by James Luceno
During Palpatine’s brief abduction by General Grievous, Bail had promised Padmé that should anything untoward happen to her, he would do all he could to protect those close to her. The fact that Padmé was pregnant had been something of an open secret, but at the time Bail had been referring to Anakin, never realizing that events would draw him into a conspiracy with Obi-Wan and Yoda that would end with his assuming custody of Leia.
It had taken only days for Bail and Breha to come to love the child, though initially Bail had worried that they may have been entrusted with too great a challenge. Given their parentage, chances were high that the Skywalker twins would be powerful in the Force. What if Leia should show early signs of following in the dark footsteps of her father? Bail had wondered.
Yoda had eased his mind.
Anakin hadn’t been born to the dark side, but had arrived there because of what he had experienced in his short life, instances of suffering, fear, anger, and hatred. Had Anakin been discovered early enough by the Jedi, those emotional states would never have surfaced. More important, Yoda appeared to have had a change of heart regarding the Temple as providing the best crucible for Force-sensitive beings. The steadfast embrace of a loving family would prove as good, if not better.
But the adoption of Leia was only one of Bail’s concerns.
For weeks following Palpatine’s decree that the Republic would henceforth be an Empire, he had been concerned for his—indeed, Alderaan’s—safety. His name was prominent on the Petition of the Two Thousand, which had called for Palpatine to abrogate some of the emergency powers the Senate had granted him. Worse, Bail had been the first to arrive at the Jedi Temple after the slaughter there; and he had rescued Yoda from the Senate following the Jedi Master’s fierce battle with Sidious in the Rotunda.
Holocams at the Temple or in the former Republic Plaza might easily have captured his speeder, and those images could have found their way to Palpatine or his security advisers. Word might have leaked that Bail was the person who had arranged for Padmé to be delivered to Naboo for the funeral. If Palpatine had been apprised of that fact, he might begin to wonder if Obi-Wan, having carried Padmé from distant Mustafar, had informed Bail about Palpatine’s secret identity, or about the horrors committed on Coruscant by Anakin, renamed Darth Vader by the Sith Lord, whom Obi-Wan had left for dead on the volcanic world.
And then Palpatine might begin to wonder if Padmé’s child, or children, had in fact died with her …
Bail and Mon Mothma hadn’t seen each other since Padmé’s funeral, and Mon Mothma knew nothing of the role Bail had played in the final days of the war. However, she had heard that Bail and Breha had adopted a baby girl, and was eager to meet baby Leia.
The problem was, Mon Mothma was also eager to continue efforts to undermine Palpatine.
“There’s talk in the Senate about building a palace to house Palpatine, his advisers, and the Imperial Guard,” she said as they were nearing one of the repulsorlift landing platforms attached to what had become Palpatine’s building.
Bail had heard the talk. “And statues,” he said.
“Bail, the fact that Palpatine doesn’t have full faith in his New Order makes him all the more dangerous.” She came to a sudden halt when they reached the walkway to the landing platform and turned to him. “Every signatory of the Petition of the Two Thousand is suspect. Do you know that Fang Zar has fled Coruscant?”
“I do,” Bail said, just managing to hold Mon Mothma’s gaze.
“Clone army or no, Bail, I’m not going to abandon the fight. We have to act while we still can—while Sern Prime, Enisca, Kashyyyk, and other worlds are prepared to join us.”
Bail worked his jaw. “It’s too soon to act. We have to bide our time,” he said, repeating what Padmé had told him in the Senate Rotunda on the day of Palpatine’s historical announcement. “We have to place our trust in the future, and in the Force.”
Mon Mothma adopted a skeptical look. “Right now there are members of the military who will side with us, who know that the Jedi never betrayed the Republic.”
“What counts is that the clone troopers believe that the Jedi did betray the Republic,” Bail said; then he lowered his voice to add: “We risk everything by placing ourselves in Palpatine’s sights just now.”
He kept to himself his concerns for Leia.
