by Troy Denning
“Fierfek,” he said aloud.
He thought he’d come to this Force-forsaken hole to train commandos. Now he knew he’d walked into a nightmare. He heard boots behind him on the walkway of the gantry and turned sharply to see Jango coming slowly toward him, chin lowered as if in reproach.
“If you’re thinking of leaving, Kal, you knew the deal,” said Jango, and leaned on the rail beside him.
“You said—”
“I said you’d be training special forces troops, and you will be. They just happen to be growing them.”
“What?”
“Clones.”
“How the fierfek did you ever get involved with that?”
“A sizeable fee and a few extras for donating my genes. And don’t look shocked. You’d have done the same.”
The pieces fell into place for Skirata and he let himself be shocked anyway. War was one thing. Weird science was another issue entirely.
“Well, I’m keeping my end of the deal.” He adjusted the 15-centimeter, three-sided blade that he always kept sheathed in his jacket sleeve. Two Kaminoan technicians walked serenely across the floor of the facility beneath him. Nobody had searched him and he felt better for having a few weapons located for easy use, including the small hold-out blaster tucked in the cuff of his boot. And all those little kids in tanks
The Kaminoans disappeared out of sight. “What do those things want with an army anyway?”
“They don’t. And you don’t need to know all this right now.” Jango beckoned him to follow. “Besides, you’re already dead, remember?”
“Feels like it,” said Skirata. He was the Cuy’val Dar—literally those who no longer existed,’ a hundred expert soldiers with a dozen specialties who’d answered Jango’s secret summons in exchange for a lot of credits—as long as they were prepared to disappear from the galaxy completely.
He trailed Jango down corridors of unbroken white duraplast, passing the occasional Kaminoan with its long gray neck and snakelike head. He’d been here for four days now, staring out the window of his quarters onto the endless ocean and catching an occasional glimpse of the aiwhas soaring up out of the waves and flapping into the air. The thunder was totally silenced by the soundproofing, but the lightning had become an annoyingly irregular pulse in the corner of his eye.
Skirata knew from day one that he wouldn’t like Kaminoans.
Their cold yellow eyes troubled him and he didn’t care for their arrogance either. They stared at his limping gait and asked if he minded being defective.
The window-lined corridor seemed to run the length of the city. Outside, it was hard to see where the horizon ended and the rain clouds began.
Jango looked back to see if he was keeping up. “Don’t worry, Kal. I’m told it’s clear weather in the summer—for a few days.”
Right. The most dreary planet in the galaxy, and he was stuck here. And his ankle was playing up. He really should have invested in getting it fixed surgically. When—if—he got out of here, he’d have the assets to get the best surgeon that credits could buy.
Jango slowed down tactfully. “So, Ilippi threw you out?”
“Yeah.” His wife wasn’t Mandalorian. He’d hoped she would embrace the culture, but she didn’t: she always hated seeing her old man go off to someone else’s war. The fights began when he wanted to take their two sons into battle with him. They were eight years old, old enough to start learning their trade; but she refused, and soon Ilippi and the boys and his daughter were no longer waiting when he returned from the latest war. Ilippi divorced him the Mando way just as they’d married, on a brief, solemn, private vow. A contract was a contract, written or not. “Just as well I’ve got another war to occupy me.”
“You should have married a Mando girl. Aruetii’se don’t understand a mercenary’s life.” Jango paused as if waiting for argument but Kal wasn’t giving him one. “Don’t your sons talk to you any longer?”
“Not often.” So I failed as a father. Don’t rub it in. “Obviously they don’t share the Mando outlook on life any more than their mother does.”
“Well, they won’t be speaking to you at all now. Not here. Ever.”
Nobody seemed to care that he had disappeared. Yes, he was as good as dead. Jango said nothing more and they walked in silence until they reached a large circular lobby with rooms leading off it like the spokes of a wheel.
“Ko Sai said something wasn’t quite right with the first test batch of clones,” said Jango, and ushered Skirata ahead of him into another room. “They’ve tested them and they don’t think these are going to make the grade. I told Orun Wa that we’d give him the benefit of our military experience and take a look.”
Skirata was used to evaluating fighting men—and women, come to that. He knew what it took to make a soldier. He was good at it; soldiering was his life, as it was for all Mando’ade, all sons and daughters of Mandalore. At least there’d be some familiarity to cling to in this ocean wilderness.
