Book 0 - The Dark Lord Trilogy Read online

  “Sirs,” TC-16 said from behind them.

  “Not now,” Obi-Wan said.

  R2-D2 began to loose a long series of whistles, chirps, and chitters.

  “If and when they give the okay,” Obi-Wan went on, “then feel free to dissect the entire chair, if that’s your objective.”

  “That’s not my objective, Master.”

  “Maybe Qui-Gon should have left you at Watto’s junk shop.”

  “You don’t mean that, Master.”

  “Of course not. But I know how you love to tinker with things.”

  “Sirs—”

  “Keep quiet, TeeCee,” Anakin said.

  R2-D2 honked and razzed, though as if from a distance.

  “And you, too, Artoo.”

  Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder, and his jaw dropped. “Where’s the mechno-chair?”

  Anakin swung around and scanned the bay. “Where’s Artoo?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you, sirs,” TC-16 said, gesturing toward the launching bay’s ruined iris hatch. “The chair walked away—taking your high-thinking little droid with it!”

  Obi-Wan stared at Anakin in bewilderment.

  “Well, it couldn’t have gotten far on foot, Master.”

  They rushed into the corridor, saw that it was deserted in both directions, and began searching the rooms that adjoined the bay. A prolonged electronic squeal brought both of them back into the main corridor.

  “That’s Artoo,” Anakin said.

  “Either that, or TeeCee has developed a talent for mimicry.”

  The protocol droid following behind, they hurried into a compact data room, where they saw R2-D2 with his interface arm still jacked into the chair, and the gripper of his grasping arm clamped to the bar handle of a storage cabinet. Stretched to its full extent, a computer interface cable now connected the mechno-chair to a control console of some sort. The chair’s talon-like feet were in constant motion, attempting to gain purchase on the smooth floor in an effort to propel the chair closer to the console.

  “What’s it doing?” Obi-Wan asked.

  Anakin made his face long and shook his head. “Recharging itself?”

  “Never seen such tenacity in a mechno-chair.”

  R2-D2 chattered and wheezed.

  “What’s Artoo saying?” Obi-Wan asked TC-16.

  “He’s saying, sir, that the mechno-chair has just armed itself to self-destruct!”

  Anakin made a mad dash for the console.

  “Artoo, unplug yourself!” Obi-Wan shouted. “Anakin, get away from that thing!”

  Anakin’s fingers were already busy undoing leads that linked the holoprojector unit to the chair.

  “Can’t, Master. Now we know there’s something stored in this chair no one wants us to see.”

  Obi-Wan glanced worriedly at R2-D2. “How much time, Artoo?”

  TC-16 translated the astromech’s response. “Seconds, sir!”

  Obi-Wan rushed to Anakin’s side. “There isn’t time, Anakin. Besides, it could be rigged to detonate if tampered with.”

  “Almost there, Master …”

  “You’ll deactivate us in the process!”

  Obi-Wan sensed a disturbance in the Force.

  Without thinking, he pulled Anakin to the floor an instant before the chair shot a stream of white vapor into the space Anakin had occupied.

  Coughing, Obi-Wan covered his mouth and nose with the wide sleeve of his robe. “Poison gas! Good bet it’s the same one Gunray tried to use on Qui-Gon and me at Naboo.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Anakin said. “What’s that make it, twenty-five to thirty-seven?”

  “Thirty-six—if you’ve any interest in accuracy.”

  Anakin studied the chair for a moment. “We have to take the chance.”

  Before Obi-Wan could even think about stopping him, Anakin had leaned forward and wrenched the interface cable from the control console.

  R2-D2 yowled, and TC-16 moaned in distress.

  A web of blue energy gamboled around the chair and the console, knocking Anakin onto his backside.

  At the same time, a high-resolution blue hologram projected from the chair’s holoplate.

  R2-D2 mewled in alarm.

  And to the meter-high figure in the hooded cloak, the unmistakable voice of Viceroy Nute Gunray was saying:

  “Yes, yes, of course. Trust that I will see to it personally, my Lord Sidious.”

  These days, an appointment with Supreme Chancellor Palpatine was not something to be taken lightly—even for a member of the so-called Loyalist Committee.

  Appointment?

  More an audience.

