Book 0 - The Dark Lord Trilogy

by James Luceno

  “Such as?” Shryne said.

  “Well, we already happen to have a good deed on deck. A contract to transport a former Senator from the Core to his home system.”

  Shryne allowed his skepticism to show. “Why would a former Senator have to be smuggled to his home system?”

  “I don’t have all the details. But my guess? The Senator doesn’t share the ideals of the new regime.”

  “Is this a Cash Garrulan contract?”

  Jula nodded. “And maybe that’s another reason for you to say yes to accepting the offer. Because you owe him for arranging for your escape from Murkhana.”

  Shryne pretended scorn. “I don’t owe Cash any favors.”

  “Okay. Then you’ll do it to honor his memory.”

  Shryne stared at her.

  “Imperial troopers caught up with him soon after all of you left Murkhana. Cash is dead.”

  From the high-backed chair that was his seat of power, Sidious watched Darth Vader turn and march from the throne room, long black cloak whooshing, black helmet burnished by the lights, anger palpable.

  Atop a pedestal alongside the chair sat the holocrons Sidious had asked his apprentice to search out and retrieve from the Jedi archives room. Pyramidal in shape, as opposed to the geodesic Jedi version, the holocrons were repositories of recorded knowledge, accessible only to those who were highly evolved in the use of the Force. Arcane writing inscribed on the holocrons Vader had fetched told Sidious that they had been recorded by Sith during the era of Darth Bane, some one thousand standard years earlier. Sidious didn’t have to imagine the content of the devices, because his own Master, Darth Plagueis, had once allowed him access to the actual holocrons. The ones stored in the Temple archives room were nothing more than clever forgeries—Sith disinformation of a sort.

  Vader didn’t realize that they were forgeries, of course, although he was certainly smart enough to have puzzled out that the holocrons were hardly the reason Sidious had ordered him to return to the Temple. But Vader’s obvious anger hinted that something unexpected had occurred. Instead of helping Vader come to terms with his choices, the specious mission had muddled his emotions, and perhaps made matters worse.

  What is to be done with him? Sidious thought.

  Perhaps I will have to send him back to Mustafar, as well.

  He mused on a strategy for a moment; then, depressing a button on the control panel set into the arm of the chair, he summoned Mas Amedda into the room.

  The tall-horned Chagrian, now the Emperor’s interface with sundry utterly dispensable Senatorial groups, moved cautiously between the Imperial Guards who flanked the door, inclining his head in a bow of respect as he approached Sidious.

  Through the open door to the waiting room, Sidious glimpsed a familiar face. “Is that Isard outside?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “He asked that I inform you of an incident that occurred while he and Lord Vader were in the Temple.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I’m given to understand that unknown parties accessed certain databases, by means of the beacon.”

  “Jedi,” Sidious said, drawing out the word.

  “None other, my lord.”

  “And Lord Vader was on hand to witness this remote infiltration?”

  “He was, my lord. Once the source of the transmission was located, Lord Vader ordered a local garrison of troopers to descend on the Jedi responsible.”

  “The troopers failed,” Sidious said, leaning forward in interest.

  Mas Amedda nodded gravely.

  More of his fugitive Jedi, Sidious thought. He has not allowed himself to be done with them.

  “No matter,” he said at last. “What business originally brought you here?”

  “Senator Fang Zar, my lord.”

  Sidious interlocked the fingers of his fat hands and sat back in the chair. “One of the more vocal of the illustrious two thousand who wished to see me removed from office. Has he had a sudden change of heart?”

  “Of a sort. You will recall, my lord, that following your announcement that the war had been won, Fang Zar and several other signatories of the Petition of the Two Thousand were briefly detained for questioning by Internal Security Bureau officers.”

  “Come to the point,” Sidious snapped.

  “Fang Zar was instructed not to leave Coruscant, and yet he did, managing to reach Alderaan, where he has been in residence at the Aldera Palace ever since. Now, however, the conflict that engulfed his home system has come to an end, and Fang Zar is apparently determined to return to Sern Prime without attracting the notice of the ISB or anyone else.”

