Darth Plagueis

8: VICTIMS OF THEIR OWN DEVICE




In training Venamis, Tenebrous had obviously believed that he was protecting the Grand Plan; Venamis, too, by keeping an eye on a handful of Forceful candidates he, or perhaps Tenebrous, had discovered. But now it fell to Plagueis to do something about those potential competitors, if for no other reason than to eliminate the possibility of another surprise attack.

Venamis’s ship data banks contained information on six beings, but subsequent investigation by 11-4D revealed that one had died of natural causes, another was executed, and a third was killed in a cantina brawl. Two of the remaining three were unnamed, but Plagueis and 11-4D had succeeded in learning as much about them as Venamis knew, after cracking the complex code the Bith had used to safeguard the entries. How Venamis’s candidates had escaped notice by the Jedi was something of a mystery, but one scarcely worth solving. Plagueis simply had to determine whether they posed a threat—to him or to the Grand Plan.

Muuns were seldom glimpsed quaffing Rywen’s Reserve in exclusive tapcafs, sampling refined spice in members-only clubs, or challenging the house in marathon sabacc tournaments. HoloNet celebrity programs never showed them with Twi’lek dancers on their slender arms, or venturing into forests, seas or mountain ranges purely for sport or adventure.

But Plagueis was about to break with tradition, now that the first of Venamis’s potential candidates had been traced to a casino in Lianna City, in the heart of the remote Tion Cluster.


Jowls quivering, limpid eyes reflecting concern, and flanked by Nikto security personnel, the pudgy Sullustan manager of Colliders Casino hurried across the carpeted lobby toward the concierge desk where Plagueis and 11-4D were waiting. A pair of broad-purpose utility arms—one of which concealed a laser weapon—substituted for the droid’s normal surgical appendages, and Plagueis was attired in what most beings would assume was Banking Clan garb, though differently cut and paler green in color.

“Welcome, sir, welcome,” the manager began in a flustered voice. “Colliders is honored to have you as a guest, though may I say that you are the first being from Muunilinst to have used the casino’s public entrance. The private entrance—”

Plagueis raised a hand to cut him off. “I’m not here on bank business.”

The Sullustan stared. “Then this isn’t an impromptu audit?”

“I’m here regarding a private matter.”

The manager cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “Then perhaps we could begin with your name.”

“I am Hego Damask.”

The Sullustan’s jowls began to quiver again. “Magister Damask? Of Damask Holdings?”

Plagueis nodded.

“Forgive me for not recognizing you, sir. Were it not for your munificence, Colliders would be in bankruptcy. More to the point, Lianna City wouldn’t be the hub it is today, and the pride of the Tion Cluster.”

Plagueis smiled pleasantly. “Then if we might adjourn to your office …”

“Of course, of course.” The Sullustan signaled the guards to form a phalanx, then waved courteously for Plagueis and 11-4D to follow. “After you, sir. Please.”

A turbolift carried them directly into a large office that overlooked the casino’s main gaming room, which was crowded with Mid and Outer Rim species patrons seated at tables and individual machines, or huddled around ovide and jubilee wheels and other gambling devices. The manager gestured Plagueis into an overstuffed chair and settled himself at a reflective desk. OneOne-FourDee stood quietly at Plagueis’s side.

“You said something about a private matter, Magister Damask?”

Plagueis interlocked his hands. “It’s my understanding that Colliders played host to a big winner a week ago.”

The Sullustan gave his head a mournful shake. “Bad news travels fast, I see. But, yes, he nearly wiped us out. An uncanny run of luck.”

“Are you certain it was luck?”

The Sullustan considered the question. “I think I understand what you’re getting at, so allow me to explain. Species known to have telepathic abilities are barred from gambling at Colliders, as is the case at most casinos. In addition, we have always operated under the assumption that ninety-nine percent of beings strong in the Force belong to the Jedi Order, and that Jedi don’t gamble. As regards the remaining one percent—those who may have fallen between the cracks, as it were—well, most of them are probably off somewhere doing good deeds or locked away in monasteries contemplating the mysteries of the universe.”

“And the remainder?”

The Sullustan planted his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “On those rare occasions—and I emphasize rare—when we have suspected beings might be using the Force, we have demanded that they subject themselves to a blood test.”

“Have you ever unmasked a Force-user?”

“Not in the twenty years I’ve been the administrator of this facility. Of course, in this business you hear stories. For example, there’s one about a casino on Denon that employed a Forceful Iktotchi as a cooler—someone capable of breaking a gambler’s winning streak. But I suspect the story is apocryphal. Here at Colliders we rely on the standard methods of making certain that the odds are always in our favor. Regardless, from time to time, someone proves an exception to the rule.” He paused for a moment. “But I’ll admit that I haven’t seen a winning streak like this last one in years. It could take us months to recuperate.”

