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Jacen squatted in the coralskipper’s shadow and parted the alien ground cover’s leaves to expose the soil. “Look at this. The dirt isn’t black anymore.” He took some up in his left hand and smoothed it against his palm with his thumb. “It’s completely sterile.”

Luke dropped to his knee beside Jacen. “I wonder . . .”

“What?”

“An Ithorian once explained to me that there are some crops that exhaust the soil in which they are raised. Perhaps the Yuuzhan Vong have done that here, raising a crop of coralskippers too fast.” He nodded to his nephew. “Take a sample of the soil, and we can have Artoo check it later.”

Once Jacen got the sample, they continued their reconnaissance mission and discovered a small lake with water thickened by the presence of brown algae. On the water, which lapped weakly at the shores, floated plants with three large blue triangular leaves. From the center grew a stalk, and from it hung two round berries, about the size of a human’s head. Some plants did have more than just two, and by the far shore, Luke spotted a different species with slightly smaller berries growing in bunches.

Jacen frowned. “Villips? Their communications devices?”

“I think so. Different sizes for different needs, I suppose.” Luke sighed quietly. “So much to learn about them.”

From the cover of large rocks, they watched as slaves waded through the turgid water, using ladles to pour water over the villip plants. One, an older man whose spine sprouted horny growths, could barely lift a dripping ladle to bathe a villip. The ladle slipped from his fingers, and he tried to catch it. He lunged forward to grab it, but lost his footing and went down in the water.

The man started splashing in a panicked manner, churning the water into a yellow-brown froth. Several of the other slaves started shouting. They vocalized in a high range that rose above Luke’s ability to hear, though the anxiety pouring off them slammed into him in waves. Several started for the drowning man, high-stepping through the gelatinous fluid as fast as they could.

A harsh whip crack froze them in their places. Appearing at the western edge of the lake, backlit in the dying sun, stood a tall and lean figure. His right hand snapped out and forward again, cracking the whiplike weapon in his hand. After the second snap, the whip became a staff, and the figure brandished it over his head, pumping it upward the way one of the Sand People would triumphantly pump a gaffi stick.

The Yuuzhan Vong—Luke knew it was one because the figure didn’t exist within the Force framework—dashed forward, splashing his way into the lake. He artfully cut between villip stalks and reached the row where the man was striking for the surface. The man reached out as the Yuuzhan Vong extended the amphistaff toward him. The man grabbed at it, then recoiled, with his hand sliced open. He started to scream, but fluid boiling up out of his throat sank it into a gurgle.

The Yuuzhan Vong lunged with the amphistaff, driving the sharp, flattened end through the man’s chest. As he pulled the amphistaff back, the man came halfway up out of the water, then slipped from the staff. The Yuuzhan Vong stabbed him twice more, then stepped back away as the man flopped into the water one last time. The body bobbed there for a second, then, leaking air from lungs and mouth, slowly sank from sight.

The Yuuzhan Vong raised the amphistaff and shouted something. The slaves understood enough of it to cower. The amphistaff then slacked for a moment before coiling itself around its owner’s arm. The Yuuzhan Vong strode from the water, then beckoned over two slaves, a man and a woman. They pulled off the rags they wore and dried the Yuuzhan Vong’s legs.

A siren of sorts echoed through the hills. The Yuuzhan Vong shouted another order, and the slaves formed themselves into a rough line. They began to trudge off to the south. The Yuuzhan Vong took one last look at the villip paddy, then strode off