501st: An Imperial Commando Novel

by Karen Traviss

  “Are we done?” Darman asked. “Because Vader’s giving us our briefing in a few minutes, and I hear he’s pretty tough on bad timekeeping.”

  There was no more Sergeant Kal, the indulgent father, and his loose regulations. There was a command structure of officers, and things were a lot tighter all around. The only part of their previous lives as Republic commandos that they’d kept—apart from the Deece—was their ID numbers, now with an IC prefix.

  They’d think that changing our numbers was like changing our names, wouldn’t they?

  Niner began to wonder if he was making excuses for the Empire, attributing gestures that it simply wasn’t making. Perhaps that was his own way of staying sane.

  They kept up the pretense of walking toward their helmets to see if the alarm kicked in, which at least told Niner that something in Darman still knew he had a secret to keep. For a moment he wondered if Darman’s paranoia about the Empire was even worse than his own, and this was just a conscious act maintained twenty-four hours a day so that it never slipped. But it was hard to tell. Darman put on his helmet, killing any further chance of private conversation, and they strode off in silence to the briefing hall.

  Niner wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see when he got there. The ranks of commandos waiting for Lord Vader weren’t the entire strength of the former Special Operations Brigade. Niner estimated it was less than a quarter, maybe a thousand men, so he wondered how they’d been selected. He had no way of recognizing any of them until they spoke or moved, though, because the individual paint schemes they’d been encouraged to apply to their armor, Mandalorian-style, had now been erased by a sea of uniform black. It said more clearly than anything that the galaxy had changed. Niner didn’t even spot Scorch until the man slipped into a space beside him. His vivid yellow armor flashes were gone.

  Funny. We’re used to recognizing individuals with identical faces, but then I’m thrown for a loop when everyone’s got the same armor.

  “How are things, ner vod?” Scorch asked. “You’ve been keeping to yourselves lately.”

  Niner decided it was probably a bad idea to speak Mando’a in front of strangers, although he wasn’t sure why. By strangers, he meant any of the 501st stormtroopers who hadn’t started life as Republic commandos on Kamino, trained by Mando sergeants. He wasn’t sure if he could think of them as brothers.

  “I’ve not been well,” Niner said, deadpan.

  “Heard about the injury. Nasty.” Scorch didn’t say if he knew the detail of the fight at Shinarcan Bridge. But it was no secret that a woman had been killed when she stepped between a clone trooper and a Jedi’s lightsaber. Just how many people knew it was Etain was another matter. “I think we’ve got some ARCs here, too. Imagine that, the ARC boys having to slum it with us lesser mortals … so how are you, Dar?”

  Darman shrugged. “I hate this new armor.”

  “Yeah, it’s a waste of creds. Nothing wrong with the old kit. Fixer hates it, too. Boss couldn’t care less.”

  Niner had to ask. “Any news on Sev?”

  He said it as neutrally as he could. Darman wasn’t the only man here with painful memories. Every commando knew that Delta Squad had lost contact with Sev and left him behind when they banged out of Kashyyyk. Quite a few men thought the squad should have told General Yoda to shove his order to pull out, and gone back for their buddy. But Yoda was now gone, too, along with the rest of the Jedi. Sev was one more tragedy in a grinding, oddly pointless war, the extra agony piled on by losing comrades in the last days of the fighting.

  Like Etain. She was minutes—no, seconds away from getting off Coruscant for good. It’s just cruel. It shouldn’t have been like that.

  “No,” Scorch said, his voice a little hoarse. “Sev’s still MIA.”

  He didn’t ask about Etain. But Delta Squad knew about her and Dar. Niner just hoped that the gossip hadn’t reached Vader.

  Vader … Vader was as far from General Arligan Zey as any being could be, a huge figure encased completely in black armor, helmet, and cape. His voice and rasping breath didn’t even sound human, although rumor said he was. He swept into the hall and didn’t even introduce himself. He didn’t need to. In two or three weeks, he’d become the name whispered in messes and canteens. This was the Emperor’s right hand, and he could do things that only Jedi could do, like moving things—and smashing them—without touching them.

