Death on Naboo Read online

  DEATH ON NABOO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Meetings with the Emperor were always unnerv­ing. Malorum just hoped this one wouldn't be fatal.

  Malorum paused outside the airlock to the Emperor's private office, high on the top floors of the Senate office building. He had undergone the weapons scan. As the Emperor's most loyal subject, it was a process he found insulting, but he had to submit to it. Once he went through those doors, he'd be whisked in to see Palpatine by Sly Moore, that moonfaced nonentity who managed to slither herself into a position of power. Probably by blackmailing the right beings, Malorum thought, because he could find no other reason for her prominence. The usual jealous surge passed through him as he wondered, once again, why others got what he deserved.

  He took a deep breath.

  He needed a moment. He needed to remind himself how well things were going. No matter what lies Darth Vader had told the Emperor, Malorum knew the truth. He was the best Inquisitor the Emperor had.

  Ready now, Malorum strode through the door. He went through his usual battle of wills with Sly Moore. She glided her way toward him and he kept going to the door to Palpatine's inner office, so that it wouldn't appear that he was waiting for her to access it. He just walked right through — slightly ahead of her, of course.

  He timed it perfectly.

  His small victory died a quick death as Palpatine swiveled in his chair to face him. Right away, Malorum knew this was not going to be a good meeting.

  He gathered his courage and walked forward into the grand red room. He loved this office. The bold red color, the bronzium statues of the Four Sages of Dwartii, the access to datafeeds that spewed out information constantly. You felt you were truly in the center of the galaxy, controlling everyone in it.

  Palpatine stared at him with his pale eyes. Malorum wished, not for the first time, that Palpatine hadn't been so hideously scarred by the battle with Mace Windu. It was positively unnerving; you'd think that with all that access to the Force he could find a way to make himself look more attractive. When Malorum became Emperor (a thought Malorum only allowed to cross his mind occasionally; there was so much farther to go) he would make sure to get plenty of rest and a rejuvenating trip to the excel­lent surgeons of Belazura once a year.

  "Why did you give an order to blow up the Jedi Temple?" The Emperor shot the question at him. So much for preliminaries.

  "I was following through on an order by Lord Vader —"

  "He said that you would claim that."

  "But it's true." Technically. Vader had made the suggestion only to see how Malorum would react. Malorum had fallen right into his trap by protesting that he had files that would be destroyed. The next thing he knew, Vader was taking him to task for hav­ing secret files that weren't registered with the Inquisitors' main databank.

  He had taken a gamble, attempting to blow up the Temple. He had actually enjoyed having his office there. To walk into that grand hallway was a thrill. It was visible evidence of the greatness van­quished by the power of the Empire. Proof that a Force connection wasn't enough; it was how you used the dark side of the Force that mattered.

  He knew Emperor Palpatine was frustrated with the apprentice he'd ended up with. He had expected someone with awesome power, but instead he got a rebuilt body in a breath mask. Darth Vader was powerful, but compared to what he could have been . . . well, who wouldn't be disappointed?

  What Palpatine needed was a new apprentice. Because of his Force-sensitivity, Malorum had been plucked out of obscurity. Palpatine had revealed that he was a Sith. He had explained what the Force was in detail and how, with training, Malorum could use it for great things.

  Malorum had expected greater access because of that: dinners with the Emperor and his most trusted aides; confidences meant for him alone; invi­tations to Palpatine's private apartments in the exclusive 500 Republica residential tower. Instead, he himself was on the waiting list for an apartment, lined up with Senators and bureaucrats. It was infu­riating!

  Now he was scrambling to please Palpatine and being undercut by Darth Vader at every turn.

  "You exceeded your authority," Palpatine went on. His gaze was as chilling as a month long vaca­tion on Hoth.

  Malorum looked to the bronzium statues for inspiration, then turned his gaze back quickly. He had learned to stand his ground with the Emperor. Never argue. Present your case, then change the subject if you can.

