If he was right …
It was bad for discipline to let an officer and an enlisted man have a relationship. But Etain wasn't an officer, and Darman had never chosen to enlist. The risk lay more in how Darman would handle it, and how left behind his brothers might feel now that they were out in a world where everyone who wasn't wearing armor was free to love.
Skirata stood up and limped across to Etain. “Come and explain some Jedi stuff to me,” he said quietly. “I'd ask Bard'ika, but he's still in disgrace at the moment.” He winked at Jusik to indicate he was joking: the kid took his ribbing far too seriously sometimes. “Outside.”
It wasn't subtle, but Darman obviously didn't think anyone else had noticed what was going on between them. He probably thought Skirata wanted to discuss the unsavory side of interrogation with her.
Skirata sat down next to Etain on the rickety bench against the landing platform wall. It was late afternoon and the air smelled of hot speeder drives and the powdery sweet scent of a solitary mayla vine that had taken root in a crack in the permacrete. Etain folded her hands in the lap of her pale blue tunic. Without the dull brown robes she didn't look like a Jedi at all.
“You and Darman,” Skirata said carefully.
She closed her eyes for a second. “He told you, then. I suppose he tells you everything.”
“Not a word. But I'm not stupid.” It was amazing how easily people told you things when you didn't even ask a question. Perhaps she actually wanted people to know. But it seemed Darman didn't, and he had a right to keep what little privacy he had. “I heard the squad's comments after Qiilura.”
“Are you telling me to stop?”
“No, I'm asking where this is heading.”
“Are you going to tell him to stop?”
“Not if you make him happy.” Skirata trod carefully, but he knew where he drew the line and whose interests he would put first, war or not. “See, I know that much about Jedi. You can't love.”
“We're not supposed to. But we sometimes do. I do.”
“You're serious about him, then.”
“I never stopped thinking about him after Qiilura.”
“Have you really worked this out?”
“That I'll outlive him? Women outlive their men all the time. That I might be thrown out of the Jedi Order? As prices go, that's worth paying.”
“Etain, he's more vulnerable than you think. He's a grown man and he's a killing machine, but he's a kid, too. Crying over girlfriends can be dangerously distracting for him and the whole squad.”
“I know that.”
“I'd hate to see him used. If you're going to carry on with this, you'd better mean it.” He paused to make sure she understood what he was saying. “You know I'll protect him come what may, don't you?”
Etain's lips parted slightly and her cheeks looked suddenly pink. Her gaze flickered slightly. “I want him to be happy, Kal. I'd never use him.”
“I'm glad we agree,” he said.
Threatening a Jedi general was probably a court-martial offense. Skirata didn't care. Darman and his last remaining sons came before everything, before the needs of a likable young Jedi, before even his own life—and certainly before the interests of the Republic's politics.
It was a matter of honor, and love.
But Etain would give Darman a little comfort and tenderness in his life that would tide him through the dark and inevitable days ahead, days that for him and his brothers were already destined to be limited.
Skirata would just have to keep an eye on the situation. “Make him happy, then, ad'ika,” he said. “Just make him happy.”
* * *
Qibbu's Hut, 2100
The sign above the 'freshers read PATRONS PLEASE OBSERVE THE NO WEAPONS RULE. But although it was written in five languages as well as Basic, most of the patrons appeared not to understand it.
Ordo slipped among the motley assortment of drinkers and gamblers, now diluted considerably by a sea of dark red GAR fatigues, and hoped none of the species here were scent-followers. That was the trouble with some explosives. They had a distinctive smell. He'd scrubbed himself as thoroughly as he could and changed into the ubiquitous red fatigues as well.
Laseema, the Twi'lek female who had fled from the kitchens when he found her cowering behind a table, smiled nervously at him across the bar. By the time he reached it, she had his favorite muja juice waiting for him without the prompt of his distinctive armor.
“How do you know I'm me?” he said, puzzled. “I could be any clone.”
