The Essential Novels

by James Luceno

  “Follow me!” she shouted above the noise, and Zeerid nodded.

  Following signs and calling upon her memory, Aryn led Zeerid through the maze of raised flooring, lifts, and autostairs. Droids moved past them, oblivious, and it occurred to Aryn that the droids in the Works would probably have kept doing their work even if everyone on Coruscant were dead. The thought struck her as grotesque.

  Zeerid turned circles as they walked, trying to take it all in.

  “This is unbelievable,” he said to her. “I wish I had a holorecorder.”

  She nodded and hurried along.

  They soon left behind the mechanical tumult of the hub proper. As the sound faded behind them, the corridors narrowed and darkened, and the wall-mounted lights became less frequent. Pipes and conduits snaked on and through the ceiling, the floor, the entrails of plantwide convenience. Zeerid pulled a chemlight from one of the pockets of his flight pants, snapped it in half, and held it aloft as they advanced. Both of them were sweating in the still air of the tunnels.

  “There are security droids in these tunnels,” she said. “We don’t have a proper pass. They will try to stop us.”

  “Great,” Zeerid said. Then, “You sure you know where you’re going?”

  She nodded, though she was beginning to feel lost.

  From ahead she heard the whir of servos, the rattle of metal. A droid.

  She pulled Zeerid to a stop and activated her lightsaber, fearing a security droid. Dust danced in the green light of its glow. Zeerid pulled his blaster, held the chemlight up higher.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  A form moved in the shadows, small, cylindrical, a droid. Not a security droid but an astromech. It emerged into the light and she saw the flat, circular head and dun coloration of a T7. Scratches marred the droid’s surface, and loose wires dangled from one of its shoulder joints. But she knew its color and felt as if she were seeing a ghost, a specter from her past haunting the dark tunnels of the Works. Deactivating her blade, she said, “Tee-seven?”

  Her voice cracked on the words.

  When he beeped a greeting in droidspeak, she knew it was him, his mechanical voice redolent somehow of very human joys, triumphs, and pain, the soundtrack of her time in the Temple, of her life with Master Zallow. Tears pooled in her eyes as T7 wheeled toward them.

  “You know this astromech?” Zeerid asked.

  “It was Master Zallow’s droid,” she said.

  She knelt before T7, daubing at the dirt on his head as she might a small child. He whistled with pleasure.

  “How did you get here?” she asked. “How did you … survive the attack?”

  She struggled to follow his droidspeak, so rapidly did he spit out his beeps, whistles, and chirps. In the end, she determined that a Sith force had attacked the Temple, that Master Zallow had sent T7 away during the fight, and that T7 had sneaked back to the battlefield after all had gone quiet. Later, the Sith had returned, presumably to lay explosives, and T7 had fled to the lower levels.

  “I know about Master Zallow, Tee-seven,” she said.

  He moaned, a low whistle of despair.

  “Did you see his—Did you see him when it happened?”

  The droid whistled a negative.

  “Why did you go back after the battle?” Zeerid asked the droid.

  A long whistle, then a compartment in T7’s body slid open and T7 extended a thin metal arm from within.

  The arm held Master Zallow’s lightsaber.

  Aryn recoiled, stared at it for a long moment, memories crowding around her, falling like rain.

  “You went back to get this? Just to get this?”

  Another negative whistle. Another long, hard-to-follow monologue in droidspeak.

  T7 had gone back to see if anyone had survived but had found only the lightsaber.

  Once more, Aryn stared determinism in the face. The Force had brought her to Zeerid at the exact moment when Zeerid was making a run to Coruscant. And now the Force had caused T7 to find Master Zallow’s lightsaber so that the droid could give it to her.

  Aryn decided that it could not be coincidence. It was the Force showing her that the course she pursued was the right one, at least for her.

  She took the cool metal of the saber’s hilt in her hand, tested its weight. The hilt was larger than hers, slightly heavier, yet it felt familiar in her hand. She remembered the many times she’d seen it in Master Zallow’s hands as he had trained her in lightsaber combat. She activated it and the green blade sprang to life. She stared at it, thinking of her master, then turned it off.

