501st: An Imperial Commando Novel

by Karen Traviss

  Uthan liked that honesty. She felt she could say whatever was on her mind in return, and he’d never take offense. “It’d be a great deterrent for Mandalore to hold.”

  “You know what? I think we’d rather have an antiviral first. Because Palps knows his toy really works now. He might want to play with it again.”

  Uthan had worked out that Mandos regarded biological and chemical weapons as beneath contempt, a coward’s tactic deployed from the safety of an armchair. But they were too pragmatic a people to have any warrior-ethic objection to doing things the easy way.

  “Would Mandalore use a biological weapon?” she asked.

  “We prefer sharp things. Pointed things. And noisy things that we can see from about twenty klicks away, preferably resulting in a big ball of flame.” Gilamar looked utterly dejected despite his chirpy tone. She found it odd to have a relative stranger mourning with her. “Trouble with the invisible stuff is that you don’t actually know where it is, or what it’s doing. Or what happens after you let it loose.”

  “If I’d had any sense, I’d have made the immunogen at the same time as I developed the virus. But even if I had—I had no way of getting it to Gibad. Fi and his friends captured me long before then.”

  Gilamar ignored the irony. “I think that antiviral is pretty urgent now.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What do you need to produce it?” He was a kind man, but he wasn’t letting her off the hook. He was right, of course. “Ironically, developing a vaccine is the most dangerous and rebellious thing you can do to the Empire now.”

  “I just manipulated two genes in a naturally occurring nanoscale virus.” Uthan turned her datapad back the right way up and calculated a few more dimensions. “We still need to hold a live virus, so we’d need some extra safety precautions. But FG thirty-six latches on to a single protein in human DNA, and the protein can be made resistant by one gene mutation. I can induce that gene mutation in a population with an engineered virus.”

  “Based on … ?”

  “Something easily transmissible and low-grade, like rhinacyrian fever. Very few humanoids have resistance to it. A day or two of a runny nose and itchy eyes, which is far preferable to dying of internal hemorrhaging and involuntary muscle paralysis.”

  “How fast?”

  “Weeks.”

  “How easy to treat the population?”

  “Vaccination’s best, if you can herd four million Mandos. It would probably be simpler to let it loose and rely on human carriers to spread it. Or do what Palpatine did—disperse it in the air. But that requires a lot of equipment and someone will notice.”

  “Okay, give me your shopping list,” he said. “I’ll get the stuff as soon as I can.”

  “And then how about wiping out Coruscant?”

  “First things first.”

  There was a timid knock on the door. Uthan looked up to see Scout in the doorway, and hoped the girl hadn’t heard the conversation. It felt indecent to discuss plans for mass murder in front of a Jedi. Uthan wasn’t sure why she reacted that way, seeing as she had little respect for the Jedi Order playing enforcer for the Republic, but Scout was a scared child, and that defused Uthan at an instinctive level.

  “I wondered if you wanted breakfast,” Scout said. “I’ll bring it here, if you like. Peace and quiet. You, too, Mij?”

  “Thanks, ad’ika,” Gilamar said. “You’ve got a good heart.”

  Uthan listened until the sound of Scout’s boots faded. Then she looked at Gilamar. “What a strange little group we are, clinging together. All loss and loneliness.”

  “Everyone’s lonely until they find kindred spirits. I think this is a community of folks who’ve had enough and can’t run anymore.”

  “I’m truly grateful for your kindness, Mij. It’s as if everyone’s conveniently forgotten what I actually do for a living.”

  Gilamar shrugged. “Most folks here have taken another being’s life. I think that includes the Force-users, too.”

  “How’s Arla doing?”

  “Not good. Her past seems to be coming back to her, and it sure ain’t happy memories.”

  Scout came back a lot sooner than Uthan expected. She caught herself feeling indignant, and then plunged into burning guilt for getting too engrossed in Gilamar when there were so many dead. But there was a void in her misery, a gap in the connection to the loss of her world that translated into aching, inconsolable grief for loved ones. She was upset, shocked, horrified, enraged—but she felt her sorrow was a fraud, because her personal loss was minimal.

