Chapter 8
Palpatine hated these sojourns into the Empire's prison system. It wasn't the oppressiveness of durasteel-reinforced concrete and blaster-proof doors; most Imperial government buildings were built that way anymore. Nor was it the sea of rage, terror, depression, bitterness, and despair that stormed through the entire facility; on the contrary, he fed on those feelings, drinking them in to fuel the dark side.
It was the fact that it was the only place he frequented where he wasn't accorded the respect and obeisance an Emperor deserved.
The criminal refuse that populated this high-security "correctional institution" on Raxus had no reason to respect the Emperor. Most of them were awaiting execution anyhow, so they reasoned that they could only be killed for one crime, be it murder, treason, or simply possessing a filthy mouth in the presence of the dictator. A rainbow of colorful insults and foul language trailed after Palpatine as his scarlet-robed guards escorted him down the cell-lined hall.
He spared a seething Trandoshan a contemptuous glare as he passed. Small wonder these men, women, and aliens were sentenced to die. Those who refused to bow before him had no reason to exist.
Which was why he was here in the first place. He needed a new apprentice to crush the upstart Alliance. He had carefully selected a likely prospect, but the man was stubborn, unwilling to join his cause. So he had kept him contained here these past two weeks, visiting him regularly to hammer away at his iron will. Though he remained adamant about keeping out of the war, his defenses were weakening, and Palpatine sensed that it would not be long before he had the man as an ally.
He paused before a cell containing a terrified male human, cowering in a corner with his fists covering his face. With a tendril of the Force he judged the teenager's sensitivity. Strong, he observed, but unshaped. A waste of good midichlorians, but still…
"Take him," he ordered.
Two guards opened the barred door and stepped into the cell. The boy's eyes widened with horror.
"No!" he screamed, thrashing against the grip of their hands. "Please! I didn't know she was a Rebel! She just asked for a ride and I gave her one! Please give me a break!"
"Transporting a Rebel to the scene of a crime is serving as an accomplice to treason," Palpatine told him. "But in your case, I'll be generous. Instead of completing your sentence here…"
The young man sagged in relief.
"…you'll be taken to my palace on Corusant to serve an alternate punishment." He offered the prisoner a black-toothed grin. "I have plans for you, son."
He screamed the whole way down the hall as the guards dragged him away.
/Pathetic/ Palpatine decided. /But he may be useful./
He walked on. He'd been collecting the Force-strong humans and humanoids among the prisoners these past two weeks. He would need them.
At last he arrived at the maximum-security wing, indicated by the solid, barless doors. Here the most dangerous prisoners were consigned – murderers, rapists, crime barons, assassins, high-ranking Rebels, the very dregs of the underworld such beings inhabited. Dozens of guards and prisoners had met violent deaths in various skirmishes, tainting the halls with a dark-side energy that settled in one's bones. The fury, the terror, the rage contained here boiled and frothed in a volatile brew that poured through Palpatine as he examined the hall.
He reveled in it.
Striding up to the first meter-thick cell door, he keyed it open to reveal a snarling, three-meter mass of red-brown hair and hard muscle. The Wookie charged him, roaring. His guards brought their lances to bear, but Palpatine was quicker. Delving into the dark side, he released a single efficient jolt of lightning into the creature's heart. The beast collapsed, twitching.
"Someone dispose of this," he ordered, turning his back on the corpse and strolling away. He'd known the Wookie hadn't been Force-strong, but he'd needed the diversion.
At last he opened the cell door of the one he had come here for. The man was legendary, almost superhuman according to the stories. Cunning, cool, and focused, he would make an excellent protégé if he could only be convinced. So he'd sent a team of forty stormtroopers to capture the man while he transacted business on Ord Mantell. Only six survived the mission, but at least they had him.
"Remain outside," he told his escort. The dark side would be more than enough to protect him here.
The guards had prepared the prisoner for this meeting as they had for every meeting, cuffing him tightly to the wall and injecting him with mind-altering drugs to weaken his will. Despite his drugged state, however, he affixed Palaptine with a poisonous glare as he entered the cell, the door hissing shut behind him. The blue-black shading around his right eye and the rents in his prison-issue jumpsuit indicated that, though caged, he was still dangerous.
"Not quite as threatening without your armor on, Boba Fett," the Emperor noted.
The hunter snarled. "Die, hack."
"I don't plan on dying for awhile," he replied. "And you aren't in much of a position to carry the threat out, my friend."
"I told you before and I told you again," he hissed. "I'm not joining you."
Palpatine had to force back a smile. There wasn't so much iron in Fett's voice now. His barriers were beginning to fail.