  She clipped it to her belt, beside her own, and patted T7 on the head.

  “Thank you, Tee-seven. This means more to me than you know. You were very brave to return there.”

  The droid beeped with pleasure and sympathy.

  “Have you seen any other survivors?” Zeerid asked, and Aryn felt ashamed for not asking the question herself.

  T7 whistled a somber negative.

  Zeerid holstered his blaster. “What about security droids?”

  Another negative.

  “I need to get to the backup surveillance station,” Aryn said. “Is it still standing? Can you lead the way?”

  T7 chirped with enthusiasm, spun his head around, and headed off down the corridor, wires still dangling from his shoulder joint. Aryn and Zeerid fell in behind him. Aryn felt the weight of the extra lightsaber on her belt, heavy with the memories it bore.

  T7 led them on through the labyrinthine passageways of the Works, avoiding collapsed or blocked corridors, doubling back when necessary, descending ever deeper into the hive of pipes, gears, and machinery. Aryn was soon lost. Had they not encountered T7, they could have wandered for days before finding their way.

  In time, they reached an area familiar to Aryn.

  “We’re near now,” she said to Zeerid.

  Ahead, she saw the turbolift that would take them up into the lower levels of the Temple. T7 plugged into the control panel and the lift’s mechanism began to hum. As the doors slid open, Aryn braced herself to see something horrible, but there was nothing behind them save the empty box of the passenger compartment.

  The three of them entered, the doors closed, and the lift began to rise. Aryn could feel Zeerid’s concern for her. He watched her sidelong, thinking she did not notice. But she did, and his concern touched her.

  “I am glad that you’re with me,” she said to him.

  He colored with embarrassment. “Yes, well. Me, too.”

  The doors opened to reveal a long corridor. The emergency lights overhead flickered and buzzed. T7 started ahead, and Aryn and Zeerid followed.

  Aryn had walked the corridor before, long ago, yet to her everything felt different. It no longer felt like the Jedi Temple. Instead, it felt like a tomb. The Sith attack had destroyed more than merely the Temple’s structure. Something else had died when the structure fell. It had been a symbol of justice for thousands of years. And now it was gone.

  There was symbolism in that, Aryn supposed.

  She wanted out as soon as possible, but first she had to see if there was any record of the attack.

  T7’s servos, and Aryn’s and Zeerid’s footsteps, sounded loud in the silence. Rooms off the main corridor looked entirely ordinary. Chairs, desks, comps, everything in order. The attack had destroyed the surface structure but left the core intact.

  Maybe there was symbolism in that, too, Aryn thought, and let herself hope.

  When they reached the secondary surveillance room, they found it, too, entirely intact. The five monitoring stations each featured a chair, desk, and a computer, with a large vidscreen suspended from the wall above it. All of the screens were dark.

  “Can you get some power in here, Tee-seven?” asked Aryn.

  The droid beeped an affirmative, rolled over to a wall jack, and plugged in. In moments, the room came to life. The overhead lights brightened. Computers and the monitors hummed awake.

  “I wan
t to see whatever we’ve got of the attack. Can you find that?”

  Again the droid beeped an affirmative.

  Zeerid wheeled a chair over to Aryn. She sat, her heart racing, her breath coming fast. Zeerid put a hand on her shoulder, just for a moment, then pulled up another chair and sat beside her. They stared at the dark security monitor, waiting for T7 to show them horror.

  The droid let out an excited series of whistles. He had located the footage. Aryn gripped the arms of the chair.

  “Play it,” she said.

  A single glowing line formed on the monitor and expanded up and down until it filled the screen. Images formed on it. The main security cam had a view opposite the main doors of the Temple, so it could record those coming in or leaving.

  Aryn’s mouth was dry. She was afraid to blink for fear of missing something, though that was ridiculous since T7 could freeze, replay, and even magnify any image on the screen.

  They watched as a cloaked figure and a Twi’lek woman armed with blasters walked through the Temple’s enormous doors.

  “Does the Temple post guards?” Zeerid asked.

  Aryn nodded.

  Neither of them needed to say what must have happened to the guards.

