The Force Unleashed (13 page)

meant nothing. He had to decide with his mind, not his gut.

"Why?" he asked. "Why rescue me if it puts you in so much danger?"

"Because you are the advantage I need to overthrow the Emperor. He forced my hand,

before we were ready. Now he believes you are dead. His ignorance is your true

power, if you have the will to use it."

"And if I refuse?"

Darth Vader's voice grew harsher, his silhouette darker, if that was possible. "Then

you will die. This lab will self-destruct and you will perish along with all aboard.

There will be no witnesses."

There never are, he thought, where you're concerned. But a lifetime of servitude

forbade him from saying the words. He closed his eyes, unsure of which possibility

he was more afraid: that Darth Vader was telling him the truth now, or that

everything he'd ever been told was a lie.

The harsh breathing of the respirator came closer still. "The Emperor ordered your

death," Darth Vader said. "Only by joining me will you have your revenge."

He opened his eyes and stared straight at the mask hiding the man who had killed

him, then saved him.

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Only one choice gave him time to think this strange happen stance through. Only one

decision came with the option of changing his mind later. Only one fork in the road

before him left him alive, not dead.

In a hollow voice, the apprentice said, "What is your bidding, my Master?"

Darth Vader straightened, satisfaction apparent in every movement. "The Emperor

hides behind his army of spies. They watch my every move." One gloved hand waved at

the machines attending the operating theater. The droids backed away, and the tubes

retracted. "We must provide them with a distraction." He punched a button on the

table.

The apprentice's restraints popped open. He slowly sat up, rubbing his wrists, and

looked down at his body. He was clad in an entirely new outfit, one not dissimilar

to his Master's, with black leather overlaying thin sheaths of armor, heavy gloves

and boots, and a high collar. Nearby, over the shoulder of one of the droid

surgeons, was a hooded black cape with a red lining, presumably his also. The same

droid handed him a lightsaber hilt. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't

the one he had wielded all his conscious life. That lightsaber had tumbled into the

vacuum of space and been lost forever.

He flexed his fingers, feeling stronger and different somehow. The pain was

completely gone. He felt better than he ever had before, as though he had spent

months in a bacta tank.

Instead of pondering that issue, he asked, "What sort of distraction? An

assassination?"

His Master shook his head. "No single act will hold the Emperor's notice for long.

You must assemble an army to oppose him."

The apprentice cocked his head.

"You will locate the Emperor's enemies and convince them that you wish to overthrow

the Empire. When you have created an alliance of rebels and dissidents, we will use

them to occupy the Emperor and his spies. With their attention diverted, we can si

like."

The apprentice ran a hand across his chest, feeling the smoothness of his uniform as

though with entirely new nerves. The plan was good. It could work.

"Where should I start?"

"That decision is yours. Your destiny is now your own. But you must leave here at

once. Save for PROXY, you must sever all ties to your past. No one must know that

you still serve me."

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, my Master."

"Now go. And remember that the dark side is always with you."

The image of Darth Vader shimmered and assumed the familiar features and form of

PROXY. The droid stumbled, but quickly regained his balance.

"PROXY!"

"Master! I am pleased to see that you are not actually dead." The droid beamed the

only way he could: through his photoreceptors. "I was afraid that I would never be

able to fulfill my primary programming and kill you myself."

"I'm sure you'll have your chance, once we get out of here."

PROXY moved away and began pushing buttons on the nearest terminal.

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"Where are we, by the way?"

"Somewhere in the uncharted Dominus system, I believe."

"But what is this place?"

"This is the Empirical, master, Lord Vader's top-secret mobile laboratory. We've

been here for six standard months." PROM looked up from the terminal. "Lord Vader

has updated all of mj protocols. Before I kill you, I am to do everything possible

to help you vanish. Should I ready the Rogue Shadow for launch?"

The apprentice tried to think. He flexed his hands, marveling at his amazing return

to health. It seemed almost too good to In-true.

A disconcerting thought occurred to him. He hastily tugged oft first his right

glove, then the left. He was reassured to see only skin beneath-no synthetic

materials or artificial joints. His knuckles moved the same as always; his

fingernails were neat and even. The only odd detail was that his scars were gone.

He rubbed his right hand down his chest to his stomach, remembering the terrible

wound his Master had inflicted. 1 It-thought of the damage raw vacuum did to human

lungs. Bacta tanks performed miracles, but they weren't that good.

"Master?"

He looked up at PROXY and blinked. "What? Oh. I didn't realize the ship was here,

too."

"Yes, master. How else would we get away?" The droid stepped back from the terminal.

Indicating it with a hand, he said, "I've accessed the main ship's computer and

begun carrying out Lord Vader's orders."

The apprentice nodded, distracted by a thought that had just struck him. He had been

on the Empirical for six months, PROXY had said, but the Rogue Shadow was here,

ready for him. That might not be the only thing to survive the near catastrophe of

the Emperor's intervention.

"What happened to Juno, PROXY?"

"Your pilot? She's aboard the Empirical, too, I believe. In a holding cell."

"What? Why?"

"Captain Eclipse was accused of treason." PROXY paused for a split second, as though

searching for exactly the right words. "Lord Vader gave explicit orders to sever all

ties to your past. You aren't planning to rescue her, are you?"

The apprentice irritably pulled his gloves back on. "I don't know what my plans are

yet, PROXY. Let's just concentrate on getting out of here."