It was just a matter of staying as far from the Kaminoans as he could.
“Gentlemen,” said Orun Wa in his soothing monotone. He welcomed them into his office with a graceful tilt of the head and Skirata noted that he had a prominent bony fin running across the top of his skull front to back. Maybe that meant he was older, or dominant or something: he didn’t look like the other examples of aiwha-bait he’d seen so far. “I always believe in being honest about setbacks in a program. We value the Jedi Council as a customer.”
“I have nothing to do with the Jedi,” said Jango. “I’m just a consultant on military matters.”
Oh, thought Skirata. Jedi. Great.
“I would still be happier if you confirmed that the first batch of units is below the acceptable standard.”
“Bring them in, then.”
Skirata shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and wondered what he was going to see: poor marksmanship, poor endurance, lack of aggression? Not if these were Jango’s clones. He was curious to see how the Kaminoans could have fouled up producing fighting men based on that template.
The storm raged against the transparisteel window, rain pounding in surges and then easing again. Orun Wa stood back with a graceful sweep of his arms like a dancer. And the doors opened.
Six identical little boys—four, maybe five years old—walked into the room.
Skirata was not a man who fell prey to sentimentality that easily. But this did the job just fine.
They were children: not soldiers, not droids, and not units. Just little kids. They had curly black hair and they were all dressed in identical dark blue tunics and pants. He was expecting grown men. And that would have been bad enough.
He heard Jango inhale sharply.
The boys huddled together, and that just ripped at Skirata’s heart in a way he wasn’t expecting. Two of the kids clutched each other, looking up at him with huge, dark, unblinking eyes: another one moved slowly to the front of the tight pack as if barring Orun Wa’s path and shielding the others.
Oh, he was. He was defending his brothers. Skirata was devastated.
“These units are defective, and I admit that we perhaps made an error in attempting to enhance the genetic template,” said Orun Wa, utterly unmoved by their vulnerability.
Skirata had worked out fast that Kaminoans despised everything that didn’t fit their intolerant, arrogant society’s ideal of perfection. Sothey thought Jango’s genome wasn’t the perfect model for a soldier without a little adjustment, then. Maybe it was his solitary nature; he’d make a rotten infantry soldier. Jango wasn’t a team player.
And maybe they didn’t know that it was often imperfection that gave humans an edge.
The kids’ gaze darted between Skirata and Jango, and the doorway, and all around the room, as if they were checking for an escape or appealing for help.
“Chief Scientist Ko Sai apologizes, as do I,” said Orun Wa. “Six units did not survive incubation, but these developed normally and appeared to meet specifica
tions, so they have undergone some flash-instruction and trials. Unfortunately, psychological testing indicates that they are simply too unreliable and fail to meet the personality profile required.”
“Which is?” said Jango.
“That they can carry out orders.” Orun Wa blinked rapidly: he seemed embarrassed by error. “I can assure you that we will address these problems in the current Alpha production run. These units will be reconditioned, of course. Is there anything you wish to ask?”
“Yeah,” said Skirata. “What do you mean by reconditioned?”
“In this case, terminated.”
There was a long silence in the bland, peaceful, whitewalled room. Evil was supposed to be black, jet black: and it wasn’t supposed to be softly-spoken. Skirata heard terminated and his instinct reacted long before his brain.
His clenched fist was pressed against Orun Wa’s chest in a second and the vile unfeeling thing jerked his head backward.
“You touch one of those kids, you gray freak, and I’ll skin you alive and feed you to the aiwhas—”
“Steady,” said Jango. He grabbed Skirata’s arm.
Orun Wa stood blinking at Skirata with those awful flat, alien eyes. “This is uncalled for. We care only about our customers’ satisfaction.”
Skirata could hear his pulse pounding in his head and all he could care about was ripping Orun Wa apart. Killing someone in combat was one thing, but there was no honor in destroying unarmed kids. He yanked his arm out of Jango’s grip and stepped back in front of the children. They were utterly silent. He dared not look at them. He fixed on Orun Wa.
Jango gripped his shoulder and squeezed hard enough to hurt. Don’t. Leave this to me. It was his warning gesture. But Skirata was too angry and disgusted now to fear Jango’s wrath.
“We could do with a few wild cards,” said Jango carefully, moving between Skirata and the Kaminoan. “It’s good to have a few surprises up your sleeve for the enemy. What are these kids really like? And how old are they?”
