Ny leaned on the steering yoke and turned to look at him. She seemed to be studying his hands, as if imagining what size blaster a child of that age would need just to be able to grip it.
“Kal told me that,” she said quietly. “About you handling weapons as toddlers, and all those tests and experiments. You poor little barves. It’s criminal. No wonder you hate Kaminoans.”
“Oh, they didn’t expose us to live fire until we were two. Which is about four or five, in clone terms. We weren’t babies.”
Ordo wasn’t making light of it. He was simply correcting facts, and he didn’t expect to see Ny’s eyes glaze with tears. Sometimes Besany had that look, too—pity, like she could see something he couldn’t and that she didn’t want to mention.
I don’t need pity. None of us do. Not us Nulls, anyway. We control our own lives.
“Kal’buir saved us,” Ordo said, “and after that, it was the aiwha-bait that was afraid, not us. Genetics isn’t a cake recipe. They found that out fast enough.”
Mereel seemed chastened. He still had to have the last word, though. He’d spent a lot of time working on the Kamino research data, and—Ordo had to admit it—he was getting annoyingly cocky about it all.
“Okay. I surrender,” he said. “The Spaarti guys can be just as good as us if they eat their greens and work hard.”
“Sad,” Ny said wistfully, and went back to staring at the cargo doors of the freighter in front of her. “Very sad.” She shook her head. “Do Niner and Dar know Palps is a Sith?”
“Yes,” Ordo said. “I told Niner.”
“And how did Dar take it when you told him Kal had refugee Jedi at Kyrimorut?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Don’t you think he ought to know?”
Ordo had a feeling Dar wouldn’t be comfortable with that. It was better to break it to him when he could see how harmless the two Jedi were. “He’ll find out soon enough.”
Outside the terminal, altitude was restricted, and Ny had to stick to freight skylanes. As soon as Cornucopia cleared the gates—no stops, no inspections, just a droid recording transponder codes for port taxes—she dropped the ship into a freight lane and headed for the nearest commercial sector of the city. Everywhere Ordo looked, there were advertiscreens exhorting citizens to be vigilant and report beings acting suspiciously. That applied to half the planet on a good day. The ad he found most unsettling was one that depicted a humanoid of indeterminate species skulking in an alley as if planting a bomb: HE COULD BE YOUR NEIGHBOR. YOUR FRIEND. YOUR BROTHER. YOUR SON. SUSPICIONS? COMM THE IMPERIAL SECURITY HOTLINE.
Imagine not being able to trust your own brother.
Ordo found that unthinkable. He had to respect Palpatine’s capacity for getting the public to do his dirty work for him by sowing doubt and discord. Every citizen would be a spy, afraid of their own shadow and looking for threats everywhere.
“Palps must have more of an unhappy minority left over from the war than we thought,” Mereel said. “After the cease-fire, always the purges …”
“New despots are always a little nervous.”
“He’s not exactly new at this.”
“He had the Senate and the Jedi getting under his feet before. Maybe the new freedom to throw his weight around is making him a little giddy.”
“I need directions,” Ny said. “As in, you haven’t told me where we’re going yet.”
“Just working that out now,” Jaing said. “If you see a grocery warehouse, feel free to stop and load up while we talk to Niner.”
“I know you’re clever boys,” she said, “but you do worry me. Whatever happened to precision planning?”
“Look at it this way, Ny. If we don’t know where we’re going next, nobody can plan an ambush for us, can they?”
Ordo prodded Prudii. “Monitor what that officer’s saying. Leave Niner to me. Can you separate the audio channels?”
“I can remote-launch the Emperor’s private shuttle if you give me an hour.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
Ny just snorted to herself and stuck to the skylane. She couldn’t exceed the speed limit, anyway. Ordo activated his secure comlink with a couple of blinks, reassured that Ny was such a worrier. Worriers tended to check everything and not make dumb mistakes.
“Niner, are you able to talk?”
“Who’s that?”
“Ordo, ner vod. We’re clear of the freight port and we need an RV point.”
