Chasing James Luceno

(As if anyone could. Yet, if you've got a competing theory, you need to be able to write it well.)

The chapter I’m posting today is a departure. It’s not Midnight, it’s not the Garden offshoot of Midnight KO and I will, someday, complete. It’s part of the fic I’m working on now, which is called Murder by Murder and spans the time between Palpatine’s appointment to his Senate seat and the time he begins actively deposing Valorum to make way for himself in the Box.

Luceno had this period stretch over twenty years. (Twenty years that sort of got blipped over, presumably because someone imposed a page count and they weren’t worth covering.)

I sort of compressed my timeline, having Palpo get his appointment, finally, a bit later in life. (He needs the extra training time because he killed his master and ascended to the top job much too young. Plus, what happened to all those more minor elections he was supposed to have lost once upon a time?)

The overarching theme is to talk about evil and under what circumstances it is redeemable: Under what circumstances can (and do) people change?

Because, I have to tell you, my life’s been one long and miserable education on that very topic.

I have noticed one issue with Luceno’s writing. He’s never deeply in Palpatine’s head. I mean, sure, Palpatine glimpses himself in the mirror during a particularly murderous rampage, but we’re still a good psychic distance from him. What does it feel like to channel the dark side and swing that fucking lightsaber?? His actions are competently described, but We. Don’t. Know.

So, in this chapter of Murder by Murder that I’m posting, I tried to remedy that deficiency.

Sadly, I have other deficiencies. All fan fiction does.

The reason fan fiction is written is to fill in the emotional gaps on the screen, and also in viewer’s lives.

We see a second or two where Padme and Anakin kiss, but we don’t see the rest of their idyllic escape on Naboo (except for a few not-so-iconic sequences we all wish we could unsee. Is it any wonder fan ficcers want to rewrite those?) We’re told Palpatine, Pestage, and Doriana have many sexual conquests between them, but that’s about it. Nobody sees any of that.

Yet, in real life, politicians are mostly married, and their personal life does come under scrutiny (no matter how much we tend to excuse the sex peccadilloes of one candidate in particular.) Consequently, we now have generations of fans who don’t think it’s appropriate to even consider Palpatine as having any kind of personal life at all.

Of course, fans respond emotionally to a character for reasons having to do with themselves and their own upbringing, and that, too, leads to a tendency to cling.

The result is that fan fic has no balance. The movie gives you a snippet here and a snippet there, and fans take that and run away with it into all emotionality and no plot or story.

Then we all complain that we will never be the person that gets handed The Official Pen.

Of course, only a blessed, anointed few ever will be handed The Official Pen, because unless you’ve already established a professional writing career and you know the right people who know the right people, you don’t even show up on the radar. You are a nobody. (And trust me, my late husband was an award-winning professional novelist. It takes every single star lining up for you in the heavens to make a go as a novelist, even if you have singular talent.)

But the other thing is, if you are writing off-balance emotional fiction, you also don’t have that talent, anyway. Fans are so into the emotionalism that they don't have the manipulative scheming and the large interconnected landscape of companies, political figures, and complex interactions you see in Luceno’s novels that deal with The Palpatine. So, if you’re going to nit-pick, but you don’t have that, you’re always going to be inferior.

Fuck that.

I will say that The Talent is much easier to develop when writing is already your full-time job, you don’t have to spend over eight hours a day commuting and stuck in a stressful day job just to pay the bills, you didn’t get stuck with elder care for, count ‘em, three dying people, AND you have access to other minds deeply connected into Star Wars, at the very top, who believe in you and are directing you and brainstorming with you day in and day out.

We don’t have that. We’re just simple, stupid people trying to make our way in the universe.

Yet, I know some stuff y’all don’t.

However … it’s all in the presentation.

So, in my stupid fan fic, I’m trying to address everyone’s weak links.

One, if you’re going to plan a character by skimming oppositional defiant disorder and psychopathy and checking a few boxes, read your psychology carefully. (Living it helps.) Two, I need to come up with some scheme that's at least as intricate and as bang-bang as the Plagueis book ... without copying it. (I already did my own Palpatine backstory years before the Plagueis novel was even a glimmer in Sue Rostoni’s eye. All the other stuff made up for that book needs to be off-limits, or at the very least merely tangential, too.) Three, what’s it like to be deeply implanted in a Sith lord’s head? While they’re channeling the dark side, even? Four, did you know that for every physical element Palpatine displays, there’s a medical condition that can explain it??

