Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [123]
Flanking him, the Jedi rushed in.
Grievous waited until the last instant to command his legs to raise him up several centimeters. Then he extended his lightsabers straight out from his sides, angled slightly downward. Slipping past the flashing strikes of his opponents, Grievous’s blades pierced the chests of both. They fell away from him, faces contorted in surprise, of the sort only sudden death could bring.
Several battle droids hastened forward, almost prancing in eagerness.
“Jettison the bodies,” Grievous instructed. “Choose a place where the Republic can have a good look at them.”
Diminutive between two MagnaGuards, Palpatine was waiting at the foot of the shuttle boarding ramp.
“Take him,” Grievous said.
Lifting Palpatine by his armpits, the combat droids followed Grievous through the cruiser, and at last through an oval of opalescent portal into a large cabin space containing a situation table surrounded by chairs. Grievous ordered the guards to set the Supreme Chancellor down in a swivel chair at the head of the table and to shackle his hands.
“Welcome to the general’s quarters,” he said while he did input at a console built into the table. Shortly the bulkhead behind the swivel chair became a hologrammic display, showing the battle of Coruscant. The flick of a final switch summoned a stalked, eyeball-shaped holocam from the tabletop.
“You’re about to make an unscheduled appearance on the HoloNet, Chancellor,” Grievous said. “I apologize for not providing a mirror, hairbrush, and cosmetics, so that you might at least camouflage some of your fear.”
Palpatine’s voice was sinister when he spoke. “You can display me, but I won’t speak.”
Grievous nodded at what seemed an obvious statement. “I’ll display you, but you won’t speak. Is that understood?”
“You will do all the talking.”
“That’s correct. I will do all the talking.”
“Very good.”
For no apparent reason, Grievous felt uncertain. “Lord Tyranus will soon be here to take charge of you.”
Palpatine smiled without showing his teeth. “Then I am assured of being greatly entertained.”
From aboard his cruiser, General Grievous addressed a captive audience of trillions of beings. His frightening visage dominating every frequency of the HoloNet, he delivered a message of gloom and doom, forecasting the end of Palpatine’s reign, the long-delinquent downfall of the corrupt Republic, a bright new future for all the worlds and all the species that had been enslaved to it …
Crushed in among Nicandra Plaza’s suddenly silent multitude, Bail touched Mon Mothma’s arm in a gesture that promised his imminent return, and began to writhe his way to the edge of the crowd. Gazing around, he spied Padmé standing with C-3PO, arms cradled against her, elbows in the palms of her hands, her face raised to the light-splintered sky.
Hastening to her, he called her name, and she turned from the handrail into his comforting embrace, her tears wetting the front of his tunic.
“Padmé, listen to me,” he said, stroking her hair. “The Separatists have nothing to gain by killing Palpatine. He’ll be all right.”
“What if you’re wrong, Bail? What if they do kill him, and power falls into the hands of Mas Amedda and the rest of that gang? That doesn’t worry you? What if Alderaan is next on Grievous’s list of worlds to attack?”
“Of course it worries me. I fear for Alderaan. But I have faith that won’t happen. This attack will put an end to the Outer Rim sieges. The Jedi will be back where they belong, here in the Core. And as for Mas Amedda, he won’t last a week. There are thousands of Senators who think as we do, Padmé. We’ll rally them into a force to be reckoned with. We’ll put the Republic back on course, even if we have to fight tooth and nail to overcome anyone who opposes us.” He put his hand under her chin to lift her face toward his. “We’ll get through this, no matter what.”
She sniffled; smiled lightly. “If I could keep