In endless loops he felt his Master’s lightsaber burning through his stomach and the coldness of vacuum sucking the air from his lungs.
Many of the visions, however, were of things he could not possibly have seen while alive, featuring people both familiar and unfamiliar in times and places he could not always pin down.
He saw …
… General Rahm Kota in the control center of the TIE fighter factory over Nar Shaddaa. His eyes were undamaged, and his stance was straight-backed from his recent victory. Flanked by armed insurgents and surrounded by the bodies of dead stormtroopers, he snapped off his lightsaber and began issuing orders.
“Lock down the command center and get that holoprojector up and running. Tell all squads to fan out and funnel any opposition toward us.”
“Yes, sir.” Insurgents began running in all directions.
“General Kota, he’s here!” cried one.
Kota quickly moved to where a flickering image had appeared on the newly activated holoprojector. It showed the approaching Rogue Shadow. On seeing it, the general smiled grimly.
“So I’ve finally drawn you out of hiding …” To the insurgent he added, “Lower the containment field on Hangar Twelve and tell the men to get into position.”
“Yes, General.” The soldier left the room to hurry about his errand.
He saw …
… Kazdan Paratus pacing on his four metal limbs about the junk High Council Chamber. The blank-eyed heads of his mannequins turned eerily to follow his progress.
“No rest,” he wheezed. “No rest for any of us! Why can’t they leave us alone?”
He turned to face the mannequin of Master Yoda as though the pile of droid junk had spoken.
“Eh, my friend? What’s that? Oh, yes. He stinks of Sith, all right. But what’s he doing here now? Haven’t I suffered enough?”
The paranoid Jedi Master continued to pace back and forth, passing his deactivated lightsaber from hand to hand, as though debating whether or not to use it.
He saw …
… Shaak Ti, deep in the fungal forests of Felucia. Shading her eyes, she watched the Rogue Shadow glide overhead, visible as little more than a distortion in the light. She frowned and looked down at a young Zabrak woman who stood nearby, also studying the approach of the starship with concern. Several Felucian warriors guarded them, restlessly watching the trees.
“Darth Vader has found us?” asked the girl, a hint of excitement in her voice.
“Perhaps,” Shaak Ti answered her. “Gather your belongings and go into hiding, just as we’ve practiced. Do not return until I summon you.”
An angry flush spread across the girl’s face. “But—you can’t send me away. Let me fight at your side!”
“Against a Sith assassin? You would surely be killed.” Shaak Ti raised a hand to silence her protests. “Please, Maris, just go to the graveyard and wait for my summons. I will lead this assassin to the Ancient Abyss alone. Your strength will be tested in other ways, and soon.”
With an angry look on her face and tears running down her cheeks, the girl turned and ran into the forest.
Shaak Ti watched as the jungle closed over her.
“May the Force be with you, Maris,” she whispered.
He saw the past. That was what he assumed. He was at one with the Force—and the Force saw all things, felt all things, lived in all living things. He had returned to the source of the river that ran steadily through the galaxy, invigorating and sweeping up the dead as it passed. The current tumbled and turned him to face all aspects of his life. He watched it unfold with new understanding.
Some fragments were, however, much harder to comprehend.
He saw …
… a sad-eyed young woman standing at a large bay window, looking out over a landscape of denuded forests. In the distance a fiery line stretched up into the night sky, to a point in low orbit where a cluster of tiny lights gathered. Somewhere nearby, an astromech droid cooed mournfully to itself.
… a dirty and tattered man sitting in the corner of an enclosure that seemed made entirely of bone. A small halo-lamp shone in front of him. His hands hung free, but his wrists were tightly bound by electronic cuffs. The stink of raw meat cloyed in the air, making him wrinkle his nose in disgust.
… Darth Vader, his armored life-support suit rent to the flesh beneath in a dozen places, standing in the wreckage of a mighty battle. Dead stormtroopers lay in pieces on the bloody floor surrounded by fragments of shattered transparisteel and twisted metal. The apprentice’s former Master put a hand to his exposed temple, touched the scars visible there, and swayed.
“He is dead,” Vader said with some difficulty over the damaged wheeze of his respirator.
The Emperor stepped out of the shadows to stand at his side.
“Then he is now more powerful than ever.”
Was this what might have been had he stood up to his Master instead of giving in numbly as his entire life had been turned upside down? In his deathly state of semi-consciousness, the former apprentice couldn’t tell. He could only watch as he would a blurry, fragmented holodrama, in the hope that at some point, perhaps when he had more of the pieces before him, the sense of it would start to emerge.
If anything, however, it only became more complicated. Beyond light and dark, beyond past and future, beyond life and death, he saw the same face he had glimpsed while fighting Rahm Kota; the face that might have been his as an older man, had he lived: strong and kind, with dark hair and warm, brown eyes. In the background, he could hear the distant pounding of weapons and the crump of explosions. Trees cracked and fell. A shadow loomed over the vision, as though a cloud had blocked the sun. He could smell burning blood and hair and hear the sound of a lightsaber sizzling through flesh. A voice cried “Run. Run now!”—
—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Whatever kind of dream this was, it wouldn’t let him move. He was trapped within it, fixed tight by some strange kind of mental amber. Was this a fantasy or something more sinister? Was someone trying to tell him something?
