Star Wars: Cloak of Deception

by James Luceno

  “This is madness,” he said, lowering his voice and limping closer to the mechno-chair. “Are we merchants, or are we would-be conquerors?”

  “You heard Darth Sidious,” Gunray hissed. “These weapons will ensure that we remain merchants. They are our guarantee that groups like the Nebula Front or mercenaries like Captain Cohl will never again risk going against us. Ask Commander Dofine. He’ll tell you.”

  “Darth Sidious keeps us in servile fearfulness,” Haako said, blinking repeatedly.

  “What can we do, otherwise? Instead of honoring our request for additional defenses, the senate threatens us with taxation. We need to take matters into our own hands if we are to protect our cargos. Or would you have us continue to lose ships to terrorists, in addition to losing profits to taxation?”

  “But the other members of the directorate—?”

  “For the time being, they are to not to know anything of this. We will apprise them of these things gradually.”

  “And only if necessary.”

  “Yes,” Gunray said. “Only if necessary.”

  With its countless dark canyons, precipitous ledges, hidden recesses, and jutting parapets—its surfeit of places to hide in plain sight—Coruscant invited corruption. Its very geography inspired secrecy.

  Palpatine had been on Coruscant for several years, and he felt that he knew the place better than many lifelong residents did. He knew it the way a jungle cat knew its territory. He had an instinctual understanding of its shifting moods, and an instinctual feel for its power spots and dangerous zones. It was almost as if he could see the coiling blackness that inhabited the senate, and the refulgent light that poured from the spires of the Jedi Temple.

  It was a wonderful place to be for someone who had long been a scholar, a historian, a lover of art, and a collector of rare objects; someone with a passion for exploring life’s manifold heights and depths.

  Frequently he would shrug off his elaborate cloak and take up the simple dress of a trader or a recluse. He would throw a hood over his head and wander the lightless abysses, the dark paths and neglected plazas, the tunnels and alleyways, the seedy underworld. Anonymous, he would make trips to the equator, the poles, and other remote places. Beneath his ambitions—for himself, for Naboo, for the Republic at large—he had always been unassuming, and that apparent lack of guile allowed him to pass without being recognized; to all but disappear in a crowd, as only a person of solitude might—as one who had kept his own company for so many years.

  And yet, others sought him out. Perhaps for the very reason that he revealed so little about himself. Initially he assumed that others found his reclusiveness intriguing, as if he led a secret life. But he quickly learned that what they really wanted to do was talk about themselves; to solicit not his counsel but his ear, trusting that he would guard the secrets of their lives as closely as he guarded his own.

  That had been the case with Valorum, who had forged a relationship with Palpatine at the start of the Supreme Chancellor’s second four-year term of office.

  What Palpatine lacked in charisma, he made up for in candor, and it was that directness that had led to his widespread appeal in the senate. Here was Palpatine, with his ready smile; above corruption, above deception or duplicity, a kind of confessor, willing to hear the most banal confessions or the basest of misdeeds without passing judgment—aloud, at any rate. For in his heart he judged the universe on his own terms, with a clear sense of right and wrong.

  He looked to no other guide than himself.

  Among the delegates who represented the worlds of the outlying systems, his reputation was particularly exalted, primarily because tiny Naboo was one of those worlds, all by itself at the edge of the Mid Rim, with Malastare—home to Gran and Dugs—its only neighbor of significance. Like many of its neighbors, Naboo was ruled by an elected monarch—and an unenlightened one, at that—but it was a peaceful world, unspoiled, rich in classic elements, and inhabited not only by humans, but also by a mostly aquatic indigenous species known as Gungans.

  When most of his peers had left public service at the accepted age of twenty, Palpatine had elected to remain a politician, and his tenure on Coruscant had provided him with singular insight into the afflictions that vexed the outlying star systems.

