by James Luceno
“Your Master is with the Force,” he told her. “Rejoice for that.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why didn’t you help her?”
“I thought we’d agreed to abandon our lightsabers.”
She nodded. “I abandoned mine. But you could have done something.”
“You’re right. Maybe I should have challenged ‘Lord Vader’ to a fistfight.” Shryne’s nostrils flared. “Your Master reacted in anger and in vengeance. She would have been more use to us alive.”
Starstone reacted as if she had been slapped. “That’s a heartless remark.”
“Don’t confuse emotion with truth. Even if Bol Chatak had defeated Vader, she would have been killed.”
Starstone gestured vaguely in Vader’s direction. “But that monster would be dead.”
Shryne held her accusing gaze. “Vengeance isn’t becoming in a Jedi, Padawan. Your Master died for nothing.”
The prisoners were on the move now, troopers herding them toward the boarding ramp of the military transport.
“Fall back,” Shryne said into Starstone’s ear.
The two of them slowed down, allowing other captives to maneuver around them.
“Who is Vader?” Starstone asked after a moment.
Shryne shook his head in ignorance. “That’s something we might be able to learn if we can remain alive.”
Starstone took her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry about what I said, Master.”
“Don’t worry about that. Tell me how Bol Chatak was able to keep the lightsaber hidden from the guards.”
“Force persuasion,” Starstone said quietly. “At first we thought we might be able to escape, but my Master wanted to wait until she knew what had happened to you. We were locked away in a building and left to fend for ourselves. Very little food, and troopers everywhere. Even if my Master had used her lightsaber then, I don’t know how far we would have gotten before troopers were all over us.”
“Did you use Force persuasion at any time?”
She nodded. “That’s how I was able to hold on to my Master’s beacon transceiver.”
Shryne eyed her in surprise. “You have it with you?”
“Master Chatak told me to keep it.”
“Foolish,” he said, then asked: “Were you able to learn anything about the war?”
“Nothing.” Starstone let her misgiving show. “Did you hear Vader say that he would tell the ‘Emperor’?”
“I heard him.”
“Could the Senate have named Palpatine Emperor?”
“Seems like something the Senate would do.”
“But Emperor of what Empire?”
“I’ve been asking myself that.” He glanced at her. “I think the war has ended.”
She thought about it for a moment. “Then why were the troopers ordered to kill us?”
“Jedi on Coruscant may have attempted to arrest Palpatine before he was promoted—or crowned, I suppose I should say.”
“That’s why we were ordered into hiding.”
“Good theory—for a change.”
They were closing on the lip of the boarding ramp now, almost at the end of the line. Accepting the inevitable, most of the prisoners were demonstrating remarkable discipline, and many of the troopers were drifting away as a result. Two troopers were stationed at the top of the ramp, one to either side of the rectangular hatch, and three more were moving more or less alongside the two Jedi.
“Vader is a Sith, Master,” Starstone said.
Shryne showed her a long-suffering look. “What do you know of the Sith?”
“Before Master Chatak chose me as her Padawan, I trained under Master Jocasta Nu in the Temple archives. For my review, I elected to be tested in Sith history.”
“Congratulations. Then I don’t need to remind you that a crimson blade doesn’t guarantee that the wielder is a Sith, any more than every person strong in the Force is a Jedi. Asajj Ventress was a mere apprentice to Dooku, not a true Sith. A crimson blade can owe to nothing more than a synthetic power crystal. Then crimson is simply a color, like Master Windu’s amethyst blade.”
“Yes, but Jedi normally don’t wield crimson blades,” Starstone argued, “if only because of their association with the Sith. So even if Vader was nothing more than another apprentice of Count Dooku, why is he now serving Palpatine—Emperor Palpatine—as an executioner?”
“You’re assuming too much,” Shryne said. “Even if you’re right, why is that so hard to believe, when Dooku did just the opposite—went from serving the Jedi order to serving the Sith?”
Starstone shook her head. “I suppose it shouldn’t be hard to believe, Master. But it is.”
