Chapter 9

It is interesting how people react to severe stress, especially that induced by life-threatening situations and great fear. For some, time seems to slow, for others events become very clear in a way they normally aren't. And still for others, panic sets in and they are effectively frozen in place, unable to take action even to save themselves. Then there are combinations of each, though often panic stands alone.

The Mule felt it odd that such thoughts would be flitting about in his mind, but then he had seldom felt much in the way of fear. Fear is what he artificially induced in others, since he was able to create emotional changes in their minds with little to no effort. He had assumed such changes were permanent, until now.

Fear clawed its icy fingers into the Mule now, as he detected not only the powerful rage from the approaching cyborg – he was certain it was a man, beyond that he could not tell. So he found himself recalling how others reacted to fear, both from what he had read in archives, and from what he had witnessed.

He felt time slowing, almost unperceptively at first, but then as the danger grew closer, the effect of time dilation increased, at least within his own mind. He knew academically that part of that was caused by adrenalin, but that wasn't all of it. His own considerable mental psychic abilities enhanced that effect somehow, drawing it out.

Were it not for his own growing fear, which the Mule found rather uncomfortable, he might have relished this new-found ability. Another part of his mind sensed yet another danger, though still related to the approaching menace.

The carefully mentally adjusted men all about him were being … tampered with somehow. The waves of rage being emitted forth from the approaching cyborg included psychic shockwaves. In his own mind, the Mule could envision the switches within the minds of those he had adjusted being flicked half-way in a direction, or flipped all the way. The evidence was visible on the faces of the men surrounding him.

Not only would the Mule be forced to face the onslaught of the approaching cyborg, who he now knew to be in system and heading in his direction, but he would have to reach out and re-adjust what the man had either knowingly or unknowingly misadjusted.

…

Captain Jaktorz sucked in a breath, as suddenly he felt he had been pulled from being immersed in water. He found his head was clearing, and he looked around. What was he doing on an Imperial Star Destroyer? His duty station was on the Kessel monitoring station. He blinked a couple of times and shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs.

He was standing on a bridge of a Star Destroyer. To his right were a contingent of stormtroopers, a few of them uncharacteristically looking around instead of maintaining their military bearing. Then he saw no fewer than five higher-ranking Imperial naval officers, some of whom also wore expressions of mild confusion.

Jaktorz saw toward his left something that made him suck in his breath again. Disbursed throughout were several military personnel wearing uniforms completely alien to him. The men wearing them were human enough, but their uniforms were not Imperial. On the deck next to one of the officers who appeared highest in rank was a lanky and pathetic looking being Jaktorz could only assume was human. The being appeared to stare wide-eyed at a far bulkhead, moving its mouth slowly.

Jaktorz almost physically recoiled when he turned his gaze back to the higher-ranking officer in alien garb. The man wore a mask of rage Jaktorz had seldom witnessed outside his experience in the Clone Wars. The man's teeth were hard-set, his fists were clenching and unclenching, and his gaze swung to settle on the pathetic being next to him.

The being next to the man appeared oblivious to the hateful glare of the military man next to him, still focusing on a far bulkhead. Jaktorz noted the man slowly unclench his right fist and slowly move toward his holstered sidearm while trembling. But then the arm locked in place, a tiny screech of helpless rage emitting from his throat.

At that moment, Jaktorz sensed another emotion he'd known only once before, and that was in the presence of Lord Vader. He felt strongly that this was not the place to remain, so he slowly backed toward the nearest corridor and then moved briskly toward the main hangar bay.

…

Realization slammed into Han Pritcher like a tidal wave. He knew! He knew everything. Memories flooded back into his mind. A vision of an emaciated old man hunched over a terminal, bleeding out the last drops of his life to gain information for … him!

The foolish clown of a misshapen man with a pointed beak of a nose was not Magnifico Giganticus, the fool of the Mule – he was the Mule himself! He had single-handedly upset the balance of the entire galaxy in his own favor, manipulating the minds of anyone with whom he came in contact.

More visions flooded Pritcher's mind: Bayta Darell leveling a blaster, surprising Pritcher – she pointed it at the back of Ebling's head. Her finger was on the contact. Ebling Mis was saying over and over again, excitedly but weakly, that he'd found something, completely ignorant of the fact that his life was held by just a thin thread.

Then he saw Bayta freeze in place like a statue, and the seemingly innocuous little fool had completely changed his countenance from blissful ignorance to cold calculation. In less than a second, Bayta's face went blank, and she dropped the blaster.

Then the Mule's gaze had swung to him, and Pritcher felt his mind wiped from it all he had seen. All doubts about the little mutant man vanished, and his loyalty was artificially injected and reinforced. All memories of anything to do with the situation melted away like wax in a blazing fire.

But now, he remembered. He remembered it all. The betrayal! This was the Mule that the Foundation had fought so hard to defeat in vain, and he had shattered the Seldon Plan completely and utterly, likely dooming the galaxy to thousands of years of darkness and chaos. He was the enemy of all that was good!

