by Terry Brooks
“Lord Maul,” Gunray said, “we were not aware that you had arrived.”
“Of course you weren’t,” Maul growled.
“How may we be of service?”
Maul squeezed the head so tightly, it began to fold in on itself.
“You can begin by making certain that every droid on Naboo responds to me as its chief commander, Viceroy. Or I will reduce this fine army of yours to a mountain of scrap.”
Maul paced the polished stone floor of the Theed Palace throne room in brooding silence, his lightsaber affixed to the black leather cummerbund that cinched his robes. Draped in shimmersilk, Nute Gunray and his green-skinned diplomatic attaché, Rune Haako, stood alongside each other before a tall, arch-topped window, wringing their thick-fingered hands. A silver protocol droid attended them, and a mechno-chair awaited the viceroy’s pleasure.
“Several members of the Queen’s Security Forces managed to elude our battle droids,” Gunray was saying in wheedling Basic. “They rescued a group of Naboo captives, and caused us some concern on an orbital station and at one of our plasma transshipment sites on the surface. Fortunately for us—and unfortunately for them—the Naboo fell in with a visiting Hutt who happens to be in our employ. He betrayed their plans and location.”
“They’re dead or imprisoned?” Maul stopped to ask.
“The captain is dead. Some of the others are still at large.”
Maul resumed his angry pacing. He was familiar with both Neimoidians from holotransmissions conducted between them and Darth Sidious during the past year. They had dealt with Sidious from across cold space, but now, confronted with a flesh-and-blood Sith Lord, it was all they could do to keep from trembling in awe. A musky, low-tide odor wafted from Haako, who affected purple robes and a horned bonnet.
“And the Gungans?” Maul said.
The pair traded baffled looks. “What of them, Lord Maul?” Haako asked.
“You’ve located their underwater cities and taken the necessary steps?”
“We’re … in the process,” Gunray said. A three-tined tiara crowned his mottled blue face.
“How many have you captured?”
The nictitating membrane of Gunray’s red eyes spasmed. “How many?”
“Hundreds? Thousands?”
The viceroy improvised. “On the order of hundreds, I should think.”
Maul was revolted by the fact that he was in some measure responsible for Gunray’s lofty position, having executed missions that had elevated Gunray from a mere functionary to a being of galactic import. But Darth Sidious maintained that the Neimoidians were necessary to the Sith’s Grand Plan, and part of that plan called for Naboo to be secured, in preparation for the planet being annexed by the shipping cartel. With Queen Amidala on Coruscant, Naboo’s surrender was not yet official, but Maul was certain that his Master would find a way to bring it about.
“Where are the Gungan captives?” Maul said.
Again the Neimoidians glanced at each other. They knew that Maul had already killed their treacherous confederate, Hath Monchar, and grasped that he would kill again if provoked.
Gunray spoke first. “The corpses were dumped into the sea—”
“—atomized,” Haako said at the same time.
Maul showed each of them a withering glance. “Which is it—dumped or atomized?”
“Atomized, then dumped into the sea,” Gunray said, proud of himself.
Maul continued to glower at him. “You discarded atomized bodies.”
The air went out of Gunray for a moment; then he said: “The Gungans need not concern us.”
Maul folded his arms across his chest and bared his filed teeth. “Why is that, Viceroy?”
“The amphibians would not risk engaging our overwhelming force.”
Maul snorted. “The Gungans have a standing army thousands strong and strategic plasma weaponry.”
Gunray looked at Haako, who said, “We didn’t know—”
“Now you do.”
Maul watched the slimy duo shake in their robes. These were invaders? These were the leaders of an army? So easily cowed, so easily deceived, and covetous to the point that they had allowed themselves to be manipulated into instigating a war for a chance at increased profits. To them, wealth was an end unto itself. They had no understanding of real power, and seemingly no contact with the Force. They had more in common with the battle droids that served them than they had with sentient beings. How Trezza would have laughed. Sometimes Maul lamented having had to kill the Falleen. But Trezza had learned too much about Maul’s powers …
“Who is supervising the search for the Gungan cities?” he said at last.
