Republic Commando: Triple Zero

23

When you can no longer know what your nation or your government stands for, or even where it is, you need a set of beliefs you can carry with you and cling to. You need a core in your heart that will never change. I think that's why I feel more at home in the barracks than I do in the Jedi Temple.

–General Bardan Jusik, Jedi Knight

Operational house, Qibbu's Hutt, 0015 hours, 386 days after Geonosis

The suite of rooms on the top floor of Qibbu's hotel looked like inventory day in the GAR equipment stores.

Fi stepped over stacked piles of armor and packs of five hundred-grade plastoid explosive and flopped into the first chair he found.

“You going to sleep in that bucket?” Mereel said.

Fi took the hint and popped his helmet seal, inhaling warm air scented with sweat, stale carpet, caf, and strill. There were times when the buy'ce was a comfort and a quiet haven, insulating him from the world, and he felt in need of that now for reasons he didn't understand or want to think about.

Mereel sat at the scratched, battered table unwrapping packs of thermal plastoid and working a colorless liquid into them. Fi wanted to get up and look but he was simply too tired. He could see Mereel pressing a hollow into the cakes of brown plastoid with his thumb, pouring in a few drops of the liquid from a small bottle, and then kneading it in with a steady folding motion.

“Ah,” Fi said, remembering.

“Got to add the stabilizer compound before we put it back into stores or else this is going to kill a lot more vode than the bad guys ever could.”

“Want a hand?”

“No. Get some sleep.”

“Where's Sergeant Kal?” Fi had quite enjoyed calling him Kal'buir. But he donned old habits along with his armor. “I hope he hasn't knifed Vau.”

“They're liberating a speeder on behalf of the Skirata Retirement Fund.”

“Come on, he'll never retire.”

“He still wants the speeder. Merc habits die hard.”

Fi found it hard to think of his sergeant as having any interest in a life beyond the army. He spent a while wondering what the man might really want, and apart from a wife to look after him, Fi had problems imagining what that might be. It was the same problem he had with his own dreams. They were intrusive and insistent—but they were limited. He only knew there was something missing, and when he looked at Darman and Etain, he knew what it was; he also wondered how it could work out even if he got it. He wasn't stupid. He could count and calculate odds of survival.

“Good night, ner vod.” He left Mereel to his task and wandered around, unclipping his armor plates as he went and stacking them in a pile by the bedroom door. Black bodysuits and briefs hung drying on every peg and rail. However exhausted they were, the squads still washed their kit conscientiously.

Fi glanced into some of the rooms to check who might be awake and willing to chat, but the Delta boys were all out cold, not even snoring. Niner and Corr slumped in chairs in one of the alcoves with a plate of half-eaten cookies sitting on the small table between them. Darman was stretched out on his bed in the room he shared with Fi, apparently none the worse for his ordeal, and Ordo was curled up in the next room with a blanket pulled over his head. Odd: he always seemed to do that, as if he wanted total darkness.

There was no sign of Jusik or Etain. Farther along the passage, Fi struck lucky. Atin was sitting in the chair in his room, cleaning his armor.

“I'm on watch until Skirata gets back,” he said, without waiting for Fi's question.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I'm sure Laseema will wait for you.”

“It's not about Laseema.”

“So it's something.”

“You never give up, do you?” Atin had always been the private type, even though he'd settled into a very different squad culture from the one he'd been raised in. There was always something new to learn about a brother who'd been trained in another batch. “Okay, now that the job's done, I've got matters to address with Sergeant Vau.”

“He's not a sergeant any longer.”

“I'm still going to kill him.”

It was just talk. Men said things like that. Fi closed the doors and sat down on the bed opposite.

“I'm supposed to be on watch,” Atin said.

“I made Sev tell me how you got the wound to your face.”

“So now you know. Vau gave me a good hiding for being whiny about surviving Geonosis when my brothers didn't.”

“It's even more than that. You know it. You wouldn't be the first commando to get in a fistfight with his sergeant.”

“You know, I like you better when you're being mindless and funny.”

“We need to know.”

“Usen'ye.” It was the crudest way to tell someone to go away in Mando'a. “It's none of your business.”

