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THE HIGH REPUBLIC

Convergence

The Battle of Jedha

Cataclysm

Light of the Jedi

The Rising Storm

Tempest Runner

The Fallen Star

The Eye of Darkness

Temptation of the Force

Tempest Breaker

Trials of the Jedi

Wayseeker: An Acolyte Novel

Dooku: Jedi Lost

Master and Apprentice

The Living Force

THE PHANTOM MENACE

Mace Windu: The Glass Abyss

ATTACK OF THE CLONES

Inquisitor: Rise of the Red Blade

Brotherhood

The Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy

Dark Disciple: A Clone Wars Novel

REVENGE OF THE SITH

Reign of the Empire: The Mask of Fear

Master of Evil

Star Wars Outlaws: Low Red Moon

Sanctuary: A Bad Batch Novel

Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel

Lords of the Sith

Tarkin

Jedi: Battle Scars

SOLO Thrawn

A New Dawn: A Rebels Novel

Thrawn: Alliances

Thrawn: Treason

ROGUE ONE A NEW HOPE

Battlefront II: Inferno Squad

Heir to the Jedi

Doctor Aphra

Battlefront: Twilight Company

THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK RETURN OF THE JEDI

The Princess and the Scoundrel

The Alphabet Squadron Trilogy

The Aftermath Trilogy

Last Shot

Shadow of the Sith Bloodline

Phasma Canto Bight

THE FORCE AWAKENS

THE LAST JEDI

Resistance Reborn Galaxy’s Edge: Black Spire

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. . . .

“Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?”

“No.”

“I thought not. It’s not a story the Jedi would tell you. It’s a Sith legend. Darth Plagueis was a Dark Lord of the Sith, so powerful and so wise he could use the Force to influence the midi-chlorians to create life. He had such a knowledge of the dark side he could even keep the ones he cared about from dying.”

“He could actually . . . save people from death?”

“The dark side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unnatural.”

“What happened to him?”

“He became so powerful, the only thing he was afraid of was losing his power. Which eventually, of course, he did. Unfortunately, he taught his apprentice everything he knew. Then his apprentice killed him in his sleep. It’s ironic, he could save others from death, but not himself.”

“Is it possible to learn this power?”

“Not from a Jedi.”

—A conversation overheard

TThe Salt Was as Hard as Stone

here was power here. He could feel it. As cool as the wind on his face, as warm as the blood that roared in his ears.

Power. Alive, and yet not. Distant, and yet so close he could almost reach out and touch it. A power to be taken, to be claimed, to be prized. And then to be used, wielded like the weapon it was.

Yes, there was power here, and Count Dooku of Serenno was determined to claim it.

It was no wonder his master had sent him. Diso was as miserable and backward a planet as there was in the galaxy, with nobody on it who even knew the power was here, let alone understood its song.

Well, nobody except Dooku, now. Because the man he currently held tightly with the Force a clear meter in the air was certainly a charlatan, whatever his claims had been. Dooku’s frown deepened as he looked into the man’s eyes, wide and full of fear and pain as they rolled in their sockets, his hands scrambling in mad desperation for the invisible, intangible hand clenched so tight around his throat, the hand that squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

Dooku grimaced in distaste. This man called himself a “shaman,” whatever that was supposed to mean. To debase the Force with such superstition was an insult to those who truly knew its power, like Dooku himself.

True, Dooku could feel a certain . . . sensitivity within the man, but that in itself meant absolutely nothing. The Force surrounded and penetrated everything in the universe, and a lot of living beings were not only aware of it but could also feel it. This so-called shaman was just one of millions, insignificant, and completely ignorant of the power that lay so very, very close to where he was standing.

at Dooku could feel as he stood on the edge of the salt flat, the shaman of Diso dying slowly in the air before him. Behind the shaman, black cliffs rose to an impressive height; at the base of those cliffs, the stinking cave the shaman called home opened out to the white expanse of the salt flat. The flat itself was roughly circular, a disk four hundred meters in diameter in the middle of the dense Diso woodland. On three sides, the dark forest drew close, the salt flat perhaps once a lake, the shoreline a gentle rocky slope, save for the high cliffs that soared over the eastern side.

