Dark Disciple

by Christie Golden

  “May the Force be with him” was all he said.

  —

  “Here we go.” Ventress hit the controls and the Banshee dropped out of hyperspace. “Keep your eye on the comm channels.”

  “On it,” Vos replied. “I hope Sumdin’s clearance code is accurate, or this could get very interesting very quickly.”

  “It will be. Sumdin is thorough. Transmitting now.”

  Ventress angled the vessel to merge smoothly with a moderately heavy flow of space traffic heading toward Raxus. Up ahead was the checkpoint—a blockade of massive vessels. Vos kept his eyes on the comm channel as they passed close by one of the enormous ships.

  “We’re cleared,” he said. “One potential disaster averted. All we need to do now is get into the event, find Dooku, and kill him. Piece of cake.” He rose from his seat behind her and leaned against her chair.

  “One more thing to do before all of that,” Ventress said. “We need to make a quick stop in Tamwith Bay.”

  “Tamwith Bay? I thought Dooku’s party was being held in Raxulon.”

  “It is. We have to purchase clothing first,” Ventress said. “Tamwith Bay is still a major city, but it’s quite a distance from Raxulon. There will be less security.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the shopping type.”

  She leaned out of her chair to give him a withering look. “Were you planning on our just walking into a twenty-thousand-credit-a-plate gala event looking like this?”

  Vos whistled. “That much? I hope we have time for dinner. Just don’t ask for my opinion on footwear.”

  “Don’t worry. You have the fashion sense of a Wookiee.”

  Vos glanced down at the well-worn leather outfit he’d worn since…forever. Whenever he wasn’t in his Jedi robes, this was what he reached for. It offered decent protection, he could move freely in it, and it didn’t draw undue attention. In his usual circles, at least. “But…black goes with everything.”

  Ventress snorted. “Leave it to me.”

  She took them to an establishment that catered to the sort of people who would be attending the ludicrously priced gala. In short order, Vos was fitted with black trousers, comfortable leather boots, and a white tunic with bold golden stripes.

  “The contrast with your skin coloring is most striking,” the tailor assured Vos, finally letting him see himself in the mirror.

  His dark skin seemed to glow against the hues of the tunic. Its crisp, tailored line and the knife-sharp creases of the trousers accentuated his long legs, broad shoulders, and narrow waist.

  “Huh,” he said. “Not bad.”

  “Agreed,” said Ventress. She eyed him in a manner that made his heart skip a beat, and he grinned at her.

  “Well, if my lady likes it, I’ll take it.” To Ventress, he said, “What about you?”

  She held up a bag. “I already found something while you were getting the trousers fitted. Let’s go.”

  “Let me see,” he said.

  “We don’t have time for dolly dress-up,” she retorted, and Vos knew better than to argue.

  The flight from Tamwith Bay to Raxulon was quick. Vos didn’t even have time to get his new outfit dirty. As the sun set over the beautiful capital of Raxus, casting warm rose and lilac hues on the tall spires, Ventress vectored them in to dock not at the main port, but at a smaller, lesser-used one. It was efficient enough—the droids that rolled up to begin refueling and cleaning the Banshee looked like fairly new models, and the place was clean. It was, however, obviously a local landing pad, not one meant for the rich, famous, and powerful, and Ventress and Vos were the only ones currently making use of it.

  Vos stepped outside and took a careful look around, just to make sure. A few moments later he heard the clack-clack of heels. He turned around. “So let’s see this…”

  He fell into a stunned silence. Vos thought he had seen Asajj Ventress in all her guises. He’d seen the efficient warrior, the cold rager, the temptress practicing both the wink and the nod and the full-on gambit. And, most beautiful and most amazing of all, he’d seen her by starlight, just her, lying in his arms.

  But this was something else again.

  She wore a two-piece, sleeveless bodice of rich ebony-hued fabric, with hints of a subtle swirling pattern of dark-purple embroidery. Lacing of the same deep purple cinched it closed. The top section enclosed her breasts and revealed a small patch of her taut stomach. The bottom section flared over her hips. A midnight-black skirt, slit in front and back, fell to the floor. She had just finished concealing her lightsaber in a band around one slender but powerful thigh. As she straightened, their eyes met.

