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Threepio pressed two more keys. Artoo was still online. Threepio started to send a message back when the screen went blank. Then nothing.

Artoo was gone.

It amazed him how quickly the credits disappeared. Kueller sat at his desk on Almania. The curtains were open, revealing the lights of the city below. The towers of the Je’har were black blotches against the night skyline. Emptiness. Ruins. A sign of Kueller’s tremendous power.

But wealth supported power. He would have to strip Pydyr of its treasures and sell them on the open market. His agents were already sending out discreet feelers to the greatest collectors in the galaxy. If he could sell the homes of Pydyr as a set, the gems of Pydyr as another, and the clothing of Pydyr as a third, he would have enough credits to complete Phase 3 of the operation.

Phase 1 was over, and Phase 2 was underway.

Kueller leaned back in his chair. His gloves were on the table beside the five small computer screens. His hands looked pale in the artificial light. A young man’s hands. Not the hands of the most powerful man in the galaxy.

Not yet.

But soon. Very soon.

A chime rang softly on his private line. He touched the screen in response. Brakiss’s face appeared. His blond hair was tousled, and his eyes looked tormented. Brakiss had faced Skywalker, then. Kueller knew the signs.

“So,” Kueller said, not waiting for Brakiss to speak, “he raised questions in your tormented heart.”

Brakiss flinched. If Skywalker could tempt Brakiss, a man who had loved the Empire with all of his twisted heart, he could tempt anyone. Kueller had made the right choice: Destroying Skywalker and all who believed in him was the next step. Kueller would not succeed without doing so.

“Is he your master now, Brakiss?” Kueller asked.

“No!” Brakiss actually backed away from his screen. His image was smaller—Brakiss seemed smaller.

“Then who is your master, Brakiss?”

“No one,” Brakiss said. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes full of terror and sadness. “I want out this time, Kueller. I’m done.”

Kueller let his death mask smile, even though his own irritation was deep. “What did Skywalker do to you?”

“Nothing,” Brakiss said.

“Then why this sudden loss of faith?”

“It’s not sudden, Kueller. You wouldn’t let me kill him.”

“Even though you tried.”

Brakiss flinched again.

Kueller leaned forward, knowing the movement would make his death’s-head mask fill Brakiss’s view-screen. “You tried and you failed, and Skywalker, out of the goodness of his Jedi heart, let you live. And now you are grateful to your old master, and you wonder how anyone could best him, and you are not certain whether anyone should best him, am I right, Brakiss?”

“I hate Skywalker,” Brakiss said.

Kueller shook his head. “You don’t hate Skywalker. You hate the way he makes you feel. You hate yourself, Brakiss. You hate what you’ve become.”

Brakiss raised his chin. “He says I could go back to the academy. He says I could abandon the dark side. He says Vader did.”

“Of course Vader did,” Kueller said, his voice calm, even though he felt like shredding Brakiss for even listening to Skywalker. “Vader was dying. Skywalker was beside him. The Emperor was gone. Vader had nothing left. He had no power and no hope. He took what Skywalker offered. He had no real choice.”

“Skywalker says he did.”

“Skywalker was trying to take you into his power. Did he succeed, Brakiss?”

Brakiss crossed his arms. “You can’t tell?”

Kueller smiled, glad he had not used the holo-projector. He seemed bigger on the screen, more powerful, and he needed all that power at this moment. “I think Skywalker could have taken you back if he truly wanted to, but he did not. He’s not interested in you. You are nothing to him. You aren’t even worth killing.”

Brakiss flinched again. So Brakiss had left himself open, made it easy for Skywalker to kill him. And the virtuous Luke Skywalker had not.

“Skywalker wants me,” Kueller said. “He knows that to maintain his power, he must defeat me.”

“He doesn’t even know you exist,” Brakiss said. His tone had defiance in