by James Luceno
Then, by manipulating the Bith’s midi-chlorians, which should have been inert and unresponsive, Plagueis had resurrected him. The enormity of the event had stunned Sidious into silence and overwhelmed and addled 11-4D’s processors, but Plagueis had carried on without assistance, again and again allowing Venamis to die and be returned to life, until the Bith’s organs had given out and Plagueis had finally granted him everlasting death.
But having gained the power to keep another alive hadn’t been enough for him. And so after Sidious had returned to Coruscant, he had devoted himself to internalizing that ability, by manipulating the midi-chlorians that animated him. For several months he made no progress, but ultimately he began to perceive a measured change. The scars that had grown over his wounds had abruptly begun to soften and fade, and he had begun to breathe more freely than he had in twenty years. He began to sense that not only were his damaged tissues healing, but his entire body was rejuvinating itself. Beneath the transpirator, areas of his skin were smooth and youthful, and he knew that eventually he would cease to age altogether.
Drunk on newfound power, then, he had attempted an even more unthinkable act: to bring into being a creation of his own. Not merely the impregnation of some hapless, mindless creature, but the birth of a Forceful being. The ability to dominate death had been a step in the right direction, but it wasn’t equivalent to pure creation. And so he had stretched out — indeed, as if invisible, transubstantiated — to inform every being of his existence, and impact all of them: Muunoid or insectoid, secure or dispossessed, free or enslaved. A warrior waving a banner in triumph on a battlefield. A ghost infiltrating a dream.
But ultimately to no end.
The Force grew silent, as if in flight from him, and many of the animals in his laboratory succumbed to horrifying diseases.
Regardless, eight long years later, Plagueis remained convinced that he was on the verge of absolute success. The evidence was in his own increased midi-chlorian count; and in the power he sensed in Sidious when he had finally returned to Sojourn. The dark side of the Force was theirs to command, and in partnership they would someday be able to keep each other alive, and to rule the galaxy for as long as they saw fit.
But he had yet to inform Sidious of this.
It was more important that Sidious remain as focused on manipulating events in the profane world as Plagueis was intent on dominating the realm of the Force, of which the mundane was only a gross and distorted reflection.
To be sure, the light had been extinguished, but for how long and at what cost?
He recalled a stellar eclipse he had witnessed on a long-forgotten world, whose single moon was of perfect size and distance to blot out the light of the system’s primary. The result hadn’t been total darkness but illumination of a different sort, singular and diffuse, that had confused the birds and had permitted the stars to be seen in what would have been broad daylight. Even totally blocked, the primary had shone from behind the satellite’s disk, and when the moon moved on there had been a moment of light almost too intense to bear.
Gazing into Sojourn’s darkening sky, he wondered what calamity the Force was planning in retreat to visit upon him or Sidious or both of them for willfully tipping the balance. Was retribution merely waiting in the wings as it had been on Coruscant twenty years earlier? It was a dangerous time; more dangerous than his earliest years as an apprentice when the dark side might have consumed him at any moment.
For now, at least, his full convalescence was near complete. Sidious was continuing to become more powerful as a Sith and as a politician, his most intricate schemes meeting with little or no resistance. And the Jedi Order was foundering …
Time would tell, and time was short.
The Dathomirian Zabrak sat cross-legged on the duracrete floor, recounting for Sidious the surveillance mission he had completed at the Jedi Temple, weeks earlier, at the height of the Yinchorri Crisis.
“It sickened me to see how easily the reptilian infiltrators were deceived, Master, even by the fair-haired human female sentry they thought they had taken by surprise outside the Temple. From where I watched I knew that she had feigned surprise when her lightsaber failed to penetrate her assailant’s cortosis shield, and that she had merely been faking unconsciousness when the Yinchorri had yanked her to her feet and she impaled him on her activated blade.” Maul snarled, revealing sharply filed teeth. “Their stupidity allowed me to revel in the fact that their mission had been compromised — that the Jedi were simply luring them into a trap.”
