Daiman’s thugs had rounded up a number of individuals from the streets of Xakrea in the hours following the destruction of his testing center. Narsk had met some when they were hauling him away in the transport. Most were homeless invalids, unable to work; Daiman usually didn’t bother to liquidate those.
As the first day had passed, he’d grown more confident. They’d all gone to the sentry station on Administrative Way for questioning, where a Corrector had interviewed each of the bystanders. Several vagrants were chucked down the front stairs of the station to the street, excused from further questioning. Narsk had hoped they’d do the same with him.
Waiting for his reprieve, he’d finally given in to sleep that evening. A mistake. For later that night, he’d woken not in the seamy cell of the station, but strapped to a stone table wet with sweat in a marble-walled room. He was almost relieved when four of Daiman’s burgundy-clad Correctors entered. It meant he was still on Darkknell. He’d had a nightmare of being found by Odion, furious over his failure to rescue the secrets of the late, lamented Convergence. No wonder he’d awakened with drenched fur.
Correctors buzzed in and out of the room through portals visible to him only as black spots at the edge of his vision. The straps were so tight he couldn’t turn his head—and it was what was inside his head that held their interest.
Narsk couldn’t imagine how he could have confused the Jedi with a Corrector. The Correctors walked around broadcasting their presence through the Force, making sure he knew they had the ability to enter his mind at will. The Jedi, meanwhile, hadn’t put any mental pressure on him at all, probably for fear of being spotted—by Correctors.
But she would have seen them coming, Narsk thought. No wonder she’s been able to hide here.
The Correctors departed for a moment, allowing him to think more freely about what had happened. How long had the Jedi been shadowing him? She had to be Kerra Holt. Had she just happened upon him? Had she told anyone else he was there? Did they have her now? The answers mattered. She could give him away.
“You,” an Arkanian-accented voice said. Narsk rolled his bloodshot eyes back to see the purple cowl of one of the Correctors who’d interviewed him before. “You were found in Manufacturers’ District without leave, without clothes.”
“I told you,” Narsk said, “I was mugged. It’s why I don’t have my work permit on me.” He repeated yet again the details of his cover identity. Machine tool operator. Transferred from Nilash. Trying to arrive at work early. The words seemed to form a structure of their own in his mind, a protective surface covering his true mission—and the truer, more secret mission beneath that one. Narsk saw the Arkanian’s white, iris-less eyes widen as the Corrector leaned over him. Another mental invasion was about to begin.
Suddenly the familiar figure leaned back, to be replaced by another, just out of his sight, behind the head of the table. “This is the one?”
“As my lord knows.”
As my lord knows. Narsk lurched against the restraints, nearly cracking his clavicle. Lord Daiman!
“There is something in you,” said the same voice from the sunrises and sunsets. Golden talons molded to human fingertips scraped the side of Narsk’s face. “There is something in you. It must come out.”
The Correctors had rifled through Narsk’s mind in anger. That was an assault he was mentally prepared for. Compartmentalization exercises had helped him to bury what was important; in their eagerness to prove their dominance, the Sith adepts had missed everything important. But Daiman seemed indifferent, casually riffling through Narsk’s mind with all the interest of a windowshopper.
I created this mind, Daiman seemed to say. The unspoken words echoed in Narsk’s flared ears. Daiman believed he had created Narsk’s mind, just as he might have programmed a droid—and while he might not have immediate access to all the information in the Bothan’s head, the Sith Lord felt perfectly within his rights to go looking for it now.
An unbidden image appeared in Narsk’s mind. Dark hair. Brown skin. Glistening, determined eyes. And green light—
“The Jedi!”
Daiman released his mental hold on Narsk, who had never once seen his captor. “The errant Knight is here,” Daiman said, startled. “On Darkknell!”
Narsk’s whiskers bristled upward. For the first time since the night before, something in the mess had worked to his advantage. They haven’t caught her yet. Maybe they won’t.
