She had spied a lone quadractyl, an oceangoing avian creature more at home in warmer climes, afloat in the crashing surf. At first, she thought the animal was in trouble. A whitecap would wash over it, forcing it underwater. Seconds later it would resurface, soggy and closer to shore, just in time to be struck by the next icy wave. It didn't seem to be making any attempt to fly away, preferring, it seemed, to ride along and take what fate-or the planet's three moons-had in store for it.

Having watched Sith slaves from Chelloa to Darkknell deal with their lives, Kerra began to think that was what was happening here, too. The people who lived in this sector were like the wretched quadractyl, being buffeted by one violent wave of Sith conquerors after another. Blow followed upon blow. And yet the people, like the animal, rode it out.

Some in the Republic felt that the people who lived under Sith rule didn't deserve saving, because they hadn't acted to free themselves. It was clear to Kerra those people had never seen Sith oppression up close, or they would have understood how wrong they were. The power imbalance between master and slave was just too great. There was no practical way for those under Daiman's heel to band together-and in fact, gathering together had the effect of making them more vulnerable, rather than more powerful. No uprising was possible.

And yet, kneeling in the darkness of her soon-to-be-former room, Kerra wondered if she'd just seen resistance in action. Parents in the Daimanate were willing to endure more hardship for themselves if it meant their children might migrate to a position that was marginally better. Decades of oppression had forced on them such a long view of life that even the smallest step was a mighty leap to freedom.

Maybe that quadractyl was where it was because it had had acted-acted to send its chicks south. It just didn't have anything left to save itself. acted-acted to send its chicks south. It just didn't have anything left to save itself.

But Kerra had escaped once. And she wouldn't stay now.

Peeking outside to confirm that Gub was at his desk, Kerra pulled the folded stealth suit from beneath her bedroll. It was pristine. She'd been given a solvent by one of her friends at work. Ostensibly intended to clean a piece of furniture, the fluid had worked marvelously on the Mark VI. It had taken meticulous effort, mostly after Tan had gone to sleep each night. But the suit was necessary. Essential, in fact, for realizing the value of what she'd gained through her other other job on Darkknell. job on Darkknell.

Kerra pulled the drawstring on the duffel bag. Lifting her few personal items from the top, she emptied the sack onto her pillow. Pouches of glistening gel tumbled into a pile. Baradium nitrite Baradium nitrite. Enough explosive to send the universe's would-be creator on a journey of discovery-through the stratosphere.

She'd brought the explosive out of the factory a little at a time, in disposable squeeze food packets. It had been easy enough; she was supposed to bring her own lunch and pack out her trash. In its fluid form, it was less prone to accidental detonation than other explosives, and she probably didn't have enough to pull off what the Bothan had done at the Black Fang. But as a Jedi alone heading up against a Sith Lord, she knew it didn't hurt to have backup.

She hadn't known what to do with it all, before the other day. Daiman himself had given her the key, in his vain insistence that everyone hear his voice daily. On one other world, she'd heard his message declaring the sunrise. Listening again the last two days, she'd heard it again: the same phrasing as offworld, except for the parts about the day's duration. Surely, he didn't record different ones for every world he held-and she wasn't aware of any communications network in Sith space that equaled the one that the Republic had deactivated on the Outer Rim. Both meant that Daiman's voice was being simulated, and simulated locally on each world.

Obvious, really, but she'd never thought about the corollary. If Daiman vanished tomorrow, the rival Sith Lords whose rampage she feared might not find out about it for a long time. Daiman's Correctors would want to keep their jobs, which meant they would pretend nothing had changed.

But in fact, something would have changed, Kerra thought as she refilled the bag and cinched it shut. Life wouldn't improve dramatically, but a Daimanate without a Daiman would be something that would help many people at once.

Kerra took a last look around the room and stood to depart. Daiman would would vanish tomorrow. vanish tomorrow.

And it was about blasted time.

There were worse things than death.

