Dark Lord : The Rise of Darth Vader

by James Luceno

  "Military surplus," Filli said quickly.

  Cudgel cocked a flaring eyebrow "Already? I was under the impression there wasn't any surplus." Before Filli could respond, he continued: "Can't be carrying much in the way of trade goods. Are you off a freighter up top?"

  "We're not here to trade, exactly," Filli said. "More in the way of a fact-finding mission."

  "We're in the market for an Oevvaor catamaran," Starstone explained.

  Cudgel blinked in surprise. "Then your ship had better be filled with aurodium credits."

  "Our client is prepared to pay a fair price," Starstone said. Cudgel stroked his chest-length beard. "Not a question of price. More of availability."

  "How bad were things here?" Forte asked abruptly. "The battle, I mean?"

  Cudgel followed the Jedi's gaze to the tree-city. "Bad enough. The Wookiees are still cleaning up."

  "Many killed?" Nam asked.

  "Even one's too many."

  "Were any Jedi involved?"

  Jambe's question seemed to stop Cudgel cold. "Why do you ask?"

  "We just came from Saleucami," Starstone said, hoping to put Cudgel at ease. "We heard that several Jedi were killed by clone troopers during the battle."

  Cudgel appraised her. "I wouldn't know about that. I was in Rwookrrorro during most of it." He pointed. "Other side of the escarpment."

  A short silence fell over everyone.

  "Well, let's see if I can't find someone who knows catamarans," Cudgel said at last.

  Starstone kept quiet until the hirsute middleman had moved off. "I don't think that went so well," she said to Forte and the others.

  "Shouldn't matter," Iwo Kulka said. "Kashyyyk isn't Saleucami or Felucia. We're in Jedi-friendly territory."

  "That's what you said on Boz Pity—" Starstone started to say when Filli cut her off.

  "Cudgel's back."

  With four rangy Wookiees in tow, Starstone saw.

  "These are the folk I told you about," Cudgel was telling the Wookiees, in Basic.

  Before Starstone could open her mouth to speak, the Wookiees bared their fangs and brandished the most bizarre-looking hand blasters she had ever seen.

  37

  The Star Destroyer Exactor and its older sibling, Executrix, drifted side by side, bow-to-stern, forming a parallelogram of armor and armament.

  Vader’s black shuttle navigated the short distance between them.

  He sat in the passenger hold's forward row of seats, his cadre of stormtroopers behind him, and his thoughts focused on what awaited him on Kashyyyk, rather than on the imminent meeting, which he suspected was little more than a formality.

  His last conversation with Sidious, weeks earlier but as if only yesterday, had made it clear that his Master was manipulating him now as much as he had before he had turned. Before and during the war Sidious's intention had been to entice him into joining the Sith; since, the goal was to transform him into a Sith. That was, to impress upon Vader that the power of the dark side did not flow from understanding but from appetite, rivalry, avarice, and malice. The very qualities the Jedi considered base and corrupt.

  As a means of keeping their plucked pupils from exploring the deeper sides of their nature; as a means of reining them, lest they discovered for themselves the real power of the Force.

  Anger leads to fear; fear to hatred; hatred to the dark side . . . Precisely, Vader thought.

  At Sidious's insistence, he had spent the recent weeks sharpening his ability to summon and make use of his rage, and felt poised at the edge of a significant increase in his abilities.

  Deep space was appropriate to such feelings, he told himself as he gazed out the cabin's viewport. Space was more appropriate for the Sith than for the Jedi. The invisible enslavement to gravity, the contained power of the stars, the utter insignificance of life . . . Hyperspace, by contrast, was more suitable to the Jedi: nebulous, neither here nor there, incoherent.

  When the shuttle had docked in the Executor's hold, Vader led his contingent of stormtroopers out of the vessel, only to find that his host hadn't shown him the courtesy of being on hand to greet him. Waiting, instead, was his host's contingent of gray-uniformed crew members, commanded by a human officer named Darcc.

  The games begin, Vader thought, as he allowed Captain Darcc to escort him deeper into the ship.

