The Essential Novels

by James Luceno

  For now.

  Malgus acknowledged the salute with a nod.

  “You are servants of the Empire,” he said. “And of the Force.”

  They shouted once more in response.

  Malgus kicked the hilt of Zallow’s weapon out of his way, deactivated his own lightsaber, stepped over Zallow’s body, and strode among the rubble, among the fires, among the dead, until he reached Eleena. He felt the eyes of his warriors on him, the eyes of Adraas, felt the change in sentiment come over them. He did not care.

  He knelt and cradled Eleena in his arms. She remained warm, breathing. The puckered blaster wounds Zallow had given her looked like black mouths in the skin of her shoulder and chest. She appeared to have no broken bones.

  “Eleena. Open your eyes. Eleena.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Veradun,” she whispered.

  Hearing her pronounce his name before other Sith surprised him, and his hand closed into a fist so tight it made his knuckles ache. She must never—never—behave familiarly with him in front of other Sith.

  She must have sensed his anger for she blanched, cowered, staring at his closed fist, her eyes wide.

  That she understood her transgression diffused his anger. He unrolled his fist and extended his hand.

  “Can you stand?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Master.”

  He lifted her roughly to her feet, heedless of her wounds. She winced with pain and leaned on him. He allowed it. Her breath came in pained gasps.

  “Summon a medical team from Steadfast,” he ordered Adraas.

  Adraas’s eyes narrowed. No doubt he thought the task beneath him.

  “You heard Darth Malgus,” Adraas said to a nearby Sith warrior. “Summon a medical team.”

  “No,” Malgus said. “You do it, Adraas.”

  Adraas stared at him for a moment, anger in his eyes, before he pulled a curtain over his irritation and turned his face expressionless. “As you wish, Darth Malgus.”

  From outside, explosions like thunder sounded, the steady drumbeat of intense bombardment. Angral’s fleet had begun its attack on Coruscant.

  “I signaled to Darth Angral that the Temple was secure,” Adraas said, the faintest hint of defiance in his tone. “You seemed … preoccupied with other things at the time.”

  Adraas’s gaze fell on Eleena, then returned to Malgus.

  Malgus glared at Adraas, one fist clenched, and fought down the flash of anger. He would not allow Adraas’s borderline insubordination to diminish the rush he felt at his victory.

  “I will forgive your arrogation of power this once, but do not overstep again,” Malgus said. “Now remove yourself from my sight.”

  Adraas colored with rage, his mouth a thin line of anger, but he dared not say another word. He gave a half bow and stalked off.

  Malgus made his grip on Eleena gentler as they turned to look outside. The ruined entrance of the Temple, widened by the drop ship crashing through it, opened onto clear sky. Together, he and Eleena watched Imperial bombers streak out of the orange-and-red clouds and light Coruscant aflame.

  “Go see it, Master,” Eleena whispered to him. “It is your victory. I am fine. Go.”

  She was not fine and he knew it. But he also knew that he had to see.

  He left her and walked the hall until he reached the shattered entranceway. The statues of the Jedi that had lined the processional lay toppled, broken at his feet. He looked out on the culmination of his life.

  Imperial ships swarmed the air. Bombs fell like rain and exploded into showers of red and orange and black. Gouts of smoke poured into the sky. The few native speeders that remained in the air were pursued by Imperial fighters and shot down. Hundreds of fires filled Malgus’s field of vision. A skyrise burned, a pillar of flame reaching for the heavens. Secondary explosions sent deep vibrations moaning through the ground. Malgus occasionally caught the sounds of distant, panicked screaming. A handful of Republic fighters got airborne but they were quickly swarmed by Imperial fighters and blown from the sky.

  He opened a communications channel to Darkness, Angral’s command cruiser.

  “Darth Angral, you have heard that the Jedi Temple is secure?”

  The sound of a busy bridge served as background noise to Angral’s response. “I have. You have done well, Darth Malgus. How many warriors died in the assault?”

  “Adraas did not tell you?”

  Angral did not answer, merely waited for Malgus to answer the original question.

