Chapter
Thirteen
Moff Nevoy
stood on
the balcony of the Great Hall and watched as visitors trooped around
Lord
Vader's display case like a procession of nelgri harvest bugs.
Only, harvest
bugs
were industrious and purposeful and useful, and Nevoy had always liked
them.
He'd always found it disgusting when people stepped on the bugs or
tried to
eradicate their nests, as if the solemn-faced little insects had no
value
simply because they weren't human. The procession of tourists, however,
was far
less appealing to Nevoy than the bugs. All right, yes, he knew, most of
them
felt compelled to be here. They had to know that not turning up to see
the
traitor on display would reflect badly on them, might even endanger
their jobs
or bring them to the attention of Imperial Intelligence. So of course
he
couldn't blame them. But the sight still gave him a sour feeling.
Through all of
this, since Vader had first been installed in his case, Nevoy had tried
to
avoid looking at the Dark Lord's face. That was silly, he told himself
now. It
wasn't as if one glimpse of Vader's visage was going to turn him into
carbonite. He was too far away from the display at the moment to see
much
detail, but an added attraction of Palpatine's delightful exhibition
was that a
mini holocam mounted at one end of the case's ceiling relayed a vid of
Vader's
exposed face to the screens suspended at all four corners of the Hall.
Nevoy
looked up at one of those screens now, and forced himself to keep his
gaze
steadily on the image.
Darth
Vader has
blue eyes.
He didn't know
why,
but he'd certainly never expected that. He frowned as he thought that
there was
some slight difference between the two eyes. He wasn't sure what, at
first.
Were they different in colour? Was one larger than the other? No ...
the left
eye had a marginally duller lustre than the right, and he suddenly
recognised
it as a prosthetic eye.
Nevoy wondered,
as
most of the visitors to the exhibition must have done at some point or
other,
what in the Hells had happened to Vader. A prosthetic eye and various
mechanical limbs -- at least according to the occasional vague comments
Dr.
Hayashida made on the subject -- Gods knew what wrong with his lungs,
and then
there were the massive scars on his head and face. And the tiny,
misshapen
lumps of flesh which were all that was left of his ears. And the lack
of
eyebrows. Well, the near lack, anyhow. Half of the right eyebrow was
still
there, a bizarre little relic of normality left stranded among the
scars. The
abbreviated eyebrow was dark brown, and Nevoy felt a twinge of deja
vu as he looked at
it.
Was there
anything
that Vader's half eyebrow should remind him of? He couldn't recall any
encounters with half-eyebrowed men.
While Nevoy was
still trying to remember, a voice at his shoulder said, "sir?"
He turned to
see
Lieutenant La Salle, of the palace guard. "Yes, Lieutenant?" Nevoy
asked.
"Sir, there's
a courier from Nova Messenger Service waiting in your office.
Apparently your
signature is required for the delivery of a registered letter."
"A registered
letter? If it's palace business, it shouldn't require my signature."
"Apparently
it's a personal letter, sir."
Nevoy frowned.
If
it was a personal letter, it ought to have come to his house. And why
send a letter
anyway, instead of communicating by link? Registered letters were
usually only
for things like tax inquiries or a summons to appear in the law courts.
He
didn't think that this was likely to be either of those. Nevoy sighed
impatiently, then said, "all right, Lieutenant, thank you," and
started toward the door.
A registered
letter. He supposed it could be from Marida. Ah, there was an idea: the
last
time he'd talked with Marida she'd told him that Nina was just learning
to
write. Maybe Marida had sent him some impressive sample of his eldest
grandchild's handwriting. Though why, in the Gods' names, she should
send it by
registered post, was anybody's guess. Even maternal affection shouldn't
make a
five-year-old's scribblings seem that precious! Then again, Marida had
never
had the slightest wisp of a concept of how to spend her credits wisely.
Not
that it mattered much any more, he supposed, considering who she'd
married. As
Vice President of Uni Droid, Kan Komak shouldn't find it a strain to
support his
wife's expensive whims.
Or maybe it was
from Rosmarin, instead, though he still didn't see why she'd send it to
the
palace. Sending it by registered post could have been to ensure that no
one but
him got their hands on it; Rose sometimes asked him if he could exert
any
influence to help clients she was working with, or to track down
evidence which
might support their case. A few times he'd been able to help, although
he had a
gloomy feeling that by doing so he'd suddenly find himself committing
some obscure
form of treason against the Empire. Rose always insisted that just
because she
was a lawyer who usually worked for non-human clients, it didn't mean
she
wasn't a loyal citizen, but privately Nevoy had his doubts. Not that he
would
ever accuse her of being disloyal, but still, some of her stories about
cases
she'd been involved in gave him nightmares.
Honestly. One
daughter who got rid of credits like she was allergic to them, and
another who
perpetually hovered on the edge of sedition. Ah, the joys of being a
father.
Shit. Maybe the
registered letter was to say that Rosmarin had been arrested.
No,
don't be
stupid. If that had happened, he would have got a
frantic call from his
son-in-law. Unless Elbin had been arrested too ... no, stop
it now. He told himself
firmly, it's probably some crap advertising ploy, sending
things registered
post so the poor suckers who get them will think they're important.
"You
may have already won one million credits, all you have to do to find
out is
visit our lovely new real estate on the edge of the scenic Dantooine
mining
district".
He reached his
office and stepped inside. Waiting in front of his desk, with a patient
look on
her face, was a slim young woman in the blue pseudo-military uniform
and cap of
the Nova Messenger Service. He noticed that her hair was blue as well,
or at
least in some lights it seemed to be, although when she moved her head
it
suddenly looked as if it were black instead. Her skin was a warm
reddish brown
colour, almost purple. Nevoy's secretarial droid, which had been
standing to
the right of the desk and casting the equivalent of a wary look at the
messenger, made a relieved-sounding whirr at Nevoy's arrival and
retired to the
edge of the room, beside the filing cabinet, where it switched itself
off.
"I'm Moff
Nevoy," Nevoy announced, thinking that something seemed vaguely
familiar
about the girl, and then wondering if he was going to have deja
vu about everything
today. First Darth Vader's eyebrow, and now the blue-haired courier.
The girl was
holding
a pad and a large square registered post envelope. Instead of handing
him the
envelope, however, she simply smiled at him and said, "you don't need
to
sign for it, actually, the envelope's empty. And I'm not from the Nova
Messenger Service."
Alarm jolted
through Nevoy, as he thought, my Gods, she's an assassin. He couldn't
think
why anyone would want to assassinate him, but it was always one of the
perils
of being a prominent official. He reached for his blaster, although he
knew
that if she were any kind of decent assassin, he'd be dead before he
could
draw.
The courier,
however, did not produce any concealed weapons, or explode him -- and
herself
-- by detonating a bomb implanted in heer wrist, or take any of the
other
actions he might have expected. Her smile merely grew broader, and she
said,
"your message has been received, sir. You can count on our help, at the
time you specified. The ground troops should find their hands full. We
also
have possession of General Solo's ship the Millennium Falcon, which we'd
like
to deliver to you. Will it be acceptable if the ship arrives at Landing
Bay
Four at 2200 tomorrow?"
Landing Bay
Four
was the location of the Conquest, on which they
planned to
make their escape. Nevoy wondered how the mysterious "we" had known
that the Conquest was to be
their getaway ship. And 2200 would,
hopefully, be half an hour after their proposed uprising had started.
The
timing should be about right. He hoped. He said, "yes, it should be
acceptable."
"All right
then, sir. We look forward to working with you." The girl reached out
her
hand to him and they shook hands, Nevoy feeling startled at the
strength of her
grip. With a last impish smile, the alleged courier withdrew her hand
from his
and then left the office, Nevoy watching, slightly dazed, as the door
whooshed
open and then closed again behind her.
