Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights II Streets of Shadows - Michael Reaves [97]
“You killed her, Vader. You! I know it!”
Vader was silent and motionless again. When he spoke, his voice had the same deep inflection, the same synthesized thunder—and yet was somehow different.
“You know nothing.” Vader straightened, letting Typho’s head fall. “You’re not worthy of uttering her name.” Raising his arm, he flexed his fingers at the helpless Typho. The captain’s mouth opened and his eyes bulged slightly as the flow of air to his lungs was constricted. Far down in his mind, a remote part of him commented dispassionately that this was no doubt how his beloved had met her end. Astonishingly, he found he still was able to choke out a final sentence.
“And you’re responsible … for the death of the Jedi … Anakin Skywalker as well!”
The invisible, inexorable grip on Typho’s throat momentarily relaxed as Vader drew back in slight surprise. That brief pause was followed by the horrible sound of a Sith Lord laughing. Three levels below, a pair of intoxicated humanoids heard just the echo of it and were immediately shocked into sobriety—the fearful clearheadedness that comes with realizing that untold terror lurks nearby.
When Vader extended his arm downward the second time, his control was more precise, more deliberate. “Yes,” the Dark Lord said, his tone one of grim amusement. “Yes, I killed Anakin Skywalker. I watched him die. He was weak, was Skywalker. In the end he could not rule himself, could not control his contemptible human emotions. Most of all, he did not understand or appreciate the true strength of the dark side. And so—he died. The galaxy is better off without him.”
The world was unraveling fast for Typho. The pain was going, finally, pouring out of him as fast as his blood. But he died with a smile on his face, for, although he did not understand the how or the why of it, he knew that dying with Padmé’s name on his lips was a finer and deeper revenge upon Darth Vader than he possibly could have hoped for through confrontation. It was as if he could feel the man’s heart and know that, somehow, he had ripped it open with her name alone.
He also knew that living was a far worse fate for Vader than death.
He was content.
Now he could go and find Padmé …
twenty-eight
The package came by courier just as Jax, I-Five, Laranth, and Den were leaving Poloda Place to rendezvous with Dejah and escort her to her ship. The Whiplash, aided by the Cephalon’s prognosticative powers, had at last succeeded in securing a berth for her aboard the Green Asteroid, a trader in the Polesotechnic League. It would take her, over the next several months and by a roundabout route, to the pleasure planet of Zeltros. Dejah Duare was going home.
Rhinann had, as usual, elected to stay behind, citing “unfinished research.”
Jax accepted the package, which was about thirty centimeters by two, from the delivery droid. There was no return address. He looked at his friends, who appeared just as baffled as he. He shrugged and started to open it.
Den backed hastily away. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t sense anything negative or dangerous about it.” Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. The enigmatic parcel had definite vibes, though nothing about them indicated imminent danger. Instead, it seemed steeped in evil, marinated in blood. Whatever it was, death had not been far from it.
When he opened the package, he understood why.
It was a lightsaber.
A holocard projected a message inscribed in simple cursive: A JEDI SHOULD NOT HAVE TO RELY ON AN INFERIOR WEAPON. GOOD LUCK. It was signed, A FELLOW REVOLUTIONARY.
Jax examined the weapon. The hilt’s design was elegantly simple, consisting of an ambidextrous grip of molded silver duralumin, with a locking activator similar to the one he’d lost in the Factory District. Good, he thought wryly, because you never know when you’ll have to overload another nuclear reactor. He wondered what