Lords of the Sith

by Paul S. Kemp

  “He doesn’t trust me,” Belkor said to Ophim.

  He tried to raise Cham on the encrypted comm, but Cham wasn’t acknowledging.

  Belkor slammed the comm against the palm of his hand and shouted, “Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!”

  In frustration he threw the comm against the inside of the cockpit’s bubble. It bounced off the clear plastic and slammed to the deck. He immediately regretted his action, fearing he’d broken his only connection to Cham.

  He cursed and giggled and cursed more.

  He realized he was having some kind of fit, an attack of anxiety or stress or something. His heart was racing and it felt like someone was driving nails into his skull. He took some breaths, tried to gather himself, managed to at least get himself under some kind of control.

  And when he did, he decided that he’d had enough orders from Cham. The Twi’lek was too slow to act, too methodical, and he wasn’t keeping Belkor informed. He said he had a lead on Vader and the Emperor? Good enough. Belkor would see what that lead was.

  He already had the recon bubble running dark. From the outside, in the night and rain, it would be invisible to the naked eye.

  Still hugging the treetops, he sent his location, speed, and direction to his V-wings so they could keep pace with him and stay in contact. Then he set off in the direction he knew Cham to be.

  “Let’s go see what he’s found, Ophim.”

  —

  Mors operated the scan in the transport. The officer flying it stayed close to the top of the trees, but not too close. The transport was not an agile craft. If they caught a thick limb…

  A ship showed at the outside range of Mors’s scanner, bringing her to full attention. She activated the comm and hailed Steen.

  “You seeing that, Steen?” Mors looked in the direction of Steen’s transport, even though the dark and rain prevented her from seeing it except on scan.

  Steen’s voice carried over the comm. “It’s a V-wing, ma’am. No doubt one of Belkor’s. And here it comes.”

  “Moving fast,” said the officer flying the transport. Mors really should have tried to memorize his name.

  “Hail him,” Mors said, trying to keep her voice calm. Neither Mors’s shuttle nor Steen’s transport was capable of winning a fight against even a single V-wing. They had to talk their way out of this, or their attempt to rescue Lord Vader and the Emperor was about to end in fire.

  “You do it, Steen. Belkor’s men may not respond to me.” To the pilot, Mors said, “Do not go evasive.”

  “Uh, you’re sure, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” Mors said, though she clenched a fist as the V-wing closed. Its weapons locked on to Mors’s shuttle. Alarms started to wail.

  “He has weapons locked,” the pilot said, unnecessarily.

  “This is Major Steen Borkas of the Equatorial Communications Hub,” Steen said over the comm, his voice calm and commanding. “Power down those weapons and identify yourself immediately, V-wing.”

  The V-wing’s in-atmo lights came into view, closing fast. The agile fighter slew straight toward the shuttle and transport.

  “I say again, power down and identify yourself, V-wing.”

  The weapons lock stayed hot, so Mors played the cards she held. She could not imagine Belkor had told the V-wing pilots the whole truth.

  “V-wing,” Mors said, “are you assisting with search operations for Lord Vader and the Emperor? That’s our purpose here. Acknowledge.”

  The V-wing buzzed over and past the shuttle and transport, the telltale hum of its engines audible even through the shuttle’s bulkhead. Mors let herself exhale.

  “Say again, transport?” the V-wing pilot said.

  Mors decided to dive in altogether. “Son, this is Moff Delian Mors and I asked if you were assisting in the search for Lord Vader and the Emperor, both of whom are on the ground somewhere near here. And they are on the ground because their Star Destroyer and then their shuttle were destroyed as a direct result of action by Imperial traitors, specifically Colonel Belkor Dray. Do you hear me?”

  Quiet over the comm.

  “Son, I hope you understand me, and I hope you realize that this is all going to come out eventually. Belkor didn’t tell you about Vader and the Emperor?”

  A long silence, then, “No, ma’am.”

