand. Weird. Master Tionne might want to see it. Sannah slipped it into her belt for safekeeping. "I''ve never seen anything like this in a Sith temple," Anakin murmured. Tahiri nodded in agreement and Sannah had to defer to their much greater experience with, well, Sith temples. Anakin paced back along the left-side row of statues toward the Melodie, chewing on his lip and clearly thinking hard. Tahiri rubbed fingers along the plinth of the spider-woman, tracing carven text that was still crisp and sharp. Sannah noticed color for the first time and found that behind the rows of statues, the walls of the chamber were neither carven nor plain, but instead painted in massive, flowing murals. The pigments were faded a little, smudged or scratched here and there and occasionally there was a water stain, but were pretty intact. And surprisingly beautiful. She followed the right-side mural back to the start, where they entered the chamber. Ziggurats rose up out of jungles and there were Massassi hauling slabs to raise them to the stars. Figures with arms held up stood on top of the ziggurats - obviously the Sith lords that enslaved the poor Massassi. It had to be the founding of Yavin 4. The jungle gave way to stark ice and snow. The Massassi weren''t there, replaced instead by young Melodies in the dozens. They were wearing what looked like skins of some kind, like the really crude stuff that the Melodies used to wear generations ago. It looked like just slices-of-life. Some Melodie were sitting around a fire, some Melodie were plucking berries from bushes, some were chasing a songbuk and waving spears. Was it¡­a history of her people? Excitement bloomed in her chest. If she brought back holos of this, it would be the sort of discovery that hadn''t happened in¡­well, she didn''t even know how long. Almost nothing was recorded of the days long past, outside of rumored oral tradition the Elders kept among themselves. That was another awesome thing about Changing. It made you stop caring about younger Melodies. Oh, can''t tell them stories. Have to keep it around the Elders. Rushing along, Sannah watched as the Melodies hunted and built huts and - she blushed hard - did things and raised families. Raised families? These weren''t Melodies! They were human! Not a single tail in sight and no Changings! The art had been too imprecise to show webbed hands. Did humans live on Yavin 8 first, brought as slaves by the Sith and used like Massassi? Did they even know about Melodies, then? The murals had to have more answers and she started jogging along, not noticing Tahiri joined her, curiosity piqued. The humans started hunting all the animals she knew best, even the predators like reels, raithes and avril. They were good at it too, if the piles of bodies meant anything. Things got weird, then. The murals turned into something stomach-turning, not showing day-to-day life but constant feasts and rituals. The humans didn''t wear skins anymore but were naked all the time, but given how much red paint was used on them, they might have just decided it wasn''t worth cleaning all the blood out of their clothes. That''s when a figure started appearing. It reminded her of the Sith back at the start, who were overseeing the Massassi. Like those Sith, it always had its arms uplifted as if preaching and the makers of the mural made sure to embed little gold pins where its eyes would be. Some sort of octagonal halo shone behind its head each time it appeared. Things got even stranger until the mural showed the humans picking up parts of the animals they hunted and wearing them. Some kind of ritual reason? Did the Sith force them to? Humans strapped antlers onto their heads or ran around with wings of feathers. It was like they were trying to become the animals that they hunted and massacred. Always that Sith figure kept looming over them all, until- She reached the end of the mural. "Well, that''s spooky." Tahiri declared. Sannah jumped, realizing she wasn''t alone. Anakin had fallen in too and was glancing back down the wall. "I have no idea what any of it means¡­" Anakin panned his lume up, across the ceiling, then turned to flash it across the backs of the statues. "Tionne might. I''m sure she''ll come here herself to study it." Sannah glanced back at the mural, at one of the last parts. There, a human hacked a great fish in half, spilling its guts out, before climbing into its body like some kind of twisted sleeping bag. "Blech."
"How are those burning?" Sannah asked, shivering and rubbing at her arms through the sleeves of her jumpsuit. Iron-basketed torches filled with merrily dancing flames ringed the edge of the chamber, burning without smoke. She didn''t see any wires or tubes or pipes, nothing to feed fuel or pass along a motion-sensor command to start them up. They''d all just lit at once, the second they crossed the threshold. Right when it felt like the temperature dropped a few degrees. Only one passage led off the far end of the statue room, opposite to the entrance of it, and that little corridor led them here, this small room. Almost an afterthought. "You guys?" Anakin and Tahiri didn''t say a word, both of her friends suddenly so still she nearly bumped into their backs. "Uhm," Sannah mumbled, "hello?" Her friends didn''t say a word. Oh, now the shivers really made her tremble in place and Sannah edged to the side, peeking past Tahiri''s side to see just what her two friends were so focused on. Melodies had a kind of religion, like a lot of people in the Galaxy did. The protective waters under the mountain were revered for the protection and safety they gave Changed Melodies, taking them away from the evils and dangers of the surface world. Sannah didn''t hold too much of the faith of her people, not after learning what she did about the Force and seeing more of the Galaxy. Water was just water and an aquifer was just an aquifer, even if it was somewhere her people had lived for generations and generations. Worshiping their ancestors - Sannah found that made sense and she used to ask her forebears for guidance when she protected the eggs and gathered food. The Force was where all things returned to, so wouldn''t her mothers and fathers long past be part of that Force, giving strength to Sannah and her friends? Some Melodies liked to make little shrines, piling up smooth stones from biggest to smallest or arranging them carefully and then garlanding them in winter-flowers and leaving grass baskets of berries. Little houses for ancestor spirits to rest at and be thanked for their help. She learned at the Praxeum that many beings had means of prayer and faith and liked to make much bigger and grander ways to talk to their spirits or gods or angels. Altars and temples, churches. The Sith definitely viewed themselves as gods among mortals and, well, Sannah sort of lived in a giant temple every day! Which gave context to what Sannah laid eyes on, what had Anakin and Tahiri transfixed. The room wasn''t that big, maybe large enough an X-Wing might squeeze into it, and right in the middle was a kind of altar, made of that same green-black soapstone that the statues were made of. It was chunky and blocky, tall enough that it would reach just about Sannah''s shoulders, but then again, Sannah (and most Melodies) were short compared to the average being. For someone like Master Skywalker, maybe waist height or a little taller. Weird symbols just like those they had seen carved higher in the temple were all over the altar, except instead of being carved, they were made of some type of gold-red metal and stuck to the stone somehow. Nine symbols, repeated again and again in all kinds of patterns that didn''t really make sense, but that octagon shape was always bigger than the rest, which meant it was the most important, probably. It was the same octagon that was behind the head of the probably-Sith figure in the murals. What sat atop the altar, in a dish of that same metal, made Sannah''s heart skip a beat. A skull, grinning and glaring, polished as white as snow. "Oh no," she tugged at Tahiri''s arm. "We really shouldn''t be here." She tugged again at Tahiri, frowning, finally looking at her blonde friend. Tahiri''s arm felt like lead, almost impossible to jostle and Tahiri''s face - her mouth was open, like she was screaming, but her face was relaxed. Sudden adrenaline heat chased sweat-prickled cold and Sannah saw Anakin had the same expression. "Tahiri! Anakin!" She dug her small fingers into Tahiri''s bicep, yanking the older and taller girl, but it was like trying to tug on a neutron star. "Tahiri!" Her friends both took a step forward, in sync, Tahiri swinging her arm and tossing Sannah back. Too late, the Melodie girl noticed a perfect, unbroken ring of the same red-gold metal inlaid into the stone pavers of the chamber. She noticed just as her friends stepped across it and every torch went out. Sannah screamed. She couldn''t help it. Darkness struck like a hammer in between her eyes and she fell back, rear-end smarting as she struck stone. Red light bloomed from two points, blood-red light, red so dark it was nearly black, so dark it almost wasn''t light at all and Sannah''s eyes took a minute to even register that she could see again, see Anakin and Tahiri outlined by that horrible, horrible red light - it was so bright, it was so bright her eyes teared up and stung and it was like looking up at the sun, it was so bright. Her stomach leapt and sloshed. She rolled to her hands and knees and gagged, heaving, tears mixing with snot and bile and Sannah sobbed. A sound like water roared in her ears, stone under her fingers suddenly colder than the glacier. Ice cracked and instantly formed over her pile of vomit. "Tahiri!" she wailed, wanting Tahiri, wanting Anakin, Master Skywalker, her friends, her friends, her mom, she wanted her mom, she wanted mom, mom, the mother she didn''t ever know, she wanted her please, someone please, someone hold her and hide her from the light and cover her head and - +Young Sannah+ A man''s voice boomed into the chamber, so loud and so sudden and so close that Sannah was back again, knocked out of her panic so hard that she gasped and aspirated her own saliva, doubling over and coughing, hacking. +Young Sannah!+ A flood of sensation followed the words - concern and coldness, but not the icy otherworld burn of the stone under her boots but cold like real ice, like the glacier, cold in the lungs like you felt when running - She knew the voice. Wildly she searched for its origin, but the chamber was lit red and Anakin and Tahiri were black silhouettes and the door they''d entered through remained empty. +I am not there.+ She saw overlaid flashes of blue and white and - the glacier! It was the tunnel through the glacier! The one the monster dug, the one they had all gone down! For a second Sannah''s hands were instead a man''s and she blinked hard at the disorientation, choking down nausea again. +I do not know what I am doing. Am I hurting you?+ It was Aeonid Thiel! Of course! No one else sounded like that ''Astartes'', with his voice that was as deep as the waters under Sistra Mountain. She felt it then, the touch of his mind in the Force. It was slippery and strange and had she not been friend with people like Anakin and Tahiri, feeling always the way they could speak without speaking, Sannah would''ve been unable to close her eyes and concentrate and- +Mr. Aeonid!+ +I hear you,+ his voice thunders in her ear. +The¡­Force¡­quakes. What passes?+ The feelings that came when he said ''Force'' made her wince. She felt his mistrust and his agitation made her twitch. Keeping her eyes closed, not wanting to see the Sith Magic that''s trapped her friends - because what if it trapped her - Sannah can only tell him what she knew. She thought it and felt it and pictured the moment in her mind, which is impossible not to, because painted against the backs of her eyelids was the look on Anakin and Tahiri''s faces, just moments ago, before they stepped into the trap. Slack-jawed and empty-eyed. +They''re caught! It''s some Sith Magic, like the Globe!+ +Show me more.+ He said it like an order, but she could feel something behind it. Something so big she couldn''t call it an emotion, because to try to name it, to feel it, in her little body, might have overwhelmed her completely. She did. She pictured the skull and the altar, the ring of red-gold in the floor and the metal symbols all around them. That emotion swelled and hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She remembered the teachings of Master Tionne, she remembered the meditations, she tried to be a stone in the river. She tried to remember that there is no passion, there is serenity, because if Mr. Aeonid was afraid, if he felt that dread, she might have crumbled into ash right then. +It is not Sith Magic.+ He drove a single image into Sannah''s thoughts. She didn''t understand it, didn''t want to, couldn''t but it filled the space between her ears, until all she could think and see and feel was what Mr. Aeonid was showing her. +It is the warp.+
A red-skinned alien relaxes on a green-black soapstone throne. Melodies and snake-people and spider-people and all the strange hybrids they saw in the statuary are worked in miniature, piled on top of each other until they make a forest of limbs that hold up the arms of the throne and the seat of the throne, so that the red-skinned alien is reclining on a thousand tiny beings, all propping him up. He looks near-human, as close as a Zabrak maybe. He is bald, his pate smooth and shining in the light of the torches. Tendrils of flesh dangle from his chin and jaw and cheeks, bedecked with rings and piercings of red-gold and silver and onyx. Elongated earlobes, drawn like wax, are pulled taut by orbs of jet and lapis, wrapped in thin red-gold wire. His robes are rich velvet, black fabric and green stitching, layered and folded with edges as crisp as a dress uniform''s pleats. Red-gold necklaces drip from his neck and where they drape over his shoulders, bearing gemstones that slither with some inner light. Gently steepled fingers bear similar rings to the tendrils of his face. He cocks his head slightly to the left. Anakin knows what he is. "Say so," the man orders. "Sith." Anakin declares. "I was." He nods, sharp and declarative, like Anakin has passed a test. "A very, very long time ago." "This was your Temple." The man - the Sith - chews over the word, trying it on for size. He seems to agree. "I named it not as such, but it fits for purpose. My Temple. Herein I shaped Great Works, who linger beyond my span." Anakin jerks a thumb toward the ceiling, gesturing through tonnes of rock and many, many meters to where he knows a body lies dead and still cooling. "Was that monster one?" "I claim not credit for the genius of its shaping. It was a curiosity - a prime Curiosity - among curiosities. Long years I plumbed its secrets, miserly though it clung to each." The Sith flicks long fingers, rings rattling and Anakin notices a similar throne to the one the Sith claimed, just beside and behind him. "Be seated, young Jedi." Something about the offer prickles hairs on Anakin''s neck. "No, I''ll stand." Very softly, the Sith hisses air between sharpened teeth. "Impudent. The offer remains. You may escape prostration, for you are peer among the touched, not a grasping creature. Your name I require, by right of host." "Anakin Solo." "Ah. Sit in company, Anakin Solo, with Melin-Bralam, Lord of the Sith." His knees flex momentarily as Anakin reaches reflexively for the arm of the throne - he catches himself, straightening back up. "I said: I''ll stand." "So you will. My hospitality is famous and curiosity boundless, thus do I find little offense in your coming to my sanctum. Satisfy me further, Anakin Solo, and speak the why of your purpose, that I might be a better host and offer a little aide." "We-" Anakin''s throat closes on the word, because it was we, it was three, it was - where was Tahiri - she''s in the throne beside the empty one offered to Anakin. She''s right there, of course she is, she has been, she is being polite and letting Anakin lead. He could laugh. Tahiri, quiet for once, but Tahiri can be as serious as anyone when the right time calls for it. Her green eyes laugh at him, behind her waves of soft golden hair, the girl smiling up at him. "We were making sure that there weren''t more of-" he again jerks his thumb toward the ceiling "-those things around." The Sith - Melin-Bralam - nods with sagacity. "That is just purpose. I have offered offense, by proof of my bindings broken and insufficient. In recompense I offer respite and a boon. Sit, Anakin Solo, and rest weary feet." Tahiri shifts in her own throne, kicking one leg up over an arm, dangling a foot and swishing it back and forth, back and forth, irreverent. Anakin smiles despite himself. His feet are sore and his hips ache from all the clambering and climbing and walking. The throne''s seat is stone, but it looks shaped for comfort. "No, I''ll stand." "As you will. Name then a boon to compensate for the failure mine. Let none say Melin-Bralam owns not his failures, nor shapes no recompense to the wronged. As touched, we are peer; my honor stained." Anakin considers it. Tahiri lets him think, keeping her thoughts to herself. How much did anyone know about the ancient Lords of the Sith? Well, aside from them being Sith? Anakin meets Melin-Bralam''s molten-gold eyes, depthless and cool. Tionne would love to be able to add knowledge to the archives. Maybe Melin-Bralam has a holocron? Uncle Luke would want to see that as well. The Sith seems guileless, open to the Force and Anakin feels nothing from him that is untoward. No alarm bells ring when the Sith speaks. What if he has weapons? Normal ones, at least. The old Sith Empire had starships and conventional kinds of weaponry, alongside the more evil Sith magics like the Golden Globe. Melin-Bralam might be able to point them to some buried caches, maybe an old Sith dreadnought. Anything will help the war against the vong. Though - can he really ask for anything if he doesn''t know what kind of Lord of the Sith Melin-Bralam was? If he knew, then maybe he''ll have an easier time deciding. "What did the statues mean?" He meant to ask Melin-Bralam what knowledge of the Force he had. Some Sith mastered evil magic, some were masters of the lightsaber, others delved into trying to see the future. The Sith exhales a pleasured sigh. "My Great Works. You descended my ''Temple''. Had you no talent for letters? All my work, laid out to see. My process, etched in stone. That others might know my Genius and my Plan." Right, the murals. In the statuary chamber. But they just showed humans hunting creatures and slaying them, then eating them - raw, it looked like. Like there was some kind of hunger they couldn''t satisfy. Such a hunger. A blood-hunger, a flesh-hunger, so strong they tore the animals to pieces with bare hands and drank deep the steaming blood, that they broke teeth on cracking bone to suckle on marrow sweet. That they rent open bodies and clambered into cavities, to floss teeth with tendon and lap spinal fluid from drooling, riven nerve cords. Until human and beast were indistinguishable, until they supped so deep and so long from so poisoned a chalice, until they climbed so deep into the corpse they slaughtered, until man and woman, naked, painted in gore with bellies distended and stomachs gnawing for more, became more and both less. Until scales sprouted and feathers flicked and in shuddering pleasure antlers crowned bowed heads and fur bristled. The etchings move. The murals dance. Crude-cut figures show the transfiguration to Anakin, beginning to the utmost end. "You made them¡­" Anakin isn''t sure if he feels awe or horror. The moment of realization is too big. It cannot fit inside him entire and sticks out at odd angle, awkward and liable to catch. He cannot digest it all, what he sees, what Melin-Bralam shows him. Overfull, the meal of knowledge spills unchewed from lips and stains his front. Melin-Bralam smiles a wide and black smile. "My Great Work. Beyond the Ken of any other Lord. I am buoyed by the Deeper Ocean, in whose swallowing waters the Force is shamed." "Sannah is - she''s-" Where is Sannah? Tahiri smiles on her throne, beside his own empty one. Where is Sannah? He has to tell Sannah - no, he can''t tell Sannah. How can he face her? How can he face her? How can he keep it - all of it - to himself? Where is she? Where is she? Where is she? "She was not invited." Melin-Bralam''s voice turns hard and firm, but not unkindly. He is teaching Anakin, he is correcting him. "The spawn are not allowed in matters elevated." "What did you do to her?" Anakin doesn''t sense malice, he doesn''t sense- Wait. "The Spawn are excluded. Their passage is barred. She remains, until our intercourse is complete. Worry should not trouble your brow. She will serve you still, when this is through." Wait. "In grander knowing, I, Melin-Bralam, propose the choicest boon. My holocron: a trinket. Ships of crudest matter: unworthy. Drink of my arts, Anakin who is Alone. Be seated and at my right hand find mastery of my Works, which may be yours." Wait. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Melin-Bralam raises a hand, palm up, rings glinting on his long fingers. The throne is waiting. Like Melin-Bralam''s, it is shaped of thousands of tiny figures, carven from green-black soapstone. They are interlocked and are a mass of living beings, frozen in stone, to hold aloft arms and seat and high-peaked back. From the throne beside his, Tahiri''s electric green eyes meet his icy-blue. She smiles at him, from behind waves of golden-blonde hair. She swings her foot, swish, swish, from where it is thrown over one arm as she slouches, insouciant. She is there and Melin-Bralam is here, and Anakin senses nothing untoward from either. He senses nothing at all. Nothing at all. The Force is silent. The Force is gone. He senses nothing for there is nothing to sense and the apparatus by which he might have externalized proprioception does not exist. Melin-Bralam''s eyes are depthless pools of rainbow color. Anakin''s hand falls to his lightsaber at his hip, cool and metal and more solid than the world. He ignites it and sudden cobalt lightning banishes torchlight.
Anakin shivered. No - he quaked, like a leaf, chest suddenly clenching tight and hard, like his ribs are about to collapse. Cold, cold like he''d never felt before, cold like the burn of deep-space chattered his teeth so hard that he bit down hard and clenched his jaw to stop them from chattering right out of his skull. His lightsaber was bright and his hands clenched so hard around it that he felt a line of stinging pain in his palm, the only sensation beyond distant numbness. Frost rimed the metal of his ''saber''s hilt. It covered his gloves. It sealed his hands into fists, clenched tight. His hands were frozen, fingers numb. He couldn''t turn off or drop his lightsaber if he wanted to. He did not want to. Tahiri also had her ''saber lit and he heard her groan, deep in her throat. A groan that might have been a smothered, suffocated scream. If she saw what he saw, he could understand. Melin-Bralam was gone. The two offered thrones: gone. A skull, near-to-human in physiognomy, but clearly not, rested in a brass bowl. Blood filled the bowl to the very lip, so that the lower jaw was out of sight and the teeth were stained. On the forehead of the skull was etched a single rune, repeated from the patterns in the halls above. An octagonal mark, eight sides equal, with a four-point star captured within. The mark burned with black-red light. The altar it occupied was black and green, soapstone, like the thrones. Melin-Bralam was gone but they were not left alone. A man of shadow, two heads taller than Anakin in height stood impassive, the altar between them. A cloak of velvet night hung from hooks at his shoulders. Gently, his right hand ran along the hem, brushing long, claw-tipped fingers over the fabric. His armor was organic and smooth, scalloped and outsized. Whorls of pearlescent nacre, like a deep-ocean mollusk, broke up the void-dark carapace. His right hand, which toyed with his cloak, was encased in a gauntlet of deepest, purest crimson, a crimson that drip, drip, dripped. The gauntlet was covered in blood, from elbow to finger-tip. Arterial blood, heartsblood. One leg was that of a man, jointed properly. The other articulated like a hound, knee projecting forward and long, silver-bone claws tap-tap-tapped impatiently from a raptor-foot. Anakin drew his focus up, toward the man''s face. Where the armor ended, at the collarbone, a thousand tiny mica-teeth dug into the man''s exposed flesh, anchoring the breastplate. Pale skin was swirled and inked in indigo and crimson and emerald, stitched with pins and piercing of jet. Bronzed scales only millimeters long dusted along his exposed collarbone, growing thicker and wider to encase entire his neck like a living gorget. His eyes were rainbow. All colors swirled in their glow, shifting across the spectrum in disorder. At times ultraviolet impinged and infrared burned hot. And he was crowned by horns. Three horns erupted from his skull: two from either temple and one from the center of his forehead. They burst from beneath his skin, arching up and up, another head''s height added to his stature. Cherenkov blue limned the tips. The lingering light of dead stars cast down over his features, chiseled sharp and cadaverous. Tahiri groaned again but her lightsaber beside his never wavered. The man lifted his left hand. Not a human hand. "A boon I still owe," he said.
Her friends weren''t frozen anymore, but Sannah didn''t know which was worse: their stupefied, blank expressions or the sudden terror that twisted Tahiri and Anakin''s faces. They both had their lightsabers lit, seeming to push back the black-red light. Nothing else seemed to have changed. Whatever they were afraid of, Sannah knew it had to be in their heads. +This is ritual.+ Mr. Aeonid spoke to her in words and images. He made her see things she''d never seen before, like a rapid flicker of holo-images. +It has them. I am coming, but I may be too late. You must disrupt it." Sannah giggled manically. "Disrupt it?" She shouted aloud, knowing Mr. Aeonid would hear her anyway. She was just Sannah. Anakin and Tahiri - these were their adventures. They went into Sith ruins and broke ancient curses, they freed Jedi Masters and they did all the hero things. Sannah just wanted to be with them. She just wanted to be part of it. She didn''t want to be responsible for it all! +The brass circle.+ Shading her eyes from the black-red light spilling from the skull, Sannah squinted at the floor. That red-gold metal that made an embedded loop in the tile - that had to be it. She did her best to picture it in her mind and send it to him. +Yes. That is likely an anchor. Break the circle!+ How? Maybe there was a rock, she could try to bash it - could she pry up the ring? It looked like it was flush with the tiles, but if she could dig her nails in there - +Do not touch it.+ So she couldn''t pry it up, she - she could - she could - she couldn''t do anything! She was just Sannah! A stupid little Melodie who tagged along and now her friends were caught and she couldn''t - Mr. Aeonid didn''t so much speak to her as hit her with a wall of - Sannah flushed, cheeks hot. He believed in her. No, that wasn''t enough - he was sure of her. Absolutely sure. He didn''t believe in her, he knew she could do it. Sannah the Melodie girl could save Anakin and Tahiri and he knew it. It wasn''t even a question. All she had to do was break the circle. Was she a Jedi or not? All she had to do was pull on the Force, all she had to do was - The Force fled like water. It ran through her fingers even as she felt it within her, as she always did. She could feel Mr. Aeonid''s focus and his concern and yes, under all that, she could feel his dread, but when she tried to pull the Force and then reached for the ring - It drained away. The Force didn''t want to be here. It didn''t want any of this. "No." Sannah pounded her fist on the tile. "No! Come on, come on!" Maybe it was just the chamber. Still shading her eyes, she scuttled to the entrance and it was simplicity itself to pry up a loose piece of tile with her hands and a burst of telekinesis. She ran back in, skidded on her knees and slammed the corner of the tile into the brass ring. The tile exploded into dust. Dust. Shocked, she stared dumbly at the slithering sand that emptied between her fingers. The brass ring shone and mocked her. If only she had a lightsaber! She should''ve made Tahiri help her make one, why did all the trainees have to wait, she could just - Sannah slapped her hand to her hip, as if by will alone a shining ''saber would pop into being. Of course, no metallic hilt greeted her, but her eyes flew wide as she remembered the chisel. The little iron chisel, from the statue room! She almost dropped it as she yanked it out of where she''d jammed it in her belt, turning it over in the black-red light. +Blades are ritual.+ Mr. Aeonid''s voice boomed into her thoughts. +Use it! Break the circle, I will be there soon!+ Trembling fingers clenched around the wire-wrapped handle. Sannah raised up the carving chisel, up, up above her head. With a scream of fury and fear, she slammed the thin, spade-shaped iron tip into the humming brass ring.
Anakin wanted to ask what Tahiri had seen. Whatever that thing was that was sitting with Melin-Bralam wasn''t her, he was sure of that now. Had she talked to the same old Sith Lord? Had he made an offer to her? "A boon I still owe." the towering man said. "We don''t want anything you''d give," Anakin managed to snarl between clenched teeth. The man - the thing - cocked his head. Dark hair was swept back from its brow, braided and worked with rings of bone. Beads and bones rattled in his tresses. "You do. You will. You already have." Fringed lips split in a smile. Teeth cut with runes were revealed. "Anakin, Anakin, Anakin." Unlike Melim-Bralam, the man in horns spoke in conversational tones. Somehow, it was all the more unsettling. His voice was deep but not old. Horribly, the tone of it almost reminded him of his own father. "You can''t lie here. This is a place of truths." He gestured, pointing at a burning ring of red-hot brass that enriched the altar, Anakin, Tahiri and the man. He wanted to call it a Yuuzhan Vong, but he couldn''t. The armor was right, like some kind of vonduun he''d never seen but close enough to suspect. Its cloak was living, twitching in a breeze that didn''t exist, staked to bone-spur hooks that erupted from the man''s shoulders. He saw echoes of Malik Carr in it, of warriors he''d fought. Warriors he''d killed. None quite fit. None could fill the boots. "Why would we want to lie? The truth is always more beautiful. Isn''t it? The Gods don''t shame you for being honest." He smiled a secret smile. "Well. She would. Doesn''t matter. Anakin, listen to me. I''m offering a hand. Right here. Right now." The man in horns'' proffered left hand rose. Three fingers, thicker than a human''s, with an extra joint, held close. Two thumbs, one on either side of the wrist. "Take my hand, Anakin. It can all end, right now." "What can all end?" He could barely think. It was so cold. He couldn''t feel the Force. "Everything. Don''t you want to save lives?" "You''re a vong. Or something. You don''t care." "I do care. You care. Chewbacca, Anakin. Daeshara''cor. Rhonabeq. Who else has to die?" "It''s your fault!" Anakin threw the words back. How dare it speak their names. How dare it! In that armor, with those scars - "Fondor!" The planet''s name thundered in the chamber. Anakin flinched. "Fondor dies because of you! You had the power. You held that power all in your hands." Jacen begs him not to. Thracken threatens him. Ebrihim pleads. Everyone wants something. He has the stick in his hand, he sees across time and space. Centerpoint is eager. It leans into his touch. It licks his fingers like a loyal nek. It wants to be used. It wants to want. It needs to function. He can see the space-time ripples of the Yuuzhan Vong fleet encroaching on the shipyard-world. He traces the trembling hollows shaped by New Republic ships as they enforce their own manner of physics on the universe, through hypermatter reactions and artificial gravity. Centerpoint knows them all. It sees them all. It can see, perhaps, anything it wants. And oh, it wants to see. Just pull the trigger, Anakin. Pull the trigger and Fondor is saved. His thumb, numb, frozen, brushes the activation stud of his lightsaber. Rime crackles as his hand shifts. "You could have saved the world," the man in horns said. Anakin blinked, back beneath the ice, deep in the temple. "You had the power then." His smile widened. The man looked happy. Pleased. "Rejected. You let yourself get tied down." "Death is never the answer!" The man in horns laughed. A being like that - when it laughs, it should make ears bleed. Its humor should tremble Heavens and Hells both. It should be the laughter of the maniac, an asylum-cackle. It should not be as warm and mirthful as it is. The man in horns laughed and his laughter was familiar. Devastatingly familiar. "Death is the only answer. Don''t pretend otherwise. Look at you. Your hands are awash in blood. You''re redolent of it." The man in horns bounced his outstretched left hand up and down, drawing Anakin''s attention. "Take my hand. We can be more than Death. Death is always the end, but we can decide when that end comes." "For who¡­" Anakin whispered. The next words spoken are conspiratorial. Whispered from the side of the mouth like a childhood secret. "For everyone. All things die, Anakin Solo. Let''s be the one who decides when." The man in horns, their voice is familiar. Their laugh - intimate. They remind Anakin of his father. Han Solo has that laugh. The quirk of lips: he''s seen it a thousand times. A cocky, lopsided grin. Rainbow eyes that wash now through quartz blue. Hair dark and brown. "I won''t be you." Anakin whispered. The Man in Horns slowly lowered his left hand, curling fingers with too many joints into a mailed fist. His rainbow eyes flashed hard and bright, slithering opalescent glimmers across his armor, sparking a constellation of dead stars into life between tripartite horns. Something squirmed in the air, liquid and thick, cloying and pressing. Power. "You won''t have a choice," he said in Anakin''s voice. Tahiri wobbled forward on shaking legs and stuck her emerald blade through the Man in Horns. His vonduun plastron offered no resistance. Agony spiked in Anakin''s head. His vision doubled - two lightsabers. Two Tahiris - like an afterimage - but she was taller. Her hair was-, her face-, her- -two clean and unblemished bars of energy transfixed the Man in Horns. Tahiri slashed sideways, the image of the man parting like silk and shadow behind her single blade. Anakin''s own lightsaber fell from nerveless fingers, snapping off before it even struck the floor. There was a sound like glass shattering; his ears popped and space behind the Man in Horns ripped a sudden wound. A gash, vertical to the injury Tahiri carved horizontal. The air rolled back. Black-red light flared. The Man in Horns collapsed in on himself in a cracking of joints and snapping bones, wet like kindling. Purple lightning grounded against Tahiri''s lightsaber, but the blonde girl in front of Anakin held firm, feet braced in a wide stance. Her hair whipped back, filling his sight for just a second- Everything was gone. The Man in Horns: vanished. The hole in the world, so briefly present Anakin wondered if it was even real: shuttered. The chamber felt smaller, darker. Emptier. The only light was Tahiri''s humming blade, casting eerie green illumination about. Another girl''s voice gasped in relief. Sannah! His paralysis was gone. Anakin span on his heel, finding Sannah just behind them both, kneeling and shaking like a leaf. Her eyes were wide, so wide he saw the whites around her irises. The Force swept to his touch. Sannah was terrified - understandable - but also held onto this core of burning excitement. Pride. Tahiri slowly lowered her lightsaber, bringing the humming blade down and clicking back on the lume on her belt before shutting off the ''saber. She was breathing heavily, a wheeze and click in each inhale, when she turned around. "You saw it," Anakin whispered. Tahiri nodded, jerky. She scooped up the skull out of its dry bowl and hurled it. It shattered against the stone wall with an anticlimactic clatter: just a dry, old bone. Anakin took her in his arms and they held each other, rocking back and forth. "We''re done, right?" she said, muffled into his shoulder. "Let''s call it a day." Sannah''s giggle was a hair toward hysterical. She didn''t know. He wondered if Tahiri did, if she saw the same thing. Corellian hells - was any of it even real? Or true? "Okay." This was how Aeonid Thiel found the three, but minutes later.
The Astartes kicked all three of them from the ''ritual chamber'', as he called it, and forbade them to enter again. Anakin watched Thiel work, hands in his jumpsuit pockets and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Tahiri was taking Sannah back to the Thunderhawk, the Melodie stumbling and claiming her hands and lower arms were numb. They''d barely exchanged words, neither of them knowing exactly what to say, but he could feel from Tahiri that she had experienced something similar, before that¡­horned man appeared. She bore the same stone of worry about Sannah and the coming revelation for the girl. Aeonid systematically destroyed everything inside the chamber. Anakin had opened his mouth to protest - his Uncle might want to investigate - but decided against voicing anything. Thiel was working with the methodological intensity of a man on a life-or-death mission and Anakin felt the big man''s seething anger through the Force. Sannah, what little she''d said through her sudden onset of exhaustion, was that Aeonid had talked to her and told her how to help them. "It was the warp," Aeonid confirmed, when the two girls had passed out of earshot. "I thought the warp was how your ships traveled?" Aeonid, peeling symbols from the altar one at a time and tossing them into a pile, radiating emotion like a live wire. "It is. The warp is also¡­a realm. Beside the ''materia'' of our world. I can speak only generally. I am not trained or particularly learned in the facts of the empyrean." Clink. Another icon joined the pile of brass. Thiel first ripped up what he called a ''ritual circle'', using his electromagnetic longsword''s tip to scrape the oddly soft brass out of its inlaid channel. "There are aliens in the warp. They are all, to the last, hostile to our world." There was more than that. Anakin felt it, in his gut. That thing, that man, wasn''t just some kind of creature that just wanted to hurt him. It knew things. It knew names, it knew - it knew about Centerpoint. "So you know how to fight these things." Aeonid inspected the bowl perched on the altar. Gently, he lifted it up, looking beneath it, turning it over in his hands. Anakin couldn''t see anything strange about it, nor any markings. The Astartes must have agreed, because with a sudden clang he snapped it into two pieces, then snapped those in half again. "The Imperium has learned practicals. They are weak to bladed weapons and fire over anything else." He glanced, askance, to Anakin''s lightsaber at his hip. "I suspect your lightsabers might be particularly efficacious." "They aren''t really a saber." "Symbolic blades appear to function just as well. Young Sannah used a chisel to break the ritual circle, and that is no dagger." She''d forgotten it. Anakin hadn''t even seen her find it in the statue hall. Now it lay there, the iron tip melted and warped, tossed aside. Aeonid told him not to come into the room, but the Force returned again when Tahiri broke the¡­spell¡­of the horned man. Gently, Anakin pulled the chisel to him with a brush of telekinesis, tapping gingerly at the tip. It wasn''t hot. It was cold. If Aeonid knew about this warp, maybe he could answer- "There was a - a man. He talked to me and Tahiri and he knew things about¡­about me." Aeonid spun. "It spoke? What did it say?" "He wanted me to take his hand. He said he was offering-" Aeonid advanced on him, the Astartes'' sheer size driven home rapidly in the enclosed space of the temple passageway. "Put it from your mind. Never think of it again. The things in the warp - they are insidious. They''re infectious. Use whatever Jedi training you have to shut the memory away. Do you understand me?" Aeonid knelt on one knee, now at eye-level with Anakin. "Anakin. Guide Tahiri on this. Forget its words. Forget its face and forget everything about whatever creature you saw." "Tahiri killed it," he interjected. "Sent it away, maybe. She stabbed it and then it was gone-" "Then your lightsabers are not a theoretical, but a practical weapon. Listen to me and speak it back. You will forget what happened here. Just as I am putting my trust in the Jedi to teach me your Force, trust in me on this." The Astartes was a tangled ball of tension. Whatever this warp thing was, Aeonid spoke with only total conviction. "I''ll try. I''ll try not to think of it." He couldn''t imagine how. He had a feeling that man was going to be a feature in his dreams for weeks to come, like Vader was when he was younger. But if Aeonid felt it was important, then it was the least Anakin could do. Aeonid seemed to accept that and returned to destroying everything about the ritual chamber. With all the brass emblems and the fragments of the bowl in a single pile, he stomped on them, his ceramite boots worn under his Jedi robes sturdy enough to mash the metal into unrecognizable shapes, until it was a blob of tangled and misshapen wire. He toppled the altar, heaving it up without a single hint of the Force to bolster his muscles - how strong did he have to be - and brought it down with a resounding crash that cracked the green-black soapstone slab in two. With his longsword humming and crackling, he gouged and hacked at the walls of the chamber, dense with Sith script. Not even breathing heavily, Aeonid seemed to judge his work done with a nod, joining Anakin with long strides. "I would like to return with a melta charge and complete it, but it will do for now." "It''s really that dangerous?" "No words in Gothic or Basic can measure the danger. Better would be to bomb this site from the air, or orbit." Anakin balked. The thing had been horrible, yes - at least as bad as the ways Uncle Luke described Marka Ragnos and the Darkest, oldest Sith spirits like Exar Kun. Corran Horn had melted the latter''s temple down into sludge, but that always seemed more like catharsis than anything else. Exar Kun''s spirit had been destroyed before then. "Uncle Luke will want to see it first." "A poor theoretical, but it is not my place. Did you at least determine the origin of the creature?" Anakin nodded. The two left the ritual chamber behind, passing back into the statue hall. In the light of Anakin''s lume and Aeonid''s own bouncing lantern, the statues looked far more sinister. Knowing what they were - probably were - cast them in a grimmer light. He was glad the murals were outside their bubble of illumination. He didn''t need to see it now, with the new context. "A Sith trapped it here to study it. It probably hibernated all this time. It means the vong have been scouting our galaxy for a lot longer than we thought." "Then as a theoretical: it was an ancient organism, perhaps cut off from communion with its handlers. The vong might not know of its death." If it had a dovin basal, it might have had those living communications - villips. There was just no way to know, short of dissecting the entire Falcon-sized corpse. "I hope so." Aeonid activated his com, calling to the two girls. "We are returning. Young Sannah, Tahiri, are you returned to the Thunderhawk?" Tahiri''s voice was tinny and scratchy, but comprehensible. The thick stone of the temple, much like the Praxeum temple, could interfere with signals. "We just did. Sannah is having a snack. Is there more water?" "There is a locker at the rear of the troop bay." "Oh. I see it. Thanks!" "There is also medical tape in a secondary locker above. Anakin has informed me of your injuries." "I''ll be fine. The Force can do a lot." "Very well. Thiel out." He clicked it off.
Suz was told in no uncertain terms not to go anywhere close to that glacier, let alone the temple within. Aeonid, after lifting the Thunderhawk from the ice, played las-blasts over the tunnel entrance until the ice melted and water ran and several tons of ice collapsed down, sealing it off. "Until we are prepared," Aeonid noted. The Melodies didn''t live this far north, but Suz promised if the matter ever came up, she''d direct them away. The Rodian sounded beyond disappointed to be barred from the find, but Anakin knew she wouldn''t go behind their back. She was adventurous, not stupid. You didn''t mess with Sith artifacts, especially when a Jedi warned you against it. Sannah leaned into Tahiri, dozing, not quite asleep. Anakin sat across from them both, elbows on his knees, the troop bay feeling massive with just the three of them. They''d been in the cockpit on the flight out from Yavin 4. Instead of just hours ago, it felt far longer. All things die. Let''s be the one who decides when. There is a curious truth to the sound of one''s own voice. Day in and day out, it is the closest and most intimate sound a person will ever know. It comes from within, it wells up from the chest and the the mind, combined, and echoes within the skull. It is the sound that interfaces with the world, at least for those beings that communicate through sound-wave and tympanic membranes. There is a truth that when one''s voice is recorded, played back, that there is a dissonance. Stripped from the moderating medium of skull and meat and brain, the soundwaves strike differently. It is a peculiarity that for much of life''s existence, in the dim and distant and long-forgotten past of prehistory, no being who spoke words ever knew the true sound of their own tongue. Not until the means to capture and replicate sound was invented could a being finally, truly know their own song. Though one lives with their voice forever, it is only from without that it can, for the first time, be truly heard. The man in horns spoke with Anakin''s voice. It sounded like Jacen and their father, but Anakin knew it was his. He''d heard his own before, recorded in holos or over the com, replayed. It was why it took time to recognize the truth of it. His own voice. Why should that be the first thing he thought of? It smiled with his smirk. It grinned with his own teeth. At that moment, the Force had fled him. He couldn''t touch it. That man in horns held out his hand and asked for Anakin''s acceptance. He knew the dark side, he knew it as well as his own voice. Yet for there to be a dark side, there had to be a Force first. That man in horns, that thing with his voice, his face, with rainbow eyes and ritual scars, it had been as empty as any Yuuzhan Vong. He believed Aeonid''s warnings. He believed him about aliens in the ''warp'' that could be dangerous. He believed that Aeonid believed the advice he gave. Anakin also knew, with certainty, that what Tahiri clove with her lightsaber was something beyond anything the Astartes knew of. Tahiri, shifting, caught his attention with her movement, knocking his thoughts awry. She met his eyes and smiled, fragile, but a smile. He brushed out for her and she was warm, fingertips trailing past him as she ran fingers through Sannah''s hair. He could feel the ache of her ribs, how it hurt if she breathed too deep. He could feel, buried deeper than the gentle access they shared, where she shoved down what had just happened. What she''d seen. She smiled on her face and in the Force and Anakin smiled back across both. Ten credits that she would end up telling him what she saw before he even asked, and then pry his own experience out of him. He''d let her. He owed her, owed her a lot for stepping between him and the man in horns. They could handle it together. He got an image of Lyric, then a mop of light brown hair. Tahiri was thinking what he was. About the Melodies, what they learned. That wasn''t a secret they could keep. Not only did Sannah deserve the truth, but so did her people. Uncle Luke had to know. Anakin readjusted himself, leaning back to let his head thump against the cushioned seat-back. The Thunderhawk growled and rumbled, shaking like a tramp freighter. Gently, he dozed as Aeonid drove them through the void, past the titan of Yavin, toward a little marble of blue and green and swirling white. What strange snips of images came and went, ephemeral and fleeting he did not remember, held in the half-light between awake and asleep. Time slid past, elastic and liquid, until the frame of the ship trembled and air suddenly howled and hammered outside and then the engines were winding down, whine decreasing and Anakin shook back to wakefulness. He pinched sand from the corners of his eyes, feeling sweaty and a little off-balance. Tahiri smirked, knowing, closing her eyes for a moment and exaggerating a snore. Irrepressible, as always. He loved that about her. Contingence Chapter XVI PART VI: SHIFT IN CIRCUMSTANCE
XVI: Ignition
The blazebugs spoke of chaos and panicked, reflexive reaction. Clusters of the insects buzzed and spun about the projection of the infidel moon, indicating frenetic searching for the deep-buried khot-bru''basal. Commander Harmae indeed succeeded and succeeded well at his task, planting the basal deep beneath the lunar surface, so deep as to continue to baffle the ''Imperials''. Prognostications of the Shapers claimed the moon would survive no more than three revolutions, measuring the heathen''s world''s remaining time in mere days. Malik Carr was sanguine as he watched. His squadron: reformed, retired. They watched the events from a distance of several light-seconds, well outside of both the demesne of the world''s gravity and the punishing sting of the Imperial''s weapons of punishing light. He did not command his ships to hide. The Imperials could see him, could see all of his squadron. He wanted them to know he was watching. He wished for them to quail under his judgment, while they scurried about like rim-stratum scavengers. He wanted them to curse his name and know that he would watch their end from a seat of high disdain. Commander Harmae was granted lordship of a miid-roic, as recompense for his daring implantation. The battleship Egk-barkkan flew as one of Carr''s valued escorts, kept close to ward the grand cruiser Blood Spat in Wrath. Such proximity allowed for Harmae to attend Carr at his master''s desire. The touch of the Bloody Slayer was strong in Harmae, but Malik Carr could see the makings of a great tactician and leader in the teneral warrior. Tak-tak-tak scraped Malik Carr''s talon, impatience and restlessness channeled through his truncated arm. Harmae, at his right hand, noticed the twitch and smiled with fringed lips. "Give me leave, Warleader. Why must we watch like Shapers, when we could be blooded as Warriors?" "Do you believe the Impeerials may yet overcome the khot-bru''basal?" Malik Carr kept his words mild, wishing to know Harmae''s mind, not chasten the Commander for speaking up. "They are a more dangerous foe than we have yet faced, Warleader. Their arms are potent and their dead-clad ships mighty. I say: let us not give them time or respite to carve cunning new plans. Let us harry them and distract them, to ensure the ''basal''s function." The suggestion was not without merit, nor had it failed to occur to Malik Carr. By his ascension to Warleader, not long yet ago, greater mysteries had been revealed to him and grander tactics leant out by the many red-stained hands of the Slayer. It was this elevation and his greater perspective that allowed Malik Carr to shake his head at Harmae''s suggestion. The Commander was not wrong, but rather his experience incomplete. "I would agree." Harmae''s eyes darkened and Malik Carr could see his subordinate''s muscles tense. "But I would not act thusly." He gestured to the broad swarms of blazebugs. "On all facts, you speak truly. The Impeerials are formidable. Supreme Commander Nas Choka has relayed much to us in warning. As have our own losses in this system. Were we against the infidels of the Republic, we would do as you recommend." Tak-tak-tak. This was why he had been elevated, after all. Nas Choka saw in Malik Carr his temperance, his ability to master his humours and observe the wider strategy. Though his blood burned to bring combat, as any true Warrior''s should, he was master of his desire. He looked to his betters as his guide: at Fondor, the Supreme Commander wisely chose to disengage from the Impeerial squadron. Some might try to heap shame on Nas Choka for what they perceived as cowardice, to not sacrifice his armada that the Slayer might allow them to break the Impeerial warships. They might say it would be better if the Supreme Commander died as gol''hok do, with jaws locked about their foe''s throat even as their entrails were spilt. That would have been a waste. The measure of a Warrior was not to merely make war, but to allow for a future that war might continue. To act otherwise was to be feral, mindless: a thing that the Slayer would not smile on. The Slayer cared little for beasts, desiring bold champions and brave bloodletters. War Eternal was the goal of the warrior, with the means bent to achieve that end. Harmae''s desire - and Malik Carr''s too, to be sure - would see much of his squadron lost to the superior guns of the Impeerial line. It would be glorious, it would be bloody - but their war would end. This was unacceptable. "Consider instead all as parts of a greater strategy, Commander. The khot-bru''basal is the heart of our tactic. Can any ignore such a threat as a moon? Indeed not. Then, Commander, when their eyes are set and all their will is bent toward overcoming that one particular task: that is when we will strike again. It is all a matter of timing." Harmae inclined his head, knotted braids rattling bone tokens against the pauldrons of his vonduun. "I understand, Warleader. Your words are wise." "As will yours be, Commander. Go and meditate on the teachings of Aurn Kukahl. Specifically, his third teachings." "Belek tiu," Harmae genuflected and took his leave. From across the strategic grotto, Malik Carr espied Harrar, who was in conference with lesser priests about burnt-bone prognostications. They shared a nod, as brothers.
The din of ''droids'' and taghmata slaughtering vong and their auxiliaries faded swiftly behind them, dampened and blocked by switch-back passages and torn-open hatches. The underbelly of Fondor, the labyrinth network of service tunnels, brought to mind the deeper bilges of Imperial warships, where wire-cage wrapped lumens flickered and the detritus of decades, if not centuries, accumulated. There were nests of shredded insulation, abandoned by whatever vermin made them. Overhead, long and flat lume-panels flickered desultorily, trying to light from dregs of electricity that still flickered through Fondor''s traumatized grid. Tshek Ulm could not be far. Zalthis and Solidian loped along, ignoring screeches and clangs as their plate caught against narrow doorframes and clipped corners. Vox connection continued to return - according to spotty transmissions, the bio-titans of the vong appeared to act like disruption towers, sleeting out both Imperial vox and Republican com with white-noise and shouting interference. All of which were now dead, killed by the heroic stand of Legio Lacassex''s Primus engine. Word of that Warlord could not but raise both their spirits, injecting new energy into their stride and Solidian had muttered sourly about missing such a engine-battle. By all accounts, the battle for Fondor was winding down. The bio-titans were slain, the Warlord of Lacassex held the center and on the flanks, massed tides of battle droids swept forward and drove in the invaders back. In face of such a shift in circumstance - did the subtle mission of this ''Tshek Ulm'' matter? Zalthis refused to consider otherwise. The Yuuzhan Vong armada hung still in orbit. The shields of Fondor kept them at bay even still. The mustered citizenry and automata of Fondor were pressing forward, though fortunes might yet be reversed again should the vong have reign to rain fire down from orbit. No, the scarred invaders continued to prove more canny than the Republican implied. Any vong - any vong - with knowledge and access to the precious shield generators of Oridin was a threat. That was the only practical, the only theoretical. S''hmu lay slain, along with almost all of Zalthis'' slapdash auxiliaries. In their name alone, he would hunt down this Ulm and crush the life from him. He felt Solidian''s similar resolve, his brother''s bare, blood-streaked face set firm and eyes hooded. With vox connection returning, they were able once more to triangulate their positions against Fondor''s global positioning systems and the theatre grid. To Zalthis'' shock, they were closer indeed to Oridin City than he feared. At an Astartes'' pace, they might be directly beneath the shield generator complex in an hour, perhaps less, if the maintenance tunnels ran true. The Yuuzhan Vong were hardier and faster than a mortal human, so he estimated two hours perhaps for Ulm, if pressed. By what means the vong intended to bring down the shields, Zalthis could not guess. Were they Astartes, he would suspect melta-charges, perhaps a large warhead borne by one of the squad. The vong did not appear to utilize many large-scale explosives, outside of the matter-reactive magma missiles of their battleships. Then again, an amphistaff introduced to sensitive databanks and twisted had a destructive power all its own.
''Motion,'' Zalthis murmured. Solidian, helmetless, narrowed his eyes at Zalthis'' whisper from his collar-vox. Smudgy red streaks up ahead, forty meters, flickered and flared in Zalthis'' peripheral vision. ''The number is unclear.'' ''There''s no one else in here,'' Solidian whispered in return. ''It must be the Commander.'' Zalthis gently released the safety on his borrowed bolter. Solidian adjusted his grip on S''hmu''s rotary cannon. Solidian huffed in amusement. ''I truly have no theoretical for how they''ll respond to us.'' ''They could flee,'' Zalthis agreed. ''Or charge. Or scatter.'' The uncertainty was almost enervating. They would need to react instantly. Act and react. Exactly as trained. Slowing their pace, the two Ultramarines closed the distance. Stealth was a dream - old crumbled insulation and ceiling tiles knocked loose from groundquakes crunched and crackled beneath their tread. They found Tshek Ulm easily, for the tall and rangy vong could be no other, supervising breaching yet another emergency hatch. A full dozen warriors, all notably taller and bulkier than most Zalthis had seen before filled the small chamber. Old, dusty consoles were embedded along the walls, while pipes as wide as a man''s arms outstretched burst from the floor to wend and snake into the ceiling, into the walls. It was an industrial room, of some sort: some ancient control nexus rarely trod. Tshek Ulm shouldered through his subordinates, coming to a halt facing Zalthis and Solidian. A thick-bodied amphistaff twisted in his fists, the biot hissing and baring long, glistening fangs. Several of the vong spread out, lifting strange, coral-and-wet-muscle constructs that engulfed their left arms, braced by their right. The urge to simply gun down all of the vong was strong and he had sufficient bolts remaining. Silence. Dust tricked in the gloomy air. Lips peeled back, exposing teeth etched with runes, sharpened to points. Transhuman biology heated. Tshek Ulm was of height with an Astartes, but with a litheness more similar to the eldar breed. His living armor was gold-flecked green, glossy, chased with silver about the edges of armor plate. His warriors wore similar colors. ''Aistarteez,'' Ulm hissed between teeth. Solidian grinned, needing no translation. ''You know your killers, then,'' the Ultramarine called. ''Speak not tongue of infidel,'' Ulm barked, the words intelligible but the grammar strange to Zalthis. His command of their speech was incomplete. ''Tshek Ulm,'' Zalthis did not raise his voice, yet it filled the room all the same. ''By name Imperium, by sign Republic, to die: sentenced.'' He was sure he sounded a fool, but Ulm''s face darkened with anger, not mockery. ''Butcher the Holy Tongue! Death yours!'' Amphistaves stiffened. Hands crept toward bandoliers slung across vonduun armor. Solidian fingered the rotary cannon''s trigger. Zalthis double checked his ammo count. Violence, inevitable, erupted.
Four vong died in under a second. Zalthis prioritized those nearest the far door, those who had been applying sharpened amphistaff to metal to prise it open. He hoped Ulm was incensed enough to fight and die here, but feared to allow even one vong to escape. One bolt struck a vong in the chest, detonating prematurely but still shattering the entire plastron of his armor. Blood coughed from beneath his helm and he went to his knees. One bolt glanced off vonduun plate, striking poorly and caroming into the ferrocrete wall where the mass-reactive fuse tripped. Dust and shrapnel blitzed out. The second bolt hit true, between chest and chin, punching into and through a warrior''s neck. There was not enough flesh to trip the fuse, but the warrior fell, head barely held on with a few tendons. Another warrior was moving, a credit to the heightened agility of the invaders, and took a bolt at the hip. The joint exploded and the warrior collapsed, shrieking. His claws scrabbled for a bandolier of bugs, but Zalthis was tracking the next. The fourth warrior, who strangely stood apart, leapt for the half-shredded hatch, just as Zalthis expected. One bolt went wide, cratering the wall. The second Zalthis watched, as if time slowed to a crawl. He even glimpsed the flaring ignition of the bolt''s jet. The last vong''s back was turned. He reached for the rents in the frame of the door, looking to pry it the rest of the way. Zalthis'' bolt punched into a lumped mass of coral that clung to the back of his armor like a limpet or barnacle. The world went weird. Zalthis looked at himself. He saw himself, inverted, feet planted and bolter raised. Smoke wisped from the barrel. Solidian, at his side, was just then depressing the trigger of the rotary cannon, barrel beginning to spin. He saw the vong from behind and from the fore, afterimages dancing. A terrible, grinding shriek stabbed at his ears. A tremendous force, like something reached into his body and hooked fingers behind his fused ribs, tried to haul Zalthis forward and off his feet. The vong all stumbled, swaying and almost tipping backwards. The world returned to normal. A perfect sphere, three meters wide, bit out the far wall, the hatch, a cluster of pipes. Two vong were drawn, stretched and shattered and splattered out to the lip of the impossible hole. Zalthis''s mouth hung open. ''Throne alive!'' Solidian shouted. Zalthis had no time left to wonder, for Tshek Ulm was upon him. Amphistaff lashed, first stiff as a blade, then twisting like a whip. He slid aside, letting the biot whip past his left. The vong filled his vision, fronting close. Taloned fingers grasped for his bolter - Zalthis wrenched the gun away, clamping it to his thigh and ripping his combat knife free in the same motion. He remembered his theoreticals. And Obroa-skai. When Ulm jabbed hard again with his amphistaff, Zalthis met it not edge-to-edge, but slapped it aside with the flat of his blade against the broadened back of the biot. The vong fought silently, in contrast to the usual snarling bombast of his kind. Blue eyes narrowed with focus behind his bone-colored helm, fixed on Zalthis. Ulm pressed. Zalthis was no bladesmith, for all he had trained as rigorously as his brothers. He found himself on the back-foot, knife a blur as he kept the monomolecular edge of the biot from his flesh. Dimly, he heard cries and shouts and the crackle of blaster-fire, the hissing spatter of plasma as Solidian, alone, took on the rest. Clang went the last six inches of his knife, lopped clean off and spinning aside. Ulm cried in victory, whirling and jabbing at knee, hip, chest and then head. The vong''s speed was incredible - honed by decades of training and the augmentations of his promotions. A duelist like Captain Thiel might have dismantled Ulm in moments, but Zalthis was no veteran. Snickt and half of Zalthis'' pauldron slid away with a clang, cloven deep enough to seize the reactive gearing that supported it. Suddenly, his range of motion was curtailed. Mortality struck him hard. He might die here. Under the soil of a foreign world, fighting to save a planet not of the Imperium. He might die here. Zalthis shouted, wordless, ripping his combat knife around in a violent, horizontal slash. The air sang around the edge and Ulm finally gave space. ''Strong-fought, infidel.'' the warrior saluted. In the moment of pause, Zalthis realized there was no other noise of battle. Ulm must have noticed as well, for the vong''s visible blue eyes widened. Blue-clad digits clamped onto Ulm''s upper arm and squeezed. Vonduun held - barely, creaking, but the warrior winced and spun, attention broken. Zalthis darted forward. His knife, monomolecular, sunk to the hilt in Ulm''s gut. Solidian, still gripping the warrior''s arm, caught Ulm''s wrist and shattered it, amphistaff falling from nerveless and limp fingers. Ceramite tread caught the biot and smashed it into the duracrete underfoot. Tshek Ulm trembled, impaled, caught between two Astartes. ''That''s for the alien,'' Solidian growled, then wrenched the vong commander off of Zalthis'' knife. Sideways. Dark blood spattered. Intestines flopped. Solidian cast the vong to the ground. He raised his boot and brought it down. Once. Twice. Thrice. The other vong were dead. Some were scorched from blasterfire, overwhelming at close range and concentrated on the weakest points at neck, groin and underarm. Others were broken dolls, limbs askew. Solidian bore new slashes and a cratered, smoldering scar at his left thigh. Noticing Zalthis'' gaze, his brother gestured a thumb toward one of the dead vong, one with a lumpen, arm-mounted biot. ''They carry plasma, now.'' Tshek Ulm, at their feet, lacked a head. Instead, only a smear of brain and gore, stamped with Astartes tread, spread out from above his neck. It all felt somehow¡­hollow. Anticlimactic. That it all just ended here, in some forgotten service station, ten meters below the surface of Fondor. The bodies of the other vong - some were missing. There lay Tshek Ulm, there lay three seared by blasterfire. The four Zalthis had slain with bolts were there too. Two were stretched and shattered smears, drawn toward the hollow sphere gouged out of the room. That left two more. Solidian noticed his confusion. ''I believe that was some sort of¡­gravity mine. Like the ''dovin basals'' of their starships.'' Zalthis stepped closer. The missing matter was crisp and clean. As if las-cut, the edges of the spherical scoop were smooth and exact. Dust drooled from bit-out ceiling, wafting down to cover a handful of fragments of ferrocrete and metal shards that scattered the bottom of the crater. There was no sign at all of the vong who Zalthis had shot, who had detonated in such a way. Likewise, no sign of the missing warriors. A brutal way to die. Erased, it seemed, from existence itself. The rare and potent vortex weapons of the Destroyer company could do similar. ''I don''t recall the Republicans knowing of any such weapons.'' ''Nor I,'' Solidian agreed, toeing a crawling, loose thud bug on the ground until the biot flipped over onto its back. He crushed it decisively. ''Fondor continues to showcase new dangers. Imagine if we had been closer.'' Zalthis chose not to. That was no way for an Astartes to end. He tugged a cloth from a pouch at his belt, wiping away the vong''s dark blood from his knife, returning it to its hip sheathe. Solidian slowly shouldered S''hmu''s rotary cannon, peering around. ''Then we are done.'' he said, like an affirmation. Zalthis nodded, before reaching up and doffing his helmet. The air was stuffy and old, slightly stale, but to be free from the confines of his helmet was pleasing. Not long ago, he had only worn the open-faced casques of a Neophyte, and adapting to the full-seal of Astartes plate was not immediate. There was a wet-iron spice in the air - aerosolized vong blood. He gathered saliva, spat it out, sizzling on the duracrete. ''Well, brother,'' Solidian held out a hand. Zalthis took it, clasping forearms in a clatter of ceramite. ''This has been a strange campaign, but you led us well.'' ''Gratitude,'' Zalthis murmured. ''Truly. I have been - choleric. I hope you can forgive me.'' ''Always, Sol.'' Zalthis keyed his vox, listening to static crackle. ''Brother Zalthis, to Lieutenant Optarch. Brother Zalthis, calling Lieutenant Optarch.'' There was a long moment, before, scratchy, drawn, but discernible, their Lieutenant spoke back. ''Your connection is poor, brother, but I hear you. This is Lieutenant Optarch.'' ''We have engaged and slain a Yuuzhan Vong commander. Our theoretical was that he sought the generators in Oridin City.'' He peered down at the remains of Ulm. ''His squad is dead.'' ''Report your grid coordinates. I will ensure the garrison at the generator is redoubled.'' Zalthis relayed their new coordinates, branched off from the main transit tunnel. Optarch gave praise, evoking both pride and embarrassment. Solidian just grinned, his friend ever ready to take plaudits when offered. ''Return to the surface. A Thunderhawk will be sent to collect you. The siege is broken and it is predicted the vong fleet will draw anchor soon.'' ''By your command.'' Before they left, Solidian crouched and prised a scute from Ulm''s vonduun, the biot stiff with rigor mortis. He turned the glossy scale over in his hands, then tucked it into a pouch. Zalthis asked with raised eyebrow. ''A trophy,'' Sol replied. ''Our first commander killed, and in personal combat no less.'' If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Later, aboard the Thunderhawk, which collected as well the taghmata that accompanied the battle droid battalion, Zalthis watched as Solidian carefully, gently punch a hole through the corner of the stolen scute. Derek and Vili, who Zalthis was pleased to see unscathed, hunched together, already dozing. He would see both Fondorians received the pay of an Auxilia for their steadfastness. The others, cut down in the dark, he would see a stipend paid to their kin. Ultramar did not forget those who fought alongside her sons. Sol swiftly looped a leather thong through the vonduun scute. He tied it off to the foregrip of the rotary cannon, letting it dangle. Solidian kept the borrowed gun close, resting across his knees. An apothecary poked and prodded at his brother''s scalp, ensuring the crusted blood and shredded flesh went no deeper than the skull. ''The bone is scratched, but intact. You will need a fleshgraft. Report to the apothecarion once we return to Opolor''s Vow.'' ''Sir,'' Sol affirmed. Zal cracked a smile. ''Your skull''s as hard as the Sergeant claimed.'' His brother''s scowl was fit for a World Eater.
Tahiri Veila was in the medical bay, having her ribs taped. Sannah was with Kam Solusar, for she was handling poorly what she had experienced. Anakin Solo fidgeted, seated in a comfortable chair in the vox center - the com center. Aeonid knelt, so that he would be within the holo''s caster range. Tionne Solusar, her silver hair up in a messy bun, roused from sleep, sat with datapad perched precariously on one knee. Occasionally flickering, Master Skywalker appeared serious and grim, visible from the waist up and rendered in shimmering blue. ''It''s what the Sith told me,'' Solo continued. His tale had been concise, relaying the essentials in a way that was commendable. Had he not known better, Aeonid might have suspected the young Jedi had a military background. ''The Melodies were made by him. That''s what we saw in the murals too. Suz is going to send us better holos when she sets up down there-'' the young man glanced over to Aeonid, knowing the Ultramarine''s thoughts on the matter, but did not otherwise interrupt himself. ''-and, well, to me, if the Sith who made it all says it, I think I believe him.'' The female Solusar''s face was not one made for frowning, but her brows beetled and she chewed on her lower lip, scrolling with rapid swipes of a stylus through flicking pages of text. ''I''ve never come across any references to a ''Melin-Bralam''.'' She tapped the stylus to her narrow chin a moment. ''We don''t have anything close to full records from the Sith wars, but what we were able to recover from the Lost City of the Jedi doesn''t tell us anything about Yavin 8. This Sith Lord kept his work a secret even from Naga Sadow. Exar Kun never learned about it either. Suz says that her current guess, from stratigraphy, is that the glacier moved down about three thousand years ago, so it wasn''t always covered.'' Solo shifted in his seat, grimacing. ''The feeling I got from him was that he¡­didn''t think very highly of the other Sith.'' ''That''s not unusual. Sith are always jealous about their secrets.'' Solo''s jaw worked, words stuck behind his teeth. ''No - it''s not that - he talked about something else. He called it the ''Deeper Ocean'' and it sounded like he didn''t think much of the Force at all.'' ''This is where my concern begins,'' Aeonid spoke up, cutting as Solo paused to breathe. ''The testimonies of Anakin and Tahiri point to but a single practical: this Melin-Bralam was no Sith, but a sorcerer. A psyker, wielding the Warp itself.'' ''The Sith are known to use many kinds of strange magic,'' Skywalker countered. ''It''s part of what they consider mastering the Force. Palpatine experimented with his own kind of Sith sorcery, but none of it seemed like the ''Warp''.'' ''And you can be sure of this?'' ''Completely. The Sith workings that I''ve encountered - that Tionne has too, and others - they''re always clearly part of the Force. Perversions of the Force, like the Golden Globe-'' Skywalker nodded to Solo. ''-but definitely of the Force.'' ''This Melin-Bralam would be an outlier, then.'' Solusar drummed fingertips against the edge of her dataslate. ''And the first real proof of psykers here in our galaxy.'' Aeonid cleared his throat. ''That is not something to be excited about, Master Solusar. Psykery is a dangerous, even deadly art and one the Emperor, in his wisdom, was right to curtail. If Anakin''s visions are accurate, then this Sith-psyker is already responsible for perversions and cruel experimentation.'' ''Which brings us to the next topic,'' Skywalker said around a sigh. ''The Melodies.'' ''At best, they are Sithspawn, though I am less sure on the implication therein. At worst: they are Warpspawn. Attainted.'' Aeonid felt the young Solo''s spike of righteous indignation. Since Yavin 8, Aeonid had found it quite difficult not to passively sense at the least the strongest surface emotions of those around him. It was¡­disconcerting. ''Sannah is my friend! She''s not a spawn of anything, and the Melodies have been nothing but peaceful!'' ''Peace, Anakin. I don''t mean offense, but it does not serve her or her people to shy away from the truth. Remark 47.6: ''Bad news is bad news, but to ignore it is to invite defeat''. I paraphrase, but we cannot ignore facts.'' ''Let''s not call the Melodies ''spawn'' around Sannah, but you''re right, Aeonid. I don''t think the Melodies are any danger, nor has the Force ever warned me about them. It might be worth bringing Lyric back to the Praxeum. If there''s any Melodie who has a better sense of perspective about this, it would be her.'' ''We can prepare the grotto pools for her, but the trip will be hard to manage.'' Solusar considered a moment, continuing. ''It won''t be very dignified, but we could fill a shipping crate with water and have Peckhum fly it over.'' ''What are we even proposing? Huh?'' Anakin launched himself up, pacing in the small com center. ''That-just because some old dead Sith made the Melodies what they are, that they could be some kind of threat? Uncle Luke - Master Skywalker - that''s just nonsense.'' ''Exar Kun waited four millennia to exact his revenge.'' Aeonid heard of such, first in short when briefed on the members of the summit, which felt like years ago. Then, he''d heard more when he inquired after arriving at the Praxeum. It was both fascinating and disturbing how openly the Jedi discussed the possession of a member of their order. Possession, and subsequent exorcism. Aeonid shuddered at the concept. Any mortal, any Astartes in the Imperium even half so tainted by a warp-predator (a daemon, his mind unhelpfully supplied) would be executed on the spot. Again, he reminded himself of how alien this new world was. ''It''s not that they could be a danger, Anakin. It''s important to learn and understand things and not to fear them. This is the history of the Melodies. It''s their right to know what we''ve learned and we can''t keep that from them.'' ''But back to if this Sith really was a psyker - Anakin, you said it felt like the Force itself was gone?'' Aeonid was glad for Solusar''s topic change. Later, he would advise Master Skywalker on his own suggestions on how to handle the ancient temple and the Melodies, but the place was not here, not in front of Solusar and Solo. In his measure, Aeonid felt Luke Skywalker capable of what few in this softer, ''kinder'' galaxy were not. ''I didn''t notice it at first. It was - man, I need to ask Tahiri about it - I''ve been around ysalamiri, so I know what it feels like when the Force is cut off. It wasn''t like that. It wasn''t like with the vong either. The vong, they feel like the Force doesn''t even know they''re there. This was like¡­'' Uncertainty. Confusion. Tinges of fear. They washed from the young man, almost coloring the air about him. Aeonid grappled with sudden vertigo, clenching his jaw and trying to push aside the¡­the Force. Where before it felt he would never touch it, now it was as if it would not be silent. ''This felt like the Force just didn''t want to have anything to do with Melin-Bralam. I don''t - no, that''s the best way I can describe it. It''s hard to put into words. The Force was still there, but it just wouldn''t answer.'' Aeonid felt similar. The moment the ritual began, it was like a spike into his brain. Like the sudden onset of a migraine, without the pain, but with the speck-in-the-eye blur that couldn''t be blinked away. It was why he reached out, instinctive, his Astartesian reflexes and sense for danger coming alive. The Melodie girl answered him. ''I agree. I am no practitioner as you are, as any of you are, not yet, but I felt a measure of what Anakin describes. More: I could find the mind of young Sannah, but I could not find yours, nor that of Tahiri.'' In becoming Astartes, in joining the honored ranks of Ultramarines and accepting the Emperor''s gifts, there were sacrifices. Some, like Captain Corvo of the 90th Company, had to set aside their inheritance. Not a few Ultramarines came from old and fabulously wealthy families, but service was service, and they passed from the material concerns of mortals. All Astartes foreswore lineage. No children would they sire, no spouses would they take. Again, that was the realm of mortal humanity. Beyond the physical, tangible sacrifices, there were those that ran deeper. Memories were lost, ironically even as gene-science forged near-eidetic pathways. Their time-before faded, became more ephemeral, more dreamlike. Emotions were changed, too. They were refined, in the same way as the body, to be greater tools in the hands of each Astartes warrior. And some were stripped away entire. Fear was excised. It served no purpose in a posthuman soldier, whose life was forfeit the moment of their initiation. To be Astartes was to die, either tomorrow or in a thousand years. Fear was extraneous. One need not fear to be cautious. Aeonid Thiel felt fear again, at the touch of the young Melodie''s mind. After decades without, the sensation was so alien, so impossible, so inhuman to him that he was frozen. His body reacted. Adrenaline surged, endocrine implants dumped combat chemicals. His focus narrowed. His second heart thumped faster. His third lung stirred. Fear! Fear felt filtered through the lens of a thirteen year old girl, terrified for her friends. Perhaps he should have wrenched his mind away. In another life, he might have thought himself polluted. Lessened by so mortal, so basal an emotion poisoning him. Yet he felt her fear, her honest, raw fear and Aeonid could not leave her alone. She feared for herself, yes - and no less than expected - but her greater horror was reserved for her friends. Her compatriots. Her comrades. Thirteen years old and confronted by the power of the Warp, which Aeonid had seen unman Astartes veterans of a thousand campaigns, and she wanted more to save Anakin and Tahiri than herself. Remarkable. Another figure joined Skywalker in the holo - the bearded visage of Kyle Katarn. ''Sorry - I was checking on our ETA. Should be to Coruscant soon and we can turn right back around if you need to, Luke. You couldn''t have dug up an ancient Sith before we left, Anakin? Terrible timing.'' ''The danger seems to have passed. Would you agree, Aeonid?'' Would he indeed? The ritual circle was broken by Sannah and he had personally crushed every last feature of the ritual chamber to warped metal and dust. Solo pronounced he sensed no lingering presence in the Force, though Aeonid mistrusted relying on said Force when the Warp seemed, perhaps, anathematic to the senses. But he knew little else. Codicier Rubio could advise better, but attempts to raise Macragge''s Honour''s installed holocomm went unanswered. He would try again, after this meeting was concluded. ''I know only what has been taught to me, and that is little. As I have stressed, the Warp is corrosive. Mere knowledge of it can be damaging. My Primarch has relaxed some of the proscriptions, so I am more learned than I once was, but I cannot give a perfect practical. I will say: the ritual chamber should not be entered. In fact, it should be burned and then probably buried. For the rest of the temple there may be no danger.'' ''It was just that room,'' Solo agreed. ''Everything else seemed just like old stone.'' ''Access should be limited, regardless.'' Skywalker nodded. ''Suz can be trusted and I think we''ll keep it to just Masters for now. Tionne? Would you oversee this?'' ''I''d be honored, Master Skywalker.'' ''Thank you. This is more your specialty than mine,'' Luke smiled, boyish, shaking his head. ''I can''t believe we missed this right in our backyard. I don''t think I said it yet, but thank you, Aeonid. You have my gratitude for watching over my nephew, and my Jedi.'' Even across many parsecs and a hologram, Aeonid felt the Jedi Master''s earnest goodwill. ''I am glad I was there.'' ''And Anakin, try to write down everything you remember. Get Tahiri to as well. We''ll reach out to Lyric and see if she''s willing to come back to the Praxeum. Master Cilghal might want to take a look at her, knowing everything now.'' Anakin managed a small smile. ''It''ll be nice to see Lyric again. I didn''t think we ever would.'' ''I''m sure she''ll be happy to see you and Tahiri again too, and Sannah also.''
Tionne graciously gave them the room, ushering Anakin out with vague mentions of collecting Tahiri''s account of what happened on the moon, leaving an uncomfortable-looking Aeonid to rise to his feet, adjusting the holocom''s sensor. "Master Skywalker, I must recommend destroying the entire temple." Beside him, Kyle fidgeted. Luke expected nothing less as advice from the Ultramarine, and in fact expected more drastic suggestions- "If not quarantining the entire moon." There it was. Their Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, clearly had a powerful aversion to ''psykers'' and those that could channel the Warp. There was a mismatch there, as Luke knew that the Astartes Legion had a ''Librarium'' that actually trained Astartes in using the warp. Aeonid had spoken about it a little when he first arrived at the Praxeum, mentioning that he''d sought other guidance on attempting to touch the Force. Still, the tour of the Primarch''s gallery showed the healthy respect and caution the Imperium held. Given what he''d felt from the dagger kept in stasis, it wasn''t unfounded. The question remained for Luke if the Imperium was being overly cautious. They conquered a world, put it under lock and key, and then decided to deport every single being that didn''t fall within their own particular view of what a human was. So the Imperium wasn''t entirely rational, which Luke was well aware of. He would still argue that they were acting rationally from their point of view, which was a sticking point that had Kyp Durron of all people aligning with Corran and several other of the older Jedi, sparking yet another split in his order. So much of one that the divide over the Yuuzhan Vong seemed almost forgotten. Luke suppressed a sigh. The moment he began to be proactive about the invaders, in a way that might have eased tensions between the two camps, a new debate erupted. Luke couldn''t agree with their methods or the conclusions the Imperium reached, but he did at least try to understand what drove it. Roboute had been very helpful in that regard, with how freely he was willing to speak on their Crusade and even what was called the ''Old Night''. Thus all signs did point to the Warp being dangerous - but so corrosively, virulently hostile as Aeonid portrayed? The Imperium also claimed the same about all beings nonhuman, which was patently and obviously untrue. The causes Luke understood, but the Imperials took it to the wildest, farthest possible degree. So - perhaps the dagger Roboute showed Luke was just a particular example of the darkest, cruelest aspects of the Warp, no different to a notably potent Sith artifact. Which left Luke in a difficult place. Sithspawn - that is to say, the bio-creations made by Sith alchemy - were usually mindless and feral. The Emperor''s chrysalis beasts of Byss were a prime example. Monstrous, twisted, but otherwise utterly unable to be controlled except by whichever Sith held their leash. "Further, I understand you will vehemently disagree, but the only practical I can imagine for the Melodie species is liquidation." Kyle, sitting beside Luke, whistled. "You don''t pull any punches." Aeonid''s expression was complex and hard to read. "It''s worrying that you''d consider wiping out a whole people, Aeonid." Luke spoke with no real heat, more of a resigned understanding. Aeonid was a work in progress, one that had already shown great potential in such a short amount of time. Where others might hear a Jedi-in-training casually recommend genocide and be appalled, Luke instead viewed it as an indoctrinated child-soldier who waited to voice such a recommendation until in private. Aeonid Thiel helped save the life of one of those ''warpspawn'', willing even to speak to her, mind-to-mind. Maybe the Astartes didn''t realize what he was doing, but Luke did. Luke was breaking down his walls, one at a time. "It might be a kindness." Aeonid exhaled, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his broad, oft-broken nose. "I am conflicted as well, Master Skywalker. The touch of young Sannah''s mind¡­whatever they are now, they were human once." Kyle noticed the same thing Luke did, but beat him to the punch. "Would it matter if they hadn''t come from humans?" Aeonid took a long, long pause. Luke and Kyle exchanged significant looks. The other Master winked. "In this privacy, between the three of us - perhaps not. Young Sannah''s thoughts were noble. Selfless. I daresay that were it not for this Force, I would not see her the same. You understand, this makes me trust the Force less? I am Astartes, I am not to question." Luke opened his mouth, but Aeonid raised a hand. "But the irony is that I am also Aeonid Thiel, and all I can ever do is question." The Ultramarine rumbled what could be considered a chuckle. "That nature has seen me raised from Sergeant to Captain in less than a Terran year." "You deserve it," Luke assured him. "You''re a good man." "The problem is that I should not be a man. Ah. Enough - I''ll redouble attempting to raise Macragge''s Honour. Codicier Rubio will be able to advise us far better and I would wish to inform the Primarch." "There''s one other problem that I think Anakin might have forgotten." Luke''s face turned, darkened and more severe. "That was no sithspawn that Tahiri found - it was a vong biot." Beside him, the other Master winced. "I have seen his evidence. The organ is decaying, but it matches Republican tell of dovin basals. More: this theoretical explains many of the strange practicals of the beast." "It does, and I should have noticed it. Not many animals can brave travel through space, and it was certainly no mynock." Something about the holos of the biot rang bells in Luke''s mind, niggling at him about a memory half-forgotten. It was familiar, but he couldn''t place from where. Maybe something he''d been told about, but not seen. He''d have to ask Leia, if she was still on Coruscant. "I worry for the security of your Praxeum. The vong are an implacable foe." "It''s something I''m going to raise to Borsk and the Senate. The illusion does a lot, but it''s not like it can hide the whole system or make the galaxy forget about it. Wedge has told me he''s trying to stir up support for a permanently assigned task force, but there''s drawbacks to that too." Kyle nodded. "Because why is the New Republic Navy defending some out of the way star system?" "Exactly that. The Praxeum has avoided notice because as far as most everyone is concerned, Yavin is just a historical footnote, famous for the battle twenty-five years ago. If we put ships there, that''s a lot more points of failure." Using a Fallanassi technique to shroud the entire temple complex, making it appear like so much jungle to prying eyes was effective - but only against denizens of the galaxy. Luke was sure that the vong, outside the Force, would see right through the illusion. The Peace Brigade was gaining in reach too, demonstrated all too clearly by growing discontent spreading even into the core. Han had been chasing down something to do with the Peace Brigade, though Luke wasn''t sure what. "If the Republic is immobile, or too risky with potential turncoats, I may have a solution. Allow me to request reinforcements from the 4711th. We have few ships to spare, but the Primarch has an interest in the Jedi. You were the first to extend a hand, Master Skywalker, and trust is repaid." "The Senate is going to want to have much more in-depth talks with the Imperium, what with everything that happened at Fondor. We can open this option up, behind the scenes." Inwardly, Luke could cheer. The Jedi were a beacon of equality and understanding in the galaxy. To get the Imperium to offer even one of their few and precious ships to defend the Jedi? A group of ''witches'' and ''xenos'', who preached tolerance and temperance and defense over attack? The trick, Luke had learned over his many years and many, many adventures, was not to approach directly and with bluster. It was to come from the side, as a friend and an offered hand and a willingness to understand. The dark was powerful but love? Love could ignite the stars. Contingence Chapter XVII XVII: Roche Limit
The primordial era of every solar system is a roiling froth of plasmas and ice and dust, sown liberally with light elements and less so with the heavier. This cauldron churns and whorls - no part of it any greater than the barest gasp of wind or handful of sand - made mighty not by density but by scale, drawn taut by the laws of gravity. Carbon dust reaches out for shards of iron. By gentle hands hydrogen tugs helium and about the greater of the metals accumulate gatherings and audiences of those less blessed by atomic mass. In time the dust becomes pebbles, which become rocks, which become more until within the undifferentiated, swirling gauze of matter - which is like as to a galaxy, rendered in minute form - come little points of relative emptiness, where the clouds are drawn away. Drawn away and down, pulled closer to each knot of gathering matter, which settles more comfortably into grooves etched deeper and deeper into the comforting shawl that is space-time. At times these knots cross paths. Those of larger scale call out to their lesser siblings and jolt them from their new-carved grooves. By long persuasion these knots swing closer, closer, a dance from near to far and near again, until the moment comes, the moment of pause, when breaths are taken and each cluster pauses, on the threshold - and then tips over. Two become one. Four become two become one. The grooves deepen. The knots swell. The clouds recede. In long time, hydrogen fuses and casts light. By universal constant, photons are flung far and wide and they fall, in their own short times, across the descendants of those early clusters, who now swell massive and cyclopean, crushed down beneath their own glory, compacted into ideal form. Spheres. This latter generation mark out lives about the star, following routes laid down by their antecedents, made averaged by interaction of mass and energy and trajectory. They become such that a new name is laid about them: planets. Still remnants of maverick lineages find their own paths, lumpen and misshapen, never to reach the latter-day glory of their more weighty and influential peers. These were worlds-that-never-were, the spilled-aside feed of a celestial family that has become full. Asteroids and comets, planetoids and rogues, Trojans and moons. The basal nutrients form them: iron and hydrogen, oxygen and carbon and silicon. More, and rarer: platinum and gold, iridium and cobalt. Morsels left unsampled, crumbs fallen from a cosmological dish. One world, rocky and warm, vibrant with a living core and humming magnetism, retains a handmaiden. It is a fraternal twin, one parasitized by its greater half, left stunted and malformed in the womb of the star. Where the greater world will one day see rains of liquid water, which will bring saline seas and later organic molecules, which will one day become life, the lesser twin will never live. Its core cools, stillborn. Its mantle becomes slush, its crust solidified. It is a lump, a marker, a world-that-never-was, forever bound to its hungrier twin. Together they pass the aeons together, caught forever in an eternal dance, held at arm''s length. Each year, the dead moon slips a little farther. The world it orbits is careless. Its grip is loosened. The distances are fractional. A micron. A millimeter. A centimeter. In time, the moon would slip. It would drift beyond the grip of its brother, and it would be flung free. Left alone, to spin beneath the light of the grandfather star, given final rest in the lonely tracks of endless, endless space. In seventy-two hours, in a scale so short as to be incomprehensible, a sliver of a fraction that cannot have a name, by the judging of these ancient worlds, it has, impossibly, moved. In seventy-two hours, it has halved its distance from its killer. The dead moon, parasitized, left to starve, has upended the Law. It is coming back.
Yadraig loomed large and menacing, as menacing as a natural body could be. Ascribing intent to a celestial body smacked of ritualism, but the human mind wished to find itself in all things. Yadraig''s stubborn, relentless march brings to mind the threat-posture of a foe. A broadened chest, puffed out, matched to intimidating, sudden steps forward. An ancient display, a universal display: to appear bigger, greater, deadlier than a being was. Yadraig loomed large. At apoapsis and periapsis, the moon dug in its heels. Tylos Rubio, remaining in meditation, tracked the moon''s progress. He felt the swell of power, he felt the way space-time bunched up like a carpet caught underfoot. He felt the ripple within the Immaterium, coinciding: a soundless, wordless cry as some intelligence, some power, spoke not in human tongue nor any tongue of any creature living, for what it spoke was not bound to mortal language, but a meaning clear. It rang platonic, a perfect knife, a single meaning to transcend all meanings, a bell with a single, ultimate note. Tylos Rubio, around tensioned brow and clenched jaw, interpreted that meaning thusly: STOP It was the moment of utter cessation. When absolute zero was achieved, when all energy exhausted. It was the moment between breaths, before neurons fire to inhale. It was the perfect equality of emptiness, a void in which no molecules hung, where gravity wobbled between asymptote of nothing and everything. It was the expression of complete subjugation to stillness. To the millions of eyes on Eboracum and in the space beyond, this expression was a shudder that rippled across Yadraig and a visible tremble in its motion. The atmosphere of the moon, made of gentle, liquid hydrocarbons, swirled and rippled and sloshed. The gravity of the moon was so minor that it spilled, disturbed so greatly by the command that tidal waves never seen, not even in the earliest times of the star system, washed outward from the leading hemisphere of the moon. Concentric waves swept across valleys and plains, mares and uplands, until meeting at the trailing side of the moon, converging into growing splashes that soared a hundred kilometers and more: until the silvery, semi-liquid atmosphere leapt free. Yadraig sported a tail now, a ribbon of gauzy silver that spiraled halfway around its orbit as it dissipated. In that trail, the constriction of the moon''s orbit was writ in visible, taunting clarity. For seventy-two hours, Roboute Guilliman had exhausted every consideration. He had conferenced with his Captains, he had deliberated with his shipmasters, he had consulted with the Magi. The grim offer of Shipmistress Vaul he denied, seeing the need in her bitter eyes to act in some way, to redeem her belief in a ''failed'' command. Mantallikes, her beloved battleship, she offered on the altar of sacrifice. The warp engines might be shaped into a spatial weapon of incredible potency. Let the battleship die in a blaze, casting the coming moon into the non-space of the Warp. Roboute Guilliman was not as trained in the ways of the Immaterium as some of his brothers and it was not a realm he had ever considered needing to study. Calth stripped away that belief and in the months since he had, in mounting horror at how little he knew - at how much he had allowed a significant and fundament part of the universe pass by his considerations - accounted for this lapse by the tutelage of Codicier Rubio and the other Lexicanium along with the honored persons of the Navis Nobilite. He admitted his knowledge far from complete, as even his tutors understood enough to understand they themselves barely scratched the surface. Calth and the damned Word Bearers, the traitors of the Seventeenth, planted a tree that fruited only in uncertainty and terror. Yet he knew enough. Always had he leaned away from the usage of the greater weapons in the arsenal of the Imperium: virus bombs and phosphex, rad and vortex weapons. Their place was understood, though their necessity was a travesty, which is why the Destroyers remained among the ranks of the Ultramarines. This was not a scenario in which Roboute allowed the foolishness of morality to infringe on his practicality; no, this was a situation of utmost prudence. The detonation of a vortex weapon of such size - improvised or not - in the near-orbit of Eboracum would likely be a catastrophe beyond the scale of a lunar collision. A warprift of suitable size to neutralize the moon itself would be, at best estimations, entirely unpredictable and uncontrollable. Placing aside the esoteric, the most practical solutions evaded also. Thunderhawks scoured the surface of Yadraig endlessly, auspex digging deep into the crust. Destroyers hung in higher orbits, using their far greater arrays to attempt to prise open the secrets of the moon. As known from the destruction of the Republican world of Sernpidal and most recently Kalarba, this was an active tactic that required a living dovin basal of the Yuuzhan Vong bio-weapon breeds. All those of warp-touch agree there was a living basal whose gravity-shaping power continued to draw the moon down. That was the simplest solution. Locate the basal and slay it. Yadraig had not yet reached the point of no return. The Roche limit was not far, but still several orbits away. Frustratingly, the vong spun this trap well. Each cry of the basal was for but moments, taunting auspex to narrow down its gravitational influence. Instead of a constant song, the biot optimized its actions to minimize discovery. Worse still, while its location was narrowed down to half of the moon, indications pointed to the basal not merely being hidden, but buried, so deeply buried, in fact, that some feared it might even rest at the very core of the moon. Roboute need not review the documents. He knew how much time remained. The moon already groaned under the stress of its approach. Not quite a sphere now, but growing oblate. Eboracum felt groundquakes across the globe. Small tidal bores lapped and followed in the moon''s path. The lower limit approached, the point when the greater influence of Eboracum would pull the moon apart and see the rest of the job completed by Eboracum itself. All the while, the Yuuzhan Vong squadron watched and waited. Like a cluster of asteroids, dominated by their single battleship, they lingered two light-seconds away. Too far to engage with any weapon systems and far enough from the well of Eboracum to flee at the slightest indications of hostile approach. The Primarch carefully unpicked his fingers from the fists they had formed. He did not like being mocked. Thirty-six hours remained, pessimistically. At optimistic estimates, a further seventy-two. Each pulse of the basal proved different, slowing the moon at different rates. There was not enough data for a proper estimation. What reason there was for the basal to be variable was debated. Perhaps the weapon-creature needed to muster energy for each pulse, and like any living being, had irregularities based on its own stamina. Perhaps it was some complex calculation by the alien intelligence, where it moved the moon at a schedule known only to its cold and calculating malice. Thirty-six to seventy-two hours. Opolor''s Vow and her squadron remained at Fondor, impossible to bring to aid, though extraneous even if they could be. One further grand cruiser and her escorts would not meaningfully change the Primarch''s calculus. Macragge''s Honour alone could do as he required. He merely need give the order.
Mantallikes loomed over Eboracum Orbital like a protective, roosting avian. The battleship, crippled, still menaced with entirely deadly spurs. Her drive sections were gutted, first by weapons fire of the Seventeenth and demolition teams attempting to prevent the warship''s escape, then lately by Mechanicum adepts who excised, with due humility and proper appeasement, the remaining, functional elements. Mantallikes would never sail again, but her sacrifice would bolster the remaining ships of the 4711th. Likewise, many of her other systems were slowly cannibalized and removed over the previous months. Shipmistress Vaul watched over it all with heat in her throat and a menace of impotent tears kept locked deep, deep down beneath decades of stoic professionalism. Just because she understood the theoretical, did not mean she could not despise the practical. Often, she would whisper to her beloved command, apologizing as she rose each morning for what new injustice would be inflicted upon its venerable spirit. Beneath the shadow of the battleship, Eboracum Orbital had begun to approach the lesser yards over Calth. The slapdash construction had none of the careful and obvious construction of those f¨ºted - and woefully lost - structures, but its agglomerate formation was perhaps all the more impressive. Eboracum Orbital was a necessity built of rapidity, more honest by its making. Gutted transports, as massive as a battle-barge but unarmed and unarmored languished in half-deconstructed splendor, like picked-over carcasses of pelagic cetaceans. They bore the soldiers and material of Ultramar from the hellpit of Veridia, and in return for their service, they became the feed for Eboracum Civitas, for the Pharisan Redoubt, for stockpiles of supply to bolster the warships of the 4711th. An ignoble end, perhaps, but one fitting for the Excertus. Waste none, want for none. Modules and segments were welded onto Eboracum Orbital until it became a delicate patchwork quilt, reinforced by long spars of reinforcing frames, by flexible tethers, by magnetic clamp. It even bore void shields, borrowed from a retired mass conveyor. This was to say that Eboracum''s local orbit, in static defenses only, between Eboracum Orbital and Mantallikes, bore a great weight of potential counterfire than any world for a hundred parsecs in all directions. Likely more. Aside from Lord Admiral Regil''s squadron, the entire rest of the tonnage of the 4711th lingered nearby. Samothrace, recalled from her patrol rounds, glinted in the far distance. Her engines were lit, her voids hot, and the battle barge waited patiently. Fourth Honor, ancient and weathered and nearly as massive as a Gloriana in sheer density, hewed closer to the Orbital and her crippled sister. Numinus, still undergoing repairs, lingered in a slightly higher orbit for simple access from the surface and the Orbital. Cruisers patrolled in two tracks, opposing circles, prowling like sharks. Destroyers, those not tasked to scrying Yadraig, tagged along with the larger Murder-class cruisers. Lording over them all, the true queen of the fleet was Macragge''s Honour, all twenty kilometers of cobalt-blue and gold adamantium armor. And on her secondary bridge, peering out through armored glass, the Primarch watched as Yadraig rose over the horizon. The cruisers slowed. They came about, abandoning their circuits. Samothrace''s engines fumed, alongside Numinus. Slowly, the 4711th began to burn prograde. All but Macragge''s Honour, Fourth Honour and Mantallikes. Three battleships, all of wildly different design, mien and character, remained alongside Eboracum Orbital. The rest withdrew, elevating their orbits, fleeing the coming moon. Roboute Guilliman exhaled. There was no benefit to delaying, and only negatives. He spoke the order. Confirmation was requested and he verified in triplicate. The shimmering, flickering images of Shipmistress Vaul and Shipmaster Asha inclined their heads, heeding the Primarch''s command.
Eboracum Civitas sat empty. Her streets were silent, bereft of traffic both foot and vehicular. Wailing klaxons continued to rise and fall, heard by none. The landing fields, once an endless riot of activity, unceasing for months, were abandoned. Hundreds of square kilometers of tarmac steamed under the afternoon sun. Not a single ship remained. The gates were locked. In the far distance, where the local mountain range began, the Pharisan Redoubt likewise matched the hollow silence of Eboracum. Beneath the surface, buried away in reinforced bunkers, the citizenry of Eboracum Civitas sweated and trembled and waited. Ultramarines, bereft of plate, garbed instead in togas that did not soften their transhuman bulk, paced through the packed bunkers offering quiet words of encouragement and acting as touchstones of calm. Veterans of Calth and the Excertus loudly told stories of the Crusade and the impossible odds they''d seen before, laughing perhaps a little too loud at how mundane and routine today was. In outlying townships, those that had been touched, but not entirely plowed under, by the Imperium, there were still bunkers provided, but more than a few still held distrust for the offworlders and did not heed the warnings or alarms. They watched the sky and the swelling moon and hoped, deep and barely acknowledged, that those damned Imperials were as good as their word. Yadraig swept toward apoapsis and another thumping pause in its transit. This time, the moon was met. Her attending swarms of Thunderhawks had fled. The destroyers, hammering away with auspex, burned hard retrograde, rapidly growing distance from the celestial body. The lances arrived first. At lightspeed, columns of energy whickered through the thin, silvery hydrocarbon atmosphere of Yadraig in less than an instant. The hydrocarbons normally were not volatile, unless terajoules of energy were suddenly introduced to their freezing environment. The distance at which Macragge''s Honour, Fourth Honour and Mantallikes fired meant that their lance strikes converged, as if focused through some great lens, to saturate an area of less than ten square kilometers. Yadraig''s atmosphere fused. Atoms mashed together, ejecting blooms of radiation across the spectrum. Rock dissolved, eroded in moments. Deep, frigid permafrost of ice-slush and strange states, buried for a billion years, were ripped open, pierced through by white, hot light. As a surgeon''s scalpel, the 4711th''s lance strike clove desperately deep into the crust of Yadraig, reaching nearly the mantle. Kilometers in an eyeblink. This was the prelude. Following the energy of the lances came the lagging shots from macrocannon. Diamantite tipped shells packed with hyperexplosives punched into the terrain, into the puncture wound carved by lances. They were designed to overmatch starship armor, to counter metals and alloys forged by tens of thousands of years of materials mastery. Against carbonates and phyllosilicates, against graphite dust and methane clathrates, against salts and olivine-rich achondrites, there was no contest. Each shell plunged hundreds of meters, if not kilometers down before finally erupting. This was by design. Each subterranean detonation formed short-lived vulcanism, rupturing and shattering the surface of the moon. From a precise stab-wound, the growing injury in Yadraig became a ragged-edged, desperately steep crater. Like cracking the plastron of a warrior, to allow a thin blade through, so too did the three grand battleships of the 4711th split and churn and tear the flesh of Yadraig wide. Two-stage torpedoes followed. Precious, limited, supremely dangerous - only by order of the Primarch were these unleashed. They were launched by one single warship alone. Macragge''s Honour. The gash in Yadraig tore down to the mantle, ripping a wound in the moon forty kilometers deep. One, two torpedoes flashed into the injury. Melta projectors lit. The torpedoes dug deep. Elsewhere on the moon, a Shaper placed their crustacean fingers on an agitated dovin basal, the biot crying out as it sensed its end. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Two-stage cyclonic torpedoes were designed to split worlds. Against a moon of just over a thousand kilometers in diameter, they were, perhaps, overkill. They both struck the small, nickel-iron core of Yadraig. And the moon shattered.
Warleader Malik Carr''s lips were pressed tight, yet not out of frustration nor concern. The blazebugs struggled to demonstrate the raw power unleashed in the orbit of the infidel world, but Malik Carr paid them little attention. His claw clacked tak tak tak on coral underfoot as he allowed Blood Spat in Wrath''s yammosk to sing to him directly, to feed to his eyes and his senses the actions of the Impeerials unfiltered. He saw local space as the yammosk did, through the sensor-pits and membrane-sheltered eyes of the fleet. He watched the moon shatter - not gently but violently, a sharp and eruptive, plosive detonation like a sparkbee flask. Already, bolides were lighting the atmosphere of the world below, the first outriders of the shattered moon, ejected with such violence and force as to cross the intervening distance in moments. Tens of thousands of kilometers per second. Alas for Malik Carr, these were the tiniest of fragments, those able to be accelerated so violently. None would reach the surface, fuming instead into short-lived flares in the upper atmosphere. He eyed instead the greater fragments, moving much slower, but all the more massive for it. Ones which would retain enough to survive passage through the flames of re-entry. Each a bomb flung by Malik Carr at the heathens below. He watched the three Impeerial warships, including the largest of them all, as they began to reach out with laser and plasma and solid shot at the debris of the moon. At his request, the yammosk contracted muscles in the outer hull of Wrath, contracting sight-biots beneath their void-proof lenses. His vision swam with momentary vertigo, until the mightiest Impeerial dead-ship filled his sight. His gut churned at such an icon of sin, but he was Warleader and he allowed the disgust to come, go. Malik Carr could admit the scale of the ship was impressive and its potency moreso, but there was more than one way to kill a radank. His eyes fell on the scars along the flanks of the warship. Against the gold-and-blue of the rest of the battleship, long patches of dull, colorless patching stood out clearly. To Malik Carr''s trained eye, the patches, the scars, indicated the ship had once been boarded. Had it been scarred in battle, the repaired patches would be irregular and scattered. These patches were rectangular and precisely positioned, spaced out evenly along two kilometers of the lower flanks of the ship. They ran in line with each other, as if ships had once come alongside and burrowed into the dead-metal flesh of the Impeerial ship. The Warleader issued orders of his own.
Yadraig came apart like a shrapnel bomb with very little fire. The world-killers were made to induce mass-instability in a celestial body - cleansing fire was extraneous to that purpose. Oscillating and exotic fields of Dark Age tech-sorcery rang pressure waves through the internals of the moon. On a small yorik coral cruiser, buried deep within the mantle, there was a split-second of alarm before everything biological - which is to say, everything but the coral shell of the ship - was pulped into a mass of slippery, undifferentiated organic slurry. Then Yadraig burst. "Target priority matrices are locked in, my Primarch." "Fire at will," Roboute Guilliman ordered. No fragment of the moon larger than thirty kilometers in diameter remained. It had been pulverized, shattered, torn to bits. From the vantage point of the 4711th, the moon appeared destroyed. Appeared to be and was were different creatures entire. The two-stage torpedoes were designed to shatter worlds. They did so through arcane methods that the Mechanicum barely comprehended. They were rare and precious weapons, archaeotech unmatched by contemporary creations. Each relic spent was one less in the arsenals of the Imperium, never to be used again. Breaking a world was sufficient to kill everything on the surface. When utilized in the Great Crusade, that was enough. In the grave and rare instance Exterminatus was required, a world was crushed and the Crusade marched onward. The remains of these worlds were of little concern. What happened to the debris, to the remains, was not a matter the Imperium cared about. The threat was expunged and mankind could march on. Thus: the torpedoes broke a world: they did not destroy it. There was no cauterizing flash and atomization, for such destruction was a waste of resources. When Yadraig shattered, the moon massed something north of nine hundred and ninety quadrillion tonnes. Perhaps a trillion - even a hundred trillion - tonnes had been vaporized or otherwise reduced to dust by the initial lance and macrocannon bombardment. This left, approximately, nine hundred and ninety quadrillion tonnes of moon. Codicier Rubio felt the dovin basal''s death. It felt like a blanket, thin, barely noticeable, was whipped away from the local Immaterium. He breathed a sigh of relief, immediately voxing the bridge. The Primarch, receiving the news, barely reacted. A slight shift of weight, a twitch of the cheek. The basal''s death was expected. The biot was gone, removing the risk of the entire moon coming down on the world. All that meant, to the Primarch, was that the task was merely beginning.
In the secondary bridge, now the primary after Lorgar''s machinations, a most minute, barely perceptible rumble thrummed through the deck underfoot. For those without transhuman senses, it would pass beneath notice. Roboute felt it. It was the thunder of guns, firing ceaseless. Macrobatteries hurled shells out into the void nonstop, barrels running hot and reload mechanisms entreated endlessly by Magi. Lances struck again and again, slashing through fragments of Yadraig, halving and quartering slabs that once were broad plains and sides of ancient mountain ranges. Roboute watched it all. He could do nothing more. In his grip, a stylus creaked, ominously yet delicately for the immense strength bound within his hands. As ever, he remained in utter control of the body his Father shaped for him; the strain on his stylus and dataslate an affectation. A minute, fractional outlet for the helpless frustration that boiled in his breast. Between Macragge''s Honour, Mantallikes and Fourth Honor, they had a weight of megaweaponry that could sear a world''s surface or break the back of most fleets. Clumps and chunks of moonrock were as far from adamantium as could be. Each flash of lance rendered a tumbling mountain into harmless gravel. Each smack of macrocannon shell cracked asteroids into pebbles. Blasts of plasma created swirls of molten rock. The three battleships used their replaceable ammunition. Lances drew only upon the raw power of annihilating reactions in the churning hearts of the warships. Macrocannon shells were immense, but simplistic, already replaced in the foundries of Orichi-Mu''s barque and assemblages on the surface. Plasma cannon required only reactants, easily drawn and refined from chemical processes. The three battleships could fire for days without cease. The moon - or rather, the cloud of cosmic shrapnel that had been a moon - was not a day away. It was hours. Already, Roboute watched glowing streaks in Eboracum''s skies below them. Half of the moon''s mass was blown into higher orbits, or remaining, generally, in the same orbit it had been. The other half was ejected retrograde or into lower orbits. Nine hundred and ninety quadrillion tonnes. Half: four hundred and forty-five quadrillion tonnes. There would be impacts. It was unavoidable. Legio Lacassex stood ready alongside the Pharisan Redoubt, prepared to fire on those that might land in or near Eboracum Civitas. The cannons and launchers of the Redoubt, paired with the mighty volcano cannon of the Warlord Sanguinum Oculi stood ready and fully capable. Auspex tracks were inloaded to targeting manifolds. Restive fingers danced over trigger-runes. But there would be impacts. Guilliman, teeth clenched, calculated the likelihood of extinction-level impactors. One in five. Most of the largest fragments, those that could kill a world, were imparted with far less velocity from the breaking of the moon. They would not fall for days yet, without the influence of the dovin basal to force them along. Even those knocked into lower orbits, decaying orbits, would have a full pass or more around the world before the interface of atmosphere began to affect them. Those slung into higher orbits were less of a threat, though still on irregular tracks that might fail over weeks, or even months. Exhaling tightly, Guilliman recognized the victory the Yuuzhan Vong were able to shape. It was a well-plotted gambit. Whomsoever led the invaders, he would mark them a true threat. Instead of pinning all their hopes on a single gambit, the vong constructed a scenario in which the 4711th could only choose from poor options. Seventy-two hours he spent, constructing hundreds of plans. All were some degree of loss. Some were a loss far worse than the collision of the moon, intact, with Eboracum. Shipmistress Vaul''s suggestion was one of the latter options. Take the time to hunt for the basal: waste time until the moon reached a point of no return, and fell to the world. Act swiftly before hunting: potential to overreact, wasting ordnance, creating a far greater danger, should they have been able to find the biot. Detonate warp engines, to remove the moon from play - expose an Imperial world, the only Imperial world to the raw, unfiltered Warp. Shatter the moon, as he had decided upon: fill Eboracum''s orbit with an endless amount of debris. Threaten the world with constant bombardment. Endanger all ships to pass into Eboracum''s influence by way of innumerable debris at orbital velocities. Yet the three battleships continued to fire. From their retreat, Samothrace and the other ships of the 4711th pulled higher, distancing themselves from the coming spray of Yadraig''s ruin, preparing to add their own weight of fire from a higher, safer orbit. Roboute watched the first major rock to fall. With a gesture, his dataslate revealed the specifics. It fell, at relatively low speeds, already blushing red from friction. A hundred meters in diameter, jagged, shaped like a shard of glass. Catching the denser atmosphere, the fragment spun and tumbled until, overstrained, it airburst with enough force to flatten forests for a thousand square kilometers. Blown into a thousand pieces, it came down in a spray as devastating as a heavy artillery barrage. It was the first and it would not be the last.
The infidel''s grand cruisers were engaged. Three remained huddled near to the world, clearly willing to risk their survival to protect the Impeerial''s delicate space station. The others fled higher, running from the moon''s demise. Blazebugs danced, revealing more esoteric information. In their glow they spoke not of warships and weaponry, but of the complex play of gravitational influences. The moon''s death was a ripple on space-time, the fabric thrumming to the senses of yammosk and dovin basal. The more the broken remains of the moon expanded, the more diffuse its press of gravity became. Malik Carr watched and watched, baring his teeth as the first shards fell to the world. He watched as the debris field swept closer to the infidels, saw as their strange and ephemeral defense barriers began to crackle as first dust and gravel reached them, then larger chunks of moon, then more. Interestingly, one of the grand cruisers appeared to sport no barriers at all, bearing instead each impact against its hull direct. Damage? Design? It mattered little. For several hours he watched, remaining erect, shoulders back, feet planted. The command grotto murmured with quiet activity. He bided his time. Still the three warships continued their fruitless, futile barrage. The larger parts of the moon approached. Malik Carr consulted the yammosk. Tak, tak, tak clicked his claw against the coral underfoot. Gravity influences smeared and stretched. The infidels would never understand the subtleties of space-shaping. Their hollow machines could never match the brilliance and technique of the living. "Enact," the Warleader intoned. At his right hand, Harrar of the Deception Sect swung a censer, wafting rare and precious incense in a sudden stream of eye-watching, nose-tingling spiral.
Guilliman had kept an eye on the distant vong squadron throughout. When the moon broke - they did not move. When Eboracum''s skies began to light with streaks of fire - they did not move. When his flagship and her two sisters lit the sky in other ways, with collimated beams of energy and muzzle-flash of macrobatteries - they did not move. Macragge''s Honour''s voids hummed and popped unceasingly. Mantallikes as well. Fourth Honour''s meters-thick slabs of adamantium bore the coming barrage stoically. Thus far, the debris was minimal. None were larger than a Land Raider, with the energy of a minor cannon shell. Yet it was only the vanguard. The far, far larger pieces of the moon were yet to arrive. Eboracum, below, was bruised. Smoke from fires rose across the continent. No major impact had landed - yet - but the time would come. Void shields hummed now over Eboracum Civitas and the Pharisan Redoubt. Patrols of Auxilia and Excertus, along with Ultramarines, ranged out to gather, by force if necessary, the populations of outlying towns. Perhaps it should have been done sooner. Perhaps it needn''t be done at all. Eboracum Civitas bore the great majority of the population, and the thousands that might die beyond the boundaries of the voids were a minor, negligible loss. Captains Argant and Paston disagreed. Roboute did not countermand them. He had turned away from the crystalflex viewports some time ago. There was no need to watch. He didn''t need to see another world burn. Eboracum was not Calth. He spoke this, again and again, a mantra that occupied but a fraction of his prodigious, posthuman focus. Calth died. Eboracum would be wounded, perhaps gravely. There would be ashfall and storms, there would be surges of waves. Its orbit would be interdicted for the foreseeable future, requiring all ships to come with voids lit (or shields up) and defensive batteries tracking. Some time ago, in this galaxy, Roboute had read a report of their very capital besieged by a handful of asteroids, rendered invisible. The death of Yadraig, the planetary ring to come, would be entirely visible, but all the more frustrating for it. There simply were not enough guns, enough void-shields, enough plasma projectors or lances to stop them all. So Roboute planned for the future. He plotted the coming moonfall on the world, estimating areas most like to suffer impacts. The choice to destroy the moon just as it rose over the hemisphere Eboracum Civitas inhabited was calculated. The first waves of debris would fall long, passing over the Civitas and coming down well away, perhaps thousands of kilometers away. All to buy as much time as possible for the capital city. He sketched out recovery operations. In truth, the surges of emigration supported by SELCORE were beginning to actually, truly stress the 4711ths capacity to employ them all. The Mechanicum worked tirelessly, around the clock, to raise new manufactories, new hab-blocks. There was only so swiftly the red-robed children of Mars could work. Guilliman envisioned recovery crews, sent out to gather valuable resources from the craters. Fire-fighter brigades, to work to snuff out continent-wide forest fires. Construction brigades, to supplement the servitor-driven machinery of the Mechanicum. The vong forced Roboute to lose, but in losing he might shape a form of victory instead. Focused as he was, as he had abandoned the bridge''s viewports, he did not witness a flicker of pseudomotion, close at hand.
The cruiser was small, comparable in size to a Republican Nebulon-B or similar class. Its name did not matter, but its crew were dedicated. Fanatical. The cruiser slipped through the complex web of gravitational influences, spearing out from Warleader Malik Carr''s squadron to thread the needle right into the center of the 4711th''s grand cruisers. The dovin basal that drove it was wise, canny, and old. Macragge''s Honour loomed not thirty kilometers distant. The cruiser was a flea against a carnodon. Turrets already tracked. Macrocannon battery trained. The dovin basal did not prepare to project fields. The cruiser drifted, undirected. The dovin basal had one single task: it reached back along the narrow route it flew and flexed. Spacetime relaxed. A channel opened. A dozen lumpen shapes flickered away from Malik Carr''s squadron. They appeared, moments later, tugged from hyperspace by the cruiser''s dovin basal switching its focus from smoothing space to deepening the gravity well of Eboracum. Then a dozen macrocannon shells tore through the cruiser, turning it into a cloud of coral and slaughtered Chosen. Its task was complete. A dozen asteroids nosed against Macragge''s Honour''s flanks. They bore no yaret-kor, no tendrils for coralskippers to nurse at. They were misshapen and ugly, shaped not of yorik coral but of nickel-iron, dusted in ice. Asteroids, stolen from the system''s belt, hollowed out, implanted with youthful dovin basals. At a distance of ten kilometers, they tumbled from hyperspace in a loose clump, delivered precisely by the interdiction of the cruiser''s dovin basal. Had a Republican tactician seen the actions of the martyred cruiser, they might have recognized the gambit. Modified slightly, filtered through the lens of the Yuuzhan Vong - but recognizable nonetheless. They called it the ''Thrawn Pincer''. To the Chosen of the Gods, it was Bar-Kuret''s Gambit. Warleader Malik Carr paid homage to the ancients. Before Macragge''s Honour could train its guns on the new arrivals, the asteroids shattered. Each one, like miniaturized recreations of Yadraig''s recent destruction. From their hollowed bodies swarmed yorik-trema. Hundreds. The troop transports sprinted, desperate, crossing the tiny distance to the Imperial flagship in moments. Still, dozens were swatted from the sky by rapid reaction interception fire. Hundreds of warriors and chazrach died in the void, choking and seared. It was not enough. Yorik-trema thumped against the hull of the Gloriana flagship, not against the dense adamantium slabs that covered most, but against the patchwork repairs. Here the armor was thinner, lesser. Caustic acids, sufficient to melt lungs in seconds at the slightest whiff, dug into the flagship''s flesh. Muscled, lithe and snakelike biots lashed and bit into armor, chewing and ripping away acid-softened chunks and hurling them aside. Atmosphere gusted out, blooming into little puffs and clouds of crystalline ice and oxygen. The biots latched jaws over each rupture, exhaling, equalizing pressure. Through the breaching wyrms swarmed the warriors of Domain Shai, the name of their Warleader and martyred Commander on their lips. Exhorted by Malik Carr, promised the redemption of the honour of their Domain, their eyes were lit with fervor, their limbs driven by frenzy. In grim mirror to the attempts of the Seventeenth, many months ago, Macragge''s Honour was breached. This time, unlike the abortive attempts of Lorgar''s get, thousands of Yuuzhan Vong warriors and chazrach set clawed boots on the hallowed halls of Macragge''s Honour. And then the slaughter began. Contingence Chapter XVIII XVIII: Incursion
In a perverse mirror to the wounding of the flagship over Calth, in ways that those of Domain Shai could not know, the halls of Macragge''s Honour were flooded. Yorik-trema and the larger yorik-troka, those many that survived brief and panicked interception fire, met hasty repairs with plasma spitters and monomolecular gnashing jaws and corrosive, brutal acids. Wormlike umbilicals snaked into these slashed wounds, sealing in place with quick-setting mucus. Klaxons howled, calling alerts, demanding responses, yet the defenders were caught flat-footed. Chazrach, hordes of chazrach, entire brood-lines of chazrach, spilled forth first. They were the sacrificial play, the bulwark, the expendable meat-wall to test and prod what none of the Chosen could imagine. The dead-metal ships of the infidel ''Republic'' were worthless to expend warriors to assault: a touch of the seductive caress of a dovin basal, a suitable application of plasma and magma-missile and the made-ships died in ignomy. At best, claiming an infidel warship would serve to provide slaves or sacrifices, should the priests declare the action suitable. The Warleader, upon whose name praise was to be heaped, knew otherwise. From his hands were flung Domain Shai, given leave to reclaim their honour, to earn the favor and eyes of the gods again. Thus: the halls of Macragge''s Honour were flooded. Blood ran thick and red. Menials and sailors died, cut down, butchered, drowned under a wave of chittering, shrieking reptiloid forms. Hatches were pulled shut tight and sealed. Corridors were blocked off. Magi scrambled to enact isolation protocols. The Warleader, upon whose name praise was to be heaped, did not intend to spend idly the lives of his warriors, even those whose star had waned. Biots stalked among the boarders, gifted by the Shapers, biots whose purpose was otherwise but whose utility was incalculable. Ground-listeners shuffled along, guided by careful handlers, stomping columnar, wide-footed legs in sequence. Infrasound pulsed out, echoing and bouncing and the biots grumped and hooted, each pitch and tone of their calls describing what the creatures saw. Emptiness and hollows - dangerous terrain, hazardous foundations, unsuitable for construction. Their handlers interpreted the calls, ignoring the distress of their fleshy charges. Intended for use in determining suitable rooting-sites for minshals and grashals and damuteks, ground-listeners were not combat biots but ones shaped for peaceful matters. Now they were retasked, their deep-penetrating calls revealing the spidery, labyrinthine, complex ways of the Imperial warship, rather than aquifers and sand pits and unsteady geology. Qesud Qesh, Master of Shaping, knew well the Cortices and drew out patterns and designs to suit the demands of her sponsor. Thus were the sons of Shai given the tools they required. When Harrar, Priest of Yun-Harla, exchanged quiet words with Malik Carr, he asked in clear terms if the Warleader intended to sacrifice all the warriors committed. "I do," the Warleader confirmed. "But I do not expect them to fail." The Warleader''s last speech rang in the ears of the warriors as they whooped cries to Yun-Yammka, as they called the names of their greater ancestors, as they described loops of arterial spray and dismantled bodies. "Go and show the fearlessness of Shai. Show the piety of Shai and the courage of Shai, and let none again question the honour of your ancient Domain. The eyes of the Gods are upon you, and the eyes of the Warmaster are drawn." The fearlessness. Fearlessness. Piety. Courage. Into the halls of Macragge''s Honour thundered ten thousand tall warriors of Shai, whose armor was ink-dark and polished, chased with silver and white. The Slayer''s hand was upon them and they knew no fear.
''We are mustering, but for the moment, the task falls to our armsmen.'' Marius Gage reported with dispassion, the fingers of his augmetic hand clicking as he flexed each individually. Still they itched with psychosomatic feedback, haunting him with a feeling that they responded just imperceptibly too slow to his thoughts, enough to leave him invalid. Weaker. If he could not trust his own hand, he could carry neither blade nor bolter. The apothecaries and Tech-marines assured him the augmetic took as well as could be expected. Careful diagnostics revealed no sensorial delay. Still it ached. Still he flexed his fingers, feeling each respond a ghost of a moment too slowly. His father''s lips were pursed, his brow drawn taut, his every muscles taut. Even in his master-crafted plate - which the Primarch had not worn in some time - Gage could see the tension in his shoulders, in his stance. He could imagine tendons like hawsers tight and bulging beneath the skin. ''They learned from us,'' Guilliman bit out around a grimace. ''That was my thought as well, my lord. According to Republican intelligence, the vong have not pursued combat boardings against warships. At most, they have assaulted undefended or lightly defended civilian vessels or stations, likely for the purpose of gathering sacrifices.'' When the jury-rigged asteroids appeared and the boarding action was launched, the Primarch beckoned and withdrew to his arming chamber. Chapter menials rushed to garb the Primarch and once his plate was in-place - in record time as well, in mere minutes - Guilliman did not return to the primary strategium. There, the shipmaster commanded still the interdiction of the lunar debris. That task remained nearly as paramount as repelling the boarding assault, and a mixing of two priority tasks was unwise. Instead, the secondary strategium was claimed. Much smaller than the primary, which served as bridge and command center both, the secondary strategium was set aside for more focused, particular tasks. During the Crusade, it was where planetary assaults would be planned and guided, where theatre-level planning would occur. It was shaped as an amphitheatre, with ten climbing tiers of consoles and data-anchors and embedded servitors. Each could be tuned as needed, to be filled with Excertus planners and logisticians, with iterators and educators preparing for compliance, with void-analysts and Imperialis advisors to chart out the conquest of entire sectors. A vast mnemo-table filled the ''stage'' of the amphitheatre, lit now to reveal a complex, horrific and incomprehensible mass of lines and hatchings, slashes and sigils and curves. A cross-section plan of the flagship, incomprehensible in scale to all but the most augmented, trained and ancient of Hullwright Archmagos. Or, to the posthuman, elevated mind of a Primarch. Blotches in red demarcated where the aliens had penetrated. Crawling emblems slithered, like an upended hive of ants skittering and scurrying without rhyme or reason. Each was a squad of naval armsmen, or ratings given stubbers, or mustered Astartes killteams, or skitarii platoons, or Cybernetica maniples. Gage had not bothered to watch the mnemo-table. He understood his limits. ''They do not appear to have a goal,'' his Primarch mused, superficially calm. Many decades of campaigning with Guilliman inured Gage to his father''s attempts to mask his emotions. Roboute Guilliman sometimes pretended to be Dorn, but could master none of the Imperial Fist''s true impregnable solemnity. Roboute Guilliman was furious. ''There are movements aft, toward the engineering spaces, but that, I believe, is simple logic. Look there: they are bypassing entirely a magazine. This is a fool''s errand. They cannot hope to achieve any goals.'' ''Perhaps their goal is merely to sow chaos.'' Drakus Gorod, enormous in his Cataphractii plate, stood nearly as tall as Guilliman himself. His voice was sneering, behind his helm. ''They understand they cannot face our strengths directly. This is an act of cowardice, an attempt to distract us from the greater concern of the moon.'' ''They cannot face our strengths? Mortarch Abandon is crippled. Their battleships fought Opolor''s Vow to a standstill and now the vong have tried to pull down Eboracum''s own moon. You forget, Captain, that I have felt the power in their bioshaped weapons.'' Codicier Rubio gripped his force-sword, sheathed at his waist, in a tense grip. Helmetless beneath his psychic cowl, the warp-touched Astartes'' eyes glowed with gentle white back-light. Crimson stains marked his philtrum and upper lip. He had not bothered to wipe away the evidence of what he felt. ''And yet, the moon is shattered.'' ''And now rains ruin on a world that we swore to defend.'' Slabbed adamantium shoulders shifted in what might be construed as a shrug. ''The Ultramarian Excertus will survive beneath the void shields of the civitas. The rest of the world matters little.'' Rubio''s eyes flashed, but whatever retort he would offer the Captain of the Invictarii was silenced by the Primarch''s cleared throat. ''Peace, Drakus, Tylos. I will not underestimate these Yuuzhan Vong. Phratus - I see killteams converging. Do not feed them in piecemeal. If there must be a delay - then delay. Rally armsmen and send armed ratings in to slow the boarders. Lieutenant Optarch''s reports continue to concern me.'' Phratus Auguston, First Company Captain, resplendent in his rich command cape, plumed and gilt helm under his arm, nodded. ''It will be so, sire.'' Gage returned his focus to the mnemo-table. He let the overwhelming snarl of information pass through him, looking not for particulars but instead absorbing the icons as a gestalt whole. Red swathes that demonstrated where the vong invaders breached through the wounds of the Seventeenth expanded oddly and in fits and starts. For now, they were but spots on the enormous frame of the flagship. Estimates placed the count of invaders between five and twenty thousand - shocking numbers to some, but, in truth, woefully inadequate to the task they presumably pursued. A warship of the stars bore little resemblance to a warship of aeons past, those bound to the seas. Behind the lances and plasma turrets, macrobatteries and void arrays, a capital ship was a city unto itself. Generations were born, lived and died within the spaces of a battleship. In some Legions, in some elements of the Imperialis Armada, this was a grim tasking, one more akin to serfdom or worse. Ultamarian ideals shone through, even in the bowels and bilges of starships, and though many never set foot beyond the corridors and chambers and spaces of Macragge''s Honour, their lives were not ones of suffering or undue hardship. Macragge''s Honour was a city, torn up from the flesh of a world and shaped, hammered and drawn out into a facsimile of a battleship. Beneath the veneer of flesh, beneath the pretensions of a ship of war, lived a living, breathing society. Hundreds of thousands - millions, even - of kilometers of spaces within the Gloriana contained more than just enginariums and reactor spaces, munitions depots and magazines, machine bays and barracks. There were vast cafeteria, recreational theatres, libraries and even simple multi-purpose assembly halls. For those that lived within the Primarch''s flagship, there was more than pride in serving a son of the Emperor within their breast. There was a fierce and ferocious love of home, of the construct that was city and warship and symbol alike. Gage knew that every last sailor would fight to the death to protect their home.
The defenders were¡­brave. He could grudgingly grant them that much. There was a scale to them. The first that Yus Shai slew wore grease-stained overalls and brandished only some tool in both hands. Contemptuous, his amphistaff claimed the heathen''s head and Yus Shai forgot him immediately thereafter. Chazrach mobbed the rest of the working gang until the tang of iron was sweet on his tongue. This was the first type. He assumed they were the slave-caste of the ''Impeerium'', reflected by their lack of martial prowess and the fear-stink that sweat from them. They were cattle and Yus Shai bade his cadre of chazrach to cut them down like cattle, so as not to stain his blade. The second type came in squads. In their arms they cradled stubby rifles that fired cracking, flechette bursts of projectiles. They were potent enough to kill chazrach, though this was unsurprising. Yus Shai weathered a blast to his torso, from near point-blank, fringed lips curling behind his full-face mask. The blow was staggering, kinetic force redirected somewhat by his vonduun skerr kyrric. It was still enough to force him to the backfoot, breath stolen for a moment. Then he recovered and severed the man''s wrists, elbows and then head. He probed his armor, feeling dents in the hardened, crystalline carapace. Not nearly potent enough. The third kind shaped tactics. At junctions, thresholds of hatches and bulkhead frames, they assembled ambushes. Explosive projectiles were lobbed, rattling and bouncing and Yus Shai bade his chazrach to intercept them, bodily. Muted crumps lifted the diminutive creatures in bursts of whizzing shrapnel. Bright, hot beams of light snapped and crackled and to his surprise, these struck weaker against his skerr kyrric than the thumping slugs of shotguns. The beams reflected and refracted, scorching lines but scattering brilliantly, almost dazzingly. He thanked the Gods, specifically Yun-Ne''shel, for the brilliance of the interwoven crystalline layers of his dutiful, noble armor. These groups struck and faded, keeping at distance before fleeing, locking tight behind them portals and barricades. They were the delaying actions, Yus Shai recognized, made to sting and harry and delay. For he knew the fourth kind were coming. At just the thought, just the merest, slightest consideration, his blood sang. Yus Shai licked his lips with pointed, pierced tongue. Tales spread of them, tales that grew taller and grander with each telling. His heart thumped, his hands tingled, even his amphistaff shared his eagerness, writhing and hissing and snapping in his grip. Aistarteez. Like the Jeedai, rumored to be the only beings in this wretched galaxy that might be a worthy foe. Auspices from the Gods declared each and every Aistarteez to be a worthy offering, equal to at least a hundred lesser infidels. The Priest Harrar spoke the words, and thus they must be true. Even one Aistarteez would redeem him. Just one fallen by his hand, cloven by his amphistaff, brought low by his bugs, would elevate Yus Shai to delirious new heights. The Slayer would notice. They would be coming. He was sure of it.
Caedos Quintus readjusted his boarding shield, clamped tight to his left arm. Left behind by Lieutenant Optarch, he and the rest of his squad were restive, frustrated, left behind while the rest of Thiel''s Redmarked earned glory on the Republican world of Fondor. The Primarch allowed only half of the Captain''s growing company to be deployed, unwilling to spend the entirety of the experiment, should the worst come to pass. It was a sound theoretical, Quintus admitted, but it chafed nonetheless. Guilt curled in his gut, shame at his eagerness to clash with the vong xenoform. He should not be eager. He should not feel a tickle of pleasure, of excitement. It was unbecoming. Macragge''s Honour was violated. Eboracum, chosen by the Primarch, faced devastation. In very real terms, the 4711th faced the greatest threat since Calth. Quintus struggled to keep a grin from crossing his face behind his helm. He struggled, failed, and with a mental shrug, accepted his impropriety. He would consider it later, and make amends. The Redmarked - the Captain - chose him because of who he was. When this moment had passed, he would admit his failings to Lieutenant Optarch, when he returned. He would be educated on perspective and he would be grateful, and then in the future he would be just as hungry for battle again, and the process would repeat. It was who he was. Alongside nine other Ultramarines, four of his own squad and five from the 76th company, Quintus braced behind his shield, dropping it''s end to slam to the deck. They made a wall across the corridor, braced tight, shoulder to shoulder. Bolt pistols peeked through slots in each shield. ''Hostile contact estimated between thirty and forty-nine seconds. Multiple squad strength. Ratio of ''Warrior'' to ''Serf'' calculated 1:15.'' A genderless, emotionless voice blurted information into each of their ears. Magi tracked the invaders, relaying real-time information to approaching Ultramarine squads. Quintus never learned the designation of their controller - it did not matter. All that mattered was that the estimate of thirty to forty-nine seconds appeared to track, as the shuttered hatch at the end of the corridor began to glow cherry red, edging swiftly toward yellow, then white. ''Ready!'' called Sergeant Terimus. Quintus caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth, a habit he''d never lost since even before his ascension, in his time as a youth on Prandium. The hatch warped and then slammed inward, hinges soft like wax. It swung halfway open before shearing free, superheated metal screaming as it impacted the bulkhead and deck. The diminutive vong slave-caste poured through, heedless of lumps of glowing yellow-white metal strewn about. They hooted and shrieked and hissed through reptiloid teeth. No command was necessary. Ten boltpistols barked and more than ten chazrach toppled. So fragile that even the overpressure and shrapnel - both biological from victims and metallic from the shells - shredded into their neighbors and claimed them too. Methodically, as each new wave pushed through, Quintus matched his brothers'' volleys. The hatch choked with corpses, so many that they rolled like a wave, cresting into the corridor, absorbing now bolts by the sheer mass of the dead. Streaking darts blurred toward them, visible as blunt-nosed insects with flickering, whickering wings only to his elevated, Astartesian senses. His shield jolted and jerked under the barrage. This was far more force than had been reported. He''d read the after-action details from Lieutenant Optarch''s raid on the vong cruiser as well as the late Sergeant Ascratus'' mission to Obroa-Skai. These ''thudbugs'' could topple a mortal, but it had been said that against Astartes, they did not even register. These hit harder, faster, his shield ringing like a gong. Quintus actually had to shift his stance, bracing harder. Bolts lashed out, pulping bodies already dead and crippling chazrach that surged over the rolling pile. A tide of death, of bodies, broken and shattered and steaming, offal blended into slurries, organs pulped, snouts shredded. By slaughter, they edged down the corridor, closer, closer until thirty meters, twenty meters separated the line of Ultramarines from the corpse-wall. How many were there? How many more could there be - Then the warriors, the Yuuzhan Vong themselves, showed themselves. Quintus had read the reports, he''d studied the practicals. Bolt shells could pierce their living armor. It was not a sure thing, with greater likelihood at thinner sections. Limb shots could maim or kill. Shots to the head, usually, were enough. Center mass was less reliable. Dissections and investigations of recovered biots from the Lieutenant''s boarding raid revealed a complex structure within the vong''s living plate. It was enough to pre-detonate mass reactives, or even, if the angle was poor, deflect even a diamantite point. Something was wrong with these warriors, revealed as they bulled through the waist-deep morass of bodies. Bolts cracked out and explosions burst like brief flowers of flame and shrapnel. These warriors did not lope along, rangy and athletic as described. They plodded, footfalls heavy and Quintus scowled as none fell under the initial barrage. They pushed through the dead chazrach with slow determination, forming up shoulder to shoulder, until they spanned the width of the corridor. Their armor was black, edged in white and silver. It looked, in broad strokes, as the hololiths and dataslate recordings taken from Obroa-skai and elsewhere. There were the scalloped edges, the overlapping plates, the full body coverage that exposed no flesh. Yet this armor was far more massive, bulkier and thicker. At the neck, a gorget rose so high that only thin slits for eyes appeared above it. Thick and rounded pauldrons fell halfway down biceps, leaving their arms with little motion. They marched close, a phalanx formation. Bolts skipped off, ricocheting and exploding against the deck, the bulkheads, the ceiling. Craters were ripped into these dense-armored vong, but still none fell. ''Krak!'' shouted the sergeant, and ten hands clamped ten boltpistols to belts, and ten tumbling grenades bracketed the trudging vong. The overlapping detonations nearly whited out his helm''s auto-senses, compensating hard to preserve his hearing. The flash was surprising, so close, so bright. Several of the up-armored vong were supine. Others stumbled, hands waving mindlessly. Still half bulled forward, hunching down, tucking heads deeper behind tall gorgets. ''Blades! Blades!'' Quintus ripped his gladius from his belt, energy crackling down the blade. No chainswords here - the Primarch''s orders had been explicit. Power blades for every Astartes. To use any other would be to invite catastrophe as the keen-edged alien amphistaves clove through chainblades with ease. The vong terminators - the thought came unbidden, but the comparison suited - trudged closer, inexorable. His keen eye judged them, their pace - they were not slow by choice, but by, Quintus judged, the clumsy thickening of their armor. Their legs had but minimal range of motion. They carried no amphistaves, bore no bandoliers of bugs. No visible weapons of any kind. In a flash, he understood. ''Behind! Behind them!'' The vong-terminators knelt, as one. Behind them, hidden by their bulk and their close-drawn phalanx, were not chazrach, but warriors. Dozens. Their alien tongue filled the air, howled by powerful lungs and they leapt over their kneeling vanguard. There was no other practical but to meet the charge. They were all Ultramarines. There was no need to coordinate. Ten shields came up, off the deck and ten Ultramarines surged forward, meeting the vong. Amphistaves lashed out. Chunks of shields tumbled aside, snipped away by living weapons sharp as invective. Quintus bashed a warrior flat with his shield, the alien thrown prone, met by his boot. Its head burst. He caught a hissing amphistaff on his gladius, whirled it aside. Another warrior shrieked, howling nonsense, fingers hooked to grapple - Quintus shattered its skull with a pommel strike. Something tugged at his left pauldron. He ignored it. Bugs zipped and whipped, keratin-on-ceramite sharp and loud. Another amphistaff jabbed for his groin - deflected. Clear liquid splashed over the lenses of his helm and Quintus started - no warning runes. He ignored it. More strikes to his shield. It''s weight lessened. The leftward corner was gone. Boarding shields were thick ceramite, proof against bolts and plasma. He spared a glance to his brothers to either side. He saw blue armor on the deck, intermingled with the white-on-black of the vong. He saw boarding shields in shreds, shields cloven through as cleanly as by a power-blade. There were more warriors. His gladius took a vong diagonally. Blood sprayed, dark and thick. He claimed another''s arm, leaving its living blade writhing at their feet, before the Ultramarine beside him put three feet of Ultramarian steel through the alien''s chest. He did not see the warrior that clove his shield, only felt a brief, stinging pressure before the weight at his left arm vanished. His shield clattered to the deck, fouling his stance. His vambrace was slashed, his forearm open to the bone. He felt no pain as he smoothly drew his boltpistol and placed a round directly through a warrior''s eye slot at point-blank range. Contained by the thick vonduun shell, the bolt was like a shaped charge, exploding the rear of the warrior''s head backwards, coating his compatriots in grey matter. There were more warriors. His throat tightened. Another blue-clad form toppled. ''Fighting withdraw!'' Quintus shouted. Sergeant Terimus'' rune was dark. So were three other runes. Another winked out. ''Fighting withdraw! Magos! We are overwhelmed!'' ''Acknowledgement. Retreat to frame Four-nine-nine-zero-five-n. Skitarii taghmata mustered.''
By the villip that barked at his shoulder, Yus Shai was elated. The vonduun tagh kyrric were proving effective. The explosive slugs the Aistarteez favored proved much less effective against the denser breed. True - other Impeerial weapons slew the martyrs that volunteered to bear the biots easily. Hot plasma eroded away the crabs in moments and sizzling, crackling beams of energy flayed others alive with writhing energy. Yus Shai was sanguine. Domain Shai was proving its worth. Fearless. Pious. His amphistaff was wetted and he could feel his bonded biot''s ferocious pleasure. Dozens of infidels fell to his blade - an honor they did not deserve, but Yus Shai was feeling generous - but it was not their blood that keened the edge of his amphistaff. At his belt hip dangled a metal helm, painted a rich oceanic blue, a mockery of true life, true color. It rattled against his armor and he relished the sound with each step, a reminder with each footfall of the stroke that played again and again, each time he blinked, There was a head remaining within the helm. Ground-listeners guided his cadre to open spaces. Sometimes they were spaces for rest, filled with crude spaces to slumber. These were invariable empty, evacuated, but once they came upon a frenzy of activity as infidels scrambled to prepare. That had been a most delicious slaughter. Fewer and fewer of the lesser infidels rallied against the warriors of Shai. By Yus Shai''s reckoning, they had been aboard the Impeerial ship for half of an hour. He respected the speed and alacrity of the Aistarteez. For such a vast ship, they responded swiftly. He would not dishonor himself by denying infidels their due, in the rare times they approached worthiness. It made each kill all the sweeter, to know that those he sent screaming to the Gods would be worthy treats for the Slayer. For all that: Yus Shai would die this day. It would be a most beautiful death.
For the third time in as many minutes, Gage shot a meaningful look to his Primarch. Guilliman paced and paced and paced, keen ear listening to a cacophonous medley of vox-transmissions from across five entire kilometers of Macragge''s Honour. They were overlapping and contradictory, a hissing chaos of binaric cant and Ultramarines shorthand, mortal panic and armsmen calling for support. Gage could pick out one in ten transmissions; the Primarch listened to all, while his eyes flickered over constantly scrolling screeds of information projected by hololith. A dozen dataslates lay on the mnemo-table, data-savants standing by to offer each in turn as demanded. Marius shot his Primarch a particular look, because Guilliman, again, looked on the edge of storming down to the lower decks himself. ''Enough, Marius, you have made your point.'' ''I am not sure I have, sire.'' Guilliman exhaled. It was not a sigh. He was merely breathing. ''The vong are clearly showcasing biots intended to counter Astartes.'' ''I am aware, Marius.'' ''-there are more than a hundred reported casualties-'' ''I am aware, Marius.'' ''-the capabilities of their ''Shapers'' are clearly greater than the Republicans realize-'' ''I am aware, Marius.'' ''-and Lieutenant Optarch''s reports of gravity mine weaponry sits ills-'' ''Marius!'' He inclined his head to his Primarch. ''The First Company alone can handle this incursion. Your point has been made.'' Gage let the matter drop. Guilliman''s frustration did not approach the incandescent rage that led to the nearly catastrophic teleportation assault on Zetsun Verid Yard, where the bastard Kor Phaeron left the white, thin scar about the Primarch''s neck. No, though the insult of the vong was great, though Gage''s hearts clenched at the losses being reported, this was far, far from the unmanageable fury that Guilliman had shown at Calth. Yet he could not help but stress his opinion to the Primarch. Guilliman was¡­off-balance, even still. Even after months in this galaxy, with the relative calm of building Eboracum, the Primarch had not returned to his equilibrium. This was fair: none of them had. Gage need look no farther than the phantom aches of his lost hand. Where Marius Gage, Chapter Master, could be replaced, in time, a son of the Emperor could not. Roboute Guilliman was the only Primarch in this Throne-abandoned galaxy. He was the only conduit to the Emperor, to the Imperium, to the absolute truth of the Crusade. Any Astartes, any Astartes was replaceable. Each and every one could die and the Legion would go on. By the font that was the Primarch, they could all be restored. In the end, they were expendable. They were made to be so. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Roboute Guilliman was not. Gage feared the Primarch had not internalized this. No Primarch was expendable (aside from the bastard Lorgar), not even the broken ones. Gage would never speak such thoughts aloud, but those like Angron and Curze were broken. They were, in a way, failures, but even they had their purpose. Their role. Others wondered why the Emperor allowed their behavior but the purpose to Gage was obvious. They did the ugly, yet necessary tasks. Even a broken tool could find a purpose, now and then. If Primarchs were indispensable before, then here, a Primarch was - though the term smarted - sacred. How painful that human tongue fell short, at times, to properly encapsulate the meaning necessary without unintended baggage. Sacred was a poor term, but the connotations, the implications, though draped in savage idolatry, fit. Roboute Guilliman represented the continuity of the Imperium, in all its forms, here in this galaxy. Gage was aware of his Primarch''s fixation. He was aware of the opinions of others like Gorod and Auguston, and even Erriod. He was not the Chapter Master at whim. He read the attitude of the Legion, he felt the winds of opinion and the tone of emotion. He knew of the belief and desire to return home. In his own deeper thoughts, he returned to memories of Macragge. Who would not? It did not fixate him. It did not cloud his practicals. There was no return. Gage was certain of this. Pity was incorrect, but he mourned the Primarch''s focus. There could be no going back, not now, and likely not ever. Whatever confluence of events that conspired to deliver them to this strange new world were nigh to impossible to replicate. A ritualistic murder of a star? The focus of daemonic energies? The rivening of the veil between material and immaterium by psy-practitioners of horrible skill? There would be no return. And thus: the Primarch was sacred. So Marius Gage watched Roboute as aliens insulted their home and killed his brothers; Guilliman''s sons, and stood ready to interpose, bodily if necessary, between the righteous anger of his father and the unimaginable potential of his death.
Drakus Gorod remained, as ever, within forty strides of the Primarch. No force in two galaxies could budge the irascible Astartes. As such, command of the First Company, First Chapter, fell to Lieutenant Maglios. Terminator armor did not entirely suit the lower decks of Macragge''s Honour. The Legion spaces were high up within the flagship, set aside from the spaces mortals frequented. Ceilings were low, corridors were cramped. Many spaces, even an Astartes in Mk IV plate would find trouble navigating, let alone one in Cataphractii or Tartaros plate. Killteams from a dozen companies ranged out through the lower spaces, striking and fading against the Yuuzhan Vong boarders. The numbers of aliens was impressive: the magi adjusted their estimations upward, to likely ten thousand, perhaps fifteen thousand. Maglios found this to be an incredible waste of life. None would leave Macragge''s Honour alive. This was not hubris, this was reality. More than a hundred Astartes casualties were reported already, and thousands of sailors and armsmen. A bloody toll, but the points of entry were far from any truly critical systems. When the Seventeenth boarded, they came with the very plans of the Gloriana in mind, along with the full strength of several Astartes companies. Even a hundred Astartes, with schematics, munitions and training, could cripple a battleship, even a Legion battleship. That was their purpose. The Yuuzhan Vong, for all their surprising prowess in close-quarters clashes, had none of the benefits of the Seventeenth. Macragge''s Honour was a maze and a hostile one. Maglios respected how swiftly the invaders seemed to move, cutting through bulkheads and breaching into adjoining spaces with surprising speed, but what they stumbled into were places of little consequence. Lives lost were unfortunate, but bearable. In some ways, Maglios wished they had boarded in the Legion spaces, or at the very least, nearer to the embarkation decks. Those were suited to the scale of Astartes and would not hamper the Ultramarine response near as much. He exhaled, slowly, watching a wireframe display within his helm. Killteams Xiphos and Cataphros pulled back gamely, headed by a brother named Caedos Quintus. One of Aeonid Thiel''s, who rallied survivors after the vong unveiled their ''bioterminators''. An insulting term. Killteams Gladius, Scimitar and Forarii held their own positions, though all three reported mounting casualties to attrition. The vong sported infantry-portable plasma launchers now, and while they did not match Martian plasma in ferocity, they made up for the difference in rapidity of fire and amount brought to bear. Even Mark IV plate could not bear such temperatures forever. For now, Killteam Gladius reported injuries, not fatalities, but Forarii was facing a significant force of plasma-wielding xenos and were down four Ultramarines. Slain, not injured. He sent a nonverbal command through a subvocalization. Immediately, Gladius began to slowly pull back. Forarii disengaged carefully, turning a last-stand into a running gunfight. Once again, Maglios cursed the location. He itched to march to Forarii''s aid. Patience. Patience was a virtue. He put aside the unwanted sensation of helplessness, redoubling his focus on wielding and directing the killteams nearest his position. Push and pull, retreat and advance, feint and withdraw. The vong swirled, eddied, swirled closer. They danced to his tune. Soon.
Yus Shai appraised the warrior before him. He was stripped to the waist, chest bared and revealing swirling green and yellow tattoos, acidic and bruise-like. Scars and incisions emphasized his musculature. "Belek tiu," the warrior intoned, falling to one knee. "Rise and be seen, warrior." Yus Shai did not know the name of the warrior, nor did he care. What mattered was the cargo carried, the precious cargo. The warrior turned on the spot, revealing his back for Yus Shai''s inspection. A great mass of knobbled honeycomb hooked into the warrior''s back, digging into flesh and wrapping tendrils about the warrior''s waist. It was fleshy and pale, soft like an amphibian''s belly and sagged slightly. Little capped nodules, like pustules or lipomas, studded the fleshy mass. Yus Shai gently reached out a hand, brushing the barest fingertips across the implant. Tiny, excitable minds gibbered and called. "You will be honored, warrior," Yus Shai declared. "The Slayer smiles on you." Speechless, the young warrior ducked his head, nearly genuflecting again before realizing he was still being inspected. "The Aistarteez are corralling us. They believe us fools. Weak and mindless, dancing to their plans. You will be key to illuminating them, brave warrior. They spin a trap: we will pierce it through as the tsai hul pierces flesh." Around him, warriors snarled and muttered agreement. Once he commanded five hundred. Now he commanded less than a hundred. It did not matter at all. He was Domain Shai. Fearless. Pious. Glorious. "Do-ro''ik Vong pratte!" he bellowed, and a hundred throats echoed.
The chamber was the largest for several decks and close to a thousand meters. Maglios had discarded the name immediately after being told as unimportant. By the vast, Land Raider sized pipes that infested the high, vaulted ceiling and series of walkways, gantries and dangling chains, Maglios presumed the chamber was some maintenance nexus. Likely one of hundreds dotting the body of Macragge''s Honour, the sort of place that was never thought of, never considered, just another space of work among many. Today it would be something else. He tugged on his Killteams, reeling them closer, keeping each engaged with the boarders. Each retreat had to appear legitimate, each glimpse of opportunity had to appear serendipitous. Maglios sneered. Each time, the xenos danced to his tune. Small wonder, the mind of the alien was small and inconsequential. ''Gladius, increase pace. They are committed, you do not need tarry.'' The relevant cluster of icons accelerated. Maglios checked his combibolter. All ammunition feeds clear. Soon, now.
Yus Shai danced around the bodies of warriors and chazrach, darting close to a slumped Aistarteez who struggled for the hilt of a fallen sword. His hands lacked fingers and he pawed ineffectually, merely jostling the blade around. Pitiful. Death should be accepted. He lashed out and relieved the Aistarteez of their head. The helm rolled and clacked to his feet and he judged it a moment, considering adding it to his collection. He bore now three helms, heavy though they might be. This was not a worthy kill. He kicked the helm aside. By gesture, he mustered his surviving cadre. The last Aistarteez and infidel soldiers were put to the mercy of death, consigned to the Gods and a sort of silence fell. Addressing his villip, Yus Shai qeustioned his fellow commanders, scattered through the warship. Some were dead. Others would be dead soon. Others remained, still with numbers to matter. So much glorious death. Domain Shai contributed seven thousand and seven hundred warriors. Warleader Malik Carr demanded thrice that number of chazrach, willingly given. If Yus Shai''s estimated were right, there were likely less than a thousand warriors remaining. Glorious, glorious death. The bearers of the vonduun tagh kyrric had shown their mettle. Master Shaper Qesh would be pleased. The yaret-sak cannon claimed many Aistarteez, unleashing techniques not used since the Dread Cremlevian War. The Master Shaper dove deep into the Cortices and Yus Shai would whisper her name to the Slayer when his time came, so that the Slayer might tell his sister, She-Who-Shapes. Then, perhaps, the Master Shaper might learn new means to make war and bring glorious death. Other objectives had been achieved cleanly. Chazrach had scurried off into the deeper bilges and ways of the battleship, prying into tight spaces where warriors could not go. Many would be caught. Some would not. Seeding of biots proceeded apace. Domain Shai had proven its worth. He gestured to his warriors and they fell in with him. Their injured and dying they left behind. Each warrior knew their role. Pretend death, then kill again when the Impeerials came to sweep through. All lives claimed were worthy, even from an ignoble action of ambush. The Priests spoke it, and thus it was true. They joined another cluster of warriors as corridors met and swelled. Yus Shai saluted his counterpart, clasping wrist to elbow. He could taste his death, so close. His martyrdom. A great blastdoor promised a greater space beyond. Another living space? An armory? A critical function, perhaps? The Aistarteez had been drawn back, back and back towards it, giving ground, seeming to protect it. A trap was not impossible either. Yus Shai cared little. A trap still provided enemies to kill. Glory to claim. He gestured to a cadre of warriors to approach, to prepare to breach. As they closed on the broad blastdoor, it slid open on its own.
Maglios bared teeth behind his helm. Just as expected, the vong followed. Foolish or headstrong, or uncaring even - their reasons he did not care to presume. They came, and he drew them. The chamber was dark, ink-dark, all lumens quenched. His power draw was minimal, all lights extinguished. His helm was dark and enclosed, lenses chips of black glass. The vong were silhouetted, backlit by the citrine lights of the corridor behind. He knew them well now, the rangy height, lithe strength, arrogant swagger of their pace. Undoubtedly, they had some ways to see in darkness, some thermal senses perhaps, or auspex-equivalent. They loped into the chamber, spreading out, cautious, snake-swords writhing in their hands. Maglios, of course, could see them all perfectly, his helm rendering each in blue-to-red outlines of bodyheat. One vong paused, their snake-blade curling up their arm before they reached to their side, pulling something small loose and holding it aloft. Light flared from the warrior''s fist. Maglios let that be his signal and subvocalized go. The chamber lit again. Twenty-six Tartaros terminators lined walkways, four meters above the deck. Ninety-four Ultramarines in Mark IV were scattered on higher paths. There was a moment of total, complete stillness. Silence. No vong warrior twitched. No Ultramarine acted. Venerable Tollucus was the first. It was only polite, in deference to seniority. The Contemptor, the only Ultramarine at deck-level, spun up his Kheres Assault Cannon with a teeth-ringing whine. Slaughter came. White-hot splinters spat from Tollucus'' cannon, ripping vong warriors to shreds. More poured in. Chazrach, too. Ultramarines opened fire with bolters, punching mass-reactives down into the mass. Maglios dropped his raised fist and twenty-two combibolters drummed out syncopated murder. Two assault cannons added their own reaping to the mix. Grenades thumped from harnesses, arcing down. Dozens died per second. Tollucus stomped forward, sweeping his Kheres left, right, left again. Magnifying, Maglios watched vong warriors blurt plasma from arm-mounted organic cannons, splattering superheated splashes against the Contemptor''s redoubtable glacis. Others fired upward, angles poor, eating into and through the mesh-grate walkways. One groaned, slumping, forcing a handful of Ultramarines to cease fire and relocate. Bugs swarmed in clouds, swarms, hurtling themselves to and fro without coordination. Maglios felt thumps through his Tartaros plate, saw sticky ichor and slimy innards and cracked chitin slide off the unmarred plate of the Terminator beside him. Razor bugs whirled, slashed, whirled again. A few found joints and bit deep, drawing blood, bellowed oaths. It was the last gasp of the Yuuzhan Vong. Maglios could see it. This was their end, and they were spending themselves. He saw a warrior of impressive stature darting through the chaos, interposing other warriors between him and the reaping death of Venerable Tollucus. He saw the warrior seeking the edge of the chamber, toward where ladders and switch-back stairs led upwards. Intelligent. Observant. Maglios also saw three clattering Mark IV helms tied to the warrior''s belt and his stomach clenched in disgust. He aimed his combibolter.
Yus Shai was laughing. He was laughing, he was covered in blood, in bits of his brother warriors, he was wading through ankle-deep gore and he was laughing. One arm hung limp and useless, truncated just below the elbow, the bones of his forearm poking from a shredded mass of flesh. Blood filled his mouth and he savoured it, the flavor, the essence. The truth of it. The pain was shocking. It was everything he believed in. The warrior, the barechested warrior, still lived, somehow. Normally, no other warrior would dare set within a dozen meters of the cursed, blessed martyr, but now they packed close. Death was coming and they embraced it. In the crush, he caught another glimpse, saw the barechested warrior shove aside the wobbling corpse of another Yuuzhan Vong who stood with no head. Chazrach scrabbled at dangling chains, climbing rapidly and being blown off and back down just as quickly. He had to reach one of the ladders. He had to. He could climb with one hand. He wanted one more. One of the bulky Aistarteez, in armor none had seen. He wanted one more helm, one more head. One more skull. He needed it. The deck was awash. Tides of blood. Ebbs of gore. Loops of intestine, gizzards ruptured, offal reeking. A medley of death, a celebration of the Slayer. Kill to kill, live to die, die to live. Kill, kill, kill. Yus Shai laughed, he cackled, he brayed like a madman. He saw plasma reach out, a fine shot, a fine shot and immolate the helm of an Aistarteez high above. He saw them topple, limbs loosened, saw them tip over the rail and plunge, plunge, plunge down into the death. Oh, the wonders she bred, the death that it fed. He praised again Master Qesh, who gave him these tools. He saw the barechasted warrior lose a leg, skidding on the stump of his knee. He saw him fall to hands and knees, saw his back arch, spine-crackling arched. Saw the nodules pop, saw them burst, saw them rupture. Saw the seeds. He didn''t feel his chest explode. He didn''t notice he was dead until he was laying on his back, staring up, watching the tiny, barely visible black seeds fly. Yus Shai never noticed his heart was destroyed, his plastron blown open, that his laughter was no more than seizing of muscles, that no more sound came out. That no air left the ruin of his lungs. Yus Shai died and tears streamed his cheeks in pleasure.
Maglios saw several dozen specks burst from the chest of a vong warrior. They were minute, each the size of a bolt shell, perhaps smaller. They arced up, propelled by whatever gestation process nurtured them in the ruin of the fallen warrior''s back. Each reached the apex of their arc and Maglios expected them to fall back down. He expected flame perhaps, or jellied fire. Plasma, or acid. Perhaps an aerosol weapon, which would be fruitless against the filters of his armor, even that of baseline Mark IV. From the corner of his attention, he noted Tollucus catching a vong warrior about the middle in his power claw, hefting the alien into the air before squeezing. Limp and boneless, the xeno was cast aside with enough force to splatter against the far wall of the chamber. The little black orbs did not fall. Their vertical momentum expended, they paused in defiance of physics. Unerringly, they spread out in a starburst. Some plunged straight down, others soared toward the shadowed ceiling. Others darted straight toward - ''Gravity grenades! Threat extremis!'' Maglios backpedalled, clenching his right fist about the upper arm of the Terminator to his side and pulling them back also. A black orb whisked past him, so close, so close it skimmed his helmet, close enough he could see the patterns on it, could see that it had a hardened carapace like some form of tree-nut. Then it was past him. He turned his head, watching it fly and strike the wall of the chamber. There was a sudden noise, one that doubled, tripled, compounded - the others colliding with surfaces, he realized - yet it was not harsh. Compared to the roar of bolters, it was soft. It was the sound of grinding glass, muffled as if through fabric or some veil. The auspex of his armor, the overlay filters ran wild for a moment. There was a hole in the chamber wall. Numbly, Maglios forced himself to look around. There was a hole in the walkway his Terminators had claimed. A perfect hole. He was sure if he took a measurement, it would be mathematically exact. A combibolter rested beside that hole. A fist still gripped the combibolter. A fist attached to a forearm, which ended in a perfect cut. Further along the walkway was a pair of armored legs. Shins. They ended before the knee in a gentle, concave arc. He could visualize an overlapping sphere, centered where the head should be. Other Ultramarines were still firing, short bursts. Killing bursts. Executions. Maglios queried Ultramarine signals. Five Terminators were missing. Fourteen Ultramarines on the higher walkways. Venerable Tollucus stomped through the morass of slain vong, chazrach. A bite was taken from his left arm, devouring most of the Contemptor''s pauldron. He appeared not to notice. A brutal tally. One that could have been far worse. Practical: Do not underestimate the Yuuzhan Vong. He filed the thought away, putting a bolt through the chest of a twitching warrior thirty meters away.
