Domus Publica
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| The Test of Wills |
Leia Organa Solo had enjoyed a remarkable career despite her youth. To date, she had been a royal princess of a fairytale world – now destroyed,
obliterated in the blink of an eye by the Empire – , an Imperial Senator, an ambassador at large for the rebel Alliance to Restore the Republic, and even a
general on the Allied Staff. And now she was a leading member of the Provisional Government of the New Republic, a symbol of the new beginning, of
the new order of ages. She was proud of her role in the overthrow of the evil Empire, and looked forward to the future, just as surely as she looked into
the forward viewport on the bridge of the Mon Remonda.
There was of course nothing for her to do on the bridge. Her rank had been largely ceremonial in the Royal Corps of Alderaan, although her adoptive
father had insisted that she receive proper training to justify her rank, and so she had been a specialist in administration and personnel management (her
commission had been within the Adjutant General’s Corps). She certainly wasn’t qualified to stand a watch on the bridge, any more than the ship’s
company needed her to do so. They moved like clockwork, experienced and comfortable, having familiarized themselves intimately with their work
during five months of hard campaigning aboard the Calamarian tactical cruiser.
Leia looked over at the ship’s commanding officer, Captain Onoma, a fine officer. Onoma was Mon Calamari, the aquatic species that had built the Mon
Remonda as well as countless other warships used by the rebel Alliance and the New Republic. He was a man fully in command of his surroundings; he
had been the ship’s CO during those five long months, and he knew his business.
“Madame Councilor, will you be going down to the surface, as well?” Captain Onoma had the same gravelly voice that the galaxy had come to expect
from the Mon Calamari.
“Yes,” Leia checked her chrono, then brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Speaking of which, I’d best lay aft to the launch bay. Thank you for the
pleasant cruise, Captain. Fair winds and following seas.”
Onoma bowed slightly – not a Calamarian gesture, but an approximation of a human one. Leia excused herself, and left the bridge, just as the 1MC
announced the impending achievement of hyperspace terminus. Moments later, as she made her way through the enormous tactical cruiser toward the
hangar bay wherein rested her husband’s light freighter, a slight shudder ran through the frame of the warship, as she exited hyperspace.
They were not in the Coruscant system; rather, they were in a nearby star system, several light years away from it. Because they were deep in Imperial
territory – more accurately, deep in hostile territory, for the Empire as a single entity had disintegrated – it had been decided that the rescue mission to
Coruscant to recover the crew of the Star Destroyer Liberator would proceed under escort by the Calamarian tactical cruiser, which would accompany
them this far, then serve as a patrol, watching the area for hostile ships, and engaging them as necessary. The other two escort ships, the frigates Antares
Six and Rebel Star, would continue with the Millennium Falcon and the crew transport shuttles into the Coruscant system itself.
Leia entered the hangar bay, and closed her arms around herself instinctively; the magnetic containment field which held the atmosphere of the bay in the
chamber – the chamber was open to space – was not very good at retaining warmth. When she had been an Imperial Senator, she had been aboard a few
prestige flagships whose bays had been equipped with convection current controls to retain the heat, but such devices were an unnecessary luxury, and
were not to be found aboard warships of the New Republic Defense Forces.
She moved across the bay toward the saucer-like freighter closest to the bay opening. The brow leading into the freighter itself was lowered, and there,
dressed in the blue trousers, white shirt, and black vest that had become his trademark, waiting at the bottom of the ramp with a roguish grin on his face,
was her husband, Han Solo. Pinned sloppily to the left lapel of his vest was the rank badge displaying the five pips that identified him as General Solo
– recently re-commissioned, of course.
They exchanged quick greetings and embraced warmly. ‘We’re all prepped and ready to go, as soon as Captain Onoma grants us clearance to leave.”