The salt was as hard as stone and had provided a perfect landing pad, not just for Dooku’s shuttle but also for the bulky transport barge now parked beside it. The front of the barge was folded down, the bright lights inside illuminating the huge boxy hulks of two 21D2-AN excavation droids. Assembled outside was a full squadron of B1 battle droids, the commander, his head and chest bearing yellow rank indicators, milling around as he waited for the order to commence work.

So far, the location of the excavation site had eluded Count Dooku. They had found the shaman’s hermitage easily enough. With almost no eﬀort at all on Dooku’s part, the weak-willed locals had revealed the cave—a full twenty-kilometer pilgrimage from the closest town, Adera—and he and the droids had covered the distance from takeoﬀ at Adera’s basic landing zone to touchdown on the salt flat in mere moments. The shaman—his name was Ensoor apparently, although Dooku didn’t care and knew he would forget it as soon as he had left the

planet—had been standing outside the cave, almost as if he had been waiting for them.

Dooku thought the next step would be easy. He was, much to his annoyance, quite wrong.

The shaman—charlatan!—was nothing compared with the count. Dooku was a true master, one who knew the nature of the Force, who understood the power of the dark side. He was a Dark Lord of the Sith, Tyranus by name, and he had no time for games.

“You will tell me where the Temple of Diso lies hidden,” said Dooku, his teeth gritted not from eﬀort but from sheer frustration, “and I will allow you to die in only a moderate amount of agony and despair.”

The man didn’t speak; point of fact, he couldn’t speak. Realizing this with a sigh, Dooku relaxed his grip, just a little. Beside him, he heard the whir of servomotors, and from the corner of his eye he saw the battle droid commander approach, apparently fascinated by the scene.

“Speak!” said Dooku to the shaman. “I command you!”

The man whooped in a great lungful of air.

Dooku was here because his master, Darth Sidious, had sent him. Sidious’s instructions had been precise, and right now it was Dooku’s sole desire to fulfill his wish.

Yet this man, this pathetic hermit living in squalor in a cave, was standing in his way. The so-called shaman was physically weak, and Dooku knew he could break him in two without a second thought.

But mentally . . . that was another matter. The man was strong, far more resilient than Dooku had expected, and Dooku could sense something else twisting within him . . . what was it . . . a kind of arrogance, perhaps? Part of Dooku wondered if this was his own flaw, an arrogance born of his noble position and the anticipation that one day the galaxy would belong to him and his master. But as soon as that thought entered Dooku’s mind, he dismissed it.

This arrogance was his strength. And that strength, his power.

And now his patience had run out.

Dooku released the man entirely, letting him fall onto the hard white ground. As the man collapsed in a heap, heaving ragged breaths, Dooku

paced a circle around him. Dooku’s arms were folded and his deepbrown cloak swished around his legs as he regarded the shaman’s own strange garb. The man was dressed in a rough textile that appeared to be made of woven straw, uncomfortable and somewhat inflexible, the panels tied together with thicker twine made of the same organic material.

It was mildly interesting, the clothing clearly ceremonial in some primitive way. Dooku didn’t know much about Diso or its inhabitants and certainly nothing about their customs and beliefs. In another time, there would be much to study and investigate, the backward planet at the edge of the Expansion Region a potential treasure trove of anthropological data.

But not now. There was a war on, a war that Dooku and the Separatists would win, paving the way for the rise of Darth Sidious and the reign of the Sith. Yes, perhaps one day he would return, and perhaps he would have his master at his side.

Or perhaps he would be the master then.

Dooku chuckled at the thought.

On the ground, the shaman of Diso scrambled to his knees and pulled a beaded length of twine from under his stiﬀ tunic. He began furiously sorting the threaded beads, muttering something under his breath with equal speed, as though he was searching for the perfect spell to rid his world of the intruders.

For a moment, Dooku watched. And then he bent down so his eyes were at the same level as the other man’s. Dooku smiled, his expression entirely devoid of warmth or humanity—the smile of a killer.

“You will tell me the location of the Temple of Diso,” Dooku said quietly, “or I will wrench that information from your mind.”

The shaman paused in his incantation and met Dooku’s gaze. Then the man resumed his muttering.

