Star Wars - Republic Commando - Hard Contact

by Karen Traviss

  The Padawan—no, Etain, she'd made her orders clear— took a small sphere out of her cloak and opened it in both hands. Layer after layer of holographic images spilled out of it, stacking neatly like plates.

  "Plans," she said. Her voice had changed completely. She radiated relief. "Plans of all the Separatist and Neimoidian buildings in this region. Floor plans, utility layouts, wiring diagrams, drainage, ducts, specifics on materials used— every detail of how the contractors built them. This is what you need, isn't it? What you are looking for?"

  Darman wasn't tired anymore. He reached out and broke the beam of the projection, flipping a plan vertically so he could read it. He looked through them all and heard himself let out an involuntary breath.

  Etain was right. It was nearly every bit of intelligence they

  needed, apart from more fluid details such as personnel num­bers and routines. With these plans they knew how to cut power to the buildings, where to insert nerve agents into air ducts or water supplies, and exactly what they would see and where they would have to go when they gained entry. The plans showed the construction of walls, doors, bulkheads, and windows, so they knew precisely what size of charge or type of ram would be needed to breach them. This was a set of clear instructions for achieving their objective.

  But Etain didn't seem to know that objective. "What are you going to do with this?" she asked.

  "We've come to abduct Ovolot Qail Uthan and destroy her research facility," Darman said. "She's developing a nanovirus intended to kill clones."

  Etain leaned closer. "Clones?"

  "I'm a clone. The whole Grand Army is composed of clones, millions of us, all commanded by Jedi generals."

  Her face was a study in blank surprise. It was also fasci­nating in a way he couldn't define. He had never seen a human female this close, this real. He was astonished by the dappling of small brown dots across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, and the different strands of colors in her long, unkempt hair—light browns, golds, even reds. And she was as thin as the locals. He could see blue veins in the backs of her hands, and she smelled different from anyone he'd ever shared space with. He wasn't sure if she was pretty or downright ugly. He just knew she was utterly alien and ut­terly fascinating, as alien as a gdan or a Gurlanin. It was al­most stopping him from concentrating on the job.

  "All like you?" she said at last, blinking rapidly. She seemed unsettled by his scrutiny. "What have I said?"

  "No ma'am—sorry, Etain. I'm a commando. We're trained differently. Some people say... that we're eccentric. I realize you haven't received much by way of intelligence."

  "All I knew—all my Master would tell me—was that Uthan was here and that the plans were critical to the Repub­lic's safety. Clones didn't come into the conversation." She was staring at him just as Jusik had. "There's an old woman

  who told me you were coming, but she didn't tell me much else. How many of there are you on Qiilura now?"

  "Four."

  "Four? You said there were millions of you! What use is four going to be?"

  "We're commandos. Special forces. You understand that term?"

  "Obviously not. How are four ten-year-olds going to storm Uthan's complex?"

  It took him a few moments to realize she was being sar­castic. "We fight differently."

  "You're going to have to be very different indeed, Dar­man." She looked absolutely crushed, as if he'd let her down simply by showing up. "Are you really ten years old?"

  "Yes. Our growth is accelerated."

  "How can we possibly train competent soldiers in that time?"

  "It's very intensive training." He was finding it hard not to say ma 'am each time. "They created us from the best genetic stock. From Jango Fett."

  Etain raised her eyebrows, but said nothing else. Then she stood up, reached for a basket balanced on a low beam, and handed it to him. It was full of odd round items that smelled edible, but he thought he'd check anyway.

  "Is this food?"

  "Yes. The local bread and some sort of steamed cake. Nothing exciting, but it'll fill you up."

  Darman bit into a lump that yielded slightly in his fingers. It was glorious. It was strongly flavored and chewy and among the most satisfying meals he had ever eaten: not quite on the scale of uj cake, but so far from the odorless, tasteless, textureless field rations that it might well have been.

  Etain watched him carefully. "You must be starving."

  "It's wonderful."

  "That doesn't say much for army food."

