Текст книги "Tarkin"

Автор книги: James Luceno

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Once Wilhuff had grasped the pattern and persuaded Outland’s commanders that his months of obsession hadn’t driven him completely mad, Eriadu Mining agreed to sacrifice several container ships to the pirates as a means of confirming the theory. Emboldened by the results, the company urged Outland to stock the predicted convoy targets with soldiers, but Wilhuff’s paternal cousin, Ranulph Tarkin, proposed an alternative method for exacting revenge by secreting a computer virus in the containers’ hyperdrive motivators. One of Outland’s most respected commanders, Ranulph – who so resembled Wilhuff’s father they could have passed for twins – had designed the ploy years earlier, but Eriadu Mining had balked, based on the cost of having to outfit countless containers with the virused computers. With a lead on which containers Q’anah would target, however, the company agreed to finance the measure, even though the strategy entailed dispatching only one convoy at a time and often operating at a loss.

To make matters worse, the attacks suddenly ceased. It was almost as if the pirates had learned of the ploy, and with increasing pressure from Core buyers for added shipments and wasting funds on attempts to ferret out spies in their midst, Eriadu Mining was on the brink of financial ruin when the Marauders finally struck, targeting precisely those containers Wilhuff had predicted. No sooner did the pirates slave the containers to their frigate than the virus wormed its way into the ship’s navicomputer, overriding the requested jump coordinates and delivering it to a realspace destination where Outland warships were lying in wait. Once the frigate had been crippled and boarded, and Q’anah and her crew rounded up and shackled, Ranulph – always the gentleman – insisted on introducing the pirate queen to her eighteen-year-old “captor.”

Her sneering expression ridiculed the very idea of it. “Barely a whisker on his chin, but luck enough for a professional sabacc player.”

“It was your vanity that turned out to be a laudable substitute for luck,” Wilhuff told her. “Your need to leave your signature all over Eriadu’s convoys.”

Her real eye opened wide and she quirked a grin that told him she understood what he had accomplished, but she followed up the begrudging grin with a snort of contempt. “There isn’t a prison that can contain me, boy – even on Eriadu.”

Wilhuff offered the sly smile that would later become a kind of signature. “You’re confusing Eriadu with worlds that have noble houses and trials by jury, Q’anah.”

She searched his youthful face. “Execution on the spot, is it?”

“Nothing so straightforward.”

She continued to appraise him openly and defiantly. “There’s hardly a part of me that hasn’t been replaced, boy. But take my word: I’m not the last of my kind, and your convoys will continue to suffer.”

He allowed a nod. “Only if we fail to discourage your followers.”

Outland had Q’anah and her crew transferred to one of the stolen containers, whose sublight engines were programmed to send the ship slowly but inexorably toward the system’s sun. The plight of the captives was broadcast over the pirates’ own communications network, and several of Q’anah’s cohorts succeeded in determining the point of origin of the transmission and hastening to her rescue. Their ships were destroyed on sight by Outland forces. The rest were wise enough to go into hiding.

Wilhuff demanded that the container ship’s audio and video feeds be kept enabled to the very end, so that Outland’s forces and any others who might have been listening could either savor or lament the agonized wails of the pirates as they were slowly roasted to death. In the end, even the notorious Q’anah succumbed to the torture and wailed openly.

“Your task is to teach them the meaning of law and order,” Jova would hector his nephew. “Then to punish them so that they remember the lesson. In the end, you’ll have driven the fear of you so deeply into them that fear alone will have them cowering at your feet.”

Imperial center

BRIGHT-SIDE CORUSCANT air-traffic control directed the Carrion Spike to the Imperial Palace, and there into a courtyard landing field that was large enough to accommodate Victory– and Venator-class Star Destroyers. As repulsors eased the ship down through the busy skyways and into the court, Tarkin realized that the Emperor’s current residence had once been the headquarters for the Jedi – though practically all that remained of the Order’s elegant Temple complex was its copse of five skyscraping spires, now the pinnacle of a sprawling amalgam of blockish edifaces with sloping façades.

At the edge of the landing courtyard, centered among a detail of red-robed Imperial Guards armed with gleaming force pikes, stood Mas Amedda, dressed in voluminous shoulder-padded robes and carrying a staff that was taller than him, its head ornamented by a lustrous humaniform figure.

