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“You would insult me further by lying? We know you have the Supreme Overlord’s ear on this and other matters!”

Drathul aimed his blade at the sky. Zonama Sekot was moving swiftly. Already its convex edge was nibbling at the sun. In moments the sun would be not merely eclipsed but entombed.

“We?” Nom Anor asked weakly.

“Those of us who would have preferred to heed Supreme Overlord Quoreal’s admonitions, along with the wisdom of his priests who counseled against invading this cursed galaxy,” Drathul said. “This is the living world discovered by Commander Krazhmir before the invasion. The same one recently rediscovered by Commander Ekh’m Val!”

“Then you know more than I,” Nom Anor said, close to passing out.

“A portent of defeat!”

“Portents serve weak rulers and superstitious fools,” Nom Anor said with his last remaining breath.

Abruptly, Drathul released his choke hold and spun Anor around. Grabbing a handful of Nom Anor’s tunic, he pulled him close and pressed the coufee into the front of his throat.

The landquake had ended, but Nom Anor was hardly out of danger.

“Speak the truth, or lose your ability to speak!” Drathul’s breath was foul with fright. “The heretics who bow in jubilation beneath this very perch while everyone else runs in panic … They know it is the living world—the primordial homeworld promised to them by the Prophet. Not this travesty we have created of Coruscant. Do you deny it?”

Nom Anor was beginning to tire of the prick of coufees. Shoon-mi’s, months earlier; Kunra’s, just weeks ago; and now Drathul’s.

“It is a living world,” he admitted, “but only that. Neither portent nor fulfilled prophecy. Merely another surprise in a war filled to overflowing with surprises.” Pushing the coufee aside, he brought his right hand to his neck to staunch the flow of blood. “The living world whose return I tried to prevent,” he added, glaring at his superior.

“You tried to prevent?”

Drathul’s weapon arm dropped to his side. He gazed at Nom Anor in naked incredulity.

“On Shimrra’s command,” Nom Anor said through his clenched jaws. He grabbed at his green robe. “How else do you think I come to wear this? Through merit? Through domain privilege?” He spat on the floor. “Through acts of treachery and deceit!”

Drathul sank to the floor in weary confusion. The room was growing darker by the moment, as Zonama Sekot cast its immense shadow across the face of Yuuzhan’tar. Hailstones the size of ngdins were striking the balcony, bouncing into the room and skittering across the floor.

The high prefect looked up at Nom Anor. “What should I do?”

Nom Anor took a moment to languish in his small victory. “Pray to the gods, Drathul, that Zonama Sekot has come in peace.”

The blank expression conveyed by the dedicated villip of Supreme Commander Saluup Fing belied the dread in his words.

“The planet appeared out of darkspace and hurtled into the Yuuzhan’tar system, Fearsome One. It nearly grazed the holy world, sundering the rainbow bridge and scattering the moons—the innermost of which nearly struck Yuuzhan’tar as it was outward bound. It is a catastrophe of epic proportions, Warmaster. As if engineered by the gods—”

“Enough, Commander!” Nas Choka said. “The vessels under your watch will remain where they are. None should attempt to move against the intruding planet.”

“At your command, Warmaster.”

“The armada will soon return, and I will decide then our best course of action.”

The countenance of Saluup Fing smoothed out as the villip relaxed and inverted to its normal leathery aspect. Nas Choka paced from the choir of biots to his command bench, but found on arriving that he was too agitated to sit down.

He had ordered Yammka’s Mount to revert from darkspace in the Mid Rim, so that he could receive a follow-up report from the Supreme Commander on the events that had transpired at Yuuzhan’tar some time earlier. The warmaster had ordered everyone but the chief tactician from Yammka’s Mount’s command chamber, and Nas Choka turned to him now.