But he would have to play the cards just so. Offers of money and power hadn't worked; Fett's services were famously expensive, so he had already secured a small fortune. And he was adamant about remaining neutral in the Galactic Civil War, so had no interest in being the Empire's second-highest leader. Threats wouldn't work, for he needed Fett to willingly join his cause. But Palpatine had a weapon Fett was unaware of – information on his past, thanks to Darth Tyranus' relationship with the Fett family.
"I only ask that you reconsider the offer," Palpatine requested. "You are a being of honor, Fett. So are the Sith."
Fett spat at his feet. "Good one. The Emperor's a stand-up comedian."
"You don't believe me?" Palpatine clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth across the cell. "Our Order has striven to cleanse the galaxy of the corruption and weakness of the Republic for generations. You lived during that Dark Age, Fett. You know how corrupt senators and rubber-spined politicians sickened the entire galaxy with their taint. We strove to change that, and in return we were banished to apocryphal tales and seen as a legendary, but extinct, evil."
"Don't whitewash the Sith history, old man," Fett snapped. "The Sith started a coup that drenched the entire galaxy in blood before the uprising was put down."
"And how was that uprising put down, my friend? By a massacre. Every Sith in the galaxy, save one, was destroyed – by the Jedi Order."
At the mention of the Jedi, Fett took notice. A jolt of fury pierced his uncaring front and reached the Emperor. Good. He'd touched a nerve. The rollerfish was toying with the bait.
"Ah yes, the mighty Jedi Order," he went on, shaking his head in disdain. "So quick to step in where the government faltered, so quick to offer their… services. Little by little they took advantage of the Republic, snatching scraps of power for themselves wherever they could. It wasn't long before they had the entire galaxy under their control, with puppet chancellors and an army of Knights to carry out their will. Taking the common people under their wing, they said – I see it as crushing them under their thumbs."
Fett was seething now. Palpatine had to strain to keep his expression somber. The fish had taken the bait. Now for a tug to set the hook.
"It was only natural for me to expunge the Order once I was able to wrest away their wrongfully acquired power. Otherwise we would still be serving their Order. But when I assumed that their disgusting cancer had been forever excised from the Empire, I assumed wrong. For a few Jedi still exist, influencing others to rise against me. If they succeed in overthrowing the Empire, a weak government will rule again, with the corruption of the Jedi at its helm."
His glowing orange eyes met Fett's space-black gaze. "Can you imagine the atrocities that would continue to perpetuate were these power-hungry, soulless, baby-snatching fanatics to retake the galaxy? Can you imagine the murders, the kidnappings, the shattered lives, the widows and orphans left to fend for themselves?"
Fett shook with barely contained rage. Good. He had issues with the Jedi Order. Time to reel the man in with a final goad.
"The Jedi rarely thought about the consequences before using their lightsabers," he continued. "Especially a Jedi named Mace Windu."
Fett exploded, uttering a primal howl of rage.
"Problem?" he asked innocently.
"My father! My father!" Fett screamed, veins standing out on his forehead. "Mace Windu killed my father!"
Palpatine pursed his lips to kill a gleeful smile.
"He'd done nothing but made a business deal!" Fett ranted. "A DNA sample in exchange for salary and a son! Is that such a crime?! And the Jedi punished him for that by slicing a laser blade through his neck! While – I – watched!"
Abruptly he wilted, hanging limply from the restraints, choking on his remembered grief and anger. Palpatine watched, keeping his face expressionless. Fett couldn't know how well he'd played into the Emperor's hands. The fish was in the boat now, ready for cleaning.
"I'm sorry," he said gently. "I didn't realize how personal this was for you. My condolences for your loss."
"The Jedi," Fett snarled. "I hate them!"
"And you have every right to, my friend. They could be quite cruel." He extended a beckoning hand. "But you can put your hatred to good use, Boba Fett. Rather than let it eat at you like a cancer, you can use it as a weapon of justice to cut down the last of the Jedi before they have a chance to rise again. You can ensure that no child will ever have to go through what you have been through – watching their father die a violent death."
Fett took a deep breath. "How?"
"Join me." Both hands were extended now, like a parent offering to lift a small child. "Learn the arts of subterfuge, manipulation, mind powers, telekinesis, all the Force's dark side has to offer. Combined with your natural intelligence, ferocity, and athleticism, they would make you an unstoppable engine of destruction."
The hunter's brow furrowed. "I have the Force?"
"No, you were not born with that gift. But I can bestow it upon you."
He cocked an eyebrow, intrigued.