  “Son, there will be an investigation like we’ve never seen, the Imperial Security Bureau, stormtrooper garrisons, all of it. Listen, I don’t know all of what Belkor told you, but you should believe none of it. And unless you’re also a traitor, power down your weapons now, and communicate with no one other than us. Acknowledge.”

  The next moments turned a few more of Mors’s hairs gray, but finally the V-wing released its weapons lock.

  “Acknowledged. Ma’am, this is Wing Leader Arim Meensa, and Belkor told us you were the traitor. And I guess I was willing to believe that. Maybe a bit too willing, as I owe Belkor. But I know Major Borkas’s reputation, and there’s no way he’s involved in treachery against the Emperor. What’s going on here, ma’am?”

  “A slow-motion assassination attempt,” Mors said. “But we’re going to stop it. Tell me what you know, who’s out here, where Belkor is—everything.”

  The V-wing pulled into formation beside the transport and the shuttle. “Yes, ma’am,” said the pilot.

  Soon Mors and Steen knew that Belkor was in a recon bubble and had a total of six V-wings flying a comm ladder as they looked both for Mors and for Vader and Palpatine’s crashed shuttle. She learned, too, that Belkor had told the pilots that they would probably end up having to attack a ground target based only on coordinates, and that when he gave the order to attack, they needed to move fast and ask no questions. Finally, she learned that Belkor had abruptly changed the search area a short time earlier. From that, Mors drew the obvious conclusion.

  “Belkor has assets on the ground,” she told Steen over the comm. “More traitors, or maybe a rebel group. But either way, they have a lead on the Emperor and Lord Vader.”

  “Could be,” Steen said, though he sounded skeptical.

  “We need to get to Belkor,” Mors said, but knew the recon bubble scanners would pick up their approach long before they picked up Belkor on their own scans. Belkor could easily evade them. Besides, they didn’t know exactly where he was. All they had were his last known coordinates, and they knew that he was still within comm range of Meensa’s V-wing.

  “Send the V-wing,” Steen said abruptly. “Shoot him down.”

  “Maybe,” Mors said, thinking. “But I’m thinking not. We need to get to the Emperor. If Belkor is working with a group on the ground who are trailing the Emperor and Vader and we shoot down Belkor, the group on the ground may still get to him. He’s just an elderly man, Steen. They can’t be moving very fast.”

  “Right,” Steen said. “I see your point.”

  Mors raised the wing leader, trying out another idea. “Meensa, will your men take your orders even over Belkor’s?”

  “Ma’am, we all owe the colonel in one way or another but…yes, they’ll obey whatever I tell them.”

  “Good. Then listen to me. You’re going to keep doing as he’s ordered, but we’re going to stay with you and you’re going to keep us apprised of what’s happening as it’s happening. And then when he calls in the attack, you’re going to give me the coordinates and delay your arrival.”

  “Delay, ma’am?”

  “I need to get there first, get the stormtroopers on the ground. Then you fly in. Tell your men whatever you have to, tell them to take a recon pass at first. They’ll see the stormtroopers, they’ll see Lord Vader, and then you tell them that it’s Belkor who’s the traitor. Can you do all that?”

  “Easily, ma’am.”

  —

  A mist started to rise from the warm, wet ground. Crouched low, Cham looked down at the village nestled in the quarry below. The scene struck him as surreal. Vader and the Emperor and a helmetless Royal Guard sat near a fire amid a circle of Tw
i’leks, passing around fruits and drinking gourds. Vader was working on something he held in his hands. Music carried up from the bottom of the quarry, a lilting melody played by woodwinds and drums.

  “You won’t believe this,” he said, and handed the macrobinoculars to Isval, who came away with the same baffled expression that Cham knew he must have worn. Goll took the macrobinoculars from Isval, surveyed the scene, grunted, and handed them back to Cham.

  “Even with sniper rifles that would be a difficult shot,” Goll said. “And we don’t have sniper rifles.”

  “What do we do?” Isval asked Cham.

  Cham looked at Goll, then nodded at the torchlit path that led down one side of the quarry. “Can your troops get down the side without alerting anyone?”

