Dark Disciple

by Christie Golden

  A quick feint to the chest, a twist of his wrist, and Dooku’s lightsaber went flying.

  The green blade was a centimeter away from Dooku’s throat, and the count froze, staring up at his adversary. Vos took a deep breath and lifted the blade over his head. He wanted to execute Dooku deliberately—not just kill him in a fight. He wanted to see those eyes go wide with terror as the count saw death approach.

  He should have been prepared for Dooku’s next move, but he wasn’t. The man who had a second before been cowering now seized Vos’s wrist as the green lightsaber descended. A sharp tug, and the roles were reversed. Now it was Vos who sprawled on the ground. Dooku had a knee planted firmly in Vos’s back, using the Force to augment his own not-inconsiderable strength. Vos couldn’t move. The count twisted the arm with which Vos still clutched his humming lightsaber, squeezing down with inhuman strength on the webbing between thumb and forefinger. Vos willed his hand to obey, but it was useless. The lightsaber fell, and the green glow vanished.

  Devastated, Vos watched it roll to the edge, between the rails of the balcony, teeter there for a moment, then tumble out of sight.

  —

  Ventress’s lightsaber flew out of her hand as she and Grievous plunged downward. She struck the ledge of a lower level hard, her head hanging over the edge. Grievous was atop her, his slitted golden eyes hungry for blood as he growled down at her, his foot on her throat. He seized her with his four hands and hurled her down to the level below them. She slammed against the wall beside one of the elegant windows and crumpled to the ledge.

  She was taking a bad beating, she realized in some distant part of her mind. The earlier blow to her skull should have killed her. As it was, it had knocked her out for at least a couple of moments, and her head now ached violently. Her vision was untrustworthy, and as she got to her feet a wave of dizziness overcame her.

  She had no time to indulge it. She looked up and saw Grievous leaping toward her, issuing a guttural sound that was intended as a triumphant laugh, and she rolled to the right. Ventress was wounded, disoriented, and had lost her lightsaber. There was nothing to do but give up or fight—and Ventress was not about to give up.

  She snarled and charged at Grievous, executing a kick with her bare feet that still managed to send the larger and heavier cyborg staggering backward. He growled, clearly surprised.

  Blasterfire whizzed past her and Ventress leapt clear, taking cover beneath a metal support beam. As she heard the marching battle droids come closer, she glanced up. She would not be trapped here. Summoning the Force to lift her, she crouched, then sprang upward, balancing delicately. Movement caught her eye.

  Vos’s lightsaber.

  She reached out in the Force and seized it. It sped toward her, still warm from Vos’s grip. Ventress refused to think about what was happening to him. If she didn’t eliminate the threat here, Dooku and Grievous would come after both of them.

  She leapt to the lower level and began reducing the battle droids to scrap metal. She batted the blasts back directly toward one, sliced through a second, and kicked a third off the ledge. She turned toward Grievous, her face bathed in a green glow.

  Grievous reached down for his own lightsabers—and growled in frustration to find them missing. “Detain her while I go help the count!”

  “Roger!” came a chorus of high voices from the droids. There were ten of them.

  “I have no time for this,” Ventress muttered, and surged forward.

  —

  It was over, and Vos knew that he had failed.

  He heard the tramping of at least half a dozen battle droids as they formed a semi-circle around him. Dooku, having retrieved his lightsaber, stood holding it as he gazed down at Vos’s prone figure.

  “Go ahead,” Vos said through clenched teeth. “Finish it!”

  But Dooku shook his head. “Oh, no, Master Vos,” he protested. “I’m actually rather impressed. I now have other plans for you.”

  His hand shot out. Blue streaks sprang from his fingers and danced over and through Vos’s body. The pain was like nothing Vos had ever experienced. It simultaneously burned and froze him. Every muscle tensed and cramped, his body spasmed uncontrollably, and his heart tried to burst from his chest. He heard someone screaming, as if from a long distance, and it took him a moment to recognize his own voice.

  After a second, or a thousand years, the torment ended. His body sprawled limply on the stone, and he could offer no resistance as metallic hands closed on his arms and began to drag him away.

