Star Wars: Republic Commando: Triple Zero rc-3

by Karen Traviss

  “Something armies have a great deal of.”

  “Ah … you follow the news closely.”

  Skirata made a silent vow to be very, very kind to Mar Rugeyan in future. That turf war cover story had worked all too well and the man probably didn't even know it. “There does seem to be a sudden gap in the arms market, yes.”

  “You made that gap, yes?”

  His stomach somersaulted. He managed a grin. “I'm not that big a player.”

  Qibbu swallowed the hint whole like a gorg. “So what can you obtain?”

  “Blasters, assault rifles, thermal plastoid, ammunition. Anything larger than that I'll treat as a special order and it might take longer. Don't ask for any warships, though.”

  Qibbu laughed. “I put out the word and we see if it attracts customers.”

  “I'm sure I can rely on your discretion. You like this place, don't you?”

  “I want no trouble finding its way back here. But I will expect … commission. Twenty percent.”

  “That's my dowry,” Etain said sourly. “Papa, are you going to let this chakaar steal from me?”

  Fierfek, she was getting good, this kid. “ 'Course not, ad'ika.” Skirata leaned toward Qibbu and jangled his length of chain in his pocket as a little reminder. “Five percent, and I'll see that your lovely establishment here remains in one piece and unvisited by the riffraff of this world.”

  Qibbu gurgled. “If this partnership is successful, we renegotiate terms later.”

  “You get the business and we'll see.”

  Skirata stood up as calmly as he could and led Etain out onto the walkway to get some fresh air. The smell of frying, stale ale, and strill was getting to him.

  “I thought chakaar was a nice touch,” he said.

  “I pick up the odd word.”

  “You okay?”

  “Actually, that was hard. I envy your nerve.”

  “You reckon?” Skirata held out his hand, fingers spread, palm down. It was shaking. She needed to know that in case she thought he was invincible, and her misplaced faith got her killed. “I'm just a soldier. A commando, you'd call it. I'm groping my way through all this.”

  “But Qibbu's scared of you.”

  “I don't have any problems with killing people. That's all.” The reality of his situation had become starkly clear now: edging farther and farther out on that limb, either to safety or to plummet into the torrent rushing beneath, with a breath between one extreme and the other. And no way of stepping back onto the riverbank. “If anything happens to me, I need to know someone will look out for my boys.”

  “You're asking me?”

  “There's only you and Bard'ika to ask.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

  “The Force is telling you that, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else does the Force tell you?”

  “What I have to do.”

  “If and when we meet these scum face-to-face, are you up for it? Can't have my boys visible. Too obvious.”

  “Not Bardan?”

  “I don't have to ask Bard'ika. He'll want to be there anyway. I'm asking you.”

  “I'll do whatever you command. You have seniority here.”

  Skirata was hoping for an expression of confidence rather than obedience.

  But it would have to do.

  14

  Word from our undercover team and their informants is that someone is offering explosives and arms on the black market. It's amazing how fast this scum flows in to fill the gaps. Time for us to move in. And only one warning before you open fire, okay? Let's see how much we can clean up once and for all.

  –Organized Crime Unit squad briefing, CSF HQ, 383 days after Geonosis

  Logistics center, Grand Army of the Republic, Coruscant Command HQ, 1000 hours, 383 days after Geonosis

  Ordo walked through the center's doors unchallenged this time.

  “Good morning, sir,” the sentry droid said.

  Ordo shoved his stylus probe in the droid's dataport again and downloaded its latest recognized-personnel file. “Carry on,” he said.

  Before he reached the operations room of the logistics wing, he stepped into the male fresher and ran the downloaded images of all the center's organic staff through his helmet's HUD to memorize every face. About 5 percent had changed since his last visit. Civilian staff moved on. Supervisor Wennen, he noted, was still there.

  Then he copied all the data stored in his helmet to his datapad and wiped the HUD's memory. His armor was completely clean now, with no trace of who or what he was other than a classified ARC trooper tally ID. His sole connection to the special forces world would be the tiny bead comlink in his ear. His final task was to slide a wide-angle strip cam into the ventilation grille that passed between the male 'freshers and the female ones.

