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That gleam of faith’s power in his eye was the reflection of an inner conviction the like of which Nom Anor could only imagine: to know, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the True Gods stood at his shoulder, guiding his hand in Their service. To know that all truth, all justice, all right, shone from the True Gods like stellar wind, illuminating the universe.

The warmaster was a true believer.

To Nom Anor, faith was an extravagance. He knew too well how easily such true believers could be manipulated by those who believe in nothing but themselves.

This was, in fact, his specialty.

The moment he’d been waiting for came during the drone’s exhaustive point-by-point cross-species interpolation between Jacen Solo’s readings and those of three different control subjects, all Yuuzhan Vong: one warrior caste, one priest caste, and one shaper caste, each of whom had earlier undergone excruciation by the very same Embrace of Pain in which the young Jedi now hung. Anger gathered upon Tsavong Lah’s villip image like the ion peak that precedes a solar flare.

Finally, his patience broke. “Why is my time wasted with this babble?”

The shaper drone stiffened, glancing nervously at Nom Anor. “This data is extremely significant—”

“Not to me. Am I a shaper? I have no interest in raw data—tell me what it means!”

Nom Anor sat forward. “With the warmaster’s permission, I may perhaps be of some service here.”

The villip twisted fractionally to fix Nom Anor with the warmaster’s glare. “You had better,” he said. “My patience is limited—and you personally, Executor, have required too much of it already in recent days. You swing from a thin vine, Nom Anor, and it continues to fray.”

“All apologies to the warmaster,” Nom Anor said smoothly. He gestured dismissal to the drone, which made a hasty obeisance toward the villip, triggered the room’s hatch sphincter, and scuttled away. “I mean only to offer analysis; interpretation is my specialty.”

“Your specialty is propaganda and lies,” Tsavong Lah rasped.

As if there were a difference. Nom Anor shrugged and smiled amiably: gestures he had learned from his impersonations of the human species. He exchanged one quick glance with the other occcupant of the chamber—his partner in the Solo Project—then directed his gaze back to the villip. “The import of the Embrace chamber’s data is exactly this: Jacen Solo has become capable of not only accepting torment, but thriving on it. As the warmaster will recall, I predicted such a result. He has discovered resources within himself of the sort that we find only in our greatest warriors.”

“And?” The warmaster glared. “Make your point.”

“It will work,” Nom Anor said simply. “That is the point. The only point. Based on our current figures, Jacen Solo will inevitably—provided he lives—turn to the True Way with his whole heart.”

“This has been attempted before,” Tsavong Lah growled. “The Jeedai Wurth Skidder, and the Jeedai Tahiri on Yavin Four. The results were less than satisfactory.”

“Shapers,” Nom Anor snorted derisively.

“Mind your tongue, if you would keep it in your mouth. The shaper caste is holy unto Yun-Yuuzhan.”

“Of course, of course. No disrespect intended, naturally. I only mean to point out, with the warmaster’s permission, that the methods used in the Tahiri disaster were crude physical alterations—possibly heretical.” Nom Anor leaned on the word.

Tsavong Lah’s face darkened.

“They were performing sacrilegious research,” Nom Anor went on. “They tried to make her into a Yuuzhan Vong—as though a slave can be altered into one of the Chosen Race. Is this not blasphemy? The ensuing slaughter was far kinder than they deserved, as the warmaster will no doubt agree.”

“Not at all,” Tsavong Lah countered. “It was precisely what they deserved. Whatever the Gods decree is the definition of justice.”

“As you say,” Nom Anor conceded easily. “No such heresy will take place in the Solo Project. The process with Jacen Solo is precisely the opposite: he will