There is a certain civilization within Hutt palaces, despite the criminal veneer. Jabba's Palace isn't the streets of Mos Eisley or Anchorhead. In here there is a clearly defined hierarchy: Jabba, the other Hutts, their troopers and smugglers and yes-men, and then everyone else. There is order, even if it is enforced at the business end of a surly Gamorrean's vibropike. There is entertainment—the raunchy kind, but one takes what one can get out here in the Outer Rim. Drinks, dances, lights, fights. From Obi-Wan's point of view, it's not all that far off from the seedier lower levels of Coruscant.
Minus, of course, the fact that Jedi are most certainly not welcome here.
"I will keep my eyes open for anything interesting," Ventress says as she and Obi-Wan head into the palace's main series of halls, elaborate rooms of steel and dust reverberating to the ear-splitting echoes of a Rodian band blaring over the speakers. "I have no idea what you think you're going to find, however. To me this just looks like a waste of your money."
"You have your pay. Consider it an easy job," Obi-Wan says. If only she was the only one he had paid. Already he's had to bribe two patrols of Gamorreans guarding the palace, not to mention the gaggle of Nikto sentries at the main gate. At this rate he'll be out of money long before he learns anything.
Ventress smirks. "Whatever you say, Deenhar Rako. That is a terrible cover name, by the way."
Obi-Wan knows. He has no gift for that sort of creativity. When making up a false name to go by while in these halls, he'd picked the first thing that came to mind—Rako Hardeen, the bounty hunter in whose shoes he once walked during a deep cover operation a year ago. But Rako Hardeen was the infamous sort of scum; Obi-Wan could hardly use that name again. Especially not with his normal face. "No one's ever met anyone named Deenhar Rako."
"That's because it is a terrible name. No one names their child that."
"The point is that they won't bother so much as looking at me twice."
"As you wish, employer. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a drink using your money."
"Ventress, that wasn't the point."
"Take it up with Jabba," she says before slithering away into the bacchanalian crowd of smugglers, bounty hunters, mercenaries, and local filth.
Obi-Wan sighs. Another smooth mission going exactly according to plan.
In truth, Obi-Wan is unsure of precisely what to look for. He has come to search for signs of suspicious Hutt activity—coordinated, anti-Republic activity, to be sure—but almost everything the Hutts do is suspicious to some degree. Everything is legal in Hutt Space, with the primary rule from Sleheyron to Pzob being the avoidance of the Hutts' ire. Slavery. Spice dealing. Racketeering. Murder. It's all free and clear out here, and for anything to truly arouse suspicion, it will have to be drastic and dramatic.
Fortunately, the Hutts have never been good at hiding their secrets. Ventress is right: The best thing Obi-Wan can do to start is look for anything that stands out even in this wretched hive of scum and villainy.
As the music blasts and several nearly-naked Twi'lek dancers strut in front of a boisterous audience, Obi-Wan settles down at one of the several bars scattered about the perimeter of this lounge. Jabba is nowhere to be seen. All the better: Obi-Wan does not want to talk to the Hutt gangster if it all possible. Best to play it safe with the Hutts and do the dirty work without arousing suspicion. Instead, he orders a drink—something murky and brown that he doesn't want to know the name of; probably toxic to humans, knowing his luck—and watches.
A drunk Gran slaps a tabletop like a clown as the dancers twirl. A pair of Gamorreans snort over a joke. An exceptionally tall Klatooinian surveys the crowd with raptor eyes. Hm. Obi-Wan watches him out of the corner of his sight, sipping his drink as the noise and pulse and color beats around him. Something suspicious about that one. But then a pair of burly Niktos get in the Klatooinian's face, one of them throwing a device on the table and shouting obscenities before the joking Gamorreans break up the confrontation. Nothing, then. Just the typical carnage endemic to Hutt worlds.
A Devaronian slides into the seat next to him. "All alone, babe?" she purrs. She leans in to his ear. "Want to change that?"