Well,
that was
weird, he thought. It was a damned good thing that
he was a trusted enough
servant of the Emperor for his office not to be bugged -- at least not
the last
time he checked. "We" had probably known that too, and that was why
they'd sent their representative here. Who might "we" be, he
wondered. Friends or associates of Darth Vader, that was all he knew.
If they
worked for Vader, they could be anything. A secret sect of Dark Jedi,
maybe, or
a band of blue-haired Amazon warriors.
No going back
now,
anyway. They were going to have their distraction, and the Millennium
Falcon was going to turn
up at the Palace. If they didn't go ahead with this palace revolt, it
was going
to look very stupid, and there'd be an investigation, and they'd
probably all
end up getting arrested and executed anyway. So they might as well go
for
broke, and give the damned revolt everything they had.
He supposed he
ought to report to Princess Leia, at least let her know that the
situation was
in hand. Although he shouldn't tell her any details, in case Palpatine
was in
the habit of reading her mind. But at least if she knew that efforts
were being
made to help Lord Vader, it might stop her from doing something
reckless on her
own and possibly screwing up their plans.
Palpatine
himself
had given Nevoy a good excuse to visit the Princess. He could be
submitting
some detail of the adoption arrangements for her approval. What
kind of
flowers would you like at the ceremony, Princess?
Nevoy left the
office and started along the corridors again, toward Palpatine's wing
of the
Palace. He nodded at or exchanged greetings with various Imperial
Advisors and
officers that he passed, all the while thinking of how this very
corridor might
look tomorrow night. His mind created a vivid image of gangs of the
Palace
Guard gunning each other down, and squads of stormtroopers racing into
the
scene, and the drapes and the carpets being drenched with blood.
He thought, I
can't believe I'm planning to do this. I've served the Empire since it
came
into existence, and for what? So I can turn around and try to bring it
down.
Gods, Ardella
would
have a good laugh about that. He hoped he would not encounter her in
the
Rebellion. According to Rose, Ardella was pretty much retired, but it
would be
just his luck if he turned up at the Rebel Base with Lord Vader and the
rest of
their defectors, and ran smack into his ex-wife. Damn, how she would
smirk. She
would never let him live it down, that it had taken him two decades to
discover
that she'd been right all along. He thought, Hells blast it,
if she says
"I told you so", I'll murder her, that's all there is to it.
Nevoy had
reached
the door to Leia Organa and Luke Skywalker's guest chambers. He rang
the entry
bell and waited. With no response. When significantly more time had
passed than
it had taken Princess Leia to open the door before, he tried again.
Still nothing.
He
scowled at the closed door. Surely he'd seen a droid in the suite when
he was
here last night? Even if neither the Princess nor her mad young friend
were in,
the droid ought to answer the door. He rang the bell one more time.
The droid could
be
switched off, he supposed, though theoretically the sound of the entry
bell
ought to activate it again. He wondered if he ought to investigate
further.
Probably not. The droid might be faulty, but that didn't give him
sufficient
reason to go barging in if no one else was home.
Then he heard a
metallic thump from the inside of the door.
All right, now that he was going
to
investigate. He keyed in the security over-ride, and the door slid open.
Immediately
inside
the door, lay the droid, its feet waving frantically in the air. It
must have
been the droid running into the door that he'd heard. What in
the ... ? Nevoy stepped
into the room, then knelt, took hold of the cylindrical body and lifted
the
droid upright, whereupon it instantly trundled forward and smashed
itself into
the wall next to the door.
The droid
backed up
and ran into Nevoy, then once more ploughed into the doorframe.
Swearing and
rubbing his leg where the droid had bashed against it, Nevoy reached
for the
desperate little machine's power switch and moved it onto standby. The
droid
froze, still plastered against the doorframe.
Bizarre. Nevoy
flipped open the droid's control panel, and at least saw what the
problem was.
Three of the wires inside the panel had been cut, severing the
connections that
controlled the droid's motor skills and its communications systems. Cut
with something
not very sharp, it looked like, perhaps a butter knife. Gods, the droid
must
certainly have been switched off when that happened, or he hated to
think of
the squeals of terror it would have emitted while the wires were sawed
at.
Princess Leia
and Skywalker
must be making an escape attempt, and had sabotaged the droid to stop
it from
reporting them. He didn't imagine they'd get very far, not with the
palace as
crawling with guards as it was. Though since the Princess had the
Force, you
never knew --
He heard
another
thump.
It came from
the
direction of one of the two bedchambers off the main room. Nevoy looked
over
and saw that the door to the room was standing open. That was strange,
too.
Usually the doors never remained open, unless there'd been a power
failure. He
supposed maybe the droid had locked it open for some reason. Simply
because the
droid was fried, or had there been a purpose in it? Perhaps the droid
had been
trying to draw attention to something in the room?
He suddenly
felt
cold. The droid had seemed awfully eager to get out of here ...
Nevoy ran for
the
open door.
In the doorway,
he
froze.
Luke Skywalker
hung
in front of the huge window, with Imperial City a sunlit backdrop
behind him.
One of the thick golden cords that usually held the curtains back was
tied in a
noose about his neck, the other end tied to the curtain rail. The chair
that
Skywalker must have stood on was overturned beneath his feet. Nevoy
stared for
a shocked instant at Skywalker's writhing form, his twisted and
reddened face,
his hands tearing at the noose, trying to wrench it away from his neck.
One of
Skywalker's feet thudded against the window, reproducing the sound that
had
first drawn Nevoy's attention to the bedchamber.
Nevoy's mind
seemed
to have gone blank, but he still managed to draw his blaster and fire
it at the
cord above Skywalker's head.
He ran towards
Skywalker as the young man plummeted to the floor, and succeeded in
somewhat
breaking the fall, though only by getting himself knocked over as
Skywalker collapsed
on top of him. Awkwardly sat on the floor while Luke Skywalker coughed
and
choked against his chest, Nevoy struggled to get his arm out from under
the
collapsed Rebel so he could reach his wrist com-link. This
accomplished, he
summoned a medical team, received their promise of immediate
attendance, and
then wondered what to do next.
There wasn't
much
point in trying any first aid, he supposed; Skywalker was obviously
alive, and
the medics should be here soon enough. Clearly the Rebel hadn't managed
to hang
himself properly so it would break his neck, though Nevoy reckoned he
shouldn't
be too scornful about that. Most people didn't have much practice in
trying to
hang themselves. He wasn't sure he would have succeeded much better
himself;
after all it was half a century or so since he'd learned how to tie
knots in
Scouts. He frowned bemusedly down at the blond head of Luke Skywalker,
which
was just beneath Nevoy's chin. Skywalker gave a convulsive cough,
clutching at
Nevoy's jacket.
I
really don't
believe this, Nevoy thought. Was my life always
this weird? I'm sure it must have
been more normal, once. Maybe I've slipped into some parallel Weird
Universe.
Luke
Skywalker's
desperate coughing against him reminded him uncomfortably of the time
that
Laram had nearly drowned in the next-door neighbours' swimming pool. He
remembered the scene with painful vividness, the beaming sunlight
starting to
dry the water on his skin while he clutched his seven-year-old son to
him,
Laram hugging him back and coughing and sobbing onto his shoulder.
Gods, thought Nevoy,
Gods
-- this man killed my son, and I've jusst saved his life.
He heard the
swishing sound of the door to the main room, and yelled, "in here!"
Moments later
Nevoy
was being relieved of his burden by two medics and a hovering medical
droid,
who eased the Rebel onto a repulsorlift stretcher. Heaving himself to
his feet
and straightening his jacket, Nevoy informed one of the medics, "I'll
come
with you, I'll have to ask him some questions when he's able to speak."
"I don't think
he'll be doing much speaking for a while, sir, but you're welcome to
come."
