Jusik let Ordo take the Aggressor for the journey. It made sense to pack some firepower and speed, even if Altis and his gang were as peaceful as beings could get. Skirata took no chances these days. The fighter dropped out of hyperspace and waited at the coordinates, giving Skirata time to simply gaze out of the viewport at the sheer emptiness of speckled space, something he rarely had a chance or inclination to do. It really was beautiful, clean, so utterly miraculous and perfect compared to the sordid events on most planets that he wondered if Uthan’s virus ever looked up at an apparently majestic ruby sky and didn’t realize it was inside some shabby humanoid that cheated and killed.
This was why he didn’t spend time contemplating starscapes. He remembered now.
Ordo cocked his head, listening on his comlink.
“Here we go, Kal’buir. It’s a cargo ship, Wookiee Gunner. They’re preparing to let us dock alongside.”
“I admire a man who doesn’t overcompensate with a Star Destroyer,” Skirata said. “I’m going to treat him with caution.”
Trust was a funny thing. They were now going to dock with a ship, not inside its bay but alongside, with a fragile corridor of flexible plastoid and durasteel as their only shield against hard vacuum. Somehow, both sides thought this was less risky than landing on a planet. Skirata felt suddenly foolish. Ordo maneuvered the Aggressor into position and the docking ring sealed with a grinding sound that reverberated through the fighter’s airframe.
“Pressuring up,” Ordo said, and hit the control. “You can board when the light shows green, Master Altis.”
It was a demonstration of goodwill, Skirata knew. The Jedi was prepared to step aboard a Mandalorian starfighter alone, taking all the risk. Maybe the docking hadn’t been such a rash move after all.
Skirata eased out of his seat and stood watching the inner hatch. The plate retracted, and he found himself staring at an ordinary-looking human male—gray hair, late sixties, maybe even seventies.
So this was Master Djinn Altis.
He walked like a workman or a scruffy college professor, with no brown robes, tunic, or monastic look. And he just felt different.
“I’m Kal,” Skirata said. “This is my son, Ordo.”
Altis held out his hand. “We’re in the same line of work,” he said. “Salvage.”
“People-salvage.”
“We could form a union, then.”
“My boy Bard’ika likes you.” Skirata winked. “And that’s a powerful recommendation. You still up for helping us out?”
“When do you want us to take your guests?”
“One of them asked to stay for a while. Kina Ha and Arligan Zey—I want their memories of my base wiped first.”
“You can always reach us, anytime you’re ready.”
“But we already knew you were willing to take the Jedi off our hands, so we’re here to talk more broadly, aren’t we?”
“We are.” Altis unsettled Skirata. He managed somehow to be both very ordinary and also radiate an ancient authority. “We’re all on the run.”
“I had this idea,” Skirata said. He heard Ordo inhale, rightly so, because he hadn’t fully discussed any of this. “We want to rescue clones and keep our planet free of scumbags. We hear stuff from extraordinary places and there’s nothing we can’t buy, build, invent, steal, or slice. You have all kinds of extra talents most of my clan don’t have, and a different intelligence network, so I think we could occasionally help each other out.”
Altis chewed his thumbnail. “There’s a but. I hear it.”
“But I’ll only help you if you don’t play a part in putting the Jedi Order back in power. Because we hate those shabuire for more reasons than I’ve got time to list.”
Altis roared with laughter. He seemed to find it genuinely funny, as if Skirata was sweetly naïve about Jedi politics.
“We’ve never been close, us and the mainstream Jedi Order. We’re the crazy relative in the attic that nobody talks about.” Altis coughed to clear his throat. “About half of our community these days isn’t Force-sensitive, so you can imagine how hard this is for a more ascetic school of Jedi thought to handle.”
“Well, here’s something for free, to show goodwill. You might think you’re the harmless eccentrics, but the Empire’s singled you out as a potential rallying point to rebuild the Jedi Order, and it thinks that lots of the surviving Jedi will try to regroup around you.”