“All right. I’ll signal our escorts to make ready for the jump into the Coruscant system itself,” she said, as they moved into the ring corridor, raising the
brow and headed toward the cockpit off to the starboard side of the freighter. Moments later, the ship raised on its repulsor engines, and slid from the
bay, followed out into space by a number of specialized personnel carriers, which, despite their deceptively small size, would be sufficient to
accommodate the entire crew of the Liberator and bring them back to the Mon Remonda. Theoretically, this entire mission was simple and
straightforward.
That meant, of course, that it would probably be anything but. They had a nasty habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was how they had become heroes, after all.
The Imperial Palace!
It was, despite whatever opinion one might have held about the man who built it, truly one of the wonders of the galaxy. A vast, sprawling estate, it
was far larger than most people realized. The Palace was enormous; it included plazas, parks, amphitheaters, gardens, and boulevards. Endless stretches
of walkways and corridors crisscrossed the gargantuan complex, connecting the various buildings, the gleaming towers. There were residencies,
mansions, barracks, centers for administration, recreation, and medical care, libraries – it was a city unto itself. And all of it was breathtakingly beautiful,
deliberately engineered as a testament to the glory of the Empire that had built it.
The Palace was generally considered to be one of the main reasons that Coruscant had been dubbed the Crown Jewel of the Empire. It was certainly one
of the most attractive features of Imperial City. Even after the Galactic Emperor’s death, it had remained the capitol of the Empire; Sate Pestage, the
Imperial Grand Vizier, whose regime had lasted for the first six months of the seemingly interminable Imperial interregnum, had remained in the Palace,
making it the center of operations of his regime, a decision which had been repeated by his many successors: the Emperor’s Ruling Circle, Ysanne Isard,
and even the New Republic’s Provisional Government.
Still, no one was quite sure how much of the Palace remained secret, despite the large number of people that had inhabited it and worked within it for
years on end. New Republic Intelligence had reportedly discovered a new secret passage or chamber on average of once a month; at one point, an entire
secret wing of the Palace building itself had been discovered, hidden deep beneath the surface.
The Jedi named Luke Skywalker had wandered into the Imperial Palace with only one companion. They had come to Coruscant aboard the Liberator;
Luke had fortuitously been near the bridge when the battle had begun, and had taken control of the ship’s repulsorlifts once it had become clear that she
would crash. His quick thinking and intuitive use of the antigravity generators had spared most of the minimal crew’s lives when the impact came, and
he had soon left the crew by the remains of the ruined battleship, to make a visit to the Palace.
He pressed up against a wall inside the north wing of the Palace, running his hand down to the floor, feeling carefully for a seam. His fingers barely
registered the presence of a slight incongruity between one part of the wall and another. He smiled tightly, and turned back to the blue and white
astromech watching him from two meters away. “Well, Artoo,” he said, pointing to the wall. “There is a passage behind this wall. ... Yes, I know you
told me that four times. I’m sorry, Artoo, you were right.”
Luke turned back to the wall and drew his lightsaber, activating its pearly-green blade in the same smooth movement, and drove its point deep into the
wall. The blade sliced effortlessly through the material, burning through the paint and plaster and marble almost as easily as though it were not there at
all. In a few moments, he had cut a doorway into the wall, deactivated his blade. He opened his hand toward the slab of marble he had cut and eased it
out and away from the opening to his impromptu doorway.
Luke replaced his lightsaber on his belt as he and Artoo moved to look through his handiwork at the passage he had opened. There was a door visible at
the other end of the corridor. He shivered as they entered, and unconsciously flexed his right hand. “It’s dark in here,” he half-whispered to himself.
Artoo swivelled his head to regard him and chirped an interrogative.
Luke laughed. “No, that’s not what I meant, Artoo. Not that kind of darkness. There’s something down here, like in the cave – you remember, on
Dagobah. It’s powerful, Artoo. And dangerous – that’s why I told Lando not to follow us. ... No, I don’t think there’s anyone down here. The Palace
has been pretty well deserted since we evacuated Coruscant, except for Tagge and his people setting up shop over by the Presidium.”