“Commander OOM-Nine,” Gunray said.
“A droid,” Maul said. “The predecessor of your inept B-Ones.”
“A superior droid, Lord Maul,” Haako was quick to point out. “Viceroy Gunray’s personal guard.”
Maul ignored him and spoke to Gunray. “Inform OOM-Nine that I am assuming command of the search.”
Maul demanded the most from the speeder bike as he left the plains and the Gallo Mountains behind and raced down through dense forest and into the swamplands to the south. Before leaving Theed he had communicated with Darth Sidious; he had reason to believe that the mistakes he’d made on Tatooine had been forgiven, and that his mission was back on track. With the Republic Senate in turmoil, Sidious was confident that he would be able to persuade Queen Amidala to return to Naboo, and he suspected that Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi would accompany her. But Maul’s excitement at the prospect of having a second go at them was dimmed by having to deal with the Gungans—business that had been entrusted to the Neimoidians. Surely Sidious knew that Gunray was incapable of doing what had been asked of him, and yet Sidious had kept vital information from the viceroy that would have enabled him to locate the underwater cities of the indigenes. Why, then, had Sidious provided the information to Maul now? Was this yet another in the series of tests his Master had put him through over the past five years to substantiate his loyalty and skill?
The question rode with him into the forward observation base OOM-9 had established on the shore of an insect-plagued marsh. The forest was tall here, and the slender trees seemed to grow from the fetid water itself. In a clearing, a full company of battle droids waited in precise ranks, augmented by a dozen droidekas. Other droids were scouting the marsh on Single Trooper Aerial Platforms. Close to the shore hovered a clamshell-shaped aquatic destroyer equipped with arrays of short-range lasers and tank-like siege engines.
Maul was impressed. The scene at least had the appearance of a legitimate military exercise.
OOM-9 approached as he was dismounting the speeder bike. “Welcome, Commander,” it said in a forthright way.
Its chest plastron emblazoned with yellow markings, OOM-9 boasted multiple antennae and a backpack that boosted its operational range. Maul knew that the droid had been tasked with spearheading the occupation and was credited with having razed Naboo communications centers at New Centrif and Vis, as well as having secured the cities of Harte Secur, Spinnaker, and Theed. From a captured mariner in Harte Secur, OOM-9 had learned of a Gungan bubble city called Rellias, but its forces had thus far been unable to locate the city.
“Viceroy Gunray said that you have already captured many Gungans,” Maul said. “Exactly how many?”
The droid’s processor hummed faintly as it communicated with computers aboard the orbiting control ship. “How many did the viceroy say we captured?” it asked in a grating monotone.
“Forty-seven,” Maul told it.
“Yes, Commander. We captured forty-seven.”
Maul frowned in exasperation, but forgave OOM-9 the lie. “Show me to them.”
The droid pivoted through a half circle and turned its thin head back toward Maul. “This way, Commander.”
A short winding trail through the trees led to a place where four Gungans were laid out on the ground, their cartilaginous bodies holed by blaster bo
lts. With their billed faces, floppy ears, stalked eyes, and lolling tongues, they certainly didn’t look capable of waging war, but Sidious had warned Maul not to underestimate the species.
“These Gungans were apprehended while exchanging goods with Naboo traders outside the city of Moenia,” OOM-9 explained.
“Where are the Naboo traders?”
“Confined in Detention Camp Six, Commander.”
Maul took a moment to observe a STAP patrol buzzing overhead. “You’ve found no signs of Rellias?”
“None, Commander. It’s possible that the Gungans have devices capable of foiling our penetrating scanners.”
Maul considered it. However slight, there was a chance the Gungans were capable of doing something that could jeopardize his task of killing the Jedi and capturing the Queen, and he couldn’t have that.
“This isn’t the time for subtlety,” he told OOM-9. “Poison the waters. If that doesn’t bring the Gungans to the surface, then drain the marsh.”
