The Clone Wars

by Karen Traviss

  He eavesdropped on the voice traffic between the Separatist tank commanders and the battle droid officers. General Whorm Loathsom was being briefed on the clone retreat and seemed flushed with his success. He was ordering his armored column to press forward.

  “General Loathsom’s given the order to go for our cannon,” Rex said. “The shield front will be at this point in around fifteen standard minutes.”

  Kenobi kept squeezing the hilt of his lightsaber as if he were doing a physio exercise. The man loved a fight. “Do you believe in nominative determinism, Rex?”

  “If my name was Whorm Loathsom, I’d prefer not to, sir.”

  “I’m sure his mother loves him. Now, let’s keep our heads down until the shield passes over us. See how much damage we can do once the tanks are committed to a choke point.”

  There was a crude, easy way to stop an armored advance: knock out the lead and rear tanks, leaving the rest of the column trapped between and unable to maneuver or escape. Rex sized up the exits from the main street, and worked out where to concentrate the anti-armor fire to achieve maximum inconvenience. If only they’d had air support. They could have trapped the Sep forces in the relatively narrow gully of the skyscraper-lined street and just poured down fire from a nice safe altitude. Instead, ground troops would have to pick off tanks and droids one at a time.

  Can do—at a price. It’s getting harder to define what acceptable losses means now.

  Rex wondered how far General Skywalker and Ahsoka had progressed. They wouldn’t risk opening a comlink. But Jedi have this weird awareness, he knew, and maybe Kenobi could detect where they were. Kenobi would certainly sense if they got killed. Rex had seen that working firsthand.

  He signaled his men into position and followed Kenobi into the nearest building to wait.

  “What if they get captured, General?” Rex asked, letting the welter of data and images on his HUD wash over him. “Ahsoka and General Skywalker, that is.”

  Kenobi didn’t take his eyes off the deserted, rubble-strewn street. The steady chunk-chunk-chunk of droid feet and the whining drives of tanks drifted on the air. “If we didn’t have the resources to take the shield, then we don’t have the resources to extract them, either.”

  Rex watched for signs of discomfort, awkwardness, even emotion. But Kenobi didn’t say another word. He just seemed unnaturally focused on the street.

  “I’ll volunteer, if the need arises, sir.”

  “Thank you, Rex. I know he’d do the same for you.”

  Kenobi’s tone was unfathomable. Rex dropped the subject, and wondered at what point he would accept that he had to abandon his general.

  We leave nobody behind.

  And so far, they hadn’t.

  CHANCELLOR PALPATINE’S OFFICE, CORUSCANT

  Palpatine took a few steadying breaths before answering Jabba’s comm. He gazed out onto the skylanes and cityscape beyond the transparisteel wall of his office, head resting against the back of his chair, and then swiveled slowly to face the transmitter on his desk, instantly an icon of benign civic duty.

  “Lord Jabba,” he said softly. “How are you?”

  Jabba’s interpreter droid, TC-70, was close by his master’s side, and although Palpatine understood Huttese, it suited him to feign ignorance. The droid was a very accurate interpreter, as it turned out.

  “Lord Jabba says his son is still missing, and that means he is deeply unhappy, and when he is deeply unhappy, that tends to color his approach to diplomacy.”

  Quite a tidy warning. I’ll give Jabba a point for that. “We might have a lead, Lord Jabba. I have my best operatives on the job. Rest assured we’re giving this our utmost attention.”

  Jabba narrowed his eyes to mere slits and shook slightly. TC-70 listened intently to his rumbling voice.

  “Lord Jabba says he notes your current difficulties in moving troops and matériel to the Outer Rim. He wonders if that might hamper your ability to aid the search for his son.”

  Doing business with the likes of Jabba was actually enjoyable. Palpatine relished the chance to lock horns—politely, elegantly, subtly, but lock nonetheless—with a being who not only enjoyed his own power but who knew how to exercise it. The politicians of Coruscant were small people with small threats. Jabba might not have been in Palpatine’s own league—was anyone?—but the Hutt was a more worthy sparring partner than most, and more subtle than any gave him credit for.

