by James Luceno
PART IV
KASHYYYK
Inside the battered transport that had once belonged to an Imperial garrison on Dellalt, Olee Starstone and the six Jedi who had joined her crusade waited to be granted clearance to continue on to Kashyyyk space. The commanders of the half dozen Imperial corvettes that made up the inspection-point picket answered not to distant Coruscant but to the regional governor, headquartered on Bimmisaari.
The Jedi had done all they could to make the ship look the part of a military-surplus transport. Thanks mostly to Jula’s crew, the drives had been tweaked to produce a new signature, the ship’s profile had been altered, the defensive shields and countermeasures suite repaired. To ensure that what remained conformed to Imperial standards, many of the advanced sensors and scanners had been eliminated, along with most of the laser cannons. The Drunk Dancer’s maintenance droids had given the ship a quick paint job and had helped remove some of the seats amidships, to create a common cabin space.
To Starstone, the vessel’s fresh look matched the false identities the Jedi had adopted, as well as the clothes that made them look like a motley crew of struggling space merchants.
The transport’s cockpit was spacious enough to accommodate Starstone and Filli Bitters, in addition to Jambe Lu and Nam Poorf, late of the Temple’s Agricultural Corps, who were doing the piloting, and still-sightless Deran Nalual, who was tucked into the cramped communications duty station.
No one had said a word since Nalual had transmitted the ship’s authorization key to the picket array’s cardinal corvette. Filli was confident that the transport’s altered drive signature would pass muster, but—new to forging Imperial code—he was less certain about the authorization key.
Starstone placed her hand on Jambe’s shoulder, as a way of saying: Be ready to make a run for it.
Jambe was centering himself behind the steering yoke when an officious voice issued from the cockpit speakers.
“Vagabond Trader, you are cleared for approach to Kashyyyk. Commerce Control will provide you with vector coordinates for atmospheric entry and landing.”
“Understood,” Deran said into the mouthpiece of her headset.
Engaging the transport’s sublight drive, Jambe and Nam began to edge the transport through the cordon.
Starstone heard Filli’s eased exhalation and turned to him.
“You all right?”
“I am now,” he said. “I was flying blind with that code.”
“I guess we’re both that good,” Deran said from behind him.
Starstone touched Deran on the arm and smiled at Filli.
He smiled back. “Glad to help.”
Starstone was still getting used to Filli’s frequently awkward attempts at flirtation. But then, she wasn’t even ranked a beginner. The idea that the towheaded slicer was on temporary loan from the Drunk Dancer was absurd. Shryne was merely using Filli as a means of keeping tabs on the Jedi, but she refused to let that bother her. If Filli’s slicing skills could help locate fugitive Jedi, so much the better, even if she did have to pretend to be flattered by his attention, as opposed to being embarrassed by it. She liked him more and more, but she had her priorities straight, and involvement wasn’t among them.
She wasn’t Shryne.
Initially she had been angry at him and at his ever-persuasive mother, but in the end she had realized that her anger was rooted more in attachment than anything else. Shryne had his own path to follow in the Force, despite his beliefs to the contrary, and despite the fact that she missed him.
The worst part about it was that she had somehow assumed the mantle of leader. Notwithstanding that both Siadem Forte and the Ho’Din, Iwo Kulka, were Jedi Knights, they had relinquished their due as higher-ranking Jedi without the issue ever being raised. For that matter, even Jambe and Nam outranked her. But because the search had been her idea, everyone had essentially granted her tacit approval to do most of the thinking.
Clear evidence of everyone’s sense of dispossession, she thought.
On a mission that wasn’t a Jedi mission, but was all about being a Jedi.
And thus far the crusade had come to nothing.
On every world they had visited between Felucia and Saleucami it had been the same: the Jedi had been revealed as traitors to the Republic and had been killed by the clone troopers they had commanded. None had survived, Starstone and the others had been told. And pity any who had survived, for anti-Jedi sentiment was widespread, especially in the Outer Rim, among populations that had been drawn into the war and now saw themselves as having been mere performers in a game the Jedi had been playing to assume control of the Republic.
Justification for Shryne to say I told you so when they next met.
Even in the few standard weeks since the war’s end, a dramatic change had taken place. With the rapid diffusion of the symbols of the Empire, fear was radiating from the Core. On worlds where peace should have brought relief, distrust and suspicion prevailed. The war was over, and yet brigades of stormtroopers remained garrisoned on hundreds of worlds, formerly Separatist and Republic alike. The war was over, and yet Imperial inspection points dotted the major hyperlanes and sector jump points. The war was over, and yet the call was out for recruits to serve in the Imperial armed forces.
The war was over, and yet the HoloNet addressed little else.
Starstone believed she understood why: because in the depths of his black heart, the Emperor knew that the next war wouldn’t be fought from the outside in, but rather from the inside out. That not a generation would pass, much less the ten thousand years Palpatine had predicted the Empire to endure, before the disease that had now taken root on Coruscant would infect every system in the galaxy.
