Planning, she was good at.
Kerra was already in Daiman’s realm; he became the first target. Her feelings against Odion were stronger, but for that reason she didn’t trust them. Anger over her childhood’s premature end had already led her astray once. Daiman was younger, and while he wasn’t as physically powerful as his monstrous sibling, he was, in his own way, just as much of a threat.
Daiman was a creature utterly without empathy. At the academy, Kerra had studied the notion of solipsism as it related to Sith teachings; none other than Darth Ruin had expounded upon it years before. Sith philosophy promoted the glorification of self and the subjugation of others. The young lord took it to a deranged extreme, declaring that existence was some game constructed by—what? Some version of himself on a higher plane, pitting Daiman’s mortal body against artificial obstacles it had dreamed up, like physics, and evil siblings. Daiman’s empire depended on the labor of others, but the lives of the others didn’t matter to him.
The parasite needed to be separated from the host. But first, its spread had to be contained.
Kerra found a good target in the munitions industry, which allowed Daiman both to wage war and to oppress people on multiple worlds at once. It was better than striking at the military directly. Even if she somehow found a way to land a devastating blow, her worry was that Odion or another opportunistic neighbor might pour across the cosmic border, hurting more innocents still. Better to rot Daiman’s system from within, leaving the illusion of strength to his peers but an empty shell inside. By the time the regime collapsed, she hoped, most of the civilians would be out of harm’s way.
Her weeks since losing her Master on Chelloa had included strikes against weapons plants on a string of worlds. In some cases, she’d been able to free the slave laborers and their families, but those opportunities had grown less frequent as she’d approached the center of Daiman’s realm. In the metropolis, there was no wilderness into which freed natives could flee. But Darkknell was obviously her ultimate goal. By striking Daiman’s military research efforts here, she could still factories on a dozen worlds at once.
She’d arrived on Darkknell as she had on the other worlds, disguised as an itinerant laborer on assignment. She’d blanched at that more than once. Disguise wasn’t her forte. Persuasion, mesmerism, misdirection—these were skills for a Jedi who couldn’t master a lightsaber or blaster, not for an accomplished fighter like Kerra. Vannar had used those ploys only to achieve military surprise; Kerra could hardly stomach going through her daily life undercover. But she’d had little choice. Daiman might doubt her sentience, but he knew she was part of the great game he’d devised for himself—and his Force-sensitive Correctors would be able to sense her presence. She had to be on her guard at all times.
It had been happenstance that she’d spotted the Bothan while scouting the Black Fang herself, nights earlier. The spy was good, but he’d gotten too comfortable, selecting the same nearby rooftop to change into his stealth gear. She’d simply waited for her chance. His sabotage of the building was a terrific bonus, especially as it came at an hour when only Daiman’s true believers would be inside. She was almost sorry to leave the spy to his fate, but no ally of Odion could be a friend of hers. Odion was both brutal and insipid. It was no wonder half his followers were suicidal.
Kerra scraped at the fabric of the stealth suit. Tiny raised lines crisscrossed its surface, leaving countless pits in between for its spectral baffles. Most of the paint clung to the ribbed fabric, she saw. It would be a problem. With his main military research lab in flames, Daiman would be doubly on his guard—enough so to make her next move impossible without artificial help. But the suit wouldn’t be much in the invisibility department without a proper cleaning.
She flipped the suit inside out. A manufacturer’s label, but no care instructions. That would be too easy, she thought. She was hardly in a position to call the manufacturer. Maybe she could ask someone at work, down at the—
“What are you doing here?”
Kerra yanked the fabric close to her chest as she recognized her host’s voice. “Just … just about to do some laundry,” she said, folding the suit over quickly and jamming it behind her bedroll. She turned to find Gub standing in the doorway, curtain clenched in his fist. So much for privacy. “What can I do for you?”
“I remembered I had a message for you,” Gub growled. His voice was a gravel road, aggravated by years with a tiny water ration. “But my granddaughter said you weren’t here.” Droopy eyebrows flared into a weak scowl. “You went out.”
