Rule of Two

by Drew Karpyshyn

  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

  Who’s this?” the man at the door demanded, eyeing Zannah with suspicio
n. 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.

  Like Kelad’den they were revolutionaries: young, idealistic, and pitiful. Easily swayed and manipulated by fiery speeches and impassioned rhetoric, they had been recruited by the mysterious “Hetton” into joining the Anti-Republic Liberation Front—one of a hundred small, insignificant separatist movements scattered across the galaxy.

  For a small radical group, however, the ARLF was particularly well funded, and the membership included an inordinate percentage of highly skilled and dangerous individuals. Elite warriors like Kel, or beings with advanced military training, were the norm rather than the exception. For one reason or another, they had all sworn allegiance to Hetton and his organization.

  Zannah imagined they believed themselves to be heroes or even eventual martyrs to their glorious cause. Yet she felt nothing but disdain for them. Despite their martial backgrounds, they were little more than overgrown children gathering in tiny, dark rooms to whisper secret plans and plot petty terrorist actions against a galactic government that didn’t even know they existed.

  Even Kel wasn’t above her contempt. Still, she did have to admit that there was something appealing about him. Allowing him to fall in love with her hadn’t been necessary to complete her mission, yet she had been willing—even eager—to have his attention. The attraction went beyond his mere physical appearance. There was a wild energy about him. He burned with a savage arrogance; its fire enveloped her whenever they were together.

  She knew she was drawn to his warmth in part because her Master was always so cold. Bane had served as her guardian for ten years; he had raised her and protected her and trained her in the ways of the Sith. Yet she didn’t think of him as a father figure. While he hadn’t been cruel or abusive, neither had he shown any affection toward her, not even a trace of empathy or compassion. He valued her not as a person but as his heir; she was nothing but a mechanism to continue the Sith legacy after his death.

  Encased in his orbalisk armor, Bane was barely even human anymore. Anger, hate, love, desire—they were nothing to him now but a means to fuel his power. Yet Zannah still needed to feel. She hungered for the raw passion of real emotions. She craved them.

  She had found them in Kel. He had given her the one thing her Master could not. But she never considered betraying or abandoning Darth Bane. She had seen his absolute command of the Force; she had tasted the power of the dark side in him. He was the Dark Lord of the Sith, and Zannah would one day tear the mantle from his shoulders and seize it for her own. Nothing—not fanciful notions, not the temptation of emotional fulfillment or even love—would keep her from claiming her rightful destiny.

  Compared with this, Kel and the other separatists gathered in the room were tiny, insignificant people leading small, meaningless lives. Their only worth was that Bane saw a potential use for them, and it was her duty to make sure that whatever they had planned fit into her Master’s grand design.

  Kel had revealed their intended scheme to her during a romantic dinner: They planned to kidnap minor local officials and hold them for ransom. They actually believed the media interest generated by their actions would be the catalyst that would unite the people of the Outer Rims to rise up as one and overthrow the Senate.

  They were pathetic in their naïveté; fools Zannah had chosen to become pawns in her own mission. They were tools to be used and then discarded once they had served their purpose … and that purpose was to die so that she could fulfill the directive of her Master.

  “My fellow patriots,” Kel began, his voice rising in the manner of a professional orator giving a public performance. “We are united in a single cause—the complete and utter destruction of the Republic. Yet what have we done so far to accomplish this?

  “We speak of revolution yet we are afraid to do what is necessary to make it happen. But that will soon change. In three days, we will force the Republic to stand up and take notice of us!”

  “Three days?” Cyndra, the Chiss protested. “What are you talking about?”

  “Hetton wants us to strike during the Armistice Celebrations,” Paak added. “It will draw more attention if we act on the anniversary of the Ruusan Reformations.”

  “Why wait months when the perfect opportunity is right before us?” Kel asked, using the same arguments Zannah had used to persuade him. “Nobody will care about the fate of a single ambassador. We must find a target that will make the entire galaxy sit up and take notice!”

  “Who?” one of the young men demanded.

  “Chancellor Valorum.”

  “Chancellor Valorum’s term ended two years ago,” Paak spat out from over by the door.

  “He still serves the Senate as a diplomatic emissary. And it was his so-called Unification Policies that have drawn so many worlds back into the web of Republic influence. He is responsible for everything we are fighting against, the symbol of everything we wish to destroy. He is the perfect target.”

  “How do we get to him?” Cyndra asked.

  “He has scheduled a secret meeting with the heads of Serenno’s most powerful noble families. We believe he is going to try to persuade them to take steps to put down the separatist movements on this world—movements like our own.”

  “How did you find out about this?” the young woman asked.

  Kel nodded in Zannah’s direction, his head-tails twitching slightly. She stepped forward and began to speak.

  “My name is Rainah. I’m an administrative assistant at the Republic embassy.”

  This was the lie she had first used to draw Kel’s attention, and it was a convenient cover for the information she had purchased from one of Bane’s mysterious underground contacts …

  “Everything is in place, Lord Eddels,” the Muun croaked, handing a datapad to her Master. “Everything you will need is in here.”

  Zannah had never seen a Muun before, and she found something inherently off-putting about this one’s appearance. He was tall enough to look Bane in the eye, but his head, body, and lim
bs were elongated and thin, as if he had been horribly stretched to reach his current height. His skin was pale, pasty white with a disconcerting hint of a sickly pinkish hue. His features were flat, his eyes and cheeks appeared sunken, the corners of his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown, and he didn’t appear to have a nose. His head was hairless, and he wore drab, brown clothing. He looked extremely uncomfortable beneath Tatooine’s twin suns, but he was too professional to give voice to his complaint.

  Earlier, Bane had explained that this meeting in the sandy wasteland of the Dune Sea was the culmination of a plan set in motion nearly a year before, shortly after they had first touched down on Ambria. A plan she had inadvertently been the catalyst for. Scribbled in the back cover of the manuscript she had discovered and presented to her Master at the Sith camp on Ruusan had been a long list of cryptic numbers: anonymous accounts with the InterGalactic Banking Clan.

  Lord Qordis, Bane told her, had been a collector of rare and expensive treasures. Over the years he had siphoned off an incredible fortune from the combined wealth of Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness and secreted it away, drawing on it whenever he purchased another item to feed his avarice. With the Brotherhood gone, Bane was the only one left who knew about, and could lay claim to, those accounts. But material wealth had no appeal to her Master beyond what use he could put it to.

  “Information is a commodity. It can be traded, sold, and purchased. And in the end, credits are only as valuable as the secrets they can buy.”

  Over the past year Bane had begun to spend the credits. Key administrative officials were bribed to gain access to classified files. Government spies and well-connected criminal figures were hired to be his agents. Using his newfound wealth, he carefully built a network of informants to be his eyes and ears across a hundred different worlds.