501st: An Imperial Commando Novel

  Darman still didn’t say a word. Melusar wasn’t a fool. He was a soldier’s soldier, and he was good at reading his troops.

  “Is this a problem I can help you solve, Darman?” he asked.

  Darman had to respond now. Niner willed him not to blurt out something he’d regret.

  “No problem, sir.”

  “You’re a smart man,” Melusar said. “That’s what whoever bankrolled the army paid for. Really top-notch soldiers. So I don’t think you ever switched that brain off. You know you’ve been used. You’re mad about it. Maybe it’s even personal, really personal. And that’s fine. But the deal is that I level with you, and you level with me. I’m taking a big risk here. That’s why I’m keeping this very small-scale. Concealable. Deniable.”

  “Can I ask why it’s personal for you, then, sir?”

  Melusar blinked a few times. “You were right about Dromund Kaas, Darman. My family did come from there. It’s the cesspit of the Outer Rim. It never had a government, just a cabal of Sith monks. The Prophets of the Dark Side.” He sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “Guys in black robes with black beards. Absolute power. Everything they predicted always came true, and if it didn’t, they’d help it along—death and destruction, usually. But there were never any Republic missions or Jedi armies to liberate us, because Dromund Kaas was erased from the star charts a long time ago. So we rotted. And somebody in the outside world must have known we were rotting to take us off the chart in the first place. It’s what you do when a reactor blows, isn’t it? Tough luck on the poor fools working there. Lock them in, and stop the contamination getting out.” Melusar leaned forward a little and lowered his voice. Niner could see the pulse flickering in his throat. He definitely wasn’t playing for effect. “My father tried to get people to change the world themselves rather than wait for help that was never going to come. I was six when I watched him get killed. The Prophets predicted he’d be a long time dying. They were right. They always were.”

  Melusar seemed to shake himself out of the memory, and stood up with his back to Darman and Niner for a moment before smoothing the front of his tunic and sitting down behind his desk again.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Niner said. “This must be really hard for you.” He had to ask. Ordo would want to know, but Niner needed to. “Has this got anything to do with Imperial Intelligence?”

  Melusar shuffled the files on his desk. “They’re all the same,” he said softly. “Whatever brand of cant they mumble, they’re all about power. They’re not on our side. And we have to do something about that.”

  Niner found that he’d actually held his breath without realizing it. Darman was frozen. Melusar had issues, vast ones. He also had good reasons.

  “Understood, sir,” Darman said.

  Rede reappeared with three datapads, and the talk of Force-users stopped. “Got it, sir.”

  Rede handed them over, and Melusar tapped a few keys. “You should have the documents and plans in your HUD systems now,” he said. “Familiarize yourself with them.”

  Every mention of Mandalore now knotted Niner’s gut. It was all getting too close to home in every sense. But that was exactly why he’d stayed. “And the objective, sir?”

  Melusar looked up without raising his chin. “Good stuff, beskar. Never tackle a Jedi without it. Now get some lunch.”

  Niner had no idea what he actually meant—whether he’d just sent Rede on an errand for any old thing, and beskar mining was still fresh in his mind, or whether he was introducing them to yet another angle in his personal war on Force-users. Niner needed to check what Ordo or Jaing had picked up via his helmet link, so he steered Darman toward the quartermaster’s store.

  “Rede, go grab us a quiet table, will you?” he said. “I’m going to the stores. Won’t be long.”

  Rede never questioned why Dar and Niner seemed joined at the hip. He was the new guy. Niner longed to have a tight squad again, where everyone knew everything about their brothers and they didn’t have to think before they spoke. He wanted to bring Rede into that circle of trust, but Melusar was right: he had some way to go yet.

  Niner and Dar slipped into a corridor and put on their helmets. They could both hear what was going on when they were connected to the Kyrimorut link now. Niner felt better for that.

  “Ordo? Jaing?” Niner said. “Did you get that?”

  There was a long breath. It sounded like Jaing. “Wow.” Yes, it was. “Holy Roly makes Kal’buir look like the Jedi appreciation society. And that whole Sith thing. No wonder he loves his job.”

  “But you got it all, right? I’m going to transmit the Mandalore mining data, too, in case there’s something you don’t have.”