Dooku stood tall and straightened his tunic. “So be it,” he said. “I will have my answer. I will take it from you.”

Very carefully, very slowly, he pulled the glove oﬀ his right hand, then neatly folded the fine Sevauran leather and tucked it under his belt. He reached forward with his bare hand, fingers splayed toward the sha-

man. The man stared at the hand, his lips frozen for a moment before twisting into a frown.

Before the frown twisted into a scream.

Dooku strode up the ramp of his shuttle, then stopped at the halfway point. Pulling his glove back on, he turned to get a good look at the salt flat, his eyelid twitching at the thought of how much time he had wasted. At the base of the ramp, the B1 commander stood waiting, and next to him, another battle droid carried the unconscious form of the shaman.

Dooku indicated to the droid with a flick of a finger, and the droid dropped the body with a thud on the bottom of the ramp. The shaman groaned and rolled over, but remained out for the count.

Dooku nodded at the commander. “You have the coordinates. Commence excavation.”

“Roger, roger!” The droid turned, then stopped and turned back. It looked at Dooku, clearly wanting to say something else but either waiting for permission to speak or allowing itself a moment to drum up some courage.

Dooku raised an eyebrow. “You have something to report?”

“There were intruders on the eastern perimeter,” said the droid, indicating the cliﬀ face with a three-fingered hand. “A woman and a girl. They were spying on our operation. They’re hiding up there somewhere now.”

Dooku sighed. More time wasting. Of course there would be some locals around, the braver townsfolk of Adera journeying out to the salt flat to see what was happening—but to say they were spying was ascribing just a little too much importance to them.

“Irrelevant,” said Dooku. “Let them spy. They can do nothing. Now carry out your orders.”

The droid commander gave a salute. “Roger, roger!” Then it scuttled away on its spindly legs. Dooku watched it go, the anger welling inside him.

The temple was here—quite literally under his feet. That he hadn’t been able to feel its precise location bothered him. He had sensed something on the planet, an untapped source of dark power, indistinct but clear. As soon as he had stepped out of the shuttle on the outskirts of Adera, he had felt a pull on his mind.

Again it occurred to him that his arrogance had clouded his senses, that he had claimed victory before the battle had even been fought.

And again he dismissed the idea, his temper burning even hotter.

But why the clear feeling of a disturbance in the Force but nothing from the source of that disturbance itself? Dooku didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Darth Sidious had sent his apprentice to Diso for one purpose, and so long as that task was completed, it didn’t matter what obstacles had to be overcome.

From the transport barge, the 21D2-AN excavator droids slowly emerged, the giants moving with infuriating slowness as the B1 crew directed them, scurrying like insects around the larger droids and all over the salt flat, marking positions with reflectors, measuring distances. They were quick and, to their credit, eﬃcient. Within minutes, the flat was marked out for the real work to begin. The excavators got into position, their scoop-claws unfolding.

And then they began to dig. The salt was as hard as granite, and the shuttle ramp shook under Dooku’s boots as great cracks started to appear across the flat. Once the surface had been penetrated, the pair of 21D2-AN droids continued slowly clearing the ground, directed by the B1 droids, which chattered at each other constantly.

As Dooku watched, he reached out with the Force, listening, feeling, searching.

As soon as the first stone was uncovered, Dooku was certain—at last— that the shaman’s knowledge was accurate. Dooku’s eyes narrowed as he felt a movement, a pull, in the Force.

There it was. The power. Such power. Dark, mysterious, important.

Alive, and yet not.

The Temple of Diso was uncovered in a matter of hours, the excavation droids carving through the salt flat, raising huge jagged slabs to reveal a stone structure built from smooth, perfectly dressed blocks, as black as the cliﬀs that rose over the eastern bound and the shaman’s cave. The temple, a blunt, stepped pyramid, was ancient, certainly, clearly having been built before the salt flat was even a lake. The building was enormous, seventy meters along each side and nearly as high at the peak, by the count’s estimate. The volume of salt dug out from around it was substantial, hundreds of tons, great mounds of it now piled up around the circumference of the flat. The 21D2-AN droids were certainly impressive in their capabilities and speed.

