Order 66

by Karen Traviss

  “Palpatine’s probably the one who had you created,” Zey said. He was lucky he was still breathing. Ordo wasn’t sure why Maze hadn’t just slotted him. “Why couldn’t you see what he was?”

  “Why couldn’t you sniff him out with your Force powers?” Ordo asked. “And why the shab did you never ask where we came from?”

  Ordo had had enough. He walked away. He was halfway down the corridor, and he could still hear Maze asking Zey to come quietly, because he was arresting him, because maybe he might get a trial.

  Poor Maze; he really believed that political osik he read on his off-duty hours. The world didn’t work that way.

  “I’m dead already,” said Zey. His voice was getting fainter. Ordo had expected him to fight to the death. “Please, do it. I know you have no malice in you. End it for me. I know what’ll happen if he gets me.”

  Ordo’s forefinger hit the keypad on the main doors to open them for the last time. He could just about hear the end of the conversation in the deathly quiet.

  “I’m really sorry, sir,” Maze said. “But if that’s an order…”

  A single blaster shot cracked the air. Poor Zey, and poor Maze. Everyone got used in the end.

  Except us, Ordo thought. Except us.

  Chapter Twenty

  Galactic City,

  2250 hours, 1,089 days ABG

  I hesitated for a moment when I received Order Sixty-six—because the last thing I expected was a Jedi coup. Did I feel betrayed? You bet I did. I thought of all my men who’d died under Ki-Adi-Mundi’s command, and if I’d known then that he and his buddies were gearing up to do the Separatists’ work for them and overthrow the government, I’d have shot him as a traitor a lot earlier. He betrayed the trust of every one of us.

  —Clone Commander Bacara, formerly of the Galactic Marines

  “Dar, she’s not here,” Niner said. They cruised up and down the main skylane from the holotheater, but Darman couldn’t see Etain anywhere. “She was here some time ago. You know how much ground she can cover. Give it up.”

  “I can’t,” Darman said.

  He kept checking his comlink. He’d received her messages now, and he worked out the rough location of transmission based on what Jusik had said—that she’d come from the Kragget. The comm traffic on the CSF channels was scaring him. He listened, mouth dry, heart pounding, to the control room supervisors juggling incoming reports and tasking patrols.

  “…All units, look out for Jedi, young Jedi, possibly disguised now… Do not approach, I say again do not approach, armed and dangerous, call for military backup immediately… May not have braids, repeat, may have removed identifying marks… Copy that, Five-Seven… No, numbers unknown… Yes, confirm that, arson is suspected, fire investigation team is seeking access, requires military escort, please advise… Confidential material has been destroyed… Jedi may be trying to escape with highly sensitive security data, so this is top priority… Chancellor’s office… Military has orders to shoot on sight… Person of special interest, male, Teevan Veld, first name Tru, do not approach, call for Five-oh-first backup immediately…”

  Jaller Obrim had called Skirata to let him know that one of his men had spoken to Etain when she left. If she was following a direct route on foot, she’d probably have come this way. If she’d taken a taxi, she would have been at the RV by now, and Skirata still hadn’t seen her.

  “Why doesn’t she just call in?” Niner sounded exasperated. “Doesn’t she know we’re going to come out and look for her?”

  “She’s like Kal’buir. She thinks that if she says not to do it, then we won’t.”

  Darman was now desperate. He knew Skirata would wait for her until Mustafar froze over, but the longer she was out there, the more likely she was to run into problems.

  “She’s in civvies,” Niner said. “She doesn’t look like a Jedi. As long as she doesn’t start waving the shiny stick around right under some trooper’s nose, she’ll be fine.”

  “She accepted.”

  “What? What did she accept?”

  “We exchanged marriage vows. It still counts over a comlink, you know. It’s legal.”

  Niner didn’t seem to know what to say. He swung the bike around and headed for the reservoir.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Time’s up, Dar. All we’re doing is worrying Kal’buir.” Niner clicked his helmet comlink. “Sarge? It’s Niner. We’re heading in.”