  The outfit was elegant and subtle, and the woman in it was vibrant and strong. The overall effect made Vos like a falcon poised in that exquisite instant between free fall and flight, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

  He gulped air and said, “I…you look…”

  Emotions flitted across Ventress’s face. Annoyance, pleasure, and something he’d never thought to see there—embarrassment.

  “Go ahead, spit it out,” she muttered.

  “You look…”

  Like a goddess of love and war and hope and ecstasy. Like a glimmering star that I have somehow been blessed to hold.

  Like the rest of my life.

  “…nice.” He wanted to kick himself.

  Ventress rolled her eyes. “No wonder you Jedi are so frustrated,” she said. “As I said earlier, this unfortunate outfit is necessary for our mission.”

  Vos tried and failed to wipe the grin off his face as she descended the ramp. He pulled her into his arms and murmured against her long, slender neck, “I’m liking this mission more and more.”

  Before Ventress could deliver a no-doubt scathing retort, she turned her head sharply. Vos followed her gaze, but he saw nothing.

  “You expecting someone?”

  “Sumdin.” At the sound of her name, the Gossam stepped out of the shadows. Ventress went to meet her, kneeling in front of the much shorter saurian.

  Sumdin looked at Vos for a moment, then Ventress. “Qwaazzz zuck chi cho wazz?” she inquired.

  Ventress nodded. “Yes, everything has gone smoothly so far. Where are the passes?”

  Sumdin held up two small, engraved cards. “Cho chuck chuck zoo zum.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” Ventress agreed. She smiled. “You’ve done well. Thank you. Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”

  She leaned forward and placed her left hand on Sumdin’s shoulder, squeezing gently. A sudden blur, a familiar snap-hiss, and Sumdin crumpled without a sound. There was a smoking hole in her torso. Ventress’s face was calm as she extinguished her lightsaber and rose.

  The murder had happened so fast that Vos had barely had time to register it, let alone stop it.

  “What are you doing?” he cried. “She helped us!”

  Ventress’s voice was cold. “Remember what I taught you, Vos. No compassion. No loose ends. She doesn’t matter. All that matters is what we came here to do. There must be nothing—absolutely nothing—to stand in our way now. We’ve come too far.”

  Still reeling, Vos looked down at the tiny, crumpled form. Sumdin had been, no doubt, a professional informant—selling her knowledge to the highest bidder. But she had also been a person. She didn’t deserve to be summarily executed when she had done everything she had promised.

  But had the Mahran refugees deserved to be blown to bits in space? Did any of Dooku’s unwilling subjects deserve slow, painful deaths of starvation, or random murder at the whim of someone they had displeased? What if Sumdin had been playing both sides?

  Anguished, Vos closed his eyes for a moment. It tore him up inside, but Ventress was right. They needed to ruthlessly eliminate anything that might prevent them from carrying out their mission. Dooku must die. He hoped that Sumdin’s would be the final death that could be laid at the evil count’s feet. Wordlessly, he picked up the body, thinking that Sumdin weighed no more than lit
tle Vram had. And that thought made him angry.

  He held on to that anger as they headed to the gala, letting it fuel him for what lay ahead.

  “I’m afraid I must check you for weapons,” the beefy human guard said as they handed him their passes.

  Ventress eyed him up and down and smiled. “Where would I possibly conceal a weapon in this dress?” she said, hands indicating her garment.

  The guard chuckled. “Where could you possibly be concealing a weapon in that dress? Go ahead, little lady.”

  She winked and stepped forward. Vos planted a similar suggestion and he, too, was admitted. “Dooku needs better security,” he muttered to Ventress as he slipped her arm through his.

  “His arrogance will not permit the concept of a Force-user coming after him here,” she replied.