  I have no right to sympathy.

  Sessaly was a distant cousin she saw once a year out of duty, the nearest she had to a family. Somewhere, her ex-husband and in-laws lay dead, too, but she hadn’t spoken to them in ten years. There were colleagues from the university. But there were no close friends. Uthan felt like a holovid fan sobbing over a dead actor, mourning someone she didn’t even know, appropriating grief. Her life had been lived out in a laboratory and fixated on achievement, and now it was barren in every sense of the word.

  “Eggs,” Scout said, putting the plates down in a clear space on the workbench. “Last of the nuna ones until Ny gets back.”

  “Thank you.” Uthan noted that even Ny had found a niche here. “We won’t starve yet.”

  Some tragedies were so huge that mention of them was superfluous. Uthan could sense Scout’s awkwardness, not knowing what was appropriate at a time like this, so Uthan broke the silence that followed.

  “I have to manufacture an antiviral,” she said. “In case the Empire decides to use the virus here. Would you be interested in helping me?”

  Scout gave her a wary look. “Does it involve cutting up animals?”

  “No. Not at all. I just tinker with a virus, and then put it in a plant cell culture. The more the cells multiply, the more of the beneficial virus we get.”

  “Back to the AgriCorps,” Scout said. “I’m great with plants.”

  “That’s what we need most,” Gilamar said. “Actually, this would be a yeast. But I’m splitting hairs. Are you interested in medicine?”

  Scout seemed genuinely curious. “Did Bardan really repair Fi’s brain damage with the Force?”

  “Watched it happen,” Gilamair said. “Measured it. Truly amazing.”

  “It must be wonderful to be able to heal. I’m not strong in the Force, though.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but most medicine in the galaxy is practiced by regular dolts like me, using pretty ordinary equipment,” Gilamar said. “And tinnies, of course. Med droids outnumber qualified wets. The Force is an extra therapy, that’s all. You fancy learning a little first aid? Always comes in handy.”

  Scout nodded. There wasn’t a lot for her to do here, Uthan thought, but then she realized she had no idea what Jedi normally did to keep themselves busy. Perhaps Scout was reflecting on a life without much personal contact in it, too. But she was young enough to avoid ending up like Uthan.

  “I’d like that,” Scout said. “I can’t stand the thought of any more killing.”

  Gilamar nodded. “Me neither.”

  “I’ll teach you the clever stuff,” Uthan said. “Doc Mando here can cover lancing boils and setting bones.”

  My world’s dead. I don’t have any stake in the future. No children, no academic legacy, no hope, nothing.

  There was something compelling in the chance to teach a youngster. It felt like planting trees. It was never wasted effort. If the teacher was lucky, the pupil went on to change the galaxy for the better. Uthan clung to that thought.

  It didn’t mean she wouldn’t give Palpatine what he had coming to him as soon as she got the chance, though. But Scout had no need to be taught about the art of revenge.

  Imperial City

  Nobody looked too hard at armed Imperial commandos walking through the alleyways of Imperial City.

  Civilians seemed to be very busy not noticing Darman and Niner walking briskly down the walkway t
hat linked the cantinas and restaurants of Quadrant G-14 with the increasingly grim sector two kilometers north of the RV point. Factories and warehouses sat between residential blocks and the occasional run-down alcohol store.

  It wasn’t the kind of place anyone expected to see stormtroopers of any description. Police patrolled here occasionally, but not troops.

  “They’re scared of us,” Niner said. Darman couldn’t see his POV icon because they’d switched off most of their helmet feeds, except their private short-range comm. They were supposed to be out on the town for the evening and off the chart, not wandering around somewhere they definitely shouldn’t have been. “Okay, we never had welcome-home parades under the Republic, but I don’t recall anyone looking afraid of us.”

  “You think they even realized he’s a chakaar? As long as there’s a good holodrama on the ’Net and they can afford enough ale to fall over on a regular basis, they don’t give a mott’s shebs about pounces.”

  “You feel it? The whole place is different. Wary. Not like it used to be.”

