Rebel Dream: Enemy Lines I Page 7

  Luke found he was dressed in black. His lightsaber hung at his waist. He removed it, depositing it in the crook of a tree branch, and entered the cave.

  Within, he found only darkness and silence. But he knew something was there, a few steps from him, a deeper darkness. He could neither see nor hear it, but could feel it within the Force. He stepped toward it and felt it move to the side, circling him.

  Then it brushed past him, a contact that sickened him, reawakened in him every great hatred of his life—for Darth Vader, for the Emperor, for himself when he had stumbled too far down the path of the dark side—and left the cave. Luke followed.

  He emerged into brighter light than he’d seen outside a moment ago, and now he was surrounded by soaring buildings, construction so high that the sky was visible only as a faint sliver of light. All around him, duracrete surfaces, crashed landspeeders, and giant blocks of unrecognizable debris were coated with green algae and waving grasses in a more pallid green hue. At his feet, a human body was covered with the same stuff.

  The darkness he’d pursued was ahead of him, farther down the narrow aperture between skyscrapers, still invisible to the naked eye, still nauseatingly tangible within the Force.

  It roiled and spun like a tornado. It increased in size until it brushed against the buildings to either side. The algae and grasses there changed when it touched them, suddenly bearing large, malformed fruits as black and slick as old oil. Then every surface in sight was covered with the fruits, and as he watched they began to drop from their stems. They struck the ground and then struggled to newly developed feet, walking in every direction with the awkwardness of babies.

  And each of them was filled with misery and dark side longing for ruin.

  One opened its mouth and let out a piercing wail. Then another did, and a third. Suddenly the air was full of their cries.

  A hand gripped Luke’s shoulder. He opened his eyes. Mara was shaking him; her face was pale. The air was still filled with cries, but they were Ben’s, and Mara held the baby away, as if to protect him from Luke. “What is it?” she asked.

  “A vision.” Luke brought his breathing under control and found that one part of his vision still lingered; dark side energy and malice still surrounded him. Ben, as sensitive to the Force as only the child of two eminent Jedi could be, wailed in protest. “There’s evil on Coruscant. Tremendous dark side evil.”

  Borleias Occupation, Day 5

  The hologram showed a familiar sight: the daytime skyline of some portion of Coruscant. The enormous, soaring buildings and the mottled orange clouds in the sky were distinctive to that world, though there were so countless many different planetary vistas like this that no one present could precisely identify the portion of Coruscant being displayed.

  Things were different, though. The more distant skyscrapers seemed to be a uniform shade of green, and the reason why was evident on the nearer buildings: they were coated in a material that looked like algae. From the algae protruded things that looked like grasses, tree branches, umbrella-topped fungi. Up close, their colors were different; only in the distance did they blur together into a single hue.

  Luke found the hologram unsettling. The algae and grasses were identical to those of his vision.

  In the darkened conference chamber, a man stepped up next to the holoprojection. In the light cast by the projection of Coruscant, his face was luminous, the green from the algae lending color to his pale skin, white hair, mustache, and beard, giving him a nonhuman aspect. He was lean with age, though not to the point of emaciation. His garments were black, covering all but his head and hands, leaving viewers with the impression that those body parts were floating free in the chamber.

  But this wasn’t an eerie image. Many of those present had known his face for years. Wolam Tser was a political historian whose holodocumentaries had cataloged every stage of the New Republic’s development from when it was nothing but a poorly funded, chaotically disorganized Rebel Alliance.

  “I’ve stopped the image here for a moment,” Wolam said, his rolling voice and upper-class accent instantly familiar to those in the chamber, “so you can see what is happening on Coruscant’s surface. Some sort of planet shaping has begun. Those growths cover much of the planet’s surface. They spread incredibly swiftly; everything you see in this image was bare duracrete the day before this was recorded. The darkest green material, some sort of pastelike scum, secretes acids that break down the chemical composition of duracrete. The fungi, I suspect, are related to the exploding fungi of Yavin Four; when struck, they detonate. The hardier-looking growths send deep taproots into the surfaces beneath them. In short, they are rapidly destroying the construction on Coruscant’s surface—and, of course, construction covers almost every square centimeter of the planet’s surface. The air, though this image doesn’t suggest it, is increasingly noxious, and the remaining population is staying in ever-lower city levels, huddling near air scrubbers that provide them with adequate atmosphere.”