"It can be a risky procedure," he warned. "Part of your blood will be drained, then replaced with a transfusion of blood high in midichlorians. The transfusions will have to continue until your body begins producing them on its own, or for the rest of your life if your body is unable to create its own midichlorians. But the operation will give you the ability to touch and manipulate the Force."
Fett nodded. "A worthwhile risk. But the Jedi are either dead or in hiding. How will you obtain a donor?"
"We have all the donors we need," Palpatine explained. "People are still born with high midichlorian counts, Fett, and I have collected a few likely prospects. We will have to narrow the field down to those of your blood type, of course. But that's a minor concern." He fixed Fett with an expectant stare. "Time for you to make a decision, my friend. Are you willing to become my apprentice?"
"Yes," Fett replied without hesitation.
"Lesson one," he told the hunter. "I am your Master from this moment on. You will address me as such."
"Yes, my master."
With a casual wave of a wizened hand, Fett's restraints popped open.
"I'll have your armor returned to you. Follow me, my young apprentice. Your training begins now."
***
Vader's head came up sharply as he was bent over the N-1 starfighter's engine. A cold shiver rippled up his spine, and a nameless apprehension gripped him.
"Hey, you okay?" asked Han, looking down from the top of the Falcon. "Cut yourself?"
He shook his head. "No. I… thought I heard something."
"Probably Life Squadron whining about Ghede again," Han grumbled. "Chewie, get me an alluvial damper!"
Vader wasn't so sure. That feeling had come out of nowhere, yet it seemed so important. Something was seriously wrong, as if a dark power had just gained an ally. Yet he also sensed that there was little he could do about it.
His mood lightened a bit as he turned his attention to his ship. Despite Bekme's insistence that the fighter was a rare find, ground crew had written it off as a lost cause. When Vader had expressed interest in it, he'd been told he could keep it if he could get it off the ground. They were positive that it couldn't be repaired. Well, he'd prove them wrong.
"Han, spare a power coupling?"
He tossed the part down. "She looks good, Darth. What're you calling her again?"
"Desert Angel," he replied.
"Pretty, but not exactly masculine," Han teased.
"My early-youth memories seem to center around a desert world," Vader explained. "As for the angel part… I remember a woman, a beautiful woman. An angel." He stared off in the distance, wistful. "I wonder if she was my love."
"Are you gonna daydream about angels all day or install the coupling?"
"Bite me, Han."
Chewie roared.
"No, I didn't mean it literally, hairball," Vader shot back. By now he had picked up a basic understanding of the Wookie tongue.
He had been here for two weeks now. The bulk of the Alliance had gone from flinching at the sight of him to simply ignoring him. Except Han, Chewie, and Forenze, of course. And Luke – the boy had finally opened up to him. Though they weren't exactly friends, they had spoken on occasion, and Vader continued to feel an odd connection with him.
He wiped grease from the back of his gauntlet onto the thigh of his dark green mechanic jumpsuit. Thanks to Forenze's medical expertise, he had finally been able to shed most of the armor. The newer cybernetic organs she had planted into his body could be examined and reprogrammed via remote control, eliminating the need for external hardware. He still wore the gauntlets and boots, though more for protective reasons than a show of power. And despite all Forenze's efforts to locate the needed supplies for his lung operation, his mask remained.
Though he detested wearing the mask, he'd stopped fretting so much about it. He'd lived this long with it. He could be patient.
With a grunt of exertion he extracted a burnt-out circuit board from the console. He was almost finished restoring the Desert Angel. All that was needed now was a little work on the hyperdrive, a good polish, and a coat of paint. Too bad the Alliance didn't have the bold, attention-grabbing yellow the fighter had originally been. Perhaps a sky-blue or a slate-gray would work…
…"Now this is podracing!"
The fighter shrieked through a bristling forest of gun turrets, shafts of green fire blazing past. He put the ship into a spin, shouting excitedly all the while. This was fun! He'd always longed to fly a starship, and the experience more than met his expectations.
A blast rocked the fighter, and it corkscrewed through an open hangar door. Skidding across the smooth durasteel floor and leaving a wake of sparks, it finally slid to a halt near the back. Several of the skeletal battle druids jogged toward him as he shrank lower into the seat, trying to hide.
Artoo beeped frantically.
"Everything's overheated!" he exclaimed, trying in vain to restart the engines. Clenching his jaw, he reined in his panic and tried one more time.
The shields flared to life, and all systems went back online. With a whoop of relieved glee he began firing at the droids, then launched a pair of torpedoes for good measure. The resulting explosion was much bigger than he'd anticipated.
