When most Sith Lords raised their armies solely from their enslaved populations, Kressh family rival Naga Sadow had fared better by absorbing outside cultures with different skills. Elcho, exiled outside the Stygian Caldera, saw an even wider variety of forces that similarly might be brought to bear against the Republic. Pirate bands, mercenary militias, species holding a grudge: any number of potential allies existed. Through them, a small number of Sith believers could project great force. It wasn’t necessary to have Sith officers aboard every ship, Elcho reasoned, so long as bargains were constructed properly. Offering promises of operational autonomy and a share of the spoils, Elcho built an impressive force from spare parts.
But his counterstroke against the Republic was never delivered. For while Elcho’s father had tried to shield his son from harm at every turn—even fashioning a protective amulet for him—no magic could save the young Sith from his own foolishness. Drinking deeply at revels on the eve of invasion, Elcho had suffered a ruptured stomach, killing him within hours. His invasion force, strung together only with his own agreements, soon dissipated. But his ideas lived on, in a holocron discovered by Lord Mandragall in his youth.
With neighbors on all sides declaring themselves Sith Lords, the friendless Mandragall found he didn’t have the blaster fodder to throw at his opponents. When droids failed to protect his interstellar borders, he consulted the recordings and followed the long-dead leader’s dictates to the letter. There was something slightly romantic about the notion, Rusher thought; nearly three millennia after his death, Elcho’s grand plan finally got its trial.
Indeed, Mandragall made significant inroads against his opponents, flexing muscles that didn’t really belong to him. More than three-quarters of Mandragall’s combat forces were independent operations, fleeing from the threat of enslavement by other Sith Lords. Most were more than willing to fight in Mandragall’s name in exchange for continued autonomy and access to the resources and recruits they needed.
But in the end, Mandragall, as mortal as Elcho surrendered to human foible. Twenty years earlier, Daiman and Odion’s mother—a wretched monster by the name of Xelian—seduced the aging Mandragall and slew him in the night. Rivals pounced, only to discover that Mandragall’s great army was mostly ephemeral. But the model had been created—or re-created—for Beld Yulan, and many who came after.
And for Rusher, although maybe not for much longer.
Human foible. He turned the glass in his hand. How many mistakes on Gazzari had been his? He’d known Death Spirals existed, if not on the scale that they saw. Should he have developed some tactic, just in case? How many of those who remained would suffer for his failure?
The door slid open, behind. “Master Dackett,” he said, not looking back. “How’s the arm?”
“Skinnier. And it smells like something that came out of a k’lor’slug.”
“No wife number four this season, then. About time you gave the rest of us a chance.” Rusher filled another glass and proffered it. “Anesthetic?”
“I won’t take your pity,” Dackett said, “but I will take your drink.” Settling his mass into the second chair, he reached instinctively for the glassy cube—only to see that it was the robotic hand that he had raised. He glared at it. “Down, you!” Seemingly reluctantly, the cybernetic limb withdrew.
Rusher chuckled. “You two are going to have some negotiating to do.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not alone.” Dackett seized the drink with his flesh hand and downed it. “You’re going to have to do something about all of this. You’ve got a handle on the rest of it, but we don’t have the bunks for all these refugees.”
“Then put ’em on the floor.”
“I can’t walk the halls amidships now without putting my boot into some someone’s gullet,” the master responded. “And we’ve got food now, but we’re gonna run out of some stores pretty soon.” He slammed the empty glass on the table. “And some of the people, Brig. I got Skrillings eating the trash, down there.”
“Maybe we can ration that,” Rusher said, knocking another swig back. “This isn’t entirely new, you know. We have picked up riders before.”
Dackett grew more animated. “Yes, but those were military. Infantry. Shock marines. People from other militias. And they usually gave us something for the ride.” The refugees had nothing to give them at all.
Rusher looked at the shadows on the floor. If they were trying Dackett’s patience after just a couple of days, Rusher was glad not to have gone near them. “Well, you know the score, Ryland. We haven’t found a place to dump ’em off yet.”
“Blast it, Brig! You’re not even looking!” Dackett stood abruptly. “I don’t get it. That buffoon kid—”
“Lubboon?”
“I know what I said. We were going to lose him on the first cinder that had a hyperspace buoy!”
Rusher looked up. “The kid saved your life, Dack!”
“Not before he ran over my foot with the cargo crawler!”
Rusher set his glass down and stared blankly at the bottle. “Maybe I don’t want an empty ship just yet.”
Dackett sat back down. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He looked directly at his commander. “Look, I see it, too. My whole staff bought it on that ridge. But I can tell you now, there’s nobody in this crowd you can make into a gunner, any better than you can that Duros kid.” He placed the lid on the bottle. “The quicker we clear the decks, the quicker we can get some new people. Some new battalions.”
Rusher glared. “Shooting what? Sharp insults?”
“Whatever we give them,” Dackett said, “until we win enough fights to get more guns. But there’s no room for anyone new, until you make it.” He rose again, leaving a giant crease in the chair. “I’m not gonna tell you how you need to feel, Brig—but I am gonna tell you how you need to act. You can’t let ’em just see you going through the motions. You’ve got to do something. Pull the trigger.”
