by James Luceno
But there was a problem.
His new hands were too large to duplicate the loose grip Anakin had favored, right hand wrapped not on the grip but around the crystal-housing cylinder, close to the blade itself. Vader’s hands required that the grip be thicker and longer, and the result was an inelegant weapon, verging on ungainly.
Another cause of the injury to his left arm.
The Sith grew past the use of lightsabers, Sidious had told him. But we continue to use them, if only to humiliate the Jedi.
Vader yearned for the time when memories of Anakin would fade, like light absorbed by a black hole. Until that happened, his life-sustaining suit would be an ill fit. Even if it was well suited to the darkness in his invulnerable heart …
The comlink chimed.
“What is it, Commander Appo?”
“Lord Vader, I’ve been informed of a discrepancy in the prisoner count. Allowing for the Jedi you killed on Murkhana, two prisoners are unaccounted for.”
“The others who survived Order Sixty-Six,” Vader said.
“Shall I instruct Commander Salvo to initiate a search?”
“Not this time, Commander. I will handle it myself.”
Down there?” Starstone said, halting at the head of a creepy stairway Shryne was already descending. The stairs led to the basement of a rambling building that had been left unscathed by the battle, and was typical of those that crowned the verdant hills south of Murkhana City. But she had a bad feeling about the stairway.
“Don’t worry. This is only Cash’s way of keeping out the riffraff.”
“Doesn’t appear to be slowing you down any,” she said, following him into the stairway’s dark well.
“Glad to see that your sense of humor has returned. You must have been the life of the dungeon.”
And Shryne meant it, because he didn’t want her dwelling on Bol Chatak’s death. In the long hours it had taken them to get from the landing field to Cash Garrulan’s headquarters Starstone seemed to have made peace with what had happened.
“How is it you know this person?” she asked over his shoulder.
“Garrulan’s the reason the Council first sent me to Murkhana. He’s a former Black Sun vigo. I came here to put him out of business, but he turned out to be one of our best sources of intelligence on Separatist activities in this quadrant. Years before Geonosis, Garrulan was warning us about the extent of Dooku’s military buildup, but no one on the Council or in the Senate seemed to take the threat seriously.”
“And in return for the intelligence you allowed Garrulan to remain in business.”
“He’s not a Hutt. He deals in, well, wholesale commodities.”
“So not only are we on the run, we’re turning to gangsters for help.”
“Maybe you have a better idea?”
“No, Master, I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so. And stop calling me ‘Master.’ Someone will either make the Jedi connection or get the impression you’re my servant.”
“Force forbid,” Starstone muttered.
“I’m Roan. Plain and simple.”
“I’ll try to remember that—Roan.” She laughed at the sound of it. “I’m sorry, it just doesn’t ring true.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
At the foot of the stairs was an unadorned door. Shryne rapped his knuckles on the jamb, and to the droid eyeball that poked through a circular portal in response said something in what Starstone surmised was Koorivar. A moment later the door slid into its housing to reveal a muscular and extensively tattooed human male, cradling a DC-17 blaster rifle. Smiling at Shryne, he ushered them into a surprisingly opulent foyer.
“Still sneaking up on people, huh, Shryne?”
“Old habits.”
The man nodded sagely, then gave Shryne and Starstone the once-over. “What’s with the getups? You look like you’ve spent a month in a trash compactor.”
“That would have been a step up,” Starstone said.
Shryne peered into the back room. “Is he here, Jally?”
“He’s here, but not for long. Just packing up what we couldn’t move before the invasion. I’ll tell him—”
“Let’s make it a surprise.”
Jally laughed shortly. “Oh, he’ll be surprised, all right.”
Shryne motioned for Starstone to follow him. On the far side of a beaded-curtain entryway a mixed group of humans, aliens, and labor droids were hauling packing crates into a spacious turbolift. Even more well appointed than the foyer, the room was cluttered with furniture, infostorage and communications devices, weapons, and more. The humanoid standing in the midst of it and dispensing orders to his underlings was a Twi’lek with fatty lekku and a prominent paunch. Sensing someone behind him, he turned and stared openmouthed at Shryne.
