501st: An Imperial Commando Novel

  “Like we don’t have enough to keep us busy,” Skirata said. “So who do we deal with first?”

  Vau’s lean face betrayed every twitching muscle. He wasn’t just angry. He was possessed. Skirata knew it was stoked by his guilt at not being at Jango Fett’s side at the Battle of Galidraan.

  “We haven’t fought a war of expansion for thousands of years,” Vau said. “We’re strictly home defense or mercenaries. Whatever the Death Watch have in mind, they’ll always drag us into the kind of war we can’t win.”

  The Death Watch had melted away after Fett finally defeated them. But they had enough Mandalorian spirit in them to guarantee one thing.

  They knew the strategic value of ba’slan shev’la. And that meant they’d be back one day.

  That day could be coming all too soon.

  Keldabe, half a kilometer from the Oyu’baat

  “I hope Mereel isn’t getting Bard’ika into bad ways.” Ordo checked his chrono, trying to work out where in the city they’d be by now. “Corr was the quiet stay-at-home type before Mer’ika got hold of him.”

  But Gilamar wasn’t going to be distracted by small talk. He wasn’t strolling, spreading his virus carefully, but walking with his head thrust forward like a hunting strill on a scent. Ordo knew what was on his mind; Dred Priest and Isabet Reau.

  “Kal’buir shouldn’t have commed you,” Ordo said.

  Gilamar shook his head. “I knew they were here. It was only a matter of time.”

  “I meant about the Death Watch angle.”

  “That,” Gilamar said, “only makes me want to kill them twice.”

  Ordo found himself wondering how hard a stranglehold he’d have to put on Gilamar to break up a fight without hurting the man. Keldabe wasn’t a big place. The public areas—marketplaces, alleys full of shops, the main cantinas—were all crammed into a small sector, and on a busy day like this the entire population seemed to be circulating around it just waiting to run into folks they knew. But Gilamar was a pro, a man used to keeping a low profile. He wasn’t going to start a brawl and draw attention to himself.

  “So where have the Death Watch been all these years, then?” Ordo said.

  “Depends who you ask.” Gilamar obviously kept tabs on them, which was worrying in itself. “Anywhere from half the planets on the Outer Rim to Endor. Also holding hands with Black Sun and any other crime syndicate that’ll pay them.”

  Ordo tried to calm him down. “Let’s distinguish between the lowlife sporting a badge to look tougher to their criminal buddies, and the real Death Watch. If someone wants to be a designer thug, that’s not our problem.”

  “But anyone who wants to change Mandalore and its culture to achieve galactic domination—that’s very much our problem. You remember Priest, Ordo. You know what he’s like. And they’re all like that, all of them. Ask Arla.”

  Gilamar’s resolve to leave the galaxy’s ideologues and firebrands to rebel against Palpatine seemed to have been swept aside by a knee-jerk urge to start an equally dangerous fight with other Mandalorians. Ordo scanned every unhelmeted face he passed, hoping that he’d spot a familiar one before Gilamar did.

  “I still don’t see what the Death Watch would get out of siding with Palpatine,” Ordo said. “If they want to restore the Mando empire, he’s not the power-sharing kind.”

  “Maybe he’s franchising dictatorships. The Death Watch gets this concession to keep an eye on the place.”

  “That won’t be enough for them.”

  “No, not if they’re still spouting Vizsla’s party line.”

  “What was Jango doing recruiting them? He had more reason to hate the Death Watch than anybody”

  “Priest and Reau weren’t exactly card-carrying members. Jango thought they were all talk. He only cared about results.”

  So even legends made bad choices. Ordo found that oddly comforting. Gilamar took off his helmet as he walked and slipped on a sun visor. Combined with a bandanna tied over the hair, the visor gave Gilamar some anonymity in this crowd, and even his broken nose wasn’t as distinctive in Keldabe as it might have been on Coruscant. A lot of people had one—including females.

  I feel like I’m roasting. This fever had better be over as fast as Uthan promised.

  Ordo could still smell frying food whether his nose was running or not. He opened the filter on his helmet and savored the scent. Gilamar, a pace or two ahead of him, was forced to slow down by the press of bodies as they got closer to the market square.