He looked at her. “Here is what matters: Vader suspects that two Jedi are going to be aboard the prison transport. Eventually he’ll identify us and we’ll be killed, unless we take our chances, here and now.”
“How, Master?”
“Drop back with me to the end of the line. I’m going to try something, and I hope the Force is with me. If I fail, we board as instructed. Understood?”
“Understood.”
The last of the captive mercenaries and Koorivar moved past the two reluctant Jedi, up the ship’s ramp and through the hatch. At the top Shryne made a passing motion with his hand to one of the troopers.
“There’s no reason to detain us,” he said.
The trooper gazed at him from inside the helmet. “There’s no reason to detain them,” he told his comrades.
“We’re free to return to our homes.”
“They’re free to return to their homes.”
“Everything’s fine. It’s time for you to board the ship.”
“Everything’s fine. It’s time for us to board the ship.”
Shryne and Starstone waited until the final trooper had filed inside; then they leapt from the ramp onto the clay field and concealed themselves behind one of the landing gear pods.
When an opportunity presented itself, they hurried from beneath the ship and escaped into the thick vegetation, heading for what remained of Murkhana City.
In his personal quarters aboard the Exactor, Vader examined the damage the Zabrak Jedi’s lightsaber had done to his left forearm. After assuring himself that the pressure suit had self-sealed above the burn, he had peeled off the long glove and used a fine-point laser cutter to remove flaps of armorweave fabric that had been fused to the alloy beneath. The Jedi’s lightsaber had sliced through the shielding that bulked the glove and had melted some of the artificial ligaments that allowed the hand to pronate. Permanent repairs would have to wait until he returned to Coruscant. In the meantime he would have to entrust his arm to the care of one of the Star Destroyer’s med droids.
His own lightsaber rested within reach, but the longer he gazed at it, and at the blackened furrow in the alloy, the more disheartened he became. Had the hand been flesh and blood it would be shaking now. Only Dooku, Asajj Ventress, and Obi-Wan had been good enough with a blade to injure him, so how had an undistinguished Jedi Knight been able to do so?
With the loss of my limbs, have I also lost strength in the Force?
Vader recognized the voice of the one who posed the question as the specter of Anakin. Anakin telling him that he was not as powerful as he thought he was. The little slave boy, cowering because he was not the master of his fate. A mere accessory in the world, owned by another, passed over.
And now newly enslaved!
He lifted his masked face to the cabin’s ceiling and growled in torment. Sidious’s inept med droids had done this to him! Slowed his reflexes, burdened him with armor and padding. He relished having destroyed them.
Or … had Sidious deliberately engineered this prison?
Again, it was Anakin who asked, that small node of fear in Vader’s heart.
Was this punishment for having failed at Mustafar? Or had Mustafar merely provided Sidious with an excuse to weaken him? Perhaps all along the promise of apprenticeship had been nothing more
than a ploy, when, in fact, Sidious merely needed someone to command his army of stormtroopers.
Another Grievous, while Sidious reaped the real rewards of power, confident that his newest minion posed no threat to his rule.
Vader dwelled on it, fearing he would drive himself mad, and at last reached an even more disheartening conclusion. Grievous was duped into serving the Sith. But Sidious had sent Anakin to Mustafar for one reason only: to kill the members of the Separatist Council.
Padmé and Obi-Wan were the ones who had sentenced him to his black-suit prison.
Sentenced by his wife and his alleged best friend, their love for him warped by what they had perceived as betrayal. Obi-Wan, too brainwashed by the Jedi to recognize the power of the dark side; and Padmé, too enslaved to the Republic to understand that Palpatine’s machinations and Anakin’s defection to the Sith had been essential to bringing peace to the galaxy! Essential to placing power in the hands of those resourceful enough to use it properly, in order to save the galaxy’s myriad species from themselves; to end the incompetence of the Senate; to dissolve the bloated, entitled Jedi order, whose Masters were blind to the decay they had fostered.