  “Quinlan! No!”

  Ventress was still alive! Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Vos craned his neck to see her.

  He tried to shout her name, but it came out as a dry whisper. More droids surged past him, all firing on her. Willing himself to stay conscious, Vos struggled feebly, his gaze on Ventress.

  She stayed and fought. For a while. But there were too many, even for Asajj Ventress. The last thing that Quinlan Vos saw was the woman he was falling in love with turn and flee—abandoning him to the mercies of Count Dooku. It was only then that Vos realized that the necklace about her long, slender throat had been crafted to look like a snake.

  —

  Ventress huddled in the sewers. Above, she heard the distinctive voices of battle droids.

  “Nothing,” one of the droids reported. “There has been no sign of the intruder.”

  “Orders are to keep looking,” another replied. “Move on to sixty-six through ninety-nine.”

  “Roger.”

  When she could no longer hear them, Ventress relaxed. Her whole body ached. She needed to tend her injuries, and rest. But for a moment she didn’t move. Ventress held Vos’s lightsaber, looking at it, seeing it again in his hands, remembered when he had given it to her on Dathomir.

  Take care of this…because I’m going to want it back.

  Don’t worry. It’ll be waiting for you, I promise.

  She had kept it safe for him then; she would do so again.

  Pain that had nothing to do with her physical wounds threatened to overcome her. For a wild moment, Ventress thought about contacting Obi-Wan Kenobi. Vos had told her that they were good friends, and that Kenobi had been the one to suggest involving her in the first place. Ventress even knew which bar hosted the Jedi’s meetings. The Jedi would…

  …not believe her. Not even Obi-Wan Kenobi would entertain the notion that she had never planned for this to happen.

  Who else? Ventress couldn’t do this alone. But she was too drained to think clearly now. She had to get to safety. And then…

  Fiercely, she whispered, “Quinlan…I won’t give up. I won’t let him have you. By the blood of my sisters, I swear it.”

  There was no way for Vos to reckon the passage of time in the cell. It could have been a few days, or a month. The lights were always on. Meals, when they came, were at irregular intervals. Droids monitored his sleep patterns to ensure that he was jolted awake in agony during the REM stage.

  Vos was no stranger to torture. In the past, his mastery of the Force had enabled him to focus his mind and distract himself from the pain. Hitherto, however, those who would see him suffer were strangers to the Force, and had been after specific information.

  Neither was the case with Dooku.

  The count came when he pleased, in silence; sometimes to observe Vos simply hanging, suspended, while a torture droid went about its programming. Other times, Dooku entered the cell, casually blasting Vos with Force lightning so that the former Jedi Master was reduced to screaming and writhing helplessly.

  Each time, Vos tried to get him to talk, to find out what Dooku wanted. The count liked to gloat, and it was possible that he might let something slip that might be of help—some reference to the layout of this place, perhaps, or an unguarded comment on troop movements.

  It was a futile effort. Vos was nothing more than an animal tormented for no apparent reason save Dooku’s whim. And Vos knew, despite his training, both in the ligh
t and, now, the dark side of the Force, if that went on long enough…that was what he would eventually become.

  So when Vos heard Dooku’s footfalls over the hum of the torture device that bathed him in erratic pulses of energy designed to target nerve endings, he was not hopeful. But he refused to give up.

  For the tenth, or perhaps the thousandth time, Vos lifted his head. He twitched as another agonizing pulse seared him but bit back a cry. Dooku, as always, was smiling, as if he were a kindly grandparent watching a child at play.

  For the thousandth, or perhaps tenth time, Vos asked in a voice raw from screaming, “Why not just kill me and be done with it?”

  “Tell me,” Dooku said, “what did you hope to gain by teaming up with Asajj Ventress?”

  All this time of silence, and he asked this? Vos was so surprised that the pain receded for a moment. The droid monitoring his reactions gave a passable impression of a frown and upped the level. Vos couldn’t entirely smother a hiss of agony.

  “I think that’s…obvious enough,” he said through the pain. “I was…s-sent to eliminate you.”

