The Rise of the Empire

by John Jackson Miller

  Zaluna looked fretfully at Hera. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “The faster we get in and out, the better for him.” Kanan could see the Twi’lek studying the other furnishings: All were on similar platforms. “But now we’ve got our way in.”

  “You keep saying we,” Kanan said.

  “This was your idea—and the last meter’s always the hardest. Besides, we’ve been lucky so far,” she said, grinning. “Maybe he’s asleep.”

  “Or getting a personality transplant.” Kanan sighed as he pulled at the zipper of his suit. “But I doubt it. People never get what they need.”

  VIDIAN SAT AT the center of his web and watched it all.

  His home, like everything else in Calcoraan Depot, had been built to his specifications. A hemispherical room at the center of the station’s hub, it was a place for him to contemplate his plans while he recuperated from the regular maintenance surgeries conducted by his medical droids. He had no need for grand windows looking outside, or giant stellar cartographic displays in the dome above him. He could make his cybernetic eyes display all the images he wanted.

  Others were rarely allowed to enter, but when they did they saw only a neutral gray ceiling, dimly lit by a ring of lights. But when Vidian, chest now covered in a post-operative white robe, looked up, he saw the space station in action, as if he could see through its walls. He inhabited every corner of its durasteel frame, watching the supplies being brought in and sorted for redistribution. He saw the movements of the ships outside the station, and their destinations far beyond. The whole galaxy spread out before him, ready to be transformed by his force of will.

  It hadn’t always been this way. He had been powerless, once, in ways no one knew about. Vidian’s official biography painted him as a heroic whistleblower for a military contractor, but in truth, he had been that most useless of creations: a safety inspector for an interstellar mining guild.

  He had lived under another name, then. That was when he’d learned all he knew about the thorilide trade—and that was when he came to understand the hypocrisy practiced by those with money and power. Lives meant nothing to the manufacturers he visited, and so many of his superiors were bribed that the reports he filed were beyond pointless.

  It was on an inspection trip to Gorse, of all places, that he’d finally been fed up. He decided to get in on the game, asking for and receiving bribes from several of the firms he’d visited. But before he could spend a credit, he fell ill in a mining company lobby. In the miners’ medcenter, he learned his travels had caught up with him. The toxins he’d inhaled, the biological agents he’d touched in countless filthy factories had unleashed a degenerative disease, destroying his flesh. It wasn’t a theatrical end, like falling into a vat of acid, but it took the same toll. Soon, all that remained of that once-energetic young man was a parched sack of organs, somehow coaxed into continued function by the efforts of the surgeons.

  He’d never been much of a person, by his own admission, but now even that was gone. All that remained was a mind, trapped, with no way to reach out. He lay there lost, at the edge of madness, contemplating his existence—or lack of it. Seething with anger over the powerlessness of the life he’d led, and hatred for those who’d won while he had played by the rules. After two years steeping in the acid of his mind, he found a rudimentary way to communicate with one of the caretaker droids.

  And the guild inspector’s deathbed became Denetrius Vidian’s birthplace.

  From there, his life had progressed more closely according to the well-known legend—the only part of his biography that was remotely true. Avenging himself against the industry bigwigs required a new identity, a figure on the same level or higher. Vidian began as a cipher, a name on an electronic bank account. But soon he became the greatest corporate stalker the Republic had ever seen, all while still in the medcenter.

  The Republic had protected the thorilide mining industry against corporate raiders during the Clone Wars, so instead he’d taken stakes in firms manufacturing comet-chaser harvesting vessels. He’d bought a secret stake in Minerax Consulting, pushing out reports that wiped out surface mining on Gorse and other worlds; many of the companies that he once inspected failed—including Moonglow’s predecessor firm.

  Revenge, perhaps, but he didn’t really care. With his cybernetic prostheses, he had been mobile by then, having left Gorse and its bad memories for riches and financial fame. He had left it all behind. He’d become someone powerful, someone he had never been in his old identity—and if he did not have Palpatine’s ear, he at least had his respect. The Republic was full of ill-functioning industries. Vidian was seen as the man who could fix them all.