“Did you demand a blood test?”

“As a matter of fact we did, Magister Damask. But our resident analyst said that the winner’s blood didn’t contain … well, whatever it would have contained if the player was a Force-user. I confess to having a poor understanding of the chemistry involved.”

“I myself wish I understood more,” Plagueis said. “Would you happen to have an image of the winner?”

The manager frowned. “I don’t want to pry, but may I ask why this is of personal interest?”

Plagueis sniffed. “It’s a tax matter.”

The Sullustan cheered up. “Then by all means.” His small fingers flew across the desk input pad, and in seconds the image of a Weequay appeared on a wall screen.

Plagueis was both disappointed and mystified. Data aboard Venamis’s ship had identified the potential candidate as a Quarren. The being from Mon Calamari had been using the Force to break the banks of casinos on a dozen worlds, from Coruscant to Taris, from Nar Shaddaa to Carratos. Apparently the Weequay who had won big at Colliders had simply been lucky. Plagueis was about to say as much to 11-4D when an intercom chimed and the manager inserted a transceiver into his large ear.

“Not again!” he said. “All right, send a security team to watch him.”

Plagueis waited for an explanation.

“Another winning streak,” the Sullustan said. “A Kubaz this time!”

Plagueis stood up. “I wish to accompany the security team to the floor. I won’t interfere. I’m simply curious about your methods for detecting cheaters.”

“Of course,” the manager said, distracted. “Maybe you’ll spot something we’ve missed.”

Plagueis reached the turbolift simultaneously with the arrival of two Bothans dressed in business suits and remained with them as they weaved their way through the ground-floor gaming area to one of the casino’s Collider tables. Players drawn to the action were clustered three-deep around the table, making it impossible to catch so much as a glimpse of the lucky Kubaz until Plagueis and the Bothans reached the croupier’s pit. Pressed in among females of various species who were attempting without success to get his attention, the dark-skinned, long-snouted male insectivore was seated across from the croupier, behind several tall stacks of credit chits. The game was called Collider because players placed bets on the types and spiraling paths of high-energy subatomic particles created as a result of collisions occurring within the accelerator table and the random firings of deviating electromagnets surrounding it. Due to the unpredictable nature of the collisions, the house enjoyed only a small advantage—where the accelerators weren’t rigged—but the Kubaz was overcoming the odds by betting solely on the particle paths rather than the particle categories.

With the table accelerator humming to life and the Kubaz sliding some of his chits across the gambling grid, Plagueis stretched out cautiously with the Force, sensing intense concentration on the part of the Kubaz, and then an extraordinary surge of psychic energy. The Kubaz was using the Force—not to steer particles along certain paths but to dazzle the electromagnets and significantly reduce the number of paths the created particles were likely to take.

The gathered crowd applauded and roared another win, and the croupier pushed yet another stake of credit chits across the table, adding to the millions of credits the Kubaz had already won. In an effort to see deeper into the Kubaz, Plagueis opened himself to the Force again, and realized at once that the Kubaz had perceived the intrusion. Rising from the chair so suddenly that the females to either side of him were nearly knocked over, he ordered the croupier to cash him out. Without looking around him, he accepted the redeemable winnings chit and hurried off in the direction of the nearest bar. The Bothan security team fell in behind, after promising to alert Plagueis if the Kubaz attempted to leave the casino.

Returned to the upper-tier office where 11-4D was still waiting by the chair and the Sullustan manager was recovering from a flop sweat, Plagueis asked if Colliders maintained a database of players who had earned a reputation by breaking the banks of casinos, not only on Lianna but on other worlds where gambling was a popular pastime. On the wall screen moments later ran images of male and female Ongree, Askajians, Zabrak, Togrutas, Kel Dors, Gotals, and Niktos. Even a Clawdite shape-shifter.

“These are the most notorious of the lot,” the manager was explaining when the image of a Neimoidian came on screen. “The ones the Gaming Authority suspects of having developed surefire methods of cheating. Any who show up at Colliders will be denied entrance.”

Plagueis studied the final images and turned to the Sullustan. “You have been most helpful. We won’t trouble you any further.”

The turbolift had just lowered him and 11-4D to the casino level when he asked the droid whether it had noticed anything telling about the winners’ lineup.

“I find it curious that they are all, shall I say, Muunoid bipeds of roughly the same physical construction, and almost identical in height. One-point-eight meters, to be precise.” OneOne-FourDee looked at Plagueis. “Is it possible they are the same being?”

Plagueis smiled in satisfaction. “Perhaps a Clawdite?”

“I was about to suggest as much. However, it is my understanding that the Zolan reptomammalian shape-shifters are only rarely successful at perpetuating species camouflage for more than a brief time without experiencing intense discomfort. What’s more, the lineup featured a Clawdite.”