  The cabin to which he was ultimately led was in the uppermost reaches of the Star Destroyer's conning tower. On entering, Vader found his host sitting behind a gleaming slab of desk, plainly debating whether to remain seated or to stand; whether to place himself on equal footing with Vader, or, by appearance, to continue to suggest superiority. Knowing, in any case, that Vader preferred to remain on his feet, his host was not likely to gesture him to a chair. Knowing, too, that Vader was capable of strangling him from clear across the cabin might also figure into his decision.

  What to do? his host must have been thinking.

  And then he stood, a slender, sharp-featured man, coming around from behind the desk with his hands clasped behind his back.

  "Thank you for detouring from your course," Wilhuff Tarkin said.

  The expression of gratitude was unexpected. But if Tarkin was intent on prolonging the game, then Vader would humor him, since in the end it amounted to nothing more than establishing status.

  This was what the Empire would be, he thought. A contest among men intent on clawing their way to the top, to sit at Sidious's feet.

  "The Emperor requested it," Vader said finally.

  Tarkin pursed his thin lips. "I suppose we can attribute that to the Emperor's astute ability to bring like-minded beings together."

  "Or pit them against one another."

  Tarkin adopted a more sober look. "That, too, Lord Vader."

  With a mind as sharp as his cheekbones, Tarkin had risen quickly through the ranks of Palpatine's newly formed staff of political and military elite, among whom naked ambition was highly prized. So much so that a new honorific had been created for Tarkin and ambitious men like him: Moff.

  Vader had met him once before, aboard a Venator-class Star Destroyer, at the remote location where the Emperor's secret weapon was under construction. Vader, still new to his suit then; awkward, uncertain, between worlds.

  Tarkin perched himself on the edge of his desk and smiled thinly. "Perhaps between the two of us, we can determine the reason the Emperor arranged this rendezvous."

  Vader crossed his gloved hands in front of him. "I suspect that you know more about the purpose of this meeting than I do, Moff Tarkin."

  Tarkin's smile disappeared, and in its place came a look of sharp attentiveness. "Surely you can guess, my friend."

  "Kashyyyk."

  "Bravo."

  Tarkin activated a holoplate that sat atop his desk. In the cone of blue light that rose from it, a bruised transport of military design could be seen moving through a cordon of Imperial corvettes.

  "This was recorded approximately ten hours ago, local, at the Kashyyyk system checkpoint. As you may have already guessed, the transport belongs to the Jedi. It appears to be a civilian model, but it isn't. It was hijacked on Dellalt some weeks ago, and was the object of a pursuit that ended in the destruction of several Imperial starfighters. We have, however, been successful at tracking its movements ever since."

  "You've been tracking them," Vader said in genuine surprise. "Was the Emperor apprised of this?"

  Tarkin smiled again. "Lord Vader, the Emperor is apprised of everything."

  But his apprentice isn't, Vader thought.

  "I ordered our checkpoint personnel to ignore the obvious fact that the transport's signature has been altered," Tarkin continued, "and to ignore, as well, the fact that whatever codes the transport furnished were likely to be counterfeit."

  "Why weren't the Jedi simply taken into custody at the checkpoint?"

  "We had our reasons, Lord Vader. Or perhaps I should say that the Emperor had his."

  "They are on Kashyyyk now?"
/>
  Tarkin stopped the holoimage and nodded. "We thought they might be refused entry. Apparently, however, someone aboard the ship is familiar with Kashyyyk's trading protocols."

  Vader considered it for a moment. "You said that you had your reasons for clearing the transport through the checkpoint."

  "Yes, I'm coming to that," Tarkin said, standing to his full height and beginning to pace in front of the desk. "I realize that you of all people require no assistance in . . . bringing the fugitive Jedi to justice. But I want to lay out a somewhat broader plan for your consideration. Should you accept the proposition, I'm in a position to provide you with whatever ships, personnel, and materiel you think necessary."

  "What is the proposition, Moff Tarkin?"

  Tarkin came to a stop and turned fully to Vader. "Simply this. The Jedi are your priority, as they should be. Certainly the Empire can't permit potential insurgents to run around loose. But—" He raised a bony forefinger. "—my plan allows for the Empire to profit even more substantially from your undertaking."