Obi-Wan smiles. There's a certain smug satisfaction to times like this. He's stuck in the rigors of a Jedi mission, sure, but at least he's still got it. If only Satine might see that. No, no, don't think about her now. You don't need that distraction. "Not this time," he says, easing her hand away from his waist. "Here on business, my dear."
"Business?" she says with a tinkling laugh. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Deenhar Rako. Man for hire. For the right price."
"Mm. I'm much the same, Deen," she says. "For the right price. Don't you get lonely on your…business?"
It's a good thing he didn't bring Anakin here. He would never hear the end of it. "Not today, I think," he says.
"Shame," says the Devaronian, rising. "Find me if you change your mind."
No sooner has she gone, however, than Obi-Wan sees someone truly interesting. An armored warrior—a Mandalorian—strides through the crowd, not so much as casting a glance at the entertainment strutting about on the floor. Obi-Wan is tempted to ignore him, but it's the crest on his shoulder pauldron that truly draws his eye. He has seen that maddening sigil before.
Death Watch.
Obi-Wan gulps down his drink. The Mandalorian leans in to whisper to a pair of onlookers in a corner, all business. Blaster pistol on his hip. What looks like a flamer on his wrist. Armed and ready.
The Devaronian has not even made it to her next mark before Obi-Wan catches up to her. "Change your mind after all, babe?" she purrs, her eyes like half-moons beneath a fog of spice.
"Perhaps I did," Obi-Wan murmurs. He takes her hand and slides a fistful of coins into it. "You can tell me who that Mandalorian is, actually."
"Mm, means that much to you, do he?" she says, clutching the coinage. "I don't know his name, sorry. There's a couple of them who've been around the past couple days. All in that big scary armor. One of them even talks to Jabba. He something special to you?"
Obi-Wan shrugs. "Business. Like I said," he says. "Have a drink on me. I need to speak to him."
"Want me to wait for you?"
With a sly grin—that still works these days, doesn't it? He is getting old—he says, "Perhaps."
Without waiting to see her reaction—not like he has any intention of finding her again if this Mandalorian proves useful, after all—he slips away. His target has already detached from his company and heads down a side hall. Obi-Wan is careful: He stays just out of sight, walking slow enough to meld with the crowd, slipping phantom-like around corners. The Mandalorian turns down a cramped corridor, then a narrow lane leading off from the main halls. Still Obi-Wan follows, still out of sight, still just far enough away not to catch his mark's eye. Don't lose him. Death Watch is here for a reason.
The Mandalorian reaches a secure door, punches on a keypad to the door's right, and steps through as it closes behind him. Obi-Wan waits. This is the tough moment: He must time his entrance soon enough not to lose his target but late enough not to alert him. In the shadows and dust he waits. Three four five six. Once he has counted out twenty seconds in his hand he waves his hand at the door, opens it with the Force, and heads through.
No sign of the Mandalorian. Obi-Wan hurries forward, fearing for a moment that he's lost the man, but then he feels a disturbance. Anger. To his right.
He spins just in time to see the Mandalorian launch out of an alcove fist-first.
Obi-Wan dodges the punch just in time. He swats the man's arm away and lands a trio of blows to the man's chest. The Mandalorian stumbles back and kicks. Obi-Wan's breath flees him as the man's boot catches his stomach. He topples, rolls, and avoids a finishing stomp, getting to his feet and spinning away from another strike. The Mandalorian counters his punch and drives his fist into Obi-Wan's chest. As Obi-Wan grimaces in pain, his opponent steps back and presses his wrist flamer.
Only a trickle of fire shoots out before Obi-Wan blasts him full-on with the Force. The Mandalorian flies backwards, striking the wall, shaking his head. "Jedi!" he grunts.
Obi-Wan has to hurry now. He rushes forward, but the Mandalorian jumps away and makes a break for the door. Hurry. Run. Don't let him get away. But Obi-Wan is too slow. The Mandalorian reaches the door, punches the keypad, and opens it.
