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Darkknell as she had on the other worlds, disguised as an itinerant laborer on assignment. She’d blanched at that more than once. Disguise wasn’t her forte. Persuasion, mesmerism, misdirection—these were skills for a Jedi who couldn’t master a lightsaber or blaster, not for an accomplished fighter like Kerra. Vannar had used those ploys only to achieve military surprise; Kerra could hardly stomach going through her daily life undercover. But she’d had little choice. Daiman might doubt her sentience, but he knew she was part of the great game he’d devised for himself—and his Force-sensitive Correctors would be able to sense her presence. She had to be on her guard at all times.
    It had been happenstance that she’d spotted the Bothan while scouting the Black Fang herself, nights earlier. The spy was good, but he’d gotten too comfortable, selecting the same nearby rooftop to change into his stealth gear. She’d simply waited for her chance. His sabotage of the building was a terrific bonus, especially as it came at an hour when only Daiman’s true believers would be inside.She was almost sorry to leave the spy to his fate, but no ally of Odion could be a friend of hers. Odion was both brutal and insipid. It was no wonder half his followers were suicidal.
    Kerra scraped at the fabric of the stealth suit. Tiny raised lines crisscrossed its surface, leaving countless pits in between for its spectral baffles. Most of the paint clung to the ribbed fabric, she saw. It would be a problem. With his main military research lab in flames, Daiman would be doubly on his guard—enough so to make her next move impossible without artificial help. But the suit wouldn’t be much in the invisibility department without a proper cleaning.
    She flipped the suit inside out. A manufacturer’s label, but no care instructions. That would be too easy , she thought. She was hardly in a position to call the manufacturer. Maybe she could ask someone at work, down at the—
    “What are you doing here?”
    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 . “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 .”
    He says that like it’s a bad word , Kerra thought. 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 wintersolstice, 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 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