Star Wars - [New Jedi Order Short] - Ylesia (by Walter Jon Williams)

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STAR WARS
The New Jedi Order
YLESIA
Nom Anor suppressed a shiver at the sight of the Shamed One Onimi leering from the doorway.
Something in him shrank at the ppearance of the lank creature with his misshapen head and knowing
smile.
Onimi’s grin widened.
Nom Anor, distaste prickling, pushed past the Shamed One and entered. The rounded resinous walls of
the chamber shone with a faint luminescence, and the air bore the metallic scent of blood. In the dim light
Nom Anor made out the magnificently scarred and mutilated form of Supreme Overlord Shimrra,
reclining on a dais of pulsing red hau polyps. Onimi, the Supreme One’s familiar, sank into the shadows
at Shimrra’s feet. Nom Anor prostrated himself, all too aware of the scrutiny of Shimrra’s rainbow eyes.
The Supreme Overlord’s deep voice rolled out of the darkness. “You have news of the infidels?”
“I have, Supreme One.”
“Stand, Executor, and enlighten me.”
Nom Anor repressed a shiver of fear as he rose to his feet. This was Shimrra’s private audience
chamber, not the great reception hall, and Nom Anor was absolutely alone here. He would much rather
be able to hide behind his superior Yoog Skell and a whole deputation of intendants.
Never think to lie to the Supreme One, Yoog Skell had warned.
Nom Anor would not. He probably could not. Fortunately he was well prepared with the latest news of
the infidels’ efforts against the Yuuzhan Vong.
“The enemy continue their series of raids against our territory. They dare not confront our might directly,
and confine themselves to picking off isolated detachments or raiding our lines of communication. If a
substantial fleet opposes them, they flee without fighting.”
The Supreme Overlord’s head, the sum of its features barely discernable as a face with all its scars and
tattoos and slashings, loomed forward in the shadowy light. “Have your agents been able to inform you
which of our conquests are being targeted?”
Nom Anor felt a cold hand run up his spine. He had seen what happened to some of those who
disappointed the great Overlord Shimrra, and he knew his answer would be a disappointment.
“Unfortunately, Supreme One, it appears that the new administration is giving the local commanders a
great deal of latitude. They’re choosing their own targets. Our agents on Mon Calamari have no way of
knowing what objectives the individual commanders may select.”
There was a moment of silence. “The new head of state, this infidel Cal Omas, permits his subordinates
such freedom?”
Nom Anor bowed. “So it appears, Supreme One.”
“Then he has no true concept of leadership. His rule will not trouble us much longer.”
Nom Anor, who thought otherwise, chose not to dispute this analysis. “The Supreme One is wise,” he
said instead.
“You must redouble your efforts to infiltrate the military and provide us with their objectives.”
“I shall obey, Supreme One.”
“What news of the Peace Brigade?”
“The news is mixed.” The collaborationist Peace Brigade government had been established on Ylesia,
and had grown sufficiently large and diverse to have divided into squabbling factions, all of which
competed ferociously in groveling to the Yuuzhan Vong. None of this cringing actually aided the creation
of the Peace Brigade army and fleet, which, when built up to strength and trained, were to act as
auxiliaries to the Yuuzhan Vong.
“Perhaps it should be admitted that infidels so disposed as to join an organization called the ‘Peace
Brigade’ may not be temperamentally inclined toward war,” Nom Anor said.
“They need a leader to exact obedience,” Shimrra concluded.
“That role was to be assigned to the infidel Viqi Shesh, Supreme One,” Nom Anor said.
“Another leader shall be assigned,” Shimrra said. His eyes shimmered from blue to green to yellow. “We
should choose someone who has nothing to do with these factions. Someone from outside, who can
impose discipline.”
Nom Anor agreed, but when he searched his mind for candidates, no names occurred to him. “We are
having better luck with infidel mercenaries,” he said. “They have made no true submission and possess no
loyalty, but they are convinced they have joined the winning side, and are content to obey so long as we
pay them.”
“Contemptible creatures. No wonder a galaxy that spawned such as these was given by the gods to us.”
“Indeed, Supreme One.”
