Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith Read online

  EPISODE III

  REVENGE OF THE SITH

  by

  Matthew Stover

  THE BALLANTINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  NEW YORK

  This story happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it.

  It is a story of love and loss, brotherhood and betrayal, courage and sacrifice and the death of dreams. It is a story of the blurred line between our best and our worst.

  It is the story of the end of an age.

  A strange thing about stories—

  Though this all happened so long ago and so far away that words cannot describe the time or the distance, it is also happening right now. Right here.

  It is happening as you read these words.

  This is how twenty-five millennia come to a close. Corruption and treachery have crushed a thousand years of peace. This is not just the end of a republic; night is falling on civilization itself.

  This is the twilight of the Jedi.

  The end starts now.

  =INTRODUCTION=

  THE AGE OF HEROES

  The skies of Coruscant blaze with war.

  The artificial daylight spread by the capital’s orbital mirrors is sliced by intersecting flames of ion drives and punctuated by star­burst explosions; contrails of debris raining into the atmosphere become tangled ribbons of cloud. The nightside sky is an infinite lattice of shining hairlines that interlock planetoids and track er­ratic spirals of glowing gnats. Beings watching from rooftops of Coruscant’s endless cityscape can find it beautiful.

  From the inside, it’s different.

  The gnats are drive-glows of starfighters. The shining hair­lines are light-scatter from turbolaser bolts powerful enough to vaporize a small town. The planetoids are capital ships.

  The battle from the inside is a storm of confusion and panic, of galvened particle beams flashing past your starfighter so close that your cockpit rings like a broken annunciator, of the boot-sole shock of concussion missiles that blast into your cruiser, killing beings you have trained with and eaten with and played and laughed and bickered with. From the inside, the battle is desperation and terror and the stomach-churning certainty that the whole galaxy is trying to kill you.

  Across the remnants of the Republic, stunned beings watch in horror as the battle unfolds live on the HoloNet. Everyone knows the war has been going badly. Everyone knows that more Jedi are killed or captured every day, that the Grand Army of the Republic has been pushed out of system after system, but this—

  A strike at the very heart of the Republic?

  An invasion of Coruscant itself?

  How can this happen?

  It’s a nightmare, and no one can wake up.

  Live via HoloNet, beings watch the Separatist droid army flood the government district. The coverage is filled with images of overmatched clone troopers cut down by remorselessly pow­erful destroyer droids in the halls of the Galactic Senate itself.

  A gasp of relief: the troopers seem to beat back the attack. There are hugs and even some quiet cheers in living rooms across the galaxy as the Separatist forces retreat to their landers and streak for orbit—

  We won! beings tell each other. We held them off!

  But then new reports trickle in—only rumors at first—that the attack wasn’t an invasion at all. That the Separatists weren’t trying to take the planet. That this was a lightning raid on the Senate itself.

  The nightmare gets worse: the Supreme Chancellor is miss­ing.

  Palpatine of Naboo, the most admired man in the galaxy, whose unmatched political skills have held the Republic to­gether. Whose personal integrity and courage prove that the Sep­aratist propaganda of corruption in the Senate is nothing but lies. Whose charismatic leadership gives the whole Republic the will to fight on.

  Palpatine is more than respected. He is loved.

  Even the rumor of his disappearance strikes a dagger to the heart of every friend of the Republic. Every one of them knows it in her heart, in his gut, in its very bones—

  Without Palpatine, the Republic will fall.

  And now confirmation comes through, and the news is worse than anyone could have imagined. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine has been captured by the Separatists—and not just the Separatists.

  He’s in the hands of General Grievous.

