Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

by Matthew W. Stover

  It was being broadcast on every channel by every HoloNet repeater. It was supposed to mean that the war was over. It was supposed to mean that the Council had ordered all Jedi to return to the Temple immediately.

  Obi-Wan suspected it actually meant what had happened on Utapau was far from an isolated incident.

  He keyed the comlink for audio. He took a deep breath.

  “Emergency Code Nine Thirteen,” he said, and waited.

  The starfighter’s comm system cycled through every re­sponse frequency.

  He waited some more.

  “Emergency Code Nine Thirteen. This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. Repeat: Emergency Code Nine Thirteen. Are there any Jedi out there?”

  He waited. His heart thumped heavily. “Any Jedi, please respond. This is Obi-Wan Kenobi declaring a Nine Thirteen Emergency.”

  He tried to ignore the small, still voice inside his head that whispered he might just be the only one out here.

  He might just be the only one, period.

  He started punching coordinates for a single jump that would bring him close enough to pick up a signal directly from Coruscant when a burst of fuzz came over his comlink. A quick glance confirmed the frequency: a Jedi channel.

  “Please repeat,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m locking onto your sig­nal. Please repeat.”

  The fuzz became a spray of blue laser, which gradually re­solved into a fuzzy figure of a tall, slim human with dark hair and an elegant goatee. “Master Kenobi? Are you all right? Have you been wounded?”

  “Senator Organa!” Obi-Wan exclaimed with profound relief. “No, I’m not wounded—but I’m certainly not all right. I need help. My clones turned on me. I barely escaped with my life!” “There have been ambushes all over the galaxy.”

  Obi-Wan lowered his head, offering a silent wish to the Force that the victims might find peace within it.

  “Have you had contact with any other survivors?” “Only one,” the Alderaanian Senator said grimly. “Lock onto my coordinates. He’s waiting for you.”

  A curve of knuckle, skinned, black scab corrugated with dirt and leaking red—

  The fringe of fray at the cuff of a beige sleeve, dark, crusted with splatter from the death of a general—

  The tawny swirl of grain in wine-dark tabletop of polished Alderaanian kriin—

  These were what Obi-Wan Kenobi could look at without starting to shake.

  The walls of the small conference room on Tantive IV were too featureless to hold his attention; to look at a wall allowed his mind to wander...

  And the shaking began.

  The shaking got worse when he met the ancient green stare of the tiny alien seated across the table from him, for that wrin­kled leather skin and those tufts of withered hair were his earliest memory, and they reminded Obi-Wan of the friends who had died today.

  The shaking got worse still when he turned to the other being in the room, because he wore politician’s robes that re­minded Obi-Wan of the enemy who yet lived.

  The deception. The death of Jedi Masters he had admired, of Jedi Knights who had been his friends. The death of his oath to Qui-Gon.

  The death of Anakin.

  Anakin must have fallen along with Mace and Agen, Saesee and Kit; fallen along with the Temple.

  Along with the Order itself.

  Ashes.

  Ashes and dust.

  Twenty-five thousand years wiped from existence in a single day.

  All the dreams. All the promises.

  All the children...

  “We took them from their homes.” Obi-Wan fought to stay in his chair; the pain inside him demanded motion. It became wave after wave of tremors. “We promised their families—”

  “Control yourself, you must; still Jedi, you are!”

  “Yes, Master Yoda.” That scab on his knuckle—focused on that, he could suppress the shaking. “Yes, we are Jedi. But what if we’re the last?”

  “If the last we are, unchanged our duty is.” Yoda settled his chin onto hands folded over the head of his gimer stick. He looked every day of his nearly nine hundred years. “While one Jedi lives, survive the Order does. Resist the darkness with every breath, we must.”

  He lifted his head and the stick angled to poke Obi-Wan in the shin. “Especially the darkness in ourselves, young one. Of the dark side, despair is.”

  The simple truth of this called to him. Even despair is attach­ment: it is a grip clenched upon pain.

  Slowly, very slowly, Obi-Wan Kenobi remembered what it was to be a Jedi.

