by James Luceno
He breathed out his whole life.
Everything he had done, everything he had been, friends and enemies, dreams and hopes and fears.
Empty, he found clarity. Scrubbed clean, the Force shone through him. He sat up and nodded to Yoda.
“Yes,” he said. “We may be the last. But what if we’re not?”
Green leather brows drew together over lambent eyes. “The Temple beacon.”
“Yes. Any surviving Jedi might still obey the recall, and be killed.”
Bail Organa looked from one Jedi to the other, frowning. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Obi-Wan replied, “that we have to go back to Coruscant.”
“It’s too dangerous,” the Senator said instantly. “The whole planet is a trap—”
“Yes. We have a—ah …”
The loss of Anakin stabbed him.
Then he let that go, too.
“I have,” he corrected himself, “a policy on traps …”
THE FACE OF THE SITH
Mustafar burned with lava streaming from volcanoes of glittering obsidian.
At the fringe of its gravity well, a spray of prismatic starlight warped a starfighter into existence. Declamping from its hyperdrive ring, the starfighter streaked into an atmosphere choked with dense smoke and cinders.
The starfighter followed a preprogrammed course toward the planet’s lone installation, an automated lava mine built originally by the Techno Union to draw precious metals from the continuous rivers of burning stone. Upgraded with the finest mechanized defenses that money could buy, the settlement had become the final redoubt of the leaders of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. It was absolutely impenetrable.
Unless one had its deactivation codes.
Which was how the starfighter could land without causing the installation’s defenses to so much as stir.
The habitable areas of the settlement were spread among towers that looked like poisonous toadstools sprung from the bank of a river of fire. The main control center squatted atop the largest, beside the small landing deck where the starfighter had alit. It was from this control center, less than an hour before, that a coded command had been transmitted over every HoloNet repeater in the galaxy.
At that signal, every combat droid in every army on every planet marched back to its transport, resocketed itself, and turned itself off. The Clone Wars were over.
Almost.
There was a final detail.
A dark-cloaked figure swung down from the cockpit of the starfighter.
Bail Organa strode onto the Tantive’s shuttle deck to find Obi-Wan and Yoda gazing dubiously at the tiny cockpit of Obi-Wan’s starfighter. “I suppose,” Obi-Wan was saying reluctantly, “if you don’t mind riding on my lap …”
“That may not be necessary,” Bail said. “I’ve just been summoned back to Coruscant by Mas Amedda; Palpatine has called the Senate into Extraordinary Session. Attendance is required.”
“Ah.” Obi-Wan’s mouth turned downward. “It’s clear what this will be about.”
“I am,” Bail said slowly, “concerned it might be a trap.”
“Unlikely this is.” Yoda hobbled toward him. “Unknown, is the purpose of your sudden departure from the capital; dead, young Obi-Wan and I are both presumed to be.”
“And Palpatine won’t be moving against the Senate as a whole,” Obi-Wan added. “At least, not yet; he’ll need the illusion of democracy to keep the individual star systems in line. He won’t risk a general uprising.”
Bail nodded. “In that case—” He took a deep breath. “—perhaps I can offer Your Graces a lift?”
Inside the control center of the Separatist bunker on Mustafar …
Wat Tambor was adjusting the gas mix inside his armor—
Poggle the Lesser was massaging his fleshy lip-tendrils—
Shu Mai was fiddling with the brass binding that restrained her hair into the stylish curving horn that rose behind her head—
San Hill was stretching his bodystocking, which had begun to ride up in the crotch—
Rune Haako was shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot—
While Nute Gunray spoke to the holopresence of Darth Sidious.
“The plan has gone exactly as you promised, my lord,” Gunray said. “This is a glorious day for the galaxy!”
“Yes, indeed. Thanks, in great part, to you, Viceroy, and to your associates of the Techno Union and the IBC. And, of course, Archduke Poggle. You have all performed magnificently. Have your droid armies completed shutdown?”
