by Paul S. Kemp
He reached into his pack and took the nanodroid dispenser in hand. He ordinarily preferred to use an aerosolized version of the tracking nanos, but the port was too crowded for it.
Ready, he waited.
THE SENATE BUILDING CAME INTO VIEW, a dome of transparisteel with a tower atop its center aimed like a knife blade at the sky. Most of the windows were dark. The transport headed for the landing pad atop the building. Halogens washed the roof in light. Malgus saw a squad of Imperial guards, gray as shadows in their full armor, and a single, uniformed naval officer near the landing pad. The officer held his hand over his hat to keep the wind from blowing it off.
Malgus did not wait for the ship to touch down. When the transport was still two meters up, he leapt out of the open cargo bay and landed before the officer, whose eyes went wide at the sight of Malgus’s method of debarkation.
The young officer, his gray uniform neatly pressed, his hair neatly combed under his hat, had probably not so much as fired a blaster in years. Malgus did not bother to disguise his contempt. He tolerated the officer and his ilk only because they provided necessary support to those who did the actual fighting for the Empire.
“Darth Malgus, welcome,” the attaché said. “My name is Roon Neele. Darth Angral—”
“Speak only if you must, Roon Neele. Pleasantries annoy me at the best of times. And this is not the best of times.”
Neele’s mouth hung open for a moment, then closed.
“Excellent,” Malgus said, as the transport put down and its weight vibrated the landing pad. “Now take me to Darth Angral.”
“Of course.”
They walked across the roof to the turbo lift. Armored Imperial troops flanked the door to either side of it. Both saluted Malgus. Neele and Malgus rode the lift down several floors in silence. The doors opened to reveal a long, wide hallway lined with office doors to the right and left, and ending in a large pair of double doors on which were engraved the words:
THE OFFICE OF THE CHANCELLOR OF THE REPUBLIC
Two more armed and armored Imperial soldiers stood guard at the doors.
The arc-shaped reception desk immediately before the lift—presumably the domain of the Chancellor’s secretary—sat empty, the secretary long gone.
Roon indicated the Chancellor’s office but did not move to exit.
“Darth Angral has commandeered the Chancellor’s office. He is expecting you.”
Malgus exited the lift and strode down the hall. The offices to either side of him stood empty, all of them showing signs of a hurried evacuation—spilled cups of caf, papers lying loose on the carpeted floor, an overturned chair. Malgus imagined the shock the occupants must have felt as they watched Imperial forces pour out of the sky. He wondered what Angral had done with the Senators and their staffs. Some, he knew, had been killed in the initial attack. Others had probably been executed afterward.
When he reached the end of the hall, the Imperial soldiers saluted, parted, and opened the doors for him. He stepped inside and the doors closed behind him.
Angral sat at the desk of the Republic’s Chancellor, on the far end of an expansive office. His dark hair, shot through with gray, was neatly combed, reminiscent of Roon Neele’s. Elaborate embroidery decorated the color of his cloak. His angular, smooth-shaven face reminded Malgus of a hatchet.
Art from various worlds hung on the walls or sat on display pillars—bone carvings from Mon Calamari, an oil landscape painting from Alderaan, a wood sculpture of a creature Malgus could not identify but that reminded him of one of the mythical zillo beasts of Malastare. An opened bottle of blossom wine sat on Angral’s desk in a crystal decanter. Two chalices sat beside it, both half full with the rare, pale yellow spirit. Angral knew that Malgus did not drink alcohol.
Two large, high-backed leather chairs sat before the desk, their backs to the doorway. Anyone could have been seated in them. Behind the desk, a floor-to-ceiling transparisteel window looked out on the urbanscape. Plumes of black smoke curled into a night sky mostly empty of ships and underlit by the many fires burning across the planet. To Malgus, the black lines of smoke looked like the scribbles of giants. A maze of duracrete buildings extended out to the horizon.
“Darth Malgus,” Angral said, and gestured at one of the chairs. “Please sit.”
