He charged out in time to see the envoy gripping Tezzka’s arm and rushing her up the ramp of a waiting ship. The blaster bolts struck the ramp mere centimeters from their running feet, then the two women disappeared inside.
The guards turned all their focus onto Yellow Tattoo. He responded by grabbing a guard and thrusting the unfortunate Falleen in front of him, using him as a shield. Then the stranger hurled the massive body at the other guards—and Ziton—who were closing in on him. As the two guards stumbled, knocked off balance, the stranger sprinted for the ship. It was already lifting off, and the stranger was forced to leap to catch ahold of the retracting ramp.
Ziton seized a blaster from one of the fallen guards and took aim. Blaster bolts whizzed past the intruder, who somehow managed to clamber up the ramp to the safety of the ship in the nick of time.
The last Ziton saw of him, as the ramp closed and the ship took off, was a cocky wave.
—
After the excitement of the narrow escape came a joyous and tear-filled reunion. Ventress could hear small voices shouting, “Mommy! Mommy!” and the soft, murmured sobs as Tezzka doubtless hugged her children tight.
“I love happy endings,” Vos, who was seated behind her, said. She could tell he was smiling by the warmth in his voice. “And you, Asajj Ventress, were fantastic back there with Ziton. That guy was upset.”
Normally, after a successful mission, Ventress eased comfortably into conversation with Vos. But this time, something felt different. There was tension between them now, and she was at a loss.
As she had told Vos at the outset, she didn’t mix business with pleasure. While it was true that her life was mostly business, pleasure did happen occasionally. But never anything that lasted beyond the single encounter. And never, ever, with someone she worked with and respected.
Ventress had no idea how to process the utterly alien emotions his hand on hers had created. She was alone, and she was strong that way. There would be no mate, no children such as Tezzka now embraced tightly.
So she simply did not reply. Vos tried again to strike up a conversation, but eventually fell silent.
They stayed that way for the entire trip.
—
When the Banshee settled down on Oba Diah’s landing platform, Vos told her to go in without him. He would stay behind, he said, and prep the ship for their departure while she got their credits. The younglings begged him to come with them, but he just smiled and hugged them good-bye.
That wasn’t like the Quinlan Vos whom Ventress had come to know. Something was definitely amiss. She awkwardly accepted Marg Krim’s thanks and, much less awkwardly, the extremely large pile of credits he gave her.
“We’ll need to refuel shortly,” Vos told her when she returned. “And I could use a drink after all that running around in a hot place.” He sounded like his old self, and he grinned, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. So, that was how he was going to play it. Fine with her.
“Catch,” she said, and tossed a bag containing half the credits his way.
He deftly obeyed, then frowned. “This is too much.”
“Marg Krim was pleased. In his excitement, he doubled our payment.”
“Great,” Vos said. “More to spend at the bar. Shall we get going?” His enthusiasm sounded forced.
Ventress frowned, but didn’t push. She never liked it when someone hounded her, so she extended the same courtesy to Vos. Silently she laid in the coordinates for a nearby planet.
They had just left atmosphere when about a dozen ships came out of hyperspace. Ventress’s eyes widened. The vessels were a collection of fighters and Interceptor-class frigates—all bearing the stark, ugly symbol of a spiked sun with a circle in the center like an all-seeing eye.
Black Sun.
“No,” said Vos, his voice a broken moan. “No…”
Ventress saw in her mind’s eye the children hugging Vos, felt for just a moment Laalee’s soft little hands wrapped around her neck and shoulders as she ran.
Then, because there was nothing else she could do, Ventress flipped the controls and the Banshee went into hyperspace.
—
They headed for the bar first. Vos ordered in a flat voice, knocked back a shot, and asked for another.
Ventress sipped her own drink in silence. While she said nothing, he knew she was watching him. He kept his face expressionless, which cost him, and behind the mask he suffered. Had Black Sun followed—no, they knew where the Krim family lived: They’d abducted Tezzka, Laalee, and Vram easily enough. They had simply come to finish the job. Vos knew in his heart what would happen. Black Sun would execute them, and leave Marg Krim to behold their bloody bodies while at the same time trying to fight for his own life.
