VI: Myopic Gods
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.'