  Dooku stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It seems a desperate strike by the Jedi Council, not to rely solely on their vaunted Jedi Knights for such a task. Has the Order become so weak in my absence?”

  Vos rallied as best he could. Looking Dooku square in the eye, he managed a chuckle. “Look around, Dooku. On every front, the Republic is winning the war.”

  “I’m so glad you think so. But you are changing the subject.” He shook a chiding finger at Vos. “I was not asking you about the war. I was speaking of Ventress.”

  Instantly Vos was on alert. He had been in so much pain when he had been captured, he wasn’t sure what, exactly, had happened. Had Ventress abandoned him by choice? Or had they forced her off? His memories of that night were so fuzzy…

  “Ventress has no sense of charity,” Dooku went on. “She would not help you unless she had something to gain.”

  “She sure hates you,” Vos offered.

  “Of course she does,” Dooku replied. “But she never works with anyone she can’t control.”

  A sick jolt went through Vos. He thought about the previous attempts Ventress had made on Dooku’s life. Then, she was in the company of her sisters, or else had—quite literally—created and shaped what she had thought would be the perfect co-assassin.

  Had she been creating and shaping him as well?

  Have caution, Quinlan, Kenobi had warned him. Ventress is nothing if not manipulative. She won’t hesitate to use your trust against you the instant it serves her own selfish purposes.

  “Well,” Vos said, forcing his voice to be confident, “maybe you don’t know her like I do.”

  Dooku arched an eyebrow, suddenly keenly attentive. “No,” the count mused. “Perhaps I do not. But I see you do know her. Quite intimately, in fact, hmm?”

  Vos didn’t reply.

  Dooku stepped closer. “I sense much fear in you, Vos.”

  Vos seized the chance. He would control the fear, turn it to anger; anger turns to hate, and hate made him strong. “You’re wrong,” he scoffed. “I’m not afraid of you!”

  “No, I don’t believe you are,” Dooku agreed. “But you are afraid.”

  Vos tried to redirect his thoughts, to focus on the loathing he felt for the man standing so smugly, so certain of his power, before him. But he was so weary and weak, and the pain kept directing his thoughts from strength to fear.

  “Your thoughts betray you,” Dooku said, and despairing, Vos knew it was true. “Ventress was teaching you. Well, well…this explains much.”

  “You’re wrong. There’s nothing she could teach me!”

  Dooku shook his head and sighed. “You do yourself no favors by lying to me. You yourself said that you had a good teacher. Don’t you remember?”

  Vos struggled to keep his face from revealing the stab of anguish as he realized that, indeed, he had forgotten. What else was he not remembering?

  “I left the Jedi because I had grown beyond them,” Dooku continued. “But I see now that you and I, Vos, have much in common.”

  Vos rallied at the abhorrent words. “You and I are nothing alike. You’re a traitor!”

  “And what are you?” Dooku’s normally modulated voice cracked like a whip. “You were raised in the Jedi Temple, but now you reek of the dark side! Soon enough, you will stop denying the truth of so very many things. And you will understand that I am not a traitor, but a visionary! Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hatred leads to suffering.”

  The count nodded to the torture droid. This time, Vos convulsed in the grip of the blue crackle of electricity.

  “But what the Jedi failed to teach you, what I have learned, is how to persevere, to pass through the suffering, and achieve ultimate power!”

  Dooku nodded again. The pain stopped. Sweat ran down Vos’s face. His heart was racing, his body quivering in remembered agony.

  “Do not worry, my apprentice. The lessons that Ventress began—I shall now complete.”

  He waved a dismissive hand to the droid, and Vos tensed in anticipation of the next wave of electricity that would jolt through his body. Dooku turned.

  Vos’s screams followed him down the hall.

  —

  Akar-Deshu fell into step with Obi-Wan Kenobi as the Jedi Master strode toward the Council Chamber. He said nothing, merely kept pace with the human, and Kenobi sighed.

  “Desh,” he said quietly, “you know I cannot say anything about Master Vos or his assignment.”

