Star Wars: Knight Errant

by John Jackson Miller

  Field trip’s over, kids, Narsk thought. Sorry.

  Clinging inside the doorway, Narsk watched as Odion gave a booming battle cry and bounded to the surface. Other similarly armored members of the Thunder Guard followed, leaving only himself, Jelcho, and the command crew aboard.

  “Look over there!”

  Narsk turned to see flashes of artillery fire coming from hidden positions on the crater wall, far to the east. They weren’t Daiman’s regulars; those were all coming down into the fray from the northern ridge. He thought back to the mercenaries he’d passed on the way out. Part of Daiman’s preparations, no doubt.

  Watching several Thunderers blown to pieces ahead of Odion, Narsk spoke his mind. “This is ridiculous! He knew what was down here. Why didn’t he just bombard the crater from orbit?”

  “Lord Odion wanted to be sure of the Petulant One’s presence before dispatching him to the void,” Jelcho said. The Givin joined him at the edge of the transport’s tailgate, his bony knuckles clasped together excitedly. There was almost color in his freakish face, Narsk saw. Almost.

  Narsk found the Givin noxious—and obnoxious. First among Odion’s death cultists, they seemed to have nothing in their skinless heads beyond a desire to finish decomposing, once and for all. “My people would prefer that our lord slew us, of course,” Jelcho nattered. “But we will happily accept reaching the void through the agency of Death’s brother.”

  Narsk glared. “How about Death’s furry pal?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Narsk wished for something to hit Jelcho in the face with, if only to improve his appearance. But Odion had made Jelcho his babysitter for the duration; the wraith was the closest excuse Odion had to an aide-de-camp. Odion had the simplest power structure of any Sith Lord he’d met. There were no ranks whatsoever, and none of Daiman’s regimentation, either. Unlike Daiman, Odion knew others existed—and feared them. He kept potential rivals from rising by making sure everyone reported to him.

  In practice, the result was chaos. Odion’s empire devoured worlds like a space slug, using neither finesse nor, often, good sense. The competent were neutralized or paralyzed. And those closest to Odion were the ones who cared least for their own survival, because so few survived around him very long.

  That worked well enough for Narsk, as an outsider. It allowed him to treat Odion’s underlings any way he wished. None had any power over him—except to nauseate.

  “Jelcho!” one of the pilots called from the back. “Sword of Ieldis just called. Daiman’s fleet just arrived from hyperspace! They’re engaging our forces now!”

  So that’s the ploy, Narsk thought. Get Odion here, and don’t let him leave.

  The edges of Jelcho’s mouth curled, lending a macabre aspect to his anatomically permanent frown. He embraced the Bothan. “This truly is the day!” he trilled. “And you, Bothan spy, made this all possible.”

  Narsk shrank from the insipid touch. “Would it be all right if I had a blaster? I promise I won’t go anywhere.”

  The Death Spiral spat again, demolishing the last Industrial Heuristics transport. Kerra slid in the muck, stopping just in time to avoid being struck by flaming debris.

  It had been wrong to come this way. She’d hoped to herd at least some of the students aboard one of the transports, but Odion’s hateful machine hadn’t left them anything. The youthful gaggle had dispersed now, running pell-mell across the northern surface of the crater. At least Daiman’s warriors hadn’t charged the field yet, or they’d be caught in the middle.

  Right now, Daiman was letting others do his fighting. Several cadres of battle droids rushed the valley from the east, engaging Odion’s Thunderers—and then there was that artillery. Running again, Kerra thanked the Force for whomever Daiman had on that eastern ridge. Intentionally or not, their shells were screening the fleeing refugees from Odion’s charge.

  But it couldn’t last for long. Looking south, she saw that the Death Spiral had the eastern emplacements zeroed in. She wouldn’t have enough time to intercept the crowd unless—

  Blasterfire suddenly raked the ground ahead of her. Kerra leapt to the side, tumbling in the greasy soil. The flanking edge of Odion’s first wave of swoop bike riders soared past, with three of the armored warriors breaking off to circle her. Parrying blaster shots with her lightsaber, Kerra closed with the nearest rider and pounced. Slashing the front control rods from the vehicle, Kerra twirled underneath, watching rider and vehicle plummet downward into an explosive crash.

