by Troy Denning
“For now.”
Vestara shrugged and admitted, “For now. But until that changes, what’s the harm in being nice to each other?”
Ben sighed, knowing exactly where the harm lay. After all, this was the girl who had exaggerated her injury to keep him distracted while her father tried to murder his father—and he was wise enough to know she would try it again. Sith girls played rough, and they always cheated.
But her game was the kind two could play, and Ben was just as capable of exploiting an edge as Vestara was. “No harm, I guess. Just don’t expect me to let my guard down.”
Vestara smiled and considered him for a moment, then said, “You haven’t yet.” She glanced aft toward the Shadow’s medbay, where Dyon Stadd had lain in a healing trance for the last two days. “Speaking of being nice, I wonder how our patient is doing. Maybe we should …”
Vestara trailed off and glanced out the forward viewport, frowning and tilting her head. Ben thought for an instant she was just trying to distract him again, but he could feel her surprise fluttering in the Force, and he didn’t think she could fake that. He looked in the same direction she had glanced and saw only Taalon’s shuttle squatting on its S-shaped landing struts, its drooping wings frowning down so far the tips nearly touched the bone-colored beach. A dozen meters beyond the shuttle, a sandy bank rose from the river’s floodplain to become the floor of a jungle valley, and beyond the jungle canopy loomed the volcanic ridge where Abeloth’s cave was located.
When Ben did not see anything unexpected, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
Vestara continued to look out the viewport. “Nothing wrong,” she said. “I just felt someone touch me in the Force.”
Ben cocked his brow and waited for her to elaborate.
“My father, I think,” Vestara said, looking back to Ben. “It’s been a while since he did that when he wasn’t angry, so it took me a bit by surprise.”
“Sure,” Ben replied, not buying her story at all. She was volunteering information he hadn’t asked for, and that wasn’t like Vestara. He expanded his Force awareness toward the ruins where Abeloth had died—and where his father was working with Gavar Khai and High Lord Taalon to learn more about Abeloth—and was relieved to feel only the tense wariness to be expected of a Jedi Grand Master in the company of two powerful Sith. “So much for working together.”
“Ben, please. Your father is a Jedi. He doesn’t get angry the way mine does.” Vestara paused to study Ben’s face—no doubt to see if she was having any effect—then seemed to reconsider and looked away, shaking her head and speaking in a soft voice. “You need to understand, if High Lord Taalon found out I had told you something like this—”
“I can keep a secret,” Ben interrupted. “Even for you.”
“Ouch,” Vestara said, recoiling visibly. “Not nice.”
“But deserved.” Ben put a deliberate chill in his voice. “Don’t play on my emotions, Vestara. It reminds me of why I don’t like you.”
A look of hurt came to Vestara’s face, but she raised her chin and met his eyes. “Do I deserve that, Ben?” she asked. “We’re on opposite sides of this thing, and maybe that makes us enemies. But we don’t have to hate each other—that’s a choice we make ourselves.”
To Ben’s surprise, there was a quaver in Vestara’s voice, and everything he had been trained to watch for as a Galactic Alliance Guard officer told him she wasn’t faking it. Her tone and volume were even, she held his gaze without forcing herself, and her posture remained confident yet comfortable. Most of all, he could feel in the Force that Vestara did not want him to despise her—and that it wounded her to think he did.
Ben felt the anger and bitterness of her earlier betrayal drain away, and he started to feel guilty about using them to hide from his true emotions. The fact was, he wasn’t as angry with Vestara as he was with himself. He had let his feelings for her—feelings that he barely understood—blind him to her basic nature. She had been born a Sith, and that meant treachery came to her as naturally as breathing did to him. If he had forgotten that in the heat of a chaotic battle, wasn’t it more his fault than hers?
Ben rose and placed a hand on his lightsaber, then said, “Vestara, I don’t hate my enemies—but you’re not going to play me twice. What did you sense?”
