Refugee: Force Heretic II (10 page)

“Yun-Yuuzhan created all things,” he answered, “the
Jeedai
included. They are as much a part of his plan as we are. This will probably seem confusing to some, but you must remember that we should never assume to know Yun-Yuuzhan’s plan in its entirety. We are as ghazakl worms before him. Would such a worm understand even the most menial task
you
perform?”

“Are they aspects of Yun-Shuno, then?” a male cried out from the back.

“As with all beings, different ones appeal to different gods. The twin
Jeedai
, Jaina and Jacen Solo, are often associated with the twin gods Yun-Txiin and Yun-Q’aah. Jaina is also associated with Yun-Harla, the Trickster. All the
Jeedai
are disciplined warriors, so they fight with the favor of Yun-Yammka, the Slayer. They revere life as does Yun-Ne’Shel, the Modeler. Self-sacrifice for the greater good is part of their teaching, as it is with Yun-Yuuzhan. And yes, they have acted as intercessors for the Shamed Ones in the fashion of Yun-Shuno.

“But in essence, they are beings like us. They are not themselves gods, any more than Shimrra is. They are mortal; they can be killed. I know this because I have seen them die with my own eyes. There are even stories of
Jeedai
who wreak destruction instead of good, so we know that they have flaws like us. It is their teaching we
must follow so we can be strong like them, so we can be accepted as equals again.”

“Yu’shaa, what is the Force?”

Nom Anor pretended to ponder this question before he answered. In reality, he had already given it a great deal of thought. He had seen firsthand the effects of the Force, but he had never understood it. Unlike those he had once served, however, he refused to dismiss that failure to understand as a failure on behalf of the Jedi. That was absurd. He simply could not hide from the fact that the Jedi Knights had access to
something
that the Yuuzhan Vong clearly did not.

It became worse the more he thought about it. If, as the Jedi claimed, the Yuuzhan Vong truly didn’t possess the mystical life force or energy field that filled—or fueled—the galaxy they had invaded, did that mean, then, that the Yuuzhan Vong and all their works—and their gods—were as empty and lifeless as the machines they despised?

There were two obvious solutions to this problem, as far as Nom Anor could see. One was to embrace the teachings of the Jedi in order to learn more about what had gone wrong, and maybe save themselves from a pointless “nonlife.” The other was to find evidence, somehow, that the Yuuzhan Vong weren’t entirely closed to this ubiquitous Force—that somewhere inside them existed the same spark of life that burned in the Jedi.

His answer to the question attempted to address both solutions in a way that left neither resolved.

“The Force is an aspect of creation, the same as matter and energy. It may even be an aspect of
the
creation, the primordial sacrifice that brought forth all things from Yun-Yuuzhan. We are taught that Yun-Yuuzhan is the source of all life, the Overlord who, through great pain to himself, created the lesser gods and thus, by connection, the Yuuzhan Vong. We assume that his sacrifice was of his body—as his followers might sacrifice an arm or a
thousand captives in his honor. But why should that be so? Why do we limit Yun-Yuuzhan’s generosity only to that which we can see and touch? Just as the wind is invisible to our eyes, there are many more things in the universe than we can sense with our corporeal bodies, and all these things spring ultimately from Yun-Yuuzhan. The Force is part of that, too.

“But what
is
it exactly?” Nom Anor shook his head. “I cannot address that question, my friends, because I simply do not have the answer. On this matter, I am as ignorant as all of you. The Force is a mystery—one that may haunt us forever. All we can do is grope in the darkness for that thing we know is missing, in the hope that we might somehow stumble across it by chance.”

Nom Anor leaned forward again, dropping his voice to a whisper so they were forced to listen closely to his words. “So far in my groping, I have discovered two things that I want you to consider. The first is that our way and the way of the
Jeedai
are not necessarily at odds with each other. I’m not suggesting, as some have proposed, that we
replace
our pantheon with that of the
Jeedai
and the Force—but that we are both prophets of a new way.”

