Star Wars - Republic Commando - Hard Contact

by Karen Traviss

  There were fifty battle droids in the column heading for Imbraani. If he managed to knock out the ground station, that would be the first message he'd send on his long-range comlink.

  The chunk-chunk-chunk of their feet drew level with him and he froze.

  Chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk.

  It began to fade behind him. He breathed again. Once the excavator droid was coaxed past its logical destination of the screening plant, it would be that much more conspicuous. At least the tinnies looked busy. The worst part was having a pretty good idea about what orders they'd been given.

  Just ten klicks. He was minutes away from the point where the droid would attempt to deliver its load. At that moment, he'd divert it toward Teklet itself, through the center of the town and into the ground station compound. At least the aer­ial recce appeared to have been right about that. Teklet was a sprawl of storage silos and shipping facilities for getting pro­duce off the planet, and not much else.

  The worst that the Trade Federation had ever anticipated dealing with was a band of angry farmers. It was going to make his job a good deal easier.

  Just ahead, the droid's flashing light bounced off a sign pointing left: all contractor traffic—no entry via main gate. The excavator knew its way and began slowing for the

  turn. Niner took Atin's jury-rigged cables and unplugged one strand. Go on. Go on. Go...

  The droid was almost at the turn. It was moving at around twenty-five klicks now, threatening to veer off. But it carried on, past the sign, past the slip road, and on toward Teklet. "That's my boy," Niner said. The sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, despite his suit's environment controls. "Couldn't speed up a bit, could you?" Maybe that was asking for trouble. When he eased his head clear of the layer of rub­ble and peered around the side of the scoop, he could see a procession of droids strung out behind him along the curve of the road, neatly line astern like battle cruisers, each flash­ing an orange hazard light with its outline picked out in blue.

  It was actually pretty, all things considered. Then the near­est droid slowed and peeled off down the slip road, the light show behind Niner fading, then disappearing altogether. He was on his own. He settled back under the rubble with his head tilted so that he could see ahead through a channel in the debris.

  Teklet had little in the way of street lighting, and there were few people about. As architecture went, this wasn't tasteful, elegant Tipoca. It was a service depot and it looked like one. A couple of Trandoshans were sitting under an awning outside a hut, blasters across their laps; they stared at the droid with vague curiosity but didn't appear to move. Niner was almost past the ribbon of huts when the thought struck him that a five-hundred-meter blast zone would take out a lot of Teklet, and people with it. Not all of them were Separatists.

  Once you make that your concern, they'll always have a weapon to use against you. Skirata said they had to get used to it. Achieving your objective sometimes had a high price.

  A bonded cargo transporter with red security straps seal­ing its containers crossed in front of him. The droid missed it by two seconds. If the driver was cutting it that close, then they hadn't taken much notice of the machine. So far, so good . . . and getting better. As the droid pressed on, Niner was checking his escape route. It was a good two-hundred-meter sprint to the nearest cover from any part of the road. It was going to be tight.

  He had to get the droid to halt right alongside the ground station. If it kept going, the blast would be centered else­where. He could set the dets now, slide out of the scoop, and run for it, but that meant observing the droid up to the last second, and that meant he'd probably be too close when it blew.

  But he was committed now. The ground station had to go. It would put a serious dent in the Separatists' defenses for a few critical days, maybe even weeks, and that was an edge they needed.

  Working some rubble aside with his finger, Niner could see the lights of the compound. He flicked to night vision, and the green image showed him flimsy mesh fencing and a waist-high retaining wall. The excavator would roll right over it on its path to the building itself.

  They'd know he was there, all right.

  He'd left the dets until last. The charges were linked by cord in series, just waiting for the final connection to the three detonators that—in theory—Niner could trigger re­motely. He clamped the cords together and shoved them into the aperture of the det housings, snapping them shut.

  The explosives were now live. He wasn't just sitting on a bomb; he was sitting in one. The charges, dispersed among the rubble, were up to his neck. He began to ease his legs clear, ready to jump.

  If he didn't walk away from this, then that was the way it had to be. For a moment Niner felt a cold spasm in his gut that he recognized from a dozen all-too-real exercises. He was probably going to get killed. He was possibly going to get killed. If anyone thought intensive training wiped out the fear of dying, they were wrong. He was as afraid as he was when live rounds had flown past him for the first time. It never went away. He just learned to live with it, and tried to learn well enough that he could use it to work for him, and get him out of trouble faster.

  Niner fumbled with the cabling. He steered the droid in a gentle arc so that it was square-on to the fence. It wasn't the best course he'd ever steered, but with a five-hundred-meter blast zone, it was going to be good enough. He ducked. The wire mesh loomed in his face at the edge of the scoop, then strained and vibrated, tearing up posts with it as the droid pushed through, oblivious.

  It was nearly at the wall. The building was five meters high; flat roof, no windows. They didn't seem to like win­dows here. He heard a single shout, something like chuba, and he had to agree. This was going to fierfek someone's watch with a lot of reports.