“Nearly two years’ growth. Highly intelligent, deviant, disturbed—and uncommandable.”
“Could be ideal for intel work.” It was pure bluff: Skirata could see the little twitch of muscle in Jango’s jaw. Fett was shocked too. He couldn’t hide that from his old associate. “I say we keep ’em.”
Two? The boys looked older. Skirata half-turned to check on them, and their gaze was locked on him: it was almost an accusation. He glanced away, but took a step backward and put his hand discreetly behind him to place his palm on the head of the boy defending his brothers, just as a helpless gesture of comfort.
But a small hand closed tightly around his fingers instead.
Skirata swallowed hard. Two years old.
“I can train them,” he said. “What are their names?”
“These units are numbered. And I must emphasize that they’re unresponsive to command.” Orun Wa persisted as if talking to a particularly stupid Weequay. “Our quality control designated them Null class and wishes to start—”
“Null? As in no di’kutla use?”
Jango took a discreet but audible breath. “Leave this to me, Kal.”
“No, they’re not units.” The little hand was grasping his for dear life. He reached back with his other hand and another boy pressed up against his leg, clinging to him. It was pitiful. “And I can train them.”
“Unwise,” said Orun Wa.
The Kaminoan took a gliding step forward. They were such graceful creatures: but they were loathsome at a level that Skirata could simply not comprehend.
And then the little lad grasping his leg suddenly snatched the hold-out blaster from Skirata’s boot. Before he could react the kid had tossed it to the one who’d been clinging to his hand in apparent terror.
The boy caught it cleanly and aimed it two-handed at Orun Wa’s chest.
“Fierfek,” sighed Jango. “Put it down, kid.”
But the lad wasn’t about to stand down. He stood right in front of Skirata, utterly calm, blaster raised at the perfect angle, fingers placed just so with the left hand steadying the right, totally focused. And deadly serious.
Skirata felt his jaw drop a good centimeter. Jango froze, then chuckled.
“I reckon that proves my point,” he said, but he still had his eyes fixed on the tiny assassin.
The kid clicked the safety catch. He seemed to be checking it was off.
“It’s okay, son,” said Skirata, as gently as he could. He didn’t much care if the boy fried the Kaminoan, but he cared about the consequences for the kid. And he was instantly and totally proud of him—of all of them. “You don’t need to shoot. I’m not going to let him touch any of you. Just give me back the blaster.”
The child didn’t budge: the blaster didn’t waver. He should have been more concerned about cuddly toys than a clean shot at this stage in his little life. Skirata squatted down slowly behind him, trying not to spook him into firing.
But if the boy had his back to himthen he trusted him, didn’t he?
“Come onjust put it down, there’s a good lad. Just give me the blaster.” He kept his voice as soft and as level as he could, when he was actually torn between cheering and doing the job himself. “You’re safe, I promise you.”
The boy paused, eyes and aim still both fixed on Orun Wa. “Yes sir.” Then he lowered the weapon to his side. Skirata put his hand on his shoulder and pulled him back carefully.
“Good lad.” Skirata took the blaster from his little fingers and scooped him up in his arms. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Nicely done, too.”
The Kaminoan showed no anger whatsoever, simply blinking, yellow, detached disappointment. “If that does not demonstrate their instability then—”
“They’re coming with me.”
“This is not your decision.”
“No, it’s mine,” Jango interrupted. “And they’ve got the right stuff. Kal, get them out of here and I’ll settle this with Orun Wa.”
Skirata limped towards the door, still making sure he was between the Kaminoan and the kids. He was halfway down the corridor with his bizarre escort of tiny deviants before the boy he was carrying wriggled uncomfortably in his arms.
“I can walk, sir,” he said.
He was perfectly articulate, fluent—a little soldier way beyond his years.
“Okay, son.”
Skirata lowered him to the floor and the kids fell in behind him, oddly quiet and disciplined. They didn’t strike him as dangerous or deviant, unless you counted stealing a weapon, pulling a feint, and almost shooting a Kaminoan as deviant. Skirata didn’t.
The kids were just trying to survive, like any soldier had a duty to do.
Star Wars: Dark Nest III: The Swarm War is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Del Rey Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2006 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated. All Rights Reserved. Used under authorization.
Excerpt from Star Wars: Republic Commando: Triple Zero copyright © 2006 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated. All Rights Reserved. Used under authorization.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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