The regent returned to the northern window to study the strange-looking warship again. “One” had reported its arrival from hyperspace first, passing on word from the orbital sentries. Now it was clearly visible on its landing platform, separated from the mesa and The Loft, atop it, by a few kilometers of seawater.
According to plan, the starship’s occupants had been allowed to debark without interference. Certainly, they would want to do so. Byllura was pleasing to the organic eye, even if Calician could no longer remember why. In the design he had implemented for his young charges, Byllura was the planetary equivalent of a Whinndorian gorsk-plant—a pretty flower with a paralyzing sting. Population, manufacturing output, military strength: all these things had grown steadily in the Dyarchy in the past eight years because when people came to visit, they stayed—whether they intended to or not.
And very soon, thanks to his efforts, Quillan and Dromika would export Byllura’s brand of welcome to the other worlds within their space, and beyond. Planets controlled by the twins today would hew even more tightly to their commands—clearing the way for the Dyarchy to expand.
And now, at last, Calician knew what direction they would expand in.
The Dyarchy had several Sith neighbors, ranging from the watchful Arkadianate to the pretenders of the Chagrasi Remnant. But no border was wider than the one the twins shared with the accursed Lord Daiman. Like their other neighbors, Daiman had been reluctant to either ally with or declare war on their Dyarchy. Calician had spoken with him several times, always by hologram. The narcissistic Lord of Presumption had never seemed to understand his younger rivals, and what Daiman didn’t understand, he dismissed. That was well, the Krevaaki thought; Quillan and Dromika lacked the forces for an all-out confrontation.
But now Daiman had made a critical error. A strategic move against Lord Bactra, in concert with his brother, Odion. Calician knew very well why they had done it; he had received the message on the special channel, too. But while the Dyarchy was too remote to share in the dismemberment of the Bactran territories, it did front a tantalizing number of systems in the Daimanate’s rear. A rear now unguarded. Daiman would expand into Bactra’s space only to lose his own.
The sorry warship below had been the harbinger. Word of Daiman’s move against Bactra had filtered in, but the appearance of the vessel—Diligence, the commander had called it—served as confirmation. When asked, the mercenary had even transmitted his reasons for visiting Byllura: delivering student refugees from the Battle of Gazzari. Calician knew that Daiman would never have allowed the escape of any portion of his workforce, so long as he had ships in the area to stop it.
It was all the confirmation they needed. Quillan had already sensed it, of course; and when Dromika gave the command, it had taken Calician mere moments to put the plan into action. The battleships, under construction for years, were ready in their secret docks. Within a day—maybe within hours—all would be under way.
For the first time in months, Calician felt truly alive. Not as an individual, but as a part of things. Big things, as foreseen by his masters. It didn’t matter that the mechanics of the plan were his. The Sith Code had it wrong. “Through victory, my chains are broken”? The chains were the victory. By binding the weak, the chains were the victors!
In the midst of his elation, a stray thought entered the regent’s mind, passed on by the Celegian, downstairs. Someone is approaching Hestobyll from the warship. And the students are reboarding.
Calician stopped. That didn’t make sense. Diligence’s captain had indicated readiness to off-load his passengers. What could cause him to change his mind? Nothing. Unless they weren’t what he said they were. Unless they were part of some kind of Daimanite trick—
Calician lurched backward. He wasn’t the only one who’d heard the One’s thought. Tentacles flailing within his robe, the regent flurried, against his will, back onto the diamond dais before the twins.
Dromika faced him, green eyes glistening. He knew her command before she gave it. But he obeyed, nonetheless. As always.
Was it the salt? Or the wind? Kerra didn’t know what it was about seaside settlements, but they never seemed to look as nice up close as they did from the ocean, or from above. The buildings of Hestobyll were mostly white and beige, many sandstone constructs drawing from what she guessed were local materials.
