Order 66

by Karen Traviss

  Telti stared at the chips, mouth slightly open. Skirata now realized it was probably very hard for a cop to take a sum like that without leaving himself open to some unhealthy attention, but times were changing, and none of them knew what the next day would bring. Telti was still staring at the fortune, muttering “Oh… oh, Kal…” when Besany came out into the lobby and put her arms around him. He felt dwarfed. She was as tall as Ordo.

  “Don’t scare me like that again, Kal’buir,” she said.

  “Time to run, ad’ika.”

  “You’re not going to try to beat the blockade, are you?”

  “No. This is a standby, and we’ll wait for the battle to die down.”

  “I’ll get Laseema.” She winked at him, but the fear was etched on her face now. She was still putting on a defiant show, though, still mandokarla. “Excellent use for the sapphires.”

  Kad was silent, very alert, not at all like a baby today. He didn’t fret or grizzle; he just sat on Besany’s lap, both hands flat on the transparisteel sidescreen, staring at the world streaking by as Skirata took the fastest route down through the layers of the city to reach the reservoir entrance. The speeder eased through the service tunnel, with just enough clearance to avoid scraping the bodywork.

  “Oh, this is wonderful!” Laseema seemed genuinely impressed by Aay’han. She patted the bunk in her tiny cabin. “I’ve never been in a ship like this. What do you think of this, then, Kad’ika?”

  “Ma!” He tottered across the deck and tried to clamber onto the lower bunk. It was a valiant attempt, and he failed, but he kept trying in grim silence until Laseema gave him a leg up. “Mama!”

  Mama. “Have you commed her?” Besany asked.

  “I’m going to recall her now.” Skirata knew he should have spent more time worrying about Etain. “She might have to go straight to Mandalore, if she can get transport. But I’m not happy about that. I’ll see where that Vollen woman is. Maybe ask her to retrieve Et’ika. Or Jaing can do it.”

  Besany took his hand and squeezed it. Then she gestured to the blaster on her belt. It hadn’t been so long ago that she didn’t even want to handle one. “We’ll maintain proper security, Kal. We’ll be fine here. I’ll keep the hatch closed.”

  “You won’t be on your own long. The rest of the aliit will be along soon. The whole clan.”

  She gave him a dazzling smile that radiated trust. “It’s all coming together, Kal. You’re going to pull this off. You’re a hero, you know that?”

  No, he wasn’t, even if Munin and Besany and a handful of other people had told him that over the years. He was what most thought he was: a chancer, a killer, a marginal man, a thug. But he knew he was also a man who sometimes did the right thing for the most deserving people. He could live with himself, most days.

  Skirata pondered loose ends as he headed back to the safe house to clear out what few things remained. He knew where everyone was; he knew, more or less, how they were getting to Manda’yaim. And yes, they were aliit—they were a clan, however odd a mix of personalities and backgrounds they were.

  He commed Gilamar without fear of being picked up by the Chancellor’s minions now, marveling at this incongruous protection afforded by being at war. “Mij’ika? Doctor stuff. About Fett’s sister—I’ve been thinking about where we ought to—”

  Gilamar cut him off. “Kal, have you been monitoring the GAR or SOB channels?”

  Shab, could nobody find time to comm him? “Not for the last hour or so.”

  “Palpatine’s been kidnapped by the Seps and taken off the planet. Big flap on. Zey’s language is very un-Jedi-like at the moment.”

  All Skirata could think then was that it was weird to abduct the Chancellor, and that it might mean a chance of getting through the planetary shield. If anything told him he didn’t see the Republic’s welfare as his own, it was that.

  “Does that change our plans?” he asked. “Other than that it might force a surrender or cease-fire?”

  “They’re recalling various Jedi—maybe time to get Etain out.”

  “Opportunities and threats, Mij. One and the same.”

  Skirata didn’t have to worry about getting arrested now. He could call Enacca. It was great that she was a Wookiee patriot, but it was also handy that she was keeping an eye on Etain.