Mon Mothma didn’t say another word until they stepped onto the landing platform, where stormtroopers and a tall, startling figure in black were striding down the boarding ramp of a Theta-class shuttle that had just set down.
“Some Jedi must have survived the execution order,” Mon Mothma said at last.
For reasons he couldn’t fully understand, Bail’s attention was riveted on the masked figure, who appeared to be in command of the clones, and who also appeared to glance with clear purpose in Bail’s direction. The group passed close enough to Bail for him to hear one of the stormtroopers say: “The Emperor is waiting for you in the facility, Lord Vader.”
Bail felt as if someone had let the air out of him.
His legs began to shake and he grabbed hold of the platform railing for support, somehow managing to keep apprehension from his voice when he said to Mon Mothma: “You’re right. Some Jedi did survive.”
In the capable hands of gangly Brudi Gayn, the modified CloakShape and the booster ring that had allowed it to enter hyperspace completed three short jumps in as many hours, emerging in a remote area of the Tion Cluster, far from any inhabited worlds. Waiting there, however, was a twenty-year-old Corellian freighter as large as a Tantive-class corvette, but with a circular command module.
Shryne counted five gun turrets; he already knew from Brudi that the Drunk Dancer boasted sublights and a hyperdrive better suited to a ship twice its size.
Brudi disengaged from the booster ring while they were still some distance from the freighter, then in his own good time maneuvered the CloakShape through a magnetic containment shield in the Drunk Dancer’s starboard side, and into a spacious docking bay. On their landing disks sat a small drop ship and a swift, split-winged Incom Relay, not much bigger than the CloakShape.
Brudi popped the canopy, and Shryne and Starstone climbed down to the deck, slipping out of their helmets and flight suits at the bottom of the ladder. The two Jedi were wearing the simple spacer garments that Cash Garrulan had provided. Long accustomed to executing undercover missions, Shryne didn’t feel out of place without a tunic and robe, even without a lightsaber. He knew better than to convince himself that, having escaped Murkhana, they were suddenly in the clear. Before and during the war he had had his share of close calls and times when he had been chased, but going into hiding was entirely new.
Even newer to Olee Starstone, who looked as if the events of the past couple of weeks, the past thirty-six hours especially, were finally beginning to catch up to her. He could tell from her uncertain gestures that Starstone, who had probably never worn anything but Temple robes or field outfits, was still adjusting to their new circumstances.
Shryne resisted the temptation to console her. Their future was cloudier than the gunship drop into Murkhana City had been, and the sooner Starstone learned to take responsibility for herself, the better.
Alerted to the CloakShape’s arrival, several members of the Drunk Dancer’s crew were waiting in the docking bay. Shryne had encountered their type before, primarily in those outlying systems that had drifted into Count Dooku’s embrace before the Separatist movement had been formalized as the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Just from the look of them Shryne could see that they lacked the discipline of crews belonging to Black Sun or the Hutt syndicates, despite Brudi’s disclosure that the Drunk Dancer accepted occasional contracts from a variety of crime cartels.
Dressed in bits and pieces of apparel they had obviously obtained on dozens of worlds, they were a ragtag band of freelance smugglers, without star system or political affiliation, or bones to pick with anyone. Determined to maintain their autonomy, they had
learned that smugglers didn’t get rich by working for others.
In the docking bay Shryne and Starstone were introduced to the Drunk Dancer’s first mate, Skeck Draggle, and the freighter’s security chief, Archyr Beil. Both were humanoids as long-limbed as Brudi Gayn, with six-fingered hands and severe facial features that belied cheerful dispositions.
In the ship’s main cabin space the two Jedi met Filli Bitters, a towheaded human slicer who took an immediate interest in Starstone, and the Drunk Dancer’s communications expert, Eyl Dix, whose hairless dark green head hosted two pair of curling antennae, in addition to a pair of sharp-tipped ears.
Before long everyone, including a couple of inquisitive droids, had gathered in the main cabin to hear Shryne and Starstone’s account of their narrow escape from Murkhana. The fact that no one mentioned anything about the hunt for Jedi made Shryne uneasy, but not uneasy enough to pursue the point—at least not until he had a clearer sense of just where he and Starstone stood in the eyes of the smugglers.
