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 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 out."

He says that like it's a bad word, Kerra thought. Well, maybe here, it is 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 on the wraithwatch, asking you to come in this morning. You clearly could not have already been there." 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 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 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!" 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."

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 his imagination. imagination. Maybe all those city blocks on fire when I landed were hallucinations, too 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 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?" 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." "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?" "None?"

"No adepts, no adherents, no lieutenants, no grunts. We're specialists 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 specialists to land them on the battlefield, assemble them, and put them into action." 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 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 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 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 No Sith.

Rusher chuckled. Right on target. Again Right on target. Again. "And our ship? Why, it's a pleasure palace. You saw Diligence Diligence on her approach over Xakrea this morning. There isn't a better vessel in the sector." 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 Diligence needs some new drives. We need four or five-" needs some new drives. We need four or five-"

"Six!" came a voice from the hallway. came a voice from the hallway.

"-we need six six new drives, for our off-loading assemblies." Rusher gently but forcibly sat Beadle down on the couch and continued to speak over the teenager's head. "They're key to getting new drives, for our off-loading assemblies." Rusher gently but forcibly sat Beadle down on the couch and continued to speak over the teenager's head. "They're key to getting Diligence Diligence safely off Darkknell- 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 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 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 where he was, though, meant he was in very deep trouble. 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.

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 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 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." 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 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! 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 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 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.