Dark Journey (2 page)

This was hardly the message Harrar intended to send, but Khalee Lah seemed content with their exchange. He rose and directed his attention back to the worldship.

“In plain speech, then. It appears the battle is not going as well as anticipated. Perhaps not even as well as Nom Anor reported.”

Harrar’s scarred forehead creased in a scowl. He himself held a dubious opinion of the Yuuzhan Vong spy. But Nom Anor enjoyed the rank of executor and was not to be lightly criticized.

“Such words veer dangerously close to treason, my young friend.”

“Truth is never treason,” Khalee Lah stated.

The priest carefully weighed these words. To the priesthood of Yun-Harla and among certain other factions, this proverb was an ironic jest, but there was no mistaking the ringing sincerity in the younger male’s tones.

Harrar schooled his face to match the warrior’s earnest expression. “Explain.”

Khalee Lah pointed to a small, dark shape hurtling away from the worldship at an oblique vector to the
priestship’s approach. “That is the
Ksstarr
, the frigate that brought Nom Anor to Myrkr.”

The priest leaned closer to the viewport, but his eyes were not nearly as keen as Khalee Lah’s enhanced implants. He tapped one hand against the portal. In response, a thin membrane nictitated from side to side, cleaning the transparent surface. The living tissue reshaped, exaggerating the convex curve to provide sharper focus and faint magnification.

“Yes,” the priest murmured, noting the distinctive knobs and bumps on the underside of the approaching ship. “And if the battle against the
Jeedai
is all but won, as Nom Anor reported, why does he flee? I must speak to him at once!”

Khalee Lah turned toward the door and repeated Harrar’s words as an order. The guards stationed there thumped their fists to opposite shoulders and strode off to tend their commander’s bidding.

The swift click of chitinous boots announced a subordinate’s approach. A female warrior garishly tattooed in green and yellow entered the room, a crenellated form cradled in her taloned hands. She bowed, presented the villip to Harrar, and placed it on a small stand.

The priest dismissed her with an absent wave and began to stroke the sentient globe. The outer layer peeled back, and the soft tissue within began to rearrange itself into a rough semblance of Nom Anor’s scarred visage. One eye socket was empty and sunken, and the bruised eyelid seemed to sag into the blue crescent sack beneath. The venom-spitting plaeyrin bol that had once distinguished Nom Anor’s countenance was gone, and evidently he had not yet been permitted to replace it.

Harrar’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. Nom Anor had failed repeatedly, but never once had he accepted responsibility for his actions. In a manner most unworthy a Yuuzhan Vong, he had foisted blame upon others. Harrar
had suffered a temporary demotion for his part in a failed espionage scheme; Nom Anor had merely received a reprimand, even though his agents played a significant role in the plot’s failure. In Harrar’s opinion, the blurred face testified that the gods’ justice would, in time, be served.

The image of Nom Anor, imprecise though it was, nevertheless managed to convey a sense of impatience, perhaps even anxiety.

“Your Eminence,” Nom Anor began.

“Your report,” Harrar broke in curtly.

Nom Anor’s one eye narrowed, and for a moment Harrar thought the executor would protest. As a field agent, Nom Anor was seldom required to answer to the priesthood. His silence stretched beyond the bounds of pride, however, and Harrar began to fear that Khalee Lah’s suspicions had fallen short of grim truth.

“You have lost?”

“We have losses,” Nom Anor corrected. “The voxyn queen and her spawn were destroyed. Two Jedi prisoners held on the worldship were freed. They escaped, as did several of the others.”

Harrar looked to Khalee Lah. “You have sighted the infidels’ escape ship?”

The warrior’s eyes widened, and for a moment his scarred face held horrified enlightenment—a fleeting emotion that swiftly darkened to wrath.

“Ask who flies the
Ksstarr
: the executor or the infidels?”

This possibility had not occurred to Harrar. He quickly relayed the question through the attuned villip.

“Some of the Jedi managed to commandeer the frigate,” Nom Anor admitted. “We are pursuing, and feel confident that we will add the capture of this ship to our other victories.”

Capture
. Harrar’s gut tightened, for that single word confirmed the identity of the escaped Jedi.
“Capture!
” Khalee Lah echoed derisively. “Better to reduce the defiled thing to coral dust! What Yuuzhan Vong pilot would wish to enjoin with an infidel-tainted ship?”

