by James Luceno
His alloy lower legs were bulked by strips of armor similar to those that filled and gave form to the long glove Anakin had worn over his right-arm prosthesis. What remained of his real limbs ended in bulbs of grafted flesh, inserted into machines that triggered movement through the use of modules that interfaced with his damaged nerve endings. But instead of using durasteel, the medical droids had substituted an inferior alloy, and had failed to inspect the strips that protected the electromotive lines. As a result, the inner lining of the pressurized bodysuit was continually snagging on places where the strips were anchored to knee and ankle joints.
The tall boots were a poor fit for his artificial feet, whose claw-like toes lacked the electrostatic sensitivity of his equally false fingertips. Raised in the heel, the cumbersome footgear canted him slightly forward, forcing him to move with exaggerated caution lest he stumble or topple over. Worse, they were so heavy that he often felt rooted to the ground, or as if he were moving in high gravity.
What good was motion of this sort, if he was going to have to call on the Force even to walk from place to place! He may as well have resigned himself to using a repulsor chair and abandoned any hope of movement.
The defects in his prosthetic arms mirrored those of his legs.
Only the right one felt natural to him—though it, too, was artificial—and the pneumatic mechanisms that supplied articulation and support were sometimes slow to respond. The weighty cloak and pectoral plating so restricted his movement that he could scarcely lift his arms over his head, and he had already been forced to adapt his lightsaber technique to compensate.
He could probably adjust the servodrivers and pistons in his forearms to provide his hands with strength enough to crush the hilt of his new lightsaber. With the power of his arms alone, he had the ability to lift an adult being off the ground. But the Force had always given him the ability to do that, especially in moments of rage, as he had demonstrated on Tatooine and elsewhere. What's more, the sleeves of the bodysuit didn't hug the prostheses as they should, and the elbow-length gloves sagged and bunched at his wrists.
Gazing at the gloves now, he thought: This is not seeing.
The pressurized mask was goggle-eyed, fish-mouthed, short-snouted, and needlessly angular over the cheekbones. Coupled with a flaring dome of helmet, the mask gave him the forbidding appearance of an ancient Sith war droid. The dark hemispheres that covered his eyes filtered out light that might have caused further injury to his damaged corneas and retinas, but in enhanced mode the half globes reddened the light and prevented him from being able to see the toes of his boots without inclining his head almost ninety degrees.
Listening to the servomotors that drove his limbs, he thought: This is not hearing.
The med droids rebuilt the cartilage of his outer ears, but his eardrums, having melted in Mustafar's heat, had been beyond repair. Sound waves now had to be transmitted directly to implants in his inner ear, and sounds registered as if issuing from underwater. Worse, the implanted sensors lacked sufficient discrimination, so that too many ambient sounds were picked up, and their distance and direction were difficult to determine. Sometimes the sensors needled him with feedback, or attached echo or vibrato effects to even the faintest noise.
Allowing his lungs to fill with air, he thought: This is not breathing.
Here the med droids had truly failed him.
From a control box he wore strapped to his chest, a thick cable entered his torso, linked to a breathing apparatus and heartbeat regulator. The ventilator was implanted in his hideously scarred chest, along with tubes that ran directly into his damaged lungs, and others that entered his throat, so that should the chest plate or belt control panels develop a glitch, he could breathe unassisted fir a limited time.
But the monitoring panel beeped frequently and for no reason, and the constellation of lights served only as steady reminders of his vulnerability.
The incessant rasp of his breathing interfered with his ability to rest, let alone sleep. And sleep, in the rare moments it came to him, was a nightmarish jumble of twisted, recurrent memories that unfolded to excruciating sounds.
The med droids had at least inserted the redundant breathing tubes low enough so that, with the aid of an enunciator, his scorched vocal cords could still form sounds and words. But absent the enunciator, which imparted a synthetic bass tone, his own voice was little more than a whisper.