"As you wish, master." PROXY inclined his head. He took one step back to the

terminal, pushed a large red button, and then beaded for the door.

A sudden jolt through the deck made both of them stumble. The apprentice reached out

for the droid and steadied them both. He looked around the cyborg lab with concern

as a klaxon began to wail.

"Alert!" called a voice over the intercom. "Navigation systems have malfunctioned.

Repeat, navigation systems have malfunctioned!"

PROXY tugged at the apprentice's shoulder. "Come, master. We must leave here."

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Realization made him look at the droid's recent activities in a new light. Lord

Vader's orders, he had said. There will be no witnesses.

"PROXY, what did you just do?"

"I've set the Empirical on a collision course with the Dominus system's primary

star," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "But everyone on the Empirical..."

"Lord Vader said that no one must know of your existence. He was very specific."

"And you really are still trying to kill me."

"No, no. Not yet, master. You still have plenty of time to reach the Rogue Shadow."

The apprentice swallowed an upwelling of frustration. It wasn't PROXY'S fault. He

was just obeying orders. But by doing so he had put them in a very inconvenient

position.

"Okay, let's go. Stick close." "Yes, master."

With his strangely healed hands, the apprentice activated the lightsaber his Master

had given him. The blade was as green as if was in his memory. It was Rahm Kota's,

he realized with a jolt.

PROXY shuffled a step behind him as he put that small detail out of his mind and

headed for the exit.

The wailing of the alert klaxon woke Juno from a long and miserable nightmare in

which she had been filing the report of her mission on Callos, not with Darth Vader,

but with her father, who bad stood towering over her, long nose jutting out like the

arm of ii gallows, and pronounced her a failure. But the mission was a success, she

had protested. She had followed orders to the letter. Not good enough, he had said.

Never good enough, girl. When will you realize that and stop trying?

She woke with a gasp, hanging suspended from the magna locks where the guards put

her every day. The routine was worse than torture. They would take her down once

every five hours for a ten-minute walk. She could use the refresher and drink as

much water as her stomach could hold. Sometimes they gave her food, but not always.

When the ten minutes were up, she went back into position, hanging with her arms

outstretched between the locks, legs dangling, wearing the same uniform pants and

singlet she'd bad on when she arrived . . . wherever she was.

The guards never told her anything. She could tell, though, that they regarded her

with contempt. A traitor to the Empire, she deserved no better. That she was still

alive puzzled all of them. Her continued existence drained their patience as well as

their resources. They surely had better things to do.

But they followed orders to the letter, like good stormtroopers, and that meant that

someone, somewhere, wanted Juno Eclipse alive. To suffer, perhaps, before she died.

Still, every time tin-troopers came near her, she expected that her time had come,

that they would take her down and execute her right there, with a single blaster

shot to the head. At least that, she thought in her darkest moments, would be a kind

of release.

Her throat and lips were parched. Her head and arms ached. She could barely feel her

fingers because the locks held her so tightly around her wrists.

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This time, with a siren wailing, she successfully fought the urge to despair.

"Alert!" blared a voice over the station intercom. "Navigation systems have

malfunctioned. Repeat, navigation systems have malfunctioned!"

She raised her head and looked around. The other cells, visible across the central

prison detainment area, were empty. Her guards were momentarily absent, probably

checking the source of the alert. If she'd had any way of freeing herself, she could

have run during the confusion for an escape pod and gotten away from the station

forever.

And then . . . ?

Feeling a surge of frustration, she strained against her bonds. Muscles stood out on

her thin arms. Her wrists were bruised from numerous such attempts. One day, she had

told herself many times, the power would flicker and the locks would fail just long

enough. Until then, it was a good form of exercise. Straining and hoping was much

better than thinking-about what had happened to her, or what might be to come.

The station lurched around her. She sagged momentarily before trying again. Whatever

was going on, it was serious. She could hear the stormtroopers barking at one

another.

"Why aren't these bulkheads opening?"

"We have to get to the escape pods!"

"The door isn't accepting the security codes!"

The announcer returned with an ominous-sounding update:

"Security breach in sector nine. Subject Zeta has escaped. Set blasters to kill!"

"Oh, that's not good," commented one of her erstwhile guards. Even through his

vocoder Juno could hear the fear in his voice.

She didn't know who or what Subject Zeta was, but she was determined not to be

hanging up like a dead womp rat when it found her.

Tugging on her bonds, she thought she felt one of them weaken.

Two troopers appeared in her field of vision, blaster rifles held at the ready. They

were aimed not at her, but back down the hallway.

"Forget the prisoner," said one. "We've got to get out of here." "What about. . .

him?"

"Let him die with the rest of the experiments."

They punched at the air lock leading from the detainee area, but had no luck there,

either. The air lock was securely sealed as well. Abandoning that futile task, they

ran back the way they had come. Blasterfire and screams echoed up the corridor.

Juno resumed her escape attempt. The locks hadn't shifted a millimeter. The illusion

of slippage had come as a result of blood from her right wrist lubricating the

restraint on that side. She yanked harder, ignoring the pain, but was as stuck fast

as ever.

"Empirical security systems are offline," warned the announcer. "All Imperials are

advised to breach bulkhead doors and secure escape pods."

The ship juddered around her, and the announcer returned in a more anxious voice:

"All escape pods have been jettisoned-empty. Uh, await further orders. What?" The

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announcer must have turned away with the microphone open. "What fool ordered that?"