Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [394]
The ideals of democracy hadn’t been stamped out by Palpatine. The Jedi had carried out missions of dubious merit for any number of Supreme Chancellors, but always in the name of safeguarding peace and justice. What they had failed to understand was that the Senate, the Coruscanti, the citizens of countless world and star systems, grown weary of the old system, had allowed democracy to die. And in a galaxy where the goal was single-minded control from the top, and wherein the end justified the means, the Jedi had no place.
That had been the final revenge of the Sith.
When Obi-Wan lifted his gaze, the intermittently garbled HoloNet was displaying an image of someone outfitted in what almost seemed a costume of head-to-toe black. Human or humanoid—the being’s species wasn’t mentioned—the masked Imperial had apparently played a role in tracking down and executing the “insurrectionist” Jedi, and enslaving their Wookiee confederates.
The burst of static that accompanied the reporter’s mention of the figure’s identity might have surged from Obi-Wan’s brain. Still chilled by the earlier announcement about the Jedi, he was now paralyzed by sudden dread.
He couldn’t have heard what he thought he heard!
He whirled to the spaceport worker. “What did she say? Who is that?”
“Lord Vader,” the man said, all but into his glass of brandy.
Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, that’s not possible!”
“You didn’t ask if I thought it was possible, sand man. You asked me what she said.”
Obi-Wan stood up in a daze, knocking over his table.
“Hey, take it easy, friend,” the man said, rising.
“Vader,” Obi-Wan muttered. “Vader’s alive.”
The cantina’s other customers turned to regard him.
“Get ahold of yourself,” the man told Obi-Wan under his breath. He called for the cantina owner. “Pour him a drink—a real one. And put it on my tab.” Righting the table, he urged Obi-Wan back into his chair and lowered himself onto an adjoining one.
The cantina owner brought the drink and set it down in front of Obi-Wan. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” the man from Mos Eisley said. “Aren’t you, friend?”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Heatstroke.”
The cantina owner seemed satisfied. “I’ll bring you some more water.”
Obi-Wan’s new friend waited until they were alone to say, “You really all right?”
Obi-Wan nodded again. “Really.”
The man adopted a conspiratorial voice. “You want to remain all right, you’ll keep your voice down about Vader, understand? You’ll keep from asking questions about him, too. Even in this Force-forsaken place.”
Obi-Wan studied him. “What do you know about him?”
“Just this: I have a friend, a trader in hardwoods, who was on Kashyyyk when the Imperials launched their attack on a place called Kachirho. I guess he was lucky to get his ship raised and jumped. But he claims he got a glimpse of this guy Vader, ripping into Wookiees like they were stuffed toys, and going to lightsabers with the Jedi who were onworld.” The spaceport worker glanced furtively around the cantina. “This Vader, he toasted Kashyyyk, friend. From what my friend says, it’ll be years before a piece of wroshyr goes up the well.”
“And the Wookiees?” Obi-Wan said.
The stranger shrugged forlornly. “Anyone’s guess.” Placing a few credits on the table, he stood up. “Take care of yourself. These desert wastes aren’t as remote as you may think they are.”
When the water arrived, Obi-Wan downed it in a gulp, shouldered his rucksack, and left the cool shade of the veranda for the harsh light of Anchorhead’s principal street. He moved in a daze that had little to do with the glare or the heat.
As impossible as it seemed, Anakin had survived Mustafar and had resumed the Sith title of Darth Vader. How could Obi-Wan have been so foolish as to bring Luke here, of all worlds? Anakin’s homeworld, the grave of his mother, the home of his only family members …
Obi-Wan gripped