by James Luceno
“Rise, Darth Vader.”
The Sith Lord who once had been a Jedi hero called Anakin Skywalker stood, drawing himself up to his full height, but he looked not outward upon his new Master, nor upon the planetcity beyond, nor out into the galaxy that they would soon rule. He instead turned his gaze inward: he unlocked the furnace gate within his heart and stepped forth to regard with new eyes the cold freezing dread of the dead-star dragon that had haunted his life.
I am Darth Vader, he said within himself.
The dragon tried again to whisper of failure, and weakness, and inevitable death, but with one hand the Sith Lord caught it, crushed away its voice; it tried to rise then, to coil and rear and strike, but the Sith Lord laid his other hand upon it and broke its power with a single effortless twist.
I am Darth Vader, he repeated as he ground the dragon’s corpse to dust beneath his mental heel, as he watched the dragon’s dust and ashes scatter before the blast from his furnace heart, and you—
You are nothing at all.
He had become, finally, what they all called him.
The Hero With No Fear.
Gate Master Jurokk sprinted through the empty vaulted hallway, clattering echoes of his footsteps making him sound like a platoon. The main doors of the Temple were slowly swinging inward in answer to the code key punched into the outside lockpad.
The Gate Master had seen him on the monitor.
Anakin Skywalker.
Alone.
The huge doors creaked inward; as soon as they were wide enough for the Gate Master to pass, he slipped through.
Anakin stood in the night outside, shoulders hunched, head down against the rain.
“Anakin!” he gasped, running up to the young man. “Anakin, what happened? Where are the Masters?”
Anakin looked at him as though he wasn’t sure who the Gate Master was. “Where is Shaak Ti?”
“In the meditation chambers—we felt something happen in the Force, something awful. She’s searching the Force in deep meditation, trying to get some feel for what’s going on …”
His words trailed away. Anakin didn’t seem to be listening.
“Something has happened, hasn’t it?”
Jurokk looked past him now. The night beyond the Temple was full of clones. Battalions of them. Brigades.
Thousands.
“Anakin,” he said slowly, “what’s going on? Something’s happened. Something horrible. How bad is it—?”
The last thing Jurokk felt was the emitter of a lightsaber against the soft flesh beneath his jaw; the last thing he heard, as blue plasma chewed upward through his head and burst from the top of his skull and burned away his life, was Anakin Skywalker’s melancholy reply.
“You have no idea …”
ORDER SIXTY-SIX
Pau City was a cauldron of battle.
From his observation post just off the landing ramp of the command lander on the tenth level, Clone Commander Cody swept the sinkhole with his electrobinoculars. The droid-control center lay in ruins only a few meters away, but the Separatists had learned the lesson of Naboo; their next-generation combat droids were equipped with sophisticated self-motivators that kicked in automatically when control signals were cut off, delivering a program of standing orders.
Standing Order Number One was, apparently, Kill Everything That Moves.
And they were doing a good job of it, too.
Half the city was rubble, and the rest was a firestorm of droids and clones and Utapaun dragon cavalry, and just when Commander Cody was thinking how he really wished they had a Jedi or two around right now, several metric tons of dragonmount hurtled from the sky and hit the roof of the command lander hard enough to buckle the deck beneath it.
Not that it did the ship any harm; Jadthu-class landers are basically flying bunkers, and this particular one was triple-armored and equipped with internal shock buffers and inertial dampeners powerful enough for a fleet corvette, to protect the sophisticated command-and-control equipment inside.
Cody looked up at the dragonmount, and at its rider. “General Kenobi,” he said. “Glad you could join us.”
“Commander Cody,” the Jedi Master said with a nod. He was still scanning the battle around them. “Did you contact Coruscant with the news of the general’s death?”
The clone commander snapped to attention and delivered a crisp salute. “As ordered, sir. Erm, sir?”
Kenobi looked down at him.
“Are you all right, sir? You’re a bit of a mess.”