Nevoy walked
alongside the stretcher as the medics manoeuvred Skywalker through the
hallways. The medical droid had administered a mild tranquilliser to
the patient,
but he was still conscious. Nevoy's thoughts as he walked dwelled
blackly on
the possible consequences this might have for their palace revolt. He
hoped
that Skywalker was going to be able to bounce back from this quickly,
or they'd
have to carry him to get him out of here. Although maybe it was better
that
way; at least if he wasn't conscious he couldn't delay the escape by
insisting
that they go back for his toys.
When Skywalker
was
installed in a bed in the medical centre, Nevoy stood back, out of the
way,
trying to massage the muscles in his shoulder where the falling
Skywalker had
smashed into him.
"You want me
to take a look at that, sir?" one of the medics asked.
He winced.
"Yes. All right." After all, he didn't want the revolt to get fucked
up because he'd managed to sprain his shoulder, either.
"Well, you've
got some pulled muscles here ... were you trying to catch him?"
"Yes." Though
Gods know why, Nevoy thought, I should have just
walked off and left him to it.
"I'll give you
an injection for this, it shouldn't give you any trouble."
"What about
him?" Nevoy asked, nodding toward Skywalker's bed.
"He should be
fine," the man said. "He's got a lot of bruises and there's some
damage to his larynx, but it ought to be repairable. And there's a fair
amount
of muscle strain from the tension it put on his body. But, he's been
very
lucky."
"Yeah,"
Nevoy muttered. He allowed the medic to pump the injection into his
shoulder,
then walked over to the bed where Skywalker lay. The medical droid
hummed at
the other side of the bed, taking readings on the patient's condition.
Skywalker's
breathing seemed to be back to normal. The young man blinked, then
looked up
confusedly at Nevoy.
"What ...
?" he croaked out. "How ... ?"
Nevoy said
bluntly,
"you tried to hang yourself. I stopped you."
Utter despair
washed over Skywalker's face. He closed his eyes and grated, "oh,
shit."
"Moff
Nevoy," came the tinny voice of the medical droid, "I will have to
ask you to leave. You are upsetting the patient."
Luke
Skywalker's
eyes snapped open. His voice was still hoarse and raw, but he forced
out the
words, "Leia ... where is she? Did she see ... "
"She wasn't
there," Nevoy answered. "I don't think she's been informed yet."
"She mustn't
know!" Skywalker's eyes were wild as he reached out and grabbed at
Nevoy's
arm. "Don't tell her, don't let her find out -- "
"She'll find
out you're in here," Nevoy said reasonably. "She's going to have to
know."
"You can tell
her something else -- tell her I fell -- "
You did, Nevoy
thought, onto
me.
"Young man," he said, beginning to lose patience with this, "you
have bruises encircling your neck. You don't tend to get that in a
fall."
It was only then that he realised that Skywalker was talking like an
adult -- a
hysterical adult, yes, but an adult nonetheless. Maybe the suicide
attempt had
snapped him out of whatever strange state he'd been in -- or else
perhaps the
attempt could be traced to the loss of that state? He'd certainly been
peculiar
enough when he was playing with his colouring books, but he hadn't
seemed
suicidal.
Skywalker's
blue
eyes burned with desperation. He tried to clutch at the sleeve of
Nevoy's
jacket, but he seemed too weak to get much of a grip on it. Nevoy,
however, did
not pull away.
"Please,"
Skywalker whispered, and Nevoy leaned closer to hear him. "I ... left a
message. On the computer in the guest quarters ... please, delete it --
before
Leia sees it. Please ... Don't let her see ... "
Nevoy sighed.
"All right," he said. "I'll delete it."
Skywalker
closed
his eyes.
As he made his
way
to the nearest lift and set it for the level of Palpatine's quarters,
Nevoy
noticed the beginnings of one serious bitch of a headache starting to
build
just above his eyes. Damnation, and it wasn't even eleven in the
morning yet.
What a day.
Why did these
two
lunatics have to be here? It would be relatively easy, he thought, to
rescue
Vader -- well, no, it wouldn't be easy, but just for
the sake of
argument -- but Gods knew how they'd pull if off with the demon Jedi
Princess
and her suicidal friend around to complicate things.
Nevoy rang the
guest quarters' entry bell again, then once more punched in the
over-ride code
and made his way inside. The droid was still standing frozen where it
had been
shoved out of the way beside the door. Quickly locating the computer on
its
gold and marble table, Nevoy crossed to it and called up the messages.
There was only
one.
Any messages left on the computer were wiped after each guest had
departed. At
least it hadn't taken long to find Skywalker's suicide note. Nevoy's
hand
hovered over the delete key, then he stopped.
Hells, he thought. If
I have to run around cleaning up after you, you little bastard, I've at
least
got a right to know what this has been about.
He shouldn't
play
the message. It was personal, and Skywalker wanted it destroyed.
Bugger that. He
needed to know what was going on, so he could factor it into their
plans. More
to the point, he was curious. And Skywalker owed him.
He activated
the
message.
Luke Skywalker
appeared on the screen. He was wearing the same black tunic and
trousers that
he'd been wearing when Nevoy found him. His face was startlingly pale,
but its
expression was calm and set, although there was a dangerous-looking
gleam in
his eyes.
"Leia,"
he began, and then his glance flickered downward, as if he were ashamed.
"Leia,"
he said quietly, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I know you'll be angry with
me.
I just can't see any other way. I've been thinking about it, all night,
and I
can't. I can't see any way out."
Skywalker's
image
looked up, and managed a hint of a smile. His gaze dropped again, as if
he was
imagining the Princess in front of him, and couldn't bear to meet her
eyes.
"At least," he said, "this way you'll be more free to act on
your own. You'll have a chance to free our father, without having to
worry
about me."
Our
father? Who
the hells is our father?
Skywalker
dragged
his gaze up once more to the eye level of any prospective viewer, and
he forced
himself to hold it there. He swallowed and said, keeping his voice
steady,
"I love you, Leia. Give my love to Han, too. And Chewie. And ... "
his voice faded out for a moment, then he hurried on, in a softer tone,
"and your children. Tell them their uncle loves them." There was a
pause, while Skywalker looked steadily out of the image. "I'm sorry,
Leia.
Please forgive me. Goodbye." The message came to an end and froze.
Disgust with
himself for having watched the message warred in Nevoy's brain with
total
confusion.
Father?
Children? Uncle? What?
Shaking his
head,
he finally pressed the delete key, then he left the computer and
slumped down
onto a crimson velvet covered sofa.
"Our
father". "Uncle". Well, the implications were obvious enough.
Unless they'd taken some sort of oath of blood siblinghood -- which was
possible, he supposed, since they had been companions in battle -- then
Luke
Skywalker and Leia Organa were brother and sister.
How in all the
Fifty hells did that happen? For
Gods' sakes, Leia Organa was from
Alderaan, and Luke Skywalker, as most of the galaxy had learned after
he became
famous as the man who destroyed the Death Star, was from Tatooine. They
were not particularly
close
neighbours. And -- well, he couldn't imagine either Prince Bail or
Keeiara
Organa getting involved with some farmer from the middle of nowhere.
Maybe it worked
the
other way around? If Luke Skywalker and the Princess were both the
children of
some impoverished Tatooine farmers, then the Organas might have adopted
one of
them ... why only one, though? And why adopt them at all, instead of
sending
aid to the farmers? And what would have brought the farmers and the
Alderaani
royal family into contact in the first place?
Hang on.
Skywalker
wanted the Princess to "free our father".
What? Bail
Organa
was dead. And Nevoy was sure he remembered that Luke Skywalker was an
orphan.
He rubbed his
hands
against his forehead. The headache had arrived in full strength. He
told
himself, that's what you get for watching other people's
messages.
Our father.
Free
our father.
Who would
Organa
and Skywalker be trying to free?