Roboute Guilliman watched the contacts for the Yuuzhan Vong fleet come to order, assemble themselves, and then flicker away. Off into the peculiar hyperspace so beloved by this galaxy. A force multiplier so potent, so powerful, so dangerous that it nearly crippled him with indecision. Him. There were few viable counters. This interloper, who he tentatively determined to be one Malik Carr, formerly in command of the captured world of Obroa-skai - behavioral patterns appeared to match, as did markings of the organic warships - proved quite decisively how dangerous the utility of rapid, precise faster-than-light could be. The moon, of course. Even after scouring sensoria data from every ship in the 4711th, there had been no sign of the craft that embedded the dovin basal to begin the moon''s descent. This was, unfortunately, frustratingly, infuriatingly understandable. Hyperspace allowed egress from nearly any point of the compass. The vong could have merely bounced the responsible ship to the outer system, reoriented, and then jumped into the sensor shadow of the moon. Eboracum would need system wide sensor nets. Eyes peering everywhere. There could be no blindspots, no shadows, no spaces to hide. Yet they did not need to hide. Again, Malik Carr proved this. He hid in plain sight, far enough away to evade any very-long range fire, far enough from the gravity well of Eboracum to flit away should Roboute order the engines of the 4711th lit. And then the trick with the dovin basal, to manipulate gravitational shadows. To allow in ships in the very shadow of Macragge''s Honour. To nip at his own flag''s flanks. He spent long considering what he might have accomplished with such disgustingly precise maneuvering during the Crusade. It made him sick. The flagship''s guns still fired without cease, keeping pace with Fourth Honour and Mantallikes. The shattered moon Yadraig continued to rain itself down across the world he claimed. Piece after piece. Shard after shard. Impact after impact. Already, the world showed its wounds. Wildfires, growing storm systems from atmospheric disturbances. Plumes of smoke, ash. Thus far, no world-killing rocks had slipped past. That could change. Thus far, no shipkilling rocks had slipped past. That too could change. Worse still, with every fragment shattered, the world was protected, but the lower orbits filled with yet more whirling, speeding gravel. Each one could destroy an unprotected vessel. Oh, the inhabitants of this galaxy had shields on vessels from the smallest to the largest, shields that could resist a strike from a micrometeor. Could they resist strikes from multiple? From an incessant, unending barrage? A barrage that contained more than just grain-sized debris, but sported ones the size of a bolt round, the size of a tank round - the size of a gunship? A starship? Malik Carr had not killed Eboracum and under Roboute''s watch, he would not kill Eboracum. The world would live, battered and bruised and brutalized. The Imperium had long experience in maintaining life and civilization on worlds far, far more hostile. But for that failure, the vong commander had achieved other things. The inner orbits of Eboracum would be a constant, deadly danger for the foreseeable future. Only the ships of the 4711th could likely weather the constant bombardments. Refugee ships would need to be sheltered and escorted. It would slow emigration. It would slow deployments. It would slow shipments, slow industry. The moon did not destroy Eboracum, but Roboute understood that objective would have merely been a bonus. If their positions had been switched, he would have been well pleased to achieve this outcome against a foe. Interdict their world, entangle their industry, force reallocation of resources to protection, to infrastructure to ward off the changing climate and environment. And then, to cap it off: a raid on the very flagship. The casualty reports were still being collated. Thousands of Macragge''s Honours crew were dead. Entire companies of armsmen were butchered. Veterans all. Proud sons and daughters of Ultramar, all. His citizens. His responsibility. Of the Ultramarines sent to repulse, the list was sickening. Lieutenant Maglios reported eight dead of the First Company, First Chapter. Of line Astartes: one hundred and seventy-nine. Double that wounded. His teeth ground together. On any other day, it would be minor losses. One hundred and seventy-nine Astartes? Out of two hundred and fifty thousand? Those were expected casualties in a campaign. Calth cut their numbers in half. The 4711th had even less. One hundred and seventy-nine Astartes - one hundred and eighty-seven counting the champions of First Company - was over four percent of the entire complement. Two hundred had been tasked, alone, to protect the apothecarion, just in case. There was an infinitesimal chance the vong would ever reach that far, but it was not even a choice. One hundred and eighty-seven of his sons, gone. Neophytes could - and would - be ascended, so long as the gene-stores and talent and knowledge remained. The apothecarion remained the greatest strategic asset of the entire 4711th. He would sacrifice the entire Legio Lacassex to safeguard it. He would sacrifice the entire rest of the fleet, if need be. One hundred and eighty-seven. He knew all their names. Roboute returned to re-reading the written reports from his Lieutenants, from their Captains. From brothers and Sargeants, from deckhands and Magi and skitarii. They spoke of weapons the vong had not been seen to wield. Plasma cannons sufficient to pierce Martian plate. Gravity mines that could consume a Terminator in a moment. Their swarming bugs, moving faster, more cannily than before. The Yuuzhan Vong were escalating. They had held back against the Republicans. They had not needed the weapons of their deeper stores. Arrogance? He did not think so. It would be like pursuing the compliance of a feudal world. Send in Excertus, perhaps a squad or two of Ultramarines. No need for armor, or air support. It was not arrogance, nor mocking of the feudal worlders. It was recognition that they did not need to expend the resources otherwise. He understood the situation of the ''New Republic''. He understood they had little in the way of an army, or even a corps of marines aboard their ships. The means of warfare in this galaxy was predicated, almost entirely, around command of space. He could even understand why this came to be. Thus - the Yuuzhan Vong needed only to overmatch the Republican fleets. On the ground, even their simple, basic means were enough to crush what amounted to, at best, were planetary police forces. Not even what the Imperium might consider a PDF. Now he challenged them. With the Ultramar Excertus, with the Ultramarines, with the Legio Lacassex and the local Auxilia. Roboute cast down the gauntlet, he challenged the Yuuzhan Vong, and he had estimated that they operated similarly to the paradigm of this galaxy. That they could not escalate, as they did not have the means. He had seen that they could not reveal new tricks or weapons in the void: Admiral Regil proved that in his dance over Fondor. For this assumption: one hundred and eighty-seven of his sons were dead. His chosen world was in peril. Roboute glanced one further time at ammunition expenditures of the three battleships, as well as projections from Samothrace and the cruiser squadron to assist. His mind was made up. It was time to stop standing by. Warleader Malik Carr informed him that the 4711th could not sit out this war. Very well. Roboute Guilliman would not. ''Holocomm,'' he spoke into his armor''s vox. There was a moment, then a click as he was connected. ''Lord Primarch, I am at your command,'' buzzed Magos Sunum Uthuallo. She oversaw the sequestered holocom suite, gifted by the Republic. ''I require a connection to Senator Viqi Shesh.'' Contingence Interlude IV It Reminds Him of a Story...
Post Obroa-skai, pre-Fondor When you think intelligence work, you think of cloak-and-dagger skullduggery. Secret drops and data-cubes hidden the soles of boots, holdout blasters tucked up sleeves and secret handshakes in seedy cantinas. You think of bold agents wooing ladies with fluttering hearts and cunning wordplay exchanged over long-stemmed snifters of wine during extravagant galas. You think of slicers with holo-goggles hanging upside down in dark rafters, tapping into databanks guarded by goons with stern expressions and sterner blasters. Maybe interrogations in dingy basements. Those were all mostly true, actually, because he''d been on one side or another of just about every one of those adventures in his years. Something that everyone overlooked though, was the honest, simple and pleasant job of people watching. After the whole affair with Delta Source, you''d think unobtrusive observation would be on more people''s minds, but apparently not. It just wasn''t as sexy, he supposed. Strolling down a street in broad daylight, full view of everyone, wearing an ident-tag pinned to his unzipped jumpsuit just wasn''t as fantastical as blasterbolts in the dark and swoopbike chases. His ident declared him a licensed trader. These Exiles, along with throwing open their doors to refugees, also started allowing limited traffic for trade. There wasn''t much on the market, since by all appearances the locals were enjoying all the pleasantries of a planned economy, but there was a remarkable amount of credits in escrow accounts and standing orders for a lot of simple goods. Foodstuffs, raw materials, some specialty technology. Requirements to get certified were steep - had to be human! - and there was a tonnage limit on freighters, but with the location of Eboracum (and it would just be bad taste not to use the official name) and the security provided by the monster dreadnoughts in orbit did entice in private traders who''d lost their usual ports-of-call. His own freighter, an aging Nova Courier, had a hold slowly emptying of ag products and a couple crates of repulsor coils. The local guilds handled offloading, part of the Exile''s security demands, which left him plenty of time to wander around the portside facilities of ''Eboracum Civitas''. The offerings weren''t bad. There were two ''cantinas'', though they had much more in common with plaza cafes. A boardwalk wended around a small lake, which had a surprisingly amount of green preserved along the shore, and small vendors offered a variety of snacks and fingerfoods from carts. Alongside Basic, their signs also declared offerings in the local language: Gothic. They took credits here, though there was also an exchange set up to convert to, again, the local preference: thrones. Take all this alongside the fresh-faced and pleasant constabulary that conspicuously wandered around, offering guidance or directions with big smiles and a plot of land set aside that had several massive tanks and a thick-armored gunship sitting inactive behind a delicately worked iron fence, and the point of this all was so obvious. It was all pantomime. The local guilds handling offloading everything for you? Gave freighter captains and crews time to wander and mingle with the ''locals''. The cafes? Unique fare served up fresh and hot, contrasting boring shipboard rations. The little parking lot of tanks? Everyone, look at our toys! There were even rooms to rent at a small hotel, which he had on good authority were plush and well-appointed. This is why people watching paid off. He got to stretch his legs, fill his stomach with something fried, greasy and delicious, and best of all, not have to worry a second about a knife coming for his throat. Well. He still kept an eye out. Old habits and all that. He took a carbonated, mildly alcoholic mix from a vendor. His five fingers briefly brushed their four. They were Arkanian. Not even a five-fingered offshoot, but a full blooded Arkanian. White hair, white eyes. Tanned complexion. Interesting. "Enjoy!" He smiled his ten-thousand credits smile, because it always paid to be nice. That''s the thing with people-watching. You needed to blend in. Be pleasant, because folks will remember a bad customer, but benign enough not to stand out as ''that one really nice guy''. It''s a careful dance and it''s one he was thinking he was maybe a little rusty at. Nowhere near as good as some of his people, but that''s what having people was for. You had them do things like this. No man was an island and what was the point of getting rich if you couldn''t delegate? He didn''t have to come to Eboracum himself but he was in the area and it caught his attention and you know what, following his gut instincts paid off in the past. Across the boulevard, sitting proper and tall was a human woman, middle aged. Very striking, even in a spacer''s jumpsuit. Her hair was tied back with long, decorative pins. Their eyes met, slid past each other, natural as could be. She''d be meeting him later, but right now was still pretending unfamiliarity. Unfortunately, she''d gotten here earlier than the plan, which meant the clock was ticking. A hundred, maybe two hundred various humans and near-humans were visible as he ambled away from the vendor''s stall, sipping his beverage. Both locals, constabulary and offworld crews. Well, he wanted to enjoy this interesting little concoction before getting to business, but if she was going to cheat and show up early, then it was time to get to work. He''d already twigged the guy pruning bushes. A local - obviously a newly naturalized one - but even with contacts and some minor implants in the cheeks, his bone structure was too distinctive. Candrel Let, out of Yaga Minor. Imperial Intelligence, usually non-intrusive assignments. An observation, long-term deployment guy. Might even be Ubiqtorate, but that was a fool''s bet. The Remnant was here already, of course. Anything the New Republic cared about, they had to. Given the location of Eboracum to the Remnant, that too made it a priority. Word was that Pellaeon was scrambling to get together a diplomatic package, since the New Republic had beaten everyone else to the punch. Word from Bastion had their time table in less than a month, but that wasn''t a sure thing. Then there were the two women giggling with their heads together at a cafe. They were people watching too and pretending it was only the masculine specimens that passed them by. But they were only here during the day and they were both above average height and fitness. Easy on the eyes, but really. You''d think Hapes would be less obvious with their agents. Why did Hapes have people here? Now that had him rubbing at his chin. The little cluster was famously inward looking, usually needing industrial scale tractor beams to haul them out of their navel-gazing - or Leia Organa Solo. Was it just prudence to keep up with what was drawing so many other eyes? Nothing in Queen Djo''s record pitched her as a particularly proactive ruler. Then again - Hapes. There was a good chance the Queen had no idea these two were here and it was all the action of some rival family. It wouldn''t be the first time a rival tried to depose their ''savage'' Queen and looked for support in doing so. Maybe the Exiles could bring the Hapans the technological advances the rest of the Galaxy had been denying them. Those three were three points to him, because screw her, he''d already noted them before she showed up. He''s got the entries on his datapad to prove it. With timestamps. A whole crate of forty year old Tholk brandy was on the line and he''d be damned if it slipped through his fingers. Even if he''d still end up drinking half of it. It was about pride, after all. NRI? He''d already picked up three of them. Two he had even worked with - or his organization had, rather - in the past ten years. Easy points, almost insulting actually. The third was good, way better than he expected: one of the local police. He wore the uniform too easily and too comfortably to be a newly inducted refugee. He had too much experience with authority. He''d have to check the databanks against his discreetly snapped holos, but the face and posture were familiar. Then there were the other ones, the little guys. A Zeltron out of Nal Hutta. A rare Human working with the Bothan Spynet. He was fairly sure that Nouane had some agents, though he hadn''t been able to sight any. Others that he knew from smaller brokerages and intel networks, all getting their sticky little fingers in the second the door creaked open even a sliver. All of them had their own interests. The Bothans, paranoid as they always were, saw the New Republic''s overtures and needed to bank up some investigative capital so they could feel secure in the face of a new player on the galactic field. The Hutts, given that their tentative peace with the Yuuzhan Vong was as sure to last as long as a Tatooine winter, could either be looking for an ally, a mark, or a new market for their ''delicacies''. Considering how straightlaced the Exiles seemed to be, setting up a spice trade had to be the lowest possible goal. The most likely aim was some manner of currency to keep currying favor with their new, scarred overlords. Anything to let the Hutts squelch along for another month before their usefulness ran out. For Nouane? That sector was practically on Eboracum''s doorstep. Already seeing Vong tendrils snaking into their territory and the New Republic Navy continuing to sit on their hands, those looming dreadnoughts of the Exiles likely looked inviting. A standard defensive alliance, probably, and getting a measure of their new neighbors before an official overture. In the couple of days he''d been here, the old joke kept coming to mind. Seeing the sheer, laughable density of seasoned intelligence agents in a few square kilometers reminded him of a classic, apocryphal story. He''d recently heard a version of it that filtered from Corellians: there''s a radical cell of Corellian nationalists. Selonians, Drall, Humans. They''re operating out of Coronet and they have a plan to set explosive charges at a local Corellian Engineering fabrication plant. CorSec finally has enough information to roll up the cell, so they bring out armored landspeeders and a dozen cops. They kick down the doors to the hideout, just in time to see every single member of the cell in the process of arresting each other. Turns out, that radical cell had been all undercover agents. Not a single Triad true believer. So you''ve got Ubiqtorate trimming the hedges, Hapans ordering mimosas from the Spynet, while the Hutts swept the floors and he could only imagine how hard the Imperium Exiles were laughing at it all. He ran ringers through his silver-streaked hair, tugging gently his goatee into place. "You really stand out, you know," says the cheater, who''d left her bench and circled her way over while he was lost in thought. "And you weren''t supposed to be back until tomorrow." She shrugged, making the gesture elegant with her usual and permanent poise. "I finished early." "Total count?" She offered a datacube between two long fingers. Unlike an actual swabby on a freighter, her nails were straight and manicured, painted in cool tones with nary a chip or crack in sight. "Thirteen," she said, grin widening as she tasted victory in his dejected expression. "Damn. Ten." "You''re old and out of touch, Karrde." "I''m fairly certain we''re the same age." Shada D''ukal took his offered arm, linking her own through, and Talon Karrde led the way. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Moranda Savich was old enough to be Karrde''s mother. Possibly grandmother. A lifetime of hard liquor and cigarras left her oddly preserved - in the sort of way that nerf leather could be. Yet the woman loitering outside one of the freight port entrances looked no more than sixty or so standard years old. Silver hair, tied back in a tail, looked soft and healthy. Wrinkles at eye and mouth made her look distinguished, instead of Moranda''s usual craggy countenance. It wasn''t vanity that pushed this change. Savich looked over Karrde and Shada on his arm, heaved a long and throaty sigh and tucked her datapad into a pocket of her flashy, Coruscanti-style suit. "I go through all this effort, and then you show up looking like a holovid." "I can''t imagine what you mean." Exasperated, the mistress of disguise looked imploringly to Shada. Karrde''s right-hand seemed entirely too interested in the convoys of groundcars leaving the starport. "Shada and I have seen more than twenty agents in three days. You heard about Luke''s Jedi?" Savich ran a finger along her lapels. "The droid and the boy? I saw them. Fools and flatfoots, both of them. Young Skywalker needs to rap his Jedi on the knuckles, that''s what. At least that Durron stopped running around like a womprat on fire. But those two? I was shadowing them from the second they landed and they couldn''t have been more obvious. Can you believe an HRD can look angry? That woman was beaming blasterbolts with how much she was glaring. They went right to the disposal pits. Who does that? Not any real refugee, that''s for sure. If I had-" "I was surprised they let them live." Shada cut in, one hand twiddling with the lacquered needles in her hair. Give Savich time, and she''d ramble for hours. Savich snorted. "Live alright. They put enough stuns into the Ken boy that he probably woke up a week later and took both of the droid''s arms off." "But both ''unharmed''. These Exiles are smooth operators." He gestured around, at the freight port, to the more distant refugee landing fields, to the towers of the city that seemed to visibly grow as you watched. "I haven''t seen propaganda this polished since the Empire." Savich huffed. "Shows your youth, that does. Why, back when the Clone Wars, you should have seen what it was like on Coruscant. Clones on every corner! You wanna talk hearts and minds? That was hearts and minds, and all Palpatine''s doing." Savich rambled on. She loved the sound of her own voice, but few infiltrators in Karrde''s organization were as accomplished or as unbelievably talented as she was. She could code-switch in seconds, do up makeup and prosthetics that could trick any scanner and confuse natives with a better command of their own local sayings. "-and that''s all well and good, but I''m retiring here." "Are you, now?" Karrde raised a brow, glancing to Shada who showed her incredible surprise at the intractable thief by slightly narrowing her almond-shaped eyes. "The alcohol''s better here. So are the smokes. I''ll stick it out as long as you want me to, boss, but I''m putting in roots when it''s over." Savich held out a laminated ID tag for both of them to study. "This girl''s already approved for ''provisional habitation''. They''ve liked the freight I''ve had coming in. They''ve got an eye for talent, these Exiles." "I''m glad they appreciate my connections," Karrde observed, mildly. Savich didn''t even blink. "And my go-between work. What? You sent me here for a reason, boss-man. Don''t get shirty." She showed them to her ship, setting them up in the lounge. Savich had ditched her old, flighty scout ship and taken one of Karrde''s numerous Corellian freighters, large enough to meet the demands of the Exiles. With their new deal with the New Republic Senate, the doors had been flung (with caveats) open. It was big enough to bring in profitable hauls, garnished with specialty goods only an organization like his could source, but like everything, moderated so it would never stand out entirely from the crowd. Aim for the upper echelons, but never the top. "I''d grumble that you blew my cover, but that was before I saw how infested this port is. They''re like mynocks out there. Can''t swing a dead polecat without clubbing Ubiqtorate or NRI." "Noticed that too, then?" Shada was adjusting her hair, shifting her needles around, though Karrde stayed perched on the edge of his offered seat, hands clasped and elbows braced on his knees. Of course Moranda pegged the same people he and Shada did. "I''m guessing since you went ''round, smiling at the local ladies all sultry-like and showing off those silver stripes, that you want these Exiles to know I''m yours." "You''re as perceptive as always, Moranda. Luxum and Ken made their mistake by overreaching. I would lay Nar Shadaa odds on Ken being let in without issue. Bringing an alien in a droid body too? Bad decision." Savich lit up a short little cigarra with a click of a flick-burner, taking a long draw and exhaling in pleasure. "It''s all realpolitik. The Exiles know they can''t keep out all the interested eyes, so they let in the ones they know and watch them. But there''s always a fig leaf. You just ripped that one away. Captain Talon Karrde, Rogue and Hero, out for drinks on the promenade. I bet the local holonet is going to be proper choked up as everyone tries to phone home about this." Shada lifted up a long leg, propping her boot against the low table between the three of them and adjusting the fit of her boot. "And with his right-hand," Karrde said, poking a thumb over at D''ukal. "Who is as quiet as always." "I''m here to be easy on the eyes," Shada demurred. "And maybe to kill people." "None of that now, girlie. There''ll be no killing and upsetting my position." "The idea," Karrde cut in over Savich, "is to set you up as my public contact. I''m above-the-board now, didn''t you hear? A proper, licensed and legal information broker. Nothing shady at all about us. Bastion and Coruscant both come to me, I''m impartial. Don''t advertise, Moranda, but be available." The grey-haired woman tapped at her thin lip, mulling it over. "And if they let me in anywhere, they won''t imagine the intermediary is the best damn thief in the galaxy." "I didn''t hear that. Our organization is entirely legit." Savich cackled.
Savich''s report could have been sent as datadumps through shadow-routers, but the trip was well worth it. Eboracum and the Exiles were setting themselves up as a new power in the region and Karrde liked to have seen where people came from. He''d been to Bastion and Coruscant - everyone knew Coruscant - and he''d bounced around to most major capitals. It''s context. Information was great, but if you couldn''t properly see where it came from, how it all slotted together¡­ Savich gave her impressions, including bringing the news that something was afoot. Exile sailors were returning to their ships from shore-leave and word had it that the new, massive fort was ablaze with new activity. He''d seen some of the baroque Imperial ships moving around in low orbit near the growing orbital station and it had all the looks of a muster. His friendship with the Jedi and their Praxeum gave him an intimate knowledge of exactly what had gone down on Obroa-skai, in contrast to the sanitized and brief public release. Mara had also reached out to him, hoping his own slicers and analysts could dig through the recovered data from the archives. They''d turned nothing up so far, but it was still early. As for Eboracum and these Imperial Exiles, Karrde could admit interest. The look and size of their ships in orbit were impressive and rumored to have a bite as nasty as their look implied. Did they come from another Galaxy? It wasn''t that ridiculous of a claim. The Galaxy itself had a number of satellite clusters and dwarf galaxies that orbited close. Trade and travel between them isn''t something new or unheard of at all. More distant galaxies? At this point, it was inarguable that the Vong managed that feat. Even without being privy to the kind of information Karrde had, there was just no way such a staggering military power could have hidden out in the Unknown Regions. A small group like this? Well, one point might be this they had only a few warships. That would make it easier to lurk in some lost corner of the galaxy, but it was a very surface level analysis. No nation was going to devote all their resources into just building a handful of dreadnoughts and nothing else. To make ships like this, there had to be a manufacturing base. An old one too. The number of starship foundries in the known Galaxy that could run a ship like the Exiles'' off the production line numbered in only the few dozens at best. No, the fact of the matter was that Karrde believed their claim. It matched far too closely how cautious they acted, how confused they were about local politics, and the near-fever pitch they threw themselves into building this world up into something. Even if the facts didn''t quite line up, what mattered was that they believed it completely, which meant that practicalities demanded that everyone else believe that they believed it and act accordingly. On the ground, there was an energy to the place that was surprising. Extragalactics or not, rigid sensibilities aside, he could easily see, what with teetering opinions of the New Republic and the Senate, the up-and-coming Exiles providing an attractive alternative. For humans, that is. Humans and near-humans. That one Savich had tracked from several angles. First from the direct route, making a point to hire a Muugari for her crew. Then she put out feelers, chatting up other near-humans that worked at the trade port. Then even asking Imperials their opinions. Turned out that in the eyes of the Exiles, near-human just meant ''human with some oddities''. Good news for SELCORE, he figured, since that did expand who could immigrate. Odd that he hadn''t heard any news of this through his agents within SELCORE''s ranks, but that organization was¡­haphazard on the best of days. A very small positive set against the powerful negative that was their heavy bias toward non-humans. To other points, speaking of SELCORE, the way the Exiles handled refugees was sterling compared to other worlds, but their ulterior motive was as obvious as a gravity well. These Imperials were nation-building and nation-building fast. There was no ''goodness of their heart'' going on here, they were swallowing up every able bodied human they could get their hands on. Cleared land for firing ranges and drills was impossible to miss from the air and orbit. Factories were popping up all over the place and from what Savich saw, most of them weren''t making baby bottles and hoverbikes. If Savich wanted to retire there - she''d worked on and off with him for decades - she wasn''t a permanent member of his organization in the first place, then it could be for the best. He''d bless her choice and send her flowers, just so long as she kept a tap for him that fed the best morsels about this new power. After all, as Karrde had long ago learned (and what made him one of the rare spacers who could consider retirement) was that knowledge, not money, was power. Although cold, hard credits were always pleasant. Contingence Interlude V A World Like This
Fondor wasn''t a pretty world under the best of times. Millenia of industry wrapped most of the world in urban sprawl, punctuated by arid deserts and abandoned, ragged wastelands of decaying and decrepit ruins. Waste and want; that was the motto of Fondor, though despite the abuse of the world - or because of it - it still made its mark on the galaxy. Gray-slab apartment complexes marched in laser-straight rows, each indistinguishable from the next, brutal in their simplicity and practical in their mass construction. Each block had ''space'' for thousands of families, packed into spaces more aptly called a cubicle or a closet than rooms. The irony was that unlike other worlds, Fondor''s population was relatively light. A few billion sapients - compared to trillions of droids. More, even. Yet space was still at a premium, needed for pit mines or massive factories that measured on the scale of a landmass. So housing space remained at high demand, for each square foot of the world set aside for leisure and rest was a square foot not given over to smelting durasteel or assembling starships components. Sergeant Sherin, formerly night patrol, of payband CC4, barely recognized the beats he once walked. For most of his adult life he strolled these streets, narrow like duracrete canyons, with his peaked cap, a stunstick and a stingblaster stuffed in a hip holster. He wasn''t supposed to carry that last one, but some of the stim-addicts could get handsy and stabby and so most of the overseers turned a blind eye to packing a little bit more heat than something to crack heads with or introduce midnight interlopers to a bit too many ergs of electricity. He''d rousted squatters, he''d sent those looking to pinch parts for black market resale packing, he''d put down a few riots. Tough work, but it had to be done. It was all ruins now. Multistory blocks were slumped piles of duracrete and rebar, steadily accumulating a dusting of ash. Incongruous remnants of ordinary lives mixed into the humped piles. Here: a navy blue couch, pristine, just sitting in the middle of the street, barely anything but a bit of dust and a few chips of transparisteel laying on its cushions. There: a stretched canvas painting of some kind, something a couple credits bought and brought a touch of life to drab walls. It poked out of grey duracrete, grey ash and the bright swirls of orange and indigo and violet were startling. A child''s toy, floppy and knit, laying atop a chunk of roofing as big as a landspeeder, looking like it had just been placed aside. Sherin averted his eyes from that one. The lads of the Tertius 57th, which over the past several days he''d learned was a company of a whole regiment, from some place called ''Lentia Tertius'' which was in some region called ''Ultramar'', which was no damn place Sherin''d ever heard of. They were all a strange bunch, in their longcoats and green enameled armor - chestplates and vambraces, with bucket helms that covered to the nose, slitted to see out of. Their guns were stranger, but by the stars, Sherin''d swear by them. Lasrifles didn''t have quite the punch of some types of blaster, that was for sure, and they didn''t have the flexibility to switch modes, but they did one thing and one thing real well. If you could aim at something, you could hit it. Sherin wasn''t a great shot - never needed to be and a stingblaster just had to clip a junkie to fry their nerves, but with these damned lasrifles, he felt like the hottest shot since the Mandalorian wars. Aim, shoot, hit. Hard to miss when the bolt hit at the speed of light. Helped that there was barely any recoil, too. "Listen up, you sleepy shits," he growled, putting his all into it, like he''d smoked cigarra all his life. "Word''s come from on high that we''re gonna chuck the scarheads right back into that smoking crater they made. There''s armor coming, there''s walkers coming, and they''re not gonna know what hit ''em." His squad listened with dark-ringed eyes, dirty fingers with cracked nails clutched around lasrifle barrels. A couple were smoking, cigarras of some kind they''d begged, bartered or nicked from the ''Exile'' soldiery. The first, probably, given how Sherin''d seen the amused chuckles from ''Tertius'' infantry as they shook out sticks of the stimulant and offered lights from little clicking igniters. None of them looked like they''d slept, which was about how Sherin felt, except that Sherin had the pins of a Sergeant now, not to mention one of them strange longcoats and a laspistol. That meant that sleep didn''t matter to him, because if the holodramas said anything it all, it was that it was the hardass sergeant that got his troops through. Recaf filled his canteen - another donation from the ever-helpful lads of the Tertius - and if his squad thought it was water, well, let that be a bit of mystique. Speaking of - he slid his rebreather mask up, unscrewing the cap of his canteen and taking a draw. Cold as the grave and just as appealing, but he felt the hit of the weapons-grade caffe in seconds. "Our favorite Major''s ready to use us for more than just pot-shots and warning the biters away. You boys tired of sitting on this pile? I am! You boys itching to vape some scarheads? I am!" There was a half-hearted mumble, as energetic as a reactant-starved hypermatter chamber and Sherin scowled. "I''m sorry, were you bored of the sith-damned war going on? Let''s reschedule it." Ventif, whose eyes were still just as wide as they were when Sherin met him, years ago when this all started a couple days ago, cleared his throat, lifting his own ''breather and spitting a wad out. "Hell no, Sergeant!" "Thank you, Trooper Ventif. That there is a man who knows his duty. Did you see any others today, Venty? I thought we had a squad here! I said: you boys itching to vape some scarheads?" Backs straightened, lasrifles were pulled closer, butts shuffled where they sat on duracrete and backless chairs and old road dividers. "Yes, Sarge!" "Blastin'' right." "Yessir!" "Let''s get ''em." He met the eyes of each one of his squad, ten scuffed and dirty and exhausted Fondorians, human and Herglic and Twi''lek and even that one Mrlssi, who got the longlas that was double her height. "Damned right. Check your rifles, check your batteries, we''re moving in fifteen.
The day began beautifully. The sight of AT-AT walkers, which had been a mainstay of Imperial terror, lifted his gnarled and grizzled old heart. They stalked down the rubble-strewn avenues, hidden from easy view despite their massive size by sprawling bulks of factories. The howling growl of old Juggernaut engines filled the air and overhead, Z-95 Headhunters and Clone Wars vintage V-Wings darted and dueled with rocks, spitting lasers like maniac holodisplays. Every now and then, a flash would light up the sky and down would spiral one of the starfighters, hard to say whose, down for a thumping smash into the cityscape elsewhere. Once again, Sherin prayed to nothing he knew of that elsewhere continued to be elsewhere and nowhere near his squad. They stuck tight to him, holding a motley collection of the Exile''s lasrifles and Deeces, a couple E11s. A more poetic man might have something to say about that, the way it was all the recent eras of the Galaxy and a new one too, coming together, but Sherin''d never understood the way words worked like that. Instead he figured on the troops with lasrifles being reliable to hit faster bastards, the troops with blasters with a bit more of a punch to bother the scarheads. Oh, and the las was better at hosing down the biters, since the biters always came in their hundreds. Sherin whistled and they hoofed it along, keeping pace along with another bunch of local. Big, steaming offworlder tanks crawled along at the front of the pack, nodding wide-mouthed cannons back and forth. They were uglier than a Hutt and smelled twice as bad - what did they run on, burning trash? - but the calibre of those guns, to a layman like Sherin, looked liable to ruin the day of any nasty creature the scarheads hoped to trot out. That Major, Lev Torenus or something, had rustled up NCOs from the tumult of Fondor''s sudden conscription, declaring that he was in charge now and you know? He was, because he brought tanks and he brought gunships and the Guild was providing something slightly less useful than ''point the bang part at the vong''. Speaking of gunships: one of the blocky offworlder ones whirled low, engines thumping and Sherin whooped to watch it go, loving how many damned gunbarrels stuck out of the stubby craft. Down toward the end of the avenue, where it met another and made an open plaza, the gunship banked hard on its turbofans, killing momentum and he saw why. Plasma whirled past, bright enough to bring tears, just missing the blunt and small wings of the gunship. Gatling stubbers roared in reply and two vong gunship-analogues darted into view. The three duelling craft couldn''t be more different. The offworlder gunship was a block of metal, painted white and deep blue, edged in gold, and it did the logical things like fly with jet engines and rockets and shoot stubbers and lasers. The invaders'' gunships were silent in comparison, triangular like some holos Sherin''d seen of ocean-going critters, the kind that were shaped like a big kite (not that Fondor had oceans, of course, but the Holonet let a person be a bit more cultured and all). They were wedges of coral and muscle, with pitch-black mica canopies and at the very fore of them was a wide mouth that might''ve been used to scoop up prey but instead spat plasma and weird, corkscrewing missiles. And couldn''t forget the bugs. Even from a distance, they could see from underneath the gunships a spray of bugs, looking more like a smokey cloud, spill out. "You know," Sherin called, huffing as they jogged, "Those probably aren''t the healthiest to let run around." "Roast ''em, sarge?" called one of his troop. Sherin, if he''d been a good Sergeant, would know all their names. He knew Ventif, but the rest, well¡­he was trying. Give him a break, it had only been a couple of days. And there was a war on. "Roast ''em," he confirmed. His squad fanned out, dropping out of the jogging line behind the tanks to take knees and steady aims. The clouds of bugs spread, thinning out while the three gunships still pivoted and danced and clashed. A rocket spat out from the Exile one, punching up and then arcing down, hard, cracking into one of the vong creatures with a sharp report that didn''t have much fire, but clearly crippled the beastie. It started to slew and lose altitude, las fire from the lead tanks reaching up to greet it. Sherin did his part, stabbing a couple shots at the cloud of bugs along with the las and blasterbolts of his troopers. Little puffs of fire showed where''d they''d hit a few, but it wasn''t nearly enough. "Shit," he cried. "Cease fire, cease fire." Hopefully the tanks would attract the bulk of the swarm: he''d had enough of the damned thunkers and rippers. Everyone had a name for the different breeds. Thud bugs, punch bugs, hammer beetles, thunkers. Razor bugs or slicers, rippers, shredder bugs. Didn''t matter what you called them, they brought the pain. The Exile gunship took a few splashes of plasma, scorching the paint and making it tremble, but it brought down the second vong flier shortly after, aided by splinters of sponson-fire from the trio of tanks. Then it whirled and vanished down a side-alley. The bug swarm, though, didn''t come closer. Sherin watched, frowning, as it spread out, going for the buildings right at the edges of the junction square and then started¡­moving. Dancing, almost, weaving back and forth, back and forth, about a hundred meters away. "The frag is that?" Venty muttered, just loud enough to hear. Something was starting to fill up the air and as they got closer, Sherin indulged in another inventive spree of invective in Huttese and Bocce. They were making a skitterweb. The kinds of crap you had to dust out of corners in old warehouses that got reactivated, but this time, so damned dense - the bugs kept weaving it - that it was starting to become opaque. The lead tank, rolling closer, slowed for a second and then the engine roared, accelerating from a prowl to a sudden dash. And, void-curse his eyes, Sherin saw the tank actually get stuck. The whole wall of web bowed out, like pushing a finger into cloth, but the roaring tank, spewing out think exhaust that reeked, revved and revved hard. The second tank in the line slewed to the side, just able to come up beside the lead in the avenue and added its own weight. Blasters started shooting up at the web, punching little burning holes into it but even lasrifles cracking and flaring just burst parts here and there and - damn! Dark shadows dashed on the far side of the web - the bugs were still adding more! A sound like sackcloth tearing in the hands of a giant rent the air and the stressed web finally tore, the two tanks surging forward. Chunks of it came down, swinging out and draping over some troops that got too close. They became lumpen shapes, panicking and flailing and only binding themselves tighter while their comrades shouted for them to stay still. Utility knives came out and sawed and slashed. The lead tanks both looked like they''d been stuffed with cotton, the frontal glacis entirely coated and where the web''d torn, it fell and draped back onto the turrets, gumming up the works. It took fifteen tense minutes to burn the webbing off the tanks and get it out of the gearing of their treads. All the while Sherin was jumpy, eyes on the move, head on the swivel, waiting for a follow-up ambush to appear. Something to capitalize on this stall-out. It was just a couple dozen troops, three tanks - tiny in the grand scheme of the counterpush, but nothing came. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The vong didn''t do anything, but the stress wore at him all the same.
Sherin glared at his commlink pinned to his lapel, like it was to blame for everything wrong in the world. Every appointed ''Sergeant'' got one and it was linked into the Exiles'' ''vox'' systems, which had to have some kind of translation going since it wasn''t jabbering in their weird language and the speaking voices coming out were flat and emotionless. "What in eight kinds of fragged stars is a worldeater?" he groused, as if the lump of circuitry and plastics could answer him back. It did not. "Some kinda monster, knowing our luck," Venty offered. There were grunts of agreement. Something roared - bellowed - in the distance, deep enough that loose duracrete and dust vibrated off surfaces. It his Sherin in his gut, in the diaphragm, lungs twitching and momentarily hard to breathe. "Bitchfire," he swore. "I think that was a worldeater." The tanks, which was what his squad and five others were tasked to follow, led them to a waste-processing facility. Five klicks on a side, open-air, a vast plaza that was dotted with closed ports where speeders and trucks could zoom up, dump out chem-barrels and junk-buckets into the hungry reclamation smelters underneath and whizz off again. Big exhaust pipes, as big around as a freighter climbed stories into the sky. Usually they pumped out smoke from the processors underneath, but everything ''round here was shut off either on purpose, or from all the grid interrupts. Instead, the waste-processing plaza was a maze of abandoned speeders, doors still left hanging open from when their drivers had beat feet away from the invaders, and piles of junk and refuse piled in bunches. It reeked, even through the breather mask. Orders were to hold this position, keep scarhead infantry from trying to sneak through here and the tanks were there to make the vong hesitate to bring their stompers and crawlers. Explosions were ripping up the western and southern horizon, mushrooming high enough that they could be seen over the city skylines. Every few minutes a real one would go off and then a shockwave, muted, would thump past everyone, tugging at coats and dusting grit into eyes. That''s where the real fighting was and damned fine for it. He''d had his taste, before the Exiles came along and way Sherin saw it, he did his duty for Guild and world. He slotted some vong, he watched some folks die, he nearly melted to plasma and that was enough. So again, he prayed to thing he didn''t know that what was making those explosions would stay over there. Kadyin Memorial, if he was oriented right. Poor bastards over there. At least they had all the heavy- One of the tanks exploded. Just like that. One minute it was sitting there, steaming, then the next - He hit the dirt. Shrapnel whirled past. What? The hell did - The other two slammed into reverse. Gears spun, treads slapped. Turrets pivoted, tracked: boom, boom. Venty hit the tarmac next to him, the kid propped up on his elbows, lasrifle cradled. He was mouthing something. Crack, crack, crack. Red bars, lasfire, right overheard. He didn''t see anything. He couldn''t see a damn thing. Where did that come from, where did - Shrieks. Howls. Biters. The world was flashes. He''s grabbing Venty by the scruff of his jumpsuit, hauling the kid to a pile of trash. Three Twi''lek join them - matching jumpsuits, some old work crew? - and kneel and the five of them are shooting, shooting, at what? He hears biters howling but he can''t see anything, the thumping shockwaves from the south-west keep raising dust and dirt and swirling ash so he shoots, he shoots to where the enemy should be - Splat. There''s a lekku on the ground, twitching. A Twi''lek reels, she''s screaming - she''s gurgling, her throat''s cut, she''s dead on the ground - Boom and his guts shake as a tank fires again, right nearby, it rolled up, it''s on the other side of this trash pile, bloody kark, his ears are ringing - A rotary blaster opens up somewhere, blue darts spitting out and it sounds like nails on transparisteel with an electronic zing and then there''s bodies falling in the ash, in the dust and the grit and the dirt - Plasma flashes, sun-bright, sun-yellow, right past him. Singes his damned eyebrows off, Venty is yelling, there''s a shape of a Twi''lek in ash and then they drift away - could''ve been him, could''ve been him - Bugs thump down like rain. Splat, splat. They burst on the duracrete, arcing in - he hasn''t seen them splat like that, usually when they miss they fly away - because they''re moving too fast, they''re blurs, faster than he''s seen, fast enough that one hits a Muugari and folds them in half, drops them skidding. He sees them now, he sees them loping, darting, dashing from cover to cover - when did they get smart, when did they - The taller shapes step out, plasma shines and burps from their hands and splatters, splashes, Venty screams, he grabs the kid and pulls him back and Venty is screaming, he slaps him, Venty''s fine, it''s just a flashburn, no worse than when a machine backfires, get over it - Roar, again, in the distance, so loud, so damned loud, everyone pauses, everything pauses, can''t help but look to the west, toward Kadyin: the sky glows red, something is falling, something like a comet, plunging through the clouds - No time to gawk, no time, scarhead coming, bastard is tall, huge, huge like a tank, broad shouldered, wide body, armor is freakishly cheerful, pastels, marked in red, dark red, dried red - blood red, the bastards are painting themselves in our blood, in our blood, he''ll kill them, he''ll kill them all - Crack and red light punches an eyeslot, right through the helmet and fire bursts out of the other eye slot and the vong goes down and Sherin''s heart soars, got one, got one - Explosions, closer, in the yard. Junk is flying, trash is punched up, burst like bubbles, there''s a fruit ring on his shoulder and he gawps at it, because it''s so incongruous - Something blurs overhead, huge and delta-shaped, dark and ominous but it roars with the sound of rockets so its one of ours, not theirs and things thump down, thud. Inexorable force pushes Sherin aside. He stumbles, tumbled, falls on his ass over Ventif. There''s a man there. He''s huge. He''s beyond huge. Sherin, on his ass, looks up. And up. And up. And up. Man''s as tall as an AT-AT. His helmet is in the clouds. He sees red lenses. They look down at him and he can''t breathe, can only look - The man''s gone. Gone. Faster than any man should be, faster than any wardroid, he''s gone and he leaves an afterimage in the smoke and the dust and the grit, he moves so fast the air doesn''t have time to fill in and swirls instead and Sherin hauls up his lasrifle, which is clicked to thermal for the scope, he sets it to his shoulder and looks - The man''s among the vong. He''s kicking biters aside, so hard they fly. Scarhead warriors come at him. Thud. Thud. Whatever the man''s shooting, it crumps like a grenade. Warriors topple. He''s fast. Too fast. No one is that fast. Sherin''s bowels loosen a little. His stomach twists. He can''t look away, but he doesn''t want to watch. Another giant joins the first. There''s just two and they rip into the vong that had been working up through the junkyard. Warriors don''t get close. Las flickers, helping them, blasterbolts whizz and hiss and clobber biters - do they even need the help? Plasma flares. One man, one man-shape, because there''s no men in that armor, goes to one knee. Plasma flares again. The man-shape half-spins, catching on one arm, the other still outstretched, still shooting a big, boxy gun. Sherin can only see their thermal shapes, white-hot. More reinforcements sweep in. Other conscript squads. A half-dozen hovertanks. They dart in, joining him, joining Venty (who is still moaning, but it''s like sunburn, he''ll be fine), helping the two man-shapes that are drawing all attention. One is still down, shaky, kneeling, now in partial cover. Plasma whickers, flashes, trying to pick them out, trying to kill them, but one lets a pile of junk bear the brunt, the other dodges. So fast. Too damned fast. With the reinforcements are Exiles, a tough squad of them, with full helmets. "Keep moving," one shouts, in accented Basic. His grammar is awful. "Keep moving. Push to Kadyin. Go!" They push. The world comes back to normal. Time resumed itself. Sherin held onto a hovertank, adrenaline still trembling through him. Between the man-shapes, which he learned were Astartes, Ultramarines, and the reinforcements, the junkyard was kept. When he checked his chrono, after, it had been two minutes. Two minutes. They continued south-west, toward Kadyin. Toward the strobes and flares and gut-rattling howls that shook the sky. Something was over there fighting. Something was over there and it sounds like the end of the damned world, and that''s where they had to be.
Sherin only caught the very end. Before Kadyin Memorial, there was only flattened ruin. He didn''t know the area well, but he''d been around and it used to be relatively upscale. A decent-er part of Fondor, where a little bit of civilization was indulged. There was a small biodome, nice and green, some more luxury apartments. Some commercial areas. It was all flattened. A huge expanse of nearly flattened plain, dotted with craters, scattered with hulks of destroyed vehicles and dead biots. He saw AT-ATs, toppled and burning from within. Juggernauts flipped and smashed. Hovertanks dismantled. There were so many dead battle droids that their bodies were like a boneyard. He knew the worst of it had been here, at the center of the line, where the Exiles set up their command and where the brunt of the vong had pushed. But this was apocalyptic. A wasteland. A slaughterfield. And he, along with his squad, along with likely thousands, tens of thousands of others, all within sight range, stopped. Watched. He learned what a worldeater was that day. He learned because two were slain. Their bodies were so massive, he mistook them for heaps of wreckage, for hills. When his eyes adjusted, when his sense of scale adjusted, it stole his breath. Two were alive. In the center of the slaughterfield, kilometers away from him but somehow still massive, was a metal man. A monster in the shape of a man. Enormous, taller than any AT-AT, taller than any walker he''d ever seen, so tall it''s shoulders would scrape the ceilings of some of the factories. It felt bigger. Each step it took he would swear until his dying day he could feel, even at a distance. Two worldeaters circled it. One opened its mouth and exhaled annihilation. It was blinding. His exposed skin prickled. Even through squeezed-shut eyes, his vision danced with blue-white ferocity until he had to turn away, tugging up the collar of his loaned longcoat, like he was blocking rain. What he was really blocking was hell-on-Fondor. That thing was going to kill the whole world. Not even that giant walker, that mech, that¡­titan would stand a chance. It would melt, and then the worldeater would turn that burning exhale on everyone, everything. It was so bright. So bright. They could surely see it in orbit. When it faded, when the glow was spent and Sherin cautiously, cautiously turned - The titan still stood. It steamed, it steamed and that steam was metal, it was vaporized, phase-shifted, gaseous metal wafting from its form. Heat haze filled the air and even at this distance, the baking intensity of it dried the sweat from Sherin''s forehead. Venty, next to him, was just as speechless. Together they watched as the titan slew a monster with a single blinding spindle of light. Compared to the blue-white, bone-aching, skin-prickling exhalation, that piercing needle was purity. Righteousness. Clean. It left a red-black afterimage he blinked away, but Sherin had to see. He had to watch the worldeater slump down, watch the titan stumble. He had to hear horns howl out in triumph. He had to hug Venty, sweeping the red-faced kid up in an embrace, up off the ground. "We lived!" he shouted and cheers were erupting, loud enough to match the mournful, trailing horn of the distant titan. "Son of a rotten bitch, we lived, kid!" He put Venty back down on his feet, yanking off his own peaked cap and slapping it on the kid''s own dome. Venty''s helmet was lost somewhere, probably back at the junkyard. Longest damn week of his life. One thing was for certain: when the Exiles were leaving, Sherin was damned well leaving with them. Looking again over the slaughter of the worldeaters, he decided that, on the balance, he''d rather be with the lunatics that did that, rather than on a world that looked like¡­he took in the black clouds, the ash, the fires that burned all along the horizon¡­that looked like this. Contingence Epilogue I Epilogue I
Fondor was won. Saved, even. Over the course of a day, the remnants of the Yuuzhan Vong fleet came about in good order, recovered a handful of yorik -trema and ¨Ctroka from the surface and peeled away to climb from the gravity well. Admiral Brand elected to watch them go. Lord Admiral Regil concurred and as the Vong fleet powered away from the storm-choked world to vanish into hyperspace the reinforced Republic fleet came to order at high anchor. The famous shipyards were gone, spread into a slick of debris that was its own glinting ring. Every few hours a trace of amber would crease the atmosphere of Fondor, ending all too quickly in a flash of flame and ripple of blue. The planetary shields remained active even as technicians worked around the clock to ensure the integrity of the projectors. Magos Orichi-Mu oversaw the recovery of the sacred Titan, clucking and muttering under his breath at the rips of damage, the shining adamantium burnished mirror bright by the scouring of plasma and exotic particles, the mangled and deformed claw, the juddering and sparking Belicosa mount. Its cape, a mark of rakish honor, hung ragged and reduced to the adamantium mesh with but few scraps of fabric remaining. Beneath the careful guidance of its weary princeps the Titan slowly trudged back into its coffin-ship; projecting bone-deep weariness only a veteran could recognize. Anchors and cabling linked to its battered form as the barge descended above, howling gravitics and screaming retrojets holding the massive craft in place. Throughout it all Optarch was sanguine. He watched the screeds of data scrolling through the holotanks and hastily prepared projectors of the Kadyin Memorial command center. It was already being disassembled, in parts, with local guild workers breaking down machines and securing datacubes away in locked cases for later review. His vox was constantly active, relaying endless details of the Iax Tertius and First Eboracum forming up and preparing to embark back to orbit. His demicompany was reeling in, stamping out some of the last clear and desperate strongholds of the invaders alongside Guilder conscripts and levies. He was aware of the strategic loss before him. Fondor was operating at below forty-six percent of its pre-battle output. The orbital yards were obliterated. Its defense structures were at thirteen percent efficacy. Electrical storms and ash clouds continued to cause rolling blackouts and disruption. That, however, was not his problem. Under his guidance Optarch was confident he had accrued a significant amount of both theoretical and practical data on the vong xenoform. Not just in terms of combat prowess and capabilities but in psychology as well. According to the peoples of this galaxy, the Yuuzhan Vong were fanatical to the point of self-destruction. Suicidal, even. He had heard at length the tale of Shedao Shai and the Jedi Master Corran Horn. Enough for it to become tedious. The battle of Ithor, according to reports, had been a serious loss to the Yuuzhan Vong, yet they had pursued it simply out of spite. Surely with the life-eaters at their disposal, a more practical solution would have been to briefly establish orbital superiority and murder the world? Optarch saw little evidence of that here. Whomever commanded the alien fleet in this theatre was canny and cautious. In discussions with Regil, Optarch recognized how close this fleet action came to loss. Perhaps the Vow might have lived but it was likely all three cruisers would have been lost. The vong could have broken the Republic fleet entirely and, despite suffering truly savage losses, even harmed the Imperial fleet. While three cruisers lost would be but a minor action normally, here in this unknown galaxy, so infinitely far from Ultramar, it represented a significant loss of tonnage. But the vong commander had not chosen to. He had been careful, willing to disengage when the price grew too steep. He had pursued alternate methods; he had attempted to move laterally around the problem instead of battering himself to death against it. That was interesting. Optarch regretted that the commander likely survived. Such a foe would have been better off dead. He grimaced and flipped past another few pages of reports on his dataslate. Of the Astartes brought to Fondor, there had been a single fatality, though a dozen injuries of varying severity would require time in the apothecarion. At least one brother awaited an augmetic. While Optarch did not commit any to direct strikes, instead deploying Astartes individually and in squad strength to shore up weak points with advice and guidance, it seemed the vong had recognized the threat of these new foes and responded accordingly. Barrages of plasma and bugs seemed to prejudicially focus on Astartes whenever they showed themselves and while Macraggian forged ceramite proved doughty enough to weather most, nothing is flawless. If only he had a handful of Suzerain. Twenty-three remained within a hundred meters of his primarch at all times, much to his lord''s frustration. Drakus Gorod himself was unbudging on the attention. But a squad ¨C even half a squad! Optarch paused for a moment, indulging himself by selecting and enlarging the sensorium and auspex scans of the enemy flagship, supplemented by sensor data from the Republican fleet. It was a helical, uninspiring monster of craggy faces and sprouting coral forests. Not as rough and brutal as an ork creation, but utterly lacking in aesthetic. A half a squad of Suzerain and he would have gone for the throat. The Vow had a functioning teleportarium. Five Suzerain and two boarding squads. Optarch would have even led them himself and damn the theoreticals. Go for the throat, rip it out. Like Horus would have.
Noriomi ached. Every bone felt battered, every muscle pushed to limits and beyond. Her tendons felt like drawn bowstrings, neck like an iron-injected vice. But she held herself ramrod straight, biting back tears. It was one thing to live it, to feel it intimately, personally. It was quite another to see the hurt. Her love was brutalized. Mortarch was dark save for the flying arcs and sparks as tech-adepts crawled about its body, stripping off ruined armor plates and peeling back others to access fused and mutilated conduits. Its head hung limp, chin down. Noriomi took in the void where the right arm should be and shivered, rubbing her own shoulder in sympathy. Her love was brutalized and she had been its architect. On some level she knew it was unavoidable. On some level she knew it had been a glorious, glorious m¨ºl¨¦e. These bio-titans of the vong were as brutal as any foe she had faced before. Only ¨C her lips twisted in a grimace, just the memory lighting a fire in her belly, a curdling flame that made her want to strike something. Strike something until it broke or she did. Only the traitor engines at Calth were deadlier. These biotitans. Four at once. She had ridden Mortarch against four and won the field. Unsupported. Unaided. This would be a battle that she should be shouting about. Celebrating with Lacassex and preparing to record it in the annals of the Legion. Perhaps even beginning to dictate a glory banner to carry. Though her glory drape was scorched and half lost, it would be rewoven by the joyous helots of the Legio. This triumph would be added to the endless list. But she could only look at her wounded love and feel no grand victory. Never had Mortarch been so wounded. At Komesh when the Word Bearers turned ¨C even then Mortarch''s famous canniness had kept her safe through the day. Even when other titans were cut down like mortal soldiery, even when she wept to see an entire maniple of Lacassex walkers surrounded and slaughtered, still Mortarch had emerged unscathed. Her great Arioch, her strong right hand was crushed. It sat off to the far right along with the twisted and scorched mechanisms of the entire arm. Careful had been the magi to excise the entire limb, entreating and calming the great spirit of the Titan all the while. But it was beyond repair, beyond salvage. It was a lump of fused ceramics and adamantium, rendered worthless by bombardment of exotic energies. Certainly, its sacrifice had saved her. Had saved the Titan. But she couldn''t look away from the blackened wreck. She''d slain Eldar titans with that. She''d crushed a many-tentacled mechanical horror on a world without a star in its atomizing grasp. Served the judgment and wrath of the Emperor in the evisceration of a Legio Indemptius Reaver at Calth. She could still remember the feel of the still-live reactor as she wrenched it from the chest of the traitor engine and cast it aside like refuse. Without the Arioch, Mortarch was incomplete. In its hanging head she felt her own dismay and emptiness. Mortarch did not know who it was anymore, without it. It was a wound that could not heal. Would not heal. Across the vast bay she saw her moderati approaching. Noriomi span on her heel and vanished into the darkness in the corners and edges, undesiring company. The only company she could stomach watched her go with lightless eyes.
One by one, hololiths flickered to life. Each described a grand impossibility. Aeonid Thiel, Brevet Captain, ''Trainee'' Jedi joined from hundreds of parsecs Rimward. He inclined his head, realtime, making sign of the aquila. From the galactic south, near the opposite side of the Core, Lieutenant Optarch stood beside Lord Admiral Regil. Guilliman peered at both of his sons, unable to contain the slightest unbelieving shake to his head. ''Sire, intoned Thiel. ''My lord,'' Optarch greeted. ''This is entirely uncanny,'' Regil announced, bereft of decorum. Guilliman allowed it with a rare twitch of his lips. ''It is, Cornelius. I fear that it will take some time to remember we have this capacity now.'' ''And it is trustworthy?'' A familiar fear, that. Voiced by many throats: human, posthuman and transhuman. Suspicion rightly fell on the varied artifices offered by the New Republic. Placing aside their origins in human or alien hands, the greater concern was that of security. Claims that holonet hyperspace communications were impossible to breach were all well and good - but the Republicans held a position of greater power and knowledge there. Public records were not enough to allay doubt, as no reasonable government would openly declare any particular means of listening in on their citizenry. Magi tore to shreds examples of holonet transceivers, ripping the exotic technology apart to its barest fundamentals before rebuilding only to tear it down again. These were entirely newfound fields of study, new boundaries of science, which held both great allure and great mistrust among the Martian priesthood, who now debated hotly more than just allowances of use, but rather deeper orthodoxy about the nature of discovery and innovation itself. For Guilliman, there was a razor. He took it up and clove through paranoia and mistrust. Simply: every extant political, economic, social and surveillance apparatus within the known galaxy utilized hyperspace holonet communications. Every one. Sometimes the simplest answer bore the truth. What might be more likely: that there existed a concerted, galactic conspiracy concocted on the fly to subvert only the 4711th, that was perfectly impregnable to investigations, that had all answers to all questions? Or that, perhaps, the Republicans could be taken at their word. Some might call it a leap of faith - Guilliman preferred the phrase ''logical deduction.'' The holonet was secure. Therefore, with a practical of instantaneous, galactic-scale communications, there was never a scenario in which he did not make use of the technology. At his shoulder, Codicier Rubio cleared his throat. ''Greater even than astropathic dreams. Magos?'' Another hologram shifted. Orichi-mu, from his own barque, pulled low over the Republican world of Fondor. ''There are only so many formulations of ''affirmative'' that I am able to construct. My speciality is not of lingua, but biologia.'' ''Then: let us debrief,'' Guilliman proclaimed. Together on Macragge''s Honour, in the small chamber set aside for the holonet transceiver, he was joined by Gage to his right, Rubio to his left. Additionally, Captain Paston from the Redoubt on the world below. Shipmistress Vaul, from crippled Mantallikes. Lieutenant Maglios, on-site still in the bilges of the Honour was the only holo-presence in full battle plate, helm and all. The last went first, as Maglios detailed the ongoing removal of vong combatants that went to ground. No warriors appeared to have attempted to vanish into the labyrinthine networks of the lower decks - something that Optarch spoke up to note would be quite unlikely, given their psychological dispositions. Entire platoons of the reptoid slave-caste were being rooted out by Cyber-altered Tasks, servitors, armsmen and killteams of two to three Ultramarines. They posed little enough threat - often unable to even overcome a simple sailor with a stubber in a one-on-one situation, but the little creatures liked the swarm. Other hazards were biots that were set loose. From study of slain warriors and the expired biots they carried, scanning protocols were being developed but, most problematically, Macragge''s Honour was a warship, and thus was built to deny attempts at scrying her interior. Existing surveillance networks were being upgraded and adjusted, but the vong''s shaped creatures were infuriatingly canny. For instance, Maglios described tiny, swarming midges that did not bite nor harass anything living, but sought out concentrations of high energetic output. As best as could be determined, they did not seem to cause any impedance - they did not chew on conduits nor output contrary wave-patterns. The current theory was they were some manner of organic markers, that might be sensed by external biots. A way of highlighting critical systems, or areas most beneficial to target. Or they might simply be seeking heat and electrical fields to sustain themselves, and were nothing more than a red herring. Orichi-mu expressed great interest in returning, to sink his many mechadendrites into the work of dissecting and cataloging the wealth of xenobiological technology that the assault on Eboracum had yielded. ''We already see cladistic similarities in the weapon-biots of the Yuuzhan Vong,'' the Magos Dominus declared. ''If we map the genomic inheritances of each biot, we might be able to greater predict what hidden purpose they serve.'' ''And countermeasures?'' asked Optarch, interest clear even on his blue-tinted, insubstantial expression. ''And countermeasures.'' Orichi-mu confirmed. ''The first concern will be confounding the living armor of the Yuuzhan Vong. Should the ''terminator'' breed, as so termed by Lieutenant Maglios, be refined and become more common, we will require refinement of bolt-penetration.'' ''They proved doughty, but ill-formed. None I saw carried weapons and they were slow and unwieldy. Durable, I admit, but blades proved their greater, as did volkite and plasma.'' Thiel gestured in negation. ''These were not seen on Obroa-skai, nor were their portable plasma launchers. Hellspitters, I believe armsmen have called them?'' Maglios nodded. ''And my brothers under Lieutenant Optarch''s command have encountered refined forms of the ''grutchin'' breed that run counter to the mindlessness the Republicans claim for them. The vong iterate, and they iterate swiftly.'' ''It was Brothers Zalthis and Solidian, yes, along with Third Squad. The grutchin swarms were not released above ground, but rather used within close-quarters spaces. Interiors and the underground.'' Optarch glanced away, nodding his head, before returning his attention. ''Coral growths, like as to those reported on the brows of controlled thralls, now direct those beasts.'' ''Those are a priority for my magi. The means of communication eludes us, for now, but methodology and sacred experimentation will reveal, I am certain.'' ''Redouble those efforts, Dominus,'' Roboute murmured. Orichi-mu bowed. ''Republican intelligence posits that the crux of all vong communications are their ''yammosk'' war-minds. If we might learn to listen in, and then disrupt, not only will the vong crumble, but we will hold a key asset over the rest of the Galaxy. I want this, Dominus. I want this advantage.'' ''Your word is law, son-of-the-Omnissiah.'' The control of a Primarch was legendary, but the acuity of the senses of the transhuman were as well, and Gage did not miss the momentary shadow that passed his father''s face at the title. The discussion spun away then, from Maglios'' reports on the ''infestation'' of Macragge''s Honour as he concluded that within a week, most chazrach nests would be rooted out and a fortnite from then, he was confident that means to trace biots would be in place. Mu recommended several Magi whose skills he considered complementary, and then it was in turn Paston''s moment to address the status of Eboracum. ''In a word: complex. The destruction of the moon has already influenced weather patterns, though the degree is yet hidden by the fall of debris. We are not crippled, but we are not unscathed. The void shield over Eboracum Civitas holds and will continue to hold, save in the most extreme and unfortunate of events. Shipmistress Vaul and I continue to coordinate counterfire against the most dangerous of Yadraig''s ruin.'' From Mantallikes, Katryna Vaul looked exhausted, but strangely enervated for the dark circles around her eyes. She had been assigned battlespace control by the Primarch, elevated past Hommed aboard Macragge''s Honour as the coordinating officer for the interception of the moon''s debris. It suited - her command would ride out the days, weeks, months of coming danger, unable to move from its anchor, unable to maneuver. Only capable of bearing the constant, incessant barrage of rock. ''The worst of the potential impactors have been handled, my Lord Primarch. All that might fall within the week are tagged and are being systematically broken up. My savants are tracking the rest and assembling targeting plans sprawling outwards until no rock larger than a Thunderhawk remains.'' ''You''ve done well, Shipmistress,'' the primarch praised. She beamed. ''My ship has done well. Six hundred and seventy-four hits to our armor plate so far, and not a single breach. Mantallikes will hold the center. Captain Paston and I have organized our focus so that the Pharisen Redoubt will take priority for the lowest orbits, before redirecting requests should they become overwhelmed. Tentatively, my lords, I am confident in this plan. I believe we can minimize any more damage to Eboracum.'' Any more. The world was already smudged, bruised, stormclouds and smoke plumes and hundreds of thousands of acres of swirling wildfires staining the orb of the planet. Waves had savaged the coast, sweeping sometimes kilometers inland - a blessing that Eboracum Civitas was situated well inland. Had Eboracum been an old world, one where habitation followed more the ancient ways of life to cluster along coasts and rivers, the infrequent but continuing tsunamis might have been far more devastating. Evacuations of fringe villages and townships were ongoing. The 4711th had been willing to leave them be, providing an outlet for the most intransigent natives a place to pretend they were beyond the Imperium''s focus, but that time was up. Stubborn or not, all on Eboracum were Imperial citizens, by law and by fact, and it was not in the nature of Guilliman to abandon Imperial citizens to their deaths, even if such would result from their own mulishness. Thus: Eboracum Civitas swelled yet more, empty apartment blocks filling beneath the crackling, ozone shimmer of its voids. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Rubio spoke up next, bringing to the fore his sense of the moon itself, in its stricken, final moments. Of the sensation of stilling, of pulling, that echoed through both materium and immaterium, and the implications that he meditated long on. The faces, physically present and ephemerally projected, grew grim.
Yald, joined by her siblings and flanked by the eventually-arrived elements of Third, Fourth and First Battlegroups. Wedge-shaped Star Destroyers cut dramatic, hard-edged daggers in the sky, brushing shoulders with gentle Mon Calamari cruisers and hulking Corellian Engineering warships. Now that the Yuuzhan Vong fleet was gone, ironically, the combined fleet of the ''Corellian'' gambit was united. Fighting continued, sporadic and flighty, down on the surface, but the Guilds could handle it. The main force of the invaders was snapped in two over that Imperial Titan''s knee and the walkers, juggernauts and war-droid mobs swept the stragglers up. Now it was warriors, handfuls of chazrach, occasional lingering gunships that lashed out in fitful, pointless clashes for some alien sense of honor and a righteous death. More innocent lives would be claimed. More soldiers dead. More heroes buried. Guildmistress Naa, sitting across from him in his sumptuous admiral''s suite looked to be forged of pure durasteel. Every concern he bandied, she blocked. Every point he prodded, she countered. Every plea - she brushed away. "Guildmistress, you know how irregular this is going to be." "Obviously. We''re not stupid, Admiral." "The Senate¡­" his arguments were half-hearted. He didn''t really have it in him to push back. It wasn''t his job, for one, and for two: she wasn''t in the wrong. He''d failed. He''d failed spectacularly. Some might have said it was a long time coming, that failure was a part of life, that no one could have a perfect career, but it smarted. ILC-905, the rest of the Black Fleet Crisis¡­stars on his uniform. High points in his career. Moments when he''d made the difference. Then he argued for this. This. It made sense. It made perfect, logical, tactical and strategic sense. The shipyards were the most important assets the New Republic held. The Yuuzhan Vong were outsiders, invaders - they didn''t have territory, they didn''t have a production base, hell - they didn''t even have worlds yet. Not really. The New Republic was like the Old Republic, in more than just continuity of name. It was an engine and one with a long crank. It took time to get the leviathan moving. It took time to wake the beast. As long as the shipyards held, the Yuuzhan Vong''s days were numbered. Given time, they could bury the invaders under all the men and material that the galaxy could make. His choice. His arguments. His position. Fondor''s shipyards were a memory. He wasn''t ignoring the Guildmistress, but he spared a glance through the broad transparisteel of his office. A memory and a field of glinting dust. From his failure. A fat lot of good the implacable engine of the New Republic would be, if every damned world fell before it could turn over even once. So he listened to Eeshu Naa and he was halfhearted, just enough that when he filed his report, when he was investigated as he was sure he would, he could say he tried. He could say he tried to keep the Tapani Sector from turning their backs.
Wrath tumbled gently, end-over-end, with just enough speed that to stand on the outside of the vessel, one could watch the stars move in gentle, gentle arcs. About her sprawled an asteroid field painted in all the colors beloved of the gods. Coralskippers darted about on combat patrol, pilots guided by the swelling genius of yammosk-touch. True asteroids, monsters of iron and nickel and basic elements, gathered in loose agglomeration like a handful of pebbles. Pebbles as large as mountains, and chewed, gnawed at by muscular appendages disgorged by warships. As in smallest form, so in largest, and as the bacteria devours the nutrient, a starship suckles at the leavings of the grandest celestial table. Wrath was already sated, new minerals flushing through the circulatory capillaries and plasma-guts burning replete with fresh reactants. Malik Carr reclined in his own personal grotto, attended by three bare-faced servants who waited, motionless, silent, and stitch-lipped in the shadows. Emberflies lazed in the air, citrine light winking and gentle. In one corner a miniature mon duul thumped out a low, vibrational tune, accompanied by gentle hums of avians through many-slotted beaks. Incense crackled in sparkbee braziers, sweet and sour. Qesud Qesh''s nimble fingers prised and prodded at the meat of his conjoined forearm. "Queer," she murmured, in her flat, emotionless tone. Now with months under his service, he knew the genius'' tells well. In the depths of her focus, all emotion fell away until she was as calm and direct as the Shaper herself. In those times, he saw fit to overlook her occasional impropriety or lack of reverence for his position - different castes though they may be - as while his gut lit with anger at her rudeness, his lips smiled at her acuity. "The Protocol of S''uan continues and I see no deviation. Neurons bind appropriately - quite expeditiously - and the taking is easy." Her eyes, myriad-hued and bloodshot, flicked to his. Ah, such impropriety. He cocked his head. "Have you followed my most explicit instructions?" "Cautious exercise, Master Shaper, and I have refrained from sparring with it." She returned her focus to his forearm and the conjoined fang. "There is errant transmitter activity. The taste is too alkaline. I will need to enact the Subduance of the Spasm. That may calm the tics you speak of. And there is no other symptom?" "None at all. In all other ways, it is as my birth-flesh." Qesh ticked a finger, a Shaper''s shrug. "Such things are not unknown. Though blessed by His Eminence Harrar, I have enjoined protocols in ways not done in many, many passings. The realms of the Cortex I plumbed reeked of dust. I am not perfect. This is why you engage me." "You are not. None are, save Yun-Yuuzhan." She mumbled something ''to His Glory'' under her breath, by rote. Malik Carr watched as she folded his tendons back into his arm, as careful clips of forefinger and thumb closed flesh, bloodless, until only a mild ache like a bruise remained. "Half a turning, Warleader, and you need not fear splitting the skin." "Quick work. My gratitude." She produced a living flask that waved hair-thin, vestigial legs. "Apply the secretions along the joining, as if oil. If you are able, apply when you notice the tic return. That is mostly likely when receptor activity is impaired, and the Subduance sputum will instruct the neurons." She cleansed her fingers with sonics and brief heat, stepping back to allow Malik Carr to climb from his throne-chair. The creature, at a jab of his heel, pulled up suction-tipped limbs and scuttled away. The Master Shaper brought with her only a smattering of her tools, squirming and chittering in clamshell case. She brushed fingertips across them, quieting her pets down, calming their indignation at being ignored, at not tasting flesh for the day. She had needed none. "I was perusing memories," Malik Carr began, as a way to broach the topic. "From the Impeerialz," she quessed, emotion coming back into her voice. Her Shaper''s robe squirmed and readjusted itself as she straightened, still a full head-and-a-half shorter than he. "The very same. I am pleased, Master Shaper. Your vonduun tagh and yaret sak proved worthy. I watched with mine own eyes as the armor-piercing guns of the infidels were humiliated by the designs of the Gods." "The tagh are incomplete. They are a genus that has lingered long and forgotten, and it will be some time until I have refined their pattern. The Protocols of Ulin, Voraq and Kurind should not be hurried." He inclined his head. He asked much and she delivered more, but his role was that of Warrior, and in ways of Shaping, her correction was to be heeded. "You will have further time. I do not mean to strain your holy means, Master Shaper." She eyed him, still daring to meet his eyes. Many of his warriors could not. "I believe that, Warleader. Your timetables stressed the Protocols, but did not snap. More time - I will be grateful. We do the work of the Shaper, but She reveals at her pace, not ours." Malik Carr snapped his fingers, mute servant approaching with twin bulbs of sweet ethanol. He offered one to Qesh, who was not fool enough to reject the generosity of a Warleader in his own grotto. She hid her distaste very well, the Master Shaper''s mislike of imbibing such things known. A little expression of power. "Time, samples, resources, facilities¡­you will have them all. A tidbit, before all else know. The Warmaster has arrived, and he has taken notice of what we do." Malik Carr grinned, squeezing out a mouthful of the stinging amber to his tongue. It was sweet, warm, but he hungered for a different flavor altogether. Salt-sweet and rounded iron, rich and red. The blood of Aistarteez. Domain Shai''s honor was returned, though he hated - hated - that it was their dishonored host that he had cast into the fire. The zealot Yus Shai, he knew, had claimed trophies on that infidel warship. Malik Carr sent them all to the Gods covered in glory, covered in it, and yet, still, his own hands had not yet taken the life of one of the infidel creatures. Ah, but he would. He too would crack their shell, he too would rip out the flesh within, he too would watch their stalwart and dour and heathen certainty drain away to terror and understanding. Tak tak tak, his claw scratched at the stony floor of his grotto. He did not notice Qesh''s pointed glance toward his implant.
The other attendees flickered out, one after another, until only Aeonid remained. Marius had other duties to attend to and so took his own leave. Rubio rubbed at his neck, beneath the cowl of his psychic hood, looking thin and drawn after so long channeling the immaterium. Days of it. Two new guests arrived, both faces he knew. The familial similarity was clear, though youth still clung visibly to one. The other bore a youthfulness not of biology, but of mentality. A surprising earnestness and clarity of thought, one that had been, in truth, a mild pleasure to dance with. ''Master Skywalker,'' Roboute Guilliman greeted. ''Knight Solo.'' Though the former had no reaction upon meeting Guilliman, he remembered the dumbstruck reactions of the Republican envoys during the summit, Anakin included, and thus was glad to be properly re-acquainted with the Solo youth over holocom. For one as young as he, stories abounded of significant achievements and influence that spanned half the galaxy. This one was one to watch, even more than his uncle. ''Primarch Guilliman, it''s good to see you''re alright. When we heard about the attack - I was worried.'' Anakin Solo nodded in agreement. ''The Yuuzhan Vong were repulsed. We mourn our losses, but your concern is gratifying. I believe that we have a greater topic to discuss, do we not, Captain Thiel?'' His wayward son inclined his head, visibly shifting his weight. Thiel was uncomfortable. Interesting. ''The Sith ''spirit'', yes.'' ''And you, Knight Solo, encountered it directly?'' ''I did.'' His reply was firm and strong, meeting Guilliman''s eyes across many parsecs and a full meter. Even as a hologram, he gave the youth credit for his spine. ''I understand Captain Thiel''s report, but I would hear from your own recollection¡­'' The Solo youth spun a deeply concerning tale. He was not remiss nor reticent to speak, openly describing things that would condemn men to death and worse in the world Guilliman knew better. That his first reaction to a disembodied intelligence he believed to be a ''spirit'' was to engage in conversation raised the Guilliman''s hackles, though he held his expression neutral. He and his partner, the Jedi Veila, engaged this ''Sith'' in discussion, and Solo truly appeared to believe he had the capacity to extract useful information from an entity like that. ''Sith spirits aren''t unheard of, after all,'' Skywalker offered, cutting in during a lull in Solo''s story. ''If anything, it''s sort of a classic of the Sith. They always look to escape death, and one of the most potent ways is to bind their essence into some point of power. I''m not clear on the exact nature of it - and I don''t think I want to be - but this has been seen with Exar Kun, Marka Ragnos, Palpatine and plenty of others. They lose a lot of their power, but they can last millenia like this.'' And then possess other beings. Possession. The word was bile and battery acid on his tongue and before him he saw Lorgar mutate into a clicking, carapaced, hairy and chitinous thing - Guilliman focused on the two Jedi. ''-I really didn''t sense anything from Melin-Bralam-'' He spoke the name openly. Whispers of Magnus'' idle commentary, in the few times they ever had to spend together, came to mind. The power of names, the cyclops had spoken of. The Seventeenth on Calth swore by it. Rubio, beside him, clearly thought similarly. ''I would implore you not to speak the name of the entity. Call it ''the Sith'' or ''the being'', but names are not to be freely invoked.'' Skywalker and Solo paused, glancing to each other, before Anakin just nodded and continued. ''Right. Tahiri was acting strange, and we realized it later - later, back at the Praxeum - we realized that whatever Mel- I mean, whatever the Sith was doing, it was keeping us separated. I was seeing a fake Tahiri, she saw a fake Anakin.'' Then the daemon. Thiel named it as such and Rubio was not to argue. Everything about the chamber reeked of ritual. A fane. A perversion. The things etched into the flesh of Macragge''s Honour, the things that polluted the sterility of Zetsun Verid Yard, the cancers that wormed into the flesh of Calth. Kilometers away, a particular stone-knapped knife waited in silent, frozen time within a stasis cask. Missing soldiers with bodies never found. An empty farmhouse, but for dried blood. Guilliman listened to the tale of Anakin Solo and his heart ached, for no matter where, no matter how far, there seemed to be no escape. His bastard brother followed him. Fetid breath whispered at his ear, whispering of Horus, of the deaths of loyal brothers, of Terra toppled and the galaxy on fire. Grave-stench seared at his nose. He would never be free of it. ''I would like to see this place for myself,'' Rubio declared. ''No.'' It took Guilliman, for all his prodigious awareness, a moment to realize he had made the denial. ''No, Tylos, your worth is too great here. Send another - Alebmos, perhaps.'' His son''s eyes narrowed, his expression searching, but the Codicier nodded. ''Alebmos is second to me in ritual understanding. He''s spent some time with the Scars, during the Pelagean Rift campaign. It''s a good choice.'' ''If I might make another request, sire?'' Guilliman gestured for Thiel to go on. ''The Yavin system is, for all intents and purposes, behind the primary advance of the vong. With this scouting biot Solo and Veila discovered, it might only be a matter of time until the Praxeum is noticed.'' Skywalker grimaced. ''That''s part of why I''m at Coruscant. I''ve been working with some of the other Masters to set up a new place for the Praxeum to move to, and this has moved up my timetable. We need transportation though, to take as much from the Great Temple as we can.'' ''If Lexicanium Alebmos is being sent to examine the¡­spoor of the ''Sith'', perhaps we could combine these objectives? Practical: a single destroyer would not impact operations at Eboracum or Fondor, sire.'' ''And would be small enough to evade notice, perhaps.'' Guilliman nodded, calculations spilling out and turning clear. Fondor, for the moment, was where Cornelius would remain while their Senator Kvarm Jia brought forward proposal to the Senate. At Eboracum, while the Redoubt and Civitas were reinforced, the remainder of the 4711th was to remain on station. His son''s estimation was correct. One destroyer would make little difference, while still being potent enough to match any inhabitant of this galaxy five-to-one. ''I am recalling Lieutenant Optarch and your company, Captain. Select a squad, or demisquad, to escort Alebmos.'' ''Zalthis and Solidian,'' Thiel answered instantly. ''They''re young, but they have had the most experience with Jedi.'' ''And three others,'' Guilliman chastened. ''But I don''t disagree. Knight Solo, they have spoken highly of you - I daresay you would not mind hosting them?'' Solo flushed, face darkening indigo. ''Zalthis and I had a chance to talk and spar. He''s a friend, that''s for sure.'' Skywalker was nodding along. ''I still have business of Coruscant, and I''m waiting on when Mara and the twins come back.'' Guilliman''s time was pressing. He rose from his seat, to his full height, brushing hands down his tunic. ''I would not depart for another week,'' Guilliman advised. Skywalker''s brow rose. ''It would be beneficial, I think, if Master Luke Skywalker was present when I addressed the Senate.'' ''Ah,'' Luke said. ''I see. I''ll-'' His brow furrowed and Skywalker glanced to the side. Then stood, leaning out of frame. Muffled words could be heard, but they were beyond the receivers for the hololith. Solo frowned as well, eyes narrowing - before widening, nearly bulging. ''Jacen!'' he whispered. Skywalker came back into frame, slumping down into his seat - collapsing, rather, as if boneless and unstrung. ''Duro. Duro''s fallen.'' His hands scrubbed his face as Guilliman rocked back, mentally reviewing the Galaxy has he knew it - south, along the Corellian Trade Spine, a branch of the Corellian Run hyperlane that ran clear across the galaxy, Duro sat just before the junction of the two primary trade lanes, Duro was - ''That is the Core,'' Guilliman breathed. ''The Core is breached.'' ''And Mara and the twins are there,'' Luke groaned, in horror. Contingence Epilogue II Epilogue II Master Cilghal made sure to look each of them over once Aeonid Thiel settled his Thunderhawk to the tarmac, just inside the hangar of the Praxeum. Tahiri winced as she walked, but the healer declared her ribs bruised, not cracked or broken. For Anakin, a clean bill of health; but for Sannah - the beginnings of frostbite on her nose and fingers. Mild enough, but surprisingly not from the glacier - some of the irritated patches on her hand matched the shape of the chisel she had wielded to shatter the ritual circle. They ate, then Cilghal helped both of the girls into healing trances overnight. Anakin just crashed in his own bunk, knowing the next day would bring only more questions. The next morning confirmed his expectations. He spoke to Uncle Luke briefly, before being drawn into a holoconference with not just his Uncle but with Aeonid and even the Ultramarines Primarch too. The latter''s shape in the hologram was jarring as Anakin dutifully repeated what he''d begun to tell his Uncle. It was hard to focus. Again and again, his mind tried to wander to the memory of Guilliman walking into the conference, back on Eboracum, and the overwhelming¡­perspective? That had struck Anakin then. Through the holo, Primarch Guilliman''s voice was strong, authoritative, almost unrealistically rich and firm, but Anakin saw none of that churning, blinding lensing that hid his face. Now he could see him and he looked - young. Not young young, but younger than his own Uncle. Younger than his dad. Sort of ageless somehow, an ageless youth - if that made sense, and it did not, to him - and when Anakin focused, there were threads there, lingering, threads of something that he wanted to try to grab at, that slithered around his senses like oil around water. Thiel, sharing the Praxeum''s holocom with Anakin, seemed to notice Anakin''s attention and the young Jedi shrugged off his curiosity, focusing on the tale. Sure enough, just like Aeonid, the Primarch was visibly unsettled by his description of Melin-Bralam, and then his more halting, incomplete telling about the Man in Horns that came after. He told them about the way the Man looked, and something of what he said - but other parts he held back. It wasn''t shame, but the way the Man in Horns talked to him, seemed to know him, was important somehow. Important in a way that made him hold his tongue, worried about just who he should share this with. His Uncle, of course. That was without any question. Uncle Luke would understand it best. After his telling he didn''t have much else to add and asked to be excused. Aeonid could talk with his commander and Uncle Luke about what to do but with the sithspawn, or rather the vong biot, dead, Anakin felt he''d finished what he set out to do. He certainly hadn''t been looking to dig up some ancient Sith conspiracy, no sir. He and Tahiri had enough of those so far. He found Tahiri already getting changed, and he waited outside her quarters, hands in his pockets, leaning with back against the wall. "You''re done already?" she called out, over the sound of rustling fabric. "Wasn''t really that much to say, you know? It''s¡­as crazy as it was, it was all so fast." "Mm," Tahiri hummed. "Does Master Skywalker want to talk to me too?" "He will, yeah. He hasn''t said, but he''s going to want to know what you saw too. It really spooked Aeonid and his Primarch. I mean - really bothered them. They told us not to even say Mel- not to say the Sith''s name." Tahiri laughed. "Like it''s some kind of scary story? Like what, we say it and he pops out to wave his hands and go ''oooo''?" "I guess? They were really serious about it." He shrugged, though his friend couldn''t see it. "I''m going to trust them on it. It was ''cause of what Aeonid told Sannah that she was able to¡­break us out of that. Probably." Tahiri skipped out of her quarters, leaving the door open behind her. Like usual, in a loose tan jumpsuit, sans any shoes. "So what''s next?" Anakin scratched behind his ear. "We didn''t have time last night to - to talk about it. You and me." Tahiri''s cheer dimmed and she scuffed her heel against the Praxeum''s stone floor. "It got weird, Anakin. I''m not even that sure about anything." "Me either. So I figure¡­" He trailed off. "...Master Ikrit?"
It was still midmorning, so Master Ikrit recommended they get out of the Temple, take a stroll instead. Mist still clung to the distant jungle, especially below the plateau of the Temple complex and everything was damp with dew. Raucous calls echoed back and forth, trilling high and low and barking deep and bass. The Kushiban Jedi Master bounded along, easily keeping pace with Anakin and Tahiri and the longer strides of humans, seeming more energetic than Anakin usually knew him to be. More than that, he could feel his Master''s cheerfulness vibrating out of his white-furred body, filling the Force. His lips kept turning up in an unconscious smile and when he glanced to Tahiri, he saw that she too was having a hard time not being infected by Ikrit''s mood. "Okay, what is it?" She broke first - of course. "What is what, young Jedi?" "You!" Ikrit spun, tail whirling, dropping low to the ground and peering up at both of them with his wide, bright eyes. "My finest students have returned, unscathed, from facing down a Sith in his very own Temple. They protected their friend and each other, they slew a dangerous creature that threatened us all, and then, most importantly: sought out their old Master!" Ikrit chittered, purred, ears twitching. "Mm, a terrible strangeness, my good mood!" Tahiri blushed by looked entirely pleased. His Master''s praise was nice¡­but tainted by just how he''d slain that vong biot. He''d only mentioned his discomfort to Tahiri, briefly, before they turned in last night and she''d scoffed. Said that crushing the creature''s heart wasn''t really any different than sticking a lightsaber in it and besides, her ribs thanked him for taking the quickest route. It just seemed wrong, to use the Force that directly to cause death. He imagined Jacen would probably have a lot to say about it and for once, he wished his brother was around to ask about it. But Ikrit was right. Not a lot of Jedi could claim to face off against an ancient Sith spirit and send it packing. It was good what they did. It was. Maybe not as dramatic or lasting as the Golden Globe, but Anakin had still slept soundly last night. Whatever this ''warp'' stuff was that Aeonid was so concerned about seemed like it had been tied up with Melin- with that Sith''s spirit - and didn''t stick around after. Besides, as scary as it was at the time, it didn''t strike him as that much more dangerous than, say, Exar Kun taking over Kyp Durron''s body or the evil ghost of Marka Ragnos trying to return to life. "Finest students? Master, we''re your only students." Ikrit huffed, acting like he hadn''t heard Tahiri. "I am very interested though, young Solo, young Veila, to learn just what has young Thiel so worried. His disquiet is palpable." "It''s some kinda thing those Exiles are worried about," Tahiri said, before Anakin could get his thoughts in order. "He says it''s really dangerous and Sannah said he was beside himself when he was guiding her." "Master Skywalker passed along some of the lore he learned in his own meetings with the leader of the Exiles. I admit - I was unconvinced that this ''warp'' was anything other than a perversion of the Force, not unlike the dark side." They rounded a corner in the trail. Paths just like it snaked all around the Praxeum, winding around and offering plenty of spots for rest and reflection, not to mention places for simple calisthenics. Master Horn was well known for his penchant to rise with the sun and go for long runs. Anakin shared a look with Tahiri. Since they seemed to banish the Man in Horns together, it felt like they were even more on the same page. When Master Cilghal had gently guided Tahiri into her slumber, Anakin felt a wave of tired dizziness, even a fleeting second of sheets over him. Now, he could feel the way Tahiri tried out words in her head, trying to find a way to describe what they''d seen and felt. A feeling rose, a memory - the two of them pausing, down by the lake, about to hop in. Tahiri''s hand on his chest, a mischievous glint in her eye, and then she was splashing in. Let me go first. All they''d confirmed last night was that both of them saw something else in that Temple. Anakin licked his lips, heart beating harder. "I think Aeonid is right," Tahiri said, rubbing her elbow. "Anakin and I, well, we kind of know the dark side by now. That Sith, I mean, how much more obvious can you be? Slimier than a Hutt and twice as oily. He shouldn''t have tried to trick us though, huh Anakin? It was tricky, but I know you and there''s no way in the galaxy you''d just sit around quietly while a Sith Lord was telling me how awesome it would be to experiment on Sannah-" Wait, what? Anakin stumbled, catching himself with a pull on the Force. Ikrit''s pale green eyes watched them both with interest. "Wait, what?" "What, what?" "He wanted you to experiment on Sannah?" Tahiri''s brows drew together and he felt her confusion. "Isn''t that what he offered you?" The red-skinned Sith, comfortable in his green-black soapstone throne. Fingers steepled, rings and jewelry catching the light. The timbre of his voice, honeyed. Learn from me. "No, he just wanted to teach me. He wanted me to take up his¡­his legacy." "Huh." Tahiri launched into a clearer description, at Master Ikrit''s prompting. They compared now their stories. The Sith had been formal with Anakin, like talking to a peer, talking about being a proper host and then offering a gift to make up for his mistake with the vong biot. To Tahiri, the Sith talked more like a teacher - no, she corrected herself - like an elder family member. Warm, but kind of patronizing. What he''d said to her was just a welcome, nothing about trespassing. Nor did he apologize, but instead, said that it was traditional for a host to offer a visitor a gift. That gift being, specifically, his holocron. With it, he assured Tahiri, she could shape Sannah in any way she - or the girl - desired. Because Melin-Bralam told them both the secret of the Melodies. Anakin chewed his lip. Tahiri wrapped his presence around his, warm, confused, scared. Worried. He pushed to her his own fear for their friends, assuring her that he was just as out of his depth as she was. Neither of them had said a word of this particular revelation, not yet. Uncle Luke was going to know, for sure, but Anakin had hoped to have time. Time to understand it himself. "My students," Ikrit said softly, "I will not push you. A Jedi should not rush into matters, but give time for meditation and reflection." Anakin exhaled, hard. Tahiri looked pale, so he reached out, looping is arm around her narrow shoulders. She leaned into him. "It''s - well, it''s not what the Sith was offering us or anything. I mean," He smiled, that quirked half-smirk that was pure Solo. "that part was weird. This is more¡­more like I - we - know someone else''s secrets." Since they had paused in their stroll, Ikrit hopped up onto a fallen log, just beside the cleared trail. Chestheight to both of them, he plopped back to sit, curling his tail about himself. "The Melodies," Ikrit said. "That''s a good guess," Anakin allowed. "Not really, young Solo. You went to the world of the Melodies and met an ancient Sith. You did so with young Sannah with you, and now you bear old truths. It is not a complex puzzle." "He made them," Tahiri whispered. Revulsion tainted her presence, ugly and twisting. "He said they were experiments. How wrong is that¡­" "His Great Work." Anakin added. "He sounded¡­really, really proud of it. And I think it''s even worse too." "Worse than treating Sannah''s ancestors like toys? What could possibly be worse than that?" Anakin lipped his lips. He wasn''t sure. It wasn''t anything the Sith said. It was the little things. The statues, the murals. The carvings on the Sith''s throne. The Melodies themselves. It twisted around in his mind, pieces and parts linking together into a picture he really, really didn''t like. "No one will think any less of Sannah, or Lyric. Or any of her peoples," Ikrit assured them both. "We do not judge a people by what they cannot control. They have been fast friends to the Jedi for some time now and I have never sensed any deception, or darkness. The light always reveals; you know this, Anakin. It is better to cleanse in daylight, than let linger in shadow." "You know about all the predators on Yavin 8, right?" Ikrit did, of course, as did most who attended the Praxeum. Even though Yavin 8 wasn''t a common place to wander to, it was important for those who lived on the fourth moon to know about the dangers of the eighth. It was just neighborly. The murals stayed vivid in Anakin''s memory. Their holos of it were safely in Master Solusar''s hands, and no doubt she would be digging deep into lore and symbolism to study them. "I think - I think they might all be experiments." Tahiri gasped and Ikrit stiffened. Anakin forged forward. "In the mural, it showed us people hunting and eating all different kinds of animals. They looked like reels and avrils and stuff, but then later on, the murals turned into-" he winced "into what looked like some kinds of sacrifices. People were climbing into the bodies of the animals they hunted and killed and then running around." "No. No way¡­the statues, Anakin, the statues too-?" "That''s what made it click for me. There were statues in the same room as the mural. One was a Melodie. The others were like a Melodie, but with¡­different parts. One was a man who had the lower body of a giant snake. Another woman was stuck to half a spider." "A reel. A purella. And-" "A raithe and an avril. Some others that I think might match a songbuk and a dysart." He shifted, uncomfortable. "I read up on some of the other large animals on Yavin 8 last night, before I turned in." Ikrit''s expression was grave, something Anakin only knew from his long friendship with the Kushiban. He shook his head, ears flopping. "This is foul indeed. The Sith taint all they touch, and I weep for the long-lost souls that might have been trapped away in those bestial bodies." "That could''ve been Sannah. Or Lyric¡­" Tahiri looked sick, one hand held to her stomach. "Anakin, the Changing." Her face paled. Unbidden, he imagined Sannah sinking into one of the shallow rocky pools, eyes closed. Then wide in panic as scales rippled up her whole body, as her arms fused to her sides. Begging for help as her hair fell out and eyes went glassy, black and dull. Calm washed over him. Ikrit was standing now, tail swishing in agitation. "Easy, children. Easy. Do not give into fear. The Melodies have Changed for millenia. Do not fear for your friend now. Let''s continue our walk. It will be good to move and breathe." Ikrit hopped down onto the trail, looking over his shoulder. "Come along!" The Kushiban Master was right. Anakin fell into a breathing rhythm, banishing the thought of Sannah twisted into a monster. Lyric had been through it and the Melodies never feared their Changing. Stars above, they even looked forward to it. Tahiri settled too, until they both were comfortable enough to continue their recounting to their Master. He was interested to hear that Tahiri had seen the very same Man in Horns that he did and even heard the same words. It seemed that whatever that thing was, it had interest only in Anakin, not Tahiri. Privately, he was glad it left his friend alone. He knew how to handle this sort of attention. He knew how to keep the dark at bay. He''d been doing it his whole life. It was a burden he''d shoulder without a blink to keep Tahiri safe. The difference was at the end. Tahiri kept her hand in Anakin''s as she talked, squeezing occasionally, but not grabbing at him. Taking reassurance, but not needing it. "When He was talking to Anakin, there was something behind him. I thought it was just the way his cape was swirling around, but then it got clearer and I realized - I saw someone else. She came up behind the Man and she looked right at me, like the Man was looking at Anakin." A woman. Nothing he saw at all. Tahiri took in a deep breath, chest expanding and then she blew it out hard, puffing her cheeks. "I think it was me. I mean, a kind of me? She was older than I am and she looked like an adult but that was definitely my hair. I have to fight it every day so I think I know what it looks like. But she had tattoos and scars and she was wearing¡­she was wearing vonduun armor and she looked right at me and smiled." His teeth ground together and he kept from squishing Tahiri''s hand in his. Just like the hints of himself he felt and heard in the Man in Horns, of course Tahiri would see some twisted echo of herself. "And what did this Man want?" Ikrit asked, as calm as if he was wondering about the weather later. "He wanted me to take his hand. He said we could¡­we could be more than death." "Lies, of course," Ikrit said easily. "This rings like one last, desperate act from a withering spirit." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. It hadn''t felt like that. The difference between Melin-Bralam and the Man in Horns felt like night and day. They felt distinct in ways Anakin couldn''t put a finger on. He wasn''t even sure the Sith was aware of the Man. "What did the woman offer you, Tahiri?" Beside him, his best friend didn''t meet the eyes of their Master. She glanced away, at the treetops, at the slivers of blue sky above, at the mossy dirt of the trail beneath their feet. She didn''t look at Anakin either. "She didn''t say anything." The problem with their connection, the way they always brushed against each other, the way they just knew the other, was that Anakin could feel her lie. He didn''t mention it. Everyone had their own darkness to overcome. He gently squeezed her hand, and he felt her gratitude wash back to him. He''d just have to trust that she knew he was there. The last time she''d been this busy, she had been running for her Senate seat. That had been a whirlwind she very much never, ever wanted to experience again. In retrospect, the mistakes she made, the obvious flaws in her plans, how very green she was had her stomach curdle in embarrassment. A few minor changes and instead of being the progressive and clear-eyed young Senator the media loved to profile, she might have been relegated to a sneeringly ignored child of nepotism. A rarity, her private office door was left open, allowing the noise and bustle of her outer offices to filter in. There were contant holocalls being fielded, bounced back and forth. Aides rushed here and there with datacubes, delivering proposals and documents by hand, not trusting networks. This was the office of a Senator of Kuat and Viqi always demanded perfection. Her great-aunt had been wrangled, the thoughtless old hawkbat. Malaghi Shesh''s ghostly arrowhead reminded all of Coruscant, every day, of the Shesh family''s - and Viqi''s - munificence. Its guns helped trillions sleep tightly. Its presence shamed countless other sectors. Its power demanded access and liaison with the Navy. And, soon, it would remind everyone, through choice selection of orbit anchoring slots, of the diligent diplomatic work of Viqi. The Exiles were coming. Oh, what a delight. She couldn''t wait. Their performance at Fondor, which began with a shot heard ''round the galaxy, only reached new heights. Word was that Kvarm Jia was bowing to the demands of the Guildsmasters of Fondor. She already had him penciled in as an ally in the days and weeks to come. The Tapani Sector was reeling from the shocks of the brutal fighting. Worlds were scared, peeking through hands clapped over eyes at the suddenly all-too-real threat of the vong. Mrlsst was screaming that they were next, Shopani was arguing with their neighbors about who was more important. From Sefon to Procopia populations were almost riotous over fears of where the vanished vong fleet might next appear. An utter mess. The war, once distant, slammed into the sector, and now whispers were that the attack at Fondor might have been the New Republic''s own fault. That had it not been used as a mustering ground for the Fifth Fleet lingering there for what was obviously some new offensive, that the Yuuzhan Vong might not have targeted the world. It was provocation, some cried out. The New Republic used their worlds to stage an attack, but had been attacked in turn. And who saved the day? Not the New Republic Navy - though Viqi was able to admit that, privately, Brand still did a commendable job in holding the line. She wasn''t sure which side she''d come down on, when the inquest came - she''d read the winds then - but she was leaning toward keeping him around, as long as it wasn''t costly to her. The Exiles, they were the talk of the sector. Hard not to be, not with four warships at anchor over Fondor whose combined firepower, it was rumored, could match all of the menace and legacy of Death Squadron. Absolutely an exaggeration, but she made sure that those rumors were repeated. Often. And in hearing of those whose ears needed to receive them. Kvarm Jia, Senator for Tapani, was going to bow to the demands of the Guildsmasters and the Tapani Sector was going to request a formal military alliance with the Imperium Exsilius. When she wondered just how far they were willing to go to secure the favor of the Imperium, Viqi smirked in amusement at how far she was going too. Transparisteel houses, and all that. She couldn''t fault the Guilds of Fondor potentially selling out their world, now virtually defenseless, not when she was unilaterally killing billions of credits worth of contracts. Her family, she knew, was beginning to regard her as possibly insane. She was buying out of contracts, begging off ongoing negotiations and dumping lesser clients. Some was just smart business, really. A few concerns that had contracted with Shesh were not going to exist in a handful of months, because their central offices were going to be behind Yuuzhan Vong lines and probably also burnt to the ground. For those, she was willing to cut them loose, to hells with legal agreements. No one would be alive to complain about it anyway. Those clients who were useful, or influential, she was shuffling around. Dealing favors, trading off with the families that Shesh was in good standing with. She had berths to clear. She had many, many, many berths to clear. Kuat''s orbital yards were still not recovered from the disaster of 4 ABY, when the patriarch of Kuat took the coward''s way out. It was funny, in a way. She respected him for his stalwart defense of an independent Kuat, but hated him for the shame he''d heaped on the world too. A good lesson, she considered. The best intentions could wear away so quickly. A lesson to remember too, as the Exiles clearly and cleverly maneuvered for more and more influence. Fondor was a masterstroke and if Viqi could believe it, she would swear they collaborated with the vong to cause the attack on their world. Public knowledge of it was still quite limited, but NRI had already released an initial report to CSI. Blowing up a moon. They did nothing by halves. It was a small moon, but no one would care about that part. She hummed to herself, under her breath, not even noticing the tune as she skimmed through dense, tangled agreements forwarded by the Exile''s diplomatic cadre. It was a convoluted legalese that took several readings to keep straight, along with constant advice from her best attorneys, but so far everything seemed quite in order. Expected restrictions were in place - protecting both Imperial and Kuati patents, outlining inspection requirements, establishing delivery schedules, locking in partnership expectations. Shesh family engineers and shipwrights were eager to meet with their counterparts in the ''Mechanicum of Mars''. Viqi was eager to see results. By the time Roboute Guilliman arrived to Coruscant, she would have everything signed, signified and sealed. Ready for presentation and hand-off. Then would come handling the Senate - which would be a task all its own, but one she had begun months ago - and after that - "It won''t work." -after that, assuming the initial timeframes worked out, then- "You should have given them a chance." -her great-aunt would have to step down. There was nothing else for it and she''d have the influence of her other aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews. Nothing ever said she couldn''t be both Chief of State and Shesh of Shesh- "I''m sorry." She shook the thoughts aside. She had not noticed herself replacing ''Senator'' with ''Chief of State''. Catching the last few words of whoever was intruding, Viqi flicked her fingers in dismissal. "Yes, yes, sorry. Go tell someone who cares how you screwed up, and when you can expect to be fired." In her private office, with the door left open for the day''s tumultuous activity, the soft chak of a blaster''s safety flicking off focused her thoughts instantly. Slowly, she pulled her attention from the array of holos before her. The bore of the blaster, dark as the void, pulled her eyes in. It took up the whole world. Her fingers clenched white, fisted on her desk. Her panic button, underneath, was lightyears too far away. Quiet servomotors shifted. "Refreshments?" In the corner, 4F came to attention, straightening up from where it had been sorting through documents. "Not right now," she grit out, between clenched teeth. The blaster barrel didn''t even waver. The bastard didn''t even have nerves. By force of will, she tore her gaze from the business end of the gun, fixing her best and Sheshest glare on the bearer. Viqi Shesh was not going out like this. The galaxy was in reach. "Don''t be an idiot." "You should have given them a chance." "Don''t be an idiot." Servomotors whined again. In her peripheral, 4F raised his canted, silver arms. "Oh my," the protocol droid despaired. The crack of the laser was quiet, all things considered. Zalthis looked up and down the line of his brothers, each firmly at attention, stock-steady, immovable as adamantium. He paced before them, back and forth, helmet off and in the crook of his arm. Not one of them tracked him with their eyes, each staring fixed forward. Ideals of Ultramarian discipline. Ultramarines. Their armor was light, scorched and dusty and ashen. Speckles and sprays of dried blood showed here, there, staining plate and darkening cloth. A few injuries were livid and red, but healing. Zalthis kept his expression neutral, composed, just as Solidian who waited in the wings. In one hand, Sol rattled a loose bolt shell casing, the muffled clatter of metal on ceramite the only noise besides Zalthis'' deceptively light tread. As he passed each of his brothers again, Zalthis nodded slightly, as if seeing something they could not. Each a moment of judgment. ''I have been given leave by our Lieutenant,'' Zalthis spoke, projecting his voice enough to echo in the embarkation deck. It was one of the smaller aboard Opolor''s Vow, currently hosting a dirtied Thunderhawk and two Storm Eagles. Deckhands worked to service the transports and a few low-ranked Mechanicum savants ran diagnostics on thick-cabled dataslates. ''I am humbled by the honor our Lieutenant and our Captain have bestowed on me. By the decree of the Primarch, countersigned by Captain Argant and confirmed by Captain Thiel, I am authorized to inform each and every one of you this: you are Neophytes no longer. Take one step forward, as battle-brothers of the Thirteenth Legiones Astartes Ultramarines." His facade broke. Solidian whooped. Zalthis'' grin split his face, almost hurting his cheeks. Qario did not step forward but leapt, with both feet, a short hop that slammed ceramite boots to steel decking in a clatter. Lyros and Altraedar, on either side of Petran, grabbed their brother under the arms and bodily lifted the struggling neophyte up, feet kicking fruitlessly, laughing as they joined Qario. Evidur shoved Sydaris forward, the latter looking shocked, agape. Isidiran grabbed Tolon in a headlock just moments after they stepped forward as well, digging armored digits into his brother''s scalp. Around the embarkation deck, activity paused at the commotion and a cheer went up from the mortal crew around. A few hats were flung upward, tossed with exuberance. Whistles and a few hoots punctuated the cacophony. It took a long moment to bring himself back to formal severity. ''Ultramarines!'' he barked. His brothers, all of them, all of them, who survived Fondor, who fought alongside him and alongside other brothers, who had all proven themselves, who had all lived, tussled and hassled each other and then pulled together, stiffening and straightening again, though this time not a one could keep broad grins from their stretched, boyish faces. ''Our orders are received. Opolor''s Vow is to remain at Fondor. Sorpenton will escort Touch of the Motive Force to the Republican world of Kuat, before carrying onward to return to Eboracum. We will be transferred to Sorpenton, along with the Iax Tertius and First Eboracum.'' He looked each brother in the eye. Excitement. Pride. A bit of worry. He knew the feeling. Not that long ago. Not long ago at all, and yet - he felt older than them all, somehow. He was sure the feeling would fade. ''And then you will receive your Black Carapace and your assignments.'' Isidiran was nearly vibrating in place. In the corner of his eye, Zal could see Solidian silently chuckling. ''Dismis-'' He didn''t finish the order. They mobbed him. As far as he knew, none of them were likely to be assigned to Captain Thiel''s company. Zalthis let himself have this moment. Sol, too, when they pulled him in. They''d thought they would face the ork together. Break the Ghaslakh xenohold with the might of two Legions and the honor of warring alongside two Primarchs. Zalthis of a year previous could never have imagined this, here. Earning his Black Carapace on a daring infiltration mission with foreign witch-warriors. His other cadre brothers earning their own defending a world of aliens and automatons that was not even Imperial. The galaxy had gone mad. Truly mad - but he would not trade this moment. Not for all the stars.
Malik Carr prostrated himself before the enshrined villip. It was outsized, large as a rakamat''s egg, a full stride in height and the biot''s leathery skin shone like oil. It was a grand creation, bound to one partner and one partner only. Each and every commander bore one, sealed away in blessed stasis for just this moment. Harrar himself had overseen its removal and consecration. Body posture was not conveyed by the whisper-bulbs, but deference before his superior and the Gods demanded no less. Malik Carr pressed forehead to the deck. Tak tak tak tapped his claw. Wetly, the villip everted, outer surface rolling back to reveal its jelly-like interior. It was the last of the grand array of villips to waken; all others already everted and attuned, bearing myriad faces, all with eyes downcast. From the central villip and as near as mortally conceivable, the face of Yun-Yammka glowered down at Malik Carr and he felt a tingle of religious dread pucker his neck. "Attend me," rumbled the noseless, scarified visage. Slowly, he dared meet the simulacrum eyes of the Warmaster. Great Lah was poised on the precipice of nirvanic ascension and thus was his spiritual prowess and martial authority reflected in the shape of his face. Villips were imperfect repeaters - perfection was the domain of the Gods alone - but even through flesh and across tied-atomite distances, the Warmaster quietened the pounding of Malik Carr''s blood. A hunter recognized the apex predator. "My Warmaster," began Nas Choka, speaking from one of the lieutenant villips nearest to the master. "Ah, my trusted right hand," the Warmaster sighed and even this tone was received by the villip and repeated by tympanum implanted in the walls until Carr''s diaphragm vibrated and stole away his breath. "I anticipate good news. Fondor lies green beneath the hand of the Shaperate? The infidels flee Coreward, chastened and cowed?" Malik Carr smothered a grin, maintaining his carefully neutral and respectful mien. "The shipyards of Fondor are but a memory, o Warmaster. Much of the northern continent lies in ruins-" "Ruins that shall sprout fields of yorik and let our Worldeaters feast greatly on the shame of the unfaithful?" "O Warmaster¡­" "Or do the Worldeaters I have gifted you from these hands lie rotting beneath a hostile star? Do your ships burn and retreat in the void?" The Warmaster''s eyes gleamed and Malik Carr felt the brush of death''s cloak over him. Unbidden, he shivered. "These delays dismay me, my treasured implements. I ask for victory, in the name of the Gods, the Rainbow Eyed, and my own, in such order. I give freely the strength of the Chosen People, whose sinew''d arm has trained in long years of pilgrimage and I am terribly troubled to learn of delays." Nas Choka''s face, on lesser villip, paled. The acuity of the creatures to relay the finest of expressions heaped honor on the Shapers. "Heed my words well: these are but delays. Nas Choka, my brother, you have broken a great shipwomb of the infidel. This is good. But you did not conclude the killing. Warleader Malik Carr, who is newly anointed. You broke the moon of the fledgling Impeerium, you soured the starways of their world and you humbled their pride, but you did not cause their dead-ships to fall from the skies." The Warmaster tsk''d, closing heavily-lidded eyes and the villip squirmed, suiting its subject''s motions. "Delays. I hold you blameless, Warleader Malik Carr. The Impeerium is a worthy and fierce foe, whose might strikes echoes of the dread Cremlevian. Your flotilla is not fit to war against a battle-fleet of the infidels, yet you achieved much. This is to be commended. Supreme Commander Nas Choka, though Fondor remains held by the Reepublic, it is a tarnished treasure. "I would be wroth if you brought me failures, but that is not what is laid at my feet. You proceed, my hands, but you do not proceed apace. The Rainbow Eyed comes. I will not suffer humiliation to demand that He come to roost on any world but the crownworld. Only one prize will suffice, only one offering will pleasure His glory." "Coruscant," Malik Carr breathed, barely a sound. The Warmaster, of course, heard. "Coryouscant," The Warmaster confirmed. "The wretched axle of this heathen wheel. When He comes, all will be prepared. Worldeaters devour the blasphemy that was Nar Shayday, where they might grow fat and mighty in strength. The shipwomb of Sernpeedal is replete. The suan''kot hok-strohna grows. Our worldships groan beneath the weight of warriors eager to shed blood. Delay we may no longer. Duro is mine. Supreme Commander-?" Nas Choka, with color regained in his face, blinked and his villip wobbled as he no doubt inclined his head. "No, not you, my trusted brother. Supreme Command Malik Carr-" Air fled the grotto. Heat swept from his very toes to his forehead and back again. He saw the shock in the expressions of others attendant, even the widening of Nas Choka''s eyes. "From Commander to Warleader to Supreme Commander in so brief a span," the Warmaster mused. "This is fitting. This wheel will test us and we will break it or be broken upon it. There is little time for the mewing of Intendants or the scribblings of administrators. This is a war we make by the grace of Yun-Yammka, who rewards ever the bloody-handed. Ascension for the worthy, Shame for the failures. Supreme Commander Malik Carr, you will be my left hand, as Supreme Commander Nas Choka is my right. Together, you will organize the two great waves of this war, and you will muster them well. The northern wheel is yours, Malik Carr. The southern wheel you command, Nas Choka. I brook no more delays. We prepare for Battle Plan Coryouscant." Depthless black eyes surveyed them all. "Doro-ik vong pratte," the Warmaster intoned. Malik Carr''s throat burned as he shouted in response, joining the howled chorus as the Warmaster''s villip calmed, smoothed, and was quiescent. Then Supreme Command Malik Carr rose, and went out to his warriors.
Tsavong Lah released the breath he held, grimacing as he returned weight to his crippled leg. Blood still wept down it, beneath his vonduun plate, tacky and slick. His back ached, bruises and lacerations spreading from hip to neck. A lesser being might be humbled by the pain, but it only buoyed him. The Gods graced him with this trial and he would not Shame them nor himself by shying away. Intendants shuffled away the master villip, returning it to its rest in a clamshell container. Before him, the toxic, roiling fogs of Duro were held at bay. Biots whose name he did not know waved thick and flexible trunks, breathing deep the poisoned atmosphere with relish. Their flatulence was cleansed and pleasant air, nourishing to the body and each beast expanded this bubble of purification on the wasted world. Even still, he could taste acrid chemicals on his tongue and the soft linings of his sinuses burned. The world would need far more than a few cadres of filter-beasts. It would need grand scale shaping of the kind that only Masters and many, many months could enact, but this was to be a symbol. The hill upon which he stood, which overlooked the broken and shattered domes under which craven and filthy infidels once hid, made like an island in the muck and murk. Clear skies shone overhead. The muddy ground blossomed with fast-growth lichens and mosses, young ferns already poking up fiddleheads. Arrayed about the hill, in careful symmetry and shapes, were bodies of many Duro. Rank and position did not matter. Somewhere, the bothersome ''Vice-Director'' lay as ignoble and lifeless as a lowly servant-cleaner. Blood encouraged the sweet growth of life. Green spread, overtaking mucky brown and burgundy. "Bring the oggzil," Tsavong Lah commanded. Seef bore a pale-white, moist-skinned villip forward in both arms. Larval white, the villip bore a strange and metallic spine that threaded into the flesh of the creature, spreading filaments out like braided tendrils until forming a long, dangling tail that nearly touched the ground. Seef did not dishonor the biot, holding it just high enough to prevent muddy insult. She gently placed her burden on a tall, narrow stalk of coral. Of its own accord the villip squirmed and settled, more mobile than others of its breed. Wordless, Tsavong extended one bare, claw-fingered hand. With head bowed, a servant delivered his trophy. "Waken it." Seef stroked the oversized oggzil villip, using both hands, until it trembled and rippled back, revealing larval pale jelly. No face formed, for the oggzil was not meant to relay in return, but record and broadcast, across the cold and unliving networks the heathens relied upon. His message was to be spread far and wide and he ensured the wretched Republic had no choice. Carefully, he positioned himself, settling his weight equally on both feet, ignoring lancing jabs of agony from knee and ankle. He was Warmaster. He was the hand of Yun''Yammka. All must see. "Citizens of the New Republic," he spoke slowly, clearly. In his ear, the tizowyrm squirmed and he would not mispronounce a single word. "I speak from the surface of Duro. This was a world slain by your forebears. Look!" The stalk that supported the oggzil slowly revolved, allowing the villip to survey the toxin-laden clouds that lapped at the edges of the hill, held back by wafting gusts of the filter-beasts. "Look!" he repeated. "Like your souls, you have poisoned this world. In your hunger, you have upended life. You curse the Chosen People. You say that we worship death. Look!" Again the oggzil rotated atop its stalk, and this time, it canted slightly, such that the spreading mosses and ferns were clearly seen. "Duro lives again. Months your ''scientists''" the word was poison in his mouth and he withheld the urge to spit "have toiled to restore this world. They have failed. In hours, my Shapers have life in bloom." Tsavong scowled, his eyes flashing red and white. He waved his empty hand, encompassing the horizon. "You have wondered. You have begged. You have pleaded. ''Why do you come?'' ''What do you desire?'' Today I will tell you. I am Tsavong of Lah. I am Warmaster. We will¡­cease. Here at Duro. With the claiming of this world, I suspend hostilities. My Warleaders, my Commanders - they will take not one step forward. No more worlds will be embattled. I have but one condition." Tsavong raised his other hand, his right hand, which bore a single object. Silver, with black fittings. It was tubular, suited to both a single and hand-and-a-half grip. A dish-shaped emitter sprouted from one end. The other was capped by a durable pommel. It was an icon all in the galaxy would know. "Among you live ones who mock all Gods. They make themselves as little godlings and unto them you heap worship, you heap praise, you heap idolatry that is not earned. You abase before them, and they lord over you." Held aloft, the lightsaber caught the light of Duro''s star and glinted. To depress the activation stud sickened him, but the priests told that the Gods would overlook this minor blasphemy in understanding of the greater moment. Emerald light crackled from one end, a bright, shining bar. A lie. "Jedi. Liars of life. Worshippers of the zhaik''tan they call ''the Force''. Deceivers. False prophets. Deliver them to me, your Jeedai, one and all. Give them to me, all without exception. All species, all ages. A babe at the breast or hunched crone, I care not. Give me your Jedi and Duro is where this just war ends. Honor the Gods, and by the Gods be honored." He lowered the lightsaber, gripping it in both hands, held before him. "Disobey me at your peril. Hide your Jedi and see how your worlds will suffer. Deliver them and be justly and truly rewarded. The hands of the Chosen People will give great boons for each and every Jedi who is given up to be purified. Do not waste on them your regard. Among you they breed and from your misguided belief they feed." He flexed his arms. His biceps bulged, tendons stood out at wrist, elbow, neck. Metal groaned, then built into a shriek. With a twisting motion, a grunted exhale, the lightsaber snapped in two. The light cut out with an asthmatic cough. He cared little for the brief burst of snapping electricity that bit at his fingers. "Know this. All Jedi must be surrendered. But the one who delivers the Jedi I desire most, I will reward personally - with special gifts." He tossed one half of the lightsaber aside and dug claws into the ruin of the other. From within, he plucked a fiery gem which seemed to swirl and seethe with an inner furnace. Between two fingers he held out the gleaming corusca gem, casting aside the rest of the lightsaber. "Bring me Jacen Solo. Alive. That way I might tear from him his soul and feed it to the gods. Screaming." Interstitials: Mara Interstitials: Mara? During the Battle of Fondor, in the capital of the Galaxy... Their apartment had seen better days. Across one wall, leading into the kitchenette, Mara had pinned up several dozen printed-out flimsies, portraits each and every one, representing officials ranging from Senator Shesh''s office to nameless NRI agents. On their kitchen table, she had spreads of datapads and holocubes along with a few holocorders. Comparing the absolutely embarrassing wealth of data she had at her fingertips to her time with Karrde, it was a little sobering to realize the last time she had this sort of access was when she was the Emperor''s Hand. The positives of being a white hat, she supposed. Senator Shesh was furious at the implication that her office might be the one harboring the leak and had pulled out all the stops for Mara''s investigation. She still did not trust the woman - despite her public persona, Mara easily recognized a mercenary mentality, and Shesh had it in spades - but her willingness to throw open her records, provide access to her entire staff and even set aside time for one-on-one interviews, despite her incredibly busy schedule did give the Kuati some credit. In some ways, Mara felt that Shesh was being a little bit too accommodating. Guilty conscience, maybe? Or figuring that full cooperation would deflect suspicion? She wasn''t discounting the possibility. After all, NRI had provern airtight. Liaising with Kalenda and ''Face'' Loran let her crunch through the handful of agents that had been aware of the Obroa-skai mission in short order. A combination of careful touch with the Force, a lifetime of cold-reading, along with the paranoid amount of tracking NRI kept on their agents let Mara eliminate that loose end all on her own. She''d considered bringing in Jacen, Jaina or both for those debriefs, but an issue was clearance. A few of the topics that came up were well beyond the twins'' clearance, even Jaina with her Rogue Squadron position. With NRI checked off and the only other parties aware of the Obroa-skai mission being the Exiles and the Praxeum, all eyes turned to Shesh''s office. It was where both of the twins were, today. Shesh had invited the both of them to stake out a neighboring office, out of sight and unknown to her staff, so that they could passively observe throughout the day. Perhaps someone would slip, emotionally or otherwise, and the two Jedi Knights would be able to pick up a hint. Mara wasn''t expecting anything: so far all she had been able to read of Shesh''s staff was the usual guarded paranoia expected of career political wonks. Nothing that smelt of bitter treason or nervous uncertainty. Shesh''s Chief of Staff, Victor Pomt, was their point-man. Long trusted by the Senator and utterly loyal to the Shesh family, Pomt was prompt in providing documents and curriculum vitae of various staffers and political analysts. He felt as slimy as Shesh did, to Mara, but she could sense his honest concern for the Senator. Like his employer, Pomt''s mind was a lockbox, proving once again that relying on the Force like a crutch could end up at dead ends. A trained, focused mind could hide a great deal, just as Mara herself was trained to do in her youth. She remembered intimating as much to Anakin months ago now, during their stint on Dantooine. Her nephew was strong, so strong in the Force, but he had a bad habit of leaning too much on his innate talents and instinctual command of the Force. She couldn''t fault him, not really, because he was a prodigy, but over reliance on any one tool in your kit was a disaster waiting to happen. She reached for her cup of caf, unthinkingly taking a swig and scowling. Cold, very cold. She eyed the half-full mug, then glanced at the chrono. Where had the afternoon gone? The twins would be back shortly, ready to discuss any discoveries - or lack thereof. At this point, the possibility of actual Yuuzhan Vong infiltrators was starting to rank higher and higher on Mara''s radar. Given that with their utter invisibility to the Force, one could very easily be overlooked in the masses of staffers and workers in the Capitol. Idly, she wondered just how much old Palpatine was spinning in his grave. The musing always came to her when she spent time in the old Palace. A true monument to vanity, that was, now filled with innumerable non-humans and the center of the galactic republic, restored. There was quite a delicious irony to walking the halls as she did now, as a Jedi, as a wife, as an aunt and - unconsciously, she placed her hand over her pelvis - soon enough a mother. This revelation had leant new spice to working with her niece and nephew. She loved them, all three of them, dearly, even if she could admit she sometimes had a hard time quite communicating it. Mara Jade Skywalker was many things, but an open-heart wasn''t one of them. She grew better at it every year, but it was an ongoing project. Now, though, whenever she watched Jacen and Jaina chat back and forth, leavened every now and then by good natured bickering, she imagined subtly different faces on the two. Faces that took after their uncle more. Hair that ran auburn, perhaps. One day, it would be her children that chattered about the Force. If young, bitter, laser-focused Mara Jade could see her now, relaxing in her apartment, the one she shared with her husband, smiling like a fool at the tiny, tiny life growing inside her¡­ She''d likely call Mara a sentimental, weak, naive idiot who had lost her edge. Common sense said the right response would be to hug her younger self, but realism said that the woman she''d been would''ve been better served by a slap to the face and a good shake. Mara was a direct woman, emotionally and otherwise. She didn''t do subtlety and she didn''t do simplicity. After all, one of the first ways she figured out how to say "I care about you" to her eventual husband was to murder his identical clone right in front of him. She supposed it spoke a great deal about herself that she had stared that clone in the face and killed him dead, lightsaber right through his chest, and never once looked back. A different person might have been unsettled by coldly killing the man that wore the face of who would become her friend, lover and husband. Perhaps have nightmares about it. She couldn''t really see why. It wasn''t Luke. It was a broken clone. At best, it was mercy. At worst, just something that had to be done. An older, vicious part of her that had greatly atrophied still took an inordinate amount of pleasure at her final thumbing of the nose to the old bastard Palpatine in that moment too. So her younger self could piss and moan and tear her hair out over how far Mara had ''fallen'' from the quietly violent little monster of a Hand she had been, but Mara Jade Skywalker wouldn''t even feel pity. Pity meant that her younger self could''ve been any other way. She''d lost the game before she realized she was playing. It was what it was. And it was the past. The far past, compared to the dazzling now, which held Luke and Han and Leia, her niece and nephews and - she smiled, a disgusting sort of gentle expression that took a long time to feel comfortable on her face. And the little one to come. In the corner of her mind, the one that belonged to Luke, she felt a swell of warmth and fathomless love. Of course he would sense her musings. She pushed back a wry sort of exasperation, but one unable to cover up her own emotion. You''re busy, Skywalker. She felt his amusement. I''m just hormonal. Halfway across the galaxy - though soon to be on his way here - and he could read her like an open book. She pitied every being that would never be able to understand this kind of soul-deep connection. The apartment''s buzzer alarm pulled her from her thoughts, shortly before the door opened, Jacen and Jaina''s voices breaking the quiet. "In here," Mara called. The twins strolled in, Jaina still limping slightly with the bulky brace wrapped around her thigh. Her drastic haircut still caught Mara off guard - cut to chin length, but with a large part of the left side shaven right to her scalp. It had started off with just a smaller patch to allow for the oncocidal implant, but Jaina one afternoon had wandered off and gotten a haircut to even things out and make it appear purposeful, rather than a side-effect of surgery. Mara suspected another part of it was that it made Jaina look even less like Leia. She also tended to wear outfits that screamed ''Starfighter corps''. Like today''s: a sleeveless grey tunic with a Y backed green tank over it and loose fatigue pants. Her ubiquitous Rogue Squadron patch was sewn over the right breast. If she was old enough, that patch would ensure she''d never pay for a drink for the rest of her life. "How was it?" Jaina slumped into an unoccupied chair, groaning. Jacen took one to the left of his sister, sliding in and leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Total waste of time," Jaina groused. "Nothing. Nothing." Jacen grimaced. "A lot of people are anxious, but that''s probably just because of our investigation. Senator Shesh was in a really good mood, like she has been in for a couple days." "-it''s the Exiles," Jaina butt in. "It''s all they talk about in that office, I swear it''s like they don''t realize there''s a whole rest of the galaxy fighting and dying." Her niece was getting more and more restless by the day. Mara knew she kept a nearly religious fixation on any and all news from the fronts, especially as regards Rogue Squadron and Kre''fey''s command. Her friends and colleagues were out there and Mara knew well the kind of helpless anger that could fester when there was nothing you could do about it. She''d had to deal with that helplessness for months as her body betrayed her. "Victor recommended we look into secondary contacts," Jacen added. "He said that there could be leaks that are accidental. Like talking too much to a friend or family member, or even just venting at the local tapcaf." Mara had considered it. With the dead ends at NRI and Shesh''s office proving annoyingly resilient, it meant the investigation had to start to expand outward and along new avenues. Now, it wasn''t likely that they''d stumble across droid-driven tree surveillance networks, of course, but the Vong were proving they could do subterfuge as well as blatant violence. She thought of just how close Luke had come with the Elan assassin and once again swore to never underestimate the vong. "Pomt might have the right idea. One person says something offhand, then it gets repeated, and you might not even need a mole in the office itself." She glanced back at her pinboard, at the various faces that stared back at her. The only problem with sources being a few steps removed like that was a degradation in the quality of the information passed along, plus there was no way to probe or pry for what was really desired. It would be more of a passive gathering system, not an active infiltration. On the one hand, if it really was the case, it boded well for New Republic operation security. On the other hand, the Force was not infallible. They couldn''t just trace the emotions and surface impressions of some staffers during a week of interviews and then pronounce their investigation over. If it was that easy, Palpatine would never have been able to hide right under the noses of the entire old Order for decades. She still suspected there were actual turncoats in Shesh''s office, but buried under Kuati training as well an awareness that Jedi did exist and were liaising with the Senator. It was much easier to deflect an attack you knew was coming, versus a knife in the dark. Sadly, while NRI had its own rules it could bend or break with impunity, they walked a straighter line when dealing with a Senator''s office. Especially a Senator as upcoming, influential and charismatic as Viqi Shesh. The last thing the Jedi needed right now, with the ways the winds were blowing, was accusations of trying to subvert Senators or the Senate itself. Still, Pomt''s advice jived with her own thoughts. Regardless of a mole in the office, there was still likely to be an actual cell set up. From her own experience, while a single agent meant there was incredible operational security - it was impossible to flip on the rest of a cell if there was no rest of a cell - it also introduced a great deal more failure points by forcing that one agent to accomplish everything. One person could only juggle so much and espionage was a busy job. "Let''s work with that, then," Mara announced. "I''m getting something to eat," Jaina declared. "But I''m listening." Mara gestured toward the ''fridge. "There''s takeout left over and some nutrient bars." "Mm," Jaina agreed. Jacen cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah, I''ll get you something too." Mara hoped her children - children? Multiple? Mara, one at a time - would have even a tenth of the twins'' easy friendship. Before she could get lost in imaginings again, she refocused, stretching. Her spine creaked, lumbar popping. Why had she spent most of the day at the kitchenette''s table and not the far more comfortable sofa? Clearly, a plot by the vong to throw her off. Jaina rummaged through the ''fridge''s offerings, muttering to herself, but Jacen appeared thoughtful. "We''ve talked about there being vong agents here." Mara nodded. "With Elan and the saboteur on Belkadan, we can''t discount it." "Their masquers are good - really good - but NRI is pretty sure their new scanners can figure them out." Several had been installed at the Palace, setting up passive scans for all visitors and workers. So far, no alerts, but the scanners weren''t exactly subtle or small. Whatever the vong put into those masquers, they did a remarkable job at appearing like plain old normal flesh. It was definitely possible that spies had seen the scanners installed or had been alerted to them by moles and adjusted accordingly. "Let''s assume the vong have a controller for their agents. Peace Brigade aren''t exactly big thinkers." On the other side of the kitchenette, Jaina snorted. "How do we find a masquer''d vong on Coruscant?" Jacen frowned, thinking hard. Mara sat back, letting the teenaged Knight consider it. After all, half the reason she''d requested both of them to assist her was to give them tips and training for the future. It wouldn''t accomplish much if she held their hands the whole time. "If it''s a vong," Jacen said, slowly. "They might go somewhere that''s more familiar. An apartment complex near one of the parks. Maybe work at a place that''s got more greenery and life to it." She could see the rationale, but it was a little surface level. "That could cut down on places," she agreed. "Coruscant and especially the Senate district isn''t exactly overflowing with green spaces." "I think there was a tapcaf around here that''s basically a jungle," Jaina added, returning with reheated containers, dropping one in front of Jacen before reclaiming her seat. "One of the pilots in another squadron mentioned it. Said it was like eating on Kashyyyk." "A vong would definitely feel more at home there," Jacen declared. "All true." Mara nodded. Again, it wasn''t a bad thought, but it assumed a lot about the vong themselves. The infiltrator on Belkadan, Yomin Carr, had disguised himself a technician, meaning he worked with ''abominable technology'' day-in and day-out. "One problem. A tourist destination like that one would more than likely be more selective about the staff they hire. I would bet they don''t have very high turnover." Jacen''s face fell a little, but he rallied quickly. Mara was proud. Being wrong isn''t a bad thing, as long as you learned from it. "Same thing with a more upscale apartment like that. It''s not impossible, mind you. Really, Jacen, it''s not out of possibility. If there''s Peace Brigade sympathizers in the right position, I''m sure they could polish some repulsors and get their vong handler into a nice place." Mara rose, taking her cold and stale caf with her and tossing it in the sink, rummaging around for a new package of instant. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "On the flipside, everyone knows the vong hate technology. Sticking one in a place with a view of trees is a little on the nose." "So where should we look instead?" Jaina cut in, around a mouthful. Jacen glared at her. "Don''t be gross," he chided. Jaina shrugged. "The first places to look would be housing that caters to refugees or does under-the-table renting. If I wanted to infiltrate Coruscant right now, I''d do it through the constant trickle of refugees without IDs. No one is going to look twice at some guy with a handful of hard credits and no papers, not with half the Rim fleeing Coreward." Karrde often used those sorts of circumstances to his advantage. It was the benefit of being hooked into the criminal underworld, even if the helplessly idealistic man - she''d never say it to his face - kept himself at arm''s length from the truly reprehensible. No matter where in the galaxy, there were those desperate enough to try anything and those greedy enough to enable it. Karrde could seed any number of his operatives just by slipping them in through the cracks. It was never glamorous, but it was damned effective. In her stint as the Hand, while she had near-unlimited resources, she too needed to avoid prying eyes at times, and that could mean tramp freighters and creds slipped from palm to palm. Jacen snapped his fingers. "And there''s got to be work for all the refugees coming in too. All paid under the table, right?" Mara beamed. "Exactly. When there''s tragedy, there are the unscrupulous who capitalize on it." Jacen drummed his fingers on the kitchen table, glancing to Jaina. "So¡­where would we start to look?" "They would want to minimize necessary travel and keep cells close together. Coruscant, as you two know very well, can be a totally overwhelming maze, especially for those that aren''t native." Jaina set aside her fork, eyes lighting up. "And since this is the Senate district, there''s going to be less illegal sh- stuff going on and the constabulary is going to crack down harder." Jacen snapped his fingers, following his twin''s direction. "And then if we can cross reference where Senator Shesh''s staffers live against places that rent or hire without question¡­" Mara''s grin promised violence. "We can narrow down our options. Tomorrow, you two. I''ll pull a request for known or suspected grey-market businesses - yes, Jacen, police do tend to keep track, even if they don''t or aren''t able to shut them down - and get Pomt to send over addresses for Shesh''s office."
Sometimes, it was almost tangible that the Force was with them. Mara had been expecting stakeouts, long nights and probably liaising with the constabulary to cover all bases, but after Pomt delivered addresses for all of Shesh''s staff and she dug into some of Karrde''s contacts, she and the twins broke down about a hundred potential shady businesses to a half dozen priority targets. Face had a few the NRI had been keeping eyes on, and even Pomt mentioned rumors he''d heard through the grapevine. They would split up, to cover more ground and because Mara had stressed that under absolutely no circumstances - yes, Jacen, if an innocent''s life was in danger, that could be an exception - were Jacen or Jaina to try to take down a vong if they sensed them. If they managed to nail down a masquered infiltrator, it wasn''t just Shesh who was interested in them but the NRI, the Senate District Constabulary, the Order¡­really, it was easier to list those who weren''t interested in getting their hands on a vong. Mara took the most outlying business, which was a chop-shop that specialized in boosted speeders and swoops from the lower levels, stripped to parts and then sold through ''legit'' fronts in the upper city. She wondered if a vong might actually enjoy the job, getting to rip apart the ''evil machines'', even if they didn''t get to destroy them outright. This was a place that Karrde had information on and they fit all of Mara''s parameters. Paid in hard credits, didn''t ask for background checks, didn''t require any identification. Jacen took a catering place nearer to the Palace, which on the outside looked quite professional but behind the scenes paid overworked refugees under the table to save on costs. Jaina was at the third, which was a storage depot that notoriously hired criminals for muscle as guards. They each had tiny, in-ear commlinks, synched up to each other, and the plan was simple observation at a distance. Visuals didn''t matter - it was the Force that would reveal everything they needed. The second a hollow void in the shape of a person showed up, the twins had strict instructions to call Mara immediately and if Mara didn''t answer, wait sixty seconds before contacting NRI. Face was on deck, eager and driven to gain some measure of retribution after poor Zevulon died on Obroa-skai. He''d been blaming himself for the leak, especially since it had cost the life of a teammate, a Jedi and one of the Exiles'' Astartes. Mara posted herself halfway up a multi-story office tower, sequestered in an empty office space that gave a perfect view over the plaza and alley that the chop-shop sat on. Deep enough down, the sky was a slice of blue far above, hemmed in by towering buildings and the stacked crust of Coruscant''s cityscape. The plaza had small drifts of trash gathered in corners and the lumes were dirty. Ironically, there was greenery here, at least in the form of lank and spiraling vines that were a dark green-black, clinging along facades and sucking up what sunlight made it down a kilometer. The morning passed slowly, Mara reaching out to brush the Force over every single being that passed by. She settled into a sort of unconscious rhythm, like keeping an ear on an open commlink until a particular word leapt out. The beings down here moved around with a general aura of worry and fright, proving even the capital world wasn''t immune to the growing unease around the invader''s constant successes. A few had particularly unpleasant presences in the Force, but she''d have to let sleeping dewbacks lie. Mara chewed through a ration bar, expecting to burn the afternoon and evening, when her comlink popped and Jacen''s voice, a little uncertain filled her ear. "Aunt Mara? I think I''ve got him." "What!?" Jaina exclaimed. "I''m looking at one of the workers on break. He''s standing there, but I don''t feel him." She wasn''t sure if that spoke extremely highly to their planning and deduction, or very poorly of the vong''s operational security. Of course, just because Jacen might have found a masquered vong didn''t mean that they had a connection to the leak in Shesh''s office. It could very well just be a coincidence - if Mara was in the invader''s shoes, she would seed as many agents into the enemy''s capital as she was able to, just because she could. "Sit tight, Jacen. Keep track of him. Are there other exits?" "Three others," Jacen confirmed. "How should I watch them?" "He doesn''t know you saw him. It would be pretty bad cover if he skipped off work, right?" "Exactly right," Mara confirmed, pleased that Jaina had realized it. "But I''m still going to call in Face. There might only be one vong there, but we might be about to kick over a viper-wasp nest." She packed up her gear - just a pair of macrobinoculars and a foldable stool and made for the turbolifts.
Face called in rapid response, holding at a distance in airspeeders. Mara joined Jacen, Jaina shortly after, where he was at a local cafe that offered an easy view of the catering office. They acted like who they were - an aunt and her niece and nephew, enjoying a restful afternoon. "We''ve got all exits covered and based on Jacen''s description, we''ll know when he leaves." Face was tapped into their comlinks now, liaising for them with the local law enforcement. They didn''t know the particulars of exactly who they were here to help interdict, being told only that it was a ''Vong sympathizer'' and that NRI had a warrant for their detainment. Jacen argued against keeping the police in the dark, which Mara could sympathize with, given how deadly vong warriors could be, but Face was adamant. This was a command from over his head - NRI didn''t want the fact that there might be Yuuzhan Vong out and about on Coruscant to be common knowledge. For Mara, she was half expecting the vong to¡­remove himself from the equation. Their kind''s willingness to martyrdom was as famous as their scars and tattoos and, from a practical sort of angle, having agents not just willing but fervently happy to end their own lives was a frightening kind of security. They''d do their best to prevent it. Face handed off Stokhli stun sticks, a new design that combined the webbing Stokhli was known for with ionic shock that was advertised to drop any being in the galaxy. Given the hardiness of the Yuuzhan Vong, Mara figured three stun-sticks might just be enough to do the job. Luckily, the cafe catered to the sort of clientele that spent hours at a time, so the trio of them wouldn''t draw unwarranted attention. A Bothan was there just as long as they were, working diligently away at a datapad while an Elom and a Bith kept up an animated conversation at a corner table. Without much else to do besides wait, Mara got Jaina talking about Rogue Squadron, the girl lighting up with excitement to relate endless anecdotes of the sort of goofy camaraderie that Mara expected of teens and twenty-somethings at the very apex of their skill and in the middle of a war. Pranks played with misplaced bunks and footprints on the ceiling of the ready-room; all ways to burn off idle energy and build up that belief in their own invincibility. Poor Jaina - Mara knew her EVA had to have shaken the teenager, and shaken her hard, but through the Force, Mara felt only a longing and frustration to get back to it all. Jacen ended up joining in, bringing up Centerpoint. Mostly about how disappointed he was to see the heightened Corellian tensions and the anti-Jedi sentiment spreading and how it was frustrating that the system was turning on Marcha. He praised Anakin''s refusal to fire the station''s star-buster in low tones, condemning Thracken for how much he tried to pressure his brother. Mara had known, of course, from Luke, but she was still so proud to hear how Anakin had acted. Luke sounded almost relieved when he spoke about it with Mara and she could understand. Anakin had a chance in that moment to lash out and embrace all his anger and hatred of the Yuuzhan Vong for what they did to Chewie and he set it aside. She''d felt his buried fury on Dantooine, in those dizzying, foggy hours as he fought his one-man war against the invaders. She''d sensed how locked up tight and buried he kept that pain, refusing to let it sway his strikes. He kept every kill clean and focused, like a soldier, not a reaver. She suspected Jacen didn''t understand what Anakin had done, not fully. Mara knew the exact parameters of the Corellian gambit. The New Republic hadn''t given clearance for Centerpoint to be used offensively. Morality of the act aside, firing Centerpoint would have been absolutely catastrophic for the political situation of the Core. Thracken''s fall from grace, which was certainly an exaggeration, given he hadn''t yet managed to reach grace again, had seriously neutered some of the most vocal Corellian secessionists. Rumor painted him as at fault for the shutdown of Centerpoint, something the New Republic was comfortable letting run. A weaponized, active Centerpoint would have given Corellia and a resurgent Triad a gun held to the head of the galaxy in a way far worse than during the original Crisis. Not to mention, a single shot wouldn''t have been the end. Mara knew the Admiralty and she could easily see powerful voices like Bel Iblis calling for more and more uses, burning out the Yuuzhan Vong from the galaxy like fumigating a house. And if Anakin was right - it would have been her nephew''s hand on the trigger. His anger, his hatred, fed by each genocidal blow. Mara could admit she hated the Yuuzhan Vong. For Chewie, for the galaxy, for her suspicions about her own illness. Wholesale extinction couldn''t be the answer, if only because whatever was left of the soul of the galaxy and those who lived after would be something she would tremble to witness. They chatted on and off, Mara enjoying the chance to properly catch up with her family. Just as evening was shifting toward night, Face alerted them that the target was sighted exiting with the rest of his shift. Mara slapped down credits and they left the cafe at a swift, but careful pace. She reached out, feeling the presence of the exhausted and bitter temp workers filing away toward a repulsor train station. A smile spread across her face at a rather distinct gap in the crowd. Even though she couldn''t quite see them yet, she could feel all the beings clustered up and right there - right there all of them gave just enough space for another being, yet oddly didn''t fill in the gap in the crowd. Jaina had her hand on her stun-stick and Jacen breathed in cycle. For Mara, she just delighted in doing what she had done best for decades. Being a Jedi was satisfying in ways she''d not dreamt of - tutoring and teaching Jaina as well as offering guidance to the other trainees was fulfilling. But at heart, she''d always been an infiltrator, a spy, an operative. Could take the Hand out of the woman, but couldn''t¡­she shook her head, not sure where she was going with that. In the end, when the three of them cut through the crowd at the repulsor train station, arrowing toward the hollow space that looked like a man, it all ended up far too easy. The disguised vong glanced up, reading something clearly on their faces as his eyes hardened and mouth twisted into a snarl - But three sprays of shimmering blue web lashed out, binding and jolting the spy. He toppled, eyes rolled back and encased in several inches of fast-hardening and sticky epoxy. "Face," Mara called, tapping her comlink. "Honestly, I''m a feeling a little blue-balled," Face sighed. "Face," Mara repeated, this time chiding. "There are children on the line." "Hey!" Jaina yelped. "We''ve got him down. Bring in a speeder, it''s time to see what he knows." "Bring it in now." Jacen was already handling the crowd, voice raised enough to project without shouting. Mara could feel waves of calm roll from her nephew, taking the edge of the sudden surprise of all the nearby waiting passengers. "Don''t worry! My name is Jacen Solo, I''m a Jedi Knight. We''re here with the local police, just arresting a wanted man. You''re all completely safe!" Mutters and exclamations rippled around them, but Jacen caught and punctured the potential for panic before it could even start to form. Mara was glad it hadn''t come to lightsabers and blasters. She could easily imagine a panicked stampede if they had to light blades here in a crowd like this. Still, curious eyes watched, mostly for the novelty of a Jedi - or presumably, multiple Jedi. An airspeeder swooped down, uniformed officers hopping out and helping maneuver the surprisingly heavy vong into the back. A second speeder joined them, gull-wing door popping and Face leaning out. "Come on," he called. "I''ll give you a lift." Mara waved the twins on. "I''ll ride with our catch. Just in case." They took off into the night. Mara shifted next to the webbed up and comatose vong, keeping a hand on her holdout blaster, set to stun. A successful stakeout, a quick and clean grab and hopefully by the time they all went home, they''d have a solid lead to latch onto. Interstitials: Jaina Interstitials: Jaina Though waiting around for the suspected infiltrator to leave their job was tedious, Jaina couldn''t hate getting a few moments of downtime with Jacen and Mara. Between Mara''s sickness, Jaina joining the Rogues and then the investigation, she hadn''t had much of a chance to really spend time with her Aunt. It was a quiet relief to see her so much more healthy and practically glowing, animated and energetic as Jaina knew her to be, from the year or so that Mara had taken the young Jedi under her wing. It hadn''t been a very conventional apprenticeship and Mara was not a conventional Master, but they had clicked and clicked well. Jacen seemed in a better mood than he''d been in, with less of his gloomy uncertainty and the angst that sometimes drove her up the wall. They talked about Centerpoint and he passed along her younger brother''s decision there, along with Jacen''s own suspicions about everything Anakin didn''t say. He told her about that moment in the control room, with their little brother''s hands on the controls, ready - and able - to wipe out Yuuzhan Vong on a scale that was almost unimaginable. Jacen came out of that affair feeling like the will of the Force had been upheld. Jaina¡­held her tongue about her friend Anni, about all empty seats in squadron ready rooms, about the bunks that get cleared out, about the gut-wrenching flashes in the dark that meant another capital ship, filled with brave sailors, just went up like a funeral pyre. Instead, as they kept eyes on the catering place, Jaina focused instead on relating some of the lighter, funnier stories. Even on some of the deadliest fronts of the war, beings had ways to keep up their spirits. She shared one of the best stories from just over a month ago. They all had a morning briefing - and when she said morning, Jaina leaned on the word and Mara smiled knowingly - and all the Rogues made sure to show up to the ready room before Colonel Darklighter. They all took their usual spots, flightsuits buttoned up and ready to go, professional as you like. They even left a nice, steaming mug of caf on the podium for the Colonel. Colonel Darklighter greeted them all with his usual cheerful wave, holding a datapad in his off-hand. Everyone was rapt and at attention, backs straight and not a slump or slouch among them. The Colonel took the podium, glanced to the duty chart to his left, noticed the caf and smiled. He opened his mouth to kick off the briefing, just as he finally looked up. And the Colonel blinked, ceramic mug halfway to his lips. Jaina''s Jedi training had her as innocent as the rest of them, fingers laced on the half-desk in front of her. Slowly, Colonel Darklighter replaced his caf on the podium, looking to each Rogue in turn. Under his steady, searching gaze Jaina didn''t flinch or blink. "I''m beginning to understand why Wedge is going grey," the Colonel observed, mildly, finally reaching for his caf again. Then he went right into the morning''s briefing, laying out CAP rotations and refreshing everyone on duty shifts. They started breaking as the briefing went on. Major Forge chewed on her bottom lip as her shoulders hitched every now and then. Kral Nevil kept taking long, calming breaths. Major Varth kept it together as well as Jaina did, steepling her fingers and nodding seriously along with the Colonel at times. No one commented on the criss-crossed tracks of bare feet that ran up the walls of the ready room, across the white-painted ceiling and back down the other side again. No one mentioned how there were at least four different sized tracks, from three different species. No one observed that a bucket of graphite grease went missing from the hangar the previous afternoon. Jacen tentatively asked if she''d used the Force. Jaina scoffed - who needed the Force when you could link arms, back to back, and then walk right up the wall? At least, Jaina observed with a smirk, that was her theory. Her aunt brought up stories about Uncle Luke, smirking as she recounted old classics about their early years together, back when Aunt Mara''s main pastime was needling the Jedi Master. They were stories Jaina had heard a dozen times already, but she laughed like it was the first time hearing them, enjoying the moment of simple and normal family. Aunt Mara''s love was a gentle glow in the Force, swelling even as she sarcastically mimicked Uncle Luke''s voice. Time passed at the tapcafe pleasantly and Jaina could almost pretend the galaxy was at peace, up until the Yuuzhan Vong infiltrator strode out of the building opposite. He looked for all the world like any other human male, albeit with a blank, empty expression that matched the blank, empty space the Force was convinced he was. Then it was back to work.
The Yuuzhan Vong was laid out on a table with a pretty excessive amount of restraints criss-crossing his body. The ooglith masquer floated nearby in a transparisteel tank, hopefully being kept alive for further testing. Getting their hands on a living masquer was a coup for NRI. Colonel Loran mentioned they''d managed to roust other vong before, but invariably the fights ended up with dead masquers and dead vong, which crimped NRI''s attempts at working on a living masquer. Jaina hoped there might be some breakthroughs in rapid detection of vong agents, now that a living one was in custody. The vong, still sedated and wearing a green-grey paper gown, ended up waking up in the transport. Aunt Mara had pumped about a half dozen stun blasts into him before he went under again and now they were playing it safe with a sedative drip, though one that Doctor Eicroth said would probably kill a wampa. Doctor Joi Eicroth was a blonde woman, a little shorter than Jaina and with a firm handshake and an all-business demeanour. The exobiologist was on NRI''s payroll, tapped for her extensive experience including her exceptional performance during the Teljkon Vagabond affair. She primly stripped off disposable gloves, tossing them into a bin and tapping a few final notes into a datapad. Jaina had eyes only for the vong. It was the first time she''d been this close to one. Jacen and Anakin had been fighting them on the ground, but she had been flying since essentially the start of the war. There was something diminished in the alien as she looked him over, head to toe, that turned it from a mysterious monster into just some other being. He looked ferocious, certainly, with ritual scars and spiraling tattoos across most of his body, but laying there unconscious, it was¡­just a being. Nothing special. "At this point, the most we know about their physiology is that we can be sure we don''t know enough. Take this sedative-" Eicroth gestured. "I''m not sure how he''s able to metabolize it without going into cardiac arrest." "We found out that stun blasts aren''t nearly as effective on them as other beings," Mara observed. The Stokhli sticks took him down initially, but even a wookiee would still be out cold from three blasts, not waking up less than ten minutes later. The chamber was a blend of secure room and laboratory, with tools and equipment securely locked away behind magnetically sealable cabinets. With everything shuttered up, it could serve as a jail cell, but a doctor like Eicroth could turn it into a medical theatre to¡­examine¡­an occupant. Her Jedi training said that experimenting on a living being was unconscionable. The Rogue in her said it was an easy price to get an edge on an implacable enemy. The vong, strapped down at forehead, neck, wrist, ankle and waist, was muscular and pale. Short-cut black hair stuck up from his elongated scalp and Eicroth speculated wearing a masquer was easier with less body hair. Tattoos in red and blue and teal spiraled around his bare limbs in concentric circles and made a starburst around his left eye. Inked sacs under his eyes were blue-black and talons sprouted from each fingertip. Eicroth reported there were apparently no biot implants, at least none she could detect with a deep tissue scan. Warriors just like this one tried to kill her twin and her little brother. Warriors just like this one she blew away on the daily, turning coralskippers into pebbles. Tekli, Cilghal''s apprentice, took blood and tissue samples from the vong, sealing them in cryogenic containers to send out to other labs and to work with herself. The diminutive Chadra-Fan seemed inured to the idea of experimentation, which made Jaina feel a little bit better at her own callous estimation of it. The others in the chamber were, of course, Jacen, but also Colonal Loran - who Jaina wouldn''t be caught dead calling ''Face'' and Lieutenant Colonel Kalenda, who was trying to reclaim a measure of respect after the Elan catastrophe. Colonel Loran''s eyes were narrowed, not a hint of his famous bonhomie. Jacen sat in a chair, leaning forward with his fingers interlaced while Colonel Kalenda was off to the side, speaking quietly into a comlink. "Stunners or not, you three found him in record time. Seriously, Mara, there''s no Jedi I can poach away from the Praxeum? I promise I''ll return them lightly used and I''ll pay them." Colonel Loran didn''t look away from the vong and Jaina sensed a complicated blend of hatred and guilt locked up behind the Colonel''s neutral expression and calm tone. "I can''t say, Face. You''d have to ask Luke." The Colonel sighed. "I have. All of you Jedi are way too altruistic and busy to end up as spooks." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, this is excellent work. We''ve got analysts digging through his ''history'', such as it is, and we''re hoping we''ll pick up a lead. If we can roll up this entire chain, I''d be a shoo-in for a promotion." "We''d also clear a Senator of potential treason," Jacen observed. "Yeah, that''s nice enough too. What else can you tell us, Doc?" Eicroth consulted her datapad again, gesturing down toward their ''guest''. "I haven''t had enough time for anything but preliminary scans, but I can tell you that getting a live one is a huge boon. I''ve dissected the bodies recovered from the fronts, but a living creature always has a lot more to tell than a dead one." "Being," Jacen muttered, quiet enough only Jaina heard. "Not creature." "I can tell you they have an incredibly robust nervous system. It''s why it shrugged off the stuns so well. Their muscles are much denser and their fast twitch muscle fibers react almost before the signals reach them. Incredible reaction times, which I''m sure the Jedi here know well." Jaina couldn''t help but nod. Sometimes ''skips seemed almost prescient with how they''d know right before you locked them. "Stellar immune system as well, which is to be expected for their fervor for self-mutilation. The way the masquer interfaces with their pores would, in theory, open them up for a truly horrific amount of infections, but I don''t even see a single spot of inflammation." Eicroth continued her analysis, regaling them with all the ways the Yuuzhan Vong were, apparently, the perfect custom tailored warriors. Which Jaina could''ve told anyone. They were a species that exalted biology and showed a mastery over genetic engineering and organic design that made Arkanians look like children playing with blocks. Of course they would perfect themselves too. "What''s interesting is the amount of damage this one shows." Eicroth flicked a hologram on, an elongated but generally humanoid skull appearing in midair. She traced bright lines that wound around the long parietal span of the skull. "Those are all artificial breaks. We had been assuming the elongated skulls of vong were just genetic, but this might indicate that they do some form of headbinding, or maybe other ways of enhancing the shape." "Why?" Kalenda asked, tucking her comlink away. Eicroth shrugged. "I couldn''t say. There''s no biological benefit to it, as far as I could tell. Aesthetic, maybe? A sexual signifier? Cultural one? There''s a lot we might never know and all I can tell you is what the body tells me. He has other breaks in his fingers and limbs and I suspect, based on the shapes, the breaks in his legs were to add height." Jaina winced. She couldn''t imagine how agonizing that could be even with painkillers, which of course, the vong would die before touching. "I''d like to get into his brain, of course, but that''ll need a higher authority than you, Colonel." Face nodded while Jacen blanched. "So¡­what next?" Jaina asked, unable to help herself. It was fast approaching midnight and her oncocidals made her a lot more tired than she usually was. "So we keep digging," Colonel Loran said. "Again, huge thanks to you three for getting us this. We''re going to try interrogation tomorrow and we''ll let you know if he gives us anything. Probably won''t! But it''s worth a try. Mara, we''ll pass you any new intel as soon as it hits and is vetted. Don''t wait on me, or us, if you think you''ve got a lead. NRI wants this source locked down and out and they''re willing to turn a blind eye to Jedi shenanigans." Given some of the more sour opinions on Jedi among the Senate and in some branches of the military, Jaina was happy to hear Colonel Loran''s vote of confidence. Friends of the Jedi were growing few and far between, despite the best efforts of Jedi to take up the fight and save lives. "Thanks, Face. Jacen, Jaina - let''s head back to the apartment. You two need to catch some sleep." "You too, Aunt Mara," Jacen argued. Jaina sensed something from Mara, like a hidden smile. She wasn''t quite sure what it meant.