At that moment, what sounded like an explosive shell detonated in the distance, sending a faint rumble through the Palace. Luke cocked his head to
listen, then turned back to Artoo. “What do you think? Sounds like heavy artillery. I hope what’s left of that battlegroup the Liberator landed on hasn’t
found Lando and the others.”
He resumed walking down the corridor. “No, I’m not worried about life forms. It’s more like... well, like memories.” They approached the door, which
opened automatically, admitting them to a dark, unlit chamber. “I don’t know, Artoo. I guess this place just reminds me of my father. ... Yes, Anakin.”
Luke shivered. “Ever since we were on Wayland, I’ve just felt... I don’t know, some kind of presence.”
It never really occurred to Luke that he wasn’t talking to a person but to a machine. That was the remarkable thing about some ‘droids, wasn’t it? Artoo
and Threepio had been part of Luke’s life for so long, he no longer really thought of them as machines at all. They were people to him, friends – no,
family. To Luke Skywalker, Artoo Detoo was not just a mobile toolbox; he was one of the closest and oldest friends Luke had.
And the little astromech was a great listener.
Luke smiled tiredly. “You know, I’ve talked about it a little bit with Voren, when he was putting together that report for the Provo Council about
Thrawn’s campaign. It’s like – like there’s something not quite right. I’m not even sure I can feel it at all. Actually, that’s why I asked to come on this
mission – like I knew I was supposed to be here. And I was right, wasn’t I? What would’ve happened to the Liberator if I’d not been aboard?”
Something caught his eye and he moved closer to inspect it. “Artoo, come here and see if you can power up this console. And try to see if you can
activate the room’s lights, would you?”
He moved away from the console, and wrapped around his arms around himself, as though he could drive away the dark side’s cold embrace through
physical means. He shook his head faintly, and then noticed that he was still flexing his right hand – the artificial right hand, which he had acquired after
his own father had cut off his real hand in a duel on Bespin.
A wave of melancholy washed over Luke as he thought about it. His own father had cut off his hand, and thought nothing of it. And, months later, he
had returned the favor, cutting of his father’s hand at the wrist aboard the second Death Star. He remembered the feeling of horror that he had
experienced when he saw the exposed circuitry in his father’s wrist, and looked at his own black-gloved hand, and realized that he had become just like
him. Vengeful, angry, and violent. He had given in to the dark side.
It still frightened him from time to time, the ease with which he had slipped away from the light side, and attacked his father when full of anger. He had
known of the dangers of the dark side – the fear, the emptiness, the loneliness. He had known of them, and yet he still had used the dark side when his
father had threatened to corrupt his sister. It was an unsettling thing, the knowledge that in a moment of passion he had chosen the darkness.
Still more disturbing, however, was the knowledge that his father had made that same decision and had lived in the dark side of the Force for decades –
surely his passion could not have driven him for so long? He did not understand how his father could have done such a thing, how he could have freely
embraced the darkness. If Luke had known the dangers of the dark side, then surely his father must have known them just as well, if not better. What
could possibly have motivated his father to serve the dark side the way he had? What could he have found in the dark side that would so ensnare him,
that he would nonchalantly kill his old friend and master, or simply cut off his own son’s hand out of impatience? Luke shook his head sadly. He did
not know the answer to his questions, but he fervently wished for them.
He became aware that Artoo was twittering excitedly. He looked over, and the little ‘droid chirped again. At that moment, a nearby holoprojector
activated, projecting a one-quarter sized image of a cloaked figure. Luke frowned. “Artoo, I wanted a light, not a holo. I – no, wait, wait. Leave that on,
would you?” Luke moved closer, and examined the figure. “That looks like the Emperor, doesn’t it? See if you can increase the volume.”
“ – will assemble a holocron once these writings are finished,” said the holo. “Until that time, I will store a copy of the completed works of my Dark
Side Compendium in this medium.”
“That is the Emperor, Artoo!” Luke said. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere. No, no, wait! Leave it on, Artoo. I... I want to hear this.”