  “Perhaps thirty,” Malgus said at last.

  “Excellent. I will send a transport to pick up you and your men.”

  “I would rather you wait.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I wish to see Coruscant burn.”

  “I understand, old friend. I will ensure the bombers spare the Temple. For now.”

  The channel closed and Malgus sat down cross-legged in the doorway of the Temple. Soon, several of the Sith warriors took station around him. Together, they bore witness to fire.

  In less than half a standard hour, an Imperial medical transport cut through the smoke and flame and other Imperial ships that filled the sky to set down in a cloud of dust on the large processional outside the Jedi Temple. The two pilots, visible through the transparisteel of the cockpit, saluted Malgus.

  A belly door slid open and two men in the gray-and-blue of the Imperial Medical Corps hustled down the ramp. Both carried cases of supplies and instruments and both had the soft physiques of men who—despite their warrior training—had not seen hard work in some time. Bipedal medical droids, their polished silver bodies reflecting the fires burning in the cityscape, walked behind them, each pulling a treatment cart with a tri-level gurney behind it.

  Malgus rose and approached them. The doctors’ eyes widened at his appearance—his scarred mien alarmed most—and they gave crisp salutes.

  “There are several wounded within,” Malgus said. “The Twi’lek female is my servant. Care for her as you would me.”

  “An alien, my lord?” asked the older of the two men, his jowls dotted with a day’s growth of gray beard. “As I’m sure you know, Imperial medical facilities in-theater are restricted—”

  Malgus took a step toward him and the doctor’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Care for her as you would me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the doctor said, and the medical team hurried past.

  More explosions rocked the urban landscape. A bomb struck a power station, and an enormous flare of plasma jetted half a kilometer into the sky. A flight of ISF interceptors, notable for their bent wings, streaked over the Temple. The Sith around him cheered.

  Eleena emerged from the Temple, her mouth tight with pain. The doctor trailed after her, worry creasing his brow.

  “Please, mistress,” the doctor said, eyeing Malgus with terror. “Please.”

  Eleena’s eyes widened as she took in the scale of the bombardment, the destruction. Malgus stepped before her.

  “Go with the doctors,” he said. “There’s an Imperial medical ship, Steadfast, in orbit with the rest of the cruiser fleet. Await me there. I will come when I am finished here.”

  “I do not require care, Master.”

  “Do as I command,” he said, though his voice was not harsh.

  She swallowed, smiled, and nodded.

  “Thank you, my lord,” the doctor said to Malgus. “Come, mistress.” He took Eleena gently by the arm and escorted her aboard the transport while bombs fell and the Republic died.

  After the medical team had triaged and loaded the wounded, the Sith loaded their own dead aboard. The bodies would be taken to Dromund Kaas or Korriban for proper rites. Malgus wished Adraas had been among them.

  After the transport lifted off, Adraas, masked once more, came to Malgus’s side.

  “What of the Jedi bodies?” Adraas asked.

  Malgus considered. The Jedi had fought well, especially Zallow. They misunderstood the Force, but he neverthel
ess wished to treat them honorably. “Make the Temple their tomb. Bring the whole thing down.”

  “I will request a bomber to—”

  Malgus shook his head and turned on Adraas. They stood about the same height, and Adraas did not quail before Malgus’s appearance.

  “No,” Malgus said. “There are more than enough explosives still on the drop ship. Use them.”

  “This is an order … my lord?”

  Malgus held his calm with difficulty. “Sith should destroy the Jedi Temple, not Imperial pilots. Do you disagree, Adraas?”

  Adraas seemed not to have considered this. Malgus was not surprised. Adraas, too, misunderstood the Force, and he had little sense of honor. Still, he did as he was told.

  “It will be done, my lord.”

  Presently, the charges were set and Malgus held a remote detonator in his hand. He eyed the Temple one last time, its towers, the stacked tiers of the central structure, the toppled statues, the great entryway made into a rough and jagged sneer by the passage of the drop ship. The rest of his Sith forces stood gathered around him.