He says that like it’s a bad word, Kerra thought. Well, maybe here, it is. “I … was called for the wraithwatch,” she said. It was what they called it down at the munitions plant—the one shift with no daylight, whatever the season. During sharply tilted Darkknell’s winter solstice, it was the morbid middle third of a twenty-four-hour night. “I had to go in.”
“That’s a lie!” Gub yanked at the curtain, ripping it free from the doorjamb. It fell to the duracrete floor.
Kerra edged backward, almost as wary of the little creature’s wrath as she was of any Sith Lord. They’d had their bad moments since she’d turned up here offering to tutor his granddaughter for room and board. She was desperate not to let this moment get out of hand. “Oh?” she finally asked.
“Yes,” he said, staring her down before finally kneeling to pick up the sheet. “I know that isn’t true, young human, because the message was from someone at your work—someone on the wraithwatch, asking you to come in this morning. You clearly could not have already been there.”
Kerra sighed. Daiman allowed his slaves no communications devices; couriers handled everything, even if it meant productivity suffered by messages being delayed. The odds of someone showing up while she was out skulking were long, but evidently not long enough. Kerra searched for words. She didn’t want to use the Force to persuade Gub; not when they lived together. He’d figure that out eventually, and she was trying to use the Force as little as possible so as not to attract the Correctors’ attention. But she couldn’t see what else to do.
“It isn’t the first time,” Gub said, folding the sheet over his arm. “Tan sleeps in the same room with you. She knows you leave at night. The girl’s been covering for you—”
“Master Tengo, don’t blame—”
“She imagines you have some great romance going,” he continued. “Why anyone would choose to bring more people into this world is beyond me!”
Kerra stood and managed a blush. Okay, that’s my way out. “I—I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Gub straightened on his leg braces. Looking at Kerra, he exhaled audibly. “Well, we’re all to suffer, now. You have to leave to work your shifts—and I expect you back here to tutor Tan as you’re supposed to, when she gets home from her work.” At twelve, Tan only had to work eight hours a day. “And think about me! I shall have to make my own breakfast!”
At that, the Sullustan hobbled out, taking her door with him.
Kerra plopped back down on her bed cushion and rubbed her temples. More insanity. Shaking her head, she looked at her duffel—and gulped. The handle of her lightsaber gleamed in the low light. She’d never stuffed it all the way into the bag on entering. She slapped it fully inside, then punched the bag a couple of times for good measure.
One more day without sleep. One more day undercover. And probably a lot more days than that before she could do anything substantive against Daiman. She might never survive at this rate.
“You’ll know which skills you need when you need them,” Vannar had always said. Well, he was right about that. Kerra’s worry was that she didn’t have those skills at all.
Or the patience.
CHAPTER THREE
“You understand why we’re doing this, Brigadier Rusher,” the factory administrator said. “We’re loyal Daimanites, through to the core. And that’s why we want to make sure we serve His Lordship in the best way possible.”
&nbs
p; The redheaded human in the entry hall rocked back and forth on shined boots. “Of course.”
Administrator Lubboon stared out the apartment window at the dense smoke hanging over the city. “I’ve been running the Plasteelworks here on Darkknell since the days of Lord Chagras … or those are the memories that have been given to me by Lord Daiman. I’m the first Duros to hold such a position. And I’ve never been a shirker. Daiman created The Encumbered to serve him, and serve him we do.” The tall green figure turned and gestured to his furnishings. “I may live better than many, but it makes no difference to me whether my son was created for a place on my production line—or on the front lines of battle. I know why we exist.”
“Oh, of course.” Brigadier Jarrow Rusher looked to the wall and smirked. It was a different story in every Sith Lord’s territory, but he’d forgotten what a weird customer Daiman was, sowing the fantasy that all creation was the figment of his warped imagination. Rusher had scars older than Daiman’s twenty-five years, but never mind: those were apparently figments of his imagination. Maybe all those city blocks on fire when I landed were hallucinations, too.
“But we know our child has talent,” Lubboon continued, crossing to the divan and placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “And that means—that must mean—that a position with you is what His Lordship intended for our son. It would be a waste of material otherwise.” He looked up, tentatively. “Don’t you agree, General?”
