Hard Contact

by Karen Traviss

  Their cold yellow eyes troubled him, and he didn’t care for their arrogance, either. They stared at his limping gait and asked if he minded being defective.

  The window-lined corridor seemed to run the length of the city. Outside, it was hard to see where the horizon ended and the rain clouds began.

  Jango looked back to see if he was keeping up. “Don’t worry, Kal. I’m told it’s clear weather in the summer—for a few days.”

  Right. The dreariest planet in the galaxy, and he was stuck on it. And his ankle was playing up. He really should have invested in getting it fixed surgically. When—if—he got out of here, he’d have the assets to get the best surgeon that credits could buy.

  Jango slowed down tactfully. “So, Ilippi threw you out?”

  “Yeah.” His wife wasn’t Mandalorian. He’d hoped she would embrace the culture, but she didn’t: she always hated seeing her old man go off to someone else’s war. The fights began when he wanted to take their two sons into battle with him. They were eight years old, old enough to start learning their trade; but she refused, and soon Ilippi and the boys and his daughter were no longer waiting when he returned from the latest war. Ilippi divorced him the Mando way, same as they’d married, on a brief, solemn, private vow. A contract was a contract, written or not. “Just as well I’ve got another assignment to occupy me.”

  “You should have married a Mando girl. Aruetiise don’t understand a mercenary’s life.” Jango paused as if waiting for argument, but Kal wasn’t giving him one. “Don’t your sons talk to you any longer?”

  “Not often.” So I failed as a father. Don’t rub it in. “Obviously they don’t share the Mando outlook on life any more than their mother does.”

  “Well, they won’t be speaking to you at all now. Not here. Ever.”

  Nobody seemed to care if he had disappeared anyway. Yes, he was as good as dead. Jango said nothing more, and they walked in silence until they reached a large circular lobby with rooms leading off it like the spokes of a wheel.

  “Ko Sai said something wasn’t quite right with the first test batch of clones,” said Jango, ushering Skirata ahead of him into another room. “They’ve tested them and they don’t think these are going to make the grade. I told Orun Wa that we’d give him the benefit of our military experience and take a look.”

  Skirata was used to evaluating fighting men—and women, come to that. He knew what it took to make a soldier. He was good at it; soldiering was his life, as it was for all Mando’ade, all sons and daughters of Mandalore. At least there’d be some familiarity to cling to in this ocean wilderness.

  It was just a matter of staying as far from the Kaminoans as he could.

  “Gentlemen,” said Orun Wa in his soothing monotone. He welcomed them into his office with a graceful tilt of the head, and Skirata noted that he had a prominent bony fin running across the top of his skull from front to back. Maybe that meant Orun Wa was older, or dominant, or something: he didn’t look like the other examples of aiwha-bait that Skirata had seen so far. “I always believe in being honest about setbacks in a program. We value the Jedi Council as a customer.”

  “I have nothing to do with the Jedi,” said Jango. “I’m only a consultant on military matters.”

  Oh, Skirata thought. Jedi. Great.

  “I would still be happier if you confirmed that the first batch of units is below the acceptable standard.”

  “Bring them in, then.”

  Skirata shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and wondered what he was going to see: poor marksmanship, poor endurance, lack of aggression? Not if these were Jango’s clones. He was curious to see how the Kaminoans could have fouled up producing fighting men based on that template.

  The storm raged against the transparisteel window, rain pounding in surges and then easing again. Orun Wa stood back with a graceful sweep of his arms like a dancer. And the doors opened.

  Six identical little boys—four, maybe five years old—walked into the room.

  Skirata was not a man who easily fell prey to sentimentality. But this did the job just fine.

  They were children: not soldiers, not droids, and not units. Just little kids. They had curly black hair and were all dressed in identical dark blue tunics and pants. He was expecting grown men. And that would have been bad enough.

  He heard Jango inhale sharply.

  The boys huddled together, and it ripped at Skirata’s heart in a way he wasn’t expecting. Two of the kids clutched each other, looking up at him with huge, dark, unblinking eyes: another moved slowly to the front of the tight pack as if barring Orun Wa’s path and shielding the others.