  Sidious considered it. “Continue.”

  Mas Amedda spread his huge blue hands. “Our only concern is that his sudden return to Sern Prime might prompt dissension in certain outlying systems.”

  Sidious smiled tolerantly. “Some dissension should be encouraged. Better they rant and rave in the open than plot behind my back. But tell me, does Senator Organa know that Zar was questioned before he fled Coruscant?”

  “Perhaps he does now, though it is unlikely he knew when he granted refugee status to Fang Zar.”

  Sidious grew interested once more. “How is Zar planning to reach Sern Prime without, as you say, attracting attention?”

  “We know that he made contact wtih a crime lord on Murkhana—”

  “Murkhana?”

  “Yes, my lord. Perhaps he wishes to avoid involving Senator Organa in his predicament.”

  Sidious fell silent for a long moment, attuned to the currents of the Force. Currents linking Vader and Murkhana, and now Zar and Murkhana. And perhaps fugitive Jedi and Murkhana …

  Into his thoughts came the words of Darth Plagueis.

  Tell me what you regard as your greatest strength, so I will know how best to undermine you; tell me of your greatest fear, so I will know which I must force you to face; tell me what you cherish most, so I will know what to take from you; and tell me what you crave, so that I might deny you …

  “Perhaps it would be more prudent for Fang Zar to remain on Alderaan awhile longer,” he said finally.

  Mas Amedda bowed his head. “Shall I inform Senator Organa of your wish?”

  “No. Lord Vader should deal with the situation.”

  “To deflect his hunger for the Jedi,” the Chagrian risked saying.

  Sidious shot him a look. “To sharpen it.”

  Perhaps it was because Alderaan presented such a pleasant picture from deep space that it had enjoyed such a long history of peace, prosperity, and tolerance.

  Even deeper into its intoxicating atmosphere, closer to its montage of alabaster clouds, blue seas, and green plains, the picture held. Coruscant’s neighbor in the Core was a gem of a world.

  The pacific impression didn’t begin to diminish until one reached street level on the island-city of Aldera, and only then as a result of the day’s activities, which demonstrated that for tolerance to endure, voice had to be granted to all, even when free expression challenged the perpetuation of peace.

  Bail Organa understood this, as had his predecessors in the Galactic Senate. But Bail’s compassion for those who had taken to Aldera’s narrow streets was not a case of noblesse oblige, for he shared the concerns of the demonstrators and had deep sympathy for their cause. As many said of Bail, were it not for genetics, he might have been a Jedi. And indeed for most of his adult life he had been a valued friend of the order.

  He stood in plain sight of the crowds, on a balcony of the Royal Palace, in the heart of Aldera, which itself lay in the embrace of green mountains, their gentle summits sparkling with freshly fallen snow. Below him marched hundreds of thousands of demonstrators—refugees representing scores of species displaced by the war, bundled up in colorful clothing against the mountains’ frigid downdrafts. Many of the refugees had been on Alderaan since the earliest days of the Separatist movement, living in housing Alderaan had provided; many more were
recently arrived onplanet, to show their support. Now that the war had ended, almost all of them were eager to return to their home systems, pick up the pieces of their shattered lives, and reunite with members of their widely dispersed families.

  But the Empire was attempting to thwart them.

  Placards flashed and holoimages sprang from hand- and flipper- and tentacle-held devices as the throng moved past Bail’s lofty perch in the north tower, behind the palace’s high white walls and the arcs of reflecting pools that had long ago served as defensive moats.

  PALPATINE’S PUPPET! one of the holoslogans read.

  REPEAL THE TAX! read another.

  RESIST IMPERIALIZATION! a third.

  The first was a reference to the regional governor Emperor Palpatine had installed in that part of the Core, who had decreed that all refugees of former Confederacy worlds were required to submit to rigorous identity checks before being issued documents of transit.

  The “tax” referred to the toll that had been levied on anyone seeking travel to outlying systems.