“The way you hold yourself.” She had a very soft voice, and he had to strain to hear her in the noisy bar. “You stand as if you're still wearing that skirt.”
“Kama,” he said patiently. “Belt-spat. It's based on a traditional Mandalorian hunting kama. It was designed to protect your legs.” Yes, the pauldron and kama did tend to make him stand more upright out of habit, his back a little arched. He'd have to watch that if he wanted to pass for an ordinary clone trooper. “But it's just for show now.”
“Ah,” she said. “It's certainly very showy.”
Ordo was getting used to the attention of Twi'lek females, and he rather liked it. “Is Qibbu treating you properly?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Laseema sounded as if she really was grateful. She leaned forward a little. He was still taken aback by the vivid blue of her skin, but he was willing to get used to it. She had a little scar on the point of her chin that was turquoise and more decorative than disfiguring. “Is your friend a captain?”
She glanced sideways and Ordo followed her gaze to Omega Squad and Skirata, who were eating something unidentifiable and occasionally lifting a lump of it on a fork to inspect it communally with worried frowns. “The one with the scar. He's nice.”
“That's Atin,” Ordo said, crushed. Oh. “He's … not a captain. He's a private.” The vast majority of the army was made up of privates: it wasn't restricted information. Atin glanced up with that unerring soldier's sense of knowing when someone was targeting you. He managed a shy smile. “Yes, he's very reliable.”
“He's got a lot of scars. Has he been in many battles?”
Oh, she really had been studying Atin carefully: apart from the thin diagonal scar across his face, the rest were harder to spot, just a couple on his hands and one telltale line that was visible above the neckline of his red tunic.
“Yes,” Ordo said. “They've all been in quite a few battles.”
“Poor Atin,” she said, looking smitten. “I'll bring your meal over in a moment.”
He forced a smile as Kal'buir had taught him, picked up his glass, and went to join Omega's table.
“What d'you reckon this is, Ordo?” Darman said. He held his fork so that Ordo could inspect the object skewered on it.
“A tube of some sort.”
“That's what we were afraid of.”
“It's all protein.” Ordo stared at Atin. “Laseema has taken a fancy to you, ner vod.”
There was no jeering or barracking as Ordo had seen ordinary males do at the mention of females. The squad simply sat in silence for a moment and then resumed their debate on the anatomical content of Qibbu's dish of the day. Skirata got up and moved along the bench to sit next to him.
“Successful shopping trip?”
“I have everything on the list now. Sorry for the delay. And I have a few extras.”
“How extra?”
“Surprising extras. Very noisy, too.”
Laseema glided up to the table and placed a dish in front of Ordo. She smiled at Atin before making her way back to the bar. Ordo picked up his fork to eat, and the squad studied his plate intently.
“But that's all vegetables,” Niner said accusingly.
“Of course it is,” Ordo said. “My intelligence score is at least thirty-five percent higher than yours.”
It happened to be true. Skirata laughed. Ordo cleared his plate as fast as he could and then indicated the turbolift. Skirata followed him up to their ro
oms, where Delta Squad sat cleaning their DC-17s.
“Just dusting,” Fixer said, subtle as a bantha.
“Dust away,” Skirata said. “They'll see action soon enough. So, Ordo, what did you get?”
“A hundred kilos of thermal plastoid plus five thousand detonators.”
Even Scorch looked up from his dismantled rifle at the mention of that. “That's a lot of ordnance to make disappear without anyone noticing, let alone store it.”
“I liberated it in stages from different sources.”
Skirata tapped him on the arm. “Now explain the extra surprise.”
“The delay was because I enriched it all—minus a pack or two.”
“How?”
“A little chemical refinement that'll make it unstable if anyone attempts to use it in devices.”
“How unstable, exactly?” Skirata asked.
“If they don't work a stabilizer compound into the plastoid, it'll blow their workshop into orbit as soon as they attach a det to it.”
Scorch sniggered appreciatively.
