Dark Disciple

by Christie Golden

  For some reason, the irritation bled out of her. All she felt was exhaustion, and a hopelessness that needed to be shut down, right now, lest it run over her completely. She repeated, in the same calm voice, “I need your help.”

  He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “After what you did to me on Quarzite?” As she had suspected, Fett, indeed, had not gotten over being insulted, Force-choked, bound, gagged, and tossed into a trunk. Even if Ventress had left everyone their fair share of payment.

  He got up to leave, disgusted. Ventress shot her hand across the table, shoving him back into his seat. “Sit,” she snapped, stabbing a finger at him.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I need your help.”

  Latts Razzi and Bossk, hovering just outside the booth, exchanged glances. Latts shook her head in disbelief.

  “And,” Ventress said, including the two of them in the conversation, “I’m willing to pay. I want to hire you and your syndicate.”

  That got everyone’s attention, even Boba’s. He looked unconvinced as he replied, “That’s going to be expensive. If I even decide to bother with you.”

  “I have the money.”

  His brows drew together. “Credits won’t square you and me.” He took a swig of his drink and drew his sleeve across his mouth.

  “Not even a hundred thousand credits?” Ventress asked.

  Latts’s eyes grew large as saucers, and Bossk’s jaw closed in astonishment. Boba looked at Ventress evenly.

  “No. Not even two hundred thousand credits.”

  Ventress had underestimated how badly she had wounded the boy’s pride. It was proving to be an expensive mistake.

  “Two hundred fifty.”

  That got him. Boba’s mouth hung open for three full seconds before he closed it. Latts and Bossk glanced at each other, and then, in perfect step, they moved forward.

  “We’ll take the job,” Bossk said.

  “Absolutely!” Latts agreed immediately.

  Boba stared at them. “But—you don’t even know what it is!”

  Latts shrugged. “For two hundred fifty thousand credits, I don’t care!”

  Boba looked at Ventress, then at his bounty hunters. He threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine!” He sank back sullenly. “But the Syndicate gets its cut. You guys have fun.” Fett took another long pull at his drink. He looked profoundly irritated with all of them.

  “No deal,” Ventress said bluntly. “I want the whole team.” She counted them out on her fingers. “Bossk. Latts. Highsinger. Embo. And Boba Fett.”

  Boba narrowed his eyes. He looked at her in silence for a long moment. Then he leaned back and asked, “What’s the job?”

  Ventress had planned out exactly what she was going to say. “A rescue mission. One man, on Serenno. We get in, we get out—you get paid.”

  Boba considered. “You know the layout of where we’re going? The defenses, the weak points?”

  “As if I lived there,” she replied smoothly.

  Boba suddenly slammed down his drink and leaned in to her. “It can’t be that easy. There’s more to this than you’re saying, I know it.”

  Ventress knew something, too—how to play Fett. “There are always variables. Any experienced hunter knows that.” She put exactly the right amount of inflection into the word, and sure enough Boba fairly bristled at the implied slight. He grabbed his helmet, having obviously had enough of the conversation.

  “We get paid up front, or no deal. Transfer the credits today.”

  Ventress inclined her head. She’d been expecting this demand, just as she’d expected to have to up her initial offer. The sum represented almost everything she had saved up during her time as a bounty hunter. But if they could do it—if they could get Vos out of that hellhole where Dooku was doubtless torturing him—Ventress wouldn’t care if she earned another credit as long as she lived.

  Latts and Bossk looked like children who’d just been given presents. “Yessss!” hissed Bossk gleefully. Latts, grinning from ear to ear, playfully punched his breastplate in a show of solidarity.

  Boba still looked as if he had taken a bite of something particularly nasty. “Go get Highsinger and Embo ready. We’ll run through the basic layout of the mission in one hour.” They nodded and practically skipped off. He watched them go, then turned back to Ventress.

  “For the record—” Ventress looked up to find his blaster three centimeters from her face. This, she hadn’t expected. “—I know you’re going to betray us at some point. They might not see it, but I do.”

  She gazed at him evenly, hiding her surprise.