The Jedi Master wiped away some of the dust and gore that smeared his face with the sleeve of his robe—which was charred, and only left a blacker smear across his cheek. “Ah. Well, yes. It has been a … stressful day.” He waved out at Pau City. “But we still have a battle to win.”
“Then I suppose you’ll be wanting this,” Cody said, holding up the lightsaber his men had recovered from a traffic tunnel. “I believe you dropped it, sir.”
“Ah. Ah, yes.”
The weapon floated gently up to Kenobi’s hand, and when he smiled down at the clone commander again, Cody could swear the Jedi Master was blushing, just a bit. “No, ah, need to mention this to, erm, Anakin, is there, Cody?”
Cody grinned. “Is that an order, sir?”
Kenobi shook his head, chuckling tiredly. “Let’s go. You’ll have noticed I did manage to leave a few droids for you …”
“Yes, sir.” A silent buzzing vibration came from a compartment concealed within his armor. Cody frowned. “Go on ahead, General. We’ll be right behind you.”
That concealed compartment held a secure comlink, which was frequency-locked to a channel reserved for the commander in chief.
Kenobi nodded and spoke to his mount, and the great beast overleapt the clone commander on its way down into the battle.
Cody withdrew the comlink from his armor and triggered it.
A holoscan appeared on the palm of his gauntlet: a hooded man.
“It is time,” the holoscan said. “Execute Order Sixty-Six.”
Cody responded as he had been trained since before he’d even awakened in his crèche-school. “It will be done, my lord.”
The holoscan vanished. Cody stuck the comlink back into its concealed recess and frowned down toward where Kenobi rode his dragonmount into selflessly heroic battle.
Cody was a clone. He would execute the order faithfully, without hesitation or regret. But he was also human enough to mutter glumly, “Would it have been too much to ask for the order to have come through before I gave him back the bloody lightsaber …?”
The order is given once. Its wave-front spreads to clone commanders on Kashyyyk and Felucia, Mygeeto and Tellanroaeg and every battlefront, every military installation, every hospital and rehab center and spaceport cantina in the galaxy.
Except for Coruscant.
On Coruscant, Order Sixty-Six is already being executed.
Dawn crept across Galactic City. Fingers of morning brought a rose-colored glow to the wind-smeared upper reach of a vast twisting cone of smoke.
Bail Organa was a man not given to profanity, but when he caught a glimpse of the source of that smoke from the pilot’s chair of his speeder, the curse it brought to his lips would have made a Corellian dockhand blush.
He stabbed a code that canceled his speeder’s programmed route toward the Senate Office Building, then grabbed the yoke and kicked the craft into a twisting dive that shot him through half a dozen crisscrossing streams of air traffic.
He triggered his speeder’s comm. “Antilles!”
The answer from the captain of his personal crew was instant. “Yes, my lord?”
“Route an alert to SER,” he ordered. “The Jedi Temple is on fire!”
“Yes, sir. We know. Senate Emergency Response has announced a state of martial law, and the Temple is under lockdown. There’s been some kind of Jedi rebellion.”
“What are you talking about? That’s impossible. Why aren’t there fireships ons
tation?”
“I don’t have any details, my lord; we only know what SER is telling us.”
“Look, I’m right on top of it. I’m going down there to find out what’s happening.”
“My lord, I wouldn’t recommend it—”
“I won’t take any chances.” Bail hauled the control yoke to slew the speeder toward the broad landing deck on the roof of the Temple ziggurat. “Speaking of not taking chances, Captain: order the duty crew onto the Tantive and get her engines warm. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Sir?”
“Just do it.”
Bail set the speeder down only a few meters from the deck entrance and hopped out. A squad of clone troopers stood in the open doorway. Smoke billowed out from the hallway behind them.
One of the troopers lifted a hand as Bail approached. “Don’t worry, sir, everything is under control here.”
“Under control? Where are the SER teams? What is the army doing here?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that, sir.”
“Has there been some kind of attack on the Temple?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that, sir.”
“Listen to me, Sergeant, I am a Senator of the Galactic Republic,” Bail said, improvising, “and I am late for a meeting with the Jedi Council—”
“The Jedi Council is not in session, sir.”