He could take food through his mouth, as well, but only when he was inside a hyperbaric chamber, since he had to remove the triangular respiratory vent that was the mask's prominent feature. So it was easier to receive nourishment through liquids, intravenous and otherwise, and to rely on catheters, collection pouches, and recyclers to deal with liquid and solid waste.
But all those devices made it even more difficult for him to move with ease, much less with any grace. The pectoral armor that protected the artificial lung weighed him down, as did the electrode-studded collar that supported the outsize helmet, necessary to safeguard the cybernetic devices that replaced the uppermost of his vertebrae, the delicate systems of the mask, and the ragged scars in his hairless head, which owed as much to what he had endured on Mustafar as to attempts at emergency trephination during the trip back to Coruscant aboard Sidious's shuttle.
The synthskin that substituted for what was seared from his bones itched incessantly, and his body needed to be periodically cleansed and scrubbed of necrotic flesh.
Already he had experienced moments of claustrophobia—moments of desperation to he rid of the suit, to emerge from the shell. He needed to build, or have built, a chamber in which he could feel human again .. .
If possible.
All in all, he thought: This is not living.
This was solitary confinement. Prison of the worst sort. Continual torture. He was nothing more than wreckage. Power without clear purpose . .
A melancholy sigh escaped the mouth grille.
Collecting himself, he stepped through the hatch.
Commander Appo was waiting in the ready room, the special ops officer who had led the 501st Legion against the Jedi Temple.
"Your shuttle is prepared, Lord Vader," Appo said.
For reasons that went beyond the armor and helmets, the imaging systems and boots, Vader felt more at home among the troopers than he did around other flesh-and-bloods.
And Appo and the rest of Vader's cadre of stormtroopers seemed to be at ease with their new superior. To them it was only reasonable that Vader wore a bodysuit and armor. Some had always wondered why the Jedi left themselves exposed, as if they had had something to prove by it.
Vader looked down at Appo and nodded. "Come with me, Commander. The Emperor has business for us on Murkhana."
11
Shryne squinted against the golden wash of Murkhana's primary, which had just climbed from behind the thickly forested hills that walled Murkhana City to the east. By his reckoning he had spent close to four weeks confined with hundreds of other captives to a windowless warehouse somewhere in the city. Hours earlier all of them had been marched through the dark to a red-clay landing field that had been notched into one of the hills and was currently swarming with Republic troops.
On its hardstand sat a military transport Shryne surmised would deliver everyone to a proper prison on or in orbit around some forlorn Outer Rim world. Thus far, though, none of the prisoners had been ordered to board the transport. Instead, a head count was being conducted. More important, the clone troopers were obviously waiting for someone or something to arrive.
When his eyes had adjusted fully to the light, Shryne scanned the prisoners to all sides of him, relieved to find Bol Chatak and her Padawan standing some fifty meters away, among a mixed group of indigenous Koorivar fighters and an assortment of Separatist mercenaries. He called to them through the Force, figuring that Chatak would be first to respond, but it was Starstone who turned slightly in his direction and smiled faintly. Then Chatak looked his way, offering a quick nod.
>
On their capture at the landing platform, the three of them had been separated. The fact that Chatak had managed to retain her headcloth perhaps explained why her short cranial horns hadn't singled her out as Zabrak and raised an alert among her captors.
Assuming that the conditions of her captivity had been similar to his, Chatak's being overlooked made perfect sense to Shryne. Rounded up with hundreds of enemy fighters following the still-puzzling deactivation of Murkhana's battle droids and other war machines, Shryne had been searched, roughed up, and marched into the dark building that would become his home for the next four weeks—a special torment reserved for mercenaries. Any who hadn't willingly surrendered their weapons had been executed, and dozens more had died in fierce fights that had broken out for the few scraps of food that had been provided.
It hadn't taken long for Shryne to grasp that winning the hearts and minds of Separatist fighters was no longer tops on Chancellor Palpatine's list.