  Skirata responded instantly. “I’ve got Ordo looking for her. She’s okay. She’s just staying off the radar. Jusik says he can sense her. Shab, I’m going to kick her shebs when I get hold of her for scaring us like this.”

  “There, Dar,” Niner said. “Told you not to worry.”

  “Humor me. When we get to the RV point, can we wait up top, so I can see her coming?”

  Niner accelerated toward the reservoir. “Of course.”

  It wasn’t hard to spot the location, even without global positioning in their HUDs. The emergency reservoir might have been an invisible and forgotten facility for most Coruscanti, but there was a large slab-like tower on top of it—part of the pumping system—and when the bike got within a hundred meters of it, Darman saw an intermittent infrared pulse on his HUD. It was very regular; it was being emitted to attract someone’s attention. As they approached it cautiously, it resolved into a CSF speeder parked on top of the tower.

  “Osik.” CSF had been the clones’ staunchest friends for a few years. Darman wasn’t sure why he now felt uneasy when he saw them. It was the compliance order. CSF had been told the Jedi were now the bad guys, and not everyone worked within the wide influence of Captain Obrim.

  “Dar, let me do the talking.” Niner brought the bike to a stop, facing in the opposite direction to the police speeder. “It’s okay.”

  The speeder’s sidescreen opened.

  “Come on,” said Jaller Obrim, hanging one arm over the edge. He indicated with a cutting motion across his throat to switch off their comms. “I can’t sit here all night. Get below.”

  “Captain, you gave us a start…”

  “I’m here to see you all get away, okay? Don’t let Kal know I’m here. You’re not on his frequency, are you? I said I’d keep out of his way now that Palps is after him. Now where’s that woman of yours? Haven’t you told her to keep her comlink open?”

  Darman could hear a LAAT/i drive nearby. There was a GAR patrol coming. It was a sound every clone could pick out at a zillion klicks, because it was the sound of a gunship coming to give welcome air support, or extraction under fire. He couldn’t work out why the gunship would be out here and not patrolling the main thoroughfares.

  “CSF’s working with GAR patrols,” Darman said. “You should know—why are they around here?”

  Obrim jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “What’s behind me?”

  Darman checked his HUD holochart. “Monit Town, the Tibanna storage depot, and Chance Palp Spaceport.”

  “Correct. And where’s the Jedi Temple in relation to that?”

  “Ah.” The RV point was almost on the direct route from one to the other. Darman could see the orange glow; the fire still raged. “I see.”

  Obrim indicated the comlink sitting on his speeder console. “Quite a few of the junior Jedi escaped the Temple before it went up in flames, and logic says that they’ll probably try getting off the planet via somewhere crowded like one of the spaceports. So they’ve got troops covering all the likely routes.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I hear they torched the place themselves. Don’t know what they were trying to get rid of, but the fire service couldn’t save the Archive. The Chancellor’s pretty annoyed about that.”

  Darman knew that anyway. He was shocked that the Jedi had pulled a stunt like this, even though Skirata kept telling him now how corrupt they were. On Kamino, discussion of Jedi had been very neutral, and he’d never spotted any of the strong Mandalorian mistrust of them back then. “What if a patrol picks up Etain?”

 
; “I’ll have to talk them out of it, won’t I? But there’s no reason for her to get picked up.”

  Darman nodded. “Thanks, Captain.”

  They waited. The larty swooped over them, searchlights playing across the roofs and spires of the pumping station as it tracked toward the spaceport. As far the LAAT/i crew were concerned, it was just a commando patrol pausing to chat to a CSF comrade. Darman hoped they didn’t spot that the speeder bike wasn’t regulation GAR issue.

  Then his helmet comlink clicked.

  “Dar?”

  “Et’ika!”

  “Where are you?”

  Darman heard Niner let out a breath. “RV point,” Darman said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m about five minutes’ walk from the Shinarcan Bridge Extension. I can see a big crowd at the shopping plaza gates. Any idea what’s happening? Because I have to go through there.”

  “Wait one,” Darman said. He turned to Obrim. “She’s coming up to the Shinarcan Bridge. What’s the crowd problem?”