The abandoned LiMerge Building had become the assassin’s home and training center; The Works and the fringes of the nearby Fobosi district, his nocturnal haunts. Circling him with the cowl of his robe raised over his head, Sidious asked, “The Jedi gained your respect?”
“They might have, had the infiltrators showed any skill. Had I been leading them …”
Sidious stopped. “The mission would have been successful? Jedi Knights and Padawans killed; younglings slaughtered.”
“I’m certain of it, Master.”
“Just you, against the Masters who make up the High Council.”
“By hiding and striking I could have killed many.”
Plagueis was right, Sidious thought. I have made him prideful.
The Yinchorri stratagem had failed, in any case. Additional Jedi had died, but Jedi deaths had never been the primary reason for instigating the crisis. What mattered was that Valorum had triumphed, with some help from Palpatine, it was true, but mostly on his own, by managing to bring Senators Yarua, Tikkes, Farr, and others over to his side and establishing an embargo. But with his political currency spent, Valorum’s position was more tenuous than ever. Even a hint of scandal and the Senate would lose what little confidence they had in him.
“You are formidable,” Sidious said at last, “but you are not a one-being army, and I’ve not spent years training you only to have you sacrifice yourself. When I bestowed upon you the title of Darth, it was not in reward for your having survived dangerous missions, starvation, and assassin droids, but for your obedience and loyalty. No doubt you will have ample opportunities to demonstrate your superior skill to the Jedi, but bringing down the Order is not your mandate, your hatred of them notwithstanding.”
Maul lowered his head, displaying his crown of sharp-tipped horns in their red-and-black field. “Master. As long as those who do derive the joy and satisfaction I would.”
“We shall see, my apprentice. But until then, there are matters we need to attend to.”
He motioned for Maul to stand and follow him to the holoprojector table and transmission grid — the same ones the Gran had left behind decades before, but fully modernized and enhanced.
“Stand out of view of the cams,” Sidious said, indicating a place. “For now, we want to keep you in reserve.”
“But—”
“Be patient. You will have a part to play in this.”
Sidious settled into a high-backed chair that wrapped around him like a throne and had a remote control built into one of the arms, his thoughts set aswirl by what he was about to do. Had Plagueis felt the enormity of the moment on Naboo all those years before when he had revealed his true self; removed, for the first time, the mask he wore in public? As empowering as it might have been, had the moment also been tainted by a kind of nostalgia; the loss of something so personal, so defining? What had been secret would never be secret again …
The comm caught Viceroy Nute Gunray in the midst of eating, and without the ear-flapped tiara and ornate azurestone collar that made him look like a jester. “Greetings, Viceroy,” Sidious said.
The nictitating membranes of the Neimoidian’s crimson eyes went into spasm, and his mottled muzzle twitched. “What? What? This is a secure address. How did you—”
“Don’t bother attempting to trace the origin of this communication,” Sidious said, while Gunray’s tapered gray fingers flew across the keypad of his holotable. “A trace will only lead you in circles and waste w
hat limited time we have.”
“How dare you intrude—”
“Recently, I sent you a gift. A red-spotted pylat.”
Gunray stared. “You? You sent it?”
“I trust you had sense enough to have it scanned for monitoring devices.”
Gunray whirled to look at something off cam; probably the crested bird itself. “Of course I did. What was your purpose in sending it?” His accent elongated the words and softened the T sounds.
“Consider it a token of my appreciation for the unrewarded work you have done for the Trade Federation. The directorate fails to recognize your contributions.”
“They — that is, I … Why are you hiding inside the cowl of your cloak?”
“It is the clothing of my Order, Viceroy.”
“You are a cleric?”
“Do I seem a holy man to you?”
Gunray’s expression soured. “I demand to see your face.”
“You have yet to earn the privilege of seeing me.”
“Privilege? Who do you think you are?”
“Are you certain you want to know?”
“I demand to know.”
Sidious’s smile barely escaped the cowl. “Even better, then. I am a Sith Lord.”
