Order 66

by Karen Traviss

  Now they had an audience, however small. Fi could see two men in the corner straining to listen. He could have stopped this by now if he’d been his old self. Come to that, so could Jusik; Fi had seen him smash heavy doors apart with a single gesture. He could defend himself in ways they couldn’t imagine.

  “I’m not a general now, either, Sull.” Jusik was very still, weight evenly on both feet. “And do you seriously think I’d harm a clone?”

  “I think,” said Sull, “that you hypocritical mystics would waste every last one of us if it served your purposes.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Fi said. “That’s my vod you’re talking to.”

  Now Spar decided to get involved, wandering over with apparent casual ease to stand by his brother ARC. “Problem?”

  “Jedi.” Sull spat out the word, hand straying way too close to his blaster. “A kriffing Jedi, all gussied up like one of us.”

  It was the hand that triggered Fi. Part of his brain must have been working just fine, a part that connected his fists to his animal instincts, because he brought his gauntlet up hard under Sull’s jaw and sent him staggering backward into Spar.

  “Get away from him!” Fi snarled. “You touch him and I’ll gut you—”

  It took Parja and Jusik to hold him back. He wanted to rip Sull apart, and he had no idea where the rage came from, but all he knew was that it was eating him alive and he wasn’t nice, funny Fi any longer. Shysa was on his feet in an instant, grabbing Sull by the collar and parting the three clones. Fi had no idea how he’d landed that punch in his condition—but he had, and it hurt like haran. Sull was bleeding from the lip.

  “It’s your boyish high spirits, and I know you lads enjoy a scrap,” Shysa said, arm locked tight around Sull’s neck. “But sort this out over a nice friendly drink or two, whatever your problem is. Okay?”

  “Come on, Fi.” Parja bundled him toward the doors. “Not worth it. Walk away.”

  The barkeep watched, chin resting on one hand as he leaned on the counter, as if he saw fisticuffs like this all the time. Fi pulled away from Parja. “You stay away from Bard’ika,” he warned, jabbing a finger in Sull’s direction. “You hear me? You so much as look at him, and you’re dead.”

  The moment he got outside in the cool air, Fi felt instantly ashamed and confused. He never lost it like that before he was injured. It wasn’t him at all; his heart hammered so hard it almost hurt, and he felt he had no control whatsoever over the animal part of him. Jusik took his arm and helped Parja steer him across the square to sit down by the bridge.

  “Well,” Jusik said, balancing his helmet on his knee. “I see you’ve got some higher motor skills back, and a good degree of verbal fluency…”

  “Sorry. I just saw his hand… the blaster.”

  “No problem. Thanks.”

  Parja kept looking back toward the Oyu’baat as if she expected the two ARCs to come after them. She patted her sidearm. “Sull’s just mouthing off. Rav says ARCs are all mouth and kamas.”

  “I can’t blame him,” Jusik said. “He knows ARCs won’t get a happy retirement, and it must be hard to trust a Jedi when you’ve been used like they have.”

  “Is everyone going to treat you like that?” Fi asked. It did more than anger him: it upset him. Jusik was his buddy, his brother, as close to him as Ordo or his squad brothers. They’d had near misses and narrow scrapes, and when Fi had needed him most, he’d been there, no questions asked. “Is everyone going to spit on you for being a Jedi? Because I can’t stand that. It’s not fair.”

  “Ah, they’ll get used to me.” Jusik gave Fi a playful head-lock and forced a grin, but he was acting, Fi knew it. “And it’s only Sull, after all. ARCs are all nuts. A’den said he nearly had to head-butt him last time. And didn’t he bite Dar?”

  Fi thought back to Gaftikar. Darman and Atin had captured Sull when he deserted, and he’d sunk his teeth into Dar’s hand. It was a mess. “Yeah, he’s got Cyborrean rabies now…”

  “Now there’s a word you couldn’t say a month ago.” Jusik got up and began walking. “We’re going to have you back to full spec in no time, ner vod. Come on. Home.”

