Triple Zero

by Karen Traviss

  “They believe that complete knowledge of someone is the key to loving them. They don’t like surprises and hidden facets. Warriors tend not to.”

  “Pragmatic people.”

  “A pity we Jedi weren’t better friends with them, then. We could enjoy being pragmatic together.”

  “You haven’t lectured me on attachment. Thank you.”

  Jusik turned to her with a broad smile that could only have come from being at complete peace with himself. He indicated his body with a flourish of his hands: dull green Mandalorian armor in the form of body plates and greaves. The matching helmet with its sinister T-shaped slit in the visor stood on the floor beside him.

  “You think,” he said, “that I’ll be walking back into the Jedi Temple wearing this? You think this isn’t attachment?”

  He really did find it funny. He laughed. The two of them were everything the Jedi Order wouldn’t approve of. “Zey would throw a fit.”

  “Kenobi wears trooper armor.”

  “General Kenobi does not speak Mandalorian.” She found Jusik’s laughter infectious, and tinged with the exhaustion and frightened relief that was often so evident in Fi. “And his soldiers don’t address him as Little Obi-Wan.”

  Jusik became sober again. “Our code was written when we were peacekeepers. We’ve never fought a war, not like this, not using others. And that changes everything. So I shall remain attached, because my heart tells me it’s right. If remaining a Jedi means that is incompatible, then I know the choice I’ll make.”

  “You’ve made it,” Etain said.

  “And so have you.” He made a vague gesture in the direction of her belly. “I can sense as much. I know you too well now.”

  “Don’t.”

  “This is going to be very difficult for both of you, Etain.”

  “Darman doesn’t know yet. You’re not to mention it to anyone. Promise me.”

  “Of course I won’t. I owe Darman a great deal. All of the men, in fact.”

  “You’re going to kill yourself trying to live up to them.”

  “Then that’s fine by me,” said Jusik.

  Jusik didn’t want to be a peacemaker. If the Force hadn’t manifested itself in him, he could have been a scientist, an engineer, a builder of astonishing things. But he wanted to be a soldier.

  And Etain had to be one, too, whether she wanted to or not, because her troops needed her to be one. But as soon as the war was over, she would leave the Jedi Order and follow a harder but sweeter destiny.

  Skirata set the green speeder down on the landing platform with a certain amount of satisfaction. He’d get Enacca to change the color and make it disappear from the licensing system, but that was routine work for her. She was furious at having to pick up so many of the team’s speeders, sometimes abandoned when they had no choice, but a few extra credits would soothe her.

  Vau eased out of the hatch on the passenger’s side and Mird loped up to him, rumbling and whining happily.

  “I’m going to treat myself to a glass of tihaar,” Skirata said. “If the strill wants to sleep inside tonight, it’s welcome.”

  “I might join you in that drink.” Vau scooped Mird up in his arms again. “Not a textbook operation by any means, but the men put a decent dent in the opposition in a very short time.”

  It almost felt like a civilized relationship. It felt that way right up to the moment the doors opened and they almost stumbled over Fi. He held out both arms as a barrier.

  “Sarge, Atin’s in a foul mood.” He turned to Vau, who set Mird down on the carpet and removed his helmet. “I don’t think you should go near him, Sergeant Vau.”

  Vau just lowered his chin slightly and looked resigned. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “No—”

  “Fi, this is between me and him.”

  Skirata’s immediate instinct was to intervene, but this time he suspected Vau would come off worse, and that had a certain sense of justice to it. While he respected the man’s skill and integrity, he loathed him at a gut level for his brutality. And for him, that erased all the virtues in Vau.

  He said he did it for their own good: it was to reinforce their Mando identity, to save their lives, to save their souls. His lads even believed it. Skirata never would.

  “I’ve been waiting, Sarge,” said Atin’s voice.

  Skirata pulled Fi back. Ordo and Mereel, still working on neutralizing the booby-trapped thermal plastoid, looked up, wary, waiting for his signal to get involved. He gave them a discreet shake of the head. Not yet. Leave it.