Narsk's aunt had told him that, raising him alone on Verdanth. Near the juncture of three sectors and situated on a major hyperspace lane, the planet was desired by many a petty princeling. Indeed, several had declared themselves Sith Lords immediately upon taking the green world, as if the title conqueror of Verdanth conqueror of Verdanth meant anything. It usually didn't. Verdanth's masters seldom lived long. But they always survived long enough to do serious damage to the population of the world, a diverse patchwork of transplanted peoples. meant anything. It usually didn't. Verdanth's masters seldom lived long. But they always survived long enough to do serious damage to the population of the world, a diverse patchwork of transplanted peoples.

The Bothan community on Verdanth had suffered less than others, if only because of the species' penchant for intrigues. More stubborn races had refused to submit when the Sith first invaded; their survivors saw each successive wave as something to be resisted with all means. A noble thought. But ownership of Verdanth was changing almost annually. Defiance of all invaders earned only extinction. The Bothans, meanwhile, submitted freely to whichever Sith warlord they estimated had the upper hand. Their instincts were so good, observers said, that one could track the balance of power in the system simply by looking at who had the most Bothans in his or her camp.

Being on the losing side meant death. But that wasn't the worst part, as his aunt had put it: it meant that you'd guessed wrong guessed wrong.

Understanding the relationships between others and accurate reckonings of power and where it lay: these were the things that made one a Bothan. Narsk's aunt once described a tribe of feral Bothans, found untold years after a crash on a deserted planet. They had no spoken language, but they could rank with exactitude the numbers of various kinds of predators in their surroundings. To be a Bothan was to be always on the lookout.

Narsk had taken those lessons to heart. While a slave for successive Sith Lords on Verdanth, he'd managed to find chores that bettered his perceptions. The sloppy job of harvesting rimebats led to assignments tracking escapees. Those led to missions as a nonmilitary scout and, finally, a saboteur. All the time, he'd kept his eyes on the Sith players, in the best traditions of his people.

The quandary came when two particularly pugnacious rivals chose to settle the ownership of the planet in a duel that left them both dead. The resulting power vacuum put many Bothans off kilter. There was no reason to expect Verdanth would stay free from Sith rule for more than a few weeks at most, and yet the planet-bound Bothans had no real way of gauging the relative strengths of powers yet unseen. The only real way to know which Sith Lord to back was to strike out into space personally and have a look.

Narsk did. And never returned.

He'd found a wondrously complicated political scene. A patchwork of dominions and dependencies, ruled by despots with secret connections and histories of betrayal. It could keep an industrious Bothan busy for a lifetime.

For Narsk, it had. And now, it was all over-because he wasn't on the lookout.

The Jedi was a wild card, but he should've known she was there. He'd been on Darkknell a month, assessing the potential hazards. Even if only one person on Darkknell knew she was there, he he should have been the one. should have been the one.

He noted, ironically, that he probably had had been the first to know she was there. But that information had come too late to be useful. And now that Daiman had, through him, become the second to know, Narsk wondered why he was still alive. been the first to know she was there. But that information had come too late to be useful. And now that Daiman had, through him, become the second to know, Narsk wondered why he was still alive.

He'd remained on the slab for days without food, tasting water when a torture session involved it. Daiman knew now that Narsk was an agent for Odion. Once Narsk realized that secret was gone, he'd relaxed his defenses, allowing the Sith Lord to see everything in his memories since his arrival on Darkknell. The assumption of the cover identity, the scouting of the testing center, the many forays inside. That was a tactic he'd been taught, too. Once a secret lost its value as a secret, it could be used to shield other truths. He'd flooded Daiman with details that didn't matter anymore.

It seemed to have worked. Apparently satisfied, Daiman had left him alone. Several times the young Sith had sensed the importance of a female human in Narsk's memories-but from his remarks, Daiman had always assumed it was the Jedi. Daiman was no better than the sentries, Narsk thought. They only see what they're looking for They only see what they're looking for.