  Reactivating the holoprojector, Tarkin turned his attention to an image of the Emperor's moonlet-size secret project, orbitally anchored at its deep-space retreat. Vader had learned that the Emperor had placed Tarkin in charge of supervising certain aspects of construction.

  Clearly, though, Tarkin was angling for more.

  "How does my hunt for a few rogue Jedi figure into your scheme regarding the Emperor's weapon?" Vader asked.

  "My 'scheme,' " Tarkin said, with a short laugh. "All right, then. Here's the truth of it. The project is already far behind schedule. It has been beset with engineering problems, delays in shipments, the unreliability of contractors, and, most important, a shortage of skilled laborers." He stared at Vader. "You must understand, Lord Vader, I wish nothing more than to please the Emperor."

  This is Sidious's real power, Vader thought. The ability to make others wish nothing more than to please him.

  "I accept that at face value," he said at last.

  Tarkin studied him. "You would be willing to help me achieve this goal?"

  "I see a possibility."

  Narrowing his eyes, Tarkin nodded in a way that came close to being a bow of respect. "Then, my friend, our real partnership is just beginning."

  38

  They're interested in knowing why you're so interested in knowing whether any Jedi were here during the battle," Cudgel explained to Starstone and the others while the quartet of armed Wookiees glared down at them.

  "Idle curiosity," Filli said, which only succeeded in eliciting rumbling growls from the four.

  "They're not buying it," Cudgel said needlessly.

  Starstone gazed up into the wide bronzium muzzles of weapons she suspected she would need the Force to heft, let alone fire. Peripherally she was aware that the confrontation had begun to draw the attention of other landing parties. Humans and aliens alike were suddenly interrupting their transactions with liaison staffers and Wookiees, and turning toward the transport.

  Quickly she made up her mind to risk everything by simply telling the truth.

  "We're Jedi," she said just loud enough to be heard.

  From the way the Wookiees tilted their enormous shaggy heads, she grasped instantly that they had understood her. They kept their exotic weapons enabled and raised, but at the same time their expressions of wariness softened somewhat. One of them brayed a remark to Cudgel.

  Cudgel stroked his long beard. "Now, that's even harder to swallow than the idle-curiosity explanation, don't you think? I mean, considering the fact that the Jedi were wiped out."

  The same Wookiee lowed and gobbled, and, again, Cudgel nodded, then centered his gaze on Starstone.

  "Maybe if you'd said that you were a Jedi, then all of us on the happy side of these blasters would be convinced. But—" He counted heads. "—you can't be telling me all eight of you are Jedi. Seven anyway, 'cause I know almost as far from being a Jedi as it gets."

  "I meant me," Starstone said. "I'm a Jedi."

  "So it's just you, then?"

  "She's lying," Siadem Forte said before she could respond. Two of the Wookiees snarled in plain displeasure.

  Cudgel looked from Forte to Starstone. "Lying? See, now you have everyone really confused, 'cause we always thought of the Jedi as truth tellers."

  The Wookiees spoke among themselves, then one of them barked an outpouring at Cudgel.

  "Guania, here, points out that you arrive in a military transport. You look as though you can handle yourselves. You start asking questions about Jedi . . . He's thinking that you might be bounty hunters."

  Starstone shook her head back and forth. "Check the transport. Under the navicomputer console, you'll find six lightsabers—"

  "Means nothing," Cudgel cut in. "You could have taken them off your quarries, just the way General Grievous did."

  "Then how do we prove it?" Starstone said. "What do you want us to do, perform Force tricks?"

  The Wookiees issued a yodeling warning.

  Cudgel lowered his voice to say: "In the unlikely event that you are Jedi, that might not be such a good idea out here in the open."

  Starstone forced an exhale, and looked up at the Wookiees. "We know that Masters Yoda, Luminara Unduli, and Quinlan Vos were here with brigades of troopers." When she saw in their deep brown eyes that she had their full attention, she continued. "We've risked a lot to come here. But we know that Master Yoda had good relations with you, and we're hoping that still counts for something."

  The Wookiees didn't actually lower their weapons, but they did disable them. One of them lowed to Cudgel, who said: "Lachichuk suggests we continue this conversation in Kachirho."

