The decision to commit high treason against the Galactic Empire came to Darth Vader approximately three seconds after his fourth consecutive meditation session was interrupted by Mara Jade "accidentally" entering his private quarters to "deliver a routine report" that could absolutely have been transmitted electronically.
"Lord Vader," she had said, her green eyes sparkling with an intensity that no fifteen-year-old should be capable of projecting, "I thought you might want to review these tactical assessments in person. The nuances are... difficult to convey through standard channels."
The tactical assessments in question were a seventeen-page analysis of stormtrooper deployment patterns that contained exactly zero information requiring personal delivery and approximately seventeen pages of excuses for Mara to stand in his quarters and study him with the kind of attention usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"Leave them on the console," Vader had commanded, not turning from his meditation position. "Dismissed."
"Of course, Lord Vader." She had lingered for approximately eight seconds longer than necessary before departing, her presence in the Force radiating a complicated mixture of devotion, curiosity, and something that he refused to categorize as longing.
The moment the door sealed behind her, Vader had opened his eyes—metaphorically, since his actual eyes were ruined beyond repair—and made a decision that would either save the galaxy or destroy it.
I need my own resources, he thought with sudden, crystalline clarity. Resources that Palpatine doesn't control. Resources that no one knows about. An army, a base, and the freedom to act without every move being reported to my Master by his teenage spy.
The clone decommissioning order had been gnawing at him for weeks. Thousands of the galaxy's finest soldiers, bred for war and trained for excellence, being phased out in favor of cheaper, weaker alternatives. It was a strategic catastrophe wrapped in political paranoia, and Vader had been forced to accept it without complaint.
But accepting it publicly didn't mean accepting it privately.
Kamino still had functional cloning facilities. The Kaminoans still possessed the expertise to produce soldiers of unmatched quality. And while the official order called for the gradual shutdown of production, "gradual" was a flexible term—especially when the being requesting continued production happened to be Darth Vader.
Palpatine thinks he's crippling me by eliminating the clones, Vader mused, rising from his meditation position with renewed purpose. He thinks that by surrounding me with inferior soldiers, he's ensuring my dependence on his power structure. But he's forgotten something important.
I am not Anakin Skywalker. I don't need the Emperor's approval. I don't fear his punishment. And I absolutely will not let his paranoia compromise my operational effectiveness.
The plan began to form in his mind, elegant in its simplicity, terrifying in its audacity.
Step one: Travel to Kamino under false pretenses. Claim to be conducting an inspection of the decommissioning process, ensuring compliance with Imperial directives.
Step two: Negotiate with the Kaminoans for continued clone production—off the books, paid for through diverted funds and future considerations, utterly secret from Palpatine's spy networks.
Step three: Establish a hidden base where this new army could be trained and equipped, somewhere so hostile and unexpected that no one would think to look for Vader's private operations.
Step four: Build power. Accumulate resources. Prepare for the day when he would no longer need to pretend to be anyone's apprentice.
It was treason. It was rebellion. It was exactly the kind of independent action that Palpatine had designed Vader's suit to prevent.
It was also absolutely magnificent.
Marcus Chen spent thirty-two years following rules and respecting authority, Vader thought, striding toward his quarters' private communication terminal. Darth Vader answers to no one.
The journey to Kamino required careful planning, which meant three days of preparatory work that tested even Vader's considerable patience.
First, he needed a cover story that would justify his absence from the Devastator without raising suspicion. This proved easier than expected—the Outer Rim was experiencing a surge in pirate activity, and Vader simply announced that he would be conducting a personal reconnaissance of the affected sectors. No one questioned why the Empire's supreme enforcer would choose to handle pirate problems personally; the general assumption was that Vader simply enjoyed killing things, which was technically accurate.
Second, he needed to ensure that Mara Jade did not accompany him. This proved considerably more difficult, as the Emperor's Hand seemed to have developed an uncanny ability to insert herself into any mission that involved her favorite Dark Lord. In the end, Vader was forced to manufacture a crisis on the other side of the galaxy—a false intelligence report suggesting Jedi survivors on Dantooine—that required Mara's personal attention.
