Coruscant was quiet and majestic, but Palpatine was not asleep.
Politics consumed most of his attention and energy, which, combined with staging an “opera” on a galactic scale, left him with only meager scraps of the day for rest.
Hence, the Sith Lord was dismayed that sleep would not come.
His attempt to sleep had been interrupted by the most foolish dream the Sith had seen in a very long time: a white-and-black creature was running around his office, shrieking in a most vile voice: “It’s all mine!
And Coruscant!
And the Galaxy!
It’s all mine!
My precious!” Palpatine woke up because static charges began to flicker on his fingers.
Another moment, and he would have unleashed a torrent of deadly Force lightning on his bedroom, exposing himself.
In such dangerous proximity to the Jedi Temple, that would have been a death sentence.
“I need to arrange a little rest for myself.
I can’t perform a proper meditation complex and have to remain under Force Hiding most of the time.
The dark side within me has stagnated and now demands release.
And how can I give it release when Tyranus has once again failed to properly intrigue behind my back and needs to be scolded and saved again?
Or when the Jedi Council, led by Yoda, has been hovering at my office door since morning, having once again failed to unravel Dooku’s disastrous scheme?
After that, I have to listen to another peace epic from the ‘Warlike Queen,’ along with the assenting little king from Alderaan?
Perhaps I should carve out some time in my schedule and have a good interrogation.
By all the rules,” Palpatine mused, already sitting in his office, stirring his caf with spices in an exquisite porcelain cup, slowly savoring his favorite sweets, delivered specially from Naboo.
“Lately, I’ve had a feeling of something being wrong.
Everything is going according to plan, but still, my intuition warns of trouble.
Isard mentioned some report from a certain Captain Scarratti.
No.
That’s not it.
Some kind of global threat.
Something bad is bound to happen.
It was like this when my teacher tore himself away from his eternal experiments to teach me a lesson.” The Chancellor chewed a piece of the most delicate pastry, completely unable to taste its magical flavor.
There was a taste of blood on his lips and the smell of his own ripped-open belly.
His fingers felt the roughness of coarse thread and prepared to feel the prickly bone needle.
* * * “Tell me, my young apprentice: do you know the difference between a lie and deception?” The old Muun’s voice was steeped in mentor-like tones, and its insinuating, quiet timbre seemed to burrow into the very soul.
“No, teacher!” the young Palpatine hastened to answer truthfully, knowing that if he hesitated or lied, the teacher might discharge a bolt of lightning straight into his guts and would be well within his rights to do so.
“A lie requires nothing.
It is petty and worthless in itself.
A lie is a corrosion of the personality.
First and foremost, you will only confuse yourself and humiliate yourself with it, lowering your person to the level of a market vendor.” The Muun scrutinized his student, carefully examining the stitch.
The youth flinched but continued his work, hoping the master was satisfied with the stitch.
There had been times when everything had to be started over, and he had to stitch up not just one wound, but a whole dozen.
“Deception, first and foremost, requires a perfect memory.
You must remember: what you said and when, with what intonation, and what hidden subtext you intended.
Remember all the details, and your deception will become a useful tool.” The Muun paused, slowly walking to the window.
On the occasion of a charity carnival, the banker was dressed in ancient robes.
His long head was crowned with a dapper black top hat, making it look like a factory smokestack.
On the coffee table, next to the master’s workspace, lay an Alderaanian monkey mask, waiting for its moment.
“Second.
Deception is always built on truth.
Truth is a terrible weapon.
You can tell part of the truth; in most cases, that’s enough for a sentient to believe you, but it will be a lie.
Not saying something is also a lie.
You must tell the truth and nothing but the truth, but correctly select your words, place your emphasis, add your own opinion, ultimately confusing your interlocutor and leading them to the desired conclusions, which they will reach on their own.” The youth listened to his teacher, holding his breath, showing reverence even in his posture.
“Third.
Intelligence.
You must think through the entire chain of your actions.
The main thing is to understand the goal the deception is meant to achieve.” The teacher chuckled softly.