“Oh, yes.” Turning to face the couple, Rusher spoke in his best sales voice. “That’s exactly why you want your son in Rusher’s Brigade, Master Lubboon. There’s no place better for someone to find his potential.” He fingered his lapel, subtly angling the silver pins on his trench coat so that they glinted in the warm light. The Duros had brought out the extra lumens today, he saw. Indoor light was rationed on Darkknell as everything else—even for the relatively well off.
“We really would like our son to be in a place that challenges him,” the prim Duros woman said, pressing green fingers to green cheeks. “Offworld.”
Twirling the brassy knob atop his wooden walking stick, Rusher smiled. They’d reached that part. “Of course. And you’re probably asking whether going with us is safe.” He turned to the caf dispenser, meticulously set out before him. “Well, I’m not going to lie,” he said, pouring himself a drink. “We’re at war—and in war, people get hurt. But if you have to be on a battlefield, ma’am, there’s no better place to be than next to a laser artillery piece.”
The brigadier elaborated on the quality of his armaments, drawing pictures in the air with a gloved hand. He’d known recruiters who brought formal holographic presentations, but it never seemed necessary to Rusher. When people in Sith space saw a ruddy, reasonably young man with all the limbs he was born with in charge of a military outfit, they inferred some level of competence—or luck.
And if that failed, he had a bigger gun. Now it was time to use it.
“What’s more,” he said, “our shipboard fatalities in transit are zero. No one dies on the way to the fight. No one.” He raised the cup to his lips and paused deliberately before continuing. “It’s because there are no Sith aboard.”
The Lubboons gasped. “None?”
“No adepts, no adherents, no lieutenants, no grunts. We’re specialists, Administrator. Independent militia units like ours are the fasteners that hold His Lordship’s whole military scheme together.”
Pairs of bulbous red eyes locked on each other before returning to him. “We’ve never heard of such a thing. No Sith?”
Rusher sipped cloudy liquid from the cup. Surprisingly, there was a taste to it. “Look, you operate a factory here on Darkknell. Of course, you’ve got your Daimanite authorities looking over your shoulder all the time, to ensure your progress, check quality, and all that. You wouldn’t have it any other way, I’m sure.” He waved in the general direction of the spaceport. “But the Kelligdyd Five Thousand cannon is an advanced piece of weaponry. It takes skilled squads of merc—of specialists to land them on the battlefield, assemble them, and put them into action.”
Setting the cup down, he took the walking stick in both hands. “One bonding pin out of place, one power coupler misconnected, and you’ve got seventeen tons of scrap just sitting out there. So we’re our own judges of quality. If we don’t do the work right on our own? We’re already dead.” Rusher rapped his cane on the floor to punctuate the statement.
“Oh, my!”
Rusher grinned. He hadn’t needed the cane for years, but the public liked it. Same for the early gray in his sideburns and beard. “But we do the work right, ma’am. Like I say, we’re experts. We don’t need babysitting. We’re not a regular part of Daiman’s structure at all.” He caught himself. “Which, uh … is, of course, how he intends it. Being the creator, and all.”
The male Duros sank to the couch beside his wife in disbelief. Rusher could see the words passing silently between them: No Sith.
Rusher chuckled. Right on target. Again. “And our ship? Why, it’s a pleasure palace. You saw Diligence on her approach over Xakrea this morning. There isn’t a better vessel in the sector.”
“I’m sure we wouldn’t know. But if you say so—”
“I do. Many do. I built her myself, you know. I’ve got people who never want to leave—which is why openings are so few.” Rusher turned to see an oval-shaped human in the doorway. “Ah. This is Dackett, our ship’s master. He’ll be taking care of your son until he’s assigned. Assigned to one of our gun squads—or, perhaps, to my headquarters unit.”
“Headquarters?” The Lubboons audibly cooed. “Is that possible? I mean, he’s a bright boy …”
“Then there’s no telling how far he’ll go,” Rusher said. Staying out of the main room, Dackett merely nodded, oversized ears crested with tufts of white hair. Rusher heard someone approach from the Lubboons’ bedchambers. “Ah. Here comes our soldier now, I think?”
