Dynasty of Evil

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “If the item proves unsatisfactory,” he noted as he handed it over, “I will be happy to take it back and return your funds … less a reasonable commission of course.”

  “I highly doubt that will be necessary,” Bane replied as he wrapped his fingers tightly around the tube.

  With the transaction complete there was no point in staying at the cantina. Bane was eager to open his prize, but he resisted until he was safely back inside the privacy of the library annex on his personal estate. There, beneath the pale glow of the lonely overhead light, he carefully unscrewed the lid. He tipped the tube, allowing the single sheet of paper rolled up inside to slide out.

  His instructions to Argel had been simple: be on the lookout for any book, volume, tome, manuscript, or scroll that made mention of a Sith Lord named Darth Andeddu. He couldn’t say any more than that for fear of raising suspicions or awkward questions, but he had hoped it would be enough.

  For two months his supplier had turned up nothing. But then, just as Bane was beginning to fear the Jedi had successfully buried all trace of Andeddu and his secrets, Argel had delivered.

  The scroll was yellow with age, and Bane gingerly unfurled the dry, cracked page. As he did so, he marveled at the long and untraceable chain of events that had allowed the scroll to not only survive across the millennia, but eventually make its way into his hands. He had chosen to seek the scroll out, yet on some level he felt his choice had been preordained. The scroll was part of the Sith legacy; a legacy that by all rights now belonged to Bane. It was almost as if he had been destined to find it. It was as inevitable as the dark side’s eventual triumph over the light.

  The page had been fashioned from the cured skin of an animal he couldn’t identify. On one side, it was rough and covered with dark splotches. The other side had been bleached and scraped smooth before being covered with handwritten lines in a language Bane immediately recognized.

  The letters were sharp and angular, aggressive and fierce in their design; the alphabet of the original Sith, a long-extinct species that ruled Korriban nearly one hundred thousand years ago.

  That didn’t mean the document was that old, of course. It only meant that whoever wrote it had revered and respected the Sith culture enough to adapt their language as their own.

  Bane began to read the words, struggling with the archaic tongue. As Argel had promised, he was not disappointed with the contents. The scroll was a religious proclamation declaring Darth Andeddu the Immortal and Eternal King over the entire world of Prakith. To commemorate the momentous event, the proclamation continued, a great temple would be built in his honor.

  Satisfied, Bane carefully rolled the scroll up and slid it back into the protective tube. Despite being only a few paragraphs scrawled across a single sheet of parchment, it had given him what he needed.

  Andeddu’s followers had built a temple in his honor on the Deep Core world of Prakith. There was no doubt in Bane’s mind that this was where he would find the Dark Lord’s Holocron. Unfortunately, he had to think of a way to acquire it that wouldn’t raise Zannah’s suspicions.

  Andeddu’s Holocron offered the promise of immortality; with it he could live long enough to find and train a new successor. It was unlikely his current apprentice would know the significance of the Holocron, but he wasn’t willing to take that chance. Though she was loath to challenge him directly, if she learned that he planned to replace her Bane had no doubt she would do everything in her power to stop him.

  He couldn’t allow the fear of being replaced to become the catalyst that compelled Zannah to finally challenge him. Fighting back simply because she knew she was about to be cast aside was nothing but a common survival instinct. His successors would need to do more than just survive if the Sith were ever to grow powerful enough to destroy the Jedi. Zannah’s challenge had to come from her own initiative, not as a reaction to something he did. Otherwise, it was worthless.

  This was the complex paradox of the Master–apprentice relationship, and it had put Bane into an untenable position. He couldn’t send Zannah after the Holocron, and if he went after it himself she would almost certainly suspect something. He rarely traveled offworld anymore; any journey would immediately put her on her guard. She might try to follow him, or prepare some type of trap to be sprung on his return.

  Even though she had disappointed Bane by not challenging him, Zannah was still a dangerous and formidable opponent. It was possible she might defeat him, leaving the Sith with a leader who lacked the necessary drive and ambition. Her complacency would infect the Order; eventually it would wither and die.