  Used to be was based on a few rare forays into this alien world outside the perimeter. Darman had never been part of civilian Coruscant, and he didn’t think he’d missed much. The Empire was no different from the Republic for men like him. And civilians got the governments they deserved.

  They’re not my problem now. I did my duty. The Seps didn’t overrun us. Now the civvies can worry about their own welfare, and I’ll look after me and mine.

  Darman was back being Darman now, the real Darman, the one who could feel the pain of losing his wife. Now that he’d confronted the grief a few times and let it rip his heart out, he was starting to function again without needing to detach from reality. He was still hurting. But he found a little space opening up in his mind that had room for planning, for focus, for taking action instead of just being swamped by loss.

  I have a son, and everyone’s a threat to him. Palpatine. The Intel freak show. Any Jedi or Force-user who wants new recruits. Any clonemaster who wants to use him.

  I know what I have to do.

  Melusar’s right. I know it. We all get used.

  The farther Darman walked, the more uneasy he felt.

  “Would you believe Ny’s done some grocery shopping?” Niner said suddenly. He seemed to be talking to the Nulls again. Darman couldn’t hear him when he switched to the secure circuit. “They’re doing an extraction behind enemy lines, and they find time to shop.”

  “Tell Ordo he didn’t need to show up mob-handed. We could extract ourselves.”

  Niner fell silent for a moment. “Ordo says Kal’buir got fed up waiting. Your dinner’s in the oven. If we’re late, the strill gets it.”

  Darman could hear the tension in Niner’s voice. The muscles tightened in his throat, and it forced his voice a little higher. And he swallowed a lot. Swallowing sounded much louder in these new helmets. Darman couldn’t decide if his brother was nervous or excited, but either state was unusual for Niner.

  “We’re going home,” Niner said. He sounded as if he didn’t believe it. “For real. Everyone back together, like it ought to be. The rest of the squad. Kal’buir. Even Vau. Kad’s going to go crazy when he sees you—shab, I bet he’s grown a lot. They grow fast at that age, don’t they?”

  Darman tried to stifle the thought that was eating its way out of that clear corner of his mind. He wasn’t winning. The thought was a voice; not a real one, nothing insane or frightening, but a voice all the same. It was his common sense, his duty, the core of reality that never let go. He’d been able to bury it for a while. But it never went away. It was the voice that had no doubts and told him to stop kidding himself. He couldn’t do what he wanted. That wasn’t because he was a slave, but because he was a free man. It was responsibility.

  Can I face Kad?

  I couldn’t save Etain. I bust my gut saving a world that doesn’t care if I live or die, and I let my own wife down.

  How do I tell him? How do I look at him and not see her?

  Darman had to be sure why he wasn’t as excited as Niner. He didn’t have time to mess around like this. In ten minutes, they’d be at the RV point.

  I can’t board that ship. I can’t leave.

  I need to stay here, inside the system, for Kad’s sake.

  Darman walked on another fifty meters before he stopped and faced the inevitable. He came to a halt opposite a cantina. Light spilled onto the walkway from an open door, and the illuminated sign that took up an entire wall had so many broken tubes that he had to stare at it for a few moments to realize it was supposed to be a giant cocktail glass garnished with fruit. Niner walked on past him for a few paces before turning.

  “What’s wrong, Dar?”

  “I’m not going.” As soon as the words escaped, Darman felt better. Not happier; his stomach churned, threatening nausea. That was how much it hurt to know his son was waiting for him, and that he wouldn’t see him for … he just didn’t know how long. Maybe never. “I have to stay.”

  “Shab, Dar, what’s brought this on?” Niner didn’t seem to believe him. He just sounded mildly annoyed, and caught Darman’s arm as if he was dawdling and needed some encouragement. “Come on. Move it.”

  Darman shook him off. “I mean it, Niner.”

  “Spit it out. What’s the problem?”

  “Unfinished business.”

  “What business?”

  “Jedi, Sith, any shabuir like that.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not over. Kad’s always going to be in danger from them.”

  “And you’re going to rid the galaxy of midi-chlorians single-handed? Dar, in case you hadn’t noticed, there are millions of guys who can look after that. I think they can cope without us.”