  Someone said he’d been a Jedi once. But so had Dooku. It would be no big surprise if that was true. Niner didn’t know or care about that, but he’d treat Vader with caution anyway. He stood to attention. The last thing he wanted right then was to be singled out as an individual. He wanted to vanish.

  Vader stood with his thumb hooked in his belt, his rhythmic, wheezing breaths sounding like a machine. “We have tracked down many of the traitors who escaped the Purge, but our work is not finished,” he boomed. “There are still Jedi evading justice, and we have deserters from our own ranks to deal with. You will live up to your name as Vader’s Fist. You will hunt down the remaining fugitives.”

  Niner expected some reaction from Darman, at least a flinch. But he stood frozen. Nobody moved or said a word.

  “Your former special forces comrades are adept at causing death and chaos,” Vader continued. “So you are the ones best placed to locate and neutralize them. I expect no quarter given to them. They were your brothers once, but they are now traitors, an insult to all of you and your sacrifices. You are now the Imperial Commando Special Unit. Do not disappoint me.”

  A list of fugitives was transmitted to the clones. Niner knew that every clone in the hall was doing the same as he was at that moment. Each man was adjusting his focus to look at the head-up display in his helmet to check the images and text superimposed on the view through his visor.

  He knew he’d see names he recognized. The faces didn’t matter, of course. Except for the Jedi and a few others, they would all look identical; and there they were, listed as numbers.

  ARC trooper Captain A-26 and ARC trooper A-30—Maze and Sull.

  Maze? Old misery guts, AWOL? Him, of all people …

  Niner was genuinely surprised by that. Maze was Zey’s aide, a man who did things by the book. Niner wouldn’t have bet on him making a run for it, but then there were others there on the list who seemed equally unlikely: Yayax Squad, Hyperion Squad, and individual Republic commandos he remembered. There was even a regular clone commander missing, Commander Levet, who’d served under Etain on Qiilura.

  Corr and Atin were on the list, of course, but Fi wasn’t. At least his faked death had convinced the Empire’s new record keepers. But most civilian personnel were exactly the same beings who’d served the Republic just weeks earlier, at the same desks and with the same salaries, and nothing much had changed for the vast majority of Coruscant’s population except the name of the place. It was Imperial City now, and the planet was Imperial Center. The biggest task the desk jockeys faced was revising the holocharts. Niner still found that hard to take in after so many lives had been torn apart in his own small circle.

  Coruscant. Corrie. Triple Zero. Trip Zip. I’m easy. But it’ll never be Imperial City as far as I’m concerned.

  The deserters list was short but significant. Rolled together, they made a brutal little army to be reckoned with. Niner had seen how much damage a single ARC could do, from blowing up key targets to destabilizing whole governments. Come to that, he knew how much damage he could do with a few brothers and the right kit. They were dangerous. They’d been bred and trained to be that way.

  Do I want to stop these men?

  Do I want to kill them?

  Of course I don’t. They’re our own.

  And then there were the other names, the ones that needed pictures as well, because they were random beings with their own distinctive features—the Jedi on the run. Bardan Jusik was only one name on a list that was longer than Niner expected, all little Padawans and minor Knights but relatively few Masters.

&nb
sp; But there was one Knight on the list nobody would have to look for. This far back in the ranks, Niner doubted that Vader could see him. He put his hand under Darman’s elbow, knowing the effect that seeing Etain Tur-Mukan’s name and face would have on his brother.

  So they don’t know she’s dead. And that means they really aren’t sure who’s dead and who’s missing.

  Etain’s picture wasn’t a flattering one but it still broke Niner’s heart. He could only imagine what it did to Darman. She was a thin, freckled girl with wavy brown hair and green eyes. If he hadn’t known her, he’d have thought she was just another young woman; a librarian, a store assistant, a clerk. She didn’t look like a general who’d fought a war and put everything on the line.

  “It’s okay, Dar,” Niner whispered. If anyone picked that up, it wouldn’t have meant a thing to them. But Darman didn’t react. “Udesii. Take it easy.”

