Darth Plagueis

26: THEIR BASER NATURE




On a clear day, looking northwest across The Works from a debris-strewn room in the circular crown of the LiMerge Building, Maul could just see the elegant centermost spire of the Jedi Temple, poking above the horizon. With his Master en route to Eriadu to attend a trade summit Sidious himself had proposed, the Zabrak had made a habit of climbing to the crown at least once a day and, with electrobinoculars in hand, gazing at the distant spire in the hope of catching sight of a Jedi.

But that hadn’t happened.

If any Jedi were present, they would be sitting in contemplation, as Maul knew he should be doing, as well. Or if not meditating, then completing work on the graciously curved speeder bike he had named Bloodfin or the droid called C-P3X, or perfecting his skill at using the wrist-mounted projectile launcher known as the lanvarok. Devoting himself to those tasks would have met with more approval from Darth Sidious than Maul’s staring at the Temple’s fin-ornamented pinnacle and dreaming of the day he could pit himself against a Jedi Master. But ever since his return from Dorvalla several standard weeks earlier, he had been too restless to sit cross-legged on the floor, immersed in the flow of the dark side, or to pore over the probe droid schematics Darth Sidious had furnished before he’d left.

When Maul reflected on the time he had spent on Dorvalla, his thoughts weren’t focused on the assassinations he had carried out. He had murdered many in his short life, and there was nothing about the deaths of Patch Bruit, Caba’Zan, and the others involved in the business of mining lommite ore that distinguished them from previous killings. In fact, the miners’ carelessness should have condemned them to lingering deaths rather than the quick ends Maul had dispensed. What he remembered instead was the feeling of participation the mission had afforded. Not only had he been able to draw on his talents for stealth, tracking, and combat, but he had used them in a manner that furthered the Sith Grand Plan, as hadn’t been the case during his years of training on Orsis, or during the forays Darth Sidious had allowed him to make to other worlds. On his return to Coruscant, the Dark Lord had praised him, which, Maul supposed, should have been reward enough. And might have been, had the mission led to another. But Darth Sidious had excluded him from participating in the Eriadu operation, and had been vague about future plans.

A direct outcome of what Maul had accomplished on Dorvalla, Lommite Limited and InterGalactic Ore had merged and been taken over by the Trade Federation, which in turn had resulted in Nute Gunray’s promotion to the company’s seven-member directorate. In further conversations with the viceroy, Darth Sidious had demanded that the Neimoidians willingly sacrifice one of their Lucrehulk freighters, along with a shipment of aurodium ingots, as a means of funding an Outer Rim insurgent group known as the Nebula Front. Maul had been nonplussed by his Master’s decision to reveal himself to the group’s leader, as Darth Sidious had done in his initial communication with Gunray; then dismayed to learn that the leader—a human named Havac—had betrayed Darth Sidious by attempting to assassinate Supreme Chancellor Valorum on Coruscant. The realization that his Master could be deceived, that he wasn’t infallible, had had a curious effect on Maul. It had caused him unease, a sudden concern for his Master’s safety that had intruded on his ability to still his mind and find reassurance in the dark side. It was not fear—for fear was something alien to Maul’s makeup—but a troublesome disquiet. Disquiet for the being he had once tried to kill, and was perhaps expected to kill. All these weeks later he would still sometimes spend hours wandering through the LiMerge Building like a house pet picking up on the scent of its owner …

When, though, he had expressed a desire to take part in the Eriadu operation, even if that only meant assisting the Neimoidians in procuring weapons from the hive species or commencing manufacturing operations on Alaris Prime and other remote worlds, his Master had rejected the idea out of hand.

You have no role in this, he had said, without explanation, and in compensation, Maul surmised, had given him the dark eye schematics.