Shimrra shifted his huge form on his dais, and one of the polyps beneath him burst under the pressure,
spraying the wall with its insides. An acid reek filled the room. The other polyps at once turned on the
injured creature and began to divide and devour it.
Shimrra ignored the clacking and slurping. “Speak of our visitor from Corellia.”
Nom Anor bowed. “He is called Thrackan Sal-Solo.”
“Solo? He is related to the twin Jeedai?”
“The two branches of the family are estranged, Supreme One.”
A thoughtful rumble came from the dais. “A pity. If otherwise, we could hold him hostage and demand
the twins in exchange.”
“That is indeed a pity, Lord.”
Shimrra waved one huge hand. “Continue, Executor.”
“Sal-Solo is the leader of a large political faction on Corellia, and has been elected governor-general of
the Corellian sector. He says that, with our support, he can assure that the Corellian system—five
planets—is detached from the infidel government. Once this is done, he can assure its neutrality, including
the neutrality of the Centerpoint weapon that so devastated our force at Fondor. Then, as diktat, he will
sign a treaty of friendship with us.”
Shimrra shifted thoughtfully on the pulsing bed. The dismembered polyp twitched and fluttered as its
siblings consumed it.
“Is this infidel trustworthy, Executor?”
“Of course not, Supreme One.” Nom Anor made a deprecatory gesture. “But he may be useful. He
gave us the location of the Jedi academy, and that information was correct, and led to our colonization of
the Yavin system. Corellia is a major industrial center, where many weapons and enemy ships are built,
and its neutrality is desirable.”
“What is our information on the Centerpoint weapon?”
“Sal-Solo did not come alone. He brought with him a supporter and companion, a human female called
Darjeelai Swan. While I interviewed Sal-Solo, we took his companion and interrogated her. According
to this person, the Centerpoint weapon is not functional, though efforts are being made by New Republic
military forces to rehabilitate it.”
“So this Sal-Solo offers to trade us what he does not have.”
“True. And—also according to Darjeelai Swan—it was Sal-Solo himself who fired the Centerpoint
weapon at our fleet at Fondor.”
Shimrra’s hands—giant black taloned things, each implanted from a different carnivore—made massive
fists. “And this creature has the effrontery to bargain with me?”
“Indeed, Supreme One.”
Onimi piped up,
“Fetch him to our presence, Lord,
And bring us all into concord.
I wish it known and made a rule
That I am not the only fool.”
Shimrra’s vast frame heaved with what might have been laughter.
“Yes,” he said. “By all means. Let us meet the master of Corellia.”
Nom Anor bowed in response, then hesitated. “Shall I bring his guards, as well?”
Contempt rang in Shimrra’s answer. “I am capable of defending myself against anything this infidel
should attempt.”
“As you desire, Supreme One.”
Like most humans Thrackan Sal-Solo was a thin, ill-muscled creature, with hair and beard growing
white with age. His eyes widened as he entered the chamber and perceived, in the darkness, Shimrra’s
burning rainbow eyes. Nevertheless he summoned a degree of swagger, and approached the Supreme
Overlord on the pulsing polyp bed.
“Lord Shimrra,” he said, crossed his arms, and gave an all-too-brief bow.
Nom Anor reacted without thought. One sweep of his booted foot knocked the human’s legs out from
under him, and a precise shove dropped the startled Corellian onto his face.
Onimi giggled.
“Grovel before your lord!” Nom Anor shouted. “Grovel for your life!”
“I come in peace, Lord Shimrra!” Sal-Solo protested.
Nom Anor drove a boot into Sal-Solo’s ribs. “Silence! You will wait for instruction!” He turned to
Shimrra and translated the human’s words.
“The infidel says that he comes in peace, Supreme One.”
“That is well.” Shimrra contemplated the splayed human figure for a moment. “Tell the infidel that I have
considered his proposals and have decided to accept.”
Nom Anor translated the overlord’s words into Basic. Sal-Solo’s face, pressed against the floor,
displayed what might have been a trace of a smile.
“Tell the Supreme Overlord that he is wise,” he said.
Nom Anor didn’t bother to translate. “Your opinions are of no interest to the Supreme Overlord.”