The memory came
into his mind of Princess Leia, just last night, begging him to help
Darth
Vader. She'd said something along the lines of, "I'll try to help him,
but
I don't know how to save them both. As long as Palpatine's got Luke --"
And Skywalker
thought that she'd have more chance to free their father, if he wasn't
around
for her to worry about ...
No.
That's
insane.
Darth
Vader?
At least it
would explain
why Princess Leia had been crying over him.
No.
You've
really lost it this time. Hey, though, at least when you're a traitor
to the
Empire and you're out of a job, you can carve a new career for yourself
writing
holo-soaps.
Darth
Vader?
It made sense,
he
supposed, in a mad sort of way. It explained why Vader insisted that
Skywalker
and the Princess should be rescued too -- and why he'd come back to
Coruscant
in the first place, if he'd been trying to get them away from
Palpatine. And,
for that matter, it could have had a lot to with why Vader joined the
Rebellion.
But it was
still a
ridiculous concept. How would a couple of junior Vaders have gotten
onto the
scene? Especially junior Vaders from Alderaan and Tatooine?
What, had Darth
Vader been jaunting around siring children all over the galaxy?
Some sort of
plan
for galactic domination, maybe? Creating a new generation of Jedi out
of his
own children?
Oh,
give it up,
Nevoy, he told himself. It still sounds
like the stuff of bad fiction.
Hells,
what do
you know about Darth Vader? What does anyone know? Maybe he has harems
full of
mistresses. Maybe Keeiara Organa was his secret lover, who knows? And one of the
women in his harem could have been from Tatooine, it sounded a lot more
likely
than the galactic domination idea. After all, even if it was some fiendish
plot
to spread his offspring around the galaxy, he could surely have found
some more
appealing place to sire a future Jedi than bloody Tatooine. What was it
that
Anakin Skywalker had said about the planet, that it was the sort of
place
people come from but never go back to?
Nevoy's train
of
thought ground to an abrupt halt.
Oh, thought Nevoy.
Oh, my
Gods.
Anakin
Skywalker.
Several hundred
thoughts seemed to tumble into his mind at once.
Anakin
Skywalker.
No. That was impossible.
But, he thought, Anakin
Skywalker was tall. And had a deep voice. And was a brilliant pilot.
And was a
friend of Palpatine.
And,
damn it, he
is now a corpse, happily rotting away in the soil of Alma Serena.
Or,
just
possibly, he's alive and on exhibition in the Great Hall, and scheduled
for
execution next week ...
Five years ago,
when Luke Skywalker first murdered his way to celebrity, there had been
plenty
of speculation as to whether he was related to the late Field Marshal
Anakin
Skywalker. It had eventually emerged, if Nevoy remembered correctly,
that Luke
Skywalker was Anakin Skywalker's nephew.
But, just
supposing
that he was Anakin's son instead ... and that Anakin Skywalker was
Darth Vader
...
That
is, without
any doubt, the stupidest idea I've ever heard.
But --
Nevoy's mouth
suddenly went dry, and he had the feeling that the blood had stopped
flowing
through his veins.
He had visited
Field Marshal Skywalker in hospital, about a month before Skywalker's
death. He
couldn't remember what they'd talked about -- the New Forces, probably
-- but
he did remember how Anakin Skywalker had looked.
His hair had
been
burned off. And his ears. The doctors had started replacing some of his
skin,
but there were still scars all over his face. One of his eyes -- blue
eyes --
had been destroyed, and he'd been given a prosthetic replacement.
His eyebrows
had
been gone, too. Except for half of the right eyebrow.
Nevoy
remembered,
too, how much darker Anakin Skywalker's eyebrows had been than his
blond hair.
One half of one
brown eyebrow.
Moff Nevoy got
up,
walked to the guest chamber's liquor cabinet, and poured himself a very
stiff
drink.
"Luke!"
Leia's senses
jolted back to reality. She had fallen forward, with her hands pressed
into
Palpatine's black carpet, and she found herself staring at the
Emperor's
robe-draped knees. Her ragged breathing sounded absurdly loud. Raw
terror was
still pulsing through her, and she could feel an echo of the despair
that she'd
felt when she saw Luke sitting over the abyss. Struggling to force her
breathing into something approaching its normal pattern, Leia sat up,
and
looked into the Emperor's face.
Palpatine was
smiling at her blandly. The Emperor said, "first experiences of this
kind
can be very draining. But you've done well, my dear, I'm proud of you."
"Luke's
hurt," Leia said hoarsely.
"Is he? What a
shame."
In a sudden
burst
of fury Leia grabbed the Emperor by the collar of his robe, jumping to
her feet
and dragging Palpatine up with her. "What's happened to him?" she
demanded, hardly recognising her own voice.
Palpatine's
expression turned cold, and Leia gasped and jerked her hand away from
his
collar. For a few seconds there was an agonising burning in her hand,
as if it
had been frost-bitten and was just struggling to life again. Then the
burning
was gone.
"You should
not forget yourself, my young apprentice," Palpatine said in a mild
tone.
"You may rule this galaxy some day, but I am the master now."
Silently
cursing
herself, Leia tried to focus in on her connection to Luke. She tried to
tune
her senses to the guest quarters that she and her brother shared, but
somehow
she knew that he wasn't there. Where he was, was harder for her to see.
Fear
shot through her again. She thought, I should never have left
him alone. "Where is
he?" she asked Palpatine, hating herself for having to ask it.
"Why ask me?
Find him for yourself. Search your feelings, Leia. He's your brother,
not
mine."
Leia scowled at
the
Emperor, but turned her attention away from him.
"Luke?"
she whispered.
At first she
barely
recognised the presence that she sensed. The aching misery and loss
just didn't
seem like it should belong to her brother. But she could recognise the
feeling.
She had felt it
herself, that first day after Alderaan was destroyed.
Oh
Gods, Luke,
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you. I thought you would be all right.
I
should have known.
She clung on to
her
brother's pain, trusting it to lead her to him. Leia closed her eyes,
shutting
out her awareness of everything except for Luke.
For a moment,
she
saw him. He must be in some medical facility, she realised, for there
were
monitors above the bed he was lying on. He lay on his side, his left
hand
pillowing his head, and she saw that he was crying. He didn't move at
all,
there wasn't even any expression on his face. But tears were trailing
down his
cheeks.
The image
vanished,
and Leia's eyes snapped open. Palpatine was watching her with a benign
little
smirk.
Leia's feelings
of
guilt threatened to overwhelm her. She had left Luke, and he had got
hurt,
while she was here with Palpatine pissing about with the Force. Leia
shuddered,
but made herself shut the feelings away. She was not going to let
Palpatine see
her break down, ever again.
Eyeing the
Emperor,
she wondered what would be the best way to play this. Should she do her
haughty
Princess routine, throwing her metaphorical weight around, or should
she be the
helpless little girl, or the dutiful apprentice? She decided for the
latter,
and said, in the mildest voice she could manage, "my Master, I think
Luke's been taken to the Medical Centre. Do I have your permission to
visit
him?"
"Of course, my
dear girl," said Palpatine. "I would never try to keep you two
apart." The Emperor walked to the com screen beside the door to the
chamber, and as he did so Leia's gaze was caught by the bizarre sight
of his
hood rising seemingly on its own, settling over his head again to hide
the
expanse of withered scalp.
Palpatine
opened a
channel and a doctor Leia had not seen before appeared on the screen.
"Dr.
Kandinsky," Palpatine greeted him, "what is the condition and
location of Luke Skywalker?"
The round-faced
man
looked understandably uncomfortable at being confronted by his Emperor,
but he
kept his voice steady as he replied, "Mr. Skywalker is in Ward Seven,
Your
Majesty. His condition is stable, we don't have any worries about him.