This bit of Murder by Murder is where I attempt to stretch my limits on Weak Links Three and Four. (Some of Weak Link Four goes into the next chapter.)

You can tell me how I did.

***

The crevasse proved three hours' careful and sweat-inducing work. It was sheer rock inside, almost devoid of hand- and footholds, and dark. The fact that this was the short side of Alderaan's day cycle and the light was waning anyway made it worse. Every move took Sidious's utmost concentration and deep focus in the dark side to be sure he didn't slip and fall to his death.

He had never thought he'd be thankful for that excruciating week of training on that infernal peak on Mygeeto, but today he most certainly was. The leap across to the other side of the crevasse, he had to perform in almost pure darkness, with nothing but the dark side to guide him.

At last, he made it to the other lip of the crevasse and peered around it. Sure enough, there was the ledge, and Sidious gratefully made his way there and sat in the snow to rest.

Every muscle, every sinew ached. He didn't remember this from that miserable Mygeeto trip … at least, not until days into that work.

Over twenty years made a difference, and in this instance, not a good one.

Lord Sidious sat and rested a few minutes more; then he forced himself to get up and keep walking. Five sets of bootprints in the snow led him forward. He peered around the bend.

He had heard of these; little caves or huts climbers built and used as way stations along a route. Some of them were quite large, staffed at least part of the year, and featured restaurants, beds, and showers. This one was tiny. Carved into the rock, it looked like a little one-sided igloo in the snow, just large enough for five exhausted and nervous climbers.

Ah. This was easy, then. Sidious turned and began an ascent, climbing around the igloo and up. As he went, he experimented with the Force, pulling here and there at the boulders, ice, and snow with the dark side.

Perfect. This area would start a very satisfactory avalanche.

Sidious ascended a few meters further, found a comfortable outcropping from which to sit and work, and then sank into meditation. A push here, a pull there …

The pop and tumble of a few little pebbles and shards of ice falling grew into a storm. First it drummed like rain on a tin roof, and then a veritable roar shook the ledge upon which Sidious sat, as a huge shard of ice and packed snow broke loose and fell, crumbling into chunks and powder directly on top of the igloo. Sidious opened his eyes and peered down, inspecting his work, and decided to send more down, ensuring the entrance was thickly blocked.

And that was that. Could a climbing team suffocate under sufficiently packed snow? Sidious did not know, but barricaded they certainly were. Perhaps he should cave the roof in for good measure. Yes. He summoned the Force and this he did, admiring with satisfaction the appearance of the roof. From his vantage point, it looked as if a giant foot had stepped on it, crushing it. The terror he sensed from helpless beings beneath that crushed roof, he found very satisfying. Concentrating, he traced the pain of broken arms and legs, the smell of blood. The claustrophobic sensation of having very little room to move.

Surely cold and death would take them very soon. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Sidious felt the temperature click down significantly.

He was exhausted. He turned and scraped out a small hole for himself in the snow and unpacked some rations and the highest-rated heat-reflective blanket he had been able to find offered for sale on seven of the coldest worlds. It had been expensive, and as he rolled himself in it, he realized it had been worth every credit. Alderaan had the purest atmosphere and therefore the cleanest snow; he used that for his water supply, nibbled his meager dry rations, and admired the incredible beauty of the Alderaanian sunset from the west face of Appenza Peak.

He awoke with the first light of dawn. Turning in his warm wrap, he sat up and reached into the Force, expecting to sense the cold finger of death meters below. And, yes, he did, but …

Something was wrong. It was still too dark to see, so Sidious mouthed some snow and reached into his pack for breakfast. Nibbling tasteless dry rations, he waited impatiently for enough light to see the buried camp below.

At last. Sidious squinted down to find a man-sized hole cut into the top of the crushed igloo.