Sal-Solo licked his lips nervously. “The only way I can guarantee the success of the plan is to be given a
free hand in Corellia,” he said.
Nom Anor translated this.
“Tell the infidel he misunderstands,” Shimrra said. “Tell him that the only way the plan will succeed is if I
am given a free hand in Corellia.”
Sal-Solo looked startled as this was translated, and his lips began to frame a protest, but Shimrra
continued.
“Tell the infidel that we will give his associates in the Centerpoint Party all assistance necessary to gain
control of the Corellian system. He will direct them to cooperate with us. Once Centerpoint Station is
taken by his people and surrendered to our forces, the Centerpoint Party will rule Corellia in a state of
peace with the Yuuzhan Vong.”
Sal-Solo’s eyes widened as he listened to Nom Anor’s lengthy translation. The executor did not bother
to state the fact that, in the Yuuzhan Vong language, peace was the same word as submission.
Sal-Solo would find that out in time.
Sal-Solo licked his lips again, and said, “May I stand, Executor?”
Nom Anor considered this. “Very well,” he said. “But you must show complete submission to the
Supreme Overlord.”
Sal-Solo rose to his feet but didn’t straighten, instead maintaining a sort of half bow toward Shimrra. His
eyes ticked back and forth, as if he were mentally reading a speech before giving it, and then he said,
“Supreme One, I beg permission to explain the situation on Corellia in more detail.”
Permission was given. Sal-Solo spoke about the complex political relations at Corellia, the Centerpoint
Party’s desire to cast off the New Republic. As he spoke he seemed to grow in confidence, and he
paced back and forth, occasionally raising his eyes to Shimrra to see if the Supreme Overlord was
following his argument.
Nom Anor translated as well as he could. Onimi, from his posture at Shimrra’s feet, watched with his
upper lip curled back and one misshapen fang exposed.
“I shall have to return to Corellia immediately in order to undertake the Supreme One’s plan,” Sal-Solo
said. “And regretfully I must warn that it will be difficult to gain cooperation once it is known that the
Yuuzhan Vong plan to seize the Centerpoint weapon after we evict the New Republic military.”
“The answer to that difficulty is a simple one,” Shimrra said through Nom Anor. “Do not tell your
associates that the Yuuzhan Vong are destined to control the weapon.”
Sal-Solo hesitated only a fraction of a second before he bowed. “It shall be as the Supreme Overlord
desires,” he said.
Shimrra gave an appreciative growl, then turned to Nom Anor. “Is the infidel lying?” he said.
“Of course, Supreme One,” Nom Anor said. “He will never voluntarily relinquish a weapon as powerful
as the Centerpoint device.”
“Then tell the infidel this,” Shimrra said. “It will not be necessary for him to return to Corellia—he will
simply inform us which of his Centerpoint Party associates we should contact in order to deliver his
orders and our assistance. Tell the infidel that I have a much more important duty for him to perform. Tell
him that I have just appointed him President of Ylesia and Commander in Chief of the Peace Brigade.”
Nom Anor was struck with admiration. Now that is truly inventive vengeance, he thought. Thrackan
Sal-Solo had destroyed thousands of Yuuzhan Vong warriors at Fondor, and now he would be publicly
linked with a Yuuzhan Vong–allied government. His reputation would be destroyed; he would be at the
mercy of those whose warriors he had killed.
Sal-Solo listened to the translation in horrified silence. His eyes ticked back and forth again, and then he
said, “Please tell the Supreme Overlord that I am deeply honored by an appointment to this position of
trust, but because this would make it impossible for his plans for Corellia to be realized, I regret that I
must decline the appointment. Perhaps the Supreme Overlord doesn’t realize that the Peace Brigade is
not admired by all Corellians, and that anyone identified as Peace Brigade wouldn’t be able to command
the respect necessary to win power in Corellia. It is, furthermore, absolutely necessary that I be in
Corellia to coordinate the Centerpoint Party, and . . .”