“Most politicians think they are deceiving, but in reality, they are lying.
Why?” “A stupid politician makes promises, even if he doesn’t intend to do anything.
A true one will listen and arrange things so that the petitioner himself thinks he changed his mind, or that the politician personally solved his problems.” “Remember, my young apprentice, deception is the politician’s main weapon, but it is extremely dangerous…” * * * Palpatine placed the empty cup on a thin, painted tray.
Yes, that day had been fateful.
Back then, the old, senile Muun had shown the youth that if he studied poorly, he would simply die.
Why did he remember that particular day?
The Chancellor’s comlink emitted a pleasant melody, signaling an incoming call.
Palpatine raised an eyebrow questioningly.
He could only be disturbed at this hour if something unforeseen had happened.
“Isard?
I’m listening.” * * * That night, sleep would not come to the Senator from Naboo at all.
The life she carried under her heart was actively showing that its irrepressible energy clearly came from its father, giving its mother anything but the best moments.
And on top of that, all sorts of thoughts kept creeping into her head.
The day in the Senate had been very eventful.
Once again, the social part of the budget was suffering for the sake of this stupid war.
Even if there seemed to be no war in the Galactic Core, the further from the center, the more acute the humanitarian catastrophe became.
This was especially felt in the Outer Rim.
The Chommell sector was currently suffering from a colossal wave of refugees from Hutt Space.
Her home planet — Naboo — was going through hard times under the not-so-skillful rule of the young queen, and on top of that, open borders were draining the strength of her people.
The prospect of an epidemic loomed large.
All pharmaceuticals were now working for the war, and the situation on the ground was only being kept stable thanks to old stockpiles.
With these heavy thoughts, Padmé finally managed to close her eyes towards morning.
Sleep came somehow unexpectedly.
In one sudden lurch, the young woman’s tired consciousness plunged into a sleepy haze, which soon dissipated into a series of images.
* * * There she was, happy, holding a child in her arms.
Anakin stood nearby, looking at them warmly.
Coruscant.
The Senate.
Fear.
Blood.
A lot of blood.
The Jedi Temple in flames.
Towers burning like torches.
The Temple spewing streams of blaster fire.
Red figures about to overwhelm it.
The rain cannot quench the fire in Galactic City.
The skyscrapers blaze like a forest.
Her penthouse.
Two blue blades locked in a fierce clinch.
Anakin stands with his sword raised for a strike over Obi-Wan.
The blade freezes, unable to end the life of a friend and brother.
Obi-Wan’s blade reaches for her beloved.
The master’s eyes burn with celestial ice.
His hand will not waver.
Pain.
Burning.
Obi-Wan’s blade in her body.
The Jedi’s face, with eyes blazing blue light, shows nothing.
“No!” At the sound of Anakin’s voice, pressing the wound on his torso with his only remaining hand, the decorative stone tile cracks.
* * * The Senator woke up screaming, waking the entire household staff.
* * * The last day had worn Anakin out so much that he passed out the moment he boarded the shuttle.
But he was not destined to see sleep.
The Force, whose Chosen One he was, had other plans.
The “Knight Without Fear” had never been very good with visions.
He had no gift for them.
The only time he had seen anything concrete was a warning about his mother’s death.
But today, the Force sent the young Knight a whole series of clear fragments.
The Senate.
One of the many corridors.
It smells of fresh renovation, paint, and wood.
A crowd of journalists tries to push through the Crimson Guard.
“Lord Anakin, how would you comment on the nickname given to you on the HoloNet — the Impaler?” “Lord Anakin…” “Lord Anakin!
When will the bodies of Bail Organa and Mon Mothma be taken down from the stakes?
How much longer will they hang on the Outer Wall of the Senate?!
The populations of their home planets demand that they be allowed to organize funerals!” Anakin stopped, turning to the reporter.
His face was adorned with a grin that could hardly be called a smile.
And even the guards felt uneasy.
“And who said they were bodies?
They are alive and will be alive for a very long time.
