Star Wars_ The New Jedi Order 14_ Traitor - Matthew Woodring Stover [94]
Here the yorik coral had been shaped to preserve access; there grew around the perimeter of the door an immature hatch sphincter of incredible size—though still only half grown—that left the central third of the Great Door exposed.
As the vanguard began to mount the causeway, their music of screams slowed, deepened, broadened in a decorous segue from the briskly martial to the solemnly devotional. The change in the music seemed to suck the last of the strength from Ganner’s legs; his knees buckled, and he pitched forward onto the causeway’s foot, curled into a fetal ball around the spiny fist of nausea clenched in his guts. Saliva flooded his mouth, and his sides heaved. He squeezed shut his eyes to restrain a retch.
“Ganner? Ganner, what’s wrong?” Jacen’s voice came from close by, just above, low and worried. “C’mon, Ganner, you have to get up!”
Ganner couldn’t get up. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even open his eyes. The smooth, hard trunks that made up the ribs of the causeway were cool beneath him, much cooler than the sun that scorched his other side, and all he wanted was to die. Right here. Right now. If only he could die …
The grunting hack of the Yuuzhan Vong tongue sounded in the middle distance, two voices, one imperiously disdainful, the other unctuous, conciliating.
A moment later, he heard Nom Anor’s rasp in Basic, closer by: “The Shaper Lord inquires why the Jedi cowers like a brenzlit. I lied to him, Jacen Solo. I told him this is how humans show reverence for the True Gods. Make him get up. Make this weak, pathetic excuse for a Jedi get on with this sacrifice—before the Shaper Lord knows I lied.”
“He’s only a man,” Ganner heard Jacen reply. “You can’t keep a human sedated for weeks and then expect him to march like this. He’s weak because he’s ill.”
Ganner burned with shame: even Jacen was lying for him now. The weakness that pinned him helplessly to the causeway wasn’t physical. And having Jacen make excuses for him only made it worse.
Everyone has to lie for me, he thought. Everyone has to pretend I’m not as pathetic and useless and weak as I really am. But I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t.
Self-loathing rose up the back of Ganner’s throat like vomit, burning, driving stinging tears through his eyes. Within his robe’s sleeve, his thumb found the activation plate on Anakin’s lightsaber; without really understanding what he was doing, he pressed the lightsaber’s crystal against his own ribs. One quick squeeze, and the purple shaft of pure energy would shear through flesh and bone and weak watery guts to spear oblivion into his coward’s heart—
“C’mon, Ganner, we’re almost there,” Jacen whispered. “Don’t screw it up now.”
“… sorry … can’t do this …” was all Ganner could say, a low miserable moan. He hugged himself, clutching at his ribs, arms crossed over his rebelliously spasming stomach. “… can’t do this, Jacen … sorry … let you down …”
His finger tightened on the lightsaber’s activation plate—
And invisible hands caught him under the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. Though he hung limp, the processional once more began to move forward, mounting the causeway toward the Great Door. His legs swung without his will to drive them, moving as though he walked under his own power. His body tingled with the touch of the Force.
Jacen was carrying him.
“There, you see?” Jacen said to Nom Anor. “He’s fine. Return to your place, and reassure the Shaper Lord.”
Ganner hung in Jacen’s invisible Force grip, drowning in humiliation as Nom Anor moved quickly away. If only he could die—if only the trunk-causeway beneath his feet would gape like a mouth and swallow him right now …
His whole life, he’d chased a single dream. He had only wanted to be a hero. That’s all. Not even that—not even a hero—not really. All he’d ever wanted was to walk through a room full of strangers and overhear somebody say “There goes Ganner Rhysode. He’s a man who gets things done.”
Yeah, I get things