  “Those paths are half cut into the quarry wall,” Goll replied, eyeing the path. “Between that and this mist, I think we could get down the path unseen, yes, assuming no one comes along for a nighttime stroll. But unless the mist thickens, as soon as my people hit the bottom of that quarry and start heading for the village, they’ll be there for all to see.”

  “Right,” Cham agreed. “One thing at a time, though. One thing at a time.”

  “What are you thinking?” Isval asked.

  Cham could hear the edge in her voice, her need to do something now that they had Vader and the Emperor in their sights.

  “I’m thinking we get Goll’s people in position and then we wait,” he said.

  She bit down hard, as if trying to wall off words she knew she shouldn’t say. Finally, she burst out, “Wait for what? They’re right there!”

  “And so are three dozen innocent people,” Cham snapped. “Our people, backward or not. I send Goll’s team, what do you think happens? I call for Belkor’s V-wings to hit these coordinates and what happens?”

  Isval just stared at him, her fists clenching and unclenching.

  “It’s late,” Cham said soothingly. “The villagers will return to their homes soon. We watch where Vader and the Emperor go. Everyone has to sleep, even them. Then we move in. Quick. Precise. No one gets hurt but them. Then this is over.”

  Goll looked from Cham to Isval, back to Cham.

  Isval finally gave a nod. “If this mist gets too thick, we won’t be able to see the bottom of the quarry from here.”

  “One thing at a time,” Cham repeated.

  “I’ll have my troops start moving down,” Goll said. His words were half question, half statement, and Cham nodded.

  After he’d gone, Isval held out her hand for the macrobinoculars. “I’ll watch.”

  “Figured,” Cham said. “I need to talk to Kallon anyway.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “About exits,” Cham said.

  He watched for a moment as Goll’s fighters crouched low and started crawling single-file down the cut-out path that led down to the bottom of the quarry. Then he moved off into the trees and raised Kallon on the comm.

  “Cham,” Kallon acknowledged.

  “Don’t argue with what I’m about to say. Understand?”

  “Uh, yes, all right.”

  Cham exhaled, then said it: “I need you to leave now, fly back, and start an organized retreat of our forces into the mountains. See to the dispersal of the people and matériel we have left.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You’re interrupting.”

  “Right. Go on.”

  “The Empire will have troops on the way to Ryloth already, and they will lock down this system and scan every millimeter of the planet’s surface. Like nothing we’ve ever seen before, Kallon. And you know they’ll find every hidden base we have. And they will turn Twi’leks over to the Imperial Security Bureau by the hundreds. Our people need to start getting clear now, break up into their constituent cells. They know the process. You know it, too. Go start it.”

  A long pause, then, “All right. I will. See you on the other side, Cham. What’s happening there?”

  “We found them. Now we just have to kill them.”

  Cham cut the connection and hailed Faylin.

  “Go, Cham,” she said.

  “Stay where you are and stay on this frequency. You’re our ride out if something goes sideways. We’ll have to pack in double. I sent Kallon on another mission.”

  “Understood.”

  Cham returned to Isval’s side. She was standing beside Goll, staring through the macrobinoculars down at the village, at their prey. Goll’s people had worked their way well down the path.

  “There’s no one from the village anywhere near the path’s bottom,” Isval said. “They’re all in the village center.”

  “Good,” Cham said.

  “Did you see what Vader’s working on?”

  “No,” Cham said. “Can you tell?”

  “It’s a communicator,” Isval said. “An old one, but no mistaking it.”

  “An old comm isn’t going to cut through Kallon’s jamming signal.”

  “Agreed,” Isval said.

  “Incongruous to think of him working on a communicator, though,” Cham said. “Makes me wonder who he was before he put on that suit.”

  Isval put down the magnifiers. “Let’s peel it off his corpse and find out.”

  —

  Belkor realized that he was humming to himself as he flew along in the recon bubble, some song or other from when he’d been a lieutenant.

  Somewhere throughout the course of the day he’d come to the conclusion that he was going to die, and nothing he could do would stop that now. He accepted that. But he’d also concluded that he wanted to take Vader and the Emperor and Syndulla and his foolish group of followers out first. Everyone would remember his name for generations to come.