  “And also, just for the record,” he continued pleasantly, “I’m not the kid you left behind on Quarzite. You double-cross me again—you’ll pay for it.”

  He twirled the blaster around his finger before holstering it, then shoved his helm on his head and followed Bossk and Latts.

  More time passed. More torture, more screams, more nightmares in the few moments when Vos passed out long enough to have them. He dreamed of darkness and blood, of fear of danger known, which was bad, and danger imagined, which was worse.

  The worst dreams of all were of Ventress. Sometimes she was his torturer, sneering as she blasted him with Force lightning, reveling in his pain. She told him that everything she had said, everything they had shared together, was a lie, and reveled in the fact that this hurt him far more than physical pain.

  But the dreams Vos dreaded even more than those were the ones where he held Ventress in his arms. When she told him she loved him, and he knew it to be true.

  His senses had grown dull. He had no taste or hunger for food, no sensitivity to anything but the agony of the various methods the droid used to inflame his nerves or lacerate and then heal his body. Vos alternated between numb and sluggish and excruciatingly alive with torment. He ate only because some part of him knew he needed to keep up what little strength he had left. He, Dooku, and the droid had been performing this dance for enough time that Vos’s muscles were beginning to weaken, except for those that screamed constantly from being placed in positions they were never designed to execute.

  The dreams this time had been particularly bad, so when the droid came to awaken him, Vos actually welcomed it. He was surprised when the droid deactivated the force field that had held him suspended by his arms. Unable to catch himself, he fell awkwardly as he dropped a meter to the floor. Stiff from lack of movement for so very long, his shoulders and arms were on fire, and Vos bit back a scream. It felt like the snake venom that had coursed through his system on Dathomir, which led back to thoughts of Ventress.

  “Get up,” the droid ordered. When Vos failed to comply, the droid signaled. Two battle droids appeared and snapped to attention. The torture droid deactivated the force field and the battle droids stepped inside. They wrenched Vos’s arms behind his back and snapped on a pair of binders, then each took one of his arms. As they dragged him out of the cell, the agony in his arms increased a thousandfold, and once again blackness descended.

  Vos came to when he was tossed to the ground. He lay there for a moment, then became aware of the smells. Roasted meats, the tang of freshly cut fruits, the sweet fragrance of just-baked pastries—real food, not the tasteless stuff he had been forced to consume. Moisture flooded his mouth, and for the first time since the hideous ordeal began, his stomach rumbled. Slowly, hissing, he pushed himself up to a kneeling position and took in his surroundings.

  The room was large and lavish. Fine art from a variety of worlds hung on the walls. The carpeting beneath Vos was thick and comfortable. Soft music came from somewhere, and a large, ornately carved cabinet hung on the wall. All these things, Vos noticed only fleetingly. His eyes were riveted on the display before him, which was both inviting and obscene. There were, quite literally, dozens of foodstuffs on a dining table that could easily have seated sixteen.

  And at the head of it, pouring effervescent wine into a fluted glass, sat Count Dooku.

 
; He lifted the glass in a toast to Vos. “Welcome,” he said, and drank.

  This was perhaps the worst torture yet, but Vos steeled himself. If Dooku thought to see him beg for table scraps, the count would be sorely disappointed.

  Vos swallowed so he could speak. “Well, look at you and your pampered life.” His voice dripped contempt. “Your servants, your feast, your palace. It must have been so easy for you to turn your back on the Jedi Order.”

  Dooku cut another bite from the thick, rare steak and lifted it to his mouth. Juices dripped onto the plate. He chewed with obvious enjoyment, dabbed at his lips with the napkin, and then replied.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I live a privileged existence now. But like you, Vos, I too was taken from my home as an infant and raised in the Jedi Temple. It was only later in my life that I discovered my true heritage—a legacy of power and pedigree that was far too intimidating for the Council to accept.”

  A plate was set at the far end of the table. Food was within easy reach of it, and the flute of wine had been filled. Clearly, Vos would be welcome to dine with the count—if he requested it. Vos tried to decide which was the smarter course of action—refusing to give Dooku the satisfaction of eating, or taking the chance to consume some real food that would increase his strength.