Now, though, Narsk saw only imminent death. He had nothing more to give-nothing he would give, anyway. His execution was at hand. Four Correctors entered the room, releasing him from the table and shifting his limp, half-clothed body to a circular metal frame. His feet and ankles were fastened to its perimeter, splaying his body across its width. The Correctors tipped the device on its side, wheeling Narsk down one of the narrow darkened hallways.

With nothing to support his neck, Narsk's head hung backward as the frame rolled. Dizzily, he saw a blur of light ahead. His eyes adjusting, Narsk realized it was a wide indoor area with a skylight above. With a bump, the Correctors rolled his circular rack onto a small platform built to lift something in antigrav suspension.

Lofted into the air by an unseen force, Narsk saw the people in attendance and realized that his aunt had been right. He'd guessed wrong. It was not an execution. And there were were things worse than death. things worse than death.

He had become a stage prop.

CHAPTER FIVE.

The young lord shimmered, resplendent in his plumage. Daiman's preference for shining attire was well known-but today's coppery cape had something extra going for it. Every time the Sith Lord stepped between his viewers and the skylight above, small prisms in the great folds of the garment refracted the noon sun, throwing brilliant-colored light all around the Adytum.

And here, in this enormous heptagonal shrine within the Sanctum Celestial, everyone everyone was beneath Daiman. Seven crystal catwalks led to a suspended platform in the center, directly beneath the skylight. Each of the seven midair entrances sat in the middle of an alabaster column, curling upward toward the ceiling and forming, with the skylight, a replica of Daiman's sun-and-tentacles emblem. The walls between bore ornate relief carvings of Daiman throughout history and prehistory. So did the floor, where those waiting attendance alternately looked up at their lord and down at their feet, to keep from tripping on the uneven surface. was beneath Daiman. Seven crystal catwalks led to a suspended platform in the center, directly beneath the skylight. Each of the seven midair entrances sat in the middle of an alabaster column, curling upward toward the ceiling and forming, with the skylight, a replica of Daiman's sun-and-tentacles emblem. The walls between bore ornate relief carvings of Daiman throughout history and prehistory. So did the floor, where those waiting attendance alternately looked up at their lord and down at their feet, to keep from tripping on the uneven surface.

Only Narsk was close to Daiman's level, but the Bothan didn't feel very honored. After the Correctors had used the antigrav generator to lift his circular prison several meters in the air, they'd done something to apply some spin. Now Narsk tumbled gyroscopically in the air meters above the others, in the space between two of Daiman's catwalks. It'd been like this all day: bouts of violent rotation punctuated by occasional slowdowns during which his body was right-side up. Narsk supposed it was to keep him from passing out. For the first time since his imprisonment, he was glad he hadn't been fed.

The brief respites had given him a chance to survey the hall, though, and those inside. Daiman had stalked the catwalks for hours, seemingly brooding on some aspect of creation or another. Occasionally, he retired to the oversized plush mass, more a bed than a throne, resting in the middle of the suspended platform. Narsk thought he sat like a youngling, his legs curled up underneath as he idly kicked the ends of the cape. No, not a child No, not a child, Narsk thought. An adolescent An adolescent.

Beyond a few aggravated sighs, Daiman had said nothing at all. He had, however, vanished twice into one of the exits for a wardrobe change. Narsk figured something must be about to happen. The sighs were becoming more like groans, and each outfit had been more outrageous than the last.

There must be company coming, Narsk thought. I can't believe this is what he wears around the house I can't believe this is what he wears around the house.

The audience below had gotten no more attention from Daiman than Narsk had. There were Correctors there, and a few elite sentries. They stood, waiting silently on their master-as did a Woostoid woman Narsk took to be Daiman's aide-de-camp. Narsk didn't recognize her, but no spy could ever keep track of Daiman's palace lineup. She certainly hadn't been hired for her charm, he saw, every time he revolved to face her. Orange-skinned with bound magenta hair, the spindly thing looked like a black hole was sucking her face from within. All the engineering teams in the sector couldn't construct a smile out of that raw material.

