by James Luceno
“I’m guessing no one did.”
“Does that say something for the Emperor’s days being numbered?”
“Someone’s days, anyway.” Shryne paused, then said: “Hold for a moment.”
The palace’s south gate entrance was within sight now, but in the time it had taken Shryne, Skeck, and Archyr to complete their third circuit, a mob had formed. Three human speakers standing atop repulsorlift platforms were urging everyone to press through the tall gates and onto the palace grounds. Anticipating trouble, a group of forty or so royal troops dressed in ceremonial armor and slack hats had deployed themselves outside the gates, armed with an array of non-lethal crowd control devices, including sonic devices, shock batons, and stun nets.
“Roan, what’s going on?” Jula asked.
“Things are getting rowdy. Everyone’s being warned away from the south gate entrance.”
The crowd surged, and Shryne felt himself lifted from his feet and carried toward the palace. The cordon of troops issued a final warning. When the crowd surged again, two front-line guards sporting backpack rigs began to coat the cobblestone plaza with a thick layer of repellent foam. The crowd surged back in response, but dozens of demonstrators closest to the front failed to step back in time and were immediately immobilized in the rapidly spreading goo. A few of them were able to retreat by surrendering their footgear, but the rest were stuck fast. The trio of hovering agitators took advantage of the situation, accusing Alderaan’s Queen and vizier of attempting to hinder the marchers’ rights to free assembly, and of kowtowing to the Emperor.
The surges grew more powerful, with demonstrators trapped in the center of the crowd taking the brunt of all the pushing and shoving. Shryne began to edge toward the perimeter, with Skeck and Archyr to either side of him. When he could, he enabled his comlink.
“Jula, we’re not going to be able to get to the gate.”
“Which also means that our bundle won’t be able to exit the grounds that way.”
“Do we have a substitute rendezvous?”
“Roan, I’ve lost voice contact with him.”
“Probably temporary. When you hear from him, just tell him to stay put, wherever he is.”
“Where will you be?”
Shryne studied the palace’s curved south wall. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way in.”
Those poor beings, trapped in that terrible foam,” C-3PO said as he and R2-D2 hastened for a narrow access door in the palace’s south wall.
Close to the palace’s underground droid-maintenance facility, where both droids had enjoyed an oil bath, the door was the same one they had used to exit the palace grounds earlier that day, when the protesters were just beginning their march.
“I think we’ll be much better off inside the palace.”
R2-D2 chittered a response.
C-3PO tilted his head in bafflement. “What do you mean we’ve been ordered inside anyway?”
The astromech chirped and fluted.
“Ordered to conceal ourselves?” C-3PO said. “By whom?” He waited for an answer. “Captain Antilles? How thoughtful of him to show concern for our well-being in the midst of this confusion!”
R2-D2 zithered, then buzzed.
“Something else?” C-3PO waited for R2-D2 to finish. “Don’t tell me you can’t say. It’s simply that you refuse to say. I’ve every right to know, you secretive little machinist.”
C-3PO fell briefly silent as the shadow of a low-flying craft passed over them.
His single photoreceptor tracking the flight of a midnight-black Imperial shuttle, R2-D2 began to whistle and hoot in obvious alarm.
“What is it now?”
The astromech loosed a chorus of warbles and shrill peeps. C-3PO fixed his photoreceptors on him in incredulity.
“Find Queen Breha? What are you going on about? A moment ago you said that Captain Antilles had ordered us into hiding!” Arms crooked, almost akimbo, C-3PO couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You changed your mind. Since when do you get to decide what’s important and what isn’t? Oh, you’re intent on getting us in trouble. I know it!”
By then they had reached the access door in the wall. R2-D2 extended a slender interface arm from one of the compartments in his squat, cylindrical torso and was in the process of inserting it into a computer control terminal alongside the doorway when the voice of a flesh-and-blood said: “Misplace your starfighter, droid?”