  “Pedigree,” he scoffed. “Like an animal. You could have done so much, helped so many people. Instead you used that legacy to spread your evil throughout the galaxy.” The fragrance of the freshly baked bread in front of him almost broke him.

  Dooku rose from his seat, setting down his napkin and picking up his glass of wine. He walked to the entrance of a large, open balcony and pulled back the gently billowing curtains. For the first time since he had been taken, Vos had a sense of time. It was night, here on whatever world he was on, and the stars glittered serenely, teasing him with a freedom he didn’t have.

  “Evil?” Dooku chuckled. “What a childish notion. Unworthy of you, Vos. Today’s lesson begins with this.” He turned and regarded Vos, the glass still in hand. “There is no good or evil. Only those with power, and those without it.”

  Vos grunted in disgust. He had decided against eating. If he started, he wasn’t sure he could stop, and he refused to let Dooku see just how famished he was.

  “Your Master Tholme understood this.” Dooku tossed out this verbal grenade with utter casualness.

  For a moment a sheet of red darkened Vos’s vision, and he was so outraged he couldn’t breathe.

  “How dare you speak his name! You murdered him!”

  Dooku looked convincingly surprised, and then almost sad. “Ah…so that’s what she said. Given your, er, relationship with Ventress, I wondered if you knew the truth. It was she who killed your Master, not I.”

  “You lie!” shouted Vos, trying to rise. The droids shoved him back down.

  “No, Quinlan. I don’t have to lie.” Dooku shook his head. He stepped into the hall and motioned. A moment later, a squat technical droid rolled into the room. Dooku went to it and tapped a few controls as he spoke.

  “One of the many advantages of having a droid army in the field is the ability to study the battle recording. Win or lose, I always find the holorecord…illuminating.”

  A final tap, and Dooku straightened. The droid chirped and then began to project the scene of a battle on a planet Vos couldn’t identify. He could make out the figures of what seemed like countless battle droids locked in combat with hundreds of clones. A major conflict, then. Vos’s throat tightened, dreading what he would see.

  “Magnify,” ordered Dooku. The hologram shifted, then narrowed its focus to a handful of combatants.

  One of them was Master Tholme. Despite himself, Vos gasped slightly. He was surprised at how painful it was to behold an image of his Master. Tholme’s gray-streaked black hair was held back in a long ponytail. He stood his ground, his lightsaber, green as Vos’s own, a blur as he shouted out orders and cut down battle droids.

  Suddenly there came two flashes of red. A woman—bald, pale as the stars, clad in black leather and expertly wielding twin lightsabers, appeared.

  Asajj Ventress.

  The Jedi and the Sith acolyte engaged in a heated fight. Ventress’s lightsabers had unusually curved hilts, so that she needed to wield them in a slightly different manner from the standard, straight lightsabers. Vos watched, forgetting to breathe, horrified but unable to tear his gaze away from the brutal spectacle. Then, so swiftly Vos couldn’t even see what happened, Ventress had gotten the upper hand.

  Tholme’s lightsaber went flying. Ventress pointed both her weapons at Tholme. He raised his hands and knelt before her. Surrendering.

  Ventress ran him through.

  One glowing blade pierced Tholme’s heart. The other gutted him. Vos’s beloved Master fell to the ground.

  “Freeze” came Dooku’s voice, as if from far away. Vos’s blood thundered in his ears. He stared at the miniature Tholme, dead, and at the tiny Ventress, standing before the treacherously slain Jedi and grinning in triumph.

  “Ventress was a fair apprentice,” Dooku continued. “However, as she became more powerful, her lust for bloodshed could not be sated. She grew ever more violent and unpredictable.”

  Vos stared, his gaze roving the face he had caressed, the lips he had kissed.

  “She slaughtered Master Tholme, against my orders. We had the battle won, there was no reason to justify the death of an old friend.” Dooku’s voice, bizarrely, was kind, like that of a father comforting a devastated son.

  “But—why would she do this? Keep this from me?” Vos’s voice sounded shattered, even to him.

