Work Text:
Fate and Glory
by HistorianVeronica and Tahiri
(In the Politics of Empire series, this story takes place after :Acts of Faith" (posted) and before "Questions of Loyalty" and "Bonds of the Flesh" (in progress)
The Emperor Palpatine was midway through a policy meeting with his economic advisers when sudden vertigo washed over him -- a giant maw in the Force ripping through the fabrics of time and space and momentarily stealing the breath from his body. Yet an instant later the sensation fled, leaving him with a pounding heart but otherwise untouched, in an episode so brief that his official guests did not notice his distress. Some vast upheaval or destruction had punctuated the regular rhythms of life and death in his galaxy, disrupting normal patterns of existence and disturbing even the usual eddies and flows of the Force.
Yet when Palpatine extended his preternatural senses outward, searching the various landscapes of Darkness, no answers came. Perhaps the incident need not concern him; if it did, he supposed he would know soon enough. Giving himself a slight mental shake, he focused once again upon dry statistics and charts.
They were discussing taxes when the news came a short time later, while he and his advisors planned fiscal policy over luncheon. Palpatine would ever after recall that moment: the early afternoon sunlight slanting through jewel-hued windows, and then the carefully quenched expressions of surprise and concern on the bureaucrats’ faces when Palace intelligence director Jon Kalendra entered the room to interrupt the meeting.
So rare was such an event, and so shocking had been the earlier disruption, that Palpatine felt his blood go cold even as Kalendra approached and bent forward to murmur in his ear. “Your Majesty,” the officer informed while Palpatine’s Force-senses shrilled in inward alarm, “Alderaan has been destroyed.”
The ruler stiffened in shock, his thoughts arrowing out into several trajectories of cause and consequence. Kalendra would certainly be having a similar reaction to the news, clearly transmitted just minutes ago, but this was not the time and place for that discussion.
“When?” His voice was so low that only the officer could hear, although the galactic sovereign had no doubt some of his other advisors attempted to read lips.
“A little more than a half hour ago.” Kalendra’s breath stirred the fine hairs at the back of Palpatine’s neck.
The Emperor nodded. “In the side parlor,” he commanded quietly, then spoke to his guests in a normal tone. “Continue to evaluate the options we discussed, gentlemen, and I shall meet with you again next week.”
Rising from his seat amid gracious assents and courtly farewells, Palpatine sensed the avid curiosity lurking beneath the bureaucrats’ smiles. He understood that the instant he departed the room, the men would burst into a flurry of speculation having nothing to do with their financial reports. No matter: given the dire and undisguisable nature of this galactic event, they would realize the situation soon enough.
* * *
The parlor was soundproofed, so when Palpatine’s voice rose into loud, incredulous anger, only Kalendra knew it. The officer bowed his head in wordless agreement with the ruler’s outrage as Palpatine paced furiously across the room. So great was Kalendra’s discipline that he did not even visibly react when the looking glass on the far side of the chamber cracked down its full length in reaction to Palpatine’s nearly overwhelming fury.
“ Tarkin commanded it, you say?” The Emperor had heard Kalendra quite clearly yet hoped against all rationality that he had somehow misunderstood. That this had been another sort of disaster, some horrific accident.
Yet Kalendra’s pallor and contained, unspoken rage said otherwise. “Yes, Sire.” The officer met his gaze with troubled dark eyes. “Intelligence officers on the Death Star notified me immediately. All those except Tarkin’s men, that is.”
Palpatine nodded absently; those traitors could be dealt with later. At the moment, there was only one soul, really, with whom he wished to speak. Yet the nightmare had just begun, and soon he would need to discuss Alderaan and the Grand Moff Akim Tarkin with a host of advisers, a herd of courtiers, and the entire Imperial High Command. The mere thought of it fatigued him, which only increased his anger.
“Arrange a news conference with the usual selected journalists,” he instructed, folding his arms across his chest as grim coolness, a terrible sort of detached calm, set in. Kalendra nodded in respectful silence, knowing that the Emperor’s quiet iciness was far more dangerous than any fiery reactions.
“I’ll meet with them tonight,” Palpatine continued, “and issue an official statement before word of the destruction becomes public knowledge.”
“Of course.” Kalendra paused for a tactful, pensive moment and then asked, “And the Grand Moff, Sire?”
The ruler examined the younger officer dispassionately, knowing that Kalendra already surmised his plans. So many of his valued subordinates distrusted and disliked Tarkin, whose tendencies to paranoia, sadism, and overweening political ambition Palpatine had for many years managed to turn to the Empire’s, and his own personal, advantage.
Until now. The overzealous insubordinate fool had likely thought to win his approval via such violent audacity. For decades Tarkin had craved Palpatine’s favor: his special personal attention, and above all, a sort of emotional attachment and fond demonstrativeness the ruler would have found impossible to display or stomach. But now, with this stunningly stupid deed whose damaging political and economic consequences the ruler could only begin to ponder, the Grand Moff had exhausted the last of Palpatine’s tolerance and morphed his endurance of Tarkin’s pathetic mad hopes into implacable hatred and revulsion.
