Star Wars - Republic Commando - Hard Contact

by Karen Traviss

  "Hokan, this is for Master Fulier," she hissed, and swung at him.

  Hokan leapt back with astonishing reflexes. She didn't recognize his voice: it was younger, almost accentless. He didn't even raise his rifle. The monster was playing with her. She spun on the ball of her foot and very nearly took his arm off. Sudden rage constricted her throat. She slashed again but found only air.

  "Ma'am, please don't make me disarm you."

  "Try it," she said. She beckoned him forward with one hand, lightsaber steady in the other. "You want this? Try me."

  He launched himself at her, hitting her square in the chest and knocking her backward into the river. The child was still there. Where? How? And then Hokan was on top of her, holding her under the water with one hand, and she dropped the lightsaber. She fought and choked and thought she was going to drown and she had no idea why she couldn't fight off an ordinary man with both her fists. She should have been able to muster more physical strength than this human.

  He hauled her up out of the water one-handed and dumped

  her on the riverbank flat on her back, holding both her arms down.

  "Ma'am, steady now—"

  But she wasn't finished yet. With an animal grunt she drove her knee up hard between his thighs, as hard as she could, and when she was frightened and desperate and angry that was very hard indeed. She hadn't known it until now.

  Etain gasped as her knee went crack. It hurt. But it didn't seem to hurt him.

  "Ma'am, with respect, please shut up. You're going to get us both killed." The sinister mask loomed over her. "I'm not Hokan. I'm not him. If you just calm down I'll show you." He loosened his grip slightly and she almost struggled free. Now his tone was bewildered. "Ma'am, stop this, please. I'm going to let go and you're going to listen to me explain who I am."

  Her breath was coming in gasps and she coughed water. The ever-present child so disoriented her that she stopped trying to dislodge him and let him struggle to his feet.

  Etain could see him—it—clearly now. She could see well in the darkness, better than a normal human. She was staring at a huge droid-like creature clad in pale gray armor plates with no face and no markings. And it had a blaster rifle. It— he—held out a hand as if to pull her to her feet.

  Well, it wasn't Ghez Hokan. That was all she could tell. She took his armored hand and got to her feet.

  "What in creation's name are you?" she managed to ask.

  "Ma'am, my apologies. I didn't recognize you at first. This is entirely my fault for failing to identify myself correctly." He touched black-gloved fingers briefly to bis temple, and she noticed the knuckle plate on the back of the gauntlets. "Com­mando of the Grand Army CC-one-one-three-six, ma'am. I await your orders, General."

  "General?" Voices coming from things that appeared to have no lips reminded her too much of droids.

  He tilted his head slightly. "My apologies. I didn't see the braid... Commander."

  "And what's the Grand Army?"

  "The Republic's army, ma'am. Sorry. I should have real­ized that you've been out of contact with Coruscant for a while now, and ..."

  "Since when did we acquire a Grand Army?"

  "About ten years ago." He gestured to the bushes along the bank. "Shall we discuss this somewhere less public? You're presenting something of a target to anyone with a night scope. I think even the local militia can manage one of those between them."

  "I dropped my lightsaber in the river."

  "Let me get it, ma'am," he said. He stepped into the shal­low water, and the light on his helmet flicked on. He bent down and fumbled in the illuminated water, then stood up with the hilt in his hand. "Please don't use it on me again, will you?"

  Etain raked her soaking hair back from her face with chilled fingers. She took the lightsaber carefully. "I don't think I'd have much luck anyway. Look, why are you calling me Commander?"

  "Ma'am, Jedi are all officers now. You are a Jedi, aren't you?"

  "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

  "No offense, ma'am—"

  "I'd ask the same question if I were you." Commander. Commander? "I'm Padawan Etain Tur-Mukan. Master Kast Fulier is dead. It seems you're the soldier I have to help." She looked up at him. "What's your name?"

  "Ma'am, Commando CC—"

  "Your name. Your real name."

  He hesitated. "Darman," he said, sounding as if he were embarrassed by it. "We need to get out of here. They're look­ing for me."

  "They won't have much trouble finding you in that outfit," she said sarcastically.