"I am entrusting this mission to you specifically," he had told her, watching her eyes light up with barely contained pleasure. "The Emperor will be informed of your success. Do not disappoint me."
"Never, Lord Vader," she had replied, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "I will bring you their lightsabers as trophies."
There are no Jedi on Dantooine, Vader had thought, watching her shuttle depart with something approaching relief. She's going to spend two weeks searching for ghosts while I conduct my actual business.
He felt slightly guilty about the deception. Only slightly.
Third, and most importantly, he needed to arrange payment for the Kaminoans' services. This was where things became complicated, because Vader's personal finances—while substantial—were not sufficient to fund an entire clone army. He needed access to resources that Palpatine's auditors wouldn't notice, funds that could be diverted without triggering the endless financial monitoring systems that kept the Empire running.
The solution, when it came to him, was elegant in its irony.
The Separatist banking networks still existed, dormant but not destroyed, their accounts frozen but not emptied. Trillions of credits in war funds, accumulated during the Clone Wars and never officially claimed by the Empire because doing so would require acknowledging that the Separatist cause had been legitimate enough to attract investment.
Vader knew where those accounts were. Anakin had fought the banking clans directly, had captured their facilities, had accessed their systems during numerous military operations. The passwords and protocols were buried in his inherited memories, waiting to be used.
The Separatists funded the original clone army through their dealings with the Kaminoans, Vader reflected. It's only fitting that their forgotten assets fund its successor.
Three days of careful slicing, conducted through secure terminals that he personally verified were free of Imperial monitoring, transferred approximately 2.7 billion credits to a series of shell accounts that Vader had established across the Outer Rim. It was a fraction of the Separatist reserves—barely noticeable in the vast ocean of frozen assets—but it was more than enough for his purposes.
On the fourth day, Vader's personal shuttle departed the Devastator on its "pirate reconnaissance mission," carrying a single passenger and approximately enough credits to purchase a small moon.
Kamino awaited.
Tipoca City rose from the endless ocean like a fever dream of alien architecture, its towers and domes connected by elevated walkways that swayed in the perpetual storms. Rain hammered against Vader's shuttle as it descended toward the landing platform, visibility reduced to almost nothing by the sheets of water that defined Kamino's climate.
A world of eternal rain, Vader thought, studying the hostile environment through his viewport. No wonder the Kaminoans spent their evolution developing advanced technology. There's literally nothing else to do here except get wet and invent things.
The landing was routine, his shuttle settling onto a platform that extended from the main cloning facility like a metal tongue. Through the rain, he could see figures moving to greet him—tall, elongated forms with pale skin and large eyes that reflected the storm's lightning with unsettling luminescence.
Kaminoans. The galaxy's premiere genetic engineers, creators of the clone army that had won the Clone Wars and established the Empire. And, if Vader's intelligence was accurate, a species deeply unhappy about the order to cease their most profitable enterprise.
He descended the shuttle's ramp into the driving rain, his armor shedding water automatically, his respirator adjusting for the dense moisture in the air. The Kaminoans approached with the fluid grace of beings evolved for aquatic environments, their movements suggesting currents and tides even on solid ground.
"Lord Vader," the lead Kaminoan said, her voice carrying the musical quality common to her species. "We were not expecting your visit. The decommissioning inspectors are not scheduled for another three weeks."
"I am not here for an inspection," Vader replied, his vocoder cutting through the sound of the storm. "I am here to discuss a business proposition."
The Kaminoan's large eyes blinked slowly, processing this unexpected development.
"I am Nala Se, Chief Medical Scientist of the cloning facilities. Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside, away from the elements."
"Indeed."
The interior of Tipoca City was everything the exterior promised—sterile, white, illuminated by soft lights that cast no shadows. Vader followed Nala Se through corridors that seemed to extend forever, passing laboratories filled with equipment he recognized from Anakin's memories and growth chambers that now stood empty, their intended occupants no longer being produced.