Narsk couldn't figure it. Daiman seemed to prize beauty in his house hold. But then he had another thought: It must be this way when you're in love with yourself It must be this way when you're in love with yourself.

"I heard that, spy!"

Narsk's frame whirled around long enough to give him a glimpse of Daiman at the edge of the platform, raising his talon-tipped hand. Seconds later all Narsk saw was blue pain, as Force lightning wracked his shaking body. As the attack subsided, rivulets of energy crackled off the side of the rack.

"You think you've hurt me, don't you? Don't you? Don't you?" Cape billowing, Daiman stalked the edge of his platform. Below, several listeners on the lower floor stumbled, trying to keep up with him. "You haven't hurt me at all," he railed. "In fact, my little nothing, you haven't changed my course a whit."

Narsk found his mouth too dry after the attack to respond-but it was just as well. There was no right answer.

"No, you and the Jedi woman have given me exactly exactly what I wanted. I just didn't realize it at the time," Daiman said, kneeling and eyeing Narsk. "I don't always see the plan I started with until later-but I always do." what I wanted. I just didn't realize it at the time," Daiman said, kneeling and eyeing Narsk. "I don't always see the plan I started with until later-but I always do."

Already dizzy, Narsk shook his head. How did Daiman's followers stand such doubletalk?

"Uleeta!" Daiman called. "Is the connection ready?"

Beneath, the Woostoid spoke. "As my lord knows, the heretic Bactra awaits on the priority channel." The woman, Narsk saw, never faced Daiman when addressing him. Instead, she craned her neck and directed her bulbous ebony eyes toward the skylight, as if Daiman were living in the rafters somewhere. Well, he kind of is Well, he kind of is, Narsk thought.

Uleeta glanced at her handheld control pad and looked up again. She spoke cautiously, as if fearful to offend. "Bactra ... likes to be called Lord Lord. As my-"

"What he likes is pointless. Activate it."

"Activating. Should we remove the prisoner?"

"No."

The answer sent a chill shot back down Narsk's back. Whatever was about to happen, it didn't matter if he knew about it. He was still dead.

The rafters of a Sith Lord's entry hallway were not the place to be pawing at one's armpits. And yet, Kerra couldn't stop herself. It was good that getting inside the Sanctum Celestial was so easy, because she'd had to fight a small war just to get into the stealth suit.

The skintight garment was functioning properly; it had gotten her past eight sentry posts so far. But there wasn't anything comfortable about it. The planners at Cyricept had thought of a lot of things, but making one size fit all species and genders wasn't among them. The Bothan had been slightly shorter, and while Kerra wasn't overly endowed, she'd had to take extreme measures to get the fasteners closed. If she had to die somewhere, she'd already be mummified.

On the other hand, there was too much room in the mask, where the Bothan's hairy snout had been. She'd folded part of the fabric inside and pinned it in order to cinch the mask closed, leaving a bizarre chevron-shaped beak above the mouthpiece. She was positively thrilled no one could see her.

Now, as Kerra crept from alcove to alcove, every step reminded her why Jedi didn't wear bodysuits. Her regular clothes, stuffed in the tote bag just beneath the explosives, were loose fitting and comfortable. Kerra doubted she'd have wanted the suit even if it were in her size, but she also knew she never would have gotten far without it. She'd broken into Sith strongholds before, but keeping Daiman and his Correctors from noticing her through the Force took extra concentration. The suit was her edge.

She just wanted her edge to stop digging into her midsection.

Kerra had only ever seen Daiman's stronghold from a distance, its obsidian walls tracing long lines around Xakrea's centermost point. Tall pylons flanked a gateway on each of the seven sides; Kerra had simply picked the nearest. She'd wondered once why Daiman didn't have some towering, vertical roost from which to survey his surroundings, as he had on Chelloa. A co-worker at the plant had explained that since Daiman had created Darkknell, he had no need to look down on it. Kerra had barely stifled her laughter then. So he's got a wall. If we don't exist, why does he need it? So he's got a wall. If we don't exist, why does he need it?