  "The dirt's rinsed off." He stood silent for a moment. "Do you have orders for me, ma'am? I have to make RV point Gamma and find the rest of my squad. "

  He was talking army gibberish. "When do you have to do that? Now?"

  He paused. "Within twelve standard hours."

  "Then we've got time. I have plans to show you. Come back with me and let's work out what we have to do next." She took the lightsaber from him and gestured with both arms. "I'll help you carry what I can."

  "It's heavy, ma'am."

  "I'm a Jedi. I might not be a very competent Jedi, but I am physically strong. Even if you did take me down."

  "A bit of training will fix that, ma'am," he said, and he eased off that terrible Mandalorian helmet with a faint pop of its seal. "You're a commander."

  He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes. And despite the hard planes of his face he had a trusting and innocent expression that was so full of confidence that it surprised her. He wasn't just confident in himself; he exuded confidence in her. "You're probably just a bit rusty, ma'am. We'll get you back on form in no time."

  "Are you on form, Darman?" He had overpowered her. It wasn't supposed to be like that. "How good are you?"

  "I'm a commando, ma'am. Bred to be the best. Bred to serve you."

  He wasn't joking. "How old are you, Darman?"

  He didn't even blink. She could see the hard muscle in his neck. There wasn't even a hint of fat on his face. He looked extremely fit indeed, upright, a model soldier.

  "I'm ten years old, ma'am," Darman said.

  Droids didn't drink or chase women, and they had no in­terest in making money on the side. They weren't real war­riors, soldiers with pride and honor, but at least Ghez Hokan could trust that they wouldn't be found lying in the gutter with an empty bottle the next morning.

  And they did look truly magnificent when they marched.

  They were marching now, along the wide gravel path that led up to Lik Ankkit's villa. Hokan walked beside them, then

  behind them, moving position because he was so fascinated by the absolute precision of their steps, and the complete un­varying conformity of their height and profile. They looked like bricks in a perfect wall, a wall that could never be breached.

  Machines could be made to be identical, and that was good. But it was anathema to do that to men—especially Mandalorian men.

  The Umbaran lieutenant raised his arm and brought the droid platoon to a halt ten meters from the veranda steps. Lik Ankkit was already standing on the top stair, gazing down at them in his fancy headdress and that di'kutla robe like the weak, decadent grocer he was.

  Hokan walked forward, helmet under his arm, and nodded politely.

  "Good morning, Hokan," Ankkit said. "I see you've fi­nally made some friends."

  "I'd like to introduce you to them," Hokan said. "Because you're going to be seeing a great deal of each other." He turned to the lieutenant. "Proceed, Cuvin."

  The Umbaran saluted. "Platoon—advance."

  It was all vulgar theatrics, but Hokan had waited a long time for this. It was also necessary. He had to billet some troops near Uthan's facility for rapid deployment. They would be little use in the base thirty kilometers away.

  Ankkit stepped forward as the droids reached the steps. "This is an outrage," he said. "The Trade Federation will not tolerate—"

  The Neimoidian stood asi
de just as the first rank of paired droids reached the intricately inlaid kuvara door, with its marquetry image of entwined vines.

  Hokan wasn't expecting a display of heroics, and he didn't get one. "It's very good of you to allow me to billet my troops here," he said. "A noble use of all that wasted space. The Sepa­ratists are grateful for the personal sacrifice you've made to en­sure the security of Doctor Uthan's project."

  Ankkit walked down the steps as fast as his towering headdress and long robe would allow. Even by Neimoidian

  standards of anxiety, he looked terribly upset. He shook. He stood almost a head taller than Hokan even without the head­dress, which was rustling as if some creature had landed in it and was struggling to escape. "I have a contract with Doctor Uthan and her government."

  "And you failed to honor the clause that guaranteed adequate resourcing for security. Doctor Uthan's notice of penalty should be on its way to your office."

  "I do not take kindly to betrayal."

  "That's no way to address a commissioned officer of the Separatist forces."

  "An officer!"

