The commandos shook their heads, wide-eyed.
“Well, everything you've heard is true.” He gestured to Ordo, and a holoprojection streamed from the ARC'S glove onto the wall. It was a chart with arrows and labels on it. “So here's what we have so far. One, we have a point of origin for the explosives. Two, we think we have someone in GAR logistics or support, or in the CSF, who is either passing information or being careless with it. Now, what we don't have is a link in the chain between the following terror cells: materials to bomb manufacture; bomb manufacture to placement cell; and placement cell to recce and surveillance cell—in other words, the ones who tell them where to place the device and when to detonate it.”
Ordo had his projection arm resting on his chair. “And Vau is trying to extract at least one link from the cell Omega lifted.”
“But they might not even know what that link is,” Skirata said. “It's common to use the equivalent of a dead letter drop to deliver stuff. The prisoners tested positive for explosives, so they might be the manufacturers, but I'd assume the devices are made on Coruscant because it's simpler to ship bulk explosives than complete bombs, given that you can't pretend bombs are for mining use, although neither is easy. So our best guess is that they're the procurement cell that buys the raw material.”
Jusik had his head cocked on one side. “I take it that if we don't know this after a day, then Vau is not having much success with his interrogation. May I volunteer to help him? Jedi have some persuasive powers as well as ways of uncovering facts.”
“I know,” Skirata said. “That's why Etain's going to do it. I need you out and about at the moment.”
Etain's stomach somersaulted. Is this a test? Jusik was watching her cautiously: he could definitely sense her discomfort. Perhaps he had tried to do the decent thing and save her from the duty. Or perhaps he was so caught up in being one of the boys that he really wanted to have a crack at a prisoner. Jusik had his own wary relationship with the dark side, it seemed.
“Okay,” Etain said. You've killed. You've killed hand-to-hand, and you've killed by unleashing missiles. On Qiilura, under deep cover, you stabbed and crushed and cut, and taught the local guerrillas to do the same. And now you worry about manipulating minds? “I'll do whatever I can.”
“Good,” Skirata said, and moved on as if she had simply volunteered to cook dinner. “Now, the data Atin sliced is just a list of thirty-five thousand companies using the freight service that Vau's guests were apparently hitching a ride with. That means a lot of physical checking we can't do ourselves. So Obrim's running it through his database—his personal, special one—to see if any of them have form in customs irregularities, shady dealings, or even a speeding ticket. While he does that, we ship out. Jusik, Enacca is going to turn you into the galaxy's scruffiest taxi pilot, and the rest of you can draw your extra kit—by which I mean discreet body armor, plainclothes rig, and civilian weapons.”
“Aww, Sarge …”
“Fi, you'll love it. You might even get to wear Hokan's helmet.”
“Just for you, then, Sarge.”
“Good boy. Okay, we all RV back here at twenty-one-hundred hours when it's nice and dark.” Skirata gestured to Ordo to kill the holoprojection and then beckoned to Etain. “General, Ordo—with me.”
He led them into the passage and, instead of taking her into a quiet alcove to discuss matters, simply hurried her down the length of the corridor and out onto the parade ground, where yet another battered speeder with darkened transparisteel windscreens was waiting.
“Are you starting up a used-speeder dealership with Enacca?” Jokes always seemed to work for Fi, but Etain found they offered her no comfort at all. “They don't draw attention, though, I'll admit that.”
“Get in. Time to go to work.”
Like the clone army, she had become very good at following orders. Ordo took the speeder at a sedate pace into the main skylanes and dropped it into a gap in a route heading south.
“This is where it gets difficult, Etain,” Skirata said.
In a way, she knew what was coming. “Yes.”
“This is harder than taking on a column of battle droids and playing the hero.” Skirata was still chewing the ruik. She could smell it on his breath, sweet and floral. “I won't insult your intelligence. I want you to torture a man. It's the first intelligence break we've had in months and we need to make the most of it. Men died making sure we got those prisoners.”
She wasn't sure if it was a test of her loyalty or not. It was certainly something that Skirata knew would be the ultimate line for a Jedi to cross. But Jedi crossed the lines of decency all the time, and it was supposed to be fine as long as you didn't commit violence out of anger, or dare to love.
She was finding it harder to follow her path than ever before, and yet she was now clearer about her own convictions than she had ever been in her life.
She was aware of Ordo, too.
He appeared perfectly calm in the pilot's seat, but the eddies and deep dark pools in the Force around him spoke of a man who was not at ease with himself or the world. Great peaks of fear and pain and helpless trust and desolation and … and … sheer overwhelming speed and complexity hit Etain like a spray of cold water. He felt as foreign as a Hutt or a Weequay or a Twi'lek.
He was a man in frequent agony. His mind was racing at full throttle, and it felt as if it never stopped.
She must have been staring at him. “Are you all right, ma'am?” he asked, still veneered in calm.
“I'm fine,” she said, swallowing hard. “What … what can I possibly do that Walon Vau can't?”
“Are you ready to hear some unpleasant things?” Skirata said.
“I have to be.”
He rubbed his forehead slowly. “You can train people to resist interrogation. That's a fancy phrase for torture, and I don't like using it. I know, because I've done it, and hard-line terrorists get trained much like soldiers do. But they don't get trained to resist Jedi. And that gives you a psychological advantage as well as a real one.”
“Nikto are supposed to be tough.”
“Humans can be tough, too.”
He seemed distressed. It was severe enough for her to feel the Force around him become that dark vortex again. “Kal, who's finding this more unpleasant, you or me?”
“Me.”
“I thought so.”
“It comes back to you at times like this.”
“So who … trained Omega?” She felt the faintest shimmer of distress in Ordo now.
“Me,” said Skirata.
“Oh.”
“Would you have let anyone else do it if you were me?”
“No.” She knew immediately; she didn't even have to think about it. It would have been an act of abandonment, letting someone else do the dirty work to salve your own conscience, with the same outcome. “No, I wouldn't.”
“Well …” He shut his eyes for a moment. “If I can train my boys, then you should have no trouble doing what Vau can't.”
“Tell me what's at stake.”
“For who? The Republic?” Kal asked. “I think it's marginal, to be honest. In real terms, terrorism doesn't even dent it. Casualties in the thousands, that's all. It's fear of it that does the damage.”
“So why are you in so deep?”
“Who's getting hit hardest? Clone troopers.”
“But thousands of troops are dying in the front line every day. Numerically—”
“Yeah, I can't do much about the war. I trained quite a few men to stay alive. But all that's left for me is to do what I can, where I can.”
“Personal war, isn't it?” Etain said.
“You think so? I don't care if the Republic falls or not. I'm a mercenary. Everyone's my potential employer.”
“So where does the anger come from? I know anger, you see. As Jedi we guard against it all the time.”