Rule of Two (18 page)

Suppressing a shudder, Zannah called out softly to him. “I have completed my first lesson, Master.”

Bane glanced down at the small neek trailing into the camp behind her, visible proof that his apprentice had fulfilled the task he had given her. Zannah followed his gaze, turning toward the tiny creature. It looked up at her and chirped expectantly. She bent down to pet it, and Bane reached out with the Force and snapped its long, thin neck
.

“You have done well,” he muttered as she stared in horror at the tiny body twitching at her feet. “Now toss it in the stew.”

Zannah took a moment to steel herself, pushing away the grief that threatened to well up inside her. When Bane had first given her this task, she realized, he must
have known she would develop a fondness for the little neek. If she had been wiser she would have foreseen this, and viewed the creature simply as a tool—something to be used then tossed aside—rather than allowing herself to become emotionally attached. The pain she felt now over its death was a warning—a reminder that her only allegiance was to her Master
.

She picked up the body and carried it over to the bubbling pot. Tossing it in, she looked Bane square in the eye
.

“I see you decided to teach me two lessons today, Master.”

His only response was a grim smile.…

“Rainah,” she heard a voice shouting above the din of the market, using the false name she adopted for all her missions. After a moment she was able to pick Kelad’den out of the crowd, motioning her to come over and join him on the far side of the square.

Twi’lek complexions came in a wide variety of colors, but Kel was of the extremely rare red-skinned Lethan race. Like most Lethans, he was undeniably gorgeous. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a hard, flat stomach and perfectly proportioned limbs. He wore tight black pants and a loose-fitting tan tunic that hung open at the front to expose the lean muscles of his chest and abdomen. He had sensuous, perfectly symmetrical features: soft, full lips and dark, smoldering eyes that seemed to draw you in if you stared at them too long. His firm, shapely lekku coiled around his neck and shoulders, winding their way suggestively down the front of his open tunic and exposed chest.

“Rainah!” he cried out a second time, causing more than a few people to stop and look at him curiously. Zannah cursed under her breath, and moved quickly through the crowd to his side.

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed when she got close. “Everybody’s staring at us!”

“Let them stare,” he said defiantly, though he did lower his voice to match hers. “They’re commoners. Their opinion means nothing to me.”

Kel was a child of position and privilege. In addition to being of Lethan stock, he came from a family that ranked among the nobility of the Twi’lek warrior caste. His entire life he had been told by all those around him how special he was; it was only natural he would grow up believing others to be beneath him.

At times Zannah admired his haughty arrogance. It was a sign of power: He knew he was a superior specimen, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. But it was also his great weakness. She had discovered early on that Kel was easily manipulated through flattery or challenges to his pride and ego, and she wasn’t afraid to exploit that knowledge in the pursuit of her mission.

“You’re late,” she told him. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I shouldn’t even be doing this,” he snapped back at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing herself close and wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders. “I was beginning to think you were with another lover,” she purred. “If I ever find you with another female, I will cut her heart out.”

Kel pulled her even tighter against his body. “You are more than enough for any male,” he whispered into her ear, sending a shiver down Zannah’s spine.

She kissed him on the lips, then broke the embrace. “We don’t have time for this,” she protested. “Your friends are waiting for us.”

Licking his lips as if he could still taste her, Kel nodded and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go,” he said, pulling her through the crowd of shoppers.

* * *

As dusk fell over the camp on Ambria, Darth Bane reached out toward the tiny crystal pyramid he had carefully positioned on the small pedestal in the center of the otherwise empty tent. Moving slowly, he brushed his fingers gently against its cold, dead surface, then pulled his hand back when he saw it tremble. An instant later his fingers started twitching spasmodically as tingling jolts of sharp pain laced their way from his elbow down to his wrist. Swearing a silent oath, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to ride it out.

Because of the orbalisks that encased his body, he was used to living in constant pain. It was always there, a dull throbbing just above the level of subconscious awareness. Normally he could shut it out, bearing the torments of his infestation with no visible effects. However, if he wasn’t careful—if he pushed himself too far—the physical demands could overwhelm him. The tremor had been a warning, the first sign that he was reaching the edges of his endurance.

Three times before he had attempted to create his own Sith Holocron, and each time the project had ended in failure. He wasn’t about to fail this time. He knew that one false move at this stage and all his work, literally years of preparation, would be undone. Yet he also knew that he had no choice but to find a way to deal with the pain and continue his work.

He had made his first attempt five years before. Using Freedon Nadd’s Holocron as a blueprint, he had recreated the intricate matrix of lattices and vertices that were the key to storing nearly infinite amounts of knowledge in a data system small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. It had taken months to gather and fashion the rare crystal into the filaments and fibers of the interlaced network, followed by weeks of delicate and painstaking adjustments. The matrix had to fall within
highly exacting specifications, and Bane had spent hundreds of hours making thousands of precise, subatomic alterations through the power of the Force to ensure that each crystalline strand was properly in place.

Once the crystal matrix inside the Holocron was ready, he had carefully transcribed the ancient symbols of Sith power onto the pyramid’s surface. The markings were part of a powerful ritual that was critical to maintaining the stability of the matrix after it was infused with the energies of the dark side. Unfamiliar with the exact purpose or meaning of the arcane glyphs, Darth Bane had once again used Nadd’s Holocron as his guide, studying the markings etched on the surface, then copying them exactly on his own creation.

But when he tried to activate the Holocron by channeling his power through it, the matrix imploded, collapsing in on itself and reducing the artifact to a pile of glimmering dust in a crackling white flash.

He had tried again several months later, only to be met with the exact same result. Forced to admit that the secret of crafting Holocrons was still beyond him, Bane had begun a campaign to discover everything he could about the powerful talismans. With Zannah’s aid, he accumulated a vast wealth of knowledge on the subject.