"Oops!" He was sure he'd just blown up something important. Hurriedly he turned the starfighter around and screamed out of the exploding battleship, mowing down a battle droid in the process…
The sudden flashback ended. Pensively he ran his finger along a deep groove in the chrome bow, made by some sort of high-speed impact. So that was how he knew so much about this old fighter. He'd flown one before.
Bickering voices reached his ears, and he looked up to see Life Squadron standing in a cluster nearby, griping.
"I get done with my two weeks and wham!" Luke exclaimed, smacking a fist into his palm for emphasis. "Another week slapped on for insubordination! All I did was ask him to ease up on the punishments or he'd bring down morale!"
"Morale's already down to negative digits," complained Dekham.
"Did you and Squib ever go through with sliming his X-wing?" Zev asked Hobbie.
"I gave Squib the grease, but he chickened out," Hobbie replied.
"Did not!" Squib protested, black eyes wide. "He caught me trying to open his X-wing cockpit and he sent me straight to the kitchens!"
"I worked KP that night, Squib, and you weren't there," Janson pointed out.
"Oh, stop picking on him," Mela ordered. "Ghede scares him, and how can you blame him? Man's getting more tyrannical by the day."
"If the Emperor wore a flightsuit and held his breath a long time, I bet he'd look a lot like Ghede," Ar'ya snapped.
Rocky roared with laughter. "Maybe they're cousins," his translator chimed.
Vader shook his head. If Ghede was such a tyrant, why did they tolerate him? Why not put in a complaint to Mon Mothma? Or actually follow through with planned pranks? He stepped forward and pointed a spanner at them, adding his two bits.
"Do you know what your problem is?"
All eyes were on him. Belatedly he realized that most of Life Squadron still hated him, but there was no going back now.
"Your problem," he went on, sweeping the spanner around to indicate he was addressing all of them, "is that you bitch and whine and complain about your stuffy commander, but you won't do anything about it. I understand that you all wish to vent your feelings, but if you want the problem solved it will take more than cross words to do it."
"What're you saying, Vader?" asked Gavin suspiciously.
"I'm telling you to either take action or shut up," he replied. "Some of us are getting tired of the whining."
"I second that!" Han shouted, and Chewie backed him up with a whuff.
"Take action?" repeated Bekme. "You're not suggesting…"
"Not an assassination," Vader replied quickly. "I'm talking about subtle hints that he needs to get his act together. Hobbie and Squib had the right idea with the grease on his controls, but they needed to actually carry the plan out. Simply get the message across that he needs to lighten up. And if he doesn't, we'll have more surprises in store."
Luke nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "I like that idea."
"Why should we listen to him?" demanded Zev with a sour look. "He's probably planning to get us all in trouble."
"Oh no," Vader replied. "No need to listen to me if you don't want to. I'm just the mechanic." He turned his attention back to the Angel.
A sly smile came across Wedge's features. "He's right." He stepped beside Vader and placed a hand on his massive shoulder. "He's just the mechanic. What's more, he's the mechanic that none of the commanders like, and so they pretend he doesn't exist."
Smiles blossomed on every pilot's face as they realized what he was saying.
"So if Darth here were to aid our efforts to terrorize Ghede," he continued, "our loving commander will be none the wiser." He grinned at Vader. "Whaddaya say, pal?"
Vader felt his mouth fall open. Pal? A Rebel had just called him a pal? How had these pilots' attitudes toward him changed so quickly? A mutual dislike, no doubt. They hated Ghede much more than they hated him. And they were quite willing to accept him as an unofficial comrade in order to annoy their commander as much as possible.
An eager grin stretched across his mouth beneath the mask. "Where do you want me to start?"
***
And so it was that the entire Life Squadron was in the mess hall, in the presence of fifty witnesses, when Ghede's astromech mysteriously went on the blink. The R5 unit had been somehow reprogrammed to follow its master around for hours and repeatedly play the theme song from the Holonet's most annoying game show "Credit Fever."
"I need this repaired," Ghede snapped at Vader as he dropped the ailing droid off at the mechanic's workstation. "I'm getting very tired of that song."
"Yes, Commander."
Ghede leaned forward threateningly and lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. "And stay away from my squadron, Vader. I'll not have anything distracting them from their prime duties. Least of all you." He stalked off.
Vader snorted to himself. "His squadron," he muttered, deactivating the droid and opening its dome. "As if they're his personal entourage of servants and not soldiers."
Well then, if it annoyed Ghede to have him fraternizing with "his" soldiers, he'd find Vader spending more time with them than ever.
He fished around the box of music datacards Dekham had given him. So Ghede was tired of the "Credit Fever" theme. Maybe he'd enjoy a few tunes off of "Max Rebo's Greatest Hits." After all, he hadn't said to stop it from playing music entirely, had he?