Turning completely about, C-3PO found himself looking at a human and two six-fingered humanoids wearing long coats and tall boots. The human’s left hand was patting R2-D2’s dome of a head.
“Oh! Who are you?”
“Never mind that,” one of the humanoids said. Parting his coat, he revealed a blaster wedged into the wide belt that cinched his pants. “Do you know what this is?”
R2-D2 mewled in distress.
C-3PO’s photoreceptors refocused. “Why, yes, it’s a DL-Thirteen ion blaster.”
The humanoid smiled nastily. “You’re very learned.”
“Sir, it is my fondest wish that my master recognize as much. Working with other droids has become so tiresome—”
“Ever see what an ionizer on full power can do to a droid?” the humanoid interrupted.
“No, but I can well imagine.”
“Good,” the human said. “Then here’s the way it’s going to work: you’re going to lead us into the palace like we’re all the best of friends.”
While C-3PO was trying to make sense of it, the man added: “Of course, if you have a problem with that, my friend here”—he gestured to the other humanoid—“who happens to be very knowledgeable about droids, will just tap into this one’s memory and retrieve the entry code. And then both of you will get to enjoy the effects of an ionizer firsthand.”
C-3PO was too stunned to respond, but R2-D2 made up for the sudden silence by filling it with beeps and zithers.
“My counterpart says,” C-3PO started to interpret, then stopped himself. “You certainly will not do as he says, you coward! These beings are not our masters! You should be willing to be disassembled rather than offer them the slightest help!”
But C-3PO’s admonitions fell on deaf auditory sensors. R2-D2 was already unlocking the door.
“This is most unbecoming,” C-3PO said sadly. “Most unbecoming.”
“Good droid.” The long-haired human patted the astromech’s dome again, then threw C-3PO a narrow-eyed gaze. “Any attempts to communicate with anyone and you’ll wish you’d never been built.”
“Sir, you don’t know how many times I’ve already wished that very thing,” C-3PO said as he followed R2-D2 and the three armed organics through the door and onto the palace grounds.
Vader stood at the foot of the shuttle’s boarding ramp, gazing at the white spires of the Royal Palace. Commander Appo and six of his stormtroopers spread out to flank him as Bail Organa and several others emerged from the ornate building. For a moment neither group moved; then Organa’s contingent walked onto the landing platform and approached the shuttle.
“You are Lord Vader?” Organa asked.
“Senator,” Vader said, inclining his head slightly.
“I demand to know why you’ve come to Alderaan.”
“Senator, you are in no position to demand anything.”
The vocoder built into his mask added menace to the remark. But, in fact, for perhaps the first time Vader felt as if he were wearing a disguise—a macabre costume, as opposed to a suit of life-sustaining devices and durasteel armor.
As Anakin, Vader hadn’t known Bail Organa well, even though he had been in his company on numerous occasions, in the Jedi Temple, the corridors of the Senate, and in Palpatine’s former office. Padmé had spoken of him highly and often, and Vader suspected that it was Organa, along with Mon Mothma, Fang Zar, and a few others, who had persuaded Padmé to withdraw her support of Palpatine prior to the war’s finish. That, however, didn’t trouble Vader as much as the fact that Orga
na, according to stormtroopers of the 501st, had been the first outsider to turn up at the Temple following the massacre, and was lucky to have escaped with his life.
Vader wondered if Organa had had a hand in helping Yoda, and presumably Obi-Wan, recalibrate the Temple beacon to cancel the message Vader had transmitted, which should have called all the Jedi back to Coruscant.
Aristocratic Organa was Anakin’s height, dark-haired and handsome, and always meticulously dressed in the style of the Republic’s Classic era, like the Naboo, rather than in the ostentatious fashion of Coruscant. But where Padmé had earned her status by being elected Queen, Organa had been born into wealth and privilege, on picture-perfect Alderaan.
Mercy missions or no, Vader wondered whether Organa had any real sense of what it meant to live in the outlying systems, on worlds like sand-swept Tatooine, plagued by Tusken Raiders and lorded over by Hutts.