  “Should we remove to a safe distance?” Adraas asked.

  Malgus regarded him with contempt. “This is a safe distance.”

  “We are twenty meters away from the entrance,” Adraas said.

  Staring into Adraas’s face, Malgus activated the detonator. A series of low booms sounded, starting deep within the Temple and drawing closer as the charges exploded in sequence and undermined the Temple’s foundation.

  A strong gust of dust and loose debris blew out of the entrance. The explosions on the upper levels began, grew louder, fiercer. Stone cracked. Large chunks fell from the Temple’s façade and crashed to the ground. Flames were visible through the entrance. A whole series of explosions followed in rapid succession, the sound of the snapping spine of the Jedi Order.

  The huge edifice, a symbol of the Jedi for centuries, began to fall in on itself. The towers collapsed in its wake, the huge spires crumbling as if in slowed motion. A jet of fire and bits of rock moving faster than the speed of sound exploded out of the now-collapsing entrance.

  Instead of taking cover, Malgus fell into the Force, raised both of his hands, palms outward, and formed a transparent wall of power before himself and his warriors. His fellow Sith joined him, mirroring his gesture, mirroring his power. Rocks and debris pelted into the shared barrier, the speeding shrapnel of ruin. The jet of flame struck it and parted around it, water to a stone.

  The Temple continued its slow demise, falling inward, shrinking into a shapeless mound of rubble and ruin. And then it was over.

  A thick cloud of dust hung like a funeral shroud over the mountain of shattered stone and steel that had been the Jedi Temple. There could have been Jedi survivors in the Temple’s lower levels. Malgus did not care. They were either crushed or trapped forever.

  “And so falls the Republic,” Malgus said.

  The Sith around him cheered.

  No one among the Republic delegation to Alderaan spoke until they had cleared the hall. No one seemed to know what to say. Aryn struggled to keep their collective emotional turmoil at bay. Like her, they were bouncing randomly among grief, rage, and disappointment. Even Dar’nala was struggling to stay centered, though she appeared outwardly calm.

  Dar’nala finally broke the silence, her tone, at least, all business.

  “We need to reach Master Zym as soon as possible. I need his counsel.”

  “How can we be sure he is alive?” Satele asked. “If Coruscant is fallen …”

  As one the delegation faltered. Syo and Aryn shared a look of shock. It had not occurred to Aryn that Master Zym, too, might have been lost.

  “I would have felt it if he were … dead,” Dar’nala said, nodding as if to assure herself. “Arrange a secure communications link, Satele.”

  “Yes, Master Dar’nala.”

  “No one is to leave here,” Dar’nala said to all of them. Aryn saw that the Master’s eyes were bloodshot. “When word of the attack reaches the public, the press will want comment. We are to give none until we have settled on our course. I will speak for this delegation for now. Agreed?”

  All nodded, even Senator Am-ris.

  “This will ultimately be a decision for the Republic to make, Senator,” Dar’nala said. “The Jedi will advise, of course.”

  Am-ris slouched when he spoke, weighed down by events. “I will discuss matters with the acting head of the Senate,” he said.

  “The Senate may not exist as of today,” Dar’nala said. “You may have to act in its stead. Your advisers here can assist you. We will support you and whatever decision is ultimately made.”

  Worry lines creased Am-ris’s forehead. He swallowed, nodded.

  They walked through the empty corridors, despondent. The High Council building had been vacated for the negotiations. Even the Alderaanian guards typically stationed within the structure had been relegated to posts outside. Though the windows looked out on courtyards of manicured grass and shrubs, gently flowing fountains, and elegant sculptures, Aryn nevertheless felt as if they were walking through a tomb. Something had died within the building.

  Her thoughts churned. All of them seemed to be on the edge of saying something, yet no one said anything. Aryn finally gave voice to what she imagined all of them must be thinking.

  “We cannot let this aggression stand, Master.”

  Satele and Syo gave small nods of agreement. Dar’nala stared straight out a window at the Alderaanian countryside.

  “I fear we will have no choice. The Chancellor is dead—”

  “Dead?” Aryn asked.