“Several Jedi fell to our warriors,” Nom Anor continued, oblivious to both the priest’s epiphany and the warrior’s scorn. “The younger Solo brother was slain. The warmaster will be pleased to learn that Jacen Solo is alive, and our captive.”

“Jacen Solo,” Harrar repeated. “What of Jaina Solo, his twin?”

The silence held for so long that the villip began to invert back to its original form.

“We are in pursuit,” Nom Anor said at last. “The Jedi will not be able to fly a ship such as the
Ksstarr
well or long.”

“It is an outrage that they fly it at all!” Khalee Lah interjected.

Harrar sent him a stern glance and then turned back to the villip. “I assume that you will not take this Jacen Solo with you as you pursue his twin. It is said the
Jeedai
can communicate with each other over long distances, without either villips or mechanical abominations to aid them. If this is so, he will surely warn his female counterpart of your approach.”

Khalee Lah sniffed scornfully. “What manner of hunter hangs bells around the necks of his bissop pack?”

This remark, impolitic though it was, surprised a smirk from Harrar. In his opinion, Nom Anor had become tainted by the infidels’ decadence and weakness. The image of the executor plunging through muck and swamp water on the heels of a pack of fierce lizard-hounds was both incongruous and appealing.

The executor took time to consider Harrar’s observation. “You have a military escort?”
“Twelve coralskippers accompany the priestship, yes. Do you wish us to break off in pursuit of Jaina Solo?”

The villip face-shape rolled downward and back in a semblance of a nod. “As you rightly observed, the risk of contact between these twin Jedi is considerable. I will take Jacen Solo directly to the warmaster.”

“And so the glory goes to the executor, while his failure is thrust upon the priest,” Khalee Lah said, snarling.

Harrar turned away from the villip. “You are learning,” he observed softly. “But for the moment, let us disregard Nom Anor’s ambitions. You were assigned to accompany me to Myrkr, no more. It is my task to oversee the sacrifice of the twin
Jeedai
. I must pursue. You are not obligated to accompany me.”

The warrior didn’t require time to consider. “This
Jeedai
, this Jaina Solo, flies upon a living vessel. That offends me. She escaped a worldship. That should not have been possible. She is a twin, which is rightly reserved as the province of the gods, or a portent of greatness. That is blasphemy. I would pursue her to the most wretched corner of this galaxy if it meant adhering myself to a pair of molting grutchins.”

“Forcefully argued,” Harrar said dryly. He turned back to the waiting executor. “We will retrieve Jaina Solo.”

“You hesitate. Are you certain you can succeed?”

“It is the warmaster’s command,” Harrar said simply. He glanced at Khalee Lah and added with a touch of asperity, “And a holy crusade.”

His sarcasm was lost on Khalee Lah. The warrior inclined his head in grave agreement, and his face shone with something Harrar had occasionally glimpsed, but never quite embraced.

A sudden chill shuddered down the priest’s spine. Fervor such as Khalee Lah’s had always struck Harrar as
vaguely dangerous. The warrior’s faith held a shaper’s art, imbuing Harrar’s facetious words with the sly irony the priest had always associated with his goddess.

And was it not said that Yun-Harla reserved her most cunning tricks for those who served her best?

Anakin is dead. Jacen is gone
.

These thoughts resounded through Jaina Solo’s benumbed senses, echoing through an inner silence as profound as that of the watchful stars.

These thoughts drowned out the sounds of battle, and the frantic, running commentary of the seven young Jedi who struggled to fly the stolen Yuuzhan Vong ship. Like her companions, Jaina was battered and filthy from days of captivity, and from a battle that had lasted too long and cost too much.

Only nine Jedi had fought their way out of the worldship and onto this smaller ship, bringing with them the body of their young leader. The survivors had taken the Yuuzhan Vong frigate analog quickly, with astonishing ease. Jaina had a dim recollection of searing anger and killing light, of her friend Zekk pushing her away from the pilot’s seat and into the Yuuzhan Vong equivalent of a gunner’s chair. She perched there now on the edge of the too-large seat, firing missiles of molten rock at the coralskippers pursuing the Jedi and their stolen ship.

Jaina watched with a strange sense of detachment as the alien ship released plasma at her command, as the death of coralskippers and their Yuuzhan Vong pilots was painted in brief, brilliant splashes against the dark canvas of space. All of this was a fever dream, nothing
more, and Jaina was merely a character caught in her own nightmare.