And finds a shadowy figure standing before him, a red lightsaber in her hand.
"Ah!" the Mandalorian exclaims as Ventress grabs him with the Force. He struggles, chokes, and in futility writhes as Ventress backs him up, presses him against the wall, and tightens her grip. She sheathes her blade, replaces it on her belt, and throws the door shut with her free hand.
"Wait," says Obi-Wan as the Mandalorian squirms. "I need him alive. I need to find out what he knows."
"Just another Mandalorian, by the looks of it," Ventress sneers. Her fingers flinch and the Mandalorian gasps. "They hate the Jedi. I would be doing you a favor."
"Not this time. Let him go."
Ventress hesitates, and for a moment Obi-Wan thinks she'll kill him. But then she relents, releases her grip, and the Death Watch soldier slumps to the floor, panting, rubbing his neck. No sooner has he found his composure, however, then Ventress lights both her blades and crosses them about his throat. "Give me a reason," she hisses.
"She'll do it. I've seen her do worse," says Obi-Wan. "Tell me what I want to know, though, and you can walk out of here."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Ventress murmurs.
Obi-Wan kneels before the Mandalorian. "Death Watch," he says. "Aren't you?"
"What do you know, Jedi?"
"Why is Death Watch this far from Mandalore? What do you want on Tatooine?"
The Mandalorian growls. "You'll never know."
"Fair enough," Ventress says. She deactivates one lightsaber and chokes the man once more. He coughs, sputters, spits beneath his helmet. "His kind are trash, Kenobi. I've met them all by now. You are wasting your time."
This time Obi-Wan does not intervene. He folds his arms and waits as Ventress presses on the Mandalorian's throat, wringing the life out of him as he squirms, air only just slipping through the tiniest of openings. When Obi-Wan thinks the man is on the verge of falling unconscious, he interjects: "Pre Vizsla would be rather disappointed with such a dishonorable death. You'll never have the chance to retake Mandalore like this. Talk, and maybe you'll still serve your people."
The Mandalorian nods desperately as Ventress tightens her grip. When at least she releases him, he again pants and catches his breath before gasping, "How do you know Vizsla?"
"It's my questions that matter, Mandalorian. Why is Death Watch on Tatooine?"
"It's not my call," he pants. "Vizsla, he made a deal with two outsiders. Said it was part of his plan to take Mandalore back."
"What outsiders? Hutts?"
The Mandalorian shakes his head. "They'll kill me if I say."
"I will kill you if you don't," Ventress growls.
"All right, all right. Two Zabraks," the Mandalorian says. "A red-and-black-skinned one named Maul. And then another one. Yellow-and-black tattoos."
"Maul," breathes Obi-Wan.
"Savage," snarls Ventress.
Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. So they did survive Florrum. "What do they want? These Zabraks? What do they want on Tatooine?"
The Mandalorian hesitates before answering. "Vizsla's elites attacked here a few weeks ago. I was stationed to guard the palace afterwards and ensure Jabba's loyalty."
"You attacked the palace?"
"Vizsla and these Zabraks—they're assembling an army. They have the Hutts, the Pykes, Black Sun. They're working on Crimson Dawn. All of them under our banner to retake Mandalore. Vizsla dreams of an empire."
Outrageous. Satine has to know. "When?" Obi-Wan asks. "When are they attacking?"
The Mandalorian shakes his head frantically. "I don't know. I'm just a soldier. I don't know. I swear."
"I don't believe you," says Ventress.
"I don't know! I've told you all I know!"
Before Obi-Wan can say any more, Ventress snarls and slashes. In a single moment her saber lops off the Mandalorian's head and his body slumps, cooling, neck steaming. Obi-Wan closes his eyes. "Was that necessary?"
"He would have alerted this whole place to us," says Ventress, deactivating her lightsaber. "And he would have alerted Vizsla. Letting him go would have jeopardized your intelligence. You are welcome, employer."
Obi-Wan stares at the body. Mandalore. Vizsla. Satine.