  It was while befriending a group of Bith delegates that he first learned of the Nebula Front, and later, it was a Bith who introduced him to some of the members who commanded the organization. By rights Palpatine should have had nothing to do with terrorists, but the founding members of the Nebula Front were neither fanatics nor anarchists. Many of their grievances with the Trade Federation, and Coruscant, were legitimate. More important, wherever the Federation was involved, it was difficult to remain impartial.

  Had Palpatine been one of the many senators receiving Trade Federation kickbacks, it would have been easy to look the other way, or to turn a deaf ear—as Valorum had put it. But as the representative of a world that depended on the Trade Federation for food and other imports, as Naboo did, it was impossible to dismiss what he had heard and seen.

  Eventually, the Bith had introduced him to the Front’s newest leader, Havac.

  For previous meetings with Havac, Palpatine had selected out-of-the-way places in Coruscant’s lawless lower levels. But the current crisis in the senate had necessitated that they exercise a greater measure of secrecy, so Palpatine had chosen a humans-only club in Coruscant’s midlevel—a place where patricians could gather for t’bac, brandy, games of dejarik, and quiet reading—and where there were actually fewer prying eyes than lower down. He had taken the added precaution of informing Havac of the location at the last possible moment. As tactically minded as Havac was, he lacked the expertise to catch Palpatine with his guard lowered.

  “Valorum is audacious,” Havac said angrily, as soon as they were seated at a table in the club’s hardwood-paneled dining room. “He has the gall to announce a summit in the Outer Rim—on Eriadu, no less—without asking the Nebula Front to participate.”

  “Unlike the Trade Federation,” Palpatine said, “the Nebula Front does not enjoy representation in the senate.”

  “Yes, but the Front has many friends on Eriadu, Senator.”

  “Then all the better for you, I should think.”

  Havac had come alone, as had Palpatine, though both Sate Pestage and Kinman Doriana were seated nearby. Palpatine had accepted from the start that “Havac” was an alias, and Pestage had subsequently confirmed the fact. Pestage had also learned that Havac was native to Eriadu, where his impassioned holo-documentaries had established him to a few as an enemy of the Trade Federation, a proponent of nonhuman rights, a malcontent and idealist. He wanted desperately to change the galaxy, but his visual tirades against injustice had largely gone unnoticed.

  He was a relative newcomer to the Nebula Front, but the Front’s militant faction had recruited him to serve a special agenda. Exasperated by Senate indifference and the Trade Federation’s continued violation of the trade agreements, the militants had decided to up the stakes from mere interference in Federation business to terrorism. Havac and the Front’s new radicals were determined to hit the Trade Federation where the Neimoidians and the rest would feel it the most—in their distended purses.

  Palpatine had encouraged Havac, without actually advocating violence. Rather, he had maintained that the surest way to effect lasting change was to work through the senate.

  “We’re fed up with Valorum,” Havac was saying. “He treads docilely when and wherever the Trade Federation is concerned. His threat to tax the trade routes is pure rhetoric. It’s time that someone convince him that the Nebula Front can be a more dangerous foe than the Trade Federation.”

  Palpatine made an offhand gesture, as if in dismissal. “It’s true that the Supreme Chancellor has little understanding of the Nebula Front’s objectives, but he is not your primary obstacle.”

  Havac held Palpatine’s heavy-lidded gaze. “We need a stronger chancellor. Someone
who wasn’t born into wealth.”

  Palpatine gestured again. “Look elsewhere for your enemies. Look to the members of the Trade Federation Directorate.”

  Havac mulled it over for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we do need to look elsewhere.” He grinned faintly and lowered his voice to add, “We have made a powerful new ally, who has suggested several courses of action.”

  “Indeed?”

  “It was he who provided the data we needed to destroy a Trade Federation freighter at Dorvalla.”

  “The Federation has thousands of freighters,” Palpatine said. “If you expect to be victorious by destroying their ships, you’re deluding yourselves. You must get to the principals. Just as I have been doing in the senate.”

  “Do we have any friends there?”

  “A meager few. Whereas the Trade Federation has the support of many important delegates—Toonbuck Toora, Tessek, Passel Argente … They are enriched for their loyalty.”