Jacen is gone
.

It didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t possible. Jacen was alive. He had to be. How could she be alive if Jacen was not? Her twin brother had been a part of her, and she of him, since before their birth. What they
were
could not be separated from what they were to each other.

Her thoughts tumbled like an X-wing in an out-of-control spiral. Jaina’s pilot instincts kicked in, and she eased herself out of the spin.

Reaching out through the Force, she strained beyond the boundaries of her power and training as she sought her brother. Where Jacen had been was only blackness, as unfathomable as space. She went deep within, frantically seeking the place within her that had always been Jacen’s. That, too, was veiled.

Jacen was gone. Jaina did not feel bereft, but sundered.

A burst of plasma flared toward the stolen ship. Jaina responded with one of her own. It streamed toward the incoming plasma bolt like a vengeful comet. The two missiles met like waves from opposing oceans, casting sprays of bright plasma into the darkness.

Zekk threw himself to one side, straining the umbilicals on the pilot’s gloves in his attempt to pull the ship aside from the killing spray.

Fortunately for the Jedi, their Yuuzhan Vong pursuers were also forced to turn aside. This bought them a moment of relative peace—no immediate danger, no obvious target.

Jaina twisted in her seat until she could see the worldship where Anakin had fallen, where Jacen had been abandoned. It seemed odd, and somehow wrong, that such a terrible place could be reduced to a small lump of black coral.

“We’ll be back, Jacen,” she promised. “You hold on, and we’ll come for you.”

I’ll come for you
, she added silently. She would go after Jacen alone, if it came down to that, as Anakin had gone to Yavin 4 to rescue Tahiri.

Now Anakin was dead, and a battered and heartbroken Tahiri watched over his body. The small blond girl blazed in the Force like a nova—Jaina couldn’t help but feel her anguish. The bond between Anakin and Tahiri was different from that shared by twins, but perhaps no less intense.

The realization hit her like a thud bug. Anakin and Tahiri. How strange—and yet it felt right and perfect.

Tears filled Jaina’s eyes, refracting an incoming streak of molten gold into lethal rainbows. In the pilot’s seat, Zekk muttered a curse and wrenched the frigate’s nose up and hard to port. The alien ship rose in a sharp, gut-wrenching arc. Plasma scorched along the frigate’s underside, sheering off the irregular coral nodules with a shrill, ululating screech.

Jaina jerked her left hand from its living glove and fisted away her tears through the cognition hood that covered her face. Meanwhile the fingers of her right hand slid and circled as she deftly brought her target into focus. She jammed her left hand back into the glove and squeezed it into a fist, releasing a burst of plasma at the attacking coralskipper—an instant before it launched a second plasma.

Jaina’s missile struck the Yuuzhan Vong ship in that minuscule interval between shielding and attack. Shards of black coral exploded from its hull, and the snout heated to an ominous red as molten rock washed over it. Cracks fissured through the Yuuzhan Vong pilot’s viewport.

Again Jaina fired, and again, timing the attacks with skill honed through two long years and too many missions. The coralskipper’s projected gravity well swallowed
the first missile; the second proved to be too much for the severely compromised hull. The ship broke apart, spilling its life out into the emptiness of space.

“I know that feeling,” Jaina muttered.

A small, strong hand settled on her shoulder. She felt Tenel Ka’s solid presence through the Force—there, but profoundly different. A moment passed before Jaina realized why: her friend’s emotions, usually as straightforward and unambiguous as a drawn blaster, had been carefully shielded.

“We are doing the right thing for Jacen,” Tenel Ka said stoutly. “Because they have only one twin, they will harm neither. We suspected as much, but now we have proof. They are not trying to destroy this ship.”

“Couldn’t prove it by me,” Zekk muttered as he jinked sharply to avoid another plasma blast.

“Fact,” the warrior woman said bluntly. “Zekk, for two years you’ve flown cargo ships—a true contribution, but poor training for this escape.”

“Yeah? Here’s another fact: I haven’t gotten us killed yet.”

“And here are several more,” Tenel Ka retorted. “Jaina was in Rogue Squadron. She had access to New Republic intelligence on enemy ships. She has survived more dogfights than anyone here. If we are to survive, you must let her fly.”