Dark Disciple

by Christie Golden

  “I’m Vram,” he said. He indicated his younger sister. “This is Laalee.”

  “Where’s your mother, Vram?”

  Laalee started to cry. Vram swallowed hard. “They took her away from us when we were captured. I heard them say they were worried that Father might send someone to find us.”

  Vos put all his sincerity into his words. “Those guards were right, and we’re that ‘someone.’ We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

  He rose and went to Ventress, his back to the younglings. Quietly he said, “Well, this complicates things.”

  Ventress’s eyes were narrowed in anger. “I guess the guard at the bar wasn’t that stupid after all. He double-crossed—”

  She was interrupted by the shrill whoop-whoop of an alarm. The children gasped, huddling together and looking at Vos and Ventress with wide, frightened eyes as their would-be rescuers ran to the window and looked down. Guards were flooding into the tower.

  Ventress slipped on her goggles and zoomed in on the chaos. “There he is,” she muttered.

  “Your boyfriend from the bar?”

  “Oh, please,” said Ventress in a scathing voice. Vos recalled the position in which he’d left the Falleen, and despite the direness of the situation, he couldn’t suppress a small chuckle.

  “Guess you should’ve hit him harder,” he said.

  Ventress started to retort but fell silent as the guards started banging on the door.

  “So what’s it going to be? Lava flow or guards?” Vos asked.

  “Normally I’d say the guards. But we have baggage to protect.” She waved in annoyance at the children.

  “Okay, lava flow it is! Hop on!” Vos said cheerily. Vram and Laalee, however, looked at him skeptically when he knelt in front of them.

  Ventress also knelt, barking at the children, “Come on, we don’t have all day.”

  The brother and sister exchanged glances, then clambered atop their rescuers’ backs. At the feel of Vram’s small body quivering with fear, Vos’s heart abruptly surged. He and Ventress were going to get these two innocents—and their mother—back to their father. As if he could feel Vos’s emotion, Vram tightened his grip and his shaking stopped. Vos straightened. At that moment, the unmistakable sound of blasterfire joined the steady sound of the alarm.

  “Guess they got tired of knocking,” Vos said. He threw a quick glance back to the door and saw a thin crack at its base. They’d be inside shortly.

  He jumped out onto the balcony, whistled loudly, reaching out with the Force, and felt the lava fleas respond. He glanced over at Ventress. Their eyes met, and she nodded. They leapt gracefully down onto a lower level, the children screaming as they hung on. Blaster bolts whizzed past Vos’s ear, letting him know that the guards had broken into the room above and were none too pleased about finding it empty.

  “Hang on,” he heard Ventress shout, and she disappeared over the balcony railing. For a moment, Vos watched as she plummeted, little Laalee, silent as death, looking up at him from Ventress’s back. Blaster bolts zipped by, too close for comfort. The moment he saw Ventress land nimbly on the rocks below, Vos leapt, little Vram’s arms tight around his neck. When he landed, Ventress was already leaping from boulder to boulder, and up onto an abutment, which she continued to run along. Vos caught movement and looked past Ventress to see the lava fleas bounding to meet her. As the first one drew near, Ventress flipped up and out in a graceful arc, making a perfect landing in the saddle.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Vram, his fear forgotten for the moment.

  “Kid, you’ve not seen anything yet,” Vos assured him, and prepared to make his own jump. “Watch this.”

  His flea was almost beneath his perch on the abutment. He grinned, looking down, knowing he had timed it perfectly, and then he leapt. This kid would have a story—

  Sudden pain seared his shoulder. A blaster bolt! Caught off guard, Vos grunted and jerked. Instead of landing perfectly astride the flea, he struck it hard and bounced off, hurtling toward the waiting lava below.

  He twisted, trying to adjust his trajectory, and at the same time stretched out his hand to use the Force to cushion the impact. Vos landed on his feet on a jutting rock, but Vram lost his grip. The boy cried out as he fell and then rolled toward the roiling orange flow.

