Rule of Two (33 page)

Darovit didn’t reply, but his fingers instinctively went to his stump.

“I brought you along for one reason, and one reason only,” she continued, her voice still completely devoid of emotion. “My Master is infested with parasites called orbalisks. And you are going to heal him.”

“But … I don’t know how,” Darovit protested, forgetting her warnings to remain silent.

Zannah reached back with the Force, wrapping it around his windpipe. And slowly she began to squeeze. Darovit fell to his knees, his hands flying up to his throat as his oxygen was cut off.

“There is a data terminal in the back,” Zannah said, ignoring his choking coughs. “Use it to go over everything in the article I took from the Archives.”

She pulled the card from the pocket on her thigh and tossed it down in front of her suffocating cousin. He was rolling back and forth on the floor now, his hands clawing at his throat. His face had turned a bright red, and his eyes were starting to bulge from his sockets.

“If you can’t find a way to help my Master by the time we get to Tython,” she warned, “he will kill you.”

She released Darovit from the Force choke, and he gasped and gulped down air in raw, ragged breaths. She turned to watch him with a cruel smile on her lips, making sure he knew she was enjoying his suffering. Eventually he recovered enough to pick up the datacard and head for the terminal in the back.

Once he was gone, Zannah got up from her chair and began to pace back and forth between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. She knew Darovit was wrong. He had to be. She was confident in her commitment to the dark side, despite everything her cousin had said. But there was enough weight to some of his arguments to make her wonder what Bane would think about all this.

If her Master—like Darovit—believed her actions showed a lack of commitment to the ways of the Sith, things would go very badly for her when they reached Tython.

Belia Darzu had been a Shi’ido in life, a changeling species whose members were capable of shifting their appearance, so it was not surprising that the projection that served as the gatekeeper of her Holocron similarly changed forms. At various times she appeared to be Twi’lek, Iridonian, Cerean, or human, occasionally even switching between genders.

“The process of creating a Holocron cannot be rushed,” the gatekeeper explained. “The adjustments to the matrix must be made with precision and care.”

She was currently in the form she most often assumed: that of a tall human female with short brown hair. She appeared to be roughly thirty years of age, with a sly, almost crafty, look to her features. In this guise she was typically clad in a dark, formfitting flight suit, dark boots, and a pale yellow vest that left her arms bare. She also wore yellow gloves, a short black sleeve over each elbow, and a red flight cap and belt.

After his initial activation of the Holocron’s power, Bane had brought it up out of the inner sanctum and into a large common room on the main level that once served as a mess hall for Belia’s living followers. Here Bane had been exploring the Holocron off and on for the past several days. He had proceeded carefully, still
drained from his battle with the technobeasts. The slow pace allowed him to recuperate his energies and rebuild his strength as he probed the crystal archives.

Much of what he discovered focused on the rituals and practices of Sith alchemy—something he would explore in depth when he had more time. Other times he stumbled across Belia’s own philosophical examinations of the Force, though in truth there was little there that Bane hadn’t already discovered for himself. Only now had he finally found what he had truly been searching for.

“It can take weeks, or even months,” Belia’s image explained, “before the final stages of construction are completed.”

Her form flickered, to be replaced by the image of a Holocron shown in cutaway. The filaments and strands of the crystal matrix in the image began to shift and move, illustrating the adjustments the gatekeeper was talking about. Bane didn’t bother paying close attention; he already knew how to fine-tune the matrix’s internal structures.

“You said the adjustments can take months. How is that possible?” Bane asked with a shake of his head. “The cognitive network degrades too quickly.”

Belia’s image flickered into view again. “The cognitive network must be trapped within the capstone before you begin,” she explained.

“Capstone?” Bane asked, his nerves tingling with excitement. In all his research he had never heard mention of a capstone before.

An image of a Holocron appeared once more, though no longer in cutaway. The small black crystal built into the apex of the pyramid was flashing.

“The capstone is key to the process,” Belia’s voice said. “Without it the cognitive network will degrade before
you complete your adjustments, and you will fail every time.”