  Jusik whistled tunelessly to himself, helmet in one hand while he twirled the hilt of his lightsaber in the other, looking for all the world like another swaggering Mando without a care in the world. But Fi knew it was going to be hard for him here. He wasn’t a Corellian, or a Togorian, or any one of a thousand species that Mandalorians would accept without murmur; he’d been a Jedi, and Mando’ade didn’t have a good history with them. Now there were small but growing numbers of disgruntled clones who felt the Jedi were to blame for a lot of their woes.

  It was going to be the ultimate test of traditional Mandalorian tolerance, cin vhetin, the virgin field of snow that everyone who put their past behind them to become a Mandalorian had a right to walk upon.

  Fi had been taught caution. You didn’t take chances; you had to know who was watching your back. He knew he’d have to watch Jusik’s back for the rest of his life.

  Jusik had put him back together again. It was the least Fi could do for him.

  Chapter Five

  Omega observation point,

  Haurgab, 938 days ABG

  So… we’re building more ships for the Republic, far more ships than they have crews to run, in fact—and how much more armor? Have I missed a decimal point here or something? I mean, this is an even bigger order than Kamino placed twelve years ago. Doesn’t that sound weird to anyone? And how many kriffing years are we going to have to store it this time?

  —Production line supervisor at Rothana Heavy Engineering, checking the confidential advance workflow schedule

  Getting your gunship shot out from under you would normally sober anyone. But it didn’t even slow down the Maujasi rebels.

  Darman scrambled to his feet, visor smeared with hydraulic fluid, expecting to see a downed vessel and body parts everywhere. The gunship was a mess, all right, all buckled metal and in flames, but the Maujasi—they just poured out of the crew compartment into the sandstorm fighting.

  Darman ducked back behind the cover of the wall and began laying down fire. He couldn’t see a thing. All he could do was rely on the HUD sensors to pick up temperature variations and metallic composites in the rebels’ weapons.

  “Dar! At’ika!” It was Niner. Darman could hear but not see him. “Get down!”

  Blue blasterfire cut through the whirling yellow haze; red and white bolts spat back. The rebels had dropped down behind the ancient rubble of a collapsed wall. “Where the shab are you, Sarge?”

  “I can see you, Dar. You’re left of me, eight meters.”

  The HUD view shimmered. It was like watching a scrambled HoloNet channel on which the vague shapes of what could have been bodies never resolved into anything instantly recognizable. “Got you, Sarge.”

  Corr let out a shout. Darman couldn’t tell if he’d been hit, even though the upgraded biomonitors in their suits relayed their physical status. The stupid readout was set at the most awkward place on the HUD when you were busy being shot at. He hated Republic Procurement more each day.

  “Cor’ika, you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shabuir—” Corr grunted as if he’d punched someone. “At’ika, watch your left, I can see one going wide—”

  Darman raised his shoulders to launch an anti-armor round, but a blaster bolt hit him like a fist in the chest and winded him for a moment. Recovering, he aimed two grenades in the vague direction of fire. The ancient wall rained down on him. He ducked: Atin swore. Something had hit him, hard, and Darman shook off the debris. There was a moment of relative silence—screaming wind, but no shots, no shouts—and he was sure he’d finished off the rebels until something hit his back plate so hard that he thought more rubble had fallen on him. Firing started again.

  As Darman rolled over, eyes streaming with the pain, a Maujasi loomed over him, his face suddenly very clear and close. His blaster was point-
blank in Darman’s face. No thought, no coherent words: Darman ejected his vibroblade and lunged, ramming the blade so hard into the man’s thigh that when he fell back again he couldn’t pull his hand free for a few moments. The guy didn’t so much scream as yelp in surprise. Adrenaline was a great anesthetic. But it didn’t stop the arterial spurt, and suddenly there was blood everywhere.

  It’s not mine, it’s not mine, it’s not mine…

  That was all that mattered. Darman got up and bolted the few meters to where he thought Niner and the others were clustered. The wind was still scouring his armor like shot-blasting, but the sand seemed to be thinning out and he could see more shapes and flashes of light.

  How many Maujasi rebels could you pack in an assault ship?

  A lot more than Darman thought. A lot more.

  “Shab, why don’t they just die?” Atin said.