  Darman reached into his belt and pulled out a dry ration cube. "Try this."

  She sniffed it and bit into it. The expression of vague dis­belief on her face changed slowly into one of revulsion. "It's appalling. There's nothing in it."

  "It's the perfect nutritional profile for our requirements. It has no smell, so the enemy can't detect it, and no fiber, so we excrete minimal waste products that would enable us to be tracked, and—"

  "I get the idea. Is that how they treat you? Like farm ani­mals?"

  "We don't go hungry."

  "What do you like doing?"

  He really didn't know what answer she was after. "I'm a good shot. I like the DC-seventeen—"

  "I meant in your free time. Do you get free time?"

  "We study."

  "No family, of course," she said.

  "Yes, I've got squad brothers."

  "I meant—" She checked herself. "No, I understand." She pushed the basket of bread closer to him. "My life hasn't been that much different from yours, except the food was better. Go on. You can finish the whole lot if you want."

  And he did. He tried not to watch while Etain wrung water from her robe and shook out her boots. She made him feel uncomfortable but he didn't know why, apart from the fact that she wasn't quite the Jedi commander he had been so thoroughly trained to expect.

  The only females he could recall were Kaminoan medical technicians whose quietly impersonal tones intimidated him more than a yelling drill sergeant. And his platoon had once experienced an unpleasantly memorable lecture in encryp­tion techniques from a female Sullustan.

  He feared females. Now he feared his Jedi officer and was also agitated by her in a way that he didn't even have a word for. It didn't feel acceptable.

  "We need to move on," he said. "I have to make the RV point. I've been out of comm contact with my squad for nearly two days, and I don't even know if they're alive."

  "This gets worse by the second," she said wearily. "First we have four. Now we might be down to one."

  "Two. Unless you have other duties."

  "You've seen me fight."

  "You're a Jedi. A commander."

  "That's a title, not an assessment of my ability. I'm not exactly the best of the best."

  "You must be. I know what Jedi can do. Nobody can de­feat you as long as you have the Force."

  She gave him a very odd smile and picked up the holo-chart sphere. She seemed to be struggling to find her thread again. She swallowed a few times. "Show me where your RV point is—that's right, isn't it? RV? Show me where it is on this chart."

  Darman took out his datapad and linked his mission charts with the image projected from the sphere. He pointed to the coordinates.

  "It's here," he said. "Before we set out on exercises or mis­sions, we agree where we'll meet up if anything goes wrong. We had to bail out when our transport crashed, so we're scat­tered, and the procedure is that we go to an RV point for a set time window."

  He zoomed in on the area northwest of Imbraani. Etain tilted her head to follow.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "Primary target. Uthan's facility."

  "No, it's not."

  "Intel said—"

  "No, that's the Separatist base. Their garrison." Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the chart. She pointed. "This group of buildings is the facility. You can see. Look." She su­perimposed the floor plans of the facility with the layout of the farm buildings a
nd shrank the image to fit. They lined up perfectly.

  Darman's stomach knotted. "My squad will be heading for the Separatists, then."

  "We'd better make sure we intercept them," Etain said. "Or they'll run smack-bang into a hundred droids."

  Darman was suddenly on his feet in one move, even be­fore he'd realized that he'd heard someone coming.

  "I don't think so," a woman's voice said. "Because the droids are all heading for Imbraani."

  Darman's sidearm was out of his belt and aimed before Etain could even turn her head.

  There is something very touching about them. They look like soldiers; they fight like soldiers; and sometimes

  they even talk like soldiers. They have all the finestqualitiesof the fighting man. But behind that is nothing—no love, no family, no

  happy memory that comes from having truly lived. When I see one of these men killed, I weep more for him than for any ordinary soldier

  who has lived a full and normal life.

  —Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi

  Darman had flattened Jinart's face against the wall and put his blaster to her head in the time it took Etain to jump to her feet.

  "Steady there, boy," Jinart said quietly. "I mean you no harm."

  He had her pinned securely. The expression on his earnest face was entirely benign, so far divorced from the potential violence he was ready to mete out that Etain shuddered.

