Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

by Matthew W. Stover

  “We have to face the possibility—the probability—that what Dooku told you on Geonosis was actually true. That the Senate under the influence—under the control—of Darth Sidious. ‘hat it has been for years.”

  “Do you—” Obi-Wan had to swallow before he could go on.

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Too many. All we know of Sidious is that he’s bipedal, of roughly human conformation. Sate Pestage springs to mind. I

  wouldn’t rule out Mas Amedda, either. The Sith Lord might even be hiding among the Red Guards. There’s no way to know.”

  “Who’s handling the questioning?” Obi-Wan asked. “I’d be happy to sit in; my perceptions are not so refined as some, but

  Mace shook his head. “Interrogate the Supreme Chancel­lor’s personal aides and advisors? Impossible.”

  “But—”

  “Palpatine will never allow it. Though he hasn’t said so...” Mace stared out the window. “... I’m not sure he even believes the Sith exist.”

  Obi-Wan blinked. “But—how can he—”

  “Look at it from his point of view: the only real evidence we have is Dooku’s word. And he’s dead now.”

  “The Sith Lord on Naboo—the Zabrak who killed Qui-Gon—”

  Mace shrugged. “Destroyed. As you know.” He shook his head. “Relations with the Chancellor’s Office are ... difficult. I feel he has lost his trust in the Jedi; I have certainly lost my trust in him.”

  “But he doesn’t have the authority to interfere with a Jedi in­vestigation ...” Obi-Wan frowned, suddenly uncertain. “Does he?”

  “The Senate has surrendered so much power, it’s hard to say where his authority stops.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  Mace’s jaw locked. “The only reason Palpatine’s not a sus­pect is because he already rules the galaxy.”

  “But we are closer than we have ever been to rooting out the Sith,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “That can only be good news. I would think that Anakin’s friendship with Palpatine could be of use to us in this—he has the kind of access to Palpatine that other Jedi might only dream of. Their friendship is an asset, not a dan­ger.”

  “You can’t tell him.” “I beg your pardon?”

  “Of the whole Council, only Yoda and myself know how deep this actually goes. And now you. I have decided to share this with you because you are in the best situation to watch Anakin. Watch him. Nothing more.”

  “We—” Obi-Wan shook his head helplessly. “We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

  “You must keep this one.” Mace laced his fingers together land squeezed until his knuckles crackled like blasterfire. “Sky­walker is arguably the most powerful Jedi alive, and he is still get­ting stronger. But he is not stable. You know it. We all do. It is why he cannot be given Mastership. We must keep him off the Council, despite his extraordinary gifts. And Jedi prophecy ... is not absolute. The less he has to do with Palpatine, the better.”

  “But surely—” Obi-Wan stopped himself. He thought of how many times Anakin had violated orders. He thought of how unflinchingly loyal Anakin was to anyone he considered a friend. He thought of the danger Palpatine faced unknowingly, with a Sith Lord among his advisers...

  Master Windu was right. This was a secret Anakin could not be trusted to keep.

  “What can I tell him?”

  “Tell him nothing. I sense the dark side around him. Around them both.”

  “As it is around us all,” Obi-Wan reminded him. “The dark side touches all of us, Master Windu. Even you.”

  “I know that too well, Obi-Wan.” For one second Obi-Wan saw something raw and haunted in the Korun Master’s eyes. Mace turned away. “It is possible that we may have to ... move against Palpatine.” “Move against—?”

  “If he is truly under the control of a Sith Lord, it may be the only way.”

  Obi-Wan’s whole body had gone numb. This didn’t seem real. It was not possible that he was actually having this conver­sation.

  “You haven’t been here, Obi-Wan.” Mace stared bleakly down at his hands. “You’ve been off fighting the war in the Outer Rim. You don’t know what it’s been like, dealing with all the petty squabbles and special interests and greedy, grasping fools in the Senate, and Palpatine’s constant, cynical, ruthless maneuvering for power—he carves away chunks of our freedom and bandages the wounds with tiny scraps of security. And for what? Look at this planet, Obi-Wan! We have given up so much freedom—how secure do we look?.”