  "Field commission." Hokan smiled because he was genu­inely happy. "I have no need of you now, Ankkit. Just be grateful you're alive. By the way, Doctor Uthan's govern­ment has paid a bonus directly to the Trade Federation to en­sure I'm allowed to work unhindered. Enemy troops have landed, and this region is now under martial law."

  Ankkit's slit of a mouth was clamped tight in anger. At least he wasn't pleading for his life. Hokan would have had to kill him if he had begged. He couldn't bear whining.

  "And I suppose that means you, Hokan," Ankkit said.

  "Major Hokan, please. If you see any of my former em­ployees wandering around, don't shelter them, will you? Some of them have failed to show up to collect their sever­ance payment. I'd like to handle their outplacement package personally."

  "You're the paradigm of efficient management for us all," Ankkit said.

  Hokan enjoyed the moment of revenge, then put it aside as the distracting bauble that it was. Ankkit was no threat now; you couldn't bribe droids. The Umbaran and Aqualish offi­cers now knew what happened to negligent soldiers because they'd carried out his execution orders. Hokan was careful to ensure that everyone was clear on what happened if they left his employment under a cloud.

  "And where do I live?" Ankkit asked.

  "Oh, plenty of room here," Hokan replied. There was a

  loud crash, followed by the tinkle of fragile glass hitting a hard floor. Droids could be so careless. "I'm sure you won't get in their way."

  He touched his fingers to his helmet and strode off.

  There were still a few of his former troops missing. One was his Weequay lieutenant Guta-Nay. He wanted to locate him very badly, as he needed to demonstrate to the new offi­cers that he would happily do his own disciplinary work. It was an image he wanted planted in their heads should Ankkit ever attempt to bribe them.

  He walked down the path to the waiting speeder bike. A farmer had found scraps of circuitry on his land and wanted to know if it was worth a bottle of urrqal to reveal the loca­tion.

  Hokan set off to visit him personally, to show that the in­formation was worth more than that. It was worth a farmer's life.

  RV point Beta should have been a coppice at the top of a shallow escarpment west of Imbraani. When Niner got within visual range of it, there were no trees to be found.

  "Coordinates are right, or else this visor is up the creek," Atin said, tilting his head one way, then the other. "No, posi­tion's accurate. Confirm no trees, though. Shall I deploy a remote to recce?"

  "No," Niner said. "Let's save them for ordnance. Too con­spicuous out here. We'll have to lay up as close as we can and rely on eyeballing Darman if he shows. Where's the nearest cover?"

  "About one klick east."

  "That'll have to do."

  Atin looped back, keeping within the trees and retracing their steps to ensure they weren't being tracked. His armor was now caked with moss, and Niner was glad he wasn't downwind of him. Whatever he'd crawled through smelled authentically rural. Fi and Niner tabbed on, carrying the extra gear between them, an assortment of entry equipment including three dynamic hammers, a hydraulic ram, and a

  ratchet attachment for the really difficult doors. They had transferred all the explosive ordnance to their backpacks. If they made hard contact and had to drop the load and hurry out, Niner didn't fancy being left with a hydraulic ram and ration packs for self-defense. A pile of grenades was far more useful.

  "Logging," Fi said quietly.

  "What?"

  "The missing coppice. It's coming up on autumn. They've been out cutting trees for winter since the recce was done."

  "That's the problem with intel," Niner said. "Goes stale really fast."

  "Not like exercises."

  "No. It's not. This is going to be invaluable for training up­dates when we get back."

  Fi sounded as if he had sighed. That was the funny thing about helmet comlinks. One got used to listening to every nuance of breath and tone and even the different ways his brothers swallowed. They couldn't see each other's facial ex­pressions, and had to listen for them. It was probably like being blind. Niner had never known any blind people, but he had heard of a batch of clones whose eyesight wasn't 20/20 disappearing after their first exercise. Kaminoans were ob­sessive about quality control.

  He might have been bred for selfless obedience, but he wasn't stupid. The Kaminoan technicians were the only things that truly terrified him, and what he felt when he obeyed their instructions was different than the feelings he had when a Jedi gave him orders. He wondered if Fi and Atin felt the same way.

