the anger he could feel burning in his chest—an anger and loathing that would have surely given him away as something other than a lackey from the worker caste.
He had to contain his emotions. For all intents and purposes, he
was
a lackey, and given that station he could expect to be kicked and beaten at the whim of those above him.
He gritted his teeth and mumbled something suitably obsequious. The warrior guard grunted and walked away.
“Are you all right?” Kunra whispered when the guards were out of earshot.
Nom Anor straightened and checked his features. His masquer was intact. “I’ve had worse,” he said, staring balefully after the guards.
That was true enough. Working up the ranks of executors had been a long and painful process; he had received as many beatings as he’d given. Working closely with the pain-loving Shimrra and his coterie of sadomasochistic warlords had kept him treading a tightrope between influence and agony, never knowing when he might find himself tipping onto the wrong side.
The thought warmed him that he would one day return every single one of those indignities on those who had administered them. None would be spared. Every slight along that path to revenge only fueled his determination, from the lowliest guard to the high prefect himself …
Finally the guards called out for the gates to be opened, pacified by their brief exercise of authority. Massive muscles strained under the effort of opening the way ahead of Ngaaluh. The once artificial door had long since been replaced by a swarbrik, a sturdy organism that, if attacked, could excrete a highly toxic gas and regenerate its tissues at a heightened rate. It groaned as its keepers poked and prodded it into activity, slowly obeying their commands and allowing the caravan through.
Nom Anor cracked his long whip, and the vrrips grumbled into life. Their giant haunches rocked from side to side, and Nom Anor forced himself to concentrate on his hefty charges. He didn’t have time to appreciate the moment as the giant arch crept over him, and the road’s dusty scent subtly changed to give way to more exotic spices. For a minute or more, his concerns were focused solely upon the vrrips and his job. It was important, he knew, not to arouse any further suspicions. To those observing him, he was a worker, nothing more; no one should suspect for a second that he was anything more than a lowly vrrip handler, shamed into submission.
Ngaaluh’s expression didn’t change once, not even as they passed a wide, dark pool where it seemed the swarbrik itself was bleeding. The creature was sick, weeping from a dozen breaches in its thickened hide. Nom Anor could see no obvious cause of the illness. It was just another of the many small ways in which the World Brain was still malfunctioning on the surface of Yuuzhan’tar.
His smile returned beneath the masquer. Perhaps, hethought, there were advantages to living underground after all.
Jag didn’t waste time questioning his orders; he was just glad to be out of hyperspace. While Pellaeon forced a wedge between the planet and the Yuuzhan Vong to prevent further bombardment, Jag drove the squadron he shared with Jaina like an arrow at the warship
Kur-hashan
.
“Twin Two, take Six and Eight around the left flank. Three, take the right with Five and Seven. The rest of you, with me.”
Twins Four and Nine pirouetted neatly to create a V-shape with Jag in the middle, moving in perfect synchronicity. He was beginning to forget which pilots were Chiss and which were Galactic Alliance in origin; they’d spent enough time fighting together to have become one. To a casual observer, the clawcraft and X-wings may have looked different, but the ships in their crosshairs were the same.
The Yuuzhan Vong were just waking up to the fact they were under attack from two sides.
Kur-hashan
’s coral arms seemed to erupt, dispensing coralskippers like seeds to the galactic winds. The flat ovoid yorik-vec
He had to contain his emotions. For all intents and purposes, he
was
a lackey, and given that station he could expect to be kicked and beaten at the whim of those above him.
He gritted his teeth and mumbled something suitably obsequious. The warrior guard grunted and walked away.
“Are you all right?” Kunra whispered when the guards were out of earshot.
Nom Anor straightened and checked his features. His masquer was intact. “I’ve had worse,” he said, staring balefully after the guards.
That was true enough. Working up the ranks of executors had been a long and painful process; he had received as many beatings as he’d given. Working closely with the pain-loving Shimrra and his coterie of sadomasochistic warlords had kept him treading a tightrope between influence and agony, never knowing when he might find himself tipping onto the wrong side.
The thought warmed him that he would one day return every single one of those indignities on those who had administered them. None would be spared. Every slight along that path to revenge only fueled his determination, from the lowliest guard to the high prefect himself …
Finally the guards called out for the gates to be opened, pacified by their brief exercise of authority. Massive muscles strained under the effort of opening the way ahead of Ngaaluh. The once artificial door had long since been replaced by a swarbrik, a sturdy organism that, if attacked, could excrete a highly toxic gas and regenerate its tissues at a heightened rate. It groaned as its keepers poked and prodded it into activity, slowly obeying their commands and allowing the caravan through.
Nom Anor cracked his long whip, and the vrrips grumbled into life. Their giant haunches rocked from side to side, and Nom Anor forced himself to concentrate on his hefty charges. He didn’t have time to appreciate the moment as the giant arch crept over him, and the road’s dusty scent subtly changed to give way to more exotic spices. For a minute or more, his concerns were focused solely upon the vrrips and his job. It was important, he knew, not to arouse any further suspicions. To those observing him, he was a worker, nothing more; no one should suspect for a second that he was anything more than a lowly vrrip handler, shamed into submission.
Ngaaluh’s expression didn’t change once, not even as they passed a wide, dark pool where it seemed the swarbrik itself was bleeding. The creature was sick, weeping from a dozen breaches in its thickened hide. Nom Anor could see no obvious cause of the illness. It was just another of the many small ways in which the World Brain was still malfunctioning on the surface of Yuuzhan’tar.
His smile returned beneath the masquer. Perhaps, hethought, there were advantages to living underground after all.
Jag didn’t waste time questioning his orders; he was just glad to be out of hyperspace. While Pellaeon forced a wedge between the planet and the Yuuzhan Vong to prevent further bombardment, Jag drove the squadron he shared with Jaina like an arrow at the warship
Kur-hashan
.
“Twin Two, take Six and Eight around the left flank. Three, take the right with Five and Seven. The rest of you, with me.”
Twins Four and Nine pirouetted neatly to create a V-shape with Jag in the middle, moving in perfect synchronicity. He was beginning to forget which pilots were Chiss and which were Galactic Alliance in origin; they’d spent enough time fighting together to have become one. To a casual observer, the clawcraft and X-wings may have looked different, but the ships in their crosshairs were the same.
The Yuuzhan Vong were just waking up to the fact they were under attack from two sides.
Kur-hashan
’s coral arms seemed to erupt, dispensing coralskippers like seeds to the galactic winds. The flat ovoid yorik-vec
Similar Books
