Darth Plagueis

by James Luceno

  From the pocket of his robe, Palpatine prized the flimsi Vidar Kim had given him and handed it over. “His itinerary for Coruscant.”

  “Perfect.” Pestage slipped the flimsi into his pocket.

  “I want you to wait until his business on Coruscant is concluded.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “He’s threatening to alert the Jedi Order and the Senate Investigatory Committee about various deals that were made.”

  Pestage snorted. “Then he deserves everything that’s coming to him.” He scanned their surroundings without moving his head. “Have you made a decision about who to use from the data I supplied?”

  “The Maladians,” Palpatine said.

  A group of highly trained humanoid assassins, they had struck him as the obvious choice.

  Pestage nodded. “Can I ask why?”

  Palpatine wasn’t accustomed to having to justify his decisions, but answered regardless. “The Mandalorian Death Watch has its own problems, and the Bando Gora its own galactic agenda.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Pestage said. “Besides, the Maladians are known to honor all their contracts.”

  “How soon can you have them on Coruscant?”

  Pestage looked at him askance. “Perhaps it’s best that that remains on a need-to-know basis.”

  The man’s audacity both impressed and bridled Palpatine. “There can be no mistakes, Sate.”

  A long-suffering look flared on Pestage’s face, but his tone was compliant when he responded. “If there are, then I’m certain this will be our final conversation. I know fully well what Magister Damask and you are capable of, and I hope to make myself worthy of continuing to serve you. One day, perhaps, you’ll begin to think of me as family, as I’m sure Senator Kim does you.”

  Just how much does this man know? Palpatine wondered.

  “You’ve no qualms about living a double life, Sate?”

  “Some of us are simply born into it,” Pestage said, indifferent to Palpatine’s penetrating gaze.

  “You’ll contact me here?”

  “As soon as the work is completed. Just make sure to stay close to your comm.”

  “You’ll also be contacting Magister Damask?”

  Pestage rocked his head. “He gave me the impression that he would be unavailable for the next few weeks. But I suspect we’re safe in assuming that the results won’t escape his notice.”

  On a planet at the edge of known space, above the holo-well of a gleaming metallic table, a quarter-sized three-dimensional image of a tall biped rotated between graphs and scrolling lines of anatomical and physiological data. In a spoon-like seat suspended from the white room’s towering ceiling sat Hego Damask, dwarfed by a trio of slender, tailed scientists — two crested males and a female whose complexion was more gray than white.

  “This being is representative of the entire species?” the scientist called Ni Timor asked in a gentle, almost sussurant voice.

  “This one murdered six members of his species,” Damask said, “but he is otherwise typical of the Yinchorri.”

  Tenebrous had introduced him to the planet Kamino early on in his apprenticeship, but he hadn’t visited in more than three years. In stocking Sojourn’s greel forests with rare and in some cases extinct fauna, he had hired the Kaminoans to grow clones from biological samples he procured through brokers of genetic materials. The glassy eyes, long necks, and sleek bodies of the bipedal indigenes spoke to a marine past, though in fact they had been land dwellers for millions of years preceding a great flood that had inundated Kamino. With global catastrophe looming, most technologically advanced sentient species would have abandoned their homeworld and reached for the stars. But the Kaminoans had instead constructed massive stilt cities that were completed even while the oceans of their world were rising and submerging the continents. They had also turned their considerable intellect to the science of cloning as a means of ensuring the survival of their species, and along the way had taken genetic replication farther than any known species in the galaxy. Residing outside the galactic rim, the Kaminoans performed their work in secret and only for the very wealthy. It was unlikely, in any case, that they would have abided by the Republic’s restrictions on cloning. Moral principles regarding natural selection seemed to be something they had left on the floor of what was now Kamino’s planetwide ocean, which perhaps explained why they were no more reluctant about providing game animals for Sojourn than they were about supplying shovel-handed clones to work in the mines of inhospitable Subterrel.

