Chapter 18: Amittere Imperium

As Commander Vill led his squad of elite troopers up the slightly elevated bushy outcropping to the left, Vader took his men and charged forward, straight for Kachirho's waterfront mouth, and deep into the fray.

Hundreds of heavy combat boots squelched through waterlogged sand. Swamp reeds taller than the towering Dark Lord himself, whipped splatters of wet mud and dirt across helmets and body-armour; both black and white alike. Moving between the thick reed clusters, using them for cover, Vader and his troopers marched on toward the coordinates of the first outpost. Bright red blaster fire and bow-caster bolts rained down around them. Some originating from branches high in the surrounding wroshyr trees, others from camouflaged bunkers constructed around their ancient trunks. Vader deflected each shot, his bloodshine blade a blur, whirring left and then right, sending bolt after bolt screaming back into the trees. His men too answered fire, raking the forest undergrowth with hot bolts of their own.

Looking briefly to the sand, Vader noted the corrugated track marks gouged deep into its surface. Then he looked up; only to see the turbo tank he'd sent but a few short hours ago lying broken and battered in a narrow opening hidden between two dense clumps of reeds. He lengthened his stride and headed to the clearing to inspect it.

The tank was in ruins. Panels dented in, wheels dislodged, and plumes of thick black smoke spiralling from the heavily armoured carapace. Activating his helmet's inbuilt scanner, he checked the wreckage. And found nothing. Not one single sign of life. If any of his men were still inside, they were now dead. All of them. Snuffed out before they'd even made it to the outpost. He switched off the scanner and scowled. Rogue insurgents, indeed. It took more than just a handful of disgruntled Wookies to take down one of these tanks, he knew that for a fact.

One of his troopers walked over and stopped alongside him. "Did you... want us to check for survivors, my lord?"

And for a long moment Vader just stood —staring. Lightsaber thrumming in hand, long black cloak drifting on the cool evening wind. Still and silent as stone. Silent, that is, but except for his breathing; which was, as usual, painful and steady and even, and relentless. He caught himself wondering, what if Padmé hadn't called when she did? What if I had been in the tank with them? Would I too, be dead?

That thought chilled him to the bone. Not the thought of death itself —for in some ways he often longed for it— but the terrifying thought of what would happen ... of what could happen ... to them. To Padmé, to their children, and even to Obi-wan. And in the back of his mind, the dragon whispered: All things die.

"Lord Vader?"

Shaken from his musings, he turned to the trooper at his side and gritted his teeth. "No, Captain. A search will not be necessary. There are no survivors," he said, and with one long heaving stride, walked away.

• • •

Standing quietly, nervously twiddling with one of the ties on her robe, Padmé waited as the turbo-lift ascended the many levels of the new senatorial apartments to Bail Organa's private floor. It had been several long weeks since she'd last seen him, and in very, very different circumstances, and now she found herself worrying about how much he really knew. He would no doubt ask after Leia, and when he did, she'd already decided she would simply tell him the truth. Well, most of it. Leia was safe and with Obi-wan. That was the truth. She'd just have to leave out the parts about where, and why, and how come.

But what if he asked about Anakin —about Vader? And did he know? Does he know who Vader is? Or rather, who he was? And that the child he and his wife had been so blissfully raising as their own, actually belonged to one of the most powerful and feared men in the galaxy? And that this man, as broken and twisted and corrupted as he'd become, was in fact still alive?

How would she answer him? What could she possibly say that wouldn't give away everything? She didn't know.

"Are you alright, milady?" Dormé asked her, standing right by her side in the cramped lift. "You seem worried all of a sudden."

"She'll be alright," Commander Bly answered from behind, tapping loudly on the blaster carbine still holstered on his hip. "Nothing is going to happen to either of you on my watch. I gave Lord Vader my word."

Padmé forced a smile and looked back to the disguised trooper. "Thank you, Commander," she said, before turning to her handmaiden. "Yes Dormé, I'm ... I'm alright. Just a little tired, that's all." Distracted from her thoughts, she returned her attention to the level indicator hung above the doors, and took one long and deep breath. She could do this. She was a senator. She'd been doing this for years. Then, when the turbo-lift stopped; she squared her shoulders back, stood as tall as she could, and went about putting on what Anakin used to call her Politician face.

