Order 66

by Karen Traviss

  “Maybe you should join him.”

  “They’ve joined us.”

  “You know what I mean, General…”

  “What do you think Bardan would say?”

  Jusik had rapidly become a kind of moral compass for the younger Jedi as speculation about his resignation spread. He had a reputation even before he walked out; he’d already berated the Jedi Council about its stance on the war. To some he was an example they wished they could follow, but Ordo had the feeling he shamed others, and they seemed hostile in their polite Jedi way.

  “I think he’d tell you that everyone has to make their own decision,” Ordo said.

  “And I’d say that joining a more liberal group of Jedi would be trying to have the best of both worlds, and ignoring the issues that made Bardan leave.”

  “You plan to leave the Order.”

  “I certainly do.”

  And that was the least of Etain’s challenges. Every day that she didn’t tell Darman that Kad was their son made the revelation harder. Ordo had racked his brain trying to think of a gentler way to break the news, but there was no good way to do it.

  When they reached the briefing room, Delta Squad were listening intently to the air group commander with two other commando squads—Orar and Naast—that were made up mostly of Rav Bralor’s former trainees. None of them paid any attention to Ordo and Etain slipping in at the back. The rest of the seats were taken up by infantry troopers and pilots, but there was no sign yet of Ordo’s five brother Nulls.

  There was rarely an operational need to meet face-to-face, but they missed one another, and Kom’rk had been out in the field for a long time on his own.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” Etain whispered. “Kal sent you to keep an eye on me?”

  “No, I’m here to keep an eye on Kal’buir.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Maybe.”

  Etain turned her head slightly to stare at him. “You’d better finish the sentence.”

  “One of his sons contacted him to say his daughter was missing.”

  Etain closed her eyes for a moment. “Poor Kal. He never said. Missing how, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting for Kal’buir to tell me.”

  She let out a long breath. It wasn’t so much a sigh as the sound of sheer fatigue and disillusion escaping from her. “I would so like a simple life for us all, however hard the work.”

  “We shall have it. Make no mistake, we shall have it.”

  Ordo rarely felt pity, but when he did—and if it wasn’t for his small circle of brothers—he felt it for Etain. He felt it all the more now that he knew that there were Jedi who did things differently, and that if Etain had been born in a different place, or a different time, that she might have been old enough to choose whether she wanted to be a Jedi, not simply taken as a helpless baby and indoctrinated. And she could have chosen to love without fear of censure.

  If the galaxy had been that different, there might not even have been this war to worry about.

  “We won’t wait until the end of the war, will we?” she whispered, lips barely moving. “But when will we know when the time is right?”

  She was referring to desertion—getting out, leaving the war behind. It was an odd question for a Jedi to ask. Ordo had always thought that their senses would tell them when momentous events would happen. He realized he had a far better chance now of predicting that from intelligence than Etain had from listening to the Force.

  “I’ll know,” he said. “And so will Kal’buir.”

  There was no point finding a way of stopping accelerated aging if nobody survived to have the therapy. And that meant leaving millions of brother clones to fight on while the small and fortunate circle of Kal’buir fled.

  Yes, Ordo understood now why Etain couldn’t bring herself to follow Jusik out of the Republic’s service.

  “Do you think Callista and her freethinking friends are up to the task?” he asked. On the dais at the front of the briefing room, the air group commander was still demonstrating with the aid of a holochart how they would insert troops to secure the spaceport. “They’ve never led troops, and we know what happened last time that role was dumped in Jedi laps without training.”

  “I have no idea,” Etain said. “But I’ve told the squads to ignore them if they give suicidally stupid orders. They know that.”

  Etain was a smart woman. She knew what she didn’t know, and she trusted her troops. Ordo took his leave of her with a nod and slipped out into the passage to look for his brothers.

  The RV point was one of the engineering spaces where the only interruption was likely to be by a maintenance droid. It wasn’t ideal, but Redeemer was more or less in a convenient place at the right time, and thanks to Etain, Ordo had numerous excuses for being there. There was no sign of the other Nulls when he stepped through the hatch, but Skirata was already there. He didn’t seem to hear Ordo enter and carried on talking on his comlink in fond tones, his back to the hatch. “I know, son,” he said. “But other than that, do you need anything? Is everything okay?”