  “We saw it happen,” Satele said, nodding, her voice tight. “He said an Imperial fleet attacked Coruscant. It seems the attack focused on the Senate and the Jedi Temple.”

  “I doubt they stopped there,” Am-ris said.

  “There were Padawans in the Temple,” Syo said.

  Satele continued. “We have no idea of the numbers of the Imperial forces or what other damage they may have wrought.”

  “We cannot surrender Coruscant,” Aryn said.

  The statement appalled everyone into silence.

  “I agree,” Dar’nala said at last. “It should not come to that.”

  “Should not?” Syo asked.

  Aryn could scarcely believe what she was hearing. The Jedi had been duped, had failed in their charge to protect the Republic. Master Zym should have foreseen the Sith plan. She stared out the windows as they walked, barely seeing the Alderaanian landscape, the nearby river.

  She had fought Imperial forces on Alderaan, had beaten them into retreat. She wanted nothing more than to fight them again now.

  Dar’nala’s voice brought her back to the present. “How did you know the Sith had attacked Coruscant before we exited the negotiation room, Aryn?”

  “I didn’t,” Aryn admitted. “Not with certainty. I only knew that …” She tried and failed to keep the emotion from her voice. “Master Zallow had been killed. And when I saw the look in the eyes of the Sith …”

  Syo moved a step closer to her, as if he would protect her from her grief.

  “Master Zallow is dead, then,” Dar’nala said, stiffening. Her words sounded tight, the grief leaking through her control. “You are certain?”

  Aryn nodded but said nothing more, simply built a wall of her will to hold back tears. Syo seemed to want to offer her comfort, but instead he did nothing.

  “We all mourn him, Aryn,” Dar’nala said. “And the others lost today.”

  Aryn could not keep the anger from her voice. “Yet you would have us return to negotiate with those who did this.”

  Dar’nala stopped in her tracks, turned to face Aryn. Aryn knew she had overstepped. Dar’nala’s voice remained level, but the heat in her eyes could have set Aryn afire.

  “There are billions of people on Coruscant. Children. Their lives depend upon us acting judiciously, not rashly. Your emotions are controlling your tongue. Do
not let them control your thinking.”

  “She is right, Aryn,” Senator Am-ris said and put a hand on Aryn’s shoulder. “We must think of the good of the Republic.”

  Aryn knew both of them were right, but it did not matter. She would get justice for Master Zallow, one way or another.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said. “Senator.”

  “I understand,” Dar’nala said, and the group started walking again. “I understand all too well.”

  Zeerid tried and failed to sleep in his chair for a few hours while Fatman pelted through the blue tunnel of hyperspace. Instead, he worried over his next job. More, he worried about the job after that, and the one after that. He worried about his daughter, about how she’d get the care she needed when he—he saw it as inevitable now—died on one of his jobs. The hole he lived in seemed to be getting deeper all the time, and he got no closer to digging his way out.

  The instrumentation beeped a signal to indicate the end of the jump. He de-tinted the cockpit canopy as the ship came out of hyperspace and blue gave way to black.

  The ball of Vulta’s star burned in the distance. Vulta was visible through the canopy, its day side shining like a green-and-blue jewel against the dark of space.

  Arriving in Vulta’s system made him feel immediately lighter. The part of him that kept work at bay reasserted itself. The thought of seeing Arra always did that for him.

  He engaged the engines and Fatman sped through the empty space between him and his daughter. When he neared the planet, he turned the ship over to the autopilot and waited for planetary control to ping him.

  While waiting, he called up a news channel on the HoloNet. His small in-cockpit vidscreen showed images of the peace negotiations on Alderaan. He’d forgotten about them. Since mustering out, the war between the Empire and the Republic had become little more than background noise to him. He knew Havoc Squadron had accounted well for itself on Alderaan, but not much more.

  Footage of the Sith delegation entering the council building filled the screen, commentary, then footage of the Jedi delegation doing the same. He thought he saw a familiar face among the Jedi.

  “Freeze picture and magnify right.”