He
should be able to leave the medical centre this evening; we'd like to
monitor him
for a bit longer, but as long as he's kept under supervision, there
shouldn't
be any difficulty with allowing him to leave."
"Thank you,
Doctor," said the Emperor. "Mr. Skywalker will shortly be receiving a
visitor." As he closed the link, Palpatine turned back to Leia.
"There you are, my dear. Ward Seven. I'll summon two of my guards to
accompany you."
"If you don't
mind," said Leia, still in her mild tone, "I'd like to go alone. May
I?"
"Certainly,
dear. My Palace is yours. I'll inform my men that you have the freedom
of the
Palace."
Leia bowed her
head
in thanks to him, then turned and started for the door. The door opened
smoothly in front of her, and the two Imperial Guards outside, rather
than
trying to bar her way, merely bowed as she passed them. She ignored
them and
walked by, but the sight had made her feel strangely afraid.
Soon, she thought, that
could be ordinary. Everyone will bow to me. Someday, she
would even get
used to it. Leia Organa, heir to Emperor Palpatine.
Gods. She
should
get out of here, soon, before she forgot what she was fighting for. Or
more
importantly, what she was fighting against.
In the lift,
Leia
leaned against the wall, trying to regain her link to Luke. For another
instant
she thought she saw him, and she called out to him in her mind, but he
gave no
sign of having heard her.
She stepped out
of
the lift on the Medical Level, and almost ran into someone walking
swiftly down
the hallway. The man in question stepped back, apologising, and she
recognised
the red hair and beard and the strained, tension-worn face of Moff
Nevoy.
"Your
Highness," Nevoy said. "You've been informed about Mr.
Skywalker?"
Leia shook her
head. "I only know he's here," she answered. "Can you tell me
what's happened to him?"
Nevoy's
expression
became grim. He said flatly, "he tried to commit suicide."
A wave of cold
filled Leia. She managed to whisper, "how?"
"He hanged
himself. I found him before it was too late."
For several
moments
Leia was unable to speak. The impulses to scream, or to cry, were
equally strong
in her, as, surprisingly, was the impulse to kiss Nevoy in her
gratitude.
Finally she just took one of his hands in hers and said, in a fierce
whisper,
"thank you."
He frowned and
then
nodded. There was embarrassment in Nevoy's aura, and, Leia thought,
some other
emotion as well. Suddenly she realised, he's afraid of me!
The discovery
made
her stare at him in wonder. Afraid, of her. Now that
she'd realised what
it was she was sensing, she could feel his emotions in more detail.
Fear, yes,
but it was a fear that he was fighting against. She could sense his
determination to do what he had to, regardless.
She wondered if
Darth Vader had sensed the same emotions in her, when he questioned her
on
board the first Death Star.
Leia noticed
that she
was still holding Nevoy's hand, and let go. She glanced at the nearest
location
plaque on the wall, looking for Ward Seven.
"Your
Highness?" said Nevoy. "There's something else I wanted to discuss
with you. I know this may not be the best time, but I wanted to assure
you that
the matter we discussed last night is being seen to."
She turned back
to
him in confusion. "The matter ... ?"
"Your adoption
ceremony, Your Highness," Nevoy persisted stolidly. "And the other
matter you brought to my attention. You should know that everything is
in hand,
I don't want you to worry about anything. It's under control."
"Oh,"
said Leia, softly. "Thank you. Again. You'll be in touch again when
there
are more details to discuss?"
"Of course,
Your Highness," he said.
She nodded,
trying
to shove aside the feeling of hope that had leapt through her. She was
afraid
it must have screamed like a siren through Emperor Palpatine's
consciousness.
She swallowed, and said, "can you tell me where Ward Seven is?"
"This
way," said Nevoy, starting down the hallway again in the direction he'd
originally been headed. When they reached the door, Nevoy hesitated,
then said,
"Your Highness -- one more thing. Don't be too hard on him. He thought
he
was acting for the best."
Leia stared at
Nevoy again, but he was keeping his face blank, and now she couldn't
read
anything from him. One more time she nodded, silently, then she stepped
into
Ward Seven.
The doctor from
Palpatine's com screen bustled up to her, looking uncertain whether to
be
obsequious or offended at being in the presence of a traitor. "Princess
Leia," he said awkwardly. "If you'll follow me, please."
But Leia did
not
need to follow the doctor. The pain she felt from Luke was more than
strong
enough to lead her to him. She pushed past Dr. Kandinsky into the next
room, a
ward of several medibeds separated from the entranceway by translucent
plastisteel screens.
When Luke saw
her,
he sat up hastily, causing a squeal of protest to be emitted by a
medical droid
further down the ward. Leia hesitated. Luke's misery had become blended
with
something else when he saw her: defiance, even resentment. Leia gazed
at her
brother, tears springing to her eyes at the sight of his pallor, and
the livid
bruises around his neck.
"Luke,"
she said, her voice unsteady, "oh Luke, I'm so sorry."
Luke relented a
little, his resentment starting to fade. "So am I," he muttered,
looking away from her.
She walked to
Luke's bedside. She wanted to hold him, but she didn't want to have to
face it
if he were to break away from her.
"Luke,
why?" she whispered.
"Why do you
think?" he asked angrily. "What else do you think I could do? I'm
holding you back, I know that. You can't do anything with me here. And
I can't do anything.
I can't do anything any more!"
"That's not
true!"
"How do you
know?" Luke demanded, his gaze moving back to her bitterly. "You've
got the Force. You've got
everything."
Leia clenched
her
fists. She was barely able to stop herself from slapping him. "Luke,"
she said, "I'm not going to fight with you. I need you too much, Luke,
I
can't lose you. Not on top of everything else." She sat down on the
edge
of the bed, still careful not to touch him. "Please, Luke. Don't
make
me lose you too." Luke had turned away from her again, but she thought
she
could sense him calming slightly. She took a risk, and reached out
cautiously
to put her hand on his.
Luke flinched,
but
he didn't pull his hand away. "Promise me?" whispered Leia.
"Promise me you won't try again?"
Luke said, "I
promise I won't try again -- today."
"Damn it,
Luke! Don't do this!"
He glanced at
her
with a wounded expression, then sighed and stared dejectedly at some
point on
the wall. "All right," he said. "I won't try to kill
myself."
Leia watched
him
for a moment. She tightened her grip on his hand. "I love you, Luke,"
she told him.
He nodded, and
didn't look at her. He said hoarsely, "I love you too."
"How are you
doing?" Mon Mothma asked, as she sat down in the chair beside Admiral
Piett's bed.
"Great,"
murmured Piett, his voice still rather faint and sleepy-sounding. "Dr.
Tomczyk's been summarising for me the Child's First Guide to Ulcers."
Mon Mothma
looked
up and smiled at Tomczyk, who was standing at the other side of the
bed,
holding an electronic notepad and taking notes from the monitors above
Piett's
head. Tomczyk smiled back at her. Mothma took Piett's hand which was
lying
outside the covers, and started running one of her fingers along the
back of
it. She asked, "so what did you learn about ulcers in school today?"
Piett grimaced.
He
accused, his voice starting to fade out partway through the sentence
but then
gaining strength again, "you're trying to turn me into one of those
bores
who can't shut up about their illnesses."
"Gods
forbid!" Mon Mothma laughed. "I really want to know."
Piett sighed,
looking up at the ceiling. "Well," he said, "it seems that all
the old wives' tales about ulcers are wrong. Diet doesn't make any
difference
-- except coffee and alcohol don't help. Surprise." He cast her an
aggrieved look which made her laugh again. "And -- " this time a
rueful smile crept across his face " -- they're not caused by stress,
either. Good thing. Or I'd have had twenty ulcers."
Mon Mothma
grinned
at him, wanting to kiss him right then and there. But the presence of
Dr.
Tomczyk made her feel too awkward to do it. "The suspense will kill
me," she said. "What causes them?"