  Oh, he was. He was defending his brothers. Skirata was devastated.

  “These units are defective, and I admit that we perhaps made an error in attempting to enhance the genetic template,” Orun Wa said, utterly unmoved by their vulnerability.

  Skirata had worked out fast that Kaminoans despised everything that didn’t fit their intolerant, arrogant society’s ideal of perfection. So … they thought Jango’s genome wasn’t the perfect model for a soldier without a little adjustment, then. Maybe it was his solitary nature; he’d make a rotten infantry soldier. Jango wasn’t a team player.

  And maybe they didn’t know that it was often imperfection that gave humans an edge.

  The kids’ gaze darted between Skirata and Jango, and the doorway, and all around the room, as if they were checking for an escape or appealing for help.

  “Chief Scientist Ko Sai apologizes, as do I,” said Orun Wa. “Six units did not survive incubation, but these developed normally and appeared to meet specifications, so they have undergone some flash-instruction and trials. Unfortunately, psychological testing indicates that they are simply too unreliable and fail to meet the personality profile required.”

  “Which is?” said Jango.

  “That they can carry out orders.” Orun Wa blinked rapidly: he seemed embarrassed by error. “I can assure you that we will address these problems in the current Alpha production run. These units will be reconditioned, of course. Is there anything you wish to ask?”

  “Yeah,” said Skirata. “What do you mean by reconditioned?”

  “In this case, terminated.”

  There was a long silence in the bland, peaceful, white-walled room. Evil was supposed to be black, jet black; and it wasn’t supposed to be soft-spoken. Then Skirata registered terminated and his instinct reacted before his brain.

  His clenched fist was pressed against Orun Wa’s chest in a second and the vile unfeeling thing jerked his head backward.

  “You touch one of those kids, you gray freak, and I’ll skin you alive and feed you to the aiwhas—”

  “Steady,” Jango said. He grabbed Skirata’s arm.

  Orun Wa stood blinking at Skirata with those awful reptilian yellow eyes. “This is uncalled for. We care only about our customers’ satisfaction.”

  Skirata could hear his pulse pounding in his head and all he could care about was ripping Orun Wa apart. Killing someone in combat was one thing, but there was no honor in destroying unarmed kids. He yanked his arm out of Jango’s grip and stepped back in front of the children. They were utterly silent. He dared not look at them. He fixed on Orun Wa.

  Jango gripped his shoulder and squeezed hard enough to hurt. Don’t. Leave this to me. It was his warning gesture. But Skirata was too angry and disgusted to fear Jango’s wrath.

  “We could do with a few wild cards,” Jango said carefully, moving between Skirata and the Kaminoan. “It’s good to have some surprises up your sleeve for the enemy. What are these kids really like? And how old are they?”

  “Nearly two standard years’ growth. Highly intelligent, deviant, disturbed—and uncommandable.”

  “Could be ideal for intel work.” It was pure bluff: Skirata could see the little twitch of muscle in Jango’s jaw. He was shocked, too. The bounty hunter couldn’t hide that from his old associate. “I say we keep ’em.”

  Two? The bo
ys looked older. Skirata half turned to check on them, and their gazes were locked on him: it was almost an accusation. He glanced away, but took a step backward and put his hand discreetly behind him to place his palm on the head of the boy defending his brothers, just as a helpless gesture of comfort.

  But a small hand closed tightly around his fingers instead.

  Skirata swallowed hard. Two years old.

  “I can train them,” he said. “What are their names?”

  “These units are numbered. And I must emphasize that they’re unresponsive to command.” Orun Wa persisted as if talking to a particularly stupid Weequay. “Our quality control designated them Null class and wishes to start—”

  “Null? As in no di’kutla use?”

  Jango took a discreet but audible breath. “Leave this to me, Kal.”

  “No, they’re not units.” The little hand was grasping his for dear life. He reached back with his other hand and another boy pressed up against his leg, clinging to him. It was pitiful. “And I can train them.”