  Vos, his body racked with pain, leapt for Vram, stretching out his hand, willing it to catch the sobbing child. Vram was too far away. Narrowing his eyes in intense concentration, Vos reached out to Vram. Suddenly the boy’s fall ceased, and his body hung suspended above the lava—just long enough for Vos to grab him by the arm.

  “Come on!”

  Vram flung his arms around his rescuer’s neck, his sharp little elbow digging into the blaster burn. Vos gritted his teeth and looked up to see Ventress, mounted on her own flea and holding the reins to his in one hand while she expertly batted away blaster bolts with her other. With an effort, Vos hurried to climb back up the boulders. When he reached Ventress, he hoisted himself and Vram into the saddle. The boy was wailing in terror, but mere moments later, as the tower that had held them prisoner shrank in the distance, both children began to cheer.

  —

  It hurt. Of course it hurt, it was a blaster burn. Vos sat in the hold with the children, who regarded him from as far away as possible. When Vos realized they were staring at his blackened, bloody shoulder, he adjusted his position so the wound was out of their line of vision. Unfortunately, he could do nothing about the reek of burned human flesh. He heard the clank of Ventress’s boots on the metal rungs of the ladder and turned to smile at her, but he could feel that it was barely a ghost of his usual cocky grin.

  She was holding a medpac and knelt beside him. A flicker of concern rippled over her features.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” Vos lied.

  Ventress glared. “It’s every bit as bad as I think, because I’ve seen them before and I know exactly what to think. I—”

  He jerked his head slightly toward the children and raised his eyebrows. She fell silent and began to treat the wound.

  Vos watched her work. Her hands were capable and cool, strangely gentle as she positioned his arm to tend every patch of blackened flesh. She sterilized the wound and applied bacta-treated bandages. The pain ceased, but Vos found himself still staring at her long, slender fingers. They wielded a lightsaber with deadly skill, controlled the Force, piloted a ship, landed one hell of a punch. For Ventress, her hands were weapons, tools. But now they touched him, for the first time, with care.

  “This,” she said as she packed away the equipment, “is why I don’t have a partner.”

  The words came before Vos even realized he’d thought them. “No,” he said quietly. “This is why you need a partner.”

  He reached out his good arm to touch her hand with his own, noting that the darker brown of his skin made her own seem even paler.

  She froze. Vos looked up to find her ice-blue gaze fixed on him. Her expression was unreadable. He swallowed, suddenly and for the first time in his adult life utterly unsure of himself.

  “We need to find the mother.” Ventress’s voice was flat. She rose, sliding her hand out from under his, and without another word marched back to the cockpit.

  What just happened? Vos had no idea. So confused was he that at first he didn’t even notice the soft sound of music coming from the corner where Laalee and Vram were huddled. Vos shook his head, clearing it.

  “Hey, Laalee,” he called genially, “what have you got there?”

  Laalee gasped and inadequately hid something behind her back. “N-nothing,” she stammered.

  Vos held out his hand. “May I see it? Please? I promise I’ll give it right back.”

  Laalee hesitated, then held out a small locket. Vos took it and opened it, revealing a miniature hologram of a Pyke female.

  “It’s Mommy,” Laalee said softly, tears welling in her eyes.

  But Vos hardly heard her. As had happened to him countless times before,
the world fell away.

  “No!” their mother screamed, struggling against the burly Falleen guards who none-too-gently were hauling her away from her children. She looked so fragile, as if they could easily snap one of her slender limbs with a single hand. And yet she fought like a nexu defending her cubs. “No! Laalee! Vram!”

  “Mommy!” Laalee shrieked.

  “Don’t take her away!” shouted Vram.

  The guard laughed nastily. It was the Falleen from The Last Resort—the one whom Vos and Ventress had tricked into revealing the location of the hostages. “Don’t worry, Ziton will take good care of her at the palace!”

  The vision cleared as abruptly as it had appeared. Dazed, Vos pushed painfully to his feet and stumbled toward the cockpit. Without preamble, he blurted, “We need to go back to the fortress. The mother’s in Ziton’s palace.”

