“I just ran out of patience.”
Skirata held up his Verpine in his left hand, knife in his right, listening as Jusik drew his lightsaber, a Jedi Knight in a Mando helmet.
Bard'ika, I'll take that image to my grave.
He checked the infrared targeting beam, more out of nervous habit than anything, and hoped the hut'uune didn't have night vision.
The deafening double trip-hammer of Mereel's quad blaster shattered the brief calm and the rear doors were blown open. There was an explosion and a pounding rain of debris from the side of the warehouse. For a moment Skirata thought the doors had been blown out by the blast but Jusik punched the air as if it was a rather clever touch.
Fierfek. So that's the Force, is it?
There was no light spilling out of the doorway. Then someone inside the warehouse ran for the doors and a grainy figure shot through his night vision display.
Skirata reacted instantly, without thinking, charging at him and smashing into his face with an armored elbow, then bringing his knife up hard under his ribs before he could even fall backward. It was only when he aimed the Verp in his next breath and concentrated on the face in his HUD for a second, that he realized it was the woman who had called him a Mandalorian thug. He fired the gun before he had even thought of a suitable retort. War was like that. You rarely thought of something satisfying to say until days later, if you had anything to say at all.
“Ten on the infrared,” Niner said.
Infrared told you who was still warm. Infrared couldn't tell you who was alive. Skirata preferred to track movement alone.
“Grenade! Cover!” Atin yelled.
The shock wave lifted Skirata and left his ears ringing. He was sure he was outside the doors but he was now inside, and Jusik hauled him cleanly to his feet with one arm. He couldn't hear the comlink clearly now.
The rapid hammering of a rotary blaster started up and then stopped abruptly. For a man trained in the delicate art of bomb disposal, Corr had seized on the crude technique of spraying six barrels with some enthusiasm.
“Grenade—”
Another explosion shook the warehouse. “Man down!”
Someone was cursing—Sev? Scorch?—and Ordo yelled, “Pull back! Clear the building!”
Skirata sprinted after Jusik, following the green glow of his lightsaber. As they cleared the doors, a massive whooomp punched Skirata simultaneously under the soles of his feet and in his back. He almost lost his balance.
Silence descended. Skirata strained to listen.
“Lots of scattered patches of infrared.” That sounded like Niner. “And no idea what's alive and what's just … warm.”
“Scorch, you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Really. Just shook me up.”
“That's it,” Jusik said. “I'm coming back in, Ordo.” He spun around and ran back into the warehouse. Skirata followed him. “I can find the live ones. Leave it to me.”
The warehouse was now almost in darkness and silent except for the ticking, creaking, and crumbling sounds of settling debris and cooling alloy. The air stank of ozone from discharged blasters and from the animal scent of shattered bodies. Nothing moved.
This was taking hours, Skirata was sure. No, this was minutes. His brain had slipped into the unreal time frame of combat.
Jusik's green lightsaber left an eerie trail. He didn't seem afraid of drawing fire: he'd just bat it away like an annoying insect, Skirata was sure. “I can feel three lives.”
Well, they’ll know the Jedi are on the case now.
Skirata imagined lying on that floor in the dark silent chaos, probably deafened, certainly injured, catching glimpses of movement as soldiers stalked the room. The commandos had killed their visor lights, and Fi, Atin, and Darman were nearly invisible in their black armor even to him.
It must have been terrifying. He'd hidden from soldiers, six years old and scared enough to wet his pants.
Now you know what it's like, hut'uune.
Someone made a sound, a little half word, and it sounded like please. Skirata swung his Verpine in the direction of the noise. He saw a man kneeling with hands raised: fierfek, he didn't want to take prisoners. That was the last thing they needed. He heard Jusik swallow hard.
“Get over by the wall,” Jusik hissed. He was gesturing at the person who seemed to be surrendering. Could the hut'uun even see the Jedi? “Get over by the wall!”
Then Darman's voice cut in. “Sarge! Down! Flame—”
Skirata swung around and dropped to his knees just as Jusik ducked a sheet of white-hot, roaring liquid flame that lit up the shattered warehouse and overwhelmed his night vision for a split second. It pumped out in shallow arcs and Darman took it full on. Commandos and troopers leaped back instinctively and Skirata felt the heat even through a layer of ancient Mandalorian iron. Darman was illuminated like a jet black statue, rifle still raised, enveloped in blazing liquid. He didn't even scream.
“Dar!” Skirata found his body responding without intervention from his brain as he pumped Verpine rounds in the direction of the flamethrower. Someone fell. The stream of fire stopped. The thunk of a power cell being slapped onto a blaster diverted him from the terrible spectacle of Darman burning like a torch as someone—Fi? Niner?—rushed to roll their brother on the ground in a bid to smother the flames. Skirata caught the faint light of a charge indicator in his peripheral vision and swung the Verpine in its direction, but Jusik waded in instantly, swinging his lightsaber in a blur of light. Skirata could now see that the kneeling man—the apparently surrendering man—had drawn a blaster. It was still clutched in his limp hand. For some reason that feint angered Skirata more than anything.
“All clear!” Jusik yelled. “Dar!” He looked up at the ceiling. “Hang on, Dar.”
Katarn armor could withstand high temperatures but the burning chemical had coated Darman's plates. It was resisting attempts by Niner and Sev to smother it with bundles of sacking they had grabbed. Skirata went to throw his jacket over him. Suddenly a fine sticky rain filled the air.
The fire control system had kicked in.
“I'm glad that worked,” Jusik muttered.
A white cloud of hissing gas enveloped Darman and the warehouse plunged back into darkness. The blaze was out; fire retardant rained from the ceiling.
Skirata squatted over Darman, edging Niner and Ordo out of the way. His armor was still radiating heat.
“Son! Are you okay?”
“Sarge—”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not really … made me blink a bit, though. That liquid's nasty stuff.” Darman's plates were hissing audibly as they cooled. His voice was shaky. “Thanks.”
“Is this your handiwork, Bard'ika?” Skirata helped Darman to his feet. His plates were hot to the touch. “Did you activate the fire system?”
“I'm not just good for blowing stuff up.” Jusik picked his way through the rubble and shattered durasteel, boots crunching, then stopped dead. “That's it,” he said quietly. “Definitely nobody left alive.”
The kid seemed remarkably calm about it, or at least his voice was under control. Darman dusted himself down and Ordo handed him his Deece. Eight helmet spotlamps flared into life and swept the interior, highlighting a scene of smoking wallboard and things Skirata had seen far too much of on too many battlefields. One beam jerked up toward the roof.
“We blew the shabla roof half off,” Boss said.
“Last time I rely on infrared …”
“Kandosii, Bard'ika! He's better than a scope any day.”
“Is this it?” That was Fixer's voice. “All that, and still we don't get to see them? At least you can see droids. They come at you. These scum—”
“You want to look, ner vod?”