501st: An Imperial Commando Novel

by Karen Traviss

  Skirata had his priorities, and they obviously didn’t include weeping for Gibad. Jusik understood why that was a step too far for him. It wasn’t the first world to feel Palpatine’s fist, and it wouldn’t be the last; all that mattered was that it wasn’t Mandalore. But Jusik still felt a gut-level resistance to the idea of lying low, a need to do something that he couldn’t define, even if he knew it was pointless.

  “Is that a rhetorical question, Kal’buir?” he asked.

  “No. I need to keep her motivated, and the best I can come up with is reminding her that we might end up being her only tool for revenge.”

  “You think she’ll want vengeance?”

  “She’s human. Wouldn’t you? Okay, maybe not …”

  “It’s hard to put those feelings aside, even with my training.”

  Jusik had come to accept his darker, unlovely side. Every being had one. Denying it was dangerous delusion. Anyone who thought it could be removed by meditation or willpower simply failed to recognize ugly motives for what they were, and gave them a perverse spiritual respectability. You can kill without falling to the dark side if you don’t feel anger or hate. That’s what the Masters taught me. Oh, really? Tell that to the being you kill. Jusik needed to know his normal, acceptable, inevitable human darkness, to shake hands with it and know its face, so that he could always recognize it in the shadows. He had to be able to see the brink to step back from it.

  “What we need,” Skirata said, eyes fixed on a point just past Jusik, “is for Uthan to work up a countermeasure for that shabla virus, in case Palpatine tries to use it on us.”

  “But that’s going to divert her from the aging research.”

  “A virus will kill my boys long before rapid aging does. So we need to find a way of getting both jobs done. Maybe Mij’ika can soften her up.”

  Jusik was never sure whether Skirata—a very emotional man, without doubt—could feel much for strangers these days. There was only so much compassion anyone could expend in a lifetime without going under, and Skirata had already taken on the burden of every passing clone who needed help. It wasn’t fair to see him as callous toward Uthan simply because he had other priorities. And Jusik knew it was all too easy to pity vast numbers of strangers on principle without being able to apply that to flesh and blood standing right in front of you.

  I used to be so sure what was right. Didn’t I?

  Gilamar had been a loyal friend to Skirata for years. Jusik tried to find the acceptable line between exploitation and making the most of a friendship for mutual benefit. It wasn’t easy.

  “She’ll want to lash out at Palpatine.” Jusik knew he was complicit from that second onward. “I could feel her helplessness, and she’s not used to it. She lives in a world where she does rational things and gets results from them. She’s used to having control. Even in jail.”

  Skirata raised an eyebrow. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You never needed Force senses, Kal’buir. I’m a lousy sabacc player.”

  “Yes, I will use her any way I can. She made the shabla thing. She knows she’s got to do something—either to atone, or to thwart Palpatine. I don’t care which, and I don’t feel bad about exploiting that guilt. I might even be purging it for her.”

  “I’m not arguing.”

  “I care what you think of me, Bard’ika. I’m still honoring the deal I made with her.”

  Jusik didn’t feel comfortable holding that much sway over Skirata. It wasn’t the way things should have been; a son needed the approval of his father, not the other way around, and Jusik felt very much the son who had most to prove. Kal’buir was his benchmark of devotion, so selfless that it wiped the slate clean of his long criminal history. If he stole or killed these days, he did it for those he loved, and that included Jusik.

  It’s not the dark side if you don’t feel hate or anger.

  The old dilemma wouldn’t go away. Jusik realized he applied the same self-justification as any of his former Jedi brethren. The difference was … shab, he couldn’t work it out. It just felt different somehow.

  “I know, Kal’buir,” he said. “Do you think she ever tested it on humans?”

  “Well, we know she never had the chance to test it on clones. I don’t want to think about what scientists get up to behind closed doors. Turns my gut.”

