Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [193]
He went back to the viewport and reassumed his original position, legs wide, hands clasped behind his back. To look on the sickly pink in Gunray’s pale green cheeks for one second longer was to risk forgetting his orders and splattering the viceroy’s brains from here to Ord Mantell.
“Your ship is waiting.”
His auditory sensors clearly picked up the slither of Gunray’s sandals retreating along the corridor, and not a second too soon: his sensors were also registering the whine of the control center’s holocomm warming up. He turned to face the disk, and when the enunciator chimed to indicate the incoming transmission, he pressed the ACCEPT key and knelt.
Head down, he could see only the scanned image of the hem of the great Lord’s robes, but that was all he needed to see.
“Yes, Lord Sidious.”
“Have you moved the Separatist Council to Mustafar?”
“Yes, Master.” He risked a glance out the viewport. Most of the council had reached the starship. Gunray should be joining them any second; Grievous had seen firsthand how fast the viceroy could run, given proper motivation. “The ship will lift off within moments.”
“Well done, my general. Now you must turn your hand to preparing our trap there on Utapau. The Jedi hunt you personally at last; you must be ready for their attack.”
“Yes, Master.”
“I am arranging matters to give you a second chance to do my bidding, Grievous. Expect that the Jedi sent to capture you will be Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
“Kenobi?” Grievous’s fists clenched hard enough that his carpal electrodrivers whined in protest. “And Skywalker?”
“I believe Skywalker will be … otherwise engaged.”
Grievous dropped his head even lower. “I will not fail you again, my Master. Kenobi will die.”
“See to it.”
“Master? If I may trouble you with boldness—why did you not let me kill Chancellor Palpatine? We may never get a better chance.”
“The time was not yet ripe. Patience, my general. The end of the war is near, and victory is certain.”
“Even with the loss of Count Dooku?”
“Dooku was not lost, he was sacrificed—a strategic sacrifice, as one offers up a piece in dejarik: to draw the opponent into a fatal blunder.”
“I was never much the dejarik player, my Master. I prefer real war.”
“And you shall have your fill, I promise you.”
“This fatal blunder you speak of—if I may once again trouble you with boldness …”
“You will come to understand soon enough.”
Grievous could hear the smile in his Master’s voice.
“All will be clear, once you meet my new apprentice.”
Anakin finger-combed his hair as he trotted out across the restricted landing deck atop the Temple ziggurat near the base of the High Council Tower. Far across the expanse of deck stood the Supreme Chancellor’s shuttle. Anakin squinted at it, and at the two tall red-robed guards that stood flanking its open access ramp.
And coming toward him from the direction of the shuttle, shielding his eyes and leaning against the morning wind that whipped across the unprotected field—was that Obi-Wan?
“Finally,” Anakin muttered. He’d scoured the Temple for his former Master; he’d nearly giving up hope of finding him when a passing Padawan had mentioned that he’d seen Obi-Wan on his way out to the landing deck to meet Palpatine’s shuttle. He hoped Obi-Wan wouldn’t notice he hadn’t changed his clothes.
It wasn’t like he could explain.
Though his secret couldn’t last, he wasn’t ready for it to come out just yet. He and Padmé had agreed last night that they would keep it as long as they could. He wasn’t ready to leave the Jedi Order. Not while she was still in danger.
Padmé had said that his nightmare must be only a metaphor, but he knew better. He knew that Force prophecy was not absolute—but his had never been wrong. Not in the slightest detail. He had known as a boy that he would be chosen by the Jedi. He had known his adventures would span the galaxy. As a mere nine-year-old, long before he even understood what love