“Freeze all Tarkin’s assets,” Palpatine commanded, “and have his estate surrounded immediately.” He doubted the miscalculating, preening idiot would abruptly realize his error in judgement and flee the Death Star and the Empire around which all his insane ambitions centered, but there was no point to risking that possibility either.
“Then contact Lord Vader,” Palpatine concluded quietly. “Instruct him to use my personal communications frequency immediately. I shall take it in my quarters.” With brisk, angry, Dark purpose, the ruler stalked out of the parlor before Kalendra had finished his reply.
* * *
A strange sort of cold relief accompanied his calm rage as Palpatine spoke to his Dark Lord, on the other side of the Core, via their private, encrypted frequency. For too long had Palpatine repressed his disgust in Tarkin’s avidly adoring presence, and now his ever-denied sense of emotional violence burst from its confines, freed from all fetters of calculated manipulation and political usefulness.
From his remote location, Vader could not sense the tremors of anger and revulsion that periodically rippled down the Emperor’s spine. Nonetheless, Palpatine knew that his warlord and longtime champion certainly detected the sincerity of his rage through the Force link master and pupil shared.
“Bring him to me alive,” Palpatine instructed stonily. “A public trial and execution at which I preside is the only solution that will convince the galaxy Tarkin acted alone.”
“I shall have to immobilize him,” Vader rumbled quietly. “He will not surrender to my authority willingly.”
“By all means, cripple him if you wish. Maim him. I do not care. Only bring him here, and wait a little, before I turn him over to your justice. As far as I am concerned, he’s a traitor to the Empire and deserving of every punishment.”
Even from here, Palpatine thought he could detect Vader’s mood: a grim anticipation and sort of dark contentment at the command he’d waited so many long years to be given. Or perhaps the ruler gauged his warlord’s emotions so quickly due to the familiarity of long association. Either way, Palpatine also surmised the tacit silent judgment in Vader’s thoughts – admonishment that went unspoken but nonetheless accompanied Vader’s deep bass syllables. “He assumed too much, believing he would hand you Alderaan’s defeat and the Rebellion’s, served up on the same silver platter.” Unvoiced queries lay coiled in the younger Sith’s tone.
“Garnished with Tarkin’s smug eagerness to please, no doubt.” Palpatine continued the metaphor and shook his head in world-weary emphasis. “Little did he know how distasteful I found his supercilious, fawning zeal.” Already he spoke of Akim in the past tense, idly wondering whom he would appoint as Tarkin’s gubernatorial replacement.
But there would be time later for such minutiae. His link with Vader practically throbbed with the fallen Jedi’s repressed sentiments, and it was better that such issues did not fester between them as had too many other concerns over the years. Now with Tarkin’s pending death, Palpatine would have to rely upon Vader more than ever before, so this was no time for increased tension between them.
Palpatine sighed silently and braced himself. “Before you proceed, tell me your candid impressions of this matter.”
“He is a lunatic,” Vader unhesitatingly replied in profound disdain, his deepest convictions lacing his voice with a passion Palpatine had not heard from him in a long time. “I could have told you this would happen—” The Dark Lord bit off the accusing sentiment abruptly, exerting belated caution over his unleashed candor, but his anger and disgust remained evident in his posture. He hated Tarkin…but he blamed Palpatine for a monumental error in judgment.
“Oh?” The Emperor coolly raised an eyebrow, his tone brittle, as he neither admonished Vader nor conceded the point. How could he truly have anticipated such folly, bordering on madness? “I did not know clairvoyance was one of your stronger Force-talents, my lord.”
He remained calm, his mood deliberately tolerant, even as he tensed in response to Vader’s rare criticism, which he had, after all, just invited. Still, he exerted effort to keep his voice calm. Never, he brooded grimly, would he have expected Tarkin, always pedantically loyal, to provide their enemies with more propagandistic ammunition than the Rebels themselves had concocted in twenty years. Most citizens had long ignored the Alliance’s allegations of disappearances, murder, and tyrannical conspiracy, because there was no tangible proof. Neither did many beings too terribly mind the Jedi Purge, given the Knighthood’s latter-day reputation for elitist ineffectiveness.
“I have never needed clairvoyance to anticipate Tarkin,” Vader rebutted testily, but with a clear effort to achieve a more careful, controlled tone. Yet he also apparently refused to back down entirely from his open, indignant criticism, or from Palpatine’s lately uncommon permission to voice it. “The warning signs have always been glaringly evident, but for some reason you have never heeded my concerns on the subject.”
Palpatine stiffened, despite having anticipated this. Reflexive retaliatory impulse flared, but he let it flow over rather than through him, and then felt it fade.