  “And why not, Ophim?” he said to the corpse still strapped into the seat beside him.

  He wondered if he’d completely lost his mind, but then figured that people who’d gone insane never wondered if they’d gone insane.

  Still humming, he pored over scans, knowing the general area where Syndulla had to be. In short order he’d found them, a large group of life-forms grouped around some kind of small canyon.

  “There you are,” he said, and accelerated toward it.

  —

  Vader barely heard the music of the Twi’leks and couldn’t touch the food. He was among them but apart from them. His armor and his power and his understanding put him as far away from these people as a distant star. They were ephemeral, passing, and unable to touch him. He focused on the communicator, his hands, working the tools, cleaning the circuits, connecting the fibers, the whole of it a meditation.

  “That is amazing,” Drua said, watching him work.

  Vader pieced it back together and handed it to the young Twi’lek. “It’s done.”

  “You fixed it?” Drua asked. “Just like that?”

  “That isn’t what I said,” Vader answered, though Drua didn’t take his meaning. He hadn’t fixed it to make the device function. He’d fixed it to ensure he’d feel nothing while doing so. He’d fixed it to exorcise his own ghosts. No doubt his Master had told the Twi’lek to bring him the communicator for just that reason, too.

  The young Twi’lek powered up the communicator, not knowing, as Vader did, that the jamming signal would prevent it from picking up any communications. She spun it through several frequencies.

  Suddenly the device squawked to life, and the girl grinned. “Hey, listen to this!” She had the communicator tuned to an unsecured Imperial frequency used to direct commercial shipping, and Vader heard a droning voice giving instructions to an inbound freighter. He sat up straight, surprised, realizing right away what it meant.

  “It appears communication is back up,” the Emperor said, then to Deez, “Sergeant, if you wouldn’t mind, please transmit a hail on the Moff’s secure frequency.”

  “And if the Moff is the traitor?” Vader asked.

  The Emperor chuckled. “Delian Mors is many things, Lord Vader, lazy, hedonistic, nihilist
ic, but she is not and never will be a traitor to the Empire. And after today’s events, I suspect that she will begin correcting her weaknesses. Proceed, Sergeant.”

  The Emperor told Deez the code for the frequency; Deez turned the old communicator to the secure channel available only to Moffs and transmitted a hail.

  The Emperor said to Vader, “This will all be over soon.”

  Vader looked around at the Twi’leks, all of them smiling, eating, singing.

  Ghosts. All of them ghosts.

  —

  The sudden crackle of comm static almost startled Mors out of her seat.

  “Comm is back up, ma’am!” said the pilot.

  “Yes, I hear that!” Mors exclaimed, and raised Steen. “Steen, send my thanks to your people back at the hub. They’re hours early.”

  “Will do, ma’am.”

  “Incoming message, ma’am,” the pilot said. “The channel is…locked, ma’am. I can’t respond.”

  Mors checked it and saw that the transmission was on the secure channel reserved for Moffs. “I’ll take it,” she said, and input the code that allowed access. “This is Moff Delian Mors. To whom am I speaking?”

  “This is Sergeant Erstin Deez of the Royal Guard, and I am hailing you on behalf of Emperor Palpatine.” Mors did not recognize the voice. “The Emperor and Lord Vader are at the following coordinates and require immediate extraction.”

  Mors could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “You get those coordinates?” she asked the pilot.

  “Have them, ma’am,” said the pilot.

  “Sergeant Deez,” Mors returned, “we believe the Emperor and Lord Vader are in danger. If possible, remove them from their current location and hail me again on this channel with the new coordinates.”

  “Understood, Moff Mors.”

  “We’re on our way,” Mors said.

  —

  Belkor flew high above what he now realized was an old mining quarry. A few small fires and one large one burned on the quarry’s floor. Many life-forms, humanoid, congregated around the large fire. He zeroed in on the scan, magnified, magnified, magnified, until he could see…

  Vader and the Emperor, seated among a throng of Twi’leks.