The rejection, too, had prompted questions of a novel sort. Of all the beings in the galaxy, the Dark Lord had chosen him to serve as his apprentice and eventual successor, and yet Darth Sidious had neglected to equip him with the very tools he would need to carry the Sith imperative forward. For all his attempts to familiarize himself with the political landscape and with criminal organizations—some of which were allied to Darth Sidious, others antithetical to his plans—he had a limited understanding of precisely how the galaxy worked. He grasped that the Sith’s war was with the Jedi Order rather than the Republic, but he had no real inkling as to how revenge was to be meted out.

What, then, if—beyond contemplation—something untoward should befall his Master? Was there a contingency plan? Unlike Darth Sidious, who masqueraded as Republic Senator Palpatine and debated complex issues in the Senate, Maul lacked a secret identity. With his yellow eyes and horned head a black-and-red mask of arcane sigils, it was all he could do to prowl the fringes of The Works in the dead of night without instilling fear in nearly every being whose gaze he caught.

Maul had expected his life to change when Darth Sidious had relocated him to Coruscant. But in many ways the move struck him as a return to his days as a combat trainee on Orsis, waiting to be allowed to fight, receiving praise and rewards, only to be commanded to train harder. The occasional visits from his Master had allowed him to endure the isolation and superficiality of his existence. Only when his instruction in the Sith arts had begun, had he felt singular, purposeful …

But he wasn’t entirely without hope.

On occasion Darth Sidious would hint at a mission of utmost importance that they would need to carry out together; one that would call on them to make use of all their powers. He had yet to provide details, even with regard to Maul’s studies. But he continued to imply that the mission was looming. And more and more, Maul sensed that it was somehow linked to his Master’s homeworld, Naboo.

* * *

His presence requested by King Veruna, Palpatine interrupted his journey to the Eriadu summit to stop at Naboo. The spaceport was crowded with ships of unusual design, and Theed was teeming with citizens who had packed the streets and lanes surrounding Palace Plaza to hear young Padmé Naberrie speak. In stark contrast with the joyous enthusiasm demonstrated by the crowds, and seemingly organized as a kind of counterevent, the palace throne room was the scene of an extravagant fete, attended by the most corrupt of Veruna’s supporters in the electorate and several dozen offworlders of dubious character. The announcement of Palpatine’s arrival at the room met with hushed innuendos and malicious laughter that continued while he was ushered to a place at the King’s table, opposite Veruna and sandwiched between Kun Lago and security chief Magneta.

Motioning with his royal baton for decorum, Veruna greeted Palpatine with an exaggerated smile. “Welcome, Palpatine.” Drinking had imparted a slight slur to his speech. Clapping his hands, he added, “Bring wine for Naboo’s celebrated Senator.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Palpatine said, playing along with Veruna’s insincerity. “I’ve gone without blossom wine for too long.”

Veruna pounded a fist on the long wooden table. “Then bring him two goblets, and keep the supply flowing until his thirst is slaked.”

Palpatine sat back as servants hurried in to honor Veruna’s command. Both ends of the table were anchored by beings he knew by reputation rather than acquaintance. Far to Veruna’s right sat Alexi Garyn, head of the Black Sun crime syndicate; and to his left, elevated on durable cushions and drawing smoke from a water pipe, lounged a female Hutt named Gardulla, from Tatooine. Among her retinue of beings were two humanoids whose martial uniforms identified them as members of the Bando Gora terrorist group.

More ammunition for Padmé Naberrie, he thought.

“Tell us, Palpatine,” Veruna said, after wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his gaudy robe, “what prompted you to propose this summit on Eriadu?”

Palpatine ignored the goblets of wine. “The summit will provide an opportunity for everyone involved to air their thoughts and grievances regarding taxation of the trade zones.”

“I’m certain that your friends in the Trade Federation are very appreciative.”

Palpatine waited for the laughter to end, pleased to find that the conversation was headed in the direction he had expected it to go. “Naboo has a great stake in what emerges from the summit, Majesty.”