  Niner yanked the cables apart and cut the droid's power. Its momentum carried it on a few more meters, and metal twanged and squealed as the chain-link fence was stretched to the breaking point. The wires finally snapped back like a bowstring under the excavator's wheels.

  One, two, three...

  The droid was at a dead stop hard against the wall. The blocks were beginning to crack, and gaps were opening between them. He had a sudden vision of finding himself buried in collapsing masonry and unable to move, and a combination of animal panic and a lifetime of training pro­pelled him out of the rubble and over the edge of the scoop. He fell flat from two meters and struggled to right himself. Then there was shouting and, fifty-kilo pack or not, he exe­cuted the fastest bugout of his career, Deece in one hand and the remote det control in the other.

  There was one way out and that was through the gap he'd smashed in the fence.

  It wasn't covert. A human in an overall was standing open-mouthed in his path, and Niner knocked him flat on his back as he ran full-tilt for the hole in the mesh.

  He had about a minute to put distance between himself and the ground station before he blew the charges. At twenty klicks an hour, that meant he'd be about —

  Fierfek, just do it.

  Niner was past the first line of trees and into long grass when he dropped and pressed the remote det in both hands.

  Teklet was a sudden ball of light. Then the roar of air and the shock wave shook him. He crouched as debris rained down on him, hoping—really hoping—that Katarn armor was all that it was cracked up to be.

  Ghez Hokan was the first to admit that it was taking a lot less to get him irritated lately. He'd waited long enough. He tapped the comlink console impatiently.

  "I asked to be out through to CO CISCom ten minutes ago, di'kut."

  "I realize that, Major. He'll be with you as soon as he's free."

  "Enemy forces have infiltrated and I need to speak to your commanding officer. Do you understand what we have on Qiilura? Could you possibly shift your di'kutla shebs long enough to find out why this is so vital to the war?"

  "Sir, we have Republic troops infiltrating more places than I care to name right now, so—"

  The s
creen flickered and broke up in noise. Hokan switched to another channel and got the same crackling, shimmering display. It was the same for every channel he tried. His first thought was that someone had disabled his re­ceiver. They were closer than he'd thought, and a lot more daring. He put on his helmet and edged cautiously down the passage to the exterior door, his Verpine shatter gun in one hand and a hunting vibroblade in the other.

  The droid sentry stepped aside to let him pass. On the roof, the comm relay was intact. Hokan took out his personal comlink and called Hurati.

  All Hokan could hear was the chatter of static. It struck him that the Republic troops might well have done what he would have, faced with the same target.

  "Droid, can you make contact with your fellows?"

  "Affirmative sir."

  The droids had their own comlink system. They could

  communicate instantly on any battlefield. What they didn't need was the main relay at Teklet in order to do it.

  "Can you contact Lieutenant Hurati?"

  The droid paused for a few moments. "I have him, sir."

  "Ask him if he has any news of Teklet."

  Pause. A much longer pause.

  "Large explosion seen in the direction of Teklet, sir."

  It's what I'd do if I was preparing an assault, Hokan thought. I'd render my enemies blind and deaf.

  There was nothing he could do on the ground to deal with an invasion, if one was coming. There was a Republic assault ship in Qiilura space, and that didn't bode well.

  He had two options for his immediate task. He could de­fend Uthan's project—the technical knowledge invested in her and her staff, and the nanovirus itself—or, if he was over­run, he could prevent it falling into enemy hands to be stud­ied and neutralized.

  It was a big planet. If he had to run, they'd have to find him. In the meantime, he'd sit tight and wait for them to come.

  "Tell Hurati I want every functioning droid back here now," Hokan said. "We're digging in."

  12

  Coruscant Command to Republic Assault Ship Majestic,

  Qiilura Sector

  Cruiser Vengeance will RV with you at 0400. You have clearance to intercept any vessel leaving Qiilura space, prevent landing by non-Republic vessels, and engage any vessel failing to comply. Have biohazard containment standing by.

  Niner struggled to his feet and stared back at the ground sta­tion.

  It wasn't there anymore. Neither were the few small huts scattered along the approach road. There was billowing smoke and fires burning, including one that looked as if it were a blowtorch. Another explosion made him shield his head, and more debris peppered his armor.

  Apart from that, the area was silent. He set off through the trees again, feeling as if he'd been picked up and shaken hard by someone really angry. A small pack of gdans began chas­ing him, snapping on his leg armor, but they caught on fast that he was going to be impossible to eat and fell back. He opened his long-range comlink for the first time in days.

  "Niner here, anyone receiving?"

  He could hear his own breath rasping as he ran. He was down to a stumbling jog now and feeling the reality of his ex­haustion. He'd take a stim or two later. He had to.

  "Sarge? Fi here. Target acquired, then."

  "Wow. P for plenty."

  "You sound busy."

  "On my way to the RV."

  "You're running."

  "You bet. Sitrep?"

  "Had to dump the droid and cache a lot of stuff. But the Weequay can carry a surprising amount if you ask him nicely. ETA an hour or so."

  "Call Darman, in case Jinart hasn't caught up with him yet."

  "Copy that. ETA?"

  "Depends. Looking for transport right now."

  "You sure about that?"

