Star Wars: Republic Commando: Triple Zero rc-3

by Karen Traviss

  Skirata had never seen the Force used to break up a fight before. It was as impressive as ripping open that door.

  “I want this feud to stop now,” Jusik continued, voice barely a whisper. “We have to have discipline. And I can't let you harm each other. We have to be united. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir,” Atin said impassively, blood streaked across his face. “Am I on a charge now, General?”

  “No. I'm just asking you to put an end to this for all our sakes.”

  Atin was calm reason once again. He didn't even seem out of breath. “Very good, sir.”

  Vau looked shaken, or at least as shaken as a man like him could be. “I'm a civilian, General, so I can do as I please, but I apologize to my former trainee for any pain I caused him.”

  Skirata winced. It was enough to start the fight again. But it was as good a concession as anyone would ever get out of a man who believed he had done Atin a favor.

  “My fault, sir,” Skirata said, doing what a good sergeant should. “I ought to maintain better discipline.”

  Jusik gave him a look that said he didn't believe that, but it was fond rather than censorious. Skirata hoped he never had to show the lad that he wouldn't obey him, but he suspected Jusik would never want to test that.

  The Jedi glanced over his shoulder at the silent audience that had gathered. “We can all get back to bed now.” The commandos shrugged and disappeared back to their rooms. Corr's expression of total shock was fascinating. There was no sign of Darman. “And you, Fi. It's been a heavy day.”

  Jusik grabbed a bacta spray with an expression of weary exasperation and sat Atin down in a chair to clean up his face. He made no attempt to tend to Vau, who walked off to the refreshers, Mird whining at his heels. Ordo and Mereel vanished to the landing platform with bundles of wrapped explosives.

  Skirata waited for Jusik to finish and for Atin to return to his room.

  “So, no lightsaber and no armor.” Jusik was even shorter than he was. He prodded the kid in the chest. “I told you that it's what's under the armor that makes a man. A few thousand Jedi like you and the Republic wouldn't be in the osik it is now. You're a soldier, sir, and a good officer. And I don't think I've ever said that to anyone in my life.”

  Skirata meant it at that moment. It didn't make him love Jedi as a kind any the better, but he was very fond of Bard'ika, and would look after him. Jusik lowered his eyes, a strange blend of embarrassment and delight, and clasped Skirata's arm.

  “I want what's best for my men, that's all.”

  Skirata waited for him to shut his bedroom doors and went in search of the bottle of tihaar and that rarest of things in Qibbu's Hut, a clean glass. He wrenched the stopper out of the bottle and slopped a little into a chipped goblet.

  He couldn't identify which fruit it had been distilled from this time, and it didn't taste that good. It never had, but more often than not it got him to sleep. He let it burn the inside of his mouth before swallowing and sat in the chair, nursing the glass in his cupped hands, eyes closed.

  I hope Atin's found some kind of peace from this.

  He thought he detected a faint hint of jewel-fruit in the tihaar.

  Four million credits.

  That was satisfying, far more than any bounty or fee he had invested over the years on Aargau. Nobody had mentioned it. Ordo and Mereel certainly had to be thinking about it: they knew his plans. Vau was a mercenary but would not interfere, because he had been paid. Etain might ask questions, too. But the commando squads had little interest in the realities of economics. Clones didn't get paid. They never coveted possessions because they had been raised with nothing to call their own. Even Fi's desire for Ghez Hokan's fine Mando armor and his lads' general lust for Verpine rifles was a blend of pragmatism and the Mandalorian cultural values that he had taught them himself, not basic civilian greed.

  And a copy of a restricted Treasury datapad to play with.

  And Perrive's 'pad to pick over I'll have Mereel copy it before I give it to Zey … or give most of it to him, anyway.

  He opened his eyes, aware of someone standing over him. Ordo and Mereel stood impatient and excited, looking much more like normal young men having a lark than efficient, disciplined, deadly soldiers.

  Mereel grinned, unable to contain his glee. “Want to hear about Ko Sai, Kal'buir? She's turned up again.”

  Skirata drained the glass. This was what he wanted most. “I'm all ears, adi'ke.”

