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13. Down Among the Dead Men
The new converter didn't fit.
Devona turned it over in her hands, searching for a seam or a crack or anything else that would allow her to shatter it against a wall. She'd spent five hundred credits she didn't really have on the thing, all because the blasted Corellian warranty didn't cover Coruscant airspace. Mother of suns, she was going to kill someone.
Maybe she could ask Arden for money…the woman always seemed to have some….
She caught her finger against the edge of it, and promptly stuck the wounded digit in her mouth. Why do the Jedi get to sit around and watch the holovid while I have to fix the ship? Aren't Jedi supposed to be mechanically inclined? Stupid Force-users…
"Devi-buzz, the computer says the shield generator is drawing power from the auxiliary engines."
Devona turned her head slowly, and fixed Elan Sleazbaggano with a speculative stare that clearly made him uncomfortable. The smarmy-looking little dealer had proved oddly adept at repairing things when given directions, and the thought occurred to her that he might actually be useful. "Elan, how much do you make with your selling?"
"Enough," he said evasively.
She set the converter down and approached him slowly, hands outstretched. "Elan, darling, could you possibly do me a favor?"
"It always starts that way, you know. You want a favor. Then you want deathsticks. Then you tie me to my bed and have your filthy way with me and steal my pharmacy." Elan folded his arms and stared at her accusingly. "Right?"
Devona paused, not entirely sure how to respond to that. "Well, it's like--"
A proximity alert went off on the bridge, and Devona didn't try finishing her bargain. Instead, she checked the blaster at her hip and scurried for the hatchway, thumbing the outdoor security feed. Almost immediately, the image of a Republic Investigation Craft blew to life on the screen, along with an incoming message from said vessel. Dev shut her eyes and cursed. "Elan."
"Yeah?"
"Find someone with a Corellian V-7 converter. I don't care how much it is; just find one close by. Datapad's on the table. Go."
Elan disappeared into the common room, and Devona made sure she looked appropriately mussed (and therefore harmless) before keying the 'vid acceptor. An elderly Rodian in a gray Republic uniform smiled at her -- or at least made the best approximation that his species could muster. "Hello, Wanderer. Sorry to intrude, but we've received a rather irate call from the owner of this dock--"
"Good morning," she said cheerfully. Sithspit! They're on to us! Think, Devi, think. I know! Act! You always liked acting! She smiled into the screen, and spat out the first thing that came to mind: "My ship's broken!" Well… that was stupid of you. "I've been trying to fix it, but my co-pilot is slow in getting the parts. How can I help you?"
The Rodian looked unperturbed by her babbling. "The owner of the dock says the military transport next to yours is not cleared to remain here--"
"There's a military transport out there?" Devona blinked. "Could've fooled me."
"It is registered to a potential deserter from the 98th Attack Group on Rhen Var -- a Jedi Knight." The Rodian stared at her, and she realized how very similar his antennae were to Elan's. "No doubt you have heard the news."
"Rhen Var?" Dev heard a clattering from the kitchen and muted complaints as Elan tripped over something. "I don't know anyone from Rhen Var, sir, but you can do what you want with it. I'd rather not have guns pointed at me -- " Stupid, you just ignored the entire Jedi bit. Well, maybe he won't notice.
The Rodian sounded distinctly displeased. "This fugitive is very dangerous. He may be hiding in your cargo hold. He is gifted in deception, sabotage, and has killed several of his own troops. He is armed and dangerous."
Deception? Sabotage? A killer? Dack Meridian -- gentle, fun-loving Dack Meridian -- the great Jedi actor, the man who firmly believed the galaxy was his stage – silly Dack, a wanted killer? Even Palpatine's sweeping remarks had not quite allowed her to view Knight Meridian in such a light. Joclad Danva, fine; the man had a sharp edge to him. But Dack?
Think, Devona! Buy him some time!
"I don't think he's in my cargo hold," she said. "But, uh, here..." She unlocked the hatch – what else can I do? -- and called over her shoulder: "Elan, darling, throw some clothes on, we might have a fugitive in the cargo hold." Please don't be getting high in the galley.
The Rodian came aboard with disturbing alacrity, still puckering his mouthpiece in that frightening imitation of a grin. Devona smiled back brightly, resting her left hand on her hip and activating the comlink she'd jammed into her belt earlier that morning. "Welcome, sir. The cargo hatch is right there -- it's a little messy, I'm afraid--"
He disappeared down the steps without waiting for her to finish. Devona waited a second for him to find the lights, and then keyed the door shut behind him. That should hold him… until he starts screaming for help.
Elan chose that moment to emerge from the galley with his head wrapped in a towel. "Honeyoat, what about a fugitive?"