  Damask considered them to be one of the galaxy’s most progressive species: almost Sith-like in their emotional aloofness and scientific objectivity.

  The female scientist, Ko Sai, had highlighted an area of the Yinchorri’s midbrain. “The lack of neural pathways to the forebrain indicates an innate proclivity for violence. Although the absence could be idiosyncratic.”

  The third Kaminoan, Lac Nor, called for an enhancement of the highlighted area. “The Yinchorri’s violent nature could complicate matters, Magister. Without access to sociological studies, we have no means of determining to what degree the culture of violence shapes the beings born into it. A clone raised in a laboratory setting might exhibit feral behavior unless provided with some means to express aggression.”

  “An outlet,” Ko Sai offered.

  “Scientific studies are available,” Damask said. “The question is, can compliance be bred into them without affecting their violent tendencies?”

  “Probably not without disturbing the basic personality matrix,” Ko Sai said. “We might produce a clone that is merely Yinchorri in aspect, but lacks the signature characteristics of the species.”

  Damask frowned. “That won’t do.”

  “Have you considered using a more acquiescent species?” Ni Timor asked

  “Which would you recommend?

  “One of the placid species. Ithorians, for example. Or Caamasi.”

  Damask shook his head. “Neither species would suit my purposes. What about humans?”

  “Our experience with humans is limited — though of course we have grown many replacement organs.”

  “Human emotionalism is somewhat problematic,” Ko Sai added, “but not unsolvable.”

  Damask considered the comment, and then agreed with the Kaminoan’s assessment.

  Emotion in human beings was a fatal flaw. The same characteristic that fueled their need to form strong bonds and believe that all life was sacred made them compassionate to a fault. Only weeks earlier on Sojourn, he realized that even Sidious, for all his growing strength in the dark side, remained a prisoner of his emotions. That Sidious was feeling an urge to stretch out with his new powers was to be expected and encouraged, but he had to be taught the lesson every Sith needed to learn. With great subtlety Sidious had manipulated Vidar Kim into a position where he had become a liability, and therefore had to die. He hadn’t bothered to address the issue directly because the time had come for Sidious to embark on the political career that would carry him to the chancellorship. Still, Sidious’s reaction to the assassination orders — fleeting as it had been — had convinced Plagueis of the need for additional tests. Sidious didn’t need to have his mistakes explained to him; he needed to experience the consequences.

  “Perhaps, Magister,” Lac Nor was saying, “if we understood your plans for the Yinchorri clones.”

  “I would expect them to serve as soldiers.”

  “Ah,” Ni Timor said. “Then obedience, not mere compliance, must be a prime consideration.”

  “And yet the need for some measure of free will,” Ko Sai was quick to point out. “Or else why not simply use combat automata?”

  Lac Nor’s large eyes fixed on Damask. “These Yinchorri appear to be ready-made for war, Magister. Are there so few of them in the galaxy that you need to clone an army?”

  He had deliberately avoided mentioning Yinchorri immunity to Force suggestion because he should have no way of knowing about that, o
r indeed anything about the actions of midi-chlorians. But it was precisely the reptilians’ capability to fashion Force bubbles that he hoped to explore.

  “As you’ve already pointed out,” he said after a moment, “their innate bellicosity interferes with their ability to follow orders.”

  Mostly to himself, Ni Timor said, “We would need to assure that their violent tendencies remained intact, while their behavior was less willful.”

  “Yes,” Damask said.

  Ko Sai craned her long neck. “Very challenging. Though perhaps if we could be supplied with a template for experimentation …” She gestured toward the 3-D images. “Is this specimen available for thorough evaluation?”

  “I could have him delivered to Kamino,” Damask said. “Assuming for the moment that you can discover some way to provide me with what I need, how much time would be required to grow a mature clone?”

  The three scientists traded looks.

