Star Wars - Republic Commando - Hard Contact

by Karen Traviss

  If Uthan was surprised, she gave no indication whatsoever. "Exactly," she said. "And I confess I'm somewhat disturbed by the events of recent days. Lik Ankkit assures me my secu­rity is guaranteed, but I would really welcome your assess­ment of the situation." Her tone hardened just a fraction: still syrup, but now with gritty, sharp crystals in it. "Is this proj­ect under any threat? And can you maintain its security?"

  Hokan didn't hesitate. "Yes, I believe your facility is vul­nerable." He was a master of his trade. He saw no reason to lose his reputation over a restriction not of his making. "And no, I can't guarantee anything with the level and quality of staff that I have."

  Uthan sat back with controlled slowness. "Last matter first. Do you not have the resources to employ them? Ankkit's contract is quite generous."

  "That generosity has not filtered down to my operation."

  "Ah. Perhaps we should shorten the supply chain in the in­terests of efficiency."

  "I have no opinion on that. Ankkit's welcome to his cut as long as I have the tools to do the job."

  "That wasn't quite the cut I had in mind for Lik Ankkit." She smiled. There was no warmth in it. "And you believe the recent incursions are related to this facility?"

  "Circumstantial evidence. Yes." Hokan returned the smile and suspected his was a few degrees cooler. If she'd do this

  to Ankkit, she'd do it to him. "It's a big planet. Why the Im­braani region? Why send Jedi agents?"

  "Have you located any forces?"

  "No. I've identified at least two points of hard contact and one downed vessel, though."

  "Hard contact?"

  "Situations when soldiers actually engage each other." Not that his rabble of mercenaries rated the distinction of soldiers. "I can't gauge numbers."

  "If I were to arrange for you to have command of Sepa­ratist droids and their officers from our nearby garrison, would that make your task easier?"

  "I take no sides. I won't lie to you and pretend to support your cause."

  "You have military experience, of course. There's no dis­grace in being a mercenary."

  "I'm Mandalorian. It's in my soul as well as part of my education. No, there's no shame in it as long as you give of your best."

  Uthan suddenly melted into what seemed to be a thor­oughly genuine and sympathetic half smile. "I think I should share something with you. It might be distressing." There were still hard edges in her unctuous tone. "The Republic has created an army of cloned troops. Millions. They have been bred to fight and serve Jedi generals without question, altered to be their willing servants. They have had no normal life and they age very rapidly—if they survive being wasted in foolish battles. Do you know whose genetic material was used to create these unfortunate slaves?"

  "No, I don't." Hokan was never embarrassed to admit ig­norance. That was for small men. "Tell me."

  "Jango Fett."

  "What?"

  "Yes. The finest Mandalorian warrior of his day has been used to churn out cannon fodder for the aggrandizement of the Jedi."

  If she had spat in his face, he couldn't have been more ap­palled. He knew she was aware of what would enrage him;

  she used the emotional term warrior, not bounty hunter. She knew how much the revelation would offend his cultural pride. But she was right to tell him. It was a matter of honor, and more than his own. He would not see his heritage used in this travesty of honest war.

  "I'd take the contract even if you didn't pay me," he said.

  Uthan seemed to relax. "We can give you up to a hundred droids to start with. Ask if you need more. It's a small garri­son because we didn't want to attract attention, but now that we have that attention anyway we can reinforce if necessary. What about your existing militia?"

  "I think layoff notices might be in order. Perhaps your troops might start by helping me with the administration of that."

  Uthan blinked for a second, and Hokan realized she had taken longer than usual to understand what he meant. She'd grasped the meaning: I can be as ruthless as you. She'd think twice before undermining him as she was undermining Ankkit.

  "That might be a sensible start," she said.

  Hokan stood up and held his helmet in both hands. He had always been proud of that tradition, proud that it hadn't changed in thousands of years except for a technical en­hancement here and there. What really mattered was what lay under Mandalorian armor—a warrior's heart.