“I heard you’d been killed.”
“Wishful thinking,” Shryne said.
Cash Garrulan moved his head from side to side. “Perhaps.” He extended his fat arms and shook both of Shryne’s hands, then gestured to Shryne’s filthy robe. “I love the new look.”
“I got tired of wearing brown.”
His gazed shifted. “Who’s your new friend, Roan?”
“Olee,” Shryne said without elaboration. He aimed a glance at the packing crates. “Clearance sale, Cash?”
“Let’s just say that peace has been bad for business.”
“Then it is over?” Shryne asked solemnly.
Garrulan inclined his large head. “You hadn’t heard? It was all over the HoloNet, Roan.”
“Olee and I have been out of touch.”
“Apparently so.” The Twi’lek turned to bark instructions at two of his employees, then motioned Shryne and Starstone into a small and tidy office, where Garrulan and Shryne sat down.
“Are you two in the market for blasters?” Garrulan asked. “I’ve got BlasTechs, Merr-Sonns, Tenloss DXs, you name it. And I’ll let you have them cheap.” When Shryne shook his head no, Garrulan said: “What about comlinks? Vibroblades? Tatooine handwoven carpets—”
“Fill us in on how the war ended.”
“How it ended?” Garrulan snapped his fat fingers. “Just like that. One moment Chancellor Palpatine has been kidnapped by General Grievous; the next, Dooku and Grievous are dead, the Jedi are traitors, the battle droids shut down, and we’re one big happy galaxy again, more united than before—an Empire, no less. No formal surrender by the Confederacy of Independent Systems, no bogged-down Senate, no trade embargoes. And whatever the Emperor wants, the Emperor gets.”
“Any comments from the members of the Separatist Council?”
“Not a peep. Although rumors abound. The Emperor had them put to death. They’re still on the run. They’re holed up in the Tingel Arm, in the company of Passel Argente’s cronies …”
Shryne extended his arm to prevent Starstone from pacing. “Sit down,” he said. “And stop chewing on your lip.”
“Yes, Mas—Roan.”
“I have to say,” Garrulan went on, “I never would have guessed that the Jedi would be held accountable.”
“For attempting to arrest Palpatine, you mean,” Shryne said.
“No—for the war.” Garrulan stared at Shryne for a long moment. “You really don’t know what’s happened, do you? Maybe you two should have a drink.”
Garrulan was halfway to his feet when Shryne said: “No drinks. Just tell us.”
The Twi’lek looked genuinely dismayed. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Roan—especially to you, of all people—but the war has been laid at the feet of the Jedi. You manipulated the whole charade: vat-grown troopers on one side, Master Dooku on the other, all in an attempt to overthrow the Republic and place yourselves in charge. That’s why Palpatine ordered your execution, and why the Jedi Temple was sacked.”
Shryne and Starstone traded looks of dread.
Reading their expressions, the crime boss adopted a somber tone. “From what I understand, nearly all of the Jedi were killed—in the T
emple, or on one world or another.”
Shryne put his arm around Starstone’s quaking shoulders. “Steady, kid,” he said, as much to himself as to Olee.
The second beacon transmission, ordering all Jedi to go to ground, suddenly made sense. The Temple, defenseless in the absence of so many Jedi Knights, had been attacked and plundered; teachers and younglings slaughtered by Coruscant’s shock troopers—stormtroopers, as they were now being called. How many Jedi had returned to the Core, Shryne wondered, only to be killed on arrival?
The order was finished. Not only was there nothing for Shryne and Starstone on Coruscant, there was nothing for them anywhere.
“For what it’s worth,” Garrulan said, “I don’t believe a word of it. Palpatine is behind this. He has been from the start.”
Starstone was shaking her head back and forth in disbelief. “It’s not possible that every Jedi has been killed.” She turned to Shryne. “Some Jedi weren’t even with clone troopers, Master. Other commanders may have refused to obey High Command’s execution orders.”