“Ah, then you arranged this for the sake of Naboo.” Veruna raised his voice so that everyone at the table could hear. “Palpatine did this out of concern for Naboo!” His expression toughened as he leaned forward. “And no doubt you were thinking of Naboo when you approached the Naberries about having their daughter oppose me in the coming election.”

“Think twice before you offer any denials,” Magneta told him quietly.

Lago leaned over to add, “My son was present when you tendered the offer.”

“With Padmé Naberrie, if I’m not mistaken,” Palpatine said in like conspiracy. While Lago was trying to puzzle it out, he looked at Veruna. “We discussed the refugee movement.”

The monarch glared at him, then motioned dismissively with his fingertips. “What’s done is done. And I’m afraid that includes you, Senator.” Gesturing broadly in the direction of Palace Plaza, he said, “Do you really believe that that little political upstart can unseat me? The daughter of mountain peasants?”

Palpatine shrugged. “The crowd she has drawn seems to think so.”

“Idealists,” Veruna said, sneering. “Regressives. They dream of the Naboo of fifty years ago, but they’re not about to have their wish.” His finger jabbed the air in front of Palpatine’s face. “My first official act following my reelection will be to recall you as Senator.” He looked at Lago. “Kun will be Naboo’s new representative.”

Palpatine frowned in mock disappointment. “Janus Greejatus would be a better choice.”

Veruna grew flustered. “A recommendation from you is a condemnation! And I suggest strongly that you remain on Coruscant, because you will no longer be welcome on Naboo.” He lowered his voice. “Keep in mind that I have information that can ruin you, Palpatine, in the same way that you, the Naberries, and the rest are attempting to ruin me.”

The table fell silent as a squadron of N-1 starfighters shot past the arched windows to disrupt the rally in the plaza.

Palpatine conjured a smile. “The Naboo will be pleased to see that your space force is good for something, Majesty.”

Veruna’s bloated face flushed. “More than you know. I told you that I meant to end our partnership with the Trade Federation and Hego Damask, and so I shall.”

Palpatine glanced at the Hutt and her Bando Gora minions. “With the help of your new partners. And what will you do—chase the Trade Federation’s freighters out of the Chommel sector? Challenge Damask openly?”

“Damask has betrayed everyone. Ask Gardulla. Ask Alexi Garyn. The Muun should have learned a lesson thirty years ago from the Gran who targeted him.”

Palpatine took secret pleasure in the remark. And you commit the same egregious blunders they did.

“What makes you think he didn’t?”

Veruna started to speak, but bit back what he had in mind to say and began again. “From this point on, Naboo will manage its own resources. Gardulla and Black Sun will supervise the export of plasma and the import of goods, and the Bando Gora will protect our interests in the space lanes. It’s a pity you won’t be a part of it.”

“A pity to be sure,” Palpatine said, rising to his feet. “Until such time as you replace me, Majesty, I will continue to act in Naboo’s best interests, at Eriadu and on Coruscant. Should I see Damask, I’ll be certain to tell him that he underestimated … your ambitions.”

Veruna locked eyes with him. “Don’t concern yourself unduly, Palpatine. You won’t be seeing him again.”


The transpirator affixed to his face, Plagueis moved with agile purpose through the stone-cold rooms that had housed twenty years of experiments. Most of the cages and cells were empty now—the captives they had contained, released. He wondered if Sojourn’s greel forests would become a kind of laboratory, a great scarlet-wood medium for mutant evolution. OneOne-FourDee shuffled past him on the way to the courtyard, alloy storage boxes piled high in its quartet of appendages.

“Be certain that all the data has been permanently deleted,” Plagueis said.

The droid nodded. “I will make certain for the third time, Magister Damask.”

“And FourDee, carry my instructions to the Sun Guards that I will contact them on Thyrsus.”

“I will see to it, Magister.”

Plagueis entered the room that had served as his meditation chamber. Though the high-ceilinged space was already fixed in his memory, he studied the few pieces of furniture in silence, as if searching for some detail that had escaped his notice. His eyes lingered on the small antechamber in which he and Sidious had been sitting when they had brought about the shift, and the strength of that memory was such that he was catapulted into a moment of intense reverie.