  Obi-Wan’s heart clenched. This was not the Mace Windu he knew and admired; it was as though the darkness in the Force was so much thicker here on Coruscant that it had breathed poi­son into Mace’s spirit—and perhaps was even breeding suspicion and dissension among the members of the Jedi Council.

  The greatest danger from the darkness outside came when Jedi fed it with the darkness within.

  He had feared he might find matters had deteriorated when he returned to Coruscant and the Temple; not even in his dark­est dreams had he thought it would get this bad.

  “Master Windu—Mace. We’ll go to Yoda together,” he said firmly. “And among the three of us we’ll work something out. We will. You’ll see.”

  “It may be too late already.”

  “It may be. And it may not be. We can only do what we can do, Mace. A very, very wise Jedi once said to me, We don’t have to win. All we have to do is fight.”

  Some of the lines erased themselves from the Koran Master’s face then, and when he met Obi-Wan’s eye there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth that might someday develop into a smile—a tired, sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I seem,” he

  said slowly, “to have forgotten that particular Jedi. Thank you for reminding me.”

  “It was the least I could do,” Obi-Wan said lightly, but a sad weight had gathered on his chest. Things change, indeed.

  Anakin’s heart pounded in his throat, but he kept smiling, and nodding, and shaking hands—and trying desperately to work his way toward a familiar golden-domed protocol droid who hung back beyond the crowd of Senators, right arm lifted in a small, tentative wave at R2-D2.

  She wasn’t here. Why wasn’t she here? Something must have happened.

  He knew, deep in his guts, that something had happened to her. An accident, or she was sick, or she’d been caught in one of the vast number of buildings hit by debris from the battle today... She might be trapped somewhere right now, might be wounded, might be smothering, calling out his name, might be feeling the approach of flames—

  Stop it, he told himself. She’s not hurt. If anything had hap­pened to her, he would know. Even from the far side of the Outer Rim, he would know. So why wasn’t she here? Had something...

  He could barely breathe. He couldn’t make himself even think it. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking it. Had something changed? For her? In how she felt?

  He managed to disengage himself from Tundra Dowmeia’s clammy grip and insistent invitations to visit his family’s deepwa­ter estate on Mon Calamari; he slid past the Malastarian Senator Ask Aak with an apologetic shrug.

  He had a different Senator on his mind.

  R2 was wheeping and beeping and whistling intensely when Anakin finally struggled free of the mass of sweaty, grasping politicians; C-3PO had turned away dismissively. “It couldn’t have been that bad. Don’t exaggerate! You’re hardly even dented.”

  R2’s answering feroo sounded a little defensive. C-3PO sent a wisp of static through his vocabulator that sounded distinctly like a disapproving sniff. “On that point I agree; you’re long overdue for a tune-up. And, if I may say so, a bath.”

  “Threepio—”

  Anakin came up close beside the droid he had built in the back room of his mother’s slave hovel on Tatooine: the droid who had been both project and friend through his painful child­hood: the droid who now served the woman he loved...

  Threepio had been with her all these months, had seen her every da
y, had touched her, perhaps even today—he could feel echoes of her resonating outward from his electroplated shell, and they left him breathless.

  “Oh, Master Anakin!” Threepio exclaimed. “I am very glad to find you well! One does worry, when friends fall out of touch! Why, I was saying to the Senator, just the other day—or was it last week? Time seems to run together so; do you think you might have the opportunity to adjust my internal calendar set­tings while you’re—”

  “Threepio, have you seen her?” Anakin was trying so hard not to shout that his voice came out a strangled croak. “Where is she? Why isn’t she here?”

