The Old Republic Series

by Sean Williams

  He was looking at the captain, who nodded. Clearly a civilian authority was better than either a Sith or a Jedi. “I will play my part,” she said.

  “Darth Chratis will, too,” Ax said. “I’m sure Envoy Vii will do the right thing by all of us.”

  He glanced at her, and she saw the terror in his eyes. He understood very well indeed what she had meant.

  WHILE THE SITH apprentice relayed the orders to her Master, Ula took a moment to review the plan in his mind. Primary and secondary objectives were now defined. There would be three teams. The first would clear Sebaddon’s orbit so that landing parties could get through. The second, led by Grand Master Shan, would attempt to destroy the droids’ coordinating intelligence—their version of him, he now realized. No doubt the hexes would be seeking to take him out in return. The third team would be lead by Major Cha, with Larin and Hetchkee backing him up. They would drop into the master factory and prevent the droids from creating a new CI.

  Ula’s job was to oversee it all and somehow to stay alive.

  The Jedi Padawan came in close.

  “I don’t know what you told them,” Shigar whispered, “but you’ve got the Imperials jumping exactly in time.”

  Ula looked up from the holographic globe. “It was nothing special,” he said, hiding many layers of truth behind a simple lie. “They’re not monsters. They can be made to see reason.”

  Shigar’s doubt on that point was impervious. “However you did it, keep it up and you’ll be Supreme Chancellor one day.”

  Not if I’m caught. Ula was well aware of how agents were punished by both sides. But part of him was flattered by the Padawan’s confidence in him. He remembered how Shigar had saved him from the collapsing wall on Hutta, and how Larin had volunteered to accompany him to what must have seemed like certain doom, when meeting with Darth Chratis. These acts had been offered freely, without promise of reward. He didn’t understand where they came from, unless they genuinely thought him worth saving.

  Him, he wondered, or his false face?

  Either way, he felt somewhat buoyed by their regard.

  “The Mandalorian agrees,” said the Rellarin major, looking up from a separate holoprojector. “Intel and surveillance, engaging only as instructed.”

  “Darth Chratis concurs on all points but one,” added the Sith apprentice on returning to the huddle. “He will fight with Master Shan during the assault on the CI. And I will fight, too.”

  The Grand Master nodded slowly. “Very well. My Padawan will be part of the strike force, so that is only fair.”

  “Excellent,” said Ula, playing the part of mediator with something like aplomb, he hoped. “We are agreed. All that remains is to begin.”

  “No time like the present, I say,” Captain Pipalidi rumbled.

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Ula. “I will retire to the Auriga Fire and set up my command post there. On notification that all is in place elsewhere, I will give the order. Nothing is to commence until then. Understood?”

  They understood well enough, and he was under no illusions, either. It was all an act, a hasty bandaging of cracks that would inevitably tear the alliance asunder. But while they were prepared to play, so was he.

  Captain Pipalidi clicked her fingers and an escort fell in behind him. They marched him through the ship to where the Auriga Fire remained safely docked, then left him there.

  The smuggler looked up when he entered the cockpit.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Could have been worse,” Ula said, falling into the copilot’s seat. “They put me in charge.”

  “Well, good for you. That’s the seat to be in if you want to skim a little profit.”

  “I’m not interested in doing that.”

  “So what are you interested in?”

  That was the question, Ula supposed. Was it to give the Sith what they wanted and thereby perpetuate their deadly regime? Was it to provide resources for the Minister of Logistics, in order to further his dream of a more balanced Imperial society? Or was it something else?

  He’d always thought of Coruscant as cursed. Only now did he realize just how easy he’d had it there. Out here, the issues were the same, but the blasters aimed at his temple were much, much closer.

  LARIN LOOKED OUT a transparisteel portal and wondered if she was dreaming.

