by James Luceno
Sidious recalled the desperate return trip to Coruscant; recalled using all his powers, and all the potions and devices contained in his medkit, to minister to Anakin’s hopelessly blistered body and truncated limbs.
He recalled thinking: What if Anakin should die?
How many years would he have had to search for an apprentice even half as powerful in the Force, let alone one created by the Force itself to restore balance, by allowing the dark side to percolate fully to the surface after a millennium of being stifled?
None would be found.
Sidious would have had to discover a way to compel midi-chlorians to do his bidding, and bring into being one as powerful as Anakin. As it was, Sidious and a host of medical droids had merely restored Anakin to life, which—while no small feat—was a far cry from returning someone from death. For thousands of years, the ability to survive death had been pursued by Sith and Jedi alike, and no one had been successful at discovering the secret. Beings had been saved from dying, but no one had cheated death. The most powerful of the ancient Sith Lords had known the secret, but it had been lost or, rather, misplaced. Now that the galaxy was his to rule, there was nothing to prevent Sidious, too, from unlocking that mystery.
Then he and his crippled apprentice might hold sway over the galaxy for ten thousand years, and live eternally.
If they didn’t kill each other first.
In large part because Padmé Amidala had died.
Sidious had deliberately brought her and Anakin together three years earlier, both to rid the Senate of her vote against the Military Creation Act and to put temptation in Anakin’s path. Following the murder of Anakin’s mother, Anakin had secretly married Padmé. When he had learned of the marriage, Sidious knew for certain that Anakin’s pathological attachment to her would eventually supply the means for completing his conversion to the dark side.
Anakin’s fears for her, in actuality and in visions—and especially after Padmé had become pregnant—had been heightened by keeping him far from her. Then it simply had been a matter of unmasking the Jedi for the hypocrites that they were, sacrificing Dooku to Anakin’s rage, and promising Anakin that Padmé could be saved from death …
The latter, an exaggeration necessary for Anakin’s turn from what the Jedi called right thinking; for opening his eyes to his true calling. But such was the way of the Force. It provided opportunities, and one needed only to be ready to seize them.
Not for the first time Sidious wondered what might have happened had Anakin not killed Padmé on Mustafar. For all she loved him, she never would have understood or forgiven Anakin’s action at the Jedi Temple. In fact, that was one of the reasons Sidious had sent him there. Clone troopers could have dealt with the instructors and younglings, but Anakin’s presence was essential in order to cement his allegiance to the Sith, and, more important, to seal Padmé’s fate. Even if she had survived Mustafar, their love would have died—Padmé might even have lost the will to live—and their child would have become Sidious’s and Vader’s to raise.
Might that child have been the first member of a new Sith order of thousands or millions? Hardly. The idea of a Sith order was a corruption of the intent of the ancient Dark Lords. Fortunately, Darth Bane had understood that, and had insisted that only in rare instances should there exist more than two lords, Master and apprentice, at any given time.
But two were necessary for the perpetuation of the Sith order.
And so it fell to Sidious to complete Vader’s convalescence.
As Emperor Palpatine, he had no need to reveal his Sith training and mastery to anyone, and for the moment Vader was his crimson blade. Let the galaxy think what it would of Vader: fallen Jedi, surfaced Sith, political enforcer … It scarcely mattered, since fear would ultimately bring and keep everyone in line.
Yes, Vader was not precisely what he had bargained for. Vader’s legs and arms were artificial, and he would never be able to summon lightning or leap about like the Jedi had been fond of doing. His dark side training was just beginning. But Sith power resided not in the flesh but in the will. Self-restraint was praised by the Jedi only because they didn’t know the power of the dark side. Vader’s real weaknesses were psychological rather than physical, and for Vader to overcome them he would need to be driven deeper into himself, to confront all his choices and his disappointments.
Powered by treachery, the Sith Master–apprentice relationship was always a dangerous game. Trust was encouraged even while being sabotaged; loyalty was demanded even while betrayal was prized; suspicion was nourished even while honesty was praised.
In some sense, it was survival of the fittest.