He saw … somewhere not so far away—or perhaps at the farthest edge of the universe—Juno Eclipse was in pain.
CHAPTER 11
IT CAME LESS AS A surprise, more of a relief, when he finally awoke.
At first, anyway.
His first clue that he had returned from the dead came when darkness truly fell. The visions evaporated, and the voices went with them. For a very welcome period, there was nothing to see or hear, or even think. He could just rest, and be.
Then new noises began to intrude on the peaceful silence: the whirring of cutting blades, low-pitched beeps and clicks from droids, a fizzing, spitting noise that could have been a cauterizing tool, and other sinister sounds. His heart rose at the sound of a respirator rising above the others. The faint sticking point between each breathing cycle was horribly familiar.
An artificial voice spoke: “Lord Vader, he’s regaining consciousness.”
“Keep him restrained until I’m finished.”
“Yes, sir.”
The former apprentice raged against invisible bonds to move limbs he couldn’t feel. The babble of noises faded for a moment, then returned, this time with light and sensation accompanying it. He was strapped prone to a medical table in the center of an operating theater. Multicolored tubes and wires ran from several places in his body to dark machines hovering around him, and stretching up to the high ceiling above. Angular droids milled about him, poking and prodding with sharp-tipped appendages.
The familiar silhouette of Darth Vader loomed over him as, without warning, full sensation was returned to his body.
He strained against the straps holding him down and screamed with rage.
“You!” Foam flecked his lips. He had never felt such anger—brilliant in its purity, yet so untamed it utterly debilitated him. “You killed me!”
“No.” Vader leaned closer, resting one gloved hand on the table as though to literally impress hi
s gravity on his former apprentice. “The Emperor wanted you dead, but I did not. I brought you here to be rebuilt. If the Emperor knew that you survived, he would kill us both.”
He stared up at the expressionless mask, neck twisted to increase the distance between them. Could it be so? His memories of betrayal and pain were so unclouded by doubt. A flash of his Master’s bright red lightsaber protruding from his gut threatened to tip him back into unconsciousness. He resisted, thinking of Shaak Ti’s final words: The Sith always betray one another. He had been so sure—but surety meant nothing. He had to decide with his mind, not his gut.
“Why?” he asked. “Why rescue me if it puts you in so much danger?”
“Because you are the advantage I need to overthrow the Emperor. He forced my hand, before we were ready. Now he believes you are dead. His ignorance is your true power, if you have the will to use it.”
“And if I refuse?”
Darth Vader’s voice grew harsher, his silhouette darker, if that was possible. “Then you will die. This lab will self-destruct and you will perish along with all aboard. There will be no witnesses.”
There never are, he thought, where you’re concerned. But a lifetime of servitude forbade him from saying the words. He closed his eyes, unsure of which possibility he was more afraid: that Darth Vader was telling him the truth now, or that everything he’d ever been told was a lie.
The harsh breathing of the respirator came closer still. “The Emperor ordered your death,” Darth Vader said. “Only by joining me will you have your revenge.”
He opened his eyes and stared straight at the mask hiding the man who had killed him, then saved him.
Only one choice gave him time to think this strange happenstance through. Only one decision came with the option of changing his mind later. Only one fork in the road before him left him alive, not dead.
In a hollow voice, the apprentice said, “What is your bidding, my Master?”
Darth Vader straightened, satisfaction apparent in every movement. “The Emperor hides behind his army of spies. They watch my every move.” One gloved hand waved at the machines attending the operating theater. The droids backed away, and the tubes retracted. “We must provide them with a distraction.” He punched a button on the table.
The apprentice’s restraints popped open. He slowly sat up, rubbing his wrists, and looked down at his body. He was clad in an entirely new outfit, one not dissimilar to his Master’s, with black leather overlaying thin sheaths of armor, heavy gloves and boots, and a high collar. Nearby, over the shoulder of one of the droid surgeons, was a hooded black cape with a red lining, presumably his also. The same droid handed him a lightsaber hilt. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t the one he had wielded all his conscious life. That lightsaber had tumbled into the vacuum of space and been lost forever.
He flexed his fingers, feeling stronger and different somehow. The pain was completely gone. He felt better than he ever had before, as though he had spent months in a bacta tank.
Instead of pondering that issue, he asked, “What sort of distraction? An assassination?”
His Master shook his head. “No single act will hold the Emperor’s notice for long. You must assemble an army to oppose him.”
The apprentice cocked his head.
“You will locate the Emperor’s enemies and convince them that you wish to overthrow the Empire. When you have created an alliance of rebels and dissidents, we will use them to occupy the Emperor and his spies. With their attention diverted, we can strike.”
The apprentice ran a hand across his chest, feeling the smoothness of his uniform as though with entirely new nerves. The plan was good. It could work.
“Where should I start?”
“That decision is yours. Your destiny is now your own. But you must leave here at once. Save for PROXY, you must sever all ties to your past. No one must know that you still serve me.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, my Master.”