  Obrim’s speeder lit up with a head-up viewscreen display showing CSF control room information. He read it carefully, red and yellow light dancing on his face. “It’s a security checkpoint. They’re channeling all pedestrian traffic in that area through it. CSF and GAR personnel on duty, just routine, so all she has to do is walk through. It’s not like we’ve got a Jedi detector device or anything.”

  “Are you getting this, Et’ika?”

  Niner made his impatient noise, an irritated click of the teeth just like Skirata. “I say we wander down there and just make sure she gets through okay.”

  “I could do that,” Obrim said.

  “But you’re the head of the Anti-Terrorist Unit,” Niner said. “Everyone knows you. It’ll raise questions.”

  “My boys don’t ask questions. They don’t see, hear, or know anything unless it’s in our interests for them to do so.”

  “I meant us doing it. I meant the GAR.” Niner started the bike’s drive. “The good thing about being a clone is that we could be any one of us.”

  “Et’ika, we’re coming to meet you on the other side of the checkpoint,” Darman said. “Slow down. Amble or something.”

  Skirata’s voice cut in to the circuit. Darman didn’t think he’d picked them up. “What are you two playing at?”

  “Kal’buir, we’re just seeing Etain through the last barrier.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to get down here? Okay—take it nice and casual.”

  Niner switched to the private helmet link. “He’s going to put his boot up our shebs when we get back. We’ve really ticked him off.”

  It was a small price to pay. In a matter of minutes, they’d be starting Aay’han’s drives, and all the complications would be forgotten. As they dropped down over the bridge, they could see the stream of pedestrians milling around the checkpoint, waiting to pass through, and there was a convenient space among the parked patrol vessels. Niner landed as if it was routine. There were no CSF officers visible, but some 501st troopers with their distinctive blue markings were just standing there watching everyone walk through, looking serious and armed. They didn’t seem to be doing any stop-and-search.

  Niner and Darman stood looking serious, too, and a DC-17 looked like a lot more firepower than the long rifle of the troopers. And nobody seemed to turn a hair about the bike. They were commandos; the rest of the GAR thought they were eccentric at best, and an undisciplined gang of thugs at worst.

  “Here she comes,” Niner said.

  Darman was twenty meters from Etain now. He looked through the sea of strangers and could see just one being out of all of them—Et’ika.

  She caught sight of him, and glanced away before she gave in to a smile.

  On board Aay’han,

  RV point,

  2255 hours

  “Enough,” said Skirata. “I’m going out to see them in. I can’t bear this waiting.”

  Jusik put on his helmet. “Okay, but I’m going to stay on comms and get the drives on idle. Just in case.”

  “Ordo’s piloting.”

  “I know, but if for any reason he has to come down here at a run, and we’re in a real hurry to bang out, I’ll be there to get us moving.”

  Jusik was a great little planner. Skirata patted his shoulder. “Good thinking,” he said. “Can I have your lightsaber?”

  Jusik paused, but handed it to him. “Don’t lose it. And what for?”

  “Trophy. To look like I’m there to kill Jedi, not escort one to safety. Sorry, Bard’ika. This isn’t pretty for any of us.”

  “Mind your hands, then.”

  Skirata waggled his fingers. “Beskar-impregnated fabric…”

  “We’re coming, too,” Corr said. “Sarge, we’re big strong lads, and you’re not, and if it gets hairy, you’ll need backup.”

  Skirata didn’t have time to argue again. “Whatever happened to ‘Yes, Sergeant. Right away, Sergeant!’? Okay. Come on.”

  They had to take Vau’s speeder because two commandos and a Mando in heavy beskar’gam wouldn’t fit on a bike, even if they had one handy. As Skirata looked down on the bridge, he could see the pedestrians building up into a huge crowd as the choke point of the security cordon started to build a backlog. They set down between two GAR assault ships. The transport wasn’t helping the congestion by taking up so much space on the bridge, but it formed a good defensive barrier.

  “Coming through,” Atin barked, clearing white-armored troopers out of their way. “Mind yer backs.”