Maul took the speeder bike out of the lowlands, following a twisting path that climbed back into the lush foothills of the Gallo range. Farms began to appear, with stately old houses set far back from the roadbed. Reasoning that revolt of any sort would likely begin in one of the cities, the Neimoidians hadn’t sent their droids into the area. But clearly the Naboo farmers were aware of what had happened elsewhere, as many of the houses were abandoned, and agricultural machines sat silently in the midst of furrowed fields.
Eventually Maul located the place Sidious had told him to seek out. Posted where the roadbed intersected the lane that accessed the house, a sign written in Basic and Futhork read: SUMMIT FARM BLOSSOM WINERY. Maul waited at the sign. East and west of the lane as far as he could see spread field after field of cultivated plants, their vibrant flowers varying in color, size, and shape. The warm air was redolent with their heady fragrances. Maul swung the speeder bike over the lane and moved slowly toward the house. In some of the fields, Naboo men working alongside labor droids stopped what they were doing to watch him pass. One man set off in a run for the house, clearly to announce Maul’s arrival.
The house was a well-cared-for building made of wood and stone, with a quaint peaked roof. Some distance from the house, two ancient windmills spun. In an outbuilding larger than the house, Maul could see extraction presses and wooden storage barrels. He had just brought the speeder to a halt when a short Naboo woman exited through the house’s front door, wiping her hands on a work apron and appraising him openly. As sturdily built as her house, the woman had sharp features, piercing blue eyes, and close-cropped silver hair. The muscular worker who had tipped her off lingered behind, his posture indicating that he had a blaster tucked into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back. Maul brought his left leg over the speeder’s U-shaped saddle and stood for a moment, allowing the woman to study him while he peeled off his long black gloves and draped them over the steering bar.
“You’ve ridden a long way,” she said. “You must be thirsty. Come inside.”
She turned and walked back into the house. Her protector stepped away, allowing Maul to pass before following him inside. The interior was cool and dim and decorated with wooden furniture and other old things. The woman returned from a food preparation area and handed Maul a clear drink cooled by crushed ice. He took a small sip, testing it for poison, then drank the sweet liquid down in one long pull while the woman traded furtive glances with her bodyguard. With a nod of her pointed chin, she signaled the man to leave the room, but he didn’t go far. When Maul handed her the empty glass, she gestured to a couch.
“Sit down, won’t you? And tell me what I can do for you.”
Maul didn’t move. “I need location coordinates for the principal Gungan cities.”
She blinked in surprise. “Who told you I have information of that sort?”
“Do you or don’t you?”
She narrowed her eyes in understanding and showed him a fleeting, tight-lipped smile. “I knew the Neimoidians couldn’t have pulled off something like this on their own. How long have you been working with the Trade Federation?”
Maul glowered. “The Gungan cities.”
“I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing.” Seeing the fire in Maul’s yellow eyes, she quickly added: “Now, hold on a moment. Just because I don’t know the coordinates, doesn’t mean I don’t know someone who does.”
“Who?” Maul snapped.
She sat down on the couch. “First things first. Just how much do you know about me—or think you know?”
Maul stood over her. “Your name is Magneta. You were chief of security for the former King.”
She forced a short exhale. “I’d ask your name, but I’m sure it wouldn’t mean anything to me.”
Maul went on. “Before the election of Queen Amidala, the King was planning to tap additional plasma reservoirs in the Gungan areas. He contracted with an offworld mining company to do the surveys, and was prepared to go to war with the Gungans if they resisted. He abdicated the throne before putting the plan into action.”
“Abdicated,” Magneta said, drawing out the word. “A curious way to put it. Do you know how King Veruna died?”
Maul fought to control his impatience. “I don’t know and I don’t care.”
She studied his face. “Odd. When you rode up, I immediately figured you for the assassin we could never locate.”
Maul snorted. “You figured wrong. Who knows the location of the underwater cities?”
