Book 0 - The Dark Lord Trilogy

by James Luceno

  “I just—I have to—” Anakin found himself half out of his seat, fists clenched and trembling. He forced himself to relax and sit back down, and he took a deep breath. “You seem to know so much about this, I need you to tell me: would it be possible, possible at all, to learn this power?”

  Palpatine shrugged, regarding him with that smile of gentle wisdom.

  “Well, clearly,” he said, “not from a Jedi.”

  For a long, long time after leaving the opera house, Anakin sat motionless in his idling speeder, eyes closed, resting his head against the edge of his mechanical hand. The speeder bobbed gently in the air-wakes of the passing traffic; he didn’t feel it. Klaxons blared, rising and fading as angry pilots swerved around him; he didn’t hear them.

  Finally he sighed and lifted his head. He stroked a private code into the speeder’s comm screen. After a moment the screen lit up with an image of Padmé’s half-asleep face.

  “Anakin—?” She rubbed her eyes, blinking. “Where are you? What time is it?”

  “Padmé, I can’t—” He stopped himself, huffing a sigh out through his nose. “Listen, Padmé, something’s come up. I have to spend the night at the Temple.”

  “Oh … well, all right, Anakin. I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.” He swallowed. “I miss you already.”

  “We’ll be together tomorrow?”

  “Yes. And soon, for the rest of our lives. We’ll never have to be apart again.”

  She nodded sleepily. “Rest well, my love.”

  “I’ll do my best. You, too.”

  She blew him a kiss, and the screen went blank.

  Anakin fired thrusters and slid the speeder expertly into traffic, angling toward the Jedi Temple, because that part—the part about spending the night at the Temple—was the part that wasn’t a lie.

  The lie was that he was going to rest. That he was going to even try. How could he rest when every time he closed his eyes he could see her screaming on the birthing table?

  Now the Council’s insult burned hotter than ever; he even had a name, a story, a place to start—but how could he explain to the archives Master why he needed to research a Sith legend of immortality?

  Yet maybe he didn’t need the archives after all.

  The Temple was still the greatest nexus of Force energy on the planet, perhaps even the galaxy, and it was unquestionably the best place in the galaxy for intense, focused meditation. He had much he needed the Force to teach him, and a very short time to learn.

  He would start by thinking inward.

  Thinking about himself…

  THE WILL OF THE FORCE

  When her handmaiden Moteé awakened her with the word that C-3PO had announced a Jedi was waiting to see her, Padmé flew out of bed, threw on a robe, and hurried out to her living room, a smile breaking through her sleepiness like the dawn outside—

  But it was Obi-Wan.

  The Jedi Master had his back to her, hands clasped behind him as he drifted restlessly about the room, gazing with abstracted lack of interest at her collection of rare sculpture.

  “Obi-Wan,” she said breathlessly, “has—” She bit off the following something happened to Anakin? How would she explain why this was the first thing out of her mouth?

  “—has See-Threepio offered you anything to drink?”

  He turned to her, a frown clearing from his brow. “Senator,” he said warmly. “So good to see you again. I apologize for the early hour, and yes, your protocol droid has been quite insistent on offering me refreshment.” His frown began to regather. “But as you may guess, this is not a social call. I’ve come to speak with you about Anakin.”

  Her years in politics had trained her well; even as her heart lurched and a shrill How much does he know? echoed inside her head, her face remained only attentively blank.

  A primary rule of Republic politics: tell as much truth as you can. Especially to a Jedi. “I was very happy to learn of his appointment to the Council.”

  “Yes. It is perhaps less than he deserves—though I’m afraid it may be more than he can handle. Has he been to see you?”

  “Several times,” she said evenly. “Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

  Obi-Wan tilted his head, and a hint of rueful smile showed through his beard. “You should have been a Jedi.”

  She managed a light laugh. “And you should never go into politics. You’re not very good at hiding your feelings. What is it?”

  “It’s Anakin.” With his pretense of cheer fading away, he seemed to age before her eyes. He looked very tired, and profoundly troubled. “May I sit?”

