The Force Unleashed (41 page)

in his path. He stopped it telekinetically and slipped safely through to the other

side, but not before triggering obstruction alarms and drawing technical and

security personnel from far and wide. He fought his way through the ventilation

control room, heading upward again as instructed, looking for the dangerous tube he

had been told to expect. The machinery around him grew larger and more complicated

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as he progressed: enormous interlocking tubes fed by thick hydraulic hoses steamed

and throbbed in series. A deep, irregular rumble, not dissimilar to that of the ore

cannon on Raxus Prime, came through the soles of his feet. Blasts of supercooled air

struck him out of incompletely sealed joints.

His vision of the Death Star was far from complete, but he had enough information

now to begin piecing together exactly where he might be. When he passed a sign

warning of the presence of Tibanna gas, he was sure of it.

A battle station was no use to anyone unless it was armed-and not just armed with

greater numbers of conventional weapons. Something this size was bound to wield a

weapon of mass destruction never seen before. Tibanna gas was a rare and highly

reactive compound found on some gas giants, like Bespin. When combined with a stream

of coherent light, it vastly increased the laser's output, leading to its use in

several advanced ship designs and, it seemed, on the Death Star.

Looking around him more closely, he could see that the machinery dwarfing him could

be the components of a massive laser system, one in proportion with the station's

enormous size.

When he reached a laser tube wider across than some small cities, he knew he had

found the place his Wookiee guide had been referring to. The system was being

test-fired, with dozens of Imperial technicians and weapons experts observing its

performance. He had to get past them all, and avoid the beam of the laser itself, in

order to reach his goal.

He shrugged, abandoning all suggestion of secrecy in exchange for haste. Too much

time had passed. Everyone between him and Darth Vader was irrelevant. He would fight

to the very last person in the station if he had to, but that would make no

difference in the end.

It's time, Master, he whispered as he fought. You stole my life and left me for

dead, and now I'm coming for you . . .

* * *

WHEN HE REACHED THE TOP of the laser tube, he realized that his conception of the

Death Star's weapons system hadn't been nearly grand enough. The laser he had been

observing was just one of eight tributary lasers that would merge into one

shockingly destructive beam. Carefully timed pulses down each of the eight channels

would create a force capable of destroying any ship that he could think of. Possibly

even a planet. He felt ill at the thought. Misinformation, slavery, and torture

clearly weren't enough to keep the masses in line, so the Emperor was going to

resort to genocide. If he wasn't stopped soon, there'd be no one left alive but him,

cackling maniacally in the empty halls of Coruscant.

The apprentice gazed out across the enormous focusing dish, which he had initially

assumed to have a relatively innocent purpose. Now that he knew what it was really

for, the thought that he should destroy it filled him with a weary sort of urgency.

He had interfered significantly already with several of the Emperor's grandiose

plans. Why not this one, too?

The answer lay in his bones. He was daunted just thinking about it-not only by the

task itself, but also by the deaths he had already caused. Could he bear such a

black achievement on top of all the others? Could Juno? He wasn't sure of the

answer.

No, he decided. This was a job for other people-for the Rebel Alliance, if he could

only find and free them from the Emperor's cold clutches. That was the important

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thing-that they should survive and fight another day. That was all he had to

achieve, this mission.

Coherent vermilion pulses came and went in arcane sequences as the weapon continued

its test run. Each discharge consumed enough energy to power a Star Destroyer. The

station's tightly wrapped atmosphere roiled with booming concussions and whispering

aftershocks. Workers visible on the station's skin and in the sky above stopped to

stare at these harbingers of what lay in the weapon's future.

A structure on the rim of the focusing crater caught his eye: an observation blister

made of gleaming transparisteel in which a number of human figures were very faintly

visible. One figure clad entirely in black appeared, bowed, and disappeared again.

Master and servant.

His jaw set, the apprentice wound his way across the rim of the superlaser's

focusing dish, lit by blinding green flashes from above.

* * *

THE EASY PART WAS GETTING there.

That was the thought that went through his mind as he clambered up and over the

reinforced buttresses holding the dome in place. He had circled the dome twice from

below, noting its weak and strong points, and decided that the best way in was

through the corridor connecting it to the rest of the station. Two pressure doors

opened and shut each time someone passed through, defining a walkway five meters

long. The roof of the corridor wasn't visible from the dome, being in the opposite

direction from the firing of the weapon. He could squat there unseen while he cut

his way in and avoid fighting anyone-until it mattered.

At the very last moment, as he raised his lightsaber to cut through the curved

durasteel on which he knelt, he realized that everything he had ever done had led

him to this moment. This was the confrontation he had been heading toward since

Darth Vader had kidnapped him from Kashyyyk and made him his instrument. Twice in

the past Vader had betrayed him and he had barely uttered a word in complaint, but,

eventually, servants always turned on their masters, just as the Sith always

betrayed one another. This moment represented the culmination of a lifetime's

training and experience.

This was his most challenging test. Killing Jedi had been easy by comparison.

Destroying Imperial factories, likewise. Bringing down skyhooks and Star Destroyers,

convincing would-be rebels of his sincerity, dueling planetary minds and other

servants of the dark side-all in a day's work.

His life's work was about to begin or to end, depending on how he looked at it.