  "The attack on Solace and her followers is pro­ceeding," he said. He unfurled his best piece of information, the one he was holding in reserve like an expert sabacc player. "Everyone has been killed and the community destroyed. She is confirmed dead."

  "And you saw this with your own eyes?"

  "I received a report from the commander." Did the Emperor really expect him to travel all the way down to the Core, to the ancient ocean caverns?

  "A Jedi is not dead until you see the body. Inform me when this is so."

  He had been dismissed. Malorum made an instant decision to withhold the information that he had Ferus Olin in custody. He might need that at a future date. And he had plans for the former Jedi appren­tice, plans that he was just beginning to form. Ferus was the only being he could find who could connect him to the old Darth Vader.

  Malorum bowed and walked out, ignoring Sly Moore and proceeding directly to the express turbo-lift. As he descended into the Senate office building, he thought about what he knew . . . and what he still had to discover.

  His most important piece of information was this: He knew that Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker.

  The Emperor didn't know that Malorum knew this. Before the tapes of the Temple attack had been erased, he had seen them. He hadn't been an Inquisitor then, just one of the trusted Imperial intelligence officers sent to the Temple after Order 66. He had seen what Anakin Skywalker had done. And he had seen the Jedi knight kneel down before the Emperor, who had called him "Darth Vader."

  Since then he'd made it his business to discover everything he could about Skywalker. Bribes and surveillance and digging back into what had hap­pened months before.

  He knew that Anakin Skywalker had been a Jedi apprentice at the same time as Ferus Olin. He knew that Skywalker was the father of Senator Amidala's child, the child that had never been born. He sus­pected that the Senator had been treated on Polis Massa, but so far the disappearance of records had stopped the trail cold.

  Secrets contained surprises. Once you knew a person's secrets, you had the key to destroying him.

  Ferus Olin would be the key.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It wasn't so bad, for a prison. Ferus had seen worse.

  He stirred on the hard duracrete where he slept . . . and found himself face-to-face with the biggest meer rat he'd ever seen, chewing on one of his boots.

  Well. Maybe riot.

  He tossed his other boot at the rodent and it scurried away. He figured he might as well look the facts in the face. He'd landed in the worst prison in the galaxy, and unless someone near and dear to him — or even someone who didn't like him partic­ularly much, like Jedi Master Solace — rescued him, he was stuck here, worked to death until he was executed.

  It was the usual cunning plan of the Empire. Condemn the beings who displease you — don't bother with a trial, because your suspicions are enough — then stick them all in a stinking hole on a planet where nobody goes, force them to labor, don't even let them speak to one another, and then, when they're too weak to do you a bit of good, execute them. What a swell system to be stuck in. Trust him to find it.

  So maybe breaking into the Temple wasn't the best idea he ever had. And then he had to go and do it twice. No wonder Malorum had been testy.

  He had been looking for Jedi. Rumors had swirled that they we
re kept in a prison there. But the rumors were designed as a trick to lure any Jedi into a res­cue attempt. Ferus had fallen right into the trap.

  The need to find every last Jedi was leading him to places he'd never expected to go. Obi-Wan Kenobi, now in exile on Tatooine, had refused to become part of his plans for a secret base. Ferus didn't let that stop him. He knew there must be Jedi out there who had survived the purge. They needed a sanctu­ary. He had stumbled on a remote asteroid that constantly traveled the galaxy within a moving atmospheric storm. He had two trusted aides set­ting up a camp there, Raina and Toma, as well as the recovering Jedi Knight Garen Muln.

  When he'd found Jedi Master Solace, he'd dis­covered that she'd set up a community next to the forgotten underground oceans of Coruscant. The raggedy society had built its homes on a series of catwalks over the sea in a vast cavern. When he'd told Solace what he'd seen in the Temple — a room full of lightsabers captured from murdered Jedi —she had been stricken by sadness and anger. Then he'd told her that he'd overheard that there was a spy in her camp, and she'd become enraged.

  She'd talked him into breaking in again. He would need lightsabers, she argued, for the Jedi he was sure were out there. And she needed to discover the identity of her spy.