  Bail Organa had just arrived on Coruscant, and was still wearing the deep blue cloak, ruffle-collared shirt, and knee-high black boots his wife had laid out for him for the trip from Alderaan. He had been away from the galactic capital for only a standard month, and could scarcely believe the disturbing changes that had taken place during his short absence.

  Alderaan never seemed more a paradise, a sanctuary. Just thinking about his beautiful blue-and-white homeworld made Bail yearn to be there, yearn for the company of his loving wife.

  “I’m going to need to see further identification,” the clone trooper stationed at the landing platform’s Homeworld Security checkpoint told him.

  Bail motioned to the identichip he had already slotted in the scanner. “It’s all there, Sergeant. I’m a member in good standing of the Republic Senate.”

  The helmeted noncom glanced at the display screen, then looked down at Bail. “So it says. But I’m still going to need to see further identification.”

  Bail sighed in exasperation and fished into the breast pocket of his brocaded tunic for his credit chip.

  The new Coruscant, he thought.

  Faceless, blaster-wielding soldiers on the shuttle landing platforms, in the plazas, arrayed in front of banks, hotels, theaters, wherever beings gathered or mingled. Scanning the crowds, stopping anyone who fit the current possible terrorist profile, conducting searches of individuals, belongings, residences. Not on a whim, because the cloned troopers didn’t operate like that. They answered merely to their training, and the duties they performed were for the good of the Republic.

  One heard rumors about antiwar demonstrations being put down by force; of disappearances and seizures of private property. Proof of such abuses of power rarely surfaced, and was quickly discredited.

  The omnipresence of the soldiers seemed to bother Bail more than it did his few friends on Coruscant or his peers in the Senate. He had tried to attribute his agitation to the fact that he hailed from pacific Alderaan, but that explained only some of it. What bothered him most was the ease with which the majority of Coruscanti had acclimated to the changes. Their willingness—almost an eagerness—to surrender personal freedoms in the name of security. And a false security, at that. For while Coruscant seemed far from the war, it was also at the center of it.

  Now, three years into a conflict that might have been ended as abruptly as it had begun, every new security measure was taken in stride. Except, of course, by members of those species most closely associated with the Separatist agenda—Geonosians, Muuns, Neimoidians, Gossams, and the rest—many of whom had been ostracized or forced to flee the capital. Having lived for so long in fear and ignorance, few Coruscanti stopped to question what was really going on. Least of all the Senate itself, which was so busy modifying the Constitution that it had completely abandoned its role as a balancing arm of the government.

  Before the war, widespread corruption had stifled the legislative process. Bills languished, measures sat for years without being addressed, votes were protested and subjected to endless recounts … But one effect of the war had been to replace corruption and inertia with dereliction of duty. Reasoned discourse and debate had become so rare as to be archaic. In a political climate where representatives were afraid to speak their minds, it was easier—and thought to be safer—to cede power to those who at least appear
ed to have some grasp of the truth.

  “You’re free to go,” the trooper said at last, apparently satisfied that Bail was in fact who his credentials claimed him to be.

  Bail laughed to himself.

  Free to go where? he wondered.

  This high up on Coruscant, one couldn’t be a pedestrian. Walking was an activity reserved for the bottom feeders who occupied Coruscant’s reflectively lit sublevels. Bail hailed a freetravel air taxi and instructed the droid driver to take him to the Senate Building.

  Even outside the normal skylanes, above the myriad and abysmal canyons that fissured the urbanscape, far from patrols of security soldiers or the prying eyes of Republic spies, Coruscant looked much as it had for as long as Bail had known it. Traffic was as dense as ever, with ships arriving perpetually from all points in the galaxy. New restaurants had opened; more art was being created. Paradoxically, there seemed to be more joviality in the air, and more opportunities than ever for vice. Even with trade disrupted to the Outer Rim, many Coruscanti were living the good life, and many Senators were continuing to avail themselves of the limitless privileges they had enjoyed in the prewar years.

  From up here one had to look closely to observe the changes.

  In the oval, twin-drive air taxi, for example.

  Running in tiny print across the passenger’s-seat display screen was a public service ad extolling the virtues of COMPOR—the Commission for the Protection of the Republic.