Dooku smiled—then took a stumbling step backward up the shuttle ramp. The power here was surprising, as if the Force was somehow pushing back at him.

His master’s instructions had been clear, but they had also been . . . imprecise. Dooku was to retrieve an artifact from Diso, a relic of the dark side to add to his master’s ever-growing collection. But aside from an almost offhand comment that Darth Tyranus would have to dig— hence the requisition of two excavator droids—that was all that Sidious had commanded. Dooku had understood implicitly that the Force would guide him. He would know what it was he was supposed to find.

Destiny, on a small scale.

And now Dooku did know. The artifact was no mere trinket, no esoteric object oﬀering a deeper understanding of the Sith, locked inside an ancient temple on a forgotten planet. Dooku knew the temple was empty.

The relic was the temple.

And that, Dooku realized, was a problem.

Dooku cast his gaze over the excavation site. The droids, excavator and battle alike, were capable but slow, and now that the temple itself had been uncovered, the work that followed would require meticulous attention to detail. His master would want all of it, the very fabric of the place, which meant a painstaking exercise in mapping the structure

perfectly, then dismantling it, stone by stone, cataloging every scrap of it, every mote, every particle, so it could be reassembled at some hidden location.

Dooku was a patient man, but his attention would be required elsewhere soon enough, and he didn’t trust the droids to carry out this task without his direct supervision. He stood on the shuttle ramp, watching the work, trying to come up with a way to complete the task at speed, when there was a harsh crunch from somewhere out on the salt flat, and a cloud of black dust and gray smoke rose lazily into the air from the other side of the temple.

Dooku strode down the ramp toward a B1 droid that was frantically examining a datapad and bleating instructions over its comlink.

“What happened?”

The droid almost jumped in fright as it turned to Dooku.

“Ah, we’ve lost an excavator, my lord! Part of the north face of the temple seems to have collapsed and—”

There was another rumble. Looking over at the temple, Dooku watched as the side facing him seemed to buckle, as though some huge creature was pushing from within the temple itself, throwing another cloud of dust into the air. Then, a second later, the outer wall began to slide, the avalanche knocking over the other 21D2-AN droid even as it tried to use its massive claws to stabilize the structure. The droid fell with an earsplitting groan of heavy metal being wrenched apart.

The battle droids out on the flat began to scuttle around in panic. Dooku looked for the commander, only to find himself blown backward by a sudden gust of hurricane wind. Bracing himself at the base of the shuttle ramp, Dooku shielded his face as he watched the battle droids get thrown into the air, along with tons of black stone and white shards of quarried salt.

Out on the field, the commander droid was looking for subordinates to order around, only to watch them be lifted and thrown away from the temple like children’s dolls. The commander, at the center of the chaos, spun around and waved both arms at Dooku, as behind it, a huge black stone was torn free from the temple and hurtled through the air toward it.

It was time to take control. Dooku stretched out his arms and, with a grimace, split the stone with the Force, sending the two halves carving through the air around the unsuspecting commander. Then Dooku took a single step forward and pushed back against the power that had been unleashed from the temple, willing the Force to do his bidding, a satisfied smirk twisting across his aristocratic features.

Power, he thought. Real power. The Temple of Diso was, it seemed, home to something after all. That power was deep and ancient, the very stones of the temple imbued with it. It was alive and yet not, fighting back against its rude awakening, but not with intelligence or design. Dooku could feel it now, like a great curve in the river of the Force. He pushed against it, reaching out as he explored its invisible contours, its majestic dark geometries. Oh yes, it was the Force, it was the dark side, but not an aspect of it that Dooku had experienced before.

It was no wonder his master wanted this for himself. For the Temple of Diso was the site of something very rare and very special indeed. Dooku knew it now, something spoken of in myth and legend, but not something he had ever expected to encounter himself.

It was a vergence in the Force, a nexus that focused the power of the dark side in ways that Dooku didn’t understand but wanted to explore. Emboldened by his discovery, he concentrated, opening himself to the malignant emanation of the vergence.

But then the wind dropped, and the shadow in his mind faded as Dooku’s own powers managed to keep the vergence in check, even for just a short time. Around the broken surface of the salt flat, now littered with the shattered remains of the two excavator droids, those B1 droids that had survived the sudden storm began scrambling to their feet.