Ordo could hear the hum of discussion in the background. Niner was still in the briefing. “Shab, that’s short notice. This isn’t Zey’s brigade anymore, you know. We can’t come and go as we please, and we’re tasked at the last minute for security reasons. I need to set something up.”
At least someone in the Imperials had learned from the liberties that Skirata had taken with the Jedi generals.
“We’re ready when you are,” Ordo said. “Got the chip?”
“Yes.” Niner sounded as if he was trying not to move his jaw too much. His consonants were distorted. “And never ask where I had to hide it.”
“Dar hasn’t got a secure link installed, has he?”
“No, the droid couldn’t get access to his helmet. But …”
“But what?”
“It’s probably for the best. He’s on a short fuse. I’m never sure what he’s going to do next.”
“Is he cracking up?”
“Ner vod, he saw his wife killed. Is he completely reliable and on top form? Not guaranteed. I haven’t told him about the chip yet. Or that I’m in contact with you.”
Niner was always the ultra-cautious one. “Then you have your doubts.” Great. We need Dar to stay cool. Never mind. We can extract them. Treat it like a cas-evac under fire. Or a civvie hostage. “We’ll allow for minimal self-help on this, then. Just don’t feel insulted.”
“We won’t.” Niner paused. “You know we went after General Camas, don’t you? He’s dead. Cost us a man, too.”
“Ah, that was the shabuir who was going to chill us down after Geonosis, before Zey took over. Well, you got extra Palpatine Points for capping your old boss. He’ll trust you more now.”
“We hope.”
“Now, that commander of yours …”
“Roly Melusar. Just took over from the Intel guy, Sa Cuis.”
“He sounds keen.”
“Very. He almost had me convinced that I could save the galaxy, secure lasting peace, and put an end to injustice, all before lunch.”
“Almost?” Ordo said.
Niner’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I want to go home before I get too comfortable here. Dar needs to get out, too. He really does.”
“Consider it done,” Ordo said. “We’ll carry on monitoring your audio input. Try not to power down your buy’ce until we get to you. Ordo out.”
Ordo listened to the audio as Prudii monitored it. He heard Scorch: Holy Roly. Ordo hoped the commandos didn’t get too attached to the man. Charismatic leaders like Melusar could inspire you to do anything and feel it was a privilege to die for them. Ordo felt a little wary prickle tighten his scalp, and reminded himself that Skirata was just like that, too—pulling a knife on Kaminoan clonemasters, defying generals, instilling a sense of invincibility into any clone he trained, managing to be both uplifting and dangerous at the same time. Men like that could wield enormous power for good or ill.
Maybe Melusar really is a decent man. But maybe he’s out to entrap the security risks. I’ll have to assume the latter until proven otherwise.
“Where to, then?” Ny asked.
“Do normal things,” Ordo said. “Pick up supplies as per your transit sheet.”
“Shopping.” Ny tapped the nav computer on the console and set a skylane route. “Let’s try the Core Comestibles Warehouse. It’s bigger than Keldabe, and if they haven’t got it, it doesn’t exist.”
The Empire ran a tighter ship than the Republic, that was clear. Niner would have to keep his helmet
on at all times so he wouldn’t attract attention as he waited for instructions. Ordo could feel a little bead of nervous sweat snaking down his spine, nothing to do with the temperature in his suit, and rubbed his back against his seat to relieve the itch.
He didn’t usually get this edgy on a mission. But the memory of Shinarcan Bridge had dented his confidence a little. That extraction had been only seconds from completion, not even in hostile territory, but Etain had been killed and Darman and Niner had been left stranded.
Nothing was risk-free. And Nulls weren’t omnipotent.
Just a lot faster, harder, and smarter than everyone else. We were built for this. Come on. We can do it.
“Poor Dar’ika,” Mereel said quietly. “Niner must think he’s lost the plot completely if he hasn’t even told him we’re getting them out.”
“Ah, you know Niner,” Ordo said. His top lip itched with sweat now. He’d have to take off his bucket to have a good scratch while he had a chance. “He invented caution. He’s got a secret ambition to be an accountant.”