He paused again, but not long enough for anyone to voice another question. “The other thing is no more than speculation, really, but I offer it to you anyway, for you to consider. I mentioned before that Yun-Yuuzhan’s sacrifice might have been of more than just his body; that he might have offered up things in order to bring the universe into being—things that the likes of you and I can neither see nor sense. We see aspects of him reflected in everything around us. So is it not possible that the Force, in all its mystery and wonder, is what remains of Yun-Yuuzhan’s soul?”

Nom Anor leaned back into the throne, leaving them to ponder that thought for a moment. He honestly didn’t
know if it meant anything or not, but the audience seemed to think it profound.

He let himself relax while they contemplated the notion. These were the toughest questions, and he was glad to get them out of the way early, but they were also the ones he had prepared for the most. From here on, if the acolytes followed the usual patterns, the questions would be relatively trivial.

“Who are you, Yu’shaa?” asked a disfigured warrior from off to one side of the gathering.

He dodged the answer with rhetoric, in much the same way he might have once deflected thud bugs with his amphistaff. “I am one of you: anonymous in servitude, remarkable only for my willingness to speak out against those who would have us defiled.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Like you—like
all
of you—I was born and raised on one of the many worldships that crossed the gulfs between galaxies, following our ancestors’ vision of a promised land.”

It was the truth, of course, just not the
whole
truth. Nom Anor had acted as an advance scout, arriving many years before the main body of the migration. His mission had been to gather information about the governments and species occupying the worlds ahead. He had prepared the way for later agents, exploring pressure points and sowing seeds of dissent. Those seeds had flowered into rebellions and counter-rebellions, destabilizing the New Republic and widening the cracks that had ultimately led to its downfall. During the war, he had helped found the Peace Brigade that had so jeopardized the Jedi cause, and set many other schemes into motion. But there was no way he was going to let them know
that
.

“Is the war wrong?” asked one from the front, his eyes wide and hungry for answers.

That was a difficult question. Being pro-Jedi didn’t
necessarily mean that the galaxy wasn’t intended to be the Yuuzhan Vong’s new home. It didn’t mean that it was wrong to fight the Galactic Alliance, since it wasn’t ruled by Jedi and didn’t openly advocate Jedi values. It was perfectly reasonable to be soundly pro-Jedi and yet at the same time fanatically opposed to any suggestion that the war should be ended.

The trouble was, Nom Anor suspected that the Yuuzhan Vong were now losing the war. He had no confidence in Shimrra’s ability to restore the situation. He understood the bankruptcy of the Supreme Overlord’s regime—he knew of the lies, the betrayals, the desperate search for an antidote in the form of the eighth cortex. Without a radical change in direction or fortune, the Galactic Alliance was going to win.

For the worshipers of Yun-Yammka, the god of carnage, there was no such thing as losing. There was only winning or dying. A failure to defeat the Galactic Alliance would inevitably mean a fight to the end, and the destruction of all that Nom Anor held dear. His only hope, therefore, was to change the direction of the war from beneath, by muddying the waters for the enemy. Would the Jedi be so keen to attack when they had supporters in the Yuuzhan Vong ranks? He suspected not. They were warriors, but they were also guilty of compassion.

“The war is an aberration,” he said, offering the reply he always used when fielding this kind of question. “It is a lie. We should never have been fighting the
Jeedai
in the first place, since they are the only ones who will speak up for those without voices—those like
us
. Nor should we be fighting those who call the
Jeedai
allies, either, since alone the
Jeedai
are insufficient to destroy the Supreme Overlord. We should be fighting the ones who pit like against like, who use fear and betrayal to keep the powerless in their place, who would strike down Yun-Yuuzhan himself in order to satisfy their greed! It is never wrong
to fight for what is ours, but you must make certain that you do so for the right reasons. Be clear who your enemy is. It is Shame. But together, like the grass, we can bring an end to this Shame once and for all.”

The audience responded enthusiastically to his words, and this time Nom Anor did smile. They were his now, would do anything for him. He had led them to the noose, and they had happily put their heads through of their own accord.

“What do we do now, Prophet?”