It also hadn't taken long for him to give up worrying about being found out, since he had been placed in the custody of low-ranking clone troopers whose armor blazes identified them as members of companies other than Commander Salvo's. The troopers had rarely spoken to any of the prisoners, so there had been no news of the war or of events that might have prompted the High Council to order the Jedi to go into hiding. Shryne knew only that the fighting on Murkhana had stopped, and that the Republic had triumphed.
He was considering the advantage of edging himself closer to where Chatak and Starstone stood when a convoy of military speeders and big-wheeled juggernauts arrived on the scene. Commander Salvo and some of his chief officers stepped from one of the landspeeders; from the hatch of one of the juggernauts emerged commando squad leader Climber, and the rest of Ion Team.
Shryne wondered about the timing of the commander's arrival. Perhaps Salvo was determined to have a close look at each and every prisoner before any were loaded into the transport. That Shryne was farther back from the leading edge of the crowd than Chatak and Starstone were meant nothing. Given the amount of time they had spent with Salvo, he would have no trouble identifying all of them.
Oddly, though, the commander wasn't paying much attention to the prisoners. His T-visor gaze was fixed instead on a Republic shuttle that was descending toward the landing field.
"Theta-class," one of the prisoners said quietly to the mercenary standing alongside him.
"You don't see many of those," the second human said. "Must be one of Palpatine's regional governors."
The first man sniffed. "When they care enough to send the very best . . ."
The shuttle had commenced its landing sequence. With ion drive powering down and repulsorlift engaged, the craft folded its long wings upward to provide access to the main hold, then settled gently to the ground. No sooner had the boarding ramp extended than a squad of elite troopers filed out, the red markings on their armor identifying them as Coruscant shock troopers.
A much taller figure followed, attired head-to-foot in black. "What in the moons of Bogden—"
"New breed of trooper?"
"Only if someone furnished the cloners with a donor a lot taller than the original."
Salvo and his officers hastened over to the figure in black. "Welcome, Lord Vader."
"Vader?" the mere closest to Shryne said.
Lord, Shryne thought.
"That's no clone," the first human said.
Shryne didn't know what to make of Vader, although it was evident from the reaction of Salvo and his officers that they had been told to expect someone of high rank. With his large helmet and flowing black cape, Vader looked like something borrowed from the Separatists—a grotesque, Grievous-like marriage of humanoid and machine.
"Lord Vader," Shryne repeated under his breath.
Like Count Dooku?
Salvo was gesturing to Climber and the other commandos, who had remained at the juggernaut. From inside the enormous vehicle floated a large antigrav capsule with a transparent lid, which two of the commandos began to guide toward Vader's shuttle. As the capsule passed close to Shryne, he caught a glimpse of brown robes, and his stomach lurched into his throat.
When the capsule finally reached Salvo, the commander opened an access panel in its base and removed three gleaming cylinders, which he proffered to Vader.
Lightsabers.
Vader nodded for the commander of his shock troopers to accept them, then, in a deep, synthesized voice, said to Salvo: "What were you saving the bodies for, Commander—posterity?"
Salvo shook his head. "We weren't issued any instructions—"
Vader's gloved right hand waved him silent. "Dispose of them in any fashion you see fit."
Salvo was motioning Climber to remove the antigrav coffin when Vader stopped him.
"Have you forgotten anyone, Commander?" Vader asked. Salvo regarded him. "Forgotten, Lord Vader?"
Vader folded his arms across his massive chest. "Six Jedi were assigned to Murkhana, not three."
Shryne traded brief glances with Chatak, who was also close enough to Vader to hear the remark.
"I'm sorry to report, Lord Vader, that the other three evaded capture," Salvo said.
Vader nodded. "I already know that, Commander. And I haven't come halfway across the galaxy to chase them down." He drew himself erect with a haughty air. "I've come to deal with the ones who allowed them to escape."
Climber immediately stepped forward. "That would be me."
"And us," the rest of Ion Team announced in unison.
Vader stared down at the commandos. "You disobeyed a direct order from High Command."