  "Let her go, Darman," she said. "She's a fellow Jedi."

  Darman stood back instantly and let Jinart go.

  "I'm not a Jedi, I tell you," Jinart said irritably. She looked up into Darman's face. "So you'd shoot an old woman, would you?"

  "Yes ma'am," Darman said. Etain stared, horrified. "Threats come in all guises. Not all soldiers are young males, and not all soldiers wear uniforms."

  Etain waited for Jinart to aim a kick at his groin, but the old woman broke into a satisfied grin. "There's a sensible boy," she said. "You'll do well. Trust this one, Etain. He's very good at his job." She peered at the blaster, still firmly in his grip. "DC-seventeen, I see."

  "There are four of them," Etain said, expecting Jinart to react with the same disappointment she had.

  "I know." The woman handed Etain a bundle of rags. "A complete squad of clone commandos. Here, dry clothing. Nothing chic, but at least it's clean. Yes, I know all about them. I've been tracking the other three."

  "They're okay?" Darman was all anxiety again, still emit­ting that same sense of child that Etain found hard to bear. "I've got to rejoin them. Where are they?"

  "Heading north."

  "To RV Gamma."

  "Whatever you say, lad. You've all led me on something of a dance. You're a challenge to track."

  "That's how they trained us, ma'am."

  "I know."

  Jinart was still staring at Darman's face. "You really are a perfect copy of Fett, aren't you? In his prime, of course." Her voice had become lower, with less of the hoarse cracking typical of the very old, and Etain wondered if this was the moment at which she would reveal that she was a Sith. The Padawan slid her hand slowly into her sodden cloak.

  Jinart suddenly became black as Coruscant marble, and then devoid of texture and hair and fabric and wrinkles, as if she were wax poured into a crude mold. Her form began flowing.

  Darman's incongruously innocent face broke into some­thing like a familiar smile. Etain was ready this time. She was focused; she visualized the lightsaber as part of her arm. She was prepared to fight.

  "You're the Gurlanin," Darman said. "We weren't told you were on this mission. How did you manage that?"

  "I'm not Valaqil," said a soothing liquid voice. "I'm his

  consort." Jinart, now a four-legged, black-furred creature, sat up on her haunches and seemed to simply extend upward like a column of molten metal. "Girl, you do look surprised."

  Etain couldn't argue with that. Even if you'd encountered the full diversity of nonhuman species—and she certainly had, even within her own Jedi clan—seeing a shapeshifter metamorphose before your eyes was mesmerizing. On top of that, even this naive clone soldier knew what this creature was. She didn't.

  "You're quite a revelation, Jinart. But why can I sense something about you that feels like the Force?"

  "We're telepaths," the Gurlanin said.

  "Oh..."

  "No, I'm not delving into your mind. It doesn't work like that. We communicate only with each other."

  "But I heard your voice that night, in my mind."

  "I was standing near you, actually. Not in any shape you'd notice, of course."

  "And me, ma'am?" Darman asked, seeming totally ab­sorbed by the conversation.

  "Yes, I told you to get some sleep. I make a convincing fallen tree, don't I?" Jinart flowed and changed and reassem­bled herself into the epitome of a crone again. "I know, stereotypical, but effective. Old women are invisible. Like you, Darman, we go where others won't and do what others can't. The communications network here is totally controlled by the Trade Federation, and in practice that means a single relay and monitoring ground station at Teklet. And while my kind cannot transmit details over interstellar distances, we can communicate broad ideas and notions to each other. My consort and I are your comlink. Not perfect, but better than silence."

  The Gurlanin made a liquid sound like water boiling. "I've spent the last two days running myself ragged to gather this intelligence, and it's as much for this young man as it is for you. Ghez Hokan now has command of the armed forces here, such as they are, and he's no fool—he realizes Repub-

  lic troops are here for Uthan's box of tricks. Darman, he's tracking your comrades."

  "We're pretty good at evasion."