Vader paused, obviously recognizing some warning sign in Palpatine’s eyes or the set of his mouth. Almost visibly pained by the effort required to stifle further venting of his long-repressed frustration at the political favor Akim had enjoyed for many years, the younger Sith abruptly and unsubtly recalculated his next words. In a calmer, smoother tone, he added more guardedly: “Although even I did not anticipate his catastrophic choice of a prominent, demilitarized Core world.”
Somehow the careful placation, the solemn, flawless deference Vader had perfected in the past few years, bothered Palpatine even more than the blunt criticism. The obvious, almost tangible shift from friend to Dark Lord was deliberately, overtly performed for his observance, Palpatine had no doubt. It struck home in precisely the manner Vader had probably desired, but for which he would have just as smoothly declared himself innocent of intent.
Palpatine felt a sharp pang of incoherent rage and frustration as he watched his champion rein in and shut himself off again, Vader’s icy, aloof reserve slipping too easily into place once more to become a façade of formality and polite, if insincere, respect. Why could they no longer sustain the easy, straightforward interaction they had once depended upon to build this damned Empire?
Despite his irritation with Vader’s blunt candor – the very honesty he had requested – and his further distress at Vader’s sudden withdrawal, the ruler nodded in acknowledgement, as though he’d noticed none of the subtext of their conversation. “All he’s done,” Palpatine observed, refocusing on Akim, and letting his anger burn safely there, “is create billions of martyrs and terrorize the mostly loyal citizenry of the entire Core. He may as well have been arming the Rebellion himself, for all the harm this will cause.”
The Emperor did not directly reply to Vader’s near-accusations, lest the fissures that had grown between master and pupil widen into an unbridgeable abyss. Thorough, honest explanations would only worsen matters, Palpatine was certain. The Dark Lord would hardly welcome proof of the ruler’s mistrust, which over several years had rippled inside Palpatine as cold and deep as a black underground spring.
The causes were many, and not the least of them was Vader’s lingering sense of knightly honor, which remained strong in the armored warrior long after his other Jedi morals had perished. Even while Palpatine respected Vader as he did no other being, valuing him for the honesty of his counsel and the courage of his convictions, the ruler also silently resented and deplored his Dark Lord’s resulting tendencies to self-righteous indignation.
But even more fundamental to Palpatine’s distrust was the inescapable simple truth that had shadowed and underlain all Sith relationships since time immemorial. One day, Vader would challenge his master’s sovereignty over him. Indeed, in their early time together, when such an eventuality had seemed far in the future and perhaps merely hypothetical, Palpatine had spoken of the possibility as a natural outcome of Darkness: the younger and stronger replace the aging and weak; the student becomes the master; and the Tradition passes to the next generation.
Thus, he now cynically imagined, had most Sith masters done over the millennia. Shaped by their own past triumphs over older masters, and overconfident in their own primes of life, the sorcerers of Darkness had trained their pupils in the same ways they themselves were taught. Suffused with apprentices’ early admiration, flushed with the joys of pedagogy and personal domination, and thus ultimately disregarding the logical outcomes of their own ruthless lessons, masters had, one after another, planted the seeds of their own doom.
As Palpatine had aged and Vader had matured into a Sith master in his own right, a terrible rending ambivalence had taken root in Palpatine’s ebon soul. On the one hand, his armored champion was his most treasured accomplishment, a glorious culmination of the ruler’s life’s work. There would be no humiliation in any death delivered by such a magnificent representative of the entire Sith Tradition. Yet the Emperor’s weaker human essence – that frailer material not completely hardened in Darkness, violence, and fire – increasingly railed against such a fate. As his flesh slowly failed, repeatedly betraying him even as his powers remained formidable, Palpatine was haunted by Vader’s robustness. The physical prowess that had once seemed the ruler’s bulwark against nearly all enemies had suddenly become the most potent danger. Nearly all his nights threatened sleeplessness now, and no time spent with Vader was completely untainted.
Had his predecessors managed to avoid such torment, to retain any resigned serenity or sublime Dark acceptance in the face of inevitable extinction? Had their historical and sorcerous mission lent them the strength to be cut down, and to perish fighting as a Sith should while refusing to feel any traitorous sense of emotional betrayal? Had they passed on their black blessings as they died, fulfilled, in their one-time protégés’ arms?
At times the entire magnificent Sith heritage of which he was (at least still) the living consummation seemed an unsupportable weight. On occasion he wanted to thrust away from him the past and all its demands – its dead leaders and living obligations and the entire burden of history – and begin anew, Vader and he both. But to thus defy their mutual duties, to so violate all Palpatine had once believed and had so diligently taught his Dark Lord, seemed as unthinkable as his inevitable destruction at the hands of the being he most cared for.