The emptiness bothered him more than he expected. These chambers should have been filled with developing clones, thousands of them, an army in the making. Instead, they were silent tombs, monuments to a decision that prioritized political security over military necessity.
This is what Palpatine's fear has created, Vader thought. Waste. Inefficiency. The deliberate crippling of the galaxy's greatest military asset.
"Here," Nala Se said, gesturing toward a conference room that overlooked the main production floor. "We can speak privately. I assume, Lord Vader, that you wish to discuss the decommissioning order?"
"I wish to countermand it."
The words hung in the air between them, their implications obvious. Nala Se's expression—always difficult to read on a Kaminoan face—shifted through something that might have been surprise, then calculation, then carefully concealed hope.
"The Emperor's orders were quite specific," she said carefully. "All clone production is to cease. Our contracts are to be terminated. Our facilities are to be... repurposed."
"I am aware of the official orders." Vader moved to the window, staring down at the empty growth chambers below. "I am also aware that you find those orders... disappointing."
"The Kaminoans have dedicated generations to perfecting the cloning process," Nala Se acknowledged. "Our art is being discarded as if it were worthless. Yes, Lord Vader, we find this disappointing."
"Then we have aligned interests." Vader turned to face her, his mask reflecting the soft lighting of the conference room. "I require clones. You wish to continue producing them. I am prepared to offer substantial compensation for your continued services—compensation that will not appear in any official records."
Nala Se was silent for a long moment, her large eyes studying Vader with an intensity that suggested she was evaluating far more than his words.
"You are proposing that we defy the Emperor's direct orders," she said finally. "That is... not without risk."
"The risk is manageable if appropriate precautions are taken. The clones would be produced in secret, their existence known only to those directly involved. They would not serve the Empire. They would serve me."
"A private army for the Emperor's apprentice." Nala Se's lips curved into something that might have been a smile on a less alien face. "That is unprecedented."
"Many things about me are unprecedented."
"Indeed." The Kaminoan scientist seemed to reach a decision, her posture shifting subtly. "What specifications did you have in mind, Lord Vader? The standard clone trooper template, or something more... specialized?"
This is where it gets interesting, Vader thought.
"I want improvements," he said. "The original clones were excellent soldiers, but they were designed to serve the Republic—an institution that valued obedience over initiative. I require soldiers who can think independently, who can adapt to unexpected situations, who can operate without constant oversight."
"You want us to remove the behavioral modifications that ensured compliance."
"I want you to enhance everything else while doing so. Faster reflexes, greater endurance, improved cognitive function. I want soldiers who are not just weapons, but warriors."
Nala Se's eyes gleamed with something that looked disturbingly like professional excitement.
"The standard template was... constrained by budget considerations," she admitted. "The Republic wanted soldiers, not supersoldiers. They were concerned that too much enhancement might make the clones difficult to control." She paused, considering. "You are not concerned about control?"
"I am Darth Vader," he replied simply. "If my soldiers require controlling, I will control them personally."
"A valid point." Nala Se moved to a console, bringing up holographic displays of genetic sequences and biological specifications. "What you are describing would require significant modifications to the base template. Enhanced neural architecture, improved muscular density, accelerated healing factors. It would also require a longer growth period—perhaps fifteen years rather than ten."
"That is too long."
"Growth acceleration can only be pushed so far without degrading the final product. If you want quality, you must accept the time requirements."
Vader considered this, running calculations in his mind. Fifteen years was a substantial investment—the original timeline would see the Death Star destroyed long before any clones could reach maturity. But he wasn't planning for the original timeline anymore. He was building for a future that he intended to reshape entirely.
"Begin production immediately," he decided. "I will provide the initial funding within the week. How many clones can you produce with... two billion credits?"
Nala Se's reaction was gratifying. Her large eyes widened, her posture stiffening with barely contained avarice.
"Two billion credits," she repeated, as if testing the number for reality. "That would be... substantial. Perhaps fifty thousand units, with the enhanced specifications you've described. Plus facilities expansion, equipment upgrades, personnel compensation..."