  Jusik knew that the action of drugs, bacteria, and viruses could be modeled on computers, their biochemical actions predicted and plotted. But he found himself feeling worse for thinking that a virus designed solely to kill had been tested on anything living. It was a strange sensation. He was suddenly conscious of the weight of his lightsaber on his belt, and wondered exactly when and how some ancient Jedi had worked out that an energy beam could take off someone’s head.

  Nobody’s hands were completely clean. All any being could do was to strive to make sure the dirt was kept to a minimum.

  “I think you should just come straight out and ask her for the antibody, and tell her why,” Jusik said at last. “She responds to reason.”

  Skirata nodded. Then he levered himself to his feet, both hands braced on the arms of the chair. “Time I got some sleep,” he said. “They say you need less as you get older, but I just seem to need more.”

  Skirata hadn’t slept in a proper bed since the night he saved the young Nulls from extermination in Tipoca City. He’d do what he’d done every night for the last eleven or twelve years: settle down in another chair with his feet up on a stool, or even curl up on the floor with a bedroll under his head as if he were still on the battlefield. He didn’t talk about it. Everyone knew why he did it. It was a habit that had become a ritual, his unspoken vow that he wouldn’t take it easy until his clone sons had their lives back. Jusik followed him into the karyai and watched him make himself comfortable—or what passed for it—on one of the upholstered seats.

  He had a bedroom of his own, like everyone else. Only his clothing and his favorite Verpine sniper rifle occupied it.

  “I’ll talk to her in the morning,” Jusik offered. “I won’t even mess with her mind.”

  “I’ll do it. Me and her, we’ve got an understanding.”

  Jusik recalled a comment Kal’buir had made a couple of years ago. He couldn’t remember what had led to it, but it had moved him deeply, and every so often it surfaced in his memory: Bard’ika, if you ever want a father, then you have one in me. Yes, Jusik often wanted a father. He’d been handed over to the Jedi long before he was old enough to have any memory of his own. But he was now part of a culture where fathers and fatherhood mattered—not lineage or bloodline, but the long and infinite duty to a youngster who depended on you. He badly wanted to be part of this family, a real part, formal and permanent.

  “Kal’buir,” Jusik said, “have you got room for another son?”

  Skirata looked baffled for a few seconds, then smiled and held out his hand to grasp Jusik’s arm, Mando-style, hand to elbow. “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad, Bard’ika. I recognize you as my child.”

  Mandalorian adoption was fast and permanent, a few words to recognize someone as child and heir regardless of their age. Given the emotional weight behind it, the oath seemed almost inadequate.

  “Buir,” Jusik said. Father. Everyone called Skirata Kal’buir, a mark of affectionate respect, but the word was now changed forever for Jusik, because it was suddenly real and literal. He was finally someone’s son; someone with a name, someone he knew and cared about. For a man with no past, that sudden sense of completion was heady and unexpected. “I wonder where I’d be now if it wasn’t for you.”

  Skirata let go of his arm. “Works both ways, Bard’ika. That’s what makes us family.”

  The house was completely silent except for the crackle of embers in the karyai’s huge fireplace and the occasional click as roof timbers contracted. Jusik made his way down the passages to his room. He didn’t even remember falling asleep until he woke up staring into the dark vault of the ceiling, wondering what that noise
was.

  As always, it wasn’t just a noise. He sensed a whole package of other information with it via the Force. It was dread, confusion, and a need to run. He let it wash over him for a moment.

  Claws tapped on the flagstones in the passage. The door edged open.

  “You heard it too, Mird?” Jusik whispered. The strill had its own kind of radar, a predator’s sensitivity to every noise and smell. “How’d you know I was awake?” Jusik swung his legs out of bed and pulled on some clothes. “Come on. Let’s see what it is.”

  Mird seemed to know where the sound was coming from. Jusik buckled his belt and lightsaber out of pure habit, and followed the animal past the kitchen to the main back doors that led out onto open country. Thaw or not, the air felt bitterly cold. Mird stood completely motionless, nose pointing into the breeze, and grumbled quietly in its throat. Someone was walking around the perimeter, occasionally cracking twigs in the undergrowth, and for a moment Jusik feared the worst—that the bastion had been found. But Mird’s reaction—calm, more worried than defensive—told him it wasn’t a stranger prowling out there, and what he sensed in the Force was a troubled spirit.