  “I’ll be glad when this is done.” Gilamar’s voice rasped. “I feel as rough as old boots. Qail can make me a nice pot of shig when I get home, maybe with a splash of tihaar in it.”

  “We’re hard as nails,” Ordo said. “Not.”

  He willed the day to be over without incident. Just a couple more turns around the block, and they could meet up with the others in the Oyu’baat, then head back to Kyrimorut, job done, population immunized. The next problem was waiting to be solved; erasing the memories of their Jedi guests before transferring them to Altis’s care.

  Ordo spotted a few items on the stalls that Besany might like—a decent butchering knife, a ruby glass vial of perfume—and paused to check them over. Gilamar scanned the crowd, managing to look casual. The stormtroopers had vanished. Ordo paid for the knife and the perfume, then commed Jusik for a routine check.

  “How’s it going, Bard’ika?” he asked.

  “Mereel’s just met a new woman. I’m sure she’ll be sneezing and coughing very soon.”

  Ordo couldn’t begrudge Mereel grabbing whatever chances he could to be young and carefree but he wanted to tell him to keep his mind on the job. “Can’t ever call that boy slow.”

  “What’s the problem? I can feel a lot of angst around.”

  Ordo still tended to forget that Jusik sensed things. “Oh, Priest and his crazy woman are in town, and Kal’buir said they had Death Watch insignia or something.”

  “That explains what I can feel.”

  “See you later. Make sure Mereel doesn’t wear himself out.”

  Ordo shut the comm and turned to share the joke with Gilamar. He’d only taken his eyes off him for a few seconds. For a moment, he lost him in the sea of shoppers; then he spotted his brown bandanna, and realized Gilamar had moved on a few meters. He stood on the corner of an alley that became steep steps leading down to the river.

  Better stick with him. Can’t be too careful.

  Ordo edged through the crowd and reached out to tap Gilamar’s shoulder. Gilamar turned slowly, but it wasn’t toward Ordo. It was as if someone had called him and he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to respond.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” said a voice that Ordo hadn’t heard in years.

  By the time Ordo got to Gilamar, he could see Dred Priest almost face-to-face with him, and Ordo knew he’d have to intervene.

  Come on, Mij, udesii. Stay cool. Don’t make a scene.

  Ordo saw Gilamar literally hold himself back, straining to walk away and save his anger for later. But it was too late; Priest had cornered him. There was nowhere to run, too dense a crowd. Gilamar stood his ground.

  “Small world,” he muttered.

  Priest took off his helmet. Kal’buir had described him as having the sort of face he could punch all day; it was that thin, lopsided mouth that did it. There was no sign of Isabet Reau. She was no work of art, either.

  “You never were the kind to worry about the wanted list, were you?” Priest said. “Been a long time.” He glanced at Ordo. “Who’s this?”

  “My nephew,” Gilamar said. Ordo took that as a hint to keep quiet and not give Priest a clue who was under the helmet. “I’d like to say I’d missed you, but you’d know I was lying. So … working for the Empire?”

  The emblem on Priest’s shoulder plate really did look like the old Death Watch badge. Even Ordo could see that, and he hadn’t lived with it as a specter of dread like Gilamar and the others had. He kept his arms at his sides, but flexed his
right fist discreetly to make sure the vibroblade in his gauntlet was primed to eject. Gilamar still had his thumbs hooked on his belt, deceptively casual.

  “You know how I prefer winners,” said Priest.

  Gilamar stared pointedly at Priest’s emblems. “Interesting paint job.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Was that an answer?”

  “No hard feelings about the pounding you gave me.”

  “Oh good.”

  “And if you’re worried I’m going to turn you in to the garrison, I’ve got more pressing business.” Priest looked around. Maybe he was checking for Reau. “Times change. Are you looking for work?”

  Gilamar froze. Ordo thought he was bracing to throw a punch. “Not with the Death Watch, hut’uun.”

  “Things have changed since Vizsla.” Priest took that ultimate insult calmly. “The galaxy’s a different place. Mandalorians need to look after themselves better. Not just scramble for crumbs like the deadbeats here.”