  He wasn’t about to let a snotty upstart like Baron Danthe undermine him. The Emperor encouraged vigorous competition in his administration; it was a sensible strategy, forcing everyone to give his or her best. But Danthe could only tear down those more talented. The baron had desperately been searching for some weapon to use against Vidian; it was one reason the count had sought Imperial authority over Gorse. He’d managed to demolish the medcenter of his long-ago confinement—and any trace of his true past—with no one the wiser.

  Still, the fool kept trying. The baron had contacted him again, earlier, fishing for information about his plans. Calcoraan Depot operators had even intercepted Danthe calling Captain Sloane, trying to get the same thing. To her credit, Sloane had told the man nothing.

  There was no reason to wait any longer. Vidian stepped from the chair and sent it back down to the basement. He crossed to the secure terminal on the side of the chamber and entered his passkey. With the tap of a control, he sent the document he had prepared to Coruscant. It had been crafted with utmost care; the Emperor would support his action. Vidian was taking a risk with his present course, yes—but he’d also laid a trap, one that would take Danthe out of his nonexistent hair for good. Sloane was a part of his master plan, as were droids he’d shown her earlier.

  When all was done, Vidian would remain in the Emperor’s favor, and the Empire would grow, uninterrupted, because of it. And who knew? There might even be a bonus. Vidian knew the Emperor was interested in projects to create giant weapons of intimidation. He didn’t know all that existed, but it was hard to hide much from someone involved in so many strategic supply networks. The destruction of Cynda, if it could be done, might be of military interest. Moons with its peculiar structure, orbit, and proximity to its parent planet were rare, but it paid to have a variety of tools in so large a galaxy.

  Vidian closed out his connection with the Imperial throneworld and paused. The place was still, apart from the whirring and clacking of the FX-4, motoring between the operating table and the tall diagnostic console beside it. “I know you’re here,” the count said, his back to the rest of the room.

  He heard nothing. And then, light footfalls heading to his left, behind the bank of computer equipment to the right of the sealed entryway. Vidian strolled casually away from the communications terminal and gave another silent order. A fresh operating table, this one with restraints, rose into view. “I’ve heard you since you entered, both of you. You rode up behind my chair.” He stepped past the medical droid. “There’s no surveillance in this room. It’s just me. I’ve heard your motions, your hearts beating. I’ve seen your breaths coloring the infrared. Don’t make me hunt you. It’s tiresome.”

  Vidian whirled and leapt back toward the terminal on the wall to the right of the entrance. Looking over it, he beheld a crouching young green-skinned Twi’lek woman pointing a blaster in his face. “You’re new,” he said.

  He heard someone move behind him. Vidian stood granite-still as the blow came: a metal surgical stand, smashed over the back of his head. The Twi’lek flinched as the stand’s attachments broke free, clattering off the top of the console. Vidian whipped around and lunged for his attacker in one blinding motion.

  “You’re not new,” he said, clutching the dark-haired man by the neck. The broken shaft of t
he surgical stand was still in the man’s gloved hands. Vidian lifted him from the floor and looked keenly into his blue eyes. “The gunslinger from Cynda. I may have deleted your image, but I never forget a fool. I’m fascinated to learn what brings you here.”

  CHOKING, KANAN STRUGGLED in vain to strike Vidian with what was left of his makeshift weapon. “Shoot him!” he said between gasps. “Shoot him!”

  Hera did exactly that, leaning over the computer console and firing a point-blank shot into Vidian’s back. Plasma coruscated over Vidian and fed into Kanan, shocking him. Through the pain, Kanan could see the robe that covered Vidian’s chest was tattered, revealing a silver sheen beneath.

  “I wouldn’t do that again,” Vidian said, ripping off the shreds of the garment with his free hand without loosening his hold on Kanan at all. “My skin graft is a cortosis mesh—a holdover from the days when I advised manufacturers in the field late in the Clone Wars. I can assure you, young lady—every bolt you fire against me will carry directly into your friend.”

  Kanan saw Hera stand erect, keeping her eyes on Vidian. “You want to know why we’re here? Put him down!”