Colonel Loran woke up them all up after barely five hours. He looked haggard, probably because he hadn''t had any chance to sleep, but he had a triumphant grin. "We''ve got a flight track, we''ve got three contacts he''s been seen with, and we''ve got flight tracks for them too." The three of them clustered around the apartment''s holoprojector. Jacen had thrown a robe over his sleepwear, but Jaina, by habit, slept in fatigue pants and a tank-top. "What about the vong?" her Aunt asked. "Were you able to get anything out of him?" Colonel Loran waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, he killed himself." Jaina started. "What?" she blurted out. "Turns out his tongue was some kind of biot. When we woke him up it crawled down his throat and shredded his lungs. Drowned in his own blood, very nasty, et cetera." Jacen turned away, taking a few paces out into the living space of the apartment. With no small amount of satisfaction, Jaina felt his inner turmoil. It was hard to value the lives of the vong when they didn''t value them themselves. Could''ve told him that, given how she ended up space. She focused back on the Colonel, who was laying out their findings for Aunt Mara. "We''ve been tracking suspected Peace Brigade ships since the organization made itself known. There hasn''t been much of a pattern to them, which would fit for opportunists grabbing up whatever surplus they could, but curiously enough, the ship this vong came over in was recently registered to one CorDuro. When we found his contacts - Peace Brigade, by the way - and we looked into their ships, which had been hauling in refugees from the Rim, guess what?" Mara''s lips quirked. "CorDuro?" "Stop reading my mind, Jedi scum. CorDuro it was. Now, that alone isn''t damning, except that all three ships were sold at auction by CorDuro¡­three months ago. On the same day. To a buyer who doesn''t exist, where they then had registrations swapped around in¡­" Colonel Loran drug out the last syllable with relish. "Hutt space! Honestly, this isn''t a smoking blaster so much as it is a criminal still trying to wipe off their fingerprints before the constabulary arrives. NRI has had eyes on some Peace Brigaders embedded in CorDuro for a while now, mostly through the Bothan Spynet, and this kind of cinches the deal." The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "How did you get the vong''s associates so quickly?" Hm. It was a rapid turnaround from taking in the vong yesterday to Colonel Loran managing to find other Peace Brigaders only a few hours since they got back to the apartment. "Oh, that''s because their operational security was a complete joke. What do you get when you take someone who hates all technology and have them try to be a sneaky spy with a bunch of fringer fanatics who barely know how to spell?" "You pulled com records." Mara''s tone was knowing. "That and we also pulled security footage for the tenements he had a place in. They actually met up with the vong at his own place and never did anything about the holocorders just outside the building. We were able to pattern match to a known Peace Brigade agitator, a nasty customer of an Anx. He was singing quick after we showed him the vong''s dead body." Jacen rejoined them, wedging in between Jaina and Aunt Mara. "What does this all mean for CorDuro? Are the Duros themselves compromised? That would be¡­" Jacen trailed off, frowning. Jaina agree. Duro was a major gateway to the Core and while the world was a toxin-laced dumpster of a world, the orbital cities were famous and influential hubs of spacers, shipping and construction. It wouldn''t make any sense for the Duros to throw in with the vong, though - they had everything to lose and almost nothing to gain. "We''re thinking neither, at the moment. We don''t think CorDuro has anything other than lower-level sympathizers who are funneling out these surplus freighters to the Peace Brigade. As for any larger conspiracies, that''s doubtful too. Our main thought though, is that there''s a good chance that given how potentially widespread this frieghter-for-cash program is, there might be a controller over on the orbital city CorDuro is based on. Someone to manage things and make sure everything runs smoothly, since for all we know, it''s these cheap freighters that are propping up the smuggling and raiding the Peace Brigade is doing." "And a higher level controller might have connections or at least knowledge about Senator Shesh''s office." "Right in one, Lieutenant." Jaina beamed at Colonel Loran''s recognition. She only knew him by reputation, but though the Wraiths had left Fighter Command decades ago, they were still a bit of a legend of very mixed provenance among pilots and in a weird way, sort of like the Rogues'' odd cousin. "This vong was a low level agent, but some of his communiques had tidbits that had to have come from the Senator''s office. He wouldn''t know the mole, but I would bet next month''s hazard pay whoever sent him along to Coruscant did. Or does. And my gut''s telling me to check Bburru and CorDuro." Mara chewed on her lip for a moment, arms folded under her breasts and fingers tapping out a pattern on her bicep. "I agree. It''s logical, it fits, and regardless of if CorDuro is directly involved, we can''t let the Peace Brigade keep this kind of support. If we can link this to Shesh''s mole, all the better, but we need to cut out this rot and soon." "Then I can count on you to head it off?" The prospect of getting out and doing something woke Jaina up better than any recaf. "Us?" "I hate to ask it," Colonel Loran said in a tone that indicated he really didn''t, "but NRI can be slow and I''m worried our picking up of these guys is going to get noticed before I can get approval for agents out there. Plus, if there''s vong embedded in CorDuro, you''ll see them coming a mile away where me and mine wouldn''t." Mara turned to Jaina and Jacen. "I have Jade Shadow fueled up and standing clearance for the launch already filed. Are you two ready for this?" She spoke to both of them, but Jaina sensed it was more aimed at Jacen. Nothing in the Force, her Aunt was too careful for that, but asking if Jaina was up for a mission was like asking a krakana if it liked water. Her brother, to his credit, nodded firmly, face set and serious. "Of course, Aunt Mara. This is the kind of thing Jedi are supposed to do. I''m ready to go." "Same," Jaina chipped in, trying not to sound too excited. She was a Lieutenant in the New Republic Navy, a Jedi Knight and an ace to boot. She did not get excited like a girl. "Born ready." Well, she tried. "I''ll bounce everything we have over. Mara, the encryption key is same as last time. Take care, all three of you, and contact me if you need anything. We''ll keep digging away from our end here on Coruscant." She packed in record time, throwing clothes into a small luggage and snapping up a handful of toiletries she''d accumulated in her convalescence. She sensed Jacen packing in his own guest room next door and pushed a friendly nudge to hurry it up. Her twin poked her back with an exaggerated sense of calm, the equivalent of whistling innocently. Jaina laughed, zipping up her luggage and then hauling it out to meet her Aunt, who already had a bag slung over her shoulder. Of course Aunt Mara had a go-bag always ready for sudden calls. That wasn''t a bad idea to have, actually. Jaina could work one up that would easily fit into her X-Wing''s limited cargo space and keep it on hand. In fact, given the number of capital ships that went down and left squadrons without homes - and the mess that happened at Dantooine - having a quick bundle of spare clothes and sundries in case the worst happened to Ralroost¡­ She shoved down the dark thoughts. Jacen followed shortly after and then they were gone, apartment locked and dark, down to the Skywalkers'' airspeeder and through traffic that never died, to a private hangar and a steel-grey yacht waiting on humming repulsorlifts, engines lit. Jaina had never been on Jade Shadow since it had replaced her aunt''s previous ship, the Jade Sabre. It was sleek, deadly and minimalistic. It didn''t quite have the personal touches Sabre did, but it fit Mara. Her aunt directed them on where to stow their gear, offering for them to get back to sleep while she took Shadow out and plotted the jump to Duro. Jacen took her up on it but Jaina demurred, wanting to see the cockpit and at least takeoff. It was SoroSuub, which of course meant that perfect blend of luxury, ergonomics and laser-focused efficiency. Mara gestured Jaina into the copilot seat, which was sinfully and ridiculously comfortable and supportive. Could she swap out her X-Wing''s couch with this one? And keep it from Colonel Darklighter? She smirked, imagining Major Varth helping with a wink and a finger over her lips. Her flight leader, despite having several years on Jaina, kept things loose and familiar and treated Jaina more than fair despite her youth. Mara snapped her fingers again and Jaina started, looking over to her aunt. "I said: do you want to take her out?" It was a really, really stupid question.
Duro filled the cockpit, ugly and grey-brown. The orbital cities were specks, only really visible by the holographic overlay Jade Shadow marked each with. Their target, Bburru, held the CorDuro headquarters and was the largest of the twenty major cities. Unfortunately, given the bored voice of the Bburru flight controller over their com, their luck was up. Maybe it was a little too easy how quickly they''d found the vong and Colonel Loran had given them this lead, but Jaina had let herself get caught up in the momentum of it all. Now, Bburru was claiming that all traffic in the Duro system was being restricted to only ships with permissions, due to ''ongoing security concerns''. Jade Shadow, without a previously established flight-plan and without ''sufficient authority tags'' was being directed to either leave the system or set down on the planet at the SELCORE refugee centers. There, the bored controller informed them, they could take a public orbital bus up to the city, as long as they passed quarantine and customs. It was the process, the Duro sniffed. And no Jedi was going to get special treatment. "I bet he''s Peace Brigade," Jaina hissed after her aunt killed the link. Mara just sighed, shaking her head. "It''s easy to fall into the mindset, Jaina. Black and white, where everyone who doesn''t like you is a Sith or something. People are complicated and it''s never that simple. He was tired and he''d given the same spiel a hundred times today, I''d wager. It wasn''t about us - we just gave him a way to vent his frustration in a specific sort of way by being Jedi." Jaina grumbled, but didn''t contest her aunt. The flight from Coruscant to Duro was only a few hours, courtesy of the Corellian Run, so Jaina just took a catnap there in the copilot seat and its unreasonably comfortable cushioning. Jacen was still back in the staterooms, but she sensed her twin''s light dozing. He''d be awake very soon. Another hour or so to the surface, then she was sure they could bull through the ''security'' and ''quarantine''. If Jacen didn''t like Jaina using the Force to, well, smooth their way along, he could take it up with her later. Aunt Mara surely wouldn''t mind - there were times when you had to do what you had to do and a conspiracy around a Senator and a major Core shipping concern was definitely one of those times. Her mom had mentioned the SELCORE facilities on Duro a few times. The deal had been that the various Duros consortiums that held sway over the system and the world would allow refugees to set up environment domes, so long as they undertook work to begin to roll back the planet''s rampant pollution. Sort of a work-for-housing deal, which struck Jaina as awfully mercenary, but then again, Duro did have a bit of a reputation for their shrewd business sense. At least they accepted refugees, even if her mother had been frustrated by the scope of the work project demands. Too many other worlds just turned their backs on the desperate and needy. Something about the world growing in the cockpit made her frown. It must have been evident in her presence in the Force as well, as her aunt spoke up. "Something the matter?" "Not quite," Jaina assured her. The feeling wasn''t wrong, just strange. Unexpected? She focused, honing her sense like a blade and jabbed her mind toward the planet. She felt living minds - very few for a whole world, centered mostly all in the same area. The SELCORE domes, undoubtedly. She felt misery, depression. Sorrow. Mourning. Cautious hope, serious determination. And she felt- "Kyp!?" she exclaimed. And another, whose presence was nothing like a Jedi Master''s, but was one that Jaina knew almost as well as her twin. "And dad?!" In the staterooms, she felt Jacen jolt awake at the backwash through their bond.
She didn''t really believe it until the Shadow''s ramp dropped and the chemical-tinged, antiseptic scent of the sealed hangar dome invaded the yacht. There, right at the bottom of the ramp, were- Her dad had his arms around her before Jaina knew she''d run down the ramp. She clutched at him, digging her fingers into his rumpled jacket. He held her tight, like he did when she was a kid. How long had it been? She felt taller. Hugging him felt different. The Rogues had her bouncing all over the galaxy for months. He''d¡­vanished. She buried her face against his shirt and smelled the familiar smell of her father. "Hey, dad," she said, muffled, definitely not teary. "Hey, kid," he whispered back. She did not focus on how shaky his voice sounded or how fragile he felt in the Force. Or how she felt guilt rolling off him like an Anoth lightning storm. Finally she stepped back and he kept his hands on her shoulders, looking Jaina over at arm''s length. "You look good," he managed. "I - heard about," his voice cracked, failed. Jaina felt a subtle pulse of the Force from Kyp, who was waiting a few strides back. It was entirely directed toward Han and her father noticeably marshaled himself. "I''m so proud of you, Jaina." Her father told them how much he loved them. As long as she could remember, the old smuggler Han Solo was free with affirmations of his love of his children. She knew he wasn''t the greatest with other people, but his lopsided smile (just like her little brother''s) and the feeling behind his words kept Jaina going in some of the harder times, the tougher nights at the Praxeum when she felt homesick. But he''d never really said he was proud of her. She surreptitiously wiped at her eye, passing it off as scratching at her scalp implant. The motion drew her dad''s attention and his face darkened. "It''s fine! Seriously, it''s itchy and that''s it. I''ll have it off in another week. Tekli just checked me out. Don''t worry dad, I''m tough as nails. I''m your daughter, it''s in the blood." "Yeah," Han said, not letting go of her shoulders. "You''re my daughter." He pulled her in for another hug and she was more than happy to let him, because there was no one around who''d ever tell any of the Rogues. She let go and gave Jacen space to greet their dad. Theirs was less tearful, probably because Jacen hadn''t almost been blown to atoms by a hypermatter reaction. While Jacen and their dad were talking, pitched low, Mara swept down the ramp, eying Master Durron. "So that''s where you vanished off to." Kyp grimaced. "Yeah, it''s me. I hope I wasn''t giving Master Skywalker fits about what kind of atrocities I might be out there signing off on." Mara exhaled, not quite a sigh and Jaina bristled at the slight toward her uncle. "Kyp, you know it''s not like that. I''m just glad you''re okay. You vanished after the meeting on Coruscant and no one knew where you went, not even Wurth. You left your Dozen behind." "I didn''t have a dozen, Mara. They had all died. Again." The other Jedi Master subtly twitched his head toward Jacen and Han. "I had places I needed to be. People I needed to see." The feeling Kyp had sent toward her dad¡­ "You''re here for dad?" Jaina demanded, closing the distance. "Of course. You know what I owe him. And you know what kind of place he''s been in." Kyp didn''t quite scowl at Mara, but didn''t quite not either. "Someone had to be there for him." The subject of their whispering cut in, oblivious to the content of their hushed exchange. "So, I''m sort of the boss around here, since all of these good folks apparently couldn''t do better than a smuggler past his expiration date." Her dad jerked a thumb over his shoulder, aiming for the airlock out of the hangar dome. "It''s why you got the luxury pad, instead of having to park out in the muck with the rest of us." As if on cue, a mustachioed alien popped the airlock, peering in around the half-opened hatch. Jaina didn''t recognize his species: humanoid, but with a shock of white hair, dropping mustachios and a broad, hooked nose with slitted openings along it. And, apparently, given it appeared over his shoulder, a fairly prehensile tail. "Hey! If it''s not the Skywalkers! Roaky, introduce me to your family! Come on, you''ve had to deal with mine!" Jacen mouthed ''Roaky?'' at Jaina, who shrugged. The alien bounded over and she saw the strangest but best change sweep over her father. His aura of guilt punctured, his slumped shoulders straightened and when he swept a hand through his hair in irritation, suddenly it was Han Solo standing there again, not the hounded man that she couldn''t quite mesh with the dad she''d known. Then and there, she knew she had to meet this man and understand just what he''d done for her father - what he''d done and none of his family had, so that she could properly thank him. Nudging Jacen along, they followed Kyp, the as-yet unintroduced alien who kept up a steady and unending stream of barbs and banter with Han, and Mara for the hatch. Suddenly, she was very glad for obstinate Duro traffic controllers and paranoid megacorps. AND THE SEA MET THE SKY He is floating on his back. The water is warm, like a bath, and as it laps against his cheeks he licks his lips he tastes brine. No moon smiles down on him, but rather stars unending. A great span of them, from lost horizon to horizon, flecking the dome of night. They wink and twinkle, and memories of science classes tell him it is atmospheric effects. He breathes deeply. It is a smell of warm spun sugar and splattered ink. The lapping waves are gentle, barely cresting over his bare chest, tickling against his feet. He mastered floating like this in lazy afternoons, taught by Tenel Ka and Lowie. The wookiee always looked a fright after dips in the lake. He can float here forever, in the quiet darkness, held up by the buoyancy of salt-water and beneath the ever-burning starfield. Lap, lap, lap. Tap, tap, tap. Salt stings his eyes. Jacen sinks and kicks, paddling upright, wiping at his face. His feet flutter, his hands wave and the waves are a little higher. Not chop, not enough to start to break, but he can feel himself rise and dip, rise and dip. He can''t just drift here anymore. Now he has to tread. He doesn''t want to stop looking at the sky. There''s the Bakchou arm. Tingel arm. The Rishi Maze glows brightly. He''s watched the Galaxy wheel overhead on many worlds, but he''s never seen it from this angle. He must be far above the core, well beyond the thin disc, beyond even the stellar halo. Few worlds have the privilege of this vista and he''s filled with pleasure at this chance. Beautiful. He hears a sound, the first real one that wasn''t the quietest whisper of gentle waves. He turns his head. One has crested. The briefest spray of white-foam shines in the starlight. It''s beautiful. In fact - it''s better. The stars, they dance on the ocean as it comes alive, instead of just being a sedate mirror. Jacen wonders at the interplay he sees. The way the waves bend light, the way star-clusters and nebulae slide down from crest to trough. Parts of the galaxy that might never meet cross paths in reflection. Water is a solvent, a medium for life. It''s so precious because by its presence, it can break bonds and forge new ones. A little chop is good, because the foam shatters stagnant starlight like a prism. It winnows out each color from white and Jacen watches short-lived rainbows all around him. It''s enough to draw tears of joy from his eyes. Salt mingles with salt. The caps start to curl. From crest, there comes now peak and lip, whitewater frothing, barrels rolling. One ducks him underwater and he kicks strong, right back to the surface, shaking water from his hair. Salt stings his eyes again. Alright, he thinks, that''s probably rough enough. It''s harder to see the reflections of the stars now, just jumbles of light and color playing across the ink-dark ocean. He has to look up to remember where they are. Swooping weightlessness fills his stomach as a wave rolls up beneath him. On reflex, he touches the Force to ease the power in the water and guide him gently down the shoulder. It''s like a flare. It''s no longer choppy - the waves are enough that even a Mon Calamari would pause. Jacen spits and coughs, fountaining brackish mouthfuls as he is tossed, side to side, up and down. The ocean isn''t giving him a chance to catch his breath: instead of gentle, aimless crests now each wave bears down on him and him alone. They hit, one after another, a rolling toll that rings him like a bell, that tumbles him and dunks him and he swims and kicks and loses sense of up and down until he bursts free again, coughing, flailing. It''s too much, it''s too much now and he can''t spare a moment to look up, to see if the stars are still up there, he has to focus on swimming, on just staying alive. Where''s Jaina? Where''s Anakin? Why is he alone here? Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Uncle Luke? Where are you? Why am I alone? The waves catch him in their troughs and whirl together. They slap him back and forth and the water, so warm and buoyant, is bruising and hard and feels like tides of duracrete. Uncle Luke! His mouth fills as soon as he opens it to shout, to call for help and he is choking, aspirating, nose running and eyes leaking and it''s too much, he can''t keep his head up - But his toes drag on sand and Jacen realizes, all along, the ocean wasn''t an ocean at all, it was just a bay. Shallow. He stands, the water is only to his knees, less. The waves try to batter him down, but as he stands clouds tug at his salt-bleached curls and tickle at his nose and make him sneeze. The waves lick at his ankles. He sees the stars again, the whole galaxy spun above him. It''s close enough to touch now. All he has to do is reach. On lost horizons, all around, the rim of the sky goes out. The galaxy is truncated. Cropped. Bounded. Jacen frowns. It doesn''t make sense. He squints. It''s not the sky - it''s a surge. A tidal bore, a surge, a wall of water miles high. Vertical. The sort that is forged when a river empties into a sea, or when - A Moon rises. A black moon, carried on the northern wind, the southern wind, from all axes of the tempest. It rises from within the ocean, from beneath him, and it rushes through him and up, up into the sky. It eclipses the plume that is the Core, blotting out the center of the galaxy like the pupil of some great eye. It is a dark circle, rimmed in white light, cold white light, and the horizons come closer. The bore bears down. The waves that had tossed him, the waves that made battles and the battles that made waves, join and conjoin and mount higher. Past his calves, to his knees. The sand beneath him is soft and he sinks in it, toes digging in deeper. The moon, that moon, that great pupil, swallows. Stars recede behind it. The galaxy is a halo, a thin ring, coronal filaments limning darkness. Describing it. Bounding it. The cold white light brings no illumination at all. It exists only to measure the dark. Totality approaches. The last gasp of light is shattered: orange and blues, greens and yellows, indigo and violet, red - a rainbow, scattering. Iron and clotted blood curdles on his tongue. Gravity of the moon, that moon, tugs. It pulls and it is what is rising the sea, it is what surges the water past his thighs, his hips. Everything pulls toward. It is a limit-mass, a Schwartzchild radius, a bound of all measures within which the permutation of existence hangs. The moon, that moon, is familiar. Jacen cries out. The Force does not answer. It will not answer, not here, not now. It abandons him, it leaves him. Jacen is empty and in that emptiness the moon, that moon, beats the drum of his chest until his ribs vibrate, until his heart stammers and blood pounds in his eyes. The rainbow light scatter, multitudinous, fragile, threads that loop the cyclopean ring of the moon, that moon - an iris, an iris, the hollow void of the black moon a pupil blown wide, in eyes of rainbow that fill all the sky. Hidden behind, the screams of all the galaxy. The bore is here. It has penned in all time and space, it has him in a hurricane''s eye. The dark water rises limitless and in conjunction, the wave will crest beyond all consideration. It will bear him up, it will fill all the world until there is nothing but the waves and the moon, that moon. The halo of the moon breeds faintest prism''d light and the waves will feed on it all. Jacen''s knees tremble. It is moments away. Jacen, his grandfather whispers. Stand firm. Interstitials: Jacen Interstitials: Jacen Jacen wakes. Jaina is peeking into the stateroom of Jade Shadow and she beckons to him. "I thought I felt you wake up. Good timing, Aunt Mara is putting us down now. Dad''s here. And Master Durron." He feels foggy and confused, the weight of the vision clinging to him. His grandfather''s voice echoes in his ears, almost loud enough to drown out Jaina. He swings his legs out of the bunk, feeling like his body is slightly ahead of his senses, like he moves after his limbs in an afterimage. Jaina is right. He can sense their father below, a familiar presence in the Force. With the Force still flowing cleanly through him in the aftermath of the vision, Jacen can feel the tapestry of Duro, swelling and sprawling all around him. He can feel the muted exhaustion and ennui of the refugees in the domes. He can feel a tension in the orbital cities, inhabited by billions. He can feel Master Durron''s complex melange of self-recrimination, determination, disappointment and agitation. He can feel his sister''s pleasure at being active again instead of being treated like an invalid. He can feel his aunt''s laser-focus on the mission, but underneath, he can sense¡­Jacen clamps down on the Force, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to touch on so private, so personal a thing. When he blinks, there is an afterimage of a radiant, prismatic corona that dances behind his eyelids, like the precursor to a migraine. Like staring at the sun. He changes into an all-purpose jumpsuit, sturdy boots and clips his lightsaber to his belt. The Shadow is creaking and hissing, settling onto the tarmac. He can hear his twin and his aunt conversing, voices muffled just enough by bulkheads to make out their tones, but not their words. Foreboding weights down his body. Tugs at his feet. The Force never speaks without reason. The vision still rings, clear as day. He doesn''t think it was a coincidence that now, of all times, he has another vision. The last time was before Belkadan - a vision that had led him astray, led him to capture, led him to torture and salvation at only the last moment by his uncle. No - the vision didn''t lead him astray. He had. He had read too much into it, been convinced off too much, had been too quick to jump at his assumptions of his role. The meaning of this vision seemed clear. He exhaled and could taste ocean brine on his tongue. Ephemeral sensations of soft sand between his toes came, went. But the clearer, the more obvious, the more direct - the more he knew he needed to set aside his expectations and his biases. He couldn''t afford to make another mistake like Belkadan. He joins his twin and his aunt and they descend the ramp of the Shadow, making joyful reunion with their estranged father. Kyp Durron says things, an alien Jacen doesn''t recognize greets them all and is familiar and companionable with his father. Jacen sees waves in the edges of his vision. Waves that climb and climb, until the sea touches sky. He blinks, and they are gone.
Jaina and Aunt Mara jetted off almost immediately on the next shuttle up to the Duro capital, the orbital city of Bburru. His twin complained about the orbital controller forcing them to go the roundabout way because of ''no special treatment''. The irony, of course, was that with their father as the SELCORE operational head, it had been simplicity itself for Han to sign off on customs and processing forms for both of them. No special treatment indeed. When the two were departing, Jaina seemed almost challenging, as if daring Jacen to speak up about how they were exploiting Han''s authority to cheat the system. Jacen didn''t. It was fine. The Duro had reason to be careful about shipping, with the Yuuzhan Vong approaching, but under SELCORE authority, his father did have the ability to expedite through any visitors he wanted. It was kind of important to have that ability, to cut through red-tape sometimes, in case of hang-ups on supply runs or - in this instance - an extremely important and NRI-sanctioned investigation into fifth columnists. Jacen knew his reputation among the Jedi, even in his own family. He butted heads often enough with his little brother and even Jaina had a degree of friction with him lately. He wasn''t blind. He knew he could be ''annoying'' sometimes and that his own particular views on the Force weren''t always the most popular, given the danger of the ongoing war. He also wasn''t going to change just because some people were bothered by it, which was sort of the point. There was a misunderstanding that he didn''t usually bother to correct. Jacen wasn''t paralyzed by indecision or some kind of self-absorbed navel-gazing (he''d overheard plenty from the likes of Ganner), even if he could see why they''d think that. No, it was like everyone forgot that he and his sister and his kid brother, before even reaching majority, had seen some of the real depths of duplicity and evil the Galaxy could offer. Ganner and a lot of people in Kyp''s camp - or what had been Kyp''s camp, if the surface level impressions he was picking up from the Jedi Master were any indication - seemed to think Jacen was trapped in some kind of horrible limbo between pure white and deepest black kinds of morality. Like he was some naive child. It''s not like his kid brother was almost possessed by the Reborn Emperor barely after being born. It wasn''t like in his own infancy and toddler years, that he and his twin hadn''t been targeted for abduction, assassination, ransom, you name it. Or that they had to banish a Dark Lord of the Sith who had possessed their Uncle''s body. Or that not a month went by without the acid taste of worry that their mother, their father, their uncle, aunt, everyone close to them came within a hairsbreadth of dying to some recalcitrant Imperial warlord or upjumped tinpot despot. How many times had he thought his parents were dead, or Chewie was dead, in some fashion or another? In a bitter fashion, it was having seen Chewie die is what allowed him able to truly believe it, this time. He wasn''t afraid of the Force or of power or even of fighting. He''d done plenty of that before. It was the knowledge, the experience he had of seeing just how easily people could justify the truly worst things because they had the right words that gave him pause. A child with a slingshot was liable to bruise shins; a child with a blaster could kill. A demagogue on the street corner of Coronet City is a bother; a demagogue with an anti-human plague could kill quintillions. It was all measures of scale. The more power, the more responsibility. Always. And what did Jedi bear, if not the most awesome power in the Galaxy? Anakin asked him, months ago, why Jacen was so critical of the Jedi''s role in the war, but didn''t seem to speak up and argue against the soldiers and sailors in the New Republic for fighting. A fighter pilot in an X-Wing is dangerous, sure. A Star Destroyer can be a terrible weapon in the wrong hands. And the same time, that danger was mundane. If a pilot went rogue, a few ion blasts could take out their fighter. A captain driven by grief who tries to bombard a city from orbit could be arrested by their own officer corps, or the capital ship itself intercepted by a handful of others. But a Force user who sets themselves above others? The Galaxy could burn from that. So he didn''t really begrudge Jaina for not quite understanding what he was saying. It was disappointing, because as twins, they had always been on the same page - but people changed as they grew up. She would get it, in time. His sister was brilliant, even smarter than he was. She was just a little bit caught up in her time with Rogue Squadron. Which he was so proud of her for, because that was the ideal. She was a pilot, under the command of a seasoned veteran, with wingmates and a chain of command, authority, that had accountability and oversight. Not like Kyp and his Dozen, going wherever and whenever they wanted, striking out against targets they chose without any recourse. It was about humility, Jacen figured, nodding along as his father described the ongoing operations of the domes. He was fine staying behind in the domes to vet the refugees and inhabitants for potential vong infiltrators while Aunt Mara and Jaina went up to Bburru to directly confront CorDuro. Jaina might''ve chafed at being given a mundane role like this and Anakin too maybe, but Aunt Mara had a lifetime of experience in stuff like this. If she thought the best place for him was to be down in the refugee domes, trying to winnow out infiltrators - what kind of arrogance would he have to argue against that? He and Jaina were along to learn, after all. Other ways to use their gifts, their power as Jedi beyond just crude bludgeoning a problem. "-we try to meet every other day, because you wouldn''t believe how fast things can get blasted right out the airlock down here." "But you trust the other administrators?" His father huffed a laugh at Jacen''s question and Droma - the Ryn - snorted. Master Durron had taken his leave, giving some space and saying he was needed to check back in with the comms relay station, which was still having fits. "Not even close. They''re a gang. Bunch of politicians that couldn''t make it up on the orbitals, so they came down here to push around folks who can''t push back." Han pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I still don''t know how I got stuck with all this." Droma spread his hands, shrugging. "Showing up with a few freighters of foodstuffs buys a lot of goodwill - who would guess?" From what he was gathering, his father had been chasing around Droma''s family, which had been split apart as they fled the encroaching vong. There was a real story underneath that all, given the hints dropped here and there, but apparently had all come to a head at Bilbringi, when they''d managed to find the rest of the Ryn clan in quasi-indentured servitude. One thing led to another, and Han Solo might have dipped into some older habits and jacked several bulk freighters, running off with the Ryn and enough food supplies to keep all three of Duro''s SELCORE domes eating well for the next few months. One thing led to another, Han kept having to slap down idiots who wanted to grab more than their share, until he had the reputation of being impartial and fair, and then¡­ Then his father ended up in charge of some ten thousand refugees, which was about the last thing Jacen would''ve expected until he gave it a little more thought, at which point it was almost surprising it hadn''t happened sooner. His dad liked to play up his reputation, but there was a reason he''d thrown away his career and future in the Imperial Navy because of a single Wookiee. Han scratched at his chin, thinking. "I''d say to check all of them to make sure they aren''t all vong in disguise, except that I don''t think vong''re that cutthroat. Y''know what? Jacen, Droma, you should talk to Cree''Ar." Droma dramatically rolled his eyes, a put-upon sigh whistling through his perforated nose. "Cree''Ar? He hates everything except his mud and test tubes." "Sure, but somehow he always has notes on everyone else." Noticing Jacen''s confused expression, Han paused to elaborate. "Cree''Ar is one of our best scientists on the whole ''fix Duro'' project. He''s a scientist''s scientist because he hates leaving his lab for any reason, so he''s always attended mandatory meetings through hologram. Or just sends a writeup. But he''s been getting results with digestive bacteria so I can''t complain. And that''s one less pain in my ass at each meeting, so-" He waggled his hand. "Upsides and downsides." Droma concurred, and that led to the two of them heading down into the tunnels below the main dome, down toward the Duro geneticist''s laboratory. The Ryn chatted away, Jacen content just to listen and soak up what his father had been up to. The SELCORE domes were massive and hermetically sealed to keep out the nasty airborne pollution and acid rain of the ruined industrial world. They''d been erected on a relatively dry plain, then prefabricated buildings popped up swiftly within the confines, making a strange kind of camp/town under the off-white duracrete umbrella and the tall, swooping spars of durasteel that supported all the weight. Apparently, Duro was so unpleasant that a common punishment was assignment to dome inspection detail. They had to go out and do visual inspections and scans to make sure the acid rain wasn''t eroding too much, too fast. Droma said that Cree''Ar was confident he could whip up a sort of lichen that would anchor onto the duracrete exterior, metabolizing the material that got softened up by the rains in order to spread and then reinforce the domes. The geneticist was some kind of savant. His obsessive work ethic that led him to stay locked up in his sterile labs was the same focus that resulted in the rapid-growth bacterial mats that were filling up swamps around the domes, happily chowing down on rancid petrochemicals and exuding fresh, clean oxygen and nitrogen. "It''s funny," Droma said. "Cree''Ar''s got blackmail on the other two dome administrators and their teams. Every time someone tries to choke out his supply, he comes out swinging with implications and then all of a sudden it''s ''of course Doctor, you''ll get the substrate in the next supply drop, yes, we''ll double your water ration, no problem''." "That seems a little bit of a distraction from his job," Jacen noted. "But if it gets him what he needs¡­" Maybe he just had his team doing it. "That''s why Roaky''s been letting him get away with it." Jacen still needed a moment each time to mentally connect ''Roaky'' with his father. ''Roaky Laamu'' had been his alias while he was gallivanting around with the Ryn and he''d stuck with it while working as director here¡­and Jacen knew exactly why. If one ''Han Solo'' was signing reports for SELCORE, well, his mom would''ve been here yesterday. His parents ongoing¡­difficulties made him uneasy. He could still feel their deep love for each other underneath it all, which made it all the harder for how they couldn''t stop lashing out at each other. And he and his brother and sister were in the middle of it. Anakin''s response was to simply not act on it at all and chase his own path out on the battlefields of Dantooine and Obroa-skai. Jaina went to Rogue Squadron and Jacen¡­was left behind. He''d have to slip his mother a mention about Han being here after they made it back to Coruscant. She was still at the capital for another few weeks, working through another exhausting round of funding and appropriations hearings for SELCORE overall. There were no turbolifts, so Droma led Jacen down into a stone-cut tunnel that dove down in switch-backs, sinking into the bedrock below the dome. Cree''Ar''s lab, due to the hazards of potential leaks of experimental organisms, was kept behind a few sealable hatches set into the raw stone of the tunnels. Idly, Jacen run his fingers along the rough walls, feeling the texture left by rock-chewer droids, reminding him of at least a half dozen other places he''d been, including the ancient tunnels under Drall. "I''m going to ask Doctor Cree''Ar if he has shipping manifests he can share," Jacen mused. "If he knows what the other domes have a surplus of, then he must have some kind of contacts with CorDuro. And if he does, maybe he can help us figure out where the ''surplus'' ships are being sourced from for the Peace Brigade." "Be ready to bargain for it," Droma said drily. "He''s going to want a pound of flesh just for interrupting us." Jacen smiled at the Ryn. "It''s a good thing I know the head of SELCORE!"
Droma depressed the button again, visibly forcing himself to take a deep breath before speaking again. "If you make me ring up Roaky for the override codes, you can bet your rear that I''m going to make it my life''s purpose to dragging you up to each admin meeting. Hear me, Doctor? Every meeting. Every two days." Cree''Ar¡­wasn''t feeling cooperative. He''d dismissed them immediately, saying he was busy with a final culture cycle and couldn''t be interrupted. Jacen let Droma handle the Doctor, figuring the Ryn, as Han''s right-hand man, would know the Duro best. So far, Cree''Ar''s clipped comments back through the intercom didn''t come across as particularly angry, just distracted. He extended his sense through the Force, past the sealed laboratory door. He picked up one, two, five¡­seven beings. All Duro, all with an undercurrent of stress and anticipation. Understandable for a critical step in an experiment. They bustled around, pretty focused and intent on their work. "Do as you must, Mister Droma. I will not sacrifice a month''s stable mutations because of your impatience. You can wait an hour." "We got you assistants for that," the Ryn whined. "Let them-" Jacen leaned closer to the intercom. "Doctor Cree''Ar? I''m Jacen Solo. We just need a few minutes and it''s very important. I promise, I wouldn''t bother you otherwise." He bit his lip, hating to even imply a promise like this, but- "When I get back to Coruscant, I''d be happy to help you get in contact with Tekli or possibly Master Cilghal. They''re both very skilled with biology and using the Force to heal and bolster life and could have insights about your experiments." There was a moment of silence, Droma offering two thumbs up and a toothy grin. And a wink. Cree''Ar''s voice returned, this time pitched with some emotion for the first time: interest. "Jacen Solo? Jedi Knight Jacen Solo?" Jacen nodded, realized how silly that was and confirmed aloud. "I''m flattered, Jedi Solo. I am an admirer of the Jedi. Give me four minutes." The intercom clicked off. Droma blinked at the panel, then looked back to Jacen. "That easy? Damnation, I should''ve known to namedrop a Jedi. You''re useful to have around!" Responsibility, again. A Jedi can change minds, move worlds, with just words. Or get a grumpy doctor to spare a few minutes of time to talk. In the grand, cosmic scale, this was something simple. Jacen touched on the technicians in the lab again, the seven Duro still bustling around, now exuding more agitation and anticipation. Something seemed off. He didn''t want to press deeper, to try to sense more than just impressions of emotions - that was an unfair violation, but all of them seemed more busy and active than he''d expect for techs in a lab. Then again, he didn''t really know what a normal lab was in the first place. Still, something bothered him. He frowned, ticking off each of the seven again. None of them were thinking of him or Droma. None of the Duro inside seemed to have any feelings of interest or even acknowledgement of visitors outside or a Jedi. Cree''Ar sounded interested over the intercom. So why couldn''t Jacen¡­ He clenched fists, desperately wanting to be wrong. "Droma," he asked, keeping his voice level. "Have you ever met Cree''Ar?" The Ryn raised an eyebrow. "Plenty of times." "In person?" Droma frowned. "No?" Jacen didn''t know much about Ryn, but even in the short time since they set down on Duro, he''d learned a lot just from Droma and his father''s good-natured ribbing back and forth. Droma had sniffed out dinner from the cafeteria building, halfway across the dome. Then commented on how astute a Ryn''s sense of smell was. Jacen''s hand fell to his lightsaber, drawing Droma''s attention. Then the ceiling fell in.
Coughing, spitting out dust-clotted wads of spit, Droma bent over and planted his hands on his knees. Jacen pounded on the Ryn''s back, helping him hack up the last of it. The tunnel came down, luckily in sections. The Force thrummed in Jacen''s mind just before the first cracks appeared and he''d shoved Droma back from the lab''s sealed hatch with the Force as several tons of bedrock slammed down. They raced out of the tunnel, more of it falling right at their heels. Choking dust swirled up and past them and Jacen had to guide Droma along, hands clasped, feeling his way with the Force and occasionally keeping the crumbling ceiling in place with a solid press of telekinesis. "So what," Droma managed around a few more lung-racking coughs. "Did you notice there, Jedi?" "I didn''t sense anyone with the right emotions for Cree''Ar," Jacen said grimly. "Everyone inside was focused on other things and I couldn''t pick up any indications they even knew we were there." Droma spat one more time, clearing his mouth. Behind them, the entrance to the tunnel was a slumped pile and a slowly rising plume of chalky dust. "And that means¡­?" "I don''t want to guess, but¡­I think Cree''Ar might be a vong." Droma swore, quite crudely. "That''s about the worst possible thing. You''re sure?" Both their comlinks began to beep at the same time - just as rising klaxons around the dome began to sound. Jacen felt a wash of sudden fear and then - He felt Jaina''s sudden fury, eclipsing a moment of surprise. They didn''t need words through their bond. Between Jaina''s emotions and what he felt rolling from his Aunt, he could piece together enough. A few billion other beings in close proximity suddenly all gasping in terror was clue enough. He didn''t need to see the asteroid field that appeared in orbit to know. "Pretty sure," Jacen said solemnly. "Because the vong are here."
The com relay was down, for good. Master Durron reported that fact bitterly, stomping into Han''s office, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. It wasn''t a software problem anymore, it was physically broken. Missing critical components, though some enterprising Ryn and others were scavenging around to try to source replacements. With the toxic soup outside, it wasn''t the easiest to punch a signal up and out without relaying through the main dome''s big repeater. Jacen fidgeted, sending Jaina as much support as he could through their bond, though his sister was keeping her own end clamped down. Probably not wanting to worry him, but not knowing what was going on upstairs in orbit had him tense enough. Was this what his vision was about? Standing firm here, at Duro? The New Republic didn''t expect a fight here and the garrison showed it. Everything would be on the Duro''s own home defense forces with only a token Navy squadron present. It didn''t seem to fit. "How''s Jaina?" Han asked, worry making his voice tight and clipped. Jacen grimaced, reaching out for her - He caught glimpses of corridors and a lit lightsaber. Security personnel in uniforms. His Aunt gesturing, bodies hurled aside - and then Jaina noticed him and- Betrayal. Treason. Overwhelming treason. Hopelessness. She was telling him a story through feelings. A flash of a CorDuro uniform with the megacorp''s badge on it. Blasters set to stun. Yuuzhan Vong ships sailing right past Bburru, visible through transparisteel windows. Lumpen, rocky warships not even firing on the orbital city and moving toward the atmosphere uncontested. Jacen''s jaw dropped. They''d suspected moles within the CorDuro organization. Sympathizers placed through it, to work under the table and sneak out the surplus ships for the Peace Brigade. They''d figured on maybe some higher officials being in on the take, either through ideology or simple bribery. What Jaina was sending him, the impressions, the meanings - It wasn''t a few moles or traitors in CorDuro. The traitor was CorDuro. The entire megacorp. The surplus vessels hadn''t slipped through the cracks, the company had been complicit in the entire thing. Was that the meaning? To stand firm in the face of such widespread betrayal? Hold true to himself, don''t despair? "It''s CorDuro," Jacen gasped. "It''s all of CorDuro." He didn''t expect his father''s expression to go blank for a moment before he laughed out loud. A real laugh, real humor. "How about that, Kyp? You know, it''s actually reassuring it wasn''t incompetence but real malice. Somehow I''m better with that." The Jedi Master snorted with dark humor too. "Explains all the late supply drops and missing supplies from each manifest. They were always hanging us out to dry." "Worse than that." Droma looked between them, from Kyp to Han to Jacen. "We''re the offering. Am I wrong? What kind of deal could CorDuro make - I mean, hello? They''re technologists. They live in a giant space station. That''s all super evil to the vong. We''re the payment to look the other way." "Won''t work," Jacen knew. "They''ll turn on CorDuro after they round us up." "Couldn''t happen to more deserving people. Alright. Kyp, think you can run interference?" Durron rolled his head, cracking his neck. "I can be in the air in five. It''s going to be shit to fly in, but the Force is my ally." Han nodded. "Then keep the vong dancing before they can touch down. We''re going to need to take the Shadow with us, or Mara''ll kill me. It''ll also fit at least a few dozen too." "I''ll help gathering everyone together." The klaxons had panic rising in the dome and Jacen knew that people in cramped confines and panic was a recipe for disaster. "Are there enough ships to get everyone off-world?" Droma winced. "Maybe. It''ll be tight. Get everyone to line up by the airlocks and don''t let them bring any luggage." Jacen nodded. "On it." "Then Kyp, get going. Droma, get the captains out to their ships and warming them up. Jacen-" His father stepped close, taking Jacen''s shoulders in his hands. "Be careful. Tell Jaina to be careful." "She''s okay," he said with certainty. She was sending him snippets and flashes of things and despite her anger, she felt confident and unafraid. They were on an orbital city, there were a thousand starships they could commandeer between his aunt''s skill at slicing and his sister''s piloting. "But I will." Han met each one of their eyes and Jacen saw General Solo for a moment. "Move it," he ordered. They did.
Jacen wondered how his father handled it. He could feel Master Durron as he chased and dueled coralskippers in the sky outside. He felt Jaina''s focus as she and Aunt Mara held off CorDuro security, securing a small hangar along with a growing crowd of concerned citizens of Bburru. He could follow the texture of the refugees as they thronged through the camp''s streets, hands and graspers interlaced and trying to put on brave faces for younglings. He''d feel so blind without the Force, without being able to know his sister was still safe. Coms were down, so there was no news, no way to coordinate outside the three domes. Domes 2 and 3 were reporting to be loading up already, the administrators at both cowed into obedience by Han''s own brand of ''diplomacy''. Droma volunteered to fly the Jade Shadow, remarking that having flown the Falcon, he was looking forward to flying a ship that wasn''t a pile of junk. "There''s enough space for everyone! Line up here - I''m sorry, you have to leave that behind." A Gand gabbled at him, clutching some sort of complex instrument to their chest. It was clumsy and large, needing both arms to hold. "I''m sorry. We need all the space we can get." The Gand rose their voice and Jacen felt their indignation. The temptation was there to alleviate it - he let it pass. "Look," he gestured toward a young Vor just a few meters away. "It''s as big as she is. Would you tell her she can''t leave because you have to keep that?" The Gand wavered, a new feeling of shame building in them. Then they hissed something and tossed the device aside, shoving past Jacen. It wasn''t the first he''d had to talk down and it was definitely not going to be the last. But he felt good. This was what he could do. What Jedi should do. He found the right words to calm down a crying youngling and encourage their parents. He shouted through a broadcaster and moved crowds along. Part of it was his name - whatever Droma might say, Solo was a name known across the Galaxy. And a Jedi on top of that, well, it had people sitting up and listening. Responsibility. When there were tussles or arguments, he diffused them in moments. It was like a symphony, where everyone wanted to play their own piece, but he was the conductor and he rapped metaphorical knuckles with a stern glare, always well aware of how faintly ridiculous it was that a seventeen year old was ordering around people twice, three times his age with a word and a pointed finger. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. He kept an ear to his comlink, listening to his father coordinate with the other domes, calling up status checks with freighter captains. Part of Jacen wanted to go after ''Cree''Ar'', but he had to bite the blasterbolt and accept that that vong was in the wind. He felt a surge of triumph from Kyp. That had to be the sixth ''skip now. All four Jedi were leaning hard on the Force, entwining their senses with each other, making up for the cut communications lines. It was nothing close to the near-perfect link he''d forged with Jaina and Anakin at Dubrillion and Destrillion, but it helped. Kyp could warn Jacen if he saw landers coming. Jaina and Aunt Mara shared with him their support and belief in him and let him know that they would be heading for the surface soon. Jacen let himself think that everything might work out. He was standing firm. Then, as if summoning it by thinking it, from Kyp''s presence Jacen felt a swell of concern, then desperation, then warning. "Everyone down!" Jacen shouted, enhancing his voice with the Force to a ringing call, echoing through the avenues of prefab shelters. Beings dropped as if commanded, instincts honed by months living in fear after fleeing innumerable worlds. Jacen pulled the Force to him, gathering it about him, ready to respond - Thunderous reports banged from above. Objects punched through the skin of the dome, dragging swirling clouds of murk behind them. They fell a touch under terminal velocity and Jacen''s teeth clenched at the look of them. Off-white, seed-shaped and mottled with texture and scorch marks. Chunks of the dome fell and he shoved several aside that might have struck crowds, letting them crunch and collapse shelters instead. The seed-shaped pods decelerated rapidly just before striking the ground, vanishing from his sight out among the one and two-story sea of shelters. Bitterly, he reached for his lightsaber, despairing that it would come to this. There were some weapons that Droma had distributed among the most trustworthy (and trained) in the dome. Former constabulary, local defense forces from fallen worlds. SELCORE didn''t usually keep weapons around, but this was a SELCORE facility run by an ex-smuggler and his fringer sidekick. Jacen was glad for his father''s foresight. He hoped that between him and them, it would be enough. Warriors were coming.
With the dome filling with Duro''s choking air, there wasn''t much point trying to work through the airlocks. Already beings were coughing, pulling up the necklines of shirts and tunics to cover mouths and gills and other respiratory organs, hoping to keep the reek at bay. Jacen could hear the sounds of combat further toward the center of the dome where the Yuuzhan Vong landing pods came down. Blasters rang out and distant shouts mixed with guttural bellows. There couldn''t have been that many vong in those pods. Hopefully they would be taken out before they could get close to the crowds now pressing out onto the landing tarmacs. It was like watching water drain - the crowds swirled and pressed and slowly funneled out through the opened cargo doors. All of them would probably need at least a week to recover from breathing Duro''s atmosphere, but if they survived to have that week, Jacen figured it was worth it. A man jogged up to Jacen, blaster slung over one shoulder. He had on a rebreather mask and held out one by its strap. "Take it, Jedi. I know you''re gonna say you shouldn''t if everyone can''t have one, but we''re the ones who can fight." The logic made sense, but he still scowled as he accepted it, slipping it on and settling it over his mouth and nose. It was harder to breathe through, having to forcefully inhale to suck air in through the mechanical filters, but the dry, tasteless air was an admitted relief. He nodded his thanks and the man jogged on, unslinging his blaster. Fighting sounded like it was creeping closer. Jacen felt the deputized guards as they moved and fell back. He felt shocks of pain and gut-wrenching sudden silence as beings died. They were contracting, being encircled and retreating. He grabbed his comlink, clicking it on. "Dad?" A moment, then- "Jacen? Are you in trouble?" "No, I''m - I''m at the loading docks. I think -" he rose up on his toes, craning his neck to peer over the crowd. "I think we have about half out so far. It''ll go faster the less there are." "Good. Good. The vong are focusing on surrounding the admin building." "That''s what I was afraid of. How many people are still there?" His comlink was silent for too long. "Dad?" "Uh, not too many." He couldn''t sense many beings left toward the center of the dome. Near the center of the contracting circle was Han''s presence. None others. Jacen swallowed down a knot in his throat. "Dad, how are you getting out?" "Let me worry about that, sprout." With a groaning rumble, an entire distant section of the dome shrugged in on itself, tumbling down and a roiling wall of oily fume swirled with duracrete dust. Something moved in that plume, something huge. Refugees screamed. Wailed. Panic rose and Jacen winced as he felt Jaina''s sharp concern. He could almost taste the fear in the crowd and in moments, it wouldn''t just be panic - across the dome, in the torn opening, a massive yorik-coral lander parted Duro''s smog. It would be terror and a stampede and beings would die, crushed - Anakin made his decision on Centerpoint. His brother didn''t talk about it and didn''t elaborate, but Jacen wasn''t an idiot. He could read between the lines. Anakin decides not to fire the station and at the very same moment Centerpoint stops responding to anything? Jacen believed, believed in his bones that Anakin made the right decision. But Jacen''s belief wasn''t absolute. It wasn''t the truth. It was just what he believed. He swallowed down his fear, his nerves and shut his eyes. He breathed out, taking the Force in hand and taking his enforced peace, the calm he mastered, and pressed it outward. It rippled from him and the wailing crowd¡­quieted. Beings blinked and came back to themselves. They were still rushing, surging to get out of the cargo doors and to the waiting ships, but they helped each other. They hooked fallen comrades under limbs and helped them back to locomotion appendages. They scooped up confused younglings and aided elderly. Jacen shared his peace with them, a peace that he crafted. A peace that was a lie. "Dad," he called again. "You need to go, now. I don''t know if you saw it-" "I''m not blind. I saw it." The huge yorik-coral craft, big as a light cruiser, nosed further into the dome before settling lower, crushing prefab buildings under its bulk. It had to carry hundreds. "Get onto the Shadow. I''ll be there." He wouldn''t. Jaina railed at him to do something, screaming nonverbally through their bond. He could feel her hunched over the controls of some shuttle, dodging swarming coralskippers. She couldn''t make the surface. They had other Duro on board, those who didn''t believe in selling out their fellows to the Yuuzhan Vong. They couldn''t risk coming down to the surface, past the growing blockade. Aunt Mara was going to take the controls. It''s what Jacen would say to do. Master Durron, in his X-Wing, radiated controlled anger. A crucible of it, bubbling and seething in ways a Jedi shouldn''t feel. He was too far away. Jacen hadn''t killed since Ithor. Even then, it had tugged at him. "Jacen, don''t-" Han started. Jacen cut his comlink and dropped it. He lit his lightsaber, took a deep breath, and ran.
All things considered, the guy wasn''t that impressive. He looked like he took a tumble into a basketful of vibroblades, face first, then went a couple rounds with a wampa. He was all scars, all the time, across every bit of exposed skin. Not that there was all that much. The vong commander, because he had to be since all the others threw themselves flat on their faces the second he strode into Han''s office, peered around imperiously. His eyes glowed red and white and his nose was cut away, leaving open nasal passages like a skull. Definitely not the most visually appealing thing, but Han had seen more styles and trends than he could name. Honestly, Nar Shadaa had uglier. Rust-red scales started as a dusting of tiny ones at the vong''s neck, growing closer and tighter and larger until they became a coat of mail that covered his entire over-muscled chest. He still had on the ubiquitous living armor, but a suit that left most of his scaled chest exposed. Didn''t need the armor there, Han supposed. Tattoos filled in everywhere there weren''t scars, leaving any guesses as to what the vong''s original skin tone was up in the air. Probably pallid and corpse-like, like most of the others. The vong extended a clawed gauntlet, accepting a wriggling, fleshy tube in his palm. Gently, he pinched it with his other hand, tilted his head, and then let the thing squirm into his ear. Han blinked, nonplussed. "Ah," the vong rumbled. "You are the leader? Yes?" The vong''s voice was thickly accented and rumbled like a misfiring engine. "You know, I never actually asked to be. That''s gotta be worth something-" The vong next to him, standing over him and unfortunately not prone and face-down, cuffed Han in the face. A gentle sort of hit, which meant it only almost sent him sprawling, instead of flattening him outright. He worked his jaw, counting his teeth with his tongue. Still had all of them, which was a nice change of pace. The leader vong raised a hand though, stymying a second blow. "Cease. The prattle of heathens does not offend me." Mutters filled the room as the commander stepped closer to Han, then lowered himself into a squat to be closer to Han''s eye-level, kneeling as he was. "I am Tsavong of Lah. I am Warmaster to the Supreme Overlord and Most Beloved of Yun-Yammka. You will speak your name." Rolling the taste of blood around his mouth, Han supposed he might as well keep it going, if for the joke of it at least. "Roaky Laamu," he offered. "I''d say I''m happy to meet you, but¡­" "Roaky Laamu. This is not the name I was given." Han shrugged, or tried to with the two vong flanking him keeping him in place. "You know, people keep telling me that." "Death approaches you. You should face the True Gods unburdened by falsehoods. So: for your soul, as meagre as it is, I ask one more. Speak your name." Han racked his brain. "Jenos Idanian." That was an old one, one he barely even remembered. Practically Jacen''s age, last time he used that. He''d almost coughed up a lung laughing when Luke shared that Corran had used the same name, not even knowing the connection. The vong - Tsavong - exhaled. "Be damned entire, then. Han Solo, mate to Leia Organa Solo, who was Supreme Overlord of the New Republic once." Han squinted. "Oh, I didn''t know you were a fan." Tsavong spoke over him. "You have children numbered three. Anakin Solo, Jaina Solo and Jacen Solo." Han fought to keep his poise as the monster in front of him named his kids one by one. "Maybe this Han does, but old Roaky here, he never settled down." Tsavong snapped his fingers and an oddly familiar vong approached, attending the Warmaster to his left. "Executor," Tsavong growled. "You spoke with the Jacen child this day." The vong nodded. He had a black orb in place of one eye and his tattooing and scars were a pale shadow of Tsavongs. Some underling. But he''d spoken to Jacen? When could that- "Indeed. Both Solo twins are present today. Most fortuitous, honored Warmaster." Dead stars, he knew that voice. That tone. "Cree''Ar," Han snarled. The vong smiled, a ghastly look on his face. "Ah, we do indeed meet at last, Administrator ''Laamu''. You''ll forgive me for my solitude. The inhabitants of this galaxy are¡­taxing to be around." "Hold your tongue, Executor, save if worthy thoughts spring to your mind." Tsavong stroked claw-tipped, armored fingers across his angular chin. "Twins¡­" The way he spoke the word sent a shiver down Han''s spine. "Long gone," he blustered. "Jaina''s in hyperspace already and Jacen''s long gone from here. I sent them both away. Real sorry, if you''d made an appointment beforehand-" "I think not." Tsavong rose from his crouch, towering over Han like a wall of tense muscle and living armor. "Twins. Jeedai Twins. Other voices, trustworthy voices, whisper the same, Executor." Nom Anor straightened in pride. "I have studied Jeedai," Tsavong murmured. "Naive. Weak. Fearful of death. Avoidant of pain. I will sacrifice these Twins on the Altar to the Many Armed. You will bring them to me, Han Solo." Bitter laughter spilled from Han. "I''ll be dead before I let my kids within a thousand lightyears of you." A serpentine creature flexed and writhed around Tsavong''s right arm, coiling into view. "You will allow nothing. I will draw them by the beacon of your pain. Embrace it, infidel, and find purity in your last moments." The amphistaff hissed and yawned a wide, snow-white mouth. Fangs uncurled. "Hold him," Warmaster Tsavong Lah ordered.
Jaina railed across their bond. Aunt Mara had her restrained and removed from the cockpit, the woman feeling sick even as she did so. Starships of all size and stripe were fleeing the orbital cities. They were lost in the crush of them, moving out and away from the Yuuzhan Vong blockade of the world that loomed large over the huddled cities. There was more going on, but he caught only impressions, feelings. He couldn''t afford to sink any deeper. The Force sang in Jacen. Since Ithor, he had withdrawn from using it in any greater measures, allowing at most passive sense. To listen to the Force, but not direct. He wanted to hear without shouting out the Force''s voice. Now he claimed it back. He had to. The Yuuzhan Vong warriors that circled the administration building were beyond his senses, of course. The last of the blaster-toting guards were dead. He''d felt them die, sacrificed together. Their bodies lay before the main entrance to the building in a spreading pool of crimson. He couldn''t sense the Yuuzhan Vong, but he''d talked with Anakin. His little brother, as always a savant, talked about some of his realizations about the aliens. The Force ignored them, one and all, but unlike ysalamiri, the vong didn''t repulse the Force. On Obroa-skai, Anakin admitted to killing a vong by crushing it with a fist of air. He had been remorseful, not of the death, but of how he''d done it, wielding the Force as a weapon of death. He''d feared the darker implications of using it in that way. His little brother hadn''t quite said as much, framing instead the information as a way to stop vong, but Jacen knew Anakin well enough to know it troubled him. The vong didn''t repulse the Force, which meant they left impressions in the world. In the same way that Jacen could, at a gesture, toss aside chunks of duracrete, he too could feel the world in more subtle ways. Breezes, caused by the great breach in the dome as air currents whirled in from outside. Pebbles and rocks kicked by booted feet. So far, he had killed not a single vong. He slipped past knots of warriors who policed bodies of the dome''s brave defenders and dodged past patrols. He felt the shift in the air of their passage, he felt their tread in vibrations in the packed dirt. The Force was in all things. He only had to listen. Thus was he delivered to the foot of the administration building, all four stories of it, soaring above the rest of the refugee camp. It was blocky, hexagonal in shape and made of prefabricated sections of wall fastened together. He knew from his brief time inside that his father''s ''office'' was on the top floor. There were conference rooms up there as well. The third floor held a communications suite, linked into the dome''s repeater. The second floor was a cafeteria and the first floor held records and a few machine shops. He felt his father up there, on the fourth floor. Jacen felt him from the agony that rolled down like waves, burning his eyes and catching his breath in his chest. Darth Vader tortured Han once, long before the twins were born. Chewie and his mother had to listen to it and now he knew how helpless they had to have felt. Unlike them, he was not alone, nor was he left without any recourse. He pulled the Force close and leapt. One, two, three stories blurred past and Jacen soared, light as a feather. It was so easy. He lit his lightsaber and swiped once, twice, three times, just as he reached the peak of his leap. Heat-seared and lightly glowing, a triangular section of wall fell inward and Jacen dropped right through the opening. It was so simple. Responsibility. Two vong were moving toward him already, flanking the closed door of his father''s office. Amphistaves uncurled and straightened out, razor-sharp and jabbing out for him. His heart sat heavy in his chest as he sidestepped one of the vong, stepping right around the tip of the amphistaff and struck the vong with the pommel of his lightsaber, right over the temple. The vong fell, boneless. The second snarled, sweeping low. Jacen leapt, tucking his legs and grabbed for the vong''s helmet. He caught with just his fingertips, jerking the mask enough that the vong stumbled, suddenly blinded. The amphistaff hissed and snapped at him, but it was just an animal without its master''s commands. This time, Jacen wound up and struck with the blade of his hand, right under the very rim of the vong''s helmet, at the back of his neck. The second warrior crumpled. He knew what others thought of him. He knew people said he was naive, a bleeding heart. He knew that his fence-sitting drove Jedi like Ganner to distraction. They always forget that Jacen, like Jaina, like Anakin, had been fighting in one way or another since he could just about walk. They never recognized why Jacen was so reluctant to turn to force. He checked over the two unconscious warriors once, then faced the office door. His father''s cries of pain had stopped - he wasn''t sure when. Moments ago? Jacen turned the handle - unlocked, and swung the door open. Nine vong faced him. Han was held up by two, kneeling but unable to support his own weight. Blood soaked his chest and ran in rivulets down his face. Some strange, furred shape wrapped around the bicep of his left arm - Jacen swallowed, wrenching his attention away from the missing fingers on that hand. Seven of the vong were warriors, interchangeable with the ones outside. Their vonduun was rust-red and pearly white, with specks and glints of bronze throughout, like crystal in mica. The eighth vong wore a living robe and stood behind his father. The ninth vong was the largest Jacen had ever seen, at least eight feet tall and enormous, covered in rust-red scales and holding a blood-flecked amphistaff as massive as a young sling-python. "Welcome, Jacen Solo, Twin to Jaina Solo," said the giant vong, as if he had been expecting Jacen all along. Through his mask of blood, Han''s eyes were wide and he mouthed something. Jacen soothed at least the edge of his father''s pain, keeping his focus entirely on the lead vong. "Let my father go." He was surprised at how gentle his voice was. His chest felt tight, squeezed in a vice and frigid sweat trickled down his back. But Jacen kept his spine straight, chin held high. "You will call to your Twin, in the ways of the Jeedai. Then, I will release Han Solo." Han''s mouth worked again, bloody drool burbling around wordless sound. Jacen could imagine only one reason why this vong wanted Jaina too. His vision spun - or perhaps the room did. The robed vong said something, but it didn''t register. The amphistaves of the two vong flanking Han slithered down their master''s arms, coiling at the wrists with their heads held close to Han''s neck. The message was clear. "Surrender your lightsaber, Jacen. You can''t win this." The robed vong spoke with almost no accent and Jacen''s teeth clenched. He couldn''t be sure, he''d only heard the ''Duro'' once and through an intercom, but the easy vocabulary and perfect intonation led him to only one conclusion - this had to be Cree''Ar, or at least one of the orchestrating infiltrators. The two amphistaves quivered in anticipation. Jacen looked down at his lightsaber. He''d made it with his own hands. The blade was a beautiful emerald green, refracted through a priceless Corusca gem from Yavin''s own heart. It was a part of him, a knot in the Force that tied to his very being. It was never far from his side, through the highs and lows of his young life. He''d maimed one of his best friends with it in a moment of tragedy. It was a symbol of everything a Jedi was supposed to be. He hadn''t killed with it since Ithor. The two vong outside the office would live. A small thing. The weapon of a Jedi. The first thing his uncle had experienced as a link to his inheritance. Jacen held his lightsaber out. The vong leader stepped forward, plucking it from his grasp. A part of Jacen went with it. The vong handed it off to one of his subordinates. The amphistaves menacing his father relaxed, retreating up their master''s limbs to curl about their necks like torcs. "By your surrender, I grant protection. I, Warmaster Tsavong of Lah." There were glances to his underlings as he spoke, as if to impress his command. Jacen took a deep breath, refusing to look at his lightsaber. His father pleaded with him silently. Waves circled him. He felt contradictory forces - he felt ephemerally light, he felt yanked down by gravity. Jaina cried out to him through their bond. He let her, let her helplessness and choking fear and agonized anger wash around him. He chided Anakin, months - years - ago. He wanted Anakin to stop thinking of the Jedi as just martial warriors. That his lightsaber was more than just an instrument in his hand. Jacen had been wrong. A lightsaber was just that. He hadn''t been wrong about listening to the Force and finding his place. His place was here. Now. This moment. Jacen exhaled, shaking his head. "I didn''t surrender," he corrected the Warmaster. Red and white glowing eyes narrowed. Jacen inhaled and the Force breathed through him. There were nine Yuuzhan Vong in the office. Their Warmaster. Eight warriors. One who might be some kind of assassin, with who knows what kind of awful implants hidden away on him. One assassin almost slaughtered a dozen Jedi. His lightsaber wouldn''t avail him here. He couldn''t match blades with Tsavong of Lah. He couldn''t take on a whole squad at once. Maybe Anakin could. Jacen could admit that. He wasn''t Anakin. He was Jacen Solo. So he reached out to the Force. He opened his hand and he asked. Han''s desk ripped sideways, catching one of the warriors in the hips. The vong jackknifed over the surface, then slammed into the thin, prefabricated wall along with the desk. The desk and the vong were sturdy. The wall was not. They left a ragged hole. Equipment lockers ripped from mountings. Cabinets popped off of metal tracks on the walls. Light sconces sheared loose. One of the vong guarding his father acted quickly, reaching for his amphistaff. Jacen saw this, and so did the Force. A locker blew the warrior off his feet, circling back around to catch the one to the other side of Han on its return. Unsupported, his father slumped, managing to barely catch himself before face-planting. The walls were prefabricated, made of pressed plastic materials and false duracrete. They crumbled. The ceiling didn''t fall, because the ceiling came apart into pieces too. The top floor of the administration building eroded into a whirlwind of propelled debris and furniture. Jacen stood in the eye, arms at his sides. Wind howled. The Force sang through Jacen, and Jacen was the conductor. His lightsaber was a tool. It removed him from the moment, from responsibility. It was like a blaster, or a vibroblade, like a proton torpedo or a world-splitting superlaser. It built distance from the actor to the object. Jacen was a Jedi. He bore the responsibility of all the awesome power on his shoulders. He couldn''t - shouldn''t - stand at a distance. Warriors were slung aside, battered back and forth, knocked prone and then toppled again as they tried to rise. The robed Yuuzhan Vong was nowhere to be seen, already fled. Jacen stood in the eye of the whirlwind, Tsavong before him, Han behind Tsavong. Cries and shouts echoed up from below. More warriors. All of them. Tsavong snarled, grasping his amphistaff with both hands. It was as long as he was tall. Then his red-white eyes flicked from Jacen, the Warmaster turning slightly- First was a sconce, to Tsavong''s knee. The Warmaster wavered. Metal bolts, once fasteners between roof and walls, streamed in and skipped off of Tsavong''s back. Keratin scales bent and snapped under the barrage. Struck high, struck low, Tsavong fell to one knee. A chair swept out of the whirlwood, met by a hastily swung amphistaff. The chair split in two but lost no momentum. Both halves struck the Warmaster in the temple. The storm''s eye shrunk, converging on Tsavong Lah. Jacen watched the Yuuzhan Vong commander lash out with fist and foot and amphistaff, managing to brush aside or shatter or rend a surprising amount of what was directed toward him. It could never have been enough. Han''s desk, a heavy thing of metal, once a workbench on a freighter, punched up, bursting through the thin floor of the administration building. It lofted Tsavong up, launching him out over four stories of empty space. Jacen let everything drop. He was at his father''s side in an instant, the Force eager and waiting. He was no healer, but he knew enough tricks. He ignored the sound of laser fire outside, the growing hum-roar of repulsorlifts. He ignored the perfect, three-hundred and sixty degree vista of the ruined dome around him with the entire upper floor of the admin building gone. He ignored Jade''s Shadow nosing in, taking bright flashes of plasma on its shields from the big Yuuzhan Vong lander. All his attention was on easing his father into a healing trance - a difficult enough task on a good day, without the assistance of the subject working from their end. He''d had enough practice recently, with Jaina''s anxious desire to recover as quickly as possible. "Good to see¡­you''re¡­using¡­the Force¡­again¡­" Han gasped out, spitting blood aside. His eyes shut and Jacen kept his hand on his father''s chest. The Jade Shadow swooped in close, so close he could see Droma''s wide-eyed face in the cockpit. An X-Wing coasted past on its own repulsorlifts, crackling out laser blasts at targets Jacen couldn''t see. It''s okay, he sent to Jaina. It''s okay. Hands pulled him and his father onto Jade Shadow, pulled them apart, got him into a crash-couch, carried Han''s limp body into the state-of-the-art medical bay. He let his head tip back, thudding against his headrest. Phantom acceleration prodded at him. He knew, without seeing, that Duro was behind him. His thoughts felt overfull. The moment fled. The peace of the Force receded from him. The symphony grew quiet. They''d looked for a Peace Brigade conspiracy. They found treachery beyond reason. Yet - if they hadn''t come, would they have had warning to evacuate the domes? Would his father - injured, tortured, but still strong, still burning with life - be dead? And Kyp too? There were no answers. Only possibilities. Eventualities. Paths not taken. Jacen clenched his hand around the empty space his lightsaber had sat. He''d stood firm. That was enough. Wasn''t it? Intransigence Prologue Volume III: Intransigence
Prologue
All of This Has Happened Before? The blaster bolts were fine - expected, actually, but she ducked and heard something hard karom off the bulkhead next to her. Then ping and ricochet twice more. One of them brought a slugthrower. Sure. Why not? She dogged the hatch behind her, hoping it would keep her pursuers delayed for at least a minute. The next car in the skytrain was half-full, which she was sure was a net loss for the shipping company, but a net gain for her as she scrambled over the crates, putting quite a bit of metal and hopefully dense, blaster bolt absorbing products between her and those behind her. She was rapidly running out of train and she dropped to her haunches for a breather. And a bit of a rethink. Following Corran Horn''s discovery of Yuuzhan Vong remains on the remote world Bimmiel, there''d been a bit of a craze in hunting for other footprints of the invaders. It was like there was some infectious belief that if you could just understand the vong, you''d find the chromium quarrel to send them packing. Almost none bore fruit, sure, but Tash Arranda always had a preternatural sense for when the ground was hot and there were secrets just waiting to be delicately exhumed. A brush here, scoop of the trowel there; compressed air gusting dust away, and Tash would reveal some new piece of the complex puzzle that was the history of civilization in the Galaxy - or as it seemed now, two galaxies. She hadn''t even a chance to put down the brushed steel lockbox tucked under her arm before blaster bolts whickered over her head. Well, that hatch didn''t keep them as long as she might''ve hoped. She vaguely aimed her holdout blaster over her head, poking past the durasteel crate she crouched behind. Tash squeezed off a few stun blasts, not expecting to hit a soul - and heard a hissing cry as a Verpine crumpled. Huh, she thought. Well then. No more slugs were bouncing around, so double lucky. Look - she was a xenoarchaeologist with a doctorate from the University of (New) Alderaan. She was a Jedi too, and a Fellow of the Obroan Institute, and a visiting lecturer at half a dozen academies besides. She even had tenure. It was entirely within her rights to spring a six hundred year old set of bones from a local collector here on Tymo II. The marks on the bones weren''t embalming marks! They were from ritual scarification! It was obvious! This had to be just like Mongei Shai - another Yuuzhan Vong scout arriving way ahead of their main armada. And intel on the invaders aside, such an important find obviously shouldn''t be stuck in a private collection, an artifact of such monumental, intergalactic importance belonged- Another pair of blaster bolts cracked past and punched smoldering holes into the bulkhead across from her. "Jedi!" one of the goons called across the cargo car. "That''s me!" she shouted back. "Surrender! We''ve got gunships coming in at the mountain pass. You won''t get off this train alive." Thinking hard, Tash rapped nails against the case under her arm. The Force felt tense and she sensed the truth in the goon''s words, but just because he believed she was trapped didn''t make it a fact. An actual fact: she could draw her ''saber and go right through the side of the car. Sure, the drop was like a kilometer and the whole point of hopping this skytrain was to leave the (probably) private security in the dust, but maybe she''d be better off taking her chances in the wilderness between Tymo II''s capital and its neighboring harbor city. She wasn''t really keen on testing her admittedly middling control of telekinesis on stopping a fall from this height at this speed, but¡­ Those blaster bolts looked nasty. "One more time, Jedi!" "Bite me!" she laughed, stuffing her holdout blaster back into its holster and yanking her lightsaber from her belt. Its azure blade snapped to life, drowning out profanities from the goons. Big talk when it was just a cornered Jedi, but a cornered Jedi with their lightsaber? Tash grinned. They''d be expecting her to rush them. Instead, she flicked her ''saber around her feet once, twice, thrice. And she dropped with a triangular patch of the cargo car''s deck. Wind struck her in the face immediately and she tumbled. Sky, ground, train. Sky, ground, train. The last car passed by so close the pressure of its passage hit like a fist, knocking her into a fiercer spin. She felt the ground of Tymo II far below, but rising rapidly. She kept a deathgrip on the case of old bones. If her grad students could see her right now¡­ Well, she supposed, if she didn''t pull this off, it would be a really, really embarrassing way to go. The patient was stable and breathing easy under sedation. Holograms fed him details on blood pressure, hormonal balance and brain activity. He stuck his bared hands and arms under a decon emitter, gritting his teeth as the cheap unit singed off the outermost layer of his epidermis. Then he rinsed the fine ash away, scrubbing well with antibacterial gel. He snapped on flexible gloves, hearing similar cracks at the other cleaning stations. Shul Vaal''s lekku were secured down his back, nicely out of his way. Turning back to his patient, the Twi''lek cleared his throat and glanced at his two assistants. Nairi Gem looked pale and anxious and he made note to sit her down after surgery. She was an excellent nurse, but she hadn''t seen quite as much as he had and their patient appeared to be upsetting her. It wasn''t a nice sight - swoop wrecks rarely were. The Bothan was missing half his fur from burns and duracrete abrasion and what was left of one leg was more of a tangle of bone and tendons. Not the nicest sight. H''gol Lok wordlessly slid a tray of burnished, shining tools up next to the Bothan as Shul sighed behind his sanitary mask. This was going to be several hours, even with his best tricks and techniques he''d picked up from Masters like Cilghal and Milessa. There was no time like the present and he settled in with a rhythm and confidence born over years and years of work. Nairi hovered at his right, handing off requested tools when he voiced his need. H''gol Lok managed fluids and kept the poor Bothan comfortable and unconscious. The Force guided his hands as much as his learning and experience did and he attacked the mangled mess of the Bothan''s leg. The abrasions were the worst to look at, but the least life-threatening. In that twisted up leg were ruptured major arteries. All it took was one unnoticed for a little too long and Shul would feel the quiet departure of the Bothan''s whole being. He''d felt that awful moment plenty of times. Master Skywalker said the Force was all, and all were in the Force and that returning to the Force was the fate of all beings, but Shul was a doctor. Fighting death was his calling and he waged his war in truer ways than any with a lightsaber. He clamped another spurter shut, wincing as he gently massaged the tissue with the Force and encouraged rapid cellular growth. A tiny point-cauterizer stroked back and forth as Shul worked and he eyed the pinched off artery. He still had some of the bridgers in stock, even if they were hard to source. He could tie one in here, let the artery absorb it and regrow the connection¡­ He mentally shook his head. No telling if the limb was even salvageable. Might just need to come off. Shul held out his hand, asking for a deep tissue scanner. He needed to get a look into the ball of bone and muscle that had been a Bothan''s knee joint. His hand remained empty. "Tissue scanner," he reiterated, glancing toward Gem. She wasn''t next to him. ''Boss-" H''gol Lok started and Shul felt his sudden shock in the Force get cut short, replaced by thoughtless dreaming. Keeping his hands half-inside the Bothan''s leg, Shul carefully twisted just enough to see Nairi standing over H''gol Lok''s crumpled body, a touch-stunner in her trembling hand. In her other was a vibroscalpel, already active and buzzing. "Hey, Nairi," Shul said, voice pitched low and soft. "I''m not-" she gulped, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. "I don''t - I don''t work for them. I wouldn''t ever. I swear." "I believe you," he placated. Then he kept working. "Shul! Stop. Stop." "I can''t, Nairi. He needs my care." "Shul, you have to stop. There''s going to be some - some people outside, okay? You have to go with them." Shul nodded distractedly. Without the tissue scanner, he was mapping the Bothan''s knee himself. It wasn''t a pretty sight, but he was growing more and more confident he could save it. The road to recovery would be long, but given the Bothan had come by Shul''s clinic, the Twi''lek bet the swoop rider didn''t exactly have deep pockets for a prosthetic. "Sure, Nairi. I just need to finish here." Her distress was palpable. Her guilt was acrid. Her fear was almost overwhelming. "I have to do this," she said, more to herself. "I have to. Shul, please. Don''t make me." "When I''m done," he repeated. "My patient needs me. He needs us, Nairi." He felt her move closer, dared to hope that she was going to go back to the equipment tray and be his second pair of hands again. His hopes were dashed when buzzing grew in his ear and a trembling hand wrapped around one of his lekku. "They promised," Nairi said again, her voice small and shattered. "They won''t attack again if we can give them Jedi." He''d seen the broadcast and heard the words again and again. It wasn''t anything new to him. He heard the promise a thousand times. I promise, Doc. I''ll lay off the stims. I promise, Doc. Patch me up, I won''t get in a podracer again. I promise, Doc. I promise I won''t relapse, I promise I''ll change, I promise, I promise, I promise. Putting an edge of durasteel into his voice, Shul shook his head as much as Nairi''s grip on his lekku allowed. "He''ll lose his leg if I stop. So I won''t. If you need to stop me¡­" Nairi was an excellent nurse. She took to his lessons like a krakana to water. She knew where a body could be hurt and survive, knew where it couldn''t bear the slightest punishment. With that vibroscalpel, Shul wouldn''t even feel it when it came. Bone fragments from the Bothan''s burst knee had shredded down into his connective tissue. They were deep and embedded and would''ve been a hassle for even the best surgeons to extract. Shul drew gently on the Force, easing and prodding the first loose. It relinquished its newfound perch slowly and he took his time to avoid further inflammation or worse - more tearing. He held out his hand. "Forceps," he asked. Cool metal fell into his palm. He gently gripped the tip of the bone fragment, assisting his careful grip in the Force with a mundane one from the forceps. Nairi stood next to him, eyes cast away, tears still staining her cheeks. I promise, I promise, I promise. Everyone promises to change. Sometimes they just have a moment of weakness. Shul started on the next bone shard.
On the tidal bulwark, the mob tipped over its fulcrum. A few final droids skittered down the causeway, hooting and warbling in alarm. Aqualish shouted and screeched, hurling epithets and stones.All fell short, but others drew short blasters. Dorsk 82 lit his lightsaber, the orange blade flicking to life. He paced down the causeway that linked his landing pad to the tidal bulwark. I am a Jedi, he thought. A Jedi knows no fear. And he did not. Through his training with Master Skywalker, he had been hounded by bouts of panic, feelings of deep inadequacy and darker thoughts of deep boots that could never be filled. Dorsk was the eighty-second Khommite to bear the name, all cloned of the first Khommite to be gifted it. He''d grown up in a world that was satisfied with its own form of perfection, a world that rested on the accomplishments of its ancestors. He''d followed in the path of the eighty-first Dorsk, the celebrated and mourned Dorsk 81, whose sacrifice had been a feat worthy of legend and who had offered his life with head held high and not a hint of uncertainty. Long he had feared to never live up to the standard set by Dorsk 81, no matter how much others assured him it was not expected. Now, though, he felt only gentle sorrow that the Aqualish had been driven to this. This was not how they were. The beings that ran down the causeway, they were fathers and mothers, they were workers and teachers and good, one and all. They feared the Yuuzhan Vong so much that it twisted them into something else. He pitied them, but he did not hate them. The destruction of the droids began small, but in a few short days had become a planet-wide epidemic. The government of Ando - that which existed still - did not condemn nor condone the brutality. The police stood by. Dorsk was all these droids had. Too many others had no one at all. The setting sun lit the sky into orange and crimson fire that melded with his lightsaber. Distant clouds that piled high into the sky were burnished bronze by the light. High above, the sky darkened from pale jade into darkening aquamarine. The lights in the city were coming on, winking to life in parody of the death brought by the Yuuzhan Vong. Salt air buffeted him, lingered on his tongue. He took deep breaths, lungfuls of the astringent ocean air. Whitecaps rolled and crashed. The tide was coming in. At long last, after all these years, Dorsk 82 felt he was doing what he dreamt of at last. One Aqualish stepped forward from the mob. He was shorter than most, his tusks incised and etched in the local style. He wore the slicksuit of a tug worker. Dorsk saw a myriad of uniforms, including the painful ones of the local police. "Move aside, Jedi," he demanded. "These droids aren''t your business. And you''re not ours. Don''t make us change that." "These droids are under my protection," Dorsk replied levelly. "Their owners don''t say that." "Maybe not, but I still must disagree." Dorsk looked across the mob, meeting eyes with purpose. Some met him, some looked away. "I plead with you: see reason. Destroying these droids will not appease the Yuuzhan Vong. They are beyond appeasement." "That''s our business. Aqualish business. Didn''t you hear? Duro''s gone. Our world''s next, not yours." Dorsk felt a pang of loss at word of Duro. He placed it aside. "I had not heard. It doesn''t matter. Go back to your homes in peace. Don''t let this be your legacy. If you need to fight, fight the invaders that come for your homes. Not these droids. I promise, you will never see them on Ando again." An Aqualish deep in the mob lifted a blaster - Dorsk grasped it in the Force and tugged it away, pulling it to his left hand. "Please," he asked. A moment bred two more and a tense silence hung between the Jedi and the mob. Dorsk almost believed they might be wavering, until he heard the hum of an approaching speeder. It was marked in the colors of the local police, a badge declaring a constable of higher ranking. It coasted to a halt, interposing between Dorsk and the mob. He allowed himself a scrap of hope, that perhaps the government had come to their senses. "What''s all this, then?" the officer asked, climbing out of the speeder''s driver''s seat while troopers in yellow and white armor piled out of the rear. The mob snarled and growled, but backed off, corralled by the armored police. "These people were intent on destroying a group of droids. I have placed them under my protection." The officer eyed Dorsk''s ship. "That''s your ship?" "It is." "Any Jedi aboard?" "No-!" Dorsk''s denial became a shout of dismay. Beams of light struck in, pinning the freighter through for a spare moment before it became a pillar of white-hot flame. Shards and scraps spun lazily, splashing down into the rising waters. It was all that remained of his ship, thirty-eight droids - and his pilot, Hhen. Dorsk was still transfixed when the stun baton hit him. He twitched and fell, landing on his back to stare dumbfounded up at his attackers. The officer stood there, face blank and eyes empty. "Why?" Dorsk breathed. "Stay down, Jedi." "Why?" "I suppose you haven''t heard. The Vong proposed a peace. They''ll stop at Duro and leave Ando as long as we turn Jedi over to them." Faint emotion crossed the officer''s face. Regret. "They''ll take you dead, but they''d rather have you alive." Dorsk drew on the Force and it eagerly leapt to his side. He washed the pain and paralysis away, stood. "Don''t, Jedi." Blasters came up. At least a dozen. Dorsk hooked his lightsaber to his belt. "I will not fight you." His words rang with the gentle sadness that still held him. "Fine. Then you''ll come with us." "I will not be coming with you," Dorsk stated, firm and with a wave of his hand. "You won''t be." "Or with any of the rest of you." Blasters sank down. One trooper remained, more strongly willed, his blaster held in shaking hands. "Don''t-" Dorsk pleaded. He lifted his hand- The blaster bolt seared a hole through the Khommite''s palm. The pain was sudden and the sound was surprising. The other troopers and the officer jolted from his suggestion. The next bolt went through his thigh. Dorsk fell to his knees. "No more tricks," the officer snarled. Dorsk drew himself back to his feet. He took a step forward I am a Jedi. A Jedi knows no fear. The dusk lit with blasterfire. He had a lot to juggle. In fact, he was successfully keeping so much in the air, he supposed he might be able to become a particularly favored entertainer for a Hutt crime lord. First there were the wrinkles around Jedi having their own internal divide over what role to take in the war. Then there were the cold facts that the Core was, as the Core ever did, prioritizing their own security over the more sparsely populated and less economically powerful Rim. Then you had the Senate''s infighting, despite best attempts of mediators like Cal Omas and Viqi Shesh to head it off. Then the Exiles showed up on the board, bringing a ferocious desire to fight and a brutal efficiency when they slipped their leash. Then was the surprise attack on Fondor, then the swiftly-famous battle on the surface, culminating in a one-walker stand against a phalanx of Yuuzhan Vong monsters. Then was the Guild of Starshipwrights, in agreement with Procopia, deciding to politely tell the NRDF that they didn''t trust them anymore. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Markre Medjev had a lot to juggle. The Tapani Sector was casting the first vote of no-confidence against the New Republic and he was here to assure everyone that no, that was not in fact what was meant when the Tapani were saying that they''d rather beg at the feet of the Imperium Exsilius to protect them. No, see: it was, ah, perhaps more of an agreement of circumstance. Elements of the Exile''s fleet were already over Fondor, after all¡­the NRDF had many concerns and would likely welcome some slack being taken up¡­there has always been a great deal of leeway in how regional governments can conduct their own affairs¡­ He fenced with words where others dueled with ''sabers. Markre Medjev was Tapani himself, though (he hoped) a far cry from the fat and spoiled nobles that tarnished the otherwise sterling reputation of his home. If pushed, he might even agree with few reservations about the decision. Then he''d gently counter that the New Republic could use allies. Nothing herein said the Exiles were rivals at best or foes at worst. Just a friendly power, offering assistance. He stressed this, over and over, exchanging contact details and holonet addresses, sipping at wines and sampling bites of meats and cheeses. He was never quite comfortable at galas like this, but he served where he needed to. After all, Tapani was making waves and her sister sectors were sitting up to listen. Banntan, in the Inner Rim, was making noises about potentially joining with the Tapani on at least a minor level. Agreements for refugee handling, some mutual defense aid, sharing intelligence on Yuuzhan Vong movements. Markre had leapt at the chance to serve his home just like all those brave and bold beings did down on Fondor- A finger tapped on his shoulder and Markre turned, smile on his face. And fell, ash in his heart and the crack of a blaster hanging in the air. The Clone Wars came, went. The Galactic Civil war came, went. Even under Leonia Tavira''s little kingdom, Yumfla stayed sleepy and quiet. For all the dramas of galactic destiny and cosmic heroes warring against monsters of myth, the simple fact was that an average galaxy bore a hundred billion stars. Certainly, most were barren and never birthed a living child, but if even a fraction of stars sheltered a world of water and air and life - that was a number of worlds beyond reasonable consideration. The universe was a big, big place, and there were always corners and nooks for those who didn''t wish to be part of any greater drama to settle themselves. Four hundred years and Susevfi remained a planet of wide savannahs and scrub forests, fierce seas and warm nights. Its exports were minor, its imports forgettable and that was that. A fine world for the Jensaarai, a fine sanctuary away from the imagined sins of the Jedi Order and their perpetual theological war. It seemed common knowledge that for the size of the universe and the vastness of the galaxy, that no matter which winds blew, a side didn''t always need to be taken. That history could pass by these quiet places. Flames crackled red and orange, tinted to white at the roots. Flames rose high and roaring, devouring, an entire block of Yumfla consumed. Emergency fire-suppression services stood by. They were there to prevent a spread, not stop the conflagration. A few lagging combustible cocktails lofted, arced, plunged down into the blaze. Mei Taral, in her new-forged armor, crouched among shadows atop a squat mercantile building nearby. The cool seabreeze, sweeping in from the west, tugged at her mantle and tousled her loose hair. Her only hand clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed. She watched the Jensaarai safe-house burn to ashes, her rolling fury banked only by the comfort that none had been inside. Premonitions of danger had the entire sect on edge for the past several days, withdrawing younger members of the family back to the Temple. Only trusted associates had been in the safe-house and they had escaped through a bolthole exist in the basement before the roof started to collapse. Mei had returned home to recuperate. She''d come back to Susevfi to leave the bloody business of the war behind for a little while. Her body was still unbalanced, a space where her arm had been. Susevfi was home, for all that the Jensaarai stayed more reclusive and cryptic. The Warmaster''s taloned reach was long, if it could hound her even here. She turned away from the fire, lip curled and eyes narrowed. She itched to leap down and return the insult tenfold to the arsonists. They knew what they were doing. None of them were innocent. ''Give me the Jedi,'' the Warmaster promised. Jensaarai weren''t Jedi. They weren''t Jedi. That was the point. That was the rift between her and her family; one that wasn''t insurmountable, but one that was felt. It was the one that kept Grenm?tre at arm''s length and made some of her nieces and nephews wary of her. Tavira could''ve punished the world if she wanted. The Jensaarai had sacrificed themselves on the altar of service they detested, for the good of every last man and woman on Susevfi. This is how they''re repaid? With betrayal? With arson? With attempts made on the lives of their children? Telekinesis boosted Mei as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, a shadow in the night, out of sight and out of worry. Yumfla''s streets were quiet, emptier than usual. All the excitement was over at the pyre. Suarbi loomed over the horizon, bringing with it reflected glow from the sun. In the sky above, tiny lights winked and blinked and traced across the heavenly dome, marking out lazy system traffic. Her chest felt tight. They''d come for the safehouses first. Was the Temple next? It was supposed to be hidden. Only Jensaarai ever darkened its doors. Was she really naive enough to believe that? Determination blended with fear was a potent tool. None of the Jensaarai had the talent or the training for mind-altering illusions like the Fallanassi had taught the Jedi. Ironic - that the sect whose fault it was the Jensaarai were threatened also would have given freely the tools to protect themselves. The fault of the Jedi, she mused, working her way across the skyline toward the outskirts of the city. Open to a fault, trusting to a fault. She worried for friends, scattered across the stars. They didn''t have the same caution and ingrained mistrust that Jensaarai did. If echoes of this betrayal rang across the galactic wheel, then many Jedi, dozens in fact, could be facing death and capture before they even knew what was coming. The mental presence of all the other Jensaarai were wordless whispers in her mind. Grenm?tre wished for none to be alone, so her cousin Nulko volunteered to be the nexus of a thoughtscape. Words were beyond his talent, but impressions and emotions could be shared, keeping Jensaarai who were abroad on the world aware and alert. Another presence intruded on the thoughtscape. A foreign one, without the familial connections and understanding that Nulko manipulated. If Nulko''s working was an assembly of whispers, the newcomer barged in, chatting at a volume just shy of a shout. Mei winced, peering upward unbidden. A triangle hung over Yumfla, small as one joint of her little finger. It seemed to be painted red. Her commlink popped. "Mei? Is this channel still active?" A smile touched her lips for the first time tonight. "Master Horn," she replied, bring her comlink close. "I wasn''t expecting you." "Well, Booster took a while to convince. But I think it was the irony of the whole thing that got him going." Above, more flecks of light like shooting stars whizzed from the crimson Errant Venture. Master Horn''s presence in the Force bloomed above. "We''re being hunted," Mei related. She worked to keep the melancholy and anger from her voice, failed. The Jedi would sense it from her anyway. "Susevfi is no longer a sanctuary. The authorities aren''t helping them, but they aren''t stopping them either." Corran didn''t reply for a moment, static hissing from her comlink. "I''m sorry to hear that. Truly, Mei. You''ve done good by your people. I hope you can find a way to forgive them for this, someday." She bit out a harsh laugh, more a bark of despaired amusement. "I''m being run out of my home," she shot back. "Let me survive this war and then we''ll see." Diplomatically, Master Horn shifted the subject. "Booster is warning Yumfla not to interfere with us. We can spare shuttles to help move your people. Will¡­your great-aunt allow it?" Grenm?tre would be chiller than interstellar ice and twice as hard. She''d be raging on the inside, but severe and serious on the outside. But saving face and returning insults ranked far, far below the survival of the family. She would bend, though it would curdle her heart. "Yes. And Master Horn?" Mei closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and wanting one last simple memory of the ocean air and Yumfla''s complex melange of civilization and nature. "Thank you. We won''t forget it." The last time a lone Star Destroyer graced Susevfi, the Jensaarai had found themselves in bondage. Later, while Mei watched sullen and angry locals kept at bay by holotape and barricades manned by tense police, she saw the humor that convinced Booster Terrik. Leonia Tavira used the threat against their home to control them. Now, the threat that was their home forced their hand again. The Temple would be sealed and buried, left for recovery someday. Jensaarai in robes, armor and civilian clothes shifted ident-sealed crates into gaily painted landers and shuttles, watched over by Terrik''s private security in Venture marked fatigues. Mei glared at the gawking crowd, daring them to consider the shaken and pale-faced children among her family. Children. She traced fingertips through the mantle about her shoulders. Brackardian vraks were restful and wished for peace. Until you threatened their home. Their family. She''d had enough time to recover. She was just another Zabrak. Plenty around. Her jumpsuit was stained with grease and lubricants. Just another rigjockey. Her horns were unpolished and dull. Down on her luck. She was huddled into herself, just like all the other sad denizens of the Flyrot Hopper. She sipped her lum ale and swirled the glass. She had eyes only for the slowly discovered bottom of it and nothing else. She didn''t look around, she didn''t meet any eyes or respond to knocks and nudges as spacers shoved through the bolt-hole cantina. Just another Zabrak. Her two stunsticks under her cloak were for personal protection. She was a loner on a fringer skyhook. Girl had to defend herself. The stunsticks worked just fine, if anyone asked. How in the vaping voids the Peace Brigade were still on the tail of just some random Zabrak was beyond her capacity to fathom. She''d bounced six tramp freighters, changed clothes a dozen times and this was her third skyhook. And still there were squads of the turncoats swaggering down every corridor. Their disgusting little patches were worn open and proud. One hand, human, grasping another hand, scarred. She busied herself with trying to imagine ways that the Peace Brigade could stay right on her heels despite pulling almost every trick in the book. It was much better to think that they had some kind of special ''screw-me-over-in-particular'' power, and not that the damned Peace Brigade was so entrenched in this sector that every time she turned her head she saw more. She didn''t want to think that poorly of the folk of the Galaxy that they''d just let this happen. Her next flight left in three hours. She kept checking the flickering chrono over the bar. Time moved like void-chilled bugsludge. They didn''t know she was here. They couldn''t. She was just another Zabrak, a nobody Zabrak, drowning a long and awful day in awful and watered down ale. That crew over by the door had the hairs on her neck prickling. No handshake badges for them, but she felt their eyes burning a hole in the back of her head more than a few times. They all looked grim and grizzled. Enough scars across the lot of them to impress a Trandoshan. Telltale chunky lumps under long trenchcoats screamed ''blasters!'' and kept a healthy bubble around them. Five humans. Four men and a woman. She was just another Zabrak, just another Zabrak. She repeated the mantra, over and over, until the Force hissed at her and she shrugged in time to avoid a meaty hand from clamping over her shoulder. The owner of that hand, unbalanced, staggered and she swept his leg, elbow finding the small of his back and the human''s head bounced from the rim of the bar. Now there was space around her. The man groaned and twitched and all along the bar hooded eyes glared at her. Those who had penned her in at the bar wisely found elsewhere to drown their sorrows. Grabby hands had friends. Two more humans, a Rodian, an Ortolan in shabby armor. Handshake badges on four chests. She snaked both hands under her cloak, grabbed for her stunsticks. "Oi!" bellowed a deep voice. She paused, her fingers touching cool metal. The group from the table elbowed and shouldered their way through the cramped cantina, spreading out to face off against the Peace Brigaders. "What''s your problem with the lady?" Their leader had an accent that was alien, tinging his Basic oddly and he had a sharply peaked cap sitting askew on his head. His four looming compatriots were thin-lipped and tense, hands on blasters inside their long coats. His face was shiny with a rippled radburn that made her wince. In her head, she called him ''Burns''. They all looked rough and serious. With their leader at her feet, the Peace Brigade held a quick election and the Rodian puffed himself up. "She''s under arrest," he sneered. "What for, eh?" "Not your business, spacer, unless you want to be in the cell next door." The Peace Brigaders exuded malice and intention, but from the five humans? Her brows drew together. She felt strange disgust that didn''t seem to make much sense, but she also felt a weird indignation. Burns looked to his fellows. "Last I heard, Peace Brigade was a bunch of thugs and traitors." Burns spit the last word like acid, the other humans growling. "Last I heard," the Rodian taunted. "I didn''t care. Go and sit little humans. This is a new galaxy." Burns rolled his head, cracking his neck. "Surely is," he said, just as she felt sudden danger. She whipped her stunsticks out - the false emitters popping loose as one-two lightsabers lit with a buzzing snap-hiss. She needn''t have bothered. Crackle-flashes of crimson light snapped between the human crew and the Brigaders. Ozone tinged the air and the cantina dissolved into chaos, every single patron struggling to flee. Burns and the other humans had chunky, simple looking guns out at their hips, like a quickdraw exhibition. She didn''t know what in space they were - definitely not blasters by the sound - but all four Peace Brigade keeled over with crisp little scorched holes in their heads. Not that she minded the assist, but their easy violence and immediate jump to killing meant her lightsabers were definitely staying out. The Flyrot Hopper rapidly emptied, revealing just how much of a dump the cantina was. She both sensed and heard the proprietor huddled under the bar, swearing in Bocce. Burns holstered his gun, hard eyes flicking over her. He reached into an inner pocket, plucked out a credit chit, tossed it onto the counter. "For the mess." She didn''t raise her ''sabers, nor lower them either. Just kept a careful guard, interposed. "Well, thanks," she tried. "They''ve been after me for a while." Burns raised half an eyebrow. "Half the galaxy is after you, Jedi." She nodded in agreement. "Maybe it is. Are you?" Burns didn''t gesture, didn''t make any motion at all, but his crew split up like they''d rehearsed. Two went to the front entrance of the Flyrot Hopper, peering out into the station''s corridors. Another two prowled into the back. "Might be, but not what you think." Voices called from the cramped little kitchen in the back of the cantina. "Clear, sir. Got an alternate exit." She still felt the threat of violence thrumming in all five of them, but none of it seemed directed her way. None of that rancid duplicity that the Peace Brigade seemed to exude. Taking a chance, she cut off both sabers. Burns looked pleased and inclined his head. "Looks like you could use a lift, Jedi." He tapped fingers to his peaked cap as if in salute. "We''re with a private consortium. Neride Solutions." She''d never heard of it. Said so. Burns didn''t seem bothered. "We''re new here. How about we continue this somewhere a little less public?" Burns aimed a vicious kick at the Rodian''s corpse. "With better company than these traitors." Still no menace directed her way. She exhaled. Just another Zabrak. No one special, just another Zabrak taking on a new temp job. "Kes Lo," she introduced herself, holding out her hand. His hand enfolded hers, far larger and rough with old calluses. "Captain Decimus."
Elsewhere, Uldir Lochett ejects his long-time copilot into the hungry void, surviving calculated treachery by gut feeling and whispers of the Force. Swilja Fenn enjoys the twisted hospitality of the Warmaster, who grows frustrated by her stalwart silence in the face of unimaginable torment. Metarie Graff dodges an assassin in a group of excited fans, the former glitzpop star horrified by the twisted return of her past. Luxum and Ken abort a docking sequence, the Shard sensing at almost the last moment an ion bomb welded to the airlock. Harlan Ysanna calmly picks off a Peace Brigade captain and half his command crew at two kilometers, felling them each with precision slugs. Jedi, known and unknown, celebrated and anonymous, humble and prideful, find themselves alone in crowds. His Eminence Harrar declares Yun-Harla well pleased. The Warmaster broods over the Jeedai''s uncanny ability to slip through even the most determined nets. Nom Anor, redeemed by his subversion of Duro, enjoys quiet vindication. The New Republic Senate is in an uproar. Worlds argue. Sectors dither. And in emptier space within the Coruscant system, the veil of reality is punctured, slit open, and peeled back. From the space between the veil, the space that holds no space, from between and behind and beyond logic and comprehension, arrows Samothrace.? Intransigence Chapter I PART I: FUNCTIONAL DYSFUNCTION
I: Another Empire
This is a day for Borsk Fey''lya. Before Coruscant''s primary even hints above the horizon, he rises from his bed. His apartments are within the Palace itself - he has not set foot in his far more lush and sumptuous luxury accommodations in the Senate District in months. His datapad is already prepared with a brief. It covers the previous five hours, five hours in which he was dead to the world, five hours in which catastrophes and cataclysms might be conjured. While he takes his breakfast, delivered by an aide - some distaff member of his clan - he skims the reports. He absorbs the gist, discards the rest. The galaxy has survived another night. There is still a Republic. He exhales, releasing a modicum of tension. HoloNet news reports cycle in the background, nattering away. He has half an ear for it, judging the gentle waves of public opinion. He goes through a series of stretches and minor strength training, as prescribed by his exorbitantly priced personal trainer. An aide keeps him company, holding a towel while outlining the day''s itinerary. If Borsk has any adjustments to make, his aide will handle it. He spends five minutes, precisely, in the ''fresher. Sonic scrubbers speed the process, unpleasant though they might be. Borsk is settling into his office, high in the former Imperial Palace. The name has never been shaken, despite attempt after attempt over the years. On paper - the Republic House. In truth: the Imperial Palace. The edifice will accept no other title. He fields holocom calls for most of the morning. Senators and corporate magnates, ministers and generals, members of his cabinet and High Command and the Advisory Council. Functionaries of his party and staff from his office. A thousand demands on his time bombard him without respite. He passes off those less important to his surrogates. He delays meetings with assurances of value and sincerity. He scowls and ignores recorded messages. There''s an ambassador from Tapani who has been after a one-on-one for the past week. There''s a group of petitioners from the Gordian Reach who have been giving his staff hell. Six aid bills are still pending his review and there''s a full briefing on the latest moves of the war that High Command has been badgering him to schedule. NRI is getting louder and louder about a comprehensive Advisory Council session covering the growing threat of the Peace Brigade. He also has several million personal messages. They have all arrived in the previous five hours, while he was asleep, and from what the droid tasked to manage it is telling him, most have to do with the Jedi. It is approaching noon when Borsk takes a straight-line airspeeder to a luncheon. Duro is all anyone will speak of. CorDuro''s treason is on everyone''s lips and the images of the burning orbital cities shredded and devoured by enormous worm-weapons are branded into their minds. Everyone wants reassurance. What is the Navy doing? How did this slip past NRI? With the losses at Fondor, can the fleets even protect the Core? What is being done to safeguard Coruscant? He can tell them nothing and everything. He reassures, he pats hands and pats heads and repeats the party line. The rest of the Core is inviolate. Duro brought this downfall on themselves, rotted from within. Shipyards across the New Republic are already rolling off replacement for those lost in Admiral Brand''s command. They cannot know that Dac is having production delays. They cannot know that with the Tapani Sector calling on the ''Imperials'' for protection, that rumblings across the Colonies and Mid Rim are causing projections for the next three years to practically collapse. Economic projections. Military projections. One sector alone causes this. One domino. They cannot know that the Hutts have basically become impossible to contact, their entire sector of space folding like cheap flimsy before the brutal and harrowing assault of the Yuuzhan Vong commander ''Nas Choka''. He has to sit and listen and promise and deflect and consider the curse of knowledge. Naval reconnaissance has reported what appears to be an entire new worldship being¡­grown¡­in the ruins of Sernpidal. Entire armadas of vong ships continue to burst out of occupied regions. The probing attacks on the Imperial Remnant are stepping up. NRI has been cleaning house and discovering a frightful amount of moles. He reassures and promises and then lunch is past and he sits in briefings and meetings, he is harangued in the halls and pressed by reporters. There are demands to give up the Jedi. Questions about what makes a few dozen mystics worth the lives of trillions. There are petitions and proposed acts that would ban the Jedi Order from Republic space. Surely, Borsk Fey''lya, outspoken critic of Luke Skywalker, will see reason. Surely, he will understand the necessity. He demurs and dances in couched terms and careful language. He is not an idiot. He knows that the Yuuzhan Vong will never uphold the promise. The polished bones of Senator A''kla, the scorched cinder of Ithor, the slaughter over Duro - the list goes on. Borsk Fey''lya knows appeasement is impossible. He is not an idiot, no matter what public opinion might sometimes say. The afternoon passes with glacial slowness and frightful rapidity all at once. There are preparations to be made for the Senate session tomorrow. He has a dinner to attend that will eat two entire hours of his evening and night. There are innumerable other things that he could be doing, but present will be particular Senators from a half dozen Colonies sectors along with at least a hundred movers and shakers from across the Core and Coruscant itself. Lobbyists and officials from half the parties in the Senate, along with representatives of guild concerns that account for several quintillion credits per annum across half the galaxy. He must smooth feathers and comb fur and soothe egos, he must be in control. He must project absolute, total confidence. Borsk Fey''lya is the lynchpin that is holding the Galaxy together in a single Republic. He is blamed for abandoning the Outer Rim, he is accused of favoritism, he is damned by each planet lost and every ship of refugees struggling among the stars. He attends the dinner. He watches as self-interest and blind greed promise to lay bare the galaxy before the swinging vibroaxe. By the time he finally returns to his bed, slipping beneath the covers in his silken underclothes, it is past midnight. He sets his personal datapad aside to await the upload of tomorrow''s brief, prepared to receive the next morning''s brief. He lies on his back, fingers laced on his chest, staring blankly at the ceiling above. The Republic he has spent his life midwifing is fracturing. It is falling apart. His clawed nails ache from clinging to its tumbling pieces. His palms sting from being cut, again and again, on the sharp-glass edges of his life''s work splintering around him. He fears he will be the last Chief of State of the New Republic. He makes the same promise he does each night. Not while he lives. The next morning, he rises long before the sun.
Dimensions peel back like flimsiplast. Branes are punctured, the flesh of reality slit and pressed aside, curling open lips like a surgical incision, whose blood is multihued and dancing will o'' wisps. There is no depth to the wound; there is nausea inducing vertigo. Far from any world of the Coruscant system, in a safe hollow of gravitic influence, the empyreal exhales into the staid physics of the materium and in that breath expels a rugged spar of adamantium. Samothrace returns to the universe attended by her handmaidens: the Exemplar-class destroyers Shroud of Antorine, Stonebeast and Stargilt. Birthed of the same Forge-world as the far grander battle-barge, the three Exemplar-class shape a precise triangle with their elder sister centered within. A youthful five decades of age, Samothrace was birthed from the ancient dockyards above Anuari. She is Adytum-class, a derived design of the Anuari voidwrights, neither battleship nor grand cruiser. She is made to ferry the XIIIth Legion to worlds that beg for liberation, that sneer at compliance. Her service is short compared to the long rolls of monsters such as the Gloriana or the stately and ancient Fourth Honour. Turetia Altuzer is only the fourth to hold the role of Shipmistress. She has held it for the longest, for eighteen years of Crusade and impeccable service to Ultramar and the Imperium. She hopes to hold it longer still, for decades and centuries more, so long as juvenat provides and the Primarch allows. In her breast, her heart swells at the honour done to her and her command. Not once but twice has Samothrace acted as chariot for the Primarch. He has entrusted her to ferry him across half a galaxy, he has faith in her to deliver him to the throneworld of the Republic, so that the Primarch might forge a grand alliance. A grand alliance. A wild and nigh-incomprehensible concept. One that has some of her peers scoffing and sneering. One that has scattered ripples through the 4711th. Turetia Altuzer has voiced no opinion, save that of what the Primarch wishes. She has her duty and she will see it executed. As the Warp recoils, swirling back in upon itself and sealing away the bizarre unphysics of the space between spaces, Turetia Altuzer issues a single order. There has been preparation. There have been drills. There have been rehearsals. Flight after flight of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds, Xiphons and Furies, Panthera and Apis and Corsair arrow from Samothrace''s wide hangars. They glint like darts, they weave and dance and form a tapestry of glimmering threads of molten exhaust. They are guided by the best Astartes and Imperialis pilots. Squadrons assemble in chevron formation. Wings form jagged arrays of hulking, oceanic-blue attack craft. Samothrace disgorges two hundred and eighty six attack craft from her skirts. All are burnished and spotless, every seam sealed and rivet polished, every gun barrel cleansed of carbon-scoring. Their engines purr, their canopies glint like diamond. This is no combat patrol. Shipmistress Altuzer expects no hostility. They do not settle into escort positions. They do not match velocity and coast. When the last of the craft has left the embrace of Samothrace, a dance begins. Squadrons split apart, scattering on every axis. Xiphon interceptors spin and scatter, dancing away in ones and twos. Thunderhawks swirl around their larger cousins, escorting doughty Stormbirds. They interweave, sliding past one another, becoming a churning ballet of frightful precision. Bomber squadrons spin on their longitudinal axes, pirouetting while interceptors flash through their formations in mock attack runs. Distances of mere meters separate the craft as they whip past at combat speed. This roiling, swirling display of synchronicity flows about Samothrace. The battle-barge''s bow is aimed at the distant chip of light that is Coruscant, her escorting destroyers as unmoved by the ongoing display of piloting prowess. They are pelagic hunters, sleek sharks to the whirling bait-ball of darter-fish minnows that flicker silver and white and plasmic blue around them. The display will continue to the very edges of Coruscant''s atmosphere. As Malaghi Shesh, on loan to the New Republic Navy, ascends from her anchor to greet the incoming warships, the dance gains a visual accompaniment. Lascannon flare and pulse at lowest power, blinking out delicate crimson threads. Samothrace''s squadron becomes a starburst of flickering light and color, a moving firework. From the surface of Coruscant, as the Imperial squadron approaches from the nightside, the display is visible as a tiny nebula. A winking star, waxing greater. Thus: the Exiled Imperium comes to Coruscant.
Samothrace remains in low orbit, Malaghi Shesh accompanying. The three destroyers split from their escort formation: Stargilt pulls ahead to prograde. Stonebeast slides to aft. Shroud of Antorine ascends above. The weaving dance is over; now simple combat patrols fly side-by-side with X-Wing and A-Wing escorts. Holocorders capture the new arrivals from a thousand angles. Civilian vessels drift close to the cordon maintained by the Navy. Beings across the hemisphere of the world below stand on balconies and avenues, pointing with appendages and jostling shoulder and articulation joints. Samothrace, alongside the Mandator, is a ghostly shape distinctly visible at anchor above. Most beings have seen the recordings of a ship that appeared quite similar in design brutalizing the savage vong over Fondor. It''s a heartening sight to some. It''s a worry to many others. It is all too easy to consider that such power brought against the vong could be brought against them as well - and one extragalactic invader is enough. Now from Samothrace falls a single transport. From each squadron of Xiphon, one interceptor peels away - thirteen in all. They are an honor guard, an echelon around the single Stormbird, which begins to blush a faint cherry-red from atmospheric heating. Offers had been transmitted. Dozens of Senators made overtures to use their own private landing pads, promising lavish accommodations and the finest airspeeders for transport. All have been declined. The Stormbird is up-armored, bulkier than others of its kind. It is freshly painted in Ultramarine blue and finely detailed in white and gold trim. The ivory Ultima shines proud from wing and fuselage. Pennants are flown, pennants that may only mark a single passenger. Capital Guard gunships rise from the district to meet the descending transport. They slide into gaps the Xiphon squadron has allowed open. On the roofs of many starscrapers, turbolaser batteries maintain tracking locks - just in case. The Stormbird arrows for the monolithic construction of the Imperial Palace. Inside, there is a moment of quiet amusement shared by the few passengers. They know of another location that claims the title. This Palace would be swallowed whole a million times over by that continental construct. On soft and gentle repulsors, the Stormbird settles to unadorned tarmac. The landing pad is one of several for common Senatorial use. It is sometimes used for freight, it is sometimes used for petitioners and guest speakers. The Stormbird settles on thick tyres, with well-oiled hydraulics flexing and cradling the auramite and adamantium armored transport. A small escort of Senate security await at the edge of the landing pad. In other circumstances, it would be an insult. In other eyes, it would be a snub. It is as requested. The Stormbird sighs open its waist hatch. A man steps out, his sandaled feet treading down extended, corrugated ramp. Two bulk-armored shapes pace behind him, a stride and a half of distance - never more, never less. He approaches the Senate guards and with gentle smile and dipped head he returns stuttered and wide-eyed greeting. The Senate awaits. The man is punctual. The guards gesture and direct him inside.
"This has happened more times than there are stars in the sky. Before this august body comes a nation: nascent or ancient, alien or familiar. They come to beg or bargain, to cajole or coerce. Twenty-five thousand years of such moments, until this galaxy itself, this grand river of stars and worlds, turns at the fulcrum that is this world. I see in you the inheritors of that legacy, not in mere name but in principle, in action. To stand here is an honour, to address: a pleasure. I bring glad tidings from worlds beyond the rim of the universe, from distances and times far and impossible and beyond naming. Once more, this ancient ground of Coruscant bears the tread of embassy. I say: may it ever be so. I speak no flattery. Rather: fact. I am a man of logical things. I am a man of machines and mathematics, I am a man of reason and axioms. I am a man of theory and rationality; I am the man my Father shaped and I do not speak idle fantasy. When I speak, I select my words for truth, for the practical that I might describe the world as it is. I laud you, Senators of this New Republic, for you have done such that I have not yet seen in the span of my life, nor that of my timeless Father. A galaxy of order. How many millenia? Twenty-five. Yes. I see hesitance. I am read of your wars, your dark ages. I am read of the slides toward barbarity and the sorrow of brother set against brother. But I say this: for all these darker times, by my measure and by the solemn judgment of history, this Republic has yet maintained. In the times of Empire, in which this body was suborned and in which this galaxy was set to disorder - the guttering flame was held and kept safe, until in a short span of time, that ill-fated Empire, which was built to never last, did fall about the architects and tear them down besides. Now here you remain; this august body. This Senate of the Stars. And I speak rightly: this is an honour. I am Roboute Guilliman, son of Konor and of Tarasha, son of my Father, the Emperor of Terra. By some I am known as Thirteenth, by others I am Lord Macragge. By my sons, I am Father and by my people, I am Consul. I am not a man born. No woman birthed me: in truth, no man sired me. I am weapon and scholar. I am general and killer. I am architect and destroyer. I am an instrument; I am transhuman. I was made, by science and by forgotten wisdoms, and my purpose has been singular. I am an implement of my Father, to fulfill what role He wills. When He wills me to be statesman: I raise five hundred worlds in His honor. When He wills me to be brother, I seek counsel and comradely fraternity. When He wills me destroyer: I extinguish species. Of myself and my brothers, He has shaped Multitudes into Individuals. I am come to speak for my people: my Exiled Imperium. I am come to broker for their survival; I am come to speak deal and debate, I am come with hand open and blade undrawn. I am come as warning. My Exiled Imperium has washed ashore in your Galaxy. We have passed beyond time and space and the way for our return is yet shrouded. We have left behind our home and thus must make anew here. We are not alone. By cosmic coincidence, this galaxy of order, which this Senate stands astride, bears not one visitor from beyond the gulf of far void, but two. Their name bears speaking. Yuuzhan Vong. Like my Exiled Imperium, they are adrift. Like my Exiled Imperium, they would build a place anew. I am here to speak for my Exiled Imperium. They have never deigned to darken the steps of these halls. This is the warning I carry: These Yuuzhan Vong are alien to you. In them you paint your fears. In their inscrutable advance, you flinch and founder. In their palaces of pain, in their worship of ruin, you are boggled and unmanned. These Yuuzhan Vong are familiar to me. I have butchered my way across a hundred thousand lightyears. I have trod lightless worlds where the bodies and minds of innocents are consumed as morsels. I have burned parsecs clean of infestations that prey on the passage of time itself. I have condemned to oblivion monsters in whose shade the Yuuzhan Vong would quail. This is the warning I carry. There is a war that is coming and it is a war which you do not know. There is a war coming whose waves will crest above any other, whose high-water mark will swallow all lands. This is a war you do not know. Not in twenty-five millennia have you tasted it. This is the warning I carry. There will be no peace. There will be no embassy. There will be no decency, no honour, no quarter. There will be neither accord nor surrender. Put these concepts aside. Cast them out. Harden your hearts. I know this, for I am weapon. I am general. I am killer. I am Roboute Guilliman, First Lord of Eboracum and the Exiled Imperium, Lord Consul of the Legiones Ultramarine. I will make war upon the Yuuzhan Vong until their memory itself is burned from the stars. This is the warning I carry. I am a man of machines and mathematics, I am a man of reason and axioms. I am a man of theory and rationality; I am the man my Father shaped and I do not speak threat. I speak only fact. I describe the universe as it is, not as I wish it to be. From my warning; my offer. Use my knowledge. Use my experience. Use what I was made to be. I beg you. This galaxy is not mine, nor do I claim it. Yet I describe the universe as it is, not as I wish it to be. I am here. My sons are here. My people are here. So: I must act. It is as I was made, and I can only ever do thusly. I ask that you stand with me. I ask that you heed my warnings, that you hearken to my teachings. I have seen a galaxy fallen under millenia of silent, deathly night. I have carried the quiet candle that illuminated that haunted, grim darkness. I do not wish to ever again. Do not make me."
The silence is ringing. Finished with his pronouncement, Roboute Guilliman inclines his head fractionally, stepping a symbolic half-stride back from the podium of the speaker''s platform. The podium is simple, yet adaptive, designed for any being that might range from diminutive Chadra-fan to towering Ho''din. Behind him, his Invictarii escorts are as still as carven statues. He is clad in garments of state: toga picta and tunica palmata: spun by hand, dyed by lazulum and embroidered with gold. A ceramite brooch in the shape of the Ultima sits at his shoulder. Auramite threads glint in delicate and intricate embroidery that describe the zodiacal signs of Macragge. Crowning him, encircling his sandy blond hair sits an emerald wreathe, the gemstones cut and polished to mimic the cherished laurus ultima that grew only on the slopes of Hera''s Crown. His skin is oiled and gleams in the light of the convocation chamber. He takes in the chaotic chamber that is the Senate, filled with asymmetric tiers criss-crossed and interwoven with walkways and ladders, with senatorial boxes customized by each occupant and riotous in their diversity of design and construction. It is so utterly alien to the cool marble and mathematical lines of the chamber he had reached manhood in. It is a metaphor for this galaxy. The moment lengthens and the silence is invaded by the soft sound of beings shuffling themselves, of clothing and robes adjusted and shifted - there is a tension that grows, tautens, a tension that will be, must be broken by whomsoever would speak first, yet by unspoken challenge none are quite sure who that ought be. "Pfah! Another Empire!" exclaims Gr''not Thann, Senator of the Kkanth Sector. "Just what we need right now!" Guilliman''s gaze shifts ever so slightly, flicking to the arthropoid being halfway up the chaotic tiers of the Senate. It is as a dam has broken and the entire chamber erupts into shouts, jeers, questions and declarations. The din washes and rebounds, acoustics designed to aid voice projection now serving to only muddle a hundred Senators shouting over each other. Guilliman picks out each voice, each word. He stores them away, matching each to a being whose name he does not know, but will in time. Mif Kumas rises from his haunches, the Sergeant at Arms braying out demands for order before his prehensile feathers flick auditory controls, slamming down privacy fields over the tiers and booths. The din ceases in an instant, though mouths and oral cavities continue to flap and work soundlessly. "There is an agenda and I will abide it! We recognize-" Kumas declares, flicking another command. In the holotank, a Senator appears in treble size, catching the attention of those Senators who had not yet realized they were silenced. "-Thank you, Sergeant Kumas." Viqi Shesh croons, her voice honey and silk. The Kuati is immaculate in her usual ensembles of robes, corset and skirts, but what draws attention is not her perfected sartorial taste, but rather a single livid line that traces across her temple into her hairline. Thin and red, it is laser-straight and instantly recognizable. She adjusts her skirts, casting an imperious gaze over her peers. More than a few are still constantly glancing back to the patient form of the Primarch. It is with some effort of will that Viqi does not do so herself, instead addressing the chamber entire. "We are honoured to welcome you, First Lord Guilliman. I especially am pleased to make your acquaintance in person once again. Kuat and the Family Shesh warmly greets you and hopes your stay on Coruscant will be both pleasant and fruitful." The privacy barriers are dropped and the usual low-level din of the Senate returns. Borsk Fey''lya, seated with the rest of the Advisory Council, sans Shesh, watches with hooded eyes and chin resting in his palm, a single clawed finger curled over his lips. Cal Omas of Alderaan, to his left, wears a light frown and an unblinking stare aimed at Guilliman. Fyor Rodan, Commenor, leans close to Chelch Dravvad, Corellia, the two exchanging whispers. In her own booth, eschewing her earned seat with the Advisory Council, Shesh raises her chin and by her hologram, the effect is as she gazes down at her peers. "Kuat recognizes the warning you bring to the Senate. I, personally, will second the First Lord''s condemnation of the Yuuzhan Vong. I am a politician at heart. I welcome the chance to speak to foreign counterparts. I cherish the ideals of republican discourse and diplomacy. These precious tenets of free society are what led me to extending my hand in friendship to the Exiled Imperium. And they took it. When have we, the Senate, not been willing to deal, even with our strangest of neighbors? We were open to the Yevetha, we tried to brook peace with the Ssi-ruuvi. One could count the Imperial Remnant as our greatest foes and truest opposites - but now we''ve found common ground and even friendship there! The Yuuzhan Vong invaded our galaxy in search of a home - and a home we would''ve happily given them. Instead, they brought war and slaughter and infamy to these welcoming shores. Oh, I have heard the whispers from my peers in recent days. The so-called ''Warmaster'' and his ill-conceived truce has been on the lips of every being." Shesh''s smile slid from her face. "And yet, three days ago, they tried to kill me." She tapped manicured nail against pale skin just below the livid mark at her temple. "My very own Chief of Staff. A man I have known and trusted for my entire life, who has served my family dutifully and honourably drew a blaster and tried to put a bolt through my brain. Because the Yuuzhan Vong got to him. They filled him with lies and they promised him fruit of a poisoned tree. And the last request they made of him¡­" She pauses and shakes her head. "An assassination attempt on a sitting Senator." The words are filled with as much venom and condemnation as she can muster. About the chamber, the reaction is varied. The Kuati Senator''s sudden absence from the public was noted and remarked on in gossip. Some had assumed she had sequestered herself in preparation for the arrival of the Exile delegation, as she had bound her political career in supporting them. Word from within her office was nonexistent and it had buttoned up tight, revealing nothing. Impersonal messages were all that had been received from queries sent by concerned staff of other Senators. Stolen novel; please report. Senator Triebakk, for the Mytaranor Sector, appears irate. The Wookiee is rumbling, a constant low growl vibrating from his barrel chest. Voul Arastide, for the Ganthorine Sector, snorts and folds his arms, rolling dark eyes full of doubt. "Those are bold accusations, Senator Shesh. Can they be proven?" Arastide calls, tone sardonic and bored. "It''s utterly out of character for the Yuuzhan Vong." "Out of character!" bellows Gron Marrab, for Dac. "Why, it was just the other day that the priestess Elan attempted to assassinate Luke Skywalker and a number of his Jedi!" "A military target," Arastide remarks. "I don''t like Skywalker, but you can''t deny that his Jedi can be proficient killers when they want to be." "I have extensive records connecting Pomt to Peace Brigade informants and masquered Yuuzhan Vong," Shesh counters, a sickly-sweet smile curling her lips. "After his charred corpse was removed from my office, it was easy enough to dig through his most personal files and contacts." Arastide scowls but says no more. "Victor Pomt failed in his treason, but I am woman enough to overlook the personal insult. What I cannot overlook, as a Senator and a proud daughter of Kuat, is the clear and present danger of the Yuuzhan Vong. It is taking us too long to wake up to their threat. We are reacting, instead of acting. With that in mind, and to mark the First Lord Guilliman''s visit to us today, I am pleased to announce on behalf of Kuat and the Ten Families the ratification of the Treaty of Fundamental Iron between the Ten Families of Kuat and the Mechanicum of Mars." Another eruption of noise blossoms, but Shesh speaks louder, riding over the hubbub. "Kuat has had enough of the Yuuzhan Vong. Effective immediately, the Ten Families are extending drastically subsidized contracts to the New Republic Navy-" "Outrageous!" Pwoe, of the Calamari Sector, roars. "-and the right to terminate, with prejudice, any and all contracts held by systems, polities, or corporations that decide to sit out this war or worse, throw in their lot with the invaders-" "This is economic suicide!" shouts a hirsute Senator. "-and that finally, Kuat Drive Yards will be announcing entirely new lines of vessels designed under the auspices of the Treaty of Fundamental Iron, which will be provided at-cost to the Exiled Imperium-" The convocation chamber descends entirely into chaos. Guilliman''s eyes flick to the Kuati - to her actual face, not the reprojected hologram of the woman. Viqi Shesh bears the focus of the Primarch primly, only a touch of red coloring her cheeks as she reclaims her seat, her piece said. Security drones dart here and there, spitting stinger blasts to separate a brawl that erupted four tiers up. Jeers and pointed digits declare coward and traitor. A few senators and their staff are hounded out of the chamber by the drones. Borsk Fey''lya''s projected voice is just shy of audible and even the activation of privacy barriers cannot overcome the din. Guilliman observes it all, fascinated and disturbed at once. He has nothing more to say, not now, not during this initial session of the day. He has spoken and they have heard his words, and now he takes measure. In some ways, there is nostalgia in watching a fistfight erupt first between aides, and then sweep up senators in its spread. He has seen worse in the Curia Magna during his youth. As he aged, and most especially after the death of Konor, his presence began to buff out the more vitriolic and overt hostilities in the Macraggian Curiate, until when last he attended the grey-haired politicians had practically fawned over the Lord Macragge. In some ways, he is impressed at how swiftly these beings overcame their initial surprise and captivation at his presence. The effect of a Primarch upon mortals is well-known, yet he supposes for any being to ascend to a position here, there necessitates a particular mulishness and resilience. His more ephemeral brothers might have found ways to turn the gifts his Father granted them in more subtle ways - he could well imagine Magnus spinning some ''enchantments'' through his psykery or Sanguinius'' achingly noble presence softening hearts. He is Roboute Guilliman. He had spent a mortal''s lifetime in the Curiate. His would be a way of words and nothing else. He added one final addendum, his booming tones enough to momentarily quieten the chamber. "It should also be noted that the Exiled Imperium welcomes all Jedi of any age, species, and training, who find need of shelter from the infamy of betrayal." Shortly thereafter, with the convocation chamber still in uproar, Borsk Fey''lya calls for recess.
There were dozens of private conference chambers seeded all around the Senate Convocation chamber, all outfitted with full privacy and security suites. It was common practice for the Advisory Council to randomly rotate between more than a dozen of these chambers ¨C the paranoia leftover from Delta Source died hard. Today''s conference room was pleasantly lush, with a small water feature in the corner and a variety of long creeping plants climbing trellises along the walls. Quite a few worlds sponsored chambers in the Senate building, donating art, furniture, flora and cultural decorations. A way to keep their interests on the mind during meetings, of course. This one was one of Borsk''s favored. The rest of the Advisory Council filtered in, conferring with each other and aides that were left at the door. He drummed his fingers on the wide, U shaped conference table, bent enough that those at either end could face each other. Viqi, to his left, exuded a powerful aura of satisfaction that infuriated Borsk to no end. With Cal Omas the last in, claiming his seat at one end of the table, the Advisory Council was assembled. Fyor Rodan, Cal Omas, Chelch Dravvad, Niuk Niuv, Narik, Pwoe, Triebakk and Viqi Shesh. In practice, the Council had no real legislative or executive power, as it only recently came to be. A bit of goodwill from his last election, meant to act as a check on the Chief of State, humoring several of his opponents including the ever-present thorn of the Daysong party. Yet, despite its short existence, already the Council had gained a measure of prestige and expectation, with many of the public viewing it not as a lead weight around the neck of the executive, but rather as a way for the Chief of State to groom a successor. As such ¨C the Advisory Council was now seen as a stepping stone, for all that it drove him to distraction. Which was why he was saddled now with Viqi Shesh. He respected her drive and her acumen, of course, as one player of the grand game to another, but in her he saw a dangerous mercenary sense. A junior senator, but already on the Advisory Council, already seated on CSI, already on NMROC, even tied to SELCORE. She was after his seat and the human woman had no idea the demands on the Chief of State. Borsk swore he''d not be the last Chief of State of the New Republic, but he''d also be damned before someone as green and as self-serving as Shesh rose to the office either. "I''ll give it to you, Viqi: you always keep things lively." Cal Omas said tiredly, the man looking haggard and careworn. His constituents, consisting of not only the Alderaanian Diaspora but also New Alderaan and the Ash Worlds, were dangerously threatened now by the Yuuzhan Vong campaign in Hutt space. The Kuati scoffed. "It''s something we should''ve done months ago. A year ago. We shouldn''t have let Sernpidal slide. Really ¨C a whole world destroyed like that?" She levelled a glare at Borsk, who weathered it without concern. Tying up the official release about Sernpidal over demands to exclude any natural causes had been a decision he still stood by. It had kept half the Outer Rim from rioting immediately, for one, and for two, dragging his feet on Sernpidal had given time to model out public opinion based on how that story broke. End result: Sernpidal was seen as a fluke and a measure of the danger of the Vong, but hadn''t led to widespread outcry to raise the entire Navy to slap down the Vong at once. Triebakk interjected with a hooting growl, as if he sensed Borsk''s own thoughts. "Sernpidal aside, I''m surprised that Kuat is willing to agree to what you described," Borsk said mildly, running claws through his cream-colored fur. "I can only imagine the numbers if you intend to follow through on that threat. What would the losses be? Quadrillions of credits? And the hit to reputation¡­" His heart wasn''t much in it. Shesh''s announcement might have caught the Senate off guard, but she had already forwarded the preliminaries to his desk the previous morning. Schmoozing up to him, no doubt, but looking over the discounts they were willing to throw toward the Navy¡­ Well, he still disliked Shesh and trusted her as much as a spice-addled skifter, but if KDY held to even half of that promise, then it was really no concern at all of his if they decided to pack up their reputation and fire it out of a torpedo tube. His eyes had bugged a little when he read the section that mentioned spooling back up the yards capable of producing Executors¡­ "Our reputation is and will remain sterling, Borsk." She always used his first name, which wasn''t strictly against protocol but the inflection always got under his fur a little. The last woman who said it that way he hadn''t seen in a decade, after their divorce, and hearing that same intonation from the Kuati was unsettling. "Kuat and KDY have always prided ourselves on exemplary service and service to the galaxy." Dravvad snorted, chuckling under his breath. "Some service. Well, at least the Corellian Engineering Corporation will be known for keeping their word¡­." "I''m sorry, Dravvad ¨C I think I said service to the galaxy. Last I checked, the Vong aren''t part of it. I don''t see the issue." "Nor are the Exiles, but you hopped into bed with them quickly enough." Rodan countered. "I''m so terribly sorry ¨C should we have let Fondor fall?" Shesh shot back, eyes flashing under manicured brows. "It''s nearly worthless as it is!" Pwoe warbled around his tendrils. "Not to mention, what remains of Fondor''s industry is sworn to the very same Exiles! It''s as good as lost to us." "Enough," Borsk said, raising his voice a hair. At least here they listened to him, all quieting, though pointed glares still shot back and forth. He depressed a key on his datapad. "Go ahead and send him in," he ordered. The door hissed open and Borsk braced himself. Not physically, but mentally. Roboute Guilliman bowed his head and stepped inside. Just beyond, as the door slid shut again, the shapes of his massive bodyguards were visible, along with Senate security. Shesh had talked about the man''s presence, as had Im''nel, and the effect had been noticeable even in the convocation chamber. A magnetic sort of attraction, like a spot of light that danced in the corner of his vision, enticing him to turn and look. To simply stare, to try to make sense of something that should already make sense. A large chair was set out for the Primarch, easily suited to his stature ¨C brought in by Triebakk, in fact, from the Wookiee delegation. Wroshyr wood and capable of withstanding the weight of an entire shuttle, in all likelihood. The Primarch settled into the chair, his draped robe seeming to fall just right about him, arranged like some old painting. This close to the man, Borsk''s fur prickled and ruffled, momentarily itchy and irritating. He found himself clenching his jaw and willed his muscles to loosen, briefly wetting his lips and composing his thoughts. Something of a buzz hummed around like tinnitus, making it just a little difficult to muster himself. Shesh had a tinge of color on her cheeks beyond her usual rouge and Borsk took a brief moment to glance to his compatriots. Pwoe had a grey tint to his otherwise burnt umber complexion, his dangling tendrils bunched up tight. Cal Omas had a vein bulging at his temple and his fists clenched before him. Rodan and Dravvad both looked suspicious, arms folded in eerie synchronicity and leaning back in their couches as though to gain as much distance as possible. Narik was harder to read, but the Rodian was stiff-backed and erect. Triebakk seemed unphased, the Wookiee cocking his head left and right to take in the Primarch. Clearing his throat, Borsk began. "Welcome to Coruscant, First Lord Guilliman," he offered. It always stood to be polite, even if by all accounts the man was a chauvinist monster of perhaps the worst stripe. At least he could credit the humility to come nearly alone and without the ridiculous armor he apparently favored. "It is an incredible world, Chief Fey''lya." Guilliman''s voice was a rich, bassy rumble ¨C though by no means impeded by his size and presence, each word was clear and precise with a curious accent that was quite foreign. "My gratitude for the invitation." "Oh, it was the least we could do for the service you''ve done the New Republic," Shesh demurred. Omas made to speak, paused, cleared his throat, coughed once, then tried again. "Your speech was impressive, but concerning." Omas had an edge of strain to his voice, Borsk noted. "I''m¡­surprised you didn''t hide your more, ah, martial past." Guilliman considered the council arrayed before him, the enormous man poised and oddly still. Borsk blinked, and for a moment he appeared a painted, ancient marble statue, before he was man again. "To downplay the Crusade would be to imply shame. I have none: what was done had to be done. I neither apologize nor excuse who I am and what I am. That was another time, and another galaxy. What I have seen here, in this place, tells me that the necessities of my home are unnecessary." Left unsaid was ''so far'', which any fool could read. That was always the problem with authoritarians and imperials ¨C they could be reasonable, but only so long as it suited their always-flexible principles. The Remnant was an ally for now, but Borsk knew that in a scenario that the vong and Republic beat each other to exhaustion that Gilad would be sailing Star Destroyers over Coruscant''s skies within a fortnight. "Aside from what you think needs to be done about the vong," Narik replied. Guilliman inclined his massive head. Really, though he had his doubts, learning that the ''Primarch'' was some kind of tube-bred genetic monster really did make the most sense. "Just so. The attack on my world is surely known to you. We have all seen the infamy at Duro, and I have read the so-called ''deal'' to save Ithor. Honor and good faith only matters if they believe their counterpart is worthy of it. They will not honour this truce and they will not stop in their subjugation of this galaxy." Triebakk huffed. "In part, a reason for my honesty." Guilliman momentarily met Borsk''s eyes and the Bothan stilled. Blue eyes, as normal as any other human''s, but something unfurled behind them in that instant and his breath seized in his chest. Then Guilliman looked to Shesh. Skywalker and Im''nel claimed up and down that whatever phenomenon it was that the man exuded, it wasn''t the Force. He was¡­not so sure. Guilliman continued. "The Imperium of my Father, as I have discussed with Master Skywalker, is one that would never treat with the New Republic. The circumstances of my home are too¡­fraught for such a risk. Yet as I have said ¨C I am a man of reason and practicalities. The truth will always out, and so I will not hide it, so that you might understand what friction there may be between our peoples. And more ¨C so that better trust can be forged. I will be frank, Senators, Chief: I may never warm to you or your people. It may be that my mind has already been shaped all too much by the Crusade I fought, or perhaps it is by my Father''s will." The man adjusted himself, an aura of sincerity wrapping him as surely as the rich robe. "Be that as it may, friendship is not required for allyship." "That was the implication of your speech. We haven''t had a chance to look over the proposal you brought with you, though the rest of the Senate will be during this recess. What was your offer? "Use your knowledge"?" Niuk Niuv''s glassy eyes narrowed. "I propose a treaty that establishes the Exiled Imperium as an Allied Region." Borsk''s eyes widened and his expectations of the man adjusted on the fly. From his bombastic and martial speech, not to mention the overt and unsubtle actions at Obroa-skai and Fondor, he had assumed that Guilliman would primarily be after some form of military alliance, and that alone. Im''nel''s brief about the tense xenophobia of the Exiles and their paranoid trauma around non-humans and even droids painted a grim picture for any peaceable or fruitful agreements outside of those that had to do with little more than killing. But an Allied Region? He mulled the concept over while Shesh and Narik butted heads, with Dravvad chipping in with irritation at the proposition. On paper, it would not work per se, as Allied Regions were, by definition, a part of the Old Republic and now the New Republic. The autonomy was notable and a highlight of being an Allied Region, but that autonomy was still beneath the auspices of the Republic itself. He should well know ¨C Bothan Space was one of the few remaining Allied Regions. If taken literally, the Exiled Imperium would need to be absorbed into the New Republic, with all that entailed. They could still govern themselves and would have a large amount of leeway, but Borsk knew that was a total non-starter. The arrogance and pride of how the Exiles comported themselves alone meant that any integration into the New Republic was dead on arrival. If Guilliman''s word was to be taken as utter truth, they were also the scions of a galaxy-spanning superpower ¨C and begrudgingly, if Borsk had been in their position, he''d not want the remains of the New Republic to be absorbed into some other power. Yet, strictly speaking, an Allied Region did not have to be part of the New Republic. Borsk found himself nodding ¨C it might work. "You''re aware then of the legal status of an Allied Region?" he said, speaking over Dravvad. The Corellian scowled, but quieted. "I am." Guilliman confirmed. "We would not join the New Republic, but most of the requirements I find to be eminently reasonable and acceptable, with the benefits well worth the drawbacks. There will be further stipulations, which I shall warn are focused on limitations of expansion and armament, though I believe an agreement can be reached there as well." In an ideal world, this ''Exiled Imperium'' would be swallowed up as just another sector of the New Republic, with a token Senator to shout and rail and drum up drama in the Senate¡­ Rather, in a truly ideal world, this ''Exiled Imperium'' would not exist at all. He didn''t need another headache on top of everything else nor a group of human supremacists of delusions of grandeur, not when he was starting to put out fires faster than they could crop up. Though, the Jedi had oddly thrown in their lot with these Exiles, so if this ended in catastrophe, Borsk supposed it would be easy enough to finally be able to throw a lasso around Skywalker''s order and finally bring them to heel. "You''ve already charmed Shesh," Borsk said drily. "The New Republic is always open to allies. Your willingness to deal on our terms is unexpected. But welcome." He checked his chrono ¨C the recess was coming to a close. "But I''m afraid that in our Republic, the final decision isn''t up to me." He rose, the rest of the Council following. Guilliman moved from seated to looming over them all in a single motion that could not be followed and Borsk grit his teeth against a wave of strange vertigo as the very human appearing man towered above them. "It''s the Senate you''ll need to convince."
"No Republic world should have to suffer being press-ganged!" The words rang out, speaking over Guilliman yet again. Idly, he placed one of his less personable brothers in the same position and sardonically wondered what abattoir of horrors Kurze might have created here. Yet at the same time, he wished for the patience of the Angel, for though he was known for his coolheaded and level mien ¨C there were trials that could yet try him. More than two hours had passed and he had outlined under a third of his proposal to the New Republic. Almost every point he made was interrupted. Interjections and brief shouted arguments sparked up with a regularity that a chron could be set to. "Oh, shut up!" Senator K''farn shot back, leaping to his feet. "I''ve already seen what Guilliman means by a tithe! One of their warships made anchor over Ploo three weeks ago ¨C and do you know what they asked for? Water! And foodstuffs! A pittance, and the vong scouts that had been creeping closer haven''t been seen since!" "It''s a protection racket!" another senator groused. He still noted each name and sector, but had long since sequestered that fact-gathering to be unconscious. Most of them, he realized, were beyond unimportant. The true fulcrums of the Senate were those he had met and a few more besides ¨C the Advisory Council, the Inner Council, those that sat on committees and those that represented the oldest, richest worlds. A sort of twisted order was revealed to him bit by bit. He saw now that the Republic was ruled not by this Senate, but rather a strange oligarchy within it, that allowed for these thousand seats as a means of pressure release. So that the lesser could squabble and stir trouble and feel as though their tiny voices were heard, before bowing heads and voting as those that truly held the reins wished. Borsk Fey''lya might have said he would need to convince the Senate, but Guilliman knew he already had the ear of those that would do so for him. "A protection racket doesn''t bleed for those they ''bribe''," Kvarn Jia retorted. "Fondor would have fallen without them and they sent their very own soldiers to fight and die to protect Oridin." On went the arguments, until the Sergeant at Arms gaveled for order and Guilliman had a chance to continue. Then, the cycle would repeat all over again. "To reiterate, Senators, the ''tithe'' as described is commensurate with the material expenditure of Exile support. Eboracum is self-sufficient and our alliance with Kuat-" he honored Shesh with a small nod - "provides a great deal more. I am also of the mind that direct contribution engenders a positive civic mindset when employed: it is a buy-in, if you will. Moreover, the tithe asked for would be negotiable with worlds that request Exile assistance." He continued, moving to the next point and that which he knew would be most contentious. "Finally, the Exiled Imperium would petition to retain all worlds liberated-" he pitched his voice fractionally louder, subtly adjusting both his throat and diaphragm, so that his booming tones overrode the latest eruption of indignation. "-from the Yuuzhan Vong. Of course, this would not include signatory worlds of the New Republic, which would instead be placed under stewardship until such a time that the New Republic armed forces would be able to complete a transition of defense. For worlds that are not signatory to the New Republic, the Exiled Imperium would provide order, reconstruction and security for the duration of this war. Upon the defeat of the Yuuzhan Vong-" again, he made subtle adjustment to drown out the rest of the chamber "-and a period of five years, Galactic Standard, the Exiled Imperium shall then conference with the New Republic for referenda on worlds claimed in this manner, such that each world might chose to remain with the Imperium or request transfer to Republican authority." His piece said and final requirement outlined, Guilliman folded his arms, observing once more. Should such an end come to pass, that the Vong were vanquished, the New Republic still stood and his Exiled Imperium had a swathe of worlds beneath its banner, he had little doubt that few, if any, would truly choose to return to the Republic. The duration of the war plus five years was more than sufficient time to make the Imperium indispensable and a cornerstone of existence for those beings, human or non, and secure a span of territory beneath the Ultima. His heart twisted to consider the theoretical of spending decades, centuries¡­millennia here, yet he could not stand by and allow time and history to pass him by. The Yuuzhan Vong were a gift, delivered directly to him. In any other period, he suspected, he would face far greater challenges establishing the sanctuary of civilization his Exiled Imperium would be. He would not budge on this requirement. With Senator Shesh''s backing, with Kvarm Jia and both Ploo and Plooriod Senators, with, he was certain, at least half of the Advisory Council, there would not be enough pushback to require significant concessions or edits. This Senate was functional in its dysfunction, Guilliman decided. Its inefficiencies irked him and the constant, omnipresent lack of decorum was insulting to his sensibilities, but it was a ship he could steer, though the rudder might stick and scream and shout imprecations. "Kuat approves," Shesh declared, the first to cast a vote. "I find Proposal 61.641 for the Recognition of the Exiled Imperium and the Eboracum Sector as an Allied Region to be well-thought out, fair, and overly beneficial to the New Republic. Kuat moves to advance the Proposal to a final vote in two weeks." Kvarm Jia added his own voice, then K''farn, then Triebakk. Some abstained, some voted nay, but the tide was obvious. The rising stars were championing it, and thus, the hangers-on and lickspittles through frowns and performative concern found their minds changed and votes cast aye. By the time Guilliman returned to his Stormbird to leave the ecumenopolis behind, Proposal 61.641 was scheduled for final vote, approved at a majority of four-fifths. Senator Shesh had intercepted him, offering her dainty, tiny hand which Guilliman had shaken with some amusement and delicate care. She offered congratulations, barely hiding avarice in her expression. He returned the words, wishing the best of luck with the Magi. Truly ¨C the Mechanicum was invaluable and His father''s wisdom in that alliance was unparalleled¡­but even Roboute could admit the mystics of Mars could be intractable. They spoke but briefly, the Kuati tilting and shifting her hips and shoulders minutely, peering up at him, two fingers tracing along her corset. Guilliman studied the blaster burn at her temple, noticing at closer regard the oddity of the necessary trajectory. The Senate guard were not displeased to see the backs of his Invictarii, for all that their gauntlet combibolters were dry. The volkite cavitor, however, did not require ammunition. On gentle humming repulsors, the Stormbird took again to the skies. More and more of the gunships were seeing refit with the antigravity mechanisms, turning the already deceptively nimble transports even more fearsomely maneuverable. This one, in particular, bore retrofit shield generators as well. This galaxy bore further fruit. With similar fanfare to arrival, Samothrace gathered her lesser sisters, discharged a sleeting sheet of low-powered ranging las in salute, then lit realspace extension drives for the long burn out into the doldrums of the system. Eryl Besa, in excited seclusion with Samothrace''s Navigator, made ready for another heady and exciting trip. Borsk Fey''lya convinced himself he had not made a deal with the devil. Viqi Shesh privately toasted herself with a snifter of exquisitely aged, thousand year Shesh brandy. Tresk Im''nel, elsewhere, breathed a sigh of relief he had not been required to be present at all, shivering at the thought of facing the maelstrom that was the Primarch again. Tamirit Noskaur, along with his newfound cadre of the Imperial Legatus, remain to negotiate. And behind convincing skin and facsimiles of faces, agents stroked away dedicated villips and passed secret word on, on and on, until the fringed ears of the Warmaster were filled with whispers. Intransigence Chapter II II: The Lonely City
Captain Thiel ushered the three Jedi children into the space Khotta claimed soon after arriving; the Captain was shed of his plate and wore matching roughspun robes to the children. Khotta studied the contrast from the corner of his eye while he worked. Captain Thiel bore his discomfort at the alien - by definition unfamiliar - garb well, but to senses well-trained on subtlety and nuance, Khotta judged well the shifting narratives and weight about the officer. It was not his task today to speak on such things, and so he placed those observations aside. Of all the lessons learned among the wind-chasing sons of the Khagan, he bore this lesson closest and most precious: do not seek beyond one''s limits. And those limits might be defined newly and readily, and with much implication beside. Captain Thiel ferried Khotta from Eboracum to Yavin 4, well ahead of the much-slower travelling Temerity. The destroyer would ferry the Jedi away, well able to slip past the growing interdiction nets of the Yuuzhan Vong and with the firepower to cow any patrols. Without the Jedi Eryl Besa, who was guiding Samothrace, the Navigator of Temerity relied upon the newly formed and still experimental process of ''bonding'' to a Force-sensitive Jedi. In this case, the Navigator, a relatively youthful man, had spent hours in meditation with a bored Captain Thiel. Khotta intended to study the claimed phenomenon, wherein the mutated third eye was said to retain a peculiar ''afterimage'' which persisted and could be seen across stellar distances. Now Temerity tested this principle, as it tumbled and tacked through the empyreal shoals toward Yavin. The Jedi children wore expressions of open curiosity, if a little trepidation in the case of the youngest female. The chamber selected was one unused by the Order, one that had passed through the millenia undisturbed but for crawling arthropoids and a few ancient nests of simple-minded mammals. Dust had lain thick, the simple stone door grinding on forgotten hinges, but now it gleamed of hand-polished Massassi stone and liquid light cast from three braziers gaily filled the space with warmth and welcome. These were metaphors that mattered, these were stories that Khotta pulled and wrapped about himself and his new guests, such that like good tea they steeped meaning and revealed thoughtful themes. Incense smoked in marble bowls and the floor was roughened by carelessly cast sand, fine-grained and clean and harvested from the wide beaches of the Saecilian Sea. Tallow candles lined the walls, separated by algorithmic distances, their count and spacing defined by old Illyrian mathematica. Khotta prepared the chamber, but his guests filled it. Anakin Solo, the boy, who was the second son and final scion of the Surviving Sailor and the Cast Aside Queen, eyed the chamber, eyed Khotta, eyed his friends and then the smoking incense. ''I''ve got a bad feeling about this,'' he muttered and the echo of the words were as raindrops of mercury, pregnant with poignance and inherited caution. His companion, who was Tahiri Veila, of the Sonless Sand, nudged him with her elbow. ''It totally feels different,'' she rejoined, tugging on the youngest child''s hand. Sannah later given Sistra, Who Flees the Waters, set her jaw and was first to sit on provided cushions. Khotta knew them to be comfortable and pleasing, stuffed with down and spun of linen thread. Their colors were faded but rich and the wear of many bodies had worked purpose into the simple seats. Tahiri Veila followed next, then Anakin Solo, and wordless Captain Thiel departed the chamber. The stone door swung shut. ''You''re Alebmos,'' Tahiri Veila declared. Khotta did not disagree, but neither did he offer concurrence. ''I am Khotta,'' he said, ''who is Alebmos atimes.'' The blonde narrowed her eyes. She would wish to understand what he meant. Her interest would draw along Sannah and Anakin Solo. Thus: the first mark on the page. ''I am to test you and observe you. Better would be alone; together is my allowance.'' He had judged the manners of the Solo child and knew that even should his Master accede, the boy could never bear to sit aside while his friends were, in his mind, interrogated. Thus: Khotta did not even raise the option. His request was easy and simple. A conversation, behind a closed but unlocked door. The Solusar waited outside, in uneasy silence with Captain Thiel. Anakin Solo cast his focus about the chamber once more - candle flames smoothed and lengthened as his gaze passed, though the Jedi did not know. The boy''s question swelled as a bubble, thinned, popped. ''What kind of testing?'' Khotta nodded, agreeable to explanation. It was, after all, why he was here. The Lexicanium carefully lowered himself to sit crosslegged opposite the youths, tokens and charms rattling against his azure plate. Mark IV, as almost all of his brothers wore, painted Ultramarine, with new violet trim about his pauldrons to mark his position. On his right shoulder he bore now a numeral IX, on his left, the Ultima. Returned was his Cowl, long-languished in sterile storage, neutered by neutrinos. The elegant torc was a gift decades old, passed from hand to hand and received gratefully by Alebmos-who-then-was-named-Khotta. Over his armor he bore the tokens and totems his hands had carven and his mind had chosen, the knotwork and poem-form parchments and careful inked soliloquys. Codicier Rubio held a stern disapproval of all of it. Codicier Rubio was a son of Macragge, and thus, the man''s own totemic aspects were of far more orderly and categorical bent. Codicier Rubio did not like when Alebmos informed him suchly. ''You have been informed but little of the Warp, I know. My Lord Father is circumspect and understands it poorly: that which he does not understand, he is loathe to speak of. Of Captain Thiel, his eyes are shut forever to the Sea of Storms.'' ''Pretty much Aeonid just smashed up stuff and told us not to think about it.'' Sannah confirmed, her tone dry. The girl shrugged with palms raised, confounded. ''I mean I can''t stop thinking about it, so¡­'' ''Tell someone not to think about something, and that pretty much makes you think about it¡­'' Tahiri Veila appended. ''Quite,'' Khotta agreed. ''Captain Thiel''s advice was rudimentary, but accurate in small ways.'' He met the eyes of each child in turn: blue, green, yellow. ''In a pinch, meditative focus is a salve, and avoiding memories is often the best an untrained mind can achieve.'' ''What I don''t get,'' Anakin Solo said, ''is what''s so dangerous? Aeonid made it sound like - like that old Sith spirit could do more than¡­I don''t know, what Marka Ragnos or Exar Kun could. Those spirits were pretty dangerous, but Jacen and Jaina beat Exar Kun when they were kids. Then your Primarch told us we should''ve even say that Sith''s name. Like he''s some kind of star-story!'' They viewed the Sea of Storms no differently than their Force. Rubio suspected this would be the most difficult task set before Khotta. By writings and by experience - first with the Solo child, then with the Skywalker Master, the shape of this galaxy''s beliefs were clear. The Force was, undisputedly, all things. In all things, made of all things, binding together all things. The metaphysical presence of this energy source was so ingrained into the cultural psyche of each and every species, every being. Few were ignorant of the Force, though few were truly educated in its mysteries. Of the latter type, the Jedi were the greatest font, even if much of their lore had been lost to the predations of their ancient foes, the Sith. This surety and tradition would blinker the Jedi and indeed the Republicans at large, Rubio feared, and Khotta agreed, to the imminent and omnipresent threat of the Warp. ''Tell me of that moment, young Solo and Veila. Speak of the Man in Horns, whose name you were forbidden to speak.'' The candles about them flared as the daemon''s name passed Khotta''s lips. This did not pass without notice.
