by James Luceno
The corridors of the Senate were rife with rumors that the Emperor had a second and more private suite, along with some sort of medical facility, in the very crown of the building.
“Your Majesty, if I may,” the human Senator from Commenor said in a suitably deferential tone. “Perhaps you could shed some light on the matter of why the Jedi betrayed us. As you are undoubtedly aware, the HoloNet seems reluctant to provide details.”
Well beyond the need to employ diplomacy or deception to achieve his ends, the Emperor made a derisive sound.
“The Order deserved all that it received for deluding us into believing that they served me in serving you. The complexity of their nefarious plan continues to astound me. Why they didn’t attempt to kill me three years ago is something I will never understand. As if I could have stood against them. If it were not for the recent actions of my guards and our troopers, I would be dead.”
Palpatine’s off-color eyes clouded with hatred.
“In fact, the Jedi believed that they could oversee the galaxy better than we could, and they were willing to perpetuate a war simply to leave us defenseless and susceptible to their treason. Their vaunted Temple was a fort, their base of operations. They came to me with tales of having killed General Grievous—a cyborg, no less—and sought to arrest me because I refused to take them at their word that the fighting was suddenly over, the Separatists defeated.
“When I dispatched a legion of troopers to reason with them, they drew their lightsabers and the battle was met. We have the Grand Army to thank for our victory. Our noble commanders recognized the truth of the Jedi’s treachery, and they executed my commands with vigor. The very fact that they did so, without question, without hesitation, suggests to me that our troopers had some inkling all along that the Jedi were manipulating events.
“After all these weeks, we still lack confirmation that Viceroy Gunray and his powerful allies are dead. That their battle droids and war machines stand motionless on hundreds of worlds we can take as a sign of their surrender. At the same time, however, we must focus our attention on solidifying the Empire world by world.”
Palpatine sat back in his chair.
“The Jedi order is a lesson to us that we cannot permit any agency to become powerful enough to pose a threat to our designs, or to the freedoms we enjoy. That is why it is essential we increase and centralize our military, both to preserve the peace and to protect the Empire against inevitable attempts at insurrection. To that end I have already ordered the production of new classes of capital ships and starfighters, suitable for command by nonclone officers and crew, who themselves will be the product of Imperial academies, made up of candidates drawn from existing star system flight schools.
“No less important, our present army of clone troopers is aging at an accelerated rate, and will need to be supplemented, gradually replaced, by new batches of clones. I suspect that the Jedi had a hand in creating a short-lived army in full confidence that there would be no need for troopers once they had overthrown the Republic and instituted their theocracy based on the Force.
“But that is no longer a concern.
“By bringing the known worlds of the galaxy under one law, one language, the enlightened guidance of one individual, corruption of the sort that plagued the former Republic will never be able to take root, and the regional governors I have installed will prevent the growth of another Separatist movement.”
When everyone in the room was satisfied that Palpatine was finished, the Senator from Rodia said: “Then species other than human need not fear discrimination or partiality?”
Palpatine spread his crooked, long-nailed hands in a placating gesture. “When have I ever shown myself to be intolerant of species differences? Yes, our army is human, I am human, and most of my advisers and military officers are human. But that is merely the result of circumstance.”
* * *
“The war continues,” Mon Mothma said to Bail.
Confident that they were beyond the reach of the building’s assortment of eavesdropping devices and far enough from anyone who might be an Internal Security Bureau spy, Bail said: “Palpatine will use his disfigurement to distance himself further from the Senate. We may never get that close to him again.”
Mon Mothma lowered her head in sadness as they continued to walk.
Coruscant was already beginning to adapt to its new title of Imperial Center. Red-patched stormtroopers were more present than they had been at the height of the war, and unfamiliar faces and uniformed personnel crowded the corridors of the building. Military officers, regional governors, security agents … the Emperor’s new minions.
“When I look at that hideous face or survey the damage done to the Rotunda, I can’t help thinking, this is what’s become of the Republic and the Constitution,” Mon Mothma said.