The door slid open. Stood in the luxurious suite behind it, dressed in his perfectly tailored floor-length grey-blue tunic coat, was Bail Organa. His welcoming smile as gentle and warm and comforting as always. His deep brown eyes; glittering with relief and joy. He spread his arms wide.

"My dear Padmé," Bail said, stepping back. "It has been so long. Please, won't you come inside?"

• • •

There were Jedi, and then there were Sith —Caleb thought, swinging his blue blade to parry the aggressive thrust of the incoming red— and then; there were these two. Neither Sith, nor Jedi; but some kind of odd combination of both.

The one he was fighting was small and lean with a figure built for speed. She was roughly the same height as him, and her face was covered by an angular mask that sloped low and met at a muzzled point where her chin should be. On her head sat a black sharp-tipped helmet, which was perfectly coordinated with a matching black, tailored officer's uniform. Or was it a flight suit? He twirled his saber and parried her again. It didn't matter. Either way, whatever she was wearing, was covered, both sculpted pauldron and stitched lapel, in stark white Imperial insignias, which were now glowing a soft pastel pink in the scarlet shine of her blade.

She slashed at him again, her sizzling blade a vertical strike aimed for his shoulder. He instantly reacted, stepping back toward the speeder and swinging his saber up to meet it. The two beams of plasma clashing just in front of his face.

"What's the matter, Padawan?" she purred in her silky yet synthetic voice, the slim grey visor of her mask just barely visible between the white-hot sparks of the two arcing blades. "You're staring at me. Tell me ... do I frighten you?"

Caleb fought back a shiver, his elbow quivering from the strain. "Don't flatter yourself," he said, pushing a cocky confidence into his voice that he wasn't really feeling. "I was just... admiring your uniform."

She laughed and pushed harder into the contest, edging the sparking sabers closer to his nose. "Oh, that. Well, my master can give you one of your own if you like. All you have to do, is surrender and come back with me."

"A tempting offer," he said, looking for a way to break the stalemate without losing his arm. If only he could distract her, even for a second... "But I think I prefer mine. You know, style and balance, and all that. Besides, black's not really my colour —it doesn't go with my eyes."

"Caleb! Get down!"

And the yell from his Master proved to be all the distraction he needed. Ignoring the fact he'd had no warning through the Force, putting to the back of his mind the weird sensations he'd felt clouding his vision —when she lifted her head, Caleb deactivated his blade and dropped down. Just in time to see a large, barrel-shaped trash-can fly right over his head. She hadn't seen it coming either. Both trash-can and masked figure collided. Flew way back down the alley. Landed on the permacrete by the corner pawn shop in a loud banging crash.

Jumping to his feet, Caleb spun around to face where she'd landed and quickly reignited his lightsaber.

"You!" she snarled, pushing her body up from the floor. "That's why we were sent here! It was for you. For both of you."

A cold numbing dread filled his veins. She knew him. She knew both of them. Caleb shook his head in disbelief, his fear bubbling up to the surface. "What do you mean, me?" he yelled back in a panic. "Who are you?"

"Caleb Dume. That's your name, isn't it?" she hissed, stalking toward him like a rancor, recalling her fallen lightsaber into the palm of her hand. "And Ferus Olin. That man over there you call 'Master'. The one ... pretending ... to be a Jedi."

He looked back over his shoulder to Ferus, who was furiously dodging and parrying strike after strike from the other dark-sider. Ferus leapt high onto the dumpster, wobbled for a bit, then briefly met his troubled gaze. His attacker followed, swung his red blade at his legs, and Ferus, trying to avoid it, suddenly slipped back.

Caleb watched him fall. "Master!"

His attacker jumped down; and their lightsabers resumed clashing.

"Come with me, Caleb," he heard her say from behind, but he was frozen in place, too terrified to take his eyes off his master. "Become one of us," she said again, and over the roar of his pulse, he could hear her footsteps slowly edging closer. "See what it's like to serve a real master —one who doesn't have to pretend."