“Yes, my lord. Nearly an hour ago.”
“Excellent! You will be handsomely rewarded. Has my new apprentice, Darth Vader, arrived?”
“His ship touched down only a moment ago.”
“Good, good,” the holoscan of the cloaked man said pleasantly. “I have left your reward in his hands. He will take care of you.”
The door cycled open.
A tall cloaked figure, slim but broad-shouldered, face shadowed by a heavy hood, stood in the doorway.
San Hill beat the others to the greeting. “Welcome, Lord Vader!” His elongated legs almost tangled with each other in his rush to shake the hand of the Sith Lord. “On behalf of the leadership of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, let me be the first to—”
“Very well. You will be the first.”
The cloaked figure stepped inside and made a gesture with a black-gloved hand. Blast doors slammed across every exit. The control panel exploded in a shower of sparking wires.
The cloaked figure threw back its hood.
San Hill recoiled, hands flapping like panicked birds sewn to his wrists.
He had time to gasp, “You’re—you’re Anakin Skywalker!” before a fountain of blue-white plasma burned into his chest, curving through a loop that charred all three of his hearts.
The Separatist leadership watched in frozen horror as the corpse of the head of the InterGalactic Banking Clan collapsed like a depowered protocol droid.
“The resemblance,” Darth Vader said, “is deceptive.”
The Senate Guard blinked, then straightened and smoothed the drape of his robe. He risked a glance at his partner, who flanked the opposite side of the door.
Had they really just gotten as lucky as he thought they had?
Were this Senator and his aides really walking right out of the turbolift with a couple of as-yet-uncaptured Jedi?
Wow. Promotions all around.
The guard tried not to stare at the two Jedi, and did his best to sound professional. “Welcome back, Senator. May I see your clearance?”
An identichip was produced without hesitation: Bail Organa, senior Senator from Alderaan.
“Thank you. You may proceed.” The guard handed back the identichip. He was rather pleased with how steady and businesslike he sounded. “We will take custody of the Jedi.”
Then the taller of the two Jedi murmured gently that it would be better if he and his counterpart were to stay with the Senator, and really, he seemed like such a reasonable fellow, and it was such a good idea—after all, the Grand Convocation Chamber of the Galactic Senate was so secure there was really no way for a Jedi to cause any trouble for anyone and they could just as easily be apprehended on their way out, and the guard didn’t want to seem like an unreasonable fellow himself, and so he found himself nodding and agreeing that yes, indeed, it would be better if the Jedi stayed with the Senator.
And everyone was so reasonable and agreeable that it seemed perfectly reasonable and agreeable to the guard that the Jedi and the Senator, instead of staying together as they’d said, made low-voiced Force-be-with-you farewells; it never occurred to the guard to object even when the Senator entered the Convocation Chamber and the two Jedi headed off for … well, apparently, somewhere else.
All eight members of Decoy Squad Five were deployed at a downlevel loading dock, where supplies that Jedi could not grow in their own Temple gardens had been delivered daily.
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br /> Not anymore.
This deep in Coruscant’s downlevels, the sun never shone; the only illumination came from antiquated glow globes, their faded light yellow as ancient parchment, that only darkened the shadows around. In those shadows lived the dregs of the galaxy, squatters and scavengers, madmen and fugitives from the justice above. Parts of Coruscant’s downlevels could be worse than Nar Shaddaa.
The men of Decoy Squad Five would have been alert on any post. They were bred to be. Here, though, they were in a combat zone, where their lives and their missions depended on their perceptions, and on how fast their blasters could come out from inside those Jedi-style robes.
So when a ragged, drooling hunchback lurched out of the gloom nearby, a bundle cradled in his arms, Decoy Squad Five took it for granted that he was a threat. Blasters appeared with miraculous speed. “Halt. Identify yourself.”
“No, no, no, Yer Graces, oh, no, I’m bein’ here to help, y’see, I’m on yerr side!” The hunchback slurped drool back into his slack lips as he lurched toward them. “Lookit I got here, I mean, lookit—’sa Jedi babby, ennit?”