Alebmos - or Khotta, as he kept calling himself - was the fifth Astartes Anakin had met. Actually met and talked to, not just seen. Each one was proving to constantly upend his assumptions. Ascratus, the Sergeant who had sacrificed his life, was cordial if stiff, serious and always focused on the task. Through the Force, the Sergeant had felt like a single cast-iron ingot, almost impenetrable, with barely any impressions of thought or feeling. The two Neophytes, Zalthis and Solidian, were totally different. Zalthis had this little nugget of fascination that Anakin kept seeing creep out. He''d been interested in their sparring, he''d enjoyed listening to Anakin talk about¡­normal things, everyday things that he and Tahiri got up to, like their lessons or training or even just exploring old ruins. Zalthis had that same seriousness to him that Ascratus did, but it didn''t feel like it took him over completely. Solidian proved that Astartes still had some degree of humor. He laughed and joked with Zalthis, though never really with anyone else on the Obroa-skai team, even with Wraiths like Face there. Still, there was an informality to Solidian that contrasted with the others. Aeonid, from the brief times Anakin ran into him during his stay in the Praxeum, seemed sort of like all of them. He''d ask pointed questions and actually listen to the answers from other Jedi, even the youngest trainees. He was always polite and he made a point not to wear his armor, but he always seemed removed and uncomfortable. That wasn''t too strange and Anakin had known some other trainees at the Praxeum who''d been just as standoffish. He''d been one, because coming to the Temple was pretty overwhelming at first and if it hadn''t been for Tahiri claiming him and yanking him out of his shell, he''d probably still be lurking quietly around the background. She''d probably say he still did ''lurk around quietly'' anyway. Alebmos was the most different of them all. The armor was recognizable and made the man seem just as oversized and gigantic as any of the Astartes. Unlike Captain Aeonid''s armor or Ascratus or even the Neophytes, Alebmos'' armor was decorated. Not in a fancy way, like the ones that showed up at the Senate with the Exile''s Primarch, but it looked decorated¡­out of love? Sashes covered most of the chest plate and all looked hand-woven and the colors and designs were so intricate he was pretty sure you''d need a microscope to see it all. All kinds of rattling talismans and little silver bells were tied to them with tassels and leather loops. There were fluttering pages of pale white flimsiplast covered in bold ink symbols, sometimes just one or two of them. And it was a riot of confusing style. Some of the symbols were detailed and swoopy, some were blocky and simplistic. There were mandalas and sinuous, complicated braids woven into his sashes, and then some of them just had geometric patterns stitched in. What was most striking was how easily Alebmos smiled. He smiled when he welcomed them into the chamber, he smiled when they all sat down, he smiled when he asked Anakin to tell him about that old Sith spirit in the forgotten temple. It took Anakin a moment to realize he''d never seen any other of the Astartes smile before. It looked strange on Alebmos'' face, sort of like the expression wasn''t really meant to be there, but it didn''t feel fake. Alebmos - or Khotta - just smiled. Everything about the Astartes came across as open, honest. Free. Welcoming. So Anakin told him about Melin-Bralam. He''d told Master Ikrit, Uncle Luke, Aunt Mara, Captain Aeonid¡­plenty of people by now. He and Tahiri talked more about it, sometimes, both unsettled by different things. It made it an easy story to tell and just like every other time, he could dredge back up everything in crystal clarity. Like it had just happened. The exact kind of tone Melin-Bralam used, the little gestures the Sith made. And then the Man in Horns that came after. Tahiri added on her own experience, what she saw and what that Sith had told her. She was almost tentative - probably feeling the same awkwardness around Sannah that he did. It wasn''t exactly easy to say out loud that an ancient Sith had offered ways to make their friend into their slave, or worse, some kind of experiment. That Sannah didn''t believe a word of the Melodies'' supposed origin didn''t help. She refused to listen to it every time it came up. Master Ikrit tried to talk to her in private, but while Anakin''s Kushiban Master wouldn''t breach his confidence with Sannah, Anakin knew that hadn''t helped. ''...the scariest thing,'' Tahiri added, ''was how¡­how empty that ''Man'' felt. Like I know Yuuzhan Vong, and they don''t feel like anything at all, but when he was talking to Anakin, it felt almost like the Force¡­" she trailed off, and Anakin heard the unspoken words. Left us. ''Like the Force didn''t want whatever that thing was at all.'' ''Didn''t want to be in the same room, yes,'' Tahiri agreed. Alebmos - Khotta - rubbed at his bearded chin. Another difference to the other Astartes - his facial hair. Thick and oiled, shaped like a wedge and gleaming in the candlelight, Khotta tugged at his while he mulled over that particular tidbit. ''It is the opinion of Codicier Rubio that the Warp and the Force might be described as anathematic. He has spent much time in the opened libraries of the flagship in research and has consulted with the Astropathy and Navis. Perhaps it is as oil and water, such that when one influence is in ascendance, the other recedes?'' Khotta hummed in thought, then placed his bared hands, bereft of gauntlets, on his armored knees. ''A question to consider another day - though a worthy one! My next interest is in the actions of young Sannah. You broke the brass circle, child?'' Startled to be addressed, Sannah gulped and tore her eyes away from Khotta, focusing instead on her folded hands in her lap. ''I got it with the chisel I found.'' She opened one hand, tracing a finger over where frostbite had marked her palm. ''I thought it wouldn''t work, but it just cut right through it.'' ''And the ritual was lost,'' Khotta clarified. ''Well, we think it was the same time that Tahiri and I¡­stabbed the ''Man'' with our lightsabers.'' ''This was reported. Your blades could harm the apparition?'' Anakin glanced to Tahiri at the same time she looked to him. She bit her lip and he felt his uncertainty mirrored back. ''Maybe? It didn''t burn him - or it - or cut it, but when we both did it, that was right when it vanished. So it had to, I think?'' Anakin nodded as Tahiri explained. Master Ikrit firmly believed it was their resolve and he commented on the similarity to how Jacen and Jaina had confronted Exar Kun''s spirit years ago. It felt right, but that didn''t mean it was, though. ''It may well have been all three.'' Khotta gestured broadly, encompassing the chamber. ''The Sea of Storm is one of empathic meaning. Much that is done with intention will shape the Warp. Metaphor is a tool as powerful as any bolter or, indeed, blaster. The Jedi have wielded lightsabers for many millenia, I am given to believe?'' ''For as long as there were Jedi,'' Anakin confirmed. He could feel it, every time he took up his lightsaber. The feeling never quite went away, that feeling of weight that went beyond simple mass. ''That gives a lightsaber much potency. It has been observed by those who study the Sea of Storms that repetition and cultural memory create narratives that repeat. Knives are the most ancient tool of all beings that achieve sapience; knives remain a chief instrument in the arts of shaping and channeling the Warp.'' Khotta gestured to his hip, where a sharply curved knife with an antler handle rested in a sheathe. ''I thought you guys didn''t like superstition?'' Tahiri said. ''Are there not those among your Republic that view the Force as mere superstition?'' Anakin snorted - that hit a little close to home, considering his father. Han didn''t disbelieve in the Force and Anakin knew he respected it enough, but he never really understood it and sometimes it showed. ''The Imperium is built on a foundation of science and understanding,'' Khotta continued, ''and some would demean what I say as idolatry and yes, as superstition. I consider it literary analysis. Just as the universe is bound upon the great wheels of physics, the Sea of Storms appears to be harnessed to wheels built on stories. As gravity has its fundamental laws, so too does a narrative require order and structure.'' ''That''s nice and everything, but aren''t you supposed to tell us if we''re sithspawn or something?'' Sannah bit out, between clenched teeth. ''Not give us lessons.'' Anakin didn''t disagree. What Khotta was talking about was interesting, kind of, but Aeonid and Primarch Guilliman made the dangers sound like life and death. Or maybe even worse than death. Khotta smiled that warm, welcoming grin. ''I am. Not all interrogations are done in a cell of bare metal and with tools of pain, young Sannah. I have opened your mind through talk and question, and I have aligned your thoughts with mine.'' Anakin felt it, then, like a feather-light stroke across his brain. A touch that was intangible and impossibly faint, so hard to measure that no instrument ever made could quantify it. Even as he noticed it and pressed for it, it was gone already and he wondered if he even felt it at all. ''You are all three free of any warp-taint. No vestiges linger on you and no tale has grabbed hold of your souls.'' Tahiri''s jaw dropped. ''It was that easy?'' Khotta laughed, then, booming and rolling like thunder on the horizon, heavy and chuffing like a ronto. ''I described this chamber in the essence of two worlds and made myself the medium. There have been little remoras nibbling at my wards from the moment we seated ourselves. No, young Veila, not so easy. This world is steeped in murder and this system is a knot of storms.'' His cheer vanished and Anakin felt gooseflesh pimple his arms as the chamber''s temperature suddenly plunged. Sannah swallowed a cry of surprise, yellow eyes wide as she watched frost zag up the Massassi stone walls. ''You three are untainted and with discipline will remain so. I share a little lore of the Sea of Storms, so that you might be better armed. This is against the advice of my Codicier to do so, but it is the ways I learned and trust better. It is better to know a little and know what to put aside, than go blindly and foolishly into the dark. You have all seen the unbound Sea.'' Levelly, Khotta held their attention. ''When the dark side beckons, can you turn it away?'' Anakin answered reflexively. ''Yes. Always.'' Khotta''s lips thinned. ''Beyond the Path of Heaven, in the depths of the Sea, there is much that will not take no for an answer.'' The chamber warmed and the frost receded. ''Please, Jedi: if ever you fear the presence of the Warp, call for me. Call for the Ultramarines. We will answer and I will treat always in fairness.'' Though the Astartes exuded sincerity, a cold knot formed in Anakin''s gut. ''What would you have done if me or Tahiri or Sannah weren''t untouched? What if something had happened to us?'' Khotta''s gaze was measuring. ''Mercy.'' He spoke the single word crisply. ''Death is fairer and purer than the ruin straying off the Path brings.'' Sannah gasped and Tahiri winced, but Master Ikrit had suspected no less. The Imperials were absolutists and didn''t hide that violence was often their first choice. He didn''t even find it in him to rise to the implicit threat to his friends. It wasn''t even meant as a threat. Just a statement of fact. Anakin wondered at the world they''d come from, that would make them like this. Uncle Luke had suspicions, but he kept them to himself. ''How do we know you aren''t possessed or evil or - or corrupted or something!'' Sannah accused, jabbing at Khotta with her finger. It wasn''t a bad question. If it all was as dangerous as the Exiles made it sound, how could anyone at all ''use'' the Warp? And in fact - what did ''using'' the Warp even mean? The Force was obvious and easy to understand, but all anyone really knew was that the ''Warp'' was some kind of other dimension that the Exiles sent their ships through. Khotta interlaced his fingers, tapping fingertips to his lip. ''A fair question. I am Lexicanium, which means I am learned in control of the energies of the Sea of Storms. Teachings are strict and precise. Failure means death. That I sit here to measure you is proof enough. But I would not take such word myself, if our positions were reversed.'' Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ''You could tell us anything,'' Anakin agreed, ''and all we can do is just believe it.'' ''Verily, young Solo. Let us try, then, this: you have all three tasted the bitterness of the unfiltered Sea. Open your senses to me now, and taste instead the Path of Heaven.'' Something about how Khotta phrased it confused Anakin, even as he broadened his sense of the Force. ''Open your senses'' - were those people like Khotta who could ''touch'' this Warp always blocking it out, or something? Anakin felt Tahiri''s presence beside him, the less familiar but still friendly presence of Sannah as well. He sensed Aeonid beyond the small chamber, sensed the man''s constant and low-level unease, so pervasive he wasn''t sure the Astartes realized it. He sensed Kam Solusar as well, leaning and relaxed against the wall of the corridor, trying to engage Aeonid in small conversation. He sensed the other initiates, several floors below, led by Tionne as she guided them through packing their things. A few other Jedi were spread out, policing up supplies and belongings that years of the Praxeum''s running had spread out and into nooks and crannies. He sensed the undercurrent of worry that underpinned everyone''s actions. The sorrow at leaving the Great Temple, the anxiety that the Yuuzhan Vong might be close. The anger at having to leave their ''home'', the small hope to one day see these halls again. The same thing Anakin felt, when Uncle Luke broke the news. They''d be on Coruscant, just for a while. Just until the Yuuzhan Vong were beaten back and Yavin was safer. Whenever that would be. And of course beyond: the jungle, the life there in the trees and the ferns and the creatures that called it all home. Master Ikrit, tending to his garden. He didn''t sense Khotta. The Force flowed in and through and around all things, from the tiniest fly to the oldest of star-dragons, in lifeless stone and flowing water. Ysalamiri made holes in the Force. They made absences where the Force avoided, where it flowed around and made obvious by its avoidance the aura of the little creatures. The Yuuzhan Vong were mute. The Force seemed as if it did not even notice their presence, as if they were illusions or holograms, not beings of flesh and bone. Anakin saw Khotta with his eyes but Khotta was not there. Tahiri exuded confusion, Sannah a bone-deep apathy, but Anakin narrowed his eyes and focused. He could see Khotta. In fact, he could sense him - had felt the wash of his emotions, left open and unguarded. Until now. The Astartes'' eyes were backlit, glints of white-violet and flecks of gold. The air grew chiller once more. Once, when visiting Dac, Anakin had peered through the windows of Heurkea City, watching a migratory school of enormous filter-feeders pass by. He could hear their song through the Force - Jacen had taught him that - and from above the waters, they were only sketches of silhouettes, just dark outlines. Sometimes they came close, so close to the surface that the water bulged and swelled, but they never quite broke through. The memory fixed in his mind. Khotta was there, no different to Primarch Guilliman, and he had certainly been an overwhelming presence in the Force. Anakin only had to look¡­askance. He couldn''t peer at Khotta directly. He had to tilt his head, he had to look away, he had to catch a glimpse through the corner of his eye, just beyond focus, just at the edge of sight - he had to see the way the sea bulged, the water pressed up and out of the way by something greater, far greater beneath - Until the air froze and Tahiri''s blonde hair suspended in its perpetual hazy, wavy tangle; until the smoking incense formed frozen shapes like smoked glass, until the flickering flames of candles crystallized, until the Force acceded and bowed and yoked by his will, Anakin saw expanding out beyond him, before him, around him, within him, all directions. He saw Khotta, in his sashes and his armor, in his trinkets and his baubles, in his bells and his poems, in the luminous, crouching, etched shape in lightning. Behind the man was a city, a city of walls, a city of orderly streets and laser-straight lines, a city of marble and glass and burnished, shining steel. A city in the steppes, with high walls and wide avenues. Khotta, Anakin knew. The Lonely City. Alebmos-named-Khotta smiled and his eyes crinkled and the flaming light went out and the city curled inwards and outwards and folded tesseract through dimensions and packed back into the too-small body of the transhuman soldier sitting cross-legged as a monk. Anakin blinked. The chamber warmed. ''Well, I didn''t see anything,'' Sannah declared. ''Me either,'' Tahiri agreed, turning an eye to Anakin. ''Anakin sure did though. Boy, did he.'' Anakin found himself quite without words. ''Young Solo has a focus beyond his years,'' Khotta praised. ''And imagination. I felt your Force and the flavor was strange. You are hard to see, for me. I believe Codicier Rubio to be correct.'' Khotta exhaled, patting his knees. ''My fears are eased all the more. Your Force and the Warp - they peer past each other. With effort and with will, as with young Solo, there might be momentary alignment, but¡­I believe - believe - that Jedi such as yourselves might prove¡­redoubtable¡­in the face of the Sea of Storms.'' ''Hold on, hold on.'' Sannah leaned forward, scowling. ''So you''re all telling me that I''m supposed to be some kind of sithspawn-'' ''Sannah-'' Tahiri tried, but the Melodie cut her off. ''And now you''re like ''don''t worry, you''re a Jedi so you''ll be fine.'' What about my people!'' Tahiri shifted, reaching out to embrace Sannah, wrapping an arm around her slender shoulders. Khotta''s face softened and when he spoke, Anakin was surprised an Astartes could sound so gentle. ''I have petitioned to study your people, young Sannah. I will not condemn out of hand those who might be innocent. Be brave and be loyal and your people may yet need you as a guide through uncertainty.'' ''And if you think they''re bad? You''re gonna kill them all?'' ''Sannah, you know Master Skywalker would never let that happen.'' She whirled on Tahiri, slapping her arm away. ''I can pay attention! I''m not a kid! I watched that speech to the Senate!'' Khotta raised both hands. ''Peace, child. Peace! I will advise Master Skywalker and your Republic, nothing more.'' Sannah folded her arms, pointedly turning her head away before anyone could catch the wetness in her eyes. Anakin felt her boiling fear nonetheless, reaching out with a tentative and gentle touch. The Melodie rejected it. With a gesture, Khotta extinguished all the candles. The braziers still merrily crackled and the incense smoked, but the chamber felt larger. More open, less intimate. ''Rest easily knowing that you have faced what few have and passed it unscathed,'' Khotta said. The Astartes psyker took a long, deep inhale, then let out the breath in a gust. Subtly, his demeanour shifted and changed, his back straightening, his face taking on a more stoic bent. Anakin felt Khotta muster and order himself, felt the leak of emotion and feeling around the Astartes suddenly curtail and withdraw. Khotta became Alebmos, a soldier of Ultramar. ''Do not hesitate to come to me,'' Alebmos told them. Anakin nodded, Tahiri hummed in agreement. Sannah remained obstinate, turned away. ''Strange dreams, odd portents, feelings beyond logic - do not dismiss them.'' Not that different from what a Jedi was taught anyway. Self reflection was important. Jacen harped on that point plenty. Anakin helped Tahiri to her feet, then the both of them took Sannah''s hands and tugged her up from her cushion too. Alebmos went about extinguishing the braziers and collecting the bowls of incense. Kam Solusar poked his head in, cracking the door. ''Everything okay, kids?'' ''Just fine, Master Solusar. It was kind of boring, really.'' Tahiri looped an arm around Anakin''s waist, her other caught Sannah and tugged the Melodie close. ''No evil sith spirits here!'' Kam inclined his head to Alebmos, who returned the greeting. ''Thank you for your care,'' Solusar said. ''I do my duty,'' Alebmos demurred. ''But you are welcome.'' ''I''d like to talk with Aeonid and Alebmos alone. Go find Tionne, you three. She has some tasks for you while we''re packing everything up.'' Anakin was sure he''d find out exactly what was talked about soon enough - Kam still thought of him as a kid kid, sometimes - so he left without complaint, dragging along Tahiri as she opened her mouth to do exactly that. Sannah trailed in their wake, a stormcloud practically visible over her head. There was a lot of packing left to do. Anakin didn''t have a lot, but he did have Jacen''s and Jaina''s rooms to clear up. Both of his siblings left a lot behind, especially Jaina when she went off to join the Rogues, so he had triple the work to do. He''d be making sure they heard exactly how much work that was next he saw them¡­ At least Jacen didn''t have half as big a menagerie that he used to. Still had a couple, but they were pretty self-sufficient and a few of the trainees already took care of them. Jaina had a whole spread of tools and half-finished tinkering projects, not to mention way too many grease and oil stained jumpsuits. There were going to be a lot of boxes. Tahiri kept up a running chatter to Sannah as they headed back down, talking mostly about nothing. That was a weapon she''d aimed at him plenty of times and it was sort of funny to see from the outside how well it worked. Sannah started off snarking back dry responses, barely more than a word or two, until by the time they left the turbolift in the main occupied level, Sannah seemed much calmer and was chatting right back. The Man in Horns still lingered in some of Anakin''s less pleasant dreams. Not visions - he knew the texture of a true vision through the Force, but still the grim-faced visage surfaced and sneered and lingered when he awoke. Sometimes, it even sprouted a triangular rebreather and cold, black lenses over its eyes, and that was when Anakin woke drenched in sweat and with Tahiri''s concern echoing in his mind. Alebmos'' judgement eased his worries a little. There was enough to occupy his thoughts these days.
Noskaur poured Viqi another splash of wine, followed by a healthy watering until the thick, violet liquid was pale amethyst. The Kuati Senator took the crystal in long, delicate fingers, swirling it once, twice, before taking a sip. ''Oh, that is a fine vintage,'' she crooned, eyes sliding shut in pleasure. ''Very fragrant, but just the right balance to experience every flavour. I can''t even place half of them.'' Airspeeders winked past, endless streams of lights forming golden rivers of light across the velvet sky. Coruscant''s night was never true, never more than a warm, bright evening as the world-wide glow of civilization very literally illuminated the dark. Grid patterns of traffic stacked high into the stratosphere, where skyhooks loomed and then above, higher, were the pale blue shapes of stations and orbital plates - though not called such by the locals - and shoals of enormous, hyperspace capable intersystem craft. Coruscant might be the heart of a perverse galaxy and the seat of a comedy of a ''government'', festooned with bloat and infested by xenos, but it did bear a particular visual appeal. Noskaur could well envisage such growth across the surface of Terra, consuming the blasted, radioactive wastelands and tired barren lands until the throneworld was a pulsing, gleaming jewel of light, hung like a flawless diamond against the velvet dark of space. The Terra he had left many decades ago was one recovering, but with the Praetorian returned and the Crusade, as some whispered, coming to a close, he could only imagine what wonders would be crafted in the centuries to come. One day he might host Viqi Shesh in palatial apartments within the Imperial Palace, beneath the noble plates of Lemuria and Skye. Noskaur brushed aside the day-dreaming. ''As I was saying,'' Viqi continued, sipping at her wine, ''I won''t forget your gift. Without it¡­'' she trailed off, idly touching the livid scar at her temple. It was thin, just a sharp red line that ran for several inches into her hairline, where a thin patch of her silken locks were missing. Noskaur inclined his head. The digi-las was a world''s bounty, but the vaults of the Primarch and the Archmagos were deep indeed. It seemed a trifle to grant to the Senator, especially as insurance for so useful an ally. ''I fear I''m still hesitant that you chose to entrust so potent a weapon to a¡­droid¡­but I cannot deny the results. I would have grieved your death, Senator. You have proven a true friend to the Imperium.'' Viqi adjusted the myriad rings on her slender fingers - violet opals and tourmatines, set in oddly utilitarian settings of duranium and durasteel. ''A Kuati changes her jewelry and people notice, Tamirit. Everything means something. 4F can no more betray me than this table. Isn''t that right, 4f?'' The protocol droid, arms askance and waiting in the wings with a tray of spiced fleek eel and the opened bottle, tilted its head awkwardly. ''Of course, mistress Shesh.'' ''Besides, the best knife is the one you don''t see coming.'' Archly, Viqi sneered. ''Victor, or at least the ashy smear that he is now, surely didn''t see it.'' ''Well said.'' Noskaur offered a mock toast, draining his own glass. The vintage, several hundred years old from Espandor, tingled and teased his tongue. ''On the subject of our continued and fruitful alliance, I profess a great interest in seeing the results of your shipwrights and our own.'' Viqi rose from her chaise, her robes sweeping behind her. Her private apartments encompassed the entire upper four floors of a tower, projecting tall from a prominent skyhook near the Capital complex. The view was truly breathtaking, even for one as travelled as Noskaur, with floor-to-ceiling transparisteel windows wrapping about the entire spire. He''d brought several of his attaches with him, along with Corria Nalt, much to the depressed acceptance of the Magos. Nalt had done too well during his brief stint alongside Noskaur, Thiel, Katryna and Lurense. His exposure to the ''perverse and unsanctioned technologies'' of the Republic meant Magos with more sway condemned him to continue his ''banishment'' among the unwashed (and lamentably unaugmented) populace of the Republic. Business was left for Viqi''s staff and his own, bogged down in far less comfortable and appointed conference rooms in the floors below while the Senator entertained him. Wandering about the vast lounge, she traced fingertips along vases and abstract art, shaped out of wrought metal and cunning holograms. ''Kuat is the pride of the galaxy for a reason,'' she began, cupping her long-stemmed glass in one hand. ''You''d have come to us in the end anyway. I just sped things along. You know; for every conflict in almost twenty-five thousand years, KDY vessels have been in the vanguard.'' There was an almost manic gleam in the woman''s eyes. Behind her, like poetry, swelled the bloated mass of Malaghi Shesh, the battleship at anchor some two hundred kilometres away and yet still looming large. ''The Sith Wars? We were there. Tionese Wars? The Republic bought squadrons from us. Pius Dea? Mandalorian Crusades? Us. We aren''t shipwrights, we''re synonymous with war. Oh yes, oh yes, we make civilian vessels aplenty. Some of our luxury lines I''m sure would turn even the heads of your own richest. But Kuat knows war.'' She grew and more animated, gesticulating and gesturing and Noskaur watched with no small interest - the contrast between the cool, sardonic and level woman he''d known and this new, fiery orator was stark. ''You should see the earliest drafts. Did you know Kuat has never stopped designs for dreadnoughts? Oh, we read the leaves and we knew that era was over for at least several decades. No one wanted star dreadnoughts. No one could afford them. Dac could launch their Viscounts all they wanted, but we saw what it was - it was MCS trying to show they could measure up to us. To us! The Rejuvenator line, that was the play and it was what the New Republic needed.'' She paused, studying her wine then taking a swallow. ''The wars were all over! The Remnant was never going to try anything major again, the warlords were stamped out and the worst anyone could imagine was something like the Ssi-ruuvi again. Some brush dustup that a single small squadron could handle. No one needed star dreadnoughts again, not for now.'' Viqi shook her head, her hair rippling about her shoulders. Noskaur adjusted himself, quite content to let her continue her rant. ''We never closed our design divisions. Do you know how many iterations beyond the Executor class we have? Past Mandator?'' ''Vigilance is a virtue,'' Noskaur quoted. ''Yes! You won''t just be pleased by what our people are putting together, you won''t believe what they''re already designing.'' She gestured to a slab of polished metal, gleaming and prominent on an interior wall. Flanked by artfully trimmed and maintained shrubs, the rectangle was the height of a man and polished bright as a mirror, marred by dense lines of laser-etched text. The Treaty of Fundamental Iron. One half of the whole, detailing the obligations of the Mechanicum of Mars to the Ten Families of Kuat and Their Shipyards. The rights of Kuat to call upon, the requirements the Mechanicum must meet, the pacts and deals and exchange of knowledge and material and theory. ''We''re throwing out accepted logic and each new flimsiplast design is shocking. We''re making history, Tamirit. This isn''t just a collaboration on warships, this is blending. Your technology and ours, your experience and ours. These will be ships like two galaxies haven''t seen.'' He applauded her, placing aside his glass as she smirked and curtsied. ''I try to save my passion for the Senate, but this¡­Tamirit, this is what Kuat has needed. New life, new ideas, new vision.'' ''The Mechanicum, for all its stiff-necked rigour, does truly value the act of creation. I am sure many Magos share your enthusiasm.'' Not all, he did not say, keeping that particular fact behind his smile and his words. The followers of the ''Tenets Cautionary'' seemed to grow more vocal each day, though Orichi-Mu continued to affirm that it was an internal matter to the Mechanicum, and merely one of doctrinal minutia. ''We''re laying hulls already. I''ve never seen fire like this in our design cadres. It''s infectious!'' Viqi eyed the remaining mouthful or two in her glass, tossed it all back and exhaled. ''Borsk is privately furious, you know. His beloved Bothan Assault Cruisers are about to be a boondoggle.'' She snorted, quite uncouth, but the touch of red in her cheeks belied minor intoxication. It was to be a celebration, in truth, of the official ratification of the Treaty and the New Republic Senate passing the proposal that would bestow Allied Region status on the Exiled Imperium. An informal chat to go over specifics, off the record, for Noskaur to feel out Kuat''s true opinion and what further, if any, moves were needed to retain the Senator solidly in their camp. It appeared anything more was quite unnecessary. ''Tamirit, this stays between us-'' ''Quite of the record, without a doubt-'' ''-but with internal polling and some other off the record conversations with select individuals, we could have a new Chief of State in a year. Two at the most.'' Her vicious smile left little doubt as to precisely who that might be. Were he younger, or Shesh older, his reaction to that smile might have been something quite different. And in a less official role, as well. Ah, the perils of maturity and professionalism. Though, if his read was right, the woman had set her sights far beyond what any reasonable mortal might dream. In that, he wished her the best of luck, for no other reason than the sheerest improbability of it. Tamirit Noskaur reached for the bottle of wine once more. ''That, I should think, calls for another toast.'' Intransigence Chapter III III: Safe and Terrible
The Great Temple, which they called the Praxeum, was not his home. In important ways, that title was now held by the Palace of the Woolamander and his quiet little garden within. His home, his true home, lay hundreds of years and galactic radii away, built over and buried under and unrecognizable. Ikrit missed the Jedi Temple of Coruscant - and the satellite Temples he had visited - but the ache was a mild one and muted one, tempered by his long somnolence and the strange, half-remembered dreams that buoyed him through the generations. In fact, many days now would pass without Ikrit remembering or reflecting on what he had lost, but it returned to him now, with some intensity, as he padded the Massassi stone halls of the Great Temple. Master Skywalker''s Jedi bustled about, carrying keepsakes and crates in hands and in the intangible grasp of the Force. The motorpool, on the ground floor, rumbled and whined and hummed as the small collection of shuttles were prepared and loaded. Younglings treated it as a game, playing games of hide-and-don''t-squeak among the growing mountains of old containers and boxes made of cast-plast and stamped with weathered old symbols of the Rebel Alliance. The older Jedi were more solemn and Ikrit felt their melancholy, felt the way they paused as they entered chambers and took moments of quiet to take in what they feared they might not see again. It was that ache that woke his own nostalgia and loss within him, that stirred memories of the vaulted, echoing spaces of the Coruscant Temple. Chambers whose ceilings vanished into the gloom, lit by gentle, bobbing lumes and forests of humming lightsabers as hundreds stepped through meditative martial forms. Archives and libraries, filled with hum of datastack and crinkle of flimsy as ancient and thoughtful lessons were reviewed. Gardens ten thousand years old with trees as ancient as the Republic and clear, babbling water that generation upon generation upon generation of Jedi meditated alongside. Places where the Force sank so deeply and so richly into the bones of the Temple that all the millions of Jedi who came before Ikrit could be felt and smelt and heard in susurrus and pleased, proud presence at his shoulder. All lost. As much as he mourned for his own home, he wept that these new Jedi could never experience such peaceful, wholesome wonders. He hoped against hope that these Jedi would be able to return to the Great Temple again. So short a time, but already the character of Master Skywalker''s Jedi steeped into the stone and sunk into the jungle, forging a refreshing and interesting melange of community and camaraderie and family that interwove and moderated and dare he say redeemed the longer, darker, colder histories of these Sith-raised temples. Young Anakin was apart from his other half, working with his astromech to prepare his X-Wing for solo flight. Tahiri was with Sannah, the older girl working tirelessly to distract the young Melodie from her churning thoughts and stomach-twisting turmoil. Ikrit''s heart went out to the younger girl, for no child should need to bear that manner of weight on her shoulders, that sort of knowledge. Were it Ikrit''s decision, the rest of the Melodies would have been informed immediately, but he recognized Master Skywalker''s far greater experience with Sith affairs than he. He basked in the feel of the living Temple around him. The Masters Solusar - a marriage unheard of, in his own time, but clearly a positive influence - shepherding their charges. Master Katarn, with the foreign ''Astartes'' Aeonid Thiel, practicing meditation-in-motion as they sparred. The anomalous and peculiar presence of the other Astartes, who arrived ahead of the coming starship that would whisk them all away from the moon. Alebmos. Called a ''Lexicanium'', a ''psyker'', one of a tradition called a ''Librarius''. Alien words. Alien words in an alien tongue, never before spoken in this galaxy before. Ikrit still doubted the truth of this ''Warp''. He had felt the children''s memories, reopened and allowed to pour forth when they spoke with him of their trials on Yavin 8. He felt Anakin''s surety of something unfamiliar, he sniffed around Tahiri''s conviction of wrongness. A foul apparition, without question. A Sith spirit, clinging to unnatural life? Truly an atrocity. Yet the Dark side was an avenue that led to many unnatural things and twisted creations beyond the imaginings of Jedi. Could any have dreamt that a Sith would conjure the Golden Globe and trap all the souls of young Massassi away in it? Could any have dreamt of the ancient Thought-bomb, which devastated Ruusan? Or the mysteries of ancient Sith, who burst stars and twisted life into obscene patterns? So many traditions, for good or ill, in all the years of history in this galaxy. Who knew what wonders and terrors would be wrought by hands shaping the Force in another galaxy? Ikrit had poked and probed around the strange wards erected by the Lexicanium when he quizzed the children about their trial. They were half-seen and slippery, oblique to his senses and flitted from Ikrit''s attempts to peer at them. Not to pry or push, but just to observe them. Even now, as Ikrit padded up the left-open ramp of the large Imperial shuttle - their Thunderhawk - his feel for the Librarian through the Force remained peculiar. Alebmos felt muffled but strangely broadened, like afterimages flowed and echoed around the large human. For Aeonid Thiel, the Captain was sharp as broken transparisteel and as solid as durasteel, a steely presence that rebuffed even the gentlest observation and leaked out only highly processed, nearly tangible scraps and scads of feeling and thought and emotion. Thiel''s mental discipline was fit for an old, trained Master¡­but for the clear disunity and disarray held nearly hidden behind those walls. Alebmos felt like no mind at all. Ikrit watched the Librarian work, no doubt preparing for his coming trip to Yavin 8 and his further studies of the Sith temple there. Watching the Astartes move with his eyes was as interesting as with the Force. Alebmos was calm and confident and in contrast to Aeonid Thiel, remarkably comfortable with the Great Temple and the Jedi within. In the single day since arriving with Aeonid, Alebmos had introduced himself to each Master and even observed, at a remove, one of the morning classes for the younglings. He was polite and articulate and made all the more eerie for the fact that not a single scrap of intention, emotion or thought leaked from the man. Ikrit had not met one of the Yuuzhan Vong yet, so only had the experiences of his young student recounted at remove to rely on. The Kushiban Master could not imagine what such a thing would be like to encounter: a living being, a thinking, feeling being that was as a blank spot in the Force. Anakin swore up and down that the Yuuzhan Vong weren''t even a ''hole'', in any sense, denying similarities to what Ikrit had experienced - that being the furry ysalamiri that young Luke kept on hand for particular lessons. The vong were invisible, which Ikrit just could not fathom. Alebmos was how Ikrit imagined they might be. The Imperial Astartes spoke and his mouth moved, his weathered, leathery face morphed into recognizable expressions, but nothing existed behind that flesh. It was a skin-mask, a facade, and when Ikrit focused harder, he was almost convinced he saw ghost images of Alebmos just under the skin, saying other words and making other motions. It made watching Alebmos inventory devices and avioid-stamped crates into something that in time, would stir a headache. Instead, Ikrit tamped down on his sense of the Force, channeling instead into a mildly telekinetically fueled bound that delivered him atop one of the stacked crates. Alebmos dipped his head in welcome and in recognition, dark eyes piercing from where they sat in sun-weathered face. "Ah, Master Ikrit. Are you here to ask after your pupils?" Affecting nonchalance and leaning into expectations built around his species, Ikrit idly licked at the back of one paw, grooming the already silken fur yet further. "You are a strange man and a new visitor and you spoke to them for some time," he said finally. "On the allowance of Master Skywalker and Jedi Solo both." Ikrit studied the Lexicanium as the Astartes straightened up, looming far above the already diminutive Kushiban despite his elevated perch. "Young Luke does like to respect the experience of other traditions," Ikrit mused. "It''s one of his great strengths. Sometimes - a great weakness." "Every Legion of the Legiones Astartes approached the arts of the mind in their own way. It led to much learning¡­and some disputes." Alebmos agreed. "No different than studies of the Force. Jensaarai, Fallanassi, Jedi¡­" Ikrit tensed, coiling up strength in his rear legs as he tugged on the Force again. Alebmos stiffened, reading the change in body language. He aimed well, alighting exactly on Alebmos'' broad pauldron. "I''m not convinced yet that your ''Warp'' isn''t an understanding that the Jedi haven''t seen. The Yuuzhan Vong, the ysalamiri¡­even the spectres and spirits of the Sith here on this very moon; all things I could never have dreamt of in my youth. Could I have believed the Force could be perverted in so twisted a way that a thousand children''s souls could be stolen away? I think many of the most learned Masters of the Order would not have believed it." His head turned to watch Ikrit, now having to look up to meet the Kushiban''s lambent green eyes, Alebmos'' jaw muscles bunched. "I will not speak on your Force, as you should not speak on the Warp." "It threatens my students, Lexicanium, so I will speak however I wish." It was young Luke''s prerogative to invite the Exiles, it was his decision to have Aeonid Thiel trained and it was his choice to allow this ''Lexicanium'' to examine the three youths for some metaphysical spoor. As ever, Ikrit offered guidance and he offered advice, but here kept his counsel close. He could feel young Skywalker''s optimism. He could feel his interest. He feared that in the wake of the unanswerable question of the vong, that Luke may have leapt at the first opportunity to embrace a problem he could solve - the salvation of the spirit of the Imperium. Ikrit''s brush-fluff tail flicked left, right, left again. "Luke Skywalker trusts you. Anakin trusts me. He tells me everything, Lexicanium. He tells me of your promise of ''mercy'' if the children had not met your standards." Alebmos did not visibly react. "It would have been my recommendation. Corruption from the warp is fate no being should suffer, let alone a child," Alebmos retorted, borrowing Ikrit''s word. Ikrit did not blink, boring his wide, yellow-green eyes into Alebmos''. "A recommendation? Or a promise? If you had found¡­whatever you feared, would you have let them leave, Alebmos? Walk out of that chamber? If young Skywalker had told you he would stay his hand and work to save his nephew and his students from whatever¡­corruptive¡­force had hold of them, what then?" The Astartes spoke precisely, his accented Basic clear and exact. "That would be his decision." Ikrit leaned closer, crouching lower, until less than half a meter separated their faces. "A very safe and very terrible answer, Imperial." Ikrit leapt away, the Force bouying him in a long and arcing jump that delivered him from Alebmos'' shoulder to the stained duracrete of the hangar floor, right at the end of the Thunderhawk''s open ramp. Alebmos seemed to flicker with potentials. A gauntleted hand raised a pistol, another grabbed at knife-hilt, another glowed violet and black. Alebmos merely stared down at the diminutive Jedi Master, impassive. "Never underestimate the surety of a Jedi when the Force is their ally," Ikrit hissed, hackles raising for the first time in centuries. Too many facts stung at Ikrit. This ''psyker'', here to ''test'' the children. Here to tell them, to their very faces, that he would condemn them to death. The coming starship, fit to burn worlds. The ''investigation'' they wished to launch into the Melodies and Yavin 8. The words of their bitter Primarch to the Senate, when he admitted to hands bathed in oceans of blood. Ikrit trusted Luke. How could he not? He had faced challenges no Jedi had for millennium and held to the goodness of his spirit. But no one was infallible. Centuries ago, Ikrit had sealed himself away to save the souls of innocent children he had never met. He had failed them, with his work done by another. It stung even still, though his heart swelled with pride at everything Anakin had done. So young, but so bright and unbowed. Alebmos'' lip curled, slight. "Never underestimate the resolve of the Imperium, either." he countered. Ikrit padded away without a backward glance.
Temerity was not a Legion vessel nor even a very large one. In fact, it was the smallest warship Zalthis had yet sailed aboard. The corridors were cramped and ill-suited to Astartesian proportions and none of the ratings were used to transhumans. The five of them remained in the areas around the embarkation deck, spending time maintaining their wargear, their Storm Eagle, sparring and training against each other. No practice cages, no Legion chambers - Zalthis admitted they were, perhaps, a little spoiled. They were, all five of them, perhaps a little bored. Along with Solidian - for as his brother joked, they were as inseparable as a combibolter - their ''escort'' squad also numbered Tercinax and Varien along with Amalius. Zalthis remembered the first two well from the lightning raid on the Yuuzhan Vong cruiser just before the action at Fondor. Tercinax was eldest of the demisquad, an old salt veteran of orkish waaughs and dozens of compliances. Deprecatingly, he called himself ''a leather-eater, through and through'', claiming he never wanted for more than a boltgun and blade and a Sergeant to tell him what to do. Varien was younger, perhaps twice the age of Zalthis, with a propensity for blade work and in curious contrast, long-distance marksmanship. The fifth, Amalius, Zalthis had only begun to know. In time, they would all be as firm brothers as he and Sol were - for this was their new squad. Caedos Quintus was their Sergeant, though he had delegated authority to Tercinax for this mission. A hero of the Second Battle of the Honour, Zalthis was honored to serve under Sergeant Quintus, though they''d had only a brief moment to meet before Temerity was sent away. His hearts beat faster each time Zalthis was reminded that his assignment was one of selection, hand-selection, picked out specifically by Aeonid Thiel himself. Captain Thiel. In his hands, Zalthis eyed his crimson painted helmet, polished bright with lenses dark. Mark IV, like the rest of his plate, in all other ways matching the noble colors of the XIIIth Legion. Only the helms of the First Adaptive Tactics Company marked them out as different. The other Battalions were choosing now their own schemes, beginning the divergence from the base form of Ultramarine. He''d read the Primarch''s documents, the ones outlining the Battalions Founded and the alterations to Principia Belicosa that were demanded. Zalthis understood the theoreticals, but secretly he was pleased that the First Adaptive would not be adopting new colors. All his young life he strived to wear the Ultramarine plate of the XIIIth and he was not sure he would bear altered colors and heraldry well. Solidian thumped down beside Zalthis, clad in his plate from waist down, upper body encased only in his bodyglove. The small embarkation deck, scarcely large enough for perhaps two Stormbirds side-by-side, seemed larger with only their Storm Eagle and a few small navy lighters resting about. Tercinax and Amalius were sparring in fatigues while Varien watched and shouted insult and encouragement both. Sol settled a large rotary cannon in his lap, nudging Zalthis'' shoulder as he settled. ''Deep thoughts, Zal?'' his brother asked, hands already moving to begin to fiddle with the rotary cannon. In general shape and form, it still resembled the Republican heavy blaster it started life as, though each day that slid by slowly aboard Temerity mutated it in subtle ways. Already, Sol had swapped out the energy cells with those of a hot-shot las, added mounting rails and a slab of ceramite as a gun shield. A tiny name was etched into the bare metal grip. ''Thinking of Anakin.'' He had not been, but the Jedi Knight did occasionally cross his mind. Sol grunted, brows furrowed as he focused on the rotary cannon. ''The boy left an impression on you.'' ''He''s of age with us, I think,'' Zal retorted. Sol shrugged. ''Age isn''t everything.'' Sol screwed one of the long barrels of the cannon, gently setting it aside on oilcloth. ''Experience is,'' Zalthis conceded. ''Which means Anakin might have us matched.'' Sol grimaced. ''Nothing can match Calth.'' ''Nothing can match Calth.'' They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, after Zalthis set aside his helm and picked up his right pauldron, adjusting his pot of lapping powder. ''Still!'' Sol exclaimed. ''You''ve had your chance to spar with the boy - I''d like to cross blades with him as well. If he''s even a tenth of the swordsman his uncle is¡­'' The duel between Captain Thiel and Master Skywalker had left an impression in all present. A mortal matching an Astartes, with ease. ''His style is interesting. Dynamic. Instinctual, I would say.'' Sol hummed, turning the rotary cannon over in his lap, peering at the partially dismantled weapon from other angles. ''Well, if you could beat him, I''m not so sure I''d find a challenge.'' Zal snorted. ''Truly? Our count is almost equal, Sol.'' ''Almost only applies to krak grenades and nova bombs, Zal. Besides - I have the greater tally. Which means your almost is still my victory.'' They bickered back and forth, good natured. Tercinax and Amalius'' spar drew to a close, with Amalius eking out a final point. The older marine swore and grumbled, wandering off to an ablutorium. Varien, his entertainment over, ambled over to the two of them. ''Ah, little brothers.'' ''Varien,'' Sol greeted. Zal inclined his head. ''I heard you speaking about the Jedi. You''ve fought with them, on that athenaeum world.'' ''Obroa-skai,'' Zalthis clarified. Varien nodded. ''Yes, that''s the one.'' Varien poked and prodded for their impressions. It was not as if the briefing had been unclear, but there was air to fill and time to slay, so Zalthis was all too willing to recount, again, the ambush on Obroa-skai. It grew, somehow, with each telling, though the facts never wavered. It was the distance, maybe, in time, that elevated that first mission. Their last as neophytes. The last for their Sergeant. ''They confuse me,'' Sol admitted, some time later. The rotary cannon was now fully dismantled, each part laid out precisely and carefully. No manual or instruction had come with it, so Sol''s main project had been learning each component and every function - from working to maintenance. ''Knight Solo turned on Zal for killing a mind-controlled slave. Used his ''Force'' to crush him to his knees.'' Zalthis scowled, bearing down just a little too hard with his cloth on his plastron plate. The memory was as vivid as any other post ascension. He could still feel the way the air seemed to turn to thick sludge as invisible, irresistible force bore him down. ''The slaves were already dead,'' Sol explained further. ''Dead on their feet and starving. Killing them was a mercy, if you asked me. The Jedi, though, it''s as if they fear death. All the same, Knight Solo personally slew a dozen vong that I witnessed personally! Without hesitation!'' This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Solidian huffed a complicated blend of a sigh and a chuckle, shaking his head. Scars webbed across half his scalp, bereft of hair. The grutchins on Fondor had not quite managed to scalp his brother, but they had come close. A terrifically ugly looking wound, but in truth barely even cosmetic. Scalp injuries bled ferociously, but if Sol''s skull - famously dense - hadn''t been breached, then there was no possible lasting injury. ''Anakin explained some of their philosophy to me. As he described it, I believe that the Jedi almost follow a practical and theoretical framework as we do.'' Sol raised an eyebrow, while Varien leaned forward, intrigued. ''They say that they worship life.'' Sol nodded in agreement. Zal shrugged. ''It''s a noble enough idea. We''ve all read al Garuntz and Hagior.'' ''And Guilliman,'' Varien noted. ''And Guilliman,'' Zal agreed with a smile. ''And others. Moral responsibilities always include some acceptance of an intrinsic value to life.'' ''Though extending that beyond the human realm¡­'' Varien trailed off. Sol shifted in place, a strange look crossing his brother''s face. ''Anakin and I discussed that. I constructed the proper theoretical and practical and offered it to him. He seemed to agree.'' Zalthis cast back, remembering when he and the Jedi debated the Order''s philosophy, over a meal in one of Samothrace''s many cafeteria. ''The theoretical is that all life is unique and precious. The practical is that life creates conflict, and conflict requires resolution that may require taking that life.'' It seemed a good summation and Anakin agreed, though said it lacked a lot of nuance. That was fine - the practical/theoretical paradigm was just to prepare an argument, not to conclude one. Sol shifted again, eyes darting over his dissembled rotary cannon. Varien pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. ''It''s a noble ideal,'' Varien admitted. ''Naive. But noble.'' ''I said similarly,'' Zal said. The Primarch insisted on philosophy as a requirement for all Ultramarines, beginning even during their time as aspirants and neophytes. Ascratus, as much as he drilled them ferociously in blade and bolt, also required essays on social contract theory and ideal war. Sol often japed that he should have been a Space Wolf, as he''d never have to study again. Being as he would be, of course, quite illiterate. Zal cuffed him for that, but laughed all the same. ''That seems to summarize this galaxy,'' Varien continued. ''Naive, but noble. Like the stories of before Old Night. During the Dark Age of Technology.'' All three paused a moment, the names of those grim ages bearing entirely different weights. ''The practical means that for all their idealism, the Jedi are fearfully dangerous.'' ''A boy matched a veteran Sergeant for kills,'' Sol agreed. ''Baseline humans should not move like Jedi do.'' Varien''s eyes grew hooded. ''It''s their Force,'' the older Ultramarine spat. ''Their witchery.'' Uneasily, Zal and Sol glanced to each other. The grox in the room, the uncomfortable fact of the Jedi, impossible to ignore for all that the warriors were swiftly earning the admiration of at least some of the Ultramarines. The Edict was inculcated into all of them, the warning of the empyrean, the threat of the mind. Witchery, psykery, sorcery - whatever it was called. The Black Ships plied the stars for the blank women who could resist the powers of the Warp, the Edict chained back the Librarius and across the span of the galaxy, the Legiones themselves persecuted mutants and deviants with the greatest of zeal. Old Night had been forged of many things. All grew from the same source. The Warp. Again, Zal felt the ghostly recollection of the power and oppressive weight of Anakin''s regard as he went to his knees on Obroa-skai. ''Codicier Rubio doesn''t believe the Warp and Force are the same.'' Zal looked to his brother, surprised. Sol had never defended the Jedi before. Varien scoffed. ''Psykery is psykery. I''ll be on my guard on that moon, you can be sure of it. You both should be as well.'' Sol rolled his broad shoulders. ''We''re Ultramarine. When aren''t we?'' Varien took his leave shortly after, apparently satisfied with what he''d learned. Sol produced a small chapbook and an ink pen, sketching out parts of the rotary cannon and in conjoined shorthand scrawled notes and instructions. Zalthis continued to work through the parts of his armor, leaving each gleaming and spotless, parade-ready. Varien''s suspicions aside, they were representing the XIIIth and the Primarch. It wouldn''t do to arrive in any other condition but spotless and perfect. ''You''ll be a fine Sergeant, you know.'' Zalthis started, peering at his brother. Sol remained focused on his dismantled cannon, leaving his scarred face in profile. ''Pardon?'' ''You''re changing, Zal. This galaxy is changing you.'' Rather pointedly, he stared at the detached handle and the small etched name upon it. Solidian followed his gaze and sighed. ''This is different. This is a single act of honor, but it changes nothing. The gun would be a waste to leave behind, as well. It''s effective.'' ''I am not being changed, Sol.'' ''You are, Zal. I can see it. I know you. It feels like we grew up together. We did.'' Sol shook his head. ''You think too much and it''s changing you.'' ''All we are doing is following the Primarch''s orders. Nothing else.'' ''No, Zal. I''m following the Primarch''s orders. You believe in them.'' Zal lowered his greave, slowly putting his burnishing cloth aside. Sol''s words struck and struck hard. Did he believe? He''d thought of Anakin since Obroa-skai. The Jedi Knight made for interesting conversation and was a challenging opponent. He''d not balked at Lieutenant Optarch''s decision to put him in command of the neophyte squad at Fondor, nor at working with the Fondorian natives. It was prudent. It was practical. It was what the Primarch ordered, or would have ordered. ''I do what I''m told. You''re the thinker. Not me. That''s why you''ll make a fine Sergeant.'' Zalthis tried to imagine himself with the markings Ascratus did, that Quintus. An old dream of his, an image burned into his mind. It seemed so far away, even for the speed and constant change of the 4711th. ''I''m honored you imagine so¡­'' ''The 4711th - no, the Thirteenth, is changing. We have Battalions now. They won''t even look the same. We''re fighting for and with aliens, Zal. Aliens! The Primarch is changing us. You''re changing with it.'' Sol shook his head. ''The future will need a Sergeant like you.'' ''You''ll have your own squad too, Sol,'' Zal promised. It was an old promise - Sergeants Zalthis and Solidian, with their own squads, bringing the glorious fight of the Crusade to worlds near and far. ''Maybe.'' Slowly, Sol began to reassemble the rotary cannon, returning often to add new notes and sketches. Zalthis did not resume buffing his armor, too caught up in thought and possibilities. He finally found what Sol''s words felt like. ''You sound resigned.'' His brother nodded. ''We shouldn''t need to change,'' Sol said lowly. His hand rested on the handle of the cannon. ''The Emperor made us. We are Ultramarines. The galaxy should change for us.'' With eighteen Legions, with the Emperor, with the Primarchs and all the worlds of the Imperium, Solidian could never be more right. With the galaxy about them and the dwindling count of their brothers¡­the realization struck Zalthis like a Stormbird. His instinct, his reflex, was to argue against Solidian. To argue against the Imperial Truth. This galaxy was too large, too vast, too full. They had to change. They had to adapt. The theoretical was obvious. The practical, concerning as it was, was clear. Sol was openly studying him. Zalthis found he could not quite think of what to say. ''That''s why you will be an excellent Sergeant,'' Sol sighed. ''There''s a place for you in this new world.''
The woman who sat across from him had dark rings under her eyes, almost perfectly concealed with cosmetics. Her tunic was just on the presentable side of ruffled and her hair was not quite as glossy as it ought to be. Still, there was solid durasteel in her spine and her brown eyes were as sharp as ever. In short, Leia Organa Solo appeared much as she had for the past decade. Some things changed, Borsk Feyl''ya considered, but many more stayed the same. "Leia," he said by way of greeting. "I''m pleased we could make this meeting today." "Borsk," she returned, because she never used his title save in the most public of times. "I appreciate you seeing me on short notice." The Bothan lifted a brow, carefully folding his hands together atop his desk. "Duro''s fallen and CorDuro betrayed everyone. The vong Warmaster is proposing a ceasefire and it''s because of your son. Pardon me for saying so, but I''d be a sithspawned idiot not to see you." Leia grimaced, new wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth crinkling. "I''ll take responsibility. SELCORE should''ve investigated CorDuro. The amount of embezzlement that went on¡­" Leia shook her head, her braid waggling. "There isn''t an excuse." Ah, there was the martyr. "No one else discovered it, not even NRI." He kept his tone assuring and gentle. It''d be best if Leia didn''t try to throw herself on a vibroblade. For all her exit from ''politics'', she still retained a great deal of influence and popularity in the Senate. SELCORE was her creature and truly what a creature it was, but the deal with the Exiled Imperium was beginning to show serious results. The relief valve of millions of refugees - human and near-human - being diverted and removed from the ever-swelling count of those fleeing the Rim and Mid Rim, was giving tangible results on stability across several sectors. It was partially why Borsk decided to support the proposal for Allied Region status. Part of the stipulations that the Exiles wanted was the ability to expand their ''territory'' into unclaimed systems or at the invite of non Republic worlds. And if the Exiles had more space, then they could take even more refugees in¡­ Some in the Senate were raising concerns about the Exiles suddenly gaining an ever growing base of workers, most of which were skilled. Fleeing worlds ahead of the invasion was not exactly cheap nor easy, making a plurality of the refugees those who had the means, money or access to starships and placing them into a higher echelon of skilled labor. Borsk, in private discussions with some wavering on the bill, revealed NRI predictions on the long-term stability of the Exiled Imperium. In short: it was bad. Let them be an Allied Region, let them be a relief valve for a while, and then when they inevitably fold under the oppressive and xenophobic ideology they espoused, the New Republic could incorporate them right back in. "Duro was a mistake but it wasn''t yours." Borsk assured. Leia peered at him skeptically. Fair enough. They had never seen eye to eye. "It was still a catastrophe and I expect an inquest into how a known Yuuzhan Vong agent could, apparently, manage to masquerade as a chief geneticist for weeks. But I can''t condemn SELCORE without condemning half of our intelligence apparati." Leia blew out a sigh. "What do you want, Borsk?" He grinned, toothy. Another positive to working mostly against Leia for as long as he had - they understood each other. "SELCORE has been underappreciated," he began. "Missteps aside, you''ve been handling the flood of refugees better than anyone could have expected." As a Bothan, lying came as easily as breathing. "Duro and Fondor are a wake-up call to the Colonies and the Core. I''m sure you see the same numbers that I do. The Warmaster''s ceasefire isn''t the breathing room everyone thinks it is." Leia sneered. "A relief at the cost of the Jedi," she retorted. "My brother''s Jedi." "A tragedy, each and every one," Borsk said blandly. It actually was, but if he had a credit for every time the Jedi faced a tragedy, he could buy several new battlecruisers. "But this lull in combat has emboldened an entirely new wave fleeing the threatened sectors. We''d be facing more, except that the Tapani Sector is actually showing a downturn in expat flight. We suspect it''s the continued presence of the Imperial battlegroup over Fondor." Borsk studied Leia closely as he mentioned the Exiles. Opinions on the brash newcomers was as varied and numerous as the stars in the sky. Some, like Shesh, were enthralled to the point of obsession. Others, like Gron Marrab or Chelch Dravvad, were on a scale from heavily suspicious to entirely uninterested. Luke Skywalker publicly met with their Primarch for a one-on-one while sending his own Jedi to escort Shesh. Leia''s lips thinned and her face darkened. Ah. As he expected. Hoped. "SELCORE has been underfunded and undersupported. I''m sure that''s why you were willing to turn to the Exiles." "It was prudent," Leia said, and Borsk internally applauded how professionally stoic her sabacc face was. They may have butted heads throughout the years, they might have different views on the New Republic and Leia might be a relic of a time better left in the past, but Borsk would choke before denying Leia Organa Solo''s dedication to the concept of a republic. Willingly cutting deals with the Imperium had to chew at her. "The numbers speak for themselves. Even with CorDuro''s embezzlement, Duro is an example of the extra resources we''ve been able to gather. Raltiir was willing to rethink their support, because SELCORE could field the cost of building a settlement." "This is why I''m planning to propose a significant increase in SELCORE funding and support in the Senate." Leia shifted, adjusting herself. Borsk could veritably smell the suspicion wafting from her. "Every credit will save lives," she said. "Absolutely. I want to triple SELCORE''s budget and I''d like to support forming a second office that could begin to handle actually locating uninhabited worlds suitable for setting up camps and potential colonies." Leia''s eyes widened and she actually rocked back in her seat a little. "What do you want for this? Do I need to marry Isoldur?" Her tone was wry, but Borsk could feel her hunger. "Nothing like that. Which, as an aside - Leia, I do want to offer my sympathies for Han''s injuries. I''m glad to hear he''s projected to make a full recovery." She nodded, as stoic as ever. "He''s on his way home now, with the twins and Mara. I''ll let him know you were thinking of him." Borsk chuckled. "Perhaps not. I wouldn''t want him to have a cardiac arrest on top of everything else." Leia smiled blandly. Borsk cleared his throat. Returning to business. "MCS and CEC are looking to sponsor a new fleet of passenger liners to be donated to SELCORE or a secondary office. I just had a meeting with Marrab and he''s very vocal about how eager Dac is to step up to their patriotic duties. Corellia''s settling down after the whole Centerpoint affair and I''d like to throw them a bone for the chaos that was not entirely not our fault." "I can talk to Omas and Triebakk. Remember, Borsk. I''m done with the Senate. I served my time. SELCORE is my priority." Borsk held up his hands. "Leia, we both know neither of us want you back in the convocation chamber. A few words, that''s all I ask. We have the potential to do good here, real good, and put aside some of our past disagreements." Across from him, the former Chief of State and one of the founding members of the New Republic chewed it over. At her waist was the glinting silver cylinder of a lightsaber, the only real concession to her ancestry that Borsk ever saw. It was strange to see it on her, but he supposed it might be a sign of solidarity with the Jedi in the wake of the Warmaster''s demands. "I want SELCORE and whatever secondary office to remain entirely under nonpartisan oversight. SELCORE cannot be political." He understood what she meant. Which meant she understood precisely what he meant, too. "Of course. The Advisory Council, as much as any one Senator shouldn''t have overdue control. You''ve done a fine job as Director, I see no reason why to change the committee structure. Any changes can be submitted to my office for review." There was little else to say after that, just hammering down final specifics and a few further stipulations Leia had going forward. They would never see eye to eye, but they did know how to alloy against a common enemy. They''d done so before and the New Republic always benefit. Leia left his office to immediately get to work on her end, with SELCORE and with some of her associates before her children and injured husband returned to the capital. He really did sympathize about General Solo. She might be and remain a political foe of his, but one''s mate was always something that had to stand apart from politics. The coming funding bill was almost finalized. Shesh was going to be apoplectic. He imagined the look on her face, the way her mouth twisted up like she''d eaten something ferociously sour. It was an expression he''d seen less and less, to his disappointment. She''d had her win. Kuat was hers, from what the Spynet could tell. The events behind the scenes there must have been legendary, worthy of some political drama holo, as in the span of a month the upstart Senator blew through decades of agreements, deals and IOUs. She''d usurped her great-aunt, becoming the Shesh quietly and without fanfare. That sort of influence needed to be curbed. If Shesh was to be objective about it, she''d barely have an argument. The MC90 series, the Bothan Assault Cruisers, the Rejuvanators, the Viscount Star Guardians all had proven worth. They existed. Borsk would take proven hulls over ones yet to fly off the flimsiplast any day. Marrab already confirmed that the Mon Calamari Shipyards was willing to match the announced Kuati subsidy for the Navy. She''d played her hand before the shifter hit. That was politics. Besides, he had a galaxy to keep from falling into oblivion. Intransigence Interlude I Ma Never Lied
Shortly after the Eboracum Summit... Emigration Specialist Tirol Sarpedian had, comparatively, a simple job. His was to interview newcomers to Eboracum, should their files flag for review. Newly dedicated and consecrated cogitators installed by the Mechanicum crunched and parsed the growing reams of applications and idents of new arrivals, approving, rejecting and appending review as needed. The New Republic counterpart, ''SELCORE'' appeared a terrible mess, distantly insulting Sarpedian with its inefficiency and throw-it-at-the-wall approach. Calth had a finely tuned machine to handle the hundreds of thousands of Ultramarians moving through the system, often daily, toward the heady expansion of the Five Hundred worlds to the galactic east. It was orderly, exhaustively documented and when Sarpedian and his regiment passed through for muster, as easy as flashing badge through a clicking scanner as they disembarked. The Republican SELCORE was sort of just bundling up as many humans as they could onto transports and chucking them in Eboracum''s direction, desperate for a relief valve to buy time for all the rest of the refugee flood. There must have been a back-up, or maybe an early alert, because in less than a week after the official agreement was struck, dozens of local starships slipped into berths that were barely even ready. Pass-through was in the hundreds already, but Sarpedian, in briefings, knew that the Primarch was anticipating a scale into the tens of thousands at minimum. Possibly, per day. He was Calth-born and he had grown up seeing the passionate growth of the frontier world and watched the ''liths about the bold colonies springing up past Calth, out into the newly chartered expanses. Sometimes systems would be barely certified by an Expeditionary Fleet before there would be new alerts and organizations forming to hurl more farmers, more assayers, more excited adventurists out to keep Mankind''s empire crawling outward. Still, Calth hadn''t sprouted in a day, but if the Primarch''s most conservative estimates came true, they could be processing enough emigrants to fill entire hives each month. Not for the first time, Sarpedian wondered when the 4711th would push out, claim more worlds. Whatever the hell this galaxy was, the 4711th was still an Expeditionary Fleet, at least it was now, since the Primarch''s declaration. Some were disgruntled at the thought of putting down deeper roots. He heard a lot of rumbles about leaving this galaxy of ''freaks'' to get back to the real fight. Sarpedian was Calth-born. He watched his homeworld burn through a thick armorglas window half the size of his hand. There was nothing for him to go back to. What there was, here, were, apparently, a rather unbelievable amount of humans that lacked any direction. It was strange. In his past life, the one that ended in the violent translation from Veridia a few months ago, Sarpedian hadn''t exactly been a ''true believer''. Sure, sure, he did his duty, he was proud to serve and he''d wear the Ultima with pride, but he hadn''t really felt the zeal that others did. Now he had an itch. Perhaps it was lit by the helplessness of the evacuation. Maybe kindled by how alone and beset on all sides the Imperium - the Imperium Exsilius - was. He didn''t think it mattered. The Emperor, some said, worked in mysterious ways. Why else would they end up here, instead of anywhere else, after a freak Warp accident? Like a good Imperial, Sarpedian didn''t think much about the Warp, but in the Excertus, rumors and tall-tales circulated in smoke circles and in the quiet, boring holds of troopships. The Warp was a nasty dimension, impossible to describe and Warp-related accidents didn''t do serendipitous things like spit out a whole fleet right into the backyard of a quiet backwater, in a galaxy packed to the gunwales with provable, baseline humans. Sarpedian wasn''t some book-thumper like some of those Lectitio cranks, but only a dolt wouldn''t know the Emperor was something way beyond a mortal man. With Astartes walking about and Primarchs head-and-shoulders above them, the Emperor had to be something no one could really understand. Not a god, obviously, for a whole lot of reasons, but the universe was full of crazy things and knowing one of the craziest was on the side of Mankind definitely helped him sleep at night. ''Got another.'' He started, snapped from his daydreaming and he straightened up behind his desk. There were interrogation rooms, but mostly those were reserved for the really unruly and problematic. The Primarch decreed a light hand in this new galaxy, to appease the squeamishness of the local authorities and the result was Sarpedian received most subjects in his hole-in-the-wall office, set into a block just past Processing. There were Iax Tertius on guard, in full kit, so if anyone wanted to make a scene, they surely wouldn''t be making one for long. Knuckles rapped against the jamb of his open door, paired with the call and Sarpedian nodded to a Patroller he didn''t know, who was poking her head inside. He wasn''t sure of her name - there were so many Patrollers working the fields now. Began with a W? Sarpedian slapped his hand down on his deck, pushing back in his chair. It was a reclaimed ejection seat, appropriated from one of many Republican freighters torn apart by the Mechanicum for study. A number of furniture made their way into the hungry hands of the swelling population of the Civitas, who had endless spaces to furnish while the duracrete was still barely dry. ''What now, Patroller?'' She looked chagrined, with a sort of ''don''t-take-it-out-on-me'' expression and hauled another figure into view. A headache Sarpedian was unaware of throbbed suddenly in his forehead. The Patroller directed her charge into his office, ''helping'' him to sit in the bare-bones, metal-framed chair before his desk before she beat a hasty retreat. He caught muffled words exchanged with one of the Tertius patrolling the hall outside, but he didn''t care to parse it. No, Sarpedian was far too agog at his new subject, who looked both pleased and relaxed, lounging as if the bare metal plate was the finest of Iax damasks. The man''s spacer jumpsuit - something Sarpedian had grown accustomed to as a du jour uniform of Republican sailors - seemed well kept and clean. No sweat-stains or dried smears of oil and grease. The subject had a fine pair of mirrored shades perched on his nose, covering both eyes. One eyebrock cocked, sardonic, and fingers drummed against the seat of his chair. The subject was also blue. Royal blue. Nearly Ultramarian blue. Sarpedian drew a calming breath. ''I have interviewed a Togruuta today,'' he began. The subject perked up slightly, conveying the appearance of sincere interest. ''She claimed that the mass of flesh attached to her head was a ''genetic defect'' and a ''tumor''. I also interviewed a Zeltron who swore up and down that he simply had a tan. A Muugari, yesterday, claimed albinism.'' He leaned forward, interlinking is fingers, staring pointedly at a single rune set aside on his desk, occupying a palm-sized square of metal. ''I am telling you this, because I am seconds from calling the guard to chuck you into the Pit and to dress down the Patroller who thought I needed a laugh today. You have thirty seconds. Speak.'' The subject adjusted himself, raising both hands in supplication, palms up. ''Well then, sirs, what cans I say but that old Baldarek is just lookings for a quiet place to rest his bones? Eh? Ya gets me? I don''t knows nothing about no albinos or cancers, I''m just a hardworkings kind of guy. Heard there was honest works here, I''m honest, ya with me?'' It was¡­a different approach, at least. Credit for creativity. ''You are not human, Mr. Baldarek,'' Sarpedian sighed. He had lines for this, which he trotted out daily. It would have been easier to just liquidate the fools that tried to sneak around the publicly and loudly announced requirements for emigration. The Pit should''ve been a processor, instead of just holding pens until the varied xenos could be bundled up and sent packing back to wherever they came from. It was a waste of resources, resources better spent on the honest men and women coming with hands outstretched. But this was Legion directive. Gentle touch. Be polite to the liars. ''Sures I am. Mebbe I''m - what''s ya calls it - adapted, get me?'' ''By Expeditionary Diktat 43.5, endorsed by the High Suzerain and accepted by the New Republic Senate Select Committee for Refugees, the world called ''Eboracum'' under the authority of the Imperium Exsilius can and will only accept human refugees, as defined by-'' ''No no, sees, I knows all that.'' Sarpedian grit his teeth. By a subsection of that Diktat, he was supposed to finish the statement before he could throw this alien into the Pit with the others. ''-as defined by standards laid out by the-'' ''Sirs, if you''ll listens, my ma was humans, she was as humans as you like, see?'' ''I do not know anything about your ''ma'', Mr. Baldarek, which means that that-'' Infuriating, the subject continued to interrupt. ''I knows I look odds, heard it all my life, ya know?'' Baldarek tipped his sunglasses up - and Sarpedian wondered why the Patroller didn''t confiscate them - revealing bright red, glowing eyes. ''Ain''t nothing'' normal ''bout me, no sir, my ma always said I was her specials boy, that''s right Baldy, special boy like ya pops.'' Thumb and forefinger did not relieve the headache pressing behind his forehead, but bought a modicum of relief. ''And looks, I gots the same number''a fingers, all tens, same number''a toes, all ten - well, eight, cause-a that thing with the vibroblades back in oh, where was its¡­'' ''Mr. Baldarek!'' He shouted, drawing a glance from a Tertius just passing his open office door. The visored soldier assessed the cramped space a moment, then tapped his slung lasrifle meaningfully, continuing his route out of sight. ''Mr. Baldarek,'' Sarpedian tried again, controlling his frustration. ''If you are so certain about what your ''ma'' said-'' ''Ma never lied,'' the blue-skinned subject declared. ''-then I will have to elevate your case.'' The idea came to him then, his lips curling with a wretched sort of amusement. ''Human mother, ''special'' father, was it, Mr. Baldarek? Why, I believe blood tests, genetic scans, brain-pattern resonance mapping and perhaps neural tracing will prove your story.'' The subject''s cheerful demeanour cracked, a little. Sarpedian was already pulling out the appropriate forms, flimsy and bound in triplicate, rapidly filling in information with a stylus. ''Mm, isolated holding for forty-eight hours, invasive Biologis examination thereafter¡­'' he mumbled, just loud enough for the deep blue of the subject''s face to lighten to a more snowy ice. ''Ah, sirs, maybe, ah-'' ''No, no, Mr. Baldarek. I am an agent of the Imperium, and as such, I must take all claims of human origination most seriously. I am sure my associates in the Mechanicum will be most thorough in accrediting you.'' He pressed the call rune with a particular viciousness, tearing off the top sheet of the examination order, holding it out as a Tertius trooper swept into the office. ''One for the Magi, trooper.'' The Tertius soldier took the subject''s upper arm in his grasp, accepting Sarpedian''s offered order in the other. The subject allowed himself to be brought to his feet, but flicked off his shaded glasses. The look on his face was far more serious, insouciant cheer banished. ''Lissen here, kid. Ya''dunno desperation. I do. I''ve seens it, plenty. This, this here? Ya'' gots the safest world in the Outer Rim. Everyone''s gonna knows it. Everyone''s seein'' it. They''re gonna be knockin'' down ya'' doors, mark my words.'' Then the Tertius trooper led him out, the subject otherwise docile. Ignoring the implicit threat in the xenos'' parting words, Sarpedian woke the small cogitator perched on his desk, beginning to cycle through a far too long list of common aliens of this galaxy, already knowing the additional paperwork he''d need to file before evening bells.
Those Mechies, real freaks. He saw a couple walking around on extendo-legs out on the tarmac, like circus performers on stilts, except the stilts were nailed into their legs. Some kinda torture device, that''s what it was. Baldarek''d been around the galaxy at least once, served hyper-dancer cocktails to Hutt crime-lords, faced down Jedi in his own bar, scarpered before the law could come a-knocking and kept his head above water even when the waves got choppy. In the shiny places of the galaxy, all bright-like and cosmo, things looked neat and tidy. Pry up a little, don''t mind the dirt, don''t mind a taproach in your glass and beings got real strange. He was pretty sure cannibalism was okay back on Nar Kreeta. Thems was the way it went, further from the bright Core you jumped. Mechies were real freaky, but maybe not the freakiest he''d seen, is what he meant. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. The Mechie poking and a prodding and a jabbing him, over and over - well, she was a thin little thing, could blow away in the backdraft of a speeder, easy as. The Mechies loved red and her hunched little body was covered in a stiffy-starched robe of it, but he could see she''d been cute once. Reminded him of his niece. Nice girl, last he saw her, when she was¡­eight? Nine? Hoped she was still alive out there. His brother was a dolt. So he didn''t mind her taking a couple of quarts of his real precious blood. He sort of needed that, but nothing a couple stiff slugs of some gut-rot couldn''t work back. That''s how that worked, he was pretty sure. Juices go out, juices go back in, things balance out. He was no doc, just a good, honest man doing good honest work. She worked quick, that was nice. Good kid, just doing her job. Could do with being less clammy. Like dead fish, her hand was, cold too. That Imp''s threats, talking about days of waiting, nah, just posing. All about keeping face, that''s what it was. The Mechi here took him right in, soon as the tin-boy soldier marched him up. Baldarek just smiled, even when she stuffed him into a great tube of metal that hummed and banged and made his eyes cross. Take his blood, poke him in all the joints, flash him with strobes that he was still blinking away the smears from, well - joke''d be on them, he was as human as you please. Ma said so, Ma never lied. Her special boy, ''lil Baldy, that''s what she said. Not like other boys, no sir, but Ma said that''s what made him special like. Blue''s a good color and in his job, who needs a bouncer when you can glare like a demon outta some Rimward hell. Red-Eye Baldarek, that''s what they called him. He liked it, it fit. Human as the next, that''s what. Never seen another like himself, too, which fit Ma''s promise. Special, yeah? Special Baldy, just like his pops. So the girl here, she had a face like a girl should, not like some of the other Mechies, so that meant over a few hours, he got to watch her slowly lose her mind. When the tin-man soldier left him at the lab - smelled like cleanser, tiled up in white, what else was it? - she looked bored. Didn''t even say a word, just took the flimsy from his escort and went right to work. Could respect it, that kinda ethic. Hoped his niece had it too, if she was alive. Hoped she was. Under her hood, the Mechie was bald, but still had wispy little eyebrows. Them eyebrows started evacuating her face about a half an inch at a time. Was his blood first that started them on their adventure, knocking out that sabacc-face she had going. First she frowned, then them eyebrows started rising and rising. Baldarek just wore his most winningest grin, the one that doubled his tips. He hadn''t a clue what she was mumbling to herself, both from her actual mouth and from a nasty little block of metal that ate up half her neck. She hissed noises that would make an astromech lose its mind while she hunched over a whirring whirlygig machine she stuck his blood in. She grumbled while she stuck needles into his arms and legs - real uncomfortable that, but some fella paid real top level creds for acy-puncture. He just kept on smiling, since Ma always said a good smile was worth a thousand credits. Which meant it wasn''t worth that much, but since he had about a hundred creds to his name, it sure didn''t hurt to work on his assets. Mechie finally slumped back, eyes narrowed and glaring at him like it was his fault she was doing her job. In his paper-thin gown, Baldarek twiddled his thumbs and waited for her to pronounce his doom. Ma was no liar, neither was he, but these fellas seemed real stubborn. All the poking and prodding, he bet she was hunting for some sorta way to send him packing. "You claim matrilineal human descent," the Mechie stated. "I''m doing whats now?" "You claim your mother was human." "Human as," Baldarek confirmed. He remembered Ma and she looked just like any other old human. He listened then, as it turned out that Ma had never lied, and a ball of nasty uncertainty that he never realized he carried his whole life slowly relaxed and faded away.
It was with some degree of chagrin that Sarpedian welcomed his last subject - one Mr. Baldarek - back into his cramped office. Accompanying the apparently not xeno was the Adept responsible for the revelation. She hovered behind Baldarek, who reclaimed the seat he''d vacated half a day ago. The blue-skinned man''s expression was much more contemplative than insinuating, looking a little faraway and bemused. The Adept offered a dataslate to Sarpedian and he skimmed it, each itemized datapoint matching a brief summary. More than once, he couldn''t help himself from glancing to the Adept - Sonoi Fomon, whose flesh-name and clade ident undersigned the report - and she appeared as surprised as he. He scrolled back, rereading, scrolled down, flicking his stylus against the glowing screen before tabbing a rune, shutting off the slate. Confusion warred with growing excitement. The man before him was an unmistakable alien in appearance. His blue skin, his glowing red eyes - despite his entirely humanoid visage, the difference in pigment and the unnatural, dare he say it, demonic glow of his eyes was offputting. Sarpedian thought of the Zeltron, with his lightly orange-tan skin, or the Muugari, hairless, with their lantern jaw and heavy features. Far more intelligent and thoughtful minds than his would soon be turned to these new facts and greater plans spun than anything he could imagine. In this moment, though, Tirol Sarpedian held a man''s fate in his hands. A man''s fate. If what Sonoi''s findings spoke of were accurate, behind the indigo skin beat a truly human heart. Gene-pattern indicates matrilineal line human-normal, within deviation. Patrilineal gene-line features mutation expressed phenotypically; overall genetic variance from Terran-norm minimal. Wonder of wonders, the man hadn''t lied about the word of his mother. A human woman, an ''alien'' male, and the product sat before him. Subject is not sterile. Subject may sire viable offspring. Brain scans matched hominid engrammatic requirements. Neurology was mildly more complicated, but actuated as expected. Internal organs in the right number, in the right places. A higher metabolism, though nothing extreme. Better night vision, but again, nothing extreme. "Mr. Baldarek," Sarpedian began, a slowly dawning feeling creeping over him, the sort that he would never know was commonly felt among first-wave Iterators and diplomats. "What do you know of Terra?"
Ma hadn''t been kidding him. His Pops was as human as she was, as human as he always knew he was. Them years of drunk spacers ragging on him, calling him Red-eyes, asking what hole he crawled out of, all them years whizzed past him as the Imp talked and talked and talked. The Mechie that worked him over like a Arkanian''s pet experiment chipped in her thoughts in her soft voice, but Baldarek only grokked about half of what they said. They spun stories about the homeworld of all mankind, which was where they came from, but well, not them them, because this guy, this Tilos guy, he wasn''t from that homeworld, he had a different homeworld, because that human homeworld, Terra, went out and had a whole empire across an entire other galaxy¡­ And they told him about how mankind was special. Unique. Standing alone compared to all the other races in all the stars. Not just alone, but above all the others. Now, Ma raised him right, at least for as long as she had him, and putting folks over other folks - he wasn''t sure about all that. He was going to get papers. Baldarek, citizen of Eboracum. No, it wasn''t just that. The Mechie was gabbling about testing what most folks called ''near-humans''. All because of him. ''Cause of old Red-Eye Baldarek. Special Baldy. Damn, but his Ma hadn''t missed a shot, not once. The Imp, Sarpydan or Sharpian, shook his hand. Thanked him for being insistent. Stars and blasters, all Baldarek did was tell the truth, sure as Ma did. Tells it like it is, Baldy, that''s what they want from a drink-slinger. Simple as. Special, though. Not a freak, not a curiosity. Human as all the rest. Human and part of something real big, something bigger than he''d ever wandered into in his life. Slinging eyeblasters and nozzle-flushes made the creds, kept a roof and clothes on his back. Wasn''t a lot. Didn''t tuck him into bed, happy as a Andoan clam. Tossing out vices was all a fella did, working under the Hutts. Sort of made sense, with what the Imp was shooting off about. Hutts, being aliens and all, spreading the bad and the worst. Keeping honest men like Baldy in the nasty loop. These Imps. Not the old Imps, mind. The new Imps. Exiles, they called ''em. These Exiles might be onto something. Sure were a lot of humans all around the galaxy. Swing a polecat, hit at least a dozen in his cantina, every night. Biggest heroes, all human, wasn''t it? The Starwalker, them Solos. The old Emperor, in the time with the bad Imperials - human too. He said so, out loud. The Exile fella, Sharpydan looked something proud. "That''s exactly right. Mankind has the most potential. It''s our birthright. We can be the most glorious of heroes, or the most terrible of despots. It is our blessing and our curse, and why the Emperor, Beloved by All, understands that we need guidance more than anything else." Made sense. Like a good racer swoop. In the hands of an ace skunker, they danced like wind-wisps and made the crowds roar. But put a void-brain behind the bars and that''s a smear of metal and some real chunky mess. Best and the worst, that fit. "The alien - nonhumans - it''s not for us to hate them. At most, maybe pity. They can never reach the heights of Mankind, stifled as they are by their heritage." Like the Hutts. Ever met a nice Hutt? Even a decent one? Couldn''t say he ever had and whole span of his life, there he''d been out in Hutt space. Whole lotta ways to describe ''em, none pleasant. Fellas across the galaxy used them as a byword for corruption and the worst kind of vices. Huttslime, swore a trillion voices. Couldn''t say they didn''t deserve it. Seen himself too many slaves offed for a minute''s laughs or tossed in an alley when they didn''t dance or weren''t perky enough. Old Red-Eye came here looking for a quiet place, but as Sharpydan went on and on, getting more animated, he figured he really could stand to hear a little more.
Nothing was absolute and nothing was truly decided. Sonoi''s findings were concrete, but not verified by another. Perhaps Sarpedian was overconfident, but this - this - was the answer to the thoughtless, pointless atrocity of Calth. The Emperor sent them here. He had to have. A whole galaxy of humans, baseline and branch, ignorant and unguided. This was why. This was their purpose. How else could a Primarch come to be here, how else could several companies of the Imperium''s finest Astartes be here, how else, so serendipitously, could they arrive at the perfect time, the perfect place? Sonoi would take her findings to her superior. Baldarek would be set aside in comfortable quarters, confined for the moment, but as a guest, not a prisoner. Already, Sarpedian was drafting requests for genetic testing on ''near-humans'' in the Pit. He felt foolish. Shortsighted, in fact. How many strains of humanity were there at home, in the galaxy that bore Terra and Macragge? Even within the Five Hundred worlds there were at least a dozen, tall and short, hirsute and glabrous. Pushed by circumstance and the forces of evolution to adapt to brutal, icy worlds, worlds that wandered without stars, worlds that baked in seething radiation. Across the rest of the galaxy itself, the number had to be hundreds. Thousands of breeds of Humanity, all united, all brought together by the embrace of the Emperor. There might be some too far afield. He understood that. He knew of abhumans, those who had fallen quite far from the mother tree. Ogryn, for one. Accepted by the Imperium and Mechanicum both, but distinctly and clearly distant cousins, not close brothers. Others trailed farther afield and could not be saved. That was a sad reality, but it was better for them to be laid to rest with mercy than allowed to further deviate and complete their fall from grace. Sarpedian wondered how many branches here, in this galaxy, would be embraced. Baldarek - a Chiss, most likely, from his research and questioning of other spacers - believed himself to be human, and human thus he was revealed to be. He thought of the Zeltron, who just might well be revealed to be sibling too. This galaxy was in some ways more peaceful, in some ways more insidious. How many of these ''near-humans'', who thought themselves a species apart, had been led astray, deluded, and tricked now into holding onto an identity that was a lie? Could they be educated? Saved from their ignorance? Baldarek proved it possible. He had to have trust in the masterful oratory of Iterators, in the teachings of the Civitas'' burgeoning college. Sarpedian watched Baldarek go from amused to surprised, to captivated, to awestruck as the grand tale of humanity, worthy of an epic, was revealed to him. He was eager to see Sonoi''s discovery replicated. His direct overseer was already informed and they would meet over a late dinner. From the quick memo returned, greater eyes were already focusing in on what he had done this day. Grander minds were noticing him. Sarpedian did all he did to serve the future of Humanity. To serve the Emperor, Beloved by All, even beyond the bounds of the known universe, far from the light of the Astronomican and Terra. Intransigence Chapter IV
The Measure of a Man
IV: We Fight
Several days ago... They looked a proper mess, all slumping down the ramp of Jade''s Shadow. Corsucant and Duro weren''t far, thankfully, though the first few hours had been tense, dodging expanding vong patrols. Droma had handled bringing the Falcon in and no one missed the significance of that, even if it passed unspoken. They were a spectrum of injury - Jacen was untouched and hale, burdened only by a haunted look in his eye. Mara was uninjured, but exhaustion clearly drug on the redhead, dark circles under her eyes and a slowness to her step, though she claimed it was only lack of sleep. Jaina was the example of healing - her short stubble growing back on the left side of her scalp, around the blinking oncocidal injector. Light radburns left only a faint blush across her face. And Han, surrounded by his family, was the picture of survival. He hobbled, one arm begrudgingly over Jacen''s shoulder. Jaina offered to get his other side, but wilted a little under her father''s unimpressed glare. Han''s left arm was swaddled in a thick cast, from bicep to club-like wrap around his fist. It hid from view the gut-wrenching stump of his hand, fingerless and mangled. Bandages peeked and poked out of his loose tunic and baggy trousers and his face was swollen and eyes ringed in sickly green and purple bruising. But his mashed lips slipped into a lopsided grin that crinkled his eyes and he pushed away from his son, wobbling and hobbling down the rest of the ramp. If he noticed his children tense and barely restrain from grabbing at him, he gave nothing away. Mara held out a hand, keeping the twins back. Legs stiff and barely hiding a constant wince, Han stepped onto the landing pad with a deep exhale of satisfaction, carefully and slowly raising both his arms - as much as his cast-swaddled left could rise. "Mostly in one piece," he said, words blurry around missing teeth. "Miss me, Princess?" A single stride away and as tense as a Muun tax collector, Leia Organa Solo stood as still as chiseled ice and just as warm. Her arms were folded tight under ber breasts, shoulders hunched in, expression as hard and plain as durasteel. She wore her brown hair up in a loose bun, half-falling out to frame her face. Only her eyes moved, flickering over her husband from head to toe. The last time they''d been in close proximity, Jacen recalled with uneasiness he shared with his twin, almost a physical presence in their bond, their parents had shared only shouted words. "You are an idiotic and useless pirate," Leia pronounced. Then she was in his arms and he in hers. No tears - the twins knew their mother too well for that, that it would be later she''d let it hit her more. Han clumsily returned the embrace with his injuries, unable to match his wife''s intensity, but his relief and joy flooded through the Force. The two exchanged words in low tones, lost to time. Leia dug her fingers into Han''s hair, grown longer. Gently, Mara placed her arms around her niece and nephew, tugging them to her side. "They''ll be fine," she murmured, low. Jacen nodded and Jaina hummed in affirmation. "I''ll kill you myself," Leia swore, voice muffled with her face buried in Han''s shoulder. "Yeah, definitely," Jacen agreed.
Han had refused bacta. He didn''t have time to marinate, he said, and besides - his hand was the worst and bacta wasn''t going to do anything about that. He did, however, allow Luke to offer the services of the Jedi Headquarters and their small but expensive medcenter. Rillao, another healer - though one with a medical degree - looked him over, tutting and clucking under her breath as she unwound Mara and Droma''s handiwork, leaving bloodstained bandages in bright painted hazardous waste incinerators. She worked quickly and efficiently while Leia watched and Mara and the twins waited outside for Luke. Then the whole clan gathered together, all save the very youngest. In fresh new bandages and with a glove fitted over his cleaned and debrided hand, Han rested easy on a reclined bed with his family gathered all around. Leia sat beside him, leaning forward to hold his good right hand in both of hers. Mara leaned against Luke, both sitting on an unused bed to the left, while the twins stood sentinel on the other side of Han. "Y''know, on the scale of Nil Spaar to Vader, that Tsavong managed to raise the bar." Leia extracted one hand to swat at Han''s shoulder. "I''m serious! Spaar''s rolling in his grave right now, I''m sure." Han frowned. "Hey, and Thracken too. Huh. Four times." "It''s your winning personality," Mara remarked, drier than Tattooine. "Something like that." Han sobered, looked around at his family. "I''m¡­look, I haven''t been the best. Father. Or husband." He exhaled roughly, blinking hard for a moment. "Dad-" Jaina tried, but he shook his head. "No, let me finish." He tightened his grip on Leia''s hand. "I shouldn''t have run away. It was selfish. I was selfish. All I could think of was Chewie-" his voice caught, turned hoarse. "We miss him too, dad," Jacen murmured. "I can still hear him, sometimes," Luke admitted. "I won''t do it again," Han said harshly, anger spiking - directed at himself, Luke could feel. "You''re stuck with me." "I accepted that a while ago," Leia sighed, before leaning in to gently press a kiss to his bruised and split lips. "You need to talk to Anakin." Guilt swept the room, noxious and thick from Han''s pained expression. "I do. I will. When he''s on Coruscant. It needs to be face-to-face." Leia nodded. "That''s probably for the best." There was comfortable silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, processing how very close their small family had come to another incalculable loss. Jacen and Jaina shared their relief and their parents apparent reconciliation, though Jaina loaded her own sardonic amusement over Jacen''s spectacular resumption of using the Force. His response was a mental shrug, a ''what-can-I-do''. Your lightsaber¡­ Jaina pushed to him, joined with memories of the weapon, the sound of its hum, the glow of the blade. Worth it three times over. Gently, Mara cleared her throat. "I think now might be a good time," she said, leaning further on Luke, resting her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were half-lidded, her general exhaustion seeping from body language and Force presence both. Luke peered down at her, raising an eyebrow. "You''re sure?" "I''m¡­pregnant," Mara announced, quiet, almost shy. Full of pride, full of anticipation, but tentative, like to say the words aloud, to say them to anyone else might snatch away the wonder of it all. Her smile, sleepy, was as bright as a main sequence star. "I thought some good news might be nice." "Good news?" Jacen exclaimed. "Aunt Mara, Uncle Luke, that''s - that''s-" "Amazing," Jaina finished for her twin. "Wow. That''s. Wow." They spoke over each other, Leia coming around Han''s bed to embrace her brother, her sister-in-law. Han painfully adjusted himself to sit higher, beaming while the twins ran the idea of cousins through their head. Mara fielded questions - how are you, how are you, when, how long - and Luke laughed at Han''s warnings to start saving up sleep now. It was enough to cut the edges from Han''s brush with death. Enough to forget, for a moment, the reasons to be in the medcenter, enough to overlook Jaina''s own injuries and Leia''s stress lines and the way Luke settled into a distant frown when the conversation lulled. Beating back death with new life - the cycle of the Force itself.
Now... One more time, the Jedi came together. From across the Galaxy and right next door, they joined as flesh and blood or as half-height holograms, or disembodied voices over a comlink. Expensive, but the Jedi Headquarters had the funding and the space for it, and the facility had been built with an eye to the future. A future with Jedi spread all across the stars, answering the call of service and far from Coruscant. There''d need to be ways to conclave and consult, to teach and demonstrate, and the main amphitheatre in the HQ was made for it. Luke waited at the center of the chamber, sitting with his palms flat on the raised dais. There in person were his niece and nephew; the twins together and off to the side, conversing in quiet tones. Lowbacca had made journey to Coruscant, wanting to check in with his injured friend, which Jaina outwardly huffed and scoffed at. All the same, she exuded an obvious pleasure at seeing the wookiee again. Kenth, of course, made time in his otherwise busy schedule with the Navy and Tresk Im''nel, looking harried, fidgeted where he sat halfway up the tiers. Kyp Durron, freshly from the massacre of Duro lurked in cowled shadow, clammed up tight as a Hutt''s purse. Mara, looking tired but glowing, watched each new arrival. Holos of Jedi flickered to life as they joined - Cilgal and the Solusars from Yavin, along with Ikrit and of course, Anakin. Tresina Lobi, Madurrin, Kirana Ti - there was Harlan Ysanna and Lyrret, with both of their images streaked and flickering with interference. Jaden Korr and Michel Diath, Raltharan and Fahjay, Eelysa and Berd Lin and Waxarn Kel. Dozens of Jedi, from Knights to Masters, young and old. Yet there was little joy to be found. Even in reunions between friends who hadn''t seen one another for months, even years - a pall of grim purpose spread and bloomed in the Force until Luke finally exhaled a breath, pushing off from the dais and standing. His movement caught attention and the low-level hubbub faded, eyes physical and holographic turning to him. "I wish this was a happier gathering," he admitted. Fifty Jedi, fifty, one of the largest gatherings of the Order since before the Fall. Only the convocations called at the start of the war surpassed this one. All of them his students, by degrees. Some he''d seen grow up, some he''d helped through the darkest times of their lives. Some he did not know as well as he wished he could, some he feared for because of how well he knew them. "Wish in one hand¡­" muttered Ganner Rhysode. "Ganner," Kyp spoke the younger Knight''s name lowly, but with warning. "No, let''s talk about why this isn''t so happy," Octa Ramis cut in. "Isn''t it so great for the Jedi to have this nice get-together?" Physically present, the young woman swept her hand around, encompassing the amphitheatre built to hold several hundred. "Don''t worry about all the empty spots, I''m sure they just couldn''t make it today." "Don''t make their deaths into your weapon! Have a little humility!" "Humility is what''s got us into this mess," Ganner shot back, glaring at Fahjay''s holo. "We''re crippling ourselves with all of these debates and deliberations. We''re wasting time meeting like this. Master Skywalker, you want to warn us? Consider us warned. We all saw the Warmaster and we''ve all felt the deaths. Unless there''s a plan-" "Have you ever known me to waste time?" Luke asked mildly. A few of the more belligerent Jedi glanced away, but Octa Ramis''s face twisted, an ugly combination of sorrow and anger. "Yes. Yes we have. This whole war, you''ve just wasted time. You tell us to sit around and think and to hold back and to wait for your lead and now Daeshara''cor is dead, and Miko is dead, and so is Swilja and Dorsk and Markre and - and -" Octa let out a sob, ducking her head and burying her face in her hands. Each name was a slice to his heart, because as much as Octa and others might blame him - Luke blamed himself just as much. The questions lurked, unanswered and unhealthy. He knew they were fruitless to consider, he knew it was better to put it out of his mind, that the best honour he could give his students is the respect they were owed as men and women, as adults, as beings that could be trusted to make their own decisions. But it lingered. Did he teach them enough? Did he overlook some critical factor that might have changed their fate? Could he have done something different, so that they might never have been in that circumstance? In that fatal, final moment? The problem with saving the galaxy was that it was very hard to put that back in the box. Mara called it a complex. She might have been right. "The vong killed them," Kyp countered. "Every one of them. That''s on the vong. That''s on the Warmaster. Not on anyone here." "So is it time to fight, then?" the question came tentative, from the delicate Bith musician Ulaha Kore. "It always was," Ganner snapped back at her. "Ganner," Kyp said again. "What, Master Durron?" "Stop acting like everyone here is your enemy. You''re better than that. We''re all better than that." "If the Warmaster can seed divisions into our own Order, we''ve already lost," Luke agreed. It was strange that Kyp would caution calm and unity - but the other Master had been notable by his absence in the past couple of months. His Dozen, leaderless, had fallen under Ganner''s command instead and there hadn''t been hide or hair of the usually fiery Jedi Master until he surfaced again on Duro with Han. Ganner visibly gathered himself, then inclined his head toward Ulaha. "Sorry, Kore. I¡­sorry." The Bith nodded back. "We all agree that the Jedi need to do more," Luke pushed forward, unwilling to let the stressed tensions in the chamber snap again. It could be cathartic, maybe, to lance that boil, but he feared that with there was much fear in the mix. Much. Luke took a deep breath and Mara reached out for him, bolstering his strength with her own. Reaffirming his resolve. "No matter what we should do, the vong aren''t going to be content to let us find that. Not after Elan and not after the Warmaster''s decree. They''ve continually tried to make this war personal-" Octa Ramis'' shoulders shook again. "-and they''ve succeeded. I can''t ask anyone to put aside their fear for their friends. I can''t give commands that I can''t follow. I still worry for where this war will lead¡­but there are possibilities that worry me more." Kyp descended down a tier, moving closer to the stage and lowering his cowl. The man looked older, years older, with tired eyes and lips pressed thin. "You''re afraid of the vong winning." "That''s ridiculous," Jaina retorted. "The vong? Winning?" She glanced around, to her brothers, to her uncle, to the many Jedi, almost all older than she. Whatever she saw cracked through her surety. "You can''t be serious," she said again, quieter. "They aren''t winning." "They aren''t losing," Anakin replied, voice modulated by holo and distance. "That''s for sure." "They''re not," Kyp confirmed. "And you know more than any of us, Master Skywalker." From Kenth, he was privy to the Navy''s intelligence. Through Mara, he had access to Karrde and other information networks. Through Tresk, friendly ties with the Senate and diplomatic corps. Friends, allies, contacts, built through decades and the Rebellion. "The picture isn''t pretty. Most of the Outer Rim is effectively lost. If it''s not under vong control, it''s cut off from most of the rest of the Galaxy. The Hutts, last heard from, are besieged on Nal Hutta." He''d not felt uncertainty like this, true unease like this, since the Imperial Mutiny and the Reborn Emperor. A gut-deep feeling that everything might not be ok. That the end might really be staring back at him. He''d gone far, to stop Palpatine. Maybe too far. He wasn''t sure Palpatine was the greater threat, when compared to the vong. Not anymore. "None of this is news¡­" Mei Taral drawled, joining in from Booster Terrik''s flying casino, Errant Venture. "What''s changed? It''s the Imperials, isn''t it?" "The Exiles? We''re not taking them seriously, are we? Those maniacs?" That was Luxum, the Shard Jedi bleeding incensed indignation like a pulsar, despite Ken''s firm grip on her synthflesh hand. Both had been ordered back to Coruscant in a degree of disgrace after their ill-informed attempt at ''infiltrating'' the Exile world of Eboracum. Luxum''s synthdroid body had been rebuilt, both severed arms replaced, but the Shard hadn''t shown an ounce of contrition that her partner Ken had. "The Exiles are quickly gaining favor in the military and government. There''s a lot of respect for how they fought at Fondor and their willingness to work with the Senate, instead of against it." Kenth added his own thoughts, tapping finger against his lips. "Their influence is spreading." "It is." Luke agreed. "And that''s bad?" Jaina narrowed her eyes, looking between her younger brother and uncle. "Anakin, Uncle Luke¡­and wait, Master Durron, you were all part of bringing them out of their corner." "I was, and I regret it every day." Kyp sat heavily, almost slumped onto a chair. "As the Exile''s influence grows, ours wanes. They''ll be the marker to live up to. They''ll be the ones the public looks to." "If they''re good at killing vong, I don''t care." "You should, Octa, because they''re worse than the vong could ever be." Kyp exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Master Skywalker, I know that the Exiles offered safety and refuge for Jedi in their space, but I''m urging¡­no, I''m begging you to reject that." Luxum''s shouted ''they offered what'' was drowned out by a sudden flurry of other voices while Ganner looked like he''d been struck between the eyes. Neither he nor Mara had quite expected where Kyp would lean today, but from this¡­was close to Luke''s read on the other Master. It was no coincidence he vanished out of public sight right after Senator Shesh''s initial summit with the Exiles, nor was it one that he stopped commanding his Dozen or that when he did turn up, it was with Han and several tens of thousands of refugees. Kyp had seen exactly what Luke had. The Exiles could be just as bad, or even far worse than the vong. That potential was in them, all of them, nearly born. That same depth of brutal, callous disregard for life, zealous obsession and blind devotion slithered behind the professed tenets of the Exiles, ready and waiting to burst out as infamy. Luke had seen that it wasn''t yet. Kyp, he knew now for certainty, saw that it was inevitable. Maybe it was naivete. Maybe Luke hadn''t shaken that save-the-galaxy complex that Mara teased him about. "I won''t," Luke pronounced. Luxum burst to her feet and stomped out. Ken followed, apologetic, to calm her down. "We need allies, now more than ever. The Exiles, like the vong, are a fact now. They can''t be ignored or avoided. The role that we, as Jedi need to take up, is not just one as defenders, as soldiers-" he nodded to Jaina, who sat a little straighter "-or as warriors. We need to be symbols again. We need to be what Jedi can be and should be. Something to strive for. Examples." Luke reached to Mara, who placed her hand in his and squeezed. "This war is going to test the galaxy and test all of us like we''ve never been tested before. The Jedi have to rise to this challenge and we must exceed it." "For who? The people who stab us in the back and sell us out? The people we bleed and die for who sell us out to a monster? Jedi for Jedi, we should protect ourselves." Jedi for Jedi. A more terrible slogan Luke couldn''t invent. He remembered his vision, of the galaxy teetering on an axis, at the spread of inky darkness against the sputtering of the light. Tsavong didn''t just strike a blow at the body of the Jedi - he stabbed into their soul. Octa''s pain was shared by every Jedi and if that feeling propagated, that kind of insular, reactionary defensiveness spread, then all was already lost. "The vong can''t change who we are as Jedi. When this war is over, we need to make sure the galaxy that survives it is one that''s worth saving." Later, after the meeting had dispersed, after preliminary plans had been laid and more debates had sprung to life, flared, and been banked, Luke found his sister waiting for him in his study. Mara left to see Doctor Oolos, the Ho''Din concerned about possible complications between the pregnancy and her still-in-remission disease. The twins wandered off and the Jedi in the HQ were scattering back to the stars and their responsibilities. She asked Luke about his surety in accepting the Exile''s offer of sanctuary to Jedi. She nodded while he described the need for a ''great river'', a means for Jedi in danger to escape and slip away to safety and how the Exiles could be a keystone in the galactic north for that. She sat quietly while he laid out his own concerns over the newcomers, his impressions on their leader and his belief that they could be more than they are. Leia listened and when Luke was done, she rose and mentioned that with SELCORE''s expansion, there was a good chance they could liaise with the Jedi as part of this ''great river'' initiative. Then, before she left, she fixed her brother, her good, honest brother with her fullest attention, with the weight and intensity befitting a former Chief of State of a galaxy and asked him to do his very best to keep her children far, far away from those monsters from beyond the stars. He knew she did not mean the Yuuzhan Vong.
For the first time in twenty five years, the slightly overgrown tarmac outside the Great Temple was filled with vehicles. Most of them were inter-system shuttles, for hops around the moon or to other moons. There were speeders, both land- and air- and a handful of hyperspace capable transports. The accumulation of time, as some were donated, some were brought and mothballed, some left by owners who passed away into the Force and still more that were true Rebellion vintage. The vong were spreading out now, after their announced pause at Duro. More and more hyperlanes were cut in part or in full. It was getting dangerous to slip past the lines or even to pass near them, as dovin basal gravity mines were spread out further and further and patrols of rocky, yorik-coral craft became more regular. Anakin had his XJ and there were a few other fighters, but all the real career pilots of the Order were off-world and far away. The best chance was to slip away, not fight their way out. It wasn''t like Uncle Luke didn''t have plans to evacuate the Praxeum, given Yavin''s location - it was more that those plans went from ''soon'' to ''needs to happen yesterday'' without warning. Thanks, Jacen, Anakin sighed. All the lectures from his brother, and then he goes and throws the vong Warmaster out of a window. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Did it say something about Anakin that when Jacen recounted the story for the rest of the family that his first thought was "He should have made sure the Warmaster was dead''? Possibly. The Warmaster putting a bounty on every single Jedi''s head sort of proved that intrusive thought right. Murder was murder, but a military commander like that? Invading a world? Malik Carr almost died to Sergeant Ascratus and no one batted an eye there. Better than Tsavong Lah had died. At least then the vong would''ve been in turmoil over finding a new commander, instead of sitting comfortable behind their fleets and securing worlds they already took. Anakin shook his head, self-conscious smirk on his lips. Sixteen and weighing big strategic questions for a galaxy-wide war. The trials of a Jedi Knight, right there. "Fiver, you''ll be alright?" His astromech tootled and whistled back. "Yeah, just run a randomization of my usual maneuvers. I trust you, buddy." With luck, there''d be no need for Fiver to fly his XJ in any kind of combat. Anakin was planning to fly one of the shuttles up to the Exile''s ship when it arrived, leaving Fiver to move not only the X-Wing, but also through remote links the handful of other fighters the Praxeum had in storage. The little astromech would have to cut them loose in case of danger, since it wasn''t built as some kind of droid-remote-controller or anything, but for getting off the moon and into a hangar? Fiver could do that. The shuttles were the priority. Not only were they carrying the next generation of Jedi, but also all the relics and databanks of Jedi lore recovered through all the painstaking work of archivists and archaeologists like Tionne and Tash Arranda. Tahiri had mentioned she was surprised that everyone was willing to entrust all this to these Imperials and Anakin mulled that over for a few days. She was sort of right - the Exiles were still brand new. Sure, Anakin felt he had a good read on those two Astartes, on Zalthis and Solidian, and Captain Thiel had been at the Praxeum for closing in on a month now, but that was three out of¡­a whole lot more. He poked and prodded at it while they packed. Tahiri drew Sannah out of her funk some, though the younger girl was less chatty and more reactive. That was just fine, since Tahiri could talk enough for three people. They made a little team, just the three of them, bouncing around on tasks from Kam and Tionne. Ikrit helped them out at times too, managing to turn things into lessons. He made the three of them empty out an entire store room while wearing blindfolds and earplugs, which resulted in a couple of bumped noses and elbows but had Sannah laughing by the end of it. Maybe Uncle Luke just trusted them that much? His Uncle had met, one-on-one, with the Primarch of the Exiles, and for several hours. Enough time to get a read on the man? Probably. It was Uncle Luke, after all, and his Uncle had a talent for seeing through to the deepest truth of a person. Master Durron would''ve had a very different fate, otherwise. So that was an option - just trust that his Uncle trusted them that much and put it out of his mind. That wasn''t enough. They¡­hadn''t always seen eye to eye, not in this war. Not at first. It had hurt, to feel like he was questioning Master Skywalker. Felt like he was siding with Kyp Durron and Ganner Rhysode and the more ''proactive'' Jedi. It made his stomach twist when he felt, really felt like he was right and his Uncle just wasn''t. It was like up was down and down was up, because Uncle Luke was never wrong about things and besides, Anakin was a kid and how could he possibly know better¡­ Except that he wasn''t that much younger than his Uncle was when he''d set out from Tatooine and changed the whole galaxy. This led to the question, then: did Anakin trust the Exiles? It was one thing to ride in their ships and fight with them on Obroa-Skai, because the only person who would be hurt, really, if they were treacherous was Anakin. His life was one he could risk, because it was his. That was fair. Now there were thirty kids that he was going to be responsible for. Thirty kids. Master Horn''s children, the Brizzit twins, Master Vaal''s daughter¡­ It was their lives that were at risk. Kids. Kids! Tahiri was definitely not part of that group as she''d never let him hear the end of it, but Sannah definitely was and she was one of the oldest at 13. Kids. He trusted Zalthis with his own life, because that''s something you don''t just lose after running from rakamats and duelling vong warriors together. Trust him with the trainees? Probably yes, actually. Zalthis understood when Anakin asked him to just disable the slaves on the library world. He seemed to understand when they talked, later, on Samothrace, about what it meant to be a Jedi, a little bit about what it meant to be Astartes. And if he could trust Zalthis, he could trust Solidian too, since the two were a package deal. Captain Thiel wasn''t that good at self-control that he could''ve kept dark thoughts away from the multiple Masters at the Praxeum either, so he passed too. Which meant that the new Astartes coming, under Aeonid''s command, probably could be trusted too, and also Alebmos, and- He finished preflight, going through it by rote, mind wandering. A slightly more grim reason occurred to him, too. If the Exiles tried anything, they''d have several very angry Jedi Masters inside their own ship. That wasn''t good for anyone involved. Maybe he was letting Master Durron''s words get to him, a little. The Jedi conference about the Warmaster''s grudge and what to do going forward stuck with him. He hadn''t said much, just listening in and watching his Uncle''s holo. It was so strange to hear Kyp Durron preaching unity and moderation. And how much disgust flavored his tones when he talked about the Exiles! Sure, they had a lot of problems. But Kyp made it sound like they were as deviously dark - or Dark - as Palpatine was. Worse than the vong. Well. Maybe Kyp could let Anakin know when the Exiles blew up a couple planets and started throwing living beings into suns. Then they could compare notes about which was worse. Like Primarch Guilliman said to the Senate: he was willing to come and talk. The vong never cared to at all. No - worse than that, when the vong pretended to want to talk, it turned out to be nothing more than a ploy to kill as many Jedi as possible. Anakin ambled away from his XJ, pulling out his datapad and checking over his notes for what he needed to do for the day. Preflight on his X-Wing - done. Looking over two of the oldest shuttles to make sure they didn''t have any chewed conduits and that the ion engines were responsive - check. Loading up the Gallofree with landspeeders and swoop bikes - check. Today was ''vehicle'' day and he caught sight of Tahiri''s cloud of blonde hair across the tarmac as she and Sannah and the other trainees brought down their luggage. Temerity was already in-system and coming fast, meaning tomorrow was probably it. The last day. But to the whole ''trusting the Exiles with the whole future of the Jedi'' problem - the last point was the uncomfortable ''who else''. The New Republic Navy couldn''t spare a squadron to run the line and make it here. And if they did, there was a good chance the vong could track them right to Yavin anyway. Talon Karrde and his organization didn''t have the centralized fleet that they used to and could pose a similar problem. Yavin''s strength was that it was, basically, unknown. The Empire had removed it from their maps shortly after the Battle of Yavin and no one had really noticed a nowhere, nothing system quietly erased from the Ministry''s navicomputer updates. The local sector was quiet and sleepy and while the name ''Yavin'' was pretty famous for being where the first Death Star blew up, no one really cared about the place as much as the event. Daala found the Praxeum because she had inherited all the secret documents of the Empire. Which meant the Remnant knew where Yavin was, like the New Republic did, but it still stayed off common maps. A lot of people thought of his Uncle as being naive, but Anakin knew that Luke had never once forgotten the tragedy of the Fall. So for the ''who else'' question. The Exiles were total unknowns. There was practically no way the vong had any infiltrators with them, at least none deep enough to matter. Their ships and their crazy ''warp'' engines didn''t care a single bit about hyperspace mass shadows, rendering all those cut hyperlanes totally moot. And, when he thought about it, in a way, the Exile''s own xenophobia sort of played into them being more reliable. Sure, they''d curl their lips and sneer at all the beings at the Praxeum, but they''d sooner die than work with the vong. And from the way Zalthis had seemed mortally offended at the thought of any kind of betrayal, it really showed how seriously their culture held to keeping their word. Ironic, then, that the Exile''s dislike of aliens actually kept other nonhumans safer. "Wow, you''re lightyears away," Tahiri said suddenly, right into his ear. Anakin jumped, whirling and she rocked back, beaming. "Sorry, I was thinking." he replied, automatically. "Well, don''t. I''m the brains here. You''re just the muscle." He scratched at his head. "Didn''t you almost get eaten like, a week ago?" "All part of a plan, obviously. What were you thinking about? Trying to think about, I mean." Anakin nodded toward Aeonid''s Thunderhawk, sitting off to the side and looking entirely conspicuous in comparison to the other, much more normal shapes of shuttles and small freighters. "The Exiles, mostly. It seems¡­well, we''re packing up the whole Temple and putting it up on one of their ships." Tahiri''s fuzzing energy faded a little, replaced by smoother seriousness. She pursed her lips, narrowing her green eyes and hummed. "Yeah. That is something to think about." Serious Tahiri was a rare thing, but it was a good look for her. It made her look older, less like a girl and more like, like a Knight. Although. She didn''t entirely need to drop the toothy grin and bouncing energy to do that. Like him, she was in a jumpsuit, though sans the boots he wore. Jumpsuits were sort of just the thing they always wore, usually the matching orange or tan ones. Comfortable, durable, loaded with pockets, they were kind of the unofficial uniform of a Jedi trainee. His fit different now. Tighter in the chest even after going up a size and he didn''t have to cuff the ankles once. Tahiri''s fit different too. It was a little distracting - he''d glance over at her and there''d be a different person where she was standing. Then it would click - oh right, Tahiri. Emerald eyes flicked to ice blue. "What?" Oddly warm, Anakin looked back over to the Thunderhawk. "Nothing." "Right. Anyway, Master Skywalker said it''ll be fine, so - it''ll be fine! Stop frowning. Your face will get stuck like that and then I''m gonna have to look at it all the time." Anakin laughed. It was that easy. Master Skywalker says so, so it is.
The gunship was¡­cute? It landed next to Aeonid''s Thunderhawk on hissing plumes of steam and exhaust, a far cry from smooth and silent repulsorlifts. It looked rather like someone took Thunderhawk and put it in a trash compactor, until it mashed the wings in, the fuselage down and all that pressure made it stumpy and fat. Storm Eagle, Aeonid called it, and it launched in advance of Temerity, arrowing down to Yavin 4 with two presences that Anakin recognized. The mid-morning of Yavin 4 was humid, but with a cool breeze from the north that belied the jungle around. It had rained last night, after Anakin finished preparing Fiver and his XJ along with the other starfighters, leaving a tinge of ozone and petrichor in the air. Temerity entered the Yavin system late last night, while he''d been asleep, and even now was thundering ever-closer from almost halfway across the system. Certainly a downside to those ''warp'' drives. Anakin imagined having to sit in his XJ''s cockpit for hours on end, just to get from planet to planet within the same system. Then he imagined Jaina and figured that if anything would make his sister go Dark, it might just be that. He couldn''t keep a smile from his face as the waist hatch slid open and the now familiar shapes of Astartes in full armor tromped out. The first three Anakin didn''t recognize - new faces across a span of ages. Then came Zalthis, bigger than Anakin remembered - probably because of the armor. And behind him Solidian and Anakin sucked in a breath at the nasty, vivid webbing of scars that crawled across half of Solidian''s bare scalp. The first three Astartes made for Aeonid, who waited nearby in Jedi robes. Kam Solusar waited to welcome them as well, but otherwise everyone else was well occupied with final packing and preparations. Tionne had the children playing a game of combing through the Temple for any last things that might have been forgotten. Zalthis and Solidian, though, made straight for Anakin. Beside him, Tahiri tensed a little. Not quite sure how to greet them, Anakin was about to give a shallow bow when Zalthis thrust forward his gauntlet, hand open. Ah, that - Anakin reached to shake, but Zalthis skipped past Anakin''s extended hand and grasped his forearm in a strange grip. "Anakin," Zalthis growled, voice much deeper than he recalled. "It''s good to see you again, my friend." Belatedly, Anakin returned the gesture, clasping Zalthis'' enormously armoured forearm in return. Sol inclined his head and Anakin noticed with interest the distinctly blaster shape of a cannon slung over Sol''s shoulder. "Shee-eesh," Tahiri whistled. "So it''s not just Aeonid who''s gigantic." Zalthis released Anakin''s arm and turned to Tahiri, peering down at the blonde who stared right back up at him. "Tahiri, this is Zalthis. And Solidian. Zal, Sol, this is Tahiri, my best friend." Sol inclined his head again, but Zalthis actually bowed at the waist. "Tahiri. Anakin spoke of you." Her emerald eyes narrowed. "So you''re the one who got to go on adventures with my best friend." Zalthis blinked. "That¡­may be an apt description?" he ventured. Solidian snorted. Tahiri rolled her eyes. "Well, you''re here now, so that means you better get used to me. Package deal, get it? Me, him. Both of us. Got it?" Was that actual anger in her voice? Anakin reached for her and Tahiri rebuffed him. Rebuffed him. Her presence was like a rubber wall and his gentle probe rebounded and all he felt from her was exasperation. Privacy, please, it said. "Very well. Any friend of Anakin should be a friend of mine." Solidian muttered something in the Exile''s language, Zal snapping back a reply that caused the other Astartes to look chastened. Pushing past it, Zalthis gestured toward Aeonid and the other Astartes. "I should introduce you to the others. Our squad, in fact." The pride brimming from both of the Astartes was so bright Anakin half expected them to glow. A few topics of their conversations came back to him and Anakin sucked in a breath. "You''re actually Astartes now, aren''t you?" Zal''s smile was not like Alebmos'', where it suited the weathered old Lexicanium through incongruity. When Zalthis smiled, Anakin saw the boy behind the muscle and armor. "We are. Captain Thiel approved us right after Obroa-skai." He remembered Zalthis describing the process, in general terms at least. All the surgeries and implantations, all the things done to take a boy and turn them into a genetic supersoldier. Honestly, it all sounded fairly barbaric and tortuous, but the way Zalthis talked about it, it was clearly the greatest possible honor he could imagine. There was a timeline to it as well, as an initiate - trainee? - no, neophyte - moved through the process. The last step Anakin couldn''t quite recall, but it was the one that let them where the full armor that Ascratus and Aeonid wore, not the cut-down and slim armor that he''d first seen Zal and Sol in. "Wow! Congratulations, both of you. That''s like becoming a Knight, isn''t it?" Zal nodded. "As we discussed, very nearly so. Sol and I are part of Captain Thiel''s company now. First Adaptive Tactics Company, Second Squad." They joined Aeonid and Solusar and the other Astartes. Zalthis introduced each in turn, matching names to faces. The oldest looking and most weathered, who looked somewhat like he had fallen face-first into a bucket of vibroblades was named Tercinax. A blonde with tight curls and what seemed to be a perpetual sneer was Varien and the third, complected similarly to Solidian was Amalius. "I requested Second Squad as insurance," Aeonid was saying. "There is no reason to suspect the Yuuzhan Vong, but Alebmos is an important asset." "You''re all welcome here at the Praxeum," Kam Solusar replied. "We''re already in your debt for helping us on such short notice and for putting one of your ships at risk." "No debts, Master Solusar," Aeonid denied. "You took me into your halls and offered me training without reservation. The Primarch wishes to be fast friends with the Jedi - this is acting as allies should." Kam reached out - and up - and rested his hand on Aeonid''s shoulder. "You''re helping protect our children. That''s a debt, no matter what." Tahiri muttered something under her breath. Annoyingly, she was still blocking him off so Anakin couldn''t even guess at it. "Captain, if I might be allowed, I should like time to spar with Knight Solo." Was that amusement on Aeonid''s face? Couldn''t be - the Astartes never wore anything but a mask of indifference, interest and intensity. "Granted. Second Squad, you have your orders. I trust them to be enacted without my oversight." Varien, nominally in command, saluted with the strange interlinked thumb gesture over his chest. "Yes, Captain. Amalius, Tercinax, with me. Little brothers, go and play with the Jedi." Solidian bristled but Zalthis laughed. "You haven''t seen a Jedi''s bladework," Zal returned. "Call it play once you do, Varien."
Later that afternoon, Aeonid sparred with Master Katarn. Anakin, sweating like a Corellian between spice and sabaac, sucked down at least half a liter of water and glared at Zalthis. The Astartes looked enervated, not even slightly worn down. Supersoldier, transhuman, bred for war, geneforged - all those silly terms Zalthis used ran through Anakin''s head and for a moment, he hated each and every single one of them. "You''ve improved," Zal commended. "It''s been a month," Anakin groused. "Still, compared to the last time¡­" Zal trailed off. "''Course he did," Tahiri called from outside the ring. The jungles around the Temple were dotted with spaces like this, where the undergrowth was kept at bay and open, mossy clearings were kept for sparring practice. A thin wire boundary outlined the space, a handsbreadth off the ground, not enough to trip but enough to mark where an opponent was pushed out of bounds. The limitations pushed creativity, Master Katarn assured. "It''s Anakin, of course he''s better." She''d been shouting encouragement through each of his and Zalthis'' bouts. At first Anakin had been pleased, but then she started to get..strange. Not so much complimenting Anakin or encouraging him but firing shots at the Astartes. Laughing when Anakin managed to tag Zal or jeering when Anakin evaded a particularly complex gambit. It started to feel¡­mean spirited. Which wasn''t the Tahiri that Anakin knew. She didn''t have a cruel bone in her body. She''d never teased anyone - other than him, of course - at the Praxeum. She made friends as easy as breathing. Retrieving a towel and mopping his face, he watched Tahiri as she watched Zal and Sol gesture and demonstrate moves off to the side with her eyes narrowed and a frown pulling at her mouth. Everyone was changing. Everyone was getting older and like he''d realized - he''d never really been a kid. Neither had Tahiri. Like how his jumpsuit didn''t fit quite the same anymore, did the Tahiri he knew¡­not quite fit the young woman she was becoming? He swallowed hard, pushing the nauseating idea down. No. Tahiri was Tahiri. This was¡­she was just supporting a friend. A best friend. There was nothing else to read into here. Sol was next into the ring, chest bare and fatigue trousers rolled to his knees. Sannah, shirking off helping Tionne, watched with odd focus. For a change of pace, Kam Solusar had allowed them to use training ''sabers, the kind that could only do a nasty sting if it struck you. Zalthis was fascinated by the weapon and how odd it felt in his hands and it was proper payback for how brutal their very first spar had been on Samothrace, when Anakin had been totally thrown off by the all-wrong weight and feel of a practice sword. What goes around comes around, and he''d thrashed Zalthis the first round without breaking a sweat, leaving the Astartes adopting an exaggerated glower and with rapidly fading red marks criss-crossing his body. Sol tossed the training lightsaber from hand to hand, the pale white blade flipping and wobbling in the air. "This feels entirely peculiar," he announced. "I can scarcely believe this is a functional weapon." Wordlessly, Anakin gestured to the neighboring ring where Aeonid and Master Katarn were a barely visible whirlwind. Sol barked a laugh. They eased into their spar, Anakin taking pity on Sol and not going for the ''kill'' immediately. Like Zal, the weight difference confused the Astartes and for all his size and uncanny speed, he was clumsy in adapting. Even half again as tall as Anakin, Zal and Sol weren''t that much taller than Lowie. He hadn''t paired off against the Wookiee all that much, but Lowie wasn''t the only taller-than-average Jedi in the Order. What set the Astartes apart was their speed, which still sort of took Anakin''s breath away. They moved as fast as a Jedi but without a hint of the Force. No one that tall and that bulky should be that nimble. They were just settling into a smooth back-and-forth, Anakin giving pointers and tips to Sol on proper handling of a lightsaber when a sudden burst of alarm rippled from all three Astartes. Sol paused in the middle of a strike, unnaturally quick. Anakin stumbled, off-balance and expecting to make contact. "Zal!" Sol cried, reaching up to tap a tiny, embedded earpiece. "I heard it, Sol," Zalthis called back. "Captain!" Aeonid, breathing hard, shut off his training ''saber, tossing it to Master Katarn. "Vong," the Captain hissed. "Temerity reports a squadron decanted moments ago. Just beyond the gravity influence of Yavin." "How long until Temerity makes orbit?" Master Katarn asked. "Half a day. Perhaps slightly more. Varien barely outpaced in the Storm Eagle." Anakin clenched his fists. "Then we fight," he promised. Intransigence Chapter V V: Something New
Before he had come to Yavin, his fear - and hope - had been that the Force would remain ever elusive, flighty before his fingers, and never come to heel as it appeared to for the Jedi. In the days he spent in study, at the behest of his Lord, as he prodded for knowledge from Rubio, as he clumsily followed ''practices'' that beggared belief for their brevity and ephemerality, a part of Aeonid remained confident that this Force was say, some misunderstood deviation of genetics. Perhaps some oblique form of warpcraft that Tylos was yet to decipher. Perhaps that moment of peculiar sight that he had been granted but once after Luke Skywalker had dropped his revelation with all the subtlety of a superheavy shell was a trick. Some machination by the Jedi, some lingering warp-taint from Calth yet to be excised - It was faintly humorous, in a backhanded sort of way, that but weeks ago Aeonid had both hoped - and feared - that the Force would remain ever beyond his touch. Now, there was no way to shut it away. With word from Temerity relayed swiftly to Masters Solusar, Cilghal, Streen and Katarn, the Praxeum erupted into last-minute disordered activity not unlike that of a kicked over hive of communalist formids. The young trainees wore expressions of fear and disquiet, the elder Jedi far more stoic miens and the youths that blurred the line between child and adult aped their Masters with the sort of intensity only the young could find. And Aeonid felt every scrap of it. He felt the tears of Chitter, whose delicate frame was huddled in a seat aboard one of the Praxeum''s many shuttles. Salty tears slid down her long snout, but wiped away by Moolu Hashkiss, a serpentine Sluissi that Chitter named best friend. The female Vor was alight with a melange of emotions and thoughts. She was loud, loud enough that Aeonid was sure other Jedi sensed her. Her stomach twisted in sudden, bald recognition that all of this was real, that their lives were truly in danger, that the Praxeum itself might not last. Beneath it she buried self-recrimination and guilt, spawned by her secret homesickness that bloomed uneasy tones of happiness that she might go home sooner than later. Which in turn only redoubled the spiral of the Vor''s mental state, as the child then felt her friend''s embrace and wondered how truly awful she might be, to think at a time like this, of going home. There, Thann Mithric and Yaqeel Saav''etu spoke in low tones, agreeing that Anakin Solo would slay all the vong, most surely, and then this will all seem entirely silly. Silly and pointless indeed, to be so dramatic, so fearful, when the young hero was here along with Master Katarn. And Aeonid sensed their truer thoughts, that lingered beneath each careless word, as the Falleen and Bothan repeated the names of the fallen, over and over. Miko Reglia. Wurth Skidder. Daeshara''cor. Markre Medjev. Dorsk 82. Swilja Fenn. There, Niko Ush and Mariel Ush were inseparable, even as they helped Janis Tytoris to buckle into a little bucket seat sized for beings the size of the young Mriss. There, the Brizzit twins, Izzuviz and Zzivzu coaxed along Ina Maseel, Tiu Zax and Bazel Warv, putting on brave faces - such as that might mean, considering the compound eyes and manibles that marked out their insectoid physiology - even while they exuded invisible pheromone clouds of anxiety and worry. Kyle, as Master Katarn insisted on being called, had placed this curse on his head. Kyle had taken Master Skywalker''s observations, he had taken Aeonid''s problems, and he had slotted the disparate pieces together and revealed the completed puzzle. With his tutelage, day by day, the Force came clearer and clearer to his touch. When Kyle led Aeonid in Matukai forms, the two of them in jungle clearings and moving through sharp martial pacings that melded together constrained violence with strangely artful motion, the Force seemed to swell between the trees. When they jogged through the grander temple complex, along paths kept clear by passage of beings and by droid alike, as the humid air of the moon filled his deep lungs again and again, the Force seemed to slide deeper into his body, as if he breathed in and exhaled the extrasensory power. When Yavin rose full and fulminous, storms wracking its bloated crimson body, when Aeonid held hand-polished stones of his own artifice in the air about him with only the extension and touch of his mind, the Force hummed within his enhanced bones. Kyle told him that his progress was impressive, most impressive, on par easily with some of the most talented savants of the Order. That his draw upon the energies of the Force was subtle and directed, that his precise direction was commendable, and that he had rarely seen a Jedi - a Force-sensitive, Katarn corrected himself - with so easy a command of empathics. Empathics. The spheres of Jedi powers were many and overlapped greatly, as reflected in his extensive notation. Telekinetics, biokinetics, empathics, telepathics, precognetics, and more, all branches of esoteria that the Force could be channeled along to achieve some ends. He described the utilization of Master Skywalker in their original duel to be thus: biokinetic enhancement of neuromuscular transmission, of twitch-reaction (and Aeonid theorized, at length, that perhaps the Force, if it were capable of replicating mundane effects such as known generation of lightning, then perhaps a suitably talented Jedi might - and he stressed the emphasis upon ''might'' - trigger neurons through infusions of Force-derived electrical signals, and thus bypass entirely the necessary and biological delay of transmission through the body). Further biokinetic enhancement of the musculoskeletal, to match strength against the genebred physiology of an Astartes. Telepathic outreach to skim impressions and steal technique and form from the opponent. Precognitive determination of moments into the future, which Rubio, quite unfortunately, was able to confirm was not impossible, given examples from the Corvidae cult of the XVth. Telekinetics as well, to manipulate the body, to add power to strikes and leaps both. Much of these branches conjoined and morphed and bred new possibilities. The ways of the Jedi, as each of the Masters at the Praxeum were quick to stress, were ever-open to learning, interpretation and experimentation. Each Jedi might find their own niche within the greater tapestry of possibility, and in so doing, refine their own particular talents all the better. Streen, who like Kyle, eschewed the honorific of Master, admitted to an aptitude for weather and atmospherics. Master Horn famously excelled at the alteration of foreign minds, at the expense of little to no capacity for telekinesis. Aeonid''s expectations of polymathy, quite rudely, were dashed upon the ice of Yavin 8. Now he lived with the consequences, as he continually repaired and restored the mental walls meant to keep out the permanent chatter of other minds about him. Another teaching, graciously taught by Master Tionne and Cilghal. Learning mental discipline from a piscine being, by this point, did not even merit a spot among the most implausible events to have occurred in the past several weeks. Little Jysella Horn broke down in a fountain of tears, despite her elder brother''s best attempts to soothe her. The girl''s wails, brought on by stress and confusion and her own Jedi senses of the others around her, rang through the Praxeum''s hangar and out of the wide open doors. Aeonid exhaled a sigh. he sent, knowing his words would be quite as clear as those spoken by his tongue. Jysella Horn, many meters away, startled, hiccuping. The girl managed a few more swallowed sobs, knuckling at her eyes and he sensed her study Valin Horn while the boy crouched anxiously by her side. Her greatest stress shone terribly clearly - not her fear of the coming invaders, but that Valin Horn, her brother and to whom she looked up to so much, seemed afraid. And if he was afraid - The redirection was simple. A simple bending of a vector, a statement which was not a lie - but was not an entire truth - and the girl reframed what she saw. Aeonid sensed relief from a few of the other trainees, then a warm wash of gratitude from the female Solusar. The muscle beneath his left eye twitched once, twice. Anyone with eyes could find the theoretical for what upset the girl. He glanced to the others, to his Astartes where they clustered near him, performing final inspections of wargear, both their own and their brother''s. Solidian, with his back to Zalthis, spun easily the barrels of an uncommon blaster the young man had found somewhere. There was quite a tale there, Aeonid knew, from just emotions and tangled thoughts Solidian shone with each time he looked at his weapon. Behind him, Zalthis flipped shut a small access panel on Solidian''s suit''s reactor, then playfully shoved the other Astartes forward a step. ''Clear, Sol. Running at optimal.'' ''Gratitude, Zal.'' Aeonid studied them both. Neophytes only a short time ago, their Carapaces surely had only fully settled after deployment to Fondor. Younger than most Ultramarine neophytes ever were for full ascension, though their service spoke for itself. Sergeant Ascratus'' last assessment, penned verbally during the infiltration of Obroa-skai, vouched for both. Aeonid knew the honored Sergeant in passing, but his reputation meant he had little reason to deny the recommendation. The XIIIth needed new blood - fresh, tried and proven blood. Even if they appeared so incredibly youthful, behind the thin veneer of transhuman elevation. ''Alebmos'', Aeonid said and the Lexicanium nodded in acknowledgement. ''The Primarch repealed the Edict. There are no tools left off the table.'' The psyked nodded again, the motion rattling ritual beads and clattering totems of carven wood and bone, rustling his blue-white woven sashes and corded leather thongs about his plate. Totemic. Ritualistic. Feral. Irrational. Aeonid exhaled a long-suffering sigh. he sent, once again. Sannah''s irritation was a physical cloud about her head, despite the girl being across the tarmac and pestering Master Katarn about her people. He had heard her rather avaricious thoughts about what sort of ''great big blasters'' might be within the Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle. Irrational. He admonished a warpspawn girl that she may not use Legion supply to wage a one-child war against xenos invading a temple-world. He did so with his mind. Irrational.
It took under an hour to bundle all the kids onto transports. There were still a lot of crates left unloaded, but all the most important and irreplaceable relics were loaded up too. Anakin had figured they''d all pack into a freighter or two - which wouldn''t be comfortable at all - and blast for Temerity. Master Katarn shot down that immediately. Mostly because they would be shot down, also probably immediately. Hyperspace wasn''t an option, since the Vong could switch their dovin basals to interdiction before they even got out of Yavin 4''s atmosphere. Running for Temerity wasn''t an option either, because of how outnumbered they were. The Yuuzhan Vong weren''t here in ''strength'', but they still had enough. Two of their cruiser analogues, along with a squadron of supporting corvettes. That meant at least a half dozen squadrons of coralskippers, plus whatever gunship analogues the vong could carry. Even with Rogue Squadron and the Tierfan Aces, they''d be hard pressed to keep ahead of that many ''skips, let alone the capitals with them. So they had to wait for Temerity to run interference. According to Aeonid, the destroyer was about ten hours away. Anakin watched the sun slipping lower toward the horizon, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Ten hours was a long, long time. Bad memories of Dantooine and that long night tried to rise up, but he pushed them away. Master Katarn also pointed out that trying to evacuate everyone on one freighter was just asking for the whole future of the Jedi Order to be wiped out by a single unlucky magma missile. Grim, but Anakin couldn''t disagree with that. So they split up the kids. Celestial Dancer, a YT-2000, had some of the most precious relics, like holocrons and old datacores, since it was the newest and best protected of the transports. Kam and Tionne would be flying that one, with twelve of the kids. Cilghal would be on Peckhum''s freighter, Thunderbolt, along with six of the trainees. Then Kyle would fly Dalliance, the YT-1210 with eight kids, Streen would take Celador Sash, a LH series freighter with four kids, and finally Anakin planned to fly out Lady Starstorm, the old YV-100 with Tahiri and Master Ikrit. Spreading out all the Jedi meant that if the worst happened, it wouldn''t be the worst. Not that it would. With this many Masters, they''d all make it out, no problem. Kyle was an old hand at running blockades and even if Anakin wasn''t on the level of his sister, he knew he could make even an old freighter dance. And they''d have Aeonid and his squad in their Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle to run defense, plus Temerity and their own squadrons. As long as they survived the night. So they gathered on the landing pad, surrounded by freighters whining to life and going through preflight. Fiver was already ready to go, Anakin''s XJ hot and hovering on repulsors. The astromech was also going to remote pilot all six of the Praxeum''s Z-95s. Fiver wouldn''t be able to do much with the six of them, outside of synching up fire and keeping the Headhunters in rigid formation, but, well, every bit counted. Even if it was just to draw fire for just a moment. Master Katarn stood with his arms folded, exuding calm intensity. Aeonid, in his armor again for the first time since he''d arrived at the Praxeum, loomed next to the duellist. Slightly behind him were the new arrivals - Zal, Sol, Tercinax, Varien and Amalius. Ikrit bounded up, lightly landing on Anakin''s shoulder and briefly rubbing his cheek against Anakin''s. Tahiri surreptitiously wiggled her hand into his, intertwining their fingers. Her skin was cool and he felt the fluttering pounding of her heart. There was a small but noticeable space between Aeonid and his squad and the Lexicanium Alebmos, leaving the ''psyker'' a little distant. "We''ll send the transports down into the caves," Master Katarn was saying. "This whole plateau is criss-crossed with them. There''s openings big enough to fit an Action IV - we won''t have any trouble stashing the freighters down there." Aeonid nodded. "The Temple cannot be held, but we may use it as a lure." "My thoughts exactly, Aeonid. The vong aren''t here yet, so if we''re lucky, they''ll think that we''re all holed up inside." Kyle gestured toward the other shuttles. "Those will help sell the lie too." "Then we cannot allow the vong to realize the truth," Zal added. "We must keep their eye on the Temple and the Temple alone." "We''ve got Asp droids, Marksman remotes, PKs - I can rig them up with blasters. They probably won''t hit a thing but it''ll keep the vong ducking." Anakin offered. Several of the Astartes'' faces darkened and brows furrowed. Right, droids. "Acceptable." Aeonid drummed armored fingers on the crown of his helmet, maglocked to his hip. "We begin at the Temple, then withdraw into the jungle when we must." "We can plan to rendezvous at some of the other ruins if we get split up," Anakin considered the Blueleaf temple, or even the one the vong biot had been slumbering in. There were so many scattered around the complex that they could play whack-a-gizka and lead the vong on pointless chases. "The vong might even think that we hid the trainees in other temples too, when that happens. Then they''ll have to stop to search each and every one." Kyle slowly nodded as he spoke, his resolve firming further. "This¡­will work. It''ll be a long night for us, but," the Jedi Master wryly smiled. "I think we''re all very used to that. Even you, Tahiri." Next to him, his best friend preened a little at the attention. "Thanks for not sending me off with the kids," she said with a smile. Kyle laughed. "Oh, I know you too well, Tahiri. It''ll make all of our lives easier if we weren''t worrying when you were going to show up after sneaking away." He cracked his knuckles, one after another. "Let''s get to it then, the vong won''t wait for us."
"I speak for the Commander Harmae. He commands in the name of the most potent and cunning Supreme Commander Malik Carr, who conquers half your heathen galaxy. The Jeedai are to surrender and in showing willing and appropriate submission, will not be slain as a sickened nek might be. You will be taught of the True Path, of the Gods that you most grievously deny. The salvation of your souls is our gift to you, though it is assuredly a gift you do not deserve. Be glad! The Children of Yun-Yuuzhan are generous indeed." The vong came down in gunships and landers, just black silhouettes against the swollen sun hugging the horizon. Heat shimmer rising from the jungle smeared and made the shapes hazy and ephemeral, like monsters crawling out of dreams in the falling twilight. They came down in an encircling pattern, surrounding the Great Temple. The Jedi watched shapes of warriors and skittering chazrach lope through the jungle, just glimpses and flashes of movement, relayed to holograms from the Astartes'' helms. Large creatures shoved through the underbrush, young Massassi trees waving and shaking. Nothing quite the size of a rakamat at least, thank the Force. He''d come face to face with one once and Anakin was not eager to repeat that experience. A small platoon of warriors exited the jungle, striding fearlessly out into the clearing of the Great Temple. The amount of scars and tattoos on their leader''s visible face marked him out as obviously the one in charge, confirmed when he opened his mouth to speak the ultimatum. Generous indeed, Anakin seethed. Generous indeed. Did they offer Dorsk this? Swilja? What about Wurth Skidder and Miko, who''d been killed in captivity? He glared gigawatt turbolasers at the vong commander. ''Harmae'' was infuriatingly confident, arms folded across his vonduun plate. A small biot, furred and with far too many limbs wrapped around his shoulders with its blunt, triangular head elevated to just below Harmae''s face. Large, batlike ears canted back toward the vong''s mouth, and the biot''s own maw was distended and yawning as it shouted back the Commander''s words. "Can you give us some time to discuss it?" Master Katarn shouted back, from his position several stories up the ziggurat. Droids were scattered across balconies clumsily holding blasters while slapdash turrets beeped and pinged and scanned for targets. The outer temple might be climbed, with great difficulty, but the only real egress was the hangar and grand entrance itself. Shutters could be closed, lowering down enormous slabs of Massassi stone from hidden pockets to seal off openings between each tier. Naga Sadow had been paranoid in the design of these temples, expecting them to be besieged. A hundred and more meters away and peering up at them, Harmae''s teeth glinted as he bared them in a grin or grimace. "You may not, Jeedai. You will answer me now and do not play for time." "I have a shot," Aeonid murmured, bolter shouldered and aimed. "No," Kyle muttered back. "We won''t stoop to their level. We''ll kill him later, face-to-face." Anakin shivered at the cold flatness of Master Katarn''s tone. A far cry from the companionable, friendly blademaster who had trained Anakin and many of the younger Jedi, always quick with a wry joke and reassurance. The stormtrooper and rebel agent Kyle had been wormed through the Jedi he had become, pushed back up to the surface. "There''s little reason to match dishonor with honor," Aeonid retorted, but lowered his bolter. "There really is," Kyle muttered, low and barely audible. Then, louder, projecting his voice with the Force: "Alright, ''Commander''. Not now, not ever. You want Jedi? Come and get them." Below, the vong Commander shallowly inclined his head, spinning on his heel and stomping back toward the edge of the jungle, cloak swirling behind him. His cadre of honor guard followed. Aeonid swelled with an urge to violence - so sudden and so bright that Anakin almost cried out - but the Astartes turned away also, following Kyle back into the Temple, his bolter returned to his hip. "Anakin," Kyle called to him. "Activate the droids. How long do you think until they come for us?" Taken aback a little at his opinion being asked for by Master Katarn, Anakin took a moment to consider. On Dantooine, the Shai warriors came nonstop and instantly, as soon as they made landfall. It was a nonstop gauntlet of vong warriors and chazrach, unceasing, but without that much rhyme or reason for how they came for him and the refugees. Ithor was different and more organized, with the vong landing at key points on the herdship. Then Obroa-skai was sort of a mix of the two, with the vong attacking them seemingly at random, until they realized at the end that it had all been ways to get the measure of the strike team before the hammer came down. This ''Commander Harmae'' served Malik Carr, who had overseen Obroa-skai, but also the sneak attack on Eboracum and the Exile''s flagship. So Anakin erred on the side of expecting a little bit more tactical acumen. "If I had to guess, thirty minutes at most. I''ll bet the Commander wants to do one last briefing and then have them attack all sides of the Temple at once." Kyle hummed and Anakin sensed Aeonid''s agreement. "That''s my thought too. Malik Carr''s people seem smarter than Shedao Shai''s, so let''s not underestimate them. They can climb the sides, but the only way in is up at the Grand Audience Chamber at the pinnacle, and there''s droids up there to shoot down at them. So they''ll want to take the hangar, which will funnel them in." "Thus the deployment of the Tarantula," Aeonid agreed. "A shame we had not brought another, though it was serendipitous that Amalius had seen fit to store one away." "Thank him for me," Kyle said. "I''m worried about fliers, though. We can hold out against a ground attack, but if they bring in gunships¡­" "We could end up pincered, trapped between assaults from above and below." Aeonid voiced Anakin''s own fear. Seven Astartes, two Jedi Masters, a Knight and a trainee, all to hold out against who knows how many vong. "There''s always the caverns," Anakin said, mostly to assure himself. "As long as we can keep the turbolifts, we can retreat down there and then, well, we can go anywhere." "While also revealing the caves to the vong," Kyle warned. "Last thing we want is for them to get the bright idea to start poking around for other caves and tunnels." "Needs will must. I will instruct Tercinax to arrange krak charges around the turbolifts. If - or when - we flee the Temple, we may collapse the exit behind us." "Best we can hope for." Kyle clapped Anakin on the shoulder. "Go find Tahiri and Master Ikrit. Aeonid and I have a few last things to discuss. Boring stuff." He knew a friendly dismissal when he heard it. Even with all he''d done - they still looked at him and saw a kid. There was nothing for it. Anakin nodded, reaching out and finding the friendly chatter of Tahiri next to the calm and centered peace of Master Ikrit. Without saying goodbye, Anakin turned on his heel and left Kyle and Aeonid behind, feeling - or perhaps imagining - their eyes on his retreating back.
He found them both down in the hangar. The evening''s humid air wafted in through the broad entrance, a wide slot that revealed the distant edge of the jungle. The whole scene was sort of beautiful. The trees glowed in the low-angle sunlight, golden-red from the sun and Yavin''s own light. Though the vong had landed, there were still swooping shapes of crepuscular hunters awing in the sky, fearless of the interlopers. Anakin let the turbolift hiss closed behind him, quietly striding toward the mental presence and silhouettes of his best friend and his mentor. The leftover shuttles and other vehicles had been brought back into the hangar, arranged to make bulwarks and barricades and leave the outer landing pad open, making it a killing ground for the vong to cross. Along with supply crates, tool chests and shipping containers that once brought foodstuffs, the hangar was a maze of switchback pathways and dead ends. The Astartes'' ''Tarantula'' turret was set up on top of a stack of crates, giving it clear shots over most of the hangar and most of the outer tarmac. Zal said it was, in essence, two big bolters strapped together with way, way too much ammo. He''d seen what those bolters could do on Obroa-skai. The vong were in for a shock. Coming up behind Tahiri and Ikrit, his friend turned to say something to the Kushiban and Anakin found himself stopped in his tracks. The sunset glow, backlighting her, caught her hair and made it glow like the deep Tatooine desert. Something tightened in his chest and Anakin took a moment to catch his breath. She noticed him, of course. "Anakin! About time!" "Hey-" He coughed, cleared his throat. "Hi Tahiri. Master Ikrit." "Anakin," the Kushiban greeted. "I sensed your dialogue. The Yuuzhan Vong asked for our surrender, then?" Tahiri snorted out a laugh. "Oh yeah, surrender. Sure. I bet they really thought that would happen." Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. "I worry, my students. The vong are showing greater interest in Jedi each passing day. We have caught the eye of their wicked warmaster and now they wish for us to surrender." "They even say that we wouldn''t be hurt, just ''educated'' in whatever their crazy religion is." "Graver still," Ikrit shook his head sadly. "The Jedi have always attracted attention from the evil and devious, and always do they want to turn us to their cruel ways. It is a form of victory. The Sith feared and hated the Jedi, but the Sith also always aimed to twist Jedi to the dark side. That way, they can prove that their way is right, and that they are more mighty than the Jedi." "The vong can''t really think that any Jedi is going to go ''oh, sure, I definitely understand why we should sacrifice people to your evil gods'', can then?" "Never underestimate the zeal of the faithful," Ikrit warned. "That misstep has been the downfall of many Jedi." "Well, they definitely underestimate us." Tahiri patted next to where she sat, on the hard surface of a pressed cast-plast box. Anakin delicately sat down, feeling strangely aware of the placement of his arms and legs. Tahiri thumped heavily against his side, sighing loud and going boneless enough that he had to stabilize himself with a momentarily pull of telekinesis. "Oof, Tahiri," he said drily. Then he noticed Ikrit watching them both closely, his fur rippling between red-tipped ochre and serene, sunny yellow. "Master?" "You two," the Kushiban said softly. The old Master''s presence swelled with love, pride, so much so that Anakin sucked in a shaky gasp. Tahiri sniffed. "My students. You have always made me so proud, and look where you are. Brave Jedi, ready to defend the ones they love without reservation." "It''s what Jedi do," Tahiri managed to say, weakly, her voice watery. Anakin slid an arm around her slender shoulders. Ikrit shook his head, ears flopping. "It''s so much more. You are the start of something new. From the moment I awoke to see your faces, I knew you both would be so much more." Something about Ikrit''s tone sparked alarm klaxons in the back of Anakin''s mind. "Master Ikrit¡­have you had a vision?" "A feeling, Anakin. A certainty. Watching you grow, watching you face trials far beyond what young Jedi should¡­it is a feeling, Anakin." He didn''t know what to say - and by the feelings churning from Tahiri, neither did she - so the three lapsed into silence for a time. Something more. Something new. A large part of Anakin preened under his Master''s praise. Another part, lingering, holding onto his thoughts with tight fingers, muttered about how of course Anakin had something else to inherit. Something else to live up to. Something else to be. He put it aside. "What do you mean, something new? Master Ikrit?" The Kushiban shook himself from the reverie he''d slipped into. His bright, wide eyes blinked a few times, tinging silver instead of green. "My Order is long gone. Young Master Skywalker has started the first stones, tumbling down the mountain. His Order - your Order - is altogether new for the Jedi. Luke began it, but you - Anakin, Tahiri - you two I sense will continue his great experiment long into the future. I don''t need to be a seer to see that the future holds much for you both, through good times and bad." Ikrit winked. "A new Jedi Order, written each new day. Your signatures will be great indeed on it." "No pressure," Tahiri sighed. "No pressure," Ikrit agreed, twitching his tail back and forth in the way Anakin knew meant amusement. "Simply the life of a Jedi." The three spoke longer, veering away from grand pronouncements, instead into simple conversation like they''d shared in years past. Wondering if Sannah was driving Cilghal crazy. What pranks Valin might be trying to play, bored as he surely was. Wondering what it will be like on the Exile''s ship - and then Anakin answering as best he can from his stay on Samothrace. Then meandering into discussing - and debating - the merits of the Exiles. Ikrit remained cautious, skeptical, while Tahiri oddly poked and prodded at everything Anakin said. They''d come around, soon. Very soon. He checked his chrono, seeing only ten, fifteen minutes had passed. Still no signs of the vong, not yet. He broadened his sense, feeling the flaming presence of the Astartes around the Temple. Varien and Amalius were at the pinnacle of the Temple, watching approaches with long-range and slender barreled bolters Anakin hadn''t seen before. Tercinax worked at the back of the hangar, wiring up blocky explosives around the turbolift and at the secret entrances to the caves beneath the Temple that Anakin had pointed out. Aeonid and Master Katarn, both presences dampened, were finally making for the hangar themselves. And Zal and Sol, the two Anakin knew best of the Exiles, were making their way down as well, from the Audience Chamber and the two Astartes up there. Through Anakin, Tahiri sensed the young Astartes coming too and immediately, he felt her mood sour slightly, a discordant tone trembling in her mood. Something was up there, but there wasn''t time for it. They could talk later. It was probably disconcerting to see Astartes in their full armor and how they seemed to radiate an aura of deadly purpose, quite unlike Aeonid in his Jedi robes. Anakin could understand that. "Ah," Ikrit said, tone grim. "Now it begins." Anakin jerked his head around, squinting, peering out toward the distant jungle - Movement. Motion. Chazrach, warriors. Far distant, just doll-like shapes, but loping along. Inhale. Exhale. He stood. Tahiri rose with him. "Let''s do this," Anakin said.
Like always, the chazrach were sent in first. The reptoids scrabbled forward, dashing on all fours or sprinting along on short legs. No bugs. No plasma. The Commander had said they wanted surrender. Solidian''s rotary cannon roared, blitzing glaringly bright crimson hyphens of energy back and forth, back and forth, hosing out at the reptoids. They toppled, they tumbled backwards, they fall spasming and howling. But not many. Not as many as Anakin would have expected. He had his own blaster too, squeezing off careful shots like his father had taught him. Squeeze the trigger, don''t pull it. Sometimes, a blaster bolt would glance off a chazrach. Sometimes one would be knocked off its feet, then scramble back up again. And they moved intelligently. Not just howling and running straight for the Temple, but weaving side to side. Before Anakin could call out the oddity of the chazrach being hardier, his comm popped and Zalthis'' voice came through. The young Astartes was prone atop a Lambda shuttle, bolter put aside, instead firing off precise shots from an E11 borrowed from the Praxeum''s supply. "They wear armor." Anakin swore. "Crab armor?" "It appears similar, though it is only a plate over the chest." "I''ll aim for the legs, then," Sol grunted, more blaster bolts scything out from his position. The Tarantula turret remained silent - no sense wasting bolt shells on the reptoids, not when who knew how many warriors there might be. "The vong continue to innovate," Aeonid observed, also over the comm. The Praxeum''s hangar was massive, taking up the entire ground floor of the Temple and close to a square kilometer of total space. Vast and echoing, high ceilinged, with so much space, everyone had to be spread out. Zalthis had his Lambda shuttle. Solidian made a gunnery nest atop a pile of crates. Alebmos waiting in the wings, while Aeonid and Master Katarn were closest to the broad hangar entrance, warded on one side by one of the inner loadbearing walls of the temple. "No fliers as yet," assured Varien. "Keep us apprised," Aeonid responded. The sun had just sunk over the horizon, leaving only the planetglow from Yavin to illuminate the moon. All the lights in the hangar were shut off, to keep the defenders hidden, but flashes of blasterfire kept ruining Anakin''s night vision. "It''s going to be hard to see them when Yavin''s down too." Of all the luck, tonight would be a true night, with the gas giant out of view as well. The darkest possible on the jungle moon. "Can''t even use the Force for the big guys," Tahiri griped. "At least they''ll have as hard a time seeing us too," Anakin scratched his head a moment. "Wait, there should be some macrobinoculars around here somewhere. Night vision ones too, probably." Tahiri patted Anakin on the back. "I''ll go look. I think I know where some are." She whirled off in a cloud of blonde hair, sprinting away on bare feet. He returned his attention to the squads of chazrach and swore. More than a few were lugging along tall clamshell shaped objects, taller than a chazrach and three times as wide. Sol''s blaster pinged and glanced off them, bolts cleanly ricocheting away to hiss into the tarmac or slap into unfortunate chazrach to the sides. Cover. "Bolters," Aeonid called. "Shatter them." There was a pause, the spitting weight of fire from Sol vanishing, emboldening the chazrach. Anakin tried to keep them wary, not even bothering to aim precisely but instead send as many shots downrange as he could, but there were dozens of the reptoids. Master Katarn added his own, but - Bolt rounds thumped with the double-concussion Anakin had learned well. One of the clamshell barricades shattered into shards, the chazrach carrying it toppling as the shrapnel ripped into them. Where were the warriors? The reptoids, even with their new armor and the barricades, were barely halfway across the tarmac. They still had an easy thirty meters left before reaching even the entrance of the hangar itself. Still no bugs, not even thudbugs, which didn''t necessarily kill. Razor bugs, sure, but thuds? Anakin had the bruised bones to prove that. What was their plan? No fliers still, so no gunships, plus Varien would have warned if the vong started trying to ascend the sides of the ziggurat¡­ The Great Temple of Yavin 4 was arranged as a star. The main structure itself was an octagon with three main massive steps, each containing the inner levels of the Temple. At the very peak was the boxy Audience Chamber, but at each corner of the octagon were the distinctive stepped facades that ran from the ground all the way to the very peak of the structure. These projected from the inner octagon of the Temple quite some distance - creating wedge-shaped spaces at the footprint of the ziggurat. Case in point, the Temple''s hangar opened out into one of these ''wedges'', hemmed in on either side by the projected ''rays'' of the Temple''s stepped facades. And the size of these structures meant that from inside the hangar, they blocked out a serious amount of view of the surrounding jungle. "Master Katarn!" Anakin called, hurriedly activating his comlink. "The warriors - they could come from the sides! Around the steps!" He felt Kyle''s dawning realization. "Varien, Amalius, any sign of vong warriors moving? To either side of the hangar?" There was a pause, then - "I do not believe so. But from this vantage, with the jungle - I cannot be certain. Yuuzhan Vong armor has proven to confound auspex at times." "Probably the mineral layers, like how it reflects blasters," Master Katarn added. "Keep watch." "As you will, Master Jedi." Tahiri slid back next to Anakin, handing him a pair of goggles. "Found ''em," she said with a grin.
Anakin''s gut proved right. They had a moment of warning from Varien, who managed to see movement, but not heat signatures, as vong warriors loped from the jungle, using the distraction of the chazrach to make for the temple''s stepped rays. Amalius and Varien harassed them with long-distance shots, but their rifles were not made for suppressing fire. "A warning - some moved slower and seemed more massive." Aeonid''s displeasure was tangible. "Terminator variant," the Captain declared. For the first time since the assault began - which Anakin checked his chrono and was shocked to see that barely twenty minutes had passed - though time did flow like sludge in battle - Alebmos spoke up. "Perhaps it is time I lent my own aid." Not a moment too soon. Warrior shouts split the air, and from either flank tall, rangy shapes of Yuuzhan Vong came into view. Through his night-vision macrobinoculars, they were ghostly shapes. And sure enough: some were way bulkier and more massive than any Anakin had seen, with high gorgets that covered half of their helmets and thick, overlapping armor plates that made them look like mutant and oversized deep ocean crustaceans. The chazrach reeled back, clustering to clamshell barricades they''d managed to anchor to the landing pad. A dozen, two dozen vong warriors revealed themselves. Even more. One raised his hands, cupping them before his helm. "One chance, Jeedai! Surrender!" Tahiri loudly laughed back. "Bolters," Aeonid ordered. "Allow me," Alebmos insisted. The Lexicanium strode out, carefree and confident. Anakin watched him, eyes narrowed. Even a Jedi like his Uncle would be hard-pressed to take on two - no, three dozen warriors like this. Anakin certainly couldn''t. If they came on, one, maybe two a time? Then, maybe. But all at once? Carefully, Anakin placed aside his blaster. No good against vong, especially not with their ''terminator'' guys. His lightsaber came to his hand and he felt Tahiri unhooking her own. Beside them, Ikrit had one paw over a smaller silver cylinder - his own lightsaber, one that Anakin rarely ever saw. Anakin let out a breath, tensing. Ready. If it came to blows, he would be at the Astartes'' side in moments. "You parlay? Surrender?" the vong who spoke first spoke again, his Basic crude and heavily accented. "I offer compliments of the XIIIth and Vth." Sudden wind whipped through the hangar. Every hair on Anakin''s body stood on end and he shivered. The Force winced. Alebmos - no, Khotta, now - raised both arms. Papers pasted along his limbs lit suddenly with violet-black light. Tahiri groaned beside him. Ikrit tensed. Anakin watched. It was like that time on Eboracum. That moment when - Alebmos spoke words that poked at his inner ear and helices of darklight whirled around both limbs, out-thrust. Bolts of feathered, purple lightning lashed forward, eager, seeking, hungry and Anakin reeled, seeing the world doubled for a moment - And the Yuuzhan Vong''s advanced stuttered. Warriors paused, peered down at themselves. Confusion, visible, swept the vong. Heads turned, looked to compatriots, then down at the molten, steaming surface of the landing pad. Chazrach smoked and twitched in rictus of death. Beside Anakin, Ikrit hissed and fluffed his fur, eyes narrowing. Tahiri gasped. Not a single piece of Yuuzhan Vong armor was even scorched. Anakin felt Kotta''s shock, even through the Lexicanium''s dampened aura in the Force. Slowly, he lowered his arms. "Alebmos!" Aeonid barked. "What is this?" "Pariah¡­" the Lexicanium said slowly. "Repeat the last," Varien hissed. "They are blanks. Pariah." If Alebmos'' shock was tangible, Aeonid''s was like a thunderclap. "You are certain? Certain?" The vong warriors, unscathed, withdrew, retreating back to the protection of the Temple''s rays or the clamshell barricade biots. At least they were as uncertain as the Astartes were. None of it made sense to Anakin. Whatever lightning Alebmos conjured, it had freely arced between chazrach like they were magnets. But it slithered past and grounded away from every single warrior. Pariah? Blank? "Positive, Captain. I¡­they cannot be sensed, but I had not suspected¡­" Shouts and orders resounded beyond the hangar, but it was clear that despite no casualties among the warriors, that this assault had been blunted. Anakin watched surviving chazrach retreat, watched motion in the distant, dark jungle. "I think we all need to know what''s going on," Master Katarn said. "We have a break, let''s not waste it." Anakin spared another glance at the dead chazrach, still smoking from Alebmos'' lightning. Lightning. Rather vividly, stories of Exar Kun''s wicked powers that forced Uncle Luke from his very body ran through Anakin''s mind. Yeah. They definitely needed to know what was going on.