Rage consumed Pritcher, but he cleared away just enough of it to take decisive action. He had been a military man for most of his life, first with the Foundation, and then for the Mule. The Foundation might be dead, but at least one of its soldiers was not, and he would now do what must be done.

Pritcher reached for his sidearm. He tried to reach for it, but something was slowing his arm, and controlling his ability to command his own muscles. Furious, Pritcher strained to overcome the debilitation. He had to reach his blaster. Once he did, he could blast a hole in the Mule, ending his tyranny. Now was the time! A strangled cry of rage gurgled from deep in his throat, refusing to blossom into fullness. All his focus and will was on ending the Mule once and for all.

…

Captain Poltz blinked several times, as he sensed conflicted feelings cascading through his mind. The man from the alien galaxy known as Han Pritcher had recently taken command of all Imperial operations and vessels here just outside the Maw. But something seemed amiss about that. He shouldn't have been in command of anything here. Should he?

Poltz turned to see what was around him for the first time. Oh, he had seen it before, but as in a weird haze. Now he could … almost see clearly. He tried to speak, but only nonsense fell from his mouth. He shook his head. What was he trying to do? That's right, he was issuing orders for the arrest of Pritcher and that strange looking mutant of his.

Only he couldn't articulate his thoughts into coherent words. Well, he could at least provide hand and arm signals to the stormtroopers, so he gestured with his right hand … only it wouldn't move more than a centimeter or two. Why couldn't he gesture or speak? What form of sorcery was this? Was Pritcher some Jedi Knight of old, come back to re-conquer the galaxy and place it under the slavery of the Jedi?

No, that didn't seem right. He wore no lightsaber, and Poltz knew from his own childhood that Jedi had never gone anywhere without them. He could be in disguise though … but no, something else was wrong.

Looking more closely at Pritcher, Poltz saw fury in his eyes, and it was focused on the misshapen man at his side – the lanky mutant with a pointed nose and soft-brown eyes. In wonder, Polz witnessed Pritcher struggling to reach his own sidearm, while glaring at the small mutant. That prompted Poltz to shift his gaze to the mutant, who appeared to be locked in concentration, staring at a far bulkhead, a tiny bead of sweat cascading down its unhandsome face. Could the mutant actually be causing all of this?

…

The shuttle with Lord Vader aboard belched from beneath the Star Destroyer and raced toward its target – another Star Destroyer floating among two others, some support craft, and a host of oblong alien starships.

Lord Vader sat at the head of a squad of stormtroopers. The stormtroopers accompanying him were the best of the best, armored and armed with only the most recent Imperial gear and weaponry, highly trained and skilled in their craft. These men had been culled from the most elite of the 501st Legion, and their training included every variation of small-unit combat tactics available. They were always ready.

Vader gave that not a second thought, as his focus was on the Force user ensconced on the Star Destroyer toward which the shuttle was speeding. This man had dared strike against Imperial assets, and he would pay dearly. Yes, the Emperor had suggested he wanted the target alive, but Vader would deal with him as he saw fit.

As the shuttle docked, and the main ramp lowered, the stormtrooper squad accompanying Vader were quickly on their feet and raced off the shuttle at port arms, prepared to defend their commander at all costs. Vader swiftly followed them, ignoring the hastily placed welcoming contingent that was there to meet him.

"Lord Vader, your arrival was unanticipated, but we g … ghaa!" choked out an Imperial officer who quickly crumpled to the ground as he felt his throat being crushed by an invisible force.

"Clear a path to the bridge!" roared Vader, as he stalked toward the nearest lift. The accompanying stormtrooper squad had already done so, while securing the lift for Vader. Vader wasted no effort on the palpable fear he sensed from those around him. His focus was singular.

…

Time had slowed as much as possible for the Mule, and he felt a cold calmness wash over him. He could feel intense hatred from just beside him. Pritcher was awake, his adjustment undone. Others in the room who had been adjusted were not completely undone, but … scrambled. The Mule would have to act quickly.

He sensed Pricher reaching for his sidearm, and he knew the man's intent. The Mule reached into Pritcher's mind. The dials he envisioned there were a mess, and heat from Pritcher's fury permeated his mind. Worse, what had caused their mis-adjustment was still present. The menace causing it grew ever closer. There! The Mule found what would freeze Pritcher in place.

Incredibly, Pricher's rage was sufficient to override the Mule's adjustments, and he sensed Pritcher's hand still moving toward the blaster. His hatred for the Mule must indeed have been great to grant him that much free-will.

But it was not enough. The Mule found the other switches – the ones feeding Pritcher's memories and rage. He adjusted those too, and then he found more latent areas and adjusted them.

The Mule did not have to look at Pritcher to witness the effect of his work. Gone was the rage, replaced by mild confusion. That would have to do for now. Too many others on the bridge of this ship were prepared to act rashly.

Quickly, the Mule reached into the minds of others present, including Captain Poltz. Within just a few seconds he was done, but not really – the approaching cyborg still projected waves of psychic energy that threatened to thwart the Mule's machinations.

…

A door just ahead of Captain Jaktorz hissed open, and he threw himself against the nearest bulkhead. A squad of stormtroopers flowed by with a towering black figure in cape and imposing helmeted mask in the midst.

