by James Luceno
Gunray nodded. “He maintained that he had attempted to communicate through the mechno-chair hyperwave transceiver. I said that I had received no such transmission.”
“They’re coming!” Haako said, aiming a quivering finger at the display screen.
Gunray saw that Grievous was accompanied by four of his elite MagnaGuards. Fearsome bipedal battle droids built to exacting specifications, they stood as tall as the general and were armed with combat staffs tipped with electromagnetic pulse generators. Armorweave capes fell diagonally across their broad-shouldered bodies, swathing the crowns of their heads and lower faces. Benefiting from Grievous’s own programming, as well as from the instruction Grievous had received from Dooku, the elite were trained in the Jedi arts, and more than a match for most.
The four Neimoidians stood their ground, bringing their rifles across their chests in a gesture of warning.
Grievous’s elite didn’t even slow down. Mirroring the Neimoidians, they raised their double-tipped electroshock batons, then swung them forward with such speed and precision that Gunray’s sentinels were literally swept off their feet, as if they were children.
Grievous glared into the lens of the holocam mounted outside the hatch.
“Admit us, Viceroy. Or shall I instruct my elite to lay waste to everything that stands between me and you?”
Haako spun on his heel and hurried for the suite’s rear hatch.
“Where are you going?” Gunray said. “Running will only make us appear guilty!”
“We are guilty!” Haako threw over his shoulder.
“He doesn’t know that.”
“Viceroy!” Grievous rasped.
Haako stood in the open hatch. “He will.” And disappeared through it.
Gunray paced for a moment, wringing his hands, then, straightening robes and miter and pulling his shoulders back, he pressed a fat finger to the hatch release.
The general swept into the suite, the four MagnaGuards in his angry wake spreading out to both sides, ready for violence.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Gunray said from the center of the main room. “Your Masters will not tolerate such ill treatment of me!”
Grievous glowered at him. “They will when they learn what you’ve done.”
Gunray touched himself in the chest. “What are you talking about, you … abomination. When Lord Sidious hears that you promised us a world you could not deliver—”
Stepping forward, a MagnaGuard thrust his staff to within a millimeter of Gunray’s face.
“Lord Sidious’s alloy puppet,” Gunray said, his voice quavering. “If not for the Trade Federation, you would have no army to command.”
Grievous raised his right claw and pointed to Gunray. “The mechno-chair. I want to see it.”
Gunray gulped. “In a fit of anger, I had it destroyed and purged from the ship.”
“You’re lying. There was no problem with my transmission to you. The chair relayed my message.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“The chair is no longer in your possession. It has somehow fallen into enemy hands, and, through it, the Republic was able to learn of my plan to attack Belderone.”
“You’re brain-dead.”
Grabbing Gunray by the neck, Grievous lifted him a meter off the floor.
“Before I leave here, you will tell me everything I wish to know.”
Poor Gunray, Dooku thought. Pitiful creature …
But for having left the mechno-chair behind on Cato Neimoidia, he deserved all the fear Grievous had put into him.
Secluded in his castle on Kaon, Dooku had just spoken with the general and was pondering how best to handle the situation. While the incident at Belderone wasn’t conclusive proof that the Republic had managed to decrypt the Separatist code and intercept Grievous’s transmission to Gunray, it was prudent to assume that this was the case. Dooku had already ordered the general to refrain from using the code for the time being. But the matter of the expropriated hyperwave transceiver was cause for added concern. The very fact that the Republic had tipped its hand at Belderone, declaring the success of its eavesdropping, implied that the mechno-chair had furnished more than intelligence. Clues to secrets that would astonish even Grievous.
The general was not accustomed to losing in battle. Even when a general among his own species, he had suffered few defeats. That was orginally what had brought him to the attention of Sidious. After the Sith Lord had expressed interest in Grievous to Dooku, Dooku, in turn, had expressed interest in Grievous to Chairman San Hill, of the InterGalactic Banking Clan.
