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“No, no,” Nom Anor said while the crowd cheered. “You must rethink the plan entirely, or Shimrra will eradicate you!”

Kunra raised his arms again. “Shimrra plans to eradicate us! We must make the first move!”

Nom Anor bellowed to the Shamed Ones, “You can’t look to me, the Jeedai, or anyone else to deliver you from your lowly stations! None of us can repair your disfigurements or modify your rejected enhancements!”

“Yu’shaa calls on us to accept that our blemishes are only surface imperfections, and that we must look past them to see our true selves,” Kunra said. “He tells us to follow the authority of our inner selves; to steer by our inner rudders for all important decisions, rather than pray to the gods, consult with the priests, or fear what actions the warriors and intendants might take against us!

“Individualism is the greatest threat to the hierarchy supported by Shimrra’s elite. Shimrra relies on the elite, in order to preserve a system that perpetuates inequity. He wishes to keep us anchored to ritual and domain, so that he and the elite may prosper. But the Prophet tells us that we are individuals first, and citizens last!”

A chill passed through Nom Anor. He finally understood what Kunra was doing. Kunra—who had saved his life after an assassination attempt by Shoon-mi Esh, and who burned with a warrior’s fire—was not about to let Nom Anor shrink from the promise he had made.

What was supposed to have been a final sermon had become a contest of wills.

Nom Anor tried once more to persuade the crowd.

“You err by looking to me or my disciples for signs!”

Kunra showed him a covert grin. “The Prophet tells us to look to nature, to the sky, and to the stars—to the planet of redemption, whose coming he foretold!”

The Shamed Ones cheered and lifted their faces higher, beyond the elevated train rail, as if searching the sliver of purple sky for signs. Kunra moved close to Nom Anor, close enough so that Nom Anor could feel the tip of a coufee against his ribs.

“Well done, Yu’shaa,” he said quietly. “The multitudes are heated to the point of boiling over. We couldn’t have done this without you.” He paused, then added: “And remember, Prefect: Just as all things are possible on Yuuzhan’tar today, all things will be possible tomorrow.”

FOURTEEN

As had become her ritual since returning from the convoy ambush, Jaina would search out the officer of the watch every four hours to learn if the Falcon had been heard from; then she would spend the next hour or so at one of Ralroost’s, observation viewports, gazing at the incoming traffic and stretching out with the Force, in the hope that one of the moving lights might return her touch, or convey some hint of familiarity.

She was about to abandon the effort that afternoon when a swiftly moving ship caught her eye. If there was a spaceborne equivalent of a swoop, Jaina figured she was looking at it. A cramped cockpit anchored to incongruous ion fusion and hyperdrive engines, the small craft was inbound, and on a trajectory for Ralroost’s primary docking bay.

Jaina set off for the bay, hurrying down the attack cruiser’s sterile passageways and offering only the hastiest of answering salutes to passing noncoms. By the time she had descended from the landing bay’s service gantry, the craft’s human pilot was on deck and taking off his scratched and dented helmet. His hair was red and shaggy, and his face was wildly freckled. Made up of garments borrowed from at least three separate units, his flight uniform was soiled and patched, and his boots were as mismatched as the engines of his ship. The blaster on his hip was even more ancient than Han’s.

When Jaina intercepted him on the landing apron, he offered a crisp salute.

“Where are you arriving from, Lieutenant?” she shouted above the din of warming engines, repair work, and launches.

“Caluula Orbital, Colonel.” Noting Jaina’s confusion, he added: “Tion Hegemony. I’ve a message from the commanding officer for Galactic