  It was probably Arla, or maybe even Uthan unable to sleep. No … Arla. It was Arla. Poor woman, she was coming off those stop-a-bantha tranquilizers, and she was in no shape to be wandering around in the cold and dark in a strange place. He’d bring her back inside.

  Mird trotted on without prompting, leading Jusik through the trees. They made enough noise not to startle her. Jusik tried to imagine what might have made her venture outside, and wondered if it had been such a good idea to leave doors unlocked. He spotted her standing on the bank of the stream that formed a natural boundary to the north.

  “Hey, Arla,” he called. Despite the racket he was making, she still flinched. “You’re going to catch your death of cold. Come indoors.”

  Jusik ambled up to her, making a point of looking harmless. He wondered why some could live with horrific memories and others couldn’t. Poor Arla. They’d done the right thing getting her out of that place. It wasn’t going to be easy adjusting to life outside, but it had to be better than an institution.

  He was about a meter from her now. She was radiating so much tension in the Force that he almost expected her to panic and run, but she turned to face him almost casually, right arm at her side, left hand in her tunic pocket.

  It was then that she raised her arm and he saw the weapon—wood, a metal bar, he wasn’t sure which. In the stretched fraction of a second before it hit him, he defaulted to being a Jedi, and sent her crashing backward with a Force blow that was pure reflex.

  He should have seen it coming.

  Mess hall, 501st Legion Special Unit barracks, Imperial City

  Niner now had to think on his feet.

  The longer Ordo and the others were on Coruscant, the more they risked getting caught. He had to deliver that datachip if nothing else. He also had to get Dar in a position where he’d desert with him, right there and then. There’d be no second chances or asking for a week to think it over. If Ordo had to come back and run the gauntlet of Imperial security checks again, the risks would be even higher than hanging around.

  It couldn’t wait. He watched nervously as Darman dawdled over his plate of noodles, and the moment he twirled the last strands around his fork and slurped them, Niner took the plate away and stood up.

  “Practice range,” Niner said. “I really need to sharpen up.”

  It was stand-easy time, and they’d have the SU range to themselves for a while. Darman just gave him a look and didn’t argue. They knew each other well enough to gauge what was a problem and when it needed to be discussed elsewhere.

  “Okay.” Darman took the plate back and placed it on the tray of a service droid as it passed on its never-ending trawl for dirty dishes, cutlery, and spills. “Let’s see what we can do. But remember the new guy’s showing up in an hour.”

  Shab. Niner had forgotten about Rede. Well, they could get this over and done with by then, and then he could worry about how to handle Rede.

  “An hour’s plenty.”

  The interior range was soundproofed, ringed by handy booths and storage areas that were ideal for avoiding interruptions. Niner switched to his secure helmet link as he walked down the corridor, inaudible to Darman.

  “Ordo? It’s me. Where are you?”

  Ordo was obviously standing by. There was hardly a second’s delay. “Four klicks from your position, ner vod.”

  “I’m about to break the news to Darman. It’d be a good idea to give us a time and a place. Things are getting complicated here.”

  This time, the link went quiet for a few moments. “Where might you be able to hang around in full armor without looking too obvious, and where a freighter could lay up?”

  “Is that what you’re driving today?”

  “Ny Vollen’s crate. Cornucopia. It’s a CEC Monarch, thirty meters length overall, beam ten meters, total draft fifteen meters.”

  Niner couldn’t recall seeing the ship. He tried to visualize something that size and where it might hang around for a while without looking out of place. The first thing that sprang to mind was an industrial zone, but that wasn’t somewhere a commando in full black rig could loiter without drawing attention in daylight. Then there were commercial areas, maybe the megastores with loading areas the size of small neighborhoods.