"Ah,"
said Piett. "That would be ... some thingy." He turned his head to
appeal for help from Dr. Tomczyk. "Some bacteria whatsit?"
Tomczyk nodded.
"Helicobacter pylori," he said obligingly. "Spiral shaped
bacterium that can live in the mucous lining of the stomach. Basically,
your
immune system responds to the infection by sending white cells to fight
it, but
they can't get through the mucous lining, so they die, spill their
destructive
compounds on the stomach lining, cause inflammation, and that's what
leads to
the ulcer."
"Fascinating,
isn't it?" sighed Piett.
"Hmm,
yes," said Mon Mothma. "Amazing." She smiled teasingly at him.
"So if it's not caused by diet, you won't have to subsist on milk and
boiled rice for the rest of your days."
"That's a
relief," he agreed. "Even if I'm doomed to spend my life in a prison
cell, at least I can hope for a decent meal now and then."
"You won't
spend your life in a prison cell," she told him. "Trust me."
Piett did not
look
convinced. "You're going to break me out of the detention wing so we
can
take off for a galaxy-wide life of crime?"
"Well, I
would," she said lightly, "but I won't have to. Grigori ... please,
don't worry. You have friends who believe in you. It will be all right."
Somewhere
during
this conversation, Dr. Tomczyk had vanished into another room without
either of
them noticing. Good man, thought Mon
Mothma. The most important aspect of
a good bedside manner is knowing when not to be at the bedside. She left the
chair,
and knelt on the floor beside the bed, so her face was closer to
Piett's.
Meeting the gaze of his sombre grey eyes, she wondered, not for the
first time,
how anyone could look so cute just by being worried.
Mon Mothma said
softly, "there's something else I ought to tell you. Has anyone told
you
about -- the situation with Lord Vader?"
"The
situation?" he echoed, frowning. "No."
Oh, Gods. She'd
been going crazy arguing with herself over whether she should tell him.
The
coward in her wanted to avoid it at all costs, and had been insisting
that it
was better for him not to know. It would only upset him and maybe set
back his
recovery. But she knew, inescapably, that her cowardice was talking
shit. Piett
was an adult, and one of the leading officers of the Rebellion, he had
a right
to know what was going on around him. And what was happening to people
he cared
about. He would be furious with her, she was sure, if he found out from
someone
else.
She started
gently
stroking his hair with her left hand, and held on to his hand tighter
with her
right. She said, "Lord Vader's been captured by the Emperor. He's being
held prisoner, they've got him on display at the Imperial Palace on
Coruscant."
Piett fought to
sit
up, and managed to prop himself up, leaning heavily on one elbow.
"We're
not going to just leave him -- " he began.
"No, no,"
Mon Mothma said, trying to sound soothing. "We're not. A rescue
attempt's
already underway. They'll leave tonight." She knew she ought to try to
make him lie down again, but she didn't want to fight him on this. He
must be
feeling helpless enough anyway, it wouldn't help his state of mind if
he
thought that she didn't even trust him to judge whether he was capable
of
sitting up or not.
The Admiral
looked
disorientated, as if he was feeling dizzy, but he still said, "I ought
to
go with them."
"Grigori, no.
It's a small operation. The officers assigned to it can handle it ... "
she smiled regretfully, hoping that her next comment wouldn't piss him
off too
badly, "and they really don't need an Admiral on painkillers along for
the
ride."
Piett scowled.
"I can stop taking the painkillers," he said stubbornly.
"They don't
need you passing out in the middle of a battle, either. Please,
Grigori,"
she went on. "Stay here and get rid of your Heliobacter whatever. Lord
Vader will understand. He'd say the same thing. He'd tell you to get
your rest,
and get well."
Finally giving
up,
Piett allowed himself to subside onto the bed, though he still looked
thoroughly disgruntled. "Medical advice from Lord Vader," he
muttered, frowning at the ceiling as if it were an enemy. "That'd be
the
day."
She squeezed
his
hand. "You're not going to knock Dr. Tomczyk out with his notepad,
escape from
the hospital, steal an x-wing, and fly off to rescue Vader
singlehanded, are
you?"
His gaze
dropped
back to her, and she was relieved to see a little grin light his face.
"Well," he said, "that was my plan. I guess I'll have to give it
up, now that you've figured it out."
She smiled at
him,
then, freed by the absence of Dr. Tomczyk, she leaned down and tenderly
touched
her lips to his. Mothma and Piett did not immediately separate, and the
kiss
deepened, faster and stronger than Mothma would have expected. She
thought, no
matter how many painkillers our Admiral has in him, he still knows how
to kiss!
She broke the
kiss,
reluctantly, and sat back. With a shyness that took her by surprise,
she
murmured, "get well soon, okay?"
Piett nodded.
She
thought that he looked a bit scared, but he looked happy, too. She knew
how he
felt.
"I've got to
go," she apologised. "I've got another meeting to get to." She
almost said, "I love you." But that was something she didn't even
want to think, let alone say.
Hurrying
through
the corridors moments later, Mon Mothma was informing herself in no
uncertain
terms just how stupid she was.
Love! she thought.
Simara, what are you talking about? You've been vaguely dating the man
for a
week, and you've slept with him once.
It's
because
he's been ill, that's what it is. You've got the
nurse-falling-in-love-with-the-patient syndrome; everyone knows a
little
vulnerability makes men more attractive.
Get
ahold of
yourself, she ordered. He's a sweet, lovely
man, but that's all. It doesn't
mean the galaxy revolves around him.
She had, she
knew,
been acting too much as if the galaxy revolved around him already. What
in the
gods' names had she been thinking of, starting this ridiculous
investigation
attempt with Wedge Antilles and his buddies? General Veers, unnerving
cold fish
though he was, had been perfectly right.
Out of
consideration for her rank and her service record, the chief security
officers
had refrained from telling her just how out of line they thought her
actions
were, when she informed them of the transmissions that the two young
pilots had
discovered. But it didn't take much insight to know that, if she were
anyone
other than the Head of State and one of the founders of the Rebel
Alliance,
Captain Faren and Commander Narita would already have lodged a formal
complaint
and requested disciplinary action against her.
She was really
going to have to watch her step. She couldn't let herself fall into a
trap like
this again. She had to remember, these weren't the early days of the
Rebellion
any more. She couldn't do whatever she wanted to, just because she thought it was
right. She had a government to answer to, and a large portion of the
galaxy
that depended upon them. If she went blithely around ignoring the chain
of
command, sanctioning secret projects, building up her personal gang of
supporters, it wouldn't be long before people started comparing her to
Palpatine. And they would have every right to do so.
Damn it! And
all
because she had the hots for one worried-looking Admiral!
As she reached
the
small conference room where her presence was required in two minutes'
time,
gloom descended upon her. This meeting was not going to be fun.
Faren and
Narita
were already there. They both stood politely when Mon Mothma entered
the room. She
nodded at them, then the security officers and the Head of State took
their
seats, Mothma asking, "do you have anything more on the
transmissions?" Narita and Faren had claimed that their people had
already
discovered the first of the two transmissions by the time Mon Mothma
contacted
them, and would soon have found the second. Whether that was true, or
they were
simply trying to save face, was not a question that she planned to
inquire
into.
There was a
quick,
shared glance between the oddly-matched pair of security officers, the
debonair, dark-haired ex-Imperial and the sweet-faced, petite blonde
Rebel.
Evidently they had decided that the Head of State would take their news
better
coming from a fellow long-term Rebel, as Commander Narita turned to Mon
Mothma
and said, "Ma'am, both of the transmissions match the pattern of the
Chandrila Seven transmission. They were sent from the terminal in
Admiral
Piett's office here on the base, using his account."
"I see,"
said Mon Mothma, somehow keeping her voice calm.
