Hurting nobody, Yuun suggested.
"This land is only just now beginning to heal itself from their kriffing war" he answered. "It's taken ten years for the people to put this all behind them. Now the Jedi want to open old wounds."
Senate approved. Not Jedi.
"I don't care what the official story says. I know the Jedi are behind this. It will lead to trouble."
Trouble?
Yuun was too young to remember the war that had ravaged her world. She hadn't witnessed the senseless death and suffering that drove hundreds of bouncer colonies into madness. Damaged beyond all hope of salvation, the wounded bouncers had projected thoughts of pain and torment, attacking and even killing other living creatures until they were slain by Jedi teams sent to wipe them out.
"The Jedi and their war nearly destroyed Ruusan," Darovit told her. "Countless thousands of men, women, and children died. The forests burned. And your species was hunted almost to extinction."
Sith started war.
"The Sith couldn't have had a war on their own. They needed someone to fight, and Hoth was more than willing to throw his Jedi followers against them," Darovit argued, wondering how much the bouncers-and Yuun in particular-knew of his past. "Both sides were equally to blame."
Darovit guilty.
It was a statement of fact, rather than a question. "Maybe," the young man admitted, leaning on his walking stick. "But trouble seems to follow the Jedi wherever they go. And I'm not going to sit back and watch so they can destroy this world a second time."
Apart from the construction droids the dig site was deserted; the organic crews only worked during the light of day. Crouching low and holding his walking stick parallel to the ground at his side, Darovit crept out from the cover of the trees.
Peace. Calm, Yuun projected after him, trying to soothe his anger. But she wasn't bold enough to follow him out into the open, and he ignored her pleas until he had crossed beyond the range of her telepathic communication.
Darovit wasn't strong in the Force; that was part of the reason he failed in his attempts to join both the Jedi and the Sith. But he did have a minor affinity for it, enough to allow him to creep through the dig site unseen and unnoticed by the semi-intelligent construction droids.
Construction droids were employed only for simple, basic tasks. The majority of the work on the monument would be done by a crew using heavy machinery and hoversleds. Moving quickly, Darovit made his way to the nearest sled, crouching down out of sight behind it.
He had come well prepared, stashing a large supply of powdered tass root and two handfuls of crushed petals from the flowers of the scintil vine in the pockets of his overcloak. Individually the two substances were harmless, yet when mixed together and dampened they had a startling interaction.
With his good hand he pried open the sled's maintenance panel just below the control box and stuffed four scintil petals into the re-pulsor coils. Next, he sprinkled a pinch of powdered tass root over the petals. Then, as a final touch, he scooped up a handful of snow, letting it melt in his glove so it would drip down onto the mixture.
There was a soft hiss and a sharp alkaline smell as the elements combined to form a highly corrosive paste that began to eat its way through the repulsor coils. Darovit snapped the sled's maintenance cover back in place; wispy tendrils of brown-green smoke wafted out from underneath it.
Darovit spent the next hour moving from sled to sled, pausing whenever a construction droid wandered past in its preprogrammed assignments, oblivious to the vandal in their midst. By the time he got back to where Yuun was still waiting for him, every single hover-sled had been disabled.
Temporary solution. Will replace.
"Repulsor coils are expensive," Darovit said. "And they're always in high demand. This should set them back at least a week."
Then what?
"I've got a few more tricks up my sleeve for our Jedi friends," he assured the little bouncer. "This was only the beginning."
Light soon. Home now?
Darovit glanced up and saw the faint glow of the first of Ruusan's twin suns peeking over the horizon.
"Home," he agreed.
Three weeks had passed since Zannah had presented her Master with the datacard that had almost cost the young apprentice her life. Bane had used that time to study the datacard's contents carefully, analyzing every tiny scrap of information Hetton had assembled about Belia Darzu. He cross-referenced much of the data with his own sources, verifying everything he could to authenticate Hetton's research. And Bane was now confident that everything the old man had discovered was true.
Bella's experiments in Sith alchemy had revealed the secrets that allowed her to surround herself with a technobeast army. Even more impressive, at least from Bane's perspective, Belia had successfully created her own Holocron. And there was strong evidence to support the theory that the Holocron she created-the repository of all her knowledge-was still hidden somewhere in her stronghold on Tython.
Bane ran the final diagnostics check on his vesseclass="underline" he couldn't afford to have anything break down on the upcoming journey. The hy-perspace route into the Deep Core was treacherous, and if something went wrong there was no chance of anyone coming along to find him. He would die a cold and lonely death-a frozen corpse floating in a metal coffin around the black hole at the galaxy's heart.
The Mystic's systems all appeared to be in perfect working order. One of the new Sienar-designed Infiltrator series, the Mystic was a medium-sized long-range fighter Bane had anonymously acquired through his network of front-men and shadowy suppliers. Built to carry up to six passengers, Infiltrators were armed with light weapons and equipped with minimal plating, the focus of the model being on speed and maneuverability. The Mystic had been customized with the addition of a Class Four hyperdrive, enabling her to outrun virtually any other vessel she encountered.
Though there was room on the vessel for both Master and apprentice, Bane had decided Zannah would not accompany him on his trip to Tython. But she was not going to simply wait on Ambria for his return.
Along with his study of the datacard Bane had also spent a great deal of time thinking about the orbalisks clinging to his flesh. Though it was possible that he would discover new information on Tython unlocking the final secrets of creating a Holocron, it was also possible that Belia had succeeded using the exact same process he had employed in his failed attempts. Bane still could not discount the theory that the orbalisks were responsible for his failure, bleeding him of the dark side energies he needed to draw on to complete the procedure.
There were other considerations, as well. Twice now he had lost himself in a bloodrage, thought and reason replaced by the mindless urge to destroy anything and anyone in range. The first time it happened he had left their camp in ruins: a foolish and pointless waste of resources.
The second time had almost been far more costly. Had he succeeded in killing Zannah, he still would have found Helton's datacard on her. But he would also have been forced to find a new apprentice. A decade of training would have been lost, thrown away because of his temporary madness.
Zannah had saved herself by explaining the motives behind her actions. She had acted in perfect accordance with her Master's teachings-a fact Bane should have realized on his own. But the orbalisks blinded him to her skilled machinations, and he now understood that the raw power they granted him came at the expense of subtlety and cunning.
So while he went to Tython to face the dangers and defenses of Belia's lost stronghold, Zannah was undertaking a mission of her own.
Hetton's ship was magnificent. A custom built cruiser eighty meters in length, she could comfortably hold twenty passengers, yet only a single pilot was required to operate her. Every detail of her construction and design had been made to Hetton's precise and lavish specifications. Equipped with enough firepower and armor plating to take on a small capital ship, the interior was still luxurious enough to host a formal dinner for planetary dignitaries. No expense had been spared, the vessel being as much a symbol of his incredible wealth as it had been a mode of transportation. There was only one thing Zan-nah disliked about it: He had called it the Loranda, after his mother. She reached forward and punched the controls, marveling at the smooth takeoff and responsiveness of the yoke as she guided the ship up and out of Ambria's atmosphere. In two day she would be touching down on Coruscant; no doubt she'd have to bribe a spaceport administrator to keep her arrival off the official books. The Loranda was still registered to Helton, and her arrival would draw immediate attention if it was logged with the proper authorities.