  “Oh, well, certainly, certainly. Officially, Senator Amidala is extremely busy,” C-3PO said imperturbably. “She has been se­questered all day in the Naboo embassy, reviewing the new Se­curity Act, preparing for tomorrow’s debate—”

  Anakin couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t here, hadn’t come to meet him, over some debate?

  The Senate. He hated the Senate. Hated everything about it. A red haze gathered inside his head. Those self-righteous, narrow-minded, grubby little squabblers... He’d be doing the galaxy a favor ifhewere to go over there right now and just— “Wait,” he murmured, blinking. “Did you say, officially?” “Oh, yes, Master Anakin.” Threepio sounded entirely vir­tuous. “That is my official answer to all queries regarding the Senator’s whereabouts. All afternoon.”

  The red haze evaporated, leaving only sunlight and dizzyingly fresh air.

  Anakin smiled.

  “And unofficially?”

  The protocol droid leaned close with an exaggeratedly con­spiratorial whisper: “Unofficially, she’s waiting in the hallway.”

  It felt like being struck by lightning. But in a good way. In the best way any man has ever felt since, roughly, the birth of the

  universe.

  Threepio gave a slight nod at the other Senators and the HoloNet crews on the gangway. “She thought it best to avoid a, ah, public scene. And she wished for me to relate to you that she believes the both of you might... avoid a public scene ... all afternoon. And perhaps all night, as well.”

  “Threepio!” Anakin blinked at him. He felt an irrational de­sire to giggle. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir. I am only performing as per the Senator’s instructions.”

  “You—” Anakin shook his head in wonder while his smile grew to a grin he thought might split open his cheeks. “You are amazing.”

  “Thank you, Master Anakin, though credit for that is due largely—” C-3PO made an elegantly gracious bow. “—to my creator.”

  Anakin could only go on grinning.

  With that, the golden protocol droid laid an affectionate hand on R2’s dome. “Come along, Artoo. I have found the most delightful body shop down in the Lipartian Way.”

  They moved away, whirring and clanking after the Senators who were already off among the HoloNet crews. Anakin’s smile faded as he watched them go.

  He felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to find Palpa­tine beside him with a warm smile and a soft word, as he always seemed to be when Anakin was troubled.

  “What is it, Anakin?” the Chancellor asked kindly. “Some­thing is disturbing you. I can tell.”

  Anakin shrugged and gave his head a dismissive shake, em­barrassed. “It’s nothing.”

  “Anakin, anything that might upset a man such as yourself is certainly something. Let me help.”

  “There’s nothing you can do. It’s just—” Anakin nodded after 3PO and R2. “I was just thinking that even after all I’ve done, See-Threepio is still the only person I know who calls me Master.”

  “Ah. The Jedi Council.” Palpatine slid an arm around Anakin’s shoulders and gave him a comradely squeeze. “I believe I can be of some use to you in this problem after all.”

  “You can?”

  “I should be very much surprised if I couldn’t.”

  Palpatine’s smile was still warm, but his eyes had gone dis­tant.

  “You may have noticed that I have a certain gift,” he mur­mured, “for getting my way.”

  =9=

  PADME

  From the shadow of a great pillar stretching up into the red-ening afternoon that leaked through the vaulted roof of transparisteel over the Atrium of the Senate Office Building, she watched Senators clustering in through the archway from the Chancellor’s landing platform, and then she saw the Chancellor himself and C-3PO and yes, that was R2-D2!—and so be could not be far behind... and only then did she finally find him among them, tall and straight, his hair radiation-bleached to golden streaks and on his lips a lively smile that opened her chest and unlocked her heart.

  And she could breathe again.

  Through the swirl of HoloNet reporters and the chatter of Senators and the gently comforting tones of Palpatine’s most polished, reassuringly paternal voice, she did not move, not so much as to lift a hand or turn her head. She was silent, and still, only letting herself breathe, feeling the beat of her heart, and she could have stood there forever, in the shadows, and had her fondest dreams all fulfilled, simply by watching him be alive...