Dooku lowered his arms, carefully. The vergence was still there—he could feel it, a static white sound at the edge of thought—but he had calmed it. He stared at the temple, assessing the damage. The building was now ragged at the edges, two sides having slumped, the salt flat strewn with broken masonry, but the main structure was still intact. And within, the vergence of the dark side. Such power to command . . .

Dooku paused in that thought as he stared at the black stone of the temple.

Such power to command.

There was that voice again, at the back of his mind, a whisper of a suggestion that Dooku would dismiss.

Except this time, he didn’t. He listened, and as he listened, he found himself chuckling to himself.

Such power to command.

And what if that power belonged not to Darth Sidious but to Darth— Dooku’s chuckle died as his throat went dry.

He turned and walked back to the shuttle ramp. At the bottom lay the shaman of Diso. He was still alive, breathing deeply as he remained unconscious, despite the sudden chaos that had engulfed the salt flat.

The shaman had not been quite the charlatan Dooku had dismissed him as. His connection to the Force was real, but it was primitive, wild, undisciplined. He lacked everything that Dooku had, and had in abundance.

Count Dooku of Serenno. Darth Tyranus, Dark Lord of the Sith.

Such power to command.

He came to a decision. Dooku turned and snapped his fingers at the droid commander, who was still studying his datapad intently, completely unaware of just how close he had come to being crushed into scrap.

“Move your squad clear,” said Dooku. “And try to get the excavator droids moved.”

The commander did a double take between Dooku and the datapad, then stood to attention. “Roger, roger!” he said, then turned and began shouting orders. As the droid moved away, Dooku pulled a slim black comlink from his belt and held it to his mouth.

“Sarnath.”

The comlink bleeped, and a deep, reverberant voice rimed with metal sounded from the tiny device.

“I await your command, my lord.”

“There is a change of plan,” said Dooku. “Move the transport out of orbit to my location.”

“Command rejected,” said Sarnath’s emotionless voice. “This transport is not equipped for a planetary landing.”

Dooku tutted. “I did not ask you to land it. Prepare the systems architecture for remodeling. I will give you further orders when you arrive.”

“Command accepted. Estimated arrival time: six standard minutes.”

“Confirmed.” Dooku killed the link and slid the device back into his belt. He watched as the droids cleared the temple and its surrounds, with several—including the commander—coordinating to move out the heavily damaged, but fortunately still mobile, excavators.

A few moments later, there was a whine of engines. Looking up, Dooku watched as the huge modular transport ship, piloted by none other than an ST-series droid, descended from where it had been waiting in low orbit.

Dooku allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation at his own foresight. This mission for Darth Sidious was vital, and he wanted to risk nothing in its perfect execution—the B1 droids, the 21D2-AN excavator units, and the experimental Techno Union transporter fitted with prototype technologies still in development, the whole thing certified and spaceworthy but still under wraps, were perfect choices. But assigning a super tactical droid to pilot the cargo home?

Right now, Dooku thought it a stroke of genius.

The battle droids had their place, even with their narrowly programmed, overtaxed processors and cheap, inadequate memory banks giving rise to quirks that sometimes bordered on full-blown neuroses, and Dooku needed the numbers. But the ST series was a work of art, the greatest technical development to come out of Baktoid Combat Automata, and Sarnath himself was in another league again, constructed with prototype processors to give him the even greater problem-solving abilities the droid needed to pilot a ship like the experimental transporter. Sarnath was as cool and methodical as Dooku himself, and just as loyal . . . if not quite as intelligent. For a mission like this, it was overkill, certainly, but Dooku never did anything by half.

The transport descended slowly. It was, in its current configuration, nothing more than a long, rectangular box. Dooku looked at it carefully, considering the dimensions of the cargo he intended to put inside it. Then he lifted the comlink again.

“Position the ship over the temple and open the keel.”

“Command rejected,” came Sarnath’s ever-calm voice. “Keel module is not configured for cargo. Opening of the lower loading doors will result in some loss of support units.”

“The loss is acceptable,” said Dooku. “Open the keel.”

“Command accepted.”