Sal-Solo went on at some length, long enough so that Nom Anor began to feel toward him a thorough
contempt. Sal-Solo, convinced of his powers to charm others, thought that once he could get in the same
room with Shimrra, he could talk to him, one politician to another, and convince him of the rightness of
his schemes. As if he could lobby the Supreme Overlord of the Yuuzhan Vong the same way as he might
lobby some miserable Senator from his homeworld!
“Executor,” Shimrra said conversationally, as Sal-Solo continued to speak, “is there a place where one
might strike a human in order to cause immobilizing pain?”
Nom Anor considered the request. “There are organs known as ‘kidneys,’ Lord. One on either side of
the lower back, just above the hips. A strike there causes considerable anguish, often so severe that the
victim is unable to cry out. Or so I am given to understand.”
“Let us find out,” Shimrra said. He made a slight gesture, and Onimi rose from his place at the foot of
Shimrra’s dais. In the dim light Nom Anor saw, coiled in the Shamed One’s hand, a baton of rank, the
officers’ version of the amphistaff. He was shocked to discover that Shimrra permitted his familiar to
carry weapons.
But who else would be more trustworthy? Nom Anor thought. Onimi must know that if Shimrra is killed,
his own death will surely follow.
Onimi stepped behind Sal-Solo and flung out his lank arm. The whiplike baton froze into its solid form,
now a lean staff, and Onimi with a single efficient swing slashed the weapon into Sal-Solo’s left kidney.
The human opened his mouth in a silent scream and fell like a bundle of sticks, hands scrabbling at the
floor. Nom Anor stepped to the helpless man, bent, and seized him by the hair.
“Your resignation is declined, infidel,” he said. “We shall see you are transported immediately to Ylesia,
where you may take your place as head of the government. In the meantime, you will give us the names
of your associates on Corellia, so they, too, may be given their instructions.”
Sal-Solo’s face was still distorted by an unvoiced shriek, and Nom Anor decided that his information
regarding a human’s vulnerable kidneys was true.
“Nod your head if you understand, infidel,” Nom Anor said.
Sal-Solo nodded.
Nom Anor turned to Shimrra. “Does the Supreme One have any further instructions for his servants?” he
asked.
“Yes,” Shimrra said. “Instruct that human’s guards well.”
“I shall, Lord.”
Nom Anor prostrated himself beside Sal-Solo’s shuddering body, and then he and Onimi carried
Thrackan Sal-Solo to his guards, who managed to stand the man upright.
“I believe I address you as ‘President’ from this point,” Nom Anor said.
Sal-Solo’s lips moved, but again he seemed unable to utter a sound.
“By the way, Your Excellency,” Nom Anor continued, “I regret to say that your companion Darjeelai
Swan died while furnishing the Yuuzhan Vong information. Is there anything you wish done with the
body?”
Sal-Solo again voiced no opinion, so Nom Anor ordered the body destroyed and went about his
business.
The pale form of the cruiser Ralroost floated in brilliant contrast to the green jungles of Kashyyyk below,
the immaculate white paint of its hull a proof that the assault cruiser served as the flagship of a fleet
admiral and was maintained to the standard that befitted his rank. Around the cruiser were grouped the
elements of an entire fleet—frigates, cruisers, Star Destroyers, tenders, hospital ships, support vessels,
and flights of starfighters on patrol—all formed and ready for their next excursion into Yuuzhan
Vong–controlled space.
Jacen Solo watched the swarming fleet elements through the shuttle’s forward viewport. The outlines of
the warships seemed too hard somehow, too defined, a little alien, lacking the softer outlines of the
organic life-forms he had grown accustomed to while a prisoner of the Yuuzhan Vong.
“Bets, anyone?” came his sister’s voice. “Where’s the next raid?Hutt space? Duro?Yavin?”
“I’d like to see Yavin again,” Jacen said.
“Not once you see what the Vong have done to it.”
He turned at the bitter tone in Jaina’s voice. She stood slightly behind him, her intent gaze directed
toward Ralroost. A major’s insignia was pinned to the collar of her dress uniform, and a lightsaber hung
from her belt.
Yavin was our childhood, Jacen thought. And the Yuuzhan Vong had taken that childhood away, and
Yavin with it, and left Jaina a grown woman, hard and brittle and single-minded, with little patience for
anything but leading her squadron against the enemy.