  "Would you like to know what virus we're developing here, Major Hokan?" Uthan asked.

  So he had a real rank now, not the flatteringly extravagant General. "Do I need to?"

  "I think so. You see, it's specifically for the clones."

  "Let me see. To make them proper men again?"

  "Nothing can do that. This is to kill them."

  Hokan replaced his helmet carefully.

  "The kindest solution," he said, and meant it.

  Bal kote, darasuum kote, Jorso 'ran kando a tome. Sa kyr 'am Nau tracyn kad, Vode an.

  (And glory, eternal glory, We shall bear its weight together. Forged like the saber in the fires of death, Brothers all.) —Traditional Mandalorian war chant

  It would have been much, much easier to fight in a different environment.

  Niner decided that when he got back to base he'd ask to amend the training manual on nonurban warfare, to reflect the fact that SOPs for temperate rural terrain were definitely not interchangeable with jungle tactics.

  It was the fields. There was too much open ground be­tween areas of cover. Niner had been sitting in the fork of a tree for so long that one buttock was numb and the other was catching up fast. And still the group of militia was sprawled in the grass at the edge of a recently mown field, passing around bottles of urrqal.

  Niner didn't stir under his camouflage of leaves. It was nearly autumn, so it was a trick they wouldn't be able to rely on much longer, as almost all the woodland was deciduous. They planned to pull out long before then.

  "Anything happening, Sarge?" Fi's voice was a whisper in

  his helmet, even though the sound wouldn't carry. It was a smart habit, just in case. If one precaution was good, two was better. "Still swigging?"

  "Yeah. We could always wait until they die of liver failure. Save the ammo."

  "You okay?"

  "My bladder's a bit full, but fine otherwise."

  "Atin's shredding that speedie's onboard computer."

  "I hope he's doing it quietly."

  "He's moved into the wood a bit. He reckons he's down­loaded some high-res charts, but the rest are probably fried. He's on the encryption files now."

  "As long as he's happy."

  Fi made a stifled snort of laughter. "Yeah, he's happy."

  I've been Darman. Niner still had no idea what Atin had meant by that. He'd remember to ask him at a more appropri­ate moment. All he wanted right then was for Hokan's men to get up and move on so they could cross over to RV Beta, just four klicks ahead. It would have been easy to pick them off from here, but that would leave a nice pile of calling cards and the squad had left too many already. Niner wanted to avoid all the hard contact that he could.

  They have to run out of urrqal soon.

  And they can't be taking Ghez Hokan very seriously.

  Niner was watching the group through his rifle scope, wondering why there was a preponderance of Weequays, when they all looked up, but not at him. They were looking to his right.

  "Five more targets approaching," Fi said.

  Niner tracked right very gently. "Got 'em."

  They didn't look like militia. There was an Umbaran, very smart in a pale gray uniform that matched his skin, and four battle droids marching behind him. Some of the militia boys got to their feet. One of them, reclining on the ground, held his bottle out in offering, muttering something about curing rust.

  The only words of conversation that Niner could pick up from the Umbaran were "... Hokan asks... any contact..."

  The breeze took the rest. They've
got reinforcements, he thought. They look like a different problem altogether.

  And they were, but not for him this time. The reinforce­ment droids raised their integral blasters without warning and simply opened fire into the group of militia. They fired a few bolts in an orderly manner and then waited, looking down at their victims as if checking. The Umbaran—commissioned officer or sergeant?—stepped forward and fired another blast at close range into a Weequay. Apparently satisfied that their job was done, they gathered up the group's assortment of blasters and sidearms, searched the bodies for something— ID, Niner suspected—and marched calmly away, back down their approach route.

  Niner heard Fi exhale at the same time he did.

  "Well," Fi said. "You can empty your bladder now, I sup­pose."

  Niner slid down from the fork of the tree, and his leg buckled under him. He removed the plates and rubbed his thigh to get the circulation going. "What do you reckon that was all about, then?"