“What if it was a being taking the form of a Clawdite.”

OneOne-FourDee gave a kind of start. “A Shi’ido, Magister. The candidate Venamis was monitoring is a skinshifter!”

Little was known about the reclusive, telepathic species from Laomon, save that they were capable of imitating a wide variety of sentient species. The most gifted were said to be able to mimic trees or even rocks. A powerful female Shi’ido named Belia Darzu had been a Sith Lord in the pre-Bane era, creating armies of technobeasts she controlled using dark side energy.

“That would explain the negative blood test results,” 11-4D was saying.

Plagueis nodded. “I suspect that this Forceful Shi’ido has learned how to alter his blood. Or perhaps he merely clouded the mind of the analyst, compelling him to ignore the midi-chlorian count findings.”

They had just stepped down into the gaming area when one of the Bothans hurried forward. “Magister Damask, I’ve just received word that the Kubaz is leaving.”

“Did the Kubaz ask to have his winnings transferred to an account?”

The Bothan shook his head. “He preferred a credit chit. Many winners do, hoping to protect their privacy.”

Plagueis thanked him and swung to the droid. “Hurry, FourDee. Before he gets too much of a lead on us.”

They headed out into the glittering ecumenopolis, where cloud-scrapers and monads towered above them, pedestrian walkways were jammed with beings from up and down the Perlemian Trade Route, and the sky was crowded with traffic. And almost everywhere they looked, they saw the name Santhe—above the doorways to buildings, in advertisements that ran on giant wall screens, emblazoned on the sides of airspeeders and ships. The prominent family all but owned Lianna and had, for the past thirty years, wrested a controlling interest in one of Lianna’s principal enterprises: Sienar Technologies—representatives from which had been guests at the recent Gathering on Sojourn.

Maintaining a reasonable distance, Plagueis and 11-4D trailed the Kubaz from walkway to busy walkway, then across one of the ornate bridges that spanned the Lona Cranith River into Lianna’s sister city, Lola Curich. Past the headquarters of the Allied Tion Historical Society, Fronde’s Airspeeders, a cantina called Thorip Norr … All the while the Kubaz had been glancing over his shoulder and was now increasing his pace as he neared the entrance to a pedestrian tunnel.

“The Shi’ido behaves as if he is aware of being followed,” 11-4D said, photoreceptors fixed on their quarry.

“He’ll attempt to lose us in the tunnel. We’d do better to wait for him to exit.” Plagueis stopped to take a look around. “This way, FourDee.”

Hurrying through buildings undercut by the tunnel, they emerged just where the pedestrian bypass debouched into a public square fronted by restaurants and boutique shops. OneOne-FourDee sharpened his optical receptors and trained them on the mouth of the tunnel. “Based on the rate of speed at which the Shi’ido was walking when he entered the tunnel, he should have exited by now.”

“And indeed he has,” Plagueis said. “Direct your attention to the hefty Askajian who is passing by the Aurodium Spoon.”

The droid’s photoreceptors rotated slightly. “The Shi’ido skinshifted inside the tunnel.”

“I suspected he might.”

“Would that I had a tool comparable to the Force, Magister.”

They resumed their clandestine surveillance, shadowing the Askajian now, who led them on a convoluted tour of Lola Curich that ended at an automated InterGalactic Banking Clan kiosk alongside a PetVac franchise. Plagueis relied on 11-4D to furnish an update on the skinshifter’s activities.

“He has deposited the credit chit,” the droid said. “But I’m unable to provide the account number. Even my macrovision pickups have their limitations.”

Plagueis gestured in dismissal. “That won’t be a problem.”

They waited until the Shi’ido had exited the kiosk to dart inside. With the help of IBC codes Plagueis supplied, 11-4D soon acquired not only the account number but also the identity of the holder.

“Kerred Santhe the Second,” the droid said.

Plagueis was speechless for a moment. Santhe had inherited principal ownership of Santhe/Sienar Technologies from the elder Kerred—who had the distinction of being Plagueis’s first murder under the tutelage of Darth Tenebrous. But that a wealthy industrialist like Santhe should have need of a gambler’s winnings made little sense. Unless the Shi’ido was somehow in debt to Santhe. Did the circuitous connection to Tenebrous explain how the skinshifter had first come to Venamis’s attention?

“How well versed are you in Shi’ido physiology?” Plagueis asked 11-4D.

“Shi’ido subjects participated in longevity studies conducted on Obroa-skai. They possess a very flexible physiology and anatomy, with reconfigurable tendons and ligaments, and thin but dense skeletal features that allow them to support their fleshy mass and extensive reserves of bodily fluids.”

“Are your sensors capable of determining when a Shi’ido is about to skinshift?”

“If the Shi’ido is in close proximity, yes.”