And yet their Chosen One had seen it; so why hadn’t they followed his lead by embracing the dark side?
Because they were too set in their ways; too inflexible to adapt.
Vader mused.
Anakin Skywalker had died on Coruscant.
But the Chosen One had died on Mustafar.
Blistering rage, as seething as Mustafar’s lava flows, welled up in him, liquefying self-pity. This was what he saw behind the mask’s visual enhancers: bubbling lava, red heat, scorched flesh—
He had only wanted to save them! Padmé, from death; Obi-Wan, from ignorance. And in the end they had failed to recognize his power; to simply accede to him; to accept on faith that he knew what was best for them, for everyone!
Instead Padmé was dead and Obi-Wan was running for his life, as stripped of everything as Vader was. Without friends, family, purpose …
Clenching his right hand, he cursed the Force. What had it ever provided him but pain? Torturing him with foresight, with visions he was unable to prevent. Leading him to believe that he had great power when he was little more than its servant.
But no longer, Vader promised himself. The power of the dark side would render the Force subservient, minion rather than ally.
Extending his right arm, he took hold of the lightsaber and turned it about in his hand. Just three standard weeks old, assembled—as Sidious had wished—in the shadow of the moonlet-size terror weapon he was having constructed, it had now tasted first blood.
Sidious had provided the synthcrystal responsible for the crimson blade, along with his own lightsaber to serve as a model. Vader, though, had no fondness for antiques, and while he could appreciate the handiwork that had gone into fashioning the inlaid, gently curved hilt of Sidious’s lightsaber, he prefered a weapon with more ballast. Determined to please his Master, he had tried to create something novel, but had ended up fashioning a black version of the lightsaber he had wielded for more than a decade, with a thick, ridged handgrip, high-output diatium power cell, dual-phase focusing crystal, and forward-mounted adjustment knobs. Down to the beveled emitter shroud, the hilt mimicked Anakin’s.
But there was a problem.
His new hands were too large to duplicate the loose grip Anakin had favored, right hand wrapped not on the grip but around the crystal-housing cylinder, close to the blade itself. Vader’s hands required that the grip be thicker and longer, and the result was an inelegant weapon, verging on ungainly.
Another cause of the injury to his left arm.
The Sith grew past the use of lightsabers, Sidious had told him. But we continue to use them, if only to humiliate the Jedi.
Vader yearned for the time when memories of Anakin would fade, like light absorbed by a black hole. Until that happened, his life-sustaining suit would be an ill fit. Even if it was well suited to the darkness in his invulnerable heart …
The comlink chimed.
“What is it, Commander Appo?”
“Lord Vader, I’ve been informed of a discrepancy in the prisoner count. Allowing for the Jedi you killed on Murkhana, two prisoners are unaccounted for.”
“The others who survived Order Sixty-Six,” Vader said.
“Shall I instruct Commander Salvo to initiate a search?”
“Not this time, Commander. I will handle it myself.”
Down there?” Starstone said, halting at the head of a creepy stairway Shryne was already descending. The stairs led to the basement of a rambling building that had been left unscathed by the battle, and was typical of those that crowned the verdant hills south of Murkhana City. But she had a bad feeling about the stairway.
“Don’t worry. This is only Cash’s way of keeping out the riffraff.”
“Doesn’t appear to be slowing you down any,” she said, following him into the stairway’s dark well.
“Glad to see that your sense of humor has returned. You must have been the life of the dungeon.”
And Shryne meant it, because he didn’t want her dwelling on Bol Chatak’s death. In the long hours it had taken them to get from the landing field to Cash Garrulan’s headquarters, Starstone seemed to have made peace with what had happened.
“How is it you know this person?” she asked over his shoulder.
“Garrulan’s the reason the Council first sent me to Murkhana. He’s a former Black Sun vigo. I came here to put him out of business, but he turned out to be one of our best sources of intelligence on Separatist activities in this quadrant. Years before Geonosis, Garrulan was warning us about the extent of Dooku’s military buildup, but no one on the Council or in the Senate seemed to take the threat seriously.”
