Book 0 - The Dark Lord Trilogy

by James Luceno

  Anakin had only laughed. What use is a protocol droid to a Jedi? Even one as upgraded as 3PO—Anakin had packed his creation with so many extra circuits and subprograms and heuristic algorithms that the droid was practically human.

  “I’m not giving him to you,” he’d told her. “He’s not even really mine to give; when I built him, I was a slave, and everything I did belonged to Watto. Cliegg Lars bought him along with my mother; Owen gave him back to me, but I’m a Jedi. I have renounced possessions. I guess that means he’s free now. What I’m really doing is asking you to look after him for me.”

  “Look after him?”

  “Yes. Maybe even give him a job. He’s a little fussy,” he’d admitted, “and maybe I shouldn’t have given him quite so much self-consciousness—he’s a worrier—but he’s very smart, and he might be a real help to a big-time diplomat … like, say, a Senator from Naboo?”

  Padmé then had extended her hand and graciously invited C-3PO to join her staff, because on Naboo, high-functioning droids were respected as thinking beings, and 3PO had been so flustered at being treated like a sentient creature that he’d been barely able to speak, beyond muttering something about hoping he might make himself useful, because after all he was “fluent in over six million forms of communication.” Then she had turned to Anakin and laid her soft, soft hand along his jawline to draw him down to kiss her, and that was all he had needed, all he had hoped for; he would give her everything he had, everything he was—

  And there had come another day, two years later, a day that had meant nearly as much to him as the day they had wed: the day he had finally passed his trials.

  The day he had become a Jedi Knight.

  As soon as circumstances allowed he had slipped away, on his own now, no Master over his shoulder, no one to monitor his comings and his goings and so he could take himself to the vast Coruscant complex at 500 Republica where Naboo’s senior Senator kept her spacious apartments.

  And he had then, finally, two years late, a devotion-gift for her.

  He had then one thing that he truly owned, that he had earned, that he was not required to renounce. One gift he could give her to celebrate their love.

  The culmination of the Ceremony of Jedi Knighthood is the severing of the new Jedi Knight’s Padawan braid. And it was this that he laid into Padmé’s trembling hand.

  One long, thin braid of his glossy hair: such a little thing, of no value at all.

  Such a little thing, that meant the galaxy to him.

  And she had kissed him then, and laid her soft cheek against his jaw, and she had whispered in his ear that she had something for him as well.

  Out from her closet had whirred R2-D2.

  Of course Anakin knew him; he had known him for years—the little droid was a decorated war hero himself, having saved Padmé’s life back when she had been Queen of Naboo, not to mention helping the nine-year-old Anakin destroy the Trade Federation’s Droid Control Ship, breaking the blockade and saving the planet. The Royal Engineers of Naboo’s aftermarket wizardry made their modified R-units the most sought after in the galaxy; he’d tried to protest, but she had silenced him with a soft finger against his lips and a gentle smile and a whisper of “After all, what does a politician need with an astromech?”

  “But I’m a Jedi—”

  “That’s why I’m not giving him to you,” she’d said with a smile. “I’m asking you to look after him. He’s not really a gift. He’s a friend.”

  All this flashed though Anakin’s mind in the stretching second before his comlink finally crackled to life with a familiar fweewheoo, and his heart unclenched.

  “Artoo, where are you? Come on, we have to get out of here!”

  High above, on the wall that was supposed to be the floor, the lid of a battered durasteel storage locker shifted, pushed aside by a dome of silver and blue. The lid swung fully open and R2-D2 righted itself, deployed its booster rockets, and floated out from the locker, heading for the far exit.

  Anakin gave Obi-Wan a fierce grin. Let someone he loves pass out of his life? Not likely. “What are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s go!”

  From Invisible Hand’s bridge, the ship’s spin made the vast curve of Coruscant’s horizon appear to orbit the ship in a dizzying whirl. Each rotation also brought a view of the lazily tumbling wreckage of the conning spire, ripped from the ship and cast out of orbit by centripetal force, as it made the long burning fall toward the planetary city’s surface.