"The order made no sense at the time," Climber answered for everyone. "We thought it might be a Separatist trick."
"What you 'thought' has no bearing on this," Vader said, pointing at Climber. "You are expected to follow orders."
"And we follow any reasonable ones. Killing our own didn't qualify."
Vader continued to point his forefinger at Climber's chest. "They weren't your allies, squad leader. They were traitors, and you sided with them."
Climber stood his ground. "Traitors how? Because a few of them tried to arrest Palpatine? I still don't see how that warrants a death penalty for the lot of them."
"I'll be sure to notify the Emperor of your concerns," Vader said.
"You do that."
Shryne closed his mouth and swallowed hard. Jedi had tried to arrest Palpatine. The Republic now had an Emperor!
"Unfortunately," Vader was saying, "you won't be alive to learn of his response."
In one swift motion he drew aside his cloak and pulled a lightsaber from his belt. Igniting with a snap-hiss, the hilt projected a crimson blade.
If Shryne had been confused earlier, he was now overwhelmed.
A Sith blade?
The four commandos fell back, raising their weapons.
"We'll accept execution for our actions," Climber said. "But not from some lapdog of the Emperor."
Quickly Salvo and his officers stepped forward, but Vader only showed them the palm of his hand. "No, Commander. Leave this to me."
With that he moved on the commandos.
Spreading out, they fired, but not a single bolt made it past Vader's blade. Deflected bolts went straight through the helmet visors of two of the commandos, and in two furious sweeps Vader opened the pair from shoulder to hip, as if they were flimsy ration containers. Climber and the third commando took advantage of the moment to break for the nearby tree line, firing as they fled. A deflection shot from Vader caught Climber in the left leg, but the bolt didn't so much as slow him down.
Vader tracked them, then motioned to his cadre of troopers. "I want them alive, Commander Appo."
"Yes, Lord Vader."
Appo's shock troopers raced off in pursuit of the commandos. Not one of Salvo's officers had fired a weapon, but now all of them were regarding Vader with vigilant uncertainty, their rifles half raised.
"Don't let my weapon fool you
," Vader told them, as if reading their thoughts. "I am not a Jedi."
From off to Shryne's left, a familiar voice shouted. "But I am!"
Bol Chatak had unwound her headcloth, revealing her vestigial horns, and had ignited the lightsaber Shryne thought she'd had sense enough to ditch when they were captured.
Vader whirled, watching Chatak as she began to stalk him, prisoners and troopers alike giving her wide berth.
"So much the better that one of you survived," he said, waving his lightsaber back and forth in front of him. "The commandos saved your life, and now you hope to save theirs, is that it?"
Chatak held her blue blade at shoulder height. "My only intent is to take you out of the hunt."
Vader's angled his blade to point toward the ground. "You won't be the first Jedi I've killed."
Their blades met with an explosion of light.
Fearing that the prisoners would use the distraction to scatter, Salvo's men hurried in to form a cordon around them. Pressed in among everyone, Shryne lost sight of Chatak and Vader, but he could tell from the angry clashes of their blades that the duel was fast and furious. Momentarily immobilized, he allowed himself to be swept up in the surge of the crowd, so that he might be raised up over the heads of those in front of him.
For a moment he was.
Just long enough to glimpse Chatak, all grace and speed, working her way into her opponent's space. Her moves were broad and circular, and the lightsaber seemed an extension of her. Vader, by contrast, was clumsy, and his strikes were mostly vertical. He was, however, a full head taller than Chatak and incredibly powerful. At various times his stances and techniques mimicked those of Ataro and Soresu, but Vader appeared to lack a style of his own, and executed his moves stiffly.
With a whirling motion Chatak got far enough inside Vader's long reach to inflict a forearm wound. But Vader scarcely reacted to the hit, and instead of seeing cauterized flesh
Shryne saw sparks and smoke fountain through Vader's slashed glove.
Then he lost sight of them again.