“You have yet to earn the privilege of seeing me.”
“Privilege? Who do you think you are?”
“Are you certain you want to know?”
“I demand to know.”
Sidious’s smile barely escaped the cowl. “Even better, then. I am a Sith Lord.”
There. I said it.
I said it …
“Sith Lord?” Gunray repeated.
The response came from deep inside him, from the center of his true being. “You have permission to refer to me as Darth Sidious.”
“I’ve not heard of Darth Sidious.”
“Ah, but now that you have, our partnership is forged.”
Gunray shook his head. “I am not looking for a partner.”
Sidious showed some of his face. “Don’t pretend to be content with your position in the Trade Federation, or that you are without aspirations. We are now partners in the future.”
Gunray made a hissing sound. “This is a joke. The Sith have been extinct for a thousand years.”
“That’s precisely what the Republic and the Jedi Order would like you to believe, but we never disappeared. Through the centuries we have taken up just causes and revealed ourselves to select beings like yourself.”
Gunray sat back in his chair. “I don’t understand. Why me?”
“You and I share an avid interest in where the Republic is headed, and I have deemed it time that we begin to work in concert.”
“I won’t be part of any covert schemes.”
“Truly?” Sidious said. “Do you think that out of millions of influential beings I would choose you without knowing you inside and out? I realize that your voracious desires stem from the cruel conditions of your upbringing — you and your fellow grubs in ruthless competition for limited supplies of fungus. But I understand. We are all shaped by our infantile desires, our longing for affection and attention, our fears of death. And judging by how far you have come, it’s clear that you were unrivaled and continue to be. Your years in the Senate, for example. The clandestine meetings in the Claus Building, the Follin Restaurant in the Crimson Corridor, the funds you diverted to Pax Teem and Aks Moe, the secret dealings with Damask Holdings, the assassination of Vidar Kim—”
“Enough! Enough! Do you mean to blackmail me?”
Sidious delayed his reply. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me when I spoke of a partnership.”
“I heard you. Now tell me what you want of me.”
“Nothing more than your cooperation. I will bring about great changes for you, and in exchange you will do the same for me.”
Gunray looked worried. “You claim to be a Dark Lord. But how do I know that you are? How do I know you have any ability to help me?”
“I found you a rare bird.”
“That hardly validates your claim.”
Sidious nodded. “I understand your skepticism. I could, of course, demonstrate my powers. But I’m reluctant to convince you in that way.”
Gunray sniffed. “I haven’t time for this—”
“Is the pylat nearby?”
“Just behind me,” Gunray allowed.
“Show me.”
Gunray widened the scope of the holotable’s cams to include the bird, perched in a cage that was little more than a circle of precious metal, crowned with a stasis field generator.
“I was concerned, when I extracted him from the jungle habitat, that he would die,” Sidious said. “And yet he appears to be at home in his new environment.”
“His songs suggest as much,” Gunray replied.
“What if I told you that I could reach across space and time and strangle him where he perches?”
Gunray was aghast. “You couldn’t. I doubt that even a Jedi—”
“Are you challenging me, Viceroy?”
“Yes,” he said abruptly; then, just as quickly: “No — wait!”
Sidious shifted in the chair. “You value the bird — this symbol of wealth.”
“I am the envy of my peers for possessing it.”
“Would not actual wealth generate even greater envy?”
Gunray grew flustered. “How can I answer, when I know that you might strangle me should I refuse you?”
Sidious loosed an elaborate sigh. “Partners don’t strangle each other, Viceroy. I would prefer to earn your trust. Are you agreeable to that?”
“I might be.”
“Then here is my first gift to you: the Trade Federation is going to be betrayed. By Naboo, by the Republic, by the members of the directorate. Only you can provide the leadership that will be needed to keep the Federation from splintering. But first we must see to it that you are promoted to the directorate.”
“The current directorate would never welcome a Neimoidian.”
“Tell me what it would take—” Sidious started, then cut himself off. “No. Never mind. Let me surprise you by arranging a promotion.”
“You would do that and ask nothing in return?”
“For the time being. If and when I’ve earned your full trust, I will expect you to take my suggestions to heart.”
“I will. Darth Sidious.”
“Then we will speak again soon.”
Sidious deactivated the holoprojector and sat in silence.
“There is a world in the Videnda sector called Dorvalla,” he said to Maul a long moment later. “You will not have heard of it, but it is a source of lommite ore, which is essential to the production of transparisteel. Two companies — Lommite Limited and InterGalactic Ore — currently control the mining and shipping operations. But for some time the Trade Federation has had its sights on overseeing Dorvalla.”
“What is thy bidding, Master?” Maul asked.
“For now, only that you acquaint yourself with Dorvalla, for it may prove the key to ensnaring Gunray in our grasp.”
25: THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE MERITOCRACY
A more outlandish quartet hadn’t set foot, belly, claw, and jaw on Sojourn in twenty years. A half-breed Theelin female, her Hutt master, his Twi’lek majordomo, and his Chevin chief of security crossed the fort’s leaf-litterd courtyard and entered Plagueis’s reception room. With the exception of the Theelin, they looked as if they might have wandered in from the greel forests to consort with the creatures that had constructed nests and burrows in the fort’s dank corridors and lofty turrets.
Plagueis and 11-4D were waiting just inside the gaping entrance.
“Welcome, Jabba Desilijic Tiure,” Plagueis said through his transpirator mask.
Droids had restored some semblance of order to the room and installed tables and chairs. Morning light streamed through square openings high in the wall, and a fire crackled in the stone hearth.
“A pleasure to see you again after so many years, Magister Damask,” Jabba said in coarse Basic. The ageless criminal lolled his huge tongue and maneuvered his great slug body onto a low platform the droids had erected. Gazing around, he added, “You and your droid must visit my little place on Tatooine in the Western Dune Sea.”
“Someday soon,” Plagueis said as he lowered himself into an armchair across from the platform.
Like Toydarians and Yinchorri, Hutts were immune to Force suggestions. Had Jabba known how many of his species Plagueis had experimented on over the decades, he might not have been as sociable, but then the Hutt’s own penchant for ruthlessness and torture were legendary. As a tattoo on his arm attested, he cared only for members of his clan. He didn’t bother to introduce his subordinates by name, but as was often the case with many of the thugs and ne’er-do-wells with whom he surrounded himself, two of them had reputations that preceded them. The pink-complexioned Twi’lek was Bib Fortuna, a former spice smuggler whose own species had turned its back on him. Tall and red-eyed, he had sharp little teeth and thick, shiny lekku growing from a hairless cranium that looked as if it had been inexpertly stuffed with rocks. The Chevin — a two-meter-high snout that had sprouted arms, legs, and tail — was Ephant Mon. Celebrated as a warrior among his own kind — and mildly Force-sensitive — he wore a blanket someone might have thrown over him to hide his ugliness. Plagueis knew from contacts in the Trade Federation that Mon was involved in a smuggling operation on technophobic Cerea, supplying swoops to a gang of young upstarts.