“Book I,” the Galactic Emperor’s hologram announced. “The Book of Anger, first canto...”
obliterated in the blink of an eye by the Empire – , an Imperial Senator, an ambassador at large for the rebel Alliance to Restore the Republic, and even a
general on the Allied Staff. And now she was a leading member of the Provisional Government of the New Republic, a symbol of the new beginning, of
the new order of ages. She was proud of her role in the overthrow of the evil Empire, and looked forward to the future, just as surely as she looked into
the forward viewport on the bridge of the Mon Remonda.
There was of course nothing for her to do on the bridge. Her rank had been largely ceremonial in the Royal Corps of Alderaan, although her adoptive
father had insisted that she receive proper training to justify her rank, and so she had been a specialist in administration and personnel management (her
commission had been within the Adjutant General’s Corps). She certainly wasn’t qualified to stand a watch on the bridge, any more than the ship’s
company needed her to do so. They moved like clockwork, experienced and comfortable, having familiarized themselves intimately with their work
during five months of hard campaigning aboard the Calamarian tactical cruiser.
Leia looked over at the ship’s commanding officer, Captain Onoma, a fine officer. Onoma was Mon Calamari, the aquatic species that had built the Mon
Remonda as well as countless other warships used by the rebel Alliance and the New Republic. He was a man fully in command of his surroundings; he
had been the ship’s CO during those five long months, and he knew his business.
“Madame Councilor, will you be going down to the surface, as well?” Captain Onoma had the same gravelly voice that the galaxy had come to expect
from the Mon Calamari.
“Yes,” Leia checked her chrono, then brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Speaking of which, I’d best lay aft to the launch bay. Thank you for the
pleasant cruise, Captain. Fair winds and following seas.”
Onoma bowed slightly – not a Calamarian gesture, but an approximation of a human one. Leia excused herself, and left the bridge, just as the 1MC
announced the impending achievement of hyperspace terminus. Moments later, as she made her way through the enormous tactical cruiser toward the
hangar bay wherein rested her husband’s light freighter, a slight shudder ran through the frame of the warship, as she exited hyperspace.
They were not in the Coruscant system; rather, they were in a nearby star system, several light years away from it. Because they were deep in Imperial
territory – more accurately, deep in hostile territory, for the Empire as a single entity had disintegrated – it had been decided that the rescue mission to
Coruscant to recover the crew of the Star Destroyer Liberator would proceed under escort by the Calamarian tactical cruiser, which would accompany
them this far, then serve as a patrol, watching the area for hostile ships, and engaging them as necessary. The other two escort ships, the frigates Antares
Six and Rebel Star, would continue with the Millennium Falcon and the crew transport shuttles into the Coruscant system itself.
Leia entered the hangar bay, and closed her arms around herself instinctively; the magnetic containment field which held the atmosphere of the bay in the
chamber – the chamber was open to space – was not very good at retaining warmth. When she had been an Imperial Senator, she had been aboard a few
prestige flagships whose bays had been equipped with convection current controls to retain the heat, but such devices were an unnecessary luxury, and
were not to be found aboard warships of the New Republic Defense Forces.
She moved across the bay toward the saucer-like freighter closest to the bay opening. The brow leading into the freighter itself was lowered, and there,
dressed in the blue trousers, white shirt, and black vest that had become his trademark, waiting at the bottom of the ramp with a roguish grin on his face,
was her husband, Han Solo. Pinned sloppily to the left lapel of his vest was the rank badge displaying the five pips that identified him as General Solo
– recently re-commissioned, of course.
They exchanged quick greetings and embraced warmly. ‘We’re all prepped and ready to go, as soon as Captain Onoma grants us clearance to leave.”
“All right. I’ll signal our escorts to make ready for the jump into the Coruscant system itself,” she said, as they moved into the ring corridor, raising the
brow and headed toward the cockpit off to the starboard side of the freighter. Moments later, the ship raised on its repulsor engines, and slid from the
bay, followed out into space by a number of specialized personnel carriers, which, despite their deceptively small size, would be sufficient to
accommodate the entire crew of the Liberator and bring them back to the Mon Remonda. Theoretically, this entire mission was simple and
straightforward.