  She spun and spun again as the remaining riders closed with her, trying to get a bead on her while moving. The first rider, a Rodian, lost balance when a deflected blaster bolt knocked him from his seat; the second lost her helmeted head to Kerra’s lightsaber.

  Ignoring the departing wave of fliers, Kerra approached the fallen Rodian. Armored as one of Odion’s Thunderers, he gurgled in agony as Kerra stepped over his body to reach his stalled bike.

  “Yeah, that’s bad,” Kerra said, righting the handlebars. “Trust me, you died for a reason.”

  “Kellies inoperable, command!”

  “Blast!” Lights were going off the board one after another. Now Rusher’s best battalion was without its strongest weapons. “Pull out the Gweiths, Tun-Badon—and join in on the tower!”

  The leader of Serraknife wouldn’t take that well, he knew; the Gweith Brothers concussion missile launchers were some of the slowest-loading pieces in the arsenal, with a fire/disable rating in the planetary core. You could paint a peace mural on them between shots. But he also knew Major Tun-Badon would already be on the job.

  Between blasts, word had come from the bridge that Daiman’s fleet had arrived and was engaging Odion’s forces in orbit. It couldn’t have mattered less to Diligence, doing its best to stay horizontal with all the impacts.

  “We’re dialed in!” someone yelled over the comlink. Rusher couldn’t make out the call signal.

  “Repeat! Whose battalion was that? Which battalion?”

  Seeing the flares of energy lancing from the Death Spiral, Rusher realized the answer.

  All of them.

  The signal was unmistakable. Even in the din of battle, Narsk had felt and heard it: a gentle buzz, in the back of his head.

  It had been delivered by a tiny implant at the base of his skull, hidden so well that Daiman’s scans had never found it. Narsk knew instantly what the signal meant.

  His true master was calling. He had to respond.

  Narsk searched the ready room of the transport. The implant was simply an alert device; he’d have to make the contact. Any communications device would work, so long as it could reach space. Finding a spare portable commset out of sight of the crew, Narsk sat down and activated it.

  Static. He scowled. It was the Death Spiral’s energy shield, most likely. Since receiving the news about Daiman’s fleet, the nervous transport pilot had parked closer to the tower’s base for protection. Narsk figured the untested device was interfering with subspace transmissions inside its protected radius. His implant had gotten its signal—but, as he knew, it was from a technology beyond even the capacities of Odion’s builders to foul up.

  Narsk stood, feeling the pain of the past week’s ordeal. There was no choice. He’d have to go out. Slipping the commset into a backpack, he made for the exit. At least the nasty Givin didn’t seem to be—

  “Where are you going?”

  Narsk sighed. He couldn’t even run onto a battlefield without permission.

  Steeling his stomach, Narsk looked directly at the Givin’s face. “I … I’ve decided you’re right, Jelcho.” He pointed outside, where Odion and his Thunderers were dashing between mortar strikes to eviscerate mercenary infantry coming down from the eastern hills. “Seeing all this, I just have to get out and take part.”

  “Would that I could!”

  Narsk stared. “Well, why not?” Wincing inside, he took the navigator by the chitinous arm.

  “I cannot,” Jelcho said. �
�Lord Odion wanted me here. If the operation should fail, his transport will need a navigator.”

  “Failure? What’re you talking about?” Narsk stepped down onto the crater’s surface and waved toward the carnage. “Odion’s changing the map of this place. This is the big showdown. And you’re telling me you don’t want to be in on it?”

  Tentatively, like a wistful bride, Jelcho set a boot gently on the battleground. Another foot followed. The Givin rasped, a full breath coming from deep inside his bony carcass. “There is so much void.”

  No need to waste any, freak. Grabbing a pair of blasters from the transport, Narsk returned to Jelcho and spun him by the shoulder. There, a short distance away, sat open airspeeder bays at the bottom of the groaning Death Spiral. “There’s your speeder. Here’s your gun.” He slapped the blaster into the Givin’s hands. “Claim some void.”

  Narsk took his new blaster and began walking around the Death Spiral to the south. It’d be quieter and safer there, with the tower between him and Daiman’s forces. He had no desire for a reunion.

  Feeling someone looking at him, Narsk turned. The Givin stood limply, gaping.