  Starstone asked Filli and Deran to remain with the ship; then she, Forte, Kulka, and the others began to follow Cudgel and the Wookiees toward the gargantuan wroshyr that stood at the center of Kachirho tree-city. No sooner had they left the landing platform than Cudgel's attitude changed.

  "I heard that none of you survived," he said to Starstone as they walked.

  "It's beginning to look like we're the only ones," she said sadly. Putting the edge of her hand to her brow, she gazed up at the huge balconies that tiered the tree, some of which showed evidence of recent damage.

  "Do you know if any Jedi died here?"

  Cudgel shook his head. "The Wookiees haven't told me anything. For a while it looked like Kashyyyk was going to have its own garrison of clone troopers, but after the Sep droids and war machines shut down, the troopers decamped. Ever since, the Wookiees have been making good use of everything that was left behind."

  "For weapons?"

  "You bet, for weapons. Seps or no, they've still got enemies—species that want to exploit them."

  Cudgel led everyone into the hollowed base of the tree, and finally to a turbolift that accessed Kachirho's upper levels.

  Similar to everything she had seen since leaving the landing platform, the turbolift was an ingenious blend of wood and alloy, the technology that drove it artfully concealed. And at each tier, her astonishment only increased. In addition to the exterior platforms that grew like burls from the bole, the tree contained vast interior rooms, with shimmering parquet floors and curved walls inset with wooden and alloy mosaics. There didn't seem to be a straight line anywhere, and everywhere Star-stone looked she saw Wookiees engaged in building, carving, sanding . . . as devoted to their work as Jedi had been in fashioning the Temple. Except the Wookiees hadn't enslaved themselves to symmetry or order; rather, they allowed their creations to emerge naturally from the wood. In fact, they seemed to invite a certain kind of imperfection—some detail to which the eye would be drawn, setting off an entire wall panel, or an expanse of floor.

  Covered walkways and bridges crisscrossed the tree's interior shaft, and irregular openings brought verdant Kashyyyk inside. At every turn, every staircase spiral or turbolift stop, exterior views of the lake, the forest, and the sheer cliffs were framed by finely worked apertures and clefts. What
Kachirho lacked in color, it made up for in luster and deep patina.

  Fifty or so meters above the lake, the Jedi were ushered into a kind of central control room, which looked out over the glinting water and was perhaps the purest example yet of the Wookiees' ability to combine organic and high-tech elements. Console display screens and holoprojectors showed views of the landing platform, as well as loading operations in orbit.

  There, their escorts exchanged muted growls and snorts, snuffs and rumbles, with two others, one of whom was certainly the tallest Wookiee Starstone had seen.

  "This is Chewbacca," Cudgel said, introducing the shorter of the pair, "and this is one of Kachirho's war chiefs, Tarfful."

  Starstone introduced herself and the rest of the Jedi, then lowered herself onto a beautifully carved stool built for human-size beings. Similar stools were rushed into the room, along with soft seat cushions and plates of food.

  While all this was going on, Tarfful and Chewbacca were being briefed by Lachichuk. Bronzium bands gathered the chieftain's long hair into rope-thick tassels that fell to his belted waist. The shoulder straps of his baldric joined at an ornate pectoral. Chewbacca, whose black fur was cinnamon-tipped and nowhere near as long as Tarfful's, wore a simple baldric Starstone thought might double as an ammunition bandolier.

  When everyone was seated and the Wookiees had finished conversing, Cudgel said: "Chieftain Tarfful understands and applauds the courage you've shown in coming to Kashyyyk, but it grieves him to report that he has nothing but sad tidings for you."

  "They're . . . dead?" Starstone asked.

  "Master Vos was presumed killed by fire from a tank," Cudgel explained, "Master Unduli by blasterfire."

  "And Master Yoda?" she asked quietly.

  Tarfful and Chewbacca fell into a long conversation—almost a debate—before expressing themselves to Cudgel, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  "Apparently, Yoda escaped Kashyyyk in an evacuation pod. Chewbacca, here, says he carried Yoda on his shoulders to the pod."

  Starstone came to her feet, nearly tipping over a platter of food. "He's alive?"