Palpatine hated these sojourns into the Empire's prison system. It wasn't the oppressiveness of durasteel-reinforced concrete and blaster-proof doors; most Imperial government buildings were built that way anymore. Nor was it the sea of rage, terror, depression, bitterness, and despair that stormed through the entire facility; on the contrary, he fed on those feelings, drinking them in to fuel the dark side.
It was the fact that it was the only place he frequented where he wasn't accorded the respect and obeisance an Emperor deserved.
The criminal refuse that populated this high-security "correctional institution" on Raxus had no reason to respect the Emperor. Most of them were awaiting execution anyhow, so they reasoned that they could only be killed for one crime, be it murder, treason, or simply possessing a filthy mouth in the presence of the dictator. A rainbow of colorful insults and foul language trailed after Palpatine as his scarlet-robed guards escorted him down the cell-lined hall.
He spared a seething Trandoshan a contemptuous glare as he passed. Small wonder these men, women, and aliens were sentenced to die. Those who refused to bow before him had no reason to exist.
Which was why he was here in the first place. He needed a new apprentice to crush the upstart Alliance. He had carefully selected a likely prospect, but the man was stubborn, unwilling to join his cause. So he had kept him contained here these past two weeks, visiting him regularly to hammer away at his iron will. Though he remained adamant about keeping out of the war, his defenses were weakening, and Palpatine sensed that it would not be long before he had the man as an ally.
He paused before a cell containing a terrified male human, cowering in a corner with his fists covering his face. With a tendril of the Force he judged the teenager's sensitivity. Strong, he observed, but unshaped. A waste of good midichlorians, but still…
"Take him," he ordered.
Two guards opened the barred door and stepped into the cell. The boy's eyes widened with horror.
"No!" he screamed, thrashing against the grip of their hands. "Please! I didn't know she was a Rebel! She just asked for a ride and I gave her one! Please give me a break!"
"Transporting a Rebel to the scene of a crime is serving as an accomplice to treason," Palpatine told him. "But in your case, I'll be generous. Instead of completing your sentence here…"
The young man sagged in relief.
"…you'll be taken to my palace on Corusant to serve an alternate punishment." He offered the prisoner a black-toothed grin. "I have plans for you, son."
He screamed the whole way down the hall as the guards dragged him away.
/Pathetic/ Palpatine decided. /But he may be useful./
He walked on. He'd been collecting the Force-strong humans and humanoids among the prisoners these past two weeks. He would need them.
At last he arrived at the maximum-security wing, indicated by the solid, barless doors. Here the most dangerous prisoners were consigned – murderers, rapists, crime barons, assassins, high-ranking Rebels, the very dregs of the underworld such beings inhabited. Dozens of guards and prisoners had met violent deaths in various skirmishes, tainting the halls with a dark-side energy that settled in one's bones. The fury, the terror, the rage contained here boiled and frothed in a volatile brew that poured through Palpatine as he examined the hall.
He reveled in it.
Striding up to the first meter-thick cell door, he keyed it open to reveal a snarling, three-meter mass of red-brown hair and hard muscle. The Wookie charged him, roaring. His guards brought their lances to bear, but Palpatine was quicker. Delving into the dark side, he released a single efficient jolt of lightning into the creature's heart. The beast collapsed, twitching.
"Someone dispose of this," he ordered, turning his back on the corpse and strolling away. He'd known the Wookie hadn't been Force-strong, but he'd needed the diversion.
At last he opened the cell door of the one he had come here for. The man was legendary, almost superhuman according to the stories. Cunning, cool, and focused, he would make an excellent protégé if he could only be convinced. So he'd sent a team of forty stormtroopers to capture the man while he transacted business on Ord Mantell. Only six survived the mission, but at least they had him.
"Remain outside," he told his escort. The dark side would be more than enough to protect him here.
The guards had prepared the prisoner for this meeting as they had for every meeting, cuffing him tightly to the wall and injecting him with mind-altering drugs to weaken his will. Despite his drugged state, however, he affixed Palaptine with a poisonous glare as he entered the cell, the door hissing shut behind him. The blue-black shading around his right eye and the rents in his prison-issue jumpsuit indicated that, though caged, he was still dangerous.
"Not quite as threatening without your armor on, Boba Fett," the Emperor noted.
The hunter snarled. "Die, hack."
"I don't plan on dying for awhile," he replied. "And you aren't in much of a position to carry the threat out, my friend."
"I told you before and I told you again," he hissed. "I'm not joining you."
Palpatine had to force back a smile. There wasn't so much iron in Fett's voice now. His barriers were beginning to fail.
