by Karen Miller
Sinking deeper again, he invited the dark side to show him.
When Dooku’s comm finally came through he had his plan, and knew with a fat and scintillating satisfaction that yet again events would dance to his tune. Clad in his Sith robes, he activated the holoimager in his penthouse apartment’s secure, soundproofed study.
“You failed to persuade the Umgul government to join your Alliance,” he said, ignoring Dooku’s cautious greeting. “I find that disappointing, Lord Tyranus.”
So far away, and he could still sense Dooku’s stabbing fright.
“You know? But I have only just returned from—”
He cracked the dark side like a whip. “Did you think I would not know?”
Dooku dropped to one elderly knee. “Lord Sidious, they were not amenable to persuasion.”
“You should have made them amenable!”
“My lord, I did not dare. Our meeting was live-recorded, tightbeaming to a number of different locations. There were numerous witnesses. Under the circumstances I felt it better to admit defeat.”
“I don’t recall teaching you that the Sith admit defeat, Lord Tyranus.”
“Only temporarily, my lord,” Dooku said, shuddering. “I thought to let the Umgul government believe it was free to make its own choice and then, once our enemies believe they have no more to fear, I will… arrange matters… so that Umgul comes to us begging for protection.”
Ah. So there was life in the old man yet. “That might be an acceptable alternative, Lord Tyranus,” he said, after stretching his silence almost to Dooku’s breaking point. “Provided it can be brought to pass.”
Dooku bowed low. “My lord, you have my word it will be.”
“See that you keep that promise, Tyranus,” he said coldly. “My generous forgiveness is not without limits.” He waved a dismissive hand. “And so much for Umgul. Now what of Lanteeb?”
“My lord?” Dooku lifted his head. “I have no news to report of that matter.”
“Because you have failed me there, too, Tyranus!” he snarled. “The Jedi know all. Kenobi and Skywalker even now are on the planet, seeking to destroy Lok Durd and his weapon. They have been assisted by the scientist our Neimoidian pawn took for his purposes. The Jedi have rescued the hostages Durd was holding against her, and one of the greatest scientific minds in the Republic is now working on an antidote against the weapon. It seems, Lord Tyranus, that the situation on Lanteeb has entirely escaped your control. Must I forgive you again, my apprentice?”
Dooku’s horrified shock was genuine. So at least, unlike Yoda, he hadn’t been keeping unfortunate secrets.
“Lord Sidious…” The tremble in the old man’s voice was pure fear. “I have no excuse to give you.”
“No, you do not,” he replied, silky with menace. “And wise it is of you, Tyranus, to attempt no self-defense. But I will forgive this lapse, provided you can snatch me a victory from this imminent defeat. I strongly suggest that you take the Neimoidian to task.”
“Do you wish him to survive, my lord?”
“Yes,” he said. “But he need not know his life is not forfeit. Not at first. General Durd needs a sharp reminder of his place. A defining encounter with fear.”
“My lord, he shall have it,” said Dooku—and the dark side trembled. “But what of Kenobi and Skywalker? Surely we must capture them—or better yet, kill them.”
And here was the sticking point. For while he had to protect Anakin, Dooku could never suspect that he himself was merely a placeholder. A useful lackey and nothing more.
“If I could afford to dispatch you to Lanteeb, Tyranus, I would. But I am relying upon you to keep the other Separatist leaders in line. I am particularly perturbed by those scum in the Banking Clan. Grubby merchants, the lot of them, and not to be trusted out of your sight. My instincts tell me they are about to attempt a secret deal with the Trade Federation. You must see that poisonous bloom nipped in the bud, Tyranus. Have no fear. The dark side shall account for Kenobi and Skywalker in due course.”
“My lord.” Dooku’s chin tucked tight to his chest. “You are far more magnanimous than I deserve. You will not be disappointed again, I swear it.”
Time to sweeten the old man with a tiny drop of honey. Dooku had his pride, after all. And though his bones were soaked in the dark side, still—no need to tempt fate. “Tyranus, much is asked of you in this great endeavor. Your burdens are heavy, my expectations high. I trust you will redeem yourself.”