  NONHUMANS NEED NOT APPLY.

  And there, dazzling the sheer face of a towering office building, a piece of late-breaking HoloNet news detailing the Republic’s victory at Cato Neimoidia. Lately it was triumph after triumph, praise for the Grand Army of the Republic, all glory to the clone troopers.

  Rarely a mention of the Jedi, save for when one of them was commended by Palpatine in the Senate’s Great Rotunda. Young Anakin Skywalker or some other. Otherwise one rarely saw an adult Jedi on Coruscant any longer. Spread thin throughout the galaxy, they led companies of troopers into battle. The holofeeds were fond of using the phrase aggressive peacekeeping to describe their actions. To the extent that friendships could be forged with them, Bail had come to know a few: Jedi Masters Obi-Wan Kenobi, Yoda, Mace Windu, Saesee Tiin—the privileged few who also were allowed to meet personally with Palpatine.

  Bail stirred in his seat.

  Even Palpatine’s harshest critics in the Senate or in the various media couldn’t hold him fully accountable for what Coruscant had become. Though hardly the innocent he sometimes pretended to be, Palpatine was not to blame. His talent for being at once sincere and exacting was what had gotten him elected in the first place. According to Bail Antilles, at any rate, Bail’s predecessor in the Senate.

  Thirteen years ago the Senate was interested only in ridding itself of Finis Valorum, Antilles had once told Bail. Valorum, who had believed he could put honesty on the Senate agenda. Even in those days Palpatine had had his share of influential friends.

  Still, Bail couldn’t help but wonder who might have succeeded Palpatine as Supreme Chancellor if the Separatist crises on Raxus Prime and Antar 4 had not occurred when they did, just as Palpatine’s term of office was ending. He remembered the arguments that had raged over passage of the Emergency Powers Act; that it was dangerous to “change dewbacks in the middle of a sand dune.” Back then, many Senators felt that the Republic should bide its time and simply allow Count Dooku’s movement to play itself out.

  But not after the full extent of the Separatist threat became clear.

  Not after some six thousand worlds, lured by the promise of free and unrestricted trade, had seceded from the Republic. Not after heavily armed corporations such as the Commerce Guild and the Techno Union had partnered with Dooku. Not after the entire Rimward leg of the Rimma Trade Route had become inaccessible to Republic shipping.

  As a consequence—and by an overwhelming majority—the Senate had voted to amend the Constitution, and to extend Palpatine’s term indefinitely, with the understanding that he would voluntarily step down from office when the crisis was resolved. In short order, however, the likelihood of a quick resolution evaporated. Formerly gracious and unassuming Palpatine was suddenly democracy’s champion, vowing that he could not condone a Republic divided against itself.

  Rumors of a Military Creation Act began to circulate. But Palpatine himself had refused to come out in favor of building an army for the Republic. He left that to others—the Senate’s nominal Sand Panthers. Finally he attempted to arrange a peace summit, but Count Dooku had refused to attend.

  Instead came war.

  Bail could recall clearly the day he had stood with Palpatine, Mas Amedda, Malastarian Senators, and others on a balcony of the Senate Office Building, watching tens of thousands of clone troopers march into the enormous ships that would take the war to the Separatists. He could recall clearly his utter disconsolation. That after a thousand years of peace, war and evil had returned.

  More accurately, been allowed to return.

  Regardless, Bail had put his feelings aside and had played his part, endorsing bills he might have previously denounced, supporting Palpatine’s “efficient streamlining of cumbersome bureaucracy.” It wasn’t until passage of the Reflex Amendment, some fourteen months back, that his fears had begun to resurface and intensify. The sudden disappearance of Senator Seti Ashgad after he had argued against installation of surveillance cams in the Senate Building; the suspicious explosion of a star freighter aboard which Finis Valorum was a passenger; the passage of a security bill that granted Palpatine wide-ranging powers over Coruscant …

  The behavior of the Supreme Chancellor himself—frequently isolated by his covey of advisers and illegal cadre of red-robed personal bodyguards; his unbending resolve to continue fighting until the war was won. Gone was humble, self-deprecating Palpatine. And with him, tractable Bail Organa. Bail vowed to speak openly of his concerns, and he began to cultivate friendships with Senators who shared those concerns.