With Tarkin, he had found temporary freedom and forgetfulness. Reveling in the Grand Moff’s uncompromised and even bovine devotion, Palpatine sometimes managed to forget the future and his mystical Sith obligations. To the Force-blind and Vader-hating Akim, Palpatine was merely The Emperor, the one and only. Despite his ambitions, Tarkin had wanted the throne less than he’d longed to be the absolute, unambiguous favorite, the predominant recipient of Palpatine’s fondness and attentions. The only danger the ruler had felt in Akim’s presence was the constant prospect of psychic claustrophobia, for which isolation was the simple cure. Moreover, Tarkin elicited few emotions from him apart from the kind of indulgence one granted a useful, dedicated pet, and an occasional annoyance he dealt with effectively by avoiding Akim and hence eliciting the man’s desperate eagerness to please.
Akim was predictable, safe, adoring, malleable, always obedient, and all that Vader was not. Until now. Palpatine was still stunned at the Moff’s cataclysmic, arrogant presumption.
But he only offered his Dark Lord a partial explanation, merely a fraction of the truth. “You already had control of the Fleet. Everyone in Court, including Akim, knows you enjoy my greatest personal and political regard. In giving Akim directorship of the Death Star , I had thought to prevent others’ jealousies and resentments of you , and to spare you being trapped in a project and upon a vessel you obviously wanted no part of whatsoever.”
He gazed at Vader impassively, giving no hint of the roiling emotions beneath his smooth surface and shielded psyche, even as he silently recalled his months-ago decision that granting Vader control over a weapon of planetary destruction could be quite detrimental to his own personal peace of mind. And perhaps all-too-helpful to the Dark Lord’s possible ambitions, as well.
Thus the present ironies were painful in the extreme, a bitter pill to swallow. His bitterness only increased when Vader answered, “So you never predicted and never intended that he would use the weapon for the main purpose for which it was designed?” The words were half sincere query, and half weary, almost sarcastic, skepticism.
“Without my prior permission for a specific target? No. Until today, everything Tarkin did was to please me.”
“I am certain he had that intention today, as well as any other,” Vader answered. “He hoped, I think, to prove himself to you by eliminating all your enemies in one afternoon…”
“Hence eliminating my need for other advisors,” the ruler concluded, finishing the Dark Lord’s train of thought. “I see. I do, at least, trust that you realize the fallacies in such a design. Compared to the value you....and my other advisers...hold for me, Tarkin’s sole worth is negligible.” The ruler heard the fatigue echoing in his own voice and wondered if Vader detected it. Already he had nearly said too much.
When Vader did not immediately respond, Palpatine found the silence inexplicably unbearable. “The Death Star’ s might was never to be demonstrated in this fashion,” he stated quietly, willing Vader to remember meetings at which Palpatine had discussed precisely this matter. “Its power lay in its latent threat, and any demonstration of its abilities was to have been upon an uninhabited planetoid.” Was he justifying himself to the younger Sith, whose outrage at the enormous loss of life was all too apparent?
“Of course, Master.” Vader’s reply was neutral, formal, once again the damnable perfected façade of deference. A small silence settled as Palpatine digested his apprentice’s restraint and distance, discomfiting himself by imagining the various angry or skeptical thoughts Vader might yet be repressing.
“Well,” he continued briskly after this short pause, “we can discuss damage control at greater length once you arrive here with Tarkin in tow. When should I expect you?”
“As soon as I make arrangements to escort Princess Organa to Coruscant with us, I will take Tarkin into my custody,” Vader answered grimly. “She presents a complicated problem now that she is both a Rebel leader and the only surviving ruler of Alderaan. Her fate must be decided with delicate care, if we are not to compound today’s disaster by making her an even greater martyr, or a figurehead.”
“Of course. We shall deal with her separately. I look forward to seeing you again, my lord. Contact me when you are in orbit.” Palpatine’s words were somewhat stiff, nearly terse.
“Yes, my master.”
The ruler nodded and signed off with an angry flick of the wrist.
* * *
For the next several hours Palpatine attempted to re-attain his usual detachment and to reach the austere, ascetic calm required to liberate the flesh from mundane laws of physiology. Alone in his darkly lush quarters, he rested before the fire, drawing on the Force to enter, penetrate, and reenergize his cells. Attempting a spiritual manipulation of the flesh that was not precisely healing, but which drew upon the Force to painfully re-energize the atoms of his fragile, carnal self, Palpatine meditated, trying to utilize the Dark sorcery that had thus sustained his middle - aged appearance throughout the decades. The exercise required complete concentration and ruthless self-discipline – the ability to endure agonizing hours of cellular rejuvenation and the draining effects of siphoning pure Darkness throughout his entire body in a sort of metaphysical chemotherapy that preserved at least some vestiges of youth.