“Then we haven’t a moment to lose.”

Catching up with their quarry as he was entering the public square, they overtook him and hurried into the pedestrian tunnel ahead of him. A hundred meters along, they found themselves in an unoccupied, dimly lighted stretch that Plagueis surmised the Shi’ido would make use of to transform, and they waited.

The Shi’ido did not disappoint him. And the moment he began to shift—from Askajian to what might have been either an Ongree or a Gotal—11-4D activated the laser weapon hidden in its right arm and fired a tightbeam into the base of the Shi’ido’s brain.

The momentarily monstrous medley of species loosed a tormented scream and collapsed to the floor of the tunnel, squirming in pain. Moving quickly, 11-4D dragged him deeper into the dimness, where Plagueis positioned himself behind the skinshifter’s grotesquely bulging cranium, uneven shoulders, and hunched back.

“Why did you transfer your winnings to Kerred Santhe?” Plagueis asked.

The Shi’ido’s twisted mouth struggled to form a response. “Are you with the Gaming Authority?”

“You only wish. Again: Why Kerred Santhe?”

“Gambling debts,” the Shi’ido slurred, as slaver dripped to the ground. “He’s in debt to a couple of Black Sun Vigos and other lenders.”

“Santhe is one of the galaxy’s wealthiest beings,” Plagueis pressed. “Why would he need what you’ve been stealing from casinos from here to Coruscant?”

“He’s millions in debt. He hasn’t stopped drinking and gambling since his father was assassinated.”

Brilliantly assassinated, Plagueis thought. “Even so, Black Sun would never target him.”

The Forceful Shi’ido craned his lumpy neck in an effort to get a look at his inquisitor. “He knows that. But the Vigos are threatening to go public with the information. A scandal could persuade Santhe/Sienar’s board of directors to oust him as chief operating officer and appoint Narro Sienar as his replacement.”

Plagueis laughed shortly in a surprised but satisfied way. “As well they should, skinshifter.” He stood and began to move off. “You’ve been most helpful. You’re free to go.”

“You can’t leave me like this,” the Shi’ido begged.

Plagueis came to a halt and returned to his victim. “If you were funding terrorism or purchasing weapons, I might have allowed you to continue fleecing the casinos. But by fattening Black Sun’s coffers and protecting the reputation of an enemy of one of my friends, you become my enemy, as well.” He lowered his voice to a menacing growl. “Consider this: you have one last chance to use your Force talents to win big before your horrid image becomes the centerpiece of the cheaters database on every gambling world. I suggest you use your winnings wisely to make a new life for yourself where the Gaming Authority won’t be able to find you, and I won’t come looking for you.”


To say that the planet Saleucami was the bright spot of its system meant merely that it alone, among half a dozen airless and desolate worlds, was capable of supporting life. Its own bright spots were not, as one might suspect, those areas that hadn’t yet been victimized by meteor bombardments, but rather some of the impact craters the ceaseless celestial storm had left behind. For there the meteor strikes had conjured mineral-rich underground waters to the arid surface, turning the craters into caldera lakes, and the environs into oases of orbiculate flora.

Blue-skinned, yellow-eyed bipeds from the far side of the Core had been the first to colonize Saleucami, which meant “oasis” in their tongue, for the world was just that among those they had visited during the long journey from Wroona. Since then had come hearty groups of Weequay, Gran, and Twi’leks, in flight from conflicts or in search of hardscrabble isolation, and up to the tasks of farming the colorless ground for moisture and subsisting on tasteless root crops that withered in the midday heat and froze solid at night. Eventually the planet had given rise to a city and a spaceport, constructed in the shadow of one of the calderas nourished by geothermal energy.

Saleucami’s more recent immigrants were of a different sort: young beings from worlds as distant as Glee Anselm and Arkania, dressed in tattered clothing and carrying their possessions on their backs. Drifters and searchers arriving in the battered transports and tramp freighters that served the Outer Rim systems. Male and female, though three times the latter to the former, distinguished by what some saw as a restless gaze and others the look of the lost. At first the native colonists didn’t know what to make of these feckless wanderers, but gradually an entire industry had grown up to cater to their simple if peculiar needs for shelter, food, and surface transport into the wastelands, where enlightenment awaited, delivered at the outsized hands of a being who was rumored to possess prophetic powers.

Among them that day was a Muun wearing a simple hooded robe and well-worn boots. Where normally the mere sight of a Muun might have generated rumors that Saleucami was about to be acquired by the InterGalactic Banking Clan, the youthful horde the Munn had fallen in with barely gave him a second glance. Not when the crowd already included Ryn and Fosh and other exotic species; and not when Saleucami itself was viewed as little more than a stepping-stone to a greater world.