  General Grievous watched them both while his droid circuitry ticked off the seconds remaining in the life of his ship.

  He had no fear for his own life; his specially designed escape module was preprogrammed to take him directly to a ship already primed for jump. Mere seconds after he sealed himself and the Chancellor within the module’s heavily armored hull, they would be taken aboard the fleeing ship, which would then make a series of randomized microjumps to prevent being tracked before entering the final jump to the secret base on Utapau.

  But he was not willing to go without the Chancellor. This operation had cost the Confederacy dearly in ships and personnel; to leave empty-handed would be an even graver cost in prestige. Winning this war was more than half a matter of propaganda: much of the weakness of the Republic grew from its citizens’ superstitious dread of the Separatists’ seemingly inevitable victory—a dread cultivated and nourished by the CIS shadowfeed that poisoned government propaganda on the HoloNet. The common masses of the Republic believed that the Republic was losing; to see the legendary Grievous himself beaten back and fleeing a battle would give them hope that the war might be won.

  And hope was simply not to be allowed.

  His built-in comlink buzzed in his left ear. He touched the sensor implant in the jaw of his mask. “Yes.”

  “The Jedi almost certainly escaped the conning spire, sir.” The voice was that of one of his precious, custom-built IG 100-series MagnaGuards: prototype self-motivating humaniform combat droids designed, programmed, and armed specifically to fight Jedi. “We recovered a lightsaber from the base of the turbolift shaft before the spire tore free.”

  “Copy that. Stand by for instructions.” One long stride put Grievous next to the Neimoidian security officer. “Have you located them, or are you about to die?”

  “I, ah, I ah—” The security officer’s trembling finger pointed to a schematic of Invisible Hand’s hangar deck, where a bright blip slid slowly through Bay One.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s, it’s, it’s the Chancellor’s beacon, sir.”

  “What? The Jedi never deactivated it? Why not?”

  “I, well, I can’t actually—”

  “Idiots.” He looked down at the cringing security officer, considering killing the fool just for taking so long to figure this out.

  The Neimoidian might as well have read Grievous’s thought spelled out across his bone-colored mask. “If, if, if you hadn’t—er, I mean, please recall my security console has been destroyed, and so I have been forced to reroute—”

  “Silence.” Grievous gave a mental shrug. The fool would be dead or captured soon enough regardless. “Order all combat droids to terminate their search algorithms and converge on the bridge. Wait, strike that: leave the battle droids. Useless things,” he muttered into his mask. “A greater danger to us than to Jedi. Super battle droids and droidekas only, do you understand? We will take no chances.”

  As the security officer turned to his screens, Grievous again touched the sensor implant along the jaw of his mask. “IG-One-oh-one.”

  “Sir.”

  “Assemble a team of super battle droids and droidekas—as many as you can gather—and report to the hangar deck. I’ll give you the exact coordinates as soon as they are available.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will find at least one Jedi, possibly two, in the company of Chancellor Palpatine, imprisoned in a ray shield. They are to be considered extremely dangerous. Disarm them and deliver th
em to the bridge.”

  “If they are so dangerous, perhaps we should execute them on the spot.”

  “No. My orders are clear that the Chancellor is not to be harmed. And the Jedi—”

  The general’s right hand slipped beneath his cape to stroke the array of lightsabers clipped there.

  “The Jedi, I will execute personally.”

  A sheet of shimmering energy suddenly flared in front of them, blocking the corridor on the far side of the intersection they were trotting across, and Obi-Wan stopped so short that Anakin almost slammed into his back. He reached over and caught Palpatine by the arm. “Careful, sir,” he said, low. “Better not touch it till we know what it is.”

  Obi-Wan unclipped his lightsaber, activated it, and cautiously extended its tip to touch the energy field; an explosive burst of power flared sparks and streaks in all directions, nearly knocking the weapon from his hands. “Ray shield,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “We’ll have to find a way around—”

  But even as he spoke another sheet shimmered into existence across the mouth of the corridor they’d just left, and two more sizzled into place to seal the corridors to either side.

