Things were quieter in the downward-sloping shaft, at least for a while. Running into the warm air slowed his descent somewhat, and only the occasional hot blast caused any discomfort. Several times he encountered stormtroopers, but only in groups of two or three, and they were easily dispatched. He wondered whether word of his existence and the damage he was doing had spread far up the command chain, and remained unsure whether he wanted his Master to know that he was coming or not. The element of surprise had some value, of course, but so did the certainty that attack was imminent. One could only be on guard for so long. Mistakes were bound to be made.
He slowed, approaching the end of the exhaust port. A broad-bladed fan spun swiftly in his path. He stopped it telekinetically and slipped safely through to the other side, but not before triggering obstruction alarms and drawing technical and security personnel from far and wide. He fought his way through the ventilation control room, heading upward again as instructed, looking for the dangerous tube he had been told to expect. The machinery around him grew larger and more complicated as he progressed: enormous interlocking tubes fed by thick hydraulic hoses steamed and throbbed in series. A deep, irregular rumble, not dissimilar to that of the ore cannon on Raxus Prime, came through the soles of his feet. Blasts of supercooled air struck him out of incompletely sealed joints.
His vision of the Death Star was far from complete, but he had enough information now to begin piecing together exactly where he might be. When he passed a sign warning of the presence of Tibanna gas, he was sure of it.
A battle station was no use to anyone unless it was armed—and not just armed with greater numbers of conventional weapons. Something this size was bound to wield a weapon of mass destruction never seen before. Tibanna gas was a rare and highly reactive compound found on some gas giants, like Bespin. When combined with a stream of coherent light, it vastly increased the laser’s output, leading to its use in several advanced ship designs and, it seemed, on the Death Star.
Looking around him more closely, he could see that the machinery dwarfing him could be the components of a massive laser system, one in proportion with the station’s enormous size.
When he reached a laser tube wider across than some small cities, he knew he had found the place his Wookiee guide had been referring to. The system was being test-fired, with dozens of Imperial technicians and weapons experts observing its performance. He had to get past them all, and avoid the beam of the laser itself, in order to reach his goal.
He shrugged, abandoning all suggestion of secrecy in exchange for haste. Too much time had passed. Everyone between him and Darth Vader was irrelevant. He would fight to the very last person in the station if he had to, but that would make no difference in the end.
It’s time, Master, he whispered as he fought. You stole my life and left me for dead, and now I’m coming for you …
WHEN HE REACHED THE TOP of the laser tube, he realized that his conception of the Death Star’s weapons system hadn’t been nearly grand enough. The laser he had been observing was just one of eight tributary lasers that would merge into one shockingly destructive beam. Carefully timed pulses down each of the eight channels would create a force capable of destroying any ship that he could think of. Possibly even a planet. He felt ill at the thought. Misinformation, slavery, and torture clearly weren’t enough to keep the masses in line, so the Emperor was going to resort to genocide. If he wasn’t stopped soon, there’d be no one left alive but him, cackling maniacally in the empty halls of Coruscant.
The apprentice gazed out across the enormous focusing dish, which he had initially assumed to have a relatively innocent purpose. Now that he knew what it was really for, the thought that he should destroy it filled him with a weary sort of urgency. He had interfered significantly already with several of the Emperor’s grandiose plans. Why not this one, too?
The answer lay in his bones. He was daunted just thinking about it—not only by the task itself, but also by the deaths he had already caused. Could he bear such a black achievement on top of all the others? Could Juno? He wasn’t sure of the answer.
No, he decided. This was a job for other people—for the Rebel Alliance, if he could only find and free them from the Emperor’s cold clutches. That was the important thing—that they should survive and fight another day. That was all he had to achieve, this mission.
Coherent vermilion pulses came and went in arcane sequences as the weapon continued its test run. Each discharge consumed enough energy to power a Star Destroyer. The station’s tightly wrapped atmosphere roiled with booming concussions and whispering aftershocks. Workers visible on the station’s skin and in the sky above stopped to stare at these harbingers of what lay in the weapon’s future.
