“Jinart says they only call in every four or five days. That gives us a time window to work within.”
“Aren't you ever afraid?”
“When the shooting starts, frequently.” It struck him that she probably found the idea of assassination uncomfortable, but she didn't say so. “But not as afraid as I would be if I were operating without weapons. Your superiors really should arm you.”
They reached the doors to the operations room. She stopped dead.
“I know this has nothing to do with me any longer, but will you do something for me?”
“If I can.”
“I want to know when you make it through this.” She seemed to lose some composure. “And your brothers, and your ferocious little sergeant, of course. I rather like him. Will you call me? I don't need details. Just a word to let me know that it went okay, whatever it is.”
“I think we can manage that,” Ordo said.
This was where he turned left to go to Accounts, to find Hela Madiry, a woman clerk nearing retirement age—just an ordinary woman who happened to have distant cousins on Jabiim. Then he would pay a visit to Transport Maintenance, and look up a young man who had no family allegiance or ideology in this war but who liked the credits that the Separatists paid him. Their motives made no difference: they would both die very soon.
“Be careful … Trooper Corr,” Besany said.
Ordo touched gloved fingers to his forehead in an informal salute.
“You too, ma'am. You too.”
Business zone 6, walkway 10 at the junction of skylane 348, 0950 hours, 385 days after Geonosis
Fi braced for a verbal barrage as Jusik brought the speeder to a stop at the end of the walkway and settled it on the edge of the taxi platform. Skirata walked up to them straight-faced through the scattering of pedestrians and stood with his hands thrust in the pockets of his leather jacket.
“You're leading Fi astray, Bard'ika.”
“I'm sorry, but you told me that you should never enter an enemy stronghold without backup if you could help it.”
“I hate it when people take notice of me. Fi, what's wrong?”
Fi was still looking around, trying to cover three dimensions that might conceal a threat. Jusik had said that whoever was following Skirata had no malicious intention, but Fi reasoned that not everyone who was going to kill you had a sense of malice. He'd killed plenty of people without any ill feeling whatsoever. While the Force was fascinating, Fi liked to see things through the scope of his Deece, preferably with the red target acquisition icon pulsing.
He put his hand under his jacket to slide the rifle from under his arm. This was when the unusually short barrel and folding stock came into their own. You could still use the weapon at short range. “Bard'ika thinks there's someone following you.”
“I normally notice!”
“But you're deaf.”
“Partially, you cheeky dilcut.” Skirata resorted to his reflex of straightening his right arm to have his knife ready. “Well, maybe we'd better move on before they catch up?”
“Nobody with ill intent,” Jusik said. He slid his hand to the opening of his jacket, suddenly edgy. Fi took his cue and swung off the speeder to stand in front of Skirata. “And they're very, very close.”
“Steady, son. Public place, people around. No lightsaber, okay?”
“Very close.” Jusik looked past Skirata.
A young man with short white-blond hair was striding toward them through the sparse crowd, arms held a little away from his sides, a large bag over one shoulder. His knee-length dark blue coat was wide open. But that didn't mean he wasn't carrying an armory under there somewhere. Fi unfolded the Verp's stock one-handed under his jacket and prepared to draw it and fire.
The man then held both hands up at shoulder level and grinned.
“Fierfek,” Skirata breathed. “Udesii, lads. It's okay.”
The blond man—Fi's height, very athletic—walked straight up to Skirata and crushed him in an enthusiastic hug. “Su'cuy, Buir!”
Father. Fi knew the voice.
“Suc'uy, ad'ika. Tion vaii gar ru'cuyi?”
“N'oya'kari gihaal, Buir” The man looked almost tearfuclass="underline" his pale blue eyes were brimming. He wiped them with the heel of his hand. “If I'm not careful I'll wash out this iris dye.”
“That hair doesn't suit you, either.”
“I can change that, too. I've got lots of different colors. Did you like what I added to the five-hundred-grade thermal?”
“Ah. I did wonder.”
“I'm still a better chemist than Ord'ika, Kal'buir”
Fi finally saw the face in front of him as a negative image, and suddenly imagined dark hair and eyes, and realized why the man was familiar. He wasn't one of Skirata's own sons. He was a clone, just like Fi: or, to be precise, just like Ordo. It was astonishing how much difference pigmentation alone made to someone's appearance: a simple but effective disguise, for casual use anyway.
Skirata beamed at him with evident pride. “Lads, this is ARC Trooper Lieutenant N-7,” he said. “My boy Mereel.”
So this was Mereel. And even though Fi's Mando'a wasn't perfect, he understood that Skirata had asked him where he'd been, and that the ARC trooper had said that he'd been hunting fish-meal.
Fi was fascinated. But he kept his fascination to himself.
19
I had no mother and no father. I was four years old when they first put a weapon in my hands. I was taught to suppress my feelings, and to respect and obey my Masters. I was encouraged to be obsessive about perfection. It wasn't the life I would have chosen, but the one ordained becauseof my genes—just like the men I'm expected to command. But now I have something wonderful, something I have chosen. And I will never let anyone take the child I'm carrying.
–General Etain Tur-Mukan, private journal
GAR logistics center, 1230 hours, 385 days after Geonosis
It was lunchtime.
The biggest decision most people made at that time of day in the logistics center was whether to eat in the cafeteria or find a spot in the public courtyard nearby to enjoy an open-air snack.
Ordo's decision was whether to use the Verpine, or walk up to the traitor Hela Madiry, maneuver her into a shadowy alcove, and then garrote her or cut her throat.
Verpine. Best choice. Fast and silent, as long as the projectile didn't pass through her and hit something that made a noise.
Madiry sat in the shadow of a planter filled with vivid yellow shrubs, eating a mealbread stick and reading a holozine, oblivious to her life expectancy. Ordo sat in the shade of a manicured tree with his datapad on his lap, calculating her remaining life in minutes.
There was nobody within ten meters of her, but there was a security holocam.
A man sat down on the bench beside him. “Well, our young friend in Transport Maintenance just had an unfortunate accident with a repulsorlift platform. Thanks for the use of your security codes.”
“And he didn't turn into a Gurlanin, I hope.”
Mereel looked utterly alien with light hair and eyes. Even his skin was tinted two shades paler. It didn't suit him. “No, vod'ika, he turned into a dead human. Skulls and repulsorlifts don't mix. Trust me.”
“Just checking.”
“You haven't told Kal'huir about Ko Sai yet, have you?” Mereel asked.
“I thought he might be less distracted if we wait until this mission is completed.”
“He's a true verd, a warrior. He's never distracted when the shooting starts.”
“There's no rush,” Ordo said.
Mereel shrugged. Out of armor and kama, he slouched in a convincingly civilian manner. “So, shall I wander off?”