  They were boxed in.

  Caught.

  Obi-Wan stood there for a second or two, blinking, then looked at Anakin and shook his head in disbelief. “I thought we were smarter than this.”

  “Apparently not. The oldest trap in the book, and we walked right into it.” Anakin felt as embarrassed as Obi-Wan looked. “Well, you walked right into it. I was just trying to keep up.”

  “Oh, so now this is my fault?”

  Anakin gave him a slightly wicked smile. “Hey, you’re the Master. I’m just a hero.”

  “Joke some other time,” Obi-Wan muttered. “It’s the dark side—the shadow on the Force. Our instincts still can’t be trusted. Don’t you feel it?”

  The dark side was the last thing Anakin wanted to think about right now. “Or, you know, it could be that knock on the head,” he offered.

  Obi-Wan didn’t even smile. “No. All our choices keep going awry. How could they even locate us so precisely? Something is definitely wrong, here. Dooku’s death should have lifted the shadow—”

  “If you’ve a taste for mysteries, Master Kenobi,” Palpatine interrupted pointedly, “perhaps you could solve the mystery of how we’re going to escape.”

  Obi-Wan nodded, scowling darkly at the ray shield box as though seeing it for the first time; after a moment, he took out his lightsaber again, ignited it, and sank its tip into the deck at his feet. The blade burned through the durasteel plate almost without resistance—and then flared and bucked and spat lightning as it hit a shield in place in a gap below the plate, and almost threw Obi-Wan into the annihilating energy of the ray shield behind him.

  “No doubt in the ceiling as well.” He looked at the others and sighed. “Ideas?”

  “Perhaps,” Palpatine said thoughtfully, as though the idea had only just occurred to him, “we should simply surrender to General Grievous. With the death of Count Dooku, I’m sure that the two of you can …” He cast a significant sidelong glance at Anakin. “… negotiate our release.”

  He’s persistent, I’ll give him that, Anakin thought. He caught himself smiling as he recalled discussing “negotiation” with Padmé, on Naboo before the war; he came back to the present when he realized that undertaking “aggressive negotiations” could prove embarrassing under his current lightsaber-challenged circumstances.

  “I say …,” he put in slowly, “patience.”

  “Patience?” Obi-Wan lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a plan?”

  “You know what Master Yoda says: Patience you must have, until the mud settles and the water becomes clear. So let’s wait.”

  Obi-Wan looked skeptical. “Wait.”

  “For the security patrol. A couple of droids will be along in a moment or two; they’ll have to drop the ray shield to take us into custody.”

  “And then?”

  Anakin shrugged cheerfully. “And then we’ll wipe them out.”

  “Brilliant as usual,” Obi-Wan said dryly. “What if they turn out to be destroyer droids? Or something worse?”

  “Oh, come on, Master. Worse than destroyers? Besides, security patrols are always those skinny useless little battle droids.”

  At that moment, four of those skinny useless battle droids came marching toward them, one along each corridor, clanking along with blaster rifles leveled. One of them triggered one of its preprogrammed security commands: “Hand over your weapons!” The other three chimed in with enthusiastic barks of “Roger, roger!” and a round of spastic head-bobbing.

  “See?” Anakin said. “No problem.”

  Before Obi-Wan could reply, concealed doors in the corridor walls zipped suddenly aside. Through them rolled the massive bronzium wheels of destroyer droids, two into each corridor. The eight destroyers unrolled themselves behind the battle droids, haloed by sparkling energy shields, twin blaster cannons targeting the two Jedi’s chests.

  Obi-Wan sighed. “You were saying?”

  “Okay, fine. It’s the dark side. Or something.” Anakin rolled his eyes. “I guess you’re off the hook for the ray shield trap.”

  Through those same doorways marched sixteen super battle droids to back up the destroyers, their arm cannons raised to fire over the destroyers’ shields.

  Behind the super battle droids came two droids of a type Anakin had never seen. He had an idea what they were, though.

  And he was not happy about it.