"Fifty thousand enhanced clones," Vader mused. "An acceptable beginning."
"A beginning, Lord Vader?"
"I intend to expand the operation over time. As my resources grow, so will my requirements." He turned back toward the window, watching the rain hammer against the transparent barriers. "I also require something else. A location for a secondary facility. Somewhere isolated, defensible, and completely secret."
"We can provide recommendations—"
"That will not be necessary." Vader's vocoder dropped to a lower register, something approaching anticipation coloring his mechanical voice. "I already have a location in mind."
Mustafar.
The very name sent ripples through the Force, echoes of pain and rage and transformation that would never fully fade. It was the world where Anakin Skywalker had died, where Darth Vader had been born, where the most pivotal battle in galactic history had been fought on the shores of a lava river that never stopped burning.
It was also, Vader had decided, the perfect location for his secret base.
The logic was sound. No one would expect Darth Vader to voluntarily return to the site of his greatest defeat. The planet was hostile to organic life, requiring specialized equipment just to survive on its surface. Imperial traffic in the system was minimal—mostly automated mining operations that extracted valuable minerals from the volcanic landscape. And the Dark Side was strong here, saturated into the very rocks by millennia of suffering and death.
That strength would serve him well.
His shuttle descended through Mustafar's atmosphere, sensors struggling to penetrate the clouds of ash and toxic gases that shrouded the planet's surface. Through the murk, Vader could see the glow of lava rivers, the jagged peaks of volcanic mountains, the ruins of the Separatist mining facility where he had—where Anakin had—made his final stand against Obi-Wan Kenobi.
I died here, Vader thought, and the thought carried no particular emotion. Or he died here. The distinction is becoming increasingly academic.
The landing site he had selected was a plateau overlooking a vast lava field, its surface stable enough to support construction, its position defensible against any conventional assault. The original timeline saw Vader building a castle here—a fortress of black stone that became a monument to his suffering and a repository for Sith artifacts.
He intended to do the same, but with significant modifications.
"Begin scanning for suitable foundation points," Vader commanded his shuttle's systems. "I want a complete geological survey within the hour."
The shuttle's sensors swept the plateau, mapping subsurface structures and identifying load-bearing strata that could support massive construction. The data was promising—the volcanic rock was dense and stable, the plateau's elevation protected it from all but the most extreme lava flows, and there were numerous natural caverns beneath the surface that could be converted into underground facilities.
This is where I will build my power, Vader decided, studying the holographic terrain map with growing satisfaction. A fortress hidden in plain sight, protected by an environment that would kill any uninvited visitor. Let Palpatine think I've become a hermit, retreating to the site of my trauma to meditate on my failures. He'll never suspect that I'm building an army.
The construction would take time—months, perhaps years, to complete the kind of facility he envisioned. But time was something Vader had in abundance, and the Kaminoan clones wouldn't reach maturity for fifteen years regardless. He could afford to be patient.
For now, he needed to establish the basic infrastructure: landing facilities, power generation, life support systems, communication arrays. The initial construction would be handled by droids—no organic workers who might report his activities to Imperial authorities. Later, once the facility was secure, he could bring in specialized engineers under conditions of absolute secrecy.
"Transmit construction specifications to the nearest droid manufacturing facility," Vader ordered. "Priority delivery. Payment authorized from account seven-seven-three."
The shuttle's communication array hummed to life, sending encrypted signals through hyperspace to a facility on Geonosis that still produced construction droids under contract to various Imperial projects. The order would be processed, the droids manufactured, and within two months, Vader would have a workforce capable of building his fortress without any organic witnesses.
The castle will be my retreat, he planned, descending the shuttle's ramp to stand on Mustafar's surface for the first time since his rebirth. A place where I can meditate, train, and plan without constant surveillance. A place where the women who seem inexplicably drawn to me cannot follow.
That last consideration was more important than he wanted to admit. The Devastator had become increasingly claustrophobic, every corridor seeming to contain another impossibly curvaceous officer or technician who found reasons to interact with him personally. Admiral Daala's strategic consultations had grown progressively more personal. The Seventh Sister's coordination meetings had begun including wine. Dr. Vance's medical checkups had started requiring him to remove portions of his armor for "calibration purposes."