The Black Hound and I will see to that.” The Spaceport of Galactic City.
Even rows of clones.
Their black-and-blue armor was as different as possible from the accursed Phase II.
Above his legion flew mourning banners with symbols of penance in the Mandalorian language.
Marching in lockstep, Rex, easily distinguishable in the Force, approached him.
The veteran clone removed his helmet with a practiced motion… A mirror copy of Anakin stared back at him.
The marks of a vibroknife, unmistakable, were still visible.
Staples held the neat stitches together.
But it was his face on Rex!
“My Lord!
The punitive 501st Corps ‘Dead Hand’ is formed up for the ceremonial parade!
Commander, lead us to the stars and beyond…” * * * The commander’s nervous laugh made the soldiers of the 501st Legion flinch.
* * * “Am I dead?” Justine thought.
The girl’s body seemed to float in warm water.
The liquid held her like a mother’s arms, gradually warming until it reached body temperature.
Stars began to flash before her eyes, as if she were on a ship entering hyperspace.
The stars merged into a single source of light, warm as life itself.
Suddenly, the motion stopped, and Justine found herself suspended above the galaxy of the Unknown Regions, many light-years away from it.
The galaxy was enclosed in a sphere, separating it from the dark, night-like space filled with hideous shadows thirsting to breach the protective barrier.
Tentacles and clots of darkness coiled around the sphere in rings, trying to crush it, break it, destroy it, but every time they prepared to strike, Force Ghosts stood in their way.
Jedi, Sith, and other Force-sensitives, in a single impulse, defended the barrier, waging an eternal battle after death, preventing the grasping tentacles from reaching their goal: two spheres within the galaxy’s core.
One sphere was dark and cold.
The second was like a star.
The outlines of humanoid figures could be discerned within them.
With each death of a Force-sensitive or an ordinary being, a trickle of energy flowed into the spheres through the umbilical cord of the universe.
Suddenly, the girl was pulled into the darkness.
She was drawn through the cold of Chaos, hurtling through realms of nightmares.
Her journey seemed to last an eternity, but it too ended when a star shone before her eyes.
Another galaxy.
It was unlike her home galaxy.
There was no saving barrier there, shielding the World of the Living from the nightmare, and so the halls of the dead were an impregnable bastion bristling with weapons.
Yes, the tentacles and clots had managed to breach the walls, splitting the fortress in two, but it stood, overcoming all the madness of Chaos that had been unleashed upon it.
The defenders of the stronghold fought while surrounded, formed into a perfect wall of shields and sharpened steel.
Slowly and disciplinedly, they pushed back the spawn of Chaos, reclaiming millimeter by millimeter in a counterattack.
They were led by duty and courage.
At the spearhead of the counterattack was him.
A giant in gilded armor, leading the host of the Angels of Death — the perfect warriors of the proud race of Mankind.
The Emperor of Mankind, bearing his right and his burden, even while in a borderline state between the world of the living and the dead.
A warrior with a wound in his soul from the betrayal of his beloved son, who would fight, if necessary, for an eternity to atone for his mistakes and his own.
“You have no place here and now, young child!
You have your own battlefield in His name.” “Who are you?” Justine asked, turning at the voice.
Before her eyes stood a woman.
Her face seemed hewn from steel.
She was clad in armor like that of the Angels of Death.
On her chest proudly blazed the symbol “I,” in the center of which a skull burned with a righteous gaze, radiating holy wrath.
“I know who I was; the question is: do you know who you are?” “I am a Jedi, a Knight who fell to the dark side.” “No.
Did you turn away from the Light?
Does it still burn in your chest?” Justine listened to herself.
The Light had not gone anywhere; it had only grown brighter in the embrace of the darkness.
“Then I don’t know who I am…” “You have become a true daughter of Mankind.” “But my mother is a Sephi!” “There are many lineages within the human race.
The children of Terra have walked many paths.
But they are all equally loved by Him.” “Let it be so, but that is not enough…” “It is enough.
You know who you are!