Alebmos, helm removed, looked troubled. His lined, weathered face was crumpled into an expression of confusion and deep thought. Aeonid, in what Anakin was realizing was his usual pose, stood with arms folded and jaw set. Zal and Sol perched beside Anakin and Tahiri, the hum of their power armor making his teeth itch. Kyle had one foot up on a charging pack, resting his forearms on his knee. Ikrit''s absence was conspicuous - the Kushiban said something about keeping watch over the jungle as he padded away to a far corner of the hangar. Kyle spoke up first, carefully calm. "So. What was that, why didn''t it work, and why do you look like someone just slapped your kid?" "Alebmos is a psyker-" "I can explain, Captain." Aeonid studied Alebmos, then shrugged his massive pauldrons. "I incanted-" Aeonid visibly grimaced at the word "-warp lightning. A practice known to many in the Librarius, it is one of the simplest and most efficient shapings of the Warp to slay an enemy. You saw the efficacy against the chazrach. Such should have been the fate of the vong warriors as well." "But it wasn''t, and you said they were - what was it -" "Pariah," Tahiri helpfully added. Anakin bumped her with his elbow. "Right. Pariah." Alebmos slowly nodded. "I spoke too swiftly. Pariah is¡­a more loaded word than I should use. Instead, I name them blanks." The psyker rubbed at his chin, then tugged on his oiled beard with armored fingers. "The warp is similar, in some veins, to the Force. Those of more theatrical bent might say that ''all beings with souls have a presence in the Warp''. From my study, I should say instead that the Warp is accessible to all beings of higher order cognition." "''The Force is created by all living things; it surrounds us and penetrates us, binds the galaxy together.'' I see." "But you can use it as a weapon." Anakin uneasily mentioned. "To directly kill." Of all the ways the Force could be perverted, twisted in darker ways, it was always to cause harm. The Force was life, just as Kyle Katarn said. To use something that grew and strengthened so much from life to cause suffering at one''s own selfish command¡­ "The Warp is the Warp." Alebmos studied the Jedi present, then his dark eyes flicked toward Ikrit''s distant form. "Now perhaps you understand our caution better. The Empyrean lies athwart the material. There are few ways in which shaping the Warp is not hazardous to life." Alebmos cleared his throat, a sound something like several tonnes of gravel being smashed. "However, we stray aside the problem. There is a phenomenon known as ''blanks''. These are beings of sufficient cognition that they ought be able to access the Warp, but appear both to the energies of the warp and those who can direct it, to be¡­absent." He gestured beyond the hangar, toward the charred corpses of chazrach. "As you can see, the energies of the warp are avoidant of blanks." "Sounds like another point toward the Force and your Warp being the same thing." Anakin found himself shaking his head, even before Master Katarn was finished. "No, I still don''t think so. What Alebmos - uhm, or Khotta? - did, we all felt how that wasn''t the Force. Master Katarn, you''ve been around plenty of dark side powers, I''m sure it didn''t remind you of any." Rubbing at his neck, the Master had to agree. "The look of it¡­yes, like you noted. But the feeling? I don''t know if I can describe what that felt like, but I''ve been around Force lightning and that¡­wasn''t it." "This changes nothing at all," Aeonid declared. "Unfortunate as it is that Alebmos cannot snap his fingers and defeat the vong for us, we were not reliant on such a theoretical in the first place. The plan remains: continue to occupy the vong until we must flee into the caves, then strike where they are weak until morning. Matters of metaphysics may wait until we are away from this moon." The Lexicanium rose to his feet, gently touching at totems and scripts festooning his plate. "Perhaps I cannot snap my fingers directly, Captain, but I was never particularly talented in the cruder, more direct applications of the Empyrean." Self-satisfied pride swelled from the Lexicanium as Anakin probed at Alebmos'' strange presence in the Force. "I was and have always been a far greater talent at workings." "Again, you''ve lost me." "Me too," Tahiri muttered after Master Katarn. "Meteorological reports, I believe, indicate a monsoon some two hundred kilometers to the southwest?" Kyle stared at Alebmos. Actually, they all did. The Lexicanium rolled his neck, popping muscles. "Warp-lightning may not find the vong," he said with a vicious sort of pleasure, "but natural lightning? That should be something else entirely." "You can do that?" Jedi could do anything, really - as Master Yoda said, size really did matter not, but to pull an entire monsoon across so many miles? It stretched belief, but at the same time, hadn''t Dorsk 81 flung Pellaeon''s fleet across millions of kilometers of space, though at the cost of his own life? Tales of ancient Jedi told stories of them moving whole worlds, according to legend. Even his own Uncle had done things Anakin barely found believable. Acts that were just too large to fit into his mind, to feel out the scale of. It was one thing to crumple an AT-AT with telekinesis and a scowl, but something else to tug on the workings of the world like that. Uncomfortably, it reminded him of the sheer, unadulterated power so eagerly at his fingertips at Centerpoint. "I can. You will see why the path that I follow is called Stormsinger."
Well into the monsoon season, the jungle moon of Yavin churned with grand storms that rolled off the hot, shallow seas. Few true mountain ranges made it easy for swelling stormfronts to churn and grow with power, dumping inches and inches of rain across much of the moon. Floods rendered some vast spans of the jungle - equivalent to entire continents on other worlds - inundated under many feet of water. In the alternating cycle of wet and dry, ''dry'' merely meant that such vast floods did not occur. The Great Temple of Naga Sadow, now the Praxeum of the Jedi Order, stood tall atop the Ershan Ridge, a broad plateau scattered with dozens of temple sites from the age of antiquity. Close enough to the coast of one of the many shallow seas, on clear days and from the highest point of the Temple, the glittering waters could just barely be sighted on the far horizon. Two hundred kilometers south and to the west, a vast storm brewed over the steaming cauldron of the sea, leeching up heat from the drenched and humid air, billowing and swelling, piling thunderous, fulminous clouds high into the stratosphere. Left alone, the grand storm would swell yet further, until it spanned the entire sea, before slowly easing inland, unleashing its potent fury over weeks. This would not be its fate. The storm was needed elsewhere. Winds whipped. Branches creaked, ancient Massassi trees groaned and swayed. Bloated clouds, bade to miserly clutch their burdens, sped to the command of a mortal mind. True night settled fully across the moon. Intransigence Chapter VI VI: True Night
Alebmos had no time to prepare as he would like. Ideally, he could prefer similar to the chamber prepared when questioning the Jedi youths. Time and preparation were maximal for success in greater workings of the Sea of Storms and the less of each currency he could grasp in his hands raised ever greater hazards. A quiet word to Captain Thiel kept the attention of Amalius on him, Varien also, while Alebmos paced out a square within the Audience Chamber at the apex of the temple. He placed booted heel to armored toe, spanning out his chosen space in the center of the chamber. The space was airy and vast, ceiling climbing high and tall, narrow slots served as windows as tall as a battle titan. The last, glimmering lights of Yavin''s primary threw withering golden bars against the eastern walls and bits of the ceiling. History here pressed heavy. History that Alebmos knew, made certain to know, had questioned Anakin the Knight and Katarn the Master and Tionne the Historitor. Recent history of betrayal, recent history of jubilation and victory, recent history of fear and relief. All useful emotions. Useful memories, useful moments. Time was a suggestion in the endless Sea, where passions of people long extinct could cloud the future of peoples yet to be born. Alebmos would need the right string here, the correct story to pull upon. Yavin was ever a sanctuary for the misbegotten and downtrodden. From the ancient Sith, fleeing persecution - rightfully earned or otherwise - to the warpspawned Melodies in their hidden caverns, to the Rebel Alliance facing down a worldkiller. This was a through-line that rang loudly in the ethereal channels of the sea. The holdout, the last stand, the redoubt before the hungering horde. It rang in him too, it stirred breezes down long and orderly city streets as Alebmos sank into meditation and Khotta opened his eyes. In stories, when the heroes are hard-pressed, with backs pressed to the wall and the pendulum swing of fate comes down, as night draws darkness like a shroud and the light of the sun passes away, there are worn grooves into the shape of stories for what will follow. The Fall is a potent one. The light is gone and day is done and night will reign for ever. It is a mythic end that has potent meaning indeed, especially in the turbulent waters of the Sea that Khotta was trained in. The Galaxy had felt the cut of this story as a lash swung ten and ten thousand times as human worlds foundered and vanished, foundered and vanished, as a trillion trillion lives watched the dying of the light across the span of mankind''s lost empires. Rumor had it that older cycles of the Fall rang through long aeons past, before mankind had even left Terra, before mankind had even risen from the dust. Some say this had worn the first marks of the groove that would one day catch the wheel''s of humanity''s ambitions. That the path of Old Night was but another turn after greater empires had bloomed and withered. Another shape is The Stalemate. When the heroes watch and wait wary, from high walls and high tension. Where the barbarians and the foeman that swarmed in beneath the stygian gloom of coming night surround the bastions and bulwarks and keep their own peace. A tension, a pause - this is a story of fate delayed, not denied nor delivered. A story without result, whose worn track is only a means to join to a greater tale. There is The Flight. The heroes abandon their tall walls and through craft of cunning avoid the hungry eyes of their pursuers, where they take to themselves the umbra of unknowing, where they remake the meaning of darkness into a shroud, rather than a mark of doom. The dying of the light is reimagined, from the loss of hope to the birth of opportunity, where the end of one day is the beginning of another and the drawn skirts of darkness chuckle in conspiracy with the canny makings of the heroes. The Jedi are too bright. They weigh too heavily and their press on the fabric of the story punches through shallower, rarer chances like The Flight. Khotta''s sharp eyes peer to the horizon, across flats of waving green grass in perilous midnight sun as the Soundless Sea roils above. No, with a single Jedi, perhaps his shaping could take the track of The Flight, but with so many, the story recoils and rears away. They are too many and they are too bright, they are too noble and it leaves only one possible answer. Khotta, even if he had other Stormseers, those with greater power and deeper souls, could not turn the shape of the story to The Triumph. The Yuuzhan Vong are too many and their silent darkness is too unknown for such an end - which leaves but one path left to tread, the path he knew would be their only option when he offered his service, when he spoke of the monsoon beyond the horizon. The Trial. The fields beyond his walls stir in sudden breeze. Rippling grasses swirl and whip. Cheek-biting wind moans past marble-faced towers, snapping and grasping at his simple toga. Behind are the tall gates, seasoned oak, armored in bronze. Yes, The Trial. Yavin would have no other. This world had never seen The Flight, had never tasted The Stalemate, would never suffer The Triumph. It was a moon of old death and cold hope: The Fall and the Trial were only ever his options. So be it. A procession emerged from the swirling plainsgrasses beyond the Lonely City. They were pilgrims, bearing entreaty on their lips. Khotta lifted a cup with three handles, shaped of ceramic. The outside is glossy and smooth, the inside lined with gold. The first cowled figure stops before Khotta. Road-dust clings to its robe. The breeze that ripples grasses to either side of the winding, packed dirt path tug not it its clothes. Claw-tipped red fingers emerged from voluminous sleeves, grasped at its lowered cowl and tugged back the hood. ''I am MASSASSI,'' spoke the fanged mouth, in a visage of crimson. Its eyes were silver mirrors. ''I came to this moon in bondage and raised tall temples below the stars.'' ''You did,'' Khotta agreed. The Massassi held out a hand and clenched its fist. A single drop of blood fell, smoking, catching on the edge of the cup and sliding down. The Massassi squeezed tighter, more blood welled. Khotta gently placed his free hand over the mouth of the cup. The creature scowled, stepping back, tugging up its hood once more. Then it faded back, into the approaching line of supplicants. The next took its place and reached for concealing hood.
The monsoon was two hundred kilometers away, but only ten minutes after Alebmos excused himself for the peak of the Temple, the first growls of thunder rolled in the distance. Clouds already packed the horizon, cutting off the last light from the setting sun and eating up the starfield above. The hangar lights were cut off too, aside from some dark red hazards much deeper in around the turbolift. Everything had a bloody-tinge in the darkness. Tahiri was a dark outline, limned in red. Master Katarn was a sketchy shape in silhouette. Ikrit''s reflective eyes flickered flashes of bright crimson when the angle was just right. Even the Astartes - Aeonid, Tercinax, Zal and Sol - were barely visible with their glowing eye lenses shut off and minimal status lights blinking dully. Anakin dropped his goggles back down, throwing the world into sharp-edged shapes of grey-green. Tahiri waved, her own face half hidden behind her pair of insectile, buggy lenses. "I''ve contacted Streen," Kyle announced, having rejoined the rest in the hangar. "He said he''ll try his best to help the storm along." Anakin blinked - right! He''d honestly forgotten the older Master had a knack for working the weather, something he didn''t use nearly as much since leaving Bespin for Yavin. Master Streen kept up his communion with animals and taught it as well. How to placate the beasts in the jungle, to divert a predator or soothe a fearful grazer. Jacen and Streen got along pretty well, that was for sure. "The Temple''s sensors are showing it''s definitely on the move. Whatever Alebmos is doing up there, it''s potent stuff. The first bands of rain should be here soon, and then the serious stuff will start in about an hour." So far, the Vong seemed to be deciding on their next move. The charred corpses of the reptoids Alebmos killed steamed out on the tarmac and lumps of other dead, cut down by blasters or bolters were featureless outlines in the dark. Without the goggles, he''d be almost blind, he was sure. Smeary streaks of false color moved in the jungle but at the distance from the hangar to the edge, Anakin couldn''t tell if it was Vong, scared runyips, or just the underbrush starting to move from the wind. "Tarantula?" Aeonid asked. "Ready. Two hundred bolts, hot and eager. Krak charges are set, to your command, Captain." Aeonid nodded. Anakin hated waiting. He hated sitting around, letting the Vong decide how things would go. Waiting around got people killed. "Amalius? Varien? Any word?" "The psyk''s in his trance," came Varien''s terse reply, vox-channels synched up with the Jedi''s own comlinks. "There''s movement, but the jungle is too dense." "Fliers? Vehicles?" "Nothing so far, Captain." Anakin reached out again for the song of the jungle, reminded by the mention of Streen. He could feel the alarm of crepuscular and nocturnal critters, waking up to find strange smells and sounds in their territories. He felt a family of stintarils hissing from the upper branches of a tall Massassi tree, bobbing threat displays to interlopers. The jungle was irritated, but he didn''t feel anything grander. No pockets of blind animal panic. "I don''t sense anything either. It must still all just be warriors and reptoids." Aeonid''s helmet shifted, the Astartes rotating slightly at the waist to peer out of the hangar. "The vessels Temerity''s long range auspex detected entering the atmosphere were large enough for their vehicle-analogues." The Force-sensitive Astartes growled. "They may be in reserve, not present at all, or deemed too dangerous. The Vong clearly want you all alive. Perhaps their creatures cannot be trusted to be so delicate." Anakin thought of coming face-to-face with a Rakamat on Obroa-skai. Yeah, he could definitely agree with that. "Captain, there were nonlethal options that Sol and I saw on Fondor¡­" Zalthis offered. "Go on." "Gunship-analogues. The locals called them ''delts'', or ''deltas''. We did not encounter them directly, but Lieutenant Optarch said that in one area, they covered an entire arterial in webbing that could pin down a Russ." Kyle''s concern resounded in the Force. "They could web up the whole Temple like that." "Then we leave through the caves and blow the charges," Tercinax grunted. "What about the freighters?" Tahiri cut in. She sidled up closer to Anakin, hand slipping into his. "Do you think they could catch one of those and pull it down?" Zalthis and Solidian''s helmets turned toward each other. "Possible enough," Solidian allowed. "It''s a threat, at the least." Unpleasant memories of purella on Yavin, creatures on Dagobah and Tatooine rose in his thoughts. Tahiri was thinking the same, shared recollections reinforcing each other. It''s always webs and spiders, he sighed. Next to him, Tahiri bit back a quiet little giggle. "That''ll be priority for any of your big guns," Kyle said. "Although¡­the monsoon that Alebmos is bringing it, that should keep any fliers grounded, shouldn''t it?" Given how the distant thunder was now almost a permanent, rolling and bassy growl to the east, Anakin certainly didn''t want to imagine chancing that kind of weather in anything that weighed less than a few thousand tons. Even Jaina wouldn''t want to risk that kind of turbulence, and that was before counting the lightning. "Finally - your ship? Any news?" "Vox is still clear and at last check in, Temerity''s arrival remains the same. They are at full realspace extension drive, as fast as they can allow and still be able to slow in time to make orbit." Master Katarn nodded toward Aeonid. "Then let''s all have one last bite to eat. We''ll need the energy. It''s going to be a long night."
Anakin hurriedly stuffed the foil wrap of his ration bar into a spare pocket, leaping to his feet before the echoing thump-crack of a mass reactive faded. Simultaneously, all their comms lit. "Movement, chazrach. Warriors sighted, just within the treeline." Another thump-crack, then another. Amalius and Varien were making their snipers talk, up on top of the Temple. A heavy, hard weight thumped into Anakin''s shoulder and almost unstrung his knees. Zalthis helped him keep his feet, the Astartes'' chagrin making Anakin smile. "Ah, apologies-" Anakin rolled his shoulder, shaking out the limb. "Just hit the Vong as hard," he joked. "You''ve my word. Before the night''s over, we''ll fight side by side again." "Wish we didn''t have to. But it''s probably gonna be soon." The muted Force presence of the chazrach, even without the two Astartes watching from above, would''ve warned Anakin and the others regardless. He could feel their staticky souls on the move. Their minds felt a bit clearer than he remembered of the chazrach on Obroa-skai. Less muffled and a little sharper, enough so that he could actually get a vague sense of primal excitement and anticipation building. Scrambling up the makeshift barricade of leftover supply crates, shuttles and other sundries, some dating back to the Rebel Alliance, Anakin elbow crawled closer to Tahiri, already up there. She''d passed on Master Katarn''s recommendation to have a ration bar or two. Through their connection, he could feel her nerves almost overpowering her. She was breathing a cycle, a simple box technique they learned as very young trainees. Zalthis resumed his post on top an old Lambda shuttle''s fuselage, the shuttle itself mostly just a stripped hull these days. Green-grey outlines of chazrach scuttled around, rangefinder on the goggles saying they were way too far away for Anakin''s middling aim with a blaster. Great, they had more of those clamshell shaped shields to hide behind. They formed up into groups, chattering and snapping at each other occasionally, before arranging into tight clusters, vanishing behind the broad barricades. Each was about the height of a Vong warrior and just as wide and looked for all the world like a seashell from the coral reefs of Dac. "Krak grenades, Captain?" Tercinax asked over comm. "Hold for now." "Affirmative." Each squad inched closer, lifting, carrying their shells, then plopping them back down after a few meters. They were so slow. It couldn''t be a serious attempt to get into the Temple, could it? He could sense dozens, maybe hundreds of the reptoids out there, but once they got into range of the Exile''s Tarantula they would be scythed down like bramblewheat by an ag droid. "This cannot be serious," Aeonid voiced, mimicking Anakin''s thoughts. Ikrit, keeping close to Anakin and Tahiri, narrowed lambent eyes. "Any of us Jedi might use those seashells as plows to push the chazrach away. Surely they must know this?" Anakin imagined catching one of those shell-barricades with a fist of telekinetically driven air, or maybe a torn-up shard of duracrete tarmac. Ikrit was right, the reptoids were so tightly packed up behind each that they could crush or at the least hurl back entire squads at a time. "Still no fliers. Auspex remains clear of vehicle-mass movement." Everyone felt tense. Anakin chewed on his lip. Not even any bugs yet. Or warriors, but up top Amalius and Varien were keeping an eye out for the same trick of flanking around the Temple. The dull red hazard lights flickered. Thunder cracked and boomed closer, lightning close enough now to shock out sudden shadows and white light outside the hangar. Each lightning flash briefly whited out Anakin''s goggles, reducing them to a sleet of static before they refreshed. The jungle was moving, trees starting to creak back and forth as the wind picked up. The Force felt curdled - not rotten but thick, strangely flowing. Up above, where Alebmos worked his talents, a cold pressure bloomed in Anakin''s senses. "Hm?" he asked, glancing to Tahiri. She raised an eyebrow, shaking her head. He thought he heard her whisper something. More chazrach squads moved and arranged themselves, overlapping their seashells. They were easily in range for the Astartes, but none moved for their bolters yet. Maybe a third of the way across the tarmac outside. Something creaked, deep in the Temple, like the roots of the old construct groaned. "This is unpleasant," Ikrit muttered, quietly enough Anakin figured it wasn''t meant for anyone else to hear. "Master Katarn? Should I trigger the droids?" Anakin asked. "Might as well." Anakin retrieved his jury-rigged control device from a pocket, found the toggle and flipped it. Immediately, from their spots on the upper tiers of the Temple, ASP droids with hastily rigged up blasters attached along with old sentry turrets opened fire with prejudice. Red darts ripped down and the chazrach dropped their shells and hunkered back. At least the goggles had some good quality compensators - the bright blaster bolts were heavily filtered so Anakin wasn''t blinded by the sudden blitz. Little scorched craters punched into the tarmac, pinged off the seashell barricades. Solidian joined in with a shout, raking his rotary blaster left, right, left. Bright blue hyphens joined the stuttering crimson ones and Solidian''s heavier blaster punched craters and holes into the seashells. Chazrach started to get injured. Die. Their little, flickering candle presences winked out. The red hazard lights behind them flickered again. Was the Temple losing power? The monsoon wasn''t even hear yet, still just the outer bands of it. Maybe the wiring was having trouble. Anakin patted Tahiri on the back, pushing the warmest, surest confidence he could imagine toward her, then slid back down to land, lightly, on his feet. Behind them, at the far back end of the hangar, the turbolift doors were open. The access point down into the caves beneath the Temple, where Master Cilghal had been recovering and Jedi often liked to meditate or relax in the warm, geothermal waters. For a long moment he was uncomprehending. He reached up and yanked off his goggles. They were still there. A dozen. Two dozen. More. Tall, rangy, muscular. Rounded armor. Yuuzhan Vong. Behind them. He didn''t have to say a word. Master Katarn, Ikrit and Aeonid Thiel - not to mention Tahiri - felt his abject shock. One of the tall warriors moved - right past one of the wide hazard lights, momentarily blocking out the dull red glow. The moment hung - frozen and paused. "Jeedai!" one of them - Anakin couldn''t tell which - bellowed. "Surrender!" "You''ll never have our children," Ikrit hissed back. The little Kushiban surged in the Force and a short lightsaber hissed to life, hanging in the air before him. Anakin had never seen his Master use his lightsaber, not once. "Reoriented," Tercinax murmured over comms. "Kill them," Aeonid commanded. The Tarantula, deafening, roared. The Yuuzhan Vong howled. Anakin found his ''saber in his hand, azure and spitting, and he flung himself at the Vong. Bolts ripped overhead, spitting out from the Tarantula, from Zalthis, from Aeonid and Tercinax. Vong were struck over and over, juddering and dancing and ripping apart under the barrage. Solidian''s blaster joined in. Blaster shots reflected off vonduun armor. Anakin ducked, a thudbug whickering past his head. He batted down two razorbugs. A warrior loomed up, backlit in red. Anakin slashed, crosswise. His ''saber didn''t penetrate, but smoked a line across his vonduun armor. His Force-augmented strength staggered the Vong backward, then his head vanished in a welter of gore. Anakin was turning already. Four paws thumped off his side and Ikrit flashed past, just a glimpse of ruddy-brown and black-tipped fur, leading with short-bladed green lightsaber. Master Katarn waded in against three Vong, his lightsaber a spinning net of energy that batted away hissing amphistaves, boiled venom into acrid smoke and put one on the ground immediately, arms truncated at the elbow. Another warrior was flung back, the Force shouting around Aeonid as the Astartes thrust a ceramite palm outward. Anakin''s trick of using the Force indirectly, to manipulate air instead was spreading. The last of them, Zal finished with a precise shot to the throat. Vong bodies were strewn around the turbolift: scorched and chopped and dismembered. Black blood steamed, drooling into wide pools. He felt Tahiri''s nausea. She''d been too slow in reacting. Too slow in joining in and now she came over on wobbly legs, eyes wide and mouth open. "How did they know? How''d they know?" Aeonid heaved a sigh. "The blame is mine. Malik Carr''s assault on Macragge''s Honour demonstrated numerous biots. Many are being categorized still, but there were suspicions that several acted as living auspex. As sensors, to peer through hull¡­or stone. I should have remembered from the prepared brief." Master Katarn shook his head in negation. "No, I gambled too hard on it too. It''s not just on you, Aeonid. We keep underestimating the Vong and it keeps costing us. I''ll warn Kam - if the Vong are in the caves, they might make it far enough to find the transports, even if they''re miles from here." Aeonid gestured, waving Tercinax over. The open doors of the turbolift - and the Vong were willing to use a turbolift to get up from the caves - yawned ominously. "I can detonate the charges and drop the car to the depths." "This is your Temple, Master Katarn. Your order." Kyle grimaced. "I hate to do it, since that was our out¡­but they know about it now. The monsoon will have to give us enough cover to move through the jungle to another entrance. The Blueleaf Temple?" Aeonid pressed fingers to the side of his helm. "Varien? Status on Alebmos?" "An icicle, Captain. Hasn''t moved at all." "Very well. As soon as he returns to himself, tell him to contact me. We cannot relocate until his¡­ritual is over." Varien''s reply was wordless but Anakin felt, even through the Temple, the Astartes'' disgust. They retreated back from the turbolift. Master Katarn and Ikrit drew on the Force, shaping barriers of telekinetic energy like blast shields. Tercinax flipped the cover of a small, handheld trigger system off, then clicked. The report was loud, but not as loud as Anakin expected. Tahiri yelped and they all listened as several tonnes of metal, cut loose, rattled and crashed and banged down the turbolift shaft.
Their second gambit failed, the Vong took another moment to collect themselves. The chazrach kept their gains, behind overlapping seashell barricades. Blaster bolts still flicked down from higher up the Temple as the simple-brained ASPs and PKs caught movement and ineffectually tried to snipe it down. To Anakin''s eye, it was pretty convincing the kind of ''clumsy'' aiming a bunch of Jedi kids would have. The storm worsened faster than anything Anakin had ever seen. Rain went from a few drops to a drizzle to a downpour to a deluge. Hail rattled and bounced across the landing field. Wind howled and he heard branches creaking and snapping off in the jungle. The nocturnal life of Yavin 4 buried themselves deep in burrows and trembled in terror. "And we''re supposed to go out in that?" Tahiri lay with her face cupped in her hands, propped up on her elbows. Her feet kicked in the air behind her. She was still shaken by the slaughter by the turbolift. She couldn''t hide that, not from him. As soon as she said it, a massive, hundred foot Massassi tree by the edge of the jungle gave way. Wood burst and groaned, louder than the endless thunder as it majestically, terribly toppled. "Oh. Awesome." she muttered.
It wasn''t a storm anymore. It was the fury of nature itself, riled to hostile life and lashing out at anything and everything. The chazrach had to retreat off the open landing field or else risk getting very literally blown away by the shrieking winds. Zalthis claimed his auspex read them as a hundred kilometer an hour, at least. Rain fell in sheets that blinded them to everything beyond the hangar. Which was flooding, slowly. "This¡­was not what I was expecting, you know," Kyle offered, conversationally. Aeonid shrugged. "I''ve little experience with psykery. But Alebmos comes well-recommended from Codicier Rubio and his service is longer than most others." "I mean..no one can fight in that. Couldn''t we just wait out the night in the Temple?" No one was sure about that.
The answer to Tahiri''s question was, in a word: no. "Biots, of some sort." Amalius gave the first warning. "Size?" "I cannot tell, Captain. The storm is eroding all auspex clarity. Large. Not ''rakamat'' class, but significant." Aeonid and Kyle fell into debate on the next steps. Aeonid felt that the initial attacks were from outriders, here to secure the Temple and prevent the Jedi from escaping while heavier forces caught up. Kyle argued that regardless of the biots, the Vong were putting in effort to capture Jedi, not kill them, so they didn''t need to worry about plasma bombardments or anything like that. But the new presence underneath them had both the blademaster and the Captain uneasy. The Vong seemed to pull new biots out of thin air whenever they needed them. Everyone kept looking to the still-smoking doors of the turbolift. There could be monsters down there, chewing their way right up and they''d never know it until the Vong were right on top of them, again. The Temple was feeling less and less like a fortress and more and more like a trap. "Master Ikrit? What do you think?" "I think that the time is coming when we must act, and not react." That was the problem on every level of the war, wasn''t it? Reacting, never acting. The Vong attacked Sernpidal - they reacted by trying to evacuate. The Vong attacked Dantooine, they reacted by retreating. The Vong attacked Obroa-skai and Ithor and Fondor and Duro and all the others, and the New Republic reacted, reacted, reacted. Reacted by retreating, reacted by coming up with plans for counterattacks that relied on the Vong acting first. Reacted by withdrawing from whole sectors, reacted by arguing in the Senate, reacted by standing by and watching Jedi be sold out. Even the Exiles were only reacting. Their world got attacked, and they just reacted by defending it and finally deciding to make a real treaty with the Senate. No one was acting. No one was being proactive. The Vong had all the momentum. They got to decide where the fights were. They got to decide who died, who lived. Master Ikrit''s words were heavy in a way that Anakin felt meant more than just about the next thirty minutes, hour, day. His Master meant more than the immediate and it settled like a stone in Anakin''s gut. Even he had just been reactive. Shutting down Centerpoint. Reacting to the danger. Right now. Evacuating the Temple, they were still letting the Yuuzhan Vong decide it all. The Praxeum was in danger, so all they could do was run away. No one even considered - "What if we could defend Yavin?" Anakin cleared his throat, tapped his comm. "What if we¡­went on the offensive?" "In that?" Tahiri exclaimed. "Well, we have them focused on the Temple like we wanted, but now we know they''re down in the caves too. They''ve got biots coming and who knows what those are going to be, but maybe we shouldn''t just wait around for them? Zal, on Fondor - you were telling me earlier that you and Solidian went after the Vong commander. And it worked, didn''t it?" "It did. Their captain, Tshek Ulm was leading a killteam after the very shields of Fondor. Had we not¡­the battle might have ended very differently." "So let''s go after them. Master Katarn, we can do a battle meld - like Jacen and Jaina and I did at Dubrillion." Growing more sure, Anakin outlined the idea. Aeonid was probably the best of all the Jedi - Force-sensitives - present at telepathy, which meant he could definitely act like the anchor the way Jacen had. Aeonid was able to share words, clear words right into other being''s minds. That was something that even Anakin and Tahiri couldn''t reliably do, for all they had their own bond. The Astartes'' mind was like a holocomm broadcaster. With Aeonid as the anchor, Anakin''s experience with his siblings and Master Ikrit and Katarn''s experience, they could forge a meld for everyone here. Astartes'' auspex was blinded by the storm? They could share senses. Comms go down? They could share thoughts. It would work. And they could make it across the plateau to the branch caves where the rest of the Praxeum waited, get aboard, and blast right off when morning broke. "I hate the idea of going out in the middle of the night," Kyle admitted. "It''s an awful situation. But the storm will stop them from using any bugs, it''ll destroy their cohesion, and with a battle meld, we''ll have a huge edge." He rubbed at his neck. "And as much as I hate the idea of tramping around the jungle in the middle of the night - in a monsoon - I hate the idea of getting pinned between Vong coming up from underneath us and coming from outside too." "I will not have another in my head!" Solidian retorted, sounding more surprised than disgusted. Then he started, entire body stiffening as his helm snapped around toward Aeonid. Anakin bit back a laugh - he''d felt the ripple of Force as Aeonid spoke directly to Sol. "You''ll do as I command, if you''re to serve in my Company. Adaptive Tactics, Solidian. Remark 101.x." "''What wins the fight is what wins the fight.''" "It should be emblazoned on our pauldrons," Aeonid said drily. "Perhaps I''ll petition the Praetorium to accept it as our emblem. Varien? Amalius? You have heard it all?" "Yes, Captain," Varien replied, voice tight. "I will obey your commands. The psyker, also, wakes." "The ''psyker'' does," Alebmos'' rich voice joined in. "I will continue to shape the storm, but I have done all I can from here." "Join us, then. We are quitting the Temple. We cannot bank on the ''mercy'' of the Vong or their inclination toward capture instead of kill. Anakin has the right of it. They are off-balance. Practical: we keep them off-balance." +By your guidance, Knight Solo+ Anakin closed his eyes, took a deep breath and sank into memories. The way Jacen and Jaina had reached out to him, pulling him into their existing twin bond. Seeing through their eyes, seeing his own TIE from Jacen''s view while at the same time watching Jaina with his own eyes. Moving as one, across three bodies. Seeing an asteroid tumbling in from Jaina''s eyes, moving Jacen''s hands on the stick to move out of the way for Anakin to fire a burst of laser fire and shatter the rock. He dredged up the sensation and shared it. Aeonid''s regard was firm, like a teacher peering over his shoulder, looking at his notes. One by one, presences lit in the meld. Tahiri burst in, golden fire. Kyle slotted into place with a wink over durasteel discipline. Ikrit was silver warmth. Zalthis joined most readily of the others, something like wide-eyed surprise as the Force touched him. Then Amalius, who felt as calm as a lazy river. Tercinax, with a sensation like wry amusement. Solidian, an embodiment of exasperation. Varien prickled, thorny, barely tangible at all. And Alebmos - +Better that I remain without.+ the Lexicanium spoke as a whisper, not in the mind, but at each of their ears. +I will speak through the wind and continue to shape the Storm.+ Aeonid didn''t argue, so Anakin trusted it was probably for the best. Given the churning, grumbling knot of Force around the psyker, he couldn''t say he really wanted a sense of what was going on in there. Especially once the three Astartes joined the rest in the hangar, descending down the secondary turbolift. The psyker was encrusted in frost, caking his armor in creaking and cracking sheets of ice. His eyes were glowing white-hot with actual little licking tendrils of flames at the corners. Around his neck, his torc was the dull red of hot metal. Definitely for the best to not have whatever was going on in there in the meld. Tahiri agreed and Tercinax shaped out the gravelly equivalent of an Astartesian chuckle at Anakin''s unspoken thought. Oh. Right. Meld.
After a minute, Anakin was soaked. His jumpsuit clung to him, bunching up uncomfortably under his arms and at his crotch, his boots filled with water. The rain wasn''t coming down in drops, it was coming down in sheets. Waves! After three minutes, he threw his goggles away. The lenses were fogging, the seal at his forehead wasn''t enough to keep them from filling with water and he couldn''t even see his own feet. He drew on the Force, taking a deep breath and focusing it behind his eyes, like the trick Daeshara''cor had taught him. The Twi''lek said it could make all the difference in deep caves like on Ryloth or in smoky, dark alleys where recognizing the shadow of a blaster was the difference between life and death. The jungle took on some more definition - more grayscale, color draining away. Somehow, the hurricane winds moved around each of them. The howling noise wasn''t any less, but falling branches fell to the sides. Trees that uprooted swung away. Hail crashed down everywhere they weren''t. It was cold, it was wet, it was awful, but the storm welcomed them into it. Blades lit. Green, blue. Power fields crackled. Beneath a monsoon''s swirling clouds, true night settled in full.
Even with the storm favoring them, visibility was minimal at best. They moved by sense of each other, spread out through the jungle. It was impossible to stick together completely, even with the meld. Constant lightning showed snapshots every few seconds. The Astartes were better off with their helmets and Anakin wondered who he had to bribe to get a suit of that armor for himself. But a Jedi had far greater senses than just their eyes. Ikrit shared his connection with the flora and fauna. Where vines released chemical markers as they were cut. Where a soggy den of marsupials felt sudden fear as heavy feet trod overhead. And Daeshara''cor''s trick worked well enough. Lightning flashed. Anakin gasped, ducking. A hulking Yuuzhan Vong stumbled past, overreaching, and the amphistaff that should''ve taken the top six inches of Anakin''s head instead slashed clean through a young sapling. The warrior hissed and recovered, amphistaff spinning around to an easy guard. "Jeedai," he shouted, over the din of the storm. "Me," Anakin agreed grimly. They came together, flashing blue blade and dark, rainslick amphistaff. Water flashed to vapor. The living blade lashed, suddenly serpentine and loose. He hooked it with his lightsaber, snapping the whip wide and to the left. Fangs flashed, inches from his nose. Before it could stiffen again, Anakin braced, kicked out at Yavin as he thrust out his hand at the Vong. Air compressed by telekinesis stumbled the tall alien, arms whirling wide - another blade, blue like his, jabbed up into vulnerable armpit. The warrior fell without a sound. Tahiri heaved in deep breaths, her lightsabre outstretched. Anakin squinted against the deluge. Puffs of steam hissed from both their lightsabers. Her distress was physical, muddied with elation and horror and his friend didn''t have to shout the words over the storm. She''d never killed anyone before. He cut his own blade out. Tahiri''s ''sabre stayed lit, throwing hard shadows across her blank expression. Her jumpsuit was as soaked as his, her hair matted down in tangled, ropey strings across her cheeks and neck. Common sense would say to tie it up and back, but Tahiri¡­was Tahiri. Gently, he held out his hand. Her cold, small fingers wedged between his. It''s okay. Another hiss-crack and the jungle was dark shapes over darker shapes again. Anakin pulled her close, close enough that she pressed against him, faces inches apart. "We have to keep moving!" Water ramped off her nose, spraying out like a faucet from her chin. It was torrential. Tahiri nodded. "Master Katarn is calling us that way!" He pointed, jerking his head westward. Though the meld was far less rich in feeling than what he and Tahiri shared, every day, it was enough for clear impressions and strong, strong senses of direction. He could feel Ikrit and Kyle like bright bonfires, just like he could feel Aeonid Thiel and Zal and the other Astartes. They were muted and managed by Aeonid, but as they moved through the jungle, they could keep track even in the suffocating underbrush and roaring storm. Anakin pulled Tahiri along and she let him, trusting him to lead. She''d follow.
Time didn''t make sense. Everything was now. Everything is now. He feels the impact jolt up Master Katarn''s arm as he drives his lightsaber through the abdominal plates of a warrior. The sensations from the Astartes are confusing and give him headaches. They move too fast, their eyes dart around so quickly that all the Jedi decided, almost immediately, not to try sharing senses. They group up unconsciously. Kyle and Aeonid, Master and sort-of-apprentice, along with Tercinax. Alebmos, Varien and Amalius. Zalthis and Solidian, who try to keep up with Anakin, Tahiri and Ikrit. Alebmos can''t fight as much; he''s keeping his focus on the storm. It''s not an accident that everything works. He didn''t just pull the monsoon. He tells them - he is riding the storm. He is the storm and it answers to him. The winds that shriek along as fast as a landspeeder divert around them because Alebmos wills it. Hail avoids them, lightning strikes unerringly to disorient only their foes, because the storm knows them. It calls them friend. Alebmos is the conduit, but Yavin fights for the Jedi. The years that Luke built his Praxeum, so short against the scale of all space and time, left indelible imprints. Purging Exar Kun''s evil, breaking the chains of the Massassi children''s souls. Banishing the slivilith monster, excavating and removing Sith artifacts. Filling the Great Temple with laughter and children''s voices. Alebmos only had to ask. Yavin fights with them.
The Jeedai sorcery makes the air thick. He pants through his mouth, grateful to the blessings of the Shapers for his enclosing armor. Rain sluices from thick and redoubtable plates, most of his body blessedly dry under the embrace of his bonded vonduun. Its muscles are his muscles, its sinews his sinews - its life, his life. Ulvuarg Qesh lopes through a storm he has never believed could be such a thing, a storm like ancient tales that the priests weave. The last turning, he lived within the yorik coral spaces of Cool Deeps and before that, the stale ways of Ulnurem Raas. To step beneath a wide open sky unmanned him. He took a moment to muster himself before surreptitiously letting blood from his palm in entreaty to the Slayer to overlook his moment of weakness. There was so much space! So much overwhelming and endless space. Life filled his lungs, the seductive scent of living¡­everything. Then the Jeedai worked their sorceries. He saw chazrach boil and burst beneath cruel and evil lightning, before the world itself was perverted and subjugated by conjurations. This storm could be no natural thing, for all Ulvuarg had no experience with such things. The wind screamed his name, over and over. The rain fell at angles that drove it, always, at the nictitating lenses of his helm, to blind him over and again. Hailstones left his back sore and bruised beneath his plate, his vonduun shifting in irritation. And true lightning struck like lashes of amphistaff. One of his very brothers wailed in agony, caught aflame and slain. Calamitous noise defeaned Ulvuarg for a time, muting the fury of the storm. The Jeedai have done this. They have taken a beautiful world and cursed it. Will it always be this way? He thinks it cannot. Jeedai cannot have that power. They cannot have broken a world so thoroughly. Yet it feels like the end, like the ground might heave and split and cast him away into the hungry void which is so close. He slashes vines aside, he shoulders through brambles and thorns scratch without mark on his vonduun. Perhaps, he thinks - perhaps this is not the Jeedai. Perhaps this is the punishment of the Gods themselves, for the Jeedai''s own defiance against the willing and appropriate submission offered by Commander Harmae. Yes - this rings truer. The Gods know the Chosen People can withstand these trials with ease, so they make the living world itself groan and resent the heresies of the Jeedai that taint its skin so. Yes, Ulvuarg thinks, it is the Gods'' will.
He''s not sure who is more surprised. Him, Tahiri, or the five warriors they literally tripped over. Anakin rebounded hard off something unmoving and expected a tree, only for a flash of lightning to snatch silver light over the rounded shape of armor he knew and hated all too well. Tahiri fights with him, back-to-back. Within the meld, their connection is more than it has ever been. He sees through her eyes. A warrior with amphistaff in double handed grip strikes downward, to cleave her from head to toe. She isn''t strong enough to parry - Anakin knows this and so does she, because Anakin has tested his strength against warriors and Tahiri hasn''t, so she borrows his experience. Her lightsaber flicks and diverts, not deflects, using leverage and the motion of the warrior to shift his center. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. And Anakin is there, tip of his own ''saber punching between chestplate and helm. Through his eyes, Tahiri sees a warrior rip bugs from a bandolier. Anakin doesn''t - he''s focused on the dying warrior impaled through the throat. She catches the razor bug, then the thud bug. Thanks. You''re welcome. Any time. They must have run into a larger patrol. Five warriors cut down to three, but then make more friends. Chazrach too. They feel them, at least, the little reptoids shivering and freezing. The hail has gotten worse, the rain turning into sleet. It''s going to wreak havoc on the jungle. Anakin has never seen a storm like this, not in all his time on Yavin. Sleet! Hail! Behind you. In front of you. I see. Watch it- Close! Tahiri''s stomach jumps and twists each time a chazrach dies. She''s killing people. Beings. They want to kill her, but they''re beings. She''s killed things, never beings. It still hurts her. Anakin hopes it never stops hurting her. Ikrit sees what they see. His Master is there, looking through Anakin''s eyes. He sees warriors and he sees the razorbug that slices across Anakin''s cheek. It''s shallow, just a cut. Blood mixes with rain. Anakin! Tahiri! +Hold,+ Aeonid commands. Commands. He rips down a half-shattered Massassi. The upper half is gone, splintered away from a lightning strike. Anakin uproots it, because Tahiri has already taken its weight. She spins it, like a top. Anakin provides the fulcrum. Warriors shout as they are knocked aside, bruised but unbroken. That''s okay. A warrior struggling back to his feet receives the root-ball, face first, at several dozen kilometers per hour. Tahiri grabs hail from the air. Anakin aims for her as she whirls them in orbit around them both. Warriors circle them. The clash has left a clearing. Monoedged amphistaves and sputtering lightsabers leave nothing in their wake. Anakin has fought a hundred warriors or more. Obroa-skai was a gauntlet. A few, each time, with Ascratus and Uncle Luke and Face and Zal and the others. He has Tahiri. There are a dozen warriors. Is it enough? Do you need anyone besides me? Do you need someone beside you? Always. Back to back. Side to side. Green and blue. Blue and green. "Jeedai," spits a warrior. "You fight well. You are honor. Submit. Submit!" His Basic is atrocious. Tahiri laughs. Even now, especially now, it makes him smile. It''s that easy. Taloned hands stroke bandoliers of bugs. They can''t fly far in this insane wind and rain. They don''t need to. The warriors are just outside reach of their ''sabers. Close enough. "Tahiri, they keep asking us to surrender," Anakin says. He hears her words through her ears. "That''s not fair," she agrees. "Hey, you guys," she speaks Anakin''s words. "Maybe you should submit." The warriors don''t like that. Anakin doesn''t care. Neither does Tahiri. The Force sings in them both. Green light takes a head. Blue light pins through an armpit. Amphitaves whip, whirl, weave, wrack. Fangs flash. Tahiri gries out, red line crossing her collarbone. He feels it. Anakin winces, tip of a stave punching through the meat of his outer thigh. A razorbug, blown off course, evades his ''saber. It takes the tip of his ear. Tahiri gasps at the pain of it. Fangs flash. He sees them coming, he hooks an arm around her and twists her aside. Two sharp pinches. Fever-fire rushes into his bicep, ripping into the muscle - Tahiri wraps him in the Force and he aims. Blood spurts as if the amphistaff struck an artery. The venom squirts out with it. The burn lingers, damage already done to tissues. His arm trembles. This won''t be it. Because Anakin sees himself, he sees Tahiri. He sees them both, because he looks through his Master''s gold-red eyes. Ikrit springs into the clearing, twisting his body mid-flight. All four paws strike a Yuuzhan Vong at the back of his helm. Ikrit''s ''saber, held unerring in the Force, spikes through the same warrior''s eye. Before he falls, Ikrit uncoils into a leap that propels him up, past a thud bug, another. He redirects against the bole of a Massassi tree as large around as an airspeeder. Anakin''s Master is a blur of soaked, matted green-black fur. His ears are pinned back, cutting teeth bared. Another warrior falls. Every surface is a springboard. Ikrit is never not in motion. The Jedi Master karoms as if gravity is a suggestion. Kushiban are not hunters, naturally, in their ancient state. Given option, Kushiban prefer a state of peace and quiet. Anakin knows all this. He knows because Ikrit has told him of his kind. But they are small beings in a large, large world. There were always predators. And Kushiban always defended their own. Through Anakin''s eyes, through Tahiri''s eyes, Ikrit aims each leap. His back legs, powerful and enough to boost even a non-Jedi Kushiban to the height of a tall human, ring with the Force. A warrior leaps for Tahiri, hand outstretched. She doesn''t react. Anakin sees him coming, but stays focused on his current duel. Ikrit bowls the warrior over. They feel momentary pain from the Master as he strikes the far larger being far harder than he should. It''s enough, knocking the warrior aside. The warrior doesn''t rise as Ikrit springs away again. Of course it was enough. They are Jedi. They have each other. They''re Jedi. Anakin laughs. Tahiri laughs. Is this what it''s like? Is this what it was like? For heroes like Nomi Sunrider and Obi-Wan? How everything works. Why do they need to worry about sensing the Vong, when they can see everything? The Force sings in him. In Tahiri. In Ikrit. Kyle''s surprise is palpable. The trainees - Anakin senses them too. He gives a nod to Kam and Tionne Solusar. To Master Cilghal and Streen, who is outside the caves, head upturned to the storm. He''s the one calling the lightning, Anakin realizes. He''s helping Alebmos. It''s beautiful. It''s- Ikrit rebounds. A warrior hurls his amphistaff like a spear, to impale Anakin. Tahiri sees it and knocks it spinning aside, where the biot relaxes, serpentine, and vanishes in the underbrush. Ikrit pulls his lightsaber to him, aimed like a jouster- The warrior catches Ikrit by the neck. Anakin stumbles. Tahiri flails, off balance. Black, taloned fingers wrap around fur that shimmers silver. Wide blue eyes look up at the blank vonduun mask. Anakin can feel his windpipe collapse. He can feel the strain on his vertebrae. Tahiri gags, hands flying to her neck. Master- Boom. The warrior tumbles, missing most of his chest. +Not yet,+ Alebmos whispers into all their ears. Zalthis lowers his bolt pistol. "I heard," the young Astartes offers, as greeting. Ikrit rises to unsteady feet. The music is gone. Anakin is soaked and gasping, panting hard for breath. Warriors litter the forest floor around them. Tahiri doesn''t realize she''s crying. The tears mix with rain on her cheeks. She presses a hand to her collarbone, where blood still leaks from a cut. They''re aching. His bicep is throbbing from venom. He has bruises all over. Ikrit looks lost. "How long?" The Kushiban manages to ask, voice trembling. "It''ll be dawn soon enough. Captain Thiel says the eye will be overhead soon." Dawn. Soon. Time trickled back into motion. Zal''s words sounded true. The wind was lessening. The rain was getting lighter. They would be in the eye, soon.
Ulvuarg Qesh sneers down at piled corpses. A clearing was ripped into the jungle, full of cut vines and shredded undergrowth. Warriors are left where they lie, armor scorched and charred and seared. Jeedai weapons, like the one the Warmaster broke. If this was the fury of the Gods, why did the Jeedai benefit so greatly?
They had to look a real sight. Master Katarn had a compression wrap around his chest, courtesy of Aeonid''s medical supply. The glow in Alebmos'' eyes had guttered down to a dull flame and his torc was more of a dull crimson instead of cherry red. Ikrit perched on Anakin''s shoulder, like old times, but the Kushiban looked¡­well, like a drowned Kushiban, with how soaked he was. Tahiri clawed her tangled hair back into a ragged mane that fell down her back. All of the Astartes bore some kind of battle-damage, from plates with pieces missing from keen-edged amphistaves to chipped divots carved out by denser thudbugs. In Varien''s case, one pauldron was bare silver metal, a near-miss from a Vong hand-held plasma searing away the paint. But no one died. No one was even really injured: Master Katarn had suffered two cracked ribs and was the worst. Ikrit cleared his bruised throat again. Still, compared to the Solusars in their clean jumpsuits and Cilghal in her tunic, they had to look a serious mess. Soaked and bloody, most of it ichor from Vong. At least for the Astartes, their armor washed off easy. There were some serious unmentionables stuck to Anakin''s jumpsuit. Bolters were not clean kills. Tionne broke down crying, pressing her hands to her mouth. "You''re all okay! We could feel you fighting all night. All of you¡­" she trailed off. "And we weren''t followed," Kyle assured them. Aeonid agreed. "With the eye overhead and the storm calmed, auspex confirmed no motion tracks behind us. We are clear, for now." Kam''s gaze was sharp as he took in each one of them. "Temerity? Are we clear to launch?" Aeonid shook his head. "Not quite yet. Vox is out from the storm - I will need to relay through the Thunderhawk. At last communication, the shipmaster told me he plans an initial pass to draw attention and attrit the Vong squadron. He will loop the moon, drawing away as many vessels in pursuit as possible. That will be our window: after the initial pass. We will meet Temerity as it passes overhead again." "And how long?" "An hour. Based on last communication. I will be more sure once I''ve re-established vox." Aeonid left to do just that, with Varien and Tercinax. Amalius volunteered, with Solidian, to run pre-flight checks on Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle. Zalthis trailed after Anakin and Tahiri, after Ikrit bade his farewell and a desire to ''feel less like he''d been dragged through Dac''s oceans.'' Tahiri tensed a little as Zalthis fell in beside them. The Astartes stood a head and more taller than Anakin in his armor, putting him far above Tahiri. "Zalthis, right?" The Astartes doffed his helmet, revealing blue eyes and tight, curly dark hair. Tahiri sucked in a deep breath, visibly bracing herself. "Thanks for saving Master Ikrit''s life I thought he was going to die right there and I couldn''t do anything but you killed that warrior and saved him and I wasn''t being fair before and now I feel really bad about that-" Anakin gently put an arm around her shoulders, feeling her shivering from the cold. "Sentences, Tahiri," he said. Their old joke. "Right. Thank you for saving Master Ikrit. And I want to say sorry for being kind of mean to you since you showed up but you came here to help all of us and¡­that wasn''t fair." She ducked her head, scuffing her boot - boot, because Anakin had forced her to put on boots before they left the Temple - against the rough stone of the cavern. Zalthis confusion was palpable. "That is¡­fine? I accept your apology." "I want to say thanks, too," Anakin added. "That was-" a knot caught the rest of his words. Tahiri''s small hand rubbed against the small of his back and he swallowed. "That was close. Thank you." Zalthis dipped his head. "We came to help the Jedi," the Astartes said, looking abashed. "It would be a very poor performance if we failed at that."
In a change of clothes with adhesive bandages taped over the various slices and cuts he''d accumulated, Anakin felt a lot more like a real human being. There hadn''t been much to do besides take a moment to clean up, suck down some water and put on dry clothes. All the trainees stayed shut up and belted in, just in case as the other freighters were powering up and coming online. Lady Starstorm was an ugly old monster, but as the biggest, it was sure to draw the most attention. He slouched in the pilot''s seat, shoulders hunched as he slowly punched through preflight. Thunderbolt and Celestial Dancer were already active, ready to go. Celador Sash and Dalliance were just about set too. The two Exile ships, Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle were ready and loaded up. Everyone was set. Tahiri ambled in, sinking into the copilot''s seat with a groan and a huff. "I''m going to be black and blue over like, every single inch of me." "Tell me about it," he replied idly, running tests on each repulsor. Lady Starstorm was an old YV-100, the main fuselage taking the shape of a fat, half disk with four big engines set into the flat part of the truncated disk. The cockpit occupied the end of a stubby neck that projected forward. All in all, it had the distinctive saucer design language Corellian Engineering was known for, but none of the later refinements in not being a hunk of junk. Still, she''d fly, and she had laser cannons Anakin slaved to the pilot''s controls. YVs could take a beating, lose three of the four engines and still limp along. The first four freighters would launch, escorted by Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle, since those were gunships. Fiver stood ready to cover with Anakin''s XJ and the slaved flight of Z-95s, though they''d be more just there to soak up plasma than do any real damage. Anakin would take up the end and just in case, Lady Starstorm had escape pods primed. If they had to sacrifice it, so be it, and Temerity would grab up the escape pods with him, Ikrit and Tahiri in them. He''d tried to convince Tahiri to go with Kam and Tionne. By tried, Anakin opened his mouth, saw the look on her face, and wisely closed it again. Ikrit joined them, padding in. His ears hung loose and dragging on the floor and his Master seemed strangely subdued. Tahiri must not have noticed - or did - because she scooped up the Kushiban in a hug, returning to the copilot''s seat. Ikrit snuggled against the girl, fur shading into a green that wasn''t far off from Tahiri''s eyes. "I was-" her voice broke and Anakin pretended to be busy. She buried her face in Ikrit''s fur. "It''s okay to fear, Tahiri," the Master said gently. "As much as death is a part of the Force as life, it''s a rare being that doesn''t face it without some trepidation. Zalthis was very timely." All four engines checked out, just like yesterday. Repulsorlifts were green. Everything was good. "I haven''t stopped being afraid either," Anakin admitted. "I feel like I should, but¡­even with the battle meld and having you all with me, I was still almost as afraid as when I was alone on Dantooine." "Fear is how life knows to be cautious. Never let it drive you, or own you, but respect the feelings that life provides. The Force lives in those - when danger threatens, do you feel love through the Force? Of course not! You feel a moment of fear when the Force whispers danger. It is drowning in those negative emotions that gives them true power." Tahiri knuckled at her eyes, sucking in a shivering breath, blowing it out more steadily. "Were you afraid?" Ikrit winked. "I was defending my students. Of course I was!" Anakin took the lie as it was.
"Temerity is beginning their pass. Watch!" Anakin craned his neck, peering up through the freighter''s canopy. The cavern they''d all chosen was probably more accurately a ravine, with a narrow slice open to the sky above. It was how all the ships had made it in, carefully navigating through the slot down into the broad, open cavern it led into. Then again, stalagmites meant ''cave'', so maybe cavern was right. The eye of the monsoon was overhead, revealing pale, pale blue skies of morning. He wasn''t as exhausted as Obroa-skai, but even drawing on the Force to infuse him, Anakin was imagining the bunk in the back of Lady Starstorm, once all this was passed. Maybe Zal could source them some chambers like on Samothrace. Those beds had been luxurious. Threads of light flickered in that thin slice of blue sky. Faint, barely visible shapes moved. "Temerity is engaging. Hold-" Aeonid''s voice cut out for a second, the comms hissing. "One miid-roic has sustained damage. Non-critical, but significant. It is moving to a higher orbit. The second¡­is turning to follow Temerity." Sithspawn. They had hoped to kill or outright cripple one of the cruiser-analogues, then draw off the other. Then they could have launched and gone straight for hyperspace to a rendezvous point just outside the Yavin system while Temerity shook pursuit. But even with one damaged and in a higher orbit, it was still way too much of a risk to try running that blockade. "Temerity will orbit the moon in thirteen minutes. I am transmitting synchronization for the operation. Mark." Kam, Kyle, Streen and Cilghal all responded affirmative. Anakin saw the countdown appear, confirmed for himself. Almost out. Almost out. He hoped the Vong would leave Yavin alone once they knew the Jedi were gone. There wasn''t anything else here for them. Over on Yavin 8, Suz Tanwa had taken down her outpost, hiding all the technology in the Melodie''s caves. They could go underground and the Vong surely wouldn''t notice them there. Sannah had ranted about how they had to evacuate her people, but Anakin knew there was no way in the galaxy the Elders would agree to it. Besides, they could only hope to take away the younger Melodies. How could they evacuate all those who had Changed? They would need specialized starships with water tanks, or air-breathing systems for their gills. The Melodies had managed to stay hidden for thousands of years - the best they could hope for was for that luck to continue. They didn''t have a choice. Minutes ticked by, tense. Anakin drummed his fingers against his thigh. Tahiri stared straight ahead, eyes wide, lost in thought. He kept distance, giving her space. Ikrit kept his own silence. The timer ticked further. "Mark." Thunderbolt rose first. Celador Sash right behind. Anakin blew out a breath, thought of Jaina, and took the stick.
The holodisplay in the cockpit showed two tracks. Temerity, and the shuttle flight. Where they came together was where they had to be. Coralskippers vectored in, as expected. Fiver broke off with a cheerful whistle, leading the clumsily synchronized Z95s after him. Storm Eagle pulled some distance with Amalius at the controls. Aeonid kept Thunderhawk leading the pack. After the storm - which Anakin gaped at as they rose up into the enormous eye - it seemed so simple. Temerity had a single flight of Thunderbolts - a funny coincidence, given the freighter Cilghal was at the helm of - and they were tangling with ''skips already. The destroyer''s nasty guns had swatted a squadron during its hard orbit pass, clearing the sky more. The cruiser-analogue chasing was slinging plasma and magma missiles, some of which were striking armor, but flashes of hot plasma and physical shells slammed back at the Vong warship, slowing it each time dovin basals tried to eat the incoming fire. Lady Starstorm was a bantha to handle and she waddled up into the sky, grumbling as Anakin piled on altitude, rising up the massive walls of the storm''s eye. "Don''t storms move faster than this?" Kam asked. "I am retaining it for the time being," Alebmos returned, sounding way too smug. Lightning flickered and crackled in the eye wall. Tahiri smirked, leaning forward and flicking on the comm. "Hey, tell Sannah that she''s lucky she didn''t go out in that mess. She''d''ve Changed, just from how soaked we were!" Kam laughed and Anakin could picture the Master shaking his head. "Sannah is over with Cilghal, but I''ll pass it along." The first flight of ''skips was getting close, but Amalius broke off Storm Eagle completely, arrowing right for them. Anakin kept an eye on the contacts winking on the sensor board. "With me? No, Sannah is with Kyle." One of the coralskippers vanished as Storm Eagle slashed in, Fiver riding wingmate. "Uh, Sannah''s not here¡­" It was the tone of Master Katarn''s voice that caught Anakin''s attention. The words ran through his head, clicked. "Wait, what!?" "Sannah boarded Thunderbolt!" "She''s not here." "I saw her on Celador Sash-" Oh, no. No. No no no. Anakin locked autopilot for a moment, eyeing the nearest coralskippers, then sunk into the Force. Tahiri bloomed next to him, a golden bonfire he always knew. Ikrit felt strangely diminished in her lap. Then he felt Master Katarn, Cilghal. The Solusars. Aeonid. Each of the trainees. He felt overpowering guilt rolling off of Valin Horn. And he didn''t sense Sannah at all. Stomach churning so much he tasted bile, Anakin refocused reaching down toward the Temple- Maybe. Maybe a hint. "Ask Valin," he gasped out, hands shaking. Moments later, words Anakin wouldn''t repeat filled the comm. "He helped her hide! His father''s sithspawned illusions - Sannah wanted to stay and help her people. She''s at the Temple. She hid in her room." Lyric could do that. She could muffle her presence in the Force. It was something that was innate, it seemed, to Melodie Jedi. Something of their upbringing with all the predators, made it second nature for a Melodie to go still and silent and pass out of notice. Lyric could do it and Anakin had forgotten Sannah did too. She hadn''t, not since Anakin had been back, but he remembered her pulling off the trick in games of hide-and-don''t-squeek. Everyone agreed it was super unfair. "Anakin." She was down there, in the Temple. She''d been there through the whole storm. All the fighting. What in Corellian hells was her plan? What was her stupid plan? What was she thinking? That she could just grab one of the leftover shuttles and hop over to Yavin 8? Fight all the Vong herself? Save the day? "Anakin!" They were going to find her and - the Vong wanted the Jedi alive. Why? What were they going to do? Sacrifice? Torture? Sannah - little Sannah. He gave her wokling rides and she taught them how to swim. "Anakin!" Tahiri''s scream jolted him - and his hands on the stick. Lady Starstorm wobbled. "Anakin, we can''t leave her!" They were the last freighter in the flight. All the others had the kids. It was just him, Tahiri and Ikrit. He couldn''t leave Sannah. He couldn''t risk Tahiri. "Send Storm Eagle-" "We cannot! Amalius must keep coralskippers off us." More contacts lit the sensor board. Four squadrons total. It was going to be close as it was. It might not even be enough to get out already. "Anakin! Don''t you dare! We can''t leave her! Anakin!" Ikrit''s eyes were blue, ice-blue. The Kushiban peered into Anakin from his perch in Tahiri''s lap. "The time comes to act," he said, cryptically. "I''ll get her," Anakin called over the comm. "Master Ikrit and Tahiri can take an escape pod-" "LIKE HELL!" "No, Anakin, there''s too many ''skips to keep off unshielded pods." He hadn''t consciously done it, but Lady Starstorm was already nosing down. He knew where the Temple was. He''d always know. "I am releasing the storm. Go with winds at your back, Knight Solo."
Lady Starstorm didn''t so much land on the muddy, cratered tarmac outside the Temple so much as slam down so hard the landing gear collapsed. The freighter skidded into a half-spin but Anakin was already up and unbuckled, only the Force keeping him upright as he dashed down the corridors. One more orbit. Temerity could do one more loop. He had ten minutes. Ten minutes to get Sannah, get back to Lady Starstorm and get to orbit. Ten minutes. As the monsoon dissolved and the energies finally unbound from the psyker, he watched the other freighters, one by one, make it to the destroyer. Storm Eagle and Fiver managed to bag five coralskippers, while the Thunderbolt flight smashed in and knocked down six more. All the Z95s flamed out. Celador Sash and Dalliance lost shields and took hits, but nothing that made it through the hull or threatened flight. The rest of the Praxeum were safe. They''d made it. Anakin pelted down the still-lowering ramp, leaping down and absorbing the landing with the Force. Fear warred with anger. Sannah put him in danger - Ikrit and Tahiri too. Tahiri mutely bolstered him and Anakin grabbed the Force with both hands, wrenching it into place. He peered through walls and Massassi stone and found the shadowy little whisper. Sannah. He leapt. Twenty meters, straight up. He struck the Temple facing, leapt up again, pulling his lightsaber from his belt. Curtain stones had been lowered to seal off the opening between each tier - Anakin went through them. He raced down the halls, feeling Sannah''s rising panic. She knew he was here. She knew. She knew they were here. He blew the door of her room off the hinges with a brush of the Force. She huddled on her bed, curled up in a ball. He smelled something bitter. Anakin grabbed her, the Melodie went limp as soon as he yanked her off the bed and slung her none too gently over one shoulder. He couldn''t even form words. How much time was left? Lady Starstorm beckoned. The ramp was only half open, wedged against the landing pad. Anakin raced up it, pausing only long enough to fling Sannah into one of the passenger cabins and yank the door shut. He crushed the lock. Hurling himself back into the pilot''s seat, Anakin slammed thrust to full and the Lady lurched forward on hot ion trails, skipping and skidding. Metal shrieked and screamed as they bounced once, twice, then were airborne. "You smell like¡­" Tahiri trailed off, nose wrinkling. The chron said he had two minutes. Two minutes. Temerity was already clearing the horizon. The Thunderbolt flight was vectoring in. Rain hammered against the cockpit. Everything outside was grey as the monsoon ripped itself to pieces. The eye was collapsing. Get high enough, get out of the storm. Contacts squiggled and squirmed on sensors, impossible to confirm. There could be a Super Star Destroyer flying formation with him in this murk and he''d never know. Lady Starstorm groaned at the stresses of hurricane-force winds and engines slammed to maximum far too fast for her aging frame. She''d hold together. Anakin wouldn''t allow anything else. He wouldn''t. Burbled words tried to make sense through comms. The altimeter ticked higher. Higher. How much farther? This storm couldn''t reach- Just like that, they were out. The sun burst bright and searing. Tahiri cried out in surprise. The sensor board cleared. They were surrounded. A mass of yorik coral as big as a moon crashed down from above -
-Anakin blinked, back to himself a second later. Klaxons screamed, all the boards in the cockpit awash in bright red. Tahiri struggled with the webbing holding her in place. Ikrit was barking something, but with the wind, Anakin couldn''t hear. Wind? How- The canopy was cracked through, missing a chunk right near the top. "Anakin? Anakin! That was one of their transports, it''s grabbed onto the freighter! You need to get-" Master Katarn''s voice cut off abruptly, paired with a shriek of metal from somewhere aft. "Escape pods!" he shouted. If Tahiri didn''t hear him, she''d get the impression. Anakin struggled to undo his own buckles, yanking the straps away and freeing himself from the pilot''s seat, just in time for the Lady to go into a spin. Gentle pressure surrounded him, kept him on his feet. Ikrit nodded his head, bobbing his ears. Anakin and Tahiri stumbled down the neck of Lady Starstorm, Ikrit just behind. The freighter rattled and shook like it was coming apart - and probably was. "Escape pods, starboard side!" Eyes wide, Tahiri nodded. "I have to get Sannah!" Lady Starstorm ripped in half. The corridor twisted as it sheared, sunlight blooming in. Wind snatched away his cry of shock. He grabbed Tahiri''s hand in vice grip. He didn''t see Ikrit. The entire rear of the ship with the engines and cargobay dropped away, torturing his ears with a scream of metal parting like leaves. A monster held what was left in its grasp. An ovoid of yorik coral, twice the size of Lady Starstorm with its entire ventral surface peeled open like lips, extruding a dozen muscled, scaled tentacles. Most were wrapped around the freighter, holding it in place. More slithered out of the Vong craft, grabbing onto the hull of the freighter and peeling it back more. Lady Starstorm just ended barely two meters down the corridor. It just ended in a tangle of torn durasteel. The cabin he''d thrown Sannah into was thankfully just behind him. Yavin 4 sprawled out below him, the monsoon stretching from horizon to horizon. Above them was a Vong transport. Who knew how many warriors? Numb shock was all he got from his connection to Tahiri. Numb shock was all he felt. There comes a time to act. Even as half a ship, Lady Starstorm had repulsorlifts. There were still escape pods on the other side. They could get to the pods. They could break away from the Vong ship and land on repulsors. A wilder thought - he and Tahiri and their falling trick. Would it work from this high? It couldn''t - but the Force knew no limits. He took a breath.
Zalthis stormed down the ramp of the Storm Eagle. He hurled his helm to the side. It clattered and bounced away across Temerity''s extremely cramped embarkation deck. The destroyer had two, on either flank, primarily for receiving supply. Not for cramming in multiple Republican freighters, a Thunderhawk and a Storm Eagle. Solidian chased him, but he had eyes only for the Captain''s Thunderhawk. He leapt up on the ramp as it lowered, storming up to the cockpit hatch and wrenching it open. Aeonid Thiel did not seem surprised, even with his helmet hiding his expression. ''Zalthis,'' the Captain said. ''Why did you recall us? Captain? Why?'' Aeonid calmly unhooked his harness, rising from the Thunderhawk''s throne, casting a sidelong glance at the embedded support servitor. Though of height, the Captain in his red-painted and crested helm gave Zalthis pause and he stepped back, letting Aeonid out of the cockpit. ''You wanted to return for Knight Solo.'' Captain Thiel did not mention the other two Jedi and did not need to. ''It is our duty. We were charged to evacuate the Jedi, all the Jedi!'' ''Circumstances change. I am bitterly disappointed to make the order, brother. Knight Solo¡­Anakin¡­is resourceful and cunning. His Master is with him, and I am sure they will survive on the moon.'' Zalthis chewed on words, swallowed them. None were enough. His Captain had made up his mind. He had given his order, and as an Astartes should, Amalius accepted it, even as Zalthis argued. He had nothing to say. Zalthis stiffly made sign of the aquila, stormed away. Still silent, Solidian followed. Captain Thiel descended the Thunderhawk''s ramp, making for the Jedi Masters as they exited their own ships. Zalthis had no stomach to face the Republic Jedi, not while four of their own remained on the moon. Just beside the Thunderhawk, he cast about for his helm, didn''t see it. Gritting his teeth, he keyed on his gorget vox, listening in. He listened as the Lady Starstorm was reported dropping into the clouds and out of contact. He listened in as Temerity''s command cadre calmly updated on the atmospherics report over the Temple Complex as Alebmos'' wrathful storm expended its fury without the psyker''s leash. He listened to the Thunderbolt flight as they kept coralskippers at bay. He felt dull thumps through his boots as the destroyer snapped jaws back at the Vong and as alien munitions bit into her flanks. He listened as the Lady Starstorm burst out of the storm again - and then in horror as a Vong transport grappled hold of it. So close. And he listened as Captain Thiel uttered the damning words, as half of Lady Starstorm was torn away. Temerity was to break orbit. Mainline extension drive to full. Make for the Mandeville. Abandon Anakin.
Another tendril lashed out, snapping for Anakin''s ankle. "No!" Tahiri''s ''sabre lopped off half a meter''s worth, leaving the rest to whip back out of the bisected freighter. More nosed in. Muffled by the cabin door, Sannah screamed long and loud, wordless. Ikrit flattened himself to the deck, narrowly avoiding a tendril as big as the Kushiban as it lashed past. Anakin felt, rather than heard a click at his belt. There was another lightsaber there, one much smaller than his own. He understood too late. Like in the jungle, Ikrit coiled his legs and leapt. Reflected from the far wall, then a capture tendril, then the ceiling. "-Master!" Ikrit alighted on the tendril Tahiri had just severed, digging claws into the scaly flesh and riding it as it retreated. Bludgeoning another tendril out of the way, lightsaber cleaving halfway through the hardened appendage, Anakin skidded to the end of the truncated corridor. Ikrit, impossibly, clung onto the Vong biot through his claws and the power of the Force. Even as it lashed, trying to unseat him, he set his wide blue eyes on the hulking Vong transport craft. Like prying fingers away from a prize, first one of the thickest grasping tentacles twisted and tore away from Lady Starstorm. Then another. Anakin''s Master was pulled deep on the Force. He could not touch the constructs of the Yuuzhan Vong, so he made do in other ways. He ripped durasteel sheets from the freighter''s hull and wrapped them around the capture tentacles, using them to wrench them away. He tore sparking conduits loose and tied them like nooses yank away other tendrils. The Vong craft trembled, as if in anger. The Lady shook with another tentacle ripped off. Almost free. Anakin couldn''t believe it. But even if Ikrit pulled them free, they could just grab the transport again. As if reading his mind, one of Lady''s main structural spars peeled back like a hangnail, tipping back to point straight at the opened guts of the Vong transport. The wet, fleshy orifice that disgorged all the capture tentacles. The Force pulsed. The structural spar accelerated like a bowcaster bolt. Ichor spewed and half the tentacles dropped slack. Enough that Lady wasn''t held anymore. And the freighter was missing half her repulsors. It dropped like a stone. Tentacles snapped, overstressed. Those inside the freighter were ripped out - with a wild shriek of terror. One tendril had wrapped twice around Tahiri''s waist. He reached - her fingers - they touched - Tahiri was gone, screaming. He couldn''t breathe. He felt the coarse scales wrapped around her waist. He felt the thin air snatch away her breath. Her terror was his. Her shock was his. His guilt was hers. His horror was hers. Lady Starstorm tumbled away. The Vong craft shuddered, it''s surviving tentacles lashing and writhing. Master Ikrit was there. Tahiri wasn''t alone- Remember. Together. Anakin felt Master Ikrit''s life go out. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. Wind ripped tears from his eyes before they could fall. Sannah was still wailing, lost to panic so deep he couldn''t even feel any thoughts from the girl. The freighter started to tumble, reaching the thicker atmosphere. He felt Tahiri. He felt her. She was alive. She was alive and she was alive even as the Vong transport shrank to the size of his fist, then smaller. Weightless in free-fall, Anakin grabbed his body in a fist of the Force. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up toward Sannah''s cabin. The door ripped away at a glance. He grabbed the girl the same as he did himself, yanking her out. The escape pods. Other side of the ship. Tahiri''s terror shifted. He couldn''t - if she - like Ikrit - Anakin would die. He knew it. Her terror shifted. To anger. To rage. He laughed through tears. If Tahiri was angry, she was alright. One escape pod was gone. The other¡­ The hatch irised open. He slung Sannah in, climbed in after her. The pod smelled like ammonia. His fist hit the big red launch button. The hatch irised shut. The escape pod launched with a thump. It wouldn''t fly, but it would land. He eyed the button again. Balled up his fist and hit it again. Again. Again. I''ll be back Tahiri. I''ll be back and when I am - they''ll pay. All of them.
Zalthis settled into the throne with nervous energy jangling through his nerves. He had the hypnoconditioning, but he''d never had the opportunity for hands-on. He relaxed as much as he was able and let his hands make their own motions. The ramp made the fuselage shudder as it sealed. The vox crackled to life. Words were meaningless. He ignored it. Taking the oversized controls, made distant through the interface of ceramite clad-digits, Zalthis centered himself. Courage. And honour. And honour. ''We''d better go,'' Solidian sardonically remarked and Zalthis nearly crashed the Thunderhawk into the ceiling of the embarkation deck. ''Sol!'' His brother eyed the embedded servitor and elected to stand, gripping an overhead bar. ''Me. We''ll be damned together, brother.'' Zalthis swallowed. The Thunderhawk rose before the disbelieving eyes of Aeonid Thiel, Kam Solusar and Kyle Katarn. It performed a textbook rotation about its vertical axis, then blasted into the void of space beyond the dim containment field so rapidly the backwash made both Jedi stumble. Aeonid watched it go, denying a request to intercept. He searched for what he felt. Pride, he decided. Intransigence Chapter VII Imperial Entanglements
VII: Rarest Treasures The damutek ships settled with stately grace between the alien trees. A soft sussurus of gravitational shears rippled leaves and limbs as the enormous craft delicately made landfall. Countless tonnes of coral, flesh and hungry biot shifted and spread outward as each ship gently, slowly unfurled. Nen Yim watched with rare awe. To be inside the living ships was natural - to see them from without, to see the fullness of their majesty - was something else entirely. And the world the ships nibbled at! Nen Yim turned in place, arms lifted just slightly, enough for propriety but far from the widespread embrace that she wanted to wrap around the world. A moon, maybe, but a world, a live world, a living world. The air was sharp and pungent, filled with such a melange that even her sinusal implants couldn¡¯t catalogue them all. She scented irregular sesquiterpenoids, loamy and aromatic. Hints of dimethyl sulfides that were rounded and chewy and spoke of brine-water. Anaerobic-birthed hydrogen sulfides, sharp lipid-decay. She inhaled deeply, eyes heavy-lidded as living scents washed through her senses in wave after wave. She had names for them all, spooled out into her forebrain from the microscopic tasting polyps of the keryid norosh that crouched behind her nose. But she had no words for them. There was a whiff on the breeze that reminded her of the bitter outflow beneath the mernip breeding pools. Here was a hint of the loamy exhalations of the maw luur - the only breeze Nen Yim had ever known until today. She sloppily applied the dull, colorless sensations of life in a worldship and all of them were hollow. A world! A living world! She knelt gently, her robe pooling between her bare feet. She scraped a handful of muddy, saturated soil between her fingers. Kneading it. Feeling it. It was slick and threaded with tendrils of plantlife, it was imprecise and teeming with pointless bacteria and it was unguided and it was beautiful. Behind her impassive face, Nen Yim shrieked with glee. She swallowed bubbling laughter and kept solidly in mind the demeanour expected of an Adept of her station. But this was the rawness of creation! Yun-Yuuzhan¡¯s gift, wonderful and myriad and as wildly unkempt as the moments after the Father clove apart his body to create all cosmos. Rawness untouched by the gardening hand of the Yuuzhan Vong, impregnated with potential so thick she could taste it as saccharides dissolving on the tongue. ¡°Ah, this would be your first time on a true world.¡± Nen Yim rose, expecting another of the adepts daring to intrude on her moment of revelation, a biting retort sharpening her tongue- To be held, as she curled the tendrils of her headdress into genuflection and cast her eyes away from her master, Mezhaan Kwaad. Nen Yim prostrated, secretly pleased to dirty her robe in the mud. ¡°You may rise, Adept, and turn your eyes to me.¡± There was mirth in Mezhan Kwaad¡¯s tone. Her Master was a female past the final edge of youth, but barely. Lean and whip-thin, but bearing still the shape of a mature female despite her elevation. It would not last, of course - affectations of sex were quite beyond the Masters, for whom the last and greatest form of Shaping were forever forbidden. Instead, Mezhaan Kwaad¡¯s form spoke to the rapidity of her ascension and the keenness of her mind. To be a Master at such an age and with so few marks of elevation proved that Nen Yim¡¯s Master was a rare specimen indeed. Her broad and high cheekboned face bore symmetrical tattoos of concentric, spoked circles, interwoven with organic swirls of crimson and azure. Her forehead bore the three ridged scars of Kwaad, the only visible scars on the Master. Like all Shapers, like Nen Yim, Mezhaan Kwaad bore the marks of her sacrifices more subtly and discreet. Only her hand, eight-fingered, mattered as evidence to the eyes. The hand of a Master could not be mistaken. ¡°And confirm my suspicions, Adept. Rare is it that a Master makes observation without reason.¡± ¡°Yes, Master. I have never been graced to know a world beyond our worldships.¡± Mezhaan hummed approvingly, gliding closer and peering out to the horizon and the settling damuteks. ¡°Tell me your impressions, then.¡± Nen Yim inhaled a deep, delicious breath. ¡°This storm was unnatural,¡± she began, gesturing toward splintered boles and heaps of shattered branches, toward glaring gaps in the jungle canopy where ancient and towering trees had toppled. Toward the sounds of a seething, roaring river that swelled far beyond its banks. ¡°If weather patterns of this intensity commonly struck, there would be evidence of flooding and the canopy would be lower and less dense. Few trees would be able to reach the heights we see.¡± Mezhaan did not interrupt. ¡°Which speaks to me of the strangeness of this world. I am used to our own worldships, which are planned. Everything has a purpose, Master. The maw luur, the endocrine clusters, the retcham forceps and rikyam. Everything is apportioned out for our journey. This¡­this would be a disaster. This would be like a spasm of the axial musculature that ruptures a tendril of a worldship. But here, this is a living world. A storm is¡­just a storm. Life goes on. It¡¯s so wild and so undirected!¡± ¡°True enough. You overthink things, Adept. We are atop a high plateau. The elevation would never allow a monsoon¡¯s presence, not at full strength. You need not study the jungle nor the patterns of rivers when a single, simple observation suffices. Still. I do not punish thoroughness. The wildness of this world is remarkable indeed.¡± ¡°None of it serves us-¡± Mezhaan clicked her teeth and cut Nen Yim off. ¡°Incorrect. All things serve the Yuuzhan Vong. You know this.¡± Nen Yim cast her eyes down, curling her headdress tendrils tight. ¡°Yes, Master. I misspoke. I mean only - we have not shaped it.¡± ¡°Better. All life and all space serves the Yuuzhan Vong. There is merely that which we have touched and that which we have not yet been guided to by the Gods. Remember this, Adept. The Gods hide nothing, but only delay us to the timetable of their choosing.¡± ¡°As you say, Master.¡± ¡°Come along. Survey our home with me.¡± Mezhaan Kwaad led Nen Yim along, the Master a pace ahead, as was appropriate. She spoke of many things, telling Nen Yim of the processes of the damutek in much greater depth than the teachings of an Adept might know. The deep-digging roots would plunge deep, exuding fierce acids to render bedrock into sludge. Burrowing solk-wath sought out aquifers to nurse from. Each damutek was to have a purpose and Mezhaan Kwaad indicated the one that would be their laboratory. Warriors moved this way and that in small groups, mindbent at their heels. Cadres of slaves, overseen by bare-chested Workers broke ground with stiffened spade-rays. Tsik-vai drifted overhead and a small nursery field for coralskippers spread around one of the damuteks. A tall warrior loped toward them. He was rangy and tall, corded with muscle and wore vonduun bred in the colors of Carr. ¡°Master Shaper,¡± he spoke, once he was near enough. ¡°Commander Harmae.¡± Without his helmet, Harmae¡¯s dark eyes were piercing, long hair pulled up into a tall stalk and plume that waved in the breeze. Mezhaan Kwaad folded her arms, lifting her chin. Nen Yim shrank a little closer to her Master, to borrow a measure of security. ¡°Where is my test subject?¡± Harmae sneered, pulling at tattooed lips. Nen Yim caught the shape of a single long fang of coral. ¡°Restrained. Know you are fortunate, Shaper, that my loyalty to my Supreme Commander is unwavering. Had it been your order to take Jeedai alive, I would have kindly reminded you of your place.¡± ¡°Your devotion does you credit,¡± Mezhan Kwaad retorted and Nen Yim blushed at how baldly fake her Master¡¯s tone was. One did not speak to a Warrior in such a way! Yet, she was an Adept. An Adept to a Master - beyond reproach from even an elevated of most other castes. It would take time to remember that. Harmae snorted. ¡°This Jeedai slew two of my warriors despite being enwrapped by a capture tendril. She blinded a third. Jeedai are not to be trifled with, as even the Warmaster advises.¡± ¡°Then I will sacrifice to the Slayer in thanks for the bravery of your warriors. How is the Jeedai restrained?¡± Mezhan Kwaad gestured to Nen Yim, continuing her walk. Harmae fell in beside the Master Shaper, his bulk at odds with the Master¡¯s lithe shape. ¡°By the blessing of senselessness. The Jeedai dreams the poison dream.¡± ¡°My subject is to be unharmed.¡± The warrior laughed. ¡°Inform the Jeedai of your demands. The infidel will live with broken ribs. You have your prize, Master Shaper. The Gods sneer at the greedy. Expect delivery to your damutek by nightfall.¡± Having said his piece, Commander Harmae split away, barking orders out to a nearby cluster of Warriors who snapped to attention. Mezhan Kwaad watching the commander go, her headdress knotting and writhing. ¡°Observe, Adept, the vaunted unity of the Chosen. We came to a world with three dozen Jeedai and they deliver but one. A child that would barely be from the creche. And they claim that to demand the minimum of success is greed.¡± Mezhan Kwaad sniffed, wrinkling her nose. ¡°Be glad you are a Shaper, Nen Yim. We do not suffer fools in our Caste.¡± ¡°As you say, Master,¡± Nen Yim agreed. For different reasons, but all the same, she thanked Yun-ne¡¯Shel daily for her blessing. She looked down at her hand, turning over the flesh and blood she was born with. If she just focused, a little, she imagined eight fingers instead of five and the means to change the world at her fingertips. Nen Yim smiled a private smile, behind her Master, as she followed her through the high jungle plateau of Yavin 4.
From Guilliman¡¯s own chambers, they watched the arrivals flicker into reality. Roboute had seen ¡®hyperspace¡¯ jumps before, both arrival and departure, but the difference between the smearing flicker of pseudomotion that resolved into a languidly cruising starship was stark indeed compared to the wrathful emergence from the Warp he knew better. Beside him, in newly repainted plate, stood Phratus Auguston, arms folded across his broad chest and perpetual scowl twisting his blunt features. Marius Gage, to the Primarch¡¯s right, bore the solid gold right pauldron of the Praetorium. Ever present, the Primarch¡¯s shadow loomed massive and implacable in flawless Cataphractii. Together they witnessed the first arrival: a pale white-grey triangle that whickered into existence, settling into a smooth cruiser on ion efflux, matching the pace of Macragge¡¯s Honour. Another flicked into existence, then a third, then a fourth. He knew not which was which, but knew the names of all four. Superior, Right to Rule, Relentless and Master Stroke. Imperial Star Destroyers, a more ironic name he could not imagine. The four coasted in distant formation with the Honour for a long few seconds, showcasing a glaringly obvious hole in their formation. Filled in by the immense arrowhead shape of the final arrival. Blue-grey in tone, darker than the bright Star Destroyers, Dominion ate a chunk of the starfield with its mass. The rather prosaically titled ¡®Super¡¯ Star Destroyer was not unimpressive. Phratus grunted. His armor was newly daubed in the colors of the Astartes Aggressor, First Battalion Founded of the Legiones Ultramarine. His plastron was bisected, the right side classic Ultramarine blue, the left side a steely blue. Likewise, his crested helmet, mag-clamped to his hip, bore the same bisected color. Each gauntlet to the elbow was pure black. His right pauldron bore an Ultramarine blue field, but the rest of his plate was the same steel-blue as his bisected plastron and helm. The chosen mark of the First Battalion shone crisp and white: an Ultima grasped in the center by a gauntleted fist. Changes were afoot in the 4711th and not all were pleased by them. ¡®I submit again that we are better served capturing the dreadnought and being done with it.¡¯ Guilliman made a noise deep in his throat that was neither agreement nor negation. This was not a new debate. ¡®The Remnant wastes its waning strength. They have no friends and fewer allies. Unleash the First, my Primarch, and we¡¯ll deliver this ¡®Dominion¡¯ for better use.¡¯ ¡®An aptly chosen name for your Battalion,¡¯ Gage observed. Phratus¡¯ scowl deepend and he turned on the Master Primus. Guilliman raised a hand. ¡®Peace. Marius, please try not to bait Phratus. And Phratus, you need not always bite.¡¯ Amusement rolled from the Chapter Master. The Imperial Remnant had reached out, first tentatively and unofficially, and then with a strong and formal overture. The action at Fondor, the destruction of Yadraig and then the Senate address and Treaty of Fundamental Iron had been an avalanche that couldn¡¯t be held back. Whatever internal politics that had led to the Remnant dragging their feet over welcoming a new ¡®neighbor¡¯, it must have evaporated in short order. From Gilad Pellaeon himself, a request and desire for discourse, offered at the convenience of the Exiled Imperium. With the gracious best wishes to the Lord Consul. There was no theoretical to rejecting the offer. At best, an ally in a strategically beneficial location of the galaxy. At worst, alienating a rump state with little, if anything, to offer. Macragge¡¯s Honour had not translated since the flight from Calth and her warp engines were due for a cycle. The reopened scars in her flanks, torn anew by Vong biot and plasma, once again sported unpainted sheets of adamantium. Internally, the aliens had wreaked considerable damage to internal spaces, but the limits of their incursion had not pressed too deeply into the more sensitive and critical locales. All the same, Honour was still wounded, never having recovered even originally from Calth. Now, some biots still lurked in her bilges, diligently sought by hunter-killer servictors and CATs. Teams of armsmen carrying stubbers chased bounties, awarded for each every reptoid or slithering biot recovered and presented. Even today, Magi worked to restore corridors, rebuild bulkheads and certify systems as operable and placated. Though Roboute¡¯s schedule remained as overflowing as ever, the installed holonet suites allowed realtime remote availability for any potential issue. More besides, showing the Honour beyond the orbit of Eboracum was a powerful statement after the breaking of the moon and the boarding action ordered by Malik Carr. Once again: the devices were worth their weight in auramite, even if some of the Magi grumbled and ground metallic teeth. Pellaeon offered to host aboard Dominion - a statement of several meanings. To host is a particular position of power and authority, but to accept and go willingly into the fastness of another is a statement of strength. Guilliman accepted without equivocation. He had not been aboard a warship of this Galaxy, despite several now serving with the 4711th. He had not the time. Drakus Gorod, ever his shadow, followed Guilliman to his armored Stormbird, accompanied as well by Auguston. Gage remained behind, in command of the Honour. Aides and scribes of the newly formed Adaptus Legatus filled in, each suitably cowed by the transhuman presence of a Primarch and his Astartes. Noskaur remained on Coruscant, continuing legal discussion over the status of Eboracum. Even should the old Iterator been present, Guilliman still would have opted to conduct this conference in person. Call it indulgent, but stepping before the Republican Senate had stirred old nostalgia in him.
From the bridge of Dominion, they watched and waited for the Primarch¡¯s shuttle. Magnified and expanded for easy viewing, the counterpart star dreadnought dominated the bridge display. Macragge¡¯s Honour, it was called, and it was a monster. Pellaeon remembered Eclipse, and even the bulk of that ship was ah, eclipsed, by the sheer mass and presence of this leviathan. Twenty-six kilometers in length, larger than any dreadnought Gilad knew of. Even the Mon Calamari Viscount class could fit three or four of their mass into that monster. The length of it was painted, painted, a rich oceanic blue and liberally gilt with gold. Ornamentation was everywhere Gilad looked. It was a gaudy piece of art as much as a battleship and he reflexively disliked it. Already he had reservations about dreadnoughts, remembering the bitter lesson of Executor at Endor when the ill-fated ship took down countless brilliant officers with her. They reminded him of the worst aspects of the Empire, under Palpatine, even if their role had been proven before and would be again. He couldn¡¯t very well forget the Battle of Orinda. ¡°Incredible,¡± Sarreti breathed. ¡°That¡¯s the ship that destroyed their moon.¡± ¡°Potent,¡± Miat Temm agreed. She and Arat Nalgol made the fourth of their small group. Temm was his aide of some years, a professional and efficient woman, contrasting to Nalgol¡¯s subtle insouciance. ¡°And for all that, they¡¯ve still been squatting in that same star system.¡± Nalgol drawled. ¡°Their faster-than-light works differently than hyperspace. Their task force made it to Fondor without issue, all the same.¡± Nalgol acknowledged Sarreti¡¯s point with a dip of his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ve heard the Jedi are to thank for that.¡± ¡°Maybe so,¡± Temm countered, ¡°but they¡¯re still getting around.¡± It was useful to keep in mind the surprising friendship already forged between the Jedi and the Exiles. The New Republic seemed to originally wish to hold them at arm¡¯s length, but Skywalker¡¯s Jedi had leapt in with both feet. Not all was sunshine in the land of the Jedi, according to rumors, yet that wouldn¡¯t shift the import of the leader of the Order going on missions and entrusting his nephew to the Imperials. For the New Republic itself, they made a solid case, Gilad had to admit, as to why they were worth working with. Why it would be a problem for the Exiles if the Republic collapsed. No matter Gilad¡¯s feeling about the government on Coruscant, he was realistic enough to know that if the New Republic fell, the rest of the galaxy would shortly thereafter. Not for any grand strength of the New Republic, granted. But merely because by virtue of being the only polity that could truly tangle up the Yuuzhan Vong for any period. As long as the New Republic stood, even as plagued by infighting and inefficiencies as it was, it was impossible for the Vong to ignore. And it served as a shield for those smaller polities, the ones that had teeth enough to pain the Vong, but not enough to stop them. By Gilad¡¯s estimation, the only reason the Vong only poked and prodded at the Remnant was because they knew to take it would bleed them of useful resources needed to encircle and besiege the Core. If the force that hit Fondor was any indicator of the average Vong armada¡­ Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Intel analysis indicated it wasn¡¯t likely the case. Fondor was considered to represent several task forces brought together for the assault and that it wasn¡¯t as if the Vong could produce another half dozen flotillas of the same size at whim. A small peace of mind, but not one to entirely trust. Nalgol eyed the distant dreadnought. A veteran officer, part of the whole Caamasi Affair, he was also a representative for the Kuati expat world of Jaemus. He had an eye for starships as much as any other from that world. ¡°Kuat¡¯s making ships for them now.¡± ¡°And others,¡± Sarreti reminded. ¡°Part of Shesh¡¯s speech was that they¡¯d also sell to interested buyers who would fight the Vong.¡± ¡°Jaemus isn¡¯t any closer, but Jaemus also doesn¡¯t have to play the games of the Families. I wonder how ironclad that ¡®Treaty¡¯ is.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have the wording, but it appears extensive.¡± Miat Temm shrugged. ¡°Shesh is Kuati, it¡¯s probably solid.¡± Nalgol sneered, but didn¡¯t correct her. ¡°It¡¯s joint operations we¡¯re hoping for,¡± Pellaeon chided. ¡°Like Ithor,¡± Nalgol muttered. ¡°Yes, Arat. Like Ithor. Ithor was tragic but Ithor also saw the head of a Vong Domain killed, for all that might matter, and a grand cruiser destroyed.¡± ¡°The Exiles killed one over Fondor without burning a world.¡± Pellaeon fixed Nalgol with a flat stare until the man held up his hands. ¡°Fine, fine.¡± ¡°You¡¯re only supporting the benefits of joint operations. Dominion is barely out of refits. This is a shakedown cruise as much as anything else.¡± Sarreti gestured toward the massive vessel in the distance. ¡°If that thing is pound-for-pound equivalent to the battleships at Fondor, you¡¯re looking at the firepower of half a dozen Dominions and the durability of that many Viscounts.¡± ¡°And they¡¯d throw it at the Vong for us¡­¡± ¡°They¡¯re warlords without an empire.¡± Gilad put his back to the transparisteel, looking over the three. Sarreti had been pushing to reach out to the Exiles almost from the moment they appeared on the scene. Nalgol was a perennial negative voice, but it was a role that Nalgol seemed to purposely lean into. Temm was balanced, practical and logical, backed by her ¡®intuitions¡¯ that struck at opportune times. ¡°The Exiles defended Eboracum because they had nowhere else to go. We¡¯ve listened to the address to the Senate on Coruscant. They¡¯re here to fight a war and they¡¯ve found one.¡± Such stark phrasing. He¡¯d wanted to applaud, simply for the sheer honesty behind the shocking words, if not the meaning. It was a wonder the New Republic stomached what Roboute Guilliman brought before them and laid out bare for all to see. ¡°If and when Eboracum falls, the Exiles¡¯ war will not end, but their focus might change. Who will invite them in? Not proud Kuat, not Corellia. Nowhere in the Core will welcome them, but out here? I daresay the frontier of space that the Remnant was forced to brings a new opportunity.¡± Nalgol, for once, didn¡¯t argue. ¡°And the old cueballs do love to moan about the lack of human recruits, these days¡­¡± Pellaeon smiled. It was pleasant to be surrounded by competence.
In his formal dress uniform, Roboute found Supreme Commander Gilad Pellaeon to be neat and professional. It was spotless white, bereft of much decoration or ornamentation at all aside from a small rectangular rank marker at his breast and gold tasseled epaulettes. Embarrassingly simplistic for a man of similar rank in the Imperialis Armada, but there was a tastefully martial simplicity to the uniform, he had to admit. Flanking him were the flesh-and-blood and holographic forms of the Moff Council of the Imperial Remnant. Another benefit to accepting Pellaeon¡¯s invitation aboard Dominion - Honour had no such suite with which to make this meeting function. Each Moff and their sphere of influence flitted through Guilliman¡¯s memory. Ephin Sarreti, of Braxant Sector. Youthful, idealistic, but a capable political operator. Perhaps an equivalent to Viqi Shesh. Wellon Bemos, of Obtrexta. Aging, old-guard, but flexible and adaptive. Quillan Freyborn, Dynali. Vigorous, but waning in political influence. Ellsibeth Vered, Carrion. A relic of the old Republic with the entrenched capital to show for it. Sander D¡¯Asta, Clacis. Distaff member of a broadly influential and rich family - likely nepotistic appointment. Edan Crowal, Perrin. Reclusive and reticent, jealous of her isolated sector¡¯s relative security. Dominus Hort, Velcar. Crippled by the economic powers within his own sphere; a figurehead. Kurlen Flennic, Prefsbelt: often considered second in power and influence behind Pellaeon. All but Sarreti and Flennic attended via hologram. All wore similar uniforms to Pellaeon, though in grey wool. Some affected a cap. It certainly made for a united front. The scribes of the Adeptus Legatus were already settled, servo-skulls hovering over shoulders, dataslates prepared and mnemoquills poised. Phratus Auguston awaited, standing poised and at attention. As was his right, Guilliman entered last, escorted, as ever, by Gorod a stride behind and to his left. The chamber rose to darkened heights, lumens suspended just above the circular conference table. The effect was to cast the table and the occupants in bright illumination and render the rest of the chamber darkened, such that aides and servants might come and go without notice and without obstructing the attention and focus of those at conference. Matching the sensibilities of this galaxy, the chamber was spartan in decoration. The table a bare, polished durasteel, the lumes simple and unadorned. Asceticism seemed to be a virtue. Pellaeon claimed the center of the table, with Sarreti to his right and Flennic to his left. Behind Pellaeon stood a man and woman, cast half in shadow. Gilad Palleaon, like his compatriots in the New Republic, only paled a little. His throat worked once, subtly, before he smoothly rose to his feet to greet the Primarch. Flennic¡¯s frown carved deeper into his brow, but the broad man only blinked rapidly. Sarreti¡¯s cheek twitched and his eyes glazed over for a moment, the young man actually shaking his head once as if to clear it. The other Moffs, remote, had no reaction. The woman behind Pellaeon was messily sick.
Gilad suppressed a wince as Miat Temm¡¯s lunch impacted the decking, hearing her muttered apology around rapid, sucking breaths. Roboute Guilliman¡¯s effect on average beings was known, as was his particularly potent effect on Jedi. If his aide¡¯s particular talents were not already known, he suspected they would be common knowledge among the Moff Council now. He felt it. The Primarch entered the chamber and Gilad suddenly found it difficult to draw breath. The man was too large. Not grossly disproportionate like some sithspawned monster, but huge in the way that bent perspective. Like a trick of the eyes, the man¡¯s head brushed the already tall frame of the hatch, but everything about the Primarch still spoke of an incredibly well-muscled and broad, but recognizably human, man. Just far, far too large. And moving too smoothly, too swiftly, too easily. He moved like a man half his height and fraction his size. It was like an AT-AT dancing. In the presence of the reborn Palpatine Gilad had felt similar. A presence of power. An all-encompassing sort of authority. Reflexively, he hated it. ¡°It¡¯s quite alright, Miat. Take a breather and find a ¡®fresher.¡± ¡°Again, I¡¯m sorry, sir.¡± ¡°Think nothing of it. Go on.¡± Gilad waved her out, Roboute Guilliman cleared his throat, expression schooled into something like chagrin, or maybe sympathy. ¡°My apologies. My presence does not always sit well with some.¡± Some, indeed. Pellaeon took the apology for what it was worth. ¡°Miss Temm was already feeling under the weather. Let¡¯s hope we¡¯ve gotten the worst out of the way here at the beginning.¡± A few chuckles, mostly forced, from the Moffs sold Pellaeon¡¯s levity. ¡°Let¡¯s,¡± Guilliman affirmed. ¡°Then allow me to welcome you aboard Dominion, flagship of the Galactic Empire.¡± ¡°Honoured, Supreme Commander.¡± And then introductions began and continued for some time. One Phratus Auguston, Centurion of something called the First Batallion, who stood quietly to the Primarch¡¯s left. Drakus Gorod, Captain of the Invictus Suzerain, almost a match to Guilliman in size and bulk in his armor. Several ¡®Iterators¡¯, now Ambassadors, who apparently were of some fame. The flow of authority was abundantly clear. He had only to look between the Primarch, the Astartes standing guard and the humans arrayed with Guilliman, made tiny by comparison. This was an Empire ruled by brute strength. The size and design of their flagship: screaming to all with eyes that might makes right. Their leader: a massive, overmuscled being pretending at being human. His lieutenants, the rumored genetic clones of him. A dynasty of brutish warriors. And he prepared to offer up the Remnant¡¯s rarest treasures to them.
Roboute steepled his fingers, observing the Moffs, both in the flesh and in the holo. Some appeared irritated, some seemed sanguine. ¡®Supplying Eboracum with further transports and establishing a joint office for emigration.¡¯ Roboute reiterated. ¡®Wherein the Remnant would accept aliens and ¡®near-humans¡¯ that do not match the requirements of the Imperium, along with a nominal fifteen percent of human refugees.¡¯ ¡®We expect that the attraction of Eboracum, even after the whole moon incident, is very probably to begin stretching your supplies very soon, if it hasn¡¯t already,¡¯ Sander D¡¯asta declared. ¡®Not to doubt your capabilities, of course, but the Remnant has far more than just one world, as it happens. This way, we alleviate some pressure and prove the Remnant is an excellent location for those fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong to settle.¡¯ This was not something Guilliman hadn¡¯t pondered on. The refugee crisis sweeping the Galaxy was a foremost issue of policy and economics and the near universal reaction had befuddled him. Throwing wide Eboracum¡¯s doors to all humans had yielded incredible short-term returns and the long-term remained positive. There were teething issues, to be sure - the education programme swung in popularity and the efforts to naturalize humans of this Galaxy into functioning members of a properly Imperial culture were ongoing. Centurion Foltrus, with the Primarch¡¯s blessing, had enacted a decree that only natural-born Imperial citizens were to be considered for ranking positions of sufficient influence. From a meritocratic standpoint, it was unfortunate, but the various corruptive influences of this Galaxy were potentially issuesome enough that Roboute was willing to overlook it. In time, in a few generations, this rule could be repealed, as those born under the Imperial banner grew to adulthood properly. That there was resource strain was true, but only so true as that if one hoped to maintain a standard of living equivalent to the consumerist ideals of this Galaxy. No Imperial citizen wanted for food, water, medicine or living space. There was work to be had for all, education provided and all necessities accounted for. Luxuries were sparse, but luxuries were self-describingly frivolous. Again, in time, such things would change. Centurion Foltrus¡¯ additional edict encouraging trueborn Imperials to begin families was accepted as well. To return to the issues of refugees, once issues of culture were put aside - as culture could be amended, adjusted and if necessary, stamped out - accepting refugees allowed for significant increases in available manpower for industry. Those with high education would provide experiential capital, enriching the advanced industries. This was why the Imperium welcomed any and all human worlds that chose to join with their brothers from Terra. No matter what, there was something the Imperium stood to gain. That the Remnant had decided to abstain from this rich source of labor was curious, though now it seemed they were coming to their senses. ¡®There are some who have emigrated and have not settled well into Imperial life,¡¯ Roboute admitted. ¡®Perhaps as a modification, the Remnant would be an alternative for those who come to Eboracum, should they prove incompatible with our ways.¡¯ ¡®That would complicate logistics, you know,¡¯ Dominus Hort retorted. ¡®It¡¯s easier if we just have them come straight to Remnant space.¡¯ ¡®At worst, there is lost time.¡¯ Roboute waved away the argument. Compared to warp travel, hyperspace ran on sunlight and water. Essentially free. Giving leave for the Remnant to poach any percentage of the SELCORE-directed refugees and he was certain they would hand-select the professionals and specialists. Eboracum and the Exiled Imperium needed those of all walks. There was always work to be done. The discussion spun on.
As per the demands on his position, Roboute had set aside but one singular day to meet physically. After, he would return to Macragge¡¯s Honour and thence to Eboracum, attending via holo to further meetings, but otherwise the Adeptus Legatus would take over the minutia. As the session spun down, the most glaring fact continued to be danced around. The fact that led to why, Roboute suspected, Gilad Pellaeon sailed out in Dominion. The fact that the Imperial Remnant had little to nothing to truly offer the Exiled Imperium. Jaemus was a fringe branch of Kuat: the Treaty of Fundamental Iron put Kuat itself in the Imperium¡¯s court. SELCORE managed the masses of refugees - the Remnant could only entreat with them as well. The New Republic outnumbered the Remnant several times over, in terms of sheer naval tonnage, with that gulf increasing every day. The Remnant had wealth, but the New Republic had more. The Remnant was relatively near, in a galactic sense, but the New Republic bordered the Imperium. Roboute knew they wished for a strong and responsive ally, to no longer stand alone against the Yuuzhan Vong. Though Supreme Commander Malik Carr had only poked gently at the Remnant, all knew the time was coming when they would be the next in line. The Hutts lasted as long as Nas Choka looked aside, and now they foundered before the Yuuzhan Vong. He could even see the practical utility of allying with the Remnant, as an attempt to describe an arc of resistance in the galactic north, yet could the Remnant truly hold up their end of the bargain?
Flennic was bored of the entire affair. He was easy to read and though newly a Moff, his political history was long and deep and provided a breadth of analysis on the man. Temm also helped to confirm some particular theories. Flennic hated Palpatine through and through and Gilad suspected that Flennic saw Roboute as ¡®yet another sorcerer-king¡¯. Sarreti was taken in, that much was clear, the young Moff of Bastion hanging onto Roboute¡¯s rolling-thunder voice. The other Moffs varied. Bemos and D¡¯Asta, being as their sectors were right up against the Yuuzhan Vong advance were the most invested, though D¡¯Asta seemed untowardly critical. There was hemming and hawing and the lack of interest from the Exiles was growing ever more clear. Jaemus couldn¡¯t offer what Kuat could. The coffers of the Remnant were a fraction of the New Republic. Even Hapes was likely richer. Technologically, the Exiles appeared to hold the upper hand. Even the bait of refugee assistance was partially parried. That had been a contentious topic at the previous Council meeting. Sarreti had upbraided the other Moffs for how obvious the Exile¡¯s tactic had been and how utterly boneheaded the Moffs had been to close their borders to any fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong. The Imperial Remnant was supposed to be the alternative! Proof against the New Republic, an example of how the fundamental truths of the Empire were right, even if they had been lost along the way! The Empire could have thrown wide their doors. The influx of wealth, experience, people would¡¯ve breathed new life into the flagging nation. They could¡¯ve shown the hypocrisy of the New Republic, willing to let their own people, their own citizens burn while they discussed in committee. Decisive action! That was the Remnant! The Empire! Gilad was of two minds. On the one hand, Sarreti wasn¡¯t wrong in that they had passed up a supreme chance to smear egg on the face of the New Republic. On the other - the Pentastar Alignment, the substrate of the Remnant, was an insular and isolated sort of culture. The ramifications of unchecked immigration in such a way could not be predicted. But a tempered approach, bringing in the best and brightest and a necessary helping of the rest for appearance¡¯s sake, that would likely have been ideal. The Exiles beat them to the punch. As the New Republic had beaten them to the Exiles. At best, at best, Pellaeon suspected they could agree on sharing intelligence and perhaps some degree of trade. A defensive pact would be shocking. Save for one factor. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to shift the topic, but I¡¯ve had a thought, Lord Guilliman.¡± Roboute raised a blonde eyebrow, curious. ¡°Your joint raid on Obroa-skai is well known, but the goal is, of course, highly classified.¡± Not that Pellaeon hadn¡¯t read the official NRI report, of course. ¡°Would it be too far if I inquired?¡± ¡°Not at all,¡± the Primarch rumbled. ¡°The primary purpose was shrouded to deny the enemy time to prepare or destroy our prize, but that matters little now. No, it would not harm operations to say that we had hoped to acquire further data from the databanks of the Obroan Institute. As is rumored,¡± the Primarch managed, somehow, a shadow of a self-deprecating smile, ¡°we are not from around here. Professors of the Obroan Institute intimated that there might be records that could assist in our finding a way¡­home.¡± Pellaeon nodded, keeping a careful look of interest on his face. ¡°Records¡­such as?¡± The Primarch idly waved a massive hand. ¡°Astrographical charts, xenoarchaeological records, myths, rumors. The concrete and the ephemeral, Admiral. The Warp is quite unknown here, though doubtful it has always been so.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Gilad said. He leaned forward, just slightly. A careful cast, but he felt sure to hook. ¡°If this is an interest to the Exiles, then it¡¯s no secret that Grand Admiral Thrawn compiled a rare collection of extensive information on the Unknown Regions. Maps, notes, historical records¡­ none of which have yet made it into public circulation. All kept secure on Bastion, you know.¡± There was a beat, and then he felt the fury of the Moffs as a physical weight. The Primarch, for the first time, actually appeared interested.
The remotely attending Moffs vanished, one after another. Kurlen stretched when he stood. Sarreti cornered a few Legatus adepts. Gilad Pellaeon came around the table, offering a hand to Roboute. Amused, he took it, careful around the elder mortal¡¯s grip. ¡®It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Consul Guilliman. I appreciate your accepting this meeting. I think this is the beginning of a fruitful friendship between the Empire and the Imperium.¡¯ ¡®And yours, Grand Admiral. Your reputation well precedes you. Send my apologies and well wishes to Madam Temm.¡¯ ¡®I will. I¡¯m sure she will appreciate it as much as she regrets her absence.¡¯ Auguston attended them, armor hissing smoothly as he planted himself, hands clasped behind his back. ¡®Admiral, a reintroduction. Phratus Auguston, Centurion of First Battalion. Phratus, Supreme Commander Pellaeon of the Imperial Remnant.¡¯ Auguston inclined his head slightly, matched by Pellaeon. ¡®First Battalion is the speartip for the Legiones Ultramarine. In the future, when our nations take the field, like as not it will be Auguston¡¯s Battalion.¡¯ Pellaeon surveyed the Astartes. ¡®I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll have much to learn from each other.¡¯ ¡®Likely,¡¯ Phratus replied. ¡®He was an admirer of this ship,¡¯ Roboute continued. ¡®Quite vocally.¡¯ Auguston glowered. ¡®Chimaera will stay my first love, but Dominion does have a presence all her own. Lord Consul, one final matter. Before we depart, there¡¯ll be one final arrival. Brazen Grasp is an Interdictor-class cruiser. Jaemus is offering it as a gift. Word is that your ¡®Warp¡¯ technology has interesting interactions with mass shadows.¡¯ Uncommonly surprised, Roboute bowed his head. ¡®I will accept it with pride on behalf of the Imperium. A notable gift. Jaemus has the regard, and the attention, of the Exiles Imperium.¡¯ Pellaeon smiled a thin smile. ¡®I believe that was their goal. We¡¯ll speak again, surely, Lord Consul.¡¯ ¡®My aides will share my private holocom codes. Safe travels, Grand Admiral.¡¯ Though the Remnant easily lived up to the name, the trip was not wasted. Macragge¡¯s Honour flew admirably, though the trip to this abandoned system just Rimward of Eboracum was simple and quick. Gilad Pellaeon, though he ruled over a dying rump state, one undone quite comprehensively by the New Republic - and such a condemnation that was, considering his judgments of general Republican mettle - seemed an honest and direct man. Beneficially, as the unmatched leader of the Remnant, Pellaeon had the right and the will to do whatever he pleased, as best Guilliman could determine. The dangling of Grand Admiral Thrawn¡¯s maps and intelligence had incensed not a few of the Moffs. They had argued, but not recused or threatened. Gilad Pellaeon held the reins, not the Moff Council. Pellaeon¡¯s reticence had been a constant undercurrent, balanced by Sarreti¡¯s interest and few of the other Moff¡¯s polite attention. One would never hope to win over all, but given Pellaeon¡¯s position, he need only secure the one; any others would be benefit. He made note to mention the particular reaction of Miat Temm to Master Skywalker, either through Aeonid or otherwise. Only those claiming Force-sensitivity reacted so explosively in his presence. A direct line to Borsk Feyl¡¯ya he judged to bear little value. One to the Grand Admiral; that was another matter entirely. The Exiled Imperium would find use for the Imperial Remnant regardless, without a doubt.
Flennic was fairly apoplectic at Gilad¡¯s ¡®subterfuge¡¯. The other Moffs reacted with similar hostility, namely at the fear of giving up so powerful a bargaining chip. The memory of Thrawn still loomed large and if nothing else, the Empire could still pride itself on intelligence that was second to none. Every bit doled out to the Exiles would, they argued, make its way to the grubby hands of NRI and outward, until the whole galaxy knew. Data analysts had only scratched the surface of Thrawn¡¯s inheritance, and who knew what treasures might be squandered away. His retort was that he would be glad to live to see ¡®treasures¡¯ squandered away, as that would mean the Empire, and the Galaxy, had survived the Vong. Sarreti, ever supportive, had added that for all that Thrawn and the Chiss explored the Unknown Regions, they still remained the Unknown Regions and had there been grand wonders locked away for the taking, surely the Chiss would have beaten any others there, and there would be some sign of it. Poor Temm recovered enough to brief him on what she had experienced, which the woman struggled to place into words. In private, she admitted she had been sure she could handle it and that the statements from the Jedi were overstated. It was unfortunate to be public. There was little doubt that all the Moffs suspected Temm¡¯s position in his staff and her particular talents, though there was a difference between suspecting and knowing. Her rather spectacular outing would curtain her previous roles, but she was nothing if not a trustworthy and capable woman and knowing about her did not make them any less relevant. Jaemus¡¯ overture had been delivered, the Dominion showed the flag and a secure line to the Exile¡¯s Primarch was promised. He did not share Sarreti¡¯s relish for the newcomers, but Gilad was ever a pragmatist. Ithor had been an essential action, even if the Moffs castigated him for it. The writing on the wall was growing clearer day by day and star by star. The Vong were coming, and the bloodlust of the Exiles would be his shield against the darkness. Intransigence Interlude II The Ritual of Temporary Cessation of Electric Induction
A posting to an Expeditionary Fleet was a cherished assignment for one sworn to the mysteries of Mars. Beyond the boundaries of Forgeworlds - every bare inch of which were mapped and plotted and measured - lay a galaxy of a hundred billion stars. More often than not, sapient life infested the worlds that accompanied those stars in their long orbits and the artifice of minds both human and alien spanned unnumbered aeons. Expeditionary Fleets plied the ways of the Warp and with each lightyear claimed by the inexorable march of humanity''s future, countless wonders and treasures (and horrifying dangers) were revealed, each begging to be interrogated, dismantled, reassembled and catalogued. To be posted to one of these far-flung fleets, to rub shoulders with Magi Explorators and masters of biology, archaeotechnology, xenobiology, astroarchaeology and exotic mysteries of the metal, machine and energy, was a conduit to ascension to the deeper mysteries of the Cult Mechanicus. Every technology, regardless of origin, revealed more of the great mysteries of the universe and the shape of the face of the Machine God. Xenotech, though proscribed, still required understanding so as to learn how best the Astartes and Excertus might best their foes. The ways of the alien were mapped and remembered as cautionary warnings to remain upon the proper path. And out there, hidden in ancient vaults beneath empty skies, in jealous hoards and deep-warded arcologies redolent with slumbering guardians, were the highest and most precious of relics. Standard Template Constructs. Hungered for with a passion unmatched, desired with a yearning indescribable, mourned for with a sorrow unending. Each STC, even a scrap of a scrap, represented the dizzying pinnacles the ancients once bestrode, heights that the Cult ever desired to ascend. In the course of an adroit Adept''s operable span within the bounds of an Expeditionary Fleet, the average number of alien and lost human cultures encountered was numbered twelve. Twelve distinct civilizations, each with many thousands - if not millions, at times - of years of history and development. Each might have followed a wholly unique pathway along the mystery of the machine and spawned wonders and terrors none could dream of. Abominable Intelligences, locked within sub-glacial vaults at the chilling edge of absolute zero, commanding artifice macro weapons that could pluck a battleship from the sky. Warp-bound songcraft machines that harnessed the empyreal footprint of captives to raise glittering, silver spires in cities born of sin. Automat foundries that chewed deep into the mantles of worlds, pockmarking planets like cystic worms as they left behind trinkets of wondrous complexity and unfathomable purpose. A wise Adept, subordinate to a learned mentor, could expect meaningful advancement and acquisition of many holy improvements and implants, paring away the flesh and gaining clearer commune. Thus: assignment to an Expeditionary Fleet was a coveted position, yet for all the teeming squadrons that darkened skies from Terra to Baal to the Halo Stars, the numbers of the Mechanicum were yet limitless. Few could ever forecast such an appointment. Fewer could petition. Ash-Salt//Nine served her duty proudly and faithfully for seventeen years, after her first augmentations on Konor. The first of her birth-flesh to be removed was a span of her spine; the thoracic from T4 to T9. Replaced with a complex cognolink package, she stepped into her first tasking as a minor Lexmachanic aspirant, specialization dialecta. Her augmentations grew in years from there, as her cognolink spread up her spine, bulking out and adding a mild hunch to her posture, corrected later by full replacement of both legs, from the hip. She proved adept at navigating and dismantling autoclave protocols often laced within exotic import technologies. She enjoyed the byplay of binaric warfare, staying ahead of executioner-worms and leachline-trojan surges. Her cohort on Konor grew in renown, through some contribution of her own, as they removed mortis-switch commands and logiclock scrapcode corruption from relics and trophies returned to the Five Hundred Worlds by the grand starfleets under Guilliman''s command. In time, as the fulcrum of Ultramar shifted, Ash-Salt//Nine found herself relocated, with her cohort, to one of the newest worlds on the forefront of expansion, a world whispered to be ascending at a heady pace toward matching the original anchor-worlds of Ultramar itself. Under the stern glare of Veridia, on verdant Calth, she left behind her days as an aspirant, elevated to the rank of Dialecta-Veritas Minoris. She was tapped at times to consult on the growing noosphere of Calth, anchored on enormous data-engines stamped with the seal of her very own Forgeworld - nostalgic, as she smiled (with half a flesh smile, half her skull having been refit to support a wet-link cognoscythe processor) and ran fingers over the proud markings of Konor. Certainly, she had not been the only consultant, and was but one input among many hundreds, but she was pleased to serve, even if struck by occasional melancholy watching might battleships and wallowing troopships depart the yards above Calth. Out into the stars they went, to bring illumination to the dark corners of the galaxy, where they would find the sorts of technologies that would be delivered, in sterile and itemized packing crates, to her laboratorium. She wished, at times, to be party to those departing vessels, so that she might select projects of her own, or better yet, to hone her growing talent against mightier examples of hostile cyberwar, perhaps in the very orbits of a recalcitrant world. Thus she was on the surface of Calth, within the sterile and decoupled confines of her laboratorium, carefully warded from the greater noosphere and decoupled from interface links when the Word Bearers brought treachery. Her first and last warning had been when the roof fell in, burying her under several tons of rubble. That had been unpleasant, nonoptimal, and wasteful to boot, as it had thoroughly ruined a particularly delicate piece of xenotech that she was convinced was a historitor cogitator. She had been nearly through its complex defenses, too. The rest of that baleful day mattered very little and in truth, Ash Salt//Nine had stored away most of the recollections on an ancillary drive, as there was little to regard of those long hours of infamy and the hazard of even tangential scrapcode influence was quite unacceptable. She did not like to think of Calth, because there was no need to evaluate a thoroughly exhausted subject (one already plied by far more experienced minds than hers) when at her fingertips and dendrite-grips was not an average of twelve worlds and civilizations, but twenty-five thousand years and a million species of wonderful, wonderful new things to experience. She had never expected a tasking with an Expeditionary Fleet, and though the fig-leaf of the declaration of the 4711th remained obvious, the fact remained that by all measures that mattered, Ash-Salt//Nine now veritably drowned in a paradise few of Mars could dream of. Explorator Dominus Orichi-Mu (who was nominally her superior, in that he alone remained of sufficient rank and authority, though of a branch entirely perpendicular to her own original) whisked as many of the Mechanicum from Calth as he was able, and as many was not enough. Of trained Magi, inducted into mysteries beyond that of base novitiate, there were three hundred and seventy-four. A perilously small number, far less than the Dominus'' barque should ever have, even at a skeleton crew. Perfidious and ruinous scrapcode had ravaged the servants of the Machine God at Calth and Ash-Salt//Nine knew it was only her initial decoupling from the greater networks of the doomed world that saved her. She might have been Dialecta-Veritas Minoris, but the grave logic-weapon unleashed by the traitors of the Seventeenth had felled senior Tech-Priests, Rubricatus Superior, Digitalis Hermeticons and Enginseer-Primus alike. She had been lucky, a word she quite despised, along with most others in the red of Mars. Stretched perilously thin, with novitiates being accelerated through instructional programmes and rapid augmentation, Orichi-Mu hand-selected a cadre he declared to be his Technarius Xenoidae Primaris. That is - those given the honors to feast themselves gluttonous on the endless, endless procession of technology from this ''New Republic'' in the strange galaxy the 4711th found itself within. And Ash-Salt//Nine planned to gorge herself. Though, at the moment, such plans were on pause. She ran cycle again through somatic and augmentive-mechanic interfaces, prodding with diagnostic ritual. She added her fleshvoice to each, murmuring proper canticles and entreaties for resumption of intended function. Again, the cycles returned the same results: hale of body, flesh and machine, by all metrics she could consider. She could speak still, with her modified mouth and past vocal chords that had been relocated, but her voxcaster remained silent. Very curious, that. And she remained stock-still, frozen like a statue, with only the trailing edges of her robe gently swaying in the breeze of climate processing. As she had remained frozen for the past quarter hour, ever since she had placed the small, cylindrical device over her right breast. It had sealed most readily - her sensoria detected a tiny mote of electromagnetism - and for a moment, it had merely sat there on the smooth steel pectoral plate before emitting a clear tone (Corax Flat, in fact), a tiny diode blinking green. At which point, Ash-Salt//Nine found herself quite unable to move or do anything else. Very curious. While her diagnostics ran, she had taken a moment of self-reflection, flicking through memories of the previous few months and ensuring that for all the restraining bolt had been able to physically constrain her, it had not appeared to intrude upon any other of her systems. Was it poor practice to apply the bolt to herself? Perhaps. It had been endlessly fascinating to experiment on the ''droids'' of this galaxy with the tiny and ubiquitous devices. She had expressed serious disbelief when they first passed by her notice. Mass produced, simplistic, yet apparently universally applicable? Across manufacturer, model and age? Yet the empirical results spoke for themselves. She took a cross-section of droids from Eboracum, as well as selected from disposal pits, and applied the same bolt to each. To the last, the droids were rendered insensate and nonfunctional. Via a minor control mechanism, she could enable or disable a swathe of functions of the droids, from vox to locomotion, meaning she could quite easily select what a droid could and could not do at the press of a key. Of course, it had been simplicity itself to reverse-engineer the signals from the remote, so that she could herself blurt the codes and signal out at the rapidity of thought without needing the crudity of a digit pressing a physical rune, which was partially to blame for why she had been curious to test the bolt upon her own body. On one of the perilous few automata she had been allowed to experiment on, the bolt appeared to accomplish nothing at all, but on a servitor, it had mostly functioned as it would on a droid. Ash-Salt//Nine had figured she would be quite easily able to command the bolt upon her own person through blurts of command signal, except that it disabled her vox-broadcast entirely, along with all other radiative interfaces. Most frustrating. More irritating was that if she could not revoke the bolt''s access, it would be Ubato-Chorus who would find her, and should he be the one to remove it his taunting would be inescapable. She had some time until the other Adept was due to deliver her further samples, so she redoubled her efforts to return a query ping off the intractable device. The bolt continued to steadfastly ignore her. Tremendously frustrating. She could already imagine three ways to inoculate her own systems against the bolt in the future. Its operation was simple, but remarkably ingenious. From the inside, she was able to see how the somatic connections to her augments allowed for feedback into her flesh-neurology. The bolt apparently managed to work its way into that flesh-machine interlock, projecting essentially static between her mind and her machine-body, preventing her from giving reflexive commands. In a way, it disabled her proprioception, severing her brain from sending any commands to limbs and parts that now ''did not exist''. The automatic systems continued running, of course, without any further inputs, just as she observed with droids. Very intriguing. Redundant connections between flesh and machine would likely override this interface static. Perhaps she could design neural capacitors that would modulate neurological signals. Cloned dendrites seeded through the circuitry of her augmentations could act as buffers. It was not a mistake to apply the restraining bolt. She was gaining valuable insight, after all. No matter what Ubato-Chorus might say, she had the situation entirely under control. There was no discovery without risk. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. If he made a scene of it, perhaps she''d gain further results by applying a bolt to him, next he passed through a rest-cycle. She ran another diagnostic cycle, this time attempting to control the bolt by whistling commands as best she could through half a mouth. The bolts were robust, after all, and accepted a variety of inputs. That was something she had noticed often among the myriad samples of Republican technologies. Much of it was robust and designed for ease of use. She had dismantled ''blasters'', after tasking servitors to demonstrate the usage and power of the infantry weaponry. Much like lasguns, blasters were durable in construction, built with easily replaceable parts and often sported expansion capacity with rails and attachment points for personalization to a particular task. Digging deeper into blasters, she had been quite astonished to recognize them as plasma weaponry. A very, very far cry from the potent plasma projectors of Mars, whose sun-hot darts could vaporize a being or execute an armored vehicle, but plasma weapons nonetheless. Martian plasma used large quantities of highly reactive gasses, compressed, combusted and shaped by magnetic bottles to deliver hydrogen-fused plasma onto a target with devastating power. In many ways, blasters were a compact, miniaturized version. They were economical: only small amounts of gas were agitated and energized by an electrical charge before being accelerated in a very similar fashion by a magnetic focusing array. The firepower was as drastically different as an infantry lasgun was to a Shadowsword, in her opinion, but the principles of design within the blaster had her almost dizzy with possibilities, even if she was not an Artisan by training. Her diagnostic ended and her latest gambit delivered no results. The bolt remained resolute. Perhaps another angle. Repulsorlifts were her favorite. Though Eboracum''s port had been surgically destroyed, a great many ''landspeeders'' remained on the world, most of which made their way into Mechanicum hands. Ash-Salt//Nine had managed to requisition one to dismantle, working on it with the always irritating Ubato-Chorus, until they had isolated and excised the repulsor panels from beneath. Oh, but how incredible they were! According to information filtered in from locals, there were several variations that all derived from the same principles. The ones she and Ubato-Chorus removed from the landspeeder were of the smallest and simplest design - one that required next to no inputs of energy to maintain! The barest trickle allowed for total abrogation of the fundamental laws of gravity! Ubato-Chorus, stickler and intractable as always, was less impressed, but Ash-Salt//Nine made a point of climbing aboard one of the panels and propelling herself around the laboratorium atop it, relaying enough energy to maintain the effect merely through radiative charging from a mechadendrite. Ubato-Chorus had been forced to finally admit the endless utility of repulsorlifts, after he had intercepted her circuits of their shared space. Even devoid of energy input, the repulsor panel held enough of a charge to continue to float for a further several days! Such a robust design! It was on her internal schedule to replace her lower limbs with repulsors of some design. She had several schematics drawn up. Ubato-Chorus called it pointless, which only reinforced that no matter how many cognition implants he gained, his administrative processes would always remain inferior. Ash-Salt//Nine fully intended to be able to fly, as there were no circumstances she could simulate in which that capability would not be a benefit. In fact, she considered quite rightfully that repulsors were of far greater importance than the Republican hyperdrives. Those devices were far beyond her position to examine, kept instead for the small cadre of senior Tech-Priests directly under Orichi-Mu, but the Imperium already knew how to sail between the stars. In a rare moment of empathy, she fully understood why Republicans appeared to attach repulsorlifts to every conceivable thing they could. She would too. It was simple logic. Movement in three dimensions represented infinitely more utility than movement in two. It was unassailable, even if Ubato-Chorus kept composing treatises otherwise. Because his administrative capacity was limited. Again, her attempt to interface with the restraining bolt met with failure. The stubborn little device blinked up at her, mockingly. Had she had an entirely flesh limb, she could simply grab the cursed thing and remove it. Mentally, she designed a fourth method of defeating the bolt, should the situation arise again in the future. Really, it was remarkable how obvious it was, from the inside. Also, she appended a task to refit the laboratorium''s servitors to accept flesh-voice commands as well as binharic blurt. That was rather obvious, in retrospect. At least while she ran tests, she could still access her cogitation banks and review notes. The bolt hadn''t been able to interfere with that at least, given that it was wired directly into the grey matter of her brain. If it had¡­ She appended another tasking, which was to ensure Ubato-Chorus knew that she had simulated the possibility of the restraining bolt severing the callosummic bridge. Which she had. After attaching the bolt. The order of actions was not something Ubato-Chorus needed to be aware of. Repulsorlifts, blasters, the peculiar droids¡­ Holograms! Another technology the Imperium already boasted, but miniaturized and made rugged and simple. Masterful hololiths could easily match a Republican hologram, but those required dedicated tanks and a complex, hard-wearing machinery. Republican holograms could be produced in cubes and discs no larger than a few centimeters in diameter, though the size of the projection was commensurate. Full-color holograms were much rarer, requiring dramatically larger machines, which Ash-Salt//Nine had not yet seen, only heard tell of. The laboratorium now featured many holographic displays, able to at least project three distinct colors (albeit at the cost of being more grainy and having slower refresh), and with subtle adjustments to her augmetics, she was able to directly interface with the projections via her mechadendrites and left hand. To her knowledge, Republicans had not considered the obvious improvement of haptic integration. This was no doubt due to their limited understanding of the mysteries of technology. A pleasant thing, then, that the Omnissiah had seen fit to send the Magi of Mars to this misbegotten corner of the universe. Her holograms were a hobby of hers - they were one of the first technologies to be vetted and accepted by her betters. With so few true Magos in the 4711th, Orichi-Mu called conclaves to debate philosophical, technological and theological disputes. All three were essential, of course, in sanctioning or banning xenotechnology. After all, while the 9th Law decried the alien mechanism, the 7th Law also demanded understanding. Debate continued to be rife among the Mechanicum contingent of the 4711th and Ash-Salt//Nine knew there were more than a few who argued vociferously against the Dominus'' more liberal views. They espoused orthodox beliefs, especially leaning on the 16th Law as if it were a crutch. There was a growing factionalism that dismayed her, but such things were not new. On Konor there were thousands of branch-cults both orthodox and syncretic, and sometimes in-between. Another oblique pass at the restraining bolt delivered no results. She sighed. On the subject of droids, she was much in agreement with the more orthodox. At best, droids were extraneous and unnecessary. At worst, they were mockeries, aping intelligence and the soul with disgusting facsimiles of personalities. Better they all be destroyed and more clean servants devised, like servitors. Yet on the other hand, those of the 4711th''s Mechanicum who rejected the workings of the Republicans were clearly blinded and hidebound. The principles and theory behind the making of a repulsorlift were not alien. No more than the refraction of visible light through a prism could be considered ''alien''. It was part of the universe, a quantifiable phenomenon which could be replicated, recorded, and repeated. The harnessing of this phenomenon might be alien, as made by alien hands - but an alien might shape a prism from a crystal and thus refract light, but the alien could not claim dominion over the rainbow. That, she knew, was to give the alien an appalling authority. No, much of what she had seen she knew would, in time, be declared acceptable, even if it fell to artisans and technologicus to devise proper, sanctified Martian applications of underlying theory. She pondered if it would be worth continuing to study the principles of the restraining bolt, given its lack of function on Imperial automata and the Dominus'' decree that all droids are to be destroyed. Without droids, there would be little use for the little devices, as curious as they were. Still, at the least, it would behoove the Mechanicum to at least learn how to combat them more properly, due to this unexpected interaction. Of course, she now had five methods to inoculate herself from the bolt, in the future. Once she shut it off. Her remaining eyebrow drew taut. She hadn''t realized she could still emote with her remaining face. Another datapoint. She had to shut off the bolt¡­another thought occurred. It would be risky, but Ubato-Chorus should be arriving soon. Her internal chronometer spoke of time trickling away. The protocol was an ancient one and one that often proved sufficient for inexplicable ailments of the machine spirit. All novitiates learned it by rote, along with dozens of other cantrip protocols, long before they were given leave to work with machinery more complicated than a biocycler. Ash-Salt//Nine began to recite the Ritual of Temporary Cessation of Electric Induction. So ubiquitous, so universal a ritual, that even her own augmentics were designed to answer to her own personal incantation. Be it in flesh-voice, binharic blurt, noospheric tasking, Ash-Salt//Nine bore her own personal ritual key, as did all technology she had constructed. A wave of dizziness swept her, a frightfully mortal thing and a feeling like a wet rag squeezing around her brain made her wince. From her chest, the constant low hum of her generator spun down and, bereft of power, her left hand, which was still gripping the restraining bolt on her chest, went limp and dropped to her side. Of course, she did not topple over - her legs were designed to autolock joints and stabilize through internal gyroscopics. It would be poor form for an Adept to fall flat on their face from a power surge, after all. Her breath tasted metallic and half her vision fled. The bolt, quite obnoxiously, remained clamped to her pectoral plate. She grinned her half-grin. She''d read the electromagnetic lock when she applied it to herself - and the other droids besides. The exact strength bounced through her mind and she intoned the Ritual of Resumption of Electric Induction. Her internal gaussian engine - a Konorite Dyad-Naught vnC design, gifted by her original mentor - pulsed briefly as it stabilized its own electromagnetic containment bottle. For a brief moment, every metal part of Ash-Salt//Nine polarized. The retraining bolt popped off, polar magnetic forces launching it with mild force. Ash-Salt//Nine assuredly did not stretch and did not wipe the previous thirty-six minutes of internal laboratorium observation from the lab''s cogitators. She gathered up the restraining bolt, eying it thoughtfully, before shutting it off and tucking into an internal pocket of her robes. A new idea had occurred to her, which was that if the mechanism behind the bolt could be discerned, then replicated at large, the Dominus might well be interested in a means to deactivate large quantities of droids through the emanation or projection of the signal at macro scale. Perhaps it could even scale large enough to encompass an entire world. Also, even though she had six means with which to inoculate herself against the curious effects of the device - and as a loyal and faithful Adept of Mars, she would share these with her superiors - Ubato-Chorus did not have those means yet. The next time he derided her repulsorlift designs without a formulated argument, perhaps she''d see if his limited administrative capacity could handle a new challenge. Intransigence Chapter VIII VIII: No More Colors Once upon a time, the ghostly blue-grey shape of a Super Star Destroyer was a mark of immediate terror. Beings upon the surface of a world would look up and quake in fear at the sight of its behemoth size filling the sky like the shadow of intent. Arrowhead shaped, spear-tip shaped, it was a naked blade only sheathed when sated by the blood of malcontents and those the Empire turned its implacable gaze towards. Irony of ironies, then, that the bulk of Guardian lived up to her name, coasting high over Coruscant and filling each and every being on the capital world below with a swell of comfort each time they turned eyes toward the sky. Returned to the heart of the New Republic after her deployment along the southern front of the Yuuzhan Vong advance, Guardian rubbed shoulders with her long-lost cousin Malaghi Shesh , surrounded by entire squadrons of Imperial Star Destroyers, rubbing shoulders with MC90s and Bothan Assault Cruisers. Nebula Star Destroyers, Corona Frigates, Belarus cruisers, and Endurance Fleet Carriers stacked in squadrons. Fleet tenders nosed alongside capital ships like remoras, Prowler recon vessels ranged out wide keeping tabs on the endless and bustling local space around the capital. The assembled fleet dwarfed the forces pulled together for the catastrophic ¡®Corellian Gambit¡¯. Fifth Fleet, mauled at Fondor, even with the Battle Groups on loan would¡¯ve matched perhaps half of the assembled armada. First Fleet, pride of the New Republic Navy, made rendezvous in bold, public sight. Deep within Guardian gathered the best and brightest of the New Republic Defense Force. General Etahn A¡¯baht, advisor to Supreme Commander Sien Sovv, both attending in the flesh. Admiral Turk Brand, remotely attending from where he kept peaceful but watchful eyes on Fondor and the Tapani Sector alongside the Exiles. Ayddar Nylykerka, the Director of Fleet Intelligence, with arms crossed and air sacs trembling. Admiral Kre¡¯fey, his pure-white fur pristine and shining, rocking back and forth with scarcely repressed energy. General Wedge Antilles, seated already at the conference table, leaning forward with shoulders hunched and elbows planted on the durasteel surface. Admiral Suskafoo, head of Technology Section fiddled with one antenna, speaking in low tones with Admiral Ragab, Chief of Staff of Fleet Command while Admiral Horton Salm of Starfighter Command gestured with a datapad. Within Guardian ¡¯s flag conference chamber, at least a square acre in size, were perhaps the most powerful beings in the known Galaxy. Veterans of the Galactic Civil War, the Black Fleet Crisis, campaigns against warlords and fringe recalcitrants, of the Reborn Emperor¡¯s depredations, they served at the pleasure of the Chief of State and the Senate of the New Republic; yet it was ultimately their commands, their tactics, their strategy that could save or condemn a thousand worlds. Which meant: no pressure. ¡°I appreciate all of your attendance,¡± Sien Sovv began, black eyes scanning over the chamber. ¡°It¡¯s an understatement to say that the last month has been¡­eventful.¡± Murmurs and a few grim chuckles rippled through the officers, more than a few glances cast toward Turk Brand¡¯s hologram. The Sullustan paced back and forth at the head of the conference table, a blank hologram humming pale and blue behind him, covering most of a wall. Projection screens recreated the starscape and planet beyond as if the chamber were high up in one of Guardian ¡¯s many dorsal towers, recreating the incredible vista of nearspace around Coruscant. The capital hung half in shadow, the entire globe glowing with permanent golden light. Traffic bands stacked high past Guardian and well out to geosynchronous orbit and beyond, filled with freighters and bulk haulers, civilian liners and industrial galleons. A sleek Nebula slid past Guardian , toylike against the sprawling cityscape of the Super Star Destroyer. The itinerary was obvious enough. The Battle of Fondor, the fall of Duro, Ando, Kalarba, a dozen others. The attack on the Exile world of Eboracum, the Vong Warmaster¡¯s ¡®ceasefire¡¯. Admiral Brand gave an abbreviated breakdown of the mood in Tapani and Fondor itself, now that the dust had quite literally settled. The Exiles were there to stay, comfortably invited in by the Guildmasters of Fondor and by the populace of Tapani itself. They were digging fingers into every area they could, ¡®leasing¡¯ entire sectors of Fondor¡¯s surviving factories and running patrols out to neighboring systems with their cruisers. Their dreadnought stayed on station over Fondor, likely as a deterrence, Brand suspected, and their Admiral had been more than willing to handle continued joint coverage of Fondor while Fifth Fleet¡¯s crippled vessels were restored. The Exiles had even offered assistance on those repairs, though politely declined. After Brand, Wedge Antilles and Traest Kre¡¯fey broke down what it had been like constantly engaging the Yuuzhan Vong along the southern and Rimward front. Elements of every Fleet had been active from Bestine in the Inner Rim to Svivren in the Outer Rim; from Mimban and Manaan to Contruum, skirmishes and sudden clashes kept the NRDF running nonstop across tens of thousands of lightyears. Kre¡¯fey explained how the greatest struggle against the Vong wasn¡¯t their biotechnology, but the total unpredictability and true alien nature of their target selection. They might skip past a dozen settled worlds to crash into a one a hundred lightyears towards the Core, but then spread out and secure a sphere of territory well ahead of the ¡®lines¡¯. They attacked in metastasizing fits and starts, following a method known only to their madness. Nylykerka agreed. The Fleet Intelligence spooks were driving themselves insane and climbing the walls trying to create a comprehensive dossier of Yuuzhan Vong tactical and strategic thought. Suskafoo presented the latest findings from Technology, about, obviously, Technology. Or: Biotechnology. After so many battles in the void and in the dirt, there was a true glut of Yuuzhan Vong biots, alive and dead, ripe and ready for examination. Yorik coral¡¯s properties were basically as well known as durasteel now; the mineral make-up of Vonduun armor¡¯s crystalline inner layer had an official name. Yet for all that, some remained beyond the understanding of even the best technologists and geneticists. Yammosks, for example, were a complete and total mystery. Few had ever been killed, and even fewer even seen . Their sign was everywhere, marked out by the eerie coordination of the Vong in each engagement, but the fleshy ¡®War Coordinators¡¯ were guarded so jealously and so preciously that when the Wraiths had attempted to isolate and board a ship suspected to be carrying a yammosk, the Vong had been willing to collapse an entire flank of the raid over Molavar just to defend the miid-roic cruiser. As Colonel Loran put it: ¡°Well, at least we could say we did find one.¡± Captured villips were still inscrutable as ever, leaving the uncomfortable reality being that the Vong could broadcast into the holonet, but the New Republic were still quite locked out from the Vong¡¯s own communication systems. In fact; it wasn¡¯t even known exactly the manner of communication among villips - were they a distributed nodal network, like comms? Were they linked, one to another, like an entanglement system? Could any villip call any other? Theories, but no answers. And lastly, Ragab and Salm declared that Fleet-wide doctrinal changes were paying dividends. Stutterfire and shield pairs among the starfighter corps were slowing the bleed of talent and expertise as starfighter jockeys lived longer. Adjustments of inertial compensators were having a marked difference in preventing dovin basals from snatching shields. Quite simply, the bloody tolls and slanted ratio of losses from the earlier war were stabilizing and starting to tip. ¡°The demonization of the Jedi is unfortunate, but the Warmaster¡¯s ceasefire couldn¡¯t have come at a better time.¡± Sien Sovv reclaimed the floor, quite some time later. ¡°We¡¯ve been struggling to get our feet under ourselves since essentially Dantooine. The blows kept coming and all of us here know how stretched the Navy has been.¡± The Sullustan huffed a sigh, rubbing at his broad forehead. ¡°The only reason we can all be here, right now, is because the biggest of all surprises is that Tsavong Lah apparently wasn¡¯t bluffing. Attacks and advances have completely stopped. The Vong are consolidating their positions, but they aren¡¯t moving a micron except in Hutt space.¡± ¡°Let them bleed in there,¡± Admiral Firmus Nantz, First Fleet, sniffed. ¡°The Hutts are triple dealing; this is a reckoning that has been a long time coming.¡± Sien Sovv nodded. ¡°And they are bleeding. Supreme Commander Nas Choka is tied up in the depths of Hutt territory and from sources high in the Kajidics we know that the Vong are poking at the Bootana.¡± ¡°How high?¡± Admiral Thaneespi, Second Fleet, asked, giving a wall-eyed Mon Calamari stare. Nylykerka cut in. ¡°Very high. We¡¯ve been getting nearly real-time intelligence out of the Besadii Kajidic from a source that has to be within at least Borga¡¯s inner circle - whatever is left of it. Nal Hutta fell almost immediately along with Nar Shadaa and Nas Choka rampaged across most of Hutt space before the Kajidics managed to get over themselves and push back. Everything says it¡¯s only a matter of time until the Vong crack the Bootana and finish up the sweep, but until then, they are bleeding and they are distracted.¡± ¡°Hutts aside,¡± Sovv cleared his throat wetly, ¡°Supreme Commander Malik Carr in the galactic north seems to be respecting the Warmaster¡¯s declaration.¡± Wedge Antilles frowned. ¡°Didn¡¯t Yavin 4 just get hit? Last night?¡± Word of the attack swept through the higher echelons of the Navy, especially in the starfighter corps. More than a few Admirals and Commodores had requested clearance to take a squadron or two for support when the news broke. General Antilles and Admiral Kre¡¯fey had been among them. ¡°Yavin 4 isn¡¯t New Republic territory, or even any territory claimed at all. The Jedi are, for better or worse, kept to their own. Given the Warmaster¡¯s demand for Jedi in return for the continued ceasefire¡­I¡¯m sorry to say it, but it was a given, sooner or later.¡± ¡° Children ,¡± one of the Admirals growled. ¡°Yes, children,¡± Firmus Nantz echoed. ¡°How many millions of children now, across the galaxy? Tens of millions? If the Jedi had integrated into the New Republic better, we could¡¯ve been there. They didn¡¯t; we weren¡¯t.¡± ¡°That¡¯s unfair, Nantz,¡± Thaneespi countered. ¡°It¡¯s honest. I told Calrissian the same years ago. I respect Luke Skywalker and I¡¯ll admire him until the day I die, but our hands are tied. Be glad the Exiles weren¡¯t as hamstrung.¡± ¡°A fine enough segue, thank you.¡± Sien Sovv nodded to an aide who tapped away at a datapad, replacing the previous hologram showing a general breakdown of all five Fleets with one displaying a double-headed avian symbol, along with a terrestrial world and large, baroque warships. ¡°The Exiles. If the Yuuzhan Vong are a black box, the Exiles are the complete opposite. They¡¯re shouting to everyone around them what they want and what they¡¯re going to do.¡± ¡°Kill Vong, kill Vong, and I believe when they¡¯re done with that: kill Vong.¡± Kre¡¯fey said drily. The Bothan cocked a fluffy brow, nose twitching once. ¡°They¡¯ve done damned well at that so far.¡± ¡°On top of subverting democratic and republican principles, shoving out New Republic influence in key sectors of the Galaxy and getting into bed with Kuat, but yes, that.¡± Wedge Antilles spoke low, but heat filled his voice. A¡¯baht tugged at his fleshy, aubergine lip and nodded emphatically. ¡°Pellaeon came crawling out of the Remnant to them, hat in hand. Imperials snuggling up to Imperials.¡± Sovv cut off a rising buzz with both hands, waving down his subordinates. ¡°Let¡¯s put the politics aside for a moment. Suskafoo, Aydar? What does Fleet Intelligence and Technology have to say about them?¡± Nylykerka spoke first, expelling air from his sacs with a low whistle. ¡°We¡¯ve been working with NRI. The Exiles are proving hard to get any real levels of penetration into. It¡¯s simplicity itself to get agents into Eboracum or onto crews of some of the Exile-owned freighters, but upwards? We run into duranium walls left and right. NRI has different priorities than we do, of course, but we can both agree that the Exiles don¡¯t seem to be hiding much. There¡¯s a peculiar kind of pride they wrap themselves up in. They don¡¯t want to keep secrets.¡± Nantz huffed a laugh. ¡°I could¡¯ve saved you all the time and pay. Just watch their ¡®Primarch¡¯ proudly tell the New Republic Senate that he¡¯s comfortable with exterminating whole species. I daresay that¡¯s a bit of a bellwether for the amount of shame they can feel.¡± ¡°Yes, well, besides that, we¡¯ve had time to do a full analysis of the Fondor action report and recordings from Eboracum¡¯s stations and surface during the attack there.¡± Nylykerka projected holos of his own over the conference table: detailed wireframes of Exile warships, starfighters alongside stills of each in action. ¡°The Exile¡¯s naval doctrine focuses on raw tonnage over anything else. The smallest warships we¡¯ve seen them field are roughly the size of an Imperial Star Destroyer, while the largest would¡¯ve eaten Eclipse . We¡¯re confident that this is a technological limitation-¡± Suskafoo nodded emphatically in support. ¡°-given that there¡¯s undeniable benefits to escort classes for capitals.¡± ¡°A technological limitation? I was given to believe that the Exile¡¯s technology was flat better than ours.¡± Suskafoo fielded the question from Admiral Ragab. ¡°Not as such. Exile technological base is different , very radically so. In some ways, it is better. In some ways, worse. They cannot use reliable FTL here and must rely on either Jedi or painstaking scouting as if it was the earliest days of expansion down the hyperlanes. That alone is a tremendous flaw. They also cannot hide their avarice for holocomm technology; one of Eboracum¡¯s leading imports are holocomm transceivers and components.¡± Suskafoo paused, peering around the conference table, seeing generally uncomprehending faces. ¡°You don¡¯t see? They did not have faster-than-light communications! .¡± That got a reaction. A ripple of surprise; shock. ¡°You can confirm this?¡± Nylykerka nodded. ¡°NRI supports this too. The Exiles are too overt in what they¡¯ve wanted, especially from Kuat. They¡¯re treating hyperdrives and holocomms like they¡¯re corusca gems.¡± ¡°This is my meaning,¡± Suskafoo continued. ¡°In some ways: better. In some ways: almost primitive.¡± ¡°Primitive or not, their dreadnought battled two Vong grand cruisers to a standstill.¡± Brand countered. Suskafoo waggled a chitinous hand. ¡°Analysts suggest that the Vong could have destroyed the Exile warship, if they had concentrated on it.¡± The Verpine cycled to another holo, zooming in on a succession of magma missiles slamming into an Exile cruiser in a stroboscopic ripple of blinding detonations. At the same time, plasma splashed harmlessly against crackling bolts of violet lightning. ¡°Their shields are not like our own. They are strong, very strong, but they do not stop slower moving projectiles at all. At Fondor, coralskippers were able to strafe at close quarters and magma missiles proved slow enough to bypass their protections.¡± ¡°Like they only have ray shields¡­¡± ¡°Instead of unified deflector arrays, yes.¡± Suskafoo nodded sharply. ¡°This is a tremendous weakness. General Antilles, I am told you have had Rogue Squadron running sims against our programs?¡± Antilles drummed knuckles on the table. ¡°Colonel Darklighter and Colonel Fel both, yes, along with the other three squadrons on Ralroost . Gavin¡¯s said that the first few rounds gave the Rogues a sobering shellacking, not too different from the first sims against ¡®skips. Since then, they¡¯re getting the Exile¡¯s number. That latest update with the shield bypass¡­¡± That had been a full wargame on Ralroost , looping in the starfighter wing and the command crew, Kre¡¯fey himself indulging in participating and commanding droid-run capitals as part of a squadron. A cunning Thrawn pincer brought Ralroost and several Nebulas in at point-blank range with Opolor¡¯s Vow , dumping out their wings practically under the Exile dreadnought¡¯s guns. Concussion missiles and proton torpedoes slipped right through the Exile¡¯s shields as if they didn¡¯t exist and the tiny, agile missiles proved hard for the sim to track and shoot down. ¡°The sim managed a full accounting of all the ships at Fondor.¡± Antilles seemed perversely pleased about it, sitting back with a small smile. ¡°It¡¯s good to know we can fight them, but that won¡¯t be a concern.¡± Nantz steepled his fingers, thick black eyebrows drawn down over his deep eyes. ¡°If we know this, the Vong know it. And I hate to give the scarheads credit, but they adapt fast. The Exiles have Malik Carr tied up in the north and giving us breathing room all along Hydian up there. I¡¯d hate to see the Vong pull another attack and go for the kill. Don¡¯t much like the Exiles'' ideas about some things, but so far, they¡¯re not painting their ships with blood.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the critical issue, in fact,¡± Sien Sovv agreed. ¡°The Senate, or at least Senator Shesh¡¯s faction, is enamoured with the Exiles.¡± The Sullustan¡¯s broad lips narrowed. ¡°So: our final item on the itinerary.¡± From the edge of the chamber, where aides and junior officers attended the Admirals and Generals, a particularly recognizable Bothan rose to his feet. He waved a hand immediately, stopping several from rising to their feet to salute. Borsk Fey¡¯lya joined Sovv at the head of the table. ¡°I¡¯d like the room, please,¡± the Chief of State of the New Republic asked amicably. The chamber emptied of all but flag officers in surprised silence broken only by booted feet on decking and rustling of uniforms. The last out sealed the chamber. Borsk Fey¡¯lya wore an unmarked formal Navy uniform without any rank tabs. As ever, his fur was impeccably groomed and carefully brushed and he made sure to meet each Admiral or General¡¯s eyes, even those in holo. ¡°Right now,¡± Borsk began, ¡°I¡¯m not here. This meeting hasn¡¯t happened.¡± Sovv quietly took a step to the side, giving the Chief of State the full floor. ¡°Tsavong Lah has given us breathing room. All he¡¯s done is given us rope to hang ourselves. Jedi are being hunted up and down the Galaxy. Local governments are capitulating out of terror. We saw it on Ando. The Ploo and Plooriod sectors are considering petitioning Coruscant to be released under the Exiles. The Hutts are collapsing. Hapes plans to lock their doors. The Remnant has a half-refit Super Star Destroyer and a Moff Council that thinks the Vong are scared of the ghost of a memory of an Empire. I have one order for you all.¡± For a moment, Borsk Fey¡¯lya slumped. Age suddenly piled onto the Bothan, exhaustion etching into his face and expression and he seemed humbled. Then it was past and he pulled himself together, the consummate statesman again. ¡°Admirals, Generals. Give me a victory. Anywhere. Anyway. Find a world, find a Vong fleet, and crush it .¡± Mouths, oral orifices gaped in surprise. ¡°If you think we can retake Obroa-skai? Do it. If you think we can retake Duro? Do it. Tynna? Belderone? If you have to sail into Hutt space and stab Nas Choka from behind while he¡¯s tripping over Borga the Hutt¡¯s entrails, do it .¡± ¡°Sir¡­that will be breaking the ceasefire.¡± Fey¡¯lya pinned General Rand Talor, Marine Command, with a glare. ¡°Tsavong Lah is going to break that ceasefire as soon as he wants to. When he¡¯s ready and when he¡¯s got his next target lined up, he¡¯ll do it himself. This ceasefire is a farce . These are your orders. Admiral Sovv, find me a victory. General Antilles? I¡¯ve doubted you in the past, and you have an irritating habit of proving me wrong in embarrassing ways. Do it again.¡± ¡°They¡¯ll string you up by your guts in the Senate,¡± Nantz observed without rancor. ¡°If there¡¯s a Senate to string me up in, I¡¯ll take it as the victory it is. You have your orders. They don¡¯t leave this room. You don¡¯t talk about it except over a secure holocomm connection to those you¡¯ve personally vetted . I don¡¯t need to remind you about all the moles NRI is winkling out.¡± Borsk Fey¡¯lya again stared down each and every Admiral and General, eye-to-eye, demanding any argue. None did. The surprise was too complete. ¡°Oh, and one final requirement. Don¡¯t bring in the Exiles. The New Republic needs a win, gentlebeings. That will be all.¡±
It was easy to forget how big the plateau was where the Great Temple stood. Ersham Ridge was a spine of the local range, flattened out and spread out over more than a thousand square kilometers of rolling hills, sharp ravines, meandering rivers, oxbow lakes and hidden waterfalls, all buried under ancient jungle. Temples and ruins poked up almost everywhere you looked. The Great Temple, of course, was the fulcrum of it all, in the center of the entire Temple complex, proudly ruling over the rest. He never thought much about the scale of it all, always coming or going on a ship with his mind elsewhere. Thinking on the past, or the future. And when he was there, he had other things to occupy his attention. He was dragged off on adventures or working through lessons or taking the small moments of quiet to himself. Anakin perched on the rear of the capsule shaped escape pod, right leg drawn up and hugged to his chest. Cool, brisk wind bit at his cheeks, matching wispy and thin clouds that scudded swiftly along in a deep blue sky above. Yavin was a sliver across the horizon, still hiding away after the true night. The air smelled of petrichor and fresh sap. The escape pod had cratered down into a muddy flat that had been a small meadow once, punching most of its mass deep into the soaked soil and spraying out a slump-sided crater. They stayed inside while the storm collapsed without the tether of Alebmos, listening as hail and rain hammered the pod and the howling wind slowly died out. It took the better part of the day, time passing by in the red-lit emergency lights and acrid smell of sweat and urine. It had still been drizzling lightly when Anakin chanced popping the hatch, relishing in the fresh air swirling in. Sunlight fell easily through breaking clouds, unimpeded by branch-stripped Massassi trees - where the trees still stood. Anakin perched on the rear of the capsule with leg drawn up, boot pressed to the durasteel skin to keep from sliding and he looked out over raw devastation. As far as he could see, one in five ancient trees were shattered and tumbled down. Gigantic rents in the canopy let sunlight down to emerald depths that hadn¡¯t suffered the glare of Yavin¡¯s primary in centuries. Bushes were shredded to bits of twigs and leaves. Water pooled, trickled, streamed. The jungle looked like an ag thresher had ripped right through it, sparing nothing. Anakin stared off into the middle distance without seeing much at all. Sannah¡¯s presence burned in his mind. He tracked her every single second. She was just out of sight, down at one of the many brand-new creeks and streams, stripping down to clean her reeking jumpsuit. The inside of the escape pod aired out a little so they could pull out the emergency supplies. Anakin sat on the rear of the escape pod and very carefully poked at¡­what, he could not define. Master Ikrit was dead. His Master was dead. When he first saw Ikrit, Anakin thought he was just an animal. A precocious and intelligent one, but an animal. He thought of his brother, thought of what Jacen would do. He¡¯d take in the little critter, who bounded around with bright eyes and bushy fur and cried ¡®Ikrit! Ikrit!¡¯. He and Tahiri adopted the little rascal and smuggled him back into the Praxeum like it was some great adventure, having a secret pet. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. He¡¯d blushed for days after Ikrit revealed the truth. Years later, his cheeks still heated thinking how he¡¯d tried to teach a Jedi Master how to do tricks. Master Ikrit had loved the deception. He let Anakin in on a little more of his reasoning, just before the Vong arrived. He¡¯d wanted to see what sort of person Anakin was. Helping an old Jedi Master? Well, that was an easy question to answer. Who wouldn¡¯t? Helping a helpless and silly little animal? Now, that was a better question. And, Ikrit had shared with a wink, he¡¯d had quite a bit of fun for the first time in a great many years, bounding around and squeaking out his name. Uncle Luke was Anakin¡¯s true Master, in basically all ways. Uncle Luke taught Anakin the basics of lightsaber styles, he led Anakin on meditations, he guided him through his early steps with the Force. Master Katarn was more of a Master than Ikrit in ways of the lightsaber. Master Tionne gave Anakin the meanings of what it was to be a Jedi through her ballads and her lessons on the ancient Jedi of the past. Master Solusar instilled in Anakin greater concepts of balance and calm, how to feel his emotions but to let them pass. Compared to them, Master Ikrit wasn¡¯t much of a Master. He taught no lessons. He told no tales of the old Order. But he was Anakin¡¯s Master, all the same. He listened when Anakin had words. He curled up and demanded no words when Anakin had none. He gave quiet advice that never told Anakin what to do; but instead, how to consider his actions. To find what he needed, instead of telling Anakin what he needed. And Master Ikrit was dead. He supposed he should be sad. He could feel Tahiri¡¯s grief through their bond, though muted. His friend had thrown up a wall between them, balling herself up and curling away from him in a way that worried Anakin. In this quiet contemplation, in the stillness of the savaged jungle as fauna emerged blinking and shocked from burrows and drenched nests, Anakin poked at the wound in his heart and found not sorrow but anger. At first he tried to see if he could have changed anything. Done anything. Yes: he could have been more careful with Sannah. She still wouldn¡¯t meet his eyes. She wouldn¡¯t even face him. He could have made sure she was on board a ship. He could¡¯ve been faster, returning to the Praxeum. A little more speed. He could¡¯ve been more careful ascending again, he could¡¯ve flown in the storm a little longer. The difference of half a kilometer - that¡¯s all it would have taken. He could¡¯ve done what Ikrit did. Why didn¡¯t he think of it? Why didn¡¯t the Force guide his hand to peel away that Vong transport and free the Lady ? At the end of his ruminating, of rerunning it all again and again, Anakin came face-first up against the undeniable. Master Ikrit was dead, and Master Ikrit had planned for it . He¡¯d sensed only peace from the Kushiban when he clung to the capture tendril as it swept out of the Lady¡¯ s ragged corridor. He¡¯d sensed only pride in the last words of his Master. He¡¯d sensed only determination before Ikrit¡¯s life went out. Anakin only felt surprise during the night, when the Vong warrior had caught Ikrit by the throat. His Master had planned to die. Master Ikrit had known. And he¡¯d chosen to let it happen. Anakin couldn¡¯t find sorrow, but he could find anger.