  He leaned back in his chair and covered his face with both hands, inhaling a thin stream of air between his palms; into him­self with the air he brought pain and guilt and remorse, and as he exhaled, they trailed away and vanished in the air.

  He breathed out his whole life.

  Everything he had done, everything he had been, friends and enemies, dreams and hopes and fears.

  Empty, he found clarity. Scrubbed clean, the Force shone through him. He sat up and nodded to Yoda.

  “Yes,” he said. “We may be the last. But what if we’re not?”

  Green leather brows drew together over lambent eyes. “The Temple beacon.”

  “Yes. Any surviving Jedi might still obey the recall, and be killed.”

  Bail Organa looked from one Jedi to the other, frowning.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” Obi-Wan replied, “that we have to go back to Coruscant.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” the Senator said instantly. “The whole planet is a trap—”

  “Yes. We have a—ah...”

  The loss of Anakin stabbed him.

  Then he let that go, too.

  “I have,” he corrected himself, “a policy on traps...”

  =19=

  THE FACE OF THE SITH

  Mustafar burned with lava streaming from volcanoes of glittering obsidian.

  At the fringe of its gravity well, a spray of prismatic starlight warped a starfighter into existence. Declamping from its hyper­drive ring, the starfighter streaked into an atmosphere choked with dense smoke and cinders.

  The starfighter followed a preprogrammed course toward the planet’s lone installation, an automated lava mine built orig­inally by the Techno Union to draw precious metals from the continuous rivers of burning stone. Upgraded with the finest mechanized defenses that money could buy, the settlement had become the final redoubt of the leaders of the Confederacy of In­dependent Systems. It was absolutely impenetrable.

  Unless one had its deactivation codes.

  Which was how the starfighter could land without causing the installation’s defenses to so much as stir.

  The habitable areas of the settlement were spread among towers that looked like poisonous toadstools sprung from the bank of a river of fire. The main control center squatted atop the largest, beside the small landing deck where the starfighter had

  alit. It was from this control center, less than an hour before, that a coded command had been transmitted over every HoloNet re­peater in the galaxy.

  At that signal, every combat droid in every army on every planet marched back to its transport, resocketed itself, and turned itself off. The Clone Wars were over.

  Almost.

  There was a final detail.

  A dark-cloaked figure swung down from the cockpit of the starfighter.

  Bail Organa strode onto the Tan-five’s shuttle deck to find Obi-Wan and Yoda gazing dubiously at the tiny cockpit of Obi-Wan’s starfighter. “I suppose,” Obi-Wan was saying reluctantly, “if you don’t mind riding on my lap...”

  “That may not be necessary,” Bail said. “I’ve just been summoned back to Coruscant by Mas Amedda; Palpatine has called the Senate into Extraordinary Session. Attendance is re­quired.”

  “Ah.” Obi-Wan’s mouth turned downward. “It’s clear what this will be about.”

  “I am,” Bail said slowly, “concerned it might be a trap.”

  “Unlikely this is.” Yoda
hobbled toward him. “Unknown, is the purpose of your sudden departure from the capital; dead, young Obi-Wan and I are both presumed to be.”

  “And Palpatine won’t be moving against the Senate as a whole,” Obi-Wan added. “At least, not yet; he’ll need the illu­sion of democracy to keep the individual star systems in line. He won’t risk a general uprising.”

  Bail nodded. “In that case—” He took a deep breath. “—perhaps I can offer Your Graces a lift?”

  Inside the control center of the Separatist bunker on Musta­far...

  Wat Tambor was adjusting the gas mix inside his armor—

  Poggle the Lesser was massaging his fleshy lip-tendrils—

  Shu Mai was fiddling with the brass binding that restrained her hair into the stylish curving horn that rose behind her head—

  San Hill was stretching his bodystocking, which had begun to ride up in the crotch—

  Rune Haako was shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot—

  While Nute Gunray spoke to the holopresence of Darth Sidious.

  “The plan has gone exactly as you promised, my lord,” Gun-ray said. “This is a glorious day for the galaxy!”