There. I said it.
I said it …
“Sith Lord?” Gunray repeated.
The response came from deep inside him, from the center of his true being. “You have permission to refer to me as Darth Sidious.”
“I’ve not heard of Darth Sidious.”
“Ah, but now that you have, our partnership is forged.”
Gunray shook his head. “I am not looking for a partner.”
Sidious showed some of his face. “Don’t pretend to be content with your position in the Trade Federation, or that you are without aspirations. We are now partners in the future.”
Gunray made a hissing sound. “This is a joke. The Sith have been extinct for a thousand years.”
“That’s precisely what the Republic and the Jedi Order would like you to believe, but we never disappeared. Through the centuries we have taken up just causes and revealed ourselves to select beings like yourself.”
Gunray sat back in his chair. “I don’t understand. Why me?”
“You and I share an avid interest in where the Republic is headed, and I have deemed it time that we begin to work in concert.”
“I won’t be part of any covert schemes.”
“Truly?” Sidious said. “Do you think that out of millions of influential beings I would choose you without knowing you inside and out? I realize that your voracious desires stem from the cruel conditions of your upbringing — you and your fellow grubs in ruthless competition for limited supplies of fungus. But I understand. We are all shaped by our infantile desires, our longing for affection and attention, our fears of death. And judging by how far you have come, it’s clear that you were unrivaled and continue to be. Your years in the Senate, for example. The clandestine meetings in the Claus Building, the Follin Restaurant in the Crimson Corridor, the funds you diverted to Pax Teem and Aks Moe, the secret dealings with Damask Holdings, the assassination of Vidar Kim—”
“Enough! Enough! Do you mean to blackmail me?”
Sidious delayed his reply. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me when I spoke of a partnership.”
“I heard you. Now tell me what you want of me.”
“Nothing more than your cooperation. I will bring about great changes for you, and in exchange you will do the same for me.”
Gunray looked worried. “You claim to be a Dark Lord. But how do I know that you are? How do I know you have any ability to help me?”
“I found you a rare bird.”
“That hardly validates your claim.”
Sidious nodded. “I understand your skepticism. I could, of course, demonstrate my powers. But I’m reluctant to convince you in that way.”
Gunray sniffed. “I haven’t time for this—”
“Is the pylat nearby?”
“Just behind me,” Gunray allowed.
“Show me.”
Gunray widened the scope of the holotable’s cams to include the bird, perched in a cage that was little more than a circle of precious metal, crowned with a stasis field generator.
“I was concerned, when I extracted him from the jungle habitat, that he would die,” Sidious said. “And yet he appears to be at home in his new environment.”
“His songs suggest as much,” Gunray replied.
“What if I told you that I could reach across space and time and strangle him where he perches?”
Gunray was aghast. “You couldn’t. I doubt that even a Jedi—”
“Are you challenging me, Viceroy?”
“Yes,” he said abruptly; then, just as quickly: “No — wait!”
Sidious shifted in the chair. “You value the bird — this symbol of wealth.”
“I am the envy of my peers for possessing it.”
“Would not actual wealth generate even greater envy?”
Gunray grew flustered. “How can I answer, when I know that you might strangle me should I refuse you?”
Sidious loosed an elaborate sigh. “Partners don’t strangle each other, Viceroy. I would prefer to earn your trust. Are you agreeable to that?”
“I might be.”
“Then here is my first gift to you: the Trade Federation is going to be betrayed. By Naboo, by the Republic, by the members of the directorate. Only you can provide the leadership that will be needed to keep the Federation from splintering. But first we must see to it that you are promoted to the directorate.”
“The current directorate would never welcome a Neimoidian.”
“Tell me what it would take—” Sidious started, then cut himself off. “No. Never mind. Let me surprise you by arranging a promotion.”
“You would do that and ask nothing in return?”
“For the time being. If and when I’ve earned your full trust, I will expect you to take my suggestions to heart.”
“I will. Darth Sidious.”