  He owed the furball. He’d make sure she was set up for life when the current unpleasantness was over.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Emergency reservoir, Galactic City,

  day five of the Battle of Coruscant, 1,085 days ABG

  There are two reasons why we have to wear armor. One is so that we don’t get killed too easily. The other is so that we all look Mandalorian, however different we may be from our brothers and sisters.

  —Mandalorian mother, explaining one of the Resol’nare—the six obligations of Mandalorian identity—to her daughter

  Skirata waited, his personal comlink in one hand and his helmet comm channel set to the GAR command network.

  On the underground quayside, Jusik was keeping Fi busy by teaching him to use a lightsaber. It was, Jusik said, an easier weapon to handle until—it was always until, never if—Fi got back full motor control.

  No matter who was swinging the shabla thing, Skirata still didn’t like that humming sound. It had a soulless, relentless quality, almost like a droid casting about for victims with a sensor scan, implacable, not caring who it killed or why.

  “How’s it looking, Mer’ika?” Skirata asked. “What transponder are you using?”

  Mereel was in the Aggressor, waiting on a deserted public landing platform in the midlevels, with a camo net over the airframe. From the air, the fighter looked like another casualty of the battle, but it wasn’t the kind of vessel the Republic used, so it was vital that it wasn’t taken for a moving Sep target. Fake transponder signal or not, there was always the chance that a smart clone would eyeball the shabla thing, trust his judgment over the computer’s, and open fire.

  “Small sports yacht,” he said. “Rich civvy making a run for it. We might have a window soon—they’ve recalled Kenobi, for a start.”

  “They’ll need to bring the shields down to get his ego and red carpet in…”

  “Fine by me. I’m ready to jettison the net and bang out the moment I see a gap.”

  “Everyone okay?”

  “Medicated where necessary, in separate cells—and Uthan hasn’t spotted yet that three of us are clones. I love my buy’ce. It lets me keep some mystery in a relationship.”

  “I think a few Mandos on board can keep her quiet if she works it out before she gets to Mandalore. Now, how about the data duplicates? Contingency RV points?”

  “All sorted, Kal’buir. Stop worrying.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s okay, Papa. It’s all on schedule.” Mereel rarely used the word papa; it was always buir. “Rav’s waiting with her clan at Kyrimorut, so nothing’s going to go wrong at that end, either. We’re ready to run.”

  “K’oyacyi, Mer’ika,” Skirata said quietly. Stay safe, stay alive, hang in there. “Next time we see you, it’ll be on Manda’yaim.”

  Jusik and Fi could obviously hear him. The vzzzmmm of the lightsaber had stopped.

  “Uthan’s going to go nuts when she finds out who’s nabbed her,” Fi said. “I wonder if she’ll recognize me and Omega?”

  “Got a lot more work to do before we worry about that, ad’ika.”

  Skirata really hated waiting. He was getting too old for this game, at least for the slow grind of it, all the snatched sleep and the missed meals. He paced, he wandered, and he went down below in the ship a dozen times. Besany rocked Kad, one finger held to her lips. Jilka sat looking as if her life was over, which could so easily have been the case by now.

  Skirata paused to pat her head. “You won’t want to be on Coruscant when this war ends, anyway,” he said. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “It’s been an education.” Jilka had the voice of a woman who did
n’t suffer fools gladly. She didn’t thank him for his generosity, or tell him what a kind and generous buir he was. “Seems I didn’t know Besany kriffing Wennen at all.”

  Besany didn’t react. Skirata made a mental note to keep an eye on that tension, but they hadn’t slugged each other so far. What Mandalorians took for granted in the ups and downs of a day’s work, a civilized office worker in the galactic capital—even one with a risky job—saw as a trauma.

  “Kal’buir,” said Mereel’s voice. “Shields are coming down. Grievous has withdrawn—I think the battle’s turned. I have to go. K’oyacyi.”

  “K’oyacyi. I love you, son.”

  Skirata went up top and jumped from Aay’han’s casing onto the quayside. He couldn’t see the sky from down here, but the urge to go up and watch the Aggressor leave was more than his body could resist. It wasn’t even near here; he’d never see the ship anyway. But he did it blindly, and then stood facing the wall, helmet resting against the permacrete, counting the long minutes out a second at a time. Someone put their hand on his back and stood there with him. He didn’t turn around.