  “Please.” She waved him to the couch and lowered herself onto its edge beside him. “Is he in trouble again?”

  “I certainly hope not. This is more … a personal matter.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “He’s been put in a difficult position as the Chancellor’s representative, but I think there’s more to it than that. We—had words, yesterday, and we parted badly.”

  Her heart shrank; he must know, and he’d come to confront her—to bring their whole lives crashing down around their ears. She ached for Anakin, but her face showed only polite curiosity.

  “What were these words about?” she asked delicately.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he said with a vaguely apologetic frown. “Jedi business. You understand.”

  She inclined her head. “Of course.”

  “It’s only that—well, I’ve been a bit worried about him. I was hoping he may have talked to you.”

  “Why would he talk to me about—” She favored him with her best friendly-but-skeptical smile. “—Jedi business?”

  “Senator—Padmé. Please.” He gazed into her eyes with nothing on his face but compassion and fatigued anxiety. “I am not blind, Padmé. Though I have tried to be, for Anakin’s sake. And for yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Neither of you is very good at hiding feelings, either.”

  “Obi-Wan—”

  “Anakin has loved you since the day you met, in that horrible junk shop on Tatooine. He’s never even tried to hide it, though we do not speak of it. We … pretend that I don’t know. And I was happy to, because it made him happy. You made him happy, when nothing else ever truly could.” He sighed, his brows drawing together. “And you, Padmé, skilled as you are on the Senate floor, cannot hide the light that comes to your eyes when anyone so much as mentions his name.”

  “I—” She lurched to her feet. “I can’t—Obi-Wan, don’t make me talk about this …”

  “I don’t mean to hurt you, Padmé. Nor even to make you uncomfortable. I’m not here to interrogate you; I have no interest in the details of your relationship.”

  She turned away, walking just to be moving, barely conscious of passing through the door out onto the dawn-painted veranda. “Then why are you here?”

  He followed her respectfully. “Anakin is under a great deal of pressure. He carries tremendous responsibilities for a man so young; when I was his age I still had some years to go as a Padawan. He is—changing. Quickly. And I have some anxiety about what he is changing into. It would be a … very great mistake … were he to leave the Jedi Order.”

  She blinked as though he’d slapped her. “Why—that seems … unlikely, doesn’t it? What about this prophecy the Jedi put so much faith in? Isn’t he the chosen one?”

  “Very probably. But I have scanned this prophecy; it says only that a chosen one will be born and bring balance to the Force; nowhere does it say he has to be a Jedi.”

  She blinked harder, fighting down a surge of desperate hope that left her breathless. “He doesn’t have to—?”

  “My Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, believed that it was the will of the Force that Anakin should be trained as a Jedi—and we all have a certain, oh, I suppose you could call it a Jedi-centric bias. It is a Jedi prophecy, after all.”

  “But the will of the Force—isn’t that what Jedi follow?”

 
“Well, yes. But you must understand that not even the Jedi know all there is to be known about the Force; no mortal mind can. We speak of the will of the Force as someone ignorant of gravity might say it is the will of a river to flow to the ocean: it is a metaphor that describes our ignorance. The simple truth—if any truth is ever simple—is that we do not truly know what the will of the Force may be. We can never know. It is so far beyond our limited understanding that we can only surrender to its mystery.”

  “What does this have to do with Anakin?” She swallowed, but her voice stayed tight and thin. “And with me?”

  “I fear that some of his current … difficulty … has to do with your relationship.”

  If you only knew how much, she thought. “What do you want me to do?”

  He looked down. “I cannot tell you what to do, Padmé. I can only ask you to consider Anakin’s best interests. You know the two of you can never be together while he remains in the Order.”

  A bleak chill settled into her chest. “Obi-Wan, I can’t talk about this.”

  “Very well. But remember that the Jedi are his family. The Order gives his life structure. It gives him a direction. You know how … undisciplined he can be.”