  The Commenor was stationed in close orbit around Sebaddon’s lumpy moon, in lockstep with the other Republic ships. The Imperial vessels had occupied a different orbit, but they were steadily falling into line. Once the fleets merged, the first attack run would begin. She would be heading down to the surface with the other soldiers to fight the enemy where it lived. Until then, there was nothing to do but stare at the view.

  As Larin watched, an almost surreal conjunction occurred before her eyes. The moon, Sebaddon, and the dramatic spiral of the galaxy formed a straight line, with the jets of the black hole aligned at right angles, creating a stellar X. It reminded her of the Cross of Glory, the highest military award given by the Republic. She didn’t believe in omens—or any kind of future-telling at all, really, despite talk of Master Satele’s abilities in that regard—but she decided to take it as a good sign. Everything was lined up. Everything was perfect.

  When the conjunction broke apart, she turned away from the viewport and tested her new armor. The suit was clean, fully charged, and equipped with everything she had ever wanted. All the pockets were full, all the seals checked. Her joints moved smoothly, without impediment, and provided assist when requested without jarring or losing control. Her helmet was a little snug, but the quartermaster had assured her they all were, these days. The newer designs were better equipped to prevent head trauma in even the most extreme situations. She would take a little claustrophobia in return for knowing her skull was safe.

  In the mirror, she was unrecognizable, and that wasn’t just because of the lieutenant insignia on her shoulders.

  “You have fingers,” said a voice from the entrance to the ready room.

  She turned, saw Shigar standing there, freshly kitted out in the Jedi version of uniform and armor: browns and blacks, mainly, with loose folds of cloth hiding compact armor plating.

  “That is Larin, isn’t it?” he added with a sudden frown.

  “Yes,” she said, snapping out of her daze. She tugged the helmet off with her left hand—which, as Shigar pointed out, now had individual digits. The new prosthetic wasn’t permanent; it was just a step up from the crude paddle Ula had found on the Auriga Fire. But it could hold the stock of a rifle while her right hand pulled the trigger. It could type digits into a keypad. It could point.

  “It’ll do,” she said, feigning nonchalance.

  He came deeper into the room, so they were standing an arm’s length apart. “We’re breaking orbit in ten minutes. I wanted to say good luck.”

  Her stomach roiled. She had plans to go over, equipment to check, troops to address—and the jump itself, waiting at the end of all that. She hadn’t dived from orbit since basic training. Only crazy people did it by choice. So many things could go wrong.

  She was acutely aware that this could be the last time they ever saw each other.

  “Who needs luck?” she said. “You’ve got the Force on your side, and I have lots of blasters.”

  He smiled. “Does nothing faze you?”

  “Not officially. Just plasma spiders. Oh, and the smell of Reythan crackers, for some reason.”

  His smile broadened. “Good for you. Frankly, I’m terrified.”

  Her stomach rolled as though it were in free fall.

  “Actually,” she said, “this kind of thing makes me a little nervous.”

  She leaned closer to him, moving quickly, so she wouldn’t change her mind, and kissed him on the lips.

  He pulled away with a shocked look on his face.

  “Larin, oh—oh, I’m sorry—I don’t—”

  “No,” she said, face burning.

  I don’t think of you that
way, he’d clearly been about to say. They were words she didn’t want to hear.

  “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry.”

  “It was my mistake. I thought—”

  She stopped. They were talking on top of each other, and his face was as red as hers. She was suddenly afraid to move, to do or say anything lest it be utterly misconstrued. Where had the natural banter between them gone? What had happened to the connection she’d been sure was there?

  If she was sure of one thing now, it was that prolonging the awkwardness guaranteed nothing but more of the same.

  “I guess this is good-bye,” she said, “for now. Good luck to you, too, Shigar.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and although she couldn’t look at him, she knew he was looking hard at her. “Thank you, Larin of Clan Moxla.”

  Then he was gone, leaving nothing but his smell behind.

  She pressed her face into her hands. “Flack. Flack flack flack!”

  “What’s wrong?” asked an entirely new voice from the doorway.

  It was Hetchkee. She blinked up at him and tried to focus on something other than what an idiot she felt like.

