James Luceno - Darth Plagueis

The old man woke with a start, blinking in response to the light, then propping himself up against a gathering of pillows to scan the room. His eyes widened in thunderstruck surprise when they found Plagueis seated at the edge of the light’s reach.

“Who—”

“Hego Damask, Your Majesty. Beneath this mask my former enemies may as well have fashioned for me.”

Since Veruna’s eyes couldn’t open any wider, his jaw dropped and he flailed for the security control panels, slamming his hand down on the buttons when they didn’t respond.

“I’ve rendered them inoperative,” Plagueis explained, “along with the security cams. Just so that you and I could converse without being interrupted.”

Veruna swallowed and found his voice. “How did you get past my guards, Damask?”

“We’ll come to that in a moment.”

“Magne—” Veruna attempted to scream until his voice went mute and he clutched at his throat.

“There will be none of that,” Plagueis warned.

“What do you want with me, Damask?” Veruna asked when he could, breathing hard.

“Closure.”

Veruna stared at him in disbelief. “You got what you wanted. Isn’t it enough that I abdicated?”

“Your abdication would have been enough, had you not tried first to have me killed.”

Veruna gritted his teeth. “Everything I built was in jeopardy of being taken from me — even the monarchy! You left me no choice!”

Plagueis stood and reseated himself on the edge of the bed, like some macabre confessor. “I understand. Faced with a similar choice, I might have done the same. The difference is that I would have succeeded where you failed.”

“I’ll remain here,” Veruna said in a grasping way. “I won’t cause you or Palpatine any more trouble.”

“That’s true.” Plagueis paused, then said, “Perhaps I should have been more honest with you from the start. I delivered the Trade Federation to you; I put Tapalo, then you on the throne. How did you imagine I came by such power?”

Veruna ran a trembling hand over his thinning hair. “You were born the son of a wealthy Muun, and transformed that wealth into power.”

Plagueis made a sound of disappointment. “Have you not yet learned that the galaxy isn’t moved by credits alone?”

Veruna gulped and found his voice. “How did you come by such power, Damask?” he asked in a whisper of genuine interest.

“I was shown the way to power by a Bith named Rugess Nome.”

“I know the name.”

“Yes, but his true name was Darth Tenebrous, and he wore the mantle of the Dark Lord of the Sith. I was at one time his apprentice.”

“Sith,” Veruna said, as if weakened by the very word.

“Had you known, would you have allied with me?”

Veruna marshaled the strength to shake his head. “Political power is one thing, but what you represent …”

Plagueis made his lips a thin line. “I appreciate your honesty, Veruna. Are you beginning to tire of my presence?”

“Not … of you,” Veruna said, with eyes half closed.

“Let me explain what is happening to you,” Plagueis said. “The cells that make up all living things contain within them organelles known as midi-chlorians. They are, in addition to being the basis for life, the elements that enable beings like me to perceive and use the Force. As the result of a lifetime of study, I have learned how to manipulate midi-chlorians, and I have instructed the limited number you possess to return to their source. In plain Basic, Veruna, I am killing you.”

Veruna’s face was losing color, and his breathing had slowed. “Bring … me back. I can still be … of service … to you …”

“But you are, Your Majesty. A celebrated ancient poet once said that every death lessened him, for he considered himself to be a brother to every living being. I, on the other hand, have come to understand that every death I oversee nourishes and empowers me, for I am a true Sith.”

“No … better than … an Anzati.”

“The brain eaters? What does better than mean to those of us who have passed beyond notions of good and evil? Are you better than Bon Tapalo? Are you better than Queen Padmé Amidala? I am the only one fit to answer the question. Better are those who do my bidding.” Plagueis placed his hand atop Veruna’s. “I’ll remain with you for a while as you meld with the Force. But at some point, I will have to leave you at the threshold to continue on your own.”

“Don’t do this … Damask. Please …”

“I am Darth Plagueis, Veruna. Your shepherd.”

As life left Veruna’s body, the path he and Plagueis followed wound deeper into darkness and absence. Then Plagueis stopped, overcome by a sudden sense that he had already seen and traveled this path.

Had he? he wondered as Veruna breathed his last.

Or had the Force afforded him a glimpse of the future?

Returned from Ralltiir, Maul sat cross-legged on the floor in the LiMerge Building while Sidious debriefed him. Having just terminated an irritating communication with the Neimoidians, Sidious was in no mood for games.

“The way you make it sound, my apprentice, it seems almost an indignity that none survived to spread the word of your massacre.”

“You orders were that none should, Master.”

“Yes,” Sidious said, continuing to circle him. “And not one of them proved a challenge?”

“No, Master.”

“Not Sinya?”

“I decapitated the Twi’lek.”

“Not Mighella?”

“My blade halved the Nightsister after she tried to defeat me with summoned Force-lightning.”

Sidious paused for a moment. “Not even Garyn?”

“No.”

Sidious detected a note of hesitation. “No, what, Darth Maul?”

“I drowned him.”

Touching his chin, Sidious stood where the Zabrak could see him.

“Well, someone had to have dealt the wound you suffered to your left hand. Unless, of course, you gave it to yourself.”

Maul clenched the black-gloved hand. “There is no pain where strength lies.”

“I didn’t inquire if the wound hurt. I asked who was responsible.”

“Garyn,” Maul said quietly.

Sidious feigned surprise. “So he was something of a challenge. Being slightly Force-sensitive.”

“He was nothing compared with the power of the dark side.”

Sidious studied him. “Did you tell him as much, my apprentice? Answer honestly.”

“He came to the conclusion.”

“He identified you as a Sith. Did he assume, then, that you were a Sith Lord?”

Maul stared at the floor. “I—”

“You revealed that you answer to a Master. Am I correct?”

Maul forced himself to respond. “Yes, Master.”

“And perhaps you went so far as to say something about the revenge of the Sith.”

“I did, Master.”

Sidious approached him, his face contorted in anger. “And if by some marvel Garyn had managed to escape, or even defeat the one-being army that is Darth Maul, what repercussions might we be facing, apprentice?”

“I beg your forgiveness, Master.”

“Perhaps you’re not worthy of the Infiltrator, after all. The moment you allowed yourself to become distracted, the Black Sun leader cut open your hand.”

Maul remained silent.

“I hope you thanked him before you killed him,” Sidious went on, “because he taught you a valuable lesson. When you face someone strong in the Force you must remain focused — even when you’re convinced that your opponent is incapacitated. Then is not the time to bask in the glory of your victory or draw out the moment. You must deliver a killing strike and be done with it. Reserve your self-praise for after the fact, or you will suffer more than a hand wound.”