Fundamental to Vader’s growth was the desire to overthrow his Master.
Had Vader killed Obi-Wan on Mustafar, he might have attempted to kill Sidious, as well. In fact, Sidious would have been surprised if Anakin hadn’t made an attempt. Now, however, incapable of so much as breathing on his own, Vader could not rise to the challenge, and Sidious understood that he would need to do everything in his power to shake Vader out of his despair, and reawaken the incredible power within him.
Even at Sidious’s own peril …
Alert to a mild disturbance in the Force, he swung toward the throne room holoprojector a moment before a half-life-size image of Mas Amedda resolved from thin air.
“My lord, I apologize for intruding on your meditation,” the Chagrian said, “but an encrypted Jedi code transmission has been picked up and is being monitored in the Tion Cluster.”
“More survivors of Order Sixty-Six,” Sidious said.
“Apparently so, my Lord. Shall I summon Lord Vader?”
Sidious considered it. Would additional Jedi deaths be enough to heal Vader’s wounds? Perhaps, perhaps not.
But not yet, in any case.
“No,” he said finally. “I have need of Lord Vader on Coruscant.”
Right … now,” Shryne overheard Filli tell Starstone.
The communications suite chimed and Filli, Starstone, and Eyl Dix leaned in to study a display screen. “The Jedi ship has reverted to realspace,” Dix said, almost in awe, antennae twitching.
Filli stood to his full height, stretching his arms over his head in theatrical nonchalance and beaming. “I love it when I’m right.”
Starstone glanced up at him. “I can tell that about you.”
He frowned dramatically. “No put-downs in the main cabin.”
“It’s not a criticism,” Starstone was quick to explain. “What I mean is that I was the same way at the Jedi Temple library. Someone would come in looking for data, and I would almost always be able to direct them right to the files they needed. I just had a sense for it.” Her voice broke momentarily; then she continued in a confident tone. “I think you should be proud of doing what you do best, instead of hiding behind false humility, or”—she gave Shryne a furtive glance—“letting disillusion convince you that you need a new life.”
Shryne got out of his seat. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave.”
A droid directed him to the corridor that led to the Drunk Dancer’s ample cockpit, where Jula and Brudi Gayn sat in adjacent chairs behind a shimmering sweep of instrument console. A crescent of red planet hung in the forward viewport, and local space was strewn with battle debris.
Shryne rapped his knuckles against the cockpit’s retracted hatch. “Permission to enter, Captain?”
Jula glanced at him over her shoulder. “Only if you promise not to tell me how to pilot.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
She patted the cushion of the acceleration chair behind hers. “Then take a load off.”
Brudi gestured to a point of reflected light far to port. “That’s them. On schedule.”
Shryne studied the console’s friend-or-foe display screen, in which a schematic of a sharp-nosed, broad-winged ship was rotating. “Republic SX troop transport,” he said. “Wonder how they got ahold of that.”
“I’m sure there’s a st
ory,” Brudi said.
Shryne lifted his eyes to the viewports, and to the wreckage beyond. “What happened here?”
“Seps used this system as a staging area for reinforcing Felucia,” Jula said. “Republic caught them napping and dusted them.” She gestured to what Shryne had initially taken for marker buoys. “Mines. Command-detonated, but still a potential hazard. Better warn the transport to steer clear of them, Brudi.”
He swiveled his chair to the comm unit. “I’m on it.”
Shryne continued to gaze at the debris. “That’s a docking arm of a TradeFed Lucrehulk. What’s left of it, anyway.”
When Jula finally spoke, she said: “Something’s not right.”
Brudi turned slightly in her direction. “Transport’s registering the signature they transmitted before rendezvous.”
She shook her head in uncertainty. “I know, but …”
“There are Jedi aboard the transport,” Shryne said.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Even I know that much. No, it’s something else—”
A tone from the threat board cut her off, and Brudi swiveled again.
“Count six, make that eight bandits emerging from hyperspace,” he said tersely. “Dead on the transport’s vector.”
Shryne watched the IFF transponder. “ARC-one-seventies.”
