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
“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
“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.”