  And that’s why he is the only Jedi I could ever love … “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “If his true path leads him away from the Jedi, so be it. But please, for both of your sakes, tread carefully. Be sure. Some decisions can never be reversed.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. Feelingly. “I know that too well.”

  He nodded as though he understood, though of course he did not understand at all. “We all do, these days.”

  A soft chiming came from within his robe. “Excuse me,” he said, and turned aside, producing a comlink from an inner pocket. “Yes …?”

  A man’s voice came thinly through the comlink, deep and clipped: “We are calling the Council into special session. We’ve located General Grievous!”

  “Thank you, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m on my way.”

  General Grievous? Her eyes went hot, and stung with sudden tears. And so they would take her Anakin away from her again.

  She felt a stirring below her ribs. Away from us, she amended, and there was so much love and fear and joy and loss all swirling and clashing within her that she dared not speak. She only stared blindly out across the smog-shrouded cityscape as Obi-Wan came close to her shoulder.

  “Padmé,” he said softly. Gently. Almost regretfully. “I will not tell the Council of this. Any of it. I’m very sorry to burden you with this, and I—I hope I haven’t upset you too much. We have all been friends for so long … and I hope we always will be.”

  “Thank you, Obi-Wan,” she said faintly. She couldn’t look at him. From the corner of her eye she saw him incline his head respectfully and turn to go.

  For a moment she said nothing, but as his footsteps receded she said, “Obi-Wan?”

  She heard him stop.

  “You love him, too, don’t you?”

  When he didn’t answer, she turned to look. He stood motionless, frowning, in the middle of the expanse of buff carpeting.

  “You do. You love him.”

  He lowered his head. He looked very alone.

  “Please do what you can to help him,” he said, and left.

  The holoscan of Utapau rotated silently in the center of the Jedi Council Chamber. Anakin had brought the holoprojector from the Chancellor’s office; Obi-Wan wondered idly if the projector had been scanned for recording devices planted by the Chancellor to spy on their meeting, then dismissed the thought. In a sense, Anakin was the Chancellor’s recording device.

  And that’s our fault, he thought.

  The only Council members physically present, other than Obi-Wan and Anakin, were Mace Windu and Agen Kolar. The Council reached a quorum by the projected holopresences of Ki-Adi-Mundi, en route to Mygeeto, Plo Koon on Cato Neimoidia, and Yoda, who was about to make planetfall on Kashyyyk.

  “Why Utapau?” Mace Windu was saying. “A neutral system, of little strategic significance, and virtually no planetary defense force—”

  “Perhaps that is itself the reason,” Agen Kolar offered. “Easily taken, and their sinkhole-based culture can hide a tremendous number of droids from long-range scans.”

  Ki-Adi-Mundi’s frown wrinkled the whole length of his forehead. “Our agents on Utapau have made no report of this.”

  “They may be detained, or dead,” Obi-Wan said.

  Mace Windu leaned toward Anakin, scowling. “How could the Chancellor have come by this information when we know nothing about it?”

  “Clone Intelligence intercepted a partial message in a diplomatic packet from the Chairman of Utapau,” Anakin told him. “We’ve only managed to verify its authenticity within the past hour.”

  Obi-Wan felt a frown crawl onto his forehead at the way Anakin now referred to the Chancellor’s Office as we …

  “Clone Intelligence,” Mace said heavily, “reports to us.”

  “I beg your pardon, Master Windu, but that is no longer the case.” Though Anakin’s expression was perfectly solemn, Obi-Wan thought he could detect a hint of satisfaction in his young friend’s voice. “I thought it had been already made clear. The constitutional amendment bringing the Jedi under the Chancellor’s Office naturally includes troops commanded by Jedi. Palpatine is now Supreme Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

  “Pointless it is, to squabble over jurisdiction,” the image of Yoda said. “Act on this, we must.”

  “I believe we all agree on that,” Anakin said briskly. “Let’s move to the operational planning. The Chancellor has requested that I lead this mission, and so I—”

  “The Council will decide this,” Mace said sternly. “Not the Chancellor.”