Dooku’s relief was as resounding as his fear. “My lord, I will. Your trust is not misplaced, I swear it.”
Pleased, Sidious dismissed his apprentice. Then he returned his black robe to its rightful place, donned Palpatine’s richly sober garb and became, once again, the Republic’s revered and humble Supreme Chancellor.
And smiled all the way to the Senate.
LOK DURD PROWLED his new compound’s production facility, so gleeful he could almost forget his recent fears and trepidations. The scientist was performing well past his expectations. With the last kink in her formula taken care of, the first shipments of raw damotite delivered, tested and approved, and his droid workforce slaving without pause to convert the damotite-and-rondium mixture to pure poison, he was at last able to bask in the glow of a job well done.
Especially since, within a matter of hours, those meddlesome Jedi would finally be dead—and with them the chance of his near-disastrous mistake being discovered.
Smiling, he watched the droids as they sealed another batch of bioweapon into small, secure canisters. Each dose was enough to wipe out a three-square-klick section of city. On some planets that would mean the entire city. On others, like Coruscant, Corellia, Alderaan, and the like, multiple strikes would be required to wipe out a population—or at least enough of a population to guarantee a recalcitrant government’s attention.
Really, I am so very good at what I do.
By his estimation he needed two more standard weeks of production and one more shipment of the raw damotite, which was due shortly. Then he could contact Count Dooku with the good news that their next devastating offensive against the Republic could begin. And this time there would be no Jedi interference. This time the Jedi would be forced to stand impotently by as millions were slaughtered.
I wonder if I can convince the Count to target the Jedi Temple itself? Wouldn’t that be a glorious retribution?
His personal comlink buzzed. Irritated, he pulled it from his tunic pocket. “What?”
“You have a priority incoming call, General.”
And that was Barev, the kriffing barve. Ever since his precious Drivok sniffer had found the Jedi he’d been insupportable. Overbearing, smug, arrogant—and presumptuous. It was time to discredit and discard him.
When I tell Dooku that the bioweapon is ready for deployment I shall be in a position to demand certain recognitions for my service. Losing Barev will be but the first—but none that come after will taste as sweet.
Durd glared at the comlink. “Yes? And?”
“It’s the Count,” said Barev. “He seems—unhappy.”
And just like that, his triumphant mood collapsed.
“What do you mean unhappy?” he demanded. “What have you told him, Colonel? Have you been speaking out of turn?”
“To what good purpose, General?” said Barev. “Our fates are tied, are they not? If one of us stumbles, we both stumble. I’ve no idea what he wants.”
“I’m coming now,” he snapped. “Tell the Count I shall join him in a few moments.”
Durd took the communication in his office, with the door firmly shut. Making sure his demeanor was suitably restrained, he flicked on his holodisplay unit and waited for Dooku’s holoimage to appear. When it did, the Count’s expression was discouraging.
“Do I strike you as a fool, General Durd?”
“A fool? No, no, my lord. You are the wisest man of my acquaintance.”
“Then it is you who are the fool!” Dooku retorted. “Did you think
I would not learn the truth?”
Durd felt his stomachs roll. “The truth, my lord?”
“About the Jedi! About the hostages! Have you told me nothing but lies?”
The shock was so great he nearly fell to the floor. “My lord Count—my lord Count—”
“Hold your flapping Neimoidian tongue or I swear I will have it ripped out!”
Durd nodded mutely as greasy sweat slicked the skin beneath his suddenly overthick tunic.
“Have you lied about the weapon, Durd?”
“No! No! My lord, I have not! I have the weapon. I’ve just come from inspecting it. Our stockpile is growing by the hour, I swear it!” He was babbling, he could hear himself babbling, but he couldn’t stop. Dooku’s eyes—he’s going to kill me. As soon as I’m useless to him, I’ll be dead. “I will send you some. Shall I send you some?”
Dooku ignored him. “There is a scientist on Coruscant even now creating an antidote for the weapon.”
