Triple Zero (Star Wars: Republic Commando, #2)

by Karen Traviss

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.”

“What do you mean by reconditioned?” “In this case, terminated.” There was a long silence in the bland, peaceful, white-walled room. Evil was supposed to be black, jet black; and it wasn’t supposed to be soft-spoken.

Jusik never asked if Ordo thought of him as his commanding officer, though. He probably knew, and didn’t need to be reminded that Ordo answered only to the one man who had stepped physically between him and death once, twice, more times than was decent to count: Kal Skirata. And while Ordo knew intellectually that a detached, unsentimental officer was the kind who won wars and saved the most lives, his heart said that a sergeant who was ready to die to protect his men got the very last drop of sweat and blood from them, and given gladly.

“What’s your name, and not your number, okay?” “Nye.” “Well, Nye, here you go.” She handed him her water bottle. Apart from two lightsabers—her own and her dead Master’s—her concussion rifle, and her comlink, it was the only item she was carrying. “I have nothing else I can give you. I can’t pay you, I can’t promote you, I can’t give you a few days’ R and R, and I can’t even decorate you for valor. I’m truly sorry that I can’t. And I’m sorry that you’re being used like this and I wish I could put an end to it and change your lives for the better. But I can’t. All I can do is ask your forgiveness.” Nye seemed stunned. He looked at the bottle and then took a long swig from it, his expression suddenly one of blissful relief. “It’s … okay, General. Thank you.” She was suddenly aware that the hangar deck had fallen completely silent—no mean feat given the vast space and the numbers of men packed in it—and everyone was listening. The unexpected audience actually made her face burn, and then a little ripple of applause went through the ranks.

A Mandalorian’s identity and soul depended only on what lived within him. And he relied only on his brother warriors—or his sons.

Clone troopers are well disciplined. Even the Alpha-batch ARC troopers—surly though they are—are predictable, in the sense that Fett gave them precise orders that they continue to obey. But the commando batches are almost as unpredictable as the Nulls, and the Nulls are as good as being Skirata’s private army. That’s the problem with having intelligent clones trained by a ragbag of undisciplined thugs—they’ve turned out at best idiosyncratic, at worst disobedient. But they’ll probably win the war for us. Tolerate them. —Assessment of Republic Commando cadre by Director of Special Forces general Arligan Zey, explaining discrepancies in stores and armory inventory to General Iri Camas

“Thank you for flying Jedi Air.” Jusik grinned, and shook their hands. “Have a nice afternoon.” “You’re all insane,” said Sev, and stalked off.

The civilians around him could have no idea of what was happening right in the middle of their safe daily lives. A few meters from them, a mercenary and a soldier who had no official orders were planning to unload enough explosives on the black market to destroy whole quadrants. But it was a fair trade. Because Fi had no idea of what their lives were about, either. We live in parallel worlds. We can see each other, but we never meet.

Jusik was a ferociously clever lad and Skirata prized intelligence very much, as much as loyalty and courage. “I thought I’d make sure we didn’t have to follow a suspect the hard way again. Am I forgiven for my lapse of judgment the other day?” “Bard’ika, if you ever want a father, then you have one in me,” Skirata said. It was the highest compliment he could pay him: he was fit to be his son. Jusik might not have fully understood Mandalorian culture yet, but he certainly grasped the sentiment if his embarrassed glance down at the floor and the broad grin were any guide.

Poor little di’kut. Skirata fought the urge to collect another damaged young boy, another stray in need of belonging, and lost immediately. He had been that orphan, and a soldier had rescued him.

“Now, do we get the best kit or what?” he said, becoming the confident man he wanted to be again. “Name me another army where you get handcrafted Verps to play with.” “The Verpine army,” Scorch said. “Do they have an army?” “Do they need one?”

“I reckon.” Sev leaned over next to him. “So you’re going to crawl across.” Fi took the end of the ladder and began to move it carefully to avoid loud scraping sounds. Sev took the other end and they balanced it lengthways on the parapet. “No, I’m going to run.” “Fi, they say someone spiked my vat. But I reckon someone really spiked yours.”

All he could think of was Sergeant Kal. “He can take care of himself,” Jusik said. “He’s packing more weapons than the Galactic Marines.” “Are you telepathic?” The thought disturbed Fi, because his mind was the only private retreat he had. “I was just—” “If you’re not as worried for him as I am, then I’ve read you all wrong, my friend.” “Bard’ika …” “Yes? Too fast? Look—” “Even if you didn’t have your Force powers, you’d still be a terrific soldier. And a good man.” Fi couldn’t see the Jedi’s expression. For once, Jusik didn’t scare the living daylights out of Fi and look back over his shoulder with a silly grin when they were hurtling toward a wall, only to bank sharply at the last moment. Jusik dropped his head for a second and then raised it again. His slip-streamed hair slapped Fi in the face. “I’ll try to live up to that.” “Yeah, but you still need to get your shabla hair cut.”

That was part of his unique and appealing courage. Her first impression was that he would be a man whose bluff exterior was simply embarrassed machismo. But Skirata wasn’t embarrassed about his emotions at all. He had the guts to wear his heart on his sleeve. It was probably what made him even more effective at killing: he could love as hard as he could punch.

As a Jedi, Etain had never known a real father any more than a clone had, but in that moment she knew exactly who she wanted him to be. She moved closer to Skirata to let her arm drape on his shoulder and rested her head against his. A tear welled up in the wrinkled corner of his eye then spilled down his cheek, and she wiped it away with her sleeve. He managed a smile even though he kept his gaze fixed on the traffic far below. “You’re a good man and a good father,” she said. “You should never doubt that for a moment. Your men don’t, and neither do I.”

knowing that a rare bond had been formed between unlikely comrades: two Jedi who openly admitted they struggled with the disciplines of attachment—and Ordo was sure now that he understood that—and a very mixed bag of clone soldiers from captain to trooper who had abandoned rank to answer to a sergeant who didn’t answer to anyone.

“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.”

“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.”