  Grievous is not like other leaders of the Separatists. Nute Gunray is treacherous and venal, but he’s Neimoidian: venality and treachery are expected, and in the Chancellor of the Trade Federation they’re even virtues. Poggle the Lesser is Archduke of the weapon masters of Geonosis, where the war began: he is ana­lytical and pitiless, but also pragmatic. Reasonable. The political heart of the Separatist Confederacy, Count Dooku, is known for his integrity, his principled stand against what he sees as corrup­tion in the Senate. Though they believe he’s wrong, many respect him for the courage of his mistaken convictions.

  These are hard beings. Dangerous beings. Ruthless and ag­gressive.

  General Grievous, though—

  Grievous is a monster.

  The Separatist Supreme Commander is an abomination of nature, a fusion of flesh and droid—and his droid parts have more compassion than what remains of his alien flesh. This half-living creature is a slaughterer of billions. Whole planets have burned at his command. He is the evil genius of the Confederacy. The architect of their victories.

  The author of their atrocities.

  And his durasteel grip has closed upon Palpatine. He con­firms the capture personally in a wideband transmission from his command cruiser in the midst of the orbital battle. Beings across the galaxy watch, and shudder, and pray that they might wake up from this awful dream.

  Because they know that what they’re watching, live on the HoloNet, is the death of the Republic.

  Many among these beings break into tears; many more reach out to comfort their husbands or wives, their creche-mates or kin-triads, and their younglings of all descriptions, from children to cubs to spawn-fry.

  But here is a strange thing: few of the younglings need com­fort. It is instead the younglings who offer comfort to their el­ders. Across the Republic—in words or pheromones, in magnetic pulses, tentacle-braids, or mental telepathy—the message from the younglings is the same: Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.

  Anakin and Obi-Wan will be there any minute.

  They say this as though these names can conjure miracles.

  Anakin and Obi-Wan. Kenobi and Skywalker. From the be­ginning of the Clone Wars, the phrase Kenobi and Skywalker has become a single word. They are everywhere. HoloNet features of their operations against the Separatist enemy have made them the most famous Jedi in the galaxy.

  Younglings across the galaxy know their names, know every­thing about them, follow their exploits as though they are sports heroes instead of warriors in a desperate battle to save civiliza­tion. Even grown-ups are not immune; it’s not uncommon for an exasperated parent to ask, when faced with offspring who have just tried to pull off one of the spectacularly dangerous bits of foolishness that are the stock-in-trade of high-spirited younglings everywhere, So which were you supposed to be, Kenobi or Skywalker?

  Kenobi would rather talk than fight, but when there is fight­ing to be done, few can match him. Skywalker is the master of audacity; his intensity, boldness, and sheer jaw-dropping luck are the perfect complement to Kenobi’s deliberate, balanced steadi­ness. Together, they are a Jedi hammer that has crushed Sepa­ratist infestations on scores of worlds.

  All the younglings watching the battle in Coruscant’s sky know it: when Anakin and Obi-Wan get there, those dirty
Sep­pers are going to wish they’d stayed in bed today.

  The adults know better, of course. That’s part of what being a grown-up is: understanding that heroes are created by the HoloNet, and that the real-life Kenobi and Skywalker are only human beings, after all.

  Even if they really are everything the legends say they are, who’s to say they’ll show up in time? Who knows where they are right now? They might be trapped on some Separatist backwater. They might be captured, or wounded. Even dead.

  Some of the adults even whisper to themselves, They might have fallen.

  Because the stories are out there. Not on the HoloNet, of course—the HoloNet news is under the control of the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, and not even Palpatine’s renowned candor would allow tales like these to be told—but people hear whispers. Whispers of names that the Jedi would like to pretend never existed.

  Sora Bulq. Depa Billaba. Jedi who have fallen to the dark. Who have joined the Separatists, or worse: who have massacred civilians, or even murdered their comrades. The adults have a sickening suspicion that Jedi cannot be trusted. Not anymore. That even the greatest of them can suddenly just... snap.

  The adults know that legendary heroes are merely legends, and not heroes at all.