Vestara studied him for a moment, no doubt weighing how serious he was, then finally said, “Relax. I was going to tell you. I just need a promise—”
“No promises. I don’t keep secrets from my father.” Ben spoke with more heat than necessary, for the one time he had made the mistake of doing exactly that, his mother had died—and her killer had become Darth Caedus. “Especially not Sith secrets.”
“I’m not asking you to. But you can’t let High Lord Taalon—or my father—know that I told you. Either one would kill me for letting slip my own middle name. For this …” Vestara let the sentence trail off, then shrugged. “Well, you know what would happen. My people don’t take betrayal lightly.”
Ben knew that much was true. But Vestara’s eyes remained hard and dark, and he also knew that she was still trying to manipulate him—trying to play on his sympathy and his sense of responsibility. Perhaps that was the only way of relating to her peers that she understood, to lie to them and exploit them. He started to wonder just how much of what she had become was a product of her environment … and whether she might be open to a different kind of life.
Ben nodded. “Don’t worry. Taalon won’t hear a thing.”
“From you or your father?”
“Jedi honor their promises,” Ben confirmed, “in word and spirit.”
“You’d better.” Vestara turned back toward the viewport and fell silent for moment, then finally said, “Okay. Ship is returning.”
Ben let his hand slip away from his lightsaber and remained standing. It was the last thing he had expected Vestara to say, but it made sense … and it was also just alarming enough to make a good lie. He studied her a moment, looking for signs that she was trying to play him again, and didn’t find any.
In a neutral voice, he said, “You told me that Ship isn’t under Sith control.”
Vestara looked back to him, her lips pursed in admonishment. “When I told you that, Abeloth was still alive,” she said. “And I don’t know that Ship is under our control now—only that he’s coming.”
“To do what?” Ben pressed. He could think of two possibilities, and neither was good for the Skywalkers. “To avenge Abeloth?”
“Or to share what he knows about her with Lord Taalon,” Vestara replied. “Ship didn’t tell me—but either way, you and your father are in trouble. Maybe you should think about coming over to the dark side. I’m sure the Circle of Lords would be happy to find a place for someone like you.”
“Thanks, but … I’d rather die.”
Vestara shrugged. “Have it your way.” She tilted her head up at him, and her brown eyes suddenly looked both huge and deep. “But I’ll miss you … a little bit, at least.”
“Nice to know,” Ben said, half grinning. “But you’re getting ahead of yourself, don’t you think?”
Vestara shook her head. “Afraid not,” she said. “Ship is coming, and he’s very angry.”
Ben met her gaze. Beginning to think he and his father really might be in trouble, he asked, “He didn’t tell you anything else?”
Vestara looked him straight in the eye. “Nothing.”
“I can check that, you know.”
Vestara flourished her hand at him. “Be my guest.”
Half convinced she was just using Ship to distract him from some other development, Ben reached out in the Force again. To his dismay, he felt an ancient presence approaching the planet.
Ben? The voice came to Ben inside his head, as full of portent and menace as he remembered. Why are you not dead?
Ben suppressed a shudder. Just good, I guess.
You have grown arrogant. Ship seemed more amused than irritated. That is a valuable quality in a
ruler.
I’m no ruler, just a Jedi Knight, Ben replied. And I’ll be your destroyer, if you come near this planet.
If you could destroy me, you wouldn’t be warning me away, Ship noted. But your audacity shows promise. It is not too late to join us, Ben.
Ben was too insulted to reply. Ship wasn’t a true sentient being, so perhaps it could not understand why the idea of following in his cousin’s footsteps would fill him with revulsion.
Darth Caedus was a mere shadow of what shall come, Ship warned. The Jedi are weak and doomed, and the Lost Tribe is destined to restore the Sith Empire to the galaxy.
The Lost Tribe couldn’t overthrow a Hutt crime lord, much less take over the galaxy, Ben replied. He could sense a new pride in Ship’s presence, an optimism bordering on self-deception … and, in sentient beings at least, unchecked pride was the easiest of all weaknesses to exploit. It’ll take more than a few thousand Sabers and a flotilla of outdated patrol frigates to take down the Galactic Alliance.