  Ventress turned to regard him. “Really,” she said. “And how would you know that?” Her gaze fell to the locket he still clutched in his hand.

  “Laalee told me.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She had handed him the locket, and that had told him.

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “Neither of those kids seemed to know anything before.”

  Vos mustered his old grin. “Well, I guess they felt like they could trust me. I’m good with kids.”

  “You behave like their peer,” Ventress said. “I am unsurprised.” She looked at him for a moment longer. Unbidden, the memory of how her cool hands on his skin had felt returned to Vos. Then she said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Vos glanced back at the two children in the hold. “What about them?”

  “What about them?”

  “We can’t just let them run around the ship—they’re kids. They’ll have this thing reduced to scrap metal. And what if they wander off?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they had landed their ship in the courtyard, in full view of the tower and the guards stationed there. Ventress snapped down the shoulder harnesses on the containment chairs while Vram and Laalee yelped in protest.

  “Wow,” Vos said unhappily. “You sure they’re going to be okay in there?”

  Ventress looked at him, confused. “What? These restraining chairs lock down the baddest villains in the galaxy. I think they can hold a couple of kids.”

  “That…wasn’t what I meant. But all right.”

  “Vos!” Laalee whimpered, reaching out a small three-fingered hand.

  “Sorry, kid, it’s her ship.” He gave them a shrug and lifted his arms in a what-can-you-do? gesture. “Hang tight, and we’ll be back with your mother before you know it.”

  He patted Laalee on the head and grinned at Vram. He turned to face Ventress, and his smile faded. She stood with her arms folded in front of her—a defensive gesture, and he wished he knew what she was thinking.

  “Just so we’re clear,” she said, “I’ll keep them occupied while you find the mother.” She reached for the door controls.

  Unable to help himself, Vos called out softly, “Hey…”

  She turned. “What?” Her voice wasn’t chilly, but neither was it warm or inviting.

  What had he been going to say? He wasn’t sure, and now, beneath her scrutiny, he couldn’t think of anything. Finally, he said, “Try not to get yourself killed.”

  Ventress smirked, as he had known she would, but just before she opened the door and descended the ramp, Vos thought her expression melted for a moment into a genuine smile.

  He took a deep breath. Get your head in the game, he told himself, and waited until the guards’ attention was fully on Ventress before he slipped quietly down the ramp himself.

  —

  Ziton Moj was not happy.

  He had not been happy when Marg Krim had unexpectedly rejected the very lucrative offer of combining the Pyke Syndicate with Black Sun. Ziton was even unhappier that he was therefore compelled to kidnap Krim’s entire family. And he was extremely unhappy indeed to have learned that a scant twenty minutes earlier, two of his three hostages had been rescued.

  Ziton looked up at Kurg Utal as the aide approached, knowing immediately that Utal was about to make Ziton the unhappiest yet.

  “Master Ziton,” Utal said, and he came perilously close to wringing his hands, “we have been unable to find the renegades who took the children.”

  Ziton sighed. “Pity. Marg Krim knew what the penalty would be if he attempted a rescue. Prepare to execute his wife.”

  “Yes, my mas—” Utal began, but he was interrupted by the sight of his guards marching up, escorting a female with short, silver-blond hair.

  “My lord,” the head guard said, “an envoy from the Pykes is here to negotiate the release of the hostages.”

  Utal and Ziton exchanged glances, and Ziton turned to examine the newcomer. Her timing was remarkably coincidental—and Ziton was not one to believe in coincidences. She was clearly not a Pyke, and in fact did not even look like she was anything as impressively named as an “envoy.” Her leather clothing was well worn, and she had the air of a warrior rather than an unctuous diplomat.

  “Interesting,” he mused, settling back in his chair with an inviting smile. “I’d very much like to hear what you have to offer.”

  “Sorry,” the “envoy” said, “first things first. I want to see the children and the wife to make sure they’re still…” She made a show of searching for the right word. “Breathing.”

  “One thing at a time. I can show you the wife, but the children will have to wait.”