  He couldn’t allow that to happen. Which meant he had to find something to occupy Zannah’s attention while he made the long and arduous journey into the Deep Core.

  Fortunately, he had already had something in mind.

  * * *

  Bane’s personal study—unlike the secluded private library tucked in the back corner of the estate—was a buzzing hive of endless electronic activity. Even when unoccupied, the room was illuminated by the flickering images of HoloNet news feeds, the glow of data screens showing stock tickers from a dozen different planetary exchanges, or blinking readouts on the monitors indicating private communications filtering in from the network of informants he and Zannah had assembled over the years.

  For all the opulence and extravagance throughout the mansion, more credits had been spent on this room than any other. With all the terminals, holoprojectors, and screens, it looked more like the communications hub of a busy starport than a den in a private residence. Yet the study was no grandiose display of wealth; rather, it was a testament to efficiency and practicality. Every single piece of equipment had been carefully chosen to handle the staggering volume of data passing through the room: thousands of data units every hour, all recorded and stored for later review and analysis.

  The study helped reinforce the illusion that he and Zannah were wealthy entrepreneurs obsessively scouring news from the farthest reaches of the galaxy in search of profitable business ventures. To some degree, this was even true. Every credit spent on the study was an investment that would eventually pay off a hundredfold. Over the past decade, Bane had used the information he had gathered to grow his wealth significantly … though for the Dark Lord material riches were only a means to an end.

  He understood that power came from knowledge, and his vast fortune had allowed him to assemble the priceless collection of ancient Sith teachings he kept secured in his private library. Yet he was interested in more than just the forgotten secrets of the dark side. From the halls of the Republic Senate to the tribal councils of the most backrocket planets on the Outer Rim, the lifeblood of government was information. History was shaped by individuals who understood that information, properly exploited and controlled, could defeat any army.

  Bane had seen proof of this firsthand. The Brotherhood of Darkness was destroyed not by the Jedi and their Army of Light, but by the carefully laid plans of a single man. Ancient scrolls and manuscripts could unlock the secrets of the dark side, but to bring down the Jedi and the Republic, Bane first had to know everything about his enemies. The network of agents and go-betweens he had assembled over the years were a key part of his plan, but they weren’t enough. Individuals were fallible; their reports were biased or incomplete.

  Whenever possible, Bane preferred to rely on pure data plucked from the web of information that wove itself through every planet of the Republic. He needed to be aware of every detail of every plan put forth by the Senate and the Jedi Council. If he ever hoped to shape and manipulate galactic events to bring about the downfall of the Republic, he had to know what they were doing now and anticipate what they would do next.

  The complexity of his machinations required constant attention. He had to react to unexpected changes as they happened, altering his long-term plans to keep them on course. More important, he needed to seize upon unexpected opportunities as they arose, using them to their fullest advantage. Like the situa
tion on Doan.

  Bane had never paid this small mining world on the Outer Rim much attention before. That had changed three days ago when he noticed an expense claim submitted to the Senate for approval by a representative acting on behalf of the Doan royal family.

  It wasn’t unusual for Bane to be reviewing Senate budget reports. By law, all financial documentation filed through official Republic channels was available for public viewing … for a price, of course. The cost was high, and typically all it resulted in was an onerous list of customs regulations, taxes levied in accordance with economic treaties, or funding appeals for various projects and special-interest groups. Occasionally, however, something of true significance would filter through the clutter. In this case, it was a line-item request for the reimbursement of costs incurred by the Doan royal family to transport the body of a Cerean Jedi named Medd Tandar back to Coruscant.

  There were no further details; budget reports were rarely interested in the why. Bane, however, was very interested. What was a Jedi Knight doing on Doan? More important, how had he died?