She'd imagined the walls enclosed some kind of open space-perhaps a courtyard or a lake, with a smaller castle somewhere within. Instead, she'd found that the great gateway was actually a door. The walls weren't a divider, but the outsides of the largest building she'd ever encountered.

The structure was recent, raised in the few years since Daiman's ascension to power. Kerra was flabbergasted. So much of Xakrea was old, dating back to previous Sith Lords and before. What had Daiman put his building resources into? The biggest shrine to arrogance ever, easily surpassing for scale and gaudiness any of the industrialists' mansions she'd visited when raising money for Vannar. Those people's homes were temples to their own achievement, but only in a figurative sense. Daiman's actually came with bas-reliefs of himself creating the universe.

And yet, changing her route to avoid yet another hall of mirrors-no telling what those would do to the stealth suit-Kerra found the place strangely empty. It was a temple without worshippers. Enormous ballrooms and dining halls had clearly never seen a dancer or a diner. If Daiman wanted ostentation, he seemed not to understand what it was for.

It pained her to see it all now, to think of the people whose lives were wasted in erecting the place. Kerra had forgiven the lip service given in public to Daiman's creatorhood, but she'd never understood why so many people she'd met also did so in private. Gub, for one. He was more than twice the Sith Lord's age. She wondered if there was a specific day on which everyone on Darkknell stopped rolling their eyes when they spoke of Daiman's myth. It must have been some long time earlier. It always confused her. If no one else but Daiman existed, as his thinking went, why would he go to the trouble to indoctrinate anyone? Why would he care?

She'd only met Daiman once, but she knew enough from their short exchange to guess. Daiman could see into the minds of others using the Force, but he didn't take that for proof that they were independent beings. He assumed that any contrary thoughts in their heads were part of the galactic puzzle he'd created for himself to correct. It was just one more thing to fix, another victory condition to satisfy. He wanted the droids around him to know know they were droids: organic or otherwise. And if that meant spending five years building an atrium that took five minutes to traverse-so be it. Even if the builders were the only others who would ever see inside. they were droids: organic or otherwise. And if that meant spending five years building an atrium that took five minutes to traverse-so be it. Even if the builders were the only others who would ever see inside.

Interesting as Daiman's home was as a psychological study, it was ruination for Kerra's plans. Feeling for the baradium nitrite in the pouch, she looked around in exasperation. Even if she could find Daiman, she'd need a shuttle of the stuff to bring this place down!

Hearing activity atop a stone staircase, Kerra slipped over the banister and dropped into a crawl space. They weren't sentries, this time, but soldiers. About a dozen figures of various species, all in different forms of military dress, followed a protocol droid down the steps into an atrium.

Certainly not Daiman's usual high-fashion troopers. Kerra gawked, unseen, at the ragtag bunch. What would possess any band of mercenaries to work for a schizophrenic monomaniac? It didn't matter. Inside the mask, she smiled. Take me to your leader Take me to your leader.

"Nice to see you through something other than a rangefinder," Rusher said, jabbing the Toong with a gloved hand. "Eating pretty well over on the Gevarno Loop, I see."

Olive and ovoid, Mak Medagazy smirked. "Haven't had to face you you in a while, R-r-rusher," he said, massive belly wobbling as he extended a long, thin arm to the brigadier. "Kept the replacement costs d-d-down." in a while, R-r-rusher," he said, massive belly wobbling as he extended a long, thin arm to the brigadier. "Kept the replacement costs d-d-down."

Having spent their working lives trying to kill one another, not all the militia leaders in the subsector got along. But Mak was easy to like. Because he was a droid-runner, casualties were never personal for him. And perhaps to avoid the characteristic Toong nervous stutter, he always kept his remarks short, offending few.