  Luke asked, “What about Yuuzhan Vong intrusions?”

  Wolam peered in his direction, squinting in a futile effort to see deeper into the shadows. “That is the distinctive voice of Master Skywalker, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “The Yuuzhan Vong are indeed performing raids into the lower levels. Some seem to have objectives, such as the destruction of air scrubbers, while others seem to be nothing but hunting expeditions. But the most fearsome of their assaults are not raids; they occur when the Yuuzhan Vong remove themselves from an area. They evacuate to a distance of many kilometers. And then this happens.” Wolam brought up a small handheld device and depressed one of its buttons.

  The frozen image suddenly flickered back into life, though nothing changed other than the motion of nearby planet-shaping growths in the wind and a brief flash of lightning in one of the clouds.

  Then something did change. A patch of that cloud became brighter. Something erupted from it, a small flaming dot with a trail, descending at an angle toward the planet’s surface.

  The dot disappeared behind the buildings in the distance. There was a moment in which nothing occurred other than the dissipation of the dot’s smoke trail high in the atmosphere.

  A flash of light from that point in the distance briefly overloaded the holocam’s ability to record; the image burned away to brightness. Then it returned.

  The buildings still stood in the foreground and the distance, but now there was something behind them: a tall column of smoke spreading out toward the top into a shape reminiscent of many forms of fungus.

  And something was racing toward the holocam, a shock wave. Nearest the smoke column, the buildings blurred and vanished. The wave of destruction, a distinct semicircle, flashed across the intervening kilometers faster than a starfighter could fly, eradicating every structure in its way. As the leading edge came close to the holocam’s viewpoint, Luke could hear members of the audience drawing breath and leaning back as though to put more distance between them and the wave.

  The vision of Coruscant shook and faded to blackness.

  Someone brought up the lights in the chamber, and once again it was a cozy meeting room rather than a vision of doom.

  Wolam stood near the head of the table, to Wedge’s left; he was the only one standing. “That event nearly cost the life of my holocam operator, Tam.” He gestured to a man at the rear of the chamber; the fellow, young and bulky enough to look awkward in a normal-sized chair, gave him an indifferent wave. “Tam lay unconscious for two days before finding his way back to me, and was sick for days after because he’d breathed in so much of the toxic atmosphere. He’s still feeling the effects.”

  Wedge asked, “What sort of weapon did they use to achieve that result?”

  Wolam gave him a thin smile. “Our own. That was a Golan Defense Platform. A few days ago, it defended Coruscant against the Yuuzhan Vong. Then, after it was destroyed, it was nudged from orbit to come down upon the planet’s surface. I can’t e
stimate …” He stopped, and there was no indication on his face of what had caused him to hesitate, but Luke felt a sudden flash of pain from the man. “I can’t estimate how many died when it hit. Millions, tens of millions, hundreds of millions. That impact zone was a couple hundred kilometres southwest of the Imperial Palace. They’re pushing more satellites and skyhooks down, one after another. And since only a few million of Coruscant’s citizens have found passage offworld, the vast majority are in mortal peril—in the short term, from the falling satellites, and in the long term from the planet shaping.”

  “We appreciate the information you’ve brought us,” Wedge said, “and the samples you’ve given us have been forwarded to our team of scientists specializing in Yuuzhan Vong techniques.” He consulted the datapad before him. “Your shuttle’s damage—that was sustained during your departure from Coruscant?”

  Wolam nodded. “One reason it took me a few days to depart was that several of us clubbed together to make a mass departure. The idea was that, since their starfighter analogs would inevitably come after us, some of us might survive where one ship wouldn’t.” He looked apologetic. “Mine was one of the few that made it out.”