  "You don't think we're going to make it, do you, Fi?"

  "I'm not afraid to die. Not in combat, anyway."

  "I didn't say you were."

  "It's just..."

  "Ten-meter range, son. No Kaminoans listening."

  "It's just so inefficient. You said it yourself. You said it was a waste."

  "That was Geonosis."

  "They spend so much time and trouble making us perfect and then they don't give us what we need to do the job. You remember what Sergeant Kal used to say?"

  "He used to swear a lot, I remember that."

  "No, he used to get upset when he'd had a few drinks and say that he could make us better soldiers if we had time to go out and live. Data-rich, experience-poor. That's what he used to say."

  "He used to slur the words quite a bit, too. And he didn't like clones."

  "That was all bluster. And you know it."

  Yes, Kal Skirata said awful things about clones, but it never sounded as if he meant them, not to the clones, any­way. He got uj cake from home, no easy feat on secret, sealed Kamino, and shared it with the commando squads he was re­sponsible for training. He called them his Dead Men, his Wet Droids, all kinds of abusive things. But if you caught him off duty in his cabin, he would sometimes fight back tears and make you eat some delicacy smuggled in for him, or encour­age you to read one of his illicit texts that wasn't on the ac­celerated training curriculum. They were often stories of soldiers who could have done many other things, but chose to fight. Sergeant Kal was especially eager for his Wet Droids to read stuff about a culture called Mandalorian. He admired Jango Fett. "This is who you really are," he'd say. "Be proud, however much these ugly gray freaks treat you like cattle."

  No, he didn't like Kaminoans much, did Kal Skirata.

  Once he signed up with the Kaminoans, he said, they never let him go home again. But he'd told Niner that he didn't want to. He couldn't leave his boys now, not since he knew. "Brief," he'd say, gesturing with a glass of colorless alcohol, "is never glorious."

  Niner was determined to work out what Kal Skirata had come to understand, and why it upset him so much.

  "Nobody has all the answers," Niner said. "The trouble with getting used to being powerful is that you can forget the small details that'll bring you down."
/>
  Fi made that ffff sound as if he was about to start laughing. "I know who you're quoting."

  Niner didn't even realize he'd said it. It was Sergeant Kal all right. He'd even started using the word son.

  He missed him.

  Then the comlink warning light in his HUD interrupted his thoughts. Medium range. What was Atin—

  "Contact, five hundred meters, dead on your six." Atin's voice cut through. "Droids. Ten, one humanoid—confirm ten tinnies, one wet, looks like an officer." There was a loud blast behind them. "Correction—hard contact."

  Niner knew this by rote and Fi didn't even exchange words with him. They dropped the gear and darted back the way they had come, rifles up, safetys off, and when they got within fifty meters of Atin's location they dropped into the prone posi­tion to aim.

  Atin was pinned down at the foot of a tree. There was one droid slumped on its side with wisps of smoke rising from it, but the others were formed up, laying down covering fire while two advanced in short sprints, zigzagging. Atin was managing to get off the occasional shot. If they'd wanted him dead, they probably had the blaster power to do it.

  They wanted Atin alive.

  "I can see the wet," Fi said. He was to Niner's left, staring down the sniperscope. "Aqualish captain, in fact."

  "Okay. Take him when you're ready."

  Niner snapped on his grenade launcher and aimed at the line of droids. They were spread, maybe forty meters end-to-end. It might take two rounds to knock them out if they didn't scatter. Droids were great on battlefields. But they weren't made for smart stuff, and if their officer was down . ..

  Crack.

  The air expanded instantly with the release of heat and en­ergy. That was what gave plasma bolts their satisfying sound. The Aqualish fell backward, chest plate shattered, and lumps that looked like clods of wet soil but weren't flew from him and dropped. The droids stopped for a fraction of a second,

  men carried on their course as if that was the best idea they had.

  Fi scrambled away from his position and rolled.

  No, they really weren't good at close-quarters combat, at least not without direction from a wet. But there were always a lot of them, and they could return fire as well as any or­ganic life-form. Three of the seven remaining droids turned their attention to the direction of Fi's bolt.