Star Wars: Knight Errant (22 page)

The crew expected—no,
needed
—to see the same Jarrow Rusher they always had. Upbeat. Joking. Ready with a quotation or an alternate history in a millisecond. And he had given them that. On the bridge, in the ward room, and, most of all, in medbay. He’d learned that from his mentor Yulan, before the bad times.
“Units take losses. Leaders take charge.”

But he didn’t know how to take this one. As they’d figured it,
Diligence
now had but two working battalions. One laser battalion—Ripper, fully outfitted and staffed with the merger of personnel from Coyn’skar—and one
missile battalion in Zhaboka. He hadn’t led so few in more than a decade. Four cargo ramps on each side seemed superfluous. Ripper and Zhaboka each had a side of the ship to themselves.

Running too small a crew in Sith space was perilous, even beyond the hazards of the battlefield. As he’d just seen with Daiman, Sith Lords absorbed independent operations into their slave armies all the time. Size meant effectiveness, which meant independence. And security—security they wouldn’t have now. Historical knowledge, like power, was fragmented in Sith space. But try as he might, he couldn’t remember any cases where enslaved units lasted long enough to be remembered, much less feted by later generations.

Love of history had, in fact, led to Rusher’s independence in the first place. He’d had the relative good fortune to be born into the systems of Lord Mandragall. A real throwback, Mandragall had known more about the Sith of old than most of his rivals—and had used that knowledge to develop the scheme that had, thus far, kept Sith talons off
Diligence
. He’d found it, of all places, in the recordings of Elcho Kressh, whose father, Ludo, had figured in the Great Hyperspace War millennia before. Ludo had made his son sit out that disastrous conflict in a hidden location. But though frail of frame, Elcho was not one to take the Sith Empire’s failure idly. Elcho spent years developing a counterattack plan, making the most of the small forces available to him. The concept, as Mandragall had learned from one of tentacle-faced Elcho’s holocrons, was simple—and quite applicable to his modern world.

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 simi
larly 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.”

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 Rusher 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 Re
public, 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.”