  So we both know what’s on the table, what we’re trading—access to the Outer Rim for his son’s safe return. Or, should I say, we both know what I want him to think is the hidden agenda.

  Palpatine wondered if Jabba assumed the Republic had arranged the kidnapping to put pressure on him, soften him up a little. That would have been his first assumption, had he been the Hutt, except there were layers beneath that, as numerous and finely stacked as a slice through the thousand layers of a nimirot root.

  “I admit that being able to route traffic through certain sectors would aid us immensely, Lord Jabba,” Palpatine said, with just the right degree of martyred endurance. “But we search, we follow leads, and we will find your son.”

  “Lord Jabba is generous, and will show his gratitude if you succeed.”

  Palpatine smiled sadly. “We would do it anyway,” he lied, knowing Jabba knew it was a lie. “No civilized state could ignore a plea to help an innocent youngling. I know how important family is to Hutts.”

  And how unusual it is for one relative to betray another. My, Ziro’s lucky you won’t have the chance to blame him.

  TC-70 paused to listen to Jabba. “Master Jabba says he’s glad you understand him.”

  Jabba thought he was playing a high-stakes game, that was clear. He was used to it. He hadn’t become the unchallenged leader of the most powerful of kadijics by assuming the best of anyone. Palpatine gave him the kind of smile that just might have suggested that he knew the Hutt suspected everyone, every time, but that he would keep his end of the bargain anyway.

  Yes, Jabba was used to playing deadly games.

  But he wasn’t used to being one of the pieces. And that, in Palpatine’s meticulously planned war in which he controlled both sides for one grand purpose, was all that Jabba was.

  He would never know.

  SEPARATIST LINES, CRYSTAL CITY, CHRISTOPHSIS

  “They’re going to notice . . .”

  “They’re too busy.”

  “Master, do we still need this thing?”

  Anakin came to a halt, the sound of their labored breathing filling the small space. It was hard to navigate under the upturned piece of debris that covered them like the shell of a kasaq mollusk. Crawl and stop, that was the pattern; they could scuttle only so far down the road before they had to peer out again or try to orient themselves by what they could see beneath them.

  Rubble. There was a lot of rubble, and it all looked the same. Under this broken section of conduit, the two Jedi were effectively invisible to battle droids; they were the same temperature and color as their surroundings. Only their movement would give them away—so they darted in random bursts, zigzags, slow crawls.

  “Okay . . . ready, Ahsoka? In three . . . two . . . go.”

  They edged a few meters farther and stopped again.

  Anakin caught his breath. His neck ached from the strain of holding it at an unnatural angle with the weight of both the shell and the strap of his satchel on it. He heard the faint hum of the energy field coming closer; the air tingled with it, making the hairs stand up on his arms and nape. The enemy line was—obligingly—passing over them.

  “Ugh. . . . ,” Ahsoka said, shuddering.

  “Nearly there.”

  “It’s like having someone walk on your grave.”

  “What happened to chirpy and positive?”

  She didn’t reply. Maybe the frequencies irritated something in the Togruta nervous system that humans didn’t have. In a few moments, the tingling stopped and Anakin felt he could breathe properly again.
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  “That’s it,” Anakin said. “We’re in. Now let’s locate that generator.” He was pretty sure he could find it by a combination of his Force senses and the odd infrasonics he was picking up as he got closer to it. “Be careful.”

  “My legs are going to give out,” Ahsoka said. “I have to stand up.”

  “I said, be careful—”

  Bang. They hit something. Anakin thought they might have run into a lump of masonry, but as the shell of conduit tipped and they fell over, he found his field of vision full of a curve of jointed metal.

  The metal sphere uncoiled. Side panels snapped open. Servos whirred.

  “It’s a droideka!” Anakin yelled, scrambling to his feet. He drew his lightsaber and flicked the blue blade into life. “Run!”

  The destroyer droid’s metal casing lifted to expose its center-mounted laser cannon. It didn’t seem to be able to work out what to do with them for a moment; maybe they were too close for it to get a firing solution. Ahsoka was rooted to the spot, and Anakin thought she was simply too scared to move until he looked and saw the lightsaber in her hand, and the look on her face.

