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"Anakin is dead," Vader said.

"So you've told me before," Ferus said. "You killed him. Just like you killed Obi-Wan.

And Padmé." He watched carefully, hoping for some flinch, some sign, something to indicate that the name had some impact. If Anakin really was dead and gone, then Ferus had no chance left at all. Perhaps none of them did. "Erase all reminders of who you used to be, isn't that the plan? Any reminders of what you've done and how much it hurts?"

"You know nothing about pain," Vader said. Then he raised his lightsaber. The red beam glowed in the darkness. "But it will be my pleasure to teach you."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Darth Vader had come for Luke Skywalker. He had come to find the boy who had caused so much trouble, wrought so much destruction—and somehow, inexplicably, bore Anakin's name.

But he had stayed—even when it became clear that Luke was gone, along with everyone else—because he sensed there was someone else hiding in the bowels of the station. Someone familiar. A presence that evoked strange and unsettling images of the past, of things he hadn't thought about for many years. Images of Padmé—her scent, the soft melody of her voice, the myriad details he'd spent two decades trying to forget. It meant there was someone on this station connected to his past, and that someone needed to die.

As he swept through the halls, he had been almost…not afraid, certainly. Fear was beneath him now, useful only as a weapon with which to destroy his enemies. No, he had been watchful, wondering who he might find lurking around the next corner.

Discovering Ferus had been a relief. This was no unknown variable from the past.

Ferus was known, easily dealt with. A loose end he should have tied up long before. Ferus had no power over him; his words were empty. He was nothing but a feeble old man babbling about a dead past. And yet the sight of him—the sound of the name Padmé on his lips—was enraging. Ferus should be dead, as all the Jedi should be dead. It was infuriating that he was still crawling around like a Bossuk roach.

No longer. Vader stoked the rage, let it swell within him. His rage was his power—

something the pathetic Jedi had never understood. His rage was bottomless; his power was limitless.

Ferus was nothing in the face of that. Less than nothing. A roach to be squashed underfoot.

Vader crossed the distance between them before the old man even had time to draw his weapon. I could kill him with a single blow, Vader thought. But there was no hurry.

And he had to admit, he was curious. Ferus had become such a decrepit human specimen, paunchy and sad. Soft. It would be interesting to let him believe he could still put up a fight.

Vader swung his blade down. Ferus met it solidly. There was a dull hum as the red and blue blades clashed.

"Your technique has become lazy," Vader observed. He parried a blow, almost as an afterthought.

Ferus didn't reply. He was breathing heavily, gasping with each lunge and thrust.

Vader deflected every strike with little more than a flick of the wrist.

"And you've gotten complacent," Ferus said, slashing diagonally. Vader retreated a step, and the lightsaber hummed through empty air. "You think no one can match you, right? Same old Anakin."

"Anakin is dead! " Vader roared, and struck with his full power. Time to end this game.

But Ferus somehow evaded the blow—and then danced away from the next one, and the next. The blue blade whirled and spiraled through the air, matching Vader strike for strike, blow for blow.

It was that name. That was the only explanation. Even the sound of it had somehow thrown him off balance.

This was unacceptable.

"You move well for a fat old man," Vader granted. He was more powerful by far, but the plastoid armor made for awkward maneuvering. And he would never reclaim the physical grace he'd had as Anakin.

Vader shook off the thought, disgusted with himself. Anakin had nothing that he wanted, nothing. He let the disgust grow. This was what he needed. Not grace, not that foul