He felt a sudden urge to put Organa in his place. Pinch off his breath with a narrowing of his thumb and forefinger; crush him in his fist … But the situation didn’t call for that—yet. Besides, Vader could see in Organa’s nervous gestures that he understood who was in charge.
Power.
He had power over Organa, and over all like him.
And it was Skywalker, not Vader, who had lived on Tatooine.
Vader’s life was just beginning.
Organa introduced him to his aides and advisers, as well as to Captain Antilles, who commanded Alderaan’s Corellian-made consular ship, and who tried but failed to conceal an expression of profound hostility toward Vader.
If Antilles only knew whom he was dealing with …
From beyond the palace’s walls came the sound of angry voices and chanting. Vader surmised that at least some of the turbulence owed to the presence of an Imperial shuttle on Alderaan. The thought entertained him.
Like the Jedi, the demonstrators were another group of deluded, self-important beings convinced that their petty lives had actual meaning; that their protests, their dreams, their accomplishments amounted to anything. They were ignorant of the fact that the universe was changed not by individuals or by mobs, but by what occurred in the Force. In reality, all else was unimportant. Unless one was in communication with the Force, life was only existence in the world of illusion, born as a consequence of the eternal struggle between light and dark.
Vader listened to the sounds of the crowd for a moment more, then turned to regard Organa.
“Why do you permit this?” he asked.
Organa’s restless eyes searched for something, perhaps a peek at the man behind the mask. “Are such demonstrations no longer permitted on Coruscant?”
“Harmony is the ideal of the New Order, Senator, not dissension.”
“When harmony becomes the standard for all, then protests will cease. What’s more, by allowing voices to be heard here, Alderaan saves Coruscant any unmerited embarrassment.”
“There may be some truth to that. But in due time, protests will cease, one way or another.”
Vader recognized that Organa was in a quandary about something. Clearly he resented being challenged on his own world, but his tone of voice was almost conversational.
“I trust that the Emperor knows better than to end them by fear,” he was saying.
Vader had no patience for verbal fencing, and having to match wits with judicious men like Organa only reinforced his growing distaste at being the Emperor’s errand boy. When would his actual Sith training finally commence? Try as he might to convince himself, his was not real power, but merely the execution of power. He wasn’t the swordmaster so much as the weapon; and weapons were easily replaceable.
“The Emperor would not be pleased by your lack of faith, Senator,” he said carefully. “Or by your willingness to allow others to display their distrust. But I haven’t come to discuss your little march.”
Organa fingered his short beard. “What does bring you here?”
“Former Senator Fang Zar.”
Organa seemed genuinely surprised. “What of him?”
“Then you don’t deny that he’s here?”
“Of course not. He has been a guest of the palace for several weeks.”
“Are you aware that he fled Coruscant?”
Organa frowned in uncertainty. “It sounds as if you’re suggesting that he wasn’t permitted to leave of his own free will. Was he under arrest?”
“Not arrest, Senator. Internal Security had questions for him, some of which were left unanswered. ISB requested that he remain in Imperial Center until matters were resolved.”
Organa shook his head once. “I knew nothing of this.”
“No one is questioning your decision to house him, Senator,” Vader said, gazing down at him. “I simply want your assurance that you won’t interfere with my escorting him back to Coruscant.”
“Back to—” Organa left the rest of it unfinished and began again. “I won’t interfere. Except in one instance.”
Vader waited.
“If Senator Zar requests diplomatic immunity, Alderaan will grant it.”
Vader folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not certain that privilege still exists. Even if it does, you may find that refusing the Emperor’s request is hardly in your best interest.”
Again, Organa’s confliction was obvious. What is he hiding?
“Is that a threat, Lord Vader?” he said finally.
“Only a fact. For too long the Senate encouraged political chaos. Those days are ended, and the Emperor will not permit them to resurface.”
Organa showed him a skeptical look. “You speak of him as if he is all-powerful, Lord Vader.”