  “I know, Master Kenobi,” Desh said quietly. “You do not need to speak for me to know that something’s gone wrong.”

  Kenobi gave the smaller Jedi an irritated glance. “There are times when I wish that certain Jedi were not quite as Force-sensitive as they are. And yes, I know precisely how that sounds.”

  “I said it last time and I will say it every time,” Desh said, “if there is anything I can do to help—”

  “You are rather too attached to Vos, Desh,” Kenobi snapped.

  “So are you,” Desh added, “Master. Admit it—Vos does have a way of getting under one’s skin.”

  “So does a tick or a splinter,” Kenobi muttered. Nonetheless, he put a hand on the Mahran’s shoulder and gave him a troubled smile as he entered the Council Chamber.

  Yoda, Windu, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Saesee Tiin, and Plo Koon were present. All eyes turned to Kenobi as he entered and bowed to Master Yoda.

  Yoda’s expression was hopeful, but almost immediately he looked down and his ears drooped. “No word have you had from Master Vos,” he said heavily.

  “None,” Kenobi said. “No word from, and no word of. It’s as if he’s completely vanished. As we discussed, I’ve continued to show up at our prearranged meeting place and time.”

  “Perhaps Ventress discovered his identity,” Plo Koon said. “And killed him for deceiving her.”

  “I think not,” Kenobi said. “If such had been the case, Ventress would have made sure that word of her displeasure with the Council reached us.” He did not elaborate on the various grisly ways she might have done so.

  “Asajj Ventress is a known Sith,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said.

  “Former Sith,” Kenobi corrected, marveling not for the first time that he was now in the curious position of defending Ventress’s honor.

  “Is anyone even capable of being a ‘former’ Sith?” Windu demanded. “It’s possible she’s tricked Master Vos into going down a dark path with her and now we have a rogue Jedi on our hands.”

  “Possible,” Kenobi agreed, “provided any of you really think that Quinlan Vos is so weak-willed that he’d forsake everything he’s known his entire life. The man was raised in the Temple.”

  “A powerful allure, is that which is forbidden,” Yoda said.

  “Until we know something—anything—for certain, it is unwise to speculate,” Kenobi said.

  “We don’t even know if he’s still alive!” Mace’s eyes we
re dark.

  “This could be part of the plan.”

  “It could be,” Mace said. “Or he could be dead. The point is we don’t know—and we should, Master Kenobi. We should.”

  —

  Ventress stood for a moment in the doorway of the Mos Eisley Cantina, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness from the blazing sunslight of Tatooine. This was not the path she would have preferred to tread, but she could think of no other option.

  It felt like eons ago when she had entered it for the first time. Then, too, she had been reeling with a devastating sense of loss after Grievous had slain her entire clan. But then, she had been stumbling, directionless. Now Asajj Ventress had but one laser-keen sense of purpose.

  She scanned the crowd and her gaze fell upon a familiar green, reptilian face above a bright-yellow flight suit. Familiar, too, was the perky young woman with bright orange pigtails and lavender skin. And—yes, he was there, too.

  Ventress steeled herself and headed for them. Bossk spotted her and his face grew even sourer with a grimace. Ventress hadn’t realized such a thing was possible. He leaned into a booth to talk to an unseen occupant. A moment later, two attractive Twi’lek girls slipped out of the booth, throwing Ventress wary glances.

  “Hey!” called a voice Ventress remembered, boyish and intense. “I’m not paying for all of you!”

  Bossk folded his arms and glared at her as she approached. In no mood for banter, Ventress stared him down. After a second or two, he threw up his hands in a hey-all-right-I’m-backing-off gesture, stepped back, and she slid into the booth across from Boba Fett.

  His eyes widened in shock, then he scowled. “No Name,” he said, “you’ve got a lot of guts coming here.”

  Ventress ignored the comment. She leaned in and said, quietly and with sincerity, “I need your help.”

  Boba Fett’s double take was priceless. Then he cupped a hand exaggeratedly to his ear. “I’m sorry?”

  Ventress choked down the urge to strike him. “You heard me.”

  He smirked. “No, I don’t think I did. Say it again.”