The bushes where Fi had been firing exploded in flame. Niner perceived that it was all happening slowly—at heartbeat pace—but it wasn't, not at all. He aimed and fired, once, twice. The twin explosions almost merged into one. Soil and grass and metal fragments rained down around him. At close range, droids were almost as dangerous when you hit them as when they hit you: they were their own shrapnel.
The firing stopped. Smoke drifted from at least five impact points. Niner could see nothing moving.
"One tinnie intact but immobile," Fi said.
"Got it," Niner said. He fired again, just in case.
"Looks sorted out there," Fi said. He lowered his rifle. "Atin? You okay?"
"Nothing missing that I can't bolt back on."
"You're a laugh a minute," Niner said, and started to ease up on one arm. It was amazing how he could forget the weight of his pack for the few moments it took to save his life. "Now, how did they—"
"Down!" Atin yelled.
A bolt flew a meter above Niner's head and he dropped back on his belly. It sounded like two shots. Then there was silence.
"Now it's sorted," Atin said. "Someone help me get up, please?"
When Niner managed to get into a kneeling position he could see a thoroughly shattered pile of droid, a bit closer to him than the line. It had been two shots he'd heard: one had been aimed at him and one had come from Atin, to make sure there wasn't a second.
"Coming, brother," Niner said.
Atin's mud-smeared chest plate was a different color now, matte black with streaks radiating from the center. "I can't breathe properly," he said, utterly matter-of-fact, in the way badly injured men often were. He gulped in a breath. "My chest hurts."
Fi propped him up against the trunk of a tree and took his helmet off. There was no blood coming from his mouth: he was bone white, and his raw scar looked dramatic, but he wasn't bleeding out. His pupils looked okay: he wasn't in shock. Fi released the gription on his chest plate and eased the armor off.
The bodysuit was intact.
"Sure it's just your chest?" Fi asked. He didn't have a tally scan to check Atin's status. You didn't start removing armor or embedded objects until you knew what you were dealing with. Sometimes that was all that was holding a man together. Atin nodded. Fi peeled away the section of suit starting at the collar.
"Phwoar," Fi said. "That's going to be a monster of a bruise." There was a livid patch from his sternum to halfway down his chest. "You collecting distinguishing features or something?"
"Hit me square on," Atin said, panting. "Not a regular round. Armor works though, eh?"
Fi took his helmet off and listened to Atin's breathing with his ear pressed to his chest.
"Ow."
"Shut up and breathe."
Atin took shallow breaths, wincing. Fi straightened up and nodded. "Can't hear any pneumothorax," he said. "But let's keep an eye on him. The air trapped inside can build up. Might be fractured ribs, might just be a bad bruise." He took out a canister of bacta and sprayed the rapidly developing bruise. Atin lifted his arms slightly as if testing them.
Fi sealed the bodysuit and armor back in place.
"I'll take your pack," Niner said, and unclipped it. It was the least he could do. "I think we can skip RV Beta now. Let's leave some souvenirs around there so Darman can spot them
if he shows up. You never know if more tinnies will follow. They're not original thinkers."
They probably had a few minutes, even if any of the droids had managed to call in to base. Fi sprinted off through the trees with a few pieces of debris to leave them at the RV point. Niner searched the remains of the Aqualish officer and took everything that looked like a key, a data medium, or proof of ID. Then he dragged Atin's pack behind him on a webbing strap, heading for the place they'd left the entry equipment.
It was going to be a tough slog to RV Gamma, at least until Atin could carry his pack again.
The whole engagement had lasted five minutes and eight seconds, first shot to last, including running time. He had no idea if it had been one second or half an hour. Funny thing, time perception under fire. Niner's boots crunched over droid shrapnel and he wondered how long a firefight felt to a droid.
"Is that how they see us?" Niner asked. "Ordinary people, that is. Like droids?"
"No," Atin said. "We don't have any scrap value." He laughed and stopped short with a small gasp. It must have hurt him. "I'm going to slow you down."
"Don't go gallant on me. You're coming the rest of the way because I'm not lugging all that gear around with Fi. I want a break sometime."
"Okay."
"And thanks. I owe you."
"No. You don't."
"Thanks anyway. Want to explain why you've been Darman?"
Atin was holding his rifle carefully, a handspan clear of his chest. "I've been the last man left standing in two squads now."
"Oh." Silence. Niner prompted: "Want to tell me how?"
"First squad tried to rescue me on a live range exercise. I didn't need rescuing. Not that badly, anyway."
"Ah." Niner felt instantly appalled at himself for thinking Atin didn't care what happened to Darman. He was just car-
ing too much. "My training sergeant said there was something called survivor's guilt. He also said that in those cases, having you survive was what your squad wanted." "They bred a lot of stuff out of us. Why not that as well?" Niner stopped dragging Atin's pack and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He lifted the pack and was glad to carry it. "If they had, I might not be here now," he said, and knew Darman would be waiting for them tomorrow.
Ghez Hokan surveyed the scrap heap that had been a functioning droid platoon a few hours earlier. Whatever had hit them had hit fast and hard. And—judging by the precisely placed sniper shot and the blast pattern of only two grenades— they had been taken out by experts.