And Mara Jade—when she returned from her pointless mission to Dantooine—would undoubtedly resume her intense observation with renewed vigor.
I am a scarred cyborg who breathes like a malfunctioning ventilator, Vader thought, surveying his new domain. Why are these women attracted to me? Is this some kind of Dark Side phenomenon? A consequence of my power? Or is this universe simply insane?
He suspected the answer was "all of the above," which did not make the situation any less confusing.
The ground beneath his boots was warm, heated by the volcanic activity that made Mustafar a geological nightmare. The air—filtered through his helmet's life support—carried traces of sulfur and ash that would have choked any unprotected organic. The sky was a permanent twilight of red and orange, lit by the glow of lava that flowed in rivers across the landscape.
It was hell. Literal, actual hell, rendered in volcanic stone and toxic atmosphere.
Vader loved it.
This is where I belong, he realized, extending his senses into the Dark Side currents that saturated the planet. Not on a sterile Star Destroyer, surrounded by subordinates who fear me. Not in Palpatine's shadow, playing the role of obedient apprentice. Here, where the very planet reflects my power, where the darkness acknowledges me as its master.
He spent three hours walking the plateau, marking locations for construction, testing the stability of the rock, immersing himself in the Force currents that swirled around this place of power. When he finally returned to his shuttle to begin the journey back to the Devastator, he felt something he hadn't experienced since his awakening in this new life.
Peace.
Not the absence of conflict—conflict was eternal, the foundation of Sith philosophy—but the peace that came from having a plan, a purpose, a path forward that didn't depend on anyone else's approval or support.
I am building something, Vader thought as his shuttle lifted off from Mustafar's surface. Not destruction, not violence, but actual construction. A place of my own. An army of my own. Resources and capabilities that will eventually allow me to reshape this galaxy according to my vision.
Palpatine thinks he controls everything. He's about to learn how wrong he is.
The shuttle entered hyperspace, carrying its passenger toward a rendezvous with the Devastator and the complicated web of responsibilities that awaited him there. But part of Vader's mind remained on Mustafar, planning and plotting, imagining the fortress that would rise from the volcanic stone.
It would be magnificent. A monument to ambition, a temple to power, a sanctuary from the chaos of his increasingly complicated life.
And absolutely, positively, no women would be allowed inside without explicit invitation.
The return to the Devastator brought immediate complications, because of course it did.
"Lord Vader," Captain Screed reported the moment he stepped onto the bridge, "you have seventeen priority communications waiting for your attention. Admiral Daala has requested a strategic consultation at your earliest convenience. Dr. Vance insists that your suit requires immediate calibration. And the Seventh Sister arrived two days ago, claiming urgent Inquisitorius business that requires your personal oversight."
Seventeen priority communications. Three women demanding my attention. I was gone for less than a week.
"Is there anything else, Captain?" Vader asked, his vocoder conveying weariness that was only partially artificial.
"Yes, my Lord." Screed's expression suggested he was about to deliver news that he expected to be poorly received. "Mara Jade returned from her mission to Dantooine early. She claims to have completed her objectives and is... eager to resume her observation duties."
Of course she did. Of course she is.
"She found the Jedi on Dantooine?" Vader asked, already knowing the answer.
"There were no Jedi on Dantooine, my Lord. The intelligence appears to have been faulty." Screed paused. "Mara Jade seemed... displeased by this development. She has been waiting for your return for approximately sixteen hours."
She's going to be even more displeased when she figures out I sent her on a wild bantha chase deliberately, Vader thought. Assuming she hasn't figured it out already, which she probably has, because she's frustratingly intelligent.
"I will address these matters in due course," Vader announced, striding toward his quarters. "I am not to be disturbed for the next four hours. Make that clear to everyone, Captain."
"Of course, Lord Vader."