Nom Anor sought out the questioner, and recognized him as the one with the severely decayed arm. The acolyte’s eyesacks were a deep, intense blue, almost visibly pulsing with blood. His stare was the kind Nom Anor had seen many times before—before and since he had formed the cult. For some, belief was so much more than just a guide to living: it became life itself. That was understandable, he thought, when they had so little else to live for.

“You are among the first to receive the Message,” he said, addressing the whole room. “Your duty now is to spread it to others so that they, too, will come to understand it. Some of these may choose to come here and receive further instruction, themselves to become messengers. The Message will spread like a flood, washing our Shame away.”

A murmur of approval rolled around the gathering, punctuated by the nodding of many heads.

“There will, of course, be those who will hear the Message but do nothing with it,” Nom Anor went on. “They will keep it in their hearts—secreted away from others as though it were some rare spore they have found. For these individuals I feel nothing but pity. The Message can only be of value if it is
heard
—for that, and that alone, is its purpose. Remaining silent after you hear the Message is akin to giving approval of the way you have been treated, of being complicit with the enemy …”

He let the sentence trail off, then sighed. The time had come to end the audience. He had said everything he needed to say.

“My friends, I fear for all of you. Although we have right on our side, we are still fledglings who must confront hostility at every corner. Should word of our existence and identities ever reach the higher ranks, then every one of us involved will be hunted down and killed. Therefore, I ask you all to take every precaution as you spread the Message and recruit for our cause. A whisper will spread, but a shout would most surely be silenced. With patience and perseverance, we will prevail. I ask you to go now in the strength and knowledge that the spirit of freedom is with us!”

Nom Anor stood and opened his arms, as though to embrace them all. At the signal, the doors at the back of the cellar opened, allowing the newly recruited acolytes to file out. He smiled beneficently as they left, radiating goodwill and trust. It was very different from how he had once dealt with underlings. There was a time when he would have sent them off with curses and threats, trusting in fear to keep them loyal. But this wouldn’t work on the Shamed Ones; threatening them with punishment would only demonstrate that he was no different from the rest of their masters. If he had learned one thing from his disguise, it was that when fear was a way of life and there was nothing left to lose, the only incentive remaining was reward.

When they were gone, he collapsed back into the throne.
Go now, in the knowledge that you are the instruments of my authority, and the means by which I shall attain the glory I deserve …

“A good audience, Yu’shaa?”

He looked up. The Shamed warrior Kunra, who acted as his bodyguard and occasional conscience, had entered the room, closely followed by Nom Anor’s truest believer,
Shoon-mi Esh. Shoon-mi wore the robes of a priest, though without the insignia of any of the Yuuzhan Vong deities. Kunra wore no armor, belying the cowardice that had caused his fall from grace. Knowing their true selves, Nom Anor thought them a pathetic entourage for any would-be revolutionary; but he had to admit that the converts responded well to them.

“Nothing special,” he said in his usual rough voice. There was no need to soliloquize with these two. “What we are gaining in quantity, we’re losing in quality. A couple of them looked like they were about to die on their feet.”

“I apologize, Master.” Shoon-mi made fawning motions with his gnarled hands. “I did not feel it my place to turn anyone with need aside.”

“Soon you will have to, Shoon-mi.” Beneath his tiredness and irritation, Nom Anor felt an abiding satisfaction at the way the movement was growing. Every day brought more penitents to their door, seeking the truth of the Message spreading around Yuuzhan’tar. “Perhaps it is time to start training the Select. You have the list?”

Shoon-mi nodded vigorously, eager to please. “I have identified seventeen who qualify.”

“Loyal without being blind,” Nom Anor said, going over the prerequisites for those chosen. “Quick thinkers, but not
too
intelligent, yes?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then call them to me.” He glanced around at his surroundings. “The sooner the better, for I grow weary of the stench down here.”

Shoon-mi inclined his head. “They will stand before you tomorrow, Master,” he said, making to leave.

Before he had gone five steps, Nom Anor stopped him. “Shoon-mi,” he called. The Shamed One turned to face him. “I could not have done this without you. I want you to know that.”