  “Unwise,” said Orun Wa.

  The Kaminoan took a gliding step forward. They were such graceful creatures, but they were loathsome at a level that Skirata could simply not comprehend.

  And then the little lad grasping his leg suddenly snatched the hold-out blaster from Skirata’s boot. Before he could react the kid had tossed it to the one who’d been clinging to his hand in apparent terror.

  The boy caught it cleanly and aimed it two-handed at Orun Wa’s chest.

  “Fierfek.” Jango sighed. “Put it down, kid.”

  But the lad wasn’t about to stand down. He stood right in front of Skirata, utterly calm, blaster raised at the perfect angle, fingers placed just so with the left hand steadying the right, totally focused. And deadly serious.

  Skirata felt his jaw drop a good centimeter. Jango froze, then chuckled.

  “I reckon that proves my point,” he said, but he still had his eyes fixed on the tiny assassin.

  The kid clicked the safety catch. He seemed to be checking it was off.

  “It’s okay, son,” Skirata said, as gently as he could. He didn’t much care if the boy fried the Kaminoan, but he cared about the consequences for the kid. And he was instantly and totally proud of him—of all of them. “You don’t need to shoot. I’m not going to let him touch any of you. Just give me back the blaster.”

  The child didn’t budge; the blaster didn’t waver. He should have been more concerned about cuddly toys than a clean shot at this stage in his young life. Skirata squatted down slowly behind him, trying not to spook him into firing.

  But if the boy had his back to him … then he trusted him, didn’t he?

  “Come on … just put it down, there’s a good lad. Now give me the blaster.” He kept his voice as soft and level as he could, when he was actually torn between cheering and doing the job himself. “You’re safe, I promise you.”

  The boy paused, eyes and aim still both fixed on Orun Wa. “Yes sir.” Then he lowered the weapon to his side. Skirata put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him back carefully.

  “Good lad.” Skirata took the blaster from his little fingers and scooped him up in his arms. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Nicely done, too.”

  The Kaminoan showed no anger whatsoever, simply blinking, yellow, detached disappointment. “If that does not demonstrate their instability, then—”

  “They’re coming with me.”

  “This is not your decision.”

  “No, it’s mine,” Jango interrupted. “And they’ve got the right stuff. Kal, get them out of here and I’ll settle this with Orun Wa.”

  Skirata limped toward the door, still making sure he was between the Kaminoan and the kids. He was halfway down the corridor with his bizarre escort of tiny deviants before the boy he was carrying wriggled uncomfortably in his arms.

  “I can walk, sir,” he said.

  He was perfectly articulate, fluent—a little soldier way beyond his years.

  “Okay, son.”

  Skirata lowered him to the floor and the kids fell in behind him, oddly quiet and disciplined. They didn’t strike him as dangerous or deviant, unless you counted stealing a weapon, pulling a feint, and almost shooting a Kaminoan as deviant. Skirata didn’t.

  The kids were just trying to survive, like any soldier had a duty to do.

  And they looked four or five years old, but Orun Wa had definitely said they were two. Skirata suddenly wanted to ask them how long they’d spent in those awful suffocating transparisteel vats, cold hard tanks that were nothing like the dark comfort of a womb. It must have been like drowning. Could they see each other as they floated? Had they understood what was happening to them?

  Skirata reached the doors of his stark quarters and ushered them in, trying not to dwell on those thoughts.

  The boys lined up against the wall automatically, hands clasped behind their backs, and waited without being told to.

  I brought up two sons. How hard can it be to mind six kids for a few days?

  Skirata waited for them to react but they simply stared back at him as if expecting orders. He had none. Rain lashed the window that ran the whole width of the wall. Lightning flared. They all flinched.

  But they still stood in silence.

  “Tell you what,” Skirata said, bewildered. He pointed to the couch. “You sit down over there and I’ll get you something to eat. Okay?”

  They paused and then scrambled onto the couch, huddling together again. He found them so utterly disarming that he had to make a rapid exit to the kitchen area to gather his thoughts while he slapped uj cake onto a plate and sliced it roughly into six pieces. If this was how it was going to be for—for years …

  You’re stuck, chum.