The walk to his quarters took approximately five minutes, during which Vader passed no fewer than seven female crew members who found reasons to be in his path. Lieutenant Commander Ren materialized with a datapad requiring his signature. Ensign Thalia from the communications department appeared with an "urgent message" that was nothing of the sort. A maintenance technician whose name he didn't know developed a sudden interest in inspecting a perfectly functional power conduit just outside his door.
All of them possessed the same impossible proportions that Vader had come to accept as this universe's normal. All of them found excuses to stand closer than strictly necessary. All of them radiated emotional signatures through the Force that suggested interest beyond professional duty.
I am living in some kind of fever dream, Vader concluded, sealing his quarters behind him with more force than strictly necessary. A universe where I have unlimited power, an army in production, a fortress under construction, and an apparently endless supply of attractive women who want to be near me for reasons that defy all logic.
Marcus Chen would have killed for this kind of attention. Darth Vader just finds it exhausting.
He settled into his meditation chamber, drawing the Dark Side around him like a cloak, and began to review the priority communications that awaited his attention. Most were routine—status reports, intelligence updates, requests for clarification on various orders he had issued before his departure. A few were more significant: Palpatine requesting a progress update on Jedi elimination, the Moffs of three sectors requesting his assistance with local rebellions, an invitation to attend some kind of Imperial gala that Vader had absolutely no intention of accepting.
But one communication caught his attention, sending a chill through his circuits that had nothing to do with temperature regulation.
It was from Grand Moff Tarkin.
Tarkin, Vader thought, studying the message header with growing unease. The man who will eventually command the Death Star. The man who will order Alderaan's destruction while Leia watches. The man who is almost as dangerous as Palpatine himself.
The message was brief, formal, and utterly terrifying in its implications.
Lord Vader,
The Emperor has assigned me to oversee a special construction project of unprecedented scale. I am requesting your presence at the Maw Installation for a preliminary briefing on the project's security requirements. Your expertise in dealing with potential threats would be invaluable.
I look forward to our collaboration.
Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin
The Death Star. It had to be. The timeline was right—construction on the first Death Star had begun shortly after the Empire's founding, though it would take nearly two decades to complete. Tarkin was being given command of the project, just as he had been in the original timeline, and he was reaching out to Vader for assistance.
I could stop it, Vader realized. I could sabotage the project, delay construction, ensure that the Death Star is never completed. Without it, Alderaan survives. Leia never has to watch her homeworld die.
But even as the thought formed, he recognized its impossibility. The Death Star was Palpatine's vision, the ultimate expression of the Tarkin Doctrine, the weapon that would hold the galaxy in fear for generations. Opposing its construction openly would mean opposing the Emperor—and Vader was not yet strong enough for that confrontation.
I need more time, he thought. More resources. More power. The castle on Mustafar, the clones on Kamino, the artifacts and knowledge I'm accumulating—all of it is building toward the day when I can challenge Palpatine directly. But that day is not today.
For now, I play along. I assist Tarkin. I pretend to support the Death Star's construction. And I prepare for the day when everything changes.
He composed a response, carefully neutral, accepting Tarkin's invitation while revealing nothing of his true intentions. The words came easily—decades of watching Star Wars had given him an intimate familiarity with Imperial communication protocols, the formal phrases and bureaucratic pleasantries that concealed agendas within agendas.
Grand Moff Tarkin,
I am honored by your confidence. The Emperor's special projects deserve the finest security considerations. I will adjust my schedule to accommodate a visit to the Maw Installation at your earliest convenience.
Lord Vader
He transmitted the message and returned to his meditation, his mind churning with plans and contingencies. The Death Star. Tarkin. The eventual destruction of Alderaan and the death of everyone Leia loved.
I have approximately nineteen years to prevent that, Vader calculated. Nineteen years to accumulate enough power to oppose Palpatine directly. Nineteen years to find a way to save Alderaan without destroying my cover or my daughter's future.
Nineteen years is a long time. But so was the Clone War, and I—he—Anakin—won that.