Over the years, even as his powers had increased, Palpatine found such a state increasingly difficult to reach and maintain for sufficient lengths of time. Illogical, personal dissatisfactions and discomforts he did not entirely understand and was maddeningly unable to expunge undermined his focus, and thus short-circuited attempts to sustain metamorphosing visualization and concentration. With an appalling frequency of late, insomnia and fatigue had also taken their toll, simultaneously resulting from and exacerbating the original problems.
Even this was about Vader. The sovereign knew it completely, even as the fact utterly galled him.
As tensions had grown between them, so too had Palpatine’s difficulties in reaching deep meditation and rejuvenating states of consciousness. Yet there seemed no remedy other than increasing his efforts at relentless self-discipline despite the exhaustion it caused. The ruler surmised, ironically, that on the day he once more fully accepted his inevitable destiny as a Sith master meant to perish at Vader’s hands – and thereby reclaimed the cool serenity he had once known – he might re-achieve the focus needed to truly reverse time’s ravages upon his body.
Yet until then, his meditative successes were few and limited, resulting in a slight slowing of the aging process, but no more. These days, glances in the mirror made him wince, as new grey appeared in his hair every week and the once-supple flesh of his face and neck began to wrinkle and sag. At this rate, he would soon be withered and weakened, unable to fend off the encroachment of all the decades he had endured and the punishing, draining sorceries he had performed to destroy the Jedi and forge an Empire. That very awareness added to his secret urgency – a grim sense of time’s running out…
Had he somehow unconsciously communicated this urgency to Tarkin, whose unprecedentedly rash action today had been somehow meant to please or reassure him? Had Akim, no matter how seemingly Force-blind, somehow absorbed and reacted to Palpatine’s secret, driving unrest and need?
What, then, of the far more sensitive and subtle Vader, who for the past few years had seemed puzzled by Palpatine’s occasional terse impatience and abrupt moments of irrepressible anger that apparently had nothing, or little, to do with immediate circumstances? What did the Dark Lord detect, assume, or wonder? Did the Force reveal to him any glimpse of the Emperor’s somber vague sense of foreboding?
Palpatine sighed, rubbing his aching temples as he abandoned his attempt at meditation and self-metamorphosis. Leaning back into the plush cushions of the couch, he stared into the hearth, watching the flames dance and brooding over Alderaan. Even the news of Leia Organa’s capture, and what that possibly portended for the Rebel Alliance, could not wholly improve his mood. Palpatine had not yet decided what should be done with the young woman, and half-dreaded renewed tense debate with Vader, who had always liked the fiery princess far too much…
As if on metaphysical cue, Palpatine’s communications console sounded, startling the ruler from his cynical reverie. He gestured languidly with one hand and activated the device, knowing that only Vader or members of his household staff had access to his private channel. Seconds later, he faced a hologram of his armored champion, glimmering blue in the dimmed room. The sun had set during Palpatine’s meditations, and now only the hologram and the hearth brightened the ruler’s parlor, unable to penetrate the ancient shadows in the far corners.
“My lord.” Palpatine’s tone was mild but wary. Something had complicated their plan; Executor did not yet orbit Coruscant – he would feel Vader’s presence if it did - yet the Dark Lord contacted him anyway. “Has something happened?”
“Several things, Master.” The older man heard the quiet, undeniable Dark satisfaction in Vader’s syllables already, and his posture eased. “I have not yet arrested Tarkin, for I have been occupied with other pressing matters. In my interactions with the Princess Organa, I have discovered the location of the main Alliance base of operations. It is, ironically, on the fourth moon of Yavin, probably located in the ancient abandoned Sith ruins there.”
Palpatine pondered that for a moment. “You are correct; the poetics of that are almost impossible to fully appreciate, my champion.” The ruler’s syllables held subtle notes of approval and fondness.
“And,” Vader added, “I have finally killed Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
The Emperor stared silently at him for a moment, distractedly studying the holographic image as his thoughts ran rampant in several different directions. “It seems a day for stunning developments,” he finally observed, straightening slowly and rising to his feet as he considered the implications. Palpatine felt inexplicable, hate-filled rage building, coming on too quickly to analyze. He could only rein it in partially as he demanded in rapid-fire sequence: “How did you find him, and what in all the hells was he doing in the Core? Where has that manipulative bastard been all these years? Lying in wait, I much imagine, somehow plotting our demise.”
Kenobi, who had killed Palpatine’s first valued apprentice and then almost murdered Vader himself. Kenobi, who symbolized the ancient, eternal war between Sith and Jedi, and the centuries-ago Knighthood’s slaughter of the Sith, as well as the many enemies aligned against Palpatine and Vader in their first efforts to bring down the crumbling chaos of the Republic. Kenobi was a fitting and useful target for all Palpatine’s old hatreds, current unfathomable frustrations, and inappropriate, illogical resentment of the burden of the entire Sith Tradition. He was a far more appropriate target than Vader, whom Palpatine needed, valued, and could not afford to hate despite their destinies, despite the future.