That meant, of course, that it would probably be anything but. They had a nasty habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was how they had become heroes, after all.
- * * * * *
The Imperial Palace!
It was, despite whatever opinion one might have held about the man who built it, truly one of the wonders of the galaxy. A vast, sprawling estate, it
was far larger than most people realized. The Palace was enormous; it included plazas, parks, amphitheaters, gardens, and boulevards. Endless stretches
of walkways and corridors crisscrossed the gargantuan complex, connecting the various buildings, the gleaming towers. There were residencies,
mansions, barracks, centers for administration, recreation, and medical care, libraries – it was a city unto itself. And all of it was breathtakingly beautiful,
deliberately engineered as a testament to the glory of the Empire that had built it.
The Palace was generally considered to be one of the main reasons that Coruscant had been dubbed the Crown Jewel of the Empire. It was certainly one
of the most attractive features of Imperial City. Even after the Galactic Emperor’s death, it had remained the capitol of the Empire; Sate Pestage, the
Imperial Grand Vizier, whose regime had lasted for the first six months of the seemingly interminable Imperial interregnum, had remained in the Palace,
making it the center of operations of his regime, a decision which had been repeated by his many successors: the Emperor’s Ruling Circle, Ysanne Isard,
and even the New Republic’s Provisional Government.
Still, no one was quite sure how much of the Palace remained secret, despite the large number of people that had inhabited it and worked within it for
years on end. New Republic Intelligence had reportedly discovered a new secret passage or chamber on average of once a month; at one point, an entire
secret wing of the Palace building itself had been discovered, hidden deep beneath the surface.
The Jedi named Luke Skywalker had wandered into the Imperial Palace with only one companion. They had come to Coruscant aboard the Liberator;
Luke had fortuitously been near the bridge when the battle had begun, and had taken control of the ship’s repulsorlifts once it had become clear that she
would crash. His quick thinking and intuitive use of the antigravity generators had spared most of the minimal crew’s lives when the impact came, and
he had soon left the crew by the remains of the ruined battleship, to make a visit to the Palace.
He pressed up against a wall inside the north wing of the Palace, running his hand down to the floor, feeling carefully for a seam. His fingers barely
registered the presence of a slight incongruity between one part of the wall and another. He smiled tightly, and turned back to the blue and white
astromech watching him from two meters away. “Well, Artoo,” he said, pointing to the wall. “There is a passage behind this wall. ... Yes, I know you
told me that four times. I’m sorry, Artoo, you were right.”
Luke turned back to the wall and drew his lightsaber, activating its pearly-green blade in the same smooth movement, and drove its point deep into the
wall. The blade sliced effortlessly through the material, burning through the paint and plaster and marble almost as easily as though it were not there at
all. In a few moments, he had cut a doorway into the wall, deactivated his blade. He opened his hand toward the slab of marble he had cut and eased it
out and away from the opening to his impromptu doorway.
Luke replaced his lightsaber on his belt as he and Artoo moved to look through his handiwork at the passage he had opened. There was a door visible at
the other end of the corridor. He shivered as they entered, and unconsciously flexed his right hand. “It’s dark in here,” he half-whispered to himself.
Artoo swivelled his head to regard him and chirped an interrogative.
Luke laughed. “No, that’s not what I meant, Artoo. Not that kind of darkness. There’s something down here, like in the cave – you remember, on
Dagobah. It’s powerful, Artoo. And dangerous – that’s why I told Lando not to follow us. ... No, I don’t think there’s anyone down here. The Palace
has been pretty well deserted since we evacuated Coruscant, except for Tagge and his people setting up shop over by the Presidium.”
At that moment, what sounded like an explosive shell detonated in the distance, sending a faint rumble through the Palace. Luke cocked his head to
listen, then turned back to Artoo. “What do you think? Sounds like heavy artillery. I hope what’s left of that battlegroup the Liberator landed on hasn’t
found Lando and the others.”