  A couple of the CSF officers gave Skirata an odd look, but either they knew who he was, and so would say nothing, or they saw the lightsaber hanging prominently from his belt and assumed that he was Mando bounty-hunting muscle on hand to tackle Jedi. Anyone who knew about Mando’ade knew they could—in theory—tackle Force-users. But most Coruscanti who weren’t part of what was known euphemistically as the enforcement community or those who serviced them didn’t know what they were anyway, and just saw them as quaint offworlders in pretty armor. They’d never seen Mandalorians fighting on their home turf.

  Skirata looked toward the cordon. It was a dam waiting to burst.

  “You better hope this stays calm and orderly,” Skirata said to nobody in particular.

  “I see her,” Corr said.

  “Good. Stay calm, folks. Just let the line work through.” A 501st sergeant walked up to him. “I don’t have an identity code for you, sir.”

  Sir. Skirata shuddered inside. He flipped the lightsaber off his belt and spun it in his fingers.

  “Here’s all the ID you need, Sergeant. I kill Jedi. We like trophies, we Mandos.” Skirata rapped his gauntlet against his chest plate. “They might take your head off, son, but I’m wearing beskar.”

  It seemed to satisfy the man. Skirata stood with his weight firmly planted on both boots, one thumb in his belt, and drew his short-barreled Verpine to rest it against his shoulder in the safety position.

  The comlink in his helmet clicked. “You look like a bad boy, Kal’buir.”

  “Dar, is that you?”

  “Copy that.”

  “Don’t do anything dumb, Dar’ika. Niner—I don’t see you.”

  “We’re both behind you.”

  “Okay, boys, just relax. Ord’ika, are you getting this?”

  “Standing by.”

  Skirata had said calm and relax so often now that he knew he was the one who needed to listen to his own advice. The crowd was relatively good-humored; they’d heard the news, they could see the flames, and after the thwarted invasion, the combined protective might of CSF and the Grand Army was enjoying some popularity.

  A female Biravian paused at the checkpoint to open her bag for inspection. “I hope you get them all,” she said to the clone trooper. “No wonder the Seps managed to land here. The Jedi were traitors all along. You’re doing a wonderful job, trooper.”

  Skirata thought it was a bit late for civvies to feel warm and cuddly about white jobs, but it was better
late than never.

  It was all going calmly. The chatting from the queuing crowd was a steady, loud hum. Etain was getting near the front of the line. Skirata could see her. Darman could, too. Skirata heard him say, “Cyar’ika.”

  And then—

  Three young humans, two males and a female, were slow in opening their bags. The clone trooper held out his hand to take them, the girl paused, and then something fell on the floor—a stack of datapads and…

  “Jedi!” someone yelled. “They’re kriffing Jedi!”

  And the lightsabers came out, blue and humming. Skirata only saw Etain, and then all haran broke loose in the melee.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Shinarcan Bridge, Coruscant,

  2320 hours, two hours after Order 66, 1,089 days ABG

  Ca’nara ne gotal’u mirjahaal—shi gotal’u haastal.

  Time doesn’t heal. It only forms a scab.

  —Mandalorian proverb

  Etain’s instincts had long been honed to seize a lightsaber and snap it into action.

  The Masters put her first weapon in her hand at four years of age.

  But not tonight; not now.

  Sudden danger did the same thing for her as it did for the clone troopers, for the CSF cops, for any soldier under fire. Time ceased to run its normal course.

  Screams echoed. Bodies jostled. She was back on Qiilura, hiding from Hokan’s militia, knowing that her lightsaber would mark her out as a Jedi for slaughter, like her Master, and so she could not reveal it.

  She stood firm in the panicking crowd, in another and somehow buffered universe, making no attempt to draw her lightsaber, knowing it would seal her fate, and watched—stood back and watched—as three Jedi she thought she recognized batted away blaster bolts, scattering bystanders. A man fell, trapped by the crowd that couldn’t get away fast enough, hit by a blaster ricochet from the lightsabers.

  Nobody could safely use a lightsaber in a crowd. But they were kids, just Padawans, terrified and panicking, fighting for their lives. Innocent pedestrians—packed too close—were caught by the flashing, humming blades. More bolts flew. She ducked. Someone else fell. She didn’t see who. A civilian? A trooper?