  Mandalorians had dispensed with their gods long ago. Masters—whether divinities or Mandalores—were only tolerated as long as they pulled their weight. It left Skirata with no higher authority to bargain with for Mereel’s safety.

  Six minutes, seven… ten…

  “Kal’buir, we’re clear of Coruscant now.”

  “Mer’ika!”

  “You should see the traffic around the place. The debris’s more of a danger in orbit than the live ships.”

  “Don’t hang about, son, go.”

  “We’re gone.”

  The comlink closed. Mereel had jumped to hyperspace. Skirata straightened up and put his hands to his helmet, sweat prickling on his upper lip. When he turned around, it wasn’t Fi or Jusik behind him, but Vau.

  “You worry too much,” he said. “Grievous has banged out. Palpatine’s back in one piece.”

  “I know. Where’s Mird?”

  “In my speeder. Well, someone’s speeder. It was abandoned up top, so I liberated it for a while. I’m going to play nerf herder again until we pull out. There’s still pockets of fighting going on, and HNE’s saying there’s a fair few homegrown anti-Republic elements still causing trouble, so it’s not safe on the ground yet even if the fleet engagement’s done and dusted.”

  Skirata switched back to the GAR comm circuit, listening for Kashyyyk traffic. They weren’t discussing the Wookiee resistance, but Masters Vos and Yoda appeared to be ready to start the big assault inside forty-eight hours. Etain had to be out before that kicked off. Enacca had her orders.

  Skirata commed Omega. He’d kept an eye on the squad’s status via the GAR links, but now he needed to talk to them personally. Atin answered first.

  “What’s it like up there, At’ika?” Skirata asked.

  “We’re still mopping up, Sarge.”

  “Who’s tasking you at the moment? Zey?”

  “Yeah, direct or via Lieutenant Aven.”

  “Keep me posted on every move, okay? I can get into the GAR system, but I want to be doubly sure you are where it says you are over the next couple of days. We’re going very soon, son, and you better be ready.”

  “I’m ready,” Atin said. “We all are. Is Vau there?”

  “Yeah…” It was still thin ice, even if hostilities between the two men had been shelved for the duration. “Want to talk to him?”

  “No, just tell him that the war’s over between us. It really is. Back home, we start anew. Cin vhetin.”

  Vau heard anyway. Skirata put the link back in his belt.

  “I only ever did it to make sure they survived, whatever happened,” Vau said. “I’m not a sadistic man.”

  “Yeah.” Skirata didn’t want to restart that fight. But he knew he’d take his knife to Vau, just like old times, if he so much as raised his hand to those lads again, and yet somehow that coexisted with a respect and… yes, affection. Vau was family, too. “I’ve got to catch up with the rest of my boys. Go keep an eye on the ladies. I’ll even trust you with my grandson now.”

  “Oh, I’ll build a nest, then,” said Vau, and stepped off the quay onto the hull.

  Skirata watched Jusik teaching Fi the art of being an un-Jedi for a few minutes, and then went to collect his speeder, the one that had been his temporary pride and joy when he stole it from a dead Jabiimi dissident.

  He was going to miss that crate.

  Core Plaza,

  late afternoon,

  two days after the flight of Grievous from Coruscant, 1,087 days ABG

  “He’s back, Ord’ika.”

  Jaing’s voice popped in Ordo’s earpiece as he patrolled the devastated retail district with a CSF unit, flushing out looters. “Grievous?”

  “He misses Utapau, obviously. I got a tip-off.”

  “You’re not there, then.”

  “No, we’re just tidying up a few loose ends on the Rim.”

  “Time we told Zey?”

  “Yeah.” Jaing sounded tired. “There’s still something not right about this, but I’m past caring, and so is Kom’ika. Where’s Grievous’s massive droid army now, eh? Quadrillions, my shebs. Maybe they all booked the same week’s vacation and couldn’t make Coruscant.”

  “Pull out, then, ner vod. You’re now officially missing in action, and Kom’rk, too. Go straight back to Mandalore.”

