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Solemn-faced, Onimi got to his feet to recite a poem, though absent his characteristic self-amusement, and with his gaze not on Shimrra or any of the others in the bunker, but raised to the high, arched ceiling or perhaps the sky beyond.

Who would stay cool while fires roar,

the gods themselves might well abhor.

But who would sport when death is near,

the gods themselves do well to fear.

Shimrra stood silent for a moment, then began to nod. “Yes, Onimi, you’re right to give them fair warning. Is it not just as I planned, just as I imagined? Zonama Sekot will die, its living ships will perish, the Jedi will be stripped of their weapons, and the gods will have been defeated—I will have done away with them. Yuuzhan’tar will recover, and I will rid the universe of all vermin.”

The shaper waited until Shimrra was finished, then stepped forward from her villip-choir. “Dread Lord, High Priest Jakan reports that saboteurs have been seized at the Well of the World Brain. Apparently the priest Harrar is among them.”

“Harrar!” Onimi said, then caught himself and hunkered down.

Shimrra glanced at him, then turned back to the shaper. “Too clever even for Nom Anor, that one. It’s no wonder he survived. But now on the side of the enemy … Enlisted or conscripted, I wonder?” He swung to Onimi again. “Betrayal is rife in our fair kingdom, my familiar. The gods breaking faith with their creations. Shamed Ones rising up against those who have for so long suffered them. And now our esteemed Harrar, giving up the elite …”

“Assuming that it meets with your blessing, Dread Lord,” the shaper said, “the prisoners will be prepared for sacrifice.”

“With all speed, set to it,” Shimrra said. “Join them there. Let us give the gods their last ounce of flesh before we dispense with them.”

Muffled explosions punctuated the silence as the shaper exited. The coffer trembled as the enemy’s aerial bombardment continued.

Admitted into the bunker, a wounded warrior in vonduun crab armor saluted and began to stagger toward the throne. He didn’t make it halfway before he collapsed onto his knees, black blood curdled in a wound to his right armpit.

“Lord,” he began weakly. “Enemy warriors have surrounded the Citadel, and even now are attempting to battle their way inside.”

Shimrra approached the warrior to have a closer look at his wound. “No blaster made that injury.”

“Three Jedi, Lord. At the western gate.”

The slayers stepped forward, but Shimrra waved them back.

“Let the Jedi come to us.” He looked at Onimi. “After all, diversion needn’t be the exclusive province of the warmaster.”

THIRTY-NINE

What had been the Atrium of the Senate was now a cold cavern of living yorik coral. No less digested than the great dome, the imposing post-Imperial interspecies statues that had once graced the arched enclosure resembled sandstone stalagmites or immense candles festooned with flows of melted wax. The curving walls were swirled in blood red, purple, and rust brown, and lighted only by luminescent lichen or the occasional lambent. Yawning black hollows to either side of the vast room were all that remained of the ornate entrances to the Grand Concourse.

It was in the Atrium that Jedi Knight Ganner Rhysode had died and become a legend among the Yuuzhan Vong warrior caste. Or so Jacen had said. But Jacen had also said that Ganner had brought much of the Atrium down, and that clearly wasn’t the case. Leia decided that whoever was in charge of the World Brain had tried to expunge any memories of Ganner’s heroic last stand by having the Atrium rebuilt.

Their hands shackled behind their backs by pincered biots, she, Han, Harrar, Cakhmaim, and Meewalh were being ushered by a cadre of warriors toward the five-meter-wide tunnel opposite the Atrium’s front entry. C-3PO and R2-D2 trailed behind, the protocol droid’s leg joints squeaking, and the astromech’s retractable tread also in need of lubrication. High Priest Jakan’s acolytes were doing