Caleb spun around then, heart pounding, hands shaking, his cerulean blade flashing wildly in the air at her. "He's not pretending!" he screamed. "Ferus is a Jedi, and he is my master! And I don't care what's happened to the others ... We will always be Jedi!"

Stopping roughly ten metres away, she squared off with him across the alley, her deactivated crescent-shaped lightsaber still hanging by her side. "The Jedi Order is dead," she said with such a distinct air of finality that it made his blood suddenly run cold. "The Jedi are dead. And if you don't come with me, you will be joining them."

His chest closed tight, and try as he might, he couldn't seem to slow down his stuttered breathing. He looked back to the dumpster — to his Master; still fighting — and then back to the alley; to her. Then between them again. He should go to him. Help him. But what about her? If he turned his back and ran, would she take his legs out from under him, before he'd even made it halfway? He glowered up the alley, at the awaiting masked figure, at the one trying to convince him into leaving.

And he was lost...

"Come with you?" Caleb roared, all modicum of self-control and balance and inner-peace now gone — replaced only by fear and panic ... and anger. "I don't even know who you are! Tell me who you are now—" his voice dropped an octave "—Before I kill you."

His Master yelled out from somewhere in the distance, but he didn't hear what was said. He was only focussed on one thing. Her. He'd already lost Jaina, he was not about to lose Ferus as well. Even if it meant taking her head.

She seemed amused by his outburst. Instead of yelling, or attacking, she threw her head back and laughed. "Attachment is forbidden, Padawan. Yet, look at you... willing to kill for your Master." She ignited her lightsaber, the scarlet blade thrumming into life, and leant forward like a nexu preparing to pounce. "You want to know who I am? I am the Seventh Sister, and my friend over there ... the one preparing to kill your 'Master', is the Fifth brother. We are Inquisitors. Quested by the Empire, to ensure the Jedi Order ... stays dead."

And in her hand, the scarlet blade turned double and started to spin. Wheeling around the hilt so fast, it became a blinding circle of red light. Then she twirled it once, then twice, and charged...

"The speeder, Caleb! Now! Get in the kriffing speeder!"

Caleb turned on his heel and ran. Ferus was already in the cab, with engines on and repulsors engaged. It was lifting from the ground, the gleaming red trunk rapidly rising higher. He had to jump for it. Using the Force, Caleb sprang. Cleared the back of the speeder. Landed cat-footed with a thud just behind the passenger seat. His Master didn't waste any time getting them moving. The instant his boots touched polished alloy, he yanked on the controls, pulled the nose up, then kicked at the thrusters, and Caleb scrambled into the cabin.

"Hold on!" Ferus yelled, his face tight, hands white knuckled on the steering yoke. He banked the speeder —still climbing— hard around; forced it into a sharp one-eighty degree turn and aimed for the alley exit. "I'm getting us out of here."

Gasping for breath, heart still racing, Caleb held onto the door and glanced back. His Master's attacker —who he now knew as the Fifth Brother— was pushing up to his feet from beside the dumpster. While his own opponent, the Seventh Sister, had skidded to a stop in the clearing, her lightsaber still wheeling, and was now staring straight up at them. The Fifth Brother staggered to join her, and her saber slowed back into the single red beam. Then she swung her arm like she'd thrown something, even as his Master lurched their speeder forward, forced the screaming engines to redline.

And they shot out into the street. Darted in-and-between the flow of crossing traffic. Climbed higher into the upper-skylanes. And left the so-called Inquisitors in the alley far behind them.

• • •

Vader stared at the floor of the first outpost. Tens of white armoured bodies lay still by his feet —even more scattered across the annular room; unnaturally slumped over canons, splayed atop comm-terminals, and leant against walls. He clenched his fists. It had been a blood bath. Kneeling down beside one of the deceased troopers, he gently tugged on the blaster scorched helmet —removed it— so he could look upon the face of the man inside.

And when it was off, he stared again.