"Of
course," Narita continued, "we're aware this doesn't mean that the
Admiral is guilty. If someone else used his account once, there's
nothing to
stop them using it three times, or more. You can be assured, we are
investigating every possibility." So you stick to being Head
of State,
Ma'am, and keep the hell out of our investigation, was the
unspoken but obvious
continuation to her statement.
Captain Faren
clearly did not think that leaving it unspoken was good enough. Leaning
forward, he said, "we'd like your assurance that your own investigation
has been discontinued. Under the circumstances, you and your people
must have
enough other matters to occupy your attention. It's a waste of
resources to
have two teams working on the same job; I don't think we can afford
that.
Ma'am."
Mothma forced a
thin smile onto her face. "You do have my assurance," she said.
"There is no longer any separate investigation. I hope," she went on
smoothly, "that you have no objections to my wishing to be kept updated
on
your discoveries?"
Faren looked as
if
he had any number of objections, but he managed to say stiffly, "of
course
not, Ma'am." Commander Narita cast him an irritated look, suggesting
that
all was not well in the working relationship of the joint security
chiefs.
"There is
another new development, Ma'am," Narita reported, ignoring the
infuriated
glance that Faren turned on her when she mentioned it. "The Chandrila
Seven message was not the last message sent to Coruscant."
My
Gods. What
now?
"When was the last message sent?" Mon Mothma asked.
"Just over two
hours after the delegation returned from Chandrila."
"And it was on
Piett's account again, from his office on the base?"
"That's
right."
Mon Mothma
tried to
think back. When was the first time she had seen Piett after their
return to
the base? She asked, "was Piett back on the base at that time? Or was
he
still on the Executor?"
"We're looking
into that, Ma'am."
"Fine. Let me
know when you have further information."
Gods, she thought.
Another message.
About what?
The timing
would
have been right, Mothma realised, for it to be a warning that Lord
Vader was on
his way to Coruscant.
But if that was
the
topic of the message, who would have known Vader's destination? Not
Piett, certainly. He had
been on the Executor when Vader's
message arrived at the Chandrilan mining
station. Theoretically, the only people who could have known the
contents of
the message would be those who were in the Command Centre with Mon
Mothma when
it arrived.
So who had been
there? It wasn't going to be easy to remember. The station had been in
an
uproar, as the search continued for Princess Leia and Commander
Skywalker.
Of course,
someone
on the Executor or, for that
matter, the Mircalla, could
conceivably
have intercepted the message. So Piett wasn't off the hook yet.
And there was
something else to worry about.
What was to
stop
their traitor from sending a message again?
Theoretically,
they
wouldn't dare to, with their scapegoat incapacitated in the hospital. But to foil the
Rebels' attack on
Coruscant, the traitor might just think that it was worth the risk.
Mon Mothma
demanded, no longer caring if she offended the security duo, "what
precautions have we taken to stop any further messages from being sent?"
"All
communications are now being monitored," answered Faren. "If any
message is sent to Coruscant, it'll be intercepted. We'll know
immediately, and
should be able to get a team to the spot before our traitor's even left
his
terminal."
Mothma nodded,
thinking that ought to be good
enough. Always supposing, of course, that
the traitor didn't send his message to somewhere other than Coruscant.
Or that he
hadn't
already sent it.
"Anakin
Skywalker, eh?" mused General Mulcahy. "That's an entertaining
theory."
Nevoy said, "I
don't think it's just a theory. Have you seen Vader's face?"
"I have not,"
Mulcahy replied, methodically continuing to mix the ingredients of his
Egesammi
firedawn cocktail. "I don't intend to."
"I've seen it.
The scars are the same as Anakin's were. Precisely. Even down to the
reconstruction work they'd started on his face before his condition
worsened
..." Nevoy's words slowed, as another connection occurred to him. Up to
now, he hadn't really considered the question of why Anakin
Skywalker
might have become Darth Vader. "Or, when it officially worsened. He
probably never relapsed at all. They must have faked his death. He and
Palpatine might have been planning it the whole time he was in the
hospital É "
"Why?"
Mulcahy inquired.
"I don't know.
Maybe ... as part of the campaign against the Jedi. With Anakin dead,
they
could blame the Jedi for it. You remember, there was even talk that he
might
have been murdered, since he seemed to be recovering, and then just
relapsed
like that, with no warning."
Mulcahy nodded
thoughtfully. "Not forgetting," he put in, adding the last few drops
of kriminsh to his drink, "that Darth Vader could be a far more
effective
henchman than Anakin Skywalker. Anakin had all manner of baggage his
enemies
could use against him. Vader didn't have any baggage at all." Mulcahy
put
down swizzle stick, and looked up at Nevoy. "Are you going to tell the
others?"
Nevoy shook his
head. "I don't think so. It's not our place to, is it? For all we know,
he
still wants it kept secret. He hasn't exactly been broadcasting his
identity."
He watched
while
Mulcahy took the lighter which Nevoy's household droid held out to him,
and lit
the surface of his cocktail. With a sigh, Nevoy dragged the
conversation back
to an earlier topic, which had proved fruitless the first time he
brought it
up, and was almost certain to be just as much wasted effort now.
"Xavier,"
he said, "I wish you'd reconsider."
"I know you
do," General Mulcahy said placidly. "And you know that I won't."
Handing the
lighter
back to C4T8, the General wafted the tall frosted glass under his nose,
appreciatively sniffing the flames. Nevoy sourly wished that Mulcahy's
moustache would catch fire. Maybe that'd put him in the hospital long
enough
for the palace revolt to be over with by the time he got out. No,
probably not.
An incinerated moustache was hardly enough to stop General Xavier
Mulcahy, when
he had his mind set on something.
"You don't
have to do this," Nevoy persisted, as the flames died out and Mulcahy
took
a long, slow drink.
Mulcahy
regarded
Nevoy keenly from under his vast eyebrows. The General drawled, "now,
what
would a young whippersnapper like you know about what I have to do?"
Nevoy briefly
flung
his hands up, in a gesture of despair, then he slumped down onto the
sofa,
scowling over at the old soldier in the green armchair. "I don't happen
to
think that getting yourself slaughtered is going to help anyone."
"I'm hurt.
What makes you think I'm going to get slaughtered?"
Calm, thought Nevoy.
Stay calm. "The fact," he said, "that you're eighty-one
years old,
and that, through no fault of your own, it's probable that your
reflexes may
have got a little slow."
Mulcahy
snorted.
"I don't see anyone trying to get you to stay out of it because you're
overweight."
Nevoy sat up
abruptly.
"Gods damn it! You just live to annoy me, don't you?"
The General
grinned
at him. "That's why I've got to defect with the rest of you. You
wouldn't
know what to do if I wasn't around to drive you insane."
"Oh, no."
Nevoy leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. "Look,
Xavier," he said, not looking up. "I don't want you to get
hurt."
"I know that.
I don't want you to get hurt either. But I'm not trying to stop you."
Nevoy
reluctantly
took his hands away from his face and looked over at the General again.
The
fiendish grin had left Mulcahy's face and he looked, for once, entirely
serious. "Osheen," Mulcahy said, "you're right, I'm eighty-one.
I don't think it'll be much of a tragedy if I get myself killed." A
faint
smile appeared again as he added, "I never much liked the idea of dying
in
bed, anyway."
"You wouldn't
die in bed," Nevoy muttered, "you'd die in an armchair."
"With a drink
and a game of solitaire, yes. What a way to go. You'll forgive me if I
prefer a
demise that's slightly more glamorous."
"Damn you. You
don't have to die. Someone's going to have to take over this place,
when
Palpatine's out of the way. Why shouldn't it be you? Stay out of it
till all
the explosions are over, then you can step in and pull everything out
of chaos.
If it's not you, it's going to be at least six Imperial Advisors
cutting each
other's throats over who gets the throne. And Captain Aurbrac. And
probably a
few crime bosses. And random members of random royal families. And gods
know
who else."