  "Hokan doesn't like them drinking on duty?"

  Atin appeared, a jumble of circuitry and wires in one hand. "Looks like the tinnies have shown up to take over. But why shoot them?"

  "Tinnies?" Fi said.

  "What did your squad call them?"

  "Droids."

  Niner nudged Fi. "General Zey said Hokan was violent and unpredictable. He executes his own people in cold blood. Let's remember that."

  They gathered up their gear and this time it was the turn of Atin and Niner to carry the load they'd rigged underslung on a pole. Fi walked ahead on point.

  "I haven't fired a shot yet," he said.

  "On this sort of mission, the fewer the better," Atin said.

  Niner took it as a sign that Atin was joining in. His tone wasn't as defensive. Regular people said they couldn't tell the difference between one clone and another, did they? That

  was what came of spending too much time looking at faces and not enough wondering what shaped people and went on inside their heads.

  "Save 'em for later," Niner said. "I think we're going to need every single round."

  I must be out of my mind.

  Etain watched the ramshackle farmhouse buildings through a gap in the barn's planked walls. The roofs were outlined against the deepening turquoise of the dusk sky: two lamps stood by the porch of the main building to keep the gdans away from the path to the outside refresher. There were so many of the little predators nesting around the farm that one of their warrens had subsided, leaving a gaping hole in the farmyard that was now filling up every time it rained. Birhan wasn't big on maintenance.

  That did make some tasks easier, though. Satisfied that nobody was approaching, she went back to working boards loose from the barn's frame at the rear of the building. There was no other exit if she were ambushed, so she was making one.

  She concentrated on the boards, fixing their shape and po­sition in her mind. Then she visualized them separating and moving aside, creating a gap. Move, she thought. Just part, swing aside . . . and the boards did indeed move. She re­hearsed shifting them with the Force a few times, letting them fall back into place quietly.

  Yes, she could use the Force. When she felt confident and controlled, she could master everything Fulier had taught her; but those days could be few and far between. She wres­tled with a temper unbefitting a Jedi. She watched those with serene acceptance of the Force and envied their certainty. She wondered why Jedi blood had bothered to manifest itself in someone who was so fallible.

  Etain hoped she could manage to use the Force to do something more momentous than moving planks if the situa­tion demanded it. She was certain that the next few days would test her beyond her limits.

  Jinart arrived just after it grew completely dark. Despite watching intently through the crack in the wall, lightsaber ready, Etain didn't see her approach, or even hear her until the door swung open.

  But she felt her. And she wondered why she hadn't felt her before.

  "Ready, girl?" Jinart asked. She was wrapped in a filthy shawl that seemed about to walk of its own accord. It was a pretty convincing disguise.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" Etain asked.

  "Tell you what?" Jinart asked.

  "I might be less than the ideal Padawan, but I can always sense another Jedi. I want to know why."

  "You're wrong. I'm not that at all. But we are serving the same cause."

  Jinart cast around and picked up the remnants of a loaf that Etain hadn't finished. She shoved it under her shawl.

  "That wasn't an explanation," Etain said, and followed her out the door. There were no gdans to be seen. If this woman was strong in the Force and not a Jedi, she had to know why. "I need to know what you are."

  "No, you don't."

  "How do I know you're not someone who has turned to the dark side?"

  Jinart stopped abruptly and spun around, suddenly faster and more upright than an old woman should have been. "I can choose when I am detected and not detected. And given your competence, I'm the one who's most at risk. Now, si­lence."

  It wasn't quite the answer Etain was expecting. She felt the same authority as she had in the presence of Fulier, ex­cept that he exhibited peaks and troughs of the Force, while Jinart projected an infinite steadiness.

  She was certainty. Etain envied certainty.

  Jinart led her into the woodland that skirted Imbraani to the east. She was keeping up a punishing pace, and Etain de­cided not to ask any more questions for the time being. At various points along the way, Jinart deviated: "Mind the war-

  rens," she said, and Etain sidestepped holes and depressions that told her colonies of gdans had been busy beneath the ground.