Prudii was still monitoring the briefing, recording it to extract every scrap of data and any subtle clues about the location that just might come in handy one day.
Ordo concentrated on the voices. “So they’re interested in a human male, Master Djinn Altis, and they don’t know much about him or how many followers he had … some guy called Jax Pavan … a bunch of Padawans—mainly human, some Twi’lek—a Whiphid called Krook or something, and …”
Mereel looked up from his datapad. “That’d be K’Kruhk. A Knight. The one who left the Order for a while because he wouldn’t use clone troopers.”
“Looks like most didn’t survive the Purge.” Prudii was listening intently, occasionally scribbling on his datapad. “But it’s clear that Imperial Intel doesn’t have any hard numbers, and they don’t know who’s just missing and who’s escaped. We can use that, I think.”
“Can’t they tally the bodies?” Mereel asked.
“You think the Jedi Order let them have a copy of the Temple payroll so they could tick-box the dead ones?” Prudii made a huffing sound. “Looks like they got most of the Masters. And the Knights. You can’t fault Palps on strategic planning. Nearly a clean sweep.”
“When they mention Kina Ha and Scout, start worrying.”
“Why? I mean, why worry more than usual?”
“If Palps knows about Kina Ha’s age, he’ll be after her like a borrat up a drainpipe. Remember what Ko Sai said about why she went on the run? The old shabuir wanted her to extend his life span.”
Altis. Ordo recalled one of the Altis sect Knights, a young woman called Callista Masana. Even if the Kaminoans hadn’t engineered his eidetic memory, he’d never have forgotten her or her young comrades.
“I met some of the Altis Jedi,” he said. “They have their own rules. Not like other Jedi.”
“Are those the ones who had families?” Jaing asked.
Even Ny perked up at that. “They do like to bend the rule book, don’t they?”
No, they were definitely not like other Jedi. Altis allowed attachment. They’d returned to the practices of a less rigid and ascetic age, as Etain had put it. They took lovers. They married. Ordo even saw Callista kiss her boyfriend, and nobody had apoplexy about it.
Ordo found the very existence of Altis’s sect troubling. Their differences seemed so profound that he found it hard to believe the sect hadn’t been a permanent topic of discussion in Jedi circles. Every Jedi who had to walk away from a forbidden love—and there had to be plenty, he was sure, because all beings needed someone—would have found that contradiction baffling and painful.
He did, too, but for different reasons.
There were Jedi he liked, and Jedi he despised, and then there was the Jedi Order, which was no better than the Senate as far as he was concerned. It existed for its own sake, like all institutions. After that, things got murkier. There were dissidents, the Altises and K’Krukhs of the galaxy, and there were all kinds of Force-using sects Ordo hardly knew about. They didn’t seem to be one happy Force-bending family.
Commander Melusar regarded them all as dangerous. Ordo didn’t have an answer to that, and uncertainty ate at him like the itch on his back. The argument was persuasive. He tried to separate the apparently unfair advantage of being able to use the Force from his own advantage of being vastly more intelligent than anyone else other than his brothers.
It was an interesting thought. He set it aside when Ny suddenly took a left turn, an unplanned one that set her route computer chiming to tell her she was lost. Ordo looked around, expecting trouble.
“Relax, ad’ike,” she said. She was learning the odd Mando’a word or two. “Just a detour past somewhere I’d rather not overfly again—not yet. One day, though.”
“Where?” Mereel asked.
“Shinarcan Bridge.” Ny pressed her headset closer to her ear to follow the newscast. “And Palpatine’s just issued a statement about why he had to pacify Gibad … with a killer virus.”
Kyrimorut, Mandalore; ten hours after the release of prototype virus FG36
“I killed them,” Uthan said. “This is all my doing.”
She sat with her head in her hands, elbows braced on the kitchen table. Jusik didn’t know where to begin to comfort her. He simply sat vigil with her, with Skirata and Gilamar at the table, while the rest of the household slept. It had been five hours since Gilamar had decided Uthan had had enough of watching the destruction of her civilization, brought to her courtesy of the Galactic News Network and the generous sponsorship of Kuat Drive Yards.