“He maintains he has no plans for disbanding the Senate or punishing the various hive species that supported the Confederacy—” Bail started.
“For the moment,” Mon Mothma interruped. “Besides, the homeworlds of those species have already been punished. They are disaster areas.”
“He can’t afford to move against anyone just now,” Bail went on. “Too many worlds are still too well armed. Yes, new clone troopers are being grown and new capital ships are coming off the line, but not fast enough for him to risk becoming enmeshed in another war.”
She looked at him skeptically. “You’re very confident all of a sudden, Bail. Or is that circumspection I hear?”
Bail asked himself the same question.
In the throne room, he had tried to puzzle out which among the Emperor’s cabal of advisers, human or otherwise, were aware that Palpatine was a Sith Lord who had manipulated the entire war and eradicated his sworn enemies, the Jedi, as part of a plan to assume absolute power over the galaxy.
Certainly Mas Amedda knew, along with Sate Pestage, and possibly Sly Moore. Bail doubted that Armand Isard or any of Palpatine’s military advisers knew. How would their knowing change things, in any case? To the few beings who knew or cared, the Sith were nothing more than a quasi-religious sect that had disappeared a millennium ago. What mattered was that Palpatine was now Emperor Palpatine, and that he enjoyed the staunch support of most of the Senate and the unwavering allegiance of the Grand Army.
Only Palpatine knew the full story of the war and its abrupt conclusion. But Bail knew a few things that Palpatine didn’t; primarily, that Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala’s twin children had not died with her on the asteroid known as Polis Massa; and that in the twins Jedi Masters Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda were placing their trust for the eventual defeat of the dark side. Even now infant Luke was on Tatooine, in the care of his aunt and uncle, and being watched over by Obi-Wan. And infant Leia—Bail grinned just thinking about her—infant Leia was on Alderaan, probably in the arms of Bail’s wife, Breha.
During Palpatine’s brief abduction by General Grievous, Bail had promised Padmé that should anything untoward happen to her, he would do all he could to protect those close to her. The fact that Padmé was pregnant had been something of an open secret, but at the time Bail had been referring to Anakin, never realizing that events would draw him into a conspiracy with Obi-Wan and Yoda that would end with his assuming custody of Leia.
It had taken only days for Bail and Breha to come to love the child, though initially Bail had worried that they may have been entrusted with too great a challenge. Given their parentage, chances were high that the Skywalker twins would be powerful in the Force. What if Leia should show early signs of following in the dark footsteps of her father? Bail had wondered.
Yoda had eased his mind.
Anakin hadn’t been born to the dark side, but had arrived there because of what he had experienced in his short life, instances of suffering, fear, anger, and hatred. Had Anakin been discovered early enough by the Jedi, those emotional states would never have surfaced. More important, Yoda appeared to have had a change of heart regarding the Temple as pr
oviding the best crucible for Force-sensitive beings. The steadfast embrace of a loving family would prove as good, if not better.
But the adoption of Leia was only one of Bail’s concerns.
For weeks following Palpatine’s decree that the Republic would henceforth be an Empire, he had been concerned for his—indeed, Alderaan’s—safety. His name was prominent on the Petition of the Two Thousand, which had called for Palpatine to abrogate some of the emergency powers the Senate had granted him. Worse, Bail had been the first to arrive at the Jedi Temple after the slaughter there; and he had rescued Yoda from the Senate following the Jedi Master’s fierce battle with Sidious in the Rotunda.
Holocams at the Temple or in the former Republic Plaza might easily have captured his speeder, and those images could have found their way to Palpatine or his security advisers. Word might have leaked that Bail was the person who had arranged for Padmé to be delivered to Naboo for the funeral. If Palpatine had been apprised of that fact, he might begin to wonder if Obi-Wan, having carried Padmé from distant Mustafar, had informed Bail about Palpatine’s secret identity, or about the horrors committed on Coruscant by Anakin, renamed Darth Vader by the Sith Lord, whom Obi-Wan had left for dead on the volcanic world.