But for some reason every place she’d passed looked … dingy. Uncared for. Even the newer buildings had a light sheen of dirt on walls facing the harbor. Large reflecting pools built into several of the terrace levels had a coat of algae almost thick enough to walk across. The seams between the small tiles that made up the pathways were caked with mildew. There wasn’t a lot of spray coming from the cataracts, but it looked like whatever hit the streets was never wiped away. Every walkway she found was slick, regardless of its proximity to water—and the bridges connecting the polygonal city blocks stank from their accumulated grime.
This wasn’t a place for running.
Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have a need to run—at least, not so far. Hestobyll reminded her of some sleepier ports in the Republic: people of various species drifted about, ambling from one uninspired stone igloo to another. Duros. Caamasi. Ithorians. Sullustans. None of them paid her the least bit of attention. Kerra looked down. No, she hadn’t gone out wearing the stealth suit—but she certainly felt invisible.
Making sure her lightsaber was out of view in her vest pocket, she selected a wandering Ithorian to approach. Surely, she could engage her in a conversation about something. If nothing else, there was the gorgeous weather to talk about—and maybe Kerra might learn something about the state of things on Byllura.
“Excuse me,” she said, stepping up to match the brown giant’s lumbering gait. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”
The Ithorian barely looked down at all, continuing to walk toward one of the hexagonal silos that dotted the cityscape.
No good, Kerra thought. Language problem. She didn’t know Ithorian. But someone had to know Basic.
Spotting an elderly Duros couple passing, she tried again. They actually stopped, but only to look at her with mute indifference. Kerra turned in disgust, scanning the crowd. The people looked as shabby as the buildings: old clothes, barely fitting in many cases. And all with the same vacant expression.
“I’m in a droid factory!”
Kerra’s hour was nearly up when she chased down a female Sullustan on one of the lower levels. Sullust was in a nearby sector—and she knew they understood Basic there. If not, she understood a little Sullustese from her time with the Tengos. But again, she received the same sad stare. Kerra searched the Sullustan’s bulging eyes. It was as if she wanted to respond, but couldn’t remember the words.
“Remember our deal,” Kerra’s comlink crackled. It was Rusher’s voice, right on schedule.
Stepping into an alcove, she spoke quickly, explaining what she’d seen. “This doesn’t look right to me,” she said.
“Somehow, I knew it wouldn’t,” the voice responded. “Well, you’d better hurry and find out whatever it is you’re after. We just heard from Deep Voice again on the commset. The Byllurans saw the refugees on the platform—and they’re sending people to help with our situation.”
“Our situation?” Kerra goggled. “How do they know about that? You told them?”
“Hey, it’s their planet. All the guy said was that they’d send someone by to direct the kids to a center.”
“A center for what?”
“For assigning living quarters. Those are the exact words,” Rusher said. “You’ve got to admit, it sounds innocent enough.”
Kerra frowned. She agreed with the brigadier. As relocation practices went in Sith space, it was downright mild. Before she could say anything else, Rusher reported that his sentries had spotted someone’s approach. “Be careful,” she said.
“The word is diligent,” Rusher responded. “Oh, and be on the lookout—you’ve picked up a tail. Rusher out.�
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Kerra tapped the headset. “Hello? What?” A tail? What does he mean by that?
“Exasperating jerk,” she grumbled aloud.
“He says the same thing about you” came a voice from behind.
Kerra spun, angry at being caught unaware. There was nothing but the sidewalk and canal there—until she looked down.
“Tan Tengo!” she growled. “You followed me?”
Before the young Sullustan could answer, Kerra heard another familiar voice coming from the stone staircase leading down.
“There you are!” Beadle Lubboon said, sweat streaming from his emerald skull as he topped the stairs and saw Tan. The Duros soldier fell to his knees, hyperventilating. “So … many … stairs …”
Tan looked at the Duros, and then up at Kerra. “Don’t you know some kind of Jedi healing trick to help him?”
“Help him how? By making him run laps every day?” Kerra put her arm around the recruit’s chest and helped him toward the canal. Beadle surprised her by abruptly plunging his head into the burbling water.
Kerra exchanged glances with Tan until Beadle emerged, gasping. “Thank you.”