  “I sense that many of you are dismayed by these names.” Vader had a knack for saying the most unsettling things. “You have been commendably loyal to some of these beings. But they deceived you, and they deserve no mercy, either. Your specific missions will be assigned to you soon. Dismiss.”

  The lines of commandos filed out of the hall and broke up into groups heading back to the barracks. Niner kept checking his datapad for assignment details. It was a lot of trouble to go to just to tell them they’d be getting a list of folks to kill. But maybe it was about seeing Vader in the flesh and realizing that the guy meant business. General Zey had never had that effect on him, and as for Yoda—Niner couldn’t actually remember seeing Yoda in person, but he just knew the general didn’t have that gut-gripping presence that Vader had.

  Scorch sidled up to Niner and matched his pace.

  “I hate this,” he said. “And we’ve got some new guy taking Sev’s place. It’s temporary, though. He’d better understand that.”

  Niner remembered Corr joining Omega Squad when Fi had been whisked off to Mandalore. It was obvious that Fi was never coming back, but nobody ever admitted Corr was a permanent replacement. Niner understood Scorch completely. Permanent meant you’d given up hope of seeing your brother again, and made you worry that you’d somehow sealed his fate by accepting he was gone.

  “Well, there you go,” said Darman, walking toward the canteen, eyes on his datapad. At least his appetite was unaffected. “Look at that.”

  “Who did we draw?” Niner asked, suddenly not wanting to look at his own ’pad.

  “We’re with two new guys from Galaar Squad—Ennen and Bry. And we’re just Squad Four-zero now.”

  “I meant who are we supposed to go after.”

  Darman swallowed just hard enough for Niner to realize that he really was distressed by all this, even though he seemed to be numbed by events. There wasn’t a lot one clone could hide from another, not when every small gesture and sound had to be examined to distinguish one brother from another.

  “Some guy called Jilam Kester,” Darman said. “Never heard of him.”

  It was still an assassination, but Niner was relieved that it wasn’t Bard’ika. Then he wondered if they hadn’t been assigned the people they knew best because someone thought they’d never pull the trigger.

  Niner couldn’t imagine the Empire—or anyone—being that tolerant of clones who might not carry out their orders because of sentiment. It felt like a test. He waited until they were on their own on the parade ground before taking off his helmet.

  “Who’s got Skirata and the Nulls? And Vau?” Niner couldn’t see the names anywhere. He scrolled through the list on the ’pad, looking for the numbers: Null ARCs, N-7, N-10, N-11, N-12, N-5, N-6—Mereel, Jaing, Ordo, A’den, Prudii, and Kom’rk. “Palps can’t possibly believe that they’re all conveniently dead now. They were on the bounty hunters’ wanted list before this came out.”

  Darman shrugged. “What if they are? We haven’t heard from anyone in more than two weeks, not since …”

  He stopped. It was the first time he’d come anywhere close to mentioning the night of Order 66 since it had happened. But he didn’t go on.

  Niner checked the ’pad again before he was certain that only the Alpha ARC deserters, Jedi, and Republic commandos were on that hit list. The Jedi Masters and some Knights were marked for execution, and Padawans and other fugitives were to be detained alive. Either Palpatine already had the Nulls and the Mando sergeants—Niner doubted that—or he was sending someone else after them, like Imperial Intelligence.

  Good luck, spooks. You’ll need it. Especially if you’re unlucky enough to find them.

  “Okay, grab Ennen and Bry,” Darman said. “Let’s get this done.”

  That wasn’t Dar talking. That was the pretend Dar.

  “You okay with this?” Niner asked.

  “What, hunting Jedi?”

  “Yes.”

  “They took everything I ever cared about,” Darman said, suddenly more like his real self for a few seconds. “You bet I’m okay with it.”

  He didn’t say anything else. And Niner didn’t press him. He wasn’t sure that he was ready to hear Darman spill all that buried pain.

  Southern outskirts of Keldabe, capital of Mandalore

  Jusik had never seen the thing before, but now that he had he still didn’t believe it. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  It was a vast skull, a mythosaur skull, with huge downturned horns that curved to the jaw, slanted eye sockets, and long teeth. It was the iconic symbol of Mandalore in every sense, both Mand’alor—commander of supercommandos, chieftain of chieftains—and the world itself, Manda’yaim. But it still looked ludicrous on that scale.