  Then he replaced his helmet and walked into the operations room. There was no sign of Besany Wennen; the third-shift supervisor, a Nimbanel, was on duty.

  “'Morning, sir,” Corr said.

  “Just observing today, trooper,” Ordo said. He stood back as if watching the array of live traffic holocharts that covered the circular wall of the ops room, making it feel like the inside of an illuminated drum. In fact, his gaze was on Corr as he worked and occasionally moved around the room. Ordo was taking a crash course in how the trooper moved so that he could mimic him. He already had the measure of his voice with its faint flash-learned accent.

  And the civilians always seemed to think he was looking in the direction that his helmet was facing. The basic trooper helmet's specification was available to anyone working in logistics, but they seemed to be unaware of its visual range. Who cared what a trooper could and could not see?

  They ignore so much data, these civilians.

  “Corr, I need you to show me something,” Ordo said. The civilians also seemed to ignore conversations between clones. “Come with me.”

  Corr picked up his helmet, put the security code lock on his workstation with his gauntlet tally–good man, follows the regulations—and followed Ordo out of the room. They walked back down the corridor and Ordo gestured him into the 'freshers, marching him into the far end where the lockers were.

  “This is where you have to follow my orders to the letter,” Ordo said.

  Corr looked suddenly wary. “Yes sir.”

  “Armor off. We're swapping suits.”

  “Sir?”

  “Remove your armor. I need it.”

  Corr began unfastening the gription panels without argument and stacked the plates on the floor. Ordo did the same. They both stood there in black bodysuits, suddenly without visible rank, and Ordo was reminded of the price Corr had paid. He looked at the trooper's artificial hands.

  “Was it very painful?” asked Ordo, who had never been that badly injured.

  “I don't remember a thing, sir, but it hurt when I woke up in the bacta tank.” He pushed back his sleeves: he had lost both arms from just above the elbow. “I manage okay.”

  Ordo had no idea what to say. “You should be invalided out. You shouldn't be going back to the front.”

  “What about my brothers? What am I without them?”

  He had no answer to that, either. He snapped Corr's plates onto his own suit. It was a tight fit: he had always known that the experimental genotype that had so disappointed Kaminoan quality control had made the Nulls slightly heavier in build than the clone trooper and clone commando batches. His armor would be a little loose on Corr.

  “At least you get to play captain, then. Enjoy it.”

  Corr attached the plates and had some trouble snapping the kama into place. Ordo adjusted it and put the pauldron on his shoulders, then handed him the helmet.

  “Wow, this feels different,” Corr said, looking down at himself. The ARC trooper armor was built to a higher spec. “It's heavier than I thought.”

  “Get those shoulders back a bit farther and let the kama and the holsters hang like that.” Ordo place
d the helmet on Corr's head and was suddenly surprised to be staring back at himself: so that was how he looked to the world. “Take this datapad and walk out of the front doors. You'll be met by a taxi piloted by a Wookiee. Do not stop and do not talk to anyone. Just walk out as if you were me, and you'll be taken to a place where you'll be among brothers.”

  “Very good, sir. How long?”

  Ordo tried on Corr's helmet. It felt foreign. It smelled of a stranger: different food, different soap. “I don't know. Just savor the break and I'll see you later. What do you call the civilians?”

  “I address them by their last name, except for the supervisors, whom I call ma'am or sir”

  “Even Wennen?”

  Corr paused. “We use first names when not in the center itself.”

  Ordo tucked Corr's helmet under his arm. “Good. Off you go.”

  They left the 'freshers a few seconds apart, and Ordo watched Corr disappear up the corridor. The weight of the kama and blasters gave him an authentic swagger. Ordo found it quite touching and turned back to the operations room to get used to being a simple meat can, a clone trooper that nobody—except the enemy, of course—dreaded or feared or avoided.