Sword of the Jedi. That’s what Uncle Luke had named her at the ceremony that had raised her to the
rank of Jedi Knight. A burning brand to your enemies, a brilliant fire to your friends. That’s what Luke
had said.
“I think it will be Hutt space myself,” Jaina said. “In Hutt space the Yuuzhan Vong have had their own
way for too long.”
Yours is a restless life, and never shall you know peace, though you shall be blessed for the peace that
you bring to others.
Luke had said that as well. Jacen felt an urge to comfort his sister, and he put an arm around her
shoulders. She didn’t reject the touch, but she didn’t accept it either: he felt as if his arm were draped
around a form made of hardened durasteel.
It didn’t matter, Jacen thought, if she accepted or rejected his help. He would make his aid available
whether she wanted it or not. Luke had offered him a choice of assignments, and he had chosen the one
that would place him near Jaina.
When Anakin had died, and Jacen had at the same time been made a prisoner of the Yuuzhan Vong,
Jaina had allowed herself to be overcome by despair. The dark side had claimed her, and though she had
fought her way out of that abyss, she was still more fragile than Jacen would have liked. She had grown
fey, haunted by death, by the memories of Chewbacca and Anakin and Anni Capstan and all the many
thousands who had died. To his horror Jaina had told him that she didn’t expect to survive the war.
It wasn’t despair, she insisted; she’d beaten despair when she conquered the dark side. It was just a
realistic appraisal of the odds.
Jacen had wanted to protest that if you expect death, you won’t fight for life. And so he volunteered for
duty with the fleet at Kashyyyk, determined that if Jaina wouldn’t fight her utmost to preserve her life, he
would fight that battle on her behalf.
“I think Yavin is a good bet for the next strike,” another voice said. “We’ve had squadrons clearing
Yuuzhan Vong raiders off the Hydian Way, as if they’re preparing a route for us. We might soon find
ourselves moving in that direction.”
Corran Horn stepped to the viewport. The Rogue Squadron commander wore a battered colonel’s
uniform that dated from the wars against the Empire.
“Yavin,” he said, “Bimmiel, Dathomir . . . somewhere out there.”
A polite hissing signaled a disagreement. “We forget the enemy are behind uz,” hissed Saba Sebatyne.
“If we take Bimmisaari and Kessel the enemy will be cut in two.”
“That would bring on a major battle,” Corran said. “We don’t have the strength to fight one.”
“Yet . . .” Jaina said, and through their twin bond Jacen felt the fierce power of her calculation. She had
probably reckoned to the day when the New Republic would have the power to shift to the offensive,
and could hardly wait.
The Sword of the Jedi wanted to strike to the enemy’s heart.
The shuttle swept into Ralroost’s docking bay and settled onto its landing gear. The droid pilot, a metal
head and torso wired onto the instrument console, opened the shuttle doors. Its head spun clean around
on its shoulders to face them.
“I hope you enjoyed your ride, Masters. Please watch your step as you exit.”
The four Jedi stepped out of the shuttle onto Admiral Kre’fey’s pristine deck. Scores of people bustled
about, rode hovercarts, or worked on starfighters. Most were furred Bothans, but among them were a
fair number of humans and other species of the galaxy. Jacen was suddenly conscious that he was the
only person present without a military uniform.
They stepped toward the bulkhead, with its open blast doors that led forward to the ship’s command
center. Above the open doors was a sign:
how can i hurt the vong today?
This was what Admiral Kre’fey called his Question Number One, which everyone in his command was
to ask her- or himself every day.
In a few moments, Jacen thought, he’d hear an answer to that question.
Jacen craned his head as he passed through the blast doors, and on the other side he saw Kre’fey’s
Question Number Two.
how can i help my own side grow stronger?
The answer to that question was going to be a little harder to find.
The four Jedi reported to Snayd, Admiral Kre’fey’s aide, who took them to a conference room. Jacen
followed the others into the room, and in the dim light he first saw the Bothan admiral Traest Kre’fey,
who stood out by virtue of the unusual color of his fur, the same brilliant white as Ralroost’s paint. As
Jacen’s eyes adjusted to the room’s darkness he saw other military officers, including General Farlander,
and another group of Jedi who were quartered on the cruiser.Alema Rar, Zekk, and Tahiri Veila.Jacen
felt the welcoming presence of the others greeting him in the Force, and he sent his own warm reply.