  These adults can take no comfort from their younglings. Pal­patine is captured. Grievous will escape. The Republic will fall. No mere human beings can turn this tide. No mere human be­ings would even try. Not even Kenobi and Skywalker.

  And so it is that these adults across the galaxy watch the HoloNet with ashes where their hearts should be.

  Ashes because they can’t see two prismatic bursts of realspace reversion, far out beyond the planet’s gravity well; because they can’t see a pair of starfighters crisply jettison hyperdrive rings and streak into the storm of Separatist vulture fighters with all guns blazing.

  A pair of starfighters. Jedi starfighters. Only two.

  Two is enough.

  Two is enough because the adults are wrong, and their younglings are right.

  Though this is the end of the age of heroes, it has saved its best for last.

  =PART ONE=

  VICTORY

  The dark is generous.

  Its first gift is concealment: our true faces lie in the dark be­neath our skins, our true hearts remain shadowed deeper still. But the greatest concealment lies not in protecting our secret truths, but in hiding from us the truths of others.

  The dark protects us from what we dare not know.

  Its second gift is comforting illusion: the ease of gentle dreams in night’s embrace, the beauty that imagination brings to what would repel in day’s harsh light. But the greatest of its comforts is the illusion that the dark is temporary: that every night brings a new day. Because it is day that is temporary.

  Day is the illusion.

  Its third gift is the light itself: as days are defined by the nights that divide them, as stars are defined by the infinite black through which they wheel, the dark embraces the light, and brings it forth from the center of its own self.

  With each victory of the light, it is the dark that wins.

  =1=

  ANAKIN AND OBI-WAN

  Antifighter flak flashed on all sides. Even louder than the clatter of shrapnel and the snarl of his sublight drives, his cockpit hummed and rang with near hits from the turbolaser fire of the capital ships crowding space around him. Sometimes his whirling spinning dive through the cloud of battle skimmed bursts so closely that the energy-scatter would slam his starfighter hard enough to bounce his head off the supports of his pilot’s chair.

  Right now Obi-Wan Kenobi envied the clones: at least they had helmets.

  “Arfour,” he said on internal comm, “can’t you do some­thing with the inertials?”

  The droid ganged into the socket on his starflghter’s left wing whistled something that sounded suspiciously like a human apology. Obi-Wan’s frown deepened. R4-P17 had been spend­ing too much time with Anakin’s eccentric astromech; it was picking up R2-D2’s bad habits.

  New bursts of flak bracketed his path. He reached into the Force, feeling for a safe channel through the swarms of shrapnel and sizzling nets of particle beams.

  There wasn’t one.

  He locked a snarl behind his teeth, twisting his starfighter around another explosion that could have peeled its armor like an overripe Ithorian starfruit. He hated this part. Hated it.

  Flying’s for droids.

  His cockpit speakers crackled. “There isn’t a droid made that can outfly you, Master.”

  He could still be surprised by the new depth of that voice. The calm confidence. The maturity. It seemed that only last week Anakin had been a ten-year-old who wouldn’t stop pestering him about Form I lightsaber combat.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, kicking into a dive that slipped a turbo-laser burst by no more than a meter. “Was that out loud?”

  “Wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Do you?” He looked up through the cockpit canopy to find his onetime Padawan flying inverted, mirroring him so closely that but for the transparisteel between them, they might have shaken hands. Obi-Wan smiled up at him. “Some new gift of the Force?”

  “Not the Force, Master. Experience. That’s what you’re always thinking.”

  Obi-Wan kept hoping to hear some of Anakin’s old cocky grin in his tone, but he never did. Not since Jabiim. Perhaps not since Geonosis.

  The war had burned it out of him.

  Obi-Wan still tried, now and again, to spark a real smile in his former Padawan. And Anakin still tried to answer.

  They both still tried to pretend the war hadn’t changed them.