  Already a catchphrase, the third slogan was aimed at any who feared the Emperor’s attempts to bind all planetary systems, autonomous or otherwise, to Coruscant’s rule.

  While little of the angry chanting was directed at Alderaan’s government or Queen Breha—Bail’s wife—many in the crowd were looking to Bail to intercede with Palpatine on their behalf. Alderaan was merely their gathering place, after the demonstration’s organizers had decided against holding the march on Coruscant, under the watchful gaze of stormtroopers, and with the memory of what had happened at the Jedi Temple fresh in everyone’s mind.

  Demonstrations were nothing new, in any case. Alderaanians were known throughout the galaxy for their missions of mercy and their unstinting support of oppressed groups. More important, Alderaan had been a hotbed of political dissent throughout the war, with Aldera University’s Students of Collus—named for a celebrated Alderaanian philosopher—leading the movement.

  With his homeworld thoroughly politicized, Bail had been forced to play a careful game in the galactic capital, where he was at once an advocate for refugee populations and a principal member of the Loyalist Committee; that is, loyal to the Constitution, and to the Republic for which it stood.

  A reasonable man, one of a handful of rankled delegates who had found themselves caught between support for Palpatine and outright contention, Bail had understood that political wrangling was the only way to introduce change. As a result, he and Palpatine had engaged in numerous disputes, openly in the Rotunda as well as in private, on issues relating to Palpatine’s rapid rise to incontestable power, and the subsequent slow but steady erosion of personal liberties.

  Only with the war’s sudden and shocking end had Bail come to understand that what had seemed political maneuvering on Palpatine’s part had been nothing less than inspired machination—the unfolding of a diabolical scheme to prolong the war, and to so frustrate the Jedi that when they finally sought to hold him accountable for refusing to proclaim the war concluded with the deaths of Count Dooku and General Grievous, Palpatine could not only declare them traitors to the Republic, but also pronounce them guilty of having fomented the war to serve their own ends, and therefore deserving of execution.

  Ever since, Bail had been forced to play an even more treacherous game on Coruscant—Imperial Center—for he now knew Palpatine to be a more dangerous opponent than anyone suspected; indeed a more dangerous foe than most could even begin to guess. While Senators such as Mon Mothma and Garm Bel Iblis were expecting Bail to join in their attempts to mount a secret rebellion, circumstance compelled him to maintain a low profile, and to demonstrate greater allegiance to Palpatine than he ever had.

  That circumstance was Leia. And Bail’s fears for her safety had only increased since his close encounter with Darth Vader on Coruscant.

  He had spoken of the encounter only to Raymus Antilles, captain of the consular ship Tantive IV. Antilles had been given custody of Anakin’s protocol and astromech droids, C-3PO and R2-D2. The former had undergone a memory wipe to safeguard the truth for as long as necessary, and to assure the continued protection of the Skywalker twins.

  Could Vader actually be Anakin Skywalker? the two men wondered.

  Based on Obi-Wan’s account of what had occurred on Mustafar, Anakin’s survival didn’t seem possible. But perhaps Obi-Wan had underestimated Anakin. Perhaps Anakin’s peerless strength in the Force had allowed him to survive.

  Was Bail, then, raising the child of a man who was still alive?

  What alternative was there? That Palpatine—that Sidious—had dubbed some other apprentice Darth Vader? That the black monstrosity Bail had seen on the landing platform was merely a droid version of Anakin, as General Grievous had been a cyborg version of his former self?

  If that was true, would stormtroopers like Appo allow themselves to be commanded by a such a being, even if ordered to by Sidious?

  The questions had gnawed at Bail without answer, and events such as the refugee march only served to place him at greater risk on Coruscant and heighten his concerns for Leia.

  Unaided, Palpatine was capable of crushing any who opposed him. And yet he continued to allow others to do his dirty work, to preserve his image as a benevolent dictator. Palpatine used his regional governors to issue the harshest of his decrees, and his stormtroopers to enforce them.