  Atin wore his right gauntlet and his bodysuit. He extended the vibroblade from the knuckle plate and held his fist up at his shoulder, then sheathed the blade.

  “If that strill starts on me, I’ll take it out, too.”

  It was a side of Atin that Skirata had never seen before, but one that Vau had built. It was the little bit of Jango, the gene that said Stand and fight, don’t run, another genetic tendency that could be nurtured and developed and trained into something much bigger than itself.

  Vau held his arms at his sides and looked genuinely frustrated. Atin never understood why he’d done it. And neither did I, Skirata thought. You save a man from being dar’manda by teaching him his heritage, not by making him into a wild animal.

  Vau’s voice had softened. “You had to be Mando, Atin. If I didn’t make you Mando, you might as well have been dead, because you wouldn’t exist as a Mando’ad, not without your spirit and your guts.” He was almost apologetic. “You had to be able to cross that threshold and be ready to do absolutely anything to win. Fierfek, if stupid Jedi hadn’t used you as infantry on Geonosis, every single one of my commando batch would be alive today. I made you hard men because I cared.”

  Skirata was glad Vau didn’t use the word love. He’d have put his own knife in the man’s guts if he had. He stood clear, hauling Fi away by his arm, and Atin surged forward to seize Vau by his shoulder plates and head-butt him. Vau staggered back a few steps, blood pouring from his nose, but didn’t go down. Mird squealed frantically and went to defend its master but Vau sent it back with a hand command.

  “Udesii, Mird. I can handle this.”

  “Okay, handle this,” Atin said, and swung a punch.

  It was hard to fight a man in Mandalorian armor but Atin, true to his name, was going to do it. His blow caught Vau just below the eye and he followed up with a ferocious lunge to slam him against the wall and press his arm across his throat. Vau reverted to animal instinct and brought his knee up in Atin’s gut, driving him far enough back to smash his elbow into his face.

  Do I stop this? Can I? Skirata stood ready.

  The blow stopped Atin for a few seconds. Then he just came straight back at Vau and charged into him, knocking him flat and pinning him to the floor, pounding away at him with his fists, hitting armor as often as flesh. By this time the noise of bodies and the strill’s squeals of protest had woken people and Jusik came running just as Atin ejected his vibroblade with a sickening shunk and had it raised, elbow held high, to punch it into Vau’s exposed neck.

  The two men flew apart as if in a silent explosion. Atin cannoned into the table and Vau was rolled back against the wall. There was a stunned moment of silence.

  “This stops now!” Jusik yelled at the top of his voice. “That is an order! I am your general and I will not tolerate brawling, do you hear? Not for any reason. Get up, the two of you!”

  Vau obeyed as meekly as any new recruit. The two men struggled to their feet and Atin stood to attention out of long habit. Little Jusik—hair sleep-tousled, wearing just a crumpled tunic and rough pants—stood glaring at the two much bigger men.

  Skirata had never seen the Force used to break up a fight before. It was as impressive as ripping open that door.

  “I want this feud to stop now,” Jusik continued, voice barely a whisper. “We have to have discipline. And I can’t let you harm each other. We have to be united. Do you understand?”

  “Yes
sir,” Atin said impassively, blood streaked across his face. “Am I on a charge now, General?”

  “No. I’m just asking you to put an end to this for all our sakes.”

  Atin was calm reason once again. He didn’t even seem out of breath. “Very good, sir.”

  Vau looked shaken, or at least as shaken as a man like him could be. “I’m a civilian, General, so I can do as I please, but I apologize to my former trainee for any pain I caused him.”

  Skirata winced. It was enough to start the fight again. But it was as good a concession as anyone would ever get out of a man who believed he had done Atin a favor.

  “My fault, sir,” Skirata said, doing what a good sergeant should. “I ought to maintain better discipline.”

  Jusik gave him a look that said he didn’t believe that, but it was fond rather than censorious. Skirata hoped he never had to show the lad that he wouldn’t obey him, but he suspected Jusik would never want to test that.