  “Ah.” Obi-Wan took a hand from the starfighter’s control yoke to direct his upside-down friend’s attention forward. Dead ahead, a blue-white point of light splintered into four laser-straight trails of ion drives. “And what does experience tell you we should do about those incoming tri-fighters?”

  “That we should break—right!”

  Obi-Wan was already making that exact move as Anakin spoke. But they were inverted to each other: breaking right shot him one way while Anakin whipped the other. The tri-fighters’ cannons ripped space between them, tracking faster than their starfighters could slip.

  His onboard threat display chimed a warning: two of the droids had remote sensor locks on him. The others must have lit up his partner. “Anakin! Slip-jaws!”

  “My thought exactly.”

  They blew past the tri-fighters, looping in evasive spirals. The droid ships wrenched themselves into pursuit maneuvers that would have killed any living pilot.

  The slip-jaws maneuver was named for the scissorlike mandibles of the Kashyyyk slash-spider. Droids closing rapidly on their tails, cannonfire stitching space on all sides, the two Jedi pulled their ships through perfectly mirrored rolls that sent them streaking head-on for each other from opposite ends of a vast Re­public cruiser.

  For merely human pilots, this would be suicide. By the time you can see your partner’s starfighter streaking toward you at a respectable fraction of lightspeed, it’s already too late for your merely human reflexes to react.

  But these particular pilots were far from merely human.

  The Force nudged hands on control yokes and the Jedi starfighters twisted and flashed past each other belly-to-belly, close enough to scorch each other’s paint. Tri-fighters were the Trade Federation’s latest space-superiority droid. But even the electronic reflexes of the tri-fighters’ droid brains were too slow for this: one of his pursuers met one of Anakin’s head-on. Both vanished in a blossom of flame.

  The shock wave of debris and expanding gas rocked Obi-Wan; he fought the control yoke, barely keeping his starfighter

  out of a tumble that would have smeared him across the cruiser’s ventral hull. Before he could straighten out, his threat display chimed again.

  “Oh, marvelous,” he muttered under his breath. Anakin’s surviving p
ursuer had switched targets. “Why is it always me?”

  “Perfect.” Through the cockpit speakers, Anakin’s voice car­ried grim satisfaction. “Both of them are on your tail.”

  “Perfect is not the word I’d use.” Obi-Wan twisted his yoke, juking madly as space around him flared scarlet. “We have to split them up!”

  “Break left.” Anakin sounded calm as a stone. “The turbolaser tower off your port bow: thread its guns. I’ll take things from there.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Obi-Wan whipped sideways along the cruiser’s superstructure. Fire from the pursuing tri-fighters blasted burning chunks from the cruiser’s armor. “Why am I al­ways the bait?”

  “I’m right behind you. Artoo, lock on.”

  Obi-Wan spun his starfighter between the recoiling turbo-cannons close enough that energy-scatter made his cockpit clang like a gong, but still cannonfire flashed past him from the tri-fighters behind. “Anakin, they’re all over me!”

  “Dead ahead. Move right to clear my shot. Now!”

  Obi-Wan flared his port jets and the starfighter kicked to the right. One of the tri-fighters behind him decided it couldn’t fol­low and went for a ventral slip that took it directly into the blasts from Anakin’s cannons.

  It vanished in a boil of superheated gas.

  “Good shooting, Artoo.” Anakin’s dry chuckle in the cockpit’s speakers vanished behind the clang of lasers blasting ablative shielding off Obi-Wan’s left wing.

  “I’m running out of tricks here—”

  Clearing the vast Republic cruiser put him on course for the curving hull of one of the Trade Federation’s battleships; space between the two capital ships blazed with turbolaser exchanges.

  Some of those flashing energy blasts were as big around as his en­tire ship; the merest graze would blow him to atoms.

  Obi-Wan dived right in.

  He had the Force to guide him through, and the tri-fighter had only its electronic reflexes—but those electronic reflexes operated at roughly the speed of light. It stayed on his tail as if he were dragging it by a tow cable.