  Vos glanced at the well-dressed crowd milling about and making idle conversation in the square. He had never had any difficulty adapting to his environment. He could make himself at home in a barren wasteland, in a den of crime bosses, in a seedy bar, in front of the Jedi Council. This gathering, however, set him on edge. He was still rattled from Ventress’s efficient murder of her contact, though not as rattled as he once would have been. And within the hour, he knew, he and Ventress would either have slain Count Dooku, eliminating his threat forever—or else be dead themselves.

  Or maybe it was just his clothing. He restrained himself from tugging at the high collar of his tunic and decided he’d tell himself the unease he felt was that, and nothing more.

  Ventress, however, moved as if she had never known anything other than the high heels and elegant, flowing dress. She had even put on perfume to complete the performance. It made his nose twitch, but he had to admit she not only looked and moved as if she belonged, now she even smelled like it. Vos found it difficult to take his eyes off her, but he forced himself to do so. They had a job to do.

  They strolled, arm in arm, through the throng of obviously well-to-do guests gathered in the plaza square. The crowd was tight but not claustrophobic; combat droids were doing a superlative job of managing the multitudes, and besides, Vos guessed, the guests didn’t want to muss their hair. Or feathers, or tentacles.

  The wave of beings flowed slowly and in an orderly fashion toward a building at the far end of the square. Vos wasn’t sure what the place was, but it had that official, government-building stolidity to it that seemed to be the rule everywhere he’d ever been. It sported a walkway and a balcony, and all faces were either turned upward toward it or else gazing expectantly at a large dais in the square’s paved center.

  A thought occurred to him. “You know,” he said, “you didn’t tell me—what kind of celebration is this, anyway?”

  Ventress rolled her eyes. Pitching her voice low, she leaned in and murmured, “The Confederacy of Independent Systems is honoring Count Dooku with the Raxian Humanitarian Award.”

  Vos snorted in amused disbelief, quickly turning it into a cough at her glare.

  The crowd had been chattering in anticipation, but now a murmur rippled through the square. Several battle droids had just emerged onto the balcony, taking up sentry positions. Vos felt his pulse quicken. He took a breath to calm himself and slow its racing. Focus was the only way to properly control the Force—either side of it.

  “Showtime,” Ventress said.

  And Count Dooku, clad in full military regalia, stepped onto the balcony.

  The crowd went wild, applauding and cheering, hooting and making all manner of other sounds of excitement. Dooku, looking every bit the benevolent patrician leader, waved and smiled warmly. Down in the square, symbolically “among the people,” his three-meter-high hologram did the same thing.

  Vos thought about Master Tholme. How Ventress had told him he’d died, sliced into two pieces by Dooku’s crimson lightsaber. Once, Vos would have banished the hot rush of emotion, but now he embraced it, let it flow through him, settling in his center like a coiled snake ready to strike.

  Dooku was not alone. General Grievous, the cyborg commander of the count’s vast droid army, stood a few steps behind his lord. With his four arms, skull-like mask, and clawed feet, Grievous was like something one would expect to see in spice-induced nightmares, rather than in reality. He was more machine than living creature, but there was a terrible malice in the slitted eyes that peered through the white mask.

  “Looks like Dooku brought his sidekick,” Vos murmured.

  Still smiling, Dooku raised his hands in a gesture for silence, then began to speak.

  “It is an honor to stand here before you, for you represent the freedom and the future of our galaxy. The once-great Republic and Jedi Order have become victims of their own ambitions, and the Supreme Chancellor is no more than a pawn of corporate monopolies.”

  Vos folded his arms, listening. Ventress appeared to be doing the same, but out of the corner of his eye, Vos observed her unobtrusively watching the crowd.

  “As a people you called out for change, you called out for leadership, and I humbly answered that call,” Dooku continued. His voice, as always, was sonorous and strong. “Together we challenged the system. We asked for equality. And how were we met? With war! The Jedi secret army of clones was revealed, and their treachery was far greater than we could have imagined!”

  Angry muttering, shaking fists, and low booing rippled through the crowd. Dooku looked to be filled with righteous fury as he continued.