Altis wasn’t inscrutable or serene, and he didn’t look as if he was trying to be. He frowned. “Oh, that’s worrying.”
“Plett’s Well.” It was just a trick, throwing in one scrap of half-understood information to see what else fell out. Jaller Obrim would have been proud of him. “You’re still moving kids there?”
That was a real flier, based solely on a snatched line of radio comms mentioned by Darman. Skirata watched Altis’s pupils flicker.
“Ah, Kal, you are well-informed. I ought to be scared of you.”
“Not at all. Only if you hurt my boys. All I’m saying is that if you help us out occasionally, we’ll help you out. You might want to start by faking your death. We’re good at making that look convincing. And we’ll help you find somewhere to hide that’s not on the database that your more careless colleagues managed to lose.”
Skirata paused for breath as much as effect. Yes, he’d definitely got Altis’s attention.
“One day, I know I’m going to get the bill for this,” Altis said.
“It’ll be a favor. Probably for one of the boys. Maybe for their families. Like you, we just want to be left alone to get on with our lives.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“I’ll comm you when we get our Jedi situation sorted out.”
“We’ll be there. Stay safe, Kal Skirata.”
“K’oyacyi, Master Altis.”
Altis winked. “Djinn, please.”
Skirata stood and watched in silence while Altis crossed back through the narrow sleeve of plastoid and the air lock at the far end snapped shut behind him. Ordo sealed the Aggressor’s hatches, waited for the red indicator to turn green, and disengaged from the docking ring.
“Worth the journey?” he asked, moving the fighter away from Wookiee Gunner’s hull.
“I think so.” Altis was different. Skirata didn’t want that. It blurred the line. Before long, he’d be what Darman accused him of being; soft on Jedi. He couldn’t afford to forget the bigger picture just because Djinn Altis wasn’t the kind of Jedi he was used to. “If only because he can give us tips on how to handle housing a whole community on a wandering ship.”
“If you can’t get rid of Force-users,” Ordo said, “then you might as well buy a bunch of your own.”
“Not that I think Altis is buyable, but he knows a mutual interest when he sees it.” Skirata decided he probably had been a bit generous in his offer, and the dumbest way to open negotiations was with a concession. But nothing had been traded yet. Two old guys who had to find a way to work together in a galaxy that wanted them dead had sized up one another and decided they could get on. That was all that had happened, nothing more. “Jaing was right. We’ll find a use for them, and they’ll find a use for us.”
“So here we are, drawing a line between one kind of Jedi and another.”
“Isn’t that what we did with Bardan and Etain?”
“Yes,” Ordo said. “I suppose it is.”
Ordo was an outspoken lad. If he had any real misgivings about Altis, he would say so plainly and undiplomatically. Instead, he programmed a course for Mandalore on the nav computer and took the Aggressor up to jump velocity. The transition to hyperspace always left Skirata feeling off-balance for a moment or two. When he focused on the viewport again, the serene starscape that made the galaxy look like a really nice place to live was gone.
I gave Altis another bonus, didn’t I? Maybe I’ll save that card for later.
Skirata had shaken the man’s hand. And he was still infectious, still carrying a virus th
at would protect against the FG36 bioweapon. Now Altis would spread that to all his followers, and another population would be immunized.
“I should have billed you,” he muttered to himself. “Never mind.”
Gym locker room, Special Operations barracks, 501st Legion headquarters, Imperial Center
Darman had his best ideas in the ’freshers.
He always did. It was something about the soothing effect of hot water hitting the crown of his head, and the continuous rainfall sound of the shower. He hovered in a relaxed state closer to dozing off than being awake.
He knew now that he’d made a serious mistake by not grabbing the chance to desert to Mandalore when Ordo came for them. There was no point trying to do the best for Kad from so far away when he was always going to be relying on others to take the information he’d gathered and do something productive with it.
“Dar? You asleep in there or something?”
Darman let the voice drift over him. It was Niner. He could wait.
No, he was going about this all the wrong way. He could be stuck here for the rest of his life, and that wasn’t going to be as long as a regular human’s. He didn’t have time for another mistake. There was one solution. Examples of it had been staring him in the face for a year or more.