“My lord Count, you must be misinformed,” he said faintly. “No antidote is possible. If you believe nothing else I say, I beg you to believe that.”
Silence, as Dooku’s terrible eyes bored into him. “I do. As for the rest—there will be a reckoning, Durd. Soon. For now you will concentrate on producing my weapon. And you’ll hold yourself in readiness for my retribution.” Dooku’s holoimage vanished as the link was cut.
Durd stood behind his desk and gasped for air.
No, no, no. This cannot be. I will not let this be.
He bellowed for Barev. Moments later the office door flew open.
“General?” The colonel stared about, blaster drawn. “Are you under attack?”
The fool. The stinking human fool. “You have to stop the droid army heading for Torbel. It must be reprogrammed. I want the Jedi taken alive.”
Slowly Barev lowered the blaster. “Alive?”
“Yes, you incompetent moron! Alive!” he shouted. “Dooku knows. Do you hear me? He knows. And we will be dead unless we can appease his wrath. I want the Jedi alive, to give him as a gift. The droids must be programmed with the Jedi’s holoimages so they know who not to kill. And I want—I want—” He beat his fists against his chest as though that could force the words from his body. “I want to show Count Dooku my value. I want to prove my weapon to him.”
“You want to test it now?” said Barev, surprised. “Are you sure? Do you have permission?”
“This is my Project!” he spat. “I do not need permission. I will choose a target in the heart of the Republic and you will see that our demonstration is executed perfectly. Everything is in place to launch an attack, isn’t it? Or have I been deceived in that, too?”
Barev wasn’t really a moron. He knew perfectly well his own life was on the line. “No, General, you’re not deceived. Give the word and an attack will be launched.”
“Then why are you still standing there?” Durd demanded, close to screaming. “First the droids and then the attack. Get out. Get out! There’s no time to lose!”
Chapter Twelve
“OBI-WAN…”
Anakin’s voice, and a touch to his shoulder, brought him from meditation into full awareness. Obi-Wan opened his eyes and looked up. “Another problem?”
“On the contrary,” said Anakin. Though clearly tired, he was smiling. “Rikkard says the theta emissions are falling at last. The storm’s passing.”
An oddly watery daylight poured in through the charter house’s open doors and unshuttered windows. The cool air still reeked of smoke and scorched metals, but it smelled of freshly cooked food, too. And there were voices, blended into an indistinct hubbub. In the Force he sensed lingering anxiety, but no more overwhelming fear.
“That is good news.” Cross-legged on the floor, his back braced against the wall, Obi-Wan eased his shoulders and looked at the burned-out communications hub. “Any luck?”
Anakin’s smile vanished. “No. It’s fried. There’s no chance of getting it operational again.”
“And our scrambler chip?”
“Is completely scrambled.” Anakin fished in his filthy trouser pocket and pulled out a sad little lump of circuitry that had melted, then hardened. He held it out. “Which is going to make things interesting.”
Inspecting the ruined chip, he pulled a face. “More interesting, you mean.”
Anakin shrugged. “Everyone knows a quiet life is a boring life. Our only consolation is the diatium cells weren’t damaged.” He patted his shirt’s shielded pocket. “I’ve put my lightsaber back together.”
Nodding, he tossed the ruined chip aside. “Good. I’ll get on to mine in a moment.”
“No need,” said Anakin, pleased with himself. “Here you go.”
Obi-Wan plucked his lightsaber from the air. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Oh—and if you’re hungry?” Anakin jerked a thumb behind him. “There’s a kind of communal breakfast happening out on the square.”
He was famished, but—“I’ll eat once I’ve looked in on Teeba Sufi’s patients. Have you had something?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t too bad.” Another swift smile. “Mind you, I made sure to steer clear of Teeba Jaklin’s eggs.”
He really wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “And the villagers? How are they?”
“Subdued,” said Anakin, sobering. “They know how close they came to destruction last night. And now, with the refinery blown to bits—they know they’re still in trouble.” His lips tightened. “I meant what I said, Obi-Wan. About getting them help.”