  “Nothing. Just getting myself in the mood.”

  “Our platoons are assembled,” he said. “What am I going to tell them?”

  He was as scared as she was. “Nothing but the truth,” she told him, “that you’ll kick them in the cargo hold if they make us look bad.”

  She scooped up her helmet and followed him to the briefing rooms. Hetchkee’s was first in line. With a deep breath of his unique atmospheric mix, he plunged inside. Larin’s was third along, and she had barely enough time to compose herself before getting there. She was a lieutenant in charge of a vital mission, she reminded herself. She had survived two encounters with the droids of Sebaddon before this, and now she had also survived the most embarrassing romantic encounter of her life. She was special-forces-trained. What could a bunch of lowlife grunts possibly do to throw her?

  “Well, well,” said a voice from the troops assembled in the room. “If it isn’t Toxic Moxla, the snitch from Kiffu.”

  There, in the front row, was the Zabrak who had challenged her on Coruscant.

  Perfect, she thought. Just fragging perfect.

  AX LOOKED UP as the Padawan entered the staging area. There wasn’t literally a cloud over his head, but there might as well have been. His face was shadowed, overcast, on the brink of some kind of internal storm.

  She moved out of the corner she’d found for herself, far away from the Republic throng waiting for the shuttle to launch, and crossed to him.

  “You’re angry,” she said.

  “Only at myself.”

  He tried to shrug her off, but she wasn’t letting him go so easily.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen you this way. It’s an improvement.”

  He gave her a scathing look. “What are you talking about?”

  “Anger is a good thing,” she said. “It frees you, makes you stronger.”

  “That’s a lie. Anger is a path to the dark side.”

  “You say that as though it’s a bad thing.” She drew him closer to her. “You know, you fight pretty well. Imagine how much more powerful you could be if you could shrug off the repressive ways of your masters and—”

  “Don’t.” He wrenched his arm free. “Your mother was angry, too, and look where that got her.”

  She recoiled.

  “What did you plan to do to her when you found her?”

  She let the truth of that show on her face.

  “Anger and hate bleed everything dry.”

  He stalked off.

  Ax didn’t smile until she was sure he wasn’t looking. His disgust made him beautiful, and that was reward enough for her.

  SHIGAR PUT AS MUCH distance as he could between himself and the Sith girl. She was pretty, but her face hid a foul heart. Best, he told himself, to stay well away.

  His revulsion was inevitably entangled with feelings of regret for Larin. How could he have handled that encounter so badly? He should have been less astonished, gentler. Was this what Master Satele had meant about being kind?

  His Master came up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He felt instantly calmer, as though she had sucked the tension out of him.

  “We’ll be descending in the same shuttles,” she said. “Imperials and us alike. You will meet far worse.”

  “I know, Master. She just took me by surprise.”

  “That is ever their aim. When I was a Padawan—”

  A clang of metal on metal cut her off. The external air lock hissed open. A squadron of Imperial soldiers marched in, matching the Republic contingent one for one. This was clearly the squad that would be joining them on the drop onto the island containing the hexes’ coordinating intelligence. They were human, hard-faced and heavily armed. Their discipline was impeccable. Not a cheek twitched out of place; not a lip curled.

  Behind them came a dark presence that turned Shigar’s blood to water. A tortured amalgam of flesh and metal, he stood a head taller than anyone else and radiated a deep, bone-piercing chill. He had once been a man, but the dark side had twisted every last drop of humanity from him, leaving a husk that looked barely alive. Only his eyes contained any genuine vitality. From them radiated boundless reserves of loathing. He breathed in hurried gasps as though the air smelled foul—or as though each intake might be his last. A long, thin staff tapped in time with the heavy tread of his boots.

  “I am here,” Darth Chratis announced. “This operation can now commence.”

  “Envoy Vii is awaiting only our personal assignments,” said Satele Shan, standing up to him as though he were any ordinary being. “When we give them to him, he will issue the order.”

