The Essential Novels

by James Luceno

  “We’ll dock very soon, Lord Vader,” said his aide-de-camp, clearly interpreting his head movements as impatience. “My apologies for the delay.”

  Delay? Vader hadn’t noticed. He was simply testing his focus again. It was interesting how much he could intimidate without even intending to now. This, he learned, was the value of sheer presence: the art of illusion. And to think he had once resented this grim black suit and longed for his whole body again.

  “I expect our clonemaster at Arkanian Micro not to be late, though, Lekauf.”

  The officer twitched. He made as if to put his hand to his chest—a self-comforting gesture—and appeared to think better of it. “He’s waiting, my lord. He’s at the facility, ready to run the demonstration.”

  So easy: Vader was comfortable with himself now. Entirely comfortable.

  The ship docked in a cool, cavernous hangar that smelled as if oiled machinery had recently passed through it. A small group of technicians and managers—he noted their variations in clothing—moved forward to greet their customer.

  Vader’s sensor-enhanced olfactory system detected mineral components, the rasping metallic sharpness of swarf from milled parts, even Quara and human sweat: the mundane events of the last hour here replayed themselves for him. Equipment had arrived, probably, and had been moved by maintenance staff.

  And there was something beyond the immediate physical impressions of the facility. Vader could feel anxiety, the tension just before conflict.

  Someone else was waiting for him. Several people.

  He scanned the length of the blue durasteel ribs that formed the structure of the hangar’s walls and roof, looking for a door, a gantry, any access point for the threat. It was above him. Someone was coming for him.

  Two doors were set into the upper walls with just a ladder beneath. Access hatches. Corridors behind.

  They’re moving around up there. Five, six … seven of them.

  The barely perceptible ripples in the Force also let Vader taste something else at a very great distance: his Master.

  It’s inevitable. You knew he would do this, didn’t you?

  Vader reached carefully into his black robe and slid his gloved hand down the hilt of his lightsaber. He tightened his grip. He had no sense anymore that the mechanical hand was any less his own than the flesh-and-blood one had been. The lightsaber felt a continuation of his own arm again, natural and complete.

  “Lekauf,” he said quietly to his aide. “Lekauf, withdraw. Now.”

  “What’s wrong, my lord?” Lekauf was looking up at the stark walls, too, following Vader’s lead. He reached for his blaster and held it two-handed, eyes darting. “I can’t see—”

  The managers and technicians stood rooted, shoulders slightly hunched and looking around frantically to spot what they imagined Vader could see. They ducked. They couldn’t have seen anything. They were reacting to him.

  “Lord Vader—”

  “Get clear. I can deal with this.”

  Vader felt he would need Lekauf one day, but not now. He thumbed the hilt and a shaft of brilliant red energy seared the air, sending the facility technicians suddenly scattering for nonexistent cover. The staccato thud-thud-thud of boots running on durasteel flooring echoed suddenly above and to both sides of the hangar and Vader spun around, lightsaber raised in both hands.

  He faced the hangar doors.

  Rappelling ropes paid out with a loud slap and the opening was instantly blocked from outside by a line of four hooded men with Thunderbolt repeating blasters. Vader felt the Force ripple with the presence of three more about to enter through the doors at his back.

  Lekauf stepped in front of him to block their shots, blaster raised. Vader struck him aside with one armored blow, sending him to the floor and to safety as the stream of bolts flew at his chest plate in a concentrated V of blue light. Then he whirled his lightsaber in a neat circle at arm’s length, two-handed, blocking the shots in one economical blur of energy.

  The assassins paused for a frantic reload.

  “Lord Vader—” said Lekauf, but he was pinned flat by the Force, arms flailing.

  “Stay down,” snapped Vader. I’ll need you one day. The other three hit men were still at his back, hidden behind the door. He could sense it. He backed toward it, beckoning one-handed to the four strung in a ragged line now across the entrance, taunting them, buying time. They tracked their blasters and tried to settle on a clear shot that would beat the slowly sweeping lightsaber. They didn’t seem able to find one.