A structure on the rim of the focusing crater caught his eye: an observation blister made of gleaming transparisteel in which a number of human figures were very faintly visible. One figure clad entirely in black appeared, bowed, and disappeared again.
Master and servant.
His jaw set, the apprentice wound his way across the rim of the superlaser’s focusing dish, lit by blinding green flashes from above.
THE EASY PART WAS GETTING there.
That was the thought that went through his mind as he clambered up and over the reinforced buttresses holding the dome in place. He had circled the dome twice from below, noting its weak and strong points, and decided that the best way in was through the corridor connecting it to the rest of the station. Two pressure doors opened and shut each time someone passed through, defining a walkway five meters long. The roof of the corridor wasn’t visible from the dome, being in the opposite direction from the firing of the weapon. He could squat there unseen while he cut his way in and avoid fighting anyone—until it mattered.
At the very last moment, as he raised his lightsaber to cut through the curved durasteel on which he knelt, he realized that everything he had ever done had led him to this moment. This was the confrontation he had been heading toward since Darth Vader had kidnapped him from Kashyyyk and made him his instrument. Twice in the past Vader had betrayed him and he had barely uttered a word in complaint, but, eventually, servants always turned on their masters, just as the Sith always betrayed one another. This moment represented the culmination of a lifetime’s training and experience.
This was his most challenging test. Killing Jedi had been easy by comparison. Destroying Imperial factories, likewise. Bringing down skyhooks and Star Destroyers, convincing would-be rebels of his sincerity, dueling planetary minds and other servants of the dark side—all in a day’s work.
His life’s work was about to begin or to end, depending on how he looked at it.
He wondered if Kota had felt that way on Corellia, or Juno in the Empirical, or any of the imprisoned Rebels before agreeing to meet with him. Perhaps everyone had such moments in their lives. He wondered if he should count himself lucky that he could see it coming this time. He hadn’t on the Empirical, or on Corellia. He had been a victim of fate. Now he had fate’s arm behind its back, and he was calling the shots.
Had Darth Vader ever felt this way? Had Galen’s father?
His modified lightsaber sizzled before him. There was strength in that aqua fire and a purity of purpose—not to kill, but as an instrument of force. Sometimes action was required. The Jedi had understood that. He understood that, too.
He should stop asking questions, he told himself, and concentrate on what had to be done.
Pointing the tip of the blade downward, he cut a circle cleanly around himself and dropped into the corridor below.
* * *
IT WAS EMPTY. BEFORE ANYONE could respond to the sound, he telekinetically sealed the doors leading back into the Death Star. Then he turned and wrenched the inner doors open.
“—traitors to the Empire,” came Palpatine’s voice from the chamber beyond, gloatingly, coldly, full of unimaginable malice. “You will be interrogated. Tortured. You will give me the names of your friends and allies. An
d then, when you are no longer of any use to me, you will be executed.”
Bail Organa’s voice rose up in defiance. “Our deaths will only rally others—”
“Your executions will be very public and very painful, Senator Organa. They will serve to crush any further dissent.”
The apprentice strode purposefully into the room, circling a large energy field generator in the center of the dome. Mon Mothma, Garm Bel Iblis, Bail Organa, and Master Rahm Kota stood together on the far side, surrounded by Imperial Guards. The Emperor was pacing in front of them, hooded and hunched but radiating incredible power. The apprentice had eyes only for the dark figure looming a meter or two away, arms crossed as he watched the scene.
Kota cocked his ruined face as the apprentice approached. The hum of the lightsaber was suddenly very loud.
“There may yet be a Rebellion,” Kota said, grinning as though he’d never believed otherwise.
Darth Vader and the Emperor turned at the same moment.
A surge of hatred filled every vein of the apprentice’s body. The time for revenge had come at last.