“I know you did,” he said, gently, because they were both tired. “And we will. But for now we must remain focused on the mission.”
“Speaking of the mission,” said Anakin, “when do you want to tell Jaklin we’re leaving?”
He hesitated. “Oh. Yes. About that…”
“What?” Anakin stared. “You want to wait for the convoy after all? Obi-Wan—”
“I know,” he said, as Anakin turned away in frustration. “But the fact is, nothing’s changed about the challenges we face in returning to Lantibba. Traveling out in the open, in broad daylight, unprotected, with our false ID chips useless—” He shook his head. “We’d be asking to get caught. Better that we’re delayed than we fall into Durd’s hands.”
“And whatever it is that’s hunting us?”
“I can’t feel it now,” he said. “I’ve been trying for more than an hour but I get no sense of its presence anywhere in the Force.”
“Meaning what?” said Anakin, unconvinced. “It’s lost us? It’s given up?”
“Possibly.”
“Obi-Wan, that’s a big gamble. What if you’re wrong? What if waiting here gives it a chance to find us?”
He’d been asking himself the same difficult question for the past half hour. “You’re right. It’s a risk. But I still believe not waiting for the convoy is the greater danger.”
“I’m not saying you don’t have a point,” Anakin said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s just—it means being stuck here for another day, Obi-Wan. And that gives Durd more time to launch his first attack.”
He pushed to his feet, feeling his muscles drag subtly, reminding him that he was far from his best. “For all we know he’s launched it already. Our escape could easily have panicked him into making a move. But we don’t know for certain—and we can’t let our fears panic us into a bad choice.”
Anakin considered him. “Are you saying you were feeling panicked last night?”
“I’m saying that important decisions should be made in a calm state of mind,” he retorted. “Raging theta storms, failing power grids and exploding refineries are not, in my estimation, conducive to tranquillity.”
“No kidding,” said Anakin, drily amused. Then he shook his head. “I guess it all comes down to timing. Maybe it doesn’t matter if we’re here another day. If the Republic can get a battle group together fast enough, launch an all-out assault on Lanteeb—”
“We can hop
e for that, certainly,” he said carefully. “But Anakin—”
“Yeah,” said Anakin, scowling again. “Since we never made real-time voice contact with the Temple, there’s no way of knowing if they even got our message. In which case, Obi-Wan, don’t you think we should—”
“What I think,” he said, slipping his lightsaber back into his shirt’s shielded pocket, “is that we can’t go anywhere until the storm shield’s down. So I’m going to look in at the sick house, then swallow some breakfast. What about you?”
“I’ve said I’ll help sift through what’s left of the refinery,” said Anakin, after a moment. He still wasn’t convinced. “See if I can repair any equipment the blast didn’t destroy. Rikkard won’t give up on the idea they can make that quota. He’s going back down the mine and taking as many villagers as he can with him. I’ve told him he’s crazy, but he won’t listen.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Rikkard was driven by duty and desperation. “He’s trying to save his village, Anakin. You can’t blame him for that.”
“I don’t,” said Anakin. He sounded unbearably sad. “But it’s a fool’s errand and he knows it. From the minute that storm closed in, these people never stood a chance.”
“If it wasn’t for you, these people would all be dead and dying now. How are you feeling this morning?”
Anakin dragged his fingers through his dirty hair. The light filtering through the storm shield glinted on faintly golden stubble, picking out bruised shadows beneath his eyes and in the subtle hollows of his cheeks.
“I’ve been better,” he said, shrugging. “And worse. You?”
“I have a headache,” Obi-Wan admitted. “Which meditation hasn’t banished. Also a nasty aftertaste in the back of my throat.”
“So do I,” Anakin said slowly. “You don’t think—”
“I think we’ve been breathing toxic smoke for hours,” he retorted. “But I doubt we’re going to drop dead from damotite poisoning. We’re Jedi—we can ameliorate the worst of the smoke’s effects. But still—be careful poking around that refinery. No heroics. Be sure to wear protective clothing.”