  “We were supposed to RV on Triple Zero.”

  “Yes, but Bralor needs a hand wrangling the menagerie that Kal’buir dropped in her lap. I’ll square it with him.”

  Jaing laughed. “I’m going have to dump my ARC armor. Shame. I looked great in that. Still, my beskar’gam matches my lovely special hide gloves.”

  “K’oyacyi, ner vod.”

  “You too, Ord’ika.”

  Ordo checked his chrono. He’d give this a little longer, and then swing by Arca Barracks to hand Zey the location to find Grievous. He leaned out of the patrol ship’s bay as it banked over the heart of the sector, marveling at the opportunism of all species, that they could venture out to steal when fighting was still going on in places. A gang of Rodians and humans was busy removing the contents of a fashion store. The police pilot wheeled around to bring the ship level with the walkway, and the marksman sighted up.

  The CSF sergeant didn’t even get the chance to warn them off; the looters scattered at the sound of the drives, vanishing into bombed buildings and down stairwells.

  “I’m amazed they even try,” said the sergeant. “There’s so many of your boys around now.”

  “Not enough to guard every store.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” The sergeant leaned out even farther than Ordo. “They’re everywhere. I’ve never seen so many troopers. They all seemed to show up in the last few days. Is there anyone still fighting out there in the rest of the galaxy?”

  “Plenty,” said Ordo. “The big push on Kashyyyk’s just started. It’s business as usual in the Grand Army.”

  It wasn’t, but the sergeant didn’t need to know that. Ordo had checked the fleet deployments that morning, and staggering numbers of vessels were in play now, although not many showed up where he expected them to be. They were out there somewhere, though: an army and a navy of millions upon millions, making the core of the GAR, the three million Kamino clones, look insignificant.

  “We suddenly got reinforcements.” Ordo checked his chrono again. “Hurrah for the Chancellor.”

  The sergeant smiled ruefully. “Yeah, we say it like that, too…”

  The patrol ship dropped Ordo off near the barracks and he made his way across the square, surprised by the numbers of ordinary citizens who were now venturing out. The presence of so many clone troopers on the ground seemed to have given them confidence to leave their homes and come out of the public shelters.

  It didn’t matter anymore. This would no longer be his world in a matter of days. He was going home.

  With my w
ife. With my father. With my brothers, and their wives. Even if we never get to live a long life, we now have a real one.

  There were troopers guarding the barracks now—they never had before—and they even asked to see Ordo’s ID. They clearly hadn’t been up close to an ARC trooper before. He wanted to ask one of them to lift his helmet so he could look him in the eye and see if he was exactly like his Null and commando brothers, but it was demeaning, and it was no longer his business. If he connected to these new clones in any way, he’d end up like Kal’buir, feeling that each man was his personal responsibility to rescue.

  Inside Arca Barracks, his boots echoed in the empty corridors, so little had changed for the Republic commandos. Maybe the GAR would start cross-training more men.

  “Good shopping trip?” Maze said. “Shoot any looters?”

  Ordo took off his helmet and clipped it to his belt. “Mongrels bewilder me. If I were going to steal in a crisis, I’d take weapons and food. Not garments. Is Zey around?”

  “He’s in his office. It’s back to normal—too many fronts to cover, too few men, Jedi generals spread all over the place.”

  “Ironic, given our sudden expansion.”

  The two ARCs strode down to see Zey. Ordo tossed the datachip to the general. “Intel on Grievous’s whereabouts.”

  Zey looked at Ordo with a completely blank expression. Ordo sometimes came close to liking the man. He almost felt sorry for him.

  “Grievous,” Ordo repeated. “Jaing and Kom’rk tracked him to Utapau—he’s still there now. There’s the layout of the camp from the areas they could access remotely. Who are you going to send after him—that windbag Kenobi? General Yoda’s your best bet, if he wasn’t occupied elsewhere.”

  Zey’s corrugated brow suggested that he found it significant that Jaing and Kom’rk had struck pay dirt at this particular time. “You don’t approve of General Kenobi, then.”