“How charitable of you to make time for us, Governor,” the Chagrian said as Tarkin approached from the corvette’s lowered boarding ramp.

Tarkin played along. “And for you to welcome me personally, Vizier.”

“We all do our part for the Empire.”

With crisp turns, Amedda and the face-shielded guards led him through elaborate doors into the Palace. Tarkin was familiar with the interior, but the expansive, soaring corridors he walked years earlier had contained a rare solemnity. Now they teemed with civilians and functionaries of many species, and the walls and plinths were left unadorned by art or statuary.

Tarkin felt curiously out of step, perhaps because of the increased gravity, the pace, the crowds, or a combination of all those things. For three years the only non– or near-humans he had seen or had direct contact with had been slaves or recruited laborers at outlying bases or at the battle station’s construction site. He had heard that one needn’t have been absent from Coruscant for years to be startled by the changes, in that each day saw buildings raised, demolished, incorporated into ever larger and taller monstrosities, or merely stripped of Republic-era ornamentation and renovated in accordance with a more severe aesthetic. Curved lines were yielding to harsh angles; sophistication to declaration. Fashions had changed along similar lines, with few outside the Imperial court affecting cloaks, headcloths, or garish robes. By most accounts, though, Coruscanti were satisfied, especially those who lived and worked in the upper tiers of the fathomless cityscape; content if for no other reason than to have the brutal war behind them.

Tarkin’s most carefree years had been spent on Coruscant and neighboring Core Worlds before he had been elected governor of Eriadu, with some help from family members and influential contacts. He had a sudden desire to sneak outside the Palace and explore the precincts he had roamed as an adventurous young adult. But perhaps it was enough to know that law and order had finally triumphed over corruption and indulgence, which had been the hallmarks of the Republic.

Someone called his name as he and Amedda were moving down a colonnaded walkway, and Tarkin turned, recognizing the face of a man he had known since his academy years.

“Nils Tenant,” he said in genuine surprise, separating himself from the Chagrian’s retinue to shake Tenant’s proffered hand. Fair-skinned, with a prominent nose and a downturning full-lipped mouth, Tenant had commanded a Star Destroyer during the Clone Wars, and displayed on his uniform tunic the rank insignia plaque of a rear admiral.

“Wonderful to see you, Wilhuff,” Tenant said, pumping Tarkin’s hand. “I came as soon as I learned you were coming.”

Tarkin affected a frown. “And here I thought my arrival would be a well-kept secret.”

Tenant sniffed in faint amusement. “Only some secrets are well kept on Coruscant.”

Clearly bothered by the delay, Mas Amedda tapped the base of his staff on the polished floor and waited until the two had joined the retinue before moving deeper into the Palace.

“Is that the new uniform?” Tenant asked as they walked.

Tarkin pinched the sleeve of the tunic. “What, this old thing?” then asked before Tenant could respond: “So who let it be known that I was coming? Was it Yularen? Tagge? Motti?”

Tenant was dismissive. “You know, you hear things.” He moved with purposeful slowness. “You’ve been in the Western Reaches, Wilhuff?”

Tarkin nodded. “Still hunting down General Grievous’s former allies. And you?”

“Pacification,” Tenant said in a distracted way. “Brought back to attend a Joint Chiefs meeting.” Abruptly he clamped his hand on Tarkin’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt and encouraging him to fall back from Amedda and the guards. When they seemed to be out of earshot of Amedda, Tenant said: “Wilhuff, are the rumors true?”

Tarkin adopted a questioning look. “What rumors? And why are you whispering?”

Tenant glanced around before answering. “About a mobile battle station. A weapon that will—”

Tarkin stopped him before he could say more, glancing at Amedda in the hope that he and Tenant were, in fact, out of the Chagrian’s range.

“This is hardly the place for discussions of that sort,” he said firmly.

Tenant looked chastised. “Of course. It’s just that … You hear so many rumors. People are here one day, gone the next. And no one has laid eyes on the Emperor in months. Amedda, Dangor, and the rest of the Ruling Council have taken to dispatching processions of Imperial skylimos simply to maintain an illusion that the Emperor moves about in public.” He fell briefly silent. “You know they commissioned an enormous statue of the Emperor for Senate – I mean, Imperial Plaza? So far, though, the thing looks more terrifying than majestic.”