  “Come to me.” They’re behind me. I feel them. Oh, a little right, a little more to the right … “I’m not in the mood to chase today.”

  They knew where their comrades were, he was sure of it. And so did he.

  It was just a matter of timing to bring this to a quick end.

  “Now!” yelled one man.

  Vader dropped and spun as the doors behind him snapped open. From his crouched position he saw legs run at him and he swung left, right, left again, slicing through bone and tendon and screams. He carried the arc through to bring the ruby blade up as he turned and rose simultaneously to face the four other assailants now right upon him. It felt like minutes even though he knew it was two seconds, no more.

  A Thunderbolt repeater was not a close-quarters weapon. But a lightsaber was.

  One man dropped instantly without his intervention. Vader lunged forward and sliced through two more, left-right. The fourth lost his arm and blaster in the same slicing movement and dropped to his knees, utterly silent, mouth open wide in frozen agony as he stared at the seared stump.

  Vader brought the lightsaber down across his neck. The hangar was silent now except for the sound of his own breath. He looked down at the back of the one man he hadn’t killed. The black tunic was still smoking a little.

  “Fine shot, Lekauf,” said Vader. He released his Force pressure. “I told you to stay down.”

  Lekauf got to his knees and holstered his blaster. “I never rose, my lord. I can fire from a prone position, though, and you made no mention of that.”

  Lekauf stood up and went to him as if to check him for injury. It suddenly struck Vader that he was solid and a good height. And he was loyal enough to step in the line of fire, and then—defy him to cover his back.

  Good man. At least one possible template, then.

  Vader took one step back in case Lekauf actually intended to minister to him, then looked to see where the facility staff had gone. They were huddled by the bodies near the door, silent in the way of people who were afraid they might say the wrong thing at the wrong time. More staff were edging in cautiously through both doors in the ringing silence that followed the blasterfire.

  “Who’s your most senior executive?” Vader asked.

  “Tef Shabiak,” said one of the technicians hoarsely.

  Vader turned to Lekauf and tilted his head slightly. When your eyes weren’t visible, a gesture was necessary.

  Lekauf understood perfectly. “What would you like me to do with him, Lord Vader?”

  “Remove his head, please,” said Vader. “This is very poor customer service. And now I’ll see his deputy.”

  Sometimes people gasped, and sometimes they didn’t. The range of reaction to horror was fascinating. Compliance was proving to be a common reaction. Lekauf walked briskly at Vader’s side but a fraction behind him as they followed a visibly agitated manager through the corridors into the heart of the cloning complex.

  “If you think the company was involved in this attempt, I should—”

  Vader cut him short. “I know who’s behind this, and it certainly isn’t the company.”

  Lekauf’s next question hung in his silence. There was only the creak of his boots as he kept pace with his Sith Lord.

  Vader answered anyway. “I need to encourage better security, or we invite an open season from now on.”

  “Understood, my lord,” said Lekauf, sounding and feeling genuinely satisfied to Vader.


  But more than encouraging security, executing the top executive was another eloquent statement of intent that took little effort but spoke loudly across the Empire: there would be consequences for any act that didn’t meet with Vader’s approval.

  Power was as much a matter of presentation as using the dark side, Vader had learned.

  In his throne room, Palpatine paused while flicking through the screens of his datapad. The Force sighed slightly: he felt it. Vader had reacted.

  He had survived whatever Cuis had thrown at him. Palpatine thought he actually felt his apprentice’s sense of betrayal. He concentrated harder, searching for some hint of anger or hatred, but there was nothing, and he wondered if Vader had not yet discovered the obvious.

  Palpatine drew on his reserves of patience and settled back into the chair, adjusting the cushion behind his back. He let the datapad absorb his attention again.

  Vader had to take the next step. If he didn’t, Palpatine’s long search for another worthy apprentice would be a very long one indeed.