  As the pair walked brazenly down the entry hallway, the cam showed people gathering on the balconies above, looking down.

  “They didn’t know what to make of him,” Zeerid said.

  Aryn nodded.

  “He is big,” Zeerid said.

  “Freeze on his face and magnify,” Aryn said to T7.

  The image froze, centered on the man’s hooded face, and magnified. She could make out nothing in the shadowed depths of his cowl except what looked to be the bottom of a mask of some kind.

  “Is that a mask?” Zeerid asked.

  “I don’t know. The Twi’lek, Tee-seven,” she said, and T7 pulled the image back, recentered on the Twi’lek, and did the same.

  The Twi’lek’s face filled the screen.

  “Skin color is unusual,” Zeerid said. He leaned forward in his chair, peering intently.

  She was beautiful, Aryn allowed.

  And she was a murderer. Or at least associated with one.

  “See the scar,” Zeerid said. He stood and pointed a finger at the screen, at the Twi’lek’s throat. There, a jagged scar cut an irregular path across her neck. “Between that and her skin, maybe we can identify her?”

  “Maybe,” Aryn said, and tried to swallow. She was less interested in the Twi’lek than she was in the hooded figure. “Continue, Tee-seven.”

  They watched as the two strode halfway down the hall. Aryn’s breath caught when she watched Master Zallow emerge from off cam to confront the Sith and the Twi’lek. Six other Jedi Knights accompanied him.

  “Freeze, Tee-seven.”

  The frame stopped, and Aryn studied Master Zallow’s face. He looked as he always had—stern, focused. Seeing him somehow freed her to grieve with something other than tears. She recalled some of their training sessions, how he had at first insisted that she fight with his style, but had later relented and allowed her to find her own path. The memory made her smile, and cry.

  “Are you all right?” Zeerid asked.

  She nodded, wiped away the tears with the sleeve of her robe. “Tee-seven, let me see the faces on the other Jedi.”

  T7 flipped through a variety of footage from recorders at different angles until it finally captured the faces of the other Jedi. Aryn recognized each of them, though she did not know them well. Still, she recited their names. She figured she owed them at least that.

  “Bynin, Ceras, Okean, Draerd, Kursil, Kalla.”

  “Friends?” Zeerid asked, his voice soft.

  “No,” Aryn said. “But they were Jedi.”

  “It’s not possible that this Sith and Twi’lek took down those Jedi and the Temple alone,” Zeerid said, though he sounded uncertain. “Is it?”

  Aryn did not know. “Continue, Tee-seven.”

  The footage started again. Master Zallow went face-to-face with the Sith. The other Jedi ignited their blades. Aryn stared at Master Zallow and the Sith warrior, seeing if they exchanged words, gestures, anything. They didn’t, at least as far as she could see.

  “Stang,” Zeerid breathed.

  “What?” Aryn said. “Freeze it, Tee-seven. What is it?”

  The image froze. She saw nothing unusual happening between Master Zallow and the Sith.

  “There,” Zeerid said. He bounced out of his seat again and pointed at something beyond the Temple’s tall entrance, something in the sky. Aryn did not see it.

  “What is it?”

  “A ship,” Zeerid said. “Here. See it?”

  Aryn stood and squinted at the screen. She did see it, though it was hard to distinguish against the sky through the slit of the Temple’s floor-to-ceiling open doors.

  “Note the silhouette,” Zeerid said. “That’s an NR-two gully jumper, a Republic ship. Like the kind I used to fly. See it?”

  Aryn did, but she did not understand its significance.

  “Magnify, Tee-seven,” said Zeerid, and the droid complied. The ship came into clear view.

  “No markings,” Zeerid said. “But look at its nose, its trajectory. It’s coming down, right at the Temple.”

  “You sure?”

  “It doesn’t look damaged,” Zeerid said thoughtfully. “Back out to normal magnification and play it, Tee-seven.”

  They watched in awed silence as the gulley jumper crashed through the Temple’s entrance, tore through the hall, collapsing columns as it went, a rolling mass of metal and flame, until it stopped right behind the Sith facing Master Zallow.

  Neither the Sith nor Master Zallow had moved.