Satine.
"I have to report to this to the Council," he murmurs. "I have to get back to Coruscant."
"You do that," Ventress says. "I assume this concludes our arrangement, Kenobi?"
He nods. He may not agree with her methods—he certainly does not agree with her methods—but Ventress certainly gets the job done. In a few years she'll be the top bounty hunter in the galaxy. "Thank you. Maybe not the way I would've done things, but I know what's happening here, now."
Ventress pauses. She makes as if to leave, but then she fishes in her pocket and tosses a metal disc to Obi-Wan. "Private communicator," she says. "I won't work for the Jedi. I especially won't work for your Council. But if you—and only you—have business that needs a more…personal…touch, then I may be willing to discuss terms."
Obi-Wan closes his fingers around the disc. The Council would never approve of such an arrangement. But perhaps this time he will take a page out of Master Qui-Gon's book. Perhaps the Council doesn't need to know. "Maybe I'll do that," he says. "Until the next time, Ventress."
Here do the rocks slough away into fire and brimstone. Here does the air singe and sting, does ash fall like frost. Here are souls and lives ground down and burned away, once by slavery and wrathful lash, now by a bristle of blaster rifles and artillery guns aimed at one another and arcing death across a field of magma. Here even the usual misery and pressure of Sleheyron wilts, and total, utter destruction reigns.
The first thing Anakin sees when he sets the Twilight down near the Anjiliac camp is the flame. One of the few bridges separating the basalt plain where the Anjiliac siege forces sprawl from the fortified Besadii base has crumbled, whether by hostile action or by stress, and now a slow-moving lava slurry meanders through the middle of the battlefield. Even with no land route, the two sides lob energy rounds and shells at one another, explosions bursting, blasts, bodies. Men die. Nothing is gained.
From the rear command station—little more than a few grounded, blaster-scarred shuttles circled in a defensive position, the interior walled with radar equipment, satellite uplink terminals, and computer consoles jury-rigged up to the shuttle engines for power—a Weequay with a face full of scars and a chunk missing from one cheek meets him and Ahsoka. "Jedi," he grumbles as they're led to him. He wipes a pair of beat-up pair of electrobinoculars on his filthy sleeve. "I'm Kaharan. Disu Miin radioed ahead and told me you'd be coming."
"Disu Miin also said he was going to be meeting us," says Ahsoka. "Guess that plan changed."
"Doesn't matter to me," says Anakin. He squints and looks out to the siege lines. "That's the slaver base?"
The Weequay nods. "Yup. Besadii slugs're holed up in there real tight. I don't like the idea of working with Jedi now, so I hope you live up to your people's reputation."
"As long as your boss holds up to his end of the deal, you've got nothing to worry about," says Anakin. He points to the lava river. "What exactly am I looking at here?"
"Exactly what it looks like," says Kaharan, shrugging. "Last night the Besadii blasted the bridge as our boys were trying to cross. Cut off one of our only routes in. In response we rigged up a couple of warsats in space and tried bombing them out, but they've got some sort of massive point-defense gun dug into that rock. They just shoot all our bombs out of the sky, and those Haxion Brood clowns in orbit made things worse by taking potshots at the sats when they were reloading. May as well have been throwing credits right into the lava. Same goes for aerial attacks. I've already lost two gunships trying to airdrop guys behind their lines."
Anakin takes the electrobinoculars from the Weequay and has a look at the battlefront. Trenches and debris walls on either side, garrisoned by sentries and snipers cracking shots back and forth across the lava river. The Besadii base may as well be an island amid a lake of fire; Anakin cannot see any sort of safe overland path to the sprawling circular compound on the far side of the battlefield. But there—in the distance he spots a series of rising cliffs that might allow access from above. "How about that ridge around the rear of the base?"
"Yeah, we tried. They hit us with poison gas the moment we got our first insertion team up there. Everyone died."
"Disu Miin said they had slaves still inside the compound," murmurs Anakin. "They still there?"