  “Yes, indeed. Thanks, in great part, to you, Viceroy, and to your associates of the Techno Union and the IBC. And, of course, Arch­duke Toggle. You have all performed magnificently. Have your droid armies completed shutdown?”

  “Yes, my lord. Nearly an hour ago.”

  “Excellent! You will be handsomely rewarded. Has my new ap­prentice, Darth Vader, arrived?”

  “His ship touched down only a moment ago.”

  “Good, good,” the holoscan of the cloaked man said pleas­antly. “I have left your reward in his hands. He will take care of you.”

  The door cycled open.

  A tall cloaked figure, slim but broad-shouldered, face shad­owed by a heavy hood, stood in the doorway.

  San Hill beat the others to the greeting. “Welcome, Lord Vader!” His elongated legs almost tangled with each other in his rush to shake the hand of the Sith Lord. “On behalf of the lead­ership of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, let me be the first to—”

  “Very well. You will be the first.”

  The cloaked figure stepped inside and made a gesture with a black-gloved hand. Blast doors slammed across every exit. The control panel exploded in a shower of sparking wires.

  The cloaked figure threw back its hood.

  San Hill recoiled, hands flapping like panicked birds sewn to his wrists.

  He had time to gasp, “You’re—you’re Anakin Skywalker!” before a fountain of blue-white plasma burned into his chest, curving through a loop that charred all three of his hearts.

  The Separatist leadership watched in frozen horror as the corpse of the head of the InterGalactic Banking Clan collapsed like a depowered protocol droid.

  “The resemblance,” Darth Vader said, “is deceptive.”

  The Senate Guard blinked, then straightened and smoothed the drape of his robe. He risked a glance at his partner, who flanked the opposite side of the door.

  Had they really just gotten as lucky as he thought they had?

  Were this Senator and his aides really walking right out of the turbolift with a couple of as-yet-uncaptured Jedi?

  Wow. Promotions all around.

  The guard tried not to stare at the two Jedi, and did his best to sound professional. “Welcome back, Senator. May I see your

  clearance?”

  An identichip was produced without hesitation: Bail Organa, senior Senator from Alderaan.

  “Thank you. You may proceed.” The guard handed back the identichip. He was rather pleased with how steady and business­like he sounded. “We will take custody of the Jedi.”

  Then the taller of the two Jedi murmured gently that it would be better if he and his counterpart were to stay with the Senator, and really, he seemed like such a reasonable fellow, and it was such a good idea—after all, the Grand Convocation Cham­ber of the Galactic Senate was so secure there was really no way for a Jedi to cause any trouble for anyone and they could just as easily be apprehended on their way out, and the guard didn’t want to seem like an unreasonable fellow himself, and so he found himself nodding and agreeing that yes, indeed, it would be better if the Jedi stayed with the Senator.

  And everyone was so reasonable and agreeable that it seemed perfectly reasonable and agreeable to the guard that the Jedi and the Senator, instead of staying together as they’d said, made low-voiced Force-be-with-you farewells; it never occurred to the guard to object even when the Senator entered the Convocation Chamber and the two Jedi headed off for... well, apparently, somewhere else.

  All eight members of Decoy Squad Five were deployed at a downlevel loading dock, where supplies that Jedi could not grow in their own Temple gardens had been delivered daily.

  Not anymore.

  This deep in Coruscant’s downlevels, the sun never shone; the only illumination came from antiquated glow globes, their faded light yellow as ancient parchment, that only darkened the shadows around. In those shadows lived the dregs of the galaxy, squatters and scavengers, madmen and fugitives from the justice above. Parts of Coruscant’s downlevels could be worse than Nar Shaddaa.

  The men of Decoy Squad Five would have been alert on any post. They were bred to be. Here, though, they were in a com­bat zone, where their lives and their missions depended on their perceptions, and on how fast their blasters could come out from inside those Jedi-style robes.

  So when a ragged, drooling hunchback lurched out of the gloom nearby, a bundle cradled in his arms, Decoy Squad Five took it for granted that he was a threat. Blasters appeared with miraculous speed. “Halt. Identify yourself.”