  “Mid-section is still intact,” Zeerid said, “It must have been reinforced.” He looked over to Aryn. “There’s something in it. A bomb, maybe.”

  “Not a bomb,” Aryn said, beginning to understand.

  They watched as a large hatch on the center compartment of the NR2 exploded outward and dozens of Sith warriors poured out, glowing red blades in hand.

  Zeerid sat back in his chair. “Worse than a bomb.”

  Master Zallow ignited his blade, and many more Jedi rushed in from off cam to reinforce him. Aryn watched it all, her eyes fixed on the Sith. As the battle began, he discarded his cloak, showing his face at last.

  “Freeze it,” she said, and T7 did. Her voice was cold. “Magnify his face.”

  The image centered and grew to show the Sith. A bald head lined with blue veins, the scarred face, the intense eyes, and not a mask but a respirator.

  “That’s the same man from the cruiser!” Zeerid said.

  “Darth Malgus,” Aryn said, sudden tension forming at the base of her skull. “Darth Malgus led the attack.” She stared into Malgus’s dark eyes for a time, hardened herself for what she knew would be coming. “Continue it, Tee-seven.”

  She watched the battle unfold, trying to keep her passions in check. She imagined she could feel the emotions of the combatants pouring through the vid. Her entire body was tense, coiled, as she watched.

  The flow of battle separated Master Zallow and Malgus from the outset. Both fought their way through enemies, obviously seeking the other.

  “That’s a Mandalorian,” Zeerid said.

  Aryn nodded. A Mandalorian in full battle armor appeared amid the battle, flamethrowers spitting fire.

  “That’s hotter than some war zones I’ve been in,” Zeerid said.

  It was. Flames burned everywhere, piles of rubble littered the hall, blasterfire crisscrossed the battlefield, and everywhere Jedi fought Sith. It became difficult to track any individual actions. Everything bled into the anonymous chaos of battle. She kept her eyes locked on Master Zallow as he moved toward Malgus, and as Malgus moved toward him.

  As they closed on each other, she saw Malgus save the Twi’lek woman from a Padawan’s attack, saw him respond with even greater anger when she was hit with blasterfire.

>   “I didn’t know Sith cared about anything,” Zeerid said.

  She, too, found Malgus’s response surprising, but had little time to consider it because Malgus and Master Zallow at last met in battle.

  She rose from her chair as the duel began to unfold, stepping closer to the monitor. She watched them trade flurries, each test the other’s skill. She watched Malgus throw his lightsaber, saw Master Zallow leap over it, saw Malgus knock him from the air in the midst of his leap and follow up with a leaping charge that Master Zallow avoided at the last minute.

  Her heart was pounding. She kept hoping for something to intervene, to change the outcome she knew could not be changed. Barring that, she hoped to see a mistake from Master Zallow, or some treachery by Malgus, that would explain what she expected in moments—Master Zallow’s fall to Malgus.

  They engaged on the far side of the hall, Master Zallow loosing a torrent of blows. Malgus fell back under the onslaught, but Aryn saw that he was drawing Master Zallow in.

  And then it happened.

  Master Zallow slammed the hilt of his lightsaber into the side of Malgus’s face, driving him back a step. He moved to follow up but Malgus anticipated it, spun, and drove his lightsaber through Master Zallow’s abdomen.

  “That’s enough, Tee-seven,” Zeerid said. “We’ve seen enough.”

  “We haven’t,” Aryn said. “Play it again, Tee-seven.”

  The droid did.

  “Again.”

  “Again. He says something at the end. Close up on his mouth.”

  T7 did as she asked. Master Zallow’s blow to Malgus’s face had knocked his respirator aside and Aryn could see the Sith’s scarred, deformed lips. He mouthed words to Master Zallow as Master Zallow died. Aryn read his lips, whispered the words.

  “It’s all going to burn.”

  She found that she was holding her side as she watched, as if it were she that had been impaled on a Sith blade. She relived the pain she’d felt on Alderaan when she’d felt Master Zallow die. And overlaying all of it: anger.

  And now she had a focus for that anger—Darth Malgus.