There wasn’t much you could say to a scientist whose bioweapon had just been used to slaughter millions of her own people. Jusik willed Skirata not to make the observation that those who lived by the sword also stood a good chance of dying by it, and had little right to gripe if they did. Then he had a fleeting moment of panic as he realized he’d come perilously close to mind-influencing Kal’buir without even thinking about it.
That’s not right. You know that’s the worst thing you can do. And you know he’s not susceptible.
But at that moment, Skirata was; his guard was down. He glanced at Jusik as if he’d felt something. Where was the line between influencing someone the wrong way, and just being able to silently divert them from saying something because they knew you well enough to read the subtlest of gestures? Jusik had no idea if he’d used the Force or not. He found himself mired in guilt—guilt at having that ability, guilt at worrying about it when millions were dying, guilt for everything connected with Uthan. He berated himself both for not pitying Uthan’s grief enough but also for turning a blind eye to her job, which, at least in part, was killing at arm’s length in vast numbers.
Moral certainty. What a joke. After all my high-minded arguments with Master Zey about using clones, and here I am suspending my morals because I want Uthan to save my brothers.
But what could he do about a scientist like Uthan, other than disapprove? What did duty—ethics—demand when he came face-to-face with someone like that?
I don’t know. I just don’t. Should I bring her to justice? I don’t even know what justice is these days.
Jusik’s influence, whatever it was, didn’t make Skirata pause for long. He tapped at his datapad, doing a passable act of being distracted.
“You sure it’s your virus?” he asked Uthan. “There’s plenty on the market for Palps to choose from.”
Uthan finally raised her head. Her face was gray, utterly drained of blood. “And what do you think he’d use to make his point?”
“But how do you know it’s your handiwork? Maybe he’s so good at messing with our minds that we’re doing his psy ops work for him.” Skirata slipped his ’pad back in his pocket. “What have you seen that makes you think it’s yours?”
Uthan looked at the dead holoreceiver’s screen for a few silent moments. “It’s mine, believe me.”
She got up and pushed her chair slowly back from the ta
ble. Gilamar gave Skirata a discreet nod to say he’d take care of things, and followed her out of the room.
Jusik waited until their footsteps had faded and switched the news back on again. Gibad wasn’t even the top headline on the hourly bulletins now. The attention span of the galactic news services was just as short as it had been under the Republic, and Palpatine’s propaganda machine didn’t have to work terribly hard.
One man—one Sith—can’t do it alone. He needs help from the lazy and disinterested.
“Fierfek.” Skirata shook his head. “The old shabuir picks his moments.”
Jusik strained to focus on the small detail of the holocam shots of Gibadan cities. Disasters all had a sameness about them—cityscapes that looked almost normal, almost familiar, until the debris in the streets suddenly resolved into bodies, and the whole scene changed. Along the lower edge of the screen, brief headlines faded in and out. Some were relevant to the images, and some were totally different stories. Nobody paused and examined anything carefully anymore. Jusik could still concentrate, though, and he followed the headline as it scrolled laboriously.
FUGITIVE GIBADAN SCIENTIST BEHIND BIOWEAPON—VIRUS COULD HAVE BEEN USED AGAINST EMPIRE, SOURCES SAY.
“It’s hers, all right,” Jusik said. “Look. Palps has outed her.”
Skirata frowned at the screen, seeming distracted. “He’s a real sweetie, isn’t he?”
“Why’s he bothering to name her?” Jusik asked. “He doesn’t need to justify himself, and there won’t be many Gibadans left to bay for her blood.”
“Could be plenty of expats left elsewhere, though. He might think they’ll turn her in and save him some time.”
“But he’s got what he wants from her.”
“Well, he’s not got the clone-specific virus, or an extended life … and he’s a sore loser.” Skirata rubbed his eyes. “But how are we going to keep her mind on her aging research when she’s just watched her own world go down the ’fresher thanks to one of her recipes?”
501st: An Imperial Commando Novel Page 21