There was a ground-shaking clunk, and as Dooku watched, the flat bottom of the transport split down the middle, then began to open like two halves of a Zopolitan puzzle box. Immediately, a series of small objects began to fall from the ever-widening gap—battle droids, a contingent of which were on standby in the keel module. They fell, their electronic whines audible until their bodies shattered against the stone of the temple a hundred meters below. Dooku waited patiently for the fall of droids to stop, frowning as one last straggler vainly tried to hold on to the open edges of the loading doors before finally losing its grip and tumbling to the ground, its fragile frame shattering against the temple structure.

“Reconfigure system architecture,” Dooku said into his comlink. “Prepare to accept cargo. Set tractor beam to standby. When the cargo is in position, activate and complete loading at your discretion.”

“Mass and volume?” asked Sarnath.

Dooku did some quick mental calculations as he looked at the temple, then relayed the data to Sarnath.

For a moment, nothing happened, and then the air was filled with an earsplitting screech of metal on metal as the experimental Techno Union transporter began to reshape itself while it floated above the temple. What had once been a long, featureless oblong transformed into something closer to a cube as boxy sections moved and rotated, sliding out of the ship’s main structure and realigning themselves into new positions. At one end of the ship, a single trapezoidal module remained locked in place—the bridge—and through the angled viewports at the front, Dooku could just make out the tall form of Sarnath as the ST droid leaned across the main console to see what was happening below.

With a final clang, the ship’s pieces froze into their final configuration. All was ready, the keel module now substantially enlarged in every dimension, the doors open and waiting for the cargo.

Dooku smiled and lifted his chin. Very carefully, very slowly, he pulled his fine leather gloves oﬀ, folded them just so, and stowed them carefully under his belt. Then he straightened his tunic, reached out with both hands, and closed his eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened. The assembled droids, still keeping their distance, whirred and clicked as they turned to look at one another, the commander actually scratching his head in confusion. Then all optics turned to the temple as a rumble sounded, like distant thunder. The droid shuﬄed uneasily, its head spinning between the temple and the count standing at the base of the shuttle ramp.

Dooku focused, curling his right hand into a fist. The tendons on his neck stood out like cables as every muscle in his body tensed, and his open left hand twisted into a claw as he devoted every fiber of his being to the task he was trying to perform.

The rumbling grew louder, and the temple began to move.

Dust and dirt fell from the structure as the building was lifted from its foundations, thousands of tons of ancient carved stone rising slowly into the air. As it cleared the ground, the damaged sections began to sag, and a few large blocks of stone tumbled away before freezing in midair, caught in Dooku’s invisible grip as he lifted the entire structure up into the belly of the transporter above. Even the cascading dirt and dust and salt that flowed from the base of the building seemed to slow, as if time had suddenly been caught in honey.

Dooku knew he couldn’t sustain this for very long, but all he had to do was lift the temple just a fraction, for just the shortest second, freeing it from its foundations until—

There was a faint buzz as the air between the transport ship and the temple shimmered, and the temple stabilized, caught now in the transport’s tractor beam. As Dooku let go with his mind, the building rose, as slowly and steadily as though it were being raised on a giant repulsorlift. In mere minutes, it disappeared up into the keel module of the transporter, the doors of which then started to swing closed. A thud sounded inside the transporter, distant and muﬄed, as the temple was released and settled in its new home.

Dooku immediately fell to one knee, his head bowed, exhausted. The

B1 commander rushed to his side and began babbling, asking repeatedly if Dooku required assistance while ordering its subordinates to prepare a stretcher party. But as more droids gathered, Dooku waved them away. He stood, but his strength gave out and he tipped forward. The B1 commander acted quickly, grabbing the count under one armpit with a clamplike hand.

Dooku did not acknowledge the droid’s assistance, but neither did he reject it. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then looked down as he noticed the shaman of Diso, who was still lying on the ground at the base of the shuttle ramp. The shaman rocked against the hard ground as he muttered, drool streaming from the side of his mouth.

Seeing the shaman, Dooku seemed to recover his strength. He pushed the B1 droid commander away and stood on his own, straightening his tunic as he looked down at the other man. He contemplated saying something, a dozen sharply barbed comments already forming in his mind, but then decided this pathetic creature wasn’t worth the eﬀort. Dooku had gotten what he had come for.