“I do not know for certain, but he arrived aboard the Death Star with some…companions, apparently intent upon freeing the Princess. It seems that wherever Kenobi was hiding, he finally aligned himself with the interests of the Rebellion.” Vader’s tone indicated his disgust at Kenobi’s cowardice, his disdain with his former master for wasting his powers and hiding rather than fighting for his convictions, however misguided they had been.
“That is not surprising,” Palpatine murmured sardonically. He and Vader had long been aware of the links between Kenobi and the Organas, and between the House of Alderaan and the traitorous founders of the Rebel Alliance. The ruler only wished Vader had not already killed Kenobi, whom Palpatine would have relished the opportunity to interrogate and punish at his leisure. “I can learn the details when you are here and have time to explain them at length. What of the Rebel base you mentioned?”
“Tarkin,” Vader continued, “avidly awaits the destruction of Yavin Four, and intends to come home in victory.”
The Dark Lord paused, clearly wanting something, and then suggested, “Perhaps it would be fitting to allow him his fantasy of triumph before I arrest him and deliver him to his fate?” The request was almost, but not quite, nonchalant, camouflaged in light tone and mild sarcasm.
But Vader obviously wanted it, wishing to cut Tarkin’s legs from under him in the most devastating manner possible. The Dark Lord had longed for Tarkin’s complete destruction for years, restrained only by Akim’s apparent slavish loyalty and Palpatine’s insistence on the man’s usefulness. Now Vader clearly relished the idea that he not only would finally get his wish, but also manage to utterly steal Tarkin’s final glory.
“Indeed,” Palpatine concurred softly, silently noting with a small twinge of indecipherable and doubtlessly untoward emotion that his Dark Lord had not asked anything of him in a very long while. The ruler’s traitorous soul could not thus presently celebrate the implications of Vader’s news, although he supposed he should delight in the fact that Vader had finally requested an official boon for the first time in years.
“It shall be as you suggest,” he decided. “Do you truly believe you have found the primary Alliance headquarters?” If it were true, then perhaps the Empire might yet benefit this day.
“I am certain,” Vader answered, a new flicker of dark pleasure in his bass voice that finally overshadowed the deeper disapproval and outrage that had echoed there ever since they had discussed Alderaan’s destruction. The ruler had just redeemed himself in some small sense.
The older man felt simultaneous relief and annoyance: grateful for the easing of tension between them but irked that he should care about such an outcome in the first place. Perhaps, he sardonically mused yet again, he should devise newly harsh ways to discipline and harden the remaining, vulnerable, human portions of his own psyche. Surely his vast sorcerous library contained the precious secrets of such self-transmogrification, of achieving the Dark perfection the Sith heritage demanded.
Nodding at Vader’s words, Palpatine breathed, “What a marvelous gift that would be, my friend. A double chastening for Tarkin. He believed you would never deliver the Rebellion’s final defeat and thereby eliminate your primary function as supreme commander of our armed forces.”
Vader stiffened in obvious surprise and resurgent indignation. “How dare he—” the younger man began in a furious growl, and then abruptly stopped. Raising his mask slightly in an almost haughty disdain, the Dark Lord rumbled tightly instead, “Eliminating the Alliance has become my primary function in the last few years only out of necessity. I do hope that Tarkin has not convinced you that I am so keen on my job security. I rather think I have far better things to do and would much prefer to be doing them.”
Palpatine defused the fallen Jedi’s predictable anger with an elegant wave of his hand, indicating complete agreement. “No matter. Destroy the Rebels, come home and deliver Akim to me, and together we shall plan a future far more immediately open-ended than either you or I had anticipated.”
Never had Palpatine foreseen the prospect of such an abrupt and total military victory, despite his fervent desires for such a development. Now the possibility was almost staggering in its varied implications for the throne, and for Palpatine’s complex relationship with his Dark Lord. Without the damned Rebellion limiting options and diverting valuable resources, Vader would likely spend most of his time on Coruscant, helping formulate and implement policy as he and Palpatine had once, long ago, assumed he would do throughout the ruler’s entire reign.
It was what the Emperor had desired for decades, yet now the possibilities seemed daunting. Would Vader become more contented, or less, if he began focusing on the Empire’s internal affairs? Once Palpatine and his armored champion worked closely together on projects – tax assessment and distribution, gubernatorial appointments, social policy and bureaucratic reform – would renewed symbiosis or only increased distance result? Would such regular contact hasten the day when Vader wearied of his domination and attempted to end it by taking the throne himself?
Palpatine wondered whether he, like Akim, might one day reap final defeat from what should have incontrovertible triumph. Then, suddenly impatient with himself, he focused completely on Vader once more, shaking off the day’s exceptional, unpleasant, and illogical near-melancholy.