Plagueis had left 11-4D on Sy Myrth and completed the journey by freighter in the hope of maintaining as low a profile as possible. Background data on the prophet was scant, though Venamis had noted that she had been born in the Inner Rim and had arrived on Saleucami only three years earlier. Saleucami’s colonists were willing to tolerate her presence, as well as the camp followers she attracted, provided they confined their assemblies to the wastelands.

Wedged in among forty others in an overpacked speeder bus, Plagueis let his gaze sweep across a forlorn landscape of volcanic mountains and the sheer walls of impact craters. In a cloudless sky of pale purple, blinding light flashed intermittently, and the monotony of the five-hour trip was relieved only by the occasional settlement or lone moisture farm. Journey’s end was a relatively small caldera lake, from the shores of which rose a communal sprawl of tents and crude shelters, populated by the dreamy veterans of previous assemblies.

The Selected, as they were called.

Climbing from the speeder bus, Plagueis joined the crowd of newcomers in a short trek to a natural amphitheater, where pieces of meteorite provided seats for some. Others sat on their backpacks or spread out on the uneven ground. Shortly, the sound of whining engines announced the arrival of a caravan of hybridized landspeeders, many in pristine condition, though covered with dust and bleached of color by the harsh light. Nearly everyone in the amphitheater stood up and a wave of anticipation moved through the crowd, building to a fervor as an Iktotchi female stepped from one of the vehicles, encircled by disciples dressed as plainly as she was.

Plagueis couldn’t think of a being more suited to Saleucami or cult status: a hairless biped with downward-curving horns and a prominent brow, skin hardened to withstand the violent winds of her homeworld, and a contentious countenance that belied an emotional nature. But, most important, possessed of proven precognitive ability.

Alone, she mounted a slab of stone that was the amphitheater’s stage and, once the crowd had quieted, began to speak in a solemn voice.

“I have seen the coming darkness and the beings that will visit it upon the galaxy.” She paused briefly to allow her words to be felt. “I have witnessed the collapse of the Republic, and I have beheld the Jedi Order spun into turmoil.” She aimed a finger toward distant mountains. “On the horizon looms a galaxy-spanning war—a conflict between machines of alloy and machines of flesh, and the subsequent death of tens of millions of innocents.”

She paced on the slab, almost as if speaking to herself. “I see worlds subjugated and worlds destroyed, and from the chaos a new order born, buttressed by ferocious weapons the likes of which haven’t been seen in more than one thousand years. A galaxy brought under the yoke of a ruthless despot who serves the forces of entropy. And finally I have seen that only those hardened by this ineluctable truth can survive.” She scanned the audience. “Only those of you who are willing to turn upon one another and profit by the misfortunes of others.”

The crowd sat in stunned silence. Iktotchi were said to surrender some of their precognitive abilities the farther they traveled from their homeworld, but that wasn’t always the case. And certainly not, Plagueis told himself, in the case of an Iktotchi who was strong in the Force. It was no wonder that Venamis had been keeping tabs on her.

“I have been sent to overturn your most cherished beliefs in a bright future, and to help you wage war on good intentions and the deception of pure ideas; to teach you how to accept the fact that even in the midst of this seemingly blessed era, this wink of the eye in sentient history, our baser instincts hold sway over us. I have been sent to counsel you that the Force itself will become as if it had been but a passing fancy among the self-deceived—an antiquated illusion that will turn to smoke on the cleansing fires of the new age.”

She paused once more, and when she next spoke some of the edge had left her voice.

“What this reordered galaxy will need is beings who are fearless to be arrogant, self-serving, and driven to survive at all costs. Here, under my guidance, you will learn to let go of your old selves and find the strength to recast yourselves as beings of durasteel, through actions you might never have believed yourselves possible of performing.

“I am the pilot of your future.”

She opened her arms to the crowd. “Look, each of you, to the ones to your left and right, and to those in front and behind …”

Plagueis did as instructed, meeting innocent gazes and angry ones, frightened looks and expressions of loss.

“… and think of them as stepping-stones to your eventual escalation,” the Iktotchi said. She showed her hands. “The touch from my hands will set the current flowing through you; it will trip the switch that will start your journey to transformation. Come to me if you wish to be selected.”

Many in the crowd stood and began to press toward the stage, pushing others out of the way, fighting to be first to reach her. Plagueis took his time, finding a place at the end of a meandering line. While the notion of having a ready-made army of dark siders available to him was not without a certain appeal, the Iktotchi was spreading a message that had doomed the Sith of old, the Sith who preceded Bane’s reformation, and had allowed internecine fighting to propel the Order into oblivion. The appropriate message should have been that they relinquish their need to feel in control of their own destinies and accept the enlightened leadership of a select few.

Saleucami’s primary was low in the sky by the time Plagueis reached the stone slab and stood facing the Iktotchi. Her broad hands took hold of his, and she tightened her thick fingers around his narrow palms.