  He had at least one shift to settle in before the biggest risk to his cover turned up. Besany Wennen seemed to be the one taking the most interest in Corr. He would have to be careful to get past her scrutiny. But he had a few hours to practice.

  He unlocked the workstation and became compliant, conscientious CT-51 08/8843, invisible to the world. The job of checking that supplies had reached the correct battalion in the field and that contractors' schedules hadn't slipped was a simple one, and he occupied himself thinking of ways to make the system more efficient. He resisted the urge to upgrade the system there and then.

  And he watched those around him.

  “Sorry I'm late,” said a woman's voice behind him, a level, mellow voice with an undertone of warmth that sounded as if she were permanently smiling, the higher frequencies betraying a shortened vocal tract. “I'll work an extra hour for you tomorrow. Thanks for holding the fort.”

  Ordo had no time to perfect his simple-trooper act. He glanced over his shoulder as he imagined Corr might, and gave Besany Wennen a slight nod that felt like it came a little too easily to him.

  She smiled back. Ordo suspected she too was a consummate actor. But something in him greatly enjoyed that smile.

  Operational house, Qibbu's Hut, 2015 hours, 383 days after Geonosis

  “Name your time for a discussion about the goods,” the stranger's voice said over the comlink. “And we'll name the place.”

  Skirata didn't like the sound of that. Nor did Vau, evidently. He was listening to the comlink, too, scanner in one hand, and shaking his head slowly, tapping out a random pattern in the air with a forefinger. Can't trace the transmission point. Multiple relay. Just like us.

  Ordo grabbed his gauntlet from the table and activated a holochart, holding it where Skirata could see it. The whole strike team was waiting on the conversation, including the clone trooper called Corr whose life had suddenly taken a turn for the bizarre that day.

  “I'm going to need a little more reassurance than that,” Skirata said.

  “I'm an intermediary,” the voice said. Coruscanti accent. No clue at all. “What reassurance would you like?”

  “A very public place. If we both like what we see, and we trust each other, we meet somewhere more private to iron things out.”

  “And you bring a sample.”

  “Assault rifles? In public?” This was the test question, the one that would sort the gangsters from the Separatists. Weapons were instantly useful to criminals: raw explosives weren't, not unless you wanted to resell them. “Don't takis me, di'kut. My father didn't raise a stupid son.”

  “My clients suggested you could obtain military-grade explosives.”

  “I can. So you want a sample of that?”

  Silence. Vau listened, head cocked.

  “We do. What are you offering?”

  “Top military-spec five-hundred-grade thermal plastoid.” Pause. “I think that fits the bill.”

  There was a forest of enthusiastically raised thumbs in the hushed room. For some reason Skirata found himself focused on the anxious face of clone trooper Corr, perched on the edge of a chair with one of Dar's custom dets dismantled in his prosthetic hands.

  “Noon tomorrow,” Skirata said. He winked at Jusik. “And I'll have my nephew with me, just in case.”

  “On the south side of the Bank of the Core Plaza.”

  “You'll spot me easily enough. I have a strill.”

  Vau's face was a study in shock, but—like the professional soldier he was—he said nothing.

  “What's a strill?” the disembodied voice said.

  “A disgustingly ugly, smelly Mandalorian hunting animal. You can't mistake it for any other species, not even in this menagerie of a city.”

  “Noon, then.”

  The link went dead.

  “Nobody but Seps would want five-hundred-grade thermal,” Vau said. “Too exotic for the average criminal. They certainly bit on the bait fast. Should that worry us?”

  “They've lost their usual supplier, and this is far better stuff.” Skirata watched Delta descend on the holochart and begin planning sniper positions around the banking plaza. “This is purely surveillance unless they start shooting, okay, lads? Killing them there won't help us trace their nests. Least of all in broad daylight.”

  “Understood, Sarge.”

  Sev managed a smile. “As long as we get to use lethal rounds later. We like dead. Dead is very us.”

  “I added some Dust to the unenriched thermal,” Jusik said. “You want some made into Verpine projectiles, so you can tag anyone you spot and track them, too?” Jusik was a ferociously clever lad and Skirata prized intelligence very much, as much as loyalty and courage. “I thought I'd make sure we didn't have to follow a suspect the hard way again. Am I forgiven for my lapse of judgment the other day?”