  “Great. Just a word, though.”

  “What?”

  “Best to find a way of stalling the boss on Altis.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Avoid Altis. Leave him be until we tell you it’s okay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Jaing sighed, “we need him for the time being. We’ve done a deal with him. It’d be very awkward if you crashed in and found him now.”

  Niner was still struggling to understand that news when Darman lit up like a flare. “What, is this another Jedi you’ve chummed up with now? Which shabla side are you on, Jaing?”

  “It’s business. You want Zey and the others out of Kyrimorut, don’t you?”

  “Don’t patronize me. I’m going to get back one day and find Kad gone and a thank-you note from the Jedi saying it was all for his own good. What the shab is wrong with you people? Why are you helping them after all that happened to us?”

  Niner put a restraining hand on his arm. “Steady, Dar. Udesii.”

  “No, you butt out of this, Niner.” Dar shook him off. “I’m not going to take this. I’m fed up with Jedi always sticking their oar in. They’re history. It’s not our job to save their shebse. You’re all way too cozy with them.”

  “Dar, shut it. I know you’re upset, but—”

  “Ah, forget it. Forget it.” Darman turned around and stalked away, pulling his helmet off.

  He’d calm down. He always did. Niner was all for a deal with this Altis if it removed the risk to Kyrimorut. He thought it was weird that Skirata was in league with another Jedi, but Jusik had turned out okay, so maybe Altis would, too. Sometimes, you just had to be pragmatic. It wasn’t like the guy was General Vos or any of the real shabuire.

  “Niner, he’s not going to go off and screw things up for us, is he?” Jaing asked quietly. “It’s a few weeks, max. That’s all. He needs to shut up about Altis.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him on a leash,” Niner said. “It’s all too soon after Etain.”

  “Sooner he comes home, the better.”

  “Oya. You’re not wrong there.”

  “K’oyacyi.”

  “Yeah, you look after yourself, too.”

  Niner went to the stores and signed for a couple of tubes of sealant for his boots just in case Rede was the checking kind. By the time he found Darman, his brother was already in the canteen, chatting to Rede as if everything was just fine and demolishing a plate of nerf steak.

  He wasn’t fine, though. Niner could see the tension in him. He probably felt helpless, so far from Kad and desperate to be there to protect him, even if he wasn’t sure what the threat was. Funny; the Imperial garrison at Keldabe never even got a mention. Dar just wasn’t worried about it. He seemed to have complete faith in Kal’buir and the others to keep that at arm’s length.

  But he didn’t seem convinced that Skirata could take a tough line with Jedi. Knowing how Kal’buir felt about them, even Niner began to wonder what the shab was really going on.

  It was just a few weeks’ stalling. Then it was a couple of months setting up the Altis surveillance, when the Jedi were long gone from Mandalore.

  By then, Niner thought, Dar would be missing Kad so badly that he’d be ready to be persuaded to desert for good.

  Laborat
ory, Kyrimorut, Mandalore

  “Someone’s got to test it,” Uthan said. “And it might as well be me, because I started all this nonsense.”

  She ran a detector around the seal on the biohaz room doors, checking the flashing light that would turn continuous if there was the smallest leak—small enough to let a nanoscale virus escape. Ordo was convinced there had to be an easier and safer way to test the immunogen. It had taken him all night to convince himself that this wasn’t some plot to release the FG36 virus after all so that Uthan could have the last laugh.

  She’d lost her world. Ordo thought that if he’d been in her situation, he’d have happily spent his own life taking his revenge on those responsible. But Uthan wasn’t him. She seemed sweet on Gilamar, and she’d even taken Scout under her wing, so maybe she had plenty to live for, and meant what she said. People did, sometimes, even those who dealt in death on an industrial scale.

  “Okay,” Ordo said. “But give me the vials first.”

  “Ordo, dear, I’m going to give everyone a shot before I do this. Even Kina Ha, and Kaminoans aren’t affected by FG thirty-six at all. I’ve been working with pathogens all my adult life and I’m still alive.”

  “Okay.” He was going to make sure she did it. “But I still think you’re rash.”