"Far as I know, yeah."
"How many are we talking? Miin said ten thousand."
The Weequay shakes his head. "They moved some. Two thousand left, maybe, penned up in a big underground holding vault. At least according to our scans. They'll run out of food and water before too long. Or clean air, if we can just figure out where their main power generator is and hit it. The Besadii'd hate to lose that much merchandise. It's half the reason they're even still defending this dump."
"Two thousand slaves? And you're shelling them with artillery?" chokes Ahsoka. "You're gonna get them all killed."
"They're not my priority, Jedi. Steno and Miin want this place gone, and that's what I'm doing."
Anakin whirls. He grabs the Weequay by the throat with the Force and pulls him to his hand. In response, two other guards shout and draw their guns. Ahsoka draws her lightsabers. The fragile peace between Jedi and Hutt guards flares. "Make them your priority," Anakin growls with Kaharan in his grasp, their faces an inch from each other.
The Weequay gasps. "I-I-I'm just followin' orders—"
"Then follow mine: Stop bombarding the base with your artillery."
Anakin drops the Weequay. His guards shout and keep their weapons trained, but Kaharan spits and clambers to his feet, snapping at them in Huttese until they back off. "All right, all right," the Weequay grumbles as he clears his throat. "I'll cut off the bombardment. I just wanted to starve them all out in the first place, anyway. Didn't want to lose so many men. Last thing I want to do is get killed by a Jedi in what was supposed to be a simple mop-up."
"See? Cooperation makes everything easier," says Anakin. He steps past the Weequay and looks through a gap between two parked shuttles. "You're not even getting anywhere, anyway."
Kaharan glares at him and rubs his neck. "I'm doin' the best I can."
"Do better. You haven't tried anything else except the cliffs?"
"We had some sappers rig up mining equipment. There's some old lava tubes underground that we bored out, but the Besadii sent soldiers down there to cut them off. Lost all contact a couple hours ago."
"Where's the bore hole?"
The Weequay points to a mound of industrial equipment a few hundred yards away behind the Anjiliac front line, ringed by a squad of poorly-armed irregulars. "Most of the mining tube was dug out years back, but we expanded it over the last few days until we had what we thought was a clear path into their base. Should be safe from any cave-ins, but I've got no idea just how many troops the Besadii sent down there to fight our guys off. Given that I haven't heard back from any of the teams we sent down there, I'm guessing it's a lot."
"Don't worry about that," says Anakin. He jabs his thumb at Ahsoka. "The two of us'll cut through down there and take down their anti-air defenses from inside. Once we've done that, airdrop your troops in. But if you start bombing or shelling them again—" he takes a threatening step towards the Weequay, his fists balled— "if you so much as put those slaves being held in there in any danger, I'm going to be mad. You understand what that means?"
The Weequay holds up his hands. "Yeah. Yeah. Got it. I'm just on the payroll, Jedi."
"All right then," Anakin says. "You have a way to contact you once we're inside?"
Kaharan motions to one of his guards and snaps his fingers. "Comlink's patched into my signal," he says, tossing Ahsoka a handheld communicator. "Shouldn't have a problem getting reception even through all that rock. Good luck down there, Jedi. And if you die, don't blame me."
"Better hope we don't die," says Ahsoka. "You don't want two Jedi haunting you from the grave, do you?"
The Weequay looks between them. "Uh. What? I, uh—I'll just wait until you signal. I'll just be here. I don't want nothin' to do with that."
Anakin chuckles as they leave the makeshift command post. It's a little bit of levity that hardly tempers the anger simmering in him—anger at the Hutts, anger at the plight of the slaves locked away in the Besadii camp, anger at this whole stupid situation and the Taths for getting them into it—but at least he has Ahsoka to lighten the mood. At least he has one friendly face amid all these enemies. "Haunting him from the grave," he says. "Good one."
"Hey, maybe it'll make him think twice before doing something like bombing the tunnels when we're in them," says Ahsoka, grinning. "You said they're gonna turn on us at some point, Master."