For some time he had been aware that Sidious had grown critical of his fixation with unraveling the secrets of life and death. Surely Sidious felt as if Plagueis had made himself too much of a project, often to the neglect of the Grand Plan; that Plagueis had come to place more importance on his own survival than that of the Sith. Meanwhile, to Sidious had fallen the responsibility for arranging and executing the schemes that would place the two of them in power on Coruscant. Sidious directing galactic events in much the same way that Plagueis was overseeing the currents of the dark side. And yet the arrangement was as it should be, for Sidious had a gift for subterfuge that surpassed the talents of any of the Sith Lords who had preceded him, including Bane.

Plagueis found irony in the fact that Sidious had come to feel about him as he himself had felt about Tenebrous at the end of his long apprenticeship. Tenebrous trusted more in Bith science and computer projections than he had in the Sith arts … But Plagueis understood, too, that the time had come for him to rejoin the world and stand with Sidious to see this most important phase of the plan to fruition: Palpatine’s ascendancy to the chancellorship and the unprecedented appointment of Hego Damask as co-chancellor of the Republic. Ageless Hego Damask, as it would ultimately emerge. When that was behind them, they could turn to the bigger task of obliterating the Jedi Order.

Master Dooku’s dithering over leaving the Order came as no surprise. Yoda had taken Dooku from Serenno, but he had failed to take Serenno from Dooku. Twenty years earlier Plagueis had seen the stirrings of the dark side in him and had attempted since—whenever and wherever possible—to coax more of those latent powers to the surface. At Galidraan, in clandestine partnership with the local governor and members of the Death Watch to lure the Jedi into an ultimately hopeless confrontation with the True Mandalorians; at Yinchorr and Malastare; and most recently, through Sidious’s efforts, at Asmeru and Eriadu. Already strong in the Force, trained in combat, and a diplomat, as well, Dooku might have made for a powerful partner under different circumstances. Except for the fact that Dooku, unlike the Dathomiri Zabrak whom Sidious had trained, would never be content to serve as an apprentice or a mere assassin. He would demand to become a true Sith, and that would lead to trouble. A better course of action would be to allow Dooku to find his own way to the dark side—whatever version of it might be accessible to him through study of the Sith Holocrons the Jedi possessed. Better to have him leave the Order of his own accord and become the benevolent spokesperson for the disenfranchised, as one might expect from a being of high status. Yes, better to let him persuade worlds and systems to secede from the Republic and foment a civil war into which the Jedi could be drawn …

The sudden blare of klaxons put an abrupt end to his musings.

Time is short.

OneOne-FourDee returned, moving quickly for a droid. “Five battleships have been detected, Magister.”

“Ahead of schedule.”

“Perhaps your enemies received intelligence that their attack plan had been compromised.”

“A sound speculation, FourDee. Is the ship ready?”

“Standing by, Magister.”

After a final look around, Plagueis hurried out the gaping door that led to the courtyard, where the sleek starship designed by Rugess Nome and built by Raith Sienar was waiting. Styled loosely after a courier ship that had been commonplace during the ancient Sith Empire, the Infiltrator still looked as if it had flown out of the past. Just under thirty meters in length and shaped like a throwing dart, it had two short wings where fletching feathers might have been, jutting from a round command module and ending in curved radiator fins that enclosed the module parenthetically when deployed. But what made the ship unique was a stygium-crystal-powered cloaking array that occupied much of the long, tapered prow of the fuselage.

As Plagueis entered the cockpit, 11-4D abandoned the single pilot’s chair for one of the seats that lined the aft circumference of the module.

“Systems are enabled, Magister.”