His fist hurt. Blinking, he looked down to see he’d slammed it on the bar. Slowly he raised his head. Everyone was staring at them. Suddenly, he couldn’t stand being in the crowd of people. He downed another shot, the burn of the liquor almost painful as it trickled its way to his stomach, tossed some credits on the bar, and turned to Ventress.
“Let’s walk,” he said. She raised an eyebrow, but accompanied him.
Dawn was breaking on this world, and the streets were largely deserted. In the forgiving light of the first rays of the sun, everything looked new, even the things that were battered, broken, and dirty.
But Vram and Laalee wouldn’t see another sunrise.
Impulsively, he grabbed the small pouch that he kept in his shirt. Tugging it out, he thrust it at Ventress. “Here. You earned this.”
Ventress scrutinized him, not taking the money. “Don’t bail on me now, Vos,” she said quietly. “We’re just starting to make a good team.”
“But we aren’t a team,” he said. He hadn’t known what he intended to say, but the words spilled out of him in a rush, as if they had been dammed too long and were eager for freedom. “For a team to work, there’s got to be trust. And—I haven’t been truthful with you about who I am.”
He took a deep breath. “Asajj…I’m a Jedi.”
“I know,” Ventress replied.
That, Vos hadn’t expected. It threw him utterly. “Y-you do? How?”
She gave him a little smile that was much gentler than her usual smirk. “I’m not a fool. I see what you can do. Those cat-quick reflexes of yours. Your fall back on Mustafar? That should have killed you and Vram.”
“Oh,” Vos managed weakly.
“Why?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, deciding how much he should tell her. The answer came, clear and true: Everything.
“The Jedi Council has ordered me to kill Count Dooku. They thought the best way to do that was through you.”
She folded her arms, but she looked more curious than anything else. “Elaborate.”
He did. He told her that the Jedi Council, and now he, knew that Dooku had cast her aside and tried to kill her. That she knew Dooku better than anyone. That she had tried, alone, to kill her former Master, and failed both times. That Master Yoda thought that, together, she and Vos would succeed.
Ventress listened without interrupting. When Vos fell silent, she said, “I’m surprised that the Jedi Council would take such action—not that I disapprove of it, mind you. But it’s a big step from Jedi to assassin. I’ve watched you struggle with some of the things we’ve done, Vos. And trust me, you’ve only seen a very sanitized version of what goes down in a usual bounty hunt.” She shook her head. “Your Council doesn’t fully appreciate what it will take to accomplish this goal.”
“I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”
“I respect your confidence,” she said, a hint of a smile playing around her full lips. “And,” she added more seriously, “your honesty. I don’t normally encounter someone with both. You’re a rare breed, Vos. But Dooku…I’m not sure you’re ready for that kind of fight.”
“Then make me ready. That’s what the Council sent me to you for.”
She started to turn away. “You don’t
understand what you’re asking.”
Impulsively he caught her arm. Ventress glanced from his hand to his face, almost wary. “Then tell me. Make me understand.”
She faced him then, her eyes searching his. “It will require you to forsake nearly everything that it means to be a Jedi. But you have already begun down that path, I think. Your grief over the deaths of the Krim family does not speak of nonattachment.”
He frowned. “Jedi aren’t without emotion. We’re allowed to grieve.”
“Perhaps,” Ventress allowed, “but somehow I don’t think most Jedi try to drown the pain with alcohol and slam their fists on the table.”
“No,” Vos admitted. Her words were truer than he dared let her know. But one truth he could speak. “I…Ventress, this war…” He shook his head. “The Council’s right. All our resources are being poured into it, and it’s a bottomless pit. A victory here, a loss there—we’re too busy simply reacting to the next crisis. We’re Jedi, not generals. We should be fighting organizations like Black Sun, doing things that make a difference. Dooku is the war. When he dies, it’s over. With him gone, the Jedi could really help people again, really do something that makes a lasting difference. More than just a single rescue here and there that in the end doesn’t…”
Vos swallowed hard. He realized his fingers were digging into her arm. Ventress didn’t seem concerned, but he forced himself to loosen his grip slightly and took a breath.