“He is more powerful than you know.”
“Is that why you’ve agreed to serve him?”
Vader took a moment to respond. “My decisions are my own. The old system is dead, Senator. You would be wise to subscribe to the new one.”
Organa exhaled with purpose. “I’ll take my chances that freedom is still alive.” He fell silent for a moment, deliberating. “I don’t mean to impugn your authority, Lord Vader, but I wish to consult with the Emperor personally on this matter.”
Vader could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Was Organa deliberately attempting to obstruct him; to make him appear inept in the eyes of Sidious? Anger welled up in him. Why was he wasting his time chasing fugitive Senators when it was the Jedi who posed a risk to the New Order?
To the balance of the Force.
A nearby holoprojector chimed, and from it emerged the holoimage of a dark-haired woman with an infant in her arms.
“Bail, I’m sorry I’ve been delayed,” the woman said. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be there shortly.”
Organa looked from Vader to the holoimage and back again. As the image faded he said: “Perhaps it’s better if you spoke with Senator Zar in person.” He gulped and found his voice. “I’ll have him escorted to the conference room as soon as possible.”
Vader turned and waved a signal to Commander Appo, who nodded. “Who is the woman?” Vader asked Organa.
“My wife,” Organa said nervously. “The Queen.”
Vader regarded Organa, trying to read him more clearly.
“Inform Senator Zar that I’m waiting,” he said at last. “In the meantime, I would enjoy meeting the Queen.”
More than seven centuries old, the palace was a rambling and multistoried affair of ramparts and turrets, bedrooms and ballrooms, with as many grand stairways as it had turbolifts. Without a map, its kilometers of winding corridors were nearly impossible to follow. And so where walking from the droid-maintenance room to the hallway that accessed the south gate had seemed a simple matter, it was in fact akin to negotiating a maze.
“The droid’s more clever than it looks,” Archyr said when it finally dawned on them that the two machine intelligences had been walking them in circles for the past quarter hour. “I think it’s leading us on a wild gundark chase.”
“Oh, he would n
ever do that,” C-3PO said. “Would you, Artoo?” When the astromech didn’t answer, C-3PO slammed his hand down on R2-D2’s dome. “Don’t you even think about giving me the silent treatment!”
Skeck tugged the ion weapon from his belt and brandished it. “Maybe it forgot about this.”
“No need to threaten us further,” C-3PO said. “I’m certain that Artoo isn’t attempting to mislead you. We don’t know the palace very well. You see, we’ve only been with our present master for two local months, and we’re not very well acquainted with the layout.”
“Where were you before two months ago?” Skeck asked.
C-3PO fell silent for a long moment. “Artoo, just where were we before that?”
The astromech honked and razzed.
“None of my business? Oh, here we go again. This little droid can be very stubborn sometimes. In any case, as to where we were … I think I recall acting as an interface with a group of binary loadlifters.”
“Loadlifters?” Archyr said. “But you’re programmed for protocol, aren’t you?”
C-3PO looked as distressed as a droid could look. “That’s true! However, I can’t imagine that I’m mistaken! I know I have been programmed for—”
“Get ahold of yourself, droid,” Skeck said.
Shryne brought the five of them to an abrupt halt. “This isn’t the way to the south entrance. Where are we?”
C-3PO gazed around. “I believe that we have somehow ended up in the royal residence wing.”
Archyr’s pointed jaw dropped. “What the frizz are we doing here? We’re a hundred and eighty degrees from where we want to be!”
Skeck aimed the ionizer at the astromech’s photoreceptor. “You can navigate a starfighter through hyperspace and you can’t get us to the south gate? Any more tricks and we’re going to fry you.”
Shryne stepped away from everyone and activated his comlink. “Jula, any word from—”
“Where in the galaxy have you three been? I’ve been trying to reach you for—”
“We got turned around,” Shryne said. “We’ll fix it. Any word from our bundle?”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you. He moved.”