  Vader stared at the tanks full of liquid.

  As he passed down the rows, the tanks acted like lenses, distorting the figure of the suddenly promoted chief executive of Arkanian Microtechnologies standing behind them.

  “I take it you favor Arkanian cloning technology, then,” said Vader.

  “As good as the Kaminoans’, sir.” He was nervous; he would have been stupid if he hadn’t been. “And a full year’s lead time to adult, as well—we don’t rush the process. We guarantee a stable product.”

  “Are you prepared to attempt recloning our existing Fett template?”

  “If you want us to, yes. It’s not a genotype we’ve worked with before, so there might be uncertainties. And there’s a higher failure rate with secondary cloning, but we would certainly put all our expertise into it.”

  “I would appreciate it if you’d try. They’ve proved excellent troops, especially in terms of discipline.”

  Vader ran the fingertip of his glove down the permaglass of one vat and stared at the adult soldier forming within it. The Kaminoans decanted their clones as juveniles and matured them naturally: he wondered what made more difference in the long run, the quality of the template or the training. He didn’t care for shortcuts, not with an entire division’s efficiency hanging on a single selection. But he wasn’t a scientist, and this was one area where he would have to rely on his uniquely motivational leadership to get the job done.

  As he concentrated on the form floating in the liquid, trailing a web of fine tubes, Vader saw himself for a moment: burned, barely alive, mutilated, rescued, rebuilt. He wondered whether beyond the external appearance of a Sith droid there might be more that was shaping him in another’s image. And he could still feel two things in the Force above all others: Palpatine’s saber at his back, and the less distinctive shape of a threat that was physically much, much nearer.

  “So we spread the risk,” he said, and shook his equally divided attention away from both vat and threat for a moment. “Reclone a Fett template, and continue with this batch. And we’ll ask Lieutenant Lekauf if he’d be so kind as to provide a tissue sample of his own for you to work upon.”

  Lekauf, standing with one hand on his unclipped holster, inclined his head deferentially. “Thank you, Lord Vader. It’s an honor indeed.” His pride and pleasure were tangible. And at Vader’s side, he stood almost exactly as tall as a Fett clone. He would do.

  “Would you care for some hospitality, Lord Vader?” said the new and nervous head of Arkanian Micro. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his face fell and his gaze fixed for a few awkward moments on Vader’s mouth grille. Then he looked from mouth to eyepiece, clearly thinking that his promotion would be exceptionally short-lived.

  People were so transparent.

  “I regret that I have other business to attend to,” said Vader. A moment of graciousness contrasted exquisitely with summary execution, light and dark, combining to achieve a balanced outcome. Arkanian Micro would never present the Empire with any production problems now. “I’m looking for someone.” Lekauf took a step forward as if to accompany him, but Vader held up a gloved finger. “You have a sample to contribute, Lieutenant. I can handle this on my own.”

  He could. He didn’t even need a map of the city: he would find the man he was looking for because the man was also looking for him.

  The last assassin stalking him had a distinctive effect on the Force. Vader tested, probing carefully, letting the impression wash through him.

  It was a Dark Jedi. It was what he should have expected of his Master. This one would at least test him. And in his heart of hearts, Vader felt that he wanted to pass the test for his own sake, not Palpatine’s.

  Your hatred will make you strong.

  Vader slipped along the passageway that connected Arkanian Micro’s management suite to the large courtyard at the center of the facility. It was a square of perfectly manicured lawn fringed with identical trees whose crowns were clipped into precise cube shapes. A fountain formed of a single spout of water bubbling over a pyramid of smooth stones provided soothing ambient sound.

  The last thing Vader wanted was to be soothed. He sought his hatred again. Palpatine had sent men to kill him. However inevitable that was, however much the malice was intricately bound up with and inseparable from his Master’s wish to see him succeed, he had to focus on the motivating strength of pure loathing.

  He paused and activated his lightsaber, listening.

  He sensed the Dark Jedi coming long before he heard him.

