The Star Destroyer Exactor and its older sibling, Executrix, drifted side by side, bow-to-stern, forming a parallelogram of armor and armament.

Vader’s black shuttle navigated the short distance between them.

He sat in the passenger hold’s forward row of seats, his cadre of stormtroopers behind him, and his thoughts focused on what awaited him on Kashyyyk, rather than on the imminent meeting, which he suspected was little more than a formality.

His last conversation with Sidious, weeks earlier but as if only yesterday, had made it clear that his Master was manipulating him now as much as he had before he had turned. Before and during the war Sidious’s intention had been to entice him into joining the Sith; since, the goal was to transform him into a Sith. That was, to impress upon Vader that the power of the dark side did not flow from understanding but from appetite, rivalry, avarice, and malice. The very qualities the Jedi considered base and corrupt.

As a means of keeping their plucked pupils from exploring the deeper sides of their nature; as a means of reining them, lest they discovered for themselves the real power of the Force.

Anger leads to fear; fear to hatred; hatred to the dark side …

Precisely, Vader thought.

At Sidious’s insistence, he had spent the recent weeks sharpening his ability to summon and make use of his rage, and felt poised at the edge of a significant increase in his abilities.

Deep space was appropriate to such feelings, he told himself as he gazed out the cabin’s viewport. Space was more appropriate for the Sith than for the Jedi. The invisible enslavement to gravity, the contained power of the stars, the utter insignificance of life … Hyperspace, by contrast, was more suitable to the Jedi: nebulous, neither here nor there, incoherent.

When the shuttle had docked in the Executor’s hold, Vader led his contingent of stormtroopers out of the vessel, only to find that his host hadn’t shown him the courtesy of being on hand to greet him. Waiting, instead, was his host’s contingent of gray-uniformed crew members, commanded by a human officer named Darcc.

The games begin, Vader thought, as he allowed Captain Darcc to escort him deeper into the ship.

The cabin to which he was ultimately led was in the uppermost reaches of the Star Destroyer’s conning tower. On entering, Vader found his host sitting behind a gleaming slab of desk, plainly debating whether to remain seated or to stand; whether to place himself on equal footing with Vader, or, by appearance, to continue to suggest superiority. Knowing, in any case, that Vader preferred to remain on his feet, his host was not likely to gesture him to a chair. Knowing, too, that Vader was capable of strangling him from clear across the cabin might also figure into his decision.

What to do? his host must have been thinking.

And then he stood, a slender, sharp-featured man, coming around from behind the desk with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Thank you for detouring from your course,” Wilhuff Tarkin said.

The expression of gratitude was unexpected. But if Tarkin was intent on prolonging the game, then Vader would humor him, since in the end it amounted to nothing more than establishing status.

This was what the Empire would be, he thought. A contest among men intent on clawing their way to the top, to sit at Sidious’s feet.

“The Emperor requested it,” Vader said finally.

Tarkin pursed his thin lips. “I suppose we can attribute that to the Emperor’s astute ability to bring like-minded beings together.”

“Or pit them against one another.”

Tarkin adopted a more sober look. “That, too, Lord Vader.”

With a mind as sharp as his cheekbones, Tarkin had risen quickly through the ranks of Palpatine’s newly formed staff of political and military elite, among whom naked ambition was highly prized. So much so that a new honorific had been created for Tarkin and ambitious men like him: Moff.

Vader had met him once before, aboard a Venator-class Star Destroyer, at the remote location where the Emperor’s secret weapon was under construction. Vader, still new to his suit then; awkward, uncertain, between worlds.

Tarkin perched himself on the edge of his desk and smiled thinly. “Perhaps between the two of us, we can determine the reason the Emperor arranged this rendezvous.”

Vader crossed his gloved hands in front of him. “I suspect that you know more about the purpose of this meeting than I do, Moff Tarkin.”

Tarkin’s smile disappeared, and in its place came a look of sharp attentiveness. “Surely you can guess, my friend.”

“Kashyyyk.”

“Bravo.”

Tarkin activated a holoplate that sat atop his desk. In the cone of blue light that rose from it, a bruised transport of military design could be seen moving through a cordon of Imperial corvettes.

“This was recorded approximately ten hours ago, local, at the Kashyyyk system checkpoint. As you may have already guessed, the transport belongs to the Jedi. It appears to be a civilian model, but it isn’t. It was hijacked on Dellalt some weeks ago, and was the object of a pursuit that ended in the destruction of several Imperial starfighters. We have, however, been successful at tracking its movements ever since.”

“You’ve been tracking them,” Vader said in genuine surprise. “Was the Emperor apprised of this?”

Tarkin smiled again. “Lord Vader, the Emperor is apprised of everything.”

But his apprentice isn’t, Vader thought.

“I ordered our checkpoint personnel to ignore the obvious fact that the transport’s signature has been altered,” Tarkin continued, “and to ignore, as well, the fact that whatever codes the transport furnished were likely to be counterfeit.”

“Why weren’t the Jedi simply taken into custody at the checkpoint?”

“We had our reasons, Lord Vader. Or perhaps I should say that the Emperor had his.”

“They are on Kashyyyk now?”

Tarkin stopped the holoimage and nodded. “We thought they might be refused entry. Apparently, however, someone aboard the ship is familiar with Kashyyyk’s trading protocols.”

Vader considered it for a moment. “You said that you had your reasons for clearing the transport through the checkpoint.”

“Yes, I’m coming to that,” Tarkin said, standing to his full height and beginning to pace in front of the desk. “I realize that you of all people require no assistance in … bringing the fugitive Jedi to justice. But I want to lay out a somewhat broader plan for your consideration. Should you accept the proposition, I’m in a position to provide you with whatever ships, personnel, and matériel you think necessary.”

“What is the proposition, Moff Tarkin?”

Tarkin came to a stop and turned fully to Vader. “Simply this. The Jedi are your priority, as they should be. Certainly the Empire can’t permit potential insurgents to run around loose. But—” He raised a bony forefinger. “—my plan allows for the Empire to profit even more substantially from your undertaking.”

Reactivating the holoprojector, Tarkin turned his attention to an image of the Emperor’s moonlet-size secret project, orbitally anchored at its deep-space retreat. Vader had learned that the Emperor had placed Tarkin in charge of supervising certain aspects of construction.

Clearly, though, Tarkin was angling for more.

“How does my hunt for a few rogue Jedi figure into your scheme regarding the Emperor’s weapon?” Vader asked.

“My ‘scheme,’ ” Tarkin said, with a short laugh. “All right, then. Here’s the truth of it. The project is already far behind schedule. It has been beset with engineering problems, delays in shipments, the unreliability of contractors, and, most important, a shortage of skilled laborers.” He stared at Vader. “You must understand, Lord Vader, I wish nothing more than to please the Emperor.”

This is Sidious’s real power, Vader thought. The ability to make others wish nothing more than to please him.

“I accept that at face value,” he said at last.

Tarkin studied him. “You would be willing to help me achieve this goal?”

“I see a possibility.”

Narrowing his eyes, Tarkin nodded in a way that came close to being a bow of respect. “Then, my friend, our real partnership is just beginning.”