Star Wars: Knight Errant (28 page)

Looking back at the trail of bodies behind her in the hallway, Kerra decided she wouldn’t worry about who had seen her or whether they might be sending for reinforcements. Skittering off in search of a path of less resistance would just take longer and, ultimately, endanger more people.

Besides, this way was more satisfying.

All those days on Darkknell wanting to strike back—strike
something
—she’d imagined a day like this. She’d been careful not to desire it too much; that way led to the dark side. But in all her sneaking around, she’d wondered if she would ever get to confront Sith oppressors directly. It was true these weren’t Daiman’s people; the lack of statues on every city corner said that. But she’d seen enough of the Bylluran brand of Sith oppression in
two hours to make the Dyarchy, whatever that was, her target of choice.
Bring them on
.

More were coming, for sure. Since arriving in the airspeeder bay gouged into the side of the granite tower, Kerra hadn’t heard any sirens or seen a single surveillance droid or cam. But the Celegians in the facility hadn’t stopped chattering in her mind, alerting more Scarlet Riders—now Scarlet Runners—to her movements. The baton-wielders had tried to block her entry from the start, and had kept her from seeing where Tan and Beadle’s captors had taken them. They’d tried to keep her from entering the main tunnel leading into the strata, and they’d waged a massive effort to keep her out of the one turbolift she’d found. The minions—if that’s what they were—were getting stronger now. More capable. She had guessed that would have been the case, but not a lot else on Byllura had gone as she’d expected.

Seeing that, Kerra had begun using their ferocity and numbers as a guide. The Celegians’ mental ululations were coming from so many different directions inside the facility that she couldn’t use their strength as her homing beacon. But the most recent wave of attackers had one thing in mind: preventing her from ascending higher within the mountain complex. As with real balo mushrooms, the active ingredient had to be up in the crown.

Just like the perverse to imitate nature
, Kerra thought, pushing out the corpse that was keeping the lift door from closing. Looking at the controls, she saw only two higher levels. Directing the car to the topmost, Kerra calmed herself and entered a defensive stance, lightsaber at the ready.

The door opened to reveal more red-suited protectors, also in defensive stance, their lightsabers ignited. In unison, they raised their free hands and screamed through the Force:
You will leave you will leave you will leave!

“Okay,” Kerra said, punching the control and closing the door. She hadn’t intended to switch to taking the path of least resistance halfway through, but there wasn’t any sense being doctrinaire about it—especially not when they were giving her such a headache. Spying a handhold above the doorway, Kerra sent the car to a lower floor and extinguished her lightsaber. Leaping for the slot above the door, she dangled by one hand and raised her weapon. There was no access hatch in the ceiling centimeters above her head, but there would be in a few moments.

Scurrying up the service ladder inside the shaft moments later, Kerra could still feel the psychic pressure from the defenders through the lift door. But their tactics confused her, more than anything. Their defense had seemed one-dimensional—two, at most. Mesmerize and fight. Fight and mesmerize. The mesa garrison was more powerful at suggestion and more formidable at fighting, but other tasks seemed to be beyond them. Scaling past the floor she’d fled, she heard people throwing themselves violently against the door.
Who can’t open a stuck turbolift?

Finding a ventilation tunnel leading up and away from the shaft—so much for avoiding them—she remembered the Rodian back on the airspeeder. He seemed to have no inkling at all how to restart his stalled-out vehicle. And the pattern of defense, too, seemed strange. She’d heard the Celegians’ psychic calls, directing her opponents to defend hallways she was only considering entering. Were they using the Force to predict her movements? Or was it someone else?

Someone’s controlling all this
, Kerra thought, spying light at the end of a side shaft. She’d found the metal roots of the mesa-top structure now, driven into the rocky base; ventilation ducts brought in air from outside. Shimmying the long meters toward the illuminated grating,
she looked up to find what she’d expected: a short stretch of shaft above, providing entry to the squashed dome.