He wondered if Kota had felt that way on Corellia, or Juno in the Empirical, or any

of the imprisoned Rebels before agreeing to meet with him. Perhaps everyone had such

moments in their lives. He wondered if he should count himself lucky that he could

see it coming this time. He hadn't on the Empirical, or on Corellia. He had been a

victim of fate. Now he had fate's arm behind its back, and he was calling the shots.

Had Darth Vader ever felt this way? Had Galen's father?

His modified lightsaber sizzled before him. There was strength in that aqua fire and

a purity of purpose-not to kill, but as an instrument of force. Sometimes action was

required. The Jedi had understood that. He understood that, too.

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He should stop asking questions, he told himself, and concentrate on what had to be

done.

Pointing the tip of the blade downward, he cut a circle cleanly around himself and

dropped into the corridor below.

* * *

IT WAS EMPTY. BEFORE ANYONE could respond to the sound, he telekinetically sealed

the doors leading back into the Death Star. Then he turned and wrenched the inner

doors open.

"...traitors to the Empire," came Palpatine's voice from the chamber beyond,

gloatingly, coldly, full of unimaginable malice. "You will be interrogated.

Tortured. You will give me the names of your friends and allies. And then, when you

are no longer of any use to me, you will be executed."

Bail Organa's voice rose up in defiance. "Our deaths will only rally others..."

"Your executions will be very public and very painful, Senator Organa. They will

serve to crush any further dissent."

The apprentice strode purposefully into the room, circling a large energy field

generator in the center of the dome. Mon Mothma, Garm Bel Iblis, Bail Organa, and

Master Rahm Kota stood together on the far side, surrounded by Imperial Guards. The

Emperor was pacing in front of them, hooded and hunched but radiating incredible

power. The apprentice had eyes only for the dark figure looming a meter or two away,

arms crossed as he watched the scene.

Kota cocked his ruined face as the apprentice approached. The hum of the lightsaber

was suddenly very loud.

"There may yet be a Rebellion," Kota said, grinning as though he'd never believed

otherwise.

Darth Vader and the Emperor turned at the same moment.

A surge of hatred filled every vein of the apprentice's body. The time for revenge

had come at last.

The Emperor's hateful visage twisted into a mask of derision.

"Lord Vader, deal with the boy. Properly, this time."

The Dark Lord was already moving. The red blade of his lightsaber flared into life,

casting bloody shadows across the room. There was no discussion. He offered no

threats. It was clear he intended only to complete what he had failed to finish on

Corellia.

The apprentice knew exactly what to expect. They had dueled many times before. He

had learned how to fight at the hands of the man in the black suit-the man whose

face had been forever hidden from him. He knew the intimacies of his refined version

of Djem So, a fighting style that incorporated elements of Ataru, Soresu, and

Makashi. He had fended off many wild, slashing attacks that would have overwhelmed

even an extraordinary Jedi Knight. He had borne the brunt of many psychological

battles.

He thought he was ready-and so the sheer severity of the opening blow took him by

surprise.

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A simple double stroke, up and then down, it contained enough power to jar his

wrists and shoulders and very nearly disarm him completely. The collision of their

lightsabers was blinding. He staggered backward and found himself at the center of a

telekinetic storm. His Master seized on his momentary weakness and hurled missiles

at him from all sides, hoping to keep him off his guard. For a moment, it worked.

Then the apprentice straightened and, with a sweep of his left arm, blew the

missiles away. He blocked a savage slash that would have cut him in two and another

that would have lifted his head clean from his shoulders. Ducking low, he stabbed

for his Master's belly then flicked the tip of his lightsaber upward, hoping to

catch the chin of Darth Vader's helmet and spear him through the throat. The red

lightsaber blocked the blow, but only barely. They parted for a moment to assess the

brief exchange and circled each other warily.

The apprentice understood that, until this moment, they had never truly fought as

equals. His Master had either held back, or he himself had capitulated. Now, for the

first time, they would see each other's true potential. Where Darth Vader was strong

and relentless, he was fast and sly. And there were ways to fight that didn't

involve lightsabers. Loose objects, accelerated to killing speeds by the Force,

became projectiles that converged from all directions. Invisible fists clutched for

throats or punched with the power of pile drivers. Floors tipped underfoot; severed

beams stabbed like javelins; overloaded circuits exploded.

"You are weak," the apprentice said as his former Master launched a second series of

bone-crushing blows, each one of which he blocked with elegant precision.

Darth Vader fought brilliantly, never employing anything less than a killing stroke.

His intention was lethal. All he needed was one slip, one tiny gap in his opponent's

defenses.

The apprentice vowed not to give him one. He whirled and danced around his Master's

defenses, testing them to their limits.

"You thought I was dead," he said, letting that small triumph spur his determination

to new heights. Their lightsabers danced, blurring and sweeping and shedding sparks

in a way that would have been beautiful had their intent not been so deadly. The

apprentice felt the wild, joyous energies of the dark side flowing through him and

he resisted its call, seeking a better way to finish the job.

They fought back and forth across the observation dome.

"I understand you now," he said, still trying to goad his former Master into

breaking his concentration. "You killed my father and kidnapped me from Kashyyyk,

not just to be your apprentice, but to be a son to you. Was that how your father

treated you?"

The intensity of Darth Vader's attack redoubled. "I have no father."

The apprentice fell back under the rain of blows. The sizzling of fabric and a faint

stink of burning skin told him that at least two of Darth Vader's misses had been

horribly near, but he felt no pain. He, on the other hand, had definitely struck a