  So they'd broken into the base of the Temple, thanks to Solace's odd ship with a mole miner aboard. But they'd run into too many stormtroopers and more trouble than they could handle. Now here he was, in prison, with an execution order just waiting to be carried out.

  He was given a number when he arrived: 987323. He was told not to talk to any other prisoner and not to ask the guards for anything because he wouldn't get it anyway. "Not even for seconds on dessert?" he'd asked, and in response had received a force pike in the stomach. That had taken hours to recover from. He had to remember to keep his mouth shut.

  The situation was hopeless, he supposed, but he had been trained as a Jedi, and so he resisted feeling hopeless. There was always a way. Or, as Yoda would say, a way there always is.

  He wondered about Trever, the thirteen-year-old who had pretty much adopted him as a guardian. He had been along to break into the Temple — both times. He didn't seem to want to leave Ferus's side. Would Solace take care of him? Not that Trever would let anyone take care of him, exactly. And not that Solace had the warmest of characters. Still, he hoped Trever was all right. He was a street thief and an explosives expert and a pain in the neck, but he was still a boy.

  The rat returned, and Ferus winged his boot at it again. It retreated, baring its teeth in a rather human way that gave Ferus a chill. He hoped he wouldn't see those teeth sunk into his ankle later. Maybe sleeping wasn't such a good idea.

  "Do you mind, chum?" The voice of his cellmate rose out of the corner. Ferus had been thrown into the cell in the pitch-black and hadn't met him yet. He was just a shape in the corner. "I'm trying to sleep."

  "There's a meer rat —"

  "You don't say. What a shock." Ferus could only see a gleam of pale skin across the space. "They like to eat boots. Use them as a pillow."

  "Use my boots as a pillow?"

  "What, duracrete is such a nice cushion? Keep a rock in your hand and crush its skull when you get a chance. Leave the body. The others will get the message. Better do it or else you'll find one chewing on your face in the middle of the night."

  "I don't have a rock."

  Ferus could hear his cellmate's sigh. "Why do I always get stuck with the new guy? Heads up." A good-sized rock suddenly loomed out of the dark­ness. Ferus caught it, but if he hadn't had quick reflexes it would have bashed in the side of his head.

  "Thanks. So where am I?"

  "Dontamo Prison. But don't worry, you won't be here long. One day soon you'll be dead."

  "I got that impression. Has anyone ever escaped?"

  "Death is your escape, my friend." Ferus heard his cellmate turn over to face him. Now he could see the gleam of his eyes. "All right, I can see that I won't get any sleep until I give you the lowdown. Whatever you do, don't get sick. No one who goes to the infir­mary ever comes back. Second, don't talk to anyone during the day. And don't talk to me unless you have to. I have a whole fantasy world going on in my head, and I don't like to be interrupted. I'm on a picnic with my wife, and the sun is shining, and I'm about to eat one of her sweetberry tarts."

  "You're married?"

  "Never ask a personal question," the prisoner continued. "Never fall down. Never tell anyone you're innocent. Nobody had a trial here, so we've got the innocent and the guilty and it makes no dif­ference. Nothing matters here except putting in your time until you get to die. Everybody fights over rations. That's the currency here. Eat fast. And one last thing, the most important thing — don't cross Prisoner 677780. He runs the gang here. We just call him 67. Don't even catch his eye. You'll be sorry if you do."

  "Got it. Thanks."

  "My advice is, think of the best day of your life and replay it in your head. Now leave me alone."

  Ferus felt his cellmate turn away. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and clutching the rock. Was this all he had left? Hanging on to a memory, replaying it until death came for him?

  Best day of his life . .

  He and Roan, on a hiking trip on the neighboring world of Tati, deep in the forest, coming upon a waterfall that slid into a deep pool of green. They had been so hot, and they'd dived in, straight to the bottom. The water was so cold they came up shiver­ing and laughing. . . .

  He heard the rat scuttling forward and he brought his hand down, hard, with the rock in his fist. The rat lay still.