Poor Grievous, Dooku thought. Pitiful creature …
During the Huk War, and later, while in the employ of the IBC, Grievous had survived numerous attempts on his life, so an assassination attempt was ruled out almost immediately. Hill himself had come up with the idea of a shuttle crash, though that, too, presented risks.
What if Grievous should actually die in the crash?
Then the Separatists would simply have to look elsewhere for a commander, Dooku had told Hill. But Grievous had survived—and only too well. In fact, most of the life-threatening injuries he sustained had occurred after he had been pulled from the flaming shuttle wreck, and with great calculation.
When at last he had agreed to be rebuilt, promises were made that no critical alterations would be made to his mind. But the Geonosians had ways of modifying the mind without a patient ever being aware that he had been tampered with. Grievous certainly believed that he had always been the cold-blooded conqueror he was now, when in truth his cruelty and prowess owed much to his rebuilding.
Sidious and Dooku couldn’t have been more pleased with the result. Dooku, especially, since he had no interest in commanding an army of droids, and already had his hands full nursemaiding the likes of Nute Gunray, Shu Mai, and the hive-minded others who eventually would form the Council of Separatists.
Grievous had been a delight to train, as well. No need to coax him to release his anger and rage, as Dooku had been forced to do during the training of his so-called Dark Jedi disciples. The Geonosians had arranged for Grievous to be nothing but anger and rage. And as to the general’s combat skills, few, if any, Jedi would be capable of defeating him. There had been moments during the extensive combat sessions when even Dooku had been hard-pressed to outduel the cyborg.
But then, Dooku had kept some secrets to himself.
Just in case.
Manipulation of the sort that had gone into the transformation of Grievous went to the heart of what it meant to be a Sith—if, indeed, the words heart and Sith could be used together. The essence of the dark side lay in a willingness to use any means possible to arrive at a desired end—which, in the case of Lord Sidious, meant a galaxy brought under the dominion of a single, brilliant mind.
The current war had been the result of a thousand years of careful planning by the Sith—generations of bequeathing knowledge of the dark side from mentor to apprentice. Rarely more than two in each generation, from Darth Bane forward, Master and apprentice would devote themselves to harnessing the strength that flowed from the dark side, and to making the most of every opportunity to allow darkness to wax. Facilitating war, murder, corruption, injustice, and avarice when- and wherever possible.
Analogous to introducing a covert malignancy to the body politic of the Republic, then monitoring its spread from one organ to another until the mass reached such size that it began to disrupt vital systems …
The Sith had learned from their own internecine struggles that systems were often brought down from within when power became their reason for being. The greater the threat to that power, the tighter the threatened would cling.
That had been the case with the Jedi Order.
For two hundred years before the coming of Darth Sidious the power of the dark side had been gaining strength, and yet the Jedi had made only minimal efforts to thwart it. The Sith were pleased by the fact that the Jedi, too, had been allowed t
o grow so powerful, because, in the end, their sense of entitlement would blind them to what was occurring in their midst.
So, let them be placed on a pedestal. Let them grow soft and set in their ways. Let them forget that good and evil coexist. Let them look no farther than their vaunted Temple, so that they would fail to see the proverbial forest for the trees. And, by all means, let them grow possessive of the power they had gained, so that they might be that much easier to topple.
Not that all of them were blind, of course. Many Jedi were aware of the changes, the drift toward darkness. None, perhaps, more than aged Yoda. But the Masters who made up the Jedi Council were enslaved to the inevitability of that drift. Instead of attempting to get to the root of the coming darkness, they merely did their best to contain it. They waited for the Chosen One to be born, mistakenly believing that only he or she would be capable of restoring balance.
Such was the danger of prophecy.
It was into such times that Dooku had been born, placed because of a strong connection to the Force among an Order that had grown complacent, self-involved, arrogant about the power they wielded in the name of the Republic. Turning a blind eye to injustices the Republic had little interest in eradicating, because of profitable deals forged among those who held the reins of command.