  Ever since first seeing the report, Bane had been mining his sources to try to find the answers. He had to tread carefully where the Jedi were concerned; for the Sith to survive they had to remain hidden in the shadows. But through a long chain of bureaucrats, household servants, and paid informants, he had assembled enough facts to realize the situation was worthy of more thorough investigation.

  And so he had sent for Zannah.

  Seated behind the desk at the center of the screens and holoprojectors, he could hear her coming down the hall, the hard heels of her boots clacking against the floor with each stride. Resting on the left side of the desk was a data disk containing all the information he had compiled on Medd Tandar and his visit to Doan. He reached out for it without thinking and froze. For a brief instant his hand hovered in the air, trembling involuntarily. Then he quickly snatched it back, hiding it beneath the edge of the desk just as Zannah entered the room.

  “You sent for me, Lord Bane?”

  She made no acknowledgment of the tremor, yet Bane was certain it had not gone unnoticed. Was she playing him for a fool? Pretending not to see his weakness in the hope he would become careless and let his guard down? Or was she silently gloating while she bided her time, waiting for the dark side to simply rot his body away?

  Zannah was only ten years younger than Bane, but if the dark side was extracting a similar physical toll on her it had yet to show itself. Unlike her Master, she had never been infested with the orbalisks. It would still be many decades before the corruption of the dark side caused her body to wither.

  Her curly golden hair was still long and lustrous, her skin still smooth and perfect. Of average height, she had the figure of a gymnast: lean, lithe, and strong. She wore fitted black pants and a sleeveless red vest embroidered with silver, an outfit that was both stylish by current Ciutric standards and practical, in that it would not hinder movement.

  The handle of her twin-bladed lightsaber hung from her hip; over the past few years she had never come into her Master’s presence without it. The hooked handle of Bane’s own weapon was clipped to the belt of his breeches … it would have been foolish to leave himself unarmed and vulnerable before the apprentice who had sworn to one day kill him.

  I’m still waiting for that day, Bane thought. Out loud he said, “I need you to make a trip to the Outer Rim. A planet called Doan, where a Jedi was murdered three standard days ago.”

  “Anyone powerful enough to kill a Jedi is worthy of our attention,” Zannah admitted. “Do we know who is responsible?”

  “That is what you need to find out.”

  Zannah nodded, her eyes narrowing as she processed the information. “What was a Jedi doing on an insignificant planet in the Outer Rim?”

  “That is something else you need to find out.”

  “The Jedi will send one of their own to investigate,” she noted.

  “Not right away,” Bane assured her. “The Doan royal family is calling in political favors to delay the investigation. They’ve sent a representative to meet with the Jedi Council on Coruscant instead.”

  “The royal family must be rich; those kinds of favors don’t come cheap. Small world, but not widely known—yet with wealthy royals. Valuable resources? Mining?” she guessed.

  Zannah had always been able to grasp bits of information and put them together into something meaningful. She would have been a worthy successor, if she had only possessed the ambition to seize the Sith throne.

  “The planet’s been carved down nearly to the core. There are only a few habitable kilometers of land left on the surface; all food has to be shipped in. Most of the population live and work in the strip mines.”

  “Sounds charming,” she muttered, before adding, “I’ll leave tonight.”

  Bane nodded, dismissing her. Only after she was gone did he dare to place his still-quivering hand back on top of the desk.

  The death of a Jedi was always of interest to him, but in truth he cared about finding Andeddu’s Holocron far more than he did about the outcome of Zannah’s mission.

  Fortunately, the incident on Doan offered the perfect distraction. Investigating the Outer Rim world would keep his apprentice occupied while he braved the dangerous hyperspace routes into the Core to retrieve the Holocron. If things went as he hoped, he would be back long before she returned to give him her report, with Zannah none the wiser.

  Confident in his plan, Bane focused all his concentration on calming the tremor that still gripped his hand. But for all his power, for all his mental discipline, the muscles continued to twitch involuntarily. In frustration, he balled up his fist and slammed it once hard upon the surface of the desk, leaving a faint impression in the soft wood.