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the idea, Nils?”

Tenant nodded in a distracted way. “You’re right, of course.” Again he regarded the nearby columns with wariness. “The scuttlebutt is that you’re scheduled to meet with him.”

Tarkin shrugged noncommittally. “If that’s his pleasure.”

Tenant compressed his lips. “Put in a word for me, Wilhuff – for old times’ sake. A great change is coming – everyone senses it – and I want to be back in the action.”

It struck Tarkin as an odd request, even a trifle audacious. But in considering it, he supposed he could understand wanting to be in the Emperor’s good graces, as he was certainly grateful to be there.

He clapped his fellow officer on the shoulder. “If the occasion arises, Nils.”

Tenant smiled weakly. “You’re a good man, Wilhuff,” he said, falling back and vanishing as Tarkin hurried to catch up with Amedda and the retinue turned a corner in the hallway.

Tarkin attracted a good deal of attention as the group climbed a broad stairway and debouched into a vast atrium. Figures of all stripe and station – officials, advisers, soldiers – stopped in their tracks, even while trying not to make an obvious display of staring at him. Subjugator of pirates; former governor of Eriadu; graduate of Prefsbelt; naval officer during the Clone Wars, decorated at the Battle of Kamino and promoted to admiral after a daring escape from the Citadel prison; adjutant general by the war’s end, and named by the Emperor one of twenty Imperial Moffs … After years of absence from the Imperial capital, was Tarkin here to be forgiven, rewarded, or punished with another mission that would send him chasing Separatist recidivists through the Western Reaches, the Corporate Sector, the Tion Hegemony?

He sometimes wondered where fate might have taken him if he hadn’t entered the academy system after his years with Outland, when a move to civilian instruction had seemed the best strategy for introducing himself to the wider galaxy. Perhaps he would still be in pursuit of Outer Rim pirates or mercenaries, or slaved to a desk in some planetary capital city. No matter what, it was unlikely that he would ever have crossed paths with the Emperor – when he was still known as Palpatine.

It was while Tarkin was attending the Sullust Sector Spacefarers Academy that they met – or rather that Palpatine had sought him out. Tarkin had just returned to the academy’s orbital facility from long hours of starship maneuvers in an Incom T-95 Trainer when someone called his name as he was crossing the flight deck. Turning to the voice, he was astonished to find the Republic senator walking toward him. Tarkin knew that Palpatine was part of Supreme Chancellor Kalpana’s party, which included his administrator Finis Valorum and several other senators, all of whom were on station to attend the academy’s commencement and commissioning day ceremonies. Most of the graduates would be moving on to positions in commercial piloting, local system navies, or the Judicial Department. Dressed in fashionable blue robes, the red-haired aesthete politician flashed a welcoming smile and extended a hand in greeting.

“Cadet Tarkin, I’m Senator Palpatine.”

“I know who you are,” Tarkin said, shaking hands with him. “You represent Naboo in the Senate. Your homeworld and mine are practically galactic neighbors.”

“So we are.”

“I want to thank you personally for the position you took in the Senate on the bill that will encourage policing of the free trade zones.”

Palpatine gestured in dismissal. “Our hope is to bring stability to the Outer Rim worlds.” His eyes narrarowed. “The Jedi haven’t provided any support in dealing with the pirates that continue to plague the Seswenna?”

Tarkin shook his head. “They’ve ignored our requests for intervention. Apparently the Seswenna doesn’t rate highly enough on their list of priorities.”

Palpatine sniffed. “Well, I might be able to offer some help in that regard – not with the Jedi, of course. With the Judicials, I mean.”

“Eriadu would be grateful for any help. Stability in the Seswenna could ease tensions all along the Hydian Way.”

Palpatine’s eyebrows lifted in delighted surprise. “A cadet who is not only a very skilled pilot, but who also has an awareness of politics. What are the chances?”

“I might ask the same. What are the chances of a Republic senator knowing me on sight?”

“As a matter of fact, your name came up in a discussion I was having with a group of like-minded friends on Coruscant.”

“My name?” Tarkin said in disbelief as they began to amble toward the pilots’ ready rooms.

“We are always on the lookout for those who demonstrate remarkable skills in science, technology, and other fields.” Palpatine allowed his words to trail off, then said: “Tell me, Cadet Tarkin, what are your plans following graduation from this institution?”