Even so, as desperate as the quest seemed, she was still counting on the Wookiees to provide the Jedi with the hope they needed to carry on. From information gleaned from the Temple beacon database, they knew that three Jedi had been dispatched to Kashyyyk: Quinlan Vos, Luminara Unduli, and Master Yoda himself, who, according to Forte and Kulka, had enjoyed a longstanding relationship with the Wookiees.
If there was a planet where Jedi could have survived Palpatine’s execution order, Kashyyyk would be it.
“Wookiee World,” Nam said as he dropped the bow of the transport.
The planet rose into view, whitecapped, otherwise green and blue. Dozens of huge vessels hung in orbit, including the perforated hulks of several Separatist warships. Ferries and drop ships could be seen emerging from and disappearing into Kashyyyk’s high-stacked clouds.
Jambe indicated a Separatist ship, tipped over on its starboard side, its underbelly heavily punctured by turbolaser bolts. Umbilicaled to it were a pair of craft that looked more like musical horns than space vessels.
“Wookiee ships,” Jambe said. “They’re probably cannibalizing whatever’s useful.”
Filli leaned toward the viewports for a better look. “They take immigrant technology and make it all their own. For enough credits, they could probably build us a wooden starship.”
Starstone had heard as much. Inventive handiwork was the primary reason Wookiees frequently fell prey to slave traders, especially Trandoshans, their reptilian planetary neighbors. Skill, however, hadn’t brought the Separatists to Kashyyyk, or the Trade Federation before them. The system was not only close to several major hyperlanes, but also an entry point for an entire quadrant of space. A Wookiee guild of cartographers known as the Claatuvac were said to have mapped star routes that didn’t even appear on Republic or Separatist charts.
The communications console chimed a repeating series of tones.
“Vector routing from Commerce Control,” Deran said.
“Make sure they understand we want to set down near Kachirho,” Starstone said.
Deran nodded. “Transmitting our request. Relaying course coordinates to navigation.”
Nam threw an excited look over his shoulder. “I’ve wanted to visit Kashyyyk for ten years.”
“H
alf the Core would like to visit Kashyyyk,” Filli said. “But the Wookiees don’t cater to tourists.”
“What, no luxury accommodations?” Jambe said.
Filli shook his head. “They might be willing to provide a tent.”
“How many times have you been here?” Starstone asked him.
He thought about it, then shrugged. “Ten, twelve. In between regular jobs, we’d sometimes run scrap technology here.”
“Can you speak the language?” Nam asked.
Filli laughed. “I once met a human who could bark a couple of useful phrases, but the best I could ever manage was a ‘thank you,’ and that worked only one out of ten times.”
Starstone frowned. “Do we have a translator droid or some sort of emulator?”
“We won’t need one,” Filli said. “The Wookiees employ a mixed-species staff of go-betweens to help out with sales and trades.”
“Who do we ask for?” Starstone said.
Filli took a moment. “Last time I was here, there was a guy named Cudgel …”
The Vagabond Trader began its descent into Kashyyyk’s aromatic atmosphere, light fading as the ship dropped below the canopy of the planet’s three-hundred-meter-tall wroshyr trees into an area of majestic cliffs crowned with vegetation. Adjusting course, Jambe and Nam guided the transport to a lakeshore landing platform made of wood. Towering majestically over the platform and the aquamarine lake rose the city of Kachirho, which consisted of a cluster of giant, tiered wroshyrs.
In his eagerness to fulfill a ten-year dream, Nam nearly botched the landing, but no one was hurt, despite being tossed about. As soon as everyone had exited the ship, Filli disappeared to find Cudgel.
Starstone gazed at the trees and sheer cliffs in wonderment. Her hopes for finding Yoda notwithstanding, the Wookiee world rendered other planets she had visited prosaic by comparison.
The scene at the exotic landing platform alone was impressive, with ships coming and going, and groups of Wookiees and their liaison crews haggling with beings representing dozens of different species. Outsize logs and slabs of fine-grained hardwoods were heaped about, and the air was rich with the heady smell of tree sap, and loud with the drone of nearby lumber mills. Protocol and labor droids supervised the loading and offloading of cargo, which was moved by teams of hornless banthas or exquisitely crafted hoversleds. All of the activity shaded and dwarfed by trees that seemed to reach to the very edge of space …
Starstone had to catch her breath. The gargantuan size of everything made her feel like an insect. She was still gaping like a tourist when Filli returned, accompanied by a thickset male human dressed in short trousers and a sleeveless shirt. If he wasn’t quite as hairy as a Wookiee, it was not for want of trying.
“Cudgel,” Filli said, by way of introduction.
Cudgel smiled at everyone in turn, jocular but clearly dubious, and Starstone immediately saw why. While she and her band of fugitive Jedi could dress the part of merchants, even talk the part, they couldn’t stand the part.
Literally.
Straight-backed, silent, hands clasped in front of them, they looked more like a group of vacationing meditators, which was not far from the truth.
“First time to Kashyyyk?” Cudgel said.
“Yes,” Starstone answered for everyone. “Hopefully not our last.”
“Welcome, then.” Forcing a smile, he eyed the transport. “This is an L two hundred, isn’t it?”
“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.
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 upperm
ost 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.”