“Maybe you should let me see for myself.”
The four clones moved together to block his path. “I’m sorry, sir. Entry is forbidden.”
“I am a Senator—”
“Yes, sir.” The clone sergeant snapped his DC-15 to his shoulder, and Bail, blinking, found himself staring into its blackened muzzle from close enough to kiss it. “And it is time for you to leave, sir.”
“When you put it that way …” Bail backed off, lifting his hands. “Yes, all right, I’m going.”
A burst of blasterfire ripped through the smoke and scattered into the dawn outside. Bail stared with an open mouth as a Jedi flashed out of nowhere and started cutting down clones. No: not a Jedi.
A boy.
A child, no more than ten years old, swinging a lightsaber whose blade was almost as long as he was tall. More blasterfire came from inside, and a whole platoon of clones came pelting toward the landing deck, and the ten-year-old was hit, and hit again, and then just shot to rags among the bodies of the troopers he’d killed, and Bail started backing away, faster now, and in the middle of it all, a clone wearing the colors of a commander came out of the smoke and pointed at Bail Organa.
“No witnesses,” the commmander said. “Kill him.”
Bail ran.
He dived through a hail of blasterfire, hit the deck, and rolled under his speeder to the opposite side. He grabbed on to its pilot’s-side door and swung his leg onto a tail fin, using the vehicle’s body as cover while he stabbed the keys to reinitialize its autorouter. Clones charged toward him, firing as they came.
His speeder heeled over and blasted away.
Bail pulled himself inside as the speeder curved up into the congested traffic lanes. He was white as flimsiplast, and his hands were shaking so badly he could barely activate his comm.
“Antilles! Organa to Antilles. Come in, Captain!”
“Antilles here, my lord.”
“It’s worse than I thought. Far worse than you’ve heard. Send someone to Chance Palp—no, strike that. Go yourself. Take five men and go to the spaceport. I know at least one Jedi ship is on the ground there; Saesee Tiin brought in Sharp Spiral late last night. I need you to steal his homing beacon.”
“What? His beacon? Why?”
“No time to explain. Get the beacon and meet me at the Tantive. We’re leaving the planet.”
He stared back at the vast column of smoke that boiled from the Jedi Temple.
“While we still can.”
Order Sixty-Six is the climax of the Clone Wars.
Not the end—the Clone Wars will end some few hours from now, when a coded signal, sent by Nute Gunray from the secret Separatist bunker on Mustafar, deactivates every combat droid in the galaxy at once—but the climax.
It’s not a thrilling climax; it’s not the culmination of an epic struggle. Just the opposite, in fact. The Clone Wars were never an epic struggle. They were never intended to be.
What is happening right now is why the Clone Wars were fought in the first place. It is their reason for existence. The Clone Wars have always been, in and of themselves, from their very inception, the revenge of the Sith.
They were irresistible bait. They took place in remote locations, on planets that belonged, primarily, to “somebody else.” They were fought by expendable proxies. And they were constructed as a win–win situation.
The Clone Wars were the perfect Jedi trap.
By fighting at all, the Jedi lost.
With the Jedi Order overextended, spread thin across the galaxy, each Jedi is alone, surrounded only by whatever clone troops he, she, or it commands. War itself pours darkness into the Force, deepening the cloud that limits Jedi perception. And the clones have no malice, no hatred, not the slightest ill intent that might give warning. They are only following orders.
In this case, Order Sixty-Six.
Hold-out blasters appear in clone hands. ARC-170s drop back onto the tails of Jedi starfighters. AT-STs swivel their guns. Turrets on hovertanks swung silently.
Clones open fire, and Jedi die.
All across the galaxy. All at once.
Jedi die.
Kenobi never saw it coming.
Cody had coordinated the heavy-weapons operators from five different companies spread over an arc of three different levels of the sinkhole-city. He’d served under Kenobi in more than a dozen operations since the beginning of the Outer Rim sieges, and he had a very clear and unsentimental estimate of just how hard to kill the unassuming Jedi Master was. He wasn’t taking any chances.