  “Bard'ika, if you ever want a father, then you have one in me,” Skirata said.

  It was the highest compliment he could pay him: he was fit to be his son. Jusik might not have fully understood Mandalorian culture yet, but he certainly grasped the sentiment if his embarrassed glance down at the floor and the broad grin were any guide.

  Boss gave Skirata a cautious glance. “Does that mean we get to use your Verp rifles?”

  “You're such a pushover for fancy kit,” Skirata said.

  “They're the business, Sarge … kandosii!”

  “But you bend them, and I'll bend you. They cost me a fortune, and they do not bounce.”

  “How you going to get the caliber of those marker pellets right, though, Bardan?” Sev said.

  “Multicaliber magazine and bore,” Skirata said. “You could load these Verps with stones if you needed to. That's what cost the money. That and the full-spectrum range of filters, variable velocity, and anti-reflective device.”

  “Kandosii,” Sev said, almost sighing. “Shame you didn't pay a bit extra to make them more robust.”

  “Cheeky di'kut ... okay, I reckon you're good enough to use them. Take a look.”

  Skirata went to the cupboard and slid out one of the precious rifles, disassembled into three discrete parts: thirty-centimeter barrels, matte drab green, silent, horribly accurate, and Jaing's weapon of choice for going hiking with extreme prejudice, as he described it. Sheer ballistic beauty. An assassin's tool: a craftsman's tool.

  He hadn't seen Jaing in months. He missed him. He missed all the Nulls badly when they were on long, distant missions.

  Boss and Sev fondled the rifles and beamed. Even Fixer looked happy. The Delta boys didn't respond to food treats and pats on the head, then, but they loved new toys and praise. Skirata noted that.

  “I need accurate ranges from your recce,” Jusik said. “I've got to pack the Dust into a medium that'll stay together until it's right at the target, or
the stuff will disperse too soon. This has to splatter them close to the face so they inhale it, or it'll just sit on their clothing. If they dump their jackets, we'll lose them.”

  “Fun,” Sev said, and obviously meant it.

  Vau got up and wandered out toward the landing platform, no doubt to fuss over Lord Mirdalan before the slobbering thing did a real job for once in its life. When he was out of earshot, Boss turned to Skirata.

  “Sargeant Vau loves that animal. Don't let anything happen to it. Please.”

  “I won't. It knows I carry a knife.”

  Corr, who had been the subject of much fussing and attention since Jusik had brought him back to Qibbu's, watched cautiously. Skirata ruffled his hair. He flinched. “Sorry about all this, son. Learning a lot?”

  “Yes, Sargeant.”

  “Want to be useful? I mean even more useful than you are now?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Poor little di'kut. Skirata fought the urge to collect another damaged young boy, another stray in need of belonging, and lost immediately. He had been that orphan, and a soldier had rescued him.

  “Dar, give him a crash course in using a DC-17, will you?”

  Boss and Sev slid the discreet body armor plates under their tunics and checked their hand blasters. “Just off for a recce of the location, then,” Boss said. “Back in two hours, and then I suggest we insert as soon as possible so we're there before the bad guys.”

  “What makes you think they won't be doing the same right now?” Etain said.

  “Because it looks like a very hard location to lay up in for any length of time, and we're pros, and they're not,” said Boss. “So they'll probably go in closer to the rendezvous time.”

  Skirata made a point of looking around the group so that he could see the reaction of the two Jedi. Both of them were very capable warriors but assassination—killing someone who was not about to kill you—was psychologically very different from using a lightsaber or blaster in combat.

  The silent excitement that had gripped the room was palpable.

  “Gentlemen—ma'am—this is a shoot-to-kill operation,” he said. “Not arrest. We want as many hut'uune identified, located, and dead by any means possible at the end of this deployment. Nothing else. We're cutting out a big chunk of this network in one slice. Are we all clear that's what we're doing?”