But he would have to play the cards just so. Offers of money and power hadn't worked; Fett's services were famously expensive, so he had already secured a small fortune. And he was adamant about remaining neutral in the Galactic Civil War, so had no interest in being the Empire's second-highest leader. Threats wouldn't work, for he needed Fett to willingly join his cause. But Palpatine had a weapon Fett was unaware of – information on his past, thanks to Darth Tyranus' relationship with the Fett family.
"I only ask that you reconsider the offer," Palpatine requested. "You are a being of honor, Fett. So are the Sith."
Fett spat at his feet. "Good one. The Emperor's a stand-up comedian."
"You don't believe me?" Palpatine clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth across the cell. "Our Order has striven to cleanse the galaxy of the corruption and weakness of the Republic for generations. You lived during that Dark Age, Fett. You know how corrupt senators and rubber-spined politicians sickened the entire galaxy with their taint. We strove to change that, and in return we were banished to apocryphal tales and seen as a legendary, but extinct, evil."
"Don't whitewash the Sith history, old man," Fett snapped. "The Sith started a coup that drenched the entire galaxy in blood before the uprising was put down."
"And how was that uprising put down, my friend? By a massacre. Every Sith in the galaxy, save one, was destroyed – by the Jedi Order."
At the mention of the Jedi, Fett took notice. A jolt of fury pierced his uncaring front and reached the Emperor. Good. He'd touched a nerve. The rollerfish was toying with the bait.
"Ah yes, the mighty Jedi Order," he went on, shaking his head in disdain. "So quick to step in where the government faltered, so quick to offer their… services. Little by little they took advantage of the Republic, snatching scraps of power for themselves wherever they could. It wasn't long before they had the entire galaxy under their control, with puppet chancellors and an army of Knights to carry out their will. Taking the common people under their wing, they said – I see it as crushing them under their thumbs."
Fett was seething now. Palpatine had to strain to keep his expression somber. The fish had taken the bait. Now for a tug to set the hook.
"It was only natural for me to expunge the Order once I was able to wrest away their wrongfully acquired power. Otherwise we would still be serving their Order. But when I assumed that their disgusting cancer had been forever excised from the Empire, I assumed wrong. For a few Jedi still exist, influencing others to rise against me. If they succeed in overthrowing the Empire, a weak government will rule again, with the corruption of the Jedi at its helm."
His glowing orange eyes met Fett's space-black gaze. "Can you imagine the atrocities that would continue to perpetuate were these power-hungry, soulless, baby-snatching fanatics to retake the galaxy? Can you imagine the murders, the kidnappings, the shattered lives, the widows and orphans left to fend for themselves?"
Fett shook with barely contained rage. Good. He had issues with the Jedi Order. Time to reel the man in with a final goad.
"The Jedi rarely thought about the consequences before using their lightsabers," he continued. "Especially a Jedi named Mace Windu."
Fett exploded, uttering a primal howl of rage.
"Problem?" he asked innocently.
"My father! My father!" Fett screamed, veins standing out on his forehead. "Mace Windu killed my father!"
Palpatine pursed his lips to kill a gleeful smile.
"He'd done nothing but made a business deal!" Fett ranted. "A DNA sample in exchange for salary and a son! Is that such a crime?! And the Jedi punished him for that by slicing a laser blade through his neck! While – I – watched!"
Abruptly he wilted, hanging limply from the restraints, choking on his remembered grief and anger. Palpatine watched, keeping his face expressionless. Fett couldn't know how well he'd played into the Emperor's hands. The fish was in the boat now, ready for cleaning.
"I'm sorry," he said gently. "I didn't realize how personal this was for you. My condolences for your loss."
"The Jedi," Fett snarled. "I hate them!"
"And you have every right to, my friend. They could be quite cruel." He extended a beckoning hand. "But you can put your hatred to good use, Boba Fett. Rather than let it eat at you like a cancer, you can use it as a weapon of justice to cut down the last of the Jedi before they have a chance to rise again. You can ensure that no child will ever have to go through what you have been through – watching their father die a violent death."
Fett took a deep breath. "How?"
"Join me." Both hands were extended now, like a parent offering to lift a small child. "Learn the arts of subterfuge, manipulation, mind powers, telekinesis, all the Force's dark side has to offer. Combined with your natural intelligence, ferocity, and athleticism, they would make you an unstoppable engine of destruction."
The hunter's brow furrowed. "I have the Force?"
"No, you were not born with that gift. But I can bestow it upon you."
He cocked an eyebrow, intrigued.