He devoured every datacard, historical account, and personal memoir he could find that theorized on the steps needed to create one of the fiendishly complex pyramids. He came across thousands of veiled references to, and hundreds of theoretical speculations on, the art of crafting a Holocron. However, he was unable to find a single source that explicitly set out the spells and rituals required, and their secrets still eluded him.

Bane refused to give up. He continued his research, seeking out rare tomes, hidden documents, and forbidden works of lore. It took three more years until he learned the purpose and meaning behind the glyphs … 
and in doing so he found an answer to why his first efforts had failed. He discovered that each Holocron was emblazoned with symbols that were uniquely tied to the Sith Lord responsible for the artifact’s creation. The miniature pyramids were far more than a simple collection of raw data. Learning was imparted through the wisdom of a gatekeeper—an advanced simulated personality that mimicked the creator’s own identity. The right combination of symbols, applied in conjunction with specific sorceries and spells of the ancient Sith, would allow Bane to capture his appearance, knowledge, and cognitive processes. Within the structure of the Holocron they would be transformed into a three-dimensional hologram to guide and direct anyone who used the artifact. The cognitive network that fueled the gatekeeper also stabilized the interwoven lattices and vertices of the matrix, keeping it from collapsing as it had done on Bane’s previous attempts.

Armed with this new understanding, Bane had made a third attempt to create his own Holocron two years ago. He had proceeded carefully; the Rituals of Invocation required to divine and inscribe the proper symbols onto the pyramid’s surface were mentally and physically exhausting. Ever wary of making a mistake, he had drawn the process out over two long weeks. Ironically, his caution proved to be his undoing. As he began manipulating the inner structures of the crystal matrix during the final phase of the project, he sensed that the power of the symbols had faded. The cognitive network of the gatekeeper had degraded to the point that it lacked the ability to support and stabilize the matrix.

In desperation, he had sought some way to restore it, only to realize his efforts were futile. Enraged at yet another failure, he had crushed the useless pyramid to dust with his bare hands.

Before beginning his fourth and most recent attempt,
Bane had vowed that he would not fail again. Time was the real key. He had to finish aligning the matrix and infuse it with his dark side energies within a few days, before the cognitive functions of the gatekeeper began to degrade. Now, after months of gathering the rare materials, weeks of meditations to focus his power, and three straight days and nights of intense focus and concentration, he was finally nearing the end. Only a few dozen minor adjustments still needed to be made, but Bane was keenly aware that time was running out.

Three days of constantly drawing upon the Force without food or respite had left him exhausted in body, mind, and spirit. He was particularly vulnerable to the orbalisks in this state. Normally they fed off the dark side energies that naturally flowed through him, but the creation of the Holocron demanded that he channel all his power directly into his work. The parasites were slowly starving, and in response they were flooding his bloodstream with chemicals and hormones intended to drive him into a mindless fury so they could gorge themselves on the dark side as he unleashed his rage.

The spasming muscles of his hand and fingers were a direct result of their efforts, and there was nothing Bane could do but wait for the tremor to pass. He had only a few hours left to complete his work, yet he couldn’t risk making a mistake and damaging the delicately interwoven crystal fibers of the Holocron’s internal structure.

Slowly he was able to reassert control over his convulsing digits, ruing each precious second that slipped away as he did so. When his hand at last became still, he took a slow, deep breath to refocus his mind, then reached out with the Force to touch the matrix once more.

A ribbon of electric blades raveled itself around the muscles and nerves of his spine, causing him to arch backward as he screamed in agony. The pain momentarily
broke his concentration, and an uncontrollable surge of dark side energy shot through him and into the Holocron. An instant later it exploded, spraying Bane with a shower of crystal fragments and dust.

For several seconds he simply stared at the empty pedestal, feeling the pulsing hunger of the orbalisks and his own gathering rage. A red veil fell across his vision, and Darth Bane surrendered himself to the fury.

11

W
ho’s this?” the man at the door demanded, eyeing Zannah with suspicion. He was human, though his face and shaved head were covered with green and purple tattoos that made it difficult to pick out his features. He wore a light blue shirt and dark blue pants. He was shorter than Kel, but much thicker through the waist and chest.

“She’s with me, Paak,” Kel replied, pushing him aside and passing through the door, pulling Zannah along with him.

The unfurnished room beyond was small and dark. Music and loud laughter could be faintly heard from the cantina on the floor above them, but those gathered in the cellar spoke only in low, conspiratorial whispers. Inside the room were four others gathered in a tight circle: two more young men, a woman only slightly older than Zannah, and a blue-skinned, red-eyed Chiss female.

Paak trailed after them, unwilling to let the matter drop. “You can’t bring her here!” he insisted.

“She works at the embassy,” Kel assured him, relaying the false backstory Zannah had offered at their first meeting. “She can help us.”

The heavier man grabbed Kel by the elbow and spun the Twi’lek around to face him. “You don’t get to make that decision! Hetton is our leader, not you!”

“Hetton put
me
in charge of this mission,” Kel reminded him angrily.

“Only because you offered to purchase those forged passes to get us past the embassy guards!” Paak snapped back. “He put you in charge because he needed your credits!”

“Hetton doesn’t need anyone’s credits,” the red-skinned Twi’lek replied contemptuously. “He put me in charge because he was tired of dealing with oafish thugs like you.”

Paak’s lips curled up in a menacing snarl, but Kel had already turned away, dismissing his underling. Zannah waited to see if the tattooed man would go after Kel, but he only shook his head and went back to his position guarding the door.

Kel marched over to the others, who widened their circle to accommodate him. Zannah hung back slightly, noting the others regarding her with curious stares. She stared back, though she was already well aware of everything she needed to know about them.