  “If I die, you won’t get your aging therapy …”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that.”

  “You should.” Uthan flexed her fingers like a keyboard virtuoso as she looked at the small transparisteel enclosure, more like two snack vendor’s food display cabinets bolted side by side than a biohaz containment area. She wasn’t as relaxed about it as she tried to make out. “Now, I should be fully cooked in an hour. Don’t forget to baste me halfway through. Be a dear and get everyone assembled in the karyai—that’s everyone, even Cov and his boys. And nobody moves in or out until I’m satisfied we’re in the clear.”

  When Ordo and Kom’rk had herded the whole clan into the karyai, Ordo was suddenly struck by how unlikely it would have been for this odd group of individuals to cling together in anything but a desperate war and its aftermath. Enemies, strangers, blood relatives and adoptees, those without roots and those who clung fiercely to their ancient cultures—it wasn’t a recipe for harmony.

  Besany put her arms around his waist and kissed him on the cheek. “Kal can make anyone feel they belong,” she said, answering the question in his head and scaring him. Wives always did that, Kal’buir warned him. “Jilka’s talking to me at last. Normally, I mean. Not frosty-frosty. Corr’s a good influence.”

  “Will you miss the Jedi when they leave?”

  “Yes. Kina Ha is a treasure. While you’re off sabotaging the Empire, she’s the one I end up talking to most of the day.”

  My wife, my Bes’ika, friends with a kaminii. I should draw some great moral message from that, but Kina Ha isn’t Ko Sai or Orun Wa. I’d still shoot Orun Wa on sight.

  “Point made,” Ordo said. “Who’s making sure Arla gets her shot?”

  “Bardan. Actually, the point I was making was that I spend less time with you now than I did when you were in the army.”

  “But we’re married now.”

  Besany stared at him for a second, then laughed. “If romance isn’t dead,” she said, “it’s certainly coughing up blood.”

  Sull and Spar had both shown up, doing a double act based on how very unimpressed they were by all this. They’d still been cautious enough to present for treatment, though.

  “So there’s some shot you can give me to make me immune from the Empire’s bioweapon,” Spar muttered. “Another one. Whoopee. You know how many times clones were immunized against the latest super-duper-mega-deadly viral agent some Sep quack dreamed up? My backside’s like a pincushion. We’re immune to everything. Even flattery.”

  Uthan took a vial from the box and inserted it into the hypospray. “I am that Sep quack,” she said, “and I can assure you the pathogen this protects you from is lethal. Now drop your pants, or roll up your sleeve. I don’t mind which.”

  Sull raised an eyebrow and presented his upper arm. “Have you had your shot?”

  “Yes. Now you, Spar.”

  “So when do we get the fix for premature gray?” Spar asked. “Is that your recipe, too?”

  “Soon, I hope,” Uthan said. “You want to volunteer for trials?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  “You’re awfully trusting.”

  “And Sergeant Gilamar is an awfully good shot, ma’am. I can afford to trust you.”

  “I might just engineer you some unusual and embarrassing physical characteristics to teach you never to mess with a menopausal woman.” Uthan finished administering the hyposprays and held up the empty box. “Friends—if you do get any symptoms, onset should be within an hour. Just sniffles and a slight fever. This does not entitle any males to take to their beds claiming they have acute pneumoscoria and yes Corr that does mean you and no you cannot have a candy for being a brave boy …”

  Everyone laughed. Ordo rated her at 9 on a fear scale of 10. If she was wrong, and not half as good at her job as she thought she was, she had less than an hour to live. She walked out, Gilamar and Scout trailing behind her, and there was a noticeable drop in the volume of conversation, as if everyone had the same thought at once.

  It took the best part of the next hour to run all the safety checks on the biohaz chamber. Ordo simply watched, because he needed to know if she lived or died. Scout hung around outside the main door of the lab, hands in her pockets and looking downcast. Gilamar fidgeted, more anxious than Ordo had ever seen him. When Uthan stood in front of the chamber with her hand on the locking mechanism, taking deep breaths that she seemed to think nobody noticed, he couldn’t hold back. As she slid the door aside, he simply wrapped his arms around her and gave her a desperate kiss. She responded.