  “Your damage is being repaired. Your shuttle should be ready in a day or two. We can send you out with the next batch of refugee departures; you’ll have starfighter cover for your trip.”

  Wolam glanced around. Luke saw his attention freeze, for the barest of moments, on several of the faces present at the meeting, including Luke’s own. Then Wolam returned his attention to Wedge. “If I may, I’d like to stay instead. I’m a historian. Here is where history is being made. We won’t be much of a draw on your resources. We have quarters aboard my shuttle.”

  “Very well.” Wedge stood. “Now, it’s back to work. I’m sorry it’s all bad news today, but we need to be kept updated.”

  On his way out the door, Tam accepted congratulations from many of those who’d been present—congratulations on bringing valuable information, congratulations on surviving. He nodded and gulped, uncomfortable at being among so many people—at being among so many famous people—and moved as quickly as he could. His size, for he was tall enough to brush his hair against the top of the doorjamb and bulky enough to bring a smile to the face of a smashball team owner, acted against him, as it usually did; he managed to catch chair legs with his feet and inadvertently brushed some smaller people out of the way as he staggered for the door. Then he was out in the hall, where at least the traffic was moving in the direction he wanted to go, and a few moments later was outside, gratefully gulping in Borleias’s moist, warm air.

  “Not much for crowds, are you?” The speaker—female, young—had moved up beside him as he’d recovered.

  He took a look at her and his stomach lurched again. She was right. Crowds were bad. But attractive females didn’t help either. They, too, made words stick in his throat and made his heart hammer. This one was slender, her hair a cascade of blond curls now tied back in a tail. Her eyes were a lively blue, her features the sort that brightened any chamber they entered.

  Tam took a moment to remember what it was she’d said. He managed a smile that, he hoped, suggested he was at ease. “That’s right. I’m a field holocam operator, not a city boy. How I ever let Wolam persuade me to come back to Coruscant with him really baffles me.”

  “I suspect that he’s pretty persuasive.”

  “He is.” Tam thought furiously, trying to remember what normal people did in these situations, then extended his hand. “Tam Elgrin.”

  She shook it. “Danni Quee.”

  “Say, I know your name. You’re almost famous.” Then he winced. “That came out wrong.”

  Her smile said that she was amused rather than offended. “Listen, Tam, I have a question for you. Do you have any recordings that Wolam Tser didn’t show us back there? Any recordings of the Yuuzhan Vong?”

  “I—” He felt the onset of a headache but ignored it. He hadn’t been told that he couldn’t share his recordings. Wolam Tser might fret about it, but then again, in these times of war, when it was vital to share information with appropriate parties, he probably wouldn’t. “I do. I have some recordings of a Yuuzhan Vong hunting pack. In the midlevels of Coruscant. I was with some people. After I stopped recording and really started running, I got toward the front of the pack and the Yuuzhan Vong fell on those in the rear.” He shrugged. “So I got away.” He pulled up the bag he always carried with him, the one that held his holocam, his miniature backup holocam, his recordings, his recording blanks. He found the recording he was looking for and pressed the data card into her hand. “That’s the one. I’d like it back.”

  “I’ll copy it and get it back to you soon. Today, even.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nice meeting you.” She flashed him a smile and headed back into the building.

  “Likewise.” Finally able to get his heart rate under control, Tam headed away from the building, out into the kill zone.

  Within the half kilometer nearest the front of the building, the burned-out area that had once been jungle was heavily occupied by vehicles and vessels; two large docking bays were under construction, duracrete being poured, prefabricated metal walls being raised. All around them were shuttles and starfighters, speeders and hovercrafts, transports and one large freighter with extensive damage to its bow.

  Tam brought out his holocam and took a few moments to record the scene. Someday, if the New Republic survived, people would want to know how these events played out.

  The headache grew in strength so suddenly that it felt as though he’d been stabbed. He cried out, clutched his head, and struggled to keep from falling.