“And in return for the intelligence you allowed Garrulan to remain in business.”
“He’s not a Hutt. He deals in, well, wholesale commodities.”
“So not only are we on the run, we’re turning to gangsters for help.”
“Maybe you have a better idea?”
“No, Master, I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so. And stop calling me ‘Master.’ Someone will either make the Jedi connection or get the impression you’re my servant.”
“Force forbid,” Starstone muttered.
“I’m Roan. Plain and simple.”
“I’ll try to remember that—Roan.” She laughed at the sound of it. “I’m sorry, it just doesn’t ring true.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
At the foot of the stairs was an unadorned door. Shryne rapped his knuckles on the jamb, and to the droid eyeball that poked through a circular portal in response said something in what Starstone surmised was Koorivar. A moment later the door slid into its housing to reveal a muscular and extensively tattooed human male, cradling a DC-17 blaster rifle. Smiling at Shryne, he ushered them into a surprisingly opulent foyer.
“Still sneaking up on people, huh, Shryne?”
“Old habits.”
The man nodded sagely, then gave Shryne and Starstone the once-over. “What’s with the getups? You look like you’ve spent a month in a trash compactor.”
“That would have been a step up,” Starstone said.
Shryne peered into the back room. “Is he here, Jally?”
“He’s here, but not for long. Just packing up what we couldn’t move before the invasion. I’ll tell him—”
“Let’s make it a surprise.”
Jally laughed shortly. “Oh, he’ll be surprised, all right.”
Shryne motioned for Starstone to follow him. On the far side of a beaded-curtain entryway a mixed group of humans, aliens, and labor droids were hauling packing crates into a spacious turbolift. Even more well appointed than the foyer, the room was cluttered with furniture, infostorage and communications devices, weapons, and more. The humanoid standing in the midst of it and dispensing orders to his underlings was a Twi’lek wi
th fatty lekku and a prominent paunch. Sensing someone behind him, he turned and stared openmouthed at Shryne.
“I heard you’d been killed.”
“Wishful thinking,” Shryne said.
Cash Garrulan moved his head from side to side. “Perhaps.” He extended his fat arms and shook both of Shryne’s hands, then gestured to Shryne’s filthy robe. “I love the new look.”
“I got tired of wearing brown.”
His gazed shifted. “Who’s your new friend, Roan?”
“Olee,” Shryne said without elaboration. He aimed a glance at the packing crates. “Clearance sale, Cash?”
“Let’s just say that peace has been bad for business.”
“Then it is over?” Shryne asked solemnly.
Garrulan inclined his large head. “You hadn’t heard? It was all over the HoloNet, Roan.”
“Olee and I have been out of touch.”
“Apparently so.” The Twi’lek turned to bark instructions at two of his employees, then motioned Shryne and Starstone into a small and tidy office, where Garrulan and Shryne sat down.
“Are you two in the market for blasters?” Garrulan asked. “I’ve got BlasTechs, Merr-Sonns, Tenloss DXs, you name it. And I’ll let you have them cheap.” When Shryne shook his head no, Garrulan said: “What about comlinks? Vibroblades? Tatooine handwoven carpets—”
“Fill us in on how the war ended.”
“How it ended?” Garrulan snapped his fat fingers. “Just like that. One moment Chancellor Palpatine has been kidnapped by General Grievous; the next, Dooku and Grievous are dead, the Jedi are traitors, the battle droids shut down, and we’re one big happy galaxy again, more united than before—an Empire, no less. No formal surrender by the Confederacy of Independent Systems, no bogged-down Senate, no trade embargoes. And whatever the Emperor wants, the Emperor gets.”
“Any comments from the members of the Separatist Council?”
“Not a peep. Although rumors abound. The Emperor had them put to death. They’re still on the run. They’re holed up in the Tingel Arm, in the company of Passel Argente’s cronies …”
Shryne extended his arm to prevent Starstone from pacing. “Sit down,” he said. “And stop chewing on your lip.”