  You took the credits.

  And this is your whole world for the foreseeable future … and maybe forever.

  It never stopped raining. And he was holed up with a species he loathed on sight, and who thought it was okay to dispose of units who happened to be living, talking, walking children. He raked his fingers through his hair and despaired, eyes closed, until he was suddenly aware of someone staring up at him.

  “Sir?” the boy said. It was the courageous little marksman. He might have been identical to his brothers, but his mannerisms were distinctive. He had a habit of balling one fist at his side while the other hand was relaxed. “May we use the ’freshers?”

  Skirata squatted down, face level with the kid’s. “ ’Course you can.” It was quite pathetic: they were nothing like his own lively, boisterous sons had once been. “And I’m not sir. I’m not an officer. I’m a sergeant. You can call me Sergeant if you like, or you can call me Kal. Everyone else does.”

  “Yes … Kal.”

  “It’s over there. Can you manage on your own?”

  “Yes, Kal.”

  “I know you don’t have a name, but I really think you should have one.”

  “I’m Null Eleven. En-one-one.”

  “How’d you like to be called Ordo? He was a Mandalorian warrior.”

  “Are we Mandalorian warriors?”

  “You bet.” The kid was a natural fighter. “In every sense of the word.”

  “I like that name.” Little Ordo considered the white-tiled floor for a moment, as if assessing it for risk. “What’s Mandalorian?”

  For some reason that hurt most of all. If these kids didn’t know their culture and what made someone a Mando, then they had no purpose, no pride, and nothing to hold them and their clan together when home wasn’t a piece of land. If you were a nomad, your nation traveled in your heart. And without the Mando heart, you had nothing—not even your soul—in whatever new conquest followed death. Skirata knew at that moment what he had to do. He had to stop these boys from being dar’manda, eternal Dead Men, men without a Mando soul.

  “I can see I need to teach you a lot.” Yes, this was his duty. “I’m Mandalorian, too. We’re soldiers, nomads. You know what those words me
an?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clever lad. Okay, you go and sort yourselves out in the ’freshers, and I want you all sitting back on the couch in ten minutes. Then we’ll sort out names for everyone. Got it?”

  “Yes, Kal.”

  So Kal Skirata—mercenary, assassin, and failed father—spent a stormy evening on Kamino sharing uj cake with six dangerously clever small boys who could already handle firearms and talk like adults, teaching them that they came from a warrior tradition, and that they had a language and a culture, and much to be proud of.

  And he explained that there was no Mandalorian word for “hero.” It was only not being one that had its own word: Hut’uun.

  There were an awful lot of hut’uune in the galaxy, and Skirata certainly counted the Kaminoans among them.

  The kids—now trying to get used to being Ordo, A’den, Kom’rk, Prudii, Mereel, and Jaing—sat devouring both their newfound heritage and the sticky sweet cake, eyes fixed on Skirata as he recited lists of Mandalorian words and they repeated them back to him.

  He worked through the most common words, struggling. He had no idea how to teach a language to kids who could already speak fluent Basic. So he simply listed everything he could recall that seemed useful, and the little Null ARCs listened, grim-faced, flinching in unison at every blaze of lightning. After an hour Skirata felt that he was simply confusing some very frightened, very lonely children. They just stared at him.

  “Okay, time to recap,” he said, exhausted by a bad day and the realization that there was an unknowable number of days like this stretching ahead. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to focus. “Can you count from one to ten for me?”

  Prudii—N-5—parted his lips to take a quick breath and suddenly all six spoke at once.

  “Solus, t’ad, ehn, cuir, rayshe’a, resol, e’tad, sh’ehn, she’cu, ta’raysh.”

  Skirata’s gut flipped briefly and he sat stunned. These kids absorbed information like a sponge. I only counted out the numbers for them once. Just once! Their recall was perfect and absolute. He decided to be careful what he said to them in the future.

  “Now that’s clever,” he said. “You’re very special lads, aren’t you?”