  "You can do fast or you can do covert. Right now fast looks good to me. Out."

  Niner kept close enough to the road to hear vehicles. He needed a speeder. The mangled chassis of a personal trans­port of some kind was upended at the side of the road, testi­mony to the force of the blast.

  Eventually, someone would show up to take a look at the damage. Then he'd have his chance.

  After a few minutes Niner was starting to see intact build­ings through the trees. He was nearing the farthest edge of the blast zone. Farther ahead he could see lights coming toward him, and his visor told him they were approaching fast. He dropped down into the cover of the grass. As they got nearer, he could pick out one landspeeder and a speeder bike.

  Niner couldn't face walking back into the blast zone to take one. He'd have to stop them here. And he'd have to stop them with minimum damage, or else he'd still be hiking back to the RV point.

  He aimed his rifle on sniper setting and waited until the landspeeder was within three hundred meters. It didn't sur­prise him that it wasn't an emergency vehicle. He could see the driver clearly: a Trandoshan. They didn't have a record in humanitarian public service. He was probably rushing to see if his slave traffic had been affected by the blast. The speeder was carrying a Trandoshan as well.

  Niner squeezed gently, and the bolt shattered the land-

  speeder's screen. The vehicle veered right off the road, spray­ing mud and gravel in the air, and the speeder bike swung left and pulled up dead. For a moment the rider hesitated, instinc­tively looking around in the dark as if unsure what had hap­pened, but then he appeared to work it out just as Niner's second bolt caught him full in the chest. The speeder bike hung motionless a meter above the ground.

  There was a lot to be said for night-vision visors.

  Niner ran from cover and swung onto the speeder, catch­ing his pack on the back of the seat. He savored the moment. Taking the weight off his feet ranked near the top of the list of primeval human needs, along with a long drink of ice-cold water. The relief was wonderful.

  A good night's sleep and a decent hot meal would have rounded it off perfectly. The sooner he got back to his squad and finished the job in hand, the sooner he'd be able to in­dulge. He steered the speeder into the woods and headed south with newly uplifted spirits.

  Pinpricks of light formed a small constellation ahead of Etain. They might have been a kilometer away, or they might have been within arm's reach: she couldn't tell by sight alone.

  But she could certainly smell their breath. It was a cloy­ing, sickly scent of raw meat. She swiped her lightsaber across the entrance to the shelter, and the gdans scattered. She had tried using the Force to persuade them to bother someone else, but it only succeeded in making them more curious, although they had stopped trying to take bites out of her.

  How do you do it, Jinart? How do you keep them at bay? She sat huddled under the covering Darman had constructed and listened to the water working its way down through the leaves. The rain had stopped, but the runoff was still trickling through and plopping on the sheet of plastoid above her head. She could hear again, at least in one ear.

  She could also see very clearly. What she saw was the face

  of the Umbaran she'd almost decapitated with her lightsaber. Panic and fear had pushed the event from her mind, but now that she was quiet and tired, it flooded back and wouldn't go away.

  Etain tried to meditate for the first time in days, shutting out the irritating drip of water on her head. Darman prowled around outside, silent and unnerving. She could feel him ebbing and flowing; anxious, even a little scared, but focused and devoid of violence or inner conflict.

  She wanted to ask him how he achieved that balance. They had both been raised in complete isolation from the everyday world, with their own set of values and disciplines, not be­cause they had been chosen to be different but because they had been born that way. Their calling was random, genetic— unfair. He'd obviously succeeded brilliantly; she had failed in equal measure. She let the sensation of his clarity wash over her.

  It was almost soothing. Then it was suddenly gone and a wave of pure exhilaration hit her like a body blow. Darman thrust his head through the entranc
e to the shelter.

  "They're coming," he said. "My squad's on its way." He paused as if he was listening to something, his glove held against the side of his helmet. It was odd to watch someone so obviously delighted without having the slightest idea of his facial expression. "An hour or so. Niner's taken out the comm station at Teklet. Fi and Atin have acquired a bit more gear that'll come in handy. Plus a prisoner." He paused again. His head was moving as if he was talking. He appeared to be able to switch back and forth between being audible and in­audible to her, as if his helmet was a separate environment into which he could retreat at will. "A Weequay, of all things. Oh well, they've got their reasons."

  He was utterly still for a few moments before nodding vig­orously. He eased off his helmet and his face was one broad grin, aimed at nothing in particular.

  "They're all right, I take it," Etain said.

  "They're fine."

  "I'm glad. You're brothers, right?"

  "No, not really."

  "All right, you're clones."

  "They're not my original squad," Darman said. His ex­pression was still all delight and good humor. "My brothers were all killed at the battle of Geonosis, and so were theirs. We didn't even know each other before this mission. But three of us had the same training sergeant, so I suppose we feel like family. Except Atin, of course."

  It was an extraordinary statement. Darman showed not the slightest sign of being wounded by his recent loss. Etain knew little of biological families, but she knew that losing Master Fulier would still hurt badly in three months' time, and even in three years. Perhaps they'd bred grief out of clones, too.

  "You don't miss your brothers, then."