Magneta sighed. “All right, have it your way. You’ll want to talk to a Bothan named Leika. He’s chief surveyor for the company King Veruna hired. But I’m not sure where he can be found. I’ve tried to keep an ear to the ground, but from here there’s only so much I’m able to learn. Leika was preparing to leave Naboo when the Neimoidians sprang their surprise blockade. He tried to reason with them, but as with many other offworlders, he wasn’t permitted to leave. No ships in or out, no exceptions. He was in Moenia when the invasion occurred, and no doubt he was caught up in it. So the first place I’d look would be in the closest detention camps.”
Maul turned and headed for the door. He was about to go through it when Magneta said: “Be sure to give my regards to the Muun.”
Maul stopped and swung slowly around. “What Muun?”
“Hego Damask.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know the name.”
Magneta tipped her head to one side in suspicion. “I find that very unlikely, since I’m certain that Hego Damask and his puppet—Naboo’s illustrious Senator Palpatine—have their arms to the elbows in this invasion and occupation.”
Maul betrayed no surprise, even at the mention of his Master’s alias. “Who is Hego Damask?”
“Who is …?” Magneta ran her eyes over his mask of a face. “You actually don’t know? Damask is a mobster masquerading as a banker. It was Damask who brokered the original deal to have Naboo’s plasma mined and shipped by the Trade Federation. I suspect he’s also the one behind Palpatine’s campaign for the chancellorship. They’ve been in collusion for over two decades.”
Maul was secretly stunned. He knew the names of some of Palpatine’s cohorts—Sate Pestage, Kinman Doriana, and others—but the name Hego Damask was new to him, as was Magneta’s assertion that the Muun was in some way controlling Palpatine. Was it possible that Darth Sidious himself had a clandestine Master? The idea was too far-fetched to contemplate, let alone accept.
“Ah, so I have touched on something,” Magneta said, watching him closely. “Then you might as well know the rest: There’s good reason to believe that Damask and Palpatine were the ones responsible for King Veruna’s death. They needed to install pretty little Amidala on the throne so they could take full control of the planet, while making it seem as if the Trade Federation were responsible.”
She paused, then added: “Palpatine double-crossed me, even after I allowed his agent, Pestage, to get away with the murder of more than a dozen pro-G
ungan Naboo.” She gestured broadly. “Instead of being taken into the fold, I end up here, in humiliated self-exile for failing to save Veruna’s life.”
Maul knew something about humiliation. But Magneta had gone too far in airing her grievances, however justified. Palpatine could not be suspected of being tied to the Neimoidians or to the invasion of Naboo.
Maul heard Magneta’s bodyguard move, and Magneta, too—going for a hold-out blaster concealed beneath her apron. Maul was also aware that several field workers were gathered just outside the door, waiting to spring an ambush.
Snarling, he whirled, moving faster than human eyes could follow, breaking Magneta’s neck with the edge of his hand, then spinning again to send his stiffened right foot into the chest of the bodyguard as he rushed into the room. A hail of blaster bolts came through the front door. Dodging them, Maul ran across the room and dived headfirst through a window, somersaulting in midair so that he hit the ground on his feet, now centered among his astonished opponents.
Growling, he clenched his bare hands and set on them, killing one after another.
Battle droids stationed at the perimeter of Detention Camp Six, outside Moenia, brandished their blaster rifles as Maul sped into their midst on the speeder bike. He was a split second from cutting them to pieces when their recognition programs kicked in and they assumed postures of salute.
“Welcome, Commander Maul,” their officer intoned. “What are your orders?”
Shoving past them, Maul crossed a footbridge that spanned a foul-smelling trench and entered a compound of hastily erected dormitories and flat-roofed dining halls. The area had been recently deforested, and Naboo’s sun beat down on the muddy ground. The relocated population of nearby Moenia was largely made up of artists, merchants, and Gungan sympathizers. Maul supposed that they were more accustomed to simple living than their counterparts in cosmopolitan Theed, who had never known privation, but they were an unhappy lot just the same. A droid administrator found the name Leika among the list of detainees, and a security droid escorted Maul to a dormitory the Bothan surveyor shared with twenty Naboo actors, a Rodian wilderness guide, and two Bith musicians.