"It can be a risky procedure," he warned. "Part of your blood will be drained, then replaced with a transfusion of blood high in midichlorians. The transfusions will have to continue until your body begins producing them on its own, or for the rest of your life if your body is unable to create its own midichlorians. But the operation will give you the ability to touch and manipulate the Force."
Fett nodded. "A worthwhile risk. But the Jedi are either dead or in hiding. How will you obtain a donor?"
"We have all the donors we need," Palpatine explained. "People are still born with high midichlorian counts, Fett, and I have collected a few likely prospects. We will have to narrow the field down to those of your blood type, of course. But that's a minor concern." He fixed Fett with an expectant stare. "Time for you to make a decision, my friend. Are you willing to become my apprentice?"
"Yes," Fett replied without hesitation.
"Lesson one," he told the hunter. "I am your Master from this moment on. You will address me as such."
"Yes, my master."
With a casual wave of a wizened hand, Fett's restraints popped open.
"I'll have your armor returned to you. Follow me, my young apprentice. Your training begins now."
***
Vader's head came up sharply as he was bent over the N-1 starfighter's engine. A cold shiver rippled up his spine, and a nameless apprehension gripped him.
"Hey, you okay?" asked Han, looking down from the top of the Falcon. "Cut yourself?"
He shook his head. "No. I… thought I heard something."
"Probably Life Squadron whining about Ghede again," Han grumbled. "Chewie, get me an alluvial damper!"
Vader wasn't so sure. That feeling had come out of nowhere, yet it seemed so important. Something was seriously wrong, as if a dark power had just gained an ally. Yet he also sensed that there was little he could do about it.
His mood lightened a bit as he turned his attention to his ship. Despite Bekme's insistence that the fighter was a rare find, ground crew had written it off as a lost cause. When Vader had expressed interest in it, he'd been told he could keep it if he could get it off the ground. They were positive that it couldn't be repaired. Well, he'd prove them wrong.
"Han, spare a power coupling?"
He tossed the part down. "She looks good, Darth. What're you calling her again?"
"Desert Angel," he replied.
"Pretty, but not exactly masculine," Han teased.
"My early-youth memories seem to center around a desert world," Vader explained. "As for the angel part… I remember a woman, a beautiful woman. An angel." He stared off in the distance, wistful. "I wonder if she was my love."
"Are you gonna daydream about angels all day or install the coupling?"
"Bite me, Han."
Chewie roared.
"No, I didn't mean it literally, hairball," Vader shot back. By now he had picked up a basic understanding of the Wookie tongue.
He had been here for two weeks now. The bulk of the Alliance had gone from flinching at the sight of him to simply ignoring him. Except Han, Chewie, and Forenze, of course. And Luke – the boy had finally opened up to him. Though they weren't exactly friends, they had spoken on occasion, and Vader continued to feel an odd connection with him.
He wiped grease from the back of his gauntlet onto the thigh of his dark green mechanic jumpsuit. Thanks to Forenze's medical expertise, he had finally been able to shed most of the armor. The newer cybernetic organs she had planted into his body could be examined and reprogrammed via remote control, eliminating the need for external hardware. He still wore the gauntlets and boots, though more for protective reasons than a show of power. And despite all Forenze's efforts to locate the needed supplies for his lung operation, his mask remained.
Though he detested wearing the mask, he'd stopped fretting so much about it. He'd lived this long with it. He could be patient.
With a grunt of exertion he extracted a burnt-out circuit board from the console. He was almost finished restoring the Desert Angel. All that was needed now was a little work on the hyperdrive, a good polish, and a coat of paint. Too bad the Alliance didn't have the bold, attention-grabbing yellow the fighter had originally been. Perhaps a sky-blue or a slate-gray would work…
…"Now this is podracing!"
The fighter shrieked through a bristling forest of gun turrets, shafts of green fire blazing past. He put the ship into a spin, shouting excitedly all the while. This was fun! He'd always longed to fly a starship, and the experience more than met his expectations.
A blast rocked the fighter, and it corkscrewed through an open hangar door. Skidding across the smooth durasteel floor and leaving a wake of sparks, it finally slid to a halt near the back. Several of the skeletal battle druids jogged toward him as he shrank lower into the seat, trying to hide.
Artoo beeped frantically.
"Everything's overheated!" he exclaimed, trying in vain to restart the engines. Clenching his jaw, he reined in his panic and tried one more time.
The shields flared to life, and all systems went back online. With a whoop of relieved glee he began firing at the droids, then launched a pair of torpedoes for good measure. The resulting explosion was much bigger than he'd anticipated.