  24

  A major terrorist network lies in tatters this morning following the end of a massive overnight operation by Coruscant Security Forces. A total of ninety-seven suspects were detained or killed, and what's described as “a significant amount” of explosives seized. Senator Ihu Niopua described it as a magnificent piece of police work and praised officers.

  –HNE evening news, 387 days after Geonosis

  Coruscant Security Force Staff and Social Club, 2000 hours, 388 days after Geonosis: ATU and OCU reception for men and guests of Arca Company, Special Operations Brigade

  CSF didn't know how brave they'd been until they heard it on the HNE bulletin.

  Fi decided to treat the coverage as funny rather than as another case of his brothers' efforts going unrecognized. Skirata had warned him that all special forces personnel had to deal with that, clone or not, so it was nothing personal.

  Anyway, it didn't matter. He was leaning on a bar—a clean bar, one that didn't leave your elbows soaking wet—surrounded by people who weren't criminals; unless you counted Sergeant Kal, of course, and he was a special case, because extreme bounty hunting wasn't really a crime. And police officers were buying him drinks and shaking his hand, telling him that their buddies would all have been ground nerf if he hadn't thrown himself on that grenade during the spaceport siege. It was amazing how they still remembered that.

  Fi didn't have the heart to tell them that he simply did what years of training had made his body do involuntarily, and that he didn't know how to do anything else. He simply grinned and enjoyed the adulation. He liked the comradeship.

  Some of them were female officers, too. They were fascinated by his armor. He enjoyed explaining the parts and functions to them, and wondered why they giggled when he told them how easy it was to take off.

  Ordo wandered in with Obrim and joined Fi at the bar. Obrim handed them both a glass of a light-colored ale, instantly another brother in uniform with a tacit understanding of how things were.

  “I see they've upgraded your armor again,” he said, tapping Fi's breastplate with the knuckle of his forefinger. “Different finish. Classy.”

  “Well, they have to try the new kit out on someone, and we're just so stylish.”

  “I suppose they can afford to, now that there's fewer of you left to kit out,” Obrim said, falling into the grim cynicism of men used to being at the mercy of accountants. “Because body bags are a lot cheaper.”

  “What body bags?” Fi said.

  “Really?”

  “Not the Mando way. Or the Republic's.”

  “Kriffing tightwads.” Obrim sighed irritably. Then he indicated Mereel, who was surrounded by a small knot of officers plus Delta Squad, laughing noisily. “I see your brother is teaching our boys some bad Mando'a words. Is it true you don't have a word for 'hero'?”

  “Yes, but we've got a dozen for 'stab.'”

  Obrim almost laughed. “And how many for frying someone with a blaster?”

  “Loads,” said Fi. “We don't know much about art, but we know what we like.”

  Ordo was scanning the crowded bar with a faint frown. Fi followed his gaze. He wondered if he was checking where Etain and Jusik were, because Jedi didn't fit easily into the raucous atmosphere of a police social club, but there was Jusik, all smiles, engaged in an intense conversation with two Sullustan forensics officers. Darman was deep in discussion with Corr and a couple of men Fi recognized as CSF bomb disposal experts from the spaceport siege. Niner and Boss seemed to have been drawn into
a strange game with some other officers that involved throwing a knife at the fine wooden carvings above the bar, much to the annoyance of the service droid.

  And Atin had Laseema on his arm, gazing at him adoringly, even if he did still have a striking black eye from his fight with Vau.

  But no Etain, and no Vau. Vau had gone off on another job—unspecified, of course. Darman was still here, though, and that meant Etain was, too, for the time being.

  Ordo seemed to be concentrating on the doorway.

  “What's your problem, ner vod?”

  “Agent Wennen said she would come,” Ordo said. He looked uncharacteristically awkward, seeming for once as if he didn't know what to do next. “I'll have a look around. It's a big bar.”

  Obrim watched him go. “Fi,” he said, “do you mind me asking you something personal?”

  “I always try to help police with their inquiries, Captain.”

  “Seriously, son. Kal talks to me about you all. I never knew how you were … bred for all this. Sorry. I can't find another word for it. You don't seem to resent it at all. I'd be furious. Aren't you angry? Not just a little?”