“Cash asked that we bring you to Mossak,” Skeck Draggle said after the Jedi had entertained everyone with details of the daring flight. “Mossak’s just the other side of Felucia, and a decent hub for jumps into the Tingel Arm or just about anywhere up and down the Perlemian Trade Route.” He looked directly at Shryne. “We, ah, normally don’t offer free transport. But seeing how it was Cash who asked, and, uh, knowing what you folk have had to endure, we’ll cover the costs.”
“We appreciate that,” Shryne said, sensing the sharp-featured Skeck had left something unstated.
“The Twi’lek fix you with new identichips?” Archyr asked, in what seemed to be actual concern.
Shryne nodded. “Good enough to fool agents at Murkhana STC, anyway.”
“Then they’ll pass muster on Mossak, as well,” the lanky security chief said. “You shouldn’t have too much trouble finding temporary work, if that’s your plan.” Archyr regarded Shryne. “You have any contacts you can trust?”
Shryne’s eyebrows bobbed. “Good question.”
When the assembled crew members fell into a separate conversation, Starstone moved close to Shryne. “Just what is our plan, Mas—”
Shryne’s lifted finger stopped her midsentence. “No order; no ranks.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, echoing his quiet tone. “You agreed that other Jedi probably survived.”
“Listen, kid,” he said, gazing at her for emphasis, “the Climbers of this galaxy are few and far between.”
“Jedi could have survived by other means. It’s our duty to locate them.”
“Our duty?”
“To ourselves. To the Force.”
Shryne took a deep breath. “How do you propose we do that?”
She gnawed at her lower lip while she considered it, then looked at him pointedly. “We have Master Chatak’s beacon transceiver. If we could patch it into the Drunk Dancer’s communications suite, we could issue a Nine Thirteen code on encrypted frequencies.”
Shryne laughed in spite of himself. “You know, that could actually work.” He glanced at the crew members. “Still, I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”
She returned the smile. “But you’re not me.”
When Shryne turned back to the crew, he found Skeck gazing at him. “So I guess your scheme failed, huh?”
“Which scheme would that be, chief?”
Skeck glanced at his crewmates before answering. “Knocking Palpatine off his perch. Fighting the war the way it probably should have been fought all along.”
“You’ve been misinformed,” Shryne said flatly.
Skeck sat back in feigned nonchalance. “Really? We’ve all heard the recordings of what went on in Palpatine’s chambers.”
The other crew members nodded somberly.
“Don’t get me wrong,” the first mate continued before Shryne could respond. “I’ve nothing against any of you personally. But you have to admit, the way some of your people conducted themselves when Republic interests were at stake … The prestige you enjoyed. The wealth you amassed.”
“I give the Jedi credit for trying,” the slicer, Filli Bitters, chimed in. “But you should never have left yourselves so shorthanded on Coruscant. Not with so many troopers garrisoned there.”
Shryne laughed cheerlessly. “We were needed in the Outer Rim Sieges, you see.”
“Don’t you get it?” Eyl Dix said. “The Jedi were played.” When she shrugged her narrow shoulders, her twin antennae bobbed. “That’s what Cash thinks, anyway.”
Skeck laughed in derision. “From where I sit, getting played is worse than losing.”
“You’ll be safe from Imperial reach on Mossak,” Bitters said quickly, in an obvious attempt to be cheerful.
Sudden silence told Shryne that none of the Drunk Dancer’s crew was buying the slicer’s optimism.
“I realize that we’re already in your debt,” he said at last, “but we’ve a proposition for you.”
Skeck’s green eyes widened in interest. “Lay it out. Let’s see how it looks.”
Shryne turned to Starstone. “Tell them.”
She gestured to herself. “Me?”
“It was your idea, kid.”