While midi-chlorians determined to some degree a Jedi’s ability to use the Force, other inherited characteristics also played a part—notwithstanding the Temple’s best efforts to eradicate them. Having hailed from nobility and great wealth, Dooku yearned for prestige. Even as a youngster, he had been obsessed with learning all he could about the Sith and the dark side of the Force. He had toed the Jedi line; become the Temple’s most agile swordmaster and instructor. And yet the makings of his eventual transformation had been there from the start. Without the Jedi ever realizing it, Dooku had been as disruptive to the Order as would be a young boy raised in slavery on Tatooine.
His discontent had continued to grow and fester; his frustration with the Republic Senate, with ineffectual Supreme Chancellor Valorum, with the shortsightedness of the Jedi Council members themselves. A Trade Federation blockade of Naboo, rumors of a Chosen One found on a desert world, the death of Qui-Gon Jinn at the hands of a Sith … How could the Council members not see what was happening? How could they continue to claim that the dark side obscured all?
Dooku had said as much to anyone who would listen. He wore his discontent on the sleeve of his robes. Though they hadn’t enjoyed the smoothest of student–teacher relationships, he and Yoda had spoken openly of the portents. But Yoda was living proof of a conservatism that came with extended life. Dooku’s true confidant had been Master Sifo-Dyas, who, while also disturbed by what was occurring, was too weak to take action.
The Battle of Naboo had revealed that the Sith were back in the open, and that a Sith Lord was at work somewhere.
The Sith Lord: the one born with the power needed to take the final step.
Dooku had given thought to seeking him out, perhaps killing him. But even what little faith he placed in the prophecy was enough to raise doubt that the death of a Sith could halt the advance of the dark side.
Another would come, and another.
As it happened, there had been no need to hunt for Sidious, for it was Sidious who had approached him. Sidious’s boldness surprised him at first, but it hadn’t taken long for Dooku to become fascinated by the Sith. Instead of a lightsaber duel to the death, there had been much discussion, and a gradual understanding that their separate visions for how the galaxy might be rescued from depravity were not so different after all.
But partnership with a Sith didn’t make one a Sith.
As the Jedi arts had to be taught, so, too, did the power of the dark side. And so began his long apprenticeship. The Jedi warned that anger was the quickest path to the dark side, but anger was nothing more than raw emotion. To know the dark side one had to be willing to rise above all morality, to throw love and compassion aside, and to do whatever was necessary to bring about the vision of a world brought under control—even if that meant taking lives.
Dooku was an eager student, and yet Sidious had continued to hold him at arm’s length. Perhaps he had been working with other potential replacements for his earlier apprentice, the savage Darth Maul, who, in fact, had been nothing more than a minion, like Asajj Ventress and General Grievous. Sidious had recognized in Dooku the makings of a true accomplice—an equal from the other camp, already trained in the Jedi arts, a master duelist, a political visionary. But he needed to gauge the depth of Dooku’s commitment.
One of your former confidants at the Jedi Temple has perceived the coming change, Sidious had told him. This one has contacted a group of cloners, regarding the creation of an army for the Republic. The order for the army can stand, for we will be able to make use of that army someday. But Master Sifo-Dyas cannot stand, for the Jedi cannot learn about the army until we are prepared to have them learn of it.
And so with the murder of Sifo-Dyas, Dooku had embraced the dark side fully, and Sidious had conferred on him the title Darth Tyranus. His final act before leaving the Jedi Order was to erase all mentions of Kamino from the Jedi archives. Then, as Tyranus, he had found Fett on Bogg 4; had instructed the Mandalorian to deliver himself to Kamino; and had arranged for payments to be made to the cloners through circuitous routes …
Ten years passed.
Under its new Supreme Chancellor, the Republic recovered somewhat, then grew more corrupt and beset with problems than before. As best they could, Sidious and Tyranus helped things along.
Sidious had the ability to see deep into the future, but there was always the unexpected. With the power of the dark side, however, came flexibility.