“Just a precaution,” Ordo said. “If we end up using it for a sting operation and by some chance it goes wrong, then we'll at least remove a few huruune in the process.”
“And half of Galactic City.” Sev grunted to himself and peered through his scope to calibrate it against the view from the window. “You spook boys overdo it sometimes.”
Skirata patted Ordo's arm. “Nice job, son. Now tell me where you've stored it.”
“Half at the safe house and half under Fixer's bed.”
Scorch guffawed. Boss smacked his ear but it didn't stop him from laughing. “I'm sharing Fixer's room, di'kut.”
“Well, you won't even wake up if that blows.”
Ordo accepted it was a risk, but risks were relative. And Skirata hadn't expressed interest at his advanced ordnance skills, so he could still keep Mereel's return as a surprise.
He was going to be pleased with Mereel's news on Ko Sai, too.
“So all we have to do now is work out how we get them to take the bait,” said Skirata. “Maybe Vau is getting somewhere with our GAR colleague.”
Boss looked up. “You more interested in using the stuff to kill them, track them, or make them think everything's going fine on the terror front?”
“I'll take all three.”
“Does it usually take this long to get anywhere?”
Skirata laughed. “Long? Son, it normally takes years to shut down a network. This is lightning speed. It might still take years, and it's just a fraction of the trouble out there.”
“Makes you wonder why we bother.”
“Because we can't not bother,” Skirata said. “And because it's for us.” He sat back in the chair in the corner and put his boots up on the low table, shutting his eyes and folding his arms on his chest. “Vau's calling in shortly. If I don't hear the comlink, somebody wake me up.”
Ordo had rarely known Skirata to sleep before his men did. And he had seldom seen him use a bed. He always slept in a chair if he had the choice, and while it might have been a mercenary's need to be ready to wake and fight immediately, Ordo suspected it had a lot to do with that first night on Kamino. His normal life had ceased, and would remain suspended until that elusive normality had been achieved for his troops. He always seemed to be waiting for the Kaminoans to come through the door.
His breathing changed to the shallow, slow rhythm of a man asleep.
Scorch started whistling, distracted by his task. Ordo walked up behind him and clamped his hand hard over his mouth. Quiet. Quiet for Kal'buir.
Scorch took the hint.
Ordo waited, memorizing Mereel's download from his datapad with a single glance at each screen.
Then Skirata's wrist comlink chirped. He opened his eyes and lifted his hand nearer his mouth.
“Walon …”
“Try Jailer,” a weary voice said.
Skirata sat bolt upright. Delta Squad froze.
“Where are you?” said Skirata.
“Sweeping up a pile of dead guys with colleagues from the Organized Crime Unit.”
“Sorry?”
“I think your boys just kicked off a gang war. Can I borrow a Jedi, please?”
13
Ten members of a criminal gang have been killed in what's thought to be a gang feud in the lower levels. Sources close Coruscant Security Force suggest the crimelords' battle broke out in a row over gun-running territories.
–HNE late bulletin
Forensics Unit morgue, CSF Divisional HQ, Quadrant A-89, 2345 hours, 380 days after Geonosis
“There's your lizard,” Obrim said, pulling back the sheet. “Paxaz Izhiq.”
Fi and Skirata looked at the elegant green-scaled face, or at least the half that was still intact. Blasterfire was cleaner than ballistic damage but it still did nothing for your looks.
“Not very attractive to the ladies now, is he?” said Fi.
The morgue was cool and quiet. Fi had never seen one before and he was both fascinated and disturbed, not because it was full of dead things but because he now wondered what would happen to his own body.
Left on a battlefield. Does it matter? Mandalorians don't care about remains. We have our soul. My brothers can retrieve some of my armor, and that'll be enough.
The pale green room with its polished durasteel doors also had an antiseptic smell that reminded him of Kamino. He wasn't comfortable here.
“You okay?” Obrim said.