  “But they’re not me. This is my duty. My son.”

  “Oh, don’t start that osik again. We all agreed. Remember? Look, I know it’s not turned out as we planned, but we’ve got lives to lead, and Kad’s waiting for you. The Empire doesn’t need you like he does.”

  It was so painful that Darman felt himself shutting down again, doing that ramikadyc detachment trick just to cope with the next few seconds, and the next.

  “I’ll just be one more rifle on Mandalore. Kad’s got an army protecting him, more firepower than anyone needs. But here …” Darman noticed that Niner kept putting his hand to the side of his helmet as if he was cupping his earpiece, a nervous tic when he was under stress. Ordo could hear one side of the argument. He was probably pitching in with his ten creds’ worth, urging Niner to shut Darman up and get him to the RV point. “I’m at the heart of it. I’ll never be any closer to the threats than I am here. Melusar understands. He knows the score.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Niner snarled. “Your kid needs you. If I hadn’t been injured that night, you’d have left with the others and be with him now. You know how that makes me feel? That you abandoned your boy to stay with me? I feel like osik. Now quit the speeches and get your shebs on that freighter. The Nulls are risking their necks to get us out.”

  Niner turned and walked away. He got about five paces before he realized Darman wasn’t budging. Niner was the most solid, steady guy Darman knew, and he’d never seen him really lose it for all his grumbling and griping, but he was definitely on the edge now. He shoved Darman back against the wall and shook him a couple of times.

  “You selfish shabuir. Move, or so help me I’ll punch you out and drag you there.”

  Niner didn’t mean the selfish bit, even if he meant the rest. Darman could hear the desperation in his voice. But he still wasn’t going. He was inside the system, in a place where he could spy and sabotage and intercept, and that beat trying to defend Kyrimorut when it was too late.

  I mean that, don’t I? It’s not that I don’t have the guts to be a proper father.

  Is it?

  Darman had spent a matter of hours with his son. Not days, not weeks; hours. He wondered if the Kad in his imagination bore any resemblance t
o the real child, or if he was just devoted to the idea of him. But that wasn’t the issue. When he thought of his own orders, knowing that Palpatine was collecting Force-users, he knew the answers. Nowhere was too far away to be found. And if Palps fell, the Jedi would be back. There was no end to the cycle.

  Niner shook him again. “I didn’t want to do this, Dar …”

  Darman braced for a punch. He could block Niner. But as he clenched his fist to defend himself, Niner relaxed his grip.

  “Dar,” he said. “Ordo says Kad asks for you. He keeps asking for his daddy. Ordo says he doesn’t know how he’s going to explain to him that his dad decided not to come home.”

  Darman’s knees almost buckled. “Tell Ordo—nice try, but I’m done here. You tell Kad for me, Niner. Tell my boy that I can protect him better here.”

  Darman didn’t think that the pain could get any worse, but it had. He turned and began walking back toward the barracks. A guy was staring at him—understandable, seeing two commandos way off their territory and having a fight in the street—and he snapped. He found his Deece in the guy’s face, and the voice he could hear wasn’t his, not at all.

  “Who you staring at, shabuir? Beat it—”

  Niner was right behind him again. He grabbed the Deece’s muzzle one-handed and steered it aside.

  “Okay, on your way,” Niner said to the terrified man. “We’re a little emotional tonight. Get lost.”

  The man didn’t need telling twice. He ran. Niner walked a few more paces with Darman, suddenly quiet and placatory.

  “Dar, I’ve got Ny yelling in my ear now. She wants to talk to you.”

  “No deal.”

  “Okay, you don’t go—I don’t go.”

  “You have to go, ner vod. Someone’s got to hand over that datachip. Right? Whatever’s on there, Obrim thinks it’s critical. Go home and explain to Kad.”

  Two could play that game. Niner had a big streak of dutiful guilt that Darman could lean on, too. He heard him hiss in exasperation.

  “Shabuir,” he said. “How can you do this?”

  Darman kept on walking. He was so numb now that all he was aware of was the feel of the walkway under his boots and unshed tears pricking his eyes. The numbness was pure reflex this time. He didn’t even have to try.