“A Muun of wealth and taste—the first who has come in search of me,” she said.

“You were selected,” Plagueis told her.

She held his gaze, and a sudden look of uncertainty came into her eyes, as if Plagueis had locked horns with her. “What?”

“You were selected—though without your knowledge. And so I needed to meet you in person.”

She continued to stare at him. “That’s not why you are here.”

“Oh, but it is,” Plagueis said.

She tried to withdraw her hands, but Plagueis now had firm hold of them. “That’s not why you are here,” she said, altering the emphasis. “You wear the darkness of the future. It is I who have sought you; I who should be your handmaiden.”

“Unfortunately not,” Plagueis whispered. “Your message is premature and dangerous to my cause.”

“Then let me undo it! Let me do your bidding.”

“You are about to.”

A fire ignited in her eyes and her body went rigid as Plagueis began to trickle lightning into her. Her limbs trembled and her blood began to boil. Her hands grew hot and were close to being set aflame when he finally felt the light go out of her and she crumpled in his grasp. Askance, he saw one of the Iktotchi’s Twi’lek disciples racing toward him, and he abruptly let go of her hands and stepped away from her spasming body.

“What happened?” the Twi’lek demanded as other disciples were rushing to the Iktotchi’s aid. “What did you do to her?”

Plagueis made a calming gesture. “I did nothing,” he said in a deep monotone. “She fainted.”

The Twi’lek blinked and turned to his comrades. “He did nothing. She fainted.”

“She’s not breathing!” one of them said.

“Help her,” Plagueis said in the same monotone.

“Help her,” the Twi’lek said. “Help her!”

Plagueis stepped from the slab and began to walk against a sudden tide of frenzied beings toward one of the waiting speeder buses. Night was falling quickly. Behind him, shouts of disbelief rang out, echoing in the amphitheater. Panic was building. Beings were wringing their hands, jiggling their antennae and other appendages, walking in circles, mumbling to themselves.

He was the only one to board the speeder bus. Those he had arrived with and the Selected who had built shelters above the lakes were running into the dark, as if determined to lose themselves in the wastes.


In a starship similar in design to the one that had delivered Tenebrous and Plagueis to Bal’demnic—a Rugess Nome craft—Plagueis and 11-4D traveled to the Mid Rim world of Bedlam, near the argent pulsar of the same name. A leak point in realspace and a playground for purported transdimensional beings, the luminous cosmic phenomenon struck Plagueis as the perfect setting for the sanatorium to which the last of Venamis’s potential apprentices—a Nautolan—had been confined for the past five years.

Uniformed Gamorrean guards met them at the towering front doors of the Bedlam Institution for the Criminally Demented and showed them to the office of the superintendent, where they were welcomed by an Ithorian, who listened closely but in obvious dismay to the purpose of Plagueis’s surprise visit.

“Naat Lare has been named as a beneficiary in a will?”

Plagueis nodded. “A small inheritance. As chief executor I have been searching for him for some time.”

The Ithorian’s twin-lobed head swung back and forth and his long, bulbous-tipped fingers tapped a tattoo on the desktop. “I’m sorry for having to report that he is no longer with us.”

“Dead?”

“Quite possibly. But what I meant to say is that he has disappeared.”

“When?”

“Two months ago.”

“Why was he originally confined to Bedlam?” Plagueis asked.

“He was remanded by authorities on Glee Anselm, but ultimately sentenced to serve out his time here, where he could be looked after.”

“What was his crime?”

“Crimes, is more apt. He has a long history of sadomasochistic practices—most often performed on small animals—pyromania, petty crime, and intoxicant use. Typically we see this in beings who have been abused or had an unstable upbringing, but Naat Lare had a loving family and is very intelligent, despite having been expelled from countless schools.”

Plagueis considered his next question carefully. “Is he dangerous?”

The Ithorian drummed his spatulate fingers again before responding. “At the risk of violating patient confidentiality, I would say potentially dangerous, as he has certain … let us say, talents, that transcend the ordinary.”

“Did those talents figure into his escape?”

“Perhaps. Though we think he may have had help.”

“From whom?”

“A Bith physician who took an interest in his case.”

Plagueis leaned back in his chair. Venamis? “Have you contacted this physician?”

“We tried, but the information he furnished regarding his practice and place of residence was fraudulent.”

“So he may not have been a physician.”

The Ithorian’s head bobbed on his curving neck. “Sadly. The Bith may have been an accomplice, of sorts.”

“Do you have any idea where Naat Lare may have disappeared to?”

“Assuming he left Bedlam on his own, the possibilities are limited, given the dearth of starships that serve us. His first stop would have to have been either Felucia, Caluula, or Abraxin. We notified the authorities on those worlds. Unfortunately, we lack the budget to undertake an extensive search.”