But it was what she accidentally saw between the sunlit slats that gave her pause. Outside, across the bay, great battleships were on the rise, rumbling from housings within the terraced city. Suddenly she realized what the workers had been preparing. But for what purpose?

Slicing a larger aperture with her lightsaber, Kerra squinted at the harbor, trying to find
Diligence
and its platform. Her eyes crossed the shoreline twice before she spotted the dock, apparently cut off from the mainland—and empty.

Fumbling for the headset around her neck, Kerra found the mouthpiece. “Rusher! You’d better have a good explanation for this!”

Looking down at the sea, Rusher thought it didn’t seem nearly as peaceful as it had when they’d landed. Perhaps it was because the water below was now dotted with people who’d been trying to enslave him—and more airspeeders were rallying from the coast, trying to reach the weaving spacecraft.

The battleships weren’t paying them any mind—at least, not so far. The first three had made for orbit almost immediately; they certainly had someplace to go in a hurry. The presence of several others lingering in the stratosphere was the only reason he hadn’t flown higher. Evading the airspeeders had taken them barely half a kilometer from the rearmost behemoth.

Seeing it, Rusher felt a faint twinge at the back of his skull. A slight spark, associated with a feeling.

A feeling that he should order
Diligence
down.

Rusher shook his head. A strange thought, but his hunches were like that sometimes. Standing at the viewport, he looked down at the ocean again. How would
heading back down now protect them? It didn’t make any—

You will set your vessel down
.

Rusher’s cane fell to the floor.

“Are you feeling something?” he asked.

“Yes, sir!” Master Dackett stood in the open double doorway to the bridge. “It’s just like what those little cretins were doing down on the platform.”

“It’s stronger near the battleships,” Rusher said, staring out the window. He looked to Zussh, at the helm. “Let’s … be somewhere else.”

He scraped at his hair, flicking sweat to the carpet. His eyes followed the droplets down. Going back to the surface had seemed like such a good idea—for a moment. Landing, and debarking, and giving his ship over to the red-clad Sith flunkies, just as they’d asked …

Rusher looked up. The ship hadn’t moved. Looking back down at his helmswoman, he noticed the Khil’s hand shaking over the controls. He stepped down into the command pit and placed his gloved hand over hers. “It’s okay, Zussh. I felt it, too.” Together, they pressed the switch to move
Diligence
clear.

“Very sssorry, sssir.”

“That’s enough of this,” Rusher said, rescaling the steps. “Get us out over the ocean and head for space.”

Refugees or not, Byllura wasn’t a place to stick around. This happened so often in Sith space, he thought. Things were so fluid, and many of the warlords so secretive, that one never really knew what to expect from system to system. But they’d find another world quickly enough. Maybe in the Chagrasi Remnant—that wasn’t very far away. Any place would be better than this.

“We’ve still got a missing man, Brigadier,” Dackett said, standing at the railing.

“Lubboon?” Rusher looked incredulously at the ship’s
master. “We
were
talking about dropping him off on top of the nearest hyperspace buoy.” He’d half hoped the kid would wind up staying on Byllura with the refugees; it was why he’d sent him in search of the Sullustan, instead of someone more competent. “Blazes, Dack,
you
were talking about it!”

“I know. But that was before we knew what kind of junk they were pulling here.”

“And that matters how?”

“It doesn’t,” Dackett said, scratching his fleshy neck with his artificial hand. He sighed. “But he pulled me out of that hole on Gazzari. It’s the least I can do.”

He slapped the back of his hand against the viewport. “Nobody pulled
me
out of a hole! People have just been getting me
into
them!” Rusher looked down at the heaving ocean, livening up as the
Diligence
flew farther from the mainland. Reminded, Rusher looked to his comlink again. The light was flashing; another message had come in while they’d been enraptured by the battleship. “Hang on. Message from Her Craziness.” Putting it to his ear, he listened.

From beside the command pit, Dackett watched as his commander stood. “Anything?”