  He beckoned for Kurg to lean in and whispered, “Go forward with our plan, but bring the wife here. I will send this envoy, if such she truly is, with Tezzka Krim’s head and an eyewitness account of me severing it from her body myself.”

  “And if she is not truly an envoy?”

  “No matter. Tezzka must die regardless, and this stranger will soon follow her.”

  Kurg smiled thinly, his eyes twinkling with admiration for his master, and bowed. As he left the room, he gave the envoy a scornful glance. She met him stare for stare.

  Ziton smiled again at his visitor. “Tell me,” he mused, stroking his beard, “do you think I am a fool?”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “Why, particularly, do you ask?”

  “I know you took the children.”

  She looked convincingly surprised—and angry. “What? Are you saying you don’t have them?”

  He growled, softly, deep in his throat. The guards standing beside the envoy tensed, slightly. They knew the signs of their master’s encroaching anger.

  “How long are we going to play this game?”

  She was unmoved. “Do you really think I’d be here right now if I had taken them? You clearly don’t know how good I am at my job.”

  He had opened his mouth to retort when the door to the cells slid open. Tezzka Krim stood in the doorway, her blue eyes wide and darting about. Ziton smiled. This was going to be a pleasure. “Well, there she is.”

  “And here I am,” came a voice. A human male, dark of skin and hair and sporting a strange yellow tattoo across his face, stepped in front of the Pyke, grinning broadly.

  Surprise caused Ziton to hesitate for a fraction of a second, but then he dived for his weapon. Before he could fire it, the stranger with the yellow tattoo shot it out of his hand.

  The blond woman had already dispatched one of the burly Falleen guards and was now snapping the other’s arm with frightening casualness. Blaster bolts sang as the dark human, dodging attacks with lithe grace, shot the blasters from the hands of the guards. Ziton stared, aghast, as the intruder almost cheerfully made a show of whirling his own blasters around his fingers before holstering them, then charged the nearest guard.

  So intent on Yellow Tattoo was Ziton that he failed to notice the envoy until she was but a meter away. With an angry bellow, he exploded from his chair and met her head-on. He took a swing at her, but struck only air. Then he was stumbling backward, his head swimming and his jaw aching fro
m a well-placed kick. One foot struck the base of his throne and he collapsed into it.

  In the moment the woman took to whirl around and smash in the face of a guard who was getting too close, Ziton was up again and charging her. He was well versed in a variety of martial arts and expert in mixing styles up in such a way that his enemy could not anticipate what he might do next.

  This one somehow did.

  Almost as if the fight had been choreographed, she blocked his every blow, from the Strike of the Nexu to the Kick of the Bantha, with almost disinterested ease. The sounds of thuds and groans from his guards told him that her compatriot was easily handling three, probably four attackers at once. Who were these people?

  As if she had tired of playing with him, the envoy ceased simply defending herself and moved in for the kill. Her punches and kicks became a blur, and panic started to rise in Ziton’s throat. Dodge—parry—block—strike—

  A left hook made the world turn gray for a moment, and then she was clutching his throat. No…wait—she was standing nearly two meters away from him. Her arm was extended, her fingers curled, miming the gesture of crushing his windpipe, and yet he felt it—

  Then he was lifted up in the air. Ziton kicked and squirmed, reached up to claw invisible, incorporeal fingers from his throat as the woman spoke in a low, chilling tone.

  “I have a message from the Pykes. Don’t ever put family in the middle of this again.”

  She hurled him with such force into his throne that it toppled over. Ziton lay on the floor, gasping, and then finally the pressure around his throat disappeared. He got to his feet. Not only were the envoy and Yellow Tattoo nowhere to be seen, but neither was Tezzka Krim. Fury erased fear—fury, and embarrassment.

  Massaging his throat, he said, coughing, “Stop them! Guards! Guards!”

  He could hear more blasterfire as the guards stationed outside doubtless tried to halt the escaping trio. Surely, the two rescuers would be tired from the fight against so many in the throne room. He heard a strange noise and, rising, caught a glimpse of a blur of light off which his guards’ blaster bolts seemed to be ricocheting back at them. A lightsaber?