  He seemed to listen for a while, laughed ruefully, and said “Ret’ ” to end the conversation. Then he tapped in another code and waited. “ ’Cuy, Gar’ika. Me’vaar ti gar?”

  Ordo had thought he was talking to one of his real sons, Tor. But he was doing a regular call-around of his commando squads, just chatting and seeing how they were. It was important, he said. Men needed to know that someone cared if they lived or died. Etain had taken that to heart, because she was visiting every single squad in her commando group, all 125 of them.

  Ordo waited until Skirata came to a natural pause and coughed politely. Skirata jumped as if someone had discharged a blaster behind him.

  “Sorry, Kal’buir.”

  “Son, you know I’m a bit deaf.” Skirata turned to swing his leg over a metal bench and sit astride it. “Just catching up with the ad’ike.”

  It was a compartment of Skirata’s life that Ordo and the other Nulls weren’t quite part of, like the family the veteran sergeant had before he came to Kamino. Skirata somehow kept all three separate; the Nulls had barely known the commandos under Kal’buir’s care until after Geonosis. Ordo rationalized it as Skirata’s way of avoiding any comparison between the amount of time he devoted to the Nulls and how thinly his attention was spread among a hundred or so young commandos.

  “I’ve called the vode together,” Ordo said. “We need to get a few things straight.”

  “All of you?” Skirata looked embarrassed. “That sounds ominous. Going to give me a talking-to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I’ll book an appointment to get the leg fixed. I swear. Next week.”

  Ordo opened his datapad and checked the calendar, thumbing through the medcenter codes. Mereel had fixed a slot for the surgery. “No need, Buir’ika. Done.”

  Skirata wasn’t himself. The news from his estranged family had hit him hard. Ordo thought it was unjust that his sons could disown him and yet expect him to come running when something went wrong; they were grown men, old enough to have grandchildren of their own. But this was his daughter in trouble. She hadn’t declared him dar’buir. Ordo was prepared to give her some benefit of the doubt for Skirata’s sake, with one hand on his blaster in case she turned out to be trouble that his beloved father didn’t need.

  Am I jealous? Am I worried because he’s our father, our buir, and we don’t want any interlopers? It wasn’t a very Mando thought. Ordo suppressed it. It was another guilty moment that made him wonder what he really was.

  “You don’t need to be a Jedi to feel something’s shifting,” Skirata said. “And I’ve had word from Omega.”

  “They’re okay. I checked.”

  “Yes, I know, but Dar said they’ve come across troopers who don’t seem to know Vode An.”

  In the context of a galactic war, it was less than nothing. In the context of what the Nulls had discovered on Kamino—the loomi
ng end of its clone production, facilities set up on Coruscant itself—and the evidence Besany had turned up about a clone program on Centax 2, it was significant; it meant that there was a new basic training schedule. The aiwha-bait were nothing if not mind-numbingly consistent. The song was part of the flash-learning module that taught young clones the purpose and nobility of the Republic’s cause.

  “Is this the first of our Centax batch?” Ordo asked. “Because I’ve not noticed any real increase in troop numbers. Believe me, Kal’buir, I’ve been monitoring that very closely.”

  “They’d have to test a few in combat, wouldn’t they? Or maybe give the new clones a chance to assimilate. But if they weren’t trained on Tipoca, and Kamino didn’t provide embryos for Centax, the dates Besany found for cloning materials being sent to Centax means we have fully grown troops being produced in a year or less.”

  There was only one way of doing that as far as Ordo knew. “Spaarti cloning.”

  “Arkanian Micro?”

  “I don’t think even they can beat the year barrier yet. They’d have to come from Spaarti Creations on Cartao. Or else Palpatine’s brought in some ex-Spaarti clonemasters, which is more likely.”

  “He’s got Kaminoans somewhere on Coruscant, too,” Skirata said. “The man’s quite the recruiter.”