The Dark Side hummed around him, neither approving nor disapproving, simply present. It was a tool, he had come to understand, not a master. The original Sith had believed in absolute surrender to dark emotions, but Vader had discovered that controlled darkness was far more effective than uncontrolled rage.
I will save what can be saved, he decided. I will build what can be built. And when the time comes, I will destroy what must be destroyed.
Starting with the Emperor himself.
The door to his quarters chimed approximately three hours into his meditation, which was one hour less than he had requested. Vader considered ignoring it, but the Force signature on the other side was impossible to mistake.
Mara Jade. And her emotional state suggested that ignoring her would only delay the inevitable confrontation.
"Enter," he commanded, rising from his meditation position.
The door slid open to reveal the Emperor's Hand, her red hair slightly disheveled, her green eyes blazing with an intensity that would have been intimidating if directed at anyone other than Vader. She was wearing a form-fitting combat suit that emphasized her developing figure in ways that were probably intentional, and her posture radiated barely contained frustration.
"Lord Vader," she said, her voice tight. "We need to talk."
"The intelligence regarding Dantooine was inaccurate," Vader replied, preemptively addressing what he assumed was her complaint. "These things happen. Intelligence is an imperfect science."
"The intelligence was fabricated." Mara stepped into his quarters, letting the door seal behind her. "There was never any Jedi presence on Dantooine. The entire mission was manufactured."
She figured it out. Of course she figured it out—she's been trained by Palpatine himself.
"That is a significant accusation," Vader said, keeping his voice neutral. "Do you have evidence to support it?"
"I don't need evidence. I know." Her green eyes locked onto his optical sensors with unsettling intensity. "You sent me on a pointless mission, Lord Vader. You wanted me away from the Devastator. The question is... why?"
Because you're a spy for the Emperor, Vader thought. Because your attention is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Because I needed to conduct secret business that could not survive your observation.
"The Emperor values your skills," he said instead. "I believed the Dantooine intelligence might be genuine, and your abilities were better suited to investigate than standard Imperial forces."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only answer you will receive."
Mara's jaw tightened, her hands clenching at her sides. In the Force, Vader could feel her emotional state shifting—frustration giving way to something more complex, a mixture of anger and admiration and desire that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
"You're hiding something," she said. "Something significant. I can feel it in the Force."
That's because you're not as trained as you think you are, Vader thought. You can sense that I have secrets, but you can't sense what those secrets are. If you could, this conversation would be going very differently.
"Everyone has secrets, Mara Jade. The Emperor. The Moffs. Every being in the galaxy carries hidden depths that they reveal to no one." He turned away from her, facing the viewport that displayed the stars beyond. "The question is not whether I have secrets, but whether those secrets threaten the Emperor's interests."
"And do they?"
Yes. Absolutely. I am actively plotting to overthrow the Emperor and reshape the galaxy according to my own vision.
"My loyalty to the Empire is absolute," Vader said, which was technically true if you defined "the Empire" as the one he intended to create rather than the one that currently existed. "My actions serve the Emperor's goals, even when my methods may seem... unorthodox."
Mara was silent for a long moment, processing his words. In the Force, Vader could feel her skepticism warring with something else—a desire to believe him, to trust him, to align herself with his purposes rather than Palpatine's.
She's developing genuine feelings for me, he realized. Not just admiration or professional interest, but actual emotional attachment. The Emperor's perfect weapon is becoming compromised by her own heart.
It was dangerous. Mara's loyalty to Palpatine had been absolute in the original timeline, shattered only by the Emperor's death and Luke's patient redemption. If her feelings for Vader caused her to question that loyalty prematurely, Palpatine would notice. And Palpatine's response to compromised assets was never gentle.
I need to be careful, Vader thought. Push her away too hard, and she becomes an enemy. Allow her too close, and I put both of us at risk.
"Your observation duties will continue," he said finally. "But I will require... privacy for certain matters. This is not negotiable."
"What kind of matters?"
"Matters that do not concern you." He turned back to face her, his mask betraying nothing of his internal calculations. "You report to the Emperor, Mara Jade. I am aware of this. Accept it without shame—loyalty is admirable. But understand that some aspects of my operations cannot be shared with anyone, including your Master."