  “Now what?” Narsk could barely be heard over the sound of the tower’s rotating, blasting rings.

  “A strange thing, Bothan spy,” the Givin yelled. Jelcho’s triangular eye holes seemed to sag a little. “When you spoke earlier of Odion bombing the crater—you said ‘he’ instead of ‘we.’ Isn’t Odion’s glory your own?”

  “Shut up and go shoot something!” Before I shoot you, he felt like adding.

  Rusher looked around. There was suddenly plenty of room atop the hull. Each battalion kept three dedicated spotters on the command platform, but with Serraknife, Flechette, and Sat’skar all out of action, their minders had gone down to manage recovery ops.

  Not that those who remained were able to do much. The ridge hadn’t turned out to be such a good place to set up, after all. Every impact on the hillside rattled upward through Diligence, nearly knocking the spotters’ helmets sideways. And smoke on the range was so thick now they couldn’t see their own teams.

  Rusher checked the command board on the railing. The display showed five good lights, two north and three south. His battalions were still giving their all, the fires of perdition soaring from the ridge down into the valley. But Odion’s forces in the Death Spiral had them dialed in.

  In a blinding flash, a part of the ridge to the north vanished, sending debris skyward. Rusher’s command crew shielded themselves as the shock pummeled Diligence, followed by a shower of rocks. No energy shield was going to do much against an avalanche from the air.

  “I’ve lost Rantok Battalion!” Ignoring the fall of pebbles, the lead Rantok spotter bounded from his elevated chair and followed his aide toward the ladder.

  Rusher grabbed the third spotter, a young human, by the arm. “Stay here. You’re on evac watch now. Port side!”

  The pink-faced spotter, all of sixteen, nodded. Rusher headed for the other side. The mission now would be mapping optimum routes back to Diligence. It didn’t do any good for a team to head back to its designated cargo ramp for boarding if there was an impact crater in the way.

  Hanging across the railing, Rusher scanned the haze below. He wouldn’t be able to check the paths from every ramp; the cameras on Diligence’s belly hadn’t worked in years. But he could get direct visuals on the others. A roiling pit had opened near the foot of Starboard Three. That was out. But at least Starboard Two looked nominal—

  Rusher lowered the macrobinoculars and squinted. Beadle Lubboon, helmet askew and shaking nervously, was driving away from the ramp aboard his tracked cargo crawler. Haphazardly fastened to a chain behind was the long barrel of Kelligdyd 25, the laser cannon infamously loaded up wrong on Whinndor. The Duros recruit had somehow gotten the recalcitrant cannon out of the hold and was dragging it behind, its mass leaving a gouge in the volcanic dirt.

  “Kid! Kid!” Rusher could barely hear his own yells. But the newbie didn’t seem to be in his right mind, from the look of him. The boy was ducking as low as he could while still seeing over the hauler’s hood. Green knuckles had gone pale on the steering yoke.

  Rusher pounded his fist against his helmet. He didn’t need this now!

  Across the valley, the Death Spiral winked—and the whole of Diligence moved, actually lifting a few meters off the surface before slamming back to the ground. Wrapping his arm around the railing, Rusher looked back. The young spotter had gone over the side, as well as two of the remaining officers who weren’t strapped into chairs. Rusher scrambled to the forward railing and looked down. It had been a glancing blow, leveling a zone just to the south of the ship’s perch. But he could tell from the redundant command board that the ship’s energy shield was gone. And what else?

  Rusher activated his helmet comlink. “Dackett! What have we got?”

  There was no response from down below. He called again, only to hear a voice he wasn’t familiar with from down on the ridge.

  “Master Dackett’s down!”

  Rusher swallowed hard. Looking back at the decimated spotter crew, he made for the ladder. Rusher’s Brigade was breaking.

  Riding the speeder bike like a bantha rancher, Kerra shepherded the younglings forward. The transports ablaze, she had to get them to the far side of the giant Industrial Heuristics facility. Turbolaser fire was lancing out in several directions from Odion’s cone of death, including over the students’ heads. Those barrages targeted Daiman’s positions on the northern ridge; more blasts raked the grounds to the east, cutting down a charging cadre of war droids.