"If you're so
worried about that," Mulcahy asked sharply, "why don't you stay?"
Nevoy looked
down,
shaking his head. "I'm not ruler material."
"Neither am
I," said General Mulcahy. "If I was, we'd already be in the reign of
Emperor Xavier I."
"But you could
do it," Nevoy insisted. "You're respected in all the branches of the
service, you'd be able to bring all the different forces together --
even the
Imperial Guards might be willing to support you."
Mulcahy said
dryly,
"only if they didn't know I'd been in on the planning stages of their
Master's assassination."
"So they don't
have to know. Isn't it at least worth a try? You'd rather be in charge
yourself
than let the Imperial Guards take over, wouldn't you? It's not going to
be much
good getting rid of Palpatine, if we just get that sadist Aurbrac,
instead."
"Now, now,
you're not being fair. I'm sure the Red Idiots are very nice men."
"For gods'
sakes!"
A discreet
buzzing
announced the presence of someone at the front door. C4T8 departed to
answer
it. The two men watched the droid leave, then Mulcahy said quietly,
"Osheen, there is no point in this. We've been through it all already.
If
Lord Vader wants to make a takeover attempt, that's one thing. If he
doesn't,
then there's no sense in any of the rest of us trying. If we say we're
doing
this for the Rebellion, proclaiming them as the legitimate government,
then the
best thing we can do is just go to them, with as many men and ships as
we can
scrape together. Without Palpatine, Coruscant will be a fairly easy
target, but
it won't help the situation if we stick around and add our men to the
civil
war. There's going to be enough killing without us." He looked intently
at
Nevoy. "You know that, you agreed with it. Now stop talking crap and
deal
with it, I'm coming with you."
Nevoy sighed.
"All right, Xavier, listen. You want to come with us, that's fine. But
you
don't have to get involved in the fighting. Just meet us on the
Conquest. Better yet, leave
the planet before the shooting starts. You'll be a lot more useful to
the
Rebels alive than dead in the Palace."
Mulcahy said,
"I'm not doing this to be useful to the Rebels." He raised one of his
huge white eyebrows at Nevoy. "You ought to
understand why I'm
doing it."
"Tell
me," Nevoy said flatly. "Why?"
"Having helped
to create our dear Emperor, I'd like a chance at destroying him."
The door
opened,
and Captain Sandar of the Palace Guard barrelled into the room,
wild-eyed and
out of breath. He announced, "we are in some shit."
"What?"
asked Nevoy, standing up.
"Turn on the
news," Sandar panted. "It's probably over by now, the cover-up
machine's probably already at work. Turn it on, though, let's see. I've
got
most of it recorded, anyway. Today on Correllia, on Correllia
One. Put it on,
quick."
Nevoy eyed
Sandar doubtfully,
but nonetheless he located the holopad's remote and switched it on, the
holo
image springing up out of its base that doubled as a coffee table. When
he
switched it over to Correllia One, all they got was a rotating, pale
blue
column with the channel's logo, and the usual bland, inane music that
served as
a background when channels were experiencing technical difficulties.
"So what's
happened?" Nevoy asked Captain Sandar, who had flopped onto the sofa.
"Take a
look," said Sandar, waving around a recording disk. "I always watch
Today on Correllia on my way home
from work, or I wouldn't have seen it.
I didn't get all of it, I had to hunt around for a disk, but most of it
should
be here."
"You were
flying on autopilot, weren't you?" Nevoy demanded sharply.
"Yes,"
Sandar said, exasperated. "Just watch this."
Nevoy took the
disk
that Sandar held out to him, and inserted it into the holopad base. Out
of the
holopad appeared the main newsroom of Correllia's branch of the
Imperial News
Service. A male newsreader of indeterminate age and with a shock of
strawberry
blond hair was in mid-sentence, looking as if he couldn't believe what
he was
reading.
"... from an
un-named source in the Rebel Alliance, claims that a Rebel attack will
be
launched on Coruscant tonight, at approximately 2300 hours Coruscanti
Standard
Time. The aim of the attack is to rescue Darth Vader from the Imperial
Palace.
A fleet of ten capital ships, consisting of five Star Destroyers and
five Mon
Calamari cruisers, will attack Coruscant's perimeter defenses, while a
smaller
strike force of cloaked Lamda shuttles
attempts to reach the Palace --
" the newsreader suddenly turned away and called to someone outside the
image, "hey, who cleared this? I didn't know about this. Has Imperial
Security seen it? What -- "
The sound
switched
off. For another twenty seconds or so the image was still there, and
other
people hurried into the scene, in apparently yelling discussion with
the
newsreader. Then the image vanished, replaced by the blue column and
the logo.
A female voice said brightly, "this channel is experiencing technical
difficulties. We apologise for the inconvenience. Normal service will
recommence as soon as possible." The music started tinkling aimlessly
away
to itself.
Nevoy turned
off the
recording, and Correllia One's live broadcast reappeared. The logo and
the
music were gone, and they were back in the newsroom, but with a
different
newsreader, a pretty, dark-haired girl who was reporting the latest on
some
high-profile murder trial on Correllia. An image of the outside of the
court
building took the place of the newsroom, and General Mulcahy said,
"well,
I guess that's that."
Nevoy switched
off
the holo, feeling numb, then suddenly he exploded, "fifty fucking
demons
in a landspeeder! I don't believe this! What
is it with the
Rebels? They just had to pick the most inconvenient possible time for
an
attack! I swear they go out of their way to screw things up for us!"
The gaze
Mulcahy
cast at Nevoy suggested that he thought the younger man had finally
gone out of
his mind. "Osheen, they're rebels. Screwing things up for us is their
job."
"Ah. Yes.
Well. I guess we can't blame them, after all we haven't exactly cleared
our
plans with them." He groaned. "Damn it, though.
Now we'll be
expected to bloody well triple security, it makes it that much more
likely that
we'll get found out ... "
"Maybe
not," Captain Sandar said suddenly. "Maybe it'll actually help. It'll
certainly give us a good reason to be at the palace tomorrow night, we
can say
we're still on heightened alert, and any unusual troop movements can be
explained away as precautions against the Rebels."
"I
suppose," Nevoy admitted. "We're probably expected back at the palace
for a damned meeting about this. Gods. Just when I
was thinking I
might have a peaceful night in." He looked from Sandar to Mulcahy.
"What the Hells is going on with the Rebels? How did they let
information
like that leak? They've never screwed up this badly before."
"They've got a
traitor, I suppose," Sandar said. "But it doesn't make much sense.
Why leak the information to Correllia One? Why not just to Imperial
Intelligence? Or the armed forces?"
"If it even
was a traitor," added Nevoy. "It could be misinformation. Get us all
worked up about an attack tonight, and then attack next week -- or
tomorrow.
Shit, that's all we need, if they strike at the same time
we do."
"At least
it'll provide one Hell of a distraction," General Mulcahy pointed out.
"Yes,"
Nevoy muttered, "if we can just convince them not to shoot at us."
C4T8 entered
the
room. "Pardon me, sir. Colonel Wellaine is on the com link. He requests
your presence and Captain Sandar's at an urgent security meeting."
Nevoy cast an I
told you so look at his friends, then said, "shall we go,
Captain? No rest for
potential traitors."
"Have fun,
boys," said Mulcahy. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He
reached for his glass once more.
"You lucky
bastard," Nevoy said to him. "Gods, why didn't I retire? No pension
is worth this."
General Mulcahy
watched Nevoy and Sandar leave, then he took a long swig of his
cocktail. When
the glass was emptied, he carefully got out of his chair, swearing at
how long
it took his limbs to obey the instructions of his brain. His silent
home
awaited him, with his droid and his liquor cabinet and his solitaire
board.
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