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And that was it: that’s what was making him sick.

Himself.

He was sick of being Ganner Rhysode. Sick of trying to be a hero. Sick of trying not to be a hero. Sick of being a crappy Jedi, a mediocre pilot, and a bloody lousy leader of men. Sick of being a joke.

Just sick.

The vanguard parted as it approached the Great Door, dividing down the middle to line either side of the causeway, as their music of screams swelled toward a triumphal climax. The warriors who accompanied Nom Anor and the Shaper Lord formed another line within. The priests who had surrounded Jacen and Ganner knelt, lowering their foreheads to the causeway.

Jacen paced forward steadily, smoothly, giving no sign of strain, no hint that might betray effort, no clue to the assembled thousands of Yuuzhan Vong that he was carrying Ganner like a child in the invisible arms of the Force.

He came to a stop before the Great Door and moved Ganner to his side. From here, the living city of Yuuzhan’tar spread below them, a vast tangled jungle of every conceivable color and texture of life, shaped by a skeleton built of duracrete and transparisteel.

“Ganner, can you stand?” he asked softly. “You don’t have to walk. Just stand. I need to do something else right now.”

Ganner clenched every ounce of his will to swallow the rising tide of his shame and self-disgust. He drew on the Force to hold himself upright, and for the strength to steady his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, go ahead. I’m okay, Jacen,” he lied, then made himself say, “Thanks.”

Jacen flashed him a hint of that quick Solo smile. “You’d do the same for me.”

As if I’d ever have to, Ganner thought, but held his tongue.

Solemnity settled back over Jacen’s features like a mask. He turned to face the assembled thousands, and lifted his arms. “I am Jacen Solo! I am human! I was a Jedi!” His voice boomed out like artillery fire, and the echoes came back in Yuuzhan Vong: Nikk pryozz Jacen Solo! Nikk pryozz human! Nikk pr’zzyo Jeedai!

“I am now a servant of the Truth!”

How he said that made Ganner suddenly scowl; for someone who was only playing a part, Jacen sounded unsettlingly sincere—

Ganner felt a surge in the Force like a vast rushing wind; it passed him without touching him. The Great Door swung inward, to reveal the shadowed reach of the Atrium beyond, and the cavernous mouths of the Grand Concourse to either side.

Jacen turned his palms upward as though reaching for the braided arch of impossible color that was the Bridge overhead.

“WITNESS!” he thundered. The echo cried: Tchurokk!

“WITNESS THE WILL OF THE GODS!”

Before the echo finished roaring Tchurokk Yun’tchilat, Jacen had already turned and walked briskly through the Great Door; a swirl of the Force drew Ganner after him. Nom Anor and the Shaper Lord made to follow, along with the priests and the vanguard band, but as soon as Ganner was clear of the doorway, Jacen turned and made a small gesture that Ganner felt as another swift, incredibly powerful rush in the Force.

The Great Door boomed shut.

Echoes faded. Slowly.

The Atrium had become a vast cavern of living yorik coral.

The immense statues that had once represented the varied species of the New Republic had become unidentifiable, misshapen pillars like boils of old lava. Shadows huge and black masked every fold of coral, and the mouths of the Grand Concourse to either side yawned bottomless depths of night; the sole light—a pulsing, sulfurous glow mingling reds and yellows—leaked into the Atrium from an archway opposite the Great Door.

“What’s making that light? And, and, and, wait—” Ganner said numbly. “I don’t remember any door there—that was, uh, the Information Services office, wasn’t it?…”

“Maybe you’ve noticed: things have changed.” Jacen was already trotting toward the archway. “Follow me. We don’t have much time.” Ganner stumbled after him.

The arch led to nearly half a kilometer of yorik coral tunnel. The roof and sides formed a rough semicircle, a little less than five meters wide at the base and the