It might have been one man or it might have been a platoon. You typically couldn't ambush battle droids like that with a handful of men, but that depended entirely on who the men were. It was a shame the captain hadn't called back with a sitrep as instructed: if he hadn't been killed, Hokan would have had him shot for disobeying operational procedure. He studied the droid escort lined up neatly by the speeder bikes and wondered if they felt anything when they saw dismantled comrades.
"There's no sign of a camp, sir." Lieutenant Cuvin came jogging back from the woods opposite the clearing. It was curious to see the Umbaran's deathly pallor tinged pink by the exertion. "Some broken branches at knee height and crushed grass from troops firing prone, but I honestly can't tell how many men we're dealing with."
"You can't tell much, can you, Lieutenant?" Hokan said.
"Sir, I'll check again." He was white-faced now, white even for an Umbaran.
"Sir! Sir!" Second Lieutenant Hurati was enthusiastic, no doubt keen to be elevated to Cuvin's rank. He sprinted to his commander, an attitude Hokan appreciated. "I've found the most extraordinary thing."
"I'm glad one of you has found something. What is it?"
"A pile of droid parts, sir."
"And this is extraordinary because ... ?"
"No, sir, they're some way from here and they're sort of arranged, sir."
Hokan strode off for the speeder. "Show me."
The trees had been cut down a few days earlier because there was already klol fungus growing on them in a pale-pink mesh. One broad stump—the flattest one, almost like an altar—supported the remains of a droid.
The torn pieces of its trunk were laid flat. The arms were neatly arranged on one side of the thorax and the legs on the other. Part of the faceplate was propped up as if looking skyward.
"That's how the droid pilot was left, too, sir." Hurati was a good man. He'd obviously studied the report the militia had filed, however appallingly inadequate its presentation had been. "I think it's a sign."
It was a long way to move a dead droid from a battle. There were no drag marks leading to the stump. It
was a heavy load to carry on foot; they might even have a transport, although he could see no signs that a repulsorlift had passed over the ground. Hokan stared at the ritually arranged debris and tried to think who would want to send the Separatists a message—and what it might mean.
"It's a trophy," Hokan said. "They're taunting us. They're showing how easy this is for them."
That made him angry. He was Mandalorian. Being an easy enemy wasn't his way. "A curfew, Hurati. Declare a permanent curfew on all powered vehicles until further notice. Anything moving under power is either ours or the enemy. We can track all friendly transports." He paused. "You have made sure all our vehicles have their own transponders, haven't you?"
"Yes sir."
"Why the delay, then?"
"It's—it's harvest, sir. How will the farmers get their produce to Teklet for shipping?"
"I imagine they have handcarts," Hokan said. He swung
his leg over the speeder's saddle. "Ankkit will have to find an alternative means of conveyance for his crops."
Hokan pondered on the carefully arranged droid debris all the way back to his new headquarters in Ankkit's villa. He feared that moving into that vulgar Hurt bordello of a house would make him soft and decadent, too, so he set up his office in an outbuilding. He didn't care for fancy drapery and useless ornaments. It just happened to be convenient for the research facility, and close to his troops.
So who had the Republic sent to target Uthan's project? They were clearly bold men; first they made sport of an aerial patrol, now a droid platoon and its captain. They seemed to be choosing their targets casually. The clone army must have been terribly important to the Republic's strategy for these troops to land like this. Where were the conventional armies? Where were the Jedi generals? When would they come?
This was a new kind of war. He could feel it.
He hated not knowing who was out there, preparing to fight him. If he hadn't known the man was dead, he would have sworn it was Jango Fett himself
.
You know what makes you especially effective? It's not just
that you 're genetically superior and intensively trained. And
it's not just because you obey orders without question. It's
because you 're all prepared to shoot to kill, every time.
Only one percent of civilians are prepared to kill, and less
than a quarter of ordinary human soldiers, even under fire.
—Sergeant Kal Skirata, from his opening lecture to
commandos on military psychology
The droid fired a volley of bolts at the sealed alloy doors until they glowed red. And still nothing happened.
"Stop!"
The droid appeared not to hear.
Dr. Ovolot Qail Uthan ran down the flight of steps, red and black strands of hair streaming out behind her. She was wearing a voluminous dark blue nightgown; it looked as expensive as her day wear. Hokan saluted her politely and went on watching the droid's progress.
"Have you gone mad?" Uthan whispered fiercely. She didn't strike Hokan as the sort of woman who would need to raise her voice to make her point. "There's a biohazard behind that door."
"I know," Hokan said. "Just testing. It's all holding up well indeed. Excellent safety bulkheads."
Uthan took a discreet but deep breath and glanced briefly at the backs of her hands. "This facility has been built and
tested to the highest containment standards, Major. You needn't worry."
"But I do, Doctor." He watched the droid patiently wasting bolt after bolt on the door for a while. It paused to swap power packs. "Stop."
It stopped. Hokan took out the lightsaber he had taken from Kast Fulier and ran its pure blue light down the seam between the two doors. Smoke curled up from the surface, but no breach appeared. It would take even a Jedi a long time to cut through this plating.