“Well done, my lord.” The ruler exuded cool graciousness, repressing and disguising all less appropriate and attractive emotions. “When you arrive, your suite shall be readied, the High Command assembled, and a media conference scheduled. You may as well prepare a short speech,” Palpatine pointed out with a silken smile, “to commemorate and make clear your glorious victories and Tarkin’s complete fall from favor.”
With such an address, both men knew, the entire galaxy would have contrasting proof that Vader now occupied the very pinnacle of that same official regard. What long had been true in Palpatine’s private complicated sentiments would now become evident in hard, cold, political fact. Very soon now no other officers, politicians, and lusters for power would again wonder about the identity of Palpatine’s favorite and intended successor. Vader would gain new allies from this, and a great many more secret enemies.
“As you wish.” Vader bowed his head slightly in a shorthand version of his more formal public obeisance. “I shall contact you when we have dealt with Yavin Four, and advise you more accurately on the timing of my return to Coruscant.”
The older man agreed with a nod. “I shall be waiting. In the meanwhile, my champion, I bid you pleasant hunting.” With the dismissal, Vader bowed once more, and his massive holographic image faded from view, leaving Palpatine alone with the room’s impressively deep shadows and his own, far darker, musings.
* * *
Palpatine managed to fall asleep long after nearly all the Palace was abed: drifting off, an ancient realbook in his lap, upon the couch before the fire. Some time later he awoke with a violent start, his heart pounding rapidly and nausea twisting his stomach. The Emperor sat up rapidly, the occult tome falling unheeded to the floor as he gasped and straightened upright, casting about through the Force for the source of the devastation he sensed – a disturbing echo of Alderaan’s destruction earlier that day.
Then, he knew, with his sorcerer’s powers of Discernment. Stretching out his consciousness, searching through his domains with merciless determination, he saw the Death Star explode, tearing itself apart from within. He Sensed the millions of deaths – far more than would have resulted from Yavin IV’s doom -- and the extinguishment of officers and scientists. Palpatine could not tell whether the reason were mechanical failure or sabotage, and presently did not care.
Instead he fought a wave of dizziness that accompanied a sheen of sickly perspiration on his forehead and a mass of dread and horror within his gut. Only the prospect of one being’s death could affect him so. Breathing with deliberate slowness, Palpatine willed himself to remain as calm as possible, reminding himself of Vader’s intelligence and immense talent. Perhaps the Dark Lord had not been destroyed along with the battle station.
Everything – everyone – else was irrelevant.
For several minutes, Palpatine’s concentration was too shattered for him to explore the Force link he and Vader shared. Concern and fear inappropriate to his role as a Sith master whose students were theoretically expendable clouded his judgment, obscuring accurate exploration of the Dark Side. Regardless of proper emotions and behavior, however, the ruler could not deny the truth of his own inner reactions. The mere prospect of Vader’s destruction sent his mind reeling, piercing his heart with knives so sharp that Palpatine curled himself upon the couch, raising his knees to his chest in instinctive guarding against the pain.
His thoughts were irrational, nearly as circularly ritualistic as the Dark spells he sometimes employed: Force, no. Not this. I am too old for this and cannot start over now. Not after so many years together… Not when I have already decided upon him as my successor, never mind my own reluctance to give up the ghost. Not this. I cannot bear the thought of beginning anew with some mere child who does not know or understand me. Not this, please. Silent incantations of hope and despair, of denial and naked horror. For a moment he thought he might vomit.
So, his vulnerability was even greater than he had previously realized. Aware of his own indiscretion, Palpatine drew ruthlessly on long decades of training and discipline, slowly mastering his emotions, draining them of intensity and power, emptying himself of unseemly, dangerous passions. Gradually his breathing and heart slowed, and he could finally relax his limbs and straighten onto his back. Staring sightlessly at the ceiling, he nudged the glistening, ebon, psychic filaments that bound him to his Dark champion. Surely if Vader had fallen, the ruler would have felt something that more specifically targeted their mental connection – something perhaps unendurable…
Initially there was no response, and in rising, returning dread, Palpatine pulled on the link more insistently, tugging with a sudden harshness he had not intended. At long last Vader replied, a distracted, puzzled, brief mental Sending: I am here, Master, although the Death Star is not….
Palpatine’s relief was so great that it drowned out the remainder of his Dark Lord’s answer and eclipsed for the time being all other reactions to the loss of the battle station. Soon, he knew, someone would pay for such egregious loss, but for now he could only close his eyes and wait for his trembling to ebb.