“Yes,” Narsk said, panting, his mouth dry. “It was a woman with a lightsaber.” His eyes narrowed. “I feared to tell you, my lord. Her presence here—I didn’t understand it. It frightened me. I tried to run when I saw her. Tried to warn someone …” The story flowed seamlessly into his tale of a random attack. His shame, he said, had prevented him from revealing all before. Such a person should never have bested a true Daimanite.
Daiman stepped back from the table. Narsk hoped he was considering the story. It was almost too much to hope for to be set free. But if there was anyone he needed to convince, Daiman was the one.
Narsk’s heart fell when another Corrector entered from another portal. The spy heard Daiman inquire, “What is it?”
“As my lord knows,” the new Corrector said, using what Narsk imagined was a standard form for addressing the theoretically omniscient, “a package has just been discovered on a rooftop near the testing center. It was hidden beneath a vent cover. A bundle containing clothes and a travel permit. The holo-imprint matches the prisoner. As my lord knows.”
“So he had been near the testing center. Kilometers from where he was found?”
“As my lord knows.”
The shadow of Daiman fell on Narsk again. Only this time, the shadow was not cast by light, but by darkness. Narsk struggled. He’d been told he could only protect his secrets from Daiman with a wall of will, a defiant insistence that his brain was his, and his alone.
You’re not sentient, Daiman said in his mind. Don’t pretend to be.
Narsk screamed.
* * *
“They’re here for the girl!”
Kerra froze on the steps when she heard her neighbor’s voice. Tall, shadowy figures had just entered Gub Tengo’s apartment at the far end of the long basement hall. She couldn’t make out any details about them, but they’d certainly attracted the attention of the other residents, still buzzing in the halls. They’re here for the girl.
Not waiting to inquire, Kerra twirled and dashed back up the steps to the streets. None of it made sense. She hadn’t felt any malevolent presence while entering the borrat warren that was Gub’s apartment block. And Daiman’s Correctors weren’t exactly keeping a low profile. Far from it.
She’d seen them, earlier, in the transport station, making examples of the poor wretches they’d rousted from the factories. They’d been doing it for five days, at every shift change so the commuters could see. None of the harassed had anything to do with the destruction of the testing center, but she figured Daiman probably knew that. Two of the “Faulty Encumbered” had been ripped from her own workplace earlier in the day. One had recently criticized the work schedule; the other, a Snivvian grandmother, had accidentally used an offhand expression invoking the spirits of her ancestors. Both were candidates for a public form of “correction” involving alternating bouts of mental and physical abuse. Spectacle always served Daiman when something went wrong.
Kerra had wanted to leap the platform and do something, there and then, but she’d learned her lesson since Chelloa. Gub and Tan didn’t deserve to be endangered over something they knew nothing about. It had been risky even moving in with them. After arriving on Darkknell, she’d looked for someone who needed a boarder; then, their home had seemed the perfect cover. But now, as she ducked outside, it felt like the worst idea ever. She couldn’t make this mistake again.
Vannar had said it: “Keep saying ‘next time,’ Kerra, and someday there might not be one waiting.”
Kerra doubled back behind the apartment building, an
iridium-processing plant long since retired. The idea of using an old factory for housing always seemed noxious to her, but she was glad of the place now, with its many ways in and out. The two ankle-level windows of Gub’s place lay ahead, just behind the sad little gnawroots he’d planted to supplement their rations. Kerra had never entered this way in daylight before, but there wasn’t any choice.
Seeing Tan absent, Kerra slipped in and examined her duffel. Yes, everything was still there. Fingering her lightsaber, she listened for the voices beyond the recently replaced privacy curtain. Gub was out there, along with someone else—voices excited, but not distressed. Tucking the weapon into the deep pocket inside her work vest, she allowed herself to breathe. Maybe it’s not so bad after—
“Hey!”
The curtain jerked back, causing Kerra to reach abruptly for the bulge in her vest. Wide black eyes peered up at her from waist level. Kerra relaxed as she recognized her young charge. “You scared me, Tan.”