“Affirmative,” Brudi said. “Aggressive ReConnaissance starfighters.”
Visual scanners caught the craft as their transverse wings were unfolding, splaying for battle and increased thermal stability. Jula’s left hand made adjustments to the instruments while her right held tight to the yoke.
“Is the transport aware of them?”
“I’d say so,” Shryne said. “It’s going evasive.”
Brudi pressed his headset tighter to his ear. “The transport’s warning us away.”
“Makes me like them already,” Jula said. “Scramble our signature before the ARCs can get a lock on us.”
“You may not be able to jam them,” Shryne said. “They’re not like V-wings. And they punch harder, too.”
“Try anyway, Brudi,” Jula said. “Last thing I want is the Empire chasing us all over the galaxy. And I am not about to get a new ship.” She flipped an intercom switch. “Skeck, Archyr, are you there?”
Skeck’s voice issued through the cockpit speaker. “Weapons are powering up, Captain. Just say when.”
Jula looked at Shryne. “Any ideas, Jedi?”
Shryne swept his eyes over the display screens. “The ARCs are maintaining a wedge formation. They’ll wait until they’re within firing range of the transport, then they’ll break formation and attempt to outflank it.”
“Skeck,” Jula said toward the audio pickup, “do you copy?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Are the ARCs within range of your turbolasers?” Shryne asked.
“Almost,” Skeck said.
“Anticipate the formation break. Lead them, and open up.”
Brudi ran a fast calculation on the rate at which the Imperial starfighters were gaining on the transport. “You’re good to go,” he said.
“Firing!” Skeck announced.
Dense packets of scarlet light tore from the Drunk Dancer’s forward batteries, converging on their distant targets. A quartet of fiery blossoms lighted local space.
Archyr whooped. “Pursuit squadron reduced by half!”
“Nice,” Jula said, grinning at Shryne. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
Shryne didn’t answer her. On Murkhana, and despite everything that had happened, he had tried to avoid killing any clone troopers. Now here he was, lining them up to be blown to pieces.
“Roan,” Jula said sharply.
“The remaining ARCs will regroup, forming up behind the squadron leader,” he said at last. Tapping Brudi on the shoulder, he added: “Instruct the transport to nose up over the ecliptic. When the ARCs follow suit, Skeck and Archyr should have a clear shot at their bellies.”
“Copy that,” Brudi said.
Jula was studying one of the display screens. “Transport is outward bound. ARCs are up and away.”
“Firing!” Skeck reported.
A fifth explosion blossomed over the red planet’s north pole. Other laser beams went wide of their marks.
“They’ve figured us out,” Shryne said. “They’ll scatter now.”
“Transport is angling for the mines,” Brudi updated.
“Just what I’d do,” Jula said.
The threat board loosed another alert tone.
Brudi tapped his finger on the long-distance scanner array screen. “Six more starfighters have emerged from hyperspace.”
Jula forced a short exhale. “Tell whoever’s piloting the transport to go to full throttle. He may not even be aware of the new players.”
“He won’t miss this,” Brudi said somberly.
Shryne eased out of his seat to peer over Brudi’s shoulder. “What?”
“Republic light cruiser,” Jula said. “But don’t worry, we can outrun it.”
On the console’s central screen, the scanners assembled a facsimile of the hourglass-shaped warship, highlighting its dozens of turbolaser and ion cannons.
“You won’t outrun those guns,” Shryne said.
Jula considered it. “Brudi, divert power to the forward deflectors. I’m going to try to take us behind that Lucrehulk arm.” She took a moment to glance at Shryne. “Guess the Jedi are more important than I thought, if the Empire’s sending cruisers after you.”
“Cruiser’s turbos are firing,” Skeck said over the speaker.
“Hold tight,” Jula warned.
Blinding light splashed against the viewports. Jolted, the Drunk Dancer lost power momentarily, then returned to life.
“We’re okay,” Brudi confirmed, “but the transport’s in trouble.”
“Instruct them to raise their aft shields and rendezvous with us behind the Lucrehulk arm,” Jula said. “Tell them we’ll hold off the cruiser and ARCs while they make a run for it.”