Taller even than his parents, teenage Beadle Lubboon strode confidently into the room, wearing a fresh pair of neatly pressed work dungarees, standard uniform for youth laborers. Nodding to his parents, he offered a mock salute to the visitors and leaned against the caf cart—which promptly gave way under his weight, collapsing along with the gawky kid and several pots of beige water.
Administrator Lubboon looked at his son, mortified, as his wife knelt to help pick up the wreckage. “Bound for your headquarters unit,” Dackett whispered to Rusher in the doorway.
“We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t take out the whole ammo magazine,” Rusher replied.
Shooing his aide to the outer hall, Rusher gave the Lubboons some time to compose their child. But, turning back, he saw there wasn’t enough time in Darkknell’s ridiculous day to manage that trick. While his mother dabbed at the stains on his shirt with her handkerchief, Beadle tried to extricate his hand from a tin carafe. The operation took nearly a minute, time during which the administrator’s face grew longer than it already was. “Sorry about that, sir,” the squirming boy said.
“You should see what happens to my setup when the bombs start falling,” Rusher said, summoning the smile again. “And tell your parents not to worry. Like Garbelian said at Averam: ‘War ain’t a talent show.’ ”
The Lubboons didn’t bother to confer. “I think we’re settled on this, Brigadier Rusher,” the father said. “Our boy will be in good hands.”
Rusher beamed. “Very glad.” He slapped a hand on young Beadle’s shoulder. “Welcome to the team,” he said, shaking the boy’s still-dripping hand vigorously. In the same movement, he edged Beadle aside and looked directly at the administrator. “There’s just the matter of terms.”
The elder Lubboon straightened. “I was expecting this.”
“You manage Daiman’s hydraulic lift factory. Diligence needs some new drives. We need four or five—”
“Six!” came a voice from the hallway.
“—we need six new drives, for our off-loading assemblies.” Rusher gently b
ut forcibly sat Beadle down on the couch and continued to speak over the teenager’s head. “They’re key to getting Diligence safely off Darkknell—with your son, of course.”
“Of course,” Administrator Lubboon said, drily. “It will be … difficult. All we produce is for Daiman, of course.”
“And that’s who we’re fighting for.” This is how it works, he didn’t add. He didn’t need to.
Five minutes later, Rusher eased out of the Lubboons’ apartment, walking stick at his side. Dackett was in the hall, waiting for him. Rusher tossed him the cane. “Nice enough place,” he said.
“Them that has, sir, them that has.” Dackett smirked. “Daiman lets them live like that?”
“Guess he throws a few crumbs to the true believers. And a good thing—for us.” Rusher nabbed the datapad from Dackett’s waistcoat pocket and located an address. “You’ll have what you need by nightfall—whenever the blazes that is around here.”
Rusher began walking down the hall when the ship’s master called out. “Oh, yeah—there’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“Novallo just called from Diligence,” Dackett said. “She’s chased down that problem on the port landing assembly. Wasn’t the gimbals after all—we need the hydraulic accumulator on that side changed out before we lift off again.”
“A complete replacement?” Rusher scratched his beard. “She can’t jerry-rig something?”
“Negative.”
“Pricey.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell her it’s covered,” Rusher said, cocking an eye-brow as he turned back toward the apartment door. “Let’s see if they’ve got any other kids.”
Narsk woke up.
That fact alone meant they didn’t know who he was. The fact that he still didn’t know where he was, though, meant he was in very deep trouble.
The Jedi had been true to her word. She hadn’t locked the garbage bin. That hadn’t made it any easier to get out of, though, with his hands bound behind his back. It had taken painful minutes to force his way out, and even then he’d landed on his bad leg clambering down. His cry had attracted the attention of Daiman’s sentries, checking out the speeder bike debris on the nearby skybridge. Bound and half naked, Narsk wasn’t likely to escape attention.
Star Wars: Knight Errant Page 4