  Ordo couldn’t just walk away now that Priest had identified Gilamar. Plenty of folks here knew that Skirata and his clan were back somewhere on Mandalore, and even if they did some work for the garrison, that didn’t make them Imperial sympathizers. But Priest was different, almost an enemy to start with. There was no telling what he’d do.

  “So—new Death Watch?” Gilamar said quietly. His voice was steady, as if he’d suddenly forgotten the past and every blow he’d ever landed on Priest. “New policies?” Then he looked around as if he was checking for eavesdroppers. “You better tell me about it.”

  Gilamar turned and jerked his head at Priest to follow him. Ordo took the cue instantly, closing up behind them. Gilamar led the way down the alley. It grew steeper and became cobbled steps that dipped down to the level of the river, deserted and damp with spray. It was just a dead end that had once led to a sluice gate or something, but the gate had long gone, and now the archway cut from the solid granite foundations of Keldabe was sealed off by a metal safety rail. Foaming, hammering white water rushed beneath them, echoing under the arch and drenching the walls with a permanent mist. Deep green frond-grass thrived in the cracks. It was the kind of hidden spot where you could lean on the rail and lose yourself in contemplation of the raging river, or meet a lover, or just hide.

  It was a great place to discuss the Death Watch without being overheard. But Ordo had no idea what Gilamar was up to.

  He’s going to shake Priest down. Double agent stuff. I hope he knows what he’s doing.

  Gilamar put one hand out to lean on the wall, which would have looked relaxed to anyone who didn’t know him. Ordo stood back, ready to do whatever needed doing. Priest kept glancing at him. He’d obviously pegged him as the hired muscle who’d give him a clip around the ear if he got out of line.

  “I never did like you much, Dred,” Gilamar said. “Or your chakaar of a girlfriend. What could I possibly do for you?”

  “Same as always. You’re either with us, or you’re against us.”

  “And us is …”

  “Lorka Gedyc has big plans for us. Forget your petty personal squabbles with the aruetyc Empire and start thinking about our rightful heritage. We weren’t always the aruetiise’s latrine-cleaners. We’ve got the beskar—and we can use it.”

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Are you still calling yourself the Death Watch, or have you hired an image consultant to give you a racy new name?”

  Gilamar looked Priest straight in the eye with just enough hostility to be convincing. Ordo had guessed right. He just hoped Mij’ika knew how far to go with this stunt.

  “We’re not ashamed. Death Watch it is.”

  “So how are you going to build your new Mando empire?” he asked. “There can’t be more than a few thousand of you vermin, tops. And you won’t be fighting little girls this time.”

  “I can’t reveal troop strengths to you.” Priest shook his head. Gilamar didn’t voice his usual objection to the Death Watch using the word troops instead of thugs. “Still as sanctimonious as ever, Mij.”

  Gilamar paused and pushed himself away from the wall one-handed to stand upright. Ordo braced for trouble, keeping an eye on Priest’s holstered blaster. His hand wandered just a fraction too close to it for comfort.

  “Yeah,” Gilamar said. “I have trouble forgetting all the lads on Kamino I had to patch up from your fight club. And the ones who didn’t make it.”

  “The strong survive, the weak die. That’s the way the galaxy works. The day we forgot that, we became everyone’s lackey.”

  Gilamar looked down for a moment. The river was so noisy that they had to stand as close as friends to hear each other. Then Gilamar’s shoulders sagged as if he was sighing.

  “It’s not vengeance,” he said. “It just has to be done.”

  Ordo was fast. But he wasn’t fast enough. Gilamar dropped to a crouch and drew the blade on his belt, bringing it up into Priest’s belly in the time it took Ordo to inhale. Priest staggered back, eyes wide with shock, and fell against the slippery wall. For a heartbeat Ordo couldn’t work out how Gilamar had put the knife through Priest’s armor; but then he saw the blood, spurting blood, arterial blood, and knew that Gilamar had aimed with a surgeon’s precision for the gap between the plates at the top of the thigh. He’d sliced through the femoral artery.

  Priest had minutes to live. He’d bleed out in minutes.