  “Jedi don’t run!” she snarled. “We stand and fight!”

  The droideka had worked out its targeting. It scuttled back a meter or two on its yobcrab legs. Its cannon clicked into position. They were going to be two dead Jedi pretty soon if they didn’t make a run for it.

  “No, you run!” Anakin barked, and grabbed her shoulder as he sprinted. She broke into a run, stumbling a few paces, and the droideka opened fire. “Zigzag—don’t let it lock on. Run!”

  They dodged and jinked, leaping into the air, spinning around to deflect cannon fire with their lightsabers. The droideka couldn’t get a lock. They were out of its effective range when it coiled up again to pursue them, rolling after them like a ball. This was their chance. It couldn’t fight and move at the same time. Anakin gestured wildly at Ahsoka.

  “Stop dead when I say,” he yelled. “ ’Saber ready.”

  “You said—”

  “Just follow a stanging order, will you?” He ran as hard as he could. The droideka sped along at their heels. If he could fool it into thinking they’d keep up this speed, it wouldn’t have time to uncoil before he drew his weapon. “In three . . . two . . . stop!”

  Ahsoka skidded to a halt and the droid rolled between her and Anakin for one critical fraction of a second too long. They were both on it in a heartbeat before it could unroll and deploy, slashing it to pieces with their lightsabers.

  A smooth, polished section of casing rolled to a standstill a couple of meters away. They stared at each other for a moment, breathless.

  Anakin couldn’t have taught her a better lesson if he’d planned this. “Now you understand why you have to follow orders. Think twice, and you’ll be dead.”

  “Orders keep you alive,” Ahsoka said, as if she was repeating a lesson. It sounded awfully like Rex’s wisdom. “And we watch each other’s back.”

  Yeah, that was Rex, all right. Well, she’d learned the hard way now. Anakin gave her a rough pat on the back.

  “You got it in one, Snips,” he said. “Now let’s find that generator.”

  SIX

  The Jedi didn’t give a second thought to my world and its suffering. The only Jedi who ever did was my poor late Master, Ky Narec. The Republic and its lickspittle Jedi parasites left him to fight and die alone. And now the fine, decent, oh-so-moral Republic wonders why it’s made so many enemies.

  ASAJJ VENTRESS OF RATTATAK,

  Force-user and sworn enemy of the Jedi

  FRONT LINE, CRYSTAL CITY

  THE FORWARD EDGE of the Separatist shield passed over Rex and Kenobi as they crouched beside the shattered wall, making Rex’s scalp tingle.

  “Now, let’s do some proper damage,” Kenobi said.

  He drew his lightsaber and plunged into the first rank of spider droids, slashing at their extended cannons and managing to deflect fire at the same time. Rex didn’t see much of him after that. As the clone captain opened up with both sidearms at nearly point-blank range, he was aware only of the shrapnel flying in front of him, almost in slow motion, and rattling against his helmet and chest plate. Liquid spattered on his visor; he fought a reflex to wipe it away, because it would turn into an oily smear and blind him.

  The battle droids behind the spiders slowed for a moment, trying to step over the barrier the fallen shells had created. Rex seized the moment to find cover around the corner of the comm post building. He heard the missile coming even before he saw the blip on his HUD sensors. He had just enough time to whip his head around and see something streak overhead before he threw himself flat and masonry rained down on him. A chunk hit him square in the back, winding him. By the time he got to his knees, he could see that it was the comm post that had taken the impact, and two walls and the roof were gone. Astonishingly, a couple of clone gunners were still operating a repeating blaster in the debris, laying down fire. How they’d survived the blast Rex would never know.

  There was white plastoid armor everywhere. Rex didn’t have time to check, but he counted the scattered helmets as KIAs. A mix of anger at the deaths and a guilty flicker of relief—I’m still alive, I’m still moving—washed over him. Then he snapped straight back to training so ingrained that it was instinct, pure muscle memory.

  “Get out of there!” he yelled, gesturing furiously at the gunners to clear the area. “You crazy or something? Fall back! Get to the arty pieces!”