  Havac shook his head in outrage. “It’s pathetic that the Front needs to buy senatorial support, in the same deplorable fashion that it is compelled to employ mercenaries.”

  “There is no other way,” Palpatine said, with a purposeful sigh. “The courts are useless and biased. But corruption has its advantages when you can simply purchase the votes of unscrupulous delegates instead of having to convince them of the virtues of your position.”

  Havac rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “We have the funds you asked for.”

  Palpatine’s eyebrows went up. “Already?”

  “Our benefactor told us that the Revenue—”

  “It’s best if I don’t know how you received them,” Palpatine interrupted.

  Havac nodded in comprehension. “One possible problem. It’s in the form of aurodium ingots.”

  “Aurodium?” Palpatine sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Yes, that could present a problem. I can’t very well distribute ingots to those senators we hope to … impress.”

  “Too easy to trace,” Havac said.

  “Precisely. We’ll have to have the aurodium converted to Republic dataries, even though that will require some time.” Palpatine fell silent for a moment, then said, “May I suggest that one of my aides help you set up a special account with a bank on an outlying world that won’t ask questions about the origin of the ingots. Once the aurodium is safely deposited there, you’ll be able to transfer funds through the InterGalactic Bank, and draw against the account in the form of Republic credits.”

  Havac clearly liked the idea. “I know you’ll put the funds to the best possible use.”

  “I’ll do all within my power.”

  Havac smiled in admiration. “You are the voice of the outer systems, Senator.”

  “I am not a voice of the outer systems, Havac,” Palpatine rejoined. “If you insist on awarding me an honorific, then consider me the voice of the Republic. You need to remember this, because if you begin to think in terms of inner systems against outer systems, star sectors against rims, there can be no unity. Instead of equality for all, we will end up with anarchy and secession.”

  Standing just outside of the Jedi Temple’s east-facing gate, Qui-Gon gave thought to where he should wander. The day was warm and cloudless, except to the north, where microclimatic storms were swirling about the summits of some of Coruscant’s taller buildings, and Qui-Gon had nothing to do.

  He set out walking into the sun, memories of his youth surfacing, as if images glimpsed in the riffling of a deck of sabacc cards. As ever, he saw himself inside the Temple, meditating, studying, training, making friends and losing some. He recalled a day he had stolen into one of the spires and had had his first real look at Coruscant’s fantastic cityscape, and how from that moment forward he had yearned to explore the city-planet from bottom to top. A quest that would remain a dream until well into his teen years and, in fact, had yet to be completely fulfilled.

  On those rare occasions when students were permitted to leave the Temple, they moved about like groups of tourists, and always in the company of chaperons of one sort or another. Visits to the Galactic Senate, the Courts Building, the Municipal Authorities Building … But in those early explorations Qui-Gon saw enough to understand that Coruscant was not the fabled land he had first imagined it to be. The planet’s climate was more or less regulated, its original topography had long ago been leveled or buried, and what nature there was existed indoors, where it could be tended to and controlled.

  Because it resided in all life, the Force was in some sense concentrated on Coruscant. But one felt the Force differently there than on worlds in their natural state, where the interconnectedness of all life created subtle shifts and rhythms. If on many worlds the Force was a gentle murmur, on Coruscant it was a howl—a white noise of sentience.

  Qui-Gon had nothing in mind beyond walking. The huge holomap in the High Council spire indicated hundreds of distant trouble spots and emergencies, but the Reconciliation Council hadn’t gotten around to assigning him and Obi-Wan to any of them. He wondered if Yoda and some of the others were angry about his seeming obsession with Captain Cohl.

  To Qui-Gon’s thinking, the council members were too willing to dismiss Cohl as nothing more than a symptom of trying times, when he was much more than that. But, then, the Council had a tendency to dwell on repercussions, on future events, rather than the present. Yoda, especially, was fond of saying that the future was always in motion, and yet he and Mace Windu sometimes acted as if that wasn’t the case at all.