“All right,” Rusher said, smirking. “How should we do it, then? Air lock or poison?”
“Maybe poison,” Dackett said, opening the door. “He’s ready to see you, ma’am.”
Kerra Holt stood in the doorway. “It’s about blasted time.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kerra had been trained as a Jedi Knight. She excelled in tracking. She’d been living in Sith space for weeks with only her recollections of star maps to tell her where she was. And yet, somehow, Brigadier Rusher had ditched her again. She’d followed Tan’s directions to the solarium, only to meet Master Dackett, who offered to go in first and smooth the way. Finally inside, she’d prepared to launch into her list of demands for the refugees when Rusher stood and excused himself to the refresher in the next room. Looking at the empty bottles, Kerra understood why—and seeing his cane still propped beside the chair, she thought nothing of the interruption.
Until Rusher never returned.
After banging on the door, she’d finally opened it, to find no facilities whatsoever. It was a service accessway leading to a ladder. It was Era Daimanos all over again, substituting only an eccentric Sith lackey for the eccentric Sith Lord. What was it with these men hiding on their spaceships?
Now, fully three hours later, Kerra had him pinpointed again: decks away, in the wardroom, in the middle of spinning a tale about some old battle for his underlings. She wondered if he had a secret twin. Combat Rusher had been headstrong, but somber; that was the version she’d seen in the solarium. This was the Mess-Table variety: joker and huckster. Storming in, Kerra was determined to get some answers out of one of those personalities.
“Stop!” she yelled, shaking his walking stick at him. “Move again, and you’ll need this cane for real!”
Rusher looked at her, and then to the expectant faces around him. He let out a hearty laugh, which they joined in. “Duty calls,” he said, rising.
Catching a few of the grimier gunners leering at her, she was suddenly glad they hadn’t gone anywhere near her refugees. This Ru
sher was hardly running a Republic Navy vessel. But then, what could she expect from a Sith stooge?
Some answers. “Where are you running off to this time? An emergency on the bridge?” She followed him into the anteroom. “Another brewery to bankroll?”
“I had been drinking, young lady,” Rusher said, reclaiming his cane. “I needed a walk to clear my head before attending to your very important problems.”
“Thank you for patronizing me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he said, turning down the long hall toward the bridge. “So. Jedi. We don’t get your kind around here. You’re out here on official business?”
“Not quite.” Kerra explained Vannar Treece’s mission to the Daimanate, and how she’d gotten stranded. “You’ve heard of Treece, I’m sure.”
“No. Should I have?”
Kerra chewed her lip. She’d have thought that all Treece’s efforts would have made more of an impact. Intellectually, she knew that Sith space took in many sectors and untold numbers of systems—and that there was nothing like mass communications here. But Rusher seemed to know things—or, at least, he pretended to. It was disappointing.
But Rusher seemed to grow more interested as she spoke. He clearly understood the workings of the Republic, even if he’d never been there. “If you’re not officially sanctioned by the Jedi Order,” he said, “or by the Chancellor—then how did you get a ride out here?” He recounted what he knew of the Republic Navy’s sometimes-tentative relationship with the Jedi. He’d met a couple of former commanders, cut off here decades earlier in Sith space. They wouldn’t ferry a rogue Jedi to a cantina without someone’s stamp of approval. “You don’t break into Sith space flying commercial.”
“We paid the way ourselves.”
“Oh! So you guys are like Gell’ach going into Kabal—or Revan, before … what was it? Garr’lst? No, Cathar.” He snapped his fingers. “I get my massacred cat people mixed up.”
“Are you like this all the time?”
“I don’t know—I’m not really around myself all the time.”
Kerra began to walk away. “I’ll come back when you’ve sobered up.”
Rusher grabbed her wrist and chuckled. “No, I’m fine,” he said, releasing her. “We don’t get much news from the Republic here.” He patted the bulkhead warmly.
“What’s this thing’s name, again?”
“Diligence. It’s named for one of the Inexpugnable-class Republic ships from the Mandalorian Wars,” he said. “Admiral Morvis’s ship. You know, Dallan Morvis was very much misunderstood. People assume that because you’re born to wealth, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Walking again, Rusher nattered on about the exploits of Morvis’s crew—and then more about his ship. Kerra tuned him out. Soldered together out of spare parts, Diligence would never have been permitted in any Republic battle fleet. And yet Rusher was so proud of it. The man was a total mystery. He seemed to want to emulate the military leaders of old, and yet he had so little to work with. And the ship’s name! That just seemed sort of sad, like a garbage scow driver naming his ship for one of the great exploration vessels.
“… and I’ve always said, if Exar Kun had artillery at Toprawa, your Jedi Chancellor would be sporting yellow eyes today.”
“Can we get to the subject?” Kerra stood in front of him, arms akimbo. “We have to deal with the refugee problem.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Rusher said, nodding. “When can we get rid of them?”
“What?”
He pushed past her down the hallway. “You said we had a refugee problem. I agreed. I never really intended for you all to stay aboard this long.” He looked up. “There was just more to take care of first.”
Kerra steamed. “I’ll say. And I’ve been taking care of it!” She stalked down the hall after him. “And ‘get rid of them.’ That’s just great!” She shook her hands as she walked. “I’m not sure what I should have expected from someone who works for Sith Lords!”
“Who else am I supposed to work for? The Republic?” Rusher laughed. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they closed all their branch offices.” Pausing, he looked back at her for a moment, studying her.
Kerra flinched under his gaze. “What?”
“Just remembering what that kind of energy was like.” He turned and began walking again.
“I’ve counted six hyperspace jumps. Are you telling me we haven’t found a single suitable port since then?”
“Depends on what you mean by suitable,” Rusher said, climbing the ramp toward the double doors leading to the bridge. “And whether I care about your definition. Suitable for me means a place where Daiman won’t shoot at me on sight for fleeing.”
Kerra gawked. “We’re still not out of the Daimanate?”
“We couldn’t very well cross into Odion’s territory—or Bactra’s. Not without knowing what in blazes is going on.” He slapped the button to activate the doors. “It’s required some detours.”
Kerra watched the general half limping down the steps into the command pit. His leg really was giving him pain, she saw, but he kept forgetting to put the cane in the correct hand. Huckster.
Rusher stood behind the signals officer. “We’ve been trying to scan for any news at all, to see what the score is. We don’t know. Maybe it is safe for us.”
He looked up at Kerra, who shook her head. “Daiman wanted the kids for his military-industrial brain trust,” she said. “He’d find them.”
“And if there’s the slightest chance Daiman and Odion have united, this is no place for them—or you.”
She was glad he seemed to readily agree. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “I mean, really, you have no idea how much blood has been shed between these two.”
“I have an inkling.” That was an understatement, she thought.
“Daiman and Odion have been at each other’s throats—well, since Chagras died.”
Chagras. Kerra knew the name from the intel reports and Vannar’s stories. The Chagras Hegemony had been a relatively stable period in Grumani sector politics, during which the Sith made inroads against the Republic. The invasion of her Aquilarian home had come during the Hegemony. Luckily for civilization, it hadn’t lasted long. Eight years earlier, Chagras’s death, under reportedly mysterious circumstances, had touched off a new round of internecine fighting. Not just within his own realm, but seemingly everywhere in Sith space.
Rusher confirmed that Odion and Daiman’s war had broken out then—the creator of all things still in his late teens. But he had no idea what they were fighting over, or what had caused it all. Rusher knew of Chagras—he’d fought both for and against him in his younger days—but he’d never met him, and had no idea what had killed him. “What kills any of them?” He related the ends of Elcho and Mandragall. “I don’t know where longevity comes from with these people, but it isn’t lifestyle.”
Kerra knelt and rested her head against the railing, stray ebon strands falling on either side. None of it made any sense. Why would Odion and Daiman team up, even briefly? She sensed an unseen hand at work. But she always sensed that, among the Sith. Exasperated, she moaned audibly. “Can’t we just go to the Republic?”
“Who said anything about going to the Republic?” Rusher looked at the navigator. “Ishel, do you know how to go to the Republic?”
The Mon Calamari shrugged.
“I sure don’t,” the brigadier said. “Hey, how’d you get here?”
“There was a lane to Daiman’s transport center near Chelloa,” Kerra said, rubbing her forehead against the cool railing. A headache was beginning. “I don’t think it’s an option.”
“I’ll buy that.” In the weeks since Odion and Daiman tangled over Chelloa, traffic from the Daimanate military hub had doubled. “I might amble by there with a shipful of Jedi, but not just one. Next time, bring some friends.”
Kerra opened her eyes and glared through the railing.
“What’d I say?”
/>
“Nothing,” she said. She stood, knee joints cracking. “Look, can you just get us closer to the Republic?”
“What are you looking for—convenient connecting flights? I don’t think you understand. The hyperspace lane options out here are pretty limited.” Rusher called up a holographic display and pointed to the glowing lines. Avoiding Daiman’s and Odion’s space, they’d have to make another six jumps to get appreciably closer to the frontier with the Republic—and a couple of times they’d have to double back. “And you’ve got different Sith waiting in between each of those jumps. They’re not going to wave as we go past.”
Kerra scowled. It was the chief difficulty she’d experienced since her arrival here. In the Republic, one could count on ready access to databases including most of the known commercial hyperspace lanes. The military kept some private, and some corporations tried to keep newly discovered lanes secret when it benefited their trade.
But in Sith space, everything was different. In shutting down its subspace communications relays here, the Republic had created a breakwater of ignorance between Sith space and the inner systems. No longer able to draw upon the collected knowledge of Republic spacers, Sith starship drivers were reduced to using the information they already had stored, plus whatever was in libraries and data centers in their territory. Repeated fragmentation of Sith power had greatly degraded what was available in the latter; as Odion had just done against Daiman, statelets often targeted each other’s knowledge centers for destruction.
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