“She’s swearing at me. And cutting out.” He chucked the comlink to the floor and looked to the Besalisk at the comm station. “Morrex, do you have any more?”

“No, sir,” the verdant giant said, tapping his massive headset. “But they know some new words in the Republic.”

Rusher turned back to the window. The airspeeders that had been flying alongside, looking for an opportunity, were long gone. No one had challenged their flight across the open ocean. He looked back to see his helmswoman looking at him.

“I have a clear path to orbit, Brigadier,” Zussh trilled.
“And nothing between this hemisphere and the nearest hyperspace lane.”

Rusher folded his arms, made a command decision, and kicked the wall repeatedly with his good leg.

“Pull up the comm-tag records,” he said, looking down at the Besalisk. “Lubboon. Rank, Major Disaster.” With any luck, the Jedi would be where he was. He looked over to see Dackett, smiling gently. “And you quit grinning, or I’ll have your other arm.”

“Just indigestion, sir.”

Rusher!
Would the man ever check his comlink? She wished he’d told her what channels
Diligence
monitored. At least that Besalisk comm operator seemed to know what he was doing.

But it probably wasn’t Rusher’s fault, she thought, running through the darkened hallway. Between climbing upward through a granite tower and the mountaintop building she’d entered, she hadn’t been able to get a signal outside since the air vent.

And given how they communicate in this mynock’s nest, it’s hardly a surprise
, she thought. More of the red-suited acrobats had assaulted her, more urgently than before. Whoever was directing them seemed to have changed strategies midcourse. Instead of predicting where Kerra might go and trying to intercept her, the defenders had begun setting up roadblocks in the facility. Armed warriors lurked behind hastily constructed barricades in some hallways; in others, like the one she was in now, there were just the physical barriers. Dusty desks and computer equipment stood in heaps, haphazardly piled in front of the doorway.

“It’s like a child barring the door to his room,” Kerra said aloud, picking her way past. She didn’t know quite where the comparison had come from; Rusher had spoken
of children running Byllura, but she’d seen no sign of any on the whole planet. Just more of the scarlet warriors.

She needed answers—answers she hoped to find in the dim light of the round room, up ahead. The place was huge. The spare desks and consoles had come from here, she realized; it had clearly once been a command center of some kind. All that remained in operation were seven large video monitors, hanging from the ceiling in a circular pattern and silently cycling through maps of Hestobyll. But instead of facing outward, the screens had been turned to face the transparisteel cylinder at the room’s center. And its monstrous occupant, floating in a pale yellow cloud and emitting a steady psychic hum.

Kerra had never imagined Celegians could grow so large. Even if it were mobile, it never could have fit through any of the doorways here. She didn’t know what Celegians ate or how, if they even did at all. But this creature appeared to have gorged, now a flabby mass of drab dotted with bloody boil-like knots. And unlike the animated figure she had met on Coruscant, this one had root-like tentacles that dangled, damaged and limp.

She stepped toward the container carefully, remembering that the gas inside was as deadly to her as air was to the Celegian. The creature remained motionless and unresponsive. Kerra crinkled her nose. It didn’t make sense. This being was clearly the nerve center—it was impossible to avoid such references when looking at a giant disembodied brain. The telepathic messages back and forth to the city began and ended here in a cacophony she had to struggle to ignore. And yet the Celegian seemed nothing like a Sith overlord, an evil answer to ancient Master Ooroo. In fact, it looked dead.
A specimen in a vial
.

Touching the side of the cylinder, Kerra was surprised
by a somber voice in her head, different in volume and tone from the others.
What is your message?

“Message?”

What is your message?

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, aloud again. She didn’t remember whether Celegians had normal hearing, or were strictly telepathic, but the creature seemed to stir when she spoke. And the background buzz of outgoing telepathic communications had ceased.
It’s listening
. “Those people out there—they’re following
your
instructions. You’re the one enslaving people.” Kerra looked around, warily, expecting the Celegian to call for its enforcers.