Chapter One
Darth Vader had been subject to many forms of pain in his time as both a Jedi Knight and Dark Lord of the Sith, though he hadn't been the Dark Lord for more than three months.
He had held his mother in his arms as she died, succumbing to wounds inflicted by the vicious Tusken Raiders on Tatooine. It had been years since he had seen her before then. The Tuskens had paid dearly for her death.
Not some months after that, he had lost his right forearm in a lightsaber duel with Count Dooku. Dooku, too, had paid with his life for the loss of Vader's limb.
He had most recently lost his other arm at the elbow and both of his legs at the knee, which now were all replaced with cheap durasteel prostheses. For all the Emperor's wealth and power, he hadn't even felt it prudent to properly repair the damage done to Vader's body.
Though even with all these tragedies, the moist poignant of them all was the death of his beloved wife Padmé. For all he had—the extremes he had gone to—just to protect her, she had ultimately wound up dead—killed by his own hand in a fit of blind rage.
As he stood at the bridge of the Exactor, he attempted to cross his arms over his vast, armored chest. However, the metal that gave his prosthetics shape snagged on the inner lining of his armored suit and hindered the movement. His artificial legs were probably worse. The heels of the prostheses pushed him forward slightly, forcing him to lean heavily on the Force as a sort of "crutch" to get from one place to another. If he didn't use the Force, he was in danger of stumbling. The life support suit was something he had been cursed with after his duel with Obi-Wan had gone horribly awry. Apart from losing his limbs, he had been left for dead on the shores of a lava flow. His skin had ignited, injuring him greatly. His lungs had also been badly seared from the hot ash he had swallowed. His eardrums had melted away from the intense heat, and his eyes were damaged beyond repair.
His eardrums had been replaced with artificial implants that sharpened his hearing beyond human capability, but distorted sounds so that everything sounded like it was coming from underwater. It also made it harder to tell where sounds were coming from. To both protect his eyes and help him breath, an overly large Sith mask and helmet had been fitted over his head. The mask sharpened his vision, but gave everything an unnatural red tint to protect his damaged eyes from further injury. The mask also pumped air into his ravaged lungs, whether he wanted it to or not. Because of this, he could even breathe while talking.
Of course, if the breathing mechanism were to break, he could breathe unassisted . . . for a limited amount of time.
The mask also limited his peripheral vision to the point that anyone standing directly at his side would be in his blind spot. Also, without inclining his head almost ninety degrees, he could no longer see the toes of his poorly fitted boots, which were far too small for his new legs.
But the suit did have its advantages—one being that his imposing presence. With his artificial arms, he could now lift a full-grown man a meter or two off the ground without use of the Force. And though he was incapable of casting Sith Lightning—for fear that it would damage his vast network of cybernetics—he had found that using the Force to crush a man's windpipe suited him fine. From clear across a room or across star system, or as long as the person was in his sight, he could shorten the breath of anyone to the point of a near-instant death by just narrowing his thumb and forefinger.
I think you will find that your new abilities are all courtesy of your connection to the dark side, his master, Darth Sidious, had once told him. Though you do not hold all knowledge of the Sith yet, my apprentice. That is why you have need of me, and I will gladly indulge you.
But Vader's definition of "indulge" seemed to be far different from Sidious', as did everything else he believed. Sidious had offered to share his knowledge—all of it. However, he seemed to always keep a little in reserve, never effectively completely every lesson. It was if he wanted Vader to be powerful, but not powerful enough to threaten his rule. It was a perversion of the Sith way.
But Sidious was right: Vader did have need of him. For now.
Good, Anakin, good! Kill him. Kill him now, Palpatine had said. Vader was looking into Count Dooku's eyes all over again, the fallen Jedi Master seemed to materialize on his knees, both his wrists smoking, with two lightsabers at his throat.
I shouldn't . . . He had protested.
Do it, Anakin! That was the only time Palpatine had let his true voice—sinister and venomous—leak through his carefully constructed façade that hid his true identity.
But then perhaps he, Vader, would one day hold his master's life in his hands. And when that day came, he would end it.
But am I truly the Emperor's right-hand man? Or just a last-minute replacement for Count Dooku? Or worse: another General Grievous?
He was no Count Dooku. Dooku had been weak, too easily slain.
He was definitely not another General Grievous. Grievous had become quicker, more agile, with his body. He had been able to wield lightsabers without the Force—something not easily done, even with help from cybernetics.