  Ordo didn’t even need to consult his datapad. His eidetic memory summoned up an entire report from nearly two years before of the Separatist destruction of the Spaarti facility on Cartao. “I think he picked up a few scientists after the attack on Cartao, Kal’buir.”

  “Spaarti clones, then. How much use do you think they’ll be if they churn them out in a year?”

  Ordo felt uncomfortable to hear these men—men exactly like him in most ways—referred to like that, even benignly, and even by Skirata. “It’s not just the process,” he said. “It’s the genetic material they’re grown from. The Kaminoans weren’t happy with results from second-generation tissue, which is why they kept Fett around.”

  “We need to do some serious digging.”

  “Why? All we need to keep an eye on is when the Chancellor plans to deploy them. That’s our cue to leave.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of asking Besany to take more risks, son.”

  “I know.”

  The comment hung between them for a moment or two. Then the hatch opened and Kom’rk stuck his head into the compartment.

  “So, nobody missed me,” he said. “I’m gone a year, and nobody baked a cake.”

  “Kom’ika…” Skirata got up and embraced him with a crunch of armor plates. Ordo waited his turn. “Come on, get that bucket off and let’s take a look at you… shab, son, you’re looking thin.”

  Kom’rk shrugged, clipping his helmet to his belt. His face did look drawn. Ordo took advantage of the moment and moved in to hug his brother. Then the rest of the Nulls showed up and the engineering space was suddenly very crowded. It was just like old times, the seven of them together, ready to take on anyone.

  “I’ve been babysitting him, Kal’buir,” Jaing said. “Someone has to keep him away from Mereel and his wild debauchery, after all.”

  Prudii gave Ordo a friendly shove in the back. “It’s Ord’ika’s turn to explore the Outer Rim now.”

  It was. Ordo didn’t want to leave Skirata’s side if he could help it, but he was always conscious that he spent more time at base than any of the Nulls. Kal’buir doesn’t have favorites. “I’ll swap drafts with you, then.”

  Mereel took off his helmet and grinned. “Yes, and I can look after Agent Wennen while you’re gone.”

  The others laughed. Ordo bristled. “We’re here to read Kal’buir the riot act, vod’ikase. Remember?”

  “I thought that maybe we could grab a meal in the wardroom and celebrate still being alive,” Skirata said. “After you’ve had your say.”

  “We’ll make it quick, then,” Prudii said. “One, you show up for surgery and get that ankle fixed, and no crying off like all the other times. Two, we’ll find your daughter, and that way if your no-good offspring is trying to bleed you because he thinks you’re rich now, we’ll cut off his—”

  All Skirata had done to stop Prudii in midsentence was look faintly pained.

  “You don’t owe him anything, Kal’buir.”

  “D’ika, he’s my son.”

  “He disowned you. Your wife wouldn’t let you bring up your kids as Mandos, but they accepted your creds happily enough, didn’t they? Funny how they declared you dar’buir. It was the only Mandalorian custom they ever observed.”

  Ordo watched the color drain from Skirata’s face. It was a question he’d never dared raise, because there was only one reason why sons who’d turned their backs on their Mandalorian heritage would use the ancient law to disown their father; they knew it would hurt him. They knew how much it mattered.

  “Whatever they do to me,” Skirata said quietly, “they’ll never stop being my kids. Now, why don’t we get a meal, and you can all tell me what you’re up to. Jaing, how’s the fundraising going?”

  Jaing followed Skirata out through the hatch. “On target, and the investment income is starting to roll in.”

  “Nice job, son. And you, Kom’rk?”

  “Grievous still comes and goes on Utapau, Kal’buir, and he gets visits from interesting allies we didn’t know he had. The Regent of Garis, in fact.”

  “And there was I thinking he was in the Republic camp.”

  Kom’rk handed Skirata a datachip. “A crumb to toss to Zey—here’s the voice traffic between the two of them, minus the locations, of course. We don’t want Windu or Kenobi charging in there and blowing it before we’ve milked the situation.” He lowered his voice. “And Grievous keeps asking Dooku what’s happened to all these gazillions of droids he was promised, poor old dear. I think he’s been set up.”