  He knew why the headache was back. It was because he wasn’t obeying. His instructions were clear. He dropped the holocam back into his bag.

  Tam weaved his way between the ships in the kill zone to reach his—well, really, Wolam’s—shuttle.

  Of course, it was a shuttle in function, not a shuttle in design. It had begun its career as a Sienar-built Skipray blastboat, an Imperial four-person gunship. An ungainly-looking thing, it had a bow that looked like an eccentric cam gear, the narrowest portion pointed forward and broadened by a pair of fixed wings angled downward at a sharp angle. The bow was attached to a stern that was little more than a huge axle. Mounted on the axle were the stabilizer fins, forward-sweeping wings that could rotate to be horizontal for landing or vertical for stabilization in atmospheric flight.

  When it had been a machine of war, it had been heavily armed. But years ago, after Wolam Tser had stolen it when escaping with recordings of Imperial base-building activities that the Empire didn’t want him to retain, he’d begun modifying the boat. The proton torpedo and concussion missile tubes had been removed to give the boat more cargo and cabin room. The laser cannon turret on top had been replaced with a transparisteel dome, opening up more cabin room and offering those beneath it another view of the stars. The controls had been simplified, making the optimum crew size two instead of four.

  Behind the command cabin, room that had been needed for missile racks was now converted into two smallish cabins, one for Wolam and one for his holocam operator.

  Tam offered a false smile and a wave to the mechanics now welding metal plates over the holes in the wings, repairing damage sustained when one of the boat’s companion vehicles had exploded under coralskipper fire. He climbed up the port-side bow wing to the main hatch and entered, his movements hurried. Only if he hurried would the headache be kept at bay.

  He didn’t pause as he entered the command cabin but headed into the aft passageway. In two paces he was at the door to his cramped cabin. He entered in a rush—Hurry, hurry—and sealed the door behind him.

  He lifted the mattress of his bunk to reveal the storage compartment beneath. In it was a large, roughly spherical piece of rock—“A souvenir of Corellia,” he’d explained to Wolam.

  Of course, he’d lied. He’d had to.

  He set the
stone, which was lighter than it should be, atop his bunk and rapped three times on its surface. A moment later, he rapped again, twice.

  The stone split along an invisible center seam. It opened like an ocean bivalve, but instead of revealing two linings of flesh and perhaps a pearl, it showed only an amorphous blobby mass of material in the bottom.

  His stomach lurching at the thought of touching it again, Tam reached out and found the slight protrusion at the top of the blob. He stroked it, feeling the living thing react to his touch. He snatched back his hand and wiped it on his pants, though there was no residue on his fingers from the smooth thing.

  Moments later, the blobby material stretched up and assumed the approximate shape of a human head. Tam didn’t think it was a Yuuzhan Vong female’s head; the forehead was too pronounced, the features not made irregular by mutilation.

  The villip looked at him with the face of his controller. “Report,” it said, its speech unaccented.

  Tam felt his headache fade to almost nothingness, but the turmoil in his stomach, the turmoil in his emotions kept this from being the relief it otherwise would have been. “We are on Borleias,” he began.

  Borleias Occupation, Day 6, Predawn

  There was a rap at the door. Wedge jolted upright, his eyes opening, his mind momentarily cloudy about where he was, what he should be doing.

  He was still in his office, in his chair, but he’d fallen asleep. He couldn’t let himself do that. Every moment he didn’t push himself, more people might die.

  He rubbed sleep from his eyes and turned to the door. “Come.”

  The door slid over and out of sight, but there was no one in the corridor beyond. Then his visitor showed himself, peeking in from around the doorjamb.

  The man was of average height and bald—shaven bald, Wedge knew, rather than prematurely bald. His mustache and goatee were close-cropped and black, giving him a sinister appearance, but his smile, all cheer flavored with wicked humor, dispelled any sense of dread. He was handsome in a way that only celebrities and a few extraordinarily successful businessmen and criminals could be.