  “Countless living beings—these clones the Jedi created—have been sent to their deaths, while we sacrifice mainly droids.”

  Vos grimaced slightly and said to Ventress, “He makes a good point.” She gave him a sidelong look that conveyed exactly how unimpressed she was.

  “Our soldiers of flesh and blood are willing participants! They are your fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, who fight not because they were grown and designed to do so, but because they know in their hearts that they are fighting for a just and noble cause!”

  More cheering. Vos glanced around at the faces, alight with excitement and adoration. It was unnerving to realize how beloved Count Dooku, monster and murderer, was among these people. Ventress’s gaze was not focused on Dooku, and though she did a good job of keeping her expression composed, Vos knew her well enough to see through the act to the loathing that simmered just beneath the surface. She squeezed his arm and inclined her head to the colonnades to their right. They began threading their way through the square while Dooku finished his speech.

  “It is not a simple thing to be your leader during this unfortunate war, but I shall receive this humanitarian honor, and take it as a sign that my leadership has met with your approval.”

  Like trained pets responding to a command word, the crowd erupted in applause. Beaming, Dooku spread his arms in an avuncular fashion, enveloping everyone in the gesture. “Let the celebration begin!”

  The crowd applauded for a long while, then began to drift toward another set of wide-open doors at the far end of the colonnade. “Grievous being here complicates things,” Ventress said without preamble. “Think you can handle him?”

  Vos nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I just have to detain him, to make sure we get to face Dooku alone.”

  “According to the invitation, there will be some drinking and socializing, and then the banquet will be starting. I’ll head inside and pay the count a visit. He’ll most likely contact Grievous then. Make sure you’re in position.”

  Vos gave her his cockiest grin. “Hey,” he said, feigning affront, “have I ever let you down?”

  His words, meant to lighten the mood, somehow had the opposite effect. She looked at him for a moment, touched his cheek lightly, then turned and fell in step with the rest of the banquet attendees. Confused, he gazed after her for a moment, then headed off to find Grievous.

  —

  Head high, walking at a casual pace, Ventress entered the vast dining room. It was enormous, almost cavernous. Statues posed in the corners; the busts of famous politic
ians stared blankly at the guests. The walls were a deep, warm red, hung with paintings of vibrant starscapes, portraits, and still-life works of art. In the center of the room, beneath ten ornate chandeliers, several tables were arranged. Some guests were already seated, while others milled about. Droids bearing trays of appetizers and beverages maneuvered deftly through the press of beings. Ventress’s despised gown was the perfect costume; any attention she attracted was from those who had eyes only for her physical appeal.

  She smoothed its folds, and her mind went back to Vos’s reaction earlier. Ventress was accustomed to scrutiny from men; she made use of it when it suited her goals. It was, as she had told Vos, simply one more tool. But the look in his eyes was one she had never seen before. It had made her feel…vulnerable. Not merely desired, but truly seen. Known. Cherished.

  Vos had shown her that he was prepared to leave his old life behind when this was all over. Was it possible she could do the same? What was it he had said once? Do you ever take your mind off the job?

  The answer had always been no. It was her identity, her way of interacting with the world. Ventress used her “tools”—lies, lightsaber, the full-on gambit, the Force—to become whatever was needed for whatever task was at hand: a killer, a seductress, a deceiver.

  Who would she be without a lightsaber or a false face? Would there be anything left of Asajj Ventress if she were to truly let go of hatred and instead accept what had shone in Vos’s eyes—that she was loved for simply being?

  Something surged through her, and she did not know if it was longing—or terror.

  A server droid, with metallic bobbed hair and a short red dress, extended a tray of cocktails. Ventress snapped out of her reverie, cursing herself for her wandering thoughts, snared a beverage, and sipped at it as she scanned the room.

  As she had expected, Dooku was in the center. People milled about him. But they were not acting like an eager throng surrounding a holofilm star. No, these beings affected a casualness that bordered on indifference. Ventress had observed this behavior of the rich and powerful from the shadows; now she strode into their midst.