Republic Commando: Triple Zero

PROLOGUE

Republic Commando covert insertion on Fest, Atrivis sector, Outer Rim, ten months after Geonosis

Private journal of RC-8015, “Fi”

You have to see the funny side of things in the army. I think they have a real sense of humor in Defense Procurement, too.

“So,” I ask. “How long ago did you put in a request for black stealth armor?”

“Seven standard months,” says Darman, staring out the gunship's crew bay onto an unbroken plain of snow. White snow. The freezing wind is whipping flurries of it into the open bay. “When we got back from Qiilura.”

“And now they issue it to us? To do a raid on Fest? The whole planet's covered in snow from pole to pole.”

I can hear the gunship pilot laughing over the comlink circuit. He can't resist it. “Want to borrow my armor? It's nice and white.”

Yes, they've deployed us in black Katarn armor. It'll take a direct hit from laser cannon to put a dent in us, but it would be nice to have the comfort of camouflage when we hit the ground.

Even Atin's laughing. But Niner, who tries to take the place of Sergeant Kal and reassure us it's all going to be okay, is not. He's worried that we've run out of luck for this mission.

And so am I. Republic Commando losses in the first year of the war are running at 50 percent. Today we have to infiltrate a Separatist factory developing some new supermetal called phrik—whatever that is—and carry out a little asset denial, known in the trade as blowing stuff up. It's not a complicated mission: avoid droids, get in, lay charges in the processing plant and the foundry, avoid droids, get out. And then press the detonator.

One of Captain Ordo's Null ARC trooper brothers found this place: Clone Intelligence Units, they call them. I must write to thank the di'kut sometime.

So I try to keep the squad laughing, because it takes our minds off calculating the odds.

“Okay,” I say. “What do we all want most right now?”

“Roba steak,” says the pilot.

“White-clad camo,” says Niner.

“A really thick slice of uj cake,” says Atin.

Darman pauses for a moment. “To see an old friend again.”

Me? I'd like to go back to Arca Company Barracks on Coruscant. I want to see Coruscant before I die, and so far I've seen next to nothing of the place. Someone promised to buy me a beer there once.

The pilot is skimming a couple of meters above the snow, taking us through a narrow pass to avoid detection. It's all mountains and ravines now. And snow.

“I've got visual on the factory,” the pilot says. “And you're not going to like it.”

“Why?” Niner asks.

“Because there're an awful lot of battle droids out there.”

“Are they made of phrik?”

“I don't think so.”

“No problem, then,” says Niner. “Let's spoil their entire day.”

The gunship slows enough for us to jump clear, and we scramble through knee-deep snow to take up a position in the lee of an outcrop. There's nothing like a quick hello from a Plex rocket launcher to show droids who's boss. No, they're definitely not made from phrik.

I reload the Plex and keep turning the droids into shrapnel while Darman and Atin make their way to higher ground to reach the factory.

Yeah, a nice beer on Coruscant, on Triple Zero. Dreams like that keep you going.