You are human!
Now you only need a path.
Accept with all your heart the one who helped you in your time of need, become His avenging right hand!” “I cannot… The darkness…” “It has no power over you as long as faith in Him lives in your soul.
Believe, child.
Accept your destiny.
Take the light in one hand and protect the innocent.
Take the darkness in the other and strike evil with its own weapon.
Accept the Emperor with all your heart, and you will not stray from the path even after death!” “I agree!” The woman touched her chest.
The symbol slid from her armor and transformed into a convenient seal.
“With this sign, I place a mark not on your body.
With this sign, I place a mark on your soul.
Now it is steadfast against the temptations of the Warp, as long as faith in the Master of Mankind lives in your heart!” The seal fell from her unclenched fingers into the girl’s outstretched hand, burning her with righteous fire, accepting its new owner.
“Go forth, new Inquisitor!
Bear His name.
Grant light to the lost and the repentance of death to heretics!” The woman’s last words were heard as if through water.
Her image dissolved, leaving a piece of herself in Justine’s soul, granting her a shield of wrath and contempt.
A shield protecting her soul from the whispers of the False Gods.
The woman’s place was taken by an Angel, somehow subtly resembling the Emperor.
Light emanated from his figure, and the nightmares weakened.
Around him was stability.
Peace.
“Come with me, child!
I will lead you home.
The light of my sons’ souls will show us the way!” * * * The girl woke up.
The insignia clutched in her right hand gave off a life-giving warmth, driving away dark thoughts.
Justine no longer feared what was foretold.
She would burn it with the sacred fire of faith and write a new future in the blood of heretics.
A future in which the Golden Throne would shine forever!
The battle barge “Nemesis of Punishment” was carefully entering orbit around a lonely planet, counting down the last minutes before the assault began.
Inside the enormous steel anthill, life was in full swing, reports were flying, and orders were being given.
Men, Tech-Priests, and brothers of the Astartes were finishing their final preparations, raising hymns to the Omnissiah and prayers to the God-Emperor.
The godless race of xenos known as the Hutts did not possess powerful planetary defense weapons capable of penetrating the void shields of the “Nemesis of Punishment” or thinning out the landing force raining down on their heads.
The Hutts did not have an army ready to stand for them to the last soldier… only mercenaries.
This meant only one thing: within the hour, another xenos planet would fall, trampled under the ceramite boot of the Emperor’s faithful servants.
Nevertheless, there was one place aboard the “Nemesis of Punishment” untouched by the bustle of the impending assault.
The ascetic-looking chambers were empty.
In the center of the room, surrounded by ringing silence, an Eldar witch meditated over laid-out runes of wraithbone — the xenos he had been ordered to kill, performing a righteous deed for the glory of the Great Reaper.
051.
Besides these numbers, he had no name.
He didn’t really need one.
All that was required of him was to kill his targets in the name of the Great Reaper.
Humans, xenos, even the spawn of Chaos… anyone.
He did not belong to himself, was not a man.
He was a blade in the night that would punish anyone for His glory!
“You have no need for this hiding, human.” The witch’s helmet stood to one side, making her voice sound quite pleasant to 051.
“I have decided to recall E’turi and her sisters so that we may resolve our conflict… alone.” He didn’t know what had given away his camouflage to the xenos.
Whether it was the Eldar witch’s magic or some special instinct… it didn’t matter.
His task had essentially not changed; it had simply lost the element of surprise.
“These ridiculous toys will only hinder your movements, human,” the witch continued, not bothering to change her posture, as if nothing had happened.
“I don’t need eyes to see you clearly.” A part of the space that had previously blended most naturally into the interior began to ripple, and then completely took on the silhouette of a wiry male figure.
With a short motion, 051 threw aside the now useless cameleoline cloak and switched to a needle pistol, supplementing his arsenal with a phase blade.
“No doubts, no extraneous thoughts.
A clean slate.
Nevertheless…” The xenos stretched lazily, slowly rising to her feet.
“You have managed to interest me, human.”