“So—yes. I want Dooku dead now. His death will fix everything.”
Ventress placed a hand on his chest. His heart sped up beneath her fingers and he knew she could feel it. Gently, she said, “You will have to harden that soft heart of yours.”
“Whatever I have to do, whatever I have to become—I’ll do it. I’ll be it.”
She regarded him steadily, then said, “We shall see.”
—
Seated in the dim shadows of the 1313 bar, Obi-Wan Kenobi resisted the urge to check the time again. He knew Vos was late; he didn’t need to know exactly how late. The information would serve nothing except to make Kenobi more irritated than he already was.
In many ways, Vos was the perfect choice for this mission. He had a knack for quickly and thoroughly ingratiating himself with anyone.
But Asajj Ventress wasn’t just anyone. She was, in fact, that rare thing—an enemy Kenobi admired. And, if all went according to plan, a soon-to-be ally.
He took a deep breath, reaching gently into the Force to place a layer of calm on his irritation, like oil upon water. It helped, and eventually, a familiar figure stepped into the bar and made his way to Kenobi’s table.
“You’re late,” Kenobi said without preamble, adding pointedly, “again.”
Vos shot him his usual grin. “Hey, at least I’m consistent.”
He dropped into the chair, put his booted feet on the table, and placed his hands behind his head, looking utterly at home.
“How is your mission progressing?”
“I’ve made some real progress. As expected.” With the tip of his boot, he gently tapped his empty glass and lifted his eyebrows in query. Kenobi sighed lightly, and reached across the table.
“No trouble with our new ‘friend’?” he inquired, filling Vos’s cup.
“None at all. In fact, she’s been quite helpful. Says she’s got contacts within the Separatist Alliance that are indebted to her. They’ll contact her when one of them knows where Dooku will be next.”
Kenobi slid the glass across the table. Vos caught it just as it was about to tip over. “And you trust her?”
Vos drained the drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Something prickled in Kenobi, a sense that things were not right. Vos was taking just a little too long in replying. Only a Jedi—and one who knew Vos well, at that—would have noticed.
“Yes,” Vos said firmly, “I do.” He slid the glass back over to Kenobi for a refill.
Obi-Wan searched his friend’s face. Beneath the expression of absolute confidence, he looked…vulnerable. In a kind voice, he said, “Have caution, Quinlan. Ventress is nothing if not manipulative. She won’t hesitate to use your trust against you the instant it serves her own selfish purposes.”
Back the glass slid across the table. Vos caught it and looked Kenobi right in the eye. “She’s been faithful to me.”
That’s a curious choice of words, Kenobi thought, and the unease stirred inside him again. But there was nothing to be done. He had warned Vos, and he could do no more. The other Jedi, after all, was a fellow Master, and one who had been in this sort of duplicitous situation many more times than Kenobi had.
He contented himself with saying, “For now.” They clinked their glasses and drank. Kenobi placed his down on the table and rose, donning his helmet and clapping Vos on the shoulder.
But even as he left, he couldn’t shake the peculiar sense of foreboding.
—
Ventress set the coordinates for a world to which she had never desired to return, but she knew in her heart it was the right place to begin Vos’s training.
He clearly sensed her need for silence and respected it, though knowing him, he was probably bursting with curiosity. When they came out of hyperspace and the red planet filled the viewport, Ventress felt a dull, sick ache—a sensation she knew would only grow sharper with what was about to unfold.
She brought the Banshee in for a landing beneath the curving, blackened trunks of what had once been eighty-meter-high trees. A few had escaped the flames, and some of them still bore poignant, precious fruit. Ventress sat for a moment in the cockpit, opening to the pain, letting it slice her soul like a knife across an open palm, her grief, hatred, and guilt dripping out like blood. It had been less than a year since the slaughter, and the wound was still fresh and raw.