The Emperor’s hateful visage twisted into a mask of derision.
“Lord Vader, deal with the boy. Properly, this time.”
The Dark Lord was already moving. The red blade of his lightsaber flared into life, casting bloody shadows across the room. There was no discussion. He offered no threats. It was clear he intended only to complete what he had failed to finish on Corellia.
The apprentice knew exactly what to expect. They had dueled many times before. He had learned how to fight at the hands of the man in the black suit—the man whose face had been forever hidden from him. He knew the intimacies of his refined version of Djem So, a fighting style that incorporated elements of Ataru, Soresu, and Makashi. He had fended off many wild, slashing attacks that would have overwhelmed even an extraordinary Jedi Knight. He had borne the brunt of many psychological battles.
He thought he was ready—and so the sheer severity of the opening blow took him by surprise.
A simple double stroke, up and then down, it contained enough power to jar his wrists and shoulders and very nearly disarm him completely. The collision of their lightsabers was blinding. He staggered backward and found himself at the center of a telekinetic storm. His Master seized on his momentary weakness and hurled missiles at him from all sides, hoping to keep him off his guard. For a moment, it worked.
Then the apprentice straightened and, with a sweep of his left arm, blew the missiles away. He blocked a savage slash that would have cut him in two and another that would have lifted his head clean from his shoulders. Ducking low, he stabbed for his Master’s belly then flicked the tip of his lightsaber upward, hoping to catch the chin of Darth Vader’s helmet and spear him through the throat. The red lightsaber blocked the blow, but only barely. They parted for a moment to assess the brief exchange and circled each other warily.
The apprentice understood that, until this moment, they had never truly fought as equals. His Master had either held back, or he himself had capitulated. Now, for the first time, they would see each other’s true potential. Where Darth Vader was strong and relentless, he was fast and sly. And there were ways to fight that didn’t involve lightsabers. Loose objects, accelerated to killing speeds by the Force, became projectiles that converged from all directions. Invisible fists clutched for throats or punched with the power of pile drivers. Floors tipped underfoot; severed beams stabbed like javelins; overloaded circuits exploded.
“You are weak,” the apprentice said as his former Master launched a second series of bone-crushing blows, each one of which he blocked with elegant precision.
Darth Vader fought brilliantly, never employing anything less than a killing stroke. His intention was lethal. All he needed was one slip, one tiny gap in his opponent’s defenses.
The apprentice vowed not to give him one. He whirled and danced around his Master’s defenses, testing them to their limits.
“You thought I was dead,” he said, letting that small triumph spur his determination to new heights. Their lightsabers danced, blurring and sweeping and shedding sparks in a way that would have been beautiful had their intent not been so deadly. The apprentice felt the wild, joyous energies of the dark side flowing through him and he resisted its call, seeking a better way to finish the job.
They fought back and forth across the observation dome.
“I understand you now,” he said, still trying to goad his former Master into breaking his concentration. “You killed my father and kidnapped me from Kashyyyk, not just to be your apprentice, but to be a son to you. Was that how your father treated you?”
The intensity of Darth Vader’s attack redoubled. “I have no father.”
The apprentice fell back under the rain of blows. The sizzling of fabric and a faint stink of burning skin told him that at least two of Darth Vader’s misses had been horribly near, but he felt no pain. He, on the other hand, had definitely struck a nerve.
Glancing over Darth Vader’s shoulder, he saw the Emperor watching the duel, his face screwed up in malevolent delight.
And the apprentice understood.
A better way to kill …
Not out of hatred. Whatever lay beneath that black mask, it wasn’t beauty or happiness. Only ugliness and pain would hide itself away for so long. Hatred would not be enough to turn the tables on Darth Vader.
Reaching out with his left hand, he blasted his Master with Sith lightning. That broke the momentum of the furious onslaught, enabling him to stand and catch his breath.