Folding himself into the swivel chair, Plagueis secured the harness, clamped his hands on the yoke, and raised the ship, which spiraled as it climbed above the towering walls of the old fort before rocketing into Sojourn’s opaque sky, invisible to any scanners that might be aimed downside. Already the first energy beams from the enemy flotilla were streaking into the greel forests, hurling vegetation and igniting firestorms. Another extinction for some of the creatures that had been cloned exclusively for the moon, Plagueis thought. A second onslaught of laser beams struck the tower where he had passed so many hours in contemplation, toppling it into the courtyard. Outside the Infiltrator, the air was growing hot and jolting winds were being whipped up by what had been unleashed from above. Far to starboard, starlight glinted off an attack ship that was racing toward the surface.

Ground-based turbolaser batteries began to answer with reciprocating fire, making it appear as if the sky were at war with itself. At the edge of space, short-lived explosions blossomed, as the shields of targeted ships were overwhelmed. But others broke through the barrages, their weapons reducing swaths of forest to ash and blowing huge chunks of rock from the escarpment. The ground shook and great columns of smoke poured upward. One, then another gun emplacement exploded, taking with them an entire wall of the fort.

Plagueis studied the cockpit displays as the Infiltrator continued to gain elevation and velocity, racing through smoke and fleeing clouds.

“Rendezvous coordinates are already programmed into the navicomputer,” 11-4D said from behind him. “The comm frequency is also preset.”

Plagueis swung to the navicomputer as concussions rocked the ship. He had placed one hand on the device’s keyboard when the sky seemed to give birth to a sphere of blinding light. Following a moment of absolute stillness, a cascade of infernal energy descended on what remained of the fort and concentric rings of explosive power radiated outward, leveling everything within a twenty-kilometer radius from ground zero. The Infiltrator was lifted like a bird caught in a thermal, and for a moment all its systems failed.

Plagueis sat in enraged disbelief.

Somehow, Veruna and his cohorts—Gardulla, Black Sun, and the Bando Gora—had gotten their hands on a proscribed nuclear device. None of the Sun Guards could have survived the blast; but then they didn’t deserve to. Nuclear weapons were scarce, and the Echani had obviously neglected to check with the few black-market suppliers that had access to them.

A pillar of roiling fire and smoke was clawing into the sky, fanning out in the thinning atmosphere to become a mushroom-shaped cloud. The greel forests were blackened wastelands; the fort was slagged and turned to glass. Deeply moved, Plagueis realized that he hadn’t experienced such powerful emotions since he had bid good-bye to Mygeeto so many decades earlier and placed himself in the care of Darth Tenebrous.

Adhering to course, the Infiltrator rose out of the turmoil. Stars winked into visibility, and the fleet ship was suddenly free of the moon’s gravity and pulled into the powerful embrace of Sojourn’s parent. No sooner had it entered the planet’s night side than the comm board issued an urgent tone.

“Magister Damask, we find no trace of your ship on any of our scanners, but we trust that you’re out there somewhere.”

Plagueis disabled the ship’s cloaking device and swiveled to the board. “Star Jewel, this is Damask. Your scanners should be able to find us now.”

“Affirmative, Magister Damask. You are clear to proceed to Docking Bay Four.”

A space cruiser of gargantuan size and ostentatious design could be seen hanging in the middle distance. Shaped like an arrowhead, the vessel was heavily armed and large enough to accommodate half a dozen starfighters. While Plagueis was maneuvering toward it, the comm board’s enunciators were rattled by a resonant laugh.

“I hope to persuade you one day to share the secret of your invisible ship, Magister Damask.”

“I appreciate your punctuality, Jabba Desilijic Tiure. As I do the advance intelligence that allowed me to avoid being atomized.”

“Thus are lasting partnerships solidified, Magister. What is our destination?”

“Coruscant,” Plagueis said. “But I’ve one more favor to ask before we arrive.”

“Simply state it, and it will be done.”

“Then arrange for communications with Naboo. King Veruna needs to be informed of what he has brought down on himself and his confederates.”

Jabba guffawed again. “It will be my pleasure.”