Three days of constantly drawing upon the Force without food or respite had left him exhausted in body, mind, and spirit. He was particularly vulnerable to the orbalisks in this state. Normally they fed off the dark side energies that naturally flowed through him, but the creation of the Holocron demanded that he channel all his power directly into his work. The parasites were slowly starving, and in response they were flooding his bloodstream with chemicals and hormones intended to drive him into a mindless fury so they could gorge themselves on the dark side as he unleashed his rage.
The spasming muscles of his hand and fingers were a direct result of their efforts, and there was nothing Bane could do but wait for the tremor to pass. He had only a few hours left to complete his work, yet he couldn't risk making a mistake and damaging the delicately interwoven crystal fibers of the Holocron's internal structure.
Slowly he was able to reassert control over his convulsing digits, ruing each precious second that slipped away as he did so. When his hand at last became still, he took a slow, deep breath to refocus his mind, then reached out with the Force to touch the matrix once more.
A ribbon of electric blades raveled itself around the muscles and nerves of his spine, causing him to arch backward as he screamed in agony. The pain momentarily broke his concentration, and an uncontrollable surge of dark side energy shot through him and into the Holocron. An instant later it exploded, spraying Bane with a shower of crystal fragments and dust.
For several seconds he simply stared at the empty pedestal, feeling the pulsing hunger of the orbalisks and his own gathering rage. A red veil fell across his vision, and Darth Bane surrendered himself to the fury.
Chapter 11
Who's this?" the man at the door demanded, eyeing Zannah with suspicion. He was human, though his face and shaved head were covered with green and purple tattoos that made it difficult to pick out his features. He wore a light blue shirt and dark blue pants. He was shorter than Kel, but much thicker through the waist and chest.
"She's with me, Paak," Kel replied, pushing him aside and passing through the door, pulling Zannah along with him.
The unfurnished room beyond was small and dark. Music and loud laughter could be faintly heard from the cantina on the floor above them, but those gathered in the cellar spoke only in low, conspiratorial whispers. Inside the room were four others gathered in a tight circle: two more young men, a woman only slightly older than Zannah, and a blue-skinned, red-eyed Chiss female.
Paak trailed after them, unwilling to let the matter drop. "You can't bring her here!" he insisted.
"She works at the embassy," Kel assured him, relaying the false backstory Zannah had offered at their first meeting. "She can help us."
The heavier man grabbed Kel by the elbow and spun the Twi'lek around to face him. "You don't get to make that decision! Hetton is our leader, not you!"
"Hetton put me in charge of this mission," Kel reminded him angrily.
"Only because you offered to purchase those forged passes to get us past the embassy guards!" Paak snapped back. "He put you in charge because he needed your credits!"
"Hetton doesn't need anyone's credits," the red-skinned Twi'lek replied contemptuously. "He put me in charge because he was tired of dealing with oafish thugs like you."
Paak's lips curled up in a menacing snarl, but Kel had already turned away, dismissing his underling. Zannah waited to see if the tattooed man would go after Kel, but he only shook his head and went back to his position guarding the door.
Kel marched over to the others, who widened their circle to accommodate him. Zannah hung back slightly, noting the others regarding her with curious stares. She stared back, though she was already well aware of everything she needed to know about them.
Like Kelad'den they were revolutionaries: young, idealistic, and pitiful. Easily swayed and manipulated by fiery speeches and impassioned rhetoric, they had been recruited by the mysterious "Hetton" into joining the Anti-Republic Liberation Front-one of a hundred small, insignificant separatist movements scattered across the galaxy.
For a small radical group, however, the ARLF was particularly well funded, and the membership included an inordinate percentage of highly skilled and dangerous individuals. Elite warriors like Kel, or beings with advanced military training, were the norm rather than the exception. For one reason or another, they had all sworn allegiance to Hetton and his organization.
Zannah imagined they believed themselves to be heroes or even eventual martyrs to their glorious cause. Yet she felt nothing but disdain for them. Despite their martial backgrounds, they were little more than overgrown children gathering in tiny, dark rooms to whisper secret plans and plot petty terrorist actions against a galactic government that didn't even know they existed.
Even Kel wasn't above her contempt. Still, she did have to admit that there was something appealing about him. Allowing him to fall in love with her hadn't been necessary to complete her mission, yet she had been willing-even eager-to have his attention. The attraction went beyond his mere physical appearance. There was a wild energy about him. He burned with a savage arrogance; its fire enveloped her whenever they were together.
She knew she was drawn to his warmth in part because her Master was always so cold. Bane had served as her guardian for ten years; he had raised her and protected her and trained her in the ways of the Sith. Yet she didn't think of him as a father figure. While he hadn't been cruel or abusive, neither had he shown any affection toward her, not even a trace of empathy or compassion. He valued her not as a person but as his heir; she was nothing but a mechanism to continue the Sith legacy after his death.
Encased in his orbalisk armor, Bane was barely even human anymore. Anger, hate, love, desire-they were nothing to him now but a means to fuel his power. Yet Zannah still needed to feel. She hungered for the raw passion of real emotions. She craved them.
She had found them in Kel. He had given her the one thing her Master could not. But she never considered betraying or abandoning Darth Bane. She had seen his absolute command of the Force; she had tasted the power of the dark side in him. He was the Dark Lord of the Sith, and Zannah would one day tear the mantle from his shoulders and seize it for her own. Nothing-not fanciful notions, not the temptation of emotional fulfillment or even love-would keep her from claiming her rightful destiny.
Compared with this, Kel and the other separatists gathered in the room were tiny, insignificant people leading small, meaningless lives. Their only worth was that Bane saw a potential use for them, and it was her duty to make sure that whatever they had planned fit into her Master's grand design.
Kel had revealed their intended scheme to her during a romantic dinner: They planned to kidnap minor local officials and hold them for ransom. They actually believed the media interest generated by their actions would be the catalyst that would unite the people of the Outer Rims to rise up as one and overthrow the Senate.
They were pathetic in their naivete^ fools Zannah had chosen to become pawns in her own mission. They were tools to be used and then discarded once they had served their purpose… and that purpose was to die so that she could fulfill the directive of her Master.
"My fellow patriots," Kel began, his voice rising in the manner of a professional orator giving a public performance. "We are united in a single cause-the complete and utter destruction of the Republic. Yet what have we done so far to accomplish this?