“Dar! You’re going to be as wrinkled as a strill’s shebs if you stay in there much longer.”
Darman couldn’t break off from his train of thought to answer. When Fi needed help, when Skirata needed to get him out of that medcenter before they pulled the plug and let him die, Besany and Obrim went in and got him. When Skirata needed to save the young Nulls from the Kaminoans, he went and did it himself. Even the evacuation on the night of Order 66—even though it ended so terribly for him and Etain, and for Niner—Skirata and the team went in and pulled people out.
You have to do things for yourself.
Kal’buir showed you everything you needed to know to be a good father.
What would he be doing now?
Darman was certain that he wouldn’t be standing here in a shower stall when his son needed him. Kal’buir was a wonderful father, a kind and patient man, and the best example of how much you could change the galaxy when you didn’t accept the hand you were dealt.
But he had a lot of other clone sons all relying on him, and he let too many Jedi spin him sob stories and take advantage of his guilt about Etain. Darman was feeling worse by the hour about all those Jedi being under the same roof as Kad.
Etain wouldn’t have wanted it. That reason alone was enough for Darman to do something now.
He was going to Mandalore—which he always thought of now as back to Mandalore, even though he’d never been there—and he was going to be a proper father to his son. Darman wanted to stay at Kyrimorut, but it was obvious that it was going to be a more dangerous world now that the Empire had dug in there. It was no place to raise a kid who was half Jedi.
Darman now knew firsthand what would happen to Kad if the Empire’s dark side spooks got a whiff of him. Roly Melusar was a great guy who knew exactly what needed doing, but Darman couldn’t wait that long for the revolution.
Got to do it yourself.
He was going back to Mandalore to take his son, and then get away somewhere that nobody could find them. He was a commando; he was great at extractions, and if he wanted not to be found, he was pretty good at that, too.
Sorry, Kal’buir, but you’ve got too much on your plate at the moment. I missed the first eighteen months of Kad’s life because nobody even told me he was mine.
Darman had it all planned now. He didn’t even have to sneak out of the barracks. He’d been tasked to find Altis, and Melusar had no idea how easy that was going to be for him.
“Dar, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Keep your hair on.”
He turned off the spray and toweled himself dry. Niner gave him a worried look and dropped his voice to a whisper.
“Dar, you need to stop worrying about the Jedi. Kal’s on the case. He’d gut anyone who so much as looked at Kad the wrong way.”
“I know.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s go see Holy Roly. I’ve had an idea.”
“What?”
“Bet you I can persuade him to let us carry out an op on Mandalore.”
Niner just stared as if he was checking Darman’s eyes for signs of madness. Darman found it hard to be anything less than totally honest with his brother, but Niner was a worry-guts, and what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. If Darman leveled with him completely about what he had in mind, then he knew what would happen; Niner would try to stop him. He’d do it out of love, but he’d get it all wrong. He just didn’t understand how much having a kid changed everything.
It was okay to keep a few cards up your sleeve if it saved your brother from harm. Niner had kept things from him for exactly the same reason.
“That’s your desertion plan?” Niner said at last. He whispered so quietly that Darman could just about see his lips move. Maybe they should have switched to Mando’a—but too many of the Kamino commandos would understand that, too. “Just stroll out with an Imperial vessel and a full fuel tank?”
“That’s about it.”
“What about Rede? Or have you got a plan for convincing the CO it just needs us?”
Darman was pretty sure he could do that, too. He pulled on his fatigues. “Let’s go see.”
“If we end up taking him,” Niner said, “then we better be clear what’s going to happen to him when he works out we’re doing a runner. He won’t want to desert.”
“He’s a blank sheet. He’ll respond to a sensible argument.”
“No, he’s not a blank sheet. He might be a Spaarti job, but he’s a man like us. You’ve seen how fast he learns. What if he really objects? What if he turns us in?”
“Then I’ll do what I have to do.”