“Okay,” Starstone began uncertainly. “Sure.” She cleared her voice. “We’re hoping to make contact with other Jedi who survived Palpatine’s execution orders. We have a transceiver capable of transmitting on encrypted frequencies. Any Jedi who survived will be doing the same thing, or listening for special transmissions. The thing is, we’d need to use the Drunk Dancer’s communications suite.”
“That’s a little like whistling in the stellar wind, isn’t it?” Dix said. “From what we hear, the clones got the drop on all of you.”
“Almost all of us,” Starstone said.
Bitters was rocking his head back and forth in uncertainty, but Shryne could tell that the white-haired computer expert was excited by the idea—and perhaps grateful for a chance to win points with Olee. Regardless, Filli said: “Could be dangerous. The Empire might be on to those frequencies by now.”
“Not if as many of us are dead as all of you seem to think,” Shryne countered.
Bitters, Dix, and Archyr waited for Skeck to speak.
“Well, of course, we’d have to get the captain to agree,” he said at last. “Anyway, I’m still waiting to hear the rest of the proposition—the part that makes it worth our while.”
Everyone looked at Shryne.
“The Jedi have means of accessing emergency funds,” he said, with a covert motion of his hand. “You don’t have to worry about being paid for your services.”
Skeck nodded, satisfied. “Then we don’t have to worry about being paid for our services.”
While Starstone was staring at Shryne in appalled disbelief and the crew members were talking among themselves about how best to slave the Jedi beacon transceiver to the communications suite, Brudi Gayn and a tall human woman entered the cabin space from the direction of the Drunk Dancer’s bulbous cockpit. The woman’s black hair was shot through with gray, and her age showed there and in her face more than in the way she moved.
“Captain,” Skeck said, coming to his feet, but she ignored him, her gray eyes fixed on Shryne.
“Roan Shryne?” she said.
Shryne looked up at her. “Last time I checked.”
She forced an exhale and shook her head in incredulity. “Stars’ end, it really is you.” She sat down opposite Shryne, without once taking her eyes off him. “You’re the image of Jen.”
Baffled, Shryne said: “Do I know you?”
She nodded and laughed. “On a cellular level, at any rate.” She touched herself on the chest. “I gave birth to you. I’m your mother, Jedi.”
The Emperor’s medical rehabilitation laboratory occupied the crown of Coruscant’s tallest building. A room of modest size, the laboratory’s antechamber closely resembled his former chambers in the Senate Office Building, and featured a semicircle of
padded couch, three swivel chairs with shell-shaped backs, and a trio of squat holoprojectors shaped like truncated cones.
Palpatine sat in the center chair, his hands on his knees, the lights of Coruscant blazing behind him through a long arc of fixed windows. The cowl of his heavy robe was lowered, and the blinking telltales of an array of devices and control panels lit his deeply creased face, the face he kept concealed from his advisers and Senatorial guests.
For here he was not simply Emperor Palpatine, he was Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the Sith.
On the far side of thick panels of transparisteel that separated the antechamber from a rib-walled operating theater, Vader sat on the edge of the surgical table on which he had been recalled to life and transformed. His flaring black helmet had been lifted from his head by servos that extended from the laboratory’s ceiling, revealing the pasty complexion of his synthflesh face and the raised wounds on his head that might never fully heal.
The medical droids responsible for repairing what had remained of Vader’s amputated limbs and incinerated body, some of which had observed and participated in the cyborg transformation of General Grievous on Geonosis a decade earlier, had been reduced to scrap by a scream that had torn from Vader’s scorched throat on his learning of his wife’s death. Now a 2-1B droid responding to Vader’s voiced instruction was tending to an injury to Vader’s left-arm prosthesis, the cause of which he had yet to explain.
“The last time you were in this facility, you were in no condition to supervise your own convalescence, Lord Vader,” Sidious said, his words transmitted to the pressurized laboratory by the antechamber’s sensitive enunciators.
“And I will remain ward of myself from this point forward,” Vader said through the intercom system.
“Ward of yourself,” Sidious repeated in an exacting tone.
“When it comes to overseeing modifications of this … shell, Master,” Vader clarified.