“Just interested.” Fi stared. “Yes, that's him. You can match him with the images Sev grabbed, too. Is he important?”
“Not on our files, but Falleen don't visit Coruscant to get nice jobs in the clerical service. Best guess is Black Sun or an offshoot.”
“So,” Skirata said. “Purely hypothetically, if we picked up a woman friend of his who had access to GAR weapons shipments …”
“Purely hypothetically, because you don't exist … imagine she's diverting a few weapons for his business, but you snatch her and so he refuses to complete the deal because he thinks you're the customer trying to intimidate him.” Fi listened, riveted. Obrim's mental gymnastics were hard to follow. “But the real customer thinks the Falleen just made an excuse to run out on their agreement. So they come after you, thinking you're his foot soldiers. And you waste them. So their buddies come back to settle a few scores with young Scale-Face's colleagues.” Obrim took one final look at the Falleen's face and covered it up again. “And if they were all waiting on a shipment of explosives anyway—the one you intercepted—then you have a very jumpy assortment of bad guys around town.”
“You're going to have to spell out why this is good news,” Skirata said.
“Well, we're minus some criminal scum, and we've found more we didn't even know about. Plus we now have some good forensics. The SOCO team has been all over his apartment like a rash.”
“And?”
“Solid gold for the Organized Crime Unit.”
“Whoopee for them, but was he or was he not handling explosives?” Skirata was getting agitated, chewing that ruik root again. “I'm not interested in gangsters stealing Republic weapons for their own purposes. Is his gang supplying explosives to anyone?”
“Yes, we found traces everywhere. Your Jedi colleagues seem to be finding the disturbance in the Force useful—whatever that means.”
“Does this mean that your Organized Crime Unit is going to be getting in our way now?”
“Share operational details with me and they won't.”
“You know the rules of this game.”
“Kal, your boys are coming awfully close to being targeted by CSF themselves. It could easily have been you and them in a shooting match. I don't want any friendly-fire incidents if we can avoid them.”
Fi watched Kal’s jaw muscles working as he chewed. This wasn't warfare. It had crossed over into armed politics. Skirata and Obrim seemed to be conducting a private war by their own rules, and Fi didn't envy them.
“You know that we're not taking prisoners,” Skirata said. “And I can't see your people turning a blind eye to that once they know what we're up to.”
“But I've got something you need,” Obrim said.
Skirata switched instantly from lovable rogue to a creature of pure ice. “Don't ever, ever try to bargain with me about this.”
“Are we on the same side or not?”
Skirata was ashen. “We'll go it alone then.” Fi had rarely seen him truly angry, but when he had been pushed too far he went white and quiet and dangerous. “Come on, son. We've got work to do.”
He took Fi's elbow and steered him to the doors. It didn't bode well. Fi looked back over his shoulder at Obrim—a man equally white, equally tense—and the captain shook his head.
“Okay, Kal, I'll give it to you anyway, but may the Force save your sorry backside if this goes wrong.”
Skirata turned. He seemed genuinely surprised: he hadn't been bluffing. He really had been storming off and cutting Obrim out of the loop. “What happens if it does go wrong, Jailer? You get into trouble with your bosses. But my boys die.”
“Yeah, and so might mine if they get in the way by accident.”
“Then don't get in the way.”
“Okay, what time did your people grab the woman?” Obrim asked.
“Midafternoon.”
“Well, there was someone trying to get hold of our irresistible friend here via a government comlink shortly before CSF went to his home an hour ago.”
“You mean there's someone else in the GAR working with him?”
“Yes, and if we could pin down the transmission source, I'd have given it to you.”
Skirata's shoulders sagged. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Don't mention it. Just try to give me a warning before you start another war here, okay?”
“That was a nice smokescreen line to the media, by the way. Gang war indeed.”
“It's very nearly true. But thank your oily friend Mar Rugeyan for that. You'll owe him one, I'm sure.”
Star Wars: Republic Commando: Triple Zero rc-3 Page 22