“I still have another two years of training. But I’m hoping to be accepted to the Judicial Academy.”

Palpatine waved in dismissal. “Easily done. I happen to be personal friends with the provost of the academy. I would be glad to advocate on your behalf, if you wish.”

“I’d be honored,” Tarkin managed. “I don’t know what to say, Senator. If there’s anything I can do—”

“There is.” Palpatine came to an abrupt halt on the flight deck and turned to face Tarkin directly. “I want to propose an alternative course for you. Politics.”

Tarkin repressed a laugh. “I’m not sure, Senator …”

“I know what you must be thinking. But politics was a noble enough choice for some of your relatives. Or are you cut from so different a cloth?” Palpatine continued before Tarkin could reply. “If I may speak candidly for a moment, Cadet, we feel – my friends and I – that you’d be wasting your talents in the Judicial Department. With your piloting skills, I’m certain you would be an excellent addition to their forces, but you’re already much more than a mere pilot.”

Tarkin shook his head in bewilderment. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“And why should you? Politics, however, is my area of expertise.” Palpatine’s relaxed expression became serious. “I understand what it’s like to be a young man of action and obvious ambition who feels that he has been marginalized by the circumstances of his birth. Even here, I can imagine that you’ve been ostracized by the spoiled progeny of the influential. It has little to do with wealth – your family could buy and sell most of the brats here – and everything to do with fortune: the fact that you weren’t born closer to the Core. And so you are forced to defend against their petty prejudices: that you lack refinement, culture, a sense of propriety.” He stopped to allow a smile to take shape. “I’m well aware that you’ve been able to make a name for yourself in spite of this. That alone, young Tarkin, shows that you weren’t born to follow.”

“You’re speaking from personal experience,” Tarkin risked saying after a long moment of silence.

“Of course I am,” Palpatine told him. “Our homeworlds are different in the sense that mine wished no part of galactic politics, while yours has long sought to be included. But I knew from early on that politics could provide me with a path to the center. Even so, I didn’t get to Coruscant fully on my own. I had the help of a … teacher. I was younger than you are now when this person helped me realize what I most wanted in life, and helped me attain it.”

“You …,” Tarkin began.

Palpatine nodded. “Your family is powerful in its own right, but only in the Seswenna. Outland forces will soon have the sector’s pirate pests on the run, and what will you do then?” His eyes narrowed once more. “There are larger fights to wage, Cadet. When you graduate, why not visit me on Coruscant? I will be your guide to the Senate District, and with any luck I’ll be able to change your mind about politics as a career. Unlike Coruscant, Eriadu hasn’t been corrupted by greed and the welter of contradictory voices. It has always been a Tarkin world, and it could become a beacon for other worlds wishing to be recognized by the galactic community. You could be the one to bring that about.”

As it happened Tarkin wouldn’t enter politics for many years, though he did accept Palpatine’s help in gaining admission to the Judicial Academy. There – and precisely as the senator from Naboo had predicted – his fellow cadets had initially viewed him as a kind of noble savage: a principled being with abundant energy and drive who had the misfortune of hailing from an uncivilized world.

In part, Tarkin’s father and the top echelon of the Outland Regions Security Force were to blame. Eager to impress the Core with their achievements and the fact that they were willing to contribute one of their finest strategists to the Republic, Outland’s leaders had personally delivered Tarkin to the academy in one of its finest warships, its glossy hull emblazoned with the symbol of the fanged veermok and Tarkin himself turned out in the full regalia of an Outland commander. His arrival caused such a stir that the academy’s provost marshal had mistaken him for a visiting dignitary – which, while certainly the case on worlds throughout the embattled Seswenna sector, carried no weight in the Core. Were it not for Palpatine’s influence once more, Tarkin might have been dismissed from the academy even before he had been enrolled as a plebe.

Tarkin understood that he had neglected to heed the lessons he had learned at Sullust and had committed a tactical blunder of the worst sort. Both on the Carrion Plateau and in Eriadu space he had grown so accustomed to flying boldly into confrontation and announcing himself with flourish and dash that he hadn’t stopped to consider the staid nature of his new testing ground. Instead of sowing chaos of the sort that had so often served his purposes on land and in deep space, he had succeeded only in rousing the instant scorn of his instructors and the ridicule of his fellow plebes, who took every chance to refer to him as “Commander” or to offer facetious salutes when– and wherever possible.