  It was a very touching moment. Ordo had to look away.

  “I can’t lose two good women in my lifetime.” Gilamar sounded hoarse. “You better be right about this, Dr. Death.”

  Ordo decided he’d have to work on his lines to reach Gilamar’s effortless line in affectionate abuse. The chamber closed behind Uthan, and the door seal hissed. Once she opened the finger-sized durasteel container and inhaled or touched the contents, she’d infect herself with a planet killer.

  She paused, then pulled out a thin plastoid spatula. Ordo wondered if she thought of Gibad at that moment. It hadn’t occurred to him before that she might be punishing herself in some act of atonement.

  “Shab … ,” Gilamar said, shutting his eyes for a moment.

  Ordo hadn’t seen her use the hypo on herself.

  And if she hadn’t, it was too late now.

  Scout came and clung to Gilamar, sometimes burying her face in his tunic because she couldn’t bear to watch, sometimes steeling herself to look at Uthan. She really was just a kid, lonely and afraid in a galaxy that wanted to kill her just for what she was. He understood that fear.

  Uthan kept taking her own pulse and checking her eyes with a small piece of mirrored metal. She pulled down both lower lids and gave Gilamar a thumbs-up sign.

  “Hemorrhaging,” she mouthed. “Just checking. Nothing.”

  It was a very, very slow hour. Toward the end of it, she took a blood sample from her arm and put it in a steribag. Gilamar shook his head. “Got to teach that woman to use a sharp properly. Eh, Scout? You, too.”

  Ordo checked the chrono. Uthan was well beyond the onset period now, and she still looked fine. After another half an hour, she stepped into the adjacent chamber and pressed the controls to flood the whole space with decontaminant as thick as white smoke. Ordo found that the worst part of it. When she opened the door, the smoke rolled out like fog and she was coughing.

  “Where the stang did you get that thing, Mij?” she demanded. “It looks like an old GAR field biochem decontamination unit.”

  “It is,” he said, hugging her. “They just left it unattended. I always though
t I’d find a use for it.”

  Ordo wasn’t sure how to take his leave of them, but they seemed happy enough. Scout didn’t. She turned to Ordo.

  “If Bardan wipes my memories of this place, am I going to forget Mij and Qail?” she asked, utterly miserable. “Is it all going to disappear?”

  “I don’t know,” Ordo said. “I’m not sure anyone does.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” Scout said. “Not yet, anyway. Do I have to? I’d never tell anyone this place was here. I’m learning so much.”

  Gilamar put his arm around her shoulders like a father. “And you don’t have to go, ad’ika. I’ll talk to Kal. Don’t you worry.”

  “He’ll have you in armor in no time,” Ordo said.

  “Oh, thanks, but I’m a Jedi. I can still be a Jedi, can’t I? It’s all I ever wanted to be.”

  Ordo heard Gilamar pause for a fraction of a second before replying.

  “Of course you can,” he said. “Leave it to me.”

  Ordo decided that this was going to be … interesting.

  Kyrimorut, next day

  “Ah, it’s good to hear your voice again, Kal,” Shysa said. “Feel safe using a comm now?”

  Skirata tried to phrase the offer sensibly. The more he tried to cover all the bases that had been troubling him, the more insane it sounded. Uthan stood within earshot to guide him on the technical stuff. But he couldn’t imagine Shysa wanting to ask about antigens and T-cells.

  “Safe enough,” Skirata said. “I’ve got something to offer Mandalore.”

  “The services of that fine young Force-using Mando’ad?”

  “Not that.” Shysa never forgot anything. Skirata took a breath. “You know what happened to Gibad.”

  “I do. Filthy business. But then we know who we’re doing business with.”

  “If the old hutuun plans to use the virus on us, we’ve beaten him to the punch. But we need to keep it quiet, or he’ll just get a tame scientist to invent another one.”

  “So what trick have you got up your sleeve?”

  “An immunogen. Or some word like that.” He glanced at Uthan and she nodded emphatically. “A virus that makes folks immune to the thing. And they pass the immunity to their kids. I don’t understand the science, but we can spread it to everyone on Mandalore so we don’t have folks lining up for hypos and making the Imperials curious.”