In time, young Jedi, in … Ship fell silent in midthought, and a cold wave of anger rippled through the Force. You have grown clever, Ben. I won’t underestimate you again.
Ben felt a sudden chill in the Force as Ship withdrew from his touch. He would have liked to take a moment to gather his thoughts and consider what he had tricked Ship into revealing. But he could feel the weight of Vestara’s gaze upon him, and by remaining silent too long, he would be sacrificing an opportunity to build on what he had learned.
As soon as Ben’s gaze dropped back toward her, Vestara asked, “Believe me now?”
Ben snorted. “Not at all.” He fixed her with an accusing glare, then asked, “Didn’t you tell me you don’t know much about Ship?”
“I don’t,” Vestara insisted. She was working hard to make eye contact, which Ben recognized as a sure sign of a practiced liar. “But I didn’t tell you all of the little bits that I do know.”
“No kidding,” Ben said. “Starting with the fact that Ship has been working with the Lost Tribe all along.”
Vestara let out her breath and looked away, then admitted, “Okay, starting with that. He was kind of our savior. Had he not come looking for us, we’d still be stuck on … our home planet.”
Ben smiled. “Kesh.” He extended a hand to her. “I have heard the name before, you know.”
Vestara nodded. “I know. But old habits die hard.”
She allowed Ben to pull her to her feet, then stepped so close he found himself tensing to block an attack. She smiled, the scarred side of her mouth giving the expression a slightly sinister appearance, and looked deep into his eyes.
“You do know why I told you what Ship was to my people, don’t you?” she asked.
“Sure.” Ben continued to hold her gaze—and her knife hand. “To build trust and make me feel indebted to you.”
A flicker of disappointment shot through Vestara’s eyes, but the smile remained on her lips.
“That, too.” She touched her palm to Ben’s chest, then asked, “Are you going somewhere?”
“Back to the ruins,” Ben said. “I think Dad should know Ship is coming, don’t you?”
“And you’ve never heard of a comlink?”
“It might be better if Lord Taalon didn’t overhear,” Ben said. “At least until I’m there with him.”
Vestara considered this for a moment, then nodded. “You might have a point there.” She glanced aft, toward the medbay, then said, “You go ahead. I’ll look after Dyon.”
Ben smiled. “Nice try.” Still holding her by the hand, he stepped toward the rear hatch. “You’re coming with me.”
Vestara resisted for only a moment, then sighed and allowed him to pull her along. “Fine, but he’s your friend. Don’t blame me if his bandages are all pus-soaked when you get back.”
Ben stopped. “I changed them less than two hours ago.”
“And I changed them an hour after that,” Vestara replied. “From what I saw, his wounds are infected.”
Given the amount of bacta salve that had been slathered over Dyon’s wounds, infection seemed unlikely. More probably, Vestara was simply trying to keep Ben from warning his father about the coming change to the balance of power—and that told him all he needed to know about what Ship had actually said to her.
Ben nodded as though convinced by her argument. “Okay, it’ll only take a second to check on him,” he said. “And there are a couple of collection bags you probably need to change, anyway.”
“Me?” Vestara objected.
“If the bacta salve isn’t working, we’re going to have to break out the strong stuff.” Still holding Vestara’s hand, he led the way aft through the main salon and past the galley. “And your thumbprint won’t open the security cabinet where it’s stowed.”
Vestara’s only response was a resigned grunt. At the entrance to the port access corridor, Ben used the pretext of courtesy to pause and wave her down the passage ahead of him. She, of course, paused and motioned him ahead.
Ben shook his head in mock disbelief. “Always so suspicious.”
“Always so tricky,” Vestara countered. “I’ve seen how dirty you Jedi fight.”
Ben cocked his head and studied her, then asked, “Are we going to have another fight?”
A pained look came to Vestara’s eyes. “Not soon, I hope.”
She slipped past and led the way down the corridor … then drew up short at the medbay’s open door. Assuming the worst, Ben stopped three steps behind her and reached for his lightsaber.