  But when he moved away from the group, pacing in soft con­versation with Bail Organa of Alderaan, and she heard Bail saying something about the end of Count Dooku and the end of the war and finally an end to Palpatine’s police-state tactics, her breath caught again and she held it, because she knew the next thing she heard would be his voice.

  “I wish that were so,” he said, “but the fighting will continue until General Grievous is spare parts. The Chancellor is very clear on this, and I believe the Senate and the Jedi Council will both agree.”

  And beyond that, there was no hope she could be happier— until his eye found her silent, still shadow, and he straightened, and a new light broke over his golden face and he said, “Excuse me,” to the Senator from Alderaan, and a moment later he came to her in the shadows and they were in each other’s arms.

  Their lips met, and the universe became, one last time, perfect.

  This is Padme Amidala:

  She is an astonishingly accomplished young woman, who in her short life has been already the youngest-ever elected Queen of her planet, a daring partisan guerrilla, and a measured, articu­late, and persuasive voice of reason in the Republic Senate.

  But she is, at this moment, none of these things.

  She can still play at them—she pretends to be a Senator, she still wields the moral authority of a former Queen, and she is not shy about using her reputation for fierce physical courage to her advantage in political debate—but her inmost reality, the most fundamental, unbreakable core of her being, is something en­tirely different.

  She is Anakin Skywalker’s wife.

  Yet wife is a word too weak to carry the truth of her; wife is such a small word, such a common word, a word that can come from a downturned mouth with so many petty, unpleasant echoes. For Padme Amidala, saying 1 am Anakin Skywalker’s wife issaving neither more nor less than I am alive.

  Her life before Anakin belonged to someone else, some lesser being to be pitied, some poor impoverished spirit who could never suspect how profoundly life should be lived.

  Her real life began the first time she looked into Anakin Sky-walker’s eyes and found in there not the uncritical worship of lit­tle Annie from Tatooine, but the direct, unashamed, smoldering passion of a powerful Jedi: a young man, to be sure, but every centimeter a man—a man whose legend was already growing within the Jedi Order and beyond. A man who knew exactly what he wanted and was honest enough to simply ask for it; a man strong enough to unroll his deepest feelings before her without fear and without shame. A man who had loved her for a decade, with faithful and patient heart, while he waited for the act of destiny he was sure would someday open her own heart to the fire in his.

  But though she loves her husband without reservation, love does not blind her to his faults. She is older than he, and wise enough to understand him bet
ter than he does himself. He is not a perfect man: he is prideful, and moody, and quick to anger— but these faults only make her love him the more, for his every flaw is more than balanced by the greatness within him, his ca­pacity for joy and cleansing laughter, his extraordinary generosity of spirit, his passionate devotion not only to her but also in the service of every living being.

  He is a wild creature who has come gently to her hand, a vine tiger purring against her cheek. Every softness of his touch, every kind glance or loving word is a small miracle in itself. How can she not be grateful for such gifts?

  This is why she will not allow their marriage to become pub­lic knowledge. Her husband needs to be a Jedi. Saving people is what he was born for; to take that away from him would cripple every good thing in his troubled heart.

  Now she holds him in their infinite kiss with both arms tight around his neck, because there is a cold dread in the center of her heart that whispers this kiss is not infinite at all, that it’s only a pause in the headlong rush of the universe, and when it ends, she will have to face the future.

  And she is terrified.

  Because while he has been away, everything has changed.

  Today, here in the hallway of the Senate Office Building, she brings him news of a gift they have given each other—a gift of joy, and of terror. This gift is the edge of a knife that has already cut their past from their future.

  For these long years they have held each other only in secret, only in moments stolen from the business of the Republic and the war; their love has been the perfect refuge, a long quiet after­noon, warm and sunny, sealed away from fear and doubt, from duty and from danger. But now she carries within her a planetary terminator that will end their warm afternoon forever and leave them blind in the oncoming night.