Early on, the derisive teasing led to brawls, which he mostly won, and also to disciplinary action and demerits that sentenced him to remain at the bottom of the class. That a plebe could be expelled from the Judicials for standing up for himself was something of a revelation, and perhaps he should have seen it as emblematic of the stance the Republic itself would adopt in the coming years, when its authority would be challenged by the Separatists. But he couldn’t keep himself from answering fire with fire. Gradually he came to suffer the mockery of his peers without resorting to retribution, though demerits would continue to accrue owing to mischief making and impulsive outbursts. Even so, he refused to allow himself to be cut down to size, choosing instead to bide his time and wait for an opportunity to show his peers just what he was made of.

Halcyon would prove to be that opportunity.

A Republic member world located in the Colonies region, Halcyon was suffering a crisis of its own. A cold-blooded group of would-be usurpers clamoring for the planet’s right to manage its own affairs had abducted several members of the planetary leadership and was holding them hostage at a remote bastion. After attempts at negotiation had been exhausted, the Republic Senate had granted permission for the Jedi to intervene and, if necessary, to employ “lightsaber diplomacy” to resolve the crisis. Tarkin was chosen to be one of the eighty Judicials the Senate ordered to attend and reinforce the Jedi.

Never having seen let alone served alongside a Jedi, he was fascinated from the start. His theoretical grasp of the Force was as keen as that of most of his academy peers, but he was less interested in furthering his understanding of metaphysics than in observing the aloof Jedi in action. How adept were they at tactics and strategy? How quick were they to wield their lightsabers when their commands fell on deaf ears? How far were they willing to go to uphold the authority of the Republic? As a self-considered expert in the use of the vibro-lance, Tarkin was equally captivated by their lightsaber skills. Watching them train during the journey to Halcyon, he saw that each had an individual fighting style, and that the technniques for attacks and parries seemed unrelated to the color of the energy blades.

At Halcyon the Jedi divided the Judicials into four teams, assigning one to accompany them to the fortress and inserting the others on the far side of a ridge of low mountains to block possible escape routes. While Tarkin saw a certain logic in the plan, he couldn’t quite purge himself of a suspicion that the Jedi merely wanted to rid themselves of responsibility for law enforcement personnel they clearly thought of as inferiors.

What the Jedi hadn’t taken into account was the fact that Halcyon’s usurpers were a tech-savvy group who had had ample time to prepare for an assault on the bastion. No sooner were the Judicial teams inserted into the densely forested foothills than the planet’s global positioning satellites were disabled and surface-to-air communications scrambled. In short order, Tarkin’s team lost touch with the two cruisers that had brought them to Halcyon, their Jedi commanders, and the other Judicial teams. The prudent response would have been to hunker down while the Jedi attended to business at the fortress and wait for extraction. But the team’s commander – a by-the-numbers human with twenty years of Judicial service whose piloting and martial skills had earned him Tarkin’s reluctant respect – had other ideas. Convinced that the Jedi, too, had fallen prey to a trap, he got it in his head to strike out overland, traverse the ridge, and open a second front on reaching the fortress. This struck Tarkin as pure arrogance – no different from what he had seen in some of the Jedi he had come to know – but he also realized that the commander likely couldn’t abide being stranded in a trackless wilderness with a group of raw trainees.

Tarkin was immediately aware of the potential for disaster. The commander’s datapad contained regional maps, but Tarkin knew from long experience that maps weren’t the territory, and that triple-canopy forests could be confounding places to negotiate. At the same time, he realized that the opportunity for finally proving his worth couldn’t have been more made to order if he had designed it himself. Mission briefings had acquainted him with the local topography, and he was reasonably certain he could follow his nose almost directly to the bastion. But he decided to keep that to himself.

For three days of foul weather, mudslides, and sudden tree falls, the commander had them stumbling through thick forest and bogs, occasionally circling back on themselves, and growing increasingly lost. When on the fourth day their blister-pack rations ran out and exhaustion began to set in, all semblance of team integrity vanished. These scions of wealthy Core families who thought nothing of journeying across the stars had forgotten or perhaps never known what it meant to stand or sleep beneath them, far from artifical light or sentient contact, in an isolated wilderness on a far-flung world. The frequent, intense downpours disspirited them; the hostile-sounding but innocuous calls of unseen beasts unnerved them; the overhead roar of swarming insects left them huddling in their confining shelters. They grew to fear their own shadows, and Tarkin found his strength in their distress.