“Now go. And remember that the dark side is always with you.”
The image of Darth Vader shimmered and assumed the familiar features and form of PROXY. The droid stumbled, but quickly regained his balance.
“PROXY!”
“Master! I am pleased to see that you are not actually dead.” The droid beamed the only way he could: through his photoreceptors. “I was afraid that I would never be able to fulfill my primary programming and kill you myself.”
“I’m sure you’ll have your chance, once we get out of here.”
PROXY moved away and began pushing buttons on the nearest terminal.
“Where are we, by the way?”
“Somewhere in the uncharted Dominus system, I believe.”
“But what is this place?”
“This is the Empirical, master, Lord Vader’s top-secret mobile laboratory. We’ve been here for six standard months.” PROXY looked up from the terminal. “Lord Vader has updated all of my protocols. Before I kill you, I am to do everything possible to help you vanish. Should I ready the Rogue Shadow for launch?”
The apprentice tried to think. He flexed his hands, marveling at his amazing return to health. It seemed almost too good to be true.
A disconcerting thought occurred to him. He hastily tugged off first his right glove, then the left. He was reassured to see only skin beneath—no synthetic materials or artificial joints. His knuckles moved the same as always; his fingernails were neat and even. The only odd detail was that his scars were gone.
He rubbed his right hand down his chest to his stomach, remembering the terrible wound his Master had inflicted. He thought of the damage raw vacuum did to human lungs. Bacta tanks performed miracles, but they weren’t that good.
“Master?”
He looked up at PROXY and blinked. “What? Oh. I didn’t realize the ship was here, too.”
“Yes, master. How else would we get away?” The droid stepped back from the terminal. Indicating it with a hand, he said, “I’ve accessed the main ship’s computer and begun carrying out Lord Vader’s orders.”
The apprentice nodded, distracted by a thought that had just struck him. He had been on the Empirical for six months, PROXY had said, but the Rogue Shadow was here, ready for him. That might not be the only thing to survive the near catastrophe of the Emperor’s intervention.
“What happened to Juno, PROXY?”
“Your pilot? She’s aboard the Empirical, too, I believe. In a holding cell.”
“What? Why?”
“Captain Eclipse was accused of treason.” PROXY paused for a split second, as though searching for exactly the right words. “Lord Vader gave explicit orders to sever all ties to your past. You aren’t planning to rescue her, are you?”
The apprentice irritably pulled his gloves back on. “I don’t know what my plans are yet, PROXY. Let’s just concentrate on getting out of here.”
“As you wish, master.” PROXY inclined his head. He took one step back to the terminal, pushed a large red button, and then headed for the door.
A sudden jolt through the deck made both of them stumble. The apprentice reached out for the droid and steadied them both. He looked around the cyborg lab with concern as a klaxon began to wail.
“Alert!” called a voice over the intercom. “Navigation systems have malfunctioned. Repeat, navigation systems have malfunctioned!”
PROXY tugged at the apprentice’s shoulder. “Come, master. We must leave here.”
Realization made him look at the droid’s recent activities in a new light. Lord Vader’s orders, he had said. There will be no witnesses.
“PROXY, what did you just do?”
“I’ve set the Empirical on a collision course with the Dominus system’s primary star,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“But everyone on the Empirical—”
“Lord Vader said that no one must know of your existence. He was very specific.”
“And you really are still trying to kill me.”
“No, no. Not yet, master. You still have plenty of time to reach the Rogue Shadow.”
The apprentice swallowed an upwelling of frustration. It wasn’t PROXY’s fault. He was just obeying orders. But by doing so he had put them in a very inconvenient position.
“Okay, let’s go. Stick close.”
“Yes, master.”
With his strangely healed hands, the apprentice activated the lightsaber his Master had given him. The blade was as green as it was in his memory. It was Rahm Kota’s, he realized with a jolt.
PROXY shuffled a step behind him as he put that small detail out of his mind and headed for the exit.
CHAPTER 12
THE WAILING OF THE ALERT klaxon woke Juno from a long and miserable nightmare in which she had been filing the report of her mission on Callos, not with Darth Vader, but with her father, who had stood towering over her, long nose jutting out like the arm of a gallows, and pronounced her a failure. But the mission was a success, she had protested. She had followed orders to the letter. Not good enough, he had said. Never good enough, girl. When will you realize that and stop trying?
She woke with a gasp, hanging suspended from the magna locks where the guards put her every day. The routine was worse than torture. They would take her down once every five hours for a ten-minute walk. She could use the refresher and drink as much water as her stomach could hold. Sometimes they gave her food, but not always. When the ten minutes were up, she went back into position, hanging with her arms outstretched between the locks, legs dangling, wearing the same uniform pants and singlet she’d had on when she arrived … wherever she was.
The guards never told her anything. She could tell, though, that they regarded her with contempt. A traitor to the Empire, she deserved no better. That she was still alive puzzled all of them. Her continued existence drained their patience as well as their resources. They surely had better things to do.
Star Wars: The Force Unleashed Page 9