  Most of its fire, though, was directed at the nearest target: the corporate pseudo-city at the crater’s center. One of the nine towers had already imploded and fallen, kicking up a mass of debris that helped screen her crowd’s movements.

  Kerra had led a charge of Jedi back on Chelloa. This was nothing like it. There were hundreds of students, perhaps more than a thousand—all streaming chaotically across the shuddering, sloppy ground. She kept her lightsaber aloft and pointed, serving as a visual beacon driving the refugees onward. But no refuge was to be had. A few dozen students, seeing the rising towers of the facility, ran toward imagined shelter, only to veer back in panic as another tower on the southern side collapsed.

  And still, Odion’s troops bolted ahead, ripping into Daiman’s forces, which now charged senselessly from the northern ridge toward the Death Spiral. Kerra laced back and forth through the rushing crowd, working to keep stragglers from being cut off. Some aliens couldn’t run at all, she saw—and many, like Tan, could go only as fast as their little legs could take them. Angling the larger exodus toward the quieter ground halfway between Daiman’s northern and eastern positions, she gunned the swoop on a wide sweep, circling the laggards.

  Blasterfire arced behind her neck. Kerra swerved. One of Daiman’s Vodran troopers, legless and bleeding in the muck, lay on his chest firing at Kerra with his rifle. Kerra squeezed the throttle, only to have the bolts follow her, glancing off the back of the bike.

  “They’re attacking you, idiot! Why are you attacking me?”

  Seeing the children charge before her, Kerra slammed the swoop into reverse. Blaster bolts flying past her, she flipped backward off the swoop and thudded on top of Vodran’s armored back. As the warrior tried to roll over and raise his rifle, Kerra screamed in anger and stabbed downward.

  Withdrawing the blade, Kerra gnashed her teeth and stepped off the body. Deactivating her lightsaber, she shot a glance back to the ridge. She’d hoped Daiman was getting a part of it, but the command dome was still there, almost taunting her. They’d probably have an energy field over the encampment now. Her next thought was of the explosives she’d slaved to accumulate and haul halfway across the Daimanate—to the back door of the creator of chaos. Explosives already behind any energy screen protecting Daiman.

  Kerra’s eyes narrowed. Do it, a voice said. End it.

  Standing beside where
the swoop had come to rest in the gray mud, Kerra pictured herself back at the dome, just an hour earlier, lifting the bandolier over her shoulder. She should have finished him then.

  You can finish it. From here. End it.

  Reaching in her backpack, Kerra found the detonator. Confirming from the display that she was in range, she focused her eyes back on the dome. In one instant all her exasperation, all her anger welled up. She saw the dome as she wanted to see it, destroyed, with the oppressor gone and her troubles ended. She saw what she’d seen down Manufacturers’ Way when she destroyed the Black Fang, using the same remote control. In that moment, she saw an ending.

  What she did not see—or even notice—in that moment, was her bandolier of explosives, still draped across her chest, where they’d been since she’d mindlessly put them on, back on the ridge an hour earlier.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Kerra! Kerra!”

  Her thumb poised over the red button on the detonator, Kerra looked down. Amid the slower refugees, one small figure had stopped. Tan Tengo looked up at Kerra, black eyes just as tearful as they’d been the day they’d parted on Darkknell. “Kerra, what are you doing? What are you doing here?”

  The Jedi lowered the detonator control. She’d asked herself the same question so many times in the last few weeks. Now she asked it of herself again—and almost involuntarily patted the bandolier wrapped around her body. What are you doing?

  “Gah!” With a start, Kerra pitched the detonator away, pulling her hands back to her chest. For a second, amid all the sounds of warfare, she listened for herself breathing. What was I thinking?

  Tan padded over and picked up the control. “You lost your thingie,” she squeaked. “Are you—are you a Jedi?”

  Kerra sighed and hugged her former student and took the detonator back. “Yeah,” she said, “I think so.” Still grasping the quivering Tan, Kerra looked back toward the Death Spiral. She knew what had just happened. Odion used his peculiar Force abilities to drive others toward acts of self-destruction. Either in his name—as his charging warriors were now demonstrating—or not. Daiman’s forces on the ridge had broken ranks, goaded into a suicidal charge just as she had been. It was probably the same psychic message.