He resumed walking down the corridor. “No, I’m not worried about life forms. It’s more like... well, like memories.” They approached the door, which
opened automatically, admitting them to a dark, unlit chamber. “I don’t know, Artoo. I guess this place just reminds me of my father. ... Yes, Anakin.”
Luke shivered. “Ever since we were on Wayland, I’ve just felt... I don’t know, some kind of presence.”
It never really occurred to Luke that he wasn’t talking to a person but to a machine. That was the remarkable thing about some ‘droids, wasn’t it? Artoo
and Threepio had been part of Luke’s life for so long, he no longer really thought of them as machines at all. They were people to him, friends – no,
family. To Luke Skywalker, Artoo Detoo was not just a mobile toolbox; he was one of the closest and oldest friends Luke had.
And the little astromech was a great listener.
Luke smiled tiredly. “You know, I’ve talked about it a little bit with Voren, when he was putting together that report for the Provo Council about
Thrawn’s campaign. It’s like – like there’s something not quite right. I’m not even sure I can feel it at all. Actually, that’s why I asked to come on this
mission – like I knew I was supposed to be here. And I was right, wasn’t I? What would’ve happened to the Liberator if I’d not been aboard?”
Something caught his eye and he moved closer to inspect it. “Artoo, come here and see if you can power up this console. And try to see if you can
activate the room’s lights, would you?”
He moved away from the console, and wrapped around his arms around himself, as though he could drive away the dark side’s cold embrace through
physical means. He shook his head faintly, and then noticed that he was still flexing his right hand – the artificial right hand, which he had acquired after
his own father had cut off his real hand in a duel on Bespin.
A wave of melancholy washed over Luke as he thought about it. His own father had cut off his hand, and thought nothing of it. And, months later, he
had returned the favor, cutting of his father’s hand at the wrist aboard the second Death Star. He remembered the feeling of horror that he had
experienced when he saw the exposed circuitry in his father’s wrist, and looked at his own black-gloved hand, and realized that he had become just like
him. Vengeful, angry, and violent. He had given in to the dark side.
It still frightened him from time to time, the ease with which he had slipped away from the light side, and attacked his father when full of anger. He had
known of the dangers of the dark side – the fear, the emptiness, the loneliness. He had known of them, and yet he still had used the dark side when his
father had threatened to corrupt his sister. It was an unsettling thing, the knowledge that in a moment of passion he had chosen the darkness.
Still more disturbing, however, was the knowledge that his father had made that same decision and had lived in the dark side of the Force for decades –
surely his passion could not have driven him for so long? He did not understand how his father could have done such a thing, how he could have freely
embraced the darkness. If Luke had known the dangers of the dark side, then surely his father must have known them just as well, if not better. What
could possibly have motivated his father to serve the dark side the way he had? What could he have found in the dark side that would so ensnare him,
that he would nonchalantly kill his old friend and master, or simply cut off his own son’s hand out of impatience? Luke shook his head sadly. He did
not know the answer to his questions, but he fervently wished for them.
He became aware that Artoo was twittering excitedly. He looked over, and the little ‘droid chirped again. At that moment, a nearby holoprojector
activated, projecting a one-quarter sized image of a cloaked figure. Luke frowned. “Artoo, I wanted a light, not a holo. I – no, wait, wait. Leave that on,
would you?” Luke moved closer, and examined the figure. “That looks like the Emperor, doesn’t it? See if you can increase the volume.”
“ – will assemble a holocron once these writings are finished,” said the holo. “Until that time, I will store a copy of the completed works of my Dark
Side Compendium in this medium.”
“That is the Emperor, Artoo!” Luke said. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere. No, no, wait! Leave it on, Artoo. I... I want to hear this.”
“Book I,” the Galactic Emperor’s hologram announced. “The Book of Anger, first canto...”
| Part I, Chapter 2 |
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| This chapter of The Test of Wills was republished on 31 October 2007. |
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