Sannah waited outside the escape pod, her jumpsuit soaked and hanging on her petite frame. Anakin rifled through the emergency supplies, the pod¡¯s hatch thrown wide. He kept a sense of the Force wide and open, ready for surprise, fear, fury from creatures at interlopers into their territory. For the static-laced, muted presence of chazrach. He didn¡¯t expect Vong, not with the storm only just passed, but the universe never cared about what Anakin Solo expected. Lady Starstorm had her escape pods maintained, at least, since she was one of the active freighters that the Praxeum used on missions. He drew out a small vaporator, still in its case and the factory seal unbroken. A medpac, a small holdout stun blaster. He didn¡¯t need that, not with two lightsabers, but he tucked it into a pocket all the same. Magnesium flares, condensed rations. Lady Starstorm had two escape pods and an expected crew of twelve; there was supplies enough for six in here. ¡°Sannah,¡± he said. The girl flinched, sidling closer. Her brown hair, undone from her normal braids, fell over her face and she kept her head turned to the side. That was fine. There was nothing to say. He held out cast-plast boxes of rations; she took them silently. There was a bundled up hard-wearing synthweave pack and webbing for it. Anakin shrugged on the webbing, clipped the pack on his back. ¡°Load it,¡± he said, turning to present it to Sannah. One by one, the ration boxes dropped in. Then a small tent, the vaporator. Flares went to his belt. One medpac into the pack, the other in a smaller pack for Sannah to wear. It was smart for each of them to have one. Anakin checked the interior of the pod one last time. Nothing else. No reason to stay. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± he said. Sannah mutely followed behind him, their boots squelching in the mud.
In the sky, in the far distance, just barely above the horizon, Anakin could see moving craft. Alien shapes that didn¡¯t belong on Yavin rose like stubbed spires. They were on one of the shallow rises in the plateau, high enough that from the ground and through gaps in the canopy he could see out. Normally, there¡¯d be not a single view of anything but dense green, but - storm. A tornado might have passed through here, leaving a huge slash across the crown of the hill. He had macrobinoculars in his pack. Anakin didn¡¯t bother going for them. It was the Vong, obviously. Temerity was leaving with them on board or not. Besides, he sensed Tahiri in that direction. He wasn¡¯t sure quite where on the plateau they were. All bearings had been lost tumbling through the storm, hammered and buffeted every which way by the hundred-kilometer-an-hour winds. The pod had decent repulsorlifts, which saved them from an unpleasant return to the surface, but it wasn¡¯t exactly meant to be flown. Going by Yavin¡¯s sliver on the horizon and the rising sun, Anakin could lead Sannah east, toward the downward side of the plateau that led toward the sea. North or south led into the rougher parts of the range where the plateau gave way to true mountains. West went toward the Vong. Toward Tahiri. It was the hardest decision of his life to turn his back and walk the wrong direction down the hill.
Night fell. Anakin shrugged off his pack, pulled out the tent. It popped up on its own, once the ties were released. Camouflage colored, thankfully. Not some stark, bright, neon rescue color. He wasn¡¯t sure why a tent in an escape pod would make it easier to not be seen. He set the vaporator up, flipping it on. The little device hummed quietly, immediately dripping fresh, clean water from Yavin¡¯s returning humidity. The cool wind from earlier had passed on by, Yavin¡¯s warmth returning just in time for night to fall. While they hiked, Anakin made sure to eat. His stomach was hollow and he didn¡¯t feel an ounce of hunger, but he ate mechanically, bite after bite of tasteless ration bar. He made Sannah eat too. The Melodie silently took the wrapped ration bars from him with just the tips of her fingers, like she was afraid to touch him. They both needed the energy. Neither of them had eaten in the day they rode out the rest of the storm in the pod. Anakin gestured with the Force, sinking stakes deep into the mud. Aunt Mara at his shoulder muttered something about never hearing the Force if he was always shouting. He ignored the memory of another time camping. ¡°You take the tent,¡± Anakin said. ¡°I¡¯ll keep watch.¡± Sannah didn¡¯t argue, vanishing into the flap and sealing it behind her. There wasn¡¯t much need to sleep, not with the Force within him. Somewhere across the plateau, Tahiri sobbed in pain and held herself away from him. And Anakin sat with his back to the tent, eyes open and staring at the broken jungle around him.
They passed the Temple of the Broken Arches on the fourth day after the storm. They had a routine. Hike. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Hike. Eat. Drink. Sleep. The plateau and the Temple Complex wasn¡¯t safe. The Vong had to know they were down here and they wouldn¡¯t ever stop if they thought there were Jedi out and about. Two cruiser-analogues could carry a lot of warriors. They had reaped a toll during the storm, but there could still be hundreds left. Plus biots, plus fliers. The second day he saw contrails high above. Coralskippers on patrol. They had to get off the plateau, then find a place where Anakin could leave Sannah. That was ironic: all this because Sannah was left behind. Now he was going to do it again, on purpose. Between the vaporator and the rations, Sannah could easily last a month or two on her own, as long as she didn¡¯t do anything idiotic again. He didn¡¯t notice Sannah shiver beside him. Then he could go back for Tahiri. Then he could go back. The Temple of Broken Arches was a good sign; it was one of the most far-flung temples in the whole Complex, close to the downward roll of the plateau to where it led into the Ersham Escarpment that fell about five hundred meters to the coastal plains.
The jungle woke up as the days passed. Stintarils capered around, runyips lowed and wallowed in massive new mud holes. Spined pucs croaked and groaned and leaped into new formed ponds with long skreees when they passed. Woolamanders barked and howled, flashing color through the canopy. It was a nice reminder - for as artificial as the monsoon was that Alebmos wrestled control over, weather was just weather. A once in a millennium storm still happened uncountable times across the geological lifespan of a world. The world bounced back. A day past the Temple of Broken Arches and Anakin reckoned another and they¡¯d hit the Escarpment. They didn¡¯t cover a lot of distance each day. Their boots were caked in mud and heavy, their jumpsuits sweat-stained with rings of salt around the underarms. His hair, for once, he swept back from his eyes and corralled with a billed cap out of the emergency supplies. Sannah tied her hair back with a length of stretchy cord. Mud, fallen trees, brambled undergrowth; they were lucky to make ten kilometers per day. He kept his sense of the Force spread out, eyes half-lidded as he trudged along by rote. The only offended creatures were those they passed; nothing to indicate pursuers. No chazrach minds. For Tahiri, Anakin left all walls, all barriers down. He left himself open, entirely open, almost begging. Tahiri, please. Let me be there for you. She stayed curled up, just a dull aura of vague emotion. So caught up in the feel of the jungle and the depths of his thoughts, he didn¡¯t notice the small, white shape until Sannah gasped - the first noise she made in days. ¡°Sannah,¡± Anakin said. He found his voice sounded alien. Old and tired. He sounded like his father. ¡°Please go and find a spot for the night.¡± She was behind him; she had stopped when she gasped and he¡¯d taken another step or two. Anakin waited for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. He kept his eyes on the shape, his back to Sannah, until he heard the sucking and squelching of her boots as she moved away. He kept a mental eye on her all the while, but had only eyes for what was in front of him. There were a trio of Massassi trees that had grown up together. Their trunks were melded together until some five meters above the ground - it might have all been a single tree with three codominant stems. They were wrapped tight in vines, encrusted in moss on the shadowed side. Branches were missing and broken, but the damage had been steadily diminishing the farther from the Praxeum they went. Alebmos must have focused the fury of the monsoon there - given how devastating it had been, the Astartes must have compressed a lot of the energy to make that happen. Storms were never this bad, even on the coasts. Enough limbs had fallen, though, that shafts of sunlight still speared through the emerald roof. The triple tree shone in one particular beam, hazy motes dancing in the bright sunlight that fell across its tangle of roots and gnarled, joined boles. At the base, in a little basin shaped by twisting roots, rested a small and colorless form. Anakin marveled at the stillness in his chest as he climbed over a cracked log, ducked under a tangle of hanging vines. He searched for his feelings and found them fled. Beneath the triple bole of the ancient Massassi, Anakin knelt down beside the body of his Master. Ikrit looked like he was sleeping. The Kushiban was curled, one paw laying across his chest. His fur was damp, but not sodden. His coat was a color Anakin had never seen before. Pure white, silver, black, red, swirled green and yellow - every color in the rainbow could smooth and spread across Ikrit¡¯s expressive fluff. But this - this was colorless. Translucent. He¡¯d never seen Ikrit¡¯s fur like that. Anakin knelt at his Master¡¯s side for a long time, still as a carven statue. Under the Golden Globe beneath the Palace of the Woolamander, he¡¯d found Ikrit sleeping. Slumbering away the centuries until someone could come and solve the curse he was never fated for. What kind of faith, was that, in the Force? He left everything behind, everything he ever knew. His own Master, his whole Order. The Republic that he knew and loved and protected. Did Ikrit have anyone, then? Anakin knew the old Order frowned on marriage and families like Uncle Luke and Aunt Mara had, but did Ikrit have a family still on Kushibah? What friends had he left behind, what other Knights and Masters? All because the Force guided him to lost souls that needed rest. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can do it,¡± Anakin whispered. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can trust.¡± Ikrit never said a word if he did, or if he didn¡¯t. Anakin realized, then, as the knees of his jumpsuit grew damp, that he never really knew his Master. Ikrit sacrificed everything he had. All of himself, all he could have been. What other fate had been in store for Ikrit of Kushibah? What Apprentices could he have trained? What lives could he have changed? The Force asked something else of him and Anakin¡¯s Master answered. Anakin reached out and placed a trembling hand on his Master¡¯s side. His fur was cool. His body was still. There would not be color again. Alone, Anakin wept.
He dug the grave himself. Sannah found a dry clearing a hundred meters or so east. He left her his pack, the tent, the vaporator, the rations. Maybe there would have been meaning in doing it by hand. Maybe he could have found a fallen log and cut it into shape, into a spade to turn the soil. Ikrit had lived and died for the Force. All Anakin could do was honor that. Among the roots of the triple Massassi tree, Anakin took a deep, trembling breath and cupped his hand. Soil parted. Water wrung from the loam, left it turned and soft. Ikrit did not need a large space. Jedi burned their dead. Tradition said that after they returned to the Force, that burning the body returned the form to energy that all life came from, no different from the Force itself. The end of one cycle, the beginning of another. After Desann¡¯s attack on Yavin 4 and after Korriban, there had been pyres on the cleared grounds outside the Praxeum. Mei¡¯s own brother had his own. The Memorial Grove bore their ashes in buried urns. On Endor, Uncle Luke burned the body of Darth Vader - or Anakin Skywalker, from another point of view. A Jedi funeral for a Jedi. They couldn¡¯t risk any fires. No smoke for the Vong to see, no light for them to follow. Anakin sat beside the grave, holding Ikrit in his arms. Bandages from a medkit wrapped the Kushiban and he felt so very light. There was nothing to say. There shouldn¡¯t be anything to say. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. It should¡¯ve been in your garden. In the Palace of the Woolamander.¡± It should have been a pyre. Gently, by hand, Anakin interred Ikrit. The soil closed. A smooth stone, moss and lichen brushed aside, settled over top. Anakin stood. His mouth worked, his throat bobbed. He had no words to say.
Another day and they reached the Escarpment. The plateau fell away in sharp drops and slides, the jungle drawn in a sharp line. Landslips here and there showed in shrugged off trees and topsoil slid down the bare stone. It would be tougher going; there were no trails or paths to follow. Sannah, still mute and silent, waited next to him. Anakin reached for Tahiri - felt the same walls. Pain leaked out. Fear. Worry. I¡¯m here. I¡¯m still here. He didn¡¯t know if she heard him, sensed his message. He kept sending it anyway. Wave after wave. The Escarpment showed a cross-section of the plateau. Striated rock made up cliffs, sandwiched sets of darker bands and lighter bands. Erosion over millenia piled up mounds of scree and deposition that sometimes climbed halfway up the tall Escarpment. Seams, cracks, eroded cuts and gulleys textured the face of the cliff. Anakin led Sannah to the nearest weathered ravine, some old river or creek bed. Together they picked down the sharp slope, bracing with coiling vines or against spindly young trees springing up and clinging stubbornly to life among planes of rock and tumbled granite monoliths. The ground was still muddy, but the days of sun dried out much; trying to pick their way down on slippery rocks would be a quick ticket to twisted ankles or broken bones. If Tahiri was here, they could have done their falling trick, right down the cliff itself- He helped Sannah down a few of the steeper parts, reaching up with his hands and the Force to ease her down to the next flatter area. She tensed each time he caught her hand or guided her shoulder. They followed the ravine until it opened up and ended at the cliffside and Anakin nodded. They¡¯d bought about fifty meters of height, here. Below, when water once flowed, a winding, snaking path of erosion and weathering had left scars and a narrow trail they could follow. ¡°We¡¯re Jedi,¡± he told Sannah. ¡°It¡¯s just a cliff.¡± They picked their way down over the next few hours. More than once, he or Sannah drew on the Force to arrest a slip or correct a misplanted step. They switched back again and again, wending downward toward the coastal plain. The canopy of the jungle below crept closer. More than once, impatience told him to grab Sannah and jump. Catch himself. Every minute they took, every day that passed, Tahiri was alone with the Vong. She kept blocking him out. Sometimes, at night - and he had not slept for more than a few hours each night - he could feel her lose focus. There would be moments when she was there , with him, like they had been and he would reach for her - and she would slam the walls back up again. She was blocking him out. Guilt pooled in his gut. She was blocking him out like he blocked her out, when he was hurting. Because he didn¡¯t want to hurt her. To worry her. Sithspawn, Tahiri, it wasn¡¯t the same! This wasn¡¯t being sad about Chewbacca, this was - she was captured! Held by the worst monsters the Galaxy had ever seen! The things they could be doing, the torture - He wished Jacen hadn¡¯t told him about Belkadan. Anakin fervently wished Danni never had shared what happened to Miko Reglia on Helska. He didn¡¯t need to imagine Tahiri in the Embrace of Pain. He didn¡¯t need the vivid images of those scuttling coral-implanters crawling all over his friend¡¯s body. Or a yammosk- A yammosk had broken Miko Reglia in a day. Shattered the Jedi Knight so thoroughly that Reglia chose to stay behind and die on Helska. If they had a yammosk here, if they let a yammosk do that to Tahiri¡­ They never had time to try to find out just how Anakin killed the yammosk on Obroa-skai. If the sithspawned Vong had one here, Anakin would find that answer. He didn¡¯t sense one, but neither he nor Uncle Luke or Mei had sensed one on Obroa-skai. If they dared, if the Vong dared- Was this what it had been like, for the other Anakin? Had he been afraid of losing everyone he loved so desperately and so much that in his madness and his confusion, he decided that there was no cost too high? Uncle Luke never spoke about why Anakin¡¯s grandfather had fallen, but he knew what had brought his grandfather back. Love for his son; the redemption of Anakin Skywalker. Love for his family still lingered there after decades and all the horrible things Darth Vader did. Did he drive away Obi-wan Kenobi so that he wouldn¡¯t have to feel the pain of Obi-wan¡¯s death? Did he know how hollow he would feel? Did he fear the pain of his friends and their suffering that he couldn¡¯t do anything about? All of his young life, Anakin Solo measured himself against Anakin Skywalker. The namesake he had never asked for, the gift given by a mother who could spare one act of forgiveness for the father that had tormented her. Anakin Skywalker was everything he would not and could not ever be. He eased Sannah down the last stretch of the Escarpment with a careful grip in the Force, lessening her weight while she scrabbled down finger- and toe-holds and he realized that instead of denying anything and everything that Anakin Skywalker had been; he felt for once an uneasy understanding for his infamous grandfather.
Camp, again. In the shadow of the tall Ersham Escarpment, another night spent dozing outside Sannah¡¯s tent, mind on the Force, ears sharp and lightsaber at hand. Ikrit¡¯s lightsaber hung from his belt on the right side, opposite where he carried his own. The sounds of the jungle at night wrapped him up, the half-night of Yavinglow spreading warm, dim crimson light across the moon. He dozed, senses mingling with dreams. Sannah slept and her nightmares were sharp-edged and loud, enough that he pushed away the girl from his senses. She was two feet from him; he¡¯d know if she needed anything through more mundane means. Now and then stones slipped and skittered down the cliffside, a new note in the orchestra of nighttime Yavin that Anakin now knew intimately. Strange, to live much of his life here, but never spend quite so much time in the world. Always he returned to the Praxeum for dinner and comfortable sleep in his quarters. A rustle of greenery. Distant, a Woolamander hooted. Quiet wings flapped leather-snap from tree to tree. Underbrush snapped as a sleepy herd of grazers adjusted themselves. If his sense of the jungle was a dim constellation, drawing subtle impressions from the complex ecosystem that thrummed around him, a sudden new arrival was as a new star blooming in the sky, nearly drowning out all others. Anakin jolted in shock, wide awake like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. It wasn¡¯t a new arrival - he knew that presence. He¡¯d known it in the past, knew it now all the better because Anakin had been in the damned man¡¯s head a week ago! Zalthis! And¡­ Solidian? He was on his feet, stumbling on half-asleep limbs. ¡°Sannah!¡± he hissed, poking her ungently through the side of the tent. The Melodie squawked and flailed, choking down a shriek behind her hands. ¡°Zalthis and Solidian are here! Stay still, stay quiet, I¡¯ll lead them back.¡± He set off at the fastest pace he could manage without sprinting. Zalthis and Solidian¡¯s minds were bright and sharp, only a few hundred meters away and moving fast. They ate up the distance at double Anakin¡¯s own pace, the two Astartes unerringly moving straight for him. Anakin sucked in shallow breaths, almost hyperventilating. How were they here? No - how did they find him? He and Sannah were all the way off the plateau! The two Astartes were coming from the east, up from the coastal plain, how were they here? His chest ached. He didn¡¯t notice wetness in his eyes. Unmistakeable. Anakin skidded to a halt, two huge shapes of men cloaked in shadow slowing as well from a long, loping stride. They were caught by crimson highlights on pauldron rim, on Ultima, on thick plates of armor at chest and knee. Their lenses were out, but Anakin knew they could glow with ferocious red to put Yavinglow to shame. Zalthis stepped closer. His friend was helmetless, his dark hair longer but still just as curly. Solidian had his helmet. Both were in their full plate armor. They had bolters locked to their thighs. Long-bladed powerswords holstered at their hips. Anakin barked a disbelieving laugh that rang out in the jungle, joining the calls and cries of nocturnal life. ¡°Zal? Sol? I¡¯m not going insane, right? How are you two here?¡± Zal thrust out his arm, palm up. Anakin took it and they embraced, clumsy as it might be with one in Astartesian plate and the other a mortal teen. ¡°We made a promise, Anakin,¡± Zalthis said softly. ¡°I¡¯m loathe to break it.¡± Solidian carefully unlatched his helmet with a quiet clack of ceramite. The darker skinned Astartes, his scarred scalp catching the planetlight, radiated a sense of general exasperation mixed quite liberally with pride. ¡°What Zal means is that we¡¯re here against orders. Captain Thiel is likely going to have us shot.¡± Anakin snapped his head, feeling the matter-of-fact seriousness in Sol¡¯s demeanour. ¡°Ah¡­?¡± He couldn¡¯t find the right response to that. ¡°Ignore Sol; my brother is reassessing his choices. Where is Sannah? Where is Tahiri and Master Ikrit?¡± The names punched Anakin in the gut and Zalthis must have noticed. He leaned closer, gently placing a broad gauntlet on Anakin¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Sannah is back at the camp. Tahiri was captured. Master Ikrit¡­¡± Anakin swallowed, fighting the knot and pressure in his chest. Zalthis and Solidian exchanged looks. ¡°Ah.¡± Zalthis slowly nodded. ¡°I am sorry. For Master Ikrit, for Tahiri.¡± Subtly, so subtly Anakin might not have noticed but for the irritation that washed through Zal¡¯s emotion, the Astartes elbowed Solidian. ¡°As am I,¡± Sol added. ¡°Is Tahiri well? Does she live?¡± Anakin nodded, sharp enough his neck twinged. ¡° Yes . I can feel her. She¡¯s hurting, she¡¯s scared, she¡¯s angry, but she¡¯s alive. They wanted Jedi alive .¡± Zalthis made a gesture of some sort to Solidian, who inclined his head, unclamped his bolter and stalked away. ¡°Let¡¯s return to Sannah. You have a camp?¡± Anakin clung to the questions. ¡°A tent, a water vaporator. Rations as well, and some medkits.¡± ¡°Excellent. Sol and I came down on the Thunderhawk .¡± ¡°You stole it?¡± ¡°Appropriated. We will return it to Captain Thiel. There is more supply there and it¡¯s well hidden.¡± Solidian circled them, alert and on patrol while Anakin led Zalthis back toward where he felt Sannah. The Melodie was tense still, but she surely could feel his pure relief. It felt unreal. Both Zalthis and Solidian here. The Thunderhawk , the one with the hyperdrive. Friends. Allies. A way off the moon. ¡°How did you find us? You were coming straight for me.¡± Zalthis tapped at Anakin¡¯s comlink, still clipped to his jumpsuit. ¡°We all linked into vox. You are still connected. The auspex can trace the signal; we have been able to track you since three days previous when you entered our range.¡± His commlink . Anakin had considered leaving it behind. No one knew if the Vong could track comms, if they could hack them. The Warmaster managed to broadcast on the HoloNet and the Vong had a bad habit of coming up with things that shouldn¡¯t be possible. He¡¯d thought to chuck it into the escape pod and leave it because who was he going to talk to? He¡¯d forgotten it, focused on the essentials like food and water. Such a little thing. Such a little difference. Alright, Master. Alright . Sannah met them, blinking in wide-eyed surprise. Solidian confirmed what Anakin knew - no Vong around at all. His handheld ¡®auspex¡¯, just like they¡¯d used on Obroa-skai, picked up a great deal of beings, but none it would categorize as moving with any intelligent purpose. Anakin showed Zal the pack he had, the vaporator set up, the ration boxes. Zalthis nodded as he took in each. ¡°Take a rest, Anakin,¡± Zalthis said finally, voice pitched low. Other Astartes had voices that suited their stature; rumbling and bassy, gravelly and coarse. Zalthis and Solidian sounded young. ¡°We will take the watch tonight.¡± The Astartes stood over him until Anakin relented, taking out the second sleeping bag for the first time. He watched as Anakin shook it out, watched as Anakin climbed in. Zalthis nodded then, melting away into the nighttime jungle with Solidian, moving far too quietly for being so large. Anakin slept. Intransigence Chapter IX
IX: Small? Slippery, lymphic fluid sluiced from Nen Yim as she rose from the steaming surface of the ceremonial bath. The liquid held no purchase on her, running in slithering tracks off her body, carrying away with it all impurities. Delicate incense tickled at her nose and filled the cavities of her sinuses with tingling coolness. Dangling from a spindly thicket of limbs waited a darkly toned oozhith, the living robe twitching and trembling toward her. She brushed her fingers along the surface of the biot and it rippled forward, wrapping firmly about her and sinking cilia into her pores with sparks of tingling pain. She shut her eyes, breathing deep the dizzying chemicals wafting in the bath''s steam and the spiced emissions of squat amphibians that lurked in the shadows of the chamber. She allowed the oozhith to settle fully about her slender frame, the robe a shortened version that left her arms and much of her legs bare. Carefully, she slicked back her short, dark hair and gathered it with the pinching clasp of a hook-wyrm. Steadying, she inhaled, exhaled and gently ran fingers over the back, the palm of her right hand. Her pulse hammered deep in her chest, firm enough she imagined she visibly trembled with each thudding strike of her heart. Opening her eyes, she looked at her hand with the fascination of a newborn investigating strange appendages for the very first time. She turned her hand over, tracing faint scars that ran along the backside, a hitch just before the first knuckle of her third finger where it had snapped in her youth. It felt detached from her, as Nen Yim flexed her fingers and watched her knuckles whiten, watched tendons shift and flex. The entire grotto itself pulsed faintly around her, muscular and wet, in time with her own heartbeat. Beyond the bath the grotto narrowed, puckering, until a single massive knot of muscle bulged where the ceiling met the floor. The center was a black hole, an empty socket that gazed deep at Nen Yim. Her Master entered - if Nen Yim had not been ready, she would not have been ready. It was not her Master''s role to chaperone her Adept; it was the role of the Adept to follow the steps as laid out in times long since forgotten to the microsecond. Mezhan Kwaad nodded approvingly. No words were to be spoken. Her Master would observe. Carefully, Nen Yim knelt before the hole in the grotto. The very mouth of the biot, which was the room, and the room was it. The Grotto of Yun-ne''Shel, a most ancient and holy touchstone of her caste, the place in which ascension and ruination were forged in equal measure. Relative to the yammosk, though removed so far as to barely be cousin, the Grotto felt what the supplicant felt and fed it back, twice again. Nen Yim reached out and placed her hand within the mouth of the Grotto. Gently, the lips closed about her wrist, soft and welcoming as a lover''s, suckingly but gently to seal firmly about her purified skin. For a long, twisting moment, she felt only the flesh of the lips about her wrist. The Grotto bore down on her, magnifying the anxiety that she attempted to set aside; brewing deeper the anticipation. Eight points poked at her skin, equidistant around her wrist. Nen Yim braced herself. Glacially slow, geologically sluggish, cosmically sedate, the octet of fangs sank into Nen Yim''s flesh. Skin parted first, then thin fat layers beneath. She knew each and every facet of the body, honed through vivisections, dissections and long study on qahsa. She could visualize the pace of the slicing teeth as they ever-so-slowly cut deeper. She felt tendons snap. Her breath grew ragged and choppy. Darkness vied with strange, floating white on the edges of her vision. Agony lanced up her arm, her body screaming in refusal. Pain taught. All shied from pain, for pain was the lash. Pain was the lash, truth was the reward. Knowledge was the morsel teased from the conjunction of agony and truth. She tried to cycle her breathing. Muscles parted. Nerves clipped and shrieked white-fire into her skull. The Grotto''s lips suckled and drew away the blood, obscuring her view. Nen Yim bred pain and the Grotto fed, then returned it with interest. The teeth met in the middle with a snick that she could feel, bone-deep. The mouth rotated ninety degrees in the blink of an eye, the entire muscle knot squelching as it flexed. Her arm followed no more than a degree, even less. She slumped back, staring dumbfounded at the perfect, cleanly sheared stump of her right arm. Thick, glutinous saliva coated the anatomical cross-section of her wrist, mixed liberally with dark, nearly black blood. Only the thinnest trickle escaped the congealed blob. The Grotto gulped. Shakily, Nen Yim rose to numb feet. A shallow pool beside the ceremonial bath rippled and sloshed, occupants scenting blood in the air and growing ever more agitated. Beside the pool she knelt, watching dark shapes dart and skitter within the brackish water. Drip, drop fell her blood and the shapes scuttled with ever greater fervor. She dipped her stump into the pool. Clasping limbs grasped at her wrist and Nen Yim felt the grind as corkscrew tooth tore into the marrow of her bones. She thought she had known pain. Her vision flashed, the world grew distant. The Grotto hungrily suckled on her agony and poured it back. Nen Yim- SHUN An adolescent Yuuzhan Vong girl skips down age-worn grottos. NO Die, die. A flower come to maturity under the warmth of loving sun bursts. A cloud of downy seeds scattered into the wind. The seeds are spiraled and they whirl and ride the currents. They will spread far and wide, until rich soil welcomes them. The plant which birthed the flower dies, all nutrients consumed in the ripening of the grand fruit. SHUN Alien skies. A red world rises. Jungle storms. Look! Alien skies. A red moon rises. Electrical storms. Look! Alien skies. A peirastic Prince wails. Fire storms. Look! NO Metal towers, unliving constructs claw at bruised purple sky. Wind howls. Stars slide. Limositic lampreys nibble and gnaw. SHE STEPS ASIDE. SHUN VOICES CALL. ONE VOICE CALLS. ONE VOICE CRIES. She follows the cry. She follows the wail. A Yuuzhan Vong girl skips, barefoot, down tired grottos. Old lambent lights flicker. Bioluminescent lichens sag. She follows the wail. Talons tangle in heavy curtains. IS THIS WORTH THE PAIN? NO One drawn name. The Red Moon Rises. Look! SHUN IN THE DEPTHS, THERE IS A CEPHALOPOD. IN HERMAPHRODITIC FORM, IT PASSES THE YEARS OF ITS SESSILE LIFE. IN FEMALE, IT BIRTHS A THOUSAND YOUNG. LINKED TO THE MOTHER, THE YOUNG DERIVE SUSTENANCE IN SYMBIOSIS, UMBILICAL TRADING NUTRIENT FOUND BY NUTRIENT GIFTED. IN MALE, IT REELS IN TENDER MORSELS, IT SUPS OF ITS SPAWN. THOSE STRONG ENOUGH TEAR FREE IN BLOOMS OF BLOOD SNAPPED CORDS. THUS: LIFE SPAWNS LIFE. DEATH CULLS LIFE. LIFE STRUGGLES. SURVIVES. NO Nen Yim started awake, tears of shame already welling in her eyes. Her wrist ached, but it was a distant and dulled ache. The nerves were dampened; pain was a teacher, but so too was pain a tool. No tool ought be used overoften. Mezhan Kwaad knelt beside Nen Yim, primly perched and perfect, her robe arrayed about her long-limbed body. "No shame is borne. No one has ever braved the Grotto without a lapse, the first time. You are strengthened for it, and when the time comes for your Master''s hand, you will be ready and you will laugh at this memory." "Master," Nen Yim mumbled, her voice soft and hoarse. She wondered; had she screamed? "On your own, Adept," Mezhan Kwaad gestured for her to rise. Shakily, off-balance with her new-bonded right hand tucked to her chest, Nen Yim managed to make her feet. Then she allowed herself to look. The biot was still seating itself, shifting a little with little twitches and jerks that raised hair along her arms and involuntary shivers down her spine. She could feel the anchors bored deep into her bones, feel the complex chelicerae within the hand''s mouth teasing apart her tendons and muscles to digest and seal to itself. Dulled pain, no worse than a broken finger or two, accompanied, but Nen Yim could easily bear it. Four fingered, just like her birth-hand, with two thumbs on either side of the palm. A thin but flexible carapace served as the top of her hand; many smaller and interlocking plates made up her palm. Each finger, she knew, bore retractable claws, pincers, and more in the complicated final joint. Sensor divots and knobs roughened her fingers. She tried to wiggle her fingers, knowing nothing would result. "It will be some days for the connections to seat themselves wholly. Your hand has taken well already." Mezhan Kwaad gestured at the thick, green-grey secretion already solidifying into a rock-like solidity between the mouth of the biot and her truncated wrist. "A few days after that and your brain will become used to the motions. A day of rejoicing, Nen Yim. You are an Adept in full, and I accept you as mine own. Together, we will shape Jeedai, glory, and our caste - and the future of the Yuuzhan Vong."
The vivarium held a single occupant, curled into a ball on the bare nacre floor. The subject wrapped its arms around its head, fingers digging into the tough, leathery hide of the provoker spineray that clasped the nape of the subject''s neck and crown of its head. The biot''s long tail trailed downward, hooked by thread-thin tendrils into the subject''s spinal column until it projected from just above the tailbone like an actual tail, running across the vivarium''s floor and into a socket. The subject was hairless, the follicles extraneous and a potential interface problem for the spineray and other necessary biots. Szon-kalik tenders, relative to the implanter-beasts used for Warrior ascensions, plucked eyelash, eyebrow and hair. The subject appeared to find this greatly distressing, for all that the irritation should have been minor. Her Master took note of that, just as she took note of every little thing the Jeedai subject did. When the spineray was first affixed, the subject had been sedated. Spinerays were fragile things before bonding, and the delicate process of interfacing with the subject''s nerves could have outright killed both the subject and the spineray had it been interrupted. The subject had objected to the spineray most vociferously, as Mezhan Kwaad had called it. After the first grand mal seizure caused by the spineray defending itself, the subject learned not to attempt to remove it. It seemed to find a measure of relief by constantly scraping fingertips over the spineray''s thick hide. It wouldn''t harm the biot, so Nen Yim was of the mind of leaving it be. Mezhan Kwaad hadn''t attempted to stop it either. The subject was allowed a simple robeskin, similar to the ooglith masquer, though of different clade entire, to preserve modesty and simplify management of waste. "Hm," Mezhan Kwaad hummed, delicately manipulating a nerve cluster in her hands. The subject twitched, huddling tighter and pressing their forehead to drawn up knees. "See that, Adept?" Nen Yim nodded. "Tell me." Clearing her throat and resisting the urge to fiddle and pick at the healing seam of her Shaper''s hand, Nen Yim straightened her shoulders and studied the subject. "In a Yuuzhan Vong, stimulation of that cluster would have caused debilitating dizziness." "Does the subject appear to be suffering similarly?" "No, Master." "Interesting. Like the previous cluster, which had caused pain no Yuuzhan Vong would have felt, this one maps to a different stimulus entirely." She chose her words carefully; Master Mezhan had kept Nen Yim attending her from the very next day after the Grotto, uncaring that her hand was still seating itself. "Your mind does not need a hand to function," Mezhan Kwaad had said. Still, she wanted to show only her best to her Master, especially after granting her a hand! She had thought it would be years still. "It this related to the problems with surge-coral?" "Quite!" Mezhan favored Nen Yim with a close-lipped smile. She swelled with pride. "The surge-coral could not map properly onto the many species of this galaxy; the results were insufficient and worse, wasteful." "But the protocols were followed¡­" "You have accessed to the Third Cortex, Adept. Have you encountered mention of ''Human'', ''Twi''lek'' or ''Rodian?''" "I have not, Master." Mezhan Kwaad stimulated another cluster on the nerve-bundle. Inside the vivarium, the subject screamed and snapped rigid so quickly Nen Yim feared for permanent damage. Back arching, face locked in a rictus and fingers curled into claws, the Jeedai screamed, soundless behind the transparent vivarium curtain. "Another unique reaction. The protocols, Adept, are the wisdom of the Gods, of course. How would we map the Jeedai''s brain without the spineray? All the same, I believe you understand well the occasional shortcomings." She swallowed. Even more carefully, Nen Yim weighed her words. The Master could not possibly know. "Master? I am not sure-" "Don''t prevaricate, Adept. It puts my teeth on edge. I saw your work on Baanu Kor." Nen Yim knotted her headdress into a humble bundle atop her head, cringing away from the Master. Schooling herself, she offered a short but meaningful bow. "I did not know, Master. I am honored you reviewed my work-" "It was optimal." A tension she was not aware of released. "Many would have stopped with the molding of tii, which would have been entirely ineffective. You applied the Vul Ag protocol, which has not been used in an endocrine cluster before." "I thought it might make the outer osmotic membranes more efficiently transpire¡­" "And it did so. The Vul Ag protocol does so quite optimally, though never in that circumstance. But why should it not? Merely because it had not been done before? This clearly occurred to you." "It was logical, Master." She felt just slightly out of body, wrongfooted by the direction the conversation had taken. Mezhan Kwaad knew what Nen Yim had done, but praised it? Accepted it? More shockingly - understood it? Surely not. No, surely not. There must be a greater protocol beyond Nen Yim''s bare knowledge and dipped toes in the Cortexes. There must be an analogue to what she had done, in the greater Cortexes where only Masters could swim. Mezhan Kwaad would tell her she was precocious, considering things revealed to her betters. That would be it. She had just managed to convince herself when Mezhan continued, speaking almost offhand, still watching the subject as their limbs slackened and drool dripped from slack mouth. "Logical. Because if a protocol causes a result, then that result might be used elsewhere, when relevant? Yes? That was the logic? It was well thought. Tradition and propriety are important, of course, but constant immersion in such qualities leads to hidebounding thinking. An Adept of mine must be agile and resourceful, capable of making those leaps of logic with which to use the sacred, unchanging knowledge-" Nen Yim''s heart hammered. The next three words burned into her mind. "-in new ways." If Mezan Kwaad knew that Nen Yim had dabbled in heresy, she would never have been promoted. She would not have a hand, she would not be here in this most secret and important of shapings. She would be already digested, nameless and forgotten and cast into a maw luur like so much waste. No Master would accept her. But no Master would ever dare say such a thing as new ways of Shaping. "I agree, Master," Nen Yim said in a small, awed voice. "Good. Continue to do so and you - and I - will go far. Your Master''s hand awaits in a pool in a day that draws ever-nearer. Help me to solve the mysteries of this new galaxy, and that distant day will speed to you indeed."
Sun warmed his face and lit his eyelids red. In a rush of sluiced-away dreams and resurgent memory, the previous night - and all the nights before - returned and Anakin knuckled away sleep grit, untangling himself from his twisted sleeping bag. Unlike his foggy dreams which left only impressions in the jungle''s morning sun, the impossible reality of two Ultramarines did not vanish on waking up. There was Sannah''s tent, the Melodie girl still sleeping inside. There was Solidian, perched on a fallen log and fiddling with his auspex. There was Zalthis, out of sight but easily in sense. Even with Tahiri''s muted pain throbbing in the corner of his mind, Anakin pulled himself to his feet with something approximating hope for the first time since true night abandoned the moon. "Ah. Sleep well?" Anakin interlinked fingers behind his back and thrust them out, groaning and coughing as he stretched aching shoulders and his back protested the roots and rocks last night''s sleep inflicted. Shaking out the last of his sleep, stomping feet back into boots he didn''t even remember shucking off, Anakin ran fingers through lank, greasy hair and swept it back from his eyes again. More gently, he prodded at Sannah through the Force, nudging at her toward awakening. Her mind shifted. "Better than I thought I would. Anything happen?" Sol shook his head, putting aside the scanner. His helmet was removed, as was one of his pauldrons, both resting against the log beside him. His chunky gun, his bolter, was easily at hand. "Just a few curious creatures. Zal saw them off. You slept like the dead." "Yeah, I still kind of feel like it too." He smacked his lips, mouth dry. Sol offered a canteen wordlessly. His mouth was foul, result of ration bars and rationing water and no time for anything hygienic. He could probably kill a Vong with his breath alone. Cold water tasting a little of metal woke him the rest of the way, blowing the cobwebs out from behind his eyes. Nothing changed - Tahiri was still being - was still held by the Vong. He and Sannah were barely off the Ershasm Ridge, they were both exhausted from long days hiking through unforgiving jungle. He was covered in cuts, scrapes, bruises from bad footing and thick underbrush. He barely had the sketches, outlines of a plan. Also, everything had changed. It wasn''t just a Jedi-and-a-half against an entire Vong garrison; it was a Jedi-and-a-half and two Ultramarines. They had a way off world and a way out-system. Their entire ability to kill Vong had tripled. There was a real, actual place to leave Sannah at that would be safe. Anakin wasn''t going it alone now. So with nothing and everything different in the new morning, he took another slug of water from the canteen, swished it around his mouth and spat it into the leaf litter. A little bit better. His teeth felt less furry and his mouth less like a woolamander had done something unmentionable in it. "How far is the Thunderhawk?" There''d been no real time to talk last night. He worried that they''d landed far, far away considering how fast he knew Astartes could cover ground. Leaving Sannah with the ship was the best choice, but if that added another full week or so just to get there, then another week or two to get back¡­ "It is up the coast. One hundred and nine kilometers, by my reckoning." Alright. Not as bad. Still far, but not far far. Still, a hundred more kilometers in the jungle. Sighing, Anakin pulled on the Force, cycling it through his already aching feet and tight muscles of his calves, thighs while he fell into breathing exercises. "We moved slowly," Sol continued, as if guessing Anakin''s curiosity. "There was no way to know the auspex would link to your comm. We feared we would need visual contact, and your pod might have landed anywhere." "Right." Lady Starstorm had been just above the clouds when it broke apart, the escape pod would''ve dropped off sensors almost immediately. And then, in the winds of the storm, it could''ve been blown dozens or hundreds of kilometers off course. That it came down still on the plateau, Anakin realized, was already beyond lucky. They could''ve ended up in the Ersham sea. "I think we''ll have to go there, first. Sannah has to be somewhere safe-" and speaking of the Melodie, he felt her muzzy awareness pulse through the Force along with faint rustling in the tent "-and that''s as good a place as any." "Ah," From Solidian, Anakin got a passing sensation of chagrin. "There is another reason, as well."
Ultramarines rations were different. The survival ones from Lady Starstorm were bland, chewy and made with an attempt at being palatable to a wide range of beings, which left them mostly just a little unsettling in texture and consistency. In contrast, the thick, rubbery sealed wafers that Zalthis offered as ''something different'' were utterly flavorless and something like hyper dense bread. Neutronium dough. But it was different, at least, and after days of the same crap, over and over, Anakin gnawed on the corner of one of the bricks and stared, flat and unamused, at the two Astartes. Solidian worked a grey paste into chips and slashes that decorated his pauldron with a grinding, gritty scraping noise. Zalthis, done with his own wafer, having nearly inhaled the thing, stood with arms folded over his chest, lips sucked in and mouth in a line. "It can''t fly." "It can, I am sure of it." "You were shot down." "There is plasma damage-" "You were shot down and now you can''t even turn it back on." "Anakin, I assure you, the Thunderhawk is mostly undamaged, but neither Sol nor I have techmarine training. I can operate it, but I cannot fix it." It wasn''t like he worried that he couldn''t do it. Two or so months ago, he''d told a gigantic machine beyond the comprehension of any technician or scientist in the whole galaxy to ''go to sleep'' and it did. He could cobble together a convincing amphistaff proxy from some servos, synthirope and omnisocket gaskets. When he''d barely been able to form long-term memories, he''d turned the planetary repulsor on Drall on and pushed through a forcefield by understanding, intuitively, how it functioned. So some battered up gunship? Sure. He could do that. Jaina made things; Anakin made them work. Sometimes, he wondered what he and his sister could do, together, if the universe ever felt like giving them a day off. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. It was mostly the whole principle of the thing. They waited to tell him until the morning. And now Zalthis was looking like one of the trainees who got caught sneaking into the kitchens. A giant, mutated Human supersoldier wearing enough armor for a hovertank, and Zalthis looked embarrassed. "By visual inspection, the engines are unscathed and the airframe is solid." Anakin exhaled. "I''ll look at it. You couldn''t have told me last night?'' Zalthis cast his eyes down. Not for the first time, Anakin wondered exactly how old his friend was. On Samothrace, after Obroa-skai, Zalthis had only said he wasn''t sure what the conversion of time would be, that he was ''near'' in age to Anakin. Right then, Zalthis looked it. "You needed rest." ''We''ll rest when Tahiri is safe and we''re off Yavin. It''s fine, Zal, I don''t blame you. We need to drop by there anyway so Sannah''ll be safe, so it''s not like we have to change anything up." The Ultramarine nodded slowly, then firmly. "There is further supply; Sol and I took only enough for reconnaissance. There are heavier weapons aboard." Anakin perked up. Sol was missing his big repeating blaster, so that sort of explained that. There had to be a story about how he had it in the first place: Sol hadn''t had it on Obroa-skai, but Anakin recognized it as Merr-Sonn, probably a Z-something. He grew up around Jedi who had been special agents or special forces or just outright soldiers. He sort of knew guns. Well, there would be plenty of time between now and the Thunderhawk to ask about it. Sannah ate her ration quietly, eyes still downcast. They packed up quickly, Sol helping yank up the stakes to the tent while Zalthis jogged off to refill canteens at a nearby creek. He said Astartes could drink even the most polluted waters, so he would leave the vaporator-made stuff for Anakin and Sannah. He and Sol had just been drinking out of creeks and streams this whole time. A small snag presented itself when the four of them, finally, set out. Sol had his auspex sensor out again to guide them back toward the Thunderhawk, but they''d only gone a few paces when the problem reared its head. Sannah. She was just as tired as Anakin was, her legs and feet killing her even though she soldiered on. He could feel her determination just like he could see the way she set her jaw and grit her teeth, even though she swallowed down winces with each step. Her feet were blistered and worse - blistered, burst, blistered again and peeling. Anakin rocked back on his haunches, his friend looking away and off into the jungle. He didn''t know she''d been keeping her boots on the whole time. They''d been soaked, dried, soaked again, then she slept with them on. Because Sannah didn''t really know any better. Melodies on Yavin 8 lived mostly around the caves and never wandered far. They wore sandals. At the Praxeum, at most, Sannah would''ve gone on day hikes with other trainees, always ending up back at the Temple for a jump through the ''fresher and a hot meal. She''s not Tahiri. She didn''t grow up in the dunes of Tatooine where any mistake was desiccated death. She didn''t go down to Vjun with him, she didn''t brave the storms of Yavin and the rapids of rivers with him, she - She wasn''t Tahiri. Sannah sniffled. Anakin didn''t decide to, he didn''t even think. Sannah sucked in another shaky breath and he hugged her, pulling her much smaller body tight to him and wrapping his arms around her thin shoulders. Her little hands clutched at his filthy jumpsuit, the Melodie curling into his embrace. She broke down. Sobbing. Words tried to escape, words that sounded like apologies and sorries and can-you-ever-forgive-me and i-wasn''t-strong-enough. Anakin just rested his chin in her dark hair and stared off, unseeing, into the jungle. She wasn''t Tahiri, but she was Sannah. His friend. She was why he came back. "I''m sorry," he whispered, but he was sure she didn''t hear it. Zal drifted nearby, glancing toward them both, toward Sol who kept his distance, back. Their unease and uncertainty was palpable. Sannah cried herself out, until her sobs became hiccups, until those became quiet sniffs. His jumpsuit was damp, his thighs cramping from crouching like this. It didn''t bother him at all. He rubbed circles on her back, like his mom did for him when he was a kid. When things got overwhelming, when the world pressed in hard and he just couldn''t understand it. It wasn''t often, it was just a few times - between her work, his own nannies - but he remembered each time. "It''s okay," he murmured. "No it''s not Master Ikrit is dead and Tahiri is - Tahiri is - and it''s all my fault and now I can''t even walk and you have to leave me behind and you''ve gotta - Anakin you''ve gotta - just leave me here and you have to save Tahiri-" Anakin took her shoulders, pulling back and catching her brown eyes with his own blue. "Sannah. We came back for you. Master Ikrit-" he swallowed the lump in his throat, ignored the soft, gentle weight that would never rest on his chest again "-knew what could happen. We couldn''t leave you. I won''t leave you now, either." Sannah broke down again. Heavy footsteps thumped them both. Sol loomed over them, blocking out the sun. "It occurs to me," the Ultramarine offered. "That you are very small." He knelt down. Even kneeling, he was a head taller than Anakin. Were she standing, Sannah would have reached just about his waist. Sol held out an arm. "Climb up."
With Sannah riding in the crook of Sol''s arm - the Ultramarine only had to keep his arm across his chest and the girl could perch easily on his forearm, they made surprising time. Anakin''s everything ached, but he kept a steady draw of the Force that reinvigorated him, burned lactic acid from his muscles and made his steps light. Zal and Sol were machines, the former leading the way and blazing through the underbrush. Sannah dozed, her head lolling against Sol''s pauldron where she leaned against it. They could get her into a healing trance, at the Thunderhawk. At the end of the second day, Anakin could hear the sea. And on the third, the hulking shape of the Thunderhawk revealed itself, buried under a remarkably thorough blanket of heaped branches and brambles.
Sannah was in a trance, Solidian was sorting through weapons in the large central compartment of the Thunderhawk, Zalthis was patrolling and Anakin was realizing perhaps he spoke a little too soon. The electronic displays in the cockpit lit and received power, which was a good sign, but whatever logic the ship ran on was raising a sardonic eyebrow and eying him warily. The lump of metal like a coffin with a faint, blurry sense of life inside it didn''t help with his concentration, nor how it conspicuously took up where a copilot might sit. He allowed the Force to guide him, trance-like as he unfocused his eyes and let his fingers slide over controls, over consoles, over forests of strangely marked buttons, switches and toggles. On Drall, the planetary repulsor spoke to him. It lit up before his eyes, with shining conduits of energy ghostlike in his vision. Everything was intuitive and understandable, like following a children''s guide to a datapad. Step by step, welcoming him. His not-Vong combat droids, back at the Jedi Headquarters on Coruscant, they were more like a puzzle. Each part obviously was meant to fit to another, but there were so many and they had so many spots and places that they could join that nothing was absolutely clear. Jaina could probably juggle them and built a hyperdrive in her sleep, but each addition to the dueling droids was arduous. The Thunderhawk, returning to his first thought, truly did feel like it was frowning at him. Asking: who are you? Why are you here? What are you hoping to accomplish? He felt the flows of power that rippled from battery banks, lighting the cockpit up and illuminating the compartment Sol worked in. He could feel blockages, like clots or sclerotic build-ups that stymied the energy. He flipped clicking switches, feeling how power draw switched from one conduit to another, running through the thick, armored airframe. What''s this for, the Thunderhawk seemed to ask. I''m fixing you, Anakin idly thought back. Threepio was talkative when he enjoyed a warm oil bath and Artoo blatted and tweetled about everything under the stars - and like his Uncle, Anakin spoke enough binary to follow along. The dueling droids kept quiet under his ministrations and other things just went along with Anakin''s guidance. Manual controls, apparently supplemented fly-by-wire systems in Imperial ships; half the reason they''d managed to pancake the Thunderhawk into a skidding landing during the storm instead of a nose-down plunge into ruin. They were sluggish, of course. He worked the stick left, right, feeling the way the ailerons grudgingly accommodated. Power assisted and managed by complex load-reducing systems - oh, there, there and there - but working. Alright. He barely noticed the slow slide of light across the cockpit, as it crept up to his face, dappled and scattered by the sparser canopy this close to the sea. Hours passed in moving meditation. There. No. There. Plasma dug into the hull, cut lines here, and there and over there too. The Thunderhawk felt like it watched him, perched on his shoulder, or just behind. Leaning close and second-guessing each reflexive diagnostic. Zal came back, swapped with Sol. Sannah stayed in a trance. Their mental presences moved and Anakin barely noticed. The internal engine - which was a flaring, hungry fusion core - was unscathed. All shielding, all containment normal. A strong, firm heart. The problem was in the hits to the aft, which chewed up the rear fuselage something awful and let plasma spatter into internal machine spaces. Conduits were torched through, several important capacitors and transformers slagged. All the same, there were others. The gunship was almost ridiculously overengineered. Redundancies for redundancies, but none of them listened. Turn on here. Switch. Redirect. Why not? What was he doing wrong? Anakin slumped back, dwarfed by the massive pilot seat. Scaled for an Astartes, in armor, he felt like a child in their parent''s chair. Red diodes winked across half the controls. The answer was right there. The Thunderhawk could be fixed, but it was like it didn''t want to. "C''mon," Anakin growled. "Why won''t you¡­" he trailed off, completing the sentence silently. Why won''t you let me help? [You aren''t known.] The words weren''t words, and they weren''t spoken in colloquial Basic, but Anakin almost dropped a spanner all the same. "Sithspawn!" [You aren''t known.] They carried weird emotions, intonation that sat close to meaning without quite touching it. A desire to recognize; a flash of warning. Caution. "I''m Anakin?" he tried. [You aren''t known.] "I''m here with Zal and Sol. They asked me to fix¡­you?" It wouldn''t exactly be the first time that a machine talked back, but it definitely was claiming the record for most direct. He always got impressions from things he fixed - maybe an eagerness to reveal its systems, sometimes a sluggish recalcitrance to power on. But nothing that ever had the texture of true words. [Zal, known. Sol, known. You aren''t known.] "Right, I know. But they asked me to help fix you up, and I can, so¡­will you let me?" The voice was a whisper and an intuition, brushing around his ear, tickling against the edges of the Force. He pushed back, focusing on how serious he was about repairing the gunship, on his concern over the ''mission'', about the honesty he felt when he told the two Ultramarines that he could do what he claimed. He heard Zalthis clattering around in the troop bay behind the cockpit, felt Sannah''s deep, dreamless slumber. The Thunderhawk, and he was pretty sure he was talking to the Thunderhawk, held its ''tongue'' for a moment. [Priority is mission. Zal is known. Sol is known. Authenticating for temporary permissions. In further communion; recommend clearer phrasing.] Anakin huffed a surprise laugh - the thing had chided him on his accent. Suddenly, at his will and his touch, everything just worked, just the way it should. He diverted to secondary backup systems, deactivating primary lines and cutting off blown transformers. The Thunderhawk worked with him, this time. His smile grew as the familiar, friendly sensation swelled through the Force. The way ghostly afterimages caught his eye, directed his darting fingertips, demanded a press or a flick or a spin of a dial. Deep in the guts of the Thunderhawk, the satisfyingly familiar grumble of a repulsorlift engaging made the whole gunship quiver. He felt the engines cycle once, a low-power maintenance check, like clearing a throat. His stomach growled. Outside was twilight. "Wow. That took a minute." Affectionately, because he''d grown up around ships like the Falcon and the Jade Something or Another, Anakin patted the console on a bare patch of metal. "Thanks, Thunderhawk." [Designation Five Five Nine Zero One Slash A. Thunderhawk is chassis generic.] Anakin blinked. "You''re not called Thunderhawk?" [Designation Five Five Nine Zero One Slash A.] "Oh. Sorry." That might have been the most surprising reveal of the entire day. "Zal!" he called. The Astartes immediately leaned into the cockpit, glancing around at the fully lit controls and pure green status lamps; only a few marked out yellow or orange. "I felt the ignition. Is it functional?" "About seventy percent power, but she''ll fly again. Also - why did you never correct me?" Zalthis raised an eyebrow. "It''s not called Thunderhawk!" The Astartes barked a laugh, climbing fully into the cockpit, filling the narrow space between the pilot seat and the coffin-filled copilot station. "Thunderhawks rarely have names, only designations. Most don''t last long enough to warrant bothering." Something about that felt terribly wrong, especially with how verbose Thunder- no, how verbose 55901/a was. Even a mind-wiped astromech deserved a decent name. They''d have to fix that. Feeling entirely lighter, Anakin spun the pilot''s chair, grinning up at Zalthis. They had a ship. They had a hyperdrive. They had a way up and out. Sannah was safe, she was healing. Finally, there was nothing left between him and Tahiri. "We''ve got some plans to make," Anakin declared.
Colonel Darklighter waved Jaina into his office, returning her parade-perfect salute with a quick gesture. "Colonel, sir." "Welcome back, Sticks." His easy use of her callsign - her callsign, given by the Rogues - warmed her chest and Jaina let a tiny grin loose. She didn''t mind: it was good to be back. The Ralroost had a smell she''d gotten used to, a blend of generic detergents for uniforms, a hint of ozone that every pilot brought back from the void, some kind of simple citrus probably inserted into the ''cyclers to keep the processed air from getting stale. It smelled like battle, it smelled like service, and it smelled like the Rogues. Gavin''s office also had a constant, lowlying bite of old caf to the nose that mixed in distinct ways with the ''Roost''s own scent. His desk was in disarray, scattered with datapads and ''cubes. Jaina had once wondered why she saw her father with multiple, when he still was General Solo. Why not just use one, she''d thought, until she learned about things like operational security and physical segregation of sensitive materials. His wall safe, where sensitive orders were kept on fingerprint biometric datachips was hinged open, revealing its interior bare. "Take a seat if you like, Jaina, but this''ll be quick. Sorry we don''t have the time to welcome you back the right way, but - well, you saw the muster on the way up." Did she. Everyone on Coruscant had. Guardian, surrounded by an absolute swarm of First Fleet, so much so that it covered half the sky each time the formation swept by overhead. Seeing a Super Star Destroyer in person, up close like this, had been surprisingly impactful. It wasn''t the first dreadnought she''d seen, but there was something about the presence of the massive Star Destroyer that struck her, eying the steely blue hull and massive crimson firebirds on the flanks. This was the kind of ship that her parents had fought against, the kind of ship that had been the terror of the Rebel Alliance that her family, in a lot of ways, had been the staunchest guardians and champions of. It wasn''t her first dreadnought, but Guardian managed to steal her attention until Ralroost was almost on top of her shuttle. The Bothan Assault Cruiser was tucked in with the whole pack, in a slot near the MC90 Avaratraima and the ISD In Absence. Combat air patrols flew fast and thick and she wondered which squadron, which wing was out today; realized she''d probably not recognize them even if she knew. So: yes, Jaina most certainly had seen the muster on the way up. "I did, sir. I''m glad I could be back in time for¡­" she trailed off, gesturing sort of helplessly around. Something was up; First Fleet didn''t roll up like this just to put on a show. Fleet tenders were nosing around and partnering up with cap ships as far as the eye could see. She could feel the energy in the air, the way the Force itself hummed with so many beings all thinking the same thoughts: What''s going on? What''s the news? Where are we going? And under it: Will I die, this time? Gavin laughed, mirroring her gesture. "For ''that''. There''s some new orders that came down from the powers that be. Classified, of course, but lucky for you, someone remembered just why we call you Sticks." Jaina raised an eyebrow as Gavin gently hefted a small datapad in one hand, then underhand tossed it toward her, right over his desk. Surprised, she snatched it from the air by reflex alone, a little proud she didn''t dip into the Force. "It''s keyed to touch and your serial number. Don''t share it around, you know the drill." A thought occurred. A rude one, an intrusive one that clenched her stomach. "Ah, Colonel? I''m¡­I''m not being pulled off the Rogues, am I?" She felt his surprise, then chagrin. "No, not at all! You''ve still got that head plug-" Jaina touched the cool metal of the oncocidal injector over her ear, realized, quickly brought her hand back down. "-so you can''t fly quite yet. I know, it''s just another week. There''s more in your orders, but gist of it is - High Comm wants the lid on all this shut. You know our new neighbors, the ones who don''t make any noise?" Don''t make any - oh. Oh. "Keep an eye out. An ''inner eye'', I think Colonel Loran said. You''ve got contacts with your orders on who to go to. It''s not me." Gavin held up his hands. "I''m just a fighter jock." One who''d helped liberate Coruscant and had more than his share of blasterfights, but just a ''jock''. "And when the head plug''s out, you''re back on the roster. It''s all hands, Jaina." The Colonel grew serious, even grave. He leaned forward, planting both palms on his high desk. She forced herself to meet his eyes. "I know about Yavin." Jaina did not flinch and did not look away. "I''m sorry. I can imagine what you''re feeling right now. I know. I can''t say anything that will help." Her tongue feeling thick and unwieldy, Jaina managed to speak. "Anakin can take care of himself." Aside from the almost crystal-clear spike of abject anguish that had yanked Jaina awake just a day ago and left her shaking in bed, soaked in sweat and tasting tears on her lips. She could still feel the gentle weight in both her hands and smell rotting leaves and freshly churned soil. Her little brother was strong, as strong as their Uncle. He second-guessed himself, but Anakin could do things Jaina never imagined. He''d had his trials, just like her and Jacen, and he''d grown up into a young man that still surprised her. He would be fine; there wasn''t any other conceivable option. "He''s a Solo," Gavin said, like that was all that needed to be said. "But he''s still your kid brother." Jaina swallowed. "I was surprised you put in to return early. You still had four days on convalescence." "I need to do something, sir." Gavin nodded. "You need to not think." Not think about her little brother left behind on Yavin for days now, not think about the home she secretly cared more about than Coruscant overrun by the damned scarheads, not think about how she wasn''t there to fly cover. Not think about how Uncle Luke had helplessly hung his head and Aunt Mara had looked grim and severe, or even how her own mother had just taken the news in stride. Not think about how no matter how much she ached, she ached to burn ions and burn scarheads and fly like even General Antilles never could, that she''d be dead the second a dovin basal mine yanked her out far from the jungle moon. Jaina spoke none what she''d mostly kept under wraps. Instead, she clenched her jaw and gave a tiny nod. Gavin straightened up, rubbing at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. She felt his sympathy and didn''t need it. "Dismissed, Lieutenant Solo. Go read over your new orders. Briefing tomorrow, 0740." She snapped another parade-perfect salute. Older than his years, Gavin Darklighter returned it. Intransigence Interlude III On the Reorganization of the Thirteenth Legion Elements Assigned to the Forty-Seven Eleventh Expeditionary Fleet and the Exiled Imperium [DOCUMENT PRINCIPIA] HENCEFORTH, the XIIIth Legiones Astartes ''Ultramarines'' (whose count numbers Three Thousand Five Hundred and Ninety Four) shall be organized into Seven Battalions, numbered I through VII. Each Battalion shall be organized according to principles outlined in the Principia Belicosa, adjusted by necessity as outlined in codification papers to follow. Each Battalion shall be considered an independent entity, answering only to the Praetorium; each Battalion shall granted men and material necessary for their tasked role and may petition the Praetorium for further supply. Of the Neophytes in service in the Forty-Seven Eleventh, they shall be evenly distributed between each Battalion for purposes of reinforcement. Each Battalion shall be required to train their own Neophytes, while the task of gathering Initiates shall fall to the Praetorium. Each Battalion shall be assembled of Five Companies of Legionnaires Ultramarine, numbering one hundred per company. Each Company shall be headed by a Captain, subordinate to the Centurion of the Battalion. Within each Battalion, Companies shall be numbered I through V, without respect to the total Companies of the Legiones Ultramarine. Each Battalion shall be counted at Full Strength when numbered at Five Hundred Battle-Brothers, yet may maintain on Rolls an overcapacity count of an additional demicompany. The Praetorium of the Legiones Ultramarine shall remain in Perpetuity the final Authority over all Battalions Founded, retaining sole authority to command and call all Battalions Founded. The Praetorium may draw officers from any Battalion. On the Numbering and Cognomen of the Legiones Ultramarine and the Seven Battalions Founded, With Reference to Character and Presentation of Allegiance Henceforth, the XIIIth Legiones Astartes ''Ultramarines'' shall be described as the Legiones Ultramarine in all official communique. Each Battalion, by number, shall be known as: I Astartes Aggressor II Astartes Vigilum III Astartes Scutum IV Astartes Astra V Astartes Vastator VI Astartes Intercessor VII Astartes Velite Further Battalion Founding shall continue this formation of numbering and cognomen. Each Battalion of the Legiones Ultramarine shall claim emblem, colours and words. Colours shall be required to contain as primary, secondary, or tertiary the colour Ultramarine, in fealty and honour to the Legiones Ultramarine. Battalions shall be required to differentiate emblem and colour from other Battalions, such that no Battalion may overlap in selection. Distinct Character is the intent in Presentation by each Battalion Founded. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. The means by which each Battalion shall select for emblem, colours and words is left to the internal deliberation of each Battalion, with final approval required by submission to the Praetorium.
[ADDENDA] BY ORDER OF THE PRIMARCH, The Captains Phratus Auguston, Fastus Foltrus, Erriod Paston, Klord Empion, Archod Haesorion, Justinius Secandar, Damastes Argant are elevated to the Battalion Command rank of Centurion. BY ORDER OF THE PRIMARCH, The Brevet promotion of Captain is confirmed for Gegannius Rurus [3rd Company], Anchorine Dallant [7th Company], Rankandrous Amandrake [8th Company], Egritan Spane [15th Company], Sentatus Plianus [17th Company], Lysimane Iassos [18th Company], Seltal Krassant [24th Company], Coteio Brammant [30th Company], Keritirun Flavien [33rd Company], Sydeion Gargast [34th Company]. The Brevet promotion of Captain is confirmed for Aeonid Thiel [First Adaptive Tactics Company]. BY ORDER OF THE PRIMARCH, Henceforth, all regulations shall be in effect in perpetuity, barring EITHER countermanding decision by the Praetorium or, by the Grace of Him on Terra, the Reunification of the Exiled Imperium to the Greater Imperium of Terra, by which latter circumstance all Battalions Founded are to be dissolved and all further reorganizations undone. BY ORDER OF THE PRIMARCH, The Ultimate Authority is and shall remain with Him on Terra, the Emperor of Mankind, by whose authority and trust is the Primarch Roboute Guilliman empowered to speak and deliberate on behalf of the Legiones Ultramarine and the Exiled Imperium. Let no power or person elevate themselves above the Emperor on Terra. BY ORDER OF THE PRIMARCH, The Ultimate Purpose of all Battalions Founded and the Exiled Imperium is and shall remain the Return, to be considered an Order Primary above all other concerns. Any Battalion Founded into whose possession comes actionable intelligence or apparatus that further the action of the Order Primary must report this exigent circumstance to the Praetorium with all due and reasonable haste, else face condemnation as Excommunicate Traitoris. Intransigence Chapter X
You Can''t Go Home Again
X: Promise in Blood The Thunderhawk was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving but rustling gusts of iron-tasting backdraft in the cramped embarkation deck. One of the Jedi''s shuttles rocked on its legs and several ratings stumbled. Kyle Katarn and Kam Solusar braced themselves. The atmospheric envelope crackled and popped at the interchange pressure. Only stars glowed through the filmy, flickering field. At speed, the Thunderhawk would already be kilometers away and accelerating. Zalthis may not have had practical training on such a vessel, but Aeonid had no doubt as to the efficacy of hypnomat. His vox bead in his gorget buzzed and voices cried out in confusion. He waved away the shipmaster''s confusion and directed to continue the pre-established flight plan. There was no need to pause nor to offer support to the Thunderhawk. Aeonid was Astartes and he was Ultramarine. The shipmaster did not question. In this embarkation deck and the one opposite Temerity, he felt the Jedi begin to cautiously unbuckle crash webbing and murmur to one another. He felt grief and shock, he felt confusion and fear. Kam and Kyle, who had gathered with Aeonid to discuss what came next, shared a meaningful look and took their leave, returning to their charges. There were accommodations already set aside and trained handlers brought aboard from Eboracum to interface between the Jedi and the ship''s crew. Aeonid remained, watching the distant stars as Temerity rumbled underfoot, her realspace impeller drive spooling to maximum output for the long run to the Mandeville. He listened to quiet reports fed through his voxbead about the Yuuzhan Vong warships staying their hand, content to watch Temerity flee. Ikrit''s death hung over the Jedi as a pall while they mustered, organized, counted heads for a third time, and then exited for the suite of chambers they would stay in. The youngest sniffled and burned like live wires of sorrow, the elders uneasy and concerned. One mind stayed firmly in Aeonid''s attention as it passed from the bridge to the ventral arterial, worked through several decks into an express lift and descended rapidly toward the embarkation deck. Aeonid turned just as the lift door''s rolled aside in a clatter, revealing a hulking Astartes walking with purpose and speed. Striding, perhaps. Or stalking. The new arrival bore recoloured plate, though it still gave Aeonid pause each time to see familiar shapes in unfamiliar colours. An ill-omened pause, a pause that brought memories of other, newly recoloured plate, in an unfamiliar scheme. This Astartes came to a halt before Aeonid, giving neither salute nor greeting. ''Aeonid,'' Sentatus Plianus, Second Captain of IV Astra, made his name sound like an epithet. ''Captain Plianus.'' Where Aeonid''s plate remained the long-honoured colours of Ultramar (for his Battalion had not finalized their new heraldry), Plianus wore a coat so fresh it gleamed in the deck''s high and harsh lights. A blue so dark it was nearly black shimmered, glossy, across plastron, greaves and arms. Each pauldron bore a darkened gold field, trimmed by white. The emblem of the Astra, a blue Ultima that contained within its arc four white stars emblazoned the right pauldron; the left bore the mark of Plianus'' command. Of the rich blue of Ultramar, only the helmet and gauntlets bore the color, enough to mark Plianus still as one of Guilliman''s sons. ''Pray tell me - what is the meaning of this? A launch? Unauthorized?'' Plianus went helmed. Aeonid did not. He met the blazing lenses of his fellow captain unflinching. ''A last minute command from me, Captain Plianus.'' ''A last - for the love of the Throne, Aeonid-'' ''Captain Thiel,'' Aeonid corrected. Plianus stiffened visibly. Anger swirled in the other man''s mix, leavened by frustration and a few less honorable emotions. ''I do not know how our Primarch expects cooperation with your Company, Captain Thiel, if this is how you mean to conduct yourself.'' He spared a final thought for his two youngest brothers, far beyond his reach. A simple well-wish. ''Operational command is mind to do with as I see fit.'' ''Space is my domain. I have been commanding void war since before you even knew what a Black Carapace was. Unauthorized launches bring confusion, they bring disorder, they bring lassitude in discipline. I should have been consulted.'' The anger was the anger of a professional and personal insult. The frustration reared ugly head around Aeonid''s relative youth. The other Captain was as open as a book. A different Aeonid would have set his heels and locked horns in return. He would have argued. He would have wielded his authority as a cudgel or as a blade, to batter or slash through whatever he needed to get the job done. He had done so before, at Calth, speaking with the Primarch''s authority when he had none. He had done so as a Sergeant, which had earned him the red helm before. ''I agree.'' Plianus paused, wrongfooted. ''Your expertise supersedes mine here; I can only explain that the window of opportunity was small and the decision had to be made rapidly. I hope, in the future, you can educate me on better theoreticals.'' He gestured for the lift, Plianus reluctantly falling in step as they made to leave the embarkation deck behind. ''We have a week of travel ahead of us, at minimum. Perhaps joint exercises, between my Company and yours? I am sure Tercinax, Varien and Amalius would welcome the chance.'' Anger remained, but resentment was punctured before it could bloom. ''This should have been done before arrival at the moon,'' Plianus insisted. ''It should have. That was my oversight. I am corrected and I will remember this.'' Plianus grunted as they fit into the lift together. Aeonid depressed a rune. ''See that you do, Captain.''
For three days Aeonid allowed himself the excuse of wargaming with the handful of IV Astra assigned to Temerity. Plianus was slated for a position aboard Opolor''s Vow, at the Fondor front, but had attended as an initial shakedown of the IV in action. He brought two squads - one his command, fitted with breaching shields and volkite serpenta in case of boarding and a second squad for rapid reaction. The Ultramarines Astra were an answer to the assault on the Honour not long ago, a recognition of the Yuuzhan Vong''s potential to unleash havoc on unprepared warships. Their wargear was myriad and adaptable, their plate reinforced and up-armoured to the fore. Breachers and true marines, the Astra were to be assigned to every Exile warship likely to encounter the alien foe. Most notably - and most rarely - the Fifth Company of the IVth, under a Proximo Dido, were to be portioned out at squad and demisquad strength as combat strikecraft pilots. Astartes in piloting positions were vastly uncommon to the Ultramarines - likely only a few thousand had true, practical experience in the cockpit of a craft like the Xiphon. Most theoreticals found the usage of transhumans in such a role to be at best ineffectual and at worst, detrimental. In the cataclysmic warfare of the void, the posthuman biology of an Astartes mattered much less when faced by continent-searing firepower and battleships that could crack moons. Yet Plianus, with Centurion Empion''s support, argued his point to the Primarch, who had eventually accepted. Survivors of several wings after the crazed battle over Calth were alloyed together into new squads, new squadrons, and even now, Aeonid knew, the Mechanicum pondered similar questions to what had resulted in his now ''stolen'' Thunderhawk. How might the technologies, if sanctioned, of this galaxy better serve the Ultramarines? Plianus himself was a master pilot, survivor of a hundred and more clashes through the Crusade and, Aeonid could admit, a far better strategist at void combat than he ever could be. The other Captain''s short temper did not settle, but the edges were kept sanded at bay as his pilots and boarders brutalized Aeonid''s own squad''s attempted strategies. There was an amusement among the ''Space Marines'' at the ''groundpounders'' being humbled by the complexities of three dimensional and occasionally relativistic combat across millions of miles. Varien scowled, Amalius studied and Tercinax bore each trouncing with phlegmatic amusement. It was good for his men. As much as they learned, Aeonid did as well. As much as Amalius took notes, Aeonid took more. Adaptive Combat Tactics meant only as much as he had a box of useful tools to draw upon, and he intended to fill that box to overflowing. So he allowed three days to pass aboard ship. In the first day Temerity made translation, cutting off holonet contact with the outside galaxy - a notable peculiarity of warp travel compared to hyperspace. The Jedi settled into their given spaces and the shuttles and freighters that bore them up were secured. The second and third days he sparred with Plianus in hololith-filled strategium and over broad map-boards of mnemo-plast glassine. Until, at last, when Aeonid couldn''t keep his mind from the thought any longer, and in predictable coincidence, he met Master Solusar lingering outside of the Jedi spaces. He made no overture when he left his private chambers behind nor had he cast his mind abroad - yet there she was, nevertheless. The minds of Katarn, Solusar, Streen and Cilghal remained bright points, but with attention elsewhere. Tionne looked tired and drawn, mustering a thin smile in greeting, her silver hair pulled simply back in a tie. ''Aeonid'', she welcomed, her voice as soft as ever. ''What brings you here?'' A kindness, to pretend that she did not likely know better than he why he came. ''Master Solusar,'' he offered a shallow bow. The Jedi had no real proper forms of address or formality, but she was a Master of their art and deserved nothing less. ''I¡­have been thinking.'' ''Most beings do,'' she chided, a little playfulness beating back the lingering grief around her. ''I''d not speak ill of my brothers, but I know of some that would put lie to that.'' Her eyes widened and she laughed. It was a good sound. ''Aeonid! That''s awful!'' He shrugged, rolling broad shoulders beneath his homespun robes. Strangely, after several weeks at the Praxeum, his armor sat almost strangely when he bore it again. Tionne sobered, glancing down and fiddling her fingers. ''Is it about Ikrit?'' He opened his mouth - closed it. Opened it again - shut it once more. Within him, built over days, the pressure looked for an outlet but he could find none of the words that matched. Every one he tried in hours of meditation between different wargames felt jagged and ill-shaped. Prickling and wrong, dissonant even in the privacy of his mind. In each meditation he blocked out all others - a task which came harder and harder - until his sense of the world was only of his body. ''He died.'' Aeonid regretted the starkness of the words as soon as they left his lips. Tionne nodded solemnly. ''''There is no death, only the Force.'''' ''What I meant was¡­'' again his voice faltered. Gently, Tionne lay a hand on his chest, over his heart. ''Just speak, Aeonid.'' ''I am trying to-'' He growled, shaking his head. Nothing was right. He had no practical. He could ask none of his brothers. He could not even go to his father, because for all that his father was, he was not this. One among hundreds of thousands, one among thousands, surfeit with brothers, Aeonid felt achingly alone. How could he say that Kyle Katarn had moved and fought and acted like few warriors Aeonid had ever known or even seen? How could he say that the oneness of the ''meld'' Anakin introduced had sunken deep into his gut and could not be extracted? How could he say that at the end, that there was still connection, a connection that showed him not fear, not pain; but rather peace. Rightness. A deeper emotion, one that twitched at his heart and twisted his stomach, one that he could name but had never understood - never believed he could understand, for all that it was spoken freely and openly and without thought, as much a part of the mortal life of humanity as everything else he had given up. Love. Deep, abiding love. A little xeno creature, like some Rogue Trader''s pet, swelling with nothing but love before the sudden silence came - Love for young Anakin and Tahiri, for Sannah the Melodie and all the other Jedi on the fleeing ships; not just the youths but the elder Jedi too. And for him. Aeonid. His mouth twisted and he wished as he had a hundred times before that this Force had not chosen him. Like many times now, the wish was hollow. Weight drew him down, down to one knee, until he was level with Tionne Solusar. It bowed his head, it drooped his shoulders and Aeonid could not pack it away as he had in constant distraction of wargame and theoretical and review. In the chambers given to the Jedi they mourned Ikrit, they feared for their three lost children and they loved Aeonid for what he had done. ''Could you tell me of the Jedi?'' he asked, quiet and intense. Tionne''s small hands cupped Aeonid''s face, drawing his gaze to her silver eyes. ''Which ones?'' Aeonid Thiel inhaled. ''All of them.'' ''I was hoping you would ask,'' she said.
"And still no spoor to follow," Supreme Commander Malik Carr sneered. The villip conveyed his displeasure most accurately and the shape of his master''s derision sent shivers down Harmae''s spine. "None, Potent Lord. We have seeded wide trackers, but this moon is rife with hostile life. Many predators have found our netting-beetles and syk-ragk tunnelers to be palatable and the Shapers claim they hunt them with much pleasure." The made-thing vessel that had fallen free of the captured Jeedai starship had been found only two days previous, after close to four days and nights by the moon''s own time. It had been ransacked and left abandoned, all supply torn from within. Tracker-beasts ranged out and sniffed for scents, but where misled by pheromone trails of whooping simians and chattering marsupials that swung among the jungle''s canopy branches. Worse, much flooding had soaked the soil, creating churned mud from the passage of entire herds of prey-beasts. Any sign of the Jeedai was lost, but that did not concern Harmae the most. That lie with the Aistarteez vessel that had evaded pursuit, receiving only some damage, before slipping into the churning storm clouds and, like the Jeedai, vanishing. The jungle''s ancient trees bore minerals within their trunks that frustrated orbital scryers that peered down from Harmae''s two miid-roic. Thermal backshimmer and hot radiation boiling from the bloated gas giant clouded great lenses and gave a thousand false returns. Not only Jeedai were on this moon but Aistarteez too, and an unknown quantity. "Execute the least of the yorik-et squadron that failed to destroy the Aistarteez transport." Harmae nodded, not correcting the Supreme Commander that he had already done so. The Paring of the Fat, a favored means of punishment among Domain Carr and a chastisement Harmae knew personally. Other fools like Shai might slay the leader for failure, but to take the least is to encourage only greater service in the eyes of the Gods, so that they might not find themselves judged wanting when the time comes. "I can spare no more for you, Commander." Harmae remained on one knee, chewing at his tattooed lip. His own countenance would not be repeated - his face was not to be seen in his current shame. "The Warmaster''s plans are strict and they are thorough. Already the shortage in yammosks has slowed deployment and mustering. To match His Brutality''s timetable, we cannot slip even a day." "I understand, Potent Lord." "I gave you four hundred warriors of Carr," Malik Carr admonished. "Fine warriors, all of them. How many were slain in the storm? No, do not speak - my ears rings still." "The storm¡­" "The Jeedai continue to showcase new powers. For this alone, my wroth with you is lessened. But I have grown accustomed to success, Commander. Do not make me doubt your ascension. Do not make me doubt my trust in you again." "By Yammka himself, never." "Offer blood to seal this. Do not call on me again until the Jeedai are captured and the Aistarteez slain. Master Qesh offers a bounty for those who deliver an Aistarteez alive, but I will not risk my warriors. Now do my will." "Belek tiu, Supreme Commander." The villip schlorped back within its casing, leaving Harmae kneeling before the villip choir. Dozens of villips, all silent and waiting, tied to partners across broad spans of the galaxy. Malik Carr''s was the foremost and finest, hide shimmering like oiled leather, slick to the touch and taut. A storm. The Jeedai conjured a storm, the first storm Harmae Carr had ever felt, smelt or touched. A storm to break his warriors and a storm to befuddle the senses and again they spat in the eyes of the Gods and the Gods seemed to let them. What had the Chosen People done to deserve these insults? What test was this meant to be, as these Jeedai produced trick after trick from their cowardly arsenal. Master Kwaad was obsessed and when the Supreme Commander had tasked him as her guard and warden, he had sneered at the thought of the infidel sorcerers. Now, he shared a modicum of the Shaper''s interest. She was convincing, in her spiels of how this ''Force'' was meant to be a gift to the Yuuzhan Vong. That the Jeedai were the challenge to ensure they were worthy. Pretty words, but they did not salve the ache in his hands. No lives had been claimed by his amphistaff in that long, harrowing night. The instruction was to capture the Jeedai, but Harmae could be forgiven if one chose to fight to the death. Yes, no one would question that. For all their heathen nature, the Jeedai were known to be warriors and some had made final stands. He''d wet his amphistaff, carve back his honor in blood. Harmae found himself within Yammka''s Grotto, the small shrine set aside for the Many Tentacled Lord of War. His feet had delivered him while he mused. Before the snarling statue in yorik coral, Harmae knelt once more and drew his tsaisi. The small baton of rank stiffened in his grasp and he ran its edge across his densely-scarred palms. Rich lifeblood welled and he beseeched his God, stroking at tentacle and bulbous body, streaking blood across already black-stained coral. Yun-Yammka leered back and the statue''s mica eyes caught the luminescent light just right to glimmer. A thrill of superstitious dread quivered through Harmae. He made the promise in his heart with the promise made in blood: a Jeedai would die one last time on this cursed moon.
Bells rung. Censers swung. Hymnals raised to the very rafters of the grand manufactorum droned and vibrated bones and adamantium skeleton alike. Cantic binhary stuttered and shrieked. Skitarii masters stalked on telescoped legs, rad-rifles left aside for burnished archaeotech pistols and humming flash-rapiers. Magi in every shape and form grouped in clusters. Hunched backs sprouted knotted tangles of mechadendrites; tall Magi called in fleshvoice; wheels clicked and treads ground; white-trimmed robes rustled and swept; optics in every shade of the rainbow recorded and analyzed and peered across spectra. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Archmagos Veneratus Explorator-Biologis Orichi-Mu, Fabricator-General [Default] of Eboracum remained far afield and, as the saying went, when the Archmagos was away, the cyberape would play. The Calth Muster was the greatest conjunction of the Eastern expanse in living memory. Two entire Legions challenged even some of the mightiest Crusade formations like those that struck at Ullanor or at the Rangda, and, ever-dutiful, the Mechanicum of Red Mars stood by to offer aid. Calth was a jewel-world, a new-born treasure, soon to slot into the tetrarchy of Saramanth, Konor, Occluda and Iax. As much as it was a world of Ultramar and beloved of Primarch Guilliman, so too was it blessed in the eyes of the Omnissiah and given unceasing industry by the Motive Force. Veridia Forge was the home of the Mechanicum, as Calth was the home of the Ultramarines. The great orbitals of the world were commanded and infested by the red-robed Magi, tending to the great cogitator brains that handled the masterpiece defense grid. Hulls were laid, alloys smelted, superheavies cast and a trillion bolts for a trillion bolters churned by tireless assembly line. The insult given by the cursed and bastard Lorgar was driven not just at the heart of Ultramarines, but also spat upon the arid and long-memoried face of Red Mars. The Mechanicum remembered. The Mechanicum remembered long after all others had forgotten. The Ultramarines had been lucky to escape with an estimated third to half of their Legion. Calth managed to evacuate millions, even despite the turmoil. Those that remained had the arcologies to flee to. Veridia Forge was slaughtered like a grox. The orbital yards burned. Of the masterful Adepts of Veridia: but three hundred and seventy-four escaped with the 4711th. Three hundred and seventy-four. Extrapolation indicated the total survivability of Veridia Forge Magi to be below one hundred thousand, off-world. Out of tens of millions. This Aldovv Brane-Ugoln maintained within her active memory coil, branded into the very wafers that managed her blessed processing. Three hundred and seventy-four. Magi, trained Magi, those beyond the base novitiate, were the great minority of the Mechanicum, should the count include menials, tech-serfs, servitors, Skitarii and other sundry servants and chattel of Mars. This was as should be: not all minds and not all bodies were suited to the perilous and precious ascension of knowledge. Yet for so few¡­ Brane-Ugoln raised her tetrad hands, simultaneously with blurt-cast across the local noosphere. All attention snapped to her. Unlike the fleshbound mortals, she needed to wait no time at all for cessation of conversation or the slow adjustment of focus. All who mattered here were Magi or Skitarii-enhanced. +The Machine God bears us to a newfound Galaxy, which spills over with secrets undreamt of+ -This Galaxy is filled with the Alien and the Abominable Intelligence- +We bring the Comprehension of Mars, which is beyond the scrabbling creatures of this place+ -We number few, and fewer still as war comes to us- She held her charge at neutral, savoring the chemical gradient flow. All gathered, whether they directed optics toward her upon the manufactorum''s primary assembly line or not, tuned to the subtle signal markets in her blurt-cant. +The Primarch values the Mechanicum+ -The Primarch commands the Mechanicum- +Our study is unrestricted- -Our study is unrestricted- Beside her, the hulking and bullish form of Sarbok Tan-Krato, relayed her words in Skitarii battle-cant, inflecting each phrase eloquently to appeal to the martial minded. +The Seventh Law is that Comprehension is the Key to all Things+ Motion subtly rippled through those assembled in the manufactorum chamber. -The Eighth Warning is that to Break with Ritual is to Break with Faith- A pulsed command through noospheric link commanded forward servitors who drew a flatbedded cart between them. Within, crippled beyond motion but given the unearned gift of continued function, a dozen droids warbled and cried in alarm. A ripple of disgust swept through the assembled Magi and Skitarii, a tangible wave that rustled robes. Brane-Ugoln pointed with four hands at the cart, at the dismembered torso of a silvered mockery of the human form that bleated nonsense in alien tongue. +Orichi-Mu is most ancient among us+ -Orichi-Mu abdicates responsibility- +Orichi-Mu acts according to his station: Explorator+ -Orichi-Mu acts contrary to his station as Fabricator-General [Default]- Queries for clarification pinged across Brane-Ugoln''s awareness. Of the seventy-two Magi who attended, at least half stood within Mu''s camp. That was well. Spirited theological debate was the blood and mortar of the Mechanicum. +An explorator is needed in this galaxy. Orichi-Mu is an Explorator of great renown.+ -None save the Omnissiah can bear the weight of too many roles- +There are other candidates to optimally serve the role of Fabricator-General, such that the tag [Default] might be retired.+ Though her innards strained at maintaining a positive Lorentz gradient, Brane-Ugoln spoke no further. The imbalance showed humility and a positive gradient gave honor to the Mysteries, to offset her preaching of the Warnings. In the noosphere, as milliseconds passed, discourse flew fierce and hot. Packages were prepared and blurted, unpackaged and consumed and processed and rebroadcast, tagged and categorized. Life-stories were appended, exhaustive with minutia of discovery and faithful cataloging. Magos from across sphere and discipline declared candidacy, argued support of Orichi-Mu, cast doubt and plaudits both at her feet. Nine seconds after she ceased her speech, the first proposal for Aldovv Brane-Ugoln, Veridia Forge, High Magistrix Cybernetica as Suitable Candidate for Fabricator-General [Suitable] for Eboracum flashed through the noosphere. Another title was added then: Oratratix of the Tenets Cautionary. She allowed a simulative process to approximate pleasure. It suited her. Her diametric opposition to the Veneratus was one of doctrinal position, not personal. That would be inefficient, after all.
For the third time, Thunderhawk 5590/a rumbled to life, rocked on her repulsorlifts, cleared her engines for startup and settled again into her nest of heaping bushes, branches and brambles. Anakin leaned back, clapping his hands together though not a speck of dust sat on them. Through the canopy, Zalthis caught his eye and sharply nodded, then stomped back up the opened bow ramp. That was the last of the checks. The hyperdrive was talking to the Thunderhawk again, the repulsorlifts hadn''t cut out halfway through startup, power was getting from the reactor to everywhere it needed to go. He couldn''t do anything for the physical damage, which meant the ride was going to be bumpy and clumsy until they hit space. Ailerons were shredded, which meant it would be repulsorlifts and reaction control thrusters to manhandle through maneuvering, but from the feeling he got from the transport, they could also just make like a rocket and blast straight up without any issue. "You''re going to need a name," Anakin observed idly, patting the console one more time. He climbed out of the oversized pilot''s seat - he would not miss long hours in that giant thing - and stretched. [Designation Five Five Nine Zero One Slash A.] "Yeah, but that''s a mouthful. I''ll think of something." Zalthis poked his head into the cockpit. "You''re talking to the ship again," the Astartes commented. "It''s not my fault she talks back." He followed Zal back into the main hold of the Thunderhawk where his and Sannah''s sleeping bags were set up on some unrolled cushions the Astartes had produced from somewhere. Supplied were stacked off to one side, the vaporator sitting up on the Thunderhawk''s dorsal surface to keep sucking in and purifying water. Rations were there, an ammunition crate for the big bolt pistols was there, a bag for their dirty clothes was there - in two days, it had become a little domestic. Every hour that blurred by stabbed him in the heart. He hated getting lost in the work, because getting lost in it made time fly, time that Tahiri was in their hands. It didn''t make sense and it didn''t have to make sense. He wasn''t going to fly and shoot lasers in his eyes and this had to be done, but each time he checked the chrono and saw another handful of hours had slipped through his fingers like sand, his stomach twisted and he had to take long, deep breaths. It was done. The Thunderhawk was ready to go. "I don''t get why we can''t just fly it to wherever Tahiri is," Sannah said, again, while they broke out rations for dinner. "Vape the vong with the giant gun on top, bust her out, and then burn ions, right?" She still didn''t like to look Anakin the eye, but at least she was talking again. Small victories, he thought grimly. "Zal''s said it already. There''s way too many ''skips around here, they''d just shoot us right back down again." "What if-" "Sannah." She looked away, glumly and mechanically chewing on another bite of a ration bar. "It''s alright. I wish we could just go in blasting too, but¡­we can''t help Tahiri if we''re dead." "Anakin is right," Zal agreed. "This is the best theoretical we have. The vong are surely searching for us, which means the Thunderhawk cannot be left unguarded. Either Sol or I have to stay here." "And I''ve volunteered," Sol added. "And Sol has. Anakin and I can cover distances very quickly and we can be back to the Temple Complex in only a few days." "Then it''s a matter of finding where they have Tahiri and getting her out." Sannah put a wrapper aside in a waste bag, curling up on her sleeping bag. She clutched at her knees, legs to her chest. "But how will you know?" "I can still feel her, Sannah." Sol drummed fingers against the crate he sat on. "Or perhaps you could take a Vong and force them to speak. A slave, even, if there are some." The Astartes said it so blithely and blandly that Anakin took another deep, long breath, let it out before speaking. "As I''ve said, that''s a last resort." "I do not see why. There are a number of useful techniques to apply pressure-" "I''m not going to discuss the ethics of torture again, Sol." The large Astartes shrugged, unbothered either way. "It''s an option, but not one I relish either," Zalthis added. "It''ll work. I know it will." The rest of their ''meal'' was passed in silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Sannah was lost in thought, Zalthis clearly running through a checklist of what gear to bring and Solidian was toying with his auspex. Not for the first time, Anakin pictured where they might be without the two Ultramarines. Probably in some cave somewhere, dripped on by salactites and trying to figure out how in the hell they were going to get off the moon if -when- he rescued Tahiri. Sannah would probably be basically unable to move from those blisters - looking a lot better after the Astartes had shared some salves that seemed about as effective as a good bacta-patch - and as for what he might be thinking¡­ He imagined doing this alone. Just himself, his lightsaber, against a battalion of vong warriors and Shapers and who knew what other biots. Together. Ikrit had meant him and Tahiri, but since when did words only have one meaning? He let the thought go. He wasn''t alone. And soon enough, Tahiri wouldn''t be either.
Without Sannah, with a clear goal and with an Ultramarine loping along at his side, Anakin was shocked at how close the Escarpment was. He sank into the Force to keep pace with Zalthis, passing hours in a quiet meditative fugue while they moved south and west, back toward the Great Temple. After assessing the terrain, given where the Thunderhawk came down and how the vong had probably found Lady Starstorm''s escape pod, Zalthis pointed out it might be a good idea to move into the rougher and more mountainous northern stretch of the plateau, then work southward, hopefully avoiding vong patrols that would be focusing on the eastern area, where the pod came down. The terrain would be harsh, but he could handle it. It wasn''t an option to think otherwise. Zalthis wore a stripped down version of his armor, much like the suit he wore when Anakin first met him. They worried about if vong creatures could sense electronics, which was why they tested the Thunderhawk only in short bursts, minimizing any flaring heat or radiation. The massive reactor backpacks of Astartes armor might well be a huge flare drawing the vong to them - it may have just been by chance that they hadn''t noticed Solidian and Zalthis on their way down to link up with Anakin and Tahiri. So Zal ditched the reactor, stripping down his armor to only what he could still physically move in without the augmentations of the suit. Sol had worked on that for him, while he and Anakin finished up with the Thunderhawk. The Ultramarine had a bolter with a long barrel and bullpup grip, several magazines, a brace of grenades and a massive power sword. Even with all that, several times, Zalthis reached out a hand and helped lift Anakin right up a cliff like he weighed nothing at all. Weigh nothing at all Anakin definitely did not. Sol almost fussed over Anakin before they left, pushing a bolt pistol into his hands along with magazines, his own sling of fat grenades and even offered another power sword. He''d turned that down - all he needed there was his lightsaber. Armor fitted for a normal human was in a crate in the Thunderhawk as well; when Aeonid was using it as a shuttle to the Praxeum, he had obviously thought ahead to maybe needing a little bit extra, just in case. When Anakin had pointed that out, wondering what Aeonid had been expecting, or even if the Captain had expected a vong attack, Sol huffed a laugh. "We''re Ultramarines," he said, amused. "Planning for anything is sort of the point of us." Wearing the lightweight but surprisingly durable chestplate, rounded pauldrons and bracers, Anakin was glad for it. It wouldn''t stop an amphistaff, but some of those bugs? He''d had enough bruises and slashes to last the rest of his life. They drove deeper into the rougher northern span of the plateau, areas Anakin had never been. The Escarpment here was steeper and taller. Zal scrambled up it almost as fast as he could cover flat ground, simply gouging his own handholds into the shale and stone. Anakin followed behind, using the new-forged holds and a measure of the Force. Like that night in the jungle, during the storm, the Force felt clearer and closer than ever before. Stronger, more vibrant, more alive than he could ever remember. The first night Zalthis had offered to stop, but Anakin felt as awake and energized as when he''d just woken up. He had a goal, he had a mission and he had his best friend curled up and sobbing in the back of his head, keeping him away with iron bars and spikes that tore at him each time he tried to reach for her. He was one purpose, one man, one purpose, one aim and one unerring direction and the Force embraced him. Ravines, canyons, sinkholes, lush valleys - all slid past in a blur. Later, Anakin would remember almost none of it. No landmarks, no features. No biots harried them. No vong found them. His existence narrowed to Zalthis and his unflagging pace, to Tahiri. To the rise and fall of his feet. They crested one final peak late in the evening. Zalthis paused, going still. Like waking, Anakin blinked and the world fell back into focus. The sun was sinking down, throwing rainbows of violets and indigos and crimsons across the western sky. Yavin glowed on the horizon. He saw what Zalthis had. They''d reached the Complex proper, the span of the plateau where either geological erosion or ancient Massassi labor had smoothed out hundreds of square kilometers as the perfect stage for Naga Sadow''s personal vanity project. Behind them, the northern badlands and crags; before them the jungle. Anakin squinted, peering southward, across the rolling green canopy. Here and there, the old stone of temples poked up, sometimes choked out and sometimes in broad clearings. Whole spans of the canopy were open, testament to the power of Alebmos'' monsoon and the lasting damage that would take centuries to heal. Something was out of place. Anakin shaded his eyes with one hand, raking his eyes left, right. There was that one temple he never remembered the name of, that smudge off to the west. He was pretty sure from the height they were at that he could see the shape of the Temple of the Blueleaf Cluster too. The lake where Exar Kun''s temple once was glimmered in the far distance. In the middle of the complex were five spacious compounds, each shaped like a many-rayed star. The number of rays varied, from five to nine, and the encircling walls were tall and thick - probably thick enough for rooms and chambers. From their vantage point, Anakin could make out open courtyards inside the walls, surrounding a sort of stumpy, tree-trunk like structure in the center that rose at least half as tall as the Great Temple itself. Vong ''buildings'', or whatever creatures they used as the equivalent. They were huge. But something wasn''t right. The vong buildings were all right at the bend of the Unnh River, right where it meandered¡­ "Oh," Anakin breathed. Tears stung at his eyes. "Oh." The Great Temple, built of ancient stone by the labor of enslaved Massassi, which had stood for thousands upon thousands of years and watched the history of the galaxy turn by, was gone. Not even a trace remained. The old halls, walked by the darkest and most brilliant of Sith, by the noblest and finest of Jedi, were gone. The Grand Audience Chamber, which had seen sacrifices by monsters and sacrifices by heroes, was gone. The labyrinthine rooms, filled with old Rebel Alliance tech and drawings by trainees and cozy corners to meditate or read or practice forms: gone. The caves beneath, a place of exploration and mystery for him and Tahiri and a place to feel the size of the universe for others: lost. "Those bastards," Anakin swore. He could feel Tahiri, tenuous as it was. Her knot of anguish was there, in the center of the largest compound, the one that had so cruelly replaced the Great Temple. They''d taken her home. Intransigence Chapter XI XI: ibi''Yun
Being so near to the Vong compound that he could see the invaders going about their business was a special sort of torment. Tahiri was there, she was right there, she was so close he could almost feel her in his arms. Anakin found himself touching the lightsaber at his belt, kept finding himself about to get to his feet. The pull was physical. The ache was overwhelming. Zalthis, next to him, lay flat on mossy shale, elbows propped up and a clicking, blocky set of goggles held up to his eyes. The Ultramarine forced them to stop here, just at the last set of foothills that rolled up into the taller peaks of the Ersham range. Right where they could get a solid vantage over the entire plateau, see the whole Massassi site sprawled out before them. Right where Anakin could see, minute after minute, hour after hour, where his best friend was being tortured and having who knew what else done to her. The way she felt more and more distant, more and more muffled as the days went by had his stomach twisting in knots. Between Anakin''s own macrobinoculars and Zal''s own complicated magnifiers, they had perfect vision on the Vong compound miles away. Macrobinoculars zoomed in and he could see the individual tattoos on warriors stalking along in squads. Zal''s set had a bunch of settings, showing thermal blooms, weird wire-frame ghosting images and false-color contrasts that picked up on exotic radiation and gravity effects. The practical, as Zalthis put it, was that they had a very nebulous theoretical. "It''s like this," the Ultramarine had explained patiently, voice pitched low as they crouched under bushes and undergrowth. "In the Thirteenth, the Primarch teaches us a simple exercise. Determine a theoretical, construct a practical. Theoretical: we need to exfiltrate Tahiri from the Vong compound. Practical: as a Jedi, Tahiri is a valuable prisoner. Practical: we do not know the strength of the Yuuzhan Vong on the moon. Practical-" "I get it," Anakin sighed. "We need a plan." "No," Zalthis corrected. "We need more than a plan, we need actionable data." The Ultramarine had appeared regretful for a moment, before exhaling. "We did not have enough data on Obroa-skai and it cost the Sergeant and Lieutenant their lives." When Anakin had asked just how exactly they could get that data, it had led to them here, and now. Laying belly-down on uncomfortable and cracked stone, shot through with lichen and stubborn moss, shadowed by a squatter, hardier subspecies of Massassi tree that preferred the growing elevation of the range. Zalthis had a datapad out, a big and chunky thing that held only general resemblance to the sleek tablets Anakin was used to, tapping away with a stylus without once putting down his macrobinoculars. The Ultramarine was noting down every unique patrol and Vong he saw. Anakin''s job was a little more ephemeral. Readjusting himself, Anakin closed his eyes, probing out with the Force. Zalthis could analyze what was seen - it was Anakin''s job to work with the unseen. The sensations of the jungle could tell a lot. Fearful runyips ahead of a curiously quiet bubble - an unseen Vong patrol that was spooking the native life away from them. Woolamanders hooting and howling at interlopers that Anakin just couldn''t sense - another group. The primitive and instinctual fear that emanated from a school of fish, held packed together in close confines with a great deal of other aquatic life - some kind of catch, or trawler? Jacen, he figured, would be able to tell a whole lot more. Maybe even be able to soothe some of the creatures enough to get some to help out, or even act as lookouts. Woolamanders that would bark a certain tone only when Vong were around; yes, Jacen could probably do that. Anakin never had the greatest talent for it, but he felt like the edge of a knife. Stripped clean and simple, refined to a point, obsidian-sharp and focused.
When Zalthis was comfortable with what they both had noted down, he broke it down again. Night had fallen, the nocturnal jungle just as alive as the diurnal. Anakin didn''t feel tired. He hadn''t felt much of anything either, in the hike here: not hunger, not thirst, not fatigue. Just sharp. Pointed. Zal flipped his datapad around, offering it to Anakin. "I have it memorized," he said simply. The datapad was heavy and durable, with buttons that were large and recessed. Large enough, he realized, for armor-clad fingers to be able to press them. Anakin snorted with something adjacent to humor at the thought. Displayed in ghostly sketches and lines, in crimson and emerald and bright gold, the general map of the center of the plateau, the bend of the Unnh river; everything. Along one side scrolled a list of observed squad strengths and compositions, as well as simple timing annotations. It was almost overwhelming. There was so much everything there, along with shorthand he didn''t know, icons that didn''t ring any bells and color coding that didn''t follow a logical sense. Zal seemed to expect this. "Today, I observed nineteen unique patrols. I counted one hundred and seventeen individual warriors, which I distinguished by implant, scar patterns and tattoos." Anakin nodded along, the twist in his stomach tightening. "There is a full squadron of coralskippers landed in that field there, a likely shuttle or lander analogue here and I recognize that formation of buildings as troop habitation from Fondor." Zal reached out, tapping the datapad to punctuate each point. "I felt more patrols too. I think maybe even some fliers, like landspeeders, or airspeeders," Anakin admitted. "I think they''re doing search patterns." "It would make sense. Even if they believed that you and Sannah had perished, they would have found the salvation pod by now. Besides that, I have no doubt they would believe the Thunderhawk truly shot down." "Then they''re ready for us." Against one warrior? Anakin would take that head on, any day. Against two? Not a problem. Three? Doable. Four? Tougher. Five? He''d be pressed. Six? Seven? Ten? Two hundred? Anakin of a year ago would be open mouthed and shocked at Anakin of now measuring how many trained, adult warriors he could kill in pitched combat. It wasn''t arrogance either. After Dantooine, after Ithor, after Obroa-skai and now Yavin, it was, as Zalthis would put it, a practical. He hadn''t yet met a Vong warrior that had truly, truly threatened him, one-on-one. Oh, sure, he had taken injuries here and there, but individually? When there were more, that was when it was dicey. There were a lot down there, around the Vong buildings. They didn''t have a monsoon to give them cover and they didn''t have half a squad of other Ultramarines and one of the finest Jedi duellists alive to help them. Just Anakin, just Zalthis, and just a few hundred Vong and whatever biots were lingering around. Maybe Sannah had been right. Maybe they should''ve taken the Thunderhawk - which still needed a name - and rammed it right down the throat of the Vong. "I think it is more appropriate to say they are expecting us." Zalthis showed a rare smile; just a slight grin. "A Jedi and an Ultramarine - I don''t believe any theoretical can ever make them ready for us." "We can''t go in the front door, we don''t know enough to sneak in and we can''t just fight through all of them. Maybe they''re not ready, but I don''t know if that really makes a difference." Zal beckoned for the datapad. Anakin handed it back. A few tapped buttons, a flick of a stubby stylus, then Zal spun the datapad back around to reveal a looped recording. "Did you notice these Vong?" Anakin squinted, leaned closer. It was a little strange to view a flat, two dimensional recording without a matching holo, but he recognized the scrolling text and reticle of Zal''s macrobinoculars in the vid. A group of beings that, at first glance, looked Human, toiled alongside the Unnh River, right on the bank. They flung out handfuls of something that trailed long, thin lines of gossamer. Bugs, probably, since the specks moved and arched and then darted down, into the water. The gossamer lines snapped taut, and then the fishermen - because it couldn''t be anything else - hauled in catches hand-over-hand. Silver-scaled, flopping fish were dragged out of the water before each bug released their catch, tossed underhand back out into the shallows to repeat. They looked Human, at first glance, but Zal hadn''t been wrong. They had the same elongated skull and flattened forehead that was so dreadfully familiar. Their hair was universally black, done in various styles from simple buns to complex braids. Their robes clung too organically to their muscular frames. What gave it away the most were the darkened sacs under each eye. They looked bizarre. Not a single tattoo or scar among them. They looked so unsettlingly normal. "I didn''t see them," he said, unable to look away from the mundane activity as it looped, over and over. Just some Vong. Fishing. "I would wager they are the servant caste we have predicted, but never seen. No tattoos, no implants? If both are the measure of ascension, then these are the lowest of the low." NRI - common sense, really - speculated on the various castes of the Vong. It was an important topic, since the invaders had such a rigid social structure. Theory was that there were orders of magnitude more non-combat, ''civilian'' Vong out there that did the actual day-to-day stuff needed to make an interstellar civilization work. They couldn''t all be ferocious warriors, cunning spies and priests; they had to have workers and supervisors, laborers and artisans. "I also saw several overseeing groups of slaves." "I sensed the slaves, too," Anakin added. "Of course. Theoretical: slaves are overseen by the workers, who in turn are below all other castes. The practical, then, is we take one of these workers for interrogation." Anakin rocked back on his heels. Talking to a Vong was kind of the grand prize for half the intelligence agencies. They had a penchant for dying in ''glorious combat'' or killing themselves before being taken alive. Even the one that Aunt Mara and his siblings had scooped up on Coruscant died to a sneaky biot that had replaced their tongue. Those had all been Warriors, though. None of them ever seemed to care even a little about their own lives. A worker? Huh. He could see it. Surely, not all the Vong were so violently self-destructive. And a Warrior would be noticed, but maybe a simple worker could go missing for a while? Then they could ask anything about the place. Where was the Jedi held? Passcodes, or phrases? Patrols? Strength? You name it. Although, ask meant- "Wait, but how can we talk to them?" Zalthis truly smiled this time, broadly. "Ekgt dag''t et-zil ibi''yun." He knew that rolling intonation, that blend of melodic and sharp anywhere. "How in the hells do you speak Vong?" Zalthis scratched at his cheek. "By the grace of the Throne," he said, evasively. Anakin chewed on his lip. Well. Now this was a plan.
Ralroost was, to use the cliche, a veritable hive of activity. No one knew just what was on the books; no one knew quite when, where, or how, or even entirely who, but everyone knew that something was afoot. High Command didn''t just reel in most of the elements of First Fleet to Coruscant for no reason and the amount of tenders and resupply going on was fit to match some of the musters during the Galactic Civil War. Jaina could feel the same sort of unreality that permeated a lot of the other pilots and sailors, as they took glances out of transparisteel at the thousands of glinting hulls sprawling across the anchorage. The unreality of: how can we lose? What could possibly stand against this? All the Rogues were cycling through Combat Air Patrol. All the Rogues were in the cockpit and doing checks and simming it up and begging, bartering and bickering to get last minute tune-ups and tweaks on their snubfighters. All the Rogues except Jaina. They set her up in an office that overlooked the ''Roost''s starboard hangar. She had all the basics for a junior officer''s space and she didn''t need to use any of it. All she had to do was sit on her ass for hours on end and listen to the Force. The space used to be probably for a Chief or something, with a big transparisteel pane that let her see out into the bustling hangar. It was slightly tinted, making it reflective from the other side. For hours, she sat and watched as shuttles and transports cycled in and out, bringing resupply and rotating crew. She watched as beings of all sizes and stripes embarked and disembarked and she looked for the ones that had nothing behind their faces. She listened, alert and sharp and bored out of her skull, for smug duplicity, for fearful subterfuge, for anything that raised the hairs on her neck. Jaina had a panic button that would call down marines in seconds. Days had passed and she hadn''t used it once. Everyone was nervous. Everyone was anxious. Everyone was tense and eager and a little fearful. Everyone had secrets. So far, not a single masquer''d Vong had tried to come aboard. So far, she hadn''t caught a whiff of prickling danger in the Force. On the other side of Ralroost, Alexandra Winger was doing the same job and Jaina could pick up on the older woman''s similar low-burning frustration. Apparently, Captain Winger had been pulled from her own command, the cruiser Webley, just like Jaina had been pulled off the Rogues. The other woman buried her boredom under a hard layer of professionalism in a way that Jaina felt faintly envious of. She should be prouder, probably, because this was a request to Colonel Darklighter from Admiral Kre''fey¡­but all the same, couldn''t someone else do this? Anyone else? Kenth Hamner was on board too, he could do this. Or another Jedi. There were still like a dozen down in the HQ on the surface. The Navy couldn''t tap any of them? At least they let her bring up stuff to tinker with. She turned the graviscoop antenna unconsciously in her hands, moving on autopilot as she tweaked and twiddled with the extremely fragile, high-precision sensor. Her toolkit was spread out on the desk beside her, every spanner and plier neatly set out, ready to use. Another shuttle slid into the hangar, passing through the containment shield with a ripple. Usual kind of activity: hangovers, regrets after shore leave, some anger over some slight or another, excitement. Jaina glanced up, eying each being to slouch down the ramp, feeling a mind behind each face until the ramp hissed shut again. Catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she reached for a microspanner and a tiny wafer-chip the size of her smallest fingernail. Well, at least when she was back on duty with the Rogues for the op - whatever it ended up being - she''d have her XJ dancing cleaner and faster than any other starfighter in the sky. She spared a moment to nudge toward Jacen - distant, across the galaxy and deep in meditation - and then a moment for her little brother. Anakin never had quite the same connection to the twins as they did with each other, but it''d be a cold day that she couldn''t sense the kid. As ever - cold, hard determination. Fixated intensity. Anger that churned deep, deep underneath it. He could do it. He''d be okay. Like how in the cockpit of a fighter was where Jaina belonged, if anyone could pull off a harebrained rescue right under the noses of the Vong, it''d be Anakin.
The Unnh River wended and wound through the Massassi Complex, spilling down from north in cataracts down toward the plateau, before settling into a placid, tranquil and meandering flow. Southward it worked, throwing off oxbow lakes and tranquil pools until it reached the escarpment, tumbling down as a feathery, ethereal waterfall a hundred meters wide. It teemed with life, just like the rest of the moon, and the Yuuzhan Vong made good on that bounty. The biot they''d found (because even fishing trawlers had to be giant living monsters) made its way upstream with long, languid strokes of a wide, lobed tail. Most of it was submerged, revealing only a humped and muscular back above water and the occasional breach of its tail and fins as it adjusted itself. At least twenty meters long and shaped like an inverted triangle, it gaped open a giant mouth that spanned the width of its flat, broad head, sucking up crustaceans, fish and even amphibious mammals too. It felt so bizarre: he could feel the panic of the growing mass of catch, but not the huge creature that sucked them up. It just felt like a weird, compressed ball of prey instincts going haywire, moving against the river''s current. The Vong could make anything unsettling. They weren''t here to learn about the fishing traditions of the Yuuzhan Vong. No, the biot had an entirely more important cargo, and that was the Yuuzhan Vong guiding the creature from a strange, fleshy sort of hollow at the peak of its spine. He seemed fixated on his task, arms folded across a broad and robe-clad chest, hair drawn back into a tail and a deep scowl twisting grotesque creatures. Yuuzhan Vong were ugly, but this one took the cake. He looked rotted. Part of his lip was missing, revealing stained teeth. His nose was a crater that leaked, his eyes were bloodshot and rheumy. Hanks of hair were missing from his scalp and two fingers on one hand were gone, the stumps stained black. He didn''t look like the clean-skinned and un-marked workers that Zalthis had noted, but neither did he look like the grotesque but purposeful mutilations of warriors. If he was doing scutwork like driving a living fishing trawler up a river, he couldn''t be anyone important. Better yet, he was totally alone. No slaves, no other workers, no even any warriors or patrols nearby, so far as they could tell. "Definitely this one," Anakin said. "I concur. Isolated and unarmed." The plan was simple. Anakin would remain on the shoreline, tracking any disturbances in the local wildlife. Zalthis, able to hold his breath for a shocking amount of time, would swim to the biot and ambush the Vong, incapacitate him, and then drag him back to shore. Then they''d get some answers. For the trillionth time since it all began, Anakin wished he could just pluck the Vong from the saddle with the Force and haul him right over. Not even his trick with crushing the air could work here - that was brute force and he didn''t quite trust his control to not just smush the prisoner they were hoping for. Against a warrior, unexpected crunching was perfectly fine. Here, they might not get another golden opportunity. Zal left his armor behind, shucked down to just his thick black bodyglove. Delicately, he placed down his power sword and pistol, along with his other gear, out of sight of the river behind a broad treetrunk. "I''ll keep an eye on it," Anakin swore. "I will hold you to that," Zal returned. The biot was downriver, just around a bend and still out of sight. The Astartes slipped into the water, barely a ripple disturbed despite his bulk. He took a long, deep inhale that didn''t seem to end, then sunk down and was gone. The Unnh river flowed on without a care. The trawler biot cruised languidly into view. Long minutes passed, the trawler growing closer and closer. The Vong riding it still seemed just as bored and unattentive as they saw earlier, slouched atop the biot. He felt Zal slip closer, closer, closer. The Ultramarine erupted out of the river like some sort of water monster, breaching meters into the air and landing right behind the Vong. There wasn''t even a scuffle. The Vong seemed shocked, stunned into stillness, allowing Zalthis to rip him out of the biot''s ''cockpit''. The Ultramarine tensed and leapt again, kicking off from the biot with enough force the whole thing shuddered. Reflexively, Anakin reached out, easing his friend''s trajectory, buoying as he soared meters above the surface of the river. He almost waited for Tahiri to join in and give Zalthis an extra push. Zal landed easily on bent knees. The trawler lazily swam along, utterly uncaring that its driver had been stolen. Anakin left his hide behind, jogging along the open riverbank. Up close, the Vong wasn''t just a mess, but reeked too. He coughed, covering his mouth with one hand. Zalthis had the Vong''s arms twisted behind his back, one outsized fist wrapped around the man''s wrists, the other holding tight to one shoulder. Dark eyes ringed in bruises flicked to Anakin, down to the lightsaber at his belt. The lightsabers. "Jeedai," murmured the Vong. "Yeah," Anakin agreed. "Jedi."
Admiral Traest Kre''fey never failed to wrongfoot Jaina. She''d known Bothans all her life - after all, her mother''s on-again, off-again feuds with Borsk Fey''lya were legendary across half the galaxy. To the last, they were usually fairly serious, focused and formally professional. Maybe that was biased, given that her life was filled with politicians and soldiers, but when Jaina thought ''Bothan'', she pictured tailored suits, perfectly combed fur and doublespeak. Admiral Kre''fey welcomed her into his office by bouncing to his feet, snapping off a return salute with a big and toothy grin. "Lieutenant Solo!" The Bothan wore an unmarked and insignia free flight suit, unzipped to just above his navel, showing a wide triangle of cream white fur. Kre''fey was shorter than Jaina, but as he came around his desk, holding out a hand, he seemed to fill the entire room. "Colonel Darklighter''s had only glowing reports on your time in the Rogues. Bit late, but congratulations on qualifying. I had a laugh at Gavin when he argued you were too young - imagine the irony! When a young woman knows what she wants in life, and that''s serving the state? Protecting the Republic? Well, I''d never turn that down." "Thank¡­you sir?" she stammered. The Bothan firmly shaking her hand was her superior by about¡­five grades at least. And he was shaking her hand like she was the important one in the room. "No, the Navy should be thanking you. You''re a real icon, you know that, Lieutenant? Following in your uncle''s footsteps, joining up with the Starfighter Corps? I hope more Jedi follow your example." The Admiral gestured toward one of several ejection couches arrayed in front of his desk. "Take a load off. We''ll be quick, but there''s no reason to stand around." She couldn''t think of anything else to say besides ''Yessir''. Kre''fey, for himself, perched on the edge of his desk. "So I hear you''ve been keeping an eye on people coming aboard my ship." "Yessir," she repeated. "And none of those scarheads have tried to slip through." "Nossir." "And no hint of Peace Brigade." "Hard to say for sure, sir, but I don''t think so." Kre''fey rattled his nails off his desk, smoothing the fur of his chin with his other hand. His office had a hologram set up, displaying the exterior of Ralroost and exposing the whole anchorage spread out around the Bothan Assault Cruiser. "Good, good. Very good. I hope you understand how important this job is that you''re doing. I bet you''re itching to get back in the cockpit, but we all have to play our strengths." To her strengths as a Jedi, Jaina sighed internally. She''d proven her skill at the stick, racking up ''skips and even going toe to toe with Colonel Fel - he still had the lead on her, but not for long. She''d earned her place in the Rogues through sweat and tears. They trusted her and her wingmates needed her when the furball hit again. But still, the Admiral looked at her and saw a Jedi. She said instead: "Yessir." Kre''fey frowned at her. "Lieutenant, this isn''t a lecture. At ease." "Yes-" Jaina cleared her throat. "Okay." She felt the Admiral''s mood brighten a little, amusement shooting through his thoughts. "This isn''t just a pat-on-the-back either. This is a serious job. Jaina - mind if I call you Jaina?" She nodded. "I pulled Alex off of Webley and requested Kenth just like I had Gavin tap you as well. The details are classified, but NRI is still having trouble seeing through those Vong masquers. Until they can, Jedi are the best bet against Vong infiltrators. It''s been an oversight. A bad one. We got complacent, which is why Shesh is on the warpath right now. Do you know what we learned on Fondor and from the Exiles? Those gravity biots the Vong use? They can make tiny ones that could be smuggled on a body. You can imagine what it would look like if a singularity opened up inside the ''Roost." If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. A few months ago, during a small skirmish over some moon she couldn''t even remember the name of, a Vong frigate had been bullied hard by the ''Roost and a Nebulon-B. It''s dovin basals were sucking up everything and the ship was dead in space, hunkering down under its singularities when something had obviously gone wrong. After action speculated that one of the basals had something like a stroke, because there was a spike in gravity waves that had alarms blaring across half the fleet and the frigate smeared and swirled into a single, tiny point. A heartbeat, and then there was a wash of radiation and a cloud of gauzy, expanding plasma like a new-born nebula. Jaina had a vivid image of the ''Roost twisting like that and goosebumps prickled her neck. Suddenly, the boredom of the past few days felt a lot easier to handle. "Saboteurs aren''t the only thing we''re watching out for. Don''t spread it around, but our girl here is carrying the flag for the ''completely secret operation'' around the corner. Ralroost will be leading the battlegroups from First Fleet, which makes her security even more important." Kre''fey sobered a little, leaning forward with his hands gripping the sides of his desk. "There are going to be staff conferences through the end of this week. ''Roost is hosting them. We''ll have members of High Command on board. I want you sitting in the room. Kenth will be there too. Everyone has to be vetted. Don''t even trust me. We haven''t seen a masquer that can hope to match the beauty of a Bothan, but the Vong like their surprises." She''d have almost laughed off the idea - her, sitting in on High Command''s own top-secret meetings? Even her own father hadn''t ever been high enough rank to, even if he wanted to, have access to those closed door mysteries. Sure, her mother had been Chief of State, but the NRDF liked to keep its distance from the civilian leadership, and vice versa. Stay in their lanes, and all that. The amount of trust the Admiral was laying out caught her breath in her chest. Kenth Hamner was a Colonel and a career soldier to boot. And yet - it was because she was a Jedi. Not a pilot, not a member of the Navy. But like the Admiral said, they all had their strengths to play into. "I''m not sure what to say, sir," she managed. "It''s not an order. Something like this is sensitive. Kenth can handle it on his own, if you feel like you''re better off continuing to cover embarking with Alex. I''m asking, Jaina, not telling. Think it over. Let Gavin know your decision by 0900 tomorrow." She left the Admiral''s office deep in thought. She ate robotically in the mess with a few of the Rogues who were off-duty - Major Varth was there - but they gave her space, clearly noticing her mood. They talked about the next patrols and who was slated for flights tomorrow and it hurt a little that she knew her name wasn''t up on the wall of the ready room. Kre''fey''s trust in her balanced it some: whatever operation was planned, everyone agreed it would be huge. Sithspawn, but she''d get to find out about it before almost everyone else, if she agreed to sit in with Kenth. Idly, she fingered the sore spot over her ear, where her hair was stubby and prickly, growing back. The oncocidal injector was gone and she hadn''t had a single bout of dizziness since, but regs, she supposed, were regs. That was the bright spot: Jedi or not, Colonel Darklighter couldn''t have let her back into active flight yet. But to be so close, all the time¡­ Well, if the Admiral had that much faith in her, how could she not do her duty as a Jedi and as a servicewoman in the NRDF? It wasn''t like she wouldn''t be back in the cockpit for the big op. And, she considered, eying the laughing Rogues around her, she could lord her secret knowledge over them a little too. It would definitely drive Liav crazy.
The Vong and Zalthis snapped back and forth at each other, clear fury writ across the face of the former as Zalthis interrogated him in the Vong''s own native tongue. Anakin couldn''t follow even a scrap of it; it was all Jawa to him. The Vong''s hands were bound now, in front of him, and his ankles too. Zalthis had shoved him to the ground against the trunk of a tree, hemming in the Vong who, strangely, didn''t seem to be at all interested in escaping. He wasn''t glancing around or tense, just laying there like he didn''t care in the slightest about being bound up. A real far cry from the crazy warriors that had been captured, that was for sure. The Vong gesticulated with bound hands, gesturing toward lumpy and disgustingly fleshy pouches that gripped onto his robe, over his hip. Zalthis snapped back and crouched, roughly tugging one open with a wet sort of sucking noise. Anakin watched, rather disgusted, as Zalthis drew out a thick wad of some sort of green-grey material, balled up, and then pinched between two fingers, a horrible, wriggingly worm-thing of some kind. It was a little gross that Anakin recognized it. "That''s a tizowyrm," he said. "I''m aware," Zal growled, scowling at the thick, grublike biot. It flexed and squirmed a little, small between Zal''s thumb and forefinger. "The Vong told me what it does." "It was in Danni''s briefing about the Vong that infiltrated her science outpost." Anakin narrowed his eyes, looking over the tormented looking Vong. Close up, not only were the oozing scabs and inflamed scars all the more disturbing, but the Vong''s stench was overpowering. He smelled like rot and sick and Anakin did his best not to breathe through his nose. His eyes were surrounded by bruise, hanks of hair missing and on the knuckles of his bound hands, where Anakin had seen implanted talons were pus-dripping sockets. He had to be in unbelievable pain. The Force should have been redolent with it, this close to the Vong. As ever: nothing. "Why''s he have it?" Zalthis straightened up to his full height, looming over Anakin. He turned the tizowyrm over, flicked it gently and watched it recoil. "He hasn''t said. He''s being uncooperative. He says he wishes to speak to us both." Both eyebrows raised skyward. A talkative Vong? Next, there''d be a altruistic Hutt. "Might as well let him," Anakin said with a shrug. "A worm in his ear isn''t going to be any danger, right?" Zalthis was long in replying. "I¡­suppose." He spat words back at the Vong, who obligingly shifted, cocking his head to the side and exposing a raw-looking ear, missing its lobe. Zalthis crouched down and Anakin winced, glancing away as the Astartes fed the worm into the Vong''s ear. He could still hear a quiet grunt of something between pain and pleasure, along with a meaty squelch. "Ah," the Vong grunted out. "You hear sense. The jeedai convinces you. I am in debt; how awful." His accent was atrocious and his Basic halting, but understandable enough. "You''re welcome," Anakin retorted. A trickle of blood leaked down from the implanted ear, but the Vong paid no attention. "You have your translator. Now speak, creature." The vitriol in Zal''s tone matched the disgust radiating from the Astartes like heat-shimmer from duracrete tarmac. His normally level-headed friend sounded more like Solidian, or maybe that other Astartes, Varien. The Vong turned his head and spat. "I pollute my tongue with your speech; but you will not ohffend my ear with insult to ibi''Yun. I am Vua Rapuung. You are Jeedai and Aistarteez. I will help you." Zal''s surprise surely matched his own. Open mouthed, both he and the Ultramarine looked at each other simultaneously. "Huh," Anakin said eloquently. "What?" Zal echoed. "Does the tizowyrm fail? I say: I will help you." Anakin shook his head. "No, no, I heard that - I just - why?" His first thought was the obvious: a trap. Elan, the monster that she was, had pretended to be a conscientious objector right up until she had his Uncle and a dozen other Jedi in her sights, then killed herself just to try and wipe them all out. She''d died and had been ready to kill her friend, or pet, or whatever Vergere had been, just out of pure spite to strike at the Jedi. Almost none of the Jedi that went to meet her had even fought the Vong in the first place! Then there were the Peace Brigade, and Nom Anor subverting the Duro, and the attempt on Viqi Shesh''s life, then the dark promises of the Warmaster. Honestly, it was easier to count the times the Yuuzhan Vong hadn''t been duplicitous instead. They didn''t respect truces: Senator A''kla learned that, fatally. They didn''t care about surrender: the slaves proved that. They didn''t care about humanitarian protections, or rules of war, or anything decent beings did. So when a Vong looked up at Anakin and said ''I will help you'', his first thought was to immediately scan their surroundings, again, scouring hard for any pockets of disturbed jungle life, expecting Vong fliers to be bearing down on them immediately, tipped off somehow. "Help us with what?" Zalthis kept quiet, eyes narrowed and a hand on his recovered sword, returned to his hip. He''d reclaimed his armor too, what there was of it, replacing it all and triple-checking each piece. "You come to Shaper compound from far away. You return to this world, when you might have escaped. Why? Hm? I will guess: the Jeedai captive." Anger pulsed in him - the Vong dared to even mention Tahiri - but he fought it down. "That''s right. We''re going to rescue her." The Vong hacked something that might''ve been a laugh, or a way to clear out a lung. "Pitiful. What a pitiful goal. How pitiful. All this, to save a life." No emotion: there is peace. "I didn''t ask for your opinion. Spit out why you want to help us, or Zal here can make sure there''s one less Vong in the galaxy." His friend frowned, eying Anakin, but didn''t contradict him. "You seek the Shaper compound, as do I. Our goals are one. I know much; you know nothing. Your enemies will be my enemies; my enemies will be yours. We will fight back to back until glory or Yun-Yuuzhan calls us." Zalthis nudged the Vong''s thigh with his boot, catching the alien''s attention. "Why do you need help to enter this ''Shaper'' compound? Are you not already part of this garrison?" The Vong sneered. "Only Shaper and Warrior can enter the damutek. Do not mock me! Look at me! I must enter, and it will be in blood. You see: our goals are one." "You didn''t answer his question. Okay, you can''t get in, but why do you want to?" The Vong - Vua, apparently - bared misaligned and stained teeth. "Revenge! Purest revenge. Revenge, and proof before the Gods - no. I do not need to explain to you, Jeedai. Or you, Aistarteez. Know that Vua Rapuung will hold his oath before Yun-Yammka, or the Slayer may eat my soul if I break faith." Speaking low, Anakin stepped closer to Zalthis, jerking his head to the side. "Let''s talk," he muttered. Zalthis nodded, keeping his eyes on the Vong. From his hip holster, he pulled his pistol, the barrel aimed unerringly at the Vong while they stepped a dozen meters away. For his part, though bound up, the Vong stayed still. Parsing the unexpected, Anakin gathered his thoughts. Coincidence? Zalthis had been moaning about not having enough intel on the Vong compounds and who might be inside. They''d barely talked to this Vong and already he''d given them new tidbits: it was something called a ''Shaper'' compound, and only those ''Shapers'' and Warriors were allowed in. Shapers had to be another caste, and he could guess what they were by name alone. Warriors he knew, but no one had ever seen a Shaper. What kind of tricks did they have up their no doubt living sleeves? Were they just as deadly as a Warrior? More so? Zalthis spoke up first. "I did not tell you how I learned the Vong language." "Not really, no." Zalthis spoke evenly, still focused on the supine Vong, still holding his pistol out and trained, finger just outside the trigger guard. "Astartes bear more than a dozen implants. Each performs some vital function. One allows us to learn from the¡­remains of another." He could sense the quiet disgust that underlay the clinical terms. "You eat them?" "Only¡­" Zalthis sighed. "Only parts of their brains." Anakin turned away, scrubbing his hands over his face. A Vong wanted to help him rescue Tahiri and now he knew that his friend ate brains. "When they''re dead?" He asked without thinking. Zalthis shrugged broad shoulders. "If they were not already before getting to the brain, they¡­would be." "Emperor''s black bones," Anakin groaned. "Zal, I really didn''t need to know this." The Astartes had the presence of mind to at least appear chastened, shifting his weight a little. "It''s not often spoken of. We are¡­not unaware of how it appears. But the Emperor, in His wisdom, did give us all the tools we need for the most terrible of times. Anakin, I don''t like it either. I know of no Astartes who considers it with relish. Understand: it is not simple knowledge like reading from a book. It is memories, with the sensation and emotion that follow." "You know, I think that''s actually worse." "It is. I have memories of Yuuzhan Vong warriors. I have memories of dying to my own blade. It is unpleasant at best. But I will do whatever I must do to complete the mission. I wanted you to know. There are other alternatives. We do not need to trust the Vong." Anakin slumped, craning his neck to exasperatedly stare up into the blue skies above. "Because you could just eat his brain." "Because I could eat his brain." "Sithspawn, Zal, is there anything else I should know?" It was truly unsettling that the Ultramarine actually paused to think about it, before shaking his head. "No." "Fine. Let''s try something before breaking open some skulls, alright?" "That, I can agree with."
Vua Rapuung eyed them both. Anakin squatted down next to the Vong, Zalthis stayed looming over them both, bolt pistol still out, though pointed down and clear. "Are you finished? Do you need more time to spin slander and cast vile aspersions on my character?" "Not really what we were doing, you know." "I know nothing of your infidel ways. You worship perversions of the machine. What other infamy might you spin?" Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose, before massaging his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Bright lights burst and spun behind his eyelids, illuminating the darkness as he fought the edge of a headache. "All we were talking about is if we could trust you. Can you offer anything that could, I don''t know, assure us?" "I gave my word as bond, by Yun-Yammka. If you do not believe, cut me down or cut me free. You are Jeedai and Aistarteez. I hear the rumor: I will die before you if I am false. Why are you so filled with fear? Disgusting. Pitiful. I worry the rumors are lies, the Jeedai and Aistarteez are timid brenzlits." "Sure thing. How about you tell us what a Shaper is? Give us something to trust you on." The Vong closed his eyes, mouth working silently. "Your ignorance is - a Shaper is of the caste nearest to the great god Yun-Yuuzhan, through his handmaiden Yun-ne''Shel. It was He who Shaped all the Universe, and it is She who teaches them his ways. It is they who know the ways of life and bend it to our needs." "Bioengineers," Zalthis grunted. "Scientists? Like the Magi." Vua''s eyes narrowed. "The words do not translate. I suspect they are obscene." "Never mind that. Why would these ''Shapers'' have Tahiri? You said it''s a Shaper compound, but why wouldn''t the Warriors have her? Another Jedi, Miko Reglia, was captured at Helska and they tried to break him with a yammosk." He was sure he would sense one of the battle-coordinator brains if it was on Yavin, though he couldn''t be sure. After Obroa-skai, and whatever he did in that strange mind-place, he was confident that he could pick up the lingering, strange influences of a yammosk if it was present. It sent a shiver down his spine to consider them doing to Tahiri what Jacen said was done to Miko; the Jedi had been a shell of a person at the end, choosing to stay behind and die on Helska to delay the Vong enough for Jacen and Danni to escape. What he felt from where Tahiri had balled herself away in a corner didn''t really feel like what he imagined that would be like, but then again, how could he know for sure? "Pfah," Vua spat. "Breaking is not Shaping. It is a parody. It is a child''s aping of it. I knew of a Shaper who scoffed at Warriors who thought they could do as they did. The Shapers have your Jeedai because your Jeedai will not be broken. She will be remade. This is as I said. Pitiful. You fight to save her life. She is dead and gone. If you fear what the Shapers will make, you would fight to kill your Jeedai friend." Anakin leaned down, close enough for Vua''s rancid breath to make his eyes water. Ice-cold blue pinned algal green-black and the Vong''s eyes bulged. "Don''t ever talk about Tahiri like that. I''m going to save her." "Anakin," Zalthis called. "Let him go." He prised open the hand he hadn''t realized he''d put around Vua''s throat. The Vong coughed wetly. "Ah, fury. I see the warrior spirit of the Jeedai is not a tale." "Shut up unless I ask a question." Vua glared, but held his tongue. He could be lying. He could absolutely be lying. Why not? Anything he said they had to take at face value. Maybe there were no such things as Shapers at all, even though logic would say that of course the organic technology needed someone to make and maintain it all. Maybe there were Shapers, but they were totally different from what this Vua was saying. Maybe Tahiri was, as he had been expecting, strung up in an Embrace of Pain just like Jacen. Just the word remake almost made him sick. He saw the Man in Horns again. Right there again, right in front of him, just as clear and sharp and horrible as back on Yavin 8. The memory hadn''t faded, not a single bit. He could still recall every single feature of the Man. The cloak that fell from hooks in his shoulders, the organic and scalloped armor, that looked painfully like vonduun. Pale skin, dark brown hair, worn long and woven with bone and totem. Tripartite horns that burned with radiation light. And the voice that was all Anakin''s. And what Tahiri had mentioned too, what she had seen at the end, when they had lit their ''sabers and driven the Man away. Anakin hadn''t seen it, but she had said she saw herself, but older, with tattoos and scars and wearing vonduun armor too. She didn''t say much more about it, only that this other-her had smiled a grim and cruel smile and said nothing else. Remake. And why wouldn''t Vua be right? Everyone already knew the Vong wanted to remake the galaxy in their image. They wanted to burn down everything that wasn''t theirs and they wanted to take their horrible, twisted religion and force it on everyone. Enslave every last being that didn''t bow down. Kill the rest. Why wouldn''t they have an equally horrifying plan to twist the Jedi into some kind of monsters they could control? Anakin wanted to accuse Vua of lying. He couldn''t. It made too much sense. And if this was all some elaborate trap, why use a Vong who looked sicker than a poisoned gundark to tell them weird lies and not have any Warriors lying in wait? No. Tahiri, he pushed out toward the sense of his best friend. Tahiri, please hold on. "Okay. So if they want to ''Shape'' Tahiri, then she''s in¡­what did you call them?" "Damuteks. The sacred compounds of the Shapers." "Right. How many Shapers?" "I do not know for certain. I am not a Shaper. Around twelve in each damutek, if initiates are counted." "And the warriors," Zalthis added. "The Shapers do holy work. They are always protected." "How many?" Vua sneered. "I cannot say. You slew many. I do not know how many. No more than three hundreds. More, and the miid-ro''ik will be undermanned. Likely less." Zalthis hummed, nodding. "Close enough to my theoretical." "What about workers? The Vong we saw without scars or-" Vua barked something in his own tongue, recoiling. For once, he didn''t appear angry or brooding, but genuinely shocked. "How can you be so ignorant? Or do you mean to insult?" "Workers? What-" "No! You say - do not ever refer to us in such a way." "Vong?" he asked, befuddled. Vua shuddered again. "Yes! To use the word Vong alone is an insult. It says the one addressed so is abandoned by favor and kinship with the Gods and family alike." "Oh. I didn''t know." "Now you do. Such ignorance." Vua sighed. "For workers, there will be many hundreds. No one cares to count. I do not know. They will not fight; it is not their nature." It was enough for Anakin. Vua was unstable and disturbed, and the culture barrier probably meant the Vong would try to kill one or both of them over some imagined slight, but just at a glance, whatever infections and sickness the man had running through him would make him a lot less of a threat. Besides, he hadn''t woken up planning to execute an unarmed prisoner. They couldn''t turn him loose, and he couldn''t stomach murder. Not even to a Vong. He hoped he never would. "Alright, Vua. I''m Anakin. That''s Zalthis." The Vong scoffed. "I do not need your names." "Too bad. Zal, let''s get him up and get back to our camp. I think we''ve got those practicals you wanted." The Ultramarine stooped down, hooking a hand under the Vong''s underarm and hoisting him up almost effortlessly. The Vong muttered something that was probably a profanity, eying Zal. "You are quite monstrous," Vua said. "I''ll fetch you a mirror," Zal muttered. It was going to be a long day. Intransigence Chapter XII
XII: A Little Faith?
This moon, so named ''Yavin'' by the original inhabitants, stupefied and awed Nen Yim in ways that never ceased. If it was not the sounds of the humming, calling, droning nightlife; it was the sight of swirling murmurations of avians blotting out whole portions of the sky. If it was not the scent of clean rain as it fell in straight, soft lines; it was the feel of cool wind on her cheek and arms as she stood on the walls of the damutek compound in the morning. If it was not the rich violets, crimson and pinks of the sunset; it was the great bloat of the gas giant glowing and gleaming and pressing down on the world. Now was another full night, and the stars overhead twinkled. She had seen stars, yes, Nen Yim knew stars well. She knew nebulas and she knew sprawls of accretion disks, she knew cometary tails and she knew the look of a glowing stellar nursery. All seen through clear, crisp ocular membranes, held at arm''s length remove by the thick corneal lens of a worldship. She had never seen a night sky spread above, from horizon to horizon, from bruised indigo at the edges to deep, impossible velvet black above. She had never seen the trailing hints and faintest gauzes of clouds, stripped and striped and slipping easily across the celestial dome. The ways stars winked and blinked and glimmered, a trillion distractions, a billion diamonds, all catching and drawing her eye from here, to there; hither and thither, until tears welled in the corners of dry eyes and she remembered that she must blink, for all that she did not wish to, to spare even a millisecond without the sight. Already, Nen Yim was naming constellations. The moon had turned a dozen and a half times since the damuteks settled. Such a short time, yet for the constant wonders offered by the moon, in some ways Nen Yim felt as if she had always lived here, with her bare feet in the rich loam, with breezes tickling and teasing the tendrils of her headdress. Trying to imagine living in the cramped, stale confines of a worldship again brought actual nausea to her stomach. Smelling air cycled through the guts of the maw luur, tasting water made dull by a thousand cycles. Living by flickering glowmoss and dying lambents. She was partially through her nighttime walk, when she stumbled across her Master. Each day was a whirlwind of activity, from early rise until Mezhan Kwaad released her Adepts for evening meal and personal time. Nen Yim cultured ganglia, she catalogued synapse patterns, she employed her now-seated and functioning hand to braid protein strings. Even turned loose in the evenings, the Master expected her Adepts to engage in complementary projects of their own. Self-driven study. Her nighttime strolls gave Nen Yim a time to decompress and order her thoughts; sometimes envious of more senior Adepts and their qah-nol implants. To be able to simply sequester an entire day''s memories aside for later review, in perfect clarity¡­ah, even with a Shaper''s hand at so young an age, still she fell to the sin of envy. She made a mental note to excruciate a finger on her non-dominant hand as penance. Master Mezhan lounged beside the waters of the succession pool: the heart, lungs and liver of the damutek. The waters were drawn from deep within the soil, brought forth with rich minerals and circulated through the thirsty minshals and grashals of the damutek, satiating the living domiciles before surging through the pneumatic capillaries of the damutek structure proper, cleansing away toxins and waste to circulate into the soil itself, enriching it with phosphates and nitrogen and potassium salts. Mezhan delicately swirled her fingers in the calm waters of the succession pool, long Shaper digits tracing ripples that trembled reflected stars above. "Master," Nen Yim greeted, genuflecting. Mezhan Kwaad lazily waved away the formality with a flick of her birth-hand. "We meet by the succession pool, Nen Yim. There is no hierarchy by the replenishing waters. Sit." No hierarchy, but the invitation - or command - of her Master was not to be ignored. Nen Yim gathered her robe and sank into a cross-legged repose beside Mezhan Kwaad''s boneless sprawl. The Master seemed even more lithe and tall laid on her side, propped up on one elbow with her head tilted and peering into the trackless depths of the pool as if seeking some hidden secrets. A drip of ink caught starlight and winked for a moment, splashing soundless into the pool. Nen Yim started to see a single track of dark liquid trickling from Mezhan Kwaad''s nostril, beading on her lip. "My vaa-tumor matures," the Master murmured. "The pool brings some respite." "I see." "Do you?" She considered, while silence drew between them. "Forgive me my interruption," Nen Yim offered. "I will leave you-" "The pain is educational. You will not amplify it. Stay, Nen Yim. Tell me; you had your first vaa-tumor implanted two days previous, yes?" Implanted was a strong word - the seed of the tumor was but a fleck against the nail of her smallest finger, introduced through the nasal cavity in a few short minutes. The pain was, indeed, educational as the implantor punched through the sinus bone. She had seen a very different sort of stars, then. "Yes, Ma- yes, Mezhan." Speaking her Master''s name sent a thrill of wonder up her spine, the syllables illicit on her tongue. "This is a dialogue, not an interrogation," Mezhan noted, her tone dry enough to dessicate the succession pool. "Yes, Ma-" Nen Yim snapped her mouth shut, flushing. "I don''t yet feel it," she confided. "You would not. The vaa-tumor grows slowly, but comprehensively. Ah, but it is a wonder of our caste. You know what it does, of course?" "It prepares us," she recited. "The vaa-tumor is a fragment of Yun-ne''Shel, most ancient and first of Her gifts." "Rote, but correct," Mezhan drawled. "I''m envious. This is my fourth tumor. The first is an experience like none other, and though I welcome each new ascension¡­you can never quite match the first." "I will cherish it then." "Mmm," Mezhan hummed, then winced and her face contorted in sudden agony. A fresh surge of blood trickled from her nostril - nostrils both, this time. "Ah, the pain is always sublime. It cuts away, brings us closer to perfection. It will change you, Nen Yim. It will change your thinking; it will change you." "We are Shaped, as much as we Shape," she replied. Mezhan snorted. A glob of congealed mucus and blood splattered into the succession pool. "Spare me, Nen Yim. Beside the pool, there are no secrets either. If I wished for lauding of the Shaper, I would seek a priest. Now, I would prefer to speak with my Adept." Nen Yim dipped her head, not as an Adept to a Master, but as a youth to a respected elder. "How fares our subject?" The Master had been in seclusion for the previous two days; in meditation and preparation for the removal of her vaa-tumor. To Nen Yim''s great surprise, it had been she who was left in charge with the Master''s authority, and not one of the older Adepts. A few begrudged the privilege, and in scowls and curled lips made their displeasure clear. Nen Yim bore them no mind, of course; walking light and proud with her Master''s trust in her. "Well!" Nen Yim exclaimed, then winced as Mezhan''s eyes narrowed at the noised. "I mean - well! I have finished mapping the subject''s nervous system and brain structure. I have stored the pattern in your secured qahsa." "This is good news, and very commendable." Nen Yim preened. "Tell me then, how would you proceed from here?" In her short time with the Master, there was one most evident preference that she held dear: do not speak without thinking. If Mezhan Kwaad asked a question, she would prefer an Adept spend minutes in silence, contemplating and considering before offering an answer. The obvious reply would be to begin the process of installing restraint implants; yet that would not have required such a comprehensive study. "I believe¡­that it would depend on our goal." Mezhan''s half-lidded eyes sparkled. "What would that goal be?" She took a deep breath, and voiced the theory that had been building since the first time the subject was revealed within the vivarium. "We have mapped the subject''s brain structure," Nen Yim ticked off one finger. "We have traced the shape of her nervous system, from brainstem to the end of the spinal column." Another finger. "We have cultured hybrid cells from cloned neurons of the subject." A third finger. "We have not bred or even begun to breed any restraint organisms," a fourth finger, "and we have retrained from any invasive examinations of the subject." Mezhan idly waved her birth-hand for Nen Yim to continue. "There are no protocols for what we are doing," she admitted in a rush. "We have used many, yes, but there is no master pattern for this study¡­" "There is not." Mezhan confirmed. "So, hypothetically: what goal might we be pursuing?" Nen Yim felt as if she were standing just above the digestive villi of an active maw luur. Her toes hung over the edge and her balance teetered. She could almost smell the distinctive, sour smell of the digestors. She recalled her first true conversation with Mezhan Kwaad, when the Master had praised her inventive repair of the endocrine cluster of Baanu Kor. There had been enough uncertainty there for Nen Yim to put the implications from her mind or rather, to explain them away as being some prerogative of a Master Shaper that she was not privy to. For surely, no Master would ever, ever countenance even the whiff of heretical invention. Yet- Yet! "We are going to remake the subject. Not as a slave or as a tool, but as a comprehensive being. We are going to Shape the Jeedai. To do this, I would modify the provoker spineray. It has been efficient. But there are too many differences between the subject''s physiology and what the spineray can adapt to. I would modify it to fit our expectations of the subject''s nervous system, to give us fine control." Mezhan Kwaad said nothing, the dark pools of her eyes boring into Nen Yim. "All we have are educated guesses. The protocol we followed gave us the beginning, but we need to decide the end. We cannot map knowns onto unknowns. Our only knowns are for the Yuuzhan Vong basal form, not the Human one." "So the ancient protocols are meaningless." "Not meaningless, but only a start. It asserts things, and some are true, but some are false. We must now test those assertions, so that we can complete our understanding of the subject." When Mezhan spoke, her voice was whisper-soft, but wrapped about a core of purest yorik coral. "In other words: question the Gods." "Yes, Master." Mezhan Kwaad did not correct the honorific. "And you understand this is heresy of the highest order?" "Yes, Master." Silence hung taut between them, with only the distant cacophony of nocturnal life in the jungle intruding. The succession pool burbled. Her Master''s eyes were dark and oily pools, revealing nothing. Nen Yim held her gaze without flinching, back straight and shoulders set. "I have searched long for an apprentice like you," Mezhan Kwaad said at last. "Understand: you profit nothing if you are not what you appear to be. You will not gain from any betrayal." Not once had Nen Yim considered her Master might be afraid of her instead. "I would never. I am your Adept! My life is in your thirteen fingers." "It is well placed then, Adept. Proceed as you have described. I will attend our subject with you on the morrow, before the vaa-tumor has truly reached its peak. Speak to no one of our intention. Not even the other Adepts. If our results are to the liking of our masters, none will look too closely at the methods. Discretion is our shield. And never forget this: what we do, though some might call it heresy, we do for our people." Even laying beside the pool in a most undignified position, with pain etching tension in her features and blood dribbling from her nose, Mezhan Kwaad was the most impressive creature Nen Yim had ever seen. She bowed her head low, then genuflected fully, rocking forward onto her knees, her forehead to the ground. "Don''t kowtow," Mezhan Kwaad chastised, but with humor in her words. "Rise instead, and retire to sleep. There is much to be done."