"Forgive my insistence, but could this not wait until the morning?" Uthan asked. "I'm working around the chrono as it is to weaponize this agent. I even sleep here. I would prefer to be doing that right now."
"My apologies, Doctor, but we might not have the luxury of time."
"What's time got to do with it?"
"I think I need to relocate you."
Uthan had a way of lowering her head slightly, then straightening up as if she were a krayt dragon. It was most impressive. "This is a high-risk biohazard facility. It can't be relocated like some tent."
"I appreciate the inconvenience involved. I still believe it would be safer if you were to pack up your materials and staff and move elsewhere."
"Why? You have the security situation under control."
"I have it more under control than I did, that's true, but enemy troops have landed. I don't know their numbers, and I don't know what materiel and armaments they have at their disposal. All I know—all I think I know—is that this is what they've come for."
"This is a fortress. You have a hundred droids at your disposal. Let them come. You can repel them."
"All fortresses can be breached in time. I could give you a list of circumstances under which someone who's very resourceful could get past these doors, but I want you to trust my judgment and accept what I say. Let's move you and your
work to somewhere less obvious until I have a more accurate assessment of the threat."
Uthan looked completely impassive, staring slightly past Hokan as if she was calculating something.
"I can remove the biomaterials and my staff," she said at last. "The equipment can be replaced if needed. I won't be able to continue working without a safe laboratory environment, of course, but if you believe the project is at risk, then idle time is a better option than wasting three months' work."
What a splendidly sensible woman she was, almost Mandalorian in her discipline and dedication. Hokan ushered the droid out. "How long?" he asked.
"Six hours, perhaps."
"Is this material that dangerous?"
She tilted her head slightly. "Only if you're a clone. If you're not, it might simply make you unwell."
"It must be strange to fight with weapons you can't see."
"War is about technology," she said.
Hokan smiled politely and walked back out into the courtyard to stand in the dim light from the doorway. There was the first hint of chill on the night air; winter was coming, and the landscape would be much easier to patrol when the leaves had fallen. When the snows came, it would be even easier. But he suspected that this conflict was going to be a rapid one. Intelligence reports were starting to come in that the Republic was now fighting on hundreds of different fronts. Hundreds.
Their new army would have to be millions strong to achieve that dispersal. So they were all clones. Sad travesties of the great Jango Fett.
Well, he knew one thing. The Republic wouldn't be sending clones to deal with this particular problem. They had to know the Separatists already had the one weapon that could stop them in their tracks. And this kind of operation was beyond the capacity of the docile infantry clones Uthan had described. This was not a game of numbers.
Hokan replaced his helmet and started visualizing the re-
search facility as a trap. So they wanted to come and take a look, did they? He'd make them welcome.
"Droids, form up. Two ranks across this entrance."
The droids moved as one, even in the darkness, and Hokan again admired their precision. Now they were a road sign pointing the way to the target, confirming what the Republic thought it knew. But they'd be wrong. They'd be sending their best men to a decoy.
War is about technology.
"No," Hokan said aloud. The droids snapped to attention. "War isn't even about firepower." He tapped his temple. "It's about applying your brains." Then he touched his chest. "And it's about courage."
He didn't expect the droids to understand that. Clones probably didn't understand it, either.
The straw stank of something awful, but Darman was too exhau
sted to care. It looked like it might be soft enough to sink into. That was good enough for him.
But first he walked around the walls of the barn and checked for an exit if he needed one in an emergency. There were several loose boards in one wall that would do fine. The rickety building looked as if he could actually punch an escape hole through any fragile plank he chose.
Reassured, he dropped everything he was carrying and tried to sit on the bales, but it turned into more of an uncontrolled slump. He didn't even take his helmet off. He sat back and let out a breath.
The Padawan commander leaned over him. "Are you all right, Darman?" She held her hand out, palm down over him, as if she was going to touch him but didn't.
"I'm fit to fight, Commander." He started to sit up, and she held her hand in a slightly different gesture that clearly meant Stay where you are.
"I didn't ask that," she said. "I can feel you're in some distress. Tell me."
It was an order. It came from a Jedi. "I injured my leg
when I landed. Apart from that I'm just tired and a bit hungry." Bit hungry? He was ravenous. "Nothing at all, Commander."
"Landed?"
"I free-fell from a vessel."
"With all that equipment?"
"Yes ma'am."
"You astound me." He couldn't tell if that was good or bad. "Two things, though. Please don't call me Padawan or Commander—I don't want to be recognized as a Jedi. And I'd rather be called Etain than ma 'am." She paused, no doubt thinking of some other failure on his part. "And please take your helmet off. It's rather disturbing."
So far Darman had met three Jedi and they all seemed to find him distracting in some way, with or without his helmet. All his life he had been taught that he and his brothers were created for the Jedi, to help them fight their enemies; he'd expected some recognition of that bond, or at least an expression of satisfaction. He removed his helmet and sat feeling confused, torn between the absolute clarity of his military expertise, and the confusion of dealing with the civilian world he had been thrust into for the first time.
Star Wars - Republic Commando - Hard Contact Page 11