  Vader felt a presence slipping through doors and drawing closer. A sensation of melting ice shivered down what remained of his back, and he seized it: a little precious sliver of fear to be picked up and used. No—caution. His armor was not indestructible, and he was facing a Jedi this time. And he was still less than he had been when he was wholly flesh and blood.

  Vader stepped out onto the lawn, clear of the trees, and waited like bait.

  He didn’t have to wait long. He knew the man was there, watching him, for nearly a minute before he moved from a doorway out into the sunlight. Suddenly, to Vader’s right, another door opened and two women came out chatting with flimsi cups in their hands. They both looked at Vader, and then at his lightsaber, and rushed back inside, slamming the door after them.

  That second was enough. The Dark Jedi took his lightsaber hilt in both hands and jerked his arms apart, releasing two beams, a red one in his left hand and a white one in the other. Vader had a brief thought that it was a marvelous piece of theatrics until the man came at him whirling the sabers slowly like a juggler preparing to perform with clubs. And the white blade whisked so close to his helmet that he had his own lightsaber raised and blocking it before he even had time to think.

  “Cuis, Lord Vader,” said the man. “Nothing personal, believe me.”

  Vader matched him step for step in the standoff as they circled each other. Nothing personal. Perhaps Cuis thought that an ice-cold act would intimidate him. But it was anger and all the other brutal emotions that would win the fight. Vader lunged.

  My Master wants me dead.

  He brought his saber down hard in a straight arc and Cuis blocked it with both of his, rasping them straight down its length as if sharpening a metal blade. Vader withdrew and sliced upward, then feinted to the left, wrong-footing the Jedi, who leapt back against the trunk of one of the trees. Vader made a double lunge on his right leg, dipping under the swirling twin beams.

  He needed to force Cuis into a confined space to deny him the advantage of two lightsabers. There had once been a boy called Anakin who could have done that with sheer technique, but he was forgotten, and the transformed man that was Vader opted for sheer power and began a fast, furious slashing assault, slicing through a tree trunk as Cuis dodged behind it.

  My Master forced me to live and now he wants me dead.

  The trunk creaked and toppled and Cuis deflected the weight of branches with the
Force. It bought Vader a second. He used it to send Cuis’s white beam spinning into the fountain, clattering down the wet stones. As Cuis’s remaining lightsaber flew from his left to his right hand, Vader intercepted it, jerking it high into the air and using the Force to throw it to the other side of the courtyard, out of reach.

  Cuis leapt high and saved his legs from a savage low sweep, but his opponent had him backed up almost into the angle of the walls. Vader couldn’t match Cuis’s agility, so instead he reached out with his left hand: the Force seized Cuis’s throat.

  It gave Vader a familiar and painful jolt of recognition. He shut out what he knew was a memory. Instead he concentrated on using a wholly unexpected surge of rage and hatred to flood the gap it left and overwhelm it. Cuis staggered back against the wall, struggling against Vader’s remote, crushing grip with his own Force power. Then he sank to his knees, shaking with the effort. Vader forced him lower, and lower.

  He could have killed him in that instant.

  He relaxed his grip enough to let Cuis suck in a rattling gasp of air and held him there, suddenly aware of faces that appeared at a window and then bobbed down again—harmless, shocked, terrified women’s faces. Office workers. Hatred worked for him now, telling him he needed not to think about—not recall—the look on their faces.

  “Go on,” said Cuis. He was barely audible. “Finish it.”

  “Who sent you?” I know. But I want to hear. “Tell me.”

  “Kill me.”

  “Join me.” Vader squeezed, still a meter away. “And you can live.”

  Cuis stared back at him with unnaturally black eyes, panting, contemptuous. He had no fear, none at all.

  “That’s not how I work. I have my code.”

  “Name him.”

  Cuis simply looked back at him.

  Vader throttled him to the point of unconsciousness and loosened his grip again. “Last chance.”

  “No.”

  “Name him, and join me.”