“You’re right,” Shryne said, trying to sound comforting.
“We’ll find other survivors.”
“Sure we will.”
“The order will rebuild itself.”
“Absolutely.”
Garrulan waited for them to fall silent before saying: “A lot of others have had the carpet yanked out from under them—even those of us at the bottom of the food chain.” He laughed regretfully. “War has always been better for us than peace. At least the Corporate Alliance was willing to tolerate us for a share of the profits. But the regional governors the Emperor installed are out to cast us as the new enemy. And between you and me, I’d sooner deal with the Hutts.”
Shryne studied him. “Where’s that leave you, Cash?”
“Not on Murkhana, that much is certain. My Koorivar competitors in crime have my blessings, and my sympathy.” Garrulan returned Shryne’s look. “What about you, Roan? Any ideas?”
“Not right now,” Shryne said.
“Perhaps you should consider working for me. I could use people with your special talents, especially now. I owe you a favor, in any case.”
Starstone glared at him. “We haven’t fallen so low as to—” she started to say when Shryne clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Maybe I will consider it. But first you’ve got to get us off Murkhana.”
Garrulan showed Shryne the palms of his hands. “I don’t owe you that much.”
“Make it happen, and I’ll owe you.”
Starstone looked from Shryne to Garrulan and back again. “Is this the way you were before the war? Cutting deals with anyone you pleased?”
“Don’t mind her,” Shryne said. “What about it, Cash?”
Garrulan sat back in his oversize chair. “Shouldn’t be too hard to equip you with false identities and outwit the local garrison troopers.”
“Normally, I’d agree,” Shryne cut in. “But someone new has been added to the mix. A Lord Vader.” When Garrulan didn’t react to the name, he continued. “A sort of black-armored version of Grievous, only more dangerous, and apparently in charge of doing Palpatine’s dirty work.”
“Really,” Garrulan said, clearly interested. “I haven’t heard anything about him.”
“You will,” Shryne said. “And he could present a problem to our getting off this rock.”
Garrulan stroked his lekku. “Well, then, I may have to rethink my offer—in the interest of avoiding Imperial complications. Or we may simply need to take additional precautions.”
Black armorweave and feats of strength weren’t the only things that distinguished Darth Vader from Anakin Skywalker. Where Anakin had had limited access to the Jedi Temple data room, Vader—even light-years from Coruscant—could peruse any data he wished, including archival records, ancient texts, and holocrons fashioned by past Masters. Thus was he able to learn the identities of the six Jedi who had been assigned to Murkhana at the end of the war; the four who had been killed—Masters Loorne and Bol Chatak, and two Jedi Knights—and the two who remained at large: Roan Shryne and Chatak’s Padawan, Olee Starstone, now presumably in the care of the older and more experienced Shryne.
A petite young woman with dark curly hair and an engaging smile, Starstone until recently had seemed destined to become a Temple acolyte, having been selected by Master Joscasta Nu to serve as her apprentice in the archives room. Shortly before the start of the war, and in the interest of broadening her understanding of the rest of the galaxy, Starstone had asked to be allowed to do fieldwork, and it was during a brief visit to Eriadu that she had attracted the attention of Bol Chatak.
Chatak hadn’t accepted her as a learner, however, until the war’s second year, and only then at the behest of the High Council. With so many Jedi Knights participating in military campaigns on far-flung worlds, the Temple was no place for an able-bodied young Jedi who could be of greater service to the Republic as a warrior than as a librarian.
By all accounts Starstone had shown great promise. Candid, smart as a vibro-whip, and a brilliant researcher, she should probably have never been allowed to leave the Temple. Although she would have died there, a victim of Darth Vader’s blade or the blaster bolts of Commander Appo’s shock troopers.
Roan Shryne was another matter, and it was Shryne’s holoimage Vader was circling, as data about the long-haired rogue Jedi Knight scrolled in a separate holoprojector field.
