Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

by Matthew W. Stover

  “It was real enough for everyone who died!”

  “Yes.” Now it was Master Kenobi’s turn to lower his eyes. “Including the children at the Temple.”

  “What?”

  “They were murdered, Padme. I saw it.” He took her shoul­ders and turned her back to face him. “They were murdered by Anakin.’’

  “It’s a lie—” She pushed him away forcefully enough that C-3PO nearly triggered the security alert then and there, but Master Kenobi only regarded her with an expression that matched C-3PO’s internal recognition files of sadness and pity. “He could never... he could never... not my Anakin...”

  Master Kenobi’s voice was soft and slow. “He must be found.”

  Her reply was even softer; C-3PO’s aural sensor barely recorded it at all.

  “You’ve decided to kill him.”

  Master Kenobi said gravely, “He has become a very great threat.”

  At this, the Senator’s medical condition seemed to finally overcome her; her knees buckled, and Master Kenobi was forced to catch her and help her onto the sofa. Apparently Master Kenobi knew somewhat more about human physiology than did C-3PO; though his photoreceptors hadn’t been dark to the on­going changes in Senator Amidala’s contour, C-3PO had no idea what they might signify.

  At any rate, Master Kenobi seemed to comprehend the situa­tion instantly. He settled her comfortably onto the sofa and stood frowning down at her.

  “Anakin is the father, isn’t he?”

  The Senator looked away. Her eyes were leaking again. The Jedi Master said, hushed, “I’m very sorry, Padme. If it could be different...”

  “Go away, Obi-Wan. I won’t help you. I can’t.” She turned her face away. “I won’t help you kill him.”

  Master Kenobi said again, “I’m very sorry,” and left. C-3PO tentatively returned to the sitting room, intending to inquire after the Senator’s health, but before he could access a sufficiently delicate phrase to open the discussion, the Senator said softly, “Threepio? Do you know what this is?”

  She lifted toward him the pendant that hung from the cord of jerba leather she always wore around her neck.

  “Why, yes, my lady,” the protocol droid replied, bemused but happy, as always, to be of service. “It’s a snippet of japor. Younglings on Tatooine carve tribal runes into them to make amulets; they are supposed by superstitious folk to bring good fortune and protect one from harm, and sometimes are thought to be love charms. I must say, my lady, I’m quite surprised you’ve forgotten, seeing as how you’ve worn that one ever since it was given to you so many years ago by Master An—”

  “I hadn’t forgotten what it was, Threepio,” she said distantly.

  “Thank you. I was... reminding myself of the boy who gave it to me.”

  “My lady?” If she hadn’t forgotten, why would she ask? Be­fore C-3PO could phrase a properly courteous interrogative, she said, “Contact Captain Typho. Have him ready my skiff.” “My lady? Are you going somewhere?” “We are,” she said. “We’re going to Mustafar.”

  From the shadows beneath the mirror-polished skiff’s land­ing ramp, Obi-Wan Kenobi watched Captain Typho try to talk her out of it.

  “My lady,” the Naboo security chief protested, “at least let me come with you—”

  “Thank you, Captain, but there’s no need,” Padme said dis­tantly. “The war’s over, and... this is a personal errand. And, Captain? It must remain personal, do you understand? You know nothing of my leaving, nor where I am bound, nor when I can be expected to return.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Typho said with a reluctant bow. “But I strongly disagree with this decision.”

  “I’ll be fine, Captain. After all, I have Threepio to look after me.”

  Obi-Wan could clearly hear the droid’s murmured “Oh, dear.”

  After Typho finally climbed into his speeder and took off, Padme and her droid boarded the skiff. She wasted no time at all; the skiff’s repulsorlifts engaged before the landing ramp had even retracted.

  Obi-Wan had to jump for it.

  He swung inside just as the hatch sealed itself and the gleam­ing starship leapt for the sky.

  Darth Vader stood on the command bridge of the Mustafar control center, hand of durasteel clasping hand of flesh behind

  him, and gazed up through the transparisteel view wall at the galaxy he would one day rule.