Jaktorz remained where he was, frozen in terror. He had heard too many stories of Lord Vader effortlessly and seemingly randomly dispatching those in his way, and Jaktorz had come dangerously close to becoming yet another such story.

It took nearly all of his ingrained military discipline for Jaztorz to regain his composure and swiftly resume his trek to the main hangar bay. He intended to exit the ship and return to his station if it was the last thing he did.

…

Through his mask, Lord Vader could see the body heat signatures of everyone around him, which allowed him to measure stress to a certain extent. His mask's HUD arrays included an impressive suite of tools for analysis, but it paled in comparison to the power of the Force.

As he wheeled the corner and stormed into the bridge, Vader sensed hostility before even the first blaster shot was fired. Of almost its own will, his crimson lightsaber ignited and deflected a blaster bolt back at a stormtrooper who had fired. The trooper fell to the ground, a newly-formed smoking hole in his chest, created by his own blaster bolt.

Almost simultaneously, two blaster bolts from opposite sides of the bridge sped toward Vader, also only to be deflected back at their owners, who met similar fates as the now dead stormtrooper. His own stormtroopers fanned quickly throughout the bridge, raining death on those they perceived as threats to their master.

Vader knew that only one powerfully strong in the Force could have instigated Imperial personnel to fire at him, forfeiting their own mortal existence. He scanned the room and found his target. A malformed version of a man with long skinny legs, an oversized head and a beak of a nose cowered at the foot of a man in a strange uniform. The misshapen man's appearance meant nothing to Vader

"Size matters not," once said Master Yoda, who despite his underwhelming appearance had been incredibly strong in the Force.

Vader stalked toward his target, using the force to hurl aside those around the cowering man on the deck, including the one that had been standing just next to him. The misshapen man then turned his soft-brown eyes toward Vader's death mask. Vader lifted his lightsaber to strike, and as he swung downward he could feel his momentum slow, until the crimson blade hovered mere centimeters from the figure's neck.

With helpless fury, Vader realized the man was using the Force to physically stop him. Only the Emperor had ever demonstrated a hint of that kind of power. Vader clenched his left fist, and the Force worked to bring pressure the throat of the man, but he felt that too being repelled.

Still, the small man coughed, but his soft expression did not alter.

…

No sooner had the Mule regained nominal control of the room, new stormtroopers entered the room, blasting some of his converted men. Then he saw the cyborg threat, and it was terrible to behold. Clad completely in black, wearing gauntlets, boots, a helmet reminiscent of old Earth soldiers, and an imposing mask, the cyborg pulled out what looked like a laser sword, effortlessly ricocheting blaster bolts back at those who fired them.

The cyborg was lethality incarnate, wrapped in a package of focused rage – focused on the Mule himself. The cyborg ignored all other targets in favor of the Mule. How did the cyborg know it was him? Pritcher was invisibly flung from his side, and hurled unceremoniously against a bulkhead – likely unconscious.

The nightmare visage locked on to the Mule, as the laser sword arched in his direction. The Mule had little time to react.

He reached into the mind of the cyborg, and his own imagery of the cyborg's mind was of a blinding white light, produced by great rage, and he was … resisted. Normally, he could mentally find envisioned dials and switches, make adjustments, and be back out of another mind within microseconds. This was like moving through thick gelatin, his mental fingers laboriously finding dials and switches, only to be resisted by some invisible force.

More sweat beaded down the forehead of the Mule, caused not only by the heat generated from the ever-closer laser sword blade, but also through the taxing of his mental control. Every microsecond of failure lead to his demise, and the end of his hard-won empire.

The Mule knew that the cyborg could be only temporarily hindered. What its own muscles failed to do, its cybernetic parts would accomplish given time. The Mule had to dig deeper than normal. He had to probe memories. So he dug, and the blade moved closer to his neck.

As he dug deeper into the cyborg's memories, he felt an odd pressure on his throat, though nobody was touching him. He coughed, and mentally pushed against that pressure. This was a distraction for which he had no time. The Mule could now feel the heat from the laser sword's blade beginning to burn the skin of his neck.

There! He found it – a memory of … betrayal.

He lied to you! shouted the mule into the cyborg's mind. The Mule peeled back a latent memory like the skin of an onion and exposed it to the emotions of the cyborg. In it he could see the face of a gnarled old man with yellow eyes, laughing maliciously.

He knew she was dead – he killed her, not you! He knew what you would do, which is why he sent you there. He betrayed you, and he uses your rage to feed his designs.

The Mule envisioned a pregnant young woman, standing on a landing pad of a volcanic planet, clutching at her throat, sorrow and pain etched upon her face. The Mule fed that imagery into the cyborg's emotions, and he felt the iron will of the cyborg waver.

The door was open. Quickly, the Mule reached in to make adjustments. The gelatinous feeling was gone, as was the push-back. The laser sword moved away from his neck, and the cyborg stood up before the Mule.

…

Vader knelt before the Mule and rumbled, "What is thy bidding, my master?"