Brudi relayed the instructions and waited for a response. “They’ll try. But the transport’s shields are heavily damaged. One more hit from the cruiser and they’re dead in space.”
Jula muttered a curse. The Drunk Dancer was just dropping behind the curved fragment of docking arm when she said: “I’m going to bring us back in the open. Rig for ion cannon fire. Let’s see if we can surprise them.”
The smugglers’ ship sustained two powerful strikes as it was emerging from cover, but not enough to incapacitate it.
“Ion surprise,” Archyr said.
“Laser chaser,” Skeck chimed in.
White light flared in the distance, and blue current coruscated over the cruiser’s dark hull.
Brudi bent to one of the screens. “Solid hit. And they definitely didn’t see it coming. Their shields are dazed.”
“Taking us back into cover,” Jula said. “Where’s the transport?”
Brudi spoke to it. “Weaving through the last of the mines.”
“Archyr, get those ARCs off the transport’s tail!”
“Will do, Captain.”
Pulsed light streaked from the ship once more, and Shryne watched another starfighter come apart. But the remaining ARCs were gaining rapidly on the transport.
“Projected rendezvous in five-point-five,” Brudi said. “Cruiser has come to, and is returning fire.”
Jula firmed her lips. “We’re not deep enough into cover. This is going to be a bad one.”
Shryne hung on to the arms of the chair. Taking the brunt of the capital ship’s enfilade, the docking arm vaporized. Tossed back by the blast, the Drunk Dancer lived up to its name. Klaxons blared deep within the ship, and the instrument console howled in alarm.
“Shuttle is still closing,” Brudi said when he could.
Jula slammed her hand down on the intercom stud. “Prep the bay for emergency docking!” She swiveled to face Brudi. “Tell the t
ransport we’re done swapping punches with that cruiser. Either they make their move now, or we’re bowing out.” To Skeck, she said: “All power to the forward batteries. Fire at will.”
The ship rumbled as coherent light raced from the cannon turrets.
“Transport is lined up for its approach,” Brudi said.
Jula’s right hand entered data into the navicomputer. “Calculating the jump to lightspeed.”
Explosive light flashed outside the viewports, the Drunk Dancer quaking as enemy fire ranged closer.
Brudi sighed in disappointment. “The transport fumbled its first approach. They’re reorienting for another try.”
“Coordinates for the jump are in,” Jula told him. “Countdown commencing.” She swung around to face Shryne. “I’m sorry, Roan.”
He nodded in understanding. “You did what you could.”
The ship shook again.
“Transport is aboard,” Brudi said suddenly.
Jula clamped her hands on the yoke. “Divert power to the sublights. Give us all the distance you can.”
“We’re going to get our stern burned,” Brudi warned.
“Small price to pay.”
“Hyperspace engines engaged.”
Jula reached for the control stick. “Now!”
And the distant stars became streaks of light.
Brudi hadn’t said that the transport was safely aboard, and Shryne knew why the moment he and Starstone reached the docking bay. The wedge-shaped ship had skidded in on its port side, gouging the deck, destroying arrays of landing lights, reducing two labor droids to spare parts, and ultimately flattening its pointed bow against an interior bulkhead.
No one inside was injured in the crash, however.
Any more than they were already injured.
The six bedraggled Jedi who literally staggered down the transport’s crumpled boarding ramp were a mix of alien, human, and humanoid. Neither Shryne nor Starstone knew any of them by sight, name, or reputation. Face and arms burned by blasterfire, Siadem Forte was a short, thick-bodied human, older than Shryne but still a Knight. His Padawan was a young Togruta named Deran Nalual, who had been blinded during the same firefight in which Forte had been wounded. Klossi Anno, a Chalactan, was also a learner, her Master having died saving her life; where exactly the opposite had happened to Iwo Kulka, a bruised and limping Ho’Din Knight. Unranked human Jedi Jambe Lu and Nam Poorf were agricultural specialists who had been returning to Coruscant from a mission on Bonadan.