Without a word to Vos, she rose, went to the door, and tapped the controls to open it and extend the ramp. He followed as she descended, looking first at her, then gazing upon the red-tinted, mist-wreathed world. He stiffened abruptly. Ventress suspected he was sensing the grip the dark side had upon her birthplace; how strong it was, and how deep it went.
“Do you remember sharing Lassa Rhayme’s whiskey that night?” Ventress asked quietly. He nodded. “I asked you what your story was, and you said you didn’t have one. Do you recall what I said when you asked me that question?”
“You said you had quite a few of them, but none of them ended well,” Vos replied, quietly.
“I’m going to share one of those stories with you now,” Ventress said, her voice huskier than usual with emotion. “About a sisterhood. And a girl who was taken from it, and came back home.”
She walked among the faint shadows of the trees and heard Vos’s swift intake of breath as, now, he saw the skeletons of more than a forest. None remained intact; the scavengers had done their jobs, but here and there was the unmistakable shape of a human skull.
“When I was an infant, my clan was forced to surrender me to a criminal. I became his slave, but he was a surprisingly kind master. He was killed when I was still quite young during an attack by Weequay raiders. I was rescued by a Jedi Knight named Ky Narec, who sensed that I was strong in the Force. He was stranded on Rattatak, and he took me under his wing. I became his Padawan.”
“You were trained by a Jedi?” Vos stared openly at her.
Ventress nodded and clenched her teeth for a moment. Sorrow gripped her heart, and she let it. “For ten years, we helped the people of Rattatak. We became heroes—to most. But to some, we were the enemy.”
“The Jedi are always enemies to some,” Vos said.
“Narec died in front of my eyes. He, too, was killed by Weequay,” Ventress continued. Speaking the words opened the gates even more, and she felt a flare of the old, never-quite-gone pain…and the comfort, cold but real, of hatred. “You may have noticed I dislike them. I vowed vengeance, and I got it. Soon, the warlords were dead, and I ruled in their place. It was on Rattatak that Dooku found me, and I him.” S
he shrugged. “I hated the Jedi for abandoning my Master, and Dooku wanted an apprentice as filled with hatred as he was. It was a good match.”
“So…what changed?”
Her lip curled in a snarl as she recalled Dooku’s words. “He abandoned me without warning. He said I had failed him for the last time, and left me for dead. But I survived, and I vowed to kill him. I knew I would need allies if I were to succeed. And so I came home.” She gestured to the place in which they stood. “Home to the Nightsisters, where I was made welcome, and our clan leader, Mother Talzin, helped me plot my revenge. Twice, I attempted to assassinate Dooku. Twice, I failed.”
Ventress turned to regard Vos intently. She could tell he sensed the deep anguish of the place. His gaze fell to the ground, lingering on the broken remains of a Nightsister’s bow.
“Dathomir is where you got your bow, isn’t it?” Wordlessly, Ventress nodded. “No wonder it is so important to you.” He bent, picked up the bow respectfully…
…and gasped. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his body went taut. His eyes widened, seeing not what was here now, but what had been here then—
The bow tumbled from his shaking fingers and he stepped back from it. Recovering, he said, “I’m sorry, I—my talent, my psychometry…When I hold an object and focus on it, sometimes I can see and hear things that have happened during its history. And sometimes…sometimes I can feel what happened.”
“Then you know that Dooku ordered the massacre,” Ventress said quietly. “It happened the same night that I undertook the ritual to become a true Nightsister. Dooku sent General Grievous here with an army. We responded with the same. We used our magicks…and we summoned the dead.”
She gestured to an area of trees that had managed to escape the fire, and pointed to the large sacks that hung like giant teardrops.
“These contain the bodies of my sisters,” Ventress said. She reached to caress the smooth casing. “When one dies, so I was told, we perform a ritual to honor her. We bathe her in a sacred pool, then enclose her in this pod. In this way, a sister never truly leaves us. She is dead, but she is nestled inside something vibrant and alive. She is suspended between sky and soil, because she is truly of neither. She is always near, always part of the clan. I was taught that our dead sisters can share our celebrations of joy, and our ceremonies of grief. And that one night—they shared our fight.”
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