He turned and walked up the ramp. Entering the ship’s bridge, Dooku took his position at the rear of the compartment and punched the comm on the arm of his chair.

“Report.”

“Cargo secured,” came Sarnath’s metallic voice. “We are ready to depart at your command.”

Dooku kept the channel open as he stared out the shuttle’s forward viewports. Outside, the battle droids were attempting a rudimentary cleanup, but there was a lot of debris. Dooku was of a mind to order the droids to take only what could be salvaged or recycled and leave the rest. It didn’t matter. Nobody would be coming back here.

Then he looked up. The bottom of the transporter was just visible, hanging over the shattered salt flat.

Such power to command.

Yes, Darth Sidious was right to claim it.

But perhaps he should have come here and claimed it himself . . . before someone else got here first.

The comm bleeped, breaking Dooku out of his reverie.

“Orders, my lord?”

Dooku pursed his lips, then nodded to himself. “I have new orders for you, Sarnath.” He paused, eyes narrow as he ran the specifications of the experimental transport over in his mind. “Is the new equipment ready?”

“The anchor system is installed,” said Sarnath, “although it has not been certified.”

“Excellent,” said Dooku. “I will transmit new coordinates and tactical plans. You will take the transport to the specified position and await further instructions.”

“Command accepted.”

Dooku released the button and sat back in his chair. He pulled his gloves from his belt and very carefully, very slowly, slipped them on.

Then he steepled his hands under his chin and considered his options.

Such power to command.

His options . . . and his future.

The original plan had called for a covert, remote meeting by scrambled holotransmission. That his master now demanded an in-person meeting was something Dooku had been prepared for.

The dark chamber was on an unnamed moon in a forgotten system, a location easily reached by quick detour, nothing that would raise any suspicions about Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s whereabouts during a routine diplomatic mission.

Darth Sidious did not speak. He did not have to. Darth Tyranus had felt the anger radiating from his master as soon as his shuttle had touched down among the ruins of a city, outside the ruins of a building. But Tyranus was prepared. Deception was not a new skill.

“It is regrettable,” he said as he knelt on the hard ground before his master. “But there was always going to be a certain element of risk. Transportation of this kind of cargo through hyperspace, well . . .” He trailed oﬀ and looked up.

Still, Sidious did not speak. His cowled form seemed to cling to the shadows of the chamber, and for the briefest moment, Tyranus felt exposed, as if he weren’t kneeling in the dark but standing in a spotlight, the perpetrator caught, his terrible fate about to be decided.

He lifted his chin and banished such thoughts from his mind, concentrating instead on his composure, willing the swirl of emotions he felt to abate, lest they betray him.

“You will understand,” he said, “that the loss of the transport also affects my own plans. The ST-series tactical droid is a valuable military asset, and it will be some time before a replacement can be manufactured.”

His master did not move. Tyranus blanked his mind. The silence between them stretched to seconds, a minute, perhaps more. For Darth Tyranus—for Count Dooku—it felt like an eternity.

Then his master broke that silence.

“You are certain the vessel was destroyed in hyperspace?” he asked. It was a simple enough question, but Tyranus knew his answer had to be perfect.

“It departed before my own shuttle. On takeoﬀ, my droid commander reported that they had already detected an instability in the ion trail from the transporter’s drive. By the time I reacted and tried to reach Sarnath . . .” Dooku shook his head and sighed. “The transporter and its cargo were most likely atomized as soon as they made the jump to lightspeed.”

Sidious looked down at his apprentice. From the darkness under his cowl, his eyes flashed yellow. Tyranus, to his credit, did not flinch.

“Regrettable,” said Sidious slowly, like he was considering the meaning of the word. “You will redouble your eﬀorts, my apprentice.” Sidious turned and headed for the chamber’s exit. “There is much still to be done,” he added, his voice echoing around the corroded metal walls.

And then Dooku was alone. He let out a breath, and ran a finger around the inside of his tunic collar.

He had survived, this time. Now all he had to do was retrieve that which was hidden and . . .

Oh yes, he would have such power to command.