Not the face he'd been expecting. Short blonde hair, fair skin, and a light bushy goatee, with sideburns that traced jaw to scalp.

Commander Vill growled from above his shoulder: "That's no clone."

Vill and his team had returned from successfully hunting down the Wookie launchers, and were now back, standing by his side and awaiting further orders.

"Indeed..." Vader rumbled. He laid the bucket-shaped headgear back to ground. Rose to his full height. Gazed left and right at the carnage surrounding him. How many of these dead troopers were similar to this one? Not Kaminoan clones; but men. Ordinary men. Men who had blindly marched to their deaths. Ill-trained and unprepared for the slaughter that had awaited them. And they hadn't stood a chance.

The scout trooper captain came running through one of the open archways to meet with him. "The Wookie forces have fled for the forest, Lord Vader. Sector all clear."

Vader hooked his thumbs to his belt, regarded the trooper. "Good work, Captain. Have your men gather the dead and secure the outpost. Meanwhile, I will take Commander Vill and the others, and reconvene with our forces on Tree Kachirho."

The trooper captain saluted. "Yes, sir." He turned to his squad and relayed the order. "You heard him, troopers. Get this mess cleaned up."

When Vader and his men arrived at the towering multi-root structure of Tree Kachirho, a small party of clone troopers were waiting to greet them. And not just any clone troopers; ones with orange markings adorning their armour. The same as those he'd met up with on Tatooine. The very same as the ones on the 212th — Obi-wan's former battalion.

The orange marked troopers saluted, and their squad leader stepped forward. "Lord Vader," he acknowledged, standing to attention.

Vader signalled for Vill and his men to stop, and turned to address the squad leader. "At ease, trooper. Where is your Commander?"

"The control room, My Lord. Third level. He is waiting for you."

"Commander Vill..." Vader said, looking to him. "You and your men remain here and await my command. Alert me at once if the Wookies return."

Vill nodded. "As you wish, my lord."

With a flourish of his cloak, Vader made for the lift doors embedded within the thick wroshyr tree roots, and disappeared inside.

• • •

Padmé sat quietly on the Viceroy's sofa, tightly cradling a warm cup of tea. She blew the steam away and took a sip, silently wishing that Dormé and Commander Bly were still here in the suite. Bail had requested for them to join his security detail in the adjacent service cafeteria, obviously not wanting them present for whatever he was intending to say. Her handmaiden had obliged without question. However, Commander Bly had resisted; insisting on doing a preliminary sweep of the apartment, before reluctantly agreeing to join the others. No doubt she'd be hearing all about that later.

Senator Organa placed a tray of appetisers down onto the small coffee table and sat in the seat opposite. He tasted his tea then relaxed back into the chair, his eyes never once leaving her. "I must say Padmé, I was rather surprised to see your name on the attendance listing," he said, lifting his leg to rest on his knee. "The last time we spoke, you had no intention of returning to the senate."

"Yes, I know..." she said, looking down. "But, as you understand all too well, Bail ... things change." Her free hand fell to her belly and started to rub, as if the attention would help comfort the tiny life growing within. "Circumstances change."

"I know precisely what you mean." He reached for some silver tongs and popped a few of the appetisers onto his plate. "Speaking of circumstances changing, how is little Leia doing? I thought... perhaps... you might have brought her with you."

Padmé lifted her eyes from the floor, raised a brow. She knew he hadn't meant any offence by the question, and had already expected him to ask after her daughter, but none of that knowledge served to quell the sudden surge of anger grabbing at her chest. Taking another sip from her tea, she fought to compose herself. "I appreciate your concern, Bail, but Obi-wan is keeping watch over my children. It is not safe to bring them here."

"Please, forgive me my ignorance, Padmé," Bail said, shaking his head. "I meant no offence."

"No need for apologies," she said, placing her cup down on the coffee table. "But the hour is late, and something tells me you didn't call me over here simply to ask after my daughter."

Bail averted his gaze and gave an awkward chuckle. "No, you're right, my lady... I didn't. However it can wait until morning if you'd prefer. I'm sure you are weary after such a long flight."