  “Refer to him as ‘envoy’ no longer.” The Sith Lord looked down his twisted nose at her. “I will obey no servant of the Republic.”

  “Director Vii, then, of Independent Operation Sebaddon.” She folded her hands patiently behind her back. “I will take my Padawan on the first of two assaults from the—”

  “No. You will take my apprentice, and I will take yours. That is the only way to ensure impartiality.”

  The words hung like icicles. Shigar wanted to beg his Master to deny Darth Chratis this condition. Don’t give in to him, he yearned to say. Don’t send me anywhere with that … creature. He’ll kill me as soon as your back is turned!

  Master Satele only smiled. “Of course, Darth Chratis. I’m happy to accommodate your wish. Do you wish to divide the rest of our personnel any particular way?”

  “They do not concern me.” He waved a hand in easy dismissal.

  “Very well. I will assign them randomly. Is that all?”

  His gaze narrowed. Her question made him sound like he was being pedantic, and he clearly didn’t like that. “The arrangements are sufficient.”

  Master Satele typed rapidly into a datapad. Imperial and Republic comms had been hastily married into one contiguous network, allowing orders to be transmitted from the Auriga Fire via various command vessels. Almost immediately a series of chimes and spoken commands divided the two cohorts into two intermixed groups. Half would stay behind and launch from the Commenor. The rest would return with Darth Chratis to the Imperial shuttle.

  Shigar was in the latter group, and he watched with his heart in his mouth as the troopers he would soon be leaving behind fell into their new arrangement, spaced neatly if awkwardly across the staging area. In a very short time, he would be cast adrift in the world of the Imperials, in the clawed fist of Darth Chratis.

  Master Satele came up beside him. Once again, she correctly divined the source of his disquiet, but this time there was no calming hand.

  “I agreed to Darth Chratis’s request,” she said, “because I cannot afford to trust him. I’m relying on you to make sure he sticks to the arrangement.”

  “I’m no match for a Sith Lord,” Shigar said, aghast.

  “Oh, he won’t kill you,” s
he said. “I’m sure he has something worse in mind.”

  He understood, then. She was testing him—and if he failed, they might never meet as Jedi again.

  “I won’t let you down, Master.”

  “The Force will be with you.”

  They embraced and went their separate ways.

  “SHUTTLES AWAY,” said Jet.

  Ula fell back into the copilot’s seat, watching the telemetry confirming Jet’s simple statement. The combined Imperial–Republic fleet had obeyed his order to deploy. Their mad plan might actually work.

  In the next hour, four thousand people would converge on Sebaddon singly, there to recombine as attack squads to take out primary and secondary objectives. The Jedi and the Sith would lead the attack on the equator while ordinary soldiers, including Larin, would attack the master factory at the pole. Another two thousand would remain in orbit, keeping the skies clear of hexes and providing occasional bombardment of the ground below. The rest would provide vital support from several distributed HQs, two of which were on the Commenor and the Paramount.

  All reporting to him.

  And to Jet and Clunker.

  The smuggler had refused all offers of security details, comm officers, and gunners, on the grounds that he didn’t want a potentially fractious crew. Choosing one side over another would be politically fraught.

  “Don’t we at least need someone to help defend us?” Ula had asked him, slightly aghast at how vulnerable that would leave them.

  “Not at all. Clunker can operate the tri-lasers by remote from the bridge.”

  “So what was all that on Hutta about needing a crew? Why have you ever needed a crew at all?”

  Jet had smiled. “For the company.”

  Ula now wondered if it was for an entirely different reason: for a cover. He had noted how silent Jet was most of the time. When he wasn’t playacting the role of a dissolute smuggler, he was watching and listening to everything going on around him. And now, somehow, he had inveigled himself into the center of everything. He was privy to every order that came through the Auriga Fire. Every piece of information on which Ula based those orders was filtered through Jet’s sensors. If Jet pulled the plug, the combined fleet would be left leaderless.