“Greetings!” Kre’fey returned the salutes of the three military Jedi, and stepped forward to clasp Jacen’s
hand. “Welcome to Ralroost, young Jedi.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Unlike other military commanders, Kre’fey had been happy to work with Jedi in
the past, and had sent a specific request to Luke Skywalker for more Jedi warriors.
“I hope you’ll be able to help us in this next mission,” the admiral said.
“That’s why we’re here, sir.”
“Fine! Fine.” Kre’fey turned to the others. “Please be seated. We’ll begin as soon as Master Durron
joins us.”
Jacen seated himself in an armchair next to Tahiri Veila, the soft, smooth leather embracing his body.
The little blond Jedi gave him a shy smile, her bare feet swinging clear of the carpet beneath her.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
Her wide eyes turned thoughtful as she considered the question. “I’m better,” she said. “The meld is
helping a lot.”
The fierce, impulsive Tahiri had loved Jacen’s brother Anakin, and had been present at Myrkr when
Anakin had met his hero’s death. Devastated by Anakin’s passing, her fiery character had come close to
being snuffed out. She had withdrawn, and though she had continued to function as a Jedi, it was as if she
were only going through the motions. Her impetuous personality had vanished into a subdued, ominously
quiet young woman.
It had been Saba Sebatyne, the reptilian leader of the all-Jedi Wild Knights Squadron, who had
suggested that Tahiri should be sent to join Admiral Kre’fey at Kashyyyk. Kre’fey wanted as many Jedi
as possible under his command, to form a Jedi Force-meld in combat, all the Jedi linked together through
the Force and acting as one. Saba insisted that the Force-meld would help a wounded mind heal, by
drawing a Jedi in pain toward light and healing.
Apparently Saba had been right.
“I’m glad to know you’re doing better,” Jacen said. His own experience with the meld, on Myrkr, had
been more ambiguous: if it amplified Jedi abilities, it also enlarged any disharmony that existed among
them.
Tahiri gave Jacen a quick smile and patted his arm briefly. “I’m glad you’re here, Jacen.”
“Thank you. I wanted to be here. It seemed to be where I was needed.”
He wanted to experience the meld again. He thought it could teach him a great deal.
The doors slid open, Kyp Durron entered, and at once the mood of the room seemed to shift. Some
people, Jacen thought, carried a kind of aura with them. If you met Cilghal, you knew at once you were
in the presence of a compassionate healer, and Luke Skywalker radiated authority and wisdom.
When you looked at Kyp Durron, you knew you were seeing an enormously powerful weapon. If only
Jacen didn’t know how erratic that weapon had been.
The dark-haired, older Jedi wore a New Republic–style uniform without any insignia, to show that he
led an all-volunteer squadron that fought alongside the military forces but was not formally a part of them.
Kyp and his unit, the Dozen, had always gone their own way. They flew with Kre’fey not because they
were under orders, but because they chose to.
Kyp and the admiral exchanged salutes. “Sorry I’m late, Admiral,” Kyp said. He showed the datapad
he carried in one hand. “I was getting the latest intelligence reports. And, uh—“ He hesitated. “—some of
the data were kind of interesting.”
“Very good, Master Durron.” Kre’fey turned to the others. “Master Durron has submitted a plan for
action against the enemy. As it’s fully in line with our operational goals as established by Admirals Sovv
and Ackbar, I’ve given it my tentative approval. I thought I would place it before my senior commanders,
and you squadron commanders, to see if you might have anything to add.”
摘要：

STARWARSTheNewJediOrder YLESIA  NomAnorsuppressedashiveratthesightoftheShamedOneOnimileeringfromthedoorway.Somethinginhimshrankattheppearanceofthelankcreaturewithhismisshapenheadandknowingsmile.Onimi’sgrinwidened.NomAnor,distasteprickling,pushedpasttheShamedOneandentered.Theroundedresinouswallsofthe...

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