  Fi wished Obrim didn't make him think. In a way it was much, much simpler on Kamino. It was also easier being alone with only your squad for company on some osik'la planet blowing up droids. There was a clean focus in that. Coruscant had indeed been the hardest battlefield of all, as Sergeant Kal had warned him. But that wasn't because it was rife with the dangers of not knowing if the enemy was standing right next to you. It was because it showed him what he could never have.

  “I've done a lot of thinking in the past year,” Fi said. “Yes, there's plenty wrong. I know I deserve more than this. I want a nice girl and a life and I don't want to die. And I know I'm being used, thanks. But I'm a soldier, and I'm also Mandalorian, and my strength is always going to be what I carry around inside me, my sense of who and what I am. Even if the rest of the galaxy sinks in its own filth, I'll die without compromising my honor.” He drained his glass and started on the next one that was lined up on the bar. He wasn't that fond of the taste, but he believed in being polite. “That's what keeps me going. That, and my brothers. And that ale you promised me.”

  “I had to ask.” Obrim frowned quickly and looked away for a moment. “Did that drink really keep you going?”

  He thought of the insertion into Fest months before. “Yeah, Captain. Sometimes it did.”

  Fi dreaded where the conversation might take him but he was interrupted by a loud cheer from farther down the bar. Skirata had arrived and was demonstrating his skill in the knife-throwing game. He let fly with his vicious three-sided knife, knocking the other knives out of the woodwork time after time. The bar droid protested.

  “He's way too good at that,” Obrim said, and turned to Fi again to resume the conversation. “Now, about this—”

  Fi didn't want to discuss it anymore. He straightened up and called across the bar to Skirata. “Sarge? Sarge! Want to show 'em the Dha Werda?”

  There was a whoop of “Kandosii!” from the squads. “Yeah, come on, Sarge! Let's show them how it's done!”

  “I'm too old,” Skirata said, retrieving his knife.

  “Nah,” Fi said, and seized the chance to drag Skirata away from the game. “You taught us this, remember?”

  Skirata took the invitation and limped over to join the two squads, who quickly cleared a space in the bar. Ordo, Mereel, and Jusik joined them; Corr stood back, uncertain. Troopers rarely got the chance to see the ritual chant, let alone learn it.

  “I haven't had enough to drink yet,” Skirata said, “but I'll give it a go.”

  Without his armor, he looked even smaller among his commandos than usual. The chant started up.

  Taung—sa—rang—bro-ka!

  Je—tii—se-ka—'rta!

  Dha—Wer-da—Ver-da—a'den—tratu!

  He fell into the rhythm instantly, keeping perfect time, taking rhythmic blows on his leather jacket that normally fell on hard armor. He was a battle-hardened warrior like his lads, just older.

  Fi winked at him, careful to allow for their difference in height.

  Cor—u—scan—ta—kan—dosii—adu!

  Duum—mo—tir—ca—'tra—nau—tracinya!

  Skirata kept up the relentless pace for verse after verse. Fi caught sight of white armor in his peripheral vision and ARC Trooper Captain Maze appeared from the crowd of CSF officers who were watching openmouthed with glasses of ale in their hands.

  “Mind if I join in?” Maze said.

  Fi had no intention of trying to stop an ARC trooper. Maze slipped into the line next to Ordo and smiled at his brother captain in a way Fi didn't quite like.

  As Skirata always told outsiders, the Dha Werda took stamina, timing, and total trust in your comrades. Complex rhythms sharpened your brain and taught you to think as one. Turn too fast or too late, and you'd get a nasty smack in the face. It was performed without buy'cese.

  Ordo wasn't quite as focused as he should have been. Maybe his mind was still on where lovely Besany Wennen might be. Whatever the reason, as Fi turned right, fists clenched, arms at shoulder height, ready to beat the rhythm on Niner's back plate, he saw and heard Maze's fist connect with Ordo's chin.

  Ordo carried on, blood weeping from his lip, refusing to break the rhythm. You didn't stop if you got hit. You carried on.