And then Palpatine might begin to wonder if Padmé’s child, or children, had in fact died with her …
Bail and Mon Mothma hadn’t seen each other since Padmé’s funeral, and Mon Mothma knew nothing of the role Bail had played in the final days of the war. However, she had heard that Bail and Breha had adopted a baby girl, and was eager to meet baby Leia.
The problem was, Mon Mothma was also eager to continue efforts to undermine Palpatine.
“There’s talk in the Senate about building a palace to house Palpatine, his advisers, and the Imperial Guard,” she said as they were nearing one of the repulsorlift landing platforms attached to what had become Palpatine’s building.
Bail had heard the talk. “And statues,” he said.
“Bail, the fact that Palpatine doesn’t have full faith in his New Order makes him all the more dangerous.” She came to a sudden halt when they reached the walkway to the landing platform and turned to him. “Every signatory of the Petition of the Two Thousand is suspect. Do you know that Fang Zar has fled Coruscant?”
“I do,” Bail said, just managing to hold Mon Mothma’s gaze.
“Clone army or no, Bail, I’m not going to abandon the fight. We have to act while we still can—while Sern Prime, Enisca, Kashyyyk, and other worlds are prepared to join us.”
Bail worked his jaw. “It’s too soon to act. We have to bide our time,” he said, repeating what Padmé had told him in the Senate Rotunda on the day of Palpatine’s historical announcement. “We have to place our trust in the future, and in the Force.”
Mon Mothma adopted a skeptical look. “Right now there are members of the military who will side with us, who know that the Jedi never betrayed the Republic.”
“What counts is that the clone troopers believe that the Jedi did betray the Republic,” Bail said; then he lowered his voice to add: “We risk everything by placing ourselves in Palpatine’s sights just now.”
He kept to himself his concerns for Leia.
Mon Mothma didn’t say another word until they stepped onto the landing platform, where stormtroopers and a tall, startling figure in black were striding down the boarding ramp of a Theta-class shuttle that had just set down.
“Some Jedi must have survived the execution order,” Mon Mothma said at last.
For reasons he couldn’t fully understand, Bail’s attention was riveted on the masked figure, who appeared to be in command of the clones, and who also appeared to glance with clear purpose in Bail’s direction. The group passed close enough to Bail for him to hear one of the stormtroopers say: “The Emperor is waiting for you in the facility, Lord Vader.”
Bail felt as if someone had let the air out of him.
His legs began to shake and he grabbed hold of the platform railing for support, somehow managing to keep apprehension from his voice when he said to Mon Mothma: “You’re right. Some Jedi did survive.”
In the capable hands of gangly Brudi Gayn, the modified CloakShape and the booster ring that had allowed it to enter hyperspace completed three short jumps in as many hours, emerging in a remote area of the Tion Cluster, far from any inhabited worlds. Waiting there, however, was a twenty-year-old Corellian freighter as large as a Tantive-class corvette, but with a circular command module.
Shryne counted five gun turrets; he already knew from Brudi that the Drunk Dancer boasted sublights and a hyperdrive better suited to a ship twice its size.
Brudi disengaged from the booster ring while they were still some distance from the freighter, then in his own good time maneuvered the CloakShape through a magnetic containment shield in the Drunk Dancer’s starboard side, and into a spacious docking bay. On their landing disks sat a small drop ship and a swift, split-winged Incom Relay, not much bigger than the CloakShape.
Brudi popped the canopy, and Shryne and Starstone climbed down to the deck, slipping out of their helmets and flight suits at the bottom of the ladder. The two Jedi were wearing the simple spacer garments that Cash Garrulan had provided. Long accustomed to executing undercover missions, Shryne didn’t feel out of place without a tunic and robe, even without a lightsaber. He knew better than to convince himself that, having escaped Murkhana, they were suddenly in the clear. Before and during the war he had had his share of close calls and times when he had been chased, but going into hiding was entirely new.