Vader, however, was slowed down by his four mechanical appendages. They were more a hindrance than help. Vader also had relied on the Force to help him with simple tasks, such as just walking around. He didn't see how General Grievous deserved to become more deadly because of his transformation, and Vader more slow and clumsy.
He had been forced to do away with his favored lightsaber form, Ataru, because that required the user to be quick and acrobatic. Instead, he chose the strength of Djem-Sho, though that made him vulnerable if his opponent was quicker than him—as they usually were. Luckily, however, he also applied some of his old master's favored lightsaber form—Soresu. Soresu had first been created millennia ago at the beginning of the age of blasters. This form offered nearly impenetrable defense, if the user was skilled.
He knew very little about the dark side, though he knew very well how to turn his rage into a fuel for his power—though even his new master warned him that he would have to learn to control his raging emotions.
But why should he?
He had always used that hatred, that rage, to fuel his power in the past as a Jedi Knight. It made him strong, stronger than the Jedi Masters and their vaunted wisdom and powers. Strong enough to nearly extinguish the Order by killing every Jedi in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.
Though some had managed to slip past him.
For instance: six—or seven, counting the one who joined at the last minute—Jedi had arrived on Kashyyyk, the Wookiee homeworld, a month or so ago. He had killed two upon his arrival—Siadem Forte and Iwo Kulka, each very skilled duelists—to the city of—what was it called? Kachirho? After that, Padawan Olee Starstone had bravely—if not foolishly—stepped forward to confront him, only to be saved by Jedi Master Roan Shryne. Master Shryne had fought well and bravely, just like Forte and Kulka, but had ultimately been struck down.
But he probably would have died anyway in the destruction of Kashyyyk. Vader had ordered the planet to be bombarded by the Imperial ships that had been in orbit.
He was still yet to find the other four.
He had managed to wound at least two of them, so they would be moving slowly to try and make sure the two amputees recovered. He had rid Jambe Lu of his right arm and Nam Poorf of his right leg.
Vader's artificial right hand—he did not call that one "new" because it was the only one that felt natural—rested on the pommel of his new lightsaber.
In many ways, he had modeled his new lightsaber from his old Jedi one. The grip at the bottom of the hilt and the beveled shroud were giveaways.
Though it still didn't feel the same.
His new lightsaber was built rather awkwardly. He had tried to make it somewhat like his old one, imply some of his master's lightsaber, which Sidious had lent him for inspiration, and his own style. The result was an elongated hilt—he had been forced to make it that way because of his large hands. He could no longer keep the loose grip on it he used to—his right hand next to the emitter and his left on the grip.
He would definitely need to make some improvements. He would want to be perfectly prepared when he hunted down his next Jedi target.
He would love to hunt Obi-Wan down—to find him huddled and afraid at the edges of the galaxy. He would savor the feeling of plunging the blade of his new lightsaber into his old master's traitorous heart. He would revel in his power as he watched his old master die—as he watched the light leave his eyes.
Obi-Wan betrayed me. He deserves death.
Or had it been Sidious who had betrayed him?
Sidious had manipulated everything from the start—even him. He knew that it was Sidious who had used Count Dooku to begin his descent—to tell him that he could save his wife with the dark side, when instead he only learned how to kill! He promised peace to the galaxy, and instead they maintained order through violence and deception!
He knew Sidious was playing his weakness—his hatred of the Jedi Order. At first he had told him not to dwell on the lucky survivors—were they lucky with Vader on their tail?—who had escaped the clone troopers and Order66—the code Palpatine had given to clone commanders to turn on their Jedi leaders. Now all his master wanted to do was sharpen his hatred for the Jedi so that he would hunt them down.
My master just doesn't want to admit to being wrong, old fool. I told him at the beginning these bands of Jedi would be a threat. He sees it now.
"Lord Vader."
Vader turned to the officer standing behind him.
"Yes? What is it?"
"We have reports from a bounty hunter that he has spotted Jedi on Nar Shaddaa."
"Very well," said Vader's electronically synthesized, booming mechanical voice—without the amplifier, he could speak barely over a whisper. "Set the ship to a hyperspace route to Nar Shaddaa."
Vader turned away from the officer, looking out of the forward viewport at the moonlet-sized space station being built in deep space, and then strode out of the bridge, toward his meditation chamber where he could think properly.