"Yes, I admit that I am a little tired," Padmé said, folding her arms and leaning back. "But I am also already here. So, how about we get started, then we can take it from there?"

• • •

From the outside, Wookie Tree cities appeared unremarkably primitive. An assortment of circular wooden huts constructed haphazardly around looming wroshyr trunks, interconnected by upended conical structures that served for both landing platforms and lookout towers. But it was all an illusion.

Arms folded below his flashing chest plate, Vader stood in the blue glow of the central tactical holo-map projector, listening intently to Commander Cody as he gave his report. Stationed in a circle around them, four troopers busily worked at beeping computer terminals, flickering galactic scanners and other statistical materiel — the equipment as technologically advanced as any other Imperial outpost.

"Positions seven and eight were already lost when we got here, Lord Vader," Cody said, pointing to their respective markers. "And from what I can gather, it's not an isolated occurrence, if chatter over com-scan is anything to go by. We have reports of outposts being taken down all over the Wawaatt Archipelago, some even as far out as Rowrakruk."

"What of the first outpost?" Vader growled, leaning forward and stabbing his finger at the map. "The one you and your men were sent here to reinforce?"

"We were ambushed, sir. Came at us from all angles. And not just Wookies..." Cody stood tall, gestured for him to follow to the security terminal. He tapped at the controls and brought up the footage. Lightsabers slashed and darted between blaster cross-fire, slicing through trooper after trooper. "But three Jedi as well."

"And yet, you and your men's failure allowed for them to escape." Vader stiffened. "Were your orders perhaps unclear, Commander?"

Cody stood his ground, turned to face him head on. "Permission to speak freely, my lord?"

"Permission granted."

"The competency of my battalion has become unreliable of late, due to some ... recent external acquisitions —if you get my meaning, sir."

As he'd suspected. Vader folded his arms. "You may continue to speak freely, Cody."

The trooper commander removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Not long after you and your legion left Tatooine, a team of these acquisitions were sent to relieve us. When we arrived on the Executrix, we were segregated by rank and ability. Subjected to physicals by the destroyer's medics. The next thing I knew, half my men were missing ... their ranks filled with external recruits ... and we were all shipped off to assist the forces here.

"When the Jedi attacked, these new troopers were useless against them. Couldn't shoot straight, missed most their targets. After taking heavy losses, I ordered a retreat for the trees, chasing a higher vantage point so we could regroup. The newly recruited squad leaders refused to comply. Said they wouldn't follow orders from clones. We ... we had no choice, my lord. We had to leave them behind."

Vader dropped his hands to his belt, and turned to look back at the holo-map projector. Feeling out through the Force, he sensed the confused frustration coming from the trooper. A feeling he could personally relate to. "A wise decision, Commander..." he said finally. "Insubordination is inexcusable. Had they survived, I would have killed them myself."

Cody respectfully bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord."

"Now what of these Jedi?" Vader asked, staring at the map. "Do you have any clues as to where they might be located?"

Cody returned to the holo-map, brought up the last known location of the three Jedi fighters. He gestured to a nest of trees grouped together before a large area of darkened shadow. "We were able to track them as far as the forest edge. As for their exact location, we can only surmise that they have progressed into the shadowlands. But, unfortunately our scanners are useless in there, too much interference to get a clear reading."

Vader stared once more at the translucent map, searching the Force for some indication of where they might be hiding. A loud chime disturbed his focus —rang throughout the modest control room— originating from one of the manned computer terminals positioned along the curved walls.

"Commander..." a trooper called from his post. "We have an incoming transmission from the Executrix."

"Who is it?" Cody asked.

The trooper tapped briefly at the control panel, before turning back to face them. "It's Moff Tarkin, sir. He ... wishes to speak with Lord Vader."

"Put him through to the holo-com and clear the room," Vader said. "I am most interested in hearing the Governor's take on this particular matter."

The trooper nodded. "Yes, my lord," he said, then immediately returned to the controls.