The sergeant of the squad squinted at the bundle in the hunchback’s arms. “A Jedi baby?”
“Oooh, sher. Sher, Yer Grace. Jedi babby, sher azzell iddiz! Come from outcher Temple, dinnit? Lookit!”
The hunchback was now close enough that the sergeant could see what he carried in his filthy bundle. It was a baby. Sort of. It was the ugliest baby the sergeant had ever seen, alien or not, wizened and shriveled like a worn-out purse of moldly leather, with great pop eyes and a toothless idiot’s grin.
The sergeant frowned skeptically. “Anyone could grab some deformed kid and claim it’s anything they want. How do you know it’s a Jedi?”
The baby said, “My lightsaber, the first clue would be, hmm?”
A burning blade of green slanted across the sergeant’s face so close he could smell the ozone, and the hunchback wasn’t a hunchback anymore: he now held a lightsaber the color of a summmer sky, and he said in a clipped, educated Coruscanti accent, “Please don’t try to resist. No one has to get hurt.”
The men of Decoy Squad Five disagreed.
Six seconds later, all eight of them were dead.
Yoda looked up at Obi-Wan. “To hide the bodies, no point there is.”
Obi-Wan nodded agreement. “These are clones; an abandoned post is as much a giveaway as a pile of corpses. Let’s get to that beacon.”
Bail slipped into the rear of the Naboo delegation’s Senate pod as Palpatine thundered from the podium, “These Jedi murderers left me scarred, left me deformed, but they could not scar my integrity! They could not deform my resolve! The remaining traitors will be hunted down, rooted out wherever they may hide, and brought to justice, dead or alive! All collaborators will suffer the same fate. Those who protect the enemy are the enemy! Now is the time! Now we will strike back! Now we will destroy the destroyers! Death to the enemies of democracy!”
The Senate roared.
Amidala didn’t even glance at Bail as he slid into a seat beside her. On the opposite side, Representative Binks nodded at him, but said nothing, blinking solemnly. Bail frowned; if even the irrepressible Jar Jar was worried, this looked to be even worse than he’d expected. And he had expected it to be very, very bad.
He touched Amidala’s arm softly. “It’s all a lie. You know that, don’t you?”
She stared frozenly toward the podium. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I don’t know what I know. Not anymore. Where have you been?”
“I was … held up.” As she once had told him, some things were better left unsaid.
“He’s been presenting evidence all afternoon,” she said in a flat, affectless monotone. “Not just the assassination attempt. The Jedi were about to overthrow the Senate.”
“It’s a lie,” he said again.
In the center of the Grand Convocation Chamber, Palpatine leaned upon the Chancellor’s Podium as though he drew strength from the Great Seal on its front. “This has been the most trying of times, but we have passed the test. The war is over!”
The Senate roared.
“The Separatists have been utterly defeated, and the Republic will stand! United! United and free!”
The Senate roared.
“The Jedi Rebellion was our final test—it was the last gasp of the forces of darkness! Now we have left that darkness behind us forever, and a new day has begun! It is morning in the Republic!”
The Senate roared.
Padmé stared without blinking. “Here it comes,” she said numbly.
Bail shook his head. “Here what comes?”
“You’ll see.”
“Never again will we be divided! Never again will sector turn against sector, planet turn against planet, sibling turn against sibling! We are one nation, indivisible!”
The Senate roared.
“To ensure that we will always stand together, that we will always speak with a single voice and act with a single hand, the Republic must change. We must evolve. We must grow. We have become an empire in fact; let us become an Empire in name as well! We are the first Galactic Empire!”
The Senate went wild.
“What are they doing?” Bail said. “Do they understand what they’re cheering for?”
Padmé shook her head.
“We are an Empire,” Palpatine went on, “that will continue to be ruled by this august body! We are an Empire that will never return to the political maneuvering and corruption that have wounded us so deeply; we are an Empire that will be directed by a single sovereign, chosen for life!”
