Free Refugee: Force Heretic II by Sean Williams Page B

can the Bakuran resistance be everywhere and yet still be a minority?”
    “Maximum disruption,” Leia said, “for minimum effort. We could be seeing the Peace Brigade at work here.”
    “What’s left of them,” Han muttered. “It’s like getting a dent out of a deflector grille, even after Ylesia.”
    “At least we’re not too late this time,” Jaina said, the destruction of N’zoth still fresh in her mind.
    “That’s assuming, of course,” Leia said, “that we have the full story.”
    “The story, Yu’shaa. Tell us the story,” whispered the acolytes crowding the darkened audience hall. “Tell us about the
Jeedai.”
    The Prophet gazed down at them from his throne, his expression hidden behind a mask of truly horrific proportions. A maze of scars and tattoos, it was barely recognizable as a face.
    “Who asks?” he demanded in accordance with the service.
    “We do, Yu’shaa,” the pilgrims responded with a unified bowing of their heads. “We are the Shamed Ones, and we come to you for wisdom.”
    The Prophet nodded, satisfied by the formal response. Warders outside the hall had carefully instructed the audience on how and when to speak. The being on the inside of the mask smiled to himself, knowing that these conventions were nothing more than a sham to encourage obedience to him and, ultimately, rebellion against his enemies.
    Nom Anor rose from his seat on the throne and removed the mask. The hideous creation was meant to represent Shimrra and the gods, while its removal symbolized the casting off of the old ways. He had devised every detail of the ceremony with the help of Shoon-mi and Kunra, his chief acolytes, but no matter how many times he did it, it still felt clumsy. Only the reactions of the converts convinced him that it was working.
    The acolytes looked wonderingly up at Nom Anor’s “real” face—not aware that this was just another mask, an ooglith masquer designed to make him look like a member of the Shamed caste.
    “The gods have granted me a vision,” he announced. “It is a vision of a galaxy of beautiful worlds—worlds in which all Yuuzhan Vong can live in peace as well as in glory, free of shame, and with everything their hearts and souls desire.”
    In recent weeks, Nom Anor had learned to become more animated and expressive when addressing the groups that came to hear him speak. At first he had just sat there and spoken, but he soon found the attention of the Shamed Ones would drift beneath his dull monotones. So he’d adopted some of the techniques he had observed in Vuurok I’pan—a storyteller from the group of Shamed Onesthat had first taken him in during his initial exile to Yuuzhan’tar’s underworld. Nom Anor clearly recalled how I’pan had told the story of Vua Rapuung, and how those gathered had listened intently, hanging from his every word—even though they had heard the tale so many times before.
    “But as I gazed upon this vision,” Nom Anor went on with dramatic flair, “a dark shadow came between my hungry eyes and the sight of the worlds that should be ours. The huge, black shadow had rainbows that shined from its eyes; its mighty hands were darkened from bloodstains.”
    The congregation listened spellbound, just as I’pan’s audience had once listened to him. Nom Anor raised a hand to demand silence—an unnecessary gesture since the silence was already profound, but one that served to reinforce his command over the gathering.
    “The gods opposed the great shadow, the Rainbow-Eyed One, and they brought forth their holy warriors to strike it down!”
    He stared down at the crowd. “You know the name of these warriors.”
    The whisper surrounded him.
“Jeedai!”
    He nodded his approval, and leaned forward as though to impart a great secret. And it
was
a great secret, for uttering it could easily mean the death of everyone in the room.
    “Yes, the gods sent the
Jeedai
to drive away the Rainbow-Eyed Enemy. For weeks and months they fought.