  Some of them were waiting for him when the air taxi touched down in the broad plaza that fronted the mushroom-shaped Senate Building. Padmé Amidala, of Naboo; Mon Mothma of Chandrila; human Senators Terr Taneel, Bana Breemu, and Fang Zar; and alien Senator Chi Eekway.

  Slender, short-haired Mon Mothma hurried to embrace Bail as he approached. “A momentous occasion, Bail,” she said into his left ear. “An audience with Palpatine.”

  Bail laughed to himself. They did think alike.

  Padmé hugged him, as well, though somewhat stiffly. She looked radiant. A bit more full-faced than Bail remembered, but the very picture of classic beauty in her elegant robes and elaborate coiffure. A golden protocol droid stood behind her. She told him she had just returned from a wonderful week on Naboo, visiting with her family.

  “An extraordinary world, Naboo,” Bail said. “I’ll never understand how it spawned someone as stubborn as our Supreme Chancellor.”

  Padmé scolded him with a frown. “He’s not stubborn, Bail. You just don’t know him as I do. He’ll take our concerns to heart.”

  “For all the good it will do,” Chi Eekway said, displeasure wrinkling her blue face.

  “You underestimate Palpatine’s acuity,” Padmé said. “Besides, he appreciates frank speech.”

  “We’ve been nothing if not frank, Senator,” darkcomplected, bib-bearded Fang Zar said. “With scant success.”

  Padme glanced at everyone. “Surely, faced with all of us …”

  “Had we a tenth of the Senate we would prove too few,” Bana said, draped head-to-toe in shimmersilk. “But it is important that we hold to our intention.”

  Eekway nodded gravely.

  “It can be hoped,” Fang Zar said, “not counted on.”

  The conversation turned to personal matters as they entered the vast building. They were an animated group when they finally arrived at the holding office, directly beneath the Great Rotunda, where Palpatine’s human appointments secretary asked them to wait in
the receiving area.

  After an hour of waiting, their spirits began to flag. But then the door to Palpatine’s office slid open, and Sate Pestage, one of Palpatine’s chief advisers, appeared.

  “Senators, what a surprise,” he said.

  Bail came to his feet, speaking for everyone when he said: “It shouldn’t be. The appointment was confirmed more than three weeks ago.”

  Pestage glanced at the appointments secretary. “Really? I wasn’t informed.”

  “You mostly certainly were informed,” Padmé said, “since the appointment was secured through your office.”

  “Several of us have risked much and traveled great distances,” Eekway added.

  Pestage spread his hands in a patronizing way. “Such times require sacrifices, Senator. Or perhaps you feel you’ve risked more than the Supreme Chancellor has.”

  Bail spoke up. “No one is implying that the Supreme Chancellor has been anything but tireless in his … devotion. But the fact remains that he agreed to see us, and we’re not about to leave here until he honors his pledge.”

  “We’re not asking for much of his time,” Terr Taneel said, in a more placating tone.

  “Maybe not, but you must realize how busy he is. What with new developments occurring daily.” Pestage looked at Bail. “I understand you’ve become quite friendly with the Jedi Council. Why not visit with them while I attempt to reschedule you?”

  Anger mottled Bail’s bearded face. “We’re not leaving until we see him, Sate.”

  Pestage forced a smile. “As is your prerogative, Senator.”

  The shuttle whose landing lights had caught Obi-Wan’s attention on Cato Neimoidia carried more than Intelligence analysts and technicians. Yoda was aboard, eager to see for himself what Obi-Wan and Anakin had discovered.

  The technicians had succeeded in inducing the mechno-chair’s holoprojector to replay the image of Lord Sidious, and Republic cryptographers working with the Jedi were confident that the unique device would yield even greater secrets once it was relocated to Coruscant and examined thoroughly.

  Refusing to let the mechno-chair out of his sight, Anakin had demanded to oversee its transfer to the waiting shuttle. Feeling unnecessary, Obi-Wan and Yoda decided to take a stroll down the corridor of Viceroy Gunray’s now appropriated palace. The venerable Jedi Master was pensive as they walked, the silence broken only by the sounds of distant blasterfire and the tick, tick of Yoda’s gimer stick as it struck the polished floor.