He raised his comlink. “Execute.”
On that order, T-21 muzzles swung, shoulder-fired torps locked on, and proton grenade launchers angled to precisely calibrated elevations.
“Fire.”
They did.
Kenobi, his dragonmount, and all five of the destroyer droids he’d been fighting vanished in a fireball that for an instant outshone Utapau’s sun.
Visual polarizers in Cody’s helmet cut the glare by 78 percent; his vision cleared in plenty of time to see shreds of dragonmount and twisted hunks of droid raining into the ocean mouth at the bottom of the sinkhole.
Cody scowled and keyed his comlink. “Looks like the lizard took the worst of it. Deploy the seekers. All of them.”
He stared down into the boil of the ocean mouth.
“I want to see the body.”
C-3PO paused in the midst of dusting the Tarka-Null original on its display pedestal near his mistress’s bedroom view wall, and used the electrostatic tissue to briefly polish his own photoreceptors. The astromech in the green Jedi starfighter docking with the veranda below—could that be R2-D2?
Well, this should be interesting.
Senator Amidala had spent the better part of these predawn hours simply staring over the city, toward the plume of smoke that rose from the Jedi Temple; now, at last, she might get some answers.
He might, too. R2-D2 was far from the sort of sparkling conversationalist with whom C-3PO preferred to associate, but the little astromech had a positive gift for jacking himself into the motherboards of the most volatile situations …
The cockpit popped open, and inevitably the Jedi within was revealed to be Anakin Skywalker. In watching Master Anakin climb down from the starfighter’s cockpit, 3PO’s photoreceptors captured data that unexpectedly activated his threat-aversion subroutines. “Oh,” he said faintly, clutching at his power core. “Oh, I don’t like the looks of this at all …”
He dropped the electrostatic tissue and shuffled as quickly as he could to the bedroom door. “My lady,” he called to Senator Amidala, w
here she stood by the broad window. “On the veranda. A Jedi starfighter,” he forced out. “Has docked, my lady.”
She blinked, then rushed toward the bedroom door.
C-3PO shuffled along behind her and slipped out through the open door, making a wide circle around the humans, who were engaged in one of those inexplicable embraces they seemed so fond of.
Reaching the starfighter, he said, “Artoo, are you all right? What is going on?”
The astromech squeaked and beeped; C-3PO’s autotranslator interpreted: NOBODY TELLS ME ANYTHING.
“Of course not. You don’t keep up your end of the conversation.”
A whirring squeal: SOMETHING’S WRONG. THE FACTORS DON’T BALANCE.
“You can’t possibly be more confused than I am.”
YOU’RE RIGHT. NOBODY CAN BE MORE CONFUSED THAN YOU ARE.
“Oh, very funny. Hush now—what was that?”
The Senator was sitting now, leaning distractedly on one of the tasteful, elegant bistro tables that dotted the veranda, while Master Anakin stood above her. “I think—he’s saying something about a rebellion—that the Jedi have tried to overthrow the Republic! And—oh, my goodness. Mace Windu has tried to assassinate Chancellor Palpatine! Can he be serious?”
I DON’T KNOW. ANAKIN DOESN’T TALK TO ME ANYMORE.
C-3PO shook his cranial assembly helplessly. “How can Master Windu be an assassin? He has such impeccable manners.”
LIKE I TOLD YOU: THE FACTORS DON’T ADD UP.
“I’ve been hearing the most awful rumors—they’re saying the government is going to banish us—banish droids, can you imagine?”
DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU HEAR.
“Shh. Not so loud!”
I’M ONLY SAYING THAT WE DON’T KNOW THE TRUTH.
“Of course we don’t.” C-3PO sighed. “And we likely never will.”
“What about Obi-Wan?”
She looked stricken. Pale and terrified.
It made him love her more.
He shook his head. “Many of the Jedi have been killed.”
“But …” She stared out at the rivers of traffic crosshatching the sky. “Are you sure? It seems so … unbelievable …”