Dev stared at him before running another scan on the perimeter. "I've got him locked in the cargo hold. Tell him you're trying to fix it. I have to get a line to Arden, and you better have found a conver--"
"Burnada Stolento has one," he said. "It's at the Refinery, but it'll--"
"Get ready to get it." She took the comlink with her to the bridge, shouting over her shoulder, "And put your clothes back on!"
He hustled back into the kitchen -- and hopefully his clothing. She looked down at the comlink, and heard the faint breathing of Arden on the other end. Good: the woman had heard some of it. Devona brought it up to her lips, leaning out the hatch and paling at what she saw. This… was a really bad idea.
"Better get the boys out of there," she said quietly into the comlink as she studied the clone troopers milling around the ships. "I think we need to get moving."
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What are you doing?
Be careful, Master!
Clones have turned...
I repeat, assistance, I need assistance, help!
You can't--
I don't know...
But why?
How...
Why--
Why--
Why?
The voices built up, swelled through her mind and nearly blew out her ability to think before she finally crawled out of the dark tunnel into which she'd fallen. Distant memory of blaster fire and spinning, whirling -- pain in her shoulder and upper back as sensation returned...
My head… really kriffin' hurts…
Water had seeped into her boots. That was supposed to be impossible.
Stass Allie gradually realized that her toes were cold, and, shortly thereafter, noticed that something heavy had collapsed on top of her. The bike! Vague memories of an attack lit into her mind, and she immediately Force-shoved the machinery away. The remains of the bike spun wildly several centimeters above her before landing with a heavy splash a few meters away from her feet. With the weight lifted, Stass lay quietly for several seconds, trying to reconstruct the sequence of events that had led to her predicament.
The murky, half-bad air of Saleucami stuck to her lungs, and she pushed herself up onto her elbow. Nothing appeared broken; the Force had cushioned whatever sort of fall she had taken. Somehow she'd managed to harness her capabilities with the power enough to keep her alive through what was starting to look like a very nasty crash. Well… that's something, at least, isn't it?
Her eyes gradually focused on the still wreck of her speeder, already partially submerged in the swampy murk. Stass held out her hands, observing lacerations and a nasty burn extending from her wrist up to her elbow. A quick inspection of the speeder revealed similar burns. Her head ached badly, but she supposed that just went with the territory of a crash – and the war itself.
She knew the look of this sort of discharge. The clones used the same sort...her own bike used the same...
Her clones! Bender and Slash - what happened to them? There must have been an ambush. Why didn't I sense it?
She reached down to her belt but knew her comlink was useless the instant her fingers touched it. Lying on her right side in the swamp had all but fried its circuits, and she dropped the device into the water. Her lightsaber, cushioned against her hip and the dry cloth of her tunic, appeared intact, and its bright green blade at once reassured and troubled her. She kept it on as she surveyed the wreck site, slowly pushing herself to her feet. Aside from the requisite bruises and scrapes, Stass decided she was in fairly good shape.
Something moved in the trees. Her head swam as she turned too quickly, and she added concussion to the list of injuries. Reaching up to probe for bruises, her fingertips brushed against the soiled and waterlogged white tentacles of her Tholoth headdress. Damn. She pulled it off, and cold water trickled down her neck as it escaped from her hair.
She held the headdress out and regarded it mournfully. It's done. Stass had made repairs to the thing following Geonosis and her campaign on Corellia, but there was little left for her to work with. She ran her fingers over one tentacle, and it nearly fell apart even with just that gentle pressure. A sigh escaped her chapped lips: there's just nothing left to fix... She held the ruined headdress for several seconds, wondering just how wrong it would be to cart the thing back to the temple with her. It is part of my memories...
You're attached to a headdress. Bad Jedi.
Stass quickly dropped the thing and tried to ignore the prickle of guilt she felt as the burned and torn white tentacles vanished into the murky water. The headdress was nothing more than a material object... a material object easily replaced, once she returned home.
Still, the headdress had been across the galaxy with her. I shouldn't have to leave it on Saleucami. It deserved better. There; she could be a bit bitter over its sad demise. The fate of the headdress was a sorry one indeed.
She moved uneasily through the swamp, stretching her senses as far as her aching head would allow. Something else bothered her: a sort of dull, insistent throb that pulsed at her undermind itself. Stass tried inspecting it, but each time she probed into its cause she received only a peculiar blackness that threatened to squeeze at her psyche.
She pressed on through the swamp, following the trail the Force laid out for her. She hadn't gotten far from the base when -- whatever it was -- had occurred, and retracing her steps was fairly easy. She found no sign of Bender and Slash -- or any other troops, for that matter. Certainly if there had been an ambush, the others would be on their way to back her up.