Words burst from Malgus before he could stop them. “We hold Coruscant in our fist and need only squeeze. Yet I understand that peace negotiations are continuing.”
Angral did not look surprised at the outburst. He sipped his blossom wine, put the chalice back down. “Your understanding is correct.”
“Why?” Malgus put an accusation in the question. “The Republic is on its knees before us. If we stab it, it dies.”
“Using it as a lever in peace negotiations—”
“Peace is for bureaucrats!” Malgus blurted, too hard, too loud. “It is not for warriors.”
Still Angral’s face held its calm. “You question the wisdom of the Emperor?”
The words cooled Malgus’s heat. He took hold of his temper. “No. I do not question the Emperor.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Now sit, Malgus.” Angral’s tone left no doubt that the words were not a suggestion.
Malgus picked his way through the artwork. Before he had gotten halfway across the office, Angral said, “Adraas has beaten you here.”
Malgus stopped. “What?”
Adraas rose from one of the chairs before the desk, revealing himself, and turned to face Malgus. He no longer wore his mask, and his face—unmarred and handsome, like Master Zallow’s, and with a neatly trimmed goatee—wore smugness with comfort.
Malgus recalled the look on Zallow’s face when the Jedi had died, and imagined replacing Adraas’s current expression with one that echoed Zallow’s death grimace.
“Darth Malgus,” Adraas said, his false smile more sneer than anything. “I am sorry I did not announce myself before your … outburst.”
Malgus ignored Adraas and addressed Angral directly. “Why is he here?”
Angral smiled, all innocence. “Lord Adraas was giving me his complete report of the attack on the Temple.”
“His report?”
“Yes. He spoke highly of you, Darth Malgus.”
Adraas took the other chalice on Angral’s desk, sipped.
“He? Spoke highly of me?”
Malgus did not play Sith politics well, but he suddenly felt as if he had walked into an ambush. He knew Adraas was a favorite of Angral’s. Were they setting Malgus up? They certainly could use his condemnation of the peace talks against him.
With effort, he got himself under control and sank into the seat beside Adraas. Adraas, too, sat. Malgus endeavored to choose his words with care.
“The attack on the Temple could not have gone better. The plan I developed worked perfectly. The Jedi were caught completely unawares.” He turned to face Adraas. “But your report should have been approved by me before it came to Darth Angral.” He turned back to Angral. “Apologies, my lord.”
Angral waved a hand dismissively. “No apologies are necessary. I solicited his report directly.”
Malgus did not know what to make of that and did not like that he did not know. “Directly? Why?”
“Do you believe that I owe you an explanation, Darth Malgus?”
Malgus had misstepped again. “No, my lord.”
“Nevertheless I will give you one,” Angral said. “The reason is simple. I was unable to locate you.”
“I had powered down my comlink while—”
Adraas interrupted him and Malgus had to restrain the impulse to backhand him across the face.
“We assumed you to be checking on the well-being of your woman,” Adraas said.
“We assumed?” Malgus said. “Do you presume to speak for Darth Angral, Adraas?”
“Of course not,” Adraas said, his tone infuriatingly unworried. “But when we could not locate you, Darth Angral asked me to speak for you.”
And
there it was, unadulterated and out in the open. Not even Malgus could miss it. Adraas had essentially admitted that he wished Malgus’s spot in the hierarchy, and Angral’s participation suggested that he sanctioned the power grab.
Malgus’s voice went low and dangerous. “It will take more than words to speak for me, Adraas.”
“No doubt,” Adraas said, and answered Malgus’s stare with one of his own. His dark eyes did not quail before Malgus’s anger.
Angral watched the exchange, then leaned back in his chair.
“Where were you, Darth Malgus?” Angral asked.
Malgus did not take his eyes from Adraas. “Assessing the post-battle situation around the Temple, my lord. Trying to understand …”
He stopped himself. He’d almost said, Trying to understand why the Empire has not razed Coruscant.
“Trying to understand the planetside situation more clearly.”
“I see,” Angral said. “What of this woman Adraas mentioned? I understand from Adraas’s report that she was a liability to you during the attack on the Temple?”