The Senate went wilder.
“We are an Empire ruled by the majority! An Empire ruled by a new Constitution! An Empire of laws, not of politicians! An Empire devoted to the preservation of a just society. Of a safe and secure society! We are an Empire that will stand ten thousand years!”
The roar of the Senate took on a continuous boiling roll like the inside of a permanent thunderstorm.
“We will celebrate the anniversary of this day as Empire Day. For the sake of our children. For our children’s children! For the next ten thousand years! Safety! Security! Justice and peace!”
The Senate went berserk.
“Say it with me! Safety, Security, Justice, and Peace! Safety, Security, Justice, and Peace!”
The Senate took up the chant, louder and louder until it seemed the whole galaxy roared along.
Bail couldn’t hear Padmé over the din, but he could read her lips.
So this is how liberty dies, she was saying to herself. With cheering, and applause.
“We can’t let this happen!” Bail lurched to his feet. “I have to get to my pod—we can still enter a motion—”
“No.” Her hand seized his arm with astonishing strength, and for the first time since he’d arrived, she looked straight into his eyes. “No, Bail, you can’t enter a motion. You can’t. Fang Zar has already been arrested, and Tundra Dowmeia, and it won’t be long until the entire Delegation of the Two Thousand are declared enemies of the state. You stayed off that list for good reason; don’t add your name by what you do today.”
“But I can’t just stand by and watch—”
“You’re right. You can’t just watch. You have to vote for him.”
“What?”
“Bail, it’s the only way. It’s the only hope you have of remaining in a position to do anyone any good. Vote for Palpatine. Vote for the Empire. Make Mon Mothma vote for him, too. Be good little Senators. Mind your manners and keep your heads down. And keep doing … all those things we can’t talk about. All those things I can’t know. Promise me, Bail.”
“Padmé, what you’re talking about—what we’re not talking about—it could take twenty years! Are you under suspicion? What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said distantly. “I don’t know I’ll live that long.”
Within the Separatist leadership bunker’s control center were d
ozens of combat droids. There were armed and armored guards. There were automated defense systems.
There were screams, and tears, and pleas for mercy.
None of them mattered.
The Sith had come to Mustafar.
Poggle the Lesser, Archduke of Geonosis, scrambled like an animal through a litter of severed arms and legs and heads, both metal and flesh, whimpering, fluttering his ancient gauzy wings until a bar of lightning flash-burned his own head free of his neck.
Shu Mai, president and CEO of the Commerce Guild, looked up from her knees, hands clasped before her, tears streaming down her shriveled cheeks. “We were promised a reward,” she gasped. “A h—h—handsome reward—”
“I am your reward,” the Sith Lord said. “You don’t find me handsome?”
“Please!” she screeched through her sobbing. “Pleee—”
The blue-white blade cut into and out from her skull, and her corpse swayed. A negligent flip of the wrist slashed through her column of neck rings. Her brain-burned head tumbled to the floor.
The only sound, then, was a panicky stutter of footfalls as Wat Tambor and the two Neimoidians scampered along a hallway toward a nearby conference room.
The Sith Lord was in no hurry to pursue. All the exits from the control center were blast-shielded, and they were sealed, and he had destroyed the controls.
The conference room was, as the expression goes, a dead end.
Thousands of clone troops swarmed the Jedi Temple.
Multiple battalions on each level were not just an occupying force, but engaged in the long, painstaking process of preparing dead bodies for positive identification. The Jedi dead were to be tallied against the rolls maintained in the Temple archives; the clone dead would be cross-checked with regimental rosters. All the dead had to be accounted for.
This was turning out to be somewhat more complicated than the clone officers had expected. Though the fighting had ended hours ago, troopers kept turning up missing. Usually small patrolling squads—five troopers or less—that still made random sweeps through the Temple hallways, checking every door and window, every desk and every closet.