Or dead. The lack of bodies sent off a warning bell, and Stass edged along cautiously.
She felt no trace of the CIS snipers, and the fact that no one had shot off her head yet struck her as a good thing.
Lively buzzing in the Force indicated the base just around one of the great tu-hikka trees, the current bane of the sensor operator's existence. She laid a hand on the tree and felt its great strength pulsing through her palm, lending its power to her aching body. She drew only slightly on its offering, just enough to skitter up its smooth, sloped trunk and peer through the opening in the branches.
The base -- what remained of it -- appeared to be in the final stages of disassembly. Thousands of clone troops went about their business with typical efficiency, loading things onto various transports.
They're leaving without me, she noted. Almost like I'm dead...
Maybe there'd been a nasty explosion when her bike went down. Bender and Slash might have simply assumed...
Still, one would expect a little bit of muted concern over the loss of a commanding officer. The clones went about their lives, seemingly not missing their general at all. Well, Stass thought, if I'd known I was going to be so disposable, I'd have jumped ship a long time ago. They run just fine without me.
Two of them approached the tree, rifles held at ready as they completed a patrol. It wasn't Bender and Slash; she vaguely identified the signature of B422, but the other clone was a mystery. Stass kept herself hidden, reaching out with the Force to better hear their conversation:
"She was kind to us."
"She was a traitor. They all were."
She? There aren't a lot of women in the camp... The words did not entirely register. Were there traitors underfoot? Treachery was not something the clones were bred for, though Stass supposed, if left to their own devices, even the best Kamino-breds might eventually go to unsavory places. Human nature allowed little else.
"And what are we supposed to do now?" one asked.
She leaned out of the tree, trusting that the foliage would conceal her presence.
"We will follow the Emperor's orders," the other said.
Emperor? If the clones hadn't been completely deadpan, Stass might have thought it were some sort of inside joke. Gods knew the soldiers had enough of them.
Then what…? She took a deep breath, and reached slowly outward through the void. If the clones did not provide an explanation, then Stass would find one herself.
I must not go back there. The answer was as clear to her as the casual way the clones discussed treachery. She didn't fully understand it; she didn't have to fully understand it. Her logical mind told her to walk right up to the clones and demand answers. But her instincts said no.
The Force did not reveal the extent of the galaxy's turmoil to her. It didn't need to; Stass Allie felt it as she crept down from the tree and backtracked to her trashed speeder. Design flaws aside, the Aratech bikes were damned hard to completely destroy. She might be able to jury-rig a ride to the nearest starport not inhabited by clones.
Something terrible had clearly happened.
But what?
As she passed a particular part of the swamp, she extended her hand. The headdress burst out of the mucky surface and slapped against her palm, trailing brackish liquid. Stass closed her hand around the tentacles and asked herself what the hell she thought she was doing.
The headdress was ruined; she had no hope of fixing it. So why bother?
Everything else is suddenly different, she snapped at her inner critic. Let me keep this.
Stass glanced back over her shoulder once, and then trudged on.
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Far beneath the shattered rooms of the Jedi Temple, a series of long-empty holding cells were visited by two Sith Lords. Master and apprentice strolled languidly past open doors, paying no notice to the Force-blockers deactivated long ago. Nothing lived in this forgotten sector of the building, and it was for that precise reason that they came here; if nothing lived, then nothing could watch them.
"I don't see how two Jedi could have come here without us sensing them," the younger man said.
"They cloaked. Clearly, they were powerful. They are of no consequence, however." The older man, buried underneath a cowl, lifted his gnarled hands. "I have a new task for you, my apprentice."
Darth Vader canted his head slightly. "Yes, my master?"
"A number of Jedi escaped the initial brunt of Order 66. I have already received reports of squadrons losing track of them in battles, or even releasing them when mind-tricked." Palpatine's expression deepened into a frown. "It seems some of your former brethren are more inclined to… survival than others."
Vader considered this. He had expected a goodly number of the Jedi to escape, at least initially; some of them were clever, almost cunning, and if they gained the upper hand with their clones, it would be fairly easy to escape...and, if they were intelligent, vanish into exile. A single knight, limited in his options, might not cause much trouble in the long run. But if these survivors were permitted to join forces…. "They must be stopped."
"Yes." Palpatine lifted a gnarled finger and inclined it toward Vader. "You will seek them out. You may find it somewhat more…challenging…than your work in the temple."
The man who had once been the Chosen One let his mind drift to the future, and through tendrils of fog he watched his own shadow duel with a thousand specks of light. Fight them on a hundred different worlds, a dark voice whispered. Decorate the stars with their blood, and then you will have your power…. "I look forward to it," he said.
