“I suppose this means you may congratulate your apprentice,” Darth Plagueis observed, “on a job well done.”
He had just turned his attention from the holovid screen to gaze out the window of his penthouse at the top of Kaldani Spires, down on the unsuspecting crowds thronging Monument Square, far below.
On the opposite side of the room, Sidious stood simmering with his fists clenched, the muscles of his jaw tight with anger. He could not discern Plagueis’s expression reflected in the glass, nor could he guess his Master’s thoughts from his tone of voice. All around them, Plagueis’s lavishly appointed penthouse had fallen absolutely silent, a reverential stillness prevailing over the richly brocaded carpeting, resonating from the elaborate furnishings, tapestries, and artifacts that adorned the rooms and corridors. Sidious could hear the pounding of his own outraged pulse.
They had just finished the holo of Maul’s most recent bout—the first one that they’d watched together, although Sidious had been monitoring each of his apprentice’s fights carefully from the time Maul had first arrived on Cog Hive Seven. Today, without warning or precedent, Plagueis had summoned him here so that they could watch the fight together.
It was as if he’d known what would happen.
“His mission was to assassinate Radique without relying on the Force,” Plagueis mused, as he turned back to face Sidious. “Was it not?” As was so often the case, the elongated, grayish blue face behind the transpirator mask was neither smiling nor frowning. Instead Damask wore the distant, abstracted expression of a profoundly advanced intellect lost deep in his own counsel. “Which means that he’s finished there, yes? Ready to be extracted?”
Sidious managed a single nod. Deep within him, the rage grew more intense, and he still did not trust his own voice.
“And yet,” Plagueis said, regarding him thoughtfully, “you seem … less than pleased.”
With the deliberate effort of a man releasing a clenched fist, Sidious made a conscious effort at composure. He’s testing me. Examining my motives. And again, the question cycled back through his head: How much does he know?
“Of course I’m pleased,” Sidious said, careful to maintain unbroken eye contact with Plagueis as he spoke each word. There could be no indication of treachery here, no hint of the true purpose behind the mission. “Maul has done exactly as I requested.”
“Not that I’m questioning you, of course,” Plagueis said. “As I’ve said before, your business with the Zabrak, especially when it comes to this sort of thing, is exactly that—your business.” He paused just long enough for Sidious to wonder if all of this was, in fact, just a passing remark, the equivalent of an idle thought that passed through a consciousness as heightened as Plagueis’s. “I do wonder, however, about what might happen if Maul revealed his true identity as a Sith Lord while still imprisoned in this place. The implications for our plan might prove … substantial.”
“Impossible,” Sidious said. “Maul’s loyalty to us is above reproach. He would gladly lay down his life before compromising the secrecy of his mission.”
“Of course.” Plagueis shook his head. “I just wish to remind you that there are still aspects of this operation that may not be completely under your control. Or mine.” For a moment his expression was sympathetic, indulgent in away that, as a younger man, Sidious had once enjoyed but now—if he was honest—found placatory, almost patronizing. “It is a painful yet necessary reminder, Darth Sidious. Beings such as ourselves, ones who enjoy the promise of nearly unlimited power, live with the paradoxical risk of forgetting that there are some elements of the galaxy that we cannot control.”
“Are you suggesting that the mission was a miscalculation from the beginning?”
“Such speculation is meaningless now.” Plagueis waited again, and Sidious sensed him closing in on his final point. “No, I suppose my true purpose, looking back on what has already happened, is to question why you felt it necessary to go to such elaborate lengths, taking inordinate chances that might potentially leave our plans vulnerable, in order to find this arms dealer.”
Sidious said nothing.
“Unless there is something else that you had intended him for,” Plagueis finished.
“As I said,” Sidious began, “the assassination of Iram Radique was necessary in order to further our ultimate goals with the Grand Plan …” He paused, deliberately leaving the explanation unfinished long enough to observe whether Damask might be interested in hearing more of the cover story, which had been carefully fabricated to hold up to the most intense scrutiny, if necessary. At no point in the operation could the Muun be allowed to speculate that Sidious had truly sent Maul to Cog Hive Seven in order to purchase the nuclear device that the Bando Gora would ultimately use against Plagueis. Such a possibility, even now, was inconceivable.
But Plagueis had already waved aside the explanation, and then, as quickly as it had appeared, the casual tone was gone. Gazing back at the holoscreen where they had watched the contest, his mood darkened. “He is a prideful one, the Zabrak, is he not? As excellent as he is in combat, it must be incredibly difficult for him to show restraint in not using the Force.”
“He has had experience in such restraint,” Sidious reminded him, although he knew where the discussion was leading now, and saw little purpose in defending Maul at this point.
“I do not doubt it. It would be a great shame, however, if, instead of merely killing the arms dealer, Maul inadvertently revealed more about his identity … and the identity of those who sent him.” Plagueis was staring at him directly now. “In fact, I would venture to say that such an unfortunate turn of events would prove to be extremely humbling for its original architects.”
Humbling. The word plunged to the pit of Sidious’s stomach and lay there like a rock. “I will take measures to personally ensure that such a thing never happens,” he said stiffly.
Plagueis didn’t say anything for a long time. When he spoke again, the voice in which he answered was low but firm.
“Contact the Zabrak,” he said. “Inform him that he is to destroy Cog Hive Seven immediately, eradicating all evidence of our plans there.” He paused. “If you wish, you may allow him to think that he will have the opportunity to escape.”
Sidious drew in a breath and held it. The muscles of his diaphragm felt uncannily unsprung. Over the past few minutes, the tension that had gathered within the penthouse had left him feeling suffocated, as if the oxygen content within these walls had been slowly but steadily drained.
“Is there anything else, then?”
“Nothing pressing,” Plagueis said. “I do enjoy our conversations, Darth Sidious. There is no one else with whom I know I can be completely and totally candid. Let us not wait so long until the next meeting.”
“Certainly not.” Sidious nodded and, making his good-byes, found his way out, hearing the hatch seal and lock itself behind him.
Humbling.
The word was still there, twisting in his guts like poison.
By the time he reached the turbolifts leading down through the tower to the main lobby, he was breathing normally again, and the shaking within his chest was almost completely gone.