  “Told you so,” Skirata said. “All propaganda. All osik.”

  “Can I have a change of scene, then? It’s boring out there.”

  Mereel raised an eyebrow. “You need to learn to find your own entertainment, ner vod…”

  The Nulls laughed all the way to the wardroom. They breezed in, took a table, and Skirata ordered nerf steaks all around from the steward droid. The wardroom was usually the preserve of nonclone officers, but those who were there sensibly made no comment about an influx of ARC troopers, and nothing about the presence of two sergeants—if they even recognized Skirata and A’den as such. They knew what ARCs did, and that it was a good idea to avoid them.

  The meal was as much a rare celebration as a meeting, and the Nulls even had a few glasses of Chandrilan wine. “I should have done this many years ago, adi’ke.” Skirata raised his glass. “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad—Mereel, Jaing, Kom’rk, A’den, Prudii. There. It’s formal, legal. You’re my sons and heirs.”

  “And we won’t bankrupt you,” Jaing muttered.

  “Not with the amount you’re skimming, ner vod,” Mereel said, raising his glass in return. “Thank you, Buir’ika. An honor.”

  At least one cause for guilt had been lifted from Ordo’s shoulders. He was no longer the only Null formally adopted by Skirata. It was a legal detail, nothing more, but Ordo didn’t want to be singled out as the favorite. He already felt he had a far easier time than his brothers. They carried on chatting—nothing confidential, not until they were back on the secure helmet link—until Ordo noticed a couple of the mongrel lieutenants, the nonclones in their drab gray fabric uniforms, looking past him toward the entrance with mild amusement.

  Ordo turned. Behind him, a young ensign stood glowering at the Nulls, and caught his eye.

  “Clone!” snapped the ensign. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Clone.

  It was never a good opening line. Mereel stifled a smile. “Remember, no entrails, Ord’ika. Folks are still eating.”

  But Ordo couldn’t laugh it off. Not only was it a gross insult, it was also a test; if he allowed this upstart to disrespect him, he encouraged him t
o treat all clones badly. A lesson was needed.

  “Ensign,” he said slowly. “I’m not clone. I’m Captain.” He tapped his red pauldron meaningfully. “Captain Ordo, ARC en-one-one, Special Operations Brigade, Grand Army of the Republic. And you’ll address me properly.”

  The wardroom fell silent. The ensign had taken on an ARC trooper, and he was going to get his shebs handed to him. Ordo could sense their anticipation without any need for telepathy.

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” the ensign said. “You’re a clone.”

  Ordo stood and ambled slowly toward him, both thumbs hooked in his belt, coming to a halt almost nose-to-nose. It was hard not to hit the brat and be done with it. He wanted to very badly, and noted the COMPOR pin next to the ensign’s flash. Political ideologue, eh? It was the Commission for the Protection of the Republic, strutting little twerps who wanted firm government as long as it was imposed on lesser beings and not them.

  “And proud to be one,” Ordo said, feeling his throat tightening and his pulse accelerating. “Designed to be superior. And looking at you, I can see why the Republic had to buy in a real navy. What’s your problem?”

  “You can’t bring noncommissioned ranks into the wardroom.” The ensign hadn’t backed down, so he was doing better than most. “Officers only—”

  “Quote him the regs, Ord’ika.” Prudii laughed. “Chapter and subsection. That’ll teach him.”

  But the ensign was on his suicide run now. He pointed at Skirata. “And as for bringing the hired help in here, that mercenary—”

  Up to that point, Ordo had balanced on that fine edge between finding things almost funny and being irritable. He was aware of his moods and occasionally explosive temper. They said the Nulls were all psychos, screwed up by too much genetic tinkering, and Ordo knew his reactions weren’t those of a normally socialized human being. But he had bigger issues on his list than satisfying this ensign’s desire for a sergeant-free wardroom, and he let his instincts take over. His instincts were very, very angry.