"Yeah, and I still think so. But I think they'll let us take care of their problem, first," Anakin says as the Anjiliac artillery barrage halts. "These guys are hapless. The 501st would've cleaned out this base in under fifteen minutes."
"We could've brought them, you know."
No, Anakin thinks, they couldn't have. It's one thing for two Jedi to show up on a Hutt world. Just Jedi business. The Order goes where it wants regardless of borders (at least as far as Anakin cares. Obi-Wan's exasperated explanations of Jedi diplomacy have never truly sunk in). But the Republic has to consider policy, negotiations, appearances, foreign relations, all those messy things Padme goes on about—and the clones are the face of the Republic's military might. Having any clone trooper seen in Hutt Space would be an invitation for everything the Jedi Council fears. Closed borders to Hutt Space at the very least, and at the worst the move would anger the Hutt families to the point that they would throw their support behind the Separatists. Maybe their soldiers are all poorly-armed halfwits with second-rate warships, but there sure are a lot of them. Even here, Anakin estimates there's at least a few thousand combatants on the Anjiliac side alone between soldiers and technicians and support personnel.
The Separatists already are pushing back the Republic. The last thing they can afford is to turn even more of the galaxy against them. They are already at their breaking point.
But that doesn't worry Anakin right now. The clones are not here. The Republic is not here. He is. And he has no problem killing Hutt soldiers. Saving the slaves inside is an added bonus. And maybe Disu Miin was even telling the truth and they find Garrako Arraton. Maybe he even has useful intel on the Taths. But on that Anakin is not holding his breath.
If nothing else though, swinging his lightsaber here beats slinking around on Taris.
They come to the mining tunnel bore hole just as a Besadii shell explodes nearby, spraying up debris and knocking flat several of the Nikto and Rodian guards on standby. A flying sliver of rock cuts Anakin's cheek. He doesn't feel it. Doesn't notice the blood trickling out from the wound. That familiar battle rhythm is thumping in his chest like a war drum, vitality spilling forth from valves opening deep in his veins. Hot and fiery. The heat of the lava field is nothing in comparison. He is ready for a fight. The duel with Bal Vigaro on Taris left him unsatisfied, empty, restless. That fight felt wrong, still feels wrong—so much about Taris still feels wrong.
But there is nothing wrong about this. This is what he was born for. Just him, Ahsoka, and however many foes stand before them. Black and white. As simple as simple can be.
He looks into the bore hole, its aperture wide enough for three men to enter shoulder-to-shoulder. Flickering orange industrial lighting blinks on and off below as the tunnel dips and turns out of sight. Only earth and darkness and battle beyond. He is ready.
"Time to get going?" asks Ahsoka, peering into the hole.
Anakin pulls his lightsaber off of his belt. "Let's do this."
"Do you know where we are?"
Count Dooku stands perfectly still. Before him lies Taron Malicos, defeated in the dirt and dust, stripped bare to his waist. Dooku has kept him under sedation ever since the operation—all up until now, now when he begins his next move.
The nights still haunt him. The questions from a phantom lurking in his mind. What does Lord Sidious intend for him? Will the master favor the apprentice? What is the way of the Sith?
Dooku does not intend to learn these answers the hard way. He has assembled plans. Moved pieces around his galactic board. And now, here amid the red rocks beneath a sepia sky, he has a Jedi Master at his mercy. A Jedi ready to taste all of the power of the Dark Side in which this world swirls.
Malicos manages to rise to his knees, his eyes heavy. He grimaces. Dooku has not restrained him or taken any safeguards—those are the measures of a weak man, measures unfit for the Sith. It is strength that concerns him now. Might and power and purpose. "Dooku," seethes Malicos. Already there is such anger in him. Good. "I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"Quite so," says Dooku. He turns and spreads his arms wide. Before him sprawls a great canyon, each side lined with crumbling statuary from an age of titans. "This is the Valley of the Dark Lords, the resting place of the greatest Sith of all time. This is Korriban. The ancestral home of the Dark Side. You are welcome to it, Jedi."