Plagueis cast 11-4D a meaningful glance and rose from the chair. “Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, Superintendent.”

“We’re confident that the Jedi will locate him, in any case,” the Ithorian added as Plagueis and the droid were about to exit the office.

Plagueis swung back around. “The Jedi?”

“Because of Naat Lare’s peculiar gifts, we felt obliged to contact the Order as soon as he was discovered to be missing. They graciously consented to assist us in the search.” The Ithorian paused. “I could contact you if I learn something …”

Plagueis smiled. “I’ll leave my contact information with your assistant.”

He and 11-4D returned to the ship in silence. While the boarding ramp was lowering, Plagueis said, “Beings like Naat Lare don’t remain hidden for long. Search the HoloNet and other sources for news of recent events on the three worlds the superintendent named, and apprise me of any accounts that capture your interest.”

The ship had scarcely left Bedlam’s atmosphere when 11-4D reported to the cockpit.

“A morsel from Abraxin, Magister,” the droid began. “Buried among stories of intriguing or bizarre occurrences. Reports of the recent killings of dozens of marsh haunts in the swamps surrounding a Barabel settlement on the southern continent.”

Large, nonsentient bipedal creatures, marsh haunts hunted in packs and were known to use the Force to flush their prey into the open.

“The superstitious among the Barabels believe that the Blight of Barabel is responsible for the rash of killings.”

Plagueis slapped the palms of his hands on his thighs. “Our Nautolan has moved on from torturing household pets to murdering Forceful creatures. And I’m certain that the Jedi will reach the same conclusion.”

“If they haven’t already, sir.”

Plagueis caressed his chin in thought. “This one has more than a hint of the dark side. It’s no wonder Venamis was visiting him. Have the navicomputer plot a course for Abraxin, FourDee. We’re returning to the Tion Cluster.”

A standard day later they had made planetfall close to the area where the marsh haunt killings had been occurring. By design, the Barabel settlement was remote from any of the planet’s spaceports, at the dubious edge of an extensive swamp, the twisting shorelines of which were palisaded by dense stands of water-rooted trees. On a finger of high ground a few pre-form buildings rose among clusters of stilted, thatched-roof homes linked to one another by paths that weaved through the dry-season grasses. The scaled, reptilian natives wore just enough clothing to be modest, and a sickly sweet smell of rotting vegetation hung in the motionless air. Abraxin had been strong in the dark side during Bane’s lifetime, when it had been aligned with Lord Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness, but Plagueis could sense that the power had waned significantly in the intervening centuries.

He and 11-4D hadn’t walked a kilometer from the ship when they came upon a group of Barabels hauling a quartet of slaughtered marsh haunts from the legume-soup-colored water. The foul-smelling, bipedal carcasses had been slashed and stabbed, and had lost their red eyes to the delicate work of a vibroblade. On first glance one might have thought that the creatures had been decapitated, as well, what with their small heads set low between hunched shoulders. Plagueis found the Barabels to be no more pleasant smelling than the butchered haunts, but they knew enough Basic to answer his questions about the recent spate of killings.

“Memberz of the same hunt pack, these four,” one of the reptilians explained, “and done in only last night.”

Another, whose shedded tail was just beginning to regrow, added: “It’z the Blight.” His clawed paw indicated the black eye sockets of one of the limp haunts. “This one believes that only the Blight would take the eyes.”

Continuing on the shaded path that led into the settlement, Plagueis shrugged out of his cloak and folded it over his right forearm. A turn in the path revealed that he wasn’t the only visitor improperly dressed for the climate. Up ahead two Jedi layered in the Order’s traditional brown robes were haggling with a Barabel over the rental price for a water skimmer. Plagueis anchored himself in the material realm as the younger of the two Jedi—a Zabrak—swung slowly around to watch him and 11-4D as they passed.

Responding to the Jedi’s look with a nod of his head, Plagueis kept walking, deviating from the path only when they had reached a small market building, from which the pair of Jedi and the Barabel skimmer pilot could still be observed. Familiar with Barabel, Plagueis eavesdropped on conversations among the merchants, who sat behind trays of dead fish, birds, and insects the swamp had provided. The marsh haunt killings were on everyone’s mind, as were superstitions about the Blight. But the arrival of the Jedi was viewed as a good omen, in that the Order was venerated for having helped settle a clan dispute on Barab I almost a millennium earlier.

Plagueis drew 11-4D to the market entrance and instructed him to sharpen his photoreceptors on the Jedi, who were in the midst of concluding their business with the skimmer pilot. He then allowed himself to call deeply on the Force.

“Both of them reacted,” the droid said. “The Cerean directed a gaze at the market, but didn’t focus on you.”

“Only because he has his feelers out for a Nautolan rather than a Muun.”