  The skull and the rest of the unconvincing skeleton structure was big enough to house a battalion. Keldabe wasn’t the loveliest city in the galaxy, but Jusik was still surprised that anyone had built something that ugly where folks had to look at it. It was, as Coruscant architects might have said, unsympathetic and not in keeping with the vernacular.

  “Ugly as osik,” Ordo said, getting straight to the point. “And useless.”

  Jusik slid out of the speeder and leaned against the door to watch a procession of stormtroopers and repulsors taking equipment into the skull itself. It was hard to imagine what was happening. He hoped they were going to demolish it for offenses against aesthetics. It was the most useful thing that the Empire could ever do for Mandalore.

  “What is it?”

  Ordo stood considering the abomination, arms folded. “Beats me. Maybe it’s some promotional stunt for MandalMotors.” He drew an imaginary skull in the air with his fingertip. “It’s their logo.”

  “You seriously think the average Mando’ad would buy their products on the basis of a giant mythosaur skull? That’s aruetyc.”

  “No, but it’s so bizarre that I struggle for an explanation.”

  “Is Fenn Shysa having some coronation there as the new Mand’alor?”

  “Definitely not his style.” Ordo got back into the speeder. “In fact, I don’t think new Mand’alore have had crowning ceremonies since … well, I don’t know. Vulgar. Very wasteful.”

  “Aruetyc.” Jusik shut the hatch and started the drives, realizing how often he used that word lately—non-Mando, traitor, enemy, or just not one of us. He’d embraced his new identity completely, just as he’d once been wholly Jedi, and it still surprised him when he considered it. Converts are the worst, they say. Is that me? Yes, it is. “Now let’s find out what the Empire’s doing with it.”

  Jusik started up the speeder. He wasn’t bothered by the presence of an Imperial garrison here—yet. Kyrimorut was so remote and hard to find in the thinly populated wilderness that made up most of Mandalore that Keldabe might as well have been on another planet. But he knew that Palpatine hadn’t sited a base here for the benefit of the local economy, so everyone was waiting for the inevitable catch. As long as the Empire employed Mando mercenaries and paid rent for the land, then the jury—on the surface of it, anyway—was still out as to whether the garriso
n was a threat.

  Privately, the decision had already been made.

  Shysa was making plans for a guerrilla war against the Empire. He could already see that it would be an unwelcome lodger in years to come. Kal Skirata—Kal’buir, Papa Kal—didn’t want anything to do with Shysa’s secret army. He had enough trouble of his own. But then he’d never wanted the Empire here, either.

  It had come anyway. Everyone knew where this would end, and only when remained in doubt.

  “Ordo, you know Kal’buir is as dear to me as he is to you,” Jusik said carefully, steering a couple of meters above the riverbank. “But do you think he’s wise to let Ny bring Jedi here?”

  Ordo read his datapad and didn’t comment on the irony of the question. He seemed remarkably relaxed about things now. “It’s not without risk.”

  “How do you feel about having a Kaminoan around?”

  “We coped with having Ko Sai as a houseguest …”

  “Actually, we didn’t, and she didn’t handle it too well, either. She killed herself. And Mereel—she just pressed all the wrong buttons in him.”

  Jusik realized that was the most stupid phrase he’d come out with in a long time. Wrong buttons. No, that didn’t even come close. Mereel, like all the Nulls, was just a faulty product as far as the Kaminoan clonemasters were concerned, something to be put down like an ailing farm animal before they went back to the drawing board. Any normal kid would have been deeply traumatized by that kind of treatment. But kids who had been engineered to be perfect black ops troopers, ferociously intelligent killing machines—their reactions were likely to be a lot more extreme.

  Jusik still marveled at how normal the Nulls managed to be most of time. Mereel was charming and affable, a ladies’ man, always the one with the jokes. And then something would trigger the other Mereel, the tormented and haunted child buried within, and he’d change instantly for a moment before snapping back to his old self. It was as if all the Nulls knew this damaged animal within them only too well, and built new personalities on top to keep it on a leash.