  Did they know of some great event looming on the horizon? Qui-Gon wondered. And would he fail to recognize that event, even were he to trip over it? He supposed he should at least remain open to the possibility that the High Council Masters knew something he didn’t.

  The one thing he accepted as beyond dispute was that the Force was even more mysterious than any of the Jedi perceived it to be.

  He hadn’t gone half a kilometer when Adi Gallia fell into step beside him, catching him by surprise.

  “In search of something purposeful, Qui-Gon, or just hoping you’ll bump into something worthy of your attention?”

  He smiled at her. “I have—you.”

  She laughed, then scolded him with a look.

  Adi’s fingernails were polished, and the same blue cosmetic that rimmed her dark blue eyes traced the ligaments on the backs of her hands. She had been a permanent member of the High Council for over a decade, and a Jedi Master for much longer than that. Her parents were Corellian diplomats, but, like Qui-Gon, she had been raised in the Temple. Adi had always been enthralled by Coruscant, and knew the planet about as well as anyone. Over the years, she had forged a close friendship with Supreme Chancellor Valorum, along with several Core World delegates.

  “Where is your young apprentice?” she asked as they sauntered.

  “Sharpening his wits.”

  “So you actually give him an occasional respite from your resolute tutelage,” she teased.

  “It’s a mutual thing,” Qui-Gon said.

  She laughed again, then grew serious. “I have news that’s bound to interest you. It seems that you might have been right about Cohl’s surviving the explosion of that Trade Federation freighter.”

  Qui-Gon came to a dead stop in the center of the sky bridge they were crossing. Droids and pedestrians ambled past him to both sides.

  “Has Cohl been seen?”

  Adi leaned on the bridge railing and gazed back toward the Temple. “Dorvalla Space Corps pursued a shuttle that matched the description and drive signature you and Obi-Wan furnished. The shuttle crashed and exploded onworld, apparently not far from where Cohl had established a temporary base.”

  Qui-Gon nodded. “I know the area.”

  “There wasn’t much left to investigate at the crash site, but the remains of three humans found in the wreckage were identified as associates of Cohl. But here’s the interesting part: The shuttle was clearly attempting to rendezvous with Cohl
’s personal ship.”

  “The Hawk-Bat.”

  “It set down close to the crash site, then proceeded to blast its way off Dorvalla, taking out a number of Dorvalla’s picket ships on the way.”

  “Cohl made it to the ship,” Qui-Gon said.

  “You’re that certain?”

  “I am.”

  Adi nodded. “One of the picket ship pilots reported that two or three of Cohl’s band might have made it alive to the Hawk-Bat.”

  “Has there been any sign of the ship since?”

  “It jumped to hyperspace as soon as it left Dorvalla behind. But surveillance has been doubled at all of Cohl’s known retreats. Assuming he did survive, he’ll be spotted and, with luck, captured.”

  “Adi, is there a chance that Obi-Wan and I could—”

  “Cohl is no longer our concern,” she cut him off. “Supreme Chancellor Valorum is attempting to encourage the systems along the Rimma Trade Route to assume responsibility for curtailing acts of terrorism in their separate sectors. Intervention on our part would likely be viewed as indirect support of the Trade Federation.”

  Qui-Gon frowned. “That’s shortsighted. Most of the worlds along the Rimma support the Nebula Front to one degree or another. Recruits, funding, intelligence … The Rimma worlds supply these and more.”

  Adi regarded him for a long moment. “Qui-Gon, suppose I could arrange for you to meet with Chancellor Valorum, so you could apprise him of these matters personally?”

  Qui-Gon nodded. “All right.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’m on my way to meet with him now, and there’s no time like the present.”

  “I couldn’t have put it better.”

  In his chambers beneath the senate rotunda, Valorum reclined in his chair, exhaling wearily as he stretched his arms over his head. Finished with the morning’s business, he now had to face those delegates who hadn’t been able to secure appointments and were undoubtedly lingering outside his office, anxious for a moment of his time.

  “What’s on the agenda for this afternoon?” he asked Sei Taria as she came through the office’s tall, ornate door.