How? Any equipment that could accomplish that—in the dark, yet—had to be heavy to carry in a backpack, and how had Sidious heard nothing while these people escaped? A lightsaber could do that easily, and quietly, yes, but Ferren had no Jedi in his party. Or, none that Sidious knew about.

He thought again. Certainly not. He should have sensed any Force-user in that party. Worse, any Force-user in that party would certainly have sensed him.

How far ahead of him were they? He rose, shook the snow from his blanket, rolled it, and replaced it in his pack, along with his empty wrappers.

He sensed no one alive below. He hurried down the steep face as fast as the dark side would allow him. Three sets of footprints lead from the hole across his newly-fallen avalanche and south around the perimeter of the peak.

If Ferren were one of the dead, Sidious’s work was finished, but a peek into the hole revealed darkness and too many fallen rocks to identify anyone. He started off, following the trail around the mountain.

The climbers had picked a much easier path. Sidious imagined they had called for help, and would be headed for a mapped area where a ship or a rescue vehicle could easily pick them up. Still, this was nonetheless a steep grade in ice and snow and very dangerous to travel in the dark. There was no way they could be very far ahead.

He picked up his pace, pushing, pushing ahead, the dark side flowing through him, carrying him along. He traveled at a very good pace along this treacherous trail with its help. He sensed them ahead; still three, clambering through the cold in a muted cloud of tragedy and struggle. Their fear swirled in the dark side, helping propel his steps. Sidious sank deeply into the Force, dimly aware that he was sweating. His rhythmic breaths blew clouds of vapor back into his face. The sun rose higher and time compressed into a blur: the crunch of snow beneath his boots, the steady pumping of his muscles in time with his breath, the thrum and flow of darkness directing his every step and handhold.

The grinding hum of a large ship pulled him from his dark side trance. Over the side of the mountain ahead of him, an expanse of tall, wide, dark brown ship rose into view. And kept rising into view, some forty meters' worth. The letters FERREN—OOM emblazoned across the side of it were ten times his height.

YV-666 light freighter snapped into Sidious's head. It hovered in the air, a much bigger ship than Sidious knew any Sith to have pulled out of the sky. Three times the size and mass, at least.

Sidious broke into as close to a run as he could manage. He topped a rise …

… to find three exhausted climbers tottering up an extended ramp into the ship. One was Ferren the Bith.

Sidious bit back the ur-Kittât swearwords and drew into the Force, marshaling every atom of dark side energy he could muster. He felt himself back on Mygeeto again, frozen and bloodied and burned and miserable, hating Plagueis with everything he had.

He let it flow. Pulsing, tingling pressure shot through his stomach, his chest. The hot flush of the dark side suffused his arms, his legs, his entire body in a great and terrible wave. As the ramp retracted and the great doors closed, Sidious felt the vibration beneath his feet.

This was no earthquake, it was Darkness itself. Sidious threw it at the ship with everything he had, and commanded: PULL.

The great engines whined and struggled to break free. Sidious commanded: PULL!

Two Evader GT-ion drives that could propel the thing at almost 1200 kph pulled back, hard. Sidious fought and struggled as the engines whined, then shrieked. The Force streamed ahead of him, suddenly visible in the cold air, rippling like heat waves.

The tension felt as though it would rip him apart. Tremendous pressure tore at his already sore muscles; every sinew screamed.

Sidious heard a tremulous, raspy cry and a low, agonized groan and realized abruptly: it was him.

The contest went on and on. Smoke poured from somewhere along the vessel's undercarriage; the tone of the engines went from an ear-splitting howl to a gravelly groan that boomed in Sidious's ears.

The ship slipped backward, backward. Sidious was winning.

Some terrible fracture in the Force snapped in the air. It backlashed Sidious in the face, knocking him to the snow. He felt himself slide, then roll, and grasped desperately at the darkness to break his fall. A deafening crash seared his ears. The very mountain beneath him shuddered and shook.

A burnt oil smell assailed his nose, with a side of axle grease. Aftershocks threatened to throw him halfway down the mountain.

Slowly, Lord Sidious put his arms out. They were not broken. His legs could still lift him. His ears ached. A long ringing sound hurt his ears, hurt his head.

He turned to find the YV in pieces down the mountain.

He got up and stumbled for the ship. Alderaanian rescue vehicles would be here any moment. He needed to be finished and away before then.