  The march’s organizers had promised Bail that it would be a peaceful demonstration, but Bail suspected that Palpatine had infiltrated spies and professional agitators into the crowds. Riots could be used as an excuse by the regional governor to arrest dissidents and perceived troublemakers, and to announce new edicts that would make travel even more difficult and expensive for the refugees.

  With so many ships arriving from nearby worlds, it had been impossible to screen for Imperial agents or saboteurs. Even if there had been some way to identify them, Bail would only have played into Palpatine’s hands by issuing restrictions, thus alienating refugees and their ardent supporters alike, who viewed Alderaan as one of the last bastions of freedom.

  Thus far, Alderaanian law enforcement units were doing a good job of confining the marchers to their preassigned circuit of the Royal Palace. Contingents of Royal Guards surrounded the palace, and the sky was filled with police skimmers and surveillance craft to ensure that the situation remained under control. On Bail’s orders, active measures could only be used as a last resort.

  Standing at the edge of the balcony, the object of shouts, appeals, chants, and flurries of raised fists, Bail ran his hand over his mouth, hoping that the Force was with him.

  “Senator!” someone called from behind him.

  Bail turned and saw Captain Antilles hurrying toward him from the direction of the palace’s Grand Reception Room. Accompanying Antilles were two of Bail’s aides, Sheltray Retrac and Celana Aldrete.

  Antilles directed Bail’s attention to a nearby holoprojector.

  “You’re not going to be pleased,” the starship captain said by way of warning.

  The holoimage of an enormous warship resolved in the projector’s blue field.

  Bail’s brow wrinkled in confoundment.

  “Imperator-class Star Destroyer,” Antilles explained. “Hot off the line. And now parked in stationary orbit above Aldera.”

  “This is outrageous,” Celana Aldrete said. “Even Palpatine wouldn’t be so bold as to interfere in our affairs.”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” Bail said. “He would and he has.” He swung to Antilles. “Comm the vessel,” he ordered as Aldera’s vizier and other advisers were hastening onto the balcony to gawk at the projected holoimage.

  Before Antilles could activate his comlink, the holoprojector image faded and was replaced by the pinched, clean-shaven face of Palpatine’s chief henchman, Sate Pestage.

  “Senator Organa,” Pestage said. “I trust you are receiving me.”

  Of all of Palpatine’s advisers, Pestage came closest to b
eing Bail’s archnemesis. A thug, with no understanding of the legislative process, Pestage had no business being in a position of authority. But he had been one of Palpatine’s chief advisers since Palpatine’s arrival on Coruscant from Naboo, as that world’s Senator.

  Bail positioned himself on the projector’s transmission grid and signaled for Antilles to open a link to Pestage.

  “There you are,” Pestage said after a moment. “Will you grant permission for our shuttle to land, Senator?”

  “How unlike you to extend us the courtesy of a warning, Sate. What brings you to this part of the Core, in a Star Destroyer, no less?”

  Pestage smiled without showing his teeth. “I’m merely a passenger aboard the Exactor, Senator. As to our business here … Well, let me say first how much I’ve enjoyed watching HoloNet feeds of your … political rally.”

  “It’s a peaceful gathering, Sate,” Bail fired back. “And it’s likely to remain so unless your agitators succeed in doing what they do best.”

  Pestage adopted a surprised look. “My agitators? You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m very serious. But suppose you get back to telling me why you are here.”

  Pestage tugged at his lower lip. “Now that I think about it, Senator, it might be more prudent for me to leave the explanation to the Emperor’s emissary.”

  Bail stood akimbo. “That has always been your position, Sate.”

  “No longer, Senator,” Pestage said. “I now answer to a superior.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Someone you’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Darth Vader.”

  Bail froze, but only on the inside. He managed to keep from glancing at Antilles, and his voice belied none of his sudden dread when he said: “Darth Vader? What sort of name is that?”

  Pestage smiled again. “Well, actually it’s something of a title and a name.” The smile collapsed. “But make no mistake, Senator, Lord Vader speaks for the Emperor. You would do well to bear that in mind.”

  “And this Darth Vader is coming here?” Bail said in a composed voice.