The chance to show just what he was made of came on the pebbled shore of a wide, clear, swift-flowing river. Off and on for some hours, the team had been moving parallel to the river, and Tarkin had been studying the current, making parallax observations of objects on the bottom and observing the shadows cast by Halcyon’s bashful suns. Hours earlier, downstream of a waterfall, they had passed a stretch they would have been able to ford without incident, but Tarkin had held his tongue. Now, while the commander and some of the team members stood arguing about how deep the water might be, Tarkin simply waded directly into the current and trudged to the middle of the river, where wavelets lapped at his shoulders. Then, cupping his hands to his mouth, he yelled back to the team: “It’s this deep!”

After that, the commander kept him by his side, and eventually surrendered point to him. Navigating by the rise and set of Halcyon’s twin suns, and sometimes in the sparing illumination of the planet’s array of tiny moons, Tarkin led them on a tortuous forest course that took them through the hills and into more open forest on the far side. Along the way he showed them how to use their blasters to kill game without burning gaping holes in the most edible parts. For fun, he felled a large rodent with a hand-fashioned wooden lance and entertained the team by dressing and cooking it over a fire he conjured with a sparkstone from a pile of kindling. He got his fellow plebes used to sleeping on the ground, under the stars, amid a cacophony of sounds and songs.

At a time when the Clone Wars were still a decade off, it became clear to his commander and peers that Wilhuff Tarkin had already tasted blood.

When they had walked for three more days and Tarkin estimated that they were within five kilometers of the usurper’s fortress, he fell back to allow the commander to lead them in. The Jedi were astounded. They had only just put an end to the insurrection – somehow without losing a single eminent hostage – and they had all but given up on finding any members of the Judicial team alive. Search parties had been dispatched, but none had managed to pick up the team’s trail. Relieved to be back on firm ground, the cadets were at first reserved about revealing the details of their ordeal, but in due course the stories began to be told, and in the end Tarkin was credited with having saved their lives.

For those Judicials who knew little of the galaxy beyond the Core, it came as a shock that a world like Eriadu could produce not only essential goods, but also natural champions. A clique of congenial cadets began to form around Tarkin, as much to bask in the reflected glow of his sudden popularity as to be taught by him, or even to be the butt of his jokes. In him they found someone who could be as hard on himself as he could be on others, even when those others happened to be superiors who shirked their responsibilities or made what to him were bad decisions. They had already witnessed how well he could fight, scale mountains, pilot a gunboat, and succeed on a sports field, and – as crises like the one at Halcyon grew more common – they grew to realize that he had a mind for tactics, as well; more important, that Tarkin was a born leader, an inspiration for others to overcome their fears and to surpass their own expectations.

Not all were enamored of him. Where to some he was meticulous, coolheaded, and fearless, to others he was calculating, ruthless, and fanatical. But no matter to which camp his peers subscribed, the stories that emerged about Tarkin in the waning days of the Judicial Department were legendary – and they only grew with the telling. Few then knew the details of his unusual upbringing, for he had a habit of speaking only when he had something important to add, but he had no need to brag, since the tales that spread went beyond anything he could have confirmed or fabricated. That he had bested a Wookiee in hand-to-hand combat; that he had piloted a starfighter through an asteroid field without once consulting his instruments; that he had single-handedly defended his homeworld against a pirate queen; that he had made a solo voyage through the Unknown Regions …

His strategy of flying boldly into the face of adversity was studied and taught, and during the Clone Wars would come to be known as “the Tarkin Rush,” when it was also said of him that his officers and crew would willingly follow him to hell and beyond. He might have remained a Judicial were it not for a growing schism that began to eat away at the department’s long-held and nonpartisan mandate to keep the galaxy free of conflict. On the one side stood Tarkin and others who were committed to enforcing the law and safeguarding the Republic; on the other, a growing number of dissidents who had come to view the Republic as a galactic disease. They detested the influence peddling, the complacency of the Senate, and the proliferation of corporate criminality. They saw the Jedi Order as antiquated and ineffectual, and they yearned for a more equitable system of government – or none at all.