  “Ventress has a hunger for power. That is what she truly desires, and she would do anything, lie to anyone, to get what she wants.”

  Dazed, Vos shook his head. His whole body ached from the motion. “No. No, not to me.”

  Dooku stepped closer, staring down at Vos. “Especially to you. I know. You thought you knew her, as I did. You thought she cared for you, but she was doing nothing but spinning a web of lies. Lies that I can free you from, as I freed myself!”

  Vos didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the droid that had shown him such a horrible truth.

  Or…had it?

  He blinked. There was something about Dooku and recordings…what was it? And then he remembered. Now Vos stared up at the count, his mind clear and focused once again, his voice strong.

  “You falsified this recording,” Vos snarled. “You erased yourself and put Ventress in your place. It’s easy to do. You’ve tried to fool the Jedi with this trick before!”

  Dooku looked at him sadly. “You grasp at straws, Vos. I understand why. It is a hard thing to accept, that the world you thought you knew was not the truth. It is difficult to step away from everything, to let go. But do it, Vos. Come away from that false world. Join me!”

  “I will never join you!”

  Dooku turned away, pacing, now and then glancing back at Vos as if trying to make up his mind about something. “I think I must show you the cabinet, after all,” he said. “Truly, I would have spared you this, if I could have. Remember that I did try.”

  “The cabinet,” Vos repeated. “What’s that, some fun new style of torture?”

  “That all depends on you, Quinlan. It will, truly, be in your own hands.”

  “I think I’d like to go back to my prison cell. I prefer straightforward torment to this preposterous game you’re playing. You won’t break me, Dooku.”

  “You know, I believe I won’t,” agreed the count, surprising Vos. “But you will break all the same. And it will be your choice to do so.”

  Dooku walked toward the end of the room and stood before the cabinet. Vos tensed, not knowing what new horror Dooku would subject him to this time.

  “Your proof is in here,” Dooku said.

  “You think if your little holoshow didn’t convince me, something else will?” Vos sneered.

  “I do,” the count replied with complete confidence.
A chill shivered through Vos. Dooku seemed so certain. Vos felt sweat break out on his forehead and beneath his arms. What the hell was in that deceptively ordinary-looking cabinet? With one final, almost regretful glance at Vos, Dooku opened the cabinet’s double doors.

  Mounted with great care, resplendent against a padded background of blue velvet, hung at least twenty lightsabers. A portion of the case was bare; Dooku had left room for the collection to expand.

  Vos swallowed hard, fighting nausea, unable to tear his eyes away. “Whenever Grievous or Ventress cut down a Jedi, they brought me these little souvenirs of the battle,” Dooku said in a casual tone. “They make for quite the handsome display, don’t you think?”

  I remember that battle.

  You were there?

  No. Dooku bragged about it to me. It was he who killed your Master. He even kept Tholme’s lightsaber as a trophy.

  Blood thundered in Vos’s ears. The hilts were crafted of metal, or wood, or even gems, each as unique as the Jedi who had made it. With a soft sound Vos closed his eyes and turned his head.

  “Make him look,” Dooku ordered sharply, and there was steel in his voice. A battle droid dug its metal fingers into Vos’s hair and yanked his head back.

  “I believe in the old adage Know your enemy,” Dooku said. “I’ve spent a considerable amount of time studying the Jedi Masters. I know their strengths, their weaknesses—and their unique skills. For instance, I know that you, Quinlan Vos, have the rare gift of psychometry.”

  And with a sickening realization, Vos suddenly knew what Dooku was about to do.

  “Free his hands,” Dooku said to the droids. Vos stayed completely still as the droids obeyed their master. He flexed his wrists, ignoring the sensation of numb limbs tingling to life, and got to his feet, stumbling awkwardly.

  “I’m certain you’ll want to determine the truth in a way it is impossible for you to deny,” Dooku continued. A thought seemed to occur to him. “Although…I imagine it will be more than a trifle unpleasant. Isn’t it true that, in addition to seeing and hearing things regarding the object you touch, you will also experience what its owner felt? Hmm?”