  “No, no, no, Yer Graces, oh, no, I’m bein’ here to help, y’see, I’m on yerr side!” The hunchback slurped drool back into his slack lips as he lurched toward them. “Lookit I got here, I mean, lookit—’sa Jedi babby, ennit?”

  The sergeant of the squad squinted at the bundle in the hunchback’s arms. “A Jedi baby?”

  “Oooh, sher. Sher, Yer Grace. Jedi babby, sher azzell iddiz! Come from outcher Temple, dinnit? Lookit!”

  The hunchback was now close enough that the sergeant could see what he carried in his filthy bundle. It was a baby. Sort of. It was the ugliest baby the sergeant had ever seen, alien or not, wizened and shriveled like a worn-out purse of moldly leather, with great pop eyes and a toothless idiot’s grin.

  The sergeant frowned skeptically. “Anyone could grab some deformed kid and claim it’s anything they want. How do you know it’s a Jedi?”

  The baby said, “My lightsaber, the first clue would be, hmm?”

  A burning blade of green slanted across the sergeants face so close he could smell the ozone, and the hunchback wasn’t a hunchback anymore: he now held a lightsaber the color of a summmer sky, and he said in a clipped, educated Coruscanti ac­cent, “Please don’t try to resist. No one has to get hurt.”

  The men of Decoy Squad Five disagreed.

  Six seconds later, all eight of them were dead.

  Yoda looked up at Obi-Wan. “To hide the bodies, no point there is.”

  Obi-Wan nodded agreement. “These are clones; an aban­doned post is as much a giveaway as a pile of corpses. Let’s get to that beacon.”

  Bail slipped into the rear of the Naboo delegation’s Senate pod as Palpatine thundered from the podium, “These Jedi mur­derers left me scarred, left me deformed, but they could not scar my integrity! They could not deform my resolve! The remaining traitors will be hunted down, rooted out wherever they may hide, and brought to justice, dead or alive! All collaborators will suffer the same fate. Those who protect the enemy are the enemy! Now is the time! Now we will strike back! Now we will destroy the destroyers! Death to the enemies of democracy!”

  The Senate roared.

  Amidala didn’t even glance at Bail as he slid into a seat beside her. On the opposite side, Representative Binks nodded at him but said not
hing, blinking solemnly. Bail frowned; if even the ir­repressible Jar Jar was worried, this looked to be even worse than he’d expected. And he had expected it to be very, very bad.

  He touched Amidala’s arm softly. “It’s all a lie. You know that, don’t you?”

  She stared frozenly toward the podium. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I don’t know what I know. Not anymore. Where have you been?”

  “I was... held up.” As she once had told him, some things were better left unsaid.

  “He’s been presenting evidence all afternoon,” she said in a flat, affectless monotone. “Not just the assassination attempt. The Jedi were about to overthrow the Senate.”

  “It’s a lie,” he said again.

  In the center of the Grand Convocation Chamber, Palpatine leaned upon the Chancellor’s Podium as though he drew strength from the Great Seal on its front. “This has been the most trying of times, but we have passed the test. The war is over!”

  The Senate roared.

  “The Separatists have been utterly defeated, and the Repub­lic will stand). United! United and free!”

  The Senate roared.

  “The Jedi Rebellion was our final test—it was the last gasp of the forces of darkness! Now we have left that darkness behind us forever, and a new day has begun! It is morning in the Republic!”

  The Senate roared.

  Padme stared without blinking. “Here it comes,” she said numbly.

  Bail shook his head. “Here what comes?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Never again will we be divided! Never again will sector turn against sector, planet turn against planet, sibling turn against sib­ling. We are one nation, indivisible!”

  The Senate roared.

  “To ensure that we will always stand together, that we will always speak with a single voice and act with a single hand, the Republic must change. We must evolve. We must^roiv. We have become an empire in fact; let us become an Empire in name as well! We are the first Galactic Empire!”

  The Senate went wild.

  “What are they doing?” Bail said. “Do they understand what they’re cheering for?”

  Padme shook her head.