  “Oh … oh … you scum … ” Priest’s voice had suddenly taken on a high-pitched shakiness, all surprise. He slumped at the foot of the wall, trying to stem the blood with his hands, but he was already too weak to apply much pressure. “You … you … why?”

  “It’ll take too long to list.” Gilamar just watched him. Ordo had never seen that side of the doctor before. “But I can’t let you live, for so many, many reasons.”

  “Isabet? Issy? Help me … help me … ”

  Reau wasn’t going to hear him. Nobody would, with the racket the water was making. They were going to have a dead body on their hands very soon. Ordo had to think what to do next.

  “Shab, Mij, did you have to?” he said.

  “Yes.” Gilamar squatted down and looked Priest in the eye. “I can’t let your kind come back to Mandalore. You know that, don’t you? And it’s the least I owe Jango. And all those boys who got broken for your entertainment.”

  Priest was panting now, semiconscious, and all he managed was an animal noise that faded into nothing. There was an awful lot of blood pooling on the cobbles. Ordo looked down from the archway to see if there was any runoff staining the water, but the churning foam was as white as ever.

  How can I tell Besany that my first thought was how to cover this up?

  It was a war. It didn’t matter which war. And Besany had seen him do far worse.

  Ordo watched Gilamar check the pulse in Priest’s neck as if he was doing a house call. “Kal’buir’s going to be furious.”

  “You got a better idea, son? This chakaar would turn us in if it suited him, too.”

  “We’d better dump the body in the river.”

  “Yeah.” Gilamar took something from his belt and held it under Priest’s nose. It looked like polished durasteel. The man’s eyes were half open. Gilamar nodded. “He’s gone. Kinder exit than he deserved. Help me tip him over the side. Mind you don’t get blood all over your plates.”

  Gilamar searched Priest and took his datapad, comlink, and ID chip, then unclipped one of the shoulder plates with the hated Death Watch emblem and slipped it into his belt pouch. The opening in the granite wall wasn’t overlooked. Unlike Imperial City, there were no snoop cams to monitor the place, either. Ordo took a grip of Priest’s belt and backplate, Gilamar grabbed the other side, and together they heaved the body into the torrent. They didn’t even hear a splash.

  “He’ll wash up somewhere downstream,” Gilamar said. “The buffeting and the rocks will mash the body a bit, but we don’t have Jaller Obrim or the CSF Forensics
Service here to worry about. Come on. I’ll make my peace with Kal.”

  “Who’s going to make the most noise when they realize Priest’s missing?” Ordo asked. He checked himself for blood before climbing the steps again. “Other than Reau?”

  “Does it matter?” Gilamar cleaned his knife in the spray from the river and shook off the water. “We’re all borked anyway. Might as well hang for a bantha as a jackrab.”

  It was time to bang out of Keldabe. They’d infected enough people by now anyway. And Reau—Ordo knew they’d have to deal with her sooner or later.

  It would take her a long time to work out who’d killed Priest.

  16

  Your prowess with a lightsaber is childish vanity. Your physical Force powers are no more than a conjuror’s trick, sleight of hand to dazzle the ordinary beings you should be serving. You profane these powers by using them as weapons in war. And you fail to grasp the single, simple, uncompromising duty of the true Jedi. The Jedi is the rock-lion at the gate who says, “I will defend these beings with my life, and that is the sum of me.” Etain Tur-Mukan died to save one life, a man she did not even know, but felt compelled to save, and that is what made her stronger in the Force and a truer Jedi than any of you acrobats, tricksters, and specious, empty philosophers.

  —Kina Ha, Jedi Knight; unsure of her exact age, but at least a thousand years old

  Kyrimorut, Mandalore

  “Arla? It’s me. Can I come in?”

  Jusik rapped on her door and waited for a response. It was locked from the outside, but he had to give her some control over the only sanctuary she had. Laseema listened, head tilted in concentration.

  “She’s been awful while you were down in Keldabe.” Laseema adjusted the balance of dishes on the tray. “Hallucinations, muscle spasms, vomiting, the lot. I had to get Fi to give her medical aid while Scout kept her calm. He’s really good.”