"Feel free to join them in their graves," Malicos spits. "One dead Sith's the same as another to me."
"All you know are dead Jedi," Dooku counters. He turns back to Malicos. "Grievous gave me the report. He killed Jedi Knight Danba Nago above Teyr. He took your left arm. You were powerless to stop it. How disappointing."
Only now does Malicos look down at his left arm. His snarl turns into shock. "Ahh!"
"Oh, yes. Do you like it?"
Malicos scampers back on his right arm alone, because his left refuses to work. It is the abomination from the lab, grafted on by the medical droids, a putrid, mucous-slick monstrosity of metal and bone and obsidian flopping about as Malicos stumbles. "What did you do to me?"
"I replaced what you had lost. You can't very well fight with just one arm, can you?" Dooku says. "You couldn't even defeat Grievous with two, despite having three-to-one odds. Weak. Inferior. Is this the best the Jedi can do? It is no wonder your Republic falls before our might. You have no real power."
"Three-to—" Malicos begins. He squints. Concentrates.
Dooku smiles. "The girl. Nago's Padawan. Yes, Grievous gave her to me, too. Perhaps you will see her soon. Perhaps I will take her as a new apprentice."
"Sith beast," Malicos snarls.
"If you do not like your situation, and if you do not like what I have gifted you," says Dooku, looking to Malicos's mutilation of a left arm, "then act. Change your destiny. Free yourself." He withdraws a lightsaber from his belt. It is not his: When he activates it, a blue blade flares to life. "The Padawan's blade. I offer it to you. Take it."
He tosses the lightsaber to the ground. Malicos recoils as if it is contagious. "Kill me if you want, Dooku. I'm sure you have plenty of practice."
"Oh, I do. But I have no interest in killing you, Malicos. But you can kill me. Take that blade. Seize your Jedi weapon and strike me down in the name of your Order. You will be a hero to the Republic."
Malicos eyes him like cornered prey. Dooku smiles. Yes. He can feel it. That anger. That…hatred. Red and suffocating. He had prepared a whole host of terrors to inflict on Malicos, but this Jedi Master is far further down the path to the Dark Side than he could have ever dreamed. He is so close. He is almost there.
What a revelation. The Jedi are already losing their own without his interference. What will happen when he takes a more active role? But one thing at a time. First things first: Malicos is on the edge. Take that weapon. Kill me, Malicos. Strike me. Give in to your hate.
Malicos grits his teeth and looks away. "I know what you're trying to do."
"And you are powerless to do anything about it," snarls Dooku.
Up rises his hand as he launches a blast of lightning through the Force. The energy blows Malicos back, and the Jedi Master groans as Dooku unleashes the full power of the Dark Side. "You are weak," Dooku taunts as he maintains the assault, the blue light flaring in his eyes. Hate me. Give in to that hate. I can feel it building. "You are powerless. The Jedi sent you to your death, and only by my design have you survived. You are not fit to be a Jedi Master. You are only fit to be a corpse!" Malicos howls in agony as Dooku pours on the attack. His lab-hewn left arm flops about like a puppet's limb. "You cannot protect the galaxy! You cannot even protect yourself!"
At last Malicos resists. At last he gives in. Rage ignites in his eyes. He screams. And then his left arm rises.
Malicos launches a telekinetic wave so strong that it sends Dooku flying. He lands on his back, lightning still crackling from his fingertips. Rocks clatter all around him. Horror unfurls on Malicos's face as he stares at his left arm. Red thunderbolts criss-cross the skin stretched taut on the nightmare limb.
Dooku gets to his feet and smiles. When he bled that kyber crystal he implanted in the arm, he bent it to the Dark Side. He ensured the limb would only respond to anger. To hate. To everything Malicos is feeling now. The Jedi Master has taken his first step.
At last the answers are ripening in Dooku's mind.
"Good," he chuckles. "Good."