Malgus glared at Adraas. Adraas smiled behind the rim of the chalice as he drank his wine.
“Adraas is mistaken.”
“Is he? Then this woman isn’t a liability to you? She is an alien, isn’t she? A Twi’lek?”
Adraas sniffed with contempt, turned away from Malgus, and sipped his wine, the gestures perfectly capturing the Empire’s view of aliens as—at best—second-class sentients. Angral shared that view and had just let Malgus know it.
“She is,” Malgus answered.
“I see,” Angral said.
Adraas placed his wine chalice on Angral’s desk. “An excellent vintage, Darth Angral. But right at the end of its cellar life.”
“I think so, too,” Angral said.
“Let things linger around overlong and they can turn rancid.”
“Agreed,” Angral said.
Malgus missed nothing, but could say nothing.
Adraas snapped his fingers as if he had just remembered something. “Oh! Darth Malgus, I do regret that I had to refuse your woman treatment aboard Steadfast.”
A tic caused Malgus’s left eye to spasm. His fingers sank into the arms of the chair and pierced the leather. “You did what?”
“Priority is to be given to Imperial forces,” Adraas continued. “Human forces. I’m sure you understand.”
Malgus had had enough. To Angral, he said, “What is this? What is happening here?”
“What do you mean?” Angral asked.
“The Twi’lek woman is planetside,” Adraas said, as if no one else had spoken. “I’m sure the care she receives will be … adequate.”
“I mean what is happening here, now, in this room,” Malgus said. “What is your purpose in this, Angral?”
Angral’s expression hardened, and he set down his glass with an audible clink. “My purpose?”
“Who is this woman to you, Darth Malgus?” Adraas pressed. “Her presence at the battle for the Jedi Temple caused you to make mistakes.”
“Passions can lead to mistakes,” Angral said.
“Passions are power,” Malgus said to Angral. “The Sith know this. Warriors know this.” He fixed his gaze on Adraas, and the words came out a snarl. “What mistakes do you mean, Adraas? Name them.”
Adraas ignored the question. “Do you care for her, Malgus? Love her?”
“She is a servant and you are a fool,” Malgus said, his anger rising. “She satisfies my needs when I require it. Nothing more.”
Adraas smiled as if he’d scored a point. “She is your slave, then? A mongrel harlot who satisfies you because she must?”
The smoldering heat of Malgus’s brewing anger ignited into open flame. Snarling, he leapt from his chair, activated his lightsaber, and unleashed an overhand strike to split Adraas’s head in two.
But Adraas, anticipating Malgus’s attack, bounded to his feet, activated his own lightsaber, and parried the blow. The two men pressed their blades against the other before Angral’s desk, energy sizzling, sparks flying.
Malgus tested Adraas’s strength.
“You have been hiding your power,” he said.
“No,” Adraas answered. “You are just too blind to see the things before your eyes.”
Malgus summoned a reserve of strength and pushed Adraas back a stride. They regarded each other with hate in their eyes.
“That will be all,” Angral said, standing.
Neither Malgus nor Adraas took his eyes from the other and neither deactivated his blade.
“That will be all,” Angral said.
As one, both men backed off another step. Adraas deactivated his lightsaber, then Malgus.
“You should have sent her to my ship for care,” Malgus said, aiming the comment at Adraas, but intending it for both of them.
Angral looked disappointed. “After all of this you still say such things? Very well, Malgus. The woman is in a Republic medical facility near here. I will have the information sent to your pilot.”
Malgus inclined his head in grudging thanks.
“As for you, Lord Adraas,” Angral said, “I accept your report of the battle.”
“Thank you, Darth Angral.”
Angral drew himself up to his full height. “You will, both of you, follow my commands without question or hesitation. I will deal harshly with any deviation from that order. Do you understand?”
Angral had directed the rebuke at both of them, but Malgus understood it to be intended for him.
“Yes, Darth Angral,” they said in unison.
“You are servants of the Empire.”
Malgus, stewing, said nothing.
“Both of you leave me, now,” Angral said.