  Obi-Wan scowled at them as they approached. “You’re the expert, Anakin. What are those things?”

  “Remember what you were saying about worse than destroyers?” Anakin said grimly. “I think we’re looking at them.”

  They walked side by side, their gait easy and straightforward, almost as smooth as a human’s. In fact, they could have been human—humans who were two meters tall and made out of metal. They wore long swirling cloaks that had once been white, but now were stained with smoke and what Anakin strongly suspected was blood. They walked with the cloaks thrown back over one shoulder, to clear their left arms, where they held some unfamiliar staff-like weapon about two meters long—something like the force-pike of a Senate Guard, but shorter, and with an odd-looking discharge blade at each end.

  They walked like they were made to fight, and they had clearly seen some battle. The chest plate of one bore a round shallow crater surrounded by a corona of scorch, a direct blaster hit that hadn’t come close to penetrating; the other bore a scar from its cranial dome down through one dead photoreceptor—a scar that looked like it might have come from a lightsaber.

  This droid looked like it had fought a Jedi, and survived.

  The Jedi, he guessed, hadn’t.

  These two droids threaded between the super battle droids and destroyers and casually shoved aside one battle droid hard enough that it slammed into the wall and collapsed into a sparking heap of metal.

  The one with the damaged photoreceptor pointed its staff at them, and the ray shields around them dropped. “He said, hand over your weapons, Jedi!”

  This definitely wasn’t a preprogrammed security command.

  Anakin said softly, “I saw an Intel report on this; I think those are Grievous’s personal bodyguard droids. Prototypes built to his specifications.” He looked from Obi-Wan to Palpatine and back again. “To fight Jedi.”

  “Ah,” Obi-Wan said. “Then under the circumstances, I suppose we need a Plan B.”

  Anakin nodded at Palpatine. “The Chancellor’s idea is sounding pretty good right now.”

  Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully.

  When the Jedi Master turned away to offer his lightsaber to the bodyguard droid, Anakin leaned close to the Supreme Chancellor and murmured, “So you get your way, after all.”

  Palpatine answered with a slight, unreadable smile. “I frequently do.”

  As super battle droids came forward with electrobi
nders for their wrists and a restraining bolt for R2-D2, Obi-Wan cast one frowning look back over his shoulder.

  “Oh, Anakin,” he said, with the sort of quiet, pained resignation that would be recognized instantly by any parent exhausted by a trouble-prone child. “Where is your lightsaber?”

  Anakin couldn’t look at him. “It’s not lost, if that’s what you’re thinking.” This was the truth: Anakin could feel it in the Force, and he knew exactly where it was.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “Can we talk about this later?”

  “Without your lightsaber, you may not have a ‘later.’ ”

  “I don’t need a lecture, okay? How many times have we had this talk?”

  “Apparently, one time less than we needed to.”

  Anakin sighed. Obi-Wan could still make him feel about nine years old. He gave a sullen nod toward one of the droid bodyguards. “He’s got it.”

  “He does? And how did this happen?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Anakin—”

  “Hey, he’s got yours, too!”

  “That’s different—”

  “This weapon is your life, Obi-Wan!” He did a credible-enough Kenobi impression that Palpatine had to smother a snort. “You must take care of it!”

  “Perhaps,” Obi-Wan said, as the droids clicked the binders onto their wrists and led them all away, “we should talk about this later.”

  Anakin intoned severely, “Without your lightsaber, you may not have a—”

  “All right, all right.” The Jedi Master surrendered with a rueful smile. “You win.”

  Anakin grinned at him. “I’m sorry? What was that?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d won an argument with Obi-Wan. “Could you speak up a little?”

  “It’s not very Jedi to gloat, Anakin.”

  “I’m not gloating, Master,” he said with a sidelong glance at Palpatine. “I’m just … savoring the moment.”

  This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, for now:

  The Supreme Chancellor returns your look with a hint of smile and a sliver of an approving nod, and for you, this tiny, trivial, comradely victory sparks a warmth and ease that relaxes the dragon-grip of dread on your heart.