“I don’t need to hate you in order to beat you,” he gasped. “That’s something I will teach you now.”
“You can teach me nothing,” Darth Vader’s leaden voice intoned. One black glove clenched, and for a moment the apprentice’s throat closed tight.
He beat back the telekinetic attack with one of his own, shoving his Master in the chest with the force of a small explosion, throwing Darth Vader backward across the room.
For all his size and occasional clumsiness, the Dark Lord was sure on his feet. He landed upright and launched himself back into the fray.
“I don’t hate you,” the apprentice went on, blocking him blow for blow. “I pity you.” With a new strength of his own, he forced Darth Vader onto his back foot. “You destroyed who I was and made me as I am now, but this wasn’t your idea. It was the Emperor’s, and it’s what he’s already done to you.” A strip of Darth Vader’s cape fluttered away, smoking. The two came closer together until they were face-to-mask. The apprentice stared directly into the black eye guards of his former Master. “You are his creature just as I was yours—but you’ve never had the strength to rebel. That’s why I pity you. I will no longer serve a monster, and if I have my way I’ll make sure you don’t, either.”
Vader tried to pull away, but the apprentice followed him, keeping him on the back foot.
“I will kill you,” he said, “to set you free.”
The lightsabers flashed again—and it was the apprentice who found the chink in the armor that both of them had been waiting for. Vader’s lightsaber moved too slowly to block a blow to his chest, allowing the apprentice’s blade to slash deeply across his armored throat. Vader staggered backward, gloved hand upraised to the smoking wound.
There was no blood. Instead of pressing the attack, the apprentice stood his ground. Despite himself, he was as surprised as his former Master clearly was.
For a moment, the only sounds were the twin humming of the lightsabers and the wheezing of Darth Vader’s respirator.
Then the Dark Lord laughed.
It was an awful sound, empty of humor and full of mockery. In it, the apprentice heard a decade and a half of torture and abuse.
Anger flared. He lunged forward. His former Master barely blocked the blow. A second scored a deep wound across his black-clad shoulder. A third stabbed deep into his thigh.
Darth Vader reeled backward, servos whining in his injured
limbs and lightsaber shaking.
The apprentice gripped his lightsaber in both hands and held himself back. Anger was familiar and powerful; it also clouded his eyes when he most needed to see clearly.
Vader prepared for combat again. His power over the apprentice, however, was gone. His lightsaber went skittering and sparking across the floor, twisted out of his grip by telekinesis. The Force wrenched him into the air, as he had once lifted the apprentice’s father, and a barrage of missiles struck at him with increasing strength. He raised his gloved hands to defend himself, but the battery continued until, with a crash, the apprentice ripped the energy field generator in the center of the room right out of the floor and hurled it at his former Master.
The generator exploded with greater force than he had expected, throwing him and everyone else to the floor. The transparisteel dome shattered. Debris rained everywhere. The sound of the explosion rang in his ears for an unnaturally long time afterward.
He was the first to his feet, striding across the rubble to where Darth Vader lay face-forward, gravely wounded and stripped of his armor in places. Flesh and machinery showed through the gaps. Finally, some real blood was flowing.
The apprentice stood over him with his lightsaber upraised and ready to strike. His former Master was trying to stand, feebly willing his massive bulk to move as it was supposed to. Servomotors whined and strained. When he rolled over, the apprentice froze.
Darth Vader’s helmet had been ripped away by the blast. Beneath was the face of the man who had stolen and enslaved him, a pathetic, hairless thing covered in wrinkles and old scar tissue. Only the eyes showed the slightest signs of life: blue and full of pain, they stared up at him with undisguised weariness.
The Emperor appeared out of the settling smoke, glee on his face. He raised one hand as though to touch the apprentice. The apprentice felt a wave of hypnotic suggestion flow through him.
Yes! Kill him! He is weak, broken! Kill him and you can take your rightful place at my side!
Star Wars: The Force Unleashed Page 29