  “Dangerous, Grievous is. To face him, steady minds are needed. Masters, we should send.”

  Perhaps of all the Council, only Obi-Wan could detect the shadow of disappointment and hurt that crept into Anakin’s eyes. Obi-Wan understood perfectly, and could even sympathize: to take the field would have slipped Anakin out from under the pressures of what he saw as his conflicting duties.

  “Given the strain on our current resources,” Mace Windu said, “I recommend we send only one Jedi—Master Kenobi.”

  Which would leave Mace and Agen Kolar—both among the greatest bladesbeings the Jedi Order had ever produced—here on Coruscant in case Sidious did indeed take this opportunity to make a dramatic move. Not to mention Anakin, who was a brigade’s worth of firepower in his own right.

  Obi-Wan nodded. Perfectly logical. Everyone would agree.

  Except Anakin. He leaned forward, red climbing his cheeks. “He wasn’t so successful the last time he met Grievous!”

  “Anakin—” Obi-Wan began.

  “No offense, my Master. I am only stating a fact.”

  “Oh no, not at all. You’re quite right. But I have a feel for how he fights now—and for how he runs away. I am certain I can catch him.”

  “Master—”

  “And you, my young friend, have duties here on Coruscant. Extremely important duties, that require your full attention,” Obi-Wan reminded him. “Am I being clear?”

  Anakin didn’t answer. He sank back into his chair and turned away.

  “Obi-Wan, my choice is,” Yoda said.

  Ki-Adi-Mundi’s image nodded. “I concur. Let’s put it to a vote.”

  Mace Windu counted nods. “Six in favor.”

  He waited, looking at Anakin. “Further comment?”

  Anakin only stared at the wall.

  After a moment, Mace shrugged.

  “It is unanimous.”

  Senator Chi Eekway accepted a tube of Aqualish hoi-broth from C-3PO’s refeshment tray. “I am very grateful to be included here,” she said, her dewlaps jiggling as she tilted her blue head in a gesture around Padmé’s living room at the gathering of Senators. “I speak directly only for my own sector, of course, but I can tell
you that many Senators are becoming very nervous indeed. You may not know that the new governors are arriving with full regiments of clone troops—what they call security forces. We all have begun to wonder if these regiments are intended to protect us from the Separatists … or to protect the governors from us.”

  Padmé looked up from the document reader in her hand. “I have … reliable information … that General Grievous has been located, and that the Jedi are already moving against his position. The war may be over in a matter of days.”

  “But what then?” Bail Organa leaned forward, elbows to knees, fingers laced together. “How do we make Palpatine withdraw his governors? How do we stop him from garrisoning troops in all our systems?”

  “We don’t have to make him do anything,” Padmé said reasonably. “The Senate granted him executive powers only for the duration of the emergency—”

  “Yet it is only Palpatine himself who has the authority to declare when the emergency is over,” Bail countered. “How do we make him surrender power back to the Senate?”

  Chi Eekway shifted backward. “There are many who are willing to do just that,” she said. “Not just my own people. Many Senators. We are ready to make him surrender power.”

  Padmé snapped the document reader closed. She looked from Senator to Senator expressionlessly. “Would anyone care for further refreshment?”

  “Senator Amidala,” Eekway said, “I fear you don’t understand—”

  “Senator Eekway. Another hoi-broth?”

  “No, that’s—”

  “Very well, then.” She looked up at C-3PO. “Threepio, that will be all. Please tell Moteé and Ellé that they are dismissed for the day, then you are free to power down for a while.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Threepio replied. “Though I must say, this discussion has been most stimu—”

  “Threepio.” Padmé’s tone went a trace extra firm. “That will be all.”

  “Yes, Mistress. Of course. I quite understand.” The droid turned stiffly and shuffled out of the room.

  As soon as 3PO was safely out of earshot, Padmé brandished the document reader as though it were a weapon. “This is a very dangerous step. We cannot let this turn into another war.”