“I didn’t know you were home,” the Sullustan girl said, “but I’m glad you are.” Normally a bundle of energy, Tan was nearly bursting today, her young jowls curled upward in absolute joy. “They’re here! They’re here for me!”
Kerra could only look down in puzzlement as the girl grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into the main room. Seven eyes suddenly stared back. Old Gub stood before two taller beings in the doorway. A male Gran peered at her curiously, his trio of dark eyes curling on leathery stalks. The other, an Ishi Tib female, gave a squawk of mild surprise, her lidless yellow eyes shining in the low light. Both, Kerra noticed, wore blinking cybernetic implants at their temples.
“Pardon me,” Gub grumbled, turning away from the visitors. He glared at Kerra. “What were you doing in there? I didn’t see you come in!”
“Didn’t you?” Kerra changed the subject, hoping he would forget. “Who are your guests?” She bowed her head toward the visitors.
The Gran seemed pleased, leaf-like ears wiggling above his implants. “Ah. You must be the tutor.” His face curled into a tiny smile, about the most his narrow snout could manage. “Ler-Laar Joom, at your service—and my colleague is Eraffa. We’re from Industrial Heuristics.”
Kerra looked at the badge proffered by the Gran. “You’re salespeople?”
“Certainly not,” Ler-Laar said. Beside him, the starfaced Ishi Tib gurgled something like a guffaw. Somehow, the cybernetic devices were allowing them to communicate.
Gub, unhappy at the interruption, glared at Kerra. “They’re the reason I took you in, human. They’re talent scouts,” Gub said, “here to see Tan.”
Talent scouts. The stresses of the previous minutes evaporating, Kerra’s eyes narrowed. The twelve-year-old Sullustan spent her mornings in one of Daiman’s scavenge plants, disassembling the technological detritus of decades past for salvage. But even the supervisor at that miserable place had noticed Tan’s acuity with electronics, loaning the girl operator’s guide datapads found in Republic wrecks to peruse. With Gub too busy discovering the creator of the universe in scraps from the trash, he’d hired Kerra to teach Tan how to read. Any advance in her skills might mean a softer future. Assembling blasters, perhaps.
These visitors, however, had more in mind. Kerra looked more closely at the Ishi Tib’s badge, of a kind she’d never seen before. The identification allowed newcomers to move about on Darkknell; it would be worth getting hold of one, she thought. She’d never heard of Industrial Heuristics, either. Daiman dissolved most corporations he captured, but she’d seen a few commercial names operating in his space. This was a new one.
“Our headquarters is in Lord Bactra’s region,” Ler-Laar said, sensing her confusion. “Lord Daiman has generously provided a dispensation allowing us to recruit in his territory.”
Not for nothing, Kerra thought. “You’re taking Tan away?”
“We mean to transform Tan.” The jade-skinned Ishi Tib squawked something in evident agreement.
“This morning,” Ler-Laar went on, “at her place of work, we evaluated her proficiency on the advice of her superiors. And we have determined to a mathematical certainty her talent, her destiny. That which makes her special.” The Gran clasped his bony hands together. “Bombsights.”
“Bombsights?”
“Yes. Lord Daiman’s fighters use precision-guided munitions—but for the most part, the guidance comes from the weapons themselves. To keep the vehicles small and nimble, as few systems are built on board as possible.”
That much is true, Kerra thought, rolling her eyes. She’d ridden in one of Daiman’s flying death traps soon after her arrival in Sith space. She was surprised he’d bothered with oxygen.
The Gran continued, “Generally, gravity-assisted bombs are smart enough to find their targets on their own—but in the presence of electronic countermeasures, it can help to have manual guidance.” Ler-Laar gestured to Tan, now blushing so hard her skin had turned a pale brown. “Tan will join an offworld team devoted to developing the next generation of optics.”
“For Daiman?” Kerra asked.