  4

  Ciutric IV’s twin moons shone brightly down on Zannah’s airspeeder as it zipped through the night sky. The evening’s rain clouds were just beginning to build; they were still no more than wispy veils that simply tore apart as her vehicle ripped through them. On the ground below, still a few kilometers ahead, she could see the lights of Daplona’s primary spaceport.

  A light on the nav panel blinked a warning, indicating she was approaching the two-kilometer limit of restricted airspace that surrounded the port. Her hands moving with casual precision over the controls, she brought the speeder in for a landing at the section reserved for those wealthy enough to afford private hangars for their personal shuttles.

  As the vehicle gently touched down on the pad located on the starport’s perimeter, three men scurried out to meet her. The first, a valet, tended to her speeder, whisking it away toward the secure lot where it would be parked until she returned. The second man, a porter, loaded her luggage onto a small hoversled then waited patiently as the third man approached.

  “Good evening, Mistress Omek,” he greeted her.

  From their first arrival on Ciutric, Zannah and Bane had worked hard to build up their identities as Allia and Sepp Omek. After nearly a decade, she was able to slip into the role of the wealthy import–export trader without even thinking about it.

  “Chet,” she said with a nod to the customs official as the young man handed her an official-looking form.

  For the common masses, arrivals and departures at the Daplona spaceport were a long and arduous process. Because the world was built on commerce and trade, the government required copies of trip itineraries, verification of ship registration, and a host of forms and permits to be filled out before the port authority would clear a vessel, its contents, or its passengers. This frequently involved a thorough inspection of the ship’s interior by customs personnel, with the official explanation being increased planetary security. However, everyone knew inspections were actually meant to discourage merchants from trying to transport undeclared merchandise in the hope of avoiding interstellar taxes and tariffs.

  Fortunately, Zannah didn’t have to worry about any of that. She simply signed the departure form and hand
ed it back to Chet. One of the chief benefits of maintaining a private hangar at the port was the ability to come and go at will. In exchange for their substantial monthly hangar fees, the government kept its nose out of her and Bane’s business … a bargain at nearly any price as far as she was concerned.

  “You’ll be taking your private shuttle, I assume.”

  “That’s right,” she replied. “The Victory over in hangar thirteen.”

  “I’ll alert the control tower.”

  Chet gave a curt nod to the porter, who headed off with the hoversled in the direction of the hangar.

  “Just a moment,” the customs official said softly to Zannah, causing her to hang back.

  “Heard some news I thought you might be interested in,” he continued once the porter had disappeared around the corner. “Argel Tenn touched down a few days ago to meet with your brother.”

  Zannah had never met Argel, but she knew who he was and what he did. Over the past few years she had slowly been gathering information on all the members in Darth Bane’s network of contacts; they could prove useful to her once she took over the Sith. She didn’t know if Argel’s arrival was relevant or not: Bane was always looking to acquire rare Sith manuscripts, and it could just be a coincidence. Nevertheless, she filed the knowledge away in case it should ever prove handy.

  “Thanks for the update,” she said, slipping Chet a fifty-credit chip before heading off toward her private hangar.

  The porter was already there, waiting with her bags by the shuttle. Zannah punched in the security code, causing the boarding ramp to lower.

  “Put everything in the back,” she instructed, smiling and handing the porter a ten-credit chip.

  “Right away, mistress,” he replied, the tip disappearing instantly into a pocket somewhere on his uniform as he hustled to load her baggage.

  Zannah kept the smile plastered on her face while he worked. She made a point of being friendly with everyone at the spaceport. She saw it as an investment in the future—the cultivation of a potential resource. The members of the Senate and other powerful individuals might shape galactic policy, but it was the bureaucrats, government officials, and various other low-level political functionaries who actually made things run … and they were so much easier to deal with than the political elite. A few kind words and a handful of small bribes, and Zannah could get anything she needed without attracting unwanted attention. Just as she had done with Chet.