  Judging by the hail of red and white energy bolts that greeted him, there were twenty or twenty-five of the chakaare still functioning, and that wasn’t good odds now. Darman was on autopilot. He was just returning fire in a continuous stream, part of his brain telling him that the moment he stopped he’d be dead, and part warning him he was running out of ammo even faster. Omega were now almost on top of the Maujasi. It was like trench warfare. They couldn’t have been more than ten meters apart, with only the piles of rubble and stumps of the walls for cover.

  “When this storm drops, we’re stuffed,” Corr said.

  How long would it take to get killed? How many blaster rounds would finally destroy their Katarn plates’ energy-diffusing properties? The better protected you were, the more complex and frightening the death that awaited you, Darman decided. Without it, a clean shot would end it all. With it—well, you couldn’t design for immortality. Just delaying the inevitable, that was all it was.

  One way or another, he didn’t plan to be captured. Sorry, Et’ika. Didn’t even leave a last message, did I? Darman loaded his last ion pulse clip and aimed at the incoming fire.

  He could see the far wall now. The storm was dropping. Hand to hand, in the end. Yeah, he’d do whatever it took. Between bursts of fire, he reached down to his belt to check the last det was still there.

  “I hope I’m not hallucinating,” Niner said. “Listen.”

  Darman held his breath. Nothing: he couldn’t hear a thing beyond the battle.

  Corr exhaled. “Can’t hear anything, Sarge.”

  Then a loud voice right in his ear made Darman gasp. Someone interrupted his audio circuit.

  “Omega, keep your heads down. We see you. Hold on. It’s going to get busy.”

  Now Darman could hear it, because it was right overhead; a rapid metallic stuttering noise with top frequencies that went right off the scale, the sweetest sound in the world—a LAAT/i gunship.

  “Shab,” Niner whispered. “’Bout time.”

  The pilot wasn’t joking. The instant they dropped flat in the lee of the last remaining pile of rubble, the larty’s forward laser cannon opened up and the ground under them shook. Darman half expected the rock to split and slide just as it had when he blew out the side of the slope. He thought the deafening noise was never going to stop until the firing ended in a ringing silence and the gunship dropped like a stone onto the smoking chaos in front of them. The crew bay hatch opened. The first thing Darman saw was a white-plated arm reach out as if to haul them inboard.

  “Omega, shift your backsides, will you?” It was a sergeant, a regular trooper. The hand gesture became impatient. “We don’t want a missile up the chuff. Come on, chop-chop…”

  They piled in, numb and shaking with adrenaline. The LAAT/i lifted even before the hatch closed. As the gunship banked over the desert, Darman caught a glimpse of laserfire through the gap, and the larty shivered as if something had hit it. Its cannon opened up again. The airframe shook as if the thing was coughing, and Darman found himself clinging to the grab rail, realizing that his left shoulder hurt and his knee didn’t feel too clever, either.

  “Thanks,” said Niner.

  The sergeant tapped two fingers to his helmet in mock salute. “No sweat. Which genius blew up the mountain?”

  “That’d be Dar.”

  The sergeant cocked his head. “I bet he paints himself into corners, too.”

  When Darman went to remove his helmet, his finger snagged in the fabric trim around his neck. It took him a few moments to work out that a blaster bolt had seared a hole in it.

  “Lucky your head’s still on,” Corr said casually.

  “This fabric’s supposed to be blaster-resistant.”

  “At point-blank range? Nah.”

  It was pointless chatter fueled by relief. Nobody would get emotional about the rescue, not yet, when actually all Darman wanted to do was to fling his arms around the sergeant and the pilot and the crazy guys manning the cannon and tell them they were all his best buddies forever.

  Fierfek, we made it out alive again.

  No, Darman was going to say it.

  “Ner vod, you have no idea how glad we were to see you.” Darman cradled his helmet and inhaled the cool conditioned air inside the crew bay. “I thought those chakaare were going to be wearing my gett’se for earrings.”

  The sergeant was probably staring at him. His head was in a position that looked as if he was, but he said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard right.

  “What?” he said at last.

  “Things were getting shabla hairy down there.” Maybe he didn’t understand what the Maujasi rebels did to their enemies for revenge. “Thanks.”