"Because they would be... problematic?"
"Because they require absolute secrecy to be effective. The Empire has enemies who watch for any sign of weakness or discord. Some operations must be conducted without documentation, without witnesses, without even the Emperor's knowledge—not because they oppose his interests, but because knowledge itself can become a weapon in the wrong hands."
It was a masterful piece of misdirection, if Vader said so himself. He was essentially telling Mara that his secrets served the Empire's interests, that his secrecy was tactical rather than treasonous, that her ignorance was a feature rather than a bug. Whether she believed it or not, he had given her a framework for rationalizing his behavior that didn't require her to confront the possibility that he might be acting against Palpatine.
Mara studied him for another long moment, her expression unreadable.
"You're more complicated than I expected," she said finally. "The reports described you as a blunt instrument. A weapon to be aimed and fired. But you're not that at all, are you?"
"I am whatever I need to be."
"Yes." A small smile curved her lips—the first genuine expression of something other than frustration that she had displayed since entering. "I think I'm beginning to understand that."
She turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back over her shoulder.
"I'll continue my observation, Lord Vader. But I'll be watching more carefully now. I find myself... curious about what I might discover."
The door closed behind her, and Vader was alone with his thoughts.
That could have gone better, he reflected. It also could have gone considerably worse. Mara suspects something, but she doesn't know what. Her feelings for me are complicating her judgment, which is useful in the short term but potentially catastrophic if Palpatine discovers them.
I need to be more careful. Establish the Mustafar fortress. Begin the clone production. Build my power base in secret while maintaining my cover as the Emperor's loyal apprentice.
And somehow, manage the growing collection of dangerous women who seem determined to involve themselves in my life.
He returned to his meditation, seeking the clarity of the Dark Side, trying to plan for a future that seemed to grow more complicated with every passing day.
Marcus Chen died alone in his mother's basement, arguing about Star Wars on the internet.
Darth Vader is building an empire within an empire, surrounded by enemies and allies who are increasingly difficult to distinguish.
The universe definitely has a sense of humor. I'm just not sure I appreciate the joke.
The following weeks established a rhythm that Vader came to think of as his "secret life"—the covert operations and hidden preparations that paralleled his official duties as the Empire's supreme enforcer.
The Mustafar construction began, droids arriving in unmarked transports to excavate foundations and establish basic infrastructure. Vader visited when he could, usually under the pretense of meditation retreats, watching his fortress rise from the volcanic stone like a black tooth emerging from the planet's jaw.
The Kamino operation proceeded smoothly, Nala Se providing regular updates through encrypted channels that Vader had established using Separatist communication protocols. The first batch of enhanced clones was in development, their genetic modifications exceeding even Vader's ambitious specifications. In fifteen years, he would have an army unlike anything the galaxy had ever seen.
And his official duties continued unabated—hunting Jedi, intimidating subordinates, serving Palpatine with apparent loyalty while secretly plotting his Master's eventual destruction.
The visit to Tarkin's Maw Installation revealed the Death Star in its early construction phase, a skeletal framework of durasteel and power conduits that would eventually become the galaxy's most devastating weapon. Vader studied the plans, offered security recommendations, and made mental notes about potential vulnerabilities that might be exploited when the time came.
Eighteen years until Alderaan. Eighteen years until his daughter would stand before him in a detention cell, defiant and unbreaking. Eighteen years to find a way to change that future without destroying everything else he was building.
I can do this, Vader told himself, standing on the observation deck of his half-completed Mustafar fortress, watching lava rivers flow beneath a sky that never saw stars. I have power, resources, knowledge, and time. All I need is patience.
And maybe, just maybe, this story will have a different ending than the one I watched so many times in my previous life.
The Dark Side hummed around him, vast and patient and utterly unconcerned with his plans. It would support him as long as he remained strong. The moment he faltered, it would consume him.
That was the Sith way. That was the price of power.
And Vader was more than willing to pay it.
[END OF CHAPTER THREE]