  “Certainly.” Vidian lowered Kanan—but just as the tips of the younger man’s toes touched the ground, the count delivered a mighty open-handed slap with his left hand. Kanan felt his jaw nearly go sideways.

  And still, Vidian continued to hold him by the throat. Kanan struggled to speak, but only unintelligible sounds came out.

  Vidian loosened his hold a little. “What’s that? You want mercy?”

  Kanan coughed once and glared at him. “I said, ‘That was a cheap shot.’ ”

  “Glad you approve.” Vidian looked back to Hera, whose eyes darted between him and the door. “You needn’t worry. These walls are soundproofed, and I haven’t called for help. I rarely get to entertain—I don’t want anyone to interfere.”

  Hera looked at Vidian—and then moved, vaulting athletically over the console. She fired her blaster just past Vidian’s head, purposefully missing him, as she hit the floor. She was there just a moment before bounding forward, charging toward the cyborg. Vidian, startled by the frontal attack, reached out with both arms to grasp for her, releasing Kanan in the process. Hera instantly changed her target, diving low and tackling Kanan around the midsection while Vidian’s arms crossed, catching nothing. The force of her jump propelled her and Kanan to the floor, two meters behind the count.

  Vidian spun, amused rather than alarmed as the two stood. “Well done.”

  Kanan, breathing again, pushed Hera away from him just as Vidian charged toward them. The count was a shirtless brawler in a cage, now: the sort of opponent he’d dealt with in many a cantina. Kanan met the advancing cyborg with a roundhouse kick to his lower back. It felt like kicking a sack of titanium hammers—and Kanan felt dumber than one for the attempt when Vidian snatched his leg and shoved. Kanan tumbled backward, smashing through a lab table.

  Hera opened up on Vidian again, clearly convinced no one outside would respond to the blasterfire. Vidian shrugged it off and charged her. She leapt high, vaulting over his back as he dived. But this time, his legs kept their balance, and he pivoted in time to catch her by a head-tendril. Vidian yanked, hurling her violently across the room.

  “Hera!” Kanan yelled, rising from the debris. Vidian had thrown Hera hard enough to smash her against the far wall—and yet she hadn’t landed at all. Blue light from a ceiling-mounted stasis beam captured her in midair.

  The count looked up at her in high spirits. “Marvelous! Perfect aim. Don’t move, now.”

  Of course, she couldn’t—but before Kanan could wonder what Vidian was doing with a paralyzing suspension beam in his living quarters, the cyborg was moving toward him again. “Now, where were we? I used to spar in physical therapy.”

  “Oh, yeah? I used to put people there.” Kanan stepped gamely toward him.

  Vidian lunged with his right. Kanan stepped aside just as quickly, feeling the stroke go past. Balling his gloved fist, he pounded Vidian’s left ear. The rest of the man might be sheathed with something tough, but Kanan bet that Vidian needed his ears for balance like anyone else. He was right—at least for an instant, the cyborg recoiled. It gave Kanan enough time to grab Vidian violently by what passed for his ear. Whipping the count’s head around, Kanan bowled forward, smashing Vidian face-first into a cabinet with a colossal clang.

  Like a spring-loaded weapon, Vidian snapped back around. His face was expressionless, but his mechanical voice betrayed excitement. “Now we’re to it!”

  Kanan and Vidian punched at each other for long seconds. Kanan used all his speed to prevent Vidian from landing a solid blow—and all his own technique to keep from breaking his hand on the count’s metallic hide. He’d battled enough tough-skinned opponents to know to avoid head-butts or anything else more threatening to him than to Vidian. But that didn’t leave him a lot of options, except for trying to knock Vidian off balance.

  He tried—and the room paid for it, as the two overturned cabinets and more stands in their melee. But the cyborg was just too fast.

  “We’re done,” Vidian said, his right arm lancing out. Catching Kanan’s wrist in his viselike grip, Vidian delivered a left jab to his temple. Kanan didn’t see anything for a few moments after that. But he felt motion, as Vidian grabbed his tunic and shoved him.