The subject watched them warily from behind the clear membrane of the vivarium. Awake and alert, the subject, at first glance, might seem otherwise untouched from their stay. Only the snaking tail of the provoker spineray, creeping from behind the subject toward the far wall of the vivarium betrayed the efforts of Nen Yim, her Master, and other Adepts. That, and the hairless scalp of the subject, cradled by the upper appendages of the spineray like splayed fingers about an egg. The subject was motionless, crosslegged, and only their green eyes tracked them closely, wary like a beast seeking the throat of another. "I would refrain from using your Jeedai powers to attack us," Mezhan Kwaad told her. "The spineray has been told to stimulate you to great agonies should we become afflicted in any way. You seem to dislike pain at the moment, though in time you will come to appreciate its truth again." The subject bared their teeth in a snarl. "I''ll figure something out." "Perhaps you will," Mezhan Kwaad allowed. "I would be very proud if you did." Nen Yim saw confusion blossom on the subject. "Why would - you know what? I don''t care. You''re all freaks and¡­" Confusion gave way to something approaching terror. Mezhan Kwaad smirked, a rare genuine expression of amusement and leaned closer to Nen Yim. "She realized swiftly," the Master muttered. "Harmae had the luck of a devil catching this one." "I understand you? I''m - what am I speaking?" The subject actually touched fingers to their lips as they spoke, feeling the shape of the letters and sounds. Green eyes widened all the more, now shining with unshead tears. "Our language, of course," Mezhan Kwaad replied. "Restored to you, for if you are to be one of us again, you must speak the sacred tongue." "One of you? One of you!" The subject hissed and curled in on themselves, from a crosslegged repose to clutching their knees to their chest. "I''d rather be slime under a Hutt." "That is because you still perceive yourself an infidel. The Jeedai''s manipulations were thorough, but are nothing before the grace of the Gods. Already, we have restored some of your memories." Nen Yim could see the precise moment that the subject understood - understood - what Mezhan Kwaad meant. Already pale, their skin blanched to grey. Their pupils contracted. Sweat broke across their scalp. "M-memories - is that why -" Mezhan Kwaad spoke over the subject. "In time, we will excise the false memories the Jeedai implanted. We will restore all that they stole from you and repair the grotesque modifications they made to your body. You will be who you always were, before you were stolen from us." The subject was hyperventilating now, digging fingernails into their bare scalp. "Do not be afraid, Riina of Domain Kwaad. You are among your people again." The subject wailed, high and broken, loud enough that a ragged edge slashed into their voice. For the first time Nen Yim heard her voice true despair.
Days passed and the Jedi girl came back to life. Zalthis was the one for this; his brother had the head for talking and understanding. Once again, he sent scathing thoughts toward wherever Zal might be, seasoned liberally with inventive invectives picked up from Army soldiers. Because as the Jedi girl came around, she started talking. And talking, and talking, and talking. He had his tasks, each and every day. The Thunderhawk required further mechanical maintenance, which he could do. He was no techpriest or techmarine, but one didn''t need an education from Mars to understand how to clean carbon scoring from aileron joints or scrape patching paste over punctures in the cabin skin. Then he worked through the small armory aboard. There was no such thing as too much maintenance of weapons, especially in the humid environment of Yavin 4. He checked off stocks of supplies, as they slowly dwindled, he topped off fresh water stores from the vaporator. Housekeeping. Solidian was an Astartes, for Throne''s sake, and now he played nursemaid to a Jedi girl. She still had distant look in her eyes sometimes, but unfortunately, Sannah seemed to be coping with separation from her friends by asking about each and every imaginable thing she could. And pestering him to take her and go after Zal and Anakin. It didn''t help that he kept the same desire buried, but not so deep as to forget about it. ''What''s this?'' she''d ask. ''What''s this?'' she''d ask again. ''There is no universe where you could handle a bolter,'' he retorted, lifting the rifle that was roughly half as large as she was from the girl''s hands. Captain Thiel kept the Thunderhawk stocked with a basic assortment of gear: three bolters, five bolt pistols, two chainswords and a selection of krak and fragmentation grenades, along with ammunition, replacement parts and cleaning accoutrements. Sannah had a habit of ambushing him while he was maintaining the weapons. ''Just point and pull, right?'' she said, miming holding a much smaller rifle and pulling a trigger. ''Then the recoil shatters every bone in your tiny body,'' Sol shot back. Sannah stuck her tongue out. ''What if I used the Force to hold it?'' Something itched between his shoulderblades. ''I wouldn''t pretend to understand your witchery.'' And so it went.
En route to Eboracum, shortly after True Night During his stay at the Praxeum, which sometimes felt brief as a blink and sometimes as long as an entire Crusade deployment, Aeonid Thiel had attended the lessons of each Master that taught. Kam Solusar taught ethical foundations as well as basic bladework - a combination of violence and the theory of violence that strangely appealed to his Ultramarian sensibilities. Ciglhal, in recovery, taught healing and concepts of a ''living'' Force, which was so much esoteria. Kyle Katarn, when he returned, handled the most mature and older students in deeper principles of bladework, combined as well with an interesting and unexpected angle into paramilitary applications. Luke Skywalker taught a myriad of subjects, across the breadth of the ''curricula'', such as it was. And Tionne Solusar taught of the history of the Jedi. He could admit; the time he attended a lesson of Tionne''s, he had been more focused on analyzing the reactions and interest of the other trainees than on the content of the woman''s lesson. It had not helped that she had chosen to relay the tale in the form of sung poetry, a form of iambic heptameter. Those who shun the lessons of history are fated to repeat them: this was a truism that had roots in the sprawled cultures of humanity, implying either an easily understood universal truth, or that the idea had spread wide before Old Night. The Primarch stressed this fact often and heavily, it formed, after all, a core component of critical analysis. Practicals could be shaped from what had gone before, and theoreticals informed by experience. It spoke well to the Jedi that they aimed to remember and preserve their histories, but it had not held the greatest of his interest at the time. A terrible oversight. Though aboard for only a few days, the Jedi made themselves comfortable. The chambers given over them were spartan, little more than an armsman barracks near the embarkation deck on Temerity, but the Jedi adorned the cramped spaces with shimmering holograms above compact silvery cubes, with hand-painted canvases and not a few potted plants, saved from the gardens of the Temple. Only a few days, but already a strangely homely feeling that Aeonid could sense the reverberating peace from, in the minds of the youths. Bunks were shared without argument; indeed, he sensed the ease that the trainees felt in such close proximity to one another. To be able to reach out grasper and hand and feel a friend in the bunk below or above. Footlockers with keepsakes and personal property were stacked here and there, some left open to show changes of clothes, carefully folded. No doubt under the watchful eye of the Jedi Masters; Aeonid did not remember his own youth with any clarity, but he understood from cultural osmosis that the young had a tendency toward untidiness. Tionne Solusar claimed one of the smaller chamber, one normally used for officers, with four bunks of larger and more luxurious style. There was a pressed metal table with wireframe chairs, lockers along one wall and a small ablutorium adjacent. This was the one claimed by the Solusars; there were enough spaces for the Masters to have some privacy. Prosaically, Tionne Solusar did not invite Aeonid in to a candlelit chamber, nor invoke ethereal strangeness with incantations: after regaining her composure, she ushered him out of the corridor, offering one of the chairs - he declined, kneeling instead by the table - and taking one herself. Thus they sat - and knelt - two beings of utterly different character. He imagined the image might be faintly ridiculous, seen from outside. Tionne Soluar was a willowy woman, not overly tall, with slightly overlarge eyes and unnaturally silver hair. She was expressive and emotive: he imagined even without his ''gifts'' of the Force, she would be easy to read indeed. Her Jedi robes were charcoal grey, with a silver tabard overtop, soft-looking and likely some manner of silk equivalent. A nymph, perhaps, of Macraggian myth, one of the Myrianos who lingered in the tall forests of Illyria, who strummed on harp and played the triple pipes as they lured the unsuspecting to trances in the deep woods. She sipped at a cup of caf, streaming between her fingers. And there he knelt; a transhuman warrior of Ultramar. A soldier shaped by genescience beyond the imaginings of any in this lost galaxy, instilled with purpose by the Emperor, Beloved by All, given purpose to prosecute the enemies of Man, to corral the recalcitrant, to condemn the witch and mutant, to make war across the stars. He wore the roughspun version of the same robes Tionne Solusar wore, in brown and tan, tent-like on any other, but fit well to him despite his frame. They could not hide the lethality of his limbs, the exaggerated proportions of his physiology. Yet¡­ She spoke of Jedi and ages long past. Of a tradition spanning twenty-five thousand years and more, since before the founding of the Republic. Of an Order that spanned race and kind, whose heroes and celebrated figures were human and alien alike. United by intention, guided by the same purpose, who held in cupped hands the gentle light of peace and security against the encroaching dark. Intellectually, Aeonid knew this all. He had read the briefings; he was Ultramarine. The Jedi were not a mystery. The Holonet alone provided ample resources and the questioning of Pirvien natives shed further light. The prosecutions of Palpatine''s Empire could not stamp out all truth and in the years since the Sith''s death, with the rise of Skywalker''s Order and the ascendancy of the New Republic, the forbidden lore was public once more. All the same, there was understanding a sterile briefing, and there was being bathed in the fascination and wonder that exuded from Tionne Solusar as she spoke earnestly. And what she knew, what she could speak of, went far beyond any basic practicals drawn from news reports and compiled intelligence packets. ''It is basic group dynamics," Aeonid argued. "The practical is that Jedi as an Order create a cohesive culture that rewards reinforcing and maintaining it.'' ''Oh, of course Jedi care about each other. But, Aeonid, if it was just about who was part of the group, then why would the Jedi dedicate their lives to serving those who aren''t Jedi?'' ''The self-identification of a Jedi is one of martyrdom and public service. One could argue the idea of self-sacrifice is necessary to benefit from the social security of being member to the Order.'' ''That''s a cold way to see it," Solusar returned, not unkindly. "But isn''t that how Astartes are? Kyle''s told me that you''ll never retire or settle down. What makes a life of service as a Jedi so different from a life of service as Astartes?'' An easy comparison, one he had considered at length. ''There is nothing moral, as a foundation, to being Astartes.'' Aeonid tapped at his chest. ''Our enhancements are simply biological augmentations. They can''t be measured by an ethical code. You mean instead, what makes a life of service as a Jedi different to a life of service as an Ultramarine. That is a better question, I think.'' Solusar nodded. ''Yes, that''s right. There are different - what are they - Legions? Of Astartes.'' ''Eighteen,'' Aeonid confirmed. ''Each is different; some drastically, some less so.'' He rubbed at his chin, returning to the original point. In some ways, Jedi were not dissimilar to the tenets laid out by Guilliman in particular. They would bear little similarity indeed to the likes of Angron''s horde or Russ'' brawlers, but the concept of a sworn order upholding civilization against encroachments of savages, barbarians and twisted despots? There was a kinship there, but it was one that shared shy glances, not shaken hands. ''Service to Ultramar is defined," Aeonid decided. "We follow Guilliman, who is both our sire and our ultimate authority. Our principles are codified. The Primarch has worked on notes toward such since he was found. There are practicals for most theoreticals. There are laws that we abide by and there are expectations that are as good as carven in stone. If there is a single feature to the Jedi that I have seen, it is that you are not so organized. Dissent is rife within Master Skywalker''s Order. There is debate and even argument. There is bad blood and there is even insubordination. You have guiding concepts, but you have no discipline. It is well and good to say ''violence is wrong'' or ''life is worth preserving'', but each member of your Order disagrees on the meaning, or even the choice of words.'' ''Would you be surprised if I said you weren''t the first one to voice those kinds of things?" Solusar smiled easily, and often, and did so then. "Corran argued with Luke when he came to the Praxeum and said that the Jedi should be more like soldiers, or maybe cops. He wanted Luke to have a harder line about what was and wasn''t done." ''Surety breeds replicability. Clear guidelines prevent misunderstanding.'' The irony of speaking those words was not lost on him. ''If the Jedi had a big book of What is Bad, you might be more comfortable?'' Solusar teased. ''I think I would,'' Aeonid admitted. ''''Trust in the Force'' is unsatisfying. Every being is a moral actor, which means every being will translate that ''will'' differently.'' The silver-haired Jedi peered down at her caf, tapping at her lower lip for a moment. He felt it as her mind shifted and her expression brightened. ''Sometimes you have to give yourself over to that guidance. Sometimes - there''s actions that in any other world, would be horrible. Unbelievable! But maybe they could be necessary, even as painful as they are, and the Force guides us to what is right.'' ''If an ethical boundary is permeable, it ceases to be a boundary,'' Aeonid retorted. ''What if it was killing a brother?'' Solusar countered.
Now¡­ Vua Rapuung poked at the oozing hole that was his ear, scowling and wincing. "I don''t know that word: shantee. You speak of where the Workers and slaves and Shamed ones live." "Sure." Anakin had asked about the smaller sprawl of living buildings around the big ones, the ones Vua called ''damuteks''. Apparently, ''shantytown'' wasn''t something the weird worm in the Vong''s ear could make out. "A support colony," Zal said, managing more than a monosyllabic sentence for once. From the river, and catching the Vong, the Astartes had clammed up, radiating a powerful sense of mistrust and hostility toward the Vong while they walked him back to their ''camp''. It was too generous a word for a small depression mostly hidden under tall brushes, but there was enough space for a bedroom for Anakin and to drop some of their supplies while doing recon. "If the tizowyrm translates rightly, yes." "Workers and slaves I know - but what''s a Shamed One?" Vua snarled. "They are cursed by the Gods. They work as if slaves. They are not worth speaking of." "Cursed how?" The Vong twitched his shoulders, like he had many times so far. If he was a betting man, Anakin would wager it was an urge to violence, given just how often Vua scowled and spit and glared at both of them. For someone who claimed to want to be an ally, he sure was showing it in the strangest ways. With his wrists bound in front of him, that urge would stay just that: an urge. "When I say they are not worth speaking of, how do my words confuse you?" Zalthis shoved the Vong forward rather unnecessarily. "Answer." And back to the one word retorts. The Vong let out a long-suffering sigh. "Pointless frivolities. Do these questions put amphistaff in our hands and blades to the necks of our enemies? No?" "Information is victory," Zal shot back. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. "How droll. How simple. Are you a machine? I hear tell of many perversions." "Enough," Anakin interjected. Not for the first time. "Vua, we''re trying to learn about your people so we can make a plan." "A waste of time. I have a plan." Anakin could feel Zalthis'' eyes roll. "Alright Vua, what is it?" The Vong stopped, turning to face both Anakin and Zalthis. Idly, he twisted his wrists against Zal''s efficient bindings. His rheumy, dark eyes flicked between Jedi and Astartes, then into the far distance, toward where the Vong base was. "It is simplicity itself. You, Jeedai, will pretend to be a slave. I will say that I found you wandering. We will infiltrate the Shaper compound until we can find where the Jeedai girl is kept. Then you will use your dark Jeedai magics to call to the Astartes. From within and without, we sow chaos. You kill the Jeedai, and I claim my revenge." "For the fourth time, I''m not here to kill Tahiri." Vua cocked his head. "She will not be Tayhir''ai, but that is your decision." "Anyway, you keep saying revenge, but you still haven''t told us what that is." Vua scowled, if possible, even harder. Anakin wasn''t sure that it wasn''t simply how his face just was. "Do you truly not see? Either of you? Never mind. My revenge is my own. Your mission is your own. They align, which is enough." "Return to Anakin posing as a slave," Zalthis interjected. "Why? What possible purpose could that hold?" "I do not know the damuteks. I cannot access them. A slave can, because a slave is meaningless. A tool. A slave goes where commanded, and they have tasks everywhere. A slave may find where the Jeedai captive is held, where I cannot." "I merely find it convenient that when the Vong-" Vua visibly bristled and Anakin rubbed at his forehead "-seek Jedi, you think it wise to walk Anakin right into the compound." "I find it convenient that the Gods did not bless you with brains," Vua retorted. "No Warrior would suspect a Jeedai willing to humble themselves as a slave. A Warrior is proud and the Jeedai have killed many. They will believe Jeedai bear the same pride as a warrior should. Their eyes will pass over him as though he is a meat maggot." "And if you tell them?" "Then may the Gods slay me for stupidity!" Vua roared. "This is exhausting! Jeedai, I pray that you are in command! The Aistarteez fills me with wonder for how thoughtless he is!" Anakin gestured for Vua to get moving again - daylight was burning and his stomach was grumbling. The three fell back into step again, picking through the jungle. "You have to understand our side here, Vua." "I pray I never will. Your infidel perversions-" "-are bad and evil yes, I mean that you have to understand how suspicious this all is. A friendly V- Yuuzhan Vong shows up-" he shot a glare at Zal, daring the Ultramarine to comment on the choice of the word ''friendly'' "-who promises us just what we need to get in and get to Tahiri. Sorry, but we Jedi haven''t exactly had the best experiences with a Yuuzhan Vong''s word, you know?" "I am Vua Rapuung," Vua declared, as if that was all the answer that mattered. He spat to the side, but the spittle was tinged with dark blood: clearing his mouth, not insulting, Anakin figured. Vua was very straightforward at being insulting. "Fine, then. Ask whatever you wish, if it will banish your irksome timidity." It was somewhat incredible how much they learned, just in the time from the river to their small camp. Months - almost a year - the Yuuzhan Vong had been in the Galaxy, waging war, conquering worlds, and then an afternoon with a grumpy, crotchety Yuuzhan Vong and Anakin knew he''d have enough to make NRI faint with envy for the opportunity. He told them about the castes - theorized, but never sure. How, ''ideally'', all the castes save Worker were equal. Shapers and Warriors and Indentants and Priests, in simple words. ''Mystics of the Shaper'', ''Adherents of the Slayer'', ''Tendons of the People'' and ''Those Humbled Before the Gods'', if you were feeling fancy. All the castes worked in unison, equal but separate, with authorities that overlapped or superceded each other depending on the situation. In the compound, which Vua revealed was ruled by Shapers, Warriors were subordinate. They could advise, but couldn''t command. Whoever the ''Master Shaper'' was, their word was law in their little fiefdom. Warriors were a caste everyone knew. They were the ones in the crab armor slinging bugs and amphistaves and killing people. Shapers were, like Zalthis had said, like scientists or engineers. They made and maintained all the biotech - and Vua visibly restrained himself from attacking Zalthis at that word - of the Vong. Intendents were a caste Anakin hadn''t considered, but made sense. They were sort of like the grease of the Vong. They were sort of like administrators, ministers, lawyers and diplomats, all rolled into one. They were go-betweens for the various castes and they handled the logistics of the whole culture. Once, his dad had joked about how until he''d become a General, he never quite grasped how nine-tenths of fighting a war was just getting everything in the right place; this made the Intendents maybe the most important caste, just for how they kept everything moving. Then the Priests, which had been rumored plenty from captured worlds. They ministered to the populace, interpreted for the Gods, read portents; all the usual priestly things. Workers, as Vua framed it, were sort of a casteless caste. They had most of the same rights as any other Yuuzhan Vong, but they hadn''t risen into any of other four. They could, he''d said, if they showed skill and cunning for it. Workers could be taken in as Shaper initiatives, or Warrior aspirants, or Intendant apprentices. Zalthis made a comment about myths of social mobility being essential to empires, which Vua hadn''t bothered to reply to. Vua refused to say more about Shamed Ones, only that they were the lowest of the low and even the Workers spat on them. As for slaves? He had not been exaggerating to call them tools. If a Shamed One was at the bottom rung, a slave didn''t even merit a position on the ladder. They were property, tools, worth nothing and given nothing. Working them to death was common. Killing them for sport was not infrequent. Punishments were many and various. Slaves did not belong to any one Yuuzhan Vong; more like a shared resource. And Vua wanted him to pretend to be one. Carefully hidden at their camp, the Vong reclined against a large, mossy stone. "I can place a false coral node on your forehead. It is stunted and cannot sprout. At worst; it will tingle. Then, you will act as my slave until I may send you on an errand into the damuteks. Then, no doubt, one of the Shapers will command you, and you will serve them instead." "I''m still not getting where Zalthis or you fall into this, really," Anakin admitted. "If you can get me into the ''damutek'', then I can just break Tahiri out and we can run." "Do you never listen? Or does the wyrm mistranslate? You may enter the damutek, but you will die before you can ''free'' the Jeedai girl. The Shapers are jealous and Warriors are many. I may open hidden ways that I know, while the brainless Aistarteez distracts and draws many guards away. I may quiet the siren-beasts and calm the alarm reflexes for a time." Zal, laying out bolt rounds for his pistol, raised his head to narrow his eyes at the Vong. "You can do that? You''ve spoken of revenge of some sort, but you would raise your hand against other Vong, even sabotage their alarms?" "What is revenge without bloodshed? My belly is not so weak as yours. All those who stand between me and my vengeance will die. Their blood will baptise my righteousness." Zal''s mood went suddenly hard and fragile as obsidian. Anakin looked to the Ultramarine in surprise, seeing a sudden mask of cold calm. "Other Warriors?" Vua scoffed. "Warriors, Shapers, slaves or Priests. The Slayer guides me." Zalthis unfurled to his feet with a rapidity that continually wrongfooted Anakin. Even after running across half a mountain range with the Ultramarine and across the capital of Obroa-skai, the way Astartes could snap into motion still surprised him. "Anakin. We need to speak¡­privately." Ultimately, unwilling to leave Vua unsupervised, Anakin talked the Vong into removing the tizowyrm from his ear. Zal guided Anakin by the elbow just far enough from the camp that they could still see the Vong, but far enough that a low whisper would still be out of earshot, should the Vong be lying about needing the biot to translate. "We have humored him long enough. I can kill him and consume his memories. If he is telling the truth, then I may be able to learn what he knows about preventing alarms. If he was lying, then we have lost nothing at all." "Zal! We''re not killing a defenseless prisoner-" "He is a Vong, he is definitionally not defenseless-" "-and the brains thing?" "He is lying to us and he will betray you-" "Why would the Vong send someone like him if they knew we were around here-" "Their thinking is alien, it is a mistake to assume-" "Your thinking is alien, Zal, you want to eat a brain-" "We''ve come this far-" "Zal, stop." Anakin finally snapped, with more heat than he meant. His friend''s mouth clicked shut. "What is this about? I don''t really trust Vua either, but you''re chasing Sith ghosts here." The Ultramarine took a deep inhale, flicking his eyes between Anakin and Vua. "If he is willing to kill his own people, to fight alongside the hated ''Jeedai'' and ''Aistarteez'', if he is willing to kill anyone just to chase whatever mad ''revenge'' he has in that rotting head, then there is no boundary he will not cross. Anakin, what if he is offered a chance at that revenge, for the price of selling you out?" "It''s a possibility-" "It''s a certainty!" But there was agitation beneath Zal''s measured words. Nothing the Ultramarine said was wrong, and in fact, the angle of Vua being bribed with whatever his revenge was to give up Anakin hadn''t crosses his mind. Put that way, he could see the prickly Vong flipping instantly on his word. Whatever he was after, he was single-minded about it. He''d been in Zal''s head though, just two weeks ago. He knew his friend all the better now and Zal was not good at hiding things. There was something else. Something that had him entirely on edge and almost violent toward Vua in a way he hadn''t been, even when ambushing the Vong on the river. "Zal," Anakin murmured. "What''s this about? Really about?" "I don''t know what you mean-" "I think you do. Vua said something that set you off. What''s going on?" The Ultramarine''s fists flexed at his side. Was that¡­fear deep in the depths of Zalthis'' cocktail of emotion? "You can never trust a traitor," Zal bit out. A traitor. Treason. The way Zal said it stirred Anakin''s memories, but he couldn''t place it. "But if it''s us that he''s turning traitor to help¡­" "You cannot break one oath." If looks could kill, Vua would be blasted down by bolts from Zal''s eyes. "Cut one, and you cut them all. We shouldn''t have even listened to him for a moment." "Zal," Anakin repeated. "What''s going on?" He brushed only a touch of the Force against his friend, trying to ease his sudden tension. Zalthis tensed, every muscle. "Are you-"
Then¡­ ''-in my head?'' Aeonid demanded, rising and leaning forward, gripping the edges of the metal table. Solusar blinked, cocking her head. ''I''m sorry?'' ''''Killing a brother''?'' Aeonid echoed, adrenaline trickling into his veins. Sorot Tchure, reeling back, clutching at his face- ''It''s the story of Cay and Ulic Qel-Droma,'' Solusar said. ''It''s as famous as it is tragic.'' Aeonid settled back down. ''Apologies,'' he managed. ''Continue.'' Solusar cast him an odd look and he felt her concern and confusion. Let her be unsure; he had overreacted. ''Many thousands of years ago¡­'' Solusar had a way with words that would find her many friends among the Remembrancers. She spun a tale of the Old Republic, millenia ago, enjoying a period of relative peace after the Sith had been put down many centuries ago. Conflict happened, here and there, as would be expected. A small series of skirmishes on an out-of-the-way world drew the attention of the Jedi, who sought to settle differences and resolve the situation peacefully. The Jedi could not know that this was but the tip of a grander iceberg: tinder to spark off the next great galactic conflict as the Sith resurgent waged brutal war against the Republic. She spoke of names with a weight that was tangible. Exar Kun, once a Jedi Knight, who turned to the dark side under mentorship of some dread Sith named Freedon Nadd. Of Vodo-Siosk Bass, his wise master, cut down in a moment of awful betrayal. Of the brothers Cay and Ulic Qel-Droma, Jedi Knights both; adventurous and boisterous, daring and cunning. How spirits of the Sith corrupted and drew away Jedi from the Order, whispering of arcane secrets and masterful powers, luring once-noble beings from the Force and into perversion. Solusar lapsed into song, occasionally, though Aeonid scarcely noticed. She sang a ballad, restored from fragments and scraps, that was a paean to Cay Qel-Droma. It spoke of the love between the brothers, their long friendship, how it twisted until it snapped during that savage war. How they came to blows, how they clashed, how Cay begged his brother to turn aside, to return to righteousness, to cast out the dark that filled his heart. He listened, rapt, as Tionne recounted the profound tragedy enacted by Exar Kun, when dozens of Jedi Apprentices, twisted and controlled by his powers, turned on their unsuspecting Masters. How Jedi died at the hands of their most trusted, beloved and promising Padawans in a rain of butchery and blood. Of Exar Kun''s delight at the breaking of those sacred bonds, of how he gloated as he turned brother against brother, sister against sister, Master against Apprentice. And the end of it all, when Cay Qel-Droma faced his brother, he fought with all that he had - and not enough. Cay could not strike down Ulic, who he still loved too much. And Cay died to the lightsaber of his own brother, cut down in the rain on the world of Ossus. This, Tionne said, was enough to shock Ulic from his convictions, leaving him vulnerable to Nomi Sunrider, another Jedi. She severed him from the Force - an admission that shocked Aeonid and he made note to speak of it again, at a later time - yet still later fought with Ulic to slay the architect of it all, Exar Kun. ''And the question is¡­should Cay have killed Ulic?'' Tionne wondered, resting her chin on one palm. Her eyes shimmered with some wetness, unshed. The Master felt, deeply, driven to sorrows and joys just from recounting the tale. "Killing a brother is unimaginable, but what Ulic was doing was evil. Cay fought Ulic to defend himself and if Ulic hadn''t struck that blow, would Cay have been the brother wracked with guilt instead?" ''Yes,'' Aeonid declared. ''Cay should have. He could not have known his sacrifice would shake Ulic''s certainty, or that Nomi Sunrider could bind Qel-Droma''s sense of the Force. For all that Cay knew, his death at Ulic''s hands would be yet another Jedi slain. Sunrider might have been next and the war could have continued.'' ''But Ulic helped to kill Exar Kun and he revealed the way to Yavin 4 to the Jedi.'' Aeonid waved it away. ''Again, Cay could not have known that. He had to work with what was, not what could have been.'' ''Then it would have been right to kill his brother.'' ''Yes.'' Her small hands sought his own. He found himself leaning on the table, palms planted. Her fingers were cool, and very small. ''Who did you kill, Aeonid?'' He raised an eyebrow. ''Many.'' ''What brother, Aeonid?'' ''They were not-''
"-brothers, to us." Zalthis related, his tone flat and affectless. "The Seventeenth and the Thirteenth were not close. For all our differences, we were still Astartes. You have to understand, Anakin. The Crusade is everything. It is our triumph, over Old Night. It''s reunification. It''s security. It''s¡­" Zalthis trailed off. "The world was called Calth," Zal pronounced the name, funereal.
''They came to repair old rivalries. Lorgar swore it would be a new beginning for both Legions. Bury our differences and come out stronger for it. We invited them in.'' Solusar had one hand to her mouth, the other still placed over one his own. ''Oh, Aeonid¡­'' His hands balled into fists. ''We thought it was a mistake. Guilliman thought it was a mistake. The first message he sent, when vox was restored, was a plea. He begged Lorgar to stop. He promised that we hadn''t attacked. He swore it was a mistake. My father pleaded with those motherless bastards.''
For so large of a man, Zal managed to seem small. Contracted in on himself. Unsure. "They did not kill us. They butchered us. Entire companies, murdered where they stood. They bombed cities that were welcoming them. When we ran to them, thinking this was some attack from the greenskins, ready to rally with our brothers, they laughed and gunned us down. We invited them to Calth and they burned the world. A whole world of Ultramar and a hundred thousand Ultramarines. Billions of innocent citizens." Sernpidal ran vivid through Anakin''s mind''s eye. The only world he had ever seen die with his own two eyes. The way the atmosphere lit on fire as the moon, Dobido, arced downward. The earthquakes that heaved and surged and cracked the crust, the tidal waves that could be seen from the Falcon as they flew away, that raced ahead of the shattering world. All the same, it was impersonal. The moon itself came down, but the Vong weren''t there. They killed Sernpidal in a single, shocking exclamation point, but what Zal described¡­ Hours of confusion and horror as trusted allies killed everyone they saw. And so senseless. For all the evils of the Yuuzhan Vong, Anakin felt he sort of understood them. Tried not to hate them, stood against them, but there was a twisted logic to them. They were here to conquer the Galaxy and they were fighting a religious war too. It was monstrous and their crimes could fill a whole holocube - but what Zal spoke of was utterly senseless. Their Imperium had conquered their galaxy, or just about. He talked about how they had a million worlds living prosperously and safely. Their Legions, their Astartes and Primarchs, were basically heroes and legends in their own right. What could possibly drive someone to do such an awful thing, when they already had it all? The dark side, he thought bitterly. After all, hadn''t Anakin Skywalker had it all too? "Zal, I''m¡­sithspawn, I don''t know what to say to that." "What is there to say? We were betrayed. I don''t even know why. If the Primarch knows, he has not seen fit to share." "Still¡­I''m sorry. That''s horrible." "I¡­thank you, Anakin." He fiddled with the lightsaber at his belt, glancing sidelong at Zal and his brooding frown. So much, so much now clicked into place about the Exiles. Like a puzzle that suddenly he''d found all the right pieces for, slotting right in and the picture just jumped out. Now he got why they were so twitchy, why they had such a big thing about honour, and even why they''d stayed hidden for months on Eboracum. And he could place where he remembered Zal raising his hackles of the idea of treason again. Obroa-skai, talking about Anakin''s father and the Rebellion''s history with the Empire. How Zal had been surprised - and even agitated - to learn that the whole Rebellion, basically, was just made up of former Imperials of some stripe or another. Which, well, when fighting a civil war, that was sort of unavoidable, wasn''t it? "It''s not the same," Anakin said at last. "Vua¡­isn''t like them." "Isn''t he?" Through the whole telling, Zal had stared fixed at the Vong, who was now either asleep, or pretending to be. Finally, he snapped his gaze to Anakin, folding his arms tight across his chest. "He feels wronged by some slight, real or imagined. He pride is wounded and he is furious. He demands revenge, but will not speak of it. He will betray his own people, his own caste, to get what he wants. He''ll kill, he''ll lie, and he''ll allow an enemy into their midst. Isn''t he?" "Zal, you said yourself that no one is sure why the¡­the other Legion did what they did-" "The Word Bearers always had a grudge against us. For forty years, they held that grudge. Whatever their reason, I am sure that they delighted in a chance to repay that, no matter what other reasons they had. If they had reasons at all." he said bitterly. "Maybe. Maybe that''s true, but Vua is one person. He''s just one Vong and look at him, he''s half dead." Anakin chewed on his lip. "His people, they make a point about honor, right? Corran - Master Horn - used that against Shedao Shai. Even though he killed Senator A''kla, Shedao Shai still sent his bones back because of his twisted beliefs about what was honorable. Maybe¡­maybe this is normal? Maybe this just is part of Vong culture. If you get wronged, you have to repay it." "If honor demands that, then-"
''-anything can be rationalized.'' ''Of course it can,'' Solusar, he was finding, for all her more ethereal mien, was far from uneducated in philosophy. Aeonid would never claim any great talent at it, but in his decades of service, he had dutifully read, memorized, and applied what the Primarch ordered. Von Clauswitz, Adh Agentoch, Guilliman of course, Sigilite, Sokratis and others, all lived in his near perfect memory. ''This is why the Force is what guides us, ultimately. Calth? The Seventeenth Legion? What they did was dark, no argument. It was evil and I''m sure the Force screamed in horror at it.'' ''All the same, the Force still grants power to those you term dark, like the Sith. Like Ulic Qel-Droma himself, or Exar Kun. If the Force held some greater truth, should it not act accordingly? Withdraw its touch from those that act against it? Sunrider should not have needed to sever Qel-Droma, correct?'' ''You''re talking about free will. The Force guides us, but we have the blessing to act and make our own choices. Exar Kun, Naga Sadow, Freedon Nadd¡­Palpatine, Vader, were all masters of the dark side and truly evil, but they were countered by Cay and Nomi and Luke and all the other Jedi. This is why we are servants of the Force. Not slaves, but servants.'' ''Then, because the Jedi have succeeded over the Sith, this means you are right? I have heard this argument before, Master Solusar. To consider yourself right simply because you are mighty is not a valid epistemological stance.'' ''Because the Force can be felt, Aeonid.'' Her tone leaned toward chiding. She wiped at an unshed tear, drawn by his tale of Calth, but Solusar was anything but unfocused. Her bright eyes held conviction, held steel. ''I don''t need to explain that to you of all people. You felt Ikrit pass?'' ''I did.'' ''So did we, but I don''t think as closely as you did. It hurt, but wasn''t part of it beautiful, Aeonid? How peaceful he was and how proud? When you meditated on Yavin, didn''t you feel the life all around you? How beautiful it was? Like a song! Or the sound of the younglings at breakfast, or how gentle Cilghal draws on the Force when she heals. Isn''t that a truth?'' Or how he could feel the other Masters, in the other chambers. All the younglings and their blend of excitement over a new ''adventure'', their worry over Anakin and the two girls, their sadness over Master Ikrit. Solusar was not wrong - she was the farthest from wrong she could be, and that was what unsettled him so. It was easy. He did feel the vibrancy of the moon. He did feel how closely even the most alien of the younglings was to the human ones. He did feel Ikrit''s love, burning for Anakin and Tahiri. He felt it all, as clear and as passionate and as deep as his own emotions, burned right into his mind. The Nephilim, exterminated by the Blood Angels, could induce entheogenic raptures into their slaves. The marauding Eldar breed could manipulate chemical reactions in the brain to induce agony beyond comparison or euphoria that could kill. The Anhedonites farmed stocks of specially bred humans, just to siphon their emotions as substitutes to their own. Even simple chemicals could induce hallucination, alter mental states - even those produced naturally by the body! ''I know what you''re thinking. If it''s in your head, how can you trust it?'' ''So says the Jedi Master, as she reads my own mind.'' ''You''re shouting it, Aeonid. I don''t need to listen hard.'' ''It''s not an answer!'' He shook aside Solusar''s hand, levering himself up and pacing, back and forth. She watched him, open and attentive. ''There needs to be some foundation. Some truth. It is the Uthyphrik challenge. The Iterators use it to tear down religion where they find it. ''Is this right because the gods favor it, or do the gods favor it because it is right?'' There must be a baseline, some - measurable truth.'' ''Because anything else is faith.'' ''Faith! Faith and mendacity. Humans are driven by social demands; our morality is from evolution. The tribe survives as a unit. That is fact; but what of a species that evolved as a solitary hunter? What ''morals'' might be built into their instincts? Would they be wrong? If what was just and true to them was to selfishly and jealously steal and kill and hoard, can we point at that and say they are incorrect? To them, they are right. To us, we are right. This, at least, is provable. This can be that foundation.'' Guilliman burdened him with this. Guilliman sent him out, away from his burgeoning company, to rub shoulders with mystics and philosophers and aliens. He could be arranging wargames, inducting neophytes, running theoreticals on Vong tactics and targets. He could have bolter and blade in hand, where things were simple. ''The Sith believed that the strong deserve everything,'' Solusar observed in agreement. ''They fully believed this, with all their hearts. They built their culture on it. But - it was wrong. The Jedi stood against it, and always will. The Yevetha hated anyone who wasn''t their species, the Ssi-ruuvi wanted to entech all the ''infidels'' of the galaxy.'' ''And the Republic made war on them all.'' ''And the Republic will also defend them. As would the Jedi. If I saw a Yevetha being beaten on the street, I would stop those thugs. If I saw a Ssi-ruuvi being stolen from, I would return their credit chit.'' ''And, in doing, impose your own belief on them.'' ''Yes.'' Aeonid laughed. He laughed rarely, but it burst from him then. ''So easily.'' ''So easily,'' she echoed. ''Aeonid, I''m worried we''re going to stray into solipsism. Are you afraid because what you feel matches what your cold logic tells you¡­or because it doesn''t?'' He had shared Calth with Solusar. The Primarch had forbidden dissemination of any greater facts, not just to the Republic, but even among the Army. The duplicity of Lorgar and his Legion were to be kept quiet, because of all the madness Lorgar claimed. The line was that there had been corruption, potentially xeno, that caused the violence. Few who even saw the Word Bearers turn lived in the first place. She was worryingly easy to speak with. ''Because it does both,'' Aeonid admitted. ''And there is where I cannot see the path.''
Anakin sympathized. He really did. It was probably like his mom having to work with Imperials in the Remnant, knowing everything that they stood by and allowed. All the same - "We''re going to do Vua''s plan," Anakin watched as Zal heard, as he processed the words. Watched as disbelief spread across his face. "Zal, those are good points. But I think you''re¡­I''m sorry, but I think you''re letting that cloud your judgement." He held up a hand, cutting off the Ultramarine. "Sorry, but let me finish. You were talking about how much you hate the Word Bearers for what they did to your Legion and to Calth. Zal, the Vong killed Chewbacca right in front of my eyes. They tortured my brother, they tried to kill my aunt and uncle. They almost tortured my dad to death. I can''t hate them. I can''t let myself. I want to. I want to. I look at Vua, and all I see are the dead Jedi because of their sithspawned Warmaster." "All examples of their treachery-" "And all reasons that you better believe I''m going to be on guard. But we can''t throw out something this good. Zal, Tahiri is¡­I''m losing her, I think. She''s fading away and I don''t know why and we don''t have time anymore. We have to get in there and we have to get her back or maybe Vua will be right and she won''t be there to save. He can do that. If they see us coming, they might just kill Tahiri anyway." His friend studied him. His lips thinned, his brow furrowed, but Zal shook his head, not in negation, but in exasperation. "I''ll follow your lead," he said. "But I still think this is a mistake." Anakin exhaled a breath he hadn''t realized he''d held. The last thing he needed was for Zal to refuse or leave. He wasn''t sure he could do it alone. "Sometimes," he sighed, "you have to have a little faith." Intransigence Chapter XIII To Draw a Line
XIII: Hurry Ralroost led the pack, pushing up its slot in the capital''s lower orbits on shimmering pillars of ionic efflux. First Fleet, present en masse, did not all follow the Bothan Assault Cruiser. Famous shapes of Imperial Star Destroyers, Mon Calamari Cruisers kept pace with the newer lines of the New Class: Nebulas and Majestics, Hajen and Sacheens. Starfighter patrols reeled back in, alighting into busy hangar bays. Last minute shuttles tucked in and scuttled aboard like beetles, fleet tenders broke off and rolled away from their charges. Guardian, monolithic, watched its smaller sisters go. The dreadnought had one purpose, and that purpose could only be fulfilled in the tracks of Coruscant''s endless orbits. Jaina''s job was done. Anyone coming aboard was aboard and so far, neither she, nor Captain Winger, nor Colonel Hamner, had caught an inkling of an empty space where a being pretended to be, or a premonition of danger otherwise. Captain Winger flagged a duty crew, which had resulted in a small alcohol still being found in one of the machine spaces. But no Peace Brigaders. No Vong. Any nausea from the lingering oncocidals was past. Her hair, buzzed to the skin over her ear, was long enough now to be bristly and itchy as it filled back in. She''d keep the new style, she had decided: the buzzed side and chin-length rest of it suited, when she looked in the mirror. She looked like a fighter jock. She didn''t look like anyone else. She looked like Jaina. Any time now, Colonel Darklighter would ping her comm and she''d be back in the ready room. No one else was coming aboard. She''d done the job of a Jedi - all that was left was that of a pilot.
An earlier time, aboard Temerity Tionne prepared two mugs of a hot, spiced and aromatic drink of steeped leaves - a sort of tea, he judged. If Aeonid had learned nothing else in his time among the Jedi, it was that there was a bewildering yet comprehensive array of beverages that the Masters, Knights and trainees found comforting and steadying. Master Skywalker, for example, had a sweetened and rich concoction that seemed more a dessert than anything else. Caf, of course, flowed easily, and Master Katarn carried a metal container of the stuff in their early morning lessons. Then there were teas, lactose suspensions, fruit juices and flavored waters. Idly, he turned a thick, utilitarian mug stamped with an Imperial aquila back and forth atop the table. It was small enough to be engulfed by one palm; suited to the Navy sailors normally utilizing these spaces. Tionne sipped slowly, both hands wrapped around her own, her silver eyes watching him carefully through faint wisps of steam. ''You put a lot of stock on loyalty¡­'' she began - or teased, rather, like she was coaxing a lagomorph from a burrow. Aeonid glanced up, relaxing his grip on his mug. ''And the Jedi do not? And most beings do not?'' He borrowed the word, avoiding ''xeno''. ''Did you know, among almost every being, one of the first real moral systems is guest rights and host responsibilities?'' ''I did not,'' Aeonid answered, though he could well believe it. Moral philosophy was an encouraged study, but his own education had not plumbed often into what might be considered the origins of such things. No; Macraggian discourse trended toward the dialectic. ''Different beings dress up these ideas in their own way, but they really all end up the same at their core. The host offers food and shelter, and the guest offers peace. You can work in much there, such as repayment or some kind of service, but at its core, it''s about being gracious to others giving you aid.'' Aeonid hummed, having little to add. Tionne was in a more didactic mood, and he was curious where she was building towards. ''Like when Senator Shesh was invited to your planet, Eboracum. I understand why you reacted so poorly when the Ploo - or was it Plooriod? - task force interjected. That broke those codes. You gave the Senator safe passage, and even if it wasn''t her fault, the New Republic overstepped.'' Tionne paused, tapped at her chin. ''And you even fed them too. Which makes it break more levels of this contract.'' ''I trust you are leading someplace?'' Aeonid asked mildly, taking a small sip of his own tea. It was powerful and slightly bitter. He suspected for a baseline human, it might clear the sinuses. Tionne merely smiled. ''I am, of course. When all that happened, the Imperium chose to overlook the insult, even if one wasn''t intended, and Senator Shesh made sure to make amends. That''s part of the agreement; you break guest rights, or host obligations, and you have to pay it back.'' ''Mm,'' Aeonid hummed again. ''Have there been ''enemies'' in your Great Crusade that tried to backstab the Imperium? Maybe they agreed to a deal, but then backed out? Or attacked from an ambush?'' ''Many. Too many to count, I should imagine. From my own experience - there was Fifty-Two One Hundred and Six. A human world, which had pretended to accept compliance. You must understand. Nine times out of ten - ninety-five times out of one hundred, we were met with overwhelming joy, relief and welcome. Fifty-Two One-naught-six accepted Imperial rule and even welcomed Army and Astartes elements to the surface. They claimed that there were xeno outriders causing issues in their hinterlands. As it was, it was an artifice to confound our focus and draw down our forces to strike at our backs.'' Tionne winced, chewing at her lower lip. ''It was a slaughter. Not ours.'' Aeonid concluded, succinctly. ''And they were human,'' Tionne clarified. ''Well within deviation.'' The Jedi Master seemed to ponder this and Aeonid allowed her. After he concluded his recounting - limited though it was - of Calth, she had begged a moment to gather her thoughts again. As ever, Aeonid could sense strongly the impressions and feelings redolent about her. Not her thoughts; no, a Master was far too schooled and orderly for that. But he felt her sorrow, her horror, even her anger and indignation as he spoke of the treacheries of the XVIIth. It matched so closely what the ballad of Cay Qel-Droma had stirred within her that Aeonid had been moved, a little, that Tionne could extend the same charity and empathy to a world she had never known, a people she had never met; an empire she would surely stand against. Ah, the crux of the Jedi problem. She marshalled herself. Aeonid caught a glimpse - and raised one hand, stalling Tionne. ''Let me preempt you. I understand the parallels between humans acting with duplicity toward the Imperium and other beings doing so. I do. The Imperium is young, but it is not that young. This refers to my earlier point: humanity may understand humanity. You wished to avoid solipsism, but I would say instead that it is mirror-theory. We can peer at one another and know, with some empirical certainty, that the experience within the human we face bears out to the experience of our own.'' ''Humans think like humans; aliens think like aliens.'' ''Is that so difficult a concept? I don''t wish to spin back to ground already trod, but this may be a gulf we cannot bridge.'' ''I''m not sure, Aeonid. I''ve had a good look at the crew here on Temerity. Do you know what I have seen? I have seen every sort of type of human I can think of, and even more on top of that. All different heights and colors and shapes.'' ''Race,'' Aeonid bemoaned. ''A failing that has been noted on backslid worlds. Artificial divisions within the human gene-tree.'' ''But take Zalthis and Solidian. They look different. Are they from different worlds?'' ''I believe so. Macragge and¡­Parmenio, I should think. Prandium, perhaps.'' ''Won''t that mean they think differently? They already act differently.'' Old arguments, dead arguments. Ones long since plowed under by the empiricism of Enlightenment. Genetics spoke the deeper truth, and as the Emperor had proven, gene-expression of the human gene-tree could vary quite broadly while still remaining verifiably and justifiably human. The tone of skin, color of eye, type of hair - paled in comparison to drastic alterations of body-form and organ-plan. ''There is always variation. Evolutionarily, there must be variation.'' Tionne hunched forward, interlacing her fingers around her mug. She looked up at him, though kneeling he was again. ''You can understand why a human would do something like betraying another. You can''t understand that for a ''xeno'', because you can''t - or won''t - pretend to understand how they think.'' Aeonid exhaled a breath. Finally, she grasped it. ''Yes. Yes, that exactly. I cannot and will not attempt to rationalize the mind of a xeno. They may think precisely as I do - they may operate on abstruse thought-patterns that no human being could ever trace. I would term it chauvinism to even attempt to map our own experience onward. The only actionable practical, then, is to place human flourishing as a paramount imperative.'' ''So the Imperium is being logically consistent in persecution of aliens, because of intellectual humility?'' Tionne seemed to be holding back laughter; Aeonid bristled. ''Emphasize the ''alien'' part of ''alien'', no matter how like you they act? Come now, Aeonid. You''re wiser than that. Isn''t this¡­'' Tionne frowned and cocked her head. ''I heard Danni talking about this idea, she was explaining some physics thing to - I think it was to - no, it doesn''t matter. I remember because it stuck out to me, because I might not be a scientist, but it''s something we deal with in history. That was it! Isn''t this a hidden variable? You''re looking at something walking like a hawkbat, squawking like a hawkbat, looking like a hawkbat, but saying that since you haven''t sequenced its genes yet, you can''t say it''s a hawkbat. No - that it might be a droid pretending to be a hawkbat!'' ''The point is to understand the universe, not to make assumptions-'' ''Everyone makes assumptions at some point! We can''t know everything. How do I truly know that Cay Qel-Droma lived, that Nomi Sunrider lived, that Exar Kun lived? I wasn''t there. No one I know was there, and perhaps the holocrons and records were fakes. Aeonid, this is solipsism again. There''s intellectual humility, and then there''s being obstinate.'' ''I am unsure a lecture on the investigative rigor of the Great Crusade is taking us anywhere,'' Aeonid offered dryly. ''I think it is,'' Tionne replied. ''You''ve said Astartes don''t experience fear anymore, and that a great deal of other original emotions and urges are stifled or even removed.'' ''This is so.'' ''Then Aeonid, by your own standards, how can you assume anything you say or do is right, or even makes sense? You read philosophy, but human beings wrote those words, did they not? And you are not a human being anymore. You''ve changed so much that you might just be as alien to a human as a Wookiee is. How do you know how a human thinks anymore? Can they know how you think?'' Aeonid opened his mouth - closed it. This was ridiculous, he- ''I remember before my ascension,'' he said softly. ''Memories,'' Tionne said, narrowing her eyes. Sudden flashes burst into his mind: slender arms and a wildly different proprioception confused him, the ''saber in slender hands was unfamiliar, the dusty holocron that opened up - a twist of will, like slamming shut a hatch, and the memories vanished. He ground his teeth and scowled. ''Memories can be fickle.'' ''Do not invade my mind again.'' He spoke without much rancor; more frustration than anything coloring his words. Tionne judged the threat in his voice and bobbed her head once. ''I''m sorry. But it was important. I''m a woman. Is my life the same as an Astartes? I''m a Jedi. Is my life the same? I am a wife too. And I am a teacher. Aeonid¡­Aeonid, what do we have in common in any way? How can you know that the words I say, that I mean what you understand? We are not even from the same galaxy. Am I not as alien as Cilghal is?'' The Imperial Truth said otherwise. Proof. Facts. Empirical evidence. Yet he could not say so with confidence. What did Aeonid know, of any of what Tionne spoke of? He was Astartes - he did not even truly understand the life of a human man of comparable age, let alone a human woman. The rest? He was no teacher, nor instructor. He had been a Sergeant, yes, but not one such as Ascratus, who reared the neophytes. The complexities of human bonding rituals eluded him, outside of the sterile facts. Gently, he unfurled a fist, peering at his fingers. Scars laced them, from training and combat, from a crushed gauntlet some handful and a half of years ago. As if invited, Tionne slid her hand into his. He marvelled at the discrepancy between his darker, more tanned and weathered skin, roughened and hardened, and her milk-pale digits, tiny enough that even together, they might not quite match one of his own. ''There are distances,'' he eventually tried. ''And then there are chasms.'' ''And I think those chasms are illusions. Mirages in the desert. I think we do understand each other, because we really are not so different in the end.'' ''Make up your mind! Am I an alien creature divorced from my humanity, or a man as relatable as some six-legged creature from another star! We are moving in circles.'' She withdrew her hand, running her thumb over her fingers, then fiddling lightly with the sleeve of her robe. ''When the first Jedi turned away from the Order and found the Sith, becoming the first Lords of the Sith, they stewed in anger and bile until they couldn''t help but return to war against the Republic and their former comrades. Kyp was seduced by Exar Kun and used to commit atrocities, and Luke was willing to dance along the line between the darkness and the light to stop the reborn Emperor. I stand against everything a Sith stands for and I stand against the Yuuzhan Vong, like I do against all conquerors and despots. All the same, Aeonid, I understand them. I have listened to their voices and I replayed their holocrons and it makes me weep to know the sorrows and the pain that drove them to betraying all that they were.'' Her silver eyes flicked up, catching his. ''That''s why I have to ask: when the Word Bearers betrayed the Great Crusade, the Imperium, and the Ultramarines¡­do you understand why? Do you understand them?''
Now, on Yavin... Fortunately, Vua accepted restraints without making a hassle of himself. Unfortunately, because of the biot squirming in his ear, the Vong could very easily let the both of them know exactly how he felt about it. Which he did so. Relentlessly. Unceasingly. Eloquently. "Be silent," Zal groused, for the umpteenth time. "I made no oaths of silence," the Vong retorted. "I made oaths of vengeance and oaths of blood, but you may take my tongue before I am silenced. I am Vua Rapuung, and I will speak as I see fit, and only the Gods may judge!" "I think Zal is worried about us being overheard," Anakin suggested. "Overheard? For my speech? Surely you jest, Jeedai? Between you and the Aistarteez, you are as drunk quednaks, stumbling about. A mewling child in the creche could track your clumsy steps." "Yes, yes, you''re the expert here. It''s not like I''ve known this moon all my life." "But you have? Why do you deny that you should show far greater stealth, in a place you are familiar with? Do you lie to me?" "It''s - never mind." With Vua''s fishing trawler lost down the river, he said the story he would spin was that he fell overboard - which wasn''t wrong - because of an attack from some water beast - still wasn''t wrong - and that he stumbled across Anakin in the jungle, wandering directionless. Not quite wrong. He hadn''t let Vua put the damaged coral seed on his forehead yet, but Zal had been right that it had to be done before the three of them split up. That way, in case Vua was laying some kind of deep trap, Zal would still be on hand to put the Vong down and restrain Anakin. The Praxeum was still a few days away on foot, through patrolled jungle, and they decided it would be best if they got as close as they could before Zalthis would go to ground and wait for Anakin''s signal. The Astartes could bunker down somewhere and practically hibernate, hopefully avoiding any Vong and keeping close and ready for the jailbreak. Maybe Vua did have a point about keeping his wrists tied, given that they were going with his plan and were going to trust him to, you know, not immediately shout ''Jeedai!'' as soon as they were in the Vong compound. There was a difference though between trusting him then and having a Vong with his hands free around him when he slept. Even if Zal didn''t sleep at all. "Tsst!" Vua hissed through clenched teeth, throwing his hands up. "Stop! Stillness!" Anakin froze, wobbling a little on one leg. He''d just been taking a step. Zal went as motionless as a carven stone. He strained to hear anything besides the usual ruckus of the jungle. The Force fed him the general aura of life all around them, but nothing too out of the ordinary¡­ "Tsik-vai," Vua hissed, almost inaudible. "What?" Anakin mouthed back. "Tsik-vai! Flier!" Zal''s hand crept down toward the bolter clamped to his hip. Anakin slightly shook his head, a little to either side. Those guns weren''t loud, they were defeaning. Everyone on this side of the Unnh River would know they were there the second Zal pulled the trigger. To his relief, the Ultramarine drew back from the stock. Vua cocked his head, screwing up his face with an ear to the sky. Still, Anakin heard nothing. The Vong relaxed. "It is passed. Hrn. Lav-peq hunt pattern. Chri-esh sweep? Or Bulgiln." His fringed lips peeled back from bloodstained teeth. "It matters little. A tsik-vai hunts us. Free my hands so that when we are caught, I may die with honor." "When we''re caught, huh?" Anakin rolled his eyes. "That''s really optimistic of you." "Are you stupid? Why is being caught good? We must pray to the Gods that they grant us their luck." Zalthis, fingers tapping the butt of his bolter, swept the sky with eyes narrowed, his auspex in his other hand. "I have no readings," he said. "What is a tsik-vai, and what makes you so sure it will catch us?" Vua hissed. "It is inevitable. The tsik-vai weave a lav peq search pattern. The lav peq will weave their cords in the trees, until we are surrounded. Then it will know where we are, and we will be captured." "What''s a lav peq?" Vua muttered under his breath, glaring vibroblades at them both. "To be saddled with such ignorant allies. The Gods laugh at me. Lav peq are weaver-insects. Tsik-vai release them and they spin sticky cords between structures, until all a space is beneath their net." Anakin thought of something he''d said to Tahiri, before all this mess. It brought a smile that melted away like snow in a furnace. Her corner of his mind was growing stiller and quieter. He''d lamented how everything seemed to be spiders. She''d laugh at this, now, proving him right. "And let me guess, those cords are sticky enough that even Zal would get caught." Vua judged the Astartes from foot to crown. "Easily. If he was not, his struggles would alert the lav peq and they would gather. They would wave more cords, until he was bound. They would use a little of his flesh. It would not be fatal." Anakin shivered. Did the Vong have a single creature that wasn''t straight out of a horror holo? They carried on, this time with Zal keeping his auspex scanner out and held aloft. Mercifully, Vua cut his quibbling and sniping in half, which was still one hundred percent too much. He must not''ve feared that ''tsik-vai'' all that much, Anakin groused, if he still managed to keep up a running grumble under his breath. He was starting to fear the next step of this plan. Not because he truly expected Vua to turn traitor, but because the idea of being around the crazy Vong even longer filled him with despair.
Colonel Hamner called a meeting. Just the three of them, which meant Jedi business. He''d taken a small conference chamber, waiting right outside with his arms folded across his uniform. Kenth Hamner was a Jedi, but he was a career soldier first, and his rank pins and stern demeanour kept sailors moving with only a glance and salute. Jaina beat Captain Winger there first, offering her own smart salute. "Lieutenant Solo," he said, as serious as ever. She was pretty sure Kenth Hamner''s smile was a state secret. "Colonel," she returned. "If you like, you can head on in. There''s some pastries and refreshments. Captain Winger should be here shortly." She did so, finding the conference chamber to be one of those cramped holocom ones, meant for just a few people and an outbound connection. The transceiver was silent and switched off, the small desk set with a jug of caf and a few Bothan style pastries. Ralroost was a Bothan ship, after all, and she''d picked up a bit of a taste for them. A good blend of savory and sweet, since Bothans liked to mix meat into just about everything. It didn''t take too long until she sensed Winger outside, then the other two Jedi stepped in and the hatch sealed with a hermetic thump. "Colonel." "Lieutenant." "Captain." Winger smiled. "Jedi at every level," she laughed, shaking her head. "Just need a flag officer." "Not me," Kenth demurred, raising both hands. "I''m back in for war and nothing beyond." "Sure, Colonel. You keep saying that." They settled into chairs; but nothing formal. The space wasn''t really for that. They ended up facing each other, Jaina settled in with one leg tossed over the other, foot bouncing. She still hadn''t heard from Colonnel Darklighter. The task force was in hyperspace, Coruscant well behind them, and still her datapad hadn''t had the usual alert for morning briefing. She''d go tomorrow regardless, she decided, then and there. Maybe the Colonel was just assuming that when her detached service was over, that she would automatically just slip back into- "So we have one more job," Hamner started, without any preamble. Winger raised an eyebrow, but Jaina''s hovertrain derailed in a flaming pile. "We what?" "We have one more job," Hamner repeated. "The last one we had? Basically declassified, for how secret this one is. This is word-of-mouth only. It''s not written down anywhere. This comes from Director Scaur and Master Skywalker, directly." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Her mouth was dry. She tried to imagine - a strike team? Is that what they needed her, and maybe Rogue Squadron for? Run interference to get the Colonel and Captain onto a Vong ship, maybe, like the Exiles did? Were they going for a decapitation - or a capture? Winger sat forward, elbows on her knees. "There''s not a lot of time before we reach our target." "Which is¡­? Sir?" "Still under wraps, Alex." "Damn," the Captain muttered. "It''s an important one, so don''t worry about that. High Command set their sights lofty for this one, but I think we can pull it off. That''s where we come in. The three of us." Hamner reached into his breast pocket and produced two datacubes. "Biocoded. There''s some intel there that''ll help cover things. We''re going krakana hunting, ladies." Jaina felt the same confusion from Winger that she herself felt. "Yammosks," Hamner clarified, looking a little chagrined. She frowned. Yammosks were the prize, anyone could tell you that. Those war coordinators were a force multiplier in every action. The way they made the Vong move like a perfect hivemind gave the Navy absolute fits and pilots like her knew all too well the nasty way that ''skips could vector in on threats halfway across the battlespace without any advance warning. So far, and it was a brutal fact, there were only two known yammosk kills. Once at Helska, and once on Obroa Skai. Both times it had been - ah. Hamner caught the blossom of understanding and nodded toward her. "That''s right, Jaina. The Navy has been trying to pinpoint the beasts, and you know there haven''t been results. However they communicate with all the ships, we haven''t been able to detect it. One died on Helska, but that was collateral when the planet froze. NRI and Director Scaur basically picked Master Skywalker''s brain about Obroa Skai." The one Anakin killed. Her little brother tried to explain it, after, but he''d grown more and more frustrated as he couldn''t find the words for it. Somehow, their Uncle had managed to find and pin down the biot, allowing for Anakin to do something or another that killed the thing outright, all without either of them even laying eyes on it. "But they didn''t know how." she blurted out. Hamner took it in stride. "No, but we know it can be done. None of us are Master Skywalker, but I reckon you''re a match for your brother, isn''t that right Jaina?" "Yessir," she said automatically. "The three of us will form a meld when the battle starts. Our objective, our only objective, is to locate the yammosk. Kill it, if we can, like Anakin did. If we can''t, we pass along to Admiral Kre''fey what ship it''s on so the Navy can kill it." She wasn''t flying with the Rogues. The first big operation of the war, the first counterstrike, and she wasn''t flying with the Rogues. Fondor was supposed to be the start of a new operation, before that went belly up, which gave her a chance to be here. Now! Right now! At the start of the pushback, when they could kick the Vong right in their teeth and again in their tattooed groins. The Rogues would be out there. Major Forge, Major Varth, Colonel Darklighter - she should be there with them. Covering their six. "Do you need me?" She flushed. She''d just questioned a direct order from a Colonel. It didn''t matter that she knew Kenth, because he''d been by their apartment more than a few times throughout her youth. It didn''t matter that he''d been Master Hamner to her more than anything else. That Navy uniform, the rank pins - "Never mind, sir, I''m-" "It''s fine. Jaina, right now we''re all Jedi. It was a request from NRI, but your Uncle approved it. And you know what? Maybe we don''t." Kenth''s long face didn''t give much away, but she felt a sense of sympathy from him. "I''m sorry this comes between you and the Rogues. Let''s not make this an order. Jaina, you can back out if you wish. Think hard on it, before you do. Can you really do more good for the Rogues in a cockpit¡­or killing a yammosk?" She wanted to grab the out with both hands. Of course it was better if she was in the cockpit. She could dance a snubfighter like nobody''s business. She''d be vaping Vong by the dozens - all while a hundred more swirled in a kicked over strib ant hive. Moving like tendrils of a single beast, sleeting out plasma fit to blot out the stars themselves, until every Rogue had a dozen or more on their tails¡­ "No," she said, in a small voice. "You''ve got me, Colonel." Damn her. And damn that little voice of Jacen''s, in her ear. About how their power mattered.
The tsik-vai coasted by overhead, out of sight but apparently not out of hearing for Vua, even though Zal denied hearing anything at all. The Vong was annoyingly haughty about that. In lower tones, Zal and Anakin spoke while Vua led them along. He claimed to know the best routes to avoid patrols, not to mention a better ''understanding'' of the patterns the other warriors might be using. It could all be complete voidspoil, but short of going in guns blazing¡­again, Anakin had to admit that Vua at least had more of a plan than they did. "I don''t know if I can do it justice," Zal sighed. "What it feels like. To know that all of mankind is behind you. The galaxy itself. The homeworld, the Emperor¡­there is a hand of history at our backs. Eighteen Legions of Astartes. Can you imagine that, Anakin?" He really couldn''t. It was hard to imagine a thousand of Zalthis all in the same place. Sithspawn, but it was hard to imagine a hundred. That kind of army might even make the Mandalorian Wars seem small. "There was a triumph, before I became a neophyte. Seven years ago, at the turn of the millenia. As M31 began, the Emperor gathered all His Legions¡­" Vua was listening. They could tell. His grousing and griping faded and the Vong tarried a little closer to them. Well, Anakin couldn''t blame him. It was some tale. A whole world given over just to be a stage for a celebration. Hundreds of thousands of Astartes, tens of millions of the Army. Hundreds of those giant Titan walkers, like the one on Fondor. And the startling thing too: more Primarchs. Anakin assumed there were more, because Zal had hinted at it and he''d mentioned the one who led the Word Bearers, but Zalthis rattled off more names, then. Horus, Sanguinius, Mortarion, Magnus, Angron, Jaghatai Khan, Lorgar, Rogal Dorn, Fulgrim. Fantastical and strange names, and all of them Zal said were brothers to Roboute Guilliman. He remembered the sensation, that moment of broken-crystal clarity when the Ultramarines Primarch entered the conference chamber. What would that many look like, all together like that? What would the Force look like? And if Zal was serious, they were all just children compared to the Imperium''s Emperor. Zal had a faraway look when he talked about it. Wistful. He didn''t need the Force to sense the yearning. "We were saving the galaxy," his friend said sadly. "We were saving the human race." "Until Calth," Anakin said. Zal licked his lips, drumming fingers on the stock of his bolter again. "I don''t understand. I don''t understand."
Aeonid carefully set aside his mug. His spine straight, back erect, palms flat on the table, he willed Tionne to not just understand, but to comprehend what he spoke. ''We were to lead mankind out of the night, into the future. We were made to be loyal. We were made to be brothers and sons. Two hundred years of Crusade and no Astartes had slain another. No Astartes had drawn in anger on another.'' A white lie. A small one. The bout between Angron and his berserker horde and Russ'' savages was infamous. But that had been a letting of blood and beating the World Eaters back into line. It had been like a bout to extremis. Angron hadn''t been disloyal. It hadn''t been rebellion. ''You don''t understand.'' Aeonid could have paced, he could have ranted and raved. Energy tensed his limbs. His very being rebelled against the idea. ''It is not for us to understand. Everything that happened on Calth was wrong. It was - it was travesty. If I had a better word, I would use it, but I borrow this instead; it was sin. Understanding what caused the Word Bearers to break so thoroughly from every standard of decency could be poisonous. It could be ruinous. Do you understand?''
"Why would they do that?" Zal asked. Rhetorical as his tone was hollow, but Anakin knew that bereft kind of confusion. "The dark side is seductive." "This isn''t your - the Force." "Does it have to be? People fall to the dark side because they want more. Or they need more. More¡­power, or maybe security, or just some way of feeling like they have control." Vua snorted. It sounded like a ronto hawking up phlegm. Anakin chose to diplomatically ignore it. "Astartes are not made to want more. Duty is enough!" Being a Jedi was supposed to be enough. Except that for far too many famous names, it wasn''t. "Maybe the Word Bearers found out that it wasn''t."
Tension plucked out the tendons in his neck, his shoulders, his legs. Aeonid tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. His hearts thumped louder. Tionne''s gentle expression took on almost a mocking tilt to it. ''Aeonid! Please. Can''t you see that we''re finally asking the right questions? Aeonid! This is why you came looking for me.'' He gripped the edge of the table, hard enough that the metal warped. ''I have to draw a line somewhere,'' he snapped, curt and hard. Entertaining moral debates around the worthiness of xeno lives, about the purpose or futility of some sort of personal abrogation of responsibility for a prosthetic morality granted by an ephemeral power; that was one matter. This - Aeonid did not wish to know why the Seventeenth did what they did. He had seen it. He had lived it. That way lay madness. The Emperor entreated to seek clarity and truth, but the Emperor, in His greatest, grandest wisdom, sealed away the study of the Warp. He felt the phantom slash of glassy, venom-tipped fangs. He felt the thunderous, rolling booms of sinuous and oilslick flesh against doughty corridors. The stink of weird dreams that clogged the nose, the reek of fyceline, the wailing shriek as reality itself bent and bowed inward. ''I cannot understand them,'' he repeated. ''You cannot, or you will not?'' ''Either!'' he snapped. ''The Seventeenth Legion does not need to be understood, they need to be expunged. Like my father said: Excommunicate Traitoris. Every last one hunted down to the ends of the stars until they are forgotten from all memory. There is nothing to understand, this is nothing like your Sith and your wars of dark versus light. This is right and this is wrong.'' Tionne had an unfamiliar expression of frustration across her elfin face. Her silver brows beetled and her lips drew tense and thin. ''If you do not study history, you will repeat it. Please, just think! What if the Word Bearers found something that terrified them so much that they tried to stamp it out, and just by doing that, they became what you saw? There can be a thousand reasons why they did what they did. Understanding is not agreement!''
The sun was sinking, sealing the fate of another day. Another day without Tahiri. Another day that felt no closer. Another day of words and talking and walking. Anakin could scream, but that would just call down their ever-present friend in the sky. He could rage, but that would feed the dark. Zal - Zal kept him sane. His friend was talking more than he ever had, even on Samothrace. He could feel the Ultramarine''s hidden embarrassment, but also the growing calm that diffused outward in his thoughts. "Did you ever learn the history of my name?" Anakin threw into a moment of quiet. "Of ''Anakin''? I don''t recall anything." Well, it wasn''t a secret. It just wasn''t something he liked to talk about. To anyone. Including himself. "My grandfather," he said. Credit where it was due, but Zalthis was quick. He felt the flash of realization. "Which, as Master Skywalker is your uncle, would be the Sith ''Darth Vader''." "The Jeedai is named for a Sith?" Vua called back. He had frustratingly good hearing. "I have heard rumors the Sith are great foes of the Jeedai. Were you named as an insult?" Anakin barked out a laugh that hurt his chest. Yeah, it did feel like an insult sometimes. "No, it was because Anakin was what Darth Vader''s real name was, before he fell. Anakin Skywalker, once a hero of the Jedi." "And this Darth Vayder, he was a potent warrior?" "A monster and a butcher." Vua gurgled what passed for laughter. "A good name." Anakin ignored him. Zal eyed him strangely. "Your parents had great respect for the Jedi he was." That drew another laugh, this one more because of how truly ridiculous that idea was. "He tortured my mom and blew up her homeworld. Tortured my dad too, and then sold him to a Hutt. They both kind of hate him." Anakin paused, which made Zal pause too. Vua went on for several more strides, cursed, then turned back to rejoin them. Deep breath. "Darth Vader was terrified. Of¡­well, everything. Losing people, probably. He was afraid, so afraid. That''s what Uncle Luke said, at the end. He was afraid of the Emperor, he was afraid of death, he was afraid of himself. The dark side let him forget that under all that anger and rage. Uncle Luke said that when he died, that Anakin Skywalker felt relieved." The Ultramarine, a head and half taller than Anakin, twice as broad, shifted his weight from foot to foot. Went to speak, stopped. Anakin felt his friend''s earnest need to help. Somehow. "It''s fine, Zal. I''ve had a lot of time to think about it. But¡­get it? My mom and dad hated Darth Vader, but naming me Anakin¡­it was kind of saying they got it. Darth Vader was what Anakin let himself become, but Anakin wasn''t just Darth Vader. Right? Anakin was a Jedi and he was a good man too and he loved someone, because mom and Uncle Luke are here. So he can''t be all bad. No one can be." Silence answered him. Zalthis, as he had in times past, simply rested his hand on Anakin''s shoulder, a light pressure. His friend wasn''t great with words, but he did know actions. Vua scratched at a suppurating scab at his cheek. His dark eyes, circled by bruise and sunken by ink-blue bags, held something in them Anakin didn''t quite understand. For once, the Vong wasn''t sneering or scowling or scoffing. Of course - that was when the thud bug struck Anakin between the shoulderblades.
In her quarters, Jaina turned the datacube over and over again between her fingers. Little blinking status lights indicated it had already read her fingerprint and her serial number and that it was unlocked. All she had to do was plug it into a reader. NRI analyses of yammosks from combat operations across the galaxy, theories about how yammosks might be communicating, even a detailed write-up from her Uncle that she''d never read. It was hoped that it was enough to give them the edge they needed. Do or do not, she thought wryly, and got up from her bunk before she could stop herself. The shared bunkroom was empty, the other Rogues out on patrol. Where she should be. The datacube slotted into the reader, her datapad hardwired in. There was a moment, then the flashing symbol of New Republic Intelligence, a quick scroll of the classification levels. Then the documents revealed themselves. And, prominently, the one that leapt out and got her by the throat. ''Analysis of Yammosk Presence within the Boundaries of Hutt Space''. A smile slowly curled her lips. Feel that, little brother? Payback time.
With the armor plate Sol had tossed to him, the thudbug staggered Anakin forward, but didn''t wind him. His lightsaber was already in his hand, lit, while Zal tore his bolter from his hip. Vua shouted something that wasn''t anything intelligible. Whick whick went two razor bugs, snipped clean from the air. "Patrol! May the Slayer torment the Trickster for a thousand eons! Misfortune and rot, free me you fools, you idiots-" Yuuzhan Vong warriors, four in all, loped through the trees, just flashes and glimpses. Four, against an Astartes and a Jedi? It said a lot about the past few months that Anakin could say he honestly liked those odds. "Don''t shoot them," he warned. "They might not have called us in." Zal grimaced, slamming his bolter back and ripping his power sword out. It lit with a humming crackle, lightning spattering up the blade. Vong shouts broke through the air, accompanied by bugs. They were so much faster than they used to be. He missed the comparatively lazy razorbugs at the start of the war. Now they were blurs, so fast that he drew on every scrap of training, honed by stingbolts and stunners slung out by darting drones. Ceramite shrieked as Zal blurred forward, moving to close the gap. Anakin held back - Vua wasn''t in a place to fight, and Vua was sort of the hinge to this whole plan. Plan B of ''go loud'' seemed like it would be a lot more of a suicide mission by now. "Blood of the Gods! Jeedai, do not compound stupidity with death!" Vua waved his bound hands and Anakin shoved him back. "It''s just a handful-" "A patrol is twelve, idiot! Ghesh alg''n reg tuk!" This time, the thudbug that hit Anakin laid him flat out. He thumbed off his lightsaber by reflex and avoided decapitation as he fell. For a moment he flailed sucking wind as he shuddered on his back in a tangle of limbs. It felt like a landspeeder had hit his chest, or maybe a bantha had kicked him. A dark shape flashed over him as he struggled to sit up. The chest of his armor was a crater. Cracked chitin and ichor dribbled down. He couldn''t breathe. His lungs twitched and seized - he grabbed the Force and sucked in a breath. And coughed, doubling over and wheezing. There were Vong, more Vong! Vua said twelve, he''d seen four already - Zal could take four, almost certainly, but Zal wasn''t in his full armor - The Force rang through his muscles. He''d seen Master Katarn do it before, use his own momentum¡­Anakin kicked into a spin, whirling back up to his feet. The galaxy-famous snap hiss doubled, almost overlapping. One long blue blade, like frozen ice. One short, green as grass. Three Vong hemmed him in, spread across a hundred degrees in an arc. All three bore stocky tubes that swelled at the rear almost like the stock of a carbine. They''d shot him, he realized. They''d shot him with a bug. One scowled and barked out words, raising their carbine. Not this time. He''d sparred with Zal and been in the mind of Astartes during the long night. He''d never have their strength, but the Force was his ally. The barrel of the Vong''s carbine was black, an eye of the void peering at him. It came up to the warrior''s shoulder. His head cocked, aiming. Ten meters. Violence rang out in all its symphony around him. Zal was somewhere spreading death; the hiss-crackle of a power weapon carbonizing blood and rending flesh was familiar now. He heard Vua''s voice, howling something and full of anger, but he had no time for that. Tahiri would reduce the weight of something, and Anakin would move it with the Force. They were a team, synchronized, a rope-and-pulley and always greater than being alone. Tahiri wasn''t here. She would be. She would be again. So he did the trick alone. The other two Vong raised their own carbines. Anakin crossed ten meters in less than a second. The first Vong toppled, armor smoking. The world swam around him and his pulse pounded. A headache pinched between his eyes, but he was there now. He was among them. The two Vong dropped their carbines, went for amphistaves that leapt for their master''s hands. Anakin was faster. They fell. It was that simple. Back where he''d been, Vua shoved himself off of a prone warrior, rising to his feet with blood caked up to his elbows. He shook himself out, wrists freed, and made a show of stretching. Zal loped back, flicking black blood from his blade. "Anakin! You''re uninjured?" He grimaced, touched the crater in his chest plate. "Probably going to bruise like you wouldn''t believe, but I''m fine." Vua joined them, walking - no, sauntering, over. Slowly, he licked dark blood from one of his remaining talons. "It is as I said. Between you both, a mewling child could track us." The warrior Vua had tackled lay still in death. "You killed him, then." Vua cocked his head. "When I say my vengeance is in blood, what part is mistranslated? He was Iruysh, he was a fool anyway. Only a fool would attack a Jeedai and Aistarteez so blithely. And without a full patrol! Idiot. He leapt without looking. He laid no traps. Idiot. Had I his Warriors, you both would be dead on the ground." Vua thrust out one blood-soaked hand. Toward Anakin. He eyed it suspiciously. Those fingers could be biots, ready to¡­do whatever horrible things the Vong thought up. "Now we are blooded," Vua declared. "We have taken lives; we are warriors of a band. And you! Jeedai Anaykin, you seek redemption from Shame as well. The Gods do smile on me. I never doubted." His hand was absolutely filthy. Anakin took it anyway. "Now we make haste!" the Vong declared. "Iruysh was a fool, but an obedient one. He will have informed Harmae by villip. Tonight, you will sleep among the slaves." The Vong patrol cooled behind them. Vua led them at a lope, crashing on through the underbrush, stealth forgotten. Zal and Anakin kept close. Dark blood dried on Anakin''s palm. In that corner of his mind that was all Tahiri''s, he pushed harder than he had since the Lady Starstorm fell. Hold on Tahiri. We''re almost there. And from that place, one word: Hurry. Intransigence Chapter XIV XIV: Are You Jeedai
Anakin knew the jungle now. He recognized landmarks. He knew the trails they crossed. The Blueleaf Temple would be farthest south - if it still existed. The Uunh river was to their left. Had they been on the other bank, they might well run into the Palace of the Woolamader in enough time. Tsik vai gunships passed overhead as they crashed through the underbrush. He''d left the bits of armor Sol had leant him, including the cracked breastplate, behind as they made for the temple. It wouldn''t help now. A slave could get away with a sweatstained jumpsuit - not body armor. "We will spin tale of pursuit! The Jeedai and Aistarteez hunt in the jungle, and so we seek shelter among the grashal!" Vua shouted. The dead patrol was well behind them, but they had to have roused an alarm before Vua strangled their leader and Anakin and Zal put the others down. "Your light blades! Give me them!" "What? No!" "They will not search me! But a slave; you will have no property. Give them to me, now!" Swearing under his breath, Anakin unhooked his ''saber and tossed it to Vua. The Vong caught it easily, tucking it into one of the fleshy, living pouches at his hip. But Ikrit''s ''saber, Anakin tossed underhand to Zal. The Astartes nodded in understanding and the small hilt went to his belt. "Aistarteez, you must split away from us. Forge a new trail! Evade pursuit, and then hide! Like the plan!" They were supposed to have more time. Another day, just about, to creep closer and make final preparations. Vua hadn''t even applied the dead coral to Anakin''s forehead yet. Bad luck. Bad luck to run smack into a patrol, bad luck to have the fliers out here spinning nets to hem them in. Bad luck that Tahiri got caught, bad luck that the Vong found them at all, bad luck, bad luck, bad luck¡­ Zalthis slowed to a stop and Anakin did too. Vua eased to a jog, finding a toppled tree and leaping nimbly up its craggy side to get a better vantage point. "We''ll meet again," Zal assured him. "Call, when you are ready." Anakin pushed a sense of urgency toward Zal, saw when the Astartes was torn between a wince and a grin. "It''s still strange, every time." Zal offered a hand. "Luck of Terra be with you, Anakin." "Thanks. You too, Zal. Keep your head down." "If you are finished," Vua called from ahead. "Go and get Tahiri. I shall bring the fury of Ultramar." Zal pulled his bolt pistol from his belt and fired off two shots, the mass reactives blasting thunder through the jungle. Birds took to the air. "Go!" Anakin went.
In the vivarium was where Nen Yim discovered her Master, after word had come that her vaa tumor removal was complete. She expected Mezhan to spend another day in seclusion and recovery, and her stride hitched a moment as the hatch-sphincter irised open to reveal the Master Shaper kneeling beside their subject. If her Master was here, then she had proper business, so Nen Yim did not intrude or disturb her. Instead, she made her usual rounds: replacing a borrowed qahsa, checking the health of the vivarium, replenishing the feeds to the saline-pools that held tissue samples. She busied herself with the work of an Adept, one ear to the quiet words her Master spoke. Mezhan''s usual supercilious tone was gone, replaced by a soft and gentle murmur as she stroked Shaping fingers over the subject''s scalp. The subject hunched over, hands in her lap, eyes downcast. "There is no great hurry," Mezhan said. "Take your time." "They hurt," whispered the subject, voice broken and small. "I can''t think of them. I can''t remember. They hurt so much." "It''s a byproduct of their magics. The Jedi powers they used, they twisted you so terribly. Your mind was not meant to bear such torment; but you are a child of Kwaad. You were strong to survive it. That pain was a pain you felt every single waking moment, then. But they had tricked you that it was normal." "Can''t you take it all away?" The subject sniffed, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. "All the memories? Then they won''t hurt. I won''t - I won''t be confused." "Pain is a teacher." Mezhan pricked her palm with a sharpened finger-blade, showing the subject a bead of black blood. "It instructs us, as the Gods ordain. The Jedi didn''t understand this. They made you hurt for every moment you were among them, for fear that you would one day be saved and return to your people. They don''t wish for you to remember, for if you remember the teachings they so foolishly shared with you, then you could turn their Force against them. To the aid of the Chosen People." Mezhan hummed a simple creche-tune and leaned closer to the subject. "Do try, Riina." Nen Yim turned aside from her tasks, placing full attention on the vivarium. The results of the modified - and invented - protocols were already showing incredible progress. The implanted neurons carried rich and comprehensive experiential memory that already integrated almost seamlessly with the subject. Her mastery of ibi''yun easily proved this, but it was these moments, when the Riina personality seemed almost seamless, that Nen Yim felt almost religious awe at what she and her Master were accomplishing. This was Shaping as it should be, as it could be. A being never recorded by any Shaper, already understood and now almost remade. Yun-ne''Shel - for Nen Yim did believe - had to love them for this. The subject gingerly raised a shaking hand from her lap, hairless brows furrowing in concentration and bracing for expected pain. A small stone, smooth and plucked from the river, trembled on the floor of the vivarium. Smoothly, it raised without interruption, as if lifted by an invisible hand. The subject''s brow cleared and her eyes grew brighter. "It¡­it doesn''t hurt!" she breathed. Her thin lips twitched as if too frightened to dare a smile and green-gold eyes remained fixed on the stone. As did Mezhan Kwaad''s delighted gaze, as did Nen Yim''s own wonderment. The Force, demonstrated baldly. The thing many warriors feared and other Shapers jealously sought. "You are without fear. When you have no fear, pain has no purchase, for the Gods smile on you." Nen Yim glanced to the spineray''s adjustor, seeing that all the settings had been switched off. The ''Gods'' indeed did smile, when the organism buried into the meat of the subject''s brain was told not to excruciate her when her ''false'' memories were accessed. "If I don''t fear¡­" the subject echoed, a strange look twisting her face. To Nen Yim''s left, flashes of light flickered across a facsimile of the subject''s brain, rendered by an everted stul-villip. The semi-transparent gelatin wobbled as it matched what the spineray sensed. Neural activity was increasing. Long term memory was stirring. "She''s remembering more," Nen Yim muttered, watching the stul-villip display closely. Within the vivarium the subject lowered the stone down again and exhaled a shaky breath. "I did it." "You did. Wonderful, Riina. Most wonderful." Mezhan stroked the subject''s scalp again, then stood. From the corner of her eye, Nen Yim caught the subject''s expression as her Master rose to her feet. There was a moment when Mezhan could not see the subject''s face. A moment when the Human''s eyes flashed with hate, when her lip curled and hands tensed into claws. Then it was gone again, so fast that Nen Yim might have only imagined it. The subject watched Mezhan open the vivarium membrane and step through, sealing it again behind her with a look that approached loss and loneliness. There were no flickers across the amygdala. "Ah, my apprentice. Another cycle of Shaping awaits us. Our Holy duties never end." "Yes, Master," Nen Yim agreed.
They went from the jungle to sudden cleared spaces. The underbrush and trees simply stopped, truncated sharply as though some enormous gardener had gone along and plucked them up like weeds. Anakin almost stumbled in surprise, but kept up with Vua''s steady jog. "These are the working fields," Vua told him. "Where Shamed and slaves labor." The fields ran far and wide, pushing back the jungle around the tall coral walls of the Vong compound. The damuteks, as Vua called them. Each one was a sort of citadel-town all in one. Again, the world felt upended and wrong. It wasn''t just the waist-high grains and other strange plants that threw him off - though they were bizarre to see so rapidly cover what had just been lawns and training spaces when last he''d seen them - but again, the heart-aching gap in the evening sky where the Temple should be. The setting sun caught along the coral walls, throwing long and dark shadows that stretched out into the fields like fingers. Figures moved in the distance, already clustering around small, domed structures near the damutek. Another distant boom of a bolt shell echoed out behind them. Zal was continuing to make a ruckus and on the horizon, a small, dark shape scooted across the sky, heading out into the jungle. Vua slowed his pace, until they were walking swiftly through the grain. He peeled open a pouch, rooting around inside it, before producing a small bead of coral. "Here," the Vong pressed it into Anakin''s hand and he studied it. It was pale and looked dry, like a bone that had been left out in the sun. Peering close, the small fleck of coral didn''t have the sheen that caught the setting sun like the damutek had. It was a dome about the size of his smallest fingernail with a tiny spike projecting from the flat side. "Place it on your temple." "Why do you even have a dead slave seed?" "I have live surge seeds to restrain new slaves. This one has expired. Life ends. You ask pointless questions." "I''m asking because this is my butt on the line." He turned the seed over in his palm. Memories of the knurled, knobbly growths on the Obroan slaves rose painfully. Vomar, asking to be remembered, before he spent his life against the warriors. He wanted to remind Vua that if this was all an elaborate and deranged trap, that Zal would kill him if Anakin didn''t. Distantly, he supposed he should probably have more of a problem with threatening death on people. It didn''t seem that important right now. He pressed the coral to his forehead. There was a brief prick of pain, like a needle, then a pinch. He tugged at it - it pulled on his skin, already attached. "So how would I even know if this was alive?" "It would bore through your skull. The pain would be exquisite." Anakin shuddered. "Uh. Sure." A few figures, far distant, stopped, then began to make their way through the fields toward them. "I think we''ve been noticed." Vua nodded slowly. "Good. If the coral prickles, pretend pain. If it causes actual pain, pretend to die." "Wait, it still works?" "It was not Shaped by children. It retains some function. You will need to know when you are commanded, idiot." Then Vua slapped him across the face. There was no warning; the Vong simply moved in one fluid motion. Anakin stumbled back, tasting iron in his mouth. His hand went to his belt - where there was no lightsaber. His cheek, numb, flared hot. "Sithspawn! What the hell was that for!" Vua glared at him. "Are you a slave, or a Jeedai? When a slave is struck, he cowers. A Jeedai fights back." Deep breath in, deep breath out. This was what he''d agreed to. This was the best way to get in to find Tahiri. He needed Vua. Anakin repeated those like a mantra. "Anything else I should know?" he asked dryly. "Do not speak back. Avert your eyes. Do as commanded as soon as commanded. You have no name and you are of no importance. Do not be noticed." "That''s great. How are we supposed to meet up again?" Vua extended a hand high - not quite waving, but clearly signaling. The distant figures began to lope towards them. "I will seek you out. Now be silent. Look simple. I will say that you are damaged by your implant. These things happen. It will deflect attention further." When the coming figures were close enough to make out as two warriors and a third Vong wearing a simple loincloth, Vua muttered under his breath something Anakin didn''t follow, then shoved him to the ground. Anakin let him, going to his knees, surrounding by rustling, shifting grain. It was just short enough to reach his chin as he knelt, some of it smashed down by their passage. The Vong, when they were close enough, shouted some sort of greeting. Vua responded. Anakin didn''t understand a word of it. He kept his eyes downcast, but tensed. Vua and the others spoke back and forth, quick sentences bit out in their own tongue. At least the tone was evident. The welcoming party sounded almost bored. Vua had the same sour, sneering tone he always had. The warriors stopped a few strides away and Anakin fought down the spike of adrenaline. He''d never been so close to a warrior before in a situation that wasn''t life or death. It felt alien. Wrong, to be so close to the vonduun-clad Vong and their amphistaves and beetles without his lightsaber in hand or a blaster at the ready. "You! Slave! Stand!" Anakin scrambled to his feet, trying to look uncoordinated. The two warriors were still speaking with Vua, punctuated by gestures toward the jungle. Their amphistaves remained curled around their exposed biceps - both warriors wore a strange sort of armor that Anakin hadn''t seen before. It looked cut down, covering only their torsos to leave arms and legs bare. A dress-down armor, maybe? Some other type? The Vong who addressed him, though, was like those he''d seen fishing. No scars or tattoos to be seen anywhere. He looked frighteningly Human, aside from the eye sacs, elongated head and rangier build. "This one will oversee your tasking. Follow." The Vong spun on their heel and stalked off. Anakin hesitated - glancing toward Vua, whose attention was entirely on the two warriors he was speaking with. "Slave!" repeated the unadorned Vong. "Follow!" One of the warriors laughed as Anakin stumbled forward. Vua said something else and he felt three pairs of eyes watch him. "Vua Rapuung said you were damaged. Do not delay my tasking, slave, or I will kill you here and now." Anakin kept a step back from the Vong. Should a slave follow behind? Or walk in front? The hells was the etiquette? He chanced a glance back, saw that one of the warriors had decided to continue on toward the edge of the jungle, fingering a now-alert amphistaff. Vua and other still spoke, punctuated with gestures by the former, the latter listening with arms crossed. No violence so far. No alarms. He couldn''t imagine the Vong, at any level, being comfortable letting a Jedi walk around like this. He let himself feel a dash of optimism. Maybe it could work. "I am Varuud Kwaad. Do not dirty your mouth with my name. I will take you to the executor, who will assign you. Wander away from your tasking again, slave, and you will die. Vua Rapuung said you are of the latest stock. Ignorance is not an excuse. The True Gods demand rightful obedience. Do you understand?" The coral at his forehead prickled and he saw the Vong, saw ''Varuud Kwaad'' fiddle with something in his hand. The prickle was uncomfortable, like a muscle spasm, but it didn''t hurt. Anakin let out a groan and trembled, stumbling for a moment until the prickle went away. Varuud seemed satisfied. The Vong led Anakin right up to the mouth of the damutek. The coral walls, several stories tall, loomed overhead. Some sort of organic membrane bunched up around the rim of the circular opening, like lips peeled back. The sun hung on the edge of the horizon. Bored warriors flanked the entrance as other Workers and slaves filtered through. Varuud led him in. Just like that, Anakin entered the domain of the Shapers.
Inside, Anakin got a much better understanding of the place in just a few minutes following in Varuud''s wake. His skin prickled in such close proximity to so many Vong, but he wasn''t the only Human or denizen of the Galaxy around. There were dozens, if not hundreds. All had their eyes downcast and heads bowed and they wore a broad variety of clothing. Scraps of tunics and other normal gear, some in just the simple living loincloths like Varuud wore, others in nearly-pristine jumpsuits like his own. A cross-section of the Galaxy, plucked up, implanted, and enslaved. He could sense them even more clearly now and one and all, there was an ache of hopelessness and sorrow. Some looked dead-eyed, just shifting from task to task, while others seemed more alert. Those buried a glimmer of hope for escape and it was from those that Anakin''s thoughts turned over and latched onto another avenue. Like the Obroan slaves, they all had coral to control them, but these slaves had much, much clearer and less staticky, damaged presences in the Force. The coral was smaller and neater too, looking more like a tiny restraining bolt than the more grotesque growths he''d seen in the past. Vua claimed there wasn''t a yammosk, which meant that the coral had to be controlled by hand, probably, maybe by a biot. Varuud had used something to make Anakin''s implant react, though he hadn''t gotten a clear look. Maybe, like Obroa Skai, he could prompt an uprising? There were definitely a lot of slaves in here, though not enough to outnumber the Vong entirely. Even as he thought it, the idea made him ill. Vomar and the slaves on Obroa Skai were already dying. That''s what the Bimm had used to find the strength. They knew they were going to die, either from overwork, sport, or the imprecise implants in their brains. That was a sacrifice that was their decision to make, to choose to die on their terms and not the Yuuzhan Vong''s. Anakin couldn''t ask these slaves to fight and die just for him and Tahiri. He couldn''t rally them up and sacrifice their lives - he''d be no better than the Vong to just use them and toss them aside. Worse, he couldn''t even promise salvation. The Thunderhawk could fit a dozen, maybe two dozen, but that was it. And no rescue could be bet on to come either. No. He set it from his thoughts, shaking his head. It would be worth it to talk to some of the other slaves, but unless he could promise them real, actual rescue, it just wouldn''t be right to light that hope in them. The damutek compound was, like they had seen, shaped like a many-rayed star. The outer walls were very thick, thick enough he bet there were passages and chambers inside, and rose at least three stories from the ground. The interior, bounded by the wall, bore an orderly layout of domed buildings that Vua called ''grashals''. Technically, the actual damutek was the tall, plant-like bulb that loomed large in the center of the compound, but the whole structure was usually just referred to by the same name. It was that central living building that housed all the Shapers, housed Tahiri, and was what ''sprouted'' like a plant to grow the walls surrounding it, the grashals themselves, and all the rest needed for a working ''town''. The damutek itself rose half the height of the Great Temple and was nearly as broad at the base. He saw Vong entering and leaving hatches that sighed open and puckered closed. None stayed open for any length of time; security was definitely tight. And he could feel Tahiri. More nebulous, more distant, but that part of his brain for her knew she was near. Like a compass, dragging his attention again and again toward the hulking damutek and its living walls. She was there. Right there! Right inside! I''m here, Tahiri. I''m coming for you. No response, not this time, but he felt a little warmth wash back from her. That alone was enough to almost make him sob in relief. She''d been quiet the past few days. Even a little bit was a splash of water in the desert. Varuud led him past a few pits dug into the ground and the smell coming from them made him retch. He caught a glimpse in one and wished he hadn''t. Corpses. Disjointed and piled corpses. Insects buzzed. His coral prickled again and Anakin feigned discomfort. "Unless you wish to join them, move with purpose," Varuud hissed. "I obey," Anakin mumbled, trying to match the way Vua spoke. Varuud''s eyes narrowed but he nodded, seemingly satisfied. A grashal beside the damutek was their destination and Varuud came up short before it. He genuflected, bowing low with Anakin following suit just a moment later. There was a warrior guarding the open entrance. Like the other two, he had the same sort of half-crab on. Varuud and the warrior gabbled at one another for a moment, then the warrior nodded sharply and stepped into the grashal. He returned with a tall and spindly looking Vong with a sort of hungry look, clad in a shockingly vibrant robe that dangled with tassels and wrapped around his frame. "I will speak the infidel tongue, so I will not repeat myself. Slave, your tasking?" Anakin wet his lips. "I was with Vua Rapuung, uh, Great One." What had Vua been doing? Fishing. "We were catching fish." The Vong, the executor, sighed. "I do not recall such a tasking. But I believe that Vua Rapuung would need assistance even to catch fish. Very well. Slave, you will report to Remog Kwaad. Varuud Kwaad, you will as well. The lambent harvest approaches and it has been generous. More hands are needed." The Vong sounded bored. Like an overworked supervisor which, Anakin supposed, he actually was. It was frightfully mundane. Even the executor''s tattoos and scarifications looked almost pedestrian compared to those of warriors. His face was inked with whorls of acid green and pink, that intertwined and wove into knots and twists. Raised scars formed orderly grids across his cheeks and a few piercings seemed to grow out of his lip and ear. The executor sighed again. "I suppose Vua Rapuung will be reporting to me as well." "Yes, Executor," Varuud replied. "The Gods punish me. Varuud, see to it that the slave is given a tizowyrm." "At once, Executor." The executor waved them away, turning on his heel and vanishing back into the grashal. Tarkin''s teeth! Anakin followed Varuud again, but this time had to fight to keep a grin from his face. It was working. It was working.
Nas Choka prosecuted the Hutts with a dogged persistence that pared away layers of resistance each and every day. Nal Hutta, the Glorious Jewel, had fallen almost immediately. Nar Shadaa, the dark mirror to Coruscant, an insult in every shape to the Yuuzhan Vong, became a training ground for the capital. On every front, the Kajidics were pushed back. The losses were brutal and costly. The Yuuzhan Vong drums of war pounded and pounded loudly. Now the Hutts had been pushed back into the Bootana, the ancient seat of the species besieged on all sides. Already there had been punctures and sallies into the entrenched sphere of space. Some lesser throneworlds already burned. Their backs to the wall, the Hutts fought with a ferocity and doggedness that would have shocked the rest of the Galaxy, had any news of it been able to leak out through the Yuuzhan Vong blockade. As Malik Carr did in the North, so did Nas Choka do in the south and east. The Hutts were a lesser concern, a small faction in truth, but they occupied a particular position on the flanks of the advance. Battleplan Coruscant progressed at the Warmaster''s tasking. The flanks must be made secure. Malik Carr worked to defang the Exiled Imperium, or at the least, stopper them up. For Nas Choka, there was no expectation to merely blockade the Hutts within their ancient territories. They could, and would, be conquered entirely. The Supreme Commander played his cards superlatively. Losses had been minimal. The Hutts were decadent and effete, spoiled by their long influence. True war was alien to them. By the time they realized their double- and triple-dealing was over, coral warships already darkened the skies over key worlds. All Nas Choka needed was time. The Taldik Suggaja Nebula spanned several lightyears on the edge of the Bootana. A navigational hazard as well as a celestial marvel, the nebula acted as both a natural landmark and a bulwark shielding that section of the Bootana. Rich in xircxonium and cuprine, the Taldik Suggaja was a marble of greens and reds, ranging into pink and brilliant lime. A handful of young stars lived within the nebula, their light creating the iconic inner glow that gave the nebula its name: the Sparkling Eye. For as long as the Hutts had been spacefaring, the Taldik Suggaja had seen adventurers, trailblazers and prospectors navigate its treacherous gravitational winds and mass-shadow shears. In a few tens of millions of years, most of the matter would accrete and clear the spaceways, but until then, the Taldik Suggaja was not unlike the Deep Core in miniature. Only the Hutts knew the secret ways through the nebula, or the hidden worlds delightfully rich in minerals rained from the gauzy, celestial clouds. Unfortunately for the Hutts, the finely honed senses of a dovin basal could sniff out and even shape their own passage through treacherous environs. The Taldik Suggaja was breached for the very first time, as Nas Choka sent expeditionary fleets piercing through the shimmering veil to strike the Bootana from unexpected angles. Within the nebula, washed by its mineral-rich gales, the Supreme Commander found another boon. The hungry living ships of his command, usually succored by feed-stock shipped up from worlds, could extend baleen-filters and graze on the hearty winds of the Taldik Suggaja to restore magma, plasmic reactants and other necessities. Thus it was that the Horde of Lashing Tentacles Tipped With Endless Blades found respite, sprawling dozens of miid ro''ik, frigate-analogues, battlecruisers and more across thousands of square kilometers. Hungry and tired, the warships drank deep. Warriors unshouldered their burdens and found moments for prayer and reflection. Shapers attended wounds and battle-damage. Yorik coral grew and restored itself, patching wounds. A quarter of Nas Choka''s total forces, under the command of Warleader Lus Choka, rested in the safety of the Taldik Suggaja.
The slaves, workers, and Shamed Ones lived outside the walls of the damutek compound, of course. Varuud led Anakin back out, whistling and gathering a few other slaves along the way. A Rodian, a Weequay and two Humans. They shambled along next to Anakin, backs bent. He tried not to look at them. He should. He should talk to them, ask them their names, where they were from, if they had family, or younglings. He couldn''t save them. But he was a Jedi. This was what he was for. What he wanted to be; a hero. Jacen tried. Jacen failed. But how could he go and find Tahiri and whisk her away and leave all the rest? She was his friend. His best friend. The other half, the one that made the universe make sense. Anakin grit his teeth and didn''t have to pretend to feel the same hopelessness as the other slaves. None of them spoke. Varuud led them back out, to the shantytown of tiny, shell-like shelters hugging the walls of the compound. They were all tiny, barely tall enough for a being to stand upright in, and Anakin would bet that trying to lay down and sleep in there would be cramped and uncomfortable. "Remog Kwaad will summon you at dawn. Sleep." Varuud turned and stalked away. The four other slaves shuffled off, toward random domiciles. Were they assigned? Did he just choose whichever? "Excuse me," Anakin muttered to the Weequay, who was still closest. "Which one should I use?" The Weequay, whose craggy features only served the exaggerate the stress lines on his face, shrugged. "The sithspawned scarheads don''t care. So we don''t either. They don''t even care if we run off. Jungle''ll kill us, if the warriors don''t for sport." He shook his head. "At least here there''s a roof over our heads, and some kind of food." The Weequay turned away, but Anakin called after him. "I''m Bail Lars. What''s your name?" He didn''t turn back. "Slave," he said.
Ralroost was first from hyperspace. The Bothan Assault Cruiser, a slate-grey, blocky vessel that oozed warlike intent, was, for a long moment, all alone. Sniffers and observers sounded alarms. Blaze-bugs fell out of nesting alcoves, fluttering across command grottos to form the new contact. The Yuuzhan Vong fleet woke slowly, surprise rippling across shipmasters and commanders. Warleader Lus Choka stared, slack-jawed, at the arrival. Then came Waste Not, then Judiciar, then Sunrise over Belderone, then Mhshtfl and Abraxes Ultimate and another and another, more and more. Entire squadrons of capital ships, stacks of escorts, wings of starfighters. First Battlegroup poured out of hyperspace from Coreward, spilling out of hidden ways known only to the privileged of the Kajidics. Aboard Ralroost, Admiral Kre''fey, nonchalant, buffed his nails against his flightsuit and observed a sprawling field of false asteroids. "First Battlegroup, target designations incoming. Focus fire, cover your partners. We''ve trained for this. We''re ready for this. Let''s kick them out of our galaxy."
Thumps of too-close magma missile detonations shook the Roost. They barely registered in Jaina''s awareness as she leaned forward, hands planted on the table-sized holocaster. The display was enormous and the detail exacting; only the best for the flagship''s strategic amphitheater. Desks and workstations climbed up in three tiers toward the domed ceiling. The lights were cast low, bringing out the detail in the holocaster even further. Captain Winger paced, eyes flicking back and forth, while Kenth Hamner sat at the base of one of the three stairways that gave access to the tiers. Tiny icons of friendly and hostile starships coasted through the air. They shaded through colors, indicating battle-damage and morale. So far, First Battlegroup was tearing into the Vong armada. They''d caught them refueling and rearming, just like the intelligence indicated. Elements of First Fleet moved in hunter-killer packs. Centered on a trio of cruisers, they ganged up on sluggish miid ro-iks that struggled to respond. Coralskippers dumped into space formed into hasty pairs and squadrons, but were hounded by the fighter wings led by Rogue Squadron. Quiet chatter filled the auditorium, tuned just low enough to make out the active comms of the battlespace. They were hunting yammosks. According to her Uncle, the way he had caught the one on Obroa-skai was to Gammorean-back along the link they held to slaves until he found the monster itself. He''d said that the sense was diffuse and vague and took almost all his focus and effort to pin down. Anakin, by contrast, had simply melded with Luke and then did whatever he did to kill the thing. They''d tried to sense slaves aboard the Vong ships as soon as they exited hyperspace, to no avail. That was expected, though. There''d never been indications that the Vong employed them in that way. The next option was to try to sense the chazrach, except that with how stifled the reptoids were and how much the battlespace was filled with emotions running hot and hard, that was probably a fool''s gamble too. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. That left what they''d expected in the first place. Watch the movements of the Vong fleet and try to narrow down where the yammosk might be. The hunter-killer packs were to help with that. Yammosks were a precious resource and the Vong guarded them to the death. The idea, Colonel Hamner said, was that NRI figured if one was threatened enough, the Vong might act out of the ordinary to defend it. So they would apply pressure across the Vong fleet, digging into the orderly anchorage of rocky starships and see where the scarheads flinched. Except, they weren''t. The hologram Jaina studied showed something she hadn''t seen before. The Yuuzhan Vong were in disarray. Coralskippers formed motley little groups, but none of that uncanny swirling coordination shone through. Cruiser analogues fought alone, like duellists, instead of as a united front like they always did. She watched as Imprecator, an old Star Destroyer, managed to cut a frigate analogue off from its fellows. It died alone, almost flailing out in vain confusion. It wasn''t a small armada. First Battlegroup basically matched the tonnage, which on any other day, would have been a rout for the Navy. You didn''t match the Yuuzhan Vong''s strength, you had to come down hard with a hammerblow three to four times as heavy as the fleet you faced. But now capital ships exchanged fire with miid ro''ik cruisers and while she saw slashes of red and yellow that indicated shields were down and armor was taking plasma, they weren''t being mauled. The Vong couldn''t have been that caught off guard, could they? Sure, they were refueling and didn''t expect to get jumped in a place where supposedly only the Hutts could go, but to be this confused? "There''s no yammosk," Winger said first, voicing Jaina''s deepening suspicion. "Jaina, you know what I''m seeing. Colonel, there''s no ''spool up'' time for a yammosk. The krakana are either awake and giving you absolute hell, or they aren''t there. There''s no reason for them to be taking these kinds of losses." Winger gestured and the hologram zoomed in to a bundle of icons that made Jaina''s heart beat faster. The Rogues. Colonel Darklighter, with Major Forge on his wing, ripped through a cloud of coralskippers that barely seemed to register them. The other Rogues were dancing and reaping an incredible toll. That could be me. I could be matching Colonel Fel''s count. The ''skips should swirl like hiving insects and gut the daring Rogues for being so overextended. Instead, they died. Over and over. "Look at that. Colonel, there''s no yammosk." It wasn''t all a rout. Cruiser analogues were forming up on battlecruisers, forming pockets of resistance that beat back hunter-killer packs and left not a few cap ships burning in space. A flight of B-Wings was jumped and barely managed to escape the mauling, limping back to cover of friendly Lancer cruisers at barely half strength. Ralroost''s hangar was about six minutes away, through the main turbolift¡­ Colonel Hamner pinched at his lip, frowning. "This makes no sense. Even if they thought they were safe, we''ve never seen a Vong fleet without one. And with this many ships doing resupply, they would be crazy not to have coordination." "Maybe it''s holding back?" "Why? We''re hitting them hard, but this is far from a done-deal. It would tip the scales back in their favor, easy." Jaina blocked out the other two Jedi''s debate, taking a deep breath and focusing. Tactics and strategy weren''t her thing, but after flying with the Rogues in the biggest war the Galaxy had seen in generations, one tended to pick up a thing or two. Major Varth had made noises about sending Jaina to an accelerator officer candidacy program - ignoring that she was an officer, technically - but the demands of the war had nixed that until she''d been spaced. There was a lot here that was new. They''d never seen Yuuzhan Vong ships at anchor like this before. They''d never seen how they resupplied; NRI would be scouring nebulas now. Maybe this was normal? Maybe yammosks had to be ''taken offline'' like a normal computer to recharge and rest. They were alive, after all. Maybe they had to sleep? Maybe they''d caught one while it was still snoozing off the last clash with the Hutts, and now the Vong were scrambling to adapt without it. "We can''t give up," she said suddenly. Hamner and Winger both quieted and looked her way. "There has to be one here. I think we should go ahead with the meld and look for it anyway." There were mats set aside, comfortable and ready for three Jedi to meditate on. It was too late to launch and chase the Rogues anyway. Damn it all, but Jaina would do something. The three Jedi sunk down, cross-legged. Jaina had the experience. She reached out, careful, touching on the Colonel''s orderly, lockbox mind. Captain Winger was like a filing cabinet stuffed full. Orderly on the outside, disarray inside. The Force rallied to Jaina, and the three opened eyes that didn''t see the auditorium around them.
Grab. Wiggle. Pull. Repeat. What constituted weeds and what did not was beyond him. All the plants were strange, even the ones that supervising Workers directed him and the other work cadre to winnow out. The ''produce'' itself were tall and richly green stalks, heavy with thick, velvet-skinned bulbs that dangled heavily from beneath thick, frond-like leaves. They had strict instructions not to jostle the fruits. One slave who had clumsily bumped one and knocked it loose had writhed and shrieked on the ground for almost a minute, chastised by the nearest Worker. He''d tried to soothe their pain, at least a little. At least he got a look at the palm-sized control biot the Worker held. She''d pointed it at the slave and fiddled with it. A living equivalent of a restraining bolt remote. That it was being used on a sapient being turned his stomach. Grab. Wiggle. Pull. Repeat. Vua had found him in the dead of night. Anakin had found one of the little shell houses that had only two other occupants jammed in. They hadn''t spoken, just made a little room for him, and he hadn''t wanted to break that silence. The guilt tugged at him. He should''ve talked to them. Reassured them. Something. He''d called out Vua, after the Vong pulled him out by the arm, barking nonsense commands. The tizowyrm in Anakin''s ear translated, the disgusting fleshy worm vibrating against his eardrum to create the right sounds in Basic. "Vua Rapuung. You''re a Shamed One." Of course, Vua had slapped him again. Anakin didn''t know if there were eyes watching, so he took the blow and stumbled. Shamed Ones, as it turned out - because there were more than a few sleeping in amongst the slaves - were Yuuzhan Vong like Vua. Well, not insane, bloodthirsty and crude, though he couldn''t entirely be sure of that, but rather, ones who had that same sickly, rotting look that Vua did. Their implants were festering and oozing and their tattoos were scabbed up and infected. Varuud had turned his head and spat when they passed one on the way to meet their ''supervisor''. "With every breath you insult. Is this is a skill of the Jeedai, or are you unique?" "Hit me again and you''ll regret it," Anakin said softly. "Then hold your tongue and I will not need to!" They''d argued, back and forth, until Vua finally relented and explained just what a Shamed One was. They were exactly as the title implied. Their implants that marked ascension failed. Their tattoos didn''t take. Their body healed scars poorly. They were seen as cursed by the Gods, rejected by all the rites the Vong held sacred. They were lowest of the low, spurned and sneered at by every single other caste, even the Workers. Only slaves and infidel were lower. Even chazrach might attain higher rank. Vua was tightlipped about anything beyond that. Anakin wasn''t stupid. A Vong like him, a clearly capable warrior, now Shamed? It didn''t take a genius to figure out just what the ''revenge'' he was obsessed with was. It actually settled his trust in the Vong, finally. Sure, he''d proven himself in protecting Anakin after he''d been shot, he hadn''t stuck a living slave-seed on him and he''d gotten him into the compound, but there was still that nagging worry that he might just flip on them. But if being Shamed was as distasteful and cursed as Vua made it out to be? Well, it definitely meant that hand-delivering a Jedi wouldn''t be enough to wipe that out, otherwise he was sure Vua would have handed Anakin over, gift-wrapped. So he could trust in Vua''s hatred. Groaning, pausing just a moment to stretch and roll his shoulders, Anakin shifted onto the next row of plants, reaching for another weed with dirty, scratched fingers. "Tonight I will surveil," Vua promised. "The idiots are lax. They do not fear Jeedai. They say they are driving them deep into the jungle. They say they hunt the Aistarteez." "Tonight? Then tomorrow we get Tahiri?" "Perhaps." Enough was enough. He met Vua''s dark, hooded eyes and didn''t look away. In the red yavinlight, the Vong looked like a monster out of myth. "No. Tomorrow. Whether you''re ready or not." Vua hissed through teeth. "Very well. We die gloriously, if that is your wish." At least the Shamed One hadn''t been wasting time. He''d checked the damutek, and found he still had access to it. He had been granted it to take out the trawler-beast that they had found him on and no one had seen fit to revoke it. With passion in his eyes, he relayed a new idea to Anakin. With his access, he could convince one of the damutek roots to relax its filtration membranes. At Anakin''s confusion, he explained. The damutek had roots that dug deep into Yavin, but it had others that ran like arteries to the river, which dumped out waste-water from the damutek. Normally, porous membranes kept out any local fauna that might want to swim up the current. If they were opened, then a being that could breathe underwater¡­or perhaps hold their breath for a protracted time¡­could make their way up the root. To emerge, Vua said with relish, from the succession pool in the center of the damutek itself. He''d laughed. The mental image it gave Anakin was sublime. Zal, in his scout-armor, bolter and sword in hand, bursting out of what was supposed to be a calm, quiet pool right in the middle of whatever Shapers and Workers were there. So it would be today. One way or another, Tahiri would be free. She''d be safe. And every single Vong that hurt her would pay for it. Anakin yanked more weeds and let that thought keep him going.
The subject had been quiescent for several days. She spoke when spoken to, but otherwise sat listless and empty-eyed, staring off into space at something no one else could see. She did not rage or spit insults. "We are breaking through," her Master assured Nen Yim. They had to employ the spineray only occasionally. Selectively, now, they could censor particular memories that the subject tried to access. They selected for those that activated the reward circuit, that released bonding hormones. These would be the memories of those she was most friendly with. The conditioning was easy: override the positive recollections with pain, skewing the subject further and further away from her old life with each memory. Other memories, which the subject drew on when they asked her to demonstrate the Force, were allowed to be pain-free. It was the teachings of the Jeedai that they wished to preserve. More ideally, they would remove all unwanted memories and personality entirely, leaving at truly blank slate, but even in the perfectly understood psyche of the Chosen People, such a thing was fraught with hazards at best. In a Human, only newly mapped, it was much more likely to kill the subject. Midday slipped past, sacs of sweet broth brought by workers to sate their appetites. Mezhan Kwaad brought one in to the subject and both Master and Adept watched with pride as the subject reflexively knew how to coax the sac to release its contents. The subject sipped without disgust, when only a week previous, she had railed and screamed and hurled a similar offering to splatter against the vivarium membrane. "The procedural memories adhered most easily," Mezhan commented as they enjoyed their meal. "I believe that with further Shapings, that it would be most ideal to implant the procedural first, then episodic." "It is a useful substrate," Nen Yim agreed. "It helps to convince the subject of our truth." "Quite so. If she was not always of the Chosen People, then how else would she know so easily to speak our tongue, to use our blessed creations?" It was a rhetorical question, and Nen Yim did not answer. To her surprise, Mezhan set her meal aside and produced a small, slender spur. Its like were used as simple tools for cutting and other menial labor. The biot took the shape of a long talon, anchored by a toothed band at the base. Even slaves could use such a thing, and often did. "Riina," Mezhan called, stepping up the the vivarium membrane. It flicked aside and the subject raised her eyes, still sipping at her broth. "Master Mezhan," she said. Nen Yim could still not quite tell the tone when the subject spoke. Sometimes she heard tones of disrespect, sometimes she spoke flatly and without inflection, yet sometimes there was something there akin to love. "Do you know what this is?" She knelt beside the subject, holding out the talon. Gingerly, the subject took it with her free hand, turning it this way and that. "It is a hook-spur. It is used in harvesting of fruits and in tasks that require cutting." "Good, Riina. This is a special hook-spur. Most are bred to never harm one of us. Slaves cannot turn them against their masters. But this one is most ferocious." Mezhan took it back, and pricked her finger with it. Black blood shone. "You try." She handed it back and the subject did the same. Red blood beaded. A complex emotion rippled across the subject''s face. Her lips twisted, her nose wrinkled, her eyes narrowed. Then she relaxed. Mezhan tapped at her own forehead. There, three scars, parallel, rose from her brow. "We in Domain Kwaad bear this mark. When the Jeedai stole you away, they ruined the body the Gods gave you. They took from you the mark of your Domain." Mezhan guided the subjects hands, gently putting the sac of broth aside. She slid the hook-talon onto one finger, where the toothed band tightened. The talon stood out proud and sharp. "Mark yourself again, child. Remember more who you are."
"The task is simple. With the talon, you pierce the husk, like so." As Yavin''s primary reached the apex of the sky, a Shamed One found Anakin where he sweated away among the rows of produce. Uunu, she introduced herself as, even asked him his name. Where her arms and legs were bare, exposed by her robe-skin, he didn''t see a single mark or failed implant. She led him back to the front of the field, far back to where he had started earlier. There, she produced a small, blade-like biot and handed it to him, explaining its function. She was a lambent-harvester, and she had a quota to make. And so, just like that, she simply selected a slave and tasked him along. Uunu took one of the round, velvet-skinned fruits in her hand and gently, slowly rubbed the velvet petals off. She seemed distracted as she did so, her fingers working carefully. With the petal stripped away, a thick, rough husk was revealed, which she jabbed with the talon anchored to her thumb. It pierced in, then she sawed it, splitting the husk until a round crystal roughly the size of a small datacube popped out, coated with a milky, sticky sap. Incredibly, Anakin could hear the thing. A quiet, gentle peeping that took him a moment to realize he wasn''t hearing with his ears, but rather in his head. It wasn''t the Force, it didn''t have the crisp clarity. It was something more like through an old and distant comlink. "I will prepare the lambents. You will follow behind and remove them from their husks." He had a living bag, which had wrapped tendrils around his waist and now, unsettlingly, kept twitching where it rested against his thigh. She dropped the one she had plucked into the bag, where its ''voice'' diminished somewhat. It was rote, but it was far better than weeding. Uunu stayed a plant or two ahead of him, methodically and gently preparing each lambent fruit. Anakin split each one, carefully sawing the husks in two, then catching the crystal and dropping it into his bag. A breeze worked through the field as they worked, leaves slipping and sliding against each other with a sound like whispers. "What are they?" he finally asked, after some time. "I said. They are lambents." she brushed petals from another, then peered at him over her shoulder. Suspicion clouded her face. "Why do you ask, Bail Lars?" He wasn''t sure. Maybe it was the silence all day, maybe it was the increasing agitation growing in the back of his mind. Maybe it was that Uunu had actually asked his name. Maybe it was because with each that Uunu prepared, the quiet little peeping grew a little louder as his bag grew heavier. "I''ve never seen them before." "Of course not. You are an infidel. When would you?" He shrugged. Uunu continued to work. "I have not spoken with an infidel before," she continued. "There''s a lot of us around here," Anakin retorted. "Do not be impertinent. My tasks have never brought me near slaves." "Well, I guess there''s a first time." Another few minutes passed. "Lambents are used for controlling superorganisms. Like those of the spacegoing sort. Or as light sources." He started, not expecting her to speak again. "Oh. But why can I hear them?" Uunu scoffed. "I said they are used for control. How can they function if a pilot cannot make his will known?" So it wasn''t just Anakin. And it definitely wasn''t the Force. He peeled back the husks of a few more, enough lambents now in his bag to clatter. They also didn''t just make noise when Uunu prepared them; he slowly realized the entire field was whispering quietly. It clicked; he''d been hearing it all day, but had dismissed it as the wind, or something like it. It was so quiet, just on the edge of his senses. Those that Uunu prepared, they grew more distinct, but somehow more distant at the same time. It reminded him of nothing else but the sense of the yammosk. That strange other, that tickled and poked at his brain. Uncle Luke had to pin down the war coordinator through the chazrach and the slaves, but these things, Anakin could hear them immediately. Was Uunu attuning to them, somehow? Making them more sensitive to Yuuzhan Vong, and not so much Humans or other beings? They might even be a relative of the yammosk. The thought struck him. Could he attune to one? Uunu was just gently peeling away the petals, but that seemed like it was all it took. The connections unfurled in his head. These lambent, they helped control ships. They did it with telepathy, with the Yuuzhan Vong who piloted them. But if Anakin could hear the lambents, but the lambents could also hear the Yuuzhan Vong. Excitement bubbled up in his stomach. Uunu caught him grinning. "What?" she asked, suspicious. "Nothing, it''s just¡­they''re kind of fascinating." She still looked suspicious, narrowing her eyes. "Yes. Well. The gifts of the Gods are miraculous." After that, Uunu grew more and more talkative. A talkative Yuuzhan Vong. Yavin attracted all sorts, he supposed. She asked him where he came from; he spun up a tale about being part of a freighter crew that was taken in space. He told her about Coruscant and Corellia, where he was from, and she was almost morbidly fascinated by the idea of an entire world encased in technology. Disgusted, but fascinated. In return, she told him about worldships, which carried the Yuuzhan Vong between galaxies. They worked as they talked, and he was surprised when they finished the first entire row. His bag was heavy, clattering with lambents. Uunu took it, placing it aside as it shut its own mouth tight. Handed him another. They continued. "You know," Anakin said, in a lull. "There are a lot of uninhabited worlds out there. The New Republic would''ve given them to you." "Why would we take them? The Gods decreed this galaxy would be ours. Why should we tolerate abominations in our home?" "How do you know the Gods made this promise?" She laughed - the first time he''d heard a Yuuzhan Vong laugh with humor and not murderous intent. It was very strange. "You are truly an infidel. Be careful who you wag that loose tongue around, or one less forgiving might take it." But her chiding was light. "The signs were many. The worldships began to die and there was much unrest among the Domains. Then, Lord Shimrra had a great vision. He saw a galaxy corrupted by heresy and infested by heathens, and he saw a great cleansing. The Priests were convinced, and in time the Warriors, then the Shapers, and in time all came to understand His great vision." He tucked that name away for later. "So it was a vision." "So the Gods communicate," Uunu said gravely and made a gesture he didn''t catch. "What about the Shamed Ones? Like you?" "And Vua Rapuung? Yes, Bail Lars, I heard who returned with you. I would not listen to him. He is quite mad." Uunu paused, rocking back on her haunches to watch him as he worked through lambents, a few stalks behind her own progress. "Our Goddess, Yun-Shuno, has promised us great redemption here. What shape it takes, I do not know, but it is whispered and it is known." He pried another few crystals out, then paused too to stretch and flick accumulated sap from his fingers and the claw. "What happens when you aren''t Shamed?" Uunu set her shoulders back with pride. "My body will take implants again and I will no longer be casteless." She eyed him carefully. "Bail Lars, are you a Jeedai?"
The subject eyed the hook-spur. Her gaze flicked from the biot to Mezhan Kwaad''s marks and back again. "It will hurt," she said. "Pain is instructive. It will be the clean pain of cutting away the fake life the Jeedai enforced on you." The Master Shaper took the subject''s wrist gently, raising the hook-spur up until the tip pressed against the smooth skin of the subject''s forehead. "Come back to us, little Riina."
Anakin coughed, fumbling the lambent he''d just plucked from its husk. It dropped to the dirt between his feet. "What?" "Are you Jeedai? The question is simple." "Why would you ask that? And if I was a Jedi, why would I be a captive?" Uunu studied him. Her eyes were very blue, but a deeper, more oceanic blue than his own ice. Wind tousled her black hair, pulled back into a long tail. "There is a Jeedai captive in the damutek-" Anakin''s heart skipped a beat "-and there are Jeedai loose in the jungle. You returned with Vua Rapuung last evening. There are some mutterings." "Yeah, but the jungle isn''t here," he retorted. "No. But you are a strange sort of slave. You speak back and you are too unbent." Uunu wasn''t a warrior, and the others in the field were quite far away. The lambent plants came up to around shoulder height, each row thick enough to block sight. Squatting as they were, no one could see them. He didn''t want to hurt her - she''d treated him like an actual person. She was friendly, almost friendly enough to forget what she was. But he couldn''t be captured. His cover couldn''t be blown. He noticed the set to her mouth. The way her gaze flicked away. "You wanted me to be a Jedi," Anakin realized. "You''re disappointed I''m not." "If you were Jeedai, you would have attacked me by now. You would have attacked last night. It as they say." She rose back to her feet, reaching for another lambent. Break time was over. Anakin grabbed another fruit, splitting it. "I would like to meet a Jeedai. The Warriors fear them and the Shapers squabble over them. I think if I were to find a Jeedai, perhaps Yun-Shuno might be moved to intercede on my behalf." He thanked the Force that Vua didn''t agree with that idea. "So it''s only this Yun-Shuno who can redeem you?" "I have said so. Who else? Ah. You were with Vua Rapuung. I imagine he filled your ears with many things." "I don''t think he accepts that he''s a Shamed One. He never admitted it to me." Uunu shook her head. "He is mad, as I have said. He blames not the Gods, but one of the Shapers. He tells all who will listen." Click, click. More things slotted into place. "A Shaper," he said, hoping to draw out more. "Once he was a great warrior and Commander among his caste. Now he is no one and he is Shamed." Uunu shrugged. "He could not bear the dishonor, so he invents lies. He is not the only one to do so." "But you don''t." Uunu hissed, the first real anger she''d shown. "I was born Shamed. The Gods made me this way, so the Gods must want for me to endure this disgrace. Thus; only the Gods can set me free. Enough. We have much more to do." He chewed on that for a while, while Uunu grew quiet. Nothing was simple with the Yuuzhan Vong. When he thought he began to understand them, they upended his ideas. Vua led him down one path of understanding, but now Uunu, in a few short hours, pulled him onto another. He could imagine sitting down at a cafe on Coruscant with her and discussing the philosophy of Jedi compared to her Gods. She was reasonable and well-spoken. How many Vong were like her? How many just accepted their lot in life and went with it, because the Gods said so? "We make good time," Uunu said. "Your work is decent, for an infidel. I will meet my quota." Anakin opened his mouth to reply when pain lanced through his skull. He gasped and fell to his knees, clutching at his forehead which surely had to be ripped open. It was the coral, it had to be - Vua said the pain would be unbearable; the Vong betrayed him, he sold him out and now Anakin would be captured - blood trickled hot and thick and he smelled it, hot and iron in his nose. Uunu called out a name that wasn''t his and Anakin doubled over. His hands didn''t touch any blood. The coral moved with his skin as he moaned and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. It wasn''t that. He''d been slashed from hairline to the bridge of his nose - but he hadn''t. Uunu''s hands grasped under his arms, tugging him upright. Woozy, he stumbled. No. Not his head. Tahiri''s.
The subject trembled, crimson blood flowing free and fast. Scalp wounds bled most fiercely and she had been unerring in the first cut. The hook-spur dug deep, clean to the bone. Mezhan Kwaad leant forward, avarice in her eyes. "The first mark is for Domain," she said. "Now the next."
Uunu, finding that his legs wouldn''t support him, eased him down to the dirt. He barely paid attention. His vision swam - the hook on his thumb overlaid with another, dripping blood. His forehead throbbed and he wanted to spit the taste of blood out of his mouth. Help me. Tahiri burst out of the corner of his mind, the place she had curled up and away into. She was here, now, so close he could smell her hair, so near that her hand was his hand, her delicate fingers overlapping his own stronger ones. His sense of self shifted, tilted - he knelt on hard carapace; he laid in loamy soil. An unknown face, marked with so much ink that barely any bare skin could be discerned, leaned close. Uunu, looking almost human, made motions with her mouth that probably meant she was speaking. He was sweating from the sun; he was sweating from the pain. The air was crisp and filtered; it was humid and thick. Anakin - I can''t - please He held her. I''m here. Uunu restrained his arm when he tried to raise it. He raised/didn''t raise his hand. The hook crept closer/was held back. The point touched his skin/went flaccid as Uunu clamped her hand over it. Her horror was palpable. Tangible. Her body acted without her guidance. She watched, from behind eyes that weren''t quite hers. Some other girl pressed the tip of the spur until it punched through her flesh, drug it down. Made a second gash as deep and raw as the first. Anakin ate her pain. She bled and he took it, he pulled it in and felt it for her. In the dirt, he writhed and twitched. Tahiri raised her talon for the third cut. He knew there would be third. He didn''t know how he knew. Anakin watched with Tahiri as she mutilated herself. He felt her pain and shouldered it, he bore it with her, and diminished it with his sharing. I''m dying No. She wasn''t. No. The Vong watching Tahiri said words in their tongue and the meaning echoed for Anakin. It was alien and it was familiar. It was incomprehensible and he understood it, because Tahiri did. The Vong said: "I''m proud." Tahiri felt a blush of pride and screamed her horror, clawing against the walls of her mind. Then she threw him out. Intransigence Chapter XV XV: A Friend
There was a particular irony to how Zalthis criss-crossed the jungle around what had once been the Jedi Praxeum. But only a couple weeks previous, he had done so in the grips of the mightiest storm he had ever seen, flanked by his brothers and aided by the Jedi Masters. He had seen through eyes not his own, heard through ears he did not have, and felt the adrenaline of battle and the buried delight in the duel through the skillful machinations of the Jedi meld. Even with his gene-gifted memory, he could only amuse himself by imagining that he recognized that fallen tree, or that cluster of mossy stones, or that trickle of a creek. Perhaps that splintered bole had been one broken by a bolt fired by Captain Thiel, or from Brother Varien. Was that mud-filled crater a result of Lexicanium Alebmos'' unleashed warp-craft? Perhaps that clearing he passed through, loping low, was where he had saved the life of the Jedi Master Ikrit, for a time. The Yuuzhan Vong hunted him, but they were fewer now, and the sons of Corax did not own entirely the craft of stealth. He may not live up to the rumors and tales of the black-clad infiltrators, but hard training on Parmenio inculcated tactics and training for every situation where survival was paramount. A sharp crack echoed from behind him, perhaps a hundred meters. A broken open bolt shell, a thin, papery fuse leading to the spilled grains. That was a trick he had learned from Isidiran. The delta-shaped flyers, that the Vong called ''tsik-vai'' kept out of sight, sowing more of those netting bugs the Vong had also warned about. He''d had a chance to glimpse them, once, as he drew back and further away from the Yuuzhan Vong compound. True to the Vong''s description, they wove web back and forth, from bough to branch, from the canopy to the ground. Indeed, from a higher vantage point on a humped hillock, Zalthis had seen an unnatural stillness cutting through the jungle in a sharp line, working towards him. Still he imagined the Yuuzhan Vong were expecting him to flee further - and he was pleased to upend their assumptions. Anakin would need him, soon enough. When that moment came, Zalthis would be ready. Close by, blade and bolter prepared. He''d given his word. His word was his bond, else he might as well scratch the Ultima from his plastron. Through the night he kept in motion, after Anakin and the Vong had gone on ahead. He lurked through shadows, darted from cover to cover. He set pitfalls when able, strung a krak grenade here, there. If a Vong warrior died in a trap here in the jungle, it was one fewer when the time came to spring Anakin''s young friend. He judged no ammunition nor material expended now a waste. Dawn''s light crept across the moon. He wondered if the enemy slept. Perhaps they rotated patrols. He''d not seen any, not since the brief scuffle wherein the Vong had, to his begrudging acceptance, proven himself less likely to betray them. A few sharp detonations punctuated the night and he imagined further warriors added to his toll. Anakin would not wait long, once inside the compound. They had hoped to begin the jailbreak on the next day - which would be this new one, freshly dawned. When was unsure. Evening, or night would be preferable. The Vong claimed that there would be few, if any, impediments to getting Anakin and himself into the ''damutek''. It would only be a question of when they could believably invent a task for them within the Vong construct. It beggared belief that it might be so simple. He recoiled at the idea of so lax a system of security. Even a simple Legion outpost would require triplicate verifications, through ident-tag, gene-sample and vox-thief comparison. Reaching the bank of the Unnh River, Zalthis paused in a particularly dense cluster of undergrowth, ignoring the rasp of ferns against his greaves and the scratch of thorns at his fatigues. The wide, lazy river ran right to the very edge of the Yuuzhan Vong compound. Indeed, the ''damutek'', the central, grandest structure, which had supplanted the Jedi Temple, reached the waters themselves. Close as he was now, peering downriver, the damutek was even larger than when spied from afar. The living construct reminded him of a water-lily, or a similar sort of flower. He could imagine it as a bulb, descending from orbit to plant itself in the skin of a world. Then, the bulb would open, revealing the thick, towering petals that he studied even now, unfurled to bare inner precincts and courtyards to the sky. The Vong claimed that those ''petals'' housed chambers and internal spaces and from the thickness and size of them, he judged the Vong''s claims to be true. Making up his mind, Zalthis slipped from cover, entering the waters of the Unnh with barely a ripple. Between the weight of his enhanced physiology and his stripped down scout plate, he merely strode deeper, and deeper, until the waters lapped at his chin. He inhaled a long breath, inflating his tertiary lung, and continued. Perhaps the petals of the damutek could be shuttered again, should attacks from orbit or air come. They might provide a measure of protection - or maybe serve to entrap infiltrators. There was a species of plant Sol had related to him, which lived in the humid environs of his family''s farm. It spread wide, garish petals, beckoning in pollinating insects. Yet no nectar awaited - only the sudden snap of motile sepals as the flower swallowed its prey. He put the thought from his mind. He bounded further into the river, making for the center, the deepest depths where his scent would be lost and all trackers likely confounded. Heat sensors would be led astray by the cool waters, motion tracks would be fouled by the currents. Eyes wide, pupils dilated, he moved through silty, gloomy waters following only the mental map he seared into his memory. And waited, waited for that subtle tug on his mind. Zalthis might even admit he was eager.
Nen Yim busied herself with cleansing the vivarium. A slug-like ngdin wormed across the glossy floor of the space, eager cilia waving about the edges of the palm sized creature. It worked along the smear of dark crimson blood left by the subject, leaving only clean nacre behind. Her Master still knelt beside the subject, speaking in low tones. She stroked the scalp of the subject, gently running the thumb of her Shaper''s hand through the smeared blood across her forehead. Where Mezhan Kwaad''s thumb brushed over the raw edges of the ritual cuts, the subject''s slight frame trembled, but no sound escaped her lips. Her eyes were wide, gold-green shining from a mask of still-wet blood. The spineray required attention and Nen Yim knelt behind the subject, stroking along the interface tendrils of the biot. Her hand tasted the connections, finding them clean of spinal fluid, of rot, of effluvia. The thin slime layer of the ''ray remained sterile, the subject''s body tamed and unrejecting of the invader. No immune response, even now, proving all the more correct the modifications to the protocol her Master proposed. Where the spineray''s long tail linked into the bond-orifice of the vivarium, she cleaned out some shed scale and skin, applying gentle unguents to encourage regeneration of the neural socket. The tasks of an Adept were not merely assistance of their Master in Shapings, but also in maintenance and husbandry of the myriad life-forms within the Master''s Shaping grotto. The implanter-beasts and ngdin herds needed feed and removal of frass. Water must be checked for proper levels of salts, nutrients and minerals. In many ways, Nen Yim did duties no different than before her ascension, sped along of course by the blessing of her hand. Now, instead of requiring a stol''an sampler to taste waters for her, she could trail her smallest digit through the circulating pool in the grotto and feel the bloom in her mind as exact parts-per-million of each discrete chemical washed through her senses. She could taste the neutral flavor of balanced mineral gradients and the slightly sweet tinge of dissolved calcium and fixed magnesium. Engrossed as she was, bending over the squirming colony of ngdin in their niche, she almost missed the quiet stride of a warrior. Her Master did not. Mezhan pulled away from the subject, rising swiftly to her full height, a glower turning her fair features dark. "You are within the sanctuary of the Shapers, warrior. Tell my why I should not take this as an insult." The warrior genuflected on one knee, offering surprising obeisance for one of another caste. "I do as tasked, Lady Shaper. Commander Harmae bids me deliver warning; Aistarteez and Jeedai make trouble in the jungle beyond. A patrol was slain to the last and even now our tsik-vai hound them. The Commander worries for your safety, and the safety of your most holy project. He asks that you remain within the damutek until the danger has passed." The warrior, a young male, kept eyes downcast, not daring to look upon a Master Shaper within her own laboratory. He was of low rank, Nen Yim noticed, glancing at the smooth skin of his arms and the few tattoos that worked about his cheeks and neck. Only a handful of cross-hatched scars roughened his skin, and his vonduun had telltale signs of being newly molted. "I have little desire to step foot from my damutek as it is," Mezhan drawled. "But consider the warning heard and understood." The Master hummed, then stepped from the vivarium, flicking the membrane shut behind her. The subject stayed motionless, head drooped and blood slowly drip-drip-dripping for the gleefull ngdin to chase. "My counterpart, Master Qesud, wishes for the Astartes to be brought to her alive. I should like for the Jedi as well. Relay this to Commander Harmae. He may maim the Jedi, but I wish for them to still draw breath." Over her shoulder, Mezhan eyed the subject. "I have a new test in mind for Riina."
If Tahiri had drawn down their connection over time until it was like a cracked door, then the empty thunderclap inside his skull was as if she had slammed that door shut entirely. In the span of a breath, Anakin went from writhing in pain and clutching at his forehead to panting, sweaty in the dirt, and achingly alone. Tahiri? Tahiri? Tahiri? She was gone. Not dead. Never dead - he was sure the Force would scream that loss to him, just as it did in his worst nightmares, but gone. Her warm presence, the little flickering candle in his mind, snuffed out. She''d shut it entirely. Blocked him out. "No - Tahiri!" he cried out, barely noticing Uunu pawing at him, trying to roll him on his side. The borrowed tizowrym buzzed, feeding him translations that fell on deaf ears. Blindly he grasped out, trying to find his friend. She was there, she was right there, he could feel the presence of a Jedi, not far away at all, but she was like a sealed hatch, locked and bolted from the inside and he pounded fists against it fruitlessly. "Bail Lars! Is it the lambent? Their cries can be confusing. Bail Lars, speak to me!" He let Uunu drag him up until he was sitting. The wind felt cold on his skin, goosebumps shivering up his bare arms. "Ah, I am a fool. Slaves are never prepared for harvesting the lambents. Have I broken you, Bail Lars? I hope not - you were an able slave." Leaning forward and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, until bright lights and stars burst, Anakin managed to groan out a choked denial. "No. No - just, my head hurt, all of a sudden." The Shamed One rocked back on her haunches, bracing her hands on her knees. "The lambents," she said decisively. "They can overwhelm, at least, they can overwhelm those who are not the Chosen People. I forgot, and now Yun-Shuno punishes me." Uunu picked up the living sack Anakin had dropped, jostling and clattering the lambents within. "Still, this is well beyond my quota." It was hard to focus on what she was saying. Something had happened to Tahiri, something worse than everything before. He had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet and charging in half-cocked. Even though the corner of his mind set aside for his friend lay quiet and empty. At least Uunu offered an excuse. "That has to be it," he agreed. "The whispers, they got loud enough that -" he didn''t have to pretend a wince at he memory of the searing pain that slashed through Tahiri''s - and his - forehead. Uunu chewed her lip a moment, then rose and started pawing through the lambent plants in the row beside them. These had not yet been harvested, the bulbs still heavy on their stalks. She would touch a lambent, mutter something and shake her head, then go to the next. Anakin focused on his breathing, calming himself, drawing on techniques to push the adrenaline out and the need to do something back. Vua was getting everything ready. The afternoon was ending; he''d made it another day. Uunu finally seemed to find what she was looking for, sucking in a breath and wrenching a small bulb away from near the bottom of a stalk. She turned to Anakin and hefted the lambent bulb, clearly coming to a decision. She held it out. It was smaller than the ones they had harvested. Where those had been large, smooth crystal spheres, big enough to rest in his palm, this whole bulb was about the same as the husked, ripened crystals. "It''s a stunted fruiting," Uunu said by way of explanation. "It would be cast aside anyway. Carry it with you tonight when you sleep and your mind will grow accustomed to the whispers. Tomorrow, when we harvest again, you will not be overwhelmed." Tomorrow Tahiri would be free and a whole lot of Vong would be dead, but he couldn''t exactly say that. Instead, he took the little bulb from her palm, turning it over. It peeped quietly and whispery, a little susurrus of unsound strange to his usual senses, both natural and Force-given. The bulb even had the soft petals around it, though these were thicker and a little bristly. It was easy to see the difference between a ''ripe'' and ''unripe'' bulb. "Thanks. I''ll do that. Sorry that I, you know." The look Uunu gave him was strange, but she nodded all the same. "I worked you hard for an infidel. Gently, for one of the Chosen People, but we are hardy and made for the labor." She thumped a fist off her chest, then beckoned him to follow her. Back down the rows of whispering lambents, back along the empty rows they had harvested. "Here is a secret, Bail Lars. A slave that is useful is a slave that avoids the sacrifice pits. I would not like to see your blood offered to the Slayer. You are interesting and perhaps we will speak again. It made the harvest less tedious." With that mildly unsettling declaration, the Shamed One brushed past him and left him behind, at the edge of the harvest fields. Other slaves and their Shamed One and Worker taskers were filing out as well, from other lambent fields and ones whose harvest he had no idea of. There was little speaking, which struck him as the strangest. Everywhere in the galaxy, people talked. Getting off a shift, beings would chatter and talk about their days. Complain about overseers and gripe about breaks, argue about where to get food. He''d been around it enough times, when shifts would change over at Coruscant''s Eastport where the Falcon was usually berthed. Dockworkers and longshoremen, slapping backs with hand and tentacle and grasper, shoving goodnaturedly and loudly declaring how they''d spend their evening. The slaves didn''t talk to each other, even when they were given leave to clump up around little cook fires and around the simple dwellings given to them. The Shamed Ones avoided the Workers, and the Workers looked unwilling to waste any sound around the lowest caste. It was a decidedly quiet and uneasy evening that swung in.
''Roost''s sensors were finding nothing and analyst droids were throwing up their metaphorical and sometimes literal hands. No indications whatsoever of any yammosks at all. Each part of the ambushed Vong fleet reacted independently. ''Skip squadrons separated by only a few hundred kilometers would totally ignore openings the other ones might reveal. It was disarray, entirely disarray. The Navy figured the yammosks communicated in some kind of ways they could detect, so each battle had been scraped and turned over with every available sensor log triple and quadruple checked. There were weird gravimetric readings that burbled in the background, and those could be something as mundane as dovin basals burping after swallowing down enough energy to light a Coruscant block. But it might also be yammosks muttering back and forth. Well, points went to whoever guessed the second, because those gravimetric bumps? Jaina didn''t see them on any plot that flicked past in the holotank. "I think this is a bust," Captain Winger said, disappointed. "How the hell did we pounce on the one fleet in the whole Galaxy that didn''t get a squid?" "It''s the first one we''ve seen," Colonel Hamner agreed. He paced, head down and lips pursed, cracking knuckles back and forth. "Fantastic," Jaina muttered under her breath. She''d missed a chance to fly in the biggest furball of the war so far and wasn''t even going to get to say she did anything. She braced her palms on the edge of the holotank, leaning to rest her weight as she idly looked over the abstract battlespace. Little icons danced around and if it had been months ago, it would''ve all been Gree to her. Now she picked out the meanings of each one, tracking down the marker for Rogue Squadron. There they were - slicing through what looked like a pile of Vong transports. Bet they were racking up kills like that. Major Varth was about to run out of paint marking up all the snubfighters later¡­ It wasn''t immediate. First it was a tickle, like humming a few bars from a song that she just couldn''t quite remember the lyrics for. Or seeing a familiar face, but not matching a name just yet. While Winger and Hamner talked about their next moves, Jaina reached for the holotank controls, rotating the battlespace and zooming to different locations almost at random. She wasn''t sure why. It just seemed right. A miid ro''ik flamed out, flanked on either side by Bothan Assault Cruisers. A Star Destroyer limped back into the cover of its squadron, mauled and missing half the guns on one side. "Hey¡­" she murmured, narrowing her eyes. A Vong frigate analogue sped up, outpacing others in its squadron, before being punched apart by concussion missiles spewed out of a nearby Vicstar. A squadron of ''skips swirled and came about, the red dots clustering up and making a sudden run on that same Vicstar. "Hey, wait¡­" she said, a little louder. Colonel Hamner raised an eyebrow, glancing her way. "Jaina? You see something?" Did she? It felt like it. She couldn''t quite, didn''t quite¡­she twiddled at the comm, cycling over to the control band for starfighters. Immediately, tinny voices filled the auditorium, the sound of two dozen squadrons and more engaged in dogfights and bombing runs. All three Jedi winced at the sudden echoes and Jaina toggled to Rogue Squadron''s own internal band. "Colonel Darklighter?" There was a pause. "Sticks? That you?" "Yessir. I''m on the ''Roost with Colonel Hamner and Captain Winger." "Tell me you''ve got us a target." Her CO sounded almost hungry and she imagined him leaning forward in his cockpit. "Not quite. Got a question though, and I think it''s important. That ''skip squadron you''re about to tangle with, tell me if they break." In the holotank, the pips marking out the Rogue''s first and second flight cut across the track for a mob of coralskippers. A few of the Vong starfighters blinked out and Jaina frowned as she saw no signs of the Rogues having to go evasive. "Well, damn. They didn''t. They''re keeping on course." Vividly, she remembered an embattled Victory Star Destroyer, listing hard and fuming from rips and tears in its hull. Coralskippers coming about, all together, screaming down on Pure Pazaak as she chased them in - Her stomach twisted and she took a long step back from the holotank. For a moment, she was back in space, spinning out in the stars. She felt the cold bite at her neck, the way her flightsuit puffed around her in the vacuum, her precious air straining against the hungry void. "Sticks? You there?" "They''re breaking. Colonel, the Vong are about to break. And when they do, they''re going to start suicide runs."
There were slightly more dome-shaped domiciles than there were slaves to pack into them. Not by a lot, but he''d been told yesterday that it was better to bunk together, to at least share a little bit of body heat. The Vong didn''t believe in things like blankets, bedrolls or anything but the simple robe-skins they offered. Plus there was a sort of company in misery, a little bit of tactile reassurance that you weren''t alone in this forsaken place. So to the point, there were a few left empty in the little slave shantytown outside the compound''s walls. He didn''t want to think that the reason there were some spares was because of those sacrifice pits inside the compound. Anakin leaned against the low dome inside one, waiting on Vua. He''d choked down a weird sort of stew, recognizing a few greens in it from the jungle. Whatever the mystery meat was, it was probably better not to know. The domes were probably cast-off shells from something. They had a bit of a lip around the edge, where they dug into the dirt. He imagined some kind of turtle-like creature and wondered if that''s what the mystery meat was. Chop them up for stews, use their shells for homes. Brutal and efficient, just like the Vong to do. The breast pocket of his jumpsuit held the lambent bulb. Uunu wasn''t wrong, either. It still made weird little telepathic noises, but over ''dinner'' he''d slowly tuned them out. Still was strange, though. But sort of reasonable - the Force wasn''t the only means of telepathy in the Galaxy. Nothing was all-encompassing and holistic as the Force, sure, but there were beings who had natural empathic or telepathic abilities. The t''landa Til, for instance. Something about the Vong having that capability, even in a biot, rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe because if they could feel how someone else felt, it made it even harder to understand why they could possibly worship pain so much. How could they do so much horror, if they could feel the wrongness of what they did? Well. Sith and Dark Jedi did, and they had all the boons of the Force. He grimaced. Always did come back down to what you chose to do, didn''t it. What Uunu had told him kept returning to his thoughts while he waited. The Shamed One gave maybe the best explanation for why the Yuuzhan Vong were doing what they were doing that anyone had ever heard. If NRI had word of it, then Uncle Luke hadn''t ever shared it. The Vong didn''t really broadcast much, except for demanding his brother''s head and that of all the other Jedi. She''d talked about it so frankly. Naming the Supreme Overlord, talking about the strife in the castes, the long travels in the space between galaxies. And then this one Vong decided that hey, I think your galaxy should be mine. And here they were. Killing each other with a kind of reckless fervour that was unbelievable. The Vong didn''t try to ask nicely or even demand anything. That was insane, wasn''t it? Sure, it would be naive to think that their Supreme Overlord would show up to the Senate floor and humbly ask for a handful of systems to settle in, but that was only one extreme. They hadn''t even demanded anything. In fact, the Warmaster''s bounty on Jedi was just about the first ''diplomatic'' overture the invaders had offered. When they dusted Sernpidal, they didn''t say ''Give us your planet or die''. They just dropped the moon. It was like they couldn''t even conceive of the concept of surrender. Like they didn''t ask for it because they didn''t know that was an option. Uunu was so sure about her own lot in life. Barely better than a slave and working day in and day out for a culture that spit on her, but all because the Gods promised that one day they might - might! - bless her, she was okay with it. Warriors killing themselves just to get closer and kill a single ''infidel.'' Those chazrach on Obroa-skai, not a single one could ever hope to overcome a Jedi or an Astartes, but they died in droves. No, it wasn''t that the Vong didn''t offer surrender because they wanted to kill people so bad, no, they didn''t offer surrender or terms or anything because they would never accept it. They''d fight to the death before accepting droids around them or technology and they would be glad for it. They didn''t make demands when they arrived because they expected any demands from the most unreasonable to the most reasonable to be rejected, because that''s what they would do. The bulb was in his hand and he was turning it around between his fingers before he realized he''d taken it from his pocket. But that was like the Exiles. They had all these hangups about things that Zalthis talked about. The Ultramarine had freaked when he realized, really, what the ''Rebellion'' had meant. Hated that the idea of it became the reality of ''a bunch of guys turning against the government to overthrow it'', even if the government was sort of unquestionably evil. And Anakin had been surprised that it was even a surprise in the first place, except that now with what he realized with the Vong, it had to be the same kind of blindspot, didn''t it? Zalthis knew the concept, but it wasn''t quite real until Anakin talked about how his dad had turned on the Empire. Like they just dismissed it out of hand, like it was ridiculous that a person could have different morals than the nation they were part of. Droids too, the Imperials hated droids with the same kind of focus as the Vong did. They burned them up on Eboracum and more than a few times he''d seen Aeonid unconsciously shift to the far side of the hall in the Praxeum when passing an astromech or one of their handful of cleaning droids. He turned the lambent bulb over and over, running the pads of his fingers over the coarse petals. Bad decisions, from bad thinking. Aliens hurt us, so all aliens are bad. Technology hurt us, so all technology is bad. Droids hurt us, so all droids are bad. It was ridiculous, it was - it was like a child''s view of the universe. One time, in the apartment on Coruscant when he was a kid, he''d tripped when running around and burned his knees on the carpet. So, all carpets were evil. He''d had a nasty shock from a capacitor he didn''t realize still held a charge when fixing up Fiver once. All electricity was dangerous and probably evil. He wanted to laugh. That couldn''t be it. It couldn''t be that simple. The Vong really weren''t trying to negotiate, not because they couldn''t talk to disgusting infidels, but because they seriously believed the New Republic wouldn''t negotiate. Because if the Vong had the upper hand, ruling the Galaxy like the New Republic did, why in Corellian hells would they care to negotiate? Was this war, was all this death, was this all just misunderstanding. Well, Uunu had said that the Vong would never be content with living alongside ''unclean technology'' and ''perfidious unliving intelligences'', and Anakin did know first-hand how intense their religion was. No people could all be the same, though. Chewie - and thinking of the big Wookiee did not hurt as much as it had - was his dad''s best friend, he was Anakin''s uncle, sure. So all Wookiees were good and honorable and trustworthy? There were Wookiee pirates, Wookiee criminals and smugglers and drug dealers and some had even sold their fellows to the Empire! There had to be Vong that would break from their Supreme Overlord. Ones that just wanted a place to live that wasn''t a dying ship, and they didn''t care if their neighbors a dozen lightyears away had a top-of-the-line Cybot Galactica SweeperPro droid. Like how there were Exiles who didn''t shy away from nonhumans. Astartes who fought alongside Jedi. Because that was it, wasn''t it? That was what Uncle Luke was afraid of. Master Durron didn''t get it and Anakin could admit that until now - just now - he didn''t really either. It wasn''t that they shouldn''t fight the Vong. Luke Skywalker was a warrior like the Galaxy hadn''t seen in a hundred generations. Anyone who said his uncle was a coward was an idiot. It was knowing how far to fight. Kill this warrior who was trying to kill you, yes. Kill that ship that was trying to blow you up, yes. Bomb that Vong colony? Blow up that Vong world? Destroy that Vong worldship? Right now, right now, his best friend was being tortured. If even half of what he was afraid of was going on, what Vua warned about, was true, then Tahiri - he cut off the train of thought. Tahiri was hurt by the Vong. They killed Ikrit and Chewie and so, so many others. But it was a Vong that got him here. It was a Vong that right now was setting up to let Zalthis into the damutek. It was a Vong that was going to help him save Tahiri. Vua was going to help him save Tahiri because Vua wanted bloody revenge. Saving Tahiri was just a sidenote. That was dark. The Force should draw a line there. The blood-hunger that drove the angry Shamed One should reverberate through the Force. Anakin shouldn''t have accepted his deal, no matter what, because that''s what a good Jedi would do. That path of revenge and retribution had ''DARK'' written across it in huge, blaring Aurebesh. The Force didn''t care. It didn''t twist and groan around Vua. It didn''t swell up around the moon like it did when Exar Kun made his last, desperate gambit for power. Vua''s anger didn''t gnaw on the Force like Palpatine at Byss. Did that mean the Force didn''t care? People were dying, worlds were dying, but wasn''t death part of the Force? Everyone would die, eventually. Death wasn''t unnatural in and of itself, it wasn''t dark. The Vong weren''t pulling dark powers to them, they weren''t steeping themselves in the dark side like Palpatine and Cronal and Exar Kun and Jerec. The Force never once warned the Jedi that the Vong were coming. The Vong didn''t play fair, they didn''t fit into the nice and simple worldview, so other Jedi were scared. Luxum found a new enemy that did make sense in the Exiles. Jacen stopped using the Force completely. Kyp and Ganner and some of the others figured that if all the Vong were dead, then the uncomfortable questions didn''t have to be asked. His Uncle, for a while, couldn''t decide on anything. He clenched the lambent bulb in his palm. The crystal inside cheeped soft little noises. Anakin imagined if Palpatine had won. The Empire, triumphant. They take over the whole Galaxy and stamp out every single last bit of light and goodness, until it''s all a dark Empire eternal. The Emperor gets his wish to live forever, and in millenia to come, the Empire invades another galaxy. Would those people there, if the Force had never touched them, and they faced the coming hordes of Sith magic and dark side sorceries, would they have any idea what the light was? Could they even imagine a use of the Force that wasn''t for evil, when they only experienced alchemical monsters and torturous lightning? Maybe it was that the Yuuzhan Vong left whatever light was in them, or part of them, behind a long, long time ago. So long ago that they forgot it, and now here, no one could imagine them any other way. Vua wanted justice for being wronged. That was¡­that was right. That was a good thing, but he wanted it in a twisted way. Uunu wanted redemption and blessing from those that she looked up to. That wasn''t bad either, but it was because they had pushed her down first. The warriors, they called out challenges and sought honor and to show their bravery - which was good - through slaughter and killing anyone and anything in front of them. They rejected the Force a long time ago; or maybe the Force rejected them. Anakin wasn''t the Force. He served it, but it didn''t own him. Rule him. The Force couldn''t find anything good in the Vong, maybe, but he held the lambent bulb that Uunu had offered him. She didn''t need to. It wasn''t even the lambents that made him collapse. But she''d come to him and helped him sit up and asked if was okay. And she''d given him this little gift, so that maybe he wouldn''t hurt so much in the future. Anakin was tired. He was tired of the killing and the pain and the war and the fear. He huddled in a little shelter made of a dead creature, made to hold slaves, on what was once the lawn outside his home. His one, real home. It was so easy to hate. It was right there. His forehead still tingled with ghostly memories of earlier. He could feel Ikrit''s body in his arms. Quietly, Anakin laughed. It was not a laugh of amusement or humor, but one of realization. He never did like to do anything the easy way. Any time now, a crazy Shamed One named Vua Rapuung was going to haul him out of this shelter and bark orders at him. Anakin would touch the mind of a genetically enhanced supersoldier made to kill people just like himself and Vua. And then the three of them would go and save a girl. It was time to stop thinking about everything in the universe like it could fit into neat boxes.