  He paid no attention to the litter of corpses around his feet.

  He could feel his power growing, indeed. He had the mea­sure of his “Master” already; not long after Palpatine shared the secret of Darth Plagueis’s discovery, their relationship would un­dergo a sudden... transformation.

  A fatal transformation.

  Everything was proceeding according to plan.

  And yet...

  He couldn’t shake a certain creeping sensation ... a kind of cold, slimy ooze that slithered up the veins of his legs and spread clammy tendrils through his guts...

  Almost as though he was still afraid...

  She will die, you know, the dragon whispered.

  He shook himself, scowling. Impossible. He was Darth Vader. Fear had no power over him. He had destroyed his fear.

  All things die.

  Yet it was as though when he had crushed the dragon under his boot, the dragon had sunk venomed fangs into his

  heel.

  Now its poison chilled him to the bone.

  Even stars burn out.

  He shook himself again and strode toward the holocomm.

  He would talk to his Master.

  Palpatine had always helped him keep the dragon down.

  A comlink chimed.

  Yoda opened his eyes in the darkness.

  “Yes, Master Kenobi?”

  “We’re landing now. Are you in position?”

  “I am.”

  A moment of silence.

  “Master Yoda... if we don’tsee each other again—”

  “Think not of after, Obi-Wan. Always now, even eternity will be.”

  Another moment of silence.

  Longer.

  “May the Force be with you.”

  “It is. And may the Force be with you, young Obi-Wan.”

  The transmission ended.

  Yoda rose.

  A gesture opened the grating of the vent shaft where he had waited in meditation, revealing the vast conic well that was the Grand Convocation Chamber of the Galactic Senate. It was sometimes called the Senate Arena.

  Today, this nickname would be particularly apt.

  Yoda stretched blood back into his green flesh.

  This was his time.

  Nine hundred years of study and training, of teaching and of meditation, all now focused, and refined, and resolved into this single moment; the sole purpose of his vast span of existence had been to prepare him to enter the heart of night and bring his light against the darkness.

  He adjusted the angle of his blade against his belt.

  He draped his robe across his shoulders.

  With reverence, with gratitude, without fear, and without anger, Yoda went forth to war.

  A silvery flash outside caught Darth Vader’s eye, as though an elegantly curved mirror swung through the smoke and cin­ders, picking up the shine of white-hot lava. From one knee, he could look right through the holoscan of his Master while he continued his report.

  He was no longer afraid; he was too busy pretending to be respectful.

  “The Separatist leadership is no more, my Master.”

  “It is finished, then.” Theimage offered a translucent mockery of a smile. “You have restored peace and justice to the galaxy, Lord Vader.”

  “That is my sole ambition. Master.”

  The image tilted its head, its smile twisting without transition to a scowl. “Lord Vader—I sense a disturbance in the Force. You may be in danger.”

  He glanced at the mirror flash outside; he knew that ship. In danger of being kissed to death, perhaps... “How should I be in
danger, Master?” “I cannot say. But the danger is real; be mindful.” Be mindful, be mindful, he thought with a mental sneer. Is that the best you can do? I could get that much from Obi-Wan... “I will, my Master. Thank you.” The image faded.

  He got to his feet, and now the sneer was on his lips and in his eyes. “You’re the one who should be mindful, my ‘Master.’ I am a disturbance in the Force.”

  Outside, the sleek skiff settled to the deck. He spent a mo­ment reassembling his Anakin Skywalker face: he let Anakin Sky-walker’s love flow through him, let Anakin Skywalker’s glad smile come to his lips, let Anakin Skywalker’s youthful energy bring a joyous bounce to his step as he trotted to the entrance over the mess of corpses and severed body parts.

  He’d meet her outside, and he’d keep her outside. He had a feeling she wouldn’t approve of the way he had ... re­decorated... the control center.

  And after all, he thought with a mental shrug, there’s no arguing taste...