  When the lights in his mind stopped blinking, Kanan realized Vidian had him against the main operating table. The count snapped Kanan’s right hand into one metal restraint. When Kanan struggled, the cyborg smacked him again. A moment later both Kanan’s hands and feet were bound to the surface.

  Vidian straightened and stretched, as one refreshed. “That was invigorating.” He looked around. “Any other guests? Are we done? No grieving Besalisks to the rescue?”

  Seeing no other new arrivals, Vidian turned around. “Fine then,” he said, facing Hera and Kanan. “It’s time we got to know one another.”

  Kanan swallowed and looked at Hera, who, still suspended, managed to shake her head. Skelly, down in the basement level, was in no shape to do anything, and Zaluna would never come up into the middle of a fight. Nor would they want her to.

  Vidian rummaged in a wardrobe. “You flew for Moonglow, gunslinger. I killed your boss. Is that what this is?” Vidian took out a gold-colored shirt and put it on. “Friendships are costly. They make you do things outside your best interests.”

  Kanan said nothing.

  “I’m sure you’d tell my interrogator droid more,” Vidian said as he walked through the mess his room had become. “And I may have another use for you.”

  Struggling against the stasis beam, Hera glared. “What do you mean?”

  “I might let my droids practice on you.” He turned to face Kanan and scratched his chin—a move that seemed more an affectation than anything motivated by an actual itch. “Can you imagine what it is to live without senses, without any means of interacting with your environment?”

  “After a few drinks.”

  “The mind is a dynamo in the dark, an engine endlessly running, powering nothing. It thrashes in the night, seeking daylight, inventing its own.” He walked around the table, looking for the surgical stand. Finding a bent tray, Vidian knelt beside it and began meticulously replacing the scattered surgical instruments on it. He held up a scalpel before his eyes. “Controlling nothing. Consider that! The youngling and the aged experience it—the struggle with ineffectuality. Controlling nothing is the true death.”

  He rose, holding the tray. “But I have come back from the dead. And through me, the Empire will control everything.” He set the tray back on the stand. “You’ve heard my slogan, perhaps: Keep moving, destroy barriers, see everything?”

  “You were talking on the holo in a spaceport once,” Kanan said. “Nobody was watching.”

  “I’m not offended. A trite bit of management advice. But for one amputated from everything, it is more. It’s a prescription for being.” Vidian walked bac
k to Kanan, scalpel in hand. “I was without contact for two years. Let us see what happens if you go without for ten. Who knows? You might even become interesting.”

  “Wait!” Hera said, still dangling.

  Vidian looked over with impatience. “Yes?”

  “I thought you were going to interrogate us first.”

  Kanan rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, torture me before you torture me. Wouldn’t want to forget that!” What was she thinking?

  Vidian set the scalpel aside. “She’s quite right.” He went silent for a moment. “I’ve just sent for my assistant. Be patient.”

  Another slot in the floor opened. A black, bug-eyed globe levitated upward through it. Kanan, struggling to get loose, recognized it as an Imperial interrogator droid. Their reputation was well known—and the large syringe it wielded identified it unmistakably.

  “Hold still,” Vidian said. “It’ll be over in a second.”

  Kanan’s mind raced as the thing approached. Master Billaba would have advised him to use the Force. Cast the thing against the wall! Unlock your bonds! Hypnotize Vidian into taking a long walk out of a short airlock! He’d tried never to use the Force openly in the past, yet this was serious. Kanan started to focus—

  —but before he could do anything, the interrogator droid rotated just a few degrees and extended its needle right toward the injection port on Vidian’s exposed neck.

  “What?” Vidian swatted at the hovering droid, sending it tumbling into a far wall. He fell to his hands and knees.

  A large door opened within the floor. Vidian’s throne rose into the room. Skelly sat on it, with Zaluna standing beside it, holding the remote control for the droid.

  “I don’t think that’s truth serum,” Hera said.

  “It sure isn’t.” Skelly patted the small mountain of vials in his lap. “I know my pharmaceuticals.” He grinned through broken teeth at Vidian. “Nighty-night, sweetheart.”