“It is if you pick a fight with Vau, and he kills you and we have to get a replacement.”

Atin laid the back plate he was cleaning on the floor and rubbed his eyes. “You want to know? Really? Look.”

He hooked his fingers inside the neck of his bodysuit and jerked down the front panel. The gription seams yielded. It was nothing Fi hadn't seen before in the refreshers: Atin's shoulders and arms were laced with long white streaks of scar tissue. It was common in the GAR. Men got injured in training and in the field, armor or not. But Atin seemed to have acquired more spectacular ones than average.

Scars happened, especially if you didn't get bacta on a wound fast enough.

“Vau gave you those, too, didn't he?”

“Vau nearly killed me, so when I finally got out of the bacta tank, I said I'd kill him one day. Fair enough, yes?”

No wonder Corr said he found commandos a little “relaxed.” They must have seemed dangerously chaotic to a clone trooper raised and trained by sober Kaminoan flash-instruction and simulation.

“Kill is a bit strong,” Fi said. “Break his nose, maybe.”

“Skirata did that already. Look, if Vau felt you lacked the killer edge, he'd crank it up a little. He'd make you fight your brother. We had a choice. We could fight each other until one was too badly hurt to stand up, or we could fight him.”

Fi thought of Kal Skirata, as hard and ruthless as anyone he had ever known, making sure his squads were fed and well rested, finding illicit treats for them, teaching them, encouraging them, telling them how proud they made him. It seemed to work pretty well.

“And?” said Fi.

“I opted to take on Vau. He had a real Mando iron saber, and I was unarmed. I just went at him. I never wanted to kill so badly in my life and he just cut me up. And Skirata beat the osik out of Vau when he found out. They never did get on, those two.”

“So … the thing with Sev. You told Skirata.”

“No, Skirata just found out. I didn't even know he knew me until we met at the spaceport siege.” Atin picked up his plate and started cleaning it again. “So now you know.”

Fi thought that a quick swing at Vau might purge Atin's hatred. Then it occurred to him that his brother was absolutely literal.

“At'ika, ever thought what's going to happen to you if you do kill him?”

“I've killed people outside my legitimate rules of engagement tonight. One more won't make a difference. And I'll die soon enough anyway.”

“Yeah, but there's Laseema.”

Atin paused, cloth gripped in one hand. “Yes, there is.”

“And how are you going to kill Vau anyway?”

“With a blade.” He picked up his right gauntlet and ejected the blade with a loud shunk. “The Mando way.”

This isn't bravado. Fi struggled for a moment, wondering what the right thing to do might be. He's really going to do it.

Fi decided he'd wait near the doors to the landing platform, ready for the moment that Vau walked through them.

Etain found sleep impossible. She sat out on the landing platform with Jusik, meditating. For all the violence of the day she had put behind her, she found a serene core within her that had never been there before, the inner calm she had sought so many years through study and struggle.

All I had to do was have a life beside my own to care for. That is the true detachment we ought to seek, putting another person above ourselves—not denying our emotions. The attachment to self is the path to the dark side.

The intricate silver threads of her child in the Force were more complex now, more interconnected. She sensed purpose and clarity and passion. He would be an extraordinary person. She could hardly wait to get to know him.

And when it was the right time, she would explain what she sensed to Darman. She imagined the joy on his face.

She brought herself out of the trance and Jusik was standing a few meters away, looking out over the ravine of towers in the direction of the Senate.

“Bardan, I have a question I can only ask of you.”

He turned and smiled. “I'll answer if I can.”

“How do I tell Darman in Mandalorian that I love him?”

She waited for Jusik to express some shock or disapproval. He blinked a few times, focusing on a nonexistent spot a few meters ahead. “I don't think he's completely fluent in Mando'a. The Nulls are, though.”

“I don't want to declare my love for Ordo, thanks.”

“Okay. Try … ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.”

She repeated it under her breath a few times. “Got it.”

“It's the same word as 'to know,' 'to hold in the heart,' kar'taylir. But you add darasuum, forever, and it becomes something rather different.”

“That tells me a great deal about the Mandalorian view of relationships.”

“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 still'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.”