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silver pins on his trench coat so that they glinted in the warm light. The Duros had brought out the extra lumens today, he saw. Indoor light was rationed on Darkknell as everything else—even for the relatively well off.
    “We really would like our son to be in a place that challenges him,” the prim Duros woman said, pressing green fingers to green cheeks. “Offworld.”
    Twirling the brassy knob atop his wooden walking stick, Rusher smiled. They’d reached that part. “Of course. And you’re probably asking whether going with us is safe.” He turned to the caf dispenser, meticulously set out before him. “Well, I’m not going to lie,” he said, pouring himself a drink. “We’re at war—and in war, people get hurt. But if you have to be on a battlefield, ma’am, there’s no better place to be than next to a laser artillery piece.”
    The brigadier elaborated on the quality of his armaments, drawing pictures in the air with a gloved hand. He’d known recruiters who brought formal holographic presentations, but it never seemed necessary to Rusher. When people in Sith space saw a ruddy, reasonably young man with all the limbs he was born with in charge of amilitary outfit, they inferred some level of competence—or luck.
    And if that failed, he had a bigger gun. Now it was time to use it.
    “What’s more,” he said, “our shipboard fatalities in transit are zero. No one dies on the way to the fight. No one.” He raised the cup to his lips and paused deliberately before continuing. “It’s because there are no Sith aboard.”
    The Lubboons gasped. “None?”
    “No adepts, no adherents, no lieutenants, no grunts. We’re specialists , Administrator. Independent militia units like ours are the fasteners that hold His Lordship’s whole military scheme together.”
    Pairs of bulbous red eyes locked on each other before returning to him. “We’ve never heard of such a thing. No Sith?”
    Rusher sipped cloudy liquid from the cup. Surprisingly, there was a taste to it. “Look, you operate a factory here on Darkknell. Of course, you’ve got your Daimanite authorities looking over your shoulder all the time, to ensure your progress, check quality, and all that. You wouldn’t have it any other way, I’m sure.” He waved in the general direction of the spaceport. “But the Kelligdyd Five Thousand cannon is an advanced piece of weaponry. It takes skilled squads of merc—of specialists to land them on the battlefield, assemble them, and put them into action.”
    Setting the cup down, he took the walking stick in both hands. “One bonding pin out of place, one power coupler misconnected, and you’ve got seventeen tons of scrap just sitting out there. So we’re our own judges of quality. If we don’t do the work right on our own? We’re already dead .” Rusher rapped his cane on the floor to punctuate the statement.
    “Oh, my!”
    Rusher grinned. He hadn’t needed the cane for years, but the public liked it. Same for the early gray in his sideburns and beard. “But we do the work right, ma’am. Like I say, we’re experts. We don’t need babysitting. We’re not a regular part of Daiman’s structure at all.” He caught himself. “Which, uh … is, of course, how he intends it. Being the creator, and all.”
    The male Duros sank to the couch beside his wife in disbelief. Rusher could see the words passing silently between them: No Sith .
    Rusher chuckled. Right on target. Again . “And our ship? Why, it’s a pleasure palace. You saw Diligence on her approach over Xakrea this morning. There isn’t a better vessel in the sector.”
    “I’m sure we wouldn’t know. But if you say so—”
    “I do. Many do. I built her myself, you know. I’ve got people who never want to leave—which is why openings are so few.” Rusher turned to see an oval-shaped human in the doorway. “Ah. This is Dackett, our ship’s master. He’ll be taking care of your son until he’s assigned. Assigned to one of