  The Jedi glanced over his shoulder at the silent audience that had gathered. “We can all get back to bed now.” The commandos shrugged and disappeared back to their rooms. Corr’s expression of total shock was fascinating. There was no sign of Darman. “And you, Fi. It’s been a heavy day.”

  Jusik grabbed a bacta spray with an expression of weary exasperation and sat Atin down in a chair to clean up his face. He made no attempt to tend to Vau, who walked off to the refreshers, Mird whining at his heels. Ordo and Mereel vanished to the landing platform with bundles of wrapped explosives.

  Skirata waited for Jusik to finish and for Atin to return to his room.

  “So, no lightsaber and no armor.” Jusik was even shorter than he was. He prodded the kid in the chest. “I told you that it’s what’s under the armor that makes a man. A few thousand Jedi like you and the Republic wouldn’t be in the osik it is now. You’re a soldier, sir, and a good officer. And I don’t think I’ve ever said that to anyone in my life.”

  Skirata meant it at that moment. It didn’t make him love Jedi as a kind any the better, but he was very fond of Bard’ika, and would look after him. Jusik lowered his eyes, a strange blend of embarrassment and delight, and clasped Skirata’s arm.

  “I want what’s best for my men, that’s all.”

  Skirata waited for him to shut his bedroom doors and went in search of the bottle of tihaar and that rarest of things in Qibbu’s Hut, a clean glass. He wrenched the stopper out of the bottle and slopped a little into a chipped goblet.

  He couldn’t identify which fruit it had been distilled from this time, and it didn’t taste that good. It never had, but more often than not it got him to sleep. He let it burn the inside of his mouth before swallowing and sat in the chair, nursing the glass in his cupped hands, eyes closed.

  I hope Atin’s found some kind of peace from this.

  He thought he detected a faint hint of jewel-fruit in the tihaar.

  Four million credits.

  That was satisfying, far more than any bounty or fee he had invested over the years on Aargau. Nobody had mentioned it. Ordo and Mereel certainly had to be thinking about it: they knew his plans. Vau was a mercenary but would not interfere, because he had been paid. Etain might ask questions, too. But the commando squads had little interest in the realities of economics. Clones didn’t get paid. They never coveted possessions because they had been raised with nothing to call their own. Even Fi’s desire for Ghez Hokan’s fine Mando armor and his lads’ general lust for Verpine rifles was a blend of pragmatism and the Mandalorian cultural values that he had taught them himself, not basic civilian greed.

  And a copy of a restricted Treasury datapad to play with.

  And Perrive’s ’pad to pick over. I’ll have Mereel copy it before I give it to Zey… or give most of it to him, anyway.

  He opened his eyes, aware of someone standing over him. Ordo and Mereel stood impatient and excited, looking much more like normal young men having a lark than efficient, disciplined, deadly soldiers.

  Mereel grinned, unable to contain his glee. “Want to hear about Ko Sai, Kal’buir? She’s turned up again.”

  Skirata drained the glass. This was what he wanted most. “I’m all ears, adi’ke.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A major terrorist network lies in tatters this morning following the end of a massive overnight operation by Coruscant Security Forces. A total of ninety-seven suspects were detained or killed, and what’s described as “a significant amount” of explosives seized.

  Senator Ihu Niopua described it as a magnificent piece of police work and praised officers.

  —HNE evening news, 387 days after Geonosis

  Coruscant Security Force Staff and Social Club,

  2000 hours, 388 days after Geonosis:

  ATU and OCU reception for men and guests of Arca Company, Special Operations Brigade

  CSF didn’t know how brave they’d been until they heard it on the HNE bulletin.

  Fi decided to treat the coverage as funny rather than as another case of his brothers’ efforts going unrecognized. Skirata had warned him that all special forces personnel had to deal with that, clone or not, so it was nothing personal.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter. He was leaning on a bar—a clean bar, one that didn’t leave your elbows soaking wet—surrounded by people who weren’t criminals; unless you counted Sergeant Kal, of course, and he was a special case, because extreme bounty hunting wasn’t really a crime. And police officers were buying him drinks and shaking his hand, telling him that their buddies would all have been ground nerf if he hadn’t thrown himself on that grenade during the spaceport siege. It was amazing how they still remembered that.