  Gra—'tua—cuun—hett—su—dralshya!

  Kom—'rk—tsad—drot-en—t-roch—nyn—ures—adenn!

  The line of commandos turned ninety degrees left, hammering the rhythm, and then right again, and Maze hit Ordo neatly and—Fi had to admit it—elegantly in the mouth again without losing the beat. Blood splashed on Ordo's pristine white chest plate. Fi waited for the encounter to erupt in a fight, but the chant finished without incident and Ordo simply wiped his mouth on the palm of his glove.

  “Sorry, ner vod,” Maze said, smiling with genuine amusement. “You know how clumsy we ordinary ARC troopers are. We make lousy dancers.”

  Fi held his breath. He was ready to back Ordo up against Maze; Ordo was his friend. And Fi also knew that he was utterly unpredictable and totally unafraid of violence.

  Ordo merely shrugged, held out his arm, and the two ARC captains shook hands and went to the bar. Skirata watched them carefully and smiled.

  All ARCs were crazy. Sometimes Fi was grateful that he'd had the most volatile bits of Jango removed from his genes.

  Skirata sat down on a bar stool and wiped sweat from his lined forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “I'm not getting any younger,” he said, catching his breath, and laughed. “I'll be black and blue in the morning. Shouldn't try that without body armor.”

  “You could have dipped out after a few minutes,” Fi said. He handed him a cloth. “We wouldn't have minded.”

  “But I would have. I can't ask a man to do what I can't or won't do myself.”

  “You never have.” Fi noted that a small silence had formed around the doorway—and its cause was Besany Wennen. She walked in, looking around, then spotted Ordo and went over to him.

  “I'm going out on the balcony to get some air,” Skirata said.

  The last thing Fi saw before Obrim led him away to meet some officers who were very keen to buy him more drinks was Besany Wennen dabbing at Ordo's split lip with a handkerchief and berating a visibly surprised Captain Maze.

  “Hello,” Skirata said. “I didn't realize you were out here, ad'ika.”

  Etain looked up. She had been peering over the balcony at the lane upon lane of airspeeder traffic below. Nightscapes on Coruscant were as entertaining as a holovid. “It's too noisy for me in there. You look like you've been having fun.”

  Skirata joined her and rested folded arms on the safety rail. “Been showing CSF the Dha Werda.”

  “I bet that was painful.” He seemed a fundamentally good man. She adored him, even if he scared her sometimes. “It's good to see everyone relaxing. It's been tough, hasn't it?”r />
  “We did it, though. All of us. You too, ad'ika. Well done.”

  She was blissfully certain of life now. She felt good. She was also certain that Skirata was a man who understood love and the risks people would take to make those they loved happy. He defied generals and anyone who stood in his way to make sure his soldiers—his sons, for that was what they were—got what was rightfully theirs.

  There was no reason not to tell him her wonderful news. She should have told Darman first, but she wasn't quite sure how. And—anyway—Skirata was Kal'buir. He was everyone's father.

  “Thank you for being so understanding about me and Dar,” she said.

  Skirata rubbed his forehead. “I'm sorry for lecturing you. I'm very protective of them all. But you're both happy, and I'm glad to see that.”

  “I hope you'll be glad that I'm having a baby, then.”

  There was a moment's silence.

  “What?” said Skirata.

  “I'm pregnant.”

  She watched his face harden. “Pregnant?”

  She hadn't expected that. An unpleasant coldness spread up from her stomach into her chest.

  “Whose is it?” Skirata asked. His voice was level, controlled, distant. It was a mercenary's voice.

  That hurt. “Darman's, of course.”

  “He doesn't know, then. He'd have told me if he did.”

  “No, I haven't told him.”

  “Why?”

  “How could he cope with that? It's hard enough for a normal—”

  “He's not abnormal. He's what you people made him.”

  “I meant …” Etain struggled. “I meant that he has no experience to enable him to cope with being a father at a time like this.”

  “Nobody ever has.”

  “I wanted him to have some kind of future.”

  Skirata's face didn't change. “You planned this? How can he have a future if he doesn't know he has a son? Genes don't count for everything.”