In all but a few short moments, the troopers had left, entrances to the control room had been sealed shut, and Vader stood alone by the holo-com; his masked gaze fixed on the translucent blue light of the wiry and aged visage of Moff Wilhuff Tarkin as it noisily rezzed into view. Vader squared his shoulders beneath the armour. "Governor."

"Greetings, Lord Vader," Tarkin said, his thin lips tight, his sunken, steel eyes probing even through the grainy haze. "I thank you for taking a moment away from your assignment to convene with me under such short notice."

"We haven't spoken in some time, Tarkin. And yet, I suspect the lack of notice was not of your own personal design."

Those thin lips pressed into a slight smile, and Tarkin gave a short chuckle. "No... no, quite right. As astute as always, I see." He let out a forced breath and continued. "All pleasantries aside... the Emperor suggested I might find you here."

"I had deduced as such."

"Yes, also as expected. At any rate, he recommended I make contact with you — said that you may be able to assist me in dealing with ... a little problem I am currently facing."

Whatever Tarkin was angling for —the very fact that he'd already discussed it with his Master beforehand, and had been subsequently urged into contacting him— meant that this conversation of sorts had become nothing more than mere formality. By simply dropping his name, Tarkin knew, as he did, that Vader's assistance was essentially guaranteed. Practically, a direct order from his Master being veiled as a gentleman's request. With this in mind, Vader took a long moment to answer. "I am listening."

Tarkin's gaze fixed into two fierce pinpricks that could've penetrated the most battle-hardened of body armour. "As you are all too aware, Vader, the Emperor does not take kindly to inconvenience..." he said, his narrow and angular features hardening, his voice sharp and to the point. "Especially not when said inconvenience directly affects one of his own prized pet projects."

Tightening his arms over his chest, Vader nodded in agreement. "No... He does not."

"Hence the reason for my contacting you," Tarkin continued. "As you already know, I have been tasked with overseeing the construction of this project—"

"Get to the point, Governor," Vader growled through clenched teeth.

Tarkin blinked, let out an exasperated breath. "Yes, I am getting to that. Presently, the station is long behind schedule. Progress is being hampered by constant engineering challenges, trade disputes and shipping delays, and more importantly ... a suitably skilled labourer shortage."

Vader's heart thudded. "And this relates to my mission here, how?"

Tarkin's tone was flat, bordering condescension. "Wroshyr trees are not the only valuable living resource present on Kashyyyk, Lord Vader."

And there it was — the angle.

Outraged, Vader inwardly cursed and shook his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing — bit back the resounding "No" threatening to fly out his tightly clamped mouth. But, perhaps that in itself was the point. Another way for his Master to manipulate and crush and squash him into obedience. Another stab to ensure the light he'd sensed earlier, never again resurfaced.

Pausing the live holo-feed, Vader launched into an irate pace, clenching and unclenching his swinging fists. His Master had already agreed to this directive. Which, by all intents, meant he had no choice but to accept. But it still rankled every badly singed and scarred nerve in what remained of his mangled human body. And as much as the thought tortured him ... as much as it went against every last lingering trace of moral sentiment left withering and dying inside him ... he had no choice.

He blinked, and in his mind, the darkness descended, all coherent thought abruptly eluding him. The four words chanting over and over inside his head on repeat. Spoken in his own naked voice, echoing in the sudden loud and deafening silence.

You have no choice.

Drawing on the Force to silence it, he willed it deep, used its inherent strength to try and temper his fury. Inside his chest, indignant power thrummed like a beating drum. Pounded against his ribcage like an enraged beast. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Concentrated on each grating inhale and exhale, battling to re-establish control. The whole repetitive and exhaustive exercise taking almost five standard minutes — much longer than he'd expected, significantly longer than most previous attacks.

When he'd finally managed to compartmentalise and contain his debilitating outrage, Vader turned back to the holo-projector and reactivated the feed.

Tarkin was still there ... still waiting for him.

"Ah... there you are," Tarkin said, his bony thumb and forefinger cradling his chin. "I was starting to suspect we'd been disconnected."

Vader snorted and folded his arms back below his chest plate. "There was no disconnection," he said bluntly. "As for your ... proposal ... I am now prepared to properly discuss it."