  Fi didn’t have the heart to tell them that he simply did what years of training had made his body do involuntarily, and that he didn’t know how to do anything else. He simply grinned and enjoyed the adulation. He liked the comradeship.

  Some of them were female officers, too. They were fascinated by his armor. He enjoyed explaining the parts and functions to them, and wondered why they giggled when he told them how easy it was to take off.

  Ordo wandered in with Obrim and joined Fi at the bar. Obrim handed them both a glass of a light-colored ale, instantly another brother in uniform with a tacit understanding of how things were.

  “I see they’ve upgraded your armor again,” he said, tapping Fi’s breastplate with the knuckle of his forefinger. “Different finish. Classy.”

  “Well, they have to try the new kit out on someone, and we’re just so stylish.”

  “I suppose they can afford to, now that there’s fewer of you left to kit out,” Obrim said, falling into the grim cynicism of men used to being at the mercy of accountants. “Because body bags are a lot cheaper.”

  “What body bags?” Fi said.

  “Really?”

  “Not the Mando way. Or the Republic’s.”

  “Kriffing tightwads.” Obrim sighed irritably. Then he indicated Mereel, who was surrounded by a small knot of officers plus Delta Squad, laughing noisily. “I see your brother is teaching our boys some bad Mando’a words. Is it true you don’t have a word for ‘hero’?”

  “Yes, but we’ve got a dozen for ‘stab.’”

  Obrim almost laughed. “And how many for frying someone with a blaster?”

  “Loads,” said Fi. “We don’t know much about art, but we know what we like.”

  Ordo was scanning the crowded bar with a faint frown. Fi followed his gaze. He wondered if he was checking where Etain and Jusik were, because Jedi didn’t fit easily into the raucous atmosphere of a police social club, but there was Jusik, all smiles, engaged in an intense conversation with two Sullustan forensics officers. Darman was deep in discussion with Corr and a couple of men Fi recognized as CSF bomb disposal experts from the spaceport siege. Niner and Boss seemed to have been drawn into a strange game with some other officers that involved throwing a knife at the fine wooden carvings above the bar, much to the annoyance of the service droid.

 
And Atin had Laseema on his arm, gazing at him adoringly, even if he did still have a striking black eye from his fight with Vau.

  But no Etain, and no Vau. Vau had gone off on another job—unspecified, of course. Darman was still here, though, and that meant Etain was, too, for the time being.

  Ordo seemed to be concentrating on the doorway.

  “What’s your problem, ner vod?”

  “Agent Wennen said she would come,” Ordo said. He looked uncharacteristically awkward, seeming for once as if he didn’t know what to do next. “I’ll have a look around. It’s a big bar.”

  Obrim watched him go. “Fi,” he said, “do you mind me asking you something personal?”

  “I always try to help police with their inquiries, Captain.”

  “Seriously, son. Kal talks to me about you all. I never knew how you were… bred for all this. Sorry. I can’t find another word for it. You don’t seem to resent it at all. I’d be furious. Aren’t you angry? Not just a little?”

  Fi wished Obrim didn’t make him think. In a way it was much, much simpler on Kamino. It was also easier being alone with only your squad for company on some osik’la planet blowing up droids. There was a clean focus in that. Coruscant had indeed been the hardest battlefield of all, as Sergeant Kal had warned him. But that wasn’t because it was rife with the dangers of not knowing if the enemy was standing right next to you. It was because it showed him what he could never have.

  “I’ve done a lot of thinking in the past year,” Fi said. “Yes, there’s plenty wrong. I know I deserve more than this. I want a nice girl and a life and I don’t want to die. And I know I’m being used, thanks. But I’m a soldier, and I’m also Mandalorian, and my strength is always going to be what I carry around inside me, my sense of who and what I am. Even if the rest of the galaxy sinks in its own filth, I’ll die without compromising my honor.” He drained his glass and started on the next one that was lined up on the bar. He wasn’t that fond of the taste, but he believed in being polite. “That’s what keeps me going. That, and my brothers. And that ale you promised me.”