But ultimately to no end.
The Force grew silent, as if in flight from him, and many of the animals in his laboratory succumbed to horrifying diseases.
Regardless, eight long years later, Plagueis remained convinced that he was on the verge of absolute success. The evidence was in his own increased midi-chlorian count; and in the power he sensed in Sidious when he had finally returned to Sojourn. The dark side of the Force was theirs to command, and in partnership they would someday be able to keep each other alive, and to rule the galaxy for as long as they saw fit.
But he had yet to inform Sidious of this.
It was more important that Sidious remain as focused on manipulating events in the profane world as Plagueis was intent on dominating the realm of the Force, of which the mundane was only a gross and distorted reflection.
To be sure, the light had been extinguished, but for how long and at what cost?
He recalled a stellar eclipse he had witnessed on a long-forgotten world, whose single moon was of perfect size and distance to blot out the light of the system’s primary. The result hadn’t been total darkness but illumination of a different sort, singular and diffuse, that had confused the birds and had permitted the stars to be seen in what would have been broad daylight. Even totally blocked, the primary had shone from behind the satellite’s disk, and when the moon moved on there had been a moment of light almost too intense to bear.
Gazing into Sojourn’s darkening sky, he wondered what calamity the Force was planning in retreat to visit upon him or Sidious or both of them for willfully tipping the balance. Was retribution merely waiting in the wings as it had been on Coruscant twenty years earlier? It was a dangerous time; more dangerous than his earliest years as an apprentice when the dark side might have consumed him at any moment.
For now, at least, his full convalescence was near complete. Sidious was continuing to become more powerful as a Sith and as a politician, his most intricate schemes meeting with little or no resistance. And the Jedi Order was foundering …
Time would tell, and time was short.
The Dathomirian Zabrak sat cross-legged on the duracrete floor, recounting for Sidious the surveillance mission he had completed at the Jedi Temple, weeks earlier, at the height of the Yinchorri Crisis.
“It sickened me to see how easily the reptilian infiltrators were deceived, Master, even by the fair-haired human female sentry they thought they had taken by surprise outside the Temple. From where I watched I knew that she had feigned surprise when her lightsaber failed to penetrate her assailant’s cortosis shield, and that she had merely been faking unconsciousness when the Yinchorri had yanked her to her feet and she impaled him on her activated blade.” Maul snarled, revealing sharply filed teeth. “Their stupidity allowed me to revel in the fact that their mission had been compromised — that the Jedi were simply luring them into a trap.”
The abandoned LiMerge Building had become the assassin’s home and training center; The Works and the fringes of the nearby Fobosi district, his nocturnal haunts. Circling him with the cowl of his robe raised over his head, Sidious asked, “The Jedi gained your respect?”
“They might have, had the infiltrators showed any skill. Had I been leading them …”
Sidious stopped. “The mission would have been successful? Jedi Knights and Padawans killed; younglings slaughtered.”
“I’m certain of it, Master.”
“Just you, against the Masters who make up the High Council.”
“By hiding and striking I could have killed many.”
Plagueis was right, Sidious thought. I have made him prideful.
The Yinchorri stratagem had failed, in any case. Additional Jedi had died, but Jedi deaths had never been the primary reason for instigating the crisis. What mattered was that Valorum had triumphed, with some help from Palpatine, it was true, but mostly on his own, by managing to bring Senators Yarua, Tikkes, Farr, and others over to his side and establishing an embargo. But with his political currency spent, Valorum’s position was more tenuous than ever. Even a hint of scandal and the Senate would lose what little confidence they had in him.
“You are formidable,” Sidious said at last, “but you are not a one-being army, and I’ve not spent years training you only to have you sacrifice yourself. When I bestowed upon you the title of Darth, it was not in reward for your having survived dangerous missions, starvation, and assassin droids, but for your obedience and loyalty. No doubt you will have ample opportunities to demonstrate your superior skill to the Jedi, but bringing down the Order is not your mandate, your hatred of them notwithstanding.”
Maul lowered his head, displaying his crown of sharp-tipped horns in their red-and-black field. “Master. As long as those who do derive the joy and satisfaction I would.”
“We shall see, my apprentice. But until then, there are matters we need to attend to.”
He motioned for Maul to stand and follow him to the holoprojector table and transmission grid — the same ones the Gran had left behind decades before, but fully modernized and enhanced.
“Stand out of view of the cams,” Sidious said, indicating a place. “For now, we want to keep you in reserve.”
“But—”
“Be patient. You will have a part to play in this.”
Sidious settled into a high-backed chair that wrapped around him like a throne and had a remote control built into one of the arms, his thoughts set aswirl by what he was about to do. Had Plagueis felt the enormity of the moment on Naboo all those years before when he had revealed his true self; removed, for the first time, the mask he wore in public? As empowering as it might have been, had the moment also been tainted by a kind of nostalgia; the loss of something so personal, so defining? What had been secret would never be secret again …
The comm caught Viceroy Nute Gunray in the midst of eating, and without the ear-flapped tiara and ornate azurestone collar that made him look like a jester. “Greetings, Viceroy,” Sidious said.
The nictitating membranes of the Neimoidian’s crimson eyes went into spasm, and his mottled muzzle twitched. “What? What? This is a secure address. How did you—”
“Don’t bother attempting to trace the origin of this communication,” Sidious said, while Gunray’s tapered gray fingers flew across the keypad of his holotable. “A trace will only lead you in circles and waste what limited time we have.”
“How dare you intrude—”
“Recently, I sent you a gift. A red-spotted pylat.”
Gunray stared. “You? You sent it?”
“I trust you had sense enough to have it scanned for monitoring devices.”
Gunray whirled to look at something off cam; probably the crested bird itself. “Of course I did. What was your purpose in sending it?” His accent elongated the words and softened the T sounds.
“Consider it a token of my appreciation for the unrewarded work you have done for the Trade Federation. The directorate fails to recognize your contributions.”
“They — that is, I … Why are you hiding inside the cowl of your cloak?”
“It is the clothing of my Order, Viceroy.”
“You are a cleric?”
“Do I seem a holy man to you?”
Gunray’s expression soured. “I demand to see your face.”