  They finally paused half an hour later, having covered an arc that brought them north to the edge of the Braan River. As rivers went, it was more of a large stream. Jinart stood still, apparently looking at the water but not appearing to focus. Then she jerked her head around and stared west, tak­ing a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

  "Walk upstream," she said. "Follow the riverbank and keep your wits about you. Your soldier is still there, and he needs those plans."

  "A soldier. One?"

  "That's what I said. Come on. He won't be there much longer."

  "Not a group, then. Not even a few."

  "Correct. There are others, but they're a little way from here. Now go."

  "What makes you think I have plans?"

  "If you hadn't, I wouldn't be risking myself to direct you toward your contact," Jinart said. "I have other work to do now. When you find your soldier, I'll try to persuade Birhan to take him in for a while. He'll need somewhere to hide. Get on with it. He won't hang around."

  Etain watched Jinart start away toward the town, looking back just once. The Padawan slipped out her lightsaber and tried to get a sense of what might lie west along the river-bank, and when she glanced back again Jinart was nowhere to be seen. She was aware of the scrabbling of small clawed feet around her. Whatever influence had kept the gdans at bay while Jinart was with her was gone. She kicked out oc­casionally and hoped her boots were thick enough.

  If she went back to the farm, nothing would have changed and she would be no nearer to delivering the information. She had no choice but to go on.

  The bank was overgrown in places and she stepped into the river, knowing it would be shallow. The knowledge didn't make it any more pleasant to wade in sodden boots. But it

  was a reliable route, and it kept the gdans from trying their luck with her.

  They were wary of Jinart. Etain wondered why the Force didn't deter them from stalking her as well. It was more con­firmation, if she ever needed it, that she really wasn't much of a Jedi when it came to utilizing the Force. She had to con­centrate. She had to find that single-minded sense of both purpose and acceptance that had so long eluded her.

  Although Etain had clearly not yet come close to master­ing control of the Force, she could see and feel beyond the immediate world. She could feel the nocturnal creatures
around her; she even felt the little silver weed-eels parting to avoid her before they brushed her boots on the way down­stream.

  Then she became aware of something she wasn't expect­ing to encounter in the wilds of the Imbraani woods.

  A child.

  She could feel a child nearby. There was something unusual about the child, but it was definitely a youngster, and there was a feeling of loss about it. She couldn't imagine any of the townspeople letting a child out at night with gdans about.

  Ignore it. This isn't your problem now.

  But it was a child. It wasn't afraid. It was anxious, but not scared as any sensible child should have been, wandering around alone at night.

  Suddenly there was something touching her forehead. She put out her hand instinctively as if shooing away an insect, but there was nothing there. And still she felt something right between her brows.

  It dipped briefly to her chest, exactly on her sternum, and back up to her forehead. Then she was suddenly blinded by a light of painful intensity that shot out of the darkness and overwhelmed her.

  She had nothing to lose. She drew her lightsaber, prepared to die on her feet if nothing else. She didn't need to see her opponent.

  There was a slight ah sound. The light snapped off. She could still sense a child right in front of her.

  "Sorry, ma'am," a man's voice said. "I didn't recognize you."

  And still she detected only a child, so close that it had to be next to the man. For some reason she couldn't sense him in the Force at all.

  Red ghost-images of the light still blinded her. She held her lightsaber steady. When her vision cleared, she knew ex­actly who she was staring at, and she also knew Jinart had betrayed her.

  She'd probably betrayed Fulier, too.

  Etain could see the distinctive full-face Mandalorian hel­met of Ghez Hokan.

  The sinister T-shaped slit told her all she needed to know. She raised the lightsaber. Both his hands were resting on his rifle. Perhaps the child—the unseen child—had been a lure, a distraction projected by Jinart.

  "Ma'am? Put the weapon down, ma'am—"