Not so for some of the others in the party, Rusher saw. Like Kr'saang the Togorian, who insisted on being called that, as if anyone could miss a two-and-a-half-meter mound of hairy anger. The feral-looking mercenary insisted on pushing his way to the front of the group, nearly bowling over their electronic guide in the process.

"What's the hurry, Tog?" Rusher asked again. The Sith Lord's house was endless; the meet could be kilometers away.

Kr'saang snarled, whiskers flaring on either side of his angular muzzle. "Waste your own time, human-not mine!" Leader of a brigade of shock troops, Kr'saang complained again about being called to a briefing in person. "Foolishness."

"Then why are you here? Got to be other Sith Lords who can keep your muzzle full of chow."

Several mercenaries edged back from Rusher, in case the black-furred giant snapped. But Kr'saang kept walking. "My business." Emerald eyes glared back at Rusher. "I sure know why you're you're here, rock-thrower. Daiman won't fight Bad Brother Odion one-on-one. He's looking for somebody even more gutless to make him look good." here, rock-thrower. Daiman won't fight Bad Brother Odion one-on-one. He's looking for somebody even more gutless to make him look good."

"Well, he has you there," Mak said, giant lip curling.

Rusher didn't push it. He already knew why most of them were there. Several of the indies had lately come from the service of the other side. The brigadier had been smarter than they were in that regard. It was Odion-avoidance that had sent Rusher into business for himself, years earlier.

Beld Yulan had been everything a mentor should be. A fine artilleryman, he'd also cultivated an interest in military history among his recruits. Young Rusher had learned not just about the engagements, but the reasons why they were fought-and how, in many cases, the decisions of a single person could have led to different outcomes. Rusher would've stayed aboard Perspicacity Perspicacity forever, had Yulan not lost his children to the plague on Fostin IX. The general's mourning became depression, culminating with a "religious conversion": he'd become an Odionite, a member of the dread Lord's death-seeking cult. forever, had Yulan not lost his children to the plague on Fostin IX. The general's mourning became depression, culminating with a "religious conversion": he'd become an Odionite, a member of the dread Lord's death-seeking cult.

Rusher had begun to suspect when the general started throwing caution to the wind, committing squads to ever-more-dangerous assignments. The force's "lurch ratio," or percentage of warriors left stranded, had gone skyward, with hundreds of troops abandoned to their fates. Finally, when Yulan announced that the brigade would be taking a job from Lord Odion, Rusher had seen enough. At least Daiman believed in a tomorrow-if only so he could have a chance to take credit for its arrival. If even steely operators like Kr'saang were coming to that realization, things must be getting bad indeed on the other side.

"Hold here," the droid said, pausing in a chandelier-filled room. Gilded double doors sat beneath a marbled arch in the eastern wall. "His Lordship is in conference with his other creations, but your time will come."

Sad Toong eyes rolled toward Rusher. "G-g-good to know," Mak said.

"Yeah, I feel blessed."

The mercs had stopped short of the grand entryway, jabbering and drooling at the riches of the anteroom. Statues, paintings, chandeliers: surely more wealth than they had ever seen, Kerra figured. Still, they'd brought her to the right place. She'd been cautious not to dip into the Force for anything, but she couldn't miss the evil taint that lay ahead. It could only be Daiman and his closest aides.

But there was no easy frontal assault, not with the crowd of warriors and sentries lingering there. Slipping past the rearmost member of the party-a fortyish red-bearded human in a trench coat, not entirely oafish looking-Kerra made for a narrow spiral staircase at the left side of the room.

Upstairs, the steps finished in a candlelit hallway, leading toward a bright opening. Hearing voices, Kerra edged toward it, cautiously.

There he was, at the end of a long, crystalline catwalk: Little Daiman himself, announcer for the morning rush hour. It looked like his rumpus room on Chelloa, only grander-and suspended above the ground by pathways that formed a seven-pointed star. It was, by far, the strangest room she'd seen in the building.

And what what was he wearing? was he wearing?