Nonetheless, he stopped short for a moment, marveling at the size of what he had just wrenched from the sky.

This had to be some kind of record. He would write about it when he got home.

He put his arms out, jumped, and let the dark side carry him in long leaps to the YV. Every time he landed, pain jolted up his legs. He bit his lips.

A final leap carried him to the door of the craft. He raised a hand and pulled it up, leaped into the yawning doorway.

He must work quickly. He unstrapped his lightsaber, lit it, and let the dark side guide him to every being with a spark of life on the ship. He plunged his saber into the belly of each and every one—must avoid bony cuts, those would be obvious on an autopsy. The dark side guided him, and he ran like a maniac, slicing bodies open with deadly efficiency. At last he stopped, reaching into the dark side, listening.

None were left alive.

Sidious swung through a great crack in the floor, dropping to the lower levels in search of the engine room, letting the odor of fuel guide his way. He realized he was limping, though he could feel nothing but the thrumming power within him.

He stopped short. Vapor stung his nostrils. He retreated stealthily backward, testing the air, judging where the safe spot was.

He filled himself with intention and raised his arms, enjoying the familiar smarting tingle as the plasma left his aching fingertips. Ahead of him, the fuel vapor ignited along the ceiling. Sidious enjoyed the blue and purple light show, the pulsing heat of the flames.

He turned, letting long leaps in the dark side carry him to the fissure in the decks, up two decks, two more. He reached the open door and launched himself out into the snow.

He ran.

An explosion sent a fireball into the sky behind him, savaging his aching ears. Sidious hit the snow, gloved hands over his ears, and noticed that the plasma lightning had blown the fingers out of his gloves. He rolled over, watching a very satisfying thunderball launch into the blue Alderaanian sky.

He needed to be a bit further away before rescue vehicles overflew him.

He needed to be gone. If he showed up on any scanners, they would be looking for him to question him about the disaster as a witness, and he didn't need that. He raised his wrist communicator to his lips and summoned 11-4D in the Scimitar.

He stood, intent on walking as far as he could. The droid would know where to scan for him.

"Oh," escaped his lips.

Oh.

Every muscle ached. But, beyond that, he felt a familiar tickling, tingling ache in his knees, his hips, his ankles, his hands.

Oh, no.

Sidious knew what this was: an autoimmune flare. The last time he had drawn on the dark side this heavily, his hands swelled, his knees swelled, his hips exploded into an ache that turned simple walks to the fresher into exquisite torture. He had drawn heavily on the dark side for over twenty-four hours now, almost straight.

He had believed he could get away with it.

He turned his head. Through the ache and whine in his ears came the unmistakable sound of air vehicles; some kind of light freighter. He needed to be as far away from here as he could get.

There was nothing to do but continue to draw on the dark side, as he hurried away from the crash site across the mountaintop with all the speed he could muster. The dark side would keep down the pain … but he would have to stop drawing on it sometime, and then, oh, then, he would pay.

11-4D set the cloaked Scimitar down beside him half an hour later, finding Sidious on his back in the snow, his hands reflexively drawn against his chest in pain. The droid came to him down the gangplank.

"A flare, master?"

Sidious was short. "Yes."

The droid bent over him, peering into his eyes. "Sith uveitis, I see."

Sidious felt the pricking, burning sensation, watching a fuzzy halo form around the sun. This was different from the murderous flash of dark side yellow; it, too, was autoimmune, and he knew when he looked in a mirror, he would see a pool of blood settling behind his corneas, at the bottom of each swollen yellow iris.

"Shall I carry you?"

Sidious sat up and crossly waved the droid away, ignoring the screech of pain from his swollen knuckles. "Get away, droid. I can walk."

"Very well. I'll be needing a blood sample, master. We don't want what happened two years ago."

Two years ago, this had gotten much worse. His immune system had attacked his own red blood cells, starting a dangerous cascade that had put him in the hospital. Now would come a miserable round of blood draws as the droid monitored things it called PCV, PTT and D-dimer. Suppressing a groan, Lord Sidious rolled to his hands and his swollen, painful knees, clambered to his unsteady feet, and staggered up the ramp.