  The holding office of the Supreme Chancellor of the Repub­lic comprised the nether vertex of the Senate Arena; it was little more than a circular preparations area, a green room, where guests of the Chancellor might be entertained before entering the Senate Podium—the circular pod on its immense hydraulic pillar, which contained controls that coordinated the movement of floating Senate delegation pods—and rising into the focal point of the chamber above.

  Above that podium, the vast holopresence of a kneeling Sith bowed before a shadow that stood below. Guards in scarlet flanked the shadow; a Chagrian toady cringed nearby.

  “But the danger is real; be mindful.”

  “I will, my Master. Thank you.”

  The holopresence faded, and where its huge translucency had knelt was now revealed another presence, a physical pres­ence, tiny and aged, clad in robes and leaning on a twist of wood. But his physical presence was an illusion; the truth of him could be seen only in the Force.

  In the Force, he was a fountain of light.

  “Pity your new disciple I do; so lately an apprentice, so soon without a Master.”

  “Why, Master Yoda, what a delightful surprise! Welcome!” The voice of the shadow hummed with anticipation. “Let me be the first to wish you Happy Empire Day!”

  “Find it happy, you will not. Nor will the murderer you call Vader.”

  “Ah.” The shadow stepped closer to the light. “So that isthe threat I felt. Who is it, if I may ask? Who have you sent to kill him?”

  “Enough it is that you know your own destroyer.”

  “Oh, pish, Master Yoda. It wouldn’t be Kenobi, would it? Please say it’s Kenobi—Lord Vader gets such a thrill from killing people who care for him ...”

  Behind the shadow, some meters away, Mas Amedda—the Chagrian toady who was Speaker of the Galactic Senate—heard a whisper in Palpatine’s voice. Flee.

  He did.

  Neither light nor shadow gave his exit a glance.

  “So easily slain, Obi-Wan is not.”

  “Neither are you, apparently; but that is about to change.” The shadow took another step, and another.

  A lightsaber appeared, green as sunlight in a forest. “The test of that, today will be.”

  “Even a fraction of the dark side is more power than your Jedi arrogance can conceive; living in the light, you have never seen the depth of the darkness.”

  The shadow spread arms that made its sleeves into black wings.

  “Until now.”

  Lightning speared from outstretched hands, and the battle was on.

  Padme stumbled down the landing ramp into Anakin’s arms. Her eyes were raw and numb; once inside the ship, her emotional control had finally shattered and she had sobbed the whole way there, crying from relentless mind-shredding dread, and so her lips were swollen and her whole body shook and she was just so grateful, so incredibly grateful, that again she flooded with fresh tears: grateful that he was alive, grateful that he’d come bounding across the landing deck to meet her, that he was still strong and beautiful, that his arms still were warm around her and his lips were soft against her hair.

  “Anakin, my Anakin ...” She shivered against his chest. “I’ve been so frightened...”

  “Shh. Shh, it’s all right.” He stroked her hair until her trem­bling began to fade, then he cupped her chin and gently raised her face to look into his eyes. “You never need to worry about me. Didn’t you understand? No one can hurt me. No one will ever hurt either of us.”

  “It wasn’t that, my love, it was—oh, Anakin, he said such ter­rible things about you!”

  He smiled down at her. “About me? Who would want to say bad things about me?” He chuckled. “Who would dare?”

  “Obi-Wan.” She smeared tears from her cheeks. “He said— he told me you turned to the dark side, that you murdered Jedi... even younglings ...”

  Just having gotten the words out made her feel better; now all she had to do was rest in his arms while he held her and hugged her and promised her he would never do anything like any of that, and she started half a smile aimed up toward his eyes—

  But instead of the light of love in his eyes, she saw only re­flections of lava.

  He didn’t say, I could never turn to the dark side.

  He didn’t say, Murder younglings? Me? That’s just crazy.

  He said, “Obi-Wan’s alive?”

  His voice had dropped an octave, and had gone colder than the chills that were spreading from the base of her spine.

  “Y-yes—he, he said he was looking for you ...”

  “Did you tell him where I am?”