  Those Jedi reaction skills sure could come in handy. . . .

  CHAPTER THREE

  Trever flattened himself on the metal walkway. He heard the ping of blaster fire and the cries from people being hit. He smelled smoke from the deto­nators and the burning dwellings. He heard the sound of bodies falling.

  He was hiding, his usual position in a battle. But this time it was different. This time he couldn't move. His fingers shook as he curled them around the grating underneath him. His hiding place was good, behind one of the Imperial troops' own speed­ers. There was a guard, but he hadn't seen Trever. For a brief moment Trever had thought of stealing the speeder, but he knew he'd be blasted to bits in seconds.

  When he and Solace had returned from the disas­ter at the Jedi Temple, Solace had heard the battle before he did. She had leaped off the ship and straight into the thick of it.

  He had seen battles before, but none like this. He had run from Imperial officers, he had broken into buildings, he had taken the risks needed to maintain his own black-market operation, but this was different. This was terrifying. The eerily white stormtroopers were bent on annihilating everything in their path.

  He had caught glimpses of Solace, fighting furi­ously to save her followers. He'd seen her moving, diving, never losing her balance or her grace despite the ferocity of her attack. Her lightsaber was a bea­con of light, glowing green through the smoke.

  She would lose. She would hold out as long as she could, but she could not win. There were simply too many of them. Almost everybody was dead now. Slaughtered without thought, without pause.

  Rhya Taloon was dead. He saw her die. She'd been a Senator once, until they targeted her for prison or worse and she had joined the Erased, the group who'd destroyed their former identities and hid in the lower levels of Coruscant. She had fash­ioned a new, fierce look for herself, twisting her silver hair into horns and wearing holsters across her body. She'd learned how to shoot a blaster, but she'd never been very good at it.

  He and Ferus had traveled down here with other members of the Erased, but now they were dead, too. It must be so, because all he could see were bodies. Among them lay Hume, who'd once been a pilot in the Republic Army. Gilly and Spence, the brothers who hardly spoke. Oryon, the fierce Bothan who'd been a spy for the Republic during the Clone Wars. Curran Caladian, the young Svivreni who'd once been a Senatorial aide, had leaped to def
end the houses in the central catwalk. Trever had seen the stormtroopers send flame grenades into the homes and had turned away.

  And Keets Freely, the journalist. Trever had seen his body, bloodied and battered, as he and Solace had run up to investigate. He couldn't believe it, couldn't believe that the mocking, indestructible Keets could fall. But fall he did, from a platform above, landing at Trever's feet. That had been the beginning of Trever's true terror.

  In the short time he'd been traveling with them, they'd all become his friends. And now he didn't know what to do or where to go, because he was sure that this was the day he would die.

  A new voice rose in his mind, not a voice of fear but impatience.

  Well, if you're going to die, show some guts, will you?

  He slowly, painstakingly, raised his head, ready for it to be blown off at any moment.

  The battle had moved to an upper level of the catwalks and landings that twisted so crazily below the cavern walls. But there wasn't much battle left. He saw a few holdouts, but they were surrounded and soon would be dead. He wrenched his gaze away. He couldn't watch anymore, couldn't bear it anymore. . . .

  Suddenly a streak through the smoke made him raise his head. Solace had made an incredible leap, jumping down from the topmost catwalk to the one just above Trever's head. Stormtroopers were pour­ing down the ramps after her. In another few moments they would corner her.

  And he was here, hiding like a coward.

  He had to help her, and do it fast. But how?

  Stop hiding, Trever. That would be a start.

  He snaked behind the other speeders and was able to get a better look above.

  The stormtrooper guarding the speeders turned away from the noise of battle to take a communica­tion — he could see him speaking into his helmet, straining to hear over the noise — and Trever leaped closer to the stairs that led to the next level. He landed behind a smoking heap of twisted metal that had once been a house. He slammed into a body and nearly levitated out of the space in terror until a strong hand clamped on his leg.