  "Yes, but they do tend to leave bodies and parts behind them. He admits he doesn't know how many of you there are, and that troubles him."

  "You're privy to his concerns, then?" Etain said. She trusted nobody now. She still didn't know who had betrayed Master Fulier, and until she did she would keep an open and cautious mind. Although her Master hadn't told her about the clones, he must have known if he had discovered Uthan's ac­tivities. But he hadn't trusted her. For all his kind words, when it came down to it he simply confirmed—even from the grave—that she was not fit to become a Jedi Knight.

  "I know Hokan's concerns because I can make a very con­vincing old man as well as an excellent grandmother," Jinart said. The reply made no sense. "I'll catch up with Darman's comrades and try to direct them to somewhere safe. They have no reliable intel, as you call it, a finite amount of ord­nance, and no advantage of surprise any longer. Hokan knows what you have come to do and he has enough fire­power and droids to stop you. That makes your mission next to impossible without some change of plan or intervention."

  Darman considered her carefully. Jinart's news hadn't dented that tangible confidence: Etain saw not a flicker on his face. "It could be worse. I quite liked the sound of a sin­gle transmitter."

  "Might I also add that the locals will turn you in for one chance to get disgustingly drunk."

  Darman looked at Etain. She squirmed. "Out of ideas, sol­dier?" she asked.

  "I await your orders, Commander."

  It was the final straw. Weeks of fear, hunger, and fatigue on top of years of doubt and disillusion suddenly brought Etain's fragile edifice crashing down. She had done all she could do, and there was nothing left in her to give.

  "Stop it, stop calling me Commander." She felt her nails dig into her palms. "I am not your blasted commander. I

  haven't a clue what to do next. You're on your own, Darman. You 're the soldier. You come up with a plan."

  Jinart said nothing. Etain felt her face burn. She had lost all dignity. A lifetime of careful training in the art of control and contemplation had come to nothing.

  Darman changed before her eyes. He transformed not in the physical sense that the Gurlanin had, but the change was just as startling because the sense of the child that Etain de­tected so clearly simply eva
porated. Its place was taken by calm resignation and something else, a rather forlorn feeling. She couldn't pin it down.

  "Yes ma'am," he said. "I'll do that right away."

  Jinart jerked her head in the direction of the door. "Get some air, Darman—I need to talk to Commander Tur-Mukan."

  Darman hesitated for a moment and then slipped outside. Jinart rounded on Etain.

  "Listen to me, girl," she whispered, all harsh sibilants. Droplets of fine saliva glittered briefly in the dim light. "That soldier may think a Jedi's every word is a divine pronounce­ment, but I don't. You'd better sharpen up fast. The comman­dos and I are all that stands between maintaining some kind of order in the galaxy and its fragmentation, because if the clone army can be wiped out, then the Separatists will win.

  "You can either help us or stand aside, but you will not be an obstacle, and that's what you are if you can't lead those men. They've been bred to obey Jedi without question. Sadly, in this case that means you."

  Etain was used to feeling worthless. There was no lower place that Jinart could cast her. "I didn't ask for that respon­sibility."

  "And neither did Darman." Jinart flashed back into a mass of seething black sinews for a terrifying second. "That's the nature of duty. It calls and you give your all. He will. So will his comrades, every single one of them. They need you to help them do their job."

  "I'm still learning how."

  "Then learn fast. If those soldiers weren't conditioned to

  obey you I'd consider cutting you down now and have done with it. My kind have nothing to thank Jedi for, nothing at all. But we share a common enemy, and I want to see Valaqil again. Think yourself lucky."

  Jinart swept out. Etain sank down on her knees in the hay and wondered how she had come to this. The barn door creaked open slowly, and Darman peered around.

  "Don't mind me," she said.

  "You okay, ma'am?" He winced visibly. "Apologies. Etain"

  "You probably think I'm useless as well, don't you?"

  "I came up with a plan, as you ordered."

  "Bred for diplomacy, too, eh?"

  "If Hokan has set the facility as a decoy, then we need him to think that we believe it's still the genuine target. So we split—"