  “Is that the local language?”

  “What is?”

  “Nair vowd,” the sergeant said carefully, as if it was the only phrase he’d caught.

  Darman didn’t expect white jobs to understand Mando’a. It was only the Republic commandos trained by Mandalorians like Sergeant Kal who spoke the language. But every trooper flash-learned the words to the marching song Vode An, and some phrases—like ner vod and the best profanities—had percolated through the ranks fast.

  Not to this guy, though. Odd.

  “You Eighty-fifth?” Darman asked.

  “Fourteenth Infantry,” said the sergeant.

  “Okay, maybe we’ll get you a crash course in Mando’a so you can exchange chitchat with Shiny Boys like us.”

  “Sorry,” said the trooper. His accent was different from the rest of the white jobs Darman had come across. “Never heard of it. I’m new.”

  He was new, all right. As the man moved forward to the cockpit, hand over hand on the grab rail, Darman replaced his helmet to talk privately with the squad.

  “Does that look like reinforcements to you? New clone intake?”

  Niner clicked his teeth. “If it is, they’ve changed the training program on Kamino. The meat-cans all learn Vode An.”

  Atin secured his restraints, leaned back on the seat with arms folded across his chest, and stretched out his legs, indicating that he planned to sleep. “Maybe the Kaminoans think the Mando thing is getting out of hand and making the lads too uppity.”

  “Maybe they’re cutting corners in production,” said Niner.

  “Maybe they told some aiwha-bait to kovid lo’shebs’ ul narit once too often,” Corr said, and laughed.

  It was a small thing, but life and death in this business hung on the apparently inconsequential detail. Darman made a mental note to tell Skirata. Then he switched out of the squad link with a couple of blinks, and opened a private comlink to Etain’s code.

  She needed to know he was okay, wherever she was.

  Republic Fleet Auxiliary support vessel Redeemer,

  off Thyferra,

  940 days ABG

  “What’s your name, Commander?”

  The Jedi looked up at Etain as she leaned over the hangar deck gantry. She was a human female, brown-haired, maybe Etain’s age, but she didn’t look like any Jedi that Ordo had seen before; no traditional brown robes, just clean but well-worn overalls as if she’d steppe
d straight out of a factory. Only the lightsaber she was checking over gave any indication of what she was, and even that was different from those Ordo was used to seeing. The blade was yellow, and the handle was carved with sea creatures. She wasn’t one of Zey’s regulation-issue Jedi.

  Ordo was dismayed to realize he found her rather attractive. Guilt consumed him for a moment. He felt disloyal to Besany for even noticing another female, and made a mental note to ask Kal’buir if this was a terrible failing. There was no point asking Mereel. He seemed to think it was compulsory.

  “Callista, General,” said the Jedi. “Callista Masana.” She nodded politely at Ordo. “Captain.”

  “Delta Squad are on their way.” Etain seemed at a loss for the right words, as if there was something about Callista that bothered her. “Thank you for responding. Every pair of hands counts.”

  Callista gave her an equally odd look back. “You’ll get used to our funny little ways, General.”

  The woman walked away toward the LAAT/i on the hangar deck, where a few other equally un-Jedi-like Jedi had gathered. Ordo was fascinated, as much by Etain’s reaction to these unusual officers as by their behavior. Callista put her arm around one of the young male Jedi and gave him a kiss on the cheek that was definitely not comradely. They were, as Mereel would have put it, clearly an item.

  “Master Altis has some unconventional views on how Jedi should conduct themselves,” Etain said quietly, giving Ordo a gentle shove toward the hatch. “He and his followers hark back to a less rigid and ascetic age.”

  Jedi kissing in public. And Etain has to hide her relationship with Darman? These people need to work out what they stand for.

  “This Master Altis,” Ordo said, following Etain to the briefing room. “How does he feel about marriage and children? Is this what Callista means by funny little ways?”

  Etain took a breath as if she was preparing to give him a rehearsed speech. “In the early Jedi Order, there was no ban on attachment, and Masters could take as many Padawans to train as they liked—even if they were adult. It was all much more informal. Altis is a back-to-basics kind of Jedi.”