“You’re … you’re awake?” Vestara gasped. “How?”
Any suspicion that her astonishment was part of an act was quickly alleviated by the sound of Dyon Stadd’s groggy voice.
“Just … tough.” A bunk rail clanked as Dyon pulled against a safety restraint. “Hey, can you help me get this off? I’ve got to use the refresher something awful.”
“Actually, you don’t,” Ben said, stepping past Vestara into the medbay. “That’s probably just the catheter you’re feeling.”
“Catheter?” Dyon croaked. He was lying beneath a thin medbay blanket, with sweaty hair and sunken eyes. Both wrists were in safety restraints, a precaution to prevent him from thrashing about in his sleep and ripping out the IV drips in his arms. “How long have I been out?”
“Not as long as you should have been,” Ben said, going to his side. Dyon’s Force aura still felt tenuous and feeble, as though he were only about half alive, but his breathing did not seem labored, and he appeared reasonably alert. “How are you feeling?”
“I was mauled by a rancor once,” Dyon said. He turned to meet Ben’s eyes, but his gaze remained oddly vacant. “This is worse.”
“I’ll bet.” As Ben stepped closer, he shot a hand out and grabbed the top edge of the blanket. A clank sounded as Dyon’s hand jerked instinctively against his wrist restraints, but his eyes remained dead and expressionless. Ben frowned and asked, “How’s your sight?”
“Ah.” Dyon’s head sank back in his pillow. “That’s what you were testing.”
“And you didn’t answer my question.” Ben pulled the blanket down and saw that the bandages wrapped around Dyon’s torso remained clean. At least that was as he had expected. “Did you see my hand move, or just sense it through the Force?”
Dyon’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. “I hear prosthetic eyes are even better than real ones.”
Ben sighed and started to assure Dyon that he was right about prosthetic eyes—then heard the soft hiss behind him and turned to find the medbay door sliding shut. He raised a hand toward the control panel, but before he could use the Force to depress the slap-pad, a muffled sizzle sounded inside the circuitry box. Half a heartbeat later the tip of a crimson lightsaber burned through the cover plate and destroyed the retraction mechanism with a quick circle.
“Vestara!” Ben crossed to the door, his own lightsaber already in hand. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Not really.” Her muffl
ed voice was already fading as she raced toward the exit ramp. “But I have my orders.”
Ben reached the door. Too wise to actually look through the hole Vestara had cut through the control panel, he expanded his Force awareness to the rest of the Shadow. He found her presence well forward and already descending the boarding ramp.
“She did it again?” Dyon asked.
Ben glanced back to find Dyon’s head turned toward the door, his vacant eyes fixed on the hole that used to be a control panel.
“I thought you couldn’t see?” Ben replied.
“I can’t.” Dyon’s gaze drifted toward Ben’s face. “But I can smell burned circuits and feel how angry you are. Even an academy flunk-out can figure that out.”
“Actually, I’m not all that angry.” Ben turned back to the door, then ignited his lightsaber and began to cut his way out. “She didn’t even try to kill me.”
The pyre smoke hung low and black over the courtyard, making it difficult for Luke Skywalker to concentrate on the figures carved into the stone arcade … and perhaps that was the point. His Sith companions did not like him wandering the ruins alone, trying to understand Abeloth and the Font of Power without them, and they were certainly capable of using smoke to express their feelings. Unfortunately, he had discovered nothing to warrant their displeasure—only more of the eerie relief’s they had uncovered everywhere as they stripped away the temple’s veil of carnivorous plants.
Dominated by sinuous shapes that seemed to change from vines to serpents to tentacles with each blink of the eye, the reliefs resembled a style called “ophidian grotesques” back on Coruscant. But Luke recognized these as something far more ancient and sinister. He had seen similar sculptures in half a dozen places around the galaxy, on worlds like Shatuun and Caulus Tertius—worlds that had died in cataclysms as old and mysterious as the Maw itself. Nobody seemed to know who had created the sculptures, and they were only found on planets that had been rendered uninhabitable eons before the dawn of recorded time.