  “In the case of the Yinchorri,” Ni Timor said at last, “certainly no fewer than twelve standard years, to allow for both physical and mental development. As you know we have had some success in accelerating the growth rate of certain cloned creatures, but not yet with full sentients, owing to the plasticity of the youthful brain.”

  “More important,” Lac Nor said, “while we might be able to grow a few clones, our facilities are at present inadequate to produce an army of any size.”

  “We would also need to consult with military specialists regarding programming,” Ko Sai added.

  “That can all be arranged,” Damask said. “Would you have any objections to working with Rothana Heavy Engineering?”

  “Of course not,” Ni Timor said.

  “Then Damask Holdings can provide whatever funding you need.”

  Ko Sai’s eyes appeared to widen. “The Prime Minister will be very pleased to learn of this,” she said with what passed for animation on Kamino.

  In his apartment in snowbound Theed, Palpatine watched a HoloNet replay of Jedi Knight Ronhar Kim leaping from a Coruscant taxi in midflight onto a monospeeder piloted by the Maladian contracted to assassinate the elder Kim. At the same time Palpatine spoke by comlink with Sate Pestage.

  “Is Naboo threading the story?” Pestage asked.

  “On every network.”

  “Breaking news, Coruscant,” a female correspondent was saying. “Chommell sector Senator Vidar Kim, of Naboo, was killed earlier today while en route to Mezzileen Spaceport, in what appears to have been an assassination. A hovercam stationed at Node SSJ in the Sah’c District captured the moment when a monospeeder approached Senator Kim’s taxi from behind, and its helmeted pilot unleashed a salvo of blaster bolts, killing Kim instantly and barely missing a second passenger — an as-yet-unidentified Jedi Knight. The hovercam recording shows the human male Jedi, armed with an activated lightsaber, hurling himself from the taxi and knocking the pilot assassin from the seat of the monospeeder. Eyewitnesses state that the Jedi managed to steer the assailant to a pedestrian walkway close to where the speeder crashed and burned, but Realtime News has yet to learn whether the assassin survived the fall. Wounded in the attack, the pilot of the taxi was taken to Sah’c Med-Center, where his condition is listed as grave.”

  “Is the Maladian alive?” Palpatine demanded of Pestage.

  “No. She spiked herself with a neurotoxin while Ronhar was trying to force information from her.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “The fool,” Palpatine fumed. “Why didn’t she wait until Kim had exited the taxi at Mezzileen?”

  “You instructed me to make it public, which is exactly what I told her. She made a point of firing in full view of the security cam, but I haven’t been able to determine whether or not she knew that Kim was riding with a Jedi. Based on the placement of the blaster bolts, I think she planned on taking out both of them.”

  “And if she’d succeeded, the Jedi would be conducting their own investigation.”

  “They are, regardless,” Pestage said. “Because Ronhar issued a statement to the media that he may have been the target.”

  Palpatine directed a scowl at the comlink cam. “Why didn’t you warn her about Ronhar?”

  “I did warn her. Maybe she wanted to add another Jedi kill to her résumé.”

  “Another?”

  “As I told you, the Maladians are very good at what they do.”

  Palpatine considered it. “If Ronhar is under the impression that he might have been the target, then Kim may not have revealed his suspicions about Tapalo and Veruna.”

  “He didn’t. I had him under surveillance from the moment he arrived on Coruscant, and he didn’t go anywhere near the Jedi Temple or meet with anyone on the Senate Investigatory Committee. I have recordings of the three meetings he had with Ronhar in his office in the Senate Annex, and at no time did he offer anything more than veiled references to intrigues on Naboo.”

  “Was he able to persuade Ronhar to leave the Order?”

  “No. Ronhar said that he respected Kim for being his — what was the word he used? — progenitor. But that he considers the Temple to be his home and the Jedi to be his family.”

  Palpatine forced an exhale. “I warned him.”

  “Kim tried to convince him that family blood comes first, but Ronhar might as well have been listening to an episode of Coruscant Confessions.”