I am pleased with your survival, Vader . Do what you must to assure your well-being and return home to me. Palpatine transmitted his thoughts with feigned serenity, drawing upon his remaining reserves of calm lest the armored warrior Sense his previous inappropriate and uncharacteristic alarmist behavior. Sending and Receiving required immense concentration, and Vader’s psychic transmission seemed faint. Palpatine had to strain to Hear and Reply – a result of the immense physical distance between them. Vader was on the other side of the Core, somewhere near Yavin…
Of course, but I must request your indulgence of patience, Master. The fallen Jedi’s own mood was grim, but faintly reassuring. Slightly abashed, Palpatine wondered what Vader had interpolated from the ruler’s sharp pull on the link. My fighter is disabled and badly damaged, but my suit’s life support is intact, and I am reasonably certain I can manage enough repair to limp to the nearest trading outpost. I have activated the beacon, and as soon as the fleet intercepts me, I shall return to Coruscant immediately. It may take some time, however, at sublight. My hyperdrive is beyond salvaging….
Be careful. Report to me as soon as you have reached safe haven, then.
The younger Sith Lord confirmed and broke contact, for neither man could long sustain such mental effort. Palpatine lay still, completely drained and almost numbly contemplating today’s defeats. He could not reassure the galaxy with Tarkin’s public execution; nor had they eliminated the Alliance. Aching tension had spread from his neck through his jaw and into his temples, and meditation would surely continue to elude him. Distance still yawned between Dark master and pupil, and Palpatine knew Vader’s discontents had only increased this day. Yet the Emperor’s private relief lingered, his gratitude at his fallen Jedi’s survival so simple and vast that its uncomplicated magnitude stunned him.
If he had ever doubted the danger or full extent of his debilitating and heretical devotion, today offered renewed evidence of his embarrassing vulnerability. Tarkin had served him for more years than he had even known his armored warlord and apprentice, but he remained wholly unaffected by Akim’s demise. Tarkin had utterly adored him, yet it was Vader whom Palpatine treasured, Vader whose wit, courage and strength moved him. It was Vader whom he missed during the Dark Lord’s lengthy missions away from Coruscant, and especially when occasional illness or severe insomnia took its toll on the ruler’s stamina. No matter that he never dared reveal serious weakness to the younger man, or that the strained relations between master and servant precluded such risky confessions.
Madness. His feelings were pure insanity. Anger sparked in him, but distantly, diluted by fatigue and relief…
A soft chime sounded, signaling someone outside the main door of his suite. Palpatine rose stiffly to his feet, monitoring the Force to determine his visitor’s identity. Kalendra stood there, radiating trepidation and carefully contained worry. The ruler opened the door with a silent Force-command as he approached the intelligence officer.
“Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour, Majesty.” Kalendra’s shift had ended hours ago, yet he was impeccably groomed and dressed, his posture formal and deferential. “But I have just learned grave news concerning the Death Star. ”
“I have already consulted with Lord Vader on the disaster.” Surprise and relief flickered across the officer’s dignified features, and Palpatine knew that Kalendra had dreaded coming here with such tidings.
He also detected Kalendra’s unspoken observation, leaked past the man’s natural but untrained mental shields: Gods, he looks like hell. I haven’t seen him so haggard since Vader was brought here on a gurney during the Oresti War.
Palpatine stiffened. “He is unharmed, and will soon return to Coruscant,” he added, hearing his own near-admonishment and realizing it was largely self-directed. “In the meantime, we must arrange a memorial service for those men lost on the battle station. Inform Security, and tomorrow I shall send word to the household staff.”
“Of course. I am gratified that Lord Vader is well.”
To the ruler’s dismay, Kalendra’s tone held a slight, shocking gentleness. Palpatine responded with a terse formal nod and clear dismissal. “Good night, Director. We shall discuss arrangements at greater length these next few days.”
“Yes, Sire. Sleep well.”
Discouragement as well as weariness dragged at him – the haunting visceral awareness that despite Vader’s outward courtesy and the apparent continued cooperation between them, something had irrevocably changed, something he could not yet adequately define. The room breathed with it; the very shadows seemed to whisper it to him: today, this very day, the balance had shifted – in the Force, in Vader, or in himself. Palpatine suspected it had been a long time coming, but nevertheless this day was a turning point, a cusp of their relationship, and his concessions to his Dark Lord were almost irrelevant, insufficient to stop their negative momentum.
Palpatine closed the door behind him and then sagged against it, feeling each and every one of his nearly eighty-five years. So, even Kalendra sensed some emotional vulnerability in him. He would need to remedy his weakness and reinforce his habits of detachment…although he was now so exhausted that he could barely move.
Yet he dared not heed this gut-level suspicion. Accepting its validity meant accepting the inevitability of his fate, and therefore, the futility of his entire life. Palpatine refused such surrender, for it could not bring serenity, but instead a vast resignation and despair unbefitting the last surviving master of the splendid Sith heritage.
Instead he would concentrate upon the glory of inevitable conflict, and upon recovering his once-solid conviction that he could conquer anything – anyone – at all, if necessary. Demanding silence from both the shadows and his own fears, Palpatine returned to sit before the warmth and light of the hearth, immersing himself again in restless, ruthless attempt at focus and meditation.