“For whomever he chooses,” Ler-Laar said. “She is his to dispose of, of course.” The Gran rambled about Industrial Heuristics’ long history in the sector, and how the company had proudly supplied a long list of Sith Lords over the years. He seemed thrilled that Daiman would be added to the list. “Your leader supplies us the raw materials. We finish the product.”
“What product?”
“Why, Tan is the product. Properly educated, that is.” He rested his bony hand on Tan’s head. “Industrial Heuristics is, in its own way, another factory. We manufacture intellects.”
Tan smiled up at the visitors, and then at Kerra. The youngling was ecstatic. “This is what I’ve always wanted, Kerra! What we’ve been working toward!”
Kerra had never known of any specific goal Tan was working toward; she’d just assumed literacy was good in and of itself. But the girl acted as if she’d been reprieved from a death sentence. Maybe she had.
At the same time, though, it seemed like another kind of prison to Kerra. And so, it seemed, to Gub.
“Bombsights.” Gub stared at his granddaughter, his eyes weary. “That’s all she’ll learn about? Only that?”
The Ishi Tib trilled an answer, which Ler-Laar translated. “An engineer is a part like any other,” he said. “Specialized. Devoted to a specific function. Replaceable, should the need arise.” Tan would learn her specialty in a setting with other handpicked students who would form her work group in later life. “There isn’t any need for her to learn about anything else.” The Gran chuckled. “You wouldn’t try to boil water with a blaster.”
Kerra steamed. It was all so backward. Tan would be doomed to a life little different from Gub’s, putting Daiman’s imprint on the past. Almost anything in the “next generation of optics,” she estimated, would have been discovered long ago. Discovered, and lost, in the interminable years of conflict during which countless universities, corporations, and scholars had been lost. They were constantly trying to rediscover knowledge they, themselves, had destroyed.
“Where would she go?” Gub asked, looking down.
Not seeming to understand why it mattered, the Gran explained that his company had education centers throughout Bactra’s space—as well as some mobile centers. “Of course, after … recent events here, Tan might well find an opening closer to home.” Daiman had proclaimed publicly that the Black Fang had been demolished to make way for a new and better research center. Even if the ongoing public inquisition suggested otherwise, Daiman might well be in the market for more brainpower.
“It’s what His Lordship intends,” Gub said. Limping across the room, he took his granddaughter’s hands in his. The old man trembled, holding back tears. “You will go.”
Kerra shot the scouts a look as the Sullustans embraced. As far as they were concerned, Tan didn’t have an option. They wanted her. She would go. And right away. The Ishi Tib waved off Gub’s efforts to give his g
randdaughter anything to take along. The recruits were being taken to a staging area at the spaceport, Ler-Laar said; transports had already been sent for. What ever facility she went to would have everything she’d ever need.
And it will be all she’ll ever have, Kerra thought. But as she’d seen every day, life under Sith rule was a constant negotiation. The only way to improve things was on the margins. “Take care,” she said, hugging a tearful but happy Tan in the doorway. May the Force be with you. Let it be with something, out here, for a change.
Gub lingered, sad and small, in the doorway. Outside, neighbors parted and watched, amazed, as one of their own escaped.
“She’ll remain a slave,” Kerra whispered behind her landlord’s back.
“But she’ll have an easier time of it,” Gub responded. In a year, Tan would be thirteen—and obligated to work three shifts daily if she wanted to be fed at all. There was no guarantee her next assignment wouldn’t be more dangerous. She could even wind up drafted. A safer monotony wasn’t a bad thing, especially if it was somewhere else. The old man straightened, his leg braces creaking. “She’ll have an easier time of it,” he said again, almost to himself. “As will I.”
Limping back inside, he found Kerra’s curtain again. A stiff yank brought it down for the second time in a week.
The message was clear. “You want me to go?”
Gub looked up at her, fat eyes communicating the obvious. The child was gone. Kerra was no longer necessary. He took the curtain—now a sheet again—and draped it across the chair where he did his work.
Kerra looked blankly into the darkened room. Evicted from a closet.
Star Wars: Knight Errant Page 5