Even newer to Olee Starstone, who looked as if the events of the past couple of weeks, the past thirty-six hours especially, were finally beginning to catch up to her. He could tell from her uncertain gestures that Starstone, who had probably never worn anything but Temple robes or field outfits, was still adjusting to their new circumstances.
Shryne resisted the temptation to console her. Their future was cloudier than the gunship drop into Murkhana City had been, and the sooner Starstone learned to take responsibility for herself, the better.
Alerted to the CloakShape’s arrival, several members of the Drunk Dancer’s crew were waiting in the docking bay. Shryne had encountered their type before, primarily in those outlying systems that had drifted into Count Dooku’s embrace before the Separatist movement had been formalized as the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Just from the look of them Shryne could see that they lacked the discipline of crews belonging to Black Sun or the Hutt syndicates, despite Brudi’s disclosure that the Drunk Dancer accepted occasional contracts from a variety of crime cartels.
Dressed in bits and pieces of apparel they had obviously obtained on dozens of worlds, they were a ragtag band of freelance smugglers, without star system or political affiliation, or bones to pick with anyone. Determined to maintain their autonomy, they had learned that smugglers didn’t get rich by working for others.
In the docking bay Shryne and Starstone were introduced to the Drunk Dancer’s first mate, Skeck Draggle, and the freighter’s security chief, Archyr Beil. Both were humanoids as long-limbed as Brudi Gayn, with six-fingered hands and severe facial features that belied cheerful dispositions.
In the ship’s main cabin space the two Jedi met Filli Bitters, a towheaded human slicer who took an immediate interest in Starstone, and the Drunk Dancer’s communications expert, Eyl Dix, whose hairless dark green head hosted two pair of curling antennae, in addition to a pair of sharp-tipped ears.
Before long everyone, including a couple of inquisitive droids, had gathered in the main cabin to hear Shryne and Starstone’s account of their narrow escape from Murkhana. The fact that no one mentioned anything about the hunt for Jedi made Shryne uneasy, but not uneasy enough to pursue the point—at least not until he had a clearer sense of just where he and Starstone stood in the eyes of the smugglers.
“Cash asked that we bring you to Mossak,” Skeck Draggle said after the Jedi had entertained everyone with details o
f the daring flight. “Mossak’s just the other side of Felucia, and a decent hub for jumps into the Tingel Arm or just about anywhere up and down the Perlemian Trade Route.” He looked directly at Shryne. “We, ah, normally don’t offer free transport. But seeing how it was Cash who asked, and, uh, knowing what you folk have had to endure, we’ll cover the costs.”
“We appreciate that,” Shryne said, sensing the sharp-featured Skeck had left something unstated.
“The Twi’lek fix you with new identichips?” Archyr asked, in what seemed to be actual concern.
Shryne nodded. “Good enough to fool agents at Murkhana STC, anyway.”
“Then they’ll pass muster on Mossak, as well,” the lanky security chief said. “You shouldn’t have too much trouble finding temporary work, if that’s your plan.” Archyr regarded Shryne. “You have any contacts you can trust?”
Shryne’s eyebrows bobbed. “Good question.”
When the assembled crew members fell into a separate conversation, Starstone moved close to Shryne. “Just what is our plan, Mas—”
Shryne’s lifted finger stopped her midsentence. “No order; no ranks.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, echoing his quiet tone. “You agreed that other Jedi probably survived.”
“Listen, kid,” he said, gazing at her for emphasis, “the Climbers of this galaxy are few and far between.”
“Jedi could have survived by other means. It’s our duty to locate them.”
“Our duty?”
“To ourselves. To the Force.”
Shryne took a deep breath. “How do you propose we do that?”
She gnawed at her lower lip while she considered it, then looked at him pointedly. “We have Master Chatak’s beacon transceiver. If we could patch it into the Drunk Dancer’s communications suite, we could issue a Nine Thirteen code on encrypted frequencies.”
Shryne laughed in spite of himself. “You know, that could actually work.” He glanced at the crew members. “Still, I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”