Niner’s face fell. He never did like that kind of dilemma. He tied himself up in ethical knots about duty, and he found the really dirty work—turning on his own kind—one step too far. Darman didn’t want to harm a brother, but he’d shot two covert ops troopers because it was a matter of them or him, and Darman was trained to survive at any cost.
I’ve got a son to worry about now. I’d shoot the whole Imperial Army if I had to.
“There’ll be a better way,” Niner said.
“Well, you think about that, and I’ll work on Roly.”
It never occurred to Darman that Melusar might have gone home at this time of night. And he hadn’t. He was still sitting in his office, poring over intelligence reports. The man had a mission, a quest, and at its heart it was about family—a family that had been taken from him. Darman understood that perfectly.
Is he married? Has he got kids? Or can’t he face that until he avenges his father?
Darman didn’t ask. He rapped on the door frame, Niner fidgeting behind him, and waited.
“Yes?”
“Got five minutes, sir?”
“Certainly.”
Darman waited for the doors to close behind them and stood in front of Melusar’s desk. Whatever he said next, he would be dragging Niner behind him. He had to be sure it was worth that risk.
How can I lie to Melusar, after all he’s been through?
“I think I can find you Altis and his people, sir,” Darman said. “In fact, I’m sure I can. Niner and I just need to find some old intel contacts.”
He didn’t look at Niner. He didn’t need to. He knew his brother’s pulse rate had just gone through the roof.
Melusar nodded. “Go on.”
“We need to go to Mandalore.”
Melusar looked slightly puzzled. “Very well. Is there anything special you need from me?”
Darman had been expecting to argue his case for being let off the leash. The new army wasn’t like the old GAR. He was taken aback. This was how much faith the commander put in them.
I can’t betray this guy. It
’s not right. But I have to get my son to somewhere safe.
“Just your permission, sir,” Darman said.
“You have it. Tell me what you need and I’ll make sure it gets supplied without any awkward questions.” Melusar pulled out a datapad and tapped it. “Are you planning to take Rede? Might be easier than leaving him here to speculate.”
It sounded like an order. Darman wasn’t going to push his luck and make an excuse for refusing. And Melusar had a point. Rede would ask questions, and the last thing anyone wanted was for other commandos to realize that Squad 40 was off the roster for unexplained reasons.
“It’ll be good for him, sir,” Niner said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into any scrapes.”
Niner turned to leave, but Melusar beckoned Darman back.
“Whatever the Jedi did to you, Darman, remember what they say about a dish best served cold.” He gave Darman that look—head slightly tilted, eyebrows raised, chin down—that said he’d thrown his lot in with his troops, 100 percent. “Vengeance makes you take crazy risks. I know. Remember—cold.”
Darman felt the guilt starting to eat him alive. “Got it, sir.”
He didn’t say a word to Niner until they got back to their quarters. He checked that Rede was snoring like a vibrosaw before he even risked a whispered conversation at the far end of the room.
“I know it’s no different from what we planned to do before,” Niner said. “But I feel rotten lying to Holy Roly. And Rede.”
“I’m not lying,” Darman said. “I’m going to give Melusar all the Jedi he wants.”
Yes, Darman would. And if that didn’t fit with Jaing’s plans for finding some Jedi an escape route—it was too bad.
His son came first.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Novelist, screenwriter, and comics writer KAREN TRAVISS is the author of five Star Wars: Republic Commando novels, Hard Contact, Triple Zero, True Colors, Order 66, and Imperial Commando: 501st; three Star Wars: Legacy of the Force novels, Bloodlines, Revelation, and Sacrifice; two Star Wars: The Clone Wars novels, The Clone Wars and No Prisoners; two Gears of War novels, Aspho Fields and Jacinto’s Remnant; her award-nominated Wess’har Wars series, City of Pearl, Crossing the Line, The World Before, Matriarch, Ally, and Judge; and a Halo novella, Human Weakness. She’s also the lead writer on the third Gears of War game. A former defense correspondent and TV and newspaper journalist, Traviss lives in Wiltshire, England.