  “No, Anakin! He wants to kill you. I didn’t tell him anything—I wouldn’t!”

  “Too bad.”

  “Anakin, what—”

  “He’s a traitor, Padme. He’s an enemy of the state. He has to die.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “Stop talking like that... you’re fright­ening me!”

  “You’re not the one who needs to be afraid.”

  “It’s like—it’s like—” Tears brimmed again. “I don’t even know who you are anymore ...”

  “I’m the man who loves you,” he said, but he said it through clenched teeth. “I’m the man who would do anything to protect you. Everything Ihave done, I have done for you.”

  “Anakin ...” Horror squeezed her voice down to a whisper: small, and fragile, and very young. “... what have youdone?”

  And she prayed that he wouldn’t actually answer.

  “What I have done is bring peace to the Republic.”

  “The Republic is dead,” she whispered. “You killed it. You and Palpatine.”

  “It needed to die.”

  New tears started, but they didn’t matter; she’d never have enough tears for this. “Anakin, can’t we just...go? Please. Let’s leave. Together. Today. Now. Before you—before something happens—”

  “Nothing will happen. Nothing can happen. Let Palpatine call himself Emperor. Let him. He can do the dirty work, all the messy, brutal oppression it’ll take to unite the galaxy forever— unite it against him. He’ll make himself into the most hated man in history. And when the time is right, we’ll throw him down—”

  “Anakin, stop—”

  “Don’t you see? We’ll be heroes. The whole galaxy will love us, and we will rule. Together.”

  “Please stop—Anakin, please, stop, I can’t stand it...”

  He wasn’t listening to her. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her shoulder.

  Feral joy burned from his eyes, and his face was no longer human.

  “You ...”

  From behind her, calmly precise, with that clipped Corus­canti accent: “Padme. Move away from him.”

  “Obi-Wan?” She whirled, and he was on the landing ramp, still and sad. “No!”

  “You,” growled a voice that should have been her love’s.

  “You brought him here...”

  She turned back, and now he was looking at her.

  His eye
s were full of flame.

  “Anakin?”

  “Padme, move away.” There was an urgency in Obi-Wan’s voice that sounded closer to fear than Padme had ever heard from him. “He’s not who you think he is. He will harm you.”

  Anakin’s lips peeled off his teeth. “I would thank you for this, if it were a gift of love.”

  Trembling, shaking her head, she began to back away. “No, Anakin—no...”

  “Palpatine was right. Sometimes it is the closest who cannot see. I loved you too much, Padme.”

  He made a fist, and she couldn’t breathe.

  “I loved you too much to see you! To see what you are!”

  A veil of red descended on the world. She clawed at her throat, but there was nothing there her hands could touch.

  “Let her go, Anakin.”

  His answer was a predator’s snarl, over the body of its prey. “You will not take her from me!”

  She wanted to scream, to beg, to howl, No, Anakin, I’m sorry! I’m sorry... I love you... , but her locked throat strangled the truth inside her head, and the world-veil of red smoked toward black.

  “Let her go!”

  “Never!”

  The ground fell away beneath her, and then a white flash of impact blasted her into night.

  In the Senate Arena, lightning forked from the hands of a Sith, and bent away from the gesture of a Jedi to shock Redrobes into unconsciousness.

  Then there were only the two of them.

  Their clash transcended the personal; when new lightning blazed, it was not Palpatine burning Yoda with his hate, it was the Lord of all Sith scorching the Master of all Jedi into a smol­dering huddle of clothing and green flesh.

  A thousand years of hidden Sith exulted in their victory.

  “Your time is over! The Sith rule the galaxy! Now and for­ever!”

  And it was the whole of the Jedi Order that rocketed from its huddle, making of its own body a weapon to blast the Sith to the ground.

  “At an end your rule is, and not short enough it was, I must say.”

  There appeared a blade the color of life.

  From the shadow of a black wing, a small weapon—a hold­out, an easily concealed backup, a tiny bit of treachery expressing the core of Sith mastery—slid into a withered hand and spat a flame-colored blade of its own.