Zalthis lingered in the cool waters of the Unnh, kicking off from the silty bottom every half an hour to briefly let his lips and nose break the surface and refresh his oxygen. It wasn''t the most pleasant, but after tsik-vai directly overhead darkened the rays of the sun and the flyer continued right along, he knew he had succeeded. Night was falling. Anakin and the Vong had parted ways almost twenty-four hours ago. Any moment now.
Attuning, she''d called it. She had to attune them, then Anakin could pop them out of their husks. Each one she peeled the petals from, they''d gone more distant to his senses. If the ''unattuned'' lambents were a clamorous hum, the ones Uunu readied were like a conversation several rooms away. Well. If there was ever a time to put his theory into practice¡­ The petals on this bulb were stiffer. The ends came together in a nodule of cellulose. He picked at it, first with his fingernails, and then worked his thumbnail into the firm flesh of the bulb. The lambent inside peeped louder, a different note filtering into his mind. A question? He had nothing else to do besides wait for Vua. And think. Assuming the crazy Shamed One wasn''t dead for mouthing off to the wrong person, or being in the wrong place, or being annoying. Anakin leaned to the side, peering out of the entrance of his little shelter. The neck-hole for whatever monster this thing came from, he thought. Yavin 8 was a small prick of light, creeping up into the sky. He''d give it another hour, maybe two. Then regardless, he was getting Tahiri. Vua could handle his own problems. The cellulose nodule cracked under the pressure of his thumbnail and Anakin jumped in surprise. A thin, milky fluid leaked out, the petals loosened a little. The peeping upped in pitch. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. All Uunu did was brush the petals off with her fingers. The thought didn''t cross his mind not to. These petals didn''t come off as easily. He had to peel them away and the sticky undersides clung to his fingers. He shook his hands, flicking them away. One petal. Two petals. The peeping grew louder, more urgent. Another petal. He didn''t have the thumb-spur that Uunu had given him. She''d taken it back, even though it couldn''t be used to hurt another Yuuzhan Vong. When the last petal was stripped away, leaving just the husk, the lambent was loud, loud enough that Anakin paused, straining his ears and listening hard for anyone nearby. It had to be audible, the desperate peeping and meeping. He imagined it was more than telepathic, but none of the slaves stirred in neighboring shelters. It wasn''t easy to dig his nails into the rind. Without the sharp spike of the spur, the thick, husk-like bulb just did not want to give. The tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, Anakin sat up more straight and grimaced, jamming both thumbs into seam of the husk. Almost - just - it was just about - His nailbeds ached. Maybe a rock, or something he could - he was almost free in here, the cramped confines, he was almost free, he could feel the whole world shifting - Sap spurted, catching him off guard. Peep peep peep peep - Anakin prised the husk open. The lambent was faceted, not round and perfectly spherical like the ripened ones. What yavinlight slanted through the door to this shelter caught on the dazzling edges of the little crystal. Peep peep peEP PEEP PEEP- The closest approximation to the shout that hammered into his mind when he touched the crystal with his bare skin: FRIEND!
There was light glimmering among the slave minshals. Golden light, familiar light. Vua Rapuung hissed irritation between clenched teeth, stalking down red-tinted paths of churned mud and dirt. Slaves peeked from within their own minshals and recoiled at the sight and smell of him. He paid them no mind. There was only one slave on this entire cursed moon stupid enough to break cover so obviously, so blatantly - Vua swung into the minshal just as the light was doused, grabbing the idiot Jeedai by the collar of his dead clothing. It sickened him to touch the material, but his existence had been sickening and suffering, and this was a trifle of an insult. The Jeedai stared back with wide eyes and opened mouth and a lambent, a lambent of all things clutched in one hand. "Idiot! A thousand curses on your stupidity. Stealing a lambent? Senseless! We go, we go now. There is alarm raised and soon, they might think to look within." To his infinite frustration, the Jeedai remained lax and slack in his grip, staring at Vua as if seeing him for the first time. "I can sense you," Anakin gasped.
It didn''t happen at once. It wasn''t like with Pure Pazaak, where it swept through the Vong fleet like a reflex. Jaina watched as it happened in ones, and twos. A cruiser-analogue took sudden bombardment all along its midline, because its dovin basals stopped shielding it. It barreled forward, nearly clipping a Nebula that rolled hard, reaction thrusters flaring and etheric rudder hard to port. Coralskipper squadrons, piecemeal, broke toward capital ships. It wasn''t comprehensive and with Jaina''s warning, it saved them. "Sithspawn, they aren''t even reacting." Colonel Darklighter swore, voice hissed with static. The Rogues led all of Ralroost''s wing, intercepting sudden suicidal rushes of coralskippers and gunship analogues. Jaina, joined by Captain Winger and Colonel Hamner, leaned over the holotank and gave updates as fast as she could. Colonel Hamner was exceptionally good at picking out patterns, and Captain Winger knew the performance of half the ships in the New Class like the back of her hand. Jaina watched for the telltale shift she remembered, and before she could say a word, Hamner was already pulling up the frequencies for the ships affected, while Winger was laying out advice on how to break, to cover for one another. It felt like they had one mind and in the holotank, the friendly icons moved with a certainty and a fluidity that Jaina had only seen so far in the blinking red of hostiles. The Vong fleet peeled apart. Dozens of ships pulled hard, piling on speed and breaking out of the rear of the battle. They plunged into the gauzy veils of the nebula, some leaping into hyperspace, others continuing on sublight. Ships along the line of contact turned into the New Republic battlegroups, sacrificing defense for the purest and most brutal offense. Plasma spitters flung clouds of superheated material out, magma missiles rippled out of emptying magazines and collision courses were locked in. Some cruiser-analogues switched to projecting gravity wells, shadowing whole swathes of First Fleet to keep them from giving chase to the evacuating ships. Jaina''s cheeks hurt before she realized she was smiling, wide and toothy because the Vong were fleeing. Not a rout; there was order still to how some squadrons broke off and escaped and others came around, but they were running away. Against the thunder of the guns of First Fleet, the entire Vong armada broke apart. There were losses. The three of them, they couldn''t expect everything. Even with Jaina''s spotting, Hamner''s warnings and Winger''s direction, suicide runs made contact. But they were winning. They were winning.
Anakin jogged beside Vua, the Shamed One taking long, purposeful strides. "I have scent-marks for the damutek. Today I tended to the vangaak. The beast you saw me ride in the river." The fishing trawlers. Right. "I will not be questioned. If you are, say nothing. I will speak for you." There were warriors out, in full vonduun plate this time. Several loped past, amphistaves curled around their arms. Their eyes were forward, to the distant jungle line. Vua paid them no mind, continuing to lead Anakin up from the slave town to the yorik coral wall of the compound. All the while, he kept up a low report of what had happened, what was prepared. It took all his focus to pay attention to Vua''s words. Through the lambent, the compound was alive. The Shamed One was alive. The warriors that ran past - alive. They were all shadows, like an outline or an impression, but one that rang with a sense of them. From Vua, Anakin grasped a distant shout of aggression and anger. The warriors that loped past - focus, discipline. He felt others, more nebulous, smeary, like ink-clouds in water. Curiosity there, frustration here. They were real. The lambent purred ceaselessly, a background hum like the flowing of a nearby river in his mind. The little crystal, it had hints and sensations too. That first moment, the bonding; he could barely unpick. Senses of joy, pleasure, surprise. Contentment, maybe - maybe familiarity? Friendliness? For a little rock that could glow if he focused on it, it had a remarkably complex, tiny little mind. He kept it clenched in his fist. It didn''t feel right to put it in his pocket. He wasn''t sure why. "I have prepared the intakes for the damutek to cycle their filtration. When I provide the tasking, it will open the membranes. The Aistarteez is ready?" He could sense Zal nearby. Around the river. ¡­in the river? He suppressed a smile. "Yeah." For the second time, Anakin entered the compound of the Shapers. The damutek was their target, but he took a chance to look around, getting a lay of things. The inner space, bounded by the coral walls, was much like the previous day. Taller, more elaborate shell-buildings that rose in a twist like a seashell. There were lights up on the walls, lights he recognized as lambents now, held by warriors. A dark shape loomed on the opposite side of the space to the damutek - a ship of some kind, maybe as big as a corvette. That hadn''t been there before. Did it come down during the day, when he was working? Last night? Vua marched right up to one of the sealed entrances to the living building and none stopped them on the way to the damutek. They were only momentarily challenged by a warrior guarding it, who narrowed his eyes and sneered at Vua. "You would be better dead," the warrior added as parting, after the entry orifice unsealed itself, a small tongue-like sensor beside it tasting Vua''s wrist. "So that you do not show your Shame around." It amazed Anakin that he could feel the fury wafting from his companion. Not just see it etched onto his ruined face. Vua, admirably, held his tongue, and the entry orifice sealed again behind them. Inside the damutek was strange. The ground was spongy and slightly springy, the walls tall and curved, the hall gently bending along. There were natural openings that Vua led them past, Anakin glancing into each. Some had piles of shell-like containers, stacked neatly. Others had slumbering piles of biots and beasts he''d never seen before. "The succession pool is in the center of the damutek. It is secluded and considered sacred. Likely, it will not be occupied. The outer chambers are for storage." Luck, or the Force, stayed with them. The outer halls of the damutek were almost empty. They passed only two other Yuuzhan Vong, both in colorful robes that visibly turned up their noses as Vua led Anakin past. It was amazing. Just Vua''s presence was like a stealth field. The Vong didn''t just overlook them, they wanted to overlook them. It was as easy as just walking right in. The pool was empty. If the damutek was like a huge flower, relaxed open, then the center, open to the sky, held the dark waters of the succession pool. Tiers of coral stepped down toward the circular pool in the middle, no more than the height of a shallow step for each tier. The pool itself lapped against the coral rim, smelling slightly of ammonia and chlorine. Above, familiar stars glinted in the night sky. "It''s a little crazy that you can just¡­do all this." Anakin commented, crouching down beside Vua as the Shamed One prodded at few nerve bundles hidden beneath a yorik coral scale near the water''s edge. "Why? It is the task of Shamed Ones to do all those duties most odious. Cleaning the root of a damutek is a duty no Worker would lower themselves for. It is suited for only the unclean." Nothing seemed to happen when Vua folded the coral plate closed again. "How will we know?" "When your idiotic questions cease, and the Aistarteez is here! Did you expect great tremors, to warn all the guards that we open the way?" He chose to ignore that, reaching for Zalthis. It would have been harder, far harder, before their meld. Now, the Astartes stood out from the jungle life and the life in the river easily. Anakin let some of his nervousness and sense of urgency bleed through, focused on ideas of water, darkness, picturing the succession pool in his mind. He wasn''t sure what Zalthis would get from it. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. He waited, with baited breath. The lambent''s sense of the Vong all around him intruded; it was hard to get much of a read on things, almost like he had to pierce the Force through the veil the lambent suddenly sprung up around him, shaped like the emotions of the Yuuzhan Vong inhabitants. It seemed like Zalthis was moving, but he wasn''t sure. "Time passes, Jeedai." Vua remained crouched beside the pool, his eyes glittering in starlight. Lank hair fell to his shoulders and if possible, the Shamed One smelled even worse. "Tell me something I don''t know." Vua squinted at him. "The coufee is unrelated to the amphistaff. They are different clades entirely." "What?" "You did not know this." "No?" Vua grunted, returning his focus to the lapping waters of the pool. Anakin did too. A minute later he reached over and shoved Vua. The Shamed One absorbed the blow, scowling. "I wasn''t being literal!" "Nuance does not translate." Thankfully for them both, the water of the succession pool rippled hard, sloshing - and then the familiar sight of Zalthis climbed out of the far side, water pouring from his scout armor, splashing deafeningly - to Anakin - back into the pool. "Zal!" he called, pitching his voice low. The pool itself was only a dozen meters in width. He met the Ultramarine halfway, arm already out. They clasped, hand to wrist. "I heard you loud and clear," Zal said with a smile. "I was worried." "I gave my word." "I do not care." Vua held out Anakin''s lightsaber. The feel of it back in his palm was right. Like he was complete again, the cool metal perfect under his fingers. The urge to flick it on was intense. Likewise, Zal offered Ikrit''s ''saber, and then a comm bead to place in his ear. Funny. Tizowrym in one, comm bead in the other. Vua said he suspected where the Shaping chambers lie, but wanted to reconnoiter. Unfortunately, Zal agreed, so Anakin had to concede. The Shamed One could get around with that convenient aura of ''don''t look at the casteless'', but once someone spotted Zal, their cover was blown. Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. Jaina had said something about that whole dynamic with the Rogues¡­ "I will return momentarily. If you are found, I will return even quicker, for I will hear the slaughter." Vua grinned suddenly, teeth rotted and black in the starlight. "Either way. The Slayer feasts tonight. Aihya!" He dashed away and Anakin felt the swell of excitement chase the shape of the Shamed One. There wasn''t really anywhere in the round chamber of the pool to hide, so he and Zal took either side of one of the sealed entrances. Orifices. Hatches. Whatever it might be called. Idly, the Ultramarine wrung out some of his fatigues, gathering a handful of the material and squeezing. Anakin belted again the holstered bolt pistol Sol had given him, Zal handing it back. He''d also managed to pick up Anakin''s discarded chestplate from the jungle, and he secured that back over his jumpsuit again. The big crack from the bug he got shot with weakened it, but a bit more protection was better than none. Zal offered grenades, but Anakin turned them down. "Did you really spend the whole day in the river?" Zal rolled his shoulder, patting at the hilt of his power sword, the grenades at his belt, ammunition pouches. "Most of it. It was surprisingly peaceful." "Jaina always told me there were monsters in there." Zal raised an eyebrow. "Well, you don''t count." The Ultramarine smiled. "This has gone better than I could have hoped," Zal said a few moments later. A small understatement, since they were in the most secure Yuuzhan Vong place on the moon and no one knew it, but he could definitely agree. "Perhaps¡­perhaps you were right to place your trust in¡­Vua." "He''s crazy, but he''s, well, he''s a predictable crazy." "I could not have made that leap," Zal admitted, voice low, almost a whisper. "And I think, that may have cost Tahiri her life." "But we did. And we''re here." His friend''s silence was telling. "What is it, Zal?" "What is more worthwhile - to complete your duty, or to do it rightly?" "That''s a heavy question." Zal rolled his shoulders, something adjacent to a shrug. "I had time to think, today. I disobeyed orders to come here. Did I tell you that?" He had not. He racked his brain, thinking back. No, not after they left Sol and Sannah behind; that had been a blur of days sliding past and terrain slipping under his feet. And not when they were at the makeshift ''camp'' as Anakin fixed up the gunship either. They''d both been a little evasive, mentioning about how ''Captain Thiel was well prepared'' and that they only brought what they had on hand. Neither of the Ultramarines said anything about going against orders. "Is that why you''re asking?" Without his helmet, the Ultramarine was like an open book to read. His hair, curly and dark, was longer, curling at his ears. His jaw was set, the unnatural broadness and solidity of his features not quite enough to hide how young Zal still was. It was hard to believe they were just about the same age, as best as they could determine it. Zal was probably a little older, maybe a year or so, but the conversions were tough. "Obroa Skai was my first combat deployment." Zal mused. "Fondor was my second. My entire service has been fighting for your galaxy." "Not counting Calth." The Ultramarine grimaced. "Not counting Calth, no. I never even saw the Word Bearers, then. Just their cultist auxiliaries. I - we, were lucky. I said that my cadre was preparing to board. We only ever faced the dregs of them. We weren''t important enough, I suppose. But Obroa Skai¡­" "Where Sergeant Ascratus died. And Zev Veers." "Yes. In many ways, I have served more closely with Jedi than my own brothers." He palmed the pommel of his power sword, a steel Ultima to match the one on his plastron. "Varian, Amalius, Tercinax; I don''t know them. Sol and I had a chance, a short one, on Temerity, but¡­" Tahiri was better at stuff like this. He felt like he had to say something, should say something, but anything died long before it reached his tongue. Anakin opened his sense a little, just for a quick read - was Zal¡­was he embarrassed? Two meters tall, punch-out-a-wookiee, and the Ultramarine seemed abashed. "You are my brother, Anakin. I am proud that you''ve trusted me with this." Anakin swallowed the sudden knot in his throat. Zal rubbed at the back of his head, digging at his damp hair. "There is a habit, you understand. Among the Legions. When seconded to another, sometimes - when there is a-" "A friendship." He cut in. "I''m honored, Zal. Really. I couldn''t have done this by myself." The Ultramarine held up a hand, halting Anakin. "No, let me finish. Sergeant Ascratus shared it with us once. He had served with the Iron Hands. There was a mark, here, at his wrist." Zal turned his hand palm up, showing his inner gauntlet. The cerulean ceramite was still a little damp from the pool and the river. He tapped at the armor. "A mark of the X Legion, their emblem. A recognition." Zalthis seemed young, his face alight. Younger than Anakin, suddenly excited. "I would be honored if you would leave a mark for the Jedi." He had a sharp little stylus, for digging debris out of ceramite. He handed it to Anakin, and with a surprisingly steady hand, Anakin etched the rayed Starbird, bounded by a ring. The order lacked an official emblem, but this one had been used sometimes, even by the HQ on Coruscant; and of the many sigils old and new the Jedi used, Anakin had always liked it best. The Starbird was the symbol of the Rebellion, after all. And he''d always thought of the rays behind it as the Force, radiant. Zal peered down at the mark, lips quirking in a grin. "I don''t really wear armor, at least not usually." Anakin unhooked his lightsaber. "But this would work, right?" The pride that rolled from Zalthis as the Ultramarine worked a tiny Ultima into the silvery casing was almost physical.
Tossing and turning in her nest-bunk, Nen Yim finally gave into her restlessness and rose, pulling a simple robe about herself. She left her headdress, tugging her hair into a simple knot, held by a squirming clasp, and padded out of her small chambers on bare feet. Yet another benefit to her rank as Adept: her own living space. Cramped, yes, small, certainly, some distance from the Shaping grotto in the outer shell of the damutek, but it was hers. She had never had her own space before. The lambents in the halls were low and dim, just enough to see by. All was quiet and restful. Her vaa tumor was a little swollen and sore, pressing against the inside of her skull above her temple, but not painful. Just a sensation of pressure, slight light sensitivity. Barely any symptoms for the sacred implant, in truth. In time, it would be a transcendent agony, and she would have to take her leave as Mezhan did for a time. That pressure, combined with ruminating on the spineray''s modified interface kept sleep away from her. It had occurred when she checked the connection to the subject earlier and it stuck like a grain of sand in the eye. Her notes on the modification of the implantor process were messy and poorly collated. None had access to them but Mezhan. Her Master likely didn''t even care. But Nen Yim cared, and realizing that such a disarray was a simple qahsa query away from Mezhan''s attention was mortifying. Was it sensible to lose sleep to review her notes and better sort them? Perhaps. The subject slumbered inside the vivarium, leaning against the clear membrane with her legs pulled to her chest. Nen Yim beckoned to a stool and it clambered over, offering its smooth carapace for her to perch on as she stroked a stul-villip awake. The biot everted, gelatinous internals flickering as pinpricks of phosphorescence rippled through the medium. She''d need a cognition hood, likely, to best approach this. There were several slumbering on the other side of the chamber. Nen Yim rose, nudging the stool to step to the side. An hour. She''d give herself an hour, at least organize her notes into a more legible, digestible format that wouldn''t bring shame on her Domain to the fourth generation. One cognition hood was dehydrated and she frowned, caressing the soft, leathery flesh, before picking out another. The soft sound of membranes wicking open indicated someone else had found themselves restless and insomniac. "Master," she began, turning around with an explanation on her lips. It died at the sight that stole the breath from her lungs. A Jeedai, all dark hair and icy blue eyes, hands gripping the cursed dead-metal weapons of their kind. A Shamed One, leering and looming, a disaster of a creature mutilated and decaying. And the largest, looming behind them like a monster from myths. An Aistarteez. It was impossible. She was dreaming. Surely, she was dreaming. "Good evening, Adept Shaper," the Shamed One said, voice redolent with mirth and a promise of violence. "We have business with your Jeedai."
Vua was talking to the Shaper woman. Zalthis was standing there, intimidatingly. Anakin was trying to breathe. The air in the lab was thick. Stifling. He tried to suck it in through his mouth, but it wasn''t enough. Someone was messing with the atmospheric systems. Something was wrong. There was a girl in the lab. She was leaning against a clear wall that sort of looked like transparisteel. She was pale, folded up in the corner, resting her head against the partition. She was wearing a robeskin like the slaves and workers wore, a sleeveless and backless one that reached her knees. Someone was squeezing Anakin''s ribs. He could see her chest slowly rise and fall. Blood covered her face. Dried blood. Three parallel gouges ripped down her forehead. A thick, fleshy cord wandered around the enclosure, linking up to a hunched and leathery shape on her back. Long, finger-like digits curled up to cradle the nape of her neck and base of her skull. She was a human. A woman. A girl. She wasn''t Tahiri. She couldn''t be. Tahiri was bright. Tahiri had long, wavy hair the color of gold, the color of the sun glinting off the Unnh River at sunset. She was loud and she was full of energy, she was always moving, she was - she wasn''t this. Vua shoved the Shaper along, barking words. The Shaper looked terrified. She was shaking. Her black hair was done up in a complex, shiny knot. Vua pushed her toward a fleshy console. More barked words. Anakin couldn''t look away from the person in the chamber. The girl. Woman. Human. The - she - She woke up when the clear partition slid open. It jostled her. She turned, arms around her knees, turned just her head. The thing on her back, her neck, restricted the motion a little. Those weren''t Tahiri''s eyes, that looked at him empty and uncomprehending. Her eyes were green, green as grass, green as the deep jungle, the green of life to the ice of his own blue. She didn''t have gold flecks that tinted her irises toward hazel. There wasn''t space between where he was, and where she was. She was there, in the lab chamber, and then he was kneeling in front of her, reaching out with shaking hands, for her shoulders, and she recoiled. She recoiled back from him, hairless brows furrowing. The shape of her face was right, even under the dried blood - her cheekbones sharper, a little more fleshless. The gashes on her forehead made his stomach turn. "Who are you?" she asked, and the tizowyrm buzzed in Anakin''s ear. The feeling of the trembling biot, the sound of the rolling syllables that came from the girl, a language that meant death, that meant death and pain - would never leave him. His eyes burned. "It''s me, Tahiri. It''s me, it''s Anakin." Gold-green eyes narrowed. She didn''t even have eyelashes. "I don''t know you." "You do." Gently, ever-oh-so-gently, he brushed against her with the Force. Tentative. Caring. Soft, like fingertips to fingertips. She shivered, wincing. Confusion swam across her face and her eyes flicked to the pale-faced Shaper watching them both. "It didn''t hurt?" She frowned again, eyes darting back and forth. Bare wisps of hesitation trickled from the iron hold she held in her mind. "Why didn''t it hurt?" "You cannot -" the Shaper whuffed out breath, folded almost in half by Vua''s casual fist in her gut. The Jedi in Anakin said that it was unnecessary. The rest of him felt nothing but gratification. They did this to her. They made her like this, left her covered in her own blood. They did this. They did this. He took her shoulders, wincing at the feel of her bones, sharp against her skin. Why hadn''t he been faster? He took too long. He waited, he dithered, he wasted time, he should''ve, he should''ve - Anakin physically wrenched his skytrain of thoughts back on course. She needed him, now. "Tahiri. Think. It''s me. Come on." She shivered, turning away but watching him from the corner of her eye. "I know your voice. It was in my head." "Yes! Yes. I''m sorry, I''m so sorry -" Gold-green eyes warmed. The tension in her face relaxed. "Anaykin?" she whispered. In the Force, she reached back. Fingertips to fingertips. Slender arms came up, and hands grabbed at the collar of his jumpsuit. "It''s me," he sobbed. Tears burned hot down his cheeks. "I don''t know who I am," she whispered, voice cracking. "Riina, Tahiri - I don''t, I''m - Anaykin, am I Riina? Tayhir''ai?" It wasn''t Basic that tumbled from her in a sudden rush. The accent on her name, on his - fury flashed through him, a forestfire, a flash-burn in the summer jungle, sudden and rippling and searing, leaving drifting ash behind. "Tahiri," he said, enunciating each syllable exactly. "And you''re my friend. My best friend." Her hands felt boney when she grabbed his jaw. "Am I?" she whispered, then pulled him roughly to her. Her lips were chapped, cracked and tasted like iron. It was a moment. Just a moment. Then she shoved him back and he stumbled, falling on his rear. "Get me out of this," Tahiri hissed. "Vua," Anakin coughed out, mind spinning. "You heard her."
Nen Yim''s life could be counted in minutes. Her time slipped through her odd-numbered fingers like grains of sand. The Jeedai would torment her, kill her, destroy everything she had done. She watched, numb as weeks - weeks - of careful refinement, neural sculpting and Shaping unlike anything done before came apart as the male Jeedai crouched in front of the subject. She took a grim measure of cheer that she still spoke in the holy tongue, in ibi''Yun, instead of the gutteral barking of the infidel, but it was a trifle. The ugly expression on the male Jeedai when he turned, pointing a demanding finger at her made her step back - against the broad chest of the Shamed One who held her Shaper hand in a punishing grasp. "Let her go," the Jeedai snarled. "Now." "But the project-!" "She is Tahiri!" He leapt to his feet, the slender dead-metal cylinder of the Jeedai weapon clenched in white knuckles. "She has a name! Let her go, or, I swear on the Force, I''ll kill you, I''ll kill you and every single last Vong on this moon. I''ll burn this whole place to the ground, I''ll find every single Shaper and I''ll kill them too! Let her go!" By the end he was shouting and the air itself rippled, his words a physical force that stumbled even the Aistarteez back. The Shamed One manhandled her over to the manipulator for the spineray. Nen Yim gasped as he gave her Shaper hand a friendly squeeze, enough that the carapace and endoskeleton creaked. "You heard the Jeedai. Free her." "You are betraying your people," she hissed, but reached for the neural bundles. It was salvageable. They were deep in the damutek, there could be an alarm raised. They might free the subject for now, but they could retrieve her. The fury in the Jeedai''s eyes told her that his threat wasn''t idle. All the memories, all their records and the new-found methods would be lost, irretrievable - no. No, this was acceptable. She would free the subject, yes, free her and then sound the alarm. Master Mezhan would do the same. The project was paramount; this would preserve it. The spineray, at her prodding, first released the subject''s skull, then, one by one, withdrew the tendrils that wove into the subject''s spine. Nen Yim felt faint pride at how the girl twitched and shivered, the pain of each retraction undoubtedly incredible, but made no noise at all. The biot slid down her back, dropping to the floor. Before it could scuttle away to its niche, the Jeedai lit his weapon and clove it in half. Better the spineray than her. Better it than all the records and memories in the chamber. She repeated it as a mantra. "You will be condemned forever for this, Shamed One." Nen Yim promised. "Your name will be cursed for a thousand generations." "My name is Vua Rapuung," he corrected her, as if guiding a misled pupil. "And I have already been cursed."
Tahiri stood up on trembling legs. She slapped away Anakin''s offered hand, scowling. Her robeskin shifted, readjusting to seal up over her spine. He wanted to hug her, he wanted to grab her hand and run away forever. He wanted to take his humming lightsaber and turn the entire place into a charnel house. Worse still, he could feel the terror of the Shaper through his lambent. It felt good. He hated that it felt good. "We''re going to get out of here. No one knows we''re here, Vua has a way out. It''s over, it''s all over." She reached up, prodding at the slashes on her forehead. Warning died on his lips as she didn''t even flinch as she poked at the torn flesh. "It''s not over." she said. Their connection was weak, but not so weak that he didn''t sense her resolve shift. Firm. The intention hit him about the same time as she made up her mind. Ikrit''s ''saber ripped from Anakin''s belt, yanked by the Force. It slapped into Tahiri''s palm and the short blade hissed to life. "Mezhan!" she screamed. The temperature in the grotto dropped. The damutek quaked. Like a freighter kicking into hyperspace, Tahiri sprinted from the grotto, shoving Anakin aside with a fist of casual telekinetic force. "Oh, sithspawn," Anakin swore. The very walls started to howl. Intransigence Chapter XVI XVI: To Do So Rightly Woe to You
It took more than two hours from when the first ships started to flee, but by the end, the Taldik Suggaja Nebula was empty of all but the tumbling clouds of coral debris that had once been Yuuzhan Vong warships, and the casualties and survivors of the First Fleet. Ralroost, scorched and seared a little, but still stalwart, still ready, watched over her charges as the squadrons and stacks formed up. Jaina nursed a mild headache, slouched on one of the seats halfway up the auditorium. Colonel Hamner spoke quietly into a comlink, while Captain Winger kept an eye on the hologram that now showed only friend icons. Jaina didn''t have the same adrenaline high and shakes like she would climbing out of her cockpit, but all the same, she couldn''t help grinning a little each time she glanced at the hologram of local space. First Fleet had taken losses; that was unavoidable, but the preliminary reports had the mood in the ''Roost almost exuberant. Powerful enough that she was sure even non Force-sensitives could feel the bubbling, ferocious excitement among the sailors. So far, the best ratios against the Yuuzhan Vong, had been around one-to-one. And that was when the Vong were outnumbered. The bill for the Battle of the Nebula (though the final name was definitely in flux, with the ''The Great Rock-Breaking'' being in contention) had over three-fifths of the Yuuzhan Vong fleet destroyed or considered severely damaged, in comparison to about one quarter of the First Fleet taskforce. Almost a one to three ratio, absolutely unheard of so far in the war. And for the First Fleet, the casualties weren''t all total losses, either. Holding the field like this, actually driving the Vong back, meant that crippled ships could be towed back out again, or patched up enough to limp home. Gently, Jaina massaged her temple, still wide-eyed and staring at the moving icons in the hologram as the taskforce reassembled itself. Wings of snubfighters were coming back in to be replaced by fresh pilots for combat air patrol, and pickets surged out to set up a cordon and watch for any potential Vong counterstrike. She doubted there would be any. They had trounced them today, spanked the scarheads and sent them home crying. Sure, no yammosk - and she was sure Colonel Loran and other intel spooks were going to be pulling their hair to figure out just what that meant - but if she had to weigh killing a squid, or getting two thirds of a Vong fleet to burn, she''d taken the latter any day. And a lot of the surviving ships, the ones crippled instead of blown apart, were because of her, Kenth and Alexandra. Because of her experience getting voided, because she knew what to look for with the suicide runs. It wasn''t the same as slipping her crosshair over a jinking skip, or dumping proton torpedoes into the guts of a cruiser-analogue, but it mattered. It was something she could do, as a Jedi, but it was only really made possible because of her experience as a pilot. It gave her ideas. Could she do it with the Rogues? Could she juggle tracking the wider battle while flying? She had with Jacen and Anakin, running the gauntlet at Dubrillion in their meld. It definitely was worth thinking about. Or if not the whole battle, just part of it. Watch over the Rogues, like their own little war coordinator. Keep them all coming back home to Ralroost each time. No more Annie Capstans. The icons designating Rogue Squadron slipped up close to the ''Roost, and Jaina hauled herself to her feet. Colonel Hamner glanced up, read her desire on her face and gave her a sharp nod, cut with a smile. She tossed a salute to both the Colonel and Captain, both of whom returned it, and then darted out of the auditorium, making for the hangar. She wasn''t going to miss celebrating with the Rogues, not for anything in the galaxy.
Anakin leapt after Tahiri, Vua Rapuung hot on their heels. The Shamed One cast aside the young Shaper he had held hostage, the Yuuzhan Vong woman stumbling, catching herself against a protruding lump of meat and tendrils. For a long moment Zal eyed her, his fingers tapping against the pommel of his power gladius. She stared back at him, eyes wide, face pale. Her blanched skin contrasted sharply the dark sacs below her eyes and her dark hair, messily contained in a bun. Her mouth worked, but no words were formed. Instinct, prudence, told him to cleave the Shaper in two and be after his Jedi brother. She was an enemy, a scientist, a worker of evils and torture. The grim appearance of Tahiri spoke to that enough; yet he stayed his hand. Anakin had not slain her, ignoring the Shaper entirely to chase after his wayward friend. Neither had Vua Rapuung been moved to killing either, despite the Shamed One''s vocal and evident animus against the entire Shaper caste. Zal cocked his head, considering. The Shaper trembled, gripping tight the fleshy console she leaned against. The chamber, the laboratory, bore nothing recognizable. His mind made potential analogues, but the fleshy, pulsating, quivering things scattered around were nonsensical. Anything might be some bio-computer, anything might be an archive of experimentation and torment done to Tahiri. He''d trusted Anakin before, trusted him again and again. If Anakin had let this Shaper live¡­ Zal plucked two krak grenades from his belt, priming both. He met the Shaper''s wide, terrified eyes and raised one eyebrow, hefting both grenades in clear view. Her breath caught. Zalthis tossed one to the left, the other to the right. He turned his back, bursting into a sprint to pursue the other two of this slapdash rescue team. He did not look back, exiting the laboratory into one of the living passages of the damutek, catching sight of Vua Rapuung far ahead. If the Shaper lived, she lived. If she died, she died. The doubled krump of the grenades going off made the living floor underfoot tremble. Alarms wailed, moaning and watery, ululating and hooting from hidden throats. Theoretical; exfiltration from an alerted enemy compound. Practical¡­
Tahiri, all whipcord limbs and pounding bare feet, managed to keep ahead of him. Ikrit''s lightsaber burned bright in her fist, the short blade still just as potent as any other. "Tahiri! Tahiri, stop!" She didn''t. The damutek wailed endlessly, fit to wake the dead. There''d be warriors, and biots, and who even knew what kind of horrible defense mechanisms - like he was tempting fate, the walls, ceiling and floor squirmed, flexed, and clenched. Like a throat closing, like inflammation bringing swelling, the entire corridor pinched closed just behind Tahiri. Anakin whirled - and behind him, just behind Vua who was hot on his heels, the same thing happened. "Use your Jeedai weapon, fool!" Vua spat. Muffled, from behind them, Anakin heard a spit-crackle of electricity. The tip of a power blade punched through the blockage. He lit his ''saber and slashed vertical, horizontal, diagonal at the barrier before them. Whatever the damutek was made of, was no vonduun or yorik; his blade ripped right through the living material and it even recoiled a little from the sudden cauterizing heat. Zal punched and ripped through the blockage behind them, grunting a little at the effort. Vua bulled ahead, setting his shoulder against the sagging flap Anakin cut and forcing his way through. "It will not try again; the damutek lives and will fear the pain and know it will not work." Vua informed them. Tahiri, he sensed not far ahead, had to cut through a pinched hallway just like they had. All he could read from her was roiling, rolling fury, a thunderhead of crimson and lightning. Her thoughts were muddled and distant. She felt unfamiliar and it made him want to scream. "Tahiri!" he shouted again, Vua and Zal following his lead, trusting he knew where in the unmarked halls to go. Anakin didn''t have a clue how Tahiri knew where she was going, even though he suspected who owned the name she''d screamed. The ugly thought was that what the Vong had been doing to her, maybe she knew the layout of a place like this. Maybe she knew how to read differences in the color of the living walls, or maybe it was worse, maybe it was like his lambent - who chirruped happily in his clenched fist - and she could sense the building, or talk to it, or understand it¡­ She will not be as you know, Vua''d said. He''d said - assumed, even - that Anakin was aiming to kill Tahiri. He''d warned Anakin and told him that whatever was left from what the Shapers did, it wouldn''t be the girl he knew. She recognized him. He held onto that like a drowning man clutching a scrap of wood. They caught up to Tahiri just a few minutes later, pursuing her halfway around the damutek, through several curving corridors and up a ramp. She stood braced, feet shoulder width apart, lips peeled back in a snarl as she set Ikrit''s lightsaber against a smoking, steaming gash in an expanse of chitin. "She''s in here," Tahiri growled, Anakin''s tizowyrm buzzing and making every word she spoke unsettlingly doubled. "She''s in here!" Vua cocked his head. "Ah, Mezhan. Always paranoid, always fearful. That is arrduun, Jeedai. The Master Shaper has proofed her chambers against amphistaff and Jeedai blade, I see." Tahiri whirled around and spat on the floor to the side. "Don''t speak to me, Shamed One," she hissed. Then her eyes flew wide and she looked mortified, free hand clapping over her mouth. "I hear Mezhan''s words flow from your mouth." Vua shot back, unphased. The emotion that rippled from him, wafting around him, flowing and swirling like heat-shimmer from the hollow shape of him in the world was tinted in dark and bitter amusement. Anakin clenched his fingers tighter around his lambent, around the hilt of his lit lightsaber. "Zal, can you break through that?" He kept his focus on Tahiri. Every muscle was tight and locked, her cheeks hollowed and collarbones prominent in the neck of the robeskin. She looked hollowed out, thin and drawn, skittish and ready to bolt in an instant. He wanted to hug her, to just wrap her up and apologize over and over and over - Anakin kept his anguish from his expression. Zal sidled past, a wary eye on Vua and Tahiri both. He studied the carapace ''hatch'', the way it sealed against the rugose living wall to either side. A few smoldering cuts there revealed subdermal chitin as well, indicating there would be as little success in cutting around the door. "Do not kill the Shaper," Vua warned, as Zal rapped knuckles off the chitin door. "Kill her, and I will kill you. Do not step in the way of my revenge." Tahiri hissed like a krayt dragon, glowering at Vua through her mask of dried blood. "Your revenge, Shamed One? Get in line!" "Easy, once she''s in our custody, we''ll¡­" he trailed off. They''ll what? The damutek was still screaming alarms. He could feel the subtle swirls of Vong on the move, diffuse and hard to pin down, but evident enough. They''d be up to their necks in warriors in no time. Supposing they did have the Shaper, this ''Mezhan'', then what? Just walk on out? He barely even registered Vua threatening Tahiri''s life: threatening to kill people was as common as breathing to the Vong. It was basically Vua''s way of saying hello. As if reading his thoughts, though, Vua grinned. "I have a most perfect plan, Jeedai." The Shamed One leered. "And have I yet led you wrongly?" The smug look on Vua''s face was almost enough to make Anakin want to disagree on principle. But then Zalthis punched a hole in the carapace door, chitin splintering and cracking, and there simply wasn''t time to snipe back. The Ultramarine wedged fingers into the crater, getting both hands in there and flexed, fatigues strained around his immense biceps. Chitin crackled, split, and tore apart under his incredible strength. Anakin''s lambent saved his life. He was first through, reacting faster than both Tahiri and Vua, darting into the darkened chamber beyond as Zal ripped half the door away. He reacted so smoothly, so easily, that he did not even realize the danger until it had already been answered. This was the smoothness of being in tune with the Force, the fluidity of reading danger from those who meant him harm, and it was impossible against the Yuuzhan Vong. Yet his lambent cried alarm to him, Anakin felt vicious intent and his lightsaber whipped, flicking out to clip one, two lengths of whip-cord thin, razor-tipped tendrils away a handsbreadth from his face. A tall woman, willowy and wrapped in a vibrant robe of crimson, pinks and greens, wore a sneer, one inhuman hand extended. It matched, mostly, the implanted one of the Shaper from just before; too many digits, covered in a leathery carapace. Two fingers pointed at him, both split open at the tips. Thin, flexible stings whipped back and retracted into her fingers, the ends of each smoking. "Mezhan," he said. "Anakin Solo, I presume." she retorted, in flawless Basic.
Then, Vua tackled her about the midsection. Mezhan Kwaad had a funny understanding of being a prisoner. Zalthis marched her along, one huge hand wrapped around what Vua called her ''Shaper''s hand'', engulfing it entirely. His other palm wrapped around her shoulder as he drove her along. Vua kept shooting looks at the Shaper, a dark and cruel look in his eyes. Tahiri ground her teeth, staying a few meters from Anakin and Mezhan both, distinctly separate from their little group. The damutek still hooted and howled, but they only saw the backsides of fleeing workers or fearful eyes peeking out of side chambers. Mezhan was not driven along by Zal; she strode along as if they were her escort. She did not wilt under the furious gaze of Vua, nor the clenched-teeth animus of Tahiri. She held her chin up, a living headdress of writhing tendrils flexing this way and that. "Oh, Vua. You are indeed a pitiable creature." "That insults you more than I," Vua shot back. Anakin was starting to get the idea there was a lot more of a history there than just ''she probably screwed him over once.'' "I promised this day would come, did I not? And here I stand, just as the Gods have decreed." "The only God you should have ever concerned yourself with is the Pardoner. Perhaps you could have made a worthwhile living out of your worthless life - instead of allying with infidels and heretics." Zal squeezed Mezhan''s shoulder. Only a tightening of her jaw indicated any discomfort. "Riina, do remember this lesson. Remember why the Gods arrange our castes so." Tahiri bristled, said nothing. Ikrit''s lightsaber remained lit in her hand. The damutek hooted and wailed, and no one challenged them. Sweat trickled down Anakin''s back. He waited for the other boot to drop. It was easy. It was too easy. Where were the warriors, where were the toxic gasses and poisons and biots, there was no way they could waltz into a place like this and just break Tahiri out, easy as that. Again, Vua preempted him. "I know Harmae. He will be waiting for us at every exit. We can stay within, until he is prepared and he strikes from all directions at once, or we can vacate the damutek, and pass into his grasp all the same." "Harmae''s the guy in charge?" "Yes. He is simple minded and direct. Typical for a Carr." "And you said you had a plan." Vua sneered at Mezhan, gesturing at the Shaper. "This one is high in standing. Her works on the Jeedai are valued. I do not know why you value living so, but if you wish to leave this moon alive, she will be our hostage." Understanding hit Anakin, then. "No way that will work. You want us to take one of the ships!" That corvette-analogue he''d spotted on the way in. Not that big, maybe double or triple the size of the Falcon in length, sitting within the compound''s walls alongside some coralskippers. It¡­just might work. That was always a bit of a snag in their planning, which was the ''way out'' part. They figured to get back to the foothills and call in Sol and the Thunderhawk for extraction, but that ran the risk of the transport being hit by coralskippers on the way in. Or, they could try and make it all the way back there on foot, but when Zal and Anakin had made the trek, driven by Astartes biology and buoyed by the Force, it had been several days. They were blurry, he wasn''t sure quite how many, but it was under a week. Trying to do that with Tahiri in the state she was now? The Vong would be all over them, especially alerted as they were. But if they could steal a ship¡­ "How would we even fly it?" Tahiri beat Vua to it, her voice low and subdued. "I can talk to it, I think," she muttered. Vua nodded. "And if she cannot, I can." "Harmae will shoot it down before it could ever take to the sky," Mezhan cut in. "Silence," Zal ordered. The Shaper''s lips quirked. "You heard the Shamed One. I am simply too valuable. Your orders are without bite, heathen." Zal''s arm flexed and there was a splintering crackle. Mezhan went white, then grey, swaying on her feet. Ichor dripped from Zal''s clenched fist: his clenched fist around her Shaper''s hand. "Bite this," Zal growled, shoving her along. That proved enough to shut the Shaper up.
To his eternal and continual chagrin, the Shamed One was proven right, once again. Exiting the primary ingress of the damutek, which opened freely at a taste of the Shaper''s wrist, the motley group found Yuuzhan Vong warriors arrayed in battle-ready formation. He counted them instantly, unconsciously. Forty-six warriors, or about one fourth of what Vua Rapuung claimed present. They were professionally deployed, spread in a wide semicircle around the exit of the damutek. Some knelt, bracing long-barreled carbines that looked like polished wood. Behind them, he saw the damnable shapes of the massive, infantry-portable plasma launchers braced against shoulders. Others held ubiquitous amphistaves writhing in their grips. Some wore full vonduun plate, helmets showing only glinting eyes. Some wore the half-plate, limbs bare. Before them all, with a twitching, curling cape draped from his shoulders, was their leader. His helm was tucked beneath one arm, the other clutching a short-bladed dagger with glittering, multihued scales. The Vong''s face was intricately scarred, raised ridges intersecting and offset by round bumps and outlined by stark green tattooing. Light was cast, banishing the night, by warriors holding tall poles, gleaming crystals set into wide, paddle-shaped ends. Lambents, Zal realized, recognizing the crystal Anakin still clutched in one hand. The lead Vong held up his short dagger, sideways. "Jeedai. Aistarteez. You stand no chance of escape. Surrender yourselves, and live." He did not even seem to register Vua and shamed him further by refusing to even recognize him. Vua strode forward, heedless of rippling tension across the arrayed ranks of warriors. Carbines raised slightly, amphistaves stiffened. "Harmae. You know me." Commander Harmae narrowed his eyes, curled his lip. The expression was odious, given the torments and marks that twisted the alien''s face. "I do not know a Shamed One." "I am Vua Rapuung!" he bellowed. "I was favored by the Gods! You stand in my shadow, Harmae Carr, and it is a long shadow indeed." "Be silent! Already your life is forfeit; but your soul is not yet damned eternally. Stand aside, Shamed One, and perhaps Yun-Shuno will not cast you into the depths for this treachery." Beside Zalthis, Anakin lit his lightsaber. The warriors flinched at the snap-hiss he''d grown to know well and blue light joined warm gold from lambents. "Let him speak. If he''s just a Shamed One, then who cares anyway?" "You know nothing of our ways, Jeedai. You may not negotiate, you may surrender or die." Anakin gestured toward Mezhan with his blade. "If we die, she dies too." Harmae puffed out his chest. "I think not. You are Jeedai. We know of the Jeedai - you weep over taking lives. You would not kill a helpless prisoner." Tahiri took a step forward, brandishing her own blade. "You didn''t want me to be a Jeedai," she snarled. "Well, congratulations. You did it. So Anaykin won''t, but I''ll gut Mezhan right in front of you all." The Vong commander glowered at them all and did not appear to like what he found. The utter sincerity and promise of murder writ on Tahiri''s bloodied face, the grim set of Anakin''s shoulders. Nor his own looming presence behind Mezhan, the Shaper held at his mercy and only ever but moments from death if he should wish it. Her Shaping hand crumpled in his fist; her neck would be no different. "If we must bandy like Intendants, then speak and be done with it." Vua raised his arms, palms upward. "I am Vua Rapuung! All know me. I was blessed by the Gods, and my Shame, I say, is false! It is the fault of Mezhan Kwaad, she who feared our love, she who turned on our affections, she who mutilated me and blamed it on the Gods who had ever loved me, all for fear of losing her position!" Murmurs broke out among the warriors. Zalthis found himself rather dumbfounded. The concept of love and romance was rather foreign to him; understood in a general, theoretical sense, but as with emotions like fear, was quite excised from his psyche and stood to never bear a presence in his service as Astartes. Love, though, was a human emotion, a human concept, and he could scarcely conceive of such a wretched thing as Vua capable of anything but spite and bile. Vong did not love, they killed and consumed, as the xeno they were. He tried to picture romance between Vong, given his limited understanding, and imagined an offering of tortured slaves or perhaps a selection of still-beating hearts. Mezhan scoffed through her pain, only a slight quaver in her voice. "He is Shamed. He is a joke among the Workers and a burden to the other Shamed. Who would believe anything he says?" "This confounds me." Harmae declared. "The inane mutterings of a Shamed One are meaningless. Jeedai, does he-" "I am not finished, Harmae Carr! I declare my Shame false, and that Mezhan must be compelled to speak the truth, for I challenge you for command! My rights and rank were stripped falsely, and I would reclaim them back. Here! Now!" Warriors shifted their weight, a few casting sidelong glances about them. Vua jabbed a finger at Mezhan. "Compel her! By her Domain, by her rank, by the Gods themselves!" A warrior stepped forward, raising the barrel of their carbine to the sky. "I would hear this," he called. "Who here served with Vua Rapuung? Who here could doubt his courage or his honor? Who would gainsay the Gods did love him?" "Hul Rapuung," Harmae bit out. "Return to ranks." The warrior did as commanded, but Zalthis caught the spoken name. "This is insanity," Mezhan said. Harmae''s lips were a thin line, his eyes narrowed. "Pray tell, Shamed One. Should Mezhan Kwaad admit this heresy, and you were to challenge me; what result do you foresee?" Vua set his chin. "The Jeedai and Aistarteez go free. Mezhan Kwaad has failed - see! The Jeedai girl is Unshaped. I have made oaths - oaths before the Gods! - to repay their loyalty with honor in return." Harmae shook his head. "This is unacceptable. By command of my master, Supreme Commander Malik Carr, and the master of us all, Potent Tsavong Lah, I cannot lose a Jeedai." "I bled sacrifice to Yun-Yammka. You would spit on the Slayer?" More murmurs. Zalthis could feel friction in the air, turning tension, a shift as warriors fidgeted. Carefully, Zal reached down, wrapping his fingers around the grip of his blade. He kept his other firmly clutching Mezhan''s mangled hand. Anakin spoke up. "If your Gods didn''t support Vua, then how could all this happen? Mezhan failed to Shape Tahiri and now it looks like they let us capture your very important Shaper right out of her own chambers. Maybe Vua is right." "An infidel seeming to know the will of the Gods. Ridiculous." "You are no priest, Commander," called a warrior. "Make the Shaper speak," another spoke. "The Priests say every Jeedai is a sacrifice worthy of a thousand infidels; the Gods mark them as worthy!" yet a third added. Harmae''s teeth ground together. Zalthis could see the muscle in his cheek jumping, twitching. "Mezhan Kwaad. You have failed, evidently, in your task of Shaping the Jeedai. That failure, and that failure alone, moves me to indulge the Shamed one once known to Domain Rapuung. You will answer any question put to you by that Shamed One, and you answer it truly. Your Domain shall pay the price if you do not. All who have been tutored by you shall pay the price as well. Do you understand? Now let us end this farce." Mezhan suddenly wrestled and struggled in his grip, but she was but a mortal creature and she only succeeded in tearing a gasp of agony from her throat as the endoskeleton of her shattered hand ground together in his grip. "I did not fail! It is incomplete!" "You are compelled!" In his grasp the Shaper struggled, anger and agony and indignation mixed together. "Do so," Zalthis murmured in the Vong''s own tongue, pitched low so only she might hear. "Or I will kill you now." She sagged. "Speak," Mezhan Kwaad hurled the word at Vua like a cast dagger. "Mezhan Kwaad. Did you cause my implants to be rejected, my body to wither, my marks of rank to decay? Did you cause me to be stripped of my honour, my role and my dignity? Did you do this to me, or did the Gods?" All the outer courtyard of the damutek was silent. Wind rustled. The distant jungle creaked and barked and chirruped with nocturnal life. Anakin and Tahiri''s lightsabers hissed and spat, two bars of incandescent light. He wondered what the Shaper was thinking, just then. Did she believe she had a future, a way out? Did she expect to escape this night alive, to return to her tortures and experiments? Did she weigh deceit on one hand, audacity on the other, and find the balance lacking? Or, perhaps, did she see the virulent hatred in Tahiri, understand the weight of what she had done, which she would never be allowed to survive. If not by the hand of the girl she had tormented, then by the hand of an Ultramarine, who would do so for his brother. Mezhan Kwaad would never leave Yavin 4 alive, and perhaps, in that long, drawn moment of tension as she made up her mind, she understood this single, bitter fact. Zalthis would never know. He could suspect, and by connection to the arrogance of Magi that he had heard of, told by other Ultramarines and by those who apprenticed to the tech-priests of Mars, he could reckon well what tipped her decision. "Yes." She drew herself, voice gaining strength, losing the edge of pain. "That wicked, treasonous thing you see before you is my doing. I broke Vua Rapuung, I made him as you see - for there are no Gods, and his Shame is my will alone!" The warriors erupted in a frenzy. Shouting. Bellowing. Their orderly organization broke, some shoving each other, some gesticulating, bellowing. Vua appeared shocked. His dark eyes were wide, wide enough to see yellowed sclera. Harmae took a step back. "Silence!" the Commander bellowed. "Silence! By the Slayer, comport as warriors!" "Blasphemer!" "Heretic!" "Witch!" Warriors heckled and howled, organization lost. Vua threw back his head and howled, ululating and long. "Zal, this is about to get ugly-" Anakin muttered, sidling closer. "When the fighting begins, you must take Tahiri. Make for the ship. I will delay them." The young Jedi Knight jerked his head toward Mezhan, who watched the chaos unfolding with a smirk on her tattooed lips. "Don''t leave her alive," Anakin said. Zalthis nodded. "I will not." Vua stalked toward Harmae. "The Slayer smiles on me!" he bellowed. "I am Vua Rapuung! Commander of the Warrior Caste! I am the pride of Rapuung! Harmae Carr! Idig''kt kan esht kalduag!" The Shamed One broke into a loping jog, fists clenching at his side. Harmae backpedaled, dropping the ornate dagger, amphistaff slithering down his arm. On both sides, despite the shock of Mezhan''s pronouncement, all eyes were on Vua and Harmae. The Commander lashed out with his amphistaff at the Shamed One. It was over in moments. Harmae screamed, once, before his skull collapsed under repeated blows from Vua''s hammering fists. Climbing back to his feet, clutching one hand over a wound in his flank, Vua thrust a blood-and-brain spattered fist into the air. "Let this be witnessed! The Slayer is satisfied!" Anakin tried and failed to keep up with each new development. First, Vua was in love - in love - and it was with Mezhan Kwaad. Mezhan Kwaad? And then all his hints and intimations about ''getting revenge'' clicked into place when he blamed her for his Shaming, but then other warriors actually spoke up for him, and then Harmae demanded Mezhan to answer - And she outed herself as an atheist. Given the shouted arguments and near-physical posturing going on among the warriors, that was probably as big a deal as Anakin suspected it was. And there was Vua, covered in Harmae''s blood, standing over the Yuuzhan Vong he had just mercilessly slaughtered in under thirty seconds. He basked in the chants of his name, coming from some of the warriors, fist punching at the air. From the throng, one stepped forward, saluting with fist to their chest. "Honor to you, Vua Rapuung. I am Subaltern Tsaak Vootuh." "Honor returned," Vua replied in kind, returning the salute. "Do you confirm my command?" "I do not. I confirm the confession of Mezhan Kwaad and that your Shame is misplaced. But you know you must go before the Priests, Vua Rapuung. They will measure you and judge your Shame has ended." "It never began," Vua fired back. "I have no need of redemption from prattlers that never once saw that my supposed Shame was manufactured. I suspect they were in league with Mezhan anyway." "Be that as it may, but you cannot take command. That falls to me." "I slew Harmae fairly, in the challenge!" There were shouts of agreement. "Vootuh, you grab above your station!" "Eager to chase at Harmae''s heels, eager to step into Harmae''s vonduun!" Clear divides were being drawn - warriors edging away from each other, shifting into two groups. It was almost as if he, Tahiri and Zalthis had been forgotten. Like they were suddenly wholly uninteresting in the face of this new drama of redemption and command. "If you wish to challenge me, then do so." Vua gestured behind him, beckoning toward Anakin and the others. Cautiously, they advanced, stepping away from the damutek and onto more open ground. "I declare that the Jeedai Knight Solo and the Unshaped Jeedai are tools of the Gods. Infidels they may be, but they were placed on my path by the Slayer, so that I might find redemption! Is it not the word of the Chosen People that is our bond? As a warrior, is it not my honor to uphold my oaths?" More shouts, murmurings. "I say; let the Jeedai go. Let the Aistarteez go. Any who have faced them know them to be worthy foes. Let us face them again another day, on the battlefield, as equals, so that the Slayer can taste their blood properly given. Not butchered like a quednek by heretic Shapers." "Again, I must say: you may not take command, Vua Rapuung. Warriors, take him into custody." Only half, perhaps two thirds, shifted to stand behind Tsaak Vootuh. The other third stepped across that invisible line, arraying themselves beside and behind Vua. Including the one introduced as Hul Rapuung, who stood shoulder to shoulder with the former Shamed One. This is it, Anakin felt. This is it. He took a deep breath, looking to Tahiri, who caught his eye. Everything was upended, but she was here now. She was with him. "Do not shed loyal blood today. You have done a great thing, Vua, and you can do an even greater thing. With two Jeedai and an Aistarteez captured, you might even be named a Warleader." This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. That, Anakin knew, was exactly the wrong thing to say. All Vua ever spoke of was his revenge, at all costs. No care for his life, or rank, or anything. Just to be vindicated. "You cannot buy honor," Vua retorted. "Slink back to your rainbow-eyed master. I remember when our word was bond." He crouched down, held out a finger for Harmae''s orphaned amphistaff, curled beside the cooling body of its master. The biot snapped out, mouthing at his digit with fangs retracted. Then it slithered into his grasp, stiffened and became a blade. "Woe to the foes of the Slayer! Woe to the breakers of faith! I am Vua Rapuung, I am the Unshamed, and I salute you, Jeedai!" He raised his amphistaff and the cadre of warriors behind him bellowed as one. "Rapuung Remembers! Aihya!"
The clash is sudden. It is violent. Bugs rip from carbines, striking vonduun with dull cracks of shattered chitin and spinning exoskeleton. Amphistaves whirl and whip. Zalthis pulls Mezhan along with him, trying to edge around the sudden throng of clashing Yuuzhan Vong. It is mind-boggling, to see them at each other''s throats. Vua slashes the throat of one from ear to ear, laughing as he does. Anakin is with him, and Tahiri. He is slow when Mezhan, finding some new well of strength, braces a palm against his plastron and shoves, hard, hard enough that flesh tears, fractured bone parts, and Zalthis left holding the crushed remains of her Shaper''s hand, the stump leaking blood and ichor. The Shaper stumbles back, clutching at her empty wrist and there is murder in her eyes. His blade is out, crackling to life. She might have all manner of tricks, creations: gasses or poisons, biots or more of those sting-whips she had struck at Anakin with. Mezhan Kwaad plunges her basal hand into a fold of her robes. Tahiri is there, she is faster. Ikrit''s lightsaber whips, and Mezhan''s head bounces. Her body topples. Zalthis inclines his head. The girl''s eyes are hollow. "Go," he intones. "Tahiri, Anakin, go. Make for the ship." They do. Warriors see them, warriors break off from the clash over who will ascend to command. Thud bugs, razor bugs reach out. Zalthis interposes himself, taking them to his half-plate. Some slash his fatigues, leaving quick-clotting lines of red. Two warriors come forward, but Zalthis has more than his blade. His pistol blurs from his holster and four bolts put the warriors down. There are more coming, more than just were here. Lambent-light poles bob from around the Shaping compound. If there were forty here, then there could still be twice again that many coming. From the walls, from the fields, from beyond. The compound is not large, but it is large enough that it is a frantic sprint, chased by licks of plasma and whirring bugs until they stand in the shadow of the corvette-analogue. It is sealed. There is no ramp, no embarkation plank. Tahiri dithers, pacing, wringing her hands. "Sithspawn," Anakin swears. "We need Vua." He looks back to the pitched battle. Neither of them can make out the former Shamed One, but they can see that the clash is shifting closer to them. Zalthis watches as one warrior, wielding a plasma spitter, takes a knee, aiming toward them, only to be brained from behind by another warrior who jogs out out of the scrum toward them. "Hail, Jeedai. I am Ulvuarg Qesh. I stand with the Unshamed. If you are to leave, you must leave now. We are few, who stand with Iz''ann Rapuung. Glorious death comes this night, for any who stay." "We can''t get it open," Anakin gestures. "Tsii dau atann," Ulvuarg says and strangely, the words do not translate. From below the prow of the ship, there is a wet snick, and then a span of the yorik coral hinges away on membranous filaments, a long and flexible muscle extending out and down. It looks for all the world like a long tongue. "Now go, and I weep that I shall die before we may face across the battlefield." Ulvuarg lopes away, swinging his amphistaff high. Anakin and Tahiri vanish into the ship. Zalthis remains at the foot of the ramp - the tip of the tongue. He holds pistol in one hand, blade in the other. The Vong are focused on each other, but as squads close in from elsewhere, he sees them look between the knot of kinslaying and the corvette. Many change their course. At range, his bolts are less effective. They spang and deflect from more heavily sloped vonduun armor. He has extra ammunition, but they approach from all angles. Some of those fighting with Vua manage to extricate themselves, interposing. From the main clash, a head lofts up on a spinning loop of blood to a sudden burst of cheer. Some warriors scatter, retreating. A throng pushes through, a seven in total. He recognizes the lead: Vua Rapuung. He is bloodied, his robeskin slick with black blood in many places. Half a cheek is missing, baring rotted teeth. But his eyes are alight. "Aistarteez. You are still here." "Tahiri attempts to make the ship work." Vua stretches his arms, heedless of deep gouges along his bicep. "Then she must work swiftly. Or I will escort you to the Slayer''s presence tonight." Zalthis keys his voxbead. "Anakin? Progress?" His brother replies immediately. "Tahiri tried on the cognition hood and freaked. It''s okay, I''m calming her down, but it''s going to take a minute before she can get this thing in the air without the ship trying to eat her brain. I think I''m going to have to be her anchor." Zalthis nods. Honestly, it is better than expected. She is attempting to command a ship she had never seen, using alien means and, he suspects, false memories. From the name the dead Shaper called her to her confusion over Anakin, the hallmark signs are there of mental conditioning. A potential boon, if she can master it, or a catastrophe if she cannot. "It may be some time." Vua licks bloodied teeth. "Then we draw blades together, Aistarteez." They do, but Zalthis wonders why. So, he asks. "Why are you doing, this, Vua? You proved you weren''t Shamed." In a moment of memory and reverie, he is reminded of Sol''s demands of the dying Herglic, his need to know why he would sacrifice his life for an Astartes. Vua points at the oncoming squads of other warriors, of those remaining that stood with Tsaak Vootuh. "Too long have my brothers placed ascension over purity. Mezhan cursed me, but there are reasons why she felt free to spit on the Gods and spit on me in such a way. All I wish is that when I stand before the Gods, I may do so with my heart light and my honour untarnished." Vua glared at Zalthis, then, dark eyes hard. "You are an infidel, which makes you unworthy of honour. But I am of the Chosen People, so I will be judged. Know me by the quality of my foes, Aistarteez, and the Gods will love me." Uncomfortably, Zalthis inclines his head. Vua''s words ring entirely too clearly. Then, there is little time to talk, for reinforcements are upon them.
Tahiri is trembling, her entire body. Shivering and swallowed in the broad seat in the ''bridge'' of the corvette, the soft and leathery thing adjusting itself slowly to her body. She holds a cognition hood in her hands, tears tracking down her cheeks, wetting dried blood slick again. "It was in my head," she hiccups. "It was talking to me, and I¡­I wasn''t me." "You''ll always be you," Anakin promises. He reaches out, squeezing her shoulder. He can feel the fleshlessness of the joint, the hard nub of her collarbone. "Tahiri, we can do this. Together. Trust me, reach out to me. I''ll be your anchor." She opens to him, for the first time since Ikrit died, since the Lady Starstorm fell from the sky. Tahiri is in his mind again, that warm place, but one that prickles like needles. He reaches toward it, and she meets him, tentative and skittish. He doesn''t realize that he leaned closer in body, as well as mind, until her lips touch his again. This time, for a long, infinite moment, there is just Anakin and Tahiri, just them, as he opens memories to her and she greedily rips through them, like she is reminding herself. A lifetime of friendship in a moment, years in a second. He leans back, she leans back, and her gold-green eyes sparkle. She knuckles tears away, takes a shuddering breath, and looks down at the leathery hood in her lap. "Let''s try this again," she murmurs. Then a spark, a hint, a fragment: her lips twitch. Not a smile. Not a smirk. Barely a ghost of one. "And let''s try that¡­other thing later, when I''m not covered in blood." Anakin laughs. He loves her.
Vong die. Zalthis hisses as an amphistaff catches, rips along his gauntlet. The tips of two fingers go with it. He retaliates with a punch to the face that spins the warrior''s head around one hundred and eighty degrees. The way the compound is set up, the small little landing site is in one corner of the rayed design. It funnels the squads coming. The fighting is haphazard, with both Harmae and Vootuh dead. The loyalists attack because that is their order, but organization is lacking. Vua has only eight left of those who fought with him, and they use landed coralskippers as cover. This is a new form of fighting, and one that Zalthis worries about in the war to come. This is not the massed infantry melee of Fondor, broken by only occasional barrages of bugs. This is combined arms. Carbine wielding Vong take potshots, firing smaller but far faster razor and thudbugs from range, harrying the defenders. Zalthis expends his bolts to kill those who bring the plasma spitters. Lambent-light poles bob and topple as their bearers fall, throwing mad shadows and bars of illumination this way and that. He estimated there were three hundred or more at the high end for the garrison, a hundred at the lower. So far, no chazrach have been roused. In fact, neither he nor Anakin have seen any at all. Time is ticking down. The squads that come he surmises were those that were already on alert for watch. Plenty more will come from the neighboring compounds. And then, there are the ships in orbit, with their own cadres. "Status?" he asks again. "Tahiri is talking to it. She''s - well, she''s convincing the ship to listen to her. It''s not easy." "Understood." A bar of plasma, sudden and flaring and so bright he blinks spots from his eyes, spears from across the compound. It smacks into one of the landed coralskippers, erodes half of it away. Zalthis squints, eyes already adjusting back to the lambent-lit night. There - as shape. Lumbering, muscular, hunched, ambling from around several spiralling, shell-shaped domiciles. Its belly is swollen and heavy, dragging on the ground. A heavy, wobbling sack swells from under its chin; an engorged and distended throat-pouch. Stumpy, thick legs allow it to drag its bulk along the ground, a thick tail sweeping behind it. It yawns wide and burps another stream of searing plasma. This stream smashes into the ground, ripping a channel of steaming glass ten meters long. It could cripple the corvette. It will cripple the corvette. It is a hundred meters or more away, on the far side of the open space of the compound. There are many, many Vong warriors loping into that space. He feels slightly disconnected, as though he is a step behind himself. He taps his voxbead. "When I asked eaerlier, it was not because I didn''t know. It was because I had the answer." He doesn''t clarify. Zalthis blurs into motion, as fast as an Astartes can move, from motionless to a ground-devouring sprint.
Anakin frowns. Tahiri, lost in the cognition hood, doesn''t notice. "What?" "I am engaging a biot. Tentative classification ''Squat'', it appears to be antivehicular." "Oh. Be careful, Zal." "Of course, little brother."
His speed unmanned the Vong that might have tried to interpose. He knows that among mortals, they have a term for it. Transhuman dread. It is the feeling that no being that size should move at quite that speed. He understands that Astartes can feel the same, in the presence of a Primarch. He has never met his father, and wonders, for a moment, if he ever will. Nonetheless, he is not unscathed. The meat of his left thigh is cored, a dull ache each time his foot falls, but the muscle is intact enough. A loss of efficiency, but not crippling. Plasma has seared close enough to singe his fatigues. The creature sees him coming, of course. It spits its own ball, but the long wind-up to vomit the stuff makes it simplicity itself to avoid. The heat of it is incredible, even as it passes five meters to Zalthis'' left to smear and splash along the ground. It strikes a knot of Vong warriors, fighting amongst themselves, and erodes them into ash. From a distance, it looks clumsy. Slow. Near, it has remarkable alacrity for its size. It whirls, swinging its heavy tail. Zalthis springs upward, clearing it with ease. It is the size of a landspeeder, just about, from nose to base of the tail. When his boots touch down again, Zalthis is in motion. He dances close, gauging its hide. It is leathery, thick, and he has seen some biots shrug off even plasma bolts. He punches his blade into its side, palm planted on the pommel to drive it. There is resistance, like pushing through thick mud, and the beast hoots a shriek. His blade sinks to the quillons, stuck deep into its side. The creature writhes and rolls, suddenly, against all logic and instinct. It is wounded in the side, it should roll away from the pain. Instead, it rolls on top of him. Zalthis is hammered flat, slammed hard to the ground under its bulk. His unhelmeted head bounces off the hardpacked dirt, stars momentarily bursting in his vision. Then he can see nothing at all and smell only the reek of stale urea. The weight is incredible, compressing his chest, constricting his breathing. Maybe if the creature was smart, it could have suffocated him, but it continues to roll, right off him again. Zalthis staggers back to his feet. He''s lost his sword in its side. He draws his pistol instead, braces and sets his weight. He empties the entire clip, mass reactives bursting in its hide. Blood spumes. Leathery skin flutters in tangles and tatters like confetti. It pivots fast, maw yawning wide. There is a golden glow in its throat, and his enhanced reflexes give him plenty of time to study in the interior of its mouth. He notices, with distant interest, that its mouth is mirrored and silvery, like the inside of a seashell. A thick, pink tongue flops, then retracts away. Fanged teeth, seared black, are as long as his fingers. He judges where it might spit. He lunges to the left. It spits, passing by on his right. The heat is incredible. It is searing. He can feel the sweat on his entire body dry instantly, his fatigues, still damp from the river, steam immediately. At first, he thinks he is unscathed. His right eye is fogged. Then the pain strikes. It is shocking. He is intact, but the plasma passed so close that it seared away the fatigues from his entire right side, scorched the ceramite of his armor to bare, dusty grey. He raises fingers to his scalp and ash crumbles away from his scalp where hair had been. The entire right side of his face feels like it is on fire. His eye cannot focus. But he is intact. All limbs. He flexes his fists. Sinks into a crouch. The pain is encompassing, but none of it is mortal. At worst - he will bear scars. What Astartes does not? The creature rears up again, puffing out its throat. Another golden glow. Zalthis springs into motion. The creature does not expect this - it''s slitted eyes open wide and it backpedals. It is used to prey fleeing. It is not used to prey attacking. It twists its head away, but he has a grip on its upper jaw with his right hand. Fangs snap away from his clenching fingers. It lashes its head and yanks Zalthis along with it, lifting him into the air as it shakes its heavy head like a cyberhound. Holding on by only one hand, Zalthis lets the thing yank him up and into the air, all several hundred pounds of him. Theoretical: use the strength of the enemy against them. Practical: as he swings, driven by the biot''s wild thrashing, he uses the added momentum to punch his other fist into one wide eye. It bursts, sprayinq aqueous humor. His fist is inside its orbit and he spreads his fingers, gripping onto the skull itself. Now it''s the beast''s turn to feel shocking agony. It trips over its own limbs, its own distended throat. Between his grip on its upper jaw, his fist punched into its eye socket, Zal plants one foot against its lower jaw, crunching more fangs, and bellows with the strain of forcing its mouth open. It thrashes, barely aware. Strangely, it makes no sound beyond huffing exhales of hot, metal-tinted breath. Holding its jaws open, Zalthis yanks his hand out of its eye, plunging his hand into its throat up to the shoulder. Fangs skitter along his pauldron. He feels slick, slippery muscle. There. A valve. Clenched shut, thick around as his bicep. He grasps it, squeezing tight, and then - Rips. Tears. In the beast''s throat, there is a meaty pop. Incredible heat washes over him, like an open fusion reactor. Zalthis stumbles back, staring numbly at molten ceramite dripping from the stump of his left wrist. His hand is gone. Scorched bone protrudes from flesh liquified by heat. This time, there is no pain. Just an awareness of loss. A gap in his proprioception. The biot is twitching. Plasma, white-hot, dribbles from its sagging jaws. It drips down its chin, scorching trenches in the leathery hide. More burbles out from newborn holes in its throat, its neck. It burns from the inside out. Zalthis paces around it, finds the hilt of his blade sticking out from between ribs. He plants a foot, grabs it with his right hand, and yanks it free. It hums, the gladius clean and shining metal, flickering with crackles from the power generator. He turns his attention back to the greater skirmish. The corvette''s boarding tongue is retracted, he can see. There are warriors below it, firing much, much smaller blasts of handheld plasma against its coral exterior. They won''t damage it; it would be like shooting at a Stormbird with a lasrifle. There are dead and dying Vong scattered about. A closing circle surrounds Zal and the corpse of the biot. To his surprise, there are three other Vong within that circle. Two warriors, and Vua Rapuung. Rapuung has a shredded arm held against his chest. His skinned cheek leaks blood. His eyes are wide and bloodshot. They shine in the lambent light. "Aihya, Aistarteez," Vua wheezes. "I told you the Slayer would feast tonight." He has one hand. Bolt, or blade. His fingers tighten around the grip. He spins the gladius once, twice. "He''ll feast well," Zalthis promises.
Tahiri is muttering to herself, hands smoothing over a membranous console. Nubs of nerve clusters protrude here and there. She looks slightly monstrous with the hood enclosing her head, but she radiates determination. The corvette trembles. Deep in his gut, his body is momentarily convinced that ''down'' is behind him. More than once, Tahiri has swallowed a scream, going rigid until he took both her hands, talking to her, reminding her who she was, where she was, what was happening¡­ Each time was a slice to his heart. "Okay," Tahiri mutters, voice muffled. "That''s¡­that''s basals¡­" The bridge of the corvette is at the front, protected by transparent, crystalline slabs that serve the role of transparisteel. There''s four panes, each a different size, without any symmetry at all. He can see outside, see the random clashes of warriors going on across the compound. Whatever Vua kicked off, it spiralled out of control and fast. He sees the biot trundle into view, senses Zal''s concern, followed by his focus. He watches the distant duel, mouth agape as he squints, trying to see it better. And Anakin feels the sudden backblast of pain lance through him, making him clutch at his unharmed hand. "Zal!" he shouts. "As soon as you are able, launch." the Ultramarine replies, voice crackly through the commbead. "Get back here! We''ll drop the ramp again-" there''s a dull and distant thud that he hears more than feels through the ship. Then another. "They are attempting ingress. Unless Tahiri can master the weapons, you must go." The world narrows. It fades to grey around the edges as Anakin''s chest squeezes tight. Not again. Not again. "Zalthis, get back here, that''s - that''s an order." He feels ridiculous phrasing it so. "Live well, Anakin. Courage and honour."
There aren''t many Vong. Vua claimed there were perhaps three hundred in total, excluding those manning the ships. Some stood with Vua and his declaration of command, his beseeching to honour his oaths. Not just those initially present, but even some who arrived. Zalthis saw it happen: squads of warriors who would pause, argue, become animated, heated, and then blows would be exchanged. It is shocking; the Vong have never appeared to have even a hint of internal strife. Now, more lay dead by the hands of each other than by his. He spins his blade again. Tilts his wrist, so that he can see the small starbird etched there, bounded by a circle, set against a starburst. Which is more worthwhile? To complete your duty; or do it rightly? Sannah was one Jedi. Tahiri, Anakin and Ikrit, they were three Jedi. Almost two dozen escaped aboard Temerity. The future of the Jedi Order, saved, as per the command of Lord Guilliman. Three children and an aging Master were losses, but counted against the rest, they could easily be deemed acceptable losses. Thus; the duty was done. The Jedi Praxeum evacuated, the Order''s future preserved. Captain Thiel obviously judged it so. He had made no moves to support Anakin and the others. But to do it rightly. The spirit of the order. The meaning behind the pledge. To evacuate the Temple. To save the Order''s future. Zalthis has lived and breathed and slept and shat alongside Anakin for longer than he had the brothers of his new squad. He has known the Jedi like a brother, spoken to him on deeper topics, exchanged philosophy, placed his life in the other''s hands. Some might see the future of the Jedi as simply the large class of youths. Zalthis can see better. Practical: Anakin, Anakin is the future of the Jedi. Tahiri is too. Without one, without the both, he fears the Jedi have no future at all. He has seen how they operate. He has seen the selfless heroism of the boy. To do his duty rightly, is to never abandon a brother. Not when he has pledged otherwise. The Vong come as one. They do not bother with duels of honour, they do not call for surrender. They unleash a barrage of bugs from raised carbines. One of Vua''s warriors steps before him, juddering and stumbling as he is perforated and battered. He topples, leaving Vua unscathed. Zalthis bears the storm, uncaring as razor bugs shed blood and thud bugs bruise. He smiles, one corner of his mouth stiff from shining red burns that spread up his cheek and temple. A mark. "Know this," he says, clearly. "You face a son of Macragge. Woe to you, for the Thirteenth is here." Vua readies his amphistaff. "For the Jeedai!" he cries. "For the Slayer! I am Vua Rapuung! I am Unshamed!" Warriors leap forward. He has no time for finesse, nor for thought. There is only action, reaction. Killing. His blade pierces into a mouth, through the back of a skull. Through cheek and ear, he rips it out. Amphistaves fall. A pauldron tumbles away. His shoulder aches. He spins, blade extended. Vonduun holds, parts. Bisected, two warriors collapse. Another slips on entrails. A glimpse of a mutilated, rotting face, alight with battlelust. Teeth biting, chewing into a neck. They fall out of sight. Gold plasma hisses past, splashes a warrior. He combusts like a torch, wailing. They do not care about friendly fire; they want him dead that badly. Zalthis grins; a baring of teeth that has no mirth. He kicks; a knee is forcefully reverse articulated. His stump, truncated ceramite gauntlet still cherry-red with heat, smashes into a face. Teeth scatter. An eyeball is ejected with force. Monomolecular blades are nearly painless. From behind, he feels a line, a space pass through his body, just below what had once been his floating ribs. He reverses his grip, stabs the gladius backwards, feels impact, the weight of a body sliding away. Limbs are slashed away. Arterial blood sprays. Fingers hook at him. Grapple. Bodies weigh him down. Warriors pile onto him. He is suffocating, buried. Borne down to the ground, hemmed in by reeking sweat and dripping blood and this is not how he dies, in the dirt, on the ground - he is Astartes, he is transhuman, he is Ultramarine, he is a son of Guilliman, and no son of Guilliman dies like this - he is rising, he is standing like a towering phantine beast, set upon by carnodons, who rises once again under rending teeth and claw, who even as their throat is torn and hide is slashed, rises once again because this is not yet done. He rises because the corvette is still on the ground, though through the soil he feels a shudder. Zalthis rises because he must, so he will. His sword is lost, so he crushes a warrior to his chest between palm and plastron. He shakes brains loose and grips the throat of another, swinging them into a third and bones snap. Focus. Not yet done. Howls ring in his ears. Blades slice at him. Muscle is carved. His feet trample, crushing the fallen. A glimpse, a glimpse - a smiling face, cheek torn, rotten teeth exposed, a smiling face in peaceful repose, over a throat opened to the bone. Impact, impact, impact. Hammering at him, hooking at him, trying to bear him down, pull him down. Focus. Not yet done. Cold in his gut, a blade-sharp biot, driven by snarling zeal. He takes it, he pulls it out, claims it as his. The edges cut as much as he cuts back, he loses a finger to the double-edged sword. But with it he kills again, again. To one knee. He cannot rise. His leg ends just above the ankle.. Grab by the braid, by the topknot, yank them down, tear them down, down to the dirt, crush beneath his fist. Focus. Not yet done. The corvette lifts. It wobbles, it dips, it slides sideways and scrapes the top of the coral wall. The shrieking grind is deafening. The distraction is enough to pull another down to death. It gains height. Zalthis watches. It gains height. He hears a voice, a distant voice, but the words are lost. His voxbead is lost, lost in the dirt, lost underfoot. Along with his ear. He feels the voice, feels it in his chest, in his heart. Amphistaves fall. That''s it. Now he''s done.
Tahiri flew the corvette like a drunken smuggler, slewing it around sluggishly. The dovin basals kicked in pulses, pressing them back into their couches with sudden acceleration. Anakin was lost for words, slumped in the leathery couch beside Tahiri''s, limbs slack, mouth open. Zalthis was gone. They were leaving the compound behind, and Zalthis was gone. He felt him, felt his friend - his brother''s sudden calm. He was gone. He barely noticed Tahiri crying out in warning, or felt the thuds and thumps as the corvette took hits. Coralskippers, probably, he thought distantly, wondering how those got into the air so fast. Part of him was screaming at him to wake up, pay attention, that Tahiri was no pilot and that if they got shot down, it was all for nothing, that Vua and Zalthis died for nothing at all, but he sat hollow and shocked. It didn''t even hurt. It was just¡­empty. Frank. Matter of fact. Zalthis was gone. "Anakin! I don''t know what to do!" He blinked. "Anakin!" "Go low," he replied. "Keep as low as you can, that might give us some cover." And for what? Their combeads didn''t have the range to reach Sol at the Thunderhawk. Tahiri didn''t even know which way to go. He reached out, for Sannah, but she didn''t have the bond like he and Tahiri did. She might be asleep - no, she would be. All they could do is buy a little more time until they were shot down. And if they didn''t die in the crash, they''d be captured. Both of them, this time. No. He''d - no. Neither of them would be captured. "It''s two, there''s two of them," Tahiri babbled, muffled in the hood. "The ship - it''s hurting, it wants to fight-" "Tell it to," Anakin said, voice hollow. The corvette trembled. "It did!" Tahiri cried out. Practical. Stop wallowing. Anakin jolted upright; the thought sudden and startling. Nothing through the Force, just the sound of Zal''s voice, wry and low, with that ridiculous hypothetical he always used. He hunched forward, digging his palms into his eyes for a moment before straightening up. "Just keep them off us. Go north, does the ship know what north is?" Tahiri shook her head. "Alright. Put Yavin on the, on the right side. Stay low and when you see the sea, go that way and up the coast." If only he could contact Sol, get the Thunderhawk up. Two coralskippers were nothing, even Fiver might be able to distract them, let alone something that heavily armed and armored. "Can I take guns?" Tentatively, Tahiri pointed toward another hood, dangling from its vine-like cord. Bracing himself, Anakin looked at it with a shudder, then pulled it on his head. It felt claustrophobic and hot, his breath stifling, then it¡­his mind opened up and he felt the lambent trill in his pocket. From enclosing darkness to wide open skies, he felt like he was sitting right on top of the corvette, out in Yavin''s air. "Oh, wow," he breathed in shock. "Right?" Tahiri called back. He tried to turn his head, but instead the view itself shifted and he felt his body stay in the same position. Movement, but without moving. His inner ear swam for a moment. That was going to take getting used to. Weird glyphs burned here and there in his vision, and then his nose was teased by the smell of something¡­sour? A little acrid? Tahiri, sensing his confusion, answered. "Sour is enemy contacts. If it smells sweet, it means you are locked on." Smell based targeting. He shifted the view again, catching sight of a coralskipper trailing behind them. Gold plasma spat out, reaching for them and to his surprise - and a bit of pride - the corvette slewed sideways, the plasma going wide. "Do we have voids?" "I don''t know how!" Tahiri wailed. Anakin nodded, felt stupid, and then acknowledged out loud. Looking at the coralskipper focused in the view, enlarging the starfighter, cloyingly, sugar-sweet aromas cutting into the sour. That meant he was locked on, then? But how did he - Plasma thumped out from right ''under'' him, bright and flaring. The coralskipper easily dodged, but it lost a little bit of ground. All he had to do was - Another burst of plasma. At least it fired fast. Problem was, the second coralskipper angled in, ranging shots down that clipped and spattered on the dorsal hull of the corvette. Anakin could see the coral char, then melt. He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth, sending more and more hyphens of contained starstuff at the ''skips, but they danced and evaded. At least they''d left the Temple site behind them; by yavinlight and the enhanced vision of the hood, he could see the Escarpment whip under them. They were moving, really moving. He took aim again, careful aim, hoping this time - another blast and the coralskipper tilted up, gaining altitude, arcing up, right up into a flaring lance of crimson light that threw hard shadows across the corvette''s hull. "Dead stars!" Anakin swore in shock, blinking hard. A much, much sharper sour smell turned his stomach but his heart soared as a dark, blocky silhouette roared past, spraying countless tracer shells out at the second coralskipper. In his ear, his combead crackled. "Anakin? Throne, tell me that is you on that rock." "Sol? It''s us! How did you possibly know?" Reaching out, he could sense not just Sol''s hard mind, but Sannah too aboard. The Thunderhawk snapped into an impossibly sharp turn, pitching the nose up into a hard stall, tumbling backwards and lashing out a blast of thick laser light that pinned the second coralskipper through. Anakin gawped at the flying. "We didn''t. The Thunderhawk turned itself on and took off. Lucky that I had been keeping watch from the ramp, rather than patrolling outside." To Anakin''s amazement, there was a third sense too. Much more diffuse and simple, but when he prodded it, he felt something adjacent to interest, excitement, and maybe pride. "Five-five-nine-zero-one?" he exclaimed. [Affirmative], it sent back. Anakin tugged off the hood. Tahiri relaxed a little, though she still sat stiffly. "Follow our lead," Sol told Anakin, who relayed it to Tahiri. "There is not much range to the vox, so we will stay close. I can detect the ships in orbit on auspex, and they just passed over the horizon a dozen minutes ago. We have a window." Luck. Pure, pure luck that the two cruisers would be out of line of sight. Luck, or the Force. The Thunderhawk led them into the dark, into the stars, engines burning blue and white. Tahiri lumbered the corvette along after them, Yavin 4 diminishing behind them. But, if the Force was truly with them¡­Anakin looked to one of the empty couches on the bridge and sucked in a shaky breath. He realized Sol hadn''t asked about Zal. He probably didn''t even think he needed to. How was he supposed to tell Sol? Intransigence Epilogue Epilogue
One by One
They waited into the early hours of the morning, local time. Coruscant never slept, and so: neither did they. From the moment the coded transmission arrived, there was a nervous energy that filled the secure room. Borsk wondered if this was what it was like to be a Jedi - even with his eyes closed, his chin resting on interlaced fingers, he could sense Sien Sovv pacing, he could perfectly picture A''baht fiddling with the clasps of his tunic and Nylykerka smoothing the front of his uniform over and over again. Everyone seemed to be on edge, waiting with bated breath; only Dif Scaur, dozing with his legs crossed at the ankle, projected a sense of calm. But Borsk, to his mild surprise, felt utterly calm. Perfectly centered; not even tired as the hours creaked past. His hand was played. He''d staked everything on this. He''d overridden heel-draggers in the Senate, shouted down alarmists in Daysong, and burned favors to muster his fracturing coalition. It was already paying off: his favorability was up three points locally, just from the silhouettes of First Fleet in the sky. That favorability would plummet if - if! - it was learned that so many of those ships would never come back. And when favorability dropped, the scavengers would nibble. Bite. Gnaw at him, because the political animals would want to claim his chair and declare themselves Chief of State even while Coruscant burned down around them. Some of them would even welcome the Vong themselves to the floor if it meant pushing out Borsk''s dynasty, for even a little while. Not many were that bankrupt. But they were there. Borsk didn''t fear them. He pitied them for their stupidity, but he didn''t fear them. It was those like Viqi Shesh, though - the ones who adopted any veneer, any angle, that suited them. That played to the crowd, that turned every which way with the wind, to ever stand a little higher. For now, Viqi was on his side, cleaving hard to the hawks that demanded unflagging resistance to the invaders. Borsk wasn''t a fool. He knew that the Shesh was no longer the Shesh, save in name. He knew that Viqi''s dealings and speeches and admirable youthful energy was engineered to polish her star. It was those like Viqi that Borsk feared, because there was always a price for them. And if Tsavong Lah offered peace in exchange for half the galaxy, it would be ones like her that asked where to sign. So he''d played his cards. He''d cast his die, and now waited with curious detachment as it teetered on one edge. Sien Sovv sucked in a gasp. Borsk opened his eyes. The Sullustan Admiral, Supreme Commander of the New Republic Defense Force, stood agog with his joweled jaws slack. His dark, black eyes bulged wide. "Cracked asteroids; no krakana." Sovv pronounced. Borsk Fey''lya blinked, he unwove his fingers, he shut off his datapad and rose to his feet. All eyes followed him. "Congratulations, gentlebeings," he said. "Now, we just need to do this another hundred times." He left the room as an excited susurrus moved through it, the senior officers perhaps too stunned by their success to cheer. The aftermath was for them to marshal. Reeling back in the First Battlegroup from Hutt Space along the same secret ways, deploying out whatever other task forces were necessary to nail down the lines¡­he didn''t care. Sovv still had his full confidence and Kre''fey kept proving his worth. His gut told him the Vong wouldn''t take this laying down, and he''d just very, very visibly spit in the eye of the Warmaster. Borsk had his victory; now, to keep it.
The sacrifice trembled, synapses misfiring. Malik Carr extracted his fang from its skull, flicking the long limb once to scatter brain matter into the hungry flames. The sacrifice, some species he had never bothered to learn the name of, slumped forward. He kicked the corpse, toppling it fully into the pit. Flames roared and pulled sweat from his body. Around the wide, hand-dug pit other warriors did similarly. Dozens of slaves, naked and purified by sonics and incense, tumbled down onto the charring corpses of those who came before. Priests chanted guttural hymns and squeezed bitter, wafting incense out of shrieking, bulbous sple''tur. Chazrach chivvied along shuffling, wailing lines of slaves. Beyond the site of the ritual, ugly, artificial constructions burned and collapsed, gnawed upon by bond-mates Tu-scart and Sgauru. Miid ro''ik loomed low, scraping thicker atmosphere to glow cherry-red and scorch meaningful marks into the coral. Yorik-et smote thunderclaps overhead as they ripped through the barrier of sound. Yorik-trema nosed through suburbs and outskirts, flashing plasma down to incinerate lingering pockets of resistance. The world had broken easily, even without the blessed touch of a war coordinator. A fine sight, a fine scent, a fine song of victory and cleansing. Another world, taken. Another population, humbled. Another field of fertile soil for conversion. Spoiled by ill news compounded on ill news. Harmae: dead. Mezhan Kwaad: dead. The Jeedai: escaped. Open battle between his own Domain and Domain Rapuung. Condemnations flew thick and came to roost like karlig-set. The Warmaster frowned on him, he knew. The Warmaster frowned on Nas Choka too, for the humiliating loss of half of an entire reserve fleet. The Warmaster frowned on much, and so Malik Carr cast to the gods a hundred and a hundred more slaves to sate their appetites. To implore them to intercede on his behalf. So fast had been his rise; so swift could be his fall. Harrar cautioned him to remember teachings of Yu''ka and others. To remember his successes, to balance his failures. Tak-tak-tak. His claw flicked against chunks of duracrete. He breathed smoke and aerosolized blood. He was being recalled from his nibbling along the edges of the Imperial Remnant. Nas Choka was to quit Hutt space. Entrust operations within his theater to a Warleader, then attend the Warmaster upon Domain Lah at Duro. The summons came from the sneering, supercilious mouth of one of Potent Lah''s underlings. A snub. An insult. A warning. Malik Carr gripped the skull of a whimpering, cringing slave, digging talons into its scalp. To you, oh Slayer, he thought, separating skull from body with a flick of his claw. At least he could bear a gift to the Warmaster, a gift he would petition for Qesud Qesh to be granted. The gift of a dead Aistarteez. What was left of one, but more than the Shapers had yet examined. The Exiled Imperium was moving. Their battleships ranged afar and rumor among the snivelling cowards of the Peez Brigade told of more Aistarteez nipping at the heels of smaller raiding strikes. In time, more Aistarteez would die where they might be examined and picked over. That time was not yet. Praise be to the Slayer. He would not be empty handed, not like Nas Choka, who would come with naught to show but the bloated corpses of forgettable purveyors of intoxicants. Delicately, he licked blood from his talons. In his bones, he could feel it. Coruscant was in the Warmaster''s sights. Malik Carr would be in the van. It was the only fate he deserved. Tak-tak-tak clicked his claw and he relished the tremble in his sinews.
All the younglings were safely aboard Errant Venture with Streen and Cilghal minding them. Kyle hated not accompanying Wild Karrde out, but took solace that Corran and Jacen were going with Talon Karrde. There wouldn''t be much he could do anyway, if Jacen''s premonition were accurate. Better to stay here, to take one of Booster''s shuttles down to the surface of the tempestuous world below. Eboracum was still reeling from the destruction of its moon. Kyle could almost sense the pain of the stricken world, clinging to life. Tidal forces had yanked and tugged on its plates, touching off quakes and volcanic eruptions as the moon swung ever closer in its death spiral. Then, when it was blown apart, the sudden scattering of its concentrated mass relaxed pull on Eboracum, letting tides sweep out across the oceans away from beneath the spreading smear of lunar debris. And that debris came down, despite the best efforts of the Exiles. On the way down, escorted by six chunky Imperial starfighters, the Jedi could see flickers of crimson light, like inverted lightning, whickering up here and there from beneath the storm clouds of the world. The largest chunks that could''ve killed the world were intercepted, but no power in the universe could catch everything. Only a full planetary shield like Coruscant''s might have, and even then, a large enough moon rock would''ve overwhelmed it too. Eboracum was still alive, but the sky almost constantly bore witness to creases of contrails and distant rolling thunder as landspeeder and shuttle-sized meteoroids tumbled down. The fighter escort wasn''t there as an honor; they were there as a practicality, just in case the haphazard chaos of the forming ring around the planet hurled a poorly timed rock their way. The idea was darkly ironic - if the Exiles went out of their way to save the Praxeum, only for three of the five Masters to die because their shuttle was clobbered on the way down. Kam was tense, always growing a little anxious around reminders of his past. The Exiles weren''t the Imperials that this galaxy knew best, but there was enough similarity to keep Solusar''s teeth on edge. Tionne, though, joined Kam in the cockpit, peering over the shoulder of one of Booster''s in-house pilots who expertly handled the shuttle. "Sir, ma''am," the pilot said, the Chadra-Fan utterly focused on the task. "We''ll be landing in ten. I''ve got the flightpath locked in." "Thank you. We really do appreciate the service." Tionne said. "Just doing what the boss ordered. And it''s not every day I get to meet a couple famous Jedi!" Stormclouds swirled and rolled around them as they plunged into the turbulent atmosphere. Visual was lost on their escorts. "Don''t mind what other folks say. The Jedi are good in my books." The shuttle punched out of the lower span of the storm, revealing the twinkling lights and reaching towers of Eboracum''s new capital - Eboracum Civitas. Hard to believe it had been a sleepy backwater just a year ago; now thick, blocky towers many stories tall rose from a huge grid of orderly streets. Massive shapes of factories squatted in the distance, protruding thick smokestacks and vents. Kyle could even see huge, shifting shapes in the rain that were some kind of construction droid - no, no droids, walkers maybe - moving around the skeletal shape of yet another growing building. Rain slanted down, hard and drumming, pouring from the heavy clouds overhead. Their target wasn''t the city itself, but beyond it, in the rising range of mountains that hemmed in the river and plain the city was filling up bit by bit. There, against the horizon, was one of the sources of the laserfire that flicked up toward space. The Farisen Redoubt, the world-bound home of the Ultramarines.
Tylos Rubio, Codicier of the XIIIth Legiones Astartes Ultramarine, met them on one of the Redoubt''s many landing pads. Bright sodium lamps along the rim of the pad threw hard shadows, illuminating the heavy downpour. Kyle shaded his eyes, taking the lead down the ramp. Water ran along the dark duracrate of the landing pad, flowing in rippling waves toward sunken drains here and there, but surprisingly, not a single drop landed around them. He glanced up - there was a bubble around them, encompassing the shuttle entirely and the Ultramarine like an inverted glass dome. The rain drummed and slid off of it easily. And again, Kyle Katarn felt the glint in the corner of his eye, of something just beyond his sight. "Thanks," he said cheerfully, striding down and offering a hand to the looming Ultramarine. "We weren''t looking forward to getting soaked." The Astartes easily matched the local form of greeting, ceramite palm to Kyle''s flesh-and-blood. "I am Codicier Tylos Rubio. You must be Master Kyle Katarn. Master Tionne Solusar, and Master Kam Solusar. Welcome." He inclined his head, placing a fist over his heart. The similarities to Alebmos began and ended at the intensity of Rubio''s gaze and the hints of inner light in his eyes. Otherwise, the two could not be more different. Rubio was cleanshaven, his blocky jaw firmly set, and he wore only the slightest fuzz of hair on his scalp. His armor was as huge and colored as any other Ultramarine, but lacked all the fancy drapings, cords and ornaments of Alebmos. Only a book hung from Rubio''s waist, chained closed, with a sword belted on the opposite hip. "I''ve been briefed by Lexicanium Alebmos. Come along."
"Looks like they work fast," Kyle said, voice pitched low. Kam, his head on the swivel, nodded. Tionne looked fascinated, her silver eyes wide to take everything in. Senator Shesh''s whole crew said that the fortress was still deep in construction when the Exiles invited them to summit. Now, though, Rubio led them down tall halls with vaulted, towering ceilings. Banners in a variety of colors hung along the walls, all bearing repetitions of the same collections of symbols. The two-headed bird, the rounded peth shape - U - that was on every vehicle and armor. Alcoves held small plinths, most empty but a few bearing marble recreations of Ultramarine helmets. What they meant, Kyle didn''t have a clue. Plenty of humans bustled around, showing how used to the big Ultramarines they were as they strode right past without even a side-long glance to Rubio and his guests. They took a lift, large enough for their shuttle. It clanked as it descended, bearing the four of them down, down into the depths under the fortress. Rubio kept his quiet, which bled into the Jedi Masters. The air grew cooler, closer, with a bit of dampness that felt almost clammy. The ornamentation vanished, leaving the walls polished but bare granite, braced by metal strutwork and arches at regular intervals. "A little grim, down here isn''t it?" Kyle finally observed. At least it wasn''t dark - lume panels shone constant, steady light, almost clinical. "Psykery is not often an art to be lightly practised, nor in easy view." "We''re realizing that," Kam said. Rubio led them to a large durasteel door, inset into the granite wall with a thick, coarse, red-metal frame. One of the common skulls that Exiles favored in their designs was mounted in the center of the door, protruding from an orderly network of cabling and wires that sunk into gasketed apertures in the brushed metal plane. A pane of flickering red laserlight snapped out, swept up Rubio''s body and cut out. Several tones hummed and warbled, like a drunk astromech. Kyle almost expected some dark, ominous space behind the door; but pleasantly when it quietly slid aside it revealed a handful of broad, tall steps down into a slightly sunken chamber. Intricate, interwoven coppery mesh covered all the walls and ceiling, punched through in regular intervals by thick, cylindrical spars of dark metal. Cool air rushed out and Kyle saw Tionne shiver, leaning against Kam. Frost rimed the metal meshes and humming generators squatted along the outside of the round chamber. There was a simple table, covered in parchments, ink-filled quills and gently spinning gyroscopic devices made of thin, delicate wire. Two other Ultramarines waited - one in deep, oceanic blue robes and a heavy cowl, hands tucked into opposite sleeves, the other in armor like Rubio, with dark hair pulled back into a high bun. "This is Mitratos," Rubio indicated the cowled one, "and Hostilio." He gestured to the armored Ultramarine. "Both are of the Nine. I apologize for the chill. Step inside, so that threshold can be sealed." The three Jedi followed Rubio down the short flight of stairs and behind them, the door slid closed with a sort of finality. Heavy clunks indicated hidden locks engaged. "Hello," Tionne said, always putting her best foot forward. "I''m Tionne. This is Kam, and this is Kyle. We teach the next generation of the Jedi." "Good evening," Kam said, inclining his head slightly. Kyle wanted to offer a hand, but settled for a quick grin. "Nice to meet you both." Hooded Mitratos inclined his head. Hostilio''s eyes cut to Rubio, back to the three Jedi, and he raised a hand in welcome. Neither made a sound. "Mitratos is mute. Hostilio is deaf. They volunteered to be present as examples." Rubio strode to the table, bending to examine a spinning gyroscope. He grunted, apparently pleased with what he saw in the rotating, concentric rings. "Captain Thiel has shared your interest in the Warp. Alebmos has tipped our hand, which was his right and decision to make. The Jedi have been exposed to the raw stuff of the Warp, conjured both by uncareful hands and trained ones." Rubio planted himself on the far side of the table covered in arcane, archaic decoration. He leaned forward slightly, eyes glowing gently from within. "Ask. I will answer in all ways that I can." He decided to let Kam and Tionne lead - Kyle was more interested in listening for the moment, ready to jump in to comment on his sense of Alebmos during the fighting. He eyed the two silent Ultramarines flanking Rubio, noting how Hostilio returned his interest impassively. "Why now?" Kam asked, looking over the arranged parchments and leatherbound books scattered on the metal table. His tone was a little confrontational and Kyle sensed Solusar''s frustration. He could definitely share it - the Exiles had a proven track record at this point. Obtuse secrecy, until their hand was forced, followed by reluctant disclosure. Like hiding from the whole galaxy at first, until they were forced into contacting the New Republic. Like making vague warnings about the ''Warp'', until Anakin and Tahiri uncovered the Sith temple, at which point they scrambled a specialist out with only more ominous pronouncements accompanying him. "Don''t misunderstand me. The three of us - and Master Streen - spoke on the way from Yavin. This is important, but you''ve been tight-lipped until now. Even Alebmos wouldn''t give more than generalities for Anakin and Tahiri." Rubio gestured to his two compatriots. "Mitratos was ambushed in the bilges of Macragge''s Honour shortly before the conclusion of the engagement above Calth. Yes, Master Solusar, I am aware of what Captain Thiel shared. Until that confrontation, Mitratos spoke easily and freely; what he banished in the bilges stole his voice from him." Unsure of the direction - or misdirection, maybe - Kyle figured he might as well see where Rubio was leading them. "Throat injury?" Rubio shook his head. "No. Conceptual injury. The warpspawn Mitratos fought stole from him the concept of speech. As a metaphysical construct. He is otherwise healthy, but will never speak again. I do not mean merely with the flesh. An augmetic implant would fail. Were he to use a thought-tap, it too would fail. Even synthesized speech is beyond him. Hostilio is deafened. From him, the concept of hearing was hacked away. Again, no augmetic or surgery will ever restore his hearing. The warpspawn that preyed on good Hostilio devoured sound from him, and he will never experience it again." Rubio clenched an armored fist and frost cracked between his fingers. "These are the meanest dangers of the Warp. Both of my brothers were lucky to suffer so lightly. The Emperor, beloved by all, believed that the Warp was to be proscribed knowledge, held in trust only among those in which he placed his greatest faith. The Primarch has rescinded this diktat. The presence on the eighth moon of Yavin moves us to reveal more." Kam looked pained, pinched, cutting in. "We''re not unfamiliar with¡­metaphysical wounds. The dark side can twist and injure in long-lasting, haunting ways." "That is part of why I counseled the Primarch to allow me to speak with you. Whatever your Force is, there are parallels between it and the Warp; at least ones that ring conceptually similar. Alebmos'' estimation of the immaculate nature of the Jedi youths was considered as well." Rubio tapped the heavy tome at his waist idly. "I warn you: consider twice whomsoever you intend to share what I will tell you now. And then: think on it a third time."
They drifted in the dense, ringing bands of Yavin''s radiation belts. All of the gas giant''s moons were far distant points of light, nothing more than overly large stars. Sol brought the Thunderhawk close, its wingtip nearly touching the rocky shell of the corvette. And then¡­ they drifted. If there was a way to extrude some kind of airlock or boarding tube, Tahiri hadn''t a clue. The Thunderhawk wasn''t designed to have any sort of universal connection either. Sol and Sannah could leave. 55901/a was hyperspace capable and the servitor had access to a navicomputer. Anakin had told Sol to leave them and get help three times. Sol denied it each time, his voice flat through the combead. Tahiri hid herself away inside one of a few dozen small cabins. Somewhere between the flight from Yavin 4 and realizing there was no possible way she could manage to figure out a hyperspace course, she''d discovered that she had been speaking the Yuuzhan Vong language the whole time. That led to a sudden breakdown as Tahiri tried and failed, tried and failed, to say anything in Basic. Anakin didn''t know what to say. How to comfort her. And so they drifted. They drifted as hours turned into a day, and no ideas, no brilliant thoughts came to him. Anakin wandered the corvette, mapping out what passed for decks. It had a lot more internal space than he figured it would. The first time he almost stepped on a small, scuttling bug he''d started and gone for his lightsaber, but all it did was click mandibles at him and scurry along. He followed it, tense and thinking about grutchin hives or some kind of thud bug hatchery, only to realize it was some kind of living mouse droid when it started chewing on a discolored patch of wall in one corridor. It gnawed, taking crunchy little bites, and then turned around and excreted fresh ''spackle''. The whole ship was like that. Some areas smelled like brine and blood, one space was basically filled entirely with what looked like heavy, hanging capillaries that pulsed and writhed slightly. The deck had spring to it, the walls breathed and there were little biot things all over the place, doing who knew what. Tahiri didn''t withdraw from their bond. She was here, but she was so, so far away. Anakin slid into the fleshy ''pilot'' seat of the corvette, slouching and glaring at the stars visible through the asymmetrical viewports. Like had happened every hour, his thoughts, never calm, never still, ran back to Zalthis. His nails dug into the leathery texture of the couch. His throat burned, his eyelids scraped over dry, red eyes, and Zalthis etched an Ultima into his lightsaber. Little brother. He wanted to break something. He wanted to break everything. He wanted the universe to feel as broken as he did inside. Instead, Anakin tapped his combead before he could second-guess. Sol answered, as quickly as he had the last five times.
Strange, that he had worn the robes of a Jedi longer than the cuirass and decoration of a Captain. So swift had been his ascension through the ranks, so tumultuous the compliance of Eboracum and reorganization of the XIIIth, that for those who had accelerated to fill gaps in the command structure, the usual ritual and rites were often skipped or curtailed. Aeonid kept the battered plate that had survived the purging of Macragge''s Honour through his handful of months as a Lieutenant. Certainly, it had been restored and repainted, but he had not drawn replacements as was his right. Now, Aeonid paused to peer over a Captain he did not recognize. In the perfect reflection of the armorium''s mirror, he took in his new shape. The colors were off, the shape of the armor wrong - the lone stabilizing point was his electromagnetic longsword, strapped to his back. His cape in deep blue - rarely worn - draped from his shoulders. His new plate was a blend: Veridian designed Mark IV variant, along with Konorite III and Martian Maximus. Some pieces had even been forged here, aboard Macragge''s Honour, in the foundries since translation to this new galaxy. His left pauldron bore an Ultima in relief that encircled the cerulean field, marked by the badge of the Adaptive Company. Sweeping wings in gold gilt his right pauldron and a segmented skirt of ceramite hung from his waist. He studied his reflection; the officer he never expected to be. It was a fine sight. ''I''ll not need aid again,'' Aeonid said gently, dismissing the elderly arming adjutant. The grey-haired man bowed low, retreating from the arming chamber, servitors at his heels. His stint among the Jedi was over, ended at the same moment the Praxeum on Yavin had. Where the Masters and youths of the next generation would go was still uncertain. Eboracum was on offer. They could rest easily beneath the great shield of the 4711th - but Aeonid had no great expectations for interest in that offer. For Aeonid, duty called once more, duty to his Company. He raised his helm to eye level, peering into the darkened lenses. The transverse crest, white and black, stood stiff and tall and broad atop the crimson-daubed helm. He would need to consult with Optarch, with Quintus, liaise with his ''fellow'' Centurions. Managing the formation of the First Adaptive from afar, via holocom, had been an ordeal. Now, he itched to get his hands into the meat of the matter. Passing through Macragge''s Honour felt as though striding through a dream-space version. The flagship he had grown to know well, grown familiar with - and now, it was upended. The halls were the same, the slowly vanishing marks of daemon still here, there. The workers, in knots and throngs, working diligently to replace facades and decking and ceiling. Servitors and automats did finishing work; cleaning, buffing, polishing. The flagship was regaining its luster, day by day, but now it lived. Minds gabbled. Chattered. Whispered and moaned and groaned and filled his mind with susurrus. That menial, there, stepping back with chisel in one hand and hammer in the other - pride in the fine strokes that picked out the Ultima in marble below directional markers. Here - a tired knot of crew chuckled and passed illicit beverages back-and-forth, hidden as canteens. He felt the loose, tired edge of their minds, finished with a long shift and ready to unwind. An officer, head down and striding swiftly, frown creasing her face, frustrated by incompetents that delayed essential personnel filings. Two Legion auxilia, who glanced to Aeonid with dipped heads and buried-deep knots of jealousy and sorrow at what they could never be. It took but a glance, a brush of his intent, a moment of attention. He felt the crew alive and living and feeling, a web-work tangle of lives and emotion. Aligned, in most ways. Splintered, in some. Driven by independent thought, and cooperative purpose. The Force gaily played to the tune of Aeonid''s newfound control. The ease with which the power cleaved to him still unsettled him, but equally as unsettling was how comfortable he was, day by day, with such things. Alebmos'' was adamant after Yavin, and the request of the Masters to confer with Codicier Rubio firmed his judgement that the Warp and this newfound Force were different, and different enough to ease the clench about his heart. The Primarch wished to hear of what Aeonid learned, and Aeonid was keen to inform his sire. He already had a growing codex of applications to the Force that he was sure Guilliman would be interested in. Knight Solo''s bond alone featured in most of his concepts. The verisimilitude and clarity of communication, shared senses and proprioception of each participating Jedi and Astartes boggled him. Only the Thousand Sons likely could match the act; but this was accomplished by a youth, a youth who had pioneered the very technique not even a year prior. Fighting alongside Alebmos, at times, only further emphasized the differences between the Warp and Force and hinted at potentials that, when they occurred to him later, were in a word, astounding. He should have recognized from Knight Solo and Veila''s description of the daemon of Yavin 8. The contrasting influences of the Warp and the Force, which being party to conjurings of Alebmos only proved all the clearer. The Force had answers for psykery. Telekinesis to match telekinesis. Workings to counter workings. Supranatural senses to contend with supranatural senses. Aeonid found himself amused; he''d begrudged the command to train with the Jedi, and now that his time with them seemed at end, he''d found the reason he had gone among them. The weapon, the tool, that might prove the most potent, hidden weapon¡­ when the 4711th returned. When the Legiones Ultramarine brought the righteous retribution long withheld back to the Five Hundred worlds and that bastard Lorgar. He put aside the thoughts; there would be time aplenty to review with Guilliman. The Primarch, as it so happened, was training. In the very same chambers that Aeonid once awaited censure in, before the world tumbled apart and all the pillars of reality were shaken. The same chamber from which he claimed his sword. Doors were thrown open; it was an exhibition. Local dignitaries, from Eboracum, attended, observing the training of not only the Primarch - their Primarch, their Lord Consul - but also Centurion Foltrus, the High Suzerain of Eboracum. Select other Ultramarines sparred and demonstrated as well, selected as honors. This was why Aeonid had been summoned here, and now. The returning Captain, savior of the Jedi, trained by Master Skywalker''s own students. A bridge, a span, to connect the stolid citizens of Ultramar to their new neighbors. If only he had had a chance to construct a lightsaber. That, Aeonid considered, would have been demonstrative. Two Invictarii stood in gleaming plate to either side of the training chamber''s entrance, tall power-glaives planted and quiescent lighting claws curled at their side. Aeonid observed them with amusement - sensing calm resolve in the leftward brother, and restrained energy in the rightward. Drakus Gorod, no doubt, was lurking somewhere within, as if he could hide his incredible bulk in Terminator plate. The ring of blade against blade, the spit of power-field against power-field, the sound of thudding fists on flesh, spilled from the chamber, alongside mortal calls of surprise or encouragement. In the center of the space, clad only in a loincloth and the ideal of an ancient pankrator, Roboute Guilliman contended with six Ultramarines clad similarly. Sweat and oil shone. Casting an Ultramarine into the air with a clear and loud boom of laughter, Aeonid''s father met his eye. Across the space of the chamber, the connection was lightning, was electric: wry amusement, buried sorrow, proud acknowledgement. A snapshot moment; a Primarch in their element, elemental, the human form idealized, perfected, expounded. Roboute Guilliman became the vanishing point. All perspective bent in toward him. His eyes were windows, blue and indigo and violet. Blond curls glowed as coils of engine-plasma. White teeth that split lightly tanned cheeks were pillars, towering architecture that supported the fasciae of his lip, beneath the frieze of his face, the raking of his eyes and spanning pediment of his brow. Light haloed him, limned him. Golden light, azure light, light that broke from one color to all, prismatising, shattering, a rainbow that melded into his skin, was of him and in him, around him - a blessing, a caress, a shroud. Behind the Primarch, beyond touch and space and time; close enough to place gentle hand on shoulder, two great white eyes devoured the color, ate the rainbow and bred it forth again, multiplied, the source and drain. The Force rang - as song, in voices multitude - filling Aeonid''s mind until his ears rang and his nose bled to his lip. He remembered, with eidetic clarity, with kinesthetic accuracy, the encircling, warm arms of his mother. Aeonid stumbled. Guilliman was Guilliman. A man, among men. A primarch, among transhumans. The vision slipped away, as sand through fingers. ''Captain!'' the Primarch called, drawing all eyes. ''Welcome back.''
"Hey, Sol," Anakin said. "Jedi Solo." Not Anakin. With the Thunderhawk nestled next to the corvette, there was almost no interference in the transmission. It sounded like Sol was sitting next to him. The Ultramarine still hadn''t reacted to the loss. Only a moment of painful silence when Anakin first told him, and then it was business as usual. Anakin could feel him, though. Feel the writhing rage and fury in the man, that waxed and waned over the hours. He''d feel it slip away, replaced by numb shock, and then flare back to life. Sannah had to feel it. Tahiri too. "If you¡­want to talk¡­" Unspoken was the plea: talk to me. He didn''t know Sol even half as well as he knew - as he had known Zalthis. What they shared was the same friendship. Zalthis was the tie between them. Anakin had no one to talk to. And he needed to, he needed to talk in a way he never had before. He wouldn''t burden Tahiri with it. Not on top of everything else she had to handle, and not in a way that would just remind her that a good man died to save her life. He couldn''t talk to Sannah, couldn''t remind her of her role in all this. Her rash decision that led to all this, to all this. He had Sol, and Sol was a durasteel wall. "I haven''t thought of any further plans since last we spoke." "Not about ways out of this, Sol, I meant¡­" He took a deep breath. "I mean about Zal. Zalthis." Silence. "I''m sorry. Sithspawn, Sol, I''m so sorry. I should have done more, I shouldn''t have stayed with Tahiri-" she would have gone insane, with the Vong ship shouting in her mind "I should have been there with him-" to die too "I''m so sorry-" and the words weren''t enough, they were just sounds and shapes, ''sorry'' like he was sorry that Chewie saved him and burned, sorry like he could make it mean something when his father''s best friend, his father''s first real friend was torn away like that, sorry that Sol''s brother was gone and dead and left behind, sorry that he wasn''t enough of a Jedi, that he wasn''t fast enough or strong enough, sorry that everyone who followed him ended up dead - "Shut up." Sol snarled. Hot anger pulsed from the Ultramarine, just a dozen meters of vacuum and thin barriers of ceramite and yorik coral away. "Just be silent. Don''t talk about him, don''t speak his name. Not now, not to me and - do not apologize. You insult him with that." Anger was okay. Anger meant something. He could take anger. "What am I supposed to say? What, should I be proud that he''s dead? Tell me what I should say, Sol, what I should feel." "I do not know and I do not care. Feel whatever you wish. If you must feel sorry, keep it to yourself. I don''t need it." The combead would have clicked if Sol disconnected. It didn''t. After a minute of silence: "Don''t hate Sannah," Anakin whispered. "Hate me. It''s my fault." "There is a lot of blame to pass around." "Don''t hate her." "I don''t care enough to hate. There is still a duty to be finished." This time, there was a click of disconnect. Anakin pressed tears back into his eyes with the heels of his hands. Alone again, he racked his brains about how to go forward. Try and land on Yavin 8? Thirteen? It wouldn''t take long at all to all hop onto the Thunderhawk, but if Anakin was the Vong, he''d be watching Four, Eight and Thirteen like a hawkbat. Sol, in terse terms, had mentioned trying to do a ''breaching'' action on the corvette. The Ultramarine would cut or blow his way in, but Anakin knocked that down. If they were going to do anything radical like trying to do a space jump, they might as well just lower the ramp-tongue-thing rather than go through that hassle. Maybe using the Force, they could hold air around them¡­or there were biots on board. He''d have to ask Tahiri. Which¡­he''d spent days, weeks worrying about her, spending almost every waking minute thinking about her, and now she was about twenty meters aft in one of the cabins and a million lightyears away. Where did he start? Ignore the scabbed over gashes in her forehead like she was? Talk to her, needing to keep the tizowyrm in his ear just to understand her? Ignore that she''d kissed him, and he''d kissed her - and where in the hell did that come from, either time anyway, and what was wrong with him that he kept thinking about it when she was hurt, and probably hungry and thirsty and bleeding and exhausted and tortured but he still kept thinking about how somehow, Anakin Solo and Tahiri Veila had kissed each other. People weren''t meant to be full of this many conflicting feelings. There is no emotion, there is peace, there is no passion, there is serenity - And that was all kinds of bantha crap. He was exhausted; he was jittering with energy, he was relieved at a bone-deep level, he was horrified, he wanted to hug Tahiri and never see her again, he wanted to mourn Zal but he didn''t even want to think of his friend as dead. No easy, simple little mantra was going to put the tiniest dent into that whirlwind. He thumped his head against the leathery back of the pilot''s couch once, twice. What do I do? He grabbed up everything, balled it up, and hurled it into space, into the Force, plaintive and demanding. And a new star bloomed in his mind. And a second, then a third, and he knew them. "Jacen?" he exclaimed. His combead crackled in his ear. "Anakin? That ugly thing you?" Something glinted through the viewports. Something glinted in a way that metal glinted, that things that were made the normal way, with droids and assembly lines glinted. He saw ion exhaust, he saw durasteel plates and he knew what he was looking at, as it crept closer. A shape detached from the side, and darted off out of sight. Wild Karrde, a battered old Action V transport, and the best looking thing in all the universe right about then. "Anakin, if that''s you, and I''m betting it is with that Imperial ship there-" "Who is this?" "Oh, that''s definitely an Ultramarine. Hi! Are you Solidian or Zalthis? It''s me, Mei." "Mei? Mei Taral? You''d lost an arm." "I made a new one. Corran''s here too, in his X-Wing, and Jacen''s heading down to the airlock. Is Anakin there?" He got his mouth working. "Mei? And Master Horn, and Jacen? How did you find us? How did you know?" "Your brother is scary. He spent like two weeks in meditation finding Errant Venture and he knew exactly when you were about to blast off. Which - well, remind me to never bet against Jacen." Wild Karrde moved closer, looming larger and larger until it blocked out part of the sky. Mei filled him in - Booster and Corran picking up the Jensaarai from their homeworld after the whole ''Jedi hunt'' started. Then Jacen, popping up out of nowhere in his X-Wing and surprising everyone on Errant Venture. How he''d gone off on his own, guided by notions and feelings from the Force. Booster, wanting to fly the Star Destroyer right to Yavin to protect his grandkids, but being argued down by Mirax and Corran and the Saarai''kaar. Talon Karrde stepping in when Errant Venture reached Eboracum - the smuggler already conveniently there, for other matters - offering to run the Vong lines in his own ship; one much smaller and way more suited to blockade breaking. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "Tahiri doesn''t think there''s an airlock," Anakin said, dashing through the corvette for Tahiri''s cabin. She was already stepping out when he reached it, and she''d cleaned up somewhere, somehow. Still in the robeskin, but the blood was gone from her face and neck, making her look both more and less like herself. It was shocking to see her bare scalp, marked with bruises and little red scabs where that thing had dug in. "I''m going insane," Tahiri said, tizowyrm translating. "Right? That''s not Master Horn out there, and Jacen too?" "It is," Anakin said breathlessly. "It''s the Wild Karrde! You said this lump doesn''t have an airlock or anything, right?" Tahiri frowned, which was an alien motion without eyebrows. "I didn''t think so. Maybe? I don''t know. I''m sorry¡­" "No, it''s fine." He tried a smile and hoped it didn''t look as forced as it felt. "Mei? There isn''t one." "We can cut through the hull, the Karrde''s got one of those universal docking clamps. Says it''s for salvage recovery, so he can get into any model of ship." And they did. As simple as that. Tahiri directed them to the best place, where the cutters would open up a way into the lower cargo spaces. Wild Karrde took on Sannah first, since it was a lot easier to mate up to the Thunderhawk''s waist hatches first. Sol said he''d stay on the gunship and slave it to jump out with them, rather than leave it up to the servitor. After securing Sannah, the smuggler freighter moved into place and Anakin felt the corvette shudder as grapnels fired into the coral to hold it fast. Another minute or two, and an oval chunk of the bulkhead slid down, edges hot and steaming, smelling like boiled seaweed and burnt hair. And there, in the opening, was Jacen. His big brother. Anakin didn''t notice the sterile white, flexible tunnel of the boarding tube. He didn''t notice the med team right behind Jacen or how Tahiri recoiled from them, baring her teeth and hissing in her throat. He didn''t notice Mei at the far end of the tube, peering through from Wild Karrde''s hatch. He was hugging his brother, clinging onto Jacen like he was the only thing in the world. Something in Anakin''s chest broke and he sobbed onto his brother''s shoulder, because he was taller than him now, because he wasn''t a kid anymore, even though he felt five years old just then. "I can''t do it, Jace," Anakin cried, clutching at his brother. "I just can''t do it anymore."
Tionne, more than her husband or Kyle, kept pace with Rubio. Way, way too quickly, the discussion went from the simple stuff of ''Warp is strange, and does dangerous things'', into complicated matters of intention and will and choice. "You''d call what the children discovered a daemon." "Yes. It is a crude term and one that reeks of idolatry, but it suits the matter." Kyle could see the tightness in Rubio''s face - and he could only rely on what he could see, since like Alebmos, the psyker was nearly silent in the Force. Not missing, like a Vong, but like a door sealed shut. "Captain Thiel supported using the term, and as much as my training makes me loathe to give the predators further weight, he has proven incisive in combating the creatures. There is something primal to the ''daemon''. Before Calth, I would have simply called them ''warpspawn'', or perhaps ''extradimensional xeno''. Calth was not the first time the Legiones faced creatures of the warp. But, perhaps, I think it was the first time to see them so unified. So singularly hostile and directed. Psykery is rife in our home galaxy, but it is¡­or was¡­deeply uncommon to encounter empyreal breaches on such a scale." Tionne studied the arrayed parchments; even though the dense symbols filling them were as foreign and alien as the Ultramarines. "And they aren''t spirits of any beings that were once alive." "No. Another word that within the Librarius is ''Neverborn''. It is apt. They are intelligences without an origin. Without a source." "Not like a Sith ghost, then." Kam concluded. "Not like Palpatine." "I''m not comfortable with that," Tionne announced. "There aren''t any species that are all just evil. It doesn''t work that way." "They are not alive, Master Solusar. To think of Neverborn as a species is incorrect." Rubio''s lips thinned and his eyes darkened. "I once thought of them as merely intruders from some other dimension. A reality that followed rules that lay athwart our own. One that had rules and physics of its own, but based on mechanics that our minds cannot grasp. Something¡­concrete. Scientifically explicable. I fear, now, that was naivete. Calth has made me reconsider many truths I held to, and in the months here, in your galaxy, I have had further time to consider." "Monsters under the bed," Kyle muttered. "There is some consensus that folklore may indeed refer to ''daemons''," Rubio said. "In some ways, this unexpected exile in your galaxy has produced strange fruits. The Navis Nobilite hoard thousands of years of knowledge of the Warp miserly, not even sharing it with the Emperor. Mamzel Likentrix, though, has been free with her lore and I have had the rare opportunity to conference with not only the Navigatrix, but with experienced astropaths. We have¡­shared notes, so to speak." "Whatever they are, these daemons are hostile." Kam spoke up, grim and severe. "I could sense Alebmos'' sincerity. Anakin was unsettled by what he and the girls saw on Yavin 8. I know Sith magic, and so does Anakin. Not a lot bothers the boy, but that¡­lingered." "It would indeed. The Warp is not something easily put aside." Rubio pursed his lips. "Master Skywalker intimated that the ''dark side'' of the Force is an internal act. He says that corruption is driven by one''s own will and whim, rarely impressed from beyond." Kam, the expert on these matters, Kyle thought not unkindly, fielded the unspoken question. "Luke is right. Mostly right. There''s always temptation. Or even force. But neither are unbreakable, and the latter has flaws." Tionne reached out, taking her husband''s hand. "Redemption is a cornerstone of what it is to be Jedi," she added. "Kam served the Emperor, that is, our galaxy''s Emperor, because he had his memories stolen and endured horrible torture." "Luke pulled me from that pit and gave me back my life. Just like he turned his father back from the brink when they fought the Emperor together." Rubio studied both Solusars. "It is still strange, in a cosmic sense, to hear you speak of ''the Emperor''. There have been many emperors overthrown in the Great Crusade, but rare is it that the title itself is used alone. I digress. My Primarch already said similar to Master Skywalker, but I will repeat it to you three now. What you describe is impossible, with the taint of the Warp. A being who has been touched by the corruptive influences that exist within the empyreal cannot return from it. That is the whole of it. Temptation, too, is a vehicle for the denizens of the warp to find prey." The Ultramarine gestured to the peculiar decoration of the chamber, the woven threads of copper and anchor rods of dark iron. At arcane-looking generators humming and hissing. "This chamber is warded against Warp predators." In his hands, he produced a flickering silver light, like flame, like quicksilver. "Even a small expression of power, such as this, can draw them in time. You would hear whispers. Hisses, at the edge of hearing. A daemon would speak to you, in ways that you might find palatable. It would make offerings. It would make promises."
She skimmed the text a final time before thumbing off the datapad. From one socket, she extracted a small datacube, tossing it gently into the air once and catching it. The document existed in one place, here, and here it would still remain for a little longer. She tucked it into a hidden pocket of her robe, waving off the holograms around her expansive desk. The wood was literally priceless, a petrified import from Kuat, taken from the slopes of an ancient volcano. The swirling pinks and greys were striking indeed, as was the raw natural shape of the desk; an irregular cross-sectional slab of that ancient tree. Rising from her gelpacked seat, Viqi clicked her fingers and all the transparisteel viewports darkened instantly, cutting off Coruscant''s nighttime traffic bands and endless glow. She froze, her heart in her throat. Her office was small; only about half a hectare, and aside from the central location of her desk, there was a corner set aside near the turbolifts for more casual reception of guests. One couch, two lounges, and a wide reclining chair. Against the wall was a small cart of drinks, usually attended to and served by 4F, who even now was silent on a charging pad. The droid''s optics were off, leaving the tiny, versatile digi-weapon concealed in its hand utterly useless. Someone was sitting in that reclining chair. Someone who was not there seconds ago when she darkened the viewports. They were a silhouette, a sketch of a shape, a klecksographic suggestion dripping pareidolia. She would have noticed them not at all, but for the soft, cherry-red glow of a lit cigarra that deepened the shadow of their slouched form. She made to speak, but found her throat stilled, her tongue leaden and mouth dry. Not even Victor''s betrayal had caught her so off-guard, or froze her so utterly. "It''s better you didn''t submit that anyway." She shivered, a full body tremble from head to toe, the ripple chased by prickling gooseflesh. She spoke, thickly. "Who are you?" "A friend. An ally. A¡­convenience. A¡­sounding board." Each pronouncement separate from the last by a longer and longer pause, heartbeats stretching into breathless moments. "I''m¡­" The cigarra''s lit end brightened with a low crackle, dulled; casting no light. "¡­whoever you want me to be.". A thin trail of gossamer smoke exhaled from hidden lips. Their voice was smooth, smoother than aged Greyside 804, a rolling baritone that trembled her diaphragm, a hint of bass, a touch of tenor. A roll through the registers, balanced in a way she''s never heard a being speak before. The hairs on her neck stood on end and she shivered again. "You''re not welcome here. Leave." "I''m only here because I am welcome." The cigarra brightened, dimmed. Viqi took one tiny step forward. A second. There - in the darkness - was that a tilt of the head? An adjustment of the hand in their lap? They were just a shape. A formless form, an outline against greater darkness. But she needed to see. See who it was¡­ "Borsk is too well liked. Even now. Even if he''d sent all of First Fleet¡­and lost it too. He has allies. You''re seen as his successor by some. If you cast doubt on him, you cast doubt on yourself." Her knuckles whitened, her fists balled tight enough to dimple half-moons in her palm from her nails. No one else knew what was on that datacube. Even her allies in the Senate only had suspicions. Implications. "I activated my panic code," Viqi said tremulously. The air felt cold, puckering her skin. "You didn''t. I''ll be going soon enough. I won''t overstay my welcome." She stepped closer. "I''ll be back. It never hurts to have another perspective. Different advice." He - for that voice was male - had the shape of a man. A human man, or close enough, relaxed with legs crossed. Or outstretched, relaxed in repose? One hand lifted, holding cigarra to unseen lips. Or maybe both hands on the armrests of the reclined chair. It was so hard to tell. The only light came from the lamps at her desk. So far away. The cigarra brightened, faded. It shone not a hint of light on the being that savored it. "Who are you?" Viqi asked again. She took another step. The shape resolved itself. She blinked, in surprise. She had left her overcoat tossed over the back of the chair. There it was. Half-folded, draped, and in the dim, distant light of her desk''s lamps, it could - she could see it - it could look a little like someone in that chair. The dark coat, against the lighter fabric. She could have laughed. Tired, and her mind was playing tricks on her. That voice - like something out of her fantasies. The kind of voice that would make her swoon, sweep her off her steadied feet with a honeyed word. Voicing just her inner thoughts - she was still unsure about the audacity of a vote of No Confidence in furry little Borsk, especially after the good word from First Fleet arrived. She was tired; it was a long day, and her mind was playing tricks. She could have laughed. She did laugh. Rubbed her dry eyes, shook her head in chagrin. A nap, then a meal, then perhaps a long, drowsy massage before she retired - yes, that would do. Preparations, in case of calling that vote had kept her on edge for a week. The Advisory Council was meeting almost daily as well, and wrangling the old loyalists to her great-aunt was an ongoing task. Viqi approached, to reclaim her coat, to pull it on over her robe. Her mind was already on other things. On the side, beside the reclining chair, was a low table. It was for the placement of drinks, or perhaps a datapad. There was a small stone dish set aside, because among Shesh, among Kuati, the smoking of substances was not uncommon. Frission clenched her stomach and prodded new prickles down her spine, for leaning on the edge of that dish was a recently extinguished cigarra, still sending gossamer trails of smoke silkily into the air.
Shadows seemed to slink into the chamber, from corners that could not exist in the circular shape of it. Frost spread across tomes and parchments. Rubio stood impassive; Hostilio tilted his head slightly and Mitratos'' cowl grew darker. "What would they want? Sith spirits - it always goes back to serving them, somehow. Same as a living Sith, really, though: Exar Kun wanted a body to return to. Marka Ragnos too. ''Help me, and I''ll help you''. That kind of thing. ''Let me teach you these powers'', and then next thing you know¡­" Jerec, at least, never really bothered with the usual song-and-dance; he''d just wanted Kyle dead. "In a strange twist of coincidence, the daemon would offer similar. Power, secrets - or things like wealth, better health. Anything that might tempt, they will offer easily and freely. Their desire is not unlike what you describe the Sith as seeking, yet from a different position. Your Sith seek to return to life. A daemon¡­seeks a chance at life it never had."
Lucid dreaming was a strange thing. He would know, on a deep and visceral level, that he was dreaming. It was as if his closed eyes were distant windows, drawn closed and shrouded. At any moment, the bright light of day could glare through the blinds and tear him from the bleary world of his dreams back to reality. But he could ride the line, thoughts conscious and actions cognizant, exerting just enough pressure in his dream to shape it more to his liking. Never to craft it, really, but to act, like he acted in the waking world. It was a little secret pleasure that Randa enjoyed, away from the stresses and demands of his life, from the constant reminders that he never lived up to his esteemed progenitor. In his slumber, Randa Besadii Diori had control for a little while. Sleep came easily for the first time in many, many weeks. Warm and comfortable, curled with the tip of his tail before his face, Randa drifted off with a smile curving his wide mouth. His mother was still throwing fits over how the New Republic could possibly have known of the ancient routes into the Taldik Suggaja, obsessed over details that didn''t matter while Nas Choka''s fleet hammering Kor Besadii''s planetary shields like a tribal drum. The Vong seemed to be pulling back, now, but his mother still fretted as if the lucky turn was a bitter one, all for being due to the ''backstabbing'' New Republic. Once, he dreamed of living up to Borga''s lofty designs for him. Once, he worshipped the ground his noble mother never deigned to touch. Once, he dreamed of being the clan leader, the Besadii himself. Now, he dreamed of other things. He wandered the corridors of old Durga the Hutt''s ruined Darksaber. Tiny asteroids bumped and tumbled against dented walls and torn-out ceilings wept snarls of sparking conduits. It was a cartoon representation of the superweapon''s end, drawn and dreamy and strange. Randa did not so much slither through the halls as appear here, there, where, visual smearing and blurring around him in his lucid slumber. He had been here before; it was not an uncommon dream of his. Durga''s Folly was the rope that dragged down the Besadii clan, one that his mother Borga lamented at length. Sometimes Randa dreamt he was curled on Durga''s throne, sometimes he wore the New Republic uniform of General Madine; sometimes Randa found himself as one of the Taurill. Tonight, he was just Randa, and the Darksaber was dead and echoing. Another monument to the folly of his people, another tomb filled only with echoes of grandiose, pointless boasting lost on the stellar winds. Just like Jabba''s Palace on Tatooine, just like the lifeless husk of Varl; just like Nal Hutta and Nar Shadaa, which burned now under the tender mercies of the Vong. In the end, everything his people built fell. "THEN WHY BOTHER BUILDING AT ALL?" Randa blinked wide, yellow eyes at the booming voice - so loud he wondered if it was shouted in his real ears. If someone had entered his sleeping chambers uninvited, but he felt no struggle back toward the conscious world. From a slim gap in a partially-shut hatch, sudden golden light flared and Randa winced. "COME IN! COME IN AND KNOW ME WELL, MY FRIEND!" Randa would not know, later, if his dream self acted by the law and nature of the dream, or if it was his lucid will that drove him forward with curiosity, reaching for the sparking, dead control panel. The hatch yielded, irising open - for of course it would, since damage and lack of power was no impediment in the unreality of Randa''s imaginations - and for a moment he was overwhelmed by the bright light. And then Randa''s wide, lipless mouth grew slack in shock. Beyond was a vision of plenty, a feast worthy of the richest Hutt lords, with dishes delectable and morsels marvellous, laid on trays of moonsilver and spilling from horns encrusted in corusca gems. Voices chattered and the chamber was filled to the brim with beings of every kind that filled the halls of Hutt holdings: Rodians and Twi''lek, Gamorrean and Weequay, more and more - but these were not servants, these did not scuttle with eyes downcast to bear more platters of plenty; they were guests, all of them, feasting and drinking and laughing, eyes merry and alight. Lekku switched in delight, tusks glinted with rings of gold. Everyone was a friend here. Everyone was brother and sister, equal and indulging in the wealth that spilled - from him. Not at the focus of the chamber, not on some elevated platform, not removed by distance or stature, but among the crowd, within the crowd, so surrounded that his tail was trod upon, he lifted his arms to allow diminutive beings to dash beneath; he boomed with laughter each and every time and Randa drank in the merry, majestic sight. He was a Hutt - but a Hutt that Randa could never before have imagined. His body was not corpulent or bloated, it did not drink with slime or cause those around him to recoil - no, this Hutt was lithe and grand, handsome and beautiful, with darkly shining eyes and leathery skin glistening with fragrant oil. Muscles tensed subtly beneath his flesh as he turned to beckon to Randa. A great wreath of twisted branches, heavy with berries and green leaves, wrapped around his enormous brow. "WELCOME, YOUNG RANDA! COME IN! EAT, BE MERRY, BE AT EASE!" At the call of the Hutt, the founder of the feast and lord of plenty, all guests turned to raise cups and horns to Randa, calling out in cheering, many-throated welcome. Numbly, boggled by the strangest dream he had ever plumbed, Randa passed through the outer edges of the feast, but even here, at the fringes, it was no meaner than at the very center. No - to be relegated far from the heart of joy and bounty was not an exile, but a moment of respite, and Randa saw that there was a flow to the guests, which circulated like blood. They wandered at will, from outskirts to center, to touch the great Hutt and relish closeness, to wander away to nap on silk-piled couches for a time and recuperate, to cluster in corners to chatter and laugh and be among friends. And then, they would fall inward again, like trojan orbits, plunging back toward the star, the source of heat and life and lively joy, only to repeat the process. Randa passed through the feast, through the dense crowd, through the visions of endless plenty and as a dream, he never was waylaid nor stymied, never had to navigate nor pick around obstruction. He was at the entrance of the chamber, he was in motion, and then he peered up at the great Hutt, who was revealed to be greater, larger than any of Randa''s kind, to soar so high that his wreath-topped head brushed the shadowy ceiling itself. There was no fear in his presence; only the calmest belonging, the softest touch, like his youngest memories in the arms of Borga. The great Hutt boomed with mirth, reaching hands larger than a Rancor''s, scooping up Randa like a wayward Huttlet. "WHY BUILD, LITTLE RANDA? WHY HOARD, WHEN YOU MIGHT SHARE IN ALL YOUR WEALTH AND JOY? LOOK! SUCH DELIGHTS, SUCH PLEASURES - AND THEY ARE MORE, THEY ARE MULTIPLIED WHEN THEY ARE GIFTED!" Randa saw what the great Hutt meant. He saw the dancers who cavorted and twirled not because they feared the lash, but because they loved the act, because they adored the approving stares, because they cherished the moment. And he saw it was good; better than what he knew, because Randa, like all Hutts, treasured good things, and pretty things, and he saw then, in the gentle hands of the great Hutt, that by hoarding what is good, and what is pretty, that the world was lessened then, and he was lessened, for when he showered his friends with plenty, then that plenty was reflected back upon him, and he could bask all the easier in the sights and sounds of wealth. "YOU SEE WHAT BORGA HAS FORGOTTEN?" the Great Hutt threw back his mountainous head, her laughter thunderous, a deluge of warm rain in the summer, and so expansive was their mirth, so infectious, that every guest howled with accompanying joy, cheeks bright and mouths wide and Randa was moved to chuckle, to giggle, to squirm and let tears run down his cheeks and laugh, laugh, laugh, as he had not since he was a Huttlet, before worry bent his brow, before burden and expectation and judgement cracked his back. "DO YOU NOT WISH A BETTER WAY, RANDA OF BESADII? YOUR NAME WILL NOT BE RANDA WHO FOLLOWED BORGA, WHO FOLLOWED DURGA, WHO FOLLOWED THE GRASPING, COVETOUS LINE OF HUTTS WITH DULL EYES." The Great Hutt lifted Randa higher, swung him whooping through the air, so that he could soar high above the feast and from Randa''s vests shining coins tumbled, and behind him wafted perfumed air, and hands and tentacles and graspers raised in Randa''s passage - as worship, as welcome, as thanks, as Randa spilled the coffers of Besadii wide. "EAT! DRINK! BE MERRY! FOR ALL THAT IS BUILT TUMBLES DOWN AND ALL THAT IS GOLD GOES DULL IN GREAT TIME." Randa was deposited at the side of the Great Hutt, who was still grand, but not so grand as to be overwhelming; just a greater presence, a warm presence, who patted Randa on the head and hugged him close and fed to him squirming fleek eels and rubbed sweet-smelling oil into his weary shoulders. A mother, a father, a friend, at his back and in his mind, and Randa sank into the welcome, the peace, the presence. He could never live up to the reputations and expectations of his clan - but in the glow of green and blue eyes around him, Randa decided that might not be so grave a fate at all.
"I think what''s confusing me is that you have all these grim warnings, like those two, but Alebmos threw around power like few Jedi or Sith every would. How do you square that; if the Warp is so dangerous and so corruptive, why do you use it at all?" It had bothered Kyle, as Rubio pronounced each greater peril, all while Mitratos and Hostilio stood by as constant, permanent reminders to reinforce the Ultramarine''s words. He made it out like even the tiniest spark of power drawn from the ''Warp'' would make any being into a ranting, raving lunatic, yet Rubio''s eyes glowed with inner light and on Yavin, Alebmos-as-Khotta pulled typhoons across continental distances. Something didn''t match up here. Rubio drummed fingers on the broad spine of the book bound at his waist. "Kyle has a point." Tionne agreed. "If the dark side seemed like the only possible outcome of wielding the Force, then I can''t imagine the Jedi would have ever even come to be once the earliest Masters realized the danger." "The Emperor, I think, thought similarly. For a time, He allowed the Legiones to explore psykery as a discipline no different to any other. Like we would study tactics and strategy and drill with bolt and blade, He allowed us to plumb the Warp and chart it. I believe that He used the Librarius as an experiment, to see if the guiding principles of empirical reason could master the Warp. When it could not, He realized, as you do, that the danger of the Warp was too great, and ordered it put aside." Mitratos'' hooded head twitched toward Rubio. "The Ultramarines would have kept to that decree forever¡­but for Calth. Now, it is my fear that once released, the Warp can never be returned to its box. It is, and it will remain being, and we can either be ignorant¡­or we can gamble our lives to learn more about it." Rubio indicated the design of the chamber, pointing to the copper wiring and hissing generators. "These machines are arcane, based on designs shared by the Navis Nobilite and echoing the oubliettes of the astropaths aboard starships. They push back on the Warp and separate it, like oil and water, from the hostilities of the daemon and the rawer, simpler empyreal energies. Like a cage that keeps out radiation, this chamber keeps out the warp predators. And it works; it is proven to work. How is it known? Because the knowledge was earned in blood, and in death. The warp is a sword without a grip; but we are learning to tape over the bitter edge so that we can grasp it for a little longer." Hostilio made sign again with his hands. Rubio watched, translated. "All of us will succumb in time. That is the peril in the Warp. None who use it will ever escape that eventual fate, I fear. Only a fool believes themselves capable of mastering it."
Every Moff had a private holocomm suite, and every Moff had a private holocomm suite. Flennic knew that Wellon Bemos used the latter most often, as the man''s taste in paramours was as expansive as the open secret was. Flennic kept two spaces in his estate. Both were equipped with the best transceivers credits could buy - better, even, because these models were not even available on the market - and the rooms were swept and scanned by techniques that Ubiqtorate honed in their cesspool of constant, vicious backbiting. And then swept again, with scanners that would catch what the Ubiqtorate''s protocols specifically avoided. Conceivably, there were more private places in the galaxy. Ten lightyears away from any star, in the sheer vacuum of deep space was probably more private. But on Yaga Minor? Never. One transceiver and set was for the tedious meetings of Pellaeon''s Pets. The Moff Council, if you were feeling patriotic. Whenever the old windbag called for them to dance and perform for him, Flennic would settle in for another few hours of arguing until Gilad would not unsubtly dictate the true marching orders through one of his mouthpieces - usually Sarreti, with how used to Gilad''s hand up his rear that young man was - and then after he''d get back to his actual job, which was running the Prefsbelt sector as it should be run. The other¡­ah, that one he frequented far less, and only droids ran maintenance on that set. Flennic tapped a finger against the reader, the gentle prick of the hidden needle only a momentary pinch. Once, Thrawn - and a better leader Thrawn had been than Gilad, even though the Chiss was riddled with his own faults - used similar transceivers to squeak Delta Source and other highest priority blurts around the galaxy to his own secret ears. So much of that paranoid alien''s wealth fell into hands that never really knew what they had, but Flennic always made it a point to understand. He had to wait ten seconds before the hologram flickered to life, showing a pinch-faced man with painfully combed black hair. "Where is my money going?" Flennic asked dryly. There was only ever one reason to use this particular holocom code. And it was not for small talk. "There have been recent perturbations. The gravnet-resonators are showing that we''re not getting full resolution. They can read micrometer swings; this is on a scale of nanometers. Angstroms, potentially." "And you need better sensors." This was not phrased as a question. "Yes. And you know it isn''t cheap to source, or deliver." Flennic sighed, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. The requested budgetary increase wasn''t minor, but it didn''t quite push the boundaries of that area of the budget. It was doable, as long as there were results. Results, and Flennic could accept most anything. He prided himself on being goal-oriented. "I don''t need to ask if it''s necessary," he said, asking anyway. "The current manifestation has stayed coherent for thirty-nine hours," said the other man, a ghost of smug triumph crossing his severe features. Now that was a result. That was a result indeed. "Approved. You''ll have an increase by end of business." Just as there was no need for greetings, when business was concluded - Flennic flicked off the transceiver and it spun down with a low whine. Everything being done by Besh Source was better off where it was - half a galactic radius away. The less he knew of the harder specifics the better. They had his expectations, and the deliverables he wanted, and that was all Flennic wanted to ever think about. On the other end of the terminated call, Foga Brill narrowed his eyes at the empty air Moff Flennic''s smug, superior face had just occupied. He was not so removed from the greater galaxy that he didn''t know what was going on. Gilad Pellaeon was cozying up to this new "Exiled Imperium," and that would likely lead to improved relations with the New Republic. Spackle over the embarrassment of Ithor, and that unified front against the Vong would, frustratingly, provide inroads of familiarity as combat bred trust. Brill kept his own projections, as a hobby. After Pellaeon decided to throw Thrawn''s legacy at the Exiles, his numbers now showed the Remnant ceasing to be a Remnant in under a decade. There were gaps in those calculations, gaps shaped like ''Whatever the Vong would do'', but Brill was sure Flennic knew the same. Thus - his petition for expanded funding. He had not even lied. His home for six years now was a research station, a tiny thing, just twenty decks total, irregular and ugly with modules slapped on as the years passed. Such a far cry from the resources he''d once had - but also far more than he''d had, after everything fell apart. Oh, but that was his lot in life, was it not? To claw, claw, claw his way back from the brink, every time. He rode a trembling turbolift back up the slender neck of the station''s lone spire. Gravity twitched at him. The main body of the station was a mangled disc, full of exposed rib-work and structural stanchions and each added module sprouted off at weird angles like parasitic fungus. The spire projected ''forwards'', out from the center of mass. The peak of the spire had just enough space for cramped living quarters and a tiny, spartan observation deck. He deserved infinitely better, but at least he had privacy atop the spire, away from the menials slaving away on the station. He waited for the turbolift doors to open with baited breath. Thirty-nine hours. Odds were, it had dispersed already. It never dissipated when it was observed, like some kind of quantum phenomena. Holocorders couldn''t bypass this - they would short out unexpectedly. He''d had a subject with eyelids removed and ocular muscles cut set up in restraints to force them to stare at it. That had produced interesting results. The subject had sudden hemorrhages in the retinal blood supply around hour ten, which coincided exactly with when the secondary subject blinked naturally. And - poof. Away it went. The doors rattled open. His breath caught, the same revelatory awe sticking in his chest to see the black, hooded figure in the center of the chamber. Cowled and robed in black, perfect black, that devoured the light, their head was tilted back, evident by the cant of the cowl, to peer upwards. The entire apex of the spire was a transparisteel lens, magnifying and shortening space from thousands of kilometers to dozens. The station orbited Byss. What had once been Byss. When the Galaxy Gun misfired, shattering the molecular bonds of the Emperor''s hidden throneworld, it had left behind a wonderful, hidden little present. Deep in the shifting dust and rocks of Byss'' bones, right where the core of the world would have been, Foga Brill had found a singularity. A knot of unmeasurable mass, an event horizon that was quite impossible: Byss was a planet, not a star. It did not even approach the mass threshold for singularity collapse. The Galaxy Gun was a molecular disintegrator - it didn''t play with the substrate of space-time like some of Umak Leth''s stranger, paper designs did. As far as he could tell, the singularity was quite impossible. Yet it burned there, surrounded by a shimmering silver accretion disk all the same. The singularity was about the size of his fist. The disk: a kilometer and a half. Oh, but the Lord Palpatine had many, many secrets. Without a doubt, this was one. Without a doubt. And when the people of Prakith rejected divine teaching, it was here that Foga Brill found his sanctuary after that rank betrayal. His mission. His purpose. One day he would return to that world and show them their folly. One day, one glorious day, as the first step on his pilgrimage. He joined the manifestation, keeping a respectful distance of a meter or so. Closer, the void-darkness of the robe was lit by tiny, brilliant white stars, shining from depths and distances impossible within the formless shape of the fabric. "Flennic has increased funding," Brill spoke softly. He briefed the manifestation. It didn''t react. It never did. He informed it of the changes observed in the singularity, of new equipment ordered, of breakthroughs among some of the most devoted scientists. He told it of new theories and ideas. Using tractor beams to clear the accretion disk and expose the singularity. Ways to pry at it, perhaps, like using forceps, to peel back the Lorrentian Manifolds, to tease like a lover and bare the expanse of what lay shadowed and hidden within the point-mass. The manifestation did not so much as twitch. It remained, peering upward, lost within voluminous robes. Brill peered up as well, into the heart of dead Byss, at the swirling silver knot that promised so, so much. Some days, he wished it would speak. Some days he had ranted, screamed, begged the manifestation. He feared its attention; yearned for it. When it lasted, it never looked away from the heart of dead Byss and nothing ever rustled its concealing cloak. Only the tips of fingers occasionally protruded, rarely, never imaged and seen only by living eyes. Fingertips of cracked grey marble, veined in black with subtle gold.
Kyle worked a hole in the floor, pacing back and forth with a frown. Arms crossed, he chewed and tried to digest what Rubio had been saying, the evidence of Mitratos and Hostilio. The warnings were brutal and absolute. Total corruption. Momentary lapses that led to an eternity of damnation. Spirits of pure malice, enough to make old withered Sith blanch. Hostility that was undirected and raw, something that was hungry for everything that was real. "At least they sound obvious," he said. Tionne nodded slowly in agreement. "Hard to miss, right? Anakin''s description of that one on Yavin 8 was like every bad dream combined, horns and all. We can look out for that." Rubio managed to look regretful, which was a feat given his inhumanely exaggerated features. "Not always. Not always. For each that comes in obvious, corruptive form, there are those that are, in some ways, the more destructive. The ones that wear the guise of an ally, a friend, and pretend kindness or understanding. Each Legion''s Librarium has their own word for that kind. Lemurvae, we call them among the Ultramarines. Another unkind reminder that these powers have likely tormented and preyed upon mankind for millenia, in our long ignorance." "Like Palpatine. Pretending to be a friend, hiding their evil away until it''s too late." Kam agreed. "No. Not like Palpatine. Like a brother. Like the man beside you, who you have known all your life. Lemurvae can speak in any tongue, including the most familiar. They will replace the person you trusted and loved and pull you into the darkness with them." Hostilio made sign again and Rubio inclined his head in response. "There are some who theorize this happened with the Word Bearers. It would¡­explain much." "But you don''t know." Tionne said - stated. Didn''t ask. "How do you know these¡­Lemurvae¡­exist? Couldn''t it be a misunderstanding, a way to explain why a person who fell to temptation doesn''t seem the same?" "We can know, Master Solusar, when a daemon speaks in the voice of a brother whose blood has been painted across the deck. We can know, when the daemon crawls out of the hollowed skin of their prey to claim their next victim. There are no means, we now know, that a daemon shy from. No treachery nor deception too rank." "Wonderful. Really. Wonderful. And how exactly do we fight against that?" "That is the correct question, Master Katarn. We don''t yet know."
There was a girl, and she sat in the corner. Simply because the cool solidity of durasteel hemming her in meant there was no part of her quarters she could not see. She stretched one long, thin leg out, the other tucked up to rest her chin on her bony knee. Her arms wrapped around her leg, and gold-green eyes were the only part of her in motion. Here, there, she looked around a place foreign and familiar. Instincts clashed, reflexive disgust warring with immeasurable relief. A bunk, primly made up with soft and comfortable blankets, extra pillows, waited, untouched. A change of clothes lay abandoned, tossed in disarray across the plain deck. The barest peach fuzz prickled across her scalp, described two crescents above her wide eyes, fringed eyelids. Bruises, yellow and blue and mottled by pinpricks of red, curved across her cranium. Through hell and back, and it had not left her unmarked. Within a space in her mind, a place set aside for a boy, a young man, heroic and hurting and brave, shone warm and familiar and - now - quiet. The place for Anakin, where her friend, her best friend, whispered subtle encouragement through her captivity, now merely shining with his presence. Because he was here, he had come for her, he had given her the chance to break free. Hadn''t stood in her way when she declared her emancipation, when she had struck a sneering, motherly head from their shoulders. Which still brought tears to her eyes - of relief, and sorrow. Anakin was here now, physically and so he quieted in her thoughts, but she missed his murmured support. All this will pass, he''d said. Whispered, like the hiss of an untuned comm, like the crackle of cosmic radiation. All this will pass, and you will sur-vive, he''d assured her. He hadn''t been wrong. The girl with twinned names, which rang with different sounds but meant the same thing, studied the alien, familiar space around her. She was free, and she was bound, and she held to that whispered promise. All this will pass.