A short time later, while Plagueis and 11-4D were wandering through the settlement, someone called out in Core-accented Basic: “We appear to be the only strangers in town.”

The voice belonged to the rangy Cerean, who had emerged from an eatery bearing a flagon of liquid. Following him outside, the Zabrak set two mugs on a table that enjoyed a pool of shade.

“Join us, please,” the Cerean said, nodding his tall conical head toward the table’s spare chair.

Plagueis stepped toward the table but declined the chair.

“A locally produced beer,” the Zabrak said, pouring from the flagon. “But I saw a bottle of Abraxin Brandy inside, if that’s more to your liking.”

“Thank you, but neither at the moment,” Plagueis said. “Perhaps after working hours.”

The Cerean motioned to himself. “I am Master Ni-Cada. And this is Padawan Lo Bukk. What brings you to Abraxin, citizen—”

“Micro-loans,” Plagueis cut in before having to provide a name. “The Banking Clan is considering opening a branch of the Bank of Aargau here as a means of shoring up the local economy.”

The Jedi traded enigmatic looks over the rims of the mugs.

“And what brings the Jedi to Abraxin, Master Ni-Cada? Not the shellfish, I take it.”

“We’re investigating the recent killings of marsh haunts,” the Zabrak said, perhaps before his Master could prevent him.

“Ah, of course. My droid and I saw the bodies of four of the pitiful creatures when we entered the settlement.”

The Cerean nodded gravely. “This so-called Blight will be over by tomorrow.”

Plagueis adopted a look of pleasant surprise. “Wonderful news. There’s nothing worse than superstition to cripple an economy. Enjoy your drinks, citizens.”

OneOne-FourDee waited until he and Plagueis were well out of earshot of the Jedi to say: “Are we departing Abraxin, Magister?”

Plagueis shook his head. “Not before I find the Nautolan. I’ve no choice but to attempt to draw him out of hiding.”

“But should you call on the Force, you’re likely to attract the Jedi, as well.”

“The risk may prove worthwhile.”

They spent the afternoon eavesdropping on conversations about the locations of the killings, and determined that Naat Lare, whether he realized it or not, had been following a pattern. In the darkness at the edge of the settlement, at a spot along the bloodsucker-plagued shore of the dark swamp, some six kilometers from the market, Plagueis peeled out of his leggings, tunic, and bonnet, and slipped naked into the murky water. With an aquata breather clamped between his teeth, he propelled himself to the bottom. There, squatting in the muck, he opened himself fully to the Force and summoned the Nautolan, whose Force and olfactory senses might suggest that the mother of all marsh haunts was at hand for killing. A tattooed female Nautolan named Dossa had once been deemed suitable to serve Sith Lord Exar Kun; who knew what gifts Naat Lare might possess?

Surfacing to the riotous stridulations of insects, Plagueis leapt to the muddy shore, dressed, and perched himself in starlight on the slippery roots of a leafy tree. Shortly, he sensed an echo in the Force and saw ripples in the water some distance away. In the dim light, a blue-green nest of head-tresses broke the surface, followed by a pair of lidless maroon eyes. Then the amphibious sentient from Glee Anselm appeared, pulling himself ashore like some devolved beast and fixing his attention on Plagueis.

At the same time, Plagueis heard the sound of a water skimmer approaching rapidly from deeper in the swamp, and sensed the presence of the two Jedi.

“You’re not Venamis,” Naat Lare said in Basic, one hand on the hilt of a vibroblade strapped to his muscular thigh.

“He helped you escape Bedlam and sent you here as part of your training.”

Naat Lare’s hand closed on the hilt. “Who are you?”

Plagueis stood to his full height. “I am Venamis’s Master.”

The Nautolan looked confused, but only momentarily. Then he genuflected in the mud. “Lord,” he said, lowering his head.

The sound of the skimmer was closer now, just around a bend in the swamp. “Two Jedi have tracked you.”

Naat Lare’s tresseled head swung to the sound of the skimmer.

Plagueis began to retreat into the shadows, and into mundane nature. “Prove yourself worthy to me and Venamis by killing them.”

“Yes, my lord.” The Nautolan sprang to his feet and dived into the slime-covered water.

Deep in the leafy trees Plagueis waited. The skimmer’s motor went silent; then water surged and shouts of alarm and sudden flashes of light erupted in the night.

“Master!”

A harsh guttural sound rang out, followed by a scream of pain.

“Stand aside, Padawan.”

“Master, it’s—”

Another scream, higher in pitch.

“Don’t! Don’t!”

The thrum of an angered lightsaber, a howl of pain, and something heavy struck the water.

“Is he alive? Is he alive?”

Someone moaned.

“Wait …”

Waves broke on the rooted shore close to where Plagueis had concealed himself.

“Master?”

“It’s done. He’s dead.”