Shryne had originally been encountered on the Outer Rim world of Weytta, which happened to be in the same galactic neighborhood as Murkhana. His file contained passing references to an “incident” that had attended his procurement, but Vader hadn’t been able to locate a detailed account of what had occurred.
At the Temple he had demonstrated an early talent for being able to sense the presence of the Force in others, and so had been encouraged to pursue a course that would have landed him in the Temple’s Acquisition Division. When he was old enough to understand what acquisition entailed, however, he had steadfastly refused further tutelage, for reasons the records also didn’t make clear.
The matter was brought before the High Council, which ultimately decided that Shryne should be allowed to find his own path rather than be pressed into service. The path Shryne eventually followed was the study of weapons of war, both ancient and modern, from which had grown an interest in the role played by crime syndicates in the spread of illegal arms.
Shryne’s condemnation of the loopholes in Republic laws that had allowed the Trade Federation and similar groups to amass droid armies was what had brought him initially to Murkhana, shortly before the outbreak of the war. There he had had dealings with a crime boss of local repute, who had gradually become Shryne’s informant on the Separatist military buildup. As a result, Shryne had made frequent journeys to Murkhana, even during the war, both as an undercover singleton and with a Padawan learner.
A couple of years older than Obi-Wan Kenobi, Shryne, like Obi-Wan, had been a peripheral member of what some Jedi had referred to as the “Old Guard”—a select group that had included Dooku, Qui-Gon Jinn, Sifo-Dyas, Mace Windu, and others, many of whom had been or would be named to sit on the High Council. But unlike Obi-Wan, Shryne had never been privy to Council discussions or decisions.
Interestingly, Shryne had been among those Jedi sent to Geonosis on the rescue mission that had wound up becoming the spark that ignited the war. During the battle there, his former Master, Nat-Sem, had been killed, along with Shryne’s first Padawan.
Then, two and a half years into the war, Shryne lost a second learner at the Battle of Manari.
It was noted in the records that Shryne’s fellow Jedi began to see a change in him after Manari, not only with regard to the war, but also with regard to the role the Jedi had been constrained to play—manipulated to play, Vader now understood—and many Jedi had expected him to leave the order, as several other Jedi Knights had done, either finding their way to the Separatist side or simply
vanishing from sight.
Continuing to study the ghostly image of Shryne, Vader activated the cabin comm.
“What have you learned?” he asked.
“Still no sign of either Jedi, Lord Vader,” Appo said. “But the Twi’lek crime boss has been located.”
“Good work, Commander. He will prove to be all the lead we need.”
Cash Garrulan was trying to figure out how he could unload eight hundred pairs of knockoff Neuro-Saav electrobinoculars in a hurry when Jally burst into his office to draw his attention to the security monitors.
In mounting annoyance, Garrulan watched twenty clone troopers climb from a wheeled transport and take up positions around the aged, sprawling structure that was his headquarters.
“Stormtroopers, no less,” Garrulan said. “Probably sent by the regional governor to grab whatever they can before we depart.” Pushing himself upright, he swept a stack of data cards from his desk into an open attaché case. “Give the troopers our munitions overstock. Don’t make a stand, whatever you do. If things get rough, offer them more—the electrobinoculars, for instance.” He grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. “I, however, am not about to suffer the indignity of an arrest. I’ll take the back stairs and meet you at the docking bay.”
“Good choice. We’ll handle the clones.”
Hurrying out of his office and through the stockroom, he pressed the release for the back door, only to find a towering figure filling the entryway. Dressed in black from outsize helmet to knee-high boots, the masked figure had his gloved fists planted on his hips in a way that spread his cloak wide.
“Going somewhere, Vigo?”
The slightly bass voice was enhanced by a vocoder of some sort and underscored by deep, rhythmical breathing, obviously regulated by the control box strapped to the figure’s broad and armored chest.
Vader, Garrulan told himself. The Grievous-like monstrosity Shryne said had been “added to the mix.”
“May I inquire who wishes to know?”
“You’re free to ask,” Vader said, but left it at that.