“What are the two of you doing here?”
Tan explained that she was in one of the groups that had come down the ramps from Diligence—but when the order came to re-embark, she had seen Kerra running toward the city.
“She bolted, Master Holt,” Beadle said, fingering the water from his ears. “Bridgadier sent me after her.”
Kerra clutched at her hair, sure it would fall out at any minute. She could see where the refugees ranked in Rusher’s mind, if Trooper Lubboon was the rescue team.
“It’s so drab here,” Tan said, wandering and looking up at the city. “It’s the same three buildings, over and over again.”
“Darkknell wasn’t exactly a colorful place,” Kerra said. But she knew what the girl meant. Here on Byllura, all the bright colors belonged to nature. Architecture, fashion—everything suffered from a dearth of energy, imagination, newness.
Stepping to an outer wall long enough to confirm that Diligence wasn’t powering up its engines yet, Kerra turned back toward another crowd headed for one of the hexagonal silos. This one was large, the size of a full Hestobyll block—and, from the sounds inside, evidently some kind of factory. She could see smoke now, rising from a chimney above.
Beadle and Tan in tow, Kerra pulled an elderly Duros from the line. As before, neither he nor anyone else responded to her action. Nor did he respond to her simplest questions. Holding the man’s shoulders, she looked to Beadle. “Can you speak to him, Beadle? Show him we’re friendly. Ask him his name.”
The lanky Duros saluted and joined Kerra in front of the old man’s face. “Sir, what’s your name?”
Kerra glared at him. “I mean, in Durese!”
Beadle shrugged. “I don’t speak Durese.”
“Great.”
Sitting on the canal ledge and splashing with her stubby feet, Tan chimed in. “Maybe there’s something in the water.”
“I don’t think so,” Kerra said, looking into the dull, wilted eyes of the old man. “And language isn’t the issue.” She could sense it. The Duros understood the words. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t respond; he couldn’t. “He seems … numb.”
Wait.
Kerra turned back toward the man and raised her fingers. She hated doing this, but if her hunch was right …
“You don’t want to go into the building,” she intoned.
The Duros elder froze. “I don’t … I don’t …” His arms began to shudder. “Go into the building.”
Kerra held his shoulders and studied his eyes. There was something there. An emotion. Confusion? No.
Panic.
Abruptly, Kerra released the Duros, who bolted ahead as if shot from one of Rusher’s cannons. The green figure disappeared into the doorway, as he had always intended to. Or as someone else had always intended for him to.
“It’s a Force-user,” Kerra said. Daiman had his Correctors and his propagandist historians, but this was different. Here, the Sith were directly imposing their will on the people—all of the people. But how? Force persuasion was a one-on-one technique. To mystify a populace on such a scale required—what? She had no idea.
Kerra scrunched her nose, deflated. This wasn’t a safe place for her charges at all. She’d been hoping that, outside the influence of Daiman and Odion, conditions might be better. If anything, they were worse.
Is every place out here insane?
Abruptly, Kerra stepped to the canal wall and lifted Tan by her shoulders. “Beadle, tell Rusher we’re coming back.”
“You’ve got my comlink,” he said, picking his ear again.
Reminded, Kerra reached to activate her headset—when suddenly a booming alien voice echoed in her ears: Dyarchy Fleet workers, you will commence loading operations now!
Kerra looked around, surprised. The voice wasn’t coming from the comlink—but from another mind. Tenders, you will deliver the designated Celegians to their assigned vessels!
At once the lazy pace of Hestobyll picked up around her. Citizens who had been taking their time to reach their destinations suddenly began moving quickly, thundering toward the hexagonal buildings. Other residents poured onto the slippery streets from the white domes—housing, Kerra imagined—to join the march. It was Byllura’s version of Darkknell’s morning commute, all directed by a mysterious source: the same voice Kerra had just heard.