  “Magister Damask will not be pleased. What rumors are circulating in the Senate?”

  “That Kim may have been involved in shady business; that he double-crossed a group of lobbyists. You’ve got the Senate worried — if that was the idea.”

  Plagueis would be satisfied to learn as much, Palpatine thought. The message, he now realized, had been directed not to anyone in particular, but to the Senate itself. Beyond the goal of advancing Palpatine’s political career ahead of schedule, the murder of Kim had spread apprehension in the galactic capital.

  “It’s done, in any case,” he said finally.

  “And without any leads for the police or the Jedi to pursue. You’re completely in the clear.”

  Palpatine relaxed somewhat. “You’ve done well, Sate — the close call notwithstanding. There’s a place for you among my support group if you’re interested.”

  Pestage, too, sounded relieved. “Then I suppose I’ll be seeing you on Coruscant. Senator Palpatine.”

  17: DAYS OF WINE AND IMPROPRIETY

  Supreme Chancellor Thoris Darus was largely responsible for the heady atmosphere that prevailed on Coruscant. A human native of Corulag, Darus had brought a sense of style to the galactic capital that had been absent a decade earlier when Vaila Percivas held the position, and hadn’t really been seen since the era of Eixes Valorum. Darus was unmarried, an incorrigible womanizer, an enthusiast of sport, opera, legitimate gambling, and high cuisine; his first term of office was characterized by a marked upswing in intemperance and, in the end, rampant corruption. Following the example set by the Supreme Chancellor, many of the tens of thousands who served in the Senate or lobbied on behalf of autocratic corporations and cartels had transformed Coruscant into a den of self-indulgence unrivaled anywhere in the Core or Inner Rim. From all areas of the galaxy had come beings eager to attend to the needs of the new political elite — from chefs to artists to specialists in pleasure. Courtesy of the Trade Federation and its numerous affiliates and corporate partners, goods flooded in from thousands of worlds, giving rise to new fashions, new foods, and novel forms of extravagance. Privileged Coruscanti, determined to enjoy life at the center, turned a blind eye to the storms that were brewing on the edges of civilization — intersystem rivalries, piratism, organized crime — and spiraling their way toward the Core. In three years the planet saw more immigration than it had seen in the preceding hundred, primarily from the Outer Rim, whose nonhumanoid species arrived in complete ignorance of the hardships that awaited them.

  For Palpatine, Coruscant exceeded his expectations. Five years
of travel and adventuring in the Expansion Region and Colonies had given him a taste for the high life, and here was a place not simply where his darkest desires could be fulfilled, but also where he could put his unique talents to the test. Its topography of cloudcutting edifices was a microcosm of the galaxy: swarming with beings who were willing to do whatever was necessary to claw their way from the depths, overseen by a tiered elite that nursed on their misery. If Coruscant was a magnet for those without skills or promise, it was also a paradise for those with credits and connections. And with assistance from many of the scions of wealth Palpatine had met while serving as Naboo’s ambassador, along with Hego Damask’s coterie of cronies and minions, he felt that he was on his way to the summit of the Senate Podium from the moment his boots touched the unnatural ground.

  He grasped immediately that the only way the Republic might have saved itself was by removing the Senate to a world where temptation wasn’t lurking at every traffic nexus; opportunity in every balconied café; vice in every canyon — although the racket that Supreme Chancellor Darus and the Senate had going was obvious only if one knew where to look, and that frequently required having unrestricted access to the private clubs and back rooms to which bribes gravitated. Even without the Force, Palpatine knew he would have succeeded. The task would prove no more challenging than gaining the full confidence of his peers. With everyone striving to outdo one another he need only ensure that he dress well, dine in the right places, associate with the proper company, and renew his season passes to the Galaxies Opera. At the same time, he understood that he could be almost as anonymous as he wished, simply by venturing up or down, dressing up or down, mingling with merchants rather than politicians, or consorting with the hucksters, shysters, con and scam artists that populated the lower levels.