  They ran as ordered, joining the general retreat. Battle droids swarmed after the troopers. One grabbed a gunner and lifted him by the throat. Rex turned to help, but before he’d even aimed, Kenobi appeared from nowhere and sliced through the droid’s arm, missing the trooper’s head by a hair. The battle droid fell back as if punched by an invisible fist—Rex knew the Force in action when he saw it—but it swung its cannon arm at the general, and by then Rex had aimed his blaster. He poured his entire clip into it. Metal flew everywhere.

  Kenobi spun around. “Thanks, Rex.” He hauled the injured trooper clear. Just being grabbed with a metal fist like that did a lot of damage. “Get your men out. Get back to the artillery position.”

  “We’re stuffed, sir. Unless we let the shield overtake the cannon, that is.”

  “Fire cannon within the shield?”

  “I know it’ll direct the blast and the overpressure will cream us, but we’re dead either way unless Skywalker can kill that shield generator. Might as well take as many tinnies down with us as we can.”

  Kenobi shoved him away in the direction of the artillery. “It’s not a suicide mission yet, Rex. Not on my watch. Get your men out and defend those cannons. I’ll slow these clankers down.”

  “Sir, with respect, you’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m your general, and it’s an order. Get clear.”

  I don’t leave any man behind.

  But Rex did, because it was an order, and the smart automatic soldier part of his brain, trained and drilled and honed to respond, reminded him that orders were there for a reason. His body was moving away at speed while he was still arguing with himself. He gathered troopers as he ran, but he couldn’t resist looking back, and the last thing he saw before he ran for the cannons was Kenobi slashing a battle droid in half at the waist before a Separatist tank crashed through the last remains of a wall.

  SEPARATIST-HELD SECTOR, CRYSTAL CITY

  Anakin worked out the general direction of the generator from the graduating intensity of the field. The orange glow was brighter the closer he got to the infrasonic hum that was making his throat and inner ear itch; it was just a matter of using his senses.

  “There it is,” Ahsoka said.

  She pointed ahead. Across an expanse of open ground, a temporary building—the snap-assembly kind common on construction sites across the galaxy—stood conspicuously new and unweathered. And as they edged closer, the energy field felt stronger.

  “I do believe you’re right,”
Anakin said. “I’d have thought they’d hide it, but maybe they’re getting lazy or—hey, where are you going? Wait!”

  Ahsoka broke into a loping run as if hunting down prey, head lowered. Then she stumbled; and Anakin could see why. All across the ground, small projections were just visible above the soil—antennae. Oh, stang. She’d run into a droid minefield. That was all they needed. He’d hold the ugly record of getting his Padawan killed faster than any other Jedi, not even seeing out the first full day.

  “Stand still!” he called. He couldn’t even stop to worry now about who might see them. “Don’t move. Stay right where you are . . . I’m coming . . . stand absolutely still, youngling . . .”

  But she lost her balance. She fell back and landed right on top of one of the antennae. Anakin braced for an explosion. But nothing happened.

  The next two seconds were long and silent and terrible.

  He held his breath, but his relief was short-lived because he realized why there had been no catastrophic detonation.

  The ground shivered.

  Nothing explosive, nothing dramatic for a few more seconds—just a kind of slow eruption, like massive seeds germinating in a hurry and breaking through the soil. Orange shapes pushed up to the surface and shook off the dirt, dozens of them.

  “Droids!” he called. “Ahsoka, they’re sentry droids! You’ve set off an alarm. Forget them—set the charges, run!”

  “Sorry, Master!” She drew her lightsaber and sliced the head from one of the droids, then Force-pushed another away from her like a shock-ball. It hit the antennae of slumbering sentries and more popped up from the ground. “Oh, no . . .”

  Anakin waded in with his lightsaber to tackle the droids while she sprinted for the generator and slapped hemispherical magnetic charges on the flat surfaces. She scaled the structure and laid charges on the roof; and he was surrounded, standing in an orange sea of droids. He had to buy her more time. She had to get as much ordnance on that generator as possible, every last charge, because—as the clones often said—the formula for calculating a detonation was P for plenty, to go for certain overkill, obliteration, rather than risk not taking out the target first time.