"Oops!" He was sure he'd just blown up something important. Hurriedly he turned the starfighter around and screamed out of the exploding battleship, mowing down a battle droid in the process…
The sudden flashback ended. Pensively he ran his finger along a deep groove in the chrome bow, made by some sort of high-speed impact. So that was how he knew so much about this old fighter. He'd flown one before.
Bickering voices reached his ears, and he looked up to see Life Squadron standing in a cluster nearby, griping.
"I get done with my two weeks and wham!" Luke exclaimed, smacking a fist into his palm for emphasis. "Another week slapped on for insubordination! All I did was ask him to ease up on the punishments or he'd bring down morale!"
"Morale's already down to negative digits," complained Dekham.
"Did you and Squib ever go through with sliming his X-wing?" Zev asked Hobbie.
"I gave Squib the grease, but he chickened out," Hobbie replied.
"Did not!" Squib protested, black eyes wide. "He caught me trying to open his X-wing cockpit and he sent me straight to the kitchens!"
"I worked KP that night, Squib, and you weren't there," Janson pointed out.
"Oh, stop picking on him," Mela ordered. "Ghede scares him, and how can you blame him? Man's getting more tyrannical by the day."
"If the Emperor wore a flightsuit and held his breath a long time, I bet he'd look a lot like Ghede," Ar'ya snapped.
Rocky roared with laughter. "Maybe they're cousins," his translator chimed.
Vader shook his head. If Ghede was such a tyrant, why did they tolerate him? Why not put in a complaint to Mon Mothma? Or actually follow through with planned pranks? He stepped forward and pointed a spanner at them, adding his two bits.
"Do you know what your problem is?"
All eyes were on him. Belatedly he realized that most of Life Squadron still hated him, but there was no going back now.
"Your problem," he went on, sweeping the spanner around to indicate he was addressing all of them, "is that you bitch and whine and complain about your stuffy commander, but you won't do anything about it. I understand that you all wish to vent your feelings, but if you want the problem solved it will take more than cross words to do it."
"What're you saying, Vader?" asked Gavin suspiciously.
"I'm telling you to either take action or shut up," he replied. "Some of us are getting tired of the whining."
"I second that!" Han shouted, and Chewie backed him up with a whuff.
"Take action?" repeated Bekme. "You're not suggesting…"
"Not an assassination," Vader replied quickly. "I'm talking about subtle hints that he needs to get his act together. Hobbie and Squib had the right idea with the grease on his controls, but they needed to actually carry the plan out. Simply get the message across that he needs to lighten up. And if he doesn't, we'll have more surprises in store."
Luke nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "I like that idea."
"Why should we listen to him?" demanded Zev with a sour look. "He's probably planning to get us all in trouble."
"Oh no," Vader replied. "No need to listen to me if you don't want to. I'm just the mechanic." He turned his attention back to the Angel.
A sly smile came across Wedge's features. "He's right." He stepped beside Vader and placed a hand on his massive shoulder. "He's just the mechanic. What's more, he's the mechanic that none of the commanders like, and so they pretend he doesn't exist."
Smiles blossomed on every pilot's face as they realized what he was saying.
"So if Darth here were to aid our efforts to terrorize Ghede," he continued, "our loving commander will be none the wiser." He grinned at Vader. "Whaddaya say, pal?"
Vader felt his mouth fall open. Pal? A Rebel had just called him a pal? How had these pilots' attitudes toward him changed so quickly? A mutual dislike, no doubt. They hated Ghede much more than they hated him. And they were quite willing to accept him as an unofficial comrade in order to annoy their commander as much as possible.
An eager grin stretched across his mouth beneath the mask. "Where do you want me to start?"
***
And so it was that the entire Life Squadron was in the mess hall, in the presence of fifty witnesses, when Ghede's astromech mysteriously went on the blink. The R5 unit had been somehow reprogrammed to follow its master around for hours and repeatedly play the theme song from the Holonet's most annoying game show "Credit Fever."
"I need this repaired," Ghede snapped at Vader as he dropped the ailing droid off at the mechanic's workstation. "I'm getting very tired of that song."
"Yes, Commander."
Ghede leaned forward threateningly and lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. "And stay away from my squadron, Vader. I'll not have anything distracting them from their prime duties. Least of all you." He stalked off.
Vader snorted to himself. "His squadron," he muttered, deactivating the droid and opening its dome. "As if they're his personal entourage of servants and not soldiers."
Well then, if it annoyed Ghede to have him fraternizing with "his" soldiers, he'd find Vader spending more time with them than ever.
He fished around the box of music datacards Dekham had given him. So Ghede was tired of the "Credit Fever" theme. Maybe he'd enjoy a few tunes off of "Max Rebo's Greatest Hits." After all, he hadn't said to stop it from playing music entirely, had he?