They paused in front of a particular cell. The door was closed, though Vader felt faint pulses of madness tinging the air around him. The Jedi Temple, like all bastions of power, maintained a specified prison block for its deadliest offenders. This row had not been used for hundreds of years, and yet….
There was a life force not three meters away.
"There's someone in there?" How odd it felt, expressing surprise. "I was to kill anyone I came across..." Clearly he'd failed in that respect, if someone had lived to be thrown into the cell.
Palpatine appeared not to care. "The enemies of the Jedi Order may be made use of, Lord Vader."
"The Jedi proclaim to have no enemies."
"Do they? And just how do they explain their hatred of the Sith?" Palpatine cackled, and from the depths of his cowl his eyes gleamed. "The Jedi have spouted off their nonsense about peace and compassion for millennia, my apprentice, but they have never put it into firm practice."
Vader would allow the layers of corruption, but the explanation did not assuage his curiosity as to the occupant of the cell. He sent out a single questioning blip through the Force, passing through the durasteel and exploring the cell on his own. Through the pitch black of its interior, he honed in on a single, slightly familiar spark.
It can't be... He pulled back. Palpatine smiled knowingly.
Vader regarded the cell. He knew the presence in there, though not well. The events of the previous night played slowly through his sharpened mind. "Master."
"Yes, Lord Vader?"
"What of the ones from the temple? Vastor and -- "
Palpatine chuckled thinly. "Your perception grows. Leave them to me."
But what use could they possibly be? Vader pressed his living hand against the durasteel, honing in on a patch where another, smaller hand had briefly clutched for purchase. He heard the screams as clearly as if he had been standing right there when they brought her in, saw her wretched struggles go in vain.
Her hand reached the walls once. The clones pulled her free easily.
It was not the first set of clones to work with her; he saw the Force-blocker glinting from her neck as easily as a piece of jewelry. They put that on after, he learned, after...after she killed the first set...the first ones that came for her...
Vader withdrew his mind. "Why the screaming?"
Palpatine shrugged. "Perhaps she felt them dying. Or perhaps she was afraid."
On some locked-away level, Anakin Skywalker threatened to surface. Sympathy, the emotion was called. Compassion. She had never been unkind to him. Quite the contrary; her tolerance of his Council-jarring activities was something of a local legend in the temple. "She likely had no part in the uprising," Vader said, cautiously aware that such a thing as mercy would not earn him further favor from Palpatine. "She did turn, after all."
"Yes… she did."
Vader withdrew his hand from the wall and closed it into a fist, crushing away the fear and agony that the imprint had transferred to his mind. "She's very quiet now."
"For the time being." Palpatine smiled thinly. "There is no one left for her to cry out for."
Vader peered through the tiny square in the cell. He could barely see her gaunt frame huddled in a corner, but the silhouette drew a smile to his lips. The high and mighty Master, now a prisoner of her own making… how the tables do turn. "What will you do with her?"
"It depends on what is left to work with," the Emperor said. "I may let Vastor…play with her a bit, after I've evaluated him."
"As incentive?"
The other man chuckled. "You must learn to see things outside the view of the Light, Lord Vader. Incentive has nothing to do with it, though he may think otherwise. Vastor is a key, but I am more interested in what our little friend in there has to offer us."
"If she can even be reached."
"Oh, she can be reached." Palpatine started walking again. Vader lingered in front of the doorway, and thought he saw the cell's occupant staring back at him. "It's just a matter of bringing her around. That is how Vastor will help us."
Vader was loathe to admit he did not fully grasp the Emperor's meaning. Palpatine gave a rasping laugh, and turned around to face him. "You don't understand yet. Do you remember what you told me of the Jedi in the sparring room? The tournament fighter."
He recalled the incident all too clearly. "He was using the Dark Side to protect himself…." The idea suddenly formed, and he snatched it. "You're going to use Vastor to…?"
"To awaken her better nature? Yes." Palpatine beckoned Vader away from the cell, and master and apprentice proceeded down the corridor again. "Her mind is already broken, so she may be quite receptive. Beyond that, Vastor may not serve much use."
They reached the end of the block and moved quietly toward the turbolift. It ascended silently, moving from the depths of the temple to the topmost portions, where Vader's starfighter rested quietly on a private landing pad, untouched by the smoke and death that shrouded so much of the building. "What about the other one? The strange woman."
Palpatine gave a slow nod. "I will look into her," he said. "I have my own suspicions."
"Yes?"
"Yes." But much to Vader's irritation, Palpatine would say no more on the subject. Indeed, neither man spoke until Vader's starfighter rested on its landing struts in front of them, and the Emperor effectively dismissed his new henchman.
"Go now, Lord Vader. Hunt down the last of their foolish number… and bring greater glory to us all."