Still seething, Malgus walked for the door. Adraas fell in a stride behind him.
“Darth Malgus,” Angral called.
Malgus stopped, turned. Adraas stopped as well, keeping some space between them.
“I know you believe that conflict perfects one’s understanding of the Force.” He made Malgus wait a beat before adding, “I will be curious to see if events validate your view.”
“What events?” Malgus asked, and then understood. Angral would let Adraas make his play for Malgus’s role in the hierarchy. He entended to see who would prevail in a conflict between Malgus and Adraas, a conflict conducted in the shadows, by proxy, according to all the ridiculous political rules of the Sith.
Subtle, backhanded conflict was not Malgus’s strength. He glared at Adraas, who glared back.
“That will be all, then,” Angral said, and Malgus walked toward the doors.
“Adraas, remain a moment,” Angral said, and Adraas lingered.
Malgus looked over his shoulder to see Adraas watching him.
Malgus walked out of the office alone, the same way he had walked in. He had been made a fool and was being played for Angral’s amusement.
Worse, the victory he had so dearly won would be for nothing, a mere lever for the Emperor to wield in peace negotiations. After negotiations were concluded, the Empire would leave Coruscant.
In the hall outside, he slammed a fist down on the secretary’s desk, putting a crack on the marble top.
AS VOLLEN AND KEEVO APPROACHED, Aryn realized what she was doing and let her hand fall to her side. She would not fight another Jedi, not ever. Besides, she sensed no hostility in them.
She tried to clear the emotion from her face as Vollen and Keevo avoided a train of cargo droids and approached her. Vollen’s brown hair hung loose over bloodshot eyes. He had not shaved, and the circles darkening the skin under his brown eyes pronounced his need for sleep. Aryn imagined she must look much the same. Her own emotional state made it hard to maintain her empathic shields. Both Vollen and his Padawan sweated apprehension. It came off them in waves.
“Hello, Vollen, Keevo.”
Both of them returned her greeting.
“What are you doing here at this hour, Aryn?” Vollen ask
ed.
For a moment, she had no words. She thought it strange that she had known the question would be coming, yet she had not rehearsed an answer. Perhaps she had not wanted to lie. So she didn’t.
“I’m doing something … something Master Zallow wants me to do.”
Tension visibly flowed out of Vollen’s expression. Relief from both of them flooded Aryn.
“Then Master Zallow survived the Sith attack,” Vollen said, making a fist and grinning. “That is wonderful news. I know you have remained close with him.” He turned to his Padawan. “You see, Keevo. There is hope yet.”
The Rodian nodded. Nictitating membranes washed his large, dark eyes. The oil moisturizing his pebbly green skin glistened in the overhead lights.
“There is always hope,” Aryn said, and ignored how false the words sounded to her. She could not bring herself to break their hearts with the truth. Let them feel some relief, even if only for a time.
A pair of cargo droids wheeled past, beeping in droidspeak.
Vollen stepped closer to her and lowered his voice, as if discussing a conspiracy. “So what is happening in the hall of the High Council? We heard the negotiations would continue. How can Dar’nala justify that? We should be planning a counterattack. The entire Sith delegation should be taken into custody.”
Keevo put his hand on the hilt of his lightsaber and mouthed something in Rodian that Aryn took to be agreement. The Rodian looked around as if concerned someone might have overheard.
Aryn felt the creeping pressure of their suppressed anger, their disappointment. They felt betrayed, deceived. She heard in their words the echo of her own thoughts and started to utter agreement. But before the words had cleared her lips, she saw how the words, the thoughts, if given free rein, would fragment the Jedi Order.
For the first time, the consequences of her decision struck her, but even as they did, she knew she could make no other choice. Hers was the sacrifice. Other Jedi, however, could not make the same choice or the Order would disintegrate.
“Trust that Master Dar’nala knows what she is doing,” she said.
Vollen made a dismissive gesture and went on as if Aryn had not spoken. “There are many of us ready to act, Aryn. If we can coordinate with the surviving members of the Order on Coruscant, we can—”