Bane stared in wonder at the image. He had known that the dark crystal was an essential part of the Holocron’s construction. Yet he had believed its sole purpose was to channel the power of the symbols etched across the sides of the pyramid into the matrix. He never imagined it would serve another function as well.

“How do I trap the cognitive network inside the capstone?” he asked, eager to learn the secret that had eluded him.

“You must invoke the Rite of Commencement,” Belia told him.

The projection shifted to show an incredibly elaborate and complicated Sith ritual, one that went beyond anything Bane had mastered so far. With subtle pushes from the Force he flipped through image after image after image, realizing it would take him many months of careful study to memorize the rite. Still … the secret was his!

Satisfied, he shut the Holocron down. It was time to leave Tython and return to Ambria. If all had gone well, his apprentice would be there waiting for him.

He made his way outside, where the
Mystic
waited. But as he prepared to board his ship, he saw another vessel in the distance racing toward him. He reached out with the Force, and felt the presence of Zannah inside … and one other.

The
Loranda
came in to land fifty meters from where his own ship had touched down. Bane stood impassively, waiting for Zannah to emerge. When she did, there was a young man with her. The Dark Lord could feel the Force in him, though its presence was weak. When he saw that the man was missing his right hand, everything fell into place.

“We were supposed to meet at Ambria,” he snarled at
Zannah. “Why did you come here? And why did you bring him?”

“I came to warn you,” she answered quickly. “The Jedi know you survived the thought bomb.”

“Because of him,” Bane said, nodding in the other man’s direction.

“He was going to speak to the Jedi Council,” Zannah explained. “If he vanished, they might dismiss the rumors that you still lived.”

“Why didn’t you just kill him?” Bane asked, his tone ominous.

“He’s a healer” was her immediate reply. “He knows how to free you from the orbalisks.”

Zannah’s answers came too quickly to suit Bane. It was as if she had already had this argument, likely rehearsing it in her head over and over in preparation for this meeting.

“Is this true?” he demanded of the other man.

“I can’t do it here,” Darovit answered. “I need supplies. Special equipment. It’s dangerous, but I think it can be done.”

Bane hesitated. Not because of the potential danger; he had known that any procedure to rid himself of his infestation would be fraught with risk. But now that he knew his failures with the Holocron were not linked to the orbalisks feeding on his power, he wanted to reevaluate the decision to remove them.

The sight of another ship appearing over his apprentice’s shoulder, still too far in the distance to make out a model or affiliation, put an end to his deliberations. An instant later he felt the unmistakable light-side power of those on board.

Zannah must have felt it too; she turned and looked in that direction, then turned back to him with a worried grimace.

“Is something wrong?” the young healer asked, noticing the exchange. “What is it?”

“We were followed,” Zannah muttered.

The ship was coming in quickly, too fast for them to get into their own craft and take to the sky. If they tried, the other vessel would shoot them down before they took off.

“Inside the fortress,” Bane ordered. “The Jedi have found us.”

21

T
he
Justice Crusader
, Master Raskta’s ship, was easily the fastest vessel Johun had ever been on. A small, personal attack cruiser, she required a crew of four. Fortunately for Johun, there were four others with him on board, all of them clothed in the simple brown robes that marked them as members of the Jedi Order.

Master Raskta Lsu, an Echani, sat at the controls of her ship. She had the alabaster skin, pure white hair, and silver eyes common to all her species. She was almost as tall as Johun, with the muscles and physique one would expect in a species that valued physical combat as the highest form of art and personal expression. Named in honor of the legendary Echani warrior Raskta Fenni, acclaimed by many to be the greatest duelist of her time, Master Raskta had spent her life honing her martial skills so that she could one day equal, and even surpass, her namesake.

She had achieved the rare and prestigious rank of Jedi Weapons Master. Eschewing all other fields of study and forsaking the development of her other Force talents to focus exclusively on the lightsaber and combat, she had transformed herself into a living weapon.