  “Can we do this when it’s dark?” Niner checked his chrono. “Seven hours, roughly.”

  “Yes.”

  “How about one of the waste processing plants? They’re full of vessel holding areas. Or a repulsortruck park.”

  “Repulsortruck park makes sense. You won’t be hanging around long, anyway. Report in on the hour, and we’ll fine-tune the RV time and location.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Very convincing, Ner’ika … Ordo out.”

  Darman nudged him. “You’re up to something.”

  “Maybe.” Niner checked that the range was clear, switched on the DO NOT ENTER safety sign, and steered Dar into the end stall. “Bucket off.”

  Darman took off his helmet, powered it down completely, and stuffed his gauntlets into it. “I get the idea,” he whispered.

  “Dar, I’m going to have to mention some painful things.”

  Darman looked like he was trying hard to be unconcerned. “Okay, I promise I’ll stop eating things that give me gas.”

  “Serious.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

  Niner hadn’t spelled it out before. They both knew all too well what had happened the night of the Jedi Purge, and he thought that the less he reminded Darman of his misery, the safer it would be. Darman seemed not to want to talk about it, either. Now he had to.

  “Dar, your kid needs you. We have to get out of here. Sorry. I don’t know how else to say it.”

  Darman looked away for a few moments, focusing on the blasterproof wall. “I know,” he said at last. “But I still feel like I’m running out on my buddies.”

  “Do you still want to … leave?” Niner was wary of saying the D word, even when he was sure he couldn’t be heard. “We decided we would. All of us.”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “You want to see Kad again, don’t you?” Niner knew as soon as he said it that he’d stepped through thin ice.

  Dar’s eyes glazed with tears. “You know what?” he said. “I don’t know if I can look at him. When I look at him, I’ll see her and everything we never got a chance to have as a family, and I don’t think I can handle that.”

  “But he’s your son.” Niner understood exactly what he meant. “You’ll pick him up, and all that father stuff is going to flood in. You’ll want to be with him for exactly that reason—because he’s yours and Etain’s.”

  It was the first time Niner had dared say her name for ages. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d said it at all since the night she was killed. Her death hung over him and Darman like a permanent pall of smo
ke that they could both see but never mentioned, because its presence was so overwhelmingly obvious.

  Dar shut his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How am I going to keep him safe? What if the Jedi come back?”

  “If they ever do, they’ll have to find him first, and then they’ll have to get past Skirata. And the Nulls. And me.”

  The longer they waited to escape the less urgent it seemed, except for the fact that Kad was growing up without his parents. Niner wavered between looking forward to a new life and fearing that he’d waste it because he wouldn’t know what to do with it.

  “What did they do with her body?” Darman asked. A dam seemed to have burst, spilling out questions that must have been eating him alive. “I don’t know where she is. Did they take her? I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t even know how to find out.”

  It seemed as good a time as any to tell him.

  “I’ll ask Ordo,” Niner said.

  Darman looked up very slowly. “You’re in touch with the Nulls.”

  “Yes.”

  “When were you planning to tell me that, ner vod?” Darman hadn’t been told he had a son for eighteen months. He didn’t take kindly to being kept in the dark, and Skirata had the scars to prove it. “That explains a lot.”

  “No, it doesn’t—”

  “I knew it. You’ve been acting weird.”

  “I swear they only made contact today. That’s why we’re standing here now.”

  Darman wasn’t catching on fast enough. “Cut the osik. Tell me.”

  “They’ve come to get us out.”

  Darman’s gaze flickered. “They’re taking a big risk.”

  Skirata always talked about cage-farmed nuna. It was hard to set them free, he said, because they’d been born in a cage and bars were all they knew. They’d often scuttle back to the cage when set loose, as if the sheer scale of the open fields overwhelmed them. Niner thought he saw that nuna look on Dar’s face.

  “That’s why we need to get moving,” he said. “We’ve got a few hours yet.” He tapped his helmet. “Jaing seems to have a hundred ways of getting into government systems. The man’s inventive.”