Having traced Fett to Kamino, Obi-Wan Kenobi had turned up on Geonosis. All at once, here was Qui-Gon Jinn’s former Padawan, right under Dooku’s nose. But when he had informed Sidious of Obi-Wan’s presence, Sidious had only said, Allow events to play out, Darth Tyranus. For our plans are unfolding exactly as I have foreseen. The Force is very much with us.
And now, a new wrinkle: as a result of Nute Gunray’s blunder at Cato Neimoidia, the Republic and the Jedi had chanced on a possible way to trace the whereabouts of Sidious and expose him.
The mechno-chair’s exceptional transceiver—and others like it—had been created for Sidious by a host of beings, a few of whom were still alive. And if agents of the Republic—or the Jedi, for that matter—were clever and persistent enough, they could succeed in learning more about Sidious than he would want anyone to learn …
He had to be informed, Dooku thought.
Or did he?
For a heartbeat he hesitated, imagining the power that could be his.
Then he went directly to the hyperwave transmitter Sidious had given him, and began his transmission.
Mace Windu couldn’t recall a visit to the Supreme Chancellor’s chambers in the Senate Office Building when his attention hadn’t been drawn to Palpatine’s curious and somehow unsettling collection of quasi-religious statuary. On one occasion, picking up on Mace’s interest, Palpatine had offered lengthy and enthusiastic accounts of when and how he had come by some of the pieces. Acquired at an auction on Commenor; procured after many years and at great expense from a Corellian dealer in antiquities; salvaged from an ancient temple discovered on a moon of the gas giant Yavin; a gift from the Theed Council of Naboo; another gift from that world’s Gungans …
Just now Mace’s eyes were on a small bronzium statue Palpatine had once identified as Wapoe, the mythical artisan demigod of disguise.
“I’m relieved that you contacted me, Master Jedi,” the Supreme Chancellor was saying from the far side of his expansive desk. “As I was about to contact you on a matter of some gravity.”
“Then speak of your matter first, we will,” Yoda said.
He was seated for a change, atop a cushioned chair that made him appear even smaller than he was. Mace was at Yoda’s left hand, sitting w
ith legs widely spread, forearms resting on his knees.
Palpatine touched his steepled fingers to his lower lip, then inhaled and sat back in his throne of a chair. “This is rather awkward, Master Yoda, but I suspect that the matter I have in mind is the very one that brought you and Master Windu here. By that I mean Belderone.”
Yoda compressed his lips. “Fail you, your intuition doesn’t. About Belderone, much to say, we have.”
Palpatine smiled without showing his teeth. “Well, then, suppose I begin by saying that I was most pleased to learn of our recent victory there. I only wish I had been informed of your plans before the fact.”
“We had no time to corroborate the intelligence we received,” Mace said without hesitation. “We thought it best to commit as few Republic ships as could be spared. It was essentially a Jedi operation.”
“A Jedi operation,” Palpatine said slowly. “And by all accounts you, that is, the Jedi, were successful in routing General Grievous’s forces.”
“A rout it was not,” Yoda said. “To hyperspace Grievous fled. But protecting the Separatist leaders, he was.”
“I see. And now?”
Mace leaned forward. “Wait for him to resurface, and strike again.”
Palpatine regarded him. “Might I be informed of your intelligence next time? Didn’t you and I have this discussion after Master Yoda was thought to have been killed at Ithor?” Before Mace could respond, he continued: “You see, the problem here is one of appearances. While I can appreciate the need to keep secret some intelligence, many in the Senate do not. In the instance of Belderone—and largely because it constituted a Republic victory—I was able to allay the fear of certain Senators that the Jedi are taking the war into their own hands, and are no longer accountable for their actions.”
Mace’s nostrils flared. “We can’t allow the Senate to go on dictating the course of the war.”
Yoda nodded, sagely. “Miring the Jedi in uncertainty, some of the Senate’s decisions are.” He looked askance at Palpatine. “A matter of appearances, this is.”