“Then we will speak again soon.”
Sidious deactivated the holoprojector and sat in silence.
“There is a world in the Videnda sector called Dorvalla,” he said to Maul a long moment later. “You will not have heard of it, but it is a source of lommite ore, which is essential to the production of transparisteel. Two companies — Lommite Limited and InterGalactic Ore — currently control the mining and shipping operations. But for some time the Trade Federation has had its sights on overseeing Dorvalla.”
“What is thy bidding, Master?” Maul asked.
“For now, only that you acquaint yourself with Dorvalla, for it may prove the key to ensnaring Gunray in our grasp.”
25: THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE MERITOCRACY
A more outlandish quartet hadn’t set foot, belly, claw, and jaw on Sojourn in twenty years. A half-breed Theelin female, her Hutt master, his Twi’lek majordomo, and his Chevin chief of security crossed the fort’s leaf-litterd courtyard and entered Plagueis’s reception room. With the exception of the Theelin, they looked as if they might have wandered in from the greel forests to consort with the creatures that had constructed nests and burrows in the fort’s dank corridors and lofty turrets.
Plagueis and 11-4D were waiting just inside the gaping entrance.
“Welcome, Jabba Desilijic Tiure,” Plagueis said through his transpirator mask.
Droids had restored some semblance of order to the room and installed tables and chairs. Morning light streamed through square openings high in the wall, and a fire crackled in the stone hearth.
“A pleasure to see you again after so many years, Magister Damask,” Jabba said in coarse Basic. The ageless criminal lolled his huge tongue and maneuvered his great slug body onto a low platform the droids had erected. Gazing around, he added, “You and your droid must visit my little place on Tatooine in the Western Dune Sea.”
“Someday soon,” Plagueis
said as he lowered himself into an armchair across from the platform.
Like Toydarians and Yinchorri, Hutts were immune to Force suggestions. Had Jabba known how many of his species Plagueis had experimented on over the decades, he might not have been as sociable, but then the Hutt’s own penchant for ruthlessness and torture were legendary. As a tattoo on his arm attested, he cared only for members of his clan. He didn’t bother to introduce his subordinates by name, but as was often the case with many of the thugs and ne’er-do-wells with whom he surrounded himself, two of them had reputations that preceded them. The pink-complexioned Twi’lek was Bib Fortuna, a former spice smuggler whose own species had turned its back on him. Tall and red-eyed, he had sharp little teeth and thick, shiny lekku growing from a hairless cranium that looked as if it had been inexpertly stuffed with rocks. The Chevin — a two-meter-high snout that had sprouted arms, legs, and tail — was Ephant Mon. Celebrated as a warrior among his own kind — and mildly Force-sensitive — he wore a blanket someone might have thrown over him to hide his ugliness. Plagueis knew from contacts in the Trade Federation that Mon was involved in a smuggling operation on technophobic Cerea, supplying swoops to a gang of young upstarts.
The Theelin was unknown to Plagueis. Pale and shapely, she had lustrous orange hair and purple beauty marks that ran down her face and neck to disappear beneath a revealing costume.
“Diva Shaliqua,” Jabba said when he realized that Plagueis was studying her. “A singer in the band.”
“As her name suggests.”
“A gift from Ingoda, in place of credits owed to me.” Jabba’s big eyes settled on the Theelin. “She and Diva Funquita came as a pair, but I made Funquita a present to Gardulla in the hope of smoothing over our lingering rivalry.” He grunted. “My first mistake. The second: introducing Shaliqua to Romeo Treblanc, who would move worlds to possess her.”
Notorious for his gambling, Treblanc owned the Galaxies Opera House on Coruscant. Why Jabba chose to associate with gamblers and other lowlifes was a mystery to Plagueis. In some ways the Hutt’s illicit empire was the inverse of Hego Damask’s, where, if nothing else, the criminals were at least politicians, corporate honchos, and financiers. His coming to Sojourn was both uncharacteristic and unexpected.