Now tasked with training apprentices in the forms of lightsaber combat, Raskta had been part of the campaign on Ruusan. Wielding a blue-bladed lightsaber in each hand, and shunning any form of armor, she was a
terrifying figure to behold on the battlefield. Johun vividly remembered her carving great swaths of destruction through the heart of the enemy ranks, leaving a litter of bodies in her wake. It was said that, by the end of the war, as many Sith Lords had fallen under her twin blades as had been killed by the thought bomb.

In the gunner’s chair across from the pilot was Sarro Xaj, the human male who had served as Raskta’s Padawan on Ruusan. A year older than Johun, Sarro had olive-brown skin and a single topknot of black hair. He was also the largest human Johun had ever encountered. Over two meters tall and 150 kilos of raw muscle, he could easily be mistaken for a hairless Wookiee rather than a man. Yet despite his mass, he was still quick enough to snatch a zess-fly out of the air.

Elevated to the rank of Jedi Knight seven years before, Sarro had chosen to follow in his Master’s path, focusing on mastering a massive double-bladed lightsaber measuring almost three meters in length. Johun imagined there were few beings in the galaxy who could stand up under the ferocious assault of his weapon’s blue blades.

Handling the navigation in the back of the vessel was Master Worror, an Ithorian. His long, flat neck curved forward and up to a head shaped like the letter T, with his large, bulbous eyes on either end of the cross stroke. This odd appearance had led to his species being commonly called hammerheads by the ignorant and insensitive.

Master Worror’s surname could only be pronounced by beings possessing the two mouths and four throats unique to Ithorian anatomy. Johun had heard tales of Ithorian Jedi channeling the Force to transform their multiple voices into a devastating sonic weapon. Master Worror, however, was a healer by training, and his power lay in that direction.

He had been one of General Hoth’s advisers on Ruusan, and a key to victory in many battles, even though he didn’t even carry a lightsaber. The Ithorian’s role was not to engage the enemy but rather to provide support through both his healing abilities and the rare art of battle meditation. Although his talent was not strong enough to single-handedly alter the outcome of a large-scale conflict, in close quarters Worror could draw upon the Force to give strength to the bodies, minds, and spirits of those around him, enhancing the skills and abilities of his allies.

Located beside the navigator in the rear of the vessel, the fourth member of the crew, Master Farfalla, provided support for the pilot, gunner, and navigator. He called up astronav charts, engine readings, weapons status, scanner reports, and anything else the others needed to do their jobs.

Johun was seated up front in the cockpit with Raskta and Sarro, occupying the passenger’s chair behind the pilot. Until they reached Tython, his only job was to stay out of everyone else’s way.

Using the long-abandoned hyperspace route indicated on the datacard they’d discovered in the Archives, the
Justice Crusader
had penetrated the Deep Core. Master Raskta had expressed her concern at the start of the voyage: According to current records the hyperspace lanes they were traversing had been known to momentarily collapse without warning. A ship traveling anywhere along the hyperspace corridor during the nanosecond before it re-formed would be lost forever. Combined with the other dangers of the Deep Core—including wandering black holes that would rip a vessel apart, even in hyperspace—the instability of the route had led to it falling into disuse and finally being forgotten for well over a thousand years.

Worror had calculated the risk of a hyperspace collapse
during their journey at just over 2 percent—more than high enough to make Johun breathe a sigh of relief when they emerged unscathed a few thousand kilometers away from their destination.

“Weapons primed and ready,” Sarro’s voice told everyone over the intercom. “Any friends we have to worry about?”

“Nothing in orbit,” Farfalla reported. “Looks like we’re clean.”

“I’m taking us in,” Raskta told them. “See if you can find anything.”

“Picking up an ion trail,” Farfalla said as they neared the planet’s atmosphere. “Looks like we’re right behind them.”

“Locking on to the ion trail … locked on.” Even over the crackle of an intercom, Worror’s deep voice resonated through the ship.

“Engaging autopilot,” Raskta said. “Let’s see where this takes us. Sarro, keep your trigger finger ready.”