Celegians, the voice had said. Kerra had met a Celegian years before on Coruscant: hard to look at, but easygoing—part of a seemingly happy race of interstellar travelers. A natural phenomenon, their thought broadcasts “sounded” quite different from thought projections through the Force; and that was unmistakably what she and the locals had heard. It made sense as a form of public address, with listeners able to comprehend regardless of their lingual differences.
“Hearing” another announcement, Kerra looked around. No Celegians were visible—and they certainly would have been noticeable!—but that didn’t mean anything. As she turned to face the direction where the sensation was strongest, her eyes locked on one of the large silos. From there, a Celegian could contact much of the city at once. That had to be it. Looking around, Kerra felt like kicking herself. City blocks radiated from silos all across Hestobyll. Those reflected the Celegians’ range, she imagined. There had to be more than one.
But the quick compliance of the people seemed odd, and nothing explained the tremors she now felt in the Force. Apart from the famous Jedi Master Ooroo, millennia before, the Force had touched relatively few Celegians. Using the creatures for mass communication was novel, but signified no inherent danger. Pushing her way up crowded steps to get a better view, Kerra called out behind: “Beadle! Stay with Tan!”
Suddenly the crowd began churning faster. Fighting against the wave, Kerra struggled to keep her balance—and to see what was driving them. It wasn’t the Celegian’s words. Humanoid figures in skintight red suits descended across the cliffside city aboard silver multi-person airspeeders. Leaving their speeders hovering over the canals, a few of the scarlet riders leapt high into the air. Traversing several meters in an uncanny instant, the determined newcomers landed safely on the sidewalks and charged the crowd.
There’s our Sith, Kerra thought. So much for paradise.
“Tan! Tan!” Kerra looked back. The girl had gotten lost in the crowd—and the Duros was gone, too. The Scarlet Riders, men and women of various species, were still on the move, hurrying stragglers along toward their work. They hadn’t harmed anyone yet, but Kerra noticed baton-shaped weapons slung over their left arms. She swore. “Blast it, Beadle, I told you to stay with her!”
Forcing her way through the stampede, Kerra leapt atop the canal’s retaining wall and looked down at the crowd. There was the Ithorian from earlier, surprisingly nearby—and face-to-stern-face with one of the riders. Despite the height difference, it was easy to tell who was in charge. The
Ithorian seemed mystified. Feeling a twinge in the Force, Kerra realized why. Straining, she heard them:
“You will comply with your orders immediately!” the rider said.
“I will comply with my orders immediately,” the Ithorian droned in Basic, before barreling forward.
Seeing the same exchange going on all along the thoroughfare, Kerra realized the truth. The Celegians only gave—or passed along—the commands. The Scarlet Riders enforced them, using Force persuasion. It made sense, now. The people of Byllura were indeed numb, worn down by constant mental manipulations by Force-users!
Alert, Kerra scanned the crowd for her companions. Suddenly she saw Beadle Lubboon in the crowd, confronted by two riders. And there, behind them, was Tan, being held by a third. They weren’t trying to escape—and Kerra knew why. There was only one thing to do.
“Hey, Sith!” Kerra yelled, leaping atop a stone platform and igniting her lightsaber. A dozen faces in the mob turned toward her. “Yeah, that’s right! I don’t want to go to work! Come and get me!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
For the first time since Gazzari, Kerra’s lightsaber tore into Sith flesh. That battle had been chaotic; multiple combatants heading after different targets. Here, even amid the workers scrambling to safety, there was a simple direction to events. Kerra, trying to chase Tan and Beadle’s captors; and more Scarlet Riders than she could count trying to stop her.
Kerra bounded against a sandstone wall and leapt back into the fray, lancing toward her assailants. Their batons were alive with energy now, blades matching the color of their suits. But the weapons were only half the length of her lightsaber, the minimum required for herding workers. It forced her to abandon all the fancy lightsaber disciplines with names she could never remember anyway and fight